My first collection of fiction, Small Economies, was published last week by Mayapple Press. The 53-page book includes short stories and flash fiction written over the last three years.
The Mayapple website describes them as "economical in narration but comprehensive in their suggestion of the past, present, and future lives of their characters. The moments they contain are set against the background of diverse public spaces: the institutions, stores, factories, restaurants, even the street corners where people must come together and choose to serve, reject, or compete against one another."
I encourage you to buy a copy from Mayapple Press as a way of showing your support for this "small press" that has an increasingly important presence in literary publishing. As of today, my book was still available from Mayapple at a pre-order price of $12.55 plus shipping and handling.
Or drop me an email with your mailing address at japalen@aol.com. I'll send you a signed copy from my stock at the list price of $13.95, plus $1.50 postage and handling.
Some of the stories are very short -- perhaps close to prose poems. Here's one of my favorites.
PRACTICE
Oh, my God! Oh, my God! he said, a small, dark-haired boy in an untucked shirt. He ran careening out of the hallway toward the sanctuary. Have you lost your cello, Simon? the teacher asked, walking behind him on long legs. Simon hadn’t known she was even there, hadn’t realized he was talking loudly enough to be heard. No, he said, and ran on,
not waiting to explain that the cello was lying on a pew where he’d left it after dress rehearsal, nor that he was practicing Oh, my God! because his mother had said it over and over on the phone that morning. He didn’t know to whom, some part of her life on the other end. He thought she was surprised, a little worried but not too much, maybe putting the other person on a little. He tried to get just her same tone.
He remembered to grab the cello below the scroll and the bow at the frog. Only a little taller than the instrument, he dodged up through parents to his wooden stool and sat down. The teacher worked her way toward him, tuning cellos while the pianist sounded an A and paused, and then another. As he waited, his thoughts returned to the hallway. Some day, when he had people in his life who would call, he would need exactly that way of talking. He wanted to be as ready as he could. Things were bound to happen.
