"Frank Black"
Essay published in Arroyo Literary Review
Short Fiction and Nonfiction
Bolero
Short story published in ZYZZYVA.
On Modeling and Mortification
I started modeling at 32, to keep myself fed while I wrote a novel. I was by that point eight years into what I suppose is called a “spiritual practice.” Initially, there was a clarifying horror to be had in walking into the vaulted space of Grace Cathedral and feeling small and mortal, and I began to seek such experiences at other times in the week. I found them elusive, until my divorce, when suddenly—even just trying to rent a new apartment, drinking alone in well-lit bars—I shook with fear,...
Shaver Lake - Rachel Howard
I wonder if you have a place like this, too: a certain pinpoint on the map, near Melbourne, Australia, or outside Medford, Oregon; a particular locale in Brisbane or Butte County broadcasting images of hellfire and spewing Instagram feeds of residents running from the exploding hills to the ocean and driving through torrents of embers. A hellscape in the news that is personal, and that shames you, because when you see the photos of its huddling, soot-soaked refugees, if you’re being honest, what...
The Woman at the Party
The Man with the Poodle: Political Theater in the Time of CRT | Los Angeles Review of Books
I LIVE IN Grass Valley (population 13,000), a town in Northern California where national political theater recently debuted a roadshow. The opinion pages of our daily paper, The Union, ran a column by Terry McLaughlin about the threat of “critical race theory” in public schools. Letters and counter-columns poured in. Then came the news that a group called Protecting American Ideals had been added to the school board meeting’s agenda.Which is how I find myself in the wrestling gym sharing air, de...
Rachel Howard: Midnight Sun
Clapboard house on a straight lane with no trees, no sidewalks, edge of the road crumbling into mud. “Yes, I remember!” the bulldog-chested man shouts, rushing across the yard, when I explain I’m the woman who called about his Craigslist ad last night at 10 p.m. Behind the chain link fence, a woman in a head scarf is tossing a Nerf ball with her sons. “It’s just you guys right now, but I tell you, I never seen anything like it!” the husband says. “All day they call, all day they come, 50 chicken...
Letter of Recommendation: Lent (Published 2019)
When I was 25, I lived on the edge of the Tenderloin in San Francisco, four blocks down from a towering gray cathedral. I knew at the time I could never be Catholic — too much patriarchy, too much guilt — but I also knew that the church up the hill was Episcopal, not Catholic. I wasn’t quite sure what the people there believed. But I’d been hounding my boyfriend, Bill, for a marriage proposal for more than a year, and after another 4 a.m. fight, we both needed relief.“It’s Easter,” I said. “Let’...
Rachel Howard: Thirty-Eight
Old Houses in Krumau, Egon Schiele, 1914
The other day a card arrived: a picture of mother, father, and child, teeth bared, cheeks pulsing with fresh blood. The baby looks more like him, with that nearly translucent-white skin, a shadow of brow bone where the eyebrows would be; but there it is, her mouth—the combination struck me as monstrously fascinating. Next to the photo cursive text wished me peace, love, and happiness. A card like a dozen others received in December. I’ve thrown out the re...
The other day a card arrived: a picture of mother, father, and child, teeth bared, cheeks pulsing with fresh blood. The baby looks more like him, with that nearly translucent-white skin, a shadow of brow bone where the eyebrows would be; but there it is, her mouth—the combination struck me as monstrously fascinating. Next to the photo cursive text wished me peace, love, and happiness. A card like a dozen others received in December. I’ve thrown out the re...
Love and Kierkegaard in the Age of Trump | Los Angeles Review of Books
This piece is part of the launch of the latest issue of the LARB Print Quarterly Journal: No. 19, RomanceTo receive the LARB Quarterly Journal, become a member or purchase a copy at your local bookstore.¤I LIVE IN SEMI-RURAL Nevada County, California, and a year ago, in my gym, I overheard a tall, pale, buzz-cut, older-but-still-muscled man — a man I had once witnessed huffing in the direction of the TVs above the treadmills, “I don’t care what color you are, when an officer pulls you over you...
Another Game by Rachel Howard
Detail of The Card Players, Wouter Crabeth II, c.1630
1.
The first game was on his boat, or not so much a boat as a rusty, cozy dinghy harbored on the Sausalito Bay. This was the Fourth of July. I had met G– a week before, at a dive piano bar called the Alley where I sang open mic badly but (I hoped) charmingly, three or four nights a week. G– had come into the Alley with his Croatian friend, two lanky handymen, paint-splattered, all limbs and untamed hair — the Croatian’s ashy locks hung tatter...
1.
The first game was on his boat, or not so much a boat as a rusty, cozy dinghy harbored on the Sausalito Bay. This was the Fourth of July. I had met G– a week before, at a dive piano bar called the Alley where I sang open mic badly but (I hoped) charmingly, three or four nights a week. G– had come into the Alley with his Croatian friend, two lanky handymen, paint-splattered, all limbs and untamed hair — the Croatian’s ashy locks hung tatter...
Rachel Howard: When I Lose the Scarf
Reclining nude with long hair, Gustav Klimt, c. 1907.
My problem is that I don’t care about losing things.
Last month, at a restaurant, I left a rough grey scarf that my husband gave me on a rainy evening shortly after we began sleeping with each other, shortly after we fell in love—the scarf that, even after warm spring days arrived, I’d worn everywhere like a child’s blanket. Oh well, I immediately thought when I realized it was gone. I’ll always remember that scarf.
Last year, departing an ar...
My problem is that I don’t care about losing things.
Last month, at a restaurant, I left a rough grey scarf that my husband gave me on a rainy evening shortly after we began sleeping with each other, shortly after we fell in love—the scarf that, even after warm spring days arrived, I’d worn everywhere like a child’s blanket. Oh well, I immediately thought when I realized it was gone. I’ll always remember that scarf.
Last year, departing an ar...
