There is some jazzed-ness going on right now, as my flash fiction short story, Seeking Same, was featured on The Book Smugglers Non-Binary Authors to Read list created by A.C. Wise. Other featured creators include L.X. Beckett, Omar William Sow and Akwaeke Emezi. Click here to read more!
What’s that? What’s that? My short story, The Tyndarids, will soon be featured in Celestial Echo Press’ collection, The Twofer Compendium. This collection includes intriguing mysteries, thrillers, psychological essays and high fantasy using the theme of twins — all within the short-story format!
My tale is a very personal urban slipstream story about twins named Geri and Jerry. (Admittedly, their mother was not a stellar human.)
As soon as the collection is available, I will post a link to it, with info on how to purchase it.
by H. E. Casson
At times I hate you, Emily
Though as a poet my love is due you
I hate the legendary words
That grew in your ecstatic solitary
The words that have said it all
That my prose is a tease
With unnecessary frills
I hate the room on the second floor
Where you hid out the world
Denying the worth of any
Save those words
All voices, to you, were letters
Shrouded in only white
The scholars say
You shut the door
And turned us all away
So every moment that I do not hold
Every thought that I do not translate to perfection
Every distraction I indulge in
Makes me less a poet than you
Still, I love you, Emily
Though as a poet my hate is due you
I love you for how little you lived
For now your words remain
Unmarred by an overshadowing woman
Until you are not Emily the poet
But Emily the poems
They seem to have been birthed from the very ground
Organic and untainted by human intervention
Poetic purity with no intercessor
I love you because you are already dead
Any your poems are a record
Of a poet before therapy
And self-help books
And Oprah made us whole
And stole our words
Abandoned us, silent
By unburdening our hearts
And curing our muse
Emily, I love you
For as a poet, my love is due you
Published in Jones Av by Oel Press in 2001.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
My new creative non-fiction piece, Rest In Peace, Mr. Dionne, is live and free to read in the second issue of Stonecrop Review. It’s the true story of two deeply urban kids finding a way to interact with nature in order properly send off their beloved guinea pig, Mr. Dionne. The artwork, which is both charming and uncanny, is by Holly McKelvey.
The rest of the issue is also beautiful, featuring fiction, non-fiction, poetry, art and photography from around the world exploring the theme of Roots/Routes in urban nature.
Originally written in 2014 for Centennial Reader, a literary magazine that ceased to exist just as this was due to be published.
“Good morning.” I wave to my neighbour, a man who does not seem to have a job – or perhaps he just works as I do. Part time. Slip shod. Between depressions and times when my brain runs tickety-tock smooth.
He makes the inhale face that real smokers have mastered. It says that, despite what we have learned, smokers are cooler than the rest of us. He nods. He does not talk very often, just glimpses over the fence as we garden, or half smiles when his son plays.
“Morning.” He mutters, shifting the cigarette in his mouth.
“It’s a nice day.” I say, and it is. It is March and it is atypically temperate. Blue crocuses spot neighbourhood lawns, defying the nightly chill.
“Too nice. I guess this is the beginning of the end.” He says without humour.
I can feel my heartbeat in my neck. I try to count the beats to calm myself as I keep walking, now reduced to my own silent, nodded reply.
The beginning of the end. Did I bring my medication with me today? The little, white, powdery pill that dissolves on the tongue like old Popeye cigarettes and takes the panic with it?
I want the calm or, at very least, the numbing. I know if I think too long, if I linger on our warming planet and our disappearing resources, I will lose myself, maybe for weeks or months.
I pull the pill out of a small plastic container that is always in my bag and slide it under my tongue. I know that in fifteen minutes, the panic will start to fade and I will be able to work my job. I will be able to watch the children and smile and play and give no sign that I am imagining the end of the world while I prepare cheese and crackers.
The end of the world is not new to me.
I first met it in church, between choruses of hallelujah and bible verses memorized for pencils or candy. My earliest memories involve the end; films, humming through ancient projectors, showing flames and death, dragons and monsters, chasing us because we did not love god properly. The only way to avoid the end was to escape to somewhere else, up in the sky. A heaven that was perfect and sinless. A place that our human mistakes could not destroy.
When I would run childhood fevers, I would hallucinate the end so vividly that I would scream and wake my sisters.
Even when I walked away from the god that never was, I could not walk away from the end. When my doctor asked me how a teenager develops ulcers, I did not tell him the truth. I did not tell him about television reports of global warming and deforestation. I did not tell him that I had read John Wyndham and Margaret Atwood and William Golding. I did not tell him what I knew – that if the planet did not devour us, then we would surely devour ourselves.
