Jockey Underwear
WHO CAN IMAGINE being in the saddle? Its soft leather contours, the supportive rump, the smooth horn you can hold onto. The vast security that almost contrasts with the random stains to white cotton, as if you’d been splashing through mud, or battling branches and upsetting the yolks of newly laid eggs with the reinforced supports.

That the underwear lets you breathe is the claim, and so you imagine riding breakneck on an unshorn heath, but once in the woods air is trapped.

​And the hemorrhoids the underwear absorbs with a double thickness of cotton at the crotch almost allows you to bleed with freedom and no longer worry about your clothing. You are naturally sedentary, so being up in the saddle should be natural.

The mount beneath you takes all this in stride. You pull the reins on her when you feel too much bleeding, as if the bit in her mouth, the bridle, acts as a ligation on your own backside that hugs the saddle as you squat rounding the bend.

And your other body processes are squeezed off as you get deeper into the heat of the race. In fact, you forget the staining and imagine instead the prize. The beautiful girl at the end with her horseshoe of roses to drape round you in the winner’s circle.

You feel beads of sweat forming as the elastic band hugs your waist. You bend lower on her, hug her neck, clasp her belly with your thighs, spur her on to keep up with the rest.

So proud of her are you, the blond mane blowing in your face, the rich chestnuts, the stainless white teeth when she whinnies, pleased at her morning sugar cube she noses for in your pocket. You try not to notice the green bubbles, the alfalfa stains, and concentrate on the pink beauty of her lips and the gray of her velvety nostrils, those hot air vents that raise the temperature all around her.

In fact, you are even half-attracted to the comforting warmth of her manure as the steam rises in the peaceful atmosphere of the stable. It makes you think of your white underwear, and her teeth playfully pulling at them, pacifying the fears you have about yourself. You always marveled at the continent types who could wear white pants. Though you’d have to admit you never got a close look at them, since the brightness always kept you away.

How the whitest teeth and underwear come together always bemused you as you hug her. But the next moment you are being passed on the outside!

“No one is going to pass us, girl!”

She’s the prettiest, the fastest, you think, ever since you began wearing Jockey underwear, ever since you’ve starved yourself to settle atop of her, light as a feather, as if no one were there, only someone light-boned, barely attaining puberty, a wisp of a lad to give her all the added power she needs to keep up with the rest and surpass them down the stretch.

She is being passed on the turn and you “giddyup” for all you are worth, lean into her, become one with her powerful withers, her haunches. Like the most beautiful suspension bridge her vertebrae enables you finally to travel to yourself. You don’t want to use your switch, but know she likes it from time to time to show that you are the master.

She’s being passed and so you, bloody hemorrhoids aside, yellow stains aside, embrace her and kick her, dig down into her fur, putting out of your mind all thoughts of alfalfa gasses; your rowels prick her distended belly, her forelegs kick faster and her haunches pound the track numbing her to the pain in her sides. You don’t know if you are getting through to her, for she’s not yet making headway. Both horses for a moment seem at a standstill.

The horse on the outside is now nosing further ahead. You kick her for dear life. You can feel the skin being scraped raw, breaking, the fissures deepening. The blood in your own backside is oozing through the cotton shorts. You can feel the stain spreading. Your shoes seem slippery, your legs wet with her body fluids. She too must be bleeding, yet you keep kicking her, hugging her closer.

“Come on, girl, come on!” burying your face in her mane, like a tight fistful of lice you cling to her, hug her neck, her belly, until you are one magnificent galloping unit.

“Flee, girl, flee,” you yell to her, champing down through her fur to her skin to draw blood. Love bites that’ll get you both to the finish line pop into mind! You’ll be embarrassed for her neck.

Suddenly the strain, the tension atop her causes you to start to bleed faster, staining beyond your underwear. You imagine the saddle darkening, a pool of blood.

She must only be a filly, so why are you putting her through all of this? Why does she have to win each time, why do you have to hug her so for your personal victory? What’s won? Why a jockey anyway? For another day of imaginary protection in soft white underwear?

There is something lost about you in this underwear business, like Magritte and his jockey miles from a track racing through the woods. Why do you always have to end up with people cheering, nosing out the competition? Why can’t there be something grazing about wearing stainless white underwear? Something boll weevil, at least. Or a flower print instead of sordid stains on pure white, the fascist yellows, browns, reds that plague most all of us throughout the day with an unspeakable authority all their own.

But the alternative travels in your blood and has you going into training, hidden in a camp in the Catskills in upstate New York with a whole entourage just when you are walking around on the street alone. You clench your fists over it, think of the lost protection of Jockey underwear. You are already sparring, worrying about the freedom between the legs, the dangling between jabs and uppercuts, the enormous vulnerability to low blows, not to mention the escaping body fluids. Where will they go when they trickle unhindered down your legs and are not absorbed by the soft cotton from Egypt? There will be no leather saddle to hide in for support, no belly to hug or kick to stabilize your own bloody backside. You will be alone on your own two feet before all those people. Not on a race track, but in a ring having to rely on your clenched fists and the lard on your chin, cheeks, and forehead to deflect blows, on the desperate whisperings of your trainer.

At least you won’t be sitting, except for spells between rounds, and so the strain of bleeding should not affect you. The cuts on the opponent’s face will draw attention away from the stains. But you know the tight fists can’t be good. The sphincters will suffer after all, and you’ll have to relax eventually, continue the leaking yellow incontinence you’ve had all your life, the bubbly gases that escape from the foods you’ve eaten, so demonstrably visible underwater. In the end you prefer the saddle, even if Jockey underwear doesn’t let your anatomy breathe.

​Boxer shorts you fear will give you entirely too much freedom, not to mention the added strain from always having to duck to avoid punches.

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​BIRD DOG
DAD’S SITTING NAKED at the kitchen table, covered only by a white lacy shawl. His forehead glistens with sweat and he stares out the window, pouting. He has the old floor vents on full blast, and I’m surprised he’s not dead from the heat. It’s a typical Santa Fé summer evening, still well into the eighties. I shut off the furnace and throw open a couple of windows.

“Heater’s on again, Dad. It’s August. Remember?”
“Get out of here, you bastard,” he says.
“Dad, it’s me. Reynold. Your son.”

He grabs the ends of the shawl and wraps it tighter around himself. He turns away from me and sticks up his nose. Today he’s Mercedes Madrid. She’s the mean one.

“Come on, Dad, take that damn thing off.”
“I’m waiting for José,” he says.
“I’m not sure he’s coming. Now get up. Let’s get some pants on.”

His gut has grown in the last year, rounder and lower, but his legs and arms are still skinny as ever. His years spent in tanning beds and under the high desert sun have kept him brown, though it’s turning grayish now. Ashy.

“José said he’d be here at twelve noon. Damn him all to hell.”
“There’s no José, Dad. Come on.” I reach for him. “What’s burning? And why does it smell like piss?”

He has the Magic Chef cranked to 450. Inside, a pair of his white undershorts—one of the men’s garments he still wears—lies flat on the top rack, placed with care, the ends stretched out. They’re yellowed and just starting to smoke.

“Why’d you put your damn shorts in the oven, Dad? Has Marjorie been here?”

I twist the dial back, grab some tongs, and pull out the shorts. They smolder under cold water, and I fling open the window above the sink to let the stink out. Weeds poke up from the flower box that hangs on the windowsill where Steve’s petunias used to grow and where a spider has taken over. Dad hasn’t been outside in a while. It’s better if he stays indoors.

His smug face makes me want to hurt him. It’s the same face he wore in court for his and Mom’s divorce. Steve, who back then we thought was only his best friend, waited outside the courtroom and turned away when Rob and I walked out, holding Mom. The way Steve went for Dad, helped him out of the building, everything made sense.

“I’m drying my lingerie,” he says. “For my date.”
“God damn it, Dad, this isn’t lingerie. You’re roasting your fucking underwear.”
“Who are you?”

I grab his shoulders and turn him toward me. His nakedness always shocks me. Marjorie calls more these days, needing my help. She can’t seem to do it alone, especially since he’s abandoned clothes. He’s slipped further since I was here last week. He’s more eight-year-old boy than eighty-two-year-old man.

“Okay, Mercedes. Listen: there is no José, you are not going on a date, and you do not put your shorts in the oven to dry them.”

He hums a tune I remember him singing when I was little. The words are something like, Johnny he’s a joker, he’s a bird.

He doesn’t budge. I leave him there to find a robe and decide it’s time to fire Marjorie. I dial Rob. He’s never in the mood to talk about Dad, but maybe today he’ll have some sympathy.

“It’s getting worse. Maybe we should put him in a facility.” I grab Dad’s robe from the hallway bathroom.
“Whatever you say,” Rob says.
“You do have a say in the matter.”
“No, not really. You’re the executor,” Rob says.

Rob holds onto the idea Dad loved me more. He teases me to this day about it, says I’m in charge because I was our fairy father’s favorite. Really, it was the state. Three years ago, APS called me after Mrs. Rogers next door called them. Steve had passed away the year before from a battle with lymphoma, and it wasn’t too long before Dad started to slip. The day I got the call, Dad had wrecked his shopping cart into Mrs. Rogers at Albertsons. He was in heels and screamed at her. The state later named me executor.

That’s what I get for being four minutes older.

