Feb 1, 2016

Harpur Palate is Open for Submissions

Harpur Palate is open for submissions from February 1st until April 15th, 2016. We are seeking regular genre submissions of fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction, as well as entries for our annual John Gardner Memorial Prize in Fiction. You can read last year's winner here.

Be sure to read our submission guidelines.

We look forward to reading your work!

-The Editors

Nov 23, 2015

Winners of Our Milton Kessler Memorial Prize in Poetry and Harpur Palate Award for Creative Nonfiction!

Congratulations to Colleen Carias, this year's winner of the Milton Kessler Memorial Prize in Poetry, for her poem, "is a dangerous thing" and to Jeffrey Schneider, winner of the Harpur Palate Award in Creative Nonfiction, for his piece, "Tableland." Thank you to everyone who submitted to both contests; we are very blessed here at Harpur Palate to have so much talent come in that picking a winner is always a difficult decision. We look forward to reading your submissions for next year's contests!

John Gardner Memorial Prize 2015: "Hourglass," by Sam Keck Scott

Harpur Palate is pleased to announce the winner of the 2015 John Gardner Memorial Prize in Fiction: "Hourglass," by Sam Keck Scott, an offbeat tale of urchins, heartache, and hope. You can read Sam's story below, or in Issue 15.2, Summer/Fall 2015.

by Sam Keck Scott

He bit her finger almost clean off. Not the whole thing, just the top part, right below the nail. Tooth marks in the bone, that’s what the nurses said. It was her ring finger. Left hand. That part was probably a coincidence though. He bit it while he was dying. Jessie’s not mad about it. Hard to be mad at someone for what they did while they were dying. I’m mad though. Not about the biting, just the dying.


My brother Miles had the biggest heart in the whole world. Bigger than a giraffe’s, and they’re famous for how big their hearts are because they need to pump the blood all the way up those long necks. I’ve learned there are mysteries most everywhere. There’s at least a hundred mysteries left squirming in the mud whenever the tide pulls out, and that’s just at Isamiles Rocks. One of the greatest mysteries of them all though, and one the scientists and religious people would never even think to study, is how the biggest heart in the whole world could also be a broken heart. No, not broken like that. Jessie never would have let that happen. Broken like an engine. Like your favorite cup.


We don’t talk about mom and dad. That’s a rule. But I’ll just say one thing: they left and never came back. Miles was fourteen. I was nine. How two people crummy and selfish as them could have made my brother and his bigger than a giraffe’s heart is another one of the mysteries. It doesn’t add up. The only part makes any sense is the broken part. But I don’t like thinking of my parents as having any of themselves in my brother’s heart. Or mine either, come to think of it. But there I’ve gone breaking the rule even more.


We’re lucky we lived near the sea, that’s all I know. Shoot, we might’ve starved otherwise. Miss Kepler was generous enough to let us stay in one of her apartments for close to nothing, but that doesn’t mean the apartment came with any food. Miles would take me down to Isamiles Rocks before they were even named that. We’d ride the Number 16 Bus all the way until it turns around by the factories.

“Izzy, watch. See how the seagulls drop the shells from the sky to get to the food inside?”


“Well you’re hungry, aren’t you?”


"Good enough for a pretty white bird like that it must be good enough for us.”

Those first few months after we were on our own we ate mussels for dinner every night besides free dinner on Sundays at the Community Center. That was before Miles started working at Mayer’s Market and could get us discounted groceries.

We didn’t drop the shells from the sky like the birds do, we steamed ‘em up, ate them with melted butter from the packets I’d slip into the sides of my boots during free dinner on Sundays. Miles showed me if you get a book that tells you when the tide is low it’s as good as a restaurant menu, but free.


“You know what they call this place?”


“They call it Belcher’s Break. Now that’s not a very pretty name is it?”


“But it sure is a pretty place, don’t you think?”


“I think we should give it a new name. How about Izzy’s Rocks?”

“But what about you? Why not Miles’ Rocks?”

“No, that don’t quite have the ring to it. I got it! Seeing as you and me are the only ones who seem to like it here, why don’t we combine our names and call it Isamiles Rocks?”

Boy I showed him every last crooked tooth when he said that.


I’m no doctor, and honestly I never cared to know the nitty gritties, but it was something to do with a flap, or maybe a tube. Something pinched, too small. I don’t know.

“Ticking time bomb,” the doctors said. “Be lucky to live past his teenage years.”

Jessie once said they would have fixed a rich kid with the same problem. It makes me too mad to even think about it. So mad I could drop all the doctors in the world from the sky like the birds do with the shells. Crack ‘em right open and see what the devil looks like without his mask on. I know it isn’t their fault though, that’s the trouble, nobody needs to take the blame ‘cause they spread it all around so thin you can’t even trace it back. One big invisible devil stretched all around this world like saran wrap on the leftovers.


I thought of Miles’ life like an hourglass. You know those glass things full of sand? They look like they have on a belt too tight and are all skinny in the middle, and you flip ‘em upside-down to let the sand pour through the skinny part? Like the one Mr. Tate has on his desk in the science room. Anyway, I’d lie in bed at night wondering how much sand Miles had left. Just a pinch or a whole big bunch? I guess we all have an hourglass attached to our lives, but it was different with Miles. I only have to worry about my sand running out if I get run over by a bus or something. Used to keep me up at night worrying about my brother’s sand and wondering if there wasn’t some way to sneak some more in there.


I wanted to hate Jessie when Miles first brought her around. She was so pretty and sweet I just wanted to knock the wind right out of her. But then I saw her toes. On each toenail she had painted these little skeletons, like the Day of the Dead ones they pin up all over school after Halloween. And she painted bright flowers coming through the eye sockets of the skulls, and skeletons riding bikes and skeletons climbing up ladders made of bones. They were all so small and intricate I thought she ought to be famous for it. 

I didn’t know how to keep my grubby hands nice enough to deserve it, but she painted my fingernails anyway with a whole different set of bones and skeletons and chili peppers and blue and red and yellow flowers. It took her a whole afternoon and she asked me all about myself while she did it. Jessie was fine by me after that.

Plus I could tell how much she loved Miles, even after he told her he was a ticking time bomb and couldn’t run or play any sports. Jessie’s the smartest girl I ever met for loving my brother the way she did.


“Billy Mark called me fat and ugly! You need to beat him up!” That’s what I told Miles one day.

“Billy Mark? You mean that fat and ugly kid?”

"Yeah! You gotta do something, Miles. You gotta beat him up!”

“Well I ain’t gonna do that, little star.” Little star, that’s what Miles always called me. I thought nicknames were supposed to simplify things, but little star has one more syllable than Izzy does and is a whole extra word longer. Another mystery.

“Why not? You can’t let him get away with it!”

“I promise you, little star, he ain’t getting away with it. As sure as I am that you are not fat or ugly, I’m sure that Billy Mark has had a rough go. You ever met his older brothers? They’re like junkyard dogs been using that boy as a chew toy all his life. You may as well ask me to pour blue paint into the sky.”

Miles had the biggest heart in the whole world.


It was two days before his twentieth birthday and I was so excited for him to prove those doctors wrong by getting past his teenage years. Maybe he’d live as long as a normal person if he could just get finished being a teenager already.

Jessie came over and made a lasagna. She was wearing a pink skirt and I remember having to question everything I had ever thought in my life when I caught myself wishing I had one just like it. We all sat down to eat in our small living room, me on the floor and Miles and Jessie on the couch.

“You know what I think we should all do tomorrow?” It was Miles that asked it.

“What?” I said through a mouthful of lasagna.

“I’d like to do something real special with my two favorite ladies,” he said, flashing one of his famous twinkling smiles that looked sweeter than a stack of pancakes all covered in maple syrup with a big lump of butter sliding across the top like a runaway shopping cart. “Well, seeing that tomorrow’s a Saturday, and the weather’s been so fine…”

But then he stopped talking and got this bunched up look on his face like he was expecting milk but got orange juice instead.

And then everything got about as awful as things can ever get.

Miles threw his plate up into the air acting like he had gotten struck by a bolt of lightning. Jessie reached out to grab his arm but he was up in a flash, twirling around the living room like a human tornado ripping the blinds off the window and slamming a hand through the cheap wall making it pour white dust like it was a bag of flour. Jessie was twirling around with him trying to tame him like a bull. I never moved, just sat cross-legged with that same mouthful of food, my eyes wide as the sky feeling the wind of the twister and afraid I might get kicked but I never could move.

