Tag Archives: T. Mazzara

FLAPPERHOUSE Podcast #2 – Reading #6

In case you missed our 6th reading— or if you didn’t miss it but would like to relive the experience in podcast form– you may now stream or download it through the Soundcloud file below!

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #6, In Pictures

A galaxy of gracious thank-yous to everyone who helped make Reading #6 such a trip: WilliamStephenChristinaLeonaMazzaraJoanna, and Anthony for performing your flappy lits; Pacific Standard for your warm & welcoming hospitality; Alibi Jones for your sparkly singing & fine photography; and all you beautiful star-children who came to watch us boogie. Let’s do this again, say, sometime before Memorial Day…?

(photos by Alibi Jones)

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William Lessard reads from his space-agey story “Transmission”

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Stephen Langlois reads his unsettling short story “Redfield” from FLAPPERHOUSE #9
Continue reading FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #6, In Pictures

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #6 / Issue 9 Flight Party / VOYAGER RECORD Pre-Launch Countdown

We’re gonna sparkle & boogie as we celebrate the flight of our 9th issue with our 6th reading on Wednesday, March 23rd from 7 – 9 PM at Pacific Standard (82 Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn).

Starring FLAPPERHOUSE #9 contributors LEONA GODINSTEPHEN LANGLOISWILLIAM LESSARD , and CHRISTINA M. RAU ; our fiction editor T. MAZZARA will read from his novel-in-progress; featured poet of FLAPPERHOUSE #8 & Reading #5 JOANNA C. VALENTE returns; as always, chanteuse extraordinaire ALIBI JONES will treat us to a song or two; and all the way from Tel Aviv, ANTHONY MICHAEL MORENA will read from his forthcoming book THE VOYAGER RECORD (Rose Metal Press, May 2016)– featuring a special appearance by the late CARL SAGAN!

Facebookers, join the event by clicking here.

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And Our Most-Viewed Pieces of 2015 Were…

The False Mirror - Rene Magritte, 1928
The False Mirror – Rene Magritte, 1928

Nearly twice as many eyeballs gazed upon our website in 2015 than in 2014, and now we shall countdown the 5 pieces which attracted the most of those eyeballs this past year:

#5. “A Deer With the Head of Emily Dickinson” by Cassandra de Alba, a deliciously eerie poem which will also appear in Cassandra’s forthcoming chapbook of deer-centric poems published by Horse Less Press.

#4. “The Rud Yard” by Vajra Chandrasekera, a hilariously terrifying take on the future of the surveillance state, which we nominated for both a Pushcart Prize & the Best of the Net.

#3. “Gelid” by T. Mazzara, our Fiction Editor’s touching prose poem for a departed friend.

#2. “Earth Comes Down” by Maria Pinto, a bluesy slipstream story with an impressive second-place finish, considering we posted it to our site less than 3 months ago.

and the #1 most-viewed piece on our site for 2015 was “9 lessons in witchcraft” by Danielle Perry (another Best of the Net nominee), which vastly increased our cult following among the occult.

Congratulations to Cassandra, Vajra, Mazzara, Maria, and Danielle, and thanks for all the eyeballs!

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #4, In Pictures

A million butternut squash-flavored thank yous to everyone who helped make Reading #4 such a blast: Bud, Shannon, David, Scott, Anna, T, & Michael for performing your flappy lits; Pacific Standard for your warm & welcoming hospitality; Alibi Jones for your superb singing & splendid photography; and to all you scintillating individuals who attended and gave us our biggest crowd yet. 

See y’all again this Winter…

Photos by Alibi Jones

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Bud Smith reviews his corner bodega in an excerpt from “Tables Without Chairs”
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Shannon Moore Shepherd reads her dark & ravenous poem “Creature Feature: Caligynachtmare: Dread the Beauty”

Continue reading FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #4, In Pictures

5 Facts About FLAPPERHOUSE #6

FLAPPERHOUSE6redcoverFLAPPERHOUSE #6 is full of blood, braille, booze, beauty, birth, rebirth, summertime torture, feminist fairy tales,  fake Game of Thrones spoilers,  wayward placentas, fugitive robots, and Hot Pockets.

FLAPPERHOUSE #6 is T. Mazzara‘s first issue as our fiction editor, so you may notice that overall our short stories look even leaner & more muscular than usual.

FLAPPERHOUSE #6 once again broadens our leathery wingspan’s embrace of the globe; in addition to the US, UK, Ireland, Israel, India, Sri Lanka, Canada, & Macedonia, we will now have published work by writers from Pakistan, Germany, & the Philippines.

Digital (PDF) copies of FLAPPERHOUSE #6 are now available to pre-order for $3US, ready to fly into your emailbox by June 21. (Print copies will be orderable starting June 20.)

The flight of FLAPPERHOUSE #6 will be celebrated with our 3rd reading at Brooklyn’s Pacific Standard on June 25.

“Gelid” – Prose Poetry by T. Mazzara

The great ice barrier -- looking east from Cape Crozier - Edward Adrian Wilson, 1911
The great ice barrier — looking east from Cape Crozier – Edward Adrian Wilson, 1911

The grand finale of our Winter 2015 issue is T. Mazzara‘s touching prose poem “Gelid.”

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For Mike and Jess

YOUR HANDS WERE STOCKY AND ROUGH from hundreds of nights of drunken trips and drifted fights, medicated and on the nod. The chewed fingers heavy nicked from days of banging shoes, carving flaked and solid horn from the wobbly soles of timid horses. You had hard fists from shoving against the threatening lean of breathing flanks, banging clips against shuddering ribs, hooves elbowed and ungainly. I saw you clip a goat once. You made art.

And danger. But we all loved it. Out in the wild near Lock Haven, on careless nights, those cut hands gripped the steerage of your truck and pulled us three (four with Daisy) all sharp, fishtailing drunk and loose through gravelly firecuts beside potential falls and real peril, beside cliffs and sheer drops. It was a cold day.

I thought of you on the Ice, out past the dust and diesel, the back-action beeps of reversing machinery, past all the sound and smells and grit and thin humanity that make up that smoking cradle, that McMurdo Station. I remembered Daisy was so well-behaved in the extended cab.

I thought of you as the Royals stretched chalky and awesome. Fata morganas hashed impossible parapets into the distant coast. Didn’t we kick a dozen or so beer cans out the door and all over that gas station parking lot?

I thought of you in Antarctica as I moved a pallet of oil drums from the line in an outside storage area to the trembling gray shutters of the Vehicle Maintenance Facility. Shrill ice bits and volcanic ash snaked their way through the cracked door of my front-end loader. And I remembered all the locals at that gas station laughed.

Everything was okay. My own rough hand gripped the brodie knob on the steering wheel, the drums cargo-strapped tight against the forks. You showed me around that cool and rocky back road. There was snow between the trees. You pointed out where you’d crashed your truck.

I thought of your truck on all those careless back roads as I turned and rumbled at the bottom of the planet. I thought that I’d ask you down next season. And I thought that the world is not flat.

Why didn’t you come with me to the Ice, my friend? Why did you go the way you chose? Why did you choose what you did? Why that? We could have driven heavy equipment and welded things. We could have been drunk at Southern and stumbled ungainly over volcanic ash to the stolid sea ice. We could have toasted the melting ice pier or a passing gray skua. Raised oily glasses of golden whiskey to the fantasy of the Ross Dependency. Your hands would have been useful on the Ice.

And I thought of you this last Monday. I was in a phony house on West 10th Street in New York. It had rained earlier and I was soaked through and surrounded by the young and the phony and the untested and your voice came to me in my foolish writing. Faraway.

“Our time together was ours and mine was short. I had no time for the rest of the world.”

I thought of your empty hands, useless in the ground. I thought of the Ice again. Maybe I should have invited you. I thought of your wife. It gives me some comfort to know I took you with me. It may give her some now to know the same. Nearly winter here again.

In this hemisphere, at least.

I can’t wait for the snow.

And I’m okay, in case you’re worried.

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T. MazzaraT. MAZZARA was born in Virginia and studied at Trinity College Dublin.