Finger : Knuckle : Palm

Lucidplay Publishing has put out my new novelette for your free reading pleasure. It’s New Wave Fabulism — focused on the elusive and complex role of the human imagination which leads to a situation that expands beyond that which is limited by the term “reality.” I’m so excited it found a home with the right editor/publisher.

Editor Tantra Bensko writes about Finger : Knuckle : Palm, “I can guarantee you’ve never read anything like this character’s nightmarish struggle thwarted repeatedly by non-linearity of persistence, as she seeks hypnotic understanding of identity of herself and a disturbingly abstract other.

Read Finger : Knuckle : Palm today. If you love it, I’d love feedback or for you to share it with everyone and anyone.

 

Finger_Knuckle_Palm

 

The story behind Finger : Knuckle : Palm:

In F : K : P I chose hypnosis to blend the protagonist’s memory and dreams. Actually, it is a very personal, yet disturbing story. The protagonist, the hypnotist and the obscure figure exist as a trinity exploring internal conflict regarding mental illness and trauma. Each flash chapter begins with a Job epigraph documenting the progress of the narrative in parallel with the journey of Job in the Bible.

The novelette opens with basic dialogue between the narrator and hypnotist and quickly jumps in to the protagonist digging up the unknown at the instruction of an obscure figure and being told to open it.

While writing the novelette and re-writing it, I came to terms with the essence of the narrative and the braided characters, three into one, or for lack of better words, a trinity. These three distinct people are revealed as one in the same, one substance, essence or nature. Nature as in what one is as opposed to who one is.

The symbolism in the narrative carries from the title to the end of the story.

 

It came as a total shock to me that I found the perfect home. I struggled with the genre, where the narrative fit and scoured the internet for the proper home. Somehow, after exploring the New Wave Fabulism genre and Slipstream, I felt it may be a fit and submitted to LucidPlay Publishing. When receiving the acceptance so quickly, I was warmed by the response from the editor:

 

“While it’s not typical NWF I feel it can be labeled as such (but not Slipstream). NWF is focused on the imagination, the stories we tell ourselves to understand the world and our identity, and that fits with the hypnotic element. While it’s normally connected with Fantasy genre, sometimes it’s Horror, which this is a little closer to.

I love how this piece resists closure over and over, how the narrator is dead, a body, and then the story continues on, how it is amorphous and non linear yet keeps attention viscerally. The abstract quality, the ruthless continuation of interaction with the dark figure and the confusion about the self is nightmarish in a truly frightening way, and the prose is continually transcendently beautiful.”

 

I implore you to read it, share it and comment on it. It will soon be available as a free e-book.

 

Warmly,

Ariana

Naked Animal

I am happy to announce the launch of my second chapbook, Naked Animal. This chap explores the secrets of the human condition and the conflict between faith and self. Check out “Trinity”, then buy the book!

Trinity

 

What if I had stood beside Jesus during His passion?

Would you have thrown stones and told me I love badly?

 

What if it were just us? We, us three. You, Him

and me together where our bodies converge

into another ending, a completely different narrative

filled with your forgiveness, one where I am

raped by the muddied feet of my mind, my sin

carelessly painting the sky with the color of your eyes.

 

No one ever told me it would be like this.

That tonight would be a tiny slice of distance

choked down with uncertainty as you and I lie

awake in bed wrapped in guilt’s coarse, black blanket

until the stray dogs chewing on lost shadows

lay siege to the street and we are undressed

by the eyes of the ceiling, peeled back into strips

by the smoky, wet, dirty words slapping us

into the surreal yellow emptiness of the evening.

 

But who are we to question what is real?

 

What is real spoiled quickly into the smell

tempting the dogs, a scent moistening

a bidding neither of us could put our hands on.

 

There is no Braille, nothing to rescue us,

to save the dawn, the sun caught up in this stench

of dead meat. All that remains is humped like a pyre–

you, me, the forgotten father, the son, the life

everlasting bursting on the splinter of a cross.

Welcome.

I am, admittedly, not a blogger, but you see, I have this friend I’m fond of that managed to twist my virtual arm. So, here I am, this evening, writing my opening post to launch my very own author website and to promote both my first full-length collection, The Trees are on Fire, and my chapbook, Forgetting Aesop, as well as all the other wonderful ditties written by me that are available all over the internet. I am a Goodreads author and The Trees are on Fire now has a Facebook fan page. Please, take a look around, click on a few links, buy a book or two. For now, I leave you with the title poem from The Trees are on Fire as a sample of my work, since Amazon’s “Look Inside” feature doesn’t appear to be fully functional yet, although there are two lovely reviews of The Trees are on Fire there. Check them out! Happy reading!

The Trees are on Fire

And not a drop of water fell from the sky.

If the trees are indeed on fire, then why

does the sky only expose itself for the stars?

And if it’s a long way through the wilderness?

If the schoolyards are full of dying oaks?

The questions lurk with the boys running around

the yard. There they climb the open throats of the trees.

There they still come, bodies awakening,

just as we came and played until all the beauty

and laughter bled through the trees.

Things are known to burn here.

It is in this fire they build hearts and amazement—

their imaginations the resilience now coursing

through our veins, only in a different way,

like ghosts arising

from amazement in things that never grew up.

Their innocence

whispers to us: Dream.

As crows swarm over

the trees like cicadas

singing in hot hours: Come here.

Slipping starkly, easily into

the night is sometimes

the answer. Those who

follow the expressways

of the heart,

knowing

we won’t ever

get there.

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