This is the writer's voice new fiction from the New Yorker. I'm Deborah

Treisman fiction editor at the New Yorker. On this episode of the writer's voice will a Seanders won the man Booker Prize in 2017 for his novel Lincoln in the Bardo.

He's the author of four-story collections including Civil Warland and Bad Decline

and 10th of December.

Now here's George Saunders. and bad of December.

Now here's George Saunders.

Gool.

At noon, Lala wheels over that of lunch. For a sec I can be not scary, leaning against

our plastiform wall meant to resemble human entrails. Why aren't the old served first?

Crabs Leonard, squatting ghoul too, senior to all.

Last week Leonard's knee went out.

We, his fellow squatting ghouls, have since been allowing him to sit upon a

plastiform remorseful demon which, at this moment, amidst one of its periodic remorse groans.

Grieve on, foul beast, I say, per script. Foul indeed, says Tim, feuding Gool 4,

great guy, always blurting out such quips as,

Brian, you are really on it in terms of the way you keep casting your eyes fitfully back and forth while squatting

To which I might reply thanks Tim you feuding ghouls are also ripping it up. I so admire how every day you guys come up with a whole new topic for your feud.

Into my paper bowl goes lunch. A broth with plop down in it, a single gleaming Kit Kat.

Someday, I too may be old, knees giving out some group of squatting ghouls as yet unborn or currently mere little demons running around in their bright red diapers

allowing elder me kaput like Leonard to sit on perhaps this very same

plastiform remorseful demon in that dismal future time.

Today however, all is well.

...