Archeophony by Sean Trott

When I was a young boy, my mother showed me how to tune the radio to hear the voices of the dead. The secret, she explained, lay not only in the frequency one landed on but in the precise…
When I was a young boy, my mother showed me how to tune the radio to hear the voices of the dead. The secret, she explained, lay not only in the frequency one landed on but in the precise…
They are tearing down Women’s Hospital, where I gave birth to my youngest two, a girl against the flame-bright maples of November, a boy in June’s fat sweat. For years, the hospital stands silent, as we drive to the…
“The fuck you take your gloves off again?” you growled, never letting up, the oldest. Brother trip, our third in two years, anywhere there’d be northern lights. We hiked out of the frozen Alaskan woods—the black-dark, wraith rider intimidation…
I am on the East Side of Columbus, Ohio. One street over from Lev’s Pawn Shop is an abandoned storefront where I met my ex-lover when we were in high school. He cuts hair now in a barbershop on…
After the texts fizzled out with the fifth guy in six weeks, Naz finally gave up and changed her app settings to full-on gay. Self-cannibalism would’ve been less painful than having a conversation with these one-neuron fools and she…
In dreams at the backs of my eyelids, I was still twelve years old traveling in a car luminous with anger. I could feel the slow braking as we turned onto the county highway. I could see the horizon…
Consider the personal effects one leaves behind, the way those objects, once laid out, recall the idiosyncratic logic of a life—is there more compelling inspiration for a novel? Authors Coco Picard and Sue Mell met through the BookEnds SUNY…
By Patrick Thomas Henry • Wherever I write, I stow props: photographs and notebooks, found objects, mementoes of life away from the page. Despite my effort to shake off the strictures of my own workshop experiences, I still believe…
The way Appa held the sponge-tipped brush of white shoe polish. The way he ran the snowy viscosity over my scuffed canvas shoes, on top of the laces, around the eyelets. The way he placed my shoes under the…
This shape, he said to his niece as he tossed her the ball on the grass. This roundness, this perfection of throwing and catching, this can be the thing for a good long while. He did not tell her…
It’s easy to shake off the suspicion that there’s a story contained in something as ordinary as a game of catch. Working (and playing catch) with kids has taught me how wrong it is to be so dismissive. There’s a story in ordinary things because who’s doing those things is people. Children themselves just seem to already know that.
Being around kids can key you in to the story that’s happening around you all the time. And it teaches you to be decisive, which I think is an important trait for writing (and most things). I’ve had to decide if the thing that feels like a story when I’m around kids is a story or not. For a long time, when I first worked at a school, the decision was a terrifying one because I was afraid of the fall. The fall is the feeling of leaving a world with children and wondering if what happens there may be cute and nice and even beautiful, but that somehow it isn’t life. I think this suspicion arose for me because the distance between the world with children and the world without them at one time seemed so vast.
It still is vast, but I decided, around the time that I decided to commit to a certain kind of writing, that it wasn’t too vast. Somehow I’ve come to believe that it’s part of my job as a writer to say that those worlds are the same world. It took an incredible amount of decisiveness, and it is still very much a process rather than a finished effort, but I knew that I liked what I wrote a lot more when boys and girls and men and women all occupied the same world.
In “Ball,” the uncle and the niece assert that they’re in the same world through their love of playing catch. But the game opens them up to more than a game, and they both want to extend that sameness out to the nephew, whose world is very far from anything that involves a ball. That’s really how the whole world of being with kids has been for me: take what you find there and extend it out to the world beyond children. It’s crazy, but it’s the particular kind of craziness that I love, and that makes me love what is possible with writing.
SIAMAK VOSSOUGHI is an Iranian-American writer living in Seattle. He has had stories published in Kenyon Review, The Missouri Review, Glimmer Train, Bennington Review, and Columbia Journal. His first collection, Better Than War, received a 2014 Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction and his second collection, A Sense of the Whole, received the 2019 Orison Fiction Prize.