Philadelphia Stories Spring 2008 by Philadelphia Stories

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barry dinerman

THE KISS ME STONE ona russell

THE (O)THER KAHN kelly simmons

STANDING STILL (book excerpt)

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THE KISS ME STONE

3 Cosmopolitan Lounge by John Gascot. (see bio below)

CONTENTS 5

FEATURES 3 The Kiss Me Stone (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Barry Dinerman

Young Girl Wearing Lace by Tressa Croce. Tressa is entering her senior year as an Art History major and moonlights as an artist.

10 Meet the Rosemont Writers Retreat Faculty 12 The (O)ther Kahn (essay) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ona Russell 18 Standing Still (novel excerpt) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kelly Simmons

POETRY

7 eXpressway by Indigene. Indigene works in a variety of styles that vary between expressionist, abstract, narrative and symbolic, allowing for multiple interpretations by the viewer.

6 Reading Her Skull. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Natalie Ford 8 Crow in a Puddle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Brian Patrick Heston 9 Detour. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Elisabeth Majewski 14 Hand & Hip . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Courtney Bambrick

LOCAL AUTHOR PROFILE

14 Tranquility by Suzanne Comer. The beautiful areas around her current home near Philadelphia inspired Suzanne to explore digital photography and its use as an art form. Her work is influenced by her background in fine arts and graphics. Suzanne's digital photo-art pieces have been featured in many area juried exhibitions.

16 Kelly Simmons

PHILADELPHIASTORIES.ORG Publisher/Fiction Editor Carla Spataro Publisher/Managing Editor Christine Weiser Poetry Editor Conrad Weiser Essay Editor Marguerite McGlinn Associate Fiction Editor Marc Schuster Production Manager Derek Carnegie Web Design Walt Maguire

Editorial Board Christine Cavalier, poetry Liz Dolan, poetry Holly Dolan, fiction Sandy Farnan, non-fiction Teresa FitzPatrick, fiction Marylou Fusco, fiction Pat Green, poetry Joanne Green, fiction

Fran Grote, fiction Diane Guarnieri, poetry Shaun Haurin, fiction Cecily Kellogg, poetry Mike Llewellyn, fiction Nathan Long, fiction Walt Maguire, fiction Patricia Mastricolo, fiction George McDermott, poetry Harriet Levin Millan, poetry Elizabeth Mosier, fiction Julie Odell, fiction Ryan Romine, fiction Marc Schuster, fiction John Shea, poetry & non-fiction Janice Wilson Stridick, fiction Michelle Wittle, fiction planning & development board Rebeca Barroso Blythe Boyer Michelle Wittle Aimee LaBrie Autumn Konopka

15 Palm Portraits by Jill Cucci Smith. Jill Cucci-Smith is an artist living in Seaville, NJ. Her textile and jewelry background are responsible for her comfort with color, composition, and 3-D suggestions. Every portrait is made with different materials and elements that suit the sitter's life. 19 Cajun Cafe by Paul Gordon. Paul Gordon, a retired dentist and US Navy officer, studied at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. People of note who own paintings by Dr. Gordon are Condoleezza Rice, Barbra Walters, Jake LaMatta, and Diane Sawyer.

Cover Art: Seated Girl with Clouds by John Gascot. John Gascot. After a colorful Caribbean childhood, John moved to New Jersey with his mother, often visiting the Philadelphia/Bucks County area in which he now resides. With backgrounds in theater, literature, and art, he has been afforded the opportunity to wear a multitude of hats, all of which influence his work. Of his style he says: "My work is inspired by life and guided by the influences and experiences of past and present."

Cosmopolitan Lounge by John Gascot © 2008 n a previous life, my husband was an alley cat in Rome who lived in the Colosseum and whose purrs originated in his scrotum. Now he finds love in the belly of compost heaps and in the folds of Burpee Seed envelopes—fixed and declawed as he is. These thoughts are typical of the private games I play each morning before I visit Karen’s grave. The content of my mental life is the Swiss-army knife of daily cemetery goers: it snips, scrapes, uncorks, screws, and whittles its way to consecrated ground. I complete another day’s visit and walk the skinny road that weaves in and out of the gardens. The slight incline interests me. I wonder if the designers of this place

want visitors to feel the upgrade as they walk away. Feel their losses farther behind, farther beneath them. Out the corner of my eye I see a truck on the lawn, workmen. They are behind me now, at least three men, one in the driver’s seat, the others swaying in the back of the pickup. I stumble slightly as I walk, which is very unlike me. Someone whistles and I know it’s at me because no one else is around. At sixtysix I’m a tiny woman. No one has admired me in years. It’s the men in the truck, and now they make other sounds. If I turn around, show my face, I know they’ll shut up. My age from the front is white and laced, extravagant as a wedding gown. Excited and frightened I

walk faster. Again someone whistles and I’m glad. I come to a fork in the road. Left leads to the parking lot, right to a series of paths and groves. As I veer to the right, I think of my husband working at home in his garden. He’s a good man; the old guy worries about me; he’s afraid of losing me since Karen died. Luckily, he has what I call his scallion diversions. From his immaculate garden he creates wonderful salads, and I poke fun at his hobby—annoy the hell out of him. “With greens like these we’ll live forever, God forbid.” He controls his annoyance by listening repeatedly to Sara Lazarus’s jazzed “I’m Thru with Love.” If he were watching me now, I wonder if he’d let

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THE KISS ME STONE

3 Cosmopolitan Lounge by John Gascot. (see bio below)

CONTENTS 5

FEATURES 3 The Kiss Me Stone (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Barry Dinerman

Young Girl Wearing Lace by Tressa Croce. Tressa is entering her senior year as an Art History major and moonlights as an artist.

POETRY

7 eXpressway by Indigene. Indigene works in a variety of styles that vary between expressionist, abstract, narrative and symbolic, allowing for multiple interpretations by the viewer.

LOCAL AUTHOR PROFILE

16 Kelly Simmons

Editorial Board Christine Cavalier, poetry Liz Dolan, poetry Holly Dolan, fiction Sandy Farnan, non-fiction Teresa FitzPatrick, fiction Marylou Fusco, fiction Pat Green, poetry Joanne Green, fiction

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the garden go to seed, actually call a halt to his greens. But other than making a simple turn toward the trees, I’ve done nothing. Since I don’t want to turn around and hear no additional sounds, I’m in the dark about the workmen. Maybe they know my age and this is all a big joke. I glance at some headstones, the names are familiar, Yarkas, Luvenvirth, and realize I’ve come this way before. In case the men are watching, I feign interest in a marker by cocking my head left and right. A stone hits me in the back of the head. I spin round, feel something in my hair, and untangle an acorn. Another falls from the tree above me. Now I see the truck at the fork move in my direction. I want to scream my daughter’s name, want her to help me. Mercilessly I whip myself for this stupid, childish desire. The men gain on me. I hide behind a tree.

