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 The Writer's E-Zine

 

 Produced and published by the members of Writers' Village University since 1998    ISSN 1521-2639       
19 November 2008
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Author Interview

Janet Smith Interviews Simon Wood

Simon Wood, who grew up in England, now lives in California with his American wife Julie, a longhaired dachshund named Roston and a cat named Streetcar (both rescue animals). He has published more than seventy stories in the past three years, and last August debuted his first novel, Accidents Waiting To Happen, (Barclay Books) which was nominated for a Bloody Dagger award by the reviewer of All About Murder. Coming next: his short story collection, Dragged Into Darkness, to be released this summer.

T-Zero: I would like to congratulate you, Simon, on your writing success. Your entertaining, shoot from the hip, brazen style gives readers an enjoyable escape from everyday reality. You have received a long list of outstanding reviews for your first published novel, Accidents Waiting to Happen. Mystery Scene Magazine reviews Accidents Waiting to Happen: “This book can be read on more than one level –– the action-driven portions contrast neatly with the character-driven portions ... an impressive debut.” Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine says: “Simon Wood is a fine storyteller and this book earns an unqualified recommendation.” The rave reviews go on and on. How thrilling is it to receive such fine praise on your first published novel?
Simon Wood: I wouldn’t say it’s thrilling, but more of a relief. Writing is such an insular environment. You put your heart and soul into a piece and have no idea whether it is any good. I’m in a total state of panic when the first review comes in. Reading it is like reading a school report card. You just hope the reviewers said something good to impress your parents.
TZ: Your second book, soon to be released short story collection, Dragged Into Darkness, promises to be another exciting ride into the dark side of mystery and horror. When is it scheduled to hit the shelves?
SW: Dragged Into Darkness is scheduled for the end of August, to coincide with the Horrorfind convention in Baltimore. I’ll be there for the book launch.
TZ: Are you in suspense yourself as you write your stories? Do the twists and turns surprise you as your story unfolds?
SW: I am in suspense when I’m writing. My heart is usually pounding when I’m writing a particularly scary passage, but it’s a double buzz. I’m so excited with the idea that I can’t get it down quick enough and I also can’t wait until someone reads it.
TZ: What authors inspired you to write in the thriller/mystery genre?
SW: There are so many teachers who have nurtured my imagination that it would take me forever to list them all, but here’s a few: James M. Cain gave me a dark heart, Raymond Chandler showed me how a man of principles acts, Reginald Hill taught me it’s the little things that hurt the most, Jack Higgins showed me how to lie and make it sound like the truth, Robert Crais taught me to have a sense of humor in times of trouble, Ross MacDonald told me a hero can’t be bought, but rented, Walter Mosley showed me having a heart will cost me, and Barbara Vine showed me obsession has a price.
TZ: You write with a unique and poetic style. Do you also write poetry?
SW: Poetry is nuclear physics to me. I know what it is, but I have no idea how it works. I find it surprising that you think I'm poetic. I consider my prose very “meat and potatoes”. Simple but effective. But I’m always surprised by what people think of my fiction. Gene O'Neill has written the introduction to Dragged Into Darkness and he said there’s a surreal edge to my work, which I don’t see. But when has an author ever been objective about their work?
TZ: What books are you reading right now?
SW: I don’t get a lot of time to read, so I listen to audio books in the car. I’m on a Robert Crais binge at the moment. I'm finishing up Stalking The Angel, Voodoo River and Sunset Express then I’ll be moving on to Peter Robinson's Aftermath.
TZ: You say that you received “a bucket full of rejections” and yet you kept the faith and kept writing and submitting. Would you say that most writers are made humble, yet more determined to succeed, by the rejection notices they receive?
SW: I don’t know about that. If the writer has a big ego then it’s going to be seriously bashed by rejection notices. Regardless of who you are, the keys to the publishing castle gate aren’t a given. You’re going to have to work at it. Personally, I think you have to set out humble, and not let the rejections get to you. Although rejection notices are still a disappointment, they are the fuel that drives me forward. But if I’m honest, I do need an acceptance now and then for validation purposes. I have to know I’m doing something right. I, like anyone, can take only so much rejection. I have to believe there is a market out there for my stories.
TZ: Will your next two scheduled novels follow in the same genre as your first two, and will we see any of the characters from your first two novels?
SW: My first two novels were suspense thrillers and both stand-alones. I’ve changed gear for my third, No Show. That is intended to be the first in a series of mysteries featuring my protagonist, Terry Sheffield. I won’t tell you what his particulars are. My fourth novel is another stand-alone thriller called Squeaky Clean. But so far all my novels have the same trait in that they deal with ordinary people in extraordinary situations. I have ideas for other thrillers and mysteries, but I do want to write a horror novel soon.
TZ: Stephen King calls his wife Tabitha King, his “Ideal Reader”. In his book, On Writing, he tells how he gives her his work to read, and will then sit and watch her face for her reactions. Is your wife, Julie, your “Ideal Reader”? Is she your biggest supporter and honest critic?
SW: Julie is my “Ideal Reader.” I wouldn’t have achieved anything without her support and help, although at times, I’m not the best at taking her criticism. I dedicated Accidents Waiting To Happen to Julie, saying, “For Julie, who never doubted this day would come.” She has always been the bigger believer.
TZ: It is doubly amazing that you have accomplished so much with your writing in such a short time (since October 1998) with the added complication of having dyslexia. Is there any advice you can give to others with and without dyslexia in regard to becoming accomplished published writers?
SW: I would tell anyone to do your homework before you ever consider writing a book. Because of my dyslexia, I knew next to nothing about grammar, narrative, etc., and still don’t, in many cases. I found some good books on plotting and creative writing. I also took some of my favorite mysteries and thrillers and broke them down. I determined how a book is constructed with consideration for plot, point of view changes and plot to subplot changes. I watched how the author weaved plot, characters, and conflict into a book. Once I did that, I felt comfortable developing my own books.
TZ: You state on your website, “I’ve been writing since October ‘98 and I can’t stop. In that time, I’ve written nearly seventy short stories and two novels…”Are you armed with notebook and pen at all times? Do you set aside blocks of time each day to write?
SW: I’m not really organized, so I don’t carry a notebook. I usually end up writing ideas on receipts and the back of my hand. But I am very organized when it comes to allocating time to write, mainly because I do have a day job. So I write in my lunch hour and I write between 8:00 and 10:00 p.m. at night. Although it doesn’t sound like a lot of time, I can still produce 10,000 words a week.
TZ: You have a busy itinerary of upcoming appearances to promote your book, Accidents Waiting to Happen. Do you look forward to making public appearances at bookstores such as Barnes and Noble, other notable bookstores and conventions, to interact with your reading public?
SW: I like conventions. It’s like being at a funfair. I enjoy being on panels. You get to play off your fellow panelists and have a good time. Bookstore signings are a little pressure intensive. There, I’m the center of attention. I do like to have interaction from the crowd. I feel it breaks the ice and puts me at ease. A cold signing feels like I’m trying to sell life insurance.
TZ: You have traveled the world extensively and experienced many wonderful adventures. Will the places you have visited be locales for future stories?
SW: They will. All those experiences have to show themselves. While traveling through the rainforests of New Zealand, an idea for a thriller set in Central America came to me. Currently, I have a novella in progress, which is set on a Pacific Island off the coast of Costa Rica, which is one of my favorite countries.
TZ: Your list of magazine publications for your short stories is impressive. Would you recommend for new writers to submit short stories to magazines to gain an understanding and acquire experience in the world of publishing?
SW: Yes, I would recommend to anyone that they write short stories. It does give you a glimpse of the publishing world, but only a glimpse. The more important thing about writing and publishing short stories is that it builds a resume very quickly. A list of good credits might just help persuade a book publisher to take a chance on you. However, I would say the experience built up having short stories published doesn’t translate to book publishing. Book publishing is vastly more complicated and requires much more from the author.
TZ: Thank you for giving me the pleasure of reading one of your delightful short stories about a squirrel named Patches, the furry little crime fighter. Do you have any plans to write novels for children, personifying animals as the main characters?
SW: I would like to write a series of children’s books about a longhaired dachshund called Wagsmore Longfellow. I’ve owned longhaired dachshunds since I was a boy and every one of them has had a great personality, which I would love to bring to the fore.
TZ: Your writing genres appear to have no limits. You write horror/mystery, science fiction, fantasy, adorable furry rodent stories, and even non-fiction articles. Do you have a favourite genre that you feel the most comfortable writing?
SW: I think I’m most comfortable writing horror stories and crime thrillers. I grew up on these genres and they’re responsible for firing my imagination. They are also genres where I get to express myself best. With horror, I get to illustrate the unfairness of life at times, but also that we, as people, are compelled to strive for survival regardless of how futile this may be. With crime, I get to express that there are consequences for our actions. Something that a character may do today may come back to bite them in the arse later.
TZ: After perusing your website, I see you also have a penchant for comedy writing! I foresee limitless success for Simon Wood in all genres of writing. Thank you very much for taking the time to answer my questions and share them with T-Zero readers.

