give me thunder
…In Search of a City: Los Angeles in 1,000 Words
Inspired by photographs taken around the Los Angeles area, the book features short stories from 26 authors, including Craig Clevenger (The Contortionist’s Handbook, MacAdam/Cage Publishing), Richard Thomas (Transubstantiate, Otherworld Publications), Nik Korpon (Stay God, Otherworld Publications), Simon West-Bulford (The Soul Consortium, Medallion Press), Pela Via (Warmed and Bound: A Velvet Anthology, Velvet Press), Gordon Highland (Major Inversions), L.A. Poet Dennis Cruz, and emerging writers from around the world who are making their voices heard.
Each author was asked to select a photograph from a collection taken by the editor and write a story of precisely 1,000 words inspired by what they saw – no more, no less. The result is quintessential Los Angeles: Dreams, Drugs, Hallucinations, Romance, Life and Death, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, and Redemption. Like the city itself, the book is multifaceted, hard to label and even harder to put down.
…In Search of a City: Los Angeles in 1,000 Words
Available on www.Amazon.com and www.ThundaDome.com/LA1K
on November 23rd, 2011
reprise
Like always, had no idea that a story of mine was even out and has been for almost two weeks. It’s at Short, Fast, and Deadly, which is always one of my favorite places to publish. That story at the click is only three sentences, so be sure to check it out. Some violent poetics.
Some very cool news: one of my novels will be published in a few months. More news on that later.
I’ve the distinct feeling that I’m going to accidentally live forever.
The weather’s beautiful and now that I’m no longer planning travels, I should be able to dive into the words. I hope. So many responsibilities and humans bothering me all the live long day. But if I can find the time, I should be able to make this last forever, never die. Need to get some of this nonfiction business done, too, which I’m always slacking on.
My weekend in China was exceptional, thanks to a pretty Chinese lady. Li Ling Zhi, I’ll not forget ye.
More on her later.
nowhere
Story of mine published at ThunderDome the other day, Now Here is Nowhere. A bit surreal and all that, bits of poesy for your prosey. It’s an old story, written forever ago, in a different dream, been rejected countless times, but, finally, here it is. One of my favorites, truthfully.
Though maybe that’s indicative of my inability to see quality.
Lots I want to post, but am too lazy. Eleven hour work days make me want to die, more and more each day.
I hate working. It’s awful.
my first kiss at the public execution
My interview’s up over at Booked now. Available at the click. You can hear me talk about cartoons and laugh awkwardly as I poorly answer questions about myself.
Up over at Rotten Leaves is my story My First Kiss at the Public Execution. Surreal and full of horror, but also love and tenderness.
Like life.
Japan in two days and I’m super unprepared.
Heavy.
warmed and bound
As some of you know, this came out on Friday and has been selling well beyond expectations. Rather than talk much about it, I’m mostly going to post some links and let you, whoever you may be, teach yourself what it’s about.
Mostly, though, what you need to know is that it’s a short story anthology full of some amazing writers, small name to large name. The big guys, Brian Evenson, Blake Butler, and Steve Erickson [though he's only doing the foreward]. The middle rangers are well represented, and then there’s a host of people like me, writing stories, hoping one day, maybe, we’ll be more than just people who write stories. But, yes, I’m in there, too, with a story called The Tree of Life.
The main website is here, at Warmed and Bound. Booked Podcasts are doing interviews with most [maybe all?] the authors involved, which is so very cool. Looks like I’m up for tomorrow, which might be really embarrassing. For me, I mean. They’re nice guys, though, and it was fun talking to them, though I forgot to mention so many things that I meant to talk about. Anyrate, such is life.
An interview, of sorts, was done by Jay Slayton-Joslin for many of the authors involved. Interview available at his site here: Jay Slayton-Joslin.
Book trailer done by Gordon Highland is right here:
Gordon was pretending like it wasn’t a big deal and that he just threw it together, but I think it looks dope.
What else?
Oh, I suppose I should list the sellers, yeah?
I was going to post the Barnes and Noble one, too, but there seem to be difficulties with that ish, which I’d comment on, but I don’t really know what to say. We were on the bestseller list there for an entire day, beating out Harry Potter, even, by the end.
Surreal.
But, yeah, that’s all from me, really. Oh, and kind of super digging Priscilla Ahn right now.
I don’t typically like singer songwriters, I feel, unless they’re women. Then it seems like I love them. She’s my newest fancy.
Pretty girls with pretty voices.
Take care, Starchild.
Take care.
tracks of time
New story up at Full of Crow Quarterly, which is kind of a groovy place.
