short story

Review of “Little Beast” by C Pam Zhang, published in Bomb

/ Keith Pilapil Lesmeister / 1 Comment

Little Beast by C Pam Zhang is propelled by a tsunami of momentum gathered and flung forth by the narrative voice of its protagonist—a paranoid, delusional, displaced, misplaced, and misguided middle/high school student who is bewildered, troubled, and so writhing with uncertainty that she can only act on base ambitions, on some level. We learn the ultimate reason for why—why all or any of what happens in the story—but not until the end, though we are clued in throughout. I’m being intentionally vague about this because the conclusion at which I arrived—meaning, what I think the story is about—only came from a gathering of several details and clues interspersed throughout that aren’t fully realized until the end, at which point we learn who this narrator is and what afflicts her wholly. Or at least we think we know. There’s so much left to question, in the best possible way.

But we can’t talk about this story without first addressing the figurative language: “My posture was liquid and my spine nonexistent despite containing the requisite thirty-three vertebrae.” Or, “Once again a girl appeared, summoned by my blood as a shark is summoned across murky waters.” These examples, like so many other lines in the story, are so rich and multilayered that one wonders at times if what we’re reading is real or surreal. And later still, with the series of events that occur, we’re still as confused at the end as we were at the beginning, but we aren’t as confused as the narrator herself: “When the door began to open, I slopped into the breach, pleading, my mouth wide with explanations, never mind how I looked or what I spattered.” But maybe we’re not as confused as we think we are. There might be a lesson here about the mentally ill; about what happens if people aren’t given proper treatments and therapy needed to address the mental illness. Or maybe that interpretation of the story is wrong. Maybe it’s a more surface-level here’s-what-happens-in-extreme-cases-of…. Of what? Of adolescence? I’m not sure. I’m not sure if we’re supposed to be sure.

The story, on the surface, is about a young woman who winds up in Alta, an all girls school “built on progressive principles” where “senators’ daughters, screenwriters’ daughters, celebrity daughters’” etc, attend. This is also where the protagonist’s father works as a custodian and where she attends on “scholarship.” While there, she meets a host of young women in a special, “silent” group, and these women are awarded nicknames given to them by the protagonist. Names such as “mouse,” “elf,” and “armored.”

While the narrator is battling the ongoing onslaught of typical (and not-so-typical) school and adolescent issues, there’s also the father who is a wonderful character in his own right, full of heart and ambition, and perhaps what he’s guilty of is that he cares too much. But we understand why. A blue collar, working-class father who allows his daughter, who he calls “girlie,” to stand on his shoulders to reach heights he’ll never reach. It’s a common story of a parent wanting better for their children—that the child(ren) achieve the “success” that the parents weren’t able to achieve for him/herself, for whatever reasons held them back. And what’s conspicuously missing throughout is the mother who, we learn three-quarters of the way through the story, died in childbirth. What, if any, affect does that have here? Well, we’re not exactly sure.

The demise of the narrator occurs rapidly (possible cutting, anorexia, paranoia, delusions, more), but the unraveling of the parent-child relationship, while on the surface can be explained by “typical” teenage angst, in the end seems an utter misunderstanding. Again, this is only if we are to read this on face value. If read as a surrealistic cautionary tale, then we know we are no better than the selfish ambitions that propel us forward at any cost, even if those gains mean leaving behind those who have helped us the most (such as a caring father). Because in the end, really, does it matter at all?

And perhaps there’s another way to read this, which is maybe how I best understand the story. Maybe it’s not intended to be read at face value, and perhaps not as a surrealistic cautionary tale, but maybe as a modern-day fable told from the perspective of a mentally unstable young person, whose actions she’s not fully aware of because of her instability, and this causes her to act in permanently detrimental ways. A fable, traditionally, possesses some kind of lesson and often features animals prominently. They don’t always end well, but there’s a lesson to learn somewhere in the story. Maybe that’s the case here. Maybe. Oh, the vagueness! Oh, the elusive dodging of what actually happens! I know, I know. But I would feel as if I were denying you an Experience knowing I gave everything away on a platter to you, when in fact you could read this deliciously mischievous, sad, confusing, and manically paced and rendered piece on your own.

Check out the story here.

Review of “Toxins” by McKenna Marsden, published in Pithead Chapel

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I suppose it goes without saying that we—the various generations that make up current society—are the social media guinea pigs. We won’t fully know or understand, if ever, the extent of its various effects on us individually and/or collectively. It’s terrifying to think of the larger and more sinister ways social media might be harming us, but rarely do we think of social media’s micro invasions and what that might do to us. Or if we do think about it, we probably aren’t doing much to avoid the ten-minute scroll through FB or Instagram.

In many ways, I think the question of how we relate to social media is at the heart of the aptly titled “Toxins” by McKenna Marsden, published in Pithead Chapel. The story is told from the perspective of Harper who, we learn later in the story, is recalling the events of the story because of the voyeuristic permission lent to her by social media, as she checks on Dani, her childhood friend: “I know from Instagram that she lives in Portland now… that she still favors dramatic eyeliner…that she has a lot of friends who post cryptic jokes to her comments.” Yes, Harper is checking in, intentionally or passively, we don’t know, with a former best friend with whom she’s lost touch. The thing acknowledged here is that the level of information known about one another is off-balance. Harper knows a lot about Dani, but Dani might not know much, if anything, about Harper who doesn’t “post much to social media.” Instead, Harper, it seems, uses it as most of us do: to scroll, to check on, and to read updates about those people in her life she once knew. And from this scrolling, we get a recollection of a childhood that these two—Harper and Dani—shared together.

The story, of course, is about much more than social media. I think the story examines very convincingly the worth of those vital and urgent relationships we have when we’re younger but now no longer exist. What do those relationships mean? What part did they play in our growing up? Even though we’ve lost touch, and we rarely think of those people anymore, does that lessen who they were to us then? Do those relationships even matter?

Even more so, I think this story examines how our home life and background drastically affect who we might be as adults and where we might go. How one differing variable, such as growing up with a hypochondriac mother, could potentially make a difference in who we are now, and what we might become. Maybe I’m pointing out the obvious here, but the story does such a thorough job at “showing” us how a child’s background and home life really do make a difference—for better or not.

Or maybe not. Maybe I’m wrong, and maybe I’m reading way too much into this story. Maybe it’s simply a story about two girls growing up in drastically different households who share time together because they want to fit in, they want acceptance. And these two girls go to painful, though humorous, lengths to get there –rolling fake cigarettes made of dried lawn grass and sprinkled with spices found in the kitchen drawer to attract the attention of some older classmates.

In either case, however wrong I may be (or not), I think this is the mark of a good story—one that raises more questions than answers; one that helps us reevaluate our lives and how we view our current and past relationships. What can we derive from these reflections? How might they influence how we better understand ourselves and the world? Did, or do, any of the isolated events and relationships from middle school matter? How much do they matter? Are we better off knowing what our childhood friends are up to even though our only connection is virtual? Would we be better off not knowing what these same people are doing with their lives since we’ve lost touch anyway?

I have no idea the answer to any of these questions, especially the ones related to social media, though I do think those relationships matter. Or they did matter, anyway. I hope so, anyway. Otherwise, what’s the point? And what’s the point of the story? I’m not in the habit of answering my own questions, but for this one, I’d add: the point, I think, on some level, on the human level, is that, yes, it does matter. At least I hope so.

Interview with Ross McMeekin author of “The Island” published in Green Mountains Review

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This week’s featured story, “The Island,” by Ross McMeekin, centers around the intimate relationship between Owen and Aubrey. The tension is revealed early on as we learn of a secret past that Aubrey’s hiding from Owen and, to some degree, herself. Check out the story here. And my interview with author Ross McMeekin below.

 
Keith Lesmeister: As I read your story, I was reminded of the “1984” George Orwell quote, “…if you want to keep a secret you must also hide it from yourself.” In your story, the primary tension centers around the secret, troubled past of the protagonist’s (Owen’s) girlfriend. Was the mystery of her past always there or did it emerge through the writing process?

