I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for December, 2024 is The Stars and my contribution this month is a poem titled Man Bows Out (But Slowly, Slowly). Here’s how it starts:
The closing jaws of entropy that snap, and foam, and say to me, you are the stumbling primate, tamed. Kindling for the star-fed flame. The slow and terrible unwinding, the fabric of the void untwining.
I’m excited to be part of this anthology of alternate mythology! If you’ve ever wanted to read about Beowulf as a noir detective, or Narcissus as a vampire who wants a reflection, then this book is for you. And if it never occurred to you that such things were an option (but now they sound fascinating), then it’s for you too!
I have a short story and a long poem in this collection, both inspired by Greek mythology. I’m truly proud of my work here, and that of all my fellow writers. Special shout-out to Mara Lynn, who did a great job of wrangling us together and keeping us on track.
Whatever your usual way of securing excellent reads, chances are there’s a link included here:
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for November, 2024 is Insult and my contribution this month is a short story titled Ashes In My Mouth. Here’s how it starts:
Christ on a pogo stick, this year’s Hot Issue cover story, the biggest, baddest insult comic since fucking Rickles, and Rolling Stone sends you to interview me? What are you, twelve? Did you unhitch from your mama’s tit and climb on your tricycle to come down here?
Okay, okay, relax, I’m just yanking your dick. We can do this, but on my terms, which means you let me tell my story my way, and keep your pie hole shut.
The first thing everyone wants to know is, why become an insult comic? I could have done observational comedy—yawn—or rapid-fire jokes, or prop comedy—Jesus, poke me in the eye with a stick, better yet poke Carrot Top in the eye with a stick—or just about anything else. Insult comedy is a dead end, right? My villa in Positano begs to differ, believe me when I tell you that people love to be shit on, but that’s not really why I do it.
Here’s the reason I’m an insult comic—it tastes good.
Before you ask—pie hole shut, remember?—I’m not being figurative. I’m not a figurative kinda guy, if I say asshole, I mean your little brown pucker. I was being literal. Insults taste good.
Let me start way back at the beginning. Most kids’ first words are mama, or dada, or love you, or some combination, right? Mine was ugly. Partly because my sister, three years older than me and a spiteful, jealous bitch, some things never change, whispered in my ear that I was ugly every chance she got. But that’s not the main reason. The thing is, the word ugly tasted so good my little ass swooned every time I said it.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for October, 2024 is Fire and my contribution this month is a short story titled The Four Stages of a Fire. Here’s how it starts:
In the first stage of a fire, heat and oxygen combine with a fuel source, and ignition is reached. At this point, should appropriate action be taken, the nascent flames can be readily extinguished. Timing is crucial. Patty Anne is already having herself an epically bad day at The Main Street Diner, even before shit goes south.
Pete, proprietor and cook, had originally scheduled her for the day shift, and she was looking forward to a date at home with a tub of Jeni’s Brown Butter Almond Brittle ice cream and the Real Housewives. Then Sherri had called off sick (still drunk from the night before, most likely), and she couldn’t leave Mitzy to work the night shift all alone, so she agreed to work a double. Mitzy was a great waitress, and a total sweetheart, not to mention she made all the legendary pies in the place, but she was just a couple months shy of sixty-seven, and nights were busy. The Main Street Diner (which confused out-of-towners, because it was actually on 9th Street, but the locals all called the town’s main drag Main Street, go figure) was the only place in their small town open past supper time, and they tended to stay crowded all evening.
That second shift turns out to be a real ass kicker for Patty Anne and Mitzy both—bad tips, difficult customers, dropped plates, and feral kids running amok thanks to free-range parenting.
By eleven o’clock, with an hour left until close, Patty Anne is at the end of her very short rope. Her friendly smile, the one she practices in the mirror, is nowhere to be seen, but there’s a distant light at the end of the tunnel. Only one table occupied, way back in the corner, a young couple sharing a strawberry shake like they stepped right out of an Archie comic book.
That’s when the diner door bangs open, ringing the bell, and a pack of obviously very drunk boys from the State College the next town over stagger in on a wave of obnoxious laughter. Mitzy shakes her head and says, “Any table, boys.”
