T-zero Xpandizine
 The Writer's E-Zine

 

 Produced and published by the members of Writers' Village University since 1998    ISSN 1521-2639       
05 February 2012
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Drabble Corner

Michelle Swisz

Our theme for October is Gratitude -- here is Mike Foley's...

Gratefully stuck
by Mike Foley

I just realized that we take a lot in our lives for granted. For example, look at what a great summer day this is! Look at that sky! Total blue, not even a wisp of cloud. I can see a hawk circling far above, I wonder if he sees me. I guess I should be grateful for such a beautiful afternoon. I press the button on the roof console, the little computer screen shows 83 Fahrenheit as outside temperature. Inside, the car's air conditioning is keeping me cool. I am sitting in luxury, leather seats wrapped in a sporty European automotive design. I guess I should be grateful for having a good job, a decent boss and enough money to afford this four wheeled living room. To my left a pretty blond girl in a convertible gives me a smile. I smile back and lift my eyebrows in a gesture of frustration and resignation. I guess I should be grateful that at my age I still have a little good looks left. I should be grateful for a lot of things in my life. Now if I can just get out of this traffic jam I will really be grateful.

Michael Kent Foley, August 2001

It is hard to know what to say about the events of September 11. I was very glad to hear from those of you who wrote. What I personally get from the events is that we as a whole have discovered a new aspect of our connection to each other -- rather than an abstract knowledge of and faith in it, we now seem to have developed an intimate, personal experience of what each other is going through. Crying over patriotic songs isn't new; I'm not talking about our emotionalism, not that I haven't done my own share of crying over songs as well as the events themselves. What's new is our actually experiencing the events of 9/11 for, and within, ourselves, directly, rather than our thinking that perhaps we should be able to do so (but relieved that we could not), as we might have done in the past. This direct experience seems to constitute a newly felt connection to those in physical proximity to the events, and having developed the capacity to make that connection, to each other as well.

It's interesting to me that many of the emailed letters of sympathy from businesses that land in many of our email inboxes address their sympathy specifically to those who were directly (as opposed to indirectly) affected. Despite, no, because of, the distinction made between direct and indirect effect, these letters do recognize that we were all affected -- that's exactly why the distinction is made. Of course, not all of us were killed or critically injured, or rendered widows or widowers, orphans, unemployed, or homeless; but one thing that is new about these events and our response to them is that although we were not all affected in those particular ways, we were nevertheless all, literally, directly affected in having forged this experience of our connection.

Another thing that's new, perhaps a result of the connection experience, is that our collective response to the events has not on the whole been one of seeking revenge. At all levels, although not all individuals partake, we are responding with thoughtfulness, introspection, and in many, many cases, love. Perhaps you could say that any response not based on fear is one based on love. We are all feeling some fear, but our responses are in most cases not based on that fear.

Possibly yet another thing that is new is that we as a whole may be responding to that fear that we do feel in a different way than before -- with compassion for ourselves and each other. We're not judging each other, and we're being easy on ourselves during this stressful time when we tend to forget what we meant to say right in the middle of the saying of it. This would be an amazing transformation. Maybe our newly felt connection helps us to deal with the fear in a different way than before, as when we have historically become brave or braver when we're physically with someone whom we love very much. If this transformation is happening, I wonder where it will lead us. As always, please write with your responses.

Here are the guidelines to check once more before writing.

Theme for December: Connection.

November has twin themes, already set, for extrication and for quitting smoking, either single or double Drabble.(See the September issue, archived, for details.) See you next time.

Michelle


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Fiction Corner

Alison Hawke

Broken minds

"Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia."
E.L. Doctorow

Back in September 2000 I talked about making flawed, interesting characters by giving them quirks of character and habit. I want to extend on that by introducing you to three characters I've come across recently, Ian Nottingham, from the television series Witchblade, a technomage called Galen, from the Babylon 5 universe, as shown in the Technomage book trilogy, and Kio Masada, a computer security expert in CS Friedman's book This Alien Shore.

These characters caught my imagination and kept it. They seem to be three dimensional, truly human characters. And all three show signs of mental illness.

