A Word From ExFic Actual

Douglas Adams once said ‘Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.’ And with that, we apologise for being out to lunch. The meal took a little longer than intended and here we are in August.

We do have a small backlog of submissions to get through. Sorry some of you have been waiting so long, I promise you will hear from us in the next day or two.

As always, we remain open to submissions.

October Spotlight: NaNoWriMo

National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, takes place every November. Participants from around the world bash away at their keyboards, scratch their pens across paper and drink more coffee than is medically advised in order to write 50’000 words of a novel in thirty days. And yes, I know how crazy that sounds. It’s something that garners mixed reactions from the writing world, with supporters arguing that it’s a powerful tool for getting them in gear to put words on the page without being stopped along the way by their inner editor, and detractors voicing the thought that if any of the 50k words written turn into anything good it’ll be a miracle. Having taken part in NaNoWriMo many times, some more successful than others, I can sympathise with the detractors as much as with the supporters but that’s not what I want to talk about here, though.

NaNoWriMo isn’t just a writing challenge, it’s an opportunity. I participated in NaNoWriMo several times before I finally crossed the 50k finish line in 2010 and I wouldn’t be being at all dramatic in saying it was a turning point in my life. I’d always felt like a writer on the inside, but winning NaNoWriMo that year gave me a confidence to put my writing self on the outside. Within a month I had joined my first writing group. Within a year I had joined a second writing group and started attending open mic poetry nights. When 2011 rolled around I put my name forward to be a NaNoWriMo ML for my local area. The role of an ML is essentially that of a regional organiser. In previous years our area hadn’t had any proper meet-ups so I organised one. It was terrifying and exciting and a complete surprise to me when people actually turned up. And these people were all like me – writers looking for community with other writers. We met weekly through that November and most of that original group have continued to meet on a monthly basis ever since. I’ve taken more of a back role in the group now, with another girl stepping up to the main ML role but this in itself is amazing. This is a girl who suffers major social anxiety. During that first month of meetings it took everything out of her just to come along and talk to a small group of people about a shared love of literature but we’ve all had the great honour of watching her flourish in herself to the point where she now has the confidence to run this group, meet with strangers to organise room hire and she has even started her own writing-related business. And I haven’t even mentioned the growth of her own writing.

What I’m trying to say is that NaNoWriMo isn’t about the writing. It’s not about managing to write 50k words. It’s not about pumping out a bestseller in a month, or penning the greatest bit of literature man has ever dared to dream of. NaNoWriMo is about giving people the courage to put their hand in the air and say they are a writer. It’s about shy people finding a type of confidence they never thought they had. It’s about showing writers that writing doesn’t have to be a solitary sport. NaNoWriMo is about writers and that is why I would recommend it to anyone.

Featured Author: Jay Sizemore

real men, facebook poem #26

A butterfly with invisible wings
is a floating caterpillar’s cousin,
a memory woven into another’s life
like a tattoo on the scalp.

Infant wooly mammoths were found
drowned in mud
while cyclops sharks say bazinga
on the dark side of charcoal sketches.

Real men love Jesus fucking Christ—
a needle in an eye duct unstopping the drain,
underwater statues reincarnated as coral reefs,
the Titanic sank because of Obamacare.

Real men drop their iPhone in the urinal,
take advice from Evil Kenevil
on how to live with a head wound,
become fruit bats wishing for caves

instead of nets at the World Cup.
Caterpillars can’t wear fedoras like real men,
and global warming is ruining the wine—
no one knows how anesthesia works.


Jay Sizemore flunked out of college and has since sold his soul to corporate America. He still sings in the shower. Sometimes, he writes things down. His work has appeared online and in print with magazines such as Prick of the Spindle, DASH, Menacing Hedge, and Still: The Journal, and he is a Poetry Editor for Mojave River Press and Review. He’s never won any awards. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, home of the death of modern music. His chapbook Father Figures is currently available on Amazon.

You can follow Jay and his work on his website or facebook, and you can order his book >>here<<.


make it up, facebook poem #36

fruit flies can’t escape a funnel
this chilly summer where
the breasts remain covered
on a windblown eyelid prop.
get a jawbone for God
and the mercy of bed sores.
the mice give zero fucks.
blah blah blah,
burnt hotdogs taste the best,
baby elephants aren’t for sale.

zebra striped carpet
for the pool bottom,
exercise to be a limber old codger,
doing laps in a driverless car.
The Smiths are for hipsters
as The Cure is for suicidal queens.
hummingbirds can’t shave
Jung archetypes from the Bar Exam.
self promote, self promote, self promote
your face into a bundle of sticks,
into a lack of Twitter followers,
into a feminist rape fantasy.

we put the cat in the ground
and hung new curtains
for filtered light,
umbrellas and water colors,
the best people are insane
and having mastectomies
while Hitler was a Catholic.
electronic cigarettes with THC,
make puppy dog hearts
an optical illusion
with toothless red-toed geckos
running for sheriff
like a Greek tragedy.