The story’s called Tracks of Time and it’s related to an old story called Whiteout, which came out forever ago, and it’s also much tied to a novella I wrote in May, that’s kind of cyberpunk, kind of surrealist mess. I’ll judge its quality at a later date.
I’ve been a bit all over the place lately. Not writing. Maybe that’s why, letting go of that which holds me together, but it’s so very hard for me to write during the summer months, and it rains all the time here, which, I mean, it seems like the perfect time to write. Especially when considering how I look at rain, what I feel about it, and how its such an impossibly thick metaphor for me, how anything can happen in the rain, how water is boundary of reality, holding it together, but also the only place you find the cracks, the holes in existence, between the raindrops.
It seem idyllic, but rain consumes me and there’s nothing left for the page. No room for words, just water. Water falling endlessly.
and i hope it rains forever
I think I’ve written that a thousand times, not only in english, but in french and spanish and german. I write it so often it should no longer matter, but it always does, somehow more, with each syllable typed or written.
I don’t feel much of anything at the moment. Confused, mostly, I think, about how and why, who and where. My life is full of fleeting presents that I can’t hold onto, not even in memory, so every day becomes too new, every night disconnected from the day that it follows.
In the morning, it’s always new, and I never remember. Never remember what came before or how I came to my bed, which could be explained away by drinking, but I drink rather infrequently here, maybe once a week, sometimes twice, if I’m feeling saucy.
I just can’t remember. Falling asleep afterdawn, waking up an hour or three later, time crumbling, and it’s no surprise, maybe, that I’m obsessed with temporality, with the only thing that makes us human and how I can’t seem to understand the measurement.
Time.
Time eats you. Dead or dreaming.
I wrote that, too, in a novel, and maybe in a hundred more.
I meant to talk about something else, but I’m stuck in myself it seems. Selfabsorbed, narcissistic, completely alone.
I like it, though. I feel most myself when I’m alone. It’s the world that’s lost, not me. Maps and compasses. calendars and clocks, they all mean nothing to me.
My calendar’s stuck on January, a way to count time, I suppose, through subtraction.
All must die. But first we’ll live.
Written on my calendar in black and red. Double printed. I did that, but I don’t remember. Not even sure how long ago, weeks or months or only days.
Sometimes I wish I could give it all away. All the stories I’ve spent my life dreaming, all the lives I’ve pretended, imagined. I have forgotten so much about me that I’m sometimes surprised I’m still a person. My life washing clean, but never really, always carrying the weight of my mistakes, the weight of existence, the cost of a life.
Moribund. I don’t mean to be, but I’m the typer. I’m content.
But never satisfied.
mayhem for may
New story today at ThunderDome. Cannibal Cabaret. Click the link if you’re so inclined.
It’s less gruesome than it sounds, I do believe. Part of the Mayhem issue there, so check out the other names,as well.
My sleep makes no sense anymore. Falling to it when the sun stretches over the mountains and then only hours at a time after that. One day i’ll get this right. Sleep proper. Spending the day lounging because too much activity pains my delicate frame. Still recovering from surgery, which is an annoyance of the highest order.
Writing all day.
give me back
Another story today at OWC. Click the link for The First Words of the Last Poet. It’s barely over 200 words, so you should have time to read it, yeah?
Finally got to see Norwegian Wood, Tran Anh Hung’s adaptation of Haruki Murakami’s novel.
Beautiful and sad, just like the novel. Full of longing and melancholy and shortsighted hope. Absolutely loved it, really, but i’m sentimental. Beautifully shot, acted, and scored.
Bin Laden’s dead and people are quick to congratulate, not thinking about the ramifications of celebrating the murder of a man. Ten years to kill one man. Three wars, trillions of dollars, and we’ve given no relief to the victims of his attack or to the heroes who saved countless lives and’re now dying of cancer for being a hero. And, to add insult to this injury, they need to prove they’re not terrorists. That’s right. The New York firefighters who spent weeks saving people from the rubble of the twin towers must prove they are not terrorists before they can be eligible for the relief they are so dearly owed, if nothing else, then as gratitude.
Imagine if we celebrated this way every time we killed an Arab man.
So sing your songs, dance your praises, but remember that nothing’s changed. Not one single thing except there’s one more murder to add to the decade long massacre.
don’t leave
Don’t Leave is now up at Outside Writer’s Collective. It’s extremely short, but maybe enough to get your blood boiling.
Today begins the search for representation!
next post
New story up over at ThunderDome called Upon the Sons, which was almost called Sins of the Father. All dialogue with nothing else. Hopefully it comes across well. Also, within that issue, the great and prolific Stephen Graham Jones has a story, too, which is all kinds of brilliant. He’s recently been nominated for the Bram Stoker Award, which is the bees knees in terms of horror writing for his short story collection, The Ones That Got Away, which is great. Truly unnerving schtuff.
