Tag Archives: Raymond Carver

This Week in FLAPPERHOUSE History

photo (1)10 years ago this week, our editor & editorial consultant meet when they begin employment at New York’s Strand bookstore on the very same day. (Though not at the exact same moment; Mr. Mazzara, a well-disciplined former Marine nearing 30, arrives to work on time, unlike Mr. O’Brien, then a far more insouciant kid of 23, who arrives 15 minutes late.)

Both are rather introverted, but they soon bond over their shared appreciation of punk rock & movie trivia & Philip K. Dick. For the next two and a half years, Mr. O’Brien constantly seeks Mr. Mazzara’s opinion on good literature, and is introduced to great writers like Alan Sillitoe, Raymond Carver, Thom Jones, & Yukio Mishima.

They both (voluntarily) leave the Strand in 2007, yet Mr. O’Brien continues to exploit Mr. Mazzara’s literary acumen, although now it’s to decide which stories are flappy enough for FLAPPERHOUSE. Here’s hoping they’ll work together on this venture far longer than their first…

“Cold Duck” – Fiction by Joseph Tomaras

 carverFor decades now, hundreds of short fiction writers have been regurgitating the esteemed Raymond Carver– but as far as we know, none of those writers has dared to do so the way Joseph Tomaras does in his story “Cold Duck,” from our Fall 2014 issue.

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– How drunk were you?

– I was getting to it. I was so drunk, the next morning I vomited up Raymond Carver.

– As in just one story, what we talk about when we talk about whatever, or the whole fucking Collected Works?

– No, not his stories or writings or whatever. I vomited up Raymond Carver.

– How the hell? He’s been dead for 25 years.

– How the fuck should I know? I was that fucking drunk. He was totally alive when he came out of my mouth.

– Was it, like, a tiny Raymond Carver, like that tiny Elvis character they used to have on SNL?

– Fuck, no, I wish. Full size.

– How the hell did he get out of you? How the hell did he get into you?

– I already told you, I have no fucking idea. It was just one of those nights. I didn’t really get any sleep, and when the sun was rising, I could tell I was going to yak. Couldn’t even get to the toilet, just had enough in me to roll onto my side and face the edge of the bed so I wouldn’t choke on whatever the hell was surging out of me. You know when you’re really vomiting so hard that you have to keep your eyes shut the whole time, and it feels like you’re giving birth out your mouth like, fucking, fucking, uh, Kronos vomiting up his kids, the Olympian gods, that’s what it was like, so I didn’t see what it looked like when he was coming out. It did kind of feel like I was getting jabbed with fingers, elbows and knees from the inside, though.

– Did you at least get any decent writing advice? Continue reading “Cold Duck” – Fiction by Joseph Tomaras