CREATING READER INVESTMENT IN YOUR CHARACTERS: A Writing Tip by Jess Silfa
A Writing Tip by Jess Silfa CREATING READER INVESTMENT IN YOUR CHARACTERS As I write (or rewrite) a piece of fiction, I ask myself a few questions: Why does the story start when it does? What does my chosen point of view add or subtract from the piece? What is the problem, and how is it a symptom of the deeper conflict? I’ve recently started asking myself: What will readers want for my characters? What will they fear for them? When it comes to crafting a character, the heart of their journey lies in the emotional investment of the reader. A character should transcend being a mere plot device; they should be someone the reader cheers for, frets over, and ultimately cares deeply about. Readers should yearn for something for the character—be it conquering a mythical dragon, finding true love, or battling their inner demons. This yearning fosters a connection … chop! chop! read more!
A CRAFT CHAT WITH RICHIE ZABOROWSKE
Andrea Caswell A CRAFT CHAT WITH RICHIE ZABOROWSKE Andrea Caswell: “Stay on the Line” begins in media res, in a hospital during a medical emergency. What made you decide to start there? With short stories, it can be hard to know where to jump in sometimes. Richie Zaborowske: I love short stories. I love how every word counts and is working toward a common goal. I love how, in a matter of minutes, I can have a complete literary experience. With this in mind, when I’m constructing a story, I’m always considering if what I’m writing is necessary to the piece as a whole. Does it move the plot forward? Is it interesting? Is it needed? The opening here isn’t necessarily needed in the sense of the plot or character development, but I thought it helped establish the voice and tone of the piece, and created a vivid scene that … chop! chop! read more!
IN A WRITING RUT? TRY FREE ASSOCIATING: A Writing Tip by Layla Murphy
A Writing Tip by Layla Murphy IN A WRITING RUT? TRY FREE ASSOCIATING The idea that psychoanalysis and the art of writing have significant common ground is not revolutionary. What is explored, what can be learned, what challenges must be faced—in writing as in psychotherapy, the answer can be found in the complex emotional fabric of a human life. For that reason, we can easily apply the techniques used in one of these fields to aid our struggles in the other. Free association was a therapeutic tool developed by Freud which consisted of the patient verbalizing unrelated, seemingly unimportant thoughts as they come to mind. Freud’s theories and techniques are now mostly debunked, which is fine for us because we aren’t using free association to heal our inner child, but as a tool for generative writing. What makes this tool so helpful for writing is that it disabuses us of … chop! chop! read more!
BEAT THE CLOCK: A Writing Tip by Chuck Augello
A Writing Tip by Chuck Augello Beat the Clock Estimated reading time: 3 minutes During my years as a working writer I’ve had opportunities to participate in public readings and open mic nights, including a “slam” in which I placed second while a student at the MFA Program at Queens University at Charlotte. With such events, a common element is the time limit. Often I’ve had only two or three minutes to make an impression, which has led me to a game I call Beat The Clock, a revision strategy that helps pare one’s prose to its vital core. While it works with flash and microfiction, it’s most effective with longer stories or passages from a novel. First, select the passage needing revision. Time yourself reading it aloud. A two thousand-word story takes me approximately eleven minutes to read. After that initial timed reading, I’ll pretend I have a coveted … chop! chop! read more!
WHEN WILLPOWER ISN’T ENOUGH: A Writing Tip by Moriah Hampton
A Writing Tip by Moriah Hampton When Willpower Isn’t Enough Recently, I set aside a story I’d been working on for over a year. I did so reluctantly after revising the opening section to build to certain plot points I selected from earlier drafts. The more I revised, the more dissatisfied I became. It was like watching dominoes lined up between two walls topple over one by one. Despite knowing that something prevented the story moving forward in an interesting way, I continued to revise. I have goals, I told myself. Six stories into the collection I want to publish someday, I anticipated completing the seventh story I was revising and starting on the eighth, my momentum steady until the project was complete. Writing takes work, I reminded myself, which entails not quitting when it becomes difficult but pushing through whatever obstacle lies in the way. But sometimes will power … chop! chop! read more!
A CRAFT CHAT WITH HANNAH SMART by Andrea Caswell
Andrea CaswellA CRAFT CHAT WITH HANNAH SMART Hannah: I developed the concept for this story first. I knew I wanted to write a piece that questioned the nature of truth, and I knew that in order to do that, I’d need a scenario with lots of built-in assumptions about truthfulness. My fiancé and I were throwing around ideas, and one of his suggestions was a 911 call. Since 911 dispatchers are required to take callers at their word, I immediately knew it was the plot-grounding form I’d been looking for. Andrea: You’ve written this story using only dialogue. Was that an original constraint or parameter, perhaps related to a prompt or exercise? If not, at what point did you decide to write it as a dialogue-only text? Hannah: The story wasn’t in response to a prompt, but it did develop from the concept I mentioned above. I intended it to … chop! chop! read more!
