Saturday, March 11, 2017
“I’m not kidding Thomas. Knock it off!” The girl screamed and her face turned a beat red, youthful, heady. Sylvie felt the girl’s angst well up inside herself like desire, as the girl grabbed part of the boy’s shirt, but at the last moment, he’d slip away. Sylvie felt it too, the give of the material, his shirt, the tug, the yanking, the pulling away, the futility of it like crabbing on the jetty, the way the crab slinked out from between the rocks, fast, undaunted, lunged onto the pink mussel. She’d yell got it, and there was Dennis, jeering, the way older brothers do, peering over his thickly splayed blond bangs, admonishing, and the crab was there, on end of her string, and she’d try to heed her brother’s past warnings to wait, not to bring the string up too soon, and she’d feel the tug and she wanted to listen to Dennis, but something inside her made her yank it up too soon, and the crab let loose and retreated back behind the rocks. Dennis was unmoved, as if he expected it, eyes on his own hole, his orange bucket filled with crabs scratching to get out, and there he sat, empowered, indifferent to the crabs, their suffering, and hers, full of himself, what Simone De Beauvoir called male pomposity, waiting for her to slip, knowing no amount of clawing could make him budge, knowing she was a girl, destined to botch the crabbing and it was all a precursor to her later failures at college and marriage and motherhood. She was never good at catching crabs because she was a female, she determined later, she was more sensitive, empathized with the crabs, imagined it was herself being dragged out of her home, tossed into a bucket, baked in the sun. She loathed the crabs for that, for their weakness, their inability to get out of the bucket. She loathed herself for caring and failing.
Posted by Unknown at 5:57 AM
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Got another piece accepted by Literary Orphans for a December 2015 issue. I'm thrilled to contribute a second time, with a poem. I used to write quite a bit of narrative poetry (not so much now) so I'm happy to find it's appreciated. Editor, Scott Waldyn, referred to this piece as "very unique" and I suppose it is to me like a symphony when I write --these pulses of sounds and beats and images come together in what might be understood as asynchronous, but, really, it represents life and perception, in its messy way. I'm sure that is a cliche. Seems like it has all been done and said at this point.
WIP: lots of nonfiction essays, articles going on here. One is almost ready to set sail. I have to research the right home for it. I've been tweaking it every day and honestly will miss it once it's out of my hands.
Novel: at a stand still but will return to it shortly. Loads of editing, rethinking this one. Strange. I'm indecisive.
Short fiction/poetry: always in the works.
Posted by Unknown at 7:13 AM
Friday, August 14, 2015
"I have a canvas of cypresses with some ears of wheat, some poppies, a blue sky like a piece of Scotch plaid; the former painted with a thick impasto … and the wheat field in the sun, which represents the extreme heat, very thick too." - Vincent Van Gohh (written to his brother from the asylum Saint Remey, 1898)
Posted by Unknown at 9:51 PM
The moment is pressed time, the heavy shrill, shock of it when fingers first bend and grasp, an audacious charge, a surfacing up and out to a breathing knowing existence akin to the dizziness after a childhood spinning, blindfolded in the center of a bare living room.
I thought maybe it was natural, me --some form of me --jolted into awareness. Now I suspect it is alien, a presence of foreign, indecipherable substance, this entity that has gripped me, graced me,propelled me into consciousness, whispering a long, long way to go.
Posted by Unknown at 9:19 PM
Thursday, July 31, 2014
I'm back. I want to try my old friend, BlogSpot. Let's just see how she rolls. I have over 38k views, which sounds like a nice number. I feel like I'll get more traffic, and I'm fickle.
Stuff in the works:
my paranormal MG in the hands of one of the best, Jenny Bent. I'm holding my breath.
One flash fiction accepted and published in Literary Orphans, thank you Mike Joyce.
Tin House editor, Thomas Ross, emailed me, assuring me my short story was still being considered. Holding my breath.
I have one in the works, longer one, good one. I just have to get to it.
And last but not least: the sad state of my literary dystopian novel--THE SEIZED aka THE ROSE WING and LOVE ME SWEET. What has become of it? stagnant. queries out. that's it. what to do. wait.
The idea that this one will never be read, NEVER, is not an option. Still, I'll bide my time. Maybe rework the query. I imagine it, posted up on AQC, the thrashing it most definitely would receive. I can't bring myself to rewrite the query. I like it that much. QUERY LINK
Posted by Unknown at 4:08 PM
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Reread this story (in collection) one of my favorite shorts, favorite scenes. Salinger captures Seymour Glass's psychological dysfunction perfectly. His dialogue is stellar.
On the sub-main floor of the hotel, which the management directed bathers to use, a woman with zinc salve on her nose got into the elevator with the young man.
"I see you're looking at my feet," he said to her when the car was in motion.
"I beg your pardon?" said the woman.
"I said I see you're looking at my feet."
"I beg your pardon. I happened to be looking at the floor," said the woman, and faced the doors of the car.
"If you want to look at my feet, say so," said the young man. "But don't be a God-damned sneak about it."
"Let me out here, please," the woman said quickly to the girl operating the car.
The car doors opened and the woman got out without looking back.
"I have two normal feet and I can't see the slightest God-damned reason why anybody should stare at them," said the young man. "Five, please." He took his room key out of his robe pocket.
He got off at the fifth floor, walked down the hall, and let himself into 507. The room smelled of new calfskin luggage and nail-lacquer remover.
He glanced at the girl lying asleep on one of the twin beds. Then he went over to one of the pieces of luggage, opened it, and from under a pile of shorts and undershirts he took out an Ortgies calibre 7.65 automatic. He released the magazine, looked at it, then reinserted it. He cocked the piece. Then he went over and sat down on the unoccupied twin bed, looked at the girl, aimed the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right temple.
Posted by Unknown at 4:55 PM