tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13213145614560598242024-03-13T10:01:52.380-07:00Matchbook Story (is on fire)Matchbook Story is a literary magazine that publishes one short short story in many, many matchbooks. Thou shalt not exceed 300 characters!KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-76134795434660375112012-03-01T20:23:00.010-08:002012-03-13T22:04:43.659-07:00Building Up SteamHey Pyros,<br /><br />A few announcements...<br /><br />* Matchbook Story will be hosting a literary salon/issue release at <a href="http://gabriellacafe.com/">Gabriella Cafe</a> on October 2nd. I realize that this is very advance notice, but Gabriella is small and its literary salons are popular, so make your reservation now. To see the cafe's lineup of other hosts, go <a href="http://www.downtownsantacruz.com/event-detail.php?id=2446&keywords=Literary_Salon_Series">here</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.cruzio.com/images/stories/jreviews/224_CafeGabriella_1240512876.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 533px; height: 400px;" src="http://www.cruzio.com/images/stories/jreviews/224_CafeGabriella_1240512876.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />* Matchbook Story now has a Twitter account, @matchbookstory. You will not find stupid little tweets about what I had for breakfast there. You will find useful announcements re: issue releases, distribution dates, etc. Also, it is my very serious intention to tweet each week's Pick-of-the-Week story. As matchbook stories run 300 characters and tweets are 140, the Pick-of-the-Week story will be serialized in three parts. This is a good thing as most winning stories come equipped with a beginning, middle and end, and should hold our attention throughout, right?<br /><br />* I've written a letter of interest to <a href="http://www.breworganic.com/">Seven Bridges Cooperative</a> asking them if they'd like to sponsor an issue. If they bite, I'd like to get the issue out before October. Either way, I'm always accepting submissions.<br /><br />* I'm slowly making my way through the backlog of last year's submissions that languished in my inbox while I was climbing the steep curve of dad-dom. Apologies to the writers that submitted so long ago and got nothing but crickets. I know how it feels. Just last week I received a rejection letter from McSweeney's for some ditty I sent, oh, 14 months ago. I suppose it stings less once you've completely forgotten your submission in the first place.<br /><br />Chugga-chugga-choo-choo!<br /><br />-kpKPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-71269823116586167102012-02-01T20:21:00.000-08:002012-02-05T19:48:59.277-08:00Baby Here, Issue No. 4 Coming...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-efGIbRqHnDs/TyojEwXBo0I/AAAAAAAAADI/DnK8OlO8N8A/s1600/9042284209939_ORIG.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-efGIbRqHnDs/TyojEwXBo0I/AAAAAAAAADI/DnK8OlO8N8A/s200/9042284209939_ORIG.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704410442626081602" /></a><br />Hello? Anybody out there?<br /><br />It's been awhile since I shot any sound waves into the ether. Nearly a year by the looks of my last post. In case you missed that one, it was all about still-warm placentas and visceral writing. I was an expectant father then. Now I'm a straight-up DAD.<br /><br />Of course, it's still plenty biological around here. The placenta, my wife's: we ate it. Not all at once, but in small, measured increments. A few hours after my daughter was born, a swift and methodical woman entered our house, sanitized our entire kitchen, and placed my wife's placenta inside a large dehydrator. She came back the following day, ground up the dried placenta, encapsulated it, and split. For the next month or so, my wife took a pill in the morning and one before bed. And I took one, once. Nothing happened, except this story.<br /><br />Shit. Piss. Spit-up. Snot. Whether you have kids or not, you know the deal. I won't bore you with the details, but, yes, these are the details of my life now. My oh-so-very domestic life. What I'm trying to say here is that the bar has been raised (by being lowered). The scatological is banal. You have to be a sharp, feisty, beautiful, blue-eyed baby girl to impress me now. So impress me.<br /><br />That's right: Matchbook Story is back and seeking good stories. I'm currently romancing the proprietor of a very romantic cafe in downtown Santa Cruz to sponsor issue no. 4. It appears <a href="http://www.downtownsantacruz.com/event-detail.php?id=2446&keywords=Literary_Salon_Series">Gabriella Cafe</a> is set to launch a Tuesday night literary salon which, when you do the math (candlelight dinner + authors reading their writing), equals Matchbook Story. So stay tuned, get writing, and make a Tuesday night reservation at Gabriella to get inspired. As usual--even if it is a year and a baby later--I'll keep you posted as things progress.KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-28716377033527248622011-03-21T14:33:00.001-07:002011-03-21T14:56:42.081-07:00Issue No. 4 postponed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://library.med.utah.edu/WebPath/jpeg2/PLAC031.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://library.med.utah.edu/WebPath/jpeg2/PLAC031.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Dear Matchbook Story Writers,<br /><br />First off, apologies to the writers who have recently submitted and have not received a timely response from me. This email will explain.<br /><br />Issue No. 4 has been postponed. When I first started Matchbook Story over a year ago, I aimed to publish four times a year. Between selecting a story, formatting the matchbook, and planning the release party, I quickly found the quarterly pace too demanding and reduced the publishing schedule to three times a year for 2011. Then I got pregnant, or, rather, my wife got pregnant, and, alas, the publishing schedule has changed once again.<br /><br />I wanted to get Issue No. 4 out sometime this month, but it just ain't gonna happen, friends. Last Wednesday night, our birthing class teacher brought a 2 hour-fresh placenta to class for show-'n-tell. She said, "I especially want the partners to see this. It tends to be a real wake-up call for you guys." Well, she was right. There's nothing like a large, meaty organ to snap you into focus (!!!!). I'll be a father soon... I mean, already.<br /><br />So, you see, between work, birthing classes, and impending parenthood, Matchbook Story is taking a brief hiatus. I AM STILL ACCEPTING SUBMISSIONS, and will still do my best to respond to them in 2-3 weeks. I don't know when I'll get Issue No. 4 together. The baby is due mid-May. I'm told I won't sleep much after that. I'm thinking Fall 2011 for Issue No. 4. I hear laughter in the background. Why are you laughing?<br /><br />Truth is, I still haven't found the story for Issue No. 4. yet. Some strong submissions have landed on my desk, but nothing has floored me, uncapped my head, or made me whisper, "Hot damn." I've hung my nose over a still-warm placenta, folks. There is no more goofing around. <br /><br />Of course, I'll let you all know when Issue No. 4 is published, when and where the release party will be, and any other pertinent info. I'm sorry if this message has been too "pertinent" for your taste. I felt it important to provide an explanation, however personal and detailed, so you knew that Matchbook Story was still around. Again, keep submitting, give me only the best, and stay tuned for Issue No. 4.<br /><br />Your committed editor,<br />-kpKPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-52654538871307544662011-02-21T15:01:00.000-08:002011-03-21T15:02:21.973-07:00Pick of the Week - January 2011A Waterfall<br /><br />A waterfall, radiant, pulsing with light, heavenly. I want to step through the frame and dive in. "Bottoms up." My aged friend breaks the spell. "Next round's you." The smell - ashtrays, beer, urinal mints - brings me fully back. I see my own face, among bottles, in the mirror behind the bar.<br /><br />--John Peck, Oakland, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Allergic<br /><br />There is something compelling about my beard. My fiancee scratches at it like the whiskers on a feline. “Why don’t we get a cat?” I say to her. “I’m allergic,” she says. Now I have a rash on my neck from her overstimulating of the follicles. “Let me see,” she says. “Are you allergic to something?”<br /><br />--Justin J. Murphy, Topanga, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Udders<br /><br />Three miles from her house is a dairy. In the morning the smell wakes her. After breakfast she is sick. By lunch, accustomed. By dinner, sore. After days, she goes to watch the cows, their bulging udders. How they produce again and again. How they keep going back for more. How she will not manage.<br /><br />--Marcus Corder, Spokane, WA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Things His Wife Did Not Know<br /><br />His grandchildren taught him to use a cell phone and internet. He wanted to hear her voice and arrange bingo dates at the senior center, where they had met. Email to write passionate letters during the afternoons that his wife napped. He was 84. He had given up on marriage, but not on love.<br /><br />--Lindsey Morrone, San Jose, CAKPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-39429362048206804462011-01-31T12:22:00.000-08:002011-02-01T12:33:21.605-08:00Less is More<a href="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/hs346.snc4/41592_334421016669_6546745_n.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: undefinedpx; height: undefinedpx;" src="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/hs346.snc4/41592_334421016669_6546745_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />This blog is not a platform for my own writing. That said, and in the interest of championing the 300-character short story form, I'm proud to announce that I recently won a fiction-to-film contest with my matchbook story, One Way Out.<div><br /></div><div>The contest was hosted by the Storymatic, a writing prompt/teaching tool/parlor game/toy that provides two sets of cards--one Characters, the other Situations--with which to generate stories. Submissions were judged by Chochkey Productions, an indie film company out of Bethlehem, PA, making movies, commercials and webcasts for the last handful of years. The rules were simple: use the Storymatic to write some sort of narrative (short story, script, novel excerpt, whatever), and the winning story will be made into a film. I submitted three matchbook stories. One Way Out won. </div><div><br /><a href="http://a2.twimg.com/profile_images/722503239/073009storymatic_SideD_bigger.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: undefinedpx; height: undefinedpx;" src="http://a2.twimg.com/profile_images/722503239/073009storymatic_SideD_bigger.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a></div><div>For the last year-plus, I've been using the Storymatic to write matchbook stories--lots of them!--to explore the limits, nay, the possibilities of 300-character narratives. On my own, I am grossly inept at generating new people and predicaments for each and every tale, but with the Storymatic, the characters and situations are endless. I always "play the hand I am dealt," blindly drawing two Character cards and two Situation cards to direct my story. Some stories come out flat, others cryptic or too reaching. But occasionally I hit pay dirt: the pieces click together, and, viola! a story. No matter the outcome, I love the challenge of "fitting" the Character/Situation cards into 300 little boxes (I use graph paper to compose my ditties). I now have nearly a 100 matchbook stories under my belt, one of which is presently being made into a movie (WTF?!).</div><div><br /></div><div>When Eric Leadbetter, mastermind of Chochkey Productions, called to tell me that I'd won, I hooted 'n hollered and then asked, "Are you serious?" In a fiction-to-film contest, I didn't think my 300'ers stood a chance against a short story or a script or any other form that would likely provide more imagery than 300 characters could muster. I told him so, but Eric disagreed: "We think there's a real gem here. You've told a story while suggesting an entire world behind it. We like that. It gives us some license to fill in the blanks." Ah-ha, I thought. The super-short, very-suggestive story form worked to my advantage. Eric confirmed: "We got a lot of submissions: short stories, vignettes, full-length scripts, treatments, novel excerpts... We like yours because it tells a story, but it doesn't tell us how it should look. We think we'd have a lot of fun fleshing out the bones of this story." "Sounds good to me!" I said. What's more, with a $25o prize, I became the most highly paid writer ever at nearly $1 per character! Who says you can't make it at this game?</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's my point: matchbook stories are stories: you can, and should, submit them anywhere. Of course, you should submit them first to Matchbook Story where they'll be understood and cherished more than anywhere else. There is room in the world for 300 characters. God knows more have been used for much less. For what it's worth, here's that story:</div><div><br /></div><div>One Way Out</div><div><br /></div><div>The hunter fell down the mine shaft. The miner found him. The hunter yelled up, "Help! I broke my leg!" The miner called down, "What's your name, boy?" It was his son's lover, JT. "Listen, JT. I have one condition. If you want out, you come out. What do you say?" The shot briefly lit the boy's face.</div><div><br /></div><div>-kp</div>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-8656257451403553822010-12-26T12:46:00.000-08:002010-12-26T12:53:36.310-08:00FIRESThe hottest stories from 2010...<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- font-family:Times;font-size:medium;color:transparent;"><span style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background- font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:12pt;color:transparent;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">To Light a Cigarette</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">They watch the BIC swirl down the icy creek, a stab of yellow bobbing with luminous truth. “</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">Matches</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">?” Sam asks, last farewell cigarette dangling, ready. Holt digs his pockets. “No.” Plan was to wrestle nic demons in the wilderness like Jesus. “How many miles back that liquor store?”</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Bruce Willey, Big Pine, CA</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">The Last Cigarette</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">As he finally caught a first dim glimpse of the cave's fabled wonders, Roger thought he'd earned a smoke for his travails. As he greedily put a cigarette to his lips, he tried to recall Evans' warning about the place. Too late, he realized it might have had something to do with </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">matches</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Seana Graham, Santa Cruz, CA</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">A Matchbook Memoir</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">The casino lighting was unkind. I tore a single </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">match</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> to light the cigarette that dangled from her mouth. Tiny words inside the matchbook cover caught my eye, and stayed with me as we stumbled inside her musty trailer. The story of a lonely man revealed in a matchbook. I hate people who smoke.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Kathleen Parvizi, Scotts Valley, CA</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">These Are My Prayers</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Lady Summit, balanced a cigarette at the edge of her crusted mouth. She had no idea how to regard the news the post had left earlier that morning. "I am your son" the letter read. She repeated it several times. Her lips barly tracing the words. Smoke filled the air as a </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">match</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> was struck. A whisper.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Carter Quick, Los Angeles, CA</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Almost Like Dad</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Robert </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">fires</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> a needle. The splinter stings, but Ava’s fear is worse. “It doesn’t hurt. I’ll keep it,” she begs, lakes pooling in her eyes. He blows on the needle and anchors into her finger. Ava yelps. “It’s out, love,” he soothes. She soaks his shirt with tears. Her enemy and her hero.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Lindsey Morrone, San Jose, CA</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Make a Wish</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">The fire started with one </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">match</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">, dropped casually, almost on accident. It took an hour for anyone to notice, and thirty minutes more for the fire engine to arrive. By then it was too late. You love fire. Happy birthday.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Katie Sparrow, Santa Cruz, CA</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Woman’s Revenge</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">"Got a light?" joked the spelunker, as sudden dark embraced them both. The teen he was guiding said, "One </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">match</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">," though she had two. She'd light one for him to fix his hardhat headlamp by. Then she'd shoot him, put it on her own head, and have a smoke. She said aloud in the dark, "I like that hat."</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--T.C. Marshall, Felton, CA</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">A Tight Space</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Planks above, dirt below. Elbows chaffed raw. Nails gone. I'd scratch with bone if I thought it'd help. Screaming for rescue, I can taste blood in my phlegm. There's barely room to move and it's dark but for the light of one </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">match</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">. Yes, oxygen dwindles, but as long as the flame's alive so am I.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Josh Barlas, Santa Cruz, CA</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Non de Fume</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Books and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">fire</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> don't mix with kids now that the smoking age has been turned to eleven. Skip had a short wait the fourth time around, sweating with his box of sulfur and dirty stories, full of anticipation that maybe, just maybe this may be the resolution to the whole darn saga. He went next to the bar.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Daren Commons, Portland, OR</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Little Girls’ Room</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Coughing noises will make up for the lack of pissing sounds coming from your stall. Pull the spoon and syringe from your panties and the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">matches</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> from you bra, toss the cotton ball when you’re done, return the cap to syringe, flush, and keep your eyes open while washing beside the fat-ankled lady.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Teesha Garfield, Topanga, CA</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">There’s Always Arson</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">The house was blown apart. Sir Bill and Lady Gloria were now domestic terrorists. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFF00;">Arson</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> the salve of the divorce—see!: flaming panties and ignited Dodgers box scores dancing in the dusk like fireflies. Adultery. “Well?” said Gloria. Bill kissed her one last time before the flames finished it all.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"></span><br /></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Joseph Mattson, Los Angeles, CA</span></span></span></div></div>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-1324703498738917922010-11-08T19:36:00.001-08:002010-11-11T12:53:31.165-08:00Matchbook Story Issue No. 3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_10X3ODgc9sg/TNjCrou5FYI/AAAAAAAAACw/HiR3iX1K4_M/s1600/PB072076.