Farewell TransmissionBy Rich Boucher
Rich Boucher resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Rich’s poems have appeared in The Nervous Breakdown, Eighteen Seventy and The Rye Whiskey Review, among others, and he has work forthcoming in The Literary Underground and Cul-de-sac-Of-Blood. He is the author of All Of This Candy Belongs To Me. Interestingly, he can’t stop looking at the sky.
By Uchechukwu Onyedikam
Uchechukwu Onyedikam is a Nigerian Poet/Photographer based in Lagos, Nigeria. BOTN, Pushcart Prize nominee. His poetry has appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly, Brittle Paper, Poetic Africa, Poetry Catalog, Sky Island Journal, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Spillwords, among other publications. He and Christina Chin has co-written and published two poetry chapbooks. He’s a contributor at Mad Swirl.
By Tyler Plofker
Tyler Plofker is a writer in NYC.
By Lucas Restivo
Lucas Restivo is OPEN for representation and endowments
By Bud Smith
Last night I broke a rib kicking a balloon. I went flying like Home Alone, Marv and Harry, landed on my side and damn it hurt.
Sometime around sunset the following day I was at Miriam’s 80th birthday party, sat mostly alone at an oblong table, lacking the power to laugh.
The backroom of the restaurant overlooked the turnpike. Half her family stared out an endless window at an endless peel of traffic. The other half took turns briefly holding whoever’s baby.
The sprite-like server asked if I was all right.
In my own way I signaled, Not at all.
He brought more table wine.
I sipped non-dominant, explaining how I’d been wounded in battle the previous midnight, but neglecting to mention my opponent: a rubber bladder full of breath, color of bubble-gum, hovering low along the hardwood floor of the upstairs guest room.
How the house had shook and woken two sisters, two nieces, all the tetra, even the cherry barb.
The server left. The baby echoed all around.
Unable to dance or mingle, I watched Giada loom over an elderly man at table five. I saw how she was disguising her hatred, making what appeared to be pleasant small talk, though he was a known-enemy, a pink-faced gentleman-fuck in a baby blue suit and teal tie. She was nodding. Was smiling cool even.
We’d been married eleven-and-a-quarter years. I’d studied and was fluent in her many gifts.
I, in fact, was one of her gifts.
Another of her gifts was ‘forever-patience.’
Another was ‘resting angel face.’
Then there was her ability to conceal absolute repulsion.
Who could ever guess, during the car ride over, Giada had instructed me to slowly choke the life from this bloviating man.
His exact relation was unclear.
Her father’s first cousin? Second cousin? Third cousin? Forth cousin? No cousin at all? Luca. Former dean of colleges, retired fifteen years but the way he bragged about campus, you’d never know.
Maybe she would snap, fetch up the potted tiger lily centerpiece, and brain him.
A silver mylar balloon struck the ceiling fan but my table mate bopped it away with an unconcerned backhand.
Gold foil on the balloon read “80?!”
And Miriam? Perhaps Miriam was a great aunt?
I had no clue, except I loved Miriam, wanted her cloned two thousand times. A moment before I had seen the bartender letting the baby pull ice cubes from the bucket. But Miriam had objected. Now Miriam was rocking the mystery baby. Giada’s family had conquered this backroom with toasts, and gossip, and four courses of food already. Espresso was brewing. I limped to the remainder cocktail shrimp.
Not two minutes later, someone tapped my shoulder. I turned, expecting to be offered a pig in a blanket—not so—another server bestowed upon me the baby.
“I’m hurt,” I said, indicating my side.
Big Nico saved me, took the young one and spoke in his low baritone, “Who’s your daddy? Who’s your daddy?” Our world was built of questions, posed to those who lacked the ability to speak. “No, really. Who’s your daddy?” He gently shook this baby over his head. “Is there a daddy in the house?” Big Nico asked like someone might say, ‘Is there a doctor in the house,’ just a moment before an emergency tracheotomy.
I studied a poster board full of photos of Miriam as a child in Passaic and Miriam as a teenager in Passaic and then Miriam as an adult after she’d gotten herself waylaid in Salt Lake City.
The photos on the poster board I liked best, twenty or so, captured a gnawed-away time when she was young, in New Jersey, just after WWII, when everything was sepia dew and sepia roses.
One of those sepia photos on that pasteboard was of this building I stood in now, which Giada’s family used to own. For six years they’d owned it, I think.
First the building contained a hat store that also sold shoes. Then it was a shoe store that had some hats. Then they sold no hats. Briefly after the family lost the building, imitation diamonds were sold here. After that, it became a pawn shop. Then there was white flight and nearly it was demolished. Yet here we all were, knee-deep in bruschetta, faux bouquets, and Dean Martin—the place now called Friar Anthony’s.
Two of the other twenty photos were especially striking, bloomed with life, belonged on a gallery wall.
One of these special photos was labeled “1964 M” She was twenty-four and wearing a white dress, stood in front of a plaster wall painted evergreen. She was wearing a halo. Either it was Halloween or Noel.
In the other photo, everything had an orange tint and she was getting a haircut from a much older man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. The collar on his flannel shirt popped. She had on a tight sweater, navy blue, with gold zigzags.
“That’s me,” Miriam said over my shoulder. I turned and introduced myself. Said ‘Happy Birthday’ again. She reached for my hand. I gave her a shake against my better judgement and nearly cried. She’d come all the way from the other side of America—Utah—to be exact, as if on a farewell tour.
“These two photos are really good.”
She didn’t get me. “A swell camera.”
“Who is the man?”
“My father, Little Nico. He used to hide money all over the house. When he died, my brother Nico—Big Nico—got the house. When he finally sold, well you know, they tore down that house.”
“No I didn’t know.” I was upset to hear this but not surprised. I’d loved that house.
“They tear down everything. They’ve got to keep the bulldozers busy. But with all that junk Nico had put in there, I can understand. We had to clean it out in a hurry just so they could level it.”
“That was some good junk though.”
“Sure it was. We’d be giving away an old dresser and hoping it didn’t have money hidden in it.”
“I lived in that house for a month.”
“When was this?”
“Ten years ago.”
“I loved that house. You lived there? I’d say a hundred people lived there. Open door policy. At one point the mailman lived there.”
“I’m Giada’s husband,” I said. I pointed to one of the photos of the house, trashed to the max. “Is that 2012?”
“Maybe I met you. You were thinner?”
“For sure.”
“What a lightning rod for garbage. And we’d have to worry there is money hidden in everything. That’s how our dad was. There were all these pill bottles. The other day I opened a bottle of nickels.”
