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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

B.A. Goodjohn

The Bus to Inspiration

When you asked me, “Where do you get your ideas from?” I’m sure you didn’t think you’d end up sitting next to me, freezing your arse off on the top deck of a bus heading for town. But, like many other answers to life’s questions, this one’s easier to show you than tell you. And anyway, as a writer, I’m not allowed to merely tell you anything.

Look around. I mean, really look around. You see, all these passengers are story lines. Everything outside that window is location, and each overheard conversation is potential dialogue. So sit back, enjoy the ride and let’s answer your question.

Essentially, we’re going into town so I can get some shopping—bread, milk, and a box of chicken kievs from Marks and Spencer. But creatively, I’m on my own personal hunting trip. After all, from a foraging point of view, the bus isn’t the best mode of transport; it’s cold, expensive and takes forever. And as you know, I do have a car. But I’m a writer, and my best friend and mentor told me a good writer gets down into dark, desperate humanity before she attempts to write about it. He also said, “Get in touch with your own subversion.” I don’t know about you, but I can’t get subversive in a red Ford Fiesta with imitation suede seat-covers. So, that’s why we’re on a number 318 bus. We’re hunting down subversion—otherwise known as material.

We can start here, right in front of us. There’s chewing gum in the defunct ashtray and “Gazza’s got a big knob” scrawled in pen on the back of the seat. At least they remembered the apostrophe. And “knob” is a difficult word, what with the silent ‘k’. An educated vandal is a joy to encounter. But I digress...

Take him, the Indian boy in the front seat with the carrier bag of cabbages. There’s at least four cabbages in that bag, and he doesn’t look like a vegetable-eating kind of boy to me. So why all the savoys? His nose is red...perhaps from a head cold he picked up at school. If he goes to school. Maybe he’s a run-away? Perhaps his father runs a brothel staffed by under-aged girls, including (he looks like a Keesal) Keesal’s sister?

Or he’s the unwitting love child of that man over there, two rows behind him—the one reading The Daily Mail. But he’s not reading it. Not really. He never learnt to read because his mother kept him in a broom cupboard from the age of two until he was fifteen and began to sprout facial hair. She only let him out when she discovered his singing voice was above average, and she knew if she didn’t nurture him, he would join a terrorist group and kidnap an Opera singer...oh no, Patchett’s done that. Damm! Don’t you hate it when you’re late out of the trap?

Ah, we’ve stopped. Or rather, the bus has stopped. No one interesting getting on down there. No one colourful or pained or overloaded with life’s burdens...or joys. Okay then, what about that shop by the bus stop—the one selling plastic storage bins and hosepipe reels. The shopkeeper, the one in the brown coat, sells plastic because he loves the smell. More than loves. He NEEDS the smell in order to go on with the mundane minutiae of his own life. He’s in love with the greengrocer next door—the one in the plastic pork-pie hat. Every day, the greengrocer, we’ll call him Mr. Golden Delicious (a working-name of course), polishes fruit on the hem of his apron after making love in the stock room with Mrs. Porterly, a customer who buys ten pound of russets and a melon every third Tuesday...off we go. Bye bye, Mr. Shopkeeper.

Hmm? What’s that on the seat? A cinema ticket. A cinema ticket to see The Village. Let’s say it was bought by an obese little girl with a leg-brace (who is forced by her foster mother to wear red stockings), but when she gets to the ticket booth, the cashier tells her she is far too short to be eighteen, and anyway, they have no provision for handicapped customers. Maybe the girl takes the bus home, batters her foster family to death with her leg iron, and then becomes a prominent figure in a political group that champions the rights of fat little girls in leg-braces?

Come on, Bunny! You’re wallowing in ordure again. Upbeat. Upbeat. Upbeat. There must be subversive, yet upbeat material somewhere on this red bus snailing down St. Albans road on a Saturday morning. Hah! Football supporters. Down there on the bridge. Hordes of them, heading for the stands on Vicarage Road. Maybe that one, the one with a lifesize cut-out of Brittany Spears under his arm. Perhaps it’s his birthday and his friends are taking him to the footie and then for a night of drinking and darts, and he’ll meet his future wife, a girl who works behind the bar of The Tanners Arms in the evening, but by day is a telephone sex line operator. Maybe she’s a dead-ringer for Brittany Spears, and when he props cardboard Brittany up against the bar and sees the barmaid, he knows he has to have her or die? But she’s already married. Or dying of an incurable mouth infection. Or she’s the divorced wife (or bastard daughter) of Manchester United’s football coach.

I know! She’ll give up the sex line job to be a produce picker for Tescos. She’s developed a fear of daylight and telephone receivers, and this is the only way she can support herself, filling Internet orders for housebound shoppers. Not Tescos. Let’s think upmarket here. Marks and Spencer! No, they don’t take Internet orders. That won’t work. Oh wait! Marks and Spencer! That’s our stop.

Come on, come on! You go first. Don’t dawdle.

I’ve always liked Marks and Sparks. My mother could never afford their prices and neither can I. But shopping here opens up a whole new vista. And you’d better believe that we can find subversive here as easily as out there on the streets. It’s just better packaged.

So, what did I need? Ah, milk, bread and kievs. Through the revolving door—I wonder if someone could live in there?—then veer right by ladies lingerie; the food hall is over there at the back.
 
And here’s the milk. Organic—must do my bit for my bovine sisters—and two loaves of wholemeal. Then let’s rush the freezer, liberate the kievs and head home, where I can turn some of this into a first draft for Imperial Eggbeater who are “looking for fiction between 1500 and 3000 words centering on the motif of 'Castigation and Fast Food Fetishism. Submission by December 13th. Note: WE DO NOT READ BETWEEN MAY AND SEPTEMBER!'"

What do you reckon to that man, the one rummaging in the freezer? He in the wool suit and motorcycle boots. I wonder if he’s a castigator? Who or what might he castigate? Would he flay himself with a scourge a la Dimmesdale? Admonish the family dog, a shell-shocked creature his wife recently adopted from the local shelter?

Does a scourge have to be made of leather? Do beef burgers count as fast food?

Does that answer your question?


About the Author
B.A. Goodjohn, originally from the UK, now resides in Forest, Virginia. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in The Texas Review, The Cortland Review, Wind Magazine, Literary Pot Pourri, Flashquake and other journals. Her short story, "Cubed," appeared in Blue Cubicle Press's 2005 anthology, Workers, Unite! Contact: bagoodjohn@ispwest.com.


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Craft of Writing

Leanne Johnston

Marketing To Target Audience
(Internet marketing – remarkable epoch)

When computers arrived, my father expressed these concerns:

Children of the future will forget how to read the printed page. Computers will take over the world and there will be no jobs for people. Computers will do all the work!
He spoke of a new language that would allow incorrect spellings, slang, less and inaccurate use of grammar, punctuation, and shortened versions of words. His fear, in part, became reality. Correct in his theory on how human interaction would change and shortening of words would evolve, but he may not have understood the immense expansion of the Internet across the world and the resultant fact that children and adults would read more than ever!

Users of the Internet look at pictures, play games, chat, watch video footage, and read jokes on screen. Often, the subject matter conveyed creates curiosity in the user, resulting in further research into both electronic and print form. Many computer users seek further education and improve their communication and writing skills in the process.

If anything, the desire for expression and reading others' thoughts over the Internet, whether it be through chat rooms or via email, has expanded rapidly. People of all ages improve their education levels unwittingly in order to voice their opinions or concerns.

The Internet has created a whole new set of markets and associated support services. The way people receive information is changing, giving writers new creative avenues to explore.

Which leads me to an often asked question, since the advent of the Internet: Are newspaper circulations decreasing?

Newspaper circulations have decreased as Internet-based news and information services have increased exponentially along with increasing online activity. This unlocks vast opportunities for newspaper publishers receptive to diversifying and exploiting new markets. If newspaper publishers are sensitive to the needs of the consumer they stand to gain an increased market share of news-related services. Unfortunately my regular newspaper publisher has resorted to filling white space with advertising to help pay the ever increasing costs of production instead of capitalizing on areas consumers want and that they cannot hope to attain through Internet-based services.

On the front page of this capital city based newspaper, Saturday’s edition displayed the usual stop-you-dead-in-your-tracks headline. The second page was advertisements and the third page a few short articles in between more advertisements! Who is going to keep buying a newspaper full of advertisements? Not me, that’s for sure. Smart publishers need to shift gears toward new markets or expand existing to increase their market share.

People’s preference in receiving information has changed. Many people receive daily news directly in their email box at home or work. We are bombarded with advertising, billboards, television, (ugh, dare I repeat myself), newspapers, shopping centers and even outside churches. Is nothing sacred anymore?

Internet-based news services survive by using quick punchy headlines to persuade readers to click on that mouse linking to a summary article with an option to read the full story. This makes money in many ways. The advertising leads consumers to other products or services through ISPs sponsoring the sites and the advertisements themselves create income through other sources. It is a complicated and fascinating maze.

Writers are required more than ever to capture reader’s interest in the first sentence of an article or even with the first word. The Internet Service Providers need writers to post comments, submit articles, teach computers and internet use, provide online feedback, run forums, and hold Internet-based interviews. All of which require scripts or manuals. These are newly developing markets of which writers and marketing personnel play a crucial role. If you are in any way proficient in writing or marketing, you may have a potential goldmine to capitalize on.

Publishers’ methods have changed.

New methods of gaining income have been developed along with the introduction of the Internet. After all, marketing is about making money, not just filling needs and wants. Reading material is offered freely to the person surfing the web. Income is gained by associated advertising. The writer of the article gets paid up front—not bad—and a lucrative way for a writer to survive while waiting for that big break! No longer is distance or remoteness an impediment to being heard. Writers in locations all over the world have as much opportunity of being published as their NYC counterparts. (NYC publishers are able to market and sell products to a wide range of consumers on past reputation alone!)

Books have the remarkable quality of being available all over the world at low cost via the Internet. These opportunities have not only opened the marketplace up through easy access but have also increased competition. This also means you, the writer, have to compete with every other writer in the world who happens to enjoy writing in the same genre as you.

These and many other facts are things you need to consider when seeking publication and distribution of your articles or manuscripts. This article only briefly touches on the many other issues to consider.

Feel free to contact the writer for any further ideas.

Good luck. I hope you get published soon.


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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Craft of Writing

Suzan L. Wiener

Ten Ways To Get Your Fillers Noticed By Editors

Writing fillers is a fun way to get published. Here are ten ways I found that increase my chances of getting acceptances, and they should help you too. They are great for those times you can't seem to do longer pieces, yet still keep your name out there and your work too. Also, the editors will get to know you. Should you have an article or story, they will read yours first since they know your name.

1. Type all fillers, double-spaced, on an 8 ½ by 11 inch sheet of paper or on a postcard, depending on what the market asks for. If they ask for a certain word count, don't go over it as that will automatically be rejected. Of course, if it is only a few words over, then that will usually be alright.

2. Try doing all types of fillers, not just the ones you feel comfortable with. There are many, so don't limit yourself to one. The more fillers you do, the better you'll become. You can do jokes, anecdotes, puns, 4-line poems, etc. The more you send in, the more the editors will have a need for your submissions.

3. Mail out at least 10 to 15 fillers a week, so you will always have a number of them in circulation. This way, you increase your odds of getting published. Don't send the same submissions to different publications. This is not a good idea as the same one could be accepted. Then you will have to tell one publication you have to withdraw it, and the editor won't take kindly to that.

4. Save money on postage by not enclosing SASEs with your submissions. Mark on the outside of the envelopes, "No Need to Return." Many editors appreciate this because it saves time and effort. It is important to remember to mark that on the outside; otherwise the editor may feel obligated to return it and may spend money on postage for that return.

5. Address the fillers to the appropriate section, not to the editor of the magazine. A filler sent to the editor may not get to the right person. It could also annoy him or her which is something you don't want to do.

6. Don't send a rejected filler to the same market again. Instead, if you feel it's good, send it to another one. Don't give up on it. I have sent rejected fillers to other magazines and it has found a home. Keep trying is the key.

7. Feel free to send a filler to another market if there is no word after four or five months. Most editors don't take longer than that to let you know if it's been accepted. They will understand if you have chosen to move on with it and send it elsewhere. Send them a postcard if you want to let them know you have done that.

8. Read your fillers to family and friends and see if they enjoy them. What they like, the editors may also. I find this idea very helpful. Editors want to print work that appeals to the average public.

9. Don't rule out sending fillers to magazines that only pay copies. At least you will get to see your byline. This is especially true if you are beginner and you want to build your clips. This is a good way to do that.

10. Send only to those publications that use fillers now. It's a waste of time to send them to ones you hope might use them in the future. Remember, research your markets to make sure that your target publication takes fillers. Otherwise, it's a waste of time.

Following the above tips should make your odds much higher in getting the acceptance you crave and that most-welcomed check.


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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Birdie's Quill

Birdie

Guidelines – The Portal to Publication

Imagine a fantasy adventure where the heroine works through a maze of dangers and snares to reach a portal that opens to a land she’s searched for her entire life. She holds a key in her trembling hand. Writing on the wall tells her what she must do to make the key work, but it’s taken her so long to get here that she impatiently slips the key into the slot without completely reading the instructions. The portal rejects the key. Our heroine crumples to the floor crying and throws the key across the room, blaming it for the portal’s failure when in reality it was failure to read the instructions that left her quest unfulfilled.

Whether you’re a freelance writer, novelist, ghostwriter or poet, the common element to getting published requires following guidelines. A finished manuscript or query is the key. Guidelines offer the details to open the portal to publication. The creative art of writing carries the writer through a labyrinth of hard work requiring the polishing of manuscripts until they engage the reader and are error-free. Once you dot that last “i” and edit that final word, what’s the next step?

You stand at the threshold with your manuscript in hand. Yes, the writing process is work, but the submission procedure requires effort as well. Your writing is the key that can open to a land of publishing opportunities, but if you don’t read the instructions provided, chances of publication diminish.

You can approach guidelines two ways, before or after you write your piece. If you check markets before writing a story or article, guidelines provide a template to custom-fit topic, genre, word count and other specifics to what the publisher seeks in a manuscript. It’s like possessing a treasure map to guide your way.

However, writers are inspired souls and at times the creative bug bites and words pour onto the page without a clue as to where to submit the work. No matter which way you enter the writing process, the final step requires following the guidelines.

Searching for the right publisher after a work is complete generates a bit of a puzzle. Does the publisher accept the genre or topic represented in your manuscript? Does your word count fall within the parameters accepted? Following detailed procedures listed within guidelines works to get a proverbial foot through the publishing portal. It’s not a guarantee of publication; that depends on the submission, but following writer’s guidelines opens the door for your manuscript to be considered.

Genre or Topics
Look for magazines or publishers seeking work on the topic, theme or genre in which your manuscript is written. If guidelines give specifics like “no religious” or “no romance,” and your submission fits that scenario, don’t send it to that specific publisher.

In the guidelines set forth by this publication, writers who write fiction, poetry, or non-fiction about the craft of writing are invited to send manuscripts. Additional information is provided. When researching markets, once you find one that fits your genre read the guidelines thoroughly. For example, T-Zero: The Writer's E-Zine accepts non-fiction, but if you sent a historical piece on the early settlers in southern Illinois, it would not meet the guidelines. Non-fiction accepted by this publication is specified. “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 the writer has a great non-fiction article on the craft of writing that was published two years ago, according to the guidelines it will not be accepted. “No reprints,” means that if the article has been published elsewhere, it will not be considered.

Word Count
Guidelines include word count for a reason. Publishers know their readership and what they want. Editorial staff is expected to read every manuscript and finish edits in the lead-time stipulated by the publisher.

Available space is another factor. Putting together a magazine or newspaper works like a puzzle. When writers stay within specified word counts, pieces can be moved to fit around advertising and fillers because they fall within the word count limit.

Electronic or Snail Mail
In this day of electronic mail, many publishers accept e-mail submissions. Check guidelines to learn particulars. Do they accept attachments? If so, what format is required?

  • Rich Text Format – rtf
  • Word Document – doc
Some guidelines ask that submissions be cut and pasted in the body of an e-mail and warn that attachments will be deleted without being read.

Publishers that do not accept electronic submissions still require a double-spaced manuscript on 8 ½ by 11 white paper. Unless guidelines say differently, follow these basics:
  • Courier or Times New Roman – font size 12 (unless guidelines state differently)
  • Paragraph indentation 5 spaces (1/2 inch)
  • Indicate scene breaks with three centered asterisks or pound signs (also known as number signs)
  • Allow one inch margins all around, including top and bottom
  • At the top of each page (except the title page) include the name of your manuscript, your name and the word “page” followed by the page number (each separated by a slash). If the title is long, choose part of the title. For example instead of “Guidelines – The Portal to Publication / Sundblad / Page 1,” I’d shorten the title in the header to read “Portal to Publication / Sundblad./ Page 1.” This information on each page provides easy identification in the event pages become separated.
  • Include a SASE with the appropriate amount of postage if you want your manuscript returned.
Correct Editor
Guidelines offer essential information regarding who or what department to address when sending your submission. Poetry, non-fiction or fiction generally have specific departments and editors. Submissions can become sidetracked or, even worse, lost when sent to the wrong address.

Synopsis or Query Required
Does the publication require a query before submitting? Or, perhaps a query and first three chapters? It makes a difference. Like I said earlier in this article, the submission process is work. Sometimes, I feel like it takes me as long to create a good query letter as it does to write the article I’m trying to sell. When the guidelines say, “query first,” don’t send an unsolicited manuscript. It’s a waste of your time and postage.

Paying or Nonpaying
Check to see what compensation is offered when your writing is accepted for publication. If you are in the early stages of building your portfolio, non-paying publications offer coveted clips to use when contacting future publications.

Note not only how much the publication pays but when. If the article is accepted but later is not used, will you receive a kill fee? Is payment made on acceptance or when the article is published?

Rights and Reprints?
  • All Rights – Electronic rights are included with first rights, with indefinite archiving of articles, making it possible for publishers to infinitely re-use a writer's work without further compensation.
  • First Rights – Right to be the first publisher of the work.
  • First Electronic Rights – Right to be the first publisher of the work electronically.
  • First North American Rights – Right to be the first publisher of the work in North America for a specified amount of time.
  • Reprint Rights – Free to reprint the work with or without further compensation based on terms of contract.
Bottom Line
It’s a shame when a writer’s work is rejected before it’s read because of failure to follow the guidelines. Your story or article could be a perfect fit, but if it’s too long, it won’t be considered. Editors are busy people. They don’t have time to send back and forth explaining what the guidelines already express. Hone your writing to fit the stipulated word count.

Double-check guidelines before sending your submission. Following each step exactly doesn’t guarantee acceptance but opens the portal to publication possibilities. Rejection, although unpleasant, is even more so when due to a technicality because the guidelines were not followed.


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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Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved

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Poetics Presents

Elizabeth Vartanian

Elizabeth Vartanian is Australian, born in Indonesia to missionary parents. She has been living in London, England for the past 13 years with her Armenian husband and 3 cats. Widely travelled, she holds a Masters degree in Russian Language and Society and a BA in European Studies. She has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pen and took a free unit in Creative Writing as part of her first degree.

WILL YOU TELL?

Can you see it still -
The lamplit tables at the edge of the Nile
The feluccas, the bazaars; the pyramids
In the desert - and the little boy who led my camel
And asked me to make him very happy afterward?
You stood here once
With me
- Can you see it still?

Do you remember -
How cold it is at night to cross the Sinai
The Eilat dusk; the lights of three countries reflecting
On the Red Sea - and the Bedouin’s huts with
No walls and a big fire in the middle? And in its
Embers can you see
My reflection
- And do you remember?

And when you smell -
The gum trees after the rain, in Australia
Do you smell the eucalyptus trees outside Jerusalem
On the Sabbath - when we hitched a lift and
Can you see the soldiers guns along the route?
Do you still feel
The tension
- When you smell the gum trees?

And will you tell-
The children you climbed Mount Sinai
And saw the manger in Bethlehem
In December - but there were no shepherds then
And can you feel the ice-chill snow, the biting wind
And that you felt it
With me
- Will you tell your children?

Copyright ©2006 by Elizabeth Vartanian




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

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Fiction Short Story

by  Marsh Pickett

Behold

“My God, Terry! Do you have any idea what this will do to my ministry? Do you have any idea? How could you do this to me after all these years? After all we’ve been through. I thought I knew you, Terry. But now…”

The hospital covers gave little indication a man’s body lay beneath them. Disease left a shell of a human. Each breath labored as if it would be the last. Lungs functioned solely due to oxygen which flowed through a plastic mouthpiece.

“Ed. Ed, listen to me. This goes no further. My partner is dead. He and I swore never to tell.” Terry paused and inhaled through the mouthpiece. “My doctor has the greatest respect for you. My cause of death will be listed as cancer. You are in no danger.”

“I don’t understand why you did this, Terry. My best friend, a homosexual. How did you hide it from me? How could I not have known? God, Terry! This is just too much.”

A pale white right hand removed the tube. “Do you remember when we were in college? You would see me with a woman now and then but it was just for show. Back then you couldn’t announce you were gay. You were on your way to the top even then. You were always so insistent that I be on your team. I loved you, Ed, since we were kids. I couldn’t bring myself to break your heart.”

"What do you think you’re doing right now? When the press and public find out that my right-hand man was a fruit; God, they’ll have a field day with it. You really dropped the big one this time, Terry.”

“I’m about to die, my friend, and the secret dies with me. I wanted you to know the truth. The last thing I do in my life has to be right. I brought this virus on myself by my promiscuous lifestyle. Now, I am about to pay. No one will ever know, Ed. No one.” Terry closed his eyes and replaced the mouthpiece.

The long, tanned index finger of Ed's right hand jabbed at the floor.” You have brought the wrath of God down on you, Terry. I can only hope it does not descend on us all.”

The mouthpiece lifted a little. “They have pulled all my IV’s, Ed. I’ll be gone soon. Please quit looking out the window and come sit with me. Remember that Jesus hated the sin but loved the sinner. Be my friend again, Ed.”

“I have to get on top of this right away. Right now! Goodbye, Terry.”

“Ed! Ed!”

The calls faded as the room door closed behind the tall man dressed in a dark gray chalk-striped suit and bright red necktie. A matching handkerchief peeked from the top pocket of the suit coat. The VIP elevator provided quick access to the waiting stretch limo. Ed slipped into the back seat and headed for the cities poshest, five-star hotel.

Concern for a dying friend did not surface in his thoughts. His entrepreneur mind focused on the measures he needed to take to save his business empire. "If I just don’t say anything. He could have been telling the truth. If anything did get out, Craddock will put a spin on it. It's time he earned his money. Yeah. Just don’t say anything.” Ed sighed and leaned his head back against the soft leather headrest and enjoyed the quiet ride through the city’s busy streets.

One hour prior to showtime, the make-up artist put the finishing touches on Ed's forehead as the choir director knocked on the door and entered the dressing room. “Ed, I have some news I thought you might want to know right away.”

“What is it, Wilson?”

“Terry has died, Ed. I’m so sorry. I know how close you were. I am so sorry. Do you want me to handle the arrangements?"

“Yes. Yes, if you would, Wilson. Thank you very much for helping me at this time.” Wilson left the room and the make-up artist held a mirror in front of Ed’s face.

The largest stadium in America filled to capacity with loyal followers anticipating Brother Ed Morgan's spiritual address. Simultaneous broadcasts throughout the world insured the charismatic preacher’s message reached eager believers across the planet.

Joyous music praise opened the ceremony, followed by a bountiful offering. Brother Ed Morgan, founder of Ed Morgan World Evangelistic Association ascended the stage and waved to the crowd. All eyes focused on the man wearing the red tie with matching pocket-handkerchief. Gold cufflinks shone and shiny shoes glistened in the glare of the stadium lights. His tailored suit accented his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Each strand of salt and pepper hair held in place by expensive hairspray.

Brother Ed tucked his Bible under his left arm, strode to the pulpit, and rested his hands on each side of the lectern. He breathed deeply, paused and looked down at his prepared text. His head rose slowly, he gazed past the crowd and looked into the sky. He felt his lips tighten and his eyes squinted to see his adoring supporters. His mouth drooped as a tear trickled down his tanned cheek and smeared the smooth foundation. Another tear dripped over the right eyelid and another until he wept openly in front of the congregation. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He mumbled while his lips quivered. The attendants had no idea what to do. This was not in the book. Brother Ed Morgan, one of the world’s most powerful evangelists and admired speakers of the Word, crumbled to the floor on his hands and knees and cried his heart out. He screamed over and over, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The older attendants moved to his aid while the younger ones closed ranks behind them on the stage.

One whispered to another, ”Geez, the old man really lost it. What happened?”

“Hey, you got me. Never seen anything like this before. He was just looking down at his Bible when he started.”

“What was he going to preach on?”

“Don’t know. Let’s ease up and look.”

The two came forward and looked at the Bible of Brother Ed Morgan. The pages were opened to the Eleventh Chapter of John’s Gospel. The passage was clearly marked, “Then said the Jews, Behold how he loved him!”


About the Author
Marsh Pickett Jr. was born and raised in the Mississippi Delta which has given birth to such writers as Willie Morris, Shelby Foote and Walker Percy. He now resides in Tupelo, MS with his wife, Deidre, and his daughters, Kathryn and Haley.


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Fiction Short Story

by  Wayne Scheer

First Date

They met at Maglio's. Ellen arrived just a few minutes after eight, wearing her new red dress, just as she promised. To Jason's surprise, she was far prettier than her picture.

He could feel himself perspire. Nothing more disgusting, he thought, than a fat man with armpit stains. She had described herself in three months of emails as shy and uncomfortable with people she didn't know. But she readily agreed to meet him when he finally dared ask her.

He tried sounding confident and encouraging in his emails. He was also careful to send her a headshot taken more than two years ago, before the breakup of his fourteen-year marriage and before he put on the extra forty pounds.

As Ellen approached the bar where they agreed to meet, he stood up and pulled his belt over his belly. She smiled. But he sensed disappointment. Something in the way her eyes narrowed gave her away.

In her photo, she wore glasses. He wondered if she was wearing contacts.

"Ellen?" He held out his hand, hoping his palm wasn't sweaty. "It's good to finally meet you."

Her smile seemed genuine, but he still had his doubts. She told him how happy she was to meet him, too. They found a table after she explained that she didn't drink. Jason heard himself talking too fast, but he couldn't stop. He wanted to impress her. On email, he had time to compose his thoughts. He'd always been a better writer than a conversationalist. He remembered the long letters he used to write Mindy when he was in college. That's what made her fall in love with him, she used to say. It was easy for him to share his feelings on paper, to joke and make witty observations. He wanted so desperately to do it now.

Instead, he heard himself repeat the same jokes he had made electronically. Ellen still laughed, but he felt they were just perfunctory LOLs.

When they told the waiter they didn't want wine, he brought menus with water and a basket of garlic rolls. Jason devoured a roll as the waiter described the night's special, a sea bass baked in parchment, with a side of vegetables or pasta. She said the fish sounded delicious, and chose the vegetables as her side dish.

Jason ordered veal parmigiana with double linguini. When the waiter left, Ellen said, "I feel like I know you so well. I knew that was what you would order. You once told me how much you enjoyed the parmigiana here and how you always double the side pasta." Jason wondered if this was her polite way of reminding him of his weight problem.

"You should try some. Put some meat on your bones." He saw a slight blush in her cheeks. What a dumb thing to say, he thought. "You look fine," he added too quickly. "Especially in your new dress."

She laughed, saying it was all right. "I do need to gain a few pounds."

This would be the time to encourage her to talk about herself. "How's your mother?" he finally asked. "You said she was having problems breathing. I remember when my mother...Did I tell you she died of congestive heart failure?"

"Yes, you did."

Jason wanted to kick himself. Her mother is still in the early stages of the disease and here he is talking about death. What a jerk! No wonder Mindy left him for Al Hermanski. Fourteen years of marriage and two children, and she tells him she doesn't love him anymore. She moves out with the children and even takes the dog. Then she wants a divorce so she can marry Hermanski.

Jason grabbed another roll, soaking up as much oil and garlic as he could before consuming it in two bites.

Ellen spoke about her job as an editor for a gardening newsletter. The work was boring, she told him, just as she had in emails. "How many articles on the benefits of composting can a person read?"

Jason nodded and laughed, although he remembered her writing this in an email. Soon he was talking about his least favorite subject: his job. "I can't imagine ever thinking selling insurance was what I wanted to do with my life. But it paid well, and I had a family to support." He looked at Ellen. "I guess if you share it with someone, it's not so bad. It's when you're alone, and you have nothing but your job, that you realize how miserable you are." He resisted the urge to reach for another roll.

Before she could respond, the waiter appeared with their food. Jason watched Ellen pick at her fish while he dove into his parmigiana and pasta. She doesn't like the food, he thought. Or the company. "Is the fish all right?"

"Yes, its delicious. I just tend to eat slowly. But I enjoy watching you eat with such gusto."

"Sorry," he said. "I guess I'm not used to eating with someone anymore. I mean, I eat with my children, but that's more like a race than a meal."

"No, no," she said, reaching out and caressing the back of his hand.

He resisted the urge to take her hand in his. She was probably just being kind.

Jason stared at her lips as she spoke. Full, round lips, much fuller than Mindy's. Her dress revealed a little cleavage, but he remained intrigued with her mouth. He felt perspiration tickle his forehead.

The fat man is sweating, he thought. Very attractive. Still, Ellen smiled. Was she just feigning interest as he spoke of his children and how he called them everyday to say he loved them, even though at twelve and ten, he knew they're rolling their eyes? "I swear I can see it through the phone. Lainie, the older one, makes her eyes almost pop out and kind of tilts her head while swallowing her lips. Doug, he just puffs up his cheeks and blows while raising his eyeballs to the sky. But I don't care. I want them to know I love them."

"That's obvious. You write about them all the time. I think its wonderful that you have such a close relationship with your children, despite the...um...troubles." She looked away.

"The divorce has been rough on all of us, but the kids are doing fine." He hesitated, wondering if he should continue. "I'm the one. I mean, I've gained so much weight."

"You look fine," she said. "Frankly, I was expecting you to look like a Sumo wrestler, judging from your emails." She smiled and squeezed his hand.

He shared his dream of writing a novel. "I have a plot worked out," he told her. "An insurance fraud scheme in a small town. Most of the town is in on it. The plan is hatched at a public zoning hearing. It's based loosely on an actual case I once worked on."

"I could help you edit it," she offered, her voice rising. Now she was talking fast. "I'd love to do something other than check the correct spelling of parthenocissus quinquefolia. And you're such a wonderful writer." For a moment, Jason grew excited about working with her. Then he feared she was only being polite.

They finished dinner as Ellen spoke more freely about her past. She had been engaged to a man named Clarence, but her mother didn't approve. Eventually, he broke it off when Ellen told him she couldn't move far from her mother.

"My father died when I was six and she raised me by herself. How could I ever abandon her?"

"I respect that," Jason said. "It's rare to find that kind of devotion nowadays. My mother moved in with us toward the end of her life." Jason watched Ellen dab at her eyes.

"I hardly ever wear my contacts," she said. "I'm not used to them anymore."

Now Jason squeezed her hand. She didn't want dessert, which Jason took to mean she wanted to go home. "Well, I have an early meeting tomorrow anyway. Maybe we should call it a night." He wanted so badly to kiss her. Instead, he began to stand up.

"Maybe we could stay a little longer and have coffee?" she whispered.

"They do make a good cappuccino. And it goes well with their New York cheese cake." He sat back down.

"We could share it," she said.


About the Author
Wayne Scheer retired after twenty-five years of teaching writing in college to follow his own advice and write. Recent work has appeared in The Christian Science Monitor, The Pedestal Magazine, Cynic Magazine, River Walk Journal and Humor Press. His writing awards include a Pushcart Prize nomination. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and he can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.


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Fiction Short Story

by  Robert Barlow

The Perfect Victim

I wheezed from the smoke hanging inside The Brew House. It tickled my asthma while I searched for the woman. I spotted her third barstool from the end. Dirty blonde strands flowed around naked shoulders and barely touched the top of her narrow blouse. She was the key to achieving my goal.

"Hi. I'm Sammy."  I've seen the same reaction when other women take in the acne pits and little scars detailed across my face. But I know how to change a woman's opinion. "I recently came into a lot of money. How about I buy you a drink with some of it?"

"A lot of money, huh? Car accident?" I knew that I already seemed less repulsive to her when she blew her next lung full of cigarette out the other side of her mouth instead of into my face.

"Nope. Parents of a college boy paid for him beating the hell out of me."

Now I had her attention. She eagerly sipped at the Long Island Iced Tea I provided while I showed her the uneven mend of various broken bones.

"He must have been a real bad ass to beat you like that."

"Not really. He just didn't know he was messing with the perfect victim."

"I don't understand."

"Most women don't. You see I have a secret. In high school my peers only saw a skinny boy covered with acne and hair that wouldn't stay put. They never knew I had a high tolerance to pain. And I never really thought much about it, until I mouthed off to Bobby Lee. I still remember every word he said."

"Get up, dumb ass." All six and a half feet of Bobby Lee loomed over me. He'd pushed me hard. I slid several feet over the glossy gym floor. "Now wipe your sweat off my Nikes, unless you want me to squeeze your neck until your head pops like the zit bag that it is."

Here was my moment of truth. I could wipe his gym shoes or walk away. Instead, I gave him the finger and said, "I hear that homosexuals really like to wrap their hands around other guys."

Bobby Lee punched me so hard they kept me in the hospital for overnight observation. The school cops spent two days interviewing other students before they arrested Bobby for felony assault. But that wasn't the best part. My mother sued Bobby's parents, and suddenly I had a shot at going to college. Not that I ever finished college, but those were good times. And they came with lots of angry rich boys to pay my way.

For some reason, I usually found them slumming in the seedier bars. But I still had to be careful, so as not to build a reputation. I stalked rich boys in some of the surrounding towns until I was on a first name basis with most of the cops and all of the district attorneys. They either thought I was crazy or just one unlucky bastard. Whatever they thought didn't matter as long as they worked hard to secure the criminal convictions I needed for the civil trials. My mom's lawyer kept telling me that proving beyond a reasonable doubt makes it easy to demonstrate a preponderance of evidence.

But it takes a lot of patience to be a perfect victim. That's why I always did my best to guarantee the evidence and force an early settlement. I started convincing guys like me to come along as witnesses. Most were willing to do it just to see a rich bully pay the price. Then I discovered low light video.

It helped that I was a computer science major for a while. I learned enough to fine-tune the video for detailed identification in court.

Even with the video, it was a good idea to have another guy along with a cell phone. That way the cops arrived early enough to keep the beatings from going too far. Well, almost always. Sometimes it happened too fast and I'd have to wake up in the hospital to learn how it ended. I got to know the staff at the various hospitals better than the cops. So far, I've added up three major surgeries for internal ruptures, plenty of broken bones, two concussions and several feet of accumulated stitches.

I know it sounds pretty bad. Sure I've had some vision and balance problems, but it's all been worth it. Still, even a punishment glutton like me finally needed a better way to make money. That's when I went after the fraternity. Phi Alpha Beta Gamma's probation week seemed like the perfect opportunity.

I played along with the initiation until the final night. This time I had both Jimmie on a telescopic long lens and a mini cam I'd planted inside the frat. Jimmie later used a cover story about conducting research on hazing.

A bribe revealed that the grand finale involved making us roll in dog crap and splashing us with urine. I knew that if I waited too long they'd be less likely to lay hands on me or worse than that, it might mean getting kicked more than punched.

The seniors had already tapped the kegs and were drunk, sloshing Coors with every insult they hurled at us. Eventually the frat president called my name.

"Sammy. You get to be first, you scrawny puke. Roll in it, probee!"

I looked at the green tarp dotted with dog droppings. Most of it smelled pretty fresh, which didn't surprise me considering the size of the frat's mascot, Taz.

"I'd rather see you eat it."

That killed all the side talk for about five seconds. Taunts burst out again. Peer pressure at its purest.

"You gonna take that from a probee, James?"

"We should make him eat it!"

"Why don't you eat it, Tyrone? Unless you're afraid it might remind you too much of your girlfriend," I added to sweeten my plan.

From the look on Tyrone's face I knew I had two of them ready to rip into me. I really wanted at least two more if I was going to hit the jackpot this time around.

"Hey Anthony!  Bernard!  If you two are done making out with each other by that keg maybe you could help your buddies polish off these turds."

None of those rich frat boys were football players, but you wouldn't have known it from how they took me down. The four of them rushed in high and low, fists flying. Fortunately, I cracked my head pretty hard when I fell back against the end table and I blacked out before the worst of it.

I only got to see part of the two videotapes in the hospital a week later when I regained consciousness. I identified all four of them, but to me it just looked like four guys going crazy over a limp body.

Two months later I'd recovered enough to wheel into the courtroom for the criminal trial. That's where I finally got to watch all of the video and point out individual aspects to the jury. Of course, the defense attorney laid into me pretty hard about inciting the frat boys with my comments. But the district attorney countered him by pointing out that nothing I said justified getting assaulted. You know the stupidest part of all this is that if those guys had any self-control at all my plan would have failed. Anyway, once the jury saw all of my injuries in photographic detail the convictions were a done deal.

Later, when I sued them, all but James settled. I was up and moving with a walker for the civil trial and he just sneered at me in court. He really should have settled. It would've saved him a hundred grand, not including the attorney fees.

"Not bad, huh?"

"That's amazing."  The woman slurred her sympathy over her third drink on my tab.

"Let me buy you another."  I ran my hand down her back at the same time her boyfriend stepped out of the billiards room. "My problem is that I spend it way faster than I earn it."

A moment later the big man lifted me up by the front of my shirt. I clearly saw the rings decorating his fingers and the gold chains hanging around his neck. Yeah, he was the right guy.

"Wait, Charles. Don't," said his girlfriend.

Too late. Knucklebones lined up to crack my nose for the fifth time in my life.

Stupid woman. She still thought that I was after her, when it was her boyfriend I wanted all along.


About the Author
Robert Barlow's fiction specializes in humor, fantasy, science fiction, and spiritual speculation. Robert's short fiction has appeared in online magazines such as AlienSkin, The Sword Review, and Dragons, Knights and Angels. Links to and uploads of Robert's stories can be found at http://www.spoiledink.com/Robert_Barlow. When not having fun writing at night, Robert's less exciting days are spent working as a police detective investigating homicide, robbery and fraud in Oregon.


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Fiction Short Story

by  David Pennington

Wind in the Window

State highways provide the best escape routes for leaving somewhere discreetly. These roads often cut across wide spans of farmland or desert, are rarely crowded, and at night they are cloaked by darkness. Cops are sparse, even during emergencies.

The cold night air attacks my arm, chaps the skin and cramps my forearm. The driver's side window is long gone, shattered in a million pieces between her father's driveway and the floorboard of my car. Wind whistles through the bullet hole in the rear window, and serves as his blessing to the announcement of our engagement. I glance at my fiancé's slumped head in the seat next to me. I can't tell if she's sleeping, daydreaming, or counting her toes for the thousandth time. Who can blame her? She's had a rough day. Hell, she's had a rough life.

We exited the highway hours ago. The asphalt's once polished black tar surface appears off-white in the light of my hi-beams. Faded yellow lines merge two lanes into one. Occasional pairs of skid marks streak across the road and offer enough contrast to keep my focus on driving. Still, my mind wanders as I wonder what made those marks. Maybe something fell off a truck and blocked the road, or a lit cigarette dropped from a driver's mouth, or someone punched a driver in the right eye. It swelled and blurred his vision. Maybe someone shoved that lit cigarette into a driver's young, creamy white thigh. I see the blister and scar. Perhaps hunger or fatigue caused a lapse in attention span. Something forced those drivers to hit the brakes and let luck take care of the rest.

The crisp air rushes through the broken window, but I feel warm. Beads of sweat form on the backs of my knees and trickle into my socks. My bride-to-be stirs in her seat. In one hand she holds up a shiny bullet discharged from her father's Thirty-aught Six. It smashed my window and nested in a small crater in the passenger door panel. "I'm going to make a necklace with this," she shouts. "Then it will always be there to remind us of how wonderfully disastrous this day has been." She fingers the bullet for a moment, and drops it in the ashtray. "Where are we?" she asks. Her words muffled by the wind blowing in the pane-less window.

"County route 46, almost to Iowa, I think."

Traveling at 60 miles an hour with an open window, it doesn't matter how loud someone talks, or what radio station is tuned in, all sounds garble in the roar of the wind as it rushes past the window. Move too fast and there's no need to speak. Move too slow and go nowhere.

She sits up, stretches her arms and presses her breasts against the teddy bear on her Grateful Dead T-shirt. My concentration drifts from the road to her feminine curves. Driving feels difficult. Is it my desire to draw her closer to me? Or could it be the thirteen hours I've been steering the wheel and stomping on the gas pedal? Either way, the thought of doing anything other than driving appeals to me at this point.

"That's a long way. I guess we aren't going to make it to Easter dinner tomorrow night. My family will be most disappointed." A faint light reflects off the dashboard and I see her lips pout before they break into a wide smile. "How did we get so lucky?"

Luck, that had to be it. Perhaps counting on luck is a dangerous way to live, but certainly no more dangerous than confessing to a drunken, pistol-popping, part-time postal employee one's plans to marry his daughter. I slam the brakes, spin the steering wheel, and floor the gas pedal. The rear wheels skid across the road and send the car in another direction as the wind continues to blow through the hole that is my window.


About the Author
David Pennington is a twenty-something college student living in the frozen tundra that is eastern Colorado. David is completely broke, so the girls he takes on dates are quite surprised when they end up at. . . the library?


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F2K Story

by Stella Whitlock

A Pastoral Call

The phone on the kitchen wall rang, and Susan stopped trying to spoon strained peaches into Alan’s mouth. “Hello,” she said, eager for adult contact.

“Susan. How are you?”

Susan’s heart pounded. She recognized the deep mellow voice and remembered what she had done in church yesterday.

“Fine,” she said automatically. “And you?”

“A little surprised, actually. The treasurer brought me the request card that you dropped in the offering plate. What’s up?”

There was a long pause.

“Susan? You still there?”

“Yes, I’m here.

“Well, since you checked the box requesting a visit from your minister, I was wondering if this afternoon would be a good time to come?”

“This afternoon?” Susan hesitated. That card was a silly impulse, but she’d heard from other church members what a good counselor he was.

“Maybe not today,” she said. “I’ve still got to put Alan and Jill down for their naps, and they’re not even finished lunch yet. And Heather’ll be home from school at three. I don’t think there’ll be time…”

“How about two o’clock?” he suggested. “Would that work?”

She thought fast. After all, she had filled out that card. If he was willing to take time to come, how could she refuse? Anyway, maybe talking with him could somehow help her.

“All right,” she agreed. “Two o’clock.”

Susan hung up the phone. What have I done, she wondered, returning absent-mindedly to Alan and the peaches. Could he possible understand?

She pushed a straying lock of hair from her damp forehead.

“Come on, Alan, open up,” she said. “Um, um, good!” She held the spoonful of strained peaches up to Alan’s mouth, which remained stubbornly closed. When she touched his lips with the spoon, he twisted his head sideways.

“Me eat it,” offered two-year-old Jill, reaching her chubby fingers up to Alan’s bowl. Pureed peaches splashed everywhere—on Alan, on Jill, on Susan, on the floor.

Susan got a dishcloth from the sink, where egg-encrusted breakfast dishes were still stacked, and mopped at the mess. She scrubbed the children, the highchair, and the floor.

“Come on, Jill—nap time. You, too, Alan,” she said, lifting the tray of the highchair and gathering Alan in her arms. Jill followed her upstairs, clutching Tweetsie tightly. Tweetsie was almost bald from years of vigorous loving, but Jill couldn’t sleep without him.

After changing Alan’s diaper and reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar to Jill, Susan raced down the stairs to give the house a surface cleaning, but then the doorbell rang, and she rushed to answer it before it woke the children.

“Hello,” Susan said, out of breath. She stood in the doorway looking at him.

“Hello,” he said. Then, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, he smiled and asked, “May I come in?”

“Of course,” she said, opening the screen door. How stupid of me, she thought, feeling blood rise in her cheeks. This whole idea is stupid. In fact, it’s not going to do any good, and it may make matters worse. I should probably keep my mouth shut. Playing games isn’t the answer.

They walked into the living room. He sat by the picture window, where the glare made it difficult for Susan to see his face. She looked at him and started to speak but stopped and looked away.

There was a long silence. He put his right foot across his left knee and shifted restlessly. He’s as uncomfortable as I am, she realized.

Finally he spoke. “Susan, you checked the box marked ‘I would appreciate a visit from the pastor.’ So here I am. Is there something special you want to talk about?”

He waited.

Still she didn’t speak. Oh, God, what can I say? How can I tell him my feelings?

He tried again. “Well, I’m here. I’m ready to listen. Is there something you want to discuss?”

“Yes,” she managed to say. She paused. “But this is very hard for me. I’m not used to talking about my private problems.”

“Everyone has problems, and sometimes it helps to get them out in the open.”

The kindness in his voice reassured her, and she decided to take the plunge. “It’s my marriage,” she blurted out.

“Your marriage?” His eyes widened. “But what…? I mean…. I thought everything….”

Silence again.

“Things just aren’t going very well right now,” she said.

He looked bewildered. “Not going well?”

She tried again. “I don’t think either of us is happy with the way things are between us.”

In the shadows, his face was still. He spoke slowly. “What do you mean by ‘the way things are’?”

“Mainly that we don’t talk much. And we don’t have any time together.”

He sat quietly, waiting.

“He’s hardly ever home anymore,” she went on. “He’s at his office all day and has meetings scheduled on most nights. I hardly ever see him. Even on the rare nights that he plans to spend with the family, if someone calls and needs him for something, he just gets up and leaves us.”

“You sound hurt by this,” he said slowly. “Have you told him how you feel?”

“I am hurt. And the children are, too.” The words were beginning to flow more freely now. “It was especially bad on Christmas Eve. We’d finished dinner and were just sitting around the tree to open gifts. The children were excited and happy.”

Susan paused, and continued in a strained voice. “Then the phone rang and he left. By the time he got back, over two hours later, the children were tired and everything was spoiled.”

“Susan, I know he wanted very much to be with you and the children on Christmas Eve. It had to have been a serious emergency for him to leave at such a time.”

“Well, he said it was serious. But he wouldn’t talk about it. Like everything else, it was ‘confidential.’”

The words were pouring out now. “And that’s just one example. He even missed Heather’s graduation from kindergarten for some ‘emergency.’ The children and I always take second place to his work. And that hurts.”

“Susan, you and the children are more important than anything else in the world,” he said. “Surely you must know that.”

“Well, I can’t tell it. And he and I can’t seem to tell each other in words how we really feel. I get so lonely sometimes I could die.” Her voice began to shake.

“When I quit working full time to take care of the children, I never imagined how isolated my life would be. I love all three of them, but I get so hungry for someone to talk to, to share things with. It’s just too much for me to handle alone.” She stopped to draw a breath.

“I had no idea you were so unhappy, Susan. You always seem so strong and efficient. Everyone in the church knows they can count on you.”

“Sure. ‘Good ole Susan.’ But I’m not strong and efficient. I can’t get everything done, I’m never caught up, and I can’t meet his standards. Much as I love them, I’m tired of spending all my time alone with children. They need their father, and I need my husband.”

Susan stopped for breath, and he sat in stunned silence. She went on more slowly. “I feel guilty about resenting the time he spends at work. I know how important it is, and I want to be more supportive.”

He reached out and took her hand in his. “Susan, I’m sorry you’re in such pain, but I’m glad you put that request card in the offering plate.”

“I’m glad, too, now,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “But I sure was worried at first. I didn’t know how you…”

Beep, beep! The school bus signaled its arrival. Susan jumped and looked at her watch. “They’re early today!” she exclaimed.

He rose quickly. “Susan, there’s more we need to talk about. From now on, though, it’ll be easier. We won’t have to play games.”

Just then, the door burst open and Heather catapulted into the room. “Mommy, Mommy! Guess what! I’m gonna be a witch in the Halloween play and I need my costume tomorrow and it’s at two o’clock and you can bring Jill and Alan and…”

Her breathless monologue stopped when she spotted the minister standing there. She stared in astonishment. Then she blurted out, “Daddy! What are you doing here?”

“I live here, remember?”

“But is today Saturday?” she asked, puzzled, snuggling against his chest.

“No, honey, it’s Monday

“Then what are you doing home?” Heather persisted.

“I came to talk with your mother,” he said. He smiled at Susan, and the promise in his eyes warmed her heart. “I’m going to be home a lot more often now. Would you like that?”

“Sure, Daddy!” Heather said, planting a kiss on her father’s cheek.


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

F2K has three objectives:

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

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

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




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Drabble Corner The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Here is this month's Drabble on plans for the holidays that involve pushing and pulling, written by Anonymous:

I wanted to go to Grandma's for the holidays. Christmas isn't Christmas without Grandma. Now that I've gone away to college, looking down from the plane upon my beloved home town, and watching holiday shoppers rush around at the last minute have become part of the new ritual. Until November, that is, when I met Bill. He calls me at least three times a day, and I can't breathe until he does. When he asked me to go home with him for Christmas dinner, I kind of said "Yes." If we're still together next year, though, we're going to Grandma's.

This month, I have been under the influence of  . . . WRITER'S BLOCK!
 
So,  I've come up with some crazy ideas, among which, I hope, one or more will help me (and maybe you, too).

When I start out to write, instead of pulling up a blank document to write in, I can pull up a copy of a short piece that I've written and that I like. Not one that I love—then I might feel as though I couldn't duplicate the fluke. I'll start out by modifying the piece—then I hope I can take off.

Schedule my session, say, for one hour before I have to leave for work or class. This way, I won't feel as though the weight of all the time in the world is upon me. And in the process, I might reconstruct the feeling of having a deadline.

When I do find myself enjoying a session, maybe even getting into the flow of it, then I would like to construct a habit of conducting my future sessions under the same conditions—an hour before I have to leave for somewhere, an hour before bed, before or after the morning or evening news, etc. One benefit to making a habit out of it is that I won't have that same feeling of, "But this isn't the best time," or "But I have to . . . take out the trash, call a friend, pay bills, . . ." It WILL be the right time, not only by decision and proclivity, but even by habit. I will be much more likely, therefore, to "feel like it."

Have a very short, do-able goal for each writing session. If I go beyond, wonderful. But short goals (come up with part of a physical description for the character Peter in the story "Wonder Writer") can be accomplished in one session. If I make it okay to accomplish a part of a complete description, then I'll not have a reason to flog myself and use my disappointment as an excuse to go have a hot chocolate instead.

Keep a stopwatch by the computer. Set it for five minutes, then set out to accomplish a goal I think will take about that long. Try to beat the clock while setting progressively larger goals. The point isn't to get faster; it's to be disappointed that time has run out.

Set my stopwatch for frequent breaks. That way, when I sit down at the computer, I won't feel as though in setting out to write, I'm depriving myself of ever having another hot chocolate, another drink of water, ever again.

Get another handheld voice recorder, so that I have two. When I write, keep them both by the computer. One is for transcribing what I previously recorded. The other is for recording what I'm thinking at the moment, in case I'm too distracted to get it out in writing. (One recorder would be enough, but the act of switching tapes would distract me too much.)

Make a checklist of all the things that constitute being ready to sit down and write: materials, refreshments, turn off ringer on phone, let the cat in or out, whatever it takes. Make my first goal is simply to follow the checklist.

If I need someone's cooperation to stay uninterrupted, then come up with a reward, such as extra attention, to give them when my session is over.
 
And now, changing the subject to the Drabble for March, let's write it on the topic of : What makes my friend (or parent, or a fictional person, etc.) unique?

The idea is to use specifics rather than generalities. We don't want adjectives like "nice," "beautiful," "generous," etc. To get across the uniqueness of individuals, tell a story about them that illustrates rather than declares what makes them who they are. Illustrate a television or literary character, for instance, or even your ideal mate. Or your ideal self. Or describe someone who really gets on your nerves, or whom you like despite yourself, or whom you absolutely cannot abide.

Remember to check the guidelines before submitting. In brief, Drabbles are 100 words exactly, excluding title. Submissions are due by the end of the 10th day after T-Zero: The Writer's E-Zine is sent out. Send your submissions to drabble@wvu.org. Send comments and questions, too!

Have a happy Valentine's Day! 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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Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved
Recognitions The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

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

James (Jim) Hall, freelance writer and poet, wrote a chap book titled A Gallery of Projections, which is being published by Brentwood Press, 4418 39th Street, Brentwood, MD, 20722. The book contains 23 poems, mostly unpublished, some of which had their origin at Writers’ Village University in various poetry triggers classes.

“I understand the publisher has a retail price of $9.50 for the book, based on his contention that people should pay at least that much for the privilege of reading a superior group of poems. I applaud his position but have some trepidation about his judgment.”

Jim writes as the spirit moves him—poetry, fiction, non-fiction, plays and scripts. Most of his poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in literary journals and anthologies, but in 2000, he published a book of short fiction, A Balcony in Brooklyn, that contains material from novels in progress. To find out more about Jim, visit his website at jhall.

“I approach a novel by writing two kinds of document. I assume the persona of a character and write his diary. This often suggests episodes, and I write and often sell them as short stories. So far, I have not taken the final step of integrating those shorts into a novel, but I have that in mind. My recent encounter with cancer has moved that integration high on my list of things to do.”

A high school teacher for thirteen years, he moved on to design, develop and implement software for the Federal Judicial Center before joining the corporate world. He then said goodbye to all this, becoming a police reporter for a small daily newspaper, finally settling on working as a freelance writer with two published books to his credit. Jim moved to Pueblo in 1993, and shortly after that, he joined WVU. “That turned out go be one of my better decisions.” There he facilitates P103 Poetry Workshop at least twice each year. He enjoys writing lyric poetry, haiku and related forms.

P. June Diehl wrote The Magic and the Mundane: A Guide for the Writer’s Journey and submitted it to ePress-online. It hit cyberspace in January 2006. With this book you will journey with your host and guide, Esumera, muse extraordinaire, and her feline companion, Mystique, as they inspire you to explore the magic of writing and elevate the mundane.

“When I found out my book was accepted for publication, I felt joy, shock, and relief! Joy and shock that they wanted the book, and relief that I didn’t have to send out the nonfiction book proposal again.”

June has been writing, off and on, since the age of nine. “After reading A Wrinkle in Time (still one of my all-time favorites), I strongly identified with Meg and knew that I could be anything I set my mind to do. I can’t imagine my life without writing. Even with being away from home during the week about twelve and a half hours a day, I still work between 30 and 40 hours a week on writing-related things. And, no, I don’t have children. If I did, I probably wouldn’t be able to devote this amount of time to my writing.”

June joined WVU on November 12, 1999 and currently is a member of the Artistic License group. A couple years ago, she became a lifetime member of WVU. When she first joined, June wrote short stories, nonfiction, and poetry.

“When I first joined WVU, I took fiction and nonfiction classes. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve taken any poetry classes. I also took the F2K class twice. I joined a story group, now called Artistic License, and the women in that group have made all the difference in my writing life. With the group’s encouragement, I started writing fiction series and now novels. AL provides me the space and encouragement to move my writing to a different level. The members of AL are a special group of women: supportive, motivating, and honest. I would not be the writer I am today without these wonderful writers who encourage me to do more with my writing.”

June’s day job for the past 20+ years has been in the computer field, mostly doing software development and testing, which involves a lot of technical writing. With a BS and a Masters degree in Education, she continues to use this knowledge in her work as editor, writing coach, and to teach writing classes. “I live with five cats who love when I’m home working on the computer or sitting and writing.” To find out more about June visit her website, I Write for You.

Congratulations, Jim and June. We wish you continued success in all of your writing endeavors and thank you for sharing your information with us.

We look forward to reading about your writing accomplishments in this column. If you or someone you know received recognition for writing, please send the information to recognitions@wvu.org. Let us know!


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


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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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