Small Press Review Series: One Last Good Time and the Literary Platypus

One Last Good Time
Michael Kardos
Press 53 (2010), 185 pages, $14.95

The trouble with interconnected story collections is that they are interconnected.

I know, I know: the first rule of tautology club is the first rule of tautology club. But in this case, it’s not an argumentative fallacy to say that the qualities that make interconnected story collections theoretically interesting can make them disappointing in practice. It has to do with reader response: we come to a short story for a discrete experience – a world we enter and leave in the same sitting. If we recognize a character, a setting, or a matrix of events from a previous story the sense of separateness is lost. And at the same time, we don’t get the total immersion of a novel. READ MORE

Flash Fiction Series: Sarah Sarai

Vows

by Sarah Sarai

It is no secret that there is a lot of jabber in the world coming from everywhere including the streets and the houses with their people and telephones and radios and TVs, all of them blasting at you day and night so there is no peace.  I know none of these things, these inventions or these people, are really saying anything to anyone, let alone to you or me.  This is a fact.  Some of the people who live here claim otherwise.  They slink up to me real nefarious, ask me if I’ve heard the message and then slink off.  I walked into the communism room last night, with all these empty chairs but one and the TV going real loud and this guy sitting but kind of jerking towards the TV.  He looked at me like I was an emissary of the third coming — the second coming is past tense to most of the people around here — and pointed like we had this shared secret knowledge, at the tube, then directed his eyes right into mine as if there was anything in his stupid mind to communicate.  I said, “Shut up,” and walked out.  I said it loud to make sure he heard me because if you don’t stick up for yourself it isn’t my problem. READ MORE

Tragedy in Haymarket Square

Death in the Haymarket: A Story of Chicago, The First Labor Movement, and The Bombing That Divided Gilded Age America by James Green.  New York: Pantheon, 2006.

On the evening of May 4, 1886, laborers gathered to attend a rally in Chicago’s Haymarket Square to protest the city police force’s use of lethal force in suppressing a strike at the McCormick Reaper Works several days before. Speakers addressed the crowd in several languages, and as the  speeches drew to a close six police divisions arrived to break up the demonstration. At this moment, a sputtering red fuse became visible  as a small projectile arched its way through the night air and landed amid the police. READ MORE

The Coming Crisis of Op-Ed Food: The Cheapness of Eating Expensively

By Liam Hysjulien

In a study last year by Professors Dan Ariely and Micahel L. Norton aptly titled “Building A Better America—One Wealth Quintile At A Time,” we learned that Americans have little concept of the median income in this country or the gross disparity between income levels. Television pundits, the new class of often factless “experts,” lament the growing sentiment of “class envy” or the vitriolic “class warfare” spreading across our cultural landscape. These same experts woefully ignore the simple facts that wages have remained largely stagnant over the last three decades, while the prices of basic goods have steadily risen (although the current recession slowed this price increase). READ MORE

Location, Location, Location

A mural by graffiti artist Dolk at Halden Prison in Norway. Photo credit: FastCompany.com.

My cousin, Mark Unger, finds himself unexpectedly in prison, and has turned to writing as a sanity outlet. This essay was one of this year’s winners in a creative writing competition sponsored annually by the Prison Creative Arts Program based at the University of Michigan. The winning writers will be honored at a ceremony in Ann Arbor next month, and the winning works will be published in an anthology later this year.

I salute Mark, not only for his writing talent, but for the strength and grace with which he’s coped with setbacks that would plunge most of us into an abyss of despair. I’ll write more about the criminal justice system next month. READ MORE

Cynthia Popper

things I could never know

by Cynthia Popper

I’m on the bus driving to the airport from Delicias and I can only think about you. For some reason the little girl sitting alone by the driver reminds me of when we first met and you randomly told me about the time when you were eight and you walked into the kitchen just as your dad hit your mom. You hardly knew me, but at the time I thought it must have meant something. READ MORE

Rumynations: Syria in Contention

By Alejandro Moreiras

Ashams, the area called Suriya by the Byzantines, was conquered by the Arabs in the mid-seventh century, much of the fighting being over by 650.

It was an ancient land, a land of plenty. The Arabs had known Syria as the southeastern semiarid desert plateaus of that country run into the harsh, dry deserts of Arabia, in a continuity not unknown to the traveling Arabian tradesmen, pilgrim, and Bedouin. But the land was not predominantly Arab, although there were Arabs. Its population was, as it has always been, impressively heterogeneous. Its countryside sprinkled with monasteries of different church orders, whether Monophysite or Diophysite, Syriac, Latin, or Orthodox. Christianity, in its many forms, was the majority religion. But there were also Jews, Samaritans, Pagans, Armenians, Aramaens, and of course, the traveler—merchant or pilgrim—who could have been of any religion or nationality. The Byzantine Empire—the Muslim’s arch-enemy—with a capital in what is now called Istanbul, considered Syria its southern jewel. A cradle of civilization. The Holy Land. READ MORE

Andreas Economakis

photo by Andreas Economakis

“Exodus”

by Andreas Economakis

3:30 p.m. Los Angeles, California. Five months after 9/11.

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Clive’s dented, dirt-brown Cherokee, staring out the window. The West Hollywood scenery streams past me in colorful, repetitive bursts. White stucco house, palm tree, white stucco house, palm tree. Clean driveways spill into the street, beckoning the eye upwards, inwards, for a quick glimpse of the American Dream. “Armed Response” signs keep guard next to candy-colored cars and water-fattened cactuses, defending houses that peer onto the street with glassy, vacant eyes. The image lasts for just for a second or two, quickly replaced by a slight variation of the same thing. A change of car make or color. A Japanese plum tree instead of a cactus. READ MORE