moving

Mom found a house in NC and they're flying back today *sigh.*

Then we're going to be moving in two weeks. :(

under strange and distant stars

My entire family is moving down South. My brother already moved to VA; my aunt is in FL; my sister is moving to FL; and my mom, stepdad, and I are moving to NC. I am not a fan of moving, because I have a feeling that there are some people I might never see again if I move. Sometimes I stay in touch with people, and then they get too busy to contact me, or it gets too expensive. Perhaps I will have a better way of life in NC, but I would miss MI because I was born here, and everything I know is here. I like traveling, but home is always the best place to be-under familiar stars.

I tried to get a job here so I could stay, but MI is slowly going downhill, especially where I live. I will especially miss my friend, Try.

jim baen died!

Not much to update. I am still waiting to hear back from some publishers.

Recently, I had a birthday, too, on June 28th. Also found out that Jim Baen died on my bday, he is the publisher of Baen Books, which is where I sent my fantasy novel.

poetry

by the way, does anyone know of any good poetry publishers? thanks.

new poems published.

Go here to read my newest poems:


http://yasouonline.tripod.com/id59.html

writing juice

If you are a writer, please submit your work here: www.writingjuice.com they publish poetry, stories, and articles.

thanks!

apryl

speculative poetry

I rewrote the article for "Writing Juice" twice, all I have to do is type it up on the computer. It's fun to write articles but I like to write things that I already know about-it was a writing article, but the Editor wanted me to write something about writing groups and I had a hard time figuring out what to write. I have never joined a writing group, around here they only have writing groups for teens or for older people.

Anyway here's a new poem:



How to Grow a Kingdom (24 lines)

I've got to have the
chance to exercise my right
to look out of windows &
see the world for what it is:
shaded and dark
a night without stars
and the ruined portrait
by Leonardo da Vinci leaning precariously against the wall
it will fall
if you touch it
don't let it fa
l
l

life puzzles me but there
are still flowers,

there are purposes to why im here
the lingering smell of coffee
reaches my nostrils
those fresh beans magic beans that ive hidden
in my pocket
hoping to plant them to
grow a kingdom.


(I'll still post that book review sometime this week.)

strange horizons

"Strange Horizons" published my poem. If you want to read it go here: www.strangehorizons.com

AND they paid me twenty dollars. Whoot!!

Apryl

I have not written anything worth posting lately. When I do write something worthwhile I will let you know.

Hope everyone had a good Easter and New Year (Cambodia's New Year is around the same time as Easter).

Here is a good link for publications on the net (and print):

www.clmp.org

Acquaintance With Time

I saw her face, Time, so quiet and still.
I passed before her on the grass,
I did not know it was her until,
my watch moved slow as melting glass,
glass that I wished that I could fill.
She spoke to me; no words I heard,
for her beauty was bright to see,
I could not speak but a word,
my mind fluttering like a frigid bird,
and then she walked away from me,
and I could speak again at will.

Ode To Spring's Lament

It is springtime; the sky is bluer than
the blue upon which I see
Heaven's clouds.

In the thawness of an old winter, we
weep words no one else can hear;
our hidden heartache is steady.

It is always springtime when
darkness blooms.
I call Ode to your sweet
lips,

Ode to the crowd of the unlamented eye,
Ode to bliss which comes
straight from Heaven.
Lilacs bloom on garden walls;
it is Springtime.
Hear the birds twitter at dusk.

-From my chapbook, Winter's Light

thunderclouds

Thunderclouds
wrestle with drops
of wet,
giant spit

that fall from the sky
and make love
to the ground.

back

Back to writing my fantasy novel.

that was nice of them.

Dear Apryl,

Thank you for submitting your work to Pebble Lake Review. Unfortunately,
given the volume of submissions that we receive, even QUALITY work often
has to be rejected. Please be assured that your submission was read
thoroughly and given careful consideration by our staff. We wish you best
of luck placing your work elsewhere.

Sincerely,


Editor, Pebble Lake Review

mmm fortune cookie.

I finished writing my article for "Writing Juice" Magazine. I have not sent it in yet today because I want to edit it first.

Almost finished with the spreadsheet for "The Rose and Thorn Ezine." Also sent in my article to "63 Channels." All they have to do now is reject it for me. :)
Sometimes I wish I had help with getting published, sometimes I want to get it on my own.

I wonder...do I really WANT to be a best-selling author? I mean, if my books sell well, and they make movies out of them, my novels will become a way for someone else to make money off of my hard work, my ideas.

But still...I have to find SOME way to pay my bills.

As they say patience is the path to all wisdom.

If I learn patience, then I will learn true wisdom.

That sounds like someone's fortune in a fortune cookie.

rejection slips.

I got like four rejection slips this week.

Go me!

aqua

6 months had passed since
that day I did not see you in the park.
It was a gorgeous afternoon
and I was
taking my dog, Her Royal
Highness, Princess of the

Dogs, for a walk. I looked for
you for two hours before
the bums came out at twilight,
and one offered to knit
me a homemade afghan if I gave
them fifty dollars. I declined, but the
word afghan made me think:
do afghans come from Afghanastan?

Do they have trees in Afghanastan?
Or toilets? Where did they get their
water, or "aqua," as they say in
Spanish, though I don't
think the Afghans speak Spanish.
Not the rugs, the country.

Princess of the Dogs--or Princess,
for short--is part Dalmation,
part Sharpee, part
something else: Chihuaha, maybe,
or Mexican.

But she doesn't speak Spanish.
I am not bilingual, though
I know a few
words in Spanish:
"Hola," "Adios," "abuela."
Water is "aqua," there is
not much "aqua" in Mexico.

Does Mexico have many beaches?
I ask a Spaniard this question--
perhaps he is a "hombre"?
He shrugs. "No, chica.
No habla ingles. No aqua."
"Water" is "aqua." "Blue" is azuel."
No means the same
thing in every language.

excerpt from my new YA thriller, "Into the Dark"

"Place is said to be haunted," Jimmee told her. "Maybe some ghost called you here, girl. Maybe you was supposed to be here, maybe someone called you here." He grinned, exposing a mouth full of cragged teeth.

Obviously she was dealing with a loony toon.

"I don’t believe in ghosts," Samantha told him in a firm voice. She was proud that her voice held steady. "They don’t exist."

"Don’t make no difference," Jimmy informed her. "Just ‘cause a man says somethin’ don’t mean it’s true. Hey, kid, maybe I’m a ghost."

He threw his head back and laughed, a cold, dry laugh. It was like leaves scraping across the sidewalk.

Samantha took a step backwards, afraid.

"Don’t worry about me, miss," he told her. "I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Sorry if I scairt you. It gets lonely down here, some nights. Why don’ you stay awhile, girl?" he whispered, his eyes hungry and evil and cold. "It gets mighty lonesome."

Samantha didn’t answer. She turned and ran from the room, her feet pounding on the white tile floor.

She wanted to get away from this place—and the strange janitor with his evil eyes—as fast as possible.

Flower Tones

A voice whispers in the calm moving day.
We forge great shadows on hospital walls.
What sun greets us as we fought in May,
the distant Autumn whose eyes lov'd these stalls?

In yonder early light the sun still shone,
and the windless eaves beat against the back-toned thought,
in early the grass spoke that dawn was gone,
and we liv'd tomorrow in breathless drought.

So we cross great a many leaping tide,
and the seraph was ours to every faithful friend,
the depth of a wild night was theirs to hide,
and light will cross again and strengthen.

We forge each hearth on beating glass wings,
we bang on the golden at crown's distant door,
our silver slender harp as each it sings,
and tomorrow vows its fables like it did before.

When many muse we question the lion's harsh bearing,
the great beast came knocking at zealous hours.
He dregs up those songs that need the hearing,
for his words bellow strongly with the tone of flowers.