“Why do you go through all the trouble, anyway? You’re not getting a dime of his money,” Rob says.
“His money’s going to his care. He needs someone, Rob.”
“Like I said: whatever you want to do is fine.”

In the late part of the summer after Rob and I finished college, we sat for the last time as a family at the dinner table, but we didn’t eat. Mom and Dad told us they were getting a divorce. Mom’s face was a permanent purple from all the crying, and Rob was the only one who addressed the issue head on. He said he never wanted to speak to Dad again and had no love for a cheater, even though they hadn’t told us why, or if there was any cheating going on at all. Rob wished Dad a long lonely life, then he got up and left. That very second, everything fell on me.

“Thanks for your input,” I say. “I’ll remember not to ask you again.”
“You’re welcome,” Rob says. “How’s Barbara? The kids?”
“Forget it.”

After Dad and Steve moved in together later that same year, I put up a wall. I hated the situation for at least ten years and talked to Dad maybe three times. Mom’s heart disease accelerated and my attention went to her. When she died and we had to let everyone know, I finally figured it took too much energy to hold in all that anger. Dad showed up at the services. He hugged me. We cried.

I began to visit him and Steve off and on after that. They got to know my wife, Barbara, and Dad was there when Trace was born. We felt something like a family again. In those rebuilding years, though, I still clutched to a tiny bit of rage—one last brick in my wall—for the new life Dad so easily took on. As I watch him slip away now, I can’t help but feel that brick still there—the interminable heaviness of it—and wonder if Rob hasn’t had the right idea all along.

Dad’s still at the table looking out the window with the stupid shawl on and now he’s crying. I drape the robe around him. I debate roughing him up, or maybe just toying with him. When exactly does it cross over into abuse?

“So, José stood you up again?”
“Yes. Second time this week,” he says.

His eyes have caved in and his cheeks sag more these days. From the side, he reminds me of Grandma Vásquez, his mother, when she was on her way out. She always had this combination of worry and apprehension in her eyes, as though someone was going to burst in and scare her. I never noticed how wide her forehead was until I saw it in her open casket. Dad’s forehead looks almost identical, but instead of the frizz job Hansen’s Mortuary did with Grandma’s hair, Dad’s bald.

“Well, we’ll have to just call him and see what the holdup is.”
“Don’t bother,” Dad says. “He’s a dog, anyway.”
“What do you mean? A dog?”

Dad looks at me with the Grandma face, and for a second I think he knows me again.
“Who did you say you are?”
“I’m Earl. Dr. Earl. Are you feeling okay, Mr. Madrid? Or is it Mrs. Madrid?”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“Dad, it’s me. Your son.”
“I don’t have a son.”
“You have two. Twins. Let’s get up and get you to bed.”

He shifts around in the chair and he leans forward, giving in. I lift him up, close his robe, and lead him down the hall. The place sparkles thanks to Marjorie, but every time I visit, something changes. Perfect rectangles of un-sun-bleached paint on blank walls mean he’s taken another picture down. Books end up in the bathtub; plates go tucked under the couch cushions. I found a set of forks in his old cowboy boots. In his room, a suit’s laid out on the bed.

“Is this what you meant to wear today?”
“That’s for José.”
“Here, sit down. Where were you two headed?”
“Mr. Steak.”
Mr. Steak’s been closed for decades. It’s now a yoga studio.

I remember the suit from a picture where he and Steve were dressed up for some formal event. They matched.
“Let’s put it away until tomorrow, okay?”

I hang the suit in his closet next to a row of dresses, closest to a maroon one. I slide the door shut, and his reflection in the mirrored panel stares back with the same pout. I want to push him, maybe slap him. I face him, feel that weight again, and tap the top of his shoulder instead.
There’s an old yearbook open on his nightstand. Boys in white dinner jackets and black bow ties and girls with low black drapes from shoulder to shoulder, all of them with big hair, smile up at the ceiling. In the left margin, an autograph from a young man with a deep brow and slick hair says, “To Bird Dog: Don’t ever change. Keep in touch. —José.”

I slam the book shut.
Dad cries. “Why didn’t he come?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t love you anymore.”
“What? Why?” Dad whimpers.
“We’re going to have to take you somewhere soon, Dad. To a home.”
“This is my home.”

He looks around the room with the Grandma Vásquez face again, this time more lost. He pats around on the bed for something; looks back at me, eyes still damp. “Why did you stop loving me?”

I know the man we used to call Dad is in there. The man that ran behind us, training wheels off. Same guy that talked to us about sex and girls and using our heads. My shoulders tense and his eyes dart away from mine. I look where he looks and see his reflection in the mirror again, and for just a second, I catch him. He hums the tune again.

“Stop, Mercedes. Please.”
“Get out of here.” He swats at me and I grab his wrist. I could break it with one twist. I lie his hand on his lap and turn toward his closet. I slide open the door and pull out the maroon dress and put it next to him.
“Here. We need to get you ready. For José.”
“Is he coming?”
“Yes. He’s going to meet us at Mr. Steak.”
 
 
BLACK ANGUS IS the closest thing to what Mr. Steak was. Probably a little brighter and cleaner. The hostess takes us to a quiet corner—my request—and I shake my head each time a staffer passes by and gives me the look.

Our server, Manny, stutters on drink orders he’s so distracted.

“He’ll have a Coke,” I say. “Water’s fine for me.”

I cut Dad’s steak and feed him a few bites. He loves the mashed potatoes. Always has. For our sixteenth birthday, Mom and Dad dragged Rob and me to Mr. Steak. We really just wanted to be dropped off somewhere, like Pizza Hut or the mall, but they refused. When Rob’s steak ca
me out, he cut into it like he was killing it. He tipped his plate on accident and the filet fell in his lap. We laughed so hard that Mom threw up a little bit in her mouth.

After our dinner, Manny sets the Sky-High Mud Pie on the table and Dad looks right past it. He has forgotten he ordered it, the same way he forgot about José. Hasn’t mentioned him once since we sat down. Maybe I’ll take the dessert to go and put it in Dad’s Frigidaire, where he’ll find it the next day. Or not at all. I think today will be the last day he’ll use his kitchen appliances.

​He takes a sip of his soda on his own and leans back, resting his head on the high-backed, cushioned booth. He clasps his white-gloved hands over his protruding belly covered in satiny red fabric. He rests his eyes. I consider yanking off the matching pillbox hat tilting jauntily on his bald head. But I leave it. I’m the one who dressed him. It’s best to keep him—and me—calm as long as possible. I’ll never see him like this again. At a restaurant, on a date, dressed to kill.

​The Egg
C. M. Chapman

The Captain of the Night Watch awoke drenched and terrified. It took a long minute to pull himself together, only to find he was still shaking. Of all the nightmares that had plagued him every night over the last few weeks, last night’s was the worst.
Last night, of course, was technically a misnomer since he had retired to bed in the early dawn, but the captain was still having some trouble with that distinction. Sleeping was properly a night-time activity in his mind. But the promotion to Captain of the Night Watch had come with the change in shift. Night was his day and day was his night now.

He stayed in bed for several minutes, trying to slow his heartbeat, trying to fool himself into believing that waking life would bring relief, and failing on both counts. He stared at the ceiling and wished that he could blame all of this on his change in work pattern. After all, he was coming off twenty years of humping a daytime beat through the Shell Heights market district, breaking up arguments, keeping disreputable merchants in check, and chasing pickpockets or children with stolen bread. It would be so much easier to think that the change in lifestyle had unhinged him and that none of it was real.
​
But that was not the case. Doom wasn’t just in his dreams. It awaited him, tonight, on the watch.
He had deserved that promotion, by the gods he had. And he’d needed it badly, with three children now to feed. Things were just starting to get easier and then-- this. He looked at the empty side of the down mattress. Mary would have been up for several hours now. The sky must have been overcast because the usual shadows of time were absent from the walls.  He guessed it was well before midday, hardly a rest for a man on the edge. He sighed and rolled himself from the bed. There would be no more sleeping after that dream. As he slipped into his britches he wondered which was worse, the impending horror of his shift tonight, slowly creeping toward him like some putrid, carnivorous worm, or the impending horror of his dreams, ready to spring on him like a wolf to his throat.

After last night, he figured it was a toss-up.

He shuffled into the house’s living area. This home was much nicer than their previous one, thanks to his promotion. The walls were of smooth clay and stone and the roof was nicely thatched. They still had to live with a dirt floor but at least it was level and didn’t get wet when it rained.

Mary had already fetched the water, effectively ruining the captain’s plan to make himself useful. She was nowhere to be seen, which meant she was probably at the market. The captain altered his plan and decided to go out for some extra firewood instead. Jonah Simms and his boys regularly cut in the forest beyond the city walls and sold the wood on this side of the city.
The forest. He shuddered. He didn’t think there was a promotion in the world that could make him go in there.
That was where it began. It was from those woods, or at least the space once occupied by those woods, that he first heard the three accursed words which now plagued his existence. If only it had ended there. If only he hadn’t seen anything.
The King’s High Necromancer would be waiting for him tonight as he had been every night since the first incident. The wizened old man would be lurking at the entrance to the tunnel stairs as he passed through the garrison muster hall.
“Good evening, Captain,” he would say with that disconcerting lick of the lips, “Did you dream again?”
The thought of it made him uneasy. Would he confess his dream of this morning? He didn’t know.  His willingness to share them had diminished as they’d become increasingly more bizarre and disturbing.

In the beginning, he would have talked to anyone, anyone, who would have displayed the tiniest amount of empathy. The shock of that first encounter had left him shaken and shattered. His men had looked at him like he was crazy. The Garrison Commander had even threatened to demote him. The High Necromancer had intervened, pulled him aside, and spoken to him in soft, reassuring tones.

“What did you see?” the ashen-skinned, wraith of a man had asked.

“I don’t know,” the captain had said, still blubbering, “It was as if the forest suddenly melted into one thing- or part of a thing- and that thing- oh gods- it reached into me--.”

 “Try to calm yourself, Captain. What sort of thing? What did you see?”

And so the Captain had related, for the first time, how the forest morphed into sinister, seemingly formless black in front of his eyes, emitting waves of what could only be called sickness, seeping from it like heat, making him want to vomit, sucking the life from his soul, and robbing his legs of their ability to stand. He told the necromancer of the slow comprehension that the massive thing in front of him was only part of something vastly bigger, and how after what seemed like eternity transfixed by the thing, he’d finally understood that he was staring into a monstrous, pitch-black eye, unblinking, stretching nearly the entire length of the southern forest.

Once it began spilling from him, it all came. The eye was unfeeling, uncaring, detached from human concerns and obliviously destructive. It seemed like the eye of a giant bird, no bird of beautiful plumage, but one ancient and flightless, lying in a festering heap just behind the illusion of the forest, its consciousness probing the captain’s mind like the tentacles of a man-o-war. He told the necromancer about the three words, unbidden, forced like rape, words which he knew were not just for him, but for the whole world.

The necromancer had smiled, a kind smile that seemed completely alien. “Don’t worry, Captain,” he said softly, “Open yourself. You are the herald of a new age. Soon, all of King Humphrey’s enemies shall fall and we will enter a golden age of unparalleled knowledge. This is a good thing. Rejoice in your heart.”

But it did not feel like a good thing. It felt about as far away from good as possible, farther even, than the laws of nature allowed.

One step out of his door informed him of why it was so difficult to judge the time. The world had obviously changed and, from the looks of it, not for the better. The captain found Jonah Simms in his usual spot but not his usual mood, which was hardly surprising under the circumstances. Simms looked at the captain like the harbinger of death, not the look of a man who is afraid of it, but one who recognizes an inevitability. There were no words spoken. The captain handed over his money and took his small stack of wood, conscious of the fact that these actions seemed futile and meaningless. He turned to go home. It was true, then. They were all going to die. If not tonight, then very, very soon.

“Planning to burn down the city?”

He turned toward Mary’s voice to find her behind him, their wooden cart in tow, loaded down with firewood, turnips, onions, and several loaves of bread. Even in the fluorescing light of doom she was caring for her family, planning for a future, if only in the form of next week’s meals. There was humor in her eyes attached to the question, but it was a dark joke. He was overwhelmed by his feelings for her.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “I guess it’s an option.” He added his stack of firewood to the cart and leaned over to kiss his wife. He hadn’t been able to see her enough lately. She had a lovely face that touched him as deeply as ever, and even though three births had left her with an egg-like figure, in his mind she was still the slender beauty he had wed many years ago. He wished (hoped) that the strength of his love for her could be enough to turn back whatever was coming, but he wasn’t strong enough to believe it.

The captain took the handles of the cart from her and they walked in silence toward home.

“You didn’t sleep well again,” she said after a few moments.
“No.”
“Anything you want to share?”
“No.” He smiled and kissed her on the forehead.

She knew. Just like Jonah Simms. Just like everyone by now. It was no secret. The morbid nature of the royal family had been public knowledge for generations. The necromancer order was the most powerful order in the city, more powerful than the City Watch, by far. It was even said the elaborate and massive city walls, which encompassed all the disparate districts of the city, were constructed in the shape of some arcane symbol.

And more and more people had seen the thing as time went on. Not all perceived it as an eye. Two of his men had perceived a great, black egg, seeping putrescence from many cracks, about to hatch.

His duty-honed observational skills told him everything he needed to know as they walked. Everyone knew death was near. It was obvious, if only in the unnaturally pale green sky laced with slender, silken tendrils of silent lightning that pulsed above them. The captain walked along with his wife, conscious of the fact that there were things he should probably be saying to her, thankful to her and loving her more for not having to say them.

At home, Mary fried some sweetbread for lunch. Her husband helped her by brewing some mint tea, not something he would have usually done. A couple times they got in each other’s way and those were times of lingering touches, sad smiles.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” she asked at the table, “I would share your burden.”
“I am sure,” he said, “and I know. You are too good to me.”
“I am your wife.”

He had not burdened her with any of the dreams. The first time that he’d been able to sleep after seeing the eye, he dreamed of floating, suspended in blackness, the same three words he’d heard earlier, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Those three words were never to stop. They would be present from then on, except during those waking hours when he wasn’t on duty and could shut them out. But even then, they echoed.

The dreams escalated in horror, both physical and existential, and each one, he knew, was a message from that abomination outside of the city. Some were incredibly bizarre, including one where he looked down at himself to find he was fat, with legs not big enough for his body. He was dressed in a strange outfit with half-pants and suspenders, the words swirling around him like a whirlwind of sound, making the world spin out from under him.

In another, a slobbering demon peeled his hardened skin from him in chunks and ate him. They grew stranger and stranger, worse and worse, but the dream of that morning had an air of finality to it that seemed incontrovertible.

In it, he was being ripped to shreds. He was in pieces, lying upon the blackness that he now knew to be the eye, like he was held by gravity. Over and over, the three words bombarded, pierced him, in all inflections and dialects, all languages, none of which the captain knew and yet which he understood clearly. He heard them from without and within, even in languages dead for millennia. A thin silver strand held his disparate pieces from floating away from each other but it was being gnawed upon by greasy flightless, shambling birds and each peck was an agony to his scrambled soul. In the dream, he knew the end had come at last.

He was not going to share that with his wife.

In time, the children were home. Too soon, he thought, or not soon enough. Time seemed to have slipped loose of its moors. In what seemed only a brief moment, Mary was setting the table for dinner. His shift was approaching.

He helped his wife get the children ready for bed, lingering to touch each child’s face a moment longer and exacting a kiss from each. As his youngest, Tessa, kissed him gently on the cheek, an involuntary spasm of breath forced its way through his nostrils. He held it at bay.

Part of him wanted to stay, but the captain was, in the end, a man of duty.

So he left home with the fleeing daylight, such as it was, knowing deep in his heart that tonight would be the end of all things. There was no sound of frog or cricket in the air, no evening swallows diving and swooping above the rooftops. All nature seemed to have fled this place. Nevertheless, the captain kept a slow pace. He was in no hurry and, in fact, was fighting a primordial urge to flee blindly in any direction. An easy enough urge to fight. No direction held safety.

In the muster hall it appeared that many of his men had not come tonight. The garrison commander was still there, at his table in the side chamber off the main hall. He glared as the captain passed his view. Those men who had shown up were gathered in a corner of the hall. All had the look of the woodcutter. He passed them, avoiding contact.

The necromancer was waiting with his hungry smile.

“Good evening, Captain,” he said, bowing, “Do you dream still?”
The captain had decided not to tell him. Let him be surprised.
“I try to remember, Holiness, but they are hidden from me.”
“Ah, so it is, then.” He bowed again and the captain returned the bow as he slipped past him into the wall’s inner passageways. He followed the torchlit tunnel until he came to the stairway to the southern guard tower.

At the top of the stairs, the Captain of the Day Watch was waiting, looking most relieved to see him.

“Captain Ernst, I present myself as your relief,” he said, with a crisp salute.
“Captain Dumpty,” Ernst replied, returning the salute, “the wall is yours.” And then he was gone.

The captain stepped out onto the ramparts and looked toward the forest. There was the ancient, avian eye, locking on to him, sucking at his very essence. He thought maybe he was beginning to perceive the rest of the thing, or at least the potential of its existence. The air around the eye was shimmering as if it were ready to dissolve into form. The words, unheard during the time he’d been able to concentrate on his wife and children, renewed their assault on his mind.

“You. Will. Fall.”

Perhaps, tonight, he would. 

Holy Roller
Larry D. Thacker

Wilma didn’t think. She acted.

It was a reaction driven by pure adrenaline.

She would have defended herself with a rolled up Sunday newspaper if she’d been on the front porch reading one when Jake came after her, not that it would have done her any good. Lucky for Wilma though, come to find out a frozen roll of chocolate chip cookie dough is about the same size and striking strength as a wooden rolling pin. She’d just pulled the package out of the freezer to let it thaw a bit when Jake stumbled from the living room for another beer, bumped into the kitchen table, and knocked the fresh lemonade Wilma’d been squeezing on all over his clean, pressed jeans.

“I was gonna preach in these tomorrow night, woman!”