“When did he die?”
“1992. No. 1993.”
I glanced down at Miriam’s feet. She had on neon running shoes under, maybe, her fanciest dress.
“1994. June the ninth. Dad played the lottery every day. When he died we filled up the coffin with empty cigarette packs and losing lottery tickets. Everyone saw that and smiled. Buried him with two Marlboros, a red, and a lite, one in each corner of his mouth.”
I gave Giada a wave she didn’t see.
The servers in their purple vests and purple shoes, handsome parts in slicked hair, wheeled out dessert. The sun was at the perfect angle to blind us all.
Some hero shut the curtain. The room dimmed into comfortable shadow. There wasn’t a single light on. I leaned in closer to the poster board, looking again at those two, specifically striking photos. I realized all my pain had gone poof.
I pointed to the angel and the haircut.
“Who snapped these?”
“Oh, that would have had to be our older brother. Luca.” She pointed out the man my wife wanted me to strangle. The man Giada was still talking to, still being civil to.
“He carried that Nikon everywhere.”
“I really love those two photos of you,” I said.
Miriam hugged me and gave my neck a little peck.
I went back to my table and sat down with espresso and tiramisu. Giada had floated over to her mother and father and now, to the baby’s delight, her father sang a novelty folk song urging Christopher Columbus to turn the boat around.
The Marine across from me consumed candy crush. His red-headed daughter poked him in the gut, spoke more about a carnival soon happening on the cliffs. The seat where the mother had been was vacant.
I looked back at Luca sat all alone. I thought again about his photos. He looked so lonely. Where was his camera now? I didn’t want to kill him anymore.
If his sister was 80 and he was the older brother, that would have made him at least 82. I’d met him fifteen years earlier. At a different reunion barbecue.
He was always saying evil things at barbecues. At one legendary bicentennial barbecue, he may have told Giada’s mother she needed plastic surgery.
The barbecue I’d been to, he said something nasty to Giada even, but what?
Oh I couldn’t recall even that.
Can you be irrationally mad at something not worth remembering? Let’s see. I picked up my plate and cup and sat down at the table across from Luca.
“Hello,” he said.
“Luca, you don’t know me.”
He was barely looking. “I know all about you.”
“I just wanted to tell you—”
“Save your breath. I used to believe in radical honesty at your age. It’s a waste.”
He ate some of his cake. I ate some of mine.
“What should I apologize for?” he asked.
I looked across the restaurant, Giada was talking to a woman in a skyblue gown. The missing mother?
“You’re right, forget it. I heard you took those two photos that I like over there. So I forgive you, as an artist.”
He smiled. “Good. You’ve seen the light. And so have I. Isn’t that photo of Miriam and my father so funny? Who ever saw a father cut his daughter’s hair? But that’s the kind of man he was. He would take apart the TV set just to see how it worked and he would put it back together. No formal training. No education. But he’d wear a tie, hovering over the open hood of a car, changing spark plugs, pulling on wires. He’d guess and he’d be right. Me, and you, we’d be hopeless.”
“Your father had innate talent.”
“When the priest would drop by he would be lying on the couch reading the paper and Miriam would let him in the house but Dad wouldn’t even get up. He didn’t make a big deal of ceremony and he thought a lot of people were terrible kissasses. Anyway, I was a nerd. I had a camera. That priest gave it to me. I took lots of photos.”
The restaurant was louder now. The drunks had had their rocket fuel. Voices swelled. Faces grew younger. And there was Miriam sat under her throne of balloons, shoulder-to-shoulder with Nico. He was red-faced and blockheaded, and whispering something that doubled Miriam over in laughter. I guessed, at this pace, she’d live another eighty years.
One thing I remembered about Nico was that he put newspaper down and let his three-year-old-totally-healthy dog, shit in his house. Never once did I see or hear him yell at that dog. Though there was a doggie door, the dog preferred to shit in the house. And in the mornings before work, I’d step out of that dog-shit-reeking house, to my car and see Nico had hundreds of pounds of bulk garbage tied with twine to the roof of his Ford Taurus, which he’d gathered in the dark. So I’d untie it all and put it there amongst all his other nightly winnings. Every year he used to have a yard sale in the summer and sell the town back its trash.
But as you already know, the house is gone, and so is the dog, not to mention, nearly everything else.
I heard a balloon pop under the table.
I bent down in terrible agony.
The baby was crying but nobody else noticed. He’d curled up in a little ball, his mouth full of silver mylar.
I reached out my good arm but the baby scurried away. Now was sucking his thumb amid all this clatter and chatter. He pulled his thumb out and the string of the popped balloon was wrapped around his thumb.
The baby drooled loose the rest of the choking hazard and smiled.
“Whose kid is this under the table?”
Up above, Luca was summarizing an important commencement speech he’d heard given every Spring for the entirety of his adult life.
I called for help again.
Nobody seemed to hear.
I held out my plate. The baby crawled over and began to scoop handfuls of cake into his brand new mouth.
Bud Smith is the author of the novel, Teenager, among others. He lives in Jersey City.
By Shane Kowalski
Genius At Work
I went on a gameshow but didn’t win. Instead, spectacularly lost. They said I sucked. That I should never have been born. They’re probably right. I went home and found my wife having sex with the gameshow host. Somehow, she had beat me home. The gameshow host you’ll remember as the beautiful model of the late 90s, Brooke Teal. This makes sense, I thought. My wife said leave. Brooke Teal laughed. I closed the door behind me, carrying with me my old-fashioned lamp handed down from my Polish grandfather. It’s of a boozy-sad hobo who looks suspiciously like Charlie Chaplin. Above him, where the lamp’s bulb burns dim, it says, “GENIUS AT WORK.”
To Nobody
I was dead for five hundred years and came back at the wrong possible time. My postman came through the yard, with a letter which, when opened in private, told me I had missed everything. “Missed what?” I said out loud, to nobody. Everybody I had known had long since died. My beloved dog, Hamstring; my mother who knew every knot in the book; my grandfather—but he had been dead since before I was born. Then one day I was shaken from the seduction of an afternoon nap by a phone call. “Hello, but there’s been a big mistake,” said the voice on the other end. “Mistake? What mistake?” I said. But then I could hear the neighbors outside, doing their marches in the yard. They were practicing for a reckoning. I couldn’t relate it to anything. There was no precedent. The only thing I remember from my previous life is what Debussy said. He said to the singers in his opera, “First of all, ladies and gentlemen, you must forget that you are singers.”
Class Clown At Our Lady Of Perpetual Sorrow
I was unfairly punished many times as a student at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow.
It was usually because I was pranking someone. Usually because I was pranking Old Garf. Garf was the runt of his prestigious, sprawling family. Anchored by everything you could be anchored by at twelve years old. Horrible youth for Poor Old Garf.
I’d call him up numerous times, pretending to be a doctor or police officer and having to inform him of his parents’ demise, usually in some ill-fated excursion or random chance encounter of morbid violence. I was excellent at making them up! My imagination was like a knife. Everything around me, the butter.
And poor Old Garf, every time, on the other end of the phone, sobbing like an alley cat with nobody to push away. Old Garf, always believing me.
So, you see what I mean? Unfairly punished. Unjustly! Garf believing the same story (or variation of the story). Imbecilic! Dunce! Old Garf… I can’t stay mad at him. After all these years… You’ve heard about him no doubt, very recently, in the news. Having achieved the highest status in some acronymed company that has great influence over public policy.
Shane Kowalski lives in Pennsylvania, where he teaches creative writing at Ursinus College. He’s the author of Small Moods (Future Tense Books).
By Steve Gergley
On Friday night, I drove out to the Wickens family farm to listen to my wife’s hardcore band play a show inside the barn at the edge of the woods. The barn stood sheathed in a thick crust of shimmering obsidian paint. A common nighthawk wearing a tiny leather jacket perched on a post just outside the door. It was April. I had quit my job at Wal-Mart over a year ago. My wife said she was fine with this, but I wasn’t sure. She had never been very good at expressing her true emotions.
Inside, the barn was empty of animals and people and fences and hay. A carpet of soft dirt covered the cool floor. My wife slammed on her drum set in a rapturous thrall. The sound of her drumming was deafening. The concussive force of her kick drum rammed into my ribs like a right hook. Runnels of gleaming sweat forked down my wife’s luxurious neck. She wore nothing but the expensive purple lingerie I had purchased for her thirty-sixth birthday last month. Stepping into her line of sight, I held up my hand and waved to her in adoration. She stared at my shins for thirty-one seconds. She did not smile at me or acknowledge my presence. She played her 9/8 drum patterns and stared at the lead singer’s ass for the next hour. So I peeled off my clothes and lay on my back in the nude. I grabbed fistfuls of loose dirt and smeared brown streaks of mud across my thighs. I stared at the mossy cobwebs clinging to the corners of the gambrel roof. I pushed my pinkies into my ears until forks of sticky blood began to flow.
Steve Gergley is the author of four books. His most recent novel, Episode 3328: Ian Sharp, was published in January of 2025 by Translucent Eyes Press. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Wigleaf, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, Passages North, Always Crashing, and others. He tweets @GergleySteve. His fiction can be found at: https://stevegergleyauthor.wordpress.com/. In addition to his own writing, he is also the editor of scaffold literary magazine.
By Maxfield Francis Goldman
In the end there was nothing worth staying for. I left LA on bad terms. I’d burnt bridges, accrued social debts, and alienated myself from whoever tried to comfort me whilst grieving. I was a drunken arsonist, scorning those once dear to me when six feet deep in liquor. I had some girls for comfort. None of them knew about each other, until they did. I had some friends, until I told them to fuck off. All this accumulated into LA becoming one big hell after Laruen died.
I lived in a small apartment. It was in the old spanish style and decorated with movie posters from a lost Hollywood. I moved there after college to be a screenwriter. I did that. Or, I tried that. I wrote a screenplay about an all female death metal band struggling to make a decision about whether to sell out or not when offered a record deal that mandated them a makeover. Lauren was cast as the lead singer.
The movie did okay. It led to other conversations about other scripts that I’d promised to make. Scripts I tried to write and failed to finish. Meanwhile, Lauren auditioned for overdubbed car commercials and background gigs for b-rate reality shows. She was cast as ASIAN WOMAN ON CELL PHONE 1. Implying there was another Asian woman talking on a cell phone in the background as some spray-tanned wop monologues about his troubled dating life.
It was at an afterparty for the show where Lauren’s heart stopped. Bad blow. A Grand Mal seizure. There are videos readily accessible on behalf of the audience’s presumption she was faking it for attention. Apparently there were a handful of celebrities at the party. A-grades like Bradley Cooper who were featured briefly on the show making sardonic commentary upon the stars’ attempts to find love in an admittedly disembodied LA. I have only watched one once. That was more than enough. And so came the months of grief, and thus passed my life as I’d known it. No longer did I think about movies, writing, art.
I sold off most of my possessions. I booked a plane ticket to New York without plans of where to go upon arrival. I knew nothing of how I’d live. All I knew was I wanted out.
This brings me to now, the morning of my move. In LAX with a backpack filled with nearly meaningless memorabilia of my 20’s, and a suitcase filled with clothes, unseasonably light, considering my wintery destination.
In front of me there’s a family of four arguing about who’s gonna sit in the aisle seats, who’s gonna be in the middle, who’s gonna be the ‘pariah’ left to share a coupled row with a stranger. The kids argue with severity. The father looks indifferent, the mother too. The son and daughter force their way to agreement that they will both sit in the aisle seats. I feel vaguely relieved that at least some people get what they want in this world. Or at least know where they belong.
For a moment I have direction. The tall security guard rushes me forward in line and tells me to have my passport ready. I pull it from my pocket, hold it in my hand as I move up. My ticket is scanned and I file forward in a bureaucratic and soulless fashion.
On the plane I sit alone. Normally I would be happy about this, but today it fills me with a particular dread. The prospect of leg room does not particularly suffice for the comfort another soul could bring right now
I consider the superficiality of my being. I have nothing: no great work to show for my thirty odd years on earth. No deep connection with family. No friends. No depth. I have managed to live lightly. Skimming seconds until they turn to days. I watch LA grow distant below me. The morning sun is sepia. The interiority of my plane is gray.
I unlock my phone to put on music. The plane drops violently in altitude. A baby starts crying. I drop my phone on the ground and it slides to the row behind me. The drop feels like getting punched in the gut. I stare down at my shoes as our bird takes its thrashing. I’m wearing black monk straps. I suddenly realize how unfashionable, ugly, and untimely my choice in footwear is.The plane shakes. I feel a tap on my shoulder, the man in row behind me speaks in a calm, high voice, says “this yours?” and hands me my phone.
