Monday, March 15, 2010

WE'VE MOVED



PLEASE UPDATE YOUR BOOKMARKS, THE NEWEST BROAD SET CONTENT IS NOW ON OUR .COM - FOLLOW THE SURGE OF YOUNG AUTHORS TO OUR NEW LOCATION & ENJOY YOUR CUP OF COFFEE (or glass of whiskey) W/ US.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT!

THE NEW WEBSITE FEATURES:
- A more organized format
- Interactive content
- Videos
- Monthly author spotlights
- Daily creative content
- Prompts & Contests
- Free downloads & MP3
- & a killer game of Where's Waldo. Bet you can't find him.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Reading of Marloboro Reds and Duck Shit

After the Broad Set's reading/meeting in Washington Twp, NJ we talked about doing more videos, reading other people's stuff. I decided to read a piece from Kiley (Marlboro Reds and Duck Shit available to read with your eyes here). Check it out, leave feedback or other stories you think I should read. video

Friday, March 5, 2010

The Jeans, The Belts and The Title

By Dr. Mullin

It had been four years – four slow, ignoble years – since Donald had last tasted the delectably sweet notes of leadership on his proud tongue. Far too long, he though, since he had walked into that famous oblong office and, without shame, planted his resignation on the desk of the most powerful man in the world.

He understood why it had to happen that way. The President had explained it to him, and he was almost as good at explaining things as Donald was.

“People are calling for my head,” the President had said, “but instead I’m going to give them yours to try and shut them up.”

Donald had no quarrel with the President over this decision. The President’s logic was infallible, a fact Donald knew very well from five years of faithful service to the man.

But it had been too long, and Donald knew that to stave off the inevitable mad rush of power-seeking synapses, he would have to get a new job, one befitting of the world’s most loyal former secretary of defense.

He finished filling out his W2 form and slid it across the desk, along with his job application, to the man on the other side who was wearing a nametag that said, “Ernie.”

Ernie looked over the forms and then up at Donald.

“Well Donald, this all looks up to snuff, and I’m proud to tell you that I’ve already made my decision,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you, and I would be glad to make you the manager at this branch of the GAP.”

They both stood and Donald gave Ernie an award-winning handshake. Ernie sat back down and reached inside one of his desk drawers, pulling out a shiny, golden “MANAGER” nametag. He handed it to Donald.

“You will be working with our existing assistant manager, Alan,” Ernie explained. “He usually spends his time walking the floor. He’s a hands-on type of person, but you can absolutely feel free to have him adopt a new policy if you think it would work better.”

Donald picked up the nametag and pinned it to his suit jacket. The engraved metal felt smooth and clean. Ernie smiled at his new employee.

“Well, without further ado I’ll let you get to work, Donald.” He put his hand on Donald’s shoulder. “I know you’ll do a great job. Good luck!”

With that, Ernie picked up his things and walked out of the office, leaving Donald exactly where he needed to be: in charge.

Donald walked out of his new office and surveyed the rest of the store. He smiled. This was a good feeling, and his acute instincts told him that the next few months would be a sterling mark on the resume for his new career.

Weeks passed, and Donald familiarized himself with his store and his personnel, and soon he felt the confidence of someone who had been doing this job for years. He planned on climbing the corporate ladder further, but in one short moment, those dreams were squashed like a spider in an arachnophobe’s bedroom.

Donald was at his desk going over sales figures for the past month when Alan, the assistant manager, came in.

“Donald we have a major problem,” Alan said between rapid breaths. “No one seems to know where the new shipment of men’s jeans is, and we need to get them in before peak season starts!”

Donald gave Alan a quizzical look and consulted a particularly stacked pile of papers to his left. He ruffled through them, then looked back up at Alan.

“We know where they are,” he said.

Alan’s terrified expression softened in relief. “Thank goodness! Where are they?”

“They’re in the area around the loading dock and the warehouse and east, west, south and north somewhat.”