The accident was somehow Wilma’s fault, which meant she’d get it upside the head at least once if he could catch her, which he did, but not as hard as it could have been and not as lightly as she might have hoped, but on this occasion something deep in her head clicked in a different direction than usual, she saw red, and she swung back. Again, it could have been a frozen bean burrito or a hot iron. The iron skillet Jake’s momma gave her or the six-pound, three-generation family Bible they kept on the coffee table. But it was a rock solid, thirteen-inch-long, two-inch-thick roll of cookie dough that might as well have been cast iron. His fist grazed her cheek. She countered with a two-fisted swing that would have put his head across the street into the neighbor’s lot if it hadn’t been connected to his neck. He crumpled like a winter sack of potatoes, his temple split wide open. He started bleeding in such a way as Wilma’d never seen anyone bleed, like the water hose was left on and it was the bloody Nile during the plagues running from her husband’s ear and the long dark gash across the left side of his head. Jake loved preaching about Moses and children of Israel and the Great Exodus into the wilderness for forty long years.

There was a little lemonade left in the pitcher. She turned it upright and poured what was left into the morning’s coffee cup and sipped it. Her cheek hurt a little. He’d mostly missed, but it might still bruise. She hoped not.

When life got tough, whether with him and Wilma, or at the Copper Creek Temple, Jake laid it at the Lord’s feet, as he’d say.

Lay it at the Lord’s feet. God’s will’s got a plan for everything. If he didn’t want something to happen, it wouldn’t now, would it?

It was one of those catch-all phrases that fit most any bad situation. While most church members took solace in that sentiment and it even helped Wilma feel better most of the time, she wasn’t convinced when “Preacher” Jake started beating on her after a six-pack and some shots on a Friday night. She’d asked him once if God wanted him hitting her all the time and he’d threatened to send her to heaven to ask the Lord in person.

And now there Jake was, piled up on the kitchen floor, having breathed his last, a pool of blood growing like a scarlet halo around his two-faced, drunk-assed head.

“Shame he fell and hit his head on the countertop like that,” she muttered out loud, sipping the last of the lemonade. “I swear, he must have slipped. He’d been drinking, again. He fell all the time.”

God’s will and all. Lay it at the Lord’s feet.

Wilma looked around the kitchen, the one room of the house she felt safest, though that obviously wasn’t always the case all the time. She still held the roll of dough. There was the slightest dent toward the end. A spot of red marking the spot. Her hands still trembled. The area under her intense grip was thawing now. Her whole arm throbbed up into her arthritic shoulder.

She set the dough roll down, at about where she was rehearsing in her mind the side of Jake’s head smacked the gray and white streaked marble countertop, sort of near the corner. She practiced the sound in her head. What it sounded like from the back porch pantry where she’d say she was at that terrible moment, when she was head first in the deepfreeze digging for frozen catfish fillets for supper. Would it have been more of a whack or a thump or a sort of wet smack? Would he have let out a holler? A moan or groan? Yes, more like a ka-thwack and a yelp. Then the thump of his heavy body.

She lifted the hems of her denim skirt and stepped quietly over the dark pool setting up on the linoleum, reaching for an oven dial. She’d made these cookies so often for the grandkids she knew the proper temperature – 350-degrees. She prepped a baking sheet with some wax paper. She could have done it blindfolded, this act of baking love for the young’uns. Pulled a knife from the utensils drawer and split the spine of the package open exposing the tannish and speckled dough. It felt like cutting through flesh. A bit tough, but giving with enough pressure, the plastic snapping through. She cut little rounds off the roll just as if she were slicing up an apple, filling the sheet up. Her hands were still shaking. She had to be careful. But what about blood on the plastic?

She eyed the end of her thumb as the knife swept by with each slice. Another. Another. Then an icy pain hit. Her own blood rushed forth. Like water from the rock. The sin of Moses. It dripped on the countertop. She turned, letting some drip to the floor to mingle with Jake’s dying lifeblood. She wondered if his blood was still flowing. If there was any life at all left in the body. She thought of Lazarus coming back to life and wondered if even the Lord had been surprised.

The oven dinged, signaling it was preheated and ready. The blast of superheated air shocked her when it struck her face and neck and upper chest. The twisting elements glowed, always reminding her of what the tiniest percent of damnation must be like. Is that just the smallest inkling of the devil’s hell? The lake of fire? A sinner’s destination for the ultimate transgression? Even if they were defending themself?

She shoved the pan of cookies in with a metallic rattle and slammed the door and set the timer for fifteen minutes and went to the living room to think. Jake not laying stretched back in his beat-up recliner was awfully odd. That he wouldn’t ever be there again seemed odder. Five empty beer cans set around the chair. Another one on the edge of the coffee table leaving a circle. She couldn’t wait to drag that chair out back to the burn pile.

Things would change, wouldn’t they? Right quick like. What would the church do? Would the Temple keep on going? Find another preacher? He’d started Copper Creek, hadn’t he? Would they want someone else? Too many questions. Did any of it matter? It’d work out.

God’s will and all.

The oven dinged. Cookies. Didn’t they smell good.

Wilma got up from the couch and went back to the kitchen. Something hung in the kitchen air besides the thick aroma of warm cookies and melted chocolate. The essence of aging, coagulating blood. Like someone had left hamburger out all day. Along with the rancidness of urine. Jake had pissed himself come to find out. But thank goodness it was mostly cookies she smelled now. She’d had bouts of a weak stomach in the past and now wasn’t the time for a relapse.

She grabbed the sheet of cookies from the oven with her best oven mitt, the one she kept hanging on the wall for special occasions, the one that said: Lord, Bless This Mess. She slid the cookies onto the countertop, wishing the grandchildren were around to enjoy them.

The cookies made a perfect little pyramid on the large plate she chose from the cabinet. The Dollywood one with Dolly singing into an old style microphone and playing a big guitar. She didn’t want to be alone eating all of these cookies.

The evidence.

God’s will and all.

She grabbed her diabetes meds and swallowed one down. Maybe that would balance out the task ahead. There were twenty-five good sized cookies. At least they were warm. They melted in your mouth when they were fresh out of the oven.

She poured herself a cold glass of whole milk. She walked out to the porch with the plate of cookies, grabbing the cordless phone along the way, and sat on the metal sled rocker with the plate on her lap. It looked like it might rain. The grass needed cutting.

She picked a single cookie from the top of the pile, pushed it full into her mouth and chewed the sugary warmth with a smile and swallowed.

​Then she dialed 911.

PORTLAND, OR; April 1, 2021--Unsolicited Press releases the print edition of DASH! after having immense success with the ebook release during the summer of 2020. Through this timely collection of short stories for older teens and adults, Irshad Abdal-Haqq unveils the legacy of oppression that countless generations of black Americans have endured. The first story, involving a girl and her tribe who are running for their lives from an evil army that forces female captives into sexual slavery, is reminiscent of a modern-day humanitarian refugee crisis in the Middle East, Africa, or South Asia. In a coming-of-age narrative, a teenaged boy defies law enforcement by fleeing from his rural home in the dark of night after his parents are lynched for seeking fair labor treatment. A third story is the tale of a multiethnic gang of teens who would rather live as a family of outlaws rather than endure the humiliation of racism and poverty. And in yet another, a long-time resident of a gentrifying neighborhood enlists the aid of a newcomer in her quest to fight off eviction for another month.

Action-packed and eloquently expressed, these mesmerizing stories of desperation, hope, and human frailty, will spark the imagination and touch the heart of readers of all backgrounds. And most importantly, they highlight the need for intercultural cooperation against systemic injustices that discount the value of black lives. Distinctive notes at the end of the book provide ample support for educational activities, reading group discussions, and academic study.

Irshad Abdal-Haqq writes and promotes fiction and nonfiction that highlight the links between past, present, and evolving intercultural relationships—especially those involving marginalized communities. He is the author of Brotherhood of the Gods, one of the first African American Muslim literary novels. His nonfiction has included scholarly articles and award-winning essays. Irshad’s current literary plans include completion of  a memoir, an intercultural dystopian novel, and a unique set of short stories about the African American Muslim experience. A former adjunct associate professor at the University of Virginia and George Mason University Law School, Irshad is a graduate of Amherst College (B.A. Black Studies), Georgetown University Law Center (J.D.), and Antioch School of Law (M.A.T. Clinical Legal Education). Though born in Newark and raised in the Greater New York City area, he now proudly calls Washington, DC home. 

​Dash! is available as a paperback and ebook directly from the publisher and all book retailers. The book is brought to the trade by Ingram. The author is open to media events. Contact Eric at marketing@unsolicitedpress.com

PORTLAND, OR; March 16, 2021— Unsolicited Press is proud to announce the immediate available of Anne Leigh Parrish's a winter night. Part psychological study and part romantic comedy, A Winter Night reintroduces the fictional Dugan family of upstate New York. Eldest daughter Angie may have found the man of her dreams, but has trouble believing a word he says. Told bluntly yet with tenderness and humor, A Winter Night brings Angie face-to-face with herself, her fears, and her ability to truly love.

Advance Praise for A Winter Night
"Anne Leigh Parrish does it once again.  In A Winter Night, she brings her signature wisdom and wit to the world of Angie Dugan, a retirement home social worker who spends her days caring for others while yearning to be cared for herself.  Part social commentary in the spirit of Jane Austen, and at moments romantic comedy in the vein of Susan Elizabeth Phillips, A Winter Night is ultimately a poignant and powerful novel that delves deep into the meaning of trust, understanding and forgiveness. Anne Leigh Parrish proves the rare writer who can make readers laugh hard while taking them on a serious journey--and this is a journey upon which readers most certainly wish to embark."--Jacob M. Appel, author of Millard Salter's Last Day.

