"Don't think I will give this to my son," the bank clerk said, propping the rifle against his boot. The son smiled and the reporter thought he knew why. The night was ripe with adrenaline. Blood spilled like good milk. They say that for hours the men chanted “keep him alive,” hoping, as some soldiers do, that blow by blow lives can be rebuilt, lies undone. But the boy was too used to loud sounds and closed doors. He imagined the new sounds, the fresh milk. The horizon was orange with a new kind of fire. They kept themselves alive.
writer. editor. doodler. er.
Writings in the Raw
Julia Halprin Jackson
writer. editor. doodler. er.
I write.
I doodle.
I'm at work on my first book, a collection of linked short stories that follows a community of expatriates living on the southern coast of Spain.
I care about stuff. Like curing type 1 diabetes. And marriage equality. And rights for immigrants. And public radio. And espanol. And Frank O'Hara and Jennifer Egan and Federico Garcia Lorca and Tony Kushner. You know, cool stuff.
I make postcards that are also stories.
Sometimes I read stories and poems out loud.
Sometimes I go to conferences.
You can find my short stories, essays, poems and flash fictio in a variety of places in print and online. If you Google really hard, you might find the two short radio pieces I produced on a badass NPR affiliate in San Francisco.
This is where you can go to find out who I am.