THE ALMOST-BUT-NOT-QUITE POEM, A Writing Tip by Shoshauna Shy
A Writing Tip by Shoshauna ShyThe Almost-But-Not-Quite Poem Three weeks of wrangling words into position—and still when you cap your pen or click Save, there’s a crumpled shirt tag chafing at your neck. Something isn’t right. Why does your poem feel unfinished no matter how many times you smooth things into place? You read it out loud. The language has a stilted quality. Or the images don’t segue seamlessly from one to the next. Like pulling on a sweater when there’s a thread or two coming loose, and the sleeve catches halfway up your arm. Consider this: You may actually have chosen the perfect verbs and nouns—but it’s their sequence that’s the problem! One trick I use often is to simply swap the order of lines in a sentence. It’s a very small tweak, but the change in perspective can do wonders against that stilted feeling we, as poets, know … chop! chop! read more!
A CONVERSATION WITH DANUTA HINC, Author of WHEN WE WERE TWINS by Andrea Caswell
A Conversation with Danuta Hinc, author of When We Were TwinsPlamen Press, 232 PagesInterview by Andrea Caswell Danuta Hinc’s novel, When We Were Twins (Plamen Press, 2023), follows a group of characters caught in cycles of violence and war. The book imagines the evolution of an intelligent young man into a radicalized terrorist, challenging us to see into his heart and humanity. In this interview with senior fiction editor Andrea Caswell, Hinc discusses the importance of creating connections across cultures, and explains how writing historical fiction forced her to question her own assumptions about human history and the consequences of war. Andrea Caswell: In When We Were Twins, the main character, Taher, begins life as an innocent child, but evolves into a radicalized terrorist. His twin sister follows a different path. Can you tell us about the idea of twins and how this symbol informs themes in the novel? Danuta Hinc: … chop! chop! read more!
WRITE IN SAFETY: A Writing Tip by Karen Rile
A Writing Tip by Karen RileWRITE IN SAFETY Recently I wrote about The Most Dangerous Writing App, an efficient but hair-raising way to generate fresh ideas for your writing. If you haven’t tried it, give it a spin. You might catch something you can use; at very least you’ll get a three-cups-of-coffee adrenaline spurt. Yesterday, a student of mine told me she has a friend who drafts all his writing in The Most Dangerous app. Imagine that! For most of us, however, such a heart-pounding practice isn’t sustainable for more than a few minutes at a time. To write deeply, to compose, one needs to be composed. Maybe, like me, you compose on a keyboard, fingers flying to keep up with your thoughts. Maybe as you type you’re struggling against the urge to look away, to Google that last reference, to answer that ding (typing this, just now, I floated … chop! chop! read more!
A CRAFT CHAT WITH MONIQUE D. CLARK by Andrea Caswell
Andrea CaswellA Craft Chat With Monique D. Clark Andrea: Congratulations on “The Love,” (Issue 44) which feels like a perfect short story. It’s got it all: deep love, disenchantment, humor, food, family secrets, and a profound moment of truth, encapsulated within 1500 words. What’s your “recipe” for creating a powerful short story? Monique: Thank you so much! It was an honor to have “The Love” published in Cleaver Magazine. This is a great question, and in theory feels like an easy one to answer. However, it truly isn’t. My best answer is: Know at least one thing for certain, whether it’s setting, a theme, or in this case, word count. For this piece, the primary goal was for the story to be a maximum of 1500 words, with very little room for compromise. I had spent the past two years in my MFA program at Drexel University working on a short story collection. … chop! chop! read more!
I TOOK INSTRUCTIONS FROM MY HANDS, a craft essay by Beth Kephart
Beth Kephart will teach an all-new interactive Zoom masterclass for Cleaver on Sunday, February 24 2-4 PM: WRITING ADVANCED BY CATEGORIES: TURNING OUR OBSESSIONS INTO STORIES. Join us live or purchase the recording. More info here. Beth Kephart I TOOK INSTRUCTIONS FROM MY HANDS The writer as maker is the poet who weaves, the essayist who stitches, the quilter of fabrics and words. They are Virginia Woolf baking bread and Elizabeth Bishop watercoloring. They are Zelda Fitzgerald cutting paper dolls, Stanley Kunitz among the seaside garden bees, Lorraine Hansberry and the allure of her sketches, and Flannery O’Connor gone exuberant with her pen-and-ink, sometimes linoleum-cut cartoons. (Also Leo Tolstoy. Also Charles Bukowski. Also Lars Horn.) The hands and the head. The ineffable and the uttered. The touch and the tone. The counterpoise and the hush. The one who sees and the one who, having seen, somehow finds the words. I … chop! chop! read more!
FIRST TO THIRD: A Writing Tip by Karen Rile
A Writing Tip by Karen RileFIRST TO THIRD Here’s the truth: Your first instinct is your best. Write the draft the way it comes to you. Maybe your story comes out naturally in first person. And you nail it, fluently: the voice, the character, the plot. Brava! Here’s the rub: You show your draft to trusted readers and—what the heck?—they don’t get it. This narrator is too unlikeable to care about, they complain. They confuse the narrator’s motivations with the story’s intent. They miss your carefully laid irony. Should you fire your writers’ workshop and look for a new set of literary peers? Hold on. Your story isn’t quite telling itself. Here’s the tip: When something feels off about your first-person narrative, try reworking it in a close third-person voice. This is a minor adjustment that produces big results. Third person breathes a puff of air, a little narrative distance, … chop! chop! read more!