Note: Simon Wood’s story, Bingo, is one of four fiction stories featured in this issue of T-Zero. Congratulations Simon, on all of your accomplishments. It is T-Zero’s pleasure to have had you visit with our readers and share so much of yourself with us.

Visit Simon's website at: http://www.simonwood.net.



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

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Beyond the Textbook

Laurie Lupold

Short but Sweet


Writing ever get you down? Have you spent too much time staring at a blank screen or sheet of paper? Ever feel blocked and frustrated? I have a game that will help get those creative juices flowing and above that; it's fun and easy to play. All you need to play is paper, pen, or PC if you like, dictionary and your creativity.

Randomly choose at least five words from the dictionary, no cheating. Choose either to create a short story or poem including those five words. Remember this is supposed to be fun so it's not necessary that it be grammatically correct. That's all you do. Sit back and snicker at your creation.

My five words: 1. appeal; 2. grind; 3. base 4. lining; 5. dainty

Got my work cut out for me here.

I don't really appeal,

to the fighting in the world.

The bump and the grind,

nations coming unfurled.

I wish the base of the problem,

was not far but near.

We could tear down the lining,

of hatred and fear.

So dainty are the minds,

that proceed life with hate.

There's much hope for the future,

not too little or too late.

If we can only reach out,

grasp love, take it's hand.

We will find peace on earth,

united we will stand.

Dedicated to those who suffer at the hands of hatred.



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

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Catherine's Kitchen

Catherine Manning


WELL HERE IT IS, THE 13TH OF THE MONTH and I'm racking the gray matter or what's left of it! Sometimes I wonder... All my plans for today (Sunday) went by the wayside. Not unusual.

Yesterday was the weekly vegetable market where I sell a lot of my products, such as jams, pickles and marmalades as well as pies, pizzas and cakes. Sometimes people give me leftover sweet peppers or tomatoes, which might be blemished and not saleable, plus lettuce for the turtles.

Yesterday I came home with a large box of sweet peppers and a large bag of Seville oranges, which a friend had given me to make marmalade. So that was the plan for today: prep the oranges and deal with the sweet peppers. So what did I do?

This morning I happened to wake up early (5am) and didn't go back to sleep again like I usually do, so must have gone to sleep a bit earlier as well. It was a brilliant morning, we had an early morning shower, which I slept through (as usual) but found the floor wet so I knew about it and the sun was high in the sky. I have a habit, when the rain blows in, I just pull up the sheet and if it's really chilly, the blanket, but I never shut the windows unless the rain really is hard!

Anyway, I jumped out of bed this morning at 5:45 wide awake for once, and after having the morning play with a few of the dogs where a couple of them get under the sheet and another one jumps on top of them and they go bananas for a while, I went about my early morning chores, like feeding the cats and the turtles and giving the dogs their cat food snack, which is a small amount of cat food on the end of a fork, which they eat very neatly. They get fed at night so that is just so they don't feel left out! They are small dogs, by the way.

After that I went into the garden and cut the grass inside and out, raked and watered, cut back some of the grapes, dumped everything and then transplanted some seedlings. Finally got back inside at 10:30am quite burnt, but relaxed, maybe too relaxed as I had a shower, washed my hair and sat in front of the idiot box stiff as a board! It's now 9:09pm and the oranges are still in the box and the peppers stuffed in the fridge! Tomorrow is another day.

That was Sunday. Today is still Tuesday but nearly Wednesday! Woke up too early again and did the normal chores, bottled pickled onions, cooked a chicken for pies, packaged my fish stock from the dolphin (mahi mahi) that I got fresh from the boat yesterday and finally attacked the peppers. What a chore as there were at least 60-70, so I had to roast them under both grills and let them cool before I could peel them. Then I had to prep the onions, garlic, etc. for the pickle, so they are now bottled, but it took me the better part of the day. I had intended to make Melon and Ginger Jam as well, but since it is now too late, that will have to wait.

We're lucky not to be involved in the Iraqi war, though there will still be a backlash for everyone. I sympathize with all those families who have lost loved ones and hope that the end is in sight, without any more bloodshed. Soon!

To Tru, who asked me how to make Peas and Rice, it's very easy as with every rice dish, the important thing is the quantity of rice and stock or water and also what you as an individual want to add. In other words, those non-vegetarians add salted meat, such as pigtails or salt beef, which are boiled before with the peas. The stock is then used to cook the rice and the meat chopped and added. Alternatively, vegetable stock or water can be used as well, but it's always one cup of rice to two cups of liquid which is cooked covered tightly on low heat and left to cool for a bit before stirring and serving. If using salted meat, do not add additional salt and if the stock is too salty, add more water before cooking the rice. But remember the 2-1 rule of cooking on a low heat for 20 minutes without taking off the cover and also to stop the rice burning. Just about the only piece of equipment I don't have is a rice cooker, so I do it the normal way, in a saucepan on the stove! I don't want one either, not necessary.
 

PEAS AND RICE (OR RICE AND PEAS!)

This is a general recipe open to adjustment, except for the 2-1 rule. Serves 6.

  • 4 cups boiling water
  • 1-cup rice
  • 1-cup pigeon or black eye peas
  • 1 large onion chopped
  • 1-1/2 tsp. salt or to taste
  • 2 Tbs. butter or margarine
Bring water to a rapid boil, add salt and peas. Stir. Cover, reduce heat and simmer for 45 minutes. Measure liquid making sure you have two cups and add rice, onion and butter, mixing well. Cover and simmer on a low heat for 20 minutes. Fluff with a fork and serve. I sometimes drop a bit more butter if necessary.

