What I'm reading right now is Stephen King's From a Buick 8.

Things That Fall from the Sky is a lovely book. Brockmeier can be lyrical while in the middle of very strange situations -- often, you get some tremendously off-kilter set-up, a flat structure descending upon a town or the entire known universe as an airplane (those born in the plane come with their carry-ons, and the diet consists mostly of ginger ale and peanuts), all the while focusing on what short stories should focus on: what we do to each other as friends, family, or lovers.

What I'm reading right now is Kevin Brockeimer's Things That Fall from the Sky, a collection of short stories, from where there's this bit of Nabokovilia on page four of "These Hands":

A few questions deserve answer, perhaps, before I continue. So then: The walls behind which I'm writing are the walls of my home -- the only thing padded is the furniture, the only thing barred the wallpaper. Caroline is both alive and (I imagine -- I haven't seen her now in many days) well. And I haven't read Nabokov -- not ever, not once.

Another Nabokovilian bit follows in page 33.

After the Plague was great, as was the last book for my class, Toni Morrison's Paradise, which was knotty but ultimately rewarding.