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 The Writer's E-Zine

 

 Produced and published by the members of Writers' Village University since 1998    ISSN 1521-2639       
20 November 2008
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Craft of Writing

P.R. Nakai

Getting and Keeping Your Money

It happened last Christmas Eve. I had spent the month doing some substantial freelance writing for a client. I was thrilled to hear that he would pay me in advance because he was leaving the country for an extended Christmas vacation.

When I went to the ATM to withdraw money to buy some last minute presents, I learned that the check that he gave me was returned. Not only did I have a negative balance in my account, but I was racking up late fees. Worse, with my client out of the country, there was no way to get a new check until he returned.

While my client's bounced check was distressing, it wasn't the first time I've had trouble getting paid for my work. Long ago, I learned that although I handed in work on time, it didn't necessarily mean the money would follow. Publications and companies declare bankruptcy, get bought out, or simply don't pay. Even if you do get a check, that doesn't mean you are necessarily getting your money.

Thankfully, there are a number of things you can do to protect yourself at every stage of the writing process.

Before you accept an assignment or begin work:

  • Do your research. If you're thinking about writing for a particular magazine, check at least one writing message board. For example, Writer's Weekly has the Whispers and Warnings forum. You can browse through complaints made by other writers, or if you're a member of the forum, you can post an inquiry about a particular client. You can also check the BBBOnline, a division of the Better Business Bureau, to see if a complaint has been issued about the company.


  • Establish the payment and payment schedule right away. As soon as you get the assignment, you should ask the following questions: When will the company pay you? Do you need to sign a contract? What information should be on your invoice? Usually, most clients will establish this right away, but if they don't, make sure you ask.


  • Check your contract carefully, if you have one. Before you sign, make sure you read through your contract. Many organizations that prey on freelance writers often weasel out of payment by criticizing the quality of the work even if they use the piece. Check the contract to see what happens if the editor or manager is displeased with your work. Do they offer a kill fee? If something doesn't look right in your contract, ask your client about it. Don't be afraid to ask for changes or to walk away from a project that sounds fishy.
After you submit the article or work:
  • Make sure you turn in an invoice at the proper time and with all the right information. At the very least, you should have the date, the name of the piece, the amount, your name, mailing address, phone number, and working email. If a client is trying to get out of paying you, don't give them the excuse that the information on the invoice wasn't correct.


  • Remain patient, polite, and professional. Usually, most organizations pay one to two months after they receive your invoice. If you don't hear from a client after the material has been accepted or published, send a short, concise note inquiring about the status of your payment. Think of the letters that credit card companies send when you have a late payment. They usually assume that you overlooked your payment and ask you to send payment if you haven't. They don't contain sob stories about why they need the money or start calling you names because you haven't paid. Take the same tone.


  • Be consistent. If you hear nothing, wait for three to four weeks and then contact the client again. After three requests with no responses, send one last payment request, letting your client know that if you don't receive payment, you are posting a complaint to the BBBOnline and the writing message board of your choice.


  • Be prepared. In most non-payment cases, the client simply disappears. Sometimes, however, a client may start a yelling match over the phone or send a nasty email. When an editor or company behaves unprofessionally, keep your professional demeanor. Again, reiterate your request for payment and post your experience.
When you get the check:
  • Call the client's bank and ask for check verification. This is a free service where the bank tells you if your check will clear. When you call, the bank will ask for the account number (which should be on the bottom of the check) and the amount. This can save you a number of fees.


  • Cash the check. If the client's check belongs to a bank with a branch near you, cash the check at their bank. Normally, a bank will ask for two pieces of ID (one should be a photo ID) and will take a thumb print to put on the check. If the amount is large, you can get a money order or a cashier's check. There usually is a fee, but this amount is small compared to your bank's fees for a returned check.
No matter what happens, keep working as a freelance writer. There are plenty of wonderful and honest people to work with out there. Thankfully, my client was one of them. Upon returning from his vacation, my client was embarrassed that he had made an error in his accounting, apologized, and offered to pay extra to cover my fees. He also has other projects he's lining up for me. Nonetheless, I'm a little wiser about getting paid and staying paid.


About the Author
P.R. Nakai is a fiction and freelance writer. She is a regular contributor to The Writer's Confidant.


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Craft of Writing

Magdalena Ball

How to Write a Novel Amidst the Clamour of Small Children

The best way to write a novel is quickly. So experts advise. Just write it all out, for as long as it takes, without stopping to criticise yourself. It's sound advice, but with young children hungry for attention, and a myriad of other commitments (like a "day job," participating at children's school, various other writing jobs, and, of course, the household), finding long stretches of concentrated writing time just isn't feasible. So how do you tackle a long-term project like a novel when everything else is so much more urgent? It helps if you are just a wee bit insane, utterly desperate to get that novel finished (a lifetime dream), and ridiculously tenacious. Your friends and family will probably tell you to wait until the kids are older, but if you are ready to write now, you should write now. There will never be a better time, and time seems to be a shrinking commodity for parents, regardless of your children's ages. Following are some practical tips to help writing parents achieve that big novel:

1. Chunk it. It's a standard time management technique and critical for parents ("How do you eat an elephant?"). Turn your long-term, non-urgent big project into short-term, small, achievable and more urgent tasks. Break up the novel-writing process into little pieces. The first task is to write out the plan. Then it might be writing a quick outline. Then one chapter at a time. Don't look ahead or think about the big picture once you've got the plan in place, as that can be daunting. You're only writing the equivalent of a short story for each chapter, which is much less scary.

2. Write it in to your weekly plan. Children aren't generally amenable to an inflexible "to-do" list. They have high attention days which don't coincide with your workload. But if you create a flexible weekly plan, which include all of the things you need to accomplish, including your small chunk (or maybe half the chunk, or even a quarter), you will give it the same attention as everything else.

3. Learn to multitask. If you're a parent, you're already doing this, so it's just a matter of extending the tasks. Not only are you working from home, entertaining and educating the kids, making dinner, and doing potty duty, you're also working on the novel. Open it up first thing in the morning, and keep moving back to it, doing a sentence here or a sentence there. Don't wait for a large portion of quiet time or an ideal space. Those things don't go hand in hand with parenthood. Instead, learn to work wherever, under any conditions, furtively, and regularly, with whatever time you can snatch. Even if you only do one sentence, your mind will carry the work forward, making the next sentence easier.

4. Let everything inspire you. Writers notice everything. While playing with your children outside, notice the setting, the way the wind moves the leaves on the trees, the way your children smile, the sunlight shining on their hair. Notice their interactions with one another. Notice your own emotions towards them. Then write the details into your work. Everything is material, and your gorgeous children can be your greatest inspiration. Writing isn't like other types of work, where you need time off (though you may need time away from the computer, to be sure). It's a vocation, and you can "work" while you play.

5. Think positively. Imagine the novel finished. Plan to finish it this year, and smile at the prospect. It may seem insane (and others may corroborate that assessment), but, just like the tortoise of Aesop's Fable, your slow crawl forward will ultimately end with a finished novel, made much deeper as a result of that spiritual wonder that comes with parenthood. Oh, and don't worry too much about quality. That will come with revision. Just write it all out—get the story, structure, and characters in place, and you can clean it all up later.

Of course, once you're finished with the first draft, the long slow process of revision cuts in, and the same principles apply: you have to chunk it, plan it, keep at it in small but regular increments, allow yourself to be inspired (rather than irritated) by the children, and maintain an affirmative perspective. You really don't need an ideal workspace (I work in the corner of the living room on an old converted hutch where I can supervise the kids at play while working) or lengthy periods of quiet (what's that?). Don't wait until the kids are grown. You can write that novel right now, amidst the clamour of your young kids.


About the Author
Magdalena Ball runs The Compulsive Reader web site. Her short stories, editorials, poetry, reviews and articles have appeared in a wide number of printed anthologies and journals including Imago, Coppertales, Drexel Journal, Midwest Book Reviews, Relix Magazine, The Writer and Thylazine. Her nonfiction book, The Art of Assessment: How to Review Anything, is available from http://www.compulsivereader.com/html/images/assessmentorderform.html, and her first novel, Sleep Before Evening, is currently under consideration by a number of publishers.


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Craft of Writing

Lon Prater

Miniskirts & Higher Math: Chapter Lengths Revisited

The Conventional Wisdom

Like many writers working on what will hopefully come to be known as their "early work," I've agonized over chapter lengths. How long is too long? If Big Name Author X got away with a one-page chapter, why can't I?

In my search for the secret of the perfect chapter length, I've covered a lot of ground. I've asked at workshops, read dozens of books and articles on the subject, analyzed the work of highly successful authors, googled every conceivable misspelling of "chapter length" just in case I was missing something . . . you get the picture. So what kind of wisdom did I bring down from the mountain for all my trouble? The tongue-in-cheek list below will give you a good taste; afterwards, I'll share my own personal approach to chapter lengths.

  • The (early) James Patterson approach: One (or occasionally two) flash fiction scenes per chapter. The short chapter model is very forgiving; it allows a writer plenty of room for plot twists and surprises as needed to punch things up. Beware, though: all that white space at the top and bottom of each of your 114 chapters really adds up. A novel with only about 50,000 actual words can run much longer in terms of manuscript pages and printed length than it has any right to.


  • The lit-rary approach: Each chapter should describe a step in the development of your theme, and feel like a complete symphonic movement. What that means: Write until you put yourself to sleep. Next time you're sober and not too depressed about your upbringing/family life to write, start a new chapter picking up from exactly the point where you left off earlier.


  • The Hollywood blockbuster approach: each chapter should include scenes of sex, violence and conversation in varied order. You can't cheat and leave out the conversation either; in this model, talky segments are the duct tape that simultaneously binds and justifies your explosions and lingerie being in the same story. Don't forget to end each chapter with a cliffhanger, then fade in to another character as the next chapter begins.

There's the Best Way, and then there's My Way

I learned everything I ever needed to know about chapter lengths from Mr. Stovall, who also taught me social studies and economics in high school. He said, "Long enough to adequately cover the subject, but short enough to keep things interesting."

Of course, he was talking about the proper length for a girl's miniskirt, not a novel chapter; but the guidelines really do provide all that an author needs to know about chapter lengths. So that's the best way to gauge chapter size. Now for the most obsessive way, or as I like to call it: My Way.

1) Grab a book that you think is relatively similar (in genre, audience, voice and style) to what your final product will be. And if you need one, a calculator. This will call for some higher math.

2) Pick a representative page (not the beginning or end of a chapter, and with no special formatting quirks) and find a line with text that stretches from one margin to the other.

3) Count the number of characters and spaces in that line and divide by 6. (Often about 8-11 "words" per line.)

4) Multiply that number by how many lines there are on the selected page. The result is a fair estimate of how many "standard" words per page (SWPP) there are in your sample book.

5) Now pick two or three chapters from your selected book and count every page (including the first and last this time). Add them up and divide by three to get the average number of pages per chapter.

6) Multiply that average number of pages per chapter by the average SWPP and divide by 250 and round appropriately. The result is a pretty good loose guideline for how long (give or take a few pages) most of your chapters should be.

Note that this isn't a hard and fast number, no graven in stone edict I'm offering here. Just a way for other obsessives like me who find the simplicity of the miniskirt analogy too laissez-faire and unrestrictive to be of any real use.

Other Considerations

In many ways, a reader will subconsciously experience the pace of novel as not just the speed of the plot, but how fast they are moving through the pages and chapters, just as a scene with lots of dialogue "reads" faster. And all my earlier kidding about Mr. Patterson's short chapters aside, the man is onto something: when new chapters keep springing up so quickly, it's harder to step away from the excitement of such a fast-feeling read. Some other thoughts on how chapter length can play an unacknowledged part in setting the pace of your novel:

  • I personally like the first chapters (and prologue) to be short and punchy. Keeping the page count of your earlier chapters at the lower end of your spectrum forces you to avoid writing (well, at least keeping) those long explanatory passages up front; plus it can help you determine if you're starting where the action is.


  • Shorter chapters in the middle of a novel serve to move the action along in what can sometimes be a novel's most difficult section to write and pace. Naturally, shorter chapters are also appropriate at any time the action, stakes or tension is rising.


  • There's nothing wrong with longer chapters, so long as there's enough going on to keep the reader's interest. But putting such chapters back to back can be exhausting. If you find yourself stuck in a long chapter with no hunks of exposition left to prune, see if one of those scene breaks would work as the end of the chapter; or in more extreme circumstances, consider rewriting or restructuring that section of your novel.

About the Author
Lon Prater's writing has earned him a finalist standing in the Writers of the Future contest and has also been Honorably Mentioned in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. He lives, writes and edits Neverary just two minutes walk from the Gulf of Mexico.


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Birdie's Quill

Birdie

Snatching Characters from Everyday Life

The young father shuffled along the sidewalk in front of me carrying a baby while a little girl around three years old walked by his side eating an ice cream cone. The child wore bright pink flip-flops that matched little flowers dotting her yellow shorts. Her chunky legs worked to keep up with her father, but her pace slowed as she lapped melting ice cream. A light breeze blew her tangled shoulder-length hair and slowed her pace. With sticky fingers, she tried to brush away strands of hair glued to the gummy residue around her mouth.

What makes readers care about characters? Believable, interesting characters guide readers into the story's plot and let them experience new worlds tantalizing the senses and stimulating the imagination. Readers need to care about and relate to characters. If they don't care, they won't finish your story.

I noticed a pattern in my writing. Characters exhibited similar traits, temperaments and mannerisms. Why? They evolved from the same "bloodline," generated in my imagination. I needed to shake up my muse and force-feed my imagination.

People Watch
I decided to people-watch with a new motive. Fresh characters surrounded me. You can't get any more believable than the real world. Today's little girl is a perfect example. I've never written a story involving this "character." Original possibilities surround you and me. The trick is to learn to pay attention, to remember the details, to launch the birth of new, interesting characters.

When you walk through the aisles in the grocery store or walk among crowds at the mall, pay attention to the people you see. At some point in the day, jot down the details of one character that caught your attention. In my case, the little girl's flip-flops caught my eye. Catch the reader's eye in the same way. Zero in on a detail like the bright pink flip-flops. If you found it interesting, chances are readers will like it too.

Snatching characters from the real world reminds me of fishermen using a dragnet. You come away with more than a character sketch. You see the character move, react, and even collect a slice of the world in which they live. All of these elements percolate within the imaginative pool of possibilities.

At a time when I least expect it, this child may step onto the stage of my mind directed by the muse. I can use the way she walks, the sound of her flip-flops slapping the soles of her feet, or the way her attention focuses on her ice cream rather than her father. She fits into a myriad of scenarios, but until today in my mind she didn't exist. Now she belongs to a cast of characters waiting to perform.

Not only does flip-flop girl wait in the wings, but vague shadows of secondary characters huddle around her. An undefined father and sibling wait to interact and draw her into focus. When or if needed, I'll breathe life into them.

Keep a Journal
Make it a habit. Watch people. Select one person each day. Keep a journal of characters. Don't write a thesis. Keep your entries short. What made you take notice? Use the detail to name the character, i.e., "Flip-flop Girl."

Note details that drew your attention to the person: lines etching an old man's face, stringy, dirty hair, a shuffling gait steadied by a cane, sun-baked wrinkled thighs wearing a tennis skirt, bouncy hair tied into a ponytail, wide smile, Capri pants on slender legs pedaling a bicycle—each one of these items served as a trigger to generate a "character for the day" in my journal.

Snatching characters offers more than a snapshot; it's more like a video clip. As a writer, your part as the writer is to take the clip and let others see it. When you do, you'll introduce a believable, fresh character.


About the Author
Author and freelance writer, Donna Sundblad, resides in Florida with her husband, Rick. Check ePress-online for details regarding her soon-to-be-published book, Pumping Your Muse. As an owner/editor of Team Spirit Critique and Editing, LLC, Donna helps other writers follow their dreams. Visit her website at www.theinkslinger.net for more information.


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Humor: Torment Behind the Art The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Humor: Torment Behind the Art

Edward L. Flaim

Gone Fishing

Each morning, or afternoon, or evening, I awaken and follow a set routine to prepare for the day. A couple of salt licks, two shots of Cuervo Gold and lime sucking prepare me for the single glass of Berringer White Zinfandel to cleanse my breath, roll over and kiss the corpse of my mummified wife, ten years dead, and thank her for being so discreet about her death that her long-term disability insurance checks still arrive weekly and permit me to write rather than scrunch on a corner with dark glasses, a borrowed dog and a tin cup. She wasn’t much fun alive but is perfect in death. I assure you she died accidentally, slipping in the shower and cracking her skull on the faucet. Why she cleaned the tub with Crisco remains a mystery.

However, this morning felt different. Something was wrong. I decided another Cuervo Gold ritual was necessary, again performed the routine, and threw the empty shot glass at my keyboard. Once again, my throw was perfection epitomized, struck the space bar and my computer too awakened. I guess I worried for no reason. I crawled out of bed and continued to crawl to the computer. I hoisted myself into my ergonomically designed typing chair and reached for the monitor clip-on that held at least one page of scribbling daily from my Muse. I snatched the single sheet of paper, placed my Dollar Store reading glasses on the facial protrusion passing for my nose and read the note. I read it again. A third time. My jaw then dropped in a mixture of shock and fear.

The note was brief and simple. "Morning, Afternoon, Evening of whatever day you finally dragged your butt out of bed. Gone fishing. Shall return when I damned well feel like it. Good luck without me, you imbecilic cretin! Your ever unfaithful Muse, elf."

elf had abandoned me! I was on my own! Oh dear, what can I do, baby’s in black and I’m feeling blue, tell me oh, what should I do?

I thought of those days long past before elf had entered my life. What did I do before my Muse was born? Indeed, how did muse, a simple word, become Muse, an existent entity invariably by my side to help me write? If I could recreate the past events leading to elf’s birth, I might be able to shorten his fishing trip. Unfortunately, I’ve never been an aficionado of thought. I rose from my chair, wobbly, and returned to bed. I nodded off for another hour before again awakening and repeating my morning ritual.

As I crawled back to my keyboard, a revelation of past practices struck me like that errant bus in Speed, a movie that still stands as one of the worst flicks I have ever had the misfortune of paying money to see. I began to remember the pre-elf days and what I needed to do to end elf’s fishing trip early. It was all too clear. I sensed its clarity conflicted with the effort I would need to expend in achieving my goal, but what else could I do?

I sat at the keyboard and stared at desktop icons. Chameleon? No. Eddie Hamilton? No. How To Get L—Definitely no. Stop Watch? Got ya, you little sucker! I double clicked the icon and the world’s most complicated stopwatch appeared. Fortunately, I didn’t need most of its whistles and bells and went immediately into the Simpleton Mode, perfect for this user. But what next? What came next?

Have you ever shot a gun towards the heavens and wondered where the bullet landed? Wonder no longer. All bullets fall within a ten foot radius of me, occasionally even striking me, leading to a loud scream of pain or an insight, a revelation. The last fool who shot at a 747 35,000 feet above him, with no chance of even approaching the plane, hit me on my miniscule—hey, stop that! Miniscule is subject to many definitions!—bald spot, and the reason for the stopwatch became clear. Open up Word or WordPerfect, wait for the screen, set the stopwatch for two hours, and write. Simple!

Sometimes the words don’t come. I fiddle with the keyboard, staring at a blank screen. For variety, I change the color of the blank screen, hoping my Muse will enjoy the light show, and return. Or type a few nonsense words and immediately erase them. Scratch my head, tug my beard, pick my nose or daydream. No matter what, though, I sit at the computer until my computer stopwatch screams obscenities, the two hours are gone and I’m free to leave. This just isn’t my day, I decide, and proceed to do other things necessary to exist.

Occasionally, though, some thoughts will strike me and the words begin to roll like cigarettes on the production line. Two hours pass, the stopwatch screams obscenities, I shut it down and continue to write. Two hours turns into four, four into six, six into eight, on and on until I discover I’ve been thinking and pecking at the keyboard for twenty hours.

My norm is neither of the above. Usually I will commit something to paper before finishing. On those rare occasions that 20 hours pass, I will eliminate much of what I wrote. The point of this article is not limited to humor. It is applicable to all genres and, simply stated, is to create a discipline that works for you. Those days I begin with a blank page and leave with a blank page are no less productive than the days I leave the computer after writing 20 or more pages. I have created a discipline that forces me to write and has thus far worked.

I realize this column is not humorous. However, writing humor is serious business and occasionally we must depart from humor per se and direct our attention to the craft itself. I hope you find this article helpful no matter what genre you enjoy.

Afterthought

In last month’s column, I wrote the following:

I won’t try to emulate the humor of Dangerfield, Buchwald, Feiffer and Trudeau in this column. It’s not that I don’t have the time. It is rather the simple fact that each person has a unique style. I will try to write a brief story on a common event utilizing exaggeration. For the first time, I ask whatever audience I have to do the same and email your stories to me at Ed@wvu.org. I would like to show some of these unique styles by including a sampling of your stories in this column.

Initially, I thought no one responded. I then noticed mail, ostensibly sent to Ed@wvu.org, that was not delivered due to the length of the mail. Could it be that someone actually reads this column, attempted to respond and the WVU address has a length restriction? I hope so, ‘cuz I’d certainly enjoy reading your stories, thoughts, profanities, whatever. If this is indeed the case, please resend your work to eflaim@starpower.net.

Hey! Is there anybody out there?


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's asylums.

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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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Here is this month’s Drabble, on the theme of readiness:

I'm Ready!
by Jessica Michaan

As I sit on his couch watching him work, I try to imagine how our lives together would be: a small apartment in which the kitchen would be his domain; Saturdays with my family, Sundays with his; going to the gym together after work. He sees me smiling and smiles back at me as if to say, "Hang on, I’ll be done soon."

But then fear makes me think for an instant of life without him. And I don’t get sad at all because the possibility can’t even enter my mind. It just doesn’t exist. And right then, I know. 

Recently, I participated in a role playing exercise for a class having to do with communication. My partner, in character, said to me, crying, that she felt worthless. I was, in character also, alarmed, but as we talked, she said that no, she was not planning to kill herself. She felt only at that moment, but not in general, that no one loved or acknowledged her, not her husband nor her children, and that she must be of no benefit to anyone. She didn't feel a part of things, but instead, apart from the world.

I asked her when she did feel connected to life. She thought a little bit, and then recalled times as a young girl when she played the piano in recital, and when she danced in competition, feeling as though she was truly flying. Her face began to soften, and then broke into a slightly mischievous grin. And as she remembered these times, her posture opened up—instead of her heart being hidden and blocked behind crossed arms, it was left open to express the joy she felt. In feeling connected, she felt herself to be the benefit that she is.

What is it that makes you feel most connected? Tell it in a Drabble (story form, not essay). Here are the Guidelines. Send your Drabble to drabble@wvu.org. Drabbles are 100 words exactly, excluding title, and are due by the 10th of the month (so Drabbles for May are due by April 10).

See you next time.


About the Author
Hello, and welcome to Drabbles. I'm Michelle, your Drabbles editor. I live south of San Francisco, with four spoiled cats, near the sea where I love to walk every day. I've tutored English in workshops, classrooms, and individually at San Jose State University, and have worked on the Fiction Panel here at Writers' Village. Comments and questions are always welcome!


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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 broke into a new paying market when The Dabbling Mum accepted her article titled "Redeeming Your Time." Its guidelines state that it takes two months to hear from them. To her surprise, she heard back the following day! Accepted! The article appeared in the January 24, 2005 newsletter.

“I write true stories as well as fiction and freelance articles. Recently, I collected tidbits for a story closer to home. It's about how my husband's parents met. I enjoyed watching my mother-in-law gather information. She met me in the parking lot of a nearby grocery store with an envelope of photos, which I'd asked her to look for. She jotted down memories based on a list of questions I'd given her. Through this process I learned she worked as a nanny at the time she met my husband's father. He worked as a bellman for a fancy hotel in Evanston, Illinois, which she passed on the way to catch the bus home.

“When I received my contributor's copy, I stared in disbelief at the cover. ‘The Nanny and the Bellman’ stretched across the bottom of the February issue of U. S. Legacies in good-size red letters. Excitement welled up within me. I made the cover! The timing was perfect. It would make an ideal gift. Two weeks later, my husband and I took my mother-in-law out for breakfast for her 86th birthday. After we'd filled our stomachs I gave her a copy of the magazine. Tears filled her eyes as she glanced through the pages and said, ‘It's the perfect gift.’”

Donna will have another true life story, “Florida Breeze,” in the April 2005 print edition of U. S. Legacies.

A member of WVU for several years, Donna works as an Acquisitions Editor for ePress-online where she edited one fantasy, and is in the process of editing a craft of writing non-fiction work. Donna’s own book, Pumping Your Muse, is expected to be out in the near future. Donna is also in the process of starting her own editing business. Visit Donna’s website at http://www.theinkslinger.net to learn more about her and her accomplishments.

Pamela Ridley’s novel, Between Tears, to be published by Genesis Press in April 2006, intertwines two murders. Thirty-year-old Andrea bereaves the loss of her sister and is accused of killing her ex-boyfriend. In the meantime, she's engaged to marry the person with motive for both.

Faith holds Andrea's world together as she weathers her nephew being kidnapped and the murder of her sister. When her nephew and his father, Benjamin, return, the feelings she thought she could deny for this man return with him.

Benjamin's a likely suspect in her sister's murder, but Andrea's heart says no. She searches for her sister's killer and at the same time, she falls in love with Benjamin. On top of this, her ex-boyfriend decides he made a mistake in letting her go and has the sex tape to prove it.   He comes up murdered. Will Andrea's faith be strong enough to allow her to face the truth and find happiness between her tears?

“I was thrilled when I found out they had accepted my book for publication. I have to keep reminding myself it's a dream come true.”

Pamela wrote her first play when she was in the fourth grade. She loves words, and how people interact with each other, so stories are a good byproduct of this. Pamela said she loves to read. “I started an affair with books in my youth that is still ongoing. With writing, anything and everything that interests you, has the potential to be fodder in a book. Reading gives you the greatest foundation for writing there is. Subconsciously you absorb what works, what you like and why.

“I've renewed my Writers’ Village University membership two times, or is it three? I forget. I'm a member of the Hemingway study group, but I love how we can drop in and visit any group and no one minds. WVU was the friend I bounced ideas off of. WVU gave me the basics. It's helped me identify my strengths and my areas of need. It was my first avenue into the world of writing. ‘This is called a tag. Your story needs a dynamic opening. This is how you punctuate with quotation marks. This is a scene. This is a sequel to the scene.’ I already had a tough skin, because I used to write X files fan fiction, so I got initiated in the fact that if you don't want people's opinions, keep your writing to yourself, but my favorite part of WVU is the critique group aspect. That is why I continue to renew. WVU is a great place to begin to grow a novel. There are so many knowledgeable, kind and generous people here.”

Pamela learned that writing is a very social business. It requires meeting people and networking and that surprised her, because writing itself is such a solitary activity. She completed another book while using a critique group at WVU; the book is titled Lies Too Long. Pamela is looking for an agent with it now, as she works on her fourth novel.

Joan McNulty Pulver wrote a true story, “Pearl Harbor Remembered,” based on the recollections of her sister, Mickey. “About two weeks after its publication in the February issue at U.S. Legacies, I received an email from them asking if they could put my story in their print magazine. Can you imagine, they ASKED me for permission? I sat at my desk stunned, I couldn’t believe it. I was going to be published in a print magazine.”

“Pearl Harbor Remembered” will be in the April edition of U. S. Legacies. The first thing Joan did upon learning her story would be in the magazine was to call her family and then her partner and friend Donna. They will both have stories in the same issue.

As a lifetime member of Writers’ Village University, Joan developed and facilitates the Worldbuilding class, is the group leader of the Worlds of Magic and Mayhem study/research group and is a member of the Finish Line group which helps her stay on top of things, attaining her goals and completing her work in a timely manner. “Without WVU I would never have made it this far. The critiques and assistance I receive from other members is unbelievable.” Joan is currently working on a non-fiction book dealing with worldbuilding for all genres as well as a fantasy trilogy.

Joan works as an Administrative Secretary for the state of Florida and as the Acquisitions Coordinator and an editor for ePress-online. To learn more about Joan, visit her website at http://www.thewriterslife-online.com.

Chuck Hinckley wrote the stage play, "You Want Chili Cheese Fries With That?" and entered it in an open submission to “A call to Playwrights,” to write a play in reaction to the painting Collateral Damage (a living hell) by internationally known painter, Matt Sesow.

Set in Iraq, a small squad of soldiers takes shelter in a bombed out building, where one of the soldiers has just shot a local man who was helping guide them. He also may or may not have been an insurgent. The play shows the personal consequences of the man who shot him and how he reacts to having taken a life.

Chuck’s 10-minute play will be performed with 9 others at Raymond Shurtz’s, Collateral Damage on April 1st, 2nd, 7th, 8th 9th, 15th, and 16th at Metro Arts Institute, 1700 N. 7th Avenue, in Phoenix, AZ. See the press release at Mr. Sesow’s website at http://www.sesow.com/cdpressrelease.htm.

“My play was chosen among several to not only be in the festival, but it will open the show. I was very pleased and excited to be working with the actors, director and producer. Plays are a collaborative effort.”

Chuck started out as an actor and said he thinks it is a natural progression to want to write. “I am a creative person. I love to create art. I paint, I play drums, I write.”

He joined WVU a little over a year ago. “I am a member of The Write Stuff study group. The classes and the critique of my fellow writers has allowed me to see a more clear and concise way of expressing myself through writing.”

Chuck’s “The Baseball Thief,” was published in T-zero last July. He has had other stories contracted by Rupurt Murdoc's The News America Syndicate in NYC. He is currently working on re-writes for his novel.

Congratulations, Donna, Pamela, Joan and Chuck. We wish you continued success in all of 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
Joan McNulty Pulver, mother of five and grandmother of five, works as an Administrative Secretary for the State of Florida but considers her writing and editing to be her vocation. She is a columnist for T-Zero: The Writer’s E-Zine, a course developer and facilitator at Writers’ Village University and the Acquisitions Coordinator/Editor for ePress-online. Joan has had two short stories published and is currently working on a non-fiction book and a fantasy novel.


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Fiction Short Story

by Judy Goldman

The Mid-Life Crisis of Snow White

"Henry, you bastard!  The attractive, middle-age woman with the stray strands of graying hair wiped the sweat from her forehead with her free hand.  She reached for her second Bavarian cream Dunkin Donut of the morning with the other.  "I'm sick and tired of waiting on you hand and foot; sick and tired of it, do you hear me?”   She finishes taking the last of the clean dishes out of the dishwasher, replacing all available space with new ones already dirtied by today's breakfast, and presses the button marked HEAVY WASH.  "You're not the same prince I married years ago." She turns to face him as she tosses the remains of the morning's paper into the garbage, her hand sticking to the glob of syrup that never made it onto his stack of pancakes.

"Yeah, right," snorted Henry Charming.  "Like you're still da looker dat you usedta be.  Just make sure da batroom is done right dis time.  Da Tidy Bowl man and you left a huge ring under da rim of da toilet last time," he shouted after her as he slammed the garage door behind him.  "You have a great freekin' day too," he called out as she rushed past him on her way to the pile of towels outside the bathroom.

She passed the first of the upstairs bedrooms. The unmistakable smell of sweaty feet permeated the hallway air. "Ugh," Princess Snow White editorialised, bending down and picking up a variety of clothing strewn over the floor. "Dwarf socks!"

She hoisted the overflowing laundry basket up and headed down the three flights of stairs to the laundry room. Huffing and puffing, she tossed in tablets with special whiting agents, while separating the whites from the colors. A few more stray thinning strands of hair fell loosely around her face. She set the dial on the machine to HEAVY SOIL and barrelled back into the kitchen.

The brass knocker on the front door sounded, echoing loudly. It was quickly followed by a slender, frazzled-looking woman. She jogged into the kitchen. She is attractive, also forty-something, dressed in fringed cut-off shorts, a hot pink sleeveless tank top, and running sneakers.

"I can't stay but a minute, Snow. I'm still in the middle of my two-miles." She ran in place while she spoke. "Got any coffee? I sure could use a cup. This extended family stuff is for the birds; let me tell you!"

She helped herself to a mug of leftover morning coffee.

"Where does it say I have to be the one to take care of them just because we're related? They're stepsisters, for cryin' out loud! Where were they, I ask you, when I needed to get to the ball? I don't suppose I could interest you in swapping a couple of old dwarfs for a couple of aging, wicked stepsisters, could I?"

"Cindi, come now. You can't mean that! I'll be the first to admit it. I get frustrated with the little guys from time to time, sure. God knows, there's no chance whatsoever of me ever finding the toilet seat down around here anymore. And you see how crazy it gets here at Christmas time when all the neighborhood kids keep insisting that these little guys are Santa's helpers. Believe me, it's not easy convincing them that they will not get the toys they want by putting all the letters they've written in our mailbox. But we're family and family sticks together."

"You're right, Snow. Of course I love them. It's a good thing I started this new exercise regime, work out the excess stress and all."

She drained the last of the coffee, put the empty mug with the Enchanted Castle logo back in the sink and headed toward the door, picking up speed as she darted from the kitchen. "Thanks for the chat, neighbor! See ya tomorrow."

"Whoa girl. What's da rush? Stay put." Henry bent his tall frame, clumsily pushing Cindy back into the chair she just left.

"So whatcha been up to, girl?" Henry reached into the frost-free side-by-side refrigerator, pulling out a Bud Light. He popped the lid, drained the contents in one continuous gulp, then crushed the can with his right hand, leaving it on the counter in a heap. "I keep tellin' you, Snow, I hate dis light beer crap."

Cindy popped herself back out of the chair, her eyes darting toward the door. "I'd love to sit and chat, Henry, but I really need to get back."

Henry reached for a second can, seating himself at the table. "You're lookin' mighty good, Cindy." His eyes slowly scanned her from head to toe, and then back up, resting at her chest. Cindy began inching backward.

"I'll um... talk to you soon, Snow," she called, running out the door.

"What's da matter wit her? She acted like I had da plague or sometin'," Henry stretched out in the chair. He scratched his stomach and then belched. "Toss me another beer, will ya?"

"Say," he smiled, revealing a space where a tooth had once been. "One good ting about Cindy runnin' out on us, we've got da place to ourselves? No chance of dose seven annoyin' freekin' little guys gettin’ back here before evening, right?" C'mere," he pats his thigh. "Wanna play make-up for that little spat we had earlier dis mornin'?"

Snow filled a glass of water, downing it along with a Xanax.


About the Author
Judy is a lifetime member of Writers’ Village. She has developed her own humor column, "Hey Jude" for SanityCentral.com and has had writing tips published in the E-Zine Writer's newsletter.  Judy has also had a non-fiction piece published in T-zero. She currently lives in the mountains of Northeastern Pennsylvania with Bill, her better half, and their three cats who permit them to share their home.


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved
Fiction Short Story The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Short Story

by Mary Morris

Mrs. Kendall

Mrs. Kendall grumbled from within her cubicle again. Julie tried to shut her ears and concentrate. She was good at her job but right now, she couldn’t settle down. Instead, she dreaded Mrs. Kendall’s predictable behavior. Sure enough, a few seconds later, an untidy mop of gray hair popped round the partition. “Help me with this, dear,” Mrs. Kendall demanded.

Julie took a deep breath. The woman had been on the job for two months now, and she’d asked Julie for help every day since moving into the cubicle next door. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but she never learned, and she tended to question whatever she was told, and get angry when she didn’t understand.

The woman was a constant irritation, and to make matters worse, each day, she barely arrived on time and took ages to settle down. Yesterday, she left early, while Julie caught up on work she’d neglected while helping her co-worker.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kendall. I’m very busy today. I just can’t take time to show you—again,” she added under her breath.

The old woman looked at her in wide-eyed dismay for a moment. Then she slipped behind the wall into her cubicle. Julie sighed. She was soon absorbed in her work and had accomplished a great deal when her email flashed a reminder about the Halloween party. Tidying her desk, she felt pleased. Now she had time for food and soft drinks and a welcome break from the daily grind.

As she passed Mrs. Kendall’s cube, Julie glanced in and saw the old woman staring at the computer screen. Mrs. Kendall’s hands were clenched, and Julie could see by the symbol at the bottom of the monitor that the screen was locked.

“Hit the escape button, then the screen will clear,” Julie called out.

Mrs. Kendall started guiltily. “I think my computer’s bad,” she said, ungraciously. “It’s always locking up.”

“Anyway, it’s time for the Halloween party.” Julie said. “Are you coming?”

Mrs. Kendall looked up in surprise. “Oh, no, dear,” she said. “They never ask me to anything.”

“Of course you were asked,” Julie said sharply. “Did you check your email?”

Mrs. Kendall blinked. Julie leaned over and tapped the keyboard. Pages of emails scrolled down. “You have to check them every day.” Julie opened up the invitation to the Halloween party. “There,” she said. “There’s free food and soda, and we can take extra lunch time.”

Mrs. Kendall brightened up immediately. “You going there now?” she asked, getting up.

###

Pot-roast, sandwiches and soft drinks were laid out in the lunchroom. Julie enjoyed herself until a wrinkled hand clutched at her sleeve. “Come and sit down, dear,” Mrs. Kendall said. “Relax. I don’t know where you young people get your energy from. Mrs. Kendall sighed. “Nice to be able to rest,” she said, for all the world as if she’d been working non-stop since dawn. The perennial frown softened and she looked almost cheerful. “Thanks for the help, love,” she said while sipping her soda. “I suppose you must be fed up with me, asking all those questions.”

Julie didn’t know what to say.

“I know I’m a nuisance,” Mrs. Kendall continued. “But I need this job.”

“You know, Mrs. Kendall,” Julie told her, “you have to listen. I don’t mind helping, but sometimes it seems as if you just don’t want to learn.”

“I do, I do,” Mrs. Kendall said. “And my name’s Amy, by the way.”

“OK, Amy, you have to work with the computer, not against it. There are Help screens, and manuals, and....”

“I know,” the old woman interrupted. “But I don’t have time. There’s so much to do.” She paused. “You know,” she said. “That’s just what my granddaughter tells me. Work with the computer, not against it.”

She smiled. “Bright as a button, that one is. She could use the computer before she could read. She could click on those—what do you call them—icons, and when the little box came down, she knew where to put the arrow. Couldn’t read, but she always made the right choice. Eight years old, now, and she can use the computer better than I can.”

“You sound like you’re really involved with your granddaughter.”

“Oh, yes. I look after her every night when my daughter goes to work at the bar. That’s why I can never stay late.” She picked up a bagel and bit daintily into it. “Sesame seeds get under my teeth,” she said, and they sat in silence for a moment.

“You know, “ Mrs. Kendall said suddenly, “Janet, my granddaughter, could do my job better than I can. Sometimes I think I’m going senile. But, really, it’s a generational thing. All you kids grew up with computers, VCRs and cell phones.”

“So, why did you decide to come back to work?” Julie asked.

The old woman’s face went blank. She stared silently at her plate.

Julie munched nervously on a sandwich. “At least I’ve found a way to shut her up,” she thought ruefully. Minutes went by, and Julie started to get up.

“My husband died,” Mrs. Kendall said suddenly. “There was some problem with the retirement fund, and my daughter, well, she can’t cope. Little Janet’s a treasure, but she needs things, like decent clothes.” The old lady trailed off. “I’m still in good health. I don’t look sixty-six years old.” She peered anxiously around. “Don’t tell anyone my age. I’m in enough trouble here already.”

The party began to break up, and they walked back to their cubicles.

“Well, that was a nice break,” Amy said, smiling. “I’ll finish my stuff up now.”

“It’s really not that difficult, Mrs. Kendall," Julie began.

“Amy,” Mrs. Kendall interrupted. “Sorry, I’m always doing that, aren’t I? I know I’m not a very good listener, except for Janet. I can listen to her for hours.”

“Mrs.—Amy,” Julie began.

Amy shook her head. “I worked in an office for fifteen years before I got married. Made supervisor. Of course, we didn’t have computers then. Everything is so fast nowadays.”

“Amy, maybe if you weren’t so anxious.”

“I know, I know. Stupid of me, really. It’s just that I think I should know all this. After all, I’ve had fifteen years experience. But look at you. You can type faster than I can talk, and that’s saying something.” She stopped suddenly. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Not listening.”

Before Julie could reply, she went on. “You know, funny thing is, I listen to my granddaughter. I suppose it’s because I’m not trying to impress her. She taught me what little I know about the computer.”

They stopped at the cubicles, and the old woman smiled ruefully. “I’ll start on my work now. At least I know how to reset the screen.”

Julie went into her office, picked up her chair and carried it into the older woman’s cubicle. “Watch closely,” she said. “Ask questions later.”

“Oh, sure,” Amy began.

“Pretend,” Julie said firmly, “that I’m your granddaughter. The one who knows about computers. The one you always listen to. You do that, and I’ll start from the beginning, and I’ll teach you once and for all how to work this thing.”


About the Author
Mary was born in Los Angeles, CA (one of the few native daughters), many years ago. She loves to write, travel, and cook.


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Fiction Short Story

by Pat Tompkins

Searching for Mr. Prince

“Where are all the single men?” Margaret’s lament echoed to an audience of one. With marriage, her friends grew deaf to her question; larger concerns loomed for them: weeding gardens, directing home videos of birthday parties, supervising potty training. This December, for the first time, brought no invitations to holiday parties. None. The office party didn’t count. She remembered a time when she couldn’t imagine spending New Year’s Eve alone. At home was fine, but not alone.

Not that she actually liked parties. She was lousy at small talk, impatient with polite chit-chat. Wearing makeup other than lip gloss and a dusting of powder to dim a shiny nose made her feel like a badly miscast actress. She shied away from drawing attention to her bustline or her legs, preferring “comfortable” clothes; a calf-length, black jumper with a dropped waist worn over a T-shirt was her favorite outfit. Why announce that gravity was having its way with her body? In the end, a push-up bra was just a let-down, false advertising.

She sighed as she smoothed moisturizer on her face. Margaret had stopped looking for a husband. She just wanted a good companion, someone to have fun with. Over the years, she’d tried everything to meet men: a course in carpentry, the cycling club, alumni gatherings; she’d volunteered at a wine tasting fundraiser, attempted to learn how to surf, sail, and swing dance, joined a singles dining club. On vacations, she’d gone to a Montana ranch, kayaked in the San Juan Islands, traveled alone in France, and hiked with groups of strangers. She’d even gone to Alaska, where men greatly outnumbered women, only to discover the accuracy of the state motto, “The odds are good, but the goods are odd.” She’d met lots of couples, single women, and gay men before realizing that single guys rarely gravitated toward group activities.

Although Margaret claimed she’d “tried everything,” she’d avoided one desperate measure. Co-workers claimed it worked for them, but she refused to advertise. When encouraged to run a personal ad, her standard response was, “With my luck, I’d probably get a Ted Bundy wannabe.” Even though she knew that serial killers mostly existed in cheesy mysteries, she hated the idea of blatantly marketing herself. To those who claimed the popularity of the ads proved their utility, Margaret argued the opposite: If they worked, there wouldn’t be so many. But New Year’s Eve alone moved her to action. On New Year’s Day, against her instincts, she sat at her desk composing an ad. A simple task. Describe yourself. Better yet, describe who you’re looking for.

She studied the latest ads in the newspaper as a guide to the abbreviations and ended up reading every ad. Aside from variations in age, height, and race, the ads were remarkably similar. Men were romantic, fit, and fond of walking on the beach; they wanted someone slim, passionate, fun, and younger than themselves. The women were triple A’s: attractive, active, affectionate; they wanted someone honest, educated, secure. Everyone was sincere, had a good sense of humor, and enjoyed candlelit dinners.

Margaret met the qualifications for several ads; she was not sedentary, fat, or a smoker, but this did not reassure her. The descriptions seemed as artificial as for-rent ads that transformed a liability like overlooking the freeway into “convenient location.” They reminded her of the help-wanted ads where the “ideal candidate” was a “team player” and “self-starter” who had an MBA, a Ph.D. degree in electrical engineering, with fluency in Japanese an advantage.

How many times had she heard, “You¹ve got to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince”? Forget amphibians. Reminding herself that to get what you want, you need to ask for it, Margaret wrote her ad: “SWF, 38, 5’5”, seeking Johnny Depp look-alike for evening/weekend fun. Enjoys sex, skiing, hiking, concerts, travel. You are SWM, 35-45, employed and able to buy dinner for two at restaurants without 99-cent specials, free from STDs and drug/alcohol problems, willing to use condoms without whining, capable of playing sports rather than watching them, skilled in kitchen, able to tuck shirt in without appearing to be hiding a watermelon, available to go to ‘women’s’ movies, willing to admit occasionally to being lost, wrong, or uninformed. Generous, considerate, intelligent, and talented are pluses.” She almost added “No turbans,” but wanted to be open-minded and emphasize the positive.

Her friends always said she was too picky, but Margaret didn’t think so. As she sent her ad to the newspaper, she wondered how many replies she would get. At least no one could say she hadn’t tried.


About the Author
Pat Tompkins is an editor in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has appeared online in the Paumanok Review, E2K, flashquake, EOTU, AntiMuse, and other e-zines.


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved
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Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Short Story

by Jonathan Boyle

The Dog

The sun’s last rays seep through the window, capturing the seemingly endless descent of dust particles. The distant rumble of afternoon traffic underscores the hum of a respirator. Eleanor Turnbull is lying on her back, a thin afghan pulled up to her waist. She studies the ceiling and dares not move, for even the slightest shift sends bursts of sharp, burning slivers through her bones. Her mottled red hands, curled above the blanket, are little more than useless claws now.

There is a knock at the bedroom door.  It opens without waiting for her invitation to enter, and a young man steps in the room. “Hey, Ma. I meant to check up on you sooner, but I had a few errands to run.”

Eleanor smiles at him. He needs a haircut. With his bangs hanging in his eyes like that, the poor boy is beginning to look like he’s homeless. Tom doesn’t smile back. She doesn’t blame him.

“I got a call from Pam,” he says. “She’s staying with her mother in Midford.”

The news comes as a surprise to her. She knows they had been having problems; she has heard their angry shouts since she moved in. But what kind of woman leaves her husband without so much as a word? And on Christmas Day, no less. Poor boy. The past few months have been especially hard on him, but maybe they’re getting back together. She has so many comforting words to say, but can express them only with her eyes.

“I wish I could say I blame her, but—well, anyway. Oh, your doctor called. I told her to call back.” Following close behind him is a large Doberman, its nails ticking against the hardwood floor as it moves. Eleanor sees it and begins to tremble. The movement sends waves of wracking pain through her body.

“Are you hungry?”

She’s famished, but with the dog so near, Eleanor only shakes her head wearily and tries to offer a reassuring smile.

“Well, you get some sleep, then. I’ll see you in the morning. C‘mon, Goliath.” He leaves, closing the door most of the way. The dog doesn’t follow immediately. It looks at Eleanor for a long moment before finally sliding out the door. She sighs and closes her eyes.

Searing, agonizing pain. Eleanor awakens, a cry choked off by the tightness of her throat. She has shifted in her sleep, and her hand had fallen to her side. She bites her lip as she lifts her arm, trying hard not to bend her elbow or move her wrist. Gingerly she places it on her stomach, her fingers curling inward like the legs of a dead spider.

Once the pain subsides, she’s left to her thoughts again. She knows why Pam left, and she can’t stand the guilt. She can tell that her illness has been a heavy burden on Tom, yet he never complains. Life can’t be easy for him. Someday she’ll make it up to him. She has to. Tears well in her eyes, spilling over and running down her cheeks. She can’t wipe them away and the lack of even this small dignity pains her more than her swollen joints. Exhausted, sleep begins to drift over her like a numbing fog. She is only faintly aware of the click-click-click of nails on wood. Startled, she opens her eyes in time to see the bedroom door pushed inward. A shadow enters, moving low to the ground. Eleanor turns her head as much as she can, following its movement. The dog stops in the middle of the room and sits.

Watching her.

Unnerved, Eleanor is afraid to close her eyes, but neither can she meet the animal’s gaze. Unable to move, she finally squeezes her eyes shut, hoping if she feigns sleep the dog will leave. She waits in the darkness for the tapping of its nails, but there is only silence. After several long minutes, she opens them again, half-expecting the dog to be next to her, teeth inches from her helpless body. It hasn’t moved. Its eyes are still trained on her with unusual focus. Eleanor turns her head away, but can feel the weight of the creature‘s stare. Uncounted hours crawl silently by. At last, she hears the tick-tapping of its claws leaving. She lets out a shuddering breath of relief, but knows sleep won’t come again.

Morning arrives on the songs of birds. Tom knocks at her door again and enters. He doesn’t seem to notice the door is open wider than he left it. “Breakfast.” He announces and steps into the room, carrying a tray. He sits down next to her, the tray in his lap. It’s only now that he notices the dark circles under her eyes. “Did you sleep all right?”

Eleanor glances at the door warily, then shakes her head. She has no explanation for last night. In the past few weeks, the dog’s behavior has grown disturbing. She’s woken in the middle of the night and caught it pawing at her respirator. Her medicine has gone missing, and lately the beast has kept her from eating whenever it has the chance. But it’s never just sat there before. She tries to talk, to tell Tom about Goliath while it‘s out of the room, but she has no voice. The best she can manage are a few dry murmurs. Frustration overcomes her. She tries to gesture, but her breath is taken away as pain explodes in her hands.

Tom doesn’t seem to notice. He picks up a spoon from the tray. “So, what‘ll it be first? Applesauce?” Though she no longer has an appetite, her stomach clenches with hunger-pains. She opens her mouth, and just as the cold metal touches her tongue, there is a crash outside the bedroom. Tom jumps up and sets the tray down on the bed next to her. He rushes out the door.

A moment later, the dog slips into the room. Eleanor’s eyes follow as it approaches the bed. It pauses to glance at the door, then turns back to look at her. Eleanor shivers, reawakening the pain in her arms and legs and hands. She tries to call out, but her voice just won’t carry. The dog sniffs the air, then reaches up and seizes the tray in its mouth. It pulls it down, spilling the contents all over the floor. Strangely, the dog doesn’t begin to eat. Instead, the animal turns and slips out the door again.

Not long after, Tom returns, shaking his head. “I‘m sorry, Ma. Stupid dog knocked over a lamp.” He sees the fallen tray, and looks at Eleanor with such pity she can barely stand it. His thoughts are clear on his face: the poor old woman can’t even keep from knocking her own food off the bed. His shoulders slump, but he begins cleaning up the mess without word.

Eleanor tries to tell him about the dog, but her half-formed whispers elicit no response from her son. Tom finishes scooping the ruined breakfast back on to the tray. He takes it out of the room, and returns a moment later. Sitting down next to her, he brushes a stray lock of hair from her eyes. He doesn’t notice Goliath entering behind him. Eleanor looks past him, watching the dog. She tries as best she can to point, despite the excruciating pain. “Shh, it’s okay, Ma. I know you didn’t mean to.” Behind him, the dog watches them intently. Eleanor looks at her son pleadingly, wanting so badly for him to just turn around.

Tom stares at the ground, his brow furrowed. Unnoticed, Goliath takes a step towards the bed. “I know life has been hard, Mom. I can’t imagine what it must be like, lying here day after day. I wish there was more that I could do. But with Dad gone, well—” His voice chokes with emotion. “Pam wants to come back, but I’m afraid it just won’t work out with things as they are.” Behind him, Goliath’s lips curl back, though no growl escapes its throat. Eleanor begins to whimper, unable to form the words. All she can do is mewl like some pathetic animal and watch helplessly as the dog crouches, its hackles raised. Tom‘s voice drops almost to a whisper. “Your breakfast would have made this much easier, for both of us. I’m sorry, Ma. I love you.” He kisses her forehead, then reaches across to shut off the oxygen, even as the dog lunges at him.


About the Author
Jonathan Boyle is 28 years old and resides in Columbus, OH, where he works at the Fairfield Inn. He first started seriously writing at the age of 11 and won his first contest a year later. He has several books in the works, and has been published both online and in local newspapers. He can be contacted at Behind_the_Mask@hotmail.com


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F2K Story

by Bonnie Roberts

The Saint Valentine's Day Massacre

J.D. couldn’t decide which he hated more, his name or the day.

He scuffed up the sidewalk, kicking snow, slowing his steps as he approached his house. He bet his parents already knew what happened in school today. They’d be waiting for him, ready to heap on more punishment. Probably they’d make him go straight to bed or clean out the garage. He hoped they didn’t make him clean the litter boxes: that would be worse than death. J.D. kicked a white mound, yelping in pain when his boot connected with the large snow-covered rock. What else could go wrong today?

J.D. eased open the front door. He’d crept halfway up the stairs when his mom called from the kitchen.

“J.D., where have you been? Did you forget we’re celebrating your grandfather’s birthday tonight?” J.D. groaned, now he knew what else could go wrong.

He slunk toward the kitchen, excuses already lining up in his brain for the fight at school, for being late, for not wanting to visit his grandfather. His nose told him that the cake his mom was frosting was chocolate, his favorite. He probably wouldn’t be allowed to have any cake, either.

“You need to light a fire under those feet, kiddo, and wash your hands and face. I need to finish frosting this cake, and your father needs to hurry up and get home!”

J.D. peeked up at his mom through his bangs; she was looking at the wall clock. The wooden-spoon hands showed the time nearing five o’clock. He started to back out of the doorway.

“Before you go…”

J.D. closed his eyes and held his breath. Here it comes, he thought.

“Want to lick the bowl?”

His eyes popped open like Jack’s from the box. What? She had to know about the fight. He forgot about keeping his head down and looked at his mom, saw her wince.

“Does it hurt much?”

“No. Does it look that bad?”

“It’s going to be a respectable shiner. Tell me what happened while you work on this spoon.” She held out a wooden spoon covered with chocolate frosting.

As J.D. grabbed the spoon, his mom grabbed his wrist, examined his hand. “You’ll need some witch hazel on those knuckles.” She continued to frost the cake. “Go on, tell me what happened.”

J.D. settled himself in a chair with the spoon. “When Mrs. Staubach left the room, Ryan and Josh started saying stuff about how today is my day, and started making kissing noises. They shoved me into Kristy McIntyre and told me to show everyone how it’s done. Kristy was real embarrassed and ran out of the room. I shoved Ryan, and he fell into Josh. When Ryan got back up he punched me, so I hit him back. All the kids started shouting. That’s when Mrs. Staubach came back into the room.” J.D. paused to lick the spoon. “Mrs. Staubach gave everybody, except for Kristy, an extra report to write. Ryan, Josh and I had to go the principal’s office.” J.D. finished the spoon at the same time he finished his story. His mom passed him the mixing bowl and wiped her hands on the kitchen towel hanging over her shoulder. J.D. swiped around the lip of the bowl with his forefinger and stuck the frosting-covered finger in his mouth.

“So what’s the report topic? The evils of fighting?”

“No, Valentine’s Day. That’s so lame!” J.D. snarled as he took a last swipe around the bowl. “Next time I’m going to get in more than one punch. Stupid Ryan and Josh. It’s all their fault!”

“John David Valentine! I figure you were provoked today, but that doesn’t excuse fighting, and I won’t have any more of it. Understand?” His mom stared at him, hands on hips.

“Yes, ma’am.” They both cocked their heads at the sound of the garage door.

“Finally! There’s your dad. Put that bowl in the sink and run some hot water in it, then run wash your face and hands. We have to hurry if we’re going to get to your granddad’s for dinner.”

By the time J.D. finished, his parents were already in the Jeep. J.D. climbed in the back and put on his seat belt.

“I hear you had some trouble in school today.” J.D. met his father’s eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, sir, but I didn’t start it.” J.D. stared out windshield between the two front seats, watching the house shrink as they backed out of the driveway. It was snowing again. Turning to his side window, J.D. watched the flakes streak by faster and faster as they gained speed on the interstate.

“You get teased every year. When are you going to learn to let it slide?”

“Maybe next year?”

J.D. smiled at his mom’s snort. “Remember, you’re not the only person to get ragged about your name.” His mom spoke over her left shoulder. “Go ahead, say it out loud three times fast without laughing.”

“Valerie B. Valentine, Valerie B. Valentine, Valerie B….” J.D.’s giggles had them all laughing as they rounded the last corner to the nursing home. His laughter died with the car’s engine. “Do I have to go in? All Granddad talks about is aching joints and bowel movements, and he grabs my chin and pinches my cheeks together so I feel like a fish.” J.D. hung back by the Jeep, watching his parents start up the walkway. “And he smells,” he murmured.

His mom stopped in her tracks, snow whirled and danced around her. She turned back to glare at J.D. “You stop right there, kiddo. Your grandfather is a wonderful man who has given you the moon. Do you have any idea what he’s accomplished? What he’s experienced? Have you ever really talked to him?” Snow gathered on her hair, shoulders, the cake pan in her hands. “You should be proud of him instead of whining about pinched cheeks!” She spun back around and continued up the walkway, calling over her shoulder, “Move it. Now!”

J.D.’s cheeks burned and he lowered his head. Snowflakes melted on his neck, tickled, but he didn’t feel like laughing. He trudged up the walkway, passing by his father who held open the door.

“I was thinking about that report you have to write about Valentine’s Day. Why not ask your grandfather for some ideas? You think you have a tough time with it, think about him—a Valentine born on Valentine’s Day.” J.D. hadn’t connected those dots before.

The three Valentines approached the fourth in the dining room. J.D. held his breath as he leaned into his grandfather’s hug, then braced himself for the routine cheek pinching. John Valentine held his grandson’s chin, moving it left and right, a little farther to the left.

“How does the other kid look?”

“Split lip, bloody nose.”

“I had a shiner like yours every year on Valentine’s Day from fourth grade through high school. My mother, that would be your great grandmother, used to call them her purple Valentines.” John Valentine Senior looked at his son. “I remember some purple Valentines you brought home for your mother, too.” He chuckled, while J.D.’s eyes darted between the two men.

As the foursome enjoyed birthday cake, J.D. asked for ideas about his report. His grandfather closed his eyes. J.D. thought he’d fallen asleep when his grandfather exclaimed, “I’ve got it! Let’s go to my room, and I’ll show you some articles you might use.” J.D. jumped up, positioned himself behind the wheelchair and maneuvered his grandfather down to his room.

J.D. was paging through a scrapbook when his parents walked in. “Hey, did you guys know that Granddad lived near the garage in Chicago where those gangsters were executed on Saint Valentine’s Day? His mom wouldn’t let him go outside for a week after the shooting! Isn’t that right, Granddad?” J.D looked up from the scrapbook to query his grandfather. “That was in 1929, when Granddad was my age. They called it the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. Al Capone fitted out a Cadillac with special armor, just like Chicago’s police cars, and that’s how his gangsters got close enough to shoot Bugs Moran’s gangsters.” J.D. turned a few more pages of the scrapbook. “Wow! Dad, look at this! Granddad was in Daytona Beach on Valentine’s Day in 1948 when NASCAR ran its first race for modified stock cars! And Granddad says that Captain James Cook was murdered in Hawaii on Valentine’s Day. You’ve heard of Captain Cook, right?”

“J.D., we have to go home now, you have school tomorrow. Put the scrapbook away and say goodnight to your grandfather.”

“Granddad said I could borrow his scrapbook for my report.” J.D. gave his grandfather a quick, hard hug. “Goodnight, Granddad, and thanks! Happy Birthday!”

J.D. crawled into the Jeep and yawned. “Mom? Can we come back and visit Granddad tomorrow? Tonight was so cool.” He closed his eyes and slept as the Jeep sped home.


F2K: an Introduction to Creative Writing teaches the basics of fiction writing. Since 1995, R.J. Hembree's free six-week course has helped thousands of writers from around the world. Writer’s Digest has selected F2K as one of the best sites for writers.

F2K has three objectives:

  • To help beginning writers learn the basic terminology of fiction writing (a good refresher for experienced writers too). Writers will also find the elements of fiction useful in non-fiction or poetry.
  • To encourage writers to habitually write without fear.
  • To give writers a chance to meet and develop friendships with writers from around the world.

At the end of each session, F2K sponsors a short story contest. Students who post all six assignments are eligible to enter. Each mentor chooses a finalist from his/her room. The finalists' poll is open to the general public for voting.

Read the past finalist stories at: http://fiction.4-writers.com/past-f2k-contest-stories.shtml




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Fingerprints in Poetry - A Celebration of 21st Century Poets The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Fingerprints in Poetry - A Celebration of 21st Century Poets

Writers' Village University is please to present "Fingerprints in Poetry," in honor of National Poetry Month.

This online exhibit was put together to highlight the legacy and ongoing achievement of poets everywhere, to introduce a larger audience to the pleasures of reading poetry and to bring poets and poetry to public attention.

The exhibit features the work of ten poets from four countries: the United States, Canada, the Philippines and Germany. The poets whose work will be exhibited are Gwen Austin, Glennis Hobbs (Glenda Walker-Hobbs), Jeanette (Janice) Oestermyer, Rolly delos Santos, Christine Bloom, Maureen (Mo) Swanson, Sarah Sloat, Lana Wiltshire Campbell, Helen V. Lundt, and Helen Montgomery. These poets are members of the Senior Poets’ Workshop at WVU.

The poetry features a cross section of work and covers a variety of topics from historical events, family life, travel, city life, poetic journals, spirituality, nature, and death. Each reader has his or her own unique poetic fingerprints and the reader will have a chance to find those distinctive fingerprints.

The exhibit can be viewed here during the month of April and is accessible to everyone.


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Poetics Presents

Kimberly Brown

Kimberly Brown has seen her stories published in Dreams of Decadence Vampire Fiction and Poetry, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, Murderous Intent Mystery Magazine, online at www.mysterynet.com and www.flashquake.org, and in a Barnes and Noble anthology, Crafty Cat Crimes: 100 Tiny Cat Tale Mysteries. Her flash story, "Exchange of Information," was nominated for a Derringer Award in 1998. She is also a newspaper columnist for the Northeast Georgian.

A Writer's Haiku

Words tickle my brain,
Crying out to be written,
Waiting to be born.

Vivid scenes unfold,
Dialog, sharp and clear, but
Only in my mind.

My fingers challenge
Black words to fill white paper.
But the words resist.

Dry, stilted, wooden.
Where do my clever words hide
When I need them most?

After the struggle
One paragraph shines, gem-like--
This is why I write.

Copyright ©2005 by Kimberly Brown




T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Poetics Presents The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Poetics Presents

Mary Anne Womack

Mary Anne Womack is a freelance writer and poet who lives in Katy, Texas, with her husband, Milton, and bulldog, Maggie. She is currently a department editor for Katy Magazine, a local magazine reaching about 40,000 families. She has been previously published in Make Me a Masterpiece, compiled by First Baptist Church, Houston, Texas. She has also published a book of poetry, Reflected Light.

Dad

A great good sadness fills my soul
to know that I shall
never hold your hand again or
see that smile
or laugh 'til tears come streaming down to leave us
weak and crumpled heaps upon the floor
gasping for relief.
A great good sadness fills my soul
for I know
within its inmost part
it will hold your tender touch, your crooked smile,
your eyes filled full with laughing tears,
until the sadness fades into
Sweet memory

Copyright ©2005 by Mary Anne Womack




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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).
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  • Text formatting such as bold, italic, centering, bullet list, etc., should be noted in the text by using all caps in parentheses. For example, if you wanted to italicize the word submission, you would type: (ITALICS) submission (END ITALICS).

Editing

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

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

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

Getting to Know You

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

How and Where to Submit

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

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck!


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