The inspiration behind my third published work

This Stigmatic Silence.

I wrote this story on a Monday night, falling asleep as I typed it into my phone. I’d seen something earlier that day that disturbed me greatly, so I had to get it down in words before I lost the image.

The piece is classified as dirty realism/transgressive fiction. I wrote it before I knew what the two terms meant, but a zine I had submitted to previously (weirdmask.com) released a call for submissions of these genre the same day I wrote it and after reading the wikipedia entry, I knew it was the right fit.

So, after a quick edit, I sent it off Tuesday morning. They got back to me the Saturday of the same week with news of acceptance. Such a quick turnaround is rarely heard of and I was pumped that they liked the piece.

Now, to talk about the genre. If you’ve read the wikipedia entry, you might start to worry about me. But worry not, reader. I’m a very peaceful person, almost to a fault. Some people have said that I’m immune to frustration, which is heaps untrue, but I can understand where they’re coming from.

But when I write, and perhaps daydream/ideate, that’s a different story. Hot daaaaamn do I let off whatever steam has been gathering in my brains patience-ometer.

This story is my angriest writing ever—I wonder whether that’s got something to do with how it sold so fast.

It’s also slightly autobiographical, in a sick yet magical kind of way. If people ever think that my writing is worth writing about, I’m trying to coin the term here and now: Dirty Magical Realism.

Trying? Coined and minted! Been there, coined that! “Streets ahead”

~ Pierce Hawthorn

Back on track: The narrator could be me. A worse—no, worst version of me. One that’s trapped in a fantastical world where people are altered physically based on their transgressions against my own slightly off unwritten rules of how to be a normal member of society.

You know those inconsiderate people that walk slowly in wide groups? In this world, they fuse together into hideous flesh palisades.

How about the frustration you feel when someone has given up on something too early? In this world, they slowly blend into—and eventually become one with—their environment.

Sounds great, right? I thought so too, until I realised that I’m guilty of causing frustration myself. My narrator doesn’t go unpunished in their own world either. But, for the specifics, you’ll just have to read the damn thing.

 

Art never comes from happiness.

~ Chuck Palahniuk

I hope he’s wrong, but three out of the four stories I’ve sold so far tell me that he’s not. And they’re the best three.