As 2020 draws to a close–and never have I wanted more to see a year end–I am yet again awed by the publication prowess of our members, who have had work appear in numerous venues across all genres. Congratulations to the following WWS members who published work during the month of November!
Congratulations to Stephanie Yu, whose short story “The Grange” appeared in Gingerbread House.
The sun shines on the clearing at midday. My sisters and I have been up since dawn gathering flowers and shapely twigs, oddly-patterned leaves, feathers, beetle shells, bits of gristle. The fruits of our labor now hang around the great black oak at the base of the clearing. We fasten each artifact to a piece of twine, then weave it to a low hanging branch. Father always says it is important that we return to the earth some of what we take, a ritual that Mother had always observed. With all fourteen of us at work, the tree’s branches soon sag heavy with our prizes.
Stephanie also published #NoMorePresidents: Three Flashes (“Polling Error,” “No More Fish,” and “Meanwhile in North Florida”) in Heavy Feather Review.
They came with guns and tactical vests and smoke bombs. Shouting about Valhalla or uhuru or liftoach pandemonium. It became too hard to make out the words above the shelling and spray.
Also check out Amy Ma’s short story “House Rules for Poltergeists,” which appeared in How Pants Work.
Note to my 5-year-old: See rules 1–10.
1. No hitting or pushing.
2. No pinching.
3. No playing with real knives.
And a shout out to Lisa Eve Cheby for publishing the poem “Granite is the most common plutonic rock” in Northridge Review.
I pay $12 to climb the granite tower, erected to commemorate white men’s colonization of a peninsula: 252 feet and 7.5 inches. Below, I see the 1,200 granite blocks
that pay $12 to climb the granite tower, erected to commemorate white men’s colonization of a peninsula: 252 feet and 7.5 inches.…
Kudos to Hazel Kight Witham, whose essay “House Engraved” appeared in Cultural Weekly.
The plastic ghouls and rope nets, wired spiders in frozen creep, this cemetery of street, this house cobwebbed in gauze of pretend decay, and along front window, the letters of her name, inked and hung with care.
One wants to read “Happy Halloween” there, but instead these letters, more ache, more memorial, renders whole house tombstone in predawn grief.
Congrats also to Kate Maruyama, whose short story “Footprint” appears in the November/December issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction.
Kate’s essay “Writing Hope in Times of Trouble” appeared on The Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine Author & Editor Blog.
I sat down with four futurist and scifi writers—Cecil Castelucci, Matt Kressel, PJ Manney, Nisi Shawl, and Sherri L. Smith—on BookSwell with Cody Sisco in May, and we talked about the difficulty of writing the future when our present times are so difficult. So many very productive writers I know have had trouble stringing sentences together these days, let alone pages or story, as we are all overwhelmed by the present. Each day brings new tonnage of information to process. Our biggest questions were, “How do we move forward?” and, “What can we write now?”
Also check out Rosa Navarrete’s essay “Start With Inviting BIPOC Critics” appeared on the Long Wharf Theater Blog.
Uprisings, social unrest, and the pandemic are impacting communities everywhere. These communities are leaning on the arts for support and wellness yet arts organizations are increasingly aware of their own limitations. Art leaders are being called to finally address long-standing issues and keep up with the times. It hasn’t been an easy transition. Some theatres might feel like they’re under a microscope right now, and to them I say—enjoy the heat! Discomfort is necessary for change. If you’re suddenly feeling that you’re walking on eggshells, then you are embarking on the journey most travelled by non-white communities when they enter a predominantly white lead theatre space. Black, Indigenous, and People of color (BIPOC) have managed to navigate these discomforts for the past few decades, and I can confidently tell you that this experience will not kill you. The People’s Institute for Survival and Beyond taught me, during these talks if you start to shake and your voice dries up—then you’re on the right track. Dismantling is a visceral experience, after all.
And congrats to Sara Ellen Fowler, whose poem “Shed Project Notes” appeared in The Offing.
And the wasp nest in the elbow of the wrought metal gate
and a few of them suspended in blind float and
the brindle without a collar slipping between the fence without fear
and the same girl asleep under our table when dinner’s ending.
Don’t miss Flint’s poem “Last Calls,” which appeared in Cutbank.
Last Call: I
I was in a bathroom stall in another bar, all fingers and tongues and parted lips when the first
bullet flew from the mouth of the gun, just another high, hot note in the mix the DJ was spinning.
Congratulations to Tisha Marie Reichle-Aguilera, whose short story “No Bullseye” appeared in the anthology Puro Chicanx Writers of the 21st Century, published by Cutthroat, A Journal of the Arts and The Black Earth Institute.
Congrats also to Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo, whose poem “To Be a Child of Immigrants” also appeared in the anthology Puro Chicanx Writers of the 21st Century, published by Cutthroat, A Journal of the Arts and The Black Earth Institute.
And check out Perri Chasin’s article “Armchair Educators” appeared in the Emeritus Voice.
A global pandemic has deemed Emeritus students, without exception, to be armchair travelers, and Zoom, a company who has seen its profits rise 300% in just a few short months, has positioned itself to be our passport to learning. That meant faculty had to morph into armchair educators. And, with a click on a link, students were beamed into their kitchen, backyard or studio.
Perri’s article “Facemask Summer” also appeared in the Emeritus Voice.
On Thursday, June 18, 2020 it became official. That was the day Governor Gavin Newsom mandated Californians wear face coverings “while in public or high-risk settings, including when shopping, taking public transit or seeking medical care.”
Also, kudos to Lisbeth Coiman for publishing “I Used to Be a Medicated Woman” in Spectrum, v25. (To order, call GT Foster at 626-627-2723).
Congratulations to Laura Sturza, whose essay “How I Got Married For The First Time After Fifty” appeared in AARP Magazine.
Plenty of factors contributed to my status as a never-married woman in my late 40s, but perhaps the most glaring was perfectionism. It was a trait I had learned from my parents, whose search for their dream home lasted 25 years, a record I would hold up against any other impossible-to-please customers. Every weekend and holiday, they’d drag me through open houses. A rotating cast of Realtors would lead us through property after property. It was a Goldilocks adventure of grand proportions, in search of a house that wasn’t too big or too small. I wasn’t sure they would ever find one that was just right.
In addition, Laura’s essay “I won clown contests as a kid. It didn’t win me friends, but it showed me I could do anything” appeared in the Washington Post.
My mother’s over-the-top optimism never stops. While I sometimes wish she would scale it back, I dearly appreciate the woman I call my Moptimist. I suspect her capacity to bright-side anything is one reason for her longevity. Mom just turned 95.
Sometimes her cockeyed fantasies about me come true. When I was growing up in Silver Spring, Md., she helped turn me into an award-winning clown when I was 6 with the elaborate Halloween costume she made for me. That experience later sustained my belief that I still had a chance of getting married for the first time, though I was nearly 50. I wondered if I might be more successful in romance if I applied the same attitude I learned as a child competing in clown contests.
And let’s congratulate Carla Rachel Sameth, whose personal essay “Social Distance” appeared in Mutha Magazine.
My son, Raphael, comes to visit one morning and after eating, our masks are still removed, still lying facedown on the table, and we sit around six-feet apart, the not magic of not quite six.
Carla also published the poem “Oxytocin” in Oye Drum.
Oxytocin
I.
I just can’t quit you she said; though never having seen Brokeback Mountain;
I taught her
that line.
Knock down feral lovemaking, tragic love. You forget the tragedy when you’re fucking
that way up against the bathroom wall in her office when no one was there. Te quiero,
te amo, te adoro. Later, her office moved, wish they’d torn that building down.