A short, non-traditionally-structured story about a boy coming of age and joining a self-condemned order of outlaw knights. Each knight swears to uphold tenets of their own making. Published in the anarchist surrealist journal Oystercatcher.
The day before my sixteenth summer, an Ilthurian came to Set Allowstone and saw me as a florist. At best, I was a witch’s boy; but Dam Seda rated lower than any witch I’d heard of in stories and to be frank even the midwives and healers in town only trusted her concoctions, not her spells or advice. More than potions, I sold flowers. Selling flowers, I assumed, was no way to impress a knight of the self-condemned order.
A very short story describing the fall of a modern goblin city through the eyes of sympathetic humans. Published in Fifth Estate, the longest-running anarchist publication in North America.
Ekset City was on fire. Flares and napalm and hammers and bullets and the angry minds of angry men were tearing through three hundred years of architecture and three thousand years of culture. At the center of the city, a bonfire engulfed the seven pillars of Ekset. A frightful horde of humans paraded through, warming their hands on the pyre of victory and sacrificing every trace of goblin culture to the consuming flames. Black smoke rose up so thick and high it fought against the glory of the sun.
We watched for a moment from a boardinghouse balcony. Perhaps a moment too long. Every book and painting burned was another failure. There were two of us tasked with the preservation of an entire civilization’s worth of art, and an army of men stood in our way.
Flash fiction about a race of living trees learning to find the strength to fight against deforestation. Originally published in the Beltane 2014 issue of the Earth First! Journal.
When the wind runs through the elders, it casts their branches out every which way and I love it. I love when autumn storms come through and take leaves with them and the leaves take off into the skies like flocks and tidings of birds.
I walk through the eldergrove unafraid, and for me that is something. I remember, when I was so young that my mother still wove leaves into my braids—I remember playing in the eldergrove and I skinned my knee and the blood came out, thick as sap, and I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t afraid because I’d tripped over my grandfather’s roots and I knew his blood was the same as mine.