Manuscripts Away!

I have now sent a sci-fi manuscript in Danish to one publisher and an urban fantasy manuscript in English to another. Also, just today I sent three poems to a webzine. If I just send enough out to different places, someone has to publish something, right?
I’ll post an update with much dancing and woohooing, if anything is accepted 😉

Do any of you know of publishers in USA or the UK who accept unsolicited manuscripts? If you do please let me know.

All the best!


In The Mind


(Credit: Bokor on DeviantArt)

Her mind grew dark

As the wind picked up.

The growing storm

Threatened to pull

Strands of consciousness

From her head.

She went down deep

To a cavern

Where the water was completely still

And clear

And bottomless.

On the shore,

With her candlelit thoughts,

She waited for dawn.

Wolf Haikus


Grey ghosts in the woods

Deer run over moonlit snow

Snarling, white turns red



Howling fills the air

Tumbling cubs at their centre

United and strong



Lazy den morning

The cubs gnaw bones and catch mice

Half-closed eyes watch them

76 Broken Pieces


(Credit: Broken by RCGraphics on DeviantArt)

Picking a piece of china from the floor,

Half a woman with a parasol in blue ink.

Would life be tidier if she were on her own?

Or emptier?


Picking a piece of mirror from the sink,

Six dark rimmed eyes stare out at her.

Would life be simpler alone?

Or lonelier?


Picking a shard of glass from her cheek,

She dabs at the blood with a Kleenex.

Would life be less painful?

Or more so?


Picking a shard of abuse from her mind,

She would never find anyone else.

Would the world be brighter?

Or would she be swallowed by the darkness?

Three Wishes


I thought I heard you giggle,

But it was only the cold river,

Lumps of ice breaking off the shores,

Bobbing up and down in the rushing waters.

You used to bathe there in summer.

If I had three wishes, one would be for your childish laughter.


I thought that I heard you sing,

But it was only the church choir,

Rehearsing for a funeral.

The boys’ faces all concentration one moment,

Then contorted in silent laughter as the priest looked away.

If I had three wishes, one be for a happy song from you.


I thought I saw you crossing the street,

And it might have been you,

Even though he was wearing a suit,

Striding along with an attaché case,

Clutching it as you once clutched my hand.

If I had three wishes, one would be for you to be with me again as you were,

One would be for you to stay with me forever,

One would be for you to never change.



Do you still grue

For tomorrow or is it your yesterdays you rue

Or find intimidating? Don’t go through

All the dark times again. It’s a flu

Of the mind, ruminating. If you blew

Your nose more often and looked away from your shoe

You would see that the sky is blue

Right here, right now, coo coo ca choo

It’s true

And you already knew,

But I would still spew

These trivialities at you

Even if you withdrew

All the way to Timbuktu

Even on the loo

I will find you

To remind you

That when you were two

You wanted to be a kangaroo

When you grew

up. And you might say: ‘Screw

That. It was a stupid dream.’ But I dream too

The stupid dream that one day you

Will learn to be here,

In the now

With me.



I was hypnotised by the fire in your eyes,

But I confused a candle flame for the moon,

And now I’ll never escape your hair.

No matter how much I eat through your clothes,

I’ll never reach your heart;

Your skin is marble.

In your closet, I can dream of our love,

Writhing around the poison you’ve left especially for me.

I know I should leave,

And I would,

If actions could travel directly from my brain to my limbs.

But old delusions keep pushing action aside,

And as I stand mesmerised,

Your hair only wraps me tighter.

Seeing and Knowing

Hawk eyes

I didn’t want to know,

But your hawk eyes could not help seeing,

And now I’m lost at sea

And I don’t have your wings.

Her Lips


Lips (Photo credit: Bibi)


They are full, her lips, and painted a tacky flamingo pink.
They are moving, her lips, and a river of nothing is flowing from them.
I loved them, her lips, once upon a time.
Now they are growing still, her lips.
I wipe the tacky flamingo off them before I leave.


%d bloggers like this: