Flit: A Poetry Mashup of Classic Literature ($11.95, 128 pages, ISBN: 978-1-60381-323-5), a collection of poems by Seattle wigmaker and memoirist Dennis Milam Bensie, each selecting words from a work of classic literature to create snapshots of gay life and culture.
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The Advocate voted Bensie’s first memoir, Shorn: Toys to Men, “One of the Best Overlooked Books of 2011.” The New York Journal of Books called Shorn: “Bracingly honest.” The Library Journal recommended it as “particularly topical in these days of bullying stories and gay teens committing suicide.” One Gay American was a finalist for both the Next Generation Indie Book Awards and the Indie Excellence Book Awards.
“Dennis Milam Bensie offers his readers in Flit a veritable Baedeker to contemporary gay culture constructed from the clay of the literary canon. In poems simultaneously playful and wise, Bensie ‘mashes up’ the words of the classics to comment on the intricacies of gay identity/ies today. In the harrowing ‘PnP,’ for example, the poet speaks of the pain that fuels drug use into ‘the party and play way of life.’ The protagonist in ‘A Bill with the Devil’ is sent to ‘a special shock camp’ by his Christian family. Bensie angles his lens forward in poems such as ‘The Harvey Milk Doll’ and ‘God in a Dress’ that bring the volume to a close, fashioning a new iconography of heroism and the divine. With the likes of Arthur Miller, George Bernard Shaw, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Leo Tolstoy, Virgina Woolf, and numerous others ga(y)zing over his (and our) shoulders, Bensie dares us to consider anew the literature and our world that we thought we knew. ‘Minor’ and ‘major’ literatures, in Bensie’s exuberant hands, come together on unexpected ground. This engagement proves most felicitous indeed.”
—Yermiyahu Ahron Taub, author of Prayers of a Heretic: Poems
“Dennis Milam Bensie’s latest book is a wildly unique combination of his own lively, in-your-face verse surveying the contemporary queer scene seamlessly mingled with lines from classic authors like Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Herman Melville, and William Shakespeare. Mr. Bensie is truly a master of the memorable amalgam!”
—Jeff Mann, author of Rebels and A Romantic Mann
“The literary closet is blasted ajar with dynamite, as we slowly learn that gay urbane quotidian poetry of today is lurking in literally all of literature. From Charlotte’s Web and Hemingway to Gone With the Wind, we’ll forgive if some of the evidence is planted by our author—a private eye who won’t quit till each straight boy in history is caught wearing a skirt!”
—Felix Bernstein, author of Burn Book (Nightboat) and Notes on Post-Conceptual Poetry (Insert Blanc Press)
“What Bensie and these poems do is to make us have another look at what have been literary classics and reconsider them as they pertain to our lives. Here Bensie is the master as he takes to places we never thought we would visit—he has the magic carpet and we get on and enjoy our journey through the very best that has been retailored for us. Having read all that he has published, I never really thought of Dennis Bensie as a poet but I see how wrong I was. He is a poet par excellence and we are so lucky to have him share it with us…. I want all of you to love this book as much as I do.” Read more….
—Reviews by Amos Lassen
“The word ‘flit’ comes from J.D. Salinger’s overrated, homophobic novel, Catcher in the Rye. Dennis Milam Bensie queers the work of Salinger and thirty-nine other well-known authors (some gay, some not), from Shakespeare to Alice Walker, by using words from their work to create brilliant mash poetry. The poems present aspects of contemporary gay life many readers, myself included, will identify with, such as growing up gay in hostile church and school environments and exploring some of the more exotic and exciting features of gay life today. A remarkable achievement well worth the read.”
—Clifton Snider, literary scholar, critic, novelist, and author of Moonman: New and Selected Poems
“Flit: A Poetry Mashup of Classic Literature is a sometimes fierce, often poignant, but always important reminder of the unique ability of gay writers to share their experience of love, loss, fear and hope. This is the heart and soul of gay literature, the message we all need to receive about being queer in America, both in a time when change seemed impossible and now, when it is almost overwhelming to contemplate what change may bring to us all.”
—Eleanor Lerman, author of Strange Life and Radioman
“If we are the sum of all the words we’ve read and heard, then Flit shows us a new way to write poetry. Dennis Milam Bensie extracts words from stories we know and love, using them to create fresh, strong poems. These poems capture the fears, joys, and common moments in every human life. They are a choir of voices, singing in their second language: compassion. These poems show that words have long lives. They might even make the case that words live forever. The only way to know is to read and savor these beautifully crafted poems.”
—Joseph Ross, Author of Gospel of Dust and Meeting Bone Man
“I am honored to speak of the work of Dennis Milam Bensie. I had thought of Dennis as a particularly fine writer of short, comedic fiction. Since reading Flit: A Poetry Mashup of Classic Literature, I now know he is also an exceptional poet. His work is both personal and universal, honest, tragic, and quite frankly, outstanding! I am envious. Thank you, Dennis, for the joy and the sorrow, the rage and defiance, the love, the beauty, and the damn fine poetry!”
—Kay Kinghammer, poet, author of Picture This, And Then, and Inside the Circus
“Dennis Milam Bensie has mined the secret seams of classic prose texts and come up with an unexpected ore. Who would have thought our genteel library shelves were hiding so many explicit poems about contemporary gay life? It’s enough to make a bookworm blush!”
—Gregory Woods, poet, author of An Ordinary Dog
J.D. Salinger uses the word “flit” twenty times to reference a homosexual male in his classic 1951 novel, Catcher in the Rye.
Not to suggest the celebrated writer was homophobic. But it was in his book that the word entered common parlance.
Poet and author Dennis Milam Bensie tackles the work of Salinger and thirty-nine other famous authors, including Melville, Dickens, Tolstoy, Twain, and Forrester, and mashes them up into his own concoctions. These poems offer intriguing snippets of gay life, from cruising bears (furry men sailing the ocean blue) to Log Cabin Republicans, to youths subjected to sexual conversion therapy. Every poem in Flit: A Poetry Mashup of Classic Literature is built entirely with words from one classic book or play.
Says Bensie, “I have always loved collage. I heard about a method of writing poetry called a ‘mashup’ while participating in the Artist Trust EDGE Program for Literary Artists about a year ago and was intrigued. I went to Half Price Books and bought a bunch of books and started mashing. I started with The Bell Jar, one of my favorites, and literally cut words and phrases out of the book with scissors and set them aside. Once I’d gathered a bunch of clippings, I studied them and put them back together in different order until I had a whole new story. It was great fun to borrow the words of some of the greatest authors of all time and rearrange them into a contemporary gay poem that spoke to me.”
Dennis Milam Bensie has written two memoirs: Shorn: Toys to Men and One Gay American. His short stories have been featured in The Rain, Party and Disaster Society, Talking Soup, Chelsea Station, Short Fiction Break, The Ink and Code, Everyday Fiction, Bare Back Magazine, The Round Up, Specter Magazine, Fuck Fiction, Cease Cows, and This Zine Will Change Your Life. His essays have appeared in the Huffington Post, Boys on the Brink, and the Good Men Project. The author has been a presenter at the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival in New Orleans and at Montana’s very first gay pride festival. For more information, click here.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
Shut your eyes and your ears.
As long as you behave well,
You will be free
A pathetic benediction I felt.
My flesh and blood, tight and snug
Didn’t convert or contend.
There was nothing from above.
The camp dispersed and I was still quite frolicsome;
Unbridged by religion.
That summer, I had found
My own new twists and turns.
I announced to my parents
That there was no bill with the devil,
That there would be no rooms for me in heaven,
And any bill from God had already been paid in full.
—An Excerpt from “A Bill With The Devil,” a mashup of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1852)
we’ll beachcomb for their broken bones ($10.95, 106 pages, ISBN: 978-1-60381-309-9) is a new poetry collection by elena botts. Also a gifted graphic artist, elena created the cover art as well.
