…After having published more than one hundred and fifty stories on his finely wrought and yet incorporeal blog, after having negotiated precious terms of endearment with hundreds of reading and writing strangers and after having created a virtual, almost fleshly creature – more than a character but a creator of characters himself, the serious writer felt the need again to touch something real and be touched by it.
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He noticed a short, strong white hair from his beard on his tongue and decided not to take it out but see what would happen. A moment later, a tiny bear emerged from the cave of his mouth, grabbed the hair and pulled it on his lap to play with it.
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the other day i met a truculently obsolete whale for tea. he turned out to be a budding writer himself. he actually had written a few scholarly works, mostly on the blowhole, and one fat novel.
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For this metaview, Metazen’s parting editor Finnegan Flawnt met the Queen of Flash Meg Pokrass in the formal gardens of Metazen’s sanatorium for insane writers.
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The Holy Father receives his first cheque card as part of a campaign to modernise the Vatican. He insists on leaving his quarters in the early evening alone, under cover, to fetch money all by himself.
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The journey is its own reward, folks. Be bad more of the time, be a dog when you’re a dog and you’ll have more fun being good again one shiny day. Let death have its dominion, one lousy moment at a time.
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Meeting Carol Novack, the editor of Mad Hatter’s Review, was almost as good as other good things (though not quite as good as yet other things).
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London – Fetter Lane cobblestones upturned. Paper garbage. I pick it up, surprising myself. I’m on my way to work. My boss, Mr Cobsworth Mather can kiss my rosy ass.
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from the unfinished list of unfinished, unedited sentences of the four metazen editors collected in earnest for later use | skype fuck skype | your hair | i like | we cannot, at this time
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The fool packed a sand bar for lunch and a drinks of herb salt. But whence he went to play along the rainbow warrior, whom only he could see, who’d admire the mud cakes he’d baked?
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