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Catherine's Kitchen

Catherine Manning

Yummy

IS IT EVER CHILLY HERE! The temperature has dropped to 75F, the rain is torrential and horizontal from the wind, which is blowing through the paint-stuck jealousies into the house, and I'm in a jacket! The horizon is obliterated and the sea is brown from the mud washed down from the hills. We must have had three inches in two hours and it shows no signs of stopping. The birds are having a lovely time as the lawn is one very large swimming pool. Definitely a day for a book and bed.

However, having lost my hard drive, mother board and column, I have to start again. It's nice to have the computer back; I'm lost without it, as I do all my labels on it as well, so the supermarket shelves are very bare of Catherine's Kitchen products.

I've never been an early bird, even though the sun shines on my face every morning by six, but the other morning I was wakened bright and early by a fisherman outside, shouting that he had an eight-pound lobster and did I want it. I didn't mind getting up for that! I put it into the freezer as I didn't plan on using it till the weekend.

Caribbean lobsters don't have claws and are really very large crayfish, also known as rock lobster . However they are just as succulent and delicious and don't have that oily lobster flavour. For Sunday lunch I made:

Broiled Lobster with Buttered Basil Sauce.

  • 1 2-lb. Lobster tail or 4 smaller ones.
  • 2 clove garlic minced
  • 2 TBS. minced shallots
  • 2 TBS. fresh minced basil leaves
  • 1 TBS. chopped chive or scallions
  • 1/4 lb. butter
  • 1 TBS. oil
  • Salt & Pepper to taste
  • 1 large lime cut in wedges.

Cut tail in half lengthwise and place on broiler pan. Heat oil gently with 1/4 of the butter and gently fry the garlic and shallots till transparent. Add salt and pepper to taste. Spoon sauce over lobster and broil for 10 to 12 minutes. Melt remainder of butter in saucepan and add basil and chive. Serve lobster hot with basil sauce and wedges of lime.

If there is any left over, Lobster Salad is good for lunch. I don't like saturating Lobster with mayonnaise, so simply sprinkle it with Lemon Pepper and add it to the salad which already has dressing on it. Your favourite French/Italian or Caesar is good.

Another favourite recipe is for:

Lobster Thermidor

Remove tail from lobster. Split tail or tails in half lengthwise. Sprinkle both halves with salt and pour oil over them. Roast in the oven for 15-20 minutes.Clean body of lobster and make a stock with that, white wine and fish bones if you have any. Add fresh chervil, tarragon and shallots and boil down to a concentrated consistency. Don't overdo the tarragon. Add to this a little thick Bechamel Sauce and some English mustard. Boil sauce for a few seconds, and then whisk in one third of its volume in butter. Adjust seasoning. Sometimes I use heavy cream instead of the Bechamel.

Remove meat from tails and slice in medallions. Pour a little sauce into each shell, refill shells with meat and cover with remaining sauce. Sprinkle with parmesan and melted butter and brown quickly under grill.

A good way of not wasting anything is to boil down the shell and make:

Lobster Bisque

Make stock. Clean and break up lobster shell with a mallet. Cover with water, bring to the boil and simmer for an hour. Strain. Save any left over lobster flesh, if there is none, shrimp or langoustines may be used for garnish. Add their shells to the stock.

You will need:

  • 12 TBS. unsalted butter
  • 6 TBS. finely chopped shallots
  • 6 TBS, finely chopped leeks, white part only
  • 1 medium carrot, diced
  • 2 TBS.fresh chopped tarragon
  • 1-1/2TBS. chopped parsley
  • 1 cup Cognac
  • 3 cups dry white wine
  • 1 TBS tomato paste
  • Salt/Pepper/lemon pepper
  • 1 cup creme fraiche or heavy cream
  • 2 cups lobster stock
  • 1/4 cup rice flour
  • Chervil or parsley for garnish

Add 6 TBS. butter to a saucepan and melt over low heat. Add shallots, leek, carrot, tarragon and parsley and stir well to coat. Cover and cook gently for a few minutes till tender. Add the cognac and carefully light with a match. When the flames die, add the wine, tomato paste, salt and pepper to taste,1/2 cup of cream and the stock. Bring to the boil, reduce heat and simmer for 45 minutes. Strain and add stock as needed to measure 6 cups. If there is no more stock, add water.

Heat remaining 6 TBS. butter and whisk in rice flour. Gradually whisk in the strained broth until smooth and slighty thickened. If bisque is too thick, thin with a little stock or water. Adjust seasoning and simmer for 20 minutes. To garnish add chopped lobster meat, shrimp or langostines and parsley.

I have to leave you now, as I have to make:

Banana Chutney

  • 1 kg/2 lbs. bananas
  • 450 gr/1lb. onions
  • 1 large green pepper
  • 175 gr./6 oz. raisins
  • 225 gr/8 oz. brown sugar
  • 1/2 tsp. mixed spice
  • 1/2 tsp. paprika
  • 450 ml/16 ozs. vinegar

Slice the bananas, chop the onions and mix together in a large saucepan. Remove the seed and pith from the pepper and chop it. Add to the pan with the raisins, sugar spices and vinegar. Bring to the boil stirring continuously, reduce heat, cover pan and simmer for 1-1/2 to 1-3/4 hours. Stir from time to time to prevent sticking. Use non-stick pan if possible. Remove lid and simmer for 15 minutes more till thickened. Pot in warmed sterilized jars, cover with airtight lids and allow to mature for 2 weeks. Serve with hot curries, spiced meat or matured cheese.

Bon Appetit
Cath


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Fiction Corner

Alison Hawke

Interview with Kate Orman

Kate Orman is an Australian author who has written several Doctor Who novels, two with her husband Jonathan Blum.

How do you write a book with someone without killing them?

Jon and I had a lot of conflict while writing Unnatural History, and I hope we learned from it. Usually, our fights arose from misunderstandings--for instance, we thought we had agreed on how a certain concept would work, when in fact we had two totally different ideas in mind! I also lazily made Jon keep track of the plot, with the result that I often lost track of how the story fit together.

I'd suggest co-authors write everything down. Make sure you've talked through everything and see eye-to-eye on it. Don't assume you agree -- about a plot point, about a character's name, about who's going to write Chapter Four -- but really make an agreement. And stay involved--don't dump the work onto the other person!

Does it take longer to write with someone than alone?

Surprisingly, it takes longer, at least for us -- every idea, every scene has to be handled twice. Disagreements slow things down -- when it's just you, you just write what comes to you. (On the other hand, it does reduce the amount of utter nonsense you produce.)

Do you plot the whole story out in advance, or just a broad outline?

When I write a synopsis, I know the major events for each chapter, but I usually don't go into more detail than that. Jon likes to work things out to a more detailed, scene-by-scene level.

How does the story evolve as it's being written?

Sometimes the story evolves quite a bit. The Room With No Doors started out as All That Glitters Is Not God, and didn't have the Room of the title in it. Whole subplots involving wizards, ninjas, a computerised baby and a robot rock star fell out of that one!

Do people you know end up in your characters?

