From Modern Mythcraft to Magical Surrealism

Tag Archive for ‘book01’ rss

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Undocumented

On hot afternoons, mother took us to the shore of the river. While mother sat, watching my elder brothers play on the bank, I told her stories. They always began the same way: “There is an island in the river of gold where there is a castle. Everyone there is rich and happy and there are no slaves.”

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La Mer

The ocean slid towards him, tempting him, ushering him towards it. When it retreated he saw it had left him a gift—a single carp, stained with pollution. Its mouth begged numbly for help as it cut into the rough sand . . .

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2009 Halloween Flash Fiction and Graphic Contest

Submission Window: October 1st to Friday the 16th, midnight. Choose a graphic image as a prompt then start writing! Story content should relate directly to the graphic of choice and should also follow the content guidelines . . . .

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The White Part of the Apple

They found her on the playground. It was October, and the ground was cold. There was a yellow leaf stuck in her hair, which spilled like black ink over the mulch. Her dress was white. Her face was white, covered in ice, and it frosted her eyelashes. Her lips were purple . . .

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The Good Window

Ned’s wordwind fluttered in V-formation around her, spilling little white lies in its wake, immediately retracing its path to cross them out. Words swirled through her hair, pale tendrils lifting as paragraphs tornadoed above her head. Ned pinched the slowest phrases between her fingers, popping them into her mouth before they could escape.

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Tending the Mori Birds

A Mori bird waited for him on the railing, its claws wrapped around the wood. The dying light accentuated the patch of red feathers at the base of its slender neck, the only color on an otherwise black bird. A bloody-throated Mori bird, harbinger of death. It smelled like licorice . . .

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A Sucker for the Episodic: Berrien Henderson

I think that, if an episodic narrative could be deemed experimental, then I’m a sucker for the episodic, even in miniature with the short story form. Many of my short stories, too, aren’t roughed out from an outline other than the barest of notes, and I approach the storytelling intuitively. If that makes it seem experimental, hey, that’s great.

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The Girl in the Green Sequined Dress

Mack Day studied the Fun Grabber machine in the corner while he sipped his coffee. One of the toys–a plastic and plush dancer in a green sequined dress–blinked at him. “Help me, please,” mouthed the doll, shivering . . .

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Book Review: The Empire of Ice Cream by Jeffrey Ford

A late summer sandcastle. A cup of tea with a friend. A painting of a tropical shore. The violin sound of extinguished birthday candles. The power of words, of the natural world, of dreams, of Death Itself, or at least Charon, his boatman. To a select few is given the ability to see the universe in a grain of sand. Even fewer have the ability to convey their experience in such a way as to evoke it in others.

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Images of Anna

The morning was turning out to be a bust. The first client wanted to pay with a personal check, which I’ve learned to not accept. She had no cash, credit card, or ID. The second client had cash but turned out to be a thirteen-year-old kid who wanted a “really sexy picture” for her boyfriend. No way: session cancelled. The third client was late.