This was the first time I got a rejection that wasn’t really a rejection.
Read MoreI took 7 tiny poems and turned them into 7 tiny films.
Read MoreThe contest guidelines were simple enough. Write a story in 10 words. I like writing small forms, but oh, how challenging this one was!
Read MoreThis little micro fiction came from a photo I saw of two people sitting back to back with only their legs framed in the picture. Bits of imagery made it into story, but in the end, it was less about the legs (which was the original working title of this piece) and more about the separate journeys ahead.
Read MoreI grew up landlocked in the prairies, and continue to live nowhere near a coast. Still…I miss the sea. This poem was inspired by a sleepless night where, due to a combination of insomnia and jet lag, the waves outside my window kept me up, incessant, refusing to cease their roar until morning. So much for the idea of being lulled off to dreamland by the sound of peaceful waves.
Read Tonight, I Do Not Love the Sea (and Questions I Ask the Shore) in Kissing Dynamite’s banging Issue 38: Sublunary.
Read MoreLately, I’ve been experimenting with how to write dreams. They’re not always logical, contain odd bits of imagery, and can be just real enough to wake with a pounding heart. That said, a little dreamy story found a home in the beautiful journal Gastropada about sparks and letters and truths that unravel when asleep.
Read MoreIt’s been a bit of a dry year for publishing speculative poetry. Speculative anything, really. I definitely haven’t been writing as much about things beyond the ordinary, and I haven’t had much luck with submissions. But I’m pleased to say, that I finally have a poem about a spaceship and her single passenger flying through the stars.
Read MoreIt started as something fun. The Daily Drunk, a lit mag who specializes in merging pop culture and writing, was putting together an anthology about Marvel superheroes and villains. I was interested, but the day job was getting crazy, and I didn’t have much creative juice in the evenings. But a poem about Kitty Pryde kept rattling around in my head.
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