14 6 / 2013
I haven’t been on here in a long time. I got sick of the beauty blogger thing, of course I’m still obsessed with makeup so I’ll still post about it some but I’m just gunna use this blog for posts about whatever I feel like too.
Over a month ago my little brother died by suicide. He was 18 years old and only a couple of weeks away from graduating high school. Tonight is one of those nights that I’m missing him like crazy. I know that things will never be the same and I’ll always be sad. I just hope I get more used to him being gone eventually. Sometimes I still forget and I catch myself about to ask where Randy is, or what time he’s done with work. Or me and my boyfriend are driving past the basketball courts and I see his friends all there, I catch myself looking for him. It’s so strange to me that one day everything’s normal, and suddenly in a matter of minutes your whole world is changed forever. A person can be here one day and gone the next, the world keeps turning, time keeps passing without them.
14 5 / 2013
12 4 / 2013
Having a round face myself, I learned these tricks to help certain features stand out. Using these simple techniques, you’ll be able to emphasize your angles using bronzer, blush, and highlighter:
12 4 / 2013
Vol. 12, No. 3
When a story is published it is fixed in place, but a great deal of toiling goes on beforehand. It isn’t easy to harness those nebulous particles that constitute fiction. The slightest whim can shift the direction of the plot. And with a new sequence of events, the characters, like passengers on a runaway zeppelin, are left to fend for themselves. Some survive. Others become mere electronic imprints in the history of a Word document. In “Missing Persons,” Norman Lock invites his reader to witness the carnage and creation of a story in flux.
The brilliance of Lock’s story lies in the quiet, the mundane. His narrator’s struggle is depicted through everyday moments: an exchange with a bureaucrat, a commute to work, a ride in an elevator. These experiences are, under normal circumstances, reassuringly stable. But in Lock’s world, they are undercut by a surreal ebb and flow of reality. What emerge are poignant—and often hilarious—parallels between the act of writing and day-to-day life. The bureaucrat, for example, finds it difficult to come up with the right words to describe an alarming situation. But even when he stumbles on a few accurate terms, he can’t do anything with them. “Words of that ilk would be laughable in a government report,” he explains to the narrator.
In “Missing Persons” you’ll encounter a narrator who is forced to come to terms with the fact that he is a product of fiction. And you’ll likely discover that his situation, uncanny as it might be, bears a striking resemblance to our own lives, marked by mortality and the caprice of the universe.
At Slice, over ninety percent of the work we publish is unsolicited. Lock’s story is one of the many gems that have arrived, without fanfare, in our submissions pile. Members of our editorial board were drawn to this story for individual reasons: the simple yet incisive language, the noir undertones, the weight of the spaces between each scene. But we were unanimous in our support of including it in our eleventh issue. Perhaps our combined admiration is best summed up by Lock’s own narrator: “I marvel at the many and varied revisions.”
Co-Founder, Slice Literary
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by Norman Lock
Recommended by Slice Literary
KARL’S WIFE, LYDIA, WAS NOT THE FIRST person in the city to have disappeared in this way. A dozen cases or more had been reported since January, according to Mr. Grolsch, who received inquiries for missing persons with surnames beginning with the letters R through zed, “though none with zed have so far come to my attention.” He was a self-important, overly fastidious man whom I hated instantly.
“It was a problem for us,” Grolsch said. “Writing our reports. We searched for a word to characterize the peculiar nature of these disappearances. We settled on ‘abruptly’ to define what in each instance seemed common to them all, though I was never happy with it. It’s descriptive but hardly rigorous: missing persons seem always to be abruptly lost from view, whether they were last seen going out to buy a newspaper or cigarettes, leaving for work or to visit a friend, or peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink. Whatever the case, they have been ripped out of their lives, no matter how ordinary the circumstances surrounding them. Don’t you agree?”
I said nothing, unwilling to reinforce the man’s good opinion of himself—of his scrupulousness. Karl seemed not to have been listening.
“There was something sinister about those cases—uncanny even,” said Grolsch. “But words of that ilk would be laughable in a government report.”
I looked out the window onto the street below my apartment, trying to say how it was that Lydia had vanished. It was not, as Grolsch had put it, as if she had been ripped out of life. I felt no violence attached to Lydia’s disappearance, and neither did Karl, who could scarcely bring himself to talk about it, so great was his anguish. (He had loved his wife steadfastly if not ardently, and who can say which is the more durable.) On the contrary, it was as though she had been fading gradually from view and also from memory. The feeling that this was so might have arisen in us abruptly. In retrospect, there was a moment when Lydia was no longer so vividly present to the mind as she had been only moments before. There was that much abruptness about it. Karl and I happened to be together at the time, in a small boat on the bay while I scattered my father’s ashes into the water where, as a boy, he had loved to sail. Neither of us ever saw Lydia again.
“I remember Lydia as I would someone whom I haven’t seen for years,” I said to Karl, who stood behind me at the window. (Surely, those awnings on the apartment house opposite had been blue!)
“Yes,” he said evenly. And already I could hear in his voice that he, too, had begun to forget her.
“Are you living with someone?” Karl asked after I had emptied the room of late afternoon light with the wand of the venetian blind.
I did not understand him immediately.
“The cosmetics and shampoos, and the pink disposable razor on the bathroom sink. And this.” He produced a strand of black hair, as if in evidence. (What hair remains to me is gray.)
Abruptly (yes, that is how it was), I recalled the oval shape of a woman’s face that, gradually but insistently, filled in with details. And as it grew toward completion, the idea strengthened in me that the face belonged—together with the cosmetics, shampoos, the pink razor, and the strand of dark hair—to my wife, whose name, I knew now with certainty, was Marie, a woman whom I had met shortly after moving to the city.
“They’re Marie’s,” I said.
Yes, it happened in this way, too. I mean, there was not only forgetting: there was also recollection; not only people vanishing, but people swimming into view as if they had been a long time underwater. (I did not realize then that the swimmer was I myself … that the images that gradually rose up in my mind like something seen through the wavering surface of the water were the result of my own submerged existence.)
Saving this short story to read later, sorry I takes up so much room on the page! lol