Added to my previous tally, two new stories published:

1. Schnitzel Haus at Dulcet Quaterly;
2. Dance in the Sun at Cicatrix.

Bit by bit, the Meghan-style of short fiction is taking over the web. Yay me!

Yay me!

When My Father Left My Mother at the Minola Review.

Please read and hopefully enjoy, although FYI, Geoff does not like this story at all.

Have not been sleeping well. May be going slightly sleep-deprived crazy.

I tell myself stories to fall asleep. I started when I was pregnant. I broke for a bit, a few months this summer, but I’m back, telling myself stories I started once but never finished. Sometimes, after a month or two of head space, they float away, off to try their luck, I assume, with someone else who might write them down (if anyone does end up writing a story about The Trading Post in Norwood, Ontario, know that I’m the one who was offered that story and passed).

There’s one story that starts in a feral front garden, with a wasp’s nest and a pathway under the bushes. Some sort of bushes. I don’t know their name. When we bought our house, Neil’s mum had to come over and tell us the name of the plants in the garden.

You really don’t know this one? she asked me.

No.

It’s mint. She picked it up and smelled it. Then she gave me some to smell. She was right; it was mint. I guess I should have snuffled around on the ground, smelling all the leaves before she arrived, but no one told me you’re supposed to do that when you buy a house. That was not in any of the promotional mortgage materials the bank gave us.

So I don’t know the bushes. I named the characters, two of the three so far. Sarah, and then another name, because I realized that since naming them a few weeks ago, I’ve forgotten one of the names. It was common, could be masculinized, but for a girl. Stuck in my head right now is Teddy, but what is that short for? Theodora? That’s not too common. Was the child’s name Charlotte (Charlie?) Louise (Lou?) The name was perfect. Why didn’t I write it down.

The story’s lost now even though I might call the child Edith (Ed to Ted to Teddy almost makes sense).

I drank a lot of coffee this morning. My heat goes like super-bass.

All my stories are again out. Let the rejections trickle in. I hate submitting. This one wants page numbers, this one wants my address at the top left of all pages, this one wants no identifying marks, this one wants docx, this one pdf. The bureaucracy of writing was also not in the promotional writing materials that anyone ever gave me.

Coffee heart pounds and collapses. My chest is hollow, concave. Sleepy meghan dissolves.

If you missed my mystery piece Drift when it was published online by Mystery Print Weekly earlier this year, it’s now available in print (along with the rest of the magazine) via amazon.