I'm more likely to base a character on a particular actor's performance, mentally imagining their performance in the role.

How much of your own beliefs and personality end up in your characters?

It's a hazard for me -- if I don't take care, my characters all end sounding and acting the way I might!

Computer word processor or hand-written notepad? Why?

Notepad for notes, research, doodles. Word processor for prose, because it's fast and efficient, both for the first draft and the revisions.

What one thing would you say to an aspiring writer?

Write! Write! Write!

How did you get into writing?
How did you get into writing Dr. Who?

Two questions with one answer: I'd been writing fan fiction for years when I heard that Virgin Books were accepting unsolicited submissions for the New Adventures, their line of original "Doctor Who" novels. What an opportunity! I got myself a how-to-write book which explained the process of publication, a copy of the guidelines, and started sending in novels. My third one, "The Left-Handed Hummingbird", was accepted and published in 1993.

Drabble of the Month

Thanks to all who sent in drabbles about obscurity. This month's winners are Kate Staron and William James.

The Man in the Shadows
by Kate Staron

I stare at the large man cloaked in shadow. I know him, but from where? The shadows jump across his face obscuring my vision. Enough of this charade! I will know who that man is. I walk to him slowly, purposefully. His greasy hair falls over his face. Still I can't see his features. I get closer, closer than I would ever dare. He looks down studying the small printed pages of paper. His head pops up. I fall back startled by his sudden candor.
"Hi I'm Bob, you need your windshields cleaned, ma'am?" he says, putting down the classifieds.

Obscure
by William James

He stood in the doorway. A cold sweat covering every inch of his exhausted frame. Not knowing which way to turn to free himself of the predicament he was in. Moving ahead meant a chaotic maelstrom without direction or known survival in a violent world .
To turn back to the darkness behind him would mean surrendering to his fears, lost in obscure indecision.
His mind raced to survey the inventory he carried upon himself, whether it was sufficient to protect him as he considered the carnage that loomed before him.
But it was Monday, time to go to work.

The theme for November is "when?" (due October 10th), suggested by Judy Skapik, December's theme is unpredictable (due November 10th), suggested by Judy Bagshaw, and the theme for January is "in the dark" (due December 10th). If you have any ideas for drabble themes, please email me.

Before sending your entry:

  1. Read the drabble submission guidelines
  2. Make sure your drabble is EXACTLY one hundred words long
  3. Use your spell checker
  4. State which month the drabble is for

Only one entry per person per month.

Email your drabbles and themes to me at alison@4-writers.com.


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Fiction Short Story

Don Hoglund is a technical writer for the Army at Rock Island Arsenal in Illinois. He hopes to retire soon and spend time freelancing and writing fiction. He grew up in Minneapolis, Minnesota and has a BA in American Studies from the University of Minnesota. He has a variety of writing interests and is currently working on a mystery novel and a historical novel. He believes the Western is America's classic folktale. The actual story in Judge Hatch was inspired by a bit of English folklore about a highwayman named Dick Turpin.

Judge Hatch

by Don Hoglund

Hank hunkered down and jumped right into his story. "Back in our frontier days, Judge Hatch was having trouble with horse thieves-- there was always trouble with rustlers but what made these rustlers so bad was they were stealing Hatch's own horses. You can bet Hatch was mad and when he caught Jeb Stuart's boy with one of those horses, he threw the lad right in jail.

Jeb had his ranch right outside of town and everybody knows neither Jeb nor his boy would steal a thing. Hatch knew it too, but he was mad.

"Jeb was just beside himself. He didn't know what to do. There was just no getting through to Hatch. He'd been hurt where it cost him money, I figure

"Richard King has a hand in this. Bring me King and I'll let the boy go,' Hatch told him. "So that's how Jeb Stuart happened to be in the next town and saved a stranger's life. Jeb and the stranger are what this story is about--mostly.

"Jeb, carrying his Winchester rifle had gone to the next town, hoping to find King. Not that he knew what he'd do if he found King. Jeb was sitting in the saloon, probably thinking what to do when a fight broke out between a rough unshaven backwoodsman and a fellow Jeb called a ‘city-slicked dude' wearing a Prince Albert coat and a new Stetson hat. Jeb figured he was a gambler. Well, Jeb didn't really care one way or the other until the backwoodsman pulled out a Bowie knife. Some instinct or reflex made Jeb shoot.

"Well, the stranger was grateful and just had to buy dinner for Jeb. While they were eating Jeb told him about his boy and how Hatch told him to either pay a fine or bring in King.

"The stranger told him that he just couldn't imagine Jeb being out after a man. 'I'm sort of desperate, if you know what I mean. There just ain't no reasoning with Hatch right now.'"

"'This Hatch sounds like a real piece of work,' the stranger said, 'I thought they just hung horse thieves around here?'

`They used to," said Jeb. `They almost always did until Justice Hatch came. But he set up some regular law hereabouts. And he wouldn't ever hang a man if he could fine him. Hatch says there ain't no profit in hanging a man."

"Well Jeb told the stranger all about Hatch. Pretty much what I told you folks and Jeb just talked for hours and hours about how things was before Hatch come along. There was no law at all. Folks were robbed and killed daily. Then this short paunchy, rather funny man with a crooked stovepipe hat came along. He saw the law as a lucrative business and if it helped make life out here any more pleasant, he had no objections.

"Things did improve. Most of the outlaw gangs were broken up except for King. That's what bothered Hatch. King was a showoff. He did things in a big way and defied the law. It was hurting Hatch's reputation.

"The stranger offered to go back with Jeb and pay the fine. 'After all, you saved my life. Besides, I'd like to meet this Justice Hatch.'

"Jeb was the kind of a man who had a lot of pride. Most men in the territory did. They had to in those days, so he refused to take money from the stranger. 'Well, why not make it a loan then' the stranger said. After a little persuasion, Jeb agreed to that."

"Jeb was the kind of fellow that settled these parts. They didn't always get along other places, but out here a man needed something a bit different. With Jeb, it was pride.

"Anyhow, Jeb and the stranger rode back together. Must have been about noon when they got back to the town and found Hatch playing poker in the saloon. One thing folks didn't do was interrupt a poker game, especially when Hatch was playing. But that stranger, just as bold as anything, walks up to Hatch and told him that he wanted to pay the fine for Jeb's son. Well, Hatch looked a bit annoyed, but he stopped the game long enough to collect the fine and started to deal another hand.

"Don't you think Mr. Stuart should be given a receipt?' The stranger said. Well, you can bet that everybody was taken back by that. It was like accusing Hatch of being dishonest. But Hatch made the receipt. He grumbled and cussed some, but he gave it to Jeb, all the same. Then the stranger sat down and started playing poker with Hatch.

"Now Hatch wasn't above a bit of cheating at poker if he didn't think he'd get caught. Afterwards Jeb says that he knew Hatch was cheating and he tried to tell the stranger but he didn't pay any attention to him. And the stranger was losing and losing.

"'You seem to be about cleaned out, son,' said Hatch. But the stranger said that he had more money and started to pry the heel off of his boot. Sure enough, he had a real roll of money hid away in an empty space inside that heel. Hatch was delighted and they played poker and drank whiskey till late at night until Hatch had all the chips.

