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dispatch litareview 1 January 2011 issn 1217-1948 litareview.com subscribe@litareview.com

dispatchers: Matt DiGangi matt@litareview.com P. H. Madore dispatch@litareview.com

Publishing all forms of printed communication every three to five weeks. Submissions read year-round. Letters printed in the back of each issue (send to letters@litareview.com). Logo by Christy Call, circa February 2009. Typefaces: Magellan, Accolade, & the real mccoy. Presently seeking a solicitor, someone to get out the word to the best and brightest and bring us in submissions; a fisher of writers. What else? Oh yeah, thanks for caring.

editorial love notes meta pg. 5 On Money Noelle Adams fiction pg. 7 Mary Miller PHM conversation pg. 15 Pale Angel Larry O. Dean poem pg. 30 On the Busway Christopher James fiction pg. 32 contribudex meta pg. 52 shop talk meta pg. 53 cacaphony etc pg. 54 see also promo pg. 5 your letters meta pg. 5

am not sure where we are headed in this third era of dispatch litareview. Were about a month away from release, and all I know is that I love the things weve got in store for you. You might rightly wonder what happened to the second era. Its really as simple as anything else: life happens, things get foggy, and, you know, you lose interest in things you once loved. I lost interest. It wasnt the fault of the contributors. It wasnt the fault of the readers. It was my own fault, and the fault of a relationship gone sour for the third time over. Thats not being allegorical; its really the third time the woman has destroyed me, and likely not the last. You might assume that I like the pain. Whos to say? Regardless, let me not get distracted. We open this new era with a new addition to the staff (plus two notable subtractionsChristy Call and Christopher Laird), one Matt DiGangi, of Thieves Jargon fame. (Were in search of a solicitor or two, people to round up submissions from the best minds of the literary world.) The tone of the new era is set from the getgo with the Noelle Adams' fable, On Moneya lesson on the monetary system in and of itself, it is the kind of important work I have always looked for in the submissions box. Then onto a long conversation between myself and the utterly genius Mary Miller, poetry from Larry Dean, and a bone

DEAR READER,

chilling tale of stepmotherhood from newcomer ('round these parts) Christopher James. I believe very strongly that this issue of dispatch is the strongest, bestdesigned, bestedited, bestselected issue I have ever produced. I am fully aware that I always say that, but undeterred. You, the readership I have slowly gathered over the past five and a half years, have always been quite accepting of my experimental tendencies. I wanted to thank you for that and also to wish you a happy new year.

IN DEDICATION, phm

ON MONEY
Noelle Adams The United States would be mistaken to take for granted the dollar's place as the world's predominant reserve currency. Looking forward, there will increasingly be other options to the dollar. World Bank President Robert Zoellick

photo: Vlad Eftenie

n June of last year, the small country of O, known (if at all) for producing two world chess champions, took the extreme measure of converting its beleaguered currency, the farrut, to the US dollar. Having suffered from hyperinflation for the past decade, the socalled

dollarization program was an attempt at stabilizing a frail economy. A handful of small nations, including Ecuador and the Virgin Islands, have successfully used the US dollar instead of their own currency. On June 26th the farrut became officially null and void as legal tender in O, and the dollar, which had been introduced gradually into circulation over the previous months, became the only recognized currency in the country. Farruts could be exchanged at the Bancu Centrale at the rate of 127,000 For the first time in farruts to the dollar, up his life, he stuttered, until July 3rd. over the word As is widely known, shilling, disproving on July 5th the United any notion that it is States government impossible to stutter defaulted on its loans. over the sound sh. Overnight the dollar became all but worthless. While world economic markets reeled, Os Finance Minster, fighting to save the economic pulse of his small republic, sold state industries to the highest bidder; he used the resulting cash to establish the euro as the countrys new currency. As a result, the European bankcumcorporation Santander owned 80% of Os industries. Over the next several months this proved a disaster. The entire globe was scrambling for euros, and O, by asking for payment in euros, had simply priced itself out of the world market. Its exportdriven economy was at a standstill. Santander itself, refusing to throw good money after bad, sliced its ownership of Oian industries into tranches and bundled them into internationally diversified securities, which it then sold, mostly to Eastern European subsidiaries and Asian conglomerates, so that ultimately it was not clear who owned the floundering Oian manufacturing sector, nor its postal service. It was

indisputable, however, that there would be no cash infusion to keep Os factories in business, and without it the country was facing widescale unemployment. The only out was to lower the cost of labor. The finance minister convened his board of advisors and together the group decided on the unconventional move of converting the currency once again, this time to the British pound sterling, which had recently undergone a devaluation due to Britains quixotic attempts to bolster US financial markets. No sooner was the proposal announced than an activist group, People for Easy Money, staged a protest. Carrying signs that read Money Should Be Easy and Money Should Make Cents the group declared that the pound, with its subdivisions of shillings and pence, was too confusing. No one knows how many shillings are in a pound or how many pence are in a shilling, and no one wants to know, the spokesperson Bendra Letru declared. An overnight poll found People for Easy Money to have an 87% approval rating. The finance minister appeared on television the next evening to explain the pound had long ago been decimalized and shillings and guineas would not be in circulation. A quiet man with a PhD in mathematics and another in economics, the minister sweated copiously under the camera lights. For the first time in his life, he stuttered, over the word shilling, disproving any notion that it is impossible to stutter over the sound sh. He did not win over the hearts of the skeptical public. At the presidents request, the finance minister dropped the idea of making the pound Os new currency. Meeting late into the night, the board of economic advisors settled on the Chinese yuan as the ideal currency for O. The conversion was finalized on October 15th. On October 18th the Chinese Communist Party

began its conversion of all yuans to rupees. Not sure whether or not Os new currency, the now obsolete yuan, had any value at all on international monetary exchanges, the finance minister put his head in his hands and wept. At this point his board of advisors began a heated debate on what became known as the Yap option. On the small pacific island of Yap, stones of all shapes and sizes are used as moneythe larger the stone, the more it is worth. One board member had learned this as a teenager, when visiting the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC. In the The only out was to basement of the Museum lower the cost of labor. of Natural History stood an enormous piece of Yapese money, five feet tall and four feet wide. This board member suggested that Oians give up on any other kind of currency, and simply use the countrys stones as money. A second board member pointed out that the countrys limestone had been quarried long ago, to build the very building they were sitting in and all the others like it, and what was left over went to make the countrys characteristic chess pieces. There were no stones left in O. It was suggested they try anyway. Could they not pick another substance, such as quartz, or even bamboo, which could be readily grown and cut into small pieces that would serve as currency? It was suggested that the previous member of the board was a pinhead, did he not know that quartz was not among Os natural resources, and that if bamboo, which anyone could grow in his or her backyard, was made the countrys currency, O would be facing hyperinflation again. It was countered there was no need to throw around insults, board members were merely brainstorming, or thinking out loud.

It was suggested a government building could be torn down and cut into pieces to provide the limestone necessary to convert to a limestone currency. This proposal was seconded by two other board members. It was countered that this was the most pinheaded idea of them all, which statement raised a small cheer and cynical laughter from one side of the table. While the discussion degenerated around him, the finance minister lifted his head from his hands and stood up. Closing up his briefcase, he left the room without a word. His subordinates were too busy arguing with each other to notice. In a daze, his feet followed their habitual path to the place he frequented when in need of either solace or modest celebratory indulgence: The Ground Hog coffee shop across the street from the Treasury Department. He ordered an espressi cortadu and pulled a small, crumpled wad of yuans out of his pocket to pay. The barista shook his head. One pawn, he said. Pardon me? the minister responded. To illustrate, the barista produced a box from under the counter and pulled out a small chess piece. The box was filled with a jumble of figures, all made of the characteristic ochre and pink of Os limestone, in various styles and sizes, obviously culled from many different chess sets. One pawn, he repeated. If you only have a knight or a rook I can make change. Realizing that even as the board members argued themselves blue, his compatriots had already found a solution the problem, the minister pumped a triumphant fist in the air. The invisible hand will solve all problems! he shouted at the barista. Forgetting his coffee, the minister

instead went straight home and made love to his wife for the first time in a month. The next morning, he called a press conference and declared the countrys characteristic chess pieces, carved from pink and ochre limestone, to be the new currency. He issued an official government currency chart and warned against accepting foreignmade chess pieces, especially plastic ones. The infiltration of such substitutes, he admonished, would inflate the countrys currency and land O back in the same He ordered an espressi boat that had started cortadu and pulled a this mess. small, crumpled wad of For a time all yuans out of his pocket to pay. The barista shook was well. The months of fluctuating currency his head. and the worldmarket imposed moratorium on exports had lead to a spontaneous overhaul of the national economy. Farmers, who had exclusively grown wheat for export, had diversified their crops; cottage industries in clothing, paper, and kitchen gadgets had sprung up; mechanics and repair men had become adept at fixing the simplest and most complex machines with the limited parts available to them. People had taken to riding bicycles and even horses in lieu of getting around with inaccessible foreign oil. In short, O had become a modern utopia, with a selfsustaining local economy that neither grew nor shrank, but allowed for a comfortable, selffulfilling way of life for all of the nations citizens. Meanwhile the countrys carbon footprint was approaching zero. The chesspiece currency merely cemented the closed loop of this new way of life. The humble pawn became a symbol of national pride, while the finance minister himself became a national hero. Although he maintained that he had done nothing that the citizens of O did not do for

themselves, speaking invitations poured in from universities, farmers' unions and bridge clubs. He was even asked to host the Christmas TV Special and in the process became good friends with the celebrity host Giorgita Chista and the popsinger Amorosu. Plans were drawn up to erect his statue in Independence Plaza. The rest of the world was too busy panicking over its own economic woes to notice the radical changes O had embraced. Too busy, that is, until The Economist magazine ran a cover article on the little country that could. At first the attention was flattering. The president and the finance minister were invited to address the UN general assembly and the World Committee on Global Warming (WCGW). Even as the first wave of ecotourists arrived in O, the WCGW proposed the next climate change summit be held in O. The president readily accepted. Planning and preparations began. Meanwhile, the increasing number of visitors to the country found they had no limestone chess pieces of their own, so offered their national currencies to buy coffee and pay their bedandbreakfast bills. With little other choice, Oians accepted the foreign money, at times giving rooks and pawns as change. Soon a black market in foreign exchange sprang up. In an emergency session, Congress passed the Currency Protection Act, requiring all foreigners to exchange any chess pieces they had acquired during their stay back to their own currency when they left the country. Tourists did not wish to give up their chess pieces. They preferred to take them home as souvenirs of their trip. One by one, queens, bishops, knights and pawns were smuggled from the country. The Oians themselves drew up elaborate foreign exchange charts, which they carried in their pockets and referred to throughout the day as they negotiated the Babel of currency that had infiltrated their utopia. Soon enough, not a single chess piece could be found in O.

MARY MILLER
is the author of Less Shiny (Magic Helicopter, 2008/10), Big World (Short Flight/Long Drive, 2009) and numerous stories across the literary world, to include appearances in such magazines as American Short Fiction and the Oxford American. She is one of the few people who might be considered an internet writer who does not actually have a website. After reading Big World a couple months back, I felt compelled to meet the womanfor, to be completely honest, many of the characters in her stories reminded me of the women Ive fallen hardest for in life. My real motivation was to get her to sign a copy so I could send it to one such woman in Baltimore. This conversation was conducted between October 23rd, 2010 and November 1st, 2010. A short note of correction we never got around to in the conversation: the editor at Word Riot did, in fact, ask for permission to make the changes. My point was that I let him make them because I am okay with editors so doing, but I still felt the changes were misinformed. -P. H. Madore

photo: Julia Bond

PHM: Mary Miller. My memories of you seem to coincide with names like Kathy Fish and Julie Bolt (wasnt that her name?). I never read much of your longer work back then, in the Zoetrope Virtual Studio, but Im sure I critiqued a number of your flash fiction pieces. I havent even finished reading Big World yet. Every line is tightly crafted, but that is only the vehicle by which you deliver the truth. You live in Mississippi, which last I heard was sort of blue collar. Ive been through there a few times. Reminded me of Maine in some ways. What about your daily life do you think most informs the characters in Big World? Thats an annoying question. What informs your characters, though, or, I guess, where do they come from? MM: Thats funny about your first memories of me on Zoetrope. I was mostly writing flash then and I have no idea who Julie Bolt is. Zoetrope was such a great community for me at the time and I still participate in a few private offices (this sounds snobbish, I know, but the main boards are no longer helpful). Im actually not living in Mississippi anymore. I made it out! Im in Austin now, and have been here for a little over two months. Im getting another masters degree, this one at the University of Texas (Michener Center for Writers). Its amazing here and I feel a bit like an asshole for lucking into such a thing, actually. This week, I have a free badge to the Austin Film Festival which says Im a producer and I get to go to all these parties and films. Im sort of boring, though, so I havent been to any parties yet. About my characters: the narrators in BW are girls who will never get out of towns too small for them. They come from Jackson or Meridian or Hattiesburg, Mississippi. They stay briefly in better places like Nashville. They remain in unhappy situations for far too long and wait for things to

