Green Mountains Review Open for Submissions!

The 2014 Neil Shepard Prizes in Poetry, Fiction, and Creative Nonfiction is now open for submissions. The contest is hosted by Green Mountains Review, edited by Leapfrog author Jacob White.

Short Stories — For FREE!

Our short stories are now free online! Bookslinger comes preloaded with short stories from independent publishers around the world. Every week we let fly a free story from one of our award-winning publishers. Available on iTunes.

Just out:

“Our Big Game” from “Immanence of God in the Tropics” by George Rosen



Recent Leapfrog Press stories available on Bookslinger:



“Shadowboxing” from “Dancing at the Gold Monkey” by Allen Learst





“The Floods” from “And Yet They Were Happy” by Helen Phillips





“Men in Brown” from “How to Stop Loving Someone” by Joan Connor
— this one is guaranteed to make you fall out of your chair laughing!

Being Dead in South Carolina – Three Guys One Book Review

In Robert Altman’s McCabe & Mrs. Miller, Warren Beatty’s John McCabe—with all his roughness and maundering—grumbles, “I got poetry in me,” an assertion with which nobody around him seems to agree. This dialogue kept running through my head while I read Being Dead in South Carolina, Jacob White’s debut short story collection, which begins with a question: “Look. Have you ever tried to right a car you yourself have tumbled?” Immediately, the reader intuits that this narrator is a fuck-up who spends his life attempting to fix disasters that he himself has caused. But check out the way he describes the overturned car: He calls it a “strange articulation of stupidity and rebirth.” He may be a fuck-up, but he got poetry in him.

The majority of the 17 stories in Being Dead are told in a conversational first-person voice. Many of these narrators are ne’er-do-wells whose unremarkable lives dot the American South; in this way, the book’s cover—a cheap-looking couch perched next to shimmering water—is a perfect evocation of its contents. But if you’re a reader fed up with the MFA-workshop-story conventions usually (if not entirely correctly) blamed on Raymond Carver’s brand of “dirty realism,” don’t be turned off.

Consider, again, that opening story—titled “Being Dead in South Carolina”—in which the narrator, after righting the car, ends up at a bar with some friends. By this point, the reader has learned that the narrator was shot in the head years before and has weakened mental faculties as a result. This feels like a familiar redemption story—he will fix his life, connect with other people, etc. etc.—until the final paragraph, which turns in a sudden, frightening direction. “I’ve been born again a thousand times,” the narrator says in the closing moments, “and each time’s scarier than the last.”

Consider, also, “Bethel,” in which the narrator recalls the time that his brother reappeared at the family’s farmhouse after a mysterious (and maybe murderous) six-year absence. The narrator was 12 at that time, and is now a middle-aged trucker. “Bethel” reaches its climax between the 12-year-old narrator and his brother, and then returns to the present, and then keeps going on and on for too many rambling pages, it seems, until it becomes clear that the story is actually about the narrator’s disturbing present-day psychology. White’s endings always force the reader to reconsider what s/he thought the story was about…

“The Days Down Here,” Being Dead’s centerpiece and best story, [is one] in which Hammond and Jean, an old married couple, have moved to South Carolina with their 19-year-old son, Zach. Their days are idyllic, but punctured with brutal flash forwards—“This was only weeks before her cheeks sallowed and sank, before her eyes turned to pitch”—which remind the reader that Jean has cancer and that these days, though idyllic, will be her last. The story becomes a sun-soaked Amour, and White’s poetic flourishes are in fine form. (At dusk, the lake becomes “a floating city of gridlocked boats.”)

Eventually, those problematic prose poems seem like a rehearsal for the climax of “The Days Down Here,” when Hammond, the narrator, describes his son doing something fantastic in a lake while the sun sets and his movements become “smears of shadow.” Here, White’s leap into sustained poetic language feels organic, attached to Hammond’s experience of the world as it becomes heightened and lyrical. This is the best story—maybe the best moment—in Being Dead in South Carolina, and it establishes Jacob White as a fine new writer.

