Posted: Monday, September 17, 2012 in Uncategorized
Tags: Charlie Daly
Mrs. —–, in slippers and her late husband’s only suit, fries two steaks and feeds one, the better cut, to her shih tzu, named Hugo, who can’t bark but can rasp and sigh for the bloodied and price-tagged butcher-paper on the counter.
– Charlie Daly
Charlie Daly is 23 years old. He swims and lives in France. His work has appeared in: Grey Sparrow , Gloom Cupboard, Troubadour 21, a Year in Ink III & IV, Writers Bloc (Rutgers), and a few others. Find him at dalyprose.com.
I required wine
and you brought two bottles to the beach,
where I undressed you
the common way—imagining it.
You lodged yourself
in the way of some fantasies,
blocking my view of the north side of Paris.
You were the color of almonds
almost burnt in a dry pan,
but you could not rival Paris.
– Jasmine V. Bailey
Jasmine V. Bailey is Web Editor for 32 Poems and was the 2010 O’Connor creative writing fellow at Colgate University. Her chapbook, Sleep and What Precedes It, is available from Longleaf Press and her book-length manuscript, Alexandria, is forthcoming from Carnegie Mellon.
Posted: Wednesday, June 27, 2012 in Uncategorized
I will stop work on Bat Terrier on Oct. 1, 2012, although I will leave the site up until the site name comes up for renewal. If you would like to submit to Bat Terrier, please do so by Sept. 1, 2012. Submissions will close permanently as of Sept. 2, 2012.
They took away my hands and gave me gloves.
Then they said: “Make something of yourself.”
George Such is an English graduate student at Western Washington University in Bellingham, Washington. In a previous incarnation he was a chiropractor for 27 years in eastern Washington. Besides reading and writing, he enjoys hiking, cooking, and traveling, especially to India and Southeast Asia. His poetry has been published in Arroyo Literary Review, Blue Earth Review, Cold Mountain Review, Dislocate, and many other journals.
The secret of it all, is to write in the gush, the throb, the flood, of the moment – to put things down without deliberation – without worrying about their style – without waiting for a fit time or place. I always worked that way. I took the first scrap of paper, the first doorstep, the first desk, and wrote – wrote, wrote…By writing at the instant the very heartbeat of life is caught.
– Walt Whitman
(with thanks to John Winokur’s always excellent Advice to Writers site.)
Posted: Monday, June 11, 2012 in Fiction
Tags: Dawn Vogel, Doll
Stephanie knew she was alone. Everyone else was dead—her parents, her brother, and even her cat. The matryoshka dolls that looked like each member of the family showed how they had died. All except for one.
Stephanie examined every surface of the unblemished doll. The dim light that spilled into the hallway caught a new shine on the painted surface. A trickle of red flowed from the doll’s left temple. Light glinted off her father’s handgun at the foot of the steps. She was certain it hadn’t been there when she had come downstairs.
Stephanie turned and fled.
– Dawn Vogel
Dawn Vogel has been published as a non-fiction editor and as a short fiction writer. She has been published recently in Cobalt City Timeslip and Cobalt City Dark Carnival, both available from Timid Pirate Publishing (http://timidpirate.com). She works as a historical researcher, traveling and seeing the sights all over the country with her nose buried in dusty old records. In her alleged spare time, she runs a craft business, helps officiate roller derby, and tries to find time for writing. She lives in Seattle with her awesome husband (and fellow author), Jeremy Zimmerman, and their herd of cats.
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss. But it had to go through its own lack of answers, through terrifying silence, through the thousand darknesses of murderous speech. It went through. It gave me no words for what was happening, but went through it. Went through and could resurface, ‘enriched’ by it all.
– Paul Celan, 1958
I sleep cold at low tide,
back to a naked beach
opening herself to the Pacific.
I own no Nook, cell phone, boat,
wear old jeans, rag coat –
sift trash, eat molded cheese,
ketchup packs from burger sacks,
fallen fruit off condo trees.
I text my name in water, on sand,
under a moonless sky, pee hate
through the graveyard gate
when headstones tug at my thighs.
– Timothy Pilgrim
Timothy Pilgrim, a Montanan and journalism professor at Western Washington University in Bellingham, is a Pacific Northwest poet with over 130 published poems. His work has found a home at journals such as Seattle Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Windfall and Meadowland Review, as well as anthologies such as “Idaho’s poets: A Centennial Anthology” (University of Idaho Press). Google him or go to timothypilgrim.org.
Posted: Tuesday, June 5, 2012 in Commonplace Book, Creativity, Fiction, Innovation, Narrative, Novel, On Writing
Tags: Art of Fiction, James Santel, Jonathan Franzen, Los Angeles Review of Books
…you owe it to your readers to set yourself the most difficult challenge that you have some hope of being equal to. With every book, you have to dig as deep as possible and reach as far as possible. And if you do this, and you succeed in producing a reasonably good book, it means that the next time you try to write a book, you’re going to have to dig even deeper and reach even farther, or else, again, it won’t be worth writing.
– Jonathan Franzen, from Farther Away
(and see James Santel’s excellent review of Farther Away)
Posted: Monday, June 4, 2012 in Uncategorized
The pressures of completing a graduate degree have caused me to fall behind with Bat Terrier. My apologies. Look for new Bat Terrier articles on a regular schedule beginning in mid-June.
Best / Joe Ahearn / majordomo, Bat Terrier