TThhee BBlloott tteerrNovember 2010 MAGAZINE

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“Notes on women. And men. Part 1”Occasionally, I am invited to talk in my daughters’ classes about writingand the creative writing process and I imagine myself very interestingbecause the children stare at me. They are enthusiastic about raising theirhands to answer my questions, and I am proud that my daughters run upafter a session to hug me and say, “good job, Dad.” I need that “positivefeedback” as we used to call it back in my go-into-the-office days. AndI have thought about becoming a teacher. After all, I’m a smart guy,right?

But I am quite painfully aware that I cannot do the teacher’s job, am nottotally certain that the information I have divulged to the children is whatthey need to do the work in front of them, or actually provided a spark topursue further learning about the subject. The women teaching mydaughters have a different, possibly magical, possibly geneticallyacquired, competence that makes them good teachers, good day-after-daypurveyors of information to my children. And even that is smarmy andincorrect. They’re good at it because they want to be good at it andlearned how to be good at it and work to be good at it.

I’m a pretty good Dad – can readily impart Dad wisdom about chess, fish-ing, baseball line-scores, Tai-Chi Chuan forms, belching the alphabet,making scrambled eggs. But teaching - real school - is a tough business.It requires foresight and farsightedness. And patience. Most male-typesdon’t have these. Farmers, perhaps. Certain scientists. The rare stock-market investor. Great Alexander the Macedonian. But for the rest ofsociety, results are demanded immediately after performing a function.It’s a guy thing, admittedly Neanderthal in nature. Hunt the Mastodon.Kill the Mastodon. Eat. Life is uncomplicated in the male mind. Lay offemployees until you show a profit. Throw out whatever isn’t a core com-petency. Use all medical research for impotency. Hold mid-term elec-tions...

If our public education system is broken, we need look no further for thereason. Education is not a hunt-kill-eat equation. Teach something today,test on it tomorrow, and Mission Accomplished is a gross absurdity.That’s not how you learn anything – except that we think it’s how welearned what we gleaned from our school days. So it must be right. Orit might be wrong. We don’t know, and elected officials mull over it andtry to hunt, kill and eat. If it’s right, keep doing it. If it’s wrong, keepdoing it harder! Stomp all over it, and if anyone asks what happened,blame someone.

Certain functions take time; cannot and shouldn’t be measured forprogress so often that measuring begins to take the place of the craft. Iknow this because my tenure as a stay-at-home Dad has taught me – iron-

We often use Bobco fonts, copyrightedshareware from the Church of the

Subgenius. Prabob. We also useMary Jane Antique and other free-ware fonts from Apostrophic Labs

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aThe Blotter Magazine, Inc.

(again, a 501(c)3 non-profit) is aneducation concern. Our primary

interest is the furthering of creativewriting and fine arts, with the maga-zine being a means to that end. We

publish in the first half of eachmonth and enjoy a free circulationthroughout the Southeast and someother places, too. Submissions are

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sCAUTION

Making the world slightlyless snarky since May of

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ically over the long haul. For example, my daughters know to put clothesin the laundry. Not because I said it once, or because I said it a thousandtimes, but because I talked with them about it, and had them help me withthe laundry, and played Lady Gaga (groan) while I folded clothes andbecause I left the laundry on the floor until that special shirt was neededfor some event and it wasn’t clean. That’s teaching, my friends.

I talk with women about things, and always imagined myself smarterbecause I occasionally hold a fact in my memory that they do not. Itmade me feel good about my intelligence, made me seem wise to myself.Sometimes women came to me for advice. I shared what I could aboutwhatever subject they initiated. I always thought that they were going touse my wise advice to solve their concerns. Never understood that it wasmostly about the talking, not necessarily about solving. But in the full-ness of time, I have learned that I am not smarter. In fact, I often do notknow what to do with the things I know. I do not work well with othersof my age, gender or knowledge-base. I do not seek others out for advice,or if I do, it is usually too late to rescue whatever situation I have gottenmyself into. I read, and accumulate information, but have no filteringsystem for useful knowledge versus extraneous. It must be gone, like amissing rib. So I probably wouldn’t be a great teacher. Would causemore damage than good. On the other hand, I would probably do well inthe current public school system. That should be telltale evidence of howpoor a teacher I am.

Well, the homework is getting harder, and my girls go to public school.So here’s what I’ve learned from women teachers – and I suspect that suc-cessful male teachers imitate female teachers – that I am putting into mystay-at-home Dad bag of tricks. Listen: to the children, to each other, toparents, and to your own teachers and professors. Approach all subjectswith some goals, and from a few different directions. Let the childrentalk, but have a way to make them stop talking that doesn’t involve threatsor shouting. Present the information, and present it again, allowing thechildren to acknowledge that they may have received the informationbefore. Ask questions and listen to answers. Let the children ask ques-tions and answer them. Don’t become angry if the questions fall off sub-ject or if you run out of time today – because it’s not a mastodon hunt.

Garry - chief@blotterrag.com

November 2010

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Their house is systematized ina friendly sort of way. Though eachthing has its place, the boundaries areloose: The cinnamon can be slippedinto the space labeled “nutmeg” with-out causing disturbance; the sweaterscan cross into the shirt pile and notthrow anything off kilter. Claire, infact, suspects that David’s approach toorganization encourages small trans-gressions as proof of his ability to keepfocus on the greater domestic picture.Today, the upper closet is ordered, thesweaters folded and stacked into smallwooden compartments, but shenotices that the shoes—his pairs andhers—have mixed with each otherover the course of the week, the top ofher long boot crossing his brown loaferas though shielding it from a minia-ture battle that will resume in the darkof that closet just as soon as she closesthe door.

All day, she has been thinkingabout her sister, Tris, and the letter shereceived yesterday from a man—JakeMurphy—who explained that he’dbeen living with Tris but had left herwhen he discovered she’d been writinga memoir. He found the manuscriptby accident. “There were cruel thingsshe’d written about me. Mean things Iwon’t go into here.” The letter ended:“I built one last fire and left that sameevening. I know you’re the only familyshe’s got; I found your address in heraddress book, though I’m not evensure if it’s current. I know you allhaven’t spoken for a long time, andyou don’t even know who I am, but

family is owed an explanation.” It wasa generous letter. She should call Tris.Claire unbuttons her blouse, then shetakes off her shoes. How do womenwear high heels? She can barely man-age a boost. During tax season, whenthere’s a full list of clients to see, shemakes an effort and wears heels oncein a while but feels a little short-changed if she doesn’t receive a fewcompliments on the shoes to compen-sate for her suffering. So she’d ratherbe comfortable and call it a day.

