Happy April! (I know it’s the first, but there’s no foolin’ here. Existential pranks are enough, thanks.)
First off, I’m thrilled to share that I have a brand new short story out at Apex Magazine! “If Those Ragged Feet Won’t Run” is now free to read at Apex.com. Since I hate describing my own stories, I’m going to quote Editor Jason Sizemore: “Issue 122 sees the return of Annie Neugebauer to our pages with a cinematic story, titled ‘If Those Ragged Feet Won’t Run’, about motherhood, resilience, and survival. It will leave you breathless, and I can’t wait to introduce readers to this one!” I hope he’s right, and I hope you’ll go give it a read! Also be sure to look for the podcast production of my story next week. It is phenomenal!
This year I’ll be celebrating National Poetry Month with my two most recently published poems. Soon I’m planning to record a video of myself reading “A Newborn Thing,” first published in the winter 2020-21 issue of Liminality Magazine. (If you don’t want to wait you can read it free at that link now!) I’ll most likely post it to Instagram, so be sure to follow me @AnnieNeugebauer to make sure you’re getting my fresh content.
I’m also reprinting my poem “Red, Red, Red” here today. It was first published in the HWA Poetry Showcase Volume 6, which is a great collection of horror poetry well worth picking up. I’m quite fond of this piece, and I hope you enjoy it. Printed below!
Red, Red, Red Remember when lightning tore the sky open and blood poured down beneath the agonized screams of thunder? Remember when the cicadas drowned, their ceaseless shrieks still echoing in the din of the bleeding— hot summer doused in gore? Remember when the spider people creeped from broken trees and gaping fences and forgotten cellars to drink the rain— to hunt those hiding? Remember when we had to shut our door to loved ones lost out there, running, drenched, bleeding rain? Remember how we screamed? Remember what it tasted like, the sweat on our upper lips, the rain dripping through our eyebrows, the blood seeping through the pipes? Remember where we were and what we were doing when the storm finally stopped? Remember how we thought we might be safe then— squelch of the earth slowly soaking up its spoils, fizzy bubbling as the sky cleared? Remember why we opened the door? Remember? © Annie Neugebauer, 2020Share this:
