audio of Pearl Walks Home

This is a link to the audio of "Pearl Walks Home"

Pearl Walks Home published in Arkana Magazine, Issue 5

The first chapter of the novel I am hopefully writing was published in Issue 5 of Arkana Magazine, and I couldn't be happier. 

You can read it here: https://arkanamag.org/2018/12/03/pearl-walks-home/

"When the Skeleton Meets the Stranger" published at The Furious Gazelle

My short story, "When the Skeleton Meets the Stranger" has been picked up by The Furious Gazelle.

The narrative is the second part to a previously published piece, "Who Are the Fantasy Girls?" (at BlazeVox).

The beginnings of each piece start in the true parts of my personal experience in NYC, but sway farther out into some other, darker circumstance, dictated by the main character.

publication

I have two pieces currently accepted and pending publication (and both are at really beautiful, online journals):

"Teeth" was picked up by The Furious Gazelle, and "Mermaid Show" was picked up by Leopardskin and Limes.

1 story + 1 poem picked up for publication

my short story "Teeth" was picked up for publication last Friday, and my poem "Mermaid Show" was picked up this morning. Both in upcoming issues of separate journals.

pretty awesome.

"Bunny Doesn't Want to Talk About It" published by The Outrider Review

my short story "Bunny Doesn't Want to Talk About It" (the one about me catching a Peeping Tom on the roof of my house when I was fourteen) is in the current issue of The Outrider Review!

http://www.scoutpublishingllc.com/

"Maps" picked up by the Mangrove Review

yesterday, I got word that my short story "Maps" has been selected for publication for The Mangrove Review. it is the first university literary journal that I have been included in, so it's pretty stellar.

this means that the five stories I have written so far for my manuscript have been picked up for publication, which is a mind blowing. 

"Bunny Doesn't Want to Talk About It" picked up for publication

my short story "Bunny Doesn't Want to Talk About It," which is about that one time I had that one peeping tom who climbed my roof, just got picked up by The Outrider Review. It'll be out in July.

"Squeeze Box" published by ragazine.cc

my short story "Squeeze Box" was just published in the March/April 2015 issue of ragazine.cc. it is a story about a stripper and her stage mom, and the speculative events that lead to the mother's death. this story may not be safe for work. 

"Before she was found beneath the interstate, her face half-missing, her body stripped clean, except for the fingers with their golden rings, Destiny’s mother stayed busy."

here is the link to "Squeeze Box"

"A Vivid and Dazzling Thing" and interview published in the Winter 2015 issue of MadHat Lit

the very, very beautiful winter 2015 issue of MadHat Lit went live today, and it includes my short story "A Vivid and Dazzling Thing" along with an interview.

The story and interview are here: MadHat Lit.

my short story "Squeeze Box" has been picked up for publication in an international journal

last Tuesday, I finally finished a short story that I've spent the last six months writing.  I sent it out to three places, all of which I really wanted to publish in, one particularly that is an international journal with a large readership.

within two hours of sending the submission, I received a letter from one of the fiction editors of the international journal. the letter said:

"Welding pays well, especially arc welding (I was a tool maker). Love the story but must see what my co-editor thinks. You probably have it out at a few places and it's going to get picked up fairly soon, so I want you to know I want this story and I think [my co-editor] will, too. Great opening."

I was so stoked. it was the first day of the semester, and I was 5 minutes from walking into a Comp I class that I had never met. we all introduced ourselves, and I told them about the letter, and how happy I was.

I wrote the editor back, and waited.

the following Thursday, my class returned, and one of the groups brought me a pink rose and a card that said congrats! and talked about how excited they were to work with me this semester.

I was blown away. the card and rose were so thoughtful, such a kind gesture, and it was from people I just met. I decided that even if I didn't get into the journal, I was still stoked: 

a stranger at a journal loved my story, and strangers in my class were kind enough to say congrats.

well, yesterday, during the same class, I received another letter from the editor. it said:  

"Dear Kristen: my co-editor agrees. This is a terrific short story and we'd like to use it in our next issue. let us know that it's still available, and send a brief (three or four line bio)."

so that's it. my short story, "Squeeze Box," is about to be published in an international journal. I'm blown away.