In sweat pants and a T-shirt,she heads back downstairs to thekitchen. If she ever saves a few extradollars, she’ll re-do that entire room,jack the fake granite tops off herself ifnecessary and replace those cheap cab-inet doors with cherry wood.

There’s a defrosted chicken onthe counter that David must havetaken out before he left for work thatmorning. She pulls off the plastic andlifts the bird from its black Styrofoamtray; she’s heard that the red juicesaren’t really blood at all but a fluidfrom the muscles and organs of thedead animal. She cuts off the green“organic” label affixed to its leg.David’s mother would have had thatchicken surrounded by fingerlingpotatoes, bathed in herbs and olive oil,and cooking at a low temperature forhours already. There’d be green beansin a tomato sauce and a first course, noquestion, with two wines selected—one for dinner, one for dessert. Hisparents had immigrated to Brazil fromItaly. The first time she and David vis-

ited, his mother had told her about theyears she’d spent scouring the Brazilianmarkets for products similar to thoseshe’d known back home. When shefound that it was impossible to makeanything but second-rate Italian cui-sine with the Brazilian fare, shebecame inventive, combining the new-found vegetables and fruits into herold recipes and eventually writing acookbook that still, apparently, sellsdown there. His father is dead, but hismother still watches RAI, the Italiannews station, where she gets to seeDavid’s name whenever there’s a storyedited in the New York office:Montatore Davide Caruso.

Claire covers the chicken withrosemary and butter the way her ownmother used to and turns the ovenhigher than she probably should. Theman claimed that, in her memoir—orso he called it—Tris had written thatshe wished he’d evaporate: Not die,not suffer, just cease to exist. Thoseparticular words, he wrote, caused himsuch pain his jaw stung for days. Howdid he know to trust she was writingwhat she really felt, and why didn’t heconfront her? Claire wonders. Whywas he so sure it was a memoir she waswriting?

Claire is hungry, and Davidwill be back soon—she wants dinnerdone so they can sit down straightaway. On a scale from one to ten, shewonders as she cuts up zucchini, howevil it is to allow other people’s failuresto make one feel more secure aboutone’s own life? No, evil is not theword: Morally inappropriate. Howmorally inappropriate is it to view lifeas a grid and envision others as variouscolored pushpins moved up and downor sideways? Since childhood, she’simagined a point at which standardsare assessed, all factors having beenweighed and the appropriate coordi-nates determined. In the end—or per-haps by the time one reaches a certainage—the number each person isassigned sticks. The equation isimmensely complicated by factorssuch as goodness, intelligence, hon-esty, effort, etc, and points are lost orgained for many unseen—and oftenunconsidered—reasons. How haveClaire’s own coordinates been affectedby invidious comparisons to Tris?

She hears the suck of the frontdoor opening. “Hi, David!” she callsout, as though she can’t afford to give

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“How It Ended”by Martha Witt

him a few extra seconds to collect him-self and then greet her on his ownterms, as though she has to make apoint of reminding him of her super-sonic senses, her ability to hear, taste,smell, see, and feel things at a level justabove the human one. He is deter-mined not to respond immediately.“Hello!” she says more formally, fullyout of the kitchen now and smiling athim, holding a wooden spoon.

“Hi,” he replies, barely audi-ble, but enough—he supposes—forher hearing powers.

“I’m making the chicken youleft out,” she tells him. He nods andwalks straight to the entertainmentcenter. He takes down a round wood-en box that he bought himself as apresent when he officially took up res-idence in the US right after they weremarried ten years ago. He doesn’t carrya wallet, but he rarely loses anything;his money and credit cards go intothat box as soon as he comes home.

“Did you even hear me?”Claire asks, stepping towards him,holding a large wooden spoon, offi-cially crossing the line that separatesliving and dining rooms. Since thereare no walls between those rooms, theonly distinguishing mark is the changein the pattern of the hardwood floors.He does not understand why she mustadvance, what misconstrued insight ispushing her toward rather than awayfrom him. He finally looks her in theface. No, it is not insight at work, justa magnet locked in the oceanic depthsof her and a metal that perversely risesto his surface each time he wants to beleft alone. He cannot control the badmachinery at work, observing it likethe desperate inventor of a mechanismintended to do good but that insteadwreaks a small amount of havoc each

day, its deposits accumulating, andthen, well…

“Yes, I heard you,” he says,“thank you for making dinner.”

“What’s with the bad mood?”Claire asks, both hands beneath thespoon’s greasy head.

“Just a headache.” He exhalesand turns to walk up the stairs.

She returns to the kitchen.Since she made dinner, according toDavid’s housework chart, it is his turnto wash up afterwards, but she’ll dothe favor of cleaning what she canbefore the chicken is done. When hefirst created the chart, he’d hung it inthe kitchen, but she immediately tookit down. “Nothing to be embarrassedabout,” he argued, “It’s just daily life, away to keep things clear.”

“That part of our daily lives isembarrassing,” she said, “plain andsimple.” She remembers visitingPompeii and Herculaneum with herparents during a family trip to Italy.“When the volcano erupted, it took agood many by surprise,” a tour guidebehind them was saying to a busloadof American tourists. “It looks asthough this family here was about tosit down to dinner just when boilinglava broke through, burying every-thing. But, thanks to the molten lava,you can actually see what daily lifemight have looked like back then.”Claire stood staring at the petrifiedremains of three children, a womanwith bread still under her arm, and aman beside her—the ordinary so bla-tantly interrupted and incredibly pre-served—on display for everyone tosee.

She has no doubt that thou-sands of years from now a touristwould be far more interested in theirdivision of household chores than inany other aspect of her life. Nothingabout her and David would hold acandle to the fact that, on her side ofthe column, he has written “Shovel

Snow.” Being Brazilian, he explained,he had no business out in the cold.

She made a point of keepingto her tasks even when she was preg-nant. They laughed about it when shemarched outside without a coat at thefirst snowfall, her belly just beginningto bulge, her body temperature so highthat, despite the cold, she was sweatingafter fifteen minutes. Delicate firsttrimester was over by that snow fall,and there were only three snowfallsthat year. As her doctor pointed out,she didn’t lose the baby until twoweeks after the final one, so it couldnot have been shoveling snow that didit, but Claire is sure she remembersfeeling a pop in her abdomen whilescraping ice off the stairs in late Marchthat year, a ping that expanded to afull-fledged ache. Not that she men-tioned it to anyone at the time. Shemiscarried in April in the hair salonwhile Maria was straightening hershiny blonde locks.

“Your leg!” Maria hadexclaimed, pointing and steppingback. Pushing the smock aside, Clairesaw the rivulet of blood down her leg.“La gamba,” Maria repeated in Italian,as though changing language couldkeep it a secret between them.

