ROSTI - Author Spotlight

ROSTI writes  breathtaking, visceral poetry. Read more of his work here. 

• What genre(s) do you write?  Free verse, sonnets, haiku

• Which do you prefer to write: short stories, poetry, novellas, novels, essays, nonfiction… ?   Poetry

• What genre(s) do you read?   History, humor, fantasy/sci fi

• What made you want to become a writer? I wanted to have voice put to topics of loss, stigmatization and healing

• What is your first memory of writing? As a child - poems for my mother

• What and /or Who inspires you to write? My personal resurrection story inspires my writing, to offer hope to the hopeless

• What is your favorite book? Slapstick by Vonnegut

• What do you look for in a book? Upbeat message

• What turns you away from a book? Darkness

• Who is your favorite author(s)? Vonnegut

• Are you a published writer? If so, what have you published? If not, are you planning to publish or is writing simply for pleasure? I have been published in local writing blogs. I am working on a poetry compilation

Hi! I’m an experienced clinician with over 30 years of clinical experience. I am also a patient with an over 25 year experience in dealing with a terminal diagnosis.

I am a poet, now, and a Certified Peer Counselor. My areas of interest are mood disorders in people affected by HIV-1 and care of mental trauma. I also mentor.

@DJROSTI Twitter, /rosti52 Facebook, @rosti52 Instagram

Poetry Blog: Advances in Mindset

Read We Went On The Boat (a Sonnet for David)

Read 1977

Krisper's Legacy

By Wm Paul DeMent 


Ms. Perchance continued with her daily secretarial duties while keeping an eye on the jittery, uncouth young man as he wandered around the reception office closely scrutinizing the old framed photos and newspaper articles that adorned the walls. “Mr. Page,” she said, “you might want to have a seat. Mr. Rooney is a very busy man, and it might be a while before he has time to see you.”

Carl Page made no move from his current position standing just in front of the collection of the oldest photos on display. He studied them closely, starting with the original Krisper’s factory featuring the old man, and a handful of others, standing stoutly in front of the entrance.

Mr. Krisper himself was decked out in a boulder hat and sporting a stylish handlebar mustache. Each photo was followed in progression of updated offerings as the company grew and the processing plant expanded from it’s humble beginnings to the massive complex as it was today. The management team grew larger in each, the support team filling in behind. As the years rolled by, the photographer found it necessary to move farther and farther from the building to accommodate the ever growing staff, as well as the expanding structure behind them.

Carl shrugged a dismissive shoulder without turning. “I’ve got nothing but time,” he said as he stepped sideways to the next group of photos.

‘You might have,’ Ms. Perchance thought, ‘but it won't be here.’ She shook her head and returned to the department schedules that she looked over before turning them in to Mr. Rooney for his final approval. It was one of dozens of tedious tasks that she performed as the General Manager’s Executive Assistant, but she loved her job here and felt that her work was a benefit to the well-being of thousands upon thousands of lives. After all, the Krisper Cat Feed manufacturing complex was no longer the small town, local commodity that it started out to be, but had been a nationally celebrated brand name for many, many years. After all her years here, most of the work had become S.O.P. (Standard Operating Procedure.)

Literary Magazines and Journals Accepting Unsolicited Submissions

Start submitting your writings to the big boys for publication and build your resume, broaden your audience, and strengthen your author platform — all important portfolio elements publishers look at when considering a writer's work.

The following literary magazines and journals, all highly regarded in the writing community, currently accept unsolicited submissions...

Atlantic
Poetry
Fiction
Nonfiction

The New Yorker
Poetry
Fiction
Cartoons

The Sun
Poetry
Fiction
Creative Nonfiction
Memoir

The Collagist
Poetry
Fiction
Excerpt
Nonfiction

The Kenyon Review
Poetry
Short Stories
Essays
Plays
Excerpts

Rattle
Poetry
Poetry Translations

The Missouri Review
Poetry
Fiction
Nonfiction

Write like it's criminal! 

Microfiction Competition!

I'm happy to announce that Scribblers Chamber is partnering with 121 Words in order to provide yet another opportunity for publication. 

The Scribblers Chamber writing group will host an ongoing microfiction contest, three monthly, each with a seven day duration, each with its own theme. 

Winners will be published on both the Scribblers Chamber site and in the newsletter, as well as on 121 Words. Contest open to group members only, so Join Now! 

First contest open now. Theme: Bloodstained

Three winners will be chosen per contest. 

Submit your story in EXACTLY 121 Words here!

Write like it's criminal! 

Goodbye Alex and the Victrola Talking Machine (Josh Darling)

Twice, I’d struck out with her. The trip to cool down was strike one. My wasting gas driving irritated her, things were tight and gas was money. Her annoyance with me didn’t stop her from getting in the car to escape our apartment. With the air conditioner broken, our place doubled for Hell’s sauna. Her pissy mood went into full effect when we passed Lynn Rd.

“I wonder if a lot of porn stars live on Lynn Road.” An unfunny joke made for myself.

“Why?”

"You know how many sluts take the last name ‘Lynn' when going into porn." We watched porn together, she should know. "There's Amber Lynn, Ginger Lynn, Krissy Lynn, Jamie Lynn, Rebel Lynn, it's like the go-to name if you want to be a whore."

“Lynn was my mother’s name.” Her mother moved in when she did. The first box Alex unpacked was the one with her urn in it. Since then, mom resided on a shelf in the living room.

“You told me your mother’s name was Linda.”

“But everyone called her Lynn.”

“So? You didn’t tell me that.”

“You’re saying my mom has a whore’s name?”

“No, and you’ve always referred to your mom as Linda, how would I know?” I made a note to myself to check the self-help books she’d been reading. If it existed, “Argument Starters for the Busy Girlfriend,” had to be in the pile next to the Deepak Chopra and other bullshit she fed her mind.

