Thursday, January 03, 2008
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
New Blog & New Acceptance for the New Year
I've given birth to a new blog this first day of January: The Sex Lives of Starfish & Other Tales. Please drop by to read the epistolary tales in progress.
A wonderful opening for the new year was an acceptance which arrived in email form. "Four Variations" will be published in February or March in the British Literary Journal, Tears in the Fence. I submitted it as a fiction, but the publisher, David Caddy, calls the quartet a poem.
A wonderful opening for the new year was an acceptance which arrived in email form. "Four Variations" will be published in February or March in the British Literary Journal, Tears in the Fence. I submitted it as a fiction, but the publisher, David Caddy, calls the quartet a poem.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Violet's Dream: A Triptych
Here's an excerpt from part I of my new piece.
"A pig in my bed is not a surprise, though he always tends to happen suddenly, as if on an impulse: mine or his. We fly to Reno … eventually.
He has always had tasty lips that feel like butter, and a strong nose for fear. He can smell menstrual blood and menopause from impressive distances. Comely pink pig, so smart, so misunderstood . . . so maligned . . . so malignant. I suck on his briny knuckles with my pretty pink mouth, porky pink tongue.
In turn, the beast feasts, plucks organs from their venal roots, popping them into his mouth, barely chewing. He leaves my mammary glands for last, salivates as he kneads them, wanting milk.
Now I am all bone, ready for a stroll on the runway in my rose silk gown.
I think of the three pigs: the pig in my 20’s, the pig in my 30’s and the pig in my 40’s. Pigs come in threes like fairy tales. Then who is this pig in my bed?"
Email me if you want to read the entirety.
"A pig in my bed is not a surprise, though he always tends to happen suddenly, as if on an impulse: mine or his. We fly to Reno … eventually.
He has always had tasty lips that feel like butter, and a strong nose for fear. He can smell menstrual blood and menopause from impressive distances. Comely pink pig, so smart, so misunderstood . . . so maligned . . . so malignant. I suck on his briny knuckles with my pretty pink mouth, porky pink tongue.
In turn, the beast feasts, plucks organs from their venal roots, popping them into his mouth, barely chewing. He leaves my mammary glands for last, salivates as he kneads them, wanting milk.
Now I am all bone, ready for a stroll on the runway in my rose silk gown.
I think of the three pigs: the pig in my 20’s, the pig in my 30’s and the pig in my 40’s. Pigs come in threes like fairy tales. Then who is this pig in my bed?"
Email me if you want to read the entirety.
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