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09 September 2008 @ 05:51 pm



readerjack.com
is an internet publisher where all authors can publish their work in ebook format. Authors maintain 100% ownership of their work, each ebook is copyright protected and assigned an ISBN, and authors receive royalties for each book sold.

Most publishers won't take a chance on new authors. JK Rowling's Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone was refused by 11 publishers before the 12th said they would publish her book. Now she's one of the most well-known writers in the world. What if she had not submitted it the 12th time?

readerjack.com publishes all authors, and gives them the opportunity to have their work recognized. Authors retain 100% ownership of their work, and are free to market it however they choose. readerjack.com has made it possible for authors to get published and expose their work in a way no other publisher has before.

We're currently holding a poetry contest, as well as a Halloween short story contest. More information is available at our Livejournal community, readerjack_lj or at our website
 
 
Hi everyone, I invite all the artists in this community, and anyone else you may know, to submit artwork or writing to our new literary/artistic/cultural/nature and travel writing/scientific webzine Synchronized Chaos!

Information on the zine and how to submit, from the Facebook group http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=20763137372&ref=mf :

This is all of our new brainchild, an art/cultural/literary/scientific/social commentary/essay webzine tentatively called "Synchronized Chaos" (referring to some kind of not-obviously-apparent logic that emerges spontaneously from randomnity, basically a fun way to have a theme without having a theme.)

Sort of a way to help the aspiring artists we constantly meet to get their names out there and spotlight some excellent work which should have an audience but the artists don't want to go through the publication process. And to give people committed to worthwhile causes a way to speak out or to use their personal experiences to educate others.

Everyone's invited to submit (and everything should be accepted, unless it's obscene or hateful). If you are interested please send a submission via email anytime this summer. We're working towards setting up a regular editing board and designating people to handle certain kinds of submissions, but for now you may use my email, cedeptula@sbcglobal.net

We're online in a rough draft form (all the artwork and writing is posted by our promised deadline but the Word Press blog still needs customization, quotes, links, and pictures to make the site more navigable) at http://www.synchchaos.com and invite you to check it out! Think of it as a building in progress, with the scaffolding still attached but with some interesting posted architectural plans.

We are not a paying market as of yet but hope to become one as we grow and sell advertising and/or host contests. The magazine's online contents will remain free to provide artists and writers with the greatest level of exposure possible.

So far we have received a good variety of submissions, and look forward to more! We're also chaos_zine on LJ and would be a publishing credit for any visual artist or writer to put on his/her bio or proposal or resume.

You may either pitch or send a completed product (attachments OK but prefer writing or thumbnails or JPEG images pasted in the body of the email.) Please put "Synchronized Chaos Submission" in the subject line and please feel free to include an artist statement or bio if you would like.

Also - our magazine is as much about building community and relationships with artists as it is about publication. We'd be happy to see artists and writers post and chat with each other in chaos_zine or on the Facebook page and would be glad to comment/critique or dialogue with you about your work if you would like.
 
 
25 July 2008 @ 08:47 pm
"I'm tired of breathing; I don't wanna do it anymore. Don't think I can handle another morning. How beautiful the thought is. Tonight it ends. Isn't that beautiful?"

I was standing on the balcony of the second cheapest hotel in town. I do have some standards. The Asian prostitute I had just very generously given forty bucks to suck me off was walking back and forth on the edge of the balcony's wall. She was sexy, even so close to death. Not a feat most people are capable off. Her words were buried under stereotypical accenting. From the time she walked into my room till now, I didn't believe it was real. Though now I had my doubts. Who fakes an accent when talking of suicide? A professional. Not willing to give up the act for a moment, as if hearing her speak in an Americanized accent would do more harm to my lingering hard-on than the thought of her stepping off the balcony and falling ten stories to her death.

"Come down, please?" What can I say, I wasn't schooled for that type of weirdness. Granted the mix of cocaine and gin in my system didn't help.

"I wanted to be an atheist when I was a child. Nobody up there," her surprisingly long neck tilting back, reviling curves that most can only come close to with the cover of a beauty magazine. "Isn't that nice? Nobody watching you? Nobody waiting. Nobody judging you for what has happened. I was a silly girl. Get rid of Him up there, and you still have to deal with the other seven billion down here watching and judging everything. So boring."

Moonlight can be deceiving. Watching it smother the whore about to die on my watch-and dime-it made the whole situation seem right. Natural, even. Just another day in the post-apocalyptic Garden of Eden. This close to paradise, and who's to argue that.

When she came in the room, she smiled at me. Called me "Sir," and didn't follow it up with a last name. So informal. So relaxed. Of course she didn't know my last name, but that's neither here nor there. She wouldn't have used it. It wasn't in the eyes. Nothing was. Had she been a chalice, it would have made sense. Covered in gold and jewels which just might be magical, despite being devoid of any substance. Too bad for her, she was born a human. Worse even, a woman. The sex was good. I could lie and be overly generous as most are when speaking of the dead, but that wouldn't be right. She was on the job and she let you know it from the word go. No deceit. I shouldn't have hired her, I should have married her.

I don't remember if I reached out. I saw her bare left foot glide out into the night. Her skin was illuminating. It sliced the lonely skies like a knife, and you felt better just for witnessing such beauty. Details of the horrific scene be damned. I hope I reached out. Too unwilling to let something so precious slip away from the earth. As the days pass I doubt the will of my arms more and more. In a month I will give myself fifty-fifty. In a year I'll accept the possibility that I was too stoned and dazed by the light show to have done anything. A year after that, If I'm any kind of man at all, I will repeat her performance, this time off a higher balcony and with far less grace.

I had an hour with her. If I didn't get mugged the day before I might have been able to afford two. Another reason to go out and fight crime in a cape. Sixty minutes to fall in love, and break your heart. That's too much for anyone, let alone a waste of flesh like myself-and don't I fit in wonderfully. Never got a name from her. Besides a smile and a few small points to the timing of business, I got nothing but those few lines at the end. The sentences that made so much sense.

If only she flew as well as she sang. If only the truth was as believable. I picked the wrong state to stop in. That I am guilty of above all else. Who catches up on prosecuting procedure before picking a hotel? I like to think she picked me, when it gets quiet around here. In the daytime when I am allowed to walk the yard, the reality of things come through. I called for a whore, spoke to a pimp, and got whomever wasn't busy at the moment. Though those hours, after the guard on duty hails the call for "lights out!" I know the truth. She saw something in me. She knew I would bare witness, and she knew I would listen.
 
 
20 June 2008 @ 10:37 pm
Hey there, just starting out and working on an extended project. I write fantasy, with a realistic edge to it.

The premise:

The diary of a trainee, or side-kick as he learns what it means to be under the shadow of a hero and where his place in the world is. Marty is a recently graduated soldier training under an Ordinator, named Gracon, who is a decorated warrior.


Outside The Limelight
 
 
18 April 2008 @ 12:18 pm
Phoenix Imprints Presents is now accepting art and literary submissions for its new anthology: 
Ghosts In The Machine, edited by Aitch Jae Esse of Phoenix Imprints Presents, an original collection of short stories focused specifically on the supernatural as relates to technology, most particularly with the Internet/Computers but other areas of technology will certainly be considered.
 
Literary submissions should be less than 7000 words and, while authors are encouraged to ‘push the envelope’ with their submissions, excessive sexuality and violence are acceptable only to the degree that they serve the overall story. Successful submissions will be those stories that tell a genuinely scary, original tale with memorable characters and story arcs. If you have questions about submissions, policies, etc., please email the address below.
  • Submission Deadline:       June 1st, 2008
  • Anticipated Publication       Fourth Quarter, 2008, First Quarter 2009
  • Submission Details:           1000-7000 words
  • Authors’ Recompense:       $20 per story accepted, publication credit and contributors’ copy
  • Artwork Sought:                     Original Cover Art as well as interior illustrations, recompense negotiated based upon submissions.
Authors may submit their literary artwork to the email address below. Please place the following in the subject line: “Ghosts In The Machine: Literary Submission”. Acceptable formats include MSWord (DOC) and Rich Text Format (RTF). Please be certain to include your contact information including Name, Address, Email Address, Telephone and any other relevant contact information.
 
Artists may submit their artistic submissions to the email address below. Please place the following in the subject line: “Ghosts In The Machine: Artist Submission”. Please make sure to include all photographs of work in TIFF, JPG or BMP formats. Other formats may be acceptable if arranged in advance. Please be certain to include your contact information including Name, Address, Email Address, Telephone and any other relevant contact information.
 
