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 T-zero Xpandizine
 The Writer's E-Zine

 

 Produced and published by the members of Writers' Village University since 1998    ISSN 1521-2639       
04 December 2008
Animal Writing The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Animal Writing

Carol Wicks

Heed Your Own Advice

Chafing at the bit in a long line recently, I began chatting with the gal behind me. We did the obligatory complaining about the wait and weather, and then do what women seem to do. We immediately got to know one another. She asked what I did, and for the first time I answered without hesitation.

"I'm a writer."

She seemed awestruck for a second and then the questions came tumbling out. "What do you write? What do you write about? Who do you write for? Do you write books or magazines? Do you write for children?", a breath, "I've always wanted to be a writer."

"Well, mostly stories about animals," I was interrupted before I could finish.

"Ooh, this is Fate! My dog Teddy died right before Thanksgiving. He was such a wonderful dog and I want to write about him. He shouldn't have died; the stupid vet made a big mistake and I want people to know about that so their dog won't die too. Can you help me?"

The ready tears for Teddy and the quick excitement about writing mixed in odd juxtaposition on her face. I didn't know exactly what to say but I wanted to somehow encourage both the need to write about her dog as a way of assuaging her grief, and the aspiration to this particular affliction called writing.

But only yesterday, it was ME doing the asking. As my mouth opened and hung suspended for a nanosecond, I realized I was speaking to myself as much as her.

"Just write. Don't worry if it is good or bad or whether anyone will publish it. Write from your heart. Start anywhere. Go back to when he was a puppy or wherever you want. Just get it all out. You can fix any mistakes later."

This wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear. "But what about the vet?"

"Okay, start researching what happened to Teddy. Get the actual facts and the most up to date information you can find. Become an expert on this. There are specific sites on line about various diseases including veterinary college sites and the American Veterinary Medical Association. Just search for that particular illness. Maybe you can write in everyday language what he died of and what people need to watch out for when their dog is sick."

I could see the "But" forming on her lips. I tried again.

"You'll feel better about Teddy and it will help to clear your head where he and your writing are concerned. Then maybe you'll know what special or unique feature about him will interest all kinds of people who love dogs. That can be one story.

The veterinary aspect could be a second article.

Then saying how you feel now about Teddy and what happened, and how you've dealt with his loss, might be a third. It could help other people get over losing their own pets as well."

Our line was advancing and it was almost my turn for service. I could tell she was thinking about what I'd said. The old animal welfare person and the new writer in me both summed it up.

"A good writer tries to look at all sides and produce as many stories or articles about an incident as they can. Getting the facts from experts will help you be objective and seem credible. Telling one particular story about Teddy will make you smile and touch other people with his life. And doing both will let you cope with the fact he's not here anymore and might help someone else do the same about their pet."

Her half smile was grateful, apologetic and uncertain at the same time.

"I really appreciate your talking to me, but, well, I'll, I'll see. I'm not sure I can write well enough, and, and, who would print it?"

Her allotted minutes at the window gave me enough time to jot down my name, phone number and email address and hand it to her.

"Why don't you get started and then call or email me? I'll be glad to help you. I can steer you to some online classes and ezines that are good. That's the first step. Then we'll find some places where you can query, or ask, if they would be interested in your work."

A genuine grin lit her face this time. "I will. I promise I will."

Even as it was happening, the prickling sensation at the back of my neck told me it was one of those light bulb moments you read about but never seem to actually experience. On the surface, I was coaching a new writer on how to start, comforting a grieving pet parent, and making a new friend. But what I really did was mentor myself. I listened to the words I spoke, gleaned from the guidance of many wiser than I, and this time I believed them. You can do it too.

It's as easy as heeding your own advice.



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Beyond the Textbook The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Beyond the Textbook

Laurie Lupold

Attaining Our Goals


As writers, we often set our goals based on wants, not on logical expectation. For instance, we idealize the prospect of becoming a novelist when we have yet to achieve a more logical achievement of having a much smaller piece deemed marketable. Thus how can we push our expectations so high up the ladder that we will surely fail, especially if we have limited our time?

A much more productive way to become successful is to prioritize. Certainly writing an enjoyable novel will take some time. To allow ourselves to ensure we reach this goal it would be more productive if we were to say we will achieve this goal eventually.

Designing a list of short-term goals provides us with a strategy of obtaining our long-term success. Simple goals such as writing a certain number of pages in a day or week or number of projects completed in a week, month or year. Not only have we now set ourselves up with attainable goals, we have also created a successful writing pattern. As all writers know, you must write on a continuous basis to withstand a career in the writing market.

One thing that is pleasant about setting our goals is that they are negotiable. Goals are not set in stone and may be altered at the writer's approval. Our lives change periodically and so will our ability to achieve our goals. Keeping our goals at a logical level is important. We often must deal with rejection and in response we receive this as a personal failure. This is difficult enough to deal with without setting ourselves up for failure. Base your goals on logic and you are certain to succeed.



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Catherine's Kitchen The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Catherine's Kitchen

Catherine Manning

HAPPY 2003

And I mean that; nothing more can happen I hope, but you can never tell.

I jest when I say that, as my niece-in-law to be, Melissa, (daughter-in-law-to- be of my brother and the sister-in-law who fell over the carpet and broke her ankle) mistook her step when walking in the fields at the Boxing Day party. I was told that she had a little rum punch! She broke bones in her foot and is also on crutches, just hope that come February 8th when she is to walk up the aisle, all will be well. Her Dad is a doctor so hope he's got it all organized!

I had the Xmas Day party and there was a good turnout and after everything that occurred, it was a good and peaceful day; in fact everyone remarked that it was the best Xmas day in a long time. I had everything so organized, the turkey was in the oven and ready to carve and everything was "gung ho."

Then one of my dogs (Beryl) decided it was time to go and by the time I got her to the vet, it was too late. Her heart just gave out and she died in my arms, so I brought her back home bawling my head off. By then the family were here. They had taken over with the carving and the kitchen etc. and they helped me bury her, which I was glad for, as the last one I had to do on my own. My dogs are getting old now and that is not good as they are "my everything." It's becoming a burial ground here, so far three of my old dogs have died and one cat. Eight dogs and three cats still to go!

After that everyone was cheering me up; things went well, food was plentiful and good. My mother and sister spent the night and next day we went to my brother's Boxing Day garlic pork party. After that it was continuous round of dinners and lunches and breakfast.

Friday I had thirteen to lunch, all my girl cousins and their mothers, my sisters and Ma. On Sunday was lunch at my sister's for the family to vet (!) my nephew's new girlfriend. She passed muster, unlike the first one that he married and divorced seven months later! Then dinner the next night with a cousin, and I finished off with having eight for breakfast on New Year's morning. I figure I've done my entertaining for the year.

