#2, Winter 2015-16: Five New Essays + Eric Drzewianowski = Your Longridge Review

This is a special re-blog for friends of Esse Diem and for lovers of the Essays on Childhood project. I hope you enjoy the latest from Longridge Review.

Issue #2 is here, and it’s special. dski design will show you the most beautiful handmade books, and a diverse group of essayists offer up their strangest, darkest, and most contemplative moments from their crossings out of childhood into adulthood. Much shadow in this issue, but also rays of light:

  • Listen

Daniel Blokh (Alabama) didn’t tell us when he submitted his work that he was only 14 years old, and his writing is so sophisticated and complex we never thought to ask. When he turned in his bio, we had a conundrum. Our mission is to work with the writings of adults only reflecting on childhood. But Daniel is that rare old soul who makes you want to break the rules for art. Using song lyrics, book quotes, and his own poetry, Daniel addresses an unidentified “Y” in a series of short letters about life, family, identity, loss, and finding your way to yourself. Take your time with this, it’s a beauty.

  •  Thanksgiving Mourning

Vincent J. Fitzgerald  (New Jersey) is willing to do that thing that is so painful, he is willing to unmask a father who seems to only know how to hurt his family. No excuses, no defense. Not for his father, nor for himself years later when he begins to live out the same pattern. This is what courage looks like, facing fear rather than denying it.

  • A Steady Application

Trista Hurley-Waxali (California) weaves a masterful, mysterious narrative about her mother. Why does her mother “wear the red lips” at night as she creeps down the hallway, leaving Trista to peer through the dark and pray for her mother’s safe return? A Steady Application chills like a thriller, but it was one woman’s childhood experience. This is why we do what we do.

  •  The Mark I Left

Kara Knickerbocker (Pennsylvania) offers something touching and unaffected in her first piece of creative nonfiction. On one level, it’s a simple story about a little girl and a new pet. But Kara offers just enough allusion to heavier truths to let the reader know nothing is simple on this day, at this house, with these people. Read her essay sitting down. It almost knocked us over more than once.

  •  The Egg

Jane Rosenberg LaForge (New York) is an accomplished writer who turns her pen to her childhood obsession with an egg sculpture in her mother’s closet. Jane follows her musings, as those threads lead her to her individual parents’ identities and insecurities, as well as her own. The conclusion is a tour-de-force surprise of personal, indefatigable power.

You can find it all and more right here: Longridge Review #2, Winter 2015-16.

p.s. Want to write for us? See submission guidelines here: Longridge Review SUBMIT

Do I Own My Story? But What If It’s Also Your Story, and You Don’t Want Me To Tell It?

“Beware the small gratuitous hurt.”

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

zz hertzel Laurie Hertzel

By Laurie Hertzel

Like any good student, I sat in the front row, took diligent notes, and believed, for a while, everything my teachers said. As a young newspaper reporter, I had ambitions beyond daily journalism, so for years I attended as many workshops and seminars as possible, studying narrative writing, fiction, and, eventually, memoir.

“I own my story,” I obediently jotted during a memoir lecture—or words to that effect. “No one has the right to tell me what I can or can’t write.”

But when I began working on my first memoir, I realized that it’s not that simple. Yes, I own my story—that is, I have the right to tell the stories of my life.  But I don’t live in a vacuum, and in order to tell my stories I cannot help but tell the stories of others. Do I have that right? Do I have the…

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Halloween Fiction in a Flash: “Treasure”

If you read this blog regularly, you know I’m a big fan of the 100-word flash fiction model. It creates a structure that imposes discipline, as does the sonnet. There are rules. My process is to keep a tight leash on my sentences but not self-edit much in the draft phase. The fun comes when I do a word count and have to start paring down, replacing, refining.

There is an effort to collect 100-word stories on this site, 100 Word Story.

I got started with Loren Eaton’s Advent Ghosts. This Halloween story, “Treasure,” is for my friend Eric Douglas. I like what Eric says, “(T)his particular brand of flash fiction is telling a complete story in 100 words. Not more. Not less. It can be a lot of fun. And it can also be challenging. Sometimes what is most important is what is left unsaid.”

I will share Eric’s full Halloween 2015 round-up on Esse Diem on or after Friday, October 30.

I hope you enjoy my story. I’ve always been fascinated with how simple curiosity can morph into obsession and losing touch with reality.

I’ll leave the rest unsaid.

John William Waterhouse, Psyche opening the golden box , 1903.

John William Waterhouse, Psyche opening the golden box , 1903.

Treasure

It was a place to hide treasures. How what she considered “treasure” changed, she couldn’t remember.

Things from the woods behind the house, the path to school. First leaves or seeds, but soon feathers. What once had a heartbeat. Claws, then tails, whatever could be preserved. That Halloween, the treasures were recent.

