Stories and Essays | Constance Squires — Author Page

Stories

Guernica, Wounding Radius, Constance Squires

Wounding Radius

PFC Larry Pierson, a 21-year-old Afghanistan veteran from Vermilion, South Dakota, had made off with four M-16 A2s, six thirty-round magazines of ammo, and two M67 grenades.

The Atlantic, Running Out of Music, Constance Squires

Running Out of Music

Lucinda felt like a spy, trading dangerous information with Private Nately that could end the Cold War in one fell swoop—and she really wanted that Rolling Stones album.

Eclectica, Writ in Water, Constance Squires

Writ in Water

Alex's sudden passion for the catacombs surprises me, and I get another of several recent inklings that I have been too ready to take his dumb rock star persona as the whole show, rather than as what it may be, a playful interpretation.

Dopamine Agonistes

He smacked a mosquito against his bare leg, gratified by the swiftness of his reflex, and said aloud, “When total disability is good news,” and then, startled by his own angry voice, concluded the thought in his head, you know you’re screwed.

Shenandoah, Dopamine Agonistes, Constance Squires

An Unscheduled Stop

Ever since Leanne Carter came back from Iraq, she didn’t like surprises. They made her jumpy. She preferred to stick to a plan, so it was unusual that she stopped at the World’s Largest McDonald’s.

This Land, An Unscheduled Stop, Constance Squires

Cover Artists

Arkansas Review, Cover Artists, Constance Squires

I have devised a system wherein I hit on Elvis look-alikes only as a way of dealing with the memory loss that always happens to me as an evening wears on. Before I take my first shot of tequila I close my eyes and say, “Remember, only Elvis. Only Elvis.”

The RS500, Telling Stories in Stereo, Constance Squires

At some point he had realized that the narrative nature of songs, the egotistical first person of them all, kept him in a place in his head that disallowed the flow his mind was trying to drop into. The flow, that slipstream of mind and body governed by breath, feet, inhalation and exhalation—the flow wanted some other kind of music.

Sometimes you needed a voice, you needed the murmur of sympathy in your own throat reaching for something past personality.

There’s this paint huffer named Caldwell who lives in an empty shack in that crap neighborhood behind the mall. Fucking Jimmy likes to visit him and ask him questions like he’s an oracle. That’s another thing about Jimmy—his tendency to romanticize garbageheads like Caldwell. He’s sure they’re the pure ones, that they know shit the rest of us don’t know. Caldwell knows how to get high on acetone paint and that’s something I don’t know how to do, but that’s as far as his special knowledge goes, if you ask me.

So Charlie plays rock and devotes his down time to grinding away at something hard, something that demands all of his attention. That’s when you feel your ego leave you, when you lose track of time or having any sense of a body—when you’re absorbed in learning something new and hard. Each hotel room is enough different to present a challenge while enough the same to let him hone his skills. He’s getting good at the deep folds of the thick, light-defeating drapes that cover the windows and the way the air conditioning lifts the sheer curtains underneath. Just enough. Not a billow, but a lift.

September 11, 2001. There is a giant walking down a highway in Mississippi. He is a hitchhiker. He might be a king. He is working his way to me. The words he has written come to him as music and follow behind him on the air like an invisible cape that floats from his shoulders. He’s not sure they’re his, these songs, once they’re alight in the world, but they came from him, he does remember, the way a spider remembers spinning an egg sack.

Maybe there was such a thing as pure lust. Ally’s heart had been broken and she would never love again—never!—but there was no getting around the almost surreal fineness of Tito, the grill guy at Burger King, where she worked. He was tall and thin with black almond-shaped eyes, long eyelashes, and a long thin nose. His hair, suppressed under his BK hat, was black and wavy. He had a perfect ass and the way his forearms rippled when he flipped the burgers made Ally understand the cliché about going “weak in the knees.”

She had just finished rinsing the shampoo from her hair when she felt the blast. The sound had jagged edges that ripped the air like tissue, shook her eyes in their sockets, instantaneously liquefied her bowels. She leapt from the shower to the toilet while her and Tess’s toiletries flew from the shelves. Baby powder, toothbrushes, and two pink birth control cases fell on her head. The medicine cabinet flew open and aspirin and vitamin bottles dropped into the sink. Then it was quiet. She wrapped herself in a towel and turned off the shower. She looked out the bathroom window, fully expecting to see a passenger plane sticking out of the ground in her backyard.

Essays

There’s a certain excitement to tornado season, until a storm like this touches down.

The View From an Oklahoma Basement

The Friendly Fire Ambush My Parents Kept from Me

When I stumbled upon an Army veteran at a bar, I also discovered a gruesome tragedy from my dad's past.

In the Book Notes series, authors create and discuss a music playlist that relates in some way to their recently published book.

Book Notes (Along the Watchtower)

Books, Movies, & Rock 'n Roll: A Conversation with Dana Spiotta

If only Dana Spiotta had an Oklahoma connection, I thought.

Audio

Your Dad Ruined My Life

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Snap Judgment, Your Dad Ruined My Life, Constance Squires

WNYC, Snap Judgment, Your Dad Ruined My Life, Constance Squires

What happens when you fill-in for a buddy at work, and it all goes horribly wrong? Connstance Squires finds out.

Video

Grave Misgivings

A Film by Jeff Palmer

Written by Constance Squires