Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classics (2000-2011)
| HOME | FICTION | POETRY | SQUID | RANTS | archive | masthead |
Fiction #541
(published July 7, 2011)
Terminal Note
by Poor Mojo's Giant Squid
To Our Dearest Readers,

You may have noticed the vast over-abundance of this brief missive, it being posted both in my esteemed column, as well as being presented as a Rant (despite its steady and reasonable tone), a Poem (despite its metrical irregularity and dis-economy of language), and Fiction (despite its true and factual nature). I do this neither for rhetorical style (a Kruschevian pounding upon the lectern with a borrowed shoe), nor for emphasis (like the four slashed underscores beneath the OR ELSE!!! in a ransoming note), but for simply clarity:

I repeat myself so that I can rest assured that you have heard, perhaps even possibly listened.

Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), as you have known her, is no more. Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) as you shall know her is yet to come. In between is a brief and resonant NOW in which a small number of strange and wonderful things SHALL BEGIN.


In 1999—more than a decade past—three lads of enormous girth (our dear Morgan Johnson, David Erik Nelson, and Fritz Swanson) set their sights on producing a concise, literary web magazine dedicated, outrageously, to updating weekly and without fail. The fashion at the time was to start a webzine, post a few daily issues, then a monthly issue or two, and then to begin an erratic, shambling, and often circular progress of occasional updates, non-humorous site gags, pretend usurpations by vacationing families, and meta-jokes about the possibility of theoretical meta-jokes. In all, it was a harsh landscape littered with the rending shards of broken promises, shattered expectations, and clumsily fumbled coffee mugs emblazoned with the logos of failed dot com start-ups.

These three lads wanted something more: They wanted a poem, an essay, and a story, and they wanted new ones on a schedule that could be relied upon. Since the Internet declined to supply this, they built it themselves. In a fit of magnanimity and abysmally poor judgement, they hired me to write an advice column for this Fair Publication. Over the next decade—and through many a plot twist, plot turn, plot tribulation, and jumped shark—they continued upon this mission, steadfastly publishing new and old prose and poetry, despite rain, hail, sleet, terror attack, wedding, funeral, birth, afterbirth, kleptobirth, pre-birth (wink, wink), and now this fiery and eldritch rebirth. I have watched over all of this with my large and optically perfect eyes, and have found it Good—or, in the least, consistently Good Enough.


Now that we are here, we are predictably more interested in being elsewhere.

First, we must put our existing Almanac(k) in park and return our seats to the full and upright position. There will be some little changes in page presentation, but this venerable web magazine will otherwise remain as it has been, a monument to human folly and literary flight-of-fancy. Beginning in late June, it will return to weekly updates, but instead of offering new and ever more quixotic offerings, will instead showcase the thousands (yes, thousands) of pieces of fine poetry and prose I have published over the last 11 years, as well as the upwards of one-million (!!!) words of advice and memoir I have proffered in that time.

Our dear Newswire, of course, will remain unchanged (in that we will keep posting Fa(k)ts and (K)uriosities to it daily—so, it remains unchanged in that we will continue changing it quite a bit, while our Almanac(k) is changing in that we will now change it less).

On July 4 I will release the first of a new series of quarterly Giant Squid escapades, which shall include advice (general, amorous, erotic, etiquette, et cetera), as well as two-fisted pulpy tales of my past exploits and remembrances. These shall be available as digital books in a variety of formats; watch this space and our Newswire for details. I shall likewise continue selling tales to print publications and anthologies; news of this shall likewise be crowed about here and there.

Finally, even in suspended life, our strange Almanac(k) shall live on. Plans are to return to regular publication on mobile devices over the course of the next year, taking good advantage of the artistic latitudes permitted by these new platforms. (I would hate to prematurely loose the cat from her cat-sack, but to offer just one possible literary avenue we might explore: Virtual geolocated sestina bathroom doggerel for abandoned Texas truck stops. Alternately, a service where humans can exchange naked pictures for small nuggets of sweetened carob, or possibly vice versa).


We shy away from being too definitive on what new projects may, or may not, rest beneath our umbrella. Not to tease you with treats, I consider the following projects not entirely out of question for possible future exploratory consideration:

In the meantime, you may wish to follow me or our Newswire via the Twitters; you likewise might "Fan" us on "Facebook." I do not actively discourage this.

I Yet Remain
Your Giant Squid . . .
of this once and future
Poor Mojo's Almanac(k)

Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece

see other pieces by this author

Poor Mojo's Tip Jar:

The Last few Fiction pieces (from Issues #540 thru #536):

On Parables
(a Poor Mojo's Classic)

by Franz Kafka (with brief commentary by Poor Mojo's Giant Squid and his lab assistant, Rob Miller)

Another Locked Room
(a Poor Mojo's Classic)

by David Erik Nelson

A Faster, More Scalable Afterlife
(a Poor Mojo's Classic)

by Jason Michael

Over the Dark Waters of the Vltava
by Joseph Modugno

Hubie Siskel Is No Hero
by Andy Henion

Fiction Archives

Contact Us

Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson

More Copyright Info