From the daily archives:
Play Date by Peter Khoury
A Short Story by Peter Khoury
Old playgrounds weren’t like this, Mary thought as she sat back on a wooden bench, gently bouncing her feet on the squishy surface. Back then, concrete was king.
And when you fell, you got hurt.
Cara Black Sets Her Mysteries in Paris
The world is shrinking and so are decent mysteries. Today’s culture is saturated with information, leaving little room for new mysteries to develop. Crimes are solved quickly, algorithms are deduced by computers, the universe is at our fingertips. The same is true for literature. Authors have fewer mysteries to write about because more mysteries have been solved. But certain mysteries remain. An expertly drafted thriller keeps us turning its pages, a feat championed by the Paris-centric writer Cara Black. Things still go missing. Where they go is a mystery. This was the case in Ireland recently, when a poet visiting a horse barn lost his manuscript. Foreign languages are mysterious, inasmuch as they can’t be understood. Every translator worth his salt knows this. Go to Words Without Borders for another theory. Maine used to be a mysterious place, but now you can see where every writer in the state lives via the Portland Press Herald. Finally — in what unquestionably is the granddad of lasting mysteries — we have people. You, us, that guy on the bus and the lady on the street. Our minds and feelings and instincts, our character and decisions and morality. It’s enough to make you think. The Sun Magazine discusses human mystery with an esteemed man of consciousness and New Scientist ponders the brain’s propensity to inhabit chaos. See if you can figure that out. — Kevin Murphy
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