{"product_id":"the-color-master-isbn-9780307744197","title":"The Color Master","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book of 2013\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA traumatic event unfolds when a girl with hair the color of golden wheat appears in an apple orchard; a woman plays out a fantasy with her husband and finds she cannot go back to her old sex life; an ugly woman marries an ogre and struggles to decide if she should stay with him after he mistakenly eats their children; and two sisters travel deep into Malaysia, where one learns the art of mending tigers who have been ripped to shreds. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn each of \u003ci\u003eThe Color Master\u003c\/i\u003e's fifteen remarkable stories, Aimee Bender holds a funhouse mirror up to reality, proving, once again, that she is one of the most intelligent and imaginative writers of our time.\u003c\/p\u003e“Tales that dazzle, confound, electrify, disturb, incriminate and empathize. . . . [\u003ci\u003eThe Color Master\u003c\/i\u003e]\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eis absurd. It is remarkable. It induces mental whiplash.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Chicago Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “At a time when realism reigns supreme over the literary landscape, one can argue it is absolutely imperative that Aimee Bender be spotlighted for what she is: a vital MVP of modern letters, period.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Along with the idiosyncratic George Saunders, Bender now stands as one of the reigning masters of the eccentric American short story.”\u003cbr\u003e—Alan Cheuse, NPR \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eThere are other writers working in this vein . . . but Bender may be the funniest and loosest of the lot and also, perhaps, the one most attuned to the poignant emotional distances between people (and ogres).”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Each work is a jewel. . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Color Master\u003c\/i\u003e is a treat, full of tales that are satisfyingly complete while over too soon, leaving the reader wanting more.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Denver Post \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Longtime readers will enjoy watching Bender get older and use her whimsical storytelling to address big issues.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Forward\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No one has updated the fairy tale quite like Bender.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Toronto Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is Bender at her best, using her signature style to reveal (and perhaps overcome) the obstacles that keep us from understanding each other.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Miami Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In Aimee Bender's short stories, the value of life is measured in terms of goodness, succulence and simplicity, all qualities that can be tasted, chewed and ultimately swallowed by the mouth or the mind.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Readers of Aimee Bender’s short fiction have come to expect the extraordinary—whether it’s a tale’s surprising premise or its masterful conclusions, Bender rarely disappoints. In her latest, she provides more of the unexpected situations and fast-paced eloquence of her previous accomplishments.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eTime Out New York \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Full of humor, wit, and pathos, \u003ci\u003eThe Color Master\u003c\/i\u003e is the work of a writer with a strong, distinctive point of view, and with enough confidence to let it lead her into fresh and exciting places.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dazzlingly dreamlike. . . . Savory and sublime. . . . So many of Bender’s sentences both settle and unsettle, and deserve to be read aloud for pure pleasure.”\u003cbr\u003e—Oprah.com \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Aimee Bender shows off her skill in so many different modes of storytelling that the most prominent unifying element might be virtuosity itself. . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Color Master\u003c\/i\u003e is a lesson in almost every mode of the short story and shouldn’t be missed.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Daily Beast\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Finds something that touches true magic.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Bender creates worlds that stretch human traits beyond their humanness, and in so doing, she shines light on our obsessions, our fears, and our desire to discover meaning in our own existence. . . . Full of joy.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Rumpus \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Compelling and provocative.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookreporter \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Aimee Bender is one of the most original storytellers of our time. Her fiction resides in some sort of netherworld akin to the most profound Dali painting. . . . Sure to delight and devastate readers once again.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Patriot Ledger\u003c\/i\u003eAimee Bender is the author of the novels \u003ci\u003eThe Particular Sadness of Lemon Cak\u003c\/i\u003ee—a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller—and \u003ci\u003eAn Invisible Sign of My Own\u003c\/i\u003e, and of the collections \u003ci\u003eThe Girl in the Flammable Skirt\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWillful Creatures\u003c\/i\u003e. Her works have been widely anthologized and have been translated into sixteen languages. She lives in Los Angeles.