Alan narrowed his eyes, confused. “So…you have no idea where they are?”

Donald looked back down at the papers in front of him. He pointed a guiding finger at a chart, seeming to study it for a moment.

“We do know of certain knowledge that they are either in the loading dock, in the factory or in some other place,” he said. He looked up at Alan too see if his second-in-command was satisfied with this response.

The assistant manager’s eyes were still squinted, and now his mouth had opened slightly in bewildered amazement. He shook it off and started pacing the office.

“Donald, can you please just admit that you don’t know where the jeans are?” he pleaded. “I mean, we are in a real quagmire here and we need to figure it out!”

“I don’t do quagmires,” Donald said with a shake of his head, still staring at the charts in front of him.

Alan stopped pacing. “Well you better do this one! Do you have any idea how big of an ass-kicking Ernie is going to give us if we don’t fix this?”

Donald shook his head again. “I don’t do predictions.”

Alan’s fingers tightened together into fists, shaking as he tried to control his anger. He let out an exasperated growl, took out his cell phone and left the office. Donald looked up to offer reassurance, but Alan was already gone.

Moments later, Alan walked back into Donald’s office, waving his cell phone.

“Just wanted you to know, Ernie is coming in tomorrow since you apparently can’t handle this one,” he said with a sneer.

Donald held up his hands. “Now settle down, settle down,” he said. “Hell, I’m an old man and it’s early in the morning and I’m gathering my thoughts here.”

Alan threw his hands up in frustration and then pointed at the clock on the wall of Donald’s office.

“Early?” he said incredulously. “It’s almost closing time already, you useless fogey!”

Donald opened his mouth to protest, but Alan stormed out and headed for the break room before he could say anything.

The next day, Ernie and his managers were in the break room before opening, studying a table full of charts and invoices.

“This is not good, gentlemen,” Ernie said. “We need to figure this out before next week, or we will have bare shelves once the fall sales start.” He turned to Donald. “Before we talk about this let’s make sure of one thing: this is the only shipment that’s missing, right Donald?”

Donald moved some papers around on the table. “If I said yes, that would then suggest that it might be the only one missing, which would not be accurate, necessarily. It might also not be inaccurate, but I'm disinclined to mislead anyone.”

Ernie’s eyes widened in panic, and Alan smacked him on the shoulder.

“You see?” Alan said. “This is what I was talking about! Ridiculous!”

Ernie rubbed his eyes. He leaned his head back, rested for a moment, then took a deep breath. He turned to Alan.

“Alan, please do me a favor and get started tracking down those shipments.” He worriedly scratched the back of his head. “If we don’t find them and get them in here soon, it’s going to be all of our butts when corporate finds out.”

Alan stood and gave his boss a viciously overdone salute. “I’m on it, sir. I’ll go through all the paperwork we have and get in touch with the shipping company.” He rushed out of the break room.

Ernie turned to Donald, disappointment evident in his features. He looked down at the break room table and shook his head solemnly.

“This is pretty bad, Donald,” he said.

Donald began wringing his hands. “Well, um, you know, nothing is really good or bad, but thinking makes it so, I suppose, as Shakespeare said.”

Ernie gave him a sad smile. “Perhaps, but this time I don’t think that’s how it is.” He gathered up the documents on the table and began assembling a neat stack. “Why didn’t you listen to Alan when he told you he was worried about the shipment? Didn’t you agree with him that it was a problem?”

“Alan and I agree on every single issue that has been before our managerial partnership,” Donald said. “Except for those instances where he is still learning.”

“I don’t think he is still learning,” Ernie said. “And I’m afraid that I’m going to have to promote him to manager.”

Donald’s face suddenly became very somber, and he slowly moved his hand from the table up to grasp his gleaming, golden badge. He remembered how fresh and energetic he felt when it was given to him weeks ago, but now it felt tarnished, sullied, like he feared his reputation was about to become.

Ernie held out his left hand. “Your badge, please, Donald.”

