To read Paula Hawkins’ The Girl on the Train is to take a lurid trip not only on a locomotive clacking its mundane way down the steel tracks of London but also to descend into the mind of a woman slipping earnestly toward madness. From a window seat on a commuter train
Dear Friends, Today is kind of epic in the history of little word studio. Why? I published a book. Well, an eBook but it’s there on Amazon.com, alive and well, like a literary embryo floating amid the goop of the Interwebs, ready to breath its first baby-book breath into your tablet,
By Melissa Marni Dixon knew the exact moment when he crossed the county line. The deflated tension, the automatic exhale. Cops in Desperado were slow as the town they rode through on old horses or rusted police cars. Here rock and roll meant windswept stones and lonely tumbleweeds. Here time
In her seventeen years of life as they had so far been lived, Abigail Fountain came to learn there were exactly four things she absolutely could not stand: 1. Tomato sauce. Because really what was the point of some soupy version of a fine-enough vegetable? Or fruit. Or vegetable. 2.
The secret door. Over the mountain, across the wood, behind the waterfall. They had found it. Finally. Now they just needed to open it. But how? And why? Because some cross-eyed, old man told them they must. Because something in his appearance – skin like crinkled parchment paper wrapped against
“Flood every river of your mind with only the muckiest of water and you will forever be quenched with the thirst of appeal.” -Salamandre, excerpt from a rejected submission to The Brixie Journal of Jangular Babbles and Jingular Enterprise, Spring Vol. XVII The first night among the shelves, Salamandre couldn’t