2024 Creative Nonfiction Contest
ANNOUNCING Cleaver’s 2024 Short Creative Nonfiction Contest We invite short works of nonfiction that show us where the truth can both unite and divide. Far from singular or simple, the world around us glistens with contradictions. Show us where you hold yours. Submissions open January 15, 2024 and close April 20, 2024 Judge: Clifford Thompson $500 First Prize $250 Second Prize $100 Third Prize Submission Guidelines Questions? Contact Claire Oleson, Contest Manager Creative Nonfiction Contest Judge Clifford Thompson’s books include What It Is: Race, Family, and One Thinking Black Man’s Blues (2019), which Time magazine called one of the “most anticipated” books of the season, and the graphic novel Big Man and the Little Men (2022), which he wrote and illustrated. He is a recipient of a Whiting Writers’ Award for nonfiction. His essays and reviews have appeared in The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, The Village Voice, Best American … chop! chop! read more!
SOLVING FOR X: A Writing Tip by Karen Rile
Where did this prompt come from? I’ve used it in my Penn classes for more than twenty years. I’ve personalized and fancied it, but I don’t think the original idea was mine. This week I paged through my personal library of books on writing and teaching and scoured the internet, but I cannot find the author. If you recognize it, drop me a line! Solving for X creates a detailed and seemingly capricious to-do list that, like all great prompts, frees you from the prison of the empty page. Not quite as daunting as a sestina, but hard enough to keep you interested. The best Solving for X stories make the prompt seem to disappear entirely. The reader becomes so absorbed in your quirky story they don’t notice the successive initial words. Make it fun, or make it serious. Use it alone, or with your peer writing group, or assign … chop! chop! read more!
A CRAFT CHAT WITH SUE MELL, by Andrea Caswell
Andrea CaswellA CRAFT CHAT WITH SUE MELL In her flash CNF piece “Transported” (Issue 44), Sue Mell takes readers on a joy ride through a coming-of-age friendship. Mell shares insights about writing the story with senior fiction editor Andrea Caswell. Andrea: In “Transported,” you’ve packed just about all we need to know into three short paragraphs. It feels like magic! Did this piece begin as something longer, or did you plan to write with great compression from the outset? Sue: What a great compliment—thanks so much! I’d tried using this material as the basis for a short story as well as telling it in a longer or personal essay form. None of which succeeded. So yes—in different versions I attempted over the years—you could say this piece began as something longer. But with this version, originally intended for Instagram (more about that below), I was always going for great compression. … chop! chop! read more!
THREE FLASH PIECES by Matthew Guenette
Matthew Guenette THREE FLASH PIECES Pet Peeve A jackhammer hammers somewhere in the school and your armpits sweat through your shirt. You don’t know what you’re doing, and the class knows that you know they know, but you can’t tell what any of them are wearing, you have no idea what’s going on with their hair. A student points at an outlet. Sparks, she says. Another notices a leak, and look, there it is, something coffee-colored pooling in a corner. A ceiling panel falls, snaps to pieces at your feet. Your laugh-it-off sounds desperate. More falling panels expose bundled wires, coiled cables, electric vines. A row of fluorescent lights comes loudly unhatched. An expensive projector smashes to the floor. A smoldering beam crushes your desk. The jackhammering nears. Pigeons fly through the ceiling, and one lands on your shoulder. You love this pigeon, its little, red, wide-eyed view is your … chop! chop! read more!
THE DETRIMENT OF DOUBT by Hannah Smart
Hannah SmartTHE DETRIMENT OF DOUBT “Hello, I’d like to report a fire at the Gerry’s Pizza off West Ninth Street.” “Okay, and your name, sir?” “Gerry Parker.” “Could you describe the situation?” “I am seated in the restaurant parking lot about twenty feet from the double-paned glass door customers use to enter the building. The flames have moved through the restaurant and are threatening to enter the liminal buffer space between the two sets of doors leading to the outside and inside of the restaurant, respectively—the area where guests wipe off their boots and queue to be seated on particularly busy days. The flames are licking the inside doors. I am sitting on the curb, smoking a cigarette within a safe distance.” “Anyone in the restaurant?” “Part of me wishes Rebecca were in there.” “But no one is?” “Long history with Rebecca. You wouldn’t want to hear it.” “I certainly … chop! chop! read more!
ANNIVERSARY POEM II by Matt Thomas
Matt Thomas ANNIVERSARY POEM II Remember the tracked snow it was last to melt and so was like a suture in the flattened grass, Robins feeding impression to impression hashes as if marking time passed from The Incident that dried the trees, brooded a generation of change in their damped, stubborn ashes & then, as if voicing that fire, The Crack of a stick giving to your weight panicked the Robins. We watched them scatter, black thrown seeds, the press of your taut belly a hard pressure at both of our spines We felt it then, but never said, how love, like snow, is a tension between transition and the late present misremembered as stillness By now it goes without saying, all of the lessons to short, illogical ends we’ve hefted and carried from forest to meadow and back Matt Thomas is a smallholder farmer, engineer, and environmentalist. His work … chop! chop! read more!
YOU WILL HAVE ARRIVED: A Semi-Natural History by L M Feldman
L M Feldman YOU WILL HAVE ARRIVED: A Semi-Natural History 1. The Valley Green Inn A WEDDING You arrive alone to celebrate someone’s love and hope and future (your faith in such things long gone, a dry river). You’ve donned your best shoes (so no one will know) and the suit that fit a former You. The Inn is festooned in white and pale green, the flowers arrayed in bowls of water. Wedding guests (tamed by ties and heels) are milling on the long dirt road (what was it called before Forbidden Drive?) in outfits that (more or less) fit. You smile, greet, hug, laugh, escape (at last) to join the geese. … Dirt. Trees. Wind. Creek. Facing out: the sky. Facing in: incandescent bulbs, strung up like stars (like chaos caged). Later, you’ll carouse. Make up words to songs you don’t know. Sing yourself hoarse to songs you do. … chop! chop! read more!
