The 44 unconventional stories in this short fiction collection from Klee (Ivyland) are virtually uncategorizable, but all are united by their wit and irony.

To read the rest of the review, visit Publishers Weekly.

The last known speakers of American English were garbagemen.

To view the full list, visit the blog of David Abrams,The Quivering Pen.

Miles Klee is a male Lydia Davis on a cyberpunk acid trip. These are stories, but the density, compression, precision, imagery, and rhythm of his language often feel like something else.

To read the rest of the review, visit Entropy.

The sketches in True False evoke, in their noir surrealism, something of the icy oddness associated with the work of the film director David Lynch. This is not an effect that is easily achieved, and the author is to be commended for pulling it off.

Read the full review in the Times Literary Supplement.

From Matt Bell’s introduction:

Unlike most writers, who are so grateful to find something that succeeds that they end up mining that same patch of ground for most of their careers, Klee seems capable of writing any kind of story he wants, often starting by mimicking different genres and forms, then subverting those existing tropes to serve his own needs.

To read the story, visit Electric Literature.

The influence and style is truly one of contemporary means, a collage so dense that it becomes wholly original itself. Pieces of Barthelme and Lipsyte and Lutz and Hempel and so many more are everywhere, with Klee’s imagination gluing it together in the biggest of ways.

To read the rest of the review, visit Heavy Feather Review.

The pool was bleeding. Byron noticed, adrift in shade on my shark floater: an acorn hit him on the head and he’d opened his eyes to find it bobbing in the water, ribbons of red uncoiling beneath. Came and got me and I got mom and she got dad.

“It’s not blood,” mom said, squinting. “What is it.”

“Not blood,” dad agreed.

No swimming till our pool guy Darren gave the OK. Byron and Mackenzie fought on the rock waterfall while he worked, Kenz fussing her bikini for tanline checks, Byron plugging the spout with his foot for fields of spray, gagging when he glimpsed the Runt’s flatness. That plus Darren’s screaming equipment plus Berkie pawing the door to go out were fucking up this Mozart piece, and just as I banged the piano shut, Kenzie materialized, dripping on hardwood. She did her who-wouldn’t-love-this smile, ran a tongue over top teeth. The braces were finally gone, but not the nightmares: threaded metal tightening, the crank when gum and bone pulled apart.

To read the rest of the story, visit The Lit Hub.