This Week in the Mercury
Friday, November 13, 2009
Books Literary Death Match & Chapbook Giveaway
Posted by Alison Hallett on Fri, Nov 13, 2009 at 5:54 PM
Despite dire advance warnings out of Seattle, last night's Literary Death Match was fun. The judges were witty (Scott Poole's reaction to one story: "It made me feel like a hobo reading Vanity Fair in a dumpster and getting a hard-on from smelling the perfume ad") and/or entertainingly wasted (Zia McCabe: props for demanding—and getting—tequila shots from the audience. And for smoking weed onstage. You're still rock 'n' roll). The readers were invested and animated (although, Kerry Cohen, if you're going to flash the judges, you really oughta throw the audience a bone as well). The crowd was drunk and affable, and were good sports about the fact that by night's end, the host was too drunk to complete a sentence, and things had gotten pretty fucking ridiculous.
For the promised "absurdly comical climax to decide the winner," Arthur Bradford and Riley Parker faced off in a smoothie-making contest. (I volunteered to be a judge and was given fruit-slicing duties that included cutting a mango in half. Seriously, that is how drunk people lose fingers.)
Future Tense's Riley Michael Parker won the night, and deservedly so, with a precise, mordant piece that judge Chelsea Cain described as a cross between Bukowski and Judy Blume. That kid can write. Never read his stuff? Want to? Why it just so happens that I have copies of his first three chapbooks, which I will happily send to whomever can do the best Bukowski-meets-Blume impression in the comments. By 3 pm on Monday, please.
1
in the mist of the homecoming bonfire,
redolent of mushroom, tin and Baby Soft
tainted and imbued with the savage screams of nymphs cruising on clouds of Midol and cherry cola
moans of tiny almost-men as pom-poms brush against their tight quivering thighs
A girl, alone, tramples bleary eyed through the fog, her choked sobs sound only like laughs
to anyone that bothers to listen
and no one notices the trail of candy colored Tampaxs that fall from her open purse
at every lurch and wail
2
Mostly, though: thanks for coming, writing about it, and for slicing up that fruit with aplomb. Pictures will be on the site soon-like.
3
He was riding a horse up beach, the sun sparking off the water and playing across his beady eyes and bad skin. Just another one of those perfect summer days. I adjusted my NAME BRAND SWIMSUIT and slipped on my NAME BRAND SUNGLASSES as his horse trotted by.
"You look straight out of Teen Beat" I said, playing nervously with my thick auburn hair.
"You know why people like horses?" he replied, "A horse has all of two important jobs: pull a bullshit cart or charm a bullshit tourist. And the horse does. He sleeps, he eats, and then he goes out and for ten hours, with the strength of his arm and the longness of his face he earns the right to sleep and eat again tomorrow. That's the same lot most people ever get, but they pretend it's not. People like horses because you don't have to pretend with a horse. You don't have to say 'reach for the stars, you fucking horse, and you can be president one day.' A horse can't be president. You know what? A broad and a Polish can't be president either, but they tell us different for some reason.
He pulled a tall bottle of beer out of his saddlebag, took one long pull, and then threw the half empty bottle into the lake.
"You're probably bullshit too" he said, and then he was gone.
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