A Journal

"I'm going to come back to West Virginia when this is over. There's something ancient and deeply-rooted in my soul. I like to think that I have left my ghost up one of those hollows, and I'll never really be able to leave for good until I find it. And I don't want to look for it, because I might find it and have to leave".----Breece D'J Pancake, in a letter to his mother. 

Pattie Flint


Gutting a Fish I was Given


I hook finger under spine and pull up, away.
There is a wet popping sound, and it reminds me
of the time my brother almost lost his eye,
or the time I lied about eating the frog,
recently deceased
and partially attached
to my bicycle tire.
Perhaps too personally
I remember that it’s been three years
since I’ve prayed.
I remember the time my brother lit a firecracker
under a banana slug on the Fourth of July.
It flew up and landed, too warmly, on my calf.
I think about the scream of bottle rockets, 
the newly deboned cod slides into the spitting pan.


My favorite souvenir is an engagement ring I wore, but was never given. I wear it to remind myself that love and people are both very fragile things, and to treat them both with respect. The ring has always been a little too loose for me, which isn't surprising. 

Pattie Flint is an uprooted Seattle native toughing it out in England binding books by hand. She has been published in Five [Quarterly], Hippocampus and TAB, amongst others. She is currently working on her PhD in book history at King’s CollegeLondon. Her website is