Anyway this is late, so I should stop rambling and get it to Margaret.
 

GARLIC PORK for garlic lovers only!

This really can't be considered a cheap dish, as even though I get my pork from the market, which is a lot cheaper than the supermarket, so much is lost weight-wise in the preparation and cooking, that it makes it expensive.

To end up with 2 lbs of cooked pork, I had to start with...

  • 7 lbs. pork leg
  • 4 pints white vinegar, approximately. The pork must be completely covered.
  • 2 tsp. salt to 1 pint of vinegar
  • 3/4 lb. or more of garlic peeled and chopped coarsely. I used nearly a pound.
  • Hot pepper to taste, chopped
  • 1 bunch thyme
  • 4-6 cloves

Remove bone and skin from pork, keeping some fat, if possible, as this helps with the frying. Cut pork into pieces about 1-1/2 inches square, not too small as it shrinks. Wash pork well in several solutions of vinegar and water to remove any blood left in the meat. This is important as the blood will cause it to go bad. I wash it till the water is clear and not pinky.

Using two clean forks or tongs, layer pork into clean wide-necked jars with the garlic, pepper and thyme, cover COMPLETELY with the vinegar and salt and leave to soak for 3-4 days. Using, if possible, an electric frying pan, boil the pork in some of the vinegar liquid till tender. Strain off any liquid that's left (replacing the garlic in pan) and fry till brown, adding a little liquid back to the pan if it dries out too much. I also add a little oil if necessary or use ham fat if you have it, but it shouldn't be floating in fat or liquid. This takes a little time.

Keep warm and when ready to eat, sprinkle the pork with Worcester sauce and squeeze some fresh orange juice over it. Serve with hot buns, sliced ham, pickled onions and salad material.

Oh, don't forget the pink gins with an orange juice chaser! For those of you souls out there who don't know what a pink gin is, it's a shot of gin with a splash of Angostura bitters. Considering this is a breakfast party, I have never been brave enough to have one; can't say the same for others though!

Apologies to the vegetarians out there.
 

Bon Appetit
Cath



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Craft of Writing The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Craft of Writing

Christina Sexton Wilcox

Present Yourself As A Pro

Whether you are a beginner or an experienced writer, professionalism is the key to selling your articles and securing future assignments. Part of your job as a writer is to make the editor's job easier. Not only are your words under scrutiny, your work ethic is, too. Show the editor that you're the right one for the assignment by being thorough, flexible, and courteous. Here are six tips on how to present yourself as a pro and continue to receive great assignments.

Follow The Rules
Make sure your manuscript follows the rules set forth in the publisher's submission guidelines. Most magazines' Web sites have specific pages devoted to the details of submitting articles. You also can request them by sending the magazine a note with a self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE). Most are very specific. Should you query or send the entire manuscript? Are e-mail queries accepted? What about attaching documents? Is there a different editor for fiction and non-fiction? The guidelines will have the answers. Remember: they aren't suggestions –– they are rules. No matter how compelling your article on the indigenous people of Madagascar is, if you don't follow the rules, your story may end up in the slush pile.

Check The Basics
Once you've formatted your manuscript per the magazine's guidelines, double-check the basics. Proper grammar and correct spelling and punctuation tell the editor that you are a professional. Check your facts and spelling of proper names. Offer to provide a reference or source list (required on some technical pieces). Don't forget to provide details of artwork or photography that will accompany your piece.

Editors want to feel that you wrote your article for their magazine. But don't direct your correspondence to Bob if his name is Robert. Don't assume that because an editor has made contact with you that you are now friends; use "Mr." or "Ms." as appropriate. Check the word count and make sure your piece is within the appropriate range. Use a readable and universal font such as Times New Roman, 10 to 12 point. If mailing, present clean and clear copies. Always enclose a SASE.

"Don't Call Us..."
Once you've sent off your query or manuscript, start work on another one. Don't call the magazine in a week to make sure it was received. This only annoys editors and is a surefire way to sound inexperienced and desperate.

Check the editorial response time on the submission guidelines and make a note on your calendar to e-mail (or write) for status. Once that lead-time has lapsed, you can feel free to inquire. Documents do get lost in the (e)mail, but not that often.

No Whiners
At some point, you may be asked to make changes to your manuscript. This request may come before your article is even accepted. The request itself usually means you're on the verge of being accepted. Make the changes. Don't write back to defend your use of the first person or argue that the last paragraph on page two is essential to the whole premise. Make the changes promptly and send it off.

As a writer you need to divorce your ego from your manuscript. The sooner you can develop a thick skin and accept criticism of your work, the better. If you think of criticism as a learning tool, you might just produce a better product.

Meet Your Deadlines
A deadline is a time limit as to when your article must be finished. There is no excuse for missing a deadline. If you do miss your deadline, chances are you will not be given a second opportunity. Kids, pets, day-job obligations –– none of these are of any concern to editors who have deadlines of their own to meet. It won't even matter if you are the only one in the world to see the rare pygmy squirrels of Panama.

The goal here is to endear yourself to an editor so that your article will be published, you'll be paid, and (most importantly) you'll be asked to submit an article again. When you agree to a completion date, your article should be in the editor's inbox no later than 8 a.m. that day. The easier you make the editor's job, the better your chances of getting more assignments.

Show Me The Money
If you've checked the writer's guidelines, you will at least know the range and time frame of your payment (upon acceptance or publication, etc.). Until then, remain focused on getting your article in on time with any changes completed. If the editor is a professional, (s)he will bring up the terms of payment. You'll either be sent forms to sign or be asked to provide your Social Security number and mailing address for processing.

Don't let the payment aspect of it all get in the way of your doing a good job on your article. However, if payment is never discussed and you've checked the guidelines, follow up courteously with the editor as to the process of payment.

You can't go wrong by being meticulous in your prose, compliant with requests, and punctual in your deadlines. The more professionalism you display, the more willing editors will be to accept your articles and even call you for assignments. Keep these tips in mind when sending out your next article and you will convince editors that you are the best writer for the job.

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Fiction Short Story

by Sonya L. Weiss

A Dragon Tale

Debbie grumbled, adjusting her heavy breastplate. She would have to remember not to fall asleep reading "Medieval Times" again, at least until she got the hang of this time travel.

Trudging upward toward the dragon's lair, she searched her memory for the words that would take her back to her nice, warm bed. Now what were they again? Ah, yes! Placing herself squarely in front of the cave, she lifted her magic sword, calling loudly, "Come out Sir Dragon! I've come to rescue Princess Judi."

"Who are you?" The voice of the dragon thundered from deep within the darkness.