" 'It looks like I've got about enough money left to buy a round of drinks, the stranger said, 'then I've got to get over to the next town.'

"'I'm going there myself,' said Hatch. 'I always like a good loser. What say we ride together?'

"The stranger said, 'sure' so they had another drink and started on their way

"'You don't intend to carry all of that money with you,' he asked Hatch.

"'I sure enough do'

"'Aren't you afraid of being robbed? I hear that there's an outlaw named Richard King that's been troubling you. Aren't you afraid he might hold you up and find all that money on you?'

'That confounded King.' Hatch replied. 'You know that blamed son-of.. He's the only thing that keeps me from being a success around here. But don't worry, son. He don't have the nerve to rob us in the open --- though he is sure enough a nervy one --- but he'll never find the money. You ain't the only one with some tricks. That hiding place in your boot was pretty good, but I got a better one. Everybody thinks that this hat I wear is just a beat up old piece of trash but I got room in it to stash all kinds of money.'"

"Now listen, Hank." I said. "The way you're telling this it seems like everyone had a secret pocket to stash their money."

"I couldn't say about that," he told me. ‘Of coarse they didn't have much in the way of banks in those days. Could have been the custom for all I know."

" If everyone had a secret pocket," I objected, "Then everyone else would know about it. I mean..."

Hank chuckled, "I got you Mr. Smith. It could be that everyone thought they were fooling everyone else. I kind of suspect that a bit myself. Of coarse there are those who tell me that Jeb Stuart saw the stranger making that hole in his boot heel before they met with Hatch."

Hank lit a corn cob pipe, which he tamped like it was a meerschaum. "Well, there isn't much left to tell. The story goes that after the stranger and Hatch rode out of town the stranger stopped his horse so that it blocked the road.

'You know, I surely do admire that hat of yours, Justice,' he said. 'How would you like to trade it for a brand new Stetson?'

"Of coarse, Hatch didn't say anything. He was too stunned. He just looked up and found himself staring down the barrel of a big .44.

"I mean a man of your position, Justice, shouldn't have to wear an old beat-up hat. It's downright undignified.'

"For once in his life, they say, Justice Hatch had nothing to say. He started to protest but then he heard the hammer cock on that .44. He just took off his hat and gave it to the stranger."

"So the stranger turned out to be Richard King?" I said.

"Well" Hank drawled, "nobody ever was too certain about that. Old Hatch wouldn't say much about it except he told Jeb that the stranger felt he'd been paid back his loan. Anyhow, Justice Hatch was never too quick after that to put the local people on the spot."


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Fiction Short Story

Alan Harvey

The Adventures of Harri, the Kiwi Bell Bird

Harri awoke instantly; his whole body shuddered in response to the spine chilling screams that impregnated the air around him. He stayed perfectly still, frozen, as though his very life depended on it, and it did!

The aerial assault ended. Harri couldn't help but feel relieved that his life hadn't ended with it. That damned falcon again, what a nice way to start the day he thought to himself. Still at least he was actually starting the day; some other poor bird or rabbit had just copped it. Numbed by this thought, he ruffled his feathers, stretched one wing, then the other, rotated his neck and looked around him.

The branches of the fuchsia tree he roosted in, had been inundated by a flock of quivering hedge sparrows that had dived for cover as the falcon had fallen right into their midst, out of the sky at over 100 kilometres an hour. One of their number had become a breakfast morsel for the dreaded fiend.

Knowing that a little titbit like that wouldn't satisfy the falcon's voracious appetite, Harri was on full alert. He knew the hungry falcon would return to kill again, very soon. Her chicks were growing rapidly and they took a lot of feeding.

Across the valley a beautiful melody broke the stunned silence. Suki, Harri thought, it's Suki singing her morning greeting, and he heaved a sigh of relief; at least his beloved had survived the onslaught.

It was a cool morning and he knew he would soon need food or his wee body would become chilled. Dare he risk moving? Harri knew the falcon had extremely sharp eyesight and would quickly hone in on any movement she saw from her perch, high above. I don't fancy being a titbit for that wicked beak just yet, he thought.

Hetti, that was the falcon's name, sat silhouetted against the rising sun on the stark skeleton of an ancient beech tree that clung to the craggy outcrops of rock reaching towards the sky. She had torn the little hedge sparrow into pieces and gluttonously devoured it. Before this meagre morsel had even settled in her stomach, Hetti was scanning the valley below for her next opportunity to dine; after all, that pathetic little excuse for life had hardly touched the sides on the way down.

I wonder if that Harri will drop his guard today, Hetti thought; at least he's half a snack. Too clever for his own good that one. He'll slip up sooner or later.

A tantalisingly beautiful scent drifted delicately on a wisp of early morning breeze. The fragrance of the nectar wafting from the nearby fuchsia flowers was proving a little too much for Harri to resist. His chilled body shivered and without thinking he darted to the nearest flower, plunging his beak into the glorious liquid. Ah! Exquisite, he thought as the sweet velvet nectar trickled smoothly down his parched throat. I don't feel alive until I've had my first sip of Fuchsia Tea, he chuckled.

Craaaack craaaack, the air once again filled with that deadly scream as the falcon dived from out of the sun. Instinctively Harris dived deep into the foliage of the fuchsia tree. His whole body trembled, every last feather quivered, but that one hit of energy from the nectar had helped propel him to safety. Clever little dick, Hetti thought as she saw Harri make cover. The ground below was coming up fast. She opened her wings and trimmed her tail feathers, to slow her down as she rolled out of her attacking dive and rode the thermals back towards the mountain top plateau. Bah, she squawked, I'll leave these damn birds to it, maybe there is a juicy little bunny waiting for me in the tussock over the ridge.

Harri opened his eyes to see Hetti gliding away on the breeze. Too quick for her, thought Harri, she's off in search of less intelligent prey. Harri started to relax.

Phew, he said; I live for another day, unless that squawking chook comes zooming out of the sun again. Never can tell with her. Off he went gliding down over the valley towards ribbons of water tumbling down the steep, imposing, tree-clad hills on the other side of the valley. How exhilarating it felt, the cool breeze rushed past him as he wheeled back over the beech trees for a riotous reunion with his beloved Suki.

Copyright © 2000 Alan Harvey
Thyme Xposure Photography.

First a little introduction of Harri the Kiwi Bell Bird. Harri is a Bell Bird, usually found only in remote areas of New Zealand. The Bell Bird has a beautiful melodic song. A little smaller than a black bird, it feeds on nectar, favouring flowers of Fuschia and Kowhai and other endemic trees. Bell birds have a dark blue head, a green body plumage and dark brown tail feathers. The flightless bird known as Kiwi is New Zealand's national icon and in many parts of the world New Zealanders are known as Kiwis. This is how Harri became a Kiwi Bell Bird. He is Bell Bird, not a Kiwi bird.