Read the complete review at

Crossborder March 2014 Issue

Heads up! The next issue of Crossborder is coming soon. If there’s a story you really love, please let us know and we will contact the author for an interview. You can subscribe here.

Spring 2014 Cover face - no bleed.indd

A Diner on the Edge of Town Alcy Leyva
There’s a Wait Jordan Smith
Orpheum Kevin Oderman
Isolation (poem) Eileen Berry
River, Clap Your Hands Cynthia Hawkins
A Lawyer in Islamistan Ali Eteraz
An Economic Novel Mark Brazaitis
Forgotten Exiles Cyril Dabydeen
When the Frost Comes Erin Pringle-Toungate
Words in Skin Alcy Leyva
Morning Sarah Gerkensmeyer

Read the opening of each story

A Diner on the Edge of Town
Alcy Leyva

Day 1

A fly walks into a diner…

(I’ll start from the beginning, sorry.)

As I tore open the sugar packet,
a piece of the pink wrapper fell from the bigger chunk,
sashayed in the air,
and did a medium-sized backflip
my coffee.

There’s a Wait
Jordan Smith

Millard’s will was simple enough. The house and assets would be sold, the investments liquidated, the proceeds placed in trust in three equal shares, thus neatly avoiding estate taxes and any disagreement about who got what. There was only one additional provision. The beneficiaries would each receive one personal bequest, an object to be placed prominently in each of their homes.  For the next twenty years, until the trust dissolved and the capital was distributed, the monthly income would be paid only when the trustees had certified by a personal and unannounced inspection that the object was where it was supposed to be and neither altered nor disguised in any way.

Kevin Oderman

The bulbs on the marquee illuminated the crowd pressed close to the door, but the line ran into the half darkness down the street. Orpheum. A word exotic to the boys. They’d been to the movies before, in Bend, to the Bijoux, which their mother—it seemed a long time ago—had told them meant jewels in French. Fielding had wondered about that, jewels? That was when they had already entered the shadow of their mother’s illness. She had told them a movie house was like a jewelry box, she thought, they kept the pretty things inside. The sparkling movies. Colors almost unbelievable. Simple stories. Happy endings, she’d said, and smiled her wan smile. And the boys had nodded. Already that seemed like a long time ago.

River Clap Your Hands
Cynthia Hawkins

Make shadows for me Jack. That’s what I always called Jack’s drawings when I was a kid.  With his eyes squinting into black slits of concentration and a wafting of his gnarled gray fingers gone straight, his hand would make its graceful pass over tables, walls, great pads of paper I eventually bought him, the surface growing gradually darker than its natural shade, darker until I could see the shapes he made.  Just a wave of his hand.  That’s all it took.  He was good, Jack.  He liked to add a kind of Deco flourish to limbs and fingers and the ends of hair twined with an imaginary breeze.  And Jack was drawing his self-portrait across the cracked concrete alley behind the strip mall where I was looking for boxes, the dark spindled sketch of his question-mark figure hanging like a shadow from my heels, when a woman burst through an emergency exit.  Like birds scattering off a lawn at the first hint of a doorknob twist, Jack was gone.  Just like that.

A Lawyer in Islamistan
Ali Eteraz

Mr. Eblis, a first year defence attorney in the country of Islamistan, sat in his office in the old part of Muhammadiya District and wondered if his solo practice was doomed to fail. Most people avoided criminal law like it was heresy. The trials were complicated and messy, and took an eternity.

He had wanted a high status job. Government. Academia. Morality. Anything that kept him out of court. He had hoped that upon the completion of his twelve year program he would be installed as a lecturer at Jurist’s Inn or invited to become an analyst at the Guardian Council.

An Economic Novel
Mark Brazaitis

Chapter 1

The scene in which the protagonists (soon-to-be lovers) meet: You’ll know from experience or fantasy what they say to each other, how their gestures convey a tangible longing, how, when they kiss, the world brightens, as if in a nuclear flash.