Over the past several years I’ve become a part of a group, a collective of sorts, of fellow writers. It’s shocking how close I feel to these wonderful writers spread across several continents, none of whom I’ve met in person. We not only share a love of writing, helping each other become better at our craft, but we are also there for each other when life sometimes gets in the way, offering support as needed.
Together we’ve published several collections of short stories that I’m extremely proud of, but I have to say, I think The Major Arcana just might be our best yet. Every author here, my friends and fellow writers, hit it out of the park.
I’m lucky enough to have four stories in the anthology, and I think they’re some of my best work. I also created the cover art. If you have an interest in Tarot, in dark fantasy, or you just like good fiction, please check out The Major Arcana. It’s available today! Here’s a link:
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for September, 2024 is Jewelry and my contribution this month is a short story titled Pierced by Love. Here’s how it starts:
The cab driver clocked the outfits of the young couple strolling towards him in the strobing lights from the Fremont Street Experience, and smiled—newly married. The guy was wearing a tux, tails and all, but it was pale seafoam, with a neon green bow tie and cumberbund and deep mossy green alligator leather boots. The girl was in a white dress that was as much feathers and sequins as silk, a wedding dress fit for a Las Vegas main stage. Her alligator stilettos matched his boots. They were both beautiful.
The young couple didn’t so much climb into the cab as fall in, tumbling into the back seat on a wave of convulsive laughter.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“We just got married!” the girl said, not answering the question. Her eyes looked glassy in the rearview mirror, but the driver didn’t think she was drunk or high, at least not too much, just really happy.
“I figured,” the driver said.
The guy looked down at himself and laughed. “I guess our outfits kind of gave us away.”
“We look amazing,” the girl said.
“You most definitely do,” the driver said. “So, where can I take you kids?” He had been driving a hack in Vegas for nearly twenty years, and had given many couples their first ride together as a married couple.
“We got married by Elvis,” the girl said, determined to not give him a destination. “We had our choice of Young Elvis, Old Elvis, and Fat Elvis. We went with Young Elvis, because we wanted to be married by someone as hot as us.” She kissed her newly minted husband. “Isn’t that right, Ray baby?”
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for August, 2024 is Closed Doors and my contribution this month is a short story titled Whatcha Doin’, Daddy?. Here’s how it starts:
“Daddy? Whatcha doin’, Daddy? Can I come in? Please?” A small, hesitant voice on the verge of tears.
“Jeremy, please open this door. We need to talk about what happened, what you did. Stop hiding.”
Jeremy shakes his head, whispers, “No, no, no,” to himself. He holds his head in his hands, stares down at his desk with blurry, unfocused eyes. On the desk are a half empty bottle of Angel’s Envy bourbon; a rock glass filled with bourbon and ice, condensing water dripping down the sides; a photo of his wife, Maria, and son, Kyle, that he took two years ago during a visit to the shore, in a Dollar Store frame; and a Ruger Blackhawk 9mm revolver.
He picks up the glass and drinks deeply. The bourbon slides down his throat like creamy vanilla fire while the fumes swirl into his nostrils. He sways dizzily. When he sets his glass down in a different place, he notices the wet ring it has left. Jeremy imagines that it is a mirror through which he can see himself as his wife sees him, but the prospect is distasteful, so he wipes it away with the side of his hand.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for July, 2024 is Missed Connections and my contribution this month is a short story titled Just Five Minutes. Here’s how it starts:
The Greyhound shuddered to a stop on the shoulder of the road, the high-pitched squeal of the air brakes piercing the summer air like screaming birds. The bus driver stood up and stretched, mopping his sweaty head with an already sodden towel. The air conditioner had been fighting a losing battle against the August heat since crossing from Oklahoma into Kansas, wheezing out meager puffs of barely-cooled air. “Sorry, folks, we need to make an unscheduled stop and let the engine cool off or she’ll blow before we reach the depot at Cottonwood Falls. Feel free to get out and stretch your legs. The way she’s ticking, it could be a little while.”
