Give Thanks for Good Reading!

essay writing

In the latest issue of Longridge Review (Fall 2017):

Victims or Others?
Gina Ferrara (New Orleans) remembers a colorful crew of men who play cards at her grandfather’s bar and clubhouse in the French Quarter. “Chicago Mike” always seems to have an assortment of random gifts on him. One day, Gina and her sister are the recipients of some of those gifts, and she finds herself asking herself questions about what it means to be involved in something you’re not even sure you understand.

How to Be on Time
Andy Harper (Illinois) weaves a narrative that goes to an unexpected place. When he finds his young adult self beset by unexpected anxiety, he is determined to follow the bread crumbs to its origin. The conclusion is shocking. This essay broke a couple of hearts at our editorial table, and is an excellent example of why we publish Longridge Review.

Sepia
Anne Muccino (Kansas City) reflects on the first time she repeated a term spoken inside her family and realized it wasn’t something said aloud to others, most importantly not to the people being labeled with that word. This is a poignant snapshot of a child’s dawning awareness that not everything said casually or even said warmly has a causal or warm effect on others.

Shooting Stars
Jonathan Sonnenberg (New York City) deftly tells us something about himself by writing about an influential teacher.  Mr. Bell likes to ask his students prickly questions. Have they ever been drunk? Tried pot? Cocaine? The class is pretty used to his provocations, until one afternoon a question sucks the air out of room. Mr. Bell is after more than discomfort. He has something he needs them to know.

A Bowl Full of Jelly
Victoria Waddle (Claremont) is devastated by her grandmother’s death, but learns how to conjure her presence in dreams. These visits help, some, but become increasingly dissatisfying as her grandmother never comes fully back to who she was in life. Eventually, the dream woman sends a message that makes it plain her visits are over. But will she ever truly not be there, somewhere?

Sentence Enhancers
Teige Weidner (Oregon) has a story about his childhood that will ring familiar to too many readers. He is bullied, a lot, and the abuse is taking a toll. No one seems to appreciate how bad things are for young Teige, but they are about to find out. After all, we all only have so much fuse, and his is about to burn down.

via #9, Fall 2017: 6 New Essays + Deb Farrell = Your Longridge Review

Ripping | Eclipse Flash Fiction

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There’s a ripping and it seems to come from around the sun.

The child’s words were clear and matter-of-fact.

“What . . . what did you just say?” I asked her. She looked up at me, her eyes placid.

“What did you hear?” she intoned.

I gazed back at her for a full 30 seconds. She never looked away. I wondered then if I had heard anything at all. But something was there. I was starting to think I should not have looked directly at her for so long.

It seemed maybe heard wasn’t right. It was more of an appearance. I saw the edge of a circle, ragged with blinding light fighting a stony obstruction that was trying to smother it, the painful saw-toothed edge of a migraine aura. I considered the stony thing might be my own skull.

Everything was both transport and trap. I could see nothing but bluish white-hot light, even when my eyes were closed. I stumbled away from the child and  found my way down the stairs using only the sense of touch, a nauseous lump firmly set in my upper throat. I found a telephone and called a friend for help. I was blind.

***

There’s a ripping and it seems to come from around the sun.

“What did you just say?” Jesse asked.

He handed me a cool washcloth. “And put this over your eyes, it will help. These auras don’t just go away at will, but they go eventually. Just try to relax and keep your eyes closed. You were mumbling about something ripping. Are you okay?”

I kept my face behind the washcloth as I said, “There is a little girl here in the office somewhere. I don’t know who she belongs to, we have to find her parents before we go. I don’t know why she’s here.”

He rested a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll look around, okay, but I don’t think anyone else is here. Your car is the only one in the parking lot this weekend. You’re working hard, too hard if you ask me. It can bring on these migraines. I’m going to drive you home so you can get some rest. I need you to rally for the eclipse viewing party on Monday. It’s going to be sick.”

Now I took down the cloth and labored to raise my eyelids so we could look at each other when I said, “I think I’m going to pass.”

###

Note: I wrote this bit as part of  friend Eric Douglas’ eclipse-themed story challenge. Please visit Books By Eric for more tales.

Some wise words of advice regarding memoir

“…I had to admit that I was often spending too much time telling stories about the past and remembering myself as the younger person I once was. I was not spending enough time thinking about what had really happened to me and the questions that were raised.”

We'll Be the Last Ones to Let You Down

doorway Your memoir needs to include the outside story as well as the inside story.

Photo Credit: Wiebke Flickr via Compfightcc

I’m prepping for my beginning memoir class at The Loft Literary Center (6-8 p.m. Wednesdays for six weeks, starting July 12), and I thought I’d share a handout I’m planning to use.

I excerpted some passages from “Let Me Think About That: The Memoirist as Ruminant,” by Joyce Dyer (The Writer’s Chronicle, September 2013, pp. 90-99). These passages highlight the importance of reflection in memoir. Memoir requires a duality: the story AND the reflection, often referred to as the outer story and the inner story. Memoir needs both to work. A memoir can be crafted from any story, even something that at the surface seems “small” or “quiet.”

Excerpts:

“We need material—particular and original material—to chew on. Without it, any thoughts we might have will be bare—hackneyed or…

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“It’s Not Mama” – Advent Ghosts 2016

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It’s Not Mama

 

When she was out of town, he slept with Jack..

An unexpected, steady thump. Had she made it home? Christmas Eve. Flipping on the light, he rolled over to see the last wag. His companion’s body went rigid, he lifted his head, his ears flat against the skull.

Beyond the window there was no car. No footprints. No one. Just the snow.

“Quiet, baby. It’s not Mama, yet.”

The animal stood, emitting a nearly silent howl, sound he felt in his stomach.

Jack leapt off the bed, his face to the wall. His trembling body was the only sound now.

###

This is an exactly 100-word flash fiction piece for a tradition of writing ghost stories on Christmas Eve. We acknowledge a sinful and hopeless world, and welcome the dawn in full awareness that Christmas day brings us light.

Advent Ghosts 100 Word Storytelling is put on by Loren Eaton at I Saw Lightning Fall. See other entries there.