“…Paris in the dark seemed covered by a dusky skin, almost as though it were living. The arches in the facades were the curve of a throat, the street corners elbows, and in the silence Bern could almost hear the warm thumpings of some heart deep beneath the residue of civilizations.”

                So begins the title story of Lauren Groff’s new collection, Delicate Edible Birds, with this female war correspondent’s evocation of occupied France. As with Bern’s view of wartime Paris, the stories in this collection reveal their inmost ‘hearts’ and layers of meaning through a variety of interlocking subplots and themes. Indirect references to conversation and action, the use of childhood and memories, the casual passage of large, undefined amounts of time between moments of dramatic tension, and eccentric motifs (stuffed exotic birds, divers) all give the pieces a dreamlike, poetic feel. However, the plots all contain enough suspense – actually heightened by the understatement – to keep one reading.

                Motherhood presents itself in various ways throughout Delicate Edible Birds. In the first story, Lucky Chow Fun, the main character, a bright teenage girl who loves literature and swimming, reflects upon fairy tales. “What most of the stories have in common is both a very good, absent mother and an evil, present one. [They] are not like real life in all its beautiful ambiguity. There are no semigood semiabsent mothers. Or, for that matter, semipresent very good ones.”

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Quillpens normally conjure up associations with scholars in monasteries and old white-wigged gentlemen scratching out the Declaration of Independence. However, they were once, and can still be, both practical materials for ordinary writers and objects of craftspersonship and style. Kelsi Dick, artist with The Brilliant Quill (www.thebrilliantquill.com) discusses her work as a modern-day quill pen designer: the making of the pens, what got her interested, the potential art of ordinary objects, the business aspect of marketing a craft.

I think I am more of a crafts person because I am so in love with art that is functional.  I can appreciate paintings on the wall, but I don’t want to make that kind of art myself.  I love to see people use what I make.  It’s a shame that often, just because something is useful, people think there’s no point in making it beautiful.  The “crafts” seem to embrace this idea more than the “arts.”

Susan Maciak’s Job Shopping: Don’t Settle for a Job that Sucks exemplifies creating literary lemonade out of the sour economy. She brings cleverness, snappy language and design sense to the employment guidebook market, incorporating advice on how to identify and market one’s skills into a gentle beige and light blue, dark green and purple color scheme. Graphics and the multicolored text and layout of each page draw readers in and focus their attention on the information presented, while the content is detailed enough to provide real information but short enough to avoid wordiness.

                Maciak’s upbeat tone empowers while sharing straightforward truth. Those working through her career program take practical action every step of the way, listing skills, developing written goals, evaluating and choosing options. The curriculum engages participants, keeping them involved while helping them put the concepts to memory.

                Job Shopping includes information useful for all ages, and goes beyond the traditional skills checklist/resume and interview pointers to offer information on how to work a room and talk with a variety of people, how and where to find job leads, and how to market oneself as a product, with a concise pitch describing skills and career interests. The comprehensive nature of this resource will come in handy in the modern economy, where one must increasingly promote oneself: simply filling out applications and sending resumes and being willing to work will not go far enough.

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Welcome to the February issue of Synchronized Chaos! Happy Chinese New Year/Martin Luther King Day/Valentine’s Day/Black History Month!

This month we’re exploring various aspects of the primal and modern heroic journey. What would a hero, or heroine’s adventure look like in modern society? Do we still have frontiers, wide open spaces, places to challenge and find oneself in the wilderness? What does it mean to be a hero in these changing, uncertain economic times, when many people find themselves less capable of risk-taking or altruism than they expected?

We received a good number of submissions this month, some from previously published authors who wish to continue as part of the Synchronized Chaos family, which we strongly encourage, and others from talented newcomers.

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“Tang” 

Whenever I’m sad, bored or just at a loss for funny thoughts to make others smile with a mixture of disbelief and morbid curiosity, I comb through my thick, matted, flea infested creature of a past.
On a recent shopping trip to the European Mega-store Carrefour “the French Wal-mart for those of you who might need a little pick-me-up by way of shaming me for my lack of morality,” I spotted a familiar orange and green logo while searching for a suitably exciting weekend beverage. Four block letters, spelling one unmistakable word. TANG! In fact, it was an economy pack of pre-made “juice” boxes of TANG.

