"Featherwing" is now published in Wilderness House Literary Review, Winter issue. (line below) and I'm thrilled it is in the right place.
Nonfiction--I am currently at work on essay (final tweaks today) on asceticism. (emerged from my novel, narrator, Catherine, and flavored, more recently, with adjunct musings) I will send this one out soon.
Fiction--still working on my short story, one in collection, Josi and her feral brother, the boy, tied in the barn. I have not returned to it in a few weeks, and l'm looking forward to it. I added a new character, neighbor, Emil Schwinn, and decided on the ending. (no spoilers just a snippet below)
I will be returning to my novel 40 Days of Asylum shortly.
Letter in the Hartford Courant "Pithy and Smirky" regarding Paul Ryan and his discussion on CBS related to grand tax overhaul. Link below.
Wilderness House Literary Review ..
Excerpt from latest story: The Boy (tentative title)
He was sick, her grandpa had said, and he was dangerous to himself, and run off too much, he had told her. "I damn near broke my hand on that boy," she overheard him say on occasion. "That boy got the devil in him. Bad seeds just git worse and worse, never can train them types."
“I had a second cousin like that too,” Dottie Loyd, said “She was like a wild cat that one.”
Josi despised Dottie, the way she sretched out wild, inflected her voice, smiled when she said it, demure-like, even though she had wrinkles around her mouth when she smiled, like old people, and sagging skin that shook under hear arms and chin. Josi was quiet, hidden in the far corner of the room, up against the wainscot; she listened to these talks about the boy (they called him) all the while wondering why he had to be left alone in the darkest corner where no sun ever reached and not even the company of Daisy. Maybe if he could have been tied up closer to Daisy, at least, and not far off in the corner of the barn, in an obscure dank place, where the spiders and beetles crawled, where a prisoner might be held. She had lain in bed awake for hours imagining herself in that corner and even though she shook and cried, she ruminated, and she was the boy, and she kept her body still, curled up tightly atop her cover, shivered, like the boy. At dinner, she pretended to eat, scooped most of it into her napkin then emptied it underneath the table where Clementine was waiting. I could get in a little closer she decided--no harm.