fiction author

An Avocation for Breathing

A story with a protagonist whose perspective requires an associative, free-flowing use of language.

inspired by Friederike Mayröcker

Her 1988 story “my heart my room my name,” was written entirely without punctuation, which inspires the breathlessness of these pieces by not utilizing punctuation.

vignette i: breath

When I took a course on modern poetry at a university where classes were taught in crumbling brick buildings with decaying ivy and windows held together by glass glue the professor told me that a comma is an inadvertent signal to the reader to pause to take a breath and that by writing long sentences we are forcing our readers to draw in their breaths sharper deeper like they are swimming or more accurately drowning but this isn’t a poem modern or otherwise this is me introducing you to who I am so I’m sure you’re asking who am I why is my story something special but it’s not it’s not I don’t know how to convince you otherwise but that summer I turned nineteen my breathing was sharper deeper and I thought I was drowning but instead I was swimming yet no-one told me that I was in a hotel pool not an ocean like I had come to believe and every time I tried to swallow everything shimmered at the edges like a dream sequence or a hallucination but I was not dying I was not dying and you told me I was beautiful I was beautiful but I thought those were just words you said to a corpse because I was so sure I had said the same thing to a body in a glass case in a museum near Pompeii because I was so sure I had said the same thing to my grandfather’s body in a cherrywood box in a funeral home down the street from his empty house but no one told me no one told me what you’re supposed to say when someone dies but I was just a child the professor told me that a comma is an inadvertent signal to the reader to pause to take a breath but we’re not breathing are we?

are we?

vignette ii: love song

He asked me if I only write sad poems like elegies or church bells with missing clappers but I know I’ve written happy things whether they’re memories or fiction I’m not sure but this isn’t just a collection of all the times my heart was an explosive and detonated too soon and I hope you’re remembering to breathe because all of this is building up to a climax that’s not all that exciting yet I want to be the vial of peppermint oil that invigorates you when you thought you were dead yet I want to make you laugh so hard you feel like you can’t breathe but I can’t believe I’m jealous of a ghost and yet my memory isn’t what it used to be but I keep reading articles about our shrinking hippocampus and our galaxy expanding faster than it should and books about false memories like that will stop the onslaught the ravaging of my mind by that plaque that destroys but I guess you don’t realize how scared I am of forgetting what if I call you by the wrong name or what if I offer you a honeysuckle flower and you tell me it’s calla lilies and daisies you’ve always loved and I guess what I’m trying to say is that this is a love story even though it doesn’t sound like one because all I’ve wanted all I’ve ever wanted is to be your home and to be the vials of peppermint oil that invigorate you and yet I’ll write you poems until my ink well dries but he asked if I only write sad poems but isn’t love just a sad villanelle or a brokenhearted sonnet?

isn’t it?

vignette iii: exhale

are you still breathing?

are you?

vignette iv: lungs

Anyone who knows me knows my poetry is a catharsis and hears the truth veiled underneath the metaphors and listens past the rustling of tree leaves and knows there’s more beneath the surface and knows I’m more than my past because if you just look at the faded Polaroids and old cassettes you will see one version of me but there are so many layers so many layers like when you’re painting and you wet the canvas and layer one coat of acrylic over the top of another and some kind of masterpiece emerges and this is what it’s like to live some days I’ve heard neurodivergent voices refer to it as “masking” and while that feels applicable I wonder where does the mask stop once it adheres to the flesh because I feel like I’m crafted of papier-mâchépapier-mâchépapier-mâché and glue and I’m afraid to peel back the mask because what if what’s underneath is ugly it is ugly isn’t it and I’m afraid because people are often repulsed by what they don’t recognize and if I don’t recognize myself in the mirror does that mean I’m a monster and are monsters even capable of breathing when he stitched a man of mangled flesh and confiscated organs did he know he was building a monster and were those recycled vintage lungs of his creature capable of breathing because I forget to inhale and exhale some days because I forget to breathe some days because I forget to be human some days and am I a monster because I always told myself I was a Russian nesting doll but I forget to breathe some days and is this my punishment for being a bad daughter and am I a bad daughter because my mother often told me that I was a thorn in her side and thorns don’t have lungs

does this mean I’m a monster?

does this mean I’m not breathing?