And then he was down, on his back, his face was red in some spots, white in others, and the worst part was he looked scared. That’s when he bit Jessie’s finger. Left his proposal etched into her bone. His girl forever. And I never moved. And Jessie screamed but not because of the blood running down her hand. She pounded on his broken chest. Breathed into his mouth that was full of her own blood. She screamed. Pounded. Screamed again. The last grain of sand slipped through the glass shoot and there wasn’t any amount of screaming and pounding Jessie could do to flip it back over again. Miles looked like he was sleeping with his eyes open. I never moved. Just looked away. Saw a flat lasagna noodle come unstuck from the ceiling and fall to the carpet like the birds dropping the shells to get to the food inside.


Next day I took the Number 16 down to Isamiles Rocks because I felt pretty sure that’s where Miles wanted to take his two favorite ladies but never had the chance to say so. Jessie stayed behind because there were details to sort out, but she told me not to worry about that stuff. Plus she had that busted finger and an even worse busted heart. Not like an engine this time though, but it wasn’t Miles’ fault. He never woulda done it on purpose. Most people say they’d die for someone they love, but it wasn’t like that with my brother. He would have lived for us if he could have. Lived forever if we asked him to.

I scampered down to the little beach between the rocks that are all purple and shiny with mussels, and boy it didn’t take more than one glance at those rocks and that big blue ocean before it felt like someone grabbed ahold of my own heart and gave it a good squeeze. Wringed me out from the inside like a dishcloth holding all the tears in this world. Miles would have laughed.

“Why you bringing all that salt water to the ocean, little star?”

Like pouring blue paint into the sky, he woulda said.

May 30, 2015

An Interview with Jesse Goolsby, author of "I'd Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them"

Way back in issue 9.1, Jesse Goolsby won the John Gardner Memorial Prize in Fiction for his short story, "Derrin of the North." Based on the outstanding writing alone, no one could have guessed that this was the first story Goolsby had ever sent out for publication. Numerous fiction, poetry, and creative non-fiction publications later, Goolsby's debut novel, I'd Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them, is due out this early June from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

An Air Force officer and a PhD candidate at Florida State University, Jesse Goolsby has appeared in such excellent journals as Narrative Magazine, Epoch, Alaska Quarterly Review, The Literary Review, Redivider, The Greensboro Review, and, of course, Harpur Palate. He is also the recipient of the Richard Bausch Fiction Prize and the Holland & Knight Distinguished Fellowship from the Hambidge Center for Creative Arts & Sciences. He has been featured in The Best American Mystery Stories, and his prose has also been listed several times as a notable entry in The Best American Short Stories and The Best American Essays anthologies. In addition, he serves as a genre editor with both The Southeast Review and War, Literature, and the Arts. Running into him again at AWP 2015 was a true pleasure, and we were grateful for the chance to talk with him about his book and his career.

Below is an excerpt of our interview with Goolsby. For the full interview, be sure to check out our Summer/Fall 2015 edition (15.1).

Harpur Palate: Which of the chapters did you build I'd Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them around? What was the genesis, and what did that chapter look like before it became intertwined with the rest of the book?

Jesse Goolsby: The genesis: one day, six years ago, I was sitting in a conference room at the US Air Force Academy discussing literature and the emotional toll of war with some of my English department colleagues. We brought up the names of fellow service members, the complexities of battle, the simultaneous devastation and thrill, the borderlands of euphoria and fear. Someone invoked Tim O’Brien, another Joseph Heller and Dexter Filkins, and then one of my friends said, “You know, some folks come home and they don’t know how to touch their kids. It’s just too much after what they’ve seen.” And that just floored me. I was a new father at the time, and besides the personal and believable horror that comment stirred, it also humbled me as a writer: how does someone, a character, get to a place where he or she is not sure how to touch his or her own children? What does that say about war, about that individual, about family, and the wide-ranging consequences of conflict?

The creative result of my initial investigation of those questions was a story called “Touch,” now a chapter in my novel. While the story was edited to form the chapter, I hope it retains my wonder and curiosity of this possible result of war—the confusion of touch—for one of the protagonists, Armando Torres.

