Author: dianneP
PUBLISHER @ Current Words Publishing,
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Sometimes Being a Witness Is All You Can Do
I live in Los Angeles, and it’s been a little bit unnerving to see what is on the news about us.
When I first moved to Los Angeles I lived in Venice Beach, on the Westside, by the Pacific Ocean. Venice Beach is beautiful, and weird, and has been heavily gentrified even since I lived there, and is now almost evenly split between people living in three million dollar homes, and people living in tents. It’s a problem on both ends of that financial situation. Of course, can you imagine being homeless? You would pitch a tent in a minute if you could, and you would definitely want to be in a temperate climate where people were laid-back, and where there were a lot of other people just like you around, to make you feel less obvious, and safer. I watched a video just yesterday about people who have chosen to live in vehicles (cars, campers) not in Venice Beach, but in the USA, and how they (being very digital) will meet up and hang out in different free camping areas to have a community. And why would people without homes be any different?
Los Angeles has a homeless, or unhoused, people problem.
Los Angeles, and all of Southern California, has a lot of immigrants. Many of them are legal immigrants, some are illegal. Some are only here for work. Many want to get enough money through work here to send home to family in order to eventually rejoin family. I have met many people with that plan from Asian countries and countries south of the USA. Those folks are not wanting to live here forever. They’re trying to make enough money that everyone can live well, back home. But there is no mechanism for that of any workable consequence here in the USA. The visas for work are not for waiters and day laborers. The visas for work are for IT people and doctors, that sort of person. In Los Angeles we know that the Uber driver, the waiter, the grass cutter, is probably not here legally, and not intending to stay. We get it, and I think, for the most part, we’re happy to have the low-cost help.
Then there are other people who want to stay: people who came here fleeing violence, people who came here as babies and have only known here, people who came here as students and experienced so much prosperity and freedom compared to life back home that they don’t want to go back. As Americans we cannot really understand how different life can be, especially for the very poor, and women in general, in other countries, even countries like China or India that we might see as very western. When we were in China (my husband Dave and I) to adopt our daughter in 2009 we met our daughter at our hotel, a huge, lovely hotel, about twenty floors or so, and absolutely where the wealthy and foreigners stayed. As soon as my daughter was placed in my arms I lost the ability to sleep, and so I spent the long nights in the hotel hanging out in the bathroom, so I didn’t wake up Dave and daughter, and it had a floor to ceiling glass window next to the shower, and I could see right down the main street of Nanchang. Next to us was another tall building, and each balcony had laundry and sausages hanging off of it. And if we were on flour fourteen of the hotel, it was probably floor eleven of the apartment building that was completely blown out. I don’t know what had happened there, but it was rubble like you might see in a Tom Cruise movie. And above it, and below it, the balconies had laundry and sausages hanging. Rain or dry, explosion, crumbled concrete or not, the balconies had laundry and sausages hanging. And on the streets, during the day, scores of people stood over lit barrels boiling eggs to sell, any kind of egg you could possibly want: quail, chicken, duck, and probably more I am too American to think of. The eggs came in all shapes and sizes, and the egg vendors huddled over the steamy pots trying to stay warm.
When we went into Nanchang from the airport we started first driving (in the passenger van with the other parents) through marsh, wetlands, dark and stinky, Then the marsh started having bits of high and dry land, and as soon as those appeared, there were tents and carboard shacks on them: people were living there. And as we progressed on (it was a long drive from the airport) there were more shacks. As the land got more livable the shacks got a little bigger, and then there were small villages with tiny crumbling houses, and then towns, and finally cities, and Nanchang was a huge city with underpasses and overpasses and pedestrian tunnels due to there being too much traffic on the eight-lane streets for people to cross safely. And in Nanchang the people lived stacked up twenty stories high in little efficiency apartments where their clothes and their dinner hung outside in the high breeze all year long, hot, cold, wet, dry, frozen or not. In Nanchang the city was so full and so busy that even at three in the morning there was a constant cacophony of car horns blaring below me, way below, fourteen stories below, in the street. The noise was significant, even up as high as I was. It was bumper to bumper car lights all night long. The bathtub in my bathroom was deep, and the hot water was endless, and I could soak and secretly watch the entire world below, all night long as I worried I was going to suck as a parent.
The day after we got our daughter we took the van across the street. The street was so large and so busy we had to take the van to safely get across, and we went to the “adopt your child here” building, which was easily fifteen stories high itself. I remember my ears popping as we rode the elevator up. When we got to the “this is where you give the boxed ginseng from Pennsylvania and sign the forms” floor we got off. It was freezing cold on that floor, and there were no electric lights turned on, so it was fairly dim, on a rainy forty degrees day, as we dipped our thumbs in red ink and signed our papers severing our child from one nation and attaching her to another. Each clerk we dealt with was wearing a winter coat and gloves with the fingertips cut out, over their business suits. I felt, in all honesty, both so lucky, and also that I had saved my tiny daughter from a hard life.
Dave and I ate Chinese food (of course we did) eagerly and with relish the whole time we were there, but there was one afternoon where I had been dragging Dave and our baby daughter exploring around, that we were just tired, and we went to a McDonalds in an eight-story shopping mall. I remember it was elevators only, and people were always waiting, and they would literally leap over you to get in. I think we waited at least three times to get on. When we got off and made our way to the McDonalds the line was about two blocks from the restaurant door. It moved quickly, and as we went inside I saw that they had the tables McDonalds had had when I was a kid, like cafeteria tables with immovable swivel chairs attached. Each chair had three people sitting on it. Let that sink in. One small hard plastic swivel chair, and three butts. Yes, butts in China are very much smaller than in the USA, and that tells you something right there that has nothing to do with genetics.
I remember when all of us (all across the world) who had submitted our paperwork in March of 2005 were talking in a Yahoo group about everything China-adoption related. It was common for people from the same month to design a t-shirt to wear in China so that they could spot each other (as if white people with Asian babies wasn’t enough of a clue). And I remember a whole passel of American members got up in arms because our group wanted a rainbow on the shirt, and those up in arms didn’t because they did not want to be associated with anything “gay.” And I remember thinking, in that moment, as if a lightning bolt had hit me, You may have been able to check a box for a gender preference, but even that wasn’t a guarantee, and what if your child turns out gay? Are you not open to whoever your child turns out to be? It wasn’t the first or last time the adoption process has taught me lessons about how little control I have in life. But what really hit me then was how it made me view those parents-to-be both as dumb, and unkind.
If you have not experienced life in a place with real poverty, you cannot imagine what people would do to get their families out of it. Could you sit all day in the cold, trying to sell your steaming eggs alongside hundreds of other people steaming eggs, baby tied to your back, little dog on a newspaper on the ground, everyone trying to stay warm and have enough to eat?
Los Angeles is okay, folks. It’s fine today, and it was fine last week, even with the homeless and all the immigrants of varying status. It’s actually a place where, rich or impoverished, people are generally in a good mood and kind and a heck of a lot more pleasant than my Philly neighbors used to be. (No disrespect Philly; you’re a great town, and you have your reasons.) We’re not bothered by immigrants at all. We are bothered, in many different ways, by some homes costing three million and some homes being cardboard shacks like in the marsh in China. But the current administration is not helping us with either of those problems. And it is potentially creating a lot more that we don’t need or deserve simply because most of us in this county voted for the Black woman.
But in this moment, what difference can I make? What can I do to help?
It is another hard lesson to learn that sometimes the only thing to do is to witness, to see, and to report back, honestly, on what you saw. There are many things that feel out of control right now, and many that you, also, probably want to stop, even if your list isn’t the same as mine. Take a picture, with your phone, camera, or mind, and share it. Write it down, make a picture with your words. Share it, and accept other people’s experiences too. You’re not playing fair if yours are the only right ones.
The reason I wrote this post is not because of what is happening in Los Angeles, actually. It is because my fellow member and friend Nadja shared The Gaza Poets Society Substack with me. When Hamas kidnapped those people from Israel it hit me in the heart. I’m of an age that indicates that I, and my fellow kids of the 70s and 80s, were raised on The Diary of Anne Frank as a big thing in school, and I went on, as a child, to order many other Holocaust-related books from the Scholastic catalogue. I read so many that I sometimes couldn’t sleep as I tried to plan how I would help my family escape from the Nazis (and I’m not Jewish by nationality or religion). And the first book I edited professionally was a Holocaust memoir. I just felt that Jewish people needed a place to be safe from the rest of us, and the kidnappings in 2023 underlined that.
But in college I read an interview with Yassar Arafat that changed how I thought about Palestinians. Though I still felt that Jewish people needed a place to be safe, I began to see that Palestinians also needed a place. Since the kidnappings happened in 2023, it’s been hard to watch the fallout. But, like the administration sending Marines we don’t need to Los Angeles to try and break it, there doesn’t seem to be much I can do about what the kidnappings unleashed.
Still it is important to know, to witness, to not turn your eyes away from something because it’s intractable, no matter what you think or feel is truth. And so I wanted to find a way, in this post, to share that Substack with you. The poetry is both well-written and moving. And as all writers share the feeling of “writing into the void,” I think the one thing we could give them is eyes on the page. It doesn’t mean we turn our back on one group for another. It does mean we take a look at all that is going on in the world of poetry. People in the USA often say, in the years since 2016, that not everything is political. But that is not true by a long shot. There is a reason some people in China shiver in a cardboard house in a marsh and some shiver next to a pot of boiling eggs in an actual metropolis. There is a reason why some people died of Covid and others did not. And in the USA, where most of us in this group are, the people in the nation do not (as a sweeping generalization, of course: so many shades of grey) easily understand how dangerous and revolutionary poetry often is in the rest of the world. Revolutionary precisely because it is a way of witnessing.
It seems not at all odd, to me, to hear that bombs are falling in Gaza, to see it on the news. Sadly it doesn’t shock me at all. But it does shock me to hear that there has been a mass shooting in Austria, and it does shock me to see that Marines are in downtown Los Angeles. It’s a matter of degree, of what narratives and images we are accustomed to versus those we are not.
As for what you see on the news, that’s not what I’m experiencing here, though I can hear helicopters for twenty-four hours now. It would take me about an hour, in good traffic, to get to where the news is taking its pictures, and it’s important to understand there is no one photo that can give you a true picture of all of Los Angeles. Can you imagine that it might be the same in other parts of the country and the world too?
Keep your spirits up, however you can. My recipe is potato chips, coffee, crosswords, and walking the dog. Check out the poetry on The Gaza Poets Society Substack. And don’t stop witnessing.
Guess What’s on the CLMP Book List for June!
Please join OSP in congratulating Anthony on his wonderful collection of poetry and art!
Dive into the mythic in Jonah’s Map of the Whale and Other Poems, a daring and dazzling collection from Anthony Doyle (author of Hibernaculum). In the submerged world of Flounder— part everyman, part flatfish—shipwrecked longing, philosophical wit, and lyrical precision converge.
Doyle’s sea-born metaphors shimmer with heartbreak, absurdity, and revelation across the tide pools of memory and myth. From underwater boathouses to data-streamed cubicles, Doyle threads ancient voices through postmodern pulses. Featuring Flounder, Blundra, Alex Iden Gray, and more, this collection drifts between high poetry and sly humor, from trenches of despair to flickers of grace. Jonah’s Map of the Whale and Other Poems is a poetic deep-sea dive into the soul accessible to poetry and literature fans alike.
PIck up one of Anthony’s other books, and follow him here.
Thanks for supporting indie writing!
Join Us: Deadline to Apply 8/31/2025
Hi All~
We’re looking to add members to Old Scratch Press!
Here’s the deets:
Old Scratch Press (OSP), a poetry and short-form collective sponsored by Current Words Publishing, is seeking two new members to join us starting at the end of 2025. Your book would be slated for publication in 2026–2027, pending a successful trial period.
OSP is a collaborative, grassroots press focused on uplifting fresh, bold voices in poetry, flash fiction, and creative non-fiction. We publish three books per year, along with Instant Noodles Lit Mag (3 issues/year), which is curated and edited by our members. To learn more about our work, we invite you to explore past editions of Instant Noodles https://instantnoodleslitmag.com/ and OSP-published books https://oldscratchpress.com/catalog/.
As a member of OSP, you will:
- Receive a free publication of your manuscript (poetry, short prose, hybrid, or a mix of writing and art).
- Get 10 free copies of your book and keep 100% of your royalties.
- Participate in monthly OSP meetings (except December and August).
- Proofread and support fellow members’ books and contribute to blog and promo efforts.
- Be invited to monthly marketing meetings hosted by Current Words Publishing.
- Join a supportive community of working writers committed to mutual aid, creativity, and literary growth.
We’re looking for:
Members who are kind, reliable, and team-oriented.
Writers with a completed or nearly completed manuscript ready for publication in 2026–2027.
People who can commit to at least two years of active participation.
Writers who reflect diversity in identity, perspective, or experience—including (but not limited to) people of color, LGBTQ+ writers, disabled writers, and others underrepresented in publishing.
Applicants who are not full-time creative writing faculty. We aim to support writers who do not already have institutional resources or access.
Writers who have a track record of publication (a few poems, flash pieces, essays, etc.), and a clear desire to communicate something meaningful through their work—someone we can respect as a fellow writer and collaborator.
A note about our trial period:
New members will begin with a six-month trial period before we formally commit to publishing your book. This ensures a good fit and gives everyone time to build rapport, share work, and participate in OSP activities.
To apply:
Please send the following:
- A brief cover letter introducing yourself, why you’re interested in joining OSP, and how you’d contribute to the group.
- A short author bio (3–5 sentences).
- A brief personal essay (500–750 words) about your writing journey. Feel free to include publication history (with links or footnotes) and anything you’d like to share about the manuscript you hope to publish.
- A sample of your manuscript-in-progress (up to 10 pages).
Applications will be reviewed collectively by current OSP members. Finalists will be invited for a short conversation via Zoom.
If this sounds like your kind of creative home, we’d love to hear from you!
Apply, as usual, through Duotrope~
Let’s Get Titular
Above you see Don Paterson’s take on the titular poem, with a poem where the title is the whole poem.
A titular poem is a poem where the title is part of the poem, a line in it. In my own poetry I have really liked using this device, and often use my titles as the last line of the poem, the conclusion to the whole action of the poem. I have been described by my teachers as a narrative and magical realist poet. In my defense against these allegations I will let you know that I grew up listening to songs like “Jolene,” by Dolly Parton, “Ruby,” by Kenny Rodgers, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” by Gordon Lightfoot, “Dark Lady” by Cher, and the oddest one of all, “Angie Baby,” by Helen Reddy. My formative years were two-to-three decades of songs with strange narratives in them. It isn’t my fault!
I have written many titular poems, some remarkably more successful than others, but I will share with you today one that is probably my personal favorite. This was written when I was in graduate school for my first writing degree. I had moved back in with my family. My house was helmed by two working parents, both too ready to have a drink, both too generous with money and not much else, and both not great at respecting boundaries. But I was able to go to school for my Master’s Degree and teach at the school part time, which pretty much took up 10 hours of each day, but made about one third of what a person needed for rent in those days, so, without my old room, I never could have done it. There were a lot of challenges though, one of which was a mother who was threatened by education, and really tried to impede it even as she envied it. My most repeated story, and least believed, was the one where I went up to my room to work on a paper due the next day that had to be twenty-five pages. My mother burst in to the room, my dad in tow, and began to lay out sheets of wallpaper over my (yes, I’m not kidding) word processor and desk. “We’re wallpapering the bathroom,” my mother announced.
“What, now? Tonight? It’s seven,” I said in disbelief.
“We have to do it now,” she said. “Right Vince?” My dad looked at me and shrugged. What could I do? I went downstairs, and waited. They finished a little after eleven, and I finished the paper a little after four the next morning. Yes, I should have probably written it sooner, but that aside, who competes with their kid with wallpaper? Sigh. No one I shared my graduation program with ever believed my stories. So, one day I wrote this poem to see if it could explain it to my fellow authors that my stories were true. As you read the poem remember… this is a titular poem, so see if you can understand how the title works as the title, and also as the last line of the poem. Yes, there are obscenities in the poem that some may find offensive. I’m a salty old girl, and, once, I was a salty young one.
A Few Dry Old Peas Rattling Around In A Waxed Paper Dixie Cup
Jesus fucking Christ goes through my mind as I sit here,
trying to read the poems from my poetry workshop,
and my brother, who doesn’t live here,
appears suddenly at the front window
like an unwelcome trio of Jehova’s Witnesses,
causing my dog,
who had just been whining at my leg for my bagel
to bark loudly and repeatedly at the window as
the phone rings, making me jump like a bean,
and I answer it,
all the while looking in exasperation at my beloved bother of a brother,
who is unaware that I am here,
and if he comes in the house will joke,
as if he were the opening act for the Jerry Lewis Telethon,
“Still in your pajamas? Ah you and that school racket,”
while I say, “Hello” the the phone with my voice
trying to sound
pointed
and
pissed
and my mother’s voice says,
“Read me what the calendar says my dentist appointment is,”
and says,
“I know you’d like nothing better than to put my wash
in the dryer—how ’bout it?”
and says,
“Don’t just sit around; do your windows,”
and says,
“You’re home todays so I won’t be home to let the dogs out,”
although she wants to be
’cause she thinks I don’t do it right,
and tells me again how to do it before she hangs up,
but my brother has not come in, has disappeared, so I go back to reading
for two seonds because here comes the dog again,
whine whine bagel bagel scratch me, and I stamp at her;
she looks at me—Big whoop—says her scroungy toothless expression,
and I hear a loud banging, so I look up and a strange truck,
a truck that would have turned up the noses
of Sanford and Son
and a man who obviously was designed with the truck in mind,
are in the driveway,
and he is pulling a gigundous lawnmower
off the truck while I try to think and come up with
Jesus, shit! Don’t unload that! Did I ask for that thing?!
and Who the fuck is this toothless guy? and wonder
for a scared second
if he’s a relative I don’t recognize
which is usual for me,
when I see my brother coming ’round the side of the truck
and I run upstairs thinking, What the hell is that guy here for?
Bill is going to bring this strange man to see me
in my pajamas, and the dog is lifting off the floor now
in little hydraulic barks—I am thinking
Christ Bill, now you’re going to wake Lee and I
am giving up on reading poetry; I’ll write some instead,
and I retreat to my room and start typing trying
to ignore the barking of slamming truck parts and lawnmowers out front,
but I am right,
my brother does wake my sister, and when she gets up,
by opening her door she releases another dog to bark,
and it runs downstairs to join in, eager to catch up,
while my sister
walks into the bathroom and pees loudly with the door open,
and does not flush,
puts on striped spandex, and goes tour-de-fourcing
down the stairs where, like a swift grifter,
she switches out the tape in the VCR for an aerobics tape and turns it
up
up
“Lift ’em up! That’s grrrreat! You can do it!”
but I can’t do it
because I can still hear my brother and Mister May-Be-A-Relative,
so I am able to hear another voice added to theirs
as my mother says, “Oh, I wondered if you’d be here.
I just came home to let the dogs out,” and my friends wonder
why I’m tense and why I never want to visit the zoo,
and I think,
Dad must be coming home any minute to tell us all the jokes
he’s heard today, like, “Duck walks into a pharmacist,
says gimmee a Chapstick and put it on my bill,”
or the one about the Avon lady who farts in a elevator,
after which he will laugh that long, wheeze, Lou Costello laugh
“Hey Abbott”
and somehow,
in this rapidly escalating cacophony,
a small sound,
like a maraca gently shaken,
is in my ears
pulling me to it,
causing me to think one final thought at the end of my morning study time,
because,
pricklingly familiar,
I think I’ve heard that small hollow sound before, and I think
I now know exactly what my brain is like.
Did you make it to the end? Could you see how the titular title ended the poem? I must admit I’ve always felt that the title must work as the title, of course, but should also resonate at the end of a poem, because our eyes, having reached the end, especially of a long poem, will zip back up to the top to refresh, remind us of what we were reading in the first place.
Have you ever written a titular poem? If so, I’d love to have you share it in the comments. Have you ever read one that you especially liked, or that flummoxed you? Let me know.
All these years later, through many different rounds of education at many schools, through being a life-long adjunct: always running place-to-place, through infertility and a trip to China to become a mother, through a few trips back and forth across the country with a full car and a moving van, through working with so many different and wildly talented authors, I do still feel a bit like I’m a plate-spinner with a brain that might like a long vacation on a deserted island.
Thanks for reading! I hope you’ll share back something titular.~ Dianne
Dianne Pearce is the publisher and main editor at Current Words Publishing. She also designs and formats each issue of INSTANT NOODLES LIT MAG, and had to learn how to work computers to do it!
Don’t miss the second submission period for INSTANT NOODLES 2025. Submit today!
Where Oh Where Can Your Work Be Found?
Oh my goodness, I love The Kinks!
And I bring them up today because when I was thinking about writing this blog post, I was also thinking about all the other blog posts I had to write today, which has turned out to be at least 4, plus the social media to go with it. It reminded me of this Kinks’ classic:
Give it a listen because: The Kinks.
And so that you get the tune, which is important to this post.
My blogging and posting activity made me think of this song because it aligns with my thoughts: She posts it here; she posts it there: on Instagram, and everywhere! She will just keep posting ’till her fingertips go numb ’cause she’s a dedicated marketer of books. Oh yes she is! Oh yes she is! Oh yes she is! Oh yes she is!
Sing it with me.
Are you posting here, and there?
I hope you don’t mind if I remind you of the three Ps of posting: personality, process, and product. You want to sell your books, but you have to find people who know about your book: people in Poughkeepsie, Peoria, and Portland. Have you thought of it that way? Imagine a 25 mile readius (hah! Gotcha! Radius!) around you: that’s probably where people are going to know you enough to buy your book. Imagine your social tree: your family, your friends, friends of your family, and friends of your friends, your co-workers, and your fellow attendees at church or hobbies or etc. Of those people, how many will buy a book? Of the people who buy it, how many will read it? How good is your elevator pitch to tell people about it? How “clean” is your book in terms of proofreading, editing, font choice and size, plot holes? And if you do not live in Poughkeepsie, Peoria, or Portland, how will anyone who does find out about your book and become intersted in it?
With my deepest apologies, you have to post. You have to blog. You blog the most about you, the human, you blog next about the process and proceedures of you, the writer, and lastly you make an open, not subtle, appeal on your product: “You will enjoy this book because….”
Let’s imagine a 30 day grid.
Luckily, with most websites, and certainly with WordPress, you can post them all on the same day if you like, and schedule them to go out.
Friends, if you are unknown, there is no other way to get your book out there. There is no other way.
Most of us are doing the, “La la la la I can’t hear you!” thing when I say this. But, tell me, how else does that reader in Peoria find you?
I interacted with a young author the other day whose horror novel won some book award. I asked her, “Have you posted that on the FB horror reading groups?”
“No,” she replied to me in the women’s writers group. “Those groups are fake, so I don’t waste my time.”
They most certianly are not fake, and if you’re writing horror, you oughta be on them. If you’re writing poetry or short form, are you looking for groups where people are reading those books? And the people in the women’s writers group are not buying her book, because they want to sell their book, not buy hers, but all of them are pitching to the wrong damn audience.
I am so very sorry to need to be the one who tells you Santa ain’t real.
In my experience coaching and attempting to help so many authors, from the ones I taught in college to the ones in that womens’ group, to the ones I publish in Instant Noodles, and on up, authors spend their free time writing their next book or story or poem, and then work their jobs, interact with their families, have some down time, etc. But small business owners never stop. They ask you to buy their newest T-shirt, or their revolutionary toilet paper, or come into their small shop, every single day, and they work overtime if they need to, to get it done.
If you’re a hobbiest writer, enjoy! If you want to go pro… you need to put in the practice hours, which, for this, are posting.
So sing it with me!
I post it here; I post it there: on Instagram, and everywhere! I promise I’ll keep posting ’till my fingertips go numb ’cause I’m a dedicated author of my books. Oh yes I is! Oh yes I is! Oh yes I is! Oh yes I is! And nothing can stop me, and my blog will not go mum ’cause I’m a dedicted author of my books. ‘Cause I’m a dedicted author of my books. ‘Cause I’m a dedicted author of my books!!! Ba-da-da!
🙂
Keep posting! You can do it!
National Grammar Day Poetry Contest
Don’t miss your chance to submit to the National Grammar Day Poetry Contest:
SUBMISSION PROCESS (copied from ACES)
Poem requirements
- All poems submitted for consideration must be original, unpublished, and short.
- Short is key. No epics, please.
- Meter, rhyme, free verse? Haiku, limerick, quatrain, sonnet? The choice is yours.
- Entries should make a point about language: grammar, usage, typos, writing, editing — whatever inspires you think captures the spirit of National Grammar Day.
Who can enter
Everyone is invited to participate. You do not need to be a member of ACES or work as an editor. The winning entry will be selected by a panel of judges that includes the previous year’s winner, along with language and poetry experts. ACES administers the award; it does not decide the winners.
How to submit your entry
In order to be considered by the judges, official entries must be submitted through the entry form.
Multiple submissions are welcomed.
That said, we encourage you to share your entries on your favorite social media platforms. If you tag #ACES and #GrammarDay we will be able to find you and reshare.
When to submit
The submission form is open Feb. 15-28. The link will be available here during that window.
Learning the results
ACES will announce the winner on, naturally, March 4, in a post on its news channel and in its social media channels. The winning poem will be included in the story, along with the runner-up entries.
Never Miss A Chance to Read Your Work!
I want to invite you all to come out and support PERISCOPE CITY: WHERE THE LONELY GO TO LIVE ALONE with our Valentine’s evening “Love Stinks!” reading and open mic.
Join Zoom Meeting
Meeting ID: 886 1135 6295
Passcode: 090540
Ben’s book is, “A captivating series of short stories, both dramatically and philosophically enthralling.”
KIRKUS
“Ben Talbot excels at depicting a world both alien and familiar at the same time.”
MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW
Welcome to Periscope City, a place where nothing is quite as it seems. Its citizens are those with no one to love, caught in a paradox of escaping loneliness while clinging to it. Here, human emotion is fleeting, and love is nothing more than a transaction.
Each story in this collection delves into the heights and depths of solitude through its characters: a writer torn between seeking validation from fleeting romances and finding comfort in the safety of isolation; a former college football star lost in nostalgia, unable to connect with the present; a young runaway scarred by her past, drawn to this desolate town inhabited by loners and serviced by robots.
Prepare for an emotional gut-punch as you enter a strange, unsettling place where the broken-hearted choose to stay broken and prefer to live in solitude. Talbot’s haunting, satirical, and often absurd interconnected tales explore themes of self-destruction and elusive redemption.
Periscope City will immerse you in a world where the boundary between reality and fantasy is constantly shifting.
Ben is going to read a little from his book, and then we will open it up for poems, flash fiction/non-fiction to give you a chance to add your voice to the conversation about love and loss and loneliness, and answer the age-old question, “What becomes of the broken-hearted?”
If you’re not a pro at reading, it is imperative that you come and try your luck! What better night? We can be awkward, clumsy, lonely, and literary together!
Meet me in Periscope City Friday night:
8P Eastern
7P Central
6P Mountain
5P Pacific.
Hope to see you there, and hear you read. We’ll be sad without you….
In the meantime, enjoy this excerpt from the book!
Periscope City
A sign greeted me at the border: Periscope City: Where the Lonely Go to Live Alone.
It spoke my language, so I crossed in by foot, to the nearest place it took me to. That place was a one-story house with a long driveway called the Institute. There, they asked me dozens of questions about my immediate past and made me take a personality exam. I told them the truth: that I was a thirty-four-year-old loner whose friends had deserted him for marriage or death. They set me up in the Cramden Hotel.
During the first week, I interacted with only housekeeping and the concierge. They were all robots. It was the best the town could do to live up to its tagline.
—
Although I loved loneliness, I was still lonely as hell. After months of wallowing about my life situation, sinking into the lack of fellow humans, there was nothing I wanted more than to mix it up. I thought being lonely among robots was a different lonely as being lonely among humans. The scratch needed to be itched.
The concierge suggested a dating app called Loner, and the concierge said it had the best reputation for keeping the lonesome lonely. I filled out a profile and submitted it to the AI gods for review. It matched me with Raylene, a blonde Puerto Rican who stood over six feet. Her profile said very little about her beyond the fact that she’d moved from Buffalo, New York, and loved pets over people. In her picture, she sat on a snowy park bench and wore a fleece jacket. A French bulldog sat in her lap, and it wore a black-and-white dog poncho. It looked like a staged photo, like something in an L.L. Bean catalog, but where L.L. Bean was trying to pull off cozy, it was a cold, plastic, disconnected photo. I assumed her entire profile was an attempt at sarcasm.
Do you want to meet or not? she wrote.
Because of my lust for tall women, I wrote her back: Yes.
I have tickets to The Late Show, she wrote. Meet me at Geraldine Park at eight. I’ll be at the corner of Alaska and Winter Bear. And don’t be awkward.
—
When I showed up, Raylene was sitting on a snowy park bench in the same jacket as her photo, with her service bulldog in her lap. The dog even wore a black-and-white poncho. Raylene’s smile was all the picture was missing.
“Joe?” she asked.
Her perfume was cedar, or maybe it was the trees. Whatever the case, the scent had found its way to me, and it smelled lovely. The Loner profile was missing a smell.
“Raylene?”
“No,” she said. “Of course it is. How would I know your name was Joe?”
The bulldog barked at me.
“Sheepshead, knock it off,” she said.
Sheepshead? After Raylene fed her a pill, the dog calmed down. The pill must’ve been a fast-acting depressant, which they sold over the counter here in Periscope City. I know because of my own dog, but he didn’t need medication like me.
“You look different from your picture,” she said.
Ditto. Not only did she frown but her hair wasn’t blonde. It was purple. “How so?” I said.
“I thought you were taller,” she said.
I ignored her comment (let’s call it an insult), already being my tallest.
“Ask me something,” she said.
She was testing me, but then I remembered how sarcastic her profile had been attempting to be. The memory of it made me sweat a little with anxiety because I tried to think of something witty to say quickly, so I used a cliché. “If you could have dinner with anyone, who would it be?”
“Come on, dude,” she said. “Ask me something else.”
I gestured out to the surrounding park with my hands as if that were the explanation. “It was all I could think of,” I said.
“I told you, don’t be awkward,” she said. “What about you? Who would you have dinner with?”
I hated the question, too.
“Abraham Lincoln,” I said, and the words tasted like tinned fish.
“Why?”
“He was the first person who came to mind,” I said.
“Lame,” she said. “Now ask me a good question.”
“Okay,” I said. “Why did you name your dog Sheepshead?”
“Sheepshead Bay was the last place where I went with my husband,” she said.
“Did you separate?” I said.
She pressed her beanie down to her eyebrows, and I did the same with my trapper hat. We shared an awkward silence. It was what I got for asking a good question.
The Blessings of Ritual and Routine
Just before the pandemic (the 2020s I feel the need to say for when we all are history), we were in search of a better situation for our daughter, and we moved her to a private school. She went from a class of 30 to a class of 12, and her academics improved immediately, though our finances did not! As a part of her classroom they had an animal student, the lovely Miss Addie pictured above lounging in her hidey with a tasty piece of bamboo. The school asked for a volunteer family to take her home over the Christmas break, and we volunteered. Addie and I bonded immediately (I am the pet-whisperer), and I must admit I delayed sending her back to school in January by almost a full week. When the school was shut down over Covid in March they asked me again if I would take her, and I eagerly said yes. She moved in with us, and by May the lovely school announced it was going out of business. Addie became family. During the stay-home days our daughter took courses on Outschool (highly recommend) where she learned female guinea pigs preferred to be in pairs. We then adopted Baby from a pet store. It turned out that Addie did not prefer to be in pairs, but eventually a tolerance developed.
When we moved back to California, again for a better school experience for our daughter, we drove across with two cats, two guinea pigs, and one dog. About a year after we settled in, I woke up a few days before Christmas to find Addie had left us. Baby, it turned out, was desperate not to be alone, and went on a hunger strike. After a forcing some food into her for two days (guinea pigs must eat constantly or they die), we adopted Punky (who looks a bit like a pumpkin). This past summer Baby followed Addie to Valhalla, and I saw, stretched before me, a long line of guinea pig adoptions for the rest of my life. I waited with bated breath until, lo and behold, it seemed Punky took after Addie, bless her. She seemed very interested in checking out Baby’s viewing and memorial, but then she was fine to have all the snacks and seed balls and pigetti (corn silk) to herself. She moves, in her luxuriously large cage, from hidey to hidey during the day, alternatively napping and yapping. She has a lot to say to me, and we perform a call and response between us where I say, “Woooo, Punkus!” and she chirps away back at me, whooping louder and louder until I bring her some fantastic treat.
The guinea pigs, as much as I don’t want to have a long line of them stretching to the end of my life in front of me, are part of my life’s rituals, and I love the job, and someday I know I will mourn the loss of it, as I mourn both the beautiful, pink-eyed Addie, and Baby, who looked like a tiny Holstein. Every other morning, without fail, I awake before the sun and the rest of my family, chat away with Punky as I remove all her bedding (I use cloth bedding, nice fluffy fleece pads), and all her hay, and all her snacks and poops, and I clean out the cage. All the linens go into the washer for a hot wash and an extra rinse, and the cage is refitted with clean bedding from my ample supply. Then I top off the snack bin (hay rings, seed balls, vitamin C chews), put in fresh hay, and add in some salad (lettuce, peppers, fresh baby corn, that sort of thing) and set Punky up for her new day. It takes me about 40 minutes (not counting the laundry time) and during that time I do not have to think what move to make next, and my conversation (Wooo Punkus!) pretty much doesn’t change, and is not the most thought provoking. That gives me some early-morning time to freshen up my brain as I freshen up Punky’s cage. We both enjoy it. For me it is both calming, and nurturing as I nurture my little Punky, and there is a clear sense of accomplishment in looking at the “beautiful once again” cage.
Of course, you might think, that’s a lot of work, lady, for a kid’s pet, work that the kid should be doing. My daughter and I traded years ago because, when Addie first moved in, my daughter was too short to clean the cage, and not very quick or proficient at it. I offered to trade emptying the dishwasher (a chore I despise). She agreed. So now she’s stuck with it! And I get the meditative and soothing time with Punky.
I want to address this next paragraph to my fellow non-believers out there, or, perhaps, non-conventional believers is a better term. I was raised really immersed in a traditional Christian church, but, as long as I can remember, though I didn’t really balk against going until late into my HS years, it had no effect on me. I didn’t click into the whole thing. I often read the Bible in church from boredom during the long services, but it came across as fairy tale to me, and the emotions I saw people experience in church were not there for me. Even during my beloved grandmom’s funeral, who loved her church dearly, what I remember feeling, aside from loss, was that I would have preferred to be somewhere else, somewhere emotionally warm, to hold her in my thoughts. I have no doubt that my delight of a grandma is somewhere, in some form, still being a delight, but hooking it into her own religious beliefs is beyond me. So, there are two points I want to make here about that based on my experiences in life: ritual, which is done so well by churches/temples/mosques, and their like, is not owned by them. And life needs ritual for space to process and to get in touch with emotions. We are all different, and some of us need more ritual in life than others, and that ritual can be as simple as how we decorate for holidays, certain meals we make at certain times, celebrating our own birthdays (of course! I’m glad I was born!). Ritual is, really, meditation, and for me it is more profound when it is a natural thing in my life rather than what I would view as a forced, arbitrary movement. The guinea pigs are a delight too. Their personalities remind me of my chubby grandma in many ways. She often whooped, and loved eating too. There’s no reason they should not be connected in my heart and in my thoughts. I love the ritual that they are.
And during the “mundane chore” of cleaning the guinea pig cage I get a lot of writing done (in my mind, not on my computer!). It’s a reset for me as well. There’s no pressure for perfection, and the thoughts roll in and out like a calm tide.
Of course Princess Punky will not outlast me (I am optimistic enough to assume). And I want to just mention my second very early morning ritual that will ride with me to the bitter end. OHHHHHHH…….
All I want is a proper cup of coffee
Made in a proper copper coffee pot
I may be off my dot but I want a proper coffee
In a proper copper pot
Iron coffee pots and tin coffee pots
They are no use to me
If I can't have a proper cup of coffee
In a proper copper coffee pot, I'll have a cup of tea!
Gaze upon my magnificent second morning ritual… coffee made in a proper copper coffee percolator! A percolator has several ritual benefits: there are a few parts to take apart and clean; there is a prescribed way to put it back together, and when it is back together it moans suggestively and bubbles, and scents the air with perfume Chanel should be envious of. It is another opportunity for me to do labor that requires no brain power, that pleases me and affects me directly while also giving benefit to someone else (my spouse), and doing the “chore” brings about visible results that please me. It also offers me a hot cup to sip and enjoy as I slowly move from meditation to sitting down and writing out this post, or some other writing project.
Websters says that a blessing, as a noun, is grace (the thing said before meals), approval or encouragement, or a thing conducive to happiness or welfare (by which I take it Websters means well-being). Rituals are a blessing. And, for me, a lot of my blessings are my routines. I exhort you not to deny yourself of the blessing of your routines, even if they are “chores” (such a dirty word!). Slow them down a bit; use them to slow your thoughts, and plum the richness of repetition, a moment with no planning and no management needed, a moment on autopilot. There are so many writing gems to be found there, as well as quite a lot of balm for the nervous system. Enjoy that walk with your dog, scritches for kitty, a hot cup of coffee, or, if you can’t have a proper cup of coffee, a hot cup of tea. 😉 Whoop whoop!
OLD SCRATCH PRESS 