In other news, i decided rap music is awesome a few weeks ago and decided, just the other day, that Kanye West is cool. Yeah, only a decade or so behind most audophiles, but i’ve always kind of hated him, for various reasons. He makes awesome beats, though. And he’s arrogant enough to make a short film, which is really just a long music video, which is kind of cool.
burning
My story My On Fire Girl came out today at Thunderdome. Click if you’re feeling sentimental, in the mood for love. I quite like it.
Been feeling terribly out of sorts and maybe melting all over the floor. Not sure why, really. Brain broke.
Lunar New Year here, but my phone appears to maybe be broken again, so i’ll be watching movies and whathaveyou. I have five days off, so hopefully i can collect myself by next week. It makes it impossible to work when i feel like this.
Maybe i’ll get some words down. I sing a lot these days. To myself. By myself. Late at night. I don’t know. I need to do something so i sing, and i write so much about songs saving lives, so maybe it makes sense to me without knowing.
Keeping myself contained within my body. Easier said than done.
where i’ve been and what i’ve seen
Man, i let this go so long that i’ve an obscene amount to tell. I’m alive and Korea does have stars, but only a few shine above Gwangju, my new home. I’ve been having a lot of fun and been doing a lot.
To be honest, most of the life stuff about Korea will be going up at ThunderDome, which is a site run by my good friends. The first instalment, which covers my journey from Minnesota to Gwangju is here.
I’ve been published a few times since arriving, too. One, a fun little children’s story i wrote a long time ago is over at ThunderDome, too. Moonchild can be read at the highlighted word.
I had a cool little piece up over at Short, Fast, and Deadly titled All Tomorrow’s Parties. Mine is the last one on the page. Also, my favorite story to be published is up at The Foundling Review. Read Après le Déluge. Exceptionally proud of that one, mind.
Man, i know there’s something else. I should’ve been more prepared to write this. Koreas great, though. Kung Fu Panda’s been on three times in two weeks, all sorts of odd television. The censors make no sense here as full frontal nudity is allowed but cigarettes and guns are blurred, which, yeah, hilarious. But, surely, the funniest part of Korea is that i can’t read Korean and everything’s in Korean.
Been listening to a lot of 16 Horsepower and Woven hand, which are, essentially, the same band. Think of a Denver version of Nick Cave and that’s close enough. Been reading, fiending on words. Going to do some exploring today and then who knows.
The job’s great, too, and i’ll be writing a post about that for ThunderDome as well.
I’ll be sooner next time.
days between
Been a while, yeah? I had a birthday, the first one i threw a party for, and it was highly successful as far as fun goes. Well, technically, my sister threw it, but it was truly a time to be had.
Lots of things have happened, mostly staring at walls and discovering what matters. About writing, i mean, so it’s not really that interesting. I’ll get to that below if i feel like it.
My short story, The Pier, has finally been published, which is great, because it’s one of my favorite stories and, i think, one of my strongest. It’s over at OWC, which is a cool place.
I really feel lazy so i may just leave this as is. Um, i’ll mention, though, that i quit the werewolf novel for various reasons. I’ll enumerate on them on a later date or maybe later today. Mostly, it’s a shift in focus. It’s not enough for me to write a good story or even a great story anymore. These stories need to matter, be important, be unforgettable, and neverending. And this werewolf one wasn’t that, so i dropped it. I may still finish it, but i’ll likely never try and do much with it.
Oh, got an acceptance today from Short, Fast, and Deadly, which is a cool place. My story will be up there in a month or so, i think. Check them out. Very cool medium.
Can’t stop listening to this, no matter how hard i try.
Wave to Writers’ Bloc
Forgot to mention in the post yesterday that Writers’ Bloc is now closed, which is a bit of a heartbreak as they were surely one of the finest places on the web. My story that was meant to be out in August there never made the light of day because of this, but Foundling Review is picking up a lot of the lost stories and putting them out.
It’s sad news and the editor, Kevin Dickinson, is such a great guy and so damn good at what he does that it’s a true shame to see it closed. I understand, though.
Mostly, I just wanted to say thanks to Writers’ Bloc and Kevin for giving me a chance on stories that no one else believed in. My story Ghoul was almost universally hated, but Kevin saw the beauty in it, saw it for what i meant it to be rather than what he wanted it to be.
Anycase, here’s another chance to read Ghoul and visit Writers’ Bloc.