Ross McMeekin: It was always there, but the importance of Aubrey’s secret gained both a greater clarity and a tighter narrative scope as the process wore on. And it was a long process, imagining and reimagining the story and characters, foisting it upon my writer friends for feedback, trying different perspectives, POV’s, and styles, until finally I found a path that worked. When the good people at Green Mountains Review accepted it for publication, I’d been working at it on-and-off for seven years.

KL: Seven years! Talk about an exercise in patience. So, throughout the process, was there any particular story or author (or stories or authors) that influenced this piece?

RM: There are two stories that pop to mind. Jim Shepard’s, “Pleasure Boating in Lituya Bay,” hit me with such power when I first read it in Ploughshares a decade ago that I still feel its wake, both in the way it captures its Alaskan surroundings—which are similar to those of “The Island”—and that sense of helplessness we can feel before the elements, both natural and human. The second is, “The Drowning,” by Edward Delaney, which reckons a son’s discover of the secret life of his father, and explores those muddy ancestral waters in which we find our identity, our inspiration, and if not our resolution, perhaps our resolve.

KL: The structure of your story works in tandem with the mystery of Aubrey, Owen’s girlfriend. In other words, the structure helps build tension as we learn more about her, and the great lengths Owen pursues in order to find out more about her. This leads to a kind of private investigation that he launches on his own, and in some respects this investigation should be a red flag to readers. I mean, they’ve only known each other for a few months and he’s already exhibiting these stalker-like tendencies. Yet, because he’s characterized as quite earnest, the reader tends to sympathize with his efforts to get to the bottom of his girlfriend’s mysterious past. I’m not sure if I have a question here so much as a comment. Perhaps you have a reaction? Or maybe you have your own views of Owen’s behavior?

RM: I’m drawn to fiction, both as a writer and a reader, that questions the validity of the labels we use to judge behavior and character. I realize that all stories—including this one—judge their characters, but I prefer the kind that don’t crack the gavel until a reader understands the main characters well enough to see the logic—no matter how strange—behind their decisions. I’d love to think that a reader of this story might say about Owen or Aubrey, I don’t know what this makes me, but if I were them, I might be tempted to do the same thing. It’s a lot more difficult to crank the guillotine on someone you understand. And once you do understand them, delivering their verdict feels a lot like delivering your own.

But enough being cagey. Here’s my judgment on Owen and Aubrey. While I understand where they both are coming from, I think they have chosen a hard road, and believe that they’re both complicit in making it so.

KL: I agree with you that they’re both complicit. But let me press you a bit more on Owen. He seems obsessed (maybe that’s not the right word) with “knowing” Aubrey’s past self. What is it about human nature that causes us to probe into the unknown so persistently? I don’t expect you to answer such a huge question! But I am curious if this notion makes its way into your other work? I mean, I suppose on some level that as fiction writers we’re constantly writing into the unknown, but I think, too, that in our line of work some level of ambiguity or uncertainty is expected and embraced. But not so much for others, like your character Owen. Do you explore this idea of “keeping secrets from others” elsewhere in your work?

RM: It makes its way into a lot of my work. Secrets reveal shame, and shame reveals so much: history, culture, personality, and desires—sometimes desires so powerful that their keeper can’t bear to speak of them. This story explores the other side, from the person who’s being asked to trust someone close to them whom he suspects is keeping a big secret, for unexplained reasons. My wife and I have a pet theory: much of a person’s worldview hinges on one thing—how much they need to know about someone before they trust them. It’s an imperfect lens, but I think using it helps illuminate some interesting things about characters (and people).

KL: The setting here, the actual island itself, poses its own set of dangers: the seclusion, the wind, rain, the sea, and the dark forest denizens. Is this typical of most of your stories — that the setting plays such an integral role?

RM: It is typical—but not in such an overt way as is in, “The Island.” I’m convinced that it’s not just the people we’re around, or the socio/cultural/economic climate we face, but the concrete physical aspects of our environment that influence a person’s posture toward the world. The architecture of the building we work in will subtly contribute to the kind of music we enjoy. The floor plan of our apartment will quietly impact our relationship with our flat mates. The nature of the lighting in a place will in small ways frame our mood. To not make use of that in building a fictional work feels like a missed opportunity.

