Things I Write

I especially like writing narrative poems; sometimes, I manage to sell them as short stories. I do this as part of the Well-Versed Skiffy movement; our motto is "good storytelling, good meter, good speculative fiction" — think spec-fic meets Expansive Poetry. We wanna tell ripping yarns in rhyme about heroes and spaceships.

For an example of what I'm talking about, take my Greek myth sex farce, "The Myrmidons," which appeared in The First Heroes: New Tales of the Bronze Age edited by Harry Turtledove and Noreen Doyle (Amazon, B&N, or support your local indie: ISBN = 076530287X). Here's the opening:

The plague came out of nowhere. No one knew
What god or goddess sent it, and the signs,
When not ambiguous, were all too few:
The oak leaves still, the livers whole and fine,
From left and right the birds flew in straight lines,
   And worst of all, the tea leaves all refused
   To form a pattern readers could have used.

And so Aegina suffered under doubt
As well as spotted fever. Amid the death
And raw despair, a couple souls were stout
And tended invalids to their last breath;
But others, I report to my regret,
   Were drunken, rowdy, riotous, and rude—
   In short, a bacchanalic rout ensued.

The harbor, drunk with sailors, caught the mood,
And soon from there the tide of riot spilled
To sweep depopulated streets in flood
Until the city plain was all but filled,
A violent lake—except where good sense stilled
   The fires round two places, islanding
   Plague houses and the palace of the king.

King Æacus was long since past his prime
And, not as strong as once, in youth, he'd felt,
He couldn't stop the carnival of crime.
His sons? Off heroing with club and pelt
And so no help with troubles he'd been dealt.
   They're only known today for being hid
   In family trees, and not for what they did—

For hero means "he scatters wide his oats,"
And heroes' brats are strewn across the nations
Like jetsam tossed from overloaded boats.
Son Telamon apprenticed that vocation
With the greatest of the generations:
   No lesser man than he—a drum roll please—
   The man, the myth, the legend—Heracles.

Soon after Telamon had helped the Herc
To conquer Troy, he spawned the Ajax who
Would later try to replicate that work.
Young Peleus sacked as well a town or two
Before he gave a fateful goddess woo;
   His son Achilles had his song of rage
   That still is read in this descendent age.

Thus, sonless, Æacus was forced to handle
The crisis, and he too old to wield a sword—
Which added to his shame, for the scandal
Of crumbling state will always hurt a lord,
Since he is judged by his domain's accord.
   And so, as when mere anarchy is loose,
   He did what monarchs do, and prayed to Zeus.

You can read the rest of the story here.

Needless to say, this sort of thing is going to be the Next Hot Thing in SF/F. New Weird is already passé, the Interstitials have nearly crested—Well-Versed Skiffy is where the momentum's going. You heard it here first.

When not telling metrical stories, I also write light verse, especially epigrams and parodies. For example:

To the Ghost of Ben Jonson

Your epigrams may not have bettered Martial
But next to mine they ring like perfect chimes;
And if your royal James was not so partial
To flattery, at least he read your rhymes.

I don't know whether Clinton is well-read,
Though by his character I fear the worst,
Yet were he, since the published poem is dead,
He'll never see my praise nor hear he's cursed.

That appeared in Light. Feel free to substitute "Dubya" if you wish to modernize it. This, on the other hand, is unpublished:

The Chicken
For These Our Guests

I plucked this morning morning's pinion, chick-
   en of Sunday's supper, singed-sear-smooth Fowl in her perking
   In the boiling level underneath her water pot, and lurking
Low there, how she'd shed beneath the shuck of my fingers' pick
Her feathers—torn off, off forth on a flick,
   As a leaf's curl scatters on a fall wind: the pull and jerking
   Removed the small down.  My hand in working
Stirred the bird, —the cleaning of, the preparation, a cook's trick.

Pale pullet and gizzard and heart, oh, skin, flesh, fat there
   Bubble! AND the broth that breaks from thee then, is two
Times told tastier, more delicious, than plainer fare.

   They're waiting for it: such folks must first chew
Cheese, in square-sliced cubes, and the spare
   Liver, onion lavered, then gulp good chicken stew.

In addition, along with Janni Lee Simner, I'm half of Cholla Bear Cards, writing and designing custom greeting cards; we're working on getting a shop online, so watch this space. From time to time, I've also turned my hand to translations, from both Spanish and Latin to English. And then there's translations into words of one beat, though I don't really count that as my stuff. The game makes for good finger exercises, though.

I should probably mention that I also write children's verse, though I've never actually sold any. Possibly this is because it ranges all over, from nursery rhymes on up.

      Say goodnight,
      Now hush, sleep tight.
And what is baby dreaming?
      Of unicorn tails,
      Of sad, slow snails,
And whiskery mice a-scheming.

Or possibly because I'm not as good at it as adult verse. But I'm fond of it, so I continue to write it.