Well it’s been kinda fun around here for the last week or so, at least writing wise. I’ve had 3 shorts picked up by journals.
A rather dark piece that I penned a few months back called Fly on the Wall of a Serial Killing has been published and is availble to read at Flash Fire 500. FF500 features some very edgy writing–they even sport an adult audeinces only disclaimer.
One of my favorite stories, The Neighbor’s Cat, will be appearing in Issue 8: Broken Clocks of a very well designed printable journal called Colored Chalk sometime in the next few weeks. I’ll let you know when it’s live. In the meantime, Editor Jason Heim has loads of other interesting things to read and do at the site.
And Ink, Sweat and Tears will be printing my story Capacity. I’m pleased ’cause I really enjoy the majority of writing on this site–(Helen Pletts’ poem And there will come a time especially). Yet again, I’ll let you know when it goes live there.
As if all that wasn’t enough, my writers group in Berkhamsted is quite fun, albeit a bit small. I’ve just finished a brand-new story. I’ve gotten 6 rejections in the past few days too, but so it goes. And my friend and fellow writer Ann Hite made it into the top 50 in Amazon’s Breakthrough Novel Contest. Yeah, Ann!!!
Well, my little Facebook story has already found a home. Lola Gets Her Shit Together will be available in print from Pear Noir in July and all .8 of my loving fans could anti up 10 big ones and preorder the journal right now!!! Or not.
One cool thing about this journal (and it’s online counterpart Drunk and Lonely Men) is that they’re produced in or around Murraysvill, PA–country that will always have a special place in my heart given it reminds me of summers spent with Grandma Hilde and my aunts and uncles.
Hard as it may be to believe, it’s been 15 years since Kurt Cobain succumbed to his pain and left the world wondering what might have been, and a young daughter with little more of her famous father than his hauntingly beautiful eyes.
But it can’t really have been 15 years–that would make me…closing in on forty??? Would make my first child nearly 15?? Would mean I’ve been writing stories for almost 15 years?
Funny how time flies. And how it drags. These past 15 years were more than Kurt could face on a night when time seemed infinite.
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(this one’s from nearly 15 years ago, pulled out of a ancient computer drawer and dusted off a bit)
Saying Goodbye
I learned of Curt’s death as I lay in peaceful oblivion. Actually it happened twice. Both times my secure dream world was shattered instantly.
All alone is all we are.
Unable to form my own thoughts any longer, I relyid on song lyrics playing over and over in my head. I had no control over them, I did not pick the songs. They sprang from some CD player in my brain, specifically programmed for these nightmares. My tragedies come with their own soundtracks. Did they get you to trade, your heroes for ghosts… wish you were here… Do you think you can tell heaven from hell, blue skies from rain…
The ringing telephone woke me. I was vaguely aware of him rising to answer it in another room. I guessed from the dim morning light filtering through the black tapestry curtain that I still had an hour or so to sleep. I cocooned the covers back around my body and returned to my sleepy dream-world. Moments passed or maybe years.
He returned. He woke me by gently running his hand over my face. His fingers were chilled much deeper than the November air could explain. His hand shook just once, almost a twitch. Had I not been oblivious, I never would have noticed the indistinguishable jerk of that finger. Groggy and disoriented, what my mind could not comprehend, the rest of me understood immediately. Something terrible had happened.
Curt.
Dead.
Hot ashes for trees, hot air for the cool breeze
No it didn’t happen like that at all. I was asleep, but it was totally dark, not early morning. And there was no phone call, just the murmur of late night TV. He didn’t say anything at first; just lay there quietly. I was totally unaware, clueless, sleepy. I don’t remember what he said, the words or details. But it was a nightmare. Who would have guessed the death of a perfect stranger would hurt like this.
Kurt.
There was a song, then there were three; fragments playing like rounds in my head. Where do bad folks go when they die, don’t go to heaven where the angels fly… its alright to eat fish, ’cause they don’t have any feelings… All alone is all we are, all alone is all we are, all alone is all we are, all alone is all we are
I had a brilliant April Fool’s Day–enjoying all Southern France has to offer, hanging out with Scott and the lads, eating wonderful food. And to top it all off I logged onto my laptop and found that my story “A Writer’s Fantasy” is published in the current issue of The Cynic.
This one started out as a little spoof and grew into a larger spoof. Hope you like it. Happy April Fools.