Check out Kitty Snacks on the front page of the Quimby's website. Don't be afraid to buy it from them or from us...
Monday, March 30, 2009
Quimby's in Chicago
Check out Kitty Snacks on the front page of the Quimby's website. Don't be afraid to buy it from them or from us...
Monday, March 16, 2009
Issue #1 now in stores! Selling like hot cakes!
If you live in Oxford, MS you can pick up a copy of Kitty Snacks #1 at Square Books.
If you live in Chicago you can pick up a copy at Quimby's.
If you live in Memphis you can pick up a copy at Goner Records.
or you could just click the "buy now" button over there and we'll mail you one, but it's good to support your local stores.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Clarissa's mom reads Sam Pink's Harm Another Human Being into Admiring You at the Kitty Snacks Issue #1 Release Party!
Clarissa's mom reads Sam Pink from david swider on Vimeo.
Thanks to John Rory Fraser for filming the event and thanks to Clarissa's mom for reading.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Issue #2 preview
We're moving ahead and Issue #2 is looking damn fine and features an interview with Matthew Robison, producer of the film Silver Jew based on poet/musician David Berman. The film is excellent so be sure to check out the interview in the upcoming issue of Kitty Snacks.
For now here's the trailer for the film:
Silver Jew Movie Trailer
Enjoy!
For now here's the trailer for the film:
Silver Jew Movie Trailer
Enjoy!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Almost Gone!
Issue #1 is almost SOLD OUT!
If you haven't ordered a copy now is a good time.
If you have ordered a copy it's on its way! Thanks!
Friday, March 6, 2009
A Baby
by David Erlewine
Three nights after their daughter was born dead, an umbilical cord strangling, John’s wife woke up screaming. He cowered under his hands, his heart on the verge. Her face contorted in a way he’d never seen. He rocked her in his arms, shushing her back to sleep. At breakfast, John’s son stared at the empty table. John got up and made him some juice and set out a box of Cheerios. His son threw the box in the trash. “Stale, Dad.” John hoped the boy didn’t ask about his mother, who was in bed, legs splayed, waiting to be changed.
Her psychiatrist asked what her name was. She put her thumb in her ear and said, “Goo goo goo goo.” Later, while she sucked on what would have been Melissa’s pacifier, the good doctor suggested immediate hospitalization. John rubbed his wife’s shoulder. “Not yet.” In the car, John helped her into the front seat and buckled her in. He whispered, “Snap the fuck out of this.” The pacifier fell in her lap. She fumbled at it with her left hand.
A few weeks later, he located and assembled an adult crib that to him looked like a cage. “This is what it has come to.” She nodded and crawled in. The next few nights before bed he pretended to chase her; she giggled every time she crawled in.
Her brother flew in for the weekend. He left Saturday afternoon.
John consulted with her psychiatrist, their son, friends, and then her. She stared as he explained the predicament. As he held her in his arms, he reminded himself that taking her to the hospital might be the only thing to bring her back. During the intake procedure, or maybe upon seeing her room, she just might snap back in place.
The first night in her new bed, she wouldn’t sleep, crying and screaming. A tall woman came in to check on them. A few minutes later, she returned with a bottle of formula milk. He tested a few drops on the inside part of his wrist, recalling how he had done so for their son years before, how the little boy writhed in her arms, waiting. John flicked the little lamp on. He grabbed his wife’s shoulders and shook them, snapping her head back and forth. Her eyes filled with tears. He stuck the bottle in her mouth before she could scream.
David Erlewine's stories appear (or soon will) in Mud Luscious, Keyhole Magazine, 971 Menu, elimae, CEllA's Road Trip, and other journals. He edits fiction for Dogzplot. Check out his blog at http://www.whizbyfiction.blogspot.com/
Three nights after their daughter was born dead, an umbilical cord strangling, John’s wife woke up screaming. He cowered under his hands, his heart on the verge. Her face contorted in a way he’d never seen. He rocked her in his arms, shushing her back to sleep. At breakfast, John’s son stared at the empty table. John got up and made him some juice and set out a box of Cheerios. His son threw the box in the trash. “Stale, Dad.” John hoped the boy didn’t ask about his mother, who was in bed, legs splayed, waiting to be changed.
Her psychiatrist asked what her name was. She put her thumb in her ear and said, “Goo goo goo goo.” Later, while she sucked on what would have been Melissa’s pacifier, the good doctor suggested immediate hospitalization. John rubbed his wife’s shoulder. “Not yet.” In the car, John helped her into the front seat and buckled her in. He whispered, “Snap the fuck out of this.” The pacifier fell in her lap. She fumbled at it with her left hand.