Elderly bodies of the living lack the dignity of corpses (or so I think as Richard kneels shirtless in the garden, his pasty torso mocking his green thumb). As he digs I watch his breasts—one higher than the other—and wonder how things come to be. The phone rings, but the caller hangs up once I answer. It’s the fourth such call today. Making prank calls was the big thing when I was eleven, and I think back to huddling with my girlfriends and squealing with joy as we clicked on the unsuspecting. But I doubt girls are dialing today. I worry that the workmen have lifted our last name from Karen’s stone. The thought is absurd, but like the trellis my husband is working around to gather his last pole beans, it’s firmly planted. Richard sees me at the kitchen window and winks. Again the phone rings. This time I lift the receiver, but say nothing. “You there? I know you the one,” he

b a r r y says. “Tell me and I’ll hang up.” I start to hang up, but don’t complete the action and bring the man back to my ear. Richard leans over something in the garden. His toneless skin and muscle collapse this way and that. “Jus tell me.” As though this voice will pump testosterone—something—back into my husband, I stay on the phone. “You still on?” “Here.” “Talk to me.” A strange kind of pride—a blast of wild music—body-pierces my lips, eyebrows, cheeks. “I gotta get off.” “No, baby—” I hang up. My husband looks at me and waves with fingers the color of pancake mix. How does he keep the dirt off of his hands?

I frequently wear a turban to the cemetery. That or scarf or rain hat. Something akin to what Henry Fonda wore in On Golden Pond. Regardless of the weather these past few days, my Henry-near-death cap has been my pick. No one will whistle at a sad Henry or awaken old-lady urge. Standing at Karen’s grave, I hear a whistle. She and I make the tiny sound in our noses that always turns into a laugh. Our private joke is the impossibility of life and death, sex and sad hats. On her birthday my husband and I stand by Karen’s grave. Richard comes with me to the site a couple times a year. He crouches down and with a soft cloth polishes a section of the marker. The moment he finishes, I crouch to rub. Then we arrange and rearrange our flowers. “The most beautiful spot in the park,” he says. “The most peaceful.”

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The marker looks brilliant, but I want more shine. I touch the cloth to Karen’s name much as the mother of an infant dabs her child’s perfect mouth. Vibrations from a truck pulling up behind us wind up my spine. I turn my head and they are there, out of the truck, three men, each with a lawn mower. Like a geisha on speed, I lower my eyes and quickly turn to more perfectly service my marble—but not before I notice their smooth, flawless skin. So this is how it is. Across a road no wider than the root of an ancient tree stand my dark-skinned lovers. There’s no way to know if they’ve spotted me. Their mowers scream to high heaven; I would like to scream. My husband reaches down and takes my hand—the noise has cut through his peace, and he wants to go. “In a minute,” I say. “I can’t hear you.” “In a minute!” I yank my hand away. Afraid they’ve seen me, afraid they’ll let

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS It’s auction time again! We hope you can celebrate with us. This is a vital event for the survival of Philadelphia Stories. It ain’t cheap printing a four-color magazine and giving it out for free. But, we don’t want it any other way, so here’s where you can help. First, check out our online auction, kicking off Wednesday, April 23rd. We’ll have a wide variety of items and price ranges, from vacation packages to handmade items. This is the first year we’re trying the online auction, so we please check it out and catch up on all your birthday gifts while supporting a good cause. Second, we’re throwing a big party at the American Swedish Historical Museum in South Philadelphia on SATURDAY, MAY 3, 4-8. Just $10 gets you in to enjoy food and drink – and the live music of three great local bands: Beretta 76, The Tights, and Coldpheet. We’ll have a few big ticket items for a live auction, but mainly this is a good old fashioned neighborhood barbecue so stop by and bring friends! Third, consider becoming a member of Philadelphia Stories. As little as $20 helps! We hope to see you on May 3, or at one of other events this spring. Get all the details on our site: www.PhiladelphiaStories.org. 4

Thanks! Carla Spataro and Christine Weiser Publishers

www.philadelphiastories.org

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Thanks! Carla Spataro and Christine Weiser Publishers

www.philadelphiastories.org

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on that I may have—it sounds so ridiculous—wanted a liaison with gravediggers, I stay put. Richard grabs me from behind, reaches under my arm, and pulls me to my feet. The move, his strength, his resolve, surprises me. “I can’t stand this noise. Come on.” We walk away, invisible, two elderly

people, chimerical as the parents of every lost child. Richard becomes distracted as we move toward the fork in the road. His tension and anger transform into desperation. It’s the familiar kind you see on the faces of tourists come Sunday in quaint little towns. Richard looks eager to find diversion in

Reading Her Skull By Natalie Ford because it’s close now under her thrust pale skin, catching every stranger’s eye before they refocus and rush to greet us passing in the street even when daylight drops and she pulls on a knit cap, you can tell it’s close still, pressing up hard under the thin textured yarn and bone shapes her eyes now they’re shorn – even the dark brows that made her grave over books, easy to spot in pictures, gone she laughs nearing the house, saying she believes now in phrenology, in that old science of self: Here, character Here, temperament

while, walking still closer by her side, I read it differently, silently: Here, destiny Natalie Ford is originally from Doylestown, Pennsylvania. She has recently returned to Bucks County after completing a PhD in Victorian literature and psychology at the University of York, England. Ford’s poetry has appeared in national and international journals.

b a r r y any nook or cranny. Fun, any fun, to keep Monday at bay. With wrinkled features that resemble a jigsaw puzzle pressed into random alignment he says, “That stone, remember that stone? You know, the one with the weird epitaph?” “Let’s go, please. You said the noise—” “It’s in the distance now. What was it? Kiss Me?” “I don’t know.” “It was,” he says, “Kiss Me.” “Something like that.” “Over this way somewhere.” “Let’s not.” “Come on.” “It’s abominable. I don’t want to see it.” Momentarily ugly, Richard laughs at me. “‘Abominable’? I’ve never heard you use that word.” “There should be laws, rules. It should be ripped from the ground.” “Clare, sweetie, what’s wrong with you?” “I don’t want to gawk at a stone that says Kiss Me!” Richard studies me and sees that my lungs have pushed themselves up and now lie beneath the skin of my face. His words are old-husband, each, impossibly gentle. “We’ll go home. It’s okay.” I sit on the curb until Richard brings the car. He ejects the Sara Lazarus CD and pulls my seatbelt around me. Prior to Karen’s death, the occasional thought that I may be an absurd woman or more precisely a woman who has her moments of absurdity never bothered me much. Since she is gone, whenever I feel the slightest bit eccentric, the sensation takes on an added dimension. A feeling of permanence as though I’ll always be odd with nails driven into the silly living coffin I’ve become. I feel ridiculous at the entrance to the cemetery because I’m sneaking in today. By this I mean I have no intention of visiting Karen’s grave. I’m going to the Kiss

eXpressway by Indigene © 2008 Me stone instead, and though I know the feeling is foolish, that I am at this moment laughable, I sense that I’m betraying Karen by coming to the grounds without visiting her. I move toward the fork in the road in search of the grotesque thing and what it might mean. A workman is kneeling by the goldfish pond; he’s feeding the fish and does not look up. Another is raking leaves (I want to tell him I’ve raked leaves forever) and does not look up. A third is sitting in the back of the pickup drinking coffee and dunking a doughnut. Dunker looks up, seems to recognize my age, my sexual obsolescence, and moves his eyes back to the sweet, moist thing at hand. The stone is not an easy find. Names surround like impoverished children begging tourists for pennies—but where’s the chiseled command? I remember that Richard and I found the thing completely by chance soon after Karen’s death. Thinking back to my first reaction to the stone makes my stomach flip-flop. Imagining the contents of a mass grave spilling out of me, I move toward the office and the restroom inside. I stare at the letters cut in the rock as

though the thing used to carve the message is flirting with cutting me. The time spent searching and the discomfort are

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meaningless now. Here is the stone. Kiss Me. Here is the springboard for a thousand stray thoughts. Elementary school, sixty or a hundred years ago. I hit a boy who is shocked and hurt by my fury (he asks the crossing guard to kiss his black and blue). A chubby girl who hums incessantly bends over the water fountain, and we laugh because her panties show. Teenagers moon me on route 309 the day after I get my driver’s license. And in the fun house, the one you move through in a chair on wheels, the chair that smacks through double doors into darkness and screams, my cousin, who I barely know, whose skin is repulsive to me, sticks his tongue into my mouth. There’s a bench behind me, a cool and uncomfortable slab that bathes the backs of my thighs and puts them to sleep. John Malson is the name engraved low and tiny and happy on the stone. I study the word kiss, dominant, pressing, and experience a new sensation: my eye-

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though the thing used to carve the message is flirting with cutting me. The time spent searching and the discomfort are

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balls bounce in a bucket of flashbulbs— impossible white lights that prick my optical nerves. Karen’s funeral. Flash. Choosing her dress. Richard sitting there, helping me to breathe. Paparazzi snapping at the closing of the box. There’s a whistle in the middle of this, a ripcord that bounces me out of free fall. I turn and see a woman on a path close by. She’s thirty-five, lithe, blonde, a walking Grace Kelly. Someone whistles a second time. She quickly kneels, places her flowers, and glides over a hill and out of sight. I close my eyes and see her disappear again, this time over a hill in my mind. But not before her dress flirts with the

wind, and lawless colors kick up; I fall in love as her form melts into the horizon. My husband’s hands on my temples surprise me at first. He stands behind me and massages. “How’d you know where I was?” I hear myself ask. “You’re not hard to find.” “One of the few above ground.” I indicate Malson’s grave. “This son of a bitch. Bet he was a professor. Taught...let’s see...Shakespeare? He liked the obscene jigs some players did to please the crowds after a play. He was that or a pedophile, with his invitation so low to the ground. Whadaya think?”

Richard sits and tries to smile. “You’re funny today.” “A scream.” “It’s late. Come home.” “No.” “I don’t like the way you look. Let’s get out of here.” I get up but not to go. My eyes are engorged Satchmo cheeks as I blow toward the stone. The ground feels diaphanous as though the death beneath it were boneless, boxless spirit. Circling round I come back to Richard. “I want to deface this stone.” He winces. “I’m not kidding. I want to deface it.” “Come with me.” I grab his arm. “You carry a knife with all kinds of attachments.” “You belong at home.” “I’ll come back alone with paint or shoe polish. A hammer—swear to God.” “I’m taking you out of here.” “No,” I feel my tongue tear at the roof of my mouth, hear the wrinkles above my upper lip crackle, “you’re not.” “We’re leaving now! You want police here? I don’t know what to do!” He swings his head away. Tears fly out of his eyes like a burst from a machine gun. “What do I do?” “Treat me for once like your prized garden soil.” He shakes his head and starts forming another “what” with his face. Holding the word half in, half out, he grasps the bench to brace himself and coughs. He motions with his fingers for a tissue. I fish in my purse, find an envelope with a moist towel, and put it in his hand. He wipes some mucus from his face. I hate myself for what I’ve done to him and blurt a confused request for help as I sit. Richard looks at me as though he’s been told I’ll die in the next thirty seconds. “How?” Every nerve in my body stammers. “You won’t like this. I don’t think you’ll understand. Forgive me for embarrassing you?” Talking eases my trembling, but a gust of Alpine-thin air from Davos-

Platz—he took me there right after she died—I’ll never know why—makes it hard for me to breathe. “You must know I don’t mean to embarrass you.” I look around. “But no one can see. Richard? No one can see.” Richard looks around and squints at me. “No one can see wha—” His voice fails for a second. “What do you want me

to do?” “Something you used to do long ago in the most unexpected places. I love how your voice cracks when you get excited.” “Hey!” Feeling as insubstantial as the afterlife under my feet, I beg my husband: “Put your hand up my dress? Quick, before

