One Hundred Years of Solitude

Found this book quiz on Sharon Hurlbut's blog (I have her linked over on the right) and was pretty pleased with the book I turned out to be, considering how much I like GGM.



You're One Hundred Years of Solitude!
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Lonely and struggling, you've been around for a very long time.
Conflict has filled most of your life and torn apart nearly everyone you know. Yet there is something majestic and even epic about your presence in the world. You love life all the more for having seen its decimation. After all, it takes a village.

Take the Book Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.

Prairie Dog 13

Yay! Got an email over the weekend that my story "The Bitterness of Butterfly Wings" has been accepted for the premiere issue of Prairie Dog 13, a new print magazine. Wish I had a link for y'all, but it doesn't look like they have a web site yet. But yay! More info on where to get the mag once I know more.

FRiGG!

Woohoo! The latest issue of FRiGG is live! And I have three pieces in this issue! Wheeeee! Go read Improbable Bodies, Already Dead, and Spike. Resonance. And look at the beautiful artwork Ellen Parker created to present my stories! I am so freaking proud of being in this magazine, I could burst. Go! Read!

piece accepted at NOÖ Journal

Whee! The piece I wrote about the woman with the missing son watching the police comb an area was accepted by NOÖ Journal, a new print mag coming out in northern California. I was really impressed with the editor, Mike Young. He responded to my submission the same day, not only with an acceptance, but with very good suggestions for minor tweaks to make it better. Definitely worth checking out: NOÖ Journal.

Missing

Missing Part of my face is missing. I’m working late in the office, and I stop typing long enough to rub my bleary eyes behind my glasses. Something falls to my desk. Audibly. There is a crunch. I scour my desk for signs of the missing piece, but find nothing. I bolt into the bathroom to look in the mirror. Nothing appears to be gone. I take off my glasses and pull my eyelids back. The capillaries are maybe a little redder in my eyes than they should be, but nothing otherwise appears to be amiss. Maybe it’s from another part of my face. I stick out my tongue, look at my teeth. Everything checks out. I put my face an inch from the glass, and turn slowly from profile to profile. Nothing. I return to my desk and continue working, but my mind isn’t on the figures on my computer screen anymore. Part of my face is missing. I try to forget about it. I have a plan. I’ll go home and go to sleep and by morning, I’ll have forgotten all about it. I’ll go to the grocery store to get cat food and milk and people will avert their gazes at the horror of my face. Except for children. They’ll gawk at me, and I’ll rush over to one, as his eyes go wide, and ask him, “What? What’s missing? You have to tell me.” And his mother will rush him out of the store, afraid I might be contagious, but if I’m lucky, maybe, before he is whisked away, he’ll tell me what that thing was that fell on my desk in the middle of a graveyard shift.