{"product_id":"awayland-isbn-9781594634918","title":"Awayland","description":"\u003cb\u003eAn inventive story collection that spans the globe as it explores love, childhood, and parenthood with an electric mix of humor and emotion.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAcclaimed for the grace, wit, and magic of her novels, Ramona Ausubel introduces us to a geography both fantastic and familiar in eleven new stories, some of them previously published in \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Paris Review\u003c\/i\u003e. Elegantly structured, these stories span the globe and beyond, from small-town America and sunny Caribbean islands to the Arctic Ocean and the very gates of Heaven itself. And though some of the stories are steeped in mythology, they remain grounded in universal experiences: loss of identity, leaving home, parenthood, joy, and longing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCrisscrossing the pages of \u003ci\u003eAwayland\u003c\/i\u003e are travelers and expats, shadows and ghosts. A girl watches as her homesick mother slowly dissolves into literal mist. The mayor of a small Midwestern town offers a strange prize, for stranger reasons, to the parents of any baby born on Lenin's birthday. A chef bound for Mars begins an even more treacherous journey much closer to home. And a lonely heart searches for love online--never mind that he's a Cyclops. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith her signature tenderness, Ramona Ausubel applies a mapmaker's eye to landscapes both real and imagined, all the while providing a keen guide to the wild, uncharted terrain of the human heart. \u003cbr\u003e “Excellent and peculiar … Ausubel’s imagination … wants to offer consolation for how ghastly things can get, a type of healing that only reading can provide. All 11 of these stories are deeply involving.” \u003cb\u003e–\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Anxious, whimsical, and deeply felt, Ausubel’s stories weave a remarkable and beautiful tapestry of emotion... Ausubel’s signature ability to create atmosphere is in full force throughout \u003ci\u003eAwayland\u003c\/i\u003e, and the surreal or discomfiting moods sometimes wrapped around the stories are fitting for characters moving away from their comfort zones. By also touching upon social and political issues, she adds a new layer to her work that invites readers to move away from their comfort zones as well.” –\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Review of Books\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A stunning assemblage of quasi-magical yet bewilderingly plausible tales … Every story here pretty much astounds for its daring, visionary scope and compassion.” \u003ci\u003e–\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“[Ausubel] imbues every one of her offbeat yarns...with weirdness and warmth.” –\u003ci\u003eO, The Oprah Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] collection of funny, endearing short stories…Each tale looks to the future in its own particular, touching way.” –\u003ci\u003eHarper’s Bazaar\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A tenderly imagined story collection, one that traverses small towns and tropical islands, all the while revealing truths about parenthood, love, and growing up that you didn’t know you needed to hear, but are so immensely glad you did.” –\u003ci\u003eSouthern Living\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Fans of [Ramona Ausubel] and new readers alike will discover something to enjoy in \u003ci\u003eAwayland\u003c\/i\u003e… An eclectic, humorous mix.” \u003ci\u003e–\u003ci\u003eReal Simple\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“To read an Ausubel story is to escape to another place…[her] prose is assured and...lovely, descriptions and insights presented in new and different ways.” –\u003ci\u003ePloughshares\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A darkness, an underlying and beautiful darkness, limns practically every moment in Ausubel’s work, but you hardly notice the darkness while reading, so dreamily enchanted are you by Ausubel’s language, her humor, her generosity on the page.”\u003ci\u003e –\u003c\/i\u003eManuel Gonzales, \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eElectric Literature\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tender and heartfelt, \u003ci\u003eAwayland\u003c\/i\u003e is often also as funny as it is emotionally affecting.”\u003ci\u003e –\u003ci\u003eBuzzfeed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“The precise word for the stories in \u003ci\u003eAwayland\u003c\/i\u003e is enchanting… What remains consistent in this globetrotting collection is Ausubel’s wit, and her tenderness, and her commitment to exploring universal quandaries in fabulist ways. Each of these stories shines.” –\u003ci\u003eRefinery29\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"The stories in Ramona Ausubel's \u003ci\u003eAwayland \u003c\/i\u003eare galactic in scope, massive in scale, and universal in their flawless execution. From Mars to the streets of the Midwest, Ausubel tackles modern mythology in a way that is utterly original and endlessly fascinating—and, at the end of the day, it just might teach you something about yourself.” \u003ci\u003e–\u003ci\u003ePopsugar\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“When a book opens with a Cyclops filling out an online dating profile, you know the collection of stories will not disappoint. Ausubel's stories mix familiarity with weirdness, leaving room for concrete concepts we understand (family, love, finding home) to mix with more off-kilter themes, like ghosts and space travel, to create an exciting and heartwarming volume of stories.” \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Apartment Therapy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Insightful and tender and just fun to read. I love these stories.” \u003ci\u003e–\u003ci\u003eBookRiot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Few story collections in recent memory have been as simultaneously funny, sad and peculiar as Ramona Ausubel's breathtaking \u003ci\u003eAwayland\u003c\/i\u003e… Playful yet affecting, \u003ci\u003eAwayland \u003c\/i\u003eis the vibrant work of a gifted storyteller.” \u003cb\u003e–\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“With touches of magic and fabulism, this is Ausubel at her finest.” \u003cb\u003e–\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eRead It Forward\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“[Ausubel’s] writing is acrobatic: colorful, flexible and inventive…Formally and thematically, this creative collection will be a rewarding expedition for both veteran short story readers and newcomers to the genre.” \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e–\u003ci\u003eThe Riveter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Ramona Ausbel’s second short story collection continues to prove her a surprising, funny, and deft fabulist.” \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e–\u003ci\u003eB\u0026amp;N Reads\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Told in prose at once spare and image-laden, the stories are illuminating and memorable, with plots unfolding like exotic flowers, calm yet bizarre.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e–\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Everyday worries about pregnancy, mortality, and parents are given fantastical treatment in these playful stories… Ausubel’s best stories have an affecting vulnerability; fans of Kelly Link, Karen Russell, and Miranda July will want to give this a look.”\u003ci\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e–\u003c\/b\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Eleven stories laced with humorous developments, mythic tendencies, and magical realist premises. Ausubel is, at heart, a fabulist, and the current collection puts this impulse in the forefront.”\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e –Kirkus \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“In vivid, precisely fashioned language, Ausubel spans the globe, from the tropics to the Arctic, in these 11 stories…Vibrant stories that expand horizons and minds.”\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003e–\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eYou Can Find Love Now\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You are lonely, but you don't have to be. You have so many great      qualities! Just think of all the single ladies out there who are      waiting to hear from you. Whether you are looking for lasting love      or just a little fun, this is the only guide to online dating      you'll ever need. Within the hour, you'll be on your way to      eternal happiness!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Let's get started. When creating your username keep in mind that      it should be concise and easy to remember. Make it personal. If      you're a dancer, maybe try hipdancer21.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Find me at cyclops15. Cyclops 1 through 14 were taken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now choose a tagline that will attract the woman you want. Secret:      do what no one else is doing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm eight feet tall and I have one giant eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What are your interests? Be honest but enticing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I hand-sew my own shoes using a needle made from the fang of a      wolf. I sleep hot. I want nothing more than a sheet on my bed,      even in winter, even in a cave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Know who your target is. Where does she live? What does she look      like? What hobbies does she have?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I like fat girls, old girls, tall girls, tired girls. Girls who      lack adequate clothing, girls whose best idea for getting my      attention is to send a photo of themselves holding suggestive      Popsicles, their fists covered in red melt. Girls in wheelchairs,      girls who work professionally at the Renaissance Faire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You could choose other men: men who like to think about feet, men      who have thick back hair, men whose greatest pride is the time      they flew to a nearby nation and tried to deplete its stores of      alcohol and slept on the beach one night-wasn't that so fun?-and      when they woke up everything had been stolen or lost and they had      to walk back to the pastel-yellow hotel naked in the early heat of      another day in paradise. Everyone has had good times. Everyone has      a picture of himself in front of a pinkening sunset with a glass      of white wine. Choose them if you want to. Choose me if you want      someone to hold you above his head in the moonlight, bite your      wrist until the first rust comes out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tell the ladies a little more about yourself! What's your own      unique story?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The first generation of Cyclopes were forgers. The next      generation, my generation, was a band of thuggish shepherds living      in the grasslands of Sicily. We trapped so-called heroes in our      caves, we bit into the warm butter of a human leg, but the only      one who got famous for it was my brother. We still live under      volcanoes, hacking at iron, trying to revive the old tradition. I      left home-too hot, too old-and live in Washington state. I like      the fog, I like the rain. My volcano is more famous than any of my      brothers' volcanoes. I never hear from them. They're not on email.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I teach online English classes, not to get paid but because I like      to feel smarter than someone else. I teach all the classic books,      except The Odyssey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My photos are taken in profile. Maybe there's time to get braver,      to embrace my own unique beauty. I subscribe to the magazines that      tell me we are all beautiful, if only we can learn to tap into our      potential; I am me and no one else is me, and that is a miracle. I      am a miracle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The downside: my mother has been dead for some hundreds of years,      so you'll never meet her. The upside: my father is the god of the      sea, so we can guarantee good weather on our honeymoon cruise.      He's shitty at love, my dad. He smells like an overcleaned wound,      and he won't quit working. Every day and every night somewhere in      one of the world's oceans my father is striking the surface of the      abyss with swords of fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Do you smoke? Do you drink? How often do you exercise? Do you      support charities that help animals? With an unexpected bonus      would you (a) donate to a cause you really believe in? (b) save      half and spend the rest? (c) celebrate with your friends and      margaritas?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If you want me to set a trap, I'll set a trap. A first date      picking blueberries in the whitest, cleanest sunlight, tin pails.      I'll bring sandwiches and chilled Chardonnay and tell you that we      are already the good people we wanted to become. Maybe you'll be      generous and keep up the conversation all afternoon. Prettykaren98      was generous. Prettykaren98 looked into my eye when we chatted      online and laughed at my jokes. But she never answered my messages      after our date even though her status was still marked Single.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Don't mention your previous relationship history! Leave your      emotional baggage packed and in the closet. You are on the market      because you are awesome!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sorry. Let's try that again. My actual perfect day? Descending      belowground early, full of milk and blood and meat, to forge iron.      There is no such thing as day or night in the volcano, and any      sense of time comes from watching the metal change shape. From ore      to spear. From ore to trident. From ore to thunderbolt. If I am      strong that day, the mountains will shake with the strike of my      hammer, the heat of my flame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can't ski. I should be better at basketball than I am. I don't      eat vegetables. But my eye is blue, and it's pale and it's      beautiful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My vision is good, though not great, but understand this: I will      never again visit an ophthalmologist or an optometrist or anyone      else who claims to be an expert of my organ. I do not fit in the      chair, and I wish I could forget lying on my back on the floor of      that darkened room while a small man climbed onto my chest with      that sharp point of light. I'm not sorry for what I did to him.      Now he can see for himself what it's like to have one eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You have almost finished creating a magnetic online-dating profile      that will attract more women than you ever thought possible! What      else do you want the ladies to know? Remember: be yourself!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I do remember the old feeling sometimes. A maiden washes up on my      island, tailed or otherwise. The cave is sweating and there are      mineral stalks growing from the ceiling. I have no idea what time      it is, ever. All my wrist and ankle shackles are homemade, struck      from iron I myself dug from the earth. The maidens were not as      beautiful as the stories tell you-their hair was salt-stringy and      their faces were pruned. Too long in seawater can unmake any      loveliness. Yet I meant to love them. I meant to tend to their      wounds. When I pounded the shackles with my hammer, the person I      imagined chaining was my father. I imagined slipping the cuffs      around his watery arms. Not to hurt him, but to keep him. But my      father never offered himself up on my rocky beach. I'd see his big      hand out there sometimes, swilling the surface of the sea, but he      never came close. Maybe he was the one who threw the maidens to      me, his dear son, his wifeless boy, wanting an heir.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I will not shackle your slender wrists to the cold walls or gnaw      your nails down to the quick with my remaining teeth. I will not      leave you hungry while I eat a roast goat at your feet. I've dealt      with those issues. Imagine the inverse: I have the softest      mattress in the world, made of the combed fur of fawns; choose me      and you'll be choosing warm oil on your hands and cold water in      your glass, meat on your plate from a lamb that suckled on my      pinkie when it was first born.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If I came to your house tonight, where would I find you? The      living room? The kitchen? Waiting at the door? I'll call you      Aphrodite and smell the sea in your hair and shuck oysters for you      from the depths. I'll tell you that I've never seen a real goddess      until now. Come with me and be adored, deep below the earth. While      you sleep, I will strike a huge sheet of metal until the shape of      your body comes into relief. You never have to take me to meet      your friends; you never have to take me anywhere. You never even      have to see me in the light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Your grandmother will tell you that all the good men are gone, but      then here I am, and I'm ready for you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fresh Water from the Sea\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The woman was weeks away from the end. Maybe even days away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The phone calls at first were difficult to understand. \"You      shouldn't worry about this, but I'm getting thinner,\" she said to      her daughter, but instead of the note of excitement the girl      expected, the woman sounded lost. \"There's less of me.\" The girl      imagined an old woman, her spine collapsing in on itself, giving      in to gravity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Shrinking?\" she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm losing myself,\" the mother tried. The girl thought of her      mother sitting on the floor of her apartment, the expensive rug      covered in the puzzle pieces of her body. \"It's not like that,\"      the woman had explained. \"It's like I'm vanishing. Like I am a      thick fog, burning off.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The girl flew across the world: LAX, JFK, then across the      Atlantic, across the Mediterranean to Beirut. The mother answered      the door. She was slightly wispy. Where she had once been a      precise oil painting, now she was a watercolor. \"It's good of you      to come.\" She looked the girl up and down and the girl knew her      mother was disappointed to see that the girl still looked the way      she always had. \"Any boyfriends?