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Posts tagged ‘fathers’

H IS FOR HAWK by Helen Macdonald

"The goshawk is staring at me in mortal terror, and I can feel the silences between both our heartbeats coincide...She breathes hot hawk breath in my face. It smells of pepper and musk and burned stone."

H IS FOR HAWK, a memoir about grief and loss, through the training a goshawk, is brilliant, unexpected, and deeply satisfying. It is a testament not only to Macdonald’s talent, but to her profound connection to life, and to us, earning it an unqualified spot on my Books I Love bookshelf.

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“Toroid” Now Live and Online at Pithead Chapel

I’m thrilled that “Toroid” is now live and online at Pithead Chapel!  I could not imagine a better home for “Toroid” than Pithead Chapel, which publishes “gutsy narratives…[that] leave a brilliant bruise.”

“Toroid” holds a special place in my heart, in part because it’s an homage to those ancient emperors in spirit, of which my father was one, who create wormholes in the universe. My father was not a mathematician like the one in the story, but he was a poet – a bit cracked, shades of a tyrant, yet someone who scoured his soul in the pursuit of truth and beauty.

“Toroid” has earned its own category in my mind, if only because I’ve been writing and revising this story for five years. You heard it, folks, five blimey years (“blimey: a minced oath from [God] blind me”Wicktionary). Even a real, live baby only takes nine months. Over the years the story expanded and contracted, shape shifting and boiling itself down into the condensation you find here. Enjoy!

“The Messenger” (print)

"Snug beneath the pulse of living breath, in a protected and watery nest, I grew and learned to suck my thumb. Like other gardens I would come to know, though, this secret place was filled with strife..."

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Kestrel Has Arrived

Kestrel, Issue 29, Fall 2012 has arrived, and with it my short story, “The Messenger.” Some lovely writing in this issue, both poetry and fiction. This is a print publication, so you can either order it from the website, here, or contact me directly.

“The Suitcase” (print)

"The leaves cascade down, weightless, golden slips of foil peeled from a child's chocolate coin. Henry can't remember ever having eaten one of these coins, and yet he knows somehow that they would be waxy and tasteless..."

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“My Father’s Walk: Remembering Richard Moore” (print)

"...I had followed tantalizing pathways suffused with light, and I knew that on the other side of a broken rule lay a new way of seeing the world."

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