"A Vivid and Dazzling Thing" is published as a teaser in MADHat Drive-By Book Reviews

...and the fiction editor, Carol Reid, interviewed me about the story. 

I worked on that story for five years, starting at the end of October in Omaha, Nebraska, chain smoking someone else's hand-rolled cigarettes, wearing someone else's sailor hat. Man, was I miserable when I started that story.

That story made me miserable.

Tim and I had our first date because of that story.

Then when I finished it, I cried for hours. I was mourning the end of it.

Then it wasn't the end. I kept at it. I cut it to pieces. I changed Henry. I changed the heart.

I kind of can't believe it.
I really love this story. In my heart, I thought it would be one of those secret things. I can't believe it.

Here is a link to the story and interview: MadHat Drive-By Book Reviews 

"The Buzzkill" published by the Bicycle Review

My short story, "The Buzzkill," has just been published in issue no. 30 of the Bicycle Review.

"The Buzzkill" is about a few creeps, a subversive youth culture, a missing girl, and the horrible secret that no one is talking about.

It is the first story in the 140 plus page review, and can be read for free here. It is also available for 20 bucks in print too.

short story published

Sunday of last week, I found out that one of my short stories, titled "Pavement", is going to be published...
 myexcitementathavingastorypublishedisdifficulttodictate

with no face
       no eyes
       no hands
       or legs

that do the things they do.

short story experiment one: Tim's suicide in a dream.

Tim's dad had lived in the same run down row house for twenty years; no one knew if he rented it or if he owned it, but my brother, Nick, and I, after moving in, agreed that he must own it based on the condition of the place. Like most wood framed houses in Florida, it bowed and pulled in strange places; there were no floors, only exposed, damp plywood, and primer on the panelled walls, which faded into lighter shades of gold tar from the ceiling down.

The day after Tim and I got into an all out fight, which mostly centered on the fact that I would only wear bikinis to his basketball games, and I cheered too loud, which he felt seemed remarkably inauthentic, was the day that Tim disappeared. These are only the parts I can remember.

I woke up in the afternoon and went to his basketball game, wearing the same red bikini and cheering in the same way, but Tim was not there. I hung around for a while, getting quieter and chain smoking, as the bright white garden lights began to shut down one by one, and the sounds of the crowd began to fade, although I could still hear the singular sound of a steady drum on the court.

I walked home after dark. 

Tim's dad was sitting in the ragged recliner on the porch, the stuffing of which had long been pulled out by a dog that had long been dead. I sat next to Nick on the wooden swing, and we all shared a joint as Tim's dad talked on and on, and Nick kicked the swing up higher into the air, it's chains rattling and jarring at the top, then collapsing straight down to the rotting porch. I felt dizzy.

"Where's Tim?"

"He didn't come home."

"He didn't go to the game." 

"I know." Tim's dad always said I know.

"His phone is disconnected. When I call, it's a sales marketing line. It's a bad connection. It sounds like they're whispering."

"I know."

"Where is he?"

"I saw your mom today. She was complaining about the house."

"That's what she always does," Nick said.

"Where is he?"

"Your mom wants you two to get home."

Nick laughed.

"Have you talked to him?"

"Yeah." Tim's dad puffed on the joint.

"Where is he?"

"He's at a motel," Nick said.

"He called?"

"Yeah."

"Can I have the number?"

"Only if you say you'll end it and go home. You two aren't good for each other."

"We can't go home," Nick said.

"You don't have to go."

Nick stopped kicking. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

"Okay," I said.

He wrote the number on my hand and said that the motel was on the opposite side of town, but he wouldn't drive me.

It was late. People were coming over.

I needed to fix the breaks on my own car, so I didn't call.

People came over. My blonde, worn out cousins were there, drunk, chain smoking and leaning against my old Volkswagen. It was all laughing, all distraction. Everything was dark except for the Christmas lights in the windows, but the lights only illuminated the rebel flags that were nailed up to block out the light from the street, making everything around even more red, even more apparently wrong, out of place. I didn't care. 

