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di spatch l i tareview1 January 2011issn 1217-1948
litareview.comsu b scr i b e@l i tar evi ew .com
dispatchers:
Matt [email protected]
P. H. [email protected]
Pu b l i sh i n g al l f or m s ofp r i n t ed com m u n i c at i o n ever y
t h r ee t o f i ve w eek s.Su bm i ssi ons r ead year-r oun d.L e t t e r s p r i n t e d i n t h e b a c k o feach i ssu e ( sen d t ol ett er s@l i tar eview.com ) . Logoby Ch r i sty Call , ci r ca Febr u ary2009. Typ ef aces: M agel l a n ,Accol a de, & t h e r eal m ccoy.Pr esent l y seek i ng a sol i ci t or ,som eone to get out th e w ord tot h e b est an d b r i gh t est an db r i n g u s i n su bm i ssi on s; af i sh er of w r i t er s. Wh at el se?Oh yeah , th an ks f or car i n g.
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edi tori al l ove n otesmeta pg. 5
contr ibudex
meta pg. 52
On Money Noelle Adamsf iction pg. 7
M ar y M i l l er PHMconversati on pg. 15
Pal e An gel Lar r y O. Deanpoem pg. 30
your lettersmeta pg. 5
On th e Bu sw ay Ch r i st oph er Jam esf iction pg. 32
sh op t al kmeta pg. 53
see al sopromo pg. 5
cacaphonyetc pg. 54
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DEAR READER,I am not sure where we are headed in this third era ofdispatch litareview. Were about a month away fromrelease, and all I know is that I love the things weve got in
store for you.You might rightly wonder what happened to thesecond era. Its really as simple as anything else: lifehappens, things get foggy, and, you know, you lose interest inthings you once loved.
I lost interest. It wasnt the fault of the contributors.It wasnt the fault of the readers. It was my own fault, and
the fault of a relationship gone sour for the third time over.Thats not being allegorical; its really the third time thewoman has destroyed me, and likely not the last. You mightassume that I like the pain. Whos to say?
Regardless, let me not get distracted.We open this new era with a new addition to the staff
(plus two notable subtractionsChristy Call andChristopher Laird), one Matt DiGangi, ofThieves Jargonfame. (Were in search of a solicitor or two, people toround up submissions from the best minds of the literaryworld.)
The tone of the new era is set from the get go withthe Noelle Adams' fable, On Moneya lesson on the
monetary system in and of itself, it is the kind of importantwork I have always looked for in the submissions box. Thenonto a long conversation between myself and the utterlygenius Mary Miller, poetry from Larry Dean, and a bone
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chilling tale of step motherhood from newcomer ('roundthese parts) Christopher James.
I believe very strongly that this issue of dispatch isthe strongest, best designed, best edited, best selectedissue I have ever produced. I am fully aware that I alwayssay that, but undeterred. You, the readership I have slowlygathered over the past five and a half years, have alwaysbeen quite accepting of my experimental tendencies. Iwanted to thank you for that and also to wish you a happynew year.
I N DEDICATION,p h m
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ON M ONEYNoel l e Adam s
The United States w ould be mistaken to
take f or granted the dollar's place as the
w orld's predominant reserve curr ency.
Looking f orward, there w ill increasinglybe other options to the dollar.
World Bank President
Robert Zoellick
In June of last year, the small country of O, known (if at
all) for producing two world chess champions, took theextreme measure of converting its beleaguered currency,the farrut, to the US dollar. Having suffered fromhyperinflation for the past decade, the so called
p
hoto:Vlad
Eften
ie
http://veftenie.deviantart.com/8/4/2019 dispatch 3.1
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dollarization program was an attempt at stabilizing a fraileconomy. A handful of small nations, including Ecuador andthe Virgin Islands, have successfully used the US dollarinstead of their own currency.
On June 26th the farrut became officially null and voidas legal tender in O, and the dollar, which had beenintroduced gradually into circulation over the previousmonths, became the only recognized currency in thecountry. Farruts could be exchanged at the Bancu Centrale
at the rate of 127,000
farruts to the dollar, upuntil July 3rd.As is widely known,
on July 5th the UnitedStates governmentdefaulted on its loans.Overnight the dollar
became all but worthless.While world economic markets reeled, Os Finance Minster,fighting to save the economic pulse of his small republic,sold state industries to the highest bidder; he used theresulting cash to establish the euro as the countrys newcurrency. As a result, the European bank cum corporationSantander owned 80% of Os industries.
Over the next several months this proved a disaster.The entire globe was scrambling for euros, and O, by askingfor payment in euros, had simply priced itself out of theworld market. Its export driven economy was at astandstill. Santander itself, refusing to throw good moneyafter bad, sliced its ownership of Oian industries into
tranches and bundled them into internationally diversifiedsecurities, which it then sold, mostly to Eastern Europeansubsidiaries and Asian conglomerates, so that ultimately itwas not clear who owned the floundering Oianmanufacturing sector, nor its postal service. It was
For the f irst time inhis lif e, he stuttered,over the w ords h i l l i n g, disprovingany notion that it isimpossible to stutterover the sound sh.
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indisputable, however, that there would be no cash infusionto keep Os factories in business, and without it the countrywas facing wide scale unemployment.
The only out was to lower the cost of labor. Thefinance minister convened his board of advisors andtogether the group decided on the unconventional move ofconverting the currency once again, this time to the Britishpound sterling, which had recently undergone a devaluationdue to Britains quixotic attempts to bolster US financialmarkets.
No sooner was the proposal announced than anactivist group, People for Easy Money, staged a protest.Carrying signs that read Money Should Be Easy andMoney Should Make Cents the group declared that thepound, with its subdivisions of shillings and pence, was tooconfusing. No one knows how many shillings are in apound or how many pence are in a shilling, and no one
wants to know, the spokesperson Bendra Letru declared.An overnight poll found People for Easy Money to have an87% approval rating.
The finance minister appeared on television the nextevening to explain the pound had long ago beendecimalized and shillings and guineas would not be incirculation. A quiet man with a PhD in mathematics andanother in economics, the minister sweated copiouslyunder the camera lights. For the first time in his life, hestuttered, over the word shilling, disproving any notion thatit is impossible to stutter over the sound sh.
He did not win over the hearts of the skeptical public.At the presidents request, the finance minister dropped the
idea of making the pound Os new currency.Meeting late into the night, the board of economicadvisors settled on the Chinese yuan as the ideal currencyfor O. The conversion was finalized on October 15th.
On October 18th the Chinese Communist Party
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began its conversion of all yuans to rupees.Not sure whether or not Os new currency, the now
obsolete yuan, had any value at all on internationalmonetary exchanges, the finance minister put his head inhis hands and wept. At this point his board of advisorsbegan a heated debate on what became known as the Yapoption.