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_10X3ODgc9sg/TNjCrou5FYI/AAAAAAAAACw/HiR3iX1K4_M/s400/PB072076.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537389796776285570" /></a><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:medium;"><i>Susan McCloskey works at Bookshop Santa Cruz and is close to completing the licensing process for becoming a licensed Marriage & Family Therapist. She studied literature and creative writing at UCSC, before turning toward psychology. She believes in story, and says, "Matchbook Story was a welcomed reentry back to my own creative process."</i></span></div>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-38559153308649794632010-10-05T06:03:00.000-07:002010-10-05T06:05:37.465-07:00ISSUE NO. 3 SHORTLIST<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- font-family:Times;font-size:medium;color:transparent;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.1280125027988106" style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">DATING</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">The flowers are eccentric, but I like his honesty. On our second date we attempted sex, but Elvis Costello interrupted foreplay. Our spit has the sharp taste of Irish Cheddar. He is balding. There are flailing strands of hair that I’ll need to trim for him. At the drop of a hat. All in good time.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Dolores Meatyard, Suisun City, CA</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">A DENTIST’S DREAM</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">I hold slides up to light: still-lifes of yellow syringes, gums, and sharp, shiny metal. Tooth dust plumes. Machines moan. A young man looks in horror at a picture of my family in the country: white polos, white teeth, khakis, my kids, my wife. I make a joke about falling in love.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Will Vincent, Los Olivos, CA</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">JOB INTERVIEW</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">He said he’d tell me about the job over dinner. The plastic cup he handed me, “something for the road”. The crackle of gravel as we drove someplace. Where is the restaurant? Dizzy, numb, hot breath. Footsteps. A bright light. “Can I see her ID?” I blame myself. I can never tell my boyfriend.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Kathleen Parvizi, Scotts Valley, CA</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">HAPPY BIRTHDAY</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">A card. From you. No return address. Unexpected, late, and over-filled with cheap, dollar-store glitter crap leaving me, once again, hands full of hearts, vacuuming stars and angels from the doormat.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Heidi Alonzo, Watsonville, CA</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">__________</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">AFTER SALES</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">I ran sales for 22 years and the retirement party was unsettling. The day after, I bought a new bottle-blue BMW. White Ford sedans for fifty thousand miles every year damn near killed me.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Doug Crawford, Los Gatos, CA</span></span></div>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-2936487634176825492010-09-05T11:33:00.000-07:002010-09-05T11:35:37.624-07:00Pick of the Week Archive - August 2010<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- font-family:Times;font-size:medium;color:transparent;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.6388346664607525" style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Bayside: April 25</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">DEP permits ring the lot; dozers push sand mountains and breakwater boulders to the Bay. 'Take that!', said holiday homeowners thru legal channels. Must Have August Beach. Asphalt crumbs remind the waves how good Billingsgate Island was; they lick their chops at the new food being plated on shore.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Teresa Martin, Eastham, MA</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">----------</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">City Dog</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Farmers adopted the city dog and took him to the country in the back of a pick-up truck. Whenever he got the chance he stood on top of the cab to get as far away from the muddy ground as possible. He barked at his new owners: Take a shower, take a shower. He bared his teeth.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Christopher H., San Francisco, CA</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">----------</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">(Sorry, no story this week: I had to visit in-laws...)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">----------</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">A Dentist’s Dream</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Verdana;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">I hold slides up to light: still-lifes of yellow syringes, gums, and sharp, shiny metal. Tooth dust plumes. Machines moan. A young man looks in horror at a picture of my family in the country: white polos, white teeth, khakis, my kids, my wife. I make a joke about falling in love.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">--Will Vincent, Los Olivos, CA</span></span></div>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-1314144466537351422010-09-01T06:09:00.000-07:002010-10-05T06:19:58.996-07:00"Day Laborer Love" - the author responds...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_10X3ODgc9sg/TKskfvVgmiI/AAAAAAAAACo/QL5zHNurO5I/s1600/IssueNo2closeup.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_10X3ODgc9sg/TKskfvVgmiI/AAAAAAAAACo/QL5zHNurO5I/s400/IssueNo2closeup.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524549495601273378" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(204, 204, 204); line-height: 20px; font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:13px;">ONE: I wrote "Day Laborer Love" because relationships, all of them, have become almost totally subjected to and/or vassals of the systemic drive to accumulate wealth and power. How do you tell this story in 300 characters or less? A recent New York Times review of "AFTERSHOCK The Next Economy and America’s Future" by Robert B. Reich, provided rich examples that I would proffer to explain what I was trying to get at in my Matchbook short story. How do we survive living under different forms of neoliberal capitalism? Calling them "coping mechanisms, Reich wrote, "First, women joined the workforce, giving families a second income. Then husbands and wives put in longer shifts, creating a species of family called DINS — 'double income, no sex.'" Although I was not imagining "Americans" in general, I was writing of families who aren't even considered DINS because of the color of their skin and their income levels. The break up of the working class, the outsourcing of jobs and the lack of living wage employment, has transformed everyone into day laborers. Some may object to being labelled "day laborers" because they don't stand on street corners waiting or asking for work. Day laborers may work a few hours a day, maybe a week or two and even a whole month if they're lucky and survive on that. But they work two or even three jobs to survive. A day laborer is another name for a contingent worker, a contracted laborer, and a "consultant" that gets paid maybe more but still piecemeal and still maybe only for a few hours a day. A consultant, a contract employee is a day laborer regardless of the gilded concept or label you may prefer. And the soul is drained at work or work that barely pays for survival and all our relations suffer for it. The NYT review went on to remind us that as a result of DINS and other unfreedoms, we are sleeping 2-3 hours less per night than our parents in the 1960s. As a result new dependencies have emerged: sleeping pills, anti-depression meds. Americans spent an incredble $23.9 billion on sleep aids So we work more, make love less, sleep less, earn less, have less "free" time. How do we get out of this?</span>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-2226201900546791912010-08-01T13:32:00.000-07:002010-08-01T13:38:19.607-07:00"Day Laborer Love" -- a reader responds...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_10X3ODgc9sg/TFXbKO3QJwI/AAAAAAAAACY/V1J0mY5MKmU/s1600/Matchbook_Story-9.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_10X3ODgc9sg/TFXbKO3QJwI/AAAAAAAAACY/V1J0mY5MKmU/s400/Matchbook_Story-9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500543488737945346" /></a><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- font-family:Times;font-size:medium;color:transparent;"><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Between living and surviving, I believe many of us steal such precious moments when we can. To feel alive, looking for contact with another human being, even if that contact is only physical, even if it's just sharing some words or just a glance of the eyes in the streets. What touched me most about this little match story, as Arnoldo calls it, is the tenderness mixed in with the most absolute weariness of the person who is telling the story. I was deeply moved by it in spite of the story being only a few lines. I'm still trying to sort through it... What I feel is the absolute exhaustion of life between labour, the survival mode of my parents as migrants and so many family members and friends, refugees I struggled with, and the folks I struggle with now in Mexico. It speaks to me of our unglamourous lives where we steal moments to write our romances in these little gestures at times. These are the love stories of those of us who can't take our girl out to the fancy restaurant or plan a surprise weekend for our guy. We live our loves through our shared exhaustion, our shared histories, our shared alienation sometimes, and hopefully our shared struggles. Our ways of loving are a part of our identity. The love and tenderness that come through to me in this short story are so regular that they are powerful. Despite the rather crude words used to describe the sex and the woman's body, what I feel most is the tenderness... and an almost edgy desperation to connect in the midst of survival mode. What a tribute to someone to say that one worked just to see them! What a tribute given the absolute weight of what work is in the prevailing economic system and at what personal cost one works! Thanks Arnoldo. Still reflecting on this one...