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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

Jayda McTyson

How Do You Know You Have The Right Fit?

You can take me at my word. It happened to me. My fiction writing improved overnight, or next to it, simply because I joined a writing network that works for me. Currently, I’m a member at three networks. Overkill, you say? I tend to agree, but I believe in trying different approaches until I find one that fits me just right.

Since I’ve found a network where I’m comfortable, my other membership site is where I write fluff. And the third? Well, I haven’t logged in since late last year.

How did I know I hadn’t yet found the right network? I was still searching. That clued me in to the fact that I was not satisfied with my current situation. Having found what I thought might be my new writing hang-out, I got right down to the matter at hand: trying out my fiction on a like-minded crowd.

A word of caution here, before you whip out your credit card to join a network, there are a few things to consider. Most networks give a trial period before you commit. If this is not the case where you’re inclined to settle, I’d suggest moving right along, unless, of course, the network is highly touted. Even then I’d still have reservations about not being given an option to decide whether I like what I’m getting before making an investment.

Once past that hurdle and you’re inside the gates, it’s time to look around and decide whether the network will be worth the money you’ll be spending.

It’s a given that in any group of people gathered for a common purpose, there are those who are more focused than others. The same applies to writing. Among the crowd, you’ll find those who write as a hobby with no aim of being published and there will be writers who are serious about honing their craft. If there is a dearth of serious writers in your community, it’s not the place for you and you’ll know, not only by the quality of the writing posted to the site, but by the depth of the reviews conducted by the members.

I have been fortunate to receive many constructive and well-thought-out critiques that contain valuable suggestions and helpful advice. Whether the fellow-writer points to my constant shifting of point of views, an implausible detail, too much telling or choppy dialogue, constructive criticism is one of the hallmarks of a good writing network.

To give a specific example, while I believe that nothing improves writing like study and practise, I found immense value in the critiques I received on a novel-in-progress that I had posted to my latest home on the ‘net. I started out with a great plot, but my main weaknesses were slipping in and out of my characters’ points of view and overwriting. I was giving my readers too much information, as though they could not figure out for themselves the emotions I was trying to convey.

After being told a few times that I was writing in too many details and that I was ‘writing down’ to readers, I learned how to curb my urge to overdo my role as storyteller.

Having been pointed in the right direction by these reviews, I applied myself and overhauled the chapters I posted, stayed with my current point of view to the end of each scene or chapter and wrote only what was necessary to advance my story. The difference in my work was noticeable and the change in comments and ratings was immediate.

In every community, there are writers who tend to be harsh with their commentary on others’ work. This is helpful to a point; as long as the intention is not to maliciously tear down another writer. This sort of reviewing can be just as harmful as the superficial review, in which compliments are offered on writing that are inconsistent and can clearly stand improvement.

It’s difficult for a writer to benefit from either kind of review. The one who receives undeserved compliments will be disillusioned when he suffers multiple rejections, unable to understand why his work is rejected repeatedly after the favourable reviews received.

The brutal commentaries are just as bad. While I applaud honesty and I expect it when my work is critiqued, we writers know that our egos are like delicate flowers whose petals are easily bruised. I have seen brutal reviews posted that could have been handled differently, which have resulted in writers withdrawing their posts. Some disappear for a while and re-emerge with caution; others disappear, never to be heard from again.

If you are not ready for this kind of reviewing—and you have to be able to take harsh, but hopefully constructive criticism if you hope to make it as a writer—you can stop thinking about venturing into a serious writers’ forum. I thought I was ready for real criticism, so I girded my loins and waded in. Apart from learning to deal with stinging reviews from time to time, I’m still enjoying my membership. I simply allow time to pass before responding to what I think are undeservedly harsh reviews. That way, I can reply with a modicum of politeness rather than my first and natural inclination to wither my reviewer with hurtful words and a low review rating in return.

Unless every writer you know flat out says ‘avoid x network like the plague’, I believe you should try out the site in question before you decide it’s not for you. At one of my networks, I came across a forum posting that mentioned bad reviews of the network on another site. Naturally, I went and checked it out.

Most of what was being written was by people who had wandered in, looked around and decided that the network was a waste of time. Of course, the faithful members from the network went over there and sprang to our site’s defense. I didn’t have to add my endorsement because several writers stated their case more eloquently than I could. If something is of benefit to me as a writer, I’m going to say so, even if others don’t like it. My advice is, don’t trash a network until you’ve been inside, spent some time there and made a study of what is on offer and see how the writers respond to the site. That is the only way to know if it’s what you need to improve your skills.

An excellent indicator that you have found the right place is that you are learning. I don’t believe that any of the writers I know are so accomplished that they could not stand to learn something to improve the quality of their writing. For instance, not all of us recognize that in writing fiction, it is important to have a hook at the end of each chapter to keep the reader moving forward, or if we do, we don’t always remember to use this to our advantage.

Most of us join networks not only to improve our writing and find support among like minds, we become part of a community to encourage ourselves to produce more. This is particularly true if there is a rating system within the community, but being in a place with other like-minded people should not be the extent of what we seek as writers who want to improve our craft. In seeking a home for our works-in-progress, we should be free to spend time on the network without immediate payment being demanded. We should also observe the level of serious activity on the network, as well as the quality of both the works posted and the reviews.

If brutal critiques are the rule and not the exception, I’d think twice about becoming a member. There is a diplomatic way to do almost everything. I believe this also applies to how we conduct our reviews. All writers who have a need seek groups to build their strengths, not tear down their sometimes fragile ego.

As a writer, the thing I seek above all else is knowledge of my craft. It is unrealistic to expect immediate gratification, but if I spend time on a site for a few weeks and haven’t learnt anything that will improve my skills, it’s definitely not the right place for me. Neither is it for you, I don’t believe.


About the Author
Jayda McTyson writes both fiction and non-fiction and has special interest in the art of storytelling, parenting and relationships. She lives in sunny Jamaica and is always on the lookout for the makings of her next article or story. Feel free to contact her at jaydamctyson@cwjamaica.com.


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Craft of Writing

Suzan L. Wiener

Sample Copies - Your Best Investment

The cost of a few sample copies is a small but valuable investment to make to give you a better idea of a publication’s feel and focus before attempting to submit your work to them. Writers' guidelines can give you the bare outline of a publication’s requirements, but they are the skeleton, and need to be fleshed out if you want to really see your work published. That’s a tip I picked up from a writer’s group I joined when I first started sending out my submissions. Those early days were full of rejections for material I thought followed the guidelines I had been so careful to obtain from the publications to which I was sending my work. It amounted to the difference between hearing about something and seeing it in person. No amount of description can equal seeing the real thing.

Then, too, writers' guidelines should be but aren’t always up-to-date. Focus can change as can physical requirements such as length desired. If you try to save the expense by not getting a sample copy, you will definitely lose out and other writers will get that acceptance you crave. Also, no matter how great your article, etc., may be, if they have one similar to it, and you don’t know that they published one already, yours will be rejected. Just like you wouldn’t drive a car without taking lessons first, you shouldn’t try to write for a publication without reading it first.

Not having sample copies is risky and can affect your acceptance rate adversely. In the beginning I tried so hard to get my work accepted but it wasn’t to be. Why? Simply because I didn’t know what the editor of the magazine wanted. The only way I could know is if I had read their magazine backward and forward. When I found out the ‘secret’ to do that (from that writer‘s group), I finally got my first acceptance. What a thrill it was to say I was a published author. If you want that, too, don’t go into it blindly. Make sure do to your homework, just like you did in school.

Often, having just one copy of the publication isn’t enough. You need at least three or four current issues to make sure you are on top of what types of articles are being accepted. I get many more acceptances if I know the magazine thoroughly. It reflects in my writing and the editor knows it too. I also get a better idea for the type of writing they want, and what I should write about.

If you have a copy of the magazine, you won’t waste your time on writing an article they have already used, and the editor won’t look at your work thinking you’re a beginner. Don’t forget, editors receive lots of manuscripts across their desks weekly and will appreciate you’re doing your homework. It is important to always be professional and not show you are an amateur. If other writers have more experience than you do, but your work stands out as showing you know what you’re writing about, it will be accepted.

It is amazing how fast a magazine will change the type of articles, etc., they use. It’s not easy for writers to keep up, but they have to if they want to get that most-welcomed acceptance letter and check. Their focus changes quite often also.

Editors definitely appreciate it if your article is exactly geared to their audience. It doesn’t even matter if it comes from the ‘slush’ pile. They will happily accept your work and use your material again and again—if they find you know their magazine as well as they do.

If you can’t afford to buy individual sample copies, inquire as to their discounted subscription rate. Often times, it is less expensive to become a subscriber to a magazine than to pay for individual sample copies. Many magazines offer special discounts. Politely inquire to the subscription department about magazine rates.

Also, check your local library to see which magazines are available there. If you can’t check the magazine out, simply photocopy the pages you want to keep Generally, there is a copier at the library you can use for a nominal fee. Check with your writing friends to see if you can trade publications too. This works out extremely well and I have saved a lot of money doing this.

Remember, even if you are a beginner, editors don’t have to know that. Your work can be like you are a seasoned writer—IF you do your homework first. You will be glad you did.


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.


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

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Craft of Writing

Carter Jefferson

Slippery Slope

The trouble with worrying about spelling is that it can lead you down a slippery slope.

First, it dawns on you that you can't spell. Some people have a gift for it, like born cello players who never miss that concert A. You obviously lack that capacity. So you begin to want to make sure your spelling is always correct. You buy a dictionary. Then you worry that maybe another dictionary is better—so you buy that one. Pretty soon, you're surrounded by dictionaries. They invent spell checkers, so you run your spell checker over your grocery list. Then you find out that spell checkers are not always reliable, so you become slightly paranoid. Soon anything you let the public see, even posts to your online discussion group, is spelled impeccably. Except that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, no matter how many dictionaries you consult, you blow it. So you try harder.

Meanwhile, you begin to wonder if your grammar is as bad as your spelling. What a horror that would be! So you buy a grammar book. That one unfortunately fails to cover some esoteric point that bothers you. So you buy another grammar book. You find ten grammar sites on the Web. But nothing's perfect, so you buy another book. And another. And so on. The bookshelf next to your computer is full, so you build another one, right below the first.

Somewhere you hear that something called "usage" also matters. And punctuation. My God! There are fat books that do nothing but give pointers on proper usage and punctuation. And they don't always agree! Another three hundred dollars on reference books.

You also find to your surprise that others worry about these things, too. (Should that comma be there?) You take to checking out what's new on alt.English.usage first thing every morning. You find yourself arguing with the other nuts. You join that hardy band of people who insist that despite the degradation of spelling over the years the word "travelling" has two L's.

You discover that for some questions there is no answer. This throws you into deep depression, but your unflagging insistence on getting things right remains so strong that you come back fighting, and first thing you know people start asking you all sorts of things about language. You try to answer. You put links on your website to help your petitioners find the solutions they need. You're admired; you're a guru.

In fact, you have become a charlatan. People think you're an expert speller and grammarian, a usage maven. But you're not. You still can't spell. You still have to look up difficult grammar points. Usage is a constant worry. Commas threaten your composure. But you can't quit, you can't give in to your weakness. What's more, there's no twelve-step group to help you. You're stuck with this; it will dog you all your days.

Ladies and Gentlemen, you have just heard the story of my life.


About the Author
Carter Jefferson, who lives in Boston, has been a journalist, a history professor, and a family therapist. He started writing professionally when he was 15. Officially retired, he now writes fiction and essays for e-zines. And he still can't spell. His website: http://carterj.homestead.com/.


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Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved

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

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Birdie's Quill

Birdie

Setting the Hook

A light breeze rippled across the surface of the placid bay. My fingers anticipated the tug on the line as I waited for the first strike. I’d lived in Florida for 18 years, and had yet to catch my first Snook. This game fish known for their fight and tender delicious flavor had eluded my list of fish brought to the boat. Why? In the past, my bait captured the attention of the fish, but I missed the opportunity to set the hook. I experienced the momentary thrill of a strike, only to be disappointed when it spit the hook and swam off in search of other tasty morsels.

It’s no different when writing. The writer’s goal is to choose the right bait, a title or blurb. It works to garner the reader’s attention, but once they start to read, if the hook isn’t set, attention wanders. If you don’t grab their interest at the start, you may lose them all together.

What Is the Hook?
Reading is not a passive exercise. Good writers engage the reader’s imagination and interest. It causes them to want to know more. If the writer fails to generate questions about what happens next or why something occurred, within a short time interest wanes and the “boring” piece is set aside. If the hook works, it engages the reader to want to know more or stirs the imagination to consider the possibilities. It keeps them reading.

Think of it like fishing. Titles and cover blurbs work as bait. They catch the attention enough to pick up the story or article and scan it. Does it meet their expectations? Is the writer giving them what the bait promises to deliver?

Editors, like the elusive Snook, sift through piles of manuscripts looking for the bait that holds their attention. When you receive a positive response to a query, you know your bait piqued their interest, but when you send your manuscript—that’s the time to set the hook. Your writing works to reel in the deal.

Setting the Hook
Consider the hook as the DNA of your story or article. On popular crime scene television shows, a daub of this chain-like chemical can solve a baffling case. DNA is found in the nucleus of all cells. Segments of this chain contain genetic code that guides the development of every cell. It’s no different when writing. Your hook contains the code that guides the development of the storyline. Paragraph to paragraph, the storyline stems back to the hook.

Ask yourself, “What’s the reason for this story?” Based on your answer, write the hook or read your existing pages to find it. The hook is usually a question or comment that evokes an emotional response from the reader. It snags the attention long enough to keep them reading.

Once you hook a fish, it’s important to keep the tension on the line just right. It’s no different when writing. After you’ve set the hook, your goal is to keep them looking for more. As you satisfy the reader’s curiosity, create a new question or two. Evoke another emotion. Keep the reader hungry.

Example:

Amanda slapped the stack of hundred dollar bills on the table in front of her husband. The flame of the cinnamon scented candle flickered accentuating his high cheekbones while painting hollowed shadows hiding his deep-set eyes.

“How do you explain this, Brian?” Amanda crossed her arms in front of her oversized tee shirt.

Brian slammed his fist spilling his beer. The jar holding the candle bounced off the edge of the table and crashed into tiny shards. Hot wax sprayed across Amanda’s shins and bare feet. Inky darkness swallowed the room. Amanda didn’t move. Brian’s chair screeched against the wood planks. The crunch of glass under his feet warned her to run.
The hook generates questions. It goads the reader on to find the answer. The above example starts with action. The verb “slapped” generates a different image than “placed,” “set” or any such non-specific verb. “Slapped” creates a question. Note the difference:
The flame of the cinnamon scented candle flickered accentuating Amanda’s husband’s high cheekbones while painting hollowed shadows hiding his deep-set eyes. She slapped the stack of hundred dollar bills on the table.
Starting off with description waters down the intended conflict. The story is not about a candle or Brian’s high cheekbones. It’s about Amanda and the money she found. That detail for some reason angers her husband. It generates questions. This thread connects the entire storyline.

A good place to start—conflict, struggles whether inwardly or outwardly. The hook generates curiosity. Where did she find the money? Is Brian guilty of something? When he pounds the table and glass shatters across the floor, should Amanda run? Where will she go? Is she in danger? Try to include conflict within your first sentence or paragraph.

Just like the Snook that got away, if you don’t keep the right tension throughout your piece, you’ll lose the reader. Not only do you need a hook at the beginning of your story or article, but at the start of each scene, chapter or sub-topic. How many times have you started reading an article or story and after a few paragraphs flip the page? If readers do this, it’s like the one that got away. Instead, one hook should lead to another. The purpose is to keep them wanting more until they reach your cleverly crafted conclusion.


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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Fiction Short Story

by Fiona L. Woods

For Sale

My husband Matt and I got home from our regular six o'clock morning workout at the gym on Wednesday. That was when I pointed out that our neighbor, Miss Violet Madison, two houses down, had a For Sale by Owner sign propped up against her front porch.

"That's strange," I told Matt. "Miss Madison asked me to see Pepper each day at the kennel while she's visiting her brother." Miss Madison had been my first grade teacher and even now, fifteen years later, she was still Miss Madison to me.

"Maybe she decided she liked it in Florida and she's not coming back," Matt said. "Or, maybe her brother isn't recuperating from his broken wrist as fast as she expected."

"What about Pepper?" I said distractedly. "She wouldn't leave him here; he's like her son."

"She'll call you to ship Pepper if the kennel can't do it for her," Matt said as he drove into the garage. "Did she give you a phone number to reach her?"

"She didn't leave me a phone number," I said, looking out the garage door at the For Sale sign. "We talked about it, but she said it wasn't necessary since she only planned to be gone two weeks."

"Well, she has our number. Check the answering machine. Maybe she already called about her change in plans."

But, when we got inside, she hadn't called.

After Matt left for his job at the police station, I decided it would be a good time to visit Pepper at Pet World Kennel.

Pepper recognized me instantly. He put his little front paws up on the side of his cage and barked his "Hello." The kennel owner, Jason Roberts, told me Pepper had already been exercised by one of his kennel assistants. When I went to take the little black Chihuahua out of his cage, he was shaking and wriggling with excitement.

"Be careful you don't get dog hair all over your suit," Jason cautioned. "Miss Madison told me he sheds when he gets excited and nervous."

"Have you heard from Miss Madison since she left yesterday?" I asked.

"No, she told me about his shedding before she left."

"Did she say when she'll be back?"

"She paid for two weeks."

It was later that morning when I went to put a letter in the mailbox that I saw the rental truck back up Miss Madison's driveway. I watched as two men got out and went into the house. The two movers were both tall and muscular; one was redheaded and the other blond. One of them, the redhead, seemed to be looking up and down the street as though watching for another truck. The blond was brushing the front of his t-shirt and jeans before walking in the front door.

Maybe Miss Madison was going to sell the house, I thought.

I walked over to Miss Madison's front door and listened for a moment. I heard nothing. I sneaked around to the side window and peeked in. The blond was pulling silverware out of the buffet and wrapping it in a cloth bag; the other man was nowhere around.

I sneaked back to the front porch. I stepped boldly up to the door and knocked.

When the blond man opened the door, I found myself staring into his dirty white t-shirt with a smell that almost made me gag. He was at least six feet tall to my five feet two inches.

Looking up, I smiled. "I saw the For Sale sign. May I take a look at the inside of the house?"

"The owner's not here right now," the man said, his bulk filling the doorway so I couldn't see inside. "You'll have to come back tomorrow."

"Please," I looked up and gave him what I hoped was a teasing wink. "It won't take long. I just want to see how big the house is on the inside."

Just then the other man came to the door. "Bill, what are you doing?" He stopped when he saw me.

"Could I see the inside of the house?" I asked the second man.

"We're not supposed to let people in when the real estate agent isn't here," the tall blond one said. "I told you, you'll have to come back tomorrow." He closed the door in my face.

That did it. I had a hunch.

I hurried back home and called Matt at the police station.

"Matt, I need you to come home. There's something fishy going on at Miss Madison's and I need your help."

"I'll be there in five minutes," he said.

"Come in an unmarked car," I said, "or you'll scare them away."

"Ten minutes then," he said and hung up.

When Matt got home, the movers were loading Miss Madison's possessions into the truck.

"Jason Roberts hasn't heard anything from Miss Madison since she dropped Pepper off."

"You're right," Matt said. "She wouldn't leave Pepper here, but that's not enough to prove anything."

We watched as the two men carried Miss Madison's television out to their truck.

"I think that blond one works at the kennel where Pepper is," I said. "He has dog hair all over the front of his t-shirt and he smells like a litter box."

"That would explain how they'd know she was gone and for how long."

"Look at the sign." I pointed out the living room window. "It says For Sale by Owner. When I went over there, one of the men told me to come back when the real estate agent was there."

"There's no real estate agent when the owner does the selling," Matt said.

"Remember Miss Madison's class motto, Always use the precise word in the precise place," I said. "She would never allow that sign in front of her house unless she was selling the house herself and there to show it to buyers."

"You're right. I'll call for backup and get those two downtown."


About the Author
Fiona L. Woods lives in Auburn, Washington. Her other fiction pieces featuring Lori and Matt Stockley have appeared in The Storyteller and Crime and Suspense.


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Fiction Short Story

by Will Riley

The Layover

It's foolish to fly over 5000 miles to have lunch with a woman I haven't seen or talked to in ten years, but I couldn't help myself. I had to see her one last time. I needed closure.

We met at a restaurant near her office. I told her on the phone I had a two-hour layover before continuing on to a business meeting in New York. I lied. In a few hours I'd be on a plane heading back to Tokyo. She would never know that seeing her was the sole purpose of my trip. There was much she would never know.

I couldn't believe how beautiful she looked. We hugged and I felt an urge to bury my face in her neck and kiss her, kiss her for hours.

"I'm so happy you called," she said, as we sat at a small table and ordered drinks. "I think of you often, David."

"You haven't changed," I told her. If anything she aged even better than I imagined on the day she agreed to marry me.

"Do you ever think of me? Or do you still hate me?"

"I could never hate you, Dianna." I saw no point in telling her how I would have forgiven her for anything, how much she occupied my thoughts over the years, or that I remember every moment we shared together.

The waiter brought our drinks while a few silent moments passed. I studied the scar in the brow line above her left eye, the result of something mentioned in several of her mother's letters to me. The first letter arrived a year after I moved to Asia. Dianna's mother saved my address from a Christmas card I sent her. I often regretted that moment of seasonal sentiment.

"Do you miss Luke?" I asked.

She shook her head and stared into my eyes. "I made a mistake. I realized it many years ago. I thought you should know."

Hearing her admit it eased my anxiety. "What about your boy?"

"He witnessed a great deal of the hell I suffered during the last years. Anthony doesn't talk about his father."

I always anticipated, actually dreaded, a day when the letters mentioned abuse towards the son. Thankfully, that day never came. I figured it was only a matter of time. "No problems with him then?"

"He's a quiet boy. He's always been quiet. Reminds me a little of you."

"He'll be okay," I said.

She nodded. "What about you? Did Luke's death..."

"I have no feelings one way or the other about Luke. I wrote him off long ago. He died to me the day he made a play for you. We were engaged, Dianna. You meant everything to me."

She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. "I'm so sorry, David. I loved you. I really did. But your brother..."

"He was out of line, brother or no brother. How could you let him seduce you?"

"I can't explain it, David. I couldn't help myself. Please understand."

I did understand. I watched it happen the night she met him. Luke returned home from a tour of duty in Germany and the three of us went to a bar. We celebrated the wedding engagement and Luke's honorable discharge from the Army. I watched it happen while they talked, while they danced. It was in their eyes, unspoken, all those decisions being made.

"Well, they say you should be careful of what you wish for. I hope it wasn't all bad for you."

"It wasn't, David. I was happy, really happy for a long time, especially after Anthony was born. Luke was a good man. The job changed him. I'm certain of it."

In spite of the pain I suffered as she slipped away from me and into my brother's sway, I wished her well. I wanted her to be happy. The hurt peaked the day Luke announced his acceptance into the Police Academy. He pulled me aside and informed me Dianna accepted his marriage proposal.

"All's fair in love and war. Right, bro?" he said.

"Take good care of her," I replied as I shook his hand. A stranger to me then, I no longer considered him my brother. He stole my girl, and I wanted to get away from him, from the two of them. I lucked into a transfer to my firm's Japanese office. Six weeks after that devastating day, I moved to the other side of the world and hoped to forget her. I might have if her mother didn't decided to keep in touch. The old gal really liked me. It upset her when Dianna dumped me for Luke.

Emma sent me a letter almost every month, mostly chit-chat at first. She told me about the promotions Luke received, the house he bought for Dianna and him, Dianna's pregnancy, the birth of Anthony; information I didn't care to know, but couldn't resist reading. I answered a few of them, but said little. After a while I read the letters without experiencing pangs of longing for Dianna. Time eventually healed the wound, until the disturbing letters began.

"It must have been difficult being married to a cop," I said.

She didn't reply directly to that. Her face showed no emotion. "I'm going to tell you something," she said. "When his Captain came to the door and told me Luke had been shot to death in the line of duty, I was relieved. I hated him by then, David. Isn't that sad?"

"It got pretty ugly for you, I guess."

"You can't know how he changed, how cruel he became. Anthony called him a monster. And there was another woman."

The letters cataloged the abuse, hinted at infidelities. The scar over her eye remained the only visible clue of Luke's wrath. I felt sorry for her as I read the letters. I felt sorry for her as we sat in the restaurant. He left her no reason to grieve. Realizing it brought me the relief I sought.

"Shall we order some food?" I asked in an attempt to brighten the mood.

She looked at her watch. "I don't have time, David. I'm sorry. I have to get back to work."

We hugged in the parking lot and she kissed me hard on the lips. In her embrace I felt a rush of desire that surprised me, a feeling long ago suppressed. I pushed away from her.

"You're a meanie. That felt good," she teased.

"You were the great love of my life," I said.

She smiled. "I was a fool, David. Letting you go is my biggest regret."

"You followed your heart, Dianna."

"I suppose. In our next life it'll be just you and me. I promise."

We parted and I headed to the airport. On the flight back to Japan I managed a long, peaceful sleep. My wife and two little daughters greeted me after I cleared Customs. I felt happy to see them again. They were my joy and it bothered me to leave them twice in three months. At least the latest journey lasted only a couple days. The first trip, however, required a two-week absence. It took longer than expected to buy a pistol on the street, and wait for an opportunity. The easiest part, as it turned out, was squeezing the trigger. I felt no regret.


About the Author
Will Riley is retired and living at a mountain lake in Southern California. He writes to pass the time and a few of his stories have appeared in various e-zines.


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Fiction Short Story

by Grace M. Murray

Naked

Kojak barked wildly at something under the hydrangea. Front legs splayed apart so that his chest nearly hit the ground, body pulsing forward with each yelp, then suddenly jerking back, to dodge any unexpected swipes from his invisible foe. His upper lip curled, revealing yellowed incisors.

I knelt down, seeking a glimpse of the source of the commotion. Kojak blasted another series of deep growling barks. My hands flew up to protect my ears, and I slammed down hard on my ass, grateful I came with my own cushion. "Shit, Kojak! What the hell's under there, boy?"

Kojak's senses focused on the intruder under the bush. Rising, I wiped bits of dirt and grass from my hands and sought a different route. I picked up a stick from the old pecan tree, just long enough to probe the shadows of the hydrangea.

My ears rang from Kojak's incessant barking. I felt around in the general vicinity that consumed his interest, playing a canine game of blind man's bluff. "What is it, Kojak? Come on, boy, I don't see anything."

The stick scuffed up dirt, thudding softly in the grass around the shrub. Then a dull tap. I could make out the shape of a large flat stone.

"Kojak, you nut! You're barking at a rock!" As I threw the stick aside, the rock moved through the thick grass. Now I was down on all fours; then I saw it—the spongy head of the turtle. The grey and yellow legs pushed forward and dragged the shell another inch.

"Hush, Kojak, hush."  I grabbed his collar and steered him into the house. He pulled against me, both of us determined to win this round.

Luckily, dogs have short memories, and Kojak's was generally shorter than most.  A smear of cream cheese on the front of the washer, and he greedily licked off every trace while I rummaged for lettuce in the vegetable drawer. The few remaining leaves resembled seaweed left behind on the shore at low tide. I carried the green slop out to tempt the immigrant who had finally made it about halfway around the hydrangea.

As a child, I fed many a turtle pale green leaves of lettuce I'd begged from my mother. When I offered the leaves and bits of tomato, none even so much as sniffed at my hospitality. Rocky (naming him was my first mistake) took immediate interest in the sticky mulch of green I laid out for him. His head poked out from the shell, maybe a full two inches, and he buried his beak in the pulpy mess.  He seemed to be chewing—if turtles chew.

Resisting the urge to lift him up and see if Rocky was a he, I ran my fingers along the irregular trapezoids of his shell, feeling smooth, then rough where the plates joined.  I wanted to rub his head, but old fears arose of the turtle disease Mom warned us about whenever we begged for one of the baby turtles climbing over pink and blue gravel in their flat tanks at Rose’s Five and Dime.

Inside, Kojak was scratching at the door.  He hadn't forgotten that I was out here. I wondered if he had seen me consorting with the enemy. I rinsed my hands under the outdoor faucet, the cold water stinging my fingers as I tried to wash away the terrapin's scent.

When the kids came rushing in from school, I stupidly told them of the secret in the back yard. As they begged to keep him and swore they would feed him, knowing they never would, I recounted the stories of turtle disease. We do become our mothers.

Their father said, "Tomorrow evening we'll go down to the millpond and let him loose. He needs to be with his own kind."

My chest tightened and I forgot about turtle diseases. Visions of Rocky sunning himself on pink and blue gravel raced through my head.

Before we went up to bed he said, "It is the right thing, you know."  I shrugged and let Kojak out for a late night pee.

Twenty minutes later, it occurred to me that Kojak had not come back. I opened the door and called and he bounded in with a fragment of shell in his mouth. I wanted to scream. I shook off the impulse to pop him on the snout and retrieve the piece for safekeeping.

A few feet away lay Rocky's oozing carcass. Kojak must have lifted him up in his mouth and thrown him back down until finally he exposed the soft flesh. I had never seen a turtle naked. I crossed my arms tightly over my chest and went inside, brushing past my husband who stood staring silently out the door.


About the Author
Grace M. Murray lives in the Tidewater area of Virginia with her husband and fellow writer, Paul W. Murray, her daughter, Beth, two dogs: Ben and Adele, and one cat: Foxy. In addition to her family, she cares for eight law professors, teaches ethics and religion, and serves as a volunteer chaplain. A less traumatic incident between a slider from the Great Dismal Swamp and her beagle, Ben, inspired this story.


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Fiction Short Story

by Tom Davis

When a Nobody Kills Somebody

I sat there minding my own business, wanting to drink my beer in peace. Gladys don’t like me drinking much, but I don’t never get drunk no more. Hardly. Guess I outgrowed it. Anyways, I wasn’t bothering nobody, when this fella stumbled up and bumped me.

I knowed he was Somebody from the way he dressed and carried on. Kinda like he owned the whole damn world and let you live in it until he decided to throw you out. He had money, ya know—gold watch, snake skin boots, hundred-dollar wide-brim hat. Even smelled rich, kinda like musky flowers.

“Excuse me,” he said, not meaning it.

“It’s okay,” I said, not meaning it either.

I felt trouble in my bones, and my bones don’t lie. Shoulda got up and left. But being too proud, I just sat there, watching him in the mirror behind the bar. He was a big ‘un, bigger’n me even. Stump of a neck and hands like baseball mitts.

What else told me he was Somebody was how the bartender ran over and sucked up. Like he was gonna get a twenty dollar tip or something.

“Boilermaker,” said the fella.

A boilermaker and him already ‘bout half drunk. Ordering a drink like that, he wanted trouble. Really. Drunk ‘em myself till I got so sick one night. I throwed up most all my stomach. Felt like I’d turned it inside out.

“Don’t believe I’ve ever seen you before,” he said with a put-on smile. I knowed it was put-on from his eyes. Them tin gray marbles looked as cold as a metal coffin.

“That’s cause I just moved here.” I took a swallow. Once I started talking, I couldn’t up and leave. ‘Specially since I’d taken only three or four pulls out of that mug.

“Figured as much,” he said, sneering now.

Me, I’m thinking chug down and get outta here. My bones started screaming.

Bout then he said with a sorry ass smile, “I gotta take a leak.”

I should’ve known. I heard his zipper go down. And with a grin stretched across his face, he whipped it out and started hosing down the bar. Tried my damnedest not to look at him ‘cause that’s what he wanted, but when I felt my leg soaking, I figured—enough’s enough.

My pa always told me, “If you gonna get into a fight,” meaning a real spit-on-your-hands fight and my bones sure told me this was gonna be one, “you gotta hit first and hit hard, hard as you can. Hit him so’s he won’t be getting up, leastways not right away.”

So that’s what I did. Slammed that mug up side his head. Busted the glass. Did more than a bit o’ mess to the side of his face. Laid him out, tits up. A lesser man would’ve stayed that way. But not him. Hell. He couldn’t let no no-account tobacco chewer sucker punch him. So he shook his head, wiped his bloody face with his shoulder, and started getting up. Nothing short of killing would keep him down.

Pushing himself off the floor, he slid his hand into his boot and pulled out this hawkbilled cutter. But before he could open it, he slipped in his blood and fell forward. This gave me the chance I needed.

I’d worn the brogans Gladys bought me down at K-Mart last week, and I let him have one. The one he peed on. Slammed it square in his face.

What with him falling down and my boot coming up, the two met, and I could hear his neck bone crack.

This time he wasn’t getting up. Nobody had to say nothing. He lay like a chicken with its neck cranked. Eyes wide and staring.

“You done it now,” said the bartender. “You killed Mr. Vinson’s oldest boy. You in big trouble.” Like I didn’t know it.

Sheriff Bodine came and carted me off to jail. Took my brogans, overalls, and all. Gave me blue pants and shirt, and a pair of square-toed shoes ‘bout three sizes too small.

They shoved me into a cell where I can’t hardly turn around. I sat on the bed. Instead of a mattress, it had plywood on a scrawny metal frame. The toilet didn’t have a seat. No paper neither. Light so bad I couldn’t hardly see. Smelled God-awful. Reminded me of the peach packing shed’s outhouse in mid-July.

Down the street in the Red Front Café, they had the jukebox cranked up. I could hear old Hank singing ‘bout that lonesome whippoorwill, and I thought of Gladys.

If she ever saw this place, wouldn’t nothing do but she’d have to clean it up. Thinking of Gladys pained me.

Saw a lawyer. Told him I ain’t got no money, leastways not to be paying him with. He said no matter. If you can’t afford it, they make one do it for free. But one thing I know, you get what you pay for. You sure do.

Anyway, this fella called himself John Neal. Don’t know if Neal was his last name or his middle one. He didn’t look much older’n Mary. She’s my daughter and’ll graduate high school this year—if she and Gladys are here long enough.

You shoulda seen that boy lawyer. Clean as a whistle. All dressed up in a coat and tie and toting a yard of yellow paper in one hand and a fancy black fountain pen in the other. Wore them thin wire-rimmed glasses, too. Looked like he knowed something, and I guess he did.

He said they’d charged me with voluntary manslaughter, but not to worry none ‘cause he thinks he can get me off with probation, what with it being self-defense and all. I didn’t tell him I planned to kill that tin-eyed fella even before he pulled that cutter.

He can say what he wants to. But I been in a few towns like this one, and I know a thing or two, leastways my bones do. And you know what my bones say? Say it don’t matter for nothing. When a nobody kills a Somebody, that nobody’s in big trouble. Leastways, around here he is.


About the Author
Tom Davis is a retired Special Forces (Green Beret) soldier. He holds a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Georgia and a Masters degree from the University of Southern California. His short stories, articles, and poetry have been published in Poets Forum, The Carolina Runner, Triathlon Today, ByLine, Georgia Athlete, The Saturday Extra (magazine section of the Fayetteville Observer-Times), A Loving Voice Vol. I and II (anthologies of read-aloud stories), and Special Warfare (a professional military journal published by the Special Warfare Center). Many of his short stories have received honors in writing contests sponsored by ByLine magazine. Books by Tom include The R-complex, The Life and Times of Rip Jackson Growing Up Southern, and The Patrol Order.


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

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Poetics Presents

Caroline Mac

Caroline Mac travels with husband around the world when she is not working as a Corporate Administrator in an aviation company. Relatively new to writing, she hopes to learn as much as she can possibly to get her head above the sea of challenging publishing industry and join the bursting talents in the world out there.

Writing is Compost

Compost springs life
the delicate petals
must seek breath
from the dung
that men oft trample upon.

mysterious in the dark
concealed in the stench
the tender nuggets
springing forth
the scent of paradise

Copyright © 2006 by Caroline Mac




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

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Poetics Presents

Judy Beaston

Judy Beaston lives in and loves northwest Oregon, enjoying the mix of woods and snow around Mt. Hood and the fresh, energizing air of the Oregon coast. She is a retired electronics technician as well as the mother of two young adults and friend to 4 cats. She has been a member of WVU since 1999. This poem was inspired by many hours spent with her son as he "grew up" at a variety of skateboard parks in Oregon.

Young Lions With Manes Grown Long

Lanky legs in baggy coverings hide
young lions
as they eye one another intent
on gaining the upper edge,
avoid long conversations instead
content to scull the surface, posturing
slouch language, tough talk
most wouldn't dare carry out.

Skateboards snap
sharply to waiting hands,
casually mastered gesture speaks
personal independence, a subtle
"I'm one of you," message.

True test of belonging within
this hierarchy of teen boys,
occurs on the half-pipes
and rails

where tricks, bravado
and sheer insanity rule,
their body-breaking wipeouts
handled like a cat after a fall.

With a casual dismissal of all pain
boards flip, wheels roll
as rubber soles push off,
and they fly again.

Copyright © 2006 by Judy Beaston




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