A drabble is a short work of fiction of precisely one hundred words in length. The purpose of the drabble is brevity, testing the author’s ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in a confined space.

He had vanished all those years ago. All I had left was a pressed flower and an empty pack of cigarettes to remember him by. He offered me a world I could not fathom, so I Iingered behind. I guess the dying don’t lie. I promised I’d wait. Last night, he reappeared in a dream only to say I miss you, and that was enough. His eyes told me every story his lips could not, and I told him I dedicated every song to him at every show. I told him about the lightning showers. And that was enough.

Every time the sun rises out her window, she’s at a split in her story. Autobiography isn’t etched in stone. It is impermanent like fingers caressing rivers or kisses in the rain. Everything is until it isn’t. Everything feels fabled until you see how easily the stories dissolve. They crumble in the rain. She tells stories of her youth about the boy who drew blueprints for a house he could never afford. About the taste of honeysuckle in June. She can change the narrative. She can be the new beginning her children never had. Just run and don’t look back.

When I say I want to be described as breathtaking, I hope he realizes I mean beyond what can be seen. I hope it doesn’t sound like I want to be the girl in the sundress among a field of wisteria with golden light. I want my words to captivate. My soul to catch on fire. I want him to look at me and see my aura ablaze. I want to write poetry and stories that stop people’s hearts. That makes them forget where they are. Forget how to breathe. My words could be as unique as fingerprints. Don’t forget.

Isabelle Palerma

Imperfections

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about my art and my writing. I have found sketch pads and notebooks where I have ripped out nearly every single page because I was expecting perfection out of myself. What a lofty goal – perfection ten out of ten times? It was ludicrous. I realized I stopped enjoying the process when I was so focused on the outcome.

It took me some time, and a lot of journaling, to revitalize my love for writing and art as a process. I spent today working on a painting where I told myself, no matter what, I was going to keep it and not throw it away. I accidentally spilled a blotch of purple paint on the corner and my first thought was that I needed to fix it, but instead, I just lived with it. And you know what? All Hell didn’t break loose. I survived, and the painting survived too.

I used to have a friend who said, “It’s not in spite of our flaws that we’re wonderful, it’s because of them.” And that’s the attitude I’m bringing into the new year. I’m enjoying my imperfections, whether it’s in my poetry, fiction, or art. I stopped creating for so long because I was expecting too much out of myself.

Now, I’m back to simply enjoying the process – no matter what the outcome may be.

Isabelle Palerma

News!

My poem about my grandmother’s battle with Alzheimer’s is being published in an anthology, Forgotten Fragments of Time, to raise money and awareness about the disease, and I just found out a small press has accepted Catching Dreams, my debut novel!

They want to publish my book. My baby. The one that has been formulating in my mind since I was twelve and having vivid dreams about my grandpa after he died. The book that all began because I kept asking myself, “What if?”

They want to publish it. I never thought I’d be a traditionally published author, but here I am with a contract coming my way.

Isabelle Palerma

Spooky Sunday: Interview with Shane Blackheart

Shane is a disabled non-binary trans author and artist from Ohio. They live with their two cats, and they spend way too much time exploring liminal space voids. They started writing stories at the age of seven and haven’t stopped since.

Having grown up with depression and a panic disorder, writing was often the best way to cope with early symptoms of trauma and agoraphobia. Later having been diagnosed with several mental health conditions, they made it their goal to raise awareness for these diagnoses, as they are often misunderstood.

What is your absolute least favorite horror novel cliché?

“Satanists are evil/violent/the villains of the story.” I can’t stand that because not only is it over-used, it’s punching down to a group of people who aren’t evil to begin with. It’s a tired trope from the Satanic Panic era that we should just all leave behind. I tend to DNF [Do Not Finish] a book when I see it.

