Check out my new stories about candy and child murder out now at The Heavy Contortionists. Here is the link: http://www.theheavycontortionists.com/blog/sweetteeth
I am very please to have an excerpt from a novel I have been working on included in the annual Thumbnail flash fiction collection this year, guest edited by Aubrey Hirsch. The story is called When I was Good At Playing God and I am glad it found a home next to so many other great writers like Matt Bell, Amber Sparks, Brian Oliu, Sherrie Flick, Tammy Lynne Stoner, xTX and more. The theme of the issue was “strange” and I feel like I fit right in! Get a copy here: https://www.createspace.com/5255416
Maybe we can stop somewhere and get a snack to take home and nibble with some hot chocolate? I don’t think he ever drank codeine cough syrup either. It is a very odd hat. When you say, “I don’t believe people should be murdered and of course I believe in freedom of speech, but…” at first, I laughed. Then, I realized how staggeringly useful this could be.
Someone has the snow crazies. A new study says that women who expel a lot of liquid during sex are urinating out of pleasure. Please use this thread to share your first online publication of 2015.
Happy release day!
Remember this? #ThrowBackThursday
Lots of murders.
God, doesn’t this image really just say it all?
If someone has tried to cut off your wings, please know that they are beautiful and welcome. Come out for the last reading of the season featuring: I probably would’ve taken a selfie in front of a burning building, 1. super rad and 2. incredibly important, and Why is it so much easier to roll out of bed at noon when I know I don’t have to go to the gym? Be there at 8! Beer available with donation? Yes!
This zine collects all of the stories included in City Lit Projects Edgar Allan Poe-themed literary geo-caching adventure around the streets of Baltimore. Get it now from Eight Stone Press and stay tuned for details about a reading at Atomic Books. I have a story called The Man Who Stole His Clothes included. Here is the link: http://www.eightstonepress.com/geopoe.htm
New chapbook, Zeb and Bunny Build Russian Dolls, coming out from Hidden Clearing Books on March 10th. Stay tuned!
Originally posted on Hidden Clearing Books, LLC:
Greetings and salutations!
It’s the end of the year. Goodbye 2014, hello 2015. We have our 2015 titles picked out and they are as follows:
January 13, 2015 – “In Joubin’s Head” by Justin Key (Shorties)
February 10, 2015 – “The Silent Spring” by Ellen Denton (Postcards)
March 10, 2015 – Zeb and Bunny Build Russian Dolls by Timmy Reed (Chappies)
April 14, 2015 – “Asana” by Leila A. Fortier (Postcards)
May 12, 2015 – “Hollow Cities of Hollow Homes” by Michael Haynes (Shorties)
June 9, 2015 –“Continuity” by John Sibley Williams (Postcards)
June 16, 2015 – Sharp Road, Vol. 1 by Various (Sharp Road)
July 14, 2015 – I Am Art by A. J. Huffman (Chappies)
August 11, 2015 – “Sentinel” by Denny E. Marshall (Postcards)
September 8, 2015 – “Detour” by Matthew Spence (Shorties)
October 13, 2015 – “Yelp Review – Haunted Mansion” by Jesse Bradley (Postcards)
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My story, Starfish from the collection Tell God I Don’t Exist, as read by Katja Schneider. https://soundcloud.com/animals-making-sounds/starfish-by-timmy-reed-as-read-by-katja-schneider
My brother hates the holidays. Not just the long winter season, but all of them. They remind him of death. If it were up to my brother, there would only be one day that repeated itself over and over again until he ran out of days and passed away, surprised to find out that he ever got old.
Christmas is depressing and crass, he says, a commercial nightmare. Everyone misses their family, or whatever they wished their family would be. People spend money they don’t have and are reminded of how much they don’t achieve. Suicide rates soar like flying reindeer.
New Years is arbitrary. Every day is the anniversary of some point on the calendar. China has its own New Year and they’re doing alright. The years will just keep coming whether we notice them or not. You can be sure of that.
Valentine’s Day is a pink sham dreamt up by card companies who produce false sentiments and litter. The sugar is an obvious metaphor for rot.
St. Patrick’s Day is the lame, white Mardi Gras. It’s also racist and makes it impossible to wear a green shirt without getting in a conversation about it. (Mardi Gras is the lame, American Carnivale. Carnivale is just stupid, especially for those who do not observe Lent. Don’t even get him started on Lent.)