KL: Are you writing other stories? What else are you working on?

RM: I’m always working on a handful stories, albeit slowly. Right now, I’m focused on edits for my first book, which is coming out early next year, a contemporary novel called The Hummingbirds (Skyhorse). It follows a groundskeeper named Ezra, who was raised in a cult that deifies birds. He’s drawn into a relationship with an aging film actor who’s married to a politically ambitious movie producer who wishes Ezra dead. It draws (very) loosely upon my years living in Santa Monica and working in Malibu through my mid-twenties.

ROSS MCMEEKIN’s stories have appeared recently or are forthcoming in Virginia Quarterly Review, Post Road Magazine, Redivider, and Tin House online. He edits the literary journal Spartan, and has been awarded fellowships from the Richard Hugo House and Jack Straw Cultural Center in Seattle.

Interview with Darci Schummer, author of “The Interloper” published in Necessary Fiction

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Darci Schummer’s “The Interloper” is a timely, troubling piece about the ways in which evil and/or outside disturbances might manifest itself/themselves in our personal lives. Read the story here. And check out our interview below.

Keith Lesmeister: First of all, big congratulations on publishing three stories this month. That’s outstanding! It’s difficult enough to find a home for one story, let alone three. Do you have a magical formula for placing stories that you might share with us??

Darci Schummer: I wish I did! These latest publications came after a long dry spell, but I have found a couple things that help. As most writers know, it’s important to understand the type of writing—thematically and stylistically—that a particular journal is looking for. The majority of the stories I write (unlike “The Interloper”) are realist and pretty traditionally structured. That helps dictate where I choose to submit.

I also carefully keep track of all my submissions and how journals respond to my work in a spreadsheet. (Total nerd, I know.) If I get a personal rejection or an invitation to resubmit, I follow up as soon as I have something else ready to send. I grew up as a Jehovah’s Witness, so I’ve had the door slammed in my face enough times to be able to handle rejections from editors and publishers and to have the wherewithal to keep going.

Aside from all that, I think of the term “kairos,” which I talk about when I teach rhetoric. “Kairos” means choosing the opportune time to launch an argument. The same thing can be said about sending out work. “The Interloper” was picked up quickly because of the inauguration last week. Another story of mine “The Parade” was published quickly because it is a winter story, and the editor wanted it up before the seasons changed. He told me that people like reading about the season they’re currently living in. So thinking about the content of a story or a poem in conjunction with what’s going on in the outside world is important, too.

KL: While reading your work this month, and previous stories in your collection, it’s very clear that setting plays a significant role in your work. Whether it’s the streets of Minneapolis or a seemingly cozy living room, you find just the right details to enhance your work. Could you talk about setting and its role in your work?

DS: Everything happens somewhere, and what happens is shaped by where it happens. People are influenced by their environment, and they constantly interact with their environment. The characters and the setting in a particular story must work together to create a unified whole for the reader. If I’m fully submerged in the world of the story, if my concentration is good and I’m there with the characters, I see everything they see. I hear and touch and feel everything they do. I know what places and what things around them hold the most significance and why. The details seem to flow naturally when I’m connected with my characters.

KL: I was drawn into this story for several reasons, one of which was the use of the first person plural, which I don’t come across often. I like it though, especially in your story — it feels natural and adds an element of “this is happening to all of us.” Anyhow, I’m curious: did this POV emerge naturally or was it something planned from the start of the story? Also, curious, are there other first person plural stories that you might recommend?

DS: The way this story was written was kind of funny. I woke up on Thanksgiving day in a hotel in my hometown, my two older sisters sleeping in the room with me. I was thinking about politics and then had this image pop into my mind of a stranger showing up in someone’s family photographs. The thought chilled me, and I couldn’t get rid of it. So I got up, went down to the little exercise room in the hotel, and wrote the story on my phone while walking on the treadmill. To be honest, I didn’t think much about the point of view choice; it just came out that way. I just heard it my head that way. I wanted the story to have a universal quality, and I think the first person plural, which has both a warmth and a kind of anonymity to it, does that.

I haven’t read many first person plural stories either, so I don’t have one in particular that comes to mind to recommend.

KL: There’s a sense of increasing danger in this story, but it sneaks up on us in a strategic way — with how the photographs evolve from beginning to end. I hesitate to point out the obvious parallels, but instead, let me ask this: was this story written in the last couple of months?

DS: Yes, it was. I read a lot of news, and I try to keep up with current political and social issues. Sometimes—not always—writing becomes an outlet for how I feel about being human in 21st century America.

KL: Do you normally work at such a fevered pitch? I mean, from story beginning to publication in just two months is a quick turnaround. The other part of this question is, if I may ask something personal: do you find solace in constructing narratives during troubling moments in your life or others?

DS: I actually consider myself to be a slow writer. I take a long time with revision, and sometimes I take a long time waiting for responses before submitting to a new set of journals. This story was an exception. It came out quickly and did not require a lot of revision. I was pretty diligent about submitting it right away because of the timing, as I mentioned earlier on.

I absolutely take solace in constructing narratives. Writing is a place of safety and freedom for me and has been since I was a little kid. How else can you make anything you want to happen actually happen? How else can you finally defeat your enemies? How else can you find the courage to say something that’s been stuck in your throat?

KL: Let me pivot here and ask about your work at community colleges, because I too work at one, and I know you’ve taught at a couple, at least. I’m wondering how teaching, specifically at a community college, has influenced your work as a writer.

DS: Since most of my students aren’t rushing off to become English majors at universities (although some are), I’m often trying to convince people of the power and beauty of good writing. Essentially, I’m like a salesperson. I have to create a strong pitch to get people to listen to me, which takes creativity, research, and planning. The downside to this is that it eats up a lot of time. The upside to it is that I’m always learning new angles from which to approach writing or new ways in which to understand how the texts we study in class were created. Constantly learning and constantly being surrounded by texts feeds my creative process.

Another thing of note that comes to mind is the different people I come in contact with by teaching at this level. I have taught students from all over the world—Liberia, Somalia, Thailand, Moldova. I have taught old students, young students, parents, teachers, lawyers, and civil war survivors. I have heard some of the most heartbreaking and some of the most inspiring stories imaginable, and I have met some of the most resilient, talented, and interesting people I could ever hope to meet. I carry these people and their stories with me as I work.

KL: Let me now return to the first question, which mentions your wonderful month of publications. Are you working on another collection of stories? If so, what’s been different about working on this one versus your first?

DS: I finished a novel awhile back and have been working on publishing that. I started another collection of stories, one that was set in a fictional rural Wisconsin town, but I have put that on hold while I work on a second novel. Working on a longer project has actually fit into my busy schedule better because I can chip away at it day after day. It’s harder for me to put down a story and then come back where I left off. But the short story is my first love, and I never go too long without writing one. Even these novels I’ve worked on have chapters that really are structured like short stories.

KL: Last question: how do you prefer your potatoes: mashed? baked? au gratin? deep fried? other?

DS: It’s a tie between mashed potatoes and French fries!

KL: And check out Darci’s other stories published this month here in Midway and here in Rare Earth!

Darci Schummer, a Wisconsin girl, is the author of Six Months in the Midwest (Unsolicited Press, 2014) and the co-author of Hinge (broadcraft press, 2015). Her work has appeared in Midwestern Gothic, Midway Journal, Necessary Fiction, and Revolver, among other places. She splits her time between Minneapolis and Duluth, Minnesota, and teaches writing at Fond du Lac Tribal and Community College.

Interview with Denton Loving, author of “How the Mammoth’s Blood Flows” published in Prime Number Magazine

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This week’s story by Denton Loving includes Mammoth hunters, the vast and dangerous arctic setting, and a protagonist who is trying to better understand himself against the memory of his deceased father. This is a story with complicated relational dynamics, an evocative setting, and evident, but not over done, research. Read the story here. And check out my interview with Denton below.

Keith Lesmeister: There’s so much going on in this story — very complicated relational dynamics — that I hardly know where to start. But with all that is going on, it’s written in a very calm meditative way, almost tranquil, which is in stark contrast to the abusive and constant threats of weather, polar bears, and other dangers in the Arctic, where this story takes place. Can you speak to this contrast in voice and setting. Was this an intentional move? Or did it emerge naturally as the story progressed and took shape?

Denton Loving: You’re absolutely right about the Arctic being a place where the weather is forever threatening and there are a lot of dangers. But when I was writing the story, I also thought about how there must be moments of absolute stillness, which is when it might seem the most cold to me. In some way, I hoped the tone of the story would mirror that idea, but I admit that the story and that tone mostly came to me in that voice without my having a lot of conscious input.

KL: One of the complicated relational dynamics in this story is the father-son relationship. It’s so delicately explored, yet we know without question the son’s motivation as he tries to show himself (and the memory of his father) that he can live a much different life than the one his father had intended for him or cautioned him against (which I won’t reveal here). My question is this: were the son’s opinions of his father the same throughout the writing process, or did they change through revision and discovery and getting to know the characters on a deeper level?

DL: I would like to say that the narrator’s feelings changed and progressed as the story was written, but that’s kind of a hard question for me to answer. I never write a story with a strict plan. My process is to find and collect pieces that I hope will eventually fit together and then fill in the blank spaces. My hope is that the characters and the story will reveal themselves as I go, and I think that’s what happened with this story.

KL: The story of the father and son is set against the backdrop of the Arctic, where these Mammoth hunters and researchers search for frozen, well-preserved Mammoth’s. Where did the idea for this story come from?

DL: The idea for the story came from a true-event I read about where a mammoth carcass was found that actually did bleed. I had never imagined something like that could be true. I started researching everything I could find about that mammoth, which led me to so much great material. Even the ideas in the story about cloning mammoths are based on truth. A lot of scientists are all working on this idea, which I find endlessly fascinating.

KL: The depth of knowledge regarding Mammoths and history of the region (Arctic) is evident. How much research was involved in writing this story? Do you incorporate research in most/all of your stories?

DL: My stories don’t all require research because I’m often interested in the dynamics of simple human relationships. But I admire writers like Margaret Atwood and Jim Shepard who use research in so much of their work. When I was writing “How the Mammoth’s Blood Flows,” I had so much fun researching, and there was a lot of great material to read. I wound up with a lot of information that didn’t belong in the story, which seems to always be the danger with research. It can just go on and on, and you never get to the writing part.

KL: At the heart of this story is a man, the protagonist, who is trying to better understand himself while trying to make his mark on society through his Mammoth hunting/research, and we see this understanding of himself through the interactions with Benedick, the young research assistant. Specifically, when the protagonist acknowledges, “…I began to understand the fatherly feelings that had grown in me for the boy.” I don’t really have a question here, but Benedick’s importance is no small part of the story, as it allows the narrator to, in some way, better empathize with his father, perhaps. Can you discuss the narrator’s relationship with Benedick?

DL: I think you’ve nailed it exactly that the narrator’s relationship with Benedick allows him to identify with his father a little more. That relationship between the narrator and his father is at the heart, I think, of what I was investigating with this story. The relationship is different from the relationship I had with my own dad, but I gave the father character some exaggerated characteristics of my dad. My dad was a celebrated dare devil in his youth, but he worried excessively about everyone else getting hurt in some way. My feeling is that, in fiction, you have to sometimes walk your characters through their realizations, and Benedick helped me move the narrator closer toward the ending action of the story.

KL: I know these are really long questions, so let me end with this one: favorite winter drink, coffee or tea?

DL: Tea. Always tea. I actually don’t drink coffee, but I drink iced, sweet tea year round — a product, I suppose, of being from the South.

Denton Loving lives on a farm near the historic Cumberland Gap, where Tennessee, Kentucky and Virginia come together. He is the author of the poetry collection Crimes Against Birds (Main Street Rag, 2015) and editor of Seeking Its Own Level, an anthology of writings about water (MotesBooks, 2014). His fiction, poetry, essays and reviews have recently appeared in River Styx, Prime Number Magazine, Southeast Review and The Chattahoochee Review. Follow him on twitter @DentonLoving.