Detour by Elisabeth Majewski One day you may veer your van or perhaps the spiffy family sedan off the 422 freeway driving home by the back way, past the Corinthian Yacht Club, where guests palmed their cognacs when you and I stripped and dove underneath the dock by the tackle and gift shop. You may try to remember the swish of my gypsy dress hitting the planks any maybe lift your hand from the wheel trying the sketch the curve of my spine, the Cyrillic tattoo right under its dip. Your wife, blonde like a baby, will remain slack against the leather headrest, but the kid in back will ask, Dad? What’s up with your hand? Yo! Dad! And you’ll say, Nothing. But you’ll think hard, try to recall if the sound of dance band came swinging up from the clubhouse, if there were deer by the marina or just pockets of fog, shifting, if the air was warm with grass and magnolia or lavishly scentless, and what may come through are those footsteps, like gunshots, overhead— a waitress in her white apron and little lace hat carrying cocktails to the pier’s gazebo. Her surprise, her giggles, Jeez, guyz! Youse shouldn’t be here! our smiles of relief, slatted by moonlight— and how, afterward, we both fit in one spotted towel the one she had left us. Then, after you steer that slick car up your driveway you may wonder in the few seconds it takes your garage door to howl open what has happened to me, what in the world has become of you. Elisabeth Majewski is a native from Eindhoven, The Netherlands. She works as a part-time English instructor at Montgomery County Community College and is a freelance translator in Dutch, French and German. Her poetry has been published in French by the La Fontaine poetry association at www.lafontaine.net. Elisabeth lives in Gilbertsville, PA.

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somebody comes?” I start to cry. “Do it and I’ll come home with you?“ He shakes his head. “I can’t. Our daughter—” “Is what? Buried on the other side of the park?” As though troubled by the thought that the dead watch all our movements, my husband jerks his head in the direction of Karen’s grave. He turns back to me, closes his eyes, and sucks in his lips. Richard moves his hand as far as he can and holds it there. At the kitchen window I survey the midwinter garden. Richard, who now shares space with Karen, detested the hard February view. Too much hunger in the eyes of rabbits, too many icicles hanging from eaves above windows—he always complained about icicles and the dull and constant drip. He’s dead four months. Two months after our open-air adventure he quickly slid. Feeling certain I’d make it to ninety, he spent his last few days telling me what a tough old lady I’ll be. When I visit the grounds, regardless of whose spirit I’m reaching for, all conversation, intimacy, is now compromised. What’s between Karen and me bleeds into Richard and vice versa. Our family plot, like all gravesites, is a compost heap. Here at the window, warmed by the baseboard heat, I think of the invisible trellis that lazes above Karen and Richard. How it traps me like the web of an incontinent spider that no longer eats but spins because it has yet to learn how not to be. Ninety, Richard said. What a jazzy old lady I will learn to be by ninety. Even without surprise whistles, yes, what a great old lady I’ll be. I can’t bring myself to deface the stone. Instead, I use Richard’s Swiss-army knife to stab the grass above Malson’s bones and leave the blade buried there. Barry Dinerman’s plays have been seen in Seattle, New York City, and Philadelphia. An Edward F. Albee Foundation fellowship supported many efforts. Dinerman wrote scripts for TV GUIDE and published work in The Wall Street Journal. Selections from his prose were recently performed by Philadelphia Readers Theater. Flourtown is home.

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Meet the Ros emont Wri ters ’ Retreat Facul ty B y Carl a Spataro Philadelphia Stories is proud to announce its participation in the first annual Rosemont Writers’ Retreat. This intensive weeklong workshop promises to be an inspiring event for writer’s of all levels. We thought that it might be fun to ask this year’s faculty a few questions. Usually, interviewers ask authors about craft and process, and that’s all very interesting, but we decided to borrow a few of those now infamous questions from James Lipton and Bernard Pivot (all inspired by Marcel Proust).

Úrsula Iguarán from 100 Years of Solitude.

Below is a sampling of the responses we received from our faculty (see complete interviews on www.philadelphiastories.org).

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Actually, I really love this one. I spent years in corporate life, so I know how lucky I am to be a teacher.

Tom Coyne, Creative Non-Fiction Who is your favorite fictional character? Godot. Just in case.

What is your favorite virtue? Sticktoitiveness. Straight from the New Millenium Webster. That word should be a choice on the SAT, and anyone who picks it shouldn’t be allowed to go to college. Elizabeth Abrams-Morley, Poetry Who are your favorite fictional characters? I always liked the brave girls, the feisty women who bend rules—Shaw’s Eliza Doolittle, Alcott’s Jo March. I’m still attracted to those characters in contemporary fiction. My first favorite character ever was Charlotte from Charlotte‘s Web. She’s still a hero of mine, considering the way White describes her as a “true friend and a good writer.” Gregory Frost, Fiction What are your favorite virtues? Are we talking about a virtue I possess? If so, I fear I lean much more toward Mordred as he sings in Camelot: “Those seven deadly virtues, those ghastly little traps, oh no, my liege, they were not meant for me...” If I’m supposed to pick from the seven listed in the Psychomachia, I would select diligence, because I think no writer can get anywhere without it. Diligence is the succinct way of saying, “Butt in chair.” I would like to develop the virtue of patience, but I fear the sand is running the other way on that one as I get older. Liz Corcoran, Fiction Who are your favorite fictional characters? Lately, I’ve been smitten with Francis Abernathy from Donna Tartt’s The Secret History and I’ve had an ongoing obsession with Severus Snape from Harry Potter. But if I had to pick a favorite, it would be Charles Carter from Carter Beats the Devil by Glen David Gold. He’s this amazingly sympathetic combination of deep inse10 curity and absolute bravado. And it doesn’t hurt that I have a magician fetish....which reminds me, I quite like the sock monkey narrator in Penn Jilette’s Sock, as well. Janice Wilson Stridick, Yoga Who are your favorite fictional characters? Recently, my favorite fictional character was Jamila in Hanif Kureishi’s Buddha of Suburbia, though past faves have included a wide range from Stuart Little to Scout (Harper Lee’s) and Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ amazing

What is your favorite virtue? My favorite virtue is grace, in all of its many meanings. Anne Kaier, Poetry Who would you like to see on a new banknote? Elvis.

Charles Holdefer, Fiction Who would you like to see on a new banknote? A moose, a grizzly, the Brooklyn or Golden Gate Bridge—something suggesting purple mountains’ majesty or the Golden Door and all that. Enough presidents and statesmen already. Catherine Stine, Young Adult Fiction Who would you like to see on a new banknote? The Mad Hatter, one of the most charismatic children’s book characters with his top hat and monocle, would be perfect on a banknote. He is emblematic of the fast pace of Wonderland, and America with his “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date!” Margie Strosser, Screenwriting Who is your favorite fictional character? Tony Soprano because he is so far from knowing himself and so powerful.