get better. As I change, though, my stories are changing. Very very slowly, but theyre changing. I don't think I'll be writing the same girl stuck in an unhappy marriage with a bad dog in three years (though, now that I think about it, Im working on another one of those stories right now). PHM: I had no idea you were living in Austin. Im in Killeen. Ive been in the Army since 2008. Theyre medically retiring me for some baggage I picked up overseas. So Im on my way out of the Army, but Ill be here at least until the spring. Im actually an uneducated slob, as many will tell you. But now the Armys going to pay for school, and Im definitely set on going to University of Maryland at College Park. Im with you on the main boards being less helpful as you progress thing. I havent gotten any really constructive feedback in years. The funny thing is that I just went there today and found that I had the thirdhighest rated story in August. I wouldnt consider that story the best thing I ever posted there, but thats the first time Ive ever gotten the honor. I think its that way for all writers, that as we grow our work grows with us. Unless youre Bret Easton Ellis. I think my writing is always a hangover from the last period in my life. How old are you, anyways? And what would you call your defining moment as a writer? (Mine would definitely have to be getting an advance for an article.) What do you mean when you say youre boring? I think I am boring. I just went on some kind of weird date with an annoying rich girl from Austin. I was boring because every time I brought up something that interested me, she would tell me to shut up. Literally. Now talk about snobby. What do you listen to while writing? Do you think its better to listen to instrumental music so as to avoid letting words into your head? Or do you listen to silence? Do you compose on a keyboard or longhand? Are you a socialite or

do you find it hard to meet people? Do you still smoke? How often do you stay up all night working on something, if ever, anymore? Any favorite literary magazines? What is the most brazen thing youve done, both as a writer and a person, and did it leave a scar? Do you think that self loathing is a necessary part of writing, because otherwise we are unable to be completely honest? Have you any thoughts on the insular nature of the writing world? MM: Why the University of Maryland? Are you from Maryland? All I know about Killeen is that I once knew a twelveyearold with a baby from there. Im pretty sure it was her fathers child and the Its like, yes, okay, babys eyes looked dead and youre on the watery and never learned to right patheven focus. That was about a decade ago, when I worked as though that path is windy and you an AmeriCorps volunteer for have no idea where six months in Austin after its going. undergrad (I was an AmeriCorps dropout). You can do the math on my age,ther e. Early thirties, fast approaching midthirties. When I first started writing, which was only five or six years ago, I felt like the young duck. I guess everyone has gotten older with me, though. Im sure youre not an uneducated slob. Or maybe youre uneducated formally, but you seem to have done a fine job educating yourself. If I had to pinpoint a defining moment as a writer, it would be my acceptance at Oxford American (for a long, plotless story). They paid me money that I could buy things with, a netbook for example, or a few nice dresses and a pair of boots. Before that, the most I think Id gotten was $1520. It was also a magazine that Id read for years and really respected. It made me think that perhaps what I

wanted to do with my life wasnt ridiculous, that I had some talent. It was also meaningful because Id left my husband about a week before and was living at my parents house, which was a weird and sad and humbling experience. I felt like such a loser. Things seem to work this waylittle confirmations from God or the universe to let you know that everythings going to be okay. When I moved to Hattiesburg, MS a year later to start my MA in English/Creative Writing, I was solicited by McSweeneys Quarterly. A week after moving to Austin, I got an acceptance from American Short Fiction. Then I got an agent. Its like, yes, okay, youre on the right patheven though that path is windy and you have no idea where its going. Sometimes I listen to Kate York or Aimee Mann or Kathleen Edwards while writing. Mostly, though, I like silence. I never write longhand except to make notes sometimes, but not very often. If I had to write longhand, I dont think Id be a writer, which seems weird but Im pretty sure its true. Favorite literary magazines: Fence, McSweeneys, Indiana Review, Ninth Letter, American Short Fiction, Tin House, and Hobart. There are so many magazines publishing really amazing work, and then there are others publishing really boring work. Or maybe its just not my aesthetic. The best advice any young writer could be given (as regards publishing) is to read lots of literary magazines and only submit to those you like. Ive stopped submitting to places like Glimmer Train and Ploughshares and Pleides. Theyd never publish me and I wouldnt want them to at this point. The most brazen things Ive done? I fall down sometimes and have a few scars as a result. Thats not brazen, though. I dont know. Nothing feels very brazen, but I suppose choosing this lifestyle is brazen. Its certainly not easy. People my age arent still in school. They have children, families of their own. They know how to cook. Its

a choice Ive made and Im proud of it but its not easy. PHM: Well, College Park is the closest state school within proximity of Baltimore which has a reputable English program. Im not from Maryland, but one day I hope to tell people that. Baltimore was the first place I ever felt at home, that I ever felt I belonged. Plus Im forever in love with a particular woman there, and we have that sort of thing that takes like your whole life to figure out. I love her, thats all, and moreover I love Baltimore for its grime and reality. I dont know that Ive stopped Im settling down, but Im submitting to places planting roots there. Were like Glimmer Train not together right now, and and Ploughshares so you can imagine that the and Pleides. Theyd past few years have been never publish me and hard. I saw her again in July I wouldnt want them and we both pretty much to at this point. lost our shit when I had to come back to Texas. Like literally. And so now Im getting out, but I dont mind. Steady paychecks arent all theyre cracked up to be. Killeen is a gigantic strip mall set up to serve the soldiers. Thats why it has next to no culture of its own, because every single decision ever made about it was made for monetary reasons. As far as your age goes, I did a Google and the myspaces gave you away. You sound like youve lived a fuller life than some of the people who might have the nerve to consider themselves your contemporaries. I think thats what I get about you, is that youve lived a little. I have too. Its easier for you to look back on stuff (I was born in 1987), whereas Im still in the midst of many things. I definitely think that the universe sends the struggling independent human signals to stay up. That

