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 T-zero Xpandizine
 The Writer's E-Zine

 

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

Ebenezer Scrooge on Gifts for Writers

(as channeled by Lon Prater)

That ink-stained vagabond Mr. Dickens took it upon himself to add dramatic detail to my story. To make it more satisfying as a work of fiction, he said—or something to that effect. No, I’m not talking about the ghosts—alas, that part was all too real. And I am in no way trying to say that pitiable tot Tim and his family didn’t melt my old, cold heart. No, the part that still gives me heartburn, even here in the Great Beyond, is that skipping, smiling, spendthrift ending he libeled me with. To be sure, I wasn’t as miserly as I had been in the past, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever condone squandering of the type Mr. Dickens would have you believe. No, some things about a person can’t change that dramatically, and being cheap happens to be one of them.

Which brings me to the present topic: Gifts for Writers. Bah! And Double Bah! The very thought of it makes me want to squeeze my tuppence even tighter in my fists. Of all the rookers in the world, writers are the last ones who need gifts. All those overpriced literary baubles trotted out every Christmas for friends and loved ones to spend money on! Ha! Well, I’m here to tell you that once they have one of those new-fangled computators and home printing presses, or at least access to one, there’s hardly a need to spend another dime on your writer friend. The list below will prove it: Any gift that a writer actually needs usually costs less than one of those inappropriately named “Value Meals” you moderns seem to enjoy, and they probably already have it anyway.

SCROOGE’S EXTREMELY CHEAP GIFTS FOR WRITERS
You Want To Buy Them. . . But All They Really Need Is. . .
Any of the billions of books intended to make the reader a better writer

1. A Library Card

 

2. An Internet connection and the links to sites like http://thewritersezine.com, http://dictionary.com, http://thesaurus.com and http://wikipedia.org

Expensive pen and pencil set

1. A pack of number twos and a plastic sharpener

 

2. A no-frills black or blue ink pen

Overpriced word-processing software A link to http://www.openoffice.org
Story Structuring or Idea Developing software 1) A pad of Post-it Notes or a package of index cards and room to lay them out and shuffle them around

2) A spiral notebook, maybe two if you catch them on sale.
Any of the various books designed to help writers market their work 1) Any good library will have Literary Marketplace or at least a copy of Writer’s Market, and more and more websites such as http://www.ralan.com are offering free genre-specific market listings chock-full of current information.

2. The library and links too cheap for gifts, even from a Scrooge? Well then, give them a book of stamps instead; all that submitting of heavy manuscripts and partials can get expensive after awhile!

A cutesy page a day calendar, or other writing area clutter Rather than more distractions, why not just give them some peace and quiet when they’re trying to write?

The fact is, that precocious Mr. Dickens didn’t have even a half-measure of the cheap items on my list above when he was writing—much less all those pricy gewgaws they’re peddling to writers these days—yet he somehow managed to pen a decent yarn or two. (Despite the egregious liberties he took regarding my own frugal end. . .)

The way I see it, getting writers so many fancy distractions is just squandering money and maybe worse: you could be setting them up to make excuses and ask for more. Next thing you know they’re saying: “I would write more, or better, if I only had. . .”

And there’s only one thing any self-respecting skinflint can say to something like that. You know the words, say them with me:

Bah, Humbug!


About the Author
Lon Prater still thinks writing-related gifts are a pretty cool way to show you care, no matter how little value Mr. Scrooge believes they actually add. Find out more about Lon’s non-channeling work at http://www.neverary.com.


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Craft of Writing

Suzan L. Wiener

What to Get The Writer on Your Gift List

Stumped about what gift to get your writer friend? Do you want to buy a gift he or she can really use? Below are a number of gift ideas any writer would love to have and be really happy to get. I wouldn't be surprised if some of these gifts aren't already on their writer's wish list.

365-day Word Calendars
The writer gets to see what date and day and it is and learn a new word at the same time. It's really fun and educational. It's inexpensive too. You can buy them at www.pomegranate.com for only $11.99. A description of this gift from their ad is "Weird and Wonderful." It's not a bad thing for someone who works with words. You can buy them also at www.Amazon.com.

Mugs
Another gift idea for writers is a mug. Those offered at www.publishinggame.com are only $9.99 with an imprint "Writers are Novel Lovers." Add some chocolate-chip cookies or their favorite candy for a special treat.

From this same company, you can order baskets such as their "Basic Writer," for $39.00, containing a lot of goodies. Everything from a popular writing book to chocolate truffles, toffee pecans and more.

Gift Certificates to Writers' Websites such as www.levenger.com
You can buy a beautiful, brand-name pen, note pads, etc. which will really come in handy if they want to write their ideas down before they get to their computer. I always have a pen and pad with me wherever I am. Your writer will love you for it when they don't miss out on an idea because they were able to jot it down..

Subscriptions to Writers' Magazines
This is a great gift idea writers will cherish. Give the writer in your life subscriptions to Writer's Market or The Writer, etc. These magazines contain a wealth of information every writer will devour. Every time they find a market or information they need, they will think of you and it's on the top ten list of a writer's wish list.

Calculator
Calculators are inexpensive but necessary gifts so writers can keep track of their sales and how much profit they are actually making with their writing. This will help determine if they are writing as a part-time hobbyist or doing it full-time. A calculator is a must-have gift.

Writer's Gift Image
You can buy cute cartoon images, either prints or original, which are geared toward writers from http://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/w/writer_s_gifts.asp. You can call their toll-free number in the United States and Canada to get the pricing on their cartoons. Their number is: 1- 888- 880- 8357. The cartoons are very comical and he or she will really enjoy it.

CoolStuff4Writers
Want to get your writer friend T-shirts, travel expense pads, and most importantly stress relievers? CoolStuff4Writers is the place to go. The direct link is: http://www.coolstuff4writers.com/Products/Cool_Stuff_For_Writers.html. They even have books and e-books that you can select from.

Writer Newsletter Subscriptions
This is another great gift because your writer will get much-needed information. You can select from several and here is a site where you can find some very interesting ones: http://www.writerswrite.com/newsletr.htm  You will be able to pick just the one you think he or she will like the most.

Gift certificates to The Library Workshop
On this site you can get anything and everything a writer would want from a notebook dictionary (that attaches to three-ring binders, and has other functions too, such as an internal date/clock and a converter for weights, measures and temperature) to a thesaurus. The link is http://www.thelibraryshop.org/writerscorner.html. They even have clothing and accessories for writers. It is a writer's wonderland of fun and useful ideas.

Gifts for Writers
Here is a link http://www.giftsforprofessionals.com/92599942-ac412.html from small leather goods to stationery and journals, a must-have for the writer. The costs vary, starting at around $9.00. Very affordable and will make the writer on your list extremely happy.

Personalized Gift Baskets
You can even buy your own baskets and add personalized items such as books on the craft of writing, pens, pads, dictionaries, etc. These can be found at most craft stores. Whatever type of basket you chose to create can be fit into your budget. You will definitely see a smile on their face when you give it to them.

Getting the above gifts should more than make your writer friend a happy camper and perhaps even a more fulfilled writer. I know it's worked for me.


*Please note this writer is not endorsing any sites or items, merely citing them as examples to make your shopping time easier and less time-consuming.


About the Author
Suzan L. Wiener has had numerous poems, stories, articles and shorter pieces published in publications such as The Writer's E-zine, Mature Living, Saturday Evening Post, Verses, Poetry Press (first prize) NEB Publishing (first prize), Moca Memoirs, Sacred Twilight, etc. She also has her love poetry e-book up at Lionsong Publications.


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Craft of Writing

Judy Simpers

Where is Your There?

Yesterday I sat on the couch with a pencil in my hand and wrote nary a word. I'm gonna give it another try today. My problem is I can't seem to get there. You know. The there. Every writer has one.

My there is as fleeting and as solid as my breath. It's my inch-high writer's galaxy that stretches out to accommodate me as I write, that vanishes when I notice it's upon me. Ah yes. That there.

I seek it relentlessly. Sometimes I wish I was under house arrest, without distractions I could spend hours in there. As I eavesdrop on non-writer's conversations, I cringe when they say, "I've been there."

I squeeze the vinyl to stop myself from popping over the booth to shout, "No, you haven't been there." Instead I shake, shake, shake my head. For nobody, no how, can visit my there.

I'm curious of other writer's there. I squirm as I imagine my jittery excitement to sit beside a writer at a bookstore and start a conversation with, "Have you been there?" And have the writer respond with a smile and nod of his head and a perfectly pronounced, "Yes."

It is taboo to ask, "What is there?"

Writer's won't describe their there. They can't. They can speak of its existence. But if a writer describes their there or looks too closely at the details it may tear like tissue paper and their internal Editor would gobble it up.

Last Saturday, a woman standing ahead of me in a grocery line held out her nearly empty wallet.

"What's left to life when eggs cost two dollars," she said in despair. "What is there?"

I gasped. I couldn't believe what I heard.

"Did you mean to say WHERE is there?" I asked.

"What?" said the woman.

I leaned closer. "Are you a writer?" I asked.

She looked over her shoulder at me suspiciously. "No," she said and turned her broad back to me.

I nodded my head. Of course. She's not a writer.

I have the urge to thump my chest and spit on my hands when I think of how I can twist a character's emotions, stinky up a the scene if I choose, and lure a reader to turn the page. Anything I want shall be. In there, I have no guilt, no schedule, no duties. My imps live in there. My muse too. In there I choose the residents. The Editor paces outside.

I love being there. I hug there. I cherish there. I have to admit I am selfishly happy that not everyone knows about there. It's as if their discovery would swipe the red off my lollipop. I do feel sorry for non-writers though. Do they have a there that follows them around? Ignored, shrunken, and unused?

Being there is better than a gel ink pen gliding across a smooth, spacious 9 x 12 doodle pad. My most common occurrences of being there have been in the shower, under the spray. My most dangerous was while I was driving. My favorite occurrence was during a blizzard and I was safely snuggled beneath a comforter.

There can't be any better.

There is tricky. For when you think you're there, you're not. And when you don't think, don't think, don't think. you're there. 'It's neither here nor there', I've heard a commentator once say. And I must agree. Once while writing in front of the television, a loud commercial almost brought me out of there, for a half tick of a second I had an inkling, a realization, I was there. If I had pondered the inkling I would have been kicked out of there.

My elusive there.
 
So there you have it. I hope.
 
 
About the Author
Judy Simpers is a member of SCBWI, a professional organization for writers and illustrators of children's literature and a member of Writers' Village University, an online membership site. She is a children's writer's course developer, facilitator, and mentor at WVU. Along with being founder and coordinator of the Annual Round Robin Study Group Challenge, Judy is a site guide for new WVU members. She has had writer's tips offered in the WVU newsletter, published an article in T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine, and is a copy editor at ePress Online publishing. In between writing projects and submitting manuscripts, she finds time to be the playground attendant in the Children's Hour study group. She has founded and participates in a Reading Children's Book club. Judy Simpers resides in coastal North Carolina.


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Birdie's Quill

Birdie

Catching Your Dream

The phrase, “Grabbing for the brass ring,” dates back to days when carousel riders enjoyed the challenge of reaching for a prize—a single brass ring. Individuals hoped for the timing of the rise and fall of their mechanical steeds to coincide with the dropping of the brass ring. Some carousel operators dropped a mix of steel rings along with the coveted brass ring. This tactic allowed more than one rider to experience the thrill of reaching out and catching a prize but only the rider grabbing the one-of-a-kind brass ring won a free ride.

Today the phrase evokes the image of grabbing for something that appears out of reach.

What is a Dream?
Writers are unique. Dreams drift through the unconscious mind while sleeping, and while awake imaginings brew stirred by ‘what if’ scenarios. Our dreams tie to the need to write The craving to put thoughts in print courses through our veins. It mingles with imagination, takes on form and definition, swirls with detail and waits to be released. Ideas give birth and stories yearn to be told.

Not every dream matures. Inklings come and go, and even good ideas get shelved. At times, sidetracked dreams stagnate in pools of procrastination. If you leave this situation unchecked, you’ll find your muse discouraged or overwhelmed. Allow this condition to fester, and you chance witnessing the death of a dream.

However, not every dream offers what we expected when we reach it. We may not recognize it immediately, just like the carousel riders grabbing for steel rings when what they hoped for was the brass ring. We walk away with the thrill of the experience, gain knowledge and move to get back on and ride again.

The approach of a new year stimulates even the weary muse to dare to dream again. Hope surges with the prospect of the proverbial clean slate. Muses love clean slates. They itch to fill them with characters, scenes, plots and subplots. A dream is born.

Now’s the time to make a plan to catch that dream and follow it into the New Year. The first step is to identify and sort your dreams.

Two meanings for the word dream help clarify the hunt:

  • A wild fancy or hope.
  • A condition or achievement that is longed for; an aspiration.
List of Dreams
A new year perches on the threshold of time just beyond the busyness of holiday shopping, and social and family gatherings piled atop responsibilities of everyday life. I suggest the addition of one small thing to your list of “Things to Do” while riding the hectic waves of life deluging end of the year activity.

Make a list of your dreams. Consider it the first piece in putting together your very own dream catcher.

The Canadian, North American Sioux and Ojibwa hung dream catchers above the bed to filter out bad dreams and thoughts. The tradition of the dream catcher can be traced back to a Sioux woman whose child was tortured by nightmares. She fashioned an eternal circle out of willow branches. Within the circle, she weaved a net of cotton threads known as the “net life.”

The dream catcher’s purpose is to help people enjoy their dreams and life. The good dreams found their way through the net. We can learn a lesson from them by fashioning a writers’ dream catcher to filter out excuses and feeling of discouragement when rejections outnumber acceptance letters or life circumstances change direction and deal time pilfering, energy robbing conditions. The net we fashion is the “writer’s net life.”

Your list of dreams is the first ingredient in weaving this net. You’ll need paper and pen or a small portable recorder. Keep them handy—in the car, on your desk or refrigerator and beside your bed. Don’t risk letting a dream slip by. Be prepared to snag it when it flickers into existence.

Identify It
Categorize your dreams in two columns. “A wild fancy” or “Achievement longed for.” This step offers perspective and serves as a guide when setting goals to meet fresh aspirations.
  • A wild fancy – these dreams dangle beyond our control. An example of a “wild fancy” would be: To have my novel published next year.

It’s exciting to reach for a ‘wild fancy’ as long as you keep in mind that you don’t have control over the outcome. Your part is to reach for it.

The Native American dream catcher caught bad dreams and allowed the good to flow through. For the writer’s dream catcher, realistic writing goals serve as part of the netting. These goals prevent excuses from robbing you of fulfillment while allowing “brass ring” dreams to flow through. Remember, the key word is realistic.

  • An achievement longed for – a tangible goal you can meet. Write the first draft of a novel. Time management, hard work and a set of realistic goals situate this dream in a reachable place. You have control.
Build Your Dream Catcher
Realistic goals take thought and planning. Setting too many goals spreads efforts thin fueling frustration and chancing the return of your muse to the pool of procrastination. What dream do you want to see fulfilled?

For an example:

Become a freelance writer

Once you select the dream, begin to fashion the web of your Dream Catcher. Think ahead for a year.

Netting ties directly to the dream. In the example above, “write everyday” would be a good place to start. This one goal forms a single strand in the dream catcher netting, but it’s not enough. One strand does not equal a net. Goals need to thread from and connect to your dream.

What else would help a writer achieve this goal? Here are some ideas:

Write every day
Research markets
Keep an “ideas” file
Query markets
Write filler articles
Send a single filler article to multiple non-competitive markets
Read possible submission publications
Track submissions
Network

Organize
Although each goal represents a single thread, stay focused on the dream itself. Last January, I wrote out six goals to accomplish this year. Here’s my list:

1. Three articles or short stories in print
2. Finish rough draft of Curse of the Ghost Stone
3. Collect 12 interviews for “Recollections”
4. Take three writing courses
5. Market Pumping Your Muse
6. Start up business - Team Spirit Critique and Editing

A lot changes in a year. Although these goals appeared realistic last January, the first one on my list would be categorized a “fancy.” On my part, I can write articles and short stories, but have no control over publication. My plan was to submit at least three pieces each month in hopes I could reach this goal. Submitting three pieces a month is a more realistic and attainable goal. It not only helped me reach but surpass my goal.

Flexibility
My second and third goals were realistic until my publisher requested my novel Windwalker. I planned to refine this manuscript in November if time allowed, but circumstances changed. The rearrangement of goals accommodated opportunity. Windwalker took precedence. I’ll return to the original goals in the future.

Soak the threads of your dream catcher web in flexibility. Allow room for the ebb and flow of life’s up and downs. Just like carousel riders hoped the rise and fall of their mechanical steeds would position them in the right place at the right time to grab the brass ring, writers need to be flexible enough to take hold of opportunities when offered.

Plan Ahead
My fourth goal, taking three writing courses, would take a large slice of my writing time. One class covered a span of six weeks. When setting goals, think of the big picture. I watched for courses and started in January. With my full schedule, I wanted to avoid taking more than one course at a time. I hoped to devote my attention to learning and growing from the experience and to avoid rushing through it with minimum effort.

It’s Not All Fun
I’ve talked to plenty of writers who prefer to stay invisible. As introverts, they’d rather remain the faceless creative fingers tapping out stories and articles on the other side of the computer screen. However, in today’s writing world, most authors must play a part in marketing their work. I fit this into my goals because I’m not a “natural.” Goals help to push past insecurities and complete aspects of projects I’d like to put off.

Give and Take
Along the path of dreams coming true, I’ve met many a creative soul willing to help me better my skills. Networking is another necessary strand to weave into your net. Take time to help others. Share the knowledge and experience you gain with others. My involvement in other writer’s lives led to the start of my own business. Another goal accomplished that not only allows me to help others but grows the network of people I know in the field.

Do It
Dare to dream. Now is the time to take steps to make dreams tangible. Write them down. Set a few goals targeting what you hope to accomplish in the New Year. Tie monthly and weekly goals to the target forming the web of your dream catcher to snag excuses that would keep you from seeing it to fulfillment. Reach for your dreams. If you don’t, you’ll never catch them.


About the Author
Author and freelance writer, Donna Sundblad, resides in Florida with her husband, Rick. Her creative writing book, Pumping Your Muse, is available in paper or ebook format. Check her website for more information at www.theinkslinger.net. Donna also edits for and co-owns Team Spirit Critique and Editing, LLC.


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Fiction Short Story

by  Karen Braswell

The Brick

We were playing in the alley near the beat-up garbage cans when I threw the brick in the air and it came down and busted Ricky in the forehead.  We were four or five at the time, barefoot, dirty kids, who had tired of trying to dig our way to the devil with a kitchen spoon, and had resorted to tossing gravel at the battered tin that covered a hole in the garage, and then I had thrown the brick in the air, just to show Ricky that I could do it.

"Watch, Ricky," I said, and then I launched the block into orbit. He watched with his head tilted back, like one would watch an airplane in the sky.

It only took a second for it to land with a thud, right at the tip of Ricky's hairline. The blood flowed immediately, running in rivulets into his eyes and making grotesque paths down his freckled cheeks.

Ricky raced through the back door, screaming, where my momma, who had been pushing clothes through the wringer washing machine, quickly took control and bandaged his head, and then settled him at the table with a Dr. Pepper.

I had a Dr. Pepper, too.

Momma sat down with a beer and a cigarette, and said, "What is Charles going to say about this?"

Charles was Ricky's father, and my mother's husband; even at the tender age when I still believed that innate good existed in all people, I knew he hated the ground I walked on.

I hid underneath the kitchen table when he came home from work.

Later that night, as I lay in my cot at the foot of my parent's bed, his hatred manifested itself in belt welts that stung my back and legs.  The bedroom door was ajar, and light from the hallway fell across Charles' bare feet, sticking out from underneath the covers.  Ricky was resting peacefully on the couch in the living room, the gash on his forehead having been the topic of conversation all evening.  My mother twisted in her sleep.  The metal bedsprings screeched with her every move.  They seemed to groan in agony, like one who is bearing the brunt of too much weight upon them.


About the Author
Karen Braswell is a former newspaper reporter who now concentrates exclusively on fiction writing.  She lives in Virginia with her husband and kids.


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Fiction Short Story

by  Harriet Cooper

Lord of All He Surveys

Adam Grant's buttocks spilled over the edge of his chair. His arms rested on an oversized desk, littered with the minutiae of a life spent in teaching. Pens and pencils lay in heaps across a pile of papers, and books sprawled across the desk and onto the floor. A half-filled coffee cup leaned drunkenly against a book, ribbons of cream congealing across its oily surface.

While his students struggled with a grammar exercise on the intricacies of present perfect versus past tense, Adam retreated into the distant past. Immersed in a book on naval history, he stood on the deck beside Admiral Nelson and directed the English fleet to victory over the French. With success clearly within reach, he grunted his satisfaction and closed the book.

Returning to the present, he faced his own daily battle, fought with words rather than cannon. Twenty-five heads bent over workbooks saluted him. A few radiated gray hairs, but the rest sported the blonde, brown and black from a diverse group of nationalities and ages. Most days, the class resembled a mini-United Nations.

Two students in the back row whispered to each other, comparing answers, while the majority worked quietly. Rodrigo, a young man who had been in the class less than a week, stared out the window and hummed tonelessly.

The sound grated on Adam's ears, but he wasn't ready for battle yet. He'd have his chance later. Young men always made such interesting targets. Breaking them provided what little enjoyment he still got from teaching.

Adam waited three more minutes before clearing his throat. He stood up and walked to the front of his desk. As he moved, breadcrumbs that dotted his mustache fell onto his chest. He brushed them off with sausage-like fingers. His large belly strained against the confines of his mustard-stained shirt.

He held a copy of the exercise the students had worked on. "Who wants to begin?"

One hand went up. The other students kept their heads and hands down. A smile creased Adam's face, but he remained silent. Tension grew, fanned by the single waving hand.

"Come on, it's not that hard."

Adam ignored the waving hand and glanced around the room, pretending to ponder his selection. Although he had already chosen his victim, the anticipation made the game so much more enjoyable. "Rodrigo, read the first sentence."

Rodrigo turned his gaze back to his worksheet and began to read, a Spanish accent giving his English a lilt. "I lived in here since May."

"Wrong." Adam's voice registered his scorn.

Rodrigo jerked his head up, but kept his lips tightly closed. The owner of the waving hand smiled. The other students, who had seen the game played out before, avoided looking at either Rodrigo or Adam.

Once more ignoring the overeager student, Adam addressed the rest of the class. "Who can help poor Rodrigo? Wasreen? Mykolo? Kristina?" As each student in turn failed to give the correct answer, Adam's breathing grew heavier until the sound filled the room.

Adam settled his bulk against the edge of the desk. "Present perfect. You need to use present perfect with the adverb 'since.' This is an intermediate level class. I shouldn't have to go over this again, but obviously I do. Listen and learn." He smacked his lips, dislodging a few more crumbs from his mustache. "I 'have' lived here since May." His voice took on a singsong quality while his meaty hand pounded the table each repetition. "Have. Have. Have."

He waited a minute, and refocused his glare on Rodrigo. "Now do you understand? Perhaps if you spent more time working and less time looking out the window, you might learn something in this class. "

Rodrigo continued to look ahead, his gaze never quite meeting that of Adam. "Si, yes, I understand." A flush crept along his cheeks and his pencil beat a fast tattoo on the desk.

Adam smiled, pleased to have hooked his fish for the day. Now he could reel him in. "Good. Then you'll have no problems doing the next question and all the other questions in this exercise."

Rodrigo stumbled his way through the pronunciation, halting at each question, but he carefully inserted the required "have" when needed. After he finished, he inclined his head and gave Adam a half nod.

Adam opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut. As the class waited, he pushed himself off the desk. The movement upset the coffee cup, spilling cold coffee all over his papers. "Shit." The single word exploded from his mouth.

Moving faster than his bulk implied, he grabbed the dripping pages and flicked droplets of coffee onto the floor. An older Korean woman in the first row ran forward with some tissues. She mopped up the mess on the desk, while the other students busied themselves with their work.

The bell rang as she patted the last page dry. The rustle of papers and the squeak of chairs filled the room as students packed their notebooks and supplies for the day and stood up. Many of them worked evenings, while others rushed to schools to pick up their children.

The quickest student had just reached the door when Adam's voice boomed out. "Not so fast. I have an announcement."

Everyone turned to face him.

"Next week is the end of first term. You're all invited to my house for a Christmas party. If you're going to live here, you need to know how real citizens behave. It's potluck." He paused, contemplating the sea of puzzled faces. "That means you have to bring food. I'll have a sign-up sheet tomorrow so you can all let me know what food you'll be preparing." He waved a hand in the general direction of the door. "Now you're dismissed."

Students left the class in two and threes, the small groups whispering among themselves. Rodrigo strode ahead of the others, not joining in the chatter.

First thing the next morning, an oversized sign-up sheet graced the class bulletin board. As students came in, Adam directed them to the sheet. Like dutiful sheep, one after another they wrote their name and the name of the dish for the party in the neatly numbered spaces. By five to nine, only one space and one chair remained vacant.

Adam glanced at the clock, a half smile on his face. Four minutes passed. With each sweep of the minute hand, Adam's smile widened. As the hand began its fifth and final sweep before the bell rang, Rodrigo slipped into the classroom.

Adam swallowed the words he had saved to berate Rodrigo for being late. No longer smiling, Adam pointed to the sign-up sheet. "I believe you've forgotten something."

Rodrigo waited a heartbeat before replying. "A thousand pardons but I am no permitted, I mean, no able to attend. I have made other plans already. That is correct? I have made?"

For the first time since Rodrigo joined the class, he held Adam's gaze. Adam broke off eye contact first. He turned away, not answering the question, and strode toward the blackboard. A laugh, quickly transforming into a cough, broke the silence, soon followed by the rustle of paper as students opened their notebooks.

As Adam wrote on the blackboard, chalk clenched between whitened knuckles, Rodrigo looked out the window and hummed.


About the Author
When not writing, Harriet Cooper is an English as a Second Language instructor in Toronto, Canada. Her work (articles, personal essays, poems and fiction) has been published in newspapers, magazines, newsletters, anthologies, websites, and a coffee can. One of her essays aired on radio. This story grew out of encounters with several teachers who should have retired a long time ago.


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Fiction Short Story

by Clinton Lawrence

The Santa Claus Invisibility Theory

Todd and Pam Sharperson had invited Darrell and Bonnie for dinner one evening in early December, and they ended up watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman, and Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.  The Sharpersons had an eight-year-old son, Billy, who was obnoxious, precocious, and very smart.  Darrell kind of liked him, although Bonnie frequently complained about how he got on her nerves.

"All lies," Billy said. "It's not like that at all.  Not like any of those shows."

Darrell smiled at him.  "You don't believe in Santa?"

"Of course I do."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Oh, god," Pamela said.  "You would have to ask that."

Darrell frowned.  "Ask what?"

Billy rushed off to his room.

"You’ll find out in a minute," Todd said.  "We've had to put up with this almost every night since Thanksgiving."

Sure enough, Billy returned with a notebook.  He sat next to Darrell on the couch, and opened it.  Darrell read the title page. The Santa Claus Invisibility Theory.   All spelled correctly.

"Hey, that's pretty good," Darrell said.  "I didn't know you were learning such big words in school."

Billy ignored him, turned the page, and started reading his eighteen proofs (most of which boiled down to the fact that Santa was never actually seen in the process of delivery, viewed from an astonishing number of perspectives for a kid his age).   Still, it was a fairly impressive exercise in logic for his age.  Darrell couldn't resist a little challenge.

"I see your picture on the mantle with Santa.  What's up with that?"

"Oh, that's a fake," Billy said.  "Santa's way too busy to be hanging out at malls this time of the year.  Those guys are just like all the phony Elvises."

"OK, but didn't I hear that Santa showed up here last year when you had Christmas dinner?"

"That was Uncle Jim.  He's not even a good faker."

Darrell glanced at Todd, who just shrugged.  "He has an answer for every question we've posed," Todd said.

Bonnie said, "If he's invisible, how do we know what he looks like?"

"We don't," Billy said.  "People made that up.  He might not even wear red."

"Well, if he's invisible, he can't be wearing red, or we'd see it, right?" Bonnie said.

"That's another proof of my theory.  Nineteen now.  Thanks."  He grabbed the notebook and started writing another page.

"What reason would he have for being invisible?" Darrell asked.

"I don't know," Billy said.  "Why are we visible?  That's just the way he is."

#

After Pam and Todd put Billy to bed, the four visited a little longer.

"He really has quite an imagination," Darrell said.

"Tell us about it," Pam said.

"I have an idea.  What if we disproved his theory?"

Todd scratched his ear.  "What do you have in mind?"

"I was just thinking it might be fun if Billy saw Santa on Christmas Eve."

"How are we going to do that?  He recognized Jim right away."

Surprisingly, Bonnie was the one against the idea.  "You can't do that to a kid."

Nobody listened to her.  After a brief brainstorming session, Darrell and Todd went outside.

"So your idea is to stage Santa's visit on the roof somehow," Todd said.

"Right, we don't want much light.  Maybe nothing more than a weak flashlight.  It's great that your pine trees block so much of the street lamp."

"I'm pretty sure we could make a decent sleigh out of some good stiff cardboard.  But what about the Santa and reindeer?"

"Plastic lawn ornaments?"

"That's a lot of deer to get up there.  Can you get a sitting Santa?"

"If your flashlight isn't too strong, I bet we could get away with four.  Maybe Santa stands, or we make the sleigh a little taller so you can't tell."

"OK, but here's the problem.  Even in the dark, Billy's going to figure it out if they're just sitting up there."

"Right."  Darrell traced an arc with his finger to the roof of his house, which was a two-story.  The Sharpersons' was only one.  "I got it.  What if we rig it so the sleigh takes off from your house and lands on mine?  We could put up some kind of pulley system, and try it out ahead of time.  In the dark, it probably won't have to look that good."

"A little more complicated, but that might just work."

"Just be careful where you shine that flashlight."

"What about bells on the sleigh?"

"We'd better be careful not to ring them when we're setting up."

#

They acquired the materials, built the apparatus in Darrell's garage, hiding it in a locked basement each night, and finally had the opportunity to test it the weekend before Christmas, when Pam arranged for Billy to spend the night with one of his friends from school.  It worked flawlessly, after a few minor design changes.

A little after ten on Christmas Eve, Todd came over.

"You're ready?" Darrell asked.

"Ready as we'll ever be.  We gave Billy some chamomile herb tea with a bit of honey, and he went to sleep right away."

"Let's do it."

It took an hour and a half to get everything set up, and then the two had a beer before Todd returned home just before midnight.

"I can't believe you're really going to do this," Bonnie said as Darrell opened the back door to leave.

Darrell chuckled, went outside, and climbed the ladder.  A few minutes later, he saw the flashlight, and three very faint shapes moving behind the glare.  He started pulling - a perfect liftoff, the bells ringing as the rope jerked the sleigh along.  Todd did a perfect job with the flashlight, just catching enough of the sleigh and reindeer to be convincing without illuminating the rope. The sleigh bounced as it landed on the roof, almost yanking the rope from Darrell’s hands.  He just managed to save everything from falling.

The Sharpersons hustled Billy indoors, and a few minutes later, Todd was back to help take the whole thing down.

"I think we might have done it," he said.

Bonnie refused to talk to Darrell when he came inside.

#

The next day, Darrell and Bonnie saw Billy and Todd playing catch in the back yard with a new football.

"Is that yours or his, Billy?"

"Very funny," Todd said.

"Anything interesting happen?"

"Oh, yeah," Billy said.  "Wait here a minute, I'll be back in a minute."  He went inside.

"So what's the verdict," I asked.

"He seemed excited last night, but he hasn't said a word about it today."

"You both should be ashamed of yourselves," Bonnie said.

Billy soon ran back, clutching an envelope in his hand.  "I've got something to show you."

Darrell took the envelope and pulled out the contents.  Bonnie looked over his shoulder and laughed.  He shuffled through about two dozen pictures of the reindeer and sleigh in his basement in various stages of construction, and one of a plastic Santa standing on its head in the corner.

"That was pretty lame," Billy said.  "Proof number twenty.  I already put it in my notebook."

Bonnie denied tipping him off.


About the Author
Clinton Lawrence is a graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop, and has fiction sales to Realms of Fantasy, Galaxy, The Fortean Bureau, The Color Computer Magazine, E-scape, Dark Regions, 2 AM Magazine, and Night Slivers.  For several years, he was a staff writer at Science Fiction Weekly.  In his non-literary life, he works as electrical engineer, and lives in Davis, California.


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Fiction Short Story

by Zakgirl

Where's My Bike?

My Dad, a serious hardworking man and tough disciplinarian, softened his tone at Christmas. He kept Santa's real identity from me for many years.

*********

Xmas 1972

I, Cate, age nine, believe Santa comes down the chimney and is more real than Jesus. He is going to bring me a bike this year.

No bike arrived on Christmas morning.

Xmas 1973

The week before Christmas Mum sat on Dad's knee and together they read a letter written by me to Santa. The front of the letter displayed a rough sketch of Santa's sleigh, his kangaroo reindeer, and Judy my dog, with a red nose at the front of the sleigh:

Dear Mr. Santa Claws,

How are you? I good. People say you not real. I know you is and nothing gunna to change the real in Santa. My dog Judy says hello. I want a bike and a swimming pool.

Pease thank you
Cate

Mum mentioned my spelling errors - Santa Claus, she spells out c l a u s. Not claws, c l a w s. That's what cats have!"

Mum did not bother about other errors. She smiled and explained Santa could not bring me a swimming pool because we didn't have enough water to fill one.

No bike arrived on Christmas morning.

Xmas Eve 1974

I had the most important job in the world. I got to place a red-labelled bottle of beer and a piece of fruitcake on the table for Santa. He didn't drink the green-labelled stuff. I wanted to keep Santa happy so I left a saucer of peanuts for him too. I knew Santa loved peanuts, just like my Dad. I also knew Santa was not my Dad dressed in a funny suit because Dad didn't drink beer. But this Christmas Eve Dad drank a pre-Santa-coming-down-the-chimney beer!

Later that night I lie in bed and pretend to be asleep. Mum said the quicker I fell asleep the sooner Santa would come down the chimney and leave presents.

Excitement prevented sleep. I tossed, turned, dozed, and dreamt of Santa sliding down the chimney.

My ears heard bells ring and I woke.

"Must be Santa!"

I realised I was not asleep. Fear took over my body and I froze as my heart pounded. Shadows moved in front of my eyes as I stared around the room. I wondered if Santa could know if I was awake. I slammed my eyes shut. My teeth clenched and my jaw ached. I thought of words from a song:

"He knows when you're awake. He knows when you've been bad or good so be good for goodness sake. Better not? "What?" I asked.

Santa Claus is coming something da da something. My thoughts jumbled and I worried about being a good girl. I thought I had been good. If I could remember the words to that song, I might get a clue of what to do.

I asked, "Am I good? Have I been bad?" A heap of questions and visions of Santa, presents, reindeers, lemonade, toffees and excitement kept me awake.

"What if Santa saw me?" I placed my hands over my eyes. I wondered if Santa knew the sound of sleep. Worried, I searched for a way to pretend to be asleep.

I held my breath. I realised that wouldn't work for long and let my breath out. Seconds seemed like hours. I opened one eye, saw a few shadows, but heard nothing. I opened the other eye. Nothing. I didn't even feel the cool Buffalo breeze that usually wafted into my bedroom window on hot summer nights.

I woke bright-eyed and feisty at the first hint of daylight. I jumped out of bed. Surely, Mum and Dad would be up too. I checked the clock on the lounge wall. Four o'clock in the morning is a good time for opening Christmas presents!

Dare I peek at the presents? I've been a good girl. Maybe a little look, a feel? I picked one wrapped in blue paper covered with white angels and rattled it a little. I carefully placed the present back under the tree. I ran into Mum and Dad's bedroom, jumped on the end of the bed and exclaimed, "Santa's been! Wake up, Santa's been!"

I bounced up and down and woke Mum but not Dad. He didn't stir. Mum rolled over, lifted her head from the pillow and looked at the clock.

"C-ate-eee" she groaned. "It's four in the morning. Go back to bed. It's too early."

"But Mum, Santa's been!"

"Shusssh! You'll wake your Father!"

I glanced at my dad and raced to my bedroom. I climbed into my bed, pulled the sheet over my head and wondered why I had to wait so long to open my presents. "It's not fair!"

I gazed at the shadows on the ceiling. I watched kangaroo reindeers turn into skinny-faced witches. I felt afraid for a moment and reminded myself it was Christmas and the kangaroo reindeers returned.

I leapt out of bed and marched to the clock on the wall in front of the lounge room. The clock had the big hand on the twenty and little hand on the four. My shoulders dropped.

"Drats! Too early!"

I stumbled back to bed, out to the lounge clock, back to bed, and out to the lounge clock for the next half hour.

"What was wrong with four am? It's now five am for sure."

I checked the clock again, nearly five. I crept back into Mum and Dad's bedroom, crawled onto the bed and peeked at Mum's face. I pushed my finger in Mum's eyes to see if she was awake. She didn't move. Dad mumbled something, frightened me and I ran back to my room and waited until six am.

At six on the dot, I rushed into Mum and Dad's bedroom. I needed something to make Mum and Dad happy. I went to the kitchen, made cups of tea and took them into the bedroom. I set the cups on the bed tables and went to the Christmas tree. I gathered a few presents, carried them to the bedroom, and dumped them on the foot of their bed.

"Can I open them now?"

"Oh I suppose so," said Mum, as she yawned and Dad looked grumpy.

I tore the wrapping from the first parcel. Socks, pants, and a tank top. The gift card read love from Mum and Dad.

"Thanks Mum" I faked a smile. "Dad".

I ripped open one present after another. I glanced at pictures in a coloring book and smiled as I stared at a Barbie doll's long blonde hair.

"Her legs and arms bend!" Mum smiled. I looked up and caught a sparkling glimpse outside the sliding glass doors.

"What's that?"

"Mum's eyes widened. " Ewwh! I don't know? You better go take a look."

I ran outside.

"A bike!" I screamed with excitement.

Red, blue and yellow streamers hung down from the handlebars and the card said from Santa.

"My bike! My bike! Santa gave me a bike!"

Dad smiled a wry smile as he sipped his cup of tea and Mum said, "Happy Christmas Cate."


About the Author
Imagine 60's Australia: A cool, early, autumn morning. A mother gives birth to a girl child. This child continues to wake early every morning, talk the leg off an iron pot,* including any animals nearby, entertains herself with her vivid imagination and detest late nights because they interfere with her precious dreamtime.

Nowadays Leanne lives and works on a Stud Murray Grey cattle farm. She considers the Murray Grey breed exceptional and one that will become the most popular breed in the world due to their wonderful temperament and marbling. She shows absolutely no bias of course. Her love of animals will not cease.

The other side of her personality loves to tell tales and until a few years ago she worked in office management. One wild Wednesday she quit her job to pursue a career as a writer. She believes everyone is here for a reason. Everyone has something unique or great about them and others should encourage them to develop their special skills. Leanne likes to use her ability as a writer to help others become all they can, realising there is heaps of good in the world if you seek it in people.

Life is like a large brainteaser to Leanne and she believes in things unseen, unheard of, and sometimes only felt.

If you wish to contact Leanne, you may, at: huonmurraygreys@bigpond.com.

*Common Aussie slang.


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Drabble Corner The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

This month's Drabble, on the theme of not knowing, was written, again, by Anonymous.

I don't know what to do now. Do I do anything? The court date is next month—it will decide my income for the next six months or so. I can prepare for that, but the decision isn't mine. Will I have to move? How will my health be, if I move? There's no way to know any of this now. Meanwhile, I see and talk to friends, go to holiday parties, concentrate on schoolwork, attend a football game, have lunch with my brother. Somehow, whatever the outcome, I am convinced that this will help, that it is helping.

It's been another one of those months for me. I've been taking a class at the university after having last been there 18 years ago—how strange it is to see the same old buildings, and even some of the same people, yet so much has changed! Little things, such as the fact that there's no pub on campus anymore. Actually, I didn't go there, though—I hung out at the Student Union, as I did again last evening, running into someone from my class and chatting awhile, just like in the old days. And somewhat bigger things have changed. As I sat on a cement wall looking up from my book today, all three people in my line of sight held cell phones to their ears. We're so used to seeing cell phones these days that it's not thought of much, except at times like today, for me, when the contrast between then and now is so huge. I guess we listened to the birds, or each other, 18 years ago; I don't remember anything at all going into or covering or being held to anyone's ears.
 
I'm finding professors now even more helpful now than I remember them to be. Maybe that's  because back then I didn't need the sort of help that I do now—these days I've got short-term memory loss. My professor helps by checking after each class that I've written down the assignment for the next session. Without that, I wouldn't ever get through. I remember professors helping in other ways, with books and articles to read, and often with ideas to discuss. One, who died just this past year, once when I went to his office in tears, pulled out an article that demonstrated the use of quotations in poetry essays well enough to pull my grade up to an A after I'd thoroughly made a mess of the first paper.
 
How do you see the changes that have gone on in your world during the past half of your life or so? The theme is changes in your world, to be submitted to drabble@wvu.org after reading these guidelines. In summary, the guidelines say that submissions are due within ten days after this ezine is delivered, and that they are to be 100 words exactly, excluding the title. Happy Holidays, and 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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Poetics Presents The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Poetics Presents

Francine L. Trevens

Francine L. Trevens claims she was born writing poetry and has never stopped. Her poems have appeared in everything from Bibliophilos, Cross & Quill, Dana Literary, Dovetail, Futures through the alphabet to Writer's Journal and YellowBat. A collection of her verses will be published in Spring, 2006.

DIGS

Are ancient digs proud
Of shards? How then poets of
Verse dug from within?
Poets are tuning
Forks resounding with verses
To how the wind blows.

Copyright ©2005 by Francine L. Trevens


BURIED WORDS

After years of poems profusely spilled
Worms, wind and weather worked the soil
That refused to yield a crop
Despite desperate, ceaseless toil.
Who'd believe the muse would stop
Providing poetry at will
And lie fallow, mutely stilled?
Yes, of writer’s block I'd heard
But a grid of detoured highways
Through which no word could travel?
Years passed. From beneath the maze
Of boulders, bricks and gravel.
Though nothing visible occurred,
Burst a lava of blissful word on word.

Copyright ©2005 by Francine L. Trevens




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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

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

What We Pay For

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We Publish

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

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

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

What We Won't Publish

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

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

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

Length Recommendations

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

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

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

Rights

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

Formats We Will Accept

Plain text in the body of an email.

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

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

Editing

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

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

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

Getting to Know You

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

How and Where to Submit

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

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck!


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