Fiction Circular 7/4/19

THE LOGOS FICTION CIRCULAR is a weekly series which collects independent fiction from around the web so as to treat their works to a wider audience. Recommendations for new author/publisher inclusions are welcome.

§00. Editor’s note: Links affixed to author/publisher’s name (if any) will redirect to author/publisher social media; links affixed to story/article titles will redirect to a relevant site whereupon the named piece is archived. The ‘authors’ section focuses exclusively on individuals who author and publish their own literary work; the ‘organizations’ section focuses exclusively on independent presses (lit-mags, e-zines and other literary outlets comprised of more than one person) who publish fictive work of (at least) more than one author. Lastly, the ‘literary ephemera’ section focuses on non-fiction work, including (but not limited to) certain poems, such as news articles, reviews, interviews and critiques. All author/publication names arranged by alphabetical order (including ‘the’ and ‘a’).

§01. Editor’s note on criteria for inclusion: A publication is considered ‘independent’ if it does not rely upon the staff, organizational prowess, or financial backing, of one or more large corporation, academy, government or other large organization. For example, Sink Hollow Litmag will never be included in the circular, not due to the quality, or lack thereof, of their work, but rather, because they are supported by Utah State University (and thus, are not independent). All works which are included are those which were read by the editor during the week of publication; their inclusion does not mean that they were published the same week as the circular containing them.

AUTHORS (ficiton)

From Avani Singh (of Blogggedit), a announcement pertaining to the release of paperbacks for her most recent book, Existence.

From Jan’s MicroStories, some prose sketches.

From Karine Writes, Experiment 228.

From Nin Chronicles (Jaya Avendel), Cursed.

From Søren Gehlert, Dark Shiny.

From Steve Hart, Act 192: If the medicine is with him… (a installment in his serialized novel, The Promise of Shaconage).

From The Dark Netizen, Fell and Brave & Free.


From 101 Words, The Prodigal Son.

From Channillo, The Art of Falling (#1, Thirteen Moons Series).

From Fictive Dream, The Bicycle Orchestra by Helen Chambers.

From Gold Wake Press, their Summer issue for 2019 (featuring Peter Clarke).

From Literally Stories, Stripped by Hugh Cron.

From Spelk, Sixth Period by Andrea Rinard.

From The Drabble, A Fire In A Downpour by J. David Thayer.

From The Fiction Pool, A Morning To Remember by Babak Norouzi.

From The Red Fez, Something True You Never Told Me by Scott Parson.


From Caliath, the poem (Memnos II)—A Silence In Which No One Sings.

From New Pop Lit, a new entry in their all-time American writers tournament, Most Charismatic #12: Allen Ginsberg.

From Public Books, Authorship After AI.

From The Booky Man (David A. Estringel), seven new haikus published at Cajun Mutt Press.

From Writer’s HQ, Why Litmags Matter (And Why Writers Need To Read Them).



The Monster & The Paige

The Squire found the monster sleeping beneath the splintered shade of a dying willow, deep within the ancient forest. Its poisonous carapace the size of a redwood’s trunk, its terrible tendrils slithering like great leeches into the pale, variegated earth. Where once eft and mew had gibbered with frivolity, there was now only silence.

All about the fathomless, grotesque singularity, the skulls of various animals lay in fractured disarray. Bird and bitch. Lizard and shrew. Heifer and man. The porcelain remains of the children proved singularly disquieting.

The Squire unsheathed his glimmering blade and inhaled sharply, quietly, steadying his kettle-drum heart, steeling his fraying nerves. His travel-stained boots furrowed the decaying vegetal carpet. Muscles tensing like corded wire.

“For The Maiden,” he declared silently to himself before throwing his leather-cuirassed body from behind the foliage of the wasted dale, straight for the hideous calamity which lay slumbering some twenty feet off.

The young man had scarcely unconcealed himself when the beast addressed him.

“Thou hath two eyes yet miss my thirty?”

“I care not for whither thou sleepest nor wake. Only thy destruction shalt sate my want. Ruin thou hath wrought upon the fair maid’s crop. And so, by my hand, a like bane shall be befall thee.”

“Then upon thy marrow shalt I sup.”

The great beast shifted upon its amorphous stalk and opened its terrible jaws that bore a likeness to both the crocodile and tardigrade. The Paige brandished his blade and ducked one of the monster’s leathery, vine-like tentacles, then hewed it from the ghastly body with a powerful slice. The beast issued a bloodcurdling howl and barreled forth in squamous, erratic increase.

Again and again the nascent knight weaved skillful circles round the vile aberration, dodging its feral movements and dismembering its grotesque and swarming weaponry. At the last, the beast had more wounds than appendages and swiftly reared up upon its thick russet trunk, lashing out with it’s last venomous tentacle and unleashing a vicious creaking snarl that shook arbor and earth alike.

Before the paige could strike the unhallowed creature down, a voice intruded upon the scene.


The young boy turned to behold Stacy, similarly aged, some eight years old, pigtailed and garbed in baggy overalls, stained at the knees with grass and mud. The girl jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the clearing beyond the wood.

“Ma made pancakes.”

Oswalt smiled, dropped his wooden sword and raced up with Stacy to her parent’s vinyl-sided stucco house.

A old crow flapped down from its thorny throne to look with odd angled gesticulations at the thorny, mangled weed upon the fencepost and the chipped and ligneous blade beside it.