Transpositions

Hey folks, just wanted to give you a heads up that a brief article I wrote will be up on St. Andrews' University's Institute for Theology, Imagination, and the Arts' blog (Transpositions) tomorrow. Please head on over and check it out. I'll be discussing the article via the comments throughout the day and beyond, so if you have any thoughts, questions, or want to participate in the dialogue at all feel free!

A Fun Little Thing

So I entered a short story competition that involved using Lulu to self-publish a story of 600 words or less. Lulu will post your work for sale (or for free) on the iBookstore and for Barnes & Noble's Nook. Here's a link to my story on the iBookstore :-) Kind of fun . . .

Jabberwocky redux

Now it's on its way for real :-)

And here's the new website featuring . . . my poem!

Were you so inclined, you could also order it here.

Coming in February

After much delay, Jabberwocky 5, featuring a poem by yours truly, will be printed and available. My contributor copy will then fly across the pond to me. Woo hoo! I've included a shot of the cover for your enjoyment.

And another one . . .

Just a quick post to say that another of my short stories will be popping up in the wild this January. It's in an Australian publication (ooooh, how exotic) called This Mutant Life. And yes, it is a super-hero story.

Jabberwocky

Hey everyone. Follow this link and check out the list of contributors to the upcoming edition of Jabberwocky.

Notice any names you recognize? Aside from Oscar Wilde of course.

And while I'm at it, I know this is a little old and most of you have already checked it out, but here's a link to a short story I had published earlier this year with Residential Aliens.

A Bruised Reed He Will Not Break

I see him descending the mountain with a crowd. Does he know I’m here, on the edges and removed? Outside. Always outside. Does he have words for one such as me or are his words for them alone? I must know, for only he can help.

“Unclean!” I shout. “Unclean!”

With the babble of voices surrounding him, no one hears. I cry louder.

“Unclean! Unclean!”

Those closest to me hear my words and scatter. Those beside them turn and see me: torn clothes, hair uncovered, hands covering my mouth while I shout. They understand even if they can’t hear. A path opens.

Not like the parting made for princes or priests. No. More like the Sea’s parting—violent and eager to return to its resting place.

But the Teacher stands silently, eyes fixed on me. I can’t hold back. I run to the man and fall at his feet. I dare not touch those sacred feet or even brush his sandals. Words bubble within me, but for a time I can say nothing, just kneel with my forehead in the dust at his feet.

The crowd grows impatient, its unease palpable, so at last I speak.

“If you’re willing, you can make me well.”

It’s all I can think to say. I look at my scabbed hands and flaky skin. My body breaking into pieces, the stuff that binds it dissolving before my eyes. It is too much to ask, even of him. This is my lot, my fate, the will of Him who made me. I’m prepared for a rebuke, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, a hand settles on my shoulder. I gasp.

“I am willing,” he says.

There is no flash of light, no thunderclap. But skin that was dead is now alive. My hands stretch out—whole and unmarred—to cradle those blessed feet. His hand rests on my shoulder still, holding me together as I weep in the dust and dirt.

I’ve been healed.

I am whole.

I belong.