With those peppers I finally made Roasted Pickled Peppers and they turned out quite well, even though a lot of work with the quantity I made. Again, a general recipe which I change as I go along to suit myself.

Pickled Sweet Peppers  

  • 6 large red or yellow sweet peppers
  • 2 large onions peeled and sliced into thin wedges
  • 6 large garlic cloves sliced
  • 1 Tbs. prepared mustard, French or Dijon
  • 2 Tbs. capers
  • 1 cup of white wine vinegar (or plain white vinegar)
  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 6 basil leaves chopped
  • 1/4 cup olive oil.

Grill peppers till blackened on all sides. Cool and remove skin and seeds. Cut into eighths. Cut onions into to thin wedges and slice garlic. Heat oil in frying pan and cook onions for about 10 minutes over moderate heat till soft but not brown. Add peppers, garlic, mustard, capers, vinegar and sugar and simmer for about 10 minutes. Cool thoroughly and add chopped basil leaves. Bottle in hot sterilized jars and cover and seal when cold.

I made fourteen 12 oz. jars with the quantity of peppers that I used, but this will probably only make three 9 oz. jars. They are quite tasty though and good with veggies as well as meat. Experiment!


Anyway, got to get this off, so...bon appetit!
Cath



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Craft of Writing

Christina Sexton Wilcox

The Fine Art Of Ranting

Turning Personal Grievances & Experiences Into Information Readers Can Use

Has anyone ever accused you of being a know-it-all? Have you ever been angry enough about an issue to fire off a letter to the editor? Journaling your personal experiences is one way to get ideas off your chest and find solutions to common problems.

But the rantings in your journal are just a starting-off point, a place for ideas to flow. The shaping of these opinions and experiences into publishable articles is a process. There are many types of fiction and nonfiction articles that can be gleaned from your personal experience. In this article, I will show you some techniques on how to take your personal experiences and shape them into publishable prose. I will focus on two types: the Advice/How-To article and the Protest/Call-To-Action article. These two require the least amount of research and are usually short enough to complete in one or two sittings.

First Things First: The Bottom Line
Most of the time you will have too much information, too much to say. This is actually a good problem. Ramble on in your journal, go off in tangents, get your ideas down. But when writing your article, you must decide what to keep and what to leave out. (Sometimes the contents you glean can even become another article.)

When constructing your article, always remember the answers to these questions: "What is my most basic point?" and "What is the message I am trying to get across?" If you can take each new element of the article back to its basic point, you can keep yourself on track throughout the piece.

The Advice or How-To Article
How many times do you find yourself starting a sentence with, "You want to know what I'd do?" Have you worn out your friends and family with your advice? If they'd only listen, you could solve their relationship woes, their workplace dilemmas, and even help them tackle City Hall. If this sounds familiar, then the Advice article is for you.

The basic message must be positive and optimistic. You don't have to be an expert on anything to offer hopeful advice (but having some personal experience on the matter does add to your credibility in offering the advice to begin with). Use a common sense approach and outline steps that are simple to follow. You can convey your own beliefs, and are only limited by your own Bottom Line.

From advice on avoiding diaper rash to tips on being a good listener, remember that the article can (and should) contain things that have worked for you. This also makes the writing easier (with less research). Stick to one message, and tackle one dilemma per article.

For example: Journal ranting: Bob and I never go out anymore. We just can't afford it and I think our money troubles are causing us to grow apart. We fight all the time and never seem to spend time together. He's beat after a day of interviews. And I'm getting tired of worrying about it all.

Gleaning ideas: Choose one focus, such as "How can we spend time with each other without spending a lot of money?" Then choose three to five solutions to expand upon, such as taking a nature hike, making homemade pizza and renting a movie, giving each other a romantic massage.

Final article idea: A how-to article about spending quality time with your spouse on a budget.

The Protest or Call-to-Action Article
More than any other kind of article, this one may most resemble your journal rantings. But, it has to more organized and have more focus than a journal entry. The Protest article is usually in response to something that bugs you, and has been bugging you for a while. Focus on an emotionally charged, controversial topic. It is written as your opinion, but to work well and progress beyond your personal ranting, this article must be sufficiently familiar and of general interest to other people.

For example: You're ticked that your neighbor mows his lawn at 7 a.m. every Saturday. No one else will care unless you make your case less about him, and more about neighborhood noise pollution in general.

Technique 1: Acknowledge the opposition's arguments (even agree with part of them), but then set your audience straight on why their points of view or their actions are ultimately wrong. You must anticipate the issues on the other side of the argument. By comparing both sides of an issue, you can more easily prove your side right. For example: "One might say that it is his right to mow his lawn, that he is not breaking any rule, and I agree. But when the sounds of birds chirping is replaced by the grating noise of lawn mowers and leaf blowers, he crosses the line of common courtesy."

Technique 2: Pose the rhetorical question: "Don't we all treasure the tranquility of Saturday mornings?" When put this way, who would disagree? Remember to keep up the emotion, and feel free to elaborate, all the while keeping in mind your broad audience.

These articles don't, however, serve your intended purpose unless you advise a call to action on the part of readers. Once you've proven your point, suggest actions that others who share your dilemma should take. These are entirely up to you and can range broadly. Do you want them to sign a petition outlawing lawn mowers until 8 or 9 a.m., start a neighborhood noise pollution campaign, write their Congressperson? Whatever your call to action is, remember your audience and keep it simple.

The sky's the limit when you are creating these kinds of articles. If you have an opinion or advice, you can create publishable articles! Remember to take the time to journal every day. You will be pleasantly surprised by how many articles you can glean from your daily life.



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Fiction Short Story The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Fiction Short Story

by Simon Wood

Bingo

"Give me another chance, Marcus," Kevin whimpered. "For the love of God, give me another chance."

Marcus sneered at Kevin, who was staring up at him with moist puppy dog eyes while three of Marcus' boys pinned him to the floor. Kevin's teary pleas weren't going to save him. Marcus wasn't that soft. He'd seen this so many times before. It wasn't anything new.

"Bobby," Marcus said.

Bobby stood to attention, letting go of Kevin's legs. "Yes, Marcus."

Marcus paused. Everyone waited for his decision. He'd already made it, but he wanted Kevin to squirm a little longer.

"Bobby, chain him up. We're taking a trip to the wharf."

"No," Kevin whined.

Bobby snatched up a thick coil of steel chain and a handful of chunky padlocks. He dropped down to Kevin's feet and started wrapping the chain around the condemned man's ankles.

"Marcus, you can't."

"Kevin, you can't expect me to sit on twenty-five thou of unpaid IOUs because you're a bad gambler. I have a business to run and a reputation to keep." Marcus straightened his tie and turned away. He fished in his pocket for the keys to his Mercedes. "Let me know when it's all over."

"Let me go and I'll get you fifty grand."

"I've heard that one before. Sorry, Kevin."

"I'll let you in on a racket that will net you fifty grand a week."

Marcus had opened the basement door to leave. He closed it. Turning around, he asked, "How?"

Kevin swallowed. His eyes bulged with fear.

"Let him up, boys," Marcus said. "Give Kev some air."

Bobby let go of the chains padlocked to Kevin's ankles and two of Marcus' strong-arms helped Kevin into a sitting position, although they didn't uncuff him.

"Enlighten us, Kev," Marcus said. "How can we get our hands on fifty large a week?"

"Bingo halls."