"I am Debbie, Reader-of-Books."

There was a snort of laughter followed by a belch of smoke. "Debbie, you say? What happened to Knight Ashley the fearless one?"

Frowning, Debbie tried to peer into the darkness. "Your voice sounds funny. Very undragon-like."

"Enter Debbie, Reader-of-Books."

Sword in front, Debbie crept carefully inside the cave, wrinkling her nose at the fishy smell. The dragon was much smaller than she expected. It was bright yellow with ... bright yellow?

"It's rude to stare." The dragon snapped.

"Ashley?" Debbie was so startled she dropped her sword.

"Don't look so surprised, this is all your fault you know." The dragon sniffed.

"My fault?" Dazed, Debbie sat down on the nearest rock.

"Yes, your fault." Princess Judi said as she climbed from behind the dragon.

"How is it my fault?" Debbie rubbed her stinging eyes and frowned at the dragon. "Ashley, quit blowing smoke circles."

"Sorry."

"It's your fault because you read us the book." Princess Judi pointed out. "When you fell asleep, you brought us with you into the dream." She dropped her shoulders dejectedly.

"We just have to remember the magic words." Debbie looked hopefully at her sisters.

"Words." A small voice echoed.

"Jessie's here too?" Debbie yelped.

"Yes," Princess Judi shot a dark glance at the dragon. "And Ashley keeps burning the extra diapers."

"Well! I don't mean to!" Dragon said hotly.

"If you'd breathe through your nose..." Princess Judi began, "then it wouldn't happen."

Pressing her fingers to her temple, Debbie concentrated as hard as she could. Magic words... magic words...

"Debbie, it's time for school." Mom announced cheerily.

Blinking awake, Debbie sighed, relieved. It had all been a dream. She laughed out loud and jumped from bed, promptly tripping over something. Annoyed, she reached for the object, her eyes widening when she realized what it was: the magic sword.


© Copyright 2003 Sonya L. Weiss
 


About the Author:

Sonya Weiss is a mother of four, currently residing in South Carolina. She often writes short stories to entertain her children.



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Fiction Short Story

by Pamela Olumoya

Side Effects

Martin Miles finished his beer with a series of noisy swallows. Already in her blue terry cloth robe, Joanna had kept him company while he devoured two helpings of her meat loaf and specially prepared buttermilk mashed potatoes laced with a special concoction of heavy-duty sleeping pills. She was sick and didn't have an appetite; therefore Martin didn't expect her to eat but he believed in eating well himself.

Moving close to his dowdy wife, Martin could smell the Sprite she constantly sipped, and the faint scent of regurgitation that stayed with her. She was probably expecting a positive answer to her earlier question and a peck on the cheek. He reached out in her direction past her hopeful brown eyes and the gray edges at her hairline, but lingered just long enough to remove a napkin from its holder.

She'd brought up the subject right before he had sat down to eat his meal. Her transplanted kidney was failing, she was on the list for a new one, but she was getting weaker by the day. Although he had declined the first time asked three months ago, did he think it was possible for him to reconsider? The perfect dinnertime discussion, right? One of his favorite tactics was to not answer. He loved making her bide by his time.

After wiping his mouth, he hovered nearby while he readjusted his maroon shirt past his beer belly and into his black slacks. Finally, after a huge yawn and stretch he was ready to answer. "Joanna, you are somebody I have known for a very long time. But, I have known Joe the barber, Frank the mailman and Carlton the mechanic for a long time too. If they asked me for a kidney, I'd tell them no just like I'm telling you no." He let out an uncovered belch loud enough to send the cat scurrying to another room. This time he yawned wide enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"But ... but, what about the children?" She managed with a shaky voice even though she knew that neither sentiment nor logic would matter to him.

"What about them? You want to harvest their organs too?"

"Oh God! You think you can just say anything to me, don't you?" Her voice suddenly found resonance and something akin to hate. Martin noticed it immediately, it had been so long since she had done anything but whine, her nervy response got his attention.

"If you're seriously worried about the children's welfare, you don't have to be. They're seven and eight. They've known how sick you are their whole lives. They'll survive."

Pain racked her soul, but she couldn't stop. "So, you are saying that life without me will just be a momentary glitch our children will have to overcome?" She looked past him at the clock.

"You said it, not me."

She inhaled and held her breath, a yoga trick she'd learned that calmed her. Finally she exhaled. "Martin, remember when we agreed that my sister and David would become Trevor and Tatiana's guardians if something ever happened to both of us?"

"That was when they were still babies and your whining still worked," he snickered as he retrieved his overcoat from the hall rack. Coming back to stand before her he said, "Say, you wouldn't be trying to tell me something, now would you?"

No," she dropped her gaze, "it just helps me to remember when things were better between us, that's all."

"I didn't think so. I'm leaving now." A gust of cold winter air came rushed past him when he went out the door; enough to make the children's magnetically held soccer and basketball game schedules flutter on the refrigerator door. Once outside he took two steps, hesitated, then turned around and went back inside. Joanna was waiting for him, watching him, as if she'd predicted his return.

"What the hell are you looking at? What's gotten into you tonight? What do you think you are going to do? Huh? Let me break something down for you. You are not that smart and I'm not that stupid." He paused and shook his head as if to clear it. "So, whatever you are thinking forget about it. There's not a chance in hell of you pulling off something that would hurt me that wouldn't backfire and land your fat ass right in jail. I'm sure Trevor and Tatiana would love to see their mother spend her last few months wilting away in a prison cell. That would make a pretty picture, wouldn't it?"

She knew when she poked, he'd poke back, but things had not been this venomous in a long time. She tried to turn away, but he grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. "I'll tell you what. Why don't you go on upstairs and write out your eulogy. I'm thinking something short and sweet like, she lived, she died, and nobody cried should do it. Does that work for you?"

She stared at his eyes and then at the shaving bumps he was plagued with and wondered how it could have possibly come to this. Hadn't they been high school sweethearts? Hadn't he been a football star and hadn't he'd been proud to be seen with her, the lead twirler on the pom-pom squad?

He stared into a face that used to be pretty, but was now swollen with the side effects of her medication and then quickly thought of the warm luscious body waiting for him elsewhere. But, he had to admit, there was something different about her tonight all right; he just couldn't put his finger on it. The beer and dinner were making him groggy. Giving up, he shook his head and said, "Jesus Christ!" as he walked out of the door. "Joanna, you can be a real pain in the ass."

