Interview with author and scholar Mara Lee Grayson: Insights on Poetry and Identity
September 2, 2026
Mara Lee Grayson’s poetry has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Tampa Review, and Nimrod, among other literary journals, and has been nominated multiple times for the Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. An award-winning scholar of rhetorics of racism and antisemitism, Grayson is the author or editor of five books of nonfiction. She holds an MFA from The City College of New York and a PhD from Columbia University and was previously a tenured professor in the California State University system. Originally from Brooklyn, New York, she currently resides in New Jersey.
Tell us a bit about yourself, something more than just what’s in your bio. Perhaps something not a lot of people know.
I acted before I wrote. (My father was a stage director, and I grew up surrounded by theatre.) In some ways, I came to writing through acting – I wanted to make moments come to life. Also, I have more piercings and tattoos than people expect me to have (which says a lot less about me than it does about people’s expectations).
As far as message and intention, the poem speaks for itself. What more can you tell us about what compelled or inspired you to write it?
I actually began writing this poem in 2022, set it aside for a while, and came back to it in 2024, after hearing from friends and colleagues who had been running for shelter every night. I juxtaposed that with what I had been trying to make sense of a couple of years earlier.
What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the revision process?
Believe it or not, this poem was originally a sonnet that I deconstructed about 20 different times.
What did you learn (about yourself, craft, or life in general) through writing and revising it?
As I returned to this poem, I wondered how much of my own experiences of identity and positionality reflect the experiences of my ancestors. What do we share across space and time? What is universal, so to speak, and what is particular? How do we draw connections without losing what makes us unique?
What do you hope readers take from the poem?
I never presume what readers will take from a poem. Over the years, readers and editors have shared with me interpretations of my work that I never intended, and I’ve come to not only be okay with that but to kind of appreciate it. I won’t say all interpretations are equally valid – they’re not – but we all bring ourselves to the work we read. If my work speaks to you, I’m glad, and I hope it makes you both feel and think about something just a little differently than you did before.
Do you write in other genres, and if so, what?
I do! My MFA thesis was a collection of short stories, a few I’ve since published. I wrote freelance briefly for a couple of newspapers, and I even once worked as a theatre and film critic. A lot of people know me primarily as a scholar.
What fuels your desire to write?
I want to say that I write to make meaning of the world and to feel like myself, and both are true, but, at root, it’s a feeling, a compulsion maybe. I feel driven to write. I don’t feel comfortable or satisfied when I don’t.
How do you balance writing with everyday life?
I have no idea what balance means, and I have yet to meet a writer or artist who does.
Are there any special projects, other pieces, or books you’d like to promote?
Having time and space to do the things I want to do without feeling like I have to squeeze them in or compartmentalize them. Maybe the good life is really about finding that ever-elusive balance.
Thank you, Mara, for sharing more about your life and writing with us. We are grateful to you for participating in this Q&A and for being a part of what is becoming a sweet history of Honeybee Prize winners!!
We wish you continued success with writing and that you will someday find that balance!
I open the door to a smiling girl, sixteenish, summer-camp-counselor wholesome, carrying a clipboard and a huge umbrella. She hands me a glossy brochure. “Libby Conrad for Commissioner”. Red, white, and blue. A photo of the candidate posed in the midst of her sunny family.
“Libby Conrad has deep roots here,” says the girl. “She’s owned the Front Street Pharmacy for twelve years and is very active in the community. She’s dedicated and hardworking.”
The girl can’t explain exactly what a county commissioner does. She can’t name her candidate’s opponent or even the election date. She refers me to the website listed on the glossy brochure. I wonder about Libby Conrad’s organizational skills, deploying her canvassers without this basic knowledge.
Still, I have to admire this girl for being out on a miserable, rainy night. Surely she’d rather be inside, hanging with her friends. And she’s cheerful, poised, enthusiastic. Did I ever have that perky attitude, that sense of civic duty?
“Would you like a sign for your yard?” she asks as she’s leaving.
The people across the street have placards up year-round, more than enough political signage for the entire neighborhood. I decline politely.
I finish up the dinner dishes. Carrying out the trash, I hear shrill voices across the street and know instantly. What a treat to have the enemy delivered right to your door. I should have warned the girl.
Brainless bitch! Spreading venom you don’t even understand! Stupid little hypocrite!
You can’t think for yourself, you spineless sheep! Baa! Baa! Baa!
Worthless, toxic scum! Go back to the hole you crawled out of!
The girl sobs, walks back down their driveway, her hand up as if to protect herself. At the street, she tries to remember which way to go. The rain keeps pouring as she, someone’s daughter, stumbles down the sidewalk, crying, struggling with her umbrella, the glossy leaflets falling off her clipboard into the muddy gutter.
About the Author:
Joli Huelskamp lives in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Her work appears or is forthcoming in a number of online journals, including Brilliant Flash Fiction, ONE ART, and Kings River Life. Please visit jolihuelskamp.com for more.
Exploring Myth, Magic, Reality, and Grief through Fiction with Author Ali McLafferty
August 27, 2026
Ali McLafferty earned her PhD in History at UC Berkeley. Her work combines the historical with the fantastical and has appeared in The Forge, Fractured Lit, Flash Frog, Gone Lawn, and The Belmont Story Review and is forthcoming in Flame Tree Press’s Helen of Troy anthology. Her work has also been shortlisted for prizes, including Fractured Lit, The Manuscript Wishlist, and Unleash Press. She is also a visual artist whose work has been featured in Flash Frog, Centaur Magazine, and Foofaraw Press. More of her publications and artwork can be found on her website, alimclafferty.com.
Her short fiction, Salt and Sand, appears in Issue #24.
Tell us a bit about yourself, something more than just what’s in your bio. Perhaps something not a lot of people know.
I’m an avid gardener. And when I say “avid,” I mean Texas Gardener avid: wake-up-at-5:30am-in-the-summer-to-water-everything-by-hand-for-an-hour-because-of-water-restrictions avid. My backyard is tiny, but I’ve packed every inch of it with plants. My current harvest includes lemons, oranges, figs, bananas, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, watermelons, honeyrock melons, pumpkins, onions, herbs, and even hops (yes—to make my own beer!). I have no idea how many plants I own at this point. Not enough. NEVER ENOUGH.
What was the inspiration behind “Salt and Sand”?
I was watching The Little Mermaid with my five-year-old daughter and–as I often do when watching Disney movies–entertaining myself by dissecting plot holes. How does Ariel instantly learn to walk? How does she know what things are food and what are not, how to breathe with lungs, or even how to lie in a bed? My own kids took months to figure those things out! The more I thought about it, the more bizarre being human seemed. I started wondering what life would really look like for a mermaid with no knowledge of the terrestrial world—and no voice—who chose to become human.
What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the revision process and/or the final version of it?
I began the story with the intention of making Cordelia an actual mermaid. But as it progressed, I realized that I myself had no idea whether she was or not. I still don’t have an answer to that question. So I decided to lean into that ambiguity, even though that makes the ending potentially devastating, because that is how we experience every myth and legend: by balancing the fine line of truth versus fiction.
What did you learn (about yourself, craft, or life in general) through writing and revising it?
It was the first short story I ever wrote. I had no idea how to write them, and the attempt seemed daunting. But I realized that if I began with a general premise, emotional temperature, and characters who were clear in my mind, I didn’t have to have a strict notion of where it had to go. I could just enjoy letting it develop. That was a really wonderful experience, and how I go about writing all my short stories now.
What do you hope readers take from the piece?
That there is no clear, defining line between magic and reality. That the world is a place still full of mystery, and that resting in that space of ambiguity, wonder, and even discomfort can be rewarding.
At what point in your life did you begin writing and working on this story?
I wrote it in June of 2025, six months after I lost my niece, who inexplicably died 6 hours after she was born. It was such a shocking, devastating occurrence that I spent months in a sort of daze trying to understand what had happened. We live in a world we feel should have answers, especially as our knowledge of science and technology progresses. And yet I kept thinking about the people of the past, who when they suffered the mysterious loss of a child chalked it up to witchcraft, or believed it had been stolen by fairies. So I began writing fiction that blended myth and reality in a way that felt true to my experience, and helped me process the grief.
Do you write in other genres, and if so, what?
My favorite genres are historical fiction and speculative fiction, and my favorite pieces to write are ones that blend the two together. I have a PhD in history, so I really love bringing to life historical time periods, settings, and beliefs. But I also love speculative fiction, so my pieces usually weave in subtle (and sometimes explicit) magical/fabulist/surreal elements.
What fuels your desire to write?
Wow…this is an interesting question, because I don’t really know the answer to it. I’ve always written—first academic, scholarly pieces and now fiction. I guess the most honest answer would be that a sort of compulsion fuels me–it just feels so GOOD to write, in the same way other people say it feels good to go on a run. I don’t understand running, because frankly I am pretty physically lazy. But I can appreciate the way people describe feeling both an intense joy and calm contentment, because that is what writing feels like to me. It’s also a blissful escape–an amazing way to just let time and worries and the outside world dissolve completely. Art and gardening give me the same feeling. If they made a candle that smelled of paint and dirt I would buy it.
What have been the biggest influences in your writing?
I have always been a voracious reader, and my favorite authors of all time are historical fiction writers: Maggie O’Farrell, Hilary Mantel, Geraldine Brooks, James Michener, Henry Wouk, and Isabel Allende. I love the way they bring the past to life, both with incredibly immersive descriptions of place but also by making the interior, emotional lives of their historical characters feel immediate. And Allende’s House of the Spirits revealed this whole new style of writing to me–historical magical realism.
How do you balance writing with everyday life?
I have a career, two kids, a dog, a cat, and an extremely demanding garden that take up a good deal of my time. But I also make sure to prioritize writing these days. This usually means waking up at the crack of dawn while everyone is asleep to hammer things out. I also tend to write piecemeal in time gaps: waiting in line at the grocery store, stirring a pot of dinner, walking the dog, sitting at the DMV….what would I do without iPhone Notes!!
Are there any special projects, other pieces, or books you’d like to promote?
Yes, thank you! My website, alimclafferty.com, has links to my published fiction, artwork, and upcoming projects. I’m also excited to have stories appearing in two forthcoming anthologies: Helen of Troy from Flame Tree Press this September and Missed Fits from Calendar of Fools in 2027.
What do you think when you hear, “the good life”?
I don’t necessarily think of a “joyful” life. I think a “meaningful” life. One that might have had grief, loss, and trauma but that ultimately finds richness and purpose.
Thank you, Ali, for participating in this Q&A and for the direct and heartfelt answers. We are grateful to you for being a part of our growing literary community and wish you the best with writing, a bouuntiful harvest, and finding forgotten gems hidden among all the phone notes.
Etya Vaserman Krichmar: Writing Through Memory and Belonging
August 19, 2026
Etya Vaserman Krichmar https://www.etyawrites.com/ is a Kazakhstan-born writer who immigrated to the United States from the former Soviet Union. She writes literary nonfiction exploring identity, displacement, and belonging. Her work has appeared in Brevity Blog, Narratively, The Orlando Sentinel, Spillwords Press, MasticadoresUSA, White Rose, Write Launch, and international anthologies. She is currently seeking representation for her memoir “Citizens of Nowhere.”
Tell us a bit about yourself, something more than just what’s in your bio. Perhaps something not a lot of people know.
I was born in Kazakhstan, raised in Ukraine, became a wife in Moldova, and came to the United States as a Jewish refugee from the former Soviet Union. Much of my writing explores memory, identity, and the invisible ways our past shapes the present.
One thing people may not know is that I didn’t begin writing seriously until later in life. A near-death experience changed the course of my life and compelled me to write. Before becoming a writer, I spent decades in the corporate world. I often say that I didn’t find writing—writing found me when I was finally ready to listen.
When I’m away from my desk, I paint with thread through needlepoint and enjoy creating elaborate cakes. I suppose storytelling isn’t the only way I like making something beautiful from scratch. Another little-known fact is that I’m a Reiki Master. That experience taught me to pay attention to silence, intuition, and the stories people carry beneath the surface.
Life is full of moments worthy of writing about. What inspired you to write Love Flows Forward?
Sunflowers began with a childhood memory. Behind our housing development in the Soviet Union stretched endless sunflower fields. As a child, they became my refuge—the one place where I felt I belonged, and the only place where I could forget, for a little while, that I was different. Years later, that memory collided with another image: sunflowers blooming on land marked by suffering. I couldn’t stop wondering how beauty and tragedy could share the same soil.
As I wrote, I realized the essay wasn’t only about flowers. It became an exploration of memory, resilience, and the responsibility of remembering. Sometimes history returns quietly. Sometimes it blooms.
What unique or surprising detail can you tell us about the revision process?
The ending changed many times.
At first, I tried to explain everything I wanted readers to understand. Eventually I realized the essay became stronger when I trusted the image itself. The more I removed explanation, the more emotional space I gave the reader.
Revision, for me, is usually an exercise in subtraction rather than addition.
What did you learn through writing and revising it?
I learned that memory is never fixed.
Each time we revisit the past, we bring a different version of ourselves. The facts may remain the same, but our understanding evolves. As children, we experience events without fully grasping their meaning. As adults, we return with perspective, life experience, and, I hope, greater compassion for the people we once were.
As a writer, I also learned to trust restraint. My early drafts explained too much. Revision taught me that readers don’t need every answer. Sometimes what remains unsaid carries the greatest emotional weight.
What do you hope readers take from the piece?
I hope readers leave with a renewed appreciation for memory and for the ordinary people whose lives history often overlooks. We inherit more than family photographs and heirlooms. We inherit stories, and with them comes the responsibility to remember.
If the essay encourages even one reader to ask an older family member about their story—or to pause before allowing history to fade into silence—it has done its job.
At what point in your life did you begin writing nonfiction?
I began writing as a child in the Soviet Union. At first, writing was my escape. It gave me a place where I could imagine a different world and find a freedom that didn’t always exist in everyday life.
I returned to writing seriously much later, after a life-changing medical diagnosis. By then, my purpose had changed. I no longer wrote to escape reality—I wrote to understand it, to give voice to experiences that had shaped me, and to preserve the stories that might otherwise be forgotten.
I eventually realized I wasn’t simply recording memories. I was searching for meaning within them. Today, I write because I hope to leave behind more than my name. I want to leave behind stories that remind others their lives—and mine—matter.
Do you write in other genres, and if so, what?
Yes. In addition to literary nonfiction and memoir, I write historical speculative fiction, romance with speculative elements, and short fiction.
I’ve completed a historical speculative novel, The Watcher’s Testimony: Bearing Witness, and two memoirs, Citizens of Nowhere and A Flight to Freedom. I’m currently writing Accidental Witness, a romance with speculative elements, and another memoir, Awakened by Papa’s Spirit.
At the moment, I’m seeking representation for Citizens of Nowhere, which explores what it was like to grow up Jewish in the Soviet Union and the lasting effects of displacement, antisemitism, and the search for belonging.
Although I write in different genres, they all explore memory, identity, resilience, and the ways the past continues to shape the present.
What fuels your desire to write?
Curiosity fuels my writing, but so does memory. I’m fascinated by ordinary moments that reveal something extraordinary about being human. A single sentence, a photograph, a prompt, or a childhood memory can become the beginning of an essay or a novel.
I write because I don’t want meaningful stories to disappear. Whether I’m writing memoir or fiction, I’m trying to preserve the voices, experiences, and quiet moments that remind us of who we are. I believe every life holds a story worth telling.
What have been the biggest influences in your writing?
Life has been my greatest teacher. Immigration, family, illness, loss, and resilience have all shaped my voice.
I also grew up reading the Russian, European, and American classics. Chekhov taught me to appreciate the quiet moments that reveal character. Tolstoy and Bulgakov showed me the sweep of history and the complexity of human nature. Alexandre Dumas introduced me to adventure, while Émile Zola, John Steinbeck, and Theodore Dreiser revealed the dignity, struggles, and resilience of ordinary people. Nikos Kazantzakis opened a door to spirituality and the search for meaning.
As a writer, I’ve learned just as much from careful revision and generous mentors as I have from the books that shaped my imagination.
How do you balance writing with everyday life?
I don’t wait for inspiration. I write whenever life allows—sometimes for hours, sometimes for only a few minutes. Consistency matters more than perfect conditions.
I’ve learned that writing doesn’t happen only at my desk. It begins by paying attention. Conversations, walks, medical appointments, and ordinary days often become tomorrow’s stories. Living and writing are inseparable.
Are there any special projects, other pieces, or books you’d like to promote?
I’m currently seeking representation for Citizens of Nowhere, a literary memoir about growing up Jewish in the Soviet Union and the lasting effects of displacement, antisemitism, and the search for belonging.
I’m also finishing Accidental Witness, a romance with speculative elements that explores memory, identity, and the unexpected ways the past reaches into the present.
Alongside these longer projects, I continue to write essays and short memoirs because they allow me to capture life’s quieter moments—one story at a time.
What do you think when you hear, “the good life”?
It’s found in meaningful work, honest relationships, curiosity, and gratitude.
After growing up where some stories could not be spoken, I think the good life is the freedom to tell them—and the privilege of having someone willing to listen.
Thank you, Etya, for sharing more about your life and writing with us and for being a part of our growing community. We are grateful for the time you spent on this Q&A.
We wish you luck in finding representation for your manuscripts and the best with all your writing projects.
Abecedarian Becomes Cancer Diagnosis | Anna Lisa Stork
Another hospital trip. You are bleeding again. It’s almost cold enough to see my death. I press my cheek to the window. Every day is a test, and I am always failing to make amends. God means prayer, half-assed prayer. I learn the lines, jester the psalms to keep you alive, living for the time being. Mom means daughter. No. I don’t want to meet the oncologist who tells me it’s pancreatic cancer. I ask questions that have no answer – all rust and ache. Sorry, so many apologies and yet the truth is still unbearable. Sorry pokes into another vein. Sorry don’t know where you bleed from. Xerox of a xerox. A final yuletide in the hospital. We plant zinnias after the last frost.
About the Author:
Anna Lisa is currently pursuing a BFA in creative writing at the University of Nebraska at Omaha. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in Sink Hollow Literary Magazine, Prairie Margins, and Glass Mountain Magazine. Her writing explores grief through the lens of the Midwestern landscape.
The Beauty of Chronicling Life through Creative Nonfiction: Insights from Laura Westby Cannon
August 14, 2026
Laura Westby Cannon grew up in Valley City, North Dakota, where it was her job to water the flower garden. Her creative work has appeared in Tahoma Literary Review, Revisionist, and Blue Mountain Review, among others. She’s taught creative and academic writing at the College of Charleston since 2018, and her family resides alongside the zinnias in North Charleston, SC.
Tell us a bit about yourself, something more than just what’s in your bio. Perhaps a fun fact not a lot of people know.
Attending Super Asthma Saturday at the FargoDome one Saturday in the late-90s was an emblem of honor to my younger self. During the event, groups of us asthmatic kids were shuffled from station to station to learn about new spacer technology and talk about our feelings. It was all very important to me back then. I told a visual artist friend years later and she designed a Super Asthma Saturday shirt for me — and a matching one for my newborn daughter — which we still have!
Life is full of moments worthy of writing about. What inspired you to write Beauty Like That?
I was struck by the abundance of the zinnias in our planter last year and equally surprised by how much joy they brought not only me, but my family, our friends, and people walking by the house. As I drafted this piece, I began to consider how much work happens before the final blooms pop, which nicely mirrors human growth—there’s so much unseen work in the daily rhythms of both.
I also thought about how we — often girls —- are taught to quell their strength, talents, and beauty. The zinnias boasted in a way that offered a kind of permission to just exist for the sake of existing that I want my children to embrace in a way I haven’t always done. I was struck by how deeply moving it is simply to pay attention to the natural world for these lessons.
At what point in your life did you begin writing and working on creative nonfiction?
I took a Creative Nonfiction class in college. Before then, I didn’t even know this kind of writing was a possibility. I wrote an essay with a line about my grandmother and I credit that moment with the beginning of realizing my voice. I declared English as a major soon after.
In the States we call this style creative nonfiction, but there’s a beautiful word in Portuguese for capturing these moments: crónica. I like the concept of chronicling our lives; small proofs that we existed.
Do you write in other genres, and if so, what?
Yes! I finished the first draft of a fiction manuscript this summer, which was an absolute flurry of excitement.
How do you make expression a part of your daily life, or how do you find a balance between your writing and other responsibilities?
Creative expression is constant. I take a lot of joy from being in the kitchen, especially baking all kinds of bread. I also derive a lot of joy in giving much of it away. The excitement people have!
During these slower summer days, my children and I put on music and paint. Eat popcorn. Do crafts if we absolutely must. Dance.
At the risk of being overly-dramatic, I’ve had to learn to lean into the discomfort, which is a Buddhist principle. What I mean by discomfort is that my time is constantly being disrupted by my kids, my elderly dog, my spouse, the business responsibilities, teaching —- living. One day I’ll again have three hours every morning to write. But now, I’ve learned to write down lines as they arrive. I take time-outs on the back porch for 20-minute “writing sprints” and my family knows not to find me. I’m currently writing this answer with my children sitting in my personal space to watch, but I think it’s important that they see me do these things. I want them to live with joy, too, and I believe creative expression is a big piece of that.
Are there any special projects, other pieces, or books you’d like to promote?
My short story “Momma Had a Mean Streak” was published earlier this year in Blue Mountain Review.”
I’d love to promote a published book, but I’m not there quite yet. I’m looking for an agent (help!).
I’d also be remiss not to also mention the Revisionist Foundation, a new Charleston-area nonprofit that seeks to embolden women in their creative pursuits (art, writing, culinary), which I’m thrilled to help build and watch grow.
What do you think when you hear, “the good life”?
The posture of gratitude in all circumstances, which I don’t say carelessly.
Thank you, Laura, for sharing a slice of your life with us and for being a part of our growing community. We appreciate you and the time you spent on this Q&A. If you planted zinnias again this year, I bet they are amazing right now!!
We wish you a peaceful close to the summer season, and the best with all your writing endeavors!
I’m six years old when I marry my rabbit. After watching Princess Margaret’s black-and-white wedding on the television, I stand in our parquet-floored playroom, smart in my scarlet guardsman’s tunic and black trousers, holding Scrunchie, my black-and-white bride.
My younger brother, Andrew, archbishop-perfect in a gold-flocked curtain-cloak, chants gobbledygook from an upside-down encyclopedia. The wedding feast is a choice of carrot or half a bag of chocolate buttons.
Scrunchie has been married before. Daddy had paid five shillings for what was supposed to be two girl baby bunnies from Shepperton Pet Shop, but Pookie soon showed signs of what Mummy called dishonourable intentions. “He’s too amorous,” she said, as Daddy divided what had once been a chicken coop. “Maybe we’ll let him visit her when the time is right.”
My parents do not attend the ceremony. Daddy bangs around upstairs, packing for another trip. After he whizzes off, Mummy tells us they’re getting a divorce. None of my schoolfriends have parents who’ve got divorces and I worry they’ll need to be told, that the headmaster might announce it at Assembly, after the Lord’s Prayer.
Later, I’m sitting with my bunny bride on the piney sawdust of her chicken-coop house when Mummy calls from the back door to say it’s time for television, time for Crackerjack. I keep quiet and snuggle my cheek against Scrunchie’s warm, velvety ears, wondering if Daddy’s been too amorous, whether Mummy will let him visit us when the time is right.
About the Author:
Chris Cottom lives near Macclesfield, UK. His work features in 100 Word Story, Bending Genres, Fictive Dream, FlashFlood, Flash Frontier, Gooseberry Pie, Leon Literary Review, MoonPark Review, NFFD NZ, New World Writing Quarterly, Oyster River Pages, Roi Fainéant, The Lascaux Review, and elsewhere. Find him at https://chriscottom.wixsite.com/chriscottom
‘The way that we handle [geolocation] uncertainty is by taking a star sighting during missile fight, to then effectively correct for the initial position error.’
—pp. 206–7 from “Nuclear War: A Scenario”
Romance is nature under our mouths and our hands— flowers to gardens, sea foam to vineyards, smatter of stars to a city plan, hills to hips. If nature, however, begets only nature, such that our tending and lining and sucking are natural, as are the noisy babies and tools, then so are the four hundred and fifty–five kilotons wearing exhaust like a wedding band, poking out of the sea— love’s ground zero —and tracing a nail along the Great Bear’s grooves ‘til it snags a tuft of Beijing, woos in the new world with Titan Arum ikebana.
About the Author:
Costantino Toth is a researcher, warehouse worker, and writer. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Epiphany, The Rumpus, and Two Thirds North. She is currently pursuing her M.A. in Cultural Astronomy and Astrology at the University of Wales, Trinity Saint David, while residing in Florida with Romoletto, her little cat. Her writing and research trace the tanglings of art, ancient history, and divination.
“Red, red, red!” Everyone cheered, flinging crystal glasses of champagne into one another, grabbing me by my pastel-brown suit jacket. The dealer loaded a cheap plastic ball into the roulette wheel as a woman in a sparkly silver dress eye-fucked me into serenity. “Place your bets!” he hollered.
“Red!” I shouted back, shoving my $287,000 of life savings into the table. The crowd roared, hands raining down on me—slapping my back, nails rubbing into my neck.
“Don’t forget me,” the silver woman smirked, angling her lips toward mine, the scent of Hennessy curling into my nose. The soft feel of that cold Glock drifted into my mind, still lingering in my beat-up green pickup truck. Biding its time for the sweet release of black.
“Don’t forget me either,” I said softly, my lips almost pressed onto hers, the thought of my ex-wife’s cackling laugh nearly thinning into whisper. Closing my eyes, I tasted red—her smug smile dissolving into ash, custody papers ripping into the air.
The dealer shot the ball, rippling up and down the wheel. Red, black, red, black. The odd green swirling in. Every roll held a blissful future — the world collapsing into nothing or blooming under my palms. It wasn’t a fool’s bet. It was the opposite of marriage.
The silver woman rested her head on my shoulder, pulling me in. I looked into her eyes as I caught the soft glimmer of black, settling on the wheel. Smirking, I leaned in, grabbing her by her waist, my Glock smiling from the truck. She kissed me back as I devoured her lips, her raven lipstick claiming me. My hands found their way on her paper-thin throat, almost grasping—when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Opening my eyes, the crowd was utterly silent. A man in a flamingo shirt covered his mouth, pointing at me.
“Thirty-six… red,” the dealer called out.
Hennessy drained from my veins. The crowd erupted in a frenzy, thudding at my back, reverberating up my spine as the silver woman cackled, rubbing at my groin. I sat still, vision blurring as red filled the edges. My ex in a white dress. My boy in a suit too big for him, calling another man Dad. The dealer already reloading the ball.
About the Author:
Sanum Patel is a South Asian writer and attorney based in New York City. He writes both to unsettle and make you laugh, often threading humor and horror in his works. His writing has appeared in outlets including Kweli, Out Front Magazine, and Decolonial Passage, and has received editorial recognition from The Missouri Review. He will attend The Kenyon Review Writers Workshop and the DISQUIET International Literary Program in summer 2026.
Carolyn Williams-Noren is a poet, essayist, and maker of comics. Her poems and essays have appeared in numerous journals and have earned Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations, a Best American Essays notables mention, and the support of the Minnesota State Arts Board, the McKnight Foundation, and Writing x Writers. Carolyn lives in Minneapolis, where she freelances as a copy editor and writer. Besides writing poems and essays, she connects with readers everywhere via the emailed recipe comic “This is good.”
Carolyn’spoetry collection, Oil Courses, won the 2025 Stan and Tom Wick Poetry Prize and will be out September 8 from Kent State University Press. The book reckons with her childhood close to the oil industry in Alaska.
Cover art by Molly Megan Keenan
Carolyn was recently interviewed by Lee Colin Thomas, author of Honey in the Dark.
Lee: Tell us about Oil Courses. What is it “about” for you as a poet? What will readers find in the book’s pages?
Carolyn: My dad’s career was with an oil company in Alaska, and I worked for the company myself one summer. My life today is very different from that—I live in Minneapolis, doing work that feels distant from the project of taking oil out of the ground, if not always its opposite. The poems look back at that time “close” to oil with curiosity. I basically asked myself over and over, “When was I closest to oil? What did that do to me? What did I learn?” and wrote the answers.
Lee: How and when did this project start for you?
Carolyn: For a long time, I’d set aside this part of my history. I was ashamed of it. And it was easy not to talk about it. But a few things made me want to reconnect with those memories.
Throughout the 2010s, in conversations about racism, I took in the idea that when we’re not proud of our past, individually or collectively, we cannot make it disappear by declaring ourselves separate from it. We have to look at how injustice has shaped us. I thought a lot about the role of shame for white people in conversations about racism—how shame blocks learning and transformation.
I also had a key conversation with a friend who’s a leader in the climate movement. I mentioned to her that I have a hard time in rooms where the vibe is simply “Oil is evil.” I always feel aware of how much our lives depend on it.
Her answer, which I didn’t expect, was “You are describing the work that every single one of us needs to do right now.” Meaning to recognize how reliant we are on this form of energy, to acknowledge what we’ve done and are doing. And to choose something different anyway. Even while we’re still made of it, still powered by it. It feels impossible, and yet it’s what’s needed if we’re going to make any kind of livable future. I started to see that my story could have some relevance beyond my own internal mess.
Lee: The table of contents in Oil Courses is very interesting. You’ve titled each poem after an academic subject paired with a number and a date. How did you arrive at this schema?
Carolyn: For a long time, I kept the poems untitled, or I used first lines or dates as titles. You know this, Lee, because you were one of the patient early readers who would look at a poem, give me encouraging and constructive feedback, and then say “It needs a title!” … and listen patiently while I resisted.
I felt that adding individual titles too soon would keep me from seeing what else the collection could hold. I didn’t want to close off the possibilities too early.
The idea of a course catalog, the idea of poems titled with the names of classes—those came after the writing and revision and reordering, and after many months of doing nothing, just waiting for the idea that would hold all these together as a book. And then, after that idea came, it felt important to keep the dates; I want readers to have a sense of when and where they’re landing as they enter each poem.
Lee: What went into your decision to forego chronological order when assembling the manuscript?
Carolyn: Some of it had to do with inviting readers in. Some information needs to come early so the later poems make sense.
You’d think a chronological telling would be friendlier, but the book isn’t just about what happened over some years in the late 1900s—it’s about standing here and looking back at that time (re-entering some of those memories for the first time in many years), and what happens when we bring those events into now. I chose the order pretty intuitively. Maybe that’s just another way of saying I can’t explain all my reasons! In some ways, the order mirrors the process of remembering.
Lee: What do you understand differently now compared to before you wrote the book?
Carolyn: The biggest new understanding came from a conversation I had with a high school classmate. I hadn’t talked with this person for many years, and I (creepily?) found him online and arranged a phone call because I wanted to compare notes on some memories, and also to hear his reflections generally. His dad worked for the same company my dad did, and like mine, his family was only in Anchorage because of that job.
In the course of this conversation, he said in the most light, easy way, “I definitely feel a deep sense of hypocrisy every day of my life.”
And hearing that, I say in the poem, “I feel closer to home than I’ve been in a long time.” That posture—hypocrisy, embraced without anguish—was a real gift of my childhood.
In moving away from oil, hypocrisy is inevitable. If we’re paying attention, we’ll be suffused, constantly, with knowledge of our complicity, and we can’t let that stop us from pushing for change. To paraphrase another passage from the book, “rely” and “fight” do live in the same house—they must. We have to be ok with that discomfort if we’re going to get this world onto a different path.
Lee: The setting for much of Oil Courses is Alaska, a place often described as a wilderness or, as you put it in the book, for its vastness. How does that place of ice and snow, moose and bear, influence the individual poems and the book overall?
Carolyn: One thing is that wherever you live—especially as a child, but really always—is going to feel ordinary, possibly boring.
I worked retail jobs some summers, serving tourists who were walking around having moment-by-moment spiritual experiences: The mountains! The view of the inlet! They’d glow at me and ask, “What must it be like to live here?!” And I’d be like, “Lady, I’m just making the popcorn.” Or whatever.
And now I’m an outsider. These are my memories—of the moose encounter, of what I knew about bears, what I knew about the mud flats, what happened in our high school parking lot, and so on. When I lived them, they were ordinary (a word I maybe overuse in the book). But I’m using those stories now as an outsider. I haven’t set foot in Alaska since 2004!
So Alaska is a character in the book, or several. “Wild” and “far” are sort of the default metaphors for Alaska, aren’t they? I hope I’m also working against those a little bit.
Lee: What is the role of guilt in this work?
Carolyn: I read somewhere—I wish I could remember where—that we are too often taught that we’re both innocent and powerless, and that to repair what’s wrong we need to change both of those things. To see our complicity and our power.
In conversations about climate change, there can be a sense that we’re all simply victims of giant and evil companies that work in their own interests and not ours. There’s truth to that, but also we’re never as far from oil as we think we are.
I want to show that to be guilty, to be complicit, doesn’t look like you’d think it would. Chances are it looks like what you’re doing right now—whatever you’re doing. I think a lot about these lines from “Essay [1983–Now],” the longest poem in the book:
Your coffee cup in the morning: I’m telling you that’s exactly how it feels to be complicit, to benefit. I lay on the floor figuring out my math homework, I’m saying.
I’m saying I watched Three’s Company after school.
I want to be careful not to take that all the way to nihilism. “We’re all guilty no matter what, so why try to change things?” That can’t be it. We need that other part, too—to notice our power and use it.
Lee: Tell us about the cover art. What’s the story behind it?
Carolyn: I’ve loved Molly Megan Keenan’s collages for a long time, and I’m so grateful she said yes to creating this piece for the cover. She read the poems, we talked, and she did her thing. I couldn’t have predicted what she came up with, and yet it’s very true to the book—perfect.
One little treat: The oil derrick on the back cover is cut from the Isaac Asimov book How Did We Find Out About Oil?, which appears in a couple of the poems.
More About the interviewer:
Lee Colin Thomas is a poet, communications consultant, and university instructor. He is the author of Honey in the Dark, which won the 2020 Brighthorse Prize for poetry and was published in Fall 2021. Lee’s poems have appeared in Poet Lore,Water~Stone Review, Narrative Magazine, and various other journals. He lives in Minneapolis.
Thank you, Lee and Carolyn, for working with us on this interview. We appreciate you being part of our growing community, and we wish you both the best in your current and future writing endeavors.
