With no fanfare but much personal satisfaction I would like to announce publication of my short story, "An Archive of Paranormal Inquiry Into Coping" in The Writing Disorder, a new(er) and very hip online journal.
The Writing Disorder's editor, publisher, designer, Christian Lukather, is also designer for POOL, which published a few of my poems last month. He didn't realize the crossover, however, until he'd accepted my story (so I got no favors). When you visit his journal you'll realize his humungo talent.
As for this story, it is a sort of answer to the rejection letter I posted not long ago (see, I Am Rejected: Because I Write Stories Like This). Some years ago I wrote "An Archive of Paranormal Inquiry Into Coping" in hopes of being less weird. My records (submissions/rejections) are home so I can't be exact but I can be inexact. It took a mere six or so years to get this non-weird story published, if indeed it's non-weird. I like it lots. That's what counts, for me. I like this story lots.
Weird. Not weird. Husband/wife (American loves husbands and wives, right?). It is pure fiction in my life. Here's the opener (you're in New York City, the apartment of a traditional boy-girl married, middle-class couple).
“I’m just the psychic." Ms. Marie shrugged as she peered at her cigarette ashes as if they were professional equipage.Read the rest here: The rest of the story . . .
Ludlow brushed them off the table and into her palm. Her mother would have been appalled by the medium’s wanton disregard for waxed furniture.
“Take it for what it’s worth, but they say you’re everything and everyone in your dreams. It’s a theory, although I’m sure you’ve—”
A month ago, Ludlow woke with a mountain—thundering skies, moss turning into ice at the peak, a Sisyphean lug up, a nameless female saint dressed by Hindu devotees—wall-to-wall in her brain. The mountain was old although Ludlow doubted there were young mountains. Younger-er, maybe,than other mountains, she conceded, but young?
“So maybe you could be the mountain.”
“Why not, I was the walrus.”
“Weren’t we all.”