Category: Nonfiction

Our Best of the Web Nominations

The Splinter Generation is pleased to announce our Best of the Web Nominations for the last year. A big thanks to all our contributors, and a special congratulations to Amber Sparks, LaToya Jordan, and Timothy Marsh!

We’re going to take a well deserved break until the New Year, though we may be posting a bit here and there. x

Douglas Kearney Discusses the Page Versus Stage and other questions from The Black Automaton

I wanted to go back to the lab, and try to write poems that would demand the eye, demand a reader. And not only demand it, but reward it.

I’m not even going to lie to you; I want to be a poet people remember.

It is totally possible that one day I’m going to feel I’m sick of writing about black face and minstrel shows, and race, and I will write a poem about seeing my wife coming out of the swimming pool.

An Interview with Lance Corporal Jason Poole

(H)e’s thinking, “I wonder what happened to his face?” “Did he get in a car accident?” But I’m a very open person, so if anybody is just like, “Hey, I was just wanting to ask you a question. What’s wrong? What happened to your face?” You know, I would love to tell them. x

A Month Before 30, Summit of Signal Hill

Nonfiction by Timothy L. Marsh

The children surge from the bus, all squeals and skips in their wonderful youth. They strike the ground and stun the air, flow up and over the parking lot, plunge into Cabot Tower—thirty sets of fuel-injected legs firing on all summer cylinders.

Discussing The Ravenous Audience with Kate Durbin

“One of the things I really wanted to do in the book was to hold the audience responsible at the same time as hold the woman responsible.”

“I think poets are rock stars. I don’t know why they don’t think they are.”

“Something I’ve been doing since the book has been “finished” is thinking about how the book isn’t finished.”

Lieutenant – KIA

Nonfiction by Lisbeth Prifogle

I get it and I don’t. I think about staying in and volunteering to go to Afghanistan. It’s a right of passage for Marines. It’s a badge of courage. It’s who we are. I can’t explain it, but I understand it. What I don’t understand is that Trevor is dead. He was just a lieutenant. He had his whole life ahead of him. He had a career to jump into, a wife to meet and marry, and children to raise in the suburbs. He had all of that and more, but now it’s over.

An Interview with Walt Staton

…(T)he courage of people to migrate is a really inspiring thing, but it’s tough in a lot of ways because there isn’t a whole lot we can do. I mean, we are out there as medical people, and with food and water just to–– I guess if you find someone in their worst possible state, if they’re in real medical distress, then we can take them to a hospital or something. But the hardest part is realizing there is not a lot we can do. We can’t drive people places. So you meet these really amazing folks who are making a very powerful statement with their feet, you know, and you are just a little blip in their longer journey.

On Photographing My Mother

Nonfiction by Sara Dailey

In the few pictures there are of her as a child, her smile is a fixed gleam, tongue swallowing both sun and her father’s secret, how a wolf could wear the clothes of a man, his rumpled shirts and scent of farm, have the same big hands that killed chickens and crushed berries into blackberry wine. Looking at the oldest of the photos, taken when she was only five or six, feels to me like staring at a ghost. That girl has gone from her—like a chameleon might shed its skin, this second self has also been shed, like she’s tried to shed all traces of her rural upbringing, her knowledge of farm life and poverty in equal measure.

Red, Grey and Blue

by Daisy Eagan

All the windows are open. Someone nearby is blasting ranchera and I’m grateful that at least it’s not the out-of-tune Mariachi band that comes around sometimes. The man with the ice cream cart goes by ringing his tinny bell. The Ice Cream man replaces the Tamale man who came earlier in the day. The Tamale man stands by the open back door of his station wagon calling out, “Tamales comprados! Tamales!” He used to come by everyday at the same time until one morning I yelled out, “It’s 8:00 in the morning on a Saturday, for Christ’s sakes! SHUT! UP!” Since then he comes by less. Or maybe I just like to think it’s because of me.