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 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

Elaine Shelton

Superman, Inner Children and Writing

We want to portray our characters in the best possible light. They should win every battle, climb to the top of every mountain, and solve every crime with ease. There is genuine feeling between author and character—some might even call it love. Of course, we want the best for them. We want our readers to think the best of them.

In fiction, however, there needs to be a reason to keep reading. Even Superman lost a few battles after his creators got smart. Superman did not capture the imagination of the reading public as he was first conceived. Not until the advent of kryptonite did the man of steel take flight. We must hurt our darlings, our heroes and heroines. Lynn Flewelling, in a chat at Writers' Village University in December 2000, said of writing, “I've really gotten in touch with my inner child and now I'm slapping her around.”

Why? Because the story has to matter; there must be something riding on the outcome. This is the basic way writers keep their audience with them. Which of the following would you rather read, someone’s idyllic vacation at a resort or how they survived while lost at sea? The progressive chain of events that spirals out of a character’s control keeps the reader glued to the book instead of falling sleep at a reasonable time.

So, how do we start slapping our inner child around?

Every decision must have consequences. As the writer of the story, our job is to think of all the consequences and how they will affect the character. Sometimes the consequences keep making things worse, but don’t worry; we will root for the character to keep going. Remember, not all crises will come out all right, and not all crises have to be physical; the emotional works just as well, if not better, in some genres.

In Janet Evonovich’s Stephanie Plum mysteries, we know the lead character is still alive at the end of the adventure because it is written in first person. However, the element of suspense, of “what happens next,” is still present. Stephanie gets shot, attacked, her cars blown up—all because of a job she took so that she could pay her rent and try to get her television set out of hock. The fundamental decision that she makes in each book—whether or not to take on a case—leads to events that spiral out of her control and keeps the reader turning page after page.

There is an old adage: What does not kill us, makes us stronger. Be sure that your character is facing odds that will make him or her as strong as Superman by the end.


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Craft of Writing

Lucy Rankin

Five Ways to Increase Your Chances

Setting your writing apart from the rest is not always about style, or even content.

Many manuscripts are tossed before they are even read. Why? Because the author neglected to follow a few simple steps that could have allowed the writer to rise to the top. Most editors will not read, let alone accept, manuscripts that do not follow the following five guidelines.

1. Proofread before sending the manuscript out. Make sure that it is free of grammatical and spelling errors. Editors and agents will often toss a manuscript that has more than three errors in the first page. If the story is polished to a high shine, you are helping them get to page two.

2. Read the guidelines for submission format. If none are given, an industry standard is 1 ½” margins, top, bottom, left and right. Your name, address, phone number, email address, and word count should appear, single-spaced, in the upper left-hand corner of the first page. The title of the story should be about five lines down, centered on the page, followed by the next line with the words By: Your Name. When sending to a print publication, body of text must be double-spaced and left-justified (ragged right side, with all of the left side lining up). Your last name and the page number should appear in the upper right corner on all subsequent pages. At the end of the story, write THE END.

3. Print on good quality white paper. Use only one side of the page. If a page gets a coffee ring on it before you send it out, reprint it. Remember, this is the only shot you have at an interview with the editor.

4. Include a SASE (Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope) when using the mail system. To cut down on shipping costs, mark the manuscript “Disposable” in the cover letter and include a #10 SASE.

5. Be professional. This includes the cover letter or any emails that you send. You are asking the editor to buy your words and to enter into a professional relationship with you. The letter that you write is your interview.

If you want the sale, use these five easy steps that separate the amateurs from the professionals.


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

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Craft of Writing

Ann Armstrong

Setting the Stage in Fiction

Setting the scene in a movie is, by its very essence, visual. It can be done in the blink of an eye, a 10-second pan across a field of daisies. How can a writer of fiction accomplish the same thing without disrupting the story? Gone are the days when a reader will stay with an author through endless description. We cannot afford to lose our readers by giving blocks of description. That doesn’t mean that we are completely without our resources, however.

You can drop in a few lines of description, but every detail must count. Instead, try showing the scene through the characters’ eyes. Consider the following two paragraphs:

a. The house was run down, paint peeling off the walls. Weeds grew knee-high, except where a concrete path cut through them. A car sat on blocks in the driveway, an oil leak beneath it.

b. Amy surveyed Aunt Paige’s house with trepidation. The roof sagged, and it was only with great effort that she kept her shoulders straight and head held high. The driveway was taken up by a Mustang on blocks—Cousin Henry must be trying to save money again. By the oil slick underneath the car, he was failing miserably. Shaking her head, Amy started down the paved walkway that cut through knee-high weeds. Where were the flower boxes that she remembered? The cheerful yellow paint?
Which paragraph would keep you reading? While paragraph B is longer, the details are filtered carefully through a character’s eyes. Every detail counts, not only because the scene is being set, but also because Amy’s character and the story are developing. We know the players in the game: Amy, Aunt Paige and Henry, Amy's cousin. We also know that something has happened, something that is bringing both Amy and Aunt Paige’s house down. While paragraph A is shorter, it is as interesting as a shopping list.

Another way to set the stage in fiction is to intersperse bits of setting with action or dialogue. It is a quick and easy way to add details that you might not otherwise be able to include.
a. “I don’t know how that could have happened,” Caroline said as she carefully ran a dust rag across the already spotless antique buffet.

b. Grandma stirred a pot of noodles, leaned back and butt-bumped the drawer behind her closed.
In sentence A, we can gather a couple of things. Caroline might be a bit of a neat freak. That will depend on how the rest of the house looks. It also tells us that Caroline is used to having antiques and probably has other fine things in the house. In sentence B, we are told in a few short words that Grandma lives in cramped quarters. Not many houses have kitchens so small that you can butt-bump a drawer closed; we can surmise that she probably lives in an apartment.

No matter how you decide to describe the world that your characters live in, it must be done in a way that keeps the reader with you. Filtering it through a character’s eyes or dropping details into action and dialogue are a few ways to keep readers with you throughout the story.



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

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Fiction Short Story

by Charles Hinckley

The Baseball Thief

Jimmy Gaines swatted his pant leg with his cane when he saw the Plexiglas-encased 1939 baseball signed by Babe Ruth was missing.

"Kenny! Kenny, where are you? You and that damn monkey will be the death of me. Kenny!"

Jimmy stuck his head out the window overlooking the back alley.

"Kenny!"

"Yes, sir?" Kenny stood shirtless, batting a tennis ball against the alley wall.

"My Babe Ruth ball—"

"What?"

"My ball!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Oh, for goodness sake. Get up here, will you, please!"

Jimmy limped to his easy chair and set his cane against the TV table. He could hear Kenny banging his way up the three flights of stairs.

"Yes, sir?" Kenny barged into the room, pulling his shirt on over his head.

"Take a look over at my memorabilia hutch."

Kenny turned around and stared at the glass enclosed shrine, framed photos of baseball players, service metals from the Marines, a 1967 Red Sox jersey worn by Carl Yastrzemski.

"Notice anything missing?"

"No."

"My Babe Ruth ball!"

"Huh?"

"It’s missing." Jimmy raised an eyebrow. "You wouldn’t know anything about that?"

"No."

"Just because I let you come up here, tell you stories, and let you bring that monkey up here—"

"You said I could bring Milo on a leash."

"What I didn’t say is that you could help yourself to my memorabilia."

Kenny stood back, eyes wide.

"Honest, Jimmy. I wouldn’t take any of your stuff."

Jimmy leaned back in the chair. "That’s not the first thing I’ve noticed missing. I’ve had other stuff taken from my collection. I thought perhaps I’d misplaced them."

"What?"

"A few of my service ribbons."

"You’re blaming me?" Kenny took a step toward the door, his hand on his chest.

"Now, don’t get in a huff. Perhaps that monkey of yours."

"Milo couldn’t take anything without me knowing it."

"Maybe, he gets loose. Runs around the yard, sees an open window and makes his way in."

"No."

"You don’t watch him every minute do you? Monkeys are infamous for their curiosity, is all I’m saying."

"Maybe there’s a thief in the building," Kenny suggested.

"That’s exactly what I was thinking."

"It can’t be Milo. He’s a good monkey. What about Buddy Brown? He’d take anything."

"Buddy Brown from down the street? Hardly. What would he be doing way up here in my old apartment? No, Kenny, it’s somebody we know, with access to this building. Someone with a key."

"Gee."

Jimmy leaned in at the boy. "'Gee' is right."

"Who, besides me, has a key?" Kenny asked.

Jimmy’s eyes locked onto Kenny’s.

"You still think it was me?"

Jimmy eased back in his chair, putting his gouty foot on the ottoman.

"So, that’s it, huh? You think I’m a dirty rotten criminal!"

"Kenny!"

"You think I’d do a thing like that? After I help you all the time? Well, forget you!"

Kenny walked to the door. "You’re a mean old man!"

"No! Kenny, wait! Don’t leave. Please!"

Kenny stood with his hand on the door handle.

"I haven’t been myself lately. I’m sick, Kenny. You can understand that."

"That doesn’t make me a criminal. I thought we were friends!"

"We are, Kenny. We are friends. Please don’t run off."

Kenny put his hand to the back of his neck and stared at Jimmy.

"I haven’t been sleeping well, you know. Up all hours of the night. Feel like I’m not getting any sleep."

"Why don’t you take some pills?"

"I have, Kenny. I have all these pills the doctor gave me."

Jimmy reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a fist full of small prescription bottles. Kenny took a few steps into the living room.

"What are they for?"

"Oh, for everything under the sun. It’s no fun getting old, Kenny. You're lucky you have Milo to keep you company. I’m all alone up here. Except for visits from you and the monkey."

Kenny took another step into the room.

"Oh, I have my memories, the First Marines, Korea, my medals and all. But they are poor company on a cold night. Remember that story I told you about winning my Purple Heart? About getting shot."

"Yeah, tell me about Korea again!" Kenny stood at attention, did a smart salute. "Captain Jim Gaines, reporting as ordered, Sir!" Kenny took a bullet in the stomach and fell to the floor, crawled slowly over to Jimmy. "I’m hit. You gotta help me, Doc!"

Jimmy howled with laughter, picked up his cane and shot Kenny.

"Oh, you got me!" Kenny sprawled out on the floor, dead.

Jimmy sat quiet for a second. A tear glazed his eye as he watched the boy pop to his feet. He wiped his eye with his index finger and sat up straight.

"You know, I’ve been thinking, Kenny. Since we know it couldn’t be you and that stinky monkey of yours."

"Milo!"

"Yes, Milo. Why don’t we set a trap?"

"What kind of a trap? Like one the marines would do?"

"No. I’ve got something better in mind. You know how they are always monitoring babysitters and ATM machines with cameras?"

"A hidden camera! Cool!"

"We can set it up over there." Jimmy pointed to a bureau above the memorabilia hutch. "I’ll leave out something shiny for them to try and take."

"And then we play it back for the police!"

Jimmy slapped his good leg, laughing out loud. "Something like that."

"We’ve got a video camera I can use."

"Excellent. We’ll set the trap tonight. You bring the camera, I’ll set up the loot."

"Deal!"

They shook hands. Kenny winked and Jimmy nodded in agreement.

"Show me again how you die."

Kenny took a hit to the chest and fell to the floor in a lump as Jimmy howled with laughter.

That evening they positioned the video camera and set it on slow record. Jimmy left the door of the memorabilia hutch open.

Jimmy had a rough night of sleep. He tossed and turned until nearly 3:00 a.m. when he finally passed out from exhaustion.

The next morning, when he noticed his Purple Heart medal missing, he felt dubious—like that morning was an evil Christmas. His heart sunk when he rewound the tape and watched the images that appeared in the view screen. At first it was just black, then as the monkey pulled away from the screen, he could see Kenny, Milo riding his back, as he poked around in the memorabilia. Milo turned and shot a big-toothed grin at the camera.

Jimmy stopped the tape, sat down hard on his chair, and slapped his cane on the floor. The boy is all I’ve got, he thought. How can I lose him now?

When Kenny came upstairs with Milo riding his back, it was as if they’d stepped out from the video viewfinder. Jimmy sat stony faced and silent as the guilty pair entered the apartment.

"I’m glad you’re awake, Jimmy. I was worried about you," Kenny said, as Milo ran down his arm to the floor.

"Worried? Why?"

"I was afraid you’d hurt yourself."

"Oh, really?"

"Man, you can sleep!"

Jimmy sat up, smacked the cane on the floor. Milo let out a yelp and ran up Kenny’s arm.

"I saw the tape, Kenny. I saw you and that stinking monkey of yours helping yourself to my things."

"How could you?"

"It’s on the tape."

"We tried to wake you. I yelled and yelled. I shook your arm. We couldn’t wake you up!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I’ll show you." Kenny grabbed the videotape out of the camera and plugged it into an adaptor for the TV and turned it on. Milo and Kenny appeared on the screen as before, but when they stepped aside, Jimmy walked into the picture, took the Purple Heart and walked away with it. The camera followed Jimmy as he put the medals into a box, slid it under his bed, and crawled under the covers. Kenny’s voice could be heard asking Jimmy to please wake up, but Jimmy was like a stone.

"Oh," Jimmy said. "I know that box. It was a gift from my wife. To hold my keepsakes. Kenny, I don’t know what to say. It was me the whole time?"

"That’s okay, Jimmy. We all make mistakes. My dad sleepwalks sometimes, after he has a few beers."

Kenny took the bottles of medicine from his pocket and looked at one in particular.

"Thanks, Kenny. For not running away when I thought it was you."

"That’s all right, Jimmy. I know how it is."

Milo ran up Kenny’s arm and pulled something from his back pocket. The Babe Ruth ball fell to the floor. Jimmy and Kenny locked eyes.

"Oh, yeah. I was gonna hold onto this until you woke up."

Kenny handed Jimmy the ball.

"Thanks, Kenny. You’re a true friend."

Copyright © 2004 Charles Hinckley


About the Author
Charles Hinckley has worked as an actor for 20 years. He has written works for the stage and has had stories accepted for publication by the now defunct, News America Syndicate, in New York. He lives in Orlando with his wife and son.


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Fiction Short Story

by Michael Graves

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Salvation

The night that William Branson drove home from a call in Indianapolis, the last thing on his mind was picking up chicks. Or hitchhikers. He had a longstanding rule about hitchhikers. They stayed on the road, and he stayed in his car.

Getting off to late starts seemed to be a rule of thumb lately, and that day had been no exception. With over a hundred miles to go before Cleveland, he drove right into the teeth of a midsummer thunderstorm. The wipers could barely keep up. Peering through the fogged windows, the white lines were but a faint glimmer to Bill’s burning eyes. He decided he’d give it a couple more miles, and if it didn’t ease up a bit, he’d find a diner and grab some hot coffee, a slice of apple pie and wait it out.

When he saw the figure standing by the side of the road, thumb extended in the traditional appeal for a ride, his first impulse was to drive on by. Then, an image of another couple he once saw huddled in the rain flashed into his mind. He’d driven off without helping those people, and he still felt guilty whenever he thought of those two.

"Ah, hell!" he said aloud to the image of the hitchhiker in his rearview mirror. He pulled over and backed up. "This is going to mess up my upholstery something fierce!"

The stranded traveler scampered up to the passenger door and jumped in.

"Thanks for stopping," she said, pulling back the hood of her poncho. Shit, he thought. It’s a she. Worse yet, it was a she that looked like she was several months short of reaching her fifteenth birthday. Even with her dripping black hair plastered to her face, Bill could see that the girl was incredibly beautiful. This kind of hitchhiker could get a guy in trouble whether he did anything or not.