“Oh, God,” Claire exclaimed,knowing exactly what was happening.She did not move.

“Oh, Dio!” Maria continued,crouching beside the chair, blow-dryerstill in hand, “the baby.” Claire lookedat her leg. She closed her eyes, feelingthe blood pass out of her, straight fromthe juggernaut, deeper than anywarmth in the universe.

“We’ve got to do something!”Maria said. Claire placed a hand onher shoulder, shushing her.She spoke as though Maria were theone in need of comfort. “Have the girlat the desk call an ambulance. Pleaseaccompany me to the bathroom. Getsome rags and a bucket… ,” she said,never losing her calm, never raisingher voice, just the kind of mother shehad wanted to be: serene and sure.

The ambulance came. Davidwas called, though she doesn’t remem-ber how. He told her afterwards thathe did not want to try again, that theirbaby-making days were over. The kitchen floor is a mess; thosewhite and black tiles dirty so easily.Claire grabs a broom and listens toDavid’s footsteps on the stairs as she

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sweeps and then begins to mop. Butthere’s nothing she can do about thegrime on the floor below those cheapcabinets—there is a clear line betweenthe clean tiles and the dirty ones wherethe mop cannot reach. Even down onher hands and knees with a rag, it’simpossible to get to that part of thefloor. The dirt just accumulates there.It is irritating. She stares at this minia-turized border, the crossing pointbetween the tiny first and third worldnations of her kitchen. She imagineslittle beings with passports movingfrom her sparkling tiles to the muck oflandfills and waste pushed into thatno-man’s land beneath the cabinets.

“All right,” David says fromthe dining room. He asks her some-thing, but she doesn’t hear him, so hecalls, “Do you need my help?”

Claire pops up from behindthe counter like a puppet. “Dinner isready.” She smiles at him.

“Thank you.”“The table’s all set,” she says.

“Just sit.”She washes her hands and

brings out the food. He serves hisplate. “I saw there was a big fire todayin Brooklyn. Did you cover it at RAI?”she asks.

“I don’t think that would be ofmuch interest to Italians,” he says asshe sits, “but I did see that a couple ofpeople died.”

“Well, you never know. RAIseems to send over news of the mostrandom events going on here.” Sheplaces her napkin on her lap. Davidwatches her for an entire minute.

“Ines came by my studiotoday,” he says, folding his hands infront of him in the small spacebetween the table’s edge and his plate.

He is done with dinner but will con-tinue picking at it so she doesn’t inter-pret his not eating as complaint. “Wewent to lunch and she invited us to herparty tomorrow evening.”

“Oh. You lunch with your ex-girlfriend! There’s a subject for anItalian-Brazilian soap opera.” Clairechuckles. She takes a large bite ofchicken. “Did you know she was com-ing, or was it a surprise visit?”

“She called me this morning.She was covering a story for Globo,and it just happened to be she had tointerview someone in the offices rightbelow RAI.” He shrugs.

“How is Chris?”“Busy, I guess. They seem to

be having problems.”Claire swallows. “Does she

still wish she’d married you?” Davidsmiles. That was how they got alongbest—joking, cutting straight throughthe dross out of difficult subjects.

“Who wouldn’t want to bemarried to me?” he asks. They will dookay this evening; they will manage,he thinks.

“Who indeed?” “It’s supposed to be relatively

warm tomorrow evening—fiftydegrees or so, so they’re planning tocook out on the balcony,” David says,pushing aside his plate. She lets go ofher fork. “There’ll be a lot of oldfriends from Globo.”

“You want dessert? We havefruit,” Claire tells him. David gets up,takes both plates and carries them tothe kitchen. “I’m okay with goingtomorrow. That’s fine,” she tells him.

“Great. I told her we’d callonly if we couldn’t go.”

“I see.” Claire remains seated,staring at his empty chair.

A few months after the mis-carriage, she had lied to him It hadbegun innocently. “Oh!” she’d said,looking down. “I am bleeding.” Shewas referring to a cut on her ankle, butwhen she saw his face and understoodthat he believed she was talking aboutsomething far more serious, she didnothing to stop him from leaning for-ward and grabbing her hand. He said,“Bleeding where?” Thinking about itnow, she can see how that lie begandifferently than other, more inconse-quential lies she’d told him over theyears—that particular lie was morelike a net or a shawl cast over them byan authoritative hand, demanding ashow of his love, not a fib generated byher, not the deceit of sticky webs. Herfabrication was a means towardsembrace, comfort. “My uterus,” she’dgone on, stoking back to life a sadnessshe’d never actually buried. “I spoke tothe doctor, and my uterus has nothealed from the miscarriage. It couldbe dangerous.” The concern in his facestoked up a warmth in her belly, andshe kissed the back of his hand. “I justneed rest, David. And peace,” she toldhim.

“Why didn’t you tell me thisbefore?” he asked.

“Before when?” she respond-ed, squeezing his fingers—when hadthey last held hands? “I just foundout.” It seemed that they werefriends—they could have been mistak-en for a couple that regularly heldhands, discussing tete-a-tete. He hadalways credited her with supersonicsenses and a particular attunement tohuman bodies—his, her own, oth-ers’—their needs and failings. She wasaware of his profound trust in her, butshe took advantage of it. The endsmight justify the means, and the endsmight be that he cared. Cared abouther.

“Isn’t there anything to bedone? An operation? You can’t just bebleeding!” he declared, sounding asangry as usual, but this time his out-rage was on her side. She shook herhead.

“I need tranquility.” “There has to be something

we can do.” We! Claire felt her tears well.

“Everything will be okay,” she toldhim, covering his hand with her own.They sat there. Outside the window,their tiny yard filled with the late fall

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dark that came too early; she had losttheir child and was sitting with herhusband, hand in hand.

“We both need rest,” she said.“Lots of rest and a lot of fluid andgood food, and good company,” shesmiled, “and all will be fine. I had thewind taken out of me, that’s it.”

“That’s enough,” he reassured,pushing a lock of her hair behind herear. “Are you in pain?” She shook herhead. “Then let’s get you to bed.” Hecame around to where she was sitting,picked her up, held her head againsthis chest, walked her upstairs, andtucked her into bed. He did not ask tolook at the blood or inspect her in anyway, which is why she convinced her-self that he was a willing participant inthe lie, relieved to have found anexcuse to take care of her. They kissed.That night, he got into bed next toher.

For the following few days, hemade their meals and called her at heroffice at least once a day to know howshe was. But he didn’t urge her to seethe doctor or get a check-up. Then, hestopped calling. Their routinesresumed, and the dismal feelingreturned to her belly, a wind over thatempty space. Claire started sendingthree hundred dollars a month to anorganization one of her clients told herabout. She researched the charity,found it legitimate, so she began herdonations to a family in Haiti withfive children and a single mother sickwith AIDS. The money was muchmore than she would advise a client ather income level to donate. She imag-ined that her baby’s soul had flown offto inhabit that far-away family. Ajumpy, agitated soul, it popped frombody to body, so when she received

pictures and updates from the mother,Claire stared at the photograph of thesix of them and felt something akin tolove. She’d marked their birthdays onher office calendar and sent presents.She’d even sent Christmas gifts back inDecember. Claire wrote a letter in herbasic French, wishing them happinessand good fortune, and the motherresponded with a note in a shaky handfull of references to God and theVirgin. Claire kept that note in the topdrawer of her desk at work. David didnot know about the family, and sinceshe and he kept their finances separate,and she did their taxes, he had littlechance of finding out.

David serves them both fruit.“So what stories did you cover?” sheasks.

“I’d rather not talk aboutwork.” He stirs the fruit in his bowl.“It’s enough that I have to spend eighthours a day in that place. Did you hearanything more about your sister?”

“Well, I told you about theletter from that man named Jake whosays he was Tris’s boyfriend. What gotto him was a line she wrote aboutwanting him to disappear.”

“To die?” David asks.“No. Just cease to exist.”

Claire shrugs. Now that she’s tellingDavid about it, the words soundridiculous, and she feels foolish, asthough she’s trying to get him to takeseriously the beliefs of a cult or thereligious underpinnings of a televisionevangelist.

“Claire,” David says calmly,finishing his fruit, “you have to forgether and whoever else is involved withher. She’s not right in her mind. Youknow that.” Perhaps if English werehis first language, he’d say something

like, “She’s gone off the deep end,” buthis talk is more formal and stilted; itstops her in her tracks.

“She’s not crazy,” Claireargues.

“Insane,” he says, pointing tothe side of his head. “A person to stayaway from. Just forget her.”

Claire swallows. “She’s my sis-ter.” Claire puts her napkin on thetable. “Well,” she says, standing up toclear the rest of the dishes, “let’s get theshow on the road.”

“I’ll clean up. You cooked,” hetells her, pushing back his chair.

“Thanks.” He piles the dishes by the sink

and begins with the glasses. As he pullsa glass out of the soapy water, hethinks about his lunch with Ines. SinceInes had done a news segment on therestaurant when it first opened, they’dbeen given the best table in the place,and the rib-eye he’d ordered was sotender the knife sliced in with barelyany effort on his part. Between themstood a bottle of deep-throated red.

“Are you happy?” she asked.“Yes,” he said, knowing

enough not to hesitate. She was readyto pry. “What about you?”

She took her necklace and fid-geted, which was so unlike her that hewas prepared for the “No” before shespoke it. She offered no other explana-tion, a privilege afforded her by yearsof working her ass off. She is the bestanchorwoman Globo has had in thepast decade, so she’s purchased theright to speak in monosyllables if shechooses. He didn’t question her; shehas risen beyond what either of themcould have imagined back when theywere kids, just kids in Rio. “I askedChris for a divorce,” Ines finally toldhim, taking a few more bites of what-ever she’d ordered—a salad with slicesof roast pumpkin and goat cheese,walnuts, something like that—andthen she cocked her head and foldedher arms against her chest as thoughprepared to close a deal. The news sur-prised him, but he didn’t let on. “He’stoo American, and Americans don’tunderstand us,” she explained softly.“There’s really no way for them to getit.”

“Don’t get what, Ines?” heasked, though he knew where she waspushing because he’d dated her morethan half their lives ago when she wasa clumsy girl of sixteen, before she

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While I’ve always been “artistic” Ithink I took one art class as a kid.I’ve always put off actually sittingdown to put paint to canvas until Iwas asked to donate a piece toWorks of Heart charity art auc-tion...and my painting had sold forhigher than the asking price before ieven got to the event! That flooredme.

Where do the skeletons come from?

I think skeletons are gorgeous. Somany intricacies...but I also won’tdeny I’m a bit of a dark bunny andgravitate towards the macabre! Myfirst skeleton painting was based ona sketch I found in the margin of anotebook from college. The onlytime I made for art back then, Iguess.

Before i start a work, I go to this lit-tle room in my head. I open thedoor that is usually closed and I takea look at what is inside. Then i paintit. Well, wait: that is where I begin,but as i work on a painting, itbecomes a practice of trust inmyself. A practice of trusting thatwhat i saw in the room is worth-while. And a practice of faith,because even if i don’t know for surewhere the painting is headed, hav-ing faith that it will surprise me inthe end.

www.blotterrag.com

I just worked on a mural at a yogastudio and that was such a chal-lenge! I mean, that’s just a lot of realestate to cover. And to have peoplesee it in various states ofdoneness...fairly stressful. I thinkthat opened me up a little, though,to have to share a work in progress.But I won’t say i wasn’t scared. (Andno: it was not a skeleton.)

Right now I’m working with EllieSnow of mintdesignblog.com, mak-ing custom illustrations for herprint and web design. A very fungig, indeed! She call me up and says,“I need an anchor!” and I say, “I’mon it!” It challenges me, but allowsfor so much freedom of expressionthat I can’t really imagine somethingmore fun. Plus, Ellie does all thehard work.

I have always had what I call a“Clark Kent job,” meaning: a dayjob having nothing to do with art.Finally I have come to value thatarrangement. Mostly because I nowunderstand that I can be anabsolute, bull-headed perfectionistwhen it comes to my own work. Ihave no one to answer to. I don’thave to make it marketable. I paintwhat I see in my little room. I makeit exactly what I want. And i can stillbuy groceries.

Before painting, I started severalcover and originals bands. I alsostudied my love movement throughperformance, choreography, mod-ern dance, contact improvisation,ballet, Karate, kickboxing, trampo-line, aerial dance, Chinese acrobat-ics, and flying trapeze and now Ialso teach yoga.

Alison Hinks - Chapel Hill, NChttp://alisonhinks.squarespace.com/

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became seamless and unreadable. He’dgleaned her information early on, andhe trusted that there was a continuousthread, a narrative line, a cradle tograve consistency to every person—there are no true born-agains unlessyou count the crazies.

“I want to go back home,” shetold him, again soft. “I miss Rio.They’re happy to send me, too.”

“Come on, Ines, you soundlike an old immigrant,” he laughed.His mother used to talk that wayabout Italy: ‘home’.

“I am an old immigrant,David!” She smiled with only one sideof her mouth. “We both are, Darling,old immigrants, though our immigra-tion wasn’t intentional the way it wasin the case of our parents, was it? Imean, we always meant to go back.”David avoided her eyes by looking atthe table beside them where a baldman was holding court.