Bill Shepard groaned and shuffled off the bus with the other half dozen passengers. He looked around and shook his head in disgust. They were deep in corn country, the tall rows crowding the narrow two lane road on both sides, and Bill preferred to be surrounded by asphalt and tall buildings. He had thought it was hot inside the bus, but out here, even with the sun beginning to set, it was brutal. The corn was absolutely still, not a breath of wind, and the road shimmered in the heat. He looked at his watch, groaned again, and tracked down the bus driver leaning against the back bumper smoking a cigarette.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for June, 2024 is Eavesdropper and my contribution this month is a short story titled In the Attic. Small parts of it are autobiographical…see if you can figure out which parts. Here’s how it starts:
Mom and dad didn’t freak out until the third kid disappeared. The first one, a little girl, happened on the far west side, nowhere near us. The second one was a boy in the next city over, even farther away. The third one, though, was a kid from our neighborhood, a seven year old boy named Gusty. His name’s really Augustino, but everyone calls him Gusty. We all know him. My brother Jimmy goes to school with him. He lives right here in the Hawthorne Park Estates, same as us.
Hawthorne Park Estates sounds all fancy, but it’s so not. Just a bunch of one-story apartments connected side-by-side around courtyards that are more crabgrass and dirt than grass, and there’s six courtyards altogether, plus a pool that’s closed half the time because the water keeps turning green. I’m making it sound horrible, but it’s not a bad place to live. There’s a ton of kids that live here, so there’s always someone to play with. In the summer we would leave the apartment in the morning and not come back until supper time, and mom and dad never worried about anything happening to us. At least not until Gusty disappeared.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for May, 2024 is The Letter and my contribution this month started out as a little short story, but then something surprising happened. I ended up writing what just may be the first chapter of something longer. The result is titled A Letter Discovered. Here’s how it starts:
Hazel McTavish found the letter tucked between the pages of a book in her local public library, a small, cozy brick building at the end of Maple Street.
Hazel was thirteen. She had discovered science fiction and fantasy in the school library her first week at Maple Junior High, a much larger, much less cozy building which squatted at the other end of Maple Street. She had spent the entire school year working her way through the SF&F section in the library, starting at the upper left with Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot and working her way down to the bottom right, finishing with Roger Zelazny’s Nine Princes In Amber.
Once the school year ended, Hazel started over alphabetically with the much larger public library SF&F collection. By midway through July she had reached the Ls, and it was when she was in the Ls that she found the letter. She was ensconced in her favorite threadbare, overstuffed chair that was perfectly positioned so that she could look out a window into the library courtyard and watch the hummingbirds flitting between feeders. She’d just sat down with a clearly much-loved hardback edition of Ursula K. Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea. She did what she always did before beginning a new book, particularly older volumes—she held it up to her nose and breathed deeply, inhaling the dry but earthy book smell. As often happened, she sneezed, jerking the book. That’s when the letter fell into her lap.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for April, 2024 is Dancing and my contribution this month is a poem titled Dancing About Architecture. Here’s how it starts:
Someone (and opinions differ as to who that someone is) once said that writing about music is like dancing about architecture, and I think I understand what they were trying to say— That describing any mode of creative expression with mere words on a page is at best an exercise in futility (how do you explain a series of notes that vibrate in tune with your soul) and at worst does a disservice to both your written word and the artform you’re attempting to elucidate.
But what if you could? Dance about architecture, I mean.
Here are many of the places my work has appeared over the years. This isn’t everything, but it’s everything I was able to put my hands on after scrounging through the bookshelf and magazine rack. I’m happy with the variety, and particularly pleased (embarrassingly so) that I placed a story in Highlights, everyone’s favorite dentist office magazine.
I was about to type not bad for an amateur, but then I remembered something. Last year was my 40th anniversary (I was the very first employee) at a small ad agency here in Cleveland, Rosenberg Advertising. They’ve been wonderful to work for, and kind enough to keep me gainfully employed, for which I’m forever grateful. Anyway…as part of the anniversary festivities, my coworkers prepared an infographic about my time here, and it included this tidbit—I’ve written more than a million words of copy in the course of my work. That is a lot of words. It includes ad copy, hundreds of tv and radio commercials, and more website copy and blog posts than I can comprehend, even though I’ve written them.