“Who’s next?” Seth held a flashlight under his face in the dark.

He passed her treasure box to the left, and Jeff shivered. “I’ll go.”

Then, “EW! I know that’s just spaghetti in there! That’s worse than the peeled grape eyeballs!”

No, she thought. It’s so much better.

#1, Fall 2015: Six New Essays + M. Teel = Your Longridge Review

Good gracious, I am so excited about this! Check it out:

Longridge Review

Anymore, people seem to think they don’t have time to read for pleasure.

Longridge Review is here to help you fix that.

Grab a cup of coffee and get comfortable with the gorgeous visual tones of artist Michael Teel, then peruse these terrific new essays:

  • Within an Inch of My Life
    Faith Gong (Vermont) reflects on chasing perfection after the grades stop, and in the process reveals a lifelong struggle that is both chilling and inspiring.
  • Temple Bar
    Patricia Hopper (West Virginia) takes the reader to her childhood Ireland, complete with sights, smells, sounds, and people.
  • Marybelle
    Connie Kinsey (West Virginia) is haunted by the ghost of a little girl in her elementary school decades ago.
  • The Space in Between
    Susan Krakoff (Ireland) grapples with slivers of memories about her father.
  • Doubt Matters
    Jeremy Paden (Kentucky) explores the dark fires of doubt, losing faith, and an emerging new concept of…

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A VERY Special Special Call for Submissions: HeartWood: Getting to the Heart of the Matter

I am honored to be tapped as a nonfiction editor for the new HeartWood literary magazine out of West Virginia Wesleyan College. #WVWCMFA

Mary Carroll-Hackett: Poetry and Prose

Why is this one special special? 

Because in the company of an amazing group of people, this Call for Submissions is coming directly from me!

:-D

Allow me to introduce

HeartWood

an online literary journal in association with West Virginia Wesleyan’s Low-Residency MFA program, publishes twice yearly, in April and October. Our inaugural issue will go live April 2016.

HeartWood

General Submissions

We accept submissions year round through Submittable, and welcome previously unpublished poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction, from both established and emerging writers.

What We Want:

We are interested in writing that pushes into, dares to reveal, its own truth, that takes emotional risks, that gets to the heart of the matter.

Simultaneous submissions are fine, provided you notify us if the work is accepted elsewhere.

We also welcome queries from Appalachian artists (writers, visual artists, musicians, performers, folk artists, etc) interested in being included in our Appalachian Arts section.

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New Market for Creative Nonfiction: Longridge Review

Suzanne Farrell Smith

I’m admittedly biased in this: we get nicer when we learn more about each other. A quote that periodically circles the webworld: “Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle” (source debated). Creative/literary nonfiction (or “true stories well told,” as Creative Nonfiction exquisitely defines the genre) often invites readers to observe such a battle, identify an adversary (a debt, a disease, a conundrum, an idea, a thief, a prejudice, a loss, a question, an untenable situation, a meanie) cheer for a champion, and learn a few maneuvers to help us with our own troubles. I loved CNF when I was 13 and I love it now.

So to learn more about each other and get nicer, we need more venues for creative/literary nonfiction.

Through a mutual friend, I met Elizabeth Damewood Gaucher, a West Virginia writer now living in Vermont. Elizabeth’s creative and critical work has been widely published…

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Flash Fiction WINNER (There IS Another . . .) : “Not One Stone Upon Another” by Loren Eaton

It is with great excitement that I announce our second winner in the photo prompt flash fiction contest! Congratulations to Loren Eaton for his outstanding story, “Not One Stone Upon Another.”

I will confess, Loren writes a lot of things I don’t understand on the first read. But true to his style and my experience with it, this story snaps into place at the very end in a way that gives you chills and a kind of sudden epiphany that sends you right back to the first sentence to read it all over again, knowing what you know now.

Along with Rob Boone, Loren will receive a gift from Danforth Pewter and my eternal gratitude for sharing his gift with the world on this blog.

Clear your head, take a deep breath, and get ready for how the world ends. I give you Loren Eaton.

“Not One Stone Upon Another”| by Loren Eaton

The vista would’ve made Bosch cringe.

To the south, the smoke of Charleston ascended in a pillar up to heaven. To the north, the horizon writhed with borealis light. Cindered earth stretched west and east in an unbroken plain, the hills thrown down and the valleys thrust up, a zaffre-tinted hue coloring the blasted soil. But here—right here—a 21-acre plot in Sissonville sat untouched by the devastation, its grass green, a loop of road paved with unbroken black, a red-sided barn still standing.

Inside, a trio sat. They didn’t know Bosch from Beethoven or Bart Simpson. Two were deep in animated conversation, and the third was eating.

At least until a fourth joined them.

At the sound of the barn doors creaking open, Lula turned. “I believe we have been discovered.” She tried on a smile.

Tec raised an eyebrow, but continued chewing.

“No, not discovered, we’ve been busted,” Mat laughed.

The fourth figure Had No Name. You could tell by the way The Thing moved. The way light bent around It as though It dimpled the fabric of reality. The way the ribbon of grass upon which it had trod had gone gray.

“See?” Lula said. “That’s exactly what I was arguing. Linguistics is full of subtleties and contradictions. For instance, take—”

this is not the task with which you have been charged.

Had you been there, perhaps you could’ve described the voice. Had you been there, you might’ve said that it tore with the force of cyclonic winds or was as weighty as hadopelagic depths. Had you been there, though, you wouldn’t have been able to. Had you been there, you’d have focused on not going immediately and irrevocably insane.

Tec took another bite. Juices ran down his chin.

“Boss, come on, cut us a little slack.” Matt waved a hand expansively.

“There. Take that word,” Lula said. “‘Boss’ originally designated a protuberance some 700 heliocentric perambulations ago in the sub-continental archipelago of …” She trailed off, brow furrowing. “Rain. Clarified-suet comestibles. Barley and peat and ethane monoxide—”

the constitutional monarchy of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. i personally attended to its reappropriation. An anthracite corona tinged with cobalt bloomed around The Thing That Had No Name. Had you been there, you might’ve described It as seeming irritated and just the tiniest bit self-satisfied.

Tec rolled his eyes and spat a bit of gristle into the dust.

“Yes, England,” Lula continued. “But a few hundred solar circumnavigations later, in this particular supraaquatic land mass it acquired the meaning of … well, what you are.”

it is called the constitutional republic of the United States of America, with which you three were charged and thoroughly briefed. A tendril of smoke began to rise from a nearby bale of straw.

Lula glared. “I know we were. But no one ever explained that ‘boss’ could denote a hump and a—” Here a tangle of syllables rolled off her tongue, and had you been there, you would’ve found that your mouth couldn’t have replicated it. “—and, in that southernmost penal protectorate, a farmer.”

Stamping out the fire, Matt raised a warning eyebrow. “Cool story, brah, but what’s a farmer have to do with the price of tea in, uh, Comoros, no, that’s not right—”

A wind colder than any Arctic blast lashed the barn, whipping up dust motes that writhed in the light striping through board walls. Had you been there, you might said it sounded like a breath huffed out in annoyance. China. but Mathelyous is correct. you have yet to explain your failure to follow the edict ratified by a supermajority of the Harmonious Synarchy, its will be ever praised.

“Its will be ever praised,” the three echoed.

i await your clarification.

Outside, a street sign made a pained squealing, vexed by the vestiges of the wind.

Finally, Lula bowed her head, raised her palms, a gesture of supplication. “Understand, we proceeded according the plan—”

“The most right and true plan, don’t you know,” Matt added.

“We began at the three intercardinal cartographic zones and worked our way here—”

“But then it, like, went all pear shaped.”

“We spoke to one another about what we had seen.”

“For shizzle, boss, like art, civic works, commerce, communications, education.”

i fail to see the relevance.

Tec burped. Then he said, “Culture. Beauty. Creativity. Accomplishments.”

The Thing sighed. No rushing wind, no splitting earth, no kindled flame. Had you been there, you would’ve called it a sigh, plain and simple. they had those things in abundance and yet hardly seemed to acknowledge them.

Tec nodded. Then he held out what he was eating. “Drumstick. Tasty. Want some?”

no. a drumstick comes from the gallus gallus domesticus. which only has four toes.

Tec squinted at the end of the drumstick, lips moving as he counted. When he reached five, he said, “Oh.”

“I told you so,” Lula said.

“Totally grody,” Matt said.

“Shame to waste it,” Tec said.

a shame to waste all of it, The Thing With No Name said. Then It hastily added, but we fulfill whatsoever the Harmonious Synarchy decrees.

“And what has been decreed?” Lula asked.

a trans-galactic conveyance repository.

“You mean, like, an interstellar parking lot?” Matt asked.

yes, a parking lot.

At that, the trio made its way out of the barn. They didn’t look remotely human now. Tec clutched a fan of ribs as if for future consumption. But by the time they reached the road, he seemed to have thought better of it and tossed it aside. The cage of bone struck the sign and snagged on it for a moment. Had you been there, you might’ve described it as some macabre Christmas ornament. Then they fell. And the sign did too. And then the barn. And as the sky turned black as sackcloth, you would’ve been glad you were not there.

Perhaps it was a mercy that no one was.