Ahh, the poor, hapless tigress, blinded by the pursuit of her prey. Confident, yes, that she has executed the perfect crime. Done in, as it happens, by the ubiquitous technology of our modern times. Don’t leave home without it. Check out the full tale in the latest issue of the Lowestoft Chronicle, here.
Author: chiselch
Tale inspired by a past that felt like quicksand: “Unfurnished,” in Does It Have Pockets?
Check out a fresh story of mine — it’s titled “Unfurnished” — just up today on hip new lit site, Does It Have Pockets?
As with all things fiction, this tale has its roots all tangled up in memories of the author’s own early days out in the world, making a hash of almost everything. There’s a first time? For everything? Seriously?
Oh, yeah. If we’re lucky enough to survive our life education’s early years, we might learn to do a few things right, occasionally. Tip the scales toward normalcy, whatever that is. Maybe it’s just a painless state. Anyway, hope you enjoy.
Rejection, I Spit in Your Face
In the amateur business of pursuing fame through publication in (mostly) online publications, one dances with two partners — acceptance, and rejection.
Not every partner wants to dance, at least not with me. Polite and formulaic, their notes of rejection arrive with stinging frequency in my Inbox.
Little do they know, however, that their encouragement and best wishes for acceptance by others actual achieve results. Notes of acceptance also arrive. Lovely people with lovely little publications — every bit as virtually magnificent as the online presences of what some might consider better, or certainly more revered publications. Oh, joy! Someone loves me. Let’s dance.
For you, of course, this means free short fiction of your choosing. Not a penny from your pocket. Just click on over to contents of the Publications tab. Just think of it as the “Best American Stu Stories.”
Proud to find a place at the Bull stable of chiseled chompers
Couples come in different shapes, sizes, colors.
Big fat smile on my face, to have new work at the lovely Bull site. As Senior Senior Editor of Editing Stuff & Things The Drevlow notes, this hybrid pub is “dedicated to examining the evolution of modern masculinity.”
“Exit Velocity” emerged from an image — of a ratty old house trailer, sitting in desert dirt. This happens frequently with me. I love road trips and locking in on something strange, lost, bottomless out in the middle of nowhere. I’m always thinking, “What in the hell is life like inside that piece of shit … habitation?”
In this case, everything beyond the trailer, which is everywhere and nowhere in particular, was entirely made up. Although I had a few real people in mind when I fleshed out the cast and conjured an alligator for a starring role.
Resurrected online mag Defiant Scribe welcomes my wacky wit
The barriers to entry in online literary publishing are invitingly low. Build a website. Put out a call for submissions. Accept a few of the better ones and push “publish.”
Maybe a few people other than the writers will show up and read some of the work. Likely not.
An oversimplification, perhaps, but close to the current reality. Some come. Some stay. Some go.
Defiant Scribe had a healthy run in the mid-to-late teens, published 20 editions, then took a hiatus. It’s back, the first resurrection issue out this spring. To show the perspicacity and taste of its editors, it has now accepted a slightly irreverent tale of mine, titled “Pope Wins Easter Egg Hunt.”
This is fiction. It hasn’t happened — yet. It could. Now that my story has been published, maybe I should call the Vatican and see if I could turn it into non-fiction. Or not.
Sensitive Skin gives hugs, viz to “Santa Fe Three-way”
What is retirement? The American dream, right? Shed the job, cruise into the easy life. Lawn chairs and mai tais by the pool.
Or a heart attack at 66, bored to tears, overdosed on oxy and despairing at the emptiness of it all. No friends. No reason to get up. More reason, day by day, to check out.
It was on a recent visit to the chi-chi art colony of Santa Fe, New Mexico, that the idea for this story came to me. I was visiting a book store, not far from the Canyon Road gallery strip. A coffee shop inside provided lattes to browsers and the bored retirees who had somehow found themselves living, at least part of the year, in the surrounding, overpriced homes. Outside, at opposite corners of the flagstone patio, sat three older men. Alone. Fiddling with their phones. Sipping foamed milk and java in the afternoon sun. Obviously, aimless. Beyond clear reason to keep on living, I assumed, inferring that what they were doing was anything but their definition of living.
“Santa Fe Three-way” emerged from that. It’s now up at the longtime, respected lit website, Sensitive Skin. Hope you enjoy it.