Someone actually let me have a book. My first collection of fiction is on sale. You can even enjoy a Kindle edition.
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“…the mayor put one of his plump hands across her eyes, pushed the girl towards the flames, turned away and shouted hizzah! huzzah! while the...
This weekend in NYC, presented by The Uptown Collective, former fwriction : review contributor Robb Todd (“City From a Bridge”) will read...
Cult of Mac sat down with Travis Jensen, one of the featured photographers at tonight’s #iSnapSF Street Photography Exhibition here at the...
I’ve been talking about picnics all week
I left so I could figure out how to come home.
I stayed away too long; the house is empty.
I am deciding how best to...
When you’re fwriction : review’s editorial cat, Thursdays tucker you out.
I like to touch your tattoos in complete
darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of
where they are, know by heart the neat
lines of lightning...
From what cause I, of course, cannot say.
Of course, from what cause I cannot say.
Of course, I cannot say from what cause.
From what cause, of course, I cannot say.
I cannot say from what cause, of course.
From what cause I cannot, of course, say.
From what cause I cannot say, of course.
I cannot say, of course, from what cause.
The man pointed at a pigeon perched on the back of a bench and said it wanted to sit on my arm if I would give it somewhere to land. He called the birds by name. “Come here, Cinnamon. Here, girl.” I held my arm out.
TWO REALLY IMPORTANT THINGS
ONE
The last movie I saw was set in present day but the young protagonist had an answering machine. When is Hollywood going to give that up? Nobody younger than 50 has an answering machine and only seven people fifty or older have them—and four of those are broken and the dudes just won’t throw them away. That’s not a lot of answering machines! If they haven’t stopped making them entirely, they will soon.
Sorry, screenwriters. You’ll have to find another device to clue us in on important narrative details.
TWO
Later this month, the Uptown Collective’s Led Black Book Club will feature my collection, Steal Me for Your Stories. Drop by APT 78 in Washington Heights at 1pm on Feb. 25. I’ll read you a story.
This is probably as close as I will have to a book release party, so … let’s party. More info is here, and it’s so fancy you have to RSVP. Do you know what RSVP stands for? Yes, Retired Senior Volunteer Program. That’s an important program. RSVP is also a track by The Bloodhound Gang from the 2000 album Hooray for Boobies.
HOORAY!
YOU CAN NEVER LEAVE THE INTERNET UNATTENDED
I went to another country for a while. In that country, the doubya doubya web is expensive for foreigners. In that country, which is very cold, I snowboarded for the first time. By “snowboarded” I mean I fell down a mountain for two hours. I’m still a little numb.
Also, people drink more when their lives are covered in snow. Also, they are nicer and say sorry when you are the person who should say sorry. They give you doughnuts, too. Also, some people leave hearts in the snow with their boots because they have that much love to give.
While all that was happening, this happened:
LITnIMAGE and Fwriction : Review published stories I wrote with my very own fingers. They’re short. Read them. These stories are in my collection, which is now available on Amazon as a Kindle edition. That makes my brain melt a little.
Necessary Fiction asked writers to share unedited, unpublished early work, and discuss how they have evolved. What a great idea. I’m into humiliation.
Here’s what I had to say about it — and if you think my writing sucks now, wait till you read this. It is much worse.
EVERY DOG IS A KILLER IN HER HEART
A man on the street said, “Can you help me? I’m poor.” I handed him a banana and he said, “Everything you need to know about life you can learn by watching animals,” and he peeled it by pinching off the black spot at the bottom, not by pulling the stem. “I speak several languages, including toddler, and I’ve picked flowers from rhinoceros horns. Every ritual is forced upon us.” He ate the banana and rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, looked around, stared into shop windows, eyed the pedestrians, regarded the traffic. He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a faded tattoo of a sleeve. “All we know are assemblages.”
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