Friday, May 30, 2008

Three Lovers in a Forest

The Edge of the World specializes in publishing apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic fiction. Occasionally, we run poetry. If you reworked "Three Lovers in a Forest" into a poem, The Edge of the World would consider placing it in our Oceanus section.

"We'll never pass the Caucasus."
"We'll never make the river."
"We're mired in the forest."
"We'll grow tall to reach the sun, heliotropes, and paint our faces with crushed red currants so we resemble flowers rather than women."

(They begin to fight about more quickly crossing the Caucasus.)

"It's the Land of Nod, if we wander here forever."
"Look at the bruisepink sky."
"Soon the sun will set."

I'm sorry. This still doesn't read as a poem.

Copyright, 2008, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Thursday, May 29, 2008


Lunch. An agent and a publisher.

G. Mort: Yeah. I read "Viscera."
Agent: Did you like it?
G. Mort: Ed Winslow is onto something. A harrowing, intricate farm novel.
Agent: Good to hear.
G. Mort: Afraid I'll have to pass though. Unfortunately, I only enjoyed one piece of "Viscera":

"What time is it, Winslow Homer," I ask him sarcastically.

"Time to wake the chickens, my girl, and time for picking their feathers," the gritty man says, "the ones we put the knife to when the chopping block blade is dull. Have you met the girl who brings in the chickens, Jennifer? Have ya' met her yet?"

"Yes, I met her in the morning. She seemed to be moving forward, thinking of things ahead of time, and then lopping off their heads with her down-swing too low. She was awkward with her strokes, but consistent in them," I tell him.

"Yes, the chickens follow her around the grounds like she doesn't make them into giblets. They don't know she eats them," the gritty man says.

"Stupid fowl," I say.

"Yeah," he says, "those birds must be pretty dumb, not knowing she makes giblets from 'em."

Agent: It's a novel in itself; a mini-novel, if you will.
G. Mort: Won't find a publisher for it, not as it is. Maybe rewrite it like the excerpt. See how that goes.
Agent: More dialog then?
G. Mort: Oh, yes.

Copyright, 2008, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

Wednesday, May 21, 2008


[Beginning of correspondence]

we are seeking your best ficiton, non-fiction, poetry, and artwork for our winter 08 issue.
also. new flash fiction stories posted tomorrow on the blog. check em out.
take care -

Hi --
I'd be interested in submitting work to your online journal again; however, you unsubscribed to my blog, which makes me wonder if you've lost interest in my work. The last time I submitted something you asked for a submission from me. Let me know if you're still interested, and I'll send something your way.
Best Wishes,

dear jennifer -
no i have absolutely not lost interest in you or your work. my page was loading so sloooooooooowwwww, and i contacted the myspace folks and they said things like blog subscriptions, blog posts, html comments, number of friends, can all slow it down. so i cut back. likewise if you posted an html comment that is why you dont see it. even my b-day comments i got rid of - so sad. but yeah, please submit anytime. the responses to limp dick man were great. take care - bg

Hi --
Glad to hear you haven't lost interest. Here is a piece that I'd like to submit. Please let me know if this is the correct way to submit a piece to you, as I forget what the method was the last time. Let me know if you're interested in "The Other Woman" or not, as I have many more pieces I can submit. Thanks.

The Other Woman
Who cares whether or not the woman walking through the room is real? It's not difficult to touch her, only rare that she be touched. I've seen someone like this before, at the time when everything was other: everything was other until nothing was other anymore. It was all the same. A deep feeling of uneasiness fills her stomach. She faces the large buffet and sees there is spinach among the items. When she looks outside, wind blows sand against the window. No matter where I stand in the room there isn't enough light to see clearly. And if I could see more clearly, the shapes might not seem so dusty and alien. My anxiety is intermittent; but not for a second do I fail to discern the shape of complete dissolution. Trapped. Worse than an animal. She paces in a circle. If her head were cut off right now, her eyes would still glow a feral, yellowish shade. When you look at her from far away you'd be scared to look into her eyes; but when you would get closer they wouldn't be as awful. The insides of the yellow part might follow you as the eyes of a person might follow someone walking through a room. Her hair is short and dark. Her eyes have eyes inside themselves. The gleam in them is biting. When I see her eyes the next time, she has no bodily form. Her eyes are sewn into a small piece of dark blue cloth. There is a flap that folds over the top, and, when I lift it, her eyes are underneath, small, round, and crazy-looking.
Copyright, 2007, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

dear jennifer,
i read a lot of your stuff on your blog. the stuff i like the best is the kind that feels like someone has been slapped across the face, stung, bitten, etc. after i'm done reading it. this is more abstract. i dont necessarily like abstract. i prefer action and imagery. - bg

Hi --
Is the following piece more to your liking?

Prick-Lips and the Cock-Sucking Dick
Well, that one woman who sucked my cock, she came back over to suck my dick again. At least I thought she was coming over to let me stick my prick in her mouth. But she wasn't in a dick-prick-cock-sucking mood. She was in a "I'm a prick myself" mood. Like I said before, when she opened her mouth, she could be a real prick. She had all kinds of shit to say about what a cocksucker I am. She thinks cocksuckers should suck their own cocks, she told me. I wouldn't let her suck my dick then. She wanted to suck my cock later, but I said, "No, not now," to her. And she got upset about it and started crying. I wanted to slap her with my cock then, right across her face. I hate seeing anyone cry. "Fucking cocksucker," she said to me, hitting me in the arm. "I said I'd suck your fucking cock," she said. "It's too late now," I said. "You're a prick," I told her. I said, "You've got a penis mouth with words that spew like come." Prick-lips hit me again. I did nothing. "Hey, prick-lips," I told her, "get out." Then she started to throw plates around the kitchen. "Prick-lips! Prick-lips!" she yelled. "You're a fucking prick-lipped bastard." I guess I deserved that, for calling her prick-lips and all and not letting her suck my cock.
Copyright, 2007, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved

hello jennifer -
i really like the guys tone here, it works well, but theres too much cock here for my taste. whatever that means. what else you got? - bg

Hello bg --
Obviously, the whole point of "Prick-Lips and the Cock-Sucking Dick" was to use the word "cock" as much as possible to create an overall tone. I couldn't have achieved the tone you like without having used this technique. You seemed to like the "Limp-Dick Man on Date" piece previously on your page. I guess "cock" and "dick" are different, eh? Unfortunately, I think our styles diverge. You said you've read through my blog. If you want to post something that's on there, let me know. Otherwise, I'll find somewhere else for my work.

Author's Note: I sent "Correspondence" to "bg" with the following note:

Hello bg --
I call this "Correspondence." Perhaps you like this piece. It makes an interesting sort of meta-fiction, I think.

"Very nice," bg wrote.

[End of correspondence]

Copyright, 2008, Jennifer Chesler, All Rights Reserved