I've been hearing about George Saunders and how good his mainstream/slipstream/fantasy stories are for quite a while. Well, I just finished reading "CommComm" in the New Yorker and it fulfills all I've heard about the author. It's a wonderful, tragical, fantastical story. Here's an excerpt:
I go to my room, watch some World Series, practice my PIDS in front of the mirror.
What's going on down there I don't watch anymore: Mom's on the landing in her pajamas, calling Dad's name, a little testy. Then she takes a bullet in the neck, her hands fly up, she rolls the rest of the way down, my poor round Ma. Dad comes up from the basement in his gimpy comic trot, concerned, takes a bullet in the chest, drops to his knees, takes one in the head, and that's that.
Then they do it again, over and over, all night long.
Finally it's morning. I go down, have a bagel.
Go read it now.