Marcus smirked. He'd heard it all now. He waved a dismissive hand. His guys didn't have to be told and slammed Kevin back down while Bobby resumed chaining him.

"No. Listen, Marcus." The panic and fear was back in Kevin's voice. "Listen to me. It's a surefire winner. Do you know how much money is in the bingo game?"

Marcus crossed his arms and shrugged as Bobby deftly trussed Kevin like a Thanksgiving turkey. "I'm not sure I care. I don't think I have much interest in a bunch of blue rinses and retired bank managers screaming 'Bingo'."

"Well, you should," Kevin said, as he became rapidly cocooned in chains. "I take my grandma every week. They clear fifty thousand a night. There's no security. Only a lock box until the security van arrives to take the night's proceeds."

"Do I look that gullible, Kev?" Marcus jerked a thumb at himself.

"These old duffers are raking so much in they have their own ATM machine. And this doesn't just happen at the Senior Center. It happens everywhere they play bingo."

Bobby was about to stuff a rag into Kevin's mouth when Marcus stopped him.

"Kevin, if it's so easy to rip these guys off, why haven't you done it?"

"My granny likes bingo."

"Unchain him, Bobby. I think we should listen to what Kevin has to say."

***

Marcus and his crew surveyed the bingo game from outside the Senior Center. From the well-tended landscaping, they had a great view of the recreation hall through a row of plate glass windows. Kevin had laid it out for him. It all seemed simple enough. The armored truck wouldn't be arriving until ten p.m. to collect the night's takings, but Marcus and his crew would be long gone by then. And if they turned up early, Bobby's squeeze was blocking the entrance with an overheated engine and abundant cleavage. Marcus and his crew planned to make a very simple smash 'n' grab. He doubted if they'd fire off a round. Kevin was their inside man, in case anything tricky happened. This would be easier than taking candy from a baby. Marcus checked his watch.

"Any minute now, boys," he said, grinning.

Some old bird with a walker next to her chair leapt to her feet brandishing her winning card.

"Right, go!" Marcus shouted in excitement and tugged his ski mask over his face. He led the charge into the building via a side door Kevin had left open for them.

The bingo caller said into his microphone, "We have tonight's big winner!"

"Yes, and I think it's us." Marcus pumped a shell into his Remington. His crew mimicked him for effect.

The bingo caller raised his hands, the microphone still grasped in his right.

"Now, where's the money?"

The bingo caller indicated the black lock box on a scratched picnic table up against the wall. Its only protection was a Schlage padlock and an old geezer with an oxygen tank. Marcus splintered the lock with a round from the Remington.

He raced over to the lock box and cracked it open. With his ski mask down, no one saw his ear-to-ear grin. Kevin hadn't let him down. There indeed was fifty grand for the taking. The box brimmed with twenties and fifties. Slamming the lid down, he froze.

The recreation room filled with the cacophony of loud clicks and snaps like the cast of Riverdance had just come toe tapping into the room. Turning, Marcus came face-to-face with three hundred gun barrels brandished by three hundred senior citizens. Marcus' crew held their hands up. Kevin had a hand on his granny's shoulder who was sporting a snub nose .38. Grinning, he pointed to a banner above Marcus' head.

It said, "The Retired Police Officers Bingo Society."

© Copyright 2003 Simon Wood
 

About the Author:

Simon Wood is a California transplant from England. He shares his world with Julie (his American wife), Royston (a Longhaired Dachshund) and Streetcar (a cat); all rescued from the barbaric Californian streets. In the last three years, he's had over seventy stories published around the world. Last August, his debut novel, the suspense-thriller, Accidents Waiting To Happen, was released, which has been nominated for a Bloody Dagger award by the reviewers of All About Murder. His short story collection, Dragged Into Darkness, is slated for release in August 2003.


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Fiction Short Story

by SL Connors

Of Love, Blood, And Eternity

Darkness embraces me as the first rays of the sun kiss the eastern horizon. Light pokes its fingers through high windows, but none touches down into the room that is my resting place. I can hear the bird songs and the buzz of bees. I stare into the blackness around me and remember a simple sunrise, the purples, oranges, and pinks that pierce the skies as the sun chases away the vastness of the night. I remember a time when sunrise was a welcome friend.

Now my only brightness comes from the moon and stars. I am bound to wander the night. My human self has long ago died and I have become immortal, but the cost was high.

My skin, though paler than the face of the moon, will stay soft and youthful for eternity. My golden blonde hair will never gray. A vain person knowing not what I know would celebrate such a stroke of luck as finding the proverbial fountain of youth, but it comes not without its responsibilities.

Kindred, I have many. Mortals cannot fathom us. They are never sure that we exist. To them, we are fantasy, legend passed down from generation to generation, though we have walked through life side by side since the beginning of time. We interact with them; we hold jobs for the sheer normalcy of co-existing in their world.

Morality in my world is a curse. We are nocturnal and need life's blood to survive. At first, I could do with small animals, such as rats and possums, menial creatures that did not encourage the fathomless guilt to rise up and battle my new self. Survival in all creatures is primary to existence. I swallowed disgust as I swallowed life's elixir to exist.

I did not ask for this hell that has been cruelly bestowed upon me. Perhaps in an obscure way, I did. For I, alone, am responsible for my decision. I was given fair warning twenty odd years ago when I fell in love with the most beautiful man...

I was in an old English rose garden, encompassed by statuary, fountains with water trickling like tiny waterfalls, and little concrete benches. The air was heavy with the perfume of flowers and wet peat. Andrés was beside me his hand gently holding my elbow as we wandered through the moonlit garden. We made quiet small talk as we strolled. The night was warm and the sky clear with stars scattered across its expanse.

He stopped, turned toward me and lifted my chin with a finger. Those brilliant eyes settled on mine. I looked away blushing, but he gently turned me back, his tawny eyes once again captured mine. His hand seemed cool although, it felt good against my flushed cheek. His lips touched mine. I felt rapture and fear together. Never had a kiss affected me this way. His kiss became more urgent and his arms embraced me tightly. I found myself answering his passion. My arms enfolded his neck and our tongues met hesitantly at first then passionately entwined with one another in slow exploration. My body was on fire. I couldn't breathe. Our bodies crushed together, gyrating in a slow rhythmic dance. His hands traced up and down my body while his lips caressed my face and neck. His tongue tickled along a vein pulsing in my throat and I felt gentle nips and bites. Just when I could stand no more, he stopped and turned away from me. My emotions hung suspended for a moment in mid air. I regained my composure and stepped to him placing my hand on his turned shoulder.

"What burdens you, my love?" I whispered.

He didn't turn but answered quietly, "There is much you need to know about me, Tia. Loving me is dangerous. Before it is too late you must know what I am."

"But, Andrés, you know that I love you. What could possibly be so horrible?"

"I am cursed, my love." He turned to face me. His eyes seemed to glow amber like an animal's caught in light. A vein pulsed blue on his pale temple. "I am a creature of the night. I hunt to survive." He cupped my face in his hands and looked deep into my eyes. "Tia, I drink the blood of humans and animals for survival. Without it I would wither and die."

I turned away. "But how? Who did this to you?"

"Long ago I was seduced by a witch. She was angered because I would not do her bidding. She wanted me to love her but I could not. She took revenge and cursed me to walk the earth like an animal never to see the sunlight again. Never to be loved. Why would anyone choose such an existence?" He finished sadly. "Tia, that was over a century ago."