The plane begins to drop in steps as if drunkenly stumbling down a flight of stairs. I attempt prayer. I yearn for the grace of stable religiosity. My bladder threatens to scream and my stomach hums baritone. I yelp at the sound of a huge tin trash can getting kicked. A dip in elevation. A flicker in light. A lack of control. I feel the closing of an imminent future. My bladder folds. Passengers scream. The overhead compartments throw up Rimowa. Film photos of me on a seesaw. The feeling of saltwater in my eyes. The smell of spring rain. The innocent nausea of a merry-go-round. The first memory of a hand tucked in mine. The blackness of sleep.
Everything grew alright by seconds spent away from daylight. It was silent, not like sleep but rather the soft erosion of sense following shock. It was the feeling of being weightlessly held. A gentle suggestion of guided continuance. Something like hope.
“Are you alright?” the man says to me as I come to, opening my eyes and staring at his face. It’s pale. Bearded thickly. He has a long, thin nose, and rimless glasses. Two long curls spurting out of his temples.
“I think I might be dead,” I say to him. He is standing in the aisle, leaning in to eye level. He smells of a faint menthol.
“My boy, you only fainted, you are alive and well.” His w possesses a slight v. “vwell,” he says. I stare into the faint blue of his eyes, and ask as a child appeals to anything above him “will you sit next to me . . . I am scared . . . I am scared I am going to die . . .I am scared I am going to die and I have nothing.”
He laughs, I scooch over and he slides into the seat beside me. Takes my hand and looks me in the eye. “You are wrong, you have everything. You have me. You have your hands, you have your eyes, your ears, your nose and your hair. Tell me—do you believe in God?”
“I don’t know.” I say grabbing his hand back. “I don’t ever think about it.”
He looks deeper. “Wvell, do you think about yourself?”
“Yes. Almost exclusively.”
“Well then you think about God.It’s banal. Everyone says it. But In Judaism, God is Ein Sof. Infinite. Meaning you, that that, is you too. Meaning God makes up all that surrounds us— given the belief that God is the origin of all existence. To really think about anything, to not only think about God, but to know him as well as man can, to be close to him.”
“I have no clue what that means. I’m not smart anymore. And I think I pissed my pants.”
“Tzimtzum. The contraction of God’s infinite light to allow the creation of the universe. It left space for God to be everywhere. The withdrawal of God leaves space for your mind. For all of us to be, and to be singular. Thus we take his place as the embodied gods of everything around us.”
“Everything around us?”
He smiles big “Everything. Everything like the clouds. Everything like grass. Everything like ants. God went far away to somewhere we can’t understand to allow everything to be its own divinity.”
“I have God too?”
“You couldn’t not have God if you tried.”
“I’ve tried.”
The Flight mellows. The stewardess serves drinks. We both take gin. I tell him my mother was Jewish. He says he could tell. I ask how and he says it’s something you just come to know. I take another Gin and fall asleep on Levi’s shoulder. In my dream I wear converse and a big felt hat. I’m dancing with men in long black coats singing in a language I don’t know. I have children. They aren’t there but I know I have them. A wife too. Her face is a feeling I have in my heart and not an image.
I awake upon dissension, carrying the dream like a lungful of breath. Heart pounding. Perspiring, right there beside Levi. Our declination is smooth, the bright city below draws close like clouds. Wind. Inside me Levi claims is everything: Lauren is alive. My friends are a part of it too, my family, my everything.
As the plane touches down, people begin to cheer. I feel second-hand embarrassment. I am them too. They are me. I follow Levi down the aisle. Out of the plane and into the airport. JFK is busy. I begin to lose him in the crowd. I follow the tail of his greatcoat through peripheral glances split between traveling bodies. I stay on him, into baggage claim, where he is received by a group of men dressed just like him. They take him warmly.
I think of yelling his name. And then I don’t. I watch him exit the building. He minimizes into a black fleck as he draws deeper into the mouthlike opening of the short term parking lot. I know he doesn’t look back because what he wanted has already happened. I want what he wants. To bring me close to something real. Something we will continue to share foreverlong. This empty space God once breathed life into, the freedom of blank paper. White walls, Fluorescent light. Freedom to be the same but entirely different.
A young woman comes up to me and asks “do you know which carousell has the bags from LAX?”
“I don’t.” And as I say that, they start to fall from the shoot onto the black conveyor belt.
“It’s alright.” she says, “I see it, it’s just starting to begin.”
And as I watch the bags circle around, I think to myself, it’s just starting to begin.
Maxfield Francis Goldman is a 22-year-old author from Upstate New York.
By Bill Whitten
Bill Whitten is a husband and father of two wonderful boys in St Louis where he spends 15 minutes at a time recording entire albums all by himself. He also finds the time to write and send it to us to publish. Go find his music and buy it; from St Johnny to Grand Mal to William Carlos Whitten. He also makes youtube videos. An amazing talent. Black Mystic Speed by WIlliam Carlos Whitten
a chat with Max Hipp
Max’s first collection WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU OPENS YOUR HEART was published April 9, 2024 by Cool Dog Sound.
I first saw the name Max Hipp in 2019 when I read his story THE LEAST FUCKED UP PEOPLE in Smokelong Quarterly. I enjoyed it very much so I was pleased to cross paths with him in a Bud Smith writing workshop during the winter of 2020-21. This was right around the time the first COVID vaccines were rolling out to the most vulnerable and politicians. Every Wednesday night I’d go down to my wood-paneled basement, tap a link, and stare at a panel of eight tired faces that would keep me somewhat sane for three hours.
AT: Do you remember in Bud’s workshop, how we’d have to write those little letters at the end of each person’s piece to sum up our thoughts? I was one of three to be workshopped that first week. I’d sent everyone two or three chapters of a children’s detective novel. When I read through the letters afterward, most were complementary and mentioned how the story reminded them of stuff they read as kids. But when I got to your feedback, you hadn’t written anything. I was like, WTF? Does Max not understand the rules? Did he hate my shit so much he didn’t think it was worth a note? Was his opinion so brutal he didn’t have the heart to tell me? And what the hell kind of pseudonym is Max Hipp, anyway? Fine, whatever. I could take it. Besides, it was your turn to sub the following week. Maybe I wouldn’t feel the urge to write you a note either. I’m no clairvoyant, I can’t see the future. But that didn’t happen. When I received your offering and opened the doc I saw the title CLIFF BURTON RULES and thought, Oh shit. Growing up, Cliff era Metallica was my favorite. Not only did you use my favorite musician in a story, but the story itself spoke to my upbringing and the upbringing of many kids who got into thrash metal in the ‘80s. You made me a solid fan of your work with that story, and I’m really happy to see it in a published collection.
MH: First off, let me apologize for being such a thoughtless jerk about your chapters! You’re right that I literally didn’t understand the rules in that workshop, or knew there were rules. I’ve noticed that if someone gives me directions on how to do something, anything, I will immediately misunderstand those directions. Also those chapters were flawless and great and I didn’t have anything to add and was thinking I could praise your flawless chapters “in person” over Zoom with my face and ridiculous pseudonym and all.
With that story, I wanted to get the feel of what The Satanic Panic in the 1980s (and early ‘90s in Mississippi; southern lag time) felt like, and how dangerous and wild and fun Metallica seemed back before they became a corporation. In the story, it’s 1994 and Sammy, the main character who’s born too late, wants to start his own band and be like Metallica. He feels like those guys are his brothers, which was common back then, when all you knew about a thrash band came from magazines and liner notes. They were the most beloved metal band on Earth because their tapes were traded one dubbed cassette at a time, through snail mail and across the seas to every continent. They took over the world that way. Anybody who saw them live in the 1980s on any of those stadium tours knew they were special, even peers like Slayer and Anthrax. A lot of that specialness was Cliff Burton. I’m glad some of that was hitting for you. It’s one of my favorites in the collection.
How were you introduced to ‘80s thrash metal and what was the first band/album you remember getting into?
It was Metallica. I hadn’t heard anything by them until around 1989 when I got a dubbed copy of …And Justice for All from my cousin. I’d never heard anything like it. I was still stuck in the literal with lyrics, so when Hetfield sang “See our mother put to death,” I was envisioning my own mother, which scared me. I didn’t have cool older brothers to show me punk rock or anything edgy and I was pretty isolated other than whatever I gleaned from MTV and middle school. Metallica famously didn’t make videos until the “One” video, but I didn’t see it until we rented it from the video store. After that, the floodgates opened. I realized the people I knew who wore those black t-shirts already listened to this band religiously, and pretty soon all the Testament and Megadeth patches on all the denim jackets made sense.
I was similarly affected by the “See our mother put to death” lyric. Justice is a heavy album, even by comparison to the previous three. Of course, everyone mentions the lack of bass on that album, the first without Cliff. Do you have any particular feelings regarding the bass being nearly inaudible in the mix?
I used to have more feelings about the lack of bass. Clearly, the sound of the record didn’t hurt Metallica whatsoever. They just got bigger. As someone who actually listens for bass guitar, though, it makes the album not hold up as well for me, but the sound of that album, that freeze-dried tightness, changed the way thrash sounded for the next few years.
I’m okay with the low bass on Justice now. I think of its absence as a sort of tribute to Cliff. But if I was Newsted I’d be fucking pissed. Since Justice was your first Metallica album, what was your introduction to Cliff Burton?
Probably listening to Ride the Lightning on the school bus with friends. And then watching Cliff ‘Em All on the VCR.
I don’t know if you’re aware your book came out forty-one years to the day of Dave Mustaine’s final gig with Metallica on April 9, 1983. Ultimately, I think the personnel change was positive because we got Megadeth as a result, and an entertaining decades-long rivalry. As a guitar player yourself, do you have a preference between Dave and his replacement, Kirk Hammet? And how do you feel about wah pedals?
Ha! I had no idea when Mustaine’s last gig with them was, but I’m glad it was the book’s pub date. I like both of those guitar players. To me, choosing one would be like preferring a Phillips-head screwdriver to a flathead–depends on what you need it for. I like wah pedals for weird noise and tone purposes. It’s hard to make that effect sound new, or make it serve the song, so I have a lot of respect for folks who don’t just wacka-wacka with it. Sometimes you just have to put the wah away, step away from the wah.
You mentioned The Satanic Panic of the ‘80s. For me, growing up in the northeast, listening to metal and adopting the image drew some stares and occasional comments about devil worship. What was it like in Mississippi during that time? In my mind, your area is a lot more conservative, religious, and generally up in everyone else’s business. You’re not far from Arkansas where, in 1994 (the same year CLIFF BURTON RULES takes place) the West Memphis Three were convicted of murdering three little kids in a satanic ritual, the only evidence against them being the heavy metal they listened to.
Yes, the West Memphis Three stuff happened about an hour-and-a-half from me. My friends and I could’ve been those three metal kids who were wrongly convicted, the victims of satanic panic mixed with shoddy police work. Down here, wearing the metal shirts and growing out your hair made people scared of you, a kind of protection against bullying. It also made you a target for police, though, since they assumed you had drugs.
Did you have drugs?
Me? No sir, officer.
Have you watched season 4 of Stranger Things? The Satanic Panic played a big part in the plot (I read that the character of Eddie Munson was based on Damien Echols of the WM3), not only with metal but Dungeons & Dragons, which has also made its way into your stories. Did you play a lot of D&D as a kid?
Yes, I’ve seen all the Stranger Things episodes. I didn’t know anyone that played D&D until I was fifteen or so. When I was young, I thought I was too cool for it, like D&D players were nerds and I wasn’t, but I got into it during the 2020-21 leg of the COVID pandemic, playing on Zoom with old friends. We played every week, sometimes twice a week, for over a year.
Have you ever played a record backwards?
As much as I’ve always wanted to, no. Is there still time? Any particular ones I should try first?
It’s never too late to get possessed by the devil.
What was the first guitar and amp you owned? What do you use now?
The guitar and amp were both Peaveys, made in Mississippi. Now I’ve got a Fender Vibrolux as a main amp, and too many guitars. But I use them all, so it’s not an addiction, right?
Do you remember the first metal riff you learned?
It was probably “Seek and Destroy.”
Do you recall the name of your first band?
High Voltage. We liked AC/DC but couldn’t figure out a way to sound like them. We would write songs and record them live on a jambox, with whoever was singing standing close to the built-in mic so we could hear the lyrics.
Did you have a favorite band t-shirt growing up?
I always loved those Pushead Metallica shirts but sadly never owned one. My mom and stepdad wouldn’t have let me wear something like that and would’ve freaked out, exactly why I wanted one.
So your mom and stepdad weren’t supportive of your evil musical tastes. Did they forbid you from going to concerts or buying certain albums? Did they send you to a de-metaling program like in The Decline of Western Civilization II: The Metal Years? Have you seen that doc?
I definitely rented that movie from the video store back in the day. No one put me through a de-metaling program, but those scams were widely available where I lived. And talking about childhood, let me put it this way: it was clear that things would go more smoothly if I listened to the heavier cassette tapes only on my Walkman.
Seeing as you avoided t-shirts, would I be correct to assume you didn’t hang posters of metal bands in your room? What did teenage Max’s room look like?
Correct. Posters and thumbtacks weren’t allowed. My room looked like the waiting room for a doctor’s office.
What was your first concert?
Metallica – June 16, 1992 at the Mississippi Coliseum in Jackson, MS. We were all fifteen. We had brainwashed ourselves for years leading up to that moment, with Cliff ‘Em All and the first four albums, so there was no way for the show to disappoint us. But I didn’t love the Black Album. They opened with “Enter Sandman,” their huge hit, and got it out of the way, which seemed like a middle finger to the new fans, the bandwagoners, and a nod to us real fans. It said to them, “Okay, you lames can leave now.” I’m pretty sure they play that one later in the set these days.
I saw them on that tour as well. I think they opened with “Creeping Death” that night, but I’m not 100% sure. I’ve spent thirty-plus years trying to ignore “Sandman.” It really is a most awful song, by any standard. They’ve certainly managed to top its horribleness with each new release, but nothing else has become so virulent. “Sandman” has become a “Smoke on the Water” type song. It’s decent fodder only if you’re just starting to learn guitar.
Not including the first four, what was the last Metallica album you listened to, or tried to? If any. And if so, were there any tracks you thought were okay enough?
I listened to the one that had “Hardwired” on it. That song was decent because it was three minutes long. By my count, that album had four decent songs on it, but I remember most of them were too long. Their ’80s songs were long too but never felt like it, you know?
Being a Cliff fan, what are your thoughts on Robert Trujillo occupying his spot for the last twenty years? Is he a good fit? Does it even matter at this point?
It all matters! I always think of him replacing Newsted not Cliff, but I can see how people might not accept him playing Cliff’s songs the same way they probably didn’t accept Newsted. Trujillo was on those thrashy Suicidal Tendencies albums and I discovered them when I saw the “You Can’t Bring Me Down” video on Headbanger’s Ball. I watched him play live with Ozzy’s band at an Ozzfest in 1998 (with Mike Bordin from Faith No More on drums!) and loved it. In Some Kind of Monster, when they’re auditioning bass players, he’s the best one by far. I’m sure he’ll be ecstatic to know that, yes, I accept him.
I met Trujillo a long time ago. One of my bands was recording at a studio in California and on the second or third day the engineer goes, “You guys know Rob Trujillo?” Of course I’m like, Fuck yeah, I know who he is, and the engineer all nonchalantly tells me he’s recording some solo stuff in the next room. So I kept sticking my head out into the hall and eventually got to talk with him a bit and hear what he was doing. I want to say it was Mass Mental stuff but I’m not sure. I think he was also still playing for Ozzy at that point. About a year later he joined Metallica. I’m not leading into a question with this. Actually, yes, I am. While on the subject of Rob, are you aware he and Mike Bordin (Faith No More) re-recorded bass and drum tracks on the first two Ozzy albums? I think it was because Sharon Osbourne no longer wanted to pay royalties to Bob Daisley, who I believe wrote many of those songs with Randy Rhodes and Lee Kerslake. Rob and Mike have stated they were not aware of what the session was for until they arrived, and that since they were employed by Sharon and Ozzy they did what they were told. How do you feel about musicians doing that sort of thing?
That’s a cool Trujillo story–I’ve never met any metal guys. I’m aware of the shenanigans with the Randy Rhodes records. I’ve got no moral objection to it, I guess, though I’d rather hear the originals. I hope they’ve come to their senses and restored them back to the first version by now.
How old were you when you heard about Ozzy biting the head off of a bat during a concert in 1982? What was your take on it at the time?
My sister probably told me about that when he was touring in the 1980s. To me, this made him clearly evil, somebody who struck fear and awe and was outside of the norm. I think it’s hard to express how news of that event (dove or bat) spread throughout popular culture, via word of mouth, for years. Even if it wasn’t true, everybody spread the legend because it was a good story.
What was the last metal concert you went to? Not including one you played.
Last metal concert was Mr. Bungle at the Tabernacle in Atlanta in May 2024. This is wildly appropriate for our interview because Dave Lombardo (Slayer) was playing drums and Scott Ian (Anthrax) was playing second guitar for them.
I did catch wind of that lineup on social media. Lombardo was in Dead Cross with Mike Patton, so I wasn’t as surprised to see him as I was Ian. Good show? Did they throw in any Slayer or Anthrax covers?
They played the intro to “Hell Awaits” and reworked an S.O.D. song into “Speak Spanish or Die.” They also covered some pop hits like “I’m Not in Love,” “True,” and “Hopelessly Devoted to You” to break up the fast and heavy onslaught. Mike Patton can sing anything.
Do you like Faith No More? They’re a band Metallica introduced me to, simply because Hetfield wore one of their t-shirts in some pics. It wasn’t until later that I learned Jim Martin and Cliff Burton had been in EZ-Street together.
Never heard EZ-Street, but I think I remember that either Kirk Hammet or Les Claypool, or both, went to high school with Jim Martin (I refuse to google this). I definitely like the Jim Martin Faith No More albums. Nobody sounds like that guy, the way he layers the guitar parts until it sounds enormous. That’s a heavy picking hand downstroking the crap out of everything, and he really shines on The Real Thing. “Woodpecker from Mars” and “Zombie Eaters” and “Surprise! You’re Dead!” I mean, c’mon.
I know Kirk asked Les to audition for Metallica when Cliff died. It’s hard to imagine that lineup now, but he might have been a good fit considering his work with Blind Illusion. I believe Hetfield thought he was too weird.
It’s hard to imagine him taking a backseat in another band. He strikes me as a guy with a lot of musical ideas and opinions that would probably go unheard in twenty-first century Metallica.
Care to give us a Top 10 list of metal bands? Or metal albums, since a lot of those bands have sucked for decades?
This list is somewhat arbitrary and will probably change tomorrow, but if I were to pick ten favorite metal albums today:
Metallica – Ride the Lightning, Motörhead – Overkill, Judas Priest – Sad Wings of Destiny, Deep Purple – In Rock, Iron Maiden – Killers, Melvins – Bullhead, Slayer – Reign in Blood, dead horse – Peaceful Death and Pretty Flowers, Saint Vitus – Saint Vitus, Black Sabbath – Black Sabbath.
