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)
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.
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
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.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Flash accepted by The Milo Review Spring Edition (online and print).
Editor, Peter Jelen, of Bareback Magazine contacted me with the good news that the editors have selected “Coveted” for their upcoming anthology.
“The Seized” will be published this month (Jan 24th) in Linguistic Erosion.
I have a few works still being considered.
I have included a poem of mine. Weird, maybe. I don't know if it is any good or not. It's not a flowery poem. It's dark and depressing. I imagine there was a young girl, at some point in time, kept up in the cabin of some larger boat, maybe a yacht, fishing boat(Libertas) and some sailor that has his way with her.
“No signs of sun.”
maybe a little sin
Sailor rubs a sweaty brow
White caps lap, slap, the sides
In the cabin below--
an indecent gleam;
a lavish teak;
a girl -ashen, meek,
swoons in silent rush.
lands on deck in gentle hush.
After shots of JD,
Blue tuna peppered, flayed,
for the impaling.
Friday, January 3, 2014
My year has begun with good news: Heard from Cheryl Anne Gardner, author and editor. Found a perfect home for "Phobia" in Apocrypha and Abstractions-- I'm pleased, once again.
I have a few others out that I hope will not remain displaced--one in particular is "Pearl" and "Shroud for Gretta". Another is a longer piece "Sins of Elliot" which is part of bigger work--dystopian. But with my new publication "Phobia" I have a new idea brewing. I need to get off the fence, decide. I know these shorter pieces are making me procrastinate. But maybe, that's the thing with writing, in the process, I will find a better route.
Speaking of indecisiveness, I'm torn about which blog to use. I feel most comfortable with my old friend, BlogSpot. so I'm sort of returning here, in a sort of ambiguous fashion.
Enjoy, share, and comment (thanks!)
Happy New Year!