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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       
01 December 2008
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Craft of Writing

David L. Bromwich

Write It Tight

Mickey Spillane once claimed in a television interview that he never wrote more than one draft of any of his novels. He said that if he couldn't get it right the first time, he should not be writing.

Oh yeah?

Even if Spillane did write only one draft, it's a fair bet that his publisher's editors had a lot of work to do to get the manuscript into shape.

No one gets it right the first time. Jeffrey Archer claims to write "about a dozen" drafts of his novels (in longhand yet!). Going from the ridiculous to the sublime, Robert Louis Stevenson considered the real task of writing only began once the first draft was finished.

A Role Model
Stevenson is an excellent role model for the aspiring writer. Deciding as a very young man that he wanted to be a writer, he set himself the task of studying the works of the acknowledged masters of literature. He became, in his own words, a "sedulous ape" as he spent hour after hour trying to reproduce the various writing styles of the great ones. As a result of his labours, Stevenson became one of the world's finest writers. Essays, poems, stories, novels—he was a master of them all.

The idea for the book that was to make his fortune came to him one night in 1886 as the result of an opium-induced nightmare. Early the following morning, he started to write. Three days later, what he thought would be the only draft of "The Strange Tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" was finished. When Stevenson read the work aloud to his wife and stepson, Mrs. Stevenson was very critical. She accused her husband of taking the line of least resistance and writing merely a piece of sensationalism. Stevenson was furious, gathered up his manuscript, and stormed out of the room.

He returned two hours later, and telling his wife that she was perfectly right, threw his manuscript onto the glowing coals that were burning in the fireplace. Three days of hard writing gone up in smoke!

Stevenson then returned to his own room and began to rewrite. After another three days of feverish work, the Jekyll and Hyde tale that we know today was finished. He had written 64,000 words in six days—more than 10,000 words per day, all in longhand.

Your First Draft Is Your Raw Material
So, do not, once you have hammered out the required number of words, switch off your word processor and sigh "That's that." Because it isn't.

Your first draft is like the lump of clay on the potter's wheel. It needs moulding into shape. Put the piece to one side for a few days and then read through it again. It is very difficult to be objective about our own work, but we have to make the effort. Remember: you are not just writing to please yourself, your objective is to achieve publication; therefore, you have to please your editor. Try to see into her mind (another difficult thing to do). She has to please her readers and will know exactly what they want to read. If the manuscript in front of you had been written by someone else and you were the editor, would you publish it? Try to be brutally honest. It's hard, but who ever said it was going to be easy?

Shorter = Better
Length is the first thing to be considered. First drafts are always too long. Go through your manuscript and eliminate any words, phrases, or paragraphs that are not pulling their weight. Be ruthless. You may find it helps if you read the work aloud.

When writing to a specified word count, it is a good idea to write a hundred or so more words than are required, then go to work to prune the piece back until it is just inside the maximum word allowance. Shortening a manuscript almost always improves it. Look for the spurious use of words such as "really," "rather," and "very" (e.g., "really awful," "rather awkward," "very true"). Of course, you wouldn't dream of using tautologies like "true facts" or "adequate enough," would you?

Kill The Cliché   
Clichés detract from the impact of your work. Hunt them down like the vermin they are and exterminate. Read through every paragraph more than once. Ask yourself if you can use less words and still say what you want to say. More often than not this is perfectly possible.

Read that last sentence again and change "more often than not" to "usually," and delete "perfectly." Point taken? Be a sharpshooter, not a machine gunner.

It may be that your manuscript can be improved by changing the order of certain paragraphs. Some experimentation will soon determine this. Does your opening paragraph plunge straight into the heart of the matter, or is it just introductory waffle? Perhaps your manuscript would be more effective without it.

Short Is Not Sweet
Being economical with words does not mean that you should write only short sentences. This would make your work seem staccato. The effect would not be pleasant. Readers would be unsettled. They might stop reading. Editors would be upset. You wouldn't get any more work published.

Sentences need to vary in length to give your prose a sense of flow and make the reader feel good. You can do this and still cut out all the unnecessary words.

Be Your Own Sub-Editor
Revising and rewriting a manuscript may seem a bit of a chore, but it has to be done. If you analyse your first draft carefully, you may get away with just one rewrite. However, you should be prepared to rewrite the rewrite, especially if requested to do so by an editor.

In these days of tight budgets, sub-editors are a luxury, especially on small press magazines. If you can present an editor with a script that needs minimal or no subbing you vastly increase your chances of having your work accepted.

So remember—write it right, write it tight!


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Craft of Writing

Kamala Thiagarajan

Breaking Into Health Writing, Part I

If you have ever suffered a day’s illness in your life, you certainly would have learned to appreciate the saying, clichéd as it may be, that health is truly wealth. As a health writer, though, you will find that this old adage certainly takes on a new meaning, especially since your bank balance grows agreeably in proportion to every article that you publish!

Health is perhaps the only industry that links all human beings regardless of age, race, color, and cultural background. It also offers a great deal of variety for the writer to dabble with. There’s just no getting bored when new and exciting experiments and scientific breakthroughs are occurring at every minute, helping us understand our bodies and their functioning like never before! Worldwide, health publications are doing booming business, and that translates into good news for the writer. Whether it may be a general interest magazine, a lifestyle glossy for women, a journal for male fitness buffs, a magazine specializing in children’s health, or a prenatal monthly, there are a plethora of opportunities for publication.

Let’s take a look at the skills you’ll need to succeed.
 
Trying To Get That First Assignment
No matter where you are based in the world, as a health writer, you can keep your keyboard as well as your cash register ringing merrily into the wee hours of the dawn. The age-old writing axiom that urges you to write only of what you know may not stand you in good stead here. The health industry is constantly changing and you must make it your business to keep yourself updated and abreast of the latest developments. Presenting this information in an exciting way that would captivate your readers and editors would be your ticket to your next meaty assignment!

You’ll find that getting that first assignment may often be your greatest challenge. So, how do you get your foot in the door and have those editors sit up and take notice? The first step is to think of an idea that would be beneficial to the readers of the magazine you are pitching for. And the only way to do this is to understand and analyse your market thoroughly.

Exploring Markets
Breaking into health magazines may be touted as an impossible task for a new writer, but you’ll soon learn that all it requires is a little patience and a lot of meticulous study. The first thing that you would notice about health publications is that though the market may be cluttered with them, they are as different from one another as night and day. It would be impossible to query a health magazine without reading it at least once from cover to cover. And woe betide you if you just send the same generalized query to about ten publications at the same time. That would be begging for rejection!

Though health publications are about the body in general and good health in particular, you must understand that each publication will focus only on a certain specialized aspect of health care. Discovering what this specialization is would be the first step to breaking into print. But beware—at first glance, it can be extremely misleading!

For example, if you did not know the magazine first-hand, you would hardly have guessed that Oxygen is a guide for women on the subjects of fitness training, or that Body & Soul Magazine deals only with holistic, natural, and alternative therapies to provide the answers to physical and mental well-being. You would also hardly be expected to know that the length and tone of the articles in American Health and Fitness (published in Canada) is determined by their first issue to hit the stands that year! And better still, American Health and Fitness is a magazine for male health buffs that focuses mainly on body building and strength training!

While the general magazine guidelines can sometimes give you a clear picture about the focus of the magazine, you would need to see the publication for yourself before you can hope to contribute.

Writing For Health Journals Overseas
For some, reading the magazine first-hand may be quite impossible—especially if you live in a country other than the one in which the magazine is published and circulated. In such a case, you have two options.

One would be contacting the editorial staff via e-mail and requesting them to send you a recent issue. This would mean that you would have to bear the postal charges and the cost of the issue yourself, not to mention steeling yourself for an endless wait before the copy actually reaches you. Unfortunately, magazines can rarely afford to give away copies—especially overseas—to potential contributors and some may not even welcome the hassle of trying, even when you do offer to foot the bill.

If you find yourself in this situation, you are left with no choice but to pitch an idea first after studying the guidelines and request a contributor’s copy after your article has been accepted. If you are taking this long route that most would call a shot in the dark, then search out these clues, which could prove to be an invaluable aid to getting your foot in the door.

Learn What's Expected From Content
Analyzing a magazine’s target audience will give you an idea of who will be reading the articles you write—and it is the first thing that you should examine before you shoot off a query. This is because it is here you will find the key to a better understanding of the publication’s purpose and spirit. The wise writer will tailor his or her queries after studying the likes and dislikes of the publication’s target audience.

For instance, Current Health 1 based in Northbrook, Illinois, is written for fourth to seventh grade health education students. They prefer their articles written with a lot of scientific information, but presented in a lively and intelligent style that will appeal to the average fifth grader. American Health and Fitness is for weight trainers; some articles cater to advanced weight trainers, whereas others are for beginners. Each issue has a fair mix of both.

By studying the psyche of the target audience in this way, writers can equip themselves with an idea of the voice and style that would appeal to the audience. All health publications have very well-defined niche audiences with extremely specific needs. This technique would be especially helpful if you have no way of studying the actual magazine beforehand. Additionally, most health journals today have Web sites that will make your task of analysing their audiences easier.

Understanding How Publication Frequency Affects Your Chances
Knowing the frequency of publication (whether it is a monthly, bi-monthly, or quarterly) can help you gauge the magazine’s response rates, the nature of material required, and the chances you have for acceptance.

A monthly magazine will use more material than a bi-monthly or quarterly; however, much of their material may be about current breakthroughs and, therefore, extremely time-sensitive. Also, the editor of a monthly publication may be very busy, for no sooner is one month’s issue out when preparations begin for the next. Keep up with the latest health news for a monthly journal and be aware of the fast changing trends in the international health scene. A brief, topical query in these instances will often work best.

For bi-monthly magazines and quarterlies, keep in mind that the Editorial will work months in advance. This would rule out any time-sensitive material unless it is still relevant at the time of publication, so pitch your ideas accordingly.

What You Can Learn From Advertisements
One aspect of magazines that writers often ignore are the advertisers. It is a misconception that advertising material would have no relevance to you as a writer. There are many good reasons why a health writer should be familiar with the advertising material that appears in the magazine that he/she is contributing to. Since advertisements are directed at a clear-cut, target audience, this knowledge will further your understanding of the magazine’s outlook and reach. Most importantly, you won’t offer an article that is bound to hurt the publication’s advertisers—and this will prove to be an excellent way of avoiding outright rejection.

So if you are writing an article on the horrific health hazards caused by exercise equipment, be wary of expounding on length of the damages to the knee and back caused by stationary bikes—especially if the health magazine you write for is backed by advertisers promoting exercise cycles!

Where To Find Ideas
The reality is that most topics of concern in the health industry have been written about before. Rehashing old subjects in an interesting way is the only means to survival in an already cluttered arena.

Don’t always concern yourself with reporting developments to grave illnesses and progress on the spheres of rare and terminal diseases—unless the magazine’s specialization calls for articles of this kind. In effect, the writer should always be looking for new ways to handling age-old but minor health hazards. Whether it may be battling the common cold with cloves of garlic, suggesting steam inhalation as a part of an overall physical detox program, or breaking myths by telling people why chocolate is actually good for them—the ideas you offer should have a fresh twist that will help readers battle with the smaller problems that affect them on a daily basis. This will not only be more relevant, but also will prove to be easier to place in most magazines.

Attending conferences and workshops is another way to source out ideas. The importance of networking can’t be stressed enough! Go to pharmacists' gatherings, meet salesmen who peddle health-related equipment and who could perhaps give you access to the industry’s most prestigious doctors and qualified professionals. Cover medical conferences for your local paper or sign up at your neighborhood gym to meet fitness instructors and dieticians. Each one of these people can provide non-stop fodder for your health articles.

How To Pitch Your Ideas
After analysing your publication, its readership, and advertising material thoroughly, the next step is to sell your idea to the editor. Here’s where you put your knowledge to good use. Craft a query letter that outlines your idea clearly and tells the editor how readers would benefit from your article. In effect, your query letter should have three paragraphs.
  • The first paragraph should set forth and explain your health idea/theory clearly.
  • The second should announce how this idea would relate to and affect the readership of the magazine.
  • The third paragraph should be a brief outline of your qualifications.
Your query should have enough relevant research on your subject to arouse the editor’s curiosity. Stick to the facts and make absolutely certain that all your information is authentic. The query should act as a sample of the promising article to come!


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Craft of Writing

Marcia Kiser

Selecting The Perfect Tool...For Murder

When writing any murder scene, whether murder mystery, suspense-thriller, horror, or even romance, the writer must give a lot of thought to the murder weapon.

One cannot simply decide that Colonel Mustard enticed his victim to the library and used a lead pipe. The lead pipe is a valid blunt instrument, but does it fit the circumstances? That is to say, would Colonel Mustard have the opportunity to obtain a lead pipe and hide it in the library? Would he need to leave the pipe behind or would he need to take it with him?

The answers to these questions are determined by motive and opportunity, but the psychology of the murderer also plays a part. For example, one would not expect Michael Myers, of Halloween fame, to use poison. Michael appears to prefer the sudden attack, silent and stealthy, sneaking up on his victims and using weapons that create both a great deal of terror and a great deal of blood. Michael lives in, and for, the moment, with no regard for long-term planning once the blood lust is on him.

Most mystery writers, especially series authors, do not use the same weapon again and again without significant variation. To learn how psychology, motive, and opportunity affect the selection of the murder tool, try examining the work of one author with at least 10 novels in a series. Read everything that author has written, including short stories and off-series novels, to see how that author handles the choice of murder weapon.

A good place to start is Rex Stout's series featuring the detective duo of Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin. The series spans more than 40 years and comprises more than 80 novels and short stories. In a body of work that size, there is bound to be repetition in the choice of murder weapons, primarily guns, poisons, and the ever-popular blunt instrument. However, Stout manages some surprising murder weapons, too, including a champion bull, an exploding cigar (twice), and dry ice. None of these weapons can be considered run-off-the-mill choices, but each one fits the situation perfectly in terms of motive and opportunity. This body of work is also an excellent way to see why a particular method was used and how it fits the psychology of the murder.

In Fer-De-Lance, the opening novel, a poisoned needle is shot from the handle of a golf club into the stomach of Peter Oliver Barstow, who, by the way, was not the intended victim. The psychology of the weapon choice was to disguise the murder as a natural death, which it does, until Wolfe becomes involved and forces an exhumation and autopsy. The motive? The true intended victim was the murderer's own father, but the son wanted to inherit, of course, hence the decision to make the murder look like a natural death.

Motive, opportunity, and psychology come clearly into play in Black Orchid. Many times, the use of a firearm as a weapon is a spur-of-the-moment decision, a crime of passion. In this Stout mystery, however, the use of a revolver is planned and executed in exquisite detail. A walking stick is stolen and attached to the trigger of a revolver by a length of green yarn. When Archie Goodwin retrieves the walking stick, he pulls the trigger of the revolver, which has been cleverly concealed in a "living" display at the New York Flower Show, and unknowingly commits a murder. Mr. Dill, the actual murderer, planned his crime to provide an alibi for himself. Harold Gould, the victim, had been blackmailing Mr. Dill. In the event the police found out about the blackmail, Mr. Dill would be a prime suspect, hence his desire for the alibi. Mr. Dill almost gets away with it, even though Wolfe surmises the truth. With no real evidence, Wolfe forces Mr. Dill to the extreme step of trying to kill Wolfe, Archie, and everyone else present at Wolfe's denouncement.

In Cordially Invited to Meet Death, tetanus is used as the murder weapon. The bacteria is introduced into a bottle of iodine, then an accident is engineered so the victim steps on a piece of broken glass and requires first aid. The victim, Bess Huddleston, develops tetanus and dies a horrible, agonized death. Janet Nichols, the murderer, also puts a sliver of the broken glass in a bath brush as a red herring to divert suspicion. Janet loved Bess' nephew, but Bess disapproved of the match, so Janet removes Bess' objections, for good. The motive for this weapon is obvious. Janet doesn't want her character besmirched in front of her love, Larry, and killing one's aunt does have repercussions.

Stout uses poison quite often throughout his works, and it almost always signals multiple deaths and/or an audience-filled "locked-room" mystery. Also, Wolfe, Archie, or both are inevitably present at the crime scene. For example, in Champagne for One, Archie attends a dinner in a private home for a group of unwed mothers. During the course of the evening, Archie learns that one girl carries a vial of cyanide in her purse. The others express a concern that the girl, Faith Usher, plans to commit suicide, thus Archie remains alert. When Faith collapses, everyone presumes she administered herself the cyanide. Everyone, that is, except Archie. Stout's use of poison in this way, for his classic, yet unorthodox, locked-room mystery, indicates the psychology of a bold, desperate murderer, who likes to sneak about in the shadows and the rare opportunity for a murder to appear as a suicide. In the case of Champagne for One, Wolfe forces a re-enactment of the murder scene to determine that the murderess is the benefactor of the unwed mothers home who learned that Faith Usher was the daughter of her late husband.

These four plots involve very different personality types, motives, and opportunity, thus Stout also needed to employ very different tools. When writing your own mystery, don’t always go with the obvious. Think about the psychology, opportunity, and motive to select the perfect tool…for murder!


About the Author
Marcia Kiser writes, works, and lives in Lubbock, TX, with her husband, Eckert, and their SharPei mix, Kaiser Sosei. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, the Palo Duro Chapter of NSDAR, and was a contributing editor to Murderous Intent Mystery Magazine. Publications include The Writer's E-Zine, The Writer's Room Magazine, The Murder Hole, The Thrilling Detective, Dusty Cowboy, Novel Advice Mysterical-E, FUTURES, Over My Dead Body, and the recently released Novel Advice Anthology. Marcia can be contacted at Mek357@sbcglobal.net.


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Fiction Short Story

by Bill Larson

Closing Costs

Don pulled his Ford F150 diagonally into a parking place on Park Avenue, the main street through the little island village, near the back door to his office. He climbed out of his pick-up, walked the ten feet to his door and inserted his key into the lock. Someone down the block hollered the name, "Jack!" It triggered images of his former lifestyle. Drug trafficking seemed so dirty now, dealing with amoral scumbags, the frequent brushes with death and the constant risk of prison. He had escaped that life fifteen years earlier. Known by his real name back then, Jack Bridges commanded respect—such as it existed among traffickers. Being the offspring of a Cuban mother and a commercial fisherman who had immigrated to Tampa from Texas, Jack survived the mean streets of Ybor City, where he graduated into the thriving cocaine business.

Thursday dawned warm and humid. Don snatched his sunglasses off the breakfast counter as he left the house for the short two-mile drive to his office. He pushed the button on his auto entry truck key, and the lock clicked its release. From behind young Donnie ran toward him yelling, "Wait, Daddy." Don turned in time to sit his briefcase down, catch his only son in his open arms and lift him all in one motion. "Can we go fishing when you get home? Please, Daddy."

"Sure we can, big guy. I'll see you about 4:30. Okay?"

"Promise, Dad?"

"I promise. Now go back in the house and tell mommy to plan an early dinner so we can go fishing. Now, Daddy has to get to work."

"Okay, Daddy. I love you."

"I love you, too, honey."

"See you, Daddy." Don waited to pull out of his driveway until his son disappeared into the house.

Business seemed good for the month of August, traditionally a quiet month. This promised to be a good day. An escrow closing at one o'clock meant a commission in excess of thirty thousand dollars. The closing scheduled at a mainland bank meant Don would be driving off island. As he turned the key in the lock, the abrupt intrusion of his past surprised him. He pushed open the door. His spirit calmed. The office had become his home away from home. He sat behind his antique desk and straightened the little, gold-framed picture of his wife, Jo Ellen, and the kids. Donnie, Jr. had his mother's big, brown eyes and Bethany, his baby girl, had grown so much since this picture that another needed to be taken soon.

Don didn't love his job, but he certainly liked doing what he did. He consistently earned over a hundred thousand each year and often a lot more. This landed him the office with the back door, a spiff for the top producer. Love it or not, he knew how to sell real estate. This had to be the good life, living and working on a beautiful barrier island off the southwest Florida coast, surrounded by azure waters and glistening white-sand beaches; possessing a great house and blessed with a good wife and children. He could go home for lunch if he chose or take off in his boat and do some fishing. The sub-tropical setting appealed to him; the weather, the foliage and the warm breezes.

Memories pressed in on him. Starting out in the drug business, he had been befriended by Pedro Alvarez, a Mexican national with all the right connections to the Mexican cocaine pipeline. Jack's quick mind served him well in the business, and it hadn't taken long for him to become Pedro's top man on Florida's west coast. Then one day something happened; a deal gone badly, and Jack escaped death by sheer luck. From that time on, fear became almost palpable in Jack's life, and when he got his chance to bail out, he took it. It didn't matter that it cost Pedro five million dollars. Jack knew that if Pedro ever caught up with him he would kill him, but he had to get out. He spent three years on the run before he settled quietly in a little southwest Florida coastal town under the assumed name of Don McCauley. A new social security card and driver's license presented no problem to someone with his experience.

Don tossed his sack lunch, keys and sunglasses on his credenza and took a seat in front of his computer. He reached down with his left hand and pressed the button to start the boot-up process, while with his right hand he reached over to press the intercom button on his phone to inform the front desk of his presence. Margie's southern accent crackled back. "Thank you, honey." His old life now forgotten for the moment, he scanned his email and went on line to check his listings.

About one thirty that afternoon, the front desk attempted to send a call from the Englewood Branch of Bank of America back to Don's desk. Margie informed the caller that Don wasn't picking up. The caller identified herself as an escrow officer with the bank and told Margie that Don had been expected at a closing and hadn't arrived. She put the caller on hold and rang back to Don's office. Receiving no response, Margie went back to the caller. "Don's not answering, honey, I'll bet he's on the way over there." Satisfied with Margie's response and assured that Don was most probably in route, the escrow officer said she would proceed with the closing and agreed that Don would probably be arriving shortly.

Margie took her empty coffee cup and headed toward the back office area so that she could look up Don and get coffee on the same trip. Knocking on the frame of the open office door, she continued without pause into Don's office. She immediately saw disarray that Don wouldn't tolerate; a half-eaten sandwich atop a napkin on his desk calendar, his keys lying carelessly on the credenza and a file scattered on the floor by his back door. As she asked around the office if anyone knew of Don's whereabouts, her uneasiness grew. By four o'clock the local Sheriff's Office had been notified of the situation, made more unusual by the fact that Don never missed an appointment and his pick-up truck remained where he had parked it that morning.

###

The pleasant aroma of Cuban bread greeted the two swarthy, young men as they walked into the Columbia Restaurant in the Ybor City section of Tampa at seven that evening. Their eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light as they looked about and saw the white-haired Mexican sitting to the back of the main dining room in a darkened corner. He beckoned to them. As they approached, he stood and hugged each one in turn. "Please take a seat." The old gentleman spoke softly. "Did all go well, amigos?"

"Very well," Benito replied, his broad smile turned up the corners of his well-trimmed mustache. The larger more muscular young man with Benito didn't smile. He just looked down at the table.

Benito continued, "Nobody saw us going in his back door. They will never find the body, Señor, not if they looked for the next hundred years."

"Excellent, Benito. You have done well. First I buy you and Emiliano dinner and then I settle up with you. Bien?"

"Muy bien, Senor Alvarez."

"Waiter, you may now take our orders, we are ready to eat."

Copyright © 2004 Bill Larson


About the Author
Bill Larson does his writing on the southwest coast of Florida. When he's not writing, Bill sells real estate. He has been published in Palm Beach County Magazine in 1988 and in a local magazine, Images, on two occasions in 1992. After a self-imposed sabbatical, he began writing seriously again this past year and had two pieces published in an online magazine in 2003, a short story and an article on grammatical construction. He makes his home with his wife, Janice and son, Jeffrey, in Cape Haze, Florida.

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Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved

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Fiction Short Story

by Stephen D. Rogers

Exhibition

The sign in the gallery window announced a reception, the mat in front of the door bid visitors welcome, and trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres inside promised satisfaction.

"I think I like this picture the best—the sun rising over the nearly empty beach. Or is it setting?"

"That's for you to decide."

Pamela nudged her roommate. "Don't play art psych games with me. When did you shoot the picture?"

"I think it was a Wednesday."

"Ginny Ji, you are so impossible."

"But really, the exact hour of the day doesn't matter. It's how the photograph speaks to you that's important."

"In other words you were drunk at the time and can't remember any of the details."

Ginny shook her head in mock frustration. "Why do I bother trying to explain art to a business major?"

"Because some day my corporate headquarters will need a dozen pictures of fuzzy people to fill up the walls."

A hand landed on Ginny's shoulder and she turned. "Dad."

Her father kissed Ginny on the cheek. "Your mother is taking a quick tour. Wonderful exhibition."

"Dad, this is my new roommate, Pamela. Pamela, my father."

"You must be proud."

"We are. I can't even take a picture of the lens cap."

Ginny's mother joined them and raised a half-empty champagne glass. "To Ginny. Congratulations."

"Thanks, Mom." They hugged.

Ginny introduced her mother to Pamela.

"Neither of you are Chinese."

Ginny's father laughed. "Nobody's perfect."

Pamela blushed. "I didn't mean to blurt but I just assumed...." She turned to Ginny. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I forgot."

Her mother finished her champagne. "Anyone else thirsty? No? I'll be back then."

Dad took Ginny's hand. "I still remember the first time we set eyes on Ji-Ji. I don't know who was crying harder, my little girl or the orphanage employee who put her in my arms."

"How could you not mention you were adopted?"

Ginny shrugged. "It never came up."

Pamela's eyes flashed. "Artists."

"You have to forgive my daughter. She sometimes talks best through her photography."

Pamela glanced at her watch. "Yikes! I gotta go."

"It was nice to meet you."

"You too." She turned to Ginny. "I'll talk to you later. And good luck with the reception."

Ginny's father waited until Pamela was out of earshot. "She seems like a nice girl."

"Pamela's a hundred times less intrusive than Alicia. I was so relieved when Miss Nosy Parker decided to drop out."

"Are you happy with the exhibition?"

Ginny clapped her hands together. "Oh yes. I never dreamed I'd have my own showing in a gallery, not until I'd amassed a larger body of work and paid my dues. Of course my advisor is part-owner—but still."

"You're very talented."

"Thanks, Dad. Let me just remind you that you said the same thing when I glued colored macaroni to your favorite shoes."

"It was true then, too."

Ginny laughed. "I really should be circulating."

"You do that. Your mother and I will be just fine, basking in your glory while forcing down the free food and drink."

"Thanks for coming."

"It was either that or mow the lawn."

Ginny's father was examining Pamela's favorite photograph when his wife returned.

"Where's Ginny?"

"Circulating." He smiled. "The adoring masses were clamouring for her."

Mom sipped her champagne. "It really hits you when you see them all displayed like this."

"What does?"

"The figures. They're not even people after she blurs them. Every other detail in her photographs are crystal clear but the people have no distinguishing characteristics."

"That's art for you. It's also a great protection against lawsuits since Ginny probably doesn't walk around with releases for people to sign. And what if they refused? Scrap the perfect image? This way she doesn't have to worry about legalities."

"You're defending her again." She pointed at the signature. "Ginny Ji. She doesn't even use the family name."

"Would you be more comfortable if we left?"

"No. This is her big day."

"Just because she's growing up and becoming her own woman doesn't make her any less your daughter."

Her mother sniffed and finished the champagne. "Sometimes I forget that we actually adopted her. I forget that I didn't experience the pregnancy, the pain of delivery. All these other people in her life, they see her as separate from us. They pull her away."

"Ginny will never stop loving you."

"I still worry that her birth mother will come forward, that US or Chinese officials will find a fault in the paperwork, and they'll take her away saying we're sorry but there's been a terrible mistake. We never should have let you leave the country with her. We're sure you understand. We're sure you agree."

He cupped his wife's face in his hands. "You don't have to worry yourself. Ginny isn't going anywhere."

"She is. That's us there on the beach, watching the sun set, dreading the darkness. When Ginny slips off and disappears from our life."

"Maybe it's sunrise. The joy of a new beginning."

"Without us you mean." Ginny's mother shook her head. "I shouldn't have had all this champagne on an empty stomach. It's making me maudlin."

"This is a difficult time. Our little girl is spreading her wings and leaving the nest. That's the normal course of things which unfortunately doesn't make it any easier."

She nodded. "When Ginny was a little girl, people saw us and were surprised when she was Chinese. Now people see her and are surprised when we're not."

Ginny's father threw his arm around his wife. "You're a wonderful mother and everything that Ginny achieves will be in some measure because of you. I love you."

"I love you, too."

He gave her a gentle squeeze. "And Ginny loves you and always will."

"I hope so. It would kill me if she didn't."

"Excuse me?"

The couple stepped apart as a strange man came forward.

He held out a hand. "You must be Ginny's parents."

"Yes. We are."

Copyright © 2004 Stephen D. Rogers


About the Author
Over three hundred of Stephen's stories and poems have been selected to appear in more than a hundred publications. His website, http://www.stephendrogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

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Fiction Short Story

by Herbert Holeman

Trader Joe

With a quick, smooth movement, the young woman's hand reached out and covered the small bag with her hand then she slid it across the table into her handbag. Then brushing a strand of dirty blond hair from her face with the back of her wrist, she rose from the table. "See you Joe," she said in a flat voice to the dapper young man who sat across from her.

With a knowing smile Joe watched her departing back until the din of the coffeehouse and the aroma of strong coffee reclaimed his attention. A squat, gray-haired man who carried a white espresso cup in his hand shambled up to the table. His shaggy eyebrows on his open, blunt-featured face arched questioningly. "May I join you?"

Joe glanced around at the crowded tables in the room and turned back to the shaggy-browed man. "Yeah, sure," he said.

The old man plopped heavily into the chair and set his cup down. He sighed, his breath labored. "Ah... It feels good to get off my feet."

Joe eyed his elderly companion and displayed the smile that experience helped to overcome reactions to the prominent birthmark on his cheek. The rheumy eyes in the old man's craggy face avoided his blemish.

"My name is Aldo," the old man said in a voice still retaining its old world inflection. He appeared content with the slight nod Joe offered in reply. They lapsed into silence.

A fair amount of time passed and occasionally, Joe flicked a glance in Aldo's direction and witnessed the old man's mouth twitch spasmodically. Once or twice the man's hand embarrassed him by giving an involuntary jerk. But on the whole the old man sat motionless in his chair looking out across the crowded room with his tweed coat unbuttoned, revealing a rumpled, coffee-stained flannel shirt.

Finally but still gazing about with unseeing eyes, the old man asked, "You come here often?"

Joe grinned. "Uh...no. Not really. How about you?"

Aldo leaned back in his chair, nodding. "Yes. I live in the neighborhood, you see."

"Really?" Joe didn't bother to feign interest in his voice.

Aldo took a long breath and wistfulness overtook his voice. "Oh yes, I have lived here a long time."

Joe had time to kill before the next score and decided to go along with the old man's reminisces. "I bet things have changed a lot."

Aldo shook his head. "Not really. Everything is pretty much the same," A sage expression appeared on his face and he looked down into his cup. "Only I live alone now, you see." He sat silent for a long moment before continuing. "It's getting harder to climb the hills too. The street I live on is so steep, they build steps into the sidewalk, but they don't help me much."

Joe nodded. Mention of a sidewalk with steps triggered his memory of such a street. Dismissing the thought, he waved his hand across the room and asked, "What about this place?"

Aldo hesitated as if remembering. His eyes roved the room, at the table's occupants and then beyond to the faded posters and black and white photos lining the walls. "Yes and no. That big shiny espresso machine has been here as long as I remember. This was a place for Bohemians, Beatniks, Hippies, and..."

Joe heard the hitch in the man's voice. He watched Aldo shake his head and glance around the room before turning back to face him with narrowed eyes.

"And other vermin too!" Aldo spat out.

The unexpected vehemence in the old man's outburst startled Joe.

Then Aldo pushed himself up from his chair. His voice had become low and controlled. "It's time for you to go now."

Puzzled, Joe kept his disarming smile, but something was wrong. He sensed a sudden stillness descending upon the room's occupants. At the same time a silence fell, broken only by the young woman with dirty blond hair striding purposely to their table. His smile faded as she stood directly in front of him.

"I went outside and field tested the stuff you sold me—it's so contaminated that it's lethal." She held up her badge at his eye level. "I'm an agent of the State Bureau of Narcotics Enforcement. You're under arrest!"

As if on cue, two men seated at a nearby table rose in practiced unison and in a swift movement pinioned his arms behind him.

Aldo held a crinkled wallet size photograph in the shaking hand he brought out from inside his coat. His eyes agonized and welled as he showed it to Joe.

Recognition flickered in Joe's eyes. He thought back to the girl with the wan, narrow face that was more wrinkled than it should have been at her age. She was the hollow version of the fresh-faced young woman in the photo. He remembered now. She once scored from him in front of her house on the street with the steps. He turned to Aldo and saw the bitter strained face of a man who lived in constant sorrow.

"This was my daughter, Maria," Aldo spat out, his voice quivering. "Before she died from that poison you sold her. She told me who sold it to her: a young man with a birthmark on his face who always had a nice smile.

The sly smile pasted on Joe's face now turned rueful and he shrugged his shoulders. "Shit happens," he said, wincing as the snap of handcuffs pinched his wrists. As the two agents hustled him out of the coffeehouse, Joe turned back to glance at the vacated table that had served as his trading post. Already a seedy type, looking to take over his post, was eyeing it. The knowing smile returned on his face. "New folks, new strokes," he said.

Copyright © 2004 Herbert Holeman


About the Author
Herbert Holeman, Ph.D. is a criminologist, and by avocation a mystery writer and avid mystery reader. He is a member of the Mystery Writers of America and his stories have been published in print and in E-Zines. Herb's law enforcement experience includes working as a beat police officer and a criminal investigator in San Francisco. Among his nonfiction publications is as a Department of Justice publication on outlaw motorcycle gangs and a National Institute of Corrections study of women correctional officers.

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Fiction Short Story

by Dave Byus

A Wish for Jackie

“Wait up, Kyle,” Jackie called after her older brother while she yanked on the waistband of her jeans, the oversized hand-me-downs, that were forever slipping off her skinny hips. Frustration was building in the eight-year-old's voice as she jumped from one oily tie to the next. Her bare feet, tough and seasoned with thick calluses, were still no match for the broken granite that filled the space between the ties.

“Come on then,” Kyle hollered back. “You gonna make us late.”

“I cain’t help it. My britches is falling off.”

A straight-up summer sun burned down on their heads. One o’clock. Heat waves danced magically on the ground behind her brother and the gleaming rails of the railroad track disappeared into a silvery shimmer. The Santa Fe/Pacifico always ran on time. The lanky pre-teen laughed at his sister’s predicament and began tiptoeing his way back, balancing on the steel rail.

“You need a belt, dip wit.”

“Well what I gotta wear your stinky old clothes for anyway?”

She jumped and landed square giving her pants another furious tug just as her brother arrived.

“Come on, Jackie. You ought to walk on the track,” he said.

“It’s too hot,” she groused. “I’ll be all right.”

Kyle looked at her and grinned. The girl’s hair was so fair it looked almost silver in the sun. She was small even by eight-year-old standards and thin. Her mother called it willowy. In one hand she held the neck of the paper sack and in the other she clutched a fistful of denim. “You’re a sight,” he told her. “Here. Let me help you.”

He took the sack from her and sat it on the ground.

“Pull your britches up,” he told her. “I got a idea.”

Plunging a hand down into his pocket, he let his fingers swim around a moment, searching.

“What’ya gonna do, Kyle?”

“Something.”

“What?” she asked softly.

A smile spread across her face. Her cheeks glowed like berries and the hot dew of sweat glistened on her upper lip. When her brother got that mysterious air about him it was always something special. He spent half his time infuriating her and the other half amazing her.

“What, Kyle,” she asked again, “what you going to do?”

In answer, the boy shook back a mop of unruly brown and lifted his face to the heavens. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“I wish,” he intoned solemnly, “for a hank a string.” Opening his eyes he stared down at his sister and grinned. She smiled back, admiringly, waiting.

“There,” he said.

With a flourishing triumph, he pulled his hand out of his jeans pocket.

Between thumb and fingers he held a wound wad of bright orange string. “It worked.”

“You had that all along.”

“Did not. I wished it. Found out I got the power.”

“You do not.” She giggled. “What power?”

“The power to wish stuff.” He uncoiled the string as he spoke. “I wish something and it happens.”

“Liar.” Jackie watched amazed, nonetheless, as her brother stretched the broken piece of chalk line out to its full length.

“It’s so, Jackie. I wished it and it’s just so. Come here.” He knelt before her and began threading the string through the loops of her jeans.

“No, sir. That was already in your pocket anyways, wasn’t it?” She stared down at the top of his head as he stretched his arms around her waist feeding the string around her tiny middle. “It was,” she repeated. “Wasn’t it?”

Kyle responded with a theatrical sigh. “I didn’t want to brag on it, okay? But I got some kinda mysterious power. I wish things.”

“Liar, liar. Kyle's a big fat liar.” She laughed and let her waist be tugged this way and that. "It’s so, Jackie.”

“Wish for something, then.” The girl watched him, with suspicious awe.

“Well, I can’t just wish for any old thing, it don’t work that way. It has to be important. And, it has to be something I need.”

“Ain't so, Kyle. You’re teasing. Ow! That’s too tight.”

Kyle looked up at her and grinned. “Don’t want em falling off no more do you?” He began tying the knot with practiced speed as he continued the ruse. “Remember that old dog at Atkin’s place, used to give you such fits? I wished him gone.”

“He ran away,” she said flatly.

The dog had, indeed, given the little girl a terrible scare on more than one occasion. Then one day after a particularly frightening episode the dog was just gone. None of the adults had talked much about it.

“Well,” Kyle said. “That’s what they said, but . . .” He stood up and looked down on the girl as he warmed up to the tale. “I wished that old bugger right gone. For you.”

“Really?” Jackie pushed her thumbs under the waist of her jeans testing the makeshift belt.

“Yes, Jackie.” Kyle looked down with a sober seriousness as he continued. “I stood out front Atkin’s yard that day cause I knowed he’d scared you so bad, and that old dog come charging out all barking and snarling and slobbering like he was mad. Came right at me.”

Jackie nodded and swallowed hard as she stared up into her brother’s face, listening. “I stood my ground though. Faced him right down and said, ‘I wish that dog—GONE!’ and it just disappeared right before my very eyes. Just faded into nothing and was gone.”

A sense of awe crept over the girl. “Is that really true, Kyle? Did you?”

“I did.” Kyle nodded and put a finger on his lips.

“You got to promise never to tell anyone, Jackie. Okay? Why folks would be coming from all over Clark County wanting me to wish stuff for em, all kinds a stupid stuff, if it got out that I got the power. It’s gotta be a secret.”

Jackie nodded slowly, in solemn affirmation. “I won’t tell, Kyle.” She pulled her thumbs out of her new string belt. “Thanks Kyle.”

“Don’t I always take care of you?” He smiled with genuine affection and gave her arm a little tug. “Come on, dip wit. Get your sack and let’s go.”

Kyle, the limber acrobat, danced along the rail ahead of her while Jackie jumped from tie to tie. Somewhere in the dry grass a meadow lark sang her disconnected melody across the warm air while the two adventurers trundled along. Soon the risen mound of the track line began to merge with the bridge railings. The great beams closed in beside them as they entered the trestle with only a narrow catwalk on either side of the track and the ground below gave way to open air. On the opposite side of the trestle the oleanders grew tall and right up to the bridge. It was a place where they could hide and watch the monster iron wheels at eye level while the train whizzed by. They were almost there.

"What'd ya bring this time, Jack?" Kyle wanted to know.

"I got seven pennies and a piece a dog chain I found." Jackie felt the weight of the sack in her hand. "It's ok ain't it? The chain I mean. It won't hurt the train none?"

Kyle laughed at his sister's naïve concern. "Course not, dip wit. You can't hurt the Pacifico."

As if on cue they heard it in the distance. "Wheee." The scream of the train's whistle as it rounded the curve a quarter mile away. "Come on, Jackie. Hurry up."

The rumbling of the big engine began to vibrate through the track, through the boy's bare feet, and he increased his pace.

"Kyle!" Jackie screamed. The sudden urgency made the boy spin around.

"Jackie! Cripes! What'd you do?"

"Help me!" The little girl lay with her arms across the splintery tie beam. One leg sprawled atop the beam, the other hidden somewhere beneath her.

Kyle ran.

"I slipped, Kyle. Help me!" She looked at him with miserable shame.

"Get up. Quick!" He grabbed her arms and pulled.

"Ow. Something's stuck," she pleaded.

"Wheee!" The train screamed above the increasing rumble of the big engine. They could hear the clackity clack of the iron wheels. Kyle jumped behind his sister and grabbed her around the waist. "Pull, Jackie, pull!"

"Ow, ow, ow. My britches is caught on something, Kyle."

The boy peered down through the gap below. A scrap of raw metal under the tie had hooked her pants leg far beyond his reach.

"Kyle, Do something!" she cried.

"Wheee," the train screamed as it neared the bridge.

Frantic, Kyle moved back in front of her and grabbed the string in her belt loops. He pulled hard and the cord cut into his tender palm but wouldn't give. Momma wouldn't let him have a knife for another year. Desperately he began fumbling with the knot on her belly. The cotton cord was frayed and mixed with old chalk and impossible. He glanced down at the catwalk and back to Jackie. If he could just get her free they could jump. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled with all his might while she cried out.

"Kyle! It's coming!"

"Pull!" Kyle screamed against the increasing roar of the Pacifico.

"Wheee!" the train screamed back.

"Help me!" she cried.

"Pull Jackie! You gotta pull!" He yelled into her face and saw his own terror reflected in her wide eyes. Hopeless.

The train roared onto the bridge and bore down on them with tremendous speed.

"Kyle! Oh Kyle!" she screamed pitifully. "Wish it gone! Wish it gone, Kyle! Wish it GONE!"

Kyle let his eyes slide off his sister down onto the safety of the catwalk below. Bright tears tumbled down his cheeks. Then, he grinned at her, a fierce and determined grin, a grin that gave her promise.

"Close your eyes!" he yelled over the noise.

"Wheee," the train shrilled above the din.

Kyle stood up and turned. The massive engine charged down on him, a great iron roaring beast. He squared his shoulders, and raised his hands, and squeezed his eyes shut, and in the loudest voice he could find, for Jackie, he shouted the command, "I wish this train—GONE!"

Copyright © 2004 Dave Byus


Memorial by Claire Byus
I met my husband, Dave Byus, taking F2K in April 2002. Our relationship flourished in your chat rooms and then we began talking on the phone. We finally met face-to-face in October 2002, and were married on 1st November 2003. I am a UK citizen and he lives in California, so our courtship wasn't easy, but we wrote letters and emails and talked incessantly on the phone. We were also active members of the Misfits study group—until the time we spent writing to each other was too great to participate fully! The perfect love story.

However, Dave passed away suddenly and unexpectedly on 24th February. He was 52. He had spent the previous week in England with me and my two children, and had a feverish cold, but by the time he returned to California on Sunday 22nd February he felt fine. We had a wonderful time together, as always, just being married. On Tuesday morning he went to the ER where he collapsed and died. Initially no reason could be found for this, but following an autopsy the cause of death was given as pneumonia.

This is a tragic loss of a wonderful man. All of us were so excited about the future. Our immigration papers had been filed and we should have been coming here for good in the summer. Life was beautiful and blessed. Dave and I had found our soul mates, my two sons the father they needed and adored. Dave has two children of his own, who are also devastated.

In the two years we had together I know I experienced more love than many people do in a lifetime. I have been welcomed back into Misfits with open arms. Dave and I were writing a story together, and I'm determined to finish it—with their help. We always promised each other that we'd do this.

It was suggested to me by Lisa Mason, one of the Misfits who was there at the same time as Dave and I, that I should submit one of his stories for publication. It was written during F2K, but he was too modest to enter the competition. It's especially good when read aloud. And if you do read it to children, when you've finished ask them what they think happens next.

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Poetics

Tom Spencer

How Does A Poet Grow?

The critique said, “This isn’t poetry; this is a mishmash of disjointed thoughts that provoke emotions.” Maybe it is poetry presented in the wrong way to the wrong audience.

I have seen volumes of poetry, prose, and disjointed words that are professed to be poetry. I have judged contests with specific guidelines. I have critiqued chapbooks.

Although I don’t have an MFA or a BA in literature, I am considered a fair poet by most of my peers. I have published two collections that have sold rather well. I peruse those collections and find adequate poetry in their presentation. However: most of the poems I have published would not pass my collective criteria of what good poetry should be for publication as I see that criteria today. Poets must grow with their presentations as well as their compositions. If they do not grow they become mired in the doldrums of repetition.

How does a poet grow?

Why is it necessary to expand my style when I am pleased with what I have done so well?

A poet grows by addressing subject, plot, theme, and structure from different foundations.

You may be an excellent sonneteer or a profound free form poet; however you need to explore your subject matter in more than one form. Writing on the same theme in different forms will expand understanding of your theme. When you return to the original form to edit you may find that a different order of structure, or rhythm, may enhance the impact of your theme.

I have often found that a free form poem in an iambic meter of a four-six-four or a four-six-eight beat will transform easily into a five-beat fourteen-line English sonnet. To accomplish this transformation you will need to:

  • rearrange the words,
  • eliminate articles, or
  • add or change the syntax to bring it into conformity to the sonnet structure, however, it can be accomplished.
It is also possible to take a quatrain structured poem, select two lines that have great impact of the poetic theme, and transform the poem into a villanelle using the unselected choice context lines as center verse linking lines. Yes it does take some work, but the rewards in enhancing your ability to work with words and rhythms are unlimited.

Working with words to present emotions or a theme in a way that will impact on your audience is a necessity to entering and winning publication or legitimate contests. Knowing how to change your poetry into the form that will best please the editors and judges is a must, if you want to be more than just another submission.

Read the publications you are submitting your work to. Know what has been selected for publication. With a little work, most poems can conform to the audience preference.

The same is true in writing groups and workshops. If you are new to a group, listen in one or two times and get to know what is the generally accepted form and make your first few presentations in that form in order to gain the privilege. Make your work work for you. Once you are established, you can drop a sestina, cinquain or another exotic form on your established audience and receive acceptance to the broadening of their horizons.

I recently needed a poem for a sonnet contest that I was urged to enter. I knew the publication and remembered the work that I had seen published before. I selected the following completed poem and reworked it into a non-traditional sonnet.

Here is the poem I gleaned a sonnet from:
Sport Mentality/by Tom Spencer

Blind man walking
a sightless world
Wheel chair rolling
Curbside gutters
Black man trapped
Ghetto prison
Couch potato
In a sports caste world

I hear the fear
Danger drawing near
Towering temple traps
Wheels on the stair
Servitude of souls
Brilliant minds confined
Complacency
The ravages of sloth

Laws are made
Enforced by man
Justice blind
Collective closure
Of narrow minds
Bunkers built
Reinforced by time
Bigotry grown hate
Colonize the world
Has raped the hinterlands

Arrogance
Fosters revolution
Force of war
A momentary solution
Here is the non-traditional sonnet gleaned from a free form poem:
Sport Mentality/by Tom Spencer

Blind man walking in a sightless world
wheel chair rolling in a curbside gutter
black man living in the inner city
white man laying on a living room couch

I hear the fear of danger drawing near
Towering temple traps - wheels on the stair
Servitude of souls - brilliant minds confined
Complacency - the ravages of sloth

laws are made - enforced by man - justice blind
collective closure of the mind – bunkers built
reinforced by time – bigotry grown hate
Colonized the world – raped the hinterlands

Arrogance has fostered revolution
Force of war - momentary solution
This sonnet was published. The original free form poem has never been submitted, however, it would be considered a new poem if submitted because of the change in the structure with little change to the theme.

So remember to expand on your work by expanding the forms your work and thoughts are presented through different structures.

Until we meet again, may the winds bring you the seeds of thought.

Sincerely, Tom Spencer


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Poetics Presents

Sheena Cotton

Sheena Cotton is a Cornishwoman, a mother of six, and a grandmother of six. She has a degree in Environmental Science and Technology, but works in an office. This is because the environment is cold and damp for most of the year in Cornwall, and she likes her comfort. She finds that office work is often a little like this Tale, frustrating and full of ****, but the rewards are nice.

The Tale of Jango and the Pig (A Sestina)

My wife and I were just off to the town,
In my little Morris Traveller van,
(It was enough - I wasn't very big)
When the phone rang - "Hi!" it was my Dad.
"I need some help from you to move a pig."
"Get out," I said, "I'll have to go on down."

My wife objected, but at last backed down.
I promised to be quick, then we'd go to town.
And off I went to help Dad move this pig.
I really liked to drive that little van,
And I was happy to be needed by my Dad.
But when I saw that pig, I said: "That's BIG!"

The pig was strong and fast as well as big.
We tried to catch it, up the yard and down
And round the yard and round. I said "Oh, Dad,
"I should be going to take my wife to town."
He said: "But we must get it in the van."
"Hey? What?" I said, " That van won't take your pig!"

At last we got a rope around the pig.
We dragged and pushed and shoved. Boy, it was Big.
We got the thing crammed into my poor van.
The front wheels they were up - the back was down.
We wobbled and meandered through the town.
I cursed and moaned and groaned at my old Dad.

The pig was worse by far than was my Dad.
It drooled hot slobber down my neck, that pig.
We stopped for petrol on the edge of town.
The pig peered out the window. "Boy, that's Big!"
The pump man staggered back; almost fell down.
I paid, and started up my crowded van.

The pig began to strain; we swayed with the van.
I moaned and groaned and cursed at my old Dad.
Then a grunt, a stink, dark ordure running down
The windows at the back. "That beastly pig!"
The slaughterhouse at last. "Oh, boy, that's Big!"
As soon as he was free, the pig ran back to town.

My wife turned down the ride in my poor van:
We never got to town, thanks to my Dad.
But we enjoyed the pig: the chops were really big.

Copyright ©2004 by Sheena Cotton


Note: A Jango is a Cornish miner, and now there are no longer any working mines in Cornwall, he travels all around the world wherever there is a hole in the ground or the seabed.


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Drabble Corner The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

May's Drabble on Illusions is written by (this name is familiar now) Jessica Michaan. I had to pick this one—it captures for me exactly what illusions are and do.

Waiting for No One

"I'm not ready for this, I have some stuff to sort out," he said.

But in my head, that sounded more like "Wait for me, I'll be out of this soon, ready and willing to be with you."

"I'm scared, worried about getting hurt again, about what tomorrow might bring."

Again, for my ears, that was "As soon as I conquer my fears I'll allow myself to love you."

For that, I could wait. He's the one for me, and if patience is what I need, then patience I'll have. Until I saw him in the arms of someone else.

This has been an interesting month for me; a little bit too interesting. I've written love poems for the first time since I was 14.Things are exactly as they need to be in my life, I do believe, but I'm just having some trouble accepting that, if that makes sense.

For instance, the relationship—how do I want it to go, and where, and will it go there? And then what? The three-story (including garage) condo—sell it for something that's more manageable for a person like me who can't do stairs very well without a stairlift, or try to simplify my lifestyle and keep this home while prices keep rising? The noisy cat—can't sell him. Even if I wanted to.

If I were being realistic, I would, I suppose, forget romance for now entirely until other things are settled or I'm better with their unsettledness, and see if my ex wants to share custody of the cat for half the year. But my heart is not realistic.

Does it ever work to be realistic? That is our theme for June—being realistic.

Here are the Drabble Guidelines, to look at before sending in your submission. In brief, a Drabble is 100 words exactly, not including the title, and it's due on the 10th of the month before the issue you're sending for publication in comes out. So "being realistic" Drabbles are due in by May 10, 2004.

See you next month.


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E is for...

Margaret I. Carr

ePress

Presenting

Other People's Lives
by
Betty Kreier-Lubinski
ISBN: 0-9708635-3-5
http://www.epress-online.com
first electronic printing May 2004
available in Mobipocket Publisher (.prc)
html (download in .zip file)
Microsoft Reader (.lit)
Download the version of your choice for only $5.00. PayPal or money orders accepted.

There are thirty-four short stories in this excellent collection. Thirty-four glimpses into Other People's Lives and how they face the trials and tribulations of ordinary life. Some are about people you'd love to see in your neighborhood and others, well, better they be far, far away. There's tragedy as the two meet and sometimes laughter and sometimes joy as they overcome limits.

Betty's heroes and villains aren't the super types. They are much closer to home. I'm sure I know at least three versions of Grandma from Living with Snakes and Mice. Well, one is my favorite aunt and it is her son who is fond of snakes, but the ability to cope and the wry sense of humor are the same. Then there's Ruthann and the Demon Motorcycle. I've known her before she met the 'bike and I'm sure I've seen her coming and going from the dealership nearby.

I think with a shudder of the Friend of the Family. Our local version is in jail now to everyone's relief. I've seen the families trying to recover, too.

Young, old and everywhere between, visiting with Betty's characters is well worth the time, and the price is right.


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Literary Lights

Priscilla Fagan

Wisdom

The older I grow the more I distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom. H.L. Mencken
 
This month I thought we’d dissect the word ‘wisdom’ since many people believe they are wise, and some believe with wisdom comes the right to say anything. Ernest Hemingway, Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut. Yes, good wisdom here and one of his milder quotes. It also might say something for his usual state of mind.
 
The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. William Shakespeare from ‘As You Like It’. Perhaps, before computers, before video games, before television, before biased newscasters, before the twentieth century, people used their heads, there common sense, and perhaps knew when to keep their mouths shut.
 
Well, let’s see what Webster has to say about wisdom . . .It seems we have much to choose from.

1.     a: accumulated philosophic or scientific learning: Knowledge
        b: ability to discern inner qualities and relationships: Insight
        c: good sense: Judgment
        d: generally accepted belief (challenges what has become accepted ~ among many historians – Robert Darnton)
2. a wise attitude or course of action
3. the teachings of the ancient wise men syn. see sense
Choose the one which suits you best. I think the person who boasts his own wisdom still has much to learn. George Santayana, The wisest mind has something yet to learn.
 
With wisdom comes responsibility to our fellow peers. However, no matter how much we think we know about writing skills, it is irresponsible to think we know it all. This might lead into next month’s column which could be titled, “A Matter of Opinion.”
 
Bertrand Russell says it succinctly, The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, but wiser people so full of doubts.
 
With wisdom should follow kindness because the more we learn about ourselves and our small world, the more we need to leave gentle reminders to be kind to one another. Remember, ridicule, though some may think the contrary, does not teach; it hurts. To paraphrase an old cliché, when doling out wisdom/knowledge, ‘you can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar'.
 
I’ll end with a wise piece of advice from Abigail Van Buren, Wisdom doesn't automatically come with old age. Nothing does - except wrinkles. It's true, some wines improve with age. But only if the grapes were good in the first place.
 
Still an optimist,   Priscilla


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Recognitions The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

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

Nannette Croce said, “I've always enjoyed expressing myself in writing, but it wasn't until my teenage daughter started winning awards for her artwork that I realized what I'd missed by keeping my writing to myself. That's when I decided to try writing for publication.”

Attaining that goal many times over, two of Nannette's short stories are slated for publication this summer. "At the Edge of the Woods" debuts in the summer edition of The Rose&Thorn. "The Box of Cereal" hits the newsstands in the July issue of The Writer's Post Journal, a new literary magazine.

“I already had one story accepted for publication by Beginnings, but I can tell you that the thrill does not diminish the second time around.”

Nannette appreciates Ernest Hemingway’s telling dialogue and minimalist style. She loves reading books written by Native American writers, such as Sherman Alexie. Nannette said, “His prose reads like poetry.” She enjoyed reading Jeffrey Eugenides' first novel, The Virgin Suicides, because it is written as tightly as a short story.

A history buff, Nannette takes a lot of small-group educational tours. She says both the history and her fellow travelers have provided inspiration for many of her stories. To learn more about Nannette, visit her website at http://www.homepage.mac.com/nannettecroce. 

Nannette joined WVU in 2001 and has taken a variety courses. She started out with F2K and found it much more valuable than another course she signed up for at a local college. About two years ago, she began volunteering as an assistant editor for T-Zero.

“Editing other writers’ work has taught me to apply a more critical eye to my own writing, and I've learned a tremendous amount about both editing and writing by working under the guidance of Whitney Potsus, Nonfiction Editor.”

Nannette gives this advice to beginning writers: “For those who haven't been published yet, start by submitting where you are most likely to get published––magazines like Beginnings that publish only new writers, for example. Once you've got that one piece in print, it gives you a boost and it's a lot easier to get more pieces accepted.”

Annette Gasper writes non-fiction articles that contribute to the enrichment of others’ lives. “Women in the Workplace: Depression Takes Its Toll” appeared in the monthly newspaper, The Monroe Journal, in March. When Annette joined WVU earlier this year, she initially took only non-fiction courses. Later, she decided that some of the fiction classes looked interesting and took some of those too.

“I cannot say enough good things about WVU, the staff, and the students! Without a doubt the encouragement and information I've received has greatly furthered my writing goals. Being a psychiatric RN for over twenty years has given me a good base of information from which to draw, as well as some very interesting cases! WVU has added much to my life. I've even developed a friendship with another student who has become my mentor and a great writing buddy!”

Lori Libby weaves a tale about a single mother and small business owner who is stepping out to face life without her one true love; a stalker bent on revenge has other ideas. Now and Forever, published by Wings ePress, hits cyberspace in December 2004.

“My first reaction was shock and disbelief. I had to walk away from the computer twice just to see if the acceptance letter was still on my screen.”

She has been a member of Romance Round Table, Word Slingers, Hemingway Hall, and Hole in the Wall Gang study groups at WVU. Lori took Romance Writing, Doing it with Dialogue, and Character Driven Plots, which helped her grow as a writer.

“I have met some WONDERFUL people at WVU. When I joined I had no idea about writing. The classes helped a lot, but so did getting feedback from the others in this community of writers. I've learned so much in a short amount of time.”

Lori married her best friend, Ted, 14 years ago. They live in Maine with their two children, ages 10 and 9. A one-year-old Akita and a beta fish share their household. She teaches seventh grade math by day and writes at night and on weekends.

“My family is very supportive of me. My kids love to tell people I'm being published.”

To find out more about Libby and read an excerpt from her book, please visit http://www.lorilibby.com.

As a member of a discussion forum on a website run by actor Wil Wheaton, Angie Mansfield donated her short story, “Dragon Bait,” one of the stories selected to be in the anthology, Boxer Shorts Redux. This anthology, published in October 2003, came about when caring members decided to help Wil pay for the overage of bandwidth by donating stories for it. Angie contributed her short story, “Hit Man,” to a new anthology in the works by the same authors, tentatively called A Clear Horizon. The proceeds will go to support cancer research. The book will be available in late summer or early fall.

“I drifted around a bit when I first joined WVU. My first ‘permanent’ home was in the now-departed Binary Bards study group. When that group began to disband, I got an invitation to visit Middle Earth. It was a perfect fit, and the support and feedback I've gotten for my work there has been priceless.”

Congratulations, Nannette, Annette, Lori and Angie. 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!


About the Author
Born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, Joan McNulty Pulver moved to Florida about 30 years ago and decided to stay. She has five children (two girls and three boys) and five grandchildren (four boys and one girl). An Administrative Secretary for the State of Florida, she plans to retire in about seven years and then start her real career, writing. Joan hopes to have at least one novel finished and published by that time. She does a little volunteer work here at WVU and enjoys this community of writers. "I have learned so much here and like helping others learn along with me."

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Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

Toby’s Dog-leg

“He’s late, again,” I said, looking at my watch and pacing the lobby of our hotel. After nearly a week of travel with my husband’s employee, Toby, the fact that he was already fifteen minutes late came as no great surprise. Toby—on his first business trip out of the United States—fancied himself a connoisseur of beer and had spent his evenings visiting the local pubs in England and Scotland, drinking a variety of beers and making friends until the wee hours of the morning. He was completely unreliable, so we’d already spent a great deal of time waiting for him to meet us in various hotel lobbies.

This meeting was crucial because we had a trans-Atlantic plane to catch and needed to leave as early as possible to avoid heavy traffic on the motorways near London. We planned to depart the hotel by 6 a.m., granting ourselves nearly four hours in which to return the rental car, hop on the airport tram, check in our luggage, and roam around the airport, where we hoped to spend the remainder of our English currency to avoid exchange fees.

“If we leave by six, we should have more than enough driving time,” David carelessly remarked the night before our flight. “I’m deliberately overestimating so we won’t be rushed. That should give us about three hours to walk around the airport.”

Forty-five minutes after we arrived in the lobby, David finally relented and rang Toby’s room. Outside, the sky was no longer pitch black as the sun began to rise, illuminating gray morning haze. Time was wasting.

David returned from the phone booth with a grim look. “He was still asleep. I hope he can get ready fast, for once.”

Unfortunately, Toby never apparently goes anywhere without his shirt neatly pressed and tucked, every hair in place and a cloud of aftershave following in his wake. Another torturous thirty minutes passed before he emerged from the elevator, looking as prim and tidy as ever. I said “Good morning,” through gritted teeth.

Traffic was heavy, but the drive was smooth for a time as we headed east on the M4 from Swindon. Frequent message boards over the motorway kept us informed of traffic conditions. Slowly, the signs began to flash ominous messages. There was an accident blocking all but two of the eastbound lanes, up ahead. The flow of traffic began to slow as we neared the scene of the crash, the radio confirming that “significant delays” loomed ahead. Our three hours of airport time already narrowed to just over an hour-and-a-half, we now realized that a delay of any significance could easily result in a missed flight.

In the back seat, Toby pored over the map in search of options. “You could take this side road, here. See, that’ll take you on a dog-leg around and back to A25. I think we should take the dog-leg, y’all, and save some time.”

Beside me, on the right-hand side of the car, David fidgeted in the driver’s seat. I recalled how he’d told me, less than 24 hours before, that past experience driving in Great Britain had taught him to go with his gut instincts on the road. I could see him struggling to decide whether or not he should take a chance on the back roads. Toby leaned between the seats, pointing at the map to make his point. “We really oughta take the dog-leg.”

“What’s your gut instinct?” I asked David quietly.

“It could clear up,” David said. “But we’re going to be cutting it close if I’m wrong. I really think it’ll clear.”

Toby continued to push the idea of his side route while I attempted to nudge David into following his intuition.

Finally, as we approached the exit to Toby’s dog-leg and traffic dramatically slowed, David made an abrupt decision. A tightening in my chest told me my own instincts objected as we exited the motorway.

We realized the depth of our mistake the moment we hit the side road. Two narrow lanes squeezed between trees, frequent traffic circles, and thousands of people hurrying to their jobs in London made for serious gridlock. After half an hour of grinding ahead at an excruciatingly slow pace, the radio informed us that the motorway was clear and traffic flowing freely. We would continue to remain stuck for a further hour. Tightly jammed on back roads which apparently never intersected with the motorway, I wanted to leap into the back seat and wring Toby’s squeaky-clean neck.

But, now we had another problem. We were nearly out of petrol.

“We’re going to have to stop for gas,” David said. “Have either of you guys even seen a gas station? I don’t think we’ve passed a single one.”

There was a collective sigh from the tiny car as we all began to strain for the sight of a place to refuel. We were running on fumes by the time we located a British Petroleum station. While injecting expensive petrol by the liter, David studied the map. We were finally nearing an exit that would lead us to the higher-speed roads. A short dash down the final stretch and we might make the airport in time.

At the airport a third disaster—around a hundred people queued to check their luggage in front of us—was averted when David spied the empty line for flyers with medallion status. Checking our baggage in less than 5 minutes left us a whopping 15 minutes of airport time. Both of us were tremendously disappointed, having planned a leisurely few hours shopping for Christmas stocking-stuffers; but we were pleased to know we’d catch our plane. We parted with Toby and dashed to the stores to make a few quick purchases, offloading most of our remaining British pounds in the process.

For a time after our return from England, I couldn’t look at Toby without an intense desire to kick him in the shins or muss his perfectly-combed hair. Now, over two years after the fact, David and I can look back at our journey and laugh at the experience. In heavy traffic I’ll turn and utter our private joke, imitating Toby’s thick Southern drawl: “You know there’s a dog-leg up ahead,” I say to David, “I think we oughta take that dog-leg.”



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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Deaver

All Good Things Must Come to an End?

What makes a great ending? This question has been dogging my writing since I decided to kill off my heroine in the story I wrote for Nanowrimo. The issue crystallized for me while reading the final chapter of a novel recently. The novel had many things going for it: a great voice, funny, likeable characters, good pacing, and an engaging plot line. The ending, however, fell flat. On its face.

Splat.

So, I've been wondering. What exactly are my requirements for the conclusion of a story?

1. Whether happy or tragic, the end of the story should pull together the loose ties that have been scattered throughout the novel.

2. The ending should feel true to the characters and story. This one is tricky, because the set-up needs to come in the body of the text. If a prim and proper young lady suddenly lets loose, buys a motorcycle and curses out her boyfriend, the reader needs to see the small steps that lead our heroine to this point.

3. By the time the reader has read the last sentence, a sense of closure should be attained.

4. It does not matter if at the end of the road the reader is crying or laughing: there has to be a sense that nothing else could have come of the story. It should be satisfying.

So, where did the story I read fall flat? I've heard that you can learn as much about writing from reading a bad novel as you can from reading a great one. I never quite believed that. Of course, I'm of the belief that time is too short for bad books. This time, though, I'm going to have to go with common wisdom. I did learn something from this book. I learned what I, as a reader, expect from an ending. (If you're curious, it was number 2 above, followed closely by number 4 which is a by-product of not preparing the reader.)

By coming to the conclusions I did above, I now know some of the things that I need to do with my Nanowrimo story and several short stories that have been languishing because I am bad at endings.

Although, I have to admit, the ending for the Nano story is really good. Nothing else could have come of the story. BUT (and there is always a but in learning), I need to build up to the conclusion. No matter how much I, the writer, love the ending, it has to make sense to the reader. In order to get there, I'll be editing with an eye towards the climax and the aftermath that comes from it.

As for the name of the book that disappointed? Life is too short. Go out and write your own masterpiece.


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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.

Rights

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

Formats We Will Accept

Plain text in the body of an email.

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

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

Editing

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

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

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

Getting to Know You

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

How and Where to Submit

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

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck!


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Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved

 

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