Lascaux Flash

Photo by Catherine Vibert

There's an exciting flash fiction contest happening right now I wanted to tell you about. Using the photo prompt above, submit a piece of fiction (250 words or less) by midnight, September 22 for the chance to win the grand prize: $250, a virtual medal and publication in The Lascaux Review. Instructions for entering are here. 

I submitted a guest entry--titled "Orange Juice"--which can be found here. 

My thanks to Stephen Parrish and Wendy Russ for running such a quality contest and literary review. Good luck to all the participants!  

Autumn Rhythm

(Autumn Rhythm No. 30 by Jackson Pollock)

Again, September 

where the leaves begin their long surrender

and I hold fast to every before and after. 

Above me, a cacophony of geese, recycling their

rites of spring, fashion themselves into a lopsided 

victory sign, sticking their faith in the future's eye, 

and I salute them, metaphorically at least. 

Remember when poetry was something that happened to you, 

when it pierced you through and through and through? 

When it kissed your knees and encased you in light? 

An apple of Newton’s, God’s own Eureka! 

Of course you do, and I’m happy— 

so pitifully glad to be a part of the mad, happy dance—

yet there’s something to words that makes one a surgeon, 

prone to the dissection and rearranging of miracles. 

So that even as sunshine slides down my sleeve

and empties my pocket of gold and debris, 

a part of the self hangs back, detached,

making of the present a more beautiful past. 

“It was different back then,” 

but the difference is in the remembering,

as we stuck each moment like buddhas on pogo sticks, 

so Zen we thought eternity could be numbered in 

the days before Christmas.

Players on an infant stage, not knowing such

scenes would grow heavier with replay,

we ignored the warning in our grandparents' examples

—bodies bird-light, faces sharpened into arrows—

backs bowed over with layers of sediment.    

  

Is it possible the phoenix looks to us for inspiration?    

We are the only backward-looking, forward-driven creatures of nature

and autumn is our renewable feast, a creaky time machine set on ache 

one more chance for the leaves to scatter  

so we might leap backward and fore, transitioning

forever, into our piles of lukewarm nostalgia, waiting to 

see where the colors will land so we may jump 

again 

Deleted (WTW)

Pulled for submission

Although the subject of the poem is a little

macabre, it was inspired by a moment of perfect

solitude on the lake dock above. I happened to look at 

the plank of wood I was leaning against, when I saw 

my name inscribed there. Sort of hard to see

in the picture, but it made me smile. 

Ark

(Pine Trees painting taken from here)

I’ve been finding it difficult

lately to have much faith

in the things I once

took to define me. 

Like writing, for instance,

that need to impress

on the world

what I make of it.  

Why bother,

the mind asks, 

(not unreasonably, I think)

when it’s been said often enough 

and better-- 

Why contribute to the 

overcrowded amphitheater? 

I don’t know.

Maybe this lack of ambition is

merely depression’s indifferent 

cousin or a bug I can’t shake or 

maybe it has something to do 

with the wintery landscapes

I keep plumbing in my sleep,

brushing the snow from

my head and my shoulders

before I am fully awake. 

(This is not true.)

No, the mind is not

complacent; it apprehends 

and grasps; it has learned things 

along the way, in spite 

of itself.  

Logic holds that we must be the

craftsmen to our artists’ dreams

or the hunger will die

and days’ll pile up like 

existential episodes on the DVR. 

So everyone is invested in some-

thing, even if it’s just the notion  

of a personal narrative.

Everyone picks a religion. 

And so I reach for you.

Paul, 

when we are locked to-

gether inside our mortal

storm, like a boat unto

water or--wait, no

like just 

you and me

--bodies free of

any editorial eye

You looking 

into me 

Me looking 

into you

That is honest.

That is end and epiphany. 

And so I say: 

I may never write again. 

And so you reply,

Sarah. There is snow in your hair. 

The Feasts of Lesser Men

For a limited time, Independent Publisher gold medal winner Stephen Parrish is giving away his novel for free on the Kindle. I had the great pleasure of being an early reader of The Feasts of Lesser Men. Here is my Amazon review: 

Stationed in Germany during the final days of the Cold War and the fall of the Iron Curtain, Jimmy Fisher is a Private First Class with the US Army charged with safekeeping his country's top-secret operational plans.

He's also a first-rate scoundrel with a fondness for buried corpses (and their gold fillings), pissing off officers (and sleeping with their daughters), and his favorite neighborhood whore, Melina.

What Fisher lacks in ethics and honor, however, he makes up for in daring and in a sincere, if reluctant, loyalty to his bumbling partner-in-crime, Chuck Cybulski. Soon these qualities are turned against him: Fisher is forced to turn spy. As the web of intrigue infiltrates the dark German forest surrounding him and extends its threads into a beatific French countryside, the question of whom Jimmy is betraying becomes ever murkier and more entangled. Can any one country--or any person--really be trusted?

Stephen Parrish is a deft writer and a keen observer of human nature, with a brilliant mastery of detail and verisimilitude. In this book he utilizes all the tools in his arsenal, every color in his palette. It's difficult to make the reader root for a character as nakedly opportunistic as Fisher, but he pulls it off with bold strokes, dark humor, and a bracing authenticity. As a reader, he took me out of my comfort zone and plunged me into a world of shadows and misanthropes, arrested by moments of understated, if exquisite, tenderness and beauty. Jimmy Fisher is not a man built for love; he's not a man who cares a fig about redemption unless it comes on the other end of a wink and a payoff. Parrish gives him a taste of both. Not until the final, shocking scene will the reader decide how much, or how little, Jimmy Fisher has changed, as the snow begins to drop and the curtain falls.

You don't need a Kindle to read the book. Just download a free reading app tailored to your specific needs. Or email Steve within this free five-day period and be sent a pdf file. 

Trust me. The book is worth it.   

Sea Legs

She thought she was sick. 

She was sick. 

Or maybe not.

Maybe, maybe not. 

Lord, what a bore she’d become. 

The symptoms were holes around a moving target. Did thinking about fatigue make one tired? Was the bloating as bad as she thought or a natural phenomenon magnified by the distorted lens of her perception? That bit of queasiness: it didn’t qualify as nausea. No. A few pounds lost--thanks, stress! The irregular periods, the disturbing dreams and emotional instability? Fuck you, stress.  

They’d found something in her blood work. Finally--a something. The doctor gave her some medicine, a cure. 

“That should put your mind at ease.”

She’d laughed apologetically. “I’m such a head case.”  

Why apologetically?  

Leaving the doctor’s office, Woody Allen’s character in Hannah and Her Sisters dogged her thoughts. Woody, the quintessentially neurotic hypochondriac. God, what a joke. 

Her steps slowed near the car. Of course, they’d found something in Woody, too, hadn’t they? It had turned out to be a nothing much, but it was enough of a something to vindicate the second look. 

So why did she feel so goddamn ashamed? So queasy with self-loathing?  

Why, coming home again, was she still dissatisfied? 

She set the prescription bottle on the counter, grabbed her laptop and started another Google search. A spider dangled from the painting of crocuses she’d started two months ago, swaying a little in the breeze. When it touched the floor, the dog licked it up and spat it back out. It scurried off. 

She wondered if she wasn’t crazy and looked out the window. 

Lord, it was spring. 

Facing the Sun

It's Easter Sunday, and though I'm not a Christian, I've always appreciated the season and the promise of renewal and uplift it brings.

Our fellow writer and friend, Richard Levangie, had neurosurgery this weekend to remove a pituitary tumor that's wreaked havoc on his body for more than a decade. His wife Kristina has been kind enough to let us know that he's recovering well. Yet in spite of a distinguished history as a journalist and award-winning writer, Richard's debilitating migraines and fatigue have left him unable to pursue his career with as much fortitude as in his pre-tumor years. His friends have stepped up to help him and Kristina with expenses as he continues to recuperate and regain his strength.

29 talented writers--including project spear-headers JA Zobair, Wendy Russ, and Stephen Parrish--have contributed to an anthology of poetry, short fiction, and reminiscences titled Facing The Sun. You may donate any amount of money to receive this anthology in pdf format via email. I've taken my time in looking through this lovely collection and have been deeply impressed by the talent of the contributors and the beauty of the photos and formatting. For your donation, you will also have your name inscribed on the "wall" of the site's sidebar. I've recognized so many familiar names up there already. It's just one more reminder of the incredibly generous and impassioned community of which we're all a part.  

Richard's done a lot for that community. He was one of the first people to interview me when my book was published, as part of his "25 Questions" series. He and Kristina designed my beautiful book "postcards." He's the kind of guy that takes as much delight in the success of his friends as he does in his own accomplishments. I'm happy to see so many people giving back to him now.

Please consider a donation. It's a beautiful day for new beginnings.  

The Lascaux Review

(If this cow horse isn't pregnant with a new literary review of hugely 
awesome potential, then I don't know my 17,000 BCE cave art.)

It's my honor and pleasure to announce the launch of a new literary journal, The Lascaux Review, a "showcase for emerging and established writers and artists." Stephen Parrish and Wendy Russ are at the helm of this new venture, and because of my deep-rooted faith in both of them, my expectations for Lascaux's future success could not be higher. They are just that good. 


My story, "Closer," was selected to be the first piece published in the review, which is something of a Leap Day miracle, possibly? Probably. At any rate, for those wondering: if you do have a piece accepted by The Lascaux Review, let me assure you that the editorial process is extremely professional and painless. Parrish has a sharp editorial eye, and he made my story stronger, for which I'm very grateful. 


And, oh yeah: they PAY! I was paid generously for my story from donations to the review, which is the first time that's happened since....well...


Ever. 


Seriously, I hope that many of you will consider a small donation. It's too seldom that writers and artists are compensated for their work, and I admire Lascaux for embracing such ambitions right out of the gate. I know they mean to make it grow. 


I also encourage you to submit. They are currently looking for fiction, poetry, art, essays and reviews. Submission information can be found here. 


I'm proud to be a part of this launch today. And I can't wait to see what the future has in store for them. 

Deleted (A&E)

Pulled for submission

Story inspired by a Huffington Post article I read the other day. Painting by Picasso: "Girl Before A Mirror."

Luna

(Photo credit here.)

We lived underground

in a circular room 

where you fed me words

o'er song and sand     

and with every vowel

I tore and tongued 

my belly grew more concave

until I was grown heavy,
but pregnant with silence. 

And before I could say when

the dread contractions set in  

as I found myself like   

the primitive daughter

squatting over a caveman’s 

flint, bones and fire

where I will give birth

to an opal moon

again and 

again.

*Thanks to our son for pointing out the nearly full moon to me last night. Sometimes I forget to look.