\u003ci\u003eExcerpted from the hardcover edition.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eAppleless\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI once knew a girl who wouldn't eat apples. She wove  her walking around groves and orchards. She didn't even like to look at  them. They're all mealy, she said. Or else too cheeky, too bloomed. No,  she stated again, in case we had not heard her, our laps brimming with  Granny Smiths and Red Deliciouses. With Galas and Spartans and yellow  Golden Globes. But we had heard her, from the very first; we just  couldn't help offering again. Please, we pleaded, eat. Cracking our  bites loudly, exposing the dripping wet white inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's unsettling to meet people who don't eat apples.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  rest of us now eat only apples, to compensate. She has declared herself  so apple-less, we feel we have no other choice. We sit in the orchard  together, cross-legged, and when they fall off the trees into our  outstretched hands, we bite right in. They are pale green, striped  red-on-red, or a yellow-and-orange sunset. They are the threaded Fujis,  with streaks of woven jade and beige, or the dark and rosy Rome  Beauties. Pippins, Pink Ladies, Braeburns, McIntosh. The orchard grows  them all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe suck water off the meat. Drink them dry. We pick  apple skin out from the spaces between our teeth. We eat the stem and  the seeds. For the moment, there are enough beauties bending the  branches for all of us to stay fed. We circle around the core, teeth  busy, and while we chew, we watch the girl circle our orchard, in her  long swishing skirts, eyes averted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne day we see her, and it's  too much. She is so beautiful on this day, her skin as wide and open as a  river. We could swim right down her. It's unbearable just to let her  walk off, and all at once, we abandon our laps of apples and run over.  Her hair is so long and wheatlike you could bake it into bread. For a  second our hearts pang, for bread. Bread! We've been eating only apples  now for weeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe close in; we ring her. Her lips fold into each  other; our lips skate all over her throat, her bare wrists, her empty  palms. We kiss her like we've been starving, and she tilts her head down  so she doesn't have to look at us. We knead her hair and kiss down the  long line of her leg beneath the shift of her skirt. We pray to her, and  our breath is ripe with apple juice. You can see the tears start races  down her face while our hands move in to touch the curve of her breasts  and the scoop of her neckline. She is so new. There are pulleys in her  skin. Our fingers, all together, work their way to her bare body, past  the voluminous yards of cloth. Past those loaves of hair. We find her in  there, and she is so warm and so alive and we see the tears, but stop?  Impossible. We breathe in, closer. Her eyelashes brighten with water.  Her shoulders tremble like doves. She is weeping into our arms, she is  crumpling down, and we are inside her clothes now, and our hands and  mouths are everywhere. There's no sound at all but the slip of skin and  her crying and the apples in the orchard thumping, uncaught: our lunches  and dinners and breakfasts. It's an unfamiliar sound, because for weeks  now, we have not let even one single fruit hit dirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe cries  through it all, and when we're done and piled around her, suddenly timid  and spent, suddenly withered nothings, she is the first to stand. She  gathers her skirts around herself, and smooths back down her hair. She  wipes her eyes clear and folds her hands around her waist. She is away  from the orchard before we can stand properly and beg her to stay.  Before we can grovel and claw at her small perfect feet. We watch her  walk, and she's slow and proud, but none of us can possibly catch her.  We splay on the ground in heaps instead as she gets smaller and smaller  on the horizon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe never comes by the orchard again, and in a  week, all the apples are gone. They fall off the trees, and the trees  make no new ones. The air smells like snow on the approach. No one dares  to mention her, but every morning, all of our eyes are fixed on the  road, waiting, hoping, staring through the bare brambles of an empty  orchard. Our stomachs rumble, hungry. The sky is always this same sort  of blue. It is so beautiful here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Red Ribbon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt  began with his fantasy, told to her one night over dinner and wine at  L'Oiseau d'Or, a French restaurant with tiny gold birds etched into  every plate and bowl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"My college roommates,\" he said, during the entree. \"Once brought home.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Drugs?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Women,\" said Daniel softly, \"that they paid for.\" Even in candlelight, she could track the rise of his blush.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Prostitutes?\" Janet said. \"Is that what you mean? They did?