I stood staring at this man I had grown to love. I was blinded by infatuation. I never realized that I'd not seen him in the light of day. Why had I never questioned or wondered what activities filled his days? I didn't know. What I did know was even though fear prickled my spine and nausea threatened my stomach, I did not want to live without this man.

Before I could speak, he said to me, "I want you to take some time, my love. Think on what I have told you this night. I will leave you to wrestle these things. I offer you immortality. But, my angel, your existence will not be pleasant. You will never know the warmth of the sun on your face nor will you savor anything other than the thick metallic taste of blood on your lips. You will be forced to wander the night forever. It must be your choice. Think long and hard, Tia. Be absolutely sure. If you choose nay, I will leave you, for it would be dangerous should I stay."

"But..." He put a finger to my lips to quiet me, silent tears wet on my cheeks. He embraced me, turned and walked into the darkness.

***

"Tia, you are so beautiful." Andrés said holding me at arms length. "The moonlight compliments your beauty."

The moon had just risen and looked huge in the sky. It bathed the garden with a resplendent light that made the roses appear black, their leaves pewter. It seemed my surroundings were suddenly cast black, silver and white. I wore a long flowing white gown. It seemed appropriate, for I had made my decision.

Andrés lifted my chin so I looked up at him. Our eyes caught and held. He smiled. "It is such a beautiful night, is it not?"

Before I could answer, he bent and touched his lips to mine. I instantly burned with lust. His touch was so cool yet I was on fire. Odd. His hands seemed to be everywhere. My body felt like a mound of clay that only he could mould. Every inch of my skin screamed out to be touched.

His hands trailed down my sides. He lifted me effortlessly and as our mouths locked once again in an erotic kiss. I wrapped my arms around his neck. He held me to him with one arm while his other hand entangled in my hair and pulled my head back to stare into my face flushed with passion. "Tia..."

"Take me, André. I choose you..."

Then I lost myself. His lips brushed my neck lightly. The feathery kisses became nips and suddenly I felt a glimmer of pain followed by total ecstasy. I swooned in his arms. I felt my heart pound in my chest and roaring in my ears. Then, blackness as life's blood was drawn out of me, slowly with the last of my essence I felt myself falling into a vast emptiness. Spinning. Silence.

I felt a gentle prodding and a warm wetness on my lips. I hungered. My tongue danced slowly over my lips. I tasted the saltiness and the hunger grew. Greedily I drank what was offered. I opened my eyes and realized that Andrés had slit his wrist and offered me his own blood. My eyes widened in fear but he held me and spoke comfort softly in my ear.

"My blood is your blood. I am yours for all eternity as you are mine. We shall share the night together, my love."

I gasped and bent forward as a sharp pain shuddered through my entire body. Doubling over, I wretched and vomited. I wrapped my arms across my stomach and moaned a high pitch sound that I didn't recognize as my own. It sounded more like the yelp of an animal caught in a hunter's trap.

"The pain will pass. It is your human substance dying. You will purge and become as I, immortal. I will guide you through, my love."

And he did, lovingly and with tenderness guide me to what I have now become.

© Copyright 2003 SL Connors
 

About the Author:

Sharon L Connors is an X-ray Technician/Orthopedic Assistant and free-lance writer residing in Hollywood, FL. Her interests are writing, reading wide ranges of fiction and non-fiction, taking the many courses on the WVU and gardening, favorites are her many orchids and rose bushes. She has a wonderfully supportive husband, a beautiful Sheltie named GypsyLee, featured in a Dog Fancy article, and keeps two large tropical fish tanks. She recently had a perspective article published in Dog Fancy magazine called 'Crate beginnings' and won a WOW in the WVU last year.


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Fiction Short Story

by Cynthia Serra

Pirate at the Diner

I watched him at the dinner counter. Slurping soup from a spoon, dripping, sloshing, and splattering everywhere. A string of pasta dangled from his lip as a round of carrot dropped to the floor and rolled near my shoe. When the waitress swung by with the coffeepot, he growled at her and she jumped away, hot brew on her chest. He acted like he had rabies.

I scribbled something in my notebook. Something to remember later about the gritty squint of his eye, the thin white lines splayed out from the corner, and the black beret pulled low over his forehead. Dark stubble harvested in short, spiky stalks across a ruddy -- no --a tight, browned cheek. He looked as though he'd sailed the wind-whipped decks of an old schooner all the way across the Atlantic.

I wrote something else. The scratch of my pencil made me smile. The sound of work, creation, satisfaction. I imagined he wore a striped tunic and red kerchief beneath his black coat. I wanted him to be a sailor from a ghost, come in from the fog of lost time, stumbling through the docks to the diner, where he grunted and looked mean, and the waitress simply brought him something to keep him from lunging at her.

He stopped chewing and turned. His one good eye like silver ice as he caught me staring. His other eye ... gone! I swallowed at the hooked scar from lip to eye. I'd only seen the one side of his face. He grinned a greasy, gapped smile and my heart pounded. His knobby fingers tapped the scabbard inside his long coat.

He rose and his bones creaked as he settled on ratty, knee-high boots. I gulped. Writing, scribbling. He was alive! The string of pasta swung from his lip as he hitched over to where I sat, with nothing to defend myself but pen, notebook, and a grilled cheese sandwich.

He drew his sword and I shrank back into the booth. I looked about in panic, my blood pumping, but no one seemed to notice. He pricked the point of his gleaming rapier against my throat and squinted at me with his one eye. Then he threw back his head and laughed, the scratchy sound echoing off the ceiling. He spat to his side and withdrew. His heavy boots crushed the carrot as he returned to the stool at the counter.

Breathing heavily, I looked down at my notebook. I looked back to the counter. The man in the long black coat and bad mood threw some change next to his splattered plate. He stumbled out without a single glance in my direction.

I'd brought a pirate to life in the diner! What wonders of writing! Excited and exhausted, I finished my grilled cheese, leaving the accosted waitress a big tip.

© Copyright 2003 Cynthia Serra
 

About the Author:

Cynthia Serra writes paranormal romance as CB Scott (with her writing partner Beth Ciotta) and has two novels published with ImaJinn Books. Her third novel, Kindred Spirits, will be released in December. Visit her at http://www.cbscottbooks.com. Writing from a cold, rainy day in the Northeast, Cynthia was inspired to write a little fantasy to forget the long-lingering winter outside.


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Fiction Short Story

by KLC Austin

Supper Time

A car door slammed just outside the house, startling her from her reverie as she stirred the milky beige gravy in the old cast iron skillet. She dropped the ladle into the spoon rest beside the burner and shoved her hand into the embroidered pocket of her apron, its frayed threads tickling her skin. It made her think of how fatigued Aunt Betty's arthritic fingers must have been by the time she finished the stitches on Friday's apron, having started with Sunday's. She fingered the contents of her pocket and sighed.

"Mama! I told her she can't use my bicycle!" The screen door slammed and Sally ran into the kitchen, her prematurely acned face glistening with sweat.

"Mama!" The screen door slammed a second time, ricocheting off of the frame as Julie burst inside, right on Sally's heels.

"Sit down, both of you. It's supper time." Margie grasped the stack of four plates and began to distribute them around the kitchen table, followed by silverware, napkins and glasses filled with milk. "I heard your daddy's car and he'll be walking through the back door any minute. I do not want any fighting. Did you wash your hands?"

