Fire Place

Weird art time sorry. 

Writing Game

I want to do a thing where people can send me asks of five objects someone is carrying with them, a little personal inventory, and I’ll write a little flash fiction piece developing a person around the things.

Please maybe? 

The Kiss - c. essington   (After Gustav Klimt) 

               someone spent too much time on something. 

A tiny piece up on Moonsick Magazine

Is there one particular experience that you draw on in your writing?

There’s no one singular experience, no. It’s usually a mash of a lot of things and they vary a lot depending on what I’m trying to say. Like a potato, a mashed potato of feelings and thoughts. With butter. I write potatoes, end transcript. 

Please feel free to send in any more college/ kenyon/ writing/ publishing questions! I have a lot of time today.

I really love your piece that starts with, "I covered her neck with my left palm as I carried her up the hill." It's stunning!

Thank you! That’s very kind and much appreciated.

A poem I recently had published by Zetetic Record.

Engine Flooding

You can see the cellphone, flushed teal underneath at least three feet of water, shiver when the pond’s surface gets frayed by the wind. You are on your hands and knees.

Just had a short fiction piece published by Maudlin House! Please consider taking a look if you have the interest and a speck of time to do so. 

I’d also love to hear what anyone thinks about it, any comments/ critiques would be immensely appreciated. 

http://maudlinhouse.net/engine-flooding/

The Paper Just Said a Boy Left, The Obit Did Not Specify Homicide or Suicide.

the blue house catches on fire and passes it on like a secret, making lips out of wind, whispering its neighbor to charcoal.

in the basement of the house that heard and caught, a boy is already lighting something of his own and signing it off in kerosene as if that clear,  chemical wash of to-be light is exactly what letters are made of.

he goes up to his bedroom on the third floor to wait for the rise. the ceiling caves in as the carpet starts to fester with heat. the room is biting down, rafters and floorboards chew in towards heartbeats. the boy forgets his name, tries to say it to himself, but without air to inhale, the sounds he keeps his brain in feels too see-through to say.

he stands up, waiting, his biology screams. he manages to squeeze out a sentence, one sentence to himself once he figures that two fires are at work. it’s a little question, and it happens over and over running over tongue it until it smokes, like a match that goes too black to light. he asks: “which one, which one, which one?”

                                - C. Essington 

~I have a flash fiction piece published in Newfound Journal~

it’s here: http://newfoundjournal.org/current-issue/flash-claire-oleson/