advance I mentioned happened to come at a time when I was on my final eviction notice. The editor also found me a job. Hell of a guy named Pete McCommons (editor of the Athens, GAbased Flagpole Magazine). Funny you should mention how humbling going home is. I could only tolerate it for like two months, after I got out of jail in Baltimore. (This is part of why I joined the army.) So you just recently got an agent, then? Congratulations! Have you written a novel? Is there something you want to tell us? Have you met Amelia Gray? I havent met her, even though Austin is so close. Then again, Ive come to realize that having writing in common is not enough to meet people. I met a ton of writers when I got back from Iraq. I spent all my money going around the country. It was a lot of fun. And I liked a lot of those people. But, big surprise, I didnt have much in common with most of them. I met (Hobartassociated) Elizabeth Ellen in Chicago. I was so tanked and stupid and hung up on the fact that that girl I mentioned earlier was nowhere to be found. She had a lost year out in the midwest. I thought she was dead. Her sister didnt even know where she was. I totally forgot about Ninth Letter. I remember finding the debut issue at Barnes & Noble in Athens. I remember being overwhelmed by the design. It definitely influenced the way I did dispatch back then, although at that time I was impatient and young and horrible at designing things. I think I eventually submitted something but I had already vacated the apartment (just left it furnished and bailed outit never even ended up on my credit report) and I later inquired by email and they let me know that it was not for them. Do you feel obligated to list Hobart? I dont read them much, but they did a hell of a job on Big World. How many of those stories were unpolished when you guys started the project? Speaking of, how much time do you spend writing? Ive only ever submitted to those "big markets" a few

times to date. I take it very seriously when I do that, as Im sure you do. I have a few things I think have major New Yorky potential, but I dont think Im ready to revise them fully yet. Its been a weird three years for me. I think I published more in 2006 than I have since. Thats where Im at now, as far as only submitting to the ones I like. Im allergic to absolute silence. I dont know how you do it. I think there was a time in my life where I was calm enough for that. Easy lives make for easily discouraged writers, dont they? And anyway, you mentioned an exhusband. Sounds like youve been down the family road one time already, and so theres nothing wrong with getting your life a little HTMLGIANT more how you want it before kind of scares me. trying that stuff again, if ever. I like reading the Im almost finished posts, but I hardly reading Big World. I think Im ever comment going to read it again before I because people give it to that girl I was talking seem so ready to about. That one story, Temp, take offense. she has to read it. But I think the whole book would bring a lot of comfort to her world. It would mean a lot to me if you could sign it sometime. MM: I agree that steady paychecks arent all theyre cracked up to beI used to work for the government and sat in a cubicle for eight hours a day. That being said, poverty really sucks. Im sort of fundamentally opposed to debt, so I lived off $1,000 a month for two years while working on my masters degree at the University of Southern Mississippi. Im still not sure how I did it. Its so exciting to have money again. I can buy myself clothes and shoes and socks! I can walk over to CVS and buy snacks and magazines! Its pretty

great. Not like I have a ton of money or anything, but enough to live decently and save up for things I want (right now I want a netbook and a bike and maybe, hopefully, to do some traveling next summer). I did just get an agent. Its exciting. Im not sure if Im a novelist, if Ill ever finish a good novel, and she seems to be okay with that, which is cool. So, well see. Im working on another collection, which should be finished pretty soon. Some of the stories are going to be published this winter: Fiction, Ninth Letter, American Short Fiction, some letters to the editor in McSweeneys. Aaron and Elizabeth (at Hobart) are also reprinting Big World, which Im happy about. I suppose I should get myself a website to talk about this stuff, but it seems like a lot of trouble. You should submit to the magazines you like, no matter how big or small they are. Thanks for reading BW, by the way. Did I say that already? Im glad you connected with Temp. It was one of the first stories I ever wrote and I never tried to get it published. Im not sure why now. Theres a lot of me in it, but its also very fictionalized. Elizabeth did some minor editing to the stories in BW (and a bit more substantial editing to "Not All Who Wander Are Lost"cutting a few paragraphs at the end, if I remember correctly). Im a slow writer and spend a lot of time getting my sentences the way I want them, so I generally dont love a whole lot of editing, at least on the sentence level. Id rather someone take off a paragraph or two than alter my sentences. HTMLGIANT kind of scares me. I like reading the posts, but I hardly ever comment because people seem so ready to take offense. Its ridiculous, really. John Brandon and I interviewed each other for a guest post there last spring and the comments got a little nasty. Some girl said: People have all kinds of ideas about themselves, often at the same time. Guess an interview is just the sound of

someone talking. This is taken out of context a bit, but basically someone had pointed out that Id said something contradictory. Amelia Gray is great! I read with her here in Austin at Bookwoman at the beginning of October, which was really fun. I love seeing her book get reviewed in places like the New York Times. Ive been meaning to meet up with her again for drinks, but shes traveling a lot and Im busy with my reading and writing. PHM: Poverty does suck, but ten minutes after you drag yourself out of it, you forget what it was like. Or you dont forget but you convince yourself that it will never happen again because youve worked so hard and gotten all your shit squared away. So youll fly along thinking youre invincible and getting away with everything you can, and then one day youll get high with some friends and the following day youll take a piss test and within a few weeks youre making less than you did washing dishes while working eighteen hours a day. That is, if youre me, and you just cant seem to take care of yourself for too very long unless you have a reason. If I could have found her, I know I wouldnt have blown my wad. Its a historical fact with me: left to my own devices, money is simply a fare ticket to the next distraction, be it a fuckingnother cigarette or a magazine to add to your massive stack. I spent a few months homeless in DC and Baltimore collectively. If things work out like they should, my military service should guarantee that that will never happen againyou can always find some shitsplat room for a couple hundred bucks a month, no matter where youre at, or at the very least it can make for a good enough contribution to a friend wholl let you stay with them. But I dont think its going to go down like that. Ive just had the rug pulled from under me so many times that I never really trust it, and then, like I said, I

