Accepted – Page 2 – Mid-American Review Blog

Accepted: Night Watch At The House of Death by Sam Martone

In our “Accepted” column, Mid-American Review editors discuss why they selected stories, poems, or essays for publication. In this post, Fiction Editor Lydia Munnell discusses a story that appears in our Fall 2015 issue.

Genre: Short fiction
Title: Night Watch at the House of Death
Author: Sam Martone
MAR issue: 36.1
While reading or discussing work with the MAR staff this past year, I’ve occasionally thrown a fit about what I call “Boring Couple Stories.” Of course this is ridiculous; Some of the best stories we’ve told since we started telling stories deal in the currency of love and heartbreak. We love an affair. We love a breakup.

But I will stand by the fact that, in general I could do without another interior rendering of here we are, in the same house, and it’s ending, and we both know it’s ending, and what’s going to happen? I could do without another thinly veiled short story about a lurid affair between an aging professor and an airy undergrad.

But I can always, always read more stories that frame old love anew, that teach me something I feel like I always should have known.

That’s what Sam Martone’s “Night Watch at the House of Death” manages to do, and, ultimately, why the story warranted such an enthusiastic acceptance in my first semester as Fiction Editor. Martone’s is a story about the sublime nature of love because it’s also about death, or maybe just loss, or maybe just being alone.

The speaker in “Night Watch…” is a worker. He is a sentinel at a death house whose responsibility it is to wait for the likely-dead to show signs of life. In inventing that job, Martone captures the all-too-familiar drudgery of work, the language of waiting and work that colors the kind of purgatorial world that’s so beautifully rendered here.

Martone does a remarkable job with all the intricacies that mandate life inside and outside the death houses. Medicine, in this world, is a kind of alchemy, and as the speaker’s relationship with Hannah emerges, it’s clear love is governed by alchemy as well. Writes Martone, “I imagined Hannah undressing, one garment at a time, and seeing all the things she stole spilling from her clothes: waffle irons, withering cabbages, hand soap dispensers, step ladders, until she was completely naked atop a mountain of all she had taken, and I was clambering up toasters and ironing boards to meet her.” The world of “Night Watch” is sketched with clear lines, but love is about trial and error, a combination of semi-precious objects that, for the speaker, seem like they might add up to something.

But the other element here is time (manifest in the form of a stolen clock), and Martone’s moves in the second act fulfill the story’s promises about what it means to wait. After some too-enjoyable-to-spoil-here twists, “Night Watch at the House of Death” grants us this: we can see work and breakups the same way. They’re both about waiting, the nebulous space between.

The worst kinds of love stories leave sullen characters brooding on a rainy New York City boulevard. But the best kind—and Sam Martone’s is the best kind—leave them cleaning gutters and listening to the wind. They end the way they start without promise of death or happiness or sure resolution. And uncertainty becomes its own kind of loss, and it aches the way a good love story should.

Lydia is a native of rural western Pennsylvania who has spent the last several years on the east side of Cleveland coordinating the after school program at Lake Erie Ink, a non-profit writing space for youth. While in Cleveland, she was DJ of a folk radio program, Revival and previously did freelance writing for Cleveland Scene Magazine.

Accepted: “Inaccurate (self)Portraits of Water by the Artist Victor Vaughn” by Travis Vick

In our “Accepted” column, Mid-American Review editors discuss why they selected stories, poems, or essays for publication. In this post, Assistant Fiction Editor Lydia Munnell discusses a story that appears in our Fall 2014 issue. (Above image: Ollbac)

Genre: Short fiction
Title: “Inaccurate (self)Portraits of Water by the Artist Victor Vaughn”
Author: Travis Vick
MAR issue: 35.1
First line: “A popular art critic once wrote of Victor: ‘I guess all things, even art, must come to seed.’”

From its first page, “Inaccurate (self)Portraits of Water by the Artist Victor Vaughn,” introduces four different voices: the third person narrator, the voice of an art critic, the curatorial description of a painting, and the voice of the artist—Victor himself. The rules are clear and the principal figure is revealed. Victor Vaughn is a product of fragments; it’s the structure that’s always central.

And as the story progresses, Victor’s life and history are relayed in his paintings, in the musings of his critics, in his own words offered by way of interviews. In that way, the act of reading “Inaccurate (self)Portraits …” mimics what it means to understand a life—that people are remembered through fragments and episodes. And while author Travis Vick’s structure is remarkable here, it functions as well as it does because it contains the traditional stuff of great stories too: compelling characters with complicated histories, desires, ghosts.

The specters, here, are Victor’s parents. His art and life are haunted by his mother, drowned in a nearby lake; his father, hung in the barn after the death of his wife; and Mr. Powell the neighbor whose house burned and who is linked to a single fond memory of Victor’s father. And Victor maintains his own shadow over the story. In death he is remembered by his critics, his work, his widow.

These fragments are balanced skillfully. Vick maintains distinctive voices for each piece of the narrative, and the look of the thing—its format on the page—signals changes in speaker, commands a different kind of reading. Beyond the formatting and the voices, though, the fragments work because of deftly woven images. Victor is a painter, and “Inaccurate (self)Portraits…” is visually alive. Upon the death of Victor’s father, the farm animals he forgot to shut in are left, “cantering augustly” across neighbors’ lawns. And the water death of Victor’s mother determines much of the story’s imagery. “And, when out in public,” says one of Victor’s critics, “doesn’t he always seem to be moving about a room more by the aid of his hands than of his feet, as if lost, as if swimming through dark water?’”

In the end, to read “Inaccurate (self)Portraits of Water by the Artist Victor Vaughn” is to wade. The structure commands that readers adjust their pacing, that they move through it in slowly, steadily. But carefully curated images cement the fragments together. Here are water and fire: the elements, the stuff of great paintings.

What MAR editors said about “Inaccurate (self)Portraits of Water by the Artist Victor Vaughn”:

“I like the repetition and the sense of cataloging his life, and I think the author uses effective snippets/portraits/scenes to show who Vaughn was.”

“The many voices all felt clear and distinct, and the episodes were well chosen. They illuminated Vaughn as well as the particular world of the story.”

“The repetition worked well, and the multi-genre feel was very intriguing. … The writing was strong and inventive.”

Lydia Munnell is pursuing her MFA at Bowling Green State University, where she serves
as assistant fiction editor of Mid-American Review. She comes to BGSU by way of
Cleveland, where she hosted a weekly folk radio show called Revival and wrote for
Cleveland Scene magazine.

Accepted: “Porch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor’s Bedroom”

In our “Accepted” column, Mid-American Review editors discuss why they selected stories, poems, or essays for publication. In this post, Assistant Poetry Editor Jenelle Clausen discusses a poem that appears in issue 34.2. This will be the final “Accepted” entry for 34.2; stay tuned for columns from 35.1.

Genre: Poetry
Titles: “Porch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor’s Bedroom”
Authors: Carroll Beauvais
MAR issue: 34.2/Spring 2014
First lines: “When we were children, we dreamed the moon / full of pink lakes, swimming holes without water moccasins.”

In the title, “Porch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor’s Bedroom,” Beauvais presents us with three possibilities. Already, we want to know more. And then, the epigraph: “For my sister, if I’d had one.” The epigraph is brief and thoroughly surprising; it establishes the poem as fiction, which is perhaps a nod to the inviting trap of assuming that a poem’s events “really happened” or that the poem’s speaker is the poet himself or herself (a problem we don’t encounter nearly as often when reading prose).

But the epigraph doesn’t diminish the sincerity of the poem. In the first two lines, we are immediately impacted by a striking image—pink lakes on the moon—that is unusual and that establishes the active world of children’s imaginations. This imaginary world on the moon is also defined by what it lacks: “swimming holes without water moccasins.” There is no danger here. This first stanza continues in describing this shared dream-world, a world where girls could wear as little as boys in summertime and where stars would shed glitter on the grass.

The second stanza uses images to firmly ground us in time; the speaker and sister were children when “Buffalo nickels and baseball cards” were popular. We also see the title verbatim and learn that the children would bet on what kind of light it was that “tipped in through the blinds.” The speaker says, “I always chose moonlight and you always won.” This suggests that the speaker’s childhood was characterized by hopeful idealism, which she later realized to be unrealistic.

The death of this hopeful idealism is addressed in the very next stanza, where we’re brought to the present day, many years later. The speaker mentions that “scientists claim water exists on the moon,” but this potential fulfillment of a childhood dream does little good now for an adult filled with worry by the stark reality of life’s hardships: “What good does that do us now that we’re old / and you just called to say they found another tumor?”

Like the first two stanzas, the final stanza is characterized by compelling images that create an emotional impact on readers. It is no longer summer, but autumn; this transition of seasons reflects the aging process. The “sugar maple…is growing bare.” How does something grow bare; how does growth lead to loss? The language here is subtle, and it indicates the disillusionment and sense of loss that comes with growing older, when childhood is left behind.

We are left with a final striking image, not star glitter on the grass, as in the first stanza, but “yellow leaves” that look like “the small, wilted hands of a child.” We can all relate to the sense of loss associated with giving up childhood dreams; this poem has universal meaning.

But wait—remember the epigraph? We’re told that none of this happened. For the speaker, there was no sister, no cancer. This leads to the wonderful intentional ambiguity of the poem: Which is worse? To have lived through this experience, this suffering and disillusionment, or to have not had anything, or anyone, to lose?

What MAR editors said about “Porch Light, Moonlight, or the Neighbor’s Bedroom”:

“The epigraph is really attention-grabbing, and even though it makes it clear that the poem as a whole is fiction, that in no way lessens the emotional truth and impact of it.”

“The author uses great images to let us know where we are in time. There are a lot of imaginary images, like pink lakes, but there are also images like Buffalo nickels and autumn leaves that let us know when the speaker was a child and where we are now.”

Jenelle Clausen, Assistant Poetry Editor

Photo: Jeremy Stratton

Accepted: “War Stories” by Lesley Nneka Arimah

In our “Accepted” column, Mid-American Review editors discuss why they selected stories, poems, or essays for publication. In this post, Fiction Editor Laura Maylene Walter discusses a story that appears in our Spring 2014 issue.

Genre: Short fiction
Title: “War Stories”
Author: Lesley Nneka Arimah
MAR issue: Spring 2014
First line: “This time, my mother and I were fighting about what I had done at school to prove with no question that Anita Okechukwu was not wearing a bra.”

“War Stories” opens with an immediately compelling conflict: the narrator, twelve-year-old Nwando, has exposed her classmate Anita not only for her lack of a bra, but also for the pretenses that allowed her to become the dictatorial leader of the school’s exclusive Girl Club. Thanks to her actions, Nwando finds herself an unwitting hero and the head of a new “girl army” regime. As Nwando experiences the rise and fall of her own power at school, she listens at home as her father covers new ground in his wartime memories and reveals more than he perhaps intended.

Along with many other Mid-American Review fiction readers, I was immediately engaged by the story’s premise and read on with increasing interest as Nwando’s struggles at home and school escalated. The story illustrates adolescent tension in fresh and surprising ways, and author Lesley Nneka Arimah masterfully blends Nwando’s schoolyard conflict with her father’s recollections of his time in the war.

The language in “War Stories” is also infused with a reflective quality that expands Nwando’s story into more universal territory. For example, when Anita experiences her fall from social graces after the bra incident, Nwando considers the broader consequences for her classmate: “What I hadn’t expected were the boys who ran behind her during recess and lifted up her skirt, as though my actions had given them permission, as though because they had seen her bare breast, they were entitled to the rest. It was a boyish expectation most would not outgrow even after they became men.”

The storytelling is also lively and takes surprising turns. Take, for instance, the scene that occurs after Nwando is punished for punching her classmate: “During dinner, which I wasn’t permitted to share with my parents, I sat on a stool in the kitchen, soothing the shrapnel sting on my behind with daydreams of how upset my real parents would be when they discovered these temporary guardians had used me ill. I tried very hard not to think about the little girl and her nose, how it crackled beneath my fist.” The vivid language and storytelling gain momentum throughout the story as Nwando’s father begins sharing his wartime experiences.

“War Stories” is more than a gripping, beautifully told story about a young girl navigating the poisonous social structure at school and a haunted father at home – it’s also about the power of the many kinds of stories we tell.

What MAR editors said about “War Stories”:

“…strong and engaging…an example of well-managed realism. Touching without being sentimental and a light touch with humor. A quirk without being crazy.”

“This story offers a lot in these nine pages about the pain this family has experienced with loss. It may not follow a traditional path, but I enjoyed the details of this family connecting. The emotion feels authentic, the details engage, and the flaws of people trying to be leaders to those around them – moving.”

Laura Maylene Walter, Fiction Editor

Photo: legOfrenis

Accepted: “Tracking the ‘Choose Life’ Balloons: Our Findings Thus Far” by Brian Costello

In our “Accepted” column, Mid-American Review editors discuss why they selected stories, poems, or essays for publication. In this post, Managing Editor Sasha Khalifeh discusses a story that appears in our Spring 2014 issue.

Genre: Fiction
Title: “Tracking the “Choose Life” Balloons: Our Findings Thus Far”
Author: Brian Costello
MAR Issue: Vol. XXXIV, Number 2 (Spring 2014)
First line: “On the afternoon of March 14th, 1983, 322 students of St. Sebastian Catholic School in Peoria, Illinois gathered in the parking lot between their school and their church and released 314 primary-colored balloons into the gray late-winter sky.”

An unexpected ode to music and Midwestern life, “Tracking the “Choose Life” Balloons: Our Findings Thus Far” begins with a quirky and attention-grabbing premise, a Catholic school balloon release, and transitions into an enchanting portrait of the Midwest. As the piece progresses, the reader is thrown into the lives of well over a dozen characters, from Catholic schoolchildren to heartbroken adolescents to the front-men of rock bands. The result is a richly-imagined and captivating piece that balances humor, history, and music, all against the backdrop of 1980s Illinois.

The story was a hit with our fiction staff, resulting in a rare unanimous vote for acceptance. The MAR editors were immediately drawn in by the story’s unique premise, but that engagement quickly progressed to an appreciation for author Brian Costello’s neat prose and an investment in his succinctly-developed characters. Like the lines of the songs that permeate the story, each section of the story is sharp and strong, but woven together the overall effect is greater than the sum of its parts—a piece both memorable and compelling.

One of the greatest strengths of the story is its language: Costello’s prose deftly navigates a range of emotions—joy, heartbreak, nostalgia, loss, passion—without ever becoming weighed down by sentimentality or losing sight of its distinct voice. A balloon drifting past a high school senior fantasizing about spending the night with his girlfriend becomes a simple but profound moment of reflection: “As Porterfield watched the balloon land and the song moved into the chorus, there was something about the scene that made him swell with, maybe not pride, but the feeling that you’re exactly where you want to be—Peoria, the Midwest, the ‘80s—and it doesn’t get much better, does it?”

At the same time, a teenage girl giving her first haircut to her punk-rock boyfriend begins her career as a hairstylist even as she ends her relationship: “As the song “Party with Me Punker” played, Oberkfell felt a confidence and self-assurance in her work that she had never felt before.…at that moment [she] correctly surmised that her relationship with Richie Asshole would be short-lived, but to the present day, Oberkfell is an in-demand stylist throughout the Detroit suburbs.”

Costello’s piece, though only a few pages long, is brimming with stories spanning age, place, and gender, all of them framed by an unforgettable premise. Through his prose, readers are immersed in a different world, one permeated by music and memory—a world that one is happy to inhabit, if only for a little while.

What MAR editors said about “Tracking the ‘Choose Life’ Balloons: Our Findings Thus Far”:

“…a combination of deadpan humor and clean prose…a sense of a clear narrative that follows inevitably from the release of the balloons.”

“The tone and concept are engaging…and then it turns out that the whole story is about something completely different than what you thought it would be.”

Sasha Khalifeh, Managing Editor

Photo: Chi-Chi Chuang