M. David Hornbuckle

Author: mdavidhornbuckle

  • New Issue of STR is Online, Sort Of

    We believe we can say that our first issue was a success both from the standpoint of the quality of material we ended up with and with the readership we acquired. However, we are making a couple of changes based on lessons learned over the past two months.

    December was slow, traffic-wise, what with all the holidays and such and all the content we were not posting. To rectify this, moving forward, we are going to start taking more advantage of the blog format facilitated by the WordPress platform we are using. Instead of doing a typical “issue” every month or two as initially planned, we will begin posting content as we approve it.

    For the January 2011 issue, we have already made our selections, but we will post one or two pieces every couple of days throughout the month. We will keep doing an editor’s note periodically along with a table of contents that will be updated as new work is posted, thus creating the illusion of preserving the old-fashioned print media paradigm of “issues.”

    To kick off the new issue, please enjoy Brent Stauffer’s short story, “A Good Snow.”

  • Toot Toot

    Today was my last day tutoring at Woodlawn High School for the semester. I really only got three sessions in because the program started only this month, I was going twice a week, and one week it was canceled due to testing. Next semester I hope to be able to commit to more days. I’m only barely starting to break the ice with these kids. But today I made some noticeable progress with them.

    I have four students, a girl and three boys, all tenth graders. Even though I was told what to expect, it’s kind of shocking how poor their basic spelling and grammar skills are in general. Between the handwriting and the spelling, I can’t even read what they write a lot of the time, and I have to have them read it aloud to me (I’ve also caught them more than once “reading” something they hadn’t actually written down). But three of them seem to have a genuine interest in bettering their situations and improving their chances of one day going to college. The fourth one, one of the boys, is kind of a trouble maker and so far hasn’t written a single word. We’ll call this one Bradley. On the day of our second session, I found him hiding between stacks in the library trying to avoid me. Then he “accidentally” threw his pen in the trash along with a piece of paper (on which he had written nothing but his name), and he refused to go through the trash can and retrieve it.

    Sigh.

    I’m trying to get them to focus on a simple expository essay about how to do a task. One boy is writing about how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Another is writing about how to cook an egg. The girl is writing about cleaning her room. I’m trying to get them to add more details each week, to describe even the most obvious steps in the process, explain the importance of the task. Have an introduction and a conclusion.

    Bradley spends each session either bothering the girl sitting next to him (I will not have them sitting next to each other next semester) and claiming he can’t think of anything he knows how to do.

    Me: You don’t have to do any chores at home?

    Bradley: No, I got people to do that.

    Me: Do you know how to cook anything, make anything, fix anything?

    Bradley: No.

    Me: Is there a video game you are good at?

    Bradley: I don’t play games.

    Me: Do you dress yourself everyday?

    Bradley: My mama does that for me.

    Me: Now I know you’re just being goofy. Think of something.

    I tried to get them to ask and answer questions like why you would make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (because your mom isn’t home, the ingredients are in the house, it’s easy to do, and you are hungry). And the steps involved are more than just (1) get the bread (2) get the peanut butter and jelly (3) eat the sandwich. You have to open the peanut butter, spread it on the bread with a knife, etc. I said to explain it as if you are explaining it to someone from outer space who has no idea why or how this is done.

    It’s hard to get them to recognize these concepts, but today I outlined it all on a dry erase board. I really felt like a teacher for the first time, and they all copied down what I wrote, even Bradley.

    Technically, I should go there again on Thursday, but the kids already told me not to bother. All their classes are having end of the semester parties. They will be there, but they won’t be there. So I said fine, I’ll see them all in January.

    Despite the difficulties, this feels very much like the sort of thing I’m meant to be doing right now. I’ll get more involved in the program in 2011.

  • Sewer Hole Joe

    Over brunch this past weekend in New Orleans, Celino Dmitroff told me this story of his childhood, which I am going to retell for you as best I can.

    Celino was about six, living in Hawaii, and he’d wandered far from his house to the edge of the water. An old wino known around town as Sewer Hole Joe saw him there and asked him what he was doing, and he said he wasn’t sure how to get back home. Joe asked Celino to describe what was nearby where he lived, and all Celino could remember was a Kentucky Fried Chicken. “I know just where that is,” said Joe.