TWO MICROS by Kelli Short Borges
Kelli Short Borges TWO MICROS Manning Up It was Jack’s birthday and there we were—me, Jack, and Thom, the Three Musketeers, wrestling in the pool while Dad grilled a T-bone, Jack’s favorite, he said (we knew it was really Dad’s, but kept our mouths shut for fear we’d get smacked), and the scent of summer was in the air, a meaty sizzle mixed with suntan oil and bleach-y chlorine, and we were playing “hold ‘em down,” a game Dad invented last year teaching us three to hold our breath underwater, an important skill for boys looking to join the Marines, and Dad sure was a fan, with that old-as-dirt Semper Fi sticker peeling at the edges on his Dodge Ram, and really I didn’t want to be a Marine, and neither did Jack, but Thom sure did, and he was holding Jack down like the puppies Dad took to the … chop! chop! read more!
I MISSED ANOTHER DEADLINE BUT IT’S OKAY IT’S REALLY OKAY by Erin Mizrahi
Erin Mizrahi I MISSED ANOTHER DEADLINE BUT IT’S OKAY IT’S REALLY OKAY & it’s for the best my CV is just a list of sensations & my author bio is a photograph of a fainting couch & it’s ok & my partner reported fraud when I used his credit card to buy cellulite cream & it’s ok it’s really ok but now I am blacklisted from instacart & I asked my mom to use her instacart to send groceries to our apartment but our address was blacklisted too & so the driver was redirected to a dying lake, not the lake you’re thinking about, a different one, and now dying lake geese and dying lake ducks are feasting on my kiwis & pink lady apples & their legs are the smoothest legs you have ever seen no cellulite in sight & how we’re all a bit like Eric Carle’s very … chop! chop! read more!
COLLIDING WORLDS by Krys Malcolm Belc
Krys Malcolm Belc COLLIDING WORLDS Johnny Brenda’s Where Frankford Avenue meets Girard Avenue—heart of demolition, of crumble and shiny plastic—you can see Philadelphia’s most surprising sunset, melting purple bleeding into orange-red, punctuated by Fishtown’s rowhomes and churches. Forget that this is a site of colliding worlds: battles over demolition and rebuilding, crumbling buildings, plastic construction, streets blocked by concrete trucks and delivery vans, articles in national magazines about how we’re just arriving, here on Frankford Avenue, the oldest road in Pennsylvania. We came thousands of sunsets ago to see a singer neither knew perform upstairs at the place on the corner. Off the El, along Girard Avenue where four lanes of traffic flew by. Up sticky steps we went hand in hand. Leaning against the bar, me with my Kenzinger, you with your Sprite, shoulders rubbing those of the people who became our neighbors, you laughed when I asked to … chop! chop! read more!
EVERYWHERE THE WORLD IS GREEN AND DYING by Todd Robinson
Todd RobinsonEverywhere the World is Green and Dying 1 And shelterbelts of feeling, barn swallows flashing over the river, all fingers reaching, evenings lush and agnostic past our dreaming dogs. 2 Silenced, … chop! chop! read more!
SQUEEZE by Beth Kephart
Beth Kephart SQUEEZE It’s your size. You fit within the squeeze, take the narrow on like it belongs to you, like Camac is your personal arcade of gendered sketch clubs and daytime twinkle and the red balloon of a hibiscus bush too wide for the walk. A poodle’s piss. Nobody out ahead of noon, ahead of you, and where Camac breaks, it breaks south and you break, too, down Manning, past Sartain, toward the narrow hush of Quince, where the only way to be civil as a stranger is to amble the proper center of the street and keep your wings tucked in, which is to say, Do not be a tree, rushing your reach across the bottled glass, sudsing your touch against the locks, the windchimes, the birds that avoid the barbs, the mouse running parallel to Jessup. Do not be a tree. The purest angle on it all … chop! chop! read more!
A MAN’S REACH SHOULD EXCEED HIS GRASP by J. Bradley Minnick
J. Bradley MinnickA MAN’S REACH SHOULD EXCEED HIS GRASP My mother arranged for us to walk to school together. I didn’t want to go to school; and, I especially didn’t want to walk anywhere with Kate Wheeler. Kate Wheeler was my next-door neighbor. She was as persistent as she was pretty, as forthright as she was forceful. She had no shame, and I had so much. She appeared at my front door on the first day of 1st grade and rang the bell. No one ever came to the front door or rang the bell. My mother opened the door and Kate said, “It’s raining today, Mrs. Why. Does Jason have his umbrella, or should I run home and get one for him?” I felt remarkably self-conscious as I hid behind my mother. As her palm pushed me through the doorway, she handed me my paper lunch bag full of … chop! chop! read more!
THE LOVE by Monique Danielle
Monique Danielle THE LOVE Robin and I arrive at the restaurant at the same time. Today is her thirty-second birthday and she’s chosen The Love, one of her late father’s favorites and the last restaurant we’d eaten at together. She reminds me how he’d loved the starkness of its exposed brick walls, the warmth of its wooden tables, and the heart, perfectly branded into the center of its Loveburger’s bun. Minus her slightly poppy eyes and perfect curves, she is her father’s spitting image: tall, slender, dark skin with a mahogany undertone. She’d been a freshman at Cheyney University when she’d cut her hair short and started wearing dreadlocks. “They’re called locs now, Momma,” she’d politely corrected me. “Our hair is not and has never been dreadful.” Today her long twisted locs, tips dyed red as fire engines, are coiled into a huge bun sitting regally atop her head. “You’re … chop! chop! read more!
RECIPE FOR VIABLE ZYGOTES by Beth Broome
Beth Broome RECIPE FOR VIABLE ZYGOTES Start out with a blood test. Inject ten units of leuprolide acetate. Repeat process for approximately seven to thirteen days. Return to office for blood test. Decrease leuprolide acetate to five units. Avoid alcohol. Meditate. Inject seventy-five IU of gonadotropins (to stimulate follicular development). Repeat process for ten days. Drink Gatorade. Quit aerobics. Inject five thousand units of human chorionic gonadotropin (refrigerate if it has been pre-mixed). Go to bed early. Fornicate. Return to office for blood test. Abstain from intercourse. Dress nicely. Smile at work. Crack sixteen eggs. Set aside in small dish. Combine with one tablespoon male seed, thoroughly washed. Blend, mix, allow to macerate. Select a couple ripe embryos. Pour into pie plate. Season with salts and nutrients. Add Doxycycline and progesterone (store at room temperature) and let rest. Do not skip, bounce, or fret. Visualize good things. Return to office … chop! chop! read more!
STAY ON THE LINE by Richie Zaborowske
Richie ZaborowskeSTAY ON THE LINE A tornado of nurses blew in. The whole maternity care team. Cracking commands. Swirling around. Wheeling your wife away. And when you stood to follow, they told you, no. To wait, and not worry. So now you’re waiting. You’re worrying. Pacing the room. Scrolling on your phone. Looking out the windows to where great gusts of snow are detonating across the parking lot in explosions of shimmering particles that whip past the wind-whipped humps of powder on the vehicles and are already obscuring the footprints of the solitary figure, bundled in a blue parka, wearing a blaze orange hat, making his way, hunched against the cold, toward a trembling pickup truck. You have the urge to throw open the window, to feel the bracing blizzard air on your face, on your naked arms, in your mouth as you holler to the stranger and ask him … chop! chop! read more!
MANGER, EMPTIED by Michelle Bitting
Michelle BittingManger, Emptied I saw the shepherds slogging through red dust,Their sandals kicked up a ruddy cataclysmWith palm trees sighing through green stars above. This was in Los Angeles where the active sitefeatured a bereft crèche, no babe front and center.Stolen, we’d have no son for navigating midnight. Everyone was somewhere else divining treasure to rubOr holding for the light to reflect celebrated toesWith palm trees sighing through green stars above. My mind’s brittle ghosts threw down like diceAmong tossed-out hay, brash as gold.Stolen, I’d have no sun to navigate midnight— Or nest of foraged threads to rest my soul’s bruised dove.The heart that wants to rise and walk from its cageWith palm trees sighing through green stars above. And of those playing it safe, who never speak up or fight,While birds and branches scream a final rubedo?Stolen, our sun planned for navigating midnight. Before horizons bend and my brain’s … chop! chop! read more!
TRANSPORTED by Sue Mell
Sue Mell TRANSPORTED In my teens, in the early 70s, I often took a Saturday morning train from Grand Central to visit a camp friend at her parents’ enormous house, which you could see from the Hartsdale station. Her father was a concert cellist who demanded diligence, and I would sit beside her on the piano bench as she practiced, thumb and pinky toggling the octaves of Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag.” Neither of her parents ever seemed to be around, and we freely smoked hash and drank apricot brandy with one of her older brothers, on whom I had a major crush. Either he or someone he knew had a car, and one warm and misty fall night, she and I rode on the hood—a slow moving boat steering through the dark quiet channels of their neighborhood. On the way back to Grand Central, I would sleep, my neck … chop! chop! read more!
GERMANTOWN AVENUE SPEAKS by Yolanda Wisher
Yolanda Wisher germantown avenue speaks & coulter school to school the dark writes itself a poem of youngblood façades playin in the face of founding fatherhoods cobblestones chucklin low—got ghost jokes stagin colonial comedies & catcall sitcoms yoga & ubuntu with nicole in the old piano showroom in the pine place of louisa may’s little women where masons lodged lowdown in gothic revival a bookstore like a diner in a hopper painting but Black—square for markets & martyrs school to school—the light rights itself & schoolhouse it all started with a dream brotherhood tech services—curious little minds waitin for a sign—a lightning bolt of Beauty secret banquet hall of treasures above the imperfect gallery it all started with rumbas in the cane with a car croonin whitney—i have nothing nothing nothing a sneaker shop kickin monica—don’t take it personal local calls 25 cents sign waitin for the return of its … chop! chop! read more!
