Calliope by Robert Colpitts

I am nearing a pretty complete draft of this novel, and I hope to shop around with it by the end of 2016. I hope you will read it someday.

Here’s a short excerpt:


There is, alone, in this space, nothing. Just me. There is in this space a slightly demure desire to see myself showered and ready to face my day. There is in this space a wish that fulfillment would arrive in the form of something greater than the face of what I have become. There is in this space a marker bigger than the paper it is intended to draw upon. There is in this space a woman who does not want to face her past.

A woman who never wanted to face that past.

A woman who will never face that past.

Let that past sit like so much dead squirrel because who could fucking flipping care whether or not I see it.

I’m going to get a screwdriver right now and put it into my right ear and turn a one and turn a two and there it is my left eye is cocked and if I splash some acid on my face there it is my right eye is cloudy, and if I go get that bottle of wine from the refrigerator I can add to the effect by dulling my senses and my mind so that what is left here is

big fat dumb
splashy grin
never cooking

leaving everything for
someone else
to wash up

Brad Hall by Robert Colpitts

This novel is still in its beginning stages.


What is stupid, ugly, and inside of a woman’s body and never comes off without a body pillow?


Brad Hall was twelve once. As we all were, were we people who are older than that. Which, my guess, is you are.

Brad Hall was my buddy. Good buddy. And don’t think he’s dead or something, because he isn’t. He’s thriving. And I’m no expert, but the guy is like profound or some such shit.

Then Brad Hall was thirteen. I think. I mean, he might have skipped an age. He grew up like he skipped an age. At thirteen he shot up like a fucking geyser. Or ‘guy-zerg.’ : ) Like multiplied up like some kind of crazy oak. Junior high, and the guy was like six feet tall. And he was built. Like holy, my goodness. Like he had been training his entire life. But the guy, you know–this was back when we were thirteen, and, we all took our time getting bigger, but, him, man. As far as I can remember, like a truck.



Short Stories

I’m currently trying to sketch a short story every day, with the hopes that one of these sketches will turn into a short story that I can flush out. Stay tuned!