My gut reaction was to fill my cart with as many crates of it as I could find. It seems that the longer I live the glamourous life of an expat, the more comforting and thrilling little reminders of my childhood in the urban American Midwest become. Then I remembered why I remembered TANG, and the lust died out.

Read more of “Tang” and her other stories, “Dance as Revenge,” and “Mosquito Ranch” here: http://ladycatherina.livejournal.com/334914.html

Faracy’s biography and artist statement:

Faracy Grouse is an American writer originally from Minneapolis. She just moved to Britain after four years in Seville, Spain as the resident foreigner in a neighborhood where a man being seen hanging out laundry could cause a building wide sensation.

 As a child she was slow to read and write, unable to do either until the age of eight. Instead she would make up the rest of the story or draw pictures to remind herself what she was supposed to have written if asked to read aloud. Dyslexic and excruciatingly shy, she was not able to take refuge in books the way that many quiet children do. Where she excelled was in drawing and creating worlds in her mind.

 However, by the age of 11 she was a voracious reader, particularly of non-fiction books about foreign cultures. She knew from a very early age that she wanted to see the world.

 She first discovered a love for poetry at the age of 13 through an article on Russian poet Alexander Pushkin in an issue of National Geographic.

With the encouragement of a few creative English teachers, she began to write prose and poetry as a teenager.

 After studying voice, she went on to complete a degree in Anthropology and European History, marrying a man she met in Spain and having a child in the process.

During the breakdown of this marriage, she took up writing once again. This time it was to survive. She felt that she could write her way out of a terrible situation, and in the end she did.

 She has written a full-length screenplay, numerous short stories and put together several collections of poetry. She is currently working on a memoir.

Faracy would very much appreciate hearing your input about her work, and would be more than happy to discuss publication with any who may be interested.

You may contact Faracy at alumine3@gmail.com

“Untitled” by David Mitchell

For Synchronized Chaos, posted here to get around WordPress’ post size limits.

Joe had argued, insisted that the color scheme for the bathroom be muted whites my argument was that no matter what the color, mildew would make it a nice, even shade of green. He’d seen some brilliant use of eggshell white in a do-it-yourself book, or maybe on TV, I don’t know. We compromised: he got to do the bathroom in whatever way he wanted, and I didn’t have to lift a hammer during the whole project. When he was finished every surface was a different shade of white; antique white for the tub and toilet, cream white for the counter tops and sink, and eggshell white for the tile floor and walls. White as a color scheme is tranquil, but hard to keep clean. Something else we would argue about, and make up for afterwards.

Please read more here:

http://ladycatherina.livejournal.com/334810.html

David Mitchell says: As with all good writing, there is a bit of truth to the lie. As for writers I enjoy, it’s complicated. I read a lot of genre stuff like The Dresden Files by Jim Butcher, The Ice and Fire Series by George R. R. Martin, that man can write characters so real and sympathetic it makes me cry! Other writers: Neil Gaiman, Clive Barker, Michael Chabon, Neil Stephenson, Cory Doctorow, H.P. Lovecraft, you get the picture I think.

You may reach him at dbmitchell@gmail.com and he occasionally visits the Crosstown Coffeehouse in Alameda, California. Open mic events there (music and spoken word) every Thursday at seven. I also occasionally attend these and would love to see more of the Synchronized Chaos family!

                                            The Memory Jug

My mother died in her sleep last week. She was 78 years old. My brother and sister came for the funeral, and to get her things in order. My brother came from Washington D.C., my sister from Los Angeles, and I from New York City. My brother handled the legal stuff, my sister dealt with the friends and mourners that my mother left behind, and I made a memory jug.  It was something our family had done for loved ones for years. Our ancestors acquired the tradition from the slaves they once owned, who had brought it from Africa. It would carry all the pieces of her life. I used a vase I’d made for her when I was in my high school art class. It sat in the foyer, in the place of honor, where you could see it right when you walked in the front door. My mother saved everything I ever made. Each crayon drawing and lump of clay. My siblings and I were her greatest source of pride. I covered it in red clay, and while it was still soft and malleable I pressed objects into the clay. I pressed the objects that made up my mother into the clay. I pressed my mother into the clay.

This is what I put in my mother’s memory jug:

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