Edmund Siderius was born on a Canadian military base in occupied Germany during the Cold War. After traveling around Europe, at the age of four, he and his family moved to rural Nova Scotia, Canada, where they remained for the rest of his formative years. Siderius is currently completing his PhD in Science and Technology Studies at York University. His short story “Lexicon Rex” appeared in the November/December 2008 issue of the Los Angelus based magazine The Willows, and a number of his short stories and poems have been published online at Fantastic Horror. His current projects include a graphic novel, Beneath the Moon, and a collection of weird tales, Unsettling Things. For more information, see Edmund's Blog at: http://www.edmundsiderius.wordpress.com

New Title(s) from Edmund Siderius

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	Songs Unsung, Poems Unspoken begins with an inevitable departure from home and ends with the finitude of things, traveling a gauntlet of conflicting emotions to get there. From the dark, the drunken, the whimsical to the ecstatic, it struggles to give voice to silence, and a presence to absence.
	Excerpt Word Count: 7100 Pages to Print: 67 File Format: PDF                  Price: $2.99

 

EXCERPTS

Songs Unsung, Poems Unspoken

The Seed of Cain We danced like barefoot children in a garden full of needles, and we saw our footprints crying little pieces of ourselves. In trellised rows we grew up painting rain upon the flowers, baldly showing how our faces bloomed with desperation's hand. We were eaten in this Eden, by the glass that was not growling but it bit us in the bushes, with its thorny reassurance we were saved. We tried hard not to take the hit of high and low society; our laughter hid our languor and our smiles masked the screams, and our tears; they were strangers to all merriment and bliss. Woven tapestries of fire come to cover us in ashes. If we blink they’ll only burn us as the signs of blasphemy. Now the cities will not take us, nor the country hide our shame, and suburbia's long desert only asks us not to stay. We are high on high-rise buildings, dropping down to meet the ground pins and needles press us onward, like the sting of self-awareness: we are lost. Though we tried hard not to take the hit of high and low society; we could not help but give in to the call of children's fantasies. So let the ravens have their way with us, that we might fly away and there forever join with them in dance                     Back to Songs Unsung, Poems Unspoken