A few weeks later, he located and assembled an adult crib that to him looked like a cage. “This is what it has come to.” She nodded and crawled in. The next few nights before bed he pretended to chase her; she giggled every time she crawled in.
Her brother flew in for the weekend. He left Saturday afternoon.
John consulted with her psychiatrist, their son, friends, and then her. She stared as he explained the predicament. As he held her in his arms, he reminded himself that taking her to the hospital might be the only thing to bring her back. During the intake procedure, or maybe upon seeing her room, she just might snap back in place.
The first night in her new bed, she wouldn’t sleep, crying and screaming. A tall woman came in to check on them. A few minutes later, she returned with a bottle of formula milk. He tested a few drops on the inside part of his wrist, recalling how he had done so for their son years before, how the little boy writhed in her arms, waiting. John flicked the little lamp on. He grabbed his wife’s shoulders and shook them, snapping her head back and forth. Her eyes filled with tears. He stuck the bottle in her mouth before she could scream.
David Erlewine's stories appear (or soon will) in Mud Luscious, Keyhole Magazine, 971 Menu, elimae, CEllA's Road Trip, and other journals. He edits fiction for Dogzplot. Check out his blog at http://www.whizbyfiction.blogspot.com/
The Rabbits
by J.A. Tyler
There was a pop and some red, nothing else. It was a video my dad ordered over the phone, telling the operator YES. YES. YES, and then a string of numbers.
Here they run from bush to bush, covering themselves from us, our walking, the strollers and wagons and all the ways they know we accidentally crush them. Hiding in the lawn, here, the other zoo animals unnoticing them, their tiny rabbit bodies.
SEE. THEY JUST PEEL IT OFF. And they do, in my dad’s video, their rabbit skin coming off of them like a coat, unzipping and coming off their shoulders.
The heads have been chopped off, these rabbits in this video of my dad’s. They are headless, these rabbits.
WHERE ARE THEIR HEADS? I ask. GONE he says.
Gone, these rabbits, their heads.
I WANT TO KEEP MY HEAD I tell him, my dad watching this video, where the meat comes off the bones. BE CAREFUL THEN he says, headless rabbits on the screen, the ones that I guess weren’t careful enough.
J. A. Tyler is the author of the forthcoming novella SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE (ghost road press) and the chapbooks THE GIRL IN THE BLACK SWEATER (Trainwreck Press) and EVERYONE IN THIS IS EITHER DYING OR WILL DIE OR IS THINKING OF DEATH (Achilles Chapbook Series). He is also founding editor of mud luscious / ml press and was recently nominated for a Pushcart. Find more info here: www.aboutjatyler.blogspot.com.
There was a pop and some red, nothing else. It was a video my dad ordered over the phone, telling the operator YES. YES. YES, and then a string of numbers.
Here they run from bush to bush, covering themselves from us, our walking, the strollers and wagons and all the ways they know we accidentally crush them. Hiding in the lawn, here, the other zoo animals unnoticing them, their tiny rabbit bodies.
SEE. THEY JUST PEEL IT OFF. And they do, in my dad’s video, their rabbit skin coming off of them like a coat, unzipping and coming off their shoulders.
The heads have been chopped off, these rabbits in this video of my dad’s. They are headless, these rabbits.
WHERE ARE THEIR HEADS? I ask. GONE he says.
Gone, these rabbits, their heads.
I WANT TO KEEP MY HEAD I tell him, my dad watching this video, where the meat comes off the bones. BE CAREFUL THEN he says, headless rabbits on the screen, the ones that I guess weren’t careful enough.
J. A. Tyler is the author of the forthcoming novella SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE (ghost road press) and the chapbooks THE GIRL IN THE BLACK SWEATER (Trainwreck Press) and EVERYONE IN THIS IS EITHER DYING OR WILL DIE OR IS THINKING OF DEATH (Achilles Chapbook Series). He is also founding editor of mud luscious / ml press and was recently nominated for a Pushcart. Find more info here: www.aboutjatyler.blogspot.com.
Audubon
by Lydia Copeland
He points to the Swan's back full of cygnets, runs a finger over the dip of neck. He is her son and has inherited all her loves. Their hands draw invisible alphabets into the pictures. She shows him how an S bends away from itself. T is a table with the guests cleared away. She thinks of rivers on maps, routes. The air outside of their house.
There was a trip West with a boyfriend once, and she watched the land slide into desert and the ice melt in the drive-thru cups. The boyfriend had spilled gasoline on his shoes, and the smell stayed with them through the red dust and saguaro, through the firewheel flowers. They watched a car on fire, rolling down the interstate. A woman on the side of the road watched with them, crying about her paintings burning in the trunk. Her summer's work. Her nose was bloody. Her hands shook. They put a blanket over her shoulders and waited for the police. She and the boyfriend slept in the car that night, and she kept waking at every sound. The boyfriend found pancakes for them every morning. He seemed to always know how to find the empty places out of the way, where the waitresses came to your table without a pen and memorized your order. There was always a George Jones song and a guy at the counter eating eggs before work.
Now she has a husband, who drives in and out of weeks and comes home for three day stretches. On these days the house is warm from cooking meals. Her husband sleeps on his side, face to her face. Now her son has learned the birds of their neighborhood. The seagull, the pigeon, the cormorants in the bay. He knows the difference between starling and sparrow in parking lots. She walks with him to the neighborhood across the street to watch mallards in a stream, floating in pairs over roots and sand, letting the water take them. Her husband returns each week with a new book. Audubon or Sibley. When he leaves again, she stacks the books on the dinner table and places their wedding photos at eye level again. Her son holds the pictures sometimes, points at the lips and eyes of his father.
When they first moved to this neighborhood, she would place her son in a stroller and walk along the Bay after dinner. The water there did not roll like the ocean further out, but lapped like a minute hand inching forward. They were always alone in these evenings, and at some point she would carry her son on her hip and point to the cargo ships, the dredger shifting the silt from the water's bottom. Once they watched an egret, standing like a ghost in tide. She knew its slow flight and its neck like a loosened ribbon. Her son was quiet in her arms, his head under her chin. She thought his eyes might be closed. She thought he might not see. Fish hid in the shadows under the water. The egret didn't move when seagulls called over them, or with the horn of the tugboat. A boy and girl from the high school held hands and walked beside them and then behind the path lined with elms and down into the long grasses where no one could see them. She rocked her son in the wind and watched the sky turn gray, the birds circling the shore.
He points to the Swan's back full of cygnets, runs a finger over the dip of neck. He is her son and has inherited all her loves. Their hands draw invisible alphabets into the pictures. She shows him how an S bends away from itself. T is a table with the guests cleared away. She thinks of rivers on maps, routes. The air outside of their house.
There was a trip West with a boyfriend once, and she watched the land slide into desert and the ice melt in the drive-thru cups. The boyfriend had spilled gasoline on his shoes, and the smell stayed with them through the red dust and saguaro, through the firewheel flowers. They watched a car on fire, rolling down the interstate. A woman on the side of the road watched with them, crying about her paintings burning in the trunk. Her summer's work. Her nose was bloody. Her hands shook. They put a blanket over her shoulders and waited for the police. She and the boyfriend slept in the car that night, and she kept waking at every sound. The boyfriend found pancakes for them every morning. He seemed to always know how to find the empty places out of the way, where the waitresses came to your table without a pen and memorized your order. There was always a George Jones song and a guy at the counter eating eggs before work.
Now she has a husband, who drives in and out of weeks and comes home for three day stretches. On these days the house is warm from cooking meals. Her husband sleeps on his side, face to her face. Now her son has learned the birds of their neighborhood. The seagull, the pigeon, the cormorants in the bay. He knows the difference between starling and sparrow in parking lots. She walks with him to the neighborhood across the street to watch mallards in a stream, floating in pairs over roots and sand, letting the water take them. Her husband returns each week with a new book. Audubon or Sibley. When he leaves again, she stacks the books on the dinner table and places their wedding photos at eye level again. Her son holds the pictures sometimes, points at the lips and eyes of his father.
When they first moved to this neighborhood, she would place her son in a stroller and walk along the Bay after dinner. The water there did not roll like the ocean further out, but lapped like a minute hand inching forward. They were always alone in these evenings, and at some point she would carry her son on her hip and point to the cargo ships, the dredger shifting the silt from the water's bottom. Once they watched an egret, standing like a ghost in tide. She knew its slow flight and its neck like a loosened ribbon. Her son was quiet in her arms, his head under her chin. She thought his eyes might be closed. She thought he might not see. Fish hid in the shadows under the water. The egret didn't move when seagulls called over them, or with the horn of the tugboat. A boy and girl from the high school held hands and walked beside them and then behind the path lined with elms and down into the long grasses where no one could see them. She rocked her son in the wind and watched the sky turn gray, the birds circling the shore.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Big Thanks!
Michael and I want to thank everyone who attended the launch party. We had a blast.
Stay tuned for videos and photos of the event as well as tons of new content.
The magazine is now available by clicking the "buy now" button up there or by going to Square Books in Oxford, MS.
Thanks again.
Monday, March 2, 2009
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