A short-short of mine, better termed flash fiction, was published today in WhiskeyPaper. If you care to read it, I’d love to hear what you think:
Up to St. Paul
I do hope you enjoy reading this piece. A special shout to Lessa Cross-Smith and Loran Smith for working with me to get this story out into the world.
P.S. Stay tuned to some upcoming publications, including my inclusion in the upcoming print issue of pacificREVIEW, and short fiction in Timber Journal and Lunch Ticket.
I love you.
Some of my friends, family and fellow readers have been asking, so here goes. I have a few publications upcoming in early 2014, namely:
All flash fiction (approximately 500-1500 words) here. I dig flash, immensely. I also really, really dig what CHEAP POP and WhiskeyPaper are doing, including the continued innovation of their talented editors (Robert James Russell+Elizabeth Schmuhl and Leesa Cross-Smith+Loran Smith, respectively); and I certainly look forward to being part of what Mojave River Review has in store (for example, their press-end will release a fiction collection by Leesa Cross-Smith and a poetry collection by Daniel Romo later this year).
Stay tuned for more detailed updates, including links, updates to the publications page, a complete overhaul later in the year, and hopefully the addition of more work to share.
Flash Fiction Challenge: Choose Your Random Sentence (courtesy of terribleminds)
The challenge is to write a story based on a sentence spewed out by this sentence generator.
“THE HYPOTHETICAL RECIPIENT COMPROMISES THE DIAGNOSIS”
October 15, 1995
I stole some medical records from my primary care physician today.
Actually, I am sleeping with a nurse at the office and convinced her to photocopy the medical record of a recently diseased patient which she readily obliged in that tingly, after-sex fog that so definitively suspends our faculties.
I just put in my two weeks, she told me. So what do I care?
When I woke up all I could see was the teacher looking at me in the dim light of the overhead projector.
Now, with consciousness seeping back across my synaptic bridges, the various geometric proofs scribbled on the wall are like Egyptian hieroglyphics. The rest of the students are conspiring in the shadows, half-wits scoffing at a dimly lit dimwit. There’s drool on the desk.
“What’s wrong with you?” says teacher, “maybe you need to go to the vending machines for a can of pop? Get some sugar in you?”
This cheeky witch is hip! How much does she really know?