Monthly Archives: November 2014

Ranting about Genre

In my monthly column at Luna Station Quarterly, I normally look into the culture of fandoms and fan studies within academia. However, this month I took a small side-step to focus on genre and its place within “literature” and the teaching of literature. Since, this is something I’ve talked about on the blog before. I thought I’d link to the column here. What are your thoughts on Genre, Dear reader(s)?

You can find the column here.


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Statistics Interview at the End of the World

Think of numbers that are important to you

and now think of the years you’ve spent

imagining those numbers.


How many people do you love,

would you say, if you were asked

to be honest, to be truthful?


Would you list all of those who

you’ve held onto? Or the ones

you’ve left or lost as well?


How many times have you tried

to think of something funny to say

and come up with nothing? More

than ten times? Twenty? Is it an

uncountable number? Let’s try

to count them up together.


When you first found out you

could feel lonely, how old

were you? Were you old enough

to drive away?


How many people have loved you,

would you say, if you had to be honest,

be truthful, and only count the ones

that you know meant it when they said

they loved you?

Would you list only the ones you’ve

loved in return? Or the ones who you

wished loved you more? The ones

who let you go or fought for you or tried

to break your heart?


How many times have you woken

from a dream in which you were

a tree? Or a dream where you

could fly and it was easy? Or a dream

where the floor of your house gave way

and you drifted off into the ocean and

your best friend was an island and your

childhood pet was talking to you about

coconuts and lemon pie?


How any numbers have you thought of?

How many numbers have you already forgotten?

How long will you continue to spend imagining

those numbers?




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3 stories once written

In the spirit of yesterday’s post, today I’m linking to some of my older stories.  If yesterday was Memory Monday, how about Turn Back Time Tuesday for today? These stories were not at all published in the order they were written. However, I’ve linked them in the order they were (just because that’s the kind of strange ordering I enjoy).

The Color of Electrically Brilliant (published at Menacing Hedge) can be found here. This one also features an audio of me reading the story.

Gyromancy (published as one of Bookanista’s featured New Voices) can be found here.

Step With Caution (published a the The Quotable) can be found here.

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3 poems once written

I’ve been putting together a poetry manuscript and polishing a short story one. This means I’ve been spending a lot of time looking back at my old pieces of writing. I decided to spend a couple of posts in the next week or so doing a Throwback Thursday type of thing. Except not on Thursday, because I apparently don’t get these things.

So, for today’s post (Memory Monday?), here are three poems that I published in the past (my only criteria for selection was that they had to have been published at least 2 years ago).

The Credits Say 15th Elf (published in Fogged Clarity) can be read here

We Used to Trade Each Other (published in Zouch) can be read here

We Who Vanish (published in Prick of the Spindle) can be read here

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The First to Cross the Bridge

I’m so pleased to have one of my favorite stories I’ve written featured up at the lovely The Stoneslide Corrective. Here is what the editors said about the piece (which made my day!):

“Dear Astute Readers,

Certain tropes have been with us for millennia and yet can be rendered anew with so much imaginative sympathy and emotion that they come out gleaming like a piece of molten glass just set down to cool. We see battles between fathers and daughters in Lear and A Thousand Acres. We witness war’s horror in The Iliad and Saving Private Ryan. And we’re ringside for the battle of good and evil inParadise Lost and Faust.

Part of the power of fiction that uses old ideas in new ways is that it can simultaneously call on roots of our psychethat reach back into prehistory while stimulating our delight in specific, contemporary details.

Since at least the time that the Book of Genesis was written, people have told stories about the feeling that some of those who walk among us are part of a larger spiritual contest that we rarely perceive. This week we’re lucky enough to publish a tale that taps into an age-old tension of earthly gain paid for with moral degradation. We hope you enjoy “The First to Cross the Bridge,” by author Chloe N. Clark.


The Editors ”

Please read the story (and other wonderful pieces the) here

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Break Fast

She said toast

and I thought of the possible meanings: toast like food, toast like gone

and then she said eggs, fried, and I thought I knew what everything meant

for a moment. It is often in moments of linguistic confusion that I try

to remember that one plus one is two and two plus two is four

because sometimes, often, I find comfort in numbers

where I can’t in words.


Eight is the largest cube of the Fibonacci sequence and

and when I think of cubes I think of dice and the time

I dreamed I was playing Dungeons & Dragons

for my soul and I couldn’t gain any levels and my soul

kept getting lost on a perpetual loop.


And two is the only even prime number which

makes sense if you think of your lover and can’t

remember what you used to do when you tried to fall

asleep without hearing that someone else was breathing.


Sometimes when eating breakfast I read the sides

of cereal boxes, but not the words, just the numbers,

the irrefutable data that this bowl of cereal is 10%

of my daily serving of calcium.


When I think of cereal I think of Saturday

morning cartoons and commercials that told me

that Froot Loops were part of a balanced

breakfast and I’d feel hungry as I watched the coyote

fail over and over in a perpetual cycle of mistakes.


And one, you know, isn’t the loneliest

number because it has multiplicative identities.


Sometimes, I pause at the doorway, thinking

I’ve forgotten something and then I remember

that there is nothing left to forget.


And when I eat toast, I like to rub the crumbs

between my fingertips until they turn

to nothing, but, of course, they aren’t

nothing they are just infinitesimal.

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