Add to that the other, varied writing projects I’ve been a part of, from greeting card sentiments to ESL test passages, and my conclusion is that, while I’m still a rank amateur when it comes to fiction writing, I’m probably not an amateur overall any more. And the fiction thing is coming along—there are three or four anthologies coming out this year that will include my work, which feels good. I’m definitely going to keep writing, and see where it goes.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for March, 2024 is Outside the Window and my contribution this month is a short story titled Paradise. I think this one has Twilight Zone vibes, and I’m happy with how it turned out. Here’s how it starts:
I found myself on the Deuce that night through a combination of loneliness, self pity, and drunkenness. I was nineteen, and Trina, the first, hell—the only— love of my life had dumped me that morning after yet another fight because I had lost my shitty bodega job. Dumped me? She had thrown me out of the Alphabet City walkup we shared, her right I guess, since her Wall Street father was paying for it. He hated me, which in retrospect I don’t blame him for one bit, so I’m sure the tearful phone call he probably got after I left pleased him.
I was actually jealous of him and her if you want to know the truth, even if he was an asshole. I had grown up in foster care, where love was measured by how big the check from Family Services was. Apparently, the checks weren’t very big. Trina’s dad loved his little girl, despite her choosing to live with a lowlife like me in a tiny flat. I couldn’t imagine someone caring about me that much. And yes, I know how pathetic that sounds.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for February, 2024 is Sunrise/Sunset and my contribution this month is a piece of flash fiction titled Life Ain’t Easy for a Vampire. Here’s how it starts:
Look, I know what you’re thinking: That’s bullshit. Vampires have it made. You couldn’t be more wrong, my friend, but it’s not your fault. You’ve been spoon fed a steady diet of totally made up mythology, half truths, and downright lies. I blame the writers—I’m looking at you, Bram Stoker and Anne Rice—and especially Hollywood.
Hollywood don’t know shit about vampires.
I don’t have much time here, which I’ll explain, but let me drop a little knowledge on you, tell you what they get wrong.
I’ll start with one of the big ones—all vampires are obscenely rich. That’s what you think, right? In the old days we lived in vast castles, with dozens of servants from the village down below to snack on. Then we took our drachmas, our deutsche marks, francs, and rubles, and we invested them over centuries. Got in on the ground floor with Apple. Now we live in penthouses, fly in private jets, have starlets delivered like DoorDash when we’re feeling hangry.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for January, 2024 is Cooking and my contribution this month is a culinary science fiction story titled A Dish Most Rare. Here’s how it starts:
My Chef de Cuisine called me into his office at the end of the night, which wasn’t unusual in and of itself. I’ve been his Sous Chef for nearly two years, and he often wants to discuss how that evening’s dinner service went—if one of the minor celebrities who called our small but bougie mountain town home had been in attendance and if their meal had pleased them; what worked and, God forbid, what didn’t; which kitchen staff were slacking and which were grinding; whether the saucier was still banging the garde manger. Shit like that. Chef wasn’t above a little kitchen gossip.
This was something different. For one thing he asked me to close the door behind me, which he rarely does. He also had an open bottle of Michter’s Single Barrel on his desk, along with a half-full tumbler, also rare for him. Chef’s not much of a drinker.
I’m excited to announce a new anthology of original fiction coming soon: NATURE FIGHTS BACK. I’m lucky enough to have a story here, plus I created the cover—drawn with an Apple Pencil on an IPad using Procreate.
Here’s the back cover copy to give you an idea of what to expect:
For millennia humans have perpetrated an uneasy relationship with nature. Then we upset the balance, denying nature’s power. These stories—speculative fiction, horror, thrillers, and more—explore what happens when nature, long mistreated and disrespected, rises up to restore balance, taking back what humans have stolen from it. When nature fights back, the consequences can be deadly.
Includes tales spun by…Emily Ansell, Ian Martínez Cassmeyer, Chris Durston, Jay Heltzer, C.J. Henderson, Mara Lynn Johnstone, Estelle Parcoeur, Lucas Rosen, and David M. Simon.
All proceeds from the sale of this book will bedonated to Rainforest Trust.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for December, 2023 is A Place to Belong and my contribution this month is a children’s science fiction story titled Home From the Stars. Here’s how it starts:
My name is Ohio. Today I am going home for the first time.
I’m sitting on the floor in the middle of my empty room when Mom peeks in. “Come on, honey. It’s time to go.” I take one last look around. Everything has been packed up. Bits of tape are still stuck to the walls where pictures had hung.
I stand between Mom and Dad and wave goodbye to the pod that has been my home for 9 years, since I was born. Dad pushes the touch-pad and the door slides shut. The corridor is packed with people heading for the landing shuttle. “Okay,” I say, “I’m ready. Let’s go.” We join the crowd.
I feel my heart thumping in my chest. “Mom, I’m scared,” I say, shuffling my feet. “What if something goes wrong?”
Mom squeezes my hand. “Ohio, sweetie, you need to be my big, brave girl. Want to know a secret?” She bends down and whispers, “I’m a little nervous, too.”
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for November, 2023 is Innocence and my contribution this month is a song lyric titled Hit the Town. Here’s how it starts:
My old man drove me as far as the station, but he wouldn’t get out of the car. He shook my hand and palmed me a twenty, told me again I was straying too far. Every small town kid wakes up one morning with big city lights alive in his dreams, but you’re just an innocent boy from the farm, and those big city lights aren’t as bright as they seem. Go on now, son, your train is waiting, I know this is something you think you have to do, but take this advice along for the ride, someone gave it to me when I was a kid just like you.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for October, 2023 is Separation and my contribution this month is a grim little science fiction story titled The Testimony of Doctor Claire Haskell. Here’s how it starts:
This is the testimony of Doctor Claire Haskell, MD. It’s April thirteenth of the year 2056, and I’m recording this from a secret, undisclosed location. Since I’m sure you recognize my name, I’m also sure that you know why I’m in hiding.
I was responsible for the first successful fully-integrated human-computer hybridization. It occurred on February third, 2032, at the Cleveland Clinic Main Campus in Cleveland, Ohio. I say “I” as if I was solely responsible, and of course that’s not true. There were several other world-class surgeons besides myself in that operating room, along with an anesthesiologist, and assorted nurses, techs, and PAs.
But that’s not the whole story, either. In fact, this hybridization was actually a collaboration. You see, I had spent nearly ten years beating my head against the wall, attempting to make this a reality, before realizing I needed the assistance of a higher power. No, not God, whatever that means to you. Please. Although I’m sure after what’s come to pass that some would argue God is exactly what I mean.
The Kidlit Fall Writing Frenzy is a writing contest that I’m entering for the first time. Instead of a writing prompt, I was given a choice of image prompts, and I chose this one, a photo by Monstera Production on Pexels.com:
PUMPKIN MOON
Breathe deep. Can you smell that special scent that rides in on autumn’s golden coattails? Sweet and fragrant, equal parts fire and smoke, dry leaves and wet black dirt, tractor belch and wagon wheel grease, pumpkin pie and apple butter, all of it stirred by the wind and strong enough to spin your head around. Go ahead, have another whiff. There’s time enough before we move along.
Change hangs in the air like laundry on the line, and high above it all, shining like the high beams on night’s pickup truck, the Harvest Moon.
But if you’ve lived in these parts since tall trees were saplings, you know there’s another name for the Harvest Moon, a secret name. It’s passed down from grandfather to father to son, whispered in the corn rows, told in hay lofts and sugar shacks. Mothers tell their daughters as they tuck them in at night, sealing the secret with a kiss. If you stand on the edge of a wheat field cloaked in a blanket of stars, stand very still, you’ll hear the name rumble out from deep within the earth: the Pumpkin Moon.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for September, 2023 is Obsession and my contribution this month is a song lyric titled I’d Rather Go Crazy (Than Never Go Anywhere At All). Here’s a taste:
When I first met Tracy, she was walking along the ledge outside my window, her toes over the edge. She tapped on the glass, then threw me a smile that was a little bit crooked, and a little bit wild. She stepped through the window, like she did it all the time, She said “Hey, how are ya? Thanks, I’m fine,” “or so I’ve been told,” then she started to laugh, and that’s what I remember when I’m remembering our past.