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No boyfriends.\" The girl tried to smile, tried to keep the old      joke alive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Reluctantly, the woman hugged her and the girl thought, My      goodness, has she always had all of those bones?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The mother sat down on the couch in front of the huge windows,      looking out at the city and the sea beyond. She patted the spot      next to her. \"You see it, too, right?\" She put her palm up. The      girl nodded. It was just the very edges of her mother that were      foggy. The girl reached out and held her mother's hand, which felt      like it was coated in sea foam. \"Good. I'm not going crazy,\" the      woman said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They sat there quietly. For two days, since her mother had first      called, the girl had tried to imagine what she would look like.      She had tried to prepare herself for the worst. The words \"My      mother is vanishing\" had been like a loose piece of metal rattling      around the cage of her brain. She had felt a little bit of      electricity shoot through her system, a jig of hopefulness. Maybe      we will actually say something real to each other, she thought.      Now, she was wordless. \"It's good to see you,\" the girl said. She      stood at the edge, just where she always had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From her suitcase she removed a jar of peanut butter, a box of      cereal bars, oatmeal, pinto beans and a loaf of whole wheat bread.      \"A little bit of America.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The girl thought she could see a wisp of her mother disappear,      right then. \"I'm sure it's just . . . something,\" she said, trying      to stop it. The mother, misty, smiled at her daughter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Out the window, they could see the tops of buildings, the      air-conditioning units and heating tubes and collections of wires.      The minaret from the mosque craned its neck. Below, cafŽ people      were sitting with their legs crossed at the ankle and their faces      up to the sun. This part of the city had been crumbled in the last      war and was built back all at once, the center of the city turned      into an overcheerful mall. Plaza and clock tower, cobbled streets      radiating out with shops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It looks just like California,\" the girl said. She had taken a      class on the American Dream in which the students wrote papers      about the exporting of culture.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"At least it's intact,\" her mother said. She gestured to the other      window through which a big hotel stood, its walls yawning with      holes, the railings on the balconies mangled. It was so quiet,      that bombed-out hotel. How strange, the girl thought, that only      the visual evidence of a war is recorded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Beyond the city, the sea was endless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The rest of the afternoon, the girl and her mother did what people      do: went on in spite of what had changed. They chatted a circle      around the outskirts of their lives, they ate something when they      got hungry. By the time they went to bed, the woman's blurry edges      had become just another fact of the world, a stray cat that, once      let in, had made itself at home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in the morning, the girl and her mother packed up for the doctorÕs      appointment, put on decent-looking clothes. The girl did not say      that her mother was a little hazier than she had been the day      before. She did not say that, when she came close to her mother,      the temperature changed, as if the woman was her own weather      system.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The doctor refused to look the mother in the eye or smile, as if      doing so would break his calm. He asked a lot of questions that      seemed like a way of avoiding what else he had to say. He wanted      to know whether she'd been sleeping, and how about the chills, had      she had any? And whether her snot, which she reported having a      little of, was green or yellow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Clear,\" she told him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He said, \"That's great,\" with conviction that surprised even him.      \"I mean,\" he fumbled, \"that's good.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The girl raised her eyebrows and nodded. \"Her eyes are fine, too,\"      she said, \"and everything's shipshape with her toenails.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We'll run some blood tests,\" he said, and they all knew that he      meant This is a new way to get there, but the end will be the      same. The girl stood up and left the room. She went into the      sterile-smelling bathroom and sat down on the toilet and kicked      the wall once, hard. It clanked. There was a rubber mark on the      wall from the black sole of her sneaker. She opened the little      window where the pee samples were supposed to go. It was empty at      the moment. She could see, through plastic curtains, technicians      adjusting dials on the machines. They appeared as if underwater,      breathing miraculously, collecting and testing out the life around      them. Determining the lengths of time everyone had left on this      alien land. She wanted to ask for forgiveness or clemency. Her      mother hardly knew her at all, and she suspected the reverse was      also true. She had always expected some midlife understanding, a      trip to India in which they wore a lot of loose white clothing,      finally revealed their true selves, said all those unsayables. On      one of the little paper pee cups, in the marker that was meant to      be used to write your name on the sample, the girl scrawled: Give      us more time, please. As much as you can spare.","brand":"Riverhead Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303792988389,"sku":"NP9781594634918","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781594634918.jpg?v=1767722021","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/awayland-isbn-9781594634918","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}