If you were locked in a room with your biggest fear, what would you be staring down?

I’d be staring at a big black void because my biggest fear is not knowing, or the unknown and what lurks in it. Death would probably be standing there somewhere.

Where’s the creepiest place you’ve ever been?

Equally creepy and cool, years ago I went to the Mansfield Reformatory in Ohio, which is where they filmed the Shawshank Redemption. They aren’t joking when they say that place is haunted. I stepped into a cell to start taking photos of the second floor rooms, and two brand new sets of batteries drained instantly. On the bottom floor heading toward solitary confinement, my mom and I were the only ones in the room and I kept hearing shuffling footsteps behind me. I got the feeling I was being followed. When I turned around to see if another family was behind us, there was nothing there. I really want to go back to have more experiences.

What do you think it says about people that we like to be scared?

I’m not sure generally, but as someone with an anxiety disorder, it’s a safe way to be scared that I have control over. It’s probably similar to why people like going on roller coasters. When it’s safe it becomes fun, and it makes you feel alive in a way.

Why do you write horror?

To cope with my nightmare disorder. I’ve had chronic nightmares, night terrors, and occasional sleep paralysis episodes since I was an infant, according to my mom, and I’ve carried it into adulthood. I became used to it for the most part, but you never get used to the terrors that stick with you. I have very vivid, sometimes lucid, nightmares that have a definite message or a full or partial coherent narrative. In order to gain control over them and give them a purpose, I turn them into short stories and include some in my longer books. I also just love horror and it’s basically a lifestyle because it’s so close to home.

If you could build a Frankenstein’s monster – a Shane Blackheart monster, I guess – what celebrities would you steal body parts from to make the ultimate creature?

This is a really hard but super cool question. I’d say Johnny Depp’s head, Vincent Price’s brain, and for the rest, I’m not really sure but someone who has a bunch of tattoos because it would make a pretty sweet looking monster, plus it’s just my whole aesthetic at this point. I wish I could be covered in tattoos, if money ever permits.

What would you say is your greatest strength in your writing?

I’ve been told it’s two things: my natural and realistic flow of dialogue between characters, and my unconventional and weird way of storytelling. I don’t really stick to any formulas, and while I understand the writing rules, I set them aside for the most part because I don’t like to hinder my creativity or the honesty of the story I’m writing. My editor says it works well with what I do, so I’ll stick with it.

Share a photo or art of a character inspiration.

I’m an artist myself, and I often draw my own stuff. I can share some art I did of a main character in my current WIP.

When you write an emotionally draining scene, how do you prepare? How do you repair yourself afterwards?

The best way to explain is to bring up a scene I chose to intentionally trigger myself for to write authentically. I put on headphones and turned up a dark ambient album that reminded me of my worst days, and I let the dread just sort of take over as I let the words flow. It was an emotional and intense scene because it had to do with overcoming my worst fears related to trauma, and it drained me big time.

Afterward, I surrounded myself with comfort stuff, like my favorite music, foods, and shows. I gave myself the time to come down from it for a few days. I didn’t really prepare because I’m impatient and just like to get it over with, so the recovery afterward is just as important.

What famous author, living or dead, would you want to be your mentor? Why?

There are a few, but I have to say Anne Rice. Her books were everything to me as a teenager, and growing up, I read more and more of her work. I just admire her mind and how it works, and I feel like I could learn so much from her. She has a lot of advice and videos still up about writing because she loved to help other writers, and one of her messages always kept me going when I felt down about myself and my talents.

She always said that if a story had a burning need to be told, and you really loved it and wanted to tell it, then it deserves to be told and it’s important to get it out there.

How do you feel about banned books? What would be your response if one of your books was banned?

If one of my books was banned, I’d know I did something right. I go out of my way to read wrongfully banned books from the past, and I will continue to do so now. Book banning is dangerous, and it concerns me with what’s happening right now in America. If we’ve learned anything, it’s the books they don’t want you to read that you should be reading the most.

Would you rather be in a room full of snakes or a room full of spiders?

