She’s in HOOT!

DS Levy is one of those agile writer’s who slips in dark when you’re headed down a well-lit path. I’m elated she’s returned to WP to share her cosmic talent. DS is a lifelong pursuer of all things ‘writerly,’ and she has taught me much about the writing world. She’s Yoda to my Chewbacca. Check out her new blog and follow along. More marvelous stuff around the corner…

She recently had a flash story, “What I Really Meant,” published in the very cool HOOT Review(April-May 2018). She was so very generous in choosing a figure of mine for her excellent flash story.

Myrtle Lee sang with a barefoot saunter…

New flash piece, character drive and I do love Myrtle Lee. “He relished Putty Cat’s pancakes flipped in the tiny space devoured up by her curves.”
I’m again so very honored to be included in NowThenMagazine, in their wonderful WORD LIFE section. Thank you.

Myrtle Lee “Putty Cat” Jameson

Myrtle Lee “Putty Cat” Jameson lived in the years where many tried making a go of it, the in-betweens of lovemaking, family gatherings, breakdowns and slumber. At the tender age of eighteen, Myrtle Lee joined a long journey shipping crew to transport rail goods and collect inspiration. Assigned to the cargo ship, A4 Sunset, her form cut a proud silhouette against the sky. Broad-shouldered men, not admitting to inebriation by the mere presence of her coconut flesh, found themselves dreaming of her with their vigilant eyes open.

But it was ‘his’ mad blue ocean eyes that were deepest. Their stolen moments together when Putty Cat’s warmth flowed down his back to the soft underparts of his toes. “You are burned into the very chest of me,” he’d groan to heaven.

In the bright kitchenette, Myrtle Lee often sang with a barefoot saunter to choke out the Apocalypse. He relished Putty Cat’s pancakes flipped in the tiny space devoured by her curves. Here, syrup poured from her sweet veins. How the vision of her in his dark wide eyes, hushed him quiet when the day had been long and life rolled hard. He wanted nothing anymore, save for the treasures, to keep Putty Cat joyful.

Sometimes Myrtle Lee cried herself to sleep. Whenever his back sweat reflected a cargo ship moon, and night breathing summoned waves against the Sunset’s bow, Putty Cat remembered. A shadow dream of the man with the mad blue ocean eyes. The well-boned hands of his sliding from the tips of her satin ears to her blushing thighs. The mountain of a man sleeping beside her, who loved her more than she loved herself, could never fill the sand hole. Memories spun invisible lines holding afloat her sinking heart. Her heart near an ocean bottom too deep for light.

A southern belle from the South Bronx was Myrtle Lee “Putty Cat” Jameson. She sealed her peace the first time she witnessed heaven’s orange flames spread across the Atlantic–like warm peanut butter on burnt toast. Beyond the great blue, she expected to meet all her shipmates again. And ‘him,’ her lost lover with the mad ocean eyes. The man who’d died too young holding her heart.

AM Roselli

Sharpies and Coconut Macaroons

honored and thrilled to have a new flash fiction piece, Sharpies and Coconut Macaroons, published in this terrifically absurd magazine
“The Absurdist is a small monthly periodical of absurdist flash fiction and illustrations, printed and distributed in Portland, Oregon and shared digitally around the world.”

Sharpies and Coconut Macaroons

AM Roselli

Nella wants to tie people down. Not everyone. Just those with hair like piles of snow. Their old translucent skin resplendent in odd brown patches and mottled crimson swatches. Nella believes wrinkled skin is cosmically linked. She must bind old people together and connect their age spots with Sharpies to make star maps to God. Old bodies are closer to heaven each day. She has visions.

The giant Moai heads of Easter Island are not empty. No one is empty. Nella feels empty. Her head hurts all the time. She sees invisible stars on wrinkled skin.

The other night while she was walking home from the Quik Mart with a coconut macaroon stuffed in each pocket, an elderly couple strolled by her. They were so close, Nella could smell the accumulated years on their skin. The gentleman held, not his wife’s bony elbow, but a tiny Pomeranian. The hobbling couple were glowing more than the bitty dog’s sequined collar. Twinkling glass shards embedded in the grimy sidewalk dulled to dirt near their worn shuffling shoes.

Nella thought about using her green belt to tie them together but feared her pants would fall down. Besides that, the Pomeranian would likely bite her in the ass. And anyway, she wasn’t armed with a stalwart Sharpie. The Quik Mart worker said they expected a Sharpie shipment sometime tomorrow. Nella was dubious. The young man behind the counter had done nothing but stare at her breasts. She’d forgotten to wear her only bra, blue and decorated with black Sharpie stars.

Not defeated, just delayed, Nella climbed the seven flights to her apartment. She ate her coconut macaroons and danced by herself. She used her long brown hair to dust the floor while dreaming about star maps.

Her head is not empty. It is full of ropes and lights and hammers. Endless headaches reminded her to work when she feels lazy. She needs God’s help.

She swallowed the last bits of coconut then leaned out her apartment window.

Down below, so many old people to tie together. So many chances to find salvation. ♦

The Dipping Bread, new flash published in Chicago Literati!

just in time for Halloween
I’m honored to be included in Chicago Literati, with my flash piece, The Dipping Bread
I hope you enjoy reading, as much as I enjoy writing about vampires and their victims 😘

THE DIPPING BREAD

It happens at the Fondue Palace. Near the cheese fountain. Two lovers twirling their fondue forks suggestively. He’s been ignoring his inner voice all evening. “Something is very wrong with your date, John.” The very same voice that hours before implored him to make an escape out the backdoor. Get out before it’s too late. Too late.
Suri’s sultry eyes are vacant things. John can’t gaze into those shining black planets orbiting his date’s face. He turns away from the closeness of her flawless skin. She giggles and flicks her tongue into John’s exposed ear. He laughs nervously. He senses a curious warm spot on his cheek. 