Donald knew there was no use fighting Ernie’s decision, just like four years ago. He reached inside his jacket and undid the pin holding his nametag in place. He gathered the pieces and deposited them in Ernie’s palm.

Ernie’s fingers closed around the glossy metal components. He reached toward Donald with his other hand, offering a conciliatory handshake. Not wanting to be rude, Donald returned the gesture.

Donald got up and walked out of the break room, heading for the back exit of the store. He pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to his agent.

The phone rang twice, and the third ring was interrupted by a cheerful, “Hello?”

“David? Yes, good afternoon, it’s Donald. I’d like to schedule a press conference.”

____________________________________

Listening to: The New Pornographers, Go Places

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

One Reporter's Reporting

Birds herds percolated razorishly through irrigation canals
and sept straightaway into fruitless whatevers.
It was a dark and dorky circus we beheld.
Inglorious youths emblazoned with home-made gold
chucked paper spears in the throes of pitched battle.
From the safety of our coven we could laugh but
the dwellers near the genius of language knew better.

Now, a voice: acoustical eunuch
wails plaintively over the PA about love.
Well. "What the fuck does he know?
And what power has declared this fit
for commerce?"

Somewhere
in the vast and fractal universe
a million palms
slap a million exasperated foreheads
all at once.
Write it in your little green pad.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

How To Take Yourself Apart, How To Make Yourself Anew – A Review


How To Take Yourself Apart, How To Make Yourself Anew – A Review
by Glen Binger

How to. Construct wonderful prose. How to. Induce emotions. How to. Aaron Burch. How to. Does it all.

Aaron Burch has done it again. In his latest chapbook, released via PANK, he paints your imagination with images by developing words, phrases, and grammar exactly the way writers everywhere wish they could. How To Take Yourself Apart, How To Make Yourself Anew is something fresh for your tired eyes.

The chapbook is divided up into three sections; each cut up into instructions of sorts. Each piece of prose is persistent and non-stop. It makes it hard to put down. While only fifty or so pages, it does not make for a skimmed, quick read. Each sentence, every paragraph is so well developed that you find yourself rereading it. Like a double-take, just to be sure you really did read something so beautiful. Without doubt, you WILL find yourself reading the entire chapbook in one sitting. By my own will, I could not set it aside.

By part three, the reader desires to become something else. Something more. Aaron has evoked a new self. Yet, somehow at the same time, he tells a story that the reader pieces together while turning each page. He creates a map in your mind using carefully constructed language. And it is fun to navigate.

A very enjoyable read, I suggest you pick up your copy as soon as possible. It will take you apart and put you together and then help you repeat the process until you’re satisfied.

Aaron Burch, PANK, and How To Take Yourself Apart, How To Make Yourself Anew can all be contacted/found here.

eNJoy!

Monday, February 22, 2010

Pat Roddy: An Interview


Pat Roddy is a musician native to Belmar, New Jersey. He and his band play up and down the Jersey Shore year-round so be on the look out. He's down to earth and an all-around good dude, not to mention pretty funny. Get ready.

Kiley Rummler and I were lucky enough to get the chance to ask him a few questions.

Several of his CDs are available on his website, as is his schedule of upcoming shows. If you're in the tri-state area, we suggest trying to catch them as soon as possible. Check it out and support your local scene!

He introduces his answers as follows:

i have sloppy typing skills and sorry and dont take it personally for my flippant answers.

Pat Roddy, you are a local celebrity in Belmar. What's that like? Do people pick you out of a crowd yet?

I am a celebrity in a two block radius around my house, ususally because my pants are down. People do not pick me out of a crowd but they do pick my nose sometimes when i have a hanger.
Which reminds me if the celebrities got together and hate TMZ soo much, just pay people to stalk and take pics and videos of the people who stalk and take videos of them. I m guessing that would make TMZ people pretty pissed. There should be a show where celebrities pay tons of people who are outta work to stalk harass, go to bars and film the film crews of TMZ all day and all night. Genious.

