ON​ ​PEACH​:

Last​ ​Friday​ ​we​ ​published​ ​“gem​ ​water​ ​is​ ​real​ ​and​ ​it’s​ ​good​ ​for​ ​you”​ ​by​ ​Zach​ ​Blackwood. Blackwood​ ​is​ ​transfixed​ ​by,​ ​and​ ​yearning​ ​for,​ ​transformation​—​transformation​ ​of​ ​the​ ​body,​ ​of language,​ ​of​ ​nature.​ ​The​ ​poem​ ​could​ ​be​ ​as​ ​much​ ​an​ ​unrequited​ ​love​ ​letter,​ ​as​ ​it​ ​could​ ​also​ ​be​ ​a letter​ ​of​ ​creative​ ​intent.​ ​Blackwood​ ​is​ ​calling​ ​out​ ​to​ ​the​ ​reader,​ ​making​ ​whatever​ ​shift​ ​is necessary​ ​for​ ​connection:​ ​“every​ ​fortune​ ​said:​ ​run​ ​the​ ​sword​ ​of​ ​you​ ​/​ ​through​ ​me​ ​so​ ​i​ ​can​ ​feel you​ ​/​ ​&​ ​release​ ​you.”

Yesterday,​ ​​Peach​​ ​published​ ​s.g.​ ​​maldonado-vélez’s​ ​“i​ ​cross​ ​the​ ​holocene​ ​with​ ​matches​ ​in​ ​my pocket.”​ ​maldonado-vélez​ ​uses​ ​light​ ​and​ ​time​ ​to​ ​communicate​ ​the​ ​destructive​ ​powers​ ​of distance,​ ​both​ ​physical​ ​and​ ​abstract:​ ​“still​ ​i​ ​walk​ ​catching​ ​/​ ​sparks​ ​on​ ​the​ ​/​ ​tip​ ​of​ ​my​ ​fingernails​ ​/ as​ ​storm​ ​clouds​ ​/​ ​over​ ​anthills​ ​because​ ​/​ ​i​ ​like​ ​to​ ​think​ ​of​ ​myself​ ​/​ ​as​ ​benevolent.”​ ​​ ​Their language​ ​is​ ​careful​ ​and​ ​unhurried,​ ​like​ ​the​ ​slow​ ​closing​ ​of​ ​a​ ​fist,​ ​as​ ​it​ ​produces​ ​images​ ​that devolve​ ​into​ ​purely​ ​primal​ ​feeling.​ ​“even​ ​/​ ​asleep​ ​you​ ​are​ ​/​ ​in​ ​motion,”​ ​they​ ​write,​ ​“amongst​ ​/​ ​all this​ ​pine​ ​/​ ​bark​ ​at​ ​the​ ​/​ ​shadows​ ​it’s​ ​/​ ​intimidating​ ​/​ ​knowing​ ​you​ ​/​ ​never​ ​have​ ​/​ ​to​ ​stop.”

IN​ ​PRINT​:
49​ ​Venezuelan​ ​Novels​

flash fiction by​ ​Sebastian​ ​Castillo

Bottlecap​ ​Press​ ​(2017)

Sebastian​ ​Castillo’s​ ​​49​ ​Venezuelan​ ​Novels​ ​​is​ ​a​ ​surreal​ ​metropolis;​ ​a​ ​series​ ​of​ ​shrinking alleyways​ ​joyfully​ ​devouring​ ​tourists.​ ​Each​ ​of​ ​the​ ​titular​ ​novels​ ​is​ ​never​ ​much​ ​longer​ ​than​ ​a paragraph,​ ​but​ ​Castillo​ ​is​ ​able​ ​to​ ​deftly​ ​reshape​ ​the​ ​tool​ ​of​ ​language​ ​and​ ​reality​ ​itself​ ​in​ ​each microscopic​ ​volume,​ ​“I​ ​write​ ​little​ ​poems​ ​on​ ​eviction​ ​notices.​ ​They’re​ ​taped​ ​to​ ​the​ ​front​ ​of​ ​my neighbors’​ ​gated​ ​doors,​ ​and​ ​they’re​ ​pink,​ ​the​ ​color​ ​of​ ​language.​ ​I​ ​believe​ ​it’s​ ​assisted​ ​them​ ​with their​ ​legal​ ​problems.​ ​That​ ​explains​ ​all​ ​the​ ​flowers​ ​on​ ​my​ ​doorstep.”​ ​There​ ​isn’t​ ​necessarily​ ​a greater​ ​plot​ ​at​ ​work​ ​in​ ​the​ ​collection,​ ​but​ ​the​ ​unifying​ ​moods​ ​of​ ​muted​ ​horror​ ​and​ ​gentle melancholy​ ​held​ ​throughout​ ​​49​ ​Venezuelan​ ​Novels​ p​​resent​ ​a​ ​singular​ ​world,​ ​a​ ​continent​ ​where everything​ ​dreams​ ​and​ ​everything​ ​is​ ​subject​ ​to​ ​the​ ​pain​ ​of​ ​the​ ​human​ ​condition,​ ​“The​ ​moon keeps​ ​a​ ​line​ ​by​ ​Ryokan​ ​on​ ​the​ ​nature​ ​of​ ​suffering​ ​in​ ​his​ ​back​ ​pocket.​ ​He​ ​feels​ ​cold​ ​from​ ​one side​ ​always.”​ ​The​ ​uncanny​ ​otherworld​ ​of​ ​​49​ ​Venezuelan​ ​Novels​ ​​suggests​ ​that​ ​our​ ​need​ ​to create​ ​and​ ​communicate​ ​will​ ​always​ ​be​ ​at​ ​the​ ​mercy​ ​of​ ​those​ ​that​ ​would​ ​exploit​ ​or misunderstand​ ​the​ ​intent​ ​of​ ​the​ ​creator.​ ​But,​ ​as​ ​the​ ​outside​ ​world​ ​grows​ ​ever​ ​more​ ​cruel​ ​and absurd,​ ​something​ ​simple​ ​and​ ​lasting​ ​is​ ​possible​ ​in​ ​this​ ​strange​ ​landscape,​ ​if​ ​the​ ​reader​ ​is willing​ ​to​ ​just​ ​let​ ​go: ​​“Go​ ​outside.​ ​Pick​ ​flowers.​ ​Stroke​ ​a​ ​guitar.​ ​Kiss​ ​an​ ​ugly,​ ​dying,​ ​diseased stranger.​ ​Never​ ​read​ ​another​ ​word​ ​again.”