Olde New England Towne

We know what it’s like to feel a seismic shift when reading groundbreakingly good poetry. And with all the talk of earthquakes lately, we thought now would be an opportune moment to consider some tremors of the literary variety. Before we get started, lets take stock and appreciate the movement of the earth and the geologic construction of words. Or as Edward Hitchhock says, “Shall not geology, which is the first science in affording scope for the imagination, be brought into favor with the Muses, and afford themes for the Poet?” Yes, Sir Ed, let’s be taken away with metaphors and metamorphic rock talk. Sifting the interwebs, we dug up this poem written about the 1653 New England earthquake…

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The Initial Shock

For the past month we have been focusing on flash fiction. We not only solicited the form heavily, but we also looked to select shorter pieces from our regular submissions. We’re not sure who invented flash fiction. Some believe that you can trace its roots back to oral and religious traditions, sighting Aesop’s fables, the parables of Jesus and even prayer as possible points of origination. The first time we truly became aware of the capabilities of the short-short form was when we read Ernest Hemingway’s vignettes in In Our Time .

Recently the form has exploded. Most assume this trend is due to a shrinking attention span and literature’s ever-increasing enemies in the field of the entertainments. However, when recently thumbing through a Thomas Keller cookbook we came across a culinary theory that might also explain recent flash fiction fanaticism.

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Regionalism's Finest

Today’s letters lack regional flavor. We live in an era of creative writing exercise. The vast majority of which turns out new works driven by conceit rather than experience. Think of a movie-script situation: a tongue-in-cheek apocalypse, a generation of  men birthed through a prolonged deconstruction of a unit. Apply this situation to a couple dozen flash-fictions, and then do your damnedest to hold true to the supposition that the language of  a story trumps the story of a story. Our advice: Make sure the only telling dialect is that of the well learned. Kill many words. Kill all links to your people. Be heavy-handed in your editing. Don’t love. Don’t fuck. Don’t ever let the world grow excited. Don’t enjoy a thing, you genius.

Stop.

This is growing boring. We’re thirsty. And it’s time for blood.

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Deleriously White

It’s winter in America and people are sick, or snowed in. DSM Fiction Editor Brian Carr lives in Texas, so snow there ain’t really a factor. Even still, illness, germs, fatigue, they all pervade. Brian is laid up in bed and we wish him well.

Here in the Northwest we’ve had a mild winter — no snow, moderate temperatures and limited rain. But again, illness finds a way in: Our dear fiancée has a red nose, sore throat and aches and pains. We’re keeping our distance and hope that by week’s end she’ll be ready to hike one of Vashon Island’s many beautiful trails.

Most of our family resides on the east coast. So far we have no illnesses to report, but we do have plenty of stories coming into our voicemail regarding the god-forsaken rotten snow and all its dirty leftovers.

Snow + illness = A cold winter sandwich. People tend to grow ill when they’re cooped up indoors. People tend to turn blue when too much white is on the ground. It’s a sandwich few can stomach. Interesting, then, that countless novels, stories and essays have chronicled these very same circumstances and been hugely successful and entertaining reads.

Here’s a couple scenes from three of our favorites. — Kevin Murphy

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Pig Skin!

Dear Sweet Baby Touchdown Jesus:

We are very ready for the Super Bowl. Please send it posthaste, and let there be massive murder-death hits, and bloody stumps, and atomic explosions. Let there be knives in the knee pads, and H-bombs in the helmets.

We’re not asking much. We want the bad team to get hit so hard their babies go Down Syndrome. We’re lighting a candle in the end zone of your altar. We’re crossing our fingers in the seats of your bleachers.

In anticipation of this weekend’s melee we’re reading our favorite football novel. End Zone by Don DeLillo. (Not that book by Rudy Ruetigger).  — Brian Allen Carr

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