My arachnophobia is so bad, I’d have to say snakes. Hopefully they’ve been fed beforehand.

Share a link to a favorite song or playlist you always listen to when writing.

I make playlists specifically for everything I write, but while I’m writing I can’t have anything with lyrics. My favorite dark ambient album to put on repeat is one that’s been perfect for writing psychological horror: Atrium Carceri and Cities Last Broadcast.

Would you be willing to share a scary scene (no spoilers!) for a book you’re working on now?

Sure! I’m not sure if it’s scary in the usual sense, but it is unsettling.

A dark doorway came into view, and I stepped past its threshold much sooner than I’d realized. Time did not exist there in any way that mattered.

The space grew dark as night washed over it, and a blood moon beamed through from an open balcony at the end of the room. Large open windows that stretched from floor to ceiling lined one of the walls, and red streaks of moonlight painted the floor in slatted patterns.

I approached the balcony and looked out over the expanse of the now red desert. The mountains were closer, but they weren’t stationary.

They began to writhe slowly as if they were exhausted. Human-shaped spirits the size of titans rose from the mountains and sunk back once more, and a distant wailing that grew louder became a droning chant. The titans were in agony, and more joined the desolate cries that surfaced from a Hell they could not escape. I turned to see my void partner backing me against the railing, and beside me stood my shadow man. Around us gathered the cloaked shadow figures in waiting for the intimate ritual to come, and hovering above, the giant eldritch eye reappeared to complete the gathering.

Where can readers find you?

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ShaneBlkheart

TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@shaneblackheart

Instagram: https://instagram.com/shaneblackheart

YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/ShaneLestan

Isabelle Palerma

Spooky Sunday: Interview with Chad Ryan

Chad Ryan resides in the desert of Arizona and spends his days cooking up stories. He loves blending genres and breaking rules to make something fresh. He mostly dabbles in horror, fantasy, and dark fiction. He is a member of the Horror Writer’s Association, and co-founder of Lost Boys Press, an independent publishing house. His debut horror novel, Ghost River is available at major retailers. Online, you can find him on social media platforms under the handle: @writingiswar.

What attracted you to the horror genre?

Since childhood, I’ve been a fan of fantasy and horror in story-telling. Scooby-Doo probably started me off. Using make-believe, whether fantastic or horrific, to explore compelling issues and the human condition is my jam. To me, horror is more than just scary monsters and things that go bump in the night. It’s about pushing boundaries and diving deep into the core psyche of what makes us human. Fear. Isolation. Repression. Horror touches so many concepts that other genres are not necessarily suited to grapple with.

How do fellow authors help improve your writing?

I think being a writer is being an eternal student. I am constantly enamored by the work of others. Style, voice, imagery, technique, you name it. I’m trying to read more lately in the pursuit of sharpening and broadening my own skillset. Being humble and receptive to the work and success of your friends and peers is a great way to improve! If you’re not willing to accept there’s always more to learn, you’ll never push yourself to get better.

When did you first discover you wanted to be an author?

I knew at 16 years old. That’s why I dedicated my first novel Ghost River to myself (at 16). Not to be arrogant, or self-congratulatory, but to recognize that young man and his dreams had finally arrived. Sadly, I lost my way for a lot of years and that boy’s dreams fell by the wayside. Luckily, in my late 30s, I decided to chase those dreams once and for all. It seemed fitting to give that book to him. It was his to begin with. Imaginative, wily, and explosive like he was.

What does your family think about you writing horror?

Ha! I’ll let you know when they find out. I haven’t shared my writing with them. The time is coming though. It’s getting harder to hide what I do behind closed doors, and it *probably* isn’t healthy to do so in the long run. I’m planning on stepping out from behind the curtain when my next book drops. I want them to share in my success too. It’s been quite a journey for all of us.

What is your biggest fear?

Maybe this is corny, but it’s true. My biggest fear is fear. I spent a lot of years repressing my dreams and self-destructing because I was afraid to be myself and embrace the writerly voices in my head. Fear is the killer of dreams and it needs to be shivved.