FOUR DESTINATIONS AWAY AND NEARBY by Alyssa Songsiridej
Alyssa Songsiridej FOUR DESTINATIONS AWAY AND NEARBY 4814 Trinity St My tenancy in this house—a longstanding punk house in permanent dereliction—took place from 2011-2013, but this is just a sliver in the house’s long history, a drop in all of the total personal experience held by its walls. The story of the house existed as myth and oral rumor, passing through a series of different names: The House of Less Cock, the Unholy Trinity, and then, when I lived there, only Trinity. Human life ebbing and flowing and leaving waves of random detritus: a bronze Buddha, a stripper pole, the expired rubber pads from an endless number of bikes. A show house, a collective group house, and a sometimes intentional, sometimes unintentional experiment in group living. 49th and Chester From this corner, you have several options. There’s lingering: you can go into Jennifer’s Grocery, full of marked up dry goods and … chop! chop! read more!
THIS ONE SMALL THING WILL FIX YOUR SEX LIFE by Jennifer Jussel
Jennifer Jussel THIS ONE SMALL THING WILL FIX YOUR SEX LIFE After a few months of back and forth, we finally ordered the vibrator. My husband seemed elated by the decision. In a matter of hours after ordering it, his face smoothed from hard and square to the cherubic oval I first fell in love with four years ago. Even before it arrived, we started touching more, and kissing. I woke up the next day and rolled over to find his face inches from mine and neither of us pulled away. Even before it arrived, we had sex for the first time in a month. I was nervous about the vibrator—I have a thing about being electrocuted—but I knew, had known for a while, that something needed to change. The next morning, he shaved his face and woke me up before work to tell me he’s so happy I’m his … chop! chop! read more!
FOUR MICROFICTIONS by Jeff Friedman
Jeff Friedman FOUR MICROFICTIONS Card Trick Even though it was warm in the house, Callie covered herself to the neck with the afghan and lay down on the couch. Her red and green wool socks pushed out into the open. “Can I bring you something?” I asked. She shook her head. “How about a glass of wine? Maybe that will make you feel better.” She didn’t say, “No,” so I poured a glass of merlot and placed it on the coffee table. Then I got my deck of cards. “Pick a card,” I said, holding the deck near her hands. She picked her card and held it up to her face, and then when I opened the deck, she slipped it in. “Are you ready?” I asked. She looked tired and weak. “Va voo, va voo,” I said and fanned the deck again as I opened my hands. The deck … chop! chop! read more!
SONG OF THE REDWOODS by David Waters
David Waters SONG OF THE REDWOODS June Francis fills a bag with perishables from the fridge: milk for his lattes, oat milk for Lucy’s, salad ingredients, a chicken, leftovers, and random stuff, like the twenty-three-ounce bottle of Frank’s Red Hot Original Cayenne Pepper Sauce. He adds Lucy’s vodka and his gin because they can never remember if they finished those bottles at the other place. Their goal is to avoid having to go to the grocery store for as long as possible. He stuffs his pills into his toiletries bag and throws it, along with a few clothes, into a white laundry sack, stolen long ago, labeled Majestic Hotel, Ho Chi Minh City. He puts his laptop and books in his briefcase. Lucy always brings the same straw bag with a few clothes and her laptop. After Francis loads the trunk, they stand in the doorway and ask each other … chop! chop! read more!
TO THE MAN WHO LISTENS FOR ECHOES by Robbin Farr
Robbin Farr TO THE MAN WHO LISTENS FOR ECHOES We were lake-bound on an unfamiliar road. But stranger yet, you were unknown to me. I to you. It was summer. It was happenstance. It was a moment so clouded in headiness, bright lake breezes, and wine, it may not, after all, have much truth to it. We didn’t meet, exactly. We fell into a mutual avoidance; each of us averted our glances at the last second, lest we were discovered staring, and regained a riveted interest in the poet addressing the workshop on the subject of West Coast landscapes and the landscape of a poem. We were lake-bound on an unfamiliar road. You were driving, and you were cordial. I was influenced by a few glasses of chilled California white. I acted a part and prattled on about my life. You, to your credit, were sober, less somber than I. … chop! chop! read more!
FREEDOM TRAIL by Joshua Ambre
Joshua AmbreFREEDOM TRAIL In front of the visitor center, our tour guide adjusts his breeches. They’re slightly too tight to be family-friendly, but I’m relieved to have something to look at besides old buildings for the next hour. I watch him hitch them up a final time, the hem of his blue frock coat barely concealing the bulge. Beside me, my sister nudges me on the elbow. I grin at her, anticipating a lewd and hilarious aside, but all she does is point at Craig feeding a Nutri-Grain bar to a squirrel. I fake a smile while she snaps his picture, and another one when he runs back to join the group, just in time for the guide to begin his spiel. “Welcome ladies and gents, pilgrims and pub-crawlers, tea-spillers and turncoats! I hope you left your sea legs aboard the Mayflower, because today we embark on a walking tour … chop! chop! read more!
DRINK, ANYWAY, THE LIGHT by Ginger Ayla
Ginger Ayla DRINK, ANYWAY, THE LIGHT There are creatures adapted to living so low in the ocean they can only survive in extreme pressure, any attempt to lift them causes disintegration, they lack the necessary compression to hold together scale & organ. I’ve felt that knee-jerk to long nights, can’t conceptualize a life without a subtle crushing all the time. How the baby mouse fears the color that zapped its mother, I wave hi as if to an old friend to the tin Coors bucket collecting cigarette butts outside the door, the joke about how there’s nothing to do in winter but drink, anyway, the light gambles, pull tabs & meat raffles, sinking upward like a fish in a net flailing for weak spots & jackpots, a twelve-pack of pork chops, my mom & I hinging on a bingo number, red dye of the stamper staining my fingers, packed tight … chop! chop! read more!