While that’s the emotional genesis story, at the time, six years ago, I had no idea that I’d write a book. I was thrilled to have “Touch” published and to simply to move on. However, when I realized that I wanted to write a novel, one of the things I was most interested in accomplishing was tracing a long arc of three soldiers’ lives—and portions of the lives of the protagonists’ families and friends—before, during, and after their service in Afghanistan. This long view was very important to me. “Touch,” then, fell into place as a post-war chapter fairly seamlessly, but that specific chapter maintained an emotional heft that influenced my writing from the beginning to the end of I’d Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them.

HP: Similarly, several of the chapters in the novel started off as short stories in various journals, e.g., "Neutral Drops" in Northwind, "Pollice Verso" in The Literary Review, "No Doorbell" in Nashville Review, etc. What was the thread that linked them together? What made them part of this larger scope you wanted to focus on in the book?

JG: The foundation for all of the chapters in the novel is the deep human yearning for connection. Regardless of character or specific setting, my focus was mining each and every character’s desire for companionship and understanding. As such, I found that it didn’t matter if a particular chapter or scene dealt with one of the main protagonists or a character occupying a more tangential role, I wanted always to tap into his or her specific longing.

And that leads to your great question about publishing some of the chapters as stories first, then reworking them into a slightly more traditional role as a chapter. One of my preferences I discovered while writing I’d Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them was that, at least for this project, I wasn’t all that interested in chapter-to-chapter transitions, that I relished the white space between episodes of tension. Because of this preference, I decided to try to place many of the chapters as stand alone stories first, not as an excerpt of a work in progress, but straight up stories. I found this forced me to really buckle down and fine-tune my world building and the establishment of stakes each and every time I entered a new chapter-story. Because I was aware of my desire for these stories to eventually morph into chapters I certainly kept some of the plot logistics and timelines in mind, but there were also many advantages of thinking of them, individually, as stories; most notably, the beautiful short fiction demands of immediate stakes.

Additionally, I fully admit that I was in need of some positive reinforcement as I started this book. At the beginning, I had no agent, editor, or contract. Like the vast majority of writers, it was just me, a blank Word document, and a healthy dose of consternation when the perfect words didn’t come pouring out on time. Just on a personal level, I needed and greatly appreciated the validation and feedback that came with an acceptance from a literary journal, so much so—and my wife will attest to this—that I cried with nearly every acceptance.

HP: Who are some of the writers and books that most influenced you as you wrote the novel? Who did you need to study in order to build the novel properly?

JG: My favorite book of the past ten years is Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad, and there is no doubt that the snap shot and alternating point of view structure that beautiful book employs influenced my decision to follow a similar framework with I’d Walk with My Friends if I Could Find Them. Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go and Richard Ford’s Rock Springs were also constant literary friends never far away from my writing space, largely because of their respective genius at showcasing human yearning.

I’m currently pursuing my PhD at Florida State University, and I feel privileged to study with many of my literary heroes, including the incredible Robert Olen Butler. Reading his book on writing fiction, From Where You Dream, and taking his class were creative game-changers for me. I say “game-changers” because I was searching for, and subsequently discovered, new pathways into the creative zone where I write my best.

I also owe much to the brilliant and recent work that also taps into questions of conflict, family, and identity. My favorites include Janet Burroway’s Losing Tim, Michael Garriga’s The Book of Duels, Jehanne Dubrow’s Stateside, David Abrams’s Fobbit, Ben Fountain’s Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk, Katey Shultz’s Flashes of War, Benjamin Busch’s Dust to Dust, Siobhan Fallon’s You Know When the Men Are Gone, Brian Turner’s Phantom Noise, Donald Anderson’s Fire Road, Lea Carpenter’s Eleven Days, and the fantastic nonfiction work of essayist Brandon Lingle.

But what I needed most while writing this novel was my brilliant editor, Ben Hyman. It’s funny now to think of all of the well-intentioned warnings I received from fellow authors about possible creative differences with editors. And I understand that many have had challenging issues when it comes to the author-editor relationship, but I say this with my heart on my sleeve: my novel exists only because of Ben’s encouraging and smart guidance. May others be as fortunate.

HP: Lastly, looking back at "Derrin of the North," the first piece you published with Harpur Palate, how do you believe you've progressed as a writer since then? How have your obsessions changed?