"But Mama, you said I could use Sally's bike because mine's flat and we don't have an extra tube and ..." Julie's voice trailed as Sally interrupted.

"Mama, how could you? I need my bike to ride over to Didi's after dinner and it's too far to walk and still get back before dark!" Sally's eyes filled with well-rehearsed tears.

"Damn it Margie!" Howard came through the back door and crossed the kitchen to the table, his hands balled into blackened fists caked in railroad soot. Even through the layer of black powder on his face, Howard's expression was unmistakable. "I'm only home one week out of the month! Why is it that, the second I walk through the door, the first thing I have to hear is all of this squabbling? Can't you control these kids?"

"Go wash up," Margie replied, her eyes focused on the table. "I'll have your plate fixed for you when you come down,"

Howard stomped upstairs leaving a trail of sooty footprints along Margie's freshly varnished hardwood. At the first sound of running water, the girls resumed their argument, nattering at one another like blue jays guarding a bird feeder. Margie emptied the contents of the skillet into the gravy boat, deciding it might be best not to leave the pans until after dinner.

With the hum of the ceaseless argument in the background, she began washing the cookware as she dished the meat and vegetables into serving bowls. She watched the steam rising from the food as she rinsed the pans, knowing that Howard would comment on the temperature of his dinner. But in the finish, what was one more argument in a long string of many that would take place over the coming week? Margie slipped her hand into her pocket and her tension eased.

The dinner was typical of Howard's first night home. Margie stared into her plate, taking only token bites of food, as the girls continued to chip away at each other across the table. Howard's complexion, now free of soot, reddened with every stab at his plate. The low pitch of his voice wove beneath the staccato jabs the girls spat at one another and the meal ended in the usual fashion with Howard giving a steam-engine shove to his half-empty plate, sending it sliding the length of the table. Like a well-launched hockey puck, the plate fired bits of ceramic into the air as it knocked bowls askew, spilling the contents of the other dishes until it had thrust its way across the table, striking Margie's plate and landing along with hers in the center of her lap.

Her family now silent, Margie moved the plates back to the table, scooping the food out of her lap with her napkin, and wiping her hands on one of the cleaner spots of her apron. Mindful of the polished floor, she drew the apron carefully into a sling with one hand, untied the strings with the other and laid it on top of the plates in a bunch. As she withdrew her hand from the mess, she reached into the pocket, removing the delicate pistol, so small that it nestled snugly inside her palm. She stood up from her chair and dropped her arms to her sides, gazing at her family.

"What the hell are you doing, Margie?" Howard demanded. "Get this crap off of the table and out of my sight!" He threw his napkin to the floor, then planted both hands on the table as if he were about to rise.

"I just wish that ..." Margie paused.

"What?" Howard's face purpled. "What do you wish?" He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarette and lit up, flicking the dead match at the mess on the table.

Margie took a breath.

"Speak up!" Howard bellowed. "What could you possibly wish for?"

"I just wish that, for once," she sighed, "just once ... everyone could get along."

Margie put the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger.

© Copyright 2003 KLC Austin
 

About the Author:

KLC Austin writes horror from the suburbs of Washington, DC. Her work has been published in print and online. At WVU, she can sometimes be found wandering the halls of ShadowLand, where she keeps close company with the ghost of Oscar Wilde.


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Healthy Horizons

Laurie Lupold


It is only logical that the war in Iraq has caused great conflict in the world. Whether we agree or disagree it sure has caused us to take a more in-depth look at ourselves as well as others. Seems now we have become more guarded with our emotions and at times less accepting of the way others feel. We have become at odds with those who may not see ideals in the same light.

Is it so important that we agree? Have we not been brought up in an existence where we are free to choose? Though we may differ, have we not developed the tools that allow us to accept the efforts of others' choices? Rather than become the controlling would it not be of more purpose to address the root of the conflict at hand so that it has less of an opportunity to rebirth itself in another time or another place? To see ourselves as models of product, not price.

In my opinion, and my opinion certainly is not based on divine educated authority by no means, the problem at hand stemmed by a need to control. To me, the need for such power and strength deems from lack of esteem in one's self and total disrespect for others'. These who demand such control seem to absorb this strength to feel better about who they are. By direct manipulation of others this individual becomes authoritative and proud while leaving his victims feeling weak and insignificant. Thus the victim cowers, leaving himself at the mercy of the defiant.

Understandably we do not have the ability to correct the woes of the world. There is no magic wand to wave and no immediate cure. However there are small steps we can take which will allow ourselves and others not to fall victim and in response by using these tools individuals may not become so overwhelmed with hate that they become the defiant who later dictate others' lives.

Take an honest interest in your self-esteem. If you see gray areas in how you view yourself, acknowledge them. Are they realistic? Have you caught yourself up in a life of self-ridicule? Are you seeking perfection in an imperfect world? Are there areas you'd like to see a change? If so, is that logical? How do you address it? Be your own individual. Do not bring yourself up to be someone's carbon copy. Don't compare. You are a unique and important individual. The person you are, and will later become, is essential to this phase of life. There is a divine purpose for you. Build your own tower of humanity and share this with all you come in contact with.

Allow others to feel acknowledged even if it's solely by a smile. A frown is a sign of inner sadness, insecurity. Reassure that frown with a kindness. Warm people with your words. Be humane.

Grieve for those whose lives are lost whether in death or immortality. Whether or not you agree, honor that loss by being a caring representative of life. Feel pain that their lives have passed beyond us and sorrow for those whose lives could have been enhanced had they known a grace such as your own. Always remember that resentment only sparks further conflict and conflict further pain. Wishing you all serenity wherever you are.


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Poetics

Jeanette Oestermyer

Rest to Rewrite

You have just finished writing a poem, and you cannot wait to send it out to an editor. Slow down, let us back up a little. When that poem is finished, the first thing you should do is put it in a file labeled Drafts. Do not look at it for at least two days, or a week and possibly two weeks or a month if you have no deadline to meet.

When the waiting time has expired, read the poem through with a critical eye. Mark in red, anything that does not sound right or does not show exactly what you want to convey. Then read the poem aloud; in this exercise, be sure to listen to the words and the flow or rhythm of the lines. This might be done by recording the poem on tape, so you can hear the piece without reading and listening at the same time. If you have a writing buddy, consider asking her/him to read your poem and give you an opinion.

One important thing to look and listen for in your poem is a cliché, those overworked words or phrases that often find their way into a first draft. Some clichéd phrases may be: "red as a beet," "dropped like a hot potato" and "time will tell," but there are many more. If the word or phrase sounds too familiar, it probably is a cliché.

Consider looking for the repetition of identical words, especially those in close proximity. This is where your thesaurus comes in handy. Check there for another word that will deliver the same meaning, and yet not interrupt the rhythm or flow of text. Be sure that the word[s] you select do not clash with your personal style of writing or with the mood of surrounding text.

Some other questions to consider: Have you used the various poetic devices for the best effect? Such devices may include metaphor, simile, alliteration and personification, to name a few. A caution here, do not use these devices to the extreme unless you are using only one or two, and that is your intention throughout the poem. In listening to the poem, do you hear the musicality of the lines?