On the outside, it was always dark. On the inside, I never knew what it was.

I never called; I don't know what happened. It was late; people came over. I woke up still in my bikini, covered in grease from the Volkswagen— its parts and pieces strewn around the plywood floors of the living room.

I tried to decipher the greasy number on my hand. I tried at least seven times. I walked out onto the porch, and squinting, I tried to focus on the shifting numbers.

My mom pulled into the driveway. Her small face was splotchy; she looked stricken. She looked grey. 

"What's wrong?"

"Everything."

"I can't call Tim. I can't read the number."

"It doesn't matter now."

Her jaw started to shake. She wouldn't look at me. 

"Tim shot himself last night."

"Why?"

"He didn't want to come home."

"You're making that up."

I woke up at 6a, and I started to think about working today. I thought about the things I could possibly teach; I thought about how I have conditioned myself to work through anything, and how everyone tells me it is just going to be harder, but I like when things are difficult. I don't like when my body breaks down because I force it to work anyway. I hold myself hostage, constantly, and I would rather do it to a body that isn't full of a baby. I forgot it was Saturday. I didn't go back to sleep. Neither did Tim.

Raymond Carver and the Nature of America’s Romance with Material Things.

As far as American authors go, Raymond Carver is hardly ever referenced beyond his influence over young writers, which could, very much, be seen as something terribly derogatory. However, the conversation of Carver’s work extends much farther than the exclusion of his universal significance and appeal.

Unfortunately for Carver, our culture does not take the art of poetry and short story writing very seriously, and he just so happened to only write in those two veins. As dead and remembered, he is revered by other authors for his dedication to these minimal arts, but it is these arts that reduced his readership and his authenticity as a serious writer because mostly, only other short story writers and poets read short story writers and poets.

Carver wrote a handful of books in his life, and one after his death. All of these books followed the minimalist structure—the idea of creating dramatically impacted brevity—the idea of Hemingway’s “Iceberg Theory” where only absolute and concrete details are visible on the surface; all the emotion, morals, thoughts and sentiment are hidden below the sea and must be inferred.

A lot of readers think that is lazy, allowing the reader to dictate the sentiments and feelings. It worked for Hemingway because Hemingway was an adventurer; his stories were about wild places and wild things and wild people that could handle their surroundings—

but this is not what Carver aimed to be. His stories revolve around the dissolution of the American dream. His constant question seems to be: what happens when you attain everything you’re taught to want? His themes did not circle around the actuality of segregation and the dissolution of the American Nuclear Family; his stories were dead set on the absolute impact of these negative American structures.

The problem, for Carver, was audience. He wrote and published between the 1960s-1980s, a time span when Americans did not want to readily accept the faults and shortcomings of the world they created.

We are a culture that thrives on the idea that if you throw enough money at a problem, the problem will go away, but when the problem still exists, we are faced with our inadequacies, and that is something we just have a difficult time believing.

The misfit we can accept: the misfit is a wanderer, the man in the black hat—he is the idea. But the actuality that the American Everyman is simply a wanton and fractured thing, full of fantasies and dreary beliefs, could never be true.

And keep in mind, Carver is a minimalist, which means that the sentiments around these actions are completely up to the reader—a reader that could not accept this reality.

And the reality is, we want the ones we can’t have. Two of his more popular, but impossible to find stories, “Neighbors” and “Are These Actual Miles?” maintain the theme of a world that is not so easily attained, and when the accruement of modern things have reached their peak, the characters are left facing their fractured relationships, relationships that center around marrying the wrong person, about searching for the fantasy, about cheating and leaving in order to find the next good thing.

Maybe if we could have been open to these realities—even in fiction—the constant up and down crises that have occurred from the 1980s until now could have been more steadily marked, more easily avoided. Maybe more of us could have married the right people, and not define our lives by the romance of the things we have collected but are still paying for, everyday, which is truly the ball and chain.