She looked at the clock and waited for him to drive past. Two minutes. Nothing. Four minutes. Still nothing. The adrenaline erased her fatigue. Practically running, she got her coat and hurried into the garage. She found Martin asleep behind the wheel. She opened his door cautiously, alert to its groaning, creaking sound. "Martin," she called. "Martin," she called again, this time shaking him, poised to jump back if there should be even a titter from him. Carefully, she snaked her rubber-gloved hand across to the ignition and turned the key. After carefully closing the garage door she washed the dishes and then, to be doubly sure, she put them in the dishwasher right before going to bed.

"I'm not sure what happened," Joanna told everyone who inquired the next day, "He did mention a bad pain in his lower back. I think he reached for the aspirin and got my sleeping pills by mistake. And, unfortunately, they've had to increase my dosage because, after a while, what used to work just stops working."

"What? No, I didn't think to look in the garage until morning. Martin, well, you see, Martin had this habit of going out after dinner and not coming home."

© Copyright 2003 Pamela Olumoya

 

About the Author:

Pamela Olumoya likes to write short stories, children's plays and poems. She has written two pre-published novels.



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Fiction Short Story

by Charles Trent Alling

Surfing Under Water

Saturday came and went like a lion; at least Howard felt as if he had been mauled and eaten by a lion after his ex-wife, Myra Lyons, slammed the front door in his face, nearly smashing his nose. He stood rooted to the floor of the hallway, his gaze roamed in a lazy circle on the cheap wood surface of the apartment door. Like Superman he expected to penetrate the door with his X-ray vision and stare into her eyes until she fell to her knees and wailed for mercy. Of course he couldn't perform this fiction and felt insulted, his guts ripped apart, his mind bent and broken into minute fragments.

Slowly piecing it all back together he realized the door would never open again -- no matter how many wishes he cast upon its frail paneling.

Confused, he stumbled down the two flights of stairs. Outside near the noisy street he mused that at this hour married couples were busy with their lives elsewhere. Arguing, most likely, or flagging a taxi to run to a mistress, or, what do they call a man chased by a married woman, a manstress?

Inside his car he started the engine and drove blindly toward some unknown destination. Blinking awake minutes later, he remembered nothing about his trip. He recognized the entrance gate to the zoo and parked the car, vaguely aware that the engine stopped.

Jumbled scenes of Myra Lyons energized his mind until he shut them off. Life at this point had no meaning, no fortunes to pursue, no goal to hang onto forever. Finally, some unknown spark prompted him to open the door and exit the car with a wild notion to be with animals. He heard the harsh call of a macaw, its echo dividing the warm night air. Without thinking, he approached the locked gate and peered through the bars. Locked in and locked out. He felt sympathy for the animals, yet nothing for himself.

With eyes wide he rounded the tall iron fence, absently dragging four fingers across the bars, until he discovered an opening big enough for his thin frame to squirm through.

Howard felt suddenly exhilarated being inside an illegal area. Lights shining from ten-foot poles guided him to an asphalt path. Shoes scraping on the asphalt awakened an animal. He recognized the grunt of a lion and saw its tail flip to and fro. Howard did not stop here, nor did he stop anywhere until he reached the hippopotamus compound.

The compound, dark, expansive, peaceful, contained a large lake; lights flashed on its mirror-like surface. He became fascinated by how deep the water must be to cover the water-loving hippopotamus. He had read somewhere in a magazine about this huge animal. It lived under water for several minutes, surfacing only to breathe in new air; then it swam back down to the bottom to loll. When provoked, the hippopotamus has been seen to cleave a ten-foot crocodile into two parts with its powerful jaws and large teeth.

Howard could not take his eyes off the lake and pressed his nose through the lukewarm links. In a trance he searched along the fence for entry. Without remembering how he had penetrated the fencing, he now stood on the edge of the lake, looking down into the dark, flashing liquid. Because his mind suffered unspeakable loneliness, he wondered what it would be like to drown.

How far down would he go? Would he feel anything during the last few seconds?

He had already reasoned nothing wanted him alive outside the compound, his only love in the world having shut him out forever. The water of the lake beckoned him with unrelenting power, alluring him to plunge into its depths and suffer a silent death. He mused no other end, no other recourse.

He stepped into the lake and hesitated. Why go dressed? Go as he came into the world. He quickly removed his jacket, shoes and socks, shirt, pants, and underwear, setting them all on the ground in one neat pile, shoes and socks on top. Then he waded into the water until it lapped at his stomach. He sucked in a volume of air and dived headfirst, eyes closed to erase the depth.

How far down would he go?

He felt a strange sensation, as if he were dropping slowly into an abyss. Should he let the air out of his lungs? No, not yet. Let it happen on the bottom. Suddenly, he hit the floor; but the surface was soft and yielding, not rough cement as he had expected. Then, without warning, this island of softness began to move, lifting him through the water. He opened his eyes and promptly surmised in horror that he had landed on a gigantic hippopotamus. But before he rolled off the creature's back they broke through the surface, and his fears of being chewed into separate parts destroyed his earlier resolve to die.

The large hippopotamus, grunting in alarm and expanding his mouth to its widest opening, turned on Howard. In total panic Howard thrashed his arms through the water faster than Johnny Weissmuller had ever done. He clawed frantically out of the lake, picked up his pile of clothes, and ran to the fence where he had struggled through.

On the other side of the fence, while breathing fiercely, Howard watched the hippopotamus wobble its head from side to side; it grunted and woofed. Then the beast, apparently having grumbled enough about his nap being rudely disturbed, turned on his short legs and reentered the lake.

Howard quickly donned his clothes, socks and shoes. Dressed, he did not move until the water became silent and reflected the lights once more. He felt safe for the first time in his life, yet his body refused to stop trembling. The thought of suicide was no longer an issue. Life, he mused, offered myriads of opportunities he had never before thought possible. And now that rekindled life ebbed and flowed through his veins again, he became intensely hungry.

Hurrying to his car, he found the gas gauge reading empty. Undaunted, he thought of an Italian restaurant nearby that stayed open until two A.M. By the time he entered the restaurant his hunger knew no bounds.

At his table he ordered the largest pizza and told the waiter to garnish the dough with cheese, pepperoni, black olives, mushrooms, green peppers, and sausage. When his order arrived, hot and steaming, the aroma of the pizza caused him to rub his hands together.

Then with mouth watering, he picked up a slice and devoured with gusto all of the pizza's variety.

© Copyright 2003 Charles Trent Alling

 

About the Author:

Charles Trent Alling lives in Tampa, Florida with his wife, Jeannette, and writes novels. Several of his book reviews have been published in The Tampa Tribune. He is currently writing a thriller, which takes place in 1947 Puerto Rico.



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Fiction Short Story

by Debra Purdy Kong

Two Resolutions

While still half asleep, Maude Crossley opened her bedroom window for cooler air. She started to turn away when a flash of white in her neighbour's backyard caught her eye. "Why," she gasped, "is the famous singer and movie star, Cher, dancing on Daphne Christensen's lawn?"