“So you’ve decided to leave?” “Perhaps,” she said. They were

silent a minute. “You remember whenwe came to New York together?” sheasked, resting both forearms on thetable, the salmon-colored fabric of hersuit jacket layered over the cuff of heryellow, thick silk blouse. A pretty com-bination.

“What about it?” She was wearing three pieces

of gold jewelry, and he knew for a factall three had been gifts from her hus-band, so she really had no business sit-ting there reminiscing about that tinyapartment they’d rented with Jorgeand Paolo and the noise, and the waytheir raft of a bed shook as thoughabout to go under, and the frontentrance that always smelled like fishdespite the Clorox, rubber gloves, andhours spent on hands and knees tryingto the rid the place of its stench. “Youaccused me of being obsessed with

making that apartment our home,”she told him. “You kept reminding meit was only temporary, that we’d find anew home together and then, eventu-ally, go back to our real home.” Inessmiled, glanced towards the windowthen back at him. “But that never hap-pened. We didn’t find a home togeth-er afterwards.” She took a swallow ofwine and laughed. “That fish smellwould have been there had the placeburnt down; isn’t that right, David?”she asked. “It was part of the proper-ty.” When he didn’t say anything, sheslid her hand towards his water glass,and traced a pretty fingernail up itsstem to the rounded base so the tearsof condensation slid down, rivuletingover her finger. He’d had enough.

“Right,” he said firmly, takingup that glass and making a show ofdrinking, keeping his eyes on her facethis time so there would be no misun-derstanding in what he was about tosay. “It was good, Ines, but I’m grate-ful for the life I have now with Claire.”Unlike when he spoke English, inPortuguese each word was clear-cut,had its edge. “You are talking aboutyears ago, a lifetime ago.” He put theglass down, out of her reach, and said,“Tell me what’s going on.”

She shook her head, frowningas she examined her wet fingertip withthe scrutiny of a scientist. “Anothertime,” she said. They went on to talkabout a few of the friends they had incommon, then—after an appropriateamount of time for a lunch hour hadpassed—David asked for the bill.

“My treat this time,” he said.The waiter shook his head.

“There’s no bill,” Ines insisted,smiling as though the word had lost allmeaning. She rested her hands on theedge of the table, looking unabashedlyinto his face. “They never charge mehere. I will just stay on a bit to thank

Signore Toldeo. You go on back.” “All right, then, thank you.

Thank the Signore for me,” he said,folding his napkin, tucking it by hisplate, and standing. “Back to work forme.”

“Back you go,” she cheered,altogether different from Claire. Ineshad shut herself tight, not a centimeterexposed, not a piece threatening toreveal the complicated machinery orinvite tinkering.

“We’ll see you and Christomorrow evening, then,” he said,kissing her cheek and grabbing hisjacket off the back of his chair.

“Supper,” she said, arching herback, “come with an appetite.” Oneday Ines will slip through a passage inthe earth, and he will hunt every fielduntil he finds the entrance. Oncethere, he’ll commit the place to mem-ory, that deep blue vein to the centerof earth, her final resting place, hisrabbit hole when he misses herenough. But for now he had only torecognize the bald love she’d acciden-tally exposed in him. He would kickthe dirt over it again, smother it down.

“I’m sure Claire will be happyto see you,” he said. “Ciao.”

Simply put, he is not a pathet-ic dog that cheats on his wife.

“David?” Claire asks from thedining room table just as he finishesthe dishes and pours the dirty waterdown the drain, “It turns out myfriend Josh is coming to New York totry out for a play and wants to know ifhe can stay with us for two nights.”

“A conveniently free hotel inNew York,” he says, not looking at her.He places the glasses neatly in the blueplastic dish rack. “I think we can helphim find a cheap hotel.”

“He’s my friend.” She’s hold-ing the back of a chair.

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“Then he’ll understand thatit’s unfair to ask your husband to hostpeople in a house barely big enoughfor the two of us.”

“What am I supposed to say,David?” Claire steps into the kitchenholding the salt and pepper shakers inone hand.

“You’re a skilled woman.Word it nicely,” he says, moving side-ways as she advances towards the sink.He dries his hands on a dishcloth.“You asked me a question, and Ianswered it. I don’t want guests.”

“Jesus,” she complains, thesalt shaker slipping from her, plunkingaround the tiles before settling.

He sighs, hangs the cloth backon its hook, and leaves the kitchen.Through the dining room, throughthe living room, she follows behindhim, stopping only at the base of thestairs, speaking loudly as he headstowards their guest room.

“Why do you have to makeeverything so difficult for me? Whycan’t you just give me something?” sheasks. “Why can’t you give me some-thing?” she repeats as he reaches theupstairs hallway, “Do you hear? Oh,come on!” she shouts, watching as hemounts the stairs, “It’s just a couple ofnights.” He says nothing, and thesludge starts moving through herbody, aching into each limb. It willmelt, but there’s no exit, nowhere forthe dirty waters to go in that fabricat-ed circulatory system, no detoxifyingfrom that brand of cold. “Say some-thing!” she demands.

There is nothing to say. All hecan think to say is, “You don’t knowwhat to ask for,” which sounds likeself-importance, the worse version ofsincerity, not who he is at all. Not him.

The next evening, they arestanding in the threshold of Ines’sapartment on the Upper East Side

with Ines beaming, exclaiming howdelighted she is they have come. Hergreen silk dress and high heels wouldqualify anyone else as over-dressed,but Claire is no longer surprised atInes’s skill in exempting herself fromcommon standards. She kisses Claireon both cheeks then takes David’shand and kisses him once. “So gladyou are here,” she says in English, eyesfrom her muscular face darting fromClaire to David. Ines is comfortable,Claire thinks, perfectly comfortable inher own skin.

“This is for you,” David says,Japanese sake in hand, a traditionbetween them—she drinks it from asmall clay cup.

“Oh, you’re wonderful,” shelaughs, taking the bottle by its neck.

“Just point us towards thefood,” David says, “I smell pastel andkibi.”

Ines grabs his elbow. “Pera ai.The only one of you who can afford toeat is your wife.”

“Hardly,” Claire manages. Shechose to wear her white skirt with blueflowers, a black t-shirt, and blackpumps. She feels like a girl trying tomake an impression, a child at anadult party. David was wearing hisusual—jeans and a button down whiteshirt.

“There’s the man,” David callsout, looking over Ines’s shouldertowards her husband, Chris, who isweaving through the other guests andtowards them.

