Nick Wale Interviews Foal…
Foal, having strong feelings about keeping the focus on the messages rather than the messenger, would rather keep his privacy. Nevertheless, he will be happy to interact via email with any person interested. You can reach Foal here. Foal and the Angels is about a journey to understand the great wisdom hidden behind life. Through a series of dreams and insightful messages that provide Foal with some pretty intensive lessons, the mystery of life unravels and he shares these spiritual discoveries with other seekers.
Thank you for joining us. Please tell us about your book.
Well, throughout a number of years I had all these incredible dreams, and in these dreams I knew I was being given insights and intensive lessons on the meaning of life. So, “FOAL and the Angels” is a story told by a boy (Foal) through the unfolding of his dreams and the impact they have on his life. Through his dreams, and with a little help from the Angels, he starts to understand the mysteries of Life and receives answers to his ten thousand questions.
It is really a very tiny book I wrote out of a desire to share such an incredible experience and all the teachings that came along with it. It is a short story anybody can read, from old to young, from well-educated to not so well-educated, and what`s more, coming from any religion or belief.
How long have you been writing? How long did it take to write FOAL and the Angels? And what motivated you to write it?
I started in 2010, and it took me a year and a half to put it all together. What motivated it ? You see, when you have those kinds of powerful dreams, they become more real to you than `real` life itself. I knew I had to write it down, it was impossible not to.
Is it a stand-alone novel or part of a series? If it’s part of a series, how did you decide to make it a series? How long will the series run?
The plan is to make a four-book series, because the dreams just kept coming and there were so many more stunningly beautiful dreams than I could ever put into Foal`s story. At times I would have five or six dreams per night; it was exhausting, but always exhilarating. I remember a few times I wished I could sleep twenty-four hours a day just to be able to dream! And they were too many to put them all in one tiny book.
Who are your main characters in the story and how would you describe them?
Well, the main character is FOAL, God Supreme, and many Angels. As for their descriptions…Sorry ! You`ve got to read the book !
Is there any symbolism in your book that you’d care to share with potential readers?
For More Click Here via Nick Wale Interviews Foal… | Novel Ideas.
Want to buy this book? Click on the cover.
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.
The dating game was vicious. Instead of roses these were venus fly traps |Catching up with friends: lionaroundwriting
‘Have you seen her?’
‘White dress?’ That’s all I needed to say.
A vigorous nod accompanied by a sleazy grin. Hell. Had we seen her?! We’d all stared at her over the rims of empty whisky glasses until the ice, cold burnt our top lips, thinking nobody would notice our inauspicious glances that were more akin to laser targeting systems. Every other woman’s self esteem plummeted like the shares on stock after insider trading. The less looked at danced and dallied to the bathroom three times more than usual. Preening, primping, puckering, pissing and bitching. All trying to see who would emerge as number two.
The dating game was vicious. Instead of roses these were venus fly traps. Conveniently this planetary word rhymed with something else. They were all out for the kill. Lionesses in dresses while the lions lazed around drinking and socialising, eyeing them from afar, with suspicion and intent on dimpled leather chairs.
Soon they would have to emerge from the sidelines, ego’s swishing, suits pinching. After all, this was date night.
‘Which one are you going for?’ Ted turned to me showing tigerish teeth.
I stared into the void, a half empty (or full) dance floor. The extroverts had staked their claim along with the drunks ahead of time.
Secretly I was furious with myself for even being talked into this. Somehow Ted had wangled a couple entry tickets off a political friend – I didn’t ask any more questions. Yes, I’d been out the loop. Yes, my wife had died a decade ago. Did I need to man up? According to Ted, that’s exactly it. ‘You need to get out there’ he said like some clichéd douchetwat from a yank film. Truth is I did. Forty odd and living alone, it gets to you eventually.
‘The dating game, it’s all changed pally…’. Ted wasn’t wrong.
After the lengthy pause he chimed in again. ‘You’re eyeing her aren’t you? The queen bee?’
I couldn’t deny it. She was like some ridiculous hallucinogenic vision. I was a decent looking guy, a gentleman mostly. Why the fuck not?? screamed the barely legal whisky. A sideways grin showed itself as I rattled the ice around nervously.
‘Let’s do it! Dance time pally.’ And with that Ted opened his shiny black leather wallet and produced a slip of paper and a clip.
‘What’s that for?’ I said while generic bass tried to drown my words out.
‘This? So they know how much money you have!’
‘I don’t get it..’ I squinted in the dimmed lighting confused at both the empty glass in my hand and Ted’s latest edition to his suit jacket pinned on below the cravat.
‘You better tell me you got a statement to put on?’ I shook my head. ‘Gimme’ a pen you’re not getting out of this shit..’
He grabbed a parker out my hand and snatched a napkin from beneath someone’s orphaned tipple, then scribbled quickly leaning on a railing before handing it to me triumphantly.
- I’m Not Saying She’s a Soul Digger (lionaroundwriting.wordpress.com)
keith garrett poetry
I write poetry and stories, If you would like to respond or just
Speak about things then e-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org
She stands there dressed in a gown of white satin,
On her feet, soft shoes that sparkle in the light, tonight.
Her hair made up like a princess at a ball, she’s beautiful,
Awaiting her handsome escort as he moves out on the floor.
Dressed up in a tailored made suit of black, he stares into her eyes,
Taking her hand as the music echoes into this magical night.
Around and around they bounce and sway, waltz a lovers waltz,
These two become one as their body’s dance a lovers dance.
Romance is in the air for two hearts searching loves mystery,
A waltz for lovers, a night like no other, a love between two.
Dressed up in black, not to loud, driving down the road,
Music in my head, the boss sings out a tune, i’m driving.
Sunglasses to match this beautiful machine of black,
Eyes wandering, scenery passing by as i ride, dreaming.
In a black car driving, I’m moving down the road to you,
In a black car driving, eyes fixed on the horizon, driving.
With the window down i can feel the wind, listen to the sound,
My dreaming mind takes me to you, the way to you is complicated.
Down the road as you are not so far away, just a touch away,
A smile shows through on your face, everyday this way.
Hi, I’m an up and coming author. I have a soon to be published novel and wish only for everyone to enjoy it. As a bonus I will be posted short stories among my blog posts for your personal enjoyment. I graduated high school in 2010 with honors and Ontario Scholar and have been trying to figure my life out ever since. Once I started my fantasy series I was addicted and couldn’t stop. I can’t wait to hear feedback from everyone who reads my work, it is a pleasure to share my imagination with others.
Alright, problems arise with the Transparent Death of Sinoy and it will be postponed for now. I will enlighten you with further notice regarding it later. As for now, I have a new short story that is my personal favorite. Please enjoy it as much as I did!
The Butterfly Casket
By Terrin Jarrell
Barry tugged at the sheer silk cloth, exposing the body under the harsh overhead lamplight. The lips were tugged closed; a piece of heavy twine looped through the dead, cracked lips with the uneven lack of expertise of a college student too bored to bother in the concept of perfection. Only a thin layer of lip balm covered the cracks rippling through the once sultry lips of the late Mrs. Palmina Holmes. A thick purple shadow flowed across her grey eyelids to cover the already bloating of her face, and a bright pink blush was added to the high cheekbones giving a strange sense that the woman was still alive and merely sleeping. Barry took the tip of his pen and held one eyelid open. A lifeless, blank milky eye stared back at him and he noted she once had beautiful brown irises that had been bold with ambition and success, with a hint of adultery hovering beneath everything. But that was something best left alone when talking to her husband. Barry didn’t need to drag Palmina’s problems back to life. Those things made his job harder. Much harder. He dropped the eyelid and it slowly closed shut.
“Is…is she really dead? Detective Marsh?” asked Mr. Holmes. Barry could hear the man ringing his hat with his hands, the squeaky squelching echoed throughout the room. He could feel the strains of a new headache coming on. Another day, another dead body.
“Very. In fact, judging by her corpse she’s been dead quite a while. Do you own a freezer? A walk-in one perhaps?” Mr. Holmes looked stunned, the wringing of his hands stopping.
“F-freezer, Detective Marsh?” Barry looked up from his notepad, eyebrows held high as he awaited an answer. But Mr. Holmes just stared at him.
“Mr. Holmes, do you or do you not own a walk in freezer?”
“Yes,” he said wringing his hands again.
“Good. Then can we all argue that you harboured Mrs. Holmes body in the freezer until you had time to eat her?”
“Marsh, what the hell are you doing?” questioned Philsby standing by the door. Barry smiled and snapped his book closed.
“Nothing. I am truly sorry for your loss Mr. Holmes. We shall do everything in our power vested to find and catch this killer plaguing the streets of our sweet beloved town of Boleyn. As for you, I would advise in refraining from leaving as the killer might want to finish up what he or she started. But probably a he,” Barry said. He left the confines of the little morgue freezer and quickly stepped out into the evening air. It was brisk, chilly, something that Barry was never used to.
“Barry, what the blue hell was that? The man lost his wife to a killer for Christ sakes and you’re badgering him about being a suspect. Dammit, forensics been through and through on this,” yelled Philsby angrily.
“Yes, through and through. You tell me each day. But do you not find it odd in a home that a man lived in, not a single strand of his own DNA could be found?”
Philsby looked nearly shocked, his face turning purple as he struggled with what emotion to carry out next.
“Barry, please. Please, please, please tell me they only transferred you here for less than a year? You’re giving me a headache and it’s only been three months.”
“Mmm, yes. Boleyn is a strange little town,” Barry said not truly paying attention to Philsby.
“Just stay away from Mr. Holmes for now. An escort will be at his house should he need it but I think you need to get home and rest. You look tired.”
“Six people have been murdered by the being deemed as the Boleyn Demon whose preferable hour of carnage is precisely midnight. When he sleeps, then shall I sleep too. But it is coming up to fifteen past eleven and I say my work is only starting,” Barry said checking his wristwatch.
The Merchant Devil
By Terrin Jarrell
Valerie Dalton knew she was going to die. It was an inevitable fact that she could not escape. But that did not stop her from lying to herself that it was going to be alright. She thought she had led a good life, but in her final days, it was becoming more apparent that wasn’t entirely true. At the underwhelming grand age of twenty-four she’d accomplished absolutely nothing in life and the only thing she understood was being a terrible daughter and a worse girlfriend. Thinking of Jack sent a wave of nausea and upset ripping through her stomach. Watching a stream of blood flow out of her nose, she picked up a filthy blue rag off the dirty motel room floor and dabbed dully. She was dying of course, and it was all due to that man. That dreadful man with the too-wide smile that seemed to know everything yet revealed nothing. Wearing a black suit and white tie, he managed a rather old time respectable and almost handsome look if not for that smile, that seemed to be plastered to his face like drywall.
“Excuse me ma’am, I believe you dropped this,” he had said to her with a smile.
So charming at the time but she had felt a stir of unease and an almost urge to flee the scene, flee his smile. Instead she returned a flashy array of white teeth with what she’d hoped was her most pleasant waitress smile and said,
“#Bad choices, bad decisions I have to live with the #consequences of their actions” – #Welcome to a new friend: Liam Kingman
[Terry: I have to say, I’m a little afraid of our Mr. Kingman here. A) he’s far too organized, I barely wake at the crack of noon, and b) when he releases his stockpile of poems and stories, he’s going to break the market–like when deBeers sells too many diamonds.
Only Kidding. Welcome Liam)
Homepage of Poet Liam Kingman
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.
Check out Terry Irving’s New Paranormal Thriller,
Sketches Of Class: Nick Wale Interviews Terrence Roth
I managed to steal some time with author Terrence Roth. Terry is a serious writer of hard-line fiction. I have never met a writer so dedicated to the art of creation. Terrence tends to write with classical music in the background, a quiet office, and the result of his effort is always pure beauty. The latest Terrence Roth masterpiece is entitled “Sophie Knox.” I don’t need to tell you to go and buy it. I just ask you to stick around and read this interview. Writing is never about money, it’s about the art, and Terrence is an artist.
Q) How do you feel about writing? Is it art or a pastime for you?
A) I thoroughly enjoy the writing process, discovering an idea for a new book or short-story, racing to write down my thoughts, researching potential locations, and crafting characters. During the editing process, I spend considerable time challenging the entire premise of my story, reshaping key scene sequences if necessary, ensuring that each scene combines to elicit the response I had hoped for. For me writing is an art, a fiery passion that burns deep. I never get stressed when I reach a point in the story that challenges my descriptive ability – I just take a break from writing, perhaps a drive somewhere. Ultimately the issue resolves itself after I stop focusing on it for a while.
Q) How do ideas come to you? Do you have eureka moments where you just have to sit down and write a scene?
A) Story ideas pop into my head all of the time. There has never been a scenario where if I do something routinely the ideas flow; they’re always random and I never know exactly when inspiration takes hold. I do have several eureka moments a week. If I am working on a story, I stop and write the ideas down in an MS Word log that I have maintained for some time. If the idea comes to me while away from home, if I can write it down in a journal I keep with me, I do so. If I don’t have an opportunity to write the story idea down immediately, I craft mental scenes of the story and create a single word trigger that I recall once I’m back at home.
Q) What kinds of books do you enjoy reading?
- How To Sell Books: An Interview With PR Nick Wale | Novel Ideas (getmerewrite.me)
Artist, Poet, Fiction Writer
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
- My E-Books… (annjohnsonmurphreeauthor.wordpress.com)
- E-Book Dedicated to Charlotte J Murphree… (annjohnsonmurphreeauthor.wordpress.com)
- Thank you to all of my fellow bloggers and followers… (annjohnsonmurphreeauthor.wordpress.com)
- Virago anniversary: female writers pick favourite books (telegraph.co.uk)
“I am a real life Mental Patient. Now I shall show you a world within the one you live in.” – Alex Kennedy (Below)
(YOU STEAL OUR MATERIAL, OUR LAWYERS WILL HUNT YOU DOWN! …May I just point out some of my earlier stories, from years prior, are from when I was mentally-ill and on meds, so there maybe some spelling mistakes and weird twists. No I will not change them! They remind me of a time when I was less than myself now. But as I have grown, so has my work and spell-checking. Thank you.)
Alex has never always been a creative writer, he doesn’t even like that title, he is plainly a writer of many’a things. As a young “Mental Healthed” teen he quickly developed a love for rhyming words (Aspirations of becoming a white rapper/ poet.) But he didn’t know it was the love for the shock of words he loved.
But after a few years on the poet scene he found out the words he used were no longer filling that void within him. He needed a challenge while he was attending a mental health hospital for delusions, unable to tell the difference between reality and dreams, walking around and having terrors form right before his eyes, all the while trying to keep his “Normal life” held together. He found a way out in Short stories and Screenplays. Generating himself as a novice pen-man. But as he marched his way through the writing scene the words he was using did not have the same effect on him, so thus a novel was needed for his void. Taking all of the distorted images of people and events within his life, he creates some of the weirdest and dark toned stories.
To keep his void filled he must still tackle all of his writing on a weekly basis to make sure his pen doesn’t get lazy.
“I have been to hell when I was boy, when I arose from the fires I became a man; now, living out my life as an act to fit in to a place I can never truly be part of, so I write worlds I remember to entertain you from the darkness that raised me.” – “Psycho-Speak” Alex Kennedy.
If you would like to send us a private message, YOU CAN! We will receive your message and relay it back to Alex. The link is below. (NOTE: If you could leave us a short comment upon this page stating you have sent us a message, it would be appreciated, as we are not always on the email. Thank you.)
And P.S. EVERYTHING IS COPYWRITTEN!! If you steal, you will pay. Have a nice day.
Here’s my bedroom walls!!
This is my second post for tonight. This story tells of true love in the face of death and how someone in true love must overcome all. I hope you enjoy. Please like, comment and feel free to Prv/Message anytime.
Suicidal Fall in Love
I have finally fell in love and it is about to destroy me on this skyscrapers rooftop. “Please, get back from the edge!” I shout at her unlistening ears. She has her arms open wide, ready to be caught by deaths grip and be auctioned off to the night at half price for her half life. She is standing in her spotlight from the night’s sky with the idea of stepping down from her stage to end her final act. The moon is laughing at our light.
“Just look at me; just look at me… please.” The tears freefall from my face. The wind pushes against her, whispering warnings of what is to come as it makes her hair whip and dance. Gravity is the middle man within our triangle but bargaining with his power on his edge, results in death. She must remember me as she is still wearing the white dress I had bought her, if she only she took my arm and we take off to pursue life together again, hand in hand before death do us part. Her heart is cheating beats which is slowly killing her, this is the reasoning behind us being here.
“What will I do if you do this?” I ask her.
“You will go on without me.” She replies calmly.
This is the story of a young mans last thoughts within war. The overall story was for a friend of mine who is in the war and gave me the idea for this text. Enjoy! Like, Comment and Prv/Message me.
The Fight of a Warrior
I’m sitting in this trench; my feet are slowly sinking into the mud and blood puddles. The rain is coming in from the west of the alien country shown in the opposed soldier’s eyes and uniforms, Germany. I press my rifle barrel against my forehead, just last week ago Scotch took the barrel to his mouth; I squeeze my eyes closed because I was the one that found him. I can hear the bullet shivering in the gun, either it’s the bullet trembling or it is me, either way I will not condemn this bullet if it was too scared to exit its purpose hole as I would not like to be condemned if I never wanted to jump over Ends Edge into Deaths Playground.
Are we here to win this war or are we just Cannon-fodder? I am not even going to put to rest my curiosity to see if that was catapult fire or thunder, I will sit here and pretend nothing exploded, I will simply scope through our grave for the time being where time is our biggest killer and hopes for us going home, keep us alive. All I see is fear but I don’t want anyone to know I am fear ridden so I pull out my tobacco tin and rolling papers, as I roll my cigarette and lick the paper, I catch a glimpse of four men huddling around a going out fire, they are laughing, probably about an obscene joke but at every breath the group take, they have an undertone of an unsettling truth, destiny and inevitability. Every man looks at their weapons or hands or at Ends Edge, knowing out time for our movement into Deaths Playground will be soon. A whisper leaping from one man to the next, from ear to mouth reaches me saying “Five minutes.”
[Terry: Just shows that there is a very fine line between creative and crazy. I should know.]
Welcome! You will have a journey, when you read through these posts.
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.
A site devoted to the Young Adult sci-fi/fantasy novel The Eye-Dancers
Hello! The Eye-Dancers is a Young Adult sci-fi/fantasy novel, now available as an e-book. As the author, I have decided to create this little space on the Web. It is my hope that this platform will be a meeting place for people to talk about, critique, and learn more about the book. And also a place where other topics are discussed as well, from comic books to the Twilight Zone, from creative writing to quantum physics, from personal memories to short stories and many things in between! Hopefully there is something here to interest everyone . . .
The story of The Eye-Dancers takes place in western New York State, where I was born and spent the first twenty-five years of my life. Many of the characters, events, locations, and themes in the story are inspired from my years growing up in my old neighborhood in the suburbs of Rochester. This was, in short, a labor of love, and I hope that comes across in the pages. Nowadays, I live in the hills of central Vermont with my wife, Sarah, and our regal cat, Luke. But the magic of childhood, of the adventures I shared with my friends growing up, has remained with me well into adulthood. The Eye-Dancers is for anyone who likes to imagine, who wonders, “What’s really out there?” “What is across the void? Another reality? Another world?” It seems to me that when we’re young, our minds are more free and more open to discover the nature of things. The Eye-Dancers asks some probing questions about what we term “reality,” and the four main characters in the novel (Mitchell Brant, Joe Marma, Ryan Swinton, and Marc Kuslanski)must travel on an extraordinary journey to search for the answers.
Thanks so much for reading!
Michael S. Fedison (“Mike”) — author of The Eye-Dancers
What motivates us to create something? If you’re a painter, why do you paint? If you’re a chef, why do you experiment with new recipes? And if you’re a writer, why do you write?
There are many answers to these questions, of course. Perhaps you want to paint a beautiful scene, something that inspires you. Maybe you want to mix in various ingredients that, at first blush, do not seem to mesh but you strive to complement the yin with the yang. And maybe you want to write a personal essay, a brutally honest and difficult piece dealing with an old wound.
But what if you are seeking recognition from others? You want your painting to be showcased in a gallery. You want your recipe to be featured in a magazine. You want your novel to be the next big thing. What then? Before you begin, do you step back, analyze the market, pick and sift through possibilities, trends, genres? Perhaps. It depends.
Since I am a writer, and not a painter or a chef, I can speak from experience only about writing. And let’s take a look at that word–genre.
When I published The Eye-Dancers, the various retail sites where it’s available all required basic information regarding the book. Obviously, these details include author name, sale price, blurb, and things of that nature. But they also required a genre, a label, if you will, with which to tag the work.
Let me step back. At the point of conception, when The Eye-Dancers was only an idea, a potentiality, with no guarantee that it would ever be completed, did I think of and consider the book’s genre? Yes and no. I did not select a genre ahead of time and say, “I want to write a book for that market.” I had a story–the story came first. But I knew the book would center around four adolescent boys, about to embark on a dimension-shattering adventure. And I knew the plot would take readers on a wild ride, complete with ghost girls, swirling, hypnotic eyes, dreams that are much more than “just” dreams, and alternate worlds and endless blue voids. Given all that, the novel was clearly Young Adult Science Fiction/Fantasy.
Or is it? Since the protagonists in question are twelve years old, some would further classify the book as middle grade.
When I summarized the plot to a friend, he said, “Yeah, but remember, most young adult readers like to read up, not down. Why don’t you make the characters seventeen instead of twelve? And girls read more than boys. Maybe you should make one of your main characters a girl.” I just shrugged my shoulders. If this were a purely marketing project, perhaps he had a point. The problem is–ideas don’t work like that. Creativity doesn’t work like that. I have tried to alter ideas before for reasons other than the story. It never works. The Eye-Dancers is a story about Mitchell Brant and Joe Marma and Ryan Swinton and Marc Kuslanski–all boys. And all preteens. That’s how the story came to me. That’s what I had to write, and to share.
Apart from the issue of the characters’ age and gender, there is also the sci-fi/fantasy element. But there again, is it science fiction and fantasy? Of course it is. The premise is based on parallel worlds and quantum physics and the ability to communicate across the void. And yet–to me, at least, to classify The Eye-Dancers as strictly sci-fi/fantasy doesn’t tell the whole truth. For instance, there are many mainstream aspects to the story. One of the driving forces that urged me to write The Eye-Dancers was a desire to get inside the four main characters’ heads–to present them as three-dimensional, flawed individuals who are thrust into a dangerous and life-altering predicament, one that will force them to confront their own insecurities, biases, and points of view.
When I first told my mother about the book, she said, “Oh, really? But I don’t like science fiction!” I said, “Mom, don’t worry about the label. It’s not a story about space ships and little green men [not that there’s anything wrong with such stories! I happen to like them!]. It’s a story about adolescence, growing up, learning new things. Hopefully it challenges people to view reality in a more layered way. A lot of it actually feels mainstream. Really.”
This is true of so many novels. Today, more than ever, we like to put a sticker on the fiction we read. Steampunk. Dystopian. Urban Fantasy. Soft Sci-fi. The list goes on and on. Such labels have a purpose, of course. They serve as guideposts to would-be readers, telling them ahead of time what to expect. If a genre (or subgenre) tends to have several dos and don’ts attached to it, a reader feels safer purchasing a book in one of his or her preferred categories. At the same time, so many stories cross multiple genres.
Reading a novel is often like looking through a window, but also, simultaneously, seeing your reflection in the glass.
On the one hand, you are peering into a new world, complete with imaginative vistas and unexpected twists and turns. On the other hand, the characters in the story share some of your own struggles. When you laugh with them, cry with them, care about them, you do that because they speak to you on some innate and mysterious level.
The window into this “other” fictional world has, in turn, become a mirror, reflecting your own.
It is certainly my hope that The Eye-Dancers can create in readers this window-and-mirror duality. For the twelve-year-old who knows, firsthand, what Ryan feels when he desperately seeks favor and fears rejection, sure. But also for the fifty-three-year-old office worker who recalls his own struggles in middle school; for the thirty-four-year-old engineer who often looks at her universe with the same logic-oriented lens as Marc; for the ninety-year-old great-grandmother who remembers her first kiss, all these years later, and is right there with Mitchell when he experiences his.
It seems to me that writing about adolescence is not a narrowly defined subgenre at all, but rather, it addresses a period of life that we’ve all gone through, can all remember, and can all relate to.
Is The Eye-Dancers a Young Adult Sci-fi/fantasy novel? That’s what it says on Amazon. Heck, that’s what it says in the headline of this very website!
But, first and foremost, I believe it is what any creative writing project should be, above all–a story. A story that came to me, unasked for, unplanned.
In the words of novelist Jose Saramago, “The novel is not so much a literary genre, but a literary space, like a sea that is filled by many rivers.”
Thanks so much for reading!
[Terry: I try not to swipe the entire article but the above is really interesting. Promise to go to Mike’s website so I don’t look like a pirate.]
- Interview With Author Michael Fedison~~The Eye Dancers (kjwdailywritings.wordpress.com)
- Character Column: Meet Michael S. Fedison and ‘Mitchell Brant’ (joannafay.me)
- Tour Stop: Storm Dancer by Rayne Hall (whyicantstopreading.wordpress.com)
borough of lost boys
frankie leone, just a man – 27 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)
…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
we opted against san loco (on 160 n 4th street) to get something more authentic at the taco truck on the side of n6th. – 28 (williamsburg, borough of lost boys)
Meet the new boss… Not the same as the old boss at all. J.R. McLemore has been writing for a long time. He has several books, short stories and compendiums on sale. His sales are pretty solid and his ability to write a good story is well documented.
I wanted to meet J.R.
My first experience of this great writer was a pretty simple, straightforward read of one of his books. The book was called The Old Royal. It’s the story of a man who wants to achieve the greatness of his idol writer. He achieves it with the help of a typewriter.
The story was a sensation! So, here on Novel Ideas I want to present its writer to you.
Oh! Why do I call him ‘the boss’? Well, that’s simple! I call him the boss because one day soon he will be the biggest selling author on the face of the planet!
Spotlights, Finds, WIPs and Extras
Posted on 31st May, 2013
I Was Placed Under The Spotlight – Twice!
I have to thank M C V Egan, author of The Bridge of Deaths, for putting me under the ‘spotlight’ on her blog! You can find the post here. I also have to thank Kat at Indies Unlimited for another spotlight feature, for my book Shade of Evil. The book is also featured in the Indies Unlimited Bookstore. With Wednesday’s release of The Sigil of Ahriman, that’s pretty good timing! Please support both these blogs by popping over to visit and leaving a ‘Like’, or even a comment, if you feel moved to do so.
A few days ago, my wife (Jenny) found two books in a local charity shop. One will prove to be wonderful for entertaining the grandkids, I’m sure. It’s The Pagemaster by David Kirschner & Ernie Contreras, illustrated by Jerry Tiritilli, published in 1994 by Kingfisher (ISBN 1 85697 276 3). I’m sure many of you will know it, and/or the movie of the same title. The other book is The Trivia Lover’s Guide To Cricket Stories, Facts & Feats, published in 2007 by Complete Editions (2009 reprint). As you might guess, this little book is a highly amusing, and informative, guide to the great game of cricket, including some fascinating, and sometimes hilarious, facts about the history and practice of the sport. Considering the original cover prices, the shop sold these at a stunningly low price each! The first book is just as it should be, with beautiful illustrations that make the words come alive. The second is one of those books that any enthusiast of cricket will delight in dipping into whenever the mood strikes, or they just need something of a lift.
Works In Progress
I’m currently working on two writing projects. First, I’m writing the fourth instalment of G1: The Guardians, as I mentioned in a previous post. The second project is in response to a recent review, on Goodreads, of the fifth short story in the Thief series. Not wishing to frustrate a reader, especially one who has taken the time and trouble to write reviews of my books, it seems only fair to write another instalment of the series, though whether it will remain a short story, like the others, remains to be seen!
While not a book of any length, Kat of Indies Unlimited (see above) is encouraging me to write a guest blog post for their site. I’ve thought about this and I decided to go with a subject that I have some strong feelings about. Needless to say, I am honoured to be asked! If the post I submitted isn’t accepted, then it may appear here at some point.
You may have already noticed, but you may not, so I thought it appropriate to mention a couple of extra features. First of all, the top menu now includes eBook Reader software/Apps. This takes you to a list of software/apps that allow you to read virtually any kind of ebook. I included it because there are still many readers who don’t know about these eReader substitutes. If you use anything else that’s not listed, I would love to hear from you! Secondly, there’s a new ‘badge’ for the blog, that serves a specific function. It advertises the Book Promo Day. Beneath the badge itself is a text box containing code. By copying this code and pasting it into a page on your own website or blog, you can help spread the word! The more authors availing themselves of the offer, the wider the range of books featured – which has got to be good.
- WIP meme (myownlittleshadow.wordpress.com)
- WIP It Good Blogfest – My Current Project (joeowensblog.wordpress.com)
- Spotlight: Lynne Cantwell…Yes she can! (author-leanneherrera.blogspot.com)
Philosophy By Christy
To be a writer, you have to write
I promised that I would start a blog up again, and use it to write my experiences about writing and struggling to find a job… plus any thing else that’s on my mind. I’ve got a Tumblr, but I don’t write much on it like I used to. I think this page might give me a more formal setting to write frequently.
Positive feedback is greatly appreciated, and I hope you enjoy my posts. Thanks.
Much thanks to my friend Tabitha who started her blog again, the BBC TV show Sherlock (for bringing the love of blogging back), & my friend Jennifer who started up a blog as well about her experiences in teaching. They caused me to start this blog. Though all my friends inspire me in so many ways.
I’ll always thank them for that.
My first job ever was being the news editor/reporter of my university student newspaper. Then I worked for the university library. After that I worked as an office assistant in the university tuitoring center. My university taught me more than just lessons in the classroom, but through my jobs as well. I’ll be forever thankful for all the learning experiences and memories.
I’ve graduated college in December of 2011 with a Bachelor’s Degree in Liberal Arts (Major: English, Minor: Journalism). I almost had a creative writing minor with all the creative writing courses I wanted to take. Since I graduated, I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with my life. I’ve worked on a successful mayoral campaign. It was an amazing experience, and it gave me a unique perspective on local political campaigns. Now I really want to focus more on creative writing. Also it’s very likely I’ll start Grad School in the Fall of 2013.
My faith as always been a part of my life, but I’ve grown in the past few years to be more active. It makes me happy to help out through out my church (St. Philip the Apostle Catholic Church) with Choir, ACTS, the Catholic Daughters, and RCIA.
During the summer of 2012, I got a chance to go to my second Harry Potter conference in Orlando, Florida which was Ascendio (the first one was Infinitus 2010). This was a wonderful experience to not only be around other awesome fellow Harry Potter fans, but also learn more about writing from actual incredible authors who were fans of the series. They really inspired me to push to my dream of writing a novel.
In November of 2012, I was willing to take the plunge and participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). The experience was incredible. Even though I didn’t get to the goal of 50, 000 words. I still felt like I winner because I wrote 37, 042 words. That was more than I’ve ever written for one story. I also got an opportunity to meet some wonderful local writers through the South Texas Scribes.
I don’t know what this year holds for me, but I’m ready.
April is over, and I was able to complete my goal. Not only did I complete my goal of writing 30,000 words in April during the first session of Camp NaNoWriMo, but I also finished writing my novella. It still needs revision, and editing, but at least I was able to write the beginning, middle and end. For me this is a great accomplishment. I’ve written short stories, and poems. I tried to write a novel last year in November, but I didn’t reach my goal in finishing the story, though hopefully some day I will. So what’s next? Well, it didn’t help that I got sick recently. I have sent my novella to some of my friends so I could get some feedback about it. I’m sure it will help me figure out what I need to work on to improve the story. I am planning to participate in the second session of Camp NaNoWriMo in July. Now through June, I will have to figure out what I’ll do then. I’m leaning towards writing a sequel novella, but I might try to write short stories, or another novella. I’m not trying to rule out trying to write a novel, but I want to make sure I have an idea that I can write as a novel. I’ve realized that it’s important to have a story that will fit the size, otherwise you’ll work too hard on writing to write more than what the story holds. Or it might mean that you need more research to write more. Every time you write, you learn more about writing, just as much as reading. It’s the process of writing that we are able to improve.
While writing a novella in April, I figured out a few things. It felt more comfortable writing with familiar setting. I’ve heard that it’s better to write stories from where you live, than trying to write a setting from a popular location, especially if you might not know it well. This goes well with writing what you know. Sure, it’s good to learn to find out things that you didn’t know. Which adds more to your stories. That’s why it’s important to read, non-fiction as well as fiction, to improve in your writing. I decided to write my novella with the literary genres of Mystery, and Romance. Which are genres I love reading, and watching, so it’s familiar to me as well. Though I didn’t know the end of the story at first, I was able to create a basic outline of where the story was going before I started, as well as while writing the novella. It kept me focused on where I wanted to go, but it wasn’t too outlined so I was still open to other possibilities that the story could go. Close to the end of the month of April, I figured out a basic outline for the end of the novella which helped tremendously because it reassured me that I could get to the end. I believe having the writing goal be a novella size, that I knew I could do, gave me an reassurance that I could do it. I was able to write a bit over 30,000 words in November last year. So I knew I could write at least 30,000 words again in a month. Plus it helps when you have the motivation from Camp NaNoWriMo, and writing buddies. I’m so glad that I had such great support for my writing.
Thanks to NaNoWriMo, I’ve gotten a chance to explore writing in a completely new way. I’m sure it’s just a snapshot of how authors feel every day when they write. I’ve decided writing is about being determined to tell a story. Inspiration helps, but we have to work on trying to read, and write as much as possible. If we don’t, then our skill begin to fade away. Only by keeping up with our skills, and learning, do we progress forward. I know that these learning experiences will help me not only in my writing in the future, but also during Grad School (which I’ll start in September).
Life is about stories, and that’s how we remember most of life. Those who write stories have many reasons why they do so, but we all want to tell stories. As long as we keep on writing, we can keep on exploring the great things about life, and complete the circle. After you win, you can’t stop. You have to keep going, growing, and never stop.
P.S. I recommend checking out the blog of The Office of Letters and Light (who organizes NaNoWriMo and Camp NaNoWriMo) for great writing and revising advice.
Clara Oswald let go of somethingThat was valuable to herShe knew it was importantLife is all about letting goOf things that aren’t meant to beThat are only for a seasonNothing truly stays the sameThis is some thing we have to learnI made a decision to let some thing goGod reassured me that it would helpWith the future He has layed out for meFor letting go would open my heartTo remind me of all that I haveAnd what I still need to doTo make the world a better placeThere’s a bright future aheadHe wants me to be open for everythingThat will help me get to where I need to be
“Dusty The Bunny” by Joshua L. Loveday (Children’s)
Welcome to my official author’s blog. On this page I will post some short stories for children, middle-grade students, young adults and even some adults. I hope that you enjoy my writing and have a good taste of Avi8r Works.
Dusty the Bunny by Joshua L. Loveday
Dusty and Buddy were bunnies, no doubt;
They’re fluffy and quiet and hop all about.
Though Buddy was fur and Dusty was dust
They played with each other. They had to. They must.
They’d bounce through the house, on floors and on walls,
They’d hide behind cupboards and glide down the halls.
But one thing about them was different that’s sure
For Dusty was dust and Buddy was fur
Buddy was free to hop as he pleased,
Upon all the shelves and round all the trees,
He’d live in the garden and inside as well.
He’d climb to the toy room and play on the sails.
No limits were found for Buddy, that’s true.
But what about Dusty, who hopped around too?
Dusty was different than Buddy, no doubt.
Cause Dusty was pushed and shoved all about.
He made no decision on where he would go,
He’d simply lay still and go with the flow.
“I can’t go to places I want to,” he said
“I’m swept under rugs and couches and beds.
I wish I could choose the places I went
Instead I am going wherever I’m sent!
There must be a way to gather this dust,
I’ll ask my friend Buddy, he’s someone I trust.”
Chapter 3: Ladder in the Field
The smell of dust and moisture filled the air. The manure of the fields couldn’t have smelt more like freedom to the Haven children—as strange as that may seem. A light breeze was about to whisk them away to a world beyond dreaming. The mysterious clouds continued to blanket the sky with no sign of clearing.
The children sprinted out of the back door and around the south side of the house, sticking near the fence like a firm, gripping glue. They reached the sidewalk and they were in the clearing for the fields—there was no time to slow down. It would be a lie to say that the children weren’t afraid of getting caught, but the adrenaline of adventure had taken full sway; they were long gone, almost.
A heavyset young boy rolled around the corner bringing the children to an abrupt halt. Arms were folded firmly across his chest, and a smirk stretched widely across his face in satisfaction. “Running away are we?”
“Um…n-n-no Kelvin,” shuttered Dacian.
Tai began to shuffle his way behind Edric; then they all crept slowly behind Dacian, their very fear filled leader, to avoid attack.
Kelvin snatched Dacian by the shirt with ease, force, and anger. The move was so swift it shook Dacian’s ball cap straight off of his head and gave him no time for defense. “Do I look like I’m stupid?” he whispered menacingly.
I personally would vote for harry potter because it’s the first book and series that I fell in love with. What are your opinions, which series is better and why?
[Terry: Well for me it’s a question of Hermione (Emma Watson) vs Katniss (Jennifer Lawrence) and, honestly, I love them both…especially as they’ve grown out of children’s roles.]
Power Shorts Daily
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
Power Shorts Daily: The Shortest Stories
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|
A Miscellanea Of Topics
Posted on 11th May, 2013
Reviews Received and an Interview Posted
Shade of Evil
“Thief” by Steve K Smy
I’ve received two very kind reviews. One is for my novelette Shade of Evil (G1: The Guardians, #1), and appears on Julie’s Book Review, written by Wende Sheets. Wende awards it 4 stars! This review has also been posted to Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
The second is for Thief (The Thief Series, #1), and appears on Tracey Wickham’s blog. Tracey gives the short story a glowing 4 stars! The ebooks are available from most major online book stores in ebook form, though Thief isn’t available from Amazon. There’s also a new interview that features myself on Book Goodies.
I would be very grateful if you could leave feedback on these on the appropriate sites.
New Tale Progressing
The third tale in the G1: The Guardians series is progressing nicely. More, the cover is doing even better and has me very excited! It is being created by my son, Reuben, who is a gifted artist. In fact, the concept drawing is so incredibly impressive, I’ve decided to hold back on showing it! I can’t wait to see the finished artwork. I also decided that there will be a reduced copy of the image inside the book, in black and white. I haven’t yet established whether this tale will be a novelette or a novella, though.
April 29, 2013
I’ve talked about doing this, so here it finally is. My folder of rejection slips:
(With handy dinosaur ruler for scale. That’s over three inches of paper there.)
These aren’t all the rejections I’ve gotten. This doesn’t include all the e-mail rejections, which are quite legion. Or any of the rejections I got before 1995, which are hidden away in some folder I haven’t rediscovered yet. (I started sending stories out in about 1989). The most recent rejection in this pile? Spring 2012. Yup, I still get rejections. People sometimes ask me how many rejections I’ve gotten, and I’ve never counted. I have no intention of counting them now. Just estimating, based on how frequently I was sending stuff out during my busiest submission period (roughly 1995-2006), I have upward of 600. I know this stack is taller than a ream of paper, which is 500 pages. But you know what, I never paid attention to how many there were. I put them in the folder and never looked at them again. Out of sight, out of mind, move on to the next submission.
I imagine some people are asking, how did I keep going? How could I possibly keep going, after all that rejection? The answer: my writing got better. I could see it getting better. Every story was better than the one before. If the earlier one got rejected, maybe the new one wouldn’t be. Well then — Why didn’t I wait to send my stuff out until I was “good enough?” Answer: I didn’t know what good enough was. I thought I was good enough with the very first story I sent out. I realized very quickly that I wasn’t. Repeat for ten years and several dozen stories. Obviously, I was not the person to be judging if I was good enough. So I sent stuff out and let the editors decide.
I made my first pro sale in 1999, ten years after making my first submission. Now, in 2013, I’m approaching 70 short story sales, plus 15 novels published. Was all that rejection worth it? Yeah, it totally was.
On Wednesday, I’ll talk about some of the things I learned that I think helped me finally start selling stories.
(Update: It just occurred to me to let people know that the story that collected rejections in 2012 was “Astrophilia,” which went on to be published in Clarkesworld and will appear in two “Year’s Best” anthologies this year.)
Buy Rejecting Rejection Book by Steve Steinberg (9781575024219) at Angus and Robertson with free shipping http://bit.ly/10vSyyX
(Steve Steinberg was Ted Koppel’s writer for many years and taught me more about writing and real news than anyone else I ever knew)
Welcome to a new friend: Alex Kennedy of About The Young Adult Fiction Writer & Psychopath – Alex Kennedy | Young Adult Fiction
Alex has never always been a creative writer, he doesn’t even like that title, he is plainly a writer of many’a things. As a young teen he quickly developed a love for rhyming words (Aspirations of becoming a white rapper/ poet.) But he didn’t know it was the love for the shock of words he loved.
But after a few years on the poet scene he found out the words he used were no longer filling that void within him. He needed a challenge while he was attending a mental health clinic and found it in Short stories and Screenplays, it was also a way out. Generating himself as a novice pen-man. But as he marched his way through the writing scene the words he was using did not have the same effect on him, so thus a novel was needed for his void. Taking all of the distorted images of people and events within his life, he creates some of the weirdest and dark toned stories.
To keep his void filled he must still tackle all of his writing on a weekly basis to make sure his pen doesn’t get lazy.
“I have been to hell when I was boy, when I arose from the fires I became a man; now, living out my life as an act to fit in to a place I can never truly be part of, so I write worlds I remember to entertain you from the darkness that raised me.” – “Psycho-Speak” Alex Kennedy
Sorry it has been almost a week since our last post, Alex has been kind of tied down by other means, but we have got him back, along with the next part of The Experiment stories, he even said there may be follow on’s… Hopefully.
The Experiment (Part 2: Emotions Run Deep.)
The date was unknown. Where to start? Probably my earliest memory; all I can remember is a white room with an enormous blacked out window, the door to the room was camouflaged within the wall. I know I was a child as I do remember throwing my building blocks and my favourite book, the dictionary, at the window once in a tantrum. To this day I still have no idea what was behind that window. Well being in that room, it wasn’t a room; let me rephrase, that cell, I thought that those 12 feet were my world. All that existed within my world was me and the person within the white spacesuit, who came in to give me more medicine, my three meals a day, studies and sleeping injections. The room in which I lay at night was completely white but over the years my own writings and highlighted words from the dictionary became tacked to the wall.
My hands threap the edging of the book, lost within a love I have never read before.
“How are you feeling today, Flynn?” A deep voice puts forth from beyond the window.
I slowly drag my eyes from Shakespeare.
“I am rather contempt and affable today, sir. I would like to finish reading about these two people, if you please.” I voice in an almost susurrus tone, it was probably the drugs.
As I sway from page to page, Shakespeare showed me something that I had never felt; lachrymose was inclined to set in. How can these two fictional characters have a love far greater to that of real people? This pleasant idea turned truculent within me, gnawing at my very soul, I was a puppet to this idea of love which had me dangling from its hands by my heartstrings. In the words of Shakespeare, I was afeared from this affect, my heart had bollen and beteemed as my snuff was sniffed and now inside I ululate.
Still sitting on the edge of my bed, I was about to commit a suicidal emotion dip within my endless routine. In the corners of the rooms are piles on piles of books, ranging from all genres. Will I ever witness such an event of love within myself? The book debacles, it leaps to its death before I do. My eyes widen to reality.
“Flynn, your heart-rate is rising, we are sending someone in to give you some medicine; you need to calm down, please.” A speaker voice; his words seem scripted.
“Calmness! How can you ask such a thing from me? When I have never loved, you would calm such a soul who has never lived within another’s heart. That is the greatest of evils!” I hail at the screening.
The door automatically opens, with a flick of my wrist the door wafts shut. I charge at the window, trying to punch a hole into darkness.
“I am the monster and you are my creator. No one could ever love me, not if I am a genetic mistake, created by phony gods. What am I? What am I?”
I stop my attack and collapse to my knees, my open hands squeak as they are dragged down to the depths with me.
“Why? Why am I on my knees when she is out there, out there without me? She cannot be far, and she would not hide, not from love.”
I will fight for love.
About Me . My Passions . My Life .
Thank you for landing here on my writing blog. Enjoy meandering among my stories, my thoughts, foibles and watercolours. They offer insights into this writer, artist, nurse, wife, mother, grandmother, skeptic, lover of music, beauty, colour and, most importantly, a lover of living this life on this amazing planet with all its inevitable good and bad, sadness and happiness, ebbs and flows.
“Literature had told him that everything had happened before, everything had been endured before, and so everything could be endured again.”
AARON LATHAM: ‘Orchids for Mother’ 1977
Dreams and opportunity are endless.
“GOOD BLOOD” . CREATIVE NON FICTION
A series of stories, primarily, but not exclusively, about women – ordinary women, living extraordinary lives. There are tales about birth and death, immigration and war, marriage and divorce, illness and adversity, suicide and triumph. These poignant stories inspire and teach us that we are all capable of overcoming hardship with strength and good humour.
“DECADES” . MEMOIR
A collection of stories, saucy and irreverent, factual and embarrassing, ridiculous and sad. These stories capture snippets of my life through the decades.
MEANDERING THOUGHTS . Essays, short stories, this and that.
POETRY . Spontaneous eruptions from the heart.
ORCHIDS . WATERCOLOURS . WRITING
Aside from writing, two of my passions are orchids and painting in watercolour. In the image above, are my deep, rich, velvety, fuchsia orchids – some miniature ones are thriving in my terrariums. On the wall, my watercolour magnolias offer a complimentary backdrop.
Thanks for visiting. I will be adding more ‘about me’ in coming days.
I am an author. I mainly write dark fantasy, but also scifi, short stories, and sometimes horror. I mix other elements into my work, at times bending away from believability in order to keep my reader’s self-rationalization in check. I like to teach lessons in the stories I tell, using allegory, symbolism, and allusion. Most of my heroes tend to be female, but I do not fail to include strong male characters as well. My stories are violent, whether through personal altercations or descriptive renditions of war. They are not for the faint of heart, but they aren’t exactly Clive Barker, either. (I’d say it’s pretty balanced.) trista digiuseppi Also, romance plays a bit of a role in my books, because what is an adventure without it? An adventure may lead a hero to agony, dismemberment, or death, but I cannot deny my characters their emotional pursuits. I love to build worlds and then destroy them, and I love forcing characters to change and grow – or die trying.
I tend to write stand-alone novels, wrapped up in their own, isolated mythologies. My favorite type of book is the kind I can pick up without having to know the fifteen other novels preceding it.
Recently, Six Letter Press published my novel “Nails Jane” – check Amazon for reviews. Purchase information for Nails Jane (paperback and ebook) is located here. Also, browse this site for free short stories and free chapters of Nails Jane.
Currently: I just finished writing a second novel. It is under wraps and publication date is TBA. I have begun working on my third novel, as well as an anthology side project. There is much to come for my readers, so please sit tight and keep watch for updates.
Interests include: dark fantasy books/anthologies/graphic novels, open world RPG video games (e.g. dragon age, elder scrolls), hiking/kayaking, sushi, felines, Rasputina, Green Day, Chopin, Beethoven, Star Trek, offbeat/inappropriate humor, knives, and lipgloss. (Also, for some reason, I know too much about xenomorphs.)
I graduated with a Bachelor of Arts and studied psychology, writing, studio art, and anthropology. I worked for ten years as a public school aid, teaching disabled children how to read and write. My experience has lent itself to my writing style and deep fascination with mythology, science, neologism, sketching, and the overall human condition. I often incorporate such elements into my work.
Interesting fact: I publish under my maiden name. It’s almost like my former identity is now my pseudonym.
For me, writing is a full time job. I dedicate three to five hours every Monday through Friday, penning my novels.
Keep checking the site as newer material is advertised.