Ian Nottingham is the bodyguard and manservant of Kenneth Irons, a billionaire businessman with an obsession for the Witchblade, a supernatural weapon worn by Detective Sara Pezzini. Nottingham's job is first to protect Irons, then Sara. What makes Nottingham interesting to me is his reaction to the insults and abuse he receives from Irons. Nottingham is subservient, he stands with his head bowed and shoulders hunched, refusing to meet his master's eye. Despite being a man of obvious skills and talent, somehow Irons has broken Nottingham's will. As a way of fighting back, Nottingham behaves in a passive-aggressive manner, thwarting his master by giving information to Sara, and defending her against orders. Nottingham clearly has a hopeless crush on Sara, and a low opinion of himself. The character seems to be a victim of serious abuse, and has developed coping mechanisms to deal with it.

Galen is introduced as a serious student, someone who never laughs, and is devoted to becoming a technomage. This dream is fulfilled in the first of the three books (the third is published in November), but it does not satisfy him. He is uncomfortable with his power, and with the advanced technology of the implants in his body that create it. After his first love, Isabelle, is killed by a fellow technomage, Galen gets very interesting. His reaction to stress is to stuff his feelings down inside himself, and not allow himself to feel. After the death of Isabelle, Galen shuts down emotionally. The unresolved grief and anger shows itself in him as deep depression. Unable to stand the pain he is feeling internally, Galen starts to deliberately injure himself.

Kio Masada comes from a future in which the human race has colonised many planets. The faster-than-light drive of the colonisation ships mutated the humans into a fantastic array of "aliens." Masada comes from a planet where the mutations affected the brain, causing conditions as diverse as multiple personality disorder and colour blindness. His own mutation rendered him incapable of reading or giving social signals (small talk, body language, tone of voice etc.), and gave him the ability to focus in on a problem to the exclusion of all else, including food and rest. He is persistent, dogged, a little obsessive, and extremely intelligent. Masada is modelled on an autistic scientist. Friedman clearly did a lot of research on both him and the female protagonist, who has multiple personality disorder.

As writers, we have to give our characters adequate motivation for doing what we make them do. Mental illness is worth researching, because it's highly likely that you know someone with a mental illness, and characters who accurately portray such illnesses have an extra depth to them. We do not write our fiction in a pristine, plastic world, and our characters should not be models of perfection either. They should be people, like us.


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Fiction Short Story

Christine Andrews

Born in Johannesburg and raised in Pretoria, Christine strives to make her writing come alive with the pulse of Africa. The constant sunlight and diverse cultures have a strong influence on the South African society, in that it brings together opposites in a unique way. Individual cultures, legends and languages together weave a cloth of bright, earthy colours, fragrances, aromas sounds and tastes. All South Africans share a volatile, sometimes violent and heartfelt history ­ no matter which angle one approaches it from. In this short story, The Boer’s Tale, Christine tells the simple tale of a Boer that loses everything in the Boer War. It is based on a true story, of a Boer who once owned the farm that became the suburb on the outskirts of Johannesburg where Christine now lives with her husband Dave and three daughters. Christine is a professional artist, and produces the artwork and animation for various corporate communications, television broadcasts and educational video material.

Christine included a glossary of colloquial terms unique to South African English and some borrowed from Afrikaans (her native language).

Glossary:
Spruit = small river, stream
Veld = savannah landscape
Dassie = rodent living among rocks
Kiepersol = tree
Rooinek = "Red neck," name given to the English by the Boers during the Freedom war, indicating their sun-burnt necks
Boer = Farmer, Afrikaner (Afrikaans-speaking South African)
Magrietjies, Jakob-regops and Afrikaners = flowers

The Boer’s Tale

I am beautiful, and strong. His heart has roots deep in my soil. Why, then, would he go away? I held him in my lap, shaded with Bloubos, when he was a little boy. I offered him sweet sun-jewelled water from down the spruit to frolic in, solid rocks to jump and clamber over… watched him chase little footpaths down and out again on the other side of the kloof, just like a little cub playing over and around a big lioness.

Why, then, would Pieter leave me?

At first I was sure he would come back soon. He did, that first time. He brought Ella with him. They built new stables; added a room on the north side of the house. Babies came, three of them. Sarel, Anna and Hendrik. One spring they buried Pieter’s father next to that clump of Kiepersols, there. I miss Pieter. He likes to ride out to my highest point, before sunrise, and sit on the red, flat rock overlooking the east. He often has his mouth organ pressed to his lips, one hand cupping it jealously, and the other moving up and down to let the melancholy sounds escape. Around him the heavens would light up and spin a silky shimmer on his hair and beard.

