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Flash Fiction,Q&AGraham Andreae is Editorin Chief of the TulaneReview. He watches cookingshows; everything elsehe reads. What he canfind to watch on television is usually not worthmentioning. He writes himself and resides currentlyin Maryland, but graduates from Tulanethis May. What follows is a conversation betweenLee Hodge and himself and the winningentry for the flash fiction contest.
ButterAfter Terrance HayesBy Lee HodgeThat’s the hottest part of the fire: the turfburningunderneath. Make use of yourselfand blow on ita bit,keepingthe door to thestove shut so thatanything thrown in immolatesright away. The way that log is burning,it looks like the hottest part of the fire butit isn’t, it is the peat which was once plants.Peatburns hotter thanwood withflamesthatareblue, nearly greenlike the northern lightsyou have never seen in person, nor haveyou ever owned a woodstove but this will beenough for today;having control over whatis going on inside this one.This peat that willsoon be burnt to nothing accumulated atone millimeter per year andhasstrange oxygendeficient and antibacterial properties enablingthe preservation of things like butter,sometimes bodies. The bodies are perfectlydetailed; thehairstyles, the nipples cut off sothathe could not be king are hanging offstill,-like two little tags. His face is peaceful in themuseum copy despite the throatbeing slit.Q&ADo you consider your piece a poem, prose, or amix of the two and what do you find most interestingabout those intersections?It’s definitely a mix! I enjoy work that blurs boundaries.I wrote this piece in response to a cross disciplinary work,Highborn, reportedly, but who knows how anyoneelse lives that much closer to the center.Withall this tallow offered to the land, these greatunlit candles buried in the bog, they beggedthe weather not to curdle the flesh of theirchildren.Theywill befoolish, bearingmore childrenan essay-poem by Terrance Hayes, so genre hybridity was on the eve of a famine. What they don’t knowa very fundamental concern. Work that explores these in-coultersections offers the opportunity for critique on so many sometimes like when you liedown on the earthfill a book. You can feel it pulling on youdifferent levels and allows for conversations about the by the ocean, the jagged feeling of some rockway we read and why to unfold. The unfolding of genre pointing in an uncomfortable direction,someboundaries is crucial to changing perceptions regarding touch of fear. It has becometoodark to see yourthe capabilities of language and I am all about that. loveragainst the shape leading to the other sideof the harbor.You never needed a lover,have almostforgotten you brought one hereand do notWhat do you think separates writing that worksand writing that does not?notice when they have left you.Later, staring atI was talking to a friend recently about my dislike of the the fire for a long time, you are satisfied in theword “craft” and its application toward writing. I was imperfectabilityof making a fire and not havingholding down some nebulous and stubborn claim that intended to do anything at all today, anotherdaythe appeal of the term is in its physicality- an attempt to when there were unknown numbersof peoplemake an intellectual task like writing seem more tangible underneath you that were always there, distinctand real and thusly “crafted”. It conjures up images of in some vapor of moleculespushing edges into asanding tables or weaving fabric or doing any other coolermore muscular thing than sitting in front of a comput-people lived, they buried food even though theyplace thatjust happened tobe and like you, thoseer typing. I tend to identify writing that hangs around in were starving, stared at the fire a long time, andmy mind as writing that works, regardless of whether I wanted to be king.would consider myself to have liked it or not.
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Page 23 and 24: Year of RiversBy John McIntyreYear
Page 25 and 26: WithinBy Eli CoyleStarts the sun up
Page 27 and 28: Red LineBy Ray BallSomething you ma
Page 29 and 30: Passage Is AllBy Risa PappasWomen m
Page 31 and 32: The Next DayBy James BlevinsSingers
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