Saturday, December 31, 2011
8 MS Word Templates That Help You Brainstorm & Mind Map Your Ideas Quickly
8 MS Word Templates That Help You Brainstorm & Mind Map Your Ideas Quickly I don't use these kind of tools, but they may be helpful to others that write.
The Gender Genie
The Gender Genie Worked for me this morning to analyze and verify writer's gender on Twitter. I was curious.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Myrna Pancakes; latest draft
Each mile she drove and each corner she turned tested the shocks and springs of her old Saturn. She was a big girl and filled most of the front seat, spilling a bit onto the passenger seat, and dribbling into the back. Both front windows were made of plastic sheeting and duct tape. She didn’t seem to mind. Myrna, her large bosom pressing against the wheel, pushed ahead; proud and determined. She was late for the first serving of pancakes at The Pancake House.
Every morning at seven sharp, she drove the Saturn as fast as she dared to the lot behind the restaurant so she could be the first to be seated. All the waiters knew her. She squeezed into the booth, holding her breath as she did, and when her flesh came to rest, she was ensnared in the booth; her bosom covering a good part of the table and pushing the syrups, napkin holder and utensils from her reach.
She ordered the large, all-you-can-eat stack and two glasses of milk, large. When her pancakes came, she slathered on the butter, asking for more right away, and drowned each of the pancakes in a thick, blanket of maple syrup and more butter. She ate them quickly, keeping her eyes focused on her plate and making calculated and deliberate moves with her silverware so she wouldn’t waste any motion getting the large portion to her sticky and shiny lips – by this time, dripping with butter and syrup. She asked for another stack. When they came, she had finished both glasses of milk, so she ordered another as she built her pyramid of cakes, butter and syrup – a little faster this time, as the time was drawing closer to the time to get to her morning appointment. She always saved the best bite, and the biggest bit for last. It was her way of giving herself a special treat.
Myrna had an appointment to get her nails done this morning. She wanted some silk wraps on her acrylics this time, and was determined to get the exact shade of red that matched the lipstick that her boyfriend liked. Her boyfriend, Gordon, was a retired dock worker. At one time, he weighed 45o pounds, but after his stomach was stapled, he dropped to 300. He had back trouble, foot trouble, hip problems, and had a score of operations performed for various things, including hernia operations, thyroid, teeth extractions, etc. In his late 50’s he had worn out most of the useful parts of his body, but managed to coax his penis into active duty with a double dose of blue pills purchased on the Internet.
They made love after supper. Supper was always the most elaborate of meals and the height of ceremony. Potatoes were to be done just so, with milk and butter, then spooned carefully back into the baked shells. The meat, pork and beef, was to be roasted, then seared on the grill so the grill marks would cross and re-cross the face of the chops and steak. They both ate until they were a little dizzy, then they put the dishes in the sink and went to Myrna’s room to cuddle. They tore ate each other like they were opening packages of cookies. In a few hours, all that remained were remnants of Gordon’s eyeglasses and his white, wool socks.
Every morning at seven sharp, she drove the Saturn as fast as she dared to the lot behind the restaurant so she could be the first to be seated. All the waiters knew her. She squeezed into the booth, holding her breath as she did, and when her flesh came to rest, she was ensnared in the booth; her bosom covering a good part of the table and pushing the syrups, napkin holder and utensils from her reach.
She ordered the large, all-you-can-eat stack and two glasses of milk, large. When her pancakes came, she slathered on the butter, asking for more right away, and drowned each of the pancakes in a thick, blanket of maple syrup and more butter. She ate them quickly, keeping her eyes focused on her plate and making calculated and deliberate moves with her silverware so she wouldn’t waste any motion getting the large portion to her sticky and shiny lips – by this time, dripping with butter and syrup. She asked for another stack. When they came, she had finished both glasses of milk, so she ordered another as she built her pyramid of cakes, butter and syrup – a little faster this time, as the time was drawing closer to the time to get to her morning appointment. She always saved the best bite, and the biggest bit for last. It was her way of giving herself a special treat.
Myrna had an appointment to get her nails done this morning. She wanted some silk wraps on her acrylics this time, and was determined to get the exact shade of red that matched the lipstick that her boyfriend liked. Her boyfriend, Gordon, was a retired dock worker. At one time, he weighed 45o pounds, but after his stomach was stapled, he dropped to 300. He had back trouble, foot trouble, hip problems, and had a score of operations performed for various things, including hernia operations, thyroid, teeth extractions, etc. In his late 50’s he had worn out most of the useful parts of his body, but managed to coax his penis into active duty with a double dose of blue pills purchased on the Internet.
They made love after supper. Supper was always the most elaborate of meals and the height of ceremony. Potatoes were to be done just so, with milk and butter, then spooned carefully back into the baked shells. The meat, pork and beef, was to be roasted, then seared on the grill so the grill marks would cross and re-cross the face of the chops and steak. They both ate until they were a little dizzy, then they put the dishes in the sink and went to Myrna’s room to cuddle. They tore ate each other like they were opening packages of cookies. In a few hours, all that remained were remnants of Gordon’s eyeglasses and his white, wool socks.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Haiku Magnetic Poetry Kit
Make your own magnetic poetry kit, or stick these words in a jar and use them as cues:
&
a (3)
about
above
after
almost
always
am
an (2)
and (2)
are
as (2)
ask
at (2)
autumn
bark
be
before
beneath
between
birch
black
bloom
blossom
blue
breath
but (2)
by
call
can
cat
child
cicada
cloud
cold
come
commercial
concrete
could
crab
creak
cry
-d (2)
dandelion
dawn
dead
did
do (2)
dog
dream
drop
-e
early
eat (2)
-ed
-er
-es
-est
evening
every
eye
face
fall
field
fish
flower
fly
for
freeze
friend
from
full
garden
give
grass
green
happy
hard
harvest
has
have
he
hear
her
here
him
his
hot
house
how
howl
i (2)
ice
if
in (2)
-ing (2)
insect
investigate
is (2)
it
journey
know
later
laugh
leaf
leave
let
life
light
like (2)
listen
live
look
lunch
-ly (2)
make
man
me
melt
moon
more
morning
mouth
mushroom
must
my (2)
never
night
no
of (2)
off
on
only
or
our
out
owl
people
petal
plant
purple
-r
rain
refrigerator
rise
road
roof
rust
-s (2)
sad
said
say
see
she
shell
shiver
shore
side
skin
sleep
small
smile
snow
so
some
song
soon
sound
spring
stand
still
stream
summer
sun
tear
television
than
that
the (3)
then
there
they
this
though
thought
through
thunder
to (2)
too
tree
trickle
up
use
very
walk
wall
wander
want
was
watch
water
we
weed
were
wet
when
which
while
whisper
who
why
wild
will
wind
window
winter
with
woman
wood
would
-y (2)
yellow
you (2)
&
a (3)
about
above
after
almost
always
am
an (2)
and (2)
are
as (2)
ask
at (2)
autumn
bark
be
before
beneath
between
birch
black
bloom
blossom
blue
breath
but (2)
by
call
can
cat
child
cicada
cloud
cold
come
commercial
concrete
could
crab
creak
cry
-d (2)
dandelion
dawn
dead
did
do (2)
dog
dream
drop
-e
early
eat (2)
-ed
-er
-es
-est
evening
every
eye
face
fall
field
fish
flower
fly
for
freeze
friend
from
full
garden
give
grass
green
happy
hard
harvest
has
have
he
hear
her
here
him
his
hot
house
how
howl
i (2)
ice
if
in (2)
-ing (2)
insect
investigate
is (2)
it
journey
know
later
laugh
leaf
leave
let
life
light
like (2)
listen
live
look
lunch
-ly (2)
make
man
me
melt
moon
more
morning
mouth
mushroom
must
my (2)
never
night
no
of (2)
off
on
only
or
our
out
owl
people
petal
plant
purple
-r
rain
refrigerator
rise
road
roof
rust
-s (2)
sad
said
say
see
she
shell
shiver
shore
side
skin
sleep
small
smile
snow
so
some
song
soon
sound
spring
stand
still
stream
summer
sun
tear
television
than
that
the (3)
then
there
they
this
though
thought
through
thunder
to (2)
too
tree
trickle
up
use
very
walk
wall
wander
want
was
watch
water
we
weed
were
wet
when
which
while
whisper
who
why
wild
will
wind
window
winter
with
woman
wood
would
-y (2)
yellow
you (2)
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Hear your written words, free and built in to Win 7
Windows 7 text to speech is built in to Win 7
Hear text read aloud with Narrator
Windows comes with a basic screen reader called Narrator, which reads aloud text on the screen and describes some events (such as error messages appearing) that happen while you're using the computer.
You can find Narrator in the Ease of Access Center.
To open Narrator, click the Start button, type "Narrator" in the search box, then select Narrator from the list of results.
Once you start Narrator, you can highlight text on screen and the narrator will read it.
Hear text read aloud with Narrator
Windows comes with a basic screen reader called Narrator, which reads aloud text on the screen and describes some events (such as error messages appearing) that happen while you're using the computer.
You can find Narrator in the Ease of Access Center.
To open Narrator, click the Start button, type "Narrator" in the search box, then select Narrator from the list of results.
Once you start Narrator, you can highlight text on screen and the narrator will read it.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Tutorials for Audacity sound recorder.
http://audacity.sourceforge.net/manual-1.2/index.html Follow this link to tutorials.
Self Publishing; Pub. on Demand Workshop
This afternoon at the Sequim library with Diana Somerville, writer and editor.
Good material, handouts, discussions, etc. Thank you, again, to the library for these programs.
Good material, handouts, discussions, etc. Thank you, again, to the library for these programs.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Flash Fiction Chronicles
Flash Fiction Chronicles Six Months Without a Flash
Posted by Gay Degani under life experience, marketing, motivation, publishing
Posted by Gay Degani under life experience, marketing, motivation, publishing
Monday, December 12, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
How to Start A Creative Writers Group | eHow.com
How to Start A Creative Writers Group | eHow.com
Some suggested names:
the writers group
As in Sequim Writers Group
writers circle
As in Sequim Writers Circle
writers guild
As in Sequim Writers Guild
writers cooperative
As in Sequim Writers Coop
or Sequim Writers Cooperative
writers workshop
As in Sequim Writers Workshop
writing factory
As in Sequim Writers Factory
Some suggested names:
the writers group
As in Sequim Writers Group
writers circle
As in Sequim Writers Circle
writers guild
As in Sequim Writers Guild
writers cooperative
As in Sequim Writers Coop
or Sequim Writers Cooperative
writers workshop
As in Sequim Writers Workshop
writing factory
As in Sequim Writers Factory
Friday, December 2, 2011
Kathryn Hunt Memoir workshop at Sequim Library
The Sequim Branch Library’s monthly Celebrate Authorship series continues- and on Saturday, November 19 at 3pm, writer and filmmaker Kathryn Hunt lead a workshop on Writing Memoirs.
Kathryn Hunt is a writer and filmmaker. Her recently completed memoir, The Province of Leaves, is the story of a mother and a daughter and the tangled, maddening, and abiding claims of family. She teaches memoir writing classes at the Writer’s Workshoppe in Port Townsend.
Kathryn’s stories and poems have appeared in Rattle, The Sun, Willow Springs, Crab Orchard Review, Open Spaces and other magazines. Kathryn is also a documentary film director. Her feature-length film Take this Heart was honored with the Anna Quindlen Award for Excellence in Journalism.
Kathryn Hunt is a writer and filmmaker. Her recently completed memoir, The Province of Leaves, is the story of a mother and a daughter and the tangled, maddening, and abiding claims of family. She teaches memoir writing classes at the Writer’s Workshoppe in Port Townsend.
Kathryn’s stories and poems have appeared in Rattle, The Sun, Willow Springs, Crab Orchard Review, Open Spaces and other magazines. Kathryn is also a documentary film director. Her feature-length film Take this Heart was honored with the Anna Quindlen Award for Excellence in Journalism.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
A Memoir by Nancy Dachtler
It starts early in the summer far back among the grassy woods… The single sound is that of the forest – birdsong and children’s play. We all played in the sandbox at the edge of the forest. We made tunnels and roads and houses for snakes we’d found -- then rounded up buckets, filled with water, and flooded the sand – Destruction everywhere! And we built the tunnels and houses up again, only to destroy them over and over.
We played in the forest behind the neighbor’s house at the Elderberry Tree. We would dangle from the limbs and pretend - pretend - pretend. One time it would be a ship and we were all pirates. Another time the tree and its limbs would be an airship, and we would be the pilots.
Now years later, I thought I understood for the first time what a safe and carefree childhood we all had…no worries intruded and we managed to carry on in our playing and pretending until dark made us wander home -- Or a whistle from my father’s lips – or the clanging cow-bell that my mother used -- would call us from our perch up in the Elderberry Tree.
[This is from a recent workshop at The Sequim Library.]
We played in the forest behind the neighbor’s house at the Elderberry Tree. We would dangle from the limbs and pretend - pretend - pretend. One time it would be a ship and we were all pirates. Another time the tree and its limbs would be an airship, and we would be the pilots.
Now years later, I thought I understood for the first time what a safe and carefree childhood we all had…no worries intruded and we managed to carry on in our playing and pretending until dark made us wander home -- Or a whistle from my father’s lips – or the clanging cow-bell that my mother used -- would call us from our perch up in the Elderberry Tree.
[This is from a recent workshop at The Sequim Library.]
Monday, November 28, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Musing; About Writing Classes
A couple of years ago, I attended a private, poetry, writing group near my home. We met at my friend’s center on fifteen, wooded acres. The Center has two ponds, and a corral containing llamas, goats, sheep, and miniature horses. They all looked up to greet the workshop members as we parked and walked up the hill to the meeting space.
Nine of us met under the guidance and tutelage of a MFA student working on her degree in a program at a nearby college. She prepared a curriculum for us, but based on a few hours’ work with us, and considering our personalities, age, experience, likes and dislikes, she was willing to adapt and adopt.
She provided a number of handouts that described and included examples of various poetry genres. We enjoyed the selections of poems that she picked for us to read and discuss. After a number of free writing exercises, based on single word cues, we picked single words from a glass jar to assemble the first line of a piece for an exercise. We learned that the Dadaists were the predecessors for the practice that later became known as found poetry. We wrote haiku, sestinas, pantoums, and free verse. Each of us had a favorite form that we clung to, but overall, the experiments forced us to explore new territory in order to find our voice and to polish our writing.
As part of our homework for the next meeting, we were asked to write a contract with ourselves. My contract would include how many hours I would commit to writing each week between workshop meetings and “to write like my parents were dead.” My parents were deceased, but had I written as openly and honestly, and with no inhibitions, when they were alive, I believe I would now be a better writer – at least a writer that was not afraid to embarrass his parents with his published work.
After the third session, we had established a strong bond of trust, allowing us to use vocabulary and images that were personal and capricious. Some rough and risqué words and topics were shared, as well as deep, personal observations or intimate stories about our past or lost loves. We shared, read aloud, took turns making comments about the readings, revised, and then shared our re-writes.
Reading aloud to peers is one of the surest ways to discover your weak areas. A word that doesn’t flow, or a subtle reference that is misunderstood stands up from the page when reading to a group – especially a group that has leaned in closer to hear your words and give your work the attention that is required to make helpful and earnest comments.
Folks quickly find themselves growing close to their workshop mates in a small class, meeting in a private, quiet room in the country. The word that I recall hearing often was resonate…as in “the words resonate with me.” That was one of the highest compliments I received, in addition to the laughter I had hoped to elicit
with some of my sillier pieces.
[This is adapted from a poem I wrote, under a pseudonym, about the workshop experience:]
Nine of us sat around the folding tables, covered with drink stained tablecloths, baring our souls and changing our lives at bit at the end of each line we cautiously shared. For eight weeks drinking green tea and snacking on nuts and homemade puddings, we took our turns growing bolder and bolder. Sally, the owner of the meeting house, a housewife with a runny nose, a chubby caretaker, a retired CEO, a personal caretaker that loved her cat, a large man wearing gray sweatpants, his thin wife filled with the spirit of the Lord; the grim, suspicious moderator with no sense of humor, and me – a middle-aged man with an attitude and a loathing for rules of grammar and authority.
My second memorable workshop was earlier this year. I submitted a couple of pieces and was subsequently invited to participate in a writing workshop with the local college’s artist in residence, Nancy Rawles – a playwright, novelist, and teacher. Of the dozen or so participants, three were teachers and three were artists. The mix of personalities, enthusiasm, talent and area of writing interest was immediately apparent, and as a social experiment, I made an effort to track how the artists and teachers participated and what they produced. I am a retired educator and a practicing artist, so my curiosity guided me and influenced me to pay close attention to my workshop mates that had backgrounds similar to mine.
I dove right in, and contributed my work as we took turns reading our finished pieces and discussing how we felt about it, what prompted our choice of reading or recitation, and what we learned from the finished work.
It is my belief that we learn from the piece. The poem or story “writes us”, and we do not know what it says or what it is about, or what it will teach us until we are finished with it.
The right workshop leader is what makes a workshop a success. A leader that joins in, cajoles, teases, participates, laughs, cries, smiles and hugs makes all the difference.
Several years ago, my on-line writing teacher, Ann Linquist, wrote this in response to one of my assignments. I had mentioned that I was dreaming about my writing. This had scared me a little--as the experience was intense and I was feeling a little out of control, but Ann’s response was comforting and exquisite: “You’re doing all the things writers do—looking, sniffing, touching, noticing, recording, exploring, lying awake, obsessing, planning, feeling great, feeling bad, and following your urge to write about what’s going on. Strange land, but familiar too. Welcome to this new place that has the feel of home.”
Nine of us met under the guidance and tutelage of a MFA student working on her degree in a program at a nearby college. She prepared a curriculum for us, but based on a few hours’ work with us, and considering our personalities, age, experience, likes and dislikes, she was willing to adapt and adopt.
She provided a number of handouts that described and included examples of various poetry genres. We enjoyed the selections of poems that she picked for us to read and discuss. After a number of free writing exercises, based on single word cues, we picked single words from a glass jar to assemble the first line of a piece for an exercise. We learned that the Dadaists were the predecessors for the practice that later became known as found poetry. We wrote haiku, sestinas, pantoums, and free verse. Each of us had a favorite form that we clung to, but overall, the experiments forced us to explore new territory in order to find our voice and to polish our writing.
As part of our homework for the next meeting, we were asked to write a contract with ourselves. My contract would include how many hours I would commit to writing each week between workshop meetings and “to write like my parents were dead.” My parents were deceased, but had I written as openly and honestly, and with no inhibitions, when they were alive, I believe I would now be a better writer – at least a writer that was not afraid to embarrass his parents with his published work.
After the third session, we had established a strong bond of trust, allowing us to use vocabulary and images that were personal and capricious. Some rough and risqué words and topics were shared, as well as deep, personal observations or intimate stories about our past or lost loves. We shared, read aloud, took turns making comments about the readings, revised, and then shared our re-writes.
Reading aloud to peers is one of the surest ways to discover your weak areas. A word that doesn’t flow, or a subtle reference that is misunderstood stands up from the page when reading to a group – especially a group that has leaned in closer to hear your words and give your work the attention that is required to make helpful and earnest comments.
Folks quickly find themselves growing close to their workshop mates in a small class, meeting in a private, quiet room in the country. The word that I recall hearing often was resonate…as in “the words resonate with me.” That was one of the highest compliments I received, in addition to the laughter I had hoped to elicit
with some of my sillier pieces.
[This is adapted from a poem I wrote, under a pseudonym, about the workshop experience:]
Nine of us sat around the folding tables, covered with drink stained tablecloths, baring our souls and changing our lives at bit at the end of each line we cautiously shared. For eight weeks drinking green tea and snacking on nuts and homemade puddings, we took our turns growing bolder and bolder. Sally, the owner of the meeting house, a housewife with a runny nose, a chubby caretaker, a retired CEO, a personal caretaker that loved her cat, a large man wearing gray sweatpants, his thin wife filled with the spirit of the Lord; the grim, suspicious moderator with no sense of humor, and me – a middle-aged man with an attitude and a loathing for rules of grammar and authority.
My second memorable workshop was earlier this year. I submitted a couple of pieces and was subsequently invited to participate in a writing workshop with the local college’s artist in residence, Nancy Rawles – a playwright, novelist, and teacher. Of the dozen or so participants, three were teachers and three were artists. The mix of personalities, enthusiasm, talent and area of writing interest was immediately apparent, and as a social experiment, I made an effort to track how the artists and teachers participated and what they produced. I am a retired educator and a practicing artist, so my curiosity guided me and influenced me to pay close attention to my workshop mates that had backgrounds similar to mine.
I dove right in, and contributed my work as we took turns reading our finished pieces and discussing how we felt about it, what prompted our choice of reading or recitation, and what we learned from the finished work.
It is my belief that we learn from the piece. The poem or story “writes us”, and we do not know what it says or what it is about, or what it will teach us until we are finished with it.
The right workshop leader is what makes a workshop a success. A leader that joins in, cajoles, teases, participates, laughs, cries, smiles and hugs makes all the difference.
Several years ago, my on-line writing teacher, Ann Linquist, wrote this in response to one of my assignments. I had mentioned that I was dreaming about my writing. This had scared me a little--as the experience was intense and I was feeling a little out of control, but Ann’s response was comforting and exquisite: “You’re doing all the things writers do—looking, sniffing, touching, noticing, recording, exploring, lying awake, obsessing, planning, feeling great, feeling bad, and following your urge to write about what’s going on. Strange land, but familiar too. Welcome to this new place that has the feel of home.”
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
The #FridayFlash Report – Vol 3 Number 25 | Friday Flash » Friday Flash
The #FridayFlash Report – Vol 3 Number 25 | Friday Flash » Friday Flash Sample of #FridayFlash posted by authors at Twitter.
Thanksgiven (sic)
On Thanksgiven, remember the Native Americans.
Don’t eat too much canned cranberry, with that sweet, gelatinous solidity, or too many pearl onions.
Keep your degenerate hands off your first cousin, and don’t fight with your stepfather.
Be nice to granny, and help her cut her ham.
Don’t laugh at your uncle Ted when his upper plate slips out when he bites down on a leg.
Brush Aunt Marietta’s hand off your thigh when she gets drunk on the house red.
If you are asked to say grace, be nice, and don’t make jokes.
If the “men” want to play football after dinner, tell them you have a bad knee.
If the ladies ask you to help clean up in the kitchen, tell them about your knee, then sit at the kitchen table to dry dishes. Drink.
Don’t eat too much canned cranberry, with that sweet, gelatinous solidity, or too many pearl onions.
Keep your degenerate hands off your first cousin, and don’t fight with your stepfather.
Be nice to granny, and help her cut her ham.
Don’t laugh at your uncle Ted when his upper plate slips out when he bites down on a leg.
Brush Aunt Marietta’s hand off your thigh when she gets drunk on the house red.
If you are asked to say grace, be nice, and don’t make jokes.
If the “men” want to play football after dinner, tell them you have a bad knee.
If the ladies ask you to help clean up in the kitchen, tell them about your knee, then sit at the kitchen table to dry dishes. Drink.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Author Magazine - An Interview with Cherie Priest
Author Magazine - An Interview with Cherie Priest Excellent interview with a funny, bright woman. The sound is NOT that great, since the interviewer and camera person is partially unconscious. Miss Priest is excellent.
Advice to writers; video
http://youtu.be/R1h4rm57UIg
Nothing earth shaking, here...just sensible advice. Read and write to write!
Nothing earth shaking, here...just sensible advice. Read and write to write!
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
My editor, Vic, writes:
Flash fiction needs an ending that completes everything, ties up all possible loose ends, and leaves the reader feeling fully satisfied.
Now, if the ending is there and it is so subtle that I missed it, then shame on me. But others might miss it also. Would you be prepared to add an extra line that somehow adds a punch?
Now, if the ending is there and it is so subtle that I missed it, then shame on me. But others might miss it also. Would you be prepared to add an extra line that somehow adds a punch?
Monday, November 14, 2011
Flash published today.
Aubrey My story was published at FF World. Another short piece is forthcoming on their site. This is a British publication.
A 2nd story, Mustache, was also published today at:
http://www.flash-fiction-world.com/mustache.html
A 2nd story, Mustache, was also published today at:
http://www.flash-fiction-world.com/mustache.html
Online Countdown Timer | timerrr.com
Online Countdown Timer | timerrr.com Write in ten minute bursts to warm up. Use this FREE, on line timer.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Writers Market for Flash Fiction
Writers Market for Flash Fiction
I entered two pieces in two categories (by length) this morning.
I entered two pieces in two categories (by length) this morning.
Friday, November 11, 2011
The Nadsat Zoo [With thanks to Anthony Burgess]
Nickiwata glumped Tallywagg with his suspender sausage, knocking him head over trottercase into the vat of millysoup. Nickiwata was upset with Tallywagg. Tallywagg was spending far too much time at the playground with Ninnygupta and fondling her sallytreats and brooko. Nicki wanted to take a britva to Tallywagg’s mumblecluve, but he calmed down with a firegold and some old inandout with Ninnygupta. Nicki’s friends thought he was gloopy moodge for loving Ninnygupta and her jelly molds.
Myrna Pancakes; A Portrait
Each mile that she drove and each corner that she turned tested the shocks and springs of her old Saturn. She was a big girl and filled most of the front seat, spilling a bit onto the passenger seat, and dribbling into the back. Both front windows were made of plastic sheeting and duct tape. She didn’t seem to mind. Myrna, her large bosom pressing against the wheel, pushed ahead; proud and determined. She was late for the first serving of pancakes at The Pancake House. Every morning at seven sharp, she drove the Saturn as fast as she dared to the lot behind the restaurant so she could be the first to be seated. All the waiters knew her. She squeezed into the booth, holding her breath as she did, and when her flesh came to rest, she was trapped in the booth; her bosom covering a good part of the table and pushing the syrups, napkin holder and utensils away from her reach.
She ordered the large, all-you-can-eat stack and two glasses of milk, large. When her pancakes came, she slathered on the butter, asking for more right away, and drowned each of the pancakes in a thick, blanket of maple syrup and more butter. She ate them quickly, keeping her eyes focused on her plate and making calculated and deliberate moves with her silverware so she wouldn’t waste any motion getting the large portion to her sticky and shiny lips – by this time, dripping with butter and syrup. She asked for another stack. When they came, she had finished both glasses of milk, so she ordered another as she built her pyramid of cakes, butter and syrup – a little faster this time, as the time was drawing closer to the time to get to her morning appointment. She always saved the best bite, and the biggest bit for last. It was her way of giving herself a special treat.
Myrna had an appointment to get her nails done this morning. She wanted some silk wraps on her acrylics this time, and was determined to get the exact shade of red that matched the lipstick that her boyfriend liked. Her boyfriend, Gordon, was a retired dock worker. At one time, he weighed 450 pounds, but after his stomach was stapled, he dropped to 300. He had back trouble, foot trouble, hip problems, and had a score of operations performed for various things, including hernia operations, thyroid, teeth extractions, etc. In his late 50’s he had worn out most of the useful parts of his body, but managed to coax his penis into active duty with a double dose of blue pills purchased on the Internet.
She ordered the large, all-you-can-eat stack and two glasses of milk, large. When her pancakes came, she slathered on the butter, asking for more right away, and drowned each of the pancakes in a thick, blanket of maple syrup and more butter. She ate them quickly, keeping her eyes focused on her plate and making calculated and deliberate moves with her silverware so she wouldn’t waste any motion getting the large portion to her sticky and shiny lips – by this time, dripping with butter and syrup. She asked for another stack. When they came, she had finished both glasses of milk, so she ordered another as she built her pyramid of cakes, butter and syrup – a little faster this time, as the time was drawing closer to the time to get to her morning appointment. She always saved the best bite, and the biggest bit for last. It was her way of giving herself a special treat.
Myrna had an appointment to get her nails done this morning. She wanted some silk wraps on her acrylics this time, and was determined to get the exact shade of red that matched the lipstick that her boyfriend liked. Her boyfriend, Gordon, was a retired dock worker. At one time, he weighed 450 pounds, but after his stomach was stapled, he dropped to 300. He had back trouble, foot trouble, hip problems, and had a score of operations performed for various things, including hernia operations, thyroid, teeth extractions, etc. In his late 50’s he had worn out most of the useful parts of his body, but managed to coax his penis into active duty with a double dose of blue pills purchased on the Internet.
The Contest - Flash
The invigilator spoke to us for a few minutes, laying out the strict rules of engagement. We heard very precise and deliberate instructions, and a no-nonsense sternness painted everything else, including the invigilator’s suit, glasses and accessories.
Each of us were to have a turn, then as necessary, each of us would offer suggestions for improvements, deletions, methods of operation and so on. Mary went first. She showed her device, put it through its paces, and running it full speed, and over-clocked, without any external cooling or venting. We were amazed, and Mary gloated. Don was next with his apparatus. It was almost at the limit of the size allowed, but it performed beautifully, and no one could detect any output errors at first inspection. Debbie was next. She based her appliance on some older models she had shown before. This one was a little different. It was faster, seemed to pull power out of the air, and was extremely prolific. We didn’t have time to run any quality checks on the output, but we trusted that it did a good job. Billy Bob was next in order to demo his contrivance. He pulled it out of a sleek, aluminum case and plugged in a small, hydrogen fuel cell. It hummed for a few seconds and a flexible, oleophobic lens slid out of the side to project a hundred or so lines of text on the far wall of the room. We all could see the text of the piece of fiction he was working on. He fed his device a few more parameters, shut off the granny filters, and pressed a few buttons before a second piece of fiction was displayed on the wall. His optional hard copy device supplied a copy of the second piece for each of us to read and edit. There were no questions or comments. The Invigilator appeared, smiled, shook Billy Bob’s hand and awarded him the grand prix. The winning piece of fiction was published within days, and the machine was awarded patents and was subsequently purchased by a big publishing house.
Each of us were to have a turn, then as necessary, each of us would offer suggestions for improvements, deletions, methods of operation and so on. Mary went first. She showed her device, put it through its paces, and running it full speed, and over-clocked, without any external cooling or venting. We were amazed, and Mary gloated. Don was next with his apparatus. It was almost at the limit of the size allowed, but it performed beautifully, and no one could detect any output errors at first inspection. Debbie was next. She based her appliance on some older models she had shown before. This one was a little different. It was faster, seemed to pull power out of the air, and was extremely prolific. We didn’t have time to run any quality checks on the output, but we trusted that it did a good job. Billy Bob was next in order to demo his contrivance. He pulled it out of a sleek, aluminum case and plugged in a small, hydrogen fuel cell. It hummed for a few seconds and a flexible, oleophobic lens slid out of the side to project a hundred or so lines of text on the far wall of the room. We all could see the text of the piece of fiction he was working on. He fed his device a few more parameters, shut off the granny filters, and pressed a few buttons before a second piece of fiction was displayed on the wall. His optional hard copy device supplied a copy of the second piece for each of us to read and edit. There were no questions or comments. The Invigilator appeared, smiled, shook Billy Bob’s hand and awarded him the grand prix. The winning piece of fiction was published within days, and the machine was awarded patents and was subsequently purchased by a big publishing house.
Quarterwide - Flash Fiction - UPDATED WITH CRITIQUE
Harold lived in a salvaged, single-wide trailer on his mother’s property. All that was salvaged from the original structure amounted to a quarter-wide, mobile home. He needed just enough room for his bookshelves and his three-legged dog, Stumpy. Harold had no college education, and only finished high school. He was not educated, but he was wise, and no one ever said he was, or accused him of being, an ignorant man. Harold made a game of all this. He let, and often lead people to believe he was an ignorant bumpkin. He spoke slowly, plainly and matter-of-factly, never using ten-dollar words to express himself. He dressed in second hand clothes, cut his hair short himself, wore no rings or watch, and always had a yellow pencil or two clipped to the shirt pocket of his second-hand dress shirt, buttoned at the collar.
Harold had an extraordinary self-education, having read all kinds of books, including: literature, science, psychology and history. He had opinions on everything, and could back them up with facts and examples, but he kept most of this to himself, as his friends were simple folk – “salt of the earth”, as he would say.
Naming his dog, Stumpy, was expected of a man that lived in a tin house with a three-legged dog, and it was assumed that such a man was slow and backward…and so he named his dog Stumpy, when she lost her leg to an accident when she was a pup.
People tried to take advantage of Harold and his mother. Her property was worth a fortune, as her acreage bordered the most beautiful property owned by the country club. A developer offered her a great deal of money for her property, but she had no reason to sell. She was happy in her little house, surrounded by her large gardens that she and Harold tended, the greenhouse, and chicken coop. She had three wells on the property, all of them capable of delivering enough water for the whole town, and a stand of old-growth cedars towered over the back twenty acres of her land.
Representatives of the developer would stop Mrs. Mason at her mailbox at the head of the driveway and try to engage her in conversation, hoping to convince her to sell, but she ignored them, and reminded them she had no intention of selling. When the developers came to learn that Harold was her son, they approached him at the grocery store and tried to convince him that he should do all he could to get his mother to sell. Harold would just listen, nod his head once in a while, and then go about picking the best treats for his dog, and a little surprise for his mom. After two years of a number of attempts to buy The Widow Mason’s land, they gave up and looked elsewhere.
No one knew that Harold was an especially sentient being. Harold was finely tuned. He was extraordinarily sensitive as witnessed by his ability to perceive things that others could not see or did not notice. He could sense the feeling of security and contentment in the whole body of his dog when he stroked her back or rubbed her ears. He could do the same when he took his mother’s hand to help her up when she had been on her knees for hours in her garden. Harold could touch someone’s shoulder in the store when greeting a friend and know, immediately, how their mood was, and if they were under any kind of stress, ill, or in a fearful state.
Once a week, Harold would drive the family truck thirty miles South to visit his old friend, Alan, in the Veteran’s Home. After visiting his friend, he would go to the recreation room and take a chair by the window and sit looking out onto the flower garden and the scores of bird feeders. The same group of residents of the home would stop by to say hello. Three men came by one by one to sit with Harold for a few minutes. He greeted them, took their hand for a moment, and gave each of them a spiritual “examination”. He could tell by their skin texture, the color, the skin temperature, and the grip on his fingers how they were fairing. If he sensed something different or amiss, he would ask them how they were doing and say a few words, quietly, to each of them in turn.
Every Thursday, Harold would go to the market to play at his little charade. The wealthier folks used to gather near the back of the store to gossip, and when Harold approached them, they clammed up. He thought they were silly, and as he passed by, he would tip his hat or smile. If anyone said hello, he would turn to acknowledge them and nod his head. No one ever taunted Harold, as he was a big man, and no one wanted any trouble with him.
No one knew Harold’s touch unless they had deep feelings for him and if he felt the same way about them. Harold had laid hands on a dozen or so residents at the Veteran’s home, and all of them found themselves feeling better than they had ever felt in their life. All of them left the home within a few months of befriending Harold, cured of any ailments, pain or depression. No one knew Harold’s secret. He didn’t know it himself, but his mother knew, as Harold’s father had also had the touch.
------
Here is the critique I received from Every Day Fiction:
Dear Thomas Pitre,
Thank you for your submission to Every Day Fiction. I regret to inform you that we are unable to use it at this time.
I really like the title and the concept of a "quarter-wide". That established the frugality and simplicity of Harold (and the tone of the piece) right off. The piece does an excellent job of developing Harold and introducing some potential conflict points about the land and his "powers". The problem is, none of the conflict ever gets played out, and the character development is all told instead of shown. The land issue becomes a non-issue. His power simply leads to people feeling better. And even Harold himself doesn't appear to have any problems, so we don't experience "man vs. himself", either. This made the story feel stagnant at worst, and like a first chapter at best. Take this wonderful setting and character and add tension, conflict, and resolution. Technical issues: this felt a bit off: "Harold had no college education, and only finished high school." If he had no college education, it stands to reason he finished high school without repetitive explanation. If you mean only JUST finished, eked by, that could be made more clear. I think "Naming his dog 'Stumpy' was expected..." would be more effective (punctuation-wise) than this: "Naming his dog, Stumpy, was expected..."
-- Joseph Kaufman
Some very nice writing here, and I loved the character of Harold. But I agree with Joseph's comments that we are "told" the story rather then being being allowed active participation in it. Lots of potential though, and perhaps the author can narrow the focus of the piece to Harold's sentience and healing powers: there's a whole story right there.
-- Carol Clark
Unfortunately due to the insanely massive amounts of submissions in our slush pile, we cannot reconsider your piece at this time.
We wish you good luck in placing the story elsewhere.
Sincerely,
All of us at Every Day Fiction
http://www.everydayfiction.com/pages/
Harold had an extraordinary self-education, having read all kinds of books, including: literature, science, psychology and history. He had opinions on everything, and could back them up with facts and examples, but he kept most of this to himself, as his friends were simple folk – “salt of the earth”, as he would say.
Naming his dog, Stumpy, was expected of a man that lived in a tin house with a three-legged dog, and it was assumed that such a man was slow and backward…and so he named his dog Stumpy, when she lost her leg to an accident when she was a pup.
People tried to take advantage of Harold and his mother. Her property was worth a fortune, as her acreage bordered the most beautiful property owned by the country club. A developer offered her a great deal of money for her property, but she had no reason to sell. She was happy in her little house, surrounded by her large gardens that she and Harold tended, the greenhouse, and chicken coop. She had three wells on the property, all of them capable of delivering enough water for the whole town, and a stand of old-growth cedars towered over the back twenty acres of her land.
Representatives of the developer would stop Mrs. Mason at her mailbox at the head of the driveway and try to engage her in conversation, hoping to convince her to sell, but she ignored them, and reminded them she had no intention of selling. When the developers came to learn that Harold was her son, they approached him at the grocery store and tried to convince him that he should do all he could to get his mother to sell. Harold would just listen, nod his head once in a while, and then go about picking the best treats for his dog, and a little surprise for his mom. After two years of a number of attempts to buy The Widow Mason’s land, they gave up and looked elsewhere.
No one knew that Harold was an especially sentient being. Harold was finely tuned. He was extraordinarily sensitive as witnessed by his ability to perceive things that others could not see or did not notice. He could sense the feeling of security and contentment in the whole body of his dog when he stroked her back or rubbed her ears. He could do the same when he took his mother’s hand to help her up when she had been on her knees for hours in her garden. Harold could touch someone’s shoulder in the store when greeting a friend and know, immediately, how their mood was, and if they were under any kind of stress, ill, or in a fearful state.
Once a week, Harold would drive the family truck thirty miles South to visit his old friend, Alan, in the Veteran’s Home. After visiting his friend, he would go to the recreation room and take a chair by the window and sit looking out onto the flower garden and the scores of bird feeders. The same group of residents of the home would stop by to say hello. Three men came by one by one to sit with Harold for a few minutes. He greeted them, took their hand for a moment, and gave each of them a spiritual “examination”. He could tell by their skin texture, the color, the skin temperature, and the grip on his fingers how they were fairing. If he sensed something different or amiss, he would ask them how they were doing and say a few words, quietly, to each of them in turn.
Every Thursday, Harold would go to the market to play at his little charade. The wealthier folks used to gather near the back of the store to gossip, and when Harold approached them, they clammed up. He thought they were silly, and as he passed by, he would tip his hat or smile. If anyone said hello, he would turn to acknowledge them and nod his head. No one ever taunted Harold, as he was a big man, and no one wanted any trouble with him.
No one knew Harold’s touch unless they had deep feelings for him and if he felt the same way about them. Harold had laid hands on a dozen or so residents at the Veteran’s home, and all of them found themselves feeling better than they had ever felt in their life. All of them left the home within a few months of befriending Harold, cured of any ailments, pain or depression. No one knew Harold’s secret. He didn’t know it himself, but his mother knew, as Harold’s father had also had the touch.
------
Here is the critique I received from Every Day Fiction:
Dear Thomas Pitre,
Thank you for your submission to Every Day Fiction. I regret to inform you that we are unable to use it at this time.
I really like the title and the concept of a "quarter-wide". That established the frugality and simplicity of Harold (and the tone of the piece) right off. The piece does an excellent job of developing Harold and introducing some potential conflict points about the land and his "powers". The problem is, none of the conflict ever gets played out, and the character development is all told instead of shown. The land issue becomes a non-issue. His power simply leads to people feeling better. And even Harold himself doesn't appear to have any problems, so we don't experience "man vs. himself", either. This made the story feel stagnant at worst, and like a first chapter at best. Take this wonderful setting and character and add tension, conflict, and resolution. Technical issues: this felt a bit off: "Harold had no college education, and only finished high school." If he had no college education, it stands to reason he finished high school without repetitive explanation. If you mean only JUST finished, eked by, that could be made more clear. I think "Naming his dog 'Stumpy' was expected..." would be more effective (punctuation-wise) than this: "Naming his dog, Stumpy, was expected..."
-- Joseph Kaufman
Some very nice writing here, and I loved the character of Harold. But I agree with Joseph's comments that we are "told" the story rather then being being allowed active participation in it. Lots of potential though, and perhaps the author can narrow the focus of the piece to Harold's sentience and healing powers: there's a whole story right there.
-- Carol Clark
Unfortunately due to the insanely massive amounts of submissions in our slush pile, we cannot reconsider your piece at this time.
We wish you good luck in placing the story elsewhere.
Sincerely,
All of us at Every Day Fiction
http://www.everydayfiction.com/pages/
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Aubrey ¬
Southern, slow moving, slow talking, and not a remarkable man. He was tall, bald, and his color—a greenish-gray. Driving home from the pet store with two fat rabbits in a little wire cage in the back seat, he looked forward to the upcoming long weekend, and time with his pet, Charlotte. He took the cage into his modest house, showered, and changed his clothes. He and his wife had a meal of lamb chops, biscuits and gravy, and then he went out into the garage with the caged rabbits.
Charlotte was waiting for him. He turned on the lights that illuminated her cage, and the light brought her out of her slumber. Her pupils grew larger, and she came awake. This would be Charlotte’s last meal of the winter, so Aubrey was giving her two fat rabbits. A seventeen foot python uncoiled itself from the heavy, bare limb in her enclosure, and waited for Aubrey to drop the rabbits into the cage. Charlotte was motionless for several minutes, then she struck. The rabbit screamed. It was a loud, high-pitched, who-waa,who waa, who-waa—like the sound of a baby. Charlotte grabbed the rabbit in her jaws, then threw the coils of her body around it. She tightened her hold and the suffocated the rabbit. Nudging the dead rabbit into position with her snout, she swallowed it head first. A few minutes later, she killed and swallowed the second rabbit.
Charlotte was a thick tube of muscle. Aubrey admired her strength and her majestic beauty, as he witnessed the whole feeding a few inches from Charlotte’s cage, eating a piece of pumpkin pie as he watched. He was hypnotized. His wife never watched Charlotte feeding, and since the garage was kept very warm, she didn’t like to go out there. Aubrey loved Charlotte more than his wife. He thought Charlotte was more beautiful.
He bathed Charlotte in the family tub, but only when he was alone with her. Aubrey’s wife knew that the snake had to be kept warm and clean, so she didn’t fuss. Aubrey’s wife didn’t like the snake, and Charlotte didn’t like her because she would sometimes tease her by going into the garage when Aubrey was at work and making loud noises, banging a heavy spoon on a pan, blowing a tin whistle, or turning the lights on and off. After feeding, Aubrey left Charlotte to digest her meal and he left for bed, not double-checking the latch on her cage, as he always did.
The next morning, Aubrey missed his alarm, so he hurried for the door, grabbing a paper cup of coffee and a strawberry donut. When his wife got up, she dressed, made breakfast and decided she would give Charlotte a little “extra attention” this morning, feeling more resentful than usual about the care and attention her husband give the snake. When she opened the door between the kitchen and the garage, she put the tin whistle to her lips, ready to blow it as loud as she could. She took a deep breath, ready to blow, just as the snake slid from the shelf above her head and quickly coiled itself around her neck. She struggled, and seemed to make the same high-pitched scream as the rabbits. The snake tightened. Her breath was squeezed out of her as she fought for another. As she was falling unconscious, she could hear bones in her neck cracking.
Charlotte had taken her revenge. She had dispensed pure and true justice. She nudged the woman’s head a few times, but since she had eaten last night, she only flicked her tongue near the woman’s face to be sure she was not breathing.
[Pub. at Flash Fiction World, 11-14-2011.]
Charlotte was waiting for him. He turned on the lights that illuminated her cage, and the light brought her out of her slumber. Her pupils grew larger, and she came awake. This would be Charlotte’s last meal of the winter, so Aubrey was giving her two fat rabbits. A seventeen foot python uncoiled itself from the heavy, bare limb in her enclosure, and waited for Aubrey to drop the rabbits into the cage. Charlotte was motionless for several minutes, then she struck. The rabbit screamed. It was a loud, high-pitched, who-waa,who waa, who-waa—like the sound of a baby. Charlotte grabbed the rabbit in her jaws, then threw the coils of her body around it. She tightened her hold and the suffocated the rabbit. Nudging the dead rabbit into position with her snout, she swallowed it head first. A few minutes later, she killed and swallowed the second rabbit.
Charlotte was a thick tube of muscle. Aubrey admired her strength and her majestic beauty, as he witnessed the whole feeding a few inches from Charlotte’s cage, eating a piece of pumpkin pie as he watched. He was hypnotized. His wife never watched Charlotte feeding, and since the garage was kept very warm, she didn’t like to go out there. Aubrey loved Charlotte more than his wife. He thought Charlotte was more beautiful.
He bathed Charlotte in the family tub, but only when he was alone with her. Aubrey’s wife knew that the snake had to be kept warm and clean, so she didn’t fuss. Aubrey’s wife didn’t like the snake, and Charlotte didn’t like her because she would sometimes tease her by going into the garage when Aubrey was at work and making loud noises, banging a heavy spoon on a pan, blowing a tin whistle, or turning the lights on and off. After feeding, Aubrey left Charlotte to digest her meal and he left for bed, not double-checking the latch on her cage, as he always did.
The next morning, Aubrey missed his alarm, so he hurried for the door, grabbing a paper cup of coffee and a strawberry donut. When his wife got up, she dressed, made breakfast and decided she would give Charlotte a little “extra attention” this morning, feeling more resentful than usual about the care and attention her husband give the snake. When she opened the door between the kitchen and the garage, she put the tin whistle to her lips, ready to blow it as loud as she could. She took a deep breath, ready to blow, just as the snake slid from the shelf above her head and quickly coiled itself around her neck. She struggled, and seemed to make the same high-pitched scream as the rabbits. The snake tightened. Her breath was squeezed out of her as she fought for another. As she was falling unconscious, she could hear bones in her neck cracking.
Charlotte had taken her revenge. She had dispensed pure and true justice. She nudged the woman’s head a few times, but since she had eaten last night, she only flicked her tongue near the woman’s face to be sure she was not breathing.
[Pub. at Flash Fiction World, 11-14-2011.]
Friday, November 4, 2011
Concision Fiction
Waiting Room
The doctor’s office had a small waiting room. It was crowded, and the water cooler in the corner was making burping and gurgling noises as I waited for my appointment. I had gone in because I had a red lump forming in the middle of my forehead. It came up quickly, overnight, and was about the size of a ping pong ball. It didn’t hurt at all, but it was bright red and had a golden yellow center. Other people in the room kept sneaking a peek at me and whispering to each other. One old guy kept gesturing to his hat as if to tell me to pull my wool camp down lower over my head to hide it. He lifted his ball cap to show me a baseball size lump on the top of his head. It glowed red in the room.
[kənˈsɪʒən] n
the quality of being concise; brevity; terseness
The doctor’s office had a small waiting room. It was crowded, and the water cooler in the corner was making burping and gurgling noises as I waited for my appointment. I had gone in because I had a red lump forming in the middle of my forehead. It came up quickly, overnight, and was about the size of a ping pong ball. It didn’t hurt at all, but it was bright red and had a golden yellow center. Other people in the room kept sneaking a peek at me and whispering to each other. One old guy kept gesturing to his hat as if to tell me to pull my wool camp down lower over my head to hide it. He lifted his ball cap to show me a baseball size lump on the top of his head. It glowed red in the room.
[kənˈsɪʒən] n
the quality of being concise; brevity; terseness
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
TWO GIRLS By W. S. Di Piero
TWO GIRLS
By W. S. Di Piero
Eighteen-sixty eighteen sixty-four,
six hundred ten thousand men
gaseous gray, blackened body parts
like chopped wood in Virginia sunshine.
Or nineteen-fourteen nineteen-eighteen,
trench rats, thousands, big as badgers,
rip chines from horse and human flesh.
IED's, cluster bombs, punji sticks,
primed to shred feet, thighs, spine, sack,
yesterday, when we were countless.
Conscience says Count them up and be good,
suck on me like red candy stick
in casual lookaway moments.
Protected by neighbors, two girls
villagers know to be deficient
doll themselves up as bombs
for market day's chickens and yams,
and like a world-body neural surge,
their protectors fly into fatty parts.
By W. S. Di Piero
Eighteen-sixty eighteen sixty-four,
six hundred ten thousand men
gaseous gray, blackened body parts
like chopped wood in Virginia sunshine.
Or nineteen-fourteen nineteen-eighteen,
trench rats, thousands, big as badgers,
rip chines from horse and human flesh.
IED's, cluster bombs, punji sticks,
primed to shred feet, thighs, spine, sack,
yesterday, when we were countless.
Conscience says Count them up and be good,
suck on me like red candy stick
in casual lookaway moments.
Protected by neighbors, two girls
villagers know to be deficient
doll themselves up as bombs
for market day's chickens and yams,
and like a world-body neural surge,
their protectors fly into fatty parts.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
Celebrate Authorship: Sequim : Events : North Olympic Library System (NOLS)
Monthly Celebrate Authorship series kicks off at Sequim Library
The Sequim Library begins a new monthly series entitled “Celebrate Authorship” on Saturday, October 22 at 1pm. Published author Georgia McDade, Ph.D. and a panel of local writers will speak about the Peaks and Pitfalls of Writing. In addition to reading from and speaking about their works, the panelists will answer questions from the audience.
Keynote speaker Georgia McDade, Ph.D. is a retired college instructor who facilitates a variety of workshops in addition to spending a large part of her time writing and editing. Although literature is her love, especially Shakespeare, she has been called “the Michael Jordan of English teachers” and “the Outline Queen” as a result of her students’ successes. In addition to her more than thirty years at Tacoma Community College, she has been on the faculties of Lakeside School, Zion Preparatory, Renton Vocational School, Seattle Central Community College, Seattle University, and the University of Washington. McDade writes in a variety of genres. Her first book, Travel Tips for Dream Trips, is about her six-month solo trip around the world. In 2009, her book of poetry, Outside the Cave, made its debut.
A panel of local writers will also read from and talk about their work. Lois Kennedy, whose writing journey began after studying with Georgia McDade, has published poetry and written biography and magazine articles. Bill Chisham writes fiction, technical books, and a number of mystery plays which have been presented locally at the Readers’ Theater. Wylie Walthall is a retired community college teacher with several published books; the most recent is Clandestine Entry and Other Stories. Matthew Stone is writing a young adult sci-fi novel that can be read online.
The Sequim Library begins a new monthly series entitled “Celebrate Authorship” on Saturday, October 22 at 1pm. Published author Georgia McDade, Ph.D. and a panel of local writers will speak about the Peaks and Pitfalls of Writing. In addition to reading from and speaking about their works, the panelists will answer questions from the audience.
Keynote speaker Georgia McDade, Ph.D. is a retired college instructor who facilitates a variety of workshops in addition to spending a large part of her time writing and editing. Although literature is her love, especially Shakespeare, she has been called “the Michael Jordan of English teachers” and “the Outline Queen” as a result of her students’ successes. In addition to her more than thirty years at Tacoma Community College, she has been on the faculties of Lakeside School, Zion Preparatory, Renton Vocational School, Seattle Central Community College, Seattle University, and the University of Washington. McDade writes in a variety of genres. Her first book, Travel Tips for Dream Trips, is about her six-month solo trip around the world. In 2009, her book of poetry, Outside the Cave, made its debut.
A panel of local writers will also read from and talk about their work. Lois Kennedy, whose writing journey began after studying with Georgia McDade, has published poetry and written biography and magazine articles. Bill Chisham writes fiction, technical books, and a number of mystery plays which have been presented locally at the Readers’ Theater. Wylie Walthall is a retired community college teacher with several published books; the most recent is Clandestine Entry and Other Stories. Matthew Stone is writing a young adult sci-fi novel that can be read online.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Other names for FLASH or "hint" fiction:
Other names for FLASH or "hint" fiction: adumbration, advice, allusion, announcement, clue, communication, connotation, denotation, evidence, flea in ear, glimmering, help, idea, implication, impression, inference, information, inkling, innuendo, insinuation, intimation, iota, lead, mention, notice, notion, observation, omen, pointer, print, reference, reminder, scent, sign, signification, smattering, suspicion, symptom, taste, telltale, tinge, tip, tip-off, token, trace, warning, whiff, whisper, wink, word to wise, wrinkle. I declare these names as alternative names for flash/hint fiction, dated: 20 October, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
How I Write - Download free content from Stanford on iTunes
How I Write - Download free content from Stanford on iTunes #7 by Gwyneth Lewis is outstanding.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
“Certain Poems Need To Be Released From Their Cages*
“Certain Poems Need To Be Released From Their Cages*
-Robert Bly
I took from my book of seeds and crumbs,
stopped what I was doing,
got still, and breathed
like I do when I hear a noise
outside my room at night.
I listened to my poem. It told me to stop expecting,
stop thinking
and just be there.
The poem peeked out at me again and said
I want to say to you
what the wind says to you
and what the warm breezes say.
Now, listen.
I stopped chasing the poem.
I let the poem catch me.
I let the poem hold me for a moment,
then it let me go.
.
"Certain Poems Need to Be Released from Their Cages", accepted by National Gallery of Writing Contribution, Oct., 2010 See: http://galleryofwriting.org/writing/2438796
-Robert Bly
I took from my book of seeds and crumbs,
stopped what I was doing,
got still, and breathed
like I do when I hear a noise
outside my room at night.
I listened to my poem. It told me to stop expecting,
stop thinking
and just be there.
The poem peeked out at me again and said
I want to say to you
what the wind says to you
and what the warm breezes say.
Now, listen.
I stopped chasing the poem.
I let the poem catch me.
I let the poem hold me for a moment,
then it let me go.
.
"Certain Poems Need to Be Released from Their Cages", accepted by National Gallery of Writing Contribution, Oct., 2010 See: http://galleryofwriting.org/writing/2438796
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Two, 100 Word Stories, pub., 9 October
She had a beautiful set of mustaches. Many considered her facial décor off-putting, but she had such gorgeous features and long, auburn hair. When she was a teen, she used peroxide to hide the black hairs that had just begun to peek out of her upper lip. One day, in her haste to catch the school bus, she used too much peroxide and burned her lip. She vowed that she would never do it again, and in spite of what her parents and teachers said, she groomed her beautiful mustaches, combed them and waxed them. The boys were envious.
##
The mustache was very unhappy. Hosted on the grisly face of a man that submerged it in a mug of warm beer on so many occasions, and suffering the indignity of ignored, crusty secretions that were so common during the cold, winter months. Worse, the hours following a bout of vigorous lovemaking with his obese girlfriend. The mustache vowed to do something to escape captivity. Each morning, when the mustached man awoke, he discovered his mustache growing, and growing thicker and darker on a different part of his face. Sometimes, under his lip, sometimes in the middle of his forehead.
##
The mustache was very unhappy. Hosted on the grisly face of a man that submerged it in a mug of warm beer on so many occasions, and suffering the indignity of ignored, crusty secretions that were so common during the cold, winter months. Worse, the hours following a bout of vigorous lovemaking with his obese girlfriend. The mustache vowed to do something to escape captivity. Each morning, when the mustached man awoke, he discovered his mustache growing, and growing thicker and darker on a different part of his face. Sometimes, under his lip, sometimes in the middle of his forehead.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
My article was published by Flash Fiction Chronicles, today.
What Inspires me to Write Flash Fiction? On line at:
http://www.everydayfiction.com/flashfictionblog/what-inspires-me-to-write-flash-fiction/
http://www.everydayfiction.com/flashfictionblog/what-inspires-me-to-write-flash-fiction/
Monday, October 3, 2011
BE CAREFUL, FRIEND, JUST HOW YOU WIELD YOUR WIT
BE CAREFUL, FRIEND, JUST HOW YOU WIELD YOUR WIT
By Alice Workman - www.AskAuntAlice.net
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
For like the random swinging of a bat,
You may regret the outcome that you get.
Your strike may fling another in a pit,
The ricochet might also knock you flat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
You might amuse some on the face of it,
But secretly they’re filling up the vat;
You may regret the boiling that you get.
Annoy a mad dog, and you will get bit,
The same if you imply a woman's fat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit
The words you fling in jest may be a hit,
But like the tail-hold swinging of a cat,
You may regret the clawing that you get.
Though some may think you funny, I'll admit,
Still others will believe that you're a rat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
You may regret the outcome that you get.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
For like the random swinging of a bat,
You may regret the outcome that you get.
Your strike may fling another in a pit,
The ricochet might also knock you flat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
You might amuse some on the face of it,
But secretly they’re filling up the vat;
You may regret the boiling that you get.
Annoy a mad dog, and you will get bit,
The same if you imply a woman's fat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit
The words you fling in jest may be a hit,
But like the tail-hold swinging of a cat,
You may regret the clawing that you get.
Though some may think you funny, I'll admit,
Still others will believe that you're a rat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
You may regret the outcome that you get.
By Alice Workman - www.AskAuntAlice.net
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
For like the random swinging of a bat,
You may regret the outcome that you get.
Your strike may fling another in a pit,
The ricochet might also knock you flat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
You might amuse some on the face of it,
But secretly they’re filling up the vat;
You may regret the boiling that you get.
Annoy a mad dog, and you will get bit,
The same if you imply a woman's fat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit
The words you fling in jest may be a hit,
But like the tail-hold swinging of a cat,
You may regret the clawing that you get.
Though some may think you funny, I'll admit,
Still others will believe that you're a rat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
You may regret the outcome that you get.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
For like the random swinging of a bat,
You may regret the outcome that you get.
Your strike may fling another in a pit,
The ricochet might also knock you flat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
You might amuse some on the face of it,
But secretly they’re filling up the vat;
You may regret the boiling that you get.
Annoy a mad dog, and you will get bit,
The same if you imply a woman's fat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit
The words you fling in jest may be a hit,
But like the tail-hold swinging of a cat,
You may regret the clawing that you get.
Though some may think you funny, I'll admit,
Still others will believe that you're a rat.
Be careful, friend, just how you wield your wit.
You may regret the outcome that you get.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
www.laurasalas.com/pdfs/Poetic Pursuits/pp0811.pdf
www.laurasalas.com/pdfs/Poetic Pursuits/pp0811.pdfGood artilce by Ms. Salas regarding found poems, etc.
Pillow Cookies « bakerella.com
Pillow Cookies « bakerella.com Yow. Brownie stuffed, chocolate chip cookies. A batch of these while you work on your novella?
Saturday, October 1, 2011
My Haiku and subsequent "reviews". Awkward, to say the least.
The Haiku, in question:
This Spring, the barn burned
I now have a better view
of the blue mountains.
Also, after you click on the image, you will have to use your browser to make it larger.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Two, 100 Word Stories, pub., 25 September
Mirror
When Lamont and Beverly checked into the Notell they had every intention of making a long lunch out of their tryst, before going back to work at Walmart. The east wall of the motel room was a mirror. Excitedly, they got right down to business. A few minutes into the fumbling and frantic foreplay, they could hear laughter and catcalls from the room next door. Lamont’s member flagged, and Beverly was too ruffled to continue. The room next door was sold out. The Moose Lodge rented the whole room, set up card chairs and were watching through the one-way glass.
##
Her views mirrored mine. Although I was not a reporter for The Times, Sylvia Knickerbocker’s column echoed my exquisite taste and refined upbringing. Her latest instruction on table settings, the placement of the flatware, the direction of the desert fork, and the position of the water goblet just were sooooo perfect. I referred to her latest column when I hosted a small luncheon for the Lady’s Auxiliary Board. Blythe, Ruth and Babs were impressed, and I’d hope they would stay after the meal and share a few tokes of the hookah before we got to work planning the charity benefit.
When Lamont and Beverly checked into the Notell they had every intention of making a long lunch out of their tryst, before going back to work at Walmart. The east wall of the motel room was a mirror. Excitedly, they got right down to business. A few minutes into the fumbling and frantic foreplay, they could hear laughter and catcalls from the room next door. Lamont’s member flagged, and Beverly was too ruffled to continue. The room next door was sold out. The Moose Lodge rented the whole room, set up card chairs and were watching through the one-way glass.
##
Her views mirrored mine. Although I was not a reporter for The Times, Sylvia Knickerbocker’s column echoed my exquisite taste and refined upbringing. Her latest instruction on table settings, the placement of the flatware, the direction of the desert fork, and the position of the water goblet just were sooooo perfect. I referred to her latest column when I hosted a small luncheon for the Lady’s Auxiliary Board. Blythe, Ruth and Babs were impressed, and I’d hope they would stay after the meal and share a few tokes of the hookah before we got to work planning the charity benefit.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Sites; writing
Someone scooped this list up for me. If you Google the names, you will no doubt come up with some interesting writing sites. Don't complain to me if you can'f find a live site using the names below. The list WAS FREE, after all.
• 10 Flash Quarterly
• 365 Tomorrows
• A Public Space
• Abyss & Apex
• Adult Story Corner
• AlienSkin Magazine
• All Poetry
• All Things Girl
• Allegory Magazine
• American Literary Review
• American Tanka
• Antipodean SF
• Aphelion Magazine
• Apollo's Lyre
• Arc Poetry Magazine
• Arcadia
• As the Moon Climbs
• Askew Poetry
• Barge Press
• Bellevue Literary Review
• Beloit Poetry Journal
• Bewildering Stories
• Blink Ink
• Blue Lake Review
• Book of the Dead Press
• Boston Literary Magazine
• Broadsided Press
• Cemetery Dance
• Clarkesworld Magazine
• Clean Sheets
• Common Ground
• Contemporary Haibun Online
• Dark Gothic Resurrected
• Digital Dragon
• Diode Poetry
• Divine Pleasures
• Dog Oil Press
• Doorknobs & Bodypaint
• Duotrope's Digest
• Eric Lawson
• Erotica Readers & Writers Association
• Every Day Fiction
• Every Day Poets
• Every Night Erotica
• Everyday Weirdness
• Fiction magazine
• Filament magazine
• Film Noir Foundation
• Finishing Line Press
• Flash Fiction Online
• Flash of Skin
• Flashes In The Dark
• FlashFictionBlog
• Flashshot
• For The Girls
• Freaky Fountain Press
• Front Porch Journal
• Future Cycle Press
• Gargoyle Magazine
• Grain Magazine
• Heroic Fantasy Quarterly
• Horror Bound Magazine
• Horror Host Graveyard
• Horrotica
• Howls and Pushycats
• Illumen
• Innsmouth Free Press
• It Gets Better
• Jingle Poetry
• Kaleidotrope
• Killer Works
• Lady Nyo's Weblog
• Leodegraunce.com
• Literary Laundry
• Literotica
• little2say.org
• Logical Lust
• Long Story Short
• Lulu
• M. Christian
• MicroHorror
• Milk Sugar: An Online Literary Journal
• Monkey Puzzle Press
• Morpheus Tales
• Narrative Magazine
• Negative Suck
• Off The Page Poetry
• One Stop Poetry
• Oysters and Chocolate
• Photograph Prose
• Poetry Foundation
• Polluto
• Postcard Shorts
• Primal Zine
• Raw Dog Screaming Press
• Reading By Pub Light
• Red Fez
• Riptide
• Rose & Thorn
• San Francisco Writers' Grotto
• Sascha Illyvich
• SexStories
• Sinister Tales
• Slipstream
• Slow Trains
• SmokeLong Quarterly
• SNM Horror Magazine
• Spitball Press
• Spittoon
• SpringGun Press
• Static Movement
• Stories For Children
• Stranger Upstairs
• The Carnage Conservatory
• The Delinquent
• The Dreamin' Demon
• The Erotic Woman
• The Free Dictionary
• The Lorelei Signal
• The Pedestal Magazine
• The Pygmy Giant
• The Southeast Review
• The World of Myth
• The Write Place At The Write Time
• Theme Thursday
• Third Wednesday
• Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers
• Thrillville
• Trachodon
• TreSart's World of Erotica
• Twisted Tongue Magazine
• Underground Voices
• Untied Shoelaces of the Mind
• Victorian Violet Press
• Vinyl Poetry
• vox poetica
• We Still Like
• Weird Tales
• Weirdyear
• Wily Writers
• Word Riot
• Writer's Digest
• Writer's Island
• Writers' Journal
• Writing Our Way Home
• Yellow Mama
• Zeroland Literary Journal Index
• ZYZZYVA
• 10 Flash Quarterly
• 365 Tomorrows
• A Public Space
• Abyss & Apex
• Adult Story Corner
• AlienSkin Magazine
• All Poetry
• All Things Girl
• Allegory Magazine
• American Literary Review
• American Tanka
• Antipodean SF
• Aphelion Magazine
• Apollo's Lyre
• Arc Poetry Magazine
• Arcadia
• As the Moon Climbs
• Askew Poetry
• Barge Press
• Bellevue Literary Review
• Beloit Poetry Journal
• Bewildering Stories
• Blink Ink
• Blue Lake Review
• Book of the Dead Press
• Boston Literary Magazine
• Broadsided Press
• Cemetery Dance
• Clarkesworld Magazine
• Clean Sheets
• Common Ground
• Contemporary Haibun Online
• Dark Gothic Resurrected
• Digital Dragon
• Diode Poetry
• Divine Pleasures
• Dog Oil Press
• Doorknobs & Bodypaint
• Duotrope's Digest
• Eric Lawson
• Erotica Readers & Writers Association
• Every Day Fiction
• Every Day Poets
• Every Night Erotica
• Everyday Weirdness
• Fiction magazine
• Filament magazine
• Film Noir Foundation
• Finishing Line Press
• Flash Fiction Online
• Flash of Skin
• Flashes In The Dark
• FlashFictionBlog
• Flashshot
• For The Girls
• Freaky Fountain Press
• Front Porch Journal
• Future Cycle Press
• Gargoyle Magazine
• Grain Magazine
• Heroic Fantasy Quarterly
• Horror Bound Magazine
• Horror Host Graveyard
• Horrotica
• Howls and Pushycats
• Illumen
• Innsmouth Free Press
• It Gets Better
• Jingle Poetry
• Kaleidotrope
• Killer Works
• Lady Nyo's Weblog
• Leodegraunce.com
• Literary Laundry
• Literotica
• little2say.org
• Logical Lust
• Long Story Short
• Lulu
• M. Christian
• MicroHorror
• Milk Sugar: An Online Literary Journal
• Monkey Puzzle Press
• Morpheus Tales
• Narrative Magazine
• Negative Suck
• Off The Page Poetry
• One Stop Poetry
• Oysters and Chocolate
• Photograph Prose
• Poetry Foundation
• Polluto
• Postcard Shorts
• Primal Zine
• Raw Dog Screaming Press
• Reading By Pub Light
• Red Fez
• Riptide
• Rose & Thorn
• San Francisco Writers' Grotto
• Sascha Illyvich
• SexStories
• Sinister Tales
• Slipstream
• Slow Trains
• SmokeLong Quarterly
• SNM Horror Magazine
• Spitball Press
• Spittoon
• SpringGun Press
• Static Movement
• Stories For Children
• Stranger Upstairs
• The Carnage Conservatory
• The Delinquent
• The Dreamin' Demon
• The Erotic Woman
• The Free Dictionary
• The Lorelei Signal
• The Pedestal Magazine
• The Pygmy Giant
• The Southeast Review
• The World of Myth
• The Write Place At The Write Time
• Theme Thursday
• Third Wednesday
• Thrillers, Killers 'N' Chillers
• Thrillville
• Trachodon
• TreSart's World of Erotica
• Twisted Tongue Magazine
• Underground Voices
• Untied Shoelaces of the Mind
• Victorian Violet Press
• Vinyl Poetry
• vox poetica
• We Still Like
• Weird Tales
• Weirdyear
• Wily Writers
• Word Riot
• Writer's Digest
• Writer's Island
• Writers' Journal
• Writing Our Way Home
• Yellow Mama
• Zeroland Literary Journal Index
• ZYZZYVA
Friday, September 16, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Taglines Galore Random Taglines
Taglines Galore Random Taglines
Keep refreshing for more, random taglines.
Keep refreshing for more, random taglines.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Using "I" correctly...
By Toni Bowers
September 14, 2011, 8:30 AM PDT
Takeaway: Think using big words makes you sound smarter? Think again.
If I had to pick one grammatical blunder that annoys me more than any other it would be the mangling of direct objects in an attempt to sound smarter. More specifically, how some people will use “I’ incorrectly, as in, “My grandfather left his money to her and I.” One of my elementary school teachers seared into my head an easy technique for checking this kind of construction-remove the first direct object phrase (her and) then see if the sentence makes sense. In this case it would be “My grandfather left his money to I.” Of course, this is not correct–the word “I” should be “me.”
September 14, 2011, 8:30 AM PDT
Takeaway: Think using big words makes you sound smarter? Think again.
If I had to pick one grammatical blunder that annoys me more than any other it would be the mangling of direct objects in an attempt to sound smarter. More specifically, how some people will use “I’ incorrectly, as in, “My grandfather left his money to her and I.” One of my elementary school teachers seared into my head an easy technique for checking this kind of construction-remove the first direct object phrase (her and) then see if the sentence makes sense. In this case it would be “My grandfather left his money to I.” Of course, this is not correct–the word “I” should be “me.”
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
Two, one-hundred word stories:
The BLOG, Post Rapture Looting offers this instruction, after the end of the world as we know it. “Next week when everyone is gone and Jesus is not looking, we need to pick up some awesome electronic equipment, some bone-in, rib steaks, and maybe a new flat screen for the big house down the street that we plan to occupy. By next Thursday, at noon, we plan to meet at the coffee house, and march together to the old Wingnut Mansion on Cedar, so we can pick out our rooms and get ready for the big rave on Friday night.”
##
The lamp over her computer was a little jury-rigged light fixture she cobbled together from USB plugs, a few LEDs, and an amplifier out of her dad’s used dental equipment. It was a pin-point beam of a million and a half candle power, and if adjusted too close to her keyboard, it would singe her fingertips. The cuticles on her fingertips browned, shriveled and fell off into the gaps between the keys causing them to jam and stop working properly. Her beautiful, manicured nails began to brown and crack, but Elsie Tardbean kept typing to make her Saturday, midnight, deadline.
##
The lamp over her computer was a little jury-rigged light fixture she cobbled together from USB plugs, a few LEDs, and an amplifier out of her dad’s used dental equipment. It was a pin-point beam of a million and a half candle power, and if adjusted too close to her keyboard, it would singe her fingertips. The cuticles on her fingertips browned, shriveled and fell off into the gaps between the keys causing them to jam and stop working properly. Her beautiful, manicured nails began to brown and crack, but Elsie Tardbean kept typing to make her Saturday, midnight, deadline.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
Audio: Pick Two is the theme of these two, 100 word "stories"
The two themes are: butter and slip for this week's challenge at 100 word stories.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Language editing by professional editors | Revisery |
Language editing by professional editors | Revisery | : We will edit your text
Need to send an important e-mail?
That résumé just doesn't look right?
Need your paper to be perfect, but just don't have the time?
Editors are not just for books.
- Sent using Google Toolbar
Need to send an important e-mail?
That résumé just doesn't look right?
Need your paper to be perfect, but just don't have the time?
Editors are not just for books.
- Sent using Google Toolbar
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Start Your Media Kit Today: Mini Workbook | Self Publishing Team | Duolit
Start Your Media Kit Today: Mini Workbook | Self Publishing Team | Duolit: Where were you born?
When did you start writing?
What was your early inspiration?
Do you have educational or professional experience in writing (outside of publishing your book)?
What other books have you written (if any)?
How has your life affected your writing voice?
- Sent using Google Toolbar
When did you start writing?
What was your early inspiration?
Do you have educational or professional experience in writing (outside of publishing your book)?
What other books have you written (if any)?
How has your life affected your writing voice?
- Sent using Google Toolbar
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Two One Hundred Word Stories
Wild
The county abatement officer posted little, red banners all over my front yard. The markers were plastic flags taped to wire stakes. He pushed a hundred of them into the soil in the front yard. I planted my yard to save water by using ”indigenous plants". The officer’s job was to mark noxious weeds for the control team to dig up or spray. Not knowing a weed from a wildflower; my yard was overgrown with nutsedge, skeletonweed, sowthistle, spurge, knapweed, gorse, toadflax, puncturevine and purple loosestrife. The plants were healthy and had grown to the height of my roofline.
Wild
She was wild. Untamed. A golden-haired beauty from a big country family. When I saw her with her brothers and sisters, I knew she was the one I wanted. Her father was nowhere to be seen. I left because I had to ponder things. I went back to her house in a few days and spoke to her family. We made arrangements so I was able to take her with me that day. Money changed hands. It was legal in the area. No questions were asked. It was a big litter, and Molly was the fattest of them all.
[Published on line at 100 Word Stories, 8-21. Topic "Wild" ]
These are not quality pieces, but are good exercises to use when writing a story that has to be exactly 100 words AND the topic is assigned.]
These are not quality pieces, but are good exercises to use when writing a story that has to be exactly 100 words AND the topic is assigned.]
Thursday, August 18, 2011
FLASH MARKETS « Flash Fiction Chronicles
FLASH MARKETS « Flash Fiction Chronicles: - Sent using Google Toolbar - Latest listing of markets for writers, etc.
Online Creative Writing Workshops | Portland Oregon
Online Creative Writing Workshops | Portland Oregon: Welcome to the basement, where you can take online creative writing workshops any time from anywhere. We offer erotica writing workshops, rock and roll writing workshops, thriller writing workshops, memoir writing workshops, and other workshops that are difficult to come by in more academic settings.
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- Sent using Google Toolbar
The Gender Genie DOES NOT WORK TODAY.... 8/31
The Gender Genie: Who wrote that? Man or Woman: Free on line tool:
Attention: The Genie needs your help. In order to continue improvements to the site, please take a few minutes to complete our demographic survey. Your participation is much appreciated. Thanks!
Inspired by an article and a test in The New York Times Magazine, the Gender Genie uses a simplified version of an algorithm developed by Moshe Koppel, Bar-Ilan University in Israel, and Shlomo Argamon, Illinois Institute of Technology, to predict the gender of an author. Read more at BookBlog, The New York Times, and The Guardian.
Simply type or paste your text in the box below. Choose a genre and click submit for the results.
- Sent using Google Toolbar
Attention: The Genie needs your help. In order to continue improvements to the site, please take a few minutes to complete our demographic survey. Your participation is much appreciated. Thanks!
Inspired by an article and a test in The New York Times Magazine, the Gender Genie uses a simplified version of an algorithm developed by Moshe Koppel, Bar-Ilan University in Israel, and Shlomo Argamon, Illinois Institute of Technology, to predict the gender of an author. Read more at BookBlog, The New York Times, and The Guardian.
Simply type or paste your text in the box below. Choose a genre and click submit for the results.
- Sent using Google Toolbar
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Divorce by Billy Collins
Divorce
now tined forks
across a granite table
and the knives they have hired.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Falling
The temperature kept falling. I brought the dogs in, fed the iron stove, and sat in the big chair, pulling two woolen blankets over me. I thought of the pony and llamas in the barn. They must be freezing. I cleared furniture out of the way, and brought them indoors. Pretty soon, I had the chickens inside, along with the turkeys, two cats, and the boar. It was crowded and smelly, so I stepped outside for moment and the door clicked fast behind me. I could see them through the window, snorting and huffing and helping themselves to the pantry.
[Published at 100 Word Stories, 8/7/2011]
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
What it means when you say "literally" - The Oatmeal
What it means when you say "literally" - The Oatmeal: "- Sent using Google Toolbar"
3 Steps to Finding Your True Writing Voice | Copyblogger
3 Steps to Finding Your True Writing Voice | Copyblogger: "3 Steps to Finding Your True Writing Voice
- Sent using Google Toolbar"
- Sent using Google Toolbar"
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Author Blog Post Ideas | Self Publishing Team | Duolit
Author Blog Post Ideas | Self Publishing Team | Duolit: "- Sent using Google Toolbar"
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Free Writing & Self-Publishing Tools | Self Publishing Team | Duolit
Free Writing & Self-Publishing Tools | Self Publishing Team | Duolit: "We want you to succeed in your writing career, no matter what success means to you. Below are a few tools we’ve created to help you get inspired to create your very best
- Sent using Google Toolbar"
- Sent using Google Toolbar"
Classless Clown
We were to bring a pet
to school the next day
or tell a story about our pet.
I brought a lobster on a string leash
and frightened the girls.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Armadillo
Petro, the armadillo, lost his mate to a man in Peru. He used her strong, round back to make a lute. Petro escaped death by burrowing into the soil and deep into his den. Petro vowed to get revenge. He found his way to the musician’s adobe. He waited until the man left his home and then he dug a deep hole in the dirt floor and covered it with straw and a light covering of soil. When the man stepped on the trap inside his front door, he fell and broke the arms that held and played the lute.
[This was published on 100 Word Stories on 7-31-2011]
[This was published on 100 Word Stories on 7-31-2011]
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Serial comma - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
https://secure.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/wiki/Serial_comma The serial comma (also known as the Oxford comma or Harvard comma, and sometimes referred to as the series comma) is the comma used immediately before a coordinating conjunction (usually and or or, and sometimes nor) preceding the final item in a list of three or more items. For example, a list of three countries can be punctuated as either "Portugal, Spain, and France" (with the serial comma) or as "Portugal, Spain and France" (without the serial comma).
Sunday, July 10, 2011
List of Cliches. Examples of Cliches. Cliches in Poetry. Trite Phrases in Poetry.
List of Cliches. Examples of Cliches. Cliches in Poetry. Trite Phrases in Poetry.: "A List of Clichés in Poetry. This page contains a list of examples of clichés in poetry and an comprehensive list of clichés . These are clichés and overused sayings you may find in poetry, however, the exhaustive list of clichés or trite phrases may be found in other forms of writing. It is a good practice to avoid use of these phases in poetry unless used in a completely original way.
- Sent using Google Toolbar"
- Sent using Google Toolbar"
Friday, July 8, 2011
Feedback on my short piece, Big Gooney Hands
Thank you for your submission to Every Day Fiction.
http://www.everydayfiction.com/pages/
I regret to inform you that we are unable to use it at this time.
This story has a really great creepy vibe going on, I liked it. It kept me guessing as to what was going to happen next, and I couldn't quite get a handle on what it was about until midway or toward the end. The details are done well, though a little on the tell-ish side, I think it fit the style of the story, so that didn't bother me. But what did bother me was that we never got any insight into Bill's feelings until the very end, where he feels bad for breaking the figure. I think I needed more insight into Bill's feelings about himself and his job and his art for that part to work. And the ending doesn't feel right. I sense that the story is really about Bill being mistaken for this big motor skills labor guy--when in reality he has this other side where his fine motor skills allow for him to produce art. But then the ending just comes out of nowhere. I think it could work, but we'd have to have more build up to it. And something afterward--some reflection or something to bring it all together in a satisfying way.
-- Sealey Andrews
I really like the style/tone here. Short sentences and no-nonsense descriptions of things like the blue Olds and yellow bed fit the scene and characters well. Bill is easy to like because of his hard work ethic and more delicate hobby. This is mostly set-up, however. The ending obviously raises a new focus for the piece, but then the story ends. I would like to see more on that plot. At the very least, I wanted to know if Bill caused the arm break, or if his craft was merely becoming empathic with those around him. Those are two very different directions, and either could be written into a fuller, plot-driven piece that I would love to read.
-- Joseph Kaufman
The idea of the piece is solid. I could tell before the end what would happen. However, I found no connection with any of the characters and the word redundancies take away from this piece.
-- S. A. Ross
Some nice writing on a very unique premise. I loved the author's skillful attention to detail, and the irony he creates with Bill's "Big, Gooney hands" able to make such intricate sculptures. However, as Joseph mentions, I felt the pressure on the figurine's arm then the breaking of the girl's arm opens a whole new thread for this story - and so close to the end. We're not given any indication that Bill's family members have been "hurt" by his carvings, so why now with this girl? That being said, I would love to read more from this talented author.
-- Carol Clark
Published on this BLOG on 19 Nov.:
Big Gooney Hands
Bill had big hands. Bill worked at the Cargill meat processing plant in Iowa. He worked the pork line. It took him a long time to get used to the pork line. He told his wife that the insides of pigs looked a lot like the insides of people. It upset him, but he got used to it after a few months.
His wife, Mimi, was a tiny thing. They sat right next to each other in his big blue, Oldsmobile. She would cuddle up next to him, her head just visible over the seat - Bill's head in contact with the roof of the Olds. They would go to the diner on Thursday nights for a steak and curly fries at Myrna's Cafe. Sometimes Bill would have two pork chops on a stick – a house specialty.
Bill's big hands were always moving at work, cutting the pork bellies open or lopping off the ears on the line. He kept his two knives razor sharp with a steel. For seven hours a day, Bill stripped meat from bone or filled blue, plastic crates with pig ears headed for Chinese markets and pet food companies.
After dinner, Bill and Mimi would go home to watch TV and play with their dog, Buster. Bill's fingers would almost touch the floor when he sat on the couch. Buster would lick the big, puffy fingers, still smelling of pork and fat.
Sometimes Mimi would bring Bill a tub of warm, sudsy water with some Epsom salts so he could soak his aching hands. They ached from handling the heavy knives and the chilled meat for so many hours, day after day.
If it were Friday, Bill would go to the little corner of the bedroom where he had his workbench. He'd put on his magnifying visor and take the little box off the shelf. Inside, the tiny figures of Bill, Mimi, Buster, and some of their friends and family. All carved from cow horn he would collect in the beef department of the company during his lunch hour. The largest of the figures, Bill, was only a half inch high. Bill's big, gooney hands were visible on the carving if you looked real close, with the visor.
Mimi was amazed at how realistic the figures were, and how they had so much detail – right down to the little mole she had on her chin, and the rabies tag that Buster had hanging from his collar. Bill made his own tools out of discarded and broken dental tools that Dr. Lange saved for him. Bill was meticulous. He kept his workbench as tidy and clean as Dr. Lange's. It was his way of having some order, control and neatness, unlike his job on the line.
No one else in the family ever saw Bill's carvings. Over the years, his collection had grown to forty figures, including Buster and the feral cat that lived under the porch. Everything fit into a box the size of a cigarette pack, lined with cotton wool, and kept on the shelf near his table.
Bill would work for a couple of hours every night before taking his bath and climbing into the bright yellow, wrought-iron bed with Mimi. She would massage his hands and sometimes rub them with olive oil that she warmed on the wood stove.
If they made love that night, Bill would talk a while, then turn on his side and tell Mimi about what he carved that night. Tonight, sleepy from his big meal and lovemaking, he told Mimi that he was having a little trouble with one of the carvings. It was the figure of Mrs. Lovette's daughter, Emma, that lived across the road. Bill had put a little too much pressure on his carving tool this time, and had broken one of the tiny arms. He was upset, but would try to mend it the next evening.
In the morning, as Bill was climbing into the cab of his pickup, he saw Emma walking to the school bus. She had a big bandage on her hand and her arm was in a sling. He asked her what had happened. She told him she was practicing her cheer-leading last night and she fell from the top of a pyramid that the other girls had formed for a new routine. Her arm was broken. It was a clean break.
Rev., 30 April, 2011
====================================================
http://www.everydayfiction.com/pages/
I regret to inform you that we are unable to use it at this time.
This story has a really great creepy vibe going on, I liked it. It kept me guessing as to what was going to happen next, and I couldn't quite get a handle on what it was about until midway or toward the end. The details are done well, though a little on the tell-ish side, I think it fit the style of the story, so that didn't bother me. But what did bother me was that we never got any insight into Bill's feelings until the very end, where he feels bad for breaking the figure. I think I needed more insight into Bill's feelings about himself and his job and his art for that part to work. And the ending doesn't feel right. I sense that the story is really about Bill being mistaken for this big motor skills labor guy--when in reality he has this other side where his fine motor skills allow for him to produce art. But then the ending just comes out of nowhere. I think it could work, but we'd have to have more build up to it. And something afterward--some reflection or something to bring it all together in a satisfying way.
-- Sealey Andrews
I really like the style/tone here. Short sentences and no-nonsense descriptions of things like the blue Olds and yellow bed fit the scene and characters well. Bill is easy to like because of his hard work ethic and more delicate hobby. This is mostly set-up, however. The ending obviously raises a new focus for the piece, but then the story ends. I would like to see more on that plot. At the very least, I wanted to know if Bill caused the arm break, or if his craft was merely becoming empathic with those around him. Those are two very different directions, and either could be written into a fuller, plot-driven piece that I would love to read.
-- Joseph Kaufman
The idea of the piece is solid. I could tell before the end what would happen. However, I found no connection with any of the characters and the word redundancies take away from this piece.
-- S. A. Ross
Some nice writing on a very unique premise. I loved the author's skillful attention to detail, and the irony he creates with Bill's "Big, Gooney hands" able to make such intricate sculptures. However, as Joseph mentions, I felt the pressure on the figurine's arm then the breaking of the girl's arm opens a whole new thread for this story - and so close to the end. We're not given any indication that Bill's family members have been "hurt" by his carvings, so why now with this girl? That being said, I would love to read more from this talented author.
-- Carol Clark
Published on this BLOG on 19 Nov.:
Big Gooney Hands
Bill had big hands. Bill worked at the Cargill meat processing plant in Iowa. He worked the pork line. It took him a long time to get used to the pork line. He told his wife that the insides of pigs looked a lot like the insides of people. It upset him, but he got used to it after a few months.
His wife, Mimi, was a tiny thing. They sat right next to each other in his big blue, Oldsmobile. She would cuddle up next to him, her head just visible over the seat - Bill's head in contact with the roof of the Olds. They would go to the diner on Thursday nights for a steak and curly fries at Myrna's Cafe. Sometimes Bill would have two pork chops on a stick – a house specialty.
Bill's big hands were always moving at work, cutting the pork bellies open or lopping off the ears on the line. He kept his two knives razor sharp with a steel. For seven hours a day, Bill stripped meat from bone or filled blue, plastic crates with pig ears headed for Chinese markets and pet food companies.
After dinner, Bill and Mimi would go home to watch TV and play with their dog, Buster. Bill's fingers would almost touch the floor when he sat on the couch. Buster would lick the big, puffy fingers, still smelling of pork and fat.
Sometimes Mimi would bring Bill a tub of warm, sudsy water with some Epsom salts so he could soak his aching hands. They ached from handling the heavy knives and the chilled meat for so many hours, day after day.
If it were Friday, Bill would go to the little corner of the bedroom where he had his workbench. He'd put on his magnifying visor and take the little box off the shelf. Inside, the tiny figures of Bill, Mimi, Buster, and some of their friends and family. All carved from cow horn he would collect in the beef department of the company during his lunch hour. The largest of the figures, Bill, was only a half inch high. Bill's big, gooney hands were visible on the carving if you looked real close, with the visor.
Mimi was amazed at how realistic the figures were, and how they had so much detail – right down to the little mole she had on her chin, and the rabies tag that Buster had hanging from his collar. Bill made his own tools out of discarded and broken dental tools that Dr. Lange saved for him. Bill was meticulous. He kept his workbench as tidy and clean as Dr. Lange's. It was his way of having some order, control and neatness, unlike his job on the line.
No one else in the family ever saw Bill's carvings. Over the years, his collection had grown to forty figures, including Buster and the feral cat that lived under the porch. Everything fit into a box the size of a cigarette pack, lined with cotton wool, and kept on the shelf near his table.
Bill would work for a couple of hours every night before taking his bath and climbing into the bright yellow, wrought-iron bed with Mimi. She would massage his hands and sometimes rub them with olive oil that she warmed on the wood stove.
If they made love that night, Bill would talk a while, then turn on his side and tell Mimi about what he carved that night. Tonight, sleepy from his big meal and lovemaking, he told Mimi that he was having a little trouble with one of the carvings. It was the figure of Mrs. Lovette's daughter, Emma, that lived across the road. Bill had put a little too much pressure on his carving tool this time, and had broken one of the tiny arms. He was upset, but would try to mend it the next evening.
In the morning, as Bill was climbing into the cab of his pickup, he saw Emma walking to the school bus. She had a big bandage on her hand and her arm was in a sling. He asked her what had happened. She told him she was practicing her cheer-leading last night and she fell from the top of a pyramid that the other girls had formed for a new routine. Her arm was broken. It was a clean break.
Rev., 30 April, 2011
====================================================
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
PenZen - The distraction free writing enviroment
PenZen - The distraction free writing enviroment: "- Sent using Google Toolbar" Easy to use. Type, then save at .io and get URL to your writing, or save as a .pdf
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
7 Grammar Mistakes that Make Editors Hyperventilate - Engage
7 Grammar Mistakes that Make Editors Hyperventilate - Engage: "- Sent using Google Toolbar"
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
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