Tag Archives: The Lit Pub

SSR Countdown #1 of 15: They Could No Longer Contain Themselves

8 Jul

To help get everyone as jazzed as I am for the VouchedATL Launch Reading I have decided to do a countdown of Single Sentence Reviews of the books that will be carried at VouchedATL’s table. For the kick-off I’ve chosen Rose Metal Press’ flash fiction collection They Could No Longer Contain Themselves because I can’t either. (Neither can Christopher!)

Imagine John Jodzio, Elizabeth J. Colen, Tim Jones-Yelvington, Sean Lovelace, and Mary Miller standing in a line each singing their own melody in a round, and over time the five melodies bleed into each other and form an over-lying arc whose staccato’s burst so much that you can feel them prick your fingertips and whose legatos ring your insides dry and when the humming, whistling, and singing stops the five of them all leave but their tunes stay in your head for days.

 

Rohan knows how to cut, how to kill.

1 Jun

I came this close to typing “SSM” at the beginning of the title for today’s post. But, Short Story Month is over, and today is June 1st, which gives way to another new and exciting development in my life: The Lit Pub.

The past few months, Molly Gaudry, Team TLP, and I have been hard at work getting this endeavor ready to launch. What is it? I’m glad you asked. We are something of a mashup of a Book of the Month club/publicity/online bookstore, focusing solely on indie/small press literature, so essentially a sister of Vouched. Each month, Molly, a guest publisher, and I all feature a favorite title of ours, and spin up some conversation and general enthusiasm about the book. For my inaugural month, I’ve chosen Ethel Rohan’s collection of flash fiction Cut Through the Bone, and it’d be rad if you’d like to follow along with my and other guest poster’s musing throughout June.

There’s been a lot said about Cut Through the Bone already here at Vouched, because it’s just that good. As I was rereading it this past week to reinvigorate myself for TLP’s launch today, this story “How to Kill” ripped at me, left a hole in my belly the size of an abortion.

The supposed gypsy had long, greasy hair, gold hoop earrings peeking from the dirty strands. Her gold arm bangles jingled while she dealt and lifted the cards. A mushroom smell off her breath, and earthy whiff off her skin. She accepted payment in Tequila Sunrises choked with cherries.

At first, she had waved-off the tarot cards for nonsense, but the hag’s grave voice held her mesmerized and dark, probing eyes sent shivers over her. When the woman claimed she could see a baby where there was no longer a baby, she felt snakes wrap around her body and cinch her chest.

Matt gestured with his fork at her coffee mug.

“I can’t eat breakfast, not since….” her voice trailed off.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staining himself with tomato ketchup.

She continued: “Not since the morning sickness.”

He looked down at his plate.

Read the full story at Hobart.

And I hope you’ll follow along with The Lit Pub community’s conversation about the book!