“David and Claire. Two peo-ple who deserve a good drink,” Chrisannounces when he gets to the door.He takes Claire’s hand, pulls her fullyinto the room, and moves to kiss hercheek. She turns too soon, accidental-ly brushing his lips, and there’s no wayto stop the blush that rises to her face.Ines smiles as Claire says too loudly,“Oh, great to be here.”

“A toast is exactly what’s calledfor,” Chris says, hand on her upperarm.

“It’s been so long,” she tellshim. “I mean, since we saw you last,”she clarifies.

“Ciao, Chris,” David says.Chris is a small, perfectly propor-tioned man with the grace of a dancer.Claire has always liked him. “My poorhusband has been working far toohard,” Ines tells them, placing a handon Chris’s back. “According to him,Wall Street is on its way under and it’shis job to avert a crisis. Can you imag-ine?”

“Forget business tonight,”Chris tells them. “Time for a goodred.”

“We can get our own drinks,”David says, “go back to your guests.”Chris winks at Claire, kisses Ines onthe cheek, and heads back through theroom. Ines continues in Portuguesewith whatever she’d begun saying toDavid. Out on the balcony, Chrispicks up the spatula and begins servingsteaks. It’s a February evening warmenough that a few people are standingoutside. Claire looks back to the din-ing and living rooms, which aresparsely furnished, large and airy; shecan hear Chris’s laughter, a kind soundthat touches her. Suddenly, she recallsthe Cartwells, a poor family that liveddown the street from where she andTris grew up. Those kids laughed.They used to eat clay, and Claireremembers thinking there was a con-nection between their laughter and thedirt they ate. “Dirt Eaters,” Tris hadcalled them. She found out from thepharmacist that the dirt providedsome nutrient that was lacking in theirdiet. “They get the vitamin or whatev-er that is, and it feels good.”

“It feels good?” Claire hadasked. One difference between child-hood and adulthood, Claire thought,

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bbyy MMiicchhaaeell CCoollee

is that it now makes sense how you canneed something so badly you’ll eat dirtto get it.

“Let’s get dinner, Claire,”David says, nudging her towards thetable. Ines heads to the kitchen.“What a feast!”

The large marble table is over-flowing with various salads, fruits,Brazilian appetizers and David’sfavorite baccalau as well as all the nec-essary sauces. Once David and Claireget their plates of food, he goes over totalk to a journalist he knows from hisdays working at Globo. She remainsstanding by the table and soonbecomes involved in a conversation.The woman’s name is Annie, and sheis telling her about how she got toNew York by way of many other coun-tries and states, beginning withGeorgia.

“I married my third husbandsix years ago. He was the one whobrought me here. I couldn’t be happi-er.” Annie smiles. She’s got a pleasantlilt to her voice, a slender nose, and hereyes are lovely—small blue gems setdeep in her skull and spaced a surpris-ing distance apart. Her skin is a littleweathered, wrinkled but tanned, evennow, in February. Claire figures shemust be in her early fifties—was shebeautiful six years ago when she re-married? Is there a gaggle of husbandssomewhere, or another generoussource of men to which this womanhas access? David is on the far side ofthe room, still talking. He looks differ-

ent when he speaks Portuguese orItalian, less burdened by that smile hesometimes wears when speakingEnglish. Leaning back and laughing atintervals, her husband is obviouslytaking actual pleasure in whatever theman beside him is saying.

“I traveled to France andGermany and even lived in theCaribbean with my first husband.”She stopped, took a sip of wine, thenremarked more quietly, “He was inlove with me, but I was not in lovewith him.” A year ago, this statementwould have annoyed Claire, and shewould have begun slipping out of theconversation, but this evening shecontinues listening. “He was originallyfrom France and wanted me to moveback there with him, and that’s whenI realized I didn’t love him enough.”Claire notices a small black dot aboveher lip. A beauty mark or somethingmore sinister?

“So,” Claire says, her wine-glass poised between her thumb andforefinger, “are you able to answerwhether it is better to love or to beloved?” She smiles with only the leftside of her face, hoping to conveyhow ridiculous she knows her questionis.

“My second husband was akind man,” she says. “He worked forthe UN. I remember one day he camehome and told me that we were beingtransferred to Turkey for a year. I hadnever thought about Turkey ever inmy life, and all of a sudden it had

become a place where I was expectedto live.” Annie scoops up a forkful ofstroganoffe and eats. There are a fewseconds of silence between them whileshe swallows. “All of a sudden, Turkeywas everywhere. I mean, I rememberturning on the TV and there’d besomething about Ankara. A docu-mentary on the long-haired Angoragoat. Whoever heard of such a thing?”Annie laughs, shaking her head withgusto, and takes an ample sip of wine.Her movements are larger than mightbe expected from the slightness of herframe. Claire reaches over and takes anectarine from a bowl full of fruit.There is more food on that table thanInes’s twenty or so guests could evereat in an evening, and that is notcounting those steaks outside. WhenInes and David came to Americatogether, they hardly had anything.Now look at her. “Well, Ankara, that’swhere your mohair comes from,”Annie informs her, replacing the wineglass squarely on the table. “But, like Isaid, Turkey was everywhere. I’d go tothe meat section, and I’d see ‘Turkeyon sale’ and I’d stand there looking atthat big red sign like it was some kindof prediction.” She purses her lips andwaves her right hand in front of herface. “Or premonition,” she says.“That’s not the right word, but youknow what I mean.”

Claire nods. An entire wall ofthe living room is glass, so one canlook over the tops of buildings all theway to Central Park. “How long didyou stay?”

“Almost a year,” Annieexclaims. “Like living in a desert dur-ing the summer. My throat dried sobad it felt like I was breathing fire.You have no idea,” she says, smilingmore generously, as though Claire hasjust said something pleasing. “But itwas pretty. You could call it pretty.”Dropping her gaze, Annie tucks ahunk of platinum blonde hair behindher ear. If her face were younger,Claire might believe her hair colorwas real. Her eyebrows matched, andher skin was pale. She may indeedhave once been a natural platinumblonde. “But I found out in the crazi-est way that he had a mistress. He mether while we were over there. She was-n’t even Turkish—-she was fromMinnesota. Can you believe it?” Annieasks, as though the woman’s nationali-ty had been the actual deal breaker.

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“There we are in this foreign placewith women gorgeous enough to havemade me likely to forgive him forcheating, and he goes and finds a plainold housewife hauled over there fromMinnesota.” Annie scoots her plateonto the table, upsetting her wine-glass, which she catches, taking a sip inone smooth, choreographed motion.“In any case, that’s long over.” Shepurses her generous lips, “but it wascrazy.”

“You have no kids?” Claireasks.

“A saving grace. No kids. Notone kid dragged all over the world.”Annie looks at her and asks, “Doesyour husband miss Brazil?”