Contact Information: AitchJaeEsse@Hotmail.com
 
 
 
23 April 2007 @ 10:22 am
I recently sold my first book. In conjunction, I've established another LiveJournal to report on the project's progress, occasionally provide links about, and writings by, its subject, Paul Nelson (famous for his writings about Bob Dylan and his Rolling Stone cover story about Warren Zevon's battle with alcoholism), and share snippets of information or parts of interviews that may or may not be covered further in the final product.

The new journal shares the book's working title, Everything Is an Afterthought: The Life and Writings of Paul Nelson. Just follow the link.

Anybody interested in learning more about this brilliant critic, whose own life proved just as mysterious and fascinating as the artists' about whom he wrote, is welcome to join. As well, tracking the process of how a book goes from sale to publication should prove interesting. I'm rather curious about that part myself...
 
 
07 November 2006 @ 08:40 pm
Our community needs creative work by mature writers:


Join Evidence of Life!


Interested? Read about us Here

Do you have what it takes? Apply at evidence0flife - A little something for the passionate intellectual.
 
 
14 August 2006 @ 10:58 pm
Life

When I was seventeen I took my friends advice-driven mostly on the pure grain alcohol that we had been liquidizing our system with for the previous three nights-and visited a palm reader. She was a nice looking woman with river-flowing black hair and three small scars on her left cheek; that took up the majority of my imagination. They were very similar to the Hawaiian Islands, just a lot tougher of a sell for even the most seasoned travel agent. Over the course of the reading, the woman told me that I would grow to marry a beautiful lady with a deep and loving outlook on life, and we would live in squalor till she birthed our second child who would be named Ted.

 

  Three months later, despite her 12 years my senior, I married the palm reader. It lasted a month. I still cannot say for certainly why or what ended it for us. Frankly, the why or what that started it isn’t too clear either. Why did I marry her? Perhaps it was the hope that on our honeymoon night, lying in our fluids in the humid apartment I rent from a serious looking German woman (are there any other sorts?), that the palm reader would divulge the origins of the three small scars on her face to me. She didn’t.

 

  And why did she want to marry me? Maybe it was just an attempt at proving her superiority as a psychic with the old “two bird/one stone” technique. Proving herself to be beautiful and talented in the arts of “reading” all with the simple words “I do.” Interesting to know that it was only after a short month of my proximity she gave up the fight for her ego. Returned to the table; five bucks for a reading.

 

 

  Things were never normal for me. Childhood drama? I’ve had mine and a few of some other people’s fill. If you looked at our family photos you might have deducted that I was an only child; but sorry Charlie, you don’t when the toaster oven. Granted there was only my name on the presents under the tree come Santa-time, but I did share my parents, make no doubt about it. My father I shared with the nearest bar, and then later on the quickest high. Gotta jump on that highway for some speed, speed, speed. But that was Pops. I suppose everyone needs something to get a goin’, and some more than most. And some even more then that. It’s hard to describe my father. Druggie, hop head, salt and pepper-haired Neanderthal whose stuck in the 70’s, and a sense of humor that would make a sailor blush-no lube needed. Well, maybe it’s not that hard.

 

   “Momma, she always told the lie,” if I can be so bold as to quote and then totally alter the Bob Seger song. When describing my “gift” for seeing through other people’s bullshit,  I always use the same old tired line (mostly due to laziness), which follows; “Momma taught me how to tell a lie, and Daddy taught me how see the lie.” Sure, it’s filled with all that self-imposed childhood bullshit that you hear from every two-bit double eyebrow on the street, but in my case it’s actually real. Seriously. I promise. I love me mother, not literally-I’m not a Greek, but given the option of spending a great deal of time with her (20 minutes) or allowing myself to be fist-fucked into believing the silly story that men with white breads live in the sky, priests only want to help, and the church really needs some of my donations; well just hand me over to the Lord, and give me a napkin to clean up afterwards.

 
 
17 May 2006 @ 03:40 pm
Enjoy.



Cum On the Lap
by Peter McCann.




Is it always with the rain? Every night like this starts with rain. I swear. “It was a dark and rainy night.” I wonder how many stories start with that? It was a dark and rainy night and I’m sitting in my own cum, contemplating life. Ok, so I’m sitting in some of someone else’s cum too, but that doesn’t matter much. I’m contemplating life, that’s the important thing. What? I have to be a monk is some Tibetan temple to think about the heavy things? Most people have sex, and smoke. I have sex, and think about why Winnie the Pooh will never be happy.

So yea; cum in my lap and Winnie the Pooh on the brain. I got Brian…it was Brian wasn’t it…? Shit. So I may have a Brian lying next to me, and I just know it’s gonna be weird in the morning, so I might as well just not think about it. It’ll be weird if I worry about how weird it’ll be, and it’ll be weird if I don’t. Who needs the grief? Like I have a choice.

I shouldn’t drink so much. Everyone says that. And everyone is right. Drowning in the stuff, and swimming towards the shores of some sloppy night of sex, that will without-a-doubt lead to eggs on toast without any eye contact the next morning. Why do we do it? Is the idea of walking into a place, conversing, and enjoying someone’s company while still being able to say the alphabet backwards, so alien? I’m sure somebody’s doing that. But maybe it gets old, like everything else.

Oh no. He’s moving. The arm…shit, please don’t get up. I really don’t want to talk to you now. Stay asleep. I can’t face you now. I’m too busy sitting here, getting crusty and musing about life. Sleep. Sleep. Wait…ok. Yes, he’s still out. Thank you, Jesus.

Where was I? Sit. Got too scared there, lost my thought. Hate that. So annoying. Too humbling. You can be making this insightful point on like, the ways of things, and the possible dreams that can make it all better and then…nothing. Blank. You go from deep pondering to “shit, fuck, cunt, remember damnit!”

4:30 AM. No work today, thankfully. Does he? Oh my god, is his alarm clock set for some job he has to be at? Is it set to ring and ruin everything? A ticking bomb just waiting to force us to actually speak to one another? Oh please, I hope it’s not. The mission impossible theme isn’t playing, it shouldn’t ring. There’s not a red/blue/violet (violet, god, you are such a fag) wire to cut. Lemme…shit! I can’t reach it from here, no way. I can try to get off the bed, but he might wake up. Can’t chance it. Damn. This is trouble. Ok, it can’t be for at least another hour. Who wakes up for work at 5:30…? Some people do...damnit! This isn’t good. How fast can I get dressed and out the door? Figure it’ll take him 20 seconds to fully wake up and realize what’s happening; that I’m fleeing for my uncomfortable life. Can I make it in twenty? Maybe if I don’t wipe off the cum. That’s not that big a deal. Just shower when I get home. Double wash the jeans. Ok. We can do this. One. Two. Three. Shit. Pussy, faggot! You are suppose to go on three. Wow, he looks cute like that. He really does have cute hair... didn’t notice that before. But, everyone looks cute at 4:30 AM, dummy. OK. On three. One. Two. Three!

Ugh. I hate myself. Ok. Just go to sleep. Be nice in the morning. Smile, remember to smile. Don’t make too much eye-contact, just enough to show him you’re not a jerk, but not enough so he think’s you’re some kind of stalker. Eat the eggs and be nice. Wow, what if he doesn’t have eggs? No, he’s got to. Who goes to a bar, and doesn’t have eggs for the next morning? He’s got eggs. Sure of it. Ok. Sleep now.

I wonder if he’ll want to see me again?
 
 
22 April 2006 @ 08:32 pm
RING. RING. RING.

“Hello?”

“What’s your favorite animal?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your favorite animal, what is it?”

“Who is this?”

“You should know that it is considered rude to answer a question with another. Now, your favorite animal; what is it?”

“If you don’t tell me who this is, I’m going to hang up.”

“What is your favorite animal?”

CLICK.

RING. RING. RING. RI…

“Who is this!?”

“Me. Now tell me what I want to know. What is your favorite animal?”

“I’m not going to play this game anymore. If you call me again, I’m going to call the police.”

“Good, you have enough brain power to make threats. Then perhaps you can use that small pinkish space-waster in your skull to answer my question. What is your favorite animal?”

CLICK.

RING. RING. RING. RING.

“Hi, this is Bobby, I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll just leave a message, I’ll try to get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.”

BEEP.

“Hi, Bobby. I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU, DO YOU UNDERSTAND! CALL THE POLICE, CALL YOUR DADDY, CALL YOUR GOD, IT DOESN’T MATTER! YOU’RE DEAD, DEAD, DEAD. I’M GOING TO SLICE YOUR SKIN AND MAKE YOU FEEL ME AND YOU AND ME AND ME AND ME AN…”

BEEP.

RING. RING.

“H…hello?”

“What’s your favorite animal, Bobby?”

“Giraffe.”

“Thank you.”

CLICK.