On the small pacific island of Yap, stones of all shapesand sizes are used as moneythe larger the stone, the moreit is worth. One board member had learned this as a
teenager, when visiting the Smithsonian Institution inWashington, DC. In thebasement of the Museumof Natural History stoodan enormous piece of
Yapese money, five feet tall and four feet wide. This boardmember suggested that Oians give up on any other kind of
currency, and simply use the countrys stones as money.A second board member pointed out that the
countrys limestone had been quarried long ago, to buildthe very building they were sitting in and all the others likeit, and what was left over went to make the countryscharacteristic chess pieces. There were no stones left in O.
It was suggested they try anyway. Could they not pickanother substance, such as quartz, or even bamboo, whichcould be readily grown and cut into small pieces that wouldserve as currency?
It was suggested that the previous member of theboard was a pinhead, did he not know that quartz was notamong Os natural resources, and that if bamboo, which
anyone could grow in his or her backyard, was made thecountrys currency, O would be facing hyperinflation again.It was countered there was no need to throw around
insults, board members were merely brainstorming, orthinking out loud.
The only out w as tolow er the cost of labor.
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It was suggested a government building could be torndown and cut into pieces to provide the limestonenecessary to convert to a limestone currency.
This proposal was seconded by two other boardmembers.
It was countered that this was the most pinheadedidea of them all, which statement raised a small cheer andcynical laughter from one side of the table.
While the discussion degenerated around him, thefinance minister lifted his head from his hands and stood
up. Closing up his briefcase, he left the room without aword. His subordinates were too busy arguing with eachother to notice.
In a daze, his feet followed their habitual path to theplace he frequented when in need of either solace ormodest celebratory indulgence: The Ground Hog coffeeshop across the street from the Treasury Department.
He ordered an espressi cortadu and pulled a small,crumpled wad of yuans out of his pocket to pay. The baristashook his head.
One pawn, he said.Pardon me? the minister responded.
To illustrate, the barista produced a box from underthe counter and pulled out a small chess piece. The box wasfilled with a jumble of figures, all made of the characteristicochre and pink of Os limestone, in various styles and sizes,obviously culled from many different chess sets.
One pawn, he repeated. If you only have a knightor a rook I can make change.
Realizing that even as the board members argued
themselves blue, his compatriots had already found asolution the problem, the minister pumped a triumphantfist in the air.
The invisible hand will solve all problems! heshouted at the barista. Forgetting his coffee, the minister
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instead went straight home and made love to his wife forthe first time in a month.
The next morning, he called a press conference anddeclared the countrys characteristic chess pieces, carvedfrom pink and ochre limestone, to be the new currency. Heissued an official government currency chart and warnedagainst accepting foreign made chess pieces, especiallyplastic ones. The infiltration of such substitutes, headmonished, would inflate the countrys currency and land
O back in the same
boat that had startedthis mess.For a time all
was well. The monthsof fluctuating currencyand the world market
imposed moratorium on exports had lead to a spontaneous
overhaul of the national economy. Farmers, who hadexclusively grown wheat for export, had diversified theircrops; cottage industries in clothing, paper, and kitchengadgets had sprung up; mechanics and repair men hadbecome adept at fixing the simplest and most complexmachines with the limited parts available to them. Peoplehad taken to riding bicycles and even horses in lieu ofgetting around with inaccessible foreign oil. In short, O hadbecome a modern utopia, with a self sustaining localeconomy that neither grew nor shrank, but allowed for acomfortable, self fulfilling way of life for all of the nationscitizens. Meanwhile the countrys carbon footprint wasapproaching zero.
The chess piece currency merely cemented the closedloop of this new way of life. The humble pawn became asymbol of national pride, while the finance minister himselfbecame a national hero. Although he maintained that hehad done nothing that the citizens of O did not do for
He ordered an espressi
cortadu and pulled asmall, crumpled w ad ofyuans out of his pocketto pay. The barista shookhis head.
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themselves, speaking invitations poured in fromuniversities, farmers' unions and bridge clubs. He was evenasked to host the Christmas TV Special and in the processbecame good friends with the celebrity host Giorgita Chistaand the pop singer Amorosu. Plans were drawn up to erecthis statue in Independence Plaza.
The rest of the world was too busy panicking over itsown economic woes to notice the radical changes O hadembraced. Too busy, that is, until The Economist magazineran a cover article on the little country that could. At first
the attention was flattering. The president and the financeminister were invited to address the UN general assemblyand the World Committee on Global Warming (WCGW).
Even as the first wave of eco tourists arrived in O, theWCGW proposed the next climate change summit be heldin O. The president readily accepted. Planning andpreparations began. Meanwhile, the increasing number of
visitors to the country found they had no limestone chesspieces of their own, so offered their national currencies tobuy coffee and pay their bed and breakfast bills. With littleother choice, Oians accepted the foreign money, at timesgiving rooks and pawns as change. Soon a black market inforeign exchange sprang up.
In an emergency session, Congress passed theCurrency Protection Act, requiring all foreigners toexchange any chess pieces they had acquired during theirstay back to their own currency when they left the country.
Tourists did not wish to give up their chess pieces. Theypreferred to take them home as souvenirs of their trip. Oneby one, queens, bishops, knights and pawns were smuggled
from the country. The Oians themselves drew up elaborateforeign exchange charts, which they carried in their pocketsand referred to throughout the day as they negotiated theBabel of currency that had infiltrated their utopia. Soonenough, not a single chess piece could be found in O.
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M ARY M ILLERis the author of Less Sh i n y ( MM aaggii cc
HHeell ii ccoopp tt eerr , 2008/ 10), Bi g Worl d
( SShh oorr tt FFll ii gghh tt// LLoonn gg DDrr ii vvee, 2009)
and numerous stories across the
literary w orld, to include
appearances in such magazines as
Am er i can Sh ort Ficti on and the
Oxf ord Am er i can . She is one of thef ew people w ho might be consid ered
an internet w ri ter w ho does not
actually have a w ebsit e.
Af ter reading Bi g Worl d a
couple months back, I f elt compelled
to meet the w omanf or, to be
completely honest, many of thecharacters in her stori es reminded
me of the w omen Ive f allen hardest
f or in lif e. M y real motivation was to
get her to sign a copy so I could send
it to one such w oman in Balti more.
This conversati on w as conducted
betw een October 23rd, 2010 andNovember 1st, 2010.
A short note of correction w e
never got around to in the
conversation: the editor at Word Riot
did, in f act, ask f or permission to
make the changes. M y point w as that
I let him make them because I am
okay wi th editors so doing, but I stil l
f elt the changes w ere misinf ormed.
-P. H. M adore
ph oto: Ju l i a Bond
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PHM: Mary Miller. My memories of you seem to coincidewith names like Kathy Fish and Julie Bolt (wasnt that hername?). I never read much of your longer work back then, inthe Zoetrope Virtual Studio, but Im sure I critiqued anumber of your flash fiction pieces. I havent even finishedreading Big World yet. Every line is tightly crafted, but that isonly the vehicle by which you deliver the truth. You live inMississippi, which last I heard was sort of blue collar. Ivebeen through there a few times. Reminded me of Maine insome ways. What about your daily life do you think most
informs the characters in Big World? Thats an annoyingquestion. What informs your characters, though, or, I guess,where do they come from?
M M : Thats funny about your first memories of me onZoetrope. I was mostly writing flash then and I have no ideawho Julie Bolt is. Zoetrope was such a great community for
me at the time and I still participate in a few private offices(this sounds snobbish, I know, but the main boards are nolonger helpful).
Im actually not living in Mississippi anymore. I madeit out! Im in Austin now, and have been here for a little overtwo months. Im getting another masters degree, this one at
the University of Texas (Michener Center for Writers). Itsamazing here and I feel a bit like an asshole for lucking intosuch a thing, actually. This week, I have a free badge to theAustin Film Festival which says Im a producer and I get togo to all these parties and films. Im sort of boring, though,so I havent been to any parties yet.
About my characters: the narrators in BW are girls
who will never get out of towns too small for them. Theycome from Jackson or Meridian or Hattiesburg, Mississippi.
They stay briefly in better places like Nashville. They remainin unhappy situations for far too long and wait for things to
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get better. As I change, though, my stories are changing.Very very slowly, but theyre changing. I don't think I'll bewriting the same girl stuck in an unhappy marriage with abad dog in three years (though, now that I think about it,
Im working on another one of those stories right now).
PHM: I had no idea you were living in Austin. Im in Killeen.Ive been in the Army since 2008. Theyre medically retiringme for some baggage I picked up overseas. So Im on myway out of the Army, but Ill be here at least until the spring.
Im actually an uneducated slob, as many will tell you. Butnow the Armys going to pay for school, and Im definitelyset on going to University of Maryland at College Park.
Im with you on the main boards being less helpful asyou progress thing. I havent gotten any really constructivefeedback in years. The funny thing is that I just went theretoday and found that I had the third highest rated story in
August. I wouldnt consider that story the best thing I everposted there, but thats the first time Ive ever gotten thehonor.
I think its that way for all writers, that as we growour work grows with us. Unless youre Bret Easton Ellis. Ithink my writing is always a hangover from the last periodin my life. How old are you, anyways? And what would you
call your defining moment as a writer? (Mine woulddefinitely have to be getting an advance for an article.)What do you mean when you say youre boring? I think I amboring. I just went on some kind of weird date with anannoying rich girl from Austin. I was boring because everytime I brought up something that interested me, she would
tell me to shut up. Literally. Now talk about snobby.What do you listen to while writing? Do you think itsbetter to listen to instrumental music so as to avoid lettingwords into your head? Or do you listen to silence? Do youcompose on a keyboard or longhand? Are you a socialite or
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do you find it hard to meet people? Do you still smoke?How often do you stay up all night working on something, ifever, anymore? Any favorite literary magazines? What is themost brazen thing youve done, both as a writer and a
person, and did it leave a scar? Do you think that self loathing is a necessary part of writing, because otherwisewe are unable to be completely honest? Have you anythoughts on the insular nature of the writing world?
MM : Why the University of Maryland? Are you from
Maryland? All I know about Killeen is that I once knew atwelve year old with a baby from there. Im pretty sure itwas her fathers child and thebabys eyes looked dead andwatery and never learned tofocus. That was about adecade ago, when I worked as
an AmeriCorps volunteer forsix months in Austin afterundergrad (I was anAmeriCorps dropout). You can do the math on my age,there. Early thirties, fast approaching mid thirties. When I firststarted writing, which was only five or six years ago, I feltlike the young duck. I guess everyone has gotten older with
me, though.Im sure youre not an uneducated slob. Or maybe
youre uneducated formally, but you seem to have done afine job educating yourself.
If I had to pinpoint a defining moment as a writer, itwould be my acceptance at Oxford American (for a long,
plotless story). They paid me money that I could buy thingswith, a netbook for example, or a few nice dresses and apair of boots. Before that, the most I think Id gotten was$15 20. It was also a magazine that Id read for years andreally respected. It made me think that perhaps what I
I ts like, yes, ok ay,you r e on t h er i ght patheventhough that path is
w indy and youhave no idea whereit s going.
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wanted to do with my life wasnt ridiculous, that I had sometalent. It was also meaningful because Id left my husbandabout a week before and was living at my parents house,which was a weird and sad and humbling experience. I felt
like such a loser. Things seem to work this waylittleconfirmations from God or the universe to let you knowthat everythings going to be okay. When I moved toHattiesburg, MS a year later to start my MA inEnglish/Creative Writing, I was solicited by McSweeneysQuarterly. A week after moving to Austin, I got an
acceptance from American Short Fiction. Then I got an agent.Its like, yes, okay, youre on the right patheven though thatpath is windy and you have no idea where its going.
Sometimes I listen to Kate York or Aimee Mann orKathleen Edwards while writing. Mostly, though, I likesilence. I never write longhand except to make notessometimes, but not very often. If I had to write longhand, I
dont think Id be a writer, which seems weird but Im prettysure its true.
Favorite literary magazines: Fence, McSweeneys, IndianaReview, Ninth Letter, American Short Fiction, Tin House, andHobart. There are so many magazines publishing reallyamazing work, and then there are others publishing reallyboring work. Or maybe its just not my aesthetic. The best
advice any young writer could be given (as regardspublishing) is to read lots of literary magazines and onlysubmit to those you like. Ive stopped submitting to placeslike Glimmer Train and Ploughshares and Pleides. Theyd neverpublish me and I wouldnt want them to at this point.
The most brazen things Ive done? I fall down
sometimes and have a few scars as a result. Thats notbrazen, though. I dont know. Nothing feels very brazen, butI suppose choosing this lifestyle is brazen. Its certainly noteasy. People my age arent still in school. They havechildren, families of their own. They know how to cook. Its
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a choice Ive made and Im proud of it but its not easy.
PHM: Well, College Park is the closest state school withinproximity of Baltimore which has a reputable English
program. Im not from Maryland, but one day I hope to tellpeople that. Baltimore was the first place I ever felt athome, that I ever felt I belonged. Plus Im forever in lovewith a particular woman there, and we have that sort ofthing that takes like your whole life to figure out. I love her,thats all, and moreover I love Baltimore for its grime andreality. I dont know thatIm settling down, but Implanting roots there. Werenot together right now, andso you can imagine that thepast few years have beenhard. I saw her again in July
and we both pretty muchlost our shit when I had tocome back to Texas. Like literally. And so now Im gettingout, but I dont mind. Steady paychecks arent all theyrecracked up to be.
Killeen is a gigantic strip mall set up to serve thesoldiers. Thats why it has next to no culture of its own,
because every single decision ever made about it was madefor monetary reasons. As far as your age goes, I did aGoogle and the myspaces gave you away. You sound likeyouve lived a fuller life than some of the people who mighthave the nerve to consider themselves your contemporaries.I think thats what I get about you, is that youve lived alittle. I have too. Its easier for you to look back on stuff (Iwas born in 1987), whereas Im still in the midst of manythings.