Independence Day promotes nationalism, obesity, drunk driving, and sunburn. It’s a celebration of wealthy tax dodgers.
Easter is an uncanny mess stuffed with mismatched rituals and bad chocolate. Jesus was a zombie. If the Resurrection was real, then Jesus held out on the secret and that makes him a prick. The entire holiday exists to keep the basket industry afloat.
Thanksgiving is bogus. The first one was in Virginia, not Plymouth Rock, and the pilgrims were intolerant fanatics and murderers anyway. Not that it matters. There is no one out there to say, “You’re welcome.”
I worry about my brother sometimes. I don’t think he has a very good attitude. Not just toward the holidays, but life in general. I am not always sure how to be a good sister to him. Like today, as I helped my mother bake him a cake and drive to the store to buy candles. I did it for my mother. The cake will not make my brother happy.
I try not to think about death so much. I want holidays to remind me of life. Life is happening, I tell myself. Not passing by. My brother looks at an hour glass and counts the sand. I am happy just to see how it looks as it falls. My brother sees the sun as the headlights racing each day away from him like a truck on the highway. He sees the moon as its taillights glowing in the distance. I see pretty balls in the sky.
I wouldn’t be so worried if he were more mature about it. If only he thought about death in a healthy way, not dwell on it so much. Then it wouldn’t bother me that he hates the holidays. A lot of people probably do.
My brother is uncomfortable with all these people gathered around, watching him. The candlelight dances on his face and makes him look like he is listening to a ghost story. I try not to worry about the future. He’ll live, I say.
Still, it’s a shame to not enjoy the holidays, even just a little bit. Especially when you have so many of them, a whole lifetime, laid out in front of you, I think as I watch him struggle to blow out his candles. All twelve of them.
The small boy filled his hands and stuffed his face until one day he was a man who thought himself old enough and wise enough to be thankful, but he was still hungry so he spent his time eating and working for money to pay for his food and shelter and considered himself too busy to be thankful.
I will be grateful later, he thought, when I have more to be grateful for.
So the boy grew older, without noticing at first, busy working and sleeping and filling his hands and stuffing his face and now also on the lookout for a woman, a thought that always filled his head, even when he was supposed to be doing other things.
There is no time to be grateful yet, he thought. There isn’t even time to age. When I am old and have very little left to busy myself with, then I will not be able to do anything but lie in my bed and be grateful. So, of course, I will do it.
I hope that will never happen.
He stared straight ahead, chewing.
Age came as small gifts: a steady cough when running, bouts of constipation and bloating, a knee that went pop when he walked up steep steps. He accepted them because he did not know he had the power to refuse, but be did not pause to say thanks.
Later on bones became raw and brittle like crackers. Still, he went on eating. These fingers will get fat, he said. Very fat, like swollen bones. Everyone got over it. He/we always just asked for a couple more bones. Something, at least, to chew on. The boy was very old, and we were too, just then.
I am excited to one of almost 50 writers with poems featured on the 50-foot LED Baltimore Art Billboard on top of Metro Gallery at the corner of Charles and Lanvale, across from Penn Station. If you are in Baltimore, look up to check it out. Writers include: Anne Frydman, Madison Smartt Bell, Jen Michalski, Michael Kimball, Justin Lawson Isett, Juliet Escoria, Jessica Anya Blau, Cort Bledsoe, Stephen Michael McDowell, Dave K., Tim Paggi, Julie Reiser, RM O’Brien, Sarah Jean Alexander, Joseph Young, Heather Rounds, Erik Wagner, Fitz Fitzgerald, Jenny O’Grady, Yatsura Still, Tracy Dimond, Timmy Reed, Madeleine Mysko, Elizabeth Hazen, Bob Schofield, Marion Winik, Juliana Grace, An Tran, Justin Sirois, CarlaJean Valluzzi, Stephanie M Barber, Mike Young, Christopher Morgan, Brian Joseph, Scott McClanahan, Dylan Kinnett, Barbara DeCesare, Mychael Zulauf, Dianna Dragonetti, Amanda McCormick, Adam Robinson.
Beautifully displayed on top of enso drawings by Madison Smartt Bell.
Curated by Carabella Sands.
Here is a link to their website: http://www.ledbaltimore.com
I wrote a little story about what it might be like to casually cruise into a fantasy world and it is up now at SwarmMagazine. Here is the link: http://www.swarmmagazine.com/lets-take-a-trip-with-timmy-reed