Where do you get your inspiration? What do you find motivates you best?

My inspiration generally comes from life and music. most people i know are the same. If i hear a good tune or something catches my eye i try to put that into imagination and fly with it. Other peoples music is also an inspiration. People who i hang out with, girlfriend, etc. Seeing things that make me mad, which is almost evrything. So everything inspires, sometimes theres too much and you get depressed about it. Then you try to find the good in things and sort it out someway. My best motivation is getting up, seeing bags under my eyes, and going for a run.

What about your original work? What kind of tracks have you recently cut?

Funny you should ask. The band is now recording about 15 songs. A few old ones, but mostly new material at Shorefire Sound in Long Branch. Mostly rock, but a few of the tunes im putting in a bluegrass, Dylanish flavor. Hopefully everything will come out nice and its great to work with the band in a great studio. SO im very fortunate to have great musicians around me who make me look good while i bask in the limelight. Our drummer - Justin, bass play - Mister W and Keyboardist - Chris Giunco all have amazing talent and im proud to be playing with them. Some of the tunes are a little soulfull, one is kinda gospelish, and there are a few tribute songs to local artists and national artist. Kinda like ripping them off while tributing them at the same time. Like a rock and roll reacharound.

You have released three full albums of your own stuff, can you talk about them a little?

First one stinks. Second one is pretty good but im singing outta tune. Third one is very listenable and it looks like this one is shaping up very well.

How long does it normally take you to compose an entire album?

Well for this CD ive written about 15 to 20 songs. Not all are going to make it, and maybe some wont even get recorded. That can take a few years to write a bunch of tunes. Like i write like tunes without words then put the words in here and there. If nothing is sounding inspirational or getting my own attention then i dont go back to it. If somewhere in a song it has potential ill try to revisit it and see what comes out emotionally. And if the emotions fit the style of the song then ill finish it. Finishing songs though is hard becuase you always think you can do better. And if it isnt up to par, like most musicians i know, i just trash it and move on. Nothing to me is ever good enough so maybe i procrastinate, but ive been learning just to write and let bad songs be bad songs and some good ones will pop up.

What are you currently working on? What can all the Pat Roddy fans out there expect next?

All twelve of the Pat Roddy fans out there can expect some more expansion musically, and possibly of my waistline. No really the Cd is the next thing coming out hopefully by the summer itll be at shows and on Itunes and all that nonsense.

Is it difficult trying to find time to write and be creative AND still have to practice with your band for performances?

This question has a false assumption. We dont practice. Never have. Well maybe if its a big gig. But seriously i cant remember the last time we practiced. We practice when we play it makes it more enjoyable for us. Learn and make our own energy and see what happens. Its not soo hard playing covers you know. Its like texting while driving. Sometimes you crash.

Do you ever get tired of playing other artist's music in the bars?

Yes

Favorite cover to perform for the crowd? Least favorite?

No real favorites for the crowd. If the crowd is having a good time we like throwing things out that might be a little different to see if they want to go that direction. If not then generic rock and roll suits just fine. No least favorite as long as people are having a good time not really into Wham so i never played them either that doenst answer your question

Who is your least favorite Simpsons character?

Ha why do i need to dis a Simpsons character. They should have a shady Russian dude next to the Indian guy in the 7-11. Cause in the 7-11s around here that all there is. If i had my pick i d pick Bart. he never grows up. WTF.

Do people ever request Freebird? If so, do you immediately want to hit them?

Yes and Yes sometimes once in a blue moon we ll play it for them and its funny it s not a bad song though. But we never play it. Im not really into the band. Little too redneckish for me, especially after all that right wing crap they started spewing.

For all the readers out there, what's the best way to get in contact with you to buy a CD or book a gig?

Best way to get in contact with me is drive up to my house and knock on the door. i get up around 2 so have a mint at the door and maybe some goggles. If you want to book a gig with us you can contact our agent Mitch Cumstein, at MitchCumsteinProductions@yahoo.com

Rules from the cat for me.

