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.
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