</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Mandeep Dhillon is a woman of East Indian descent, born and raised in Canada, and currently living in Mexico. She works as a social justice/community organizer, writer, and doctor, struggling in solidarity with indigenous communities in the movement for justice for migrants and refugees. She identifies most with anti-authoritarian movements to build popular power. </span></i></span><span style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); background- font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;color:transparent;"></span><br /><span style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 0); background- font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Times New Roman';font-size:12pt;color:transparent;"></span> </div>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-35399372364145741802010-07-31T15:35:00.000-07:002010-08-06T15:39:30.027-07:00Pick of the Week Archive - July 2010<div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Afer the War</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">She read him poems. Haikus on post-its. They were to-the-point, true and deep; what he deserved. Once done, she let the paper go in the breeze. Some would lift and leave with the wind. Others came back to her and stuck. It had been the same with his ashes. And over time, also their love.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">--Susan McCloskey, Santa Cruz, CA</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">__________</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">After Sales</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">I ran sales for 22 years, and the retirement party was unsettling. The day after, I bought a new bottle-blue BMW. White Ford sedans for fifty thousand miles every year damn near killed me.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">--Doug Crawford, Los Gatos, CA</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">__________</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Job Interview</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">He said he’d tell me about the job over dinner. The plastic cup he handed me, “something for the road”. The crackle of gravel as we drove someplace. Where is the restaurant? Dizzy, numb, hot breath. Footsteps. A bright light. “Can I see her ID?” I blame myself. I can never tell my boyfriend.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">--Kathleen Parvizi, Scotts Valley, CA</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">__________</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Happy Birthday</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">A card. From you. No return address. Unexpected, late, and over-filled with cheap, dollar-store glitter crap leaving me, once again, hands full of hearts, vacuuming stars and angels from the doormat.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">--Heidi Alonzo, Watsonville, CA</span></span></span></span></div>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-66028547769189034562010-07-09T12:13:00.000-07:002010-07-09T12:47:40.503-07:00ISSUE NO. 2 EXQUISITE CORPSES<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Here they are, the Matchbook Story Issue No. 2 Exquisite Corpses. For those of you who missed it, the following matchbook stories were written collectively (three words per person, then pass...) by the beer-swilling attendees of the Issue No. 2 release party. What a night it was! Many thanks to all who put pencil to paper. Some of you are true poets. Some of you should be locked up. Enjoy!</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">_______</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.6897637338843197" style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Kick the ball! echoes across the field. I laugh demonically. Too many touches! Turn your phone off. Some drunkard yelled, I love men and my wife! Beyond the veil, friendly carousing men. My achilles tendon! God, my feet found the ball. Ball to net. Just pass it... Goal! Goal! Goal! I love men.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span>_______</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Bird nest hot and brittle with remnants of hair entwined in its condition of hope. A blue egg teetered precariously, then, instead of falling, tipped back in. My hand reached up and </span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">crack!</span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"> My knuckles resounded against my head, a blended treat of yolk and fear. Fly, gravity can be found in hand.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span>_______</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Beautiful Santa Cruz red table top marked with a pint glass crescent ocean crashing. Run, fly, cry. What the fuck, oil is elsewhere. The night sky sucks my kiss. Then there was busted cloudy day. Marty McFly biffed but not gracefully. Opaline jet ebony gonna stay hard. It was marvelous!</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span>_______</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Pop a wheelie! So would I fuck that shit? She was beautiful until she died. Duckets for sicking an Easter basket full of flowers. Should have fucked her while she was alive </span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">until</span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"> she died. He was a happy jackass. What the hell is going on? Pointless Easter memories. Waking up would fumigate my soul.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span>_______</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Hello. How are my three children, A, B, and Sue? Kids in 3-D. The road goes on. Me? Slo-mo until the top blows up and hits the sky. Holy molé! Who? Me? What kind of aliens write this shit? Guys with purple teeth and gorgeous spiky chest hair. Why notice hip-hop? Listen. I think this tale begins now.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span>_______</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Brazilian bikini waxes on Orcas island make moms scream. The end rains all day. Why you ask below the belt, above the belt? What the fuck are we talking about? Women always ask whether the ends are sometimes shorter that the beginnings. I was cold as Christmas cake when I wrote my tropical tootsie.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span>_______</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">All of us feel for the pulse of darkness. Sensual desire burns slowly, deep in our souls and organs. Please keep the flame alive and fart on it. Then be in the moment. Smell it. Until she died ensconced in pine. Trade Lebron James. It’s optimism, right?</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "></span>_______</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">Zip it, lady! She reached down and zipped his luscious red lips. Kick the ball! - a ridiculous slogan for women’s jeans. It would be nice to see the point of this long story. However, I understand when people speak about me that they really want my soul. If I could only forget it all.</span></span></span></span></div></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">_______</span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- color:transparent;"><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">All work is gonna kill me. This egregious transgression slices my artery. I relax mostly by bathing with Alex. Got blood red ink and used it in a cleansing ritual. I called him Bottoms-up last evening. What do you hear when you call the wind? I hear a semi driver sleeping. I hear the roar of lions.</span></span></span></span></div>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-241234917994872052010-07-03T10:05:00.001-07:002010-07-03T10:10:58.500-07:00MATCHBOOK STORY - ISSUE NO. 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_10X3ODgc9sg/TC9u-d2yZ4I/AAAAAAAAABw/hOLby83s0cw/s1600/IssueNo2closeup.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_10X3ODgc9sg/TC9u-d2yZ4I/AAAAAAAAABw/hOLby83s0cw/s400/IssueNo2closeup.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489728490233292674" /></a><br /><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background- font-family:Times;font-size:medium;color:transparent;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.06543759838677943" style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">On “Day Laborer Love”</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">I think a lot about work. I think about all the many different forms of labor and how that labor is compensated. I think about the difference between cost and value, and how some of the most valuable things are the cheapest--food and clothing, for instance--and the least valuable things the most expensive--sports cars, furs, diamond rings--and how in the world it got that way. I think about how we compensate the people who produce these things, and how some of the best paid workers produce the least useful stuff and the worst paid workers produce the stuff we all need. I think about the relationship between time spent and money earned, and how some people spend very little time making lots of money while others spend lots of time making very little. I think about how we all ultimately work for the same reason, which is to be with the ones we love--to share a home with them, a meal together, a beer after work, a bed--but we don’t all get to enjoy these things equally because a bargain for some means long hours with low pay for others. And I think about how the world might be improved if we balanced these things out, how if everyone made a descent amount of money for a descent amount of work, then we’d all have a descent amount of free time to be with the ones we love. Maybe I’m naive, but I think about these things, and I wonder if other people think about them, too. I think they’re important, which is why I chose Arnoldo Garcia’s story for Issue No. 2.