Wiping bleary eyes, Maude tried to think clearly. Despite the dancer's long black hair and slim build, this couldn't be Cher, yet she sure wasn't Daphne either. Maude watched each barefoot step flow gracefully into the next as the white dress swirled to a silent rhythm. Gradually, the woman danced toward Daphne's back door, then disappeared.

Maude leaned out the window. Daphne hadn't mentioned having a houseguest. On the other hand, they hadn't chatted much since Daphne's daughter, Beth, left home and moved in with her father last month.

On the phone the next morning, Maude frowned as Daphne said, "No one was dancing in my yard last night, I don't know what you're talking about. Anyway, Cher's not a dancer, she's a singer."

"And a darn fine actress, but..."

"Maude, drop it, all right? You're scaring me and I can't deal with this now."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

"It's okay. Listen, I should have called you ages ago, but with Beth gone I've lost track of time."

"How's Beth doing?"

"Fine, I guess. She phones once a week, but doesn't say much."

That's because Beth was like her mother, and Daphne didn't express her feelings often. Even last year's divorce from her husband had warranted only a couple of philosophical sentences now and then. It worried Maude. Both mother and daughter kept too much buried.

"Camille signed me up to play in the band at the school's performing arts show next week." Maude hoped a change of subject would cheer her up. "Are you participating?"

"No, I ... well, it's been hard enough trying to stay on the diet. Being scrutinized on stage would be really scary."

"I know. Ever since we made that stupid New Year's resolution in front of everybody, I've spotted more than one pair of eyes studying my backside at the gym. Thank God I'm only playing the triangle in the back row."

"Sorry I haven't gone to the weigh-ins with you, Maude, but the expectations are so high."

"I understand."

Since all of their conversations during the past four months had taken place over the phone, Maude wondered if her friend had gained weight. Now that she thought about it, Daphne had become somewhat reclusive. Too bad, her friend had seemed so determined to lose those forty pounds.

"Daphne, come to show with us. It'll be fun."

"Thanks, I'll think about it."

Late that night, Maude tossed and turned from the heat and her husband's snoring. At two a.m. she was sipping hot milk at the kitchen sink when she spotted the dancer in Daphne's yard.

Maude turned off the light. By the time she returned to the window the woman had vanished. Maude shivered. She didn't believe in ghosts, however, something definitely odd was happening next door. Daphne sure hadn't wanted to discuss the dancer. Did she know more than she was saying?

At breakfast, Maude was still brooding about what she'd seen when her daughter hurried into the kitchen.

"Camille, how are things going with Beth?"

"Okay, why?"

"Any chance she'll move back home?"

"Not right now. She thinks her mom's a loser for quitting so many things, like her marriage."

"Do you know if she's still dieting?"

Camille shrugged. "Beth said her mom only wears ugly, ankle-length dresses shaped like a tent. Anyway, remember how she dropped out of university a couple years ago? Beth said she's taking some other course now, but Mrs. Christensen won't tell her about it. She figures that's because her mom'll quit that too."

"Sounds like Beth's giving up on her."

"Maybe Mrs. Christensen is giving up on herself. She dreamed of performing on Broadway years ago, you know, but only auditioned twice before packing it in. Then there's her resolution about dancing in the show this year."

Maude stared at her. "I didn't know that."

"Beth said she made the resolution on January First. I wasn't surprised 'cause Mrs. Christensen always practiced her jazz moves around the house."

Maude recalled that Daphne once mentioned studying ballet and modern dance, until her pregnancy.

"Anyway, by February she'd stopped practicing, maybe because of her weight, so Beth knew she'd back out, which really ticked her off. She said her mom's got no guts."

Maude nearly slopped boiling kettle water over her hand. Beth had guts. She was also as tall as her mother, yet slimmer, and in her fifth year of dance lessons. Although her dark hair was short, a wig could change that.

It wasn't like Beth to play cruel jokes on others. Still, during her days as a social worker, Maude had seen how some people resorted to cruelty when their hurt and anger became overwhelming.

"Beth's dad lives close to us, right?"

"Sure, about ten minutes by bike." She observed her mother. "You've got that weird 'I'd better snoop around' look."

"I do not."

Maude turned away. She never could fake much around Camille.

"Won't you be late for school?"

Camille sprang out of her chair. "Don't do anything dumb, Mum!"

She'd certainly try not to, but sleuthing didn't come with guarantees. Had Daphne spotted her daughter prancing around the backyard and confronted her? If Beth was taunting her, she had to be stopped. The only way to do it would be to catch the girl barefoot, so to speak.

The plan, although simple, was far from comfortable. Lying in her son Jeffrey's sleeping bag by the picket fence separating their yards, Maude waited for the dancer. She'd left her jogging shoes on and a flashlight by her side.

For the first night in seven days, clouds had rolled in and the temperature dropped several degrees. She snuggled further into the sleeping bag.

Maude had been dozing when something cold and wet plopped on her forehead. Within seconds her face was sprinkled with raindrops. As she sat up she spotted something white moving next door. Maude struggled out of the sleeping bag. Grabbing her flashlight, she raced for the gate. While entering Daphne's yard, the sprinkle became a downpour. The dancer was gone.

Maude crept along the back of the house, and then shone her flashlight through the darkened windows. Nothing. She searched for signs of movement. Still nothing.

Hearing sirens drawing nearer, she darted back to her yard, grabbed the sleeping bag and then hurried inside.

The next afternoon, Camille said, "Can we give Beth a ride to the show? Her mom's not going and her dad'll be working the night shift."

Maude couldn't believe that Daphne would miss a chance to see her daughter perform. Something was seriously wrong. Was she suffering from depression, or was her seclusion somehow connected to the dancer?

Sitting in the audience three evenings later, Maude's own spirits were low. She hadn't been able to persuade Daphne to join them, nor had she been able to confront the dancer. In fact, she'd spotted her only once since the sleeping bag episode.

After playing their flute duet, Beth and Camille joined Maude to watch the parents' segment of the show. The second to last number began with a recording of Pachelbel's "Canon", one of Daphne's favourites. As the curtains parted and the spotlights glowed blue light, Maude gasped. It was the dancer! The triangle slid out of her lap and clanged onto the floor

Maude glanced at Beth who gaped at the stage in shock. Peering at the dancer's face, Maude felt like an idiot.

As her performance ended, the audience erupted into applause. When Daphne removed her wig, people murmured her name, then began to cheer.

"Mom!" Camille shouted. "It's your turn, get up there!"

Maude grabbed her triangle and then rushed up the steps. Daphne was still in the wings when Maude hugged her.