RETROSPECTIVE by Marie Manilla
Marie ManillaRETROSPECTIVE Lena skids around the backseat as the cabbie rudely shifts lanes. Her gnarled knuckles couldn’t negotiate the seatbelt. The tunnel engulfs her, the hum and grrr. The weight of all that earth compressing her brain. But they emerge and she breathes and there’s Pittsburgh’s skyline, looking much as Lena remembers. What she can see of it, anyway. Astigmia frays city lights into fireworks that rain down on her. Sparks pebble her wrap, her skirt. She brushes them off, sending embers into the footwell. Years ago, Edmund had lauded her imaginings until he didn’t. Traffic is congested around the gallery as Lena expected. Cabbie jabs the horn, and other drivers join in, budging nothing. Lena leans forward and taps cabbie’s shoulder. “Here’s fine.” He twists in his seat, eyes the Dowager’s hump she’s been growing since birth, more pronounced by the decade. Cabbie says: “You sure?” Lena re-drapes the … chop! chop! read more!
TIDINGS OF COMFORT AND JOY by Patricia Flaherty Pagan
Patricia Flaherty Pagan TIDINGS OF COMFORT AND JOY Before she throws my father’s Christmas stocking into the fireplace, Siobhan brings it out to the porch to show it to us. “I dreamt his cruise ship exploded. Dad drowned,” she says. She flails her hands, and the red stocking dances like flames. Neve’s face darkens. She worries at the pink mittens in her lap. “He’ll be back,” I say. I can see my breath. The air shudders. Snow begins to fall. ◊ Mom sings “Joy to The World” and “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” at Grandma’s aging piano. Neve sings along. Their voices scatter the clawed quiet that’s filled the house since Dad left his key and eighty dollars on the table. Bills are stacked on the counter next to the tan phone sleeping in its cradle. I call my friends, the twins, who pass their receiver between them, giggling. I … chop! chop! read more!
MOM AND THE OTTERS by Meg Pokrass
Meg Pokrass MOM AND THE OTTERS There was the time Dad scooted home with a bunch of supermarket flowers, handed Mom what he had to offer, flashed us his new beard, and we chanted Beard! Beard! Beard! like we were in a TV show about a family—and Mom, with her evaporated smile, said Fine, okay, let’s head to the river and look for those otters, took him by the wrist, and we sillies trailed along behind them, smiling to see the two of them walking in unison, watching her hair that no longer bounced or shone, wanting to see it the way Dad saw it, how it whispered around her ears because he had long been away, and he was back, and now she was coaxing him like an animal, saying I deserve to see these damn otters if they really exist, and he smiled and kissed her hair, or … chop! chop! read more!
TRANSNESS AS PERPETUAL PAPERBOY by Gideon Huan-Lang
Gideon Huan-LangTRANSNESS AS PERPETUAL PAPERBOY Imagine: Victorian hand-me-downs, black suspenders, tweed-lined cap. And he is holleringabout the end of the world. Extra! Extra! Read all about it. Call him doomsday cult, the way he had broken his voice already—the Titanic, the Wall Street Crash of 1929,how a Yankee had zipped across by bike and ruined a dozen of his Thursday papers. Late springs have been the worst. The downpours would drench his rags. But he is protectingthe headlines with his body. He has no money for a good watch, only telling time with days melting off the mushed paper sludge. Street corners become parking lots. He is still hollering, tongue dyedraspberry blue. An energy drink’s high-fructose corn syrup gallops into his throat. So much abundance causing so much echo. Dead cars sprawl across the supermarket cement. While his voice is no longercontorted by thirst, nobody hears him. The journals write … chop! chop! read more!
HATE CHRISTMAS, YOU’RE ALLOWED: A Writing Prompt by Layla Murphy
A Writing Prompt by Layla MurphyHate Christmas, You’re Allowed Bah humbug—this again! Christmas is right around the corner, and whether you celebrate it or not, you’ve surely got some holiday sensory-overload by now. I thought we should turn things topsy-turvy by taking a page from David Byrne’s Christmas playlist, which showcases such hits as “Christmas Will Break Your Heart” by LCD Soundsystem and “Another Lonely Christmas” by Prince. So, put down that eggnog and join us in some healthy holiday crankiness as we channel our humbug into our writing… Ready? Let’s get scroogey! For a anti-Christmassy writing exercise, ditch the jolly merriment and instead, write a short first-person narrative explaining why you (whoever your “you” is) hate Christmas. One rule: don’t investigate the usual unhappy holiday themes like loneliness or family tensions. Stick to the absurd and come up with a totally new reason someone would be a killjoy over … chop! chop! read more!
A CONVERSATION WITH BETH KEPHART, AUTHOR OF MY LIFE IN PAPER: ADVENTURES IN EPHEMERA BY MICHELLE FOST
A Conversation with Beth Kephart author of My Life in Paper: Adventures in Ephemera Temple University Press, 336 pages Interview by Michelle Fost I had the chance to have a conversation with Beth Kephart, whose new book, My Life in Paper, has recently been published. Our conversation took place over email, one back and forth a day for about a week. Widely creative as well as accomplished, Beth became absorbed in making handmade books and paper during the pandemic, a practice that is central to My Life in Paper. Take a workshop with Beth Kephart online, Sunday February 25, 2-4 p.m. WRITING ADVANCED BY CATEGORIES: TURNING OUR OBSESSIONS INTO STORIES. Sign up here. Michelle: Congratulations on the publication of your beautiful new book, My Life in Paper: Adventures in Ephemera. Your book invites making connections of many kinds, craft to craft, potting happening in the basement and papermaking a floor above, … chop! chop! read more!
