S. Asher Sund

I google, "What in the hell am I always searching for?"

And then I remember: I dreamt once as a boy that my name was Joey, and I lived in the marsupial pouch of my kangaroo mother who had been separated from her friends and family by a dangerous predator. When I woke up from the dream, I was twisted in the sheets, in a wadded pile at the base of my bed, yelling for my “real” mother for over an hour before she, too, finally woke and released me.

I write things. Some of these things have been published in Narrative Magazine, Kenyon Review, Mississippi Review, Front Porch Journal, Fringe Magazine, Willow Springs, and Briar Cliff Review, among others.

A few years back, I won first place in a contest judged by Joyce Carol Oates, for my prose poem, “12 Steps of a Tradeshow Junkie.” Ms. Oates was later so kind to nominate the prose poem for a Pushcart.

I also do flash fiction spoken word stuff, for instance this.

After growing up in the Pacific Northwest and living in Portland, Oregon, for several years, I now live in Southern California where I recently earned my Ph.D. in Mythological Studies and teach fiction writing to enlisted men and women--but mostly men (some of them officers, some veterans)--on the local naval base. I mainly get war stories from my students but also, on that rare occasion, tender stories about serial killers.

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