~
This is for anyone who saw Sperm Donor on the Style Network recently. (In case you missed it, the segment of Style Exposed primarily focused on Ben Seisler, a Boston lawyer who has become the biological father of at least seventy-four children via sperm donation. It showed Ben, his fianceé, and the mother of two young children who were born using Ben's sperm grappling with a variety of questions about the role of a sperm donor.)
On a related but very different note, a couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to watch Sperm Donor X, a film by Deidre Fishel about the experiences of four different women pursuing motherhood via sperm donation. The documentary footage was filmed over a period of several years, as the women very openly discussed their various reasons for the choice, went through the process of attempting to become pregnant, and reacted to the outcomes, which were different for each of them. It was a very thoughtful (and thought-provoking) piece of work. (56 minutes, New Day Films, 2010.)
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Two poems from Inertia and Linebreak
~
"Paper-Thin Hotel" by Alex Stolis, Inertia Magazine, Issue 11.
"This Friday" by Susan Browne, Linebreak, November 22, 2011.
"Paper-Thin Hotel" by Alex Stolis, Inertia Magazine, Issue 11.
"This Friday" by Susan Browne, Linebreak, November 22, 2011.
Labels:
Alex Stolis,
Inertia Magazine,
Linebreak,
Susan Browne
Friday, November 11, 2011
Fiction, poetry, and a very short story by Doug Paul Case
~
This was after I rolled the windows down, hoping rushing wind would rid my clothes of his cologne. This was after I slid into my car, having barely opened the door, as if I were afraid his neighbors would spot me.
From "Driving Home, I Imagined the Man I'd Just Met, Alone in His Apartment, Washing By Hand the Glass from which I'd Just Drunk," a short story by Doug Paul Case, published in Wigleaf (November 3, 2011).
~
"Daddy?" Jennifer said when he went back to the living room.
"What?"
"Would you please read us the funnies?"
The shyness of this request, and the sight of their trusting eyes, made him want to weep. "You bet I will," he said. "Let's sit down over here, all three of us, and we'll read the funnies."
He found it hard to keep his voice from thickening into a sentimental husk as he began to read aloud, with their two heads pressed close to his ribs on either side and their thin legs lying straight out on the sofa cushions, warm against his own. They knew what forgiveness was; they were willing to take him for better or worse; they loved him. Why couldn't April realize how simple and necessary it was to love? Why did she have to complicate everything?
The only trouble was that the funnies seemed to go on forever; the turning of each dense, muddled page of them brought the job no nearer to completion. Before long his voice had become a strained, hurrying monotone and his right knee had begun to jiggle in a little dance of irritation.
"Daddy, we skipped a funny."
"No we didn't, sweetie. That's just an advertisement. You don't want to read that."
"Yes I do."
"I do too."
"But it isn't a funny. It's just made to look like one. It's an advertisement for some kind of toothpaste."
"Read us it anyway."
He set his bite. All the nerves at the roots of his teeth seemed to have entwined with the nerves at the root of his scalp in a tingling knot. "All right," he said. "See, in the first picture this lady wants to dance with this man but he won't ask her to, and here in the next picture she's crying and her friend says maybe the reason he won't dance with her is because her breath doesn't smell too nice, and then in the next picture she's talking to this dentist, and he says..."
He felt as if he were sinking helplessly into the cushions and the papers and the bodies of his children like a man in quicksand. When the funnies were finished at last he struggled to his feet, quietly gasping, and stood for several minutes in the middle of the carpet, making tight fists in his pockets to restrain himself from doing what suddenly seemed the only thing in the world he really and truly wanted to do: picking up a chair and throwing it through the picture window.
(pp. 50-51)
From Revolutionary Road, a novel by Richard Yates (Little, Brown & Co., 1961).
~
You live alone and earn a reasonable monthly sum that keeps you comfortable and with enough free time to keep your literary aspirations hopeful. You have a desk drawer full of story ideas written almost wholly on sticky notes, envelopes, and napkins. You bought a Mac, because you think that’s the instrument of choice for creative people like yourself.
From "Anatomy of Two Artists," a short story by Robert John Miller, published in Fiction365 (October 25, 2011).
~
My son recounts the plot of a zombie film
from France. He forgets exactly why,
but one day the dead rise up
and shake off the dust--not ghouls,
staggering with stiff arms,
but as themselves.
They head back into the world willing
to do the usual stuff--eat, buy shoes--
but everything's out of synch. . . .
From "Horror" (p. 8), one of the poems in Recurring Dream by Avra Wing (Pecan Grove Press, 2011). "Horror" first appeared in Prime Decimals.
This was after I rolled the windows down, hoping rushing wind would rid my clothes of his cologne. This was after I slid into my car, having barely opened the door, as if I were afraid his neighbors would spot me.