The newest album on this list is from 1991. Wow. But I think that has more to do with the way metal albums are recorded today, everything too upfront in the mix.
I wouldn’t have expected to see Bullhead on a list of favorite metal albums, but it makes sense. I think my brain automatically places Melvins in the “alternative” category, which is unfortunate, in a way. This makes me think of something Sammy says in CLIFF BURTON RULES, about Nirvana, or, more specifically, Cobain–that he’s lame. Is that purely for the story, or does Sammy’s opinion reflect your personal feelings?
Melvins are weird and punk rock but also metal, I’d say. They have so many albums (they’ve been going for forty years now) that my brain only vaguely associates them with Cobain or “grunge” or “alternative” anymore. I actually like Nirvana. Sammy is a zealot who craves metal purity. You might say he’s a metal supremacist.
But I thought Nirvana was great when they came out. They exploded in the media about the same time Metallica did and suddenly you had all these aggressive guitar sounds on MTV and the radio. Because Cobain name-dropped a bunch of punk and noise bands in his interviews, I was able to find a bunch of bands I still love. He did a lot of good for the musicians who shaped him.
Are there any bands from that “alternative” era you didn’t like, and have since found an appreciation for?
Melvins, Mudhoney, and Screaming Trees sound even better to me now than they did back then. They’re much more interesting than some of the more popular bands of the era.
You mention Maiden’s Killers in your Top 10. Does that mean you prefer Paul Di’Anno’s vocals to Bruce Dickenson’s?
Even though Di’Anno died just before I could answer this question, I prefer Bruce. I think I like the weird, jerky arrangements on the early Iron Maiden records.
Have you heard the song “Bruce, Eddie and Paul” by NOFX?
I’ve never heard the song. I’m not generally a fan of NOFX, but I’m glad they like Iron Maiden.
Do you care to rank the “Big 4”: Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax, and Megadeth? Is there a band you would personally swap out for another?
1. Slayer, 2. Metallica, 3. Anthrax, 4. Megadeth. No, I’ll keep the Big Four like they are. Slayer is the only one that’s made a listenable album in the last ten years, which is why I rank them first even though they’re officially retired now.
I think Slayer is back. I saw something on social media about it. That the reunion was a big secret. Kerry King even kept it from his new band. Which Slayer album are you referring to?
Repentless is the Slayer album I’m talking about, the only one they’ve put out since Jeff Henneman died. It has some of his last riffs on it, so they say. Gary Holt is on that album too, so that’s very cool.
Speaking of Kerry King, his new album is fast and aggressive in a different way than Slayer. Some of the songs feel closer to punk/hardcore. I’ve only listened once, but I liked it.
When we talk about Metallica’s best albums we refer to them as the “first four” but I just remembered how much I love The $5.98 E.P. – Garage Days Re-Revisited. I love those covers. That album introduced me to some classic bands I was unaware of until then. Idk if there’s a question here. I guess I’m wondering how that album ranks with you.
It ranks pretty high with me too. Metallica is the reason I knew anything about those bands and I loved those songs as much as I loved the ’80s Metallica songs. They made those songs their own, didn’t just try to make a faithful version, that’s why it’s so great. I bet that E.P. helped Killing Joke, Diamond Head, The Misfits, Holocaust, and Budgie stay afloat. They’re another band who helped out the artists they drew from.
How did you feel about softer metal bands like Poison, Mötley Crüe, and Ratt? I recall something someone from Slayer said, maybe Kerry King (or maybe someone from Exodus), about how, back in the day, they’d make fun of anyone they saw wearing a Ratt shirt but secretly geeked out over Warren DiMartini’s guitar skills.
I’m not going to pretend I was cool in any way about music. Nobody’s older brother lent me his cool record collection and my only way to find out about these things in the ’80s was the radio and MTV, and they seemed completely taken over by hair metal. When I was a kid, I loved those bands. Mötley Crüe’s “Looks That Kill” video on MTV really sucked me in. Mick Mars’ guitar tone got me, and how they looked like extras from Road Warrior, a movie I loved. And of course the flaming pentagram.
Crüe is just one of a few metal bands I have seen criticized for using pre-recorded tracks during concerts in recent years. Do you have feelings on that practice in metal?
It’s pretty lame, but I’m not too worked up about it.
What metal bands could you never get into?
I could never get into Ghost or Slipknot. Other metal people seem to love them.
I’m with you on Ghost and Slipknot. Mastodon is the only “new” metal band that comes to mind that I’ve enjoyed in my old age. But I can only take so much.
Yes! It feels like I’ve reached capacity for heavy bands I can care about. Or maybe to put it another way, I’ll never love the new bands like I loved the ones I was listening to when I was fifteen, meaning I won’t sit with a new band’s lyric sheet and listen on headphones and memorize things. I don’t know if giving bands that kind of attention is a universal experience, or what.
Are you aware of all the different products ‘80s thrash bands have been putting their names on these days? Hot sauce, beer, and coffee seem to be favorites. Charlie Benante and Dave Ellefson had their own brand of coffee. Chuck Billy sells weed or weed paraphernalia. Even Metallica lent their name to BLACKENED whiskey, which seemed a little odd considering Hetfield’s well-documented alcoholism.
I missed all that. The merch table must look like a CVS.
What are you listening to these days? What’s currently in your Spotify mix, CD player or whatever you use? And how do you prefer listening to music? Do you miss the days of physical copies and album artwork?
Oh man, my listening habits are scattershot. Most of the new things I’ve been listening to I’ve bought from bands I’ve seen live recently, like Bark, Chat Pile, Hartle Road, The Drip Edges, Future Fix, The Guiding Light, MSSV. Then there’s the old stuff that never gets old for me. I’ve got too many LPs, CDs, and cassettes. I create playlists on Spotify and then don’t listen to them, like the act of creating playlists soothes me somehow.
I think you talked about this in another interview, but do you care to tell what you’re doing musically now? I know you’ve got several projects going. I love the E-Meters, by the way.
Thanks for digging E-meters. We’re recording a second album right now, slowly, and we’ve got basic drum tracks and are adding things. Tyler Keith & The Apostles released an album two years ago that I’m still proud of. I play guitar with friends pretty regularly. At this point, playing music feels like a spiritual practice. There’s no end goal for it–just making the thing. If you don’t make things, nothing new happens.
Did you recently tour with Tyler, or have a string of shows? How did you end up playing with him?
