“Everything You Put in Your Mouth,” a story by Paul Michel (fiction, ’98) appears online at Writing Tomorrow.

The darkness at night was complete. Martin dreaded it every winter evening when he made the drive between Homer, where he owned a natural foods store, and the outskirts of Eureka, where he lived with his wife. Beth begged him to relax. Only eighty miles, she said. Hardly further than your old commute in Seattle, and in half the time. No more I-5 gridlock. No more stop lights and diesel fumes. No more road-rage. No more stress. The darkness, she said, is why we came out here. This is the life we always dreamed of. It’s something we’ve worked for. Earned, even. Think of it as our darkness, she told him. Then it won’t be so intimidating. …[Keep Reading]…

Paul is the author of the novel Houdini Pie (2010, Bennett & Hastings).

“Survivors,” a piece by Rolf Yngve (fiction, ’12) appeared recently at The Common, as part of their “Dispatches” feature.

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We took the fast train to Beijing across hours of deadened countryside where all the trees grow in rows, various heights, but all new and emaciated under the dusting of early leaves. I asked an acquaintance what happened to all the old trees. Was this a result of the Cultural Revolution? He said, maybe they ate them. They ate grass sometimes. Maybe they cut them down for firewood. Now and then you see some that don’t look planted; volunteers, they had been fattened up by age and randomly placed. There are always survivors.

The train whistled us over nearly a thousand miles in less than six hours, a smooth, silent ribbon pulled gracefully through the hard fingers of this landscape. It was comfortable, well ventilated, warm, and the seats gracefully proportioned. Between Shanghai and Beijing, we stopped at four stations. This was the cleanly constructed new China. Big expanses of glistening escalators and parking complexes void of even a single passenger or vehicles. …[Keep Reading]…

“Gesture Writing,” a discussion of craft by Rachel Howard (fiction, ’09; 2011 Beebe Fellow) recently appeared in the New York Times.

Five years ago, I walked into a third-floor art studio on the campus of the University of California, Berkeley, climbed atop a wooden stage covered in stained padding and dropped my ratty yellow bathrobe. A panel of strangers asked me to pose, and then to freeze. I had never modeled for artists, and had no idea how I would feel standing naked as people I had just met stared at me. The idea held some bohemian appeal, but more urgently, I needed to supplement my income as a freelance writer while I worked on a novel.

I made the cut, and became a member of the Bay Area Models Guild. I had hoped this gig might earn me grocery money. I soon grew to love the freedom and strange relinquishment of status that comes from offering your nude presence to artists. What surprised me the most, though, was how profoundly it changed my writing life.

Soon I was sent out on bookings, mostly to introductory college drawing classes. The professor’s approach was always the same. I was asked to do many sets of active one- or two-minute poses.

“Find the gesture!” the instructor would shout, as the would-be artists sketched. “What is the essence of that pose? How does that pose feel to the model? The whole pose — quick, quick! No, not the arm or the leg. The line of the energy. What is that pose about? Step back and see it — really see it — whole.” And then, my timer beeped, I moved to a new pose and the students furiously flipped to a clean page.

This “gesture” idea was fundamental. In painting classes, where I held the same pose for three hours (with frequent five-minute breaks, thank God), the paintings that looked most alive were built on top of a good gesture sketch, a first-step, quick-and-dirty drawing in which many crucial decisions about placement, perspective and emphasis were made intuitively. …[Keep Reading]…

“Service Animals,” a short story by James Robert Herndon (fiction, ’11) appears online at Halfway Down the Stairs.

“Do you know why the Americans with Disabilities Act used to let you register a snake? A snake’s belly can sense subterranean vibrations like a Richter scale, and if you let a snake rest around your neck, it’ll know what’s going on inside you. Everything that moves: every pump, every secretion, every rise and fall, every clench and release. All of you. Spend enough time with a snake, learn how to listen, and the snake will tell you things about your own body that you’d have to pay another person $5,000 to tell you.”

JoAnn held eye contact with me as I spoke, and she made silent judgments I hoped were positive. Her line of sight dropped now and then to appraise Bruce, a rust brown rock snake hanging from my shoulders like a marbled leather scarf. I hadn’t been on a date in nine years because I’d rather be alone than be evaluated by a stranger. The dropping sun coated Bruce, JoAnn, and all of the other guests in Piedmont Park with a supernatural glow, not unlike the one I saw before a seizure.

JoAnn said, “I don’t know much about snakes. But I do know how it feels to value an animal that much. We’re lucky, Walt.”

…[Keep Reading]…

Jamaal May (poetry, ’11) recently won the 2013 Indiana Review Poetry Prize, for his poem “The Gun Joke.”

When asked to say a few words of the winning piece, “The Gun Joke,” judge Nikky Finney writes:

This poem’s acuity has much to do with the human truth it reveals, in a new way, a determined, nuanced, beautiful, uncompromising way. THE GUN JOKE’S highly thoughtful word choice and graceful line decisions, the subtle but sacred repetition it evokes about the subject itself, all of this and more is built into this winning poem. Last but not least, it is often the courage of the poet who opens his mouth and boldly speaks into the dumbed-down news of last week, saying with each stroke of his pencil: Wait! Slow Down! This is not old news. This is now. Won’t you pay attention? Courage counts.

The winning poem will appear in Indiana Review 35.2, due out in Winter 2013.

Jamaal is the author of the poetry collection Hum (2013, Alice James Books).

“Blender Day,” a short piece by Ethna McKiernan (poetry, ’04) appears online at the Huffington Post.

Today could have been a day as bad as yesterday, only it was worse. All week I’d felt like I was inside a blender that someone had deliberately stuck on HIGH, then walked away. Today was something so backwards that I couldn’t wrap my mind around it, which made my brain hurt and my sense of humor break into brittle pieces. Today was the day Rebecca was scheduled to move from her apartment back into homelessness. She had arrived from the street (under a bridge, actually), slept in a bed for six months, and was now headed back to the street, but only after everything had been packed in boxes in a weird reverse motion, and shoved into a 5″ x 10″ storage rental unit which promised the first month free, but lied.

…[Keep Reading]…

Ethna is the author of the poetry collection Sky Thick With Fireflies (Salmon Poetry, 2012).

“Goodbye, Vacationland,” a nonfiction piece by Christine Fadden (fiction, ’09) appears in the most recent issue of Louisville Review.

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Our accommodations were fancy by archaeological standards: not the usual motel or tent. We had a real house, where we would sleep like babies after twelve-hour days walking in the wind and sun, cutting our way through vines and branches, lifting our legs over underbrush like mounting a horse a thousand times an hour, and setting our feet down with a hyper-awareness of those damned sinkholes—just the size of a boot (ankle breakers) or a baby pool (journey to the center of the earth). These were the stressors of a day’s work in Hawai’i, out past Hana, Maui.

After work, pau hana. Back to the house with the feral cats, poisonous centipedes, and self-strangling gardens. Cold beer, shower off dirty sunblock, suck papayas on the porch. Cook, read, and hit the sack despite knowing that waking up before the sun in six hours means another ride through the Hawaiian dawn in the back of the Jeep—intestines, spleen, kidneys, liver, all slamming against the stomach so there is no question of eating breakfast before arriving on site. …[Keep Reading]…

 

Belle Laide, a poetry collection by Joanne Dwyer (poetry, ’09) is now available from Sarabande Books.

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ARS POETICA, OR-KEEPER-OF-THE-WATER

First my father Killing Me Softly with his Roberta Flack album.

Then my son Killing Me Softly with his Fugees CD.

On my shoulder a carcinoma that will eventually kill me –

will eat my flesh, as I eat yours.

I bit hard, sucked hard, not to mark you as my possession

as the rancher burns his ranch insignia into young calves –

but to try and ingest, to take in

that which cannot be eaten.

Outside my window the tiny clawed feet of birds

slip on the ice in the cement birdbath

like the elderly couple who have not skated in half a century.

The birds peck and peck, but the ice remains

an impenetrable obstacle to thirst.  Read more

Three new poems by Michael Collins (poetry, ’03) appear in the latest issue of BlazeVOX.

Confession

I didn’t really want to murder lots of people
back when I drove around, windows up, doors locked,
Tupac counseling me on how to cope

when I ran out of endo and my mind
couldn’t take the stress – and how to die
straight thuggin’ even in dark times

when I could no longer trust my homies –
In point of fact, I had no homies
in my head that had done passed away,

was not, in reality, a G,
for whom getting high was a way to be free,
and my interactions with actual gangsters

Read more

“Scouts,” a poem by Mary Lou Buschi (poetry, ’04) appears online at Swarm.

We told stories with our eyes closed. Peeled grapes
passed around to signify eyeballs. Cold spaghetti

spilling into our laps—the boy’s disemboweled intestines.

That year, we were making gifts for the elderly.
I had never seen one, an elderly.

My gift was a gigantic corsage, pointy stiff leaves
like stars, held together with floral tape.

We were each given one name—Helen.
The name, a wooden box filled with pressed leaves
and fireflies sliding through summer mist. …[Keep Reading]…

Mary Lou is the author of The Spell of Coming (or Going) (2013, Patasola Press).