I definitely think that the universe sends thestruggling independent human signals to stay up. That
I ve stoppedsubmitting to placeslike Gl i m m er Tr ai nand Ploughsharesand Pleides. Theydnever publi sh me andI wouldnt want them
to at this point.
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advance I mentioned happened to come at a time when Iwas on my final eviction notice. The editor also found me a
job. Hell of a guy named Pete McCommons (editor of theAthens, GA based Flagpole Magazine). Funny you should
mention how humbling going home is. I could only tolerateit for like two months, after I got out of jail in Baltimore.(This is part of why I joined the army.)
So you just recently got an agent, then?Congratulations! Have you written a novel? Is theresomething you want to tell us? Have you met Amelia Gray? I
havent met her, even though Austin is so close. Then again,Ive come to realize that having writing in common is notenough to meet people. I met a ton of writers when I gotback from Iraq. I spent all my money going around thecountry. It was a lot of fun. And I liked a lot of those people.But, big surprise, I didnt have much in common with mostof them. I met (Hobartassociated) Elizabeth Ellen in
Chicago. I was so tanked and stupid and hung up on the factthat that girl I mentioned earlier was nowhere to be found.She had a lost year out in the mid west. I thought she wasdead. Her sister didnt even know where she was.
I totally forgot about Ninth Letter. I remember findingthe debut issue at Barnes & Noble in Athens. I rememberbeing overwhelmed by the design. It definitely influenced
the way I did dispatch back then, although at that time I wasimpatient and young and horrible at designing things. Ithink I eventually submitted something but I had alreadyvacated the apartment (just left it furnished and bailedoutit never even ended up on my credit report) and I laterinquired by e mail and they let me know that it was not for
them. Do you feel obligated to list Hobart? I dont read themmuch, but they did a hell of a job on Big World. How many ofthose stories were unpolished when you guys started theproject? Speaking of, how much time do you spend writing?
Ive only ever submitted to those "big markets" a few
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times to date. I take it very seriously when I do that, as Imsure you do. I have a few things I think have major NewYorky potential, but I dont think Im ready to revise themfully yet. Its been a weird three years for me. I think I
published more in 2006 than I have since. Thats where Imat now, as far as only submitting to the ones I like.
Im allergic to absolute silence. I dont know how youdo it. I think there was a time in my life where I was calmenough for that.
Easy lives make for easily discouraged writers, dont
they? And anyway, you mentioned an ex husband. Soundslike youve been down the family road one time already,and so theres nothing wrongwith getting your life a littlemore how you want it beforetrying that stuff again, if ever.
Im almost finished
reading Big World. I think Imgoing to read it again before Igive it to that girl I was talkingabout. That one story, Temp,she has to read it. But I thinkthe whole book would bring alot of comfort to her world. It would mean a lot to me if
you could sign it sometime.
M M : I agree that steady paychecks arent all theyrecracked up to beI used to work for the government and satin a cubicle for eight hours a day. That being said, povertyreally sucks. Im sort of fundamentally opposed to debt, so I
lived off $1,000 a month for two years while working on mymasters degree at the University of Southern Mississippi.Im still not sure how I did it. Its so exciting to have moneyagain. I can buy myself clothes and shoes and socks! I canwalk over to CVS and buy snacks and magazines! Its pretty
HTM LGI ANTkind of scares me.I like reading theposts, but I hardlyever commentbecause peopleseem so ready totake off ense.
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great. Not like I have a ton of money or anything, butenough to live decently and save up for things I want (rightnow I want a netbook and a bike and maybe, hopefully, todo some traveling next summer).
I did just get an agent. Its exciting. Im not sure if Ima novelist, if Ill ever finish a good novel, and she seems tobe okay with that, which is cool. So, well see. Im workingon another collection, which should be finished pretty soon.Some of the stories are going to be published this winter:Fiction, Ninth Letter, American Short Fiction, some letters to the
editor in McSweeneys. Aaron and Elizabeth (at Hobart) arealso reprinting Big World, which Im happy about. I suppose Ishould get myself a website to talk about this stuff, but itseems like a lot of trouble. You should submit to themagazines you like, no matter how big or small they are.
Thanks for reading BW, by the way. Did I say thatalready? Im glad you connected with Temp. It was one of
the first stories I ever wrote and I never tried to get itpublished. Im not sure why now. Theres a lot of me in it,but its also very fictionalized.
Elizabeth did some minor editing to the stories in BW(and a bit more substantial editing to "Not All Who WanderAre Lost"cutting a few paragraphs at the end, if Iremember correctly). Im a slow writer and spend a lot of
time getting my sentences the way I want them, so Igenerally dont love a whole lot of editing, at least on thesentence level. Id rather someone take off a paragraph ortwo than alter my sentences.
HTMLGIANT kind of scares me. I like reading theposts, but I hardly ever comment because people seem so
ready to take offense. Its ridiculous, really. John Brandonand I interviewed each other for a guest post there lastspring and the comments got a little nasty. Some girl said:People have all kinds of ideas about themselves, often atthe same time. Guess an interview is just the sound of
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someone talking. This is taken out of context a bit, butbasically someone had pointed out that Id said somethingcontradictory.
Amelia Gray is great! I read with her here in Austin at
Bookwoman at the beginning of October, which was reallyfun. I love seeing her book get reviewed in places like theNew York Times. Ive been meaning to meet up with heragain for drinks, but shes traveling a lot and Im busy withmy reading and writing.
PHM: Poverty does suck, but ten minutes after you dragyourself out of it, you forget what it was like. Or you dontforget but you convince yourself that it will never happenagain because youve worked so hard and gotten all yourshit squared away. So youll fly along thinking youreinvincible and getting away with everything you can, andthen one day youll get high with some friends and the
following day youll take a piss test and within a few weeksyoure making less than you did washing dishes whileworking eighteen hours a day. That is, if youre me, and you
just cant seem to take care of yourself for too very longunless you have a reason. If I could have found her, I know Iwouldnt have blown my wad. Its a historical fact with me:left to my own devices, money is simply a fare ticket to the
next distraction, be it a fuckingnother cigarette or amagazine to add to your massive stack. I spent a fewmonths homeless in DC and Baltimore collectively. If thingswork out like they should, my military service shouldguarantee that that will never happen againyou can alwaysfind some shit splat room for a couple hundred bucks amonth, no matter where youre at, or at the very least it canmake for a good enough contribution to a friend wholl letyou stay with them. But I dont think its going to go downlike that. Ive just had the rug pulled from under me somany times that I never really trust it, and then, like I said, I
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generally find a way to take a header down the basementstairs when no ones around to stop me. Ah, such is life, andthe struggle, my struggle, has always mostly been a waragainst such resignations.
Standing up a website isnt as hard as you think. Dontdare pay anyone to do it for you. But you do need to getsome sort of web presence beside your bio lines, becausethat other Mary Millermight be giving peoplethe wrong impression.