Not super recent. We did a string of midwestern dates in summer of ’23, and we regularly play Memphis. My band opened for his band back in 2010. I said, “I want to sit in on a song with you guys.” He said, “Why don’t you just sit in on the whole set?” and I’ve been sitting in on the whole set ever since. He’s a great friend and also a fine writer who has a novel out on the same “book label” as my story collection. He’s written more great rock and roll songs than anyone I know.
Who are your major influences when it comes to playing guitar? Are there any current players you’re into?
I wish I could say the influences were really obscure and cool, but they’re the most basic ones. Jimi Hendrix, Tony Iommi, Angus Young. They’re the foundation and they still sound great to me. Then, of course, Hetfield. Some other layers I’ve added would include Link Wray, Neil Young, Lou Reed, Greg Ginn, Bob Mould, Greg Sage, Robert Quine, Fast Eddie Clarke, Wayne Kramer, and Ron Asheton. This may sound weird, but I don’t really care about guitar players apart from how they serve the songs. If the songs are crappy, not even the best guitar player can save them.
If you could catch a golden era show of any metal band, who would it be?
This may come as a shock to anyone who has read this entire interview, but it would be Metallica on the Master of Puppets tour, early 1986.
If you could punch one musician, living or dead, in the face, who would it be?
Hmm…maybe Kid Rock? P. Diddy? There are probably others who need punching more than they do. I’ll keep thinking about it, though I’d probably be the last guy to punch musicians.
Which Anthrax singer do you prefer?
Joey Belladonna, no contest. The guy on the first album ain’t bad either.
John Bush doesn’t do it for you? What about his main band, Armored Saint? Did you know Bush was asked to sing for Metallica before Hetfield officially took on lead vocals?
I’d heard that about Bush and Metallica. Armored Saint never did much for me and I notice that Anthrax doesn’t play anything from his era live now, which I think is a good call.
Do you have a favorite Anthrax album?
My answer is probably the same as everyone else’s: Among the Living. It’s got so many great ones, it’s undeniable. I dare you to come up with one you like better.
I cannot. Among the Living is the correct answer. 1986 was a great year for thrash.
During the course of this interview, original Anthrax bassist, Dan Lilker (Nuclear Assault, S.O.D., Brutal Truth, Venomous Concept) began filling in for Frank Bello on the band’s South American tour. I read an interview where Lilker stated, “When we parted ways back in 1984, they told me to stick around because they might need me in 40 years.”
Hahaha! That guy is great.
Does Overkill rank for you? I’m from Jersey so they were a big deal for me. Anthrax too, as they were just across the river. And of course Dan Spitz was in both bands.
I missed out on Overkill when I was a kid because none of my friends were listening to them. Maybe it’s because they weren’t on a big label at first and didn’t have as wide of a distribution as Elektra, Capital, etc.? I still haven’t listened to them much. Is it too late? Where should I start?
It’s probably too late. But I think Years of Decay is their Master of Puppets, so to speak. There are arguably better songs on other albums, but I think the lineup and production on that one puts it up there for me. D.D. Verni has a good bass sound and Bobby Gustafson’s riffs and solos seem underrated to me. I don’t think Gustafson stuck around much longer after that album.
Well, through the magic of the internet, I’ve just checked that one out and have to agree with you on all counts. They are swinging for the fences, trying to push the genre forward the same way Justice and South of Heaven did just ahead of this album. They’ve got peaks and valleys and they’ve got speed but also a few Sabbathian jams, like “Playing with Spiders/Skullkrusher.” I’m a sucker for any song called Skullkrusher.
Did you get to see Overkill live a bunch? I can imagine some intense mosh pits. Seems like Prong should’ve opened for them.
I did see Overkill. They played this small club in Newark called Studio One in the ‘90’s a couple times. Studio One was a great place to have. It was about thirty minutes from where I lived and a lot metal bands played there: Mercyful Fate, Nuclear Assault, Brutal Truth, Testament, Machine Head, Obituary, Napalm Death, Cannibal Corpse, Sepultura, Voivod, Type O Negative, GWAR, Newsted’s pre-Metallica band, Flotsam and Jetsam, and yes, Prong too, though I can’t recall if they were on the Overkill shows. Overkill was a great live band. I know they’re still kicking around but I haven’t listened to anything new in about a decade. I understand the lineup has gone through a lot of changes.
Favorite Megadeth album?
It’s hard to decide between Peace Sells and Rust in Peace. For the purposes of this interview, I’ll say Rust in Peace because the video for “Holy Wars” hooked me. That’s the first album I heard by them. There’s something about the first album you hear by a band when you’re thirteen–somehow it sticks with you.
What is the most metal animal?
A crow. Or a sloth.
Would you tell us about your cat?
My black cat is named Brutus and she’s almost eighteen. When I got her, she was the meanest cat I’d ever met and would attack people even though she weighed six pounds. I’ve seen her punch babies and small children when cornered. She makes so much eye contact it’s uncomfortable. She pukes more than she used to, so that’s pretty metal.
So, you have a book out. It seems like the response to WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU OPENS YOUR HEART has been good. I’ve seen it pop up in my social media quite a bit, always with complimentary words. Are you working on anything now? Anything we can expect in the near future?
I have a long W.I.P. document of short stories that needs attention, and I’ve started sending stuff out again. Also, there’s a short, mean novel that I’ll use to antagonize agents very soon. And I’ve started a second novel.
Thank you for taking the time to talk with me for Farewell Transmission. Is there anything you’d like to add before ending this?
I appreciate it! Nothing much to add besides long live all the great readers and listeners out there. Shout out to the good people everywhere. Drop me a line: @maxissippi on IG and bluesky
Max Hipp is a teacher, writer, and musician from Mississippi. His work has appeared in, among others, Southern Humanities Review, Cheap Pop, SmokeLong Quarterly, and Black Warrior Review. He teaches literature and creative writing. He’s currently doing some book touring with help from the Mississippi Arts Commission.
From Cool Dog Sound: The characters in Max Hipp’s debut story collection howl with loneliness. They’ve reached the ends of their coping mechanisms and bank accounts and are making terrible life choices and trying to recover in the wake of them. We’ve got folks who can’t let go of the past, folks obsessed with sex and music, lovers stuck in dismal relationships, and clueless romantics who probably need their asses whipped. Heartbreak piles up like car crashes in the fog, and everybody just has to carry on like everything’s fine. These stories keep hitting the funny/sad notes, and with his scalpel-tip sentences, Hipp marches readers through the wringer, with great compassion for the lost and searching.