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe kitchen doors swung open as the waiter brought a feathery dessert to the table next to theirs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I  did not join in, Janet,\" Daniel said, reaching over to clasp her hand  tightly. \"Never. Not once. But I sometimes think about the idea of it.  Not really it, itself--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The idea of it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I never once joined in,\" Daniel repeated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I  believe you,\" said Janet, crossing her legs. She wondered what the  handsome couple sharing the chocolate mousse would make of this  conversation, even though they were laughing closely with each other and  seemed to have no need for anyone else in the restaurant. She herself  had noticed everyone else in the restaurant while waiting for the pate  to arrive, dressed in its sprig of parsley: the older couple, the lanky  waiter, the women wrapped in patterned scarves. Now she felt like  propelling herself into one of their conversations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm upsetting you,\" he said, swirling fork lines into his white sauce.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not so much,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Never mind,\" he said. \"Really. You look so beautiful tonight, Janet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn  the drive home, she sat in the backseat, as she did on occasion. He  said it was to protect her from more dangerous car accidents; she liked  thinking for a moment that he was her chauffeur, that she had reached a  state of adult richness where you did nothing for yourself anymore and  returned to infancy. She imagined she had a cook, a hairdresser, a  bath-filler. A woman who came over to fluff her pillow and tuck her in.  Daniel turned on the classical music station and a cello concerto  spilled out from the speakers in the back, and from the angle of her  seat, Janet could just catch a glimpse of the bottom of her nose and top  of her lips in the rearview mirror. She stared at them for the entire  ride home. Her nose had fine small bones at the tip, and her lipstick,  even after dinner, was unsmudged. There was something deeply soothing to  her in this image, in the simplicity of her vanity. She liked how her  upper lip fit inside her lower lip, and she liked the distance between  the bottom of her nose and the top of her mouth. She liked the curve of  her ear. And in those likings and their basic balance, she felt herself  take shape as Daniel drove.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBack at home, she spent longer than  usual in the bathroom, suddenly rediscovering all the lotion bottles in  the cabinet that were custom-made for different parts of the body. For  feet, for elbows, for eyes, for the throat. Like different kinds of soil  that need to be tilled with different tools. When she entered the  bedroom, fully cultivated, skin stenciled by a lace nightgown, the  lights were off. Only the moon through the window revealed the tiny  triangles of skin beneath the needlework.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Time for bed, honey,\"  she said cheerily, which was code for Don't touch me. But there was no  real need; his back already radiated the grainy warmth of sleeping skin.  She slid herself between the sheets and called up another picture, this  one of Daniel, a green bill wrapped around his erection like a condom.  The itch of the corners of the bill as they pricked inside her. His  stuff all over the faces of presidents. Stop it now, Janet, she thought  to herself, but she finally had to take a pill to get the image out of  her head; it made her too jittery to sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDaniel went to work  at the shoe company in the morning, suit plus vest, and Janet slept in,  as usual. Her afternoons were wide open. Today, after she had wrested  all the hot water out of the shower, she went straight to a lingerie  shop to buy a black bustier. She remained in the dressing room for over  twenty minutes, staring at her torso shoveled into the satin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So, Janet,\" called the saleslady, Tina, younger and suppler, \"is it lovely? Does it fit?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJanet pulled her sweater on and went up to the counter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It fit,\" she said, \"and I'm wearing it home. How much?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTina,  now at the cash register, snapped a garter belt between her fingers. \"I  need the little tag,\" she said. \"This isn't like a shoe store.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJanet  inhaled to full height, had some trouble breathing out because her ribs  were smashed together, and said, sharply: \"Give me the price, Tina. I  will not remove this piece of clothing now that it's on, so I either pay  for it this way or walk out the door with it on for free.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen  she left the store, emboldened, receipt tucked into her purse, folded  twice, Janet thought of all the chicken dishes she had not sent back  even though they were either half-raw or not what she had ordered.  