A gazillion gallons of glittery gratitude to everyone who helped make last night’s reading such a groovy deee-lite: Kim, Armando, Sarah, Anthony, and Devin for performing your flappy lits; Alibi Jones for your scintillating singing & photography; Pacific Standard for the ever-gracious hospitality; and all you gorgeous people who came in from the unseasonable warmth to witness it all…we’ll see you again on March 21…
[photos by Alibi Jones]
Kim Coleman Foote reads stories inspired by playing with the letters in her friends’ names
Join us Wednesday night, February 21, from 7-9 PM at Pacific Standard (82 Fourth Ave in Brooklyn) as we celebrate FOUR YEARS of FLAPPERHOUSE with our TWENTIETH reading and launch our 2017 print anthology!
An orchard-ful of apple-flavored thank-you’s to everyone who helped make last night’s reading so warm and crackly and a little bit dangerous, like an early-Autumn fire: Matt, Amanda, Hafizah, Chris, Mary Boo, and Kim for performing your flappy lits; Alibi for your scintillating singing & gorgeous photography; Pacific Standard for your always-gracious hospitality; and all you beautiful & cultured people who came to witness the weirdness…
We hope we’ll see you all again on 10/25 for our 2nd Annual Halloween Reading!
photos by Alibi Jones
Matt Patrick tells wonderfully bizarre tales of talking animal heads & cannibalism
Amanda Krupman shares an emotional & sensual excerpt from a work-in-progress
Hafizah Geter wows the crowd with her poignant and powerful poetry
Our engines’ll be running hotter than a boiling kettle as we celebrate the flight of our Fall 2017 issue with our 17th reading! Wednesday night, September 27, 7-9 PM at the always-hospitable Pacific Standard, 82 Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn.
THIS YEAR, BEFORE NIGHT RUSHES IN, WE AWAIT THE RIGHT MOMENT. When sky turns cyan and a breeze chants in the air, against our ears. When sky turns grey, erasing sun rays and hinting at rain, which hasn’t appeared in months.
Everyone in the area tenses upon their chairs, hoping to be agents in a new rite, begging Mother Nature to grant us those liquid grains from her atmosphere. We cant and cry, hoping she’ll hear us, when a gay gent strolls amongst us, stroking the cat on his shoulder. He lifts his thin legs like a crane then breaks into a canter. Some gather their young in fright. He tears off his hat, exposing a halo of hair, rants about how in this age, it is our hate that keeps Her from cooperating.
When an old hag jumps from her seat, we grit our teeth. She rages at the man, spittle staining her chin like tinea, her breath stinking of gin. She claims that the gates of the moon shall open to anyone who hasn’t tired of life’s mysteries.
The man grins the whole time. The cat has changed to a hare eating hay (some say it never was a pet but a rat disguised in rags).
Aside: don’t attempt to tag this as fiction; reality, in actuality, is fraught with much more strangeness.