What is your favorite virtue? The theological virtues — love, hope, faith. Curtis Smith Who is your favorite fictional character? George Bailey.

What is your favorite virtue? A long memory. Elise Juska Who is your favorite fictional character? Quoyle in Annie Proulx’s The Shipping News.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Flutist and/or Jeopardy! Clue writer

Carla Spataro is the fiction editor/co-publisher of Philadelphia Stories and the program director of the Rosemont Writers’ Retreat. For more information about the retreat, or to register online, please visit www.rosemont.edu/ writers or email rwr@rosemont.edu.

Úrsula Iguarán from 100 Years of Solitude.

Below is a sampling of the responses we received from our faculty (see complete interviews on www.philadelphiastories.org).

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Actually, I really love this one. I spent years in corporate life, so I know how lucky I am to be a teacher.

Tom Coyne, Creative Non-Fiction Who is your favorite fictional character? Godot. Just in case.

What is your favorite virtue? My favorite virtue is grace, in all of its many meanings. Anne Kaier, Poetry Who would you like to see on a new banknote? Elvis.

What is your favorite virtue? The theological virtues — love, hope, faith. Curtis Smith Who is your favorite fictional character? George Bailey.

What is your favorite virtue? A long memory. Elise Juska Who is your favorite fictional character? Quoyle in Annie Proulx’s The Shipping News.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Flutist and/or Jeopardy! Clue writer

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e was not the one disfigured in youth, the one who rose to fame, the one whose story has been told in books and film. He was not the celebrated architect, Louis I. Kahn. He was Lou’s brother, Oscar, a man whose unsung life was unexpectedly cut short, a man I never met but for whom I was named. He was my grandfather, and after all these silent, shadowy years, his faded image is starting to clear. I never wondered much about my grandfather. The snippets I had collected here and there told me all I needed to know: he was an artist, a composer, an adman who died of a massive heart attack at forty-two. Black and white photos depicted a dapper figure who shared a sweet smile with my mother and looked nothing like the rumpled, impish, white-haired uncle I’d occasionally see at family gatherings. As far as I was concerned, my grandfather was an opaque ghost of the past. It was enough to know that his name, like mine, began with an O. But some ghosts can only remain quiet for so long. Restless and aching, they break through the veil and seek a voice, a means of relaying what they couldn’t or didn’t have time to say. When my grandmother died at the age of one hundred, she left behind a packet of fifty or so letters dating from 1942 to 1945, the year of my grandfather’s death. Most were sent to my grandmother, Rosella, from Stockton, California, where my grandfather was starting a new business. A few were addressed to his son, Alan, a Navy midshipman who was serving in the Pacific theater. All reveal a man of intelligence, wit and startling passion. An idealist sobered by the war. A poet who, unlike his brother, chose family over art.

Oscar and Rosella

Ona Russell, Oscar's granddaughter and author

Oscar Kahn I began to notice my grandfather’s traits as I traced his delicate script with my fingers. The scrolling black ink was as refined as the face in the photographs. Evenly proportioned though somewhat constrained, each word began and ended with a soft, looping flourish. The elegant, forward-slanting hand suggested a delight in the very act of writing combined with a sense of resignation that also threaded through the content of the letters.

In a letter to Alan, for example, my grandfather tempers his anxiety with pragmatism: Your telling me not to worry doesn’t work so well—it seems that I am constantly thinking about you—where you are and what you are doing… The fact remains—we are at War— and you are in it up to the neck, which I hope you will use to balance a head which in turn will house a brain clear enough to control a fighting heart— a steady hand—or pair of hands—and by no means should you let those flat feet of yours get

you into trouble or lead you away from helping your fellow mate. Here, too, is an example of what I came to see as my grandfather’s characteristic humor, a purposeful, linguistic playfulness that no doubt served him well in the advertising business. The family has always maintained that Oscar invented the commercial jingle, at least in Stockton where he wrote for Crispy Potato Chips and Gallo Wines. In any case, he certainly seemed to have a knack for the genre. When I was a kid, my mother taught me one of his songs, and I’ve never forgotten it: “You’re my sweetie, sweetie, sweetie, sweetie, sweetie-pie, you’re the apple, apple, apple, apple, apple of my eye,

Oscar and Rosella

you’re my funny little honey bunny and that’s why, I’m in love with you.” The other verses go much the same, and the poems that pepper his letters are of a similar ilk. To Alan again he writes: “We’re both going around in circles, wonderin’ how you are, wishin’ for sure unknown miracles to bring you from afar.” No, the poetry is not complex, but my grandfather bore the sensibility of a poet. Amidst the quotidian concerns he expresses to my grandmother is the introspection which defines that sensibility: Here I am again and just a little more on the blue side—or is it lonesome or what is it? To try and describe how it feels would be next to worth-

less. You just can’t find words for it—it seems to bear down on you and wear you out. I am empty and it is not for want of food. And then: So here I am—enough time on my hands— surrounded by movies and such—but I find myself—alone—among a turmoil of people who keep rushing by—Really, I didn’t think that there could be so many people whom I didn’t know. Although some of the passages are downright silly, with stick figures and other child-like sketches standing in for words, even these and the countless dashes in the letters suggest his poetic side, his search for a symbol to best represent the idea he was attempting to express. Ultimately, his overarching mood is that of a thinker-poet seeking

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Oscar and Rosella

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Hand & Hip By Courtney Bambrick The thin wisp of warmth evaporates after a moment, gone until a small breath catches you in whatever place it is that sends the five fingers and smooth palm of your hand surfing through sheets and back to rest on the cool rising dough of my hip. Small then, 14

the house; and large, the room in which we battle cold. Courtney Bambrick worked in theater as both a costumer and an administrator until enrolling in Rosemont College’s MFA writing program. She is originally from the Philadelphia area, but attended Kenyon College in Gambier, Ohio and lived in Galway and Waterford, Ireland. Her work has appeared in Parlor, Philadelphia Poets, Mad Poets Review, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and the University of the Arts Poetry Review.