“The weather,” Claireresponds.

“Hmmmm,” Annie remarks,pulling a whistling breath through herlips. “So let him go. Let him go toback there,” she says.

“No, I mean,” Claire begins,staring at Annie, but she’s stoppedshort, caught by an arm on the leftside of her waist.

“Oh, there you are. There issomeone I’d like to introduce you to.”With a single spin, Ines manages tostand between Claire and Annie. It isInes’s dance, the feline arching of herback, the soft, almost accent-lessspeech: “I want to introduce you to afriend of mine.” As though by magic,Ines produces a large woman in a bluecowl neck dress. “Victoria is a writer.She is writing a memoir. A book.” Inestakes Claire’s hand and pulls hertowards the enormity of this newwoman, vanishing Annie into the peo-ple behind them.

I’m telling her I’m too terrifiedto go back: to lie, once more, still forthe fifteen minutes it takes for thecamera to x-ray the heart, post-tread-mill. I’m telling her that, to the body,it’s like a sabertooth tiger leapt into theroom; it’s that level of terror.

“I just went to the dentist.”She opens her mouth wide. “Look,they’ve all been filed down.”

Oh fuck. So this is the conse-quence of revelation, to be treated likea five-year old. For people to use logicto make it go away when the terrordefies all logic.

Later, as I will be lying thereand she will holding my hand andtelling me a story about the cats in thealley and her capturing them, fosteringthem, rehoming them, I will feel thatdivide between the terror underneathand this sweet sweet woman going farbeyond the responsibilities of her jobdescription.

At some point, I will surelysay, “I’m trying but—”And she will say, “I know. I know. Youaren’t alone.”

And I will go home, thinkingthat I survived something, when all Iwas doing was lying still and trappedfor fifteen minutes. And now nexttime I will think I need my hand heldand stories to be told to me, and with-out those things, I will be even moreterrified, more beyond able to handlethe world.

But now she is saying, “I tellyou what. You don’t want to have to

come back, do you?”“No,” I say.“What can I do to have you

stay?” I am 44; she is probably fifteenyears older. Do I need a mommy? Isthat the state I’ve reached? I picturemyself lying there still under that cam-era and there’s that terror, beyond myability to reason with it. What is itreally? A fear of death, the permanentstillness? Of being trapped as if byfate? Is it the loneliness of childhoodthat returns, the terror of the absenceof adults or friends?

“I won’t leave you,” the nursesays to me. She takes my hand. Shestrokes the fingers. She leads me to thecoffin-like table, lies me in it, andbegins her tale of the cats in the alley,the food in the open cages beckoningto them, like home.

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November 2010

”I’m Not a Saber Tooth Tiger”by Randall Brown

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I think great poetry is thefinest expression of the human heartcouched in the choicest words and fig-ures of speech. What is there not to likeabout poetry? I must admit that to meit is essential to be able to understand apoem although I know some woulddisagree with me. I also want poetry tobe lean and uncluttered and for thisreason prefer fairly modern poets.

In a book I have been reading,“Great Poems by American Women,”certain themes seem characteristic ofthe female mind, themes such as thelove of freedom, the beauty of nature,the loss of love, the appeal of religion,and the love of country. The poems inthe book are arranged chronologically.The first one is from the early l600’sand the last the middle l900’s. It isinteresting that the compiler of theanthology did not include poetry fromthe last half of the l900’s.In her prefaceshe doesn’t give a reason. One point shemakes is that a large percentage of thepoets in the book were born in NewEngland where there were greater edu-cational opportunities.

In the book the earliest poemthat attracted me was the least charac-teristic of women’ s themes - Julia WardHowe’s “Battle Hymn of the Republic,”written in l86l and put to the tune of“John Brown’s Body.” The music had alot to do with its appeal to fight in thecause of freedom; it has a drum-likebeat. It is curious that such a violentmessage referring to loosing “‘thefateful lightning of his terrible swiftsword” and “the fiery gospel writ inburnished rows of steel” should be writ-ten by a woman. The last stanzabegins poetically - “In the beauty of thelilies Christ was born across the sea /With a glory in his bosom that transfig-ures you and me.” It concludes bycomparing Jesus’ dying “to make menholy” with the Northern cause to “dieto make men free / While God ismarching on.” Thus it uses the age-oldargument in wars that “God is on ourside,” a powerful message to soldiers.

Howe wrote the poem whilevisiting an army camp. She was a lec-turer on women’s suffrage, prisonreform, and international peace. It’snice to think she was as much in favor

of peace as she was of war!Emily Dickinson (middle

l800’s) is probably the best known of allAmerican women poets. So many ofher little poems have become famous.I’ve always loved the humor in her “I’mnobody! Who are you?”: “I’m nobody!Who are you? / Are you nobody too? /Then there’s a pair of us - don’t tell! /They’d banish us, you know. / Howdreary to be somebody! / How public,like a frog / To tell your name the live-long day / To an admiring bog!”

In our modern celebrity-madworld this is such a refreshing outlook!

In Katharine Lee Bates’“American the Beautiful” (l895) wehave another poem set to music, apoem of such beautiful imagery that itis often called our unofficial nationalanthem. I much prefer it to the warlikeand hard to sing “Star SpangledBanner.” Here in the second stanza, “Obeautiful for pilgrim feet / whosestern, impassioned stress / A thorough-fare for freedom beat / Across thewilderness” is the thought of what itmeant in the formation of the countryto have immigrants moving across itsface, beating a path for freedom as theycame. Bates refers twice to “brother-hood” in the lines “God shed his graceon thee / And crown thy good withbrotherhood / From sea to shining sea!”This is a concept that seems to be losttoday.

Bates wrote the poem afterclimbing Pike’s Peak. She was anEnglish professor at Wellesley Collegefor forty years.

Moving to more typicallyfemale fare, in “I Shall Not Care” thepoet Sara Teasdale (early l900’s) beginswith a delicate metaphorical personifi-cation that is a sharp contrast to thehard ending, reflecting the bitterness ofrejected love: When I am dead andover me bright April / Shakes out herrain-drenched hair, / Though youshould lean above me broken-hearted, /I shall not care. I shall have peace asleafy trees are peaceful, / When rainbends down the bough, / And I shall bemore silent and cold-hearted / Thanyou are now.”

This seems to be a perfect gemof a poem, mixing the beautiful

imagery of nature with human emo-tion. Teasdale won the Pulitzer Price inl9l8 for “Love Songs.”

I must admit a great fondnessfor the poetry of Edna St. VincentMillay (early l900’s). She wrote lyricaland passionate poetry, among the mostfamous being “First Fig.”My candle burns at both ends; / It willnot last the night; / But ah, my foesand oh, my friends - / It gives a lovelylight.”

