FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #24, In Pictures

An infinite cycle of thank-yous to everyone who helped make last night’s reading such a magical, memorable evening: George, Denise, Kwame, and Rax for performing your flappy lits; Alibi for your scintillating singing and photography; Pacific Standard for the always-gracious hospitality; and all you fantastic folks who came to witness it all.
Let’s do this again on September 26…

[all photos by Alibi Jones except the last one by JO’B]

George Kovalenko reads passionate poems about donkey sanctuaries & black metal

Denise Jarrott reads some invocational poetry from her book NYMPH

Continue reading FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #24, In Pictures



Join us Wednesday night, August 15 from 7-9 PM at Pacific Standard in Brooklyn as we dance with the faeries for a Mid-Summer Night’s reading!







Admission is FREE, and you can purchase print copies of our latest issue, FLAPPERHOUSE #18, for the special reading price of $5. Facebook event page here.

“A Tad of Advice with Chad Vice” – Vol. 1, August 2018

Neighbourly Advice – Leonora Carrington, 1947

In these bewildering, tumultuous, often terrifying times, we all could use some extra helpings of unbiased guidance and compassion. With that in mind, we present the debut of our new contributor Chad Vice and his monthly advice column, “A Tad of Advice with Chad Vice.” 

{ X }

Dear Chad,
I am 27 years old and terrible at making friends. I just get so anxious trying to talk with people, I struggle to put together more than a few words of boring small talk in any conversation. You seem like an interesting and sociable person. What can I do?
Gene F in Burlington, VT

Hi Gene! 
Do you bathe? My greeting reminded me of how important good smells are in socializing. 
The best thing I can say to you is: be honest. 
Honesty is like a compass; it will point you in the right direction. 
If someone says to you
“What do you think of that sunset”
And you say 
“It makes me think of mesothelioma” 
And he says, 
“I’m so sorry who did you lose?” 
Marry him. 
Does that answer your question? 

Dear Chad,
My wife and I have been married for four years now, and are preparing to conceive our first child. However we’ve begun having serious disagreements that we didn’t discuss or even anticipate earlier in our relationship. For instance, I want our child, regardless of their gender, to be named “Fritz,” after my all-time favorite film director Fritz Lang. Similarly, it’s also very important to me that the decor of our child’s nursery be primarily influenced by the German Expressionists of the early 20th Century. On the other hand, my wife insists upon a more Bauhaus-influenced nursery, and is adamant that our child be an amphibious kleptomaniac named Carlos William Carloses. Is there any way for us out of this troubling impasse?

Buford W in St Louis, MO

A lot of things in this life are terrifying and unpredictable. Like having a child. So, I say, live in the moment. Get specific about how you go about conceiving the child. Live out the fantasies. Maybe one of you is into pretending to be a pony. Learn as much about each other as you can. Be as honest as you can be before y’all get knocked up. You will learn to compromise. You may even find that the times you seemed immovable about names and occupations for your child, somehow seem silly. So instead, you fuck because it is fun and wait.

Dear Chad,
I am a staunch pacifist, and am strongly against harming or infringing upon the basic rights of any living creature if not done in immediate self-defense. Lately my apartment has become infested with hundreds of spiders, and while none of them have bitten me or attacked me in any way, their presence has become significantly inconvenient, and I feel like it’s time to evacuate these critters & clear out their numerous webs from my home. How do I do that without making the spiders resent me and/or eventually take revenge upon me while I sleep?

Tanya P in Charlotte, NC

Hey T, 
Spiders are wily bastards. Too many legs. It makes them arrogant. That said, they also are dream catchers, but instead of catching nightmares, they catch and keep other bugs. 
So that’s free labor. 
If you can’t sleep, for you fear their unnecessary amount of legs, etc: 
Kill all or move. 

Dear Chad,

There’s this guy I work with who’s very sweet, a little slow– let’s say somewhere between Forrest Gump and Lennie from “Of Mice and Men”– and extremely talkative. He and I usually eat our lunch in the break room at the same time, and while I prefer more solitary activities during my free hour, like reading or solving crossword puzzles, my co-worker constantly tries to engage me in drawn-out small-talk about the weather and local supermarkets. What would you suggest is the most polite and least confrontational way I can get him fired so I don’t have to deal with him anymore?
Andrea J in New Braunfels, TX



Hey – HEY! Kid. 
Look at me. 
If they fire somebody one day,
Who is to say they won’t get a taste for it? 
Everyone gets Their rewards 
It’s a waiting game. 
Your fellow player, 
Chad Vice

Dear Chad,
I have this overwhelming desire to run through the streets of Times Square smacking people on the backs of their skulls with some kind of Nerf-style bat. Not hard enough to cause any fractures or concussions or any serious injuries, but just hard enough to, say, make them think twice about walking super-slowly in the middle of crowded sidewalks with music blasting in their ear-buds and their stupid faces glued to their smartphones and apparently no fucks given about their fellow pedestrians. If I did succumb to this desire, I would fully cooperate with police upon my apprehension, and serve whatever sentence the state deemed just, because I think it would be totally worth it. Is this ethical?
Victor C in New York, NY


Seek victor C. 
What you do they just 
Can’t see. 
With out a telescope or something. 
You could contribute to that mess. 
But what they do There. 
As loud as they can in places, 
Like times squared
You do in the st(f)ar(t)s

{ X }

CHAD VICE first identified with Play-Doh.  He is a nut in a nutcrackers world. He prefers bold musical choices and sitting all the way through movies’ credits. He is here to hear you. He has studied under Merlin and your Mom.

Do you need some advice from Chad Vice? Email your questions & quandaries to FLAPPERHOUSE at gmail dot com, then pray to Athena and blow a kiss to the cosmos…

“A Threefold Invocation” – Prose Poetry by dave ring

Spell Words – Nicholas Roerich, 1922

“A Threefold Invocation” is a powerfully magical prose poem cast by dave ring in our Summer 2018 issue.

{ X }

FIRST, YOU MUST OPEN THE DEEPEST PART OF YOURSELF.  Lay a promise there.  You will find it again.  Cast your memories of it into the pool like a stone.  Wait for them to touch the bottom.  Know that the weeds and silt will soften their landing.  Send the most secret part of yourself to the wood, the heart of it.  Lay on the earth.  Close your eyes, and wait.  Eventually you will forget from which way you came.

The ritual is born of sex and blood.  You must fuck the darkest part of yourself, you must own it.  That is the person that you can claim when this is all over.  The self that understands what it truly wants, not merely the clear shallows of your easier yearnings.  Your blood should pound in your ears until the drumming is both a command and a question.  When you are ready, when it tells you to, answer it.

The words should burn your tongue like whiskey, like shame, like difficult truth.  You’ll feel something stir, in the oldest part of yourself.  Don’t be afraid.  This is the beast you can come home to.  This is the future you can claim without recrimination.  This is the joy you’ve always wanted, but didn’t yet deserve.

Take it.

{ X }

dave ring is the community chair of the OutWrite LGBTQ Book Festival in Washington, DC.  He was a 2013 Lambda Literary Fellow and a 2018 Futurescapes resident. More info at www.dave-ring.com.  Follow him on Twitter at @slickhop.

Our 2018 Best of the Net Nominees Are…

Casting the Net – Suzanne Valodon, 1914

We have submitted our nominations for possible inclusion in the 2018 Best of the Net anthology, which honors literary work that originally appeared on the internet between 7/1/2017 & 6/30/2018, and they are:

“DROUGHT” flash  prose  by  Kim  Coleman  Foote ( from  FLAPPERHOUSE #15 – Fall  2017)

“I  ASK  the  NETHERWORLD  if  LIZZIE  BORDEN  DID  it  &  THIS  is  WHAT  it  SAYS”  – poetry  by  Kailey  Tedesco from FLAPPERHOUSE #16 – Winter 2018 )

“SNAPSHOT  from  the  REVOLUTION”short  fiction  by  Perry Lopez ( from FLAPPERHOUSE #18 – Summer 2018 )

Congratulations, best of luck, and thanks to Kim, Kailey, and Perry forever & back for contributing your amazing work to our weird little zine!

“A Blond Joke” – Fiction by Addy Evenson

A young woman experiences some dark and stormy times during a Florida hurricane in “A Blond Joke,” Addy Evenson‘s hauntingly surreal short story from our Summer 2018 issue.

{ X }

SHELBY, HONEY, YOU’RE THE WORST WAITRESS IN THE WHOLE WORLD, Dad told me. He said, A monkey could do better. So I’m sending you away to visit your Gramma Kay.

That was up in Key Largo. Gramma Kay lived in a three-story blue house under palm trees, and next to a canal. It smelled like seawater, sawdust and stone. I hadn’t been there since I was seven. My mom had taken me out of there one night.

She said, No more drunk-madness.

Gramma Kay, like a lot of stewardesses, loved her margaritas by the pink sunset. When I was little, Gramma Kay used to take me for rides in her convertible car. She was bottled blond, like me.

So I wrote Gramma Kay a letter. It said,


Dear Gramma Kay, I know it’s been years, but I’d like to visit. Well, I don’t really have much choice. Dad is sending me there in less than a week because he doesn’t know what to do with me. He says that I’m flighty and a drunk like you. I promise that’s not all there is to me. I think that you’ll find if you take the time to get to know me that I have a lot of your good traits in me.





So I headed out to see her. I took economy class. I didn’t have enough cash to check both of my bags, so I kept my favorite one. When I got to the curb, the yellow-cab driver looked at the address and said, You’re really going right in it, aren’t you? I said, How do you mean? And he said, The hurricane. He looked at me like he thought I was dumb but truly I didn’t have cable because cable makes people slow. So I just didn’t hear anything about it.

He stopped by the gravel road, and then got in a big hurry to drive off. I guess it was pretty windy there. And empty. I stood there on the cement, with my aquamarine suitcase. I wore flamingo-pink heels. I walked.

I knocked on the door.

Gramma Kay, I called. It’s me. It’s Shelby.

I heard music come down from the kitchen. Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville…

I went upstairs.

A man sliced a lime on the counter.

Oh, I said. Am I in the wrong place?

Are you Shelby, he said.

That’s me!

I’m Keif.

He was kind of handsome, but looked a little bit like leather. He was pale and had pale hair.

I’ll be here, at your service, he said. I’m the housekeeper. I’m here to watch Enchilada while your Gramma and Grampa are out for the hurricane.

What’s that you’re making, I said.

It’s a key lime pie.

A key lime pie! Oh, God, I love it!

Good. It’s for you.

How sweet. So, they knew I was coming?


I’ll just put my things down in the guest room.

I came out again.

Oh my god, nothing has changed. Nothing at all, I said.

The lights flickered.

It’s horrible weather, I said.

That’s Maria, Keif said. It’s the worst of its kind.

Are we safe here, I asked.

Well, someone has to babysit Enchilada, he said.

Enchilada, my darling, my darling!

I ran to his cage and opened the door.

Oh, I cried. What is wrong with him? He’s not moving.

Oh, no, Keif said.

Oh no. He’s dead!

Oh no, Keif said. I’m so sorry.

I don’t understand. It looks like you’ve been feeding him.

I have.

But Gramma Kay got him because she said he would live longer than she would, I said.

We ate the key lime pie. It was real good, with home-made whipped cream and graham cracker pie crust. Keif took out the rum then, and I gave him a look that my ex said makes me seem up to no good at all.

Oh, I want some of that, I said.

We drank.  Continue reading “A Blond Joke” – Fiction by Addy Evenson

“Fetish / Recluse” – Poetry by Rita Mookerjee

The Day After – Edvard Munch, 1895

“Fetish / Recluse” is one of two magically sensual & intoxicating poems by Rita Mookerjee in our Summer 2018 issue.

{ X }

considered how I confused lust with
a periscope. How intimacy was a seeing eye,
people’s faces in orgasm.

Through muscle memory, I learned to grab a bottle
from thin air. Since it only takes 21 days to make a habit
I hammered this magic in like ideology,
fists unsure what to make of sleep.

I dreamt of whiskey bottles with false bottoms
filled with index cards listing coping mechanisms
that I could call my own so I could stop
living as a caricature of myself.

Then sleeping alone started to feel like a victory
because I could pass out with wine in my mouth
a lump of gleaming brie on my nightstand
and for all my social inclinations, my time

in bed alone increased. I read the news and
considered myself lucky. I tucked corks into
jars around the house: awards for effective self-
medication. Smug quotidian trophies.

{ X }

RITA MOOKERJEE‘s poetry is featured or forthcoming in Hollow, Lavender Review, Cosmonauts Avenue, Spider Mirror Journal, and others. Her critical work has been featured in the Routledge Companion of Literature and Food, The Bloomsbury Handbook to Literary and Cultural Theory, and The Bloomsbury Handbook of Twenty-First Century Feminist Theory. She is a PhD candidate at Florida State University specializing in contemporary Caribbean literature.