Alan Harvey is an accomplished New Zealand photographer, who after completing a Diploma in Freelance Photography, took up nonfiction writing in order to better market his photographs. He covered mainly environmental stories and tourist editorial before writing a monthly illustrated nature column in a local newspaper. Alan has also penned illustrated travel features for naturist magazines in New Zealand, Britain and USA. as well as dabbling in poetry. Recently Alan took part in a WVU F2K fiction course and we have the privilege of publishing his first fiction short story. Samples of his photographic work can be seen at Thyme Xposure Photography.


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Genre Fiction Short Story

Jen Webb

Helping me, helping you

My neighbour went mad last week, unexpectedly, distressingly. It was on the evening news - you may have seen it? The headlined story of how I woke early that morning to the sound of shrieking, and went next door to investigate.

She and I have lived side by side for fifteen years, and in all those years we never spoke, though our bedroom windows face one another across that narrow strip of lawn, though we've moved shoulder to shoulder across our respective back yards, watering the lawns, digging weeds. During the long slow nights we have listened to one another move about our respective homes. Her clock chimes every half hour, prettily. My clock sits silently on my bedside table, its electronic face spilling the time in glowing numbers down its face. Time visibly passing, night after night.

A month ago, at last, I crossed the path to ring the bell on her front door, thinking of all these years that we’ve been neighbours, all these years that we’ve listened to each other’s night sounds, the rush of water, the rare copulations, the solitary sobbing. I hear her phone ringing in the early evening. I watch her friends drive her to tennis, and she watches me leave to play golf. And a month ago, I broke our silence. I crossed the path, I rang the doorbell, I introduced myself and asked her to my home for coffee and cards. She did not reply, not in words, but nodded imperceptibly and led me down her steps and up mine.

I still don’t know her name. She didn’t tell me, and after fifteen years of intimate isolation, how could I ask? I called her "my dear." That has a solid, safe, genteel ring to it, I think. It sounds neighbourly.

I made the coffee - I make excellent coffee, all my friends say so - and carried the tray through to my sunny front room, and set it on my small oval table with its Queen Anne legs. "Milk?" I asked, and she took the coffee pot from me, peeling my fingers one by one away from the handle. It was quite a complex operation. She stretched across the table and took my wrist in one hand, and with her other hand wrenched the coffee pot away from me. Clutched it towards her chest. Pushed my hand away into my lap where it lay perplexed and still. She poured a little milk into her cup, then a little coffee. Carefully counted out a very few grains of sugar, and stirred them in, vigorously. A mere suggestion of more milk, then top it up with coffee, add three Sucaryl tablets, and stir.

I had to pour my own, which I do in the normal manner: a splash of milk, then the coffee, add sugar, and stir. Then I fetched my cards. For her I used a five card spread - Ten of Cups; the Fool; Six of Cups; Queen of Wands; Ten of Swords. "The Six of Cups holds the others together," I tell her; "It’s a good sign." And this is my reading:

You have the assurance of everything you could wish for; but you should expect the unexpected. I see a touch of nostalgia, even sadness; but if you look towards the future, not the past, you’ll realise that you are stronger now, that things are better than they were.

I read the Queen of Wands as me, a gracious lady offering help. I tell her that’s what it means, without saying that I think it refers to me.

And then there’s the Ten of Swords.

My neighbour is looking unblinkingly at the card. The image is the conventional one: a body lying face down, pierced with swords. "It’s not what you think," I say. She says nothing. Her face does not move. I say, "This card just indicates change. Certainly there may be a little - well, let’s see - a little stress along the way, but that’s just part of the change process. It’s all for the best. It’s the start of something new." I almost believe it myself.

Oh, neighbour. She nodded slightly, then drained her cup, slurping loudly. And then, standing up, she reached out and took my face between her two hands, she kissed my lips, and carefully constructed a smile of such unexpected energy that the cat started and leapt out of the window. Then she left too, through the front door.

I have many friends. That has meant, as the years pass, that there have been many sorrows to resolve. Mostly divorces; a few widowings; midlife crises; chemical dependencies; retrenchments. Once, dreadfully, the death of a child, when none of my clever tricks could soothe the pain, could knit up the wound. Oh my dears, my damaged friends.

I have remained miraculously untouched, with my cats and my books and my steadily increasing collection of contemporary art. My neighbour is untouched too, like me. Like me, she fills her time with phone calls and by tending her garden, which is large, attractive, ordered. I watch her, occasionally, as she trims and weeds and waters. She doesn’t plant flowers, but some of the shrubs bloom from time to time. She has no pets, no children, no car. She leads a simple life, one for which I occasionally hanker as I move from committee meeting to interview panel to conspiratorial deal. I move through the corridors of power, accumulating some modest status, the tangentially acknowledged ability to influence decision makers. It’s a quiet life, all the same. Work, TV, friends. Sometimes a show. And then, last week, I woke early to the sound of shrieking. I had been half-expecting it, ever since that Ten of Swords. I slipped into my robe and ran across the path to where her door stood open, and the urgent desperate sounds drew me in. "Help," she was crying, and "No," and "Oh, oh, oh".

Her house is an old person’s house, though she is my age, more or less. It has that odour of dusty carpets and skin. A cat (one of mine, I think) is wide-eyed in a corner. My neighbour is sitting in a chair, knees pulled tight to her chest. Her mouth gapes in a rictus, her eyes are concertinaed, her hands clutch her feet. And she is making that dreadful wounded noise. Over and over she cries, the sound pervades my body, settling harshly in that vulnerable strip between my breasts where it twists coldly, tearing at my self-possession.

I approach. I touch her hand, which is cold. Only her throat is moving. Around her chair are swarms of ants. Beside her, on the floor, cold tea and crusts of toast. I call out to her, over the sound of her high cries: "My dear!", I say, "My dear!" She doesn’t hear.

What else could I have done? I open my mouth wide, as wide as hers. I place my lips on hers and gulp down the screams. In they go, sharp as aspirin, and I wrap my arms and legs about her; we tumble to the floor and lie entwined, and every part that can touch is touching. Eye to eye, lip to lip, hip to groin, breast to breast.

Well, you know the rest. It was on the news. They found us like that in the late afternoon. When they pried us apart two of my fingers were broken, and there are dark bruises on my inner thighs. As they peeled my mouth off hers, the screams leapt out again. The paramedics blanched, then found in their baggage a helmet which they bound around her head, a straitjacket for the mind. It blinded her, silenced her, clamped her mouth shut.

As for me, my lips are torn, my mouth has set in its rigid gape. They have bound up my face but can’t close it, even with drugs. I have lost the power of speech, for now, but that’s okay. Saying lets loose the things that are better bound.

As for her, she sits upright in the bed across from mine, her head securely wrapped, one eye peering around the helmet, staring fixedly into mine. If her mouth weren’t bound, I know she’d smile at me. Sometimes she winks. I think she winks, though it’s hard to tell when there’s only one eye exposed.

I lie on my back in the bed opposite her, my legs trapped in space, bent and rigid under the bedclothes, and my jaw fixed open with her pain. We are bound to each other and, except for the curious flow of doctors, are alone to stare silently across the sterile floor, locked together in an anomalous mutuality. We are neighbours, we are sisters. You might even say we are friends.


