Milk Candy Review

We recently published Beth Moulton’s beautiful “Blasted.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) I like how this story is told only in pieces, how we readers know what is going on in the white spaces without having to be told. Did you ever consider showing more of the story here, or had you always thought of it as these moments with the car, the tree and the long, long road?

All stories are a marriage of what is said and what is unsaid. Though this story is fictional, the tree is real, and she is close to a road. I hold my breath every spring, waiting for her leaves to appear. I’ve been wanting to honor her with a story, but a longer story didn’t seem quite right. A spare story, just the bones of the thing, seemed most appropriate. I finally decided to have my protagonist mirror the tree, with her physical and emotional blasting, and a loss that seems unsurvivable. There are things we can deduce without them being spoken–the unnamed place, the way in which the tree was injured, the great silent, spaces in a relationship. 

2) Speaking of the tree — what a beautiful, powerful moment at the end! Do you think this is a moment of recovery, of peace, for the tree and the narrator? A chance for them to both take a breath before continuing? Or is it something else?

In one way, I like to think of it as a bonding, the way survivors somehow recognize each other in the wild, and then hold on to each other. But in another way, the tree is maternal, and she’s nurturing the woman like a mother would cradle a baby. Giving her a resting spot until she’s able to move on.

We recently published L.P. Melling’s tender “The Caretaker’s Confession.”

Here, we ask him two questions about his story.

1) I love the continuing imagery of the confetti in this piece, how it brings color into the caretaker’s life — and beyond. Do you think it is really the sweeping up of the confetti he likes, or do you think he is happier knowing he has missed a piece here and there?

The motif of the confetti came to me when I found a stray piece of confetti in an old suit, bringing back a happy memory. I love the idea of something disposable coming back to life for another occasion, whether a wedding or a funeral, as it slips from a lapel. Yes, I can certainly imagine the caretaker leaving the odd piece here and there for this exact reason, so even the coldest of days has specks of vivid colour, so bright memories are reawakened.  

2) This caretaker feels like such a kind, thoughtful person to me — how he cares for the forgotten things so tenderly. Do you think the church could possibly replace him, or is he one of a kind?

I like to imagine how people are drawn to unique jobs, and I imagine all the workers who give care in the world and how they want to tend to the needs of what they look after, whether it is a person or the graveyard of a church for those lost. The tender but slightly mischievous dimensions to the character drew me to him, and I imagined what he would do when they work for so long in such an environment. The things we might want to do ourselves if we were alone in a church. I can’t imagine any caretaker quite like him when he is replaced but I hope the new caretaker shows as much care and love in his job.

We recently published L Mari Harris’s heartbreaking “Girl as Music Box Ballerina.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) The girl, in this story, is so realistic — she clearly is crying out for help, but at the same time she is trying to pretend everything is normal. Do you think she will ever be able to admit, yes, I need help, yes, someone please? 

She will keep trying. This piece stems from my own younger years, when I was seriously depressed for several of those years on and off. I learned a hard truth that many people can’t handle sadness and depression in others, so I was one of those people who learned to smile when eyes were on me. I’d tried to verbalize what I was feeling, why I wanted to be alone all the time. No one knew what to do with me, so everyone tended to avoid the situation of my “moodiness”. We have a lot of work to do to drastically improve how we respond to those we suspect or know are hurting. We tend to pull away, or we get mad—“Get it together”, “It’s not that bad”, “You have everything, so what do you have to be depressed about?”— when we should be wrapping our arms around our hurting brothers and sisters and truly, actively listening without judgment. And I don’t want this to sound like no one cares—so many people do care and can help. Pretending everything’s ok is a heavy burden to carry alone, and that’s what I hope I expressed in this piece. It’s so hard to open up, to keep reaching out, because each time someone doesn’t give you the response you need, it makes it that much harder to try again. But please please please keep reaching out. I found someone who would truly listen after many attempts. It’s ultimately so worth it. 

2) When I think of music box ballerinas, they are always dancing to a song my mother loved — “Love Story.” What song is the girl dancing to in her music box? 

It’s distant, faint, unnamable. I was obsessed with my music box when I was a little girl, but to this day, I cannot tell you what it played—probably something from The Nutcracker or Swan Lake. But what consumed me was how I could make her dance any time I wanted, simply by opening the lid, just as I could let her go back to sleep by closing it. I’d stick my face right up to it and gently lift the lid an inch, because I wanted to peer into that dark space, to see her folded up, and yet I knew by inching that lid up she’d eventually spring up and dance for me. Thinking about it all these years later, what is forefront in my mind is what a strange sense of power I held over that ballerina—I could make her perform at my will. The melody meant nothing to me; it was all about my eyes on her, about making her dance. And that’s so sad for me to think about now, that I only cared about how she performed for me. 

We recently published Stella Lei’s stellar “Space-Time.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) One of the moments that really jumped out for me in this lovely story is when the astronaut (as a girl) tries to lay her father’s hands over her own, ” like fresh cobwebs, like tattered gloves.” There is something so familiar and poignant in this moment — is this something purely from your imagination or is it based on an experience of yours?

While this moment is not drawn from any one memory, I have had experiences sitting with old and sickly relatives, holding their hand, and treasuring the time I have left with them. I built upon that feeling while writing this piece and did my best to convey it through my character’s actions and the way she interacts with the world around her.

2) The description of the astronaut’s environment in the opening is so perfect — are you someone who is interested in space travel? Or are you more of a homebody (with home, of course, being Earth)?

I do find space travel interesting and I am, as many writers are, in love with the moon. That said, I would consider myself more of a homebody and will likely stay on Earth all my life. However, one of my favorite parts of writing is creating an environment for the story to explore. I often turn to Google and YouTube to do so, and the sounds and images in videos are helpful in crafting imagery and further enhancing the setting. For this piece, I looked up how astronauts on the International Space Station spend their days: their schedules, habits, and any fun facts. I came away with a lot of interesting information and built the setting from there.

We recently published Todd Clay Stuart’s mournful “Nebraska.”

Here, we ask him two questions about his story:

1) What struck me about this story was the way you bring beauty into such a horrible moment — the sister’s “brown lossless eyes,” that just sings to me. Do you think that beauty can still be found, even in something awful like this?

I go along with Baudelaire, who said, “I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy.” Of course, we don’t think about the beautiful sunset while our heart is breaking or the lovely relationship we have with someone while that person’s sliced off fingers are lost in the grass. But once the horror burns off a little, then maybe—just maybe—we can find something of beauty there: a selfless gesture, a brave act, a meaningful contrast to the awfulness of it all.

2) There are moments like this that are so hard for someone to let go. We see that the narrator, at the end, when he goes home, continues to search for his sister’s missing fingers. Why do you think that this, what is basically his sister’s loss, has stuck with him for so long?

Recurring images are something we all experience to some degree. Dreams, nightmares, replayed sequences and stills of people and events in our lives. Our mind’s own unreliable, never-ending streaming service. Some of these events may not even seem significant enough to warrant recurrence. But the reality is that we have little control over the process. Recurring images suggest that they are somehow meaningful to us, though we may not understand why. As for the narrator of “Nebraska,” maybe he never got over that day when he was ten, felt guilt over the incident his whole life, but I like to think there was more to it than that, that maybe those missing fingers brought he and sister closer, deeply and forever connecting them in ways nothing else ever could.