“Creation, Isolation” by Lance Milham


The soles of my shoes hung just above the ground, so close I could almost convince myself I was standing, my untied laces grazing the grass’s fingertips. Slits of the light crawled through the lower branches, shredding the sun as if by Venetian blinds, and fell into my eyes, squeezing my pupils and building me a harem of flickering white spots. I squinted. The morning breeze hardly shook me, like a goldfish swaying above his fake rocks. The dew soared from the shadowed grasses into the air like graves breathing ghosts from their headstones. It glued to my cheeks. I was reminded of my father, exhaling clouds into the room.

My father didn’t smoke, but his breath was thick and hot and most nights smelled like the bar tile of a TGI Friday’s. Blue knuckles knotted like roots forging a scruff in my shirt collar, seizing me like a hound. Through elongated monologues full of words I didn’t know, he puffed angry clouds of himself through thin lips and a grayed beard down my throat, demanding my attention to stay. The hair on his fingers swept to the side like an unmowed lawn wilting over a driveway. His eyes were that same milky green, framed by bloody roadmaps on copy paper. We didn’t own a weedwhacker.

Before dawn broke I had finished the most violent of showers. I stood, warm water tracing the crevices and cliffs of my face, staring at my palms. I saw filth. So I scrubbed it all off.

The shadows of branches spread like spiders’ legs beneath me, gliding further away as the sun rose. I recalled my mother, domestic, after we had finished eating one night. My father wasn’t home. “Your father planted that tree. Not from a seed. It was already a little, baby-looking tree,” she said, hands in the sink. “When the house was first built. That one was the first tree.” As she finished up the last of the dishes she paused, looking alarmed. That’s a good word — alarmed. Because it wasn’t surprise. It was never surprise. She had the ears of a fox and a pointy nose and hippy voice to match. We’d always be having a chat, just the three of us (me, mother, and Crayola), but then the thud of a car door would jolt her into action and ruin everything. She’d rush me to my bedroom, careful not to step on my heels. “Try to go to sleep, Adam,” she said. “Try to fall asleep, sweetheart.” But of course I couldn’t. It was always just way too loud.

This morning was silent, though. It was too early for neighbors. Probably even for animals. I felt a presence on the top of my head. I knew it immediately to be a leaf. Probably brown, or at least starting to brown. The breeze was not strong enough to keep the alive living. I counted it. One. That would probably be the end of the count.

It surprised me that I had the ability to count — that my brain wasn’t busy, elsewhere. Through everything, I had expected to panic, to tremble and flail, and for the tree not to notice. Instead, there was a certain stillness, even among the goosebumps, standing at attention. The skin of my neck hummed, though, like a sunburn. I thought of my father again.

“Boy!” He clapped the back of my neck, leaning quickly, forcing eye contact, even as I stared over the tile.

He heard a shy gasp break from my mother’s larynx. “Please.”

His eyes flicked empty, just for a moment. Then they were back again, piercing. Hot, and full of ice. “God, you’re lucky, aren’t you?” But he’d walk away, anyway.

They were old now. Not shitting themselves old. They still took the car to church. But they were long past graying and well into armchairs. I pictured them in the chairs. My father reading a newspaper for the third time today and my mother with both bony hands tied around a warm mug of whatever she drinks now, whispering things to her love, hoping one of them would catch and spark. One did, and He spoke without breaking his scowl at the lifestyle section.

I wondered what they were talking about, hoping it wasn’t me. I wondered exactly how much money I had saved by not installing a perimeter fence, even just a cheap one. I wondered just how much use someone could find in an old flannel bathrobe, save the belt. I wondered what color my fingertips were. I counted a second leaf. Two. I pictured my mistakes as a tall beast, guided to a slump by a heavy spine, standing beside me at an alter. He had long red fingers and chubby pink palms, and upon one of those fingers I slid a silver ring. ’Til death do us part. It was only silver. The sun was brighter, higher in the sky, bleeding yellows and whites into the lonely blue, leftover from the night. I tried to swallow, over and again, until the sun couldn’t hurt my eyes.



Lance Milham is an MFA candidate at the University of Central Florida. His fiction has appeared in The Pinkley Press, and his poetry has appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic Magazine. He also maintains a spoken word poetry project under the pseudonym “hold your tongue.” 

Spoken Word available at www.holdyourtongue.bandcamp.com/

‘Scotomize’ by Walker Storz

image by paul klee


Part I

I am a bad
seed, grew
rotten; a

Broken genesis,
wings clipped
at first fall

A circle breaking
and thus
losing its
momentum—losing the
horrible center

Proteins misfolding,
disorder spread

The body
breeding its
own madness

Cells limping,
losing their

Losing the
ability to

No filters,
brain dirty and
hot—the smell

Rotten leaves
and car
engines leaking

Do you hear
me?  I cannot
I have
no audience,
I fail to
register myself
to the world

It will not
tremble like my
taut flesh, but
I wish it to

I whisper to the
world.  I tell it
lies through the

I tell it to become
warped like
I view its
crystalline, perfect
germline and
insert my bad
thoughts into
It… I
birth small
hates: hatelets,
cubs, that will
be nurtured
by the cold
impassivity of
Nature, that
will suck
granite and sulfur and
pond-water out of the
of the world

In this eternal
present, no
time is redeemed

And I have
nothing to
do but wait for
wait for a
time future or
time past to
bacterium forming
from airless swamps

This whirlpool
is outside of
always comes with
room to breathe
but there is
none here

Neither segmented
worm-line of
time or the
sacred gelled
time of the gods

The whirlpool
collapses all time into a
now that
sounds like a
moan.  A now
that is a
“Please, no” to
life.  A now
that is begging
this now to

The sirens screaming
no as they
are held down and
raped by
The seductive
“No” that emerges
from the abyssal
entrails of
infinite pain

This is now from
center of the

Hope is a
phantom light that

wrecks ships

a mirage made of
bad air

A taunting
voice in the night
enveloping a muffled

Part II

We have
whirled back
to the point

of origin. We
have the knife
in our hand

We have the
choice to
end things
before they

I stare into
a glimmering
light, and I
start to
tremble.  I
am finally
here, a place
beyond the
flux of life

A ground in
which being
and becoming
is birthed

I see
spheres growing
like supernovas
in stunned

I hear Sylvie’s
behind my
ear, softly
I am with you

 A sense of
warmth and
circles me;
whirling black

I breathe more
and more
heavily as I
approach the
point of
at the center

When I was
13 years old
I ran through
wind and rain
for 13 miles
before I

I remember the
pain fondly, so
different from
the confused
dull pain and
delirium of
my abortive life

Lights flicker
on the soft wall at the
edge of this
clearing, playing
more memories

As cave-lit

Sylvie and I
in her
room, the
first I love

 I didn’t know
The line of
my life would
there, preparing for
another, greater
break–one I would
refuse to
feel until
far after it had
felled me

Topanga Canyon,
spiralling into
view, a quickly
unspooling, shaky film
of gnarled pines
against yellow-
brown sand

and a line
traced: a
blueprint overlay
of a possible
branch of my
life writing
itself in time-

A bright hole
with charred and
edges eating the

Blackness intermission

I saw a white
room with
splashes of
angry red, a
woman being
split, a crumpled
face, covered
in a veil of
blood and
slime, pulled
out of

I felt a strong
in my chest
and a feeling of a
crowning on the
top of my

Now only the
light at the center

The feeling of
Sylvie behind
me, a
pulse of
light in my

I raise the

A glittering
pure light floats
in front of me, staring
into me without

I hear soft, mocking
laughter, and the
chime of thousands
of bells

I drop my
hand and slash and
everything crumples

“Babies in the Sink” by Grace Safford


Your mother mails you your first baby on April 22nd. It’s white, plastic, no bigger than the palm of your hand. The factory misprinted its eyes so the four, mascara laced lashes are on the bottom lid, tilted inwards towards its nose. Your mother tells you it’s still beautiful, and it’s yours.

You don’t have the heart to tell her you don’t want it. You grab a bowl from your kitchen, tuck a few napkins in the bottom, and stuff the baby in it. It sits next to you on your coffee table as you watch the news. At least it doesn’t cry.

You send a letter to your mother. Thank you, you say, it’s what I always wanted.

You’ll make sure it gets fed three times a day.

On April 24th, your mother sends you ten more babies. Black babies, Asian babies, more babies with misprinted eyes. I know you liked your last one, she says. I’m so proud of you.

You don’t know what to say. You pull all of the bowls from your cabinets and push the babies into them. You eat cereal on your plate. You don’t have any milk. The babies drank it all. You’ll get some more on Tuesday.

You call your friend Christine, asking if she wants a baby. She says no, her mother already started buying her babies too. She got her 15 babies last weekend. Christine had to quit her job to take care of them all.

You call your friend Donna and ask if she wants a few babies, but she says she doesn’t want them. Her husband wants to give her babies, and he doesn’t want anyone else sending her them over the mail.

On April 30th, your mother sends you 20 more babies. You take all of your plates and spread them out across the floor, stacking the babies on them. You can’t get into the kitchen anymore. The babies take all of your milk. They burp it back up. It curdles on the linoleum.

You call your mother and ask her to stop. You don’t want them. You admit you never wanted the babies to begin with. Your mother cries, asking if she failed you, if she was a bad mother, if she made being a mother seem bad. You say no, she was amazing. She stops crying and says she will send you 30 more babies. If she was a good mother then you must want to be a good mother too.

You beg Donna to take some of your babies, but her husband rips the phone away from her.

You spill the new babies into the kitchen sink. Their twisted limbs reach up toward the faucet, fingers splayed, looking for your hand. You don’t want to give it to them. You don’t want to feel their plastic skin on yours. They grip your breasts instead.

Why are you doing this, mother? you ask. I didn’t want this.

You have to, you have to.


She cries again until you agree to have 40 more babies. They come in the mail on May 12th.

You have to quit your job to take care of your babies. You kill your goldfish, shoving him down the sink. You can’t afford to keep feeding him. You give his bowl to three of the babies. They look at you from your dresser, their heads distorted in the glass, their upside down eyes staring at you as you sleep. You start to wonder if you have upside down eyes too.

You sell your TV. Your car. Your oven. Your couch. Your floors. Your rugs. Your toilet. You need the money, you can’t keep up with the babies. You try to pray to God but you don’t have a car to get to church with.

You’ve run out of milk again.

You need to take care of your babies, your mother says. You’re not a good mother. Your babies will die.

I can’t take care of them, you say. Can you take some?

It’s not my turn anymore, she says. It’s yours.

Your babies all start to cry. You look at the dishes on the floor. You cry too. They cry harder. You need pacifiers, but you’ve sold all of your things. You go outside and grab a rock from your backyard. You knock out your teeth and give them to your babies to suck on. There’s only 26. They ask for your fingers.

On May 21st your mother sends you 50 more babies.


Grace Safford is an aspiring author from a town in Northern Vermont cartographers sometimes confuse for a lake. She is a fiction editor at the “Mud Season Review Literary Journal”, and the Editor-in-Chief of “The Well Magazine”. You can read her weird fiction in “Firewords Magazine” and “Puddlefar Literary Magazine”. Currently, she is living in Burlington, VT, working on her first novel.
Twitter: @gracemsafford


“You Are All A Spoiled Generation” by Jake Shore


I mean I think I was like totally affected by 9/11. For sure. One way I was fucked up by it was a few weeks after it happened I was sitting on my parent’s couch in the living room watching TV and they used to live in this house right near the water that had a view of the river and their living room was all windows and I was just like watching something stupid on TV and I heard this roar from an airplane outside. It was night and dark and lights were on in the house, lamps and stuff, but I remember it being like pretty dark and I heard this really plane sounding noise from outside and to be honest I don’t really remember reacting to the plane’s noise with me telling myself what to do. It was more like I just reacted without knowing what I was doing and as the plane’s roar got louder and louder I got fucking petrified and I remember not knowing what to do like there was something I was supposed to do but couldn’t remember how to do it. I remember just like bolting the fuck out of the living room and through the house and down the stairs and the crazy loud noise from the plane got nuts and I don’t know, I mean, for some reason I thought the plane was gonna crash into my house. I remember like running down the stairs and my dad was in his office working or something and he didn’t ask me what was wrong ‘cause he didn’t notice anything but it was once I saw him sitting in his office and the noise passed that I realized that like, what I was doing was totally fucking stupid. Who was gonna fly a plane into our house? But I guess it was like, I might’ve been thinking of the plane that crashed into that field or the one into the Pentagon and maybe, like, in this moment I was just having a weird like panic attack thinking that something was gonna happen when it really wasn’t at all. I remember standing down on the first floor and my dad just like sitting in his desk chair and turning around and seeing me and just turning his head back to his work. Then I went back upstairs and kept watching TV.

It for sure wouldn’t have been the first time I reacted real weird to a situation like that, I mean, after Columbine happened I was at a sleepover with some of my friends from middle school and it was the first sleepover that I’d really ever been to with a bunch of kids and they all wanted to stay up like way past bedtime and even wanted to wait up until the sun came up and I remember being all for it ‘cause I wasn’t a bad kid but I had like older cousins and shit that had showed me porn pictures on like the internet and stuff so I wanted to look at that stuff and told my friends about it at the sleepover but it seemed like they didn’t know what I was talking about and they just wanted to watch South Park but then one of the kids there, I mean, I can’t remember who was there, and on account of what happened next I wanted to block out what happened at the sleepover really bad all through the rest of middle school and into high school, too, but I mean, I remember it was Chris who had the sleepover. It might’ve been his idea to watch Titanic just so we could see that chick’s tits. I mean, I still fucking remember that. I’d never seen a woman’s tits before. Not like that. I mean, my cousin had shown me a website with like, some porn stuff on it but I don’t even remember what the hell that shit was. I dunno if I totally processed it or, I mean, I knew that people were… I knew that a lady was in a weird outfit and I might’ve even seen a nipple or something but it wasn’t until that night watching Titanic that it was like I really saw tits.

But anyway, yeah, I mean I remember everyone wanting to stay up all night and we were but then I remember putting my head down on a pillow just to rest and I do think the sun was already up when this happened but the next thing I knew I was breaking through a glass basement window and sprinting across Chris’ lawn in my underwear and a t-shirt. I didn’t know why I was running or what the hell was going on and it was like I was just watching myself do all this shit and then I was at the neighbor’s door and like, the neighbor opens the door and it’s this woman I knew. She used to live near my parents and I told her that I was staying at Chris’ house and one of the kids there had a gun. I dunno why I said this or did this but that’s what happened. I knew this woman, the neighbor, ‘cause I used to pal around with her two boys, Craig and Henry. Then I remember waiting for my dad to get there and Craig and Henry and I played Goldeneye, that game where you go around and shoot everyone. I was watching Craig play and I remember telling him that I didn’t want to play and this was all wrong. He thought I meant about me watching him play a video game where you shoot people after I’d just broken out of Chris’ house ‘cause one of the kids at the sleepover had a gun but, I don’t think that’s like what I was talking about. I think I was saying something about what I’d said about the gun being wrong.

My parents didn’t know what to make of it. I remember being on their couch, the same one in that room overlooking the river and them asking me about it and me not knowing how to answer. I told them I thought I saw a gun so I broke out of Chris’ basement. I told them I thought a video game controller was a gun ‘cause I was so lack of sleep. Truth was, I started to remember why I’d broken out of that house. I had a dream when my head hit that pillow. A dream that Chris’ family dog, Benny, had a gun. That’s what my dream was about. I still remember like, the dream and I was up on Chris’ first floor and their dog had a gun. The dog was wagging its tail and had a gun in its mouth holding it like a bone.  

Later on I’d be told like that it was like a night terror, but that was much later. I was also told it was most likely because of what happened at Columbine because it was so close to that happening and I heard about it and was told and it affected me so much that I had this like dream that a dog had a gun at my friend’s sleepover and I broke through the glass of a basement window. When I was running away from Chris’ house I was really running away from the dream. I was really running away from those fucking kids that shot up Columbine. They weren’t there chasing me when I was running away from like that sleepover but they were in a way, those stupid motherfuckers. They chased me and humiliated me at fucking school where I had to show up with all cuts on my hands and forearms ‘cause they were cut up from the window glass I’d broken and climbed through to my freedom. I got made fun of for that into submission, what the fuck I did at that sleepover. Followed me around most of high school even. That’s the kid who jumped out Chris’ window? Yeah, that’s him, that crazy fuck.

So, yeah, I mean, I didn’t have anyone die in 9/11, right? But I watched my dad when he was glued to the TV. I had my grandfather explain to me what happened as a kid, and then when I was just fucking watching TV one night and heard the growl from an airplane passing my house I jumped up and ran from it out of fear. I heard what happened at Columbine and then went to school and then fucking did all this fucked up shit as a result, I mean, I still got those scars on my forearm from that basement glass window. So when you wonder why the fuck it is that it seems like I’ve had my head split open, pried open, and it’s like someone put a live wire from the guts of an old TV or something right into it, well, you don’t have to wonder for another second about why it seems like that.


Jake Shore’s short stories have been published by Litro, Halfway Down the Stairs, The Pitkin Review, Calico Tiger and others. In October 2017, he read at the College of Southern Maryland’s Connections Literary Series. In August of 2016, The Flea Theater in Manhattan presented his play entitled Holy Moly and its tandem novel, A Country for Fibbing. Broadwayworld states “it marks the first time a play with a correlating novel have been simultaneously released in the United States.” His play The Devil is on the Loose with an Axe in Marshalltown was listed in Playbill’s “13 Shows Not to Miss Off-Broadway August 1-16.”

Shore is currently an adjunct professor and the Director of the Academic Advisement Center at St. Joseph’s College in Brooklyn, and earned his MFA in Creative Writing at Goddard College, where he studied with Ryan Boudinot and John McManus.

“Recipe for a Pornographic Carrot Bread” by Meeah Williams


I was writing a porn story for money and interrupted myself to bake a loaf of carrot bread.

I preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Many people think that poetry has no practical purpose but I want this one poem at least to prove them wrong.

I prepare a medium loaf pan by spraying it with Pam.

I grate two cups of carrots and set them aside.

In my porn story, the woman is waiting for her lover in a park after dark.

She is standing inside a jungle gym and reflects how it is the iron parody of a gilded bird cage.

“This is where children play,” she thinks to herself, deliciously ashamed.

She feels her high heels sinking into the soft sand.

She has been told to dress like a streetwalker.

There is un-PC element of male dominance in this story and I am unapologetic about it.

You shouldn’t lie, at very least not to yourself, about what gives you pleasure.

“Art is like ham,” Diego Rivera said. “It nourishes people.”

I mix together one and a half cups of flour, a half teaspoon each of salt and baking powder, a quarter teaspoon of baking soda, and a half cup of sugar, although you can use up to a cup of sugar if you like it sweeter.

Finally I add a lot more cinnamon than the recipe suggests, which is only two teaspoons.

Those are the dry ingredients.

I want this poem, in some way, to nourish people.

I think porn stories get a bad rap; after all, they give people the most intense physical pleasure possible, with the possible exception, perhaps, of eating, and they do it using only words.

In a separate bowl, I beat two eggs, then mix in a quarter cup of milk, two-thirds cup melted butter (or vegetable oil),  and a teaspoon of vanilla extract.

These are the wet ingredients.

Sometimes I come to a shuddering climax reading a porn story that was written a hundred years ago by an author long dead.

I think, isn’t that amazing?

That someone dead can make me come, can touch me like that from beyond the grave?

Isn’t that real magic?

Isn’t that a kind of proof of life after death?

I mix the wet ingredients into the dry, add the carrots and three-quarters of a cup of chopped walnuts.

Where I left off in the porn story, my lover steps out of the dark and orders me to turn around and bend over.

With one hand, he grabs me by the long hair and yanks my head back.

I feel like a lamb about to be slaughtered. 

This is important.

I’m suddenly staring at a small patch of stars visible between the trees which have already begun shedding leaves.

It is early October.

He reaches under my plaid schoolgirl skirt and yanks down my panties.

I’m wearing fishnet stockings with garters so there’s no need to pull off anything else.

I feel the chill air on my naked flesh.

He spits in his palm.

You pour the batter into the already greased loaf pan.

You bake it on the top shelf of the oven for 45 to 50 minutes.

He enters me roughly from behind.

He pumps and pumps and my knuckles on the bar of the jungle gym rub painfully into the flesh of my cheek but I don’t move.

There is, obviously, a strong masochistic element to this poem for which I also make no apology.

I close my eyes and open them when he comes and through the tears the stars inside me are somehow joined to the stars in the sky.

It’s as if I’m seeing semen spread across the heavens.

You check for doneness with a toothpick inserted in the middle of the loaf.

If it comes out clean, it’s done.

You remove the loaf from the pan and let it cool.

You eat it warm and you enjoy.


Meeah Williams’s  work appears in lots of places, most recently in  Otoliths, Uut, The Ginger Collect, Former Cactus, Anti-Heroin Chic, Barren, Vulture Bones, Burning House, and Ex/Pat.  She has work forthcoming in Okay Donkey, Neon Mariposa, and Philosophical Idiot. She lives in Seattle and tweets at @pussy_nagaski

“The Final Frontier” by Doug Hawley


Sally got home from her nature guide conference after being gone for a week.  She was surprised to see an envelope with her name on it in Duke’s handwriting propped up on the phone.  He used to send her little love notes, but with his recent problems, he had dropped the habit. Could he finally have some good news?

“Sally, there is no way to make this easy.  I’ll be dead when you get this.”

After the first line, Sally sat down and started to cry.  It was five minutes before she could resume reading while still sniffling.

“I didn’t tell you how painful and humiliating the first dialysis was.  You may think that I had some hope of getting a kidney transplant. I was able to keep other health problems from you that ensured that I wouldn’t be around long.  I also have liver cancer. No idea why I bothered with dialysis, I won’t be around long, so why keep hurting when the end is near?”

“You were too good to tell me ‘I told you so’, but I certainly deserved it.  Every time you tried to keep me from smoking, drinking and overeating, I fought you.  The hacking and coughing, the blood in the urine, there was nothing that I wouldn’t ignore.  It is all on me.”

“Besides trying to protect me from myself, you were so good to me in so many ways.  When the DMV wanted to pull my driver’s license, you went to bat for me to keep my license.  When I wanted to invest half of our money in my crazy brother-in-law’s get rich scheme, you talked me out of it.   You saved me from having the crap beat out of me by the neighbor that hated the loud music I played in the backyard.  Eddie forgave a lot for your scrumptious apple pie.”

“If you knew how dire my situation was, you probably would have wanted a few more weeks together, but you know what a whining baby I am.  I would have been miserable, and I would have made your life miserable. That is why I’ve been on my best behavior the last few weeks. No whining about your hair or the time you spend on the phone.  Finally, I’m acting as I should have all the time that we have been married, so I hope that I get a few points.”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with the grim details.  I will take a bus out to the Gorge and get off somewhere, and then climb up, avoiding trails as much as possible.  Do you remember I wondered if there was any place in Oregon no one had ever set foot? I hope to find such a place where I’ll never be found.  I was able to get enough fentanyl to kill me. Remember how much better I felt at emergency when I got it in the IV? I hope that and the brandy I’m taking will get me a feel-good passage to oblivion.”

“I loved you since we met.  You deserved better than me.”     


The author is a little old man who lives with his editor Sharon and cat Kitzhaber in Lake Oswego, Oregon USA.  He spends his time hibernating until spring, but sometimes emerges to do volunteer things and hike.  His hundred or so publications vary by size – under 100 words to around 20,000 and by subject – memoir, essay, science fiction, crime, horror, drama.  Major publishers (besides Cartel) include Story Shack, Fiction On The Web, Yellow Mama, Short Humour, Dirty Pool and Literally Stories.

“Cosmic Micros” part 4, by Neil Clark



Spaghettified Rope

I found a black hole in my house.

I tied a rope to a table leg and abseiled down, thinking the rope would keep me safe.

But the rope became the black hole.

And black holes are too hard to grasp.

So my grasp became time itself.

And time slipped through my fingers…



Nae Atmosphere

When I emigrated to space, I was determined not to lose my angry Scottish accent.

But it didnae matter, because in space, naeb’dy kin hear ye screamin’.




I passed up the opportunity to become an astronaut. Chose office work instead.

It’s an honest living, not too demanding. Still, I often work late, tell my colleagues I have loads of emails to get through.

Really, I just sit in the dark on my computer, running my fingers over the space bar.



Last Orders

At the end of the black hole, a tavern awaits.

They brew planets there. Serve them by the pint.

That’s how we became extinct.

Somebody ordered a pint of Earth and downed it in one. Burped up 4.5 billion years of history. Pissed out the rest.

Didn’t even leave a tip.


Neil Clark is a writer from Edinburgh, The Universe and everywhere between and beyond. His work is published in Okay Donkey, The Molotov Cocktail, Five:2:One and other cool places. Find him at neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com or on Twitter, where he posts a new micro fiction most days @NeilRClark