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 The Writer's E-Zine

 

 Produced and published by the members of Writers' Village University since 1998    ISSN 1521-2639       
12 March 2010
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Craft of Writing

Lon Prater

The Five Most Costly Mistakes You Can Make—
Before You Even Begin To Write

Every year, a few hundred articles are published warning new writers away from mistakes that range from overuse of the passive voice and lack of sensory elements to odd dialogue tags and the presence of weak verbs. Few of these articles seem to be aimed at helping the newest of the new avoid the most common traps which they may encounter. In this article, I hope to remedy this situation by setting up warning flags over the most hazardous and showing the most efficient routes around them.

MISTAKE #1: Deciding to leave grammar and proofreading to the pros

This is one of the hardest hitting mistakes there is for a new writer, and not just financially. For that reason, I'm putting it first, and giving it a bit more discussion than the other mistakes.

Leaving all those misspellings and grammar violations to someone else. . . . Sure sounds seductive doesn't it? Just write down your story, have a ball with it and when you're done, stuff it in the mail, knowing that any good editor will see right through the tarnish of your typos to the silver shining beneath. Don't bet on it. The weary submissions editor will be delighted to see your first page or two, all right; that'll be enough for him to know he need read no further and thankfully, he will stuff your form letter into the SASE and move on to the next contender.

Where this mistake can get costly in terms of your checkbook is the point at which you decide it's worth it to pay for editing services. While there are no doubt many reputable editors out there willing to work for you, there are also many sharks in those waters. In select cases, it may be worthwhile to have your manuscript professionally edited before submission; but in my opinion these are fairly rare. If you simply must, make sure to do your homework before you start signing checks, and be realistic about what you hope to get in exchange for your money.

But even if you have an overstuffed wallet and the cost of professional editing is no more than a piffle compared to your dream of getting published, there's still a cost: your own improvement as a writer. To paraphrase author Stephen R. Donaldson: There's only one way to write—or be a writer—and that's to figure it out for yourself. Having someone else repair your ailing manuscript robs you of the opportunity to learn what you needed to do better in the first place. If you ever want to advance in your own development as a writer, you need to be willing to do the hard work of learning what all those grammar and style rules are, not just so you can correct them, or keep from breaking them in the first place, but so that you can recognize when something is working despite whatever the conventional wisdom is. When you can break the rules and know deep in your gut that your prose still works for this story—for this instance—that is when you realize just how much leaving the editing to someone else will cost you.

MISTAKE #2: Not realizing that your magnum opus needs to be in Standard Manuscript Format before any legitimate editor will consider it

From time to time, I hear of aspiring writers who have filled up a dozen spiral notebooks with their work. When the reality of having to type the whole thing up again washes over them, they sometimes report feeling overwhelmed at the prospect, and the excitement of writing the story dwindles and fades at the prospect of spending so much time laboriously keying the whole thing in. Some successful writers do work in longhand, don't get me wrong. (Philip Pullman and J.K. Rowling come to mind.) But writers like these know—plan actually—that they'll be rewriting the whole book to get it into SMF, so it's doubtful that they get swallowed up in despair every time they finish a project and see the stacks of pages.

To be clear, here: The mistake is not writing in longhand, it's failing to take into account that the work will have to be put into SMF, and the costs are time, possibly money (if you simply must pay a typist) and the emotional affect of staring down a couple of spiral bound notebooks and assorted scraps of paper which you must convert into a novel of who knows how many pages. Which leads us to. . .

MISTAKE #3:  Not considering the market you're writing for

This mistake can be hard to recover from. Suppose your Middle Grade mystery novel is filled with violence, runs only 8,000 words and relies on an adult to do all the actual sleuthing? Or what if you really want to see your 4,000 word memoir of growing up in the 1980s attached to a byline in Reminisce, which rarely runs features longer than 700 words, and isn't interested in anything after the '60s? Or what if, like two different writers I know (and Tolkien before them), you find yourself with an enormous novel that tells a fantastic story but just doesn't seem like it can be cut into smaller pieces without much wailing and gnashing of authorial teeth? To paraphrase one of these writers: I wish someone had told me how hard it would be to sell something this long before I wrote it.

Without a doubt, there are some aspects of the writing marketplace and its conventions that every new writer needs to be familiar with. Most writers know what they want to write, be it fiction, articles, or a collection of limericks. The smart writers make darn certain that they familiarize themselves with what publishers of the things they want to write are expecting to see. What's kosher and what's verboten within such a work. There are few hard and fast rules here, but it behooves the new writer to figure out where the guidelines are—and how much wiggle room they offer—before the serious writing begins. And if, as in Tolkien's case, the tale grows in the telling? Well, that's okay, too. But at least now you know exactly what it will cost you in terms of revision time and sales difficulties.

MISTAKE #4: Considering the marketplace too much

Sound like I'm contradicting what I said in the section above? Well, I'm not. Just like it's possible to rack up big costs in time and tears by not knowing enough about the broad general expectations publishers will have, it's just as bad to put too much stock in the conventional wisdom about what's selling and what isn't. The biggest literary successes sometimes come to the author who dares to push back the edges of hidebound tradition and write something new, something that breaks the rules in never before seen ways. A writer too skittish of breaking any rules will pay for that fear with every calculated risk that goes untaken and every breakthrough piece that they never write.

MISTAKE #5: Thinking success comes easy

If you are unprepared to do the hard work of creating the best content you can and then improving it a hundred times, unprepared to cut your favorite passages when they do not serve the story, unprepared to spend hours writing when other things scream for your attention and unprepared to face rejection over and over again and still keep at it, then you stand to lose the most. Writers surprised by the effort it takes to reach publication are the most likely to surrender their dreams when the going gets tough.

Your dreams. A high cost indeed. If you can avoid only one costly mistake as a new writer, let it be this one.


About the Author
Lon Prater lives and writes just a two-minute walk from getting his feet wet in the Gulf of Mexico. His fiction has been Honorably Mentioned in Year's Best Fantasy & Horror and placed as a Published Finalist in Writers of the Future XXI. He maintains a small but pleasant web presence at www.neverary.com/notes.htm.


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Craft of Writing

Suzan L. Wiener

How To Write & Sell Greeting Card Verses

Do you wonder how some authors manage to sell their greeting card verses, while others miss the mark completely, or only get an acceptance on a rare occasion? I have sold a number of greetings, and I'll share some of my secrets so your path to publication will be a smoother one. The questions and answers are listed below. These questions were the ones I asked when I first started writing greeting card verses and fortunately, found seasoned writers who would answer those questions for me.

Q. How do I go about writing a greeting card that will sell?

A. Writing a greeting card verse, while it looks relatively easy, takes a bit of practice to get just the right idea. It has to be catchy and catch the editor's and buyer's eyes right away. One of my ideas that sold to Kate Harper Designs was: "You know you're getting older when you've still got it, but nobody wants it!" The idea is that it will make a man or woman chuckle and it has wide appeal. You can get ideas from watching television, especially comedy shows, to see what is funny. Also, by reading newspapers and even conversations with people. Of course, you have to use your own ideas. Always give a twist to the punch line, just like in a joke.

Q. Where do you find companies to sell your greetings to?

A. I look in the Writer's Market or online at www.google.com. I type in: 'paying greeting card markets', then click their search button. You will find a slew of them. You can also type in online: www.thestarlitecafe.com, click to the link, then scroll down to the bottom of it and click on 'The Publisher's Pen'. There you will find a lot of publishers of greeting card companies also.

Q. How do I know what type of greetings to send to each company?

A. Always send for the company's guidelines. Follow them to the letter. If you don't, your ideas may be disqualified just because of that reason.

Q. If I only write rhyming verses, should I try to write unrhymed verses or one-liners?

A. Definitely. Why limit yourself to what you are writing? Who knows, you may have a flair for unrhymed verse. If you don't give it a try, you will never know. You could be losing out on sales. I find it is much fun to write different types of greetings rather than limiting myself to one form.

Q. When should I give up on a company if I keep getting rejections?

A. Only you can decide that. My feeling is, if submissions have been rejected for a year, it's time to rethink what you are sending the company. Something, obviously, isn't meshing. Either you can send out your verses to another company, or rework them, and try again. I always find it is best to send my ideas to another company, wait a few months, and then you can send other ideas to the first company. An editor can move on to another greeting card outfit, and their new editor can love your work. This has happened to me.

Q. What if I'm not an artist? Can I still get my verses published alone?

A. Yes, in fact, publishers prefer you send it without artwork, unless you are a professional artist. Then, it is alright. They have in-house artists to do the illustrations. You can, of course, suggest a visual for it, directly on the card you are sending. They even appreciate stick figures, if you cannot draw, just to give them an idea what you are trying to convey.

Q. What rights do greeting card companies ask for?

A. Each company is different. Some will ask for all rights, others will ask for first-time rights, etc. Also some will send you a contract and others just an acceptance letter. All rights isn't the best way to go, but if you want to write for that particular company, you will have to relinquish them, unfortunately. That means you cannot resell your card ideas at all. When that is their policy, they don't normally negotiate different terms.

Q. Do greeting card companies send you samples of your cards?

A. Usually they do. It's a great feeling to see the greeting that you wrote on the card itself. For instance, I know first-hand that Kate Harper Designs sends six copies of the cards, plus a list of where you can purchase extra cards in your area. It is quite a thrill to see these cards with your verses on them. My accepted verse from Kate Harper Designs even had my name on the front of the verse.

Q. Is there any way to guarantee that a card idea you wrote will sell?

A. The answer, in a nutshell, is no. But, if you keep practicing your verse writing, gear them to what they prefer, make them a me-to-you message, which greeting card enthusiasts refer to as "sendable," you will have a much higher rate of sales.

Q. How much can I get paid for writing greeting cards?

A. Greeting card payments vary from company to company. For instance, Andrews McMeel Publishing pays $200 per acceptance. Oatmeal Studios pays $75, Blue Mountain Arts pays $300 for longer paying unrhymed verses, Peaceable Kingdom Press pays $50, etc. These rates can change and it's best to check each publisher's writer's guidelines. The ones listed are just a few that take freelancer's greeting verses. If you follow the above answers, you should get a better acceptance rate. I have.


About the Author
Suzan L. Wiener has had numerous articles on writing, stories, poems and shorter pieces published in major publications such as Canadian Writer's Journal, Verses, Poetry Press (first prize), NEB Publishing (first prize), Mocha Memoirs, Mature Living, Saturday Evening Post, Reader's Digest, Etc. She also has a love poetry collection up at Lionsong Publication and Reading Destiny websites.


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Craft of Writing

Kimberly R. Brown

Taming the Writing List Monster

It's a familiar story to many writers who are plugged in and Internet-savvy. Taking the good advice of writing advice books, you've carved out an hour and a half in the early morning for your writing. You wake up at 5:30, start the coffee, and turn on the computer.

As the computer boots up, you sip the coffee, wishing you could just mainline it straight to your bloodstream. You sit down, fingers poised, ready to go. But first, you think, you'll check your e-mail. It won't take long, and you need the coffee to work before you start trying to think creatively anyway.

The e-mail starts to download. The people on your various writers' lists have been busy overnight. You scan the e-mails. One of your e-friends is announcing the debut of her first book. Of course you have to send her a congratulations message, since she always sends you one when you have good news. Someone mentions a market that you make note of. It's always good to collect potential markets. You post a thank-you to the list for the market. You read a long-winded rant about the difference between print-on-demand and self-publishing. You've heard it all before, but this writer does have some personal experience going for him. He makes some good points, but there are some things you just have to clear up. You start typing your response.

Suddenly, as the sunlight starts to filter in the window, you realize your tiny bit of hard-earned writing time is gone. It's time to wake your spouse and kids, and you haven't written a thing besides e-mails.

If this sounds familiar, you are probably allowing your e-mail groups to eat into your valuable writing time.

Writers and e-mail lists are a natural fit. Writers express themselves by writing, and writing lists give us a way to do that. They also provide a way to network with other writers, find out about new markets and conferences, solicit critiques for your work, ask for advice about sticky plot points, and make new friends. An off-hand comment or thread can even spark new ideas.

But these lists can be incredible time-eaters too. If you're ready to tame the habit, try these tips:

First, be choosy about which lists you join. You don't have to join every list with "writing" in the title. If it's a list that really sounds interesting, join and lurk for a week or two. Do the posters really discuss valuable writing topics, or is it a chatty group that discusses anything and everything? Those can be fun, but you must make the decision that your writing time is more important. If you're not receiving information about writing, you'd probably do well to quit the group.

Most lists have a "digest" mode, where you receive one e-mail per day with all posts. Use it, if it's available. The list owner can help you figure it out. As an alternative, you can set some lists to "no e-mail" and only read posts on the archived Internet sites. This helps you get away from the urgent, "must be read and answered right now" feeling.

Set aside two times a day to check and respond to e-mail. Once a day isn't enough for a true addict, so you might as well plan on twice. But don't count it as part of your writing time. If you have 90 minutes of hard-earned time in the morning, acknowledge that you'll spend a half-hour reading and responding to list e-mails, and designate a solid hour for writing. Then use your self-control to close your e-mail program when the half-hour is up. And don't open it again. Or, do your hour's worth of writing first, and "reward" yourself by a peek at your e-mail. You may be surprised that once you're deep into the writing, the e-mail doesn't seem so important. Plan on checking your e-mail again before bed, also allowing a half-hour.

When you do start writing, close down your Internet connection completely, if possible. Consider investing in a second computer, possibly a laptop, with no Internet connection at all. A used computer that's not the latest and greatest can serve as a terrific inexpensive word processor.

Delete list e-mails based on subject without reading them. This takes courage, because there's always the fear you're going to miss something. What if someone responds to an e-mail whose subject is "Re:re:fwd:my novel is finally out!" with a new market or writing contest? You just have to take that chance because wading through the many responses to one topic just isn't worth the time wasted.

This one is tough: if you think your online friends can't possibly do without your daily (or hourly) e-mails, try this: don't post anything for several days or even a week. I mean nothing. You'll be amazed that no one notices you're gone. It's not that they don't like you. It's that they respond to the e-mails they see. The point is that all your "friends" can do without you while you spend your time doing something more meaningful to you: writing.

Finally, practice good net etiquette. Show your list-mates how a professional conducts herself online. Remember, some of the people on the writing list may be editors. If you frequently show unprofessional, contentious, or juvenile behavior, it's likely they'll remember that if you submit a story to them.

Here are a few ways you can be a better list-mate:

  • Many lists have rules posted on their websites or in their welcoming e-mails. They're there for a reason. Follow them.
  • Think before you post. Is your response is really necessary? Are you just repeating something someone else has already said? If someone asks for advice and you find yourself beginning with, "I really don't know much about it, but..." chances are you don't need to respond. Let those that really know answer the questions. And, don't respond to a post just to say, "me too" or "I agree."
  • Always change the subjects of your posts to reflect what the topic really is, especially for topics that have morphed.
  • Try to avoid personal back-and-forth one-liner conversations with another member of the list ON the list. Even if you are making incredibly clever and witty comments, chances are other people on the list aren't amused.
  • If you really need to respond to several e-mails, feel free to combine your responses into one post. But be sure to change the subject line accordingly so people who are following a certain thread will read your e-mail.
  • Don't send congratulations e-mails meant for one person to the whole list.
    • When you do post, make sure it's pertinent to the list. Feel free to pass along new writing markets or writing websites, but don't pass along spam, virus warnings, or humor you've found on the Internet.
  • If ten people send you on-list congratulations, have some consideration and respond in one "Thanks all" e-mail to the list. Or respond privately. You don't have to send ten separate responses to the list and your list-mates will be glad you didn't.
  • If you're responding to a lengthy post, delete all but the most pertinent parts. Those on digest mode (which should be you, too, if you've taken my advice) will thank you. Especially delete those ads some listservs, like Yahoogroups, puts at the bottom of the e-mail. But do make sure you put at least a snippet of what you're responding to. An e-mail that's completely out of context will probably be not understood and deleted.
  • If a topic comes up that you feel you simply must post a lengthy discourse on, especially if it's a potentially inflammatory subject, file your answer in your drafts folder and let it sit at least a few hours, or better, until the next day. Read it the next day before you hit that "send" button. Chances are, you really don't need to send it at all.
If everyone followed these guidelines, there would be fewer flame-wars, frivolous list posts, and hard feelings, and a whole lot more real writing being done. You can't control everyone else, but you can get a handle on your own time-wasting, e-mail list habit.


About the Author
Kimberly R. Brown works as a newspaper columnist for The Northeast Georgian. Recently, her fiction has appeared in a short story anthology available through Gatto Publishing at www.gattopublishing.com. She also has a story upcoming in Espresso Fiction and a poem upcoming in T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine. She has been an editor and contributor to Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine, and has been a writing list member of several lists. She can be found on the web at http://www.kimberlybrown.net.


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Birdie's Quill The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Birdie's Quill

Birdie

Moments in Time

I stared out at the pool. Rolled towels occupied chaise lounges lining the pool deck, and awaited hotel guests coming to sun themselves or take a refreshing dip. A mocking bird landed on the back of one of the chairs and eyed the still waters of the deep end of the pool.

“Would you like coffee or juice?” the waiter asked.

I glanced from the view outside the windowed wall to a handsome young man with dark wavy hair. “Both, please,” my husband and I said in unison.

Piano music filtered through hidden speakers overhead while my mind drifted to my novel. Three-fourths written, I’d brought along a hard copy to read on vacation to get an overview and make changes necessary for plot twists added later in the story. I’d hit a sticking point. A character had to be added or changed to make the logic behind my plot work. It was time to let it rest.

The waiter returned with our coffee and juice and my husband and I headed across the plush carpeting toward the breakfast buffet. Fresh pineapple, strawberries, melon and bananas added a variety of color to the stainless steel buffet table. I moved to the hot food and lifted the hood to one of the trays. “What’s that?” I asked my husband. A mystery dish shaped like taco shells but the color of eggs gathered in the bottom of the half-empty tray. I’d never seen anything like it.

He shrugged and we moved onto the next steam table dish. I lifted the hood enough to shed light on tiny cubes of potatoes, followed by trays of bacon and sausage links and biscuits and gravy. I carried my empty plate back to the yellow mystery dish when I noticed a sign on the ledge above the glass sanitation shield: Scrambled eggs.  “It is scrambled eggs!” I placed a couple of stuck together taco shaped scrambled eggs with cheese onto my plate with a few sausages and headed to the table feeling like a guinea pig. My husband’s plate held the taco eggs plus bacon, biscuits and gravy.

The waiter returned with more juice and coffee. I’d never tasted better orange juice. Fresh, not too tart or too sweet—perfect, one of the benefits of living in Florida. I cut through the taco eggs with my fork and took a bite. Not bad, but not good. The tasteless taco eggs needed salt and pepper or more. Humidity collected salt on the chrome top of the cut-glass saltshaker. I sprinkled the flavorful crystals across the dry, overcooked yellow surface. Nope, it didn’t help. The rubbery sausage topped off the dining experience and sent me back to the buffet for fruit. Why hadn’t I made that choice in the first place?

Soak in the Details
I could go on, but this example is enough. Did you ever find yourself in a place where you feel like you're passing time? Waiting to see the dentist or doctor, having your car fixed, or at a sporting event as a less than enthusiastic spectator? Even routine chores or errands fit into this category. My husband and I ended up at this restaurant because vouchers for breakfast were included with our room. He’s not much of a morning person, and over the years I’ve learned to sit quietly and let him wake up slowly. It gave me time to think and soak in the details.

It’s easy to go through life allowing the world to whiz by as we scurry from one destination and responsibility to another. Writers, take up this challenge. The next time you find yourself in a mundane situation, take time to soak in the details. What do you see? Hear? Smell?

The lack of aroma during my recent restaurant experience should have been a clue. No delicious mouth-watering smells to make me rush to the buffet. The lack of aroma easily transitions to food with no taste. One detail backs up another.

Engaging Details
When you train yourself to take notice of details, they flow into your writing naturally. If I hadn’t stopped to take in my surroundings, I don’t think I would have noticed the soothing piano music at the restaurant, towels on the lounge chairs or any such peripheral information like the mocking bird.

“Real world details flood our senses on a subconscious level. Good writers furnish these details with three-dimensional realism while moving characters within an imaginary world with an active voice.” In my book, Pumping Your Muse, each chapter deals with an exercise challenging us not only to notice details but teaches us how to incorporate them in our writing. “Routine sometimes makes us so familiar with our surroundings that we no longer take in the details. We drive to work and wonder how we got there.” The key is finding a realistic balance that engages the reader.

The Emotional Connection
Details not only set the scene but conjure emotional responses. Relaxation tapes include sounds like waves lapping the shoreline, birds singing, or soft music. When writing, engage the senses. Sounds, aromas and other sensory details like the use of light and temperature create emotional connections. Taking time to capture real life moments on paper develops the skill of paying attention to your surroundings and learning to verbalize the experience with vivid imagery.

Take tiny slices of life and capture them in words. Don’t try to write about your entire day. In fact, don’t pick the most exciting event, but instead choose the mundane or routine. Learning to grasp details to describe these situations helps pump life into your writing and connects readers to your world.


About the Author
Author and freelance writer, Donna Sundblad, resides in Florida with her husband, Rick. Check ePress-online for details about her recently released 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

Humor on the Run

Humor is everywhere. It is a product of our daily lives and the element that keeps the gun from our heads. Without it, life is shallow, meaningless, what the existentialists and nihilists would call the void. What Durkheim would call anomie, the alienation from others of our species. Fortunately it arises spontaneously often enough to keep the handgun in its metaphorical holster.

We can all think of incidents, unplanned and unanticipated, that cause us to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. I recall an evening party at Ken’s, which began as a dismal evening for Ken as Barbie had just left him for Mortimer. Apparently Mortimer had a secret weapon, something so long, thick and huge that made Ken’s attractive face irrelevant. We sat in silence, magical smoke emanating from pipes, hookahs and self-rolled compounds, when Kathy said, “Everybody keep quiet. I have to call my parents.”

We were stunned. We hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. First a giggle, then a guffaw, and by the time Kathy dialed her call, we were all in frantic laughter, hoots and “make the call, make the call.”  I wonder why she was grounded for two weeks?

Another example was Mack the Whale. For those survivors of the sixties, or those kids sitting on grandma’s knees endlessly bored by stories of the sixties, the youth population was divided into two groups:  those with hair falling below their asses, and those with enough Brylcream to make their hair touch the stars. We were freaks and greasers. And we did not get along.

I, along with two other freaks, pulled into a parking lot to tap our pipes. A male and female greaser approached; they seemed like good people. We hopped out of the car and engaged in diplomatic conversation, discussing how the tension between freaks and greasers was unnecessary. During this seemingly friendly conversation, however, they repetitively said, “You’re lucky Mack the Whale ain’t here.” We were about to ask about the mysterious Mack when he pulled into the lot with his Whale Mobile.

The Whale Mobile was a fifties Plymouth, stark gray with a few hundred purple glazed dents. It resembled its owner, about 6’ 10”, weighing about 280 pounds, with a few hundred purple glazed zits. We noticed our newfound greaser friends edge towards Mack as he stepped out of the Whale Mobile and they coalesced into a formidable line. We hopped back into our car.

Mack proved as erudite as he did handsome. “Deez freaks causin’ you detress, Flip and Eazy Zipper?”

“Yeah, Mack,” they responded, as if one. “Pound ‘em, Whale! Pound ‘em, Whale!”

Despite, or perhaps because of, a slight alteration in consciousness, I started my car and floored the pedal to the metal, deciding I’d rather spend a few days in the hospital due to an auto accident than a few months in the hospital due to a pounding by Mack. My friends concurred and we headed the fifteen miles to downtown Bethesda.

While I was negotiating the many country curves, my friends were throwing every object within the car at the pursuing Mack, Flip and Eazy Zipper. Cans, bottles, tools, even ripping off a few interior decorations. At one point Mack cut us off, and all three came running towards our car. Thank God for the ignorant, forgetting we had a reverse gear, for as soon as they reached the car, I slammed the car into reverse, staring at their befuddled faces, before again hitting first and flying away. We led them on a chase into Bethesda, running all red lights with our horn honking, before pulling in front of a gray masonite building, hopping out and running within. As we assumed, Mack and friends followed us in. We then screamed, “Arrest these people, officers! They’re trying to kill us!”

Mack, Flip and Eazy Zipper screeched to a halt when they realized we had led them to the cop shop. The cops surrounded them, as well as us, and led us to separate rooms. We were released within minutes of questioning. Considering Mack’s command of the language, I assume they are still there, with the exception of Eazy Zipper, who married the Captain and is mistress to all the lieutenants.

The lesson to be learned? Humor surrounds us. We cannot escape it, and thank the powers that be that we can’t. Without such incidents, events, accidental encounters and odd scenarios, I doubt if we could survive with any semblance of sanity. Such inanities break the monotony of our daily 9 to 5 jobs, school days or panhandling.

I miss the days when superhighways did not embrace the landscape and the monotony was alleviated by spaced signs ending with Burma Shave. Does Burma Shave even exist these days? Or have the corporate giants reduced it to a gnat’s eye? The days when a stranger in town was viewed not with suspicion but a “Howdy.”

I shall never forget a cross country trip taken on the spur of the moment, when three of us awakened in our communal house and said, “California or Bust!” We hopped in Paul’s ever reliable VW Bug. Ever reliable, that is, if you propped up the rear engine hood with a log to keep it from overheating. We arrived at a campsite in Casper, Wyoming, adjacent to a public park where the Democrats were holding a picnic. A woman immediately invited these three disheveled, long-haired hippies to the picnic, filling us with hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, all the elements inherent in a picnic, and after some trepidation about our ages, even poured the wine. When the picnic was over, she packed the remaining food, which consisted of dozens of hot dogs, quarts of potato salad, everything that remained. We thanked her but couldn’t resist the question. “Why are you doing all this for complete strangers?” A part of our East Coast mentality, TANSTAAFL—There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch. She smiled both kindly yet worried, saying she had a son on the road and hoped that people were helping him as she was helping us. We returned her smile and said we were certain her son was fine.

Later, a Child of the Sixties our age approached us. She handed us an address and a combination. “This is my family’s cabin about three hundred miles west from here and the combination to the lock. Make yourselves at home.” She turned and walked away.

Wow, we thought. What had started out as a humorous lark had turned into a profound insight into human nature. That is what humor is. A profound insight into human nature. What makes us laugh is a true reflection of who we are.


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.


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

by Virginia G. McMorrow

A Dose of Practicality

Keri Ferness pushed her glasses back on the bridge of her nose and stared through the doorway. The college senior's mouth fell open as she watched an all-too-familiar woman lift a bracelet from its velvet wrapping on the Dean of Students' desk and pocket it.  Keri suppressed a shout and pressed her body against the wall. Dana Patterson, the ethics professor and Keri's mentor, grinned and exited the office.

"Now what should I do?" Keri hid her shaking hands in the pockets of her slacks. "I'm supposed to lead a discussion on ethics. Great."

Upon entering the classroom, Keri heard a shout down the corridor.  Her classmates looked up and she froze as her white-knuckled hands gripped the doorframe. "I'll just go make sure no one's in a fistfight." Keri retraced her steps and observed a growing crowd of curious students and professors.

"Someone has taken Dean Scolcroft's birthday gift." Professor Patterson's expression grimaced. "It was a beautiful bracelet from her fiancé, Fred." The professor scanned the crowd and noticed Keri's confusion, but said nothing more.

"What am I going to do?" Dean Scolcroft wailed. Her auburn hair appeared tousled and tears welled in her green eyes..

"Why weren't you wearing it?" Professor Patterson asked, as she handed the red-faced dean a tissue.

"I had every intention of putting it on my wrist. I was distracted by a student." The dean blew her crimson nose, sounding very much like a marauding elephant crashing through the jungle. "I only stepped out for a moment."

"All that was needed." Professor Patterson met Keri's wary eyes across the crowd. "We'll search the entire school." Her fingers drifted across the pocket of her vest, "Don't tell Fred yet. The bracelet may reappear." Professor Patterson smiled reassuringly. "Tell him you love the bracelet, love him, love the world. But no hint that a thief came by. As for the rest of you," she admonished the crowd, "go back to class." She waved them away in impatient dismissal as the dean blew her nose again and  drifted to her office.

Keri didn't move.  She gazed at her mentor, who, up until now, Keri admired and respected.

"Horrible business," Professor Patterson whispered, shook her head and glanced at the dean's retreating back.

"Nasty."

"Can't imagine a thief among people we know so well."

"I know." Keri shrugged and studied the older woman's bland features. She wondered how the professor could lie and be so calm.

"But?" Professor Patterson's stare met Keri's.

"I have to think it through. I'd better go. I'm leading a group discussion on ethics." Keri edged away, thought for a moment, and paused. "Do you think anyone would have taken the bracelet as a prank?"

Keri's mentor pressed her lips together. "Has the dean been bothering anyone?"

"No, though she does tend to be melodramatic, which drives some people crazy. But in this case, she has a legitimate excuse. I wouldn't want to be in her shoes." Keri shoved her glasses back on her nose. "Maybe the thief was jealous."

Professor Patterson chuckled. "Don't think so hard," she teased the young student. "Go discuss ethics with your class."

"But this incident is all about ethics, isn't it?"

"I suppose." The professor nodded. "Now go on, you're already late."

Keri's heart pounded in her chest as she held back rising outrage. She'd known the professor since her first day of classes, three-and-a-half years earlier, and in all that time, Dana Patterson appeared completely honorable. Had all that moral integrity been a sham? Disheartened, Keri shuffled back to class.

"I suppose you've heard?" Keri addressed her classmates. The pounding in her chest eased as she opened the window and inhaled. "A bracelet has been stolen. Unknown to the thief, someone saw the theft take place. Does the witness tell?"

"Absolutely." Harry, always eager to voice his opinion, launched into the debate.

"Why?" His best friend, Marty, challenged.

"Because the witness knows who's guilty."

"What if the thief had a good reason?"

"What could possibly be good enough?" Keri interjected.

"Maybe the thief knows the bracelet was stolen from someone else. And maybe," Marty argued, "the witness wants to keep an eye on the thief or the victim."

"Spying," Keri murmured, as she recalled her earlier behavior.

"For a good reason. The witness has a responsibility to see justice done," Marty persisted.

"My point exactly!" Harry jumped back into the argument and nudged Marty. "But the witness can do that without tattling, by stealing the bracelet back and returning it to the owner without anyone knowing the truth."

Keri nodded. "What if the witness knows the theft was totally out of character and that there must be something more behind it?"

Harry smiled and looked at the other students. "The witness has to confront the thief and demand the truth."

Keri's gaze wandered out the window to the lawn. Professor Patterson and Dean Scolcroft were walking together and appeared deep in conversation. "And if the thief lies?" she asked softly. "Wouldn't it destroy the relationship?"

Harry asked, "How can friendship exist without honesty?"

After class, Keri grumbled to herself. "Should I return the bracelet with no one the wiser? Should I tell Dean Scolcroft the truth? Or? Or what?"  Keri marched down the corridor to Professor Patterson's office.

The door opened before Keri knocked.

"What if I were the thief?"

"If I don't know your footsteps by now," the professor gestured to a chair. "How was class?"

"Interesting," Keri said quietly. "Did the bracelet reappear?"

"Not yet."

"It could be anywhere. In a purse or a pocket or buried in a flowerpot."

"I was hoping to rattle the thief."

"I've a feeling this particular thief isn't easily frightened."

"Why?"

The professor adjusted the soft silk of her vest as she leaned back in her chair. Keri wondered if the bracelet was still inside. She fought back an urge to reach over and dip her fingers into that pocket. "Intuition. It could be anyone. Even me."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Think about it. The ethics professor is my mentor, and I lead a weekly discussion on the subject. Who would suspect me?"

Professor Patterson's lips tightened in a frown. "No one, Keri, and not because you're my student, but because you're honest. What would you do if you saw the thief stealing the bracelet?"

"I suppose I'd report the thief," Keri murmured, as heat crept up her neck.

"And if the thief was someone in authority?"

"I'd still do it, but I'd confront the thief first, though it might be difficult."

Professor Patterson narrowed her eyes. "Now I've got one for you. What if I were the thief?" Her lighthearted laugh surprised Keri and she wobbled to maintain balance.

Keri struggled to restrain the burning urge to flee. "Now who's being ridiculous?"

"Indulge me."

Keri scowled. "I suppose I could ask you why you stole the bracelet, and give you the chance to explain your actions."

"Fair enough. But I could lie."

"And I could take the bracelet and return it without you or the dean knowing it."

Professor Patterson leaned forward and her eyes widened. "But then you'd be interfering in my personal responsibility. I might decide to steal the bracelet again."

Keri sagged back onto the comforting softness of the chair. "I think someone else should lead the discussions from now on. There's really no absolute right answer." She pushed her glasses back on her nose. "The right answer is what I believe to be right."

"Precisely. Now what would you really do?"

Keri tried to interpret her mentor's expression, reacting to the subtle change in tone. "Confront you."

The older woman smiled. "Then why don't you?"

Keri's jaw dropped as the professor reached into her vest pocket and tossed the bracelet onto Keri's lap. Battling disbelief, discomfort, and distress, Keri stammered, "Why?"

"To teach you a lesson."

"I don't understand."

Patterson chuckled. "I have a responsibility to be sure that my students understand ethics. You're an excellent student, but I felt it necessary to inject a dose of reality into your theory, to shake you up a little, and remind you that people struggle with ethical problems all the time."

"You set me up."

"When the bracelet arrived, I heard your footsteps down the hall and set my trap."

"And hooked me nice and neat. Does the dean know?"

"No, but I will confess. Unless," the older woman grinned, "you'd rather tell her and see justice done."

"Oh, no," Keri laughed, "that's your personal responsibility. I wouldn't dream of interfering."


About the Author
Virginia G. McMorrow has worked as an editor/writer for 17 years. With three fantasy novels released by Archebooks Publishing, she is also the author of several published mystery and fantasy stories. Visit Virginia online at http://www.virginiamcmorrow.com.


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

by Daniel Marshall Wood

Early Departure

"They sent me a key," the old man announced.

I squinted and looked around the dark vaulted Siena marble lobby of a downtown Toledo office building. We were the only ones in the silent tomb-like space and he almost blended into a faded Art Deco mural.

I promised my accountant I'd bring my tax stuff early this year. I lied. Here it was April 14—again. She'd be furious, but she'd file for an extension—again.

"They sent me a key," he said again.

"For what?"

"For the elevator. They're on the eleventh floor. I'm not sure how it works, though."

"Perhaps I can help." The elevator doors opened and the old man, dressed in a clean, but outdated navy pinstripe suit, grey felt hat and dark glasses, shuffled into the gilded cage. He fumbled with a small key on a large brass ring. I guided his gloved hand to the appropriate keyhole on the panel.

"They sent a Lincoln to bring me here," he said. "I always drove Lincolns, until I failed the eye test." He prattled on about a 1962 Lincoln four-door convertible he'd driven across the country. I'd always been more of a Chrysler guy, even sticking by them during the bad days of the 70s.

The slim brass arrow of the floor indicator clicked to six—my floor. After the heavy, carved door slid open, the man touched my shoulder. "Would you mind going up with me? I'm not sure what to expect when I get there," he said.

I sighed and stepped back into the cab. What's a few more minutes to my accountant?

The old man and I exited the elevator on the eleventh floor. An unpolished brass sign on the lone door read, "T. D. W." Smaller letters below said "Receiving Only."

"Oh, Mr. Castigliano, we've been expecting you. Come in and we'll begin the process." The receptionist, a polished woman in her mid-30s, pointed the old man toward a worn green velvet chair. "Please be seated." She reminded me of one of my four ex-wives, long since discarded, and a thousand miles away.

She turned to me and smiled. "Mr. Rumsford, we weren't expecting you for quite some time, but we can take care of your matter early. No problem whatsoever." Her voice rang cool and practiced.

How could she know my name? I'd never been here and didn't know her from Adam. Or Eve.

"Let me see if I have your details correct." She tapped a few keys on her computer. "Rumsfeld. No, that's someone else we're expecting. "Here you are. Keith Rumsford of 17 Larkspur Lane."

The address of a tree-lined lot in a new development at the city's edge entered my brain. I looked at it last week with the thought of building my retirement home on the site—but not for at least five more years. I said nothing to her, however, and glanced away. Mr. Castigliano waved goodbye as a tall, thin man dressed in black led him down a hallway.

I waved back to my new friend. "Sweet old man," I said to the receptionist.

"Not at all what he seems. In his heyday he was quite the devil himself. Mr. Castigliano knows where the bodies are buried. But so do we, of course." She laughed. "Now back to you, Mr. Rumsford."

"I don't know what you mean. I only accompanied the old man because he needed some assistance."

The receptionist continued. "You are here about ten years sooner than we anticipated, but we'll manage. Early arrivals—or departures, whichever word you prefer—are easily arranged. And rather refreshing. Because of your slip-up I'll get a bonus this month for exceeding my quota."

"You must have me confused with someone else. Please excuse me." I turned away.

"Mr. Rumsford, listen to me." Her tone was soft but insistent. "Didn't you see the sign? It says 'receiving only.' Once you're here, you can't leave."

Her forceful words stung my nerves and my heart pounded. I ran to the door, but found no knob. I pushed several times, but the heavy mahogany slab didn't budge.

My energy drained and I turned back to her. "Exactly where am I? What is…what is "T. D. W.?"

"I thought you knew. But, of course, you're early. This is The Devil's Warehouse."

"The Devil's Warehouse?" I repeated.

"Looks like a normal office suite, doesn't it? That's part of the fun, if you ask me." The receptionist smiled. "Unexpected details to spice up the final journey. We've modernized the system. Branch offices expedite shipment to headquarters, or Fire Island, as some of us call it. Helps to have a sense of humor, don't you think?"

"There must be some mistake," I protested. "Please let me leave."

"Not possible."

"Why me? I haven't done anything too wrong."

"Oh, Mr. Rumsford, of course you have, though it's a matter of judgment. Think about it. Thirty thousand of one company's funds here, a hundred thousand from an unsuspecting mark there, and pretty soon that illegal Swiss account really amounts to something. And then there are the tax forms that don't quite—how should I phrase it?—provide enough detail. Shall I continue?"

"What if I pay it back, pretty lady?" I smiled and moved closer to her. "With interest." I spoke softly and winked. "And a cut for you, sweetie."

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Rumsford. You no longer have a choice. If we'd realized you were coming, we'd have sent a car for you, too. A Chrysler, of course. We do so want the sendoff to be special."

I thought for a moment. "Mr. Castigliano. What did he do?" I looked around for a back exit. I had to get out. Never be nice to an old man.

"Mob connections," she confided. "The family, as they call themselves. This branch's largest category, in fact, though lawyers are a close second."

The man in black strode toward me. "Mr. Rumsford."

"No, wait. Please." Desperation crawled through me as he touched my hand. "Isn't there some way out of this?" I pleaded, and lost my battle to withhold tears.

"Keith Rumsford, you're under arrest for embezzlement and fraud. Anything you say can and will be—" Before I could struggle, my hands were cuffed.

The hall door opened and Mr. Castigliano, no longer the old man from the lobby, entered the room and sprinted to my side.

"What's going on?" The receptionist pulled off a wig and glasses, revealing the auburn hair and glowing face of my ex-wife, Katrina. "What the…?"

"Keith, you old bastard, it's an FBI sting. This is Marco Castigliano—he heads the local office. After you ran off with my investments—and my best friend—I was thrilled to cooperate." Katrina's smug smile told me it was payback time.

"Katrina's been a godsend in arranging the theatrics," Mr. Castigliano said. "An ex's revenge is our best secret weapon." He removed his hat and revealed a full head of dark hair. Under the heavy make-up stood a handsome, angular-faced man in his 40s.

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

"Your accountant. She said you'd show up just before the deadline. I've been hanging around the lobby the past few days. She'll testify against you too."

"What about, uh, Larkspur Lane?" My voice cracked as steel cut into my wrists.

"The real estate agent divulged details about the showing. We've been investigating you for quite some time, Mr. Rumsford. Tapped your phone, intercepted your mail, hacked into your computer. You've been a busy boy."

"And a very bad one," my ex admonished. "I really want to send you to the hell you deserve."

"You have. I'll be in of some kind of hell the rest of my life." Early departure to Fire Island from The Devil's Warehouse might have been the better option.


About the Author
Daniel Marshall Wood leads a double life. He is proprietor of Edgefield bed & breakfast in Sharon Springs, New York, part of the year, and an executive assistant in New York City the other part. His short stories have appeared in Reflections Edge (May 2005) and HandHeld Crime. Daniel also leads a double life as twin to the five-minutes-older David Michael (who never lets him forget it).


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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Fiction Short Story

by Ann Hite

More Than Survive

Sharon decided the first day of school that Steve would be hers. Not only was he a brain, he was the star quarterback. All the cheerleaders fought for his attention.

"What you need is a good screwing." Steve laughed in Sharon's face.

"You're mine, understand, hot boy? I'll kill anyone who looks at you. Got it?"
       
Steve pushed past her. Sharon looked around at the kids in the hall. "Anyone, I mean anyone who messes with my boyfriend answers to me!" She walked away.

Sharon and her older sister Connie blew into our school the fall of 1971. Both had reputations. So rapid were the rumors surrounding the pair, the talk reached me weeks before the first day of school.

"She'll kill them." Tish whispered in my ear. Tish and I weren't really friends; she lived in the same apartment complex as me. "Her older sister, Connie, sleeps with every boy she meets. Her hair is bleached yellow with black roots. You know the type. She smokes one cigarette after another. And, she fights hard and dirty like a guy. Each school she's attended kicked her out for fighting. The last girl she fought went to the hospital, and Connie went to jail. She's sixteen."

I stood on the fringes of the crowd and tried to imagine Sharon, a softer version; maybe deep down she was an artist. No one was that bad. "How do you know all this stuff?"

"That's your problem, Ann. You question everything. Then, you write your stories. It's really stupid. That's why boys don't like you because you think you're so smart."

"I do not!"

I managed to stay clear of both sisters until two weeks after school began. It was raining and I ducked into the breezeway between buildings. Sharon stood square in front of me.

"What kind of shirt is that?" She pointed at my shirt. Her hair resembled her sister's and her jeans were at least two inches too short.

I had on my t-shirt with a bright yellow smiley face. Sweat broke out on the back of my neck. "A stoned tennis ball."

Sharon's face contorted for a moment and a smile appeared. "Yeah, I like that. I thought you were one of those cheery cheerleader types. You know. Gross."

"Nope, not me."

"Me either." She crossed her arms over chest. "You write stories."

"Yeah." Damn Tish and her mouth.

"I paint. You know, like pictures. I guess that's stupid."

"No stupider than writing stories."

"Cool." She pushed past me. I watched her. Her sneakers had a hole, which exposed one red painted toenail.

If for some reason I was lulled into accepting Sharon, my mind changed two afternoons later when I witnessed the power of the two sisters. It was Connie's habit at each school—like the alpha dog claiming his territory—to challenge the toughest girl. In our school's case, it was Mel, known for her wildness, drug use, and her thick bushy black hair. News spread that the fight would take place outside of B building. This was as far as the offenders could get from the principal's office without leaving school grounds. Traditionally, a fight had to take place on school property to count as a real fight.

When sixth period bell rang, kids ran to reach the appointed place. Connie and Mel stood face to face, circling. I saw them as grown women eons ahead of me. Sharon stood on the edge of the crowd, watching. For a moment, each girl sized the other up. Fear in Mel's eyes brought Connie's wrath. Connie went for her throat and hair, clawing and punching, ripping clothes. Mel's breast was exposed to all the boys' delight. The fight was over in all of four minutes. A football coach stepped in the middle and held each girl by the hair of the head, guiding them to the office. After the crowd broke up, a wad of Mel's hair blew in the breeze, rolling across the dirt. Cold chills ran across my scalp.

Two days later in English class, Steve, macho quarterback, winked at me. My heart beat in my throat. Steve was winking at me, just plain old Ann. I kept my head and ignored him. The girls in class saw only the wink. By lunchtime the whole eighth grade class was buzzing.

"God, Ann! Are you stupid?" Tish grabbed her tray from the counter. "Flirting with Steve! You have a death wish!"

My lunch was always tasteless, but on that day, it seemed gummy and tough to swallow. Sharon stormed into the lunchroom still wearing the old sneakers. After scanning the room, her eyes came to rest on me. She came and stood right in front of me.

"You stupid little bitch! I should kill you right here, but my stepfather is picking me up early so meet me tomorrow behind B building." She stared me down.

I looked her in the eye as my fork shook in my fingers.

"If you're not there, I'll come find you. Got it?"

"I'll be there." My voice was strong and steady unlike the thoughts racing in my head. The lunchroom was silent until Sharon left.

"You might as well run away." Tish shook her head, gathered her tray, and left.

Yeah. I was dead.

I waited for Mother to come home to our dark, cramped apartment. Since Dad left—if the truth was told it made him leave—Mother had been unstable, nuts, insane. Each night held some new drama. If I washed the dishes, they were not clean enough and she dumped them all back into the sink. If a plate or glass broke in this process, she beat me. If I cleaned the floors, she screamed about a dust bunny found under the sofa. If my brother was late coming home from his friend's, I was punished because I was the oldest. On this evening, I just wanted help from her. I wanted her to protect me from Sharon. I wanted some magic.

Promptly at six, the door opened and Mother walked in the kitchen. The deep creases on her forehead told me her day was worse than most. I looked at the few dishes on the counter and cursed myself for not washing them.

"Damn, Ann! Couldn't you wash dishes and fix some supper?" She slammed her purse onto the square table. "One day you'll wish you had me around. You'll regret treating me this way. One day you'll be all alone."

"Mom?"

"Get a can of beans out of the pantry."

I took a deep breath. "Mom, I need to talk to you."

"What? I hope to hell you're not in trouble."

"No. I need your help."

"Get a pack of hotdogs out of the freezer."

"This tough girl wants to beat me up. I'm afraid. What can I do?"

"I'll tell you one thing, young lady, if you get in trouble at school, I'll beat your ass worse than any silly girl. Do you understand?" She plopped into a kitchen chair and pushed off her loafers. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes." Tears stung my eyes.

"I won't put up with those county people again. Do you want them to take you away? All it will take is one more thing. One more. They accused me of beating you. A mother has the right to discipline her child. If you do one more thing to get their attention, they'll take you."

Part of me wanted to scream. The bruises she left were proof of the wrong. What had she expected, my teachers were blind? "Forget it."

"Where is your brother?"

 So it was.

The next day I consider skipping school, but decided Mother's beating would be just as bad, maybe worse, and Sharon would just fight me when I returned. I had to face her. How bad could it be? I would be hurt, maybe go to the hospital, but I'd survive. All day people watched me like I had some kind of disease, and I guess in a weird way I did. At three I would be one of the most watched girls at the school. Somehow I never imagined popularity going to those extremes.

When the bell ran signaling the end of sixth period, I walked like a person going to meet her death, one slow step in front of the other. Tish stood up front for a good view. What a friend! Connie stood at the edge of the crowd, watching her sister and sneering at me. Sharon stood in the middle. Her eyes held no anger, only something that looked like resolve.

"Let's just do this!" Sharon growled.

For one crystal clear moment, I thought I would fight—just release all the pent-up feelings inside, but instead I spoke, "I'm not fighting." The words held no fear. I had decided to make some misguided stand. "You can't make me."

"What the hell are you trying to do?"

Connie balled her fists.

I spoke around the lump in my throat. "I'm not fighting."

"Then, I'll just beat your ass." Sharon stepped forward.

The purest form of insanity controlled my actions. "I guess so because I'm not fighting."

"What is it, against your religion or something?"

"I'm just not fighting."

"Just whip her ass, Sharon." Connie chided from her place.

Then I heard something like disgust reflected in her next words. "Shut up! I'm not beating this girl's ass if she won't fight back. You can't make me. I'm not that chicken shit!" Sharon looked at her sister and for just a second I thought the two of them would fight, but then she looked at me. "Come on. I want to talk to you." She pushed her way through the kids, and like some kind of fool, I followed. We walked across the street and kept walking.

"You made me look stupid."

"I'm not fighting."

"Why? Are you scared?"

"Yeah, but that's not my reason. I fight too much at home. Fighting sucks." For the first time, I realized I was totally alone. Mother was not capable or willing to stand up for me.

Sharon jammed her hands in her jean pockets. "My stepfather beats me everyday, has forever. But worst is, well..." She stammered. In her eyes, a path beckoned me to know more. "You know, he does stuff, bad stuff."

"You mean sex?" My stomach turned.

"Yeah. Two or three times a week. I hate him!" Her fists were balled. "I could kill him. I will kill him one day."

"I don't blame you, but what would it do? If you killed him, you'd go to jail, and he still wins."

She looked at me. "Why am I telling you this? I'll beat your ass if you tell anybody, and don't go writing a stupid story either. She wore the tough mask again.

I nodded. "Paint a picture. You said you like to paint."

It was her turn to nod.

We finished out the school year together. Friends? No. Kids like us couldn't afford to let our guard down long enough to be friends, but we did share life secrets.

In the ninth grade, I went to my high school's art show. By this time I was writing small witty articles for the school newspaper. Sharon's paintings were dark and shadowy, haunting, but clearly art. She stood near the refreshment table, wearing her jeans that were too short and a big sloppy shirt. Connie stood nearby with a baby on her hip and bruises on her face. I wanted to believe Sharon's stepfather never touched her again, but life would suggest that couldn't be true.

Sharon disappeared from my life in the tenth grade. One day she just didn't come back. After a week or so, I asked around, but no one knew, no one really cared.

Many times when I found myself pushing to succeed, I thought of Sharon; I hope wherever she landed she became successful, because girls like us were made to do more than survive.


About the Author
Ann Hite’s short stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The Dead Mule, Fiction Warehouse, The SiNk, Rocking Chair Reader, Moonwort Review, and Poor Mojo’s Almanac. Ann has a large family, over 1,000 books, a flower garden, and her laptop. Feel free to visit The Painted Door: http://home.bellsouth.net/p/pwp-painteddoor.


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

by Wayne Scheer

Waiting Out the Storm

The streetlights flickered twice and shut off. Lightning streaked across the evening sky offering an eerie tableau. At half past five, enough light still filtered into the house for Peter to read. He took a seat, but the next round of thunder and lightning made him restless.

Was Lois caught in the storm? She must be petrified, he thought. She hated rain, especially thunderstorms. He tried calling her office, but he couldn't get a dial tone. Lois had pleaded with him to get a cell phone. Now he wished he had listened to her.

"I can get a second phone with my plan," he recalled Lois saying. "You should have it for emergencies."

"I live too dull a life for emergencies," he said, proud of his wit.

He sat back down and tried remembering when she said she'd be home. Why didn't he listen to her in the morning? He hoped she wasn't on the road, but he recalled her saying something about trying to leave early to avoid Friday traffic.

Another bolt of lightning, followed closely by a crash of thunder, jolted him to his feet. "Damn it."

The sound of his own voice startled him.

The rain began. Just a sprinkle at first, but a blinding downpour soon followed. The rain battered the living room window. Feeling as if he were going through a car wash, he checked all the windows in the house to make sure they were shut tight.
 
He tried again to read, but he couldn't concentrate. He could never understand people who claimed to find rain relaxing. Pacing from window to window, Peter returned to his living room vigil. He sat down, but jumped up immediately to try the phone again. It still didn't work.
 
Peter had retired two years earlier and enjoyed his solitary, orderly life. He ate his meals at the same time each day, went to the gym most mornings, worked in his office, which once was their son's room, cleaned the house or gardened in the afternoon. He even learned to enjoy cooking. "I missed my calling," he recalled telling Lois. "I should have been a housewife. I wasted all that time as an economist."

He wished now he had prepared a candlelight dinner, but he and Lois planned on going out tonight. They had standing Friday night reservations at Anita's, a small neighborhood restaurant that did a magnificent roasted breast of duck in raspberry sauce. Peter watched his cholesterol during the week so he could eat duck on Friday.
 
Lois could have retired when he did, but she decided to work two more years for full benefits. It wasn't just the money that kept her working, Peter understood. She worried about invading his quiet life. Lois thrived on commotion the way Peter loved silence.
 
Of course, Peter assured her, they would work out their differences. After forty years of marriage, they knew how to compromise. Peter would retreat to his office, where he would work on his book on urban economic theory, and she'd set up her portable sound system in whatever room she happened to be. And, of course, they would travel a lot more.

Still, she had her doubts, and he didn't push her to retire.
 
Peter often felt guilty sending his wife off to work while he stayed home sipping a second cup of coffee. But she seemed more comfortable in the world of deadlines and office politics than in her own home. She felt useful. And, he had to admit, the extra money she earned made their life comfortable. Although he had a publisher for his book, he understood that a treatise on economics wasn't a likely best seller. His retirement pension, though adequate, wasn't quite enough to allow them luxuries.

Now she was caught in the middle of a dangerous storm, probably driving home to him, and he had no way to contact her.

He tried the phone again; still no dial tone. Pacing between the living room and the kitchen, he grabbed a handful of chocolate chip cookies and poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee.
 
He tried remembering if he had told Lois he loved her before she left for work. He vaguely recalled her uttering the words as she walked out the door and he, more than likely, answered with a mechanical, "Me too," barely looking up from the morning newspaper. It bothered him that he appeared so distant, so aloof from the people he loved most. Just like his father, he thought.
 
He'd be lost without Lois, recalling how disoriented his father seemed when Mom died. He had always appeared so self-contained, almost as if his family got in his way. But overnight he seemed to forget how to make a simple pot of coffee. Even their conversation became strained. His father died less than a year after his mother's death.
 
Peter knew he depended upon Lois not just for love and companionship, but for feeling connected to the world. He had his work and his colleagues, but without Lois he'd probably withdraw into the seclusion and safety of his theories. As independent as he appeared, he feared life without Lois more than anything.

No need getting maudlin, Peter told himself. If she got caught in the storm, she would simply pull over. He wondered if it was more or less dangerous to stop under an overpass during a lightning storm.

The problem is she gets so nervous driving in rain, especially since the accident she almost had a few months earlier. Her car hydroplaned and she spun into oncoming traffic, made a complete circle, and miraculously skidded right back into her lane as if nothing had happened. Peter wasn't with her, but she repeated the story so often he felt like he was the one driving.

"I saw my grandmother," she told him when she got home. "Grandma smiled and said not to worry. I swear, a calmness came over me. I knew I would be all right."

Peter thought it nonsense, and he told her so. "Did you see a white light? Did your grandmother sprout wings and a halo?"
 
"Do you have to be sarcastic about everything?" He remembered how her nose turned red, a sure sign she was going to cry, or worse, say nothing. She didn't speak to him for most of the day.

What a stupid thing to have done, he thought. She was obviously traumatized by the near accident. If it made her feel better thinking her grandmother protected her, why couldn't he have left well enough alone? He could be such a fool sometimes.

Jumping up from the couch, he tried the telephone again. It remained out of service.

The rain seemed to be letting up a bit. At least he could see out the window. Water had pooled up at the foot of their driveway. He checked his watch and saw that it was almost six. Rising to watch the news on TV, he remembered the electricity was out. A battery-powered radio was somewhere, he thought, but he lacked the patience to search for it.

This was the time he envied people who believed in God. It would feel good to pray to a benevolent spirit for Lois's safety. At least he'd feel he was doing something instead of just worrying and talking to himself. He had always considered religious people passive in the face of tragedy—putting it all in God's hands. But he realized that prayer was actually an active way of making yourself feel useful, creating a connection to a universe out of your control.

Was he going to undergo some kind of foxhole conversion? Peter laughed. It'll take more than a little rain to convert this old skeptic. After all, he reminded himself, Lois was just caught in a rainstorm. She probably stayed in her office or, if she was driving, she likely pulled into a mall and was buying shoes while he fretted like a child who lost his Mommy in a crowded department store.

With that, another bolt of lightning shot across the sky followed by a blast of thunder. Are we going to have more rain, he wondered.

"Where the hell are you, Lo?" he said aloud.

But the rain let up to a light sprinkle. He even began hearing the chirping and chattering of the evening insects. Peter sat back down on the couch and listened to himself exhale. For the first time since the storm began, he felt calm.

There was no logical explanation, but he knew Lois would be home shortly. She was safe and their good life would remain unchanged. He experienced no message from his grandmother, no sudden urge to attend church. But when car lights flashed from the driveway and he heard the familiar two short honks, he grabbed an umbrella and met Lois at her car.

More than anything, he wanted to hug his wife. And eat duck at Anita's.

It was, after all, Friday night.


About the Author
After twenty-five years of teaching writing and literature in college, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. His work has appeared in The Pedestal Magazine, Slow Trains, Story House, Moonwort Review and Cerebral Catalyst. His writing awards include a Pushcart Prize nomination. He lives in Atlanta with his wife, and he can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.


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

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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

"You Snooze, You Cruise" is our Drabble for the month, written by Cristina Dyer-Drobnack, on the theme of what you could do that would make you happy even just thinking about it.

You Snooze, You Cruise, by Cristina Dyer-Drobnack

“I want to get drunk!” 
Clay raised an eyebrow at Millie’s pronouncement.  “Drunk? You’re already seasick.”
Millie adjusted her deck chair.  “So? It’s a cruise.  You do things you don’t normally do.”
Momentarily triumphant, she awaited his retort.  Instead, Clay sat silent, then gestured to a young man. 
“Yes, Sir?” The attendant hovered expectantly.
“Margaritas, please.  Frozen.  No Salt.  Keep ‘em coming.”
The lad scurried off.  Clay grinned at his gaping wife and silently rose from his chair. 
“Where are you going?” she gasped, astonished.
 “Bed - I’m going to nap.  It’s a cruise.  You do things you don’t normally do.”

Have you done anything new lately? Sometimes you can go overboard in bringing newness into your life when you're not really up for it, and then find yourself getting overwhelmed and going home to sit in your bathrobe reading the Sunday paper on Monday.

Other times, you can just keep going with it, taking it all in as you go along, somehow. You go to a professional workshop and meet a couple of people there who are doing projects that intrigue you, and you get their cards. You call, or they do, and you get involved in putting on a workshop with them. At a party, you meet another couple of people who are going to Jamaica soon for a time-out—they have an extra ticket—cheap, too—and need someone who wants to go sit on the sand for a few days. You're in between relationships, and meet not one but three or four people who want to go hiking or out for lunch.

Feast or famine, I guess.  I'm just going with it. It's a whole lot better than spending time agonizing over each and every individual choice in life, chocolate or vanilla, paper or plastic, to start a conversation and keep it going or not. . .

What have you done lately that's new, that could get you into trouble? But doing nothing gets you into much more of it—not living your life will destroy you! If you haven't done anything of this description lately, then make something up, and send it here by the 10th day after your copy of this ezine arrives in your mailbox. If the ezine arrives on the 1st, then submissions are due by the 10th. And here are the guidelines again, 100 words exactly, excluding title. Submit to: drabble@wvu.org. The theme is—what have you done lately that's provided a possibility for a new direction for your life to take? Have fun! 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!


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

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Poetics Presents

Kim Rush

Kim Rush lives in the southwest corner of the forever winter state of Michigan. After being left legally blind by an industrial accident, he worked through a few university degrees and now teaches part-time as an English instructor at Kalamazoo Valley Community College. He and his wife translate Croatian literature—and spend much of their time and energy in watching over their rambunctious two-year-old son. The rest of his time is spent reading/studying English Literature and learning the craft/art of writing. As Alexander Pope wrote: “True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, / As those move easiest who have learned to dance.”

Eating Poetry for Breakfast

Meeting a friend for breakfast,
having the riches of poets,
we order coffee and open our poetry menus.

Choosing a tasty poem
we bite and masticate it together,
spitting out the unpalatable tastes of the

"It-doesn't-work-for-mes,"
enjoying the smooth sweetness of euphony morsels
and the meaty texture of heavy words,
we chew and chew through and through.

"Have you ever tried this one?"
An unknown dish is offered.

"This chef chooses choice alliteration for a tangy taste."
We chew and swallow,
washing it down with hot coffee.

"Here's another--a juicy one--it's great.
It's thicker and quicker,
the bitter strike of consonance to the palate."
It's a pucker to the mouth.

Hot dishes of poetry
are passed with time
while we are set, settled in our seats, listening
to the sounds of assonance from our filling
stomachs.

Stomach distended, I leave the restaurant
disappointed we had to end the rhymes.
Walking home smiling, I digest
my morning's poetry breakfast.

Copyright ©2005 by Kim Rush




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

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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

Until further notice, only plain text submissions in the body of the email will be considered.
NO ATTACHMENTS.

What We Pay For

Fiction: Stories should be of interest to writers in general, not just a narrow group.

Fiction should be submitted to fiction@thewritersezine.com. Payment starts at $15.00.

If considered for publication, you will be asked to return an email agreement including your name and address.

Craft Features: Queries about Craft features should be sent to nonfiction@thewritersezine.com.

Payment starts at $15.00, and, if considered, you will be sent an email agreement to fill out and return.

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

Please do not email us to ask what we pay for in other categories. When we can add to our list, we will include it in these guidelines.

What We Publish

Original short fiction, poetry, and non-fiction, particularly non-fiction related to the craft of writing and interviews.

For fiction we prefer something with a plot and resolution. If we like the main character, we are more likely to accept the story. If the main character has a problem to resolve or has to make a choice, that's conflict, and we love conflict! Too many writers confuse conflict with fight scenes. Don't be one of them. Give us a protagonist who acts, makes choices no matter how hard they are to solve his or her dilemma, not a wimp who drifts along and has to be rescued.

Non-fiction should be related to the craft of writing or be good resource material for writers. Accuracy and originality are vital. No reprints. If it has already been published somewhere else, our readers will spot it and let us know.

What We Won't Publish

Anything that inspires "hate," is defamatory or is pornographic.

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

Seasonal material submitted during the same month (i.e., a Christmas story in December). Our lead time is short compared to print publications, but we do need time to edit, html and proof submission. A good guideline is to submit the manuscript by the first of the preceding month (i.e., submit a Christmas story before November 1st).

Length Recommendations

  • For Fiction, under 1500 words is preferred. We will consider excerpts from longer works.

  • Poetry should fit on one printed page if possible. A maximum of five poems may be submitted at one time (when the hold is lifted).

  • Non-fiction or Craft features have the most leeway in word count. In general these manuscripts should be 750 to 2,000 words. We like to take advantage of the hypertext capabilities we have available and link to charts, graphs, lists and so forth. Thumbnail versions may be included in the body of the article.

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!


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

 

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