generally find a way to take a header down the basement stairs when no ones around to stop me. Ah, such is life, and the struggle, my struggle, has always mostly been a war against such resignations. Standing up a website isnt as hard as you think. Dont dare pay anyone to do it for you. But you do need to get some sort of web presence beside your bio lines, because that other Mary Miller I think people in small might be giving people towns, in particular, the wrong impression. people who dont have Had a similar quandary access to a literary when I started writing, community and good and so knew from the bookstores, have a lot of beginning that Id have difficulty coming to to have a name which literature organically. made me sound pretentious. Gradually people (not readers, but other writers) have gotten over it. Every single one of my pseudonyms has a better name than me. Sycophantic at best, the crowd at HTMLGIANT just seems to miss a few things about community. When theyre not trying to bleed the same writerreaders for the same cash money, they are doing their damndest to make the internet writing scene as exclusive as possible. They want literature to be like a Zoetrope Private Office, I think. One time, I mentioned to a writer who loves that kind of place that it seemed like Phil Ochs small circle of friends. She said she could see that it was a circle, but that that was okay because it was gradually bringing new people into the fold. The fold. Gradually. And so we now have the same old, a wall between the ins and the outs, and that seems like the opposite of my literature for reasons I find hard to define. Our generation doesnt have a coherent gripe. Writers

are often misfits, I think, and its sad to see how rarely the most successful among us manage to change the tide. We could all do so much better by ourselves. Nepotism is an obvious thing around the webbed literary landscape, sure, but the term itself is bankrupt because no one ever promised professionalism and no one ever promised equality. I think two consistent things can be said about my writing and about the writing I love to read the most: it is part of a larger, parsed love letter to society and it would have allowed me to escape as a 14yearold kid too smart for my own good yet too rebellious to conform. I want the kids who grow up early but never grow up to see a brightly lit solar system. Organic is the best way for a person to come upon literature, absolutely, but I think that our generation has done next to nothing on a massive scale to revamp the methods by which people might organically happen upon it. Do you have any thoughts on this, or is this the kind of thing you hate about talking about writing? At various times I might hate a paragraph like the one I just wrote, were I reading it by another person, and so I can understand if youre indifferent toward it. Yes, yours is exactly the kind of voice that Elizabeth Ellen could only help to amplify, but I certainly didnt get the feeling that she was lurking behind the pages. I try to turn the keys over to the editor, but its usually not beneficial. I finally got into Word Riot, this month or last, I think it was last, and the guy had made some changes. I was ambivalent toward them, but I still think my original version was tighter. It was a flash piece, though, so cutting whole paragraphs wouldnt have worked. I think lopping off at the end is the most commonly acceptable form of hacking. Often a story has ended long before the writer is aware, even if its true (as has been said) that stories dont end. Lady Gaga said to a writer friend of hers that the best stories do not end in resolution. Do you have any respect

for Stefani Germanotta? I hate her music, but the same interview I read of hers in which I found that tidbit made her into, I think, my first real female personal hero. It was something about the way he described her life shortly before she "made it." I can connect to that, and I dont have to like her work to like her. And what of James Franco? Is there any particular clinical or cultural phenomenon in postaught America which most awes you, and have any of them wormed their way into your recent work? Wish I had a crystal ball to give me faith in a diamond ring. I swear to myself each morning that I will get it together today, and each night I attempt to convince myself that I made a little progress that day. Today thats true. MM: I like talking about writing and reading. Im in an MFA program, after all, so thats pretty much all my friends and I do. Well go to a party and talk about writing and end up having to apologize to the nonwriters/spouses of writers because its really annoying and we realize how annoying it is but we just cant help ourselves. When I began writing flash, about five or six years ago, I had no one to talk to (at least in person), so its extra nice. All my writer friends, or the really good ones, at least, also seem to have a lot of problems so we can talk about those, too. Its a whole little community of neurotic, obsessive people. Its fun. That being said, Im sort of an antiintellectual for someone whos a Ph.D. dropout on her second masters degree. I dont think thinking has much to do with writing and dont value it as an activity all that much. Im pretty literal and dont like the way literary people always assume the writer knew every connection he/she was making, and I dont like a whole lot of metaphorical/figurative stuff. This isnt right, reallyI like metaphors just fine. I dont like extended metaphor, metaphor as story, if this makes sense. I sound rather grumpy, I know.

I think people in small towns, in particular, people who dont have access to a literary community and good bookstores, have a lot of difficulty coming to literature organically. When I lived in Meridian, Mississippi, there were two bookstores: a religious bookstore that I never went into and a chain store. The people at the chain store mostly didnt read and whole categories were labeled incorrectly. There wasnt a great fiction or lit mag selection. Occasionally I found something Id connect with, but they didnt carry any of the writers I read now: Mary Gaitskill, Beth Nugent, Denis Johnson, Susan Minot, Mavis Gallant, etc. Basically, they carried summer reading books and popular fiction. Its also difficult to find lit mags online that you like if you dont know where to start because there are so many. And new ones every day. I really dont have a suggestion for what to do about this. It would be nice if there were more independent bookstores, places where people actually read and could handpick books for their customers. That being said, I dont want to start one. Im sure its not very profitable. So the Word Riot editor didnt ask if he could make the changes? This kind of thing really pisses me off, actually. Why do editors at journals do this (the only time this has happened to me was also at an online journal)? Is it because theyre pressed for time, or dont want to bother? How difficult is it to send an email? I dont know. I dont know anything about Lady Gaga, but I agree about the resolution part. In the story I have coming out in Ninth Letter, I originally ended it with the girl on a bus, leaving the guy and their extended nonvacation vacation, but the editor suggested I end it before she leaves him. It makes for a much better ending. Endings are so difficult, I think. Its the place where I feel totally inept every time. I think I was better at them as a flash writer, but when Im writing a twentyfive page story, I have the same tendency

to want to tie everything together into something neat and it just doesnt work that way and perhaps it shouldnt. Life isnt neat. The story continues after the story is finished, resolution or not.

PALE ANGEL
Larry O. Dean

photo: Vlad Eftenie

Blunt stones poke through cold sand like baby teeth; broken seashells bob in the thirsty surf. In your battered black leather jacket and ripped jeans you are a pale angel, an underage, Botticellian refugee booted out of heaven for smoking.

ON THE BUSWAY
Christopher James

photo: Vlad Eftenie

y stepson, Ando, loves to play computer games. I watch, sometimes. If he knows Im watching he gets upset and mutters curses in English he thinks I dont understand. I do understand, more or less, and so I prefer to watch silently from the doorway when he doesnt know Im there. Hes caught up in being an angel, hitting devils with a big knife that lights up blue when he swishes it and red when he kills somebody. His real Mom was killed with a knife. Jakarta is mostly a safe city, but young women who look too Chinese can get themselves in trouble. She left the mall with bags of new clothes. The queue for cabs was too long, and she hadnt the patience to wait, so she took the bus. It was just her, the

driver, the conductor, and one other man. The driver and the conductor looked the other way while this other man took her shopping bags and wallet and pushed a cheap knife into her chest. Ando knows what happened but has forgotten. He was seven then, four years ago. I watch him stabstabstab a devil in his game many times. The devil doesnt die and instead manages to kill Ando on the counterattack. I know this because the whole screen turns blood red and Ando slams the controller hard into the floor. Ando! Thats expensive! Fuck off, Arini! he says in English. You made me die! He never calls me Mom, though I occasionally request it. Now, with his avatar dead, it doesnt seem like the best time to ask him again. Please, Ando, say Fuck off, Mom, not Fuck off, Arini. I know it wasnt my fault but he wont listen to reason. Go make me a sandwich, he says. And, in English: Useless bitch. I go. I make him a sandwich. What else can I do? His Mom was killed on the busway.

ndos father tells me to give him a sharp smack on the behind; that Andos behavior is unacceptable. I cant, I say. You know Im not a violent person. You dont have to be violent. Just show him whos boss. Want me to do it? Of course not! Besides, I say, think about what hes been through already. Its no excuse, says his father. I wont have him exploiting his mothers death as a reason to misbehave. Then his phone rings and hes off again. Hes always busy. I dont think he has time to smack his son on the behind.

ndos father expects me to learn English and pays for conversation classes twice a week with the other well kept housewives. I get on okay with these women, but we come from different worlds. Theyre all Christian and when they forget Im there they make jokes about Islam. Im quiet beside them, so its easy for them to forget me. For example: just before Ramadan, Florentina said, Thats why theyre all so thin! I should do the same instead of going to the gym six times a week! They all laughed, and then they remembered me. Sorry, Arini, said Florentina. Its okay, I said. Its funny. I laughed to show that no offense was taken. Sometimes they talk about terrorists, maybe attacking the malls, and how scary that would be. They all shudder and look thoughtful, and then they remember me. Sorry, Arini, they say. Its okay, I say. It scares me too. Im sure they dont really believe that Im scared in the same way. Andos real Mom used to go to the same class, so sometimes they talk about her. I usually say my phone is ringing and I have to go outside to make a call. That way they dont need to say Sorry, Arini. Its best for all. I prefer to learn by myself, reading Manga comics in English. I love the comic books, especially the ones with horrible monsters who kill everybody. I grew up poor but now I can have as many as I want. I read a different comic book every day. Most of them I pass on to Ando. Maybe he reads them. Maybe he uses them to wipe his ass. Toilet paper was a shock. Ive asked the housewives about it, and they, like me, had never heard of anybody using paper. It was funny to them. Thats how fancy Andos father is. Im lucky he married me, but some things Ill never get used to.

grew up in a village, a proper village. We had a house my Mom and Dad had built themselves, from bits of wood theyd borrowed from friends. The floors were made of broken tiles interrupting thickly laid concrete. Chickens ran in and out of the rooms, but they werent our chickens. They belonged to the neighbors. I dont remember ever not working. I hardly went to school. I washed dishes, or fed the neighbours chickens, or blew a whistle on the public angkotminbuses. A few thousand rupiah a day. Whatever Mom could find for me to do. Whatever it took to survive. When I was sixteen, she said it was time for me to go to the capital and get a proper job, as a maid or a nanny. When I first arrived in Jakarta, I slept in the train station. I couldnt find a job as a maid or a nanny, so I made money singing on buses. You could make enough to eat that way, but not enough for living quarters. At the train stations, I always had to watch for people trying to rob or rape me, but it was marginally safer than the streets. After six months, I went back home, told Mom I couldnt find a proper job. She acted like she didnt know me, saying no daughter of hers would give up so quickly. Mom, I pleaded, They try to rape you in Jakarta. She didnt believe me and ordered me back. They hadnt the money to keep me. I dont blame her, of course. I love my Mom. She did what she thought was best. It worked out in the end, so maybe she was right. I went back. One night a man did try to rape me. My friends were sleeping around me. He covered my mouth with his hand to wake me and showed me a gun, saying hed shoot me if I made a sound. He was whispering, his hands were shaking. I wondered if hed done this before. He told me to take off my dress and reached out a hand to stroke my tits. He whispered at me to take off my panties, waved the gun at me. I did what he said. At this point, I didnt feel anything

except fear. I wasnt ashamed. Just terrified. He had the gun. He was scared off by a shout. Sometimes people, late at night, cut through the station on their way home. A man in a suit was cutting through, saw what he was doing, shouted, and ran towards us. The man with the gun ran away, and I gathered up my dress. Finally, I felt like crying. My savior was Andos father. He asked me if I was okay, what I was doing here in the station at night. My friends snored on. He looked the other way whilst I put my dress on then asked if I wanted to get a coffee. He would pay. I said okay, and he took me to an all night caf. He drank coffee from the glass, not the saucer, so I did the same. His name was Mister Suwito. Even now, now that were married, I call him Mister Suwito. He asked me more questions about what I was doing sleeping in the train station, about the attack. Was this the first time anything like this had happened? Didnt I have anywhere safe to go? Did I have protection? Protection? He said I should carry a weapon with me in case I ever needed to defend myself. He said nobody should leave home without a sharp dagger, just in case, and he showed me his dagger. I told him it looked beautiful, and this made him smile. Then he offered me a job as nanny to his five yearold son. They had just lost their previous nanny. He would pay me well, and I would live with them. A proper roof over my head. Was I interested? I asked why the previous nanny had left, and Mister Suwito was frank with me. She left because I slept with her, and my wife found out, he said. I nodded, pretending I understood. Is it okay with you that I slept with her? he asked me. I asked exactly what he intended to pay. More than you make now, he said. I can guarantee you that. Are you interested or not? I finished the coffee in a single mouthful. Im interested, I said. When can I start?

