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I’m Jordan Brunelle, a fiction writer from Nashville, TN. And this is my blog.
The goal of Fiction Flashes is to produce one short story every week. The focus is upon stories containing elements of fantasy, science fiction, dark fiction, or satire.
The word count: 500-1,000 words.
A majority of these stories will be written by me — however, we’ll feature guest posts regularly. Stories written by friends and strangers and strangers who could someday become friends and even enemies (they write stories too!) So if you’re interested in submitting a story, whether you’re a friend or a stranger, please email me with the story attached: email@example.com.
Thanks for stopping by.
by Jordan Brunelle (989 words)
I yelled at them to stop, but they wouldn’t. They didn’t.
And Mom wonders why I won’t eat. She wonders why I sit at the kitchen table, next to my older brother, and I just stare at the meatloaf on the plate in front of me—that assortment of unrecognizable meats and meat-like things, topped with a red-black sauce, mixed together in a chaotic mess of edible mush. She asks why I won’t, just please, for her, eat it. It’s my favorite, she reminds me. Be a good son.
They’re so much stronger than I am, my brother Billy and his friends, and they had little trouble lifting me off the ground and carrying me over their shoulders like a potato sack. Billy’s in 8th grade, three grades ahead of me, and so are Johnny Frankfort and Allen Hicks, his best friends.
“Please, please, please,” I squealed, when I realized where they were taking me. “Please, just put me down.” I knew, when they started towards the woods to the left of the old farmhouse my family lives in, that my life would be changing soon. The patch of woods is thick with brush, difficult to pass through, and it only leads to one place. The Pond.
But that was last week. Now, we’re in the kitchen. My father is sitting in his place at the head of the table. He eats the meatloaf my mother made, in huge, heaping forkfuls, without looking up, and my brother does the same. He’s always taking after my father, his mannerisms, the way he mumbles his words and draws out his vowels and refuses to smile for pictures. I suppose it’s because they spend so much time together, getting up at 4 am every morning to milk the cows.
by Jordan Brunelle (940 words)
I remember when Wuff first appeared in my living room. I’d just finished breaking up with my girlfriend of six years and was far from desiring any confrontation with a stranger. Especially a stranger like Wuff.
I walked in to find him sitting on my couch in the nude. It was dark, but by the glow of the television I could see that he had the remote tucked tightly between his thighs, one leg crossed over the other. The next thing I noticed was the incredibly unnatural (or completely natural, depending on how you look at things) amount of black, wiry hair that blanketed his entire body.
“Wuff,” he said.
“What is your—”
“I said I’m Wuff.”
I walked closer, growing more agitated with my intruder, and said, “Okay, Wuff. What are you doing in my house? How’d you even get in here?”
Wuff rolled his eyes and shrugged sarcastically. “Oh, I don’t know, Jake. Maybe you invited me in.” He sighed heavily and pulled the remote out from his crotch before changing the channel.
“You’re getting hair on my couch,” I told him.
Wuff jumped to his feet.
“Don’t have me if you don’t like me for who I am, Jake. You’re the one who let me in, for God’s sake.”
And at that, I suddenly knew. I questioned how it had taken so long for me to realize who this black-haired, bearded, naked man was. He wasn’t a stranger at all. They warned me when I got him, that a mix of domestic dog and wolf can make for an unpredictable pet. A pet with sudden shifts in personality and character. A pet that lashes out at their owners sporadically and without warning. It’s like in the blink of an eye, they transform out of one thing and into something entirely different.
As promised last week, here’s a little snippet containing the Oceanids to keep you entertained.
Hopefully you will be able to read the WHOLE story before too long. I really am working very hard to prepare it for you to hold in your hand…meanwhile let’s go join Felicity as she meets the ANCIENTS – the elder Oceanids of great wisdom who help guide Reuben and the quest group…
‘These Oceanids are the oldest living creatures to inhabit the Old World,’ said Pippi. Looking at the scarred, barnacle-encrusted body of the one who spoke, Felicity could believe it. They were staggered along the shore like ships coming in to dock, and all were a greyish colour. She supposed their energy had gone into their size. It was not polite, she knew, but it was hard to find something beautiful about any part of them. They had tiny eyes, and an indistinct mouth right at the bottom of their square-shaped heads. When they spoke it dropped down onto the sand like a ferry ramp. She had not really thought about the first two she had met. There had been so much else to focus on, like surviving. But now, in this bare place, and faced with eight all looking her way, it was impossible not to notice detail. Especially as she had discovered the shallow cave behind offered no refuge.’
See you next time!
It’s been a BONANZA month for us here at Novel Ideas with SIX number one bestselling novels in just over a month. Entries into the Amazon newsletter with several titles at the same time and the birth of several brand new bestselling authors.
Welcome to The Chronicles of the Celts! I am thrilled that you stopped by and look forward to having you become a part of our community. Ask away about anything under the sun. This is very much a work in progress and will change and grow over time. I apologize in advance as I have often put off updating the site, but I am committed to sharing with you all as I move forward.
Been here before?
Welcome back then. Grab a pint of ale or a cup of coffee, whatever will quench your thirst. Good to see you again and please comment on something. Too much spam comes through here and I love hearing from real people.
My passions are for writing, reading, homesteading, cooking and eating. Dieting not so much, but we do things we don’t like doing (for example practicing grammar) to do the things we love to do.
A little secret…
My grammar and spelling is horrible. How about that for a handicap for a writer? There is just something in my brain that goes wrong when it comes to spelling. I can easily memorize the definition of a word and know how to use it in a sentence correctly, but somewhere from my brain to the spelling of the word on the page something breaks down. I gave up writing for 8 years out of frustration with spelling. I could not get over what I was doing wrong. It wasn’t that I didn’t try to learn to spell because I had. I’ve struggled with spelling all my life. How does someone with a 162 IQ and a wicked memory not know how to spell? I don’t know either. So the best things I can say is, my novels will always need a good editor… or 2. Feel free to point out spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. I’ll fix them and I will not take any offence.
There are too many chickens in the coop
Too many hens clucking
Too many roosters herding
Not enough thinning of the herd
There is another rooster on the way
I may just have to be the one who flew the coop
Free range for awhile until the fox thins our numbers
Bad choices, bad decisions
I have to live with the consequences of their actions
What was lost has not yet been found and until then
There will be too many chickens in the coop
I have several working titles for Volume 1 of The Chronicles of the Celts. I have a disliking of labels that runs from some unremembered event of my youth, but whatever that event might have been it lingers on to this day. Like other telling of tales, Lord of the Rings for one example, it will contain two possibly three book depending on how they fill out. As of right now my outline is looking at two. The story will revolve around a core of characters, their relationships to one another will be partially clear to you the reader, as well as somewhat of a mystery. The hardest part for me in outlining the series is the fact that it is massive and complex, both in subject matter and in length. To tell it with the dignity that I feel it deserves it will take between seven and eleven volumes and to do it right I am trying to sketch a bare bones outline of it all. This will avoid a rambling on of unnecessary filler and the end game will be the driving force from page one. I approach this task with clear eyes. I understand that even the best stories sometimes go astray when they start to reach the epic length I am attempting to create. My promise to you is your time invested in reading it upon completion will not be a waste.
When I crashed last night I slept for 12 hours straight. I guess the lack of sleep finally got to me. I rolled out of bed at 11:00 and grabbed a quick breakfast/lunch and I was off to the computer.
I had notes on most of what went into the Day 3 post so I typed that up, twice since a thunder storm knocked out the first post at 1500 words, the 2nd one ended up at 710.
I’m behind on both the short stories and the poetry, but the Red Sox had a day game so 1 to 5 was totally unproductive. I did manage to get some reading in listening to the game as well as playing on twitter a little bit.
5:00 I made the kids chicken nuggets since that is what they wanted. I wasn’t feeling super hungry so I made some Nachos and tried to get motivated for some writing. I ended up reading blogs from 5:30 to 8:30pm and then got into the writing.
I want to write 5 poems a day on average and since I had written 0 in three days I figured I better write 20 to get caught up. I wrote 25 poems for 1501 words in an hour and fifteen minutes, so at 9:45pm I checked facebook real quick and got bad news.
One of my friends son was killed in a car accident today and their daughter is requiring surgery. Needless to day my writing is done for today. I was ready to knock out a few thousand words and finish Scarecrow,but that can wait until tomorrow. My kids are asleep, but I’m going to go lay down with them for a little bit until their mother gets home from work. She is going to take this pretty hard.
Life can change in an instant.
The desire to be a writer begins at about five years of age. I grew up in northern
Alabama, my father was a sharecropper who farmed and my mother worked in the local cotton mill. My caretakers were my Native American great-grandmother and an African-American woman I only knew as Aunt Francis, both great storytellers. Instead of playing like most children, I sat at the feet of these elderly strong-minded individuals listening to the stories of their lives. Summers’, I would be taken to my fathers’ sister, in Birmingham; it was she who introduced me to a library, and to her circle of friends that included local writers, artist and politicians. She encouraged my imagination with the gift of my first journal, which I filled with stories. Nonetheless, with adulthood I became a closet writer with my desires to create remaining clandestine until only the past few years when I begin to pursue writing short stories and poetry.
My greatest influence in creating a short story or a poem is the determination to validate and keep alive those many people who gave me their stories for safekeeping and the promise too, “always remember”. Many writers and poets have influenced my growth toward trying to become a writer through their lives, and their work. Faulkner, Capote,
Fitzgerald and Harper Lee. Later in life, I discovered the warm and comic Grace Paley; I will forever treasure an autographed copy of “Grace Paley – The Collected Stories”; the vivid poetry of William Carlos Williams; the strong poetry of Phyllis McGinley,
and the world’s most exciting women, Maya Angelou.
Check out my e-books at http://amazon.com
Have a creative day,
Imprisoned deep within the soul are
emotions created where both fear and
truths are stored; it is there that we find
ourselves caged behind invisible doors.
Filtering through the layers of one’s mind
daily is the only way; it may stop the
possibility of getting lost in the fog of our
Clear the mind and soul of clutter, congestion
and conflict; free it from these windowless
rooms, keeping such thoughts will create an
existence into which you would surely be
Knowing self-value is the first step for the soul
to hear freedoms call; living in the “now” is the
only way to tear down internal prison walls.
To all of “My Community”, thank you for your support of the blog and in the purchase of my eBooks at Amazon.com. I hope you will continue to visit Amazon.com below are direct links to each book. AJM
Thank you again for your support
‘Hunted’ soon be available in the US…
Feel like getting your order in early? Click right HERE.
Let’s go talk to Frank….
Q) Why writing? What is it about writing that gets you excited?
A) I’m the kind of person the loves to talk about my ideas and beliefs. Writing is another way of telling my story. Not in a biographical sense but telling others what I feel – educating them, too – in a way that uniquely entertains. If I could get a reader to say “Good story. Well written” I’ve done my job. I don’t want to win a Pulitzer in literature. I just want to know that people enjoy my story telling and will follow me into my next flight of the imaginary.
Q) You are a well-renowned non-fiction writer. Why fiction now?
A) I’ve always wanted to write fiction. My first foray into fiction was as a freshman in high school where I wrote the first few chapters of a novel. About a dozen years later, I wrote a complete Sci-Fi novel one summer on a typewriter while housesitting. The story was influenced by one of the Golden Age of Science Fiction writers. Heinlein I believe. It wasn’t very good, but I did complete it.
Q) What, in your opinion, is the key ingredient to a great story?
I just checked this page again and realized how barren it was: contact info with no content. Why the fuck would anyone want to contact me? It’s almost like I’m inviting spam mail. By the way, checking on my own “about” page is worse than googling myself for being so self-involved that I’m looking at what I had to say about myself and not even looking at what others are saying about me.
I aim to write with a delightful sense of humor that is often very crude. Those who like it tend to like it a lot and I can only imagine that those who don’t like it would find it unbearable. The current longest running series in this blog is Shit Stories. I probably shouldn’t be parading this information around but I guess this says a lot about me.
Everybody loves nostalgia. You can’t hate it. You have to like it by definition of the word. If you don’t like it, then you’re not experiencing nostalgia; you’re just remembering a crappy memory. Movies aren’t very long long so it’s pretty amazing when they can make us feel nostalgic during the movie for something that happened an hour ago. We feel nostalgic about the movie before it’s even over.
I noticed a common way that movies do that and I call it nostalgic callbacks. Early on in the movie, a character would say something idiotic or make up a crazy web of lies for comedic effect. This first event has to be out of the ordinary so that it’s memorable because crazy things are easier to remember than normal things. Near the end of the movie, they bring this idea back but this time, you actually see it happening instead of just hearing the characters talk about it. When done right, it’s delivers a more immersive experience because you feel like you’re in on an inside joke.
Just for fun, I will begin compiling a list of movies that use nostalgic callbacks effectively. I’m going to start the list small, with just the movies I watched today. When you recognize the movie, I’m sure you would feel nostalgic about it again. It’s a gift that keeps on giving. You can help me fill out this list too!
(I wish it was needless to say that there’s going to be spoilers but spoiler alerts are always needed to be said.)
…I started summarizing the movies and the nostalgic callbacks but that was too much work and boring to read. So I’ll just be listing the movies and the keywords in the nostalgic callbacks. That should suffice.
The Green Hornet
I’m pulling at straws here. I’m not very good at making this list, but maybe you guys can do a better job.
A friend of mine showed me an article where the author developed something he called “the pixar theory”. The theory tries to explain how every pixar movie is within the same universe and are all connected. To me, that is a perfect example of someone with way too much time on the hands and trying way too hard to earn people’s approval of his intelligence.
So you can chain together similarities between all the movies, big whop.You know what else is similar between all the movies? They’re all animated with computers, they’re all the stories born from human imagination, and they’re all fiction. Fiction means that it’s not real, which means that ANYTHING can happen. If anything can happen, then you can explain anything you want, as long as you want to.
As a creator of stories and things, I like to throw in cameos from my other works just for fun and no other reason whatsoever. Even if pixar claims to have had plans all along, it doesn’t mean it’s true. What do you think a big company would want to do? Would they want to borrow a fan idea, alter it and make it into their own, have that fan shit his pants with joy, and gain free publicity? Or would they rather call that fan a dumbass douche that needs to spend his time doing more important things?
Have you ever seen an accomplished scientist come up with these extensive movie theories? No, because they’re spending their time doing more important things. If coming up with these theories is so brilliant, why doesn’t the person use that brilliance to actually do something… brilliant.
Sorry if I sounded a little harsh on some people. I don’t think I’m better than you or anything. It’s just that I’m an attention-craving bum myself so I know one when I see one.
via About | JIMMYTONY.
I want to be fucked up so bad. If I could do a bender for a weekend and have it not ignite an obsession to live the rest of my life like that, I would. I’d do it all the time. I just keep fantasizing about that state. Imagining the feeling of being out of my head, out of my body. Somewhere else. I want to be in a dark basement with weirdos, sweating to terrible music. I want to find myself afraid, in a dark alley with strangers. I want to sell my soul for the night. I want to dig a K-hole with my bare hands. I want to walk straight into the woods, full steam ahead. Instead I just keep climbing to the roof and sitting on the ledge with my feet dangling over. Kicking back and forth like a kid. I’d love to know what that looks like from street view. Wicked Witch of the West in reverse? No one ever looks up anyway, which I find so strange.
Burying Nan was alright. I felt really cold about it. Completely functional and emotionally – totally numb.
If I felt anything it was proud of who she was and then slightly lonely.
Nan used to say, “On my tomb stone it’ll read Finally Free.” I don’t think she lived a life that could have been described as easy. I think it was all quite difficult for her.
The night before Nan died my mother slept at her bedside and gave Dzia the night off. Until this point he had kept vigil in her room, rarely leaving except for an occasional shower and maybe a meal out. She said Nan seemed comfortable and despite her inability to speak, she insisted upon a few things. She would cough to tell people to leave the room, she would motion when she wanted something. My mother said she kept one foot firmly planted on the ground all night and into the next morning. The nurses would come in, change her, move her and she’d shift her foot right back on the cold, tile floor. They would tell her to lay back, try to adjust her leg and with surprising strength, she’d keep her foot rooted.
As I heard this story I recognized it immediately. It’s an old alcoholics trick. If you’ve ever gotten yourself so intoxicated that you think you might not survive the night or the psychosis might finally take over permanently or you’re about to trip into a world you might never get out of, you sleep with one foot on the ground. It’s the only thing that keeps you in reality. As you fight the invasion of the ‘other world’ you can force your head back to your foot and remember what’s real. This hardwood floor.
As the morning came and my mother was getting ready to leave, Dzia resumed his position at his wife’s bedside. Nan started to cough, telling my mother to leave the room. She looked at Dzia and said, “It could be close. You might wanna settle up.” Dzia walked around the other side of the bed to hold Nan’s hand and my mother walked to the hall. When she went back in, her father was on his knees, his head buried in her lap and his arms around her waist. He looked up with infantile fear in his eyes and said, “I think she stopped breathing.” Both Nan’s feet were under the blanket.
Later I heard him tell his friends she hugged him back. That he had felt her squeeze.
Nan had the ability to be rather vicious. Lots of that was directed at Dzia. Ages ago Dzia was an active alcoholic. Once he sobered up he said he would spend the rest of his life making it up to her. So no matter how she treated him, he would never leave her side. Decades of fierce love and retribution. He did it. I think they both did. I hope he has been liberated. What I fine man.
We spread her ashes in this pond on the South side where she used to go as a kid.
I was away for a week, all points of contact were pretty busy except for the tiny Greek in a blazer. We spoke everyday for hours at a time. Shortly after my return to town, everything was called off with her. Obviously it’s for the best if we’re playing by morality, if we’re playing by love and loneliness, it’s the worst.
Last night I sat on the roof with a neighbor who’s a doctor of some kind. He said I would most likely not survive a leap off of a six-story building. Something about spinal compression and blood on the brain. I’m definitely not willing to live with paralysis or anything that makes me look weird, including a wheel chair. It’s not that I want to die, I just want to feel what it feels like to fall through the air.
When I went to rehab for the first time, I pretty much failed out. I was asked to leave and I was put in a psych ward for what was to be 6-12 months. By conning my way through the system I was able to get readmitted to rehab on the condition that I would now actually give a shit and that I’d start my 30 day stint from day one. I would have done anything they had said. I had the willingness that only the desperate can posses. The problem was I had used up all of my chances. My health insurance refused to pay for a second go around and the price of wellness is far out of reach for any working class family. And they were all right. I had fucked it up so many prior times. I had been offered help with a disgusting amount of rapidity and each time I had confidently spit in its face. I was told to pack my bags again and put them by the door. And then the day just went on. Seemingly everyone forgot about me. I stayed and finished the 30 days. Once I got out, it had taken me a while to find out what had happened. Nan had paid for everything.
I just want to keep telling stories about her. About the whole process. But it seems self-indulgent to submit happily carless peers to such weight. She was simply lovely. And little sparks of serotonin go off in my brain when I remember it all. It must be not half bad to go to sleep one night and wake up in the glory land. I think I’ve over romanticized the situation but that’s what feels good. And for fuck sake, I just wanna feel good.
Katherine Givens is a museum employee with a secret. Few know the truth of her greatest passion, but those closest to her know she loves to write historical romances… Alright, maybe more than a few people know she is a writer. Anyone who will listen to her can glean this from a conversation.
So, Katherine Givens is a museum employee who wishes she had a devilish secret or a jaw-dropping double life, but the characters in her manuscripts often do. From the withdrawn duke mesmerized by his quiet maid or the savage viking eager to ravish a Christian girl, her heroes are always bound to have a secret or two. It is often up to the headstrong heroine to unravel the mysteries surrounding the man that has captured her heart.
Katherine is a member of the Romance Writers of America and Romance Writers of America PRO. Her short stories and poetry have been published in The Copperfield Review, The Enchanted File Cabinet, Tipton Poetry Journal, Nazar Look, WestWard Quarterly, MUSED – the BellaOnline Literary Review Magazine, and several other magazines she cannot name off of the top of her head.
Before you explore the website of yet another aspiring historical romance author, let me invite you to taste what is lurking within the depths of my imagination. And what better way to begin than to read a sample of my first romance publication in The Enchanted File Cabinet‘s October 2012 issue? Enjoy this excerpt of “Fate and Free Will,” and be sure to search the rest of my website to savor the whole of my work.
The path for every human’s life is paved by two judges, fate and freewill. One might contradict the other at times. There might not always be complete harmony between the two. A person may decide upon fate, and fate may spin the fibers of that person’s freewill. You can’t deny life is filled with both. I know by experience. Fate and freewill intervened in my life the day I wrote the letter.
It was one of those rare privileges to have paper for my writing. I sat at my desk with the paper staring back, taunting me. The words did not come immediately.
I thought of my life and of my miserable circumstances. I thought of my dying grandmother. I thought of the people in rural Derbyshire who gave to keep us alive. I thought of my home, which could be lost as soon as the benefactors stopped giving.
After several moments, I began to write a letter and its recipient was unknown. All my thoughts, feelings, and miseries flowed onto that paper:
April 26, 1843
I have no money to my name. My only income comes from the benefactors that take pity on me. My only remaining relative is my grandmother, but she is slowly deteriorating back into dust. She coughs up blood consistently and hardly ever moves. She just lies on her bed and stares at the ceiling above her head, as if she is waiting for God himself to emerge and reclaim her soul. I am frightened for her and what she will soon face. I am frightened for myself and the loneliness that shall soon engulf my very existence.
Who ever may care, my only wish is to have a friend. If, by destiny, anyone finds this letter, I ask of you, from the deepest depths of my soul, to respond to my letter. Don’t if you only pity me. Respond because you also suffer and are in need of a companion.
Here’s an update on a prior post titled, “Broken Laptop, Broken Heart.”
Great news! After biting my fingernails to practically nothing, my laptop is finally fixed! For the past month I’ve been agonizing over the lost of the revisions to my beloved novel.
I took my laptop to a technician at an office chain store, to a friend, and finally to the colleague of a relative. That hunk of junk passed hands so many times, but it finally did fall into the right hands. A huge thank you to the fellow that repaired my hard drive!
And, yes, I’ve been dancing since my manuscript was retrieved. It is saved to three flash drives and a new laptop I recently bought. Also, I am trying something new called a cloud.
My manuscript is now safe and sound. Every paragraph, every sentence, and every word is intact. I can now trek onwards and continue revising this novel. I’m so glad and relieved, because now I will have my strongest work to pitch to a couple of editors and an agent at a conference sponsored by the RWA!
Thank you to all those who read my original post, “Broken Laptop, Broken Heart!” I’m taking all your technical suggestions to heart, and I greatly appreciated the words of comfort when my manuscript was lost. I’m just so happy that it is now found!
Sometimes as an interviewer you have to follow your gut. The “gut” is the number one source of advice you could ever hope for. You can hear it churning away if you listen carefully. It will tell you what will work. It will tell you what won’t work. It will let you in on secrets, it’s your best friend.
So… When I met Robert J. Watson, I knew I had to interview him.Robert is a man of the sea. That’s what drew me to him. He has lived his life on the sea, his father was a fisherman, he was a merchant seaman. He is at one with the sea. What more could an interviewer ask for? A man with a long love affair with a cruel mistress.
What made my stomach hit me with that notion? Well, I can’t exactly tell you WHY… But, I know we connected and here’s what happened…
J.W. NORTHRUP REACHES OUT TO MEDIA OUTLETS ACROSS THE WORLD.
J.W. Northrup announced today that he has finally decided to interview with blogs, newspapers and give lectures on writing. It was also announced that work on his second book has almost been completed. J.W. was quoted as saying, “it is time for me to take this all the way.”
J.W., who in one year released a dozen short stories in addition to his bestselling novel “The Gold Slaves,” has been busy writing a new book. There are no details of this second book yet, but he promises it will be a huge literary achievement. “I know people will go crazy for this one,” he said in one interview. “It will get people excited for sure.”
If you would like an interview with J.W. you can contact his PR at Nicholas.Wale@hotmail.co.uk.
Taylor Butikofer loves to write. He is currently working on a book that could be published traditionally or self-published. He writes all sorts of different short stories, including this blog. All of this blog is fiction. When he was in elementary school, he won a award for his writing that astounded his teachers and his principal.
The other day was the funniest day I have had in years. It all started out with a bag of wax, gone wrong. I had tried to do my duties efficiently, but that is not how it turned out.
The whole thing started out with me not wanting to squirt the wax on the cloth that I possessed. In fact, I felt that the towel did not do its job. Guess what happened next? I used a plastic bag, and cut a hole through the bottom left corner of the bag.
I then continued. I took my hands and handled the plastic bag and grabbed two sides on separate ends and lowered the plastic thing into the chamber of the wax. This is the part where it started to get messy.
I will save so much time by doing this the easier way. Or so I think. For all I know, my teacher thinks the other way is the better way, but no this is easier than to squirt the wax on a cloth. No, I will not do it that way, but the way that I think will work the best.
As this thought went through my head, I was a genius in disguise. I will be thanked and praised for finding a new way to dish out the wax.
When I had the wax in the bag like I wanted. I then proceeded to wax the floor my way. I stood and stooped over and began to tighten my right hand grip on the bag so it started to ooze out of the bag.
I take my cloth to wipe it into the floor, and I still thought this was a smart way to do it. But as I was half way done with the floor, someone comes in and one of her feet began to lose ground, then the other followed behind it.
Then she said “No. It’s all over my pretty dress. “
That is when I figured out to always listen to my instructor, no matter how genius and clever I think I’m being.
When it comes to college you have to be practical. But that was the funny thing about what happened to me the other day. I did something not practical. In fact, it was very impractical.
When I was in a rush to get into class, someone was trying to rush their way out. It was plenty of funny because I didn’t want to be late, but this guy didn’t want to go to class. As we are heading for each other’s directions, it happened so fast that I laugh at it until this day.
As we were about to collide, I take both of my hands and I push towards his shoulders and made sure that we did not collide.
But this was not enough for me to be satisfied because when he did not stop, I yelled straight at him, “can you even see me?”
But when we collided, everyone started to laugh at me and I felt so embarrassed. People had dropped what they did and pointed, laughed and it left me feeling like a stone statue.
This too has a lesson to be learned from this type of thing that happened to me. Always be alert and for hell sake, watch where you are stepping or in this instance watch where I’m stepping.
But back to the story, when the professor entered the room everyone started to stop laughing but when the professor asked why all the silence everyone began to start to laugh again and some pointed in my direction and I felt like the picked on one.
The professor then proceeds to say okay now pull out your science books to start on chapter ten. But when we all started to pull one of our books out, someone takes my book and dumps it on the floor and everyone started to laugh again.
I thought I heard someone tell me how big of a dork I am but it could have been a figment of my imagination.
Two lessons are to be learned from this story. Everyone can be a bully and try to pay much attention to what one is to do or that one will feel like a big idiot.
Monday, July 1, 2013
- 1: existing in a natural state and unaltered by cooking or processing
- 2 archaic : unripe, immature
- 3: marked by the primitive, gross, or elemental or by uncultivated simplicity or vulgarity
- 4: rough or inexpert in plan or execution
- 5: lacking a covering, glossing, or concealing element : obvious
- 6: tabulated without being broken down into classes
There’s nothing more unsettling than watching your mother, father, sister, grandmother and grandfather clustered around the television, all watching the same soap opera. I don’t know what disturbs me the most: one, that of all things possible, this is what brought the family together, two, regret that they choose to spend their leisure time and sometimes their un-leisure time as well so utterly unproductively on a regular basis, or third, that we as a people fall pray to the networks’ crude play on emotions so easily every time. The same formula of heartbreak, tears and gossip, and it works like a charm.
Ti-Oops, gotta go – he’s about to catch her cheating on him!
C.B. McCullough lives in the northeastern United States with his beautiful wife, Vanessa, and a small menagerie of pets. The Fallen Odyssey is his first book. He does most of his writing in a little house in the woods.
C.B.’s resume also includes online sales writing, ghostwriting family history/memoirs, and digging up artifacts as an archaeological technician.
Fools rush in, where devils fear to tread…
Night lasts for days on planet Jannix, and in a city full of murderers, thugs, gangsters and con artists, no man ever can be sure he’ll see another dawn. So when private investigator Jack Tarelli is called to the home of an enigmatic billionaire just hours after an unspeakable murder, he knows a long, long night has only just begun.
Led on a chase into the shadowy underbelly of a city that never wakes, the hard-nosed and uncompromising Jack will stop at nothing to track down a deadly killer whose motives are shrouded in corruption, betrayal and deceit. But as connections to Jack’s own dark and mysterious past arise, it becomes clear that this is more than a search for the truth; it’s a race against time.
Drawing on the classic Noir style, this Science-Fiction/Mystery novella will leave you breathless and begging for more.
When seventeen-year-old Justin Holmes wakes from a strange, amnesic slumber, he finds himself in an unknown land, far from his rural Pennsylvania hometown. With no memory of how he came to be in this world of vast grasslands, sky-scraping mountains and double moons, he can but cling for dear life to his only allies: an illusive old hermit, and a cold-blooded, duplicitous mercenary.
When unwillingly recruited to help rescue a kidnapped princess, Justin is whisked off into the wild on an otherworldly adventure, all while struggling to learn what twist of fate has landed him in this strange, alternate dimension. He can only hope that within the wilderness of this fantasy world can be found some clue that will lead him home. Trapped in this medieval realm of prehistoric animals and powerful warriors, Justin must uncover his destiny on his trek down The Path Less Traveled…
“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.” – E.B. White
When you think Fantasy Fiction, certain elements automatically come to mind– three of which, you can almost bet on:
Most fantasy worlds– excluding Contemporary/Urban Fantasy– come devoid of any means of modern amenities. ”No phone, no lights, no motor car.” So how do people get around in fantasy fiction? A horse, of course, of course.
Well, not so in The Fallen Odyssey. When I started writing these stories, I decided it would be kind of a neat challenge to rebel against the convention of using horses. What if, in this world, the horse never existed, and humans instead relied on some other breed of animal for transportation? (I sense a disturbance in the Force… As if a million horse-lovers suddenly cried out in terror…)
The result of my experiment was the steed.
Standing nearby were three ranch animals… They had umber-brown, muscular bodies, similar in size and shape to a horse– standing tall enough to look Justin eye-to-eye. Like horses, they had short hair, hooves, and wiry tails, but their long faces had the pronounced brow ridge of a camel, and their snouts were elephant-like trunks that hung halfway to the ground. To Justin, they looked like the kind of bizarre, extinct species you might see painted on the wall at a natural history museum; an ice-age, mammalian precursor to modern life. He stared at the odd creatures, watching their trunks pull up clumps of grass and place it in their awaiting mouths. All three had saddles on their backs.
Justin approached… but he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. The thing seemed to be watching him, and despite its docile manner, he was suddenly wondering what kind of teeth were under that trunk.
– from The Fallen Odyssey by C.B. McCullough
This creature is referred to only by the simple moniker, steed. Steeds play a key role in our story from here on out, and while they are very similar to horses in implementation, we find out that their hardiness makes them suitable for all sorts of conditions.
It is for good reason that Justin compares them to museum exhibits, as the steed is based on an actual species that existed on Earth, long ago…
Macraucheniidae was a family of ungulates of the Litopterna order. This animal would have looked, to our eyes, like a combination horse-llama-camel, with a goofy little trunk-like appendage hanging from its snout. Macrauchenia went extinct 10-20,000 years ago, during the late Pleistocene, along with many other unique and strange looking mammals.
While Macrauchenia was the basis for steeds in the world of The Fallen Odyssey, the steed does not adhere to the scientifically-accurate Macrauchenia, nor is it meant to. For one thing, Macrauchenia was larger than a horse– almost ten feet long, and about a thousand pounds heavier. And for another matter, steeds have long, opposable trunks, more like an elephant.
I’ve found the development of new and interesting animals to be one of my favorite parts of world-building. It’s fun to imagine what human culture would be like, had one little thing happened differently– like the horse. It’s not that farfetched to imagine– if the horse never existed– cowboys riding across the American west on the backs of camels.
Stay creative, friends! Write long, and prosper. – CB
A journal. A podcast. A blog. A revolt.
The Artificial Selection Project is open to fiction, non-fiction and art by anyone with a grudge and a set of writing to back it up. The work must be previously unpublished and the sole property of the writer/artist submitting.We are looking for fearless engaging work and are open to a variety of formal and narrative modes. Challenge us, surprise us, confound us, terrify us, but whatever you do, bring us with you. Also when submitting, please include your name and complete contact information.SUBMIT ORIGINAL WORK TO:THEARTIFICIALSELECTION@GMAIL.COM- The Guidelines -Fiction: 7,500 words max. Preferably between 10-15 pps, as space is limited. And we are open to flash fiction as well.Art work: A jpeg of your original work of at least 300 DPIWork submitted simultaneously to other publications is not a problem. Just let us know if some other folks accept it. We also do not accept previously published work.Upon acceptance, The Artificial Selection Project reserves the right to edit your work as we see fit, though we will seek your approval beforehand.The deadline to submit is August 1, 2013!- – –
The Artificial Selection Project is California’s breakout new literary publication featuring the work of authors and artists that the literary world has deemed unfit for publication. The Artificial Selection Project was born from a creative writing masters program in which students found themselves being berated for pushing envelopes and challenging literary traditions. This stifling of creativity in a program that was designed with creativity specifically in mind was a travesty, so the students decided to do something about it.
All too often, writers are told that their work is “too extreme” or “too experimental” and that they should tone down their writing. Perhaps focus on traditional frames of thought or some more well-defined story archetypes. The Artificial Selection Project has a better idea. We say write the madness in your head. Explore the darkest corners of humanity. Scream and cry dissent in ink on any surface you can get your hands on. And bring us along for the goddamn ride.
I started writing fiction in my mid twenties. It happened by accident really. I broke my finger making it impossible to draw. Writing proved to be a good substitute. Before … Continue reading
We here at The Artificial Selection Project recently caught up with Cory Doctorow and Charlie Stross to discuss, among various other things, their recent conglomeration, The Rapture of the Nerds, and the … Continue reading
Check out our list of what we think are pretty nifty literary mags that are currently open for submissions. If you have a literary journal that you’d like featured here, … Continue reading
At this point, it would be a waste of time to sit and list all of the reasons why Kanye West’s Yeezus is such an epic release. Its groundbreaking street … Continue reading
Academically, the only way to become a better creative writer is getting a Bachelor’s in English and a Master’s from an MFA Program in fiction or poetry. Assuming that more … Continue reading
Karen Russell’s debut novel Swamplandia! does a few things right and, unfortunately, many things wrong. Taking place in the lush swamps of Florida, Russell paints an incredibly tangible landscape, with … Continue reading
…pursuit of a truth
written by (frankie leone, just a man)
residing in williamsburg
brooklyn, new york 11211
referred to as a “missed connections writer”
these words are for (and by)
egotistical, romantic, loyal, deviant
ugly, obsessed, accepting, adventuring, afraid
awe-struck, longing, kind, disillusioned, precocious
desperate, beautiful, selfish, creative, (self) worthless
narcissistic, scarred, soul-sick, real, wandering
plastic, judgmental, envious, fascinated
soulful, affectionate, hope(ful/less)
on this block:
i want it shattered
but can’t afford another seven years
so i’ve lain down the hammer
to strike these keys
and write into my funhouse mirror.
(photo by chiara tiraboschi)
“sometimes we have the absolute certainty there’s something inside us that’s so hideous and monstrous that if we ever search it out we won’t be able to stand looking at it. but it’s when we’re willing to come face to face with that demon that we face the angel.”
— hubert selby junior, last exit to brooklyn
One of the most interesting writers in the world today has to be Ellen Mae Franklin. She has a list of positive reviews that would make most independent writers roll over with jealousy. Her sales are solid. Her fanbase is strong.
Yet, she has been overlooked by many of the fantasy readers roaming this world for great reads…
Why? Why hasn’t she been discovered?
Hello, and welcome to my blog.
I’m a final-year physics student with plans to go on into further education. I have three main hobbies: video gaming, music and writing. Over the last few years the final one has rapidly grown to eclipse the other two, and I would absolutely love to be able to continue writing when away from whichever day job I end up going into. A couple of months ago, I finished planning a novel. This will be the fifth novel I’ve attempted and I honestly believe that this one has the potential to be good; the problem is that I don’t think I yet have the skill to do it justice. And that is where this blog comes in.
Although I will post variety of different things on this blog, its primary purpose is to display the various stories I write during my quest to become better at writing. In making and maintaining this blog, I hope to make myself a more capable writer before starting any attempts at writing my novel. My tentative start-date for the novel is July the 1st; that means I’ve got plenty of writing to do in the meantime if I’m to be ready. Obviously, I will be incredibly grateful to anyone who provides me with feedback on any of the work I produce.
As to why I’ve called myself “The Parasite Guy”…well, read a few lines of any of my Farhome House stuff and you should get an idea pretty quickly. Several of the characters and concepts in this setting have been salvaged from the first novel I ever wrote and so it will always be a bit special to me, whatever its deficiencies may be.
If you have any questions or comments, feel free to post ‘em below or email me at firstname.lastname@example.org
So yeah, I’ve been a bit naughty today. Between university work and some seriously epic bouts of procrastination, I just haven’t left myself with enough time to put a proper post together this evening.
So, here is a really awesome piece of videogame music that I came across this morning. Enjoy!
Also, this post is the first one besides the original that I feel to be a decent starting point. Yay!
Ben edged open the door to his and Katherine’s room, not wanting to disturb her if she was asleep. He saw that the light was still on, then hurried inside.
Kat was cross-legged on the double bed, her long black hair hanging limply around her, her laptop open on the bed in front of her. She stared at the screen intently, its light reflecting off of her green eyes. She had the volume on low, but Ben could clearly hear a voice. It only took him a few seconds to recognise it.
‘Corporate news?’ he said. ‘Really?’
‘Like there’s anything else,’ Katheirne said. ‘Come. Listen.’ She was frowning.
Ben shut she door behind him and then climbed up onto bed. He kneeled on the soft fabric and peered at the broadcast over her shoulder. He was unsurprised to be met with the face of Jane Cartwright, the mascot of Solpirium News in all but name. With her serene blue eyes, bright white teeth and wrinkle-free face, she really was the perfect mouthpiece. She was currently behind her desk, hands clasped in front of her and eyes set imploringly towards the camera. Her short blonde hair seemed to shimmer as she spoke.
‘The boy is now recovering in hospital and police are still searching for his family,’ Cartwright said. Anyone with information on their whereabouts should call…’
Ben saw the headline: VEIRAN INFESTATION IN UNITY CITY. His heart sank.
‘Here?’ he said. ‘Shit.’
Jane Cartwright continued: ‘Remember, if you suspect an infestation then it is vital that you inform the police immediately. And always, always remember the five signs…’
Ben shook his head: the media only ever focussed on the negatives, never the positives. He only half-listened as Cartwright rattled off the usual list of symptoms. It was hardly exhaustive but was short and quick, easy to remember. Ben could think of at least a dozen other signs that were far less ambiguous: being a veiran host himself had given him ample chance to learn such things.
Katherine closed the laptop’s lid. There was nothing more to be seen.
‘What happened?’ Ben said.
‘A hedonist, I think’ Katherine said. ‘It got caught after its host was hit by a car. That kid turned out to be nearly comatose; he couldn’t even consent to removal. They must have had him for years.’
Ben swore again. ‘And his family?’
‘Gone; they must have been infested too’
They both sat in silence for a time. The fallout from this would be immense, and both of them knew it. Eventually, Katherine spoke out:
‘There’ll be checkpoints out in force,’ Katherine said. ‘I’m worried about Damien and Tervek.’ She looked behind her. ‘And you two, for that matter.’
For less than a second, Ben felt his body relax. In that blissful instant, his worries evaporated, replaced by a smothering sense of calm. And then, just as quickly, he was back in the real world.
‘Genvor…’ he said.
He quickly crossed his right index finger over his thumb, a signal for which the meaning had long been established: do it. The comfort and security of his veiran’s presence returned and, this time, it didn’t leave. He fought this induced calmness just enough to retain a bearing on his surroundings, a skill which had been honed through long practice. It always helped to be aware of what was going on.
‘Damien will not reject his parasite,’ Genvor said. ‘Not after today.’
More at The Parasite Guy
“J.W… You can’t give away another book….”“I sure can,” J.W. replied.He did, and it’s a stomper!For the next few days “Running a Marathon with the Runs” by J.W. Northrup is TOTALLY FREE!!!
I am a – not so young – writer of poetry and prose.
I have four children: two wonderful girls, a fantastic lad and Leeds United.
I have no strict genre. I write children’s poetry and stories, to edgy, stronger themes. Up to now I have stored them for my own and my family’s viewing, under the bed where the demon watches over them with dark, sinister eyes and talons sharper than an art teacher’s tongues.
Last year i thought bugger it and starred in several short films.
One, Playground, which is on the BBC Film Network, used the monologue that I wrote for the audition.
You should’ve seen the face of the receptionist, of the Manchester hotel, where the audition was being held, as I turned up dressed as the psychopath, Gordon.
It got the desired effect!
I then moved up to Cumbria and wrote and appeared in several live performances on stage.
2012. A local artist, Kayleigh Richardson, commissioned me to write a poem for her to paint a representation. I sent her, The Rise of the Robot Monkey Army.
Kayleigh painted a fantastic piece that blew my mind! From that we are collaborating on the Jacob Bear series of stories.
Three are published on Kindle, with another out soon.
I have published three “older people” stories: Two’s Company, the treacle Rush, Can Paradise Wait?
A family fantasy/humour: The Rise of the Sponge Cake Moon.
And a collection of nonsense poems and stories called: Space Here!
Two’s Company went to number seven in the charts
Not a bad start to the, so called, last year of the Earth. Now is the time to show the rest of you. I take my themes wherever i see them, whether in reality or dream-world. I hope you enjoy. If not tell me why. If so tell me why. Many thanks and be safe.
© C.p.Singleton, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited
Wishing on a passing star
Not for money or a car
If not them, what could it be?
Holidays near a foreign sea?
Not holidays or shiny things or
All the trouble that fortune brings.
Just a quiet place in which to write.
A roof above to sleep safe at night.
I am a Wrestler of the Muse.
My stories and characters are dark but never silenced.
I see ghosts and tell their tales. I look into the face of darkness where angels fear to tread.
I am a dark fiction writer with the heart of a poet and the soul of a gypsy while the ancient rhythms of Africa, the birthplace of storytellers, courses through my veins. Wanting to be either a pathologist or a criminal psychologist, life took me on a few twists and turns while studying journalism and after a couple of meandering offshoots that did not involve fiction, fiction finally chose me when I was asked to write a short story for a NZ anthology (which was a National Award Winner).
I now live on the beautiful East Coast of New Zealand’s North Island and I am lucky enough to call the Pacific Ocean my backyard. I can often be found wandering the cliff tops above the crashing ocean and walking through the lush farmlands that surround the area. But with a heart caught between two lands, the sunburned, ancient Africa and the lush, green islands of New Zealand, I find my true home within the white pages covered in ink. My fiction is caught between the dark and mysterious, the truth and the what ifs, secrets and reality, shadows and light.
I really do see ghosts and my loved ones believe ghosts and extreme weather phenomenon follow me around. I grew up spending holidays and weekends at my grandparents’ large old farm homestead which had a hidden wing that was haunted. These early experiences with haunted homes ignited my imagination and started a spark that made me question what else is out there that we couldn’t see, what is around us observing us? Why could I see these ghosts/spirits and many others couldn’t? The spark was lit and the stories started coming as fast as I could write them down and they still keep coming.
One of these real life experiences sparked The Redgates Secrets, my debut 6 part novella series.
via About | Kim Koning.
I am a Percolating Writer-in-progress, poet, coffee addict, sun-lover & adventurer.
percolating is a form of:
percolated, past participle; percolated, past tense; percolates, 3rd person singular present; percolating, present participle
- (of information or an idea or feeling) Spread gradually through an area or group of people
- – this issue has percolated into the public consciousness
- (of coffee) Be prepared in a percolator
- – he put some coffee on to percolate
- Prepare (coffee) in a percolator
- – freshly percolated coffee
- Be or become full of lively activity or excitement
- – the night was percolating with an expectant energy
My Survival Fuels are:
(Mead-schmead…this is the true nectar of the gods…mmmh fresh coffee…)
(Who does not love miniature bite-size cakes? I can have more than just my “cake-singular” I can have cakes and not feel too guilty.)
(Make this rich, dark and bitter-sweet…and by the slab-ful.)
(It must be red…Don’t you know that Red makes writers write much faster?!)
For your safety and for this writer’s sanity, make sure all of these are always within my reach…
© Kim Koning.
via About | Rick Mallery.
The list had haunted me.
Upon finishing university, I made a list of writing goals. Fifty poems, twenty short stories, one stage play, one full-length screenplay, and one novel (minimum 100,000 words). The idea was that after writing in a variety of formats I would know which I was best suited for and where I should put my writing efforts.
On my forty-second birthday, I checked my list and found eighty poems, forty short stories, three stage plays, and three full-length screenplays. And I still did not know what kind of writer I wanted to be when I grew up. Missing was the novel.
I had done plenty of writing, so my day job and family life were no excuses for not writing the novel. I simply hadn’t figured out how to do it.
The following day I visited Powell’s, my favorite bookstore. My daughter had gone to live with her mother for a few months, and in her absence I often went to the bookstore–as much to hang out in a comfortable place as to browse or buy books.
Ruminating in an overstuffed chair among the stacks, I decided it was a good place to write a short story. I bought a notebook and pen at a nearby grocery store and returned to the comfy seat.
Something strange happened. All the advice about writing fiction disappeared. No narrative arc. No plot points. No character development. Just start with a character who has a problem, and then make everything worse until it finally gets better.
“The man woke up.” I had started.
“The man woke up and opened his eyes. He closed them again and rubbed them.” I had to keep him busy while I figured out what was wrong in his world.
“The woman was not beside him.” And there was his problem. Where was the woman? An hour later I had written four pages. It was a good first session. Two sessions later the short story had turned into a first chapter. Twenty-five chapters later, that small seed had germinated, sprouted, and grown into the accomplishment of my life: the novel, BECOMES THE HAPPY MAN.
The list was complete. Those ghosts silent. But more importantly, the voices of many more ghosts began haunting my imagination. The list had fulfilled its purpose of revealing my writing specialty. Three more novels have followed in the past year and a half, and now I can’t imagine ever not having one in progress.
The man woke up. He did indeed.
Read the first chapter of BECOMES THE HAPPY MAN here: Chapter 1
As I study aspects of story, I find it helpful to try to write complete short stories as short as possible. They should have a beginning, middle, and end, showing some change in a character due to an apparent or implied conflict.
Rain on River Kwai.
Love nest on a bamboo raft.
You still want that bridge?
|April 12, 2013|
|Bridge Over Teenage Troubles
When a mother demanded of her son why he had been smoking pot under the bridge with the other kids, he told her it was no big deal because all the kids do it.
“And if all the kids jumped off that bridge, would you do it too?” the mother asked.
“Oh, Mom,” the son replied, “Why do you say that stupid phrase every time I’m in trouble. It doesn’t even make sense.”
The mother thought for a moment and then said, “Because all the parents do it.”
|April 11, 2013|
The Bookie and the Bookie
(The Pimpkins #6)
Mitsy asked Tinker what made him want to own a bookstore.
Tinker told Mitsy when he was a boy his father was always on the phone with his bookie, and that had inadvertently set his ambition toward books.
Mitsy said she bet his mother was happy for the error.
Tinker said he didn’t think it mattered to her either way–considering she was his dad’s bookie.
|April 10, 2|
J.W. Northrup has finally released his new E-book series! The stories all center around his life and things that have happened to him on his travels around the world. All of these stories are now available on Amazon for just 99 cents!
A note from J.W:
I hope you all enjoy my brand new books released with you in mind. I hope my association with Mr and Mrs public lasts long into the future. This is my attempt to do something about the recession currently crippling our world. These six stories are some of my very best and I hope you enjoy them.
My best to you all!
“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do.” – Mark Twain
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If poetry be the food for love, pen on.
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