One morning last summer he had Sareltjie with him.

"Sarel, my grootseun, one day you will have to work this land and take care of it, my boy. You must be prepared to fight and die for her! Never sell her; she is your heritage, your gift from Oupa, and me, and his daddy and his Oupa. Do you understand, son?"

Sareltjie nodded gravely.

Summer has come and gone, and Pieter is still not here. I remember the day well. The morning it all started. A troop of Boers on their horses came thundering from the south, down into the fold where Pieter and his family live. One of them jumped off his horse before it had even stopped, and banged on the door.

"Pieter Marais!," he shouted, "The Boers are fighting!"

Pieter came out with a mug of coffee warming his palms. They all shook hands and Pieter threw open the door to let them in. They laughed and shouted, I even listened to them sing. After a while they came out again to inspect and test their rifles. Ella came out too, with a packed bag and a jacket. Simon brought his horse from the stables, all saddled up. She threw her arms around Pieter, her shoulders shaking… then he went.

He went with the commando, wrapped in a cloud of dust, and he hasn’t been back.

Other commandos came, their horses breathing hot air impatiently into my grass, while their owners stopped at the house. They always came out with their arms filled, handing out biltong and dried fruits as they mounted their horses again. Ella would come out long after they have left to stare in the direction they went, her hands knotted together high up on her chest.

The worst thing has happened since Pieter left. It was terrible. The Khakis came! Annie was dancing through the long yellow grass up here when she saw them. She ran down to the house, pigtails flying in the wind, yelling: "The Khakis are coming, Ma, the Khakis!"

Her kappie had fallen off her head, and is still lying here in the grass, forgotten.

The English soldiers brought a wagon with them. They shouted at Ella to open the door in the name of the Queen, and then told them to gather what they will need for the concentration camp. Ella and the children huddled together and watched how the Rooinekke carried family heirlooms out of the house and trampled Ella’s flowers. One young man jumped jokingly on top of the piano, pretending to play. Then the others joined in, hitting the keys with the back ends of their rifles, smashing it to pieces!

"On the wagon, on the wagon, me ladies and me gents!" one shouted.

The wagon was scarcely round the bend when they torched the house. Black smoke heavy with cooking fat, candle wax and mahogany filled the hollow where the burning house lay.

Since then it has been very quiet, very lonely here. The commandos don’t come here anymore, and the English haven’t been. It is just I again, sighing, scattering ash everywhere and shaking the seeds from the grass heads.

Where could Pieter be?

Winter is settling in. The dassies make the most of the halfhearted sun. The Kiepersol stretch their necks as long as they can go, keeping an eye open for Pieter.

Is that the sound of hooves I hear? Yes, it is! Not galloping, not racing, no. The steps are slow, careful. Listless.

I spot them, yes I do!

I knew he would come back, I knew my Pieter would! I am beautiful, full and ripe, in autumn. I am bursting with song; my curves worked in an intricate tapestry of yellow, ochre, rust and fertile brown…

His head is hanging, hidden under the rim of his hat, but I am sure he will be so happy to be back! He is coming over here, past his old spot where he loves to sit and dream.

He stops!

Pieter slips -- no, falls -- off his horse onto his feet and walks a few steps toward his beloved rock.

He is going to linger here, renew his bond with me.

No, wait! What is he doing? He is kneeling… is he going to pray? Oh, I see! It is Annie’s kappie! It has been lying here all this time. Dear Annie, I miss her too.

What is that strange, strangled sound?

Pieter is bent down in the grass, Annie’s kappie pressed to his wet face. He’s almost falling to the ground.

My dear, dear Pieter.

The sun is low. Pieter gets up, silent now, and leads his horse by the reins down to the house. As he approaches the edge of the hill, I hold my breath, scared of his reaction. Oh, how will Pieter survive this?

He stays still, just staring, with rounded shoulders.

