#ray shea

[therumpus]

And I realized John Darnielle was just like me. Normies don’t make this shit up, and when they try, like non-alcoholics who try to write about alcoholism, they get it wrong. Because they might know what it looks like on the outside, they might know the clichés and the Lifetime movie versions, but they don’t know. Not really. Not how it feels.

Darnielle knew. I could tell.

He knew why I drove too fast to escape the step-family house of pain. He knew about getting wasted and playing video games for hours, punching things, finding a girl, just one girl to grab onto who would make it okay and not ask stupid questions about why I was never anything but angry or sad.

And the chorus—I’m gonna make it through this year if it kills me—in the context of living with an angry stepfather, was not just a rock anthem. It was a prayer. I knew if I could make it out of town, make it to college, I would survive. But I wasn’t sure I would.

Albums of Our Lives: The Mountain Goats’ The Sunset Tree by Ray Shea.

[wellbottomblues]

He Taught Me To Sing A Song

He Taught Me To Sing A Song

My prolific and talented friend* Ray Shea just had a few of his poems from the online journal Revolution John nominated for Best of the Net, a signal honor in these days of the web-only journal, much better than a Pushcart nomination which has become as common as author copies and so a bit ridiculous when cited. Tell me when you win one.

I know he posted these before when first published but I…

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[raynola]

Compulsion / Shame / The Infinite Compulsion It was a boundary crossed and recrossed until it was just a habit. It was the worst thing in the world until y...

My poem “Compulsion/Shame/The Infinite” has been nominated by Revolution John Magazine for Best of the Net.

Many thanks to editor Sheldon Lee Compton who is one of the best fiction writers out there and a truly righteous friend and compadre.

[raynola]

Reading nonfiction at Malvern Books.

[jessstoner]

Day 3 of showing love for Austin writers/artists/musicians while we're still at sea level is about my friend, Ray Shea. When I read his essay, "Fat Guy," online at Hobart, one of my first reactions was: THIS IS IMPORTANT. Because it is.

[raynola]

Ray Shea Here is one thing I do know: I didn’t write down enough of this when it was happening, and now there is nobody I can ask. This is why I am tryi...

My finalist for the Phoebe Creative Nonfiction Contest, judged by Cheryl Strayed, is now online in Phoebe issue 43.2.

Thanks tons to Cheryl and Phoebe and Chloe Caldwell and Litreactor and congrats to all the winners.

[millionsmillions]

I want to say that I shrunk into my shoes and disappeared, but when somebody throws "fat guy" at you, you don't shrink, you grow. You bloat. Your belly expands and your man-boobs stick out and your t-shirt tightens around where your belt doesn't fit right. You stand there with your backpack on, straps on both shoulders because it's more ergonomic that way, the backpack with the camera and the hats and the Red Sox swag you had taken your girlfriend to buy that afternoon. You'd taken her to Fenway, taken selfies on the back side of the Green Monster, on that perfect day, that day you tried to show her all of Boston, the city of your birth, in a single afternoon.

Recommended Reading: Ray Shea's essay at Hobart "Fat Guy." 

[therumpus]

I wanted him to know it was okay for him to die, because I thought I had read somewhere that sometimes people are afraid to die without permission. But I was afraid to say “die.” I’m blunt, I can’t ever keep my mouth shut, but I couldn’t say the word. That word. Die. Part of me was afraid to tell him it was okay for him to die, because I didn’t want him dying thinking that I wanted him to. Literally at death’s door—the doors right there that swing wide into the operating room, with death on the other side—I was trying to choose the right words, the right euphemisms and metaphors to get my point across. I kept telling him he could leave if he needed to, and now I’m not sure if he even understood what I was saying.

Icefalls by Ray Shea