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Healthy Horizons

Laurie Lupold

Road Blocks

It’s a steamy afternoon, rush hour and you are sandwiched between traffic in front, behind and each side of you. You can’t inch forward and there is no way around. You sit and wait for the line to move even slightly ahead, but for how long? You still have dinner to cook, Junior to get to a soccer game and a briefing that’s to be on the boss's desk first thing in the morning.

Many of us have been forced into the above case scenario many times in our lives but have you thought for a moment how it identifies with the congestion our minds feel when we can’t seem to perform in our writing? Looking below at our blank sheet of paper, pen in hand. It never moves forward. It just sits midair with no direction, no guidance. Our minds fill with frustration because we begin to feel cramped, untidy. Several thoughts go through our mind but not a single idea.

A lot of different things are said to contribute to this but one I’d like to discuss here is STRESS. Stress changes the way we think and feel by controlling our minds. It filters out our energies and directs them toward worry and perhaps at times, fear. It stiffens our creative brains. If you were to tighten any other part of your body you would clearly see that when you tighten it, it does not function properly. It is only when we release it that it begins to relax and become properly useable once again. The same can be said about our minds.

So one might wonder how can we relax our minds, clear out the garbage so to speak? There are many ways. Many people find candlelight relaxing. Even more so, if you were to light candles around your tub and soak in a nice bath full of scented bubbles. Lie back, close your eyes, concentrate on your breathing; the scent you breathe in and the air you exhale. This releases all the tensions from your body.

Of course it might not always be an appropriate time for a bath but there are so many new products on the market that you may wish to try, such as scented candles or aromatherapy. You can do the same exercises that were suitable for the bath and still receive the same cleansing. There are also mood lights that are soothing and aid in setting the right composure. These are merely additives. Of course you can set the mood for relaxation without them. The exercises will be just as helpful.

Music is another way we find we can clear our minds. It soothes us and brings a calmness over our minds and bodies. I like to meditate with music. My favorite is classical or soft guitar music. If you close your eyes and concentrate on the music each stroke of the string becomes a pulsating caress on your mind. It massages your brain and releases any of the tensions stored there.

These are just a few examples of stress relievers. Of course, there are many more. If you have an idea and would like to share it please email it to me and as always I am looking for ideas. So, if you have a topic of interest you’d like to read about here send it on over. I’m up for the challenge. LOL!

Until next time keep reaching for those Healthy Horizons!


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Inclinations

Priscilla Fagan

Fictitious Lies

No, it's not the title of my new novel, but it does lend itself to the theme of this month's column. Redundancy? No, fiction versus lies. Someone once asked me what I did and I said I wrote lies. Seeing from their expression that they didn't understand, I laughed and said I wrote fiction. Well, their answer was, "Gee, I never thought of fiction as lies." My response (I was in a great mood) was to explain that the authors they read must lie extremely well.

Fictitious (according to the Oxford Thesaurus): imagined, unreal, made-up, fabricated, untrue. Lies (according to the same): fabrications, misrepresentations, falsehoods, untruths, fibs, and FICTION.

So, these definitions mean what? Well, Angus Wilson, English novelist says, All fiction for me is a kind of magic and trickery -- a confidence trick, trying to make people believe something is true that isn't. Does that mean the same as -- being a good liar?

Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to know how to tell a lie well. Samuel Butler. I suppose this is where a good outline comes in handy. This English novelist also said, I do not mind lying, but I hate inaccuracy. Now is that the voice of an author or what? Research, research, research. Inaccuracy in lying as well as in writing fiction will show you not only to be a poor liar but a poor writer too.

Well, I don't think there's any point to be made here, unless it happens to be that whether you write fiction or you lie, make sure you do it well. When I write fiction, I feel like I'm playing. (Perhaps that's why it's easy for me to believe I'm a phony.) My enthusiasm is such that I can't wait to see where the story is going and for that reason I think Robert Louis Stevenson said it best, Fiction is to the grown man what play is to the child; it is there that he changes the atmosphere and tenor of his life.

If you'll allow me to get philosophical with this last Inclination, I'd like to turn to Voltaire, History is the recital of facts represented as true. Fable, on the other hand, is the recital of facts represented as fiction. And that my friend, says it all.

Until next month I remain,
Priscilla the eternal optimist


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RECOGNITIONS
N'omi Rose
WVU members who have gained writing recognition!

Poetics Presents
Featuring 14 Poets from WVU Poetry Class 104
Freeing the Poet Within you

Arlene Lawson
Final Imprint

Carin
The Fear

Carol Halling
Think of Then

Cindy Hendren
One Moment, Sun Descending

Geraldine Cook Davis
Into The Woods

Gloria Pimentel
Surrogates

Joan Baratta
Banana Craze

Jim Hall
A Knight in Error

Judy Gillian Beaston
Snapshot

Kathy Scott Goerg
Fruit Meditation

Leah Planetta
Halifax, 1990

Maxine Staley
An Invitation

Rolando S. delos Santos
Bitter End

Susan Elliott
Breadcrumb Trails


Be one of the first to read the new F2K e-zine! F2K-zine is produced by and for F2K students and staff and is full of poetry, stories, helpful information and a lot of fun. The first issue will be available through a link on the F2K main page October 20, 2000.


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Living History

Jennifer Nobile Raymond is currently a direct mail production manager at a major advertising agency in New York City. She attends Brooklyn College on the weekends, and fills her spare time with drawing, painting and finding creative ways to save space in her apartment. Since producing junk mail does not satisfy her creative needs, Jennifer is hoping to develop her writing into a future career.

Of Mice and Garbage Men

by Jennifer Raymond

After living through the life-changing events of graduating high school, going off to college and getting my first real job, it was time for the next step toward my idea of adulthood. I had finally saved up enough money and courage to move out of my parent's house and into my own place.

I broke the news to my heartbroken parents by explaining how much quality time I was losing by commuting ninety minutes each way to work. This was somewhat true, but I had more ambitious goals: an extra hour of sleep in the morning, hosting fabulous dinner parties, and being out until the early hours of the morning, without coming home to a groggy (and impatient) parent waiting for me.

It took about six weeks for me to find a decent apartment that was within my budget. Well, it turned out to be on the outskirts of my budget. I had plans of moving into Brooklyn, thinking that the rents would be cheaper there than in Manhattan. And they are cheaper -- but I'd have to spend the rest of my money on Mace, alarms and a guard dog.

As luck would have it, I found a studio on the Upper West Side that I could afford. It was cute (in other words, it's TINY), and the neighborhood was fantastic, so I went for it. Two weeks later, I hugged my sobbing parents, (okay, they could hardly contain their joy, but I like to think of them as sobbing) and turned to face my compact new home.

I soon found out that every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday was Trash Day. On these days I would reluctantly wake up at 5:30 a.m. to the sounds of cans crashing to the pavement and some guy named Joey or Frank yelling, "Hey, how YOU doin'?" to his buddy across the street. And every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday I would make a mental note to never again live in a place where the garbage was right outside my window.

