Posts Tagged: nonfiction

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Listen to “Five Kinds of Dolls” by Amy Blakemore

We are delighted to feature “Five Kinds of Dolls” on the Bluecast! This work of nonfiction appears in the IR 38.2 Winter 2016 issue.

Listen to Amy read “Five Kinds of Dolls” here.

*blakemore-headshot

Amy Victoria Blakemore lives and works in Hartford, CT. Her short story “Previously, Sparrows” was the winner of the 2014 Kenyon Review Short Fiction Prize, and her work has also appeared in PANK, the Susquehanna Review, and Cleaver Magazine. She is a proud alum of the Kenyon and Tin House Summer Workshops. In addition to pursuing a Masters of American Studies at Trinity College, she is currently at work on her first novella. 

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Online Feature: “Dwellings” by Linda Hogan

Not far from where I live is a hill that was cut into by the moving water of a creek. Eroded this way, all that’s left of it is a broken wall of earth that contains old roots and pebbles woven together and exposed. Seen from a distance, it is only a rise of raw earth. But up close it is something wonderful, a small cliff dwelling that looks almost as intricate and well-made as those the Anasazi left behind when they vanished mysteriously centuries ago. This hill is a place that could be the starry skies of night turned inward into the thousand round holes where solitary bees have lived and died. It is a hill of tunneling rooms. At the mouths of some of the excavations, half-circles of clay beetle out like awnings shading a doorway. It is earth that was turned to clay in the mouths of the bees and spit out as they mined deeper into their dwelling places.

This place where the bees reside is at an angle safe from rain. It faces the southern sun. It is a warm and intelligent architecture of memory, learned by whatever memory lives in the blood. Many of the holes still contain the gold husks of dead bees, their faces dry and gone, their flat eyes gazing out from death’s land toward the other uninhabited half of the hill that is across the creek from these catacombs.

Read more…

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Online Feature: “A Cuban Poet in New York” by Pablo Medina

A Tale of Two Cities

The word of my city is that word from of old.

— Walt Whitman, “Mannahatta”

As a child I fell under the spell of two great cities. Until November of 1960, when we left Cuba for good, Havana was my home. Never gray except in winter when a norther blew through it, it was almost always happy and clear, the antithesis of Dickens’ soulless London or Victor Hugo’s sordid Paris. Havana in those days might have had its terrors and sorrows, but it was, above all, a city of activity and hope. It was, besides, the place that first instilled in me an interest in human beings and sparked a curiosity for the physical world—the sun, the sea, the bay—of which it was so much a part. Read more…

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Metallic Grit: Call for Essays on Craft

As you may know, we are currently reading for the Metallic Grit Special Folio. We think of Metallic Grit as representative of the lasting grit whenever intense work and heat are applied in the creation of a metallic object or being. We believe in this hybridity of writing and want to see your interpretation not only through stories and poems but through craft essays. Show us how writing is resilient, how writing matters not only to you but to the world.

This call for essays on craft and writing as resilience will only be valid for this submission period, deadline October 31st Midnight EST. Please be sure to follow the link here to make your submission.

We look forward to reading your work!

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Online Feature: “Matzevah” by Judith Hertog

 

I laughed a lot at my father’s funeral. The evening before the ceremony, I stayed up late with my mother and our friends Bart and Ruth, trying to compose an appropriate eulogy. My little sisters, who had just turned eleven, had fallen asleep on the couch. When we tried out the speeches we came up with, they sounded so pathetically silly – “Thank you all for coming, Mike regrets not being able to be here himself…” “Mike has led a full and satisfying life…” “Every life must end, and so did Mike’s…” – that we couldn’t recite them without being overcome by giggles. The funeral itself felt like an absurdist play. The procession from the funeral hall to the grave took so long and was so abruptly twisty that I thought the master of ceremonies had lost his way. As we slowly proceeded along the winding gravel paths between the neat rows of graves, passing through somber islands of conifer trees and along stone walls that sheltered the dead from the hustle of Amsterdam, I imagined the master of ceremonies’ rising panic at the realization that he didn’t remember the location of the grave and was leading the dead man and the solemn line of mourners in a haphazard walk through forgotten corners of the cemetery. Read more…