the ever-elusive meaning of life. As I read of his quest, I felt for him, wished I could see into his soft, brown eyes, reassuringly touch his long tapered hand. Did he ever feel cheated? Resent that his talent was underappreciated? Did he feel that his smooth, unscarred face ironically made him a son less favored? Perhaps. But I have no doubt that my grandfather found what he was looking for, if only for a short time. Not in his jingles, poems or drawings, but in his children, and especially in my grandmother: “And how I miss those kids. I don’t believe it of me—I didn’t realize how much I would until now—I’m really human and fatherly at last… My darling—all the money in the world isn’t worth one hour of separation—but only after you’ve been away do you realize it.” The distance between them seemed to clarify his feelings for my grandmother in particular, to whom he had been married for nearly twenty years. Oscar repeatedly expresses his unabashed passion for her both philosophically and sensually. In one letter he writes: “A wife to me is an inspiration to share my grief and to expound unto her the glory I find in a sunset—the rapture I see in the outline of a mountain range at dusk—with its peaks, cloudy with snow.” And in another, The thrill of sharing the indescribable ecstasy of body with body, of thought with thought, of soul with soul in a treasured few moments of physical love—and then the heavenly calm in each others arms afterwards, knowing the sweetness of each other till the break of another day and to look forward to another moment together—my heart or my arms could clutch you, as near as my hands, my finger tips touch you. Some of the letters are so personal, so intimate, that I felt a bit of a voyeur, not to mention envious of the attention my grandfather showered upon his wife. I have always considered myself a hopeless romantic, entranced as I am with 1940s melodramas and brooding love songs. Maybe, I thought, I have finally glimpsed the source. The genetic code runs deep.

But my grandfather’s epiphany about the importance of my grandmother also seemed tied to his prescience about an early demise: “The only thing that is certain is death,” he writes, omitting the part about taxes. “But fate—Darling— you figure it out—the way things begin—the way they develop—the way they materialize—all like a pattern set and meant to be—regardless of what we do—what we want or what we feel is right—It just happens.” And then, too, my grandfather repeatedly talked of his life in narrative terms, possibly a way of distancing himself from his intuition that the end was near: Loneliness is a word I’ll never know to its fullest meaning with our story—our story lives with me—every moment it’s like a friendly hand touching my shoulder.…You do love me darling, don’t you—? Never stop telling me—over and over again until— Until their story ended when Oscar died one New Year’s Eve in my grandmother’s arms. It ended, but my grandfather will not been forgotten. For wedged among the letters was a telegram with a brief, strange, commanding plea: “Remember my story.” And so I have. His brother built soaring edifices, but my grandfather built a family. His brother is known far and wide, but now I know Oscar. And knowing him as I do, I feel much as he did when he wrote to my grandmother all those years ago, telling her what her letters meant to him: To take them apart—I can see your writing them word for word and thought for thought. Each little emotion is set just like a precious stone in a rich setting—and they come to me— sparkling.

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15 Ona Russell holds a PhD in literature from UC San Diego. She writes and lectures nationally on the topic of Literature and the Law and is a published novelist. Her new historical mystery, THE NATURAL SELECTION, will be released this spring from Sunstone Press. She lives in Solana Beach, California with her husband and has two grown children. For more information, please visit www.onarussell.com.

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LOCAL AUTHOR PROFILE

By Aimee LaBrie

terror of living with her unknown captor, trying to uncover the reason for the crime and, perhaps most significantly, struggling to make sense of her own life, her anxieties, and her identity as a wife and a mother. Standing Still received advanced praise from Entertainment’s Weekly, which credited the novel for having “invigorating prose” and Publisher’s Weekly in a starred review naming the story “an electrifying debut” and “the perfect read for a stormy night.” And Philadelphia Stories was fortunate enough to publish excerpts of the novel in our premiere issue.

ly personal or autobiographical. How has Q: Can you think of any writing missteps this translated into your own novels? that actually taught you something important about the process? For years, I avoided the personal — but when something comes from the gut it sears on the page. I think that’s the difference in the novel that finally got published—Standing Still. It has a raw quality to it that comes from honesty—I gave the main character one of my afflictions—panic attacks.

My first book with my first agent was “sold” and then “unsold” in one weeks’ time. Someone tendered an offer and then had to withdraw it because her boss hadn’t approved it. So I went from champagne joy to beer sorrow in just a few days. But ultimately, that person’s boss rejected it because she Q: Could you say a little something about found the whole premise of the book to be unbethe challenges you had in getting an agent lievable. It all hinged on one person’s action that and what allowed you do continue to submit she didn’t buy.

your work despite the difficulty? When asked about her success and her approaches to writing, Ms. Simmons showed herself to be as honest and engaging in her interview as she is in her prose.

Q: What got you started writing fiction? I’ve always been good at writing — but it took me a long time to sort out what kind of writing I should pursue. I didn’t write a lot of fiction in college or my 20s, like most people. Journalism was my first calling but I did not have a good relationship with truth. It became clearer that I preferred to make things up!

Like most writers, novelist Kelly Simmons admits to having some anxieties. But instead of letting them get the better of her, she has found a way to translate them into a haunting and compelling novel of tension and self-discovery. Standing Still, Simmons debut novel, describes the ordeal of journalist Claire Cooper, who suddenly finds that her anxieties have a real world focus. When an intruder breaks into her home and attempts to kidnap her sleeping daughter, Claire immediately offers herself instead. For the next several days, she will face the

Q: How do you juggle your writing life with your every day responsibilities? What works best for me is getting writing done first. I try to get up early and write for a few hours before the workday kicks in and people start calling me.

Q: You mention on your blog (bykellysimmons.com) that one way to get motivated for writing is to include something intense-

Q: Where do you get your material/ideas? When you know you can write (and it’s the only How do you manage to sustain an interest in thing I ever knew for certain about myself) no one’s the characters and plot in each novel? opinion can take that away from you. Finding an agent can get very needle-in-a-haystackish. It’s a weird process that alternates between feeling like computer dating, a mass direct mail campaign, and total serendipity.

Q: What authors do you enjoy reading?

For me, a book starts with a certain kind of character in a situation or setting. I see that lead person first. Sometimes I just sit and brainstorm, sometimes something in the paper sparks something, and sometimes another person tells me a story about a friend or relative that makes me think whoa, I’d like to know more about that.