"You looked fabulous, congratulations! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you can't keep a secret."

"I can too, sometimes." Maude shrugged and smiled. "You've been taking dance classes."

"For months. It's amazing how much came back to me."

"I should have had more faith in your determination. I should have recognized you in your own backyard!"

"People see what they expect to see, Maude. In my case, it was a fat blonde in big dresses."

"Why not tell Beth, though?"

"Since I had a slow start, she decided I wouldn't keep either of my resolutions. That's when I realized I needed to do all of this alone."

Maude smiled her. "That second resolution wasn't just about performing a two minute number up here, was it?"

Daphne beamed as she squeezed her friend's hand.

"Don't keep the band waiting, Maude," she winked. "It's not every day you actually get to finish what you start."

© Copyright 2003 Debra Purdy Kong

 

About the Author:

Debra has published over 70 short stories, essays and articles for publications in North America and England. She has also published a mystery novel called, "Taxed to Death." She lives in Port Moody, British Columbia, Canada, with her family and a menagerie of pets.



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Healthy Horizons The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Healthy Horizons

Laurie Lupold

The Fear Within


Panic Disorder (PD) is a terribly frustrating disorder. I don't wish to cover this from the direction of statistics and medical definitions, but rather from one that aids others who suffer with it. Panic can be described in one word: fear. Fear of what? Well, for a person who suffers from Panic Disorder, it can be a fear of almost anything. Many people, but not all, suffer with agoraphobia or social phobia, which is in essence a fear of people or the outside world, the fear that you are different, that they will see you differently and they will harm you. I suppose maybe some fear that they will suffer harm from others, but I experience the fear of feeling like a freak. That is a terrible feeling, I can tell you firsthand.

I have such fear of going outside my door, though I know in my mind of logic people really aren't looking at me and seeing anything. The PD mind sees it differently. I think they are talking about me or laughing at me, anything that describes a dislike.

Panic Disorder also causes a fear of death because of the symptoms you experience when having a panic attack (PA). One primary feeling is that of your chest tightening and your air being cut off. I also have moments when my heart pounds erratically, then stops for just a short moment. It is hard to express the feeling that accompanies, but it is a tremendous fear. The worst, I think, is at night when I have just fallen asleep and I awake feeling as though I have quit breathing. Then the panic is immediate, which logically only feeds the situation.

It isn't fair that I, or anyone else, has to suffer this torment, but then, a lot of things in life aren't fair. So what do you do? Well for me, I'm doing it right here. I was suffering a PA that ultimately developed this article. This doesn't always work and I didn't get through it solely by writing. I leaned on a friend with PD and typed as I chatted. It's called distraction. We can fight the PA and make it intensify and last longer or we can let it come and take its course.

For me, creativity is my inspiration because it is the one thing in life I am confident with and that makes me feel good. When I write, I feel satisfaction in what I have achieved. I think if we were to look through writers and their history, we would find many who suffered from some form of medical or mental disorder, many success stories, and probably many who survived through their talent.

If any of you know such writers, I would love for you to drop me a line. If you wouldn't mind sharing your own story of inspiration, I would be glad to hear it. Certainly in issues to come, we will contemplate the collaboration of writers and their struggles in this capacity. Thanks for sharing my illness and, in a way, seeing me through it.


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Karen's Keynotes

Karen MacLeod

Writing for the Non-Commercial (FAN FICTION) Market

For those of you who are not yet brave (or skilled) enough to have a publishing house take a look at your novel, you might want to consider going the fan fiction route, to get experience before marketing your first novel to a publisher. Individual professional published authors who got their start this way include Jean Lorrah, Cheryl Wolverton, M. Jean Airey, and Andrea I. Alton.

I was a featured guest the other day in another chatroom, where the following was discussed:

Q: Publishing today is very difficult; any advice for new novelists on getting published? The largest problem is getting an agent to read the manuscript. Even with a good story, clean manuscript, rejections are the rule.

A: In addition to stating how to improve your manuscript, how to follow publishers guidelines, as I have stated in my previous WVU columns, I continued that the agent is not necessarily the publisher...the acquisitions editor usually finds things a house wants to publish. What reason do you get for your rejection?
Q: My group receives anything from form rejections, no reasons, or encouragement but with rejection. Without previous experience (clips) these new novelists are having a hard time. I get "not taking on new projects at this time." Sort of nebulous things like that.
A: With my amateur authors' fan work, I always wrote personalized responses, suggestions, and DID read the submission. Then perhaps your "group" should start in "fan" writing, which is a valid credential. My fan editing experience got me noticed by NovelBooks and other places. It takes time to build a portfolio. A critique group is helpful. You have to start small to later become Stephen King.
Q: Yes, it does, but try to explain that to an on-fire new novelist.
A: Well, you have to start somewhere. If not going all out to get your manuscript printed by a publishing house, and you want those "first credentials for your portfolio," start at the amateur/fan level. Submit to quality places looking for the type of material you deliver.

Such places include:

(One of my favorite Historicals) Bygone Days:
http://www.simegen.com/writers/bygonedays/

The dmoz open directory project:
http://dmoz.org/Arts/Online_Writing/E-zines/Fiction/

Google has a whole list of possibilities:
http://directory.google.com/Top/Arts/Online_Writing/E-zines/Fiction/

Whistling Shade:
http://www.sff.net/estand/ezine/whistlingshade.htm

My own, A COMPANION IN ZEOR (based only on the work of Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Jean Lorrah)
http://www.simegen.com/sgfandom/rimonslibrary/cz/

Google itself has a long list of possibilities if you enter "ezine" into their search engine. Just asking for a specific reference of an e-zine, brought up more than ten pages of possibilities.
The U.S. copyright law for fan fiction (a/k/a/ fanfic) is a whole different set of rules than if you write for a novel. This is a legal argument that (by U.S. law) fan fiction is fair use, provided it is noncommercial and properly attributes the borrowed characters and situations.

Note that this is one lawyer's opinion, not a court judgment, not "The Law."

If the copyright law interests you, start your investigations with an article by Rebecca Tushnet, a lawyer and an expert in intellectual property, particularly copyright law: http://www.tushnet.com/law/fanficarticle.html  Ms. Tushnet is an Assistant Professor of Law, New York University School of Law.  

Of course, this doesn't apply to the "Great American Novel." If you wish to use someone else's characters for your work, then permissions must be obtained.

Good luck.





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Poetics Presents

C.E. Milliner

C.E. Milliner is a 1977 graduate of the school of Education at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio and has spent many years in inside sales promoting various arts organizations. He enjoys spending time with his family and currently resides in Cleveland, Ohio with his sister, her husband, and three children.
 

A Candle Has Been Lit

Passing by a cathedral on 52nd street
An elderly, early morning woman marches...
The stairways are the candles she firmly lights;
the slurred prayers...slipping planks of reason
Sputteringly spooked
(....I think of you)
amongst the resolution of these absolutions
like a debilitating disease........
In a world fragmented on the fragile precipice
of these realities and truths

Copyright © by C. E. Milliner


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Poetics Presents

Salwant Jahangir

Salwant Jahangir is 53 years old, lives in Amritsar not far from the mountains of North India. Salawant is a naturalist at heart and deeply reveres and worships nature in all its forms.
 

In the deep silence

in the deep silence of
the mountains
your image glows and unfolds
and i know that
i have touched you

in restlessness i
wander
over forbidden peaks and
frozen lakes
and hearing the soft
murmur of some hidden
brook
i know deep inside
i have seen you

Copyright © by Salwant Jahangir


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Recognitions The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Recognitions

Judy Hunt

Welcome to Recognitions, a column dedicated to proclaim the writing successes of Writers' Village University members!

Sandra Crough disregarded the naysayers, took the road less traveled, and crafted a collection of revised short stories she was told would not sell. The result was the recent publication of her book, "Memoirs of a Brown Skin Gyal: A collection of short stories."

Sandra's diverse background and a particular trauma that occurred after a visit to Central America helped her to see that writing about her younger years was therapeutic. "Writing has always been a passion of mine," Sandra said, "and like so many writers, I dreamed of one day seeing my name on the jacket of a book. In 1999, I took a WVU creative fiction class that spurred my creative juices. The feedback from fellow students proved invaluable. That is when the dream took hold."

George Bernard Shaw said, "Some men see things as they are and ask why. Others see things that never were and ask why not." Sandra took that quote to heart when she said, "Why couldn't this be a collection of short stories, each telling a complete story in itself? Since I had over the years written many stories about being born in a Spanish-speaking country, I began organizing these stories into a coherent sequence. I was adamant and with perseverance, I found a publisher and forgot agents. And it worked. I am published. Yippee!"

After starting to write in earnest in 1995, Sandra joined WVU three years ago. One of her short stories, "Jesuit Man," received an honorable mention in the January/February 2001 issue of Writers' Journal. It has since been revised and published in Memories, Dreams and Nightmares, a short story anthology by Belizean women writers by Cubola Productions.

Jean Kinsey's "Spring of '59" will be published in a special Mother's Day issue of the Chicken Soup series, Chicken Soup for the Mother and Daughter's Soul. Her story is one of a collection of true life stories Jean is putting in a book for her grandchildren.

She had just about given up Chicken Soup. The process of selecting the stories for the book had been going on for three years. Patience paid off, and after hearing the news about "Spring of '59," she said, "I was surprised, honored and deliriously happy."

With youthful plans of being a famous writer, Jean began writing as a teenager. "I was a daydreamer and a romantic. My mother encouraged me to put my ideas into stories." As can happen, life got in the way; her dreams were forced on the back shelf. A few years after becoming disabled with syringomyelia, Jean started writing again. Dreams of being published stayed on the back shelf as her primary goal became writing short stories as memoirs for her grandchildren. "I write a lot, but I usually don't submit anything. Being accepted by Chicken Soup has sparked my interests enough to rewrite more of my stories and submit them as true experiences," Jean said.

"Since this story was about my mom, I wish she were alive to read it. She would have been so proud," Jean reflected. "Spring of '59" was written a couple of years ago; her friends in WVU's Time Trading Nortonians Rule study group helped her to perfect it.

A columnist for a bimonthly print publication, Jean has been a WVU member since 1999. She has had short stories published in a variety of e-zines and also writes for her church newsletter.

Jim Hall continues to keep busy writing poems, submitting them for publication and receiving acceptance letters. His poem, "The Pythagorean Conundrum," made its debut at the same time as the publication in which it was printed. The first issue of "Renegade Writers," available in both electronic and print forms, was published in January 2003. Jim's poem will be archived on the Web after this issue and will be included in the annual print edition for 2003.

When asked if he considered himself to be a renegade writer, Jim said, "I looked up the definition and found 'One who rejects a religion, cause, allegiance, or group for another; a deserter.' One of my more successful short stories is titled 'Deserter.' The protagonist, a military police corporal, rejects his allegiance to the unit in which he serves to help a deserter, who rejected his own allegiance for good and sufficient reason. I am a confirmed rejecter of religions, causes, allegiances and groups, but not necessarily for another, only for the sake of rejecting foolishness."

Substantiating that conviction, one of Jim's favorite short stories is Steven Vincent Benet's "Johnny Pye and the Fool Killer." On the other hand, Technicians of the Sacred and the works of Joseph Campbell helped to shape his attitude toward poetry. He explained that such reading "made me see poetry as a serious enterprise, with a shamanic component that fascinates me."

Jim enjoys writing lyric poetry, haiku and related forms. "I feel that, in poetry, less is more. During my longtime affair with watercolor painting, a Japanese artist told me that one knows American painters by what they put in their paintings, but Japanese painters by what they leave out," he said.

A lifetime WVU member, Jim's recent publishing successes have appeared in the North America Review, Online Journal of the Dana Literary Society, E2K, Möbius, The Formalist, Touchstone (a now-defunct annual anthology), Footprints, The eleventh muse (a monthly publication of Poetry West, temporarily out of service) and Cicada.

Dixie Barnes, thrilled to hear that her personal essay will be published in a collection by the BabyBoomerSpeak.com project, affirms how this opportunity has touched her heart. The project, started in November 2002, is still in its infant stages; a publication date has yet to be determined.

A trip to her childhood home two years ago laid the foundation for the essay. Dixie lost her youngest daughter, Teresa, in a house fire in 1999. "Teresa's death reminded us how fleeting life is and how one brief moment in time can completely change the future. We need to always be vigilant and utilize our time on earth to the fullest. We never know when it will end."

Dixie has been interested in writing since elementary school. "I have many stories locked up inside my brain, all just clamoring to get out." Future plans include writing and illustrating a children's book.

A WVU member for three years, Dixie gives credit to her study group, Writer's 911. "We have become personal friends and enjoy each other's support in everything we do. The group keeps me motivated to write. We challenge each other to do bigger and better things, we 'nit' or critique each other's work, and each member brings a different perspective to the critique."

In addition to poetry, fiction and personal essays, Dixie writes a column for her local newspaper, reviewing favorite web sites.

Congratulations, Sandra, Jean, Jim and Dixie! Your diligence in following your hopes and dreams inspires writers around the world. Kudos!

We look forward to reading about your writing accomplishments in this column. If you or someone you know has received recognition for writing, please send the information to recognitions@wvu.org. Let us know!