    As they walked, Joe and Celino talked about all sorts of things that were totally inappropriate to talk about with a young kid, but Celino found him fascinating.  Things like how to use a lighter to squeeze the last few drops out of a liquor bottle, or how to poke a hole in the cork of a wine bottle and suck the wine through the cork so it won’t spill if you pass out.

    Celino noticed that every time they passed a pay phone or newspaper stand, Joe checked it for change, and when he found something, he’d say “Bingo!” and his face would light up. Finally they got back to Celino’s neighborhood, and he went on home.

    Over the next few weeks Celino would run into Joe from time to time. Celino came to learn that Joe lived in a sewer, that he had it set up pretty good with electricity he’d run from a nearby building.Whenever Celino found himself with change in his pocket, he’d leave it in a pay phone for Joe to find later. One day, Celino saw Joe sitting in front of a store counting change. So Celino walked up and said, “Hey, did you get the money I left for you in the pay phone?”

    Joe said, “You left this for me?”

    Celino said that yes, he left change for him there all the time. Sewer Hole Joe then started crying. And then Celino started crying because he thought he had hurt Joe’s feelings. And then, by happenstance, Celino’s mother drove up and saw her son sitting with this wino, both of them weeping. Of course, she wanted to know what the hell was going on and what the hell Sewer Hole Joe was doing with her son.

    “This is your son?” Joe said. “He is one of the most gracious people I’ve ever met.” And then Joe proceeded to tell her what Celino had been doing.

    She was not moved by the story. She accused her son of stealing change from her and demanded that he stop spending time with winos.

    As Celino wrapped up the story, he teared up a little, wondering if Sewer Hole Joe was still alive.

    I could only think about how I could turn this tale into some kind of updated Huckleberry Finn type thing, but then I thought, no… This is Celino’s story. I’ll just share it more or less the same way he shared it with me. So there you are. You are welcome.

  • STR and Tritone Represent at NOLA Bookfair

    I acquired a table at the NOLA bookfair to promote Steel Toe Review as well as my two books.

    On the way down, I stopped at a Chick-fil-A in Meridian, MS because I had to attend a conference call for work. I was there for almost three hours, during which I overheard the manager discuss with several people his theories about the similarities between the U.S. today and Germany in 1939. He also refilled my drink several times, so I let it slide. Languid Christian music was playing on the p.a. I ate two chicken biscuits.

    I picked up my much overqualified editorial assistant at the New Orleans airport because she was flying in from Florida. It was nothing short of miraculous that we found each other there, since I was running late, she wasn’t sure if I was coming to get her, and she is the last person on earth who doesn’t own a cell phone. But I guess since I tolerated the Lord for three hours at Chick-fil-A earlier in the day, He was looking after me.

    The divine intervention didn’t end there–for example, getting back to our motel each night after the relentless debauchery and decadence that being in New Orleans seems to necessitate. Also, my assistant and I each randomly encountered people we knew but hadn’t seen in more than a decade and whom we did not know now lived in New Orleans. But I’m getting things out of order.

    After checking into the charming Super 8 motel and inspecting it for bed bugs, the first stop was the official pre-party for the book fair, where Jordan Flaherty, author of Floodlines, was giving a talk about post-deluvian community organizing. Flaherty was funny and inspiring, despite the fact that I personally have very little emotional brain space at the moment to care about anything at all (cf. this and this, but I’m digressing again already).

    We saw our first jazz funeral parade of the weekend as we were leaving the party. We headed down to Frenchmen Street, where the fair would be taking place the next day, drank way too much bourbon, and then called it a night.

    Early the next morning (okay, about 10 am, which is early by N.O. standards), we set up our table. I had a surprising amount of interest in both the books and the literary magazine. I met several writers, whom I asked to submit to STR. I was asked to be on the radio. And my assistant and I ate shared a muffaletta that was bigger than both our heads combined.

    We also saw another, much larger funeral parade, which I came to find out was in honor of the famous photographer Herman Leonard.

    There was an after-party for the book fair at an undisclosed location. We were supposed to call a number after 7pm for directions. That was far too complicated for us. But we did attend the book fair-related Books & Burlesque show upstairs at Le Maison. The book theme was a stretch for several of the burlesque acts, but it was pretty entertaining. Somehow, I got roped into the audience participation segment of the show, which turned out to be a trivia game (we didn’t win, sadly).

    The revelry continued after the burlesque was over, until the wee hours of the morning. Around 10 am (again, early by N.O. standards) we were awakened by what seemed to be a rocking gospel band performing just outside our motel room. Neither of us had the energy to actually get up and look out the window, so we still don’t really know what happened. But speaking of music, I forgot to mention that there was incredible music everywhere we went, more than I ever remember from my previous trips here. On every street corner, at every bar, many styles of music, expertly and joyfully performed.

    When we finally managed to get up on Sunday, we met up with friends at Court of Two Sisters for their famous jazz brunch (more excellent music, not to mention amazing foodstuffs). This had to be followed by yet another nap, which was then followed by a home-cooked meal at another friend’s house.

    It will require several more blog posts to fill in the details on some of these events. There are definitely stories worth telling. New Orleans never fails me in that respect.

  • Radio Radio

    I’m supposedly going to be on the radio in New Orleans Monday morning (about 7am Central time — remember to account for the time change). Christopher Tidmore will be interviewing me about my novel Zen, Mississippi on his morning show, which you can also listen to online right here.

    I met Mr. Tidmore this afternoon at the NOLA Bookfair, about which I will write more after the weekend. He is a writer for the Louisiana Weekly who ran for the state House of Representatives here in Louisiana in 2007. He seemed intrigued by the title of my book. Perhaps he will still want to talk to me after he has actually read it.

    One quick story about the book fair, because it relates to radio. I sold two books to a very nice lady who swears she heard about me on NPR yesterday, which I’m pretty sure could not possibly be true, and I even told her so, but she stuck to her story. So maybe I’m more famous than I thought.

  • Because I Can

    The first issue of Steel Toe Review, a new online literary arts journal I founded, includes my most recent short story, “Catching Frogs.”

    The issue also includes great fiction from Sarah Fisch and Louis Bourgeois, poetry from Zach Bush and Jim Valvis, and a creepy video by Frog.

  • Steel Toe Review #1

    I may tweak some things over the next few days, but all the content for the first issue is now online. Please take a look and spread the word. If you like something, feel free to leave comments.

    Current Issue

  • Apartment Adventures

    I got back from New York on Sunday with a U-haul truck full of stuff from my storage unit. Tym Cornell and C.E. Nelson kindly dropped by to help me unload it (C.E. just happened to be passing through town on his way from Arkansas to Florida), and I took them both over to Rojo for a beer afterward.

    When I came back upstairs, a couple across the hall was fighting loudly, and their door was open. A black cat was wandering the hallway. I shrugged and figured one of them would soon notice the cat was missing and take it back in. I spent a couple of hours catching up on email and work, and then I went out again for a little while.

    The cat was still in the hallway. I knocked on the door where I’d seen the people fighting earlier, and there was no answer. So I put the cat in my apartment and gave it a bowl of water. And then I wrote a note for the owners, which I stuck under their door. “Black cat is in apartment #[redacted]. I’m not home, but the door is unlocked if you want to come get him.”

    I came home, and to my surprise, the cat was still in my apartment. Even more surprising, the cat had not trashed my apartment or peed all over the carpet.

    The cat seemed hungry, and I didn’t have anything at all to give him because I’d been out of town for a week. So I called a friend and asked her to bring over a can of cat food.  She brought two. Then I wrote another note for the cat’s owners, giving them my phone number to call when they are ready to get the cat. The cat seemed malnourished and blazed through an entire large can of food in no time. I had nothing for the cat to poop or pee in, but I was just hoping he’d use the tub if necessary. But he never did either while he was there.

    All night, he kept talking to me, jumping up on the bed and asking to be pet. I sort of hoped they wouldn’t call me. The cat reminded me a lot of Frankie, my cat in New York. My ex got custody of Frankie, which is in his best interest, but I miss that cat. By the time I went to sleep, I was thinking of names and figuring I’d go to Target in the morning to get a litter box.

    But at about 6:45 the next morning, my phone rang. “Is this David? You have a black cat?” The guy came over. He claimed that he didn’t know how the cat got out because he was “declawed and not an outdoor cat,” which made no sense of course. The cat was wandering around in the hallway on the tenth floor of an apartment building, not running around the woods. I didn’t tell him that it happened because they were fighting with the door wide open, and the cat just walked right out. I just gave the cat back. But that guy is an idiot, and that cat would be better off with me.

  • Elephants: A Poem

    Elephants sometimes trample people,

    And then they freak out

    And act like they were the ones that were trampled.

     

  • Haiku

    Letters to you, like cockroaches.
    For each one you see hundreds
    More hide in the walls.