Thursday, October 1, 2015

Literary Orphans Acceptance

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.


Friday, August 14, 2015

A Measure of Life

"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)

Westward Bound

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

In the Works

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:

Colorado, soon!
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.
Still querying...querying...querying.

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

Salinger's dialogue is stellar

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

Lenore and Illusion

Check out my latest update for "Lenore" in The Milo Review.

Ok, admittedly, I'm an on the fence blogger, waffling between blogspot and wordpress.
Thanks for the visit!

Thursday, January 16, 2014

The Milo Review--forthcoming flash fiction

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
Anchors aweigh!
Sailor rubs a sweaty brow
White caps lap, slap, the sides
of Libertas.

Ungodly tides

In the cabin below--
an indecent gleam;
a lavish teak;
a girl -ashen, meek,
swoons in silent rush.
Foghorn balks.
Seagull squawks,
lands on deck in gentle hush.

After shots of JD,
Blue tuna peppered, flayed,
he descends.
Girl. Sweet.
Arms flailing
Legs splayed--
for the impaling.