Rules from the Cat for Me:

1.You are permitted to look at me, but only if I am looking at you.
2.You must keep me well fed and watered.
3.You are permitted to pet me but you may not touch my head.
4.You will allow me window and garbage access.
5.You will let me sleep next to you but you may not touch me.
6.If any part of your body is within biting distance, it will be bitten.
7.If there is anything that brings you joy in this apartment, I have your permission to ruin it.
8.You will permit me to distract you from work with loud meowing and running across the room.
9.When you are weeping quietly in your bed, I will leave you alone to contemplate the completeness of your misery.
10.If you bring in strangers I will act as though they are my long lost owners come back to rescue me.
11.You will permit me to resent you after strangers leave without me.
12.Any sign of affection is a misunderstanding on your part.

Failure to comply with these rules will result in scratches, hidden defecations, and knocking over the food and water bowls.

video

Friday, February 19, 2010

In Right Field

Hopefully this is the start of my comeback tour, more stuff to come:

The summers of my youth were filled with the scent of fresh cut grass and baseball diamond dirt; with a glove in one hand and a picked dandelion in the other, I stood proudly at my position in right field. The red and blue uniform that marked my team affiliation was loose on my lanky frame; with the gap in my front teeth and my copper hair, I looked like a baseball playing Alfred E. Neuman.

The little league field in my hometown was a slice of the nostalgic American life you only see on TV Land. There were two bite-sized fields, complete with a massive scoreboard which was never used, but was left standing for aesthetic reasons. All of this was so the pint-sized players could experience America’s pastime from the ages of 5 to 15. As soon as I was eligible to play, my parents signed me up. For all of my 8 seasons as a Point Pleasant Recreation Center Little Leaguer, my father was my coach.

In order to understand why this is significant, let me take you back to July 10th, 1989; the day I was born. My father, Thomas Long is with my mother, staring at me- their first born son. They name me Brian and my father bestows upon me the middle name Carl after Carl Yastrzemski, his favorite player on the Boston Red Sox, his favorite baseball team. And Mr. Yastrzemski was no slouch either, he was an 18-time all-star, the winner of seven golden gloves, a member of the 3000 hit club, and the first American League player in that club to accumulate over 400 homeruns. In my room still hangs a newspaper photo, yellowed with age, of Yastrzemski as he watched one of the many baseballs to fall victim to his bat soar over the Green Monster in Fenway Park. Beneath the photo was the caption: “The Greatest Hitter to Play the Game.”
I can only imagine how my father felt watching me chase down a fly ball as it would soar over my head and out of the reach of my barely used glove.

In 1999, I played on the Texas Rangers. I was entering this season after my back-to-back retirement from little league basketball, where I laid more bricks than a masonry worker, and little league soccer after the game where I was hit in the stomach by a stray corner kick and subsequently sat in the middle of the field for the remainder of the game as the two teams played around me. Before the baseball season started, my dad sat me down in my room.
“You don’t have to play this year if you don’t want to,” he told me. The Carl Yastrzemski photo hung over his head, like a grim specter of baseball’s past.
“No, I’ll play, it’s alright,” I said. Quitting from basketball or soccer was one thing, but baseball was sacred to my father. I couldn’t give up on that without feeling like I had taken something away from him.

During our first practice I looked around at my fellow teammates; Anthony Zambito, Nick Cambell; my dad had organized an unstoppable little league squad. The Texas Rangers were a force to be reckoned with, and somehow I was a part of this team; I was like Christian Laettner on the 1992 Olympic Dream Team- never heard of him? No one has.
Although the league organizers had the “everybody wins, everybody gets a trophy” mentality, there was a sense school yard of pride in being a part of a championship team, plus you got a slightly larger trophy. My father would run team practices with the same intensity and knowledge of the game that made him the team captain of the Seton Hall Pirates baseball team in college despite being the team’s manager, not an actual player. That’s how much my dad loved baseball.

