Fjords Review

Fjords Review & C&R Press are at the Miami Book Fair!  In town? Come play ping pong, chill in some of our rad bean bag chairs, and chat with us & the folks at Exile Books! 

At the training center they’re teaching us “roll over” and “play dead.” We’d thought, beforehand, that it was one thing: “roll over and play dead,” but we knew so little back then. In “roll over,” for instance, there’s this trick to look continually harmless so as not to draw attention to oneself, but not too harmless, as that would cause one to think maybe your harmless behavior is a form of resisting. As well, “play dead” is problematic, because the protocol is to kill one twice for resisting. It’s important, therefore, to play dead in a “twice dead” way, as being dead in a singular, or a “just now dead” way could be considered resisting. Also, if one is attempting the “having done nothing” before being told to do nothing, it is important to know that this can be considered a form of resisting. Breathing, too, is also listed as a form of resisting, with the explanation that it’s performing without the express command to perform. Care should be taken, though, because performing when told to perform is also listed as a form of resisting. After having been killed, care must be taken to “roll over” and “play dead” because supposed inability to hear commands is no excuse for not obeying commands.

Don't ask why there's so much sorrow in the trees.

A new interview with Stephanie Dickinson, author of Heat: An Interview with Jean Seberg, has been published on Fjords’ website. Interviewer Kristina Marie Darling delves deep into the rich text, and Dickinson’s complex, accomplished, and complicated past - as well as her ties to Seberg herself.  Check it out here. 

The barrage goes on all night. I can almost touch the colors streaking the portlights of our boat. We turn off the latest news on the radio so as not to offend other sailors, while hoping the pasture grass won’t light from a stray spark or misdirected rocket. We sit disconnected, so independent in our little boats we no longer fear the glow, grateful that nothing catches. When the darkness returns, the noise of laughing voices spoils across the water, mixes with shouts and horns blaring at holiday’s end. The Fourth, a close call, then silence.

[Note: Sarah Winchester, widow & heiress to her husband’s firearms fortune, ordered continuous construction on her mansion in the belief it would either confuse or appease the spirits of all those killed by the Winchester Model 1873 rifle. Construction ceased upon her death, 38 years after the project commenced.]

Fjords’ special Women’s Edition is here!  A download is free, and features excellent guest editors, stunning artwork, and thought-provoking pieces.  Download it here. 

by Ingrid Wenzler  A heavy fog, typical of that time of year and Peter, looking like he knew where he was going, was pushing an off-white pram so lightly that it seemed to glide on and on ahead of him. The night was cold, and there was a thin layer of moisture on the sidewalk, the pram, the heavy branches overhead. Peter tugged at the hood of the pram and, out of habit, tucked the corners of Anna’s top cover under her shoulders. He remembered his father coming in at night to kiss him and adjust his blankets; he thought of how large his father’s arms had looked to him and realized, for the first time, how his large his arms must look to Anna. Coming to one of the all-women’s dormitories, he hesitated and considered going back the way he came, but no, he would continue. He turned the pram to the left and followed the low wall that led to the dance studio, one of those modern buildings, with glass on all sides. The studio was lighted, that pale green of swimming pools, and, even through the fog, Peter could see a figure beside the bar, lifting her leg. So she was there, but, of course, he had known she would be. He steered the pram off of the sidewalk, onto the grass, and for a long time, he watched, while she leaned one way, then another, submerged in her way, moving slowly. He let go of the pram’s handle and moved closer. She crossed the studio and opened a large, covered basin. Seeming to be in a daze, she reached into the basin, covered herself with its contents, began to dance, and with each movement, sent clouds of white dust flying above her, all around. She tracked the same white, chalk-like dust over the floor of the studio, and Peter thought of peacock-headed princes and their child-brides, of swords, of pride, of fear, of snow rising and falling in the wind—a world so far from his own. She turned, facing the front of the studio, and lowered herself to the ground, panting and moving her hands over one of her shoes, the bottom then the sides, the dirty and frayed material, and her foot beneath. She stretched her foot then stood, looked from side to side, and, as if she has taken too long with her shoe and wanted to make up for it, began to spin around and around, so fast that he wanted to touch her waist and pull her toward him from the hips. His hand, since he had left the pram had been beneath his dick, scarcely touching, but seeing her spin, he had held tighter, not thinking, only feeling, until he heard a cry. Without meaning to, before he had put her cry into words and thought I have left the pram, it is behind me and that is Anna crying, Anna, my baby, is crying, and my wife is at home, without me he had echoed Anna’s cry, so that his cry became her cry and then another, final cry, sustained, caught in the night and the fog.  

Fjords Review is looking for interviews, and art/film/book reviews for the next issue.  Submit work here.