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“Read these pieces three times. Once with the ‘rational’ on pause. Again for the music. And the third time because good things come in threes … except when we expect them to. Don’t let these works meet your expectations, they are better than that and naturally resistant.” —From the foreword by Lucas Smiraldo, past poet laureate of the city of Tacoma and author of the poetry collection, The Thing That Gathers
Eighteen-year-old elena botts distinguished herself as a poet of merit while still in high school:
“Elena’s poems are impressively striking. I’m hoping I will someday meet his young lady who appears to breathe poetry from every pore. I was thoroughly moved by her mature handling of deeply complex themes, her masterful command of language, and the sheer emotional impact of her poetic expressions.”
—Sydney March, award-winning poet, essayist, and musician
“High school is not too early to be writing poetry that can be valued as literature. That is what elena botts’ book, a little luminescence, is. Marvel at this girl’s excitingly original imagistic language—moon washed up / in light-seeped sunrise /a gleaming shell on celestial shore; her delicacy with words like those describing love that moves through / the everyday / never mentioned / coming along beside us / silently; and her spiritual awareness—notes of a soul / in this breathing body resounding.”
—Maxwell Corydon Wheat Jr., First Poet Laureate—Nassau County, New York
Botts’s poems address themes such as human mortality, vulnerability, and perception of time. They are meant to trigger a thoughtful response from people of diverse sensibilities.
Says the poet, “I write poetry to pull the light in. I began to write at a young age and honestly cannot remember starting. It seems more like I just always had been writing. But I think the first time I realized what I was doing, or could do with words, was in the fifth grade, when my teacher said to me: ‘You’re a thinker.’ From then on I began to recognize the power of thought in the written word. My first muse was the natural world. And of course, I was always reading—not poetry so much until years later.”
elena botts currently attends college in New York, though she is from the DC metropolitan area. In the past few years, her poems have been published in dozens of literary magazines. She is the winner of four poetry contests, including Word Works Young Poets’. Her artwork has won numerous awards and has been exhibited at the Greater Reston Art Center and Arterie Fine Arts. Another book of poetry, a little luminescence, was published by allbook-books.com, and her chapbook was published by Red Ochre Press. Click here to find elena online.
Here is the poem that inspired the title:
fingers-crept-spiderlike into the crevasse
of my palm. i couldn’t
(breathe) now, not when the lights were coming on,
glowing as dumb and warm
as sleeping eyes
shut tight. we never did touch.
’cause you were as blue as a madman
and she was shooting sparks
and i sitting sullen as a covered moon,
breathing in, breathed out
a tide like deepest night. maybe, come morn,
we’ll stumble out, go beachcomb
for our broken bones
until the damaged children between our temples will
born again with fiery skin.
When the Devil’s Idle ($13.95, 192 pp, 6×9 Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-60381-998-5) is the second book in Leta Serafim’s Greek Islands Mystery series. While investigating the death of a German tourist on Patmos, Chief Officer Patronas uncovers terrible secrets.
Follow the Tribute Books blog tour, starting November 2nd.
Book 1, The Devil Takes Half, was a finalist in the mystery category of the Eric Hoffer Awards and received a starred review from Library Journal.
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(Starred Review) “This classic fair-play whodunit, the excellent sequel to 2014’s The Devil Takes Half (Serafim’s first Greek Island mystery), takes Yiannis Patronas, the endearing chief police officer on the island of Chios, to Patmos, where someone has bashed in the skull of Walter Bechtel, a 90-year-old German, in the garden of his foster son Gunther’s holiday residence—and carved a swastika on the victim’s forehead. When Patronas asks Gunther about his foster father’s past, Gunther becomes defensive and claims that his papa was ‘just an ordinary man’ and did not commit any atrocities during WWII. Serafim does an especially good job of integrating Greece’s current financial struggles into the story line, and Patronas’s colleagues, especially an eccentric priest with a taste for seafood, lighten what otherwise could have been a very grim tale without minimizing the underlying horror of the background to the crime.”
—Publishers Weekly, August 3, 2015
4 Stars: “The pairing of cynical Patronas and optimistic Michalis injects some humor in an otherwise moderately paced procedural. Serafim expertly creates the beauty of Greece. However, the real draws of this book are the fully developed, complex characters, and the facts on Greek culture and history. Book two in the Greek Islands Mystery series is sure to satisfy.”
“This novel’s attraction lies in Serafim’s portrayal of life in modern Greece and the complex relationships between Yiannis and those around him. Serafim deftly weaves Greece’s debt crisis into the plot, and provides readers with fully-developed, complex characters. She lightens a grim plotline with the interactions between Yiannis and Papa Michalis.” Read more….
—Mark Lardas, The Galveston County Daily News
“When The Devil’s Idle is loaded with twists and turns and red herrings that will leave you guessing all the while you are flipping pages to find out what happens next. Ms. Serafim has provided us with a marvelous whodunit and I am already looking forward to the next book in the series.” Read more….
—Vic’s Media Room
In the Book of Revelation, written by St. John on the Greek island of Patmos, it was said a pale horse would appear whose rider was death, others would cry out for vengeance, and the stars of heaven would fall to the earth.
Death does indeed come to Patmos when a German tourist is found murdered in the garden of one of the island’s fabled estates. Yiannis Patronas, Chief Officer of the Chios police, is called in to investigate. He summons his top detective, Giorgos Tembelos, and his friend and amateur sleuth, Papa Michalis, to assist him.
What the policemen discover will disturb them long after the conclusion of the case. Only six people were at the house at the time of the murder—the gardener and housekeeper, the victim’s son and his wife and their two children, a boy of seven and a teenage girl of sixteen. All appear to be innocent. But access to the isolated estate is severely restricted. Surrounded by high walls, it has only one entrance: a metal gate that was bolted at the time of the crime. Patronas can only conclude that one of the six is a killer. He continues to probe, uncovering the family’s many secrets. Some are very old, others more recent. All are horrifying.
But which of these secrets led to murder?
Says the author, “I have visited Patmos many times and have always found it to be a place of contrasts, the enclave of extraordinarily wealthy Europeans at the top of a mountain in Chora and the Greek natives struggling to survive in the village below. I used to watch these two groups interact and wonder what would happen if violence intruded. Voted the most idyllic place to live in Europe by Forbes in 2009, the island itself is very small, less than thirteen square miles, and has only 3,000 year-round residents. It is called ‘the holy island,’ by many, in marked contrast with the characters and events I describe in When the Devil is Idle.”
Leta Serafim is also the author of the historical novel, To Look on Death No More, which will be published by Coffeetown Press in February, 2016. She has visited over twenty-five islands in Greece and continues to divide her time between Boston and Greece. Click here to find her online.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
The police cruiser arrived later that day and Giorgos Tembelos and Papa Michalis disembarked, the priest inching down the ramp like a tortoise.
“I think the identity of the old man is the key,” Papa Michalis announced when they’d all gathered in a taverna to review the case. “I analyzed it and that is my conclusion. It simply cannot be anything else. It has elements of an Agatha Christie story, one of her locked-room mysteries like And Then There Was None. Nobody else had access; ergo, one of the people inside the estate, a family member or a servant, must be the guilty party.”
“Anyone could have gained access,” Patronas pointed out. “The Bechtels were careless. They didn’t keep the door locked and there were keys lying around everywhere.”
“No matter. It’s got to be one of them. We can interview other people forever, but it will eventually come back to them. Them and them alone.”
“I think Father is right,” Tembelos said. “The identity of the victim is the important thing here. There was nothing about him in any of the European databases I checked. I called our counterparts in Germany and asked them to run him through their system, but I doubt they’ll find anything. It’s like he never existed. We need to establish who he was. Could be he changed his name.”
“Why would he change his name?” Patronas wondered.
“I don’t know. “
The four of them were sitting outside by the water, it being too hot to venture inside. A haze hung over the sea, and the air was very still. Suddenly, a soft breeze rose up and stirred the tamarisk trees that lined the shore, setting their feathery branches in motion. Patronas liked the rustling sound the trees made, the relief the wind brought. It was almost as if he could hear the earth breathe.
I’ll go swimming tonight, he told himself, looking out at the harbor. Float on my back and look up at the stars. Frolic like a dolphin.
Maybe he’d ask Antigone Balis to join him. He pictured her dripping wet, that long hair of hers hanging down over one shoulder like Botticelli’s Venus. Adrift in his vision, he subsequently lost track of the conversation.
“Hey, boss, you with us?” Tembelos nudged him with his elbow.
Patronas made a show of straightening his back, stretching. “Sorry, it’s the heat. Always makes me sleepy.”
“You were grinning.”
“So what if I was? A man’s allowed to grin.”
“I don’t know, Yiannis,” the priest said. “I think when one is discussing a homicide, it might be better if one dispensed with grinning. At such a time, such behavior is unseemly. It makes one appear insensitive at the very least.”
“Thank you for that, Father. In the future, I will dispense with grinning.” He tapped his pencil on his notebook. “So, to sum up, we have nothing concrete in the case, no witnesses or physical evidence, nothing that will lead us to the killer.”
“Gardener’s clean,” Tembelos reported. “I ran his fingerprints and there was nothing. There was a match on the shoes, too, exactly like he told us.”
“What about the housekeeper, Maria Georgiou?”
“Same thing. The case is heating up. If we don’t catch the killer, it could get ugly. Ministry’s already clamoring for action.”
“We need to turn the housekeeper, Maria Georgiou, inside out, also the members of the family,” Patronas said. “Check their history. Something’s going on here, but as of yet, I haven’t established what it is.”
“You can’t rule out a random act of violence,” the priest said, “directed at them because of their nationality.”
“Worse would be if it were a case of mistaken identity,” Patronas said, “the killer targeting the owners—the Bauers—and killing one of their guests by mistake.”
He was thinking of Charlie Manson, who along with his disciples had wiped out six people without blinking an eye, not realizing his intended victim was a subletter. “Personally, I think someone targeted the family for reasons we don’t know. The cat, the old man. It stands to reason.”
“I’d start with the housekeeper,” Tembelos said. “What she said doesn’t add up. That bit about coming to Patmos on holiday and staying on as a maid.”
“Unlikely, Giorgos. She’s in her seventies.”
Papa Michalis continued to promote the locked room concept. Citing a case in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, he described how the killer had released a cobra through a fake vent and activated its poisonous energy by whistling. “ ‘Oh, my God, it was the band,’ the victim shouted, ‘the speckled band.’ ”
“Fiction, Father, fiction,” Patronas said impatiently. “Remember? We discussed it.”
“My point is if you are determined to kill someone, a lock is no deterrent. Sometimes murderers are ingenious. Using a cobra as a murder weapon is brilliant when you think about it. Absolutely brilliant. No fingerprints involved, no way to trace it back to you. The snake does all the work.”
“I repeat, Father, there is no snake involved here. A stone maybe, but no snake.”
“A stone? What makes you think that?”
And around they went again, weighing the possibilities. The victim had been hit on the head, but with what? A hammer or a rock? A shovel or pickax? Rock, scissors, paper.
Forget swimming, Patronas told himself. I might as well drown myself.
Trio of Lost Souls ($13.95, 242 pp, 6×9 Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-60381-188-0), by Jack Remick, is a work of literary/noir fiction about a journalist turned outlaw who helps a Central Valley farmer stage a risky political campaign against a corrupt incumbent.
Trio of Lost Souls is Book Four of The California Quartet, a series of standalone novels about young men coming of age and bucking the establishment in California during the ’60s and ’70s. The other books in the series are The Deification, Valley Boy, and The Book of Changes.
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Remick’s novel, Gabriela and the Widow, was a finalist for the Montaigne Medal and a finalist for ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year Award.
“Trio of Lost Souls, a masterwork of the literary genre, makes a rousing final movement to Jack Remick’s California Quartet. This latest novel sings with precision description and uncompromising dialogue. As relentless as the California sun on high desert landscape, Remick’s writing grabs the reader by the throat and refuses to let go until long after the final notes fade. Vincent, part Clint Eastwood, part Sun Tzu, storms through the dusty fields of migrant workers and the half-empty streets of failing towns, chasing other people’s demons, one step ahead of his own. Seeking redemption for his sins and compelled to save others from theirs, Vincent navigates a rocky terrain filled with characters living in the grey area between damnation and the sublime. From damaged women to political hopefuls, Vincent pulls some from the embers and stands back and watches others burn.”
—Elena Hartwell, playwright and author of the Eddie Shoes mystery series
“Remick knows California, its people and landscapes…. Like all good road novels, there is a very strong sense of place, and as I turned pages, I came to know California, began to experience it through the eyes of Bill Vincent…. Bottom line, the still waters of Trio of Lost Souls run deep. If you’re a fan of Jim Harrison, Ron Rash, or even Cormac McCarthy this book is definitely worth a read. Recommended.” —Max Everhart, author of the Eli Sharpe Mystery series
“Trio of Lost Souls unfolds like the melodic, broad vibrato strains of a Sidney Bechet noir cinema score…. But just as Bechet’s improvisational voice is uniquely his, so too are Remick’s pronounced rhythmic textures, his mastery of a theme, recasting it, then luring it back into itself, or onto a dream sequence where the identities unexpectedly shift … yet the storyline is ever present, refrain-like and beguiling.”
—Dennis Must, author of the novels, Hush Now, Don’t Explain and The World’s Smallest Bible and the short story collections, Oh, Don’t Ask Why and Banjo Grease
Bill Vincent is a killer, but in the name of justice. Not that the law would see it that way. With one murderous act of retribution for terrible violence inflicted on his wife, he leaves behind a respectable calling as a prize-winning investigative journalist and hits the road. On the run he ekes out a living in California’s Central Valley as a box-maker, a turkey debeaker, a truck driver’s assistant, and finally a field hand. In this last job he meets Jim Garret, a like-minded spirit whose thirst for justice equals his own. They join together to beat the corrupt bossmen at their own political game.
Says Remick: “Trio of Lost Souls is the most political of the California Quartet. Unlike the other books, which are coming of age stories, Trio of Lost Souls features grown men. Men who grew up poor but learned to love literature and came to champion those who didn’t escape poverty. They are not the same characters who people the other books, but they are brothers and sisters under the skin. They understand life. They know the rules. They become decision makers. They are capable. They are flawed. They have been hurt. Their dreams have cost them. They are on the verge of destruction, but they know they can still do more good than harm.”
Jack Remick is a poet, short story writer, and novelist. He has published six novels with Coffeetown Enterprises’ imprints Coffeetown Press and Camel Press and a poetry collection, Satori. Click here to find Jack online.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
The grapes had been drying for four days and the second picking had stripped the vines when Garret came into the water tower holding a fifth of Glenfiddich and a manila envelope. He set the manila envelope on top of the briefcase and the whiskey on the table. Vincent, sitting on the bed, eyed the envelope. Danger. He knew that. Garret uncorked the fifth and gazed at him. There was something Vincent hadn’t expected—a flicker of flint in ruthless eyes that could cut a man’s throat.
Garret said, “I looked you up, Vincent. You lied to me.”
“I told you I killed three men.”
“You didn’t tell me you wrote about politics.”
“Politics. That’s why I killed three men.”
“You got a degree from Cal. You got a guy elected to Berkeley City Council. You went to Reno, won prizes for political reporting. This man, Aleghiri, you wrote about him. Open the envelope.”
Vincent walked to the table, plucked the manila envelope off the briefcase and flipped back the seal. His hand shook when he read the first article.
Reno authorities today suspended their search for Star reporter Bill Vincent, missing since November amid speculation that he was the victim of the same vicious attack that left his wife, Claire Hanzelli, hospitalized.
Vincent’s motorcycle was found abandoned south of Stateline, but police have no leads into his disappearance. Police are investigating the possibility that Vincent was abducted in retaliation for his investigative reporting into an international “baby for sale” ring which involved local lawmakers and several crime figures who have also vanished.
Vincent was last seen following a visit to his wife, who remains in critical condition in Washoe Medical Center.
More articles from the Reno Star. His articles. His picture. Headlines about the Mexican school girls, about the syndicate. His articles about smart girls from good families turned into baby machines. About babies sold to rich Northerners who couldn’t buy the right color skin at home.
Vincent tucked the articles back in the envelope and set the envelope on top of the briefcase and walked to the door. Garret’s words weighed him down. It was time to push on. He heard a rustle, then something hit his shoulder. The cork from the Glenfiddich. He stopped.
Garret said, “Where are you going?”
“Out of here.”
“Just when I need a killer you walk out on me.”
Fraud is Doc’s business, but this was personal.
The Big Bitch ($15.95, 324 pp, 5×8 Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-60381-303-7) is a work of mystery/suspense by debut author John Patrick Lang. After Doc’s friend Jesus is murdered, he searches for the killer while being paid to investigate a missing person’s case that takes him through a dozen cities and towns up and down the Pacific Coast, from Portland to San Diego. As he follows the baffling trail, he soon discovers that the clues lead uncomfortably close to home.
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The Big Bitch is Book 1 in the Jackson “Doc” Holiday Mystery series.
“A clever, surprise-filled first novel and series opener.” Read more….
“No-one is ever going to be as poetic as Marlowe, or a wise-ass and tough as Spenser, but Holiday has certainly made an impressive debut. The dialogue crackles, the humour is black, and the bad guys are suitably dissolute. One-liners fly off the page like sparks from a welding torch…. I suspect I am not the only member of the Jackson Holiday Appreciation Society, and I look forward to his next appearance.” Read more….
—David Prestidge, Crime Fiction Lover.com
“John Patrick Lang’s highly entertaining first book, The Big Bitch, is a tale of murder, kidnapping, even a mutilation, set in the East Bay. It is told in gritty turgid prose with the brutal immediacy of the first person point of view, but with a generous leavening of humor, especially the Chandlerian similes (‘I’ll beat on you like a rented mule.’) As with most effective crime fiction, things are not at all what they seem. We hope to see much more Doc Holiday.” —Armand Croft, author of The Andrew MacCrimmon novels
“The Big Bitch is a very, very good read with the dialogue and description of an old school hard-boiled novel. Some characters could have walked in from the world of Joseph Wambaugh and some in from the world of Elmore Leonard but they all walk off the page. I haven’t encountered a character as sophisticated, smart, savvy and with the skill for skullduggery like Doc Holiday for twenty years. In other words, not since Ross Thomas died.” —Eric Mortensen, poet and author of Green Beret Blues
“A wild East Bay mystery that doesn’t just show us the underbelly of the region, but the vitality of the diverse population, all through the eyes of a darkly whimsical sleuth.” —Nick Mamatas, author of Love Is The Law
Private Eye Jackson “Doc” Holiday investigates fraud, a crime he knows intimately. He was once a respected and successful mortgage banker who laundered more than 100 million dollars in dirty money. Although never convicted, he has been blackballed from banking.
After his drinking buddy, a Catholic priest named Jesus Cortez, is shot dead in the driveway of Doc’s Berkeley home, he sets out to find his killer. The case takes him in search of an old confederate in Portland, where he begins to suspect that the murder of Jesus is connected to a money laundering scheme suspiciously similar to Doc’s own. As Doc delves in further, he crosses swords with a scheming matriarch, a bent cop, a femme fatale, and a master criminal. Whoever’s at the bottom of this business has already killed and is facing “The Big Bitch,” or life in prison. And they’re not afraid to kill again.
Says the author, “I was attracted to the noir genre because of its capacity to convey social and cultural perceptions, indict the false values of the American Dream, create existential allegory, and ultimately turn pulp into parable. Jesus Cortez is a young, handsome, charming Catholic priest who is purported to have performed miracles, but also a man with a mysterious past, a dark and dangerous secret, and evidently a woman or two stashed away somewhere. It seems to me that such a character could only be fully realized in a hard-boiled detective novel, particularly when the detective and narrator is a man called ‘Doc’ Holiday, a name that suggests a checkered past and the dark end of the street.”
By turns, John Patrick Lang has been a lit major, a submarine sailor, a country-western singer/songwriter and a mortgage banker specializing in community lending. A native of Portland, Oregon, he makes his home in the San Francisco Bay Area. The Big Bitch is his first novel. For more information, click here.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
An early recording of Willie Nelson singing his classic “Nightlife” played on the jukebox as Mary said, “Well, look at you now, just another loser from the boulevard of broken dreams and just another swinging dick in John and Mary’s Saloon. What are you drinking, Swinging Dick?”
“I’ll have a Bud in a bottle and a double rye in one of your cleaner dirty fruit jars.”
After Mary brought his drinks she moved to the other end of the bar. I asked Hobbs if this visit was official.
“Why?” he asked without looking up from his drink. “You got something you want to tell me, off the record?”
“I spent five hours with you and Manners last night. Told you everything I know. At least three times.”
“Maybe you left something out.”
I let that pass.
He looked up from his drink and caught my eye in the mirror. “Are you sure, Doc?”
“Like I said last night: nobody calls me ‘Doc’ anymore.”
“Let’s review our interview from last night and my subsequent research. Your legal given name is Jackson Burke Holiday, AKA ‘Doc Holiday.’ White male Caucasian, age thirty-nine, six feet, one eighty-five, blue on brown. No distinguishing marks or characteristics. No misdemeanor or felony convictions of any kind.” He swallowed the rest of his rye and signaled for another round. “But three years ago a federal grand jury in Portland, Oregon, delivered multi-count indictments against you for your role as president of a mortgage bank that went tits up. Mortgage fraud, money laundering, conspiracy to violate the Bank Secrecy Act, et cetera. Now, either you were too smart, or had too good a piece of legal talent, because the indictments all got kicked back, thrown out of court. Case never even went to trial. You walked.”
“Maybe I wasn’t culpable.”
Hobbs looked away from the mirror and directly at me for a moment. He said, “Yeah, maybe you weren’t culpable. There’s always that, Doc. Anyway, you walked. You walked but you were through in the money game. So you were blackballed from banking and you went to team up with your dad and his private investigation firm in Portland. Approximately a year and a half ago you moved here to the Bay Area and set up your own business specializing in white-collar crime. Your clients are banks, mortgage banks, and insurance companies. You specialize in insurance fraud, bank fraud, and what you evidently have some hands-on expertise in, mortgage fraud. You make a living, you don’t get rich … not so as anyone can tell. On the personal side, two years ago your dad died of an accidental gunshot wound—or he ate his gun, depending on who you talk to. Your mother died when you were a child. That leaves you with no parents, no siblings, no spouse, no live-in girlfriend and no family except a great aunt somewhere in Kentucky who you haven’t seen for twenty years. How’d I do?”
Seattle, 1950. When men were men, thanks to WWII, and fine dining meant a steak at Canlis.
“Seattle-area writer T.W. Emory’s debut, Trouble in Rooster Paradise is an affectionate nod to noir fiction and its tough guys and dolls…. Good, vivid stuff. And who can resist a book with a cover featuring a fedora-wearing private eye, a shapely dame … and the Smith Tower?” Read more….
—Adam Woog, The Seattle Times
Trouble in Rooster Paradise ($14.95, 256 pp, 5×8 Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-60381-996-1) is a work of mystery/suspense by debut author T.W. Emory. While investigating the death of a high-end shop girl, a lone private eye comes up against some deadly and powerful local characters.
Trouble in Rooster Paradise is Book 1 in the Gunnar Nilson Mystery series.
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“Emory’s first novel vividly evokes the ambiance of classic American hard-boiled crime writing.”
“Gunnar Nilson, Emory’s clove-chewing gumshoe with an eye for the ladies is every cliché in the book when it comes to hard-boiled detective stories, but to great extent that’s what makes this novel such a pleasure…. The characters in the 1950s sections (which make up the bulk of the book) are well-drawn, quirky, and a lot of fun to get to know. The setting—Seattle in the 50s when it was a working-class backwater—is also evoked well…. Readers will want to follow this detective and his delightful supporting cast of friends.” Read more….
—Meredith Frazier, Reviewing the Evidence
“Emory skillfully evokes this era of class distinctions and gender inequity. The murderer’s motive is inspired by both of these inequalities. The tale is peppered with recognizable 1950s characters—the world-weary waitress, the damaged World War II veteran, the thwarted career woman…. I was happy to be plunged into Nilson’s tale in the 1950s.” Read more….
—Historical Novel Society
“When perfume is the smell of death, a private eye needs to be careful around the ladies. That’s a tall order for detective Gunnar Nilson in T.W. Emory’s thrilling debut set in post-war Seattle. Nilson meets many a lovely beauty as he tries to find out how one of them ended up murdered with his business card in her pocket. He’s a tough-minded, smart sleuth, unwinding a plot layered with deception and driven by sins going back decades. Call it Queen City noir; this is an enthralling look at Seattle when it was a working class town populated by tough guys and great smelling gals, many with black secrets.”
—Rich Zahradnik, author of Last Words
Recuperating from an injury and prompted by an eager young nurse, old-timer Gunnar Nilson looks back at one of his big cases as a private eye in 1950. At that time memories of World War II were still fresh, and Seattle was a cultural backwater. The Ballard neighborhood where he hung out his shingle teemed with working-class folk of Scandinavian descent. Gals with hourglass figures and gimlet eyes enticed men in gray flannel suits with cigarettes dangling from their lips.
The case he recounts involves the murder of one of these beauties. Gunnar’s business card is in her pocket, but she’s no client. She’s just a gal he met at the movies; he gave her a ride home and helped her lose the creep who was tailing her. It’s none of Gunnar’s business who killed her, not until he discovers she dated the godson of a wealthy client, a man who’s willing to pay big bucks for Gunnar to nose around.
Nose around he does, in the perfumed rooms of Fasciné Expressions, a “rooster paradise” that employed the murdered girl and is frequented by the godson. Schooled to be class acts by a former showgirl, these fine-feathered hens know how to inspire a man to spend big on gifts for his lady.
Gunnar believes the victim was killed by one of her customers, but the heady fragrance of perfumed female can make it awfully tough for a guy to think clearly, especially when the killer is also breathing down his neck.
Says T.W., “Ballard in the year 1950 seemed a fitting place and time for my story, given some of my family history. My maternal grandparents emigrated from Sweden in the late 1920s along with my mom and her older sister. Their family enlarged and grew up, and by the late 1940s my grandparents moved to Ballard, where for several years they took in fellow Swedes as boarders. I can still remember a boarder or two when I was a little kid and when their home was a hub of activity for aunts, uncles, and many cousins.”
Born into a blue collar family in Seattle, Washington, and raised in the suburbs of the greater Seattle area, T.W. Emory has been an avid reader since his early teens. In addition to writing, T.W. enjoys cartooning as a hobby and provided the illustrations for the cover of Trouble in Rooster Paradise. He currently lives north of Seattle with his wife and two sons. For more information, click here.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
I parked my Chevy thirty feet from a prowl car and an ambulance. Beams of light quivered in a passageway between two buildings. A small huddle of men examined a lumpy pile on the ground. Some distance beyond them, more flashlights bobbed and swayed as a search party spread out.
One of the uniformed cops spotted us and tapped the arm of a man lighting a cigarette. Detective Sergeant Frank Milland flagged me over with the first two fingers of his left hand. I approached and was met by expressions ranging from hostile to indifferent. Walter followed but held back a ways.
“Nice of you to join our little cotillion,” Milland said, looking at and past me, “but who invited the freak show?”
“I invited him. And don’t call him a freak.”
Milland made an animal noise of acceptance. “Just as long as he keeps his distance. The stiff had your card. Take a look-see and tell us who we’re looking at.”
I stepped into the circle of men hovered over the body. During the war, I’d seen more than my share of the dead—enough to become inured and detached. But one of the things that continued to jangle my nerves was seeing the corpse of someone I’d visited with just the day before.
This was a nerve-jangler.
In combat, bodies are strewn about like damaged puppets with their strings cut. Sometimes a face looks at peace with its surroundings. The face on the body at my feet gave me a gut-tightening twinge. The strings had been cut, but the face didn’t look at all peaceful.
“What’s the verdict, Gunnar? Anyone you know?” Milland demanded.
“Yeah. But we’d met only once. Last night.” I glanced at my Longines. It said 12:01. “Well, it’s Thursday now, so make that Tuesday night when I met her.”
Blood had run down the wall of the building, marking the trail the body had made from its standing position to the pavement where it initially landed. A path of blood led farther into the alley where the body now lay. I took two cloves from my shirt pocket and slipped them in my mouth, sawing them in half with my teeth. I could see Walter flipping up the collar of his overcoat as he moved in closer, looking like a homogenized version of the Shadow and Phantom of the Opera.
Milland exhaled smoke and said, “So, you say you met this gal on Tuesday night. Tell us what else you know.”
I had a fair idea as to when to begin. My tongue played with pieces of clove as my mind struggled with the who, what and why particulars that didn’t make a whole lot of sense in the here and now.
Earth, Grass, Trees and Stone ($11.95, 152 pages, ISBN: 978-1-60381-321-1), is a collection of 65 poems by Mary Anne Morefield. The final poem in the collection, “Requiem,” will be set to music for the Susquehanna Chorale in 2015 by Bob Chilcott.
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“Mary Anne Morefield’s debut collection overflows with the primacy of living, with the most elemental actions of groundhogs and lambs, with the exuberant colors of cholla and prickly pear, with what she rightly calls ‘the ache of prayer.’ Here is a writer offering wisdom and beauty, humbly teaching us how to live, how to journey toward death with a loved one, how to find strength, even joy, despite grief’s shadow. These poems chant both praise and lamentation. They show us the way toward an earthly resurrection of sorts. They admonish the reader to ‘Let yourself be air.’ With a hard-earned gladness, they say ‘Amen.’ ”
—Todd Davis, author of In the Kingdom of the Ditch and The Least of These
“Mary Anne Morefield’s collection reflects the poet’s meticulous observation of the natural world, but the poems belie their sometimes beautiful surfaces. Their subjects are as various as the forms they take (haibun, sonnet, ode, and more) and encompass vastly different geographies. This is true of the physical worlds the poems evoke: Pennsylvania’s woods, hills, and farmlands and Arizona’s desert landscape. This is also true of the psychic space they conjure, one often marked by loss, both personal and public. Beginning with the opening, title poem and extended in the third, the book contains a number of elegies and could be read as a moving lament for a lost spouse. Yet inside the elegy resides the ode, and these poems insist that we remember the full range of human experience: ‘Rain or Sun? Must I Choose/between them?’ the poet asks at the conclusion of one of her poems. The answer the collection overwhelmingly suggests is: No. The point is not to ‘choose’ but rather to learn to live ‘in the space between/the nothing, the everything, the all.’ ”
—Shara McCallum, poet
“These poems celebrate and mourn, ache and ask. Morefield has received her life, moment by moment, in all its fullness, and she gives it back to us in a voice of gentle and reflective contemplation.”
—Margaret Gibson, author of Broken Cup
With eyes wide open to the world around her, Mary Anne Morefield explores hedgerow and pasture, the plants and animals and humans that inhabit an 18th-century Pennsylvania farm. She broadens her search to the wider world of ideas, to other cultures, to Aleppo and the West Bank. She looks directly at Hurricane Sandy and sits beside death. She examines the region of widowhood, laces up her hiking boots and explores new territory in the flora, fauna and mountains of Arizona. There new colors catch her eye, new sounds enchant her ears. The poems speak to living deeply and fully in the world.
Born and raised in the Mid-West, Mary Anne Morefield lives a tri-partite life in Central Pennsylvania, Arizona, and Chautauqua, New York. She served as Vice President of The Writers’ Center, and as President of the Chautauqua Literary Arts Friends. Mary Anne is a member of the Seminary Ridge Foundation in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, which oversees the Seminary Ridge Museum. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Poet Lore, Poetry East, Atlanta Review, The MacGuffin and Chautauqua. For more information, click here.
Keep reading for an excerpt from the poem, “Earth, Grass, Trees and Stone”:
For the first time since we left you
in this place of earth, grass, trees and stone,
I’ve come to hear its silence and its sounds,
to learn the beauty of granite, its veins
lakes and rivers on which seed boats float,
and on whose banks, a fly dries itself after bathing.
A guy from Vermont crashes in a tropical paradise ruled by angry gods. It’s a long way home.
Dash in the Blue Pacific (5×8 Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-60381-252-8, 256 pp., $14.95) is Cole Alpaugh’s fourth novel. A lone survivor of a plane crash in the South Pacific is held captive by a tribe of shabby natives. As he heals, Dash learns what it truly means to belong to the human race.
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As in Alpaugh’s first two novels, Dash in the Blue Pacific contains elements of magical realism.
Alpaugh’s third novel, The Spy’s Little Zonbi, and his second, The Turtle-Girl from East Pukapuka, were finalists in the 2014 and 2013 Foreword Book of the Year Awards, respectively. Alpaugh’s first book, The Bear in a Muddy Tutu, set in a ragtag traveling circus, garnered eleven five-star reviews on WorldCat.
“The weird parts work because Alpaugh integrates them into a story that is physically raw and wickedly funny. Dash is as incredulous about all that is happening as anyone, and his self-conscious skepticism keeps the magical elements from seeming off-the-wall. Little by little, Dash’s conversations with Willy reveal Dash’s deeper emotional wounds, and offer another interpretation for his dreamlike visions. Taken simply as a comic adventure story, Dash in the Blue Pacific is thoroughly entertaining. When you consider the other elements—racial tensions, human grief, and spiritual redemption—it takes on new levels of meaning. Book clubs will be talking about this one.” Read more….
—Sheila M. Trask, ForeWord Magazine
“Cole Alpaugh is a grand comedian, and the conflicts and themes which exist in uncharted territory for traditional novels work well with his droll craft. The novel is full of magical wonders, melancholic gods, invasive spiders, and hilarious blunders from both Dash and the natives. ‘Boring’ and ‘predictable’ would be the last two words you’d use to describe Alpaugh’s novel.” Read more….
— D. A. Wetherell, Necessary Fiction
“Cole Alpaugh provides another fascinating read with Dash in the Blue Pacific. A young man is the lone survivor of a harrowing plane crash. His life to date has been a series of hard luck events, and now he is facing the prospect of human sacrifice if he cannot impregnate a local in order to bribe slave traders. This is why I read Alpaugh’s books! I was reminded of Paul Theroux’s Mosquito Coast, with its beautiful descriptions of brutal nature, and the impending sense of doom. I am also reminded of the relationship between the main characters of Richard Bach’s Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah. My head was spinning as I came to the end of this book, and I was also in tears. The despondent god Dash befriends is a wonderfully constructed character who challenges the reader’s belief system. This is a relatively quick story, although with its many levels, it begs to be read more than once. Dash in the Blue Pacific is laugh-out-loud funny as much as it is raw and disturbing. Even though I’ve compared this book to two others, it is truly a one-of-a-kind literary experience. I highly recommend it for book club reading.”
—Jennifer Wong, Toronto Public Library
Dash does not feel lucky. When his plane crashes in the South Pacific on a honeymoon flight to Sydney, Australia, he is already a broken man, having left his cheating fiancée at home in Vermont. Dash is the crash’s only survivor, and the natives who find his battered body blame him for poisoning their fish with spilled jet fuel. Once he has sufficiently recovered, they plan to offer him as a human sacrifice to their Volcano God, who they believe downed his plane and cursed them with drought and hardship.
While Dash awaits his fate, he abandons all hope of rescue. But his new life has its moments. He meets ten-year-old Tiki, daughter of the chief and an innocent who dreams of being “chosen” by the soldiers who occasionally visit their island. He also conjures up an imaginary friend, Weeleekonawahulahoopa—Willy, for short. Willy is half-man, half-fish, a sometime god who resigned his lofty status after failing to save his people from drowning.
As Dash comes to understand the natives who hold him captive and confront his own unhappy past, he suspects that he might not be so unlucky after all.
Says Alpaugh, “This has been my favorite story to write—a little quirky and a little dark. The main (human) character is a well-meaning, ordinary guy whose plane crashes into what seems to be a tropical paradise. I drew on my experience as a total outsider while working overseas, where fear and uncertainty heighten senses and can lead you to make bad decisions. Dash’s journey toward atonement is eased by fellow travelers he meets along the way. A big chunk of this story came together while I was standing on a section of lava very similar to the one described in the book. Ka Lae, on the Big Island of Hawaii, is the southern-most tip of America, on the most remote island chain on the planet. I wanted to capture the feeling of finding hope while looking out at thousands of miles of vast nothingness.”
Cole Alpaugh is a former journalist, having worked at daily newspapers along the East Coast, as well as spending several years as a war correspondent in numerous hot-spots around the world for Manhattan-based news agencies. His work has appeared in dozens of magazines, as well as most newspapers in America. Cole is currently a freelance photographer and writer living in Northeast Pennsylvania, where he spends his afternoons watching his daughter hit fuzzy yellow balls and ski through slalom gates. Click here to find him online.
Dash in the Blue Pacific is distributed by Epicenter Press/Aftershocks Media. Wholesalers, please contact firstname.lastname@example.org.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
The girl’s large brown eyes found him, and he was embarrassed about his drooping underwear and what she must have witnessed.
“Food’s not ready.” She tossed the stick and wiped away her artwork. “I came early. Men are drinking clap-clap and are all piss and wind.”
“My name is Dash. The women said you’d come.”
“I’m Tiki. You looking for your airplane?”
“I don’t know what I’m looking for, but it’s beautiful here. This is an island?”
The girl nodded.
“I’m sorry the airplane killed your fish. I was only a passenger.”
“Not your fault. Manu says the Volcano was angry. She threw a stone and made your airplane fall. There’s another.” She pointed past him, and he turned to look up at shiny hints of distant metal, long contrails beginning to twist apart at their far ends.
He made old man sounds when he dropped onto a mound of hardened lava, knees popping. “Did anyone else survive?”
She shook her head. “You’re the only one. Fish ate what the Sea God didn’t want.”
“The volcano erupted?”
“Just one stone.” She used her thumb to indicate the barren mountain rising from the center of the island, a soaring brown monolith producing a ribbon of white smoke.
“I’ve only seen volcanoes on television.”
She leaned toward him to whisper, “She has a bad temper.”
“It’s incredible,” he whispered back. “I guess the smoke means it really is active. That it’s alive.”
She tilted her head at him. “How else would she throw stones?”
“Right,” he said, reasonably sure the engines had been starved of fuel, or died from a catastrophic failure of a bad wiring job. Or terrorists. “I guess that makes sense.”
“People who hunted for your airplane pieces said we should move far away. They said the Volcano will kill our village soon. Manu told them people can’t hide from a god. God want to eat you, then you will get eaten no matter what island you go to. Manu said those people had nice clothes and fancy boat, but were dumb as shitter bugs.” She wrinkled her nose. “Ever see what a shitter bug does?”
He shook his head. “Has it been smoking like that for a long time?”
Tiki shrugged, got to her feet. A pretty child—maybe ten years old—with wide eyes and smooth skin, she had a mass of thick hair halfway down her back, brushed to a deep shine. She wore the same style underpants as everyone else.
She leaned in close again and lowered her voice. “She smokes when she’s angry, which is most of the time. Her temper is worse than boy warriors who drink too much clap-clap. Warriors get angry because they have nobody to fight. Maybe it’s the same thing for the Volcano God.”
“The volcano wants to fight?”
“She is surrounded by water, has no enemies. Eating people is the only thing left to make her happy.”
The narrow trail of smoke was an unbroken line connecting the mountain to the horizon. Would it bring rescue? How far did it hold together for people to see? If it really came from the mouth of a god, maybe it traveled all the way to where they’d lifted off, the perfect white smoke mixing with the yellow smog over Los Angeles. The thought made him feel less isolated, if only for a few seconds.
“Should be time for food,” said the girl. “You look hungry as a volcano.”
She was looking up at him, smiling with a flawless set of round teeth that he caught himself inspecting for bits of human flesh.
Chef Interrupted: Discovering Life’s Second Course in Ireland with Multiple Sclerosis (ISBN: 978-1-60381-301-3, 288 pp., $15.95), a memoir, is the first published book by former Seattle Chef and popular MS Blogger, Trevis L. Gleason. After being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, Gleason follows his dreams to Ireland, where he rents an ancient cottage for a winter, gets a puppy, and discovers that there is life after the fall.
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The 5×8 trade paperback of Chef Interrupted is distributed by Epicenter Press/Aftershocks Media. Wholesale customers contact email@example.com.
In 2012 Dr. Oz of The Dr. Oz Show named Trevis #1 Social HealthMaker on the topic of multiple sclerosis for his Life with MS Blog, Twitter Feed, and other online presence. He was also named the Jimmie Heuga “MS Can Do Person of the Year.”
“This memoir of [Gleason’s] months in the small town of Kelly is a spry and subtly told tale of the remarkable events he experienced and the ‘wonderful, genuine, quirky people’ who welcomed him into their town and helped him achieve a sense of purpose about living with MS: ‘It was my duty then… to live fully the life they had helped me realize.’ His month-by-month narrative is interspersed with a number of his favorite recipes for Irish delights such as steak and Guinness stew and colcannon, and he leavens his joyful account of his sojourn with various displays of his ‘noir sense of humor,’ such as when he lovingly describes visiting a butcher’s shop that has ‘what every chef wants to smell… the fresh, sweet smell of fat mingled with the mineral tones of blood and meat.’ ” Read more….
“Chef Interrupted is a wonderful book, written superbly, depicts rural Ireland brilliantly, it will give you inspiration, it will make you fall in love with Ireland all over again and we would highly recommend it.” Read more….
—My Ireland Box
“While many a reader will pick up Chef Interrupted expecting some kind of culinary history or memoir, in fact it’s much more: it’s about survival and living with MS, and about envisioning and forming a new life. Through Gleason’s eyes, more than Ireland comes to life—and more than cooking becomes the focus, making for a recommendation to travel and self-help readers as well as audiences with an interest in culinary memoirs.”
—D. Donovan, eBook Reviewer, MBR (Midwest Book Review)
“Trevis is not only a superb chef and a warrior in his quest to live with MS, he is also one of the most generous people I’ve had the fortune to call a friend. In the time I’ve known him, he’s shared tales both funny and serious, sad and happy. He is a consummate storyteller, a magician with words. No matter his subject, he weaves a picture for you to imagine and invites you to join him in the world he’s creating. I have no doubt that his story, as told in this engaging book, will touch readers profoundly, just the way he has touched my life.”
—Kathy Casey, Chef, Mixologist, author of Sips & Apps (Chronicle Books, 2009)
Read Kathy’s post about Chef Interrupted here: “a very well written, funny, honest and inspirational book. I urge you to pick up a copy.”
“This uplifting story (presented alongside a collection of recipes) is full of humor, hope, and inspiration; it is a true must-read.” Read more….
–Kristie Collado, The Daily Meal
“Trevis weaves magic through his poetic style of storytelling allowing us to, at times, forget that he’s living with a debilitating disease, one that catapulted him to visit his family’s roots so far away. His story touched my heart, and I know it will touch yours. This is not a story about disability but one about finding your joy no matter what life has to offer. If you’ve ever had a dream, you’ll want to take a look at Chef Interrupted. It’ll keep hope in your heart and help you believe that anything is possible.” Read more ….
—Cathy Chester’s Blog: An Empowered Spirit
“I had previously known Trevis Gleason only as the popular blogger at Life With Multiple Sclerosis. Within the constraints of this platform, he dispenses his wisdom, humor, and charm in 500 word snippets. But in Chef Interrupted Trevis throws off the shackles of forced brevity and reveals his considerable storytelling acumen…. I devoured the book in no time at all. It’s a delightful read for anyone who longs to find meaning by going back to their roots, in this case his ancestral homeland of Ireland…. It’s about the connections he made with the people and with the land, and experiences he shared with folks from home who dropped in and out of his life, and his rented cottage, during that time. It’s about a fondness for good food and drink, and a loyal, furry companion. And yes, it’s about living a full life despite a debilitating disease.” Read more….
—Mitch Sturgeon, Enjoying The Ride Blog
“When I want to know what’s really ‘cooking’ in the MS community, I log onto Trevis’ blog. He has never failed to provide balanced, candid, thoughtful, and even humorous insights into life with MS. His perspectives about the issues of the day—MS related and otherwise—always enlighten and inform me. The same is true for Chef Interrupted.”
—Joyce Nelson, CEO emeritus, National Multiple Sclerosis Society
“Don’t think of this book as a how-to-cope tome. Trevis Gleasons’ Chef Interrupted has widespread appeal and is a joy to read. Certainly his prose abounds in Celtic wit and American audacity—plus a perfectly cooked attitude of use to people who have never heard (lucky them) of ‘multiple sclerosis.’ His recipe is not to devote his life to endless warfare against a nasty incurable disease or to collapse in saintly victimhood. He’s just going on with it directly, indirectly, whatever direction works. I suppose the Irish have known this forever.”
—Martha King, Editor, Momentum, the magazine of the National MS Society (USA)
“What I love about Trevis’ writing is that he makes connections: with his blog followers, with people who have multiple sclerosis or live with other long-term conditions, with foodies, with just about anyone who reads what he writes. Chef Interrupted is, like all of Trevis’ writings, instantly relatable, funny, smart, skeptical, hopeful, and always interesting.”
—Rose Pike, Executive Editor, EverydayHealth.com
“Trevis is one of those truly gifted community organizers. To be able to lead and organize a community you have to have the ability to inspire. Trevis has this down to an art. I’ve seen him transform his pain into humor, humility, and personal growth via his writings, but perhaps even more impressive is his natural ability to relate to and reach people. That means he has the gift to make you give a damn to the point you find yourself repeating his musings to others. That’s the mark of a talented writer and community leader.”
—Natalie Brown, Editor, Health Talk
When Trevis Gleason, a former chef at the top of his professional culinary career, was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, he lost everything—his job, his marriage, even his perceived persona. Surveying the ruins of his former life, he saw an opportunity to fulfill a long-postponed dream. He would travel from Seattle, Washington, to the wilds of west Kerry, Ireland for the winter.
Renting a rustic cottage in “The Town,” Trevis braved narrow, sheep-obstructed roads and antiquated heating systems to learn that his life, his loves (including cooking), and even his dreams weren’t lost, just waiting to be rediscovered in this magical place.
He acquired a charming puppy named Sadie, who grounded his days and served as a devoted companion as he surmounted inevitable physical setbacks and cultural challenges. All the while, he entertained a steady stream of visiting friends and relatives, including his former wife. The Town’s colorful characters welcomed the American stranger as one of their own, and he soon found himself reveling in the beauty of the rugged countryside, the authentic joy of the holidays, the conviviality of the pubs, and the hearty flavor of the simple food.
“Multiple sclerosis doesn’t steal away our futures; it steals what we thought and expected to await us in our futures,” says Gleason in his introduction. “My bright flash of the obvious was that my ‘retirement years’ weren’t going to find me seventy years old, in a canoe, fishing in some pond in Vermont. MS had already stolen much of my control of my left side, attacked my vision, and even—showing the true bastard of itself—taken away elements of my sense of taste on a number of occasions. If I was to enjoy any of the things I’d hoped to be doing in my far advanced years after a career, I would have to start identifying what those dreams were and create a plan to make them happen.”
Chef Trevis L. Gleason has been an award-winning culinarian, consultant, and instructor as well as a decorated member of the U.S. Coast Guard and U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) Goodwill Ambassador to Ukraine. Retired from a distinguished culinary career, Gleason has taken on the challenges of living with secondary-progressive multiple sclerosis since his diagnosis in 2001. He is an ambassador for the National MS Society, an active volunteer for Multiple Sclerosis Ireland and the MS Society of the UK, and speaks to groups, both large and small, about living life fully with or without a chronic illness. Gleason divides his time between Seattle, Washington and County Kerry, Ireland with his wife, Caryn, and their two Irish Soft-Coated Wheaten Terriers, Sadie and Maggie. For more information, click here.
Keep reading for an excerpt:
I could see past the herd, where there was a short line of four or five cars following at parade pace. My guess is that it wasn’t unlike driving behind horses in a parade, when it came to dodging the landmines they were known to drop in the road. I could only surmise that this was either a) commonplace for the drivers, if they were locals or b) quite the memorable experience if they were tourists.
A few of them must have been on tour, for I could also see cameras sticking out a few windows. I was expecting my experience to be a bit more thrilling as I was to be overtaken by the beasts. I had no idea, however, how thrilling and potentially expensive my half of the encounter would prove.
Smiles of the passing herders were replaced by shock on the face of Your Man at the back of the bunch. After about one third of the flock passed by a parting of the White Sea, one of the lazy buggers decided that going around the obstacle to progress that I had become was a waste of his time and/or energy. Up onto the hood—bonnet, in Ireland—of the car jumped the sheep who couldn’t be bothered to go around. Countless of his fellow pilgrims followed suit. In due course the dogs decided that their charges shouldn’t be taking the skate-ball bag as a ramp. Three of them mounted the car to escort those already in transit from off the bonnet, roof, and boot. One stayed on the bonnet to deter others as his comrades retook chase of their woolly wards.
Stunned beyond words and well into my ability to form a thought beyond “I wish Sadie had been here,” I rolled down my window to greet the man ushering the last of the ewes past.
“Jea-sus, I’m sorry!” said Your Man. “Is it a hired car?” as if anyone in their right mind would buy a car of such poor breeding.
“Aye,” I fumbled out. “Does that happen often?” I was still gob-smacked by the episode.
“No, usually with the ewes,” he replied. He stopped and leaned in my window, smelling very much of musky lanolin from that lack of distance. “But there are a few young rams me da is moving to market. Are ye stayin’ near here? We’ll buff those marks and Dan Dooley’ll never know what happened.” That was the name of the omnipresent Irish rental care agency that I had not used.
“I’m staying in The Town for the winter and don’t have to return the car for about a week,” I said, finally finding my words.
“That’s our house back there,” he said, pointing to the last farmhouse I’d passed. “Bring her by and we’ll clean it up for ye.”
In Exile on Kalamazoo Street ($12.95, 160 pp, 5×8 Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-60381-235-1), a novel by Michael Loyd Gray, a heavy-drinking author decides that the only way to get his life back on track is to stop drinking. To do so, he spends an entire Michigan winter without leaving the house. As a result the world comes to him in ways he never could have imagined.
“Exile on Kalamazoo Street is filled with truths large and small. That, and Gray’s dialogue, descriptions, and the opinions he attributes to Bryce make the book delightful. Unlike the typical alcoholic memoir (‘How I overcame terrific odds to overcome my drinking’), this novel is a fascinating fictional account of one man’s experience of internal exile. I was willing to believe every word of it.” Read more ….
—Wally Wood, BookPleasures.com
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“Together, his isolated moments and his human interaction through a variety of encounters:—religious, personal, professional and artistic in nature—all offer a perspective on Bryce Carter that reveal the different shades of the protagonist to us. But perhaps Gray’s Exile on Kalamazoo Street in truth echoes in literature form the genius of theatre and opera to use a single stage to tell a rich and diverse story at the heart of which is the human character or characters. Exile on Kalamazoo Street is one of those stories that comes along every once in a while. These are stories that have a pleasant feel to them, and yet the feeling of warm satisfaction they provide cannot be expressed in words.” Read more….
—Paul Risker, Pop Matters
“Gray is one of only a handful of current writers who share a strong male voice, telling their tales through mouths of men who, despite being flawed, ugly or even unlikeable, never pander to the reader for the sake of a metaphorical group hug.”
—Ned Randle, author of Baxter’s Friends and the poetry collection, Running at Night
Michael Loyd Gray is the author of four published novels. His most recent novel (August 2013), The Canary, has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is the winner of the 2005 Alligator Juniper Fiction Prize and the 2005 Writers Place Award for Fiction. Well Deserved won the 2008 Sol Books Prose Series Prize. For more information, click here.
Bryce Carter was once a novelist with a following. But unlike James Joyce’s Ulysses, which is genius to millions, Bryce’s experimental novel Reflections was genius to maybe three people. After walking away from his teaching job, Bryce was headed on a one-way collision course down Whiskey River, with only one path to survival: sobriety. And for him, giving up drinking meant exiling himself from his former life.
Now Bryce is holed up in his house on Kalamazoo Street along with his cat, Black Kitty, also a refugee from the cold, snowy world outside. The terms of his self-imposed exile make him dependent on his sister and a sitting duck for anyone who cares to drop by, including an officious minister, an old drinking buddy, an alluring former student, and a pair of Hollywood flunkies who offer Bryce a chance to rescue Reflections from obscurity—if only he can write the screenplay. Unfortunately Bryce’s well of creativity has dried up along with his will to drink, and the more time he spends in exile, the less inclined he is to dip a toe into the icy waters of reality.
Says Gray, “At the beginning of a snowy winter in Kalamazoo, Michigan, I heard The Mamas and The Papas singing ‘California Dreamin’ ’ on an oldies rock station. The line that stuck in my head was, ‘California dreamin’ on such a winter’s day.’ That song, that line, would play in my head as I looked out the windows at the snow, and soon I began to think of winter as an exile of sorts. Exile might make for a good story, I thought, but what kind of exile? After a few days I began to imagine the life of someone who exiles himself in his house all winter to stop drinking.”
Keep reading for an excerpt:
My sister came back on another day after I called and urged her to try and catch the cat again. I’d seen it loitering around the house across the street all morning, sometimes just sitting stoically on the porch steps, where it could feel the few meager rays of sunshine as the sun, very shy, slipped in and out of clouds. The cat seemed uninterested in much of anything at all and appeared unmoved when my sister pulled up and walked slowly toward it with strips of meat from a chicken breast. She placed the morsels on the ground in a spot where there was no snow and retreated a few yards. The cat picked up the scent of the meat and started toward it, but halted, remembering, perhaps, that the choice was between food and the potential of undesirable human contact. But it quickly concluded, I suspected, that there was no choice at all. It chose food—immediate survival—and devoured the meat.
When the cat was done, my sister, who kept cats of her own and understood the timing involved, immediately scooped the cat up with both hands. It twisted and flailed but she had a good grip. Tucking the dark bundle of fur against her side, a bit like a halfback tucking the football securely, she skipped across the street and handed the cat to me while I stood in the open side door of my house. Then she pulled the blue knit cap off her head, as though catching the cat required a victory lap in the form of freeing her long blond hair to tumble out and cascade over her shoulders, strands dancing provocatively in the breeze. Her blue eyes sparkled. She was just two years younger than me, with fifty threatening to soon appear on her horizon, but still she retained girlishness, lightness, in her broad face.
I cradled the cat against my chest with both hands as it squirmed and tried to claw me. But my grip was solid and it could not move much. I looked up and out the door at my sister, who grinned as I struggled to contain the hissing cat. And because again it was not one of the days to drop off supplies, she coaxed her grin into a smile and nodded what I felt was approval of our cat kidnapping. Giving a thumbs up with one hand, she trudged down the driveway to her car. She drove away and only then did I realize how cold the air sweeping in through the door was. Using my elbow, I managed to pull the door closed. I carried the cat up the stairs to the kitchen and released it, laughing as it hit the kitchen floor with all four feet a blur. It slipped on the linoleum and hit a wall before disappearing around a corner. I did not see it again for three hours.