Artists need a venue for their work because art in its truest form is meant to be shared. I read for Hippocampus because I want to help writers share their voice. That and I get to read all these great stories before anybody else!
Review: The 90-Day Novel: Unlock the Story Within by Alan Watt
As a long-time veteran of how-to-write books, there isn’t much I haven’t been told, studied, or devoured in an attempt to improve my craft. Any book promising writing miracles in three months instills in me the desire to leave the tome on the shelf.
Review: Queering the Tranny by Alex Drummond
A transgender and Cognitive Behavioral Psychotherapist from the United Kingdom, Alex Drummond is out to help a 21st world better understand the notion of gender. In reality, western society in general takes gender for granted: We are born either male or female. It is a black-and-white issue with no room for asterisks, footnotes or alternatives.
Editor’s Notes: December 2011
Are you still eating leftovers? If not, don’t worry—it’s leftover season; there are bound to be plenty more on the way as we move into December and into the holiday season. Speaking of leftovers, we have some final business to take care of from last month’s issue:
Editor’s Note: Remember in November Contest for Creative Nonfiction Winners Announced
We at Hippocampus Magazine are delighted to announce the winners of our first contest, the Remember in November Contest for Creative Nonfiction. A big congratulations to our winners!
X-rays Are My Souvenirs by Susan Rukeyser
If I were the type to write happy endings, I’d end with the four-foot, six-inch fence. It stood in the center of the brightly lit indoor ring of Cedar Lodge Farm, a show barn in Stamford, Connecticut. It was a November evening in 1982 and my hour was just about up. My mother would arrive any minute to fetch me for dinner and homework.
Doors that Open Shut by Lydie Raschka
“Why is there a bed?”
Dad was under the impression he’d been hired to work as a doctor again, although Mom had explained to him, many times, that he would be living here now. Obviously he’s unable to accept that this could really be happening to him. Or maybe he’s confused because his former colleague, Frank, lives at Huron Woods, too. They were ear, nose, and throat doctors together for over two decades.
Verismo by Vicki Mayk
The first time I heard the story of the opera Aida, I was sitting on the screened porch with my grandfather. Out beyond the screen, the fireflies sporadically lit the velvet darkness. On the porch, the light from the kitchen window cast a soft glow touching the top of my grandfather’s balding grey head. It didn’t quite reach me, lying prone on the old metal glider. I remained in darkness, hearing the story of the Egyptian princess who died sealed in a tomb with her lover Radames.
The Echo of a Fall by Anika Fajardo
My father and I stop near the fountain in the middle of a plaza. Baobabs and coconut trees lean over us and we are arm in arm as if we have been walking like this our whole lives. We sit on a bench as if we are not strangers, as if twenty years and the three thousand miles between Minnesota and Colombia have never separated us.
Outside by Deirdre Sinnott
Sometimes leaving a person alone is an act of love.
I was riding on a bus along Christopher Street when I looked out the window, past the gingko trees that were just turning yellow and dropping stinky fruits on sidewalks around Manhattan, to see Jason walking with his arm resting across the shoulders of his long-time girlfriend, Clarissa. Her long black hair tumbled over his steady shoulder. He enfolded her in his warm embrace. His lips were near her ear, and by his half smile, I imagined he was saying something clever. Jason’s face was heavier than when we were a couple.
