Short Stories & Anthologies
![Kate Folk - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B09962T32Q.jpg)
Out There: Stories
A thrilling new voice in fiction injects the absurd into the everyday to present a startling vision of modern life, "[as] if Kafka and Camus and Bradbury were penning episodes of Black Mirror" (Chang-Rae Lee, author of My Year Abroad).
"Stories so sharp and ingenious you may cut yourself on them while reading."-Kelly Link, author of Get In Trouble
ONE OF THE MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF 2022-The Millions
With a focus on the weird and eerie forces that lurk beneath the surface of ordinary experience, Kate Folk's debut collection is perfectly pitched to the madness of our current moment. A medical ward for a mysterious bone-melting disorder is the setting of a perilous love triangle. A curtain of void obliterates the globe at a steady pace, forcing Earth's remaining inhabitants to decide with whom they want to spend eternity. A man fleeing personal scandal enters a codependent relationship with a house that requires a particularly demanding level of care. And in the title story, originally published in The New Yorker, a woman in San Francisco uses dating apps to find a partner despite the threat posed by "blots," preternaturally handsome artificial men dispatched by Russian hackers to steal data. Meanwhile, in a poignant companion piece, a woman and a blot forge a genuine, albeit doomed, connection.
Prescient and wildly imaginative, Out There depicts an uncanny landscape that holds a mirror to our subconscious fears and desires. Each story beats with its own fierce heart, and together they herald an exciting new arrival in the tradition of speculative literary fiction.
"Stories so sharp and ingenious you may cut yourself on them while reading."-Kelly Link, author of Get In Trouble
ONE OF THE MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF 2022-The Millions
With a focus on the weird and eerie forces that lurk beneath the surface of ordinary experience, Kate Folk's debut collection is perfectly pitched to the madness of our current moment. A medical ward for a mysterious bone-melting disorder is the setting of a perilous love triangle. A curtain of void obliterates the globe at a steady pace, forcing Earth's remaining inhabitants to decide with whom they want to spend eternity. A man fleeing personal scandal enters a codependent relationship with a house that requires a particularly demanding level of care. And in the title story, originally published in The New Yorker, a woman in San Francisco uses dating apps to find a partner despite the threat posed by "blots," preternaturally handsome artificial men dispatched by Russian hackers to steal data. Meanwhile, in a poignant companion piece, a woman and a blot forge a genuine, albeit doomed, connection.
Prescient and wildly imaginative, Out There depicts an uncanny landscape that holds a mirror to our subconscious fears and desires. Each story beats with its own fierce heart, and together they herald an exciting new arrival in the tradition of speculative literary fiction.
Editorial Reviews
"Stegner Fellow Kate Folk first caught the CHIRB's notice, and everyone else's, when the titular story appeared in The New Yorker a couple years back, which set up some big expectations for her debut collection. Luckily Folk's ample imagination ably exceeds them with these eerily absurdist tales that offer a perfect encapsulation of our modern madnesses, like an Alice's looking glass for our social media–obsessed age."-Chicago Review of Books, "12 Must-Read Books of March"
"One could fancy Kate Folk as the literary love child of Kafka and Camus and Bradbury, if Kafka and Camus and Bradbury were penning episodes of Black Mirror, but that still wouldn't capture the blazing originality and exhilarating weirdness of her writing. From the moment you read these tales, you'll know you're in the presence of a singularly brilliant vision."-Chang-Rae Lee
"An assortment of stories so sharp and ingenious you may cut yourself on them while reading, like a drawer full of the most beautiful knives-Out There goes onto my shelf of favorite collections."-Kelly Link
"Kate Folk's stories inhabit otherworldly realms where exquisite language and beguiling characters excavate the very nature of love and existence."-Adam Johnson
"Extraordinary through-the-looking-glass tales, all delivered with a side of menace . . . Wonderfully weird and weirdly wonderful, Kate Folk is a dazzling talent."-Karen Joy Fowler
"Wry, riveting, and ambitious, Out There manages to be both brilliantly inventive and emotionally resonant. Hilarious and unsettling, full of unforgettable voices and gleeful, exacting prose, this is a sharp and stylish debut."-Kimberly King Parsons
"Kate Folk is a literary swordsmith of feline dexterity."-Lisa Locascio
"The stories in this stunning debut are funny, fearless, and moving portraits of life shaped by the ever-widening shadow of technological progress."-Isle McElroy
"This collection of internet gothic fiction delighted, unsettled, and moved me in the best possible way."-Mary South
"With unassuming precision and casual beauty, these superbly crafted stories make uncanny meaning of our vacant moment."-Sarah McColl
"A masterclass in eeriness and perception, Out There brings our world into chilly focus through an exquisitely distorted lens."-Ayşegül Savaş
"Disturbing, alluring, dazzling, and creepy, Out There is a riveting collection that keeps you enthralled with every page."-Claire North
"A wonderful absurdist collection that explores the vagaries of human connections . . . Folk impresses with her imagination as well as her insights."-Publishers Weekly (st...