What is the poem about? This is known as the theme. Is the poem accessible, or easily understood by the reader on an intellectual or intuitive level? There can be a fine line in this respect, which is that it is not necessary to explain everything. Give your reader credit for understanding, but only if you feel the main idea of the piece is not overly vague. As you write more poetry, you will gain a sense of what is too vague, and what may merely leave something for the reader to consider.

One more vital question to ask yourself: Are the line and stanza breaks the best they can be?

When you decide to type your first revised version, be sure to save the original verbatim. Next, save the revised poem as a different title, possibly something like "First Draft Revision 1."

Again, read and listen to your revised work, and if you are not one hundred percent satisfied with what you see and hear, repeat the procedure again. Begin by letting it rest as before, and repeat all the steps.

There may come a time in this writing, critiquing, revision cycle when you just cannot seem to get that poem to flow correctly, nor to send the message you think it should. When, and if that happens, make up a file titled something like, "Saved Poems." Sometime in the future, you may want a specific type of poem, or a poem about a certain theme for a contest or to submit for publication. That is when you can pull out the "Saved-Poems" file; and just maybe, you will find a gem exactly matched to the guidelines you are working to meet.

Of greatest importance is to keep writing poetry, working to improve, and who knows where it may take you? Enjoy the journey.

About the Author:

Jeanette Oestermyer is a native of Indiana who now lives in New Mexico. She retired in 1993, and furthered her writing career in earnest. Currently, Jeanette is President of the New Mexico State Poetry Society (NMSPS), which is an affiliate of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (NFSPS). She is also a member of the Haiku Society of America. She has taught a C.E. class in poetry at the Adult Center in Roswell.



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Poetics Presents

Gwen Austin

Now retired from a career in therapeutic recreation, Gwen Austin lives in a 'green cloister' woods near Mt. Rainier in western Washington state. As well as writing poetry, she is also the author of two published books, Twilight Manor and Fateful Days. She is a member of the Senior Poets Workshop at Writers' Village University. T-Zero is pleased to publish two of Gwen's haiku.
 

Haiku I

spyhops and breaches
black and white ballet
orca-motion

Haiku II

sea-song sonar
black and white melody
orca-stra

Copyright © 2003 Gwen Austin



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Poetics Presents

Korie Beth Brown

Korie Beth Brown has written poetry her entire life and has been published in Lynx, on the Poetry Webzine, Zuzu's Petals, tinywords, and Gargoyle. She lives in Southern California with her husband and two pet birds.
 

September morning

–– Fuchsia bouganvillea,
Electric blue sky.
Crow's first molt

Crow's First Molt

Crow's first molt:
feather ripples
throughout pond.

Copyright © 2003 Korie Beth Brown



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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

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

Miriam van Veen recently interviewed, Joan Fox, author of The Reluctant Duke, Tame My Heart, and Never Let Me Go for the romance website, Love Romances.

Joan, a valued member of Writers' Village University, joined this writing community about four years ago after taking two sessions of F2K, WVU's free writing class. She then became a "Lifer." Foxy, as she is affectionately called by her peers, said, "What a wonderful experience—right from the start. I have met so many good writer friends since that time. Being retired, I spend hours a day at the computer. My world is rather limited, but I can always 'talk' to someone at the WVU."

As a writer of historical, romantic fiction, Joan is working on two unfinished contemporaries that she expects to complete when time allows.

Her fourth novel is a sweet Regency. "It is my current work-in-progress, not completed as yet, but hopefully, it will be done soon. I will then edit/revise it. I plan to send it out sometime in June, and see if it finds a home!"

"I haven't taken classes at WVU lately because I've been writing for publication. I learned so much from those early classes. I really should sign up and refresh myself with a couple. I cut down and signed with only one study group—Hole in the Wall Gang. But I do pop into other groups, because I have good friends in most of them."

Joan invites to you visit to her website at Joan Fox where you will find a short bio plus some reviews, photos, and an excerpt from The Reluctant Duke. She says, "It needs to be updated, but I haven't been able to take the time right now. It was created for The Reluctant Duke, my debut novel. The sequel, Tame My Heart, will be published in the near future." Both books are e-published by Treble Heart Books. To find out more about Tame My Heart, including some reviews and the entire first chapter, visit the Romance Report website. Joan's third book, Never Let Me Go, is being published in November 2003 by Wings Press.

Dee Walmsley will soon be starring in her own cable TV show called "Dee's Den." She will not only be writing the scripts for the show, but will also be producing, directing, starring in, and editing it. The show will air on her local cable network, Delta Cablevision.

"I have produced a number of videos for DCTV and approached them with the concept of "Dee's Den" which will feature some of my stories. It also involves going out into the community to introduce kids to animals and learning things like milking a cow and what other benefits cows bestow upon us. My show will involve visiting the workings of an aquarium, wildlife shelter, riding stable for kids with disabilities, chicken ranch et al. Each half hour segment will be an educational tool."

In 1998, Dee took the F2K course and joined WVU and the Natural World and Misfits study groups. Describing her experience at Writers' Village University, Dee said, "I have benefited from good feedback. Then I learned how to critique, which I think, is just as necessary. I wrote and facilitated the nature courses and learned along with the students."

Dee's deep and abiding love of nature and of teaching children to respect the lessons of nature show in every word she writes. Although her work on two books—one about raccoons and the other a fictional novel, are gathering dust for the moment, she hopes one day to finish them. Dee would like a fairy editor to wave her magic wand over her computer and publish both of them. Knowing this is unlikely to happen, Dee said, "I'll keep visiting schools with my environmental workshops and plugging away at TV shows to educate the public on how to co-exist with urban wildlife and the impact we humans have on our environment."

Dee's advice to other writers: "Keep writing and try different genres. I firmly believe that one can do just about anything with a little determination and courage."

Charity Tahmaseb's short story, Paperback Romance, will be published in the October/November/December 2003 issue of Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine . Her romantic suspense, False Impressions, is a finalist in the Romance Writers of America Golden Heart contest.

When Charity heard that Paperback Romance was being published, she felt both very excited and relieved. Inspired by one of the Writing Boosters workshops at WVU, Charity wasn't sure where else she could send a story that involved a male romance writer, a pregnant woman, and a bank robbery.

"When I heard I was a finalist for the Golden Heart, it was complete disbelief. When I received the call, the first thing I said was, "You're kidding." The woman on the other end assured me she wasn't. Seeing my name in the press release and getting the official packet helped, but I'm still not totally convinced it's true."

Charity joined WVU in 1998 and eventually became a member of Mythic Madness, and she also facilitates the mystery course. She took F2K back when it was Fiction 98 and also mentored a few sessions of Fiction 99.

"The support and friendship I have received are fantastic, not to mention the sharp eyes of my study group. My manuscript had been in the submission process for two years as I tried to find an agent to represent it. I had essentially shelved it in favor of working on other projects. However, I decided, almost on a whim, to enter the Golden Heart. I did so in part because two very special critique partners continued to believe in the story."

Sherri Arnold won the Suspense Me contest at Novel Advice. Her short story, Voices in the Rain, was posted on its website in January 2003. "I received the email notifying me that I had won first place on Christmas Day. Talk about a Christmas present—I was floating the rest of the day. Everyone got so tired of hearing about the contest, but I just couldn't stop talking about it."

