Strange remote corridor with cement walls flaking into watery step-stones, dark found a friend, and we walked; alone sings a nothing and what a funny thought came to mind about let freedom ring. -M. Taggart
I can’t write as hard as I want to. My society can handle it, but the agents controlling the pathways to the publishers cannot and the publishers cannot. Something needs to change. The best current writers are not the ones sitting on bookstore shelves.
That’s my opinion.
(I’m lucky and blessed to have been published by amazing publications. I’m referring to the large publishers that tend to publish the same old, same old. The best piece I’ve submitted to agents once triggered this response, “Yea, I can’t touch that.”)
I’m 700 words into my new Horror Story, “The Stump Maker,” I can’t wait to submit this! I know how it’s going to end….it’s just a matter of letting the words flow and filling in the dots. …
I hope everyone is doing as good as possible and that your day is treating you well. And please, remember, it’s a beautiful life if we let it be, even when it rains.
Bodies in The Basement won Publication of the Year, non-poetic, on SpillWords Press, NYC. I invite you to read it..
A boy sits in his hectic mental lane waiting for the nothing to come. Where finally his mind is released and feels empty but not alone. Weightless and gone from the everything. The wind blew, shuffling the branches, he, hardly noticing felt the oncoming of the nothing and the wind was in the way. -M. Taggart
My story, Bodies In The Basement, was nominated publication of the month on Spillwords.
I felt a feeling of relief. Not complete excitement. I’m not sure what that was all about. All I know is I’m sharing what has happened and I’d like to make more happen because happenings of something worth while are better than things that are not.
Cheers and thank you, any one of you, for participating in the voting. It was you who deserve this.
Only twelve pieces are selected publication of the month. And only twelve authors are elected authors of the month. Of the thousands of pieces that are sent in.
In town is a bench viewing a man chewing his brain,
with little resources to find his thoughts; the bench cared nothing
for the perfectly structured oak tree whimpering in the chilly wind,
instead the bench wished to be ripped from its foundation and
connected to the man with the unruly thoughts. There at least
might live something, even if not holy in nature, possibly there
was hope. The man teetered, then steadied himself by grasping
the oak tree, “Aren’t you the friend I need,” the man said while
grinding his teeth and gazing upward and through the leftover
I’m almost ready to write.
It’s a strange feeling knowing that I’m putting if off.
A purposeful thing found in the back of a thought,
lingering, like a vibrating sponge left on the beach
just out of reach of the waves.
Soon though, I will.
Maybe I’ll remember some of it.
Morning dripped with pleasantries
setting itself in accordance, with nature,
our very senses just before our last breath
of sleep, and awaiting with the first glimpse
of sunrise, our first awakened thought.
Nothing is as accessible as our own thoughts.
Yet we twist, pull, harm,
and even hide them on ourselves.
It seems especially so when
pertaining to our mental health.
We know the truth. We know what to do.
But life’s tracks laid in front of us aren’t
always a thing of beauty and taking
the correct action can often mean
destroying lives. Ah, the pull of loyalty
on a child’s heart is to pull them into
tiny pieces- pieces that don’t always
fit back together,.
I’ve yet to fill my soul’s curiosity about what I might learn next. -M. Taggart