From "Driving Home, I Imagined the Man I'd Just Met, Alone in His Apartment, Washing By Hand the Glass from which I'd Just Drunk," a short story by Doug Paul Case, published in Wigleaf (November 3, 2011).
~
"Daddy?" Jennifer said when he went back to the living room.
"What?"
"Would you please read us the funnies?"
The shyness of this request, and the sight of their trusting eyes, made him want to weep. "You bet I will," he said. "Let's sit down over here, all three of us, and we'll read the funnies."
He found it hard to keep his voice from thickening into a sentimental husk as he began to read aloud, with their two heads pressed close to his ribs on either side and their thin legs lying straight out on the sofa cushions, warm against his own. They knew what forgiveness was; they were willing to take him for better or worse; they loved him. Why couldn't April realize how simple and necessary it was to love? Why did she have to complicate everything?
The only trouble was that the funnies seemed to go on forever; the turning of each dense, muddled page of them brought the job no nearer to completion. Before long his voice had become a strained, hurrying monotone and his right knee had begun to jiggle in a little dance of irritation.
"Daddy, we skipped a funny."
"No we didn't, sweetie. That's just an advertisement. You don't want to read that."
"Yes I do."
"I do too."
"But it isn't a funny. It's just made to look like one. It's an advertisement for some kind of toothpaste."
"Read us it anyway."
He set his bite. All the nerves at the roots of his teeth seemed to have entwined with the nerves at the root of his scalp in a tingling knot. "All right," he said. "See, in the first picture this lady wants to dance with this man but he won't ask her to, and here in the next picture she's crying and her friend says maybe the reason he won't dance with her is because her breath doesn't smell too nice, and then in the next picture she's talking to this dentist, and he says..."
He felt as if he were sinking helplessly into the cushions and the papers and the bodies of his children like a man in quicksand. When the funnies were finished at last he struggled to his feet, quietly gasping, and stood for several minutes in the middle of the carpet, making tight fists in his pockets to restrain himself from doing what suddenly seemed the only thing in the world he really and truly wanted to do: picking up a chair and throwing it through the picture window.
(pp. 50-51)
From Revolutionary Road, a novel by Richard Yates (Little, Brown & Co., 1961).
~
You live alone and earn a reasonable monthly sum that keeps you comfortable and with enough free time to keep your literary aspirations hopeful. You have a desk drawer full of story ideas written almost wholly on sticky notes, envelopes, and napkins. You bought a Mac, because you think that’s the instrument of choice for creative people like yourself.
From "Anatomy of Two Artists," a short story by Robert John Miller, published in Fiction365 (October 25, 2011).
~
My son recounts the plot of a zombie film
from France. He forgets exactly why,
but one day the dead rise up
and shake off the dust--not ghouls,
staggering with stiff arms,
but as themselves.
They head back into the world willing
to do the usual stuff--eat, buy shoes--
but everything's out of synch. . . .
From "Horror" (p. 8), one of the poems in Recurring Dream by Avra Wing (Pecan Grove Press, 2011). "Horror" first appeared in Prime Decimals.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
The Fall 2011 issue of the Apple Valley Review
~
The Fall 2011 issue of the journal features fiction by Dawn Paul; poetry by Simon Perchik, Joanna Kurowska (translated from the Polish by Joanna Kurowska), Jin Cordaro, Nausheen Eusuf, M.J. Iuppa, Xiwen Mai, Ann Neuser Lederer, and Rachel Gippetti; and artwork by Justin Snodgrass.
The Apple Valley Review is a semiannual online literary journal. The current issue, previous issues, subscription information, and complete submission guidelines are available at www.applevalleyreview.com.
The Fall 2011 issue of the journal features fiction by Dawn Paul; poetry by Simon Perchik, Joanna Kurowska (translated from the Polish by Joanna Kurowska), Jin Cordaro, Nausheen Eusuf, M.J. Iuppa, Xiwen Mai, Ann Neuser Lederer, and Rachel Gippetti; and artwork by Justin Snodgrass.
The Apple Valley Review is a semiannual online literary journal. The current issue, previous issues, subscription information, and complete submission guidelines are available at www.applevalleyreview.com.
Friday, September 23, 2011
"Composition 101" by Nicelle Davis
~
He writes how his best friend bled and died in his arms. He is twenty and at school on the GI Bill.
"Composition 101," a poem by Nicelle Davis, is continued at Broadsided (May 1, 2010). The poem is paired with artwork by Cheryl Gross.
He writes how his best friend bled and died in his arms. He is twenty and at school on the GI Bill.
"Composition 101," a poem by Nicelle Davis, is continued at Broadsided (May 1, 2010). The poem is paired with artwork by Cheryl Gross.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
"Telling You"
~
Life is like this: one minute you're lying by your air conditioner in the heat, reading haiku and wishing you didn't have to go to see your new therapist, and the next minute you're in his office blinking at him in surprise and thinking that he looks familiar, that you've seen him someplace before.
. . .
My Buddhist boyfriend wasn't the first man to dump me. The boyfriend before him did, too. His teenage sons instructed him to dump me because I'd declined their invitation to a game of Monopoly. I'd just eaten dinner at their house, and they asked me to play, and I said no. (I had my reasons.) Then, after I'd gone home, the sons held a family conference and told their father that he could do better than a woman who wouldn't play Monopoly. And so my boyfriend told me, in a gentle voice, "I have to let you go. Let me know if there's ever anything I can do for you."
"Actually," I said, "there are three things you can do for me." But I will repeat only the first thing here, which was never to call me again.
These excerpts are from "Telling You," a short story by Jasmine Skye. The story is continued in The Sun (Issue 335, November 2003), pp. 42-46.
Life is like this: one minute you're lying by your air conditioner in the heat, reading haiku and wishing you didn't have to go to see your new therapist, and the next minute you're in his office blinking at him in surprise and thinking that he looks familiar, that you've seen him someplace before.
. . .
My Buddhist boyfriend wasn't the first man to dump me. The boyfriend before him did, too. His teenage sons instructed him to dump me because I'd declined their invitation to a game of Monopoly. I'd just eaten dinner at their house, and they asked me to play, and I said no. (I had my reasons.) Then, after I'd gone home, the sons held a family conference and told their father that he could do better than a woman who wouldn't play Monopoly. And so my boyfriend told me, in a gentle voice, "I have to let you go. Let me know if there's ever anything I can do for you."
"Actually," I said, "there are three things you can do for me." But I will repeat only the first thing here, which was never to call me again.
These excerpts are from "Telling You," a short story by Jasmine Skye. The story is continued in The Sun (Issue 335, November 2003), pp. 42-46.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Liars and Saints
~
Liars and Saints, a novel by Maile Meloy (Scribner, 2003). The first two thirds of this book were particularly good.
He said he was a photographer, and offered to take their picture for her husband; he said it was the least he could do for a man who was at war. So he came to the house, with a big flash umbrella and a camera on a tripod, and set his equipment in the living room. Yvette made him a highball, and because the bottle of ginger ale was open, she made herself one, too. On an empty stomach it went right to her head. It was three in the afternoon on a Saturday, and she'd dressed the girls up for the picture, but the photographer wasn't in any hurry. He was clean-cut with clear green eyes and looked like he could have been a soldier himself, in khaki trousers and a pressed shirt. They talked about the situation in Korea, and he told an off-color joke about war brides. He asked for another drink and she made him one, but Clarissa stalked in and said she wasn't wearing nice clothes another minute, so the photographer arranged them on the sofa and started to fiddle with his flash.
Clarissa sat on the ottoman, and Margot stood behind, with her hands on her sister's shoulders. Clarissa hated to be touched by Margot, and her hair was coming out of its curls. Yvette pulled the hem of Clarissa's skirt to cover her knees. Margot smiled serenely at the camera, and nothing about her was out of place. Yvette felt like her own smile might look tipsy, so she pressed her hand against her lips to try to straighten her mouth without smearing her lipstick.
Liars and Saints, a novel by Maile Meloy (Scribner, 2003). The first two thirds of this book were particularly good.
He said he was a photographer, and offered to take their picture for her husband; he said it was the least he could do for a man who was at war. So he came to the house, with a big flash umbrella and a camera on a tripod, and set his equipment in the living room. Yvette made him a highball, and because the bottle of ginger ale was open, she made herself one, too. On an empty stomach it went right to her head. It was three in the afternoon on a Saturday, and she'd dressed the girls up for the picture, but the photographer wasn't in any hurry. He was clean-cut with clear green eyes and looked like he could have been a soldier himself, in khaki trousers and a pressed shirt. They talked about the situation in Korea, and he told an off-color joke about war brides. He asked for another drink and she made him one, but Clarissa stalked in and said she wasn't wearing nice clothes another minute, so the photographer arranged them on the sofa and started to fiddle with his flash.
Clarissa sat on the ottoman, and Margot stood behind, with her hands on her sister's shoulders. Clarissa hated to be touched by Margot, and her hair was coming out of its curls. Yvette pulled the hem of Clarissa's skirt to cover her knees. Margot smiled serenely at the camera, and nothing about her was out of place. Yvette felt like her own smile might look tipsy, so she pressed her hand against her lips to try to straighten her mouth without smearing her lipstick.
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