One night, my boyfriend came over for some dinner. He was my first dinner guest, and I went all out: candles on the overturned box I was using as a table, real plates (not paper), napkins, and Dave Matthews playing softly in the background.

"Hey, did you eat something with rye bread today?" he asked as he stood at the kitchen counter.

"Um, no...why?" I was perplexed.

"Well, looks like you might have a roommate." He said with a little smirk on his face.

"Oh God, you don't think it's a mouse, do you?" What a stupid question! That trip towards adulthood just went into high gear.

Later that evening, I thought it would be nice to call my mom, just to say hello. I casually mentioned my new furry friend. After the screaming stopped (my mom has a "thing" about rodents), she advised me to get some traps and set them up in the kitchen. I did not sleep that night -- I could have sworn I heard squeaking. Loud squeaking. The next morning, there were more "rye seeds" all over the stove and counter.

"Boy, for a little thing, you sure poop a lot!" I said out loud. This was not good; I was now talking to the mouse.

A few weeks went by, but I hadn't even seen the little bugger. I tried to entice it by placing peanut butter in the middle of the traps, but apparently he didn't like peanut butter. My parents, my aunt and my uncle came by one day to see how the place was coming along. My mother ran over to my bed and immediately put her feet up, staring constantly at the floor. My uncle had used the Magnetic Poetry from my fridge to spell out "I AM UNDER THE BED" on the front of my stove. My uncle thinks he is very funny.

I took my war on pests up a notch and put out poison to see if that would help. Two weeks later, the poison was still being eaten, but with no results. So now I was cleaning up poop and poison twice a day, in the morning and when I came home from work. Yet things were about to take a turn for the worse.

I was preparing dinner one evening when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked down, expecting to finally see Jerry the Mouse, but instead was greeted by a huge, disgusting water bug about the size of a yam.

I screamed bloody murder and ran over to the couch, jumping onto it and crying hysterically. The mutant roach ran to my closet, and I lost sight of it among my shoes. I creeped towards the closet, grabbing a can of Raid and the broom, still crying. I might also have been saying "Oh my God!" over and over, but I don't really remember.

I was poking around the shoes when I saw movement on the wall next to my head! I jumped back and made that noise that you make when something scares you out of your wits (sounds like "whuoawww!"). I sprayed it with the Raid, and it fell to the floor.

Now apparently, Raid takes a while to work, something I did not know at this point. The giant bug turned, chuckled a little evil laugh (that may have just been in my head, but I could have sworn I heard it) and started heading straight for me again. Didn't it know I was much bigger? Why was it coming after me? I screamed "NO!" and held it back with the broom while I sprayed. I believe it finally died from drowning, not from the chemicals.

I limped over to the phone like a wounded soldier, hiccuping, sobbing and coughing from the insect repellent in the air. I dialed my mom.

"Mom? Mom...you...w-won't...believe...I...j-j-just...killed the...the...biggest bug," I could hardly talk.

"Oh, God. That's terrible, honey. Did you get it? Do you want me to come and get you?" I love my mom.

"N-no, I have to deal with this. This is what happens when you have your own place, right?"

"Well, if you want me to come get you, just call me, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Mom."

I swept the dead carcass out into the hallway, and stayed awake all night with every light on.

That weekend my boyfriend became Justin, The Water Bug Slayer. We killed at least four more of the pests within the course of one day. Now we were on a mission. Armed with steel wool and duct tape, we proceeded to patch every hole we could find. (Okay, Justin patched every hole, but I was there the whole time!)

I reached the pinnacle of my pest problem after buying an ultrasonic pest control device that promised to get rid of both mice and water bugs, among other things. I couldn't wait to get home and plug that bad boy in. It fit perfectly in the kitchen, and I went about settling in for the evening.

Within five minutes, I saw something dart out and back under my stove -- it was definitely a mouse! Five minutes later, I saw it again. It seemed to be running laps around the legs of the stove. Then, I saw one under the refrigerator. I had two of them? Well, that would explain all the poop, I thought. I got an idea to throw down the glue traps in their path to see if I could get them. Sure enough, the one under the stove got stuck within minutes. A-ha! Victory!

Now I was faced with the dilemma of picking it up. Every time I moved toward it the poor thing would squeak and struggle. So, I called the Water Bug Slayer, who agreed to come and dispose of the rodent. As I sat there thinking about how great my boyfriend was, another mouse got stuck. I now had two squirming critters on my floor, and I was getting a little nervous.

When I had another one caught I was no longer yelling victory. Exactly how many mice did I have? We carefully disposed of the three wiggling traps into a plastic bag, then sat on the couch only to look up and see yet another mouse stuck on a trap! That's when I broke down and called my Management Company (NO CAPS).

They sent their exterminator, who found a hole under my cabinets, which he stuffed with poison and patched. He also put down poison for the water bugs, and the problems were solved.

My first home has not turned out to be the apartment of my dreams. Even now, I have trouble sleeping sometimes, and my place is too small to have dinner parties. The garbage men continue to make a racket outside my window, but I've gotten used to it and most mornings they don't even wake me up. I still see things moving out of the corner of my eye, but now it's just my mind having fun with my sanity.


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Market Watch

Nancy B. Leake

Matching markets with your work

When you have edited your stories and they are ready to be published, it is time to choose a market. There are a couple things to do before submitting your polished work.

  1. Decide to what type of reader your work is of interest: sex, age, occupation, genre, and type. For instance, a Vietnam War story may interest middle-aged men and be suitable for publication in a military or history magazine rather than in Women’s Day. A poem about raising children in 1950 would interest older women and be more suitable for a poetry magazine or a woman’s magazine, depending on the slant of the article.

  2. Know the market: There are several ways to accomplish this. The best way is to order a copy of the magazine. Many companies offer free or low-cost sample issues of their magazine. Study the magazine for content, style of writing, genre, type: fiction, nonfiction, poetry, if they accept freelance material, if they accept unsolicited manuscripts or prefer an outline first, and the size of the articles.

    Many companies have web sites that will also give you general guidelines on the magazine, but this is not as thorough as studying the printed magazine.

    If the market is an e-zine, study the Internet site for the same types of information as above.

  3. Once you know your reader and market, re-edit your story to meet the requirements of the market you have chosen. An existing story’s slant can be changed for a specific market by making slight changes in content.

    Remember when you submit your writing, always enclose a query letter that looks professional and enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelop (SASE), if you want a response or want your manuscript returned.

Creativity is really the structuring of magic.
Anne Kent Rush

I would like to hear about your experiences in submitting your writing, whether good or bad.

When you send your suggestions to me please enclose: The name and type of the market, What type of writing they publish and the word count, The guidelines for submission or how to get the guidelines, How to contact the company, and whom to contact, What they pay, and If they accept submission from new writers, if noted.

Print Markets:

The Bark is a quarterly magazine on modern dog culture that brings a literate and entertaining style showing an appreciation for dogs. They accept fiction (400-1,200 words), nonfiction (600-1,700 words), poetry, and fillers (100-600 words). Payment is $50-$400 depending on type of article. Fillers pay $25-$150. They accept previously published submissions. Mail to: Claudia Kawczynska, editor, The Bark, 2810 Eighth, Berkley, CA 94710, www.thebark.com. E-mail: editor@thebark.com. A sample copy is $3.00; 50% Freelance written.