JG: “Derrin of the North” was not only the first piece I published with Harpur Palate, but it was the first piece I published, ever. I mentioned crying a little earlier. I received the acceptance call while I was visiting family in Salt Lake City, and after I hung up, I walked into the living room and wept in front of extended family I hadn’t seen in years. I’ll never forget that moment and the look on my family’s faces while I tried to gather myself and tell them that these were happy tears.

It’s been seven years since that phone call, and the two most important things in my development as a writer have been to remain an active reader and to believe in my voice; the former has been easy, the latter, much more difficult. Since that first Harpur Palate publication I’ve had years to read, and also, to listen carefully to feedback on my own work. I relish the moments when I’m reading and I’m just flat out jealous. Recently, I experienced this feeling while reading Russell Bank’s masterpiece Continental Drift. Besides the appreciation of entering wonderful literature as a reader, thousands of writer-craft questions swirl: How is he or she pulling this off? What’s new here? Why am I falling in love with this book? In my attempts to answer these questions I’m really asking myself, “What kind of art do I want to create?” And although it isn’t that articulate, I find myself most often answering, “The kick-ass kind.”

My obsessions? Well, they continue to intensify because with each passing day I seem more aware that I am mortal, and that my end will one day be a real event. I don’t mean that in a depressing way at all. If anything, I’m more invigorated by this acceptance. I watch my healthy children play in the front yard and think, “My God, I have it good.” So my personal obsessions for literature, music, sports, and Thai food deepen, and now is as good a time as ever to indulge. If I want to read all of Alice Munro, which I do, I better get on it.

This type of urgency is great creatively. Sure, I have my periods of regret and laziness and doubt, but after giving myself a break, it’s time to dive back in. This ties into the idea of believing in your voice. I find it invigorating that we each possess a unique creative perspective, and that no one else can write the story, essay, or poem that someone else will dream up. This knowledge is so damn liberating that even during those times when I’m staring at a blank Word document and nothing arrives at my fingertips, it’s okay, because when something does, it will be my voice.

—Barrett Bowlin, Contributing Editor

Apr 28, 2015

Congratulations to the Winner of Harpur Palate's Undegraduate Flash Fiction Contest- Arthur Vizoskie

This spring Harpur Palate held a contest in flash fiction for undergraduates. After receiving a number of talented submissions, we chose Arthur Vizoskie with his piece "Two Stories Above Death" as the winner of our contest. Arthur was selected to read his piece at Harpur Palate's launch party on April 24th and read his piece splendidly. We chose his piece because it had great imagery that made the reader feel as if they were really transported to the scene of the story, and the metaphor throughout the piece was executed well.

Arthur is a junior at Binghamton University, who spent his first two years of college at the University of Connecticut at Storrs. This is his first year as an English major, which he is really enjoying. This piece is a part of a series of work, mainly poetry, that connects three generations of fathers and sons through the perspective of the only son who has not yet created a family of his own.

We loved Arthur's piece and wish him the best of luck in his future as a writer. We invite you to read and enjoy Arthur's piece:

It was my dad, cousin David, and I who raked the dead out of my grandfather’s pond. By now the water had turned black and an oily film rested over decaying Koi fish. Pale underbellies, the same fish from when I was young, their scales peeling like snake skin suspended in still water. My grandfather was resting two stories above us in the living room, which became normal because of his condition. Usually he’d be up in the kitchen, or outside with us in the backyard, but he could barely speak, and so we all came to see him if he, or we, wanted to talk. Before I went to join my dad and David at the pond, he told me a bit about his time as a radio engineer in World War II, and some about the times before thathow he refrained from drinking and drug use, and lived to see my sister and I grow as grandchildren that he was always proud of.

Outside, David was holding a black garbage bagmy dad, the rake, as I made my way down the steps. We stared at the still pond not saying a word. I looked back and saw my grandmother watching from the kitchen window, just a room over from my grandfather, whose chair faced away from the only window in the room. My dad began fishing out the carcasses with the rake, David soon handed me the bag and stepped out of the stench for a breath.  Everything had turned black with rotthe fish, the plants, the walls—I couldn’t look away and neither could my dad or David. We had all fed those fish and watched them grow, my grandfather made sure of it.