Pleasant Drugs: Stories
Mid-List Press, 219 Pages
“Pleasant Drugs will not numb your senses; rather, it will sharpen and refine them, each potent story honing in on that slice of life between grief and joy.“–Ami Zensius, Mills Quarterly
“The author has many kinds of stories to tell, but all are character-driven and as finely cut as gemstones. An exemplar of the short story.”–Kliatt
“I found myself in Kathryn Kulpa’s short stories and it scared the hell out of me. Pleasant Drugs is a fine collection, deeply affecting and well-wrought.”–Pete Hautman
Up, Do: Flash Fiction by Women
Spider Road Press, 103 pages
“We had questions for which our parents had no answers. Perhaps there were no answers. We didn’t talk to God. We talked to Judy Blume.” –from “We Decided.”
“Was I your muse? Did I amuse? My feet were never still; my toes tapped out the rhythms of dirty jazz, all those barracks dances and the juke joints we’d stop at, later and drunker.”–from “Lights Out: Zelda at Highland Hospital.”
“So my therapist decided I had anger issues around my father, and when I told her I barely remembered him she asked me to make a list, things I remembered about him and things I remembered about any other “father substitutes” in my life. I asked did I have to do it and my therapist said no, she couldn’t force me, but she thought it would be helpful. So I sat down and made a list, not because I thought it would be helpful but because I knew she didn’t believe I would. I’ve got a reputation. Uncooperative. A “reality blocker.” I think reality should be blocked and blocked hard, but I don’t want anyone thinking they know what I’m going to do. It’s bad enough that half the people here grew up with me in their living rooms. They owned me for half an hour every Wednesday night. That doesn’t mean they know me….” Read more at Superstition Review.
“The streets smell like fried dough and there’s the carnival sound of an outdoor mic, a tinny crackle that makes him think of Little League games and awards day at summer camp. It sounds like the end of summer. The locals are celebrating something, the patron saint of clam cakes. They’re selling raffle tickets, but he’s not buying chances. The sky is dark blue, but he’s not watching the sky.” Read more at Cleaver Magazine.