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">All writing is political, fiction included. The worst kind preaches, condescending to instruct. The best kind discusses, working to reveal. In fiction, the rule is the same: show, not tell. “Day Laborer Love” does a great job of this. It’s a highly political story that takes place in bed. All and more of the socioeconomic issues mentioned above are at play here, shining an entire way of life through the keyhole of the bedroom door. The story contains some strong language, to be sure, which will elicit objections to Garcia’s and, by editorial extension, my verbal depiction of the female body. That said, the narrator (assumed to be male) expresses an undeniable love and tenderness for his partner in the last two lines. All in all, I believe “Day Laborer Love” is really a love story--maybe the most real kind. It’s neither fairy tale nor tragedy nor melodrama. Love is work, and that is life.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;"><br /><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:Arial;font-size:11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#C0C0C0;">Arnoldo Garcia is a cultural worker and poet born in the mouth of the Rio Bravo/Rio Grande. He has worked as a migrant farmworker, janitor, courier, substitute teacher and, since 6th grade, as human rights organizer. He has published poetry, essays and short stories intermittently over the years. His last book, "XicKorea: rants, words & poems together" with Beth Ching and Miriam Ching Louie, was published in 2003. He works for the National Network for Immigrant and Refugee Rights in Oakland where he is the editor of their newsmagazine and heads up NNIRR's Immigrant Justice & Rights Program. He writes intensively on immigration policy, human rights and linking interior and border communities to dream together the changes the want and how to get them. He is currently finishing up a manuscript of poems and essays titled "La revolucion emplumada" that will come out before 2012.</span></span></div>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-76052621066181946652010-06-01T17:24:00.000-07:002010-06-04T10:56:13.177-07:00ISSUE NO. 2 RELEASE/READING JULY 1st AT SANTA CRUZ MOUNTAIN BREWING<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_10X3ODgc9sg/TAWnH3Hev1I/AAAAAAAAAAw/b61gRQ7xGn0/s1600/scm_small+copy+copy.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_10X3ODgc9sg/TAWnH3Hev1I/AAAAAAAAAAw/b61gRQ7xGn0/s320/scm_small+copy+copy.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477968275262324562" /></a><br />Hi All,<div><br /></div><div>The June 1st submission deadline for Issue No. 2 fast approaches. Get your best effort in by midnight tonight!</div><div><br /></div><div>The ISSUE NO. 2 release/reading party will be held at Santa Cruz Mountain Brewing on Thursday, July 1st, at 7 p.m. Get directions <a href="http://www.santacruzmountainbrewing.com/">here</a>, under the bottle cap "Join Us." A portion of the evenings proceeds will go to Matchbook Story, so drink up!</div><div><br /></div><div>The reading will feature the Matchbook Story shortlist winners as well as the one-and-only issue winner. Afterwards, we'll play a few rounds of 300-character Exquisite Corpse--an always hilarious and occasionally scatological exercise in group writing (read <a href="http://matchbookstory.blogspot.com/2010/03/collective-sub-conscious.html">this</a> from the Issue No. 1 release party if you don't believe me). After that, we'll just hang out. Maybe practice our air guitar solos. Pick each other's fleas...</div><div><br /></div><div>So pencil it in: July 1 - Issue No. 2 Matchbook Story release/reading party - 7 p.m. - Santa Cruz Mountain Brewing. That should fill the box.</div><div><br /></div><div>-kp</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-67846188391294368122010-06-01T09:35:00.000-07:002010-06-11T09:36:12.863-07:00ISSUE NO. 2 SHORTLIST WINNERS<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; "><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">THE NEW WIDOW</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">She awoke, her husband's empty space on the bed a bitter reminder of their dispute in the night. In the kitchen, the liquor cabinet hung ajar, the bottles inside knocked carelessly over. She looked out a window, and the air rang with anguish as the new widow saw the overturned tractor outside.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">--Mark Walsh, Santa Cruz, CA</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">DELIVERY</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">One quarter mile each way, six days a week, she walks to the mailbox. Following her, along the gravel road, a dog, large, brindled, and old. The postal service wants to deliver mail one less day each week. She wonders what she will do on the day of no delivery. The dog just follows behind her.</span></span><br /><br /></span></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">--Dana Hoeschen, Pepin, WI</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">SMILEY FACED OBSESSION</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">Coffee. Login. Status Available. Six smiley faces. No KPM. Laundry, dog poo, errands, pick up kids. Move laptop to counter. View contacts. No KPM. Prep dinner. Hide screen. Hot bath. Chenille robe. Unhide screen. Refresh. KPM…There you are! Touch his initials. Status Invisible. Shut down. Goodnight.</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">--Kathleen Parvizi, Scotts Valley, CA</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">SHOPPING</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">Mortuary called. Mom's ready for pick-up. He hands me a shopping bag and I write a check. Outside the sun is bright, the sidewalk slick from a recent rain. I slip, fall, reach out to take hold of the cardboard box before it gets damp. Shopping was my mother's favorite pastime. We used to argue a lot.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">--Manjula Stokes, Santa Cruz, CA</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">NIGHTMARE</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">Last night I dreamed I ate a giant marshmallow. When I woke up, the pillow was gone.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">--Keith Fisher, Marina del Rey, CA</span></span></div></span>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-16841977544545988622010-05-31T10:38:00.000-07:002010-06-04T10:42:37.091-07:00Pick of the Week Archive - May 2010<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Times New Roman', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">May 7<br /><br /></span></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">FUTBOL<br /><br /></span></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">She watched the men hassle the American whose painted toenails were dirty from the street. "Leave her alone." Bhai let her burka fly open. Beneath it, flowered pajamas and slippers. She kicked a coconut, a cap. All she wanted to do was play futbol. "Either wear a burka, or don't," one man yelled.</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">--Manjula Stokes, Santa Cruz, CA</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">May 14</span></span></div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">IN TRUST</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">He fingered the parcel in his waist pocket, waiting her out. Something about the neighbor cat, and the tea kettle, drew her away like a siren. He eased open the bureau and nestled the paper package in folds of linen, grunting bemusement at her shouted story. He heard cups clinking faintly and smiled.</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">--Jeff Eberly, Los Angeles, CA<br /></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">May 21</span></span><br /><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">A MATCHBOOK MEMOIR</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">The casino lighting was unkind. I tore a single match to light the cigarette that dangled from her mouth. Tiny words inside the matchbook cover caught my eye, and stayed with me as we stumbled inside her musty trailer. The story of a lonely man revealed in a matchbook. I hate people who smoke.</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">--Kathleen Parvizi, Scotts Valley CA</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">May 28</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">YOUNG ST.</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">He found her address on the internet, bought a road atlas and drove. In Utah, he got a haircut--likely his worst ever--and asked where Young St. was. Back then, they agreed to have it. When she came out slow, he up and ran. Now, a mile more, the sign says ROAD CLOSED. How much snow buries that road?</span></span></div></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">--Decker Marshall, Charlottesville, VA</span></span></div></span>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-89151535826649486792010-05-21T12:14:00.000-07:002010-05-21T12:20:46.510-07:00ISSUE NO. 1 AUTHOR BRUCE WILLEY RESPONDS<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Like all good and not-so-good works of literary fiction, I wrote “To Light a Cigarette” on a whim and a prayer. Though I’ve long given up praying (or smoking for that matter), I still hold tightly to whim. It’s how I make sense of mine (and yours—mostly yours, come to think of it) existence on this fine but short term on earth. So when the call went out for submissions to <i>Matchbook Stor</i><span style="font-style:normal">y, I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t take my contribution very seriously. I merely wanted the editor, Mr. Kyle Petersen, to know that I’d clicked on his website. A hello of sorts and a simple validation of his project rolled into one friendly little story. I’d heard nothing of this project before. In fact, brilliant and obvious as the idea of printing a lit journal on a matchbook is, I thought he was just passing on a link despite the fact that I’d known the editor to possess routine brilliance over fireside chats and his own work.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I may have mentioned nervously at the Poet & Patriot reading, I’m a bona fide gas bag. I like to write long, stretch-and-pull thick paragraphs onto the page at my own peril. My favorite, albeit rare, words out of an editor’s mouth are, “take as many words as needed to get the story told.” Short form fiction, flash fiction, or whatever you want to call it, doesn’t really appeal to me. Too many years spent writing music and events page blurbs for the <i>Good Times</i> and <i>Metro Santa Cruz</i> make short shorts seem a bit sexy. Since a lot of people seem to think writing is a craft, I might as well go out on a limb and use a metaphor: I have far more patience for making rough-hewn tables than cute little jewelry boxes, but not enough patience for a whole house. Journalism and long-form non-fiction seems to fit my wandering head and feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So I banged out a 300-word story about two fellows on a backpacking trip who lose a lighter while suffering in the throes of a nicotine fit. Sort of an updated version of London’s “To Light a Fire” without the wolves, dogsleds, or the Yukon. I set the story somewhere in the backcountry of the High Sierra near my hometown of Bishop. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But to my dismay, I realized I’d not read the instructions carefully enough. I felt like I was putting together a cheap piece of Ikea furniture where you get to the end missing some Swedish screws and Nordic do-dads. <i>Oh, 300 characters. Bastards</i><span style="font-style:normal">. Even 200 words into it I’d begun to wonder what kind of matches Mr. Petersen intended on using. Those long fireplace matches for the pyrophobic?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I also knew the editor as a cheap but generous man; wooden matches and a big box wouldn’t fit his budget-minded literary project. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, with a chopping axe worthy of my amateur woodsmen characters, I cut the story down to size, liberating adjectives, nouns, and verbs from captivity in one fell swooping thud and… submitted it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When Mr. Petersen informed me a few weeks later that my submission was being considered for publication, my first thought was pity. I figured he’d gotten two or three submissions total, one of which must have been about vampires, the other a sci-fi tale concerning mutating viruses—not that there’s anything wrong with that. Mine wasn’t better, it just fit the theme of a matchbook with its underhanded critique of modern technology—the lost and wet lighter. Petersen, after all, is a manual typewriter man; plop him down somewhere between 1949 and 1962, and he wouldn’t know he’d gone back in time. Admittedly, I was playing to the editor’s aesthetics (and mine, too, since we probably share a commonality in that department minus the typers). But, again, I was only to sending off a simple missive to demonstrate that I care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That’s the back story on the story, all of which is a bit absurd given this amount of words to write about a story that has so few. But the editor wanted me to respond, in part, to his thoughtful, dare I say, elongated, analysis. He was thoroughly schooled in the mid-nineties lit crit craze of signs & signifiers, and he knows his way around a deconstruction site. And unlike any lit journal I’ve ever heard of, he’s actually paying me $25 to write a response to his careful, erudite theory, so I’d better earn my keep. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mr. Petersen is mostly right on, though I didn’t give the story nearly the same thought as he did. It makes me blush to think he spent so many brain cells on it while pumping his fingers around words like “metafiction” and the like. Let’s just say having your story torn limb from limb then put back together again is a rare reward. It makes the writing life seem worth it for a few days more. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A story containing only 300 characters forces the reader to fill in a lot of narrative gaps. Big, canyon-like holes make the reader a participant in the process, and what isn’t said explicitly in the story (absence vs. presence) becomes more important than what is said. I guess the trick to writing this damn short is to anticipate the reader’s imagination and just nudge them in the right direction with a few precious details and a tad bit of mumbling narrative so they don’t get completely lost. This means, without sounding trite (but still managing to do so anyway), that the miniscule short story is and has to be wholly open to interpretation. For that, Mr. Petersen is well within his lofty bounds. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I do have one beef to air with his otherwise astute interpretation, and that concerns not whether mine is a story or not, but the narrative itself. Mr. Petersen says he thinks the characters quit smoking. That’s wishful thinking. This would be, in essence, a happy ending given that cigarettes slowly strangle you to death. The very reason the characters try to quit their habit in the wilderness is because they don’t possess enough willpower to do it in the lowlands with handy access to their addiction. And there’s the matter of the last cigarette that is left defiantly and temptingly un-smoked. As any smoker knows, the lack of atonement in the ritualistic last smoke means he can postpone quitting until the conditions are more perfect—or failing that, it provides another excuse to go on smoking another day. You can’t say goodbye to a bad habit until you’re allowed to wave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Instead, I imagine they hightail it out of the woods. Not only do they buy another pack, but a lighter, too. And as one of them pays the cashier, the other has the foresight and wisdom to say, “Do you think I could get some matches?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yes, this is likely what happens. But that’s not much of a story, is it?</p> <!--EndFragment-->KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-14255362651344092732010-04-30T12:24:00.000-07:002010-04-30T12:27:09.358-07:00Pick of the Week Archive - April 2010<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; "><div style="margin-top: 6px; margin-right: 6px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 6px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(0, 0, 0); min-height: 1100px; counter-reset: __goog_page__ 0; line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">March 26<br /></span></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">DELIVERY</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">One quarter mile each way, six days a week, she walks to the mailbox. Following her, along the gravel road, a dog, large, brindled, and old. The postal service wants to deliver mail one less day each week. She wonders what she will do on the day of no delivery. The dog just follows behind her.</span></span><br /><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">--Dana Hoeschen, Pepin, WI<br /><br /></span></span><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">April 2</span></span></div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">FOR MY BROTHER<br /></span></span><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">You started clenched at the far end of the hall and landed with your head through the plate-glass window on the bedroom door. A fussy silence followed. The babies choked on their hush. You said: "I'm gonna be dead meat." What was it that set you down that sticky runway, a wanted and furious arrow?</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">--Melina Rutter, Spokane WA</span></span></div><br /></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">April 9</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">SMILEY FACED OBSESSION</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">Coffee. Login. Status Available. Six smiley faces. No KPM. Laundry, dog poo, errands, pick up kids. Move laptop to counter. View contacts. No KPM. Prep dinner. Hide screen. Hot bath. Chenille robe. Unhide screen. Refresh. KPM…There you are! Touch his initials. Status Invisible. Shut down. Goodnight.</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">--Kathleen Parvizi, Scotts Valley, CA</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">April 16</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">SHOPPING</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">Mortuary called. Mom's ready for pick-up. He hands me a shopping bag and I write a check. Outside the sun is bright, the sidewalk slick from a recent rain. I slip, fall, reach out to take hold of the cardboard box before it gets damp. Shopping was my mother's favorite pastime. We used to argue a lot.</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">--Manjula Stokes, Santa Cruz, CA</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">April 23</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">NIGHTMARE</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">Last night I dreamed I ate a giant marshmallow. When I woke up, the pillow was gone.</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">--Keith Fisher, Marina del Rey, CA</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">April 30</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">THE NEW WIDOW</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">She awoke, her husband's empty space on the bed a bitter reminder of their dispute in the night. In the kitchen, the liquor cabinet hung ajar, the bottles inside knocked carelessly over. She looked out a window, and the air rang with anguish as the new widow saw the overturned tractor outside.</span></span></div><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman';">--Mark Walsh, Santa Cruz, CA</span></span></div></div></div></span>KPhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05670316528899398147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-89898219765727740692010-03-26T10:46:00.000-07:002010-03-26T12:16:30.964-07:00COLLECTIVE SUBCONSCIOUSThe following matchbook stories were written collectively (three words per person) at the Issue No. 1 release party. What more can be said? They speak for themselves.<br /><br />__________<br /><br />So then Jake pointed to the dart board and threw up on his supposed date, only to realize she had fallen upon someone elses. Dizzy and confused, she slid over: thud. The smell oozed across the felt. I only wished she could play along with my stoic act and pull some party ass with cue stick and 8 ball.<br /><br />__________<br /><br />In your britches wheat scratches your nuts like a fiery STD. What have we got here? A pocket full of bread crumbs? Feed the birds into long life and on-again-off-again pleasantries filter through urinalysis. Dirtier than suspected, the birds crawl beneath wet urinals, kneading my doughnuts into crumbs.<br /><br />__________<br /><br />One rainy day started early when Billy Jean pulled on her dog's leash. Lucy's tail wagged hard, knocking loose a filling in the skull's mouth. How dare you! College was just lost without a trace! Wet against my cheek were the gums and tongues of lands lost. Lucy knew how much her father loved the sand tears.