"One could fancy Kate Folk as the literary love child of Kafka and Camus and Bradbury, if Kafka and Camus and Bradbury were penning episodes of Black Mirror, but that still wouldn't capture the blazing originality and exhilarating weirdness of her writing. From the moment you read these tales, you'll know you're in the presence of a singularly brilliant vision."-Chang-Rae Lee
"An assortment of stories so sharp and ingenious you may cut yourself on them while reading, like a drawer full of the most beautiful knives-Out There goes onto my shelf of favorite collections."-Kelly Link
"Kate Folk's stories inhabit otherworldly realms where exquisite language and beguiling characters excavate the very nature of love and existence."-Adam Johnson
"Extraordinary through-the-looking-glass tales, all delivered with a side of menace . . . Wonderfully weird and weirdly wonderful, Kate Folk is a dazzling talent."-Karen Joy Fowler
"Wry, riveting, and ambitious, Out There manages to be both brilliantly inventive and emotionally resonant. Hilarious and unsettling, full of unforgettable voices and gleeful, exacting prose, this is a sharp and stylish debut."-Kimberly King Parsons
"Kate Folk is a literary swordsmith of feline dexterity."-Lisa Locascio
"The stories in this stunning debut are funny, fearless, and moving portraits of life shaped by the ever-widening shadow of technological progress."-Isle McElroy
"This collection of internet gothic fiction delighted, unsettled, and moved me in the best possible way."-Mary South
"With unassuming precision and casual beauty, these superbly crafted stories make uncanny meaning of our vacant moment."-Sarah McColl
"A masterclass in eeriness and perception, Out There brings our world into chilly focus through an exquisitely distorted lens."-Ayşegül Savaş
"Disturbing, alluring, dazzling, and creepy, Out There is a riveting collection that keeps you enthralled with every page."-Claire North
"A wonderful absurdist collection that explores the vagaries of human connections . . . Folk impresses with her imagination as well as her insights."-Publishers Weekly (st...
Readers Top Reviews
Short Excerpt Teaser
Out There
I was putting myself out there. On my return to San Francisco from a gloomy Thanksgiving with my mother in Illinois, I downloaded Tinder, Bumble, and a few other dating apps I'd seen Instagram ads for. I was thirty, too young to accept a life void of excitement, romance, and perhaps, eventually, the lively antics of a child. I resolved to pass judgment on several hundred men per day, and to make an effort to message the few I matched with. I was picky enough that this seemed not wholly absurd. It would be like a new workout routine, a daily regimen to forestall a future of more permanent aloneness, and enjoy my relative youth in the meantime.
I'd never liked the idea of finding a romantic partner on an app, the same way you'd order pizza or an Uber. Such a method seemed to reduce love to another transaction. I had always felt it catered to lazy, unimaginative people. A worthy man would be out in the world doing things, not swiping on women's pictures in his dim apartment, like a coward. To further complicate matters, it was estimated that men on dating apps in the city were now 50 percent blots. But what choice did I have? Apps seemed to be the way everyone found each other these days. After my last breakup, I spent a while "letting something happen," which meant doing nothing. Years passed and nothing did happen, and I realized that without my intervention, my hand pushing against the warm back of fate, it was possible nothing ever would. In the end, it seemed to come down to never dating again, or taking the chance of being blotted. Though I supposed there had always been risks.
The early blots had been easy to identify. They were too handsome, for one thing. Their skin was smooth and glowing, and they were uniformly tall and lean. Jawlines you could cut bread with. They were the best-looking men in any room, and had no sense of humor.
I met one of these early blots several years ago. My friend Peter had invited me to a dinner party hosted by a tech founder he'd grown up with in the Sunset District, and with whom he'd once followed the band Phish around the country, selling nitrous and poppers to concertgoers. Peter and I didn't really hang out, beyond the meetings we attended in church basements for people who no longer drank. But I was bored, and it was a free dinner, and Peter made it sound like he'd already asked a bunch of other people who'd said no, which took some of the pressure off.
At dinner, I sat next to a guy named Roger. He had the telltale blot look-high forehead, lush hair, shapely eyebrows-but I didn't recognize him for what he was, because the blot phenomenon hadn't yet been exposed. Roger was solicitous, asking about my family, my work as a teacher, and my resentment toward the tech industry. When I declined the server's offer of wine, Roger's golden eyes flared with recognition, and he asked if I was in recovery. I said yes, for five years at that point, and he nodded gravely, saying he admired my commitment to this lifestyle; his dear aunt was also sober.
Roger seemed eager to charm, but I was not charmed. I felt spotlighted by his attentiveness, his anticipation of what I might want-another helping of fava bean salad, more water, an extra napkin when I dropped a chunk of braised pork on my skirt. I would say something self-deprecating, and he'd regard me steadily and assure me that I was a wonderful person, deserving of all I wanted from life, which wasn't what I'd been asking for. Roger didn't know me and wasn't a credible judge of my worth-unless his position was that all people had worth, which made him no judge at all. When I shifted the subject to him, he supplied a backstory that seemed pre-written.
