23 4 / 2014

frankensteinradiocontrols:

The Road is an allegory about post-Heartbleed America

22 4 / 2014

(Source: catatonia, via naphypelabs)

22 4 / 2014

"I’m made of enemies and steam and things you’ve done to me."

From Ben Mirov’s “Ummm Machine” in GHOST MACHINE (via jjbrouckaert)

21 4 / 2014

"I suspected that if I wrote the wrong thing, the wrong way, the lettering would harm me."

Ben Marcus, The Flame Alphabet

21 4 / 2014

Hey all, very pleased, excited, humbled to have a story in issue 3 of Tupelo Quarterly. I’m pasting it below for you to read (it’s very short) but I implore you to check the rest of the issue out. Some fantastic stories and poems. (Seriously, it’s all great stuff by writers way out of my league.) Don’t forget to check out the art, too.

Weird stuff floated in the water. My brother was due home any moment. He and I lived alone on the river on old family property, but we didn’t have any money. I can’t explain to you how property taxes work. We got by. The weird stuff in the water could have been logs, or dead bodies, or spreading orange blooms. My brother was due home soon, that was what I knew. I sat on the porch in an old rocking chair, watching the water. The rocking chair wasn’t mine—very little was. I had spent the previous year in Brazil, where I didn’t learn much of anything. I didn’t learn Portuguese. I spent the year teaching children to speak English. We never understood one another. What was there to know? There are too many ways to bend branches. They all snap the same. I sat on the porch in a rocking chair. I sat and waited for my brother. We lived alone. The river was red, maybe from the sunset, maybe from a war I hadn’t yet learned was on. Don’t you know? There’s a war on. A dog barked, somewhere. A long time ago, when my brother and I were kids, we would go swimming in the river. Before bacteria would slough off your skin, before all the manatees died. Sun struck the river, reflecting red, feeding flowering algae. The rocking chair rocked, cradle to fall. I was waiting on my brother to come home. Handshake, hug, hello. He never did.

(Source: merryburningparty)

21 4 / 2014

Hey all, I’m very excited to share with you my story “Finger Spell,” which just went live in the great new journal CHEAP POP earlier today. In their short lifespan they’ve already published some great authors, like Matt Bell and Leesa Cross-Smith, among others. Really, everything they’ve put out has been wonderful, and I’m honored to have a story among so many great ones.

(Source: merryburningparty)

21 4 / 2014

"And what is knowledge? What are our learned men save the descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs, interrogating shrew-mice and writing down the language of the stars?"

Virginia Woolf, “The Mark on the Wall” (via under-the-volcano)

20 4 / 2014

"Books expire. Books get hacked. No one wants to leave that kind of evidence."

Ben Marcus (character), The Flame Alphabet

20 4 / 2014

"If you no longer care about an idea or feeling, then put it into language. That will certainly be the last of it, a fitting end. Language is another name for coffin."

Ben Marcus, The Flame Alphabet

18 4 / 2014

"i am learning how to lie on a bed of nails. five hundred of the same thing all at once."

Kimberly Ann Southwick, “you speak my language” from her chapbook Every Song by Patsy Cline

18 4 / 2014

17 4 / 2014

Hey all, I’m very excited to share with you my story “Finger Spell,” which just went live in the great new journal CHEAP POP earlier today. In their short lifespan they’ve already published some great authors, like Matt Bell and Leesa Cross-Smith, among others. Really, everything they’ve put out has been wonderful, and I’m honored to have a story among so many great ones.

17 4 / 2014

theparisreview:

“I see dreams as part of life in general, but reality is much richer.”
RIP Gabriel García Márquez

theparisreview:

“I see dreams as part of life in general, but reality is much richer.”

RIP Gabriel García Márquez

16 4 / 2014

Hey all, very pleased, excited, humbled to have a story in issue 3 of Tupelo Quarterly. I’m pasting it below for you to read (it’s very short) but I implore you to check the rest of the issue out. Some fantastic stories and poems. (Seriously, it’s all great stuff by writers way out of my league.) Don’t forget to check out the art, too.

Weird stuff floated in the water. My brother was due home any moment. He and I lived alone on the river on old family property, but we didn’t have any money. I can’t explain to you how property taxes work. We got by. The weird stuff in the water could have been logs, or dead bodies, or spreading orange blooms. My brother was due home soon, that was what I knew. I sat on the porch in an old rocking chair, watching the water. The rocking chair wasn’t mine—very little was. I had spent the previous year in Brazil, where I didn’t learn much of anything. I didn’t learn Portuguese. I spent the year teaching children to speak English. We never understood one another. What was there to know? There are too many ways to bend branches. They all snap the same. I sat on the porch in a rocking chair. I sat and waited for my brother. We lived alone. The river was red, maybe from the sunset, maybe from a war I hadn’t yet learned was on. Don’t you know? There’s a war on. A dog barked, somewhere. A long time ago, when my brother and I were kids, we would go swimming in the river. Before bacteria would slough off your skin, before all the manatees died. Sun struck the river, reflecting red, feeding flowering algae. The rocking chair rocked, cradle to fall. I was waiting on my brother to come home. Handshake, hug, hello. He never did.

16 4 / 2014