Markus Egeler Jones

636 King St
Chadron, NE 69337

Author's Bio

I grew up in the southern Appalachians during the school year and the southern German Albs in the summer time. Learning stone masonry helped pay my way and keep me focused through college until I met this bright spirit in a poetry class. I payed a lot less attention to class and work after that, but in return I found a friend with which to explore the world.

Publications and Prizes

Books: 
How the Butcher Bird Finds Her Voice
(Five Oaks Press, 2018)
Anthologies: 
Year's Best Transhuman SF 2017 Anthology
(Gehenna Press, 2017)
Journals: 
Crab Fat Magazine, Ink & Letters, Jelly Bucket, Limestone, New Mexico Review, Temenos Journal, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The RavensPerch, The Story Shack, The Wild Word, These Fragile Lilacs
Prizes Won: 
“Cindy Jack and the Town Drunks” semi-finalist for the Tillie Olson Short Story Award, 2017“The Aftermath of Diagnosis” semi-finalist for Annual Brittany Noakes Poetry Award, 2017

Personal Favorites

What I'm Reading Now: 
The Handmaids Tale by Margaret Atwood
,
Ready Player One by Earnest Cline
Favorite Books: 
1Q84, The Dragonbone Chair, Blood Meridian, The Snow Child, The Hobbit . . .
Favorite Authors: 
See favorite books! :)

More Information

Listed as: 
Fiction Writer, Poet
Gives readings: 
Yes
Travels for readings: 
Yes
Identifies as: 
European American
Prefers to work with: 
Any
Fluent in: 
English, German
Born in: 
Boone, NC
Raised in: 
Germany
work_excerpt: 
Only one time, as a child, you swim in the ocean. “It’s a gulf, not an ocean,” he says. The salt air rises from the water. It floats between the wooden buildings of the town. You smell it. Your skin chafes. You hate it. Rocking in the waves you don’t feel chafing, but every moment out of the water is miserable. “You’ll turn into a prune,” says your father. With a fishing pole jammed into the beach, he digs through the sand, past the layers of white until the walls of the hole are gray and moist. Here he keeps the beer he drinks, covered with a towel. You splash in the shallows anyway, face down like the bottles your father tosses in the surf. They could hold their breath forever, floating just below the surface. In the deeper spots near the beach where waves play out the last of their energy, you pull your legs up. Your hair floats free, jellyfish tentacles bobbing with the waves. You wish you could hold your breath forever, stay face down in the warm water too – float away on the current like an empty brown bottle. While teaching yourself to keep your eyes open plops spiral under the yellow surface. You feel the weight of little objects on your back. Sitting up you catch your father flinging chop from the bucket at his feet. Tiny fish with nubbed fins, tiny cut up fish without heads, tiny fish heads with no fish bodies rain into the waves. The slime and streaks, the falling fish bits, stink for days, no matter how much you scrub. Even after you scream running from the water, your father keeps laughing. “You should see your face,” he says. You don’t care that you won’t swim again. -- Thank you Crab Fat Magazine for Publishing this little Flash piece.
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Last updated: May 11, 2018