Ashkan Forouzani Talking to Ghosts at Parties by Rick White, Storgy, 2022 Reviewed by Scott Neuffer I’m trying to quit smoking while writing this book review. I want words to be enough, spiritual entities that, like ghosts, animate the moment. But how I crave the smoldering wreck of a well-smoked cigarette, the way one crushes the butt into concrete, leaving a black smear. Words are not enough: images on the verge of flight pulled back to the shore of embodied reality, the gr

by Rick White Stefan Widua One September morning, when the moon has brought a chill to the late summer air, Cleo the cat worries at a drystone wall, trying to find a way into the orchard. The blushing fruit hangs heavy on the trees, or else sits and rots sweetly on the ground, having already given itself to the fall. Cleo purrs and squawks and chirrups and scritch-scratches the stones, questioning each in turn. Her bushy tail dances in the breeze, her whiskers twitch with ant

by Rick White Madie Hamilton The McDougall family business is meat. It hangs from hooks and decorates their history the way ornaments hang from Christmas trees in homes much different to theirs. Mr. McDougall, hands like ham-hocks, flings carcasses over his shoulder and bodyslams them onto the bench like a wrestler. He teaches his son, Joe, how to butcher each animal—to trim each individual cut, wasting nothing. “Let the knife do the work, son, follow the natural line of the

by Rick White Martin Martz The first time Dad catches me trying on a pair of Mum’s tights he doesn’t quite know how to react. I am maybe eight or nine years old, my body still boyish and delicate—an unfeathered bird, ribs like leaf veins beneath pink, translucent skin. I am naked from the waist up, yet thankfully still wearing my white cotton briefs (on the outside of the tights). At first, Dad’s face is utterly blank and time, for a brief second, stands still. It is wonderfu