If one pedals on down to the center of the page one can now have the pleasure of meeting my short story "Wingbeat" in the new edition of the Bicycle Review. It's about a girl in a private hospital who was sequestered in the basement of a maniac. It is from the point of view of her psychologist, who has escapist tendencies when confronted with such an atrocity and will beat around sympathizing to editorialize on the goings-on of the hospital staff as a means to avoid confrontation with the girl, of whom she is ultimately very scared.
Earlier this year my story "Bone Flute" got cozy at Sein und Werden. It is the manic recollections of a badass whose husband has committed suicide an indeterminate amount of time ago as she is slowly snake-charming herself out of paralysis. She has a small daughter. Patti Smith's "Ghost Dance" figures significantly into the ambiance.
Otherwise, since I cannot leave it out, there is my first contribution to literary-anything: my poem "My Aura" in Gloom Cupboard, which is not very long and worth the consideration.
The occasion for this self-congratulatory aggregation: I think there is one. I have to see it form in order to properly assess it. Meanwhile I'm going to wile away my excitement into a cool haze by reading Steven Pinker in the bathtub.