Forgotten Exiles
Cyril Dabydeen

I was meeting him again after a twenty-year lapse, and I figured he would be reluctant or self-conscious, my father. Time, distance, between us; and yes,  it would be his poverty, his house being a ramshackle place with a nondescript living room, and the doors being boards simply tacked together and the roof zinc sheets piled one on top of the other.  He’d been ailing too, arthritis wracking his bones, the relatives had said.

When the Frost Comes
Erin Pringle-Toungate

The girl and her mother sit at the small kitchen table, eating their cereal.  On TV, the weatherman stands in front of his colorful map.  He has gray hair and a red bow tie and is the same weatherman who visited the girl’s class and explained about Ls and Hs.  How Ls meant lousy weather and Hs meant happy weather—For the most part, he said.  She and the rest of the class were impressed since he was from the larger city where the shopping mall and movie theatre and hospitals were, and they saw him every night on TV, but there he was shaking hands with Mrs. Lindsey and standing in front of their chalkboard.  It was almost as good as the shopping mall Santa making a special visit, but since none of them believed in Santa anymore, the weatherman would do.

Words in Skin
Alcy Leyva

I sit back and enjoy the crunchy skin of the pig my father and uncles have roasted using smoking coals. We’re sitting in a driveway in the Bronx, but the smell of a fire pit and the rattle of dominoes screams of an island lost in their memories. My son sits at my feet with his New York Yankees hat and British character inspired toy trains which were made in China. I don’t give my son a piece because he distrusts anything new.

Sarah Gerkensmeyer

Every morning, my husband and I grab our briefcases and our stainless steel coffee thermoses.  We kiss each other on the cheek and then we kiss the dog on the cheek and then we pull the front door closed behind us and let the screen door give a happy slap.  Every morning, I set my stainless steel coffee thermos on the roof of my car and my husband sets his stainless steel coffee thermos on the roof of his car and then we open driver-side doors.  And right before ducking into the airtight spaces of our separate, efficient automobiles, every morning, we both see Harold waving at us from across the street, his other hand holding a slack hose above the brown-pocked grass.  Like usual, there’s no water coming out of the hose, and, like usual, my husband and I both wave back.

Interview with Jacob White, author of “Being Dead in South Carolina”

jacob white dead in sc cover

Leapfrog Press intern Sarah Rocco was able to get an inside look at author Jacob White’s new book Being Dead in South Carolina, a collection of fictional short stories. Highlighting various lifestyles in the modern South, these stories are perceptive and touching. They bring into focus the change between new and old stories, the change of people over time, and recognizing as well as righting personal disconnection. His book is currently undergoing production and will be available in December.

SR: I noticed the dialect/style of your narrative varies quite a bit.  How often did you pull from your own childhood/hometown for inspirations or settings?

JW: Often. But then the second I pull from it, it’s turned to something else, some other place, like the dream-reversed image of the street you grew up on: it’s utterly alien now, its mystery renewed. It took me a while to open myself to the mystery implicit in my imperfect renderings of these places; I fought my inaccuracy at first and tried this Proustian nonsense of recovery (nonsense only if you’re not a Proust). Then, exhausted, I realized I had dune-buggy privileges in these misshapen settings I was creating and went tearing off through the tree-line in search of something new.

This is sort of the case with the dialect too. The dialects where I come from fill your head like whiskey. (My friend had a dangerous older cousin who always hung out on my friend’s dock shirtless, pulling in catfish without a license, wiry and leathered and not part of anything resembling society. Someone told him Wildlife & Game would putter on by soon so he’d best let off fishing. “I’ll tell that old boy he can go to hell.” The strange emphasis of go was riveting. He was scary as hell. He told me I had a funny accent and asked where I was from. I was from two miles away.) But once I start writing a voice, it’s another rhythm that takes hold, a rhythm that is part auditory but part visual, too, inextricable from the words and syntax on the page. In fact, reading this “visual sound” on the page by other strong voice writers is almost always more potent for me than actually hearing the spoken dialect, even if it lacks the churning linguistic complexity and mud of oral utterance.

SR: Throughout your narratives, you reference and explore many innate human emotions such as hope, despair, stubbornness.  Would you say this collection is an exploration of those human emotions, or do you view it another way?

JW: I believe that the only emotion that I am consciously honed in on is confusion. Although now I am confused as to if confusion is even an emotion. But confusion is the engine. It is this confusion that makes us feel most alone, and that, because it can never be named, causes so much pain. You wake up each day and don’t know what the hell you are doing, and even if you learn to improvise, some sadness or loneliness will accrue over time and eventually deform you. Then, when the stalk has grown long enough, the slightest breeze can crease it so that it won’t ever stand up straight again. Somewhere Philip Roth says something like, No man understands the misfortune inherent in life until it is too late, and this is the misfortune of all men. In these stories I like to pick up when it’s too late, then try, as we all must, to go from there.

SR: Was there an overall thread or message you attempted to convey throughout the stories, or was each its own exploration? 

JW: Each was its own exploration. I can think of no thread or message to any of it. Losing the thread is perhaps the message. I think I was just trying to get to places where I could surprise myself, or end up in one of those transportingly strange Eudora Welty-scapes. Other times, it feels like enough to just send through a happy little charge of voltage.

SR: (Wolf Among Wolves) This story is told almost backwards; the ending is given within the first few paragraphs yet remains unconfirmed until the very end, instilling within the reader a sense of hope and caution as we decipher the validity of the opening paragraphs.  What was your purpose for arranging/writing the story this way?

JW: I think this is a story where I found a more authoritative voice. I didn’t set out to do this, it just happened, perhaps as a result of the uncharacteristic setting (upstate New York). It’s the close-held voice one needs to make it through those long heavy Finger Lake winters. Morons like Dayton from the title story wouldn’t make it to January in that climate.

At the same time, I think I was thinking about the power that can come from a sincere, temperate, balanced, unstraining first-person voice. This is something Walker Percy and Richard Ford can do: They strike, in the narrow vein of their finest work, a limpid and cool sensibility that attempts honestly and patiently to know itself. The movements of such a voice are careful enough not to stir up the bottom-mud and cloud the water, so that the inquiry is carried out within a rare clarity.

This kind of voice is also capable of producing a low and far-reaching tonal frequency that can be, with accumulation, quite affecting.

The narrator of “Wolf Among Wolves” is no Binx Bolling or Frank Bascombe (maybe he’s closer to the moony lug in “Rock Springs”), but he was comfortable to spend time with. I would want someone like him in my life. I placed him in a situation that demands immense silence and sobriety within the mind, and this silence, this winter stillness, creates some space for a different tonal and emotional experience.

SR: Do you have a favorite story?  Do you have a least favorite story?  Why?

JW: The collection’s coda might be “Episode Before Putting On Pants,” even though it barely, or hardly, merits the designation of “story”–it’s simply a burst of inner-racket that I was glad to get out and even gladder to see hit the page with the same bite and rhythm with which it had been eating me up inside. It is from a period in my life that I think is common for men in their early thirties, when they look back suddenly and realize that they have been a boob. So that their adulthood may commence, they set about to eradicate the boob, only to discover that this inner boob exists within a much larger boob, an endless boob, and that the more they set out to eradicate the boob, the more subsumed by it they become and the angrier they get. This is what that is.

Also, my mother is in this story and this story alone, even though her death is the lake that surrounds all of this.

I do have a least favorite. I won’t tell you what it is.

SR: Why did you decide to arrange the collection in the way you did?

JW: I tried to balance out the bluster and the narrative, the comedic and the elegiac, so that these things would not cancel out one another’s resonance–but also, too, so they would jangle together enough to create a little discord. My favorite story collections are devoid of “unifying themes” and tend to be uneven, unpredictable.

Also, I thought it right to begin with an overturned car. The collection ends with two crazy dudes racing hot-rod boats up and down the lake. That seems right, too, but for private reasons having to do with my love of this lake, which is so far gone now to pollution and development that it might as well have been a dream. That final story is an elegy for a place that has slipped away, beyond the reach even of the fake place in my story, withdrawn to some dignified stillness at the bottom of somewhere.

SR: (Unvanquished by the Dusk) I saw this story as a testament to the perseverance and stubbornness of humans, as well as the struggle for past and present to coexist.  What was your inspiration fro such a detailed and gritty journey?

JW: Indignity is a distinctly Southern art. It waits there at the core of all comedy. It waits at the core of our lives. Any truth about ourselves is bound to be an indignity. Dignity is no less a romance than chivalry. But the tug between this comic impulse and the romantic is a common confusion in the South, and this story is my attempt to indulge both.

One cannot claim indignity a distinctly Southern art without sounding a little romantic and daft. The more self-effacing a Southerner is, the more unctuously we feel his pride, even if the self-effacement is genuine and the pride non-existent. It’s a vestigial thing and we can’t shake it.

I wrote the romantically titled “Unvanquished by the Dusk” shortly after moving up north for my first time, to upstate New York, having lived in South Carolina for the previous twenty-five years. Up there I met for the first time my grandfather. He was 96 and still climbed up on his roof every winter to shovel off snow. He had been a golf pro, a fired gym teacher, and a pugilist, but when I knew him he was a gun collector. He had for most of his life, it seems, collected and restored antique guns, working for the last thirty years of his life on a multi-volume tome for the Kentucky Rifle Association on the history of gun-making in Revolutionary War-period New York State, handwritten installments of which he occasionally mailed me between two pieces of cardboard wrapped in a perfect envelope fashioned out of a paper grocery bag. These installments he selected and sent for no discernible reason, except that usually they contained an amusing anecdote about Indians. They all contained meticulous and precise pencil drawings, their shadings as rich and smooth as lead itself. He was a flinty but charming man, with a high brisk voice and a laugh like sandpaper. My father is a gentler man overall, compulsively comedic, and his laugh is more like a good heavy cleaver dicing up Boston butt on a soft oak chopping board inside someone’s hard kitchen. My father, too, was an accomplished golfer but also a devoted one, to the exclusion of other hobbies, despite a vestigial handiness and artisanship. But at fifty he began to lose feeling in his legs due to neuropathy. Some years later he had to give up golf. And now, as the golfing community he’s lived in for forty years wears well down in its heels, he abides still in a house whose living area and kitchen are on the second floor, accessible by steps he cannot climb so much as crash up, top-heavy on his wasted legs and slamming sacks of groceries off the walls as he gropes for a hold. My father was taken south at seven: My grandmother backed out of my grandfather’s house with the child behind her and a shotgun propped on her hip, pointed presumably at my grandfather. The two men got in touch thirty years later, but when my grandfather died, my father didn’t go to the funeral. None of us did. Now my father is an aging man himself, but the rare one who can participate in the comedy of his own indignity and even ham it up now and then with his precarious staggers. He once showed up at my house on my birthday after driving for six hours, and, attempting to hug me in front of our stoop, stumbled in his plastic foot braces and brought us both down violently into the grass and mud. With not uncommon ludicrousness, he happened to be wearing all white, and even as my brother and l struggled to get this heavy soiled man to his feet he could not stop laughing, even though there was no dignity in sight, not for miles. We were a bit freaked out by the fall, glancing at the windows of neighboring apartments. Each of our lives was in some kind of deep shit. Yet his laughter became an argument for our own. It was not a romantic laughter like in a movie, but the cold wash of water across the rocks. We weren’t fooling anyone, so might as well let off trying to fool ourselves, at least for a little while.

Jacob White lives in Ithaca, New York with his wife, son, and dog. He teaches at Ithaca College and is Fiction Editor and Web Editor for Green Mountains Review.