"Where you headed?" he asked.

"Anywhere but here."

"I know this isn’t any of my business," Bill continued. "But you wouldn’t be running away from home, would you?"

"You’re right. It’s none of your business."

Bill shut up and drove, immediately scanning for the next exit where he could pull over and let her off. He hated being a bastard, but there was no way in hell he’d chance having this little girl cry rape and take him for everything he had.

His expression must have given him away, because the next thing the girl said was, "Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I appreciate the ride and all, but I just don’t want to have to tell my life story in order to get it." A few more uncomfortable moments passed and she said, "And don’t worry. I’m not going to go telling everybody that you raped me or anything like that."

Great. Not only was she jailbait, she was a mind reader, too.

"Unless you do," she said timidly. "You wouldn’t do something like that, would you? I mean, you’re not a…a…" She let the thought trail off.

"No!" he snapped. "I’m not a rapist or a child molester or a murderer. I thought I was being a nice guy by giving you a ride."

"I’m sorry," she said. "I’ll shut up."

The rain didn’t let up at all. If anything, it got even worse. Bill watched for signs of the next exit that would have a gas station and diner.

***

When Melinda Jacobs first saw the car pull over for her, her immediate reaction was intense relief. Finally, someone cared! That reaction was followed almost instantly by fear. What if this guy turned out to be worse than the one who dumped her off in this miserable place? Her last benefactor had only gone about a mile down the road before he pulled over to the side beneath an overpass and start pawing at her. He’d almost gotten her blouse off before she managed to get the car door open and yank herself out of his grasp. She ran off, and for a minute it looked like he was going to try and chase her down. Apparently he decided she wasn’t worth the effort. He’d driven off, leaving her behind.

That was before the storm hit. In three hours, not one car had looked like the driver even thought about stopping for her. Then the winds picked up. Behind the wind came the first cascade of rain, and before she could get her poncho out of her pack and over her shoulders, she was drenched. The rain pelted her so hard the drops actually stung the skin.

Out of the corner of her eye, she studied the man who’d picked her up. For an old guy, he wasn’t bad-looking. He was probably in his fifties, but he seemed to be pretty fit. The expensive suit he was wearing fit him perfectly. Along with the silver hair at his temples, he presented a very elegant and sophisticated presence.

Mentally, she kicked herself for reacting to him the way she did. She shouldn’t have gotten so defensive when he asked her if she was running away. Especially since that’s exactly what she was doing. But what the hell would he know about a step-dad who thought that by marrying her mom, he got two lays for the price of one? What would he know about an around-the-world being part of the price of a new pair of shoes?

He was going to drop her off at the next exit. She could tell by the intense way that he studied each freeway sign they passed. In a way, it was kind of hard to blame him. It wasn’t like she’d gotten off to the most wonderful start.

She supposed she should be grateful for the few extra miles he’d put between her and the pervert her mother had married. What was really scary was that her poor mom thought the world of that jackass. If ignorance were really bliss, then Mom had to be the happiest woman in the world. She was completely oblivious to everything that was going on around her.

***

Finally, a billboard advertised that there was a Flying-J Truck Stop at the next exit. In two more miles, Bill could wrap his hands around a hot mug of coffee and wait out the storm. He was still trying to decide what to do about the girl. She seemed to be a nice enough kid. But if it turned out she was under sixteen, her parents could have him up on half a dozen different charges before he had time to pay the check. He pulled in to a stop in front of the restaurant and turned off the engine.

"I guess this is where I get off," she said. "Right?"

A dozen conflicting thoughts cascaded though Bill’s head in an instant. He couldn’t just turn her out into the night like that. If this were his daughter sitting across from a total stranger, he would want to know that she was sitting across from a stranger who would not hurt her in any way. Turning her out into the night on a night like this, God alone knew how many miles from home, would hurt her.

"When’s the last time you had anything to eat?" he asked.

"I’m fine," she replied sullenly.

"I don’t recall asking how you were. You look fine. I asked when you last ate."

"Yesterday."

"Come on in with me and I’ll buy you some dinner."

"Look!" she snapped. "I don’t want your charity, and I don’t want your fucking pity! All I wanted was a ride, and you gave me that. I’ll be on my way now."

"That isn’t necessary," he said. He couldn’t help but notice that she looked him right in the eye when she talked to him. That was rare in anyone. It certainly wasn’t the type of behavior he expected out of a young girl on the run. More than ever, he was convinced that she was a girl in trouble.

"Maybe I’m not offering you charity. Maybe I just don’t like eating alone and would like some company."

"Bullshit."

"Okay, damn it. I feel sorry for you. Just looking at you is enough to make me want to cry. Is that what you wanted to hear? You feel better now?" He stared at her, and she locked right back onto his gaze. "Now please join me for some dinner. It’s my treat."

Her face plainly gave away how desperately she wanted to take him up on his offer. So what was stopping her? Was it pride? Was she afraid of him? Bill would have bet money it was a little bit of both.

"One of these days, you’ll be in a position to pass the favor on to someone else, and we’ll be even. How’s that sound?"

She glanced over at the restaurant, taking in the people on the other side of the windows, hazy from the falling rain and water rippling down the glass. He could see her caving in.

"How’s a steak sound?"

"Awful. I’m a vegetarian."

That figured.

"Well, then you’ll be happy to know that the Flying-J has one of the nicest salad bars you’ve ever seen. Now come on. What do you say?"

He had her. She opened the car door and looked at him expectantly. For only the briefest of moments, he imagined that he saw a smile flicker on the edges of her mouth. He smiled back and got out of the car. Inside the entranceway to the restaurant, Bill shed his jacket, shaking off as much of the rain as possible. The girl tugged the poncho up over her head, and in doing so, her shirt pulled up a little too far. Bill got himself a free shot of young beauty. He felt himself flushing as he turned his head away. She had the kind of body a guy would have to see to believe and an impressive amount of it had just revealed itself to Bill. It was like being kicked in the groin.

The waiter who served them reminded Bill of a comedian he used to like. For some reason, he couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but the waiter was almost as funny.

"What’d you guys do?" he asked in amazement. "Drive up here in a goldfish bowl?"

"Isn’t it great?" Bill answered. "And this is just from sprinting from the car to the front door." A shiver washed over his entire body.

"I’ll bet you’d just love a cup of nice hot coffee, wouldn’t you?"

"You bet!"

"How about you, Miss? Your dad here let you drink coffee, or would like something else? Hot chocolate, maybe?"

"He’s not my dad," the girl answered. Bill could swear he could see chips of ice follow the words out of her mouth. He definitely did see the lightning bolts that flashed from her eyes. "And I would love a cup of coffee. Black. No sugar."

"Okay," said the waiter. He pantomimed a zipping motion across his lips. "Dennis is now shutting up. I’ll be right back with your drinks. You nice people just look over the menu, and I’ll take your order when I get back."

"I just want the salad bar," the girl said.

"Okay. The plates are over there. Just help yourself."

Dennis came back with two steaming mugs while the girl filled her plate. Bill ordered his usual steak dinner and asked for a large orange juice on the side. She brought back a heaping plate of salad and a bowl of soup.

He waited until she was settled before he spoke. "So is it all right if I ask you your name? Or am I being too personal?"

"Sally," she said. And stuffed a forkful of lettuce and ranch dressing into her mouth. She glanced away from his gaze, and this time, he knew she was lying.

"Bill Branson," he replied. He didn’t offer to shake her hand the way he usually did when meeting someone for the first time.

"So," he continued slowly. "I’m going to go out on a really thin limb here and offer my two cents worth. You can take it or leave it. But please don’t get angry and walk away, okay?" She just glared at him over the fork poised at her mouth.

And all he could think was, she’s so damned beautiful! It was only a small measure of relief that he felt like a dirty old man for thinking it.