I follow his progress with a beating, anxious heart. Down the veld path to where Ella’s garden grew wildly, once. The Magrietjies, Jakob-regop’s and Afrikanertjies are all gone. Only dust and weeds remain, here and there one can spot where careless boots stamped a bush into the ground. Half-burnt planks are scattered everywhere… the front door is hanging like a paraplegic on just one hinge. Inside it looks dark, and empty, even without a roof. He did not go in. He turned around and came back up here, where he can look up at the stars and remember that life does not end here. No, it doesn’t.

***

Morning has come, and brought spring with her. She is almost indecent, so giddy is she! She brings more than blossoms and tender new growth. From afar, I spot the man on his horse, a white horse. He makes a turn at the house ruins, then, with his hand shielding his eyes against the over-eager sun, picks out the thin trail of grey winding upwards from Pieter’s fire. Gracefully he steers his horse up and towards us.

It is an English gentleman.

"Good day! I am looking for Mr. Marais? The owner of this farm?"

Pieter looks up to him, his eyes guarded. His hands keep busy, shuffling coals, topping up the water in the can.

"I am Pieter Marais."

The Rooinek triples about on his horse for a minute and a half, and then decides Pieter is not going to invite him to sit down.

"Mr. Marais…? Pieter?" He slides off his horse and approach Pieter, but keeps a respectful distance.

"Quilliam is the name! I am happy to make your acquaintance. The bank manager told me to speak to you. I am interested in buying your ground? My son suffers from asthma and the doctors in England advised a warmer, dryer climate. Would you consider…?"

Pieter flinches when the Rooinek mentions his son. He sits stone quiet for what seem hours, then looks up with a soft glint in his sky blue eyes. Now he rises, his hat gripped with white knuckles.

"If I sell my farm to you…"

No!

"…would you let me stay on? I can work hard…?"

The request takes Quilliam a few seconds to digest, but he recovers swiftly.

"But of course, old chap, why didn’t I think of that? What a brilliant idea!"

***

It has been many years. Hard years. I jealously guard a heap of fresh soil, not far from the Kiepersol trees. Just yesterday the Rooinek brought his wife, and his son here, to this spot. They were carrying Pieter’s coffin. They bent their heads, said a prayer, and gave back to me what they took away.



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Fiction Short Story

Susan Borgstad

I'm 65 years old, currently a student at WVU. I live in Vancouver, Canada and I'm finally taking a serious stab at this writing thing. I love it. I find it one of the most enjoyable things I have ever done. This was written as an exercise in F2k.

The Carrot Cake

I introduced them to each other at a party.

I said to her "Please meet Derek."

I got as far as "Derek meet..." when she interrupted.

"Daisy is my name, and I'll thank you kindly not to make any smart remarks. I've heard them all."

My buddy Derek laughed. Perhaps not the most circumspect thing to do considering the circumstances but he couldn't help it. Out it came, "Haw, Haw, Haw." A real belly-bouncer if there ever was one.

She kicked him in the knee and that is how they met and fell in love.

That's what happened. Really.

They ended up being a mutual admiration society. She "loved" his darling dimples. He 'adored' her shining, waist-length, naturally blonde hair. She "admired" his strength and agility, and his rugged, dark-haired looks. She nestled into his arms to demonstrate how he was soooooo tall, and destiny had made her five-foot-seven in high heels in order for her to fit exactly right, just under his chin. His eyes were "azure blue", and hers were "deep brown pools into which he could throw himself and drown." Of course her eyes had the most beautiful thick, black lashes ever. Her figure should adorn Chatelaine, at the very least. On, and on they went, ad nauseam. Trust me, I know, I was there and I introduced them and it was more than a person could take even on a good day with a six-pack in hand.

The trouble all started when she baked a cake. Now, what I'm going to tell you is the truth. Trust me. Cross my heart ... Would I lie to you? Oh, before I start, could you buy me another beer? This one's almost gone, and I'm kinda broke 'til Wednesday. You know I'm good for it.

Ahhh, thanks. That hit the spot. It's so icy cold, just the right thing on a scorcher like today. Look at the water run down the sides, lucky they have these terrycloth covers on the tables.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. They got married and moved into a one-bedroom apartment, and as far as I know they still live there. Well, I guess the first four years of wedded bliss was pretty good. But then, a couple of weeks after their fourth anniversary she baked a cake. Not just one of those package deals. Oh, no, she made it from scratch. You know, with sieves and eggbeaters and measuring cups and all that cooking jazz. She made a carrot cake, and that ended up being the problem.

