Skip to main content

Corvus Redux

I like corvids.  Not the disease, the birds.  Often I sit and listen to the jay's strident call and I smile because I know they, among the smartest of birds, are saying something worthwhile.

My short story, "The Hput," has just appeared in Corvus Review.  Here's the link: Hput.

This story, like much of fiction, is based on actual events.  A hput is a real thing, but I believe, only three other people on the planet know what it is.  Of those three people one of them has lost touch with me.  Hputs are real.  I saw one just over a year ago.

Tales exist of children who develop their own personal languages.  Nobody but their twin/friend can understand it.  The idea of a secret vocabulary isn't something I invented, but I do make use of it.  It makes for a good story.

The characters in "The Hput" appear also in "Friday before Senior Year" and in The Space between Atoms.  They are part of a diegesis I'm building.  A universe, if you will.  Writers are creators.


This particular story is very short.  I kept it to a thousand words.  Publishers, it seems, prefer short these days.  I also try to keep my blog posts brief.  You've got a lot to do and I appreciate you taking the time to read this.  I won't keep you long, I promise!

The hput is truly a secret thing.  When the word was coined there were only two of us who knew what it meant.  A friend of both of us insisted on knowing what it was.  We couldn't tell him for reasons that should become clear if you read my short story.

You won’t be endangering your life by doing so.  You won’t find out what a hput is.  And next time, within the same diegesis, there will be more Space between Atoms.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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

Neglectful Parents

If I was a parent I’d be accused of neglect.   I have to say 2017 was the least published year of recent memory.   Not that I’ve been neglecting my fiction, but I had a non-fiction book accepted and I work full-time and commute to that job—you get the picture. I’ve also had a personal epiphany.   If you can write, you should get paid for it.   I know a publicist (not my own; I don’t have one) and she says she won’t let her authors even write an op-ed if they don’t get paid.   I guess I’d never get published then. My Medusa novel had a flicker of hope for a few moments.   A publisher actually wrote back asking for the rest of the manuscript.   That’s never happened before.   Then the editor disappeared.   Even called me by the wrong pseudonym.   I’ve gotta wonder about that because the second half of the novel’s even better than the first. While looking for an agent for my non-fiction (couldn’t find one of those either) I came across several who said they liked quirky ficti