Alums Lynette D’Amico (fiction, ’13) and Nathan Poole (fiction, ’11) had a conversation about novellas and other topics for Full Stop:

Lynette D’Amico: Was it an intentional decision to write a novella? Did you feel pressure to pare down or scale up? Did you choose the form or did the form choose the work?

Nathan Poole: My intention was to write a novel, but this was before I knew what novels were. Novels are like charitable giving, I’ve found; you’re not supposed to let your right hand know what your left is doing. But I didn’t know that at the time. I was trying to write a novel the way I’d been writing stories, one-handed, without any premeditation. I’ve been told good novels are written through a hemispheric consciousness: part of you is engineering, thinking ahead, ruminating about structure, plot, causality, while another part of you is being a stubborn artist, writing blind, discovering everything as you go. Occasionally you let the two come together to talk things through . . . but I wasn’t doing that. This is what happens when you don’t do that.

 

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“Biting the Moon” by alum Joan Frank (fiction, ’96) has been released as part of Ploughshares’ digital-first series of individual long stories called Ploughshares Solo.  Here’s an excerpt

One afternoon, during our colony time, he told me that he knew when he was going to die.

     He’d been drinking, of course. White wine, middle of the day. Sprawled along the couch in his studio toying, on his chest, with a pack of Lucky Strikes. Long corduroyed legs crossed, sunlight a soft dust over everything. In my mind, reviewing these scenes, it’s always autumn: that breathing pocket, warm and soft but excitingly pine-needle-scented, before the big smackdown, the opera of winter. Later, when I walked to my own cabin, the wind was a madwoman in the pines, humming and singing, bending down to stroke my arms, my cheeks. Read more

A poem by alum Tommye Blount (poetry, ’13) appears at The Offing:

Look at your Manhunt profile: “White muscle power bottom looking

for a non-fem black top to fuck me in a mask and a hood.” You want

a rape scene you saw in a movie once, a kind of beauty

only a man not used to pain prays for. “The door will be unlocked —

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Three poems by alum Michael Collins (poetry, ’03) appear at Sequestrum:

The Sacrosanct Mallard of Mamaroneck Harbor

Listen, Jesus, it wasn’t my idea
for this mallard to stand on the dock,
stretching his wings out all crucifixiony.

Hell, I thought he was a crow.

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A poem by alum Kerrin McCadden (poetry, ’14) appears at Rattle:

God bless Jonathan Matthew, asleep
on the table, a piece of his liver plucked
out and planted in the jaundiced boy
from up the road, for Jonathan Matthew’s
weak thumbs-up, his face swollen, his wife
falling all over him lit by the kind of love
I don’t know yet, for the way the liver regrows,

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A poem by alum Mary Jo Thompson (poetry, ’09) appears at Drunken Boat:

1.  In black and white
—there was no color—she taught me
that mischief was the work of cats
and oilcans. My grandmother warned that evil
came in kinds and sizes. Pint-sized oilcans
squawked like crows and squirted when they saw me.

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A poem by alum Jennifer Givhan (poetry, ’15) appears at Drunken Boat:

I keep trying to read the tea leaves greening
the lukewarm belly of the mug—

instead I keep ingesting them.

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A poem by alum Rachel Brownson (poetry, ’14) appears at The Collagist:

On either side of the river,
snow hangs off slick rocks,
gathering itself to fall
when it becomes
heavy enough.

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A poem by alum Jennifer Sperry Steinorth (poetry, ’15) appears at The Collagist:

Ordinary Sheers

Scarlet O’Hara made herself
a gown of emerald velvet curtains
flanking book-length, drawing room windows—

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Two poems by alum Kerrin McCadden (poetry, ’14), “The Dead” and “How the Heart Works,” appear at The Collagist.

The Dead

They worry I won’t keep the graves when they’re gone.
See my mother brushing off her hands

at her mother’s grave, surveying lots,
approving and disapproving care and neglect,

my father deep in thought. The trees above
them are the gods of Massachusetts, big-

handed and quiet, tall fathers approving
the play of children in the yard. Somehow

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