Random connections: facebook poem #35

glamour shot horror pug dog reparations grin dollhouse lollipop visitation rights white privilege enlightenment blanket bank attorney services hunger strike talent Cthulhu pride ghostwriter fencing infant footprint haiku abortion rogues siamese pumpkin bloom apathy java Hamas chainsaw blood book launch crooked teeth rarity Sriracha cashew red river irony needlepoint moon homeless bathing suit bred boot pussy beta accomplishment fucking baroque toddler intimacy Msnieres breast ruinous offering cancer selfie sunglass mantra coca cola nativity


callous indifference, facebook poem #38

Peaches look like asses,
in a gas station where millionaires
leave their fortunes to statues.

Trees don’t drink whisky,
but if they did they’d be drunk
and leaning.

There’s a creek in Iceland
just like the one I imagined
skipping rocks across
when I was lonesome.

Describe me with one word.

Poetry exists in friendship,
in an insurance company
where scientists say, “chill out.”
Poetry exists in a spoonful of caramel,
an alleyway with white words
scribbled along the walls.


Art has no mercy
for those who refuse to tiptoe the edge,
to catcall after the sunset
like an assassin blowing kisses.

Featured Author: Mark Roberts

building site at midnight

star light bounces off timber scaffolding
illuminating sawdust dancing
in the thought of a breeze
everything smells of freshly sawn wood

i am miles away & will
read of it tomorrow in
a newspaper which will omit
important details
or maybe i will wait
for the despatches
single words carried on
a breath i can assemble
them how i choose

but the starlight is still there
even during the day
like this poem was here
even before the scaffold


Mark Roberts is a writer, critic and editor currently living in Sydney Australia. He has been publishing work in numerous magazines and journals since the early 1980s. He runs Rochford Street Review (A Journal of Australian & International Cultural Reviews, News and Criticism) and Rochford Street Press (one of the smallest Australian literary presses) . He is a founder and editor of P76 Magazine and is currently poetry editor of Social Alternatives.


green balloon

sometime in the late seventies he disappeared into the sky under a large green balloon he left a note behind an almost poetic message of lost love & a shattered heart he floated high above a street he wanted to forget pulling ropes & pushing levers to go higher finding that his heart beat slower in the thinning air

his old word disappeared in a haze he looked down on a blue green sphere as the sky above turned black & the pin pricks of stars grew larger he heard that below great advances had been made in poetry he didn’t care he watched the earth curve as he rushed around it again & again & longed for a straight line


October 1933

wish i could get it full
calm & unconscious but
a perpetual little spatter
of comments keep me awake
only a rain drop, a frog
in the bed of an administrator
& i refuse to take life
more strongly & steadily
open eyes open mind
a pot shot with substance


You can view even more of Mark’s work at:


Featured Author: Daniel Wallock


Styrofoam, ice, and a holy vessel flew across the ICU hall. The ending of life, begins with the falling of rhythm. The first lab coat flew parallel-left, the second lab coat flew parallel-right. Time seemed to slow; air did the same. The lab coats hit the floor and glanced up at the light. She stood in her gown with her palms covered in red, she saved her heart and for that she’s not dead. – Daniel Wallock

Daniel Wallock was born with seven life-threatening heart conditions. His heart and love for life are at the core of all his work, and he dreams of sharing his life story and inspiring others to love their life. In the past year he has won four writing awards, and his work has appeared in Burningwood, Wild Quarterly, Paragraph Planet, ExFic, and The Bolt Magazine. His first book – Right-Hearted: Finding What’s Right With a Wrong-Sided Heart, is available on kindle. You can read more of his work below.

On Light

Cavernous blacks envelope thick suffocating waters. A lone fish sways, while the current sits stagnate. Beaming in the distance a low hazy glow. The fish floats forward with a crystal-light reflection in his eyes. His eyes are bright as he touches down right next down to the glow. The water quaked, the light flipped up, and the jaws shot forward. The fish was gone, but the light remained.



ExFic.com aims to share and promote experimental fiction and poetry. We are about subversion, surrealism and freedom in writing, allowing writers to share their creations irrelevant of whether the industry thinks it’s profitable.