Crimson droplets appear on the dipping bread.

His hand touches his face and traces the warmth down to his neck. The wetness tints his fingertips. He slides his thumb and middle finger together. Then apart. His eyes focus on what he sees. He’s unable to wrestle out the weak cry pinned behind his gum-line. Other unwitting customers continue gleefully stabbing at bread cubes. Drowning baked dough in pots of hot liquified cheese.

No words will leave John’s chained voice. Suri’s fondue fork finds her date’s palm. She guides the two-pronged metal, like a serpent’s fangs, along the meat of John’s hand then sweetly plunges the sharp points into his flesh. She guides his limp fist up to her wine-colored mouth. Her satin skin smells like ancient ice. A burning sensation shoots from John’s brain to his groin. An explosion unlike any erotica he’s ever experienced.

Suri’s slim, powerful hand slides beneath John’s shirt. His sweating back is buckling. She holds him up effortlessly with a polished finger. John clenches his jaw. His uninjured hand reaches around his date’s cool neck. Forceful and swift–he pulls her face to his. He kisses this “woman” in a manner unfamiliar to his own lips. Their mouths sucking like uncontrolled siphons. Lightning between his legs. Shockwaves ripple inside his thigh muscles. Metallic saliva flows back and forth between their twisting tongues. Cold bliss blankets John’s dying instincts.

It’s blood, John. 

It’s blood.

Leftover Sensations, new flash piece published in Free Lit Magazine!

LEFTOVER SENSATIONS

LEFTOVER SENSATIONS

When Luthien woke his skin was the color of flat sand on a starless evening. What the hell happened last night? He sees a sky not quite black. The moon, a shredded toenail hanging on a milky weave. Leftover sensations of tepid glass–thick tumbler, lazy ice.

Last evening he stopped on his way home. Between shots of Jack Daniels, Luthien remembers a powerful mouth. In the small bar–a big woman whose billowing lips could suck the enamel off teeth. What did he do? Did that insane mouth hoover the color from his body? Luthien’s fair skin that goes lobster belly pink on the beach is now dull grey. Was he vacuumed dry? Luthien hopes he’ll wake and find his skin its proper shade. But Luthien you are grey. Too bad.

Nervously he squeezes his eyelids shut. Shelby and her tears. She’d found him and Cassandra porn-style in ‘their’ bed. So what if he and Shelby picked out the duvet with coordinating sheets. The woman in the bar had lips like clamps–tight and hot. Big, deep red wet lips. Did he hear a name from that strange sucking mouth? Martianna, Maliana, Marvianna? A sentence slithers into his ear. A velvet tongue like he’s never tasted in thirty-eight years. Translucent hands pulling his hair so hard his head whacks the bar wall and he doesn’t give a shit. Her surreal mouth, a serpentine force plundering his desperate throat. Did that burgundy wet nurse utter something to his bourboned-out body?

Think Luthien. You almost talked Shelby out of leaving post-Cassandra fuck. The name. It will be important. Take a moment. Go through the minutes after her lips sucked your dick through your throat. Those red lips whispered something.

“When a heart is shattered, its pieces fall to earth. Tears of pain water and grows the blood rose that springs forth the serpent that feeds on the rat.”

The bedroom clock screams. Luthien wakes to the sun’s rays slithering past his silk curtains. His mane of hair, dripping sweat, soaking the grey cotton sheets. Saturday morning. Shelby would have slapped the alarm off then woken him with a tender kiss. 

They used to make love on Saturdays.


Love writing flash fiction, especially monster-themed. I let loose a bit more when invoking character voices. Hope you enjoy, leftover sensations, as much as I enjoyed writing it 😘
As the writing gods sometimes align themselves, my dear, faraway writing friend, DS Levy also in this issue with a masterful short, Pit Viper.
adore this cover art by Aisha Ali!

new prose published, Raven Hall Pool, published in Firefly!

new flash piece, Raven Hall Pool, Firefly Magazine

Raven Hall Pool

She tells me childhood stories as pool water laps our mouths. Her words grow flippers and soar to the steel beams above. A lifeguard duo with prismatic baby blues. Cerulean so clear, their angular faces disappear beneath water. Both brothers displaying the rock-hard swagger of overtaxed muscles. Gluteus sauntering along Raven Hall’s perimeter causes much chlorinated gulping. Mouth-to-mouth the prize.

I understand water is the best place for many reasons. Below the surface you imagine heaven. This pool is old. Its white edges gray. The ceiling is missing a few tiles where words can get trapped. If the roof spoke, it would have a lisp. Yet the water sparkles like her stories. Here all are weightless. I’m thankful the world is mostly water. In salt-aqua things older than the universe continue on. I’m sure she cherished Raven Hall Pool for the same reason. And those lifeguard brothers. She dated the younger and was infatuated with the older. Not difficult imagining two handsome lifeguards all the way down to their bulging confidence. And her first kiss.

The water temperature is perfect. Never over-chlorinated. I keep my eyes open while swimming beneath. No goggles or cap, not ready for those. When we lift our legs up the steel rungs, it’s with grateful exhaustion. Until the next time. And there will be more swimming sessions. Many more I pray. To hear stories and watch her words grow flippers. This pool is worn, but in the underwater silences a dream makes its best escape. The world is mostly water. Imagine, all those words swimming to the sky.

ghosted background photo you see is my gorgeous mother showing off that movie star smile of hers!❤️