BOOSTER CLUBS DON’T JUST SIT IN THE STANDS: A Writing Tip by Jen Mathy
A Writing Tip by Jen MathyBooster Clubs Don’t Just Sit in The Stands A successful writer today has a whole new set of responsibilities. Yes, your primary role is that of artist and writer. First, create. Then, with the understanding that agents seldom find new clients in their slush piles and that publishers primarily support A-list authors and authors who receive large advances, it’s important for an emerging writer to take on the role of marketer as well. There are many elements and ways to promote yourself and your work, just as there are many ways to approach the writing process. And, unless you can afford to produce and place a viral-worthy Super Bowl commercial, there’s never only one element of successful promotion. One easy and effective way to promote your work is to form a Booster Club or, rather, a Booster Network. We all know other emerging writers we … chop! chop! read more!
WRITE DANGEROUSLY: A Writing Tip by Karen Rile
A Writing Tip by Karen RileWRITE DANGEROUSLY The best way to improve your writing is to cultivate a consistent practice. There are many ways to approach your practice, and you might change up your techniques frequently in order to keep your work feeling fresh and interesting. The most important mindset is to be both kind and firm with yourself. This week, your job is to do The Most Dangerous Writing App every day for at least 5 minutes. Feel free to edit the timer to a longer session, up to 60 minutes (if you dare!) You can use one of the generated prompts or just start writing. And keep writing. If you pause for too long, not only will you lose momentum, your text will turn red, then blurry, and then it will disappear. The key is to keep going. You don’t have to write quickly, but you must press forward, or … chop! chop! read more!
STARKWEATHER: The Untold Story of the Killing Spree that Changed America, nonfiction by Harry N. MacLean, reviewed by Anna Llewellyn
A Nonfiction Book by Harry N. MacLean, reviewed by Anna LlewellynSTARKWEATHER: THE UNTOLD STORY OF THE KILLING SPREE THAT CHANGED AMERICA (Counterpoint Press) The stranger asks no greater glory till life is through than to spend one last minute in wilderness. —Charles Starkweather, in a poem for his mother Nineteen-year-old Charles Starkweather was “the first modern-day mass killer,” the first American murderer motivated by “the sheer psychopathic thrill of it,” according to true crime author Harry N. MacLean. A surprising claim, given how few know of the Starkweather case. Though Charles’s 1958 killing spree through Nebraska and Wyoming inspired various works like Terrence Malick’s Badlands, Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers, and Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska, Charles is not deemed biographically binge-worthy by the streaming powers-that-be unlike his peers Dahmer, Bundy, or fellow spree-killer Andrew Cunanan. In a time when true crime stories are more accessible than ever, could it be possible … chop! chop! read more!
THE MEMORY OF ANIMALS, a novel by Claire Fuller, reviewed by Coralie Loon
A Novel by Claire Fuller, reviewed by Coralie LoonTHE MEMORY OF ANIMALS (Tin House Books) We’re all familiar with the sense of exhaustion and collective grief that seeped into our bones during the COVID-19 pandemic. Even though the pandemic is still not over, we have been able to recover and continue with gratitude for the things that went right: a successful vaccine campaign, virtual attempts to connect to one another, and eventually, a return to normalcy. Once the metaphorical gates opened, I swore I would never consume another piece of fiction that had anything to do with a deadly pandemic. I broke this promise for Claire Fuller’s 2023 novel, The Memory of Animals, and I’m glad I did. The Memory of Animals is novelist and short fiction writer Claire Fuller’s fifth book, and another dive into the themes of isolation, crisis, and memory, which she also explores in Our Endless … chop! chop! read more!
CALL UP THE WATERS, Stories by Amber Caron, reviewed by Char Dreyer
A Short Story Collection by Amber Caron, reviewed by Char DreyerCALL UP THE WATERS (Milkweed Editions) “You’re gonna wanna find the biggest branch you can and make a lot of noise as you run.” This was the only terse instruction I received from Jill, the sheep farmer I would spend the next two weeks shadowing, before she flung open the gate to the pasture and thirty ewes and lambs rushed bleating towards me. It was my job to corral them uphill from the pasture to the barn for the evening, along a winding dirt path, through the forest and fading light. Jill, who was nearing sixty with a bad shoulder and a worse knee, couldn’t run this hill anymore –though she was still strong as a ram. As I read Call Up the Waters, Amber Caron’s debut short story collection from Milkweed Editions, I was reminded of Jill often in … chop! chop! read more!
Anni Liu
Anni Liu is the author of Border Vista (Persea Books), which won the Lexi Rudnitsky First Book Prize and was a New York Times Best Poetry Book of 2022. She’s the recipient of an Undocupoets Fellowship, a Gregory Djanikian Scholarship from The Adroit Journal, and residencies at Civitella Ranieri and the Anderson Center. She’s an editor at Graywolf Press.
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