Staff Spotlight: Delaney S. Saul

Interview

What do you write?

My writing usually rides the line between con­tem­po­rary and magical realism. Some things I like to include are covens, lakes at sunrise, obelisks, pink lip­stick, and the Pacific Northwest.

Is there an author or artist who has most pro­found­ly influ­enced your work?

My lit­er­ary role-model is Aimee Bender, author of The Par­tic­u­lar Sadness of Lemon Cake, among other things. As for my visual art, I do col­lages that can be found at @coven.art on Insta­gram. I draw inspi­ra­tion from Basquiat as well as Dadaism in general.

Why did you choose Stonecoast?

I chose Stonecoast because it has a rep­u­ta­tion for being open and inclu­sive, which is very impor­tant to me. I was also attract­ed to the low-res­i­den­cy aspect because I am rooted in Wash­ing­ton State.

What is your favorite Stonecoast memory?

I just had my first Stonecoast res­i­den­cy, and my favorite mem­o­ries so far were being intro­duced to the dis­tin­guished faculty and the antic­i­pa­tion of being assigned my first mentor.

What do you hope to accom­plish in the future?

After I grad­u­ate from Stonecoast, I hope to publish a novel before I am 30 and get a job in publishing.

If you could have written one book, story, or poem that already exists, which would you choose?

That’s a hard ques­tion. I have two. The short story “Ori­en­ta­tion” by Daniel Orozco, which is a story in second-person point-of-view about getting ori­ent­ed in a new office where every­thing is normal except when it’s not. I’d also pick the short story “The Not-Needed Forest” by Diane Cook, which is about where boys go when they are Not Needed. They are both exam­ples of how I want to write because they seem real­is­tic, but with a few key things sort of twisted.

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Featured Work

How to Be a Cool Kid

The fol­low­ing is a work of flash fiction exclu­sive­ly for Stonecoast Review.

You’re in the front seat of Justin’s car with your head out the window as Justin rips donuts around an empty Safeway parking lot. Lindsey and Natasha are in the back­seat, touch­ing your shoul­ders like you are their king. Your Con­verse shoes dangle from a tele­phone wire, illu­mi­nat­ed by the bright Safeway sign. The car is all that anchors you to Earth as you spin around and around. It’s your night. You really are the king. The screech of the tires reminds you of a scream, long and loud, until you realize that it’s you, you’re yelling into the night. No words, just inar­tic­u­late sounds from the depths of your body. You feel awake, so very awake. You can’t remem­ber ever feeling this alive.

When the car finally comes to a stop, you all look at each other. All of you have the same grin. Natasha is wearing pink-tinted sun­glass­es and Lindsey pops green bub­blegum with her sharp-girl teeth. All of you are dizzy and nos­tal­gic. The endless night sky harbors smoky clouds and they drift lazily in the light of the moon. Your shoes twirl in a gust of wind. He won’t come without the signal, Justin said while throw­ing your Con­verse over the wire.

You need some air, and so you exit the car. Your sock-feet hit the cold cement and you shut the door. Lindsey gets out and takes your spot in the front seat. Natasha, still punch-drunk from spin­ning in the car, gets out too. You lean on the hood, and Natasha stag­gers over to you.

Do you think he’ll be here soon? she asks.

Her hair is natural and curly, tiny springs. You want to smell her perfume, but you don’t. Lindsey and Justin are kissing in the car.

You say, I don’t know, this is Justin’s area of expertise.

A bat swoops low over the two of you. Natasha shrieks and grabs you. Is this the moment? The bat is gone, but you feel it flut­ter­ing des­per­ate­ly in your ribcage. The dark­ness con­ceals this very uncool reac­tion. She lets go of you. You’ve ruined your chance to kiss her. She fluffs her hair and looks at you.

Have you done this before? she asks.

You wonder what answer she’s hoping for. You want to give her what she wants. You want to slice open the moon and watch her eat it like a melon.

No, you say.

Me either, she says, but Lindsey’s always roping me into things.

She looks toward the skyline. You watch her jaw muscles tense, and then she softens and smiles at you.

A car enters the parking lot and stops fifty feet away. The driver flashes the lights once. Twice. Justin hasn’t noticed. You tap on the window and nod toward the car. Justin hastens to dis­en­tan­gle himself from Lindsey. He gets out, pulling Lindsey across the bench seats like a pet. She yanks her hand out of his and gets out on her own.

The four of you pause for a moment, looking at the car. It’s a Nissan Leaf, a black one. You’re sur­prised to see that it’s an elec­tric car, but then again, you weren’t sure what to expect.

Justin starts toward the car.

Lindsey says, Are you sure?

Yeah, says Justin, I know him. Well, my brother knows him.

Justin slaps you on the back.

Come with me, Michael, he says. He walks con­fi­dent­ly to the car, and you follow.

A dude, not a man or a boy, def­i­nite­ly a dude, rolls down the tinted window as you walk up. He’s wearing a snap­back low over his eyes and he has a mus­tache that you would expect to see on a serial killer.

You have cash? says the stranger.

Justin takes out his wallet. He hands forty dollars to the stranger, who takes it and sets it on the dash­board. The stranger pro­duces a small plastic baggie from the depths of his jeans pocket. The baggie con­tains four little cap­sules. He hands the baggie to Justin, and without a word, the stranger rolls up his window and speeds away, not both­er­ing to use his turn signal at the corner.

Back in Justin’s car, Justin hands one pill to each of you, exclud­ing Lindsey. He places her pill direct­ly onto her tongue. She swal­lows it and licks her crimson lips. You notice that Justin has her lip­stick on his lips too. You, Natasha, and Justin all take your pills togeth­er. The whole time you feel the pill roll down your throat you’re won­der­ing if you’ll ever get your shoes back.

Blast off, Justin says.

Natasha tucks her hand in yours and it’s elec­tric. Soon, the night starts to turn sharper, crys­talline. The four of you melt back into the car. Through the wind­shield, colors blossom, and you wonder if you’re rolling or if it’s just the rising sun.

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