She said, “I used to walk the tightrope and swing on the trapeze. Well, not really, but don’t you think that’s a cool thing to be? Did you ever tap dance ten floors up and know you just can’t fall? You know, I’d rather go crazy, than never go anywhere at all.”
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for August, 2023 is Rivalry and my contribution this month is a short story titled Nemesis and Narcissus. Here’s how it starts:
My plan is set, my players in place. I need only set the wheels in motion to take that insufferable bore Narcissus down a peg. If all goes well, it will be glorious.
Stealthy as a cat, I slink between the olive trees that crown a bluff overlooking the sparkling blue waters of the Aegean. I spy him right away in his favorite spot, lounging languidly on the shore, gazing rapturously at his own reflection. Narcissus is nothing if not predictable. I raise and twirl one finger, signaling my collaborators to be ready, and stride down the hill.
Not surprising given who he is, Narcissus doesn’t notice me until I tap him on the shoulder. He tears himself away from his reflection just long enough to glance in my direction, and sniffs contemptuously. “Ah, Nemesis. I thought I smelled the stink of jealousy and desperation, and here you are.” As usual, he attempts wit, and only makes it halfway there.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for July, 2023 is Making History and my contribution this month is a short story titled 11 Days, 25 Minutes. Here’s how it starts:
Hey, everyone! Thanks for joining me as I attempt to make history. So, here’s the deal. Back in 1963, a seventeen-year-old kid in San Diego stayed awake for 11 days, 25 minutes. That’s just over 264 hours if you do the math. He did it under controlled conditions, for a science fair. That world record has stood unchallenged for 60 years. You know what I have to say about that?
Fuck him. I’m going to crush that record. I’m shooting for 13 days, and all of you fine people get to watch every second of it.
It’s going to work like this. I’m talking to you on a laptop, and behind me is the back half of my bedroom, with my TV and gaming setup. To my right, your left, is a bathroom. You won’t be able to see inside, ‘cause that would be gross, but I’ll keep the door open so you can hear that I’m awake. Otherwise I’ll be visible at all times—gaming, watching TV, reading, posting on my socials, and of course chatting with all of you. This stream will keep running 24 hours a day.
This dorm fridge here next to me is stocked with water and Monster. Gotta stay hydrated, and I gotta stay awake. I’ve got bags full of snack essentials—Combos, Cool Ranch Doritos, Snickers, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, Double Stuff Oreos, and Peanut M&Ms—plus, my mom has agreed to make me three meals a day. She’s not the greatest cook in the world, so with any luck she’ll Door Dash me some Chipotle a couple of times.
Otherwise it’s you and me for the next 13 days. Let’s synchronize watches, or smartphones. It’s exactly 9:30am Eastern Daylight Time on July 6th, 2023. I got a solid ten hours of sleep last night, and I’m ready to go. Let’s get this party started!
Back in 2005 I reached one of the pinnacles of my writing career up to that time—I had a story, “Tough as Daisy,” published in everyone’s favorite dentist office magazine, Highlights for Children. It got even better a little while later, when a surprise package was delivered, an author of the month award from the magazine. Each month, the editors of Highlights choose a favorite story, and I was lucky enough to receive it.
It’s a little hard to make out, but it reads: Highlights for Children Author of the Month David M. Simon “Tough as Daisy” January 2005
It’s a little beat up, a little worn, but after nearly 20 years I’m still ridiculously proud to have been chosen.