Our first game of the season was against James Peak; the Moriarty to my dad’s Holmes. Peak coached the Trenton Thunder, the only team in the rec. league that wasn’t named after a major league team. There’s no doubt in my mind Peak intentionally made this choice so his team would inherently have the home field advantage. The man was a powerhouse in the world of little league baseball; parents killed to have their sons on his team. Peak even pulled some strings so his daughter could be on his team, a shocking development because girls were expected to play on the rec. league softball teams after the formative tee-ball years. Every time we played Peak’s Thunder team my father switched into full-on coach mode, from the pre-game breakfast at home to the post-game car ride. I think my father saw a little bit of every person who ever doubted him in Peak; from his mother-in-law, to every kid who made fun of his weight in high school. Peak was all of them in one convenient mustached package.

“Okay, batting order,” my father cried in what I now know as the “it’s go time” voice “Derek, Bill, and Brian.”

I nervously shoved more strips of Big League chew into my mouth. For me, having to bat was like being put against the wall for execution. When “batter up” was called, I put on my helmet, tied a white blindfold around my eyes and placed a cigarette in my mouth, then stood in the batter’s box like a little league Che Guevara while the pitcher aimed and fired.

WHAM!

With a circular sore in my back, I slowly walked towards first base. Last time I checked, I still hold the Point Pleasant Little League record for most ball pegs in a career. I stood with one foot prepared to run in the dirt, the other was waiting on the base, ready to launch my body forward when the time was right.

“Honey, do you want some ice?” my mother asked through the fence behind first base.

“No mom,” I cried “Mo Vaughn’s mom doesn’t ask him if he wants ice!”

Mo Vaughn was my favorite player on the Red Sox growing up; he was also the only player who’s name I could remember so he kind of won by default.

Our first game ended with a victory, and the rest of the season followed a similar pattern of wins. I carried the team morally by leading chants of psychological torment from the dugout such as “pitcher’s got a big butt,” and writing funny words like “poop” on the thin layer of dirt that covered the dugout’s concrete floor. I believe it was because of my insistence that the whole team sang a chorus of “We Are the Champions” at the end of each game that we reached the championship game. We would play against (in a twist worthy of any Hollywood sports film) the Trenton Thunder. The strong humidity in the air that day seemed to stem from the boiling tension between my dad and Peak. I stood ready in my outfield position. If I was ever going to make a difference during a game, I felt as though this would be it.

With the start of the seventh inning, I experienced the peak of my athleticism, which to this day has still been unmatched. With a man on third, the batter made a clutch hit that flew over the third-base man’s head and plopped into the open space right in front of me. I bolted forward as soon as the ball and bat made contact, scooped up the ball; grass brushing against my knuckles, and flung it home with all the force I could muster. I threw the ball so hard that my hat fell over my eyes. Blinded, I could hear the jubilant cries of the crowd; I lifted my hat and saw the umpire had thrown the runner out at home. My teammates came running toward me as though I had just won us the game, when in reality there was still plenty of time to blow the lead. It didn’t matter though. I was Rudy, I was Tony Danza in “Angels in the Outfield.” I somehow made a half decent play after going five-years without showing a lick of athletic talent. My dad jumped up and down along the first base line like a school girl.

The honeymoon soon ended and the game resumed. With one inning left of play, a runner on first and second and two outs Peak’s daughter walked out of the dugout with the fate of the entire game resting on her shoulders. I started to wonder just how much of playing was her choice and how much was her father’s. This girl was the do-or-die deciding factor for her team at this moment. Did Cal Ripken Jr. ever feel the way she felt with Cal Ripken Sr. standing on the sidelines? The first pitch flew in.

CRACK

It was sharp line drive towards left field; the third baseman jumped up and snagged the ball with ease. The Texas Rangers had won. I looked at over at Peak as soon as the ball had been caught, he lifted the clipboard to cover his face and stormed off the field to the dugout. I spent the last, and extremely uneventful, final season of my baseball career with the image of Coach Peak with his face behind the clipboard at the front of my mind. What was behind that thin piece of wood? Anger? Sadness? Shame? Whatever it was, I couldn’t stop myself from imagining my own dad, face behind a clipboard, as a result of my own shortcoming.

