- Shortlisted at Clarkesworld and another possible acceptance at Daily Science Fiction. We’ll see — getting into Clarkesworld is like jumping off the roof and landing on a passing unicorn.
- Review of To Comfort the Headless Child has appeared in Quick Sips. They like my story so I will point you to it.
- New edition of Loompaland will be ready as soon as I make up my mind and hit “approve.”
- Sitting on a bunch of submittable material; have been distracted and lazy due to life upheavals.
Cannibal-themed short story “My Bologna Has a First Name” is scheduled to appear in DSF on Wed. March 22nd.
Signed contracts for stories in these publications. You never know exactly when they’ll appear. Some have a pretty long lead time; I think I’ve waited 6 months on DSF.
- Cafe Irreal
- Cosmic Roots & Eldritch Shores
- Daily Science Fiction
- Flash Fiction Online
It’s a lot of “hanging fire” though. Would be nice to see a February 1 barrage.
New science fiction story published in Perihelion SF. “Sky Widows”
My first book of poems has been published by White Knuckle Press. “The Water Tastes Like Centipedes And The World’s About To End”
I feel like I’ve been too busy to get anything done, but actually there are quite a few works about to debut:
- New stories forthcoming in Perihelion and Flash Fiction Online.
- Book of creepy prose poems coming in December from White Knuckle Press.
- HOW THE GLURK STOLE XMAS — the BEEFUS Xmas Special 2016 will be broadcast LIVE on WORT 89.9 FM, Madison WI. at 8 PM Thursday December 15th. Tune in as we utterly ruin Dr. Seuss with an original script, 10 brand-new original songs, voice acting, sound FX and more.
Also I’m working on too many novels at once (two is one too many).
The dead don’t return on Halloween. The dead have never left.
Do not think of the dead as inhabiting some dim afterworld.
We living beings are the outliers. We are a tiny minority. The dead outnumber us by billions. It is we who dwell in a dim antechamber to nonexistence. We are the ones temporarily stuck in a pocket universe of sentience.
The dead aren’t aware of us. We think they are but they’re not. We so desperately want them to acknowledge us. I am a writer, just like Shakespeare! I am a singer just like John Lennon! I am a revolutionary like Marx, a philosopher like Plato.
Who are you, again? The dead know you not. They don’t care what you do.
Yet we, the fleshy ghosts, we rattle our chains and howl, and hope for a response. We haunt the dead, or we attempt to. And the wind blows over the graves, and no answer ever comes out of them.
They aren’t scared of us one bit.