I belong, as a contributing member, to a talented group of writers who are responsible for A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for June, 2023 is Running Away and my contribution this month is a song lyric titled Follow. Here’s how it starts:
My pick-up truck gave up the ghost just outside Junction City Left it there, no burial, I guess death is never pretty Walked twenty miles through corn and wheat as far as the horizon I know that it’s good exercise, but I wish I was still drivin’ Sad and sleepless in a Motel 6, waiting for the break of day Out of luck, and that damn girl is still half a state away
She said, Call me a dreamer, call me a fool Prove that you love me as much as I love you Come climb a mountain and lay down beside me Follow my trail to the love that’s inside me Leave that life behind and start everything new
I’ve joined a talented group of writers as a contributing member of A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for May, 2023 is Regret and my story is called Bagged. Here’s how it starts:
PAUL HAD PLENTY TO REGRET, but it was at least partly the witch’s fault.
There were other contributing factors. Paul’s friends had convinced him that a new club in the Industrial Flats was the place to be for a steamy summer night costume party. Regret number one. They had goaded him into wearing the wool Sherlock Holmes costume that was now causing him to sweat and itch uncontrollably. Regret number two. And alcohol had been involved; definitely regret number three.
It was the sight of the witch across a dance floor crowded with trendy, costumed partiers, however, that had caused his present, and absolutely regretful, predicament. He had caught just a glimpse of her; alabaster skin, raven black hair that refracted the spinning lights like a prism, the flash of a slim yet curvy body between the folds of her black satin cape. Beneath the cape a Moebius strip of leather, lace and chrome that revealed more than it concealed. Her boots were leather, intricately laced; wickedly high heels that pulled the sleek muscles in her calves taut. She held a mysteriously oversized black leather purse protectively against her body.
The witch was dancing by herself, spinning in slow, looping circles. Her body seemed to catch and hold the music, like each note was her own private lover.
I’ve joined a talented group of writers as a contributing member of A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for March, 2023 is Anticipation and my story is called Delphine’s Pillow. Here’s how it starts:
THE SWAMP WAS DIFFERENT in Ohio, different from what they’d crawled through in Louisiana.
Down there they were wet more often than they were dry. They’d be waist deep in the muddy water, weaving between cypress trees draped with Spanish moss. Snakes big around as a man’s arm hung from the trees, and the hot, thick air hummed with mosquitoes.
Third night on the run a gator took Leon. Leon was six. One minute he was stepping down off one of the rare dry, grassy hillocks where they had stopped to rest, trying not to lose his footing on the slick cypress roots and go under. Then an alligator had its jaws clean around his narrow chest and started to roll, tail thrashing, roiling the water, red blood mixing with the brown.
Judah planned their escape for months, starting right after his wife Mina died of an infection that went bad. The overseer had begun to take an interest in his daughter Delphine, not yet thirteen. Judah would not abide that. He gathered what food he could—they would have to make it through the swamp and all the way to the station in Jackson. An old woman named Maria had helped keep an eye on Delphine after Mina died, and Judah promised to take her and her grandson Leon along.
The four of them slipped away quietly the night of a party at the big house, losing themselves in the festive chaos. Judah had the food and the clothes on his back, Maria a small bible. Delphine carried a burlap sack that held her mother’s pillow.
I’ve joined a talented group of writers as a contributing member of A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for February, 2023 is Circularity and my story is called TwelfthTime’s the Charm. Here’s how it starts:
DYING HURTS. DON’T LET anyone tell you different. The thing is, it doesn’t matter how you die—drifting off to sleep in your comfy bed after an excellent meal and a snort of brandy to warm your belly, or being torn apart by a pack of rabid honey badgers—it still hurts like the dickens. That’s because when you die, your soul, or whatever it is you call the invisible thing that makes you you—don’t go there, I’m not about to have that argument—it separates from your body. No, separates isn’t a strong enough word. It’s ripped from your corporal body, it’s cleaved away, it’s torn out at the roots. And take it from me, my friend, that fucking hurts.
I see that look on your face, you’re wondering how I could possibly know that. Tell ya what, buy me a fishbowl of Genny and a pickled egg from that jar behind the bar, and I’ll tell you my story. It’ll be well worth the six bits, that’s a promise.
This past fall I joined a talented group of writers as a contributing member of A Muse Bouche Review, a literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new each month around a given theme, which I’m enjoying. The theme for January, 2023 is False Promises and my story is called The Coyote and the Hitchhiker: A Noir Fable. Here’s how it starts:
________________________________________
THE BOBCAT HAD BEEN hitchhiking for hours.
