It was evening in the Mullingham household and Abraham and Moira Mullingham had just sat down to a dinner of hot spaghetti noodles drenched in a pungent tomato sauce, a dish Moira’s father had taught her to make in her youth, which she took great pride in serving. Abraham, a heavy-set, light skinned man who looked to be in his fifties, but had only reached his forty-fifth year, a man with green...
I watched the two of them in the window on the second story of the Hotel Petr. The white crosses on the window only partially obscured them. Dominika’s hat was pulled low in an attempt to disguise her face, but she was unmistakable. The Russian general Igorek stood over her, huge and hideous, holding her close to his mouth. He breathed on her face and bared his teeth in the afternoon sunlight...
I’m officially writing a fantasy novel this November during @NaNoWriMo. nanowrimo.org #NaNoPrep. Stay tuned for updates!
On Saturday Aug 26, 4014, at the hands of her most creative and intelligent inhabitant, Earth succumbs to Man’s destructive nature. The first bombs erupt near the great lakes, spreading a peeling fire across Earth’s western cheek. Flares of white light leak out of the atmosphere as bomb after bomb hit their mark. Black clouds bloom over New York, Milwaukee, Little Rock, Flagstaff, closing...
The following article was originally published on NationofChange, on Friday April 4th, 2014, and can be read here. “Communism forgets that life is individual. Capitalism forgets that life is social. And the kingdom of brotherhood is neither in the thesis in communism nor the antithesis of capitalism, but lies in a higher synthesis. […] The problem of racism, economic exploitation, and war, are...
Caleb Jacobo. (1988–PRESENT). Initial Draft. Public Writing Journal. 2014. sheouit sheouit, read by Caleb Jacobo at fifty feet above the field She rose; somewhere stooped aloof martin breached His bush. Then at ten feet Her dented sepals spread; so There in His bush martin hid His eyes. Then at five feet She spoke invitingly; so from There martin went with fruit to hear...
Since 2006, Death has visited my personal relations several times. First, my mother and step-father by car. Next, my aunt by lightning, shortly followed by my grandfather in despair. I watched my grandmother die in poverty and now her son, my dear uncle, too soon in illness. Until Friday the 22nd, at my uncle's funeral, I hadn't the skill nor the guts to stand up and say anything for the people I...
[...] Point is, the violence attracted to violence, and even when violence comes into contact with innocence, if there is no reciprocation, there is no continuation or inflammation of violence. This means an accident—a casualty, a mistake—if these are reciprocal, then the violence is inflamed—it metamorphoses, evolves—to a committed violence that poses more danger to the victim. This...
The following is an excerpt from my meatspace journal: Dramatic Irony, the art of reflective literature, is a vehicle that allows the reader to experience an orchestrated set of events that forces them to be uncomfortable enough to say, “If only…” (“If only the protagonist made this choice, or saw this action, or heard this statement…”). Irony does not offer answers, but...
This morning, I had the pleasure of meeting one of the people who really illuminated the writing craft for me, at the first Southern California Writers Association meeting of 2014. The meeting was a huge success; Nancy gave a powerful presentation, and I am glad to have been there. A big Thank You to Nancy and everyone at the SCWA! Nancy Ellen Dodd’s essential book on the craft of writing...