"You ran away from home because things weren’t going the way you’d like at home. Somehow, you figured that on the other end of the freeway, there’d be this magical place where your problems would all go away." He stopped and took a sip of his coffee.

"One problem," he said, "is that there isn’t an other end to the freeway. The road just keeps on going and going and going. The other problem is that most of your problems are inside. Where you go, they go."

"There’s one problem that better not follow me wherever I go. Not if it wants to keep breathing, anyway." Bill didn’t exactly like the sinister tone that colored her voice at that moment.

"They say it’s easier to tell your secrets to a perfect stranger. Somebody who doesn’t know you is far less likely to pass judgment on you." There had been a couple of times in Bill’s life he’d found that to be true. "You want to give it a try?"

"I want to eat my salad."

Bill got a momentary reprieve when Dennis brought his steak dinner and the juice. "Here you go," said the waiter. "One squallin’ calf, just like you asked. Can I get you folks anything else?" Both Bill and the girl shook their heads, and Dennis walked away. Bill scooted the orange juice over to her side of the table.

"Figured as long as you were standing out in that downpour, it’d probably be a good idea to get some vitamin C down you."

She looked from the juice to Bill, and her eyes had taken back the open and unguarded expression they’d had earlier. Add to the mix a touch of gratitude. In one long series of swigs, she downed the entire glass.

"Whoa!" said Bill. "I guess we were thirsty. Want another?" She just shook her head.

He gave it another shot. "I know you think I’m being a nosy old bastard here," he said. "But I’m scared to death something’s going to happen to you out there. Do you have any idea where you’re going? What you’ll do when you get there? I realize things might have been bad at home, but were they bad enough to risk dying to leave behind?"

Tears flowed like a mountain spring. She didn’t sob and her shoulders didn’t shake. In fact, she didn’t make a sound. Two glistening streaks, one highlighting each cheek, were the only indication that she was crying. She began to talk.

***

Melinda had no idea why she was giving her secrets away to a stranger.

But before she knew it, she told him everything. The man sat silently while she talked about a father who she had loved so much it hurt. The stranger’s expression didn’t waver when she told him about the funeral after a sixteen-wheeler had crushed her dad's car so badly that his body had to be cut out. He listened in silence as she described what it was like seeing her father lowered into the ground in a coffin that had remained sealed throughout the visiting hours and funeral.

Then she told him all about the man her mother had chosen to take her dead father’s place. Nobody would ever suspect him of being abusive, because he never yelled and he never hit her. He merely used her as his personal sexual toilet and threatened to kill her if she opened her mouth to anyone. Except to him, of course, and then he didn’t want her talking.

And no, she concluded, she didn’t know where she was going or what she would do when she got there. Not once during her tirade did he interrupt. When she was done, he took a bite of his steak and chewed thoughtfully. He washed it down with the last swig of coffee in his cup.

"What we need to do here," he said, "is get you back home where you belong. And get that son of a bitch locked up in jail where he belongs. And if you’re willing, I might just know how you could go about doing just that."

They finished their meal in silence. After all, what was he supposed to say to her after hearing a story like that? And how did she follow up an act like that? Still, Melinda caught him looking at her once in a while. There seemed to be a strange look in his eye. At first, she thought it was sadness. Then she thought about a boy back at school. His name was Tommy and he’d had the biggest crush on her. Followed her around like a little puppy. And she’d seen that look in his eye. Suddenly, she knew how she could repay his kindness.

***

"That rain doesn’t look like it’s letting up any time soon," she said. "I don’t think you should be driving in weather like that."

"What I should be doing and what I’ve got to do are all too frequently two different things. First thing I think we should do is to get you some help."

"And just what do you have in mind?"

"Every city I know has a Women’s Crisis Center of some sort where people in your situation can go until they get things straightened out. We need to get you settled in with one of those, and let your mother know where you’re at. But there’s one thing I want to ask you, and you need to tell me the truth."

"What’s that?"

"Are you willing to file charges against this asshole? And before you answer that, I want you to keep in mind that they’re going to drag every one of your worst memories out into the open and parade them around for everyone to see. The first thing his lawyers are going to do is to try and paint you as a conniving little liar. They’ll try to make you out as the criminal. Their story will be that you’re only out to get him because you’re jealous that he took your father’s place. If that fails, they’ll try to make you look like a seductress. You started it all and he only went along with it for fun."

Her expression flicked back and forth between terror and rage.

"But if you let him get away with it—if he walks away from here like nothing ever happened—you’ll have to live with that for the rest of your life. From the sounds of things, this guy didn’t marry your mother because he liked her. He married her to get to you. Once you’re gone, he’ll dump her and move on to the next desperate middle-aged woman with a hot babe for a daughter. You see what I’m saying here?"

He could see that she did.

"I need to think about this for a while," she said. "I’m scared. I don’t know what to do."

"That’s very understandable," he replied. "You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t. But I don’t really think time is a commodity you have to spare right now."

***

Everything the man said made perfect sense to Melinda. She understood that letting her stepfather get away with what he’d been doing was a bad thing, but she just wasn’t ready to deal with it so late at night. She wanted sleep, and she wanted to sleep in a warm, dry place. The last two nights had been spent shivering under a bridge or tucked into a doorway of a closed business. She was willing to do whatever it took to be warm tonight.

Whatever it took.

And besides, she owed Bill a big favor anyway.

"Can I tell you in the morning?" she asked timidly. "They’ve got a really nice motel here and maybe the storm will be over by morning. I promise you’ll sleep very well tonight."

For the first time in several days, Melinda almost laughed. Watching Bill’s face was enough to crack anyone up. First he looked blank. He actually didn’t realize what she was suggesting. Then the most exquisite look of shock she’d ever seen crossed his face.

The poor guy turned beet red. Never had she seen a guy get embarrassed when a girl came onto him. Any of the guys she knew would have been so turned on they would have climbed over the table to get at her.

His final expression was the one she would always remember. Pure sorrow.

That was the one expression she didn’t understand.

***

Melinda had gauged Bill’s thoughts pretty accurately. At first it hadn’t occurred to him what she was getting at. It had been many years since he’d considered himself to be a prime catch for a woman. In fact, if he was completely truthful with himself, he’d never had those illusions about himself. He’d been lucky to find his first wife, Emily. After she’d left, there’d never been another. When her message did finally make its way through his thick skull and into his brain where he could muddle through its meaning, he was indeed shocked. This girl would have been young enough to be the youngest of his six kids, had he ever had any.

But it wasn’t her he was shocked at. He was shocked at himself. He hated himself because he wanted to take her up on her offer. How did that old saying go? She offered her honor. He honored her offer. And all that night it was honor and offer. She was absolutely beautiful. And her body was something to die for. She was incredibly desirable. Most importantly, she was easily available.

All he had to do was nod his head and go pay for the room. That night would be one he would always remember. Once again he could feel the sensation of soft and tender young flesh beneath the fingertips. He could experience firsthand how sweet, firm nipples tasted to the lips. He wanted her so badly, it hurt.

It would be a night he would remember, all right. A night of infamy and shame. The sex would be wonderful for him and awful for her. The part he would never forget would be the night he committed statutory rape with a girl he didn’t even know—a little girl who trusted him. The flush was the result of his acute embarrassment.

No matter how badly he wanted to say yes, to do so would be moral suicide. He had no choice but to decline her amazing offer. In doing so, he figured he was going to hurt her feelings. That could have been his daughter sitting across from him. And he knew how he would feel if the man his daughter was talking to on a night like this took her hand and led her off to the motel.

***

The kindly looking man in the expensive suit stood up, pulled a twenty and a ten out of his wallet and threw them on the table. She knew the meal couldn’t have cost more than twenty bucks. He reached over and took her by the hand.

He smiled.

She stood, and the two of them sprinted through the rain to the motel. The girl trembled a little as the man filled out the forms. The man behind the counter gave Bill two keys. Why were there two of them, she wondered? They only needed one room!

He turned and handed her one.

"You’ll be in room 237," he said. "I’ll be right next door if you need anything. Anything except that!" She knew exactly what he meant.

"You don’t need to sleep with me to get me to help you," he said. "From the sounds of things, you’ve had more than your share of dirty old men running their hands over you. I don’t want my image popping into your head every time you think of them."

They both slept well that night. The next morning a state policeman came at their bidding and took notes while he listened to her story. Since she lived in the next state over, it was going to take a little coordinating between jurisdictions. But since she was willing to press charges and testify against her stepfather, the trooper assured her that he would be in custody before she arrived back home. There was a battered women’s center where she could stay until things were straightened out. A female office escorted Melinda to a squad car and that was the last Bill saw of her. The trooper turned to him.

"That was a hell of a thing you did there, Mister Branson. Not too many guys would have taken care of her like that."

"I guess that’s why I had to make sure I was the last guy she met on her little journey," Bill answered. "I didn’t figure the next one would."

"You’re a good man, you know that?"

"Yeah, well. If you knew me better, you probably wouldn’t say that. Most of my friends will tell you I’m a vicious son of a bitch."

"Somehow I find that impossible to believe."

Bill got in his car and was twenty miles down the road before he realized he hadn’t called his office to let them know that he was going to be very late.

Copyright © 2004 Michael Graves 

About the Author
Michael Graves is the author of a series of books designed to help people become computer hardware and network technicians. His latest, The Complete Guide to Networking and Network+, has been adopted for use by a number of high schools and colleges as a textbook. When not writing, Mr. Graves is either making photos with his 90-year-old 5x7 view camera, untangling his fly line from the trees overhead or watching baseball with his son, Christopher. The Hitchhiker's Guide to Salvation is his first published fiction.


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Fiction Short Story

by Edward L. Flaim

Lives of the Rich and Famous

Sid awakened with his usual banshee scream, his legs contracting spastically, whether a product of his multiple sclerosis or the liter of scotch that died last night, he didn't know. He reached for a particular vial of medication somewhere on his bed stand, knowing that his pain and virtual blindness would render this simple task the equivalent of climbing Everest. Thank God his caretaker and occasional lover, Brenda, had purchased oddly shaped and different sized containers in which to place the many medications for his frequently needed cocktails. He felt the proper vial, pulled it over his chest and dumped three 80-milligram oxycontins into his hand. Ignoring the instructions now well memorized, (that he could only read after several hours of consciousness and the medication's effects), he chewed the purple tablets like a leopard that had seized its prey, and fell back into bed with another banshee scream.

After several minutes he reached towards the vacant side of his bed. Brenda, Brenda, he thought, as he clutched the bottle of scotch awaiting him. You may be a lousy lay but you're a damned good caretaker. He popped the cork off this rare single malt and soon a third of the bottle joined last night's dead. Sobering up through intoxication. Sid smiled at the irony.

He scratched the top of his balding head, wondering how his hair had disappeared over the years. He liked his dad's explanation the best. “You didn't lose it, Sid; it merely fell through your face and became a beard.” He smiled as he tugged the scraggly growth longer than the shoulder-length hair that still grew from the sides of his scalp. Dad did have insight!

After forty minutes, Sid achieved the opiate haze he sought. He slowly sat upright, his vision now clearer, and began taking the rest of the cocktail that kept him functional: valium, xanax, provigil and lexapro. He skipped the percocet, realizing that it would provide little to the chewed up oxys. Brenda had placed his wheelchair in the proper position. He struggled but finally found himself on his mode of transportation. He flicked the proper buttons, which directed his rolling legs to the battered desk and computer, placed before a picture window that gave him an excellent view of Central Park and the ant-sized people he would never meet. He stared at the blank screen, hit the space bar, and his newest creation flashed before his eyes, "France on a $100,000 a Day: A Guide for Those to Whom Money is Merely Paper."

Tears rolled down his face, soaking his scraggly beard. He had become rich writing for the rich. Yet he hadn't left this room in over 25 years. He looked at his desk and saw that reliable Brenda had placed two bottles of single malt at the right rear corner. He grabbed one, popped the cork, drank several hefty belts and returned it to its resting place. He turned to the computer and began writing about worlds he would never see.

Copyright © 2004 Edward L. Flaim


About the Author
Ed was born in 1950. He entered the world butt-first and has since viewed the world primarily through this vertical eye. As most of those who survived the turbulent sixties, he faced several choices: death, prison, insanity or law. He chose both law and insanity. He graduated from the University of Minnesota Law School in 1984 after touring the world.

He was a well-established and recognized practitioner when diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in 1993. He continued to actively practice law until 1998, when his physical and mental condition said, "Screw this," and he returned to Maryland. In Maryland he vegetated until he came upon WVU and attempted to write fiction.

Ed has published hundreds if not thousands of his writings. That's only because every document he has ever filed with the courts is considered published. Thus far, publishers have been kind and printed one of his 300 story submissions. He's waiting anxiously to see what will happen with number 301, hoping it might bring him wealth and fame like Stephen King, or at the very least, a cookie.


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Fiction Short Story

by Susanne Shaphren

These Last Days with Jerry

TUESDAY. There is no Monday because I refuse to acknowledge that cruel twenty-four-hour year. Let the week begin on this bright sunny morning and please, God, give me strength. I need no clock to remind me of time, no hurried phone call to confirm visiting hours. I slip on the much too expensive dress Jerry gave me last Valentine's Day and allow an extra ten minutes to find a parking place.

Two blocks out of my way to avoid the sight of the emergency entrance that is so integral a part of that day I have tried in vain to obliterate. A waste of time as I can never forget the agony on Jerry's face when he finally yielded to the necessity of another trip to the hospital. One last trip? There is too much honesty in this grim triangle of doctor, patient, and patient's wife to expect anything more.

Jerry is asleep. A few more minutes to get accustomed to the awful feeling of being alone, more time to think and rethink how it might have been different.

From that first awkward blind date, it was painfully obvious Jerry was the licorice that kept getting shoved to the bottom of the candy dish of life. And I . . . well, to hear my mother tell it, I could have done so much better.

Who knows? In the beginning, I might have agreed with her. Maybe there was more pity than love in the impulse that said yes when Jerry proposed.

If I had been the loving, conscientious bride, I would have said something—insisted that Jerry see a doctor—when I accidentally felt that lump. But to me, it was just one more insignificant blemish serving as a constant reminder that Jerry must have been shoved in a corner the day God created Brad Pitt and Sean Connery.

The pitiful stranger in the hospital bed looks old enough to be my father. The disease that will eventually claim his life and the chemotherapy that has tried so desperately to save it have conspired to do the job of aging that decades normally do. Jerry and I have promised each other we would be honest about this, but it's impossible for me to acknowledge that skin and bones monument to pain is my husband. Whenever Jerry looks into my eyes, he will see that one luxury of a lie I permit myself: the Jerry that he used to be, not so very handsome, but young and vital, each cell pulsating with the sheer joy of being alive.

Our visit is short and almost totally void of words. He asks if there is any news about his manuscript. I shake my head and say it's a good sign that it's been out so long. Then we just sit, my hand resting in his.

We've used up almost all of the words . . . my angry cuss words at the beginning when I berated Jerry for not having enough self-worth to damn God for His cruelty, the soft begging words of bartering our past sins and transgressions for a better future life in exchange for a miracle, the hard firm practical words of wills and plans for "after."

I've read the books; I know that all too soon there will be no words at all. This is the stage known as acceptance. Well, I have not accepted. I will not accept!

WEDNESDAY. Again there is nothing in the mail to shatter Jerry's last dream. His novel is on a stranger's desk where it's being read, and if there's any justice in this world, receiving the acceptance its author hasn't found in his all-too-brief life.

Everything I see and hear tells me Jerry is worse, but my heart insists his color is a little better, his voice a little stronger. Dr. Carlyle has prepared us for the worst, but it will be good news he brings today . . . new medication, new hope.

No medication other than narcotics to dull the pain. No hope.

I tell Jerry there is still no word on his novel and linger only moments before escaping from the stark reality of what is happening slowly but very surely.

THURSDAY. A day so beautiful, the news has to be good. I stop at the florist's and persuade him to sell me a single long-stemmed rose. It's a silly, sentimental gesture that only Jerry can understand and appreciate.

At first glance, I actually believe Jerry has rallied enough to justify my wishful thinking. But it is not to be. By noon, I have been banished from his room so the white-coated witch doctors and their tight-lipped assistants can perform their black magic rituals with tubes, needles and strange whirring machines.

A pale, nervous woman slightly over forty and well overweight shares my vigil in the small waiting room at the end of the hall. She prays for it to be over soon, has a mental timetable that she ticks aloud: If her husband lives one more day, there will be no summer camp for the youngest child; two more, and the middle child will have to return to a public school, and on and on, until a few more pitiful days of sustained life equate with the deprivation of the eldest son's college education. I, too, want the pain to be silenced once and for all, but not for a savings of money.

Perhaps that is the blessing of being young enough to believe it could never happen to you and yet just cynical enough to spend a little more for major medical coverage. Maybe it's fortunate there are no children to be deprived of summer camp, exclusive education and tell me, Mrs. Cash Register, what is the monetary value of a father's love and guidance? God, isn't this young bitch self-righteous tonight? She who spoke vows of love without ever knowing the meaning of the words until it was already much too late.

Tomorrow, I'll be the interested bystander in Jerry's war against the inevitable. Tomorrow, I'll fight all these battles of guilt with myself. Tonight, I've got to get home while it's still safe for me to drive.

FRIDAY. The mailman leaves a small mountain of bills, a letter from some third cousin twice removed, and Jerry's manuscript. I haven't cried once since this nightmare began months ago, but I can't stop the tears flowing down my cheeks as I scan another standard 'doesn't meet our present needs' rejection slip. Rewrapped, addressed to the next publisher on Jerry's list and bearing stamps from end to end, the manuscript is ready to be sent. Tears dried and camouflaged by make-up, I am as ready as I will ever be to mail it and to see Jerry.

From the moment the elevator doors wheeze open and deposit me in front of the nurse's station on 7-East, I know I'll never go through these motions of what has become daily ritual again.

Maybe it's too quiet today, or too noisy, too many technicians bustling in and out of Room 712, or too few, woman's intuition or plain old fear. I just know.

Forcing myself not to run, I take small, even steps toward Jerry's room and open the door, willing myself not to smell the alcohol, disinfectant, and almost tangible stench of impending death.

My eyes see a figure every bit as attractive as Brad Pitt, not a pasty, white, stubbornly breathing corpse, and by God, Jerry gets a kiss powerful enough to prove it. In return, he squeezes my hand as tightly as he can; I feel not the slightest pressure.

Inside, I am sobbing, drowning in tears, but my cheeks are dry as I force myself to credibly imitate a smile in anticipation of Jerry's question.

"Any mail?" he manages after exerting the effort of a man delivering twenty minutes of fiery oratory.

"You, sir, are looking at the wife of a promising young author whose book has just been accepted by one of this country's leading publishers."

No, not a lie told out of pity, but a promise made out of love. Jerry's novel will be published. After.

Copyright © 2004 Susanne Shaphren


About the Author
The author is a native of Phoenix, Arizona. Her first nationally published fiction was a Fiction Award Story in Weight Watchers (in the good old days when they printed fiction.) This story, "These Last Days with Jerry," first appeared in Green's Magazine. Susanne's articles and fiction have appeared in an eclectic alphabet soup of U.S. and Canadian publications including: Authorship, Better Communication, Children's Playmate, Delta Scene, Futures and The Writer.


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Poetics

Glennis Hobbs

Modernism in Poetry

Recently as my husband and I were driving to Winnipeg, we listened to the CBC Poetry Face-off—this being the final 20 of 70 Canadian poets who had been invited to participate in this poetry event.

This was a current event and allegedly the best of new Canadian poets. Subjects of the poems ranged from street life to a poet’s heritage from the Caribbean to a tribute to another poet through a nature poem. Reading styles ranged from colloquial conversational to overstylistic declamatory. This was supposed to be a representation of modernist poetry.

I had started thinking about what modern poetry is to it after reading “What is bad poetry?” by Kayt Davies.

In this article, Davies says:

Because the main aim of the game is now expressing the contents of the inner world, the writing of poetry has been deregulated. The inner world resists following rules and so the rules of grammar and structure are often abandoned in the attempt to express inner chaos. This irritates literature lovers who respect the talent it takes to write a precisely structured poem, just as much "modern art" bothers those who appreciate the fine art of accurate representation with paint.

If writing "shit shit shit" a thousand times is a really honest expression of what’s going on in my inner world, does that make it a good poem? I’d be the first to say "No"—from a literary perspective. But if writing it makes me feel better, and if I put that piece of paper away and find it a month later and laugh because I no longer feel that it is a representation of my inner state, then that piece of writing has served a valuable function. It has been a progress marker. You could challenge it and say that it was not grammatical or well expressed, but if it made sense to its audience, then it worked, even if it only had an audience of one.
It seems to me that much of current poetry seems to be in a state of chaos. The main rule seems to be that anything goes in poetry and that it is okay to write about anything, be it the way you puke, the way you put your shoes on, the way one does drugs or makes love or even one’s heritage.

To me, it seems as though the effect of a poem takes precedence over the format and the message presented in a poem.

Today’s poetry seems to push back boundaries for the sake of shock effect as well as demolishing boundaries, e.g., this poem by bill bissett, they cut back sew much on th backs uv th poor.
they cut back sew much on th backs uv th poor

whats missing from my poetree is th stink n slime
n th toxik pools surrounding us mooving closr in
2 our sereen psychik oases

whats missing from my poetree ar th smells uv our
habits 2 endors hierarkeez uv hurt n denial ego
victoreez resentments rot n stench uv ekonomik
boundareez konstrukts we create allow punish

wher onlee munee mattrs th top middul n bottoms
uv th work munee stupid klass destroying evree
thing whn nowun is bettr n evreewun can have worth
if onlee we cud evolv 2 beleev n see that can we

its a ring toss echo uv our fleeting wishes we take
evreething with us we can how much is that
In his article “Does Poetry Matter?" Dana Goia argues that poetry survived in the 20th century because of the academic world.

He goes on to say:
American poetry now belongs to a subculture. No longer part of the mainstream of artistic and intellectual life, it has become the specialized occupation of a relatively small and isolated group. Little of the frenetic activity it generates ever reaches outside that closed group.
Yes, there is still a literary world with elitist poetry, but today, more than ever before, poetry is available to everyone. Through poetry websites on the Internet and through the hundreds of poetry books that are being self-published, a plethora of poetry is accessible.

I think that every generation goes through its own form of rebellion, be it music, art or poetry. In the 20th century, we have jazz and swing and rock and roll. At the same time, Stravinsky’s “Rites of Spring” caused a riot when it was first performed because it was considered too controversial. In art, we have Picasso and his experimentation. The Canadian Group of Seven who returned to nature and painted its colours. Consider also the chimpanzee who won first prize for her bold use of colours.

In poetry of the First World War, we see at first the Romantic style of Rupert Brooke in his poem, The Soldier:

“If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.”

Later on, in Wilfrid Owens’ poetry, e.g., “Mental Cases,” we see the brutality of war.

“Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain,-but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
Ever from their hair and through their hands' palms
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?”

There is a continual struggle between fantasy and reality throughout the 20th century. Shirley Temple and the extravaganza musicals provide an escape from Depression reality. Beat poetry and folk music represent a return to grassroots.

In the early 21st century, we live in a world that is constantly changing. We can sit in our living room and watch war being waged just as easily as watching a concert special.

We hear over and over again how important it is that rules of poetry don’t count and to try new things. Before we can break those rules, we need the basic building blocks of poetics and poetic devices. Pound, Moore and Williams dared to break the rules, but they also knew what the rules were in the first place. Out of their breaking the rules came a new and stronger poetry.

Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro” reduces poetry to a single simplistically complex image:
“The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough”
Williams’ “Red Wheelbarrow” is disputed by some as even being a poem:
so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.
To me, these poems represent the crystallization of the essence of poetry.

Flouting conventions may work for a while in poetry, but I believe that out of this chaos comes a sort of order. But with this order comes a type of freedom and courage: the freedom to explore new vistas in poetry and the courage to try them. For many of us, the new vistas may be a return to trying the old ways, such as writing sonnets, but it also may be by trying to write old forms in a new way, such as the unrhymed sonnet. It may be trying to leave our version of history, e.g., the poems of 911, for future generations to read. I don’t see us returning to the hypocrisy of the Victorian era where form and message take precedence.

But as I said before, in this age of e-mail and computerization, poetry is more readily accessible. At WVU, the Senior Poets of P123 who live on three different continents can find a common meeting ground that is not limited by geographical barriers. We are linked together, not just through our love of poetry, but through our willingness to challenge each other to try new things and to stretch as poets.


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Poetics Presents

Pat Hegnauer

Pat Hegnauer has been an acting teacher, producer, actress and director. At present, she is a playwright and poet. Her poems have been published in The Crone's Nest, Scrivener's Pen, Utmost Christian Writers, Moondance, Saucy Vox, the Adagio Quarterly Review, The Newport Review, Wicked Alice, and Rhode Island Roads Magazine. Her first chapbook, A Few Uncompromised Letters, was published by the Premier Poets Chapbook series.

Scarlet Bound Legacy

I unpacked promises
from cardboard coffins,
books, mostly poetry,
and bone china passed
down from white-gloved
hands that served tea
in mahogany parlors.

Her gold monogram,
translucent as a scallop,
glowed luminous as her
milky eyes till the last day.

After the funeral I exhumed
bundled letters lashed
delicately in blue ribbons,
buried in a closet fifty years
before. Fragments,
forbidden love crumbling
like a withered corsage.

Evidence of a Victorian
heart hidden in a faded
legacy of letters, and
a portrait smiling gravely
at me sitting on their bed,
sipping a cup of her tea,
reading exquisite poetry;

Browning bound in scarlet
leather inscribed by a lover.

Copyright ©2004 by Pat Hegnauer




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Poetics Presents

Suzan L. Weiner

Suzan L. Weiner is a newcomer to T-Zero. She has had numerous poems, personal experience stories, writing articles and fillers appear in publications such as Complete Woman, Mature Living, the Saturday Evening Post and Canadian Writer's Journal.

A Plea for Salvation

Harsh reality
seeps in like a
dark cloud shrouding
the earth with its
malice.

Evil abounds amid the
sins of the
masses. Trouble
brews like a
boiling cauldron, steaming in
intensity.

Save us from the
scourge of today's
party world. From the
misfits, the heartless, who
turn our nights into their
pleasures of
perversion.

Copyright ©2004 by Suzan L. Weiner




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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

July’s Drabble, on the topic of Uncertainty, is written by Kay Hamdan.

Stacey's mum

'Come round for dinner on Thursday, Mum's invited you.' Stacey looked sweet in her glitter heart t-shirt and white jeans. She smiled at me and squeezed my fingers. Home-made steak pie with fat chips and gravy. 'Stacey says it's your favourite,' said her mum. She poured gravy for me. Stacey chattered. I looked up from my plate and Stacey's mum was just looking down. 'That was delicious, Mrs. Walters.' My voice sounded weak and pathetic. She leaned over for my plate and her cleavage stared at me. My face burned. 'Kim.' She smiled and walked off. 'Thanks, Kim,' I stammered.

What makes living feel worthwhile? That’s a different question, I’ll say right away, from what makes living actually worthwhile. Kierkegaard said life must be lived forward but understood backward—if what he said is true, then how can we know, while we’re living our lives, before we’re at the end looking backward? What it is that makes our own particular lives actually worthwhile? Possibly all we can know about it, if we can know that much, is what it is that seems to make us feel, right now, that life is good.

And I won’t get into, either, in case it’s occurred to you, too, whether we distract ourselves with that enjoyment and good feeling from getting something deeper out of life that we’d get otherwise. Well, I can’t resist this one thought—there must be ways to learn other than by suffering, so enjoyment and joy without suffering, need not be signs of shallowness.

But, back to what kinds of things make us feel right now that life is good. When circumstances change, then by the definition of change of circumstance, something is added to our lives and something else is taken away. Sometimes, for instance, freedom is taken away, either by a happy event, such as marriage, or an unhappy one, such as literal incarceration. After the deprivation of it, we appreciate our freedom in an entirely new way, and freedom may then forever after (or, for only a while after) make us feel that our life is worth living.

It could be a phone call from that particular someone who makes not just our day but our life feel, at that moment, worthwhile. It could even be the absence of a painfully critical voice that’s been in our ear for too long. Sometimes music, poetry, literature, art, the sunset can affect us that way, too; if I have this, then no matter what else is going on for me right now, I can go on. It has to evoke our passion—even if at that particular point in our life, our biggest passion is for all the peace and quiet we can get. When I was about ten, one of my favorite things in the world was sitting up in bed after lights out time with a new science fiction magazine each month and with some Oreo cookies under the covers. I escaped, for a while—my childhood troubles into a new world with each new story—and as each one ended, there was another to pull me along, until the last one, of course, by which time, though, I was both satiated and very, very tired.

Right now I’m once again finding new things that make me feel my life is worthwhile, that make me feel that I really love and enjoy them and appreciate my life deeply. Morning walks by the northern end of the Monterey Bay, especially now that I can walk on my own without leaning on a cane, I find myself looking forward to with passion. The feeling of potential in any encounter, with anyone, can be surprising in its intensity, which has me looking forward to my day, and also to life. The potential isn’t just for the future—it’s an electric thing that can remain in the present and still be no less moving.

There’s so much to draw us forward into life. What seems to draw you forward into yours? Send your Drabble submission on what feels like it’s drawing you forward into life to Drabble@wvu.org. Here are the Guidelines once more—in summary, they are: 100 words exactly, not including title, sent in by the 10th of the month prior to the month that the winning Drabble on that topic will be published. So, submissions for this upcoming issue are due by the 10th of July.

Thanks for the questions, suggestions, and thoughtful submissions. See you again next month!


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Literary Lights

Priscilla Fagan

Critique or Feedback: Is There a Difference?

I would recommend the cultivation of extreme indifference to both praise and blame because praise will lead to vanity, and blame will lead you to self-pity, and both are bad for writers. John Berryman

This is the dilemma for most writers. Many writing sites have critique groups and, as I’ve seen from experience, most hold nothing back, which results in hurt feelings and nasty arguments. After all, how can you not respond to someone who attacks your hard work? There is an art to critique, or as we at WVU refer to it, ‘feedback’. Nothing is accomplished by tearing apart someone’s creativity, unless you do it with finesse. Writers helping writers is a motto heard among the halls. I can state it best by quoting Emerson. Criticism should not be querulous and wasting, all knife and root-puller, but guiding, instructive, inspiring, a south wind, not an east wind.

Whether we call it critique or feedback, it can and should be instructive and inspiring, not harsh and biting. Save that for the critics once you are published. Benjamin Disraeli said in 1860, It is much easier to be critical than to be correct. I believe this is an observation we, as writers, should all take to heart. So, try and take a closer look the next time you give feedback. Are you just being critical? If so, a rewrite is in order.

