After many years of scheming and dreaming, the time is long last at hand: long-time friend and collaborator Ben Trickey and I will share the stage at Space Gallery on October 3rd for Choke & Croon, a literary/musical event. We will be joined by the acoustic doom of Delta Sierra‘s front-man Brandon Schmitt, prose-poetry by Nadia Prupis, and the equal-parts celebration and dirge primitive folk of Thorn & Shout. I can’t remember the last time I was so giddy with expectation for a show.
And later that same week will be the opening for the 2017 Salt Alumni Exhibition, featuring—alongside the work of twelve other Salt alum—my essay on Jason Molina, “Windows Open in the Southern Cross Hotel.” Presented by the Maine College of Art, the show opens Friday, October 6th and runs through November 10th.
In addition, that same night is the opening of the New England Book Fair, also at Space Gallery, where I will (albeit briefly) be doing an author signing with Publication Studio. Combine that with at least four house-guests and family visiting from Oregon and Michigan, it will without a doubt be a dizzyingly busy week.
Another delinquent post, but this time for good cause, as I was waiting for these several pieces to go live, which they essentially did all at once.
In such a lovely miniature format that the piece cannot be photographed without revealing the story in its entirety, “Strike Anywhere” makes its appearance as the 50th issue of Petite Hound Press, publisher of micro-texts and images. The story was paired with original artwork by Mira Sadorge (which, in fact, matches perfectly another related story, “Chestnut v. Buckeye,” that was accepted for publication the very same day this was released). All this talk about the story is longer than the story itself. So I’ll let it rest.
Also new in print is “Milk”—another installment in the ongoing toil of Coleman—in Issue 39 of Meridian. This story, resplendent with Tom Waits references and thirst-slaking skin, counts as my 90th short works publication, which sounds more impressive than it feels. The story (as well as the entire issue) can be read for free online, or purchased directly from Meridian.
And lastly—perhaps most excitingly—my collaborative project with the metallurgical genius of Cat Bates, Monolith, is now complete, assembled, and available. Five interconnected vignettes surrounding a slow hospital death, the dissolution of familial bonds, and angel’s claws scratching the walls, all manifest in a booklet, a box, and the startling gravitas of a cast iron medallion.
We couldn’t have a funeral, so instead, we had a brass band. Three men in blue suits playing songs we’d never heard before but that sounded a whole lot like my idea of New Orleans. A full ghost moon dogged the high-up sun […] It made me feel like we were in a movie. But was this the beginning or the end?
This is the second time Cat and I have put our two florescent brains together to create something new and unexpected, and I am infinitely proud of the work we produce as a team. He is a rare specimen of a human being, and I’m awed that I have the privilege of sharing in his light. We’ll be presenting Monolith this Friday on Monhegan Island, near where the narrative of our previous collaboration, “A Fluent Blue,” took place.
After a handful of stimulating and mostly-collaborative reading events, from New York’s Hudson Valley down through the Southern Tier, I’m finally home and grounded enough to catch up on a few noteworthy updates. Please forgive my tardiness.
Above the water, the approaching clouds look like a wall built of prisons. Sometimes I pray this whole thing is a joke. Sometimes, it’s the opposite of praying.
In a year punctuated with some truly beautiful publications, this one might be my favorite yet. Absolutely worth the $12.
Meanwhile, in a continuation of my unlikely string of successes in the United Kingdom and Commonwealth nations, the Wales-based journal The Lonely Crowd has published “Thank Me Any Day,” the first printed piece in Regan’s multi-episode series of grim family life.
Dickhead always had to wrestle the pig to get it back in its pen and by the end they’d both be caked in shit and bloodied and bruised and Dickhead always acted like he’d taken that hill, but the pig every time eventually got loose again, so who was really the king?
In addition to the printed text, there is also a video narrative of the story (included below) and a brief essay on the making of “Thank Me Any Day,” which should appear on The Lonely Crowd‘s website…someday.
And as one final note: so far, this has been a year of longlists, shortlists, and runnings up. A trio of flash fictions made it to the final round of judging for Meridian‘s Border contest. “Get Bigger” (also a Regan narrative) took third-place in the OWT’s Short Fiction Competition, and was also longlisted for the Masters Review‘s annual fiction contest. “Heart’s Last Pass” was a finalist for the RA & Pin Drop Short Story Award (which might still come with some perks: hopefully more on that soon), as was my unpublished novel Our Shadows’ Voice with Barrelhouse. I’m hoping this means that I’m building toward something instead of slipping backward. I guess only time will tell.
[If you enjoy the mostly-free access to my short fiction that this site allows, please consider becoming a monthly patron or making a one-time “tip jar” donation. Without the support of readers like you, I’d be stooped in half under a load of shingles, ladder-marching eternally toward a roof that’ll never be complete.]
The same calloused hands folded in grace at the table, enveloped faintly in the steam from mashed potatoes and steak. The same hands covering his mouth while his body wracked, trying to drag breath deeply up from the bottom of a phlegmy smoker’s cough. Only Daddy didn’t smoke. Stone dust worked in unmineable blue veins through the rough crags of his hands.
This story was inspired by the poetry of Phil Levine and Raymond Carver.
[If you enjoy the mostly-free access to my short fiction that this site allows, please consider becoming a monthly patron or making a one-time “tip jar” donation. Without the support of readers like you, I’d be exhaling bureaucracy in a cubicle somewhere, glowing with a desktop monitor tan.]
Without a whole lot of warning, three stories stepped out into the light yesterday. Two flash fiction pieces—“Swans (Elsewhere)” and “Settle/Return”—were published as a set in the Atticus Review, who previously published my story “Thieving in Foreign Countries.” Hours later, featherproof books began taking pre-orders for the anthology Make X: A Decade of Literary Arts, collecting a broad survey of the corpus published by Make: A Chicago Literary Magazine. In addition to featuring work by such hard-hitters as Jac Jemc and Tim Kinsella, my story “Our City in Wartime” (which originally appeared in the 12th issue of Make) sees new life in the pages of this gorgeous book.
I might very well have been the last person yesterday to know that any of these stories had been released.
What I did know was happening, though, was the fine-tuning of my new Patreon page. For those of you who don’t know, Patreon is a crowd-sourcing platform made exclusively for artists, wherein patrons can pledge a monthly donation in whatever amount they like, and in return get specific rewards. In this particular instance, donors of different levels will receive monthly postcards, single-story booklets, and—for the highest donors—a special edition of my first book, White Horses, featuring new artwork and design. So if you enjoy my work and would like to help ensure that it (and I) continue, please consider becoming a monthly patron or making a one-time gift.
Continuing a trend of mutual love between British and Commonwealth publications and me, the Australian journal Tincture this week included my story “Water Lily” (the first of this past year’s new crop of stories written at the Hewnoaks Artists Colony) in their new 17th Issue.
Elaine’s rule was defense. This was her home. No one else’s. When the striking time arrived, she’d strike to kill. But only after the intruder struck first. She could wait as long as she needed to wait. Annette would say just bag it and tag it but Annette wasn’t here. It wasn’t her call. Elaine could afford to be patient. She would not strike first. In her mind, she certainly would strike last.
Tincture also previously published my story “Arena” in their 14th Issue in 2014.
And also this week, as a result of weird circumstance and ninja-like reflexes, a new, very industrial version of One Thousand Owls Behind Your Chest now exists in the world. This alternate incarnation of the collection can be found at Longfellow Books in Portland, Maine, in the Beyond Repair online store, and (if you feel like contacting me directly) in an envelope mailed to you from me.
“There’s a second when I can’t really see and I think, sure enough, my uncle and I would make a great team, swooning and faint in a rush of too much. But the truth is, I can’t really ever lose my head the way I want to. Not again.”
Read “Boys’ Life / Rough Frontiers” for free in the Lascaux Review.
Praise for ONE THOUSAND OWLS BEHIND YOUR CHEST
“One of Portland’s most prolific and original fiction writers.”
—The Portland Dispatch
“In Milliken’s stories, you get characters who seem like regular-ass people until their motivations […] collide them.”
—The Portland Phoenix
Praise for CREAM RIVER
“I believe Doug Milliken has a firm grasp of life’s little traumas. He takes his chunk of loving meat and hangs it from a butcher’s hook on display for the world to read.”
—from the foreword by Ben Trickey, singer/songwriter
“Cream River […] is still on my mind, as if its characters were hanging around in the dark shadows of my consciousness. […] I was blown away by “Color Wheel.” I also loved how the stories had a series of sometimes evident and sometimes subterranean connections that became especially intriguing as the cycle approached its end. I highly recommend reading Cream River.”
—Jonathan Weisberg, The Stoneslide Corrective
“I loved every story, every word.”
—Erin Sprinkle, singer/songwriter
Praise for TO SLEEP AS ANIMALS
“[…] it is impossible not to be the weird kid in Milliken’s Reno. To Sleep as Animals is a mystery about characters succumbing to their spaces, how such a rugged landscape sustains so many strange and dangerous lives.”
“A disturbance of a very specific flavor […] Milliken’s writing is urgent yet finely considered—a literate pleasure.”
—Carl Skoggard, translator of Walter Benjamin’s Berlin Childhood circa 1900.
“A distinctive and often vertiginously frightening psychological landscape […] bracingly disturbing.”
—Megan Grumbling, author of Persephone in the Late Anthropocene.
Praise for BRAND NEW MOON
“These stories […] glow with some sort of holy light, as if every moment were magic, like footage of your family picnic on super 8.”
—The Portland Phoenix
“Seriously the funniest thing I have ever read. I was laughing so much that [my wife] yelled at me. Probably because she was sleeping. And it was 2 AM.”
—Derek Kimball, Last House Productions
Praise for WHITE HORSES
“Douglas W. Milliken takes his time unveiling the savoring of the moment in a narrative of extremely gracious intimacy. The dignified personal. Expert surreal grounded prose. Pragmatic poetics that serve the whole. This man is a master of simile. And it never gets old because the associations are always complex and unexpected. Worked accuracy but seamlessly so. Wow throughout the heartbreaking sensuality. Its core a felled forest of need. The title story, ‘White Horses,’ cannot be improved, which is another way of saying it is perfect.”
—Melody Sumner Carnahan, co-founder of Burning Books.