he police brought Ando home the other day. They came in plain clothes, to show that they werent making a fuss. Hed been caught with a dirty magazine. They showed me the magazine, left it on a table by the door. They looked comfortable in my house, waiting for a bribe. We all agreed that it would be best if this were kept out of the courts. I found some money to thank the officers for their time, and they went away, leaving the magazine behind. After they were gone, I took Ando by the arm into the main room. Its my favorite room, and Ando almost never goes there. I smacked him hard across the hips. We were both surprised, but Ando handled it better than I did. I stayed mad, shouting, screaming, close to tears. He stood it all. Hes a chubby child and his eyes are already thin. When he narrows them even more I cant see his eyes at all, just two dark lines on either side of his chubby nose. What on earth were you thinking? I wanted to see what it looked like. You cant do things like that, I said. Its sick, and its illegal, and its wrong. I know, said Ando. Why are you telling me this? I know it already. He sounded bored. He knew it was wrong, but he did it anyway. His plain response made me angrier. I repeated myself time and again, unable to think of anything new to say. He admitted that he was sick and illegal and wrong, but it didnt bother him to own up to it. I kept pushing, wanting more. Remorse. Something. You dont know how lucky you are to have a father who can afford to keep you out of trouble, I said. That stopped him. I know how lucky I am to have my father, he said, his voice rising for the first time. He must have seen the satisfaction in my face, satisfaction at provoking a reaction, because he took a deep breath and retreated back into those two dark lines. Is that all, Mom? he asked.

Mom? That was a first. It didnt sound pleasant, but still. Why was he calling me Mom now? Because I finally stood up to him? My anger relented and I stopped pushing him for some reaction. I ignored his tone of voice and tried to enjoy being called Mom. It felt good. I watched him soften. He took the dirty magazine from the table by the front door and went to his room. I let him go. Thats all, I said.

fter that, I had my class with the housewives. I told Andos nanny he wasnt allowed to play computer games today. She is old and ugly. I chose her myself, learning from the mistakes of my predecessor. Okay, no computer games, she said, but I knew shed let him. Shes more afraid of him than she is of me. We talked about how hard it is to raise children. We talked about this always. Normally I pretended to have the same problems as themexpensive schools and struggling to help with homework. Today, though, I told them that Ando had called me Mom for the first time. I explained, as best I could in English, how much that meant. They were very supportive. Afterwards they took me out for a celebration; dinner at Pancious. For them, everything is good cause for dinner at Pancious. Normally I dont go, but today I did. Why not? The nanny could look after Ando a little longer than usual.

hen Andos father came home from work, just after ten, I told him the days events. Its just a dirty book, Arini, he said. All boys look at dirty books. Youre missing the point, I told him. He called me Mom. I think I might have broken through. He smiled. Broken through? Over a dirty book? You are a funny bunny, Arini. Stop it! I said, pushing his face with my hand,

smiling also. Youre teasing me. This is important. Maybe I broke through because I finally stood up to him, showed him who the boss was. Its fantastic news, he said, serious. Im very happy that dirty pictures have brought my son and my wife closer together. His phone rang, but he switched it off. Shall we go to bed? he said, grinning. Before we went upstairs, I hugged him tight. Mom, I said to myself.

here it was, in the bedroom. My falling to earth with a bump. On my side of the bed, on my pillow, were dozens of pieces of glossy paper. Vaginas from the dirty magazine, carefully torn out and arranged in a smiley face. Jesus, said my husband. I didnt say anything. He went into Andos room and didnt come out for a very long time. I stayed awake until he returned, savoring the smacks. I should have told him not to do anything. Ando was just acting out, understandably, given everything that had gone before, but I didnt tell Mister Suwito not to go. Instead, I lay awake in the next room, waiting to hear Ando cry out. The little shit kept it all in.

fter hed saved me from rape and bought me coffee, Mister Suwito took me home. He lived in Kemang, and we went there by taxi. Id never been to Kemang before. It was too expensive. His house had a driveway and a garden. My wife had the car today, he said, as we passed a four wheeled monster in the drive. Her car is being serviced, a blown gasket, and my driver is getting married. Thats why I was taking a taxi tonight. I nodded, as if I understood what he was talking about. Thank Allah for blown gaskets, I said. He laughed and looked at me. I think it was then that he first saw me. Yes, indeed, he said. I wouldnt have been there to save you otherwise.

The front door was opened for us before we reached the end of the driveway. Later, I would find out that this was just a coincidence, that a maid had happened to see him coming, but at the time I thought he employed somebody just for this service, to stare through the curtains next to the doorway and have the door open for him when he was still a few footsteps away. Whats your wife like? I asked, nervous to go in. Shes well. Perhaps its best I let you find out for yourself. When her husband and I entered the family room, she was standing. I wondered how long shed been there, waiting for him to arrive. She was stunning. So beautiful it would hurt your eyes, dressed elegantly, she stood with grace and poise. She belonged inside that wonderful house more than he did, like the garden and the driveway. And she was a bitch, I soon found out. Who the fuck is this girl? she softly hissed. I saved her from a rapist in the train station, said Mister Suwito. She will be our new nanny. Shes been raped? And you want her to look after our child? No, I saved her from being raped. And yes, I want her to look after Ando. They mustve hated each other, I realised. Nothing else could explain the violence in their calm voices. Mister Suwito didnt ask for permission, rather he told her what was going to happen, in a voice that allowed no denial. They stared each other down. My legs were shaking. I didnt know whether to stay go, sit, stand, or flee. Finally, Mrs. Suwito left. That shouldve meant that Mister Suwito had won, but of course it didnt. When she was no longer in the room, he let out his breath. Arini, he said. Let me show you to your room. The room was small but perfect. I couldnt have

imagined anything better in a thousand years, though it was nothing compared to what I have now. Youd best lock the door at night, he said. She can be difficult sometimes. He stood at the door and watched me enjoying my new surrounds. Ill let you undress and sleep, he said. You have a shower room through that door there. He lingered. I wondered if he expected me to undress and sleep with him still there. His wife made it her mission to destroy me. I could understand, after what hed done to her with the last nanny, but understanding didnt diminish my suffering. She shouted at me in public, criticized my everything, pulled my hair when I was too slow. I tried to explain that I wasnt like the other nanny, I wasnt there to steal her man, but she didnt listen. I dont think she cared. I remember one example once she had conversation class with her housewives, and I was supposed to sit outside the school with Ando. But Ando needed the toilet, so we came in. The class was just finishing, and she was in the reception area with the other housewives when Ando and I came in. What are you doing here? she shouted. I told you to stay outside! I began to explain, but she wasnt listening. She grabbed Ando from me and pushed me out the door. Stay outside! she shouted. I almost fell. The school doors are made of glass, and I had to stand outside watching her for several minutes whilst she laughed at me with her friends. She must have been talking very loudly, because I heard everything she said through the doors. A stupid girl who had been raped, she told the housewives. Her husband thought he could save me. I wonder if the housewives remember that. If they did, Im sure theyd say Sorry, Arini, and Id say Its okay. It was pretty funny. Id pretend to laugh. Ando never took his eyes away from me. At first, he looked upset and shocked, but then he started to smile. He

was enjoying it. The he laughed. He thought it was funny. That was the first time I wished death on her. She taught him to treat me like a dog. To demand everything from me and to punish me with his words when I delivered any less. Ando loved to call me stupidhead. Back then, of course, I didnt blame him. I blamed his mother. When I started sleeping with her husband, it was as much to punish her as it was borne of desire for him. This should never be said, but I was happy when she died. It did the whole world a favor.

