• To find out more about this new foray and pricing, click on the new “Short Stories” page directly above.

Stripe is a credit card processor that WordPress offers bloggers. The trouble with Stripe is that they charge a flat 30 cent fee with every transaction. That means that if, like me, one is offering stories for 50 cents or a dollar, their cut of the income can add up to 74 percent of the total. So, I’ve switched back to Paypal. If this doesn’t work, then I might also consider Patreon as an alternative. The short story will be sent to you in Epub format. If you want recommendations for Ebook readers, feel free to email me. I will also send you the password for the blog page.

Montana | A Short Story/Novelette by Patrick Gillespie

A phone call brings news of Sienna’s grandfather’s death; and the lawyer in possession of the will will only speak to Sienna, not her father. She flies to Montana to meet him and also meets a geologist vacationing there. Hints at a new life force Sienna to consider a choice from which there’s no turning back. (Sexual Content)


7 responses

  1. WordPress did something weird, so I don’t know if this was posted already or not, but if I post it twice just delete this one.

    I really like this idea! It is a bit like Patreon, which may be up your alley. It may be less of a hassle if you plan on doing this more often. Also, check out this poem (or poems?) I found in my anthology:

    I. New Hampshire

    Children’s voices in the orchard
    Between the blossom- and the fruit-time:
    Golden head, crimson head,
    Between the green tip and the root.
    Black wing, brown wing, hover over;
    Twenty years and the spring is over;
    To-day grives and to-morrow grieves,
    Cover me over, light-in-leaves;
    Golden head, black wing,
    Cling, swing,
    Spring, sing,
    Swing up into the apple-tree.

    II. Virginia

    Red river, red river,
    Slow flow heat is silence
    No will is still as a river
    Still. Will heat move
    Only through the mocking-bird
    Heard once? Still hills
    Wait. Gates wait. Purple trees,
    White trees, wait, wait,
    Delay, decay. Living, living,
    Never moving. Ever moving
    Iron thoughts came with me
    And go with me:
    Red river river river.

    III. Usk

    Do not suddenly break the branch, or
    Hope to find
    The white hart over the white well.
    Glance aside, not for lance, do not spell
    Old enchantments. Let them sleep.
    ‘Gently dip, but not too deep’,
    Lift your eyes
    Where the roads dip and where the roads rise
    Seek only there
    Where the grey light meets the green air
    The Hermit’s chapel, the pilgrim’s prayer.

    IV. Rannoh, near Glenckow

    Here the crow starves, here the patient stag
    Breeds for the rifle. Between the soft moor
    and the soft sky, scarcely room
    To leap or to soar. Substance crumbles, in the thin air
    Moon cold or moon hot. The road winds in
    Listlessness of ancient war,
    Languor of broken steel,
    Clamour of confused wrong, apt
    In silence. Memory is strong
    Beyond the bone. Pride snapped,
    Shadow of pride is long, in the long pass
    No concurrence of bone.

    V. Cape Ann

    O quick quick quick, quick hear the song sparrow,
    Swamp sparrow, fox-sparrow, vesper sparrow
    At dawn and dusk. Follow the dance
    Of goldenfinch at noon. Leave to chance
    The Blackburnian wabler, the shy one. Hail
    With shrill whistle the note of the quail, the bob-white
    Dodging the bay-bush. Follow the feet
    Of the walker, the water-thrush. Follow the flight
    Of the dancing arrow, the purple martin. Greet
    In silence the bullbat. All are delectable. Sweet sweet sweet
    But resign this land at the end, resign it
    To its true owner, the tough one, the sea gull.
    The palaver is finished.

    -T.S. Eliot

    I like it so much because of the repetition I think– that’s pure poetry. To repeat something without being overbearing, and somehow looking at the same word from different angles, is just wonderful. Another one that I read like this was “anyone who lived in a pretty how town” by ee cummings.
    I hope you are doing well!



    • I just found your comment. I also very much like this/these poem(s) and have read them before. I especially love the concreteness of Eliot’s poetics. I’m currently working on a longer poem that riffs on the natural world somewhat like this. The poems reminds me of a passage in Midsummer Night’s Dream 2.1. 81 (Norton) and The Sad Shepherd by Ben Jonson, Alken’s speech in Scene 8. I can’t help wondering if Eliot didn’t have lines like these in the back of his mind. There’s that same relish of the natural world. :)


  2. I read it last night. A tad New Age but worth the dollar for the sex scenes alone. I tried to see if I could get into its characters from my perspective as a Southern propaganda novelist, and a short burst of sexually-charged, semi-psychotic dialogue spontaneously occurred to me (Sienna vs. Ben). But nothing I could maintain for more than a page or develop in terms of an evolving social context as you did. I had better luck with your novel-in-progress as a source of creative suggestibility.


  3. I mean by “Creative Suggestibility” that, while your short story is well written, it had a tendency to agitate my brain into semi-psychotic pastiche on occasion, especially the sex scenes. But this may well be my problem and not yours, which hopefully comments from other readers will confirm.


    • I’m exercising my 2nd Amendment right to violate your sacred first amendment right to graffiti my story, but in all honesty I’d rather keep the XXX to stories, poems, and non-gratuitous comments. Most of my readers are students who are probably underaged. But, beyond that, I get the sense that most anything I write agitates your semi-psychotic urge to pastiche. :)


  4. Who knows? Maybe I’m a little envious. The most sexual thing I’ll do today is bathe the throttle body on my ’99 Camry. If that doesn’t work I’ll probably massage a bad Idle Control Valve. Hot!


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