<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Darth Vader's shoes are genuine tonton. You wouldn't know they're from Payless. His dashing mind is lost in his choice of armor and words: a man-machine. What matters is his sword. And his pantaloons, his mother said. "Fuck pantaloons! Give me a light saber." He quickly grabbed his glow stick and screamed.<br /><br />__________<br /><br />The box opened with a red fox monologue about your silky scarf covered in money. I couldn't afford anything else. Emotionally, I'm broke. Intellectually, I'm rich. Physically, I rock, drinking only beer. Under the scarf: Who me now? Scram fox, scram! Eat a clam. My spirit animal? Needs to be a sea cucumber.<br /><br />__________<br /><br />God My Feet<br /><br />Please allow me another house plant. My jade died. What's the point? Sometimes you just can't do it!!! I want a puppy instead. Plants require music and sweet nothings. God my feet. Plant my orchid, it needs nourishment. God my feet. Fungus grows incessantly. Fills my house. Who needs a bunion licker anyway?<br /><br />__________<br /><br />"What the fuck," was what came in through the palindromic sigh-sound echoing down the elevator shaft. Ellen? Should I jump? "Only if you have the balls." Live, love, laugh, and take a big shit. Ah sweet relief. He decided that love is the answer to suicidal crap. Uber balls! He climbed up and pushed her off! Ah...<br /><br />__________<br /><br />A bird once stood amongst bears, twittered in the treetops, unfettered, lost in revelry. The peacock presents -wasted on reds, shitty weed- and then it realized time was passing too slowly. Time for hyperdrive over the freeway and got stopped. Superbowl halftime show distracts me from myself during it all.<br /><br />__________<br /><br />They stopped by, wishing they hadn't. Blood dripped down her unwilling thigh. Where are my eyeshades, she mumbled, squinting. They're all the way down the street. What should we clean up first? She started looking for the first mess they started. But of course she's feeling fresh.<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Sunday Morn<br /><br />Eventually, glass drinks drinker omnivorously with hands, feet, and long straws, drawn from deep pools, and end up floating weightlessly down the shadow boxin'. What the fuck? Making less progress, I fell over. Into the depths, darkness enveloped me, cold, vacant, pearlescent, streaming: a song. Do this in memory of me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-26206137899537753422010-03-26T10:21:00.000-07:002010-03-26T10:45:35.809-07:00Matchbook Story ISSUE NO. 1<span style="font-weight:bold;">TO LIGHT A CIGARETTE</span><br /><br />They watch the BIC swirl down the icy creek, a stab of yellow bobbing with luminous truth. "Matches?" Sam asks, last farewell cigarette dangling, ready. Holt digs his pockets. "No." Plan was to wrestle nic demons in the wilderness like Jesus. "How many miles back that liquor store?"<br /><br />--Bruce Willey, Big Pine, CA<br /><br />________________________________________________<br /><br />The first thing that struck me about Bruce's story was that it was complete. It contained all the elements of conventional narrative. We have, in the very first sentence, the essentials of exposition: the characters, setting, and foreshadowing of conflict: the icy creek tells you that the characters are outside in the wilderness; and the BIC lighter swirling down the icy creek warns you that the characters have just lost something essential to being in the wilderness, namely fire, warmth. Next, we have rising action, or the moment at which the protagonist's internal conflict is introduced and complicated by secondary, external conflicts. The internal conflict here is the paradox of addiction, smoking a last farewell cigarette in order to stop smoking, and Bruce deftly captures this state of limbo with the juxtaposed words, "dangling, ready." Soon after, in traditional narrative sequence, we have the climax--"No."--which marks the turning point for the protagonist. Sam's dilemma has gone from bad to worse: he (or she) is stuck in the suspended animation of quitting, of not yet having had his last cigarette. The falling action, or the moment where the conflict between the protagonist and antagonist unravels, is likewise suspended in the very first word of the next sentence, "Plan." The plan "was to wrestle nic demons in the wilderness like Jesus," and this plan is still possible if Sam foregoes his pre- plan to smoke a last farewell cigarette. But the denouement, or conclusion, renders tragedy. When Sam asks, "How many miles back that liquor store?" he falls to his antagonist, pulled by his addiction in the opposite direction of where he planned to quit smoking, indeed, desiring to return to the supply store of his very dilemma. This last line--the way it echoes hauntingly back into the story and then reverberates outwardly into Sam's near future--makes this story a story in its ability to continue off the page as well as to describe the universal condition of all aspiring quitters.<br /><br />Of course, for those of you here already familiar with the conventions of narrative, this is only so much Creative Writing 101. But Bruce has written more than a complete story, which is why his was chosen for the inaugural issue. At the risk of paying myself a backdoor compliment, I can think of no better story to print for the first issue of Matchbook Story than a story which calls the whole enterprise into question. Whether he knows it or not, or whether he'll cop to it, Bruce has written a metafiction--a story about writing stories--which is signaled here by the self-referential title, To Light a Cigarette, headlining, mind you, a story intended for the inside a matchbook. What are matches for? To light a cigarette, answered most literally. But here, matches are also literally for telling a story. So, answering the question again, What are matches for? and answering, To tell a story, Willey's title makes cigarette smoking synonymous with short story writing. The protagonist, who can now be thought of as a writer (maybe not Willey himself, but his bio did mention something about being a mountaineer), enters the wilderness to kick his cigarette habit. What is the wilderness? The wilderness is this new, unexplored form--a story in 300 characters--and like the backpacker-protagonist required by the wilderness to reduce his everyday needs into the confines of a pack, the writer, too, is required by this new form to write a short story in less space. The protagonist's addiction to cigarettes is the writer's addiction to average short story length. The loss of the BIC lighter is the loss of technology--call it the laptop, perhaps; or built-in spell check--with which to write, or light, this story. The absence of matches is the absolute inability to light the cigarette, or to enjoy the civilized leisure of short story writing. As the cigarette is the delivery mechanism of pleasure-producing nicotine, the story is the delivery mechanism of pleasure-producing truth, of that yes! moment driven by our desire to find out, unveil, affirm, or to know. The plan, then, to wrestle nic demons in the wilderness like Jesus, is the writer's plan to wrestle a moment of truth out of this new, very short form, to see if he can go without the thing that produced pleasure before and still come away happy. But then the protagonist-writer asks, "How far back that liquor store?," doubting his ability to write a successful story in the 300-character wilderness, and, in turn, asking to retreat to the modern convenience stores of conventional short story writing. The story ends there--we don't actually see Sam and Holt head back to town or further up the trail--and this is as it should be. If, in the end, Sam marched confidently into the wilderness without his crutch, the writer would be claiming his success at this new form, cigarette/short story be damned! If, on the other hand, Sam tucked tail for the shelter of civilization, the writer would be indicating his failure to enter the wilderness. But we see neither and, so, we get to decide. I, for one, think Sam hiked on and kicked the habit. Indeed, I believe Willey has blazed a trail.<span style="font-style:italic;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-85199764409053802462010-03-02T18:25:00.000-08:002010-04-05T17:45:01.312-07:00Matchbook Story - Issue No. 1 ShortlistFoundations<br /><br />How could he have known that as a drugged up satanic metalhead, killing & burying a cat in a building site one night so long ago with friends he’s since lost track of, that now, after 13 years as a financial advisor, to give his kids more room, he would be buying the house that stood on its grave.<br /><br />--Julian Baker, London, UK<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Hiking Out of South Feather<br /><br />At Post Creek we 3 shouldered our boats and climbed out. The others eased downstream 1 mile and got a night in the starlight suite with inflated pillows, maybe a space blanket. Lessons of the day: don't be the leader of the clown show, and know when to thumb a ride with bear hunters from Willows.<br /><br />--Daren Commons, Santa Cruz, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Dr. Strangelust and Mr. Love<br /><br />My neighbor's cat is passed out on the ugly, orange couch my ex-girlfriend suggested I buy for $25. (Reduced to $20, after I bargained with the guy at the thrift store.) My neighbor's cat got into a patch of burrs the other day. I picked each burr out, one by one, while he purred and loved me.<br /><br />--Sam Edmonds, Spokane, WA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Central Locale<br /><br />They left me at the place of impact. With the electrons swirling around the center, she yelled back "Must you always be so still when we crash."<br /><br />--Fish Fishtofferson, Alameda, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />For Your Grandmother<br /><br />Your grandmother does not like Calvino. She is letting you know this right now. “You’ve read Calvino?” you ask, frankly amazed. She has. In fact, unbeknownst to you, she started reading your copy while you were sitting right there at the kitchen table, line editing a story.<br /><br />--Megan Fitzgerald, Santa Cruz, CA<br />__________<br /><br />Soon You Lose Touch With Both<br /><br />His beautiful wife killed the year before in SUV rollover, your friend says he's doing all right, but he can't relax. Talking to your wife, a dark fresh young Colombiana, your friend gives her his full attention. Your wife's friend is put off, she has enough problems with her boyfriend. She turns.<br /><br />--Sesshu Foster, Alhambra, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />The Last Cigarette<br /><br />As he finally caught a first dim glimpse of the cave's fabled wonders, Roger thought he'd earned a smoke for his travails. As he greedily put a cigarette to his lips, he tried to recall Evans' warning about the place. Too late, he realized it might have had something to do with matches.<br /><br />--Seana Graham, Santa Cruz, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Here's t' You<br /><br />That bottle told the cops. I said she’d be back, but they’d found the body and then me, drinking her bubbly. What I’d shot was shot already, though, before the gun, back when she said, “Y’re dead’n’gone f’ me” and raised a fluted glass with that sharp-ass smile beneath the eyes I’d fallen into once.<br /><br />--T.C. Marshall, Felton, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Train Tracks<br /><br />I could kill that bloody bird. I imagined tying it up and leaving it by the cat flap just like a villain trussing up a heroine and leaving her on the train tracks. When I returned I found it in three neat pieces. I stared at the cat flap. I was standing by the tracks. There was blood on my hands.<br /><br />--Richard Ross, San Francisco, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Hold On<br /><br />Everyone has to hold on to something during the apocalypse. We need it, to keep us human. We have lost so much, scattered across the land. And why not? There are so many parts to choose from.<br /><br />--Katie Sparrow, Santa Cruz, CAUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-26640014586338180632010-02-12T11:32:00.000-08:002010-02-18T16:53:38.021-08:00International Distribution BluesIt all started out with an offer to send some matchbooks "across the pond." Back in mid-January, Julian Baker--Matchbook Story's first international registrant and first "Pick of the Week" winner--kindly posted a glowing review of MBS on his excellent blog, Sybawrite (sybawrite.wordpress.com). Wanting to thank him and (let's be honest here) extend MBS's readership, I proposed sending some matchbooks to England. No problem, right? Wrong. My journey into the jungles of international haz mat shipping began with the United States Postal Service. I found this in section 344.21 of their Domestic Mailing Manual:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />"Strike–anywhere matches are nonmailable in international mail and domestic mail. Safety matches (book, card, or strike–on–box) are nonmailable in international and domestic mail via air transportation."</span><br /><br />OK, I thought: No USPS; I'll try UPS. I tracked down their AIR FREIGHT TERMS AND CONDITIONS OF CONTRACT (“TERMS”) FOR UPS AIR FREIGHT SERVICES IN THE UNITED STATES, CANADA, AND INTERNATIONAL and found their No-No list, which didn't mention safety matches, but listed some other awfully unsavory characters. Some make sense, others don't (to me, anyway). These interested me the most: <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">-Corpses or cremated or disinterred remains<br />-Live animals (including birds, fish, reptiles, or insects), except mice, rats, toads, frogs or leeches destined to or originating from medical laboratories within the United States or Canada.<br />-Stringed instruments including, but not limited to, violins, violas, cellos, bass violins, guitars, mandolins, or banjos (unless strings are removed prior to shipment).<br />-Fissile radioactive materials.<br />-Nursery stock or plants<br />-Fish meal.<br />-Cosmetics.<br />-Jewelry.<br />-Furs.</span><br /><br />Wow. I found the phone number for UPS's Hazardous Materials Support Center (1-800-554-9964, in case you need it) to ask about my matchbooks. The operator informed me that international law prohibits everyone (USPS, UPS, FedEx, et. al.) from shipping matchbooks via air transportation. "So the only way to get these matchbooks to England is on a boat?" I asked. <br /><br />"Try freight forwarding," she said.<br /><br />"What's that?" I said.<br /><br />"Look in your phone book," she said, and hung up.<br /><br />A Freight Forwarder, according to Wikipedia, is "a third party logistics provider [that], as a non asset-based provider, dispatches shipments via asset-based carriers or otherwise arranges space for those shipments. Carrier types include waterborne vessels, airplanes, trucks or railroads." Huh? No wonder the operator didn't want to explain. Basically, a freight forwarder is a shipping company that doesn't own/operate its own transportation fleet, staff, etc., but instead arranges with real shipping companies to get your stuff where it needs to go. Think of it as a travel agent for packages. My phone book listed Sky2C (get it?) as the freight forwarder in my area. I called and explained my situation. "OK. Lemme forward you to Maggie. She's the one who handles international shipping via the sea."<br /><br />The line clicked over and started ringing. And ringing. And ringing. I left a message. A day later, Maggie returned my call about "shipping a mattress."<br /><br />"I'd like to ship some matchbooks to England. Not a mattress. I understand that international law prohibits the transport of flammable solids via air."<br /><br />"Yes, that's correct."<br /><br />"So I need to get the matchbooks to England on a boat."<br /><br />"How many?" she asked.<br /><br />"Less than a cubic foot. A small package."<br /><br />"To London?"<br /><br />"Yep."<br /><br />"That'll run you roughly $450. I'll have to check with customs on their procedure for shipping flammables, OK?"<br /><br />"No, thank you. Don't bother." I hung up.<br /><br />Alas, I was "dead in the water," so to speak. Sorry, Julian. I tried. We'll have to wait for that trans-Atlantic tunnel.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.</span> <br /><br />Unless they're carrying matches.<br /><br />-kpUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-69078007568276363202010-02-01T10:36:00.000-08:002010-04-05T17:43:47.698-07:00"Pick of the Week" Archive - February 2010HERE'S T' YOU<br /><br />That bottle told the cops. I said she’d be back, but they’d found the body and then me, drinking her bubbly. What I’d shot was shot already, though, before the gun, back when she said, “Y’re dead’n’gone f’ me” and raised a fluted glass with that sharp-ass smile beneath the eyes I’d fallen into once.<br /><br />--T.C. Marshall, Felton, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />TRAIN TRACKS<br /><br />I could kill that bloody bird. I imagined tying it up and leaving it by the cat flap just like a villain trussing up a heroine and leaving her on the train tracks. When I returned I found it in three neat pieces. I stared at the cat flap. I was standing by the tracks. There was blood on my hands.<br /><br />--Richard Ross, San Francisco, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />CENTRAL LOCALE<br /><br />They left me at the place of impact. With the electrons swirling around the center, she yelled back "Must you always be so still when we crash."<br /><br />--Fish Fishtofferson, Alameda, CA<br /><br />__________<br /><br />FOR YOUR GRANDMOTHER<br /><br />Your grandmother does not like Calvino. She is letting you know this right now. “You’ve read Calvino?” you ask, frankly amazed. She has. In fact, unbeknownst to you, she started reading your copy while you were sitting right there at the kitchen table, line editing a story.<br /><br />--Megan Fitzgerald, Scotts Valley, CAUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321314561456059824.post-64263548033662031692010-01-31T14:12:00.000-08:002010-02-01T19:50:56.965-08:00Southland Distribution OdysseyHi, All!<br /><br />Below is a timeline of the L.A. distribution run. I made it, but just barely...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Friday, 1/22/10, 8:00 PM</span>: after driving 6.5 hours on the 101S through intermittent rain, arrive in Los Angeles on 3 cylinders, -2 windshield wipers, and 0 heat.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Saturday, 1/23/10, 10:00 AM</span>: car won't start; enlist friend (and friend's car) to distribute matchbooks throughout city.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">10:00 AM - 6:00 PM</span>: distribute matchbooks to the following stores:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Skylight Books<br />Counterpoint Records & Books<br />Book Soup<br />Stories<br />Metropolis Books</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sunday, 1/24/10, 11:00 AM</span>: return to car, install new spark plugs; car still won't start.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">11:00 AM - 6:00 PM</span>: check/adjust the following:<br /><br />distributor and rotor<br />points and timing<br />valves<br />gas and carburetor<br />battery<br /><br />No dice.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Monday, 1/25/10, 6:55 AM</span>: call supervisor, inform that I'm stranded in L.A. and won't make work.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">7:00 AM - 8:00 AM</span>: panic, ask myself, "In order to get home today, do I... <br /><br />a) buy new parts, install, and maybe solve car problem, or <br />b) tow car to mechanic and let the experts do their thing?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">9:30 AM</span>: tow car to E&C Motors in Reseda.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">10:30 AM - 11:30 AM</span>: stump veteran VW mechanic with mysterious car problem, think, "Will I ever get home?"<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">11:30 AM</span>: try last possible solution--car STARTS!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">11:30 AM - 6:OO PM</span>: after driving 6.5 hours on the 101N through intermittent rain, arrive home on 4 cylinders, -2 windshield wipers, and 0 heat.<br /><br />Big thanks are sincerely given to the following friends and saviors:<br /><br />Owen & Emily, for cool-headed advise, a blow-up mattress, and whiskey.<br />Rob & Anat, for transportation, navigation, conversation, and libation.<br />Leagh, for cellular roadside assistance.<br />Brandon, for cellular roadside assurance.<br />Natalie, for holding it all together.<br /><br />Keep On Keeping On,<br /><br />-kpUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3