Chicken Kiev instead of chicken Marsala, chicken with mushrooms instead  of chicken à la king: her body was made up of the wrong chickens. She  remembered Daniel's first insistent kiss, by the bridge near the Greek  cafe on that Saturday afternoon, and she hadn't thought of it in years  and she could almost smell the shawarma rotating on its pole outside. He  had asked her out again, and again, and told her he loved her on the  fourth date, and bought her fancy cards inside of which he wrote long  messages about her smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy seven o'clock that night, all the  shoes in Daniel's shoe store were either sold or back in boxes, and  clip-clop-clip came his own up the walkway. The sky was dimming from  dark blue into black, and Janet sat in the warmly lit hallway, legs  crossed, bustier pressing her breasts out like beach balls, the little  hooks fastened one notch off in the back so that she seemed a bit  crooked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDaniel paused in the doorway with his briefcase. \"Oh my,\" he said, \"what's this?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe felt her upper lip twitching. \"Hello, Daniel,\" she said. \"Welcome home.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  stood awkwardly and approached him. She tried to remember: Be slow.  Don't rush. When she had removed his coat and vest and laid them evenly  on the floor, she reached into the back of his pants and pulled out his  walnut-colored wallet. He watched, eyes huge, as she sifted through the  bills until she found what she wanted. That smart Mr. Franklin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe  usually used the hundred-dollar bill to buy his best friend, Edward  from business school, a lunch with fine wine on their sports day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe waved it in his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Okay?\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe grabbed her waist as she tucked the bill inside the satin between her breasts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Janet?\" he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  pushed him onto the carpet and began to take off the rest of his  clothes. Halfway through the buttons on his shirt, right at his ribs,  she was filled with an enormous terror and had to stop to catch her  breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"For a week, Daniel,\" she whispered, trembling. \"Each time. Okay? Promise?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis  breathing was sharp and tight. \"A week,\" he said, adding figures fast  in his head. \"Of course, I would love a week, a week,\" and his words  floated into murmur as she drove her body into his.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey forgot  about dinner. They stayed at that spot on the carpet for hours and then  tumbled off to the bedroom, his coat and vest resting flat on the  carpet. He stroked the curve of her neck with the light-brown mole. She  fell asleep first.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn Wednesday, Janet heard Daniel call Edward  and cancel their lunch date. \"I'm just too busy this week,\" he said.  Janet smiled to herself in the bathtub. He brought her handfuls of  daffodils. \"My wife doesn't love me,\" he told her in bed, which made her  laugh from the deep bottom of her throat. She put a flower between her  teeth and danced for him, naked, singing too loud. He grabbed her and  pushed her into chairs and she kept singing, as loud as she possibly  could, straddling him, wiggling, until finally he clamped a hand over  her mouth and she bit his palm and slapped his thighs until they flushed  pink. When it was over she felt she'd shared something fearfully  intimate with him and could barely look him in the eye, but he just  handed her the hundred and went into the bathroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn their  wedding day, Daniel had given her a card with a photograph of a beach on  it. \"You are my fantasy woman,\" he'd written inside. \"You come to me  from my dreams.\" It had annoyed her then, like a bug on her arm. I come  to you from Michigan, she had told him. From 928 Washington Street. He'd  laughed. \"That's what I love so much about you, Janet,\" he'd said,  whirling her onto the dance floor. \"You're no-nonsense,\" he'd said.  She'd spent the song trying furtively to imitate Edward's wife, who  danced like she had the instruments buzzing inside her hips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy  the end of the week, nine hundred dollars nestled in her underwear  drawer. She put the bills on the ironing board and flattened them out,  faces up, until they were so crisp they could be in a salad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe'd  thought about buying a dress. My whore dress! she'd thought. She  considered sixty lipsticks. My hooker lips! she thought. Finally she  just tucked the cash into her purse and took herself to lunch. Thirty  dollars brought her to the best bistro in the area, where she had a  hamburger and a glass of wine. The juice dripped down, red-brown, and  left a stain on her wrist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ah, fuck you,\" she said to the  homeless man on the street who asked for change. \"You really think I can  spare any of my NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS that I made by SELLING MY BODY?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man shook his head to the ground. \"Sorry, ma'am,\" he said. \"I never would have guessed.\"Stories","brand":"Anchor","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304154321125,"sku":"NP9780307744197","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307744197.jpg?v=1767738745","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-color-master-isbn-9780307744197","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}