First, a shameless plug: I have a poem in the new issue of Used Gravitrons. Check it out, the whole issue is quite wonderful, really. Second, and maybe a little late, but Miracle Jones at The Fiction Circus posted a wonderful guide to writing fiction: How to be a Fiction Writer. And I’m not sure [...]

If only so that I won’t be constantly pissed at SyFy. What used to be, in my youth, a go-to for Science Fiction programming has been replaced with bullshit camp, paranormal reality, a cooking show and wrestling. The only redeeming show they still have is Being Human, which will remain successful (and good) for the [...]

Essential for any budding numerologist. Wolfram has a number of quirky math tricks that can be useful in sucking patterns out of nothing. Apply a little statistics, and viola, numerology. Numerology is one of those things that has come from the human brain’s need to impose order on an otherwise chaotic world. It also makes [...]

I never bothered to point out that Discharge 5 started up some time ago. Really good stuff from these cats. I was kind of sad to see the end of Discharge 4 (except, you know, I never really did like much of cocainejesus’ art. just sayin’). I will be getting the chapbook if I can [...]

It wasn’t the purpose or the function, but the style and that didn’t make sense to me. I counted style as a secondary objective. It was a matter of importance, but less importantly a matter of interest. Some days, he did nothing but write, and man, his work fucking howled. Other days he got carried [...]

I arrived in Savannah on Friday, relishing the coastal air, sipping local beer and eating conch fritters. Saturday night I found the mark, took aim and fired. He fell quickly, bodyguards scrambling, yelling into their radios. Early Sunday morning I returned to the church, caught some quick sleep and rose to deliver the early service.

Harold was born in a barn in 1901, his mother on the run for the murder of his father. I met him in a cafeteria in Van Nuys, a notebook tucked under his arm and a cigarette in his mouth. I asked if he was a writer. He said only when he felt like it.

Gingerly, he took her hand into his, squeezing it softly, and looking at her soft-featured face. They had met only thirty minutes prior, an incident that amazed him still: arguing about the best video games of their youth. “I have to go,” she said as she pulled away, “my husband is waiting for me.”

What follows is fiction, originally in issue 2 of Hobson’s Choice. “Ayn Rand, you bitch, you fucked Greenspan and left me in the cold, begging for change.” The professor announced from the lectern. I had my cell-phone open, trading text-messages with a girl I had met over the weekend but this had caught my attention. [...]

Written circa 2003. Dig the angst. (I suspect I’m just more articulate now than anything else.) My mind is wandering again and suddenly I realize that the teacher is yelling at me about something. I probably forgot to do my homework. Was there homework? I mutter something in response and look down at my notebook. [...]