To wear top hats whenever possible. To never drink a vodka martini. To act as a gateway drug in the world of self-published and small press literary fiction and poetry.
Leeroy Berlin caught a slow boat to warmer waters, escaped the pastel hell, and now works in the shade of a coconut palm. When not writing the most scathing rejection letters known (“Sorry, it’s just not for us”), he tortures typewriters for fun.
Thomas Weyland, when not reading anything he can get his hands on, usually spends his time soaking in sun rays as his own personal (albeit illogical) stand against modern science. He was last spotted under the blazing Southern California sun.