Then I lost my mind and the doctors pondered whether it had been broken all along or whether it had collapsed under all the thoughts that I could not exorcize. They gave me the little white pill, smaller than a sunflower seed. It ate away the edges until I could be cynical, rather than terrified.
I went to protests. I beat on empty oil drums and took pictures of girls with flowers in their hair. I met a boy and smiled sometimes and imagined a future of gardens and kisses and essays and babies. I saw only beginnings and pretended it was not following me.
Some men from England drilled a hole in the ocean floor.
“This may be the one.” Said my good friend. “If they kill all the fish, we have maybe a year. It’s the beginning of the end.”
He kept driving, using one hand to sip the gift I had brought him: soda pop in a glass bottle. He seemed oddly pleased that they were so very obtuse; pretending it could not happen. Perhaps, like me, the end had followed him and it was a relief to stop running.
He was still the person I had know for a decade, but suddenly I could not breathe the air. Suddenly there were not enough little white pills in the whole world.
I was gone for a year that time, buried underneath the fallen supports I had so carefully built. I chose ignorance, until I could learn to tell the voices apart – the ones who preached hell and the ones who preached hell on earth.
I did not want to be obtuse and pretend it was not happening. I did not want to be smart and fall apart.
We have started looking up, they say on the news (even Mr. Hawking says it.) Looking for other planets. Other places to make a home. Somewhere else, up in the sky. A heaven that will be perfect and sinless. A place that our human mistakes will not destroy. We have given up on earth.
To try to save it would require us to change and we do not change.
I try to change. I do yoga. I read books with happy endings. I distract myself with friends whose questions I do not answer. How are you? What’s new?
I am afraid of the dark, I do not say. I am afraid to close my eyes. I cannot shake the ideas. I cannot sheep-count them away. I save the pill for bedtime so that I do not remember my dream-filled sleep with its earthquakes and fires and buildings falling in.
I do not read the news, though it follows me. Headlines discarded on bus seats, radios tuned and turned up loud, click-throughs on Facebook feeds. Do you want to be ignorant? I ask myself. Oh god yes, I answer.
I do not want to live in interesting times.
I’m excited to announce (who isn’t excited when they announce things, really?) that one of my short non-fiction pieces will soon appear in Stonecrop Review. It is a journal with a focus on urban nature. I will post a link when the issue is published. Yay nature! Yay cities! Generally yay to all the things!
I’m meeting with playwright, author and all around glorious human D.J. Sylvis. What could this mean for the second season of Moonbase Theta, Out?
Wait, you don’t know Moonbase Theta, Out?
It’s a sci-fi audio serial and podcast that one fan described perfectly: “The episodes are short and, like potato chips, you can’t eat just one!”
I was fortunate enough to guest star in one of those delicious potato chips. And not to be salty, but I’m hungry for more. Updates to follow (cue mysterious music). In the meantime, go enjoy this fantastic podcast.
On this track, I’m the back-up singer. I got to fiddle around with my voice, playing up and down. It was fun. Recorded by the group Crystal Theory for Somerset Entertainment.
Originally published in December, 2016
content warning: sexual assault, police, swearing, big emotions,
ugly humanity, broken bits, honesty, the president
Due process: fair treatment through the normal judicial system, especially as a citizen’s entitlement.
Due Process Step One
Tell someone. This person may be yourself. Often you are the first person you tell.
If you are young, you may tell yourself after a book, or a flyer in your school, or an episode of Degrassi confirms that the tearing and ripping inside of you is not an anomaly, but a reaction.
There will be an overt message that you are not alone in numbers, but one thousand subtle messages that you are probably alone regardless.
If you are an adult, telling yourself can happen during the assault, or just after, or years later. It can happen when you do that math inside your head that says if I scream he will kill me or if I just make it to the end it will be over and she will leave. Math is a process. Math figures out how much more they have to weigh than you to hold you down. It’s not that much. It figures out how damaged you have to be to be believed without being so damaged that you are not believed. This window is infinitesimal.
It is not fair that this is how you must talk to yourself, but neither is it judicial, so we will move past this step.
Due Process Step Two
Tell another someone. Maybe a friend, perhaps using code words.
There is a fair chance that the person you tell will not believe you. They may explain to you, kindly or not, that it was your fault. This blame is not about you. It is about constructing a safe cocoon of control that says I would not have made those choices, so it will not happen to me or I did something similar once and I am not a villain.
