Because I currently live in a rural area, I have decided to experiment with opening another magazine: Rural Fiction Magazine. The idea came to me while I was driving to the pharmacy in the nearby (about 17 miles from my residence) town of Dumas.
While I enjoy immensely working with The Chamber Magazine, it does have a disadvantage or two. The primary disadvantage is that the local populace does not seem to be made up of the type of people that are drawn to dark fiction. But then, can you name a community that is drawn to dark fiction? To me, they seem more the type of people who would be drawn to mainstream or literary fiction, particularly that with a bent toward farm life, agriculture, hunting, etc.
Yes, I am living in the Bible belt. The nearby (five miles from my residence) town…
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The ‘Little Wild’ is what she called it — and it shall be ours forever.
We had bought the farmhouse when we finally had had enough of the city (Poppy agreed, the city had become too dangerous and noisy). As we were both older, without children, having met later in life at the Popular Culture Association Conference in Boston, we were both determined to make our soon encroaching Senior years as enjoyable as possible. We made for an unlikely couple what with Poppy’s paper on psychoanalytic theory and gender in Fairy Tales while my own talk was a stump speech for the Graduate Program in library science we offered at Northwestern. We bonded on archival methods, preservation, organization, and best practices marrying almost a year to the date of our first encounter. No odder couple had there perhaps been. We were visually unique as well. She,Rubenesqueand committed to smoking a…
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I was too old for this,
Too jaded and world weary,
And yet when I listen to the radio today,
And hear of Afghan women,
We trained to fight,
Hiding in ditches,
Ripe with sewage,
And the countless thousands,
We showed a glimmer,
Of a different world too,
Now left behind,
As the wolves close in,
I find myself,
We want certainty,
The ability to look,
At a man,
And see their nature,
Like a soothsayer,
With a crystal ball,
But blinded by history,
And a thousand,
Layers of experience,
Like an onion,
Made from scars,
We can’t see,
Is a lot,
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