It sums up her amoral,bohemian approach to life, as the stan-dards of sexual morality loosened overthe years. If you haven’t read“Renascence” lately, here is the laststanza of that remarkable poem: “Theworld stands out on either side / Nowider than the heart is wide; / Abovethe world is stretched the sky - / Nohigher than the soul is high. / The heartcan push the sea and land / Fartheraway on either hand; / The soul cansplit the sky in two, / and let the faceof God shine through, / But East andWest will pinch the heart / That cannot keep them pushed apart; / And hewhose soul is flat - the sky / Will cavein on him by and by.”

And when autumn comes,read the gorgeous “God’s World” a s aburning tribute to the season. Millayreceived the Pulitzer Prize for her book“Ballad of the Harp-Weaver.”

The last poem I will mentionand the one that makes my heart stop isa poem by Emma Lazarus (l849-l887),“The New Colossus.” If the title meansnothing to you, consider these words init and think again: “Give me yourtired, your poor, / Your huddled massesyearning to breathe free, / Thewretched refuse of your teeming shore./ Send them, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, / I lift my lamp beside thegolden door.”

If that doesn’t bring a tear toyour eye, you have forgotten your her-itage, your ancestors who might havebeen part of the “masses yearning to befree,” and ask yourself where you mightbe if America hadn’t taken them in. Askthe inhabitants of Arizona. And thenhope for a kinder, more hospitablenation than we have become, and workto make it happen.

These are some of my favoritepoets and their poetry. What are yours?I salute the women poets of our historywho expressed themselves and theirtimes in the finest poetry.

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The B l o t t e rAn Essay On Poetryby Karyn Joyner

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CONTRIBUTORS

Martha Witt is the author of thenovel, Broken As Things Are (Holt;2004/Picador; 2005). Her transla-tions and short fiction are includedin the anthologies Post-War ItalianWomen Writers (NorthwesternUniversity Press) The Literature ofTomorrow (Rinehart, Holt, andWinston), and This Is Not Chick Lit(Random House) as well as TheChattahoochee Review, BoulevardMagazine, The Saranac Review,One Story. She is currently anAssistant Professor of CreativeWriting at William PatersonUniversity in Wayne, NJ.

See pages 8 & 9 for everything onAlison Hinks.Karen Joyner of Burlington, NC,has been keeping us on the straightand narrow. As a retired teacher,she has the chops to do so.Randall Brown of Wynnewood,Pa, teaches at St. Joseph’sUniversity and has had work inmany fine journals including TheLaurel Review, Connecticut Reviewand The Evansville Review. As aneditor with the SmokeLLongQuarterly, he has had numerousPushcart and Best of the Web nom-inations. Phil Juliano and Michael Cole arelucky ducks, watching the Ashevillefall colors. Phil was recently inter-viewed by folks with Comics Coastto Coast - the podcast is onwww.comicscoasttocoast.com

Final Tid-Bits: I can tell it’s Fall because the chickens aren’t laying eggs any-more. They just stare at me as if I’m to blame for the leaves falling off the trees and

weather turning cold. Visit your local independent bookstore, they have plenty of thingsto read - I don’t want to hear any of you saying, “I’m bored.” Got it? Good!

The Dream Journalreal dreams, real weird

Please send excerpts from your own dream journals.. If nothing else, we’d love to read them We won’tpublish your whole name.

mermaid@blotterrag.com

Her cheeks, chin, neck, are easily twenty years shy her fifty-two spent on the planet. It is her eyes that sometimes giveaway her real age, they are occasionally tired and often care-worn. Right now, howerver, they are shielded by expensivesunglasses. Ironically, she lets her hair go to gray, it is worn as a badge rather than hiding beneath some chemical shage.Thinner than usual, like a teenager might wish to be. She is missing meals. Why? What stops her hunger? What is mak-ing her shoulders slump? An invisible weight. Her hands, when she pushes her sunglasses up out of her way, are frail look-ing, just shy of clawed. They seem almost to shake although they do not, actually. They are the real tell-tale. Somethinghas happened, is still happening, that is bringing her apparent and real ages together, swiftly and abruptly. She need saynothing at all.PIC - cyberspace

Call for Entries! “T“Thhe 20e 2011 La11 Laiinnee CCuunnnniinngghhaam Nm Noovveel Al Awwaarrd”d”

TThhe Be Bllootttteer’sr’s Second Annual Long Form Fiction Contest for Novella and Novel length works

1. The purpose of our contest is to provide a venue for writers to have their work read and commentedon by our editors and judges. Additionally, the winner of this contest will have his/her work publishedhere on these pages. And last but not least, the winner will receive a monetary prize! (Award monies areprovided by the prize sponsor and the entry fee for the contest helps offset The Blotter’s costs.)

2. Our pre-reader judges are intelligent and highly proud of their educations. Our final judge is smart,well-read and dangerous if she doesn’t have her morning coffee. But we told her that she could be thefinal judge and what can you do?

3. In a world chock-full of scandal, transparency is very important to us, and we make every effort toeliminate any conflict of interest situation from going down in our contest. Blotter volunteers and theirfamily members and/or employees are prohibited from entering our contest.

To enter the contest, please submit your work with a $25 entry fee by check or money order to: TheBlotter Magazine, 1010 Hale Street, Durham, NC 27705. Entries must be received between October 1,2010 and January 21, 2011 (you see, we’re already giving you an extension, so don’t put it off!)

Your entry must contain the following: no less than 10 pages, no more than 20 pages of the opening ofyour novel or novella, (or subject/character-connected short story chapbook) typed & double-spaced,without your name. On a separate cover page type your name, snail-mail and e-mail address, telephonenumber , the title of your novel or novella and a one page synopsis of your novel or novella. Remember,you have to have the entire book written, so that if and when you win, you can show us the rest!

BONUS: Enter the writing contest AND get a year’s subscription to The Blotter for only $30! (Regularannual subscription donationss are $25 total and you don’t even get to enter a writing contest with thatprice!)

Well, now. $650 in cash prizes, plus anything else we can wrangle together that we think has value. Allplacements, including honorable mentions, will receive an award certificate, proof positive of your successas an author, suitable for mocking your sophomore English teacher, who always wondered how it was thatyou graduated at all.

Our contest will be run in line with the rules of ethics and mechanics recommended by the Council ofLiterary Magazines and Presses, as outlined in their 2006 monograph on the subject. You can’t view forfree, but you may purchase the monograph entitled “Publishing Contests: Ethics and Mechanics” throughthe CLMP at http://www.clmp.org/about/monographs.html. This is the document we have used in com-ing up with the rules and conditions of this contest.

So that’s it, then - now get to work!