The next year, as my dad was driving me to tryouts for the new season, I finally made my choice.

“Dad,” I said “I don’t think I want to play this year.”

My dad was silent for a minute; I braced myself, expecting him to drive his Ford off the bridge like a vehicular lemming.

“That’s okay,” he finally said “you want to get some pizza?”

***
My dad continues to coach the teams of my younger siblings. His latest project has been instructing my youngest brother on how to bat left-handed

“I’m going to make this kid a slugger if it kills me,” he always says.

In my room, I still have my photo of Carl Yastrzemski hanging on my wall. Directly under it was where I used to keep my championship trophy from the year of the Rangers, which I have recently packed away in my attic. As I was packing it away, I thought about that smell of grass and dirt. Of all the fly balls I missed, all the pitches I was hit by, and every strike out I got. In spite of all that my dad always looked me straight in the eye as I slouched back to the dugout and said:

“Good job,” with his clipboard firmly tucked under his arm.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Contest Announcement!

The Broad Set's May Day Contest!

The Broad Set Writing Collective is reading at The Wooden Shoe in Philadelphia on May Day. To acknowledge revolutions, past & present, we would like to announce our first contest. The theme is (of course) revolution. Be creative. Talk about labor relations or a personal triumph. It can be punk rock or folky and fun.

Guidelines:
- Submissions will be judged by The Broad Set team.
- Prose or poetry is fine
- No more than 300 words
- You CAN submit multiple times
- No previously published work
- Email your submissions to BroadSetContest@gmail.com
- Attach submission as .DOC file. Include your biography, website and home address. (Please no .docx files.)


Biography:
- A short paragraph about yourself
- Your website & home address

Rights:

- Winner is subject to minor editing and copyrighted upon publication.

- We ask for First Serial Rights
- If the winning piece is reprinted we humbly ask that you indicate it was published with Broadset first.


Prize:
2nd Place
- Publication on The Broad Set website
- Two copies of The Broad Set zine
- Two 2NDHAND broadsheets

1st Place
- Publication in the next edition of the May 1st Broad Set zine
- A copy of Jonathan Baumbach's You or The Invention of Memory
- & 2Nd place prizes

Deadline:
- March 20th
- Each submission will have a response by April 2nd

Support the arts. Come out May 1st to see The Broad Set Writing Collective Ft. Eric Nelson @ The Wooden Shoe
(704 South Street Philadelphia PA 19147)


"Please join us for a night of Fiction and Poetry reading! The Broad Set Writing Collective features members whose fiction and poetry have been published in McSweeney's, Opium Magazine and Monkey Bicycle. They have created both Lo-Fidelity and 50-1 magazines. Come out for poetry and prose by Peter Richter, Glen Binger and Sam Cicero as well as free copies of The Broad Set Magazine. Special guest reading by Eric Nelson, author of the short story collection, "The Silk City Series."


& tomorrow...

Friday, February 19th @ 7PM

The Broad Set at Symposia Community Books

(510 Washington Street, Hoboken, NJ)

Magazines, stickers & our world famous grab bag.

199997

An inside heartbreak.
A delicate architecture.
And you and your sword and your false-soft heart-start.
I have loved. I have lied.
The only betrayal after ten years in mourning was the bag that I packed. My eyes dry, forgetting their part of the bargain, pupils dilated in the quietest, rainiest, earliest winter.
You and I have won no beauty contests.
Your second face was late to the party. Those pink balloons have popped, or floated out to sea to kill some dolphin--smarter than us--or strangle an ancient turtle.
How do we gasp in the sea?
I asked you this once, how do fish catch their breath? You paused and said, "Like crying in the shower."
The poetry of you was always unintentional.
A misplaced tear from somewhere else.