Had a similar quandarywhen I started writing,and so knew from thebeginning that Id haveto have a name whichmade me soundpretentious. Gradually
people (not readers, but other writers) have gotten over it.Every single one of my pseudonyms has a better name thanme.
Sycophantic at best, the crowd at HTMLGIANT justseems to miss a few things about community. Whentheyre not trying to bleed the same writer readers for thesame cash money, they are doing their damndest to make
the internet writing scene as exclusive as possible. Theywant literature to be like a Zoetrope Private Office, I think.One time, I mentioned to a writer who loves that kind ofplace that it seemed like Phil Ochs small circle of friends.She said she could see that it was a circle, but that that wasokay because it was gradually bringing new people into the
fold. The fold. Gradually. And so we now have the sameold, a wall between the ins and the outs, and that seems likethe opposite of my literature for reasons I find hard todefine.
Our generation doesnt have a coherent gripe. Writers
I think people in smalltowns, in particular,people w ho dont haveaccess to a li terarycommunity and goodbookstores, have a lot ofdif f iculty coming toli terature organically.
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are often misfits, I think, and its sad to see how rarely themost successful among us manage to change the tide. Wecould all do so much better by ourselves. Nepotism is anobvious thing around the webbed literary landscape, sure,
but the term itself is bankrupt because no one everpromised professionalism and no one ever promisedequality. I think two consistent things can be said about mywriting and about the writing I love to read the most: it ispart of a larger, parsed love letter to society and it wouldhave allowed me to escape as a 14 year old kid too smart
for my own good yet too rebellious to conform. I want thekids who grow up early but never grow up to see a brightlylit solar system. Organic is the best way for a person tocome upon literature, absolutely, but I think that ourgeneration has done next to nothing on a massive scale torevamp the methods by which people might organicallyhappen upon it. Do you have any thoughts on this, or is this
the kind of thing you hate about talking about writing? Atvarious times I might hate a paragraph like the one I justwrote, were I reading it by another person, and so I canunderstand if youre indifferent toward it.
Yes, yours is exactly the kind of voice that ElizabethEllen could only help to amplify, but I certainly didnt getthe feeling that she was lurking behind the pages. I try to
turn the keys over to the editor, but its usually notbeneficial. I finally got into Word Riot, this month or last, Ithink it was last, and the guy had made some changes. I wasambivalent toward them, but I still think my originalversion was tighter. It was a flash piece, though, so cuttingwhole paragraphs wouldnt have worked. I think lopping off
at the end is the most commonly acceptable form ofhacking. Often a story has ended long before the writer isaware, even if its true (as has been said) that stories dontend. Lady Gaga said to a writer friend of hers that the beststories do not end in resolution. Do you have any respect
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for Stefani Germanotta? I hate her music, but the sameinterview I read of hers in which I found that tidbit madeher into, I think, my first real female personal hero. It wassomething about the way he described her life shortly
before she "made it." I can connect to that, and I dont haveto like her work to like her. And what of James Franco? Isthere any particular clinical or cultural phenomenon inpost aught America which most awes you, and have any ofthem wormed their way into your recent work?
Wish I had a crystal ball to give me faith in a diamond
ring. I swear to myself each morning that I will get ittogether today, and each night I attempt to convince myselfthat I made a little progress that day. Today thats true.
M M : I like talking about writing and reading. Im in an MFAprogram, after all, so thats pretty much all my friends and Ido. Well go to a party and talk about writing and end up
having to apologize to the non writers/spouses of writersbecause its really annoying and we realize how annoying itis but we just cant help ourselves. When I began writingflash, about five or six years ago, I had no one to talk to (atleast in person), so its extra nice. All my writer friends, orthe really good ones, at least, also seem to have a lot ofproblems so we can talk about those, too. Its a whole little
community of neurotic, obsessive people. Its fun. Thatbeing said, Im sort of an anti intellectual for someonewhos a Ph.D. dropout on her second masters degree. Idont think thinking has much to do with writing and dontvalue it as an activity all that much. Im pretty literal anddont like the way literary people always assume the writer
knew every connection he/she was making, and I dont likea whole lot of metaphorical/figurative stuff. This isnt right,reallyI like metaphors just fine. I dont like extendedmetaphor, metaphor as story, if this makes sense. I soundrather grumpy, I know.
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I think people in small towns, in particular, peoplewho dont have access to a literary community and goodbookstores, have a lot of difficulty coming to literatureorganically. When I lived in Meridian, Mississippi, there
were two bookstores: a religious bookstore that I neverwent into and a chain store. The people at the chain storemostly didnt read and whole categories were labeledincorrectly. There wasnt a great fiction or lit mag selection.Occasionally I found something Id connect with, but theydidnt carry any of the writers I read now: Mary Gaitskill,
Beth Nugent, Denis Johnson, Susan Minot, Mavis Gallant,etc. Basically, they carried summer reading books andpopular fiction. Its also difficult to find lit mags online thatyou like if you dont know where to start because there areso many. And new ones every day. I really dont have asuggestion for what to do about this. It would be nice ifthere were more independent bookstores, places where
people actually read and could handpick books for theircustomers. That being said, I dont want to start one. Imsure its not very profitable.
So the Word Riot editor didnt ask if he could make thechanges? This kind of thing really pisses me off, actually.Why do editors at journals do this (the only time this hashappened to me was also at an online journal)? Is it because
theyre pressed for time, or dont want to bother? Howdifficult is it to send an e mail? I dont know.
I dont know anything about Lady Gaga, but I agreeabout the resolution part. In the story I have coming out inNinth Letter, I originally ended it with the girl on a bus,leaving the guy and their extended non vacation vacation,
but the editor suggested I end it before she leaves him. Itmakes for a much better ending. Endings are so difficult, Ithink. Its the place where I feel totally inept every time. Ithink I was better at them as a flash writer, but when Imwriting a twenty five page story, I have the same tendency
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to want to tie everything together into something neat andit just doesnt work that way and perhaps it shouldnt. Lifeisnt neat. The story continues after the story is finished,resolution or not.
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PALE ANGELLar r y O. Dean
Blunt stonespoke through cold sand
like baby teeth;broken seashellsbob in the thirsty surf.
In your battered blackleather jacket and ripped
jeans you are a pale angel,
an underage,Botticellian refugeebooted out of heaven
for smoking.
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ON THE BUSWAYChristopher James
My stepson, Ando, loves to play computer games. Iwatch, sometimes. If he knows Im watching he getsupset and mutters curses in English he thinks I dontunderstand. I do understand, more or less, and so I prefer towatch silently from the doorway when he doesnt know Imthere. Hes caught up in being an angel, hitting devils with abig knife that lights up blue when he swishes it and redwhen he kills somebody.
His real Mom was killed with a knife. Jakarta is mostlya safe city, but young women who look too Chinese can getthemselves in trouble. She left the mall with bags of newclothes. The queue for cabs was too long, and she hadnt thepatience to wait, so she took the bus. It was just her, the
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driver, the conductor, and one other man. The driver andthe conductor looked the other way while this other mantook her shopping bags and wallet and pushed a cheapknife into her chest.
Ando knows what happened but has forgotten. Hewas seven then, four years ago. I watch him stab stab stab adevil in his game many times. The devil doesnt die andinstead manages to kill Ando on the counter attack. I knowthis because the whole screen turns blood red and Andoslams the controller hard into the floor.
Ando! Thats expensive!Fuck off, Arini! he says in English. You made medie!
He never calls me Mom, though I occasionally requestit. Now, with his avatar dead, it doesnt seem like the besttime to ask him again. Please, Ando, say Fuck off, Mom, not Fuckoff, Arini. I know it wasnt my fault but he wont listen to
reason.Go make me a sandwich, he says. And, in English:
Useless bitch.I go. I make him a sandwich. What else can I do? His
Mom was killed on the busway.
Andos father tells me to give him a sharp smack on the
behind; that Andos behavior is unacceptable.I cant, I say. You know Im not a violent person.You dont have to be violent. Just show him whos
boss. Want me to do it?Of course not! Besides, I say, think about what hes
been through already.Its no excuse, says his father. I wont have him
exploiting his mothers death as a reason to misbehave.Then his phone rings and hes off again. Hes always busy. Idont think he has time to smack his son on the behind.
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Andos father expects me to learn English and pays forconversation classes twice a week with the other well kept housewives. I get on okay with these women, but wecome from different worlds. Theyre all Christian and whenthey forget Im there they make jokes about Islam. Im quietbeside them, so its easy for them to forget me. For example:
just before Ramadan, Florentina said, Thats why theyre allso thin! I should do the same instead of going to the gym sixtimes a week! They all laughed, and then they rememberedme. Sorry, Arini, said Florentina.
Its okay, I said. Its funny. I laughed to show thatno offense was taken.Sometimes they talk about terrorists, maybe
attacking the malls, and how scary that would be. They allshudder and look thoughtful, and then they remember me.Sorry, Arini, they say.
Its okay, I say. It scares me too.
Im sure they dont really believe that Im scared inthe same way.
Andos real Mom used to go to the same class, sosometimes they talk about her. I usually say my phone isringing and I have to go outside to make a call. That waythey dont need to say Sorry, Arini. Its best for all.
I prefer to learn by myself, reading Manga comics inEnglish. I love the comic books, especially the ones withhorrible monsters who kill everybody. I grew up poor butnow I can have as many as I want. I read a different comicbook every day. Most of them I pass on to Ando. Maybe hereads them. Maybe he uses them to wipe his ass.
Toilet paper was a shock. Ive asked the housewives
about it, and they, like me, had never heard of anybodyusing paper. It was funny to them. Thats how fancy Andosfather is. Im lucky he married me, but some things Ill neverget used to.
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I grew up in a village, a proper village. We had a house myMom and Dad had built themselves, from bits of woodtheyd borrowed from friends. The floors were made ofbroken tiles interrupting thickly laid concrete. Chickens ranin and out of the rooms, but they werent our chickens.
They belonged to the neighbors.I dont remember ever not working. I hardly went to
school. I washed dishes, or fed the neighbours chickens, orblew a whistle on the public angkot minbuses. A fewthousand rupiah a day. Whatever Mom could find for me to
do. Whatever it took to survive. When I was sixteen, shesaid it was time for me to go to the capital and get a properjob, as a maid or a nanny.
When I first arrived in Jakarta, I slept in the trainstation. I couldnt find a job as a maid or a nanny, so I mademoney singing on buses. You could make enough to eat thatway, but not enough for living quarters. At the train
stations, I always had to watch for people trying to rob orrape me, but it was marginally safer than the streets.
After six months, I went back home, told Mom Icouldnt find a proper job. She acted like she didnt knowme, saying no daughter of hers would give up so quickly.Mom, I pleaded, They try to rape you in Jakarta. Shedidnt believe me and ordered me back. They hadnt themoney to keep me. I dont blame her, of course. I love myMom. She did what she thought was best. It worked out inthe end, so maybe she was right. I went back.
One night a man did try to rape me. My friends weresleeping around me. He covered my mouth with his hand towake me and showed me a gun, saying hed shoot me if I
made a sound. He was whispering, his hands were shaking. Iwondered if hed done this before. He told me to take offmy dress and reached out a hand to stroke my tits. Hewhispered at me to take off my panties, waved the gun atme. I did what he said. At this point, I didnt feel anything
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except fear. I wasnt ashamed. Just terrified. He had the gun.He was scared off by a shout. Sometimes people, late atnight, cut through the station on their way home. A man ina suit was cutting through, saw what he was doing, shouted,
and ran towards us. The man with the gun ran away, and Igathered up my dress. Finally, I felt like crying. My saviorwas Andos father. He asked me if I was okay, what I wasdoing here in the station at night. My friends snored on. Helooked the other way whilst I put my dress on then asked ifI wanted to get a coffee. He would pay. I said okay, and he
took me to an all night caf.He drank coffee from the glass, not the saucer, so Idid the same. His name was Mister Suwito. Even now, nowthat were married, I call him Mister Suwito. He asked memore questions about what I was doing sleeping in the trainstation, about the attack. Was this the first time anythinglike this had happened? Didnt I have anywhere safe to go?
Did I have protection? Protection?He said I should carry a weapon with me in case I
ever needed to defend myself. He said nobody should leavehome without a sharp dagger, just in case, and he showedme his dagger. I told him it looked beautiful, and this madehim smile. Then he offered me a job as nanny to his five year old son. They had just lost their previous nanny. He
would pay me well, and I would live with them. A properroof over my head. Was I interested?
I asked why the previous nanny had left, and MisterSuwito was frank with me. She left because I slept with her,and my wife found out, he said.
I nodded, pretending I understood. Is it okay with
you that I slept with her? he asked me. I asked exactly whathe intended to pay. More than you make now, he said. Ican guarantee you that. Are you interested or not? Ifinished the coffee in a single mouthful. Im interested, Isaid. When can I start?
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The police brought Ando home the other day. They camein plain clothes, to show that they werent making afuss. Hed been caught with a dirty magazine. They showedme the magazine, left it on a table by the door. They lookedcomfortable in my house, waiting for a bribe. We all agreedthat it would be best if this were kept out of the courts. Ifound some money to thank the officers for their time, andthey went away, leaving the magazine behind.
After they were gone, I took Ando by the arm into themain room. Its my favorite room, and Ando almost never
goes there. I smacked him hard across the hips.We were both surprised, but Ando handled it betterthan I did. I stayed mad, shouting, screaming, close to tears.He stood it all. Hes a chubby child and his eyes are alreadythin. When he narrows them even more I cant see his eyesat all, just two dark lines on either side of his chubby nose.
What on earth were you thinking?
I wanted to see what it looked like.You cant do things like that, I said. Its sick, and
its illegal, and its wrong.I know, said Ando. Why are you telling me this? I
know it already. He sounded bored. He knew it was wrong,but he did it anyway. His plain response made me angrier. Irepeated myself time and again, unable to think of anythingnew to say. He admitted that he was sick and illegal andwrong, but it didnt bother him to own up to it. I keptpushing, wanting more. Remorse. Something.
You dont know how lucky you are to have a fatherwho can afford to keep you out of trouble, I said.
That stopped him. I know how lucky I am to have my
father, he said, his voice rising for the first time. He musthave seen the satisfaction in my face, satisfaction atprovoking a reaction, because he took a deep breath andretreated back into those two dark lines.
Is that all, Mom? he asked.
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Mom? That was a first. It didnt sound pleasant, butstill. Why was he calling me Mom now? Because I finallystood up to him? My anger relented and I stopped pushinghim for some reaction. I ignored his tone of voice and tried
to enjoy being called Mom. It felt good. I watched himsoften. He took the dirty magazine from the table by thefront door and went to his room. I let him go.
Thats all, I said.
After that, I had my class with the housewives. I toldAndos nanny he wasnt allowed to play computer
games today. She is old and ugly. I chose her myself,learning from the mistakes of my predecessor. Okay, nocomputer games, she said, but I knew shed let him. Shesmore afraid of him than she is of me.
We talked about how hard it is to raise children. Wetalked about this always. Normally I pretended to have the
same problems as themexpensive schools and struggling tohelp with homework. Today, though, I told them that Andohad called me Mom for the first time. I explained, as best Icould in English, how much that meant. They were verysupportive. Afterwards they took me out for a celebration;dinner at Pancious. For them, everything is good cause fordinner at Pancious. Normally I dont go, but today I did.
Why not? The nanny could look after Ando a little longerthan usual.
When Andos father came home from work, just afterten, I told him the days events. Its just a dirty book,Arini, he said. All boys look at dirty books.
Youre missing the point, I told him. He called meMom. I think I might have broken through.
He smiled. Broken through? Over a dirty book? Youare a funny bunny, Arini.
Stop it! I said, pushing his face with my hand,
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smiling also. Youre teasing me. This is important. Maybe Ibroke through because I finally stood up to him, showedhim who the boss was.
Its fantastic news, he said, serious. Im very happy
that dirty pictures have brought my son and my wife closertogether. His phone rang, but he switched it off. Shall wego to bed? he said, grinning. Before we went upstairs, Ihugged him tight. Mom, I said to myself.
There it was, in the bedroom. My falling to earth with a
bump. On my side of the bed, on my pillow, weredozens of pieces of glossy paper. Vaginas from the dirtymagazine, carefully torn out and arranged in a smiley face.
Jesus, said my husband. I didnt say anything. Hewent into Andos room and didnt come out for a very longtime. I stayed awake until he returned, savoring the smacks.I should have told him not to do anything. Ando was just
acting out, understandably, given everything that had gonebefore, but I didnt tell Mister Suwito not to go. Instead, Ilay awake in the next room, waiting to hear Ando cry out.
The little shit kept it all in.
A
fter hed saved me from rape and bought me coffee,Mister Suwito took me home. He lived in Kemang, and
we went there by taxi. Id never been to Kemang before. Itwas too expensive. His house had a driveway and a garden.My wife had the car today, he said, as we passed a four wheeled monster in the drive. Her car is being serviced, ablown gasket, and my driver is getting married. Thats why Iwas taking a taxi tonight.
I nodded, as if I understood what he was talkingabout. Thank Allah for blown gaskets, I said.He laughed and looked at me. I think it was then that
he first saw me. Yes, indeed, he said. I wouldnt havebeen there to save you otherwise.
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The front door was opened for us before we reachedthe end of the driveway. Later, I would find out that thiswas just a coincidence, that a maid had happened to seehim coming, but at the time I thought he employed
somebody just for this service, to stare through the curtainsnext to the doorway and have the door open for him whenhe was still a few footsteps away. Whats your wife like? Iasked, nervous to go in.
Shes well. Perhaps its best I let you find out foryourself.
When her husband and I entered the family room, shewas standing. I wondered how long shed been there,waiting for him to arrive. She was stunning. So beautiful itwould hurt your eyes, dressed elegantly, she stood withgrace and poise. She belonged inside that wonderful housemore than he did, like the garden and the driveway.
And she was a bitch, I soon found out.
Who the fuck is this girl? she softly hissed.I saved her from a rapist in the train station, said
Mister Suwito. She will be our new nanny.Shes been raped? And you want her to look after
our child?No, I saved her from being raped. And yes, I want her
to look after Ando.
They mustve hated each other, I realised. Nothingelse could explain the violence in their calm voices. MisterSuwito didnt ask for permission, rather he told her whatwas going to happen, in a voice that allowed no denial.
They stared each other down. My legs were shaking. I didntknow whether to stay go, sit, stand, or flee. Finally, Mrs.
Suwito left. That shouldve meant that Mister Suwito hadwon, but of course it didnt. When she was no longer in theroom, he let out his breath.
Arini, he said. Let me show you to your room.The room was small but perfect. I couldnt have
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imagined anything better in a thousand years, though it wasnothing compared to what I have now.
Youd best lock the door at night, he said. She canbe difficult sometimes. He stood at the door and watched
me enjoying my new surrounds. Ill let you undress andsleep, he said. You have a shower room through that doorthere.
He lingered. I wondered if he expected me to undressand sleep with him still there.
His wife made it her mission to destroy me. I could
understand, after what hed done to her with the last nanny,but understanding didnt diminish my suffering. She shoutedat me in public, criticized my everything, pulled my hairwhen I was too slow. I tried to explain that I wasnt like theother nanny, I wasnt there to steal her man, but she didntlisten. I dont think she cared. I remember one exampleonce she had conversation class with her housewives, and I
was supposed to sit outside the school with Ando. But Andoneeded the toilet, so we came in. The class was justfinishing, and she was in the reception area with the otherhousewives when Ando and I came in. What are you doinghere? she shouted. I told you to stay outside! I began toexplain, but she wasnt listening. She grabbed Ando fromme and pushed me out the door. Stay outside! she
shouted. I almost fell. The school doors are made of glass,and I had to stand outside watching her for several minuteswhilst she laughed at me with her friends. She must havebeen talking very loudly, because I heard everything shesaid through the doors. A stupid girl who had been raped,she told the housewives. Her husband thought he could save
me. I wonder if the housewives remember that. If they did,Im sure theyd say Sorry, Arini, and Id say Its okay. Itwas pretty funny. Id pretend to laugh.
Ando never took his eyes away from me. At first, helooked upset and shocked, but then he started to smile. He
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was enjoying it. The he laughed. He thought it was funny.That was the first time I wished death on her. She taughthim to treat me like a dog. To demand everything from meand to punish me with his words when I delivered any less.
Ando loved to call me stupidhead. Back then, of course, Ididnt blame him. I blamed his mother. When I startedsleeping with her husband, it was as much to punish her asit was borne of desire for him. This should never be said, butI was happy when she died. It did the whole world a favor.
After the incident with the vaginal smiley face, I didntsee Ando for several days. Sometimes I would enter a
room, and it was obvious he had just left it. I took towearing clattering high heels when I walked around thehouse, making a lot of noise, so he could tell when I wascoming and have time to avoid me.
His life was saddening in his absence. He ate terribly, I
could see now. Chips and candy and chocolate milk. No realfood. I asked the nanny why she let him eat such junk, andshe told me he wouldnt eat anything else. She always gavein to him. Rather that than let him starve. He was podgy, Irealized at last, not just chubby. Whilst he was atinternational school, I went into his room and lookedaround. Thanks to the maids, his room was very tidy, but I
could see he was a messy child in his unmade bed, thesheets kicked to the floor, and the mountains of violentvideo games in the corner, by his TV, surrounding a bowl ofsugar rinsed cereal puffs. The maids had cleaned yesterday,so hed made this mess since then. Did he play all of thosegames, I wondered, or were they props instead in someflight of the imagination? A Krakatau of computer gamesboxes.
The clothes inside his wardrobe were folded neatly.Trousers hung from a metal bar to the left of the wardrobe,shirts to the right. I tried to remember the last time Id ever
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seen him wearing a shirt, and couldnt. The funeral, maybe.He wore t shirts always, even to school. The waists on histrousers were large. Why did I never notice his size? Thedirty magazine was on his desk. I leafed through it. All of
the ladies had lost their vaginas except for one. This onelooks like his mother, I thought, but I was probably justbeing vindictive. There were hundreds of pictures, hundredsof missing vaginas. He hadnt left all of them on my pillow. Iwondered what he had done with the others. I looked underhis mattress. Perhaps there would be a diary. I put away
some of the games, picked up the cereal bowl, and left. Ididnt understand him any more now than I did before. I feltguilty about invading his room, but I knew that would pass.I sat down with a comic book and slowly fell asleep.
Ando woke me up, shouting my name and slammingdoors. He came charging at me, holding a wallet.Thats mine, I said. What are you doing with it? Didyou go into my room?Its not yours, he said. Its my mothers. What are
you doing with it?He threw it at me. It hit my eye, and it hurt.You should not have this, he screamed. Nobody
should. Why do you have it?
I stood up. Ando, I said calmly. Youre mistaken.That wallet belongs to me.
No it fucking doesnt! he screamed, livid by now,bright purple in the face, tears streaming down it.
Ando, do you remember what happened to yourmother?
Yes! Yes, I do! You wanted her dead and then shewas dead. And now you have her wallet!
He bent down and upended the coffee table betweenus. Its glass top smashed into tiny pieces. Think about whatyoure saying, Ando, I said. I was talking to him as if he was
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a reasonable adult, not a hysterical child.Im saying you killed her! I thought he was going to
rush me, but instead he rooted to the spot. I was cryingnow, too. I wondered if my face was also purple. We were
angry grapes, waiting for the other to do something.
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FREEBURMA
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Christopher Jameslives, w orks andw ri tes in Jakarta, notnecessarily in thatorder. He's w orkingon a novel.
Larry O. Dean w asborn and raised in
Flint, M ichigan. Hisnumerouschapbooks includeI Am Spam (2004)and About th eAuthor (2011).
Bi g Wor l d , M ary M iller'sseminal w ork, may bepurchased at Powell's,Amazon, or directly f romthe publisher f or about tenbucks.
NoelleAdams has
w orked as ajournalist inBuenos Airesand M exicoCity. Shenow lives inSeattle.
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I sw ear to Ch r i stI m n o r etar d . Youg o t t a f u c k w i t h t h e
st atu s q u o w h enyou can , bu t r eal l y,i t s on l y a f eel i n g. I d on t m ean to
sou n d or n er y. I j u stam . I th i n k youl i k e t h i s o n e a l o tb ecau se i t s w r i t ten
b y a p r ett y you n ggi r l i n a b ath i n gsuit. I don't agree.M or e th an 96% ofou r au d i en ce i sAmerican.
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The other day, Katie Couric looked meright in the CBS eye and said she wasdisappointed in GQ's crazy sexy Gleepictures, and, reader, I love those photos,but I think you know I have lived my entirelife trying not to disappoint Katie Couric.
Jim Nelson
I have never claimed to hate the internet. Ithink that the danger of the internet towriters is its instant gratification, the ability
to look up exactly what you want to know,that leaves little room for the imagination.Its information pornography.
Ameli a Gray
Inauthentic people are obsessed withauthenticity.Jonathan Franzen
This speaks to a bigger picture here that
certainly scares me in terms of our nationalsecurity policy. But obviously weve gottastand with our North Korean allies.
Sarah Palin
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Perseids by Ryan Gannon @Staccato
Clubland: Rock & Roll Poetry
A Di r ty Gr ape by Heather Palmer@Unlikely Stories
CCoopp yyrr ii gghh tt WW aarr
http://publishingperspectives.com/2010/11/citing-creative-commons-french-blogger-posts-houellebecqs-wikipedia-citing-novel-online-for-freehttp://www.unlikelystories.org/09/palmer0509.shtmlhttp://clublandpoems.wordpress.com/http://staccatofiction.com/?p=6078/4/2019 dispatch 3.1
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Dear P. H. Madore,
Word of advice: it concerns every writer on earthwhen you are this incredibly rude to them in your formletters. I sincerely apologize if I offended you by "notbothering" to get your name, though I used to be the fictioneditor at the University of Arizona's Sonora Review, and Ididn't ever even pay attention to whether people got myname. But to simply e mail back after your bitchy little
"advice" response with a rejection saying send us somethingelse, wedidn't likethis? Yeah, chief, I'll be getting on yourmailing list right away. Grow up.
George Theodore McLoof
phm& md,
Thank you for your prompt reply, even if it was a rejection.It's important to keep track of where one's stories arefloating around in the world, and no one likes the unknownanswer.
However, can one really suggest that writing has agender? By saying I should send "After the Fireworks" to amore "effeminate" publication (because, perhaps, women
don't read "real" literature?) reeks of misogyy. Are yousuggesting that stories about the relationships betweenwomen and men are limited only to True Confessions and NewLove Stories Magazine?
I'm not insulted that you rejected my story. I'minsulted that you tried to pidgeonhole my work under theguise of being helpful.
all the best,Li bby Cudmore
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Dear Dispatch,
Falling in love with a typewriter that looks like a ship isprobably one of the main reasons people submit to yourfine publication. I'd love to be different, but sadly I'm not.It's allabout setting sail on the Good Ship Typewriter.
Regardsssss,
Christopher James
The preceding letters w ere published un-edited and w ithout comment. I n the f uture,
w ed love to see more of your letters letters@litareview .com
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