We’ve all been on the receiving end of someone’s cruel opinions. Apocrypha, The blow of a whip raises a welt, but a blow of the tongue crushes bones. Keep this phrase in mind the next time you give feedback to an aspiring writer. You might inadvertently destroy budding creativity. Writers, whether beginning or published, have been known to be a tad sensitive. Ahem, yours truly included.

W. Somerset Maughan says, People ask for criticism, but they only want praise. Don’t we all? However, I don’t agree 100 percent with his statement. I do agree we all want constructive criticism and I think this brings us full circle.

So, what is the difference between critique and feedback? I’ll defer to Webster.

Critique: an act of criticism, usually unfavorably
Feedback: (this relates back to the work ‘feed’): support, encourage: to supply (a fellow actor) with cues and situations that make a role more effective.

Well, I don’t know about you, but since I choose to learn, I’ll take good feedback over a critique any day.

Have a great summer.

Priscilla, the eternal optimist


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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

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

Donna Sundblad reaches for the stars, grabs hold of her goal and doesn’t stop until she accomplishes it. A multi-faceted author, Donna writes non-fiction, true-life stories and fiction. “The Fish House,” a true-life story based on an interview with Raymond Rodriguez, Sr., appears in the June issue of U. S. Legacies. A network of fish houses once graced the shores of southwest Florida.

"I queried the possibility of becoming one of the recommended freelance writers and they agreed to use ‘The Fish House’ as my sample story. I composed this story while in the process of gathering information for a book I am working on called Recollections, an Oral History of Boca Grand’ (working title).”

Another first for Donna is writing a children’s story, "Imagine That." This inspirational piece, teaching children how to use their imagination to alleviate boredom, can be read at the Children’s Hood.

Donna wrote several articles on the art of writing that have been published by The Writer's Ezine. Read her latest article, "The Climb From the Chaos of Clutter," in the June issue.

“Writing is something that is just in me. That's not something everyone can understand, but those bitten by the writing bug know they have the gift. A willingness to work at honing the craft makes the difference. Each acceptance is exciting for me. I don't think it is something I will ever take for granted.”

Donna joined Writers’ Village University in July of 2002. She belonged to the Flash Fiction study group until a couple of months ago but is still an active member of Word Slingers, Time Trading Nortonians Rule and The Finish Line study groups.

”I don't know if I can say enough about what WVU has done for my writing. The classes offer specific help while the study groups provide consistent feedback from peers who I count among friends.

“One hobby I enjoy is raising birds. Hand-feeding these new hatchlings is amazing. I'm planning to write a children's picture book I'm calling, My Grandma's Baby Birds.”

At this time Donna works on editing and rewriting her allegorical fantasy novel titled, The Inheritance. Learn more about Donna and her writing at her website, TheInkSlinger.

Betty Kreier-Lubinski wrote Other Peoples Lives, a compilation of short stories geared to bring laughter and tears, triumphs and defeats. Published by ePress-online, a division of Writopia, Inc., this e-book brings together a collection of short stories ranging from humorous to serious, touching upon the joys and hardships of real, down-to-earth people.

Surprised yet pleased to find out that ePress-online wanted to publish her book, Betty said, “I knew how difficult it is to get a book of short stories published these days so it surprised me that Writopia chose this collection to publish rather than seeking a novel.”

An avid reader, Betty loves books by Jessamyn West, Joanne Greenberg, and Ann Rule. Betty met Ann Rule a couple of times at seminars and says that she is as down-to-earth and delightful in person as she seems in her writing. “My early ambition to write just like her somehow didn't work out. I think I've emulated her in the sensitive way I write about people, though.”

Betty wrote her first poem at age six, and her parents couldn't believe she’d written it. They thought she had copied it from somewhere. At about 10 years of age, she read her first writer's magazine and learned that people actually paid writers to write. At that time she decided to make writing her career.

“In my early teens I wrote little stories that Washington Farmer printed and paid for at the grand rate of 50¢ each, and then later $1.00. I was proud to see my work in print but bashful about other people seeing it.”

Betty didn't start trying to write to sell until after she raised her four children. In her 40s, Betty sold a number of confession stories (like true-love and true-experience) and inspirational religious articles. When she retired at age 65, she began seriously working at learning how to write.

“I like people, and I'm a good listener. I like to watch strangers and imagine little vignettes about them. I read voraciously.”

She signed up for WVU in 1998 and became a lifetime member. Betty joined the Consistents study group soon after. “Our study group ebbs and flows, but we've had some wonderful writers pass through, and I've learned a lot from them. I hope they learned a little from me as well. WVU helped me to focus my writing skills and learn how to create the effect I want.

“A writing teacher once told me to write one complete story each week and promised if I did that, by the end of the year my writing would have improved tremendously. I tried it and didn't succeed—but I certainly proved that waiting around for the muse to whomp me on the head was not the way to build a writing career. At the end of a couple of years, I had completed 70 short stories, and no, I still haven't run out of ideas. I wish now that I had been more serious about my writing at any earlier age. I never really believed in my own talent and I took rejections very seriously. Big mistake! Every writer I know who sold a story has been rejected a dozen times.”

Janice Repka wrote The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco, a humorous middle-grade novel for children ages 8 and up, illustrated by Glin Dibley and published by Dutton Children's Books. The book, with a release date of October 2004, can be pre-ordered online at Amazon.com

The story concerns a boy named Phillip, who might be the only kid in the world wanting to run away from the circus. His dad is a clown and his mom is the Fat Lady, and they both want Phillip to find an act that will make him a star. All he wants is to be a normal kid. Phillip finally gets the chance to live with his aunt and uncle in a regular town. But Hardingtown is hardly “regular” —it’s the unofficial Dodgeball Capital of the World where, instead of dodging cream pies thrown by clowns, Phillip is ducking screamers thrown by the Junior Dodgeball Champion and school bully, B.B. Tyson. Thus Phillip’s adventure really begins.

“I joined WVU three years ago and became a member of the Colin R. Onstad study group. I would like to thank all of the wonderful writers at WVU who helped me get my book from idea to print. Together, we can make it happen.”

Congratulations, Donna, Betty and Janice. We wish you continued success in all your writing endeavors and thank you for sharing your information with us.

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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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Deaver

I have a room devoted to books. To those of you who know me, who have heard my, “My name is Wynelda and I’m a book-a-holic” speech, this is not news. Three large bookcases overflow with my books, and yet there are only a few that I would actually deem important to writing.

Building a writer’s library is not that difficult, or expensive. At least it doesn’t have to be. Below are some of my hints of what you might want to invest in.

Dictionary: Most people need a good dictionary, and writers are no exception. Make sure it is a good dictionary—and a high price does not always mean superiority. I once had an expensive, pretty hardbound dictionary that did not have most of the words that I needed it for. I gave the hardback away and bought a paperback one that has been functioning well.

Thesaurus: Have you ever been stuck looking for a word? You know what it means, have the synonyms, but still can’t pull the word out of your hat? A thesaurus is great in these situations, although a word of caution: sometimes it can be hard to find the word groupings that you’re looking for. I often end up in the index, then going to the pages listed. To get around this problem, buy a thesaurus that is in dictionary format.

Grammar/Style: Strunk & White or the Chicago Manual of Style are ideal places to start. They are highly recommended by both publishers and writers alike.

Writer's Market: If you plan to submit your work, Writers’ Digest’s Writer’s Market is a great investment. If you specialize, you may want to check into their specialty market books instead.

Now, gentle reader, you know that I am not too fond of books on craft, per se. If you read this column on a regular basis, then you have a good idea of the books that I keep reaching for: Room to Write by Bonni Goldberg, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King, Escaping into the Open: The Art of Writing True by Elizabeth Berg and Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott. Books on history and genre-specific writing titles fill out the shelves.

Start with a few of the basics, then add your own special spices. The library that you start now will serve you well for years to come.


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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