All quotes and references are from His Ragged Company, by Rance D. Denton, unless otherwise stated. “The Magnate’s voice came with a warm wind of softness along the contours of my thoughts.” Rance Denton has a way with words. A twisted way. As a writer, I learned a lot, specifically from his explorations of time.Continue reading “His Ragged Company – a review”
Bar none, the best and most gratifying aspect of self-publication has been getting to hand pick the group of people I wanted to work with. Not that I’m a complete control freak or anything. As it turns out, this isn’t so much about keeping full artistic control as it is about relinquishing it on yourContinue reading “Formatting THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW”
Well, I suppose you’re not really a kid, and haven’t been for a long while. Doesn’t really feel that way at the minute, though, does it? Doesn’t really feel like being a grownup. It’s okay. I know.
I’m twenty-seven. I’m in a bathroom stall at the local shopping centre, in the ladies’ room – of all the fucking ironic places. Don’t worry, my pants are on, this isn’t that kind of story. I’m just crying. I’m in the ladies’ room, in a bathroom stall, and I’m crying, and I’m typing frantically on my phone.
My best friend is on the other end.
I believe it was last year that, on a whim, I picked up Wranglestone. Prior to that, and for about half a decade, I’d been unable to focus long enough to finish a novel. I read Wranglestone from cover to cover in three days.
My little sister Sally used to be an honest girl. She was overflowing with truthfulness. Then, one day, quite unexpectedly, she was all truthed out. Deprived of her legendary truthtelling, Sally began to lie. The quality of her lies was of course inherent to her newness in the industry. Her fibbing was pretty see-through. Pinocchio,Continue reading “My Little Sister Sally”
Moving up along the lines of his ribcage, I hit the hem of the binder. It was biting into his skin, more so at the sides, and I thought nothing so soft and fragile should ever be bitten into like that. A confused impression of inadequacy came over me. Felix was graceful. He was refined. Those hands were a pianist’s hands. That skin deserved bedsheet and pillowcases. Real ones. Hundred percent cotton, organic or fair trade or some shit.
At this point, I’ve come out so many times it’s entirely possible I’ve overstayed my welcome. Surely there’s only so much introspection allowed before you slide into self-indulgence. Might be that you’re sick of me. Might be that I should keep myself to myself. After all, it’s not like you need to know every littleContinue reading “Just a little thing.”