“An outstanding, unsentimental portrait of family, love, and unavoidable hardships.” --From the KIRKUS REVIEW (https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/anne-leigh-parrish/a-winter-night/):

​About Anne Leigh Parrish
Anne Leigh Parrish is the author of eight previously published books: What Nell Dreams, a novella & stories (Unsolicited Press, 2020); Maggie’s Ruse, a novel, (Unsolicited Press, 2017); The Amendment, a novel (Unsolicited Press, 2017); Women Within, a novel (Black Rose Writing, 2017); By the Wayside, stories (Unsolicited Press, 2017); What Is Found, What Is Lost, a novel (She Writes Press, 2014); Our Love Could Light The World, stories (She Writes Press, 2013); and All The Roads That Lead From Home, stories (Press 53, 2011).

About Unsolicited Press
Unsolicited Press was founded in 2012 and is based in Portland, OR. The press strives to produce exceptional works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry from award-winning authors. 

A WINTER NIGHT is available on March 16, 2021 as a paperback (246 p.; 978-1-950730-60-5)  and e-book (all major retailers). The title is distributed to the trade by Ingram.

PORTLAND, OR; March 9, 2021—Unsolicited Press announces the immediate release of WHILE THE KETTLE BOILS by S.B. Borgersen, a fervent and economical collection featuring 150 perfectly manicured micro-fictions. Jude Higgins, the event organizer at Bath Flash Fiction, called the collection, “Witty and insightful... Borgersen’s tiny stories have inspired other writers from all over the world.” 

Readers will be thrilled to find exclusive reading material at the back of the book. 

About S.B. Borgersen
S.B. Borgersen is a British/Canadian author, of middle England and Hebridean ancestry, whose favoured genres are flash and micro fiction, and poetry. She had a diverse career path, an analyst in a shoe factory, the same thing for a children’s book publisher, teaching art, and filing for the civil service, but mostly she climbed a precarious ladder in the IT industry culminating in strategy and project management, which, by necessity in those days, included writing writing writing mountains of non-fiction — always allowing herself to be slightly creative with proposals, reports, technical and training documentation.
 
Sue turned her back on industry and commerce in the early nineties, escaping the stressful rat-race and finding the simple life and peaceful place she’d always sought to allow for creativity. That place was Nova Scotia where she returned to her skills from art school and made an uncomplicated living as a visual artist and potter. That is, until she got the creative writing bug. Since 2000 her writing has won prizes, been mentioned in Hansard and published internationally in literary journals and anthologies (print and online). The list of publications is extensive and can be found at www.sueborgersen.com. She is a member of both The Society of Authors UK, and The Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia.
 
Sue lives in a crumbling old house on the shores of Nova Scotia with her patient husband and a clutch of lovable rowdy dogs. 

About Unsolicited Press
Unsolicited Press was founded in 2012 and is based in Portland, OR. The press strives to produce exceptional works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry from award-winning authors. 

WHILE THE KETTLE BOILS​ (978-1-950730-74-2) is available on March 9, 2021 in print and and as ebook through all major retailers and the publisher.

If you could cook dinner for any author, dead or alive, who would it be? What would you make?  
James Baldwin. As a gag dish, I’d present him with hominy grits, which he hated. Then I’d bust out the steak and fixings.

What scares you the most about the writing process? How do you combat your fears?
I often fear that the data I’m using may be inaccurate or inadequate. To overcome it, I end up obsessively rechecking everything.

Who is your biggest literary crush, author or character?
I so wanted to meet and spend time with Toni Morrison. She would have been a great mentor to me.

What books are on your nightstand?
Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward; Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel; and Black Swan by Nassim Nicholas Taleb.

Favorite punctuation mark? Why?
I keep asking myself why all of the time. So, yes, it’s the question mark.  

What book were you supposed to read in high school, but never did?
Probably “To Kill a Mockingbird” and “The Catcher in the Rye.”

What inanimate object would you thank in your acknowledgements? 
My trusty reclinable office chair.

If you could write an inspirational quote on the mirrors of aspiring writers, what would you write?
I’d quote Lydia Davis: “Do what you want to do, and don’t worry if it’s a little odd or doesn’t fit the market.”

Does writing energize or exhaust you?
Writing memoir content is draining, while sci-fi or speculative writing is thrilling.

What are common traps for aspiring writers?
Believing that the quality of their work and even their self worth are defined by the number of rejections from writing contests.

What is your writing Kryptonite?
I’m not sure what this question means. What weakens or undermines my writing? I guess I tend to go too fast, making lots of little typos that cost me dearly during the proofing process. I must slow down and perhaps follow Hemingway’s advice by writing and rewriting each sentence dozens of times, one at a time, until I’m absolutely sure that it is correct.

Have you ever gotten reader’s block?
Yes. When I become bored with an author’s extensive treatment of the mundane or pornographic violence, I lose the ability to power through and simply put the book aside.

Do you think someone could be a writer if they don’t feel emotions strongly?
Absolutely, especially when writing nonfiction instructional or technical material. Whoever wrote the dictionary on my bookshelf was probably braindead by the time it was done. Lol.

What other authors are you friends with, and how do they help you become a better writer?
I’m a longtime friend of Marita Golden. Her prose is smooth like Agatha Christie’s. The work of both writers, as different as they are, have validated my own tendency to lean toward an elegant style. 

Do you want each book to stand on its own, or are you trying to build a body of work with connections between each book?
Each book must live his or her own life, although all them may have similarities in terms of values and style! 

How did publishing your first book change your process of writing?
I learned to maintain orderly records and an index as I’m writing. This allows me to easily check the authorities that I’m working on. I also learned to save discarded text, which may find new life somewhere else in the narrative, or in another book or story.

What was the best money you ever spent as a writer?
Attending writing conferences that featured published writers on panels that shared their experiences and entertained questions from attendees.

What authors did you dislike at first but grew into?
Charles Bukowski and Junot Diaz. I almost threw away their books. I’m sure I discarded Oscar Wao. I still haven’t finished that book but I eventually came to appreciate Diaz’s other work.

What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?
After a LIFE Magazine photojournalist published the frame-by-frame police killing of Billie Furr (an in-law cousin of mine) in the summer of 1967, I began writing protest essays in high school that distrubed my teachers but inspired my classmates.  I was only 17 but discovered the power of my written expression.

What’s your favorite under-appreciated novel?
Spoiler alert, imminent shameless promotion ahead: My own first novel, Brotherhood of the Gods, was not accepted by numerous agents and publishers--perhaps a dozen. I then published it myself. I probably should have continued to pitch it but I didn’t know the business. At any rate, the people who read it loved it.

As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?
A moose, a bull moose with huge antlers. Solitary, quiet, but strong.

What do you owe the real people upon whom you base your characters?
Their gawdawful racism, bigotry, and foul behavior have provided some wonderful storylines that are filled with conflict and drama.

How many unpublished and half-finished books do you have?
OMG! I must have several partially completed stories and about three books. 

What does literary success look like to you?
When a friend genuinely likes an unpublished story I’ve shared. That feels like love.​

After much consideration, we have decided to participiate in the SMOL Fair. SMOL Fair is an alternative, virtual book fair that will be 'live' from March 3-7, 2021. Many of our books will be on sale during the book festival because we want everyone to have access to the book discounts we'd normally offer at an in-person book fair.
 
Several of our authors will be hosting live readings throughout the duration of the book fair. You can find the events schedule for the SMOL Fair here. You can also learn about each author and event directly below.

NOTE: Not all readings are listed here. Some authors may have opted to give a reading after the deadline for this post. Please check the SMOL Fair's Events Calendar for the most up-to-date schedule.

The Messiah's Customary Diner Booth Reading with Marion Deal
Time: Mar 5, 2021, 06:30 PM Central Time (US and Canada)

Sit. The Messiah's Customary Diner Booth welcomes you. Yes, you: no matter what truth you're spinning, so long as you're spinning it earnestly. You've got a place with these poems cast as an intellectual fossil record of shit and summoners and something that Rimbaud would probably like, poems as a gathering ground for Soviet spies and child prophets, disaffected professors and radiant spinsters. Share a soggy grilled cheese with drifters who could just as easily show up enshrined on a tablet of Sumerian pictograms as lounge in a 50s diner. We're open all night

Join Zoom Meeting
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/84461815184?pwd=ajZHZzZEK0tFU3F5VFZ0OTd1Q3VxUT09
​
Meeting ID: 844 6181 5184
Passcode: CuQWk6

A Reading with Christopher G. Bremicker
​Day & Time: Wednesday, March 3rd at 7:00 PM Eastern
Zoom: ​https://us02web.zoom.us/j/84859950320?pwd=Mlp3dVpuTnpaRmJVYlV4R1ZUSVJSUT09

Eagle Claw and Other Stories is a work of great variety. The title story is fiction about the aborted mission of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces to free the hostages held in Tehran under the Carter administration. 
​

A Reading with Cameron Miller
​Day & Time: Friday, March 5th at 5:00 PM Eastern
A reading of poems paired with photographs from the 2020 publication, “Cairn, poems and essays.”

Email rcammiller@gmail to receive a zoom invitation to the reading.

Readers looking for an engaging and spiritual journey will find comfort in CAIRN: POEMS AND ESSAYS. After decades of reading and ogling poetry, Miller made room among the novels, newspaper columns, and preaching to hone poems amidst the wild beauty of northernmost Vermont and the pastoral beauty of the Finger Lakes. The elements of nature are this poet's paint but he also paddles a gondola through the dark channels of the mind while lighting the way.

​Reading from The Vigilance of Stars with Patricia O’Donnell
​Day & Time: Mar 4, 2021 01:00 PM Eastern Time (US and Canada)

Synopsis: Four characters’ lives intertwine in this novel, spanning the 1950’s through the present. Kiya, a young hair stylist, is taken in by her former boyfriend’s mother as she struggles through a difficult pregnancy, and grief over her brother’s suicide. The book moves toward a confrontation with both life and death on an isolated island in rural Maine.
​
Join from PC, Mac, Linux, iOS or Android: https://maine.zoom.us/j/82185283100?pwd=cXh3UmhtMEwwbXVvOVV3dEhibXJFQT09 
Password: 296597
Or Telephone:
US: +1 312 626 6799 or +1 646 876 9923 or +1 301 715 8592 or +1 253 215 8782 or +1 346 248 7799 or +1 408 638 0968 or +1 669 900 6833
Meeting ID: 821 8528 3100

From a Polycom or other H.323 room system that is not a member of a video conference, click call on the remote and dial one of the following IP addresses followed by # the meeting ID and # again: 162.255.36.11 (US East) 162.255.37.11 (US West)
Meeting ID: 821 8528 3100
​Password: 296597

A Reading with Joseph Allen Costa
Day & Time: Thursday, March 4th  6:00 PM Eastern

Built on stunning character development, plot, and unflinching emotion, Joseph Allen Costa delivers stunning prose perfect for the times. The settings, both personal and universal, are not only tangible in the imagination, but they invite the reader in to experience stories from the heart.The twelve-story, linked collection, COMETS, follows through-line protagonist, Roberto, as he grows from a working teenager influenced by the men in his father’s cabinet shop, to a disillusioned 42, unwittingly trying to fill his father’s shoes, while searching for a deeper understanding of himself and his life. Set in Ybor City, Tampa’s Latin Quarter, the stories capture a microcosm of blue collar problems, with implications that go beyond racial, economic and cultural boundaries, illuminating a greater understanding of the human experiences we all share, while loss of childhood resonates as an overarching theme.
​
Join Zoom Meeting
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/81374267510?pwd=aFpjMFdRWU8rbzQxWFZtWnE0UU9WUT09

Meeting ID: 813 7426 7510
Passcode: 720341

Alli Spotts DeLazzer Reads from MeaningFULL: 23 Life-Changing Stories of Conquering Dieting, Weight, & Body Image Issues
Day & Time: Wednesday, March 3, 2021 at 7pm EST/4pm PST

Where: Where else? Zoom! THIS MEETING WILL BE RECORDED AND LIKELY SHARED ON SOCIALS https://us02web.zoom.us/j/87145303043 
Meeting ID: 871 4530 3043 / Find your local number: https://us02web.zoom.us/u/kvQ9VzEC

Tyler James Russell—SMOL Reading
​Day & Time: Friday, March 5th 6:00 PM Eastern

​A reading and QA session as part of the SMOL Book Fair! Please visit TylerJamesRussell.com for more information and a link to the Zoom reading.
tylerjamesrussell.com

A Reading from the Forthcoming Book, Pacific, by Trevor J. Houser
Day & Time: Friday, March 5th 7:00 PM Eastern

​A reading from my debut novel, Pacific.
Would you be willing to kidnap your child to save his life and set sail in search of a doctor that may hold the key to his survival when everyone else has given up? Pacific by Trevor J. Houser discovers what a desperate father is willing to do to save his son’s life…even if it means braving deadly storms at home and on the run.

Info to follow.

Reading from “The Realm of Blessing" with Wayne Berard-Daniel
​Day & Time: Friday, March 5th 7:00 PM Eastern

Join reading from my book of poetry, “The Realm of Blessing."

​Visit www.waynedanielberard.com

A Reading with Thomas Calder, Author of The Wind Under the Door
Day & Time: March 5th, 2021 08:00 PM Eastern Time

Starting over is always easier among strangers. For Ford Carson, the process meant leaving behind the waves of South Florida in order to forge a new life as a visual artist in the mountains of North Carolina. At the peak of his reinvention, he meets Grace Burnett—a young, wealthy Texas transplant in the midst of her own transformation. A mutual infatuation develops. But when Grace’s estranged husband arrives complications ensue. Matters only worsen when Ford’s own estranged son announces plans to visit for his eighteenth birthday. Thomas Calder’s debut novel explores the lasting impact of broken bonds and the unanticipated ways the past haunts those on the run.

Join Zoom Meeting https://us04web.zoom.us/j/77985213529?pwd=OGZvSC95K0Qxd1pVMmkwdU5Nd3huQT09
Meeting ID: 779 8521 3529
Passcode: PP4W8V

A Reading from A WINTER NIGHT with Anne Leigh Parrish
​Day & Time: Saturday, March 6th 3:00 PM Eastern
Email to anneleighparrish@comcast for the Zoom link
More Info: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/reading-from-a-winter-night-tickets-143390088615?utm_source=eventbrite&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=post_publish&utm_content=shortLinkNewEmail

34-year-old Angie Dugan struggles with many things-anxiety, her career as a social worker in a retirement home, and her difficult family. Her biggest struggle, though, is finding love. When she meets Matt, she's swept away by his attention. As issues from his past come up she wonders if she can trust him...

Jason Graff reads from heckler
Day & Time: Saturday, March 6th 7:00 PM EST
Author Jason Graff will be reading selected sections from his Pen Faulkner nominated novel heckler

Zoom:
https://us02web.zoom.us/j/88903246118?pwd=cFN0MlcxM21tMmVXK3ZlS3dWbDRoUT09

Poetry from Kathmandu by Anuja Ghimire
​Day & Time: Sunday, 11:30 AM
Contact poet on Twitter for more information.  @GhimireAnuja

Kathmandu is the reflection of an immigrant mother raising her children in America. Memories of the poet's home, Kathmandu, creep into every moment as she attempts to find a place in her new world. Ghimire flails with grace -- her words work to make sense of the new all while trying to reckon with the past.

Many of these titles will be available at discounted prices on our site from March 3rd-7th. 

PORTLAND, OR; February 9, 2021—Unsolicited Press announces the much-anticipated debut of THE DISTANCE OF MERCY by Shelly Milliron Drancik. A story of human connection across the ethnic aisle, The Distance of Mercy centers on Nicolette, haunted by her mother’s death in postwar Vienna. As a young adult, she betrays her father by accepting money from her grandmother, a former Nazi supporter, to study the violin in Chicago in the late 60s. Nicolette is hired to work with Tillie, an African-American widow who lost her young husband in the war. Through many barriers, an unexpected friendship develops. While Nicolette’s length of stay in America is brief, the impact of her arrival and the decision she must make before returning to Vienna are life-altering for both women. 

Told in parallel narratives and against the backdrop of historical events, the story explores the depths of love, loss, and buried grief and uncovers the lingering and terrible effects of war and racial injustice.

About Shelly Milliron Drancik
Shelly Milliron Drancik earned her MFA in fiction from Queens University of Charlotte. Her short fiction has appeared in various literary journals and her screenplay, based on this novella, has earned a number of awards. She lives with her children in Chicago. 

About Unsolicited Press
Unsolicited Press was founded in 2012 and is based in Portland, OR. The press strives to produce exceptional works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry from award-winning authors. Unsolicited Press has social media accounts on Instagram (@unsolicitedpress) and Twitter (@unsolicitedP). 
 
THE DISTANCE OF MERCY is available on February 9, 2021 as a paperback (250p.; 978-1-50730-59-9) and e-book (all major retailers). The title is distributed to the trade by Ingram.

​If you could cook dinner for any author, dead or alive, who would it be? What would you make?  
I would love to cook dinner for Richard Bruatigan and I think that I would make him dandelion soup. I want to bug him about his book, Please Plant this Book.

What scares you the most about the writing process? How do you combat your fears?
Getting started. My biggest fear begins and ends with the words, “is this idea good enough?” How I combat my fear is by looking for other media which aligns to what I’m trying to do; I look for similar pieces and people and then I just start working. 

Who is your biggest literary crush, author or character?
Robert Langden from Dan Brown’s novel series; I have wanted to become Robert my whole life--it’s the closest thing I have to a crush.

What books are on your nightstand? 
Astoria by Malena Morling and The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster by Richard Brautigan.

Favorite punctuation mark? Why?  
The semicolon, it is the most aesthetically pleasing piece of punctuation. 

What book were you supposed to read in high school, but never did? 
To Kill a Mockingbird.

What inanimate object would you thank in your acknowledgements? 
South Mountain for being my home for so many months.

If you could write an inspirational quote on the mirrors of aspiring writers, what would you write? 
True genius is just hard work.

Does writing energize or exhaust you?
Energize, I can write for 40 days and 40 nights without stopping to eat or drink.

What are common traps for aspiring writers?
Thinking that you have nothing to say. Everyone has a voice--learning how to wield it is the hard part.

What is your writing Kryptonite?
The fear of needing to get everything published. The fear of wasting my time.

Have you ever gotten reader’s block?
Yes, it took me 9 years to read Jonathon Safran Foer’s Everything is Illuminated. I could never make it past the first chapter.

Do you think someone could be a writer if they don’t feel emotions strongly?
Yes, writing is not always about sudden inspiration--passion comes in all shapes and sizes.

What other authors are you friends with, and how do they help you become a better writer?
I had some very influential mentors circle in and out of my life over the years and the best advice they ever gave me was to at least write something that I’m interested in. That helped me form a style and voice that was unique to me and helped shape my later work, especially.

Do you want each book to stand on its own, or are you trying to build a body of work with connections between each book?
I think that if I wrote another book in this vein I would want them to be interconnected. I think John may have more to say about his little slice of heaven in the Southwest.

How did publishing your first book change your process of writing?
Well, it wasn’t so much the publishing but my commitment to publishing. Turning writing into an actual 9-5 job for the course of 6-8 months really helped me change the way that I think about creative writing and the art of writing.

What was the best money you ever spent as a writer?
The $8 it cost me to get Malena Morling’s Astoria at bookmans--her book changed my understanding of what lyric and descriptive poetry could be.

What authors did you dislike at first but grew into?
Jonathon Safran Foer

What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?
The first time I cussed in school. 

What’s your favorite under-appreciated novel?
Beasts of No Nation

As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?
An agave plant

What do you owe the real people upon whom you base your characters?
Well, I based my character off myself and James Woods in the movie Salvador; so, I guess I owe myself a beer and James Woods a movie ticket.

How many unpublished and half-finished books do you have?
Three, and three that will never see the light of day.

What does literary success look like to you?
Finding the perfect home for your work.

What’s the best way to market your books?
Readings and alumni networks.

What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?
Getting the motivation right. Understanding their needs in relation to their desires.

What did you edit out of this book?”
Jeez, half the poems maybe. I found myself writing better versions of the pieces already in there and decided to go with the new work instead.

If you didn’t write, what would you do for work?
Well, I’m a teacher so there’s that.

Andrew Brenza’s Spool is a reckoning of our diminished natural world through the register of a disjointed, smeared, and unraveling poetics.  Consisting of a series of breathless lyrical and concrete poems, Spool strives to represent both nature’s beauty as well as the tragedy of its destruction, a destruction which is, ultimately, the destruction of ourselves. But the book does not descend entirely into despair, for the author’s novel approaches to poetic expression suggest an alternative way that humanity might imagine its place in the world, a way that fundamentally incorporates and enacts humanity’s vital connection to nature. It is through this alternative poetics that Brenza offers hope, albeit a difficult one, since it asks us not just to change the way we think about nature, but the way we think about and within language itself.

​About Andrew Brenza
Andrew Brenza is an American experimental poet and librarian. His recent chapbooks include Poems in C (Viktlösheten Press), Bitter Almonds & Mown Grass (Shirt Pocket Press), Waterlight (Simulacrum Press), and Excerpt from Alphabeticon (No Press). His full-length collections of visual poetry include Gossamer Lid (Trembling Pillow Press), Automatic Souls (Timglaset Editions), Album, in Concrete (Alien Buddha Press) and Alphabeticon & Other Poems (RedFoxPress).

Where to Buy SPOOL
SPOOL is available directly from the publisher and all major retailers such as Amazon. Readers who prefer to shop at independent bookstores can buy a copy through Indiebound. An ebook is also available through Amazon's Kindle program.

PORTLAND, OR; JANUARY 26, 2021—Unsolicited Press announces the much-anticipated debut of MeaningFULL: 23 Life-Changing Stories of Conquering Dieting, Weight, & Body Image Issues by Alli Spotts-De Lazzer, a nonfiction collaboration that takes on the normalized rhetoric of eating and body image.
 
A $702 billion global diet/nutrition and weight loss industry shows that people worldwide are devoted to achieving maximum health and their desired bodies. Yet mainstream approaches are failing these individuals, and sadly, science proves this. Intent on gaining the “health” and “happiness” that diets promise, consumers keep trying. They become sad and frustrated, believing they’re failing when they’re not. They simply need a legitimate, alternative path. Spotts-Delazzer’s book offers a new path.
 
The inspiring book is a blend of motivational self-help, memoir, psychology, and health and wellness. Through the contributors’ diverse, real-life mini-memoirs followed by Spotts-De Lazzer’s commentaries, readers will learn about themselves and discover their unique, unconventional formulas for conquering their issues. Along the way, MeaningFULL will also guide them towards more self-appreciation, wellness, and fulfillment.
 
About Alli Spotts-De Lazzer
Alli Spotts-De Lazzer is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist, a Licensed Professional Clinical Counselor, a “CEDS” Certified Eating Disorders Specialist, a CEDS Supervisor, and a person on the other side of her own decades-long struggle with food battles and body dislike. Alli has presented educational workshops at conferences, graduate schools, and hospitals; published articles in academic journals, trade magazines, and online information hubs; and appeared as an eating disorders expert on local news. Her professional-related volunteerism includes co-chairing committees for both the International Association of Eating Disorders Professionals and the Academy for Eating Disorders and creating #ShakeIt for Self-Acceptance!®, a series of public events sparking conversations about self-acceptance through fun, motivating messages. She was named the 2017 iaedp Member of the Year, and Mayor Garcetti declared July 13, 2017 “#ShakeIt for Self-Acceptance! Day” in the City of Los Angeles.

About Unsolicited Press
Unsolicited Press was founded in 2012 and is based in Portland, OR. The press strives to produce exceptional works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry from award-winning authors. Unsolicited Press has social media accounts on Instagram (@unsolicitedpress) and Twitter (@unsolicitedP). 
 
MEANINGFULL: 23 LIFE-CHANGING STORIES OF CONQUERING DIETING, WEIGHT, & BODY IMAGE ISSUES is available on January 26, 2021 as a paperback (282 p.; 978-1-950730-69-8), audiobook (ACX), and e-book (all major retailers). The title is distributed to the trade by Ingram.
 
###
​
Press only, Unsolicited Press
Eric Rancino
619.354.8005
marketing@unsolicitedpress.com
 
For artist interviews, readings, and podcasts:
Alli Spotts-De Lazzer
MeaningFULLread@gmail.com

​Portland, OR— January 26, 2021 — Unsolicited Press Announces Availability of "The Omnipotent Sorcerer" By Roger Aplon. The Omnipotent Sorcerer by Roger Aplon is a poetry collection to be reckoned with -- touching on themes such as relationships, grief, politics, and other provoking topics.

Roger Aplon was a founder and managing editor of Chicago’s CHOICE Magazine with John Logan and Aaron Siskind. He has thirteen books published, twelve of which are poetry (most recently Mustering What’s Left Selected and New Poems 1976-2017). Intimacies (2006) is a book of prose. Aplon has received many awards and fellowships including an arts fellowship from the Helen Wurlitzer Foundation in Taos, New Mexico. Learn more at www.rogeraplon.com.

THE OMNIPOTENT SORCEROR (978-1-950730-66-7) is available (paperback and ebook) directly from the publisher (www.unsolicitedpress.com) and all major retailers. Ingram Book Group distributes the title to the market. The author is available for media appearances, interviews, and readings.
​
Unsolicited Press was founded in 2012 and is based in Portland, OR. The press strives to produce exceptional works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry from award-winning authors. Learn more at www.unsolicitedpress.com. 

Unsolicited Press announces a light-hearted and intellectual fireside chat featuring Raki Kopernik, Anne Leigh Parrish, and Lizz Schumer on January 30th, 2021 at 5 PM PST using Zoom. Kopernik, Parrish, and Schumer are known for their queer and feminist tones, often working to dismantle stereotypes often ascribed to men and women.
 
Readers, writers, and the media are invited to watch the event. The authors will discuss a variety of topics and briefly read from one of their books. Details for how to join the discussion are listed at the end of this announcement.
 
About the Authors
Raki Kopernik is a queer, Jewish fiction and poetry writer. Her collection THE THINGS YOU LEFT contains thirty-seven stories built on magical realism and seemingly inconsequential moments between sweet and strange loners that meet in the space between the heart and the mind. She is also the author of The Memory House (The Muriel Press 2019) which was a finalist for both the Red Hen Press Nonfiction Award and the Minnesota Book Award, and The Other Body (Dancing Girl Press 2017). Her work has appeared in numerous publications and has been nominated for several other awards, including the Pushcart Prize for fiction. She lives in Minneapolis.
 
Anne Leigh Parrish is the author of eight previously published books: What Nell Dreams, a novella & stories (Unsolicited Press, 2020); Maggie’s Ruse, a novel, (Unsolicited Press, 2017); The Amendment, a novel (Unsolicited Press, 2017); Women Within, a novel (Black Rose Writing, 2017); By the Wayside, stories (Unsolicited Press, 2017); What Is Found, What Is Lost, a novel (She Writes Press, 2014); Our Love Could Light The World, stories (She Writes Press, 2013); and All The Roads That Lead From Home, stories (Press 53, 2011). 
 
Lizz Schumer penned BIOGRAPHY OF A BODY, a lyrical meander through what it means to be a messy, flawed, imperfect human. In personal essays and snippets of verse, it probes the influence of religion on a person’s psyche, how the legacy of traditional femininity work their way under the skin, and the many pitfalls of living in a female body. Schumer is the senior staff writer for Good Housekeeping, Prevention, and Woman’s Day and her freelance work has appeared in The New York Times, HuffPo, Bon Appetit, The Spruce, VinePair, SELF, and others. She holds an MFA in creative nonfiction from Goddard College and is also the author of Buffalo Steel (Black Rose Writing 2013). Her essays, poetry, fiction, and hybrid text have appeared in Punchnel’s, Wordgathering, Ploughshares.com, Ghost City Review, Entropy Mag, and elsewhere. She teaches journalism and communications courses as an adjunct professor at the New York University School of Professional Studies and as a writing consultant at the NYC Writer’s Room. 
 
About Unsolicited Press
Unsolicited Press was founded in 2012 and is based in Portland, OR. The press strives to produce exceptional works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry from award-winning authors. Learn more at  www.unsolicitedpress.com. 
Join Zoom Meeting
Link: https://zoom.us/j/98832797405?pwd=TDFDQ09DU3J4UHZaVXQ5UlZveFlTQT09
Meeting ID: 988 3279 7405
Passcode: q9ket5

If you could cook dinner for any author, dead or alive, who would it be? What would you make?  
I’d love to cook for Flannery O’Connor, though would worry about her dry comments regarding my lack of skill. Cornbread, sweet potatoes and chicken. Coconut cream pie, my Grandma Rose’s recipe.

What scares you the most about the writing process? How do you combat your fears?
The fear of time. Nothing about my writing process is linear or structured, so it takes great amounts of time to complete a story or project. The only way to combat this fear is to accept it and to keep writing.

Who is your biggest literary crush, author or character? 
Chekhov

What books are on your nightstand? 
Blue Nights by Joan Didion; Olive, Again by Elizabeth Strout; Love Poems by Pablo Neruda; The Little Virtues by Natalia Ginzburg 

Favorite punctuation mark? Why?  
The question mark; literature and stories should ask us questions about ourselves and lives.

What book were you supposed to read in high school, but never did? 
Ha! I don’t remember. If it was assigned, I most likely read it. Was one of those students.

What inanimate object would you thank in your acknowledgements? 
My many little notebooks that I kept with me with jotted down observations, odd thoughts, and some of my children’s notes and drawings when they were younger.

If you could write an inspirational quote on the mirrors of aspiring writers, what would you write? 
I write to discover what I know. 
Flannery O’Connor

Does writing energize or exhaust you?
Mostly it exhausts me.

What are common traps for aspiring writers?
I believe the most common one is the grand one that also trapped me - wanting to publish before your work is ready.

What is your writing Kryptonite?
When I allow the outside world’s opinion of what life should look like to come before my own.

Have you ever gotten writer’s block?
I’m not sure if it’s writer’s block or writer’s doubt, but I’ve certainly had those moments. My remedy is to get something on the page, even if it’s a few sentences or thoughts, or to work on edits.   

What other authors are you friends with, and how do they help you become a better writer?
I met Kelly Simmons, author of Wives of Billie’s Mountain and a number of short stories, at Queens University of Charlotte when we were earning our MFA’s. Kelly’s insight and tireless eye have been a constant part of my writing process. Kelly’s continuous support was crucial to the publication of this novella, and she’s a kick-ass kind of friend.      

What was the best money you ever spent as a writer?
My first writing class. It was a general fiction class, an eight week course, a couple hundred dollars. 

What authors did you dislike at first but grew into?
W.G. Sebald and Richard Yates.

What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?
When I was young, we’d go to my father’s softball games (he was on three teams). I had been playing with a black kid around my age and I remember an adult, not sure who he was, telling me I shouldn’t be playing with him. This adult was trying to use language to influence a child. But that didn’t make sense to me and I kept on playing. We don’t have to let other people’s language have power over us.

What’s your favorite under-appreciated novel?
The Third Man by Graham Greene

As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?
A bird, one that soars high and can see the view from far above, capturing the full picture.

What does literary success look like to you?
Readers taking something of emotional value from what I have written. 

What’s the best way to market your books?
In a perfect world hire a publicist! 

What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?
Many authors write authentically and beautifully about characters of their opposite sex. I find most everything about it quite difficult.   

If you didn’t write, what would you do for work?
I’d be a dress designer or a therapist. ​

PORTLAND, OR; JANUARY 12, 2021--Unsolicited Press announces the much-anticipated debut of The Animal Within by Kathrine Yets.  The Animal Within is filled with poems that want to swim together, focusing on animal and human nature. A few are ekphrastic, based on photography by Jaimie Huycke and Dennis Liddell. Dive in and readers find a world where horses speak their minds, crawdaddies sing, and mermaids find lust. Wolves howl “ahwoo at the full strawberry harvest moon in June,” and birds do more than flap their wings, but rather create a voice for the oppressed. Humans step in, personas based off the author, and consider loss, depression, and love— inner-self mixed with creature habits— scratching down a lover’s back or crying in a zoo. One persona connects with water, skinny-dipping her way into a galaxy reflection, “as quiet as you would expect it to be [she] sends a ripple through the moon.” Hawaiian Goddesses tell their story about how the Yoni Crater came to be with a crash. Nature takes note and gets noticed, exploring transcendental and organic aspects. “The stream has no objection” as the poet takes liberty in playing with ideas of what it might be saying. A divine devotion to creatures large and small— flora and fauna finding a voice among calm and chaos, depending on the scene created. Each poem cups a piece of life— ideas not too far fetched— mundane and supernatural. With sounds all around, the author uses anaphora, alliteration, assonance, and other devices to give these animals and personas personality of their own. This chapbook implores readers to take a hiatus, step outside of themselves, and experience the animal within. 
 
About Kathrine Yets 
Kathrine Yets lives and teaches in Wisconsin. Her works can be found in various literary magazines. She has two published chapbooks: The Animal Within and So I Can Write. In 2017, she won the Jade Ring Award and wears the ring proudly on her right hand each and every day. When she is not writing or teaching, she can be found at the park swinging on swings or taking a nap under a tree. She loves spending time with her Brad at home or running around the city. Her worlds right now are her nephews, Sweet Baby James and Cameron.

About Unsolicited Press
Unsolicited Press was founded in 2012 and is based in Portland, OR. The press strives to produce exceptional works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry from award-winning authors. Unsolicited Press has social media accounts on Instagram (@unsolicitedp) and Twitter (@unsolicitedP). 
 
The Animal Within is available on January 12, 2021 as a paperback (978-1-950730-98-8) and e-book (all major retailers). The title is distributed to the trade by Ingram.

If you could cook dinner for any author, dead or alive, who would it be? What would you make?  
I’d roast a chicken for Guillaume Apollinaire.

What scares you the most about the writing process? How do you combat your fears?
It used to be the blank page. Now, I enjoy the creative act too much to be afraid of it. If the result sucks, then so be it, I’ll try again.  

Who is your biggest literary crush, author or character? 
The brilliant Mary Ellen Solt.
What books are on your nightstand? 
Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein.
Favorite punctuation mark? Why?  
The hyphen, because it can break as well as unite.

What book were you supposed to read in high school, but never did? 
The Catcher in the Rye: Too whiny! 

What inanimate object would you thank in your acknowledgements? 
The stars.

If you could write an inspirational quote on the mirrors of aspiring writers, what would you write? 
Get over yourself and write!

Does writing energize or exhaust you?
Definitely, energizes.

What are common traps for aspiring writers?
I wish I knew!

What is your writing Kryptonite?
The myriad little responsibilities and obligations of adult life.

Have you ever gotten reader’s block?
I can’t say that I have. There’s just too much good stuff out there.

Do you think someone could be a writer if they don’t feel emotions strongly?
I don’t think writers are any more or less sensitive than anyone else. 

What other authors are you friends with, and how do they help you become a better writer?
The validation from wonderful poets such as Michael Sikkema, Megan Burns, and Derek Beaulieu, who have all published my work at one time or another, has been invaluable to me. 

How did publishing your first book change your process of writing?
It relaxed me a bit and gave me confidence to continue to try new things in my writing.

What was the best money you ever spent as a writer?
The money I spent to purchase a copy of Emmett Williams’ Anthology of Concrete Poetry.

What authors did you dislike at first but grew into?
I struggled with Pound for a while when I was young.

What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?
I remember reading The Hobbit as a boy one summer evening. Dusk was falling. I was outside on the patio and utterly transported.

What’s your favorite under-appreciated novel?
Fiasco by Lem

As a writer, what would you choose as your mascot/avatar/spirit animal?
The firefly, for sure.

What do you owe the real people upon whom you base your characters?
As a poet focused on issues of language, I don't really create characters.do this.

How many unpublished and half-finished books do you have?
Too many!

What does literary success look like to you?
For me, literary success is simply being able to contribute to the world of literature. I am honored and humbled to have been given the opportunity to publish a number of poetry collections. 

What’s the most difficult thing about writing characters from the opposite sex?
As a poet focused on issues of language, I don't really do this.

What did you edit out of this book?”
The bad poems, I hope.​