Alien Skin Magazine, an online magazine, accepted Sherri¹s flash fiction story, Red Sky, to be published in the June issue. "This is the first story I've had accepted for publication. When I received the email about this I was ecstatic. The first thing I did was tell my family and they just didn't get how I could be so excited over 1/2 cent a word. Then I emailed all my writing buddies and they shared my enthusiasm. I guess it takes a writer to appreciate a sale so small."

Sherri took the F2K, which she says helped her learn so much in sensory details, one of the things she finds difficult. Sherri joined WVU a little over three years ago and became a member of the Shadow Land study group.

"Interaction with this group has been invaluable to me and has helped me grow as a writer. WVU has helped me learn so much about writing. There are so many classes to take that I will never complete them all. One thing I like about these classes are that they are available to take with a group at scheduled times, but the classes are also available anytime to take on an individual basis. WVU keeps me motivated and excited about my writing. The support here has given me the encouragement I need. I would advise every writer to join this group."

She is currently rewriting a dark fantasy novel, titled Dark Regions, which she hopes to finish by the end of the year.

Congratulations, Foxy, Dee, Charity, and Sherri. We wish you continued success in all your writing endeavors.

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



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Signs of Life The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

Things That Go Bump in the Night

"Hey, the brochure about this hotel says it has a ghost," I told my husband. "Cool, eh?" We'd just arrived in the small town of Farnham in England's Surrey district after a full night's overseas flight, a whirlwind dash to major sites in London, a harrowing nighttime drive on British motorways––during which we completely bypassed Farnham and ended up in "Jane Austen Country"––and at least a solid 30 minutes spent driving in circles through the cobbled streets of Farnham, looking for our hotel while turning a map around and around because, quite frankly, it didn't make a bit of sense and everything was beginning to blur.

"Uh-huh," my husband replied. He was understandably exhausted and not in a conversational mood. I dropped the subject and put the brochure aside.

Farnham has such a lengthy history (dating back to the Stone Age; mammoth tusks have been found in the area) that it's hardly any wonder the Georgian hotel we stayed in is known to have a ghost. The first night, however, the ghost didn't disturb us. He was probably too annoyed by the drunken revelers loudly making their way home from a nearby pub to bother haunting anyone. I distinctly remember longing for one of our noisy American hotel room heaters during a night that we seemed to hear more than our fair share of drinking songs.

The next night, still weary, we decided to head to bed early. I was in a chipper mood because that day; I overheard the word "crikey" used in conversation twice and had an all-around fantastic time exploring little historic corners of the town while my poor, deprived husband had to work.

"Maybe the ghost will visit us," I said after reading the remainder of the hotel brochure. "I'd like to see a ghost." Big mistake. Never invite a ghost into your room.

During our first evening in Farnham, the electricity in our room worked fine. After I invited the ghost in for a visit, on the second evening, the lights went haywire. We'd turn on one light and another across the room would go off then turn back on while the light near the switch popped off. Lights went on and off for over an hour, while we took our baths and got ready for bed. After one last battle of the bulbs, during which David kept turning a light off and it came back on repeatedly, we settled under the covers. David promptly went to sleep while I lay awake wondering if the electrical disturbances had anything to do with an invisible apparition with a bad sense of humor.

After about an hour, the bed frame creaked and there was a slight "whump" on the bed, as if a large dog had just jumped onto the mattress with us. I hadn't moved and David was sleeping like a rock, quiet and still. I had my hand on him and knew he hadn't stretched his feet out or shifted. Since I hadn't moved, either, I was a bit spooked. What made the bed creak? Nothing happened for a few minutes and I'd almost succeeded in convincing myself that I was being wildly imaginative when I felt something press on the covers a second time. The bed creaked a tiny bit. Whatever it was, it was moving closer. First, at the foot of the bed, now around my ankles.

Every few minutes, I felt something shift the covers again. David still hadn't budged by the time I felt the slight shifting near my waistline. That was enough for me. I sat bolt upright and gave David a healthy shove. The light switch was on his side of the bed.

"Turn on the light!'

David muttered unintelligibly and promptly went back to sleep.

"David! Turn on the light!" I shoved him, again, and he grumpily sat up to switch the light on.

"What? What's the problem?" He gave me a bleary-eyed look after grudgingly turning on the light.

"The bed was creaking but neither of us was moving and I could feel the ghost moving closer and closer..."

"Take a breath, babe. There's no ghost. Go back to sleep." He moved to turn the light back off.

"Don't you dare!"

"I'm not going to leave the light on." Wow, was he grumpy.

"You have to," I said. "If there’s going to be a ghost in bed with us, I want to see him. Not that I want to see a ghost; I just want to know what's climbing into bed with us. Okay, admittedly, I'm freaked."

"No kidding." David sighed and sank back under the covers. I was still sitting up, clutching the blankets.

"Would you just go back to sleep? There's no ghost. Now, I'm going to turn the light out..."

"No you're not!"

We eventually came to a compromise. I left the bathroom light on so that we had at least a little light in the room. David snored contentedly, as always, and I fitfully tossed and turned. The bed ceased its creaking and there was no sensation of anything moving on the bed, but I was ready to dash out into the hallway screaming, if necessary.

I didn't sleep a wink, that night, and I learned an important lesson. Never invite a ghost into your room. Even if the ghost is a figment of your imagination, it can still keep you up all night.



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

Writer's Read The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Shelton

Girl's Poker Night


Girl's Poker Night
By Jill A. Davis
Random House, Trade Paperback © 2002
ISBN 0-8129-6683-X
$10.95 US/$16.95 Canada

You gotta love a book that begins "Happy endings aren't for cowards," then proceeds to show us exactly how cowardly the narrator is when it comes to putting herself on the line. Ruby Capote, the heroine of Girl's Poker Night, is a columnist who details the life of the single girl (herself), while keeping her deepest self out of the column.

The format of GPN tells us almost as much about Ruby as do her words themselves. At first, I thought the format of the book was a gimmick, a trick of the trade. It does not have traditional chapters and doesn't follow a linear plot line. It goes back and forth in time and subject, in entries that might be either a column or journal entries. They range from a few pages to a paragraph of only 38 words.

It is in those shorter, paragraph length sections that the reader gets profound looks into Ruby's character. In one titled "Absent," Ruby tells us:

The year my father moved out, I was absent from school more days than the kid in my class who had cancer. I was afraid if I went away for a whole day, my mom might leave too. (Page 66)

The above text is the entire entry for "Absent." A little glimpse, it gives such a vivid picture of a frightened child that it will echo with the reader in later chapters.

The shorter segments fulfill another purpose. They are a form of practice. Practice for Ruby in putting herself into her writing. Because by the end of the novel, she writes a column entitled "Need to Know" that puts it all on the line. It begins:

'Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.' Anais Nin wrote that, not me. I think she was right––happy endings are not for cowards.

You don't need to know any of this. But the things I don't reveal are the things I hold closest and fear losing the most. I work overtime keeping them veiled and camouflaged. You don't need to know that I walk around all day fearing the things that make me happy, and that I have been doing that my entire life." (Page 222)

Ruby, the character as well as the writer, has laid it all on the line at this point. While she is still afraid, she isn't the coward without a happy ending. The last segment is, in fact, titled "Happy Ending." As a writer, she has finally happened upon that certain something often missing from our work. That something that can turn a good piece of writing into great writing. Something so powerful that some writers are afraid of putting it into their writing at all.

Themselves.
 

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Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved

Submissions Guidelines The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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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.

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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).
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  • 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