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Larry Smith
Born in the industrial Ohio Valley in the 1940′s, Larry Smith has worked as a steel mill laborer, a high school teacher, a college professor, and a writer.
A graduate of Mingo Central High School, Muskingum College, and Kent State University, he is the author of eight books of poetry, a book of memoirs, four books of fiction, two literary biographies, a life biography, and two books of translations from the Chinese. He recently completed a photo history of his hometown with high school classmate Guy Mason. He is the director of the Firelands Writing Center and
» Continue reading An Interview With Larry Smith by David Hoenigman…
Gryphon: New and Selected Stories by Charles Baxter. New York: Pantheon Books, January 11, 2011. 416 pgs. $27.95 cloth.
Review by Ian Singleton
One word to characterize Charles Baxter’s fiction is “haunting.” The potential for surreality of his stories drives a contemporary reader of late realist fiction mad with wonder—in a word, haunted. Continuing his rich and varied body of work comes Gryphon, the just published collection of new and selected stories. I believe Frank O’Connor said he felt horrible for any writer whose work was subjected to such a collection. Perhaps he was right, but the opportunity to give
» Continue reading Gryphon: New and Selected Stories by Charles Baxter…
for my dearest Mike
My dealer promises this is magical shit. Trust me, he says, you’ll see things you can’t comprehend. Sit back and enjoy the bliss. I don’t care about bliss. I want my dead lover back. I want him across from me, feet propped on the coffee table, knocking back his sixth beer, hooting at the big tits and cartoon muscles on Jersey Shore. My dealer slips out the door. I shovel that shit up my nose quick like oxygen. In under a minute, there’s nothing left on the black ceramic plate but a scattering of
» Continue reading Put Your Hands Together by Thomas Kearnes…
When Ghost was nine years old, her mother led her into a dark tent at the edge of the Sacramento County Fair to have her palm read by a woman with jangly bracelets and too much eye make-up. Madam Something-or-other held Ghost’s sticky little girl hands in hers, traced the heart line, head line, life line, and told her she would have a happy life, that hers was an entrepreneurial soul, and she would find success as long as she never let a man in close. Children’s fingerprints only survive for a few hours. The skin oils that make
» Continue reading Ghost by Megan Cook…
An old man in a wheelchair clutches a swatter. Huffing like a dancer at work, he slaps and jabs at a buzz. Footsteps on the walkup to his second-floor studio interrupt the dance. The buzz quiets. The man faces his wheelchair away from the door. Seconds later, a woman, late thirties, unlocks and enters. She hugs a paper grocery bag with one hand. With her free hand, she pats the bald spot on the old man’s skull, then heads to the kitchenette. “Don’t sit in the dark,” the woman shouts. “Crack the blinds.” The old man listens as
» Continue reading Teenage Housefly by Kenton K. Yee…
Breakfast with Fur
Listen to a podcast of Katherine Hoerth’s “Breakfast with Fur.”
When Picasso remarked that anything could be covered in fur — Oppenheim obliged, skinned the Chinese gazelle – removed flesh from bone so speckled hair could cover elegant teacups and elegant ladies could enjoy breakfast with fur. Now we sip sir earl gray, pour his full body into a neatly trimmed cups, (blood and all things undesirable removed) manicured as to not turn the stomachs of us ladies —
so elegant. Now pour him from a teapot and he’ll swirl into the speckled fur. Add a dab
» Continue reading Two Poems by Katherine Hoerth…
People had been trying to shut down the hotel since the early Protestant work ethic showed up and told everybody how to run their businesses. Prostitutes and poker had to be moved to the basement, to the attic, at least during daytime. Ash’s Great-Grandmother stepped in to partner her husband around 1890, and the pictures show her as a ghost of a woman. Technically, she was also my mother’s Great-Aunt. Great-Aunt and Great-Grandfather counting money in the back while a smoky hallway of people laughed and the night went on.
I wonder about Karma and wonder if the wives of
» Continue reading Kill It With Fire by Nicolle Elizabeth…
He’s the one who looks like he came from Trader Vic’s, wearing a sideways rum punch smile. A cool dude who wants to smooch long haired beachy girls sipping coconut milk under palm fronds. His shirt is splashed with ruby flowers that echo a suburban shangri-la chair cushion. His hair is an hibachi of charcoal curls. It would take two hands to wrap around those arms— all tan and bendy like a piece of rattan (not the cheap wicker stuff). His breath is scented with passion fruit and pineapple. At night he dines on crab rangoon and sips Tiki Punch—then
» Continue reading Atomic Tiki Man by Karen Kelsay…
Listen to a podcast of Joe Copplestone’s “Here Comes The Avalanche.”
Death to bingo wings and retirement spent on fags and red wine
On migraines and your children hiding from your smell of soot
Here comes the avalanche
The ghosts of milkmen and the silence of factories
Waiting for this well housed street to be flooded or burnt down
Waiting for war
Waiting for the return of heroes
Waiting for tradition and rebellion
Death to wishing for black and white
Death to wishing for brown
Death to wishing and wishing for death
Death to gods and myths
Death to industry
» Continue reading Here Comes The Avalanche. by Joe Copplestone…
It’s early morning and I am standing by our truck, a Starving Student Movers’ truck. I am watching my friend Johnny Moe pay off a cop: our truck is blocking traffic. People in cars backed up, honking, shouting at us all to “Move! Get out of the way!” In the front seat my friend The Wheelman lies passed out, sleeping; his feet up on the dashboard, leather pants shiny in the morning sun, pierced nipple popping out of his T-shirt. The Wheelman is tired from working – moving hard, twelve hours yesterday, then drinking hard all night. The Wheel
» Continue reading Brothers by Beau O’Reilly…
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