Stovepipe is a quarterly journal of "little literary value" that enjoys fiction: experimental, literary, humor/satire, short-shorts, and poetry under 3,500 words. Payment is 1-3 copies for one-time rights. Include a short biography, cover letter, and SASE, or they will not respond. Mail to: Stovepipe, Troy Teegarden, Editor, PO Box 1076, Georgetown, KY 40324. Single copies are $2 US, $2.50 Canada/Mexico, $3.50 World.

Futures is a magazine published every other month. It is recommended by several of Writer’s Village writers who state that the magazine is "beginning writer friendly." There is even a column for first-time writers called "The Starting Line." A variety of fiction is published at 500-3,500 words; if any longer query them. They have been known to run serials. For nonfiction stories query as well. Payment is $10 after Oct 1. Full guidelines are available online at www.firetowrite.com. Mail single submissions to Babs Lakey, Editor, FUTURES, 3039 38th Avenue South, Minneapolis, MN 55406-2140 or BARBL@tela.com. Sample issues are $4 plus $1.65 postage; outside USA ask for the postage fee.

Bear Deluxe is an environmental magazine that needs investigative reporting, fiction, essays, poetry, news, opinions, reviews and interviews. Query editors with a story idea accompanied by samples or send completed manuscript with SASE, include a short biography. Length varies according to topic: 100-4,000 words. Payment is $.05/word, ($10/poem), contributor copies and a one-year subscription for First North American Serial Rights (FNASR). Return time is 3-6 months. Mail to The Bear Deluxe Magazine, Editor-in-Chief: Tom Webb, c/o Orlo, PO Box 10342, Portland, OR 97296; send to appropriate editor, poetry, fiction, or nonfiction editor. URL is www.orlo.org/beardeluxe. Sample copies are $3.

Freelance Markets:

Love Poetry for the Media Age will be published in Spring 2001 and is looking for poetic musing about love in the media-saturated age in the form of irony, quirky, weird, and/or wonderful poetry. Submit 1-10 unpublished pages with a short biography. Payment will be an advance and royalty-based, depending on pages published for rights. Deadline is October 31, 2000. Mail to Ripple Effect Press, 216 West 12th Ave., Vancouver, BC Canada, V5Y 1T8. Email for information at info@rippleeffectpress.com.

Anthology for Stepmothers is a book to comfort and enlighten stepmothers taking on this challenging role. The editor seeks poems, essays, short fiction, limericks, and interviews. Humor is encouraged. Payment will be in copies. Include a brief biography and mail to Anthology Editor, Flynn Publications, 173 Lamont Drive, Decatur, GA 30030 or email to flynnpub@mindspring.com.

Fillers:

Family Circle pays $50 if they print your tip. Call 1-888-216-7219 for examples. Bright Ideas, PO Box 5028, Grand Central Station, New York, NY 10017.

Adventure Journal the adventure travel magazine, is looking for anecdotes, facts, newsbreaks, and short humor (50-150 words). They pay $50-$150. Mail to Adventure Journal, The Adventure Travel Magazine: Travel Publishing Group, Inc. 50 Oak Street Suite 30, San Francisco, CA 94102.

Web Markets:

Inkspot and its publications, Inklings, The Ink Blotter, Global Writers’ Ink, are a group of publications devoted to writers and the craft of writing. Inklings is a biweekly newsletter that addresses the craft or business or writing (800-1,000 words). The Ink Blotter publishes short fiction, essays, humor, and poetry relating to writing. Inkspot has a newsletter and features on their website addressing any aspect of the craft and business of writing and the development of writing skills for all levels (800-1,300 words). They are also developing specific genre sections. Global Writers’ Ink is a section of Inkspot that covers issues of interest to international writers (800-1,300 words). Payment is $.08/word and, if published in both Inklings and Inkspot, $.12/word. Ink Blotter payment rates vary. E-mail all submissions or queries in text to Moira Allen, Managing Editor, at moira@inkspot.com, other than Ink Blotter, which goes to inkblotter@inkspot.com. The response time is two to four weeks. No reprints or simultaneous submissions are accepted.

Writer’s Hood is a year old monthly e-zine recommended by "Predators and Editors" that supports amateur writers by providing a free critique of all submitted work. The writer keeps all rights and the editor helps promote your writing by allowing a link to Amazon or your home site for sale of your story. Short fiction of any genre is preferred, but longer works or novels can be serialized. This is a non-paying market, but can help get you polished for the paying markets. Submit online at www.writershood.com.

Gang-Related: Urban Horror Gangster style is a quarterly webzine that accepts crime, crime-noir, and horror that involves a gang and uses modern city settings, (preferably inner-city), 2,000-5,000 words. Nothing worse than an R-rating for language and violence is accepted. Pays $.01/word up to $50 for first electronic rights from new and established writers. E-mail in body; no attachments are accepted. Label subject as "Gang-Related Submission" to Jason Duke, Editor, at nosellout@prodigy.net. Denote italics with one asterisk and bold­type with two. No simultaneous, multi-submissions, or reprints. Website at www2.11net.com/j85051d.

Don’t Bother:

iUniverse.com - M.J. Rose states, "The National Writers Union has been investigating iUniverse.com for several months and is now prepared to present a list of grievances to company management later this week, said Harry Youtt, a union representative." One of the charges is the company’s failure to notify more than 400 authors that their titles disappeared from their site’s database.

Write Image has failed to fulfill its contracts with numerous defrauded writers. The Edmonton newspapers and the Better Business Bureau have issued warnings about staying away. This site is being run by the publisher of Commonwealth, a subsidy publisher that went bust in 1999 after failing to fulfill its contracts with hundreds of writers, according to the National Writers Union. Thanks to N’omi for the tip.

Email your markets to me.

All opinions stated in this column are my own and not opinions of T-zero or Writer’s Village University.


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Non-Fiction Nature Writing

Dee Walmsley

Just a Junco

He hopped down from his perch in the azalea bush as I mixed together the bucket of fertilizer and water. Just a tiny Oregon Junco taking in the sun or so I thought until he showed no fear or apprehension in my presence. I knew he was sick and that it was only a matter of time before the end.

I sat on the edge of the front porch talking softly to this little bird as he slowly pecked his way across the flowerbed. He hopped onto the lawn and I steered him away from the flowers I was about to feed and then watched as he drank from the dripping hose. As I returned to refill my bucket I saw him checking out my ornamental cedar and thought, good, you'll be safe there. Bringing him in the house wouldn't help; I knew the trauma of being handled would be more upsetting than letting nature take its course, and so when I saw him disappear into the greenery I was relieved.

I went about fertilizing the roses when a small movement on the road caught my eye. Oh no! It couldn't be, and then the wind caught a tiny feather and I knew. I waited anxiously as two cars passed by then confirmed my suspicions. There lay the remains of a tiny body that only minutes before had quenched its thirst from my hose. I crossed back over the road to get something to remove his squashed body as the traffic continued. When I returned only a spot on the road and one blood-soaked feather remained along with my guilt for not intervening. He was just a junco, now a little niche in my heart.