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Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

Down the Pelahatchie Creek in a Big Canoe

"Hey, this one sounds like an adventure." I was reading the updated calendar for the Mississippi Canoe and Kayak Club (MCKC). A group paddle down Pelahatchie Creek was coming up, soon, and the trip was going to fall on a day that three of us had no prior commitments. I quickly dashed off a note to my friend in the club, Nita, to ask for details. Nita was in charge of the paddle, which would add to the fun.

"It's kinda snakey-looking," she told me, "but I think it'll be fun. We might even see some alligators."

"I like snakes," I thought. I wasn't sure about alligators, at first; but we were experiencing an unusually cool spring and the creek was within reasonable driving distance. This trip would be the perfect first paddle for our family. Gradually, I warmed to the idea of spotting alligators, provided they kept a decent distance from our boat.

We loaded the canoe, supplies, and one very annoyed 10-year-old on Saturday morning, then took off with Nita's directions in hand. After unloading everything from the van, we climbed into the canoe and began to follow our new friends from MCKC down the creek.

"That's funny," I thought as I sat squeezed into the front of the canoe. "I don't remember ever having so little room for my feet, before." There was only about 18" of foot room, so I had to prop my feet up on the edge of the canoe to sit comfortably. I mentally shrugged and followed our leader as a stream of kayaks and one other canoe headed down the creek ahead of us.

William sat in the middle of the canoe, wailing periodically about the cartoons he was missing and the fact that his parents obviously didn't love him or they wouldn't drag him to a creek full of alligators. "And snakes," we added. "Don't forget the snakes. Might want to keep your hands out of the water."

Vic, an affable storyteller who had navigated the Pelahatchie many times, led our group down the twisting, tree-lined creek. His green canoe, we noticed, was extremely short and had a seam down the middle.

"He wrapped that canoe around a tree," Nita informed us. "Used to be as long as y'all's, till he banged it up. That seam is where he cut out the middle part and welded it back together."

He had also added a comfortably padded seat and was using a kayak paddle. I took an instant liking to Vic, who made me wish I had a tape recorder every time he opened his mouth.

The creek was fairly narrow and shallow, normally difficult for a canoe to navigate, according to Vic. "The water is high, right now, though. Should make it a lot easier unless we run into any really big fallen trees."

We were having a great deal of difficulty navigating until one of our friends paddled past and made a comment about how little foot room I had. "You know," David said. "I think we put in backwards."

I turned around and looked at David's seat. Sure enough, there was a great deal more space behind him--plenty of foot room for the front paddler.

"Huh," I said. "I didn't even know there was a right or wrong way to put in."

"Want to turn around?"

"Sure."

Our friends had paddled on ahead of us in their lightweight kayaks, so nobody was around when we turned the canoe a full 180 degrees and then flipped our legs around so that David was now in front and I was in the rear. "I don't see how we can switch places," he said. "You think you can steer?"

"Of course I can steer," I told him. "Although it may take me a minute or two to remember how."

We quickly discovered that the new arrangement was much better: now the muscle was in front and the brains were in back. The canoe moved more smoothly; and with David able to concentrate on paddling, we made better time. We caught up with the rest of the gang and several of them looked baffled before commenting that we'd switched places and asking, "How'd you do that?"

William and I weren't the only people keeping an eye out for snakes and alligators. A single mother with her own kayak, her teenage son paddling nearby on his own, occasionally disappeared under low-hanging trees in search of the elusive creatures.

Vic, noting our interest, pointed out a muddy incline where an alligator had pulled itself out of the creek. "Nobody there now," he said. "You'll see most of the 'gators farther down in a place they call Alligator Alley." Vic had paddled Alligator Alley several times and had plenty of stories to tell about his experiences. One fellow, he told us, had been chased by a 'gator. Another had his kayak bitten in half by a particularly large and grumpy fellow with a head "this big". Vic stretched his arms to show us the monster's head size.

I looked around at the kayaks, observing just how close the kayakers were to the water. Sandal-shod and bare feet looked like tempting tidbits for an alligator. "Hmm, I think I'll stick with a nice, tough canoe in a place like this," I decided. Before Vic began to tell his alligator stories, I'd been feeling a tinge of envy at the speed and maneuverability of the kayaks. I lost my kayak envy quickly when Vic spoke about alligator encounters.

Around noon, 10-year-old William finally found his niche in the world of creek exploration when he joined the teenager at tossing a net in the water to catch critters. It didn't matter what kind of water life ended up in the net. Just tossing it out into the creek and yanking it back seemed to be suitable entertainment, along with checking out a crawfish home on the sandy area where we stopped for lunch. He continued to help catch fish at dockside when we returned from our trip, mid-afternoon.

We were all tired and happy when we loaded the wet canoe onto the roof of the van. Apart from one near-disaster when the canoe shifted abruptly across the roof while we drove, the day was without incident. Unfortunately, our trip was also devoid of any alligator or snake sightings. "Maybe next time we'll see an alligator," I said as we headed home. "But, I think I'll keep my distance from Alligator Alley."



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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Shelton

Ahab's Wife or, The Star-Gazer

Ahab's Wife or, The Star-Gazer
By Sena Jeter Naslund
Paperback, ISBN 0688 177 859
Published by Harper Perennial, October 2000 Paperback, $15.00 USD

I chose this month's reading based on my New Year's resolution to read more books that weren't necessarily a quick read. I would read more books to broaden my horizons. In this doorstop of a book that takes its inspirational leap from Moby Dick, I did not expect to be hooked.

However, Ahab's Wife or, The Star-Gazer enchanted me. It starts with the statement, "Captain Ahab was not my first husband nor my last." With that, the reader is off and running in the life of Una, wife of Captain Ahab of Moby Dick fame.

That first sentence prepares the reader for more than the story of Ahab's wife, however. Like her initial declaration her story can be divided into three segments: before, during and after Ahab. Unlike the structure of the statement, however, Una, our heroine, doesn't start at the beginning.

Instead, time is elastic in this novel moving much like the ocean; time comes and goes, forward and backward, nipping at the toes of the reader. Even the tense of the writing is subject to changes, as pointed out by the chapter titled "Journey toward the Starry Sky, in Present Tense."

In lesser hands these tricks of time could tangle an author. Sena Jeter Nashund took the rules of time in fiction and broke them thoroughly, yet she was able to keep the reader within the story every step of the way. While the rules in fiction exist for a reason, Nashund reminds us that every rule can be broken in the hands of a master.

When I grow up, I want to write like that.

 

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Until further notice, only plain text submissions in the body of the email will be considered.
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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

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Simultaneous submissions.

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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

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  • 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.

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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.

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Editing

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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

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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