Thanks.
two hundred five
Apparently my story, My Grandfather’s Eyes, has been possibly out for a few days–maybe longer–without me realising. It got accepted months ago, or so it seems, so it’s nice to finally have it out there and consumable for the masses. I really should get back into that whole thing, the writing business, but i just feel lazy about it. Anycase, i’ve discovered how to fix that one novel that i was writing forever ago that became a part of those other two novels that i thought i was writing, so now they’re all the same book, but, yeah, it’s complicated to a stupid degree.
New Arcade Fire album is out and it’s awesome, but what would you expect? Go fetch a copy.
one hundred fifty two
All this talk of not being published for a while and here i am with two stories that’ve likely been up all week. Not sure how i missed it, but i did. I think because the print issue comes out in July, which is when i assumed it’d all be available.
Anyway, two of my stories, Keys on Fire and Seasonal, are now up at Grey Sparrow Press. Published alongside Maxine Kumin, former Presidential Poet Laureate, which’ll hopefully give me a some readers as i imagine she’s quite famous in the literary circles. I feel this is a pretty big accomplishment for me.
Maybe now i’ll quit being a mopey louse and get some writing done.
Anycase, give me a read. I really love these stories.
one hundred ten
My story First Breath is available today at Bartleby Snopes, which is so very cool and i’m proud to find myself over there, because it’s a great magazine. Further, if you want to see me rise like the phoenix, you can vote for my story to be Story of the Month, which puts me in the biannual print magazine there, which would be even cooler. Voting can be done here.
Good Man Alex Martin described my writing as painting, which i think is quite fitting, because i’m much more about images than i am about plot. I fell in love with silence, with stillness, and i’ve never been able to get away from it. Really, i think i write two kinds of stories: ones like this, which are paintings, and the other kind is more of a fable or a myth or some such thing, like a bit of magic.
Oh, and it looks like my microfiction The Fall is up over at Short, Fast, and Deadly, as well. They do stories that fit within a facebook status update, which is to say >420 characters. Very cool.
Anyway, remember to vote for me for the Story of the Month at Bartleby Snopes and check out Short, Fast, and Deadly.
Thank ye, Starchild.
ninety four
I got an acceptance for one of those >420 character stories. Rather than just let all of the ones i wrote sit around on my computer, i’ll post some here. The rejected ones, ya dig?
She forgot what her shadow felt like after all this time. It ran away, but she knew not when. The light of that day blasted her eyes, near blinding, shrinking the shadow and blurring its edges. Night finally came and by morning the shadow was gone. Embarrassed, she abstained from light, blotting her windows and locking her doors. The blistering sun assaulted her home until it disintegrated leaving nothing but ash.
It could be too much drink or whatever she put in my mouth, but I barely understand what she means when she tells me to watch. A smile cheshires below her eyes and drips off the far end of her face while her toes tickle the water with spreading ripples. One more word and she’s walking out on it, laughter dancing in my ears. I close my eyes and my lungs fill up till her kiss trades it for air.
There once lived a boy who feared the darkness of night. All the noises and ghosts that stalk without light kept him awake and full of fright. He closed his eyes, and try as he might, the phantoms still terrorised his sleepless state. When the sun fell through the earth, his face consumed the drowning light and spit out a dull glowing orb to make the celestial bright.
Her eyes glowed, reflecting light, a glint in her eye like a cat shined with a flashlight. Blood poured from her mouth and a rodent hung limply in her left hand. A tangle of midnight hair cropped unevenly masked her face, but for those shining eyes. I kept the light on her and stepped backwards till my heel hit the truckwheel. For the next three miles my eyes were on the rearview mirror.
She picks up its skull the color of tarnished silver with slivers of rotten egg. In both hands she holds it to her face and whispers, Where did the rest of you go? Giving the skull her ear, she listens. Come on, she says to the boy who clutches his knees. He shakes his head and she says, Please. She frowns and runs deeper into the woods. Remaining behind, he shivers and closes his eyes.
Where the mountain meet the river is where she lies down beneath a fiery tree. It offers little shade, but she came not for that. The wind rushes over the glade with symphonic energy and she stands upright to meet it. The gale surges into her and carries all away over the mountain to sing with the purple clouds.
She fell through the bed into grass that writhed like a thousand snakes until her skin bleached and fissured and she flew from her chest into the sauntering raindrops that hung above her when she inhaled the wisped clouds which filled her to burst into stars that took root and formed the firmament.
Angels descend in flocks to herd us all before a monumental clock whose hands and numerals have been washed clean leaving only a blank face which reflects every eye in the congregation. An angel’s voice trumpets, All that you see is all that you ever are. Our minds grow numb and nothing is understood, but we continue to stare until our souls lay bare.