"I came from ranchland in the northern United States," he told me. "My father was stern but loving, in his way. My mother is a wonderful woman who raised the four of us into strong, capable adults. My childhood was not without hardship, but these adversities shaped me into the person I am today. Now I live in the San Francisco Bay Area, land of innovation and possibility. I am grateful for the life I've been given, and I know it is thanks to the people who have loved and supported me on the journey."
I forced a chuckle of acknowledgment. "Wow," I said. "That's great."
As I drove Peter back to the Richmond District in my decrepit Corolla, he revealed that his friend, the event's host, had sprinkled the dinner party with blots.
"Blots?"
"It's an acronym for something," Peter said. "They're biomorphic humanoids. The latest advancement in the field of tactile illusion." He paused. "Fake people," he added.
I concealed my shock, not wanting to give Peter the satisfaction. "So you invited me to be the subject of a Turing te...
I was putting myself out there. On my return to San Francisco from a gloomy Thanksgiving with my mother in Illinois, I downloaded Tinder, Bumble, and a few other dating apps I'd seen Instagram ads for. I was thirty, too young to accept a life void of excitement, romance, and perhaps, eventually, the lively antics of a child. I resolved to pass judgment on several hundred men per day, and to make an effort to message the few I matched with. I was picky enough that this seemed not wholly absurd. It would be like a new workout routine, a daily regimen to forestall a future of more permanent aloneness, and enjoy my relative youth in the meantime.
I'd never liked the idea of finding a romantic partner on an app, the same way you'd order pizza or an Uber. Such a method seemed to reduce love to another transaction. I had always felt it catered to lazy, unimaginative people. A worthy man would be out in the world doing things, not swiping on women's pictures in his dim apartment, like a coward. To further complicate matters, it was estimated that men on dating apps in the city were now 50 percent blots. But what choice did I have? Apps seemed to be the way everyone found each other these days. After my last breakup, I spent a while "letting something happen," which meant doing nothing. Years passed and nothing did happen, and I realized that without my intervention, my hand pushing against the warm back of fate, it was possible nothing ever would. In the end, it seemed to come down to never dating again, or taking the chance of being blotted. Though I supposed there had always been risks.
The early blots had been easy to identify. They were too handsome, for one thing. Their skin was smooth and glowing, and they were uniformly tall and lean. Jawlines you could cut bread with. They were the best-looking men in any room, and had no sense of humor.
I met one of these early blots several years ago. My friend Peter had invited me to a dinner party hosted by a tech founder he'd grown up with in the Sunset District, and with whom he'd once followed the band Phish around the country, selling nitrous and poppers to concertgoers. Peter and I didn't really hang out, beyond the meetings we attended in church basements for people who no longer drank. But I was bored, and it was a free dinner, and Peter made it sound like he'd already asked a bunch of other people who'd said no, which took some of the pressure off.
At dinner, I sat next to a guy named Roger. He had the telltale blot look-high forehead, lush hair, shapely eyebrows-but I didn't recognize him for what he was, because the blot phenomenon hadn't yet been exposed. Roger was solicitous, asking about my family, my work as a teacher, and my resentment toward the tech industry. When I declined the server's offer of wine, Roger's golden eyes flared with recognition, and he asked if I was in recovery. I said yes, for five years at that point, and he nodded gravely, saying he admired my commitment to this lifestyle; his dear aunt was also sober.
Roger seemed eager to charm, but I was not charmed. I felt spotlighted by his attentiveness, his anticipation of what I might want-another helping of fava bean salad, more water, an extra napkin when I dropped a chunk of braised pork on my skirt. I would say something self-deprecating, and he'd regard me steadily and assure me that I was a wonderful person, deserving of all I wanted from life, which wasn't what I'd been asking for. Roger didn't know me and wasn't a credible judge of my worth-unless his position was that all people had worth, which made him no judge at all. When I shifted the subject to him, he supplied a backstory that seemed pre-written.
"I came from ranchland in the northern United States," he told me. "My father was stern but loving, in his way. My mother is a wonderful woman who raised the four of us into strong, capable adults. My childhood was not without hardship, but these adversities shaped me into the person I am today. Now I live in the San Francisco Bay Area, land of innovation and possibility. I am grateful for the life I've been given, and I know it is thanks to the people who have loved and supported me on the journey."
I forced a chuckle of acknowledgment. "Wow," I said. "That's great."
As I drove Peter back to the Richmond District in my decrepit Corolla, he revealed that his friend, the event's host, had sprinkled the dinner party with blots.
"Blots?"
"It's an acronym for something," Peter said. "They're biomorphic humanoids. The latest advancement in the field of tactile illusion." He paused. "Fake people," he added.
I concealed my shock, not wanting to give Peter the satisfaction. "So you invited me to be the subject of a Turing te...