Alex slipped out her shoes and reclined in the couch-like front seat with her feet out the window. Her toes pointed into the oncoming air. The wind rushed over her streamlined legs. Their shape guiding the currents along her flesh, pushing the hem of her retro grunge summer dress over her tummy, exposing her white cotton panties. She didn't care. Over the last year working as a nude art model brought in her bucks. At home, she’d always be naked. We’d walk in the door and she’d strip down to her panties. Soon they’d come off. Sometimes she’d throw on one of my T-shirts. She wasn’t an exhibitionist, she didn’t care. If UPS had a delivery, as long as she had on a bra and panties she’d answer the door. When I said something, she pointed out “it’s more or less a bikini, so what is the big deal,” she was right. For the Jehovah's Witnesses, she'd answer the door naked. She assured me it was the best way to keep them from returning. Again, she was right.

She picked at the cracked plastic on the dash, her idea of an act of aggression. Alex was five years younger than my 1989 powder blue Cadillac Eldorado. Which didn’t mean much, if I wasn’t five years older than the car, putting ten years between us. My relationships had taken on a Dorian Grey quality. As I aged, my girlfriends stayed between 21 and 23 years old.

Josh Darling - Author Spotlight

What genres do you write?

When I started writing, it was predominantly horror. That was so long ago, horror didn’t have sub genres. I still call it "horror" not "paranormal urban dark fantasy suspense thriller." A few years ago, I started working as a ghostwriter --it's the one thing that I suggest every writer should do. Part of the gig is being able to write anything. Whether it's erotic werewolf fiction, regency romance or crime. As a ghostwriter, I learned so much about myself as a writer and a person. More than I did in my two years as an English Major.  That's why I think every writer should ghostwrite. I didn't know that I liked writing crime, and "lit fiction," until I was forced to write them. Now I find myself writing between genres.

Which do you prefer to write: short stories, poetry, novellas, novels, essay, non-fiction… ?

I used to love writing short stories and screenplays. For a long time I wanted to work in film because of my dyslexia and that industry is more forgiving with spelling and grammar. Then a few years ago, technology caught up to me and now I write whatever.

From working on so many novels as a ghostwriter, my style is more tuned to “long haul” writing now. Even when writing short stories, I finish with 7,000 – 10,000 when I'm trying real hard to keep it short. I wrote something that was 4,000 words for an anthology recently (Monsters ‘N Things, out in October 2017) and that felt claustrophobic.

    I also love doing spoken word. While my inspiration for writing comes from all over the place a lot of my inspiration for spoken word comes from GG Allin. Granted I don’t get naked, cut myself, eat shit or throw it, and I don’t hit the audience, but I like to keep those options open when on stage.

The Left Right Man (Colin Palmer)

 by Colin Palmer

Warning: Graphic Content, not suitable for the easily offended

1 — Virgin Killer

The bullet entered from just behind her left ear. I timed it so I fired just as she was exiting the car and most of the resultant mess sprayed outside the vehicle.  I didn't like blood.  And the bloody gore from shooting somebody at point blank range was about as bad as it got, especially in the head at point blank range.  Poor bitch.   She knew she was gonna die; I hadn't made a secret of it but I wasn't that callous that I'd taunted her either.  Shit, don't get me wrong.   It wasn't as if I did this sort of stuff on a daily basis you know, knocking off innocent people, women.  But she'd served her purpose and I had never lied to her about what that was.  

Carol her name was, had been, still was I guess.  But it was now Carol whoever, deceased.  Dumb bitch.  

How many times do you have to tell women, don't pick up hitchhikers, never give a lift to a stranger, never accept a drink off somebody you don't know in a bar, don't walk alone anywhere after dark, all that sort of stuff?  How many times do you have to tell the dumb daughters of bitches?   

Yeah, I was so experienced at this shooting game too, let me tell you.  Like, I had shot so many people before I got to Carol, a regular serial murderer I was.  Not!  Until Carol, I had been a virgin.  Oh God no!  I didn't do anything to her like that while she was alive or dead!  What the fuck sort of sicko do you think I am?  I mean a virgin shooter I was; oh fuck; that isn't right either, I didn't go around seeking out and shooting virgins.   What I mean is that I'd never shot anybody before lifting that 9 mm Gloch and pumping that single round into Carols' brain, and I'm neither proud nor gloating about it here either.  I'm just stating the facts.  Nothing more, nothing less.  

So why'd I do it?  Like I said before, she had served her purpose and now she was a loose end.  Well, before I shot her she was a loose end.  Now she was a dead end!  Poor Carol.

I needed to get out of town see, and Carol just happened to be at the service station filling up when I came out of the public toilets.  I heard her mention to the cashier that she was on her way back to Sydney and it was perfect for me really.  Stupid woman stood chatting with the cashier while I slipped out and into the back seat of her Honda CRV. I could have just taken the car 'coz the bitch had even left the keys in the damn thing, not to mention her hand bag sitting on the passenger's seat AND her mobile phone in the hands free charger mounted on the dash.  But if I'd just taken her car the cops would have been on to me before I'd gone twenty kilometres so I needed her see?  

Fucking women are dumb.  And they wonder why they end up being kidnapped or raped, murdered, or simply victims of stolen cars, purses, mobile phones and the like.  "Reclaim the Night" their banners shout when they march en-masse to show their superiority as a gender.  Reclaim your fucking common sense day and night would be a better catch cry for them.  

Carol would learn her lesson the hard way, the ultimate way.  But being the charitable soul that I am, I knew my very actions would save the lives of other dumb broads who hopefully would learn from Carols' mistakes.  Even if it only saved one, I guess it was worth it, wouldn't you say?