She watched her father’s body hang from the tree where no birds perched and no songs were sung. His legs quit kicking minutes before and her tears poisoned the soil to make no flowers grow. Her knees were cold against her cheeks and her sobs were the only sound for miles.
Probably off-putting to read those all in a row like that, but, whatever. Enjoy or hate. Weekend.
eighty five
My favorite story finally found a home and is ready for the public today. It took almost a year, but i’m glad it’s available. Pretty stoked. Oh, it’s FireFlies and it’s over at the Outside Writer’s Collective.
seventy
My story, The Ballad of the Thin Man, is now up over at Absent Willow Review. It’s probably my best writing that’s published so far and it’s one of my favorites. There’s one line in there that hits me so hard and perfectly every time i read it, which is cool because, well, i wrote it. Feels good to impress yourself.
This story all began after i watched Hunger, which is a fantastic film about the last weeks of Bobby Sands’ life. He was an IRA member who died of a hunger strike in prison. I’d go on about it, but you should look him up yourself. Anyway, the images of his emaciated body struck me and kind of turned into this little horror story.
A trailer for the film.
sixty five
Ghoul is up over at Writers’ Bloc magazine, which, incidentally, is one of my favorite little webzines.
I woke up this morning
with a noose round my neck
I took me to the coroner
to see what he suspects
He told me, ‘Billy Jean’
then he coughed and he spat
‘there’s not a man i seen
that don’t quite know
what that oughtta mean.’
Well, I hung down my head
what more for a man to do?
I picked up my noose
waved him goodbye and so long
The day was just starting
but a millstone was lurking
round every corner
behind flashed smiles
Bright sun, naught to run
I found me a treebranch
a fitting crook like a solid rook
where the wind blew less
and the sun shined warmest
Up on that greencapped hill
the whole city gave me a chill
some imperceptible thrill
smiling above the city of shill
I tied up the rope, tight as a will
Hanging here in the cool air
the years, they’re slipping away
like the hours of some lost day
I smile only to show it no more
Wrote that poem on the fly for sillies a few days ago.
fifty four
I’ve two publications at the same place today. My good friends at Rotten Leaves Magazine, which can be found ore yonder on the right side of your screen, were kind enough to take my short story, The Mirror , and my poem, The Clown. It’s been a long time since i’ve tried to get poetry published, but this is one of my favorites and probably my best.
But, yeah, i added links over in the Publications page as well, which no one seems to ever go to, but such is life. Really, i think this is the boring part, me talking, but most prefer it to my fiction it seems, so what do i know.
fifty two
Part VI: Act III is now up at Troubadour 21. Republished, really, as it was a stand alone piece before, but that’s how this whole thing got going. I meant to have it be Part VII, but the broken computer forced plans to change, as it is like to do.
Switching gears, i’d like to talk about Max Richter, who’s just brilliant. He’s probably my favorite composer of all time. Every song just haunts me, elevates me, saves me. He has that gentleness that Arvo Pärt shows so mesmerically, especially in Spiegel im Spiegel, which i could listen to forever and just might. Max Richter has that quality to him as well as this ability to obliterate you with power and force, almost Wagnerian in the way it crushes you, physically, spiritually. It’s an assault, almost, but, like Wagner, an assault you appreciate, were always looking for, whether you knew it or not.
And, really, it comes to The Art of Mirrors, which i would encourage everyone to listen to. All fifty two minutes of it. I’m reluctant to talk of spirituality for fear of derision, but if you have some sense of the essential, this will prove it to you. It’s like being carried on the wings of angels, hearing them sing in strings and ivory keys. All of existence surrounds and consumes you until you become a part of it, a part of everything, the essential. that’s not to say it’s a spiritual piece, but you’ll find it hear. You’ll see god between these notes.
And even if there is no essential in you, listen to it because it will show you the beauty of existence, the towering ability of man, how we rise like giants, and can be gods. To me, it is the most perfect expression of everything i’ve ever thought about in my entire life. It’s all captured here. Philosophy, love, death, fear, sorrow, everything and everyone is wrapped inside. And i’ve listened to it hundreds of times, maybe even thousands, and even when it’s not playing, i hear it here between my ears, incessantly and perfectly, as if it were a part of me. And it is. The last ten minutes and especially the last six capture every bit of my being inside it. If you want to know me, every thought i’ve had, every word i’ve said, every love i’ve had, every dream, every curse, every failing, every success, it’s all right in those last six minutes.
This song’s been in my head for a while now. It’s called Vladimir’s Blues and it’s wonderful.
Or there’s this version by some random person, which i think is just glorious.