fter the incident with the vaginal smiley face, I didnt see Ando for several days. Sometimes I would enter a room, and it was obvious he had just left it. I took to wearing clattering high heels when I walked around the house, making a lot of noise, so he could tell when I was coming and have time to avoid me. His life was saddening in his absence. He ate terribly, I could see now. Chips and candy and chocolate milk. No real food. I asked the nanny why she let him eat such junk, and she told me he wouldnt eat anything else. She always gave in to him. Rather that than let him starve. He was podgy, I realized at last, not just chubby. Whilst he was at international school, I went into his room and looked around. Thanks to the maids, his room was very tidy, but I could see he was a messy child in his unmade bed, the sheets kicked to the floor, and the mountains of violent video games in the corner, by his TV, surrounding a bowl of sugar rinsed cereal puffs. The maids had cleaned yesterday, so hed made this mess since then. Did he play all of those games, I wondered, or were they props instead in some flight of the imagination? A Krakatau of computer games boxes. The clothes inside his wardrobe were folded neatly. Trousers hung from a metal bar to the left of the wardrobe, shirts to the right. I tried to remember the last time Id ever

seen him wearing a shirt, and couldnt. The funeral, maybe. He wore tshirts always, even to school. The waists on his trousers were large. Why did I never notice his size? The dirty magazine was on his desk. I leafed through it. All of the ladies had lost their vaginas except for one. This one looks like his mother, I thought, but I was probably just being vindictive. There were hundreds of pictures, hundreds of missing vaginas. He hadnt left all of them on my pillow. I wondered what he had done with the others. I looked under his mattress. Perhaps there would be a diary. I put away some of the games, picked up the cereal bowl, and left. I didnt understand him any more now than I did before. I felt guilty about invading his room, but I knew that would pass. I sat down with a comic book and slowly fell asleep.

ndo woke me up, shouting my name and slamming doors. He came charging at me, holding a wallet. Thats mine, I said. What are you doing with it? Did you go into my room? Its not yours, he said. Its my mothers. What are you doing with it? He threw it at me. It hit my eye, and it hurt. You should not have this, he screamed. Nobody should. Why do you have it? I stood up. Ando, I said calmly. Youre mistaken. That wallet belongs to me. No it fucking doesnt! he screamed, livid by now, bright purple in the face, tears streaming down it. Ando, do you remember what happened to your mother? Yes! Yes, I do! You wanted her dead and then she was dead. And now you have her wallet! He bent down and upended the coffee table between us. Its glass top smashed into tiny pieces. Think about what youre saying, Ando, I said. I was talking to him as if he was

a reasonable adult, not a hysterical child. Im saying you killed her! I thought he was going to rush me, but instead he rooted to the spot. I was crying now, too. I wondered if my face was also purple. We were angry grapes, waiting for the other to do something.

FREE BURMA

Christopher James lives, works and writes in Jakarta, not necessarily in that order. He's working on a novel.

Larry O. Dean was born and raised in Flint, Michigan. His numerous chapbooks include I Am Spam (2004) and About the Author (2011).

Big World, Mary Miller's seminal work, may be purchased at Powell's, Amazon, or directly from the publisher for about ten bucks. Noelle Adams has worked as a journalist in Buenos Aires and Mexico City. She now lives in Seattle.

I swear to Christ Im no retard. You gotta fuck with the status quo when you can, but really, its only a feeling. I dont mean to sound ornery. I just am. I think you like this one a lot because its written by a pretty young girl in a bathing suit. I don't agree. More than 96% of our audience is American.

The other day, Katie Couric looked me right in the CBS eye and said she was disappointed in GQ's crazysexy Glee pictures, and, reader, I love those photos, but I think you know I have lived my entire life trying not to disappoint Katie Couric. Jim Nelson I have never claimed to hate the internet. I think that the danger of the internet to writers is its instant gratification, the ability to look up exactly what you want to know, that leaves little room for the imagination. Its information pornography. Amelia Gray Inauthentic people are obsessed with authenticity. Jonathan Franzen This speaks to a bigger picture here that certainly scares me in terms of our national security policy. But obviously weve gotta stand with our North Korean allies. Sarah Palin

Perseids by Ryan Gannon @ Staccato

Clubland: Rock & Roll Poetry

A Dirty Grape by Heather Palmer @ Unlikely Stories

Copyright War

Dear P. H. Madore, Word of advice: it concerns every writer on earth when you are this incredibly rude to them in your form letters. I sincerely apologize if I offended you by "not bothering" to get your name, though I used to be the fiction editor at the University of Arizona's Sonora Review, and I didn't ever even pay attention to whether people got my name. But to simply email back after your bitchy little "advice" response with a rejection saying send us something else, we didn't like this? Yeah, chief, I'll be getting on your mailing list right away. Grow up. George Theodore McLoof phm&md, Thank you for your prompt reply, even if it was a rejection. It's important to keep track of where one's stories are floating around in the world, and no one likes the unknown answer. However, can one really suggest that writing has a gender? By saying I should send "After the Fireworks" to a more "effeminate" publication (because, perhaps, women don't read "real" literature?) reeks of misogyy. Are you suggesting that stories about the relationships between women and men are limited only to True Confessions and New Love Stories Magazine? I'm not insulted that you rejected my story. I'm insulted that you tried to pidgeonhole my work under the guise of being helpful. all the best, Libby Cudmore

Dear Dispatch, Falling in love with a typewriter that looks like a ship is probably one of the main reasons people submit to your fine publication. I'd love to be different, but sadly I'm not. It's allabout setting sail on the Good Ship Typewriter. Regardsssss, Christopher James

The preceding letters were published unedited and without comment. In the future, wed love to see more of your letters letters@litareview.com