Contents
before all the other stuff happened
Kristin Hatch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Royalty
Mary Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
(How to Write) A Love Story
Roxane Gay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
2
Kristin Hatch
before all the other
stuff happened
days like sectioned orange pieces. on sunny,
temperate mornings, the suggested leisure of
empty benches next to city fountains. gardens
that went on like fables, grew rubies. who
knew! ribbons hung down from bird mouths
& if we pulled them, little libraries inside with
tiny wooden ladders. i couldn’t talk then so
i pointed & pearl unearthed rocks & under,
dark cities. we’d dig for hours through the sun
& nap wherever had us. evenings there were
radios from neighboring window screens. big
band, of course. lord, how i loved the company
of those far-away songs, nights that smelled like
longer skies. pearl french-spoke me to sleep
(oui, oui chérie) & us waking again, maybe
rain.
3
oh, the electric so much!
well, sure there were mosquitoes & the usual
jerks, but we had plenty
of knives & decent sleeping spots.
4
Mary Jones
Royalty
“W
ell, she comes up to me at night and
begs,” she’s saying. “That’s how I
know.”
“Maybe she just wants something to eat,” I
say. “Did you try playing with her? I remember
her always with that damn rope, wanting someone to pull on it.”
“No,” she says. “I know hungry. Hungry is
a kiss on the mouth. Play is a butt in the air.
For outside, she goes in circles. We understand
each other. This is different—this look on her
face, it’s something I’ve never seen, you know,
and I can tell what she wants. She’s asking me
about it, she wants to know Where is he? She
wants me to explain. I try. I say, ‘Daisy, he’s
gone.’ I tell her he’s not coming home—that
he’s dead. But this is too much for her. She
can’t swallow Never again. Those eyes on me
5
at night—her paws stretched up on the couch,
like she thinks I’ve forgotten something, and
it’s her job to remind me.”
I’m quiet. She says, “You awake?”
“Of course,” I say, used to her late night
calls.
“If she keeps up like this, I don’t know
what I’ll do. It’s hard enough to keep it together in this apartment. Goodwill only takes the
clothes. And this look she’s giving me. I understand it all too well. I know how she feels. I
want someone to give me answers.”
“I wish I could have stayed longer,” I say.
“If you need me, I’ll—”
“They say dogs don’t have a sense of time.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe for her it’s like he just
left. Or maybe she’s been waiting a hundred
years.”
“She’s young,” I say. “It’s the old dog who
can’t learn, right?”
“In dog years she’s my age. Eight already.
You expect twelve to fifteen will be a lifetime,
but when you have one you learn: Dog years
go by fast. I remember when we first got her,
6
an old lady in the street told me to enjoy her,
like she knew it’d be over in the blink of an
eye.” Then she says, “Did I tell you what she
does when I take her out now? She pulls at her
leash like when there’s a squirrel. Only, there’s
nothing! She gives the look here too, after a
few blocks: ‘This way?’ I can’t blame her for trying. I carry her home.” She says, “I’ve even had
to buy one of those dog strollers like you see
people using so I can get her around the city
with me.
“The way it used to be,” she says, “we
would take her with us on all of our trips. In
London they knew our names at the theater.
Those days we were everywhere, not a care in
the world. In Paris, they would serve her filet mignon on china beneath the table. They
called her ‘Princess Daisy,’ and we’d laugh—
calling each other Queen, calling each other
King.”
7
Roxane Gay
from (How to Write)
A Love Story
W
hile I am in North Country, I am teaching students about love and sex and fiction. There is no syllabus. On the first day of
class, I asked them, “What is a love story?” It is
hard to know what to say as they stare at me expectantly. How do you teach someone to write
about love? The easy answer, I suppose, is that
you don’t.
We went to a dairy for ice cream and I hugged
the thick ceramic thigh of a giant, towering
cow with crazy black paint eyes. A friend took
me there the day before, and I insisted he and
I return. The air was cool and clean and crisp.
He took a picture of me, and in that picture,
I am probably the happiest I have ever been. I
am looking at him.
8
I have seen the stars, the stars that are so close
they feel within reach, the stars he has promised to gather in his arms for me. The sky is
clearer, more beautiful, up north.
I have endured Sportscenter without complaining, even though I wanted to complain. Hell is
a place where Sportscenter is always on. These
are the details I want my students to understand. I want them to know that rarely is love
about flowers and chocolate and remembering
important dates and the other things movies
and greeting cards tell us. We know this, and
yet it must be said. Love is patience in the face
of petty irritations.
There are no regrets between us, none at all,
no matter what. I have slept in a bed where my
feet hang over the edge. I have worried, while
sleeping in this bed, that a troll might grab my
toes with its sharp claws. I know too much
about things that grab you in the dark. I have
woken up startled and he has been there saying, “Shhh,” saying, “You’re safe,” saying, “I’m
9
here.” These moments are perfect. These moments are a painful reminder that when we are
apart, there is no one to look after me when
I scream in the middle of the night. I often
scream in the middle of the night.
I have shared stories with my students about
very dark kinds of love—the kinds of love that
make you question your faith in other people.
At times, they have been uncomfortable. Darkness is uncomfortable. Seeing how people
can twist love into something sharp and incomprehensible is uncomfortable. I asked my
students, “Are these stories love stories?” They
nodded. I have told them, don’t tell the love
story that’s easy. I have told them, don’t be
afraid to write a happy love story. I have told
them, sometimes, happiness is transgression in
an unhappy world. I have told them that sometimes a love story is a hate story or an anti-love
story. Again, I have told them, do not be afraid
of a happy love story.
We talked about the beginnings of stories. I
10
told them that as they write, I want them to
think about how they are teaching their audience to read their work. I am trying to teach
them how to write a story that will make their
readers feel. I want them to reach right into
the chests of everyone who reads their stories. I
don’t want them to be afraid to put their hands
on someone else’s bloody, beating heart. I try
to get to that intimate place with them where
I can discuss such things. I told them to write
about sex without writing about sex. I told
them to write about sex between two people
who only share hate. I am teaching students
how to write love and sex into fiction, and I
think about how young most of the students
are.
We are writers. We write stories. We make
things up. We write what we know and what
we do not know. I told them, “Today, try writing what you do not know.” I wonder, though,
if someone can write about love if they do not
know love, if they have never been in love. I
look at their young faces and wonder what they
11
know about love, not the love of parents and
friends and family, but the love of a man or a
woman you also want to be naked with, whom
you want to cut yourself open with.
12
2012 Indiana Review
Poetry Prize
$1,000 Honorarium & Publication
Final Judge: Dean Young
Postmark Deadline:
March 31, 2012
Reading Fee: $20
Includes a one-year subscription.
All entries considered for publication.
All entries considered anonymously.
Send only three poems per entry.
Detailed guidelines and entry form:
http://www.indianareview.org/prizes/2012poetry-prize/
2012 Indiana Review
½ K Prize
$1,000 Honorarium & Publication
Final Judge: Michael Martone
Postmark Deadline:
June 1, 2012
Reading Fee: $20
Includes a one-year subscription.
All entries considered for publication.
All entries considered anonymously.
Send only three short-shorts or prose
poems per entry.
Detailed guidelines forthcoming!
Congratulations to our 2011
prize winners!
Poetry (33.2) judged by Marie Howe
“Because the Birds Came”
John A. Nieves
½ K (34.1) judged by Ander Monson
“When You Look Away, The World”
Corey Van Landingham
Fiction (34.1) judged by Kevin Brockmeier
“Presidents”
Elise Winn
www.indianareview.org