Copyright © 2000 by Dee Walmsley


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Poetics Presents

D.C. Kidd

What is inspiration?

Inspiration is a fleeting thing,
It glides around on transparent wings.
It may just be something someone said,
That buzzes up and smacks your head.

And yet again it just may be,
A mood or maybe a sight we see
Or something fleeting that we have seen
Or something tranquil, peaceful, or serene.

Sometimes it is a gentle tick,
While other times it's like a ton of brick.
For each of them are different things,
But each and all are mystical things.

For it comes to us each one and all,
And hands us all a magical ball.
Brought to us by a Muse,
For us to work and not misuse.

Copyright © 2000 D.C. Kidd


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Poetics Presents

Patrick Lawler

Patrick Lawler is a new-old poet and writer of fiction, new in the sense of seeking publication and old (born 1964) in every sense of the word. He has had one short story published in the anthology, "The Shortest Stories of Love and Death."

No Time

The hot corner is hers;
limitless range, a virtuous glove
and a cannon for a right arm says so.

She ages with each pitch,
every possible scenario
played out in her head
before the pitcher ever goes set.

No surprises allowed,
her head and a passed ball the cost.
Might live through the first
but the second would surely kill her.
Infallible.
The Pope, her coach calls her.

Bottom of the last,
precarious single run lead,
tying run atop third.
The Pope’s mitt rest lightly on the infield,
her heels rise as the pitcher winds.
Batter shifts a shoulder and she gambles.

Full speed charging in, guessed right,
batter squares to bunt. Surprise --
bat back with speed --
half-swing head-hunting.
Fifteen feet and closing fast
when ball meets sweet spot
and hurdles at her head.

No time -— no passed balls.
A frozen rope. Off her feet and down.
The ball in her bare hand.
Game.

Copyright © 2000 Patrick Lawler


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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

Until further notice, only plain text submissions in the body of the email will be considered.
NO ATTACHMENTS.

What We Pay For

Fiction: Stories should be of interest to writers in general, not just a narrow group.

Fiction should be submitted to fiction@thewritersezine.com. Payment starts at $15.00.

If considered for publication, you will be asked to return an email agreement including your name and address.

Craft Features: Queries about Craft features should be sent to nonfiction@thewritersezine.com.

Payment starts at $15.00, and, if considered, you will be sent an email agreement to fill out and return.

Poetry: Due to the large number of recent poetry submissions, a temporary hold on further poetry submissions is in place until early 2008.

Please do not email us to ask what we pay for in other categories. When we can add to our list, we will include it in these guidelines.

What We Publish

Original short fiction, poetry, and non-fiction, particularly non-fiction related to the craft of writing and interviews.

For fiction we prefer something with a plot and resolution. If we like the main character, we are more likely to accept the story. If the main character has a problem to resolve or has to make a choice, that's conflict, and we love conflict! Too many writers confuse conflict with fight scenes. Don't be one of them. Give us a protagonist who acts, makes choices no matter how hard they are to solve his or her dilemma, not a wimp who drifts along and has to be rescued.

Non-fiction should be related to the craft of writing or be good resource material for writers. Accuracy and originality are vital. No reprints. If it has already been published somewhere else, our readers will spot it and let us know.

What We Won't Publish

Anything that inspires "hate," is defamatory or is pornographic.

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

Seasonal material submitted during the same month (i.e., a Christmas story in December). Our lead time is short compared to print publications, but we do need time to edit, html and proof submission. A good guideline is to submit the manuscript by the first of the preceding month (i.e., submit a Christmas story before November 1st).

Length Recommendations

  • For Fiction, under 1500 words is preferred. We will consider excerpts from longer works.

  • Poetry should fit on one printed page if possible. A maximum of five poems may be submitted at one time (when the hold is lifted).

  • Non-fiction or Craft features have the most leeway in word count. In general these manuscripts should be 750 to 2,000 words. We like to take advantage of the hypertext capabilities we have available and link to charts, graphs, lists and so forth. Thumbnail versions may be included in the body of the article.

Rights

All rights other than first electronic, non-exclusive 'anthology' (for collections of T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine works only), and non-exclusive archival rights (we keep back issues online) are and remain the sole and exclusive property of the author.

Formats We Will Accept

Plain text in the body of an email.

T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine is an HTML publication. This gives us access to a variety of options but it is also a limiting factor.

  • Underlining is used exclusively for links in HTML. Please do not underline in your manuscript. It you are including a link to a webpage for reference, please mark the link the following way: (WEB LINK) http://thewritersezine.com (END WEB LINK).
  • The less than (<) and greater than (>) signs are used to enclose HTML encoding. If you need to use brackets, please use the square [ ] ones instead.
  • Paragraph indentation requires time consuming insertion of multiple HTML symbols. Please separate paragraphs by inserting a hard, blank line between them.
  • Fonts need to be simple. No multiple fonts. We prefer standard fonts such as Times New Roman, Courier or Arial set at 12 point. If your subject matter requires something else, ask us first.
  • The curly (smart) quotes, apostrophes, the em dash (two hyphens together) and ellipsis … (three periods) become strange and exotic characters when copied from your word processor into email. Check your preferences or options to see if you can use straight quotes. 
  • Text formatting such as bold, italic, centering, bullet list, etc., should be noted in the text by using all caps in parentheses. For example, if you wanted to italicize the word submission, you would type: (ITALICS) submission (END ITALICS).

Editing

We expect you to run spell-check and to check your grammar and punctuation before submitting. We will not reject a submission for a few typos or errors, but will if there are an excessive number of errors.

Note: Since our reading audience is international, we do not require a specific version of English. Use the spelling appropriate to your region.

We will automatically correct obvious typos such as “ton” for “not” and may correct simple agreement problems. For anything beyond that, time permitting, we will return the submission to you with a request for corrections.

Getting to Know You

Fiction and Craft features published in T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine include brief third person biographical notes on the writers. For all submissions, please compose your own bio and include it to save our editors and yourself time later if/when your piece is accepted for publication. We suggest sharing a little about your background, occupation, geographical location and what inspired your story.

How and Where to Submit

We do not accept submissions via US mail. Email submissions only, to the appropriate department, in the body of the email. No attachments accepted.

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

Craft Non-fiction should be queried first. Send query to nonfiction@thewritersezine.com.

Poetry: Due to the large number of recent poetry submissions, a temporary hold on further poetry submissions is in place until early 2008.

Include the type of submission (fiction, non-fiction) in the subject line.

Be sure to include your name and email address in the body of the email.

If you do not receive an acknowledgement that your submission or query was received within a week, please send a follow-up query with “Did you Receive?” in the subject line. In the body of the email, please include your name and email address, the title of the work submitted, and if different, the email address sent from. Do not resend the submission unless we request it.

Good luck!


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
http://TheWritersEzine.com
Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved

 

© Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All rights reserved