Anyway, she was home on a short five-day vacation and she wanted to do something special, so not only did she make the cake, and the icing, she made a really nice Caesar salad and grilled salmon steaks and sliced lemons to squeeze on them, and baked some of those new potatoes with sour cream and crispy bacon bits. Just the smells alone would have driven you crazy. I know, because I just happened to pop over that night.

Ah, come on. No, I didn't know they were having a special dinner, I just happened to go over to their place. Okay? I've got more couth than that, gimme a break.

I'll go on with the story now, if it's okay with you? Well, thank you. Uh, another beer wouldn't be bad either right about now would it? Don't be a spoilsport. I've already told you, I'll pay you Wednesday. Yes, I will, definitely, for sure. What do you want? I said I'll pay you.

As I was trying to say, dinner was great, and they were getting along just famously. You know what I mean, a little kissy kissy here, and a little kissy kissy there, a lot of secret smiles, and quick little hugs. I tell you, they were getting along tickeyboo. Moneywise they had almost enough for a down payment on a house, and jobwise he was pretty sure of a promotion in the not-too-distant future. Yeah, things couldn't have been rosier.

When dinner was finished she cleared the dishes then she brought out the piece de resistance. Voila! The carrot cake. He said, and I heard him, "I hate carrots."

Wow, did she get mad in a hurry. Her face got that mottled purple look? "Well, isn't somebody a killjoy. I worked hard on this dinner I'll have you know. Besides that, it's a cake, not a vegetable. But then some people might not know that."

"Daisy," he said, "a carrot is a carrot is a carrot, no matter what you do with it. I hate carrots. You go ahead and eat the cake, don't let me stop you."

She snatched up the plate with the cake on it from the table and screeched, "I bet the garbage can will enjoy it."

He grabbed at the plate and tried to pull it out of her hands. "Don't be stupid. You're overreacting again."

She yanked at the plate and the cake landed on the floor. There it was, that delicious carrot cake on the gleaming hardwood floor. Icing down. We just stood around and stared at it.

"It's your fault. You can clean that mess up. I'm not touching it," she said, finally.

"My fault? You know I hate carrots. Why would you make a cake with carrots, and then act so hissy when I won't eat it? Why couldn't you make an apple pie? Or blueberry cupcakes or something? Like any normal person would. Or is it too much to ask you to think?"

That did it. She took a giant step over the cake, marched through the kitchen, down the hall and into the bedroom. The whole apartment block probably heard the door slam. I distinctly heard her lock the door.

He ignored the cake and walked nonchalantly into the living room, sat on the couch, flicked on the TV and we watched basketball for the rest of the night.

The waiter took a long enough to bring the beer this time, eh? I guess it's getting pretty busy.

I didn't go back to their place for oh, maybe three or four months until one day he invited me back for dinner again, and maybe watch a game after. I forget which game, but that doesn't matter. When I got there I almost fell over. The cake was still on the dining room floor. As sure as I'm sitting here talking to you it's the truth. It looked all wizened and dried up, and even the icing looked hard and brittle. I swear it had grown into the wood. Yuck.

Talk about weird. We had a couple of drinks, then dinner and then watched the game. We chit chatted about this and that and the whole time that cake was in plain view, right on that floor. They acted like it wasn't there. But there it was, in front of our noses. It was too much for me, I only stayed for a couple more drinks then I went home. I heard they're talking divorce. All because of a cake. Can you believe it? You know, I really should phone and see how they're doing.

You're leaving so soon? Why don't you stick around for a while? Wednesday? Well of course I'll be here. I'm a man of my word. You know that. I'll see you Wednesday for sure.


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Healthy Horizons

Laurie Lupold

Visions

Silence drifted across America this day. Many hundreds gathered behind a window to watch what might have been one of the most important events in my time. Some called it justice, others called it sad. I call it an opportunity to look within ourselves as a nation and see what we all can do so that tragedies like this never happen again.

I far from admired this man, Tim McVeigh. He was arrogant, manipulative and heartless in many ways. Though a part of me agreed that the way things were handled in the Waco Texas crisis was slaughter to say the least, I did not applaud McVeigh's attempt at retaliation. He saw himself as a one-man jury casting punishment over hundreds.

