Squirrel Play Between the Sheets

There'll be more The Space between Atoms shortly. I promise. I thought I'd stop to point out a new story publication—we struggling writers need a bit of encouragement every now and again!

My weird, perhaps unnerving tale "Between the Sheets" is now live on Yellow Mama. This story is about what happens when the unexplained comes home to stay. I'm willing to admit, as most honest people are, that strange things do happen in life. Often we can find an explanation. Sometimes we can't.

I suspect that's why I like speculative fiction so much. There's a sense of wonder to it. As a friend of mine who's a published novelist likes to say, stories need a flux capacitor. It's a reference to Back to the Future. It's how Doc's time machine works. It's never explained because it can't be, but without it there's no story.

Some day I may grow brave enough to publish nonfiction about the strange things I've noted in my life. This story, however, is fiction.

Now that we're stuck at home all day during the pandemic, it might mean it's even spookier than I'd anticipated when I wrote it. Most of my stories were completed months, or years, before they find publishers. I've got a backlog right now awaiting time for submitting them.

"Between the Sheets" marks my twenty-eighth fiction publication. It's time to get some more sent on their way. By my count I've got eleven ready to go. What I don't have is pandemic time to locate publishers for them.

"Squirrel Play" has also recently appeared in The Horror Zine, also in print format. It was one of the least re-written of my stories, which makes me wonder if I edit myself too much. It seems better than letting other edit me.

In any case, I'll publish the next installment of The Space between Atoms shortly. But good news, among those of us who struggle, deserves to be shared.

Comments

Dusty

My, this thing is dusty. My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic. No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third. With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give. Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out. I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again. I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut? My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago. Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction. Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up. I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best. When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

The Same Old Story

After a story is rejected from a literary magazine—a rather frequent occurrence—I always revise it. For stories rejected half a dozen or more times—a rather frequent occurrence—the stories can shift substantially. In a version of the old saw that “this is the axe used by George Washington to chop down the cherry tree; it has had five new handles and three new heads,” I wonder if the story is the same after such revision. I write in the flush of inspiration. The story comes to me roughly complete. The literati say “no,” and I assume the fault must be my own. I knuckle down and start trying to revise to their liking. The action changes. The ending changes. The characters change. Is it the same story? Is the fault that my addled brain seems to have trouble telling a story someone wants to read? Is it the curse of an internet that makes writers of anyone with fingers to type? I started writing fiction four decades ago. If I’d tried to start publishing then, perhap

Novel Idea

I’ve been thinking that this blog could use a little attention. My problem is—well, one of my problems—I lead a double life. I write fiction under a pseudonym because my real nym is tied to a respectable job. So it goes. One of the solutions to my double life is that I could start putting some fiction on this blog. Good idea or no? I have a novel on which I’m working and it won’t likely find a publisher, so I could start pasting it here, in serial form. On the other hand of my double life I have a nonfiction book under my nonfiction name that is currently due at the publisher’s. I need to spend time on that too, and I have a job. And the lawn isn’t going to mow itself. So I’m thinking that instead of neglecting this poor, but truly loved, child of a blog, maybe I could feed it fiction. That would at least keep it alive. Right now it’s like a cactus, getting water only a few times a year. Is that a mixed metaphor? Can water be food? When dail

K. Marvin Bruce

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