His last ride, a long haul trucker with a load of sheet metal, dropped him at the Ely turnoff. Not a single car had passed since then. Now the two-lane highway seemed to levitate from the waves of heat shimmering off the blacktop. The Nevada sun looked like a swollen blister ready to pop, an irritation in the cloudless western sky.
The bobcat’s paws left sweaty prints in the breakdown-lane gravel as he walked. He carried a scuffed nylon duffle bag that seemed to grow heavier with each step.
When a low hum infiltrated his consciousness, the bobcat glanced back. A plume of dust stained the sky. The hum became a throaty growl, the dust plume morphed into a low-slung red sports car chewing up asphalt. The bobcat held up one paw and tried his best to look friendly, non-threatening, and slightly pathetic all at once. The car thundered past, then the driver stood on the brakes, fishtailing onto the berm. He threw it into reverse, and after the tires found traction the car slid to a shuddering stop next to the bobcat.
The bobcat admired the car while the driver reached across the passenger seat to roll the window down. It was an absolutely cherry condition Plymouth Roadrunner, the engine shaking like it could barely be contained at idle. The bobcat leaned his head into the window, and the icy kiss of air from the interior made him swoon with pleasure.
“Where ya heading, friend?” The driver was a coyote, the silver hairs wreathing his snout betraying his age. He slouched in his seat like it was a chaise lounge, his left paw draped over the leather-wrapped steering wheel, Ray-Ban Wayfarers obscuring his eyes as he looked at the stranger.
________________________________________
To read the entire story, and all the other stories from this talented crew, check out the January A Muse Bouche Review, available here:
My year in writing was, considering the apocalyptic shit storm 2022 has been, pretty good. No, I won’t be quitting my day job any time soon for my first national book tour, but that’s not the point for me. I write because it gives me enjoyment and a sense of satisfaction, because it’s another outlet for creativity besides drawing and I can use all of those I can get, and because, at least some days, I think I’m not bad at it.
Drumroll please, here are 2022’s highlights:
The big one for me was the release of my first novella for adults, The Wild Hunt, in August. Late last year Canadian author Renée Gendron presented me with an intriguing idea—that we would each take our linked stories from the Heads and Tales anthology and turn them into novellas. The result was The Wild Hunt, a 36,000 word novella that I’m truly proud of. It’s part of the Wild Hearts and Hunts duology that Renée and I wrote together. It’s a historical supernatural war story, the myth of the Wild Hunt—berserker warriors and their hounds from hell, heralds of war—transposed to the battle for Fort Detroit on the U.S./Canadian border during the War of 1812. The Wild Hunt leans hard into fantasy and horror, and if that kind of thing is your jam, you might like it.
This summer my short story Rat and Roach, which won the 2021 F(r)iction Magazine Spring Literacy Contest, appeared on their website. This might be my favorite short story I’ve written so far, and you can read it here: https://frictionlit.org/rat-and-roach/
Back in 2021 I connected with a bunch of like-minded writers on Twitter, and we released a couple of well-received anthologies of short stories. These are some of the kindest, most talented folks I’ve ever met, and I’m happy to say that not only have we stayed together as a group and planned more work together, we’ve decided to formalize our relationship. Coming in 2023, Roaring Tulips Press is a publishing collective we’ve put together to publish our own work, and eventually that of others. I’ve already written several new short stories for anthologies we have planned, and I’m hoping my chapter book, In Search of Ancient Underwear, will see the light of day. Here’s the current website, with updates to come: https://roaringtulips.com/
Finally, this fall I became a contributing member of A Muse Bouche Review, an online literary newsletter. It gives me a chance to write something new for each monthly theme, which is great. I feel lucky that I’ve found yet another group of talented, dedicated writers to work with. You can check it out here: https://ambreview.com/
I think that’s it for now. I have a lot planned for next year, including another duology written with Renée, and the aforementioned work with Roaring Tulips. Let’s hope that 2023 is somewhat less shit stormy than 2022.
Dave Writes and Draws 