Like many others, I watched the news coverage of this final event unfolding. I listened as one man pleaded that it was the divorce of McVeigh's parents that made him go to such lengths; yet, in the same program, I heard what a bright, happy child he had been. But somewhere things changed.

Whatever reason we might find for such severe actions, Timothy McVeigh succeeded in one thing that I feel was very important to him. He would NEVER be forgotten. My emotions have shifted from many forms and altitudes since the day of the bombing. Things became quiet and I suppose my mind grew quiet with it, for moments forgetting those people who lost their lives as well as the loved ones who miss them. Only when the news focused on McVeigh was I reminded of all those lost.

But the news always seemed to focus more on McVeigh, didn't it? What does that say about our society? We seem to set our minds more on the criminal then we do the victim. Even as the moments ticked before his death, McVeigh gave no indication of remorse for what he'd done. His only response was a poem he had transcribed from another author, which he felt reflected his own beliefs. He never admitted regret for those lost.

I suppose I should feel hate or at least anger for a man with such an uncaring character, but that isn't within me. All I feel is sorrow. Sorrow that he never really saw the beauty in life as it comes if you look past the wrong in it. The peace that comes from holding on to a God who will carry you over the rocky roads and hold you when tears stream down your face. But, then, one must wonder: do people like McVeigh ever cry? Here's to a tomorrow where the Tim McVeighs of the world have grown silent. Where death comes as a natural aspect of life and not a forced affliction by someone else's hand. Where children are safe in their schools, playgrounds and homes. Here's to a tomorrow of pleasant horizons.

Still, let us not blind ourselves to Tim McVeigh's way of thinking. The poem which he used so defiantly was anything but an arrogant description of one's triumph. Invictus is a poem about maintaining your own spirit and identity. It is about the courageous survival of one man, William Ernest Henley. William Ernest Henley didn't write with rage. He wrote with spirit. So let us not let Timothy McVeigh take that from him. In our lives we all come to a point where Invictus could be nurturing to our souls. We may become lost and these words will fill us with self-determination and persistence. Weep, but hear the true song, the song of a brighter tomorrow.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)


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Poetics Presents

The Class of Poetry 115

This month's poetry presentation is a first for T-Zero. This is the first time that a group poem from any poetry class has been used. We look forward to more work of this kind in future issues of T-Zero.

Introduction to Japanese Poetry Forms
(Formerly Poetry105, now Poetry 115)
By Korie Beth Brown, Facilitator, P115

According to the Poet's and Writer's Handbook of Poetic Forms, renga are "long, image-filled poems written in alternating stanzas of three lines and two lines, usually by a group of poets who take turns." (page 159) A renga attempts to link images in surprising and unusual ways, to give the reader a "aha!" experience when reading. In the course "Japanese Poetic Forms," we challenged ourselves to write renga as individuals and as a group.

few words about the rhythm of renga. Each stanza in a renga follows the same pattern as the Japanese tanka, which is that of a haiku followed by a couplet of similar length to the last haiku line. The traditional definition of haiku as 5/7/5 form and tanka of 5/7/5/7/7 (5 syllable line followed by a 7 syllable line and so on) is not strictly followed by modern-day practitioners of these arts; in fact, most devotees will argue that, as the Japanese onji (phonetic character used in writing Japanese) create sound patterns much shorter than their English counterparts, a well written English haiku should be no longer than twelve syllables and seek to replicate the traditional rhythms of their Japanese models.

This is a complex issue that we did not delve into during class. Rather, we sought to undertake the essential ideas of the form as a collection of surprising images, something like a poet's game of Crazy Eights. Having previously and unsuccessfully tried group poetry in the past, I was delighted with the results of our experiment

The Poets:

  • Deborah Benarosh lives in downtown Philly with husband, cat, and writing desk stacked with books

  • James Augustus Hall, Jr. prefers to go by "Jim Hall." Jim is currently facilitating the Poetry 103 class at WVU.

  • Trudee Celeste Smith lives, works, plays and sometimes even writes at a campground on the beach in Washington State.

  • Susan Rosenkrantz is a single Mom, in Illinois who escapes through her writing.

  • Pamela Williams lives to write in the southern California sun with her blossoming daughter and 3 really cute guinea pigs (the guinea pigs were her daughter's idea).