They may believe you, but since they have spent a lifetime watching dashing heroes on film win love by hands-over-ears ignoring no and stop and I mean stop, they will wonder if it isn’t just the way things are. This is also not fair.
Now that you have told someone, you are drifting into the judicial. Everyone you tell, even your diary or your mother, can be called upon later to testify. That’s the process.
Maybe it’s better to say nothing at all, and to smile in pictures at picnics, but then, those pictures may also be called to testify.
Anyone/thing you tell is likely to come back at you. This article could come back at me. Every time we speak, we give a piece of ourselves to that process that we cannot take back with honest words. Words are not proof.
Due Process Step Three
Tell the police. We use ‘the’ with police because everyone knows what you mean. No need to give qualifiers, adjectives. They are the police. The police with candies at parades and dirty looks when you walk in groups with other people from school. The police who, perhaps, look more like your assailant than you. The police may not be safe or effective to tell if you are not yet a citizen, or if your skin is Black or Brown, or if your family has lived here for thousands of years and has survived a genocide. This may also be true if you are not of one assigned gender and attracted, exclusively, to another, if you are poor, if you are disabled, neurodivergent, or just different. If you live in more than one of these identities, it is even less safe and effective.
If you make it to this step, it is here that the process part of due process comes due. You are one of roughly six out of one hundred survivors. The rest need to stop at or before step one or step two.
Here, you sit in a room, or curl up in a ball in a room, or pretend you are not in a room, and try to take something that is bigger than any part of you and break it down small enough that it will fit on a piece of paper that can go in a file in a drawer, or on a computer, and maybe turn into fair treatment in the judicial system.
If this outcome were common, there would be more than six of you. It is not common. Numbers show that. Stories show that. Our arms, and our medications, and our nervous ticks show that.
Due Process Step Four
There are two ways this step in the process can go. You may find, like I did — like a fall from a high height that lands you square on your back — that the last step takes all the wind out of you. It is okay if your process ends there. You are allowed to end your process where you must.
If you proceed, the next step involves lawyers. Lawyers are people who went to school for a very long time to study a system created before most folks could vote or own property or avoid being property. An apple tree can grow a thousand ways, but it is still an apple tree. Until we plant something new, this is our only apple tree. This apple tree sucks. People will tell you to have faith in it. They may point to new branches that have grown since you were considered a person. They may say that the roots are strong enough to maintain us through change. That is bullshit.
Only one out of sixty-five of us will see fruit from this tree and that fruit is often small and full of worms. Have I lost you? Anyone who tells you that you should not have feelings about your assailant or someone else’s until due process is served is choosing not to see that, no matter how nobly an idea may grow, it is only by its fruit that we can truly judge it. There is no fucking fruit.
Due Process Step Five
Some people may think that the previous step is the last one in the process, but there is another. This is a step we take when we’ve exhausted one of the previous steps and found that, no matter what the promise of fairness is, the social contract we have signed has crap clauses. It has the clause that wealthy people, and famous people, and popular people, (and really any people), can succeed despite what they do to us. They can be free. They can be loved. They can be president. It has a clause that says we are to stay very, very silent, no matter what happens, unless the due process tree gives us grand, ripe fruit.
They do not point out the very small text that says it rarely does, except when attractive and convincing humans with pristine pasts and no scars point at very mean looking humans and say, “It was them!”
So what do we do? We hold our hand to our mouth and with a theater aside, we whisper our stories in quiet spaces. We write maudlin poetry and carve lyrics on our bellies. We cry when we masturbate and flinch at gentle touches. We sometimes throw the contract out and shout and shout and shout, only to be met, finally, by a two words that I can no longer bear:
by H. E. Casson
“You eat meat?”
She asked, incredulous
I said no
Then I said yes
It feeds my gut
And teases my nose
It sits in my throat
And flavours my tongue
It’s comfort food
From when I was young
And mother would feed me
A chop so big
I forgot when I tasted
That it was a pig
But then, she cares
Her eyes are wet
She is a cow, in dreams
(Just look at those eyes)
So I rationalize
That I was hungry for almost a year
(No politics for that, I fear)
An empty belly made me see
That I eat them
Or they’ll eat me
And lettuce didn’t fill me up
And orange juice didn’t please my cup
But a pizza pie with bacon strips
Pleased my lips
Reminding me of mother’s chops
The happy smell in butcher shops
And times when hunger was not there
And times when I had food to spare
Published in the Meat issue of (Ex)cite magazine in Winter, 2001.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.