I read and love a lot of modern authors, like Anne Beattie, Jane Hamilton, and John Irving. But I’ve Q: Can you tell us a little more about sponsoring probably learned the most, in terms of style, from the “Philadelphia Stories First Person Contest” that focuses on first-person essays featuring studying F. Scott Fitzgerald. women triumphing over domestic violence or Q: What’s the best writing advice you can mental illness?

offer for individuals embarking on starting For years, I promised the universe that if I ever got his or her first novel? If you write two pages a day, your first draft will be done in six months. But make sure you’re writing the right book. Is the premise original? Do the characters yearn for something? Is the plot and setting something you can fill a book with, and not just a short story?

published, I would share that good fortune by helping someone else who needed it. The lead character in Standing Still has history of domestic violence, so I chose that as a theme and started building a donation program around it. I’m doing the contest, and donating a percentage of the books’ advance and subsequent sales to a domestic violence outreach center.

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By Aimee LaBrie

your work despite the difficulty? When asked about her success and her approaches to writing, Ms. Simmons showed herself to be as honest and engaging in her interview as she is in her prose.

Q: You mention on your blog (bykellysimmons.com) that one way to get motivated for writing is to include something intense-

Q: What authors do you enjoy reading?

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STANDING STILL (NOVEL EXCERPT)

n all things, I blame the husband. Women who sleep with teenage boys, women who shoplift collectibles, Yes. Their rotten husbands drove them to it. And that is why, when the kidnapper cracks open our new skylight like an oyster and slithers in, I don’t blame the defective latch, the alarm system, or the thin bronze shell of the new tin roof. The dotted line of fault doesn’t lead to my architect or contractor or engineer. And oddly, lastly, I do not blame my intruder. And that explains everything that follows, doesn’t it? I am angrier at my flawed ambitious husband than the man who crouches among my daughter’s stuffed animals. I stand at the top of our stairs with the portable phone in my hand, my thumb on the button that should produce dial tone, and doesn’t. Now there is no other sound but pounding heart and pouring rain. He is here, and He is smarter than I imagined. I should have been happy. The renovations were nearly complete. I had what I wanted, my maze of hickory floors and cage of pale earth walls. But in the kitchen, my new French windows rattled in their open frames, as if they knew something foreign was already roaring across the crisp gardens and green backyards. I walked from room to room. I kept checking the burnished latches in my daughters’ rooms upstairs. Re-locking, re-tucking. A mother or a warden? Jordan, my baby, was curled into her Raggedy Ann, blond silk hair against bright red yarn. Next door, Julia’s mop of curls were almost indistinguishable against our Maine coon cat, Willis. Across the hall, Jamie was asleep with her finger holding her place in her book.

I slipped it out of her hand, went back downstairs. I was wearing a path on the new Berber carpet, but couldn’t see it yet. My footprints would appear to me later, with enough time and close attention, like the shape of things only visible from the sky. As the storm came inland, I gathered candles, matches, flashlights, laundry to fold, old mail to open, and spread it out in the den. I bit my nails in front of movies I knew the endings to. I let myself worry during the commercials. Every flash and boom in the sky was an assumption: that the lightning would find whatever was metallic and brittle in me. On the television, Hugh Grant carried Sandra Bullock through traffic. I couldn’t find the scissors—art project? School poster?--so I opened a Neiman’s package with my teeth. Inside were three floral bathing suits for the girls and the pink silk nightgown I’d ordered to surprise Sam. The gown looked impossibly skimpy in my lap. I slipped off my tank top and shorts and pulled it on without bothering to close the shutters. The bodice was as tight as a pair of hands. But the silk brushing against my legs was intoxicating after my cottony week. I fell into it like a hotel bed, allowing myself. I slept. They’d installed the new skylight the day before, but Sam hadn’t seen it yet; he was off somewhere again, gone three or four days—I couldn’t remember which--

to somewhere. Golf outing, conference? I knew all I needed to know: that someone was serving him steak and fetching him towels, and I was home sorting his socks. At two a.m. something hits the roof and I wake up. Shaking, I go to the kitchen and wrestle with the childproof bottle of Xanax. The wind picks up, flinging small branches on the noisy new tin roof above me. The pill finally gets swallowed through my tears. I’m not the kind of person who can live in a noisy house. A small but hard noise makes it way through my sniffing. I look up, as if the answer is written on the ceiling. It comes again, and I start to replace negative thoughts with positive ones. People don’t break into houses on nights like this. It’s the wind. It’s squirrels on the new tin roof. As I say the word ‘tin’, something above me snaps, then shat-

ters. Not squirrels, I know in my bones. The portable phone blinks on the other side of the room. The tongue and groove is silent as I move to it, but my limbs rattle in their sockets. On the landing, I stare into Jamie’s bedroom across the jungle of stuffed animals against one wall. I smell rain, damp cotton, leather. His boots, I will think later. His wet shirt. I imagine He can hear me shaking in the doorway, molars like maracas in my mouth. Finally I make out the contours of His face and eyes, human skin among the plush bears and nylon-lashed dolls that line Jamie’s floor. I shake but do not gasp, do not scream. Of course He is there; I expected Him, I heard Him coming for years, each night when Sam left me alone with my obsessions. I conjured Him, fear by fear, bone by bone until He showed himself. The plush zoo muffles our sharp breathing, my heart pounding. I don’t dare cast my eyes in my daughter’s direction, don’t want to point her out to Him. I feel her sleeping, hear her soft breathing, out of rhythm with His and mine. I look only at Him. It is beyond intimate: past sharing a bathroom, past putting your child’s bloody finger in your mouth. He stares at me. I stare back. He holds a finger to His lips, a warning, and glides soundlessly, on cat burglar feet, to Jamie’s canopy bed. “No,” I cry, but it comes out mangled and small. He scoops her up and though she is groggy she looks oddly comfortable draped in His arms. I drop to my knees and utter the only fearless words I have ever spoken: “Take me,” I say. “Take me instead.” I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t completely relieved when He did.

Standing Still is available wherever books are sold. To find an independent bookstore near you, visit booksense.com To read Kelly’s excerpt, Skylight, published by Philadelphia Stories before she sold the novel, visit www.philadelphiastories.org.

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Crow in a Puddle By Brian Patrick Heston A city boy, I was used to potholes filled with rainwater. But this was Durham New Hampshire. A single crow splashed like a kid in a plastic pool. He went under, came up, spreading his sparkling wings. I stood stupefied like someone watching Christ go by on a donkey. In the middle of Mill Road, a deer’s halfdevoured face gaped. I cleared my throat. Wind shuddered birches and maples. Crow gave me a look, pushed up his razor beak—lifting again into the cloud-clogged sky. Brian Patrick Heston grew up in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He has an MFA from George Mason University and also a Master’s in English and Poetry from the University of New Hampshire. His work has appeared in Pennsylvania English, Confrontation, Slipstream, Cake Train, Poetry Southeast, West Branch, Many Mountains Moving, The Bitter Oleander, and is upcoming in Gargoyle. He currently teaches at the Art Institute of Washington and Marymount University in Arlington Virginia.

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PS BOOKS: REGIONAL PUBLISHING, NATIONAL VOICE PHILADELPHIA STORIES LAUNCHES NEW BOOK DIVISION One of our goals at Philadelphia Stories is to find new ways to grow our community of writers and readers. We started with a free magazine that reaches over 15,000 readers throughout the Philadelphia area every quarter. We expanded into professional development programs that provide opportunities for writers of all experience levels. The next logical step seemed to be to create a small, boutique book publisher that will take Philadelphia Stories’ voice to a national audience. Enter: PS Books..

PS Books will publish literary and commercial fiction, nonfiction and anthologies with a preference for, but not limited to, the Delaware Valley. PS Books is a division of Philadelphia Stories (www.philadelphiastories.org), the nonprofit literary magazine and companion website that publishes literary fiction, poetry, and art from PANJ-DE and provides it to the general public free of charge. PS Books will distribute its titles nationally. The catalog will include:

The Best of Philadelphia Stories: The Best of Philadelphia Stories anthologizes the work of new and established writers from the Philadelphia region. Encompassing fiction, poetry and personal essays, the collection has garnered glowing reviews from all of Philadelphia’s newspapers of record, and has been described by

The Philadelphia Inquirer as “A Collection That Loves You Back.” The volume features work by such awardwinning authors as Greg Downs, Aimee LaBrie, Curt Smith and Kathy Anderson. (Retail $11.95)

Fall 2008 Broad Street by Christine Weiser: This debut novel follows the fictive all-girl underground rock-group, Broad Street, through the highs and lows of struggling for success in the male-dominated Philadelphia rock scene. When Kit Greene and Margo Bevilacqua make a drunken pact to form a band with the sole purpose of outshining the musical men in their lives, they have no idea what awaits them: gigs in seedy bars, obsessed fans, threats from a stalker, parties with biker gangs, and a seemingly endless quest to secure a steady drummer. (Retail: $17.95)

Spring 2008 The Singular Exploits of Wonder Mom and Party Girl by Marc Schuster: Audrey Corcoran never dreamed she’d try cocaine, but a year after a bitter divorce, she meets a man named Owen Little who convinces her that a little buzz might be exactly what she needs to lift her spirits. And why not? He’s already turned her on to jazz, and no one in his circle of hip, sophisticated friends ever thinks twice about getting high. Soon, however, her escalating drug use puts a strain on Audrey’s relationship with her daughters, and she begins to sell cocaine from her home in order to subsidize her habit. At turns horrifying and hilarious, The Singular Exploits of Wonder Mom and Party Girl offers a scathing indictment of American consumer culture and the wildly conflicting demands it

makes upon women. (Retail: $18.95) By Any Other Name Essay Collection: CALL FOR ENTRIES Imagine growing up with a name like Ben Franklin in modern-day Philadelphia. Not a day goes by when someone doesn’t do a double-take upon glancing at your signature or make a joke about how shocked you must have been when you invented electricity. But beyond the smirks and stale jokes, you have a full, rich life that no one seems to care about because they can’t get past your name—until now! PS Books is putting together a collection of essays, Philadelphia Stories’ new books division, we are putting together a collection of essays and photographs documenting the lives of Philadelphia’s namesakes — and we need your help to do it. What we’re looking for are people from the Philadelphia region who share names with celebrities and historical figures. Do you know a William Shakespeare? A Michael Jordan? A Marie Antoinette? If so, send them our way! Or better yet, are you a Thomas Jefferson? A Jane Eyre? A Margaret Thatcher? If so, we’d love to tell your story! If you or a namesake you know would be interested in sitting down for a chat with one of our writers and allowing us to take a few photographs for inclusion in our book, please drop us a line at: editor@philadelphiastories.org. PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY BEFORE JUNE 1, 2008 AND RECEIVE A 25% DISCOUNT! Check out: www.philadelphiastories.org

NEW FROM LOCAL AUTHORS

The Philadelphia Inquirer as “A Collection That Loves You Back.” The volume features work by such awardwinning authors as Greg Downs, Aimee LaBrie, Curt Smith and Kathy Anderson. (Retail $11.95)

NEW FROM LOCAL AUTHORS

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Girls Night In (edited by Lauren Henderson, Chris Manby and Sarah Mynowski). Turn off your cell phone and uncork a bottle Pinot, Girls Night In is the perfect companion any night of the week. This collection features short stories from today’s best selling authors including Sophie Kinsella (Confessions of a Shopaholic), Meg Cabot (The Princess Diaries series) and Jennifer Weiner (Good in Bed). From a misievous party planner to a wanna-be cat lady, these characters and their stories of redemption, revenge, vindication and love will make you believe that anything’s possible long after you close the book. Proceeds from the book support War Child, a foundation that provides aid for children. affected by war. (Red Dress Ink, 2005) — Sandy Farnan

What would you do if your dad was killed under some suspicious circumstances and your mom moves your brother and you into a trailer park with her new boyfriend? In Joe Meno’s first novel, Tender as Hellfire the narrator, Dough, takes the reader through his journey as he learns to deal with ridicule, dishonor and despair. In Meno’s next novel, Hairstyles of the Damned, the reader is introduced to Brian who is in love with his punk rock best friend Gretchen. This book, which is part of the Barnes and Noble Great New Writers Program, takes an unapologetic look at growing up as a young misunderstood boy in Chicago during the time when teens would make mixed tapes in order to profess their undying love for their latest crush. (Akashic Books) — Michelle Wittle

National Book Award winner Alice McDermott’s most recent novel, After This, again explores her territory: Irish-Catholics on Long Island in the 1950s. The Keane family endures a lifetime of events - birth, war, separation, death - which mirror the social changes of the 50s, 60s and 70s. In After This, McDermott experiments with form (each chapter covers a different point-of-view), which can seem episodic, but which paints a full portrait of the Keanes, with the precision, humor and insight that led “The New Yorker” to call her “one of American fiction’s preeminent realists.” (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006) – Joanne Green For a look at some new titles from small presses, check out www.smallpressreviews.blogspot.com

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