  • Korie Beth Brown is another Southern Californian and a lifelong writer. She is currently working on a chapbook and on a set of linked short stories.

  • Molly Critchlow is a full-time poetry addict, currently fixed on Japanese forms.

  • Jim Hatfield lives in the Chicago area. He writes speeches and video scripts for a living, and poetry and fiction as a hobby.

Writers' Village members look forward to reading more of these students' works.

City Summer

The sidewalk softens
with the weight of a skateboard
ridden at noon (Korie Beth)

Shouts and voices mingle
With horns and screeching tires (Pam)

Long-haired boy in shorts
Leaps high with board, catching air.
Woman, shopping, snorts (Jim)

Homeless guy wants a buck
or any multiple thereof (Frank)

Busy path, man flips coin
Concrete duos sole life's gig
Heart, soul, sings the blues . (Susan)

ancient face in dark window
newspaper fan and iced tea (borah)

Double Dutch jumping
girls in plaits twirl rope and chant
under swaying tree (borah)

fire hydrant alchemy
kids transformed to sleek otters (trudeeceleste)

sidewalk sale
evaporates
before the fuzz in blue. (Molly)

Passing Through Summer

Crops planted in spring
must have the rains of summer
summer sun is hot (Jim)

rain or shine
farmer's bills keep growing (Frank)

spikka spikka spikk
crescent rainbows fall on wheat
costly liquid hope (Trudeeceleste)

lost lone cow
plodding through golden trail (Susan)

Thirsty cattle find
A tepid watering hole
Mosquitoes scatter (Pam)

barely breathing trees swooning
from heat and little breeze (borah)

farmers' children sell
cold drinks and fresh produce
by the side of road (borah)

ripe watermelon halves
glisten in afternoon sun (Korie Beth)

free range banty hens
bicker over fallen rinds
hawk circles overhead (TC)

grange hall dance
fiddles through the night
hoot stomp and shuffle (Molly)


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
http://TheWritersEzine.com
Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All Rights Reserved
Submissions Guidelines The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Submissions Guidelines (Updated)

Until further notice, only plain text submissions in the body of the email will be considered.
NO ATTACHMENTS.

What We Pay For

Fiction: Stories should be of interest to writers in general, not just a narrow group.

Fiction should be submitted to fiction@thewritersezine.com. Payment starts at $15.00.

If considered for publication, you will be asked to return an email agreement including your name and address.

Craft Features: Queries about Craft features should be sent to nonfiction@thewritersezine.com.

Payment starts at $15.00, and, if considered, you will be sent an email agreement to fill out and return.

Poetry: Due to the large number of recent poetry submissions, a temporary hold on further poetry submissions is in place until early 2008.

Please do not email us to ask what we pay for in other categories. When we can add to our list, we will include it in these guidelines.

What We Publish

Original short fiction, poetry, and non-fiction, particularly non-fiction related to the craft of writing and interviews.

For fiction we prefer something with a plot and resolution. If we like the main character, we are more likely to accept the story. If the main character has a problem to resolve or has to make a choice, that's conflict, and we love conflict! Too many writers confuse conflict with fight scenes. Don't be one of them. Give us a protagonist who acts, makes choices no matter how hard they are to solve his or her dilemma, not a wimp who drifts along and has to be rescued.

Non-fiction should be related to the craft of writing or be good resource material for writers. Accuracy and originality are vital. No reprints. If it has already been published somewhere else, our readers will spot it and let us know.

What We Won't Publish

Anything that inspires "hate," is defamatory or is pornographic.

Simultaneous submissions.

Material that has appeared elsewhere (reprints).

Seasonal material submitted during the same month (i.e., a Christmas story in December). Our lead time is short compared to print publications, but we do need time to edit, html and proof submission. A good guideline is to submit the manuscript by the first of the preceding month (i.e., submit a Christmas story before November 1st).

Length Recommendations

  • For Fiction, under 1500 words is preferred. We will consider excerpts from longer works.

  • Poetry should fit on one printed page if possible. A maximum of five poems may be submitted at one time (when the hold is lifted).

  • Non-fiction or Craft features have the most leeway in word count. In general these manuscripts should be 750 to 2,000 words. We like to take advantage of the hypertext capabilities we have available and link to charts, graphs, lists and so forth. Thumbnail versions may be included in the body of the article.

Rights

All rