Literary Fiction / Short Story Collection
Date Published: 09-16-2025
Publisher: Wayne State University Press
In 1970s and ’80s Detroit, the city wrestles with an unending economic
downturn, increasing violence, and white exodus to the suburbs. Amid all of
this is twentysomething Mary who is just trying to grapple with her identity
in a world filled with uncertainty.
downturn, increasing violence, and white exodus to the suburbs. Amid all of
this is twentysomething Mary who is just trying to grapple with her identity
in a world filled with uncertainty.
In this collection of linked stories, we follow Mary as she seeks to cope with
and withstand hardship and confront her fears of exploitation, abuse, and
death. Along the way, she delves into the complex yet nurturing relationships
with her family and friends who teach her to love better, live fuller, and
question power. The Patron Saint of Lost Girls presents an unflinching tale of
life in the late twentieth-century postindustrial Midwest.
EXCERPT
ONE NIGHT, WE decided to bury the rat. I’m still not sure how it all started. Mel had chosen her
outfit, a black, velvet dress and spike-heeled boots. She had begun the long process of getting
dressed, while Laura and I sat on the couch and sipped vodka gimlets, listening to a stuck car
whir its wheels. It was the end of winter, when the season’s snow compacted into ice, and any
warmth created slick pools on the frozen surface. This simple fact of nature wreaked havoc in
the streets, where cars slid together, and people walked in a perpetual state of almost falling.
Since moving here, I still hadn’t adjusted to the bitter winter, or the spring that came too late.
Today, all life felt slippery. Laura was explaining, for example, that she’d changed her mind
about our plans. She did not, in fact, want us to meet her new boyfriend at a bar.
“M-m-m-maybe we should leave Tom at the Lex,” Laura said. “Let him stew.”
She flicked her cigarette and held her head high. Through half a year of speech therapy, Laura
had resolved most of her stutter.
“Did he cheat on you?”
“No,” Laura said, and turned away. Very dignified. Tactfully composed. Distant as a landscape.
It would take hours to mete out a few facts: Tom had said something rude; Laura, in response,
had gotten drunk; Laura was a little thing, so two drinks were one too many. “I didn’t know I
c-c-could drink six shots of tequila,” Laura said. “Threw up in his car, too. S-s-serves him right.”
Mel lived on the sixth floor, where the heat collected, so she’d opened the windows for air. The
car wheels still spun in the alley and when we popped our heads out over the window ledge, we
saw the front right tire had slipped into a pothole, and the remaining wheels rotated on a sort of
soggy ice rink.
outfit, a black, velvet dress and spike-heeled boots. She had begun the long process of getting
dressed, while Laura and I sat on the couch and sipped vodka gimlets, listening to a stuck car
whir its wheels. It was the end of winter, when the season’s snow compacted into ice, and any
warmth created slick pools on the frozen surface. This simple fact of nature wreaked havoc in
the streets, where cars slid together, and people walked in a perpetual state of almost falling.
Since moving here, I still hadn’t adjusted to the bitter winter, or the spring that came too late.
Today, all life felt slippery. Laura was explaining, for example, that she’d changed her mind
about our plans. She did not, in fact, want us to meet her new boyfriend at a bar.
“M-m-m-maybe we should leave Tom at the Lex,” Laura said. “Let him stew.”
She flicked her cigarette and held her head high. Through half a year of speech therapy, Laura
had resolved most of her stutter.
“Did he cheat on you?”
“No,” Laura said, and turned away. Very dignified. Tactfully composed. Distant as a landscape.
It would take hours to mete out a few facts: Tom had said something rude; Laura, in response,
had gotten drunk; Laura was a little thing, so two drinks were one too many. “I didn’t know I
c-c-could drink six shots of tequila,” Laura said. “Threw up in his car, too. S-s-serves him right.”
Mel lived on the sixth floor, where the heat collected, so she’d opened the windows for air. The
car wheels still spun in the alley and when we popped our heads out over the window ledge, we
saw the front right tire had slipped into a pothole, and the remaining wheels rotated on a sort of
soggy ice rink.
About the Author
Maureen Aitken’s short-story collection, The Patron Saint of Lost
Girls, received a Kirkus star, the Nilsen Prize, and the Foreword Review INDIE
Gold Prize for General Fiction. It will be reissued in September, 2025 by
Wayne State University Press. Her stories have earned a Minnesota State Arts
Board’s Artist Initiative Grant, a Loft Mentor Award, an award from
Ireland’s Fish Short Story Prize, and two Pushcart Prize nominations. It
was also nominated for a Minnesota Book Award. Her stories have been published
in Prairie Schooner and New Letters, among others. This is her second story
featured in The Missouri Review’s Blast section.
Girls, received a Kirkus star, the Nilsen Prize, and the Foreword Review INDIE
Gold Prize for General Fiction. It will be reissued in September, 2025 by
Wayne State University Press. Her stories have earned a Minnesota State Arts
Board’s Artist Initiative Grant, a Loft Mentor Award, an award from
Ireland’s Fish Short Story Prize, and two Pushcart Prize nominations. It
was also nominated for a Minnesota Book Award. Her stories have been published
in Prairie Schooner and New Letters, among others. This is her second story
featured in The Missouri Review’s Blast section.
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