May 30th, 2012

Between seven and eight, Winston wasn’t sure what happened except that his voice had grown hoarse through shouting and Georgina’s face was strewn with post-impressionistic tears, rippling like a lake, flecks here and there, down her neck, mascara on her hands. The argument began with indecision about whether the couple should move in together or perhaps wait a little longer. And the conversation seemed fine. At least to Winston. But Georgina began to cry and wouldn’t say why. Winston tried to be understanding. Georgina’s reticence to get a place together irked him in a way he couldn’t fully pinpoint. At the time, Winston shared a house with three university friends, who were swiftly becoming ex-friends after nearly nine months as housemates. Winston kept pressing Georgina. He didn’t want to. 

The tears cut up her sentences and spat them out nonsensically. 

Georgina asked Winston to leave.”

Rhys Leyshon Evans, “Lapels

May 30th, 2012

Sidney W. Vernick Award in Nonfiction: The Finalists!

We are so excited to announce the Winner and two Runners-up for the first ever Sidney W. Vernick Award in Nonfiction at fwriction : review!

Winner: Patrick Ross, “September 12th”

Second Place: Tina Uebel, translated by Shelley Frisch, “The City and Writing”

Third Place: Ray Shea, “Linus and Lucy”

All three will be published during Nonfiction Month (June); in addition, as runner-up, Shelley Frisch will receive a signed copy of Matthew Salesses’ novella, The Last Repatriate, and Patrick Ross, whose piece will run for two weeks at the journal, will receive the $100 prize awarded to the winner.

A massive Thank You to everyone who helped promote and support our inaugural contest. With this success, we look forward to future contests and more waffle-rocking brilliance.

May 29th, 2012

They had been on two or three dates at that stage, and a number of half-dates where both parties thought they were acting more awkwardly than they actually were. Georgina later asked Winston what he meant by half-dates and Winston told her that he classified half-dates as the occasions when they bumped into one another at the library or supermarket and ended up dropping everything and spending hours together talking in exclamation marks and grammatically incorrect run-on sentences.

The night Winston and Georgina first kissed, they’d been drinking cheap, soapy beer in a dank apartment, wrapped in jumpers even though the heat was on full-blast. Caught by a restless fervour, they went for a walk. The March evening was warmer than Georgina’s accommodation but she still complained of a chill. Winston gave her his blazer. Georgina popped up both lapels and collar to insulate herself better. Winston wanted to tell her that he’d taken to reading horoscopes for the last three weeks in the vein hope they’d tell him what he wanted to hear. Georgina considered revealing that she’d written a poem for him, entitled ‘The Pope Won’t Care (It’s Not His Problem After All).’ The poem wasn’t really about the burgeoning romance but was inspired by the time she spent with Winston. Neither decided to say what was on their mind. The world slept gracefully, unaware of the romantic vignette developing on the naked streets, lit only by unsustainable lamps and diminishing beer.

Rhys Leyshon Evans, “Lapels
May 29th, 2012

Lapels, by Rhys Leyshon Evans

fwrictionreview:


Winston never used to walk that much, but lately he found himself drawn to ambling around the city every Saturday and Sunday. It was the end of September. The two bedroom apartment Winston shared with an Australian lost in London was an organism that seemed to have regressed in size over the previous six months and forced Winston to locate some form of abstract solace on the city streets. Winston had not become a flaneur. He did not look for comfort in the orthodox and non-orthodox beauty of architecture, or tree lined streets, or magisterial squares. Nor did he turn to walking for fitness. No. Winston simply found it imperative to keep moving. Sitting at home could not offer such respite. Sitting at home could only provide a laptop pallor and a cloying headache.

Sunday unfolded all around Winston. Buses running on haphazard schedules. Families looking for something, anything to distract children. Winston wore a royal blue tweed jacket. The oncoming autumnal chill ensured that this would most likely be the last day braved without a substantial overcoat. Unlike the majority of those who endured university education, Winston somehow managed to gain weight whilst pursuing a degree in sociology and was unable to fit into the jacket for upwards of two years. Yet after a summer of nauseating heat and timid salads, Cosmo successfully shed his academic pounds and found himself able to don the blazer once again.

Winston strolled through Bloomsbury. Georgian facades smiled grandly. A long strand of silver blonde hair sat entwined on the lapel of the jacket. Winston did not notice the hair until waiting at traffic lights where he took a moment to inspect and admire his trusted garment.

The silver blonde hair belonged to his ex-girlfriend, Georgina. The couple had split-up over a year ago. At the time, the reasons for the parting seemed clear, amicable almost. Yet the enveloping humidity of summer decided to muddle and twist and fragment what at first appeared so relatively straight-forward. 

Georgina wore Winston’s royal blue tweed blazer the night their relationship properly began.

Read More

Reblogged from fwriction : review
May 28th, 2012
May 26th, 2012

dannygoodman.me:

“My family would be leaving soon; we always ended our Memorial Day vacation before lunch on Monday: on our way out of town, my father would drive to Duryea’s, a small place on Fort Pond Bay next to the railroad station, where lobster rolls were procured and savored on the journey home. I couldn’t imagine the car ride, what we would say to one another, if anything. I held out hope that Liam, in his infinite wisdom and narcissism, would occupy us with uncomfortably carnal stories. Maybe, though, we had already said enough to one another. Maybe we could just move on. Maybe, hopefully, there would be no need for apologies anymore.”

Read the opening excerpt of the novella, Memorial Day, over at Blue Fifth Review

Happy Memorial Day weekend, everyone!

Reblogged from Danny Goodman
May 25th, 2012

Read the new issue of fwriction : review’s Fiction Month—Rhys Leyshon Evans’ short story “Lapels”—on your mobile device!

May 23rd, 2012

“George dropped to his knees, clutching the piece of chalk between two gloved fingers. Writing frantically, dirty black hair springing out above the thick wrinkles of his forehead, he worked the chalk against the pavement in complete concentration, pressing down so hard flecks of broken yellow chalk fell to either side onto the street. He wrote in bold letters—BY RUSSELL AND DADDY—then stood up and sucked in a long breath, turned his head sideways to review what he had written and handed the chalk to Russell, watched as his son fumbled with it between his fingers, dropped it and then bent slowly to pick it from the ground.”

Sheldon Lee Compton, “Snapshot ‘87

May 22nd, 2012
George allowed a long breath to ease from his lungs, patience slipping from inside him in a slow gush. His insides were turning on him now. Moving and shifting energy, an old energy, that nova blast that could create explosion from nearly nothing at all.That wild-wiring that had grabbed him away from the world once before. Only now there was nothing to hold it down. It spun and ran and shifted and did as it pleased.
Sheldon Lee Compton, “Snapshot ‘87”

George allowed a long breath to ease from his lungs, patience slipping from inside him in a slow gush. His insides were turning on him now. Moving and shifting energy, an old energy, that nova blast that could create explosion from nearly nothing at all.That wild-wiring that had grabbed him away from the world once before. Only now there was nothing to hold it down. It spun and ran and shifted and did as it pleased.

Sheldon Lee Compton, “Snapshot ‘87

May 20th, 2012
My job is to have empathy and curiosity for things that I’ve never done.
Richard Ford, on writing (via dannygoodman.me)
Reblogged from Danny Goodman
May 18th, 2012
The shift brought more depth to the stories, my characters, my own style as a writer. For the first time, I felt my voice had arrived, and, along with it, themes that started to surface, along with an overall direction and purpose for my complete body of work from that time until now.
Sheldon Lee Comptonwhose short story “Snapshot ‘87” rocks the current issue—as interviewed by Meg Tuite, for fwriction : review’s Writer Squared series
May 18th, 2012

Read the new issue of fwriction : review’s Fiction Month—Sheldon Lee Compton’s short story “Snapshot ‘87”—on your mobile device!

Bonus: check out Meg Tuite’s interview with Sheldon Lee Compton for fwriction : review’s Writer Squared series!

May 17th, 2012
Reblogged from TMD Writes
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