The much diminished electronic version of my school’s literary magazine is partway up. I must say, the online editor is no where near as precise as the the print managing editor was, nor half so handsome. Also I bet I make better toast.
Nevertheless, here is an excerpt from, followed by a link to, my non-fiction entry:
Stomach all but empty, my hangover the cantankerous but non-violent sort of fuzzy warmth, the kind that continues to stupefy rather than to nauseate or enrage. I ride on back roads not thinking much of the thick, dumpy snowflakes that droop more than drop onto the ground. I’m soft, everything’s soft. World’s soft. Nothing is covered; the snow isn’t even a fall, but an occasional flush. The ground is fluid. Turning bends and dipping suburban dead worm streets I forget my way through and toward Andy’s place. I don’t actually know the route if I think too hard about it, if I question my guesses in any way I dead-end in some no-where place. So I don’t think.
There’s a funny thing, that. I won best creative non-fiction last year. This year, I served as editor and on the non-fiction reading board, and as such recused myself from voting for myself, that is to say, I voted for anyone but myself. I won again, anyway. My school came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be fair for me to win twice, and as such I had to decline the award.
I would lie and say it doesn’t bother me, but I’ve won no awards in 2015, nor have I had anything serious accepted, let alone published. Getting the award would have, if nothing more, made me feel satisfactory.