~~~~~
I received my Contributor's Copy of Issue #111 of The Iconoclast a few days ago. I'm so tickled by the check I received for this poem that I decided to post a copy of it here. Believe it or not, this isn't the smallest check I've ever received for my work. It's actually only the second smallest check I've ever received for a published poem. The smallest one was for $2.00 back in June. I make copies of all of them for posterity. Every single one, no matter the size, makes me smile. :)
I love this little oddball poem of mine. There's a story behind it, of course, but it remains a secret. No one knows the truth behind this poem. I honestly didn't expect it to get published, given its unusal nature. But once again, I was pleasantly surprised.
I suppose it just goes to show that there's probably a home out there for every poem ever written; it's just a simple matter of persistence in finding the right editor and the right magazine.
This is the second time I've had work published with The Iconoclast. The first time was back in 2007, Issue #95. That poem was another interesting one, "Alone."
Now unfortunately, this is yet another publication that has misspelled my name. I really wish there was a way to get through to folks, once and for all, that I do not have an 'h' in my name. It's 'Cristine.' No 'h'. ~sigh~
I believe this makes the 8th magazine this year that has spelled my name incorrectly. It's disappointing, to say the least, particularly after waiting for months to receive my copy. I suppose I just need to become a little more adamant with pointing out the spelling of my name as soon as a piece is accepted ... and then maybe following up with a reminder email before the piece goes to print. Worth a try, anyway. I really would like to see my name spelled correctly in all future publications.
And now, here's a better look at my poem:
Fandom
He
lost seven years of his life
to
a hobby, an obsession,
always
telling himself
he
had it under control,
never
letting anyone know
what
he did when alone,
most
of his time spent
in
solitude anyway.
Then
one day
he
kicked his addiction,
ready
to rejoin
the
land of the living,
only
to find
it
was much too late.
Health
and home destroyed,
there
was nothing left
with
which to rejoin.
Found
on a Thursday,
the
bugs and critters
gnawing
on his body
hadn’t
yet started
on
his face. His
mother
was pleased
they
could have
an
open casket.
~~~
First published in The Iconoclast / December 2014
