Extended Deadline: Short Story Submissions for ‘Shepherds of the Dead’

I’m excited to announce that because a few projects have been rearranged, I’m extending the deadline for submissions to an anthology coming out Fall 2015: PSYCHOPOMPS: SHEPHERDS OF THE DEAD.

I’m really excited about the scope of this book. Here’s more detail on the project and theme if this is a new idea for you: PSYCHOPOMPS: SHEPHERDS OF THE DEAD.

Basically, a psychopomp is any escort into the afterlife, from the Grim Reaper to angels and beyond.

Below is the latest mock-up for the cover. Still playing with fonts and such but hopefully this helps you capture the vision of this book:

Psychopomps Pram Full Cover 20

Note that the original mock-up was designed with contributing authors on the front but we may go with something more like this. Just wanted to mention this in case not having your name on the front is a deal-breaker for you.

All names will be prominently displayed on the back cover and as mentioned earlier, selected stories will include complete bio’s linking back to your author sites and whatnot.

The new deadline is July 31, 2015.

Hopefully this gives a few of you a bit more time. I figured I’d offer the extra time window since I can.

I hope you’ll send in a story. New authors welcome!

My 100th Post! And Other Fiction Writing Updates

100 Posts on WordPress

WordPress just heralded me for writing my 100th post on this blog…

To celebrate, I am taking a quick break for the month of May as far as writing my usual Monday posts. Actually, I am doing this so I can focus on a few deadlines and such.

In the interim, here are some past posts you might be interested in:

Happy reading and writing!

A Couple of Poems for National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month so this week I’m posting a couple I wrote.

I like poetry as a terse yet nebulous space in which to fling messy emotions. Basically, this means I write untidy poetry of the non-cuddly and free-form variety.

I enjoy reading all kinds of poetry but when I write it, I tend to want it to be like the reverse side of a cross stitch rather than the clear-cut, heart-warming front side. I want it to be a mess of threads reaching  toward a message but somehow still tangled and wild and weird, a bit like that line from Hamlet: “Though this be madness, yet there is method in ‘t”.

If you write poetry, I’d love to read it! Feel free to leave a link as a comment.

Soul Lift

(this one’s about the intersection of scientific and spiritual progress)

 

Trivial as this bus is, I feel like it could become everything if it morphed into an invisible levitating ski lift system,

A Soul Lift complete with the creaking, swaying, sunny-sick sensation of a mammoth insect overhead–

Fate turned Mantis–swatting at the invisible cords that take us everywhere we need to be,

Like our legs never could.

 

Common as our legs are now, on the Soul Lift they would dangle out into the universe like dandelion gossamer

About to be whisked away for good, and as I bounce mine from the high seats at the double bus’ pivot points–

These benches packed with children squealing with delight and dismay,

As if legs should be wings,

 

Disappointed at how unamusementpark it has all turned out to be.

 

I realize that, exhausted as our legs are on a bus at 5:30 p.m. in the land of lithosphere gone to asphalt and concrete,

From our perch on the Soul Lift, legs would still be exhausted but like steam trains rusting down into the salt flats,

The saline yesteryear of it all would convince us to flaunt them like fashion accouterments

Like our legs always were.

 

But like rebellious vintage skateboards, the nostalgia of legs would be unreliable, skeetching out from under our torsos

When we demonstrated them as parlor tricks that would make us laugh, flounder, wince, and muse–

When it suited us.  Because they would still somehow represent freedom more than

Our tangible increase of freedom.

  

Carrion

(this one’s about the battle to be a writer)

 

When I am again a full-fledged Predator,

my courage applied to things real and speculative and not the past’s nit-picked hunts,

I will no longer trip over carrion carcasses like potential or security.

For too long an interim I have chosen against effecting proof,

reserved possible disaster for a fiercer soul…

And once I’d have done the faster faiths and so differently.

I’d have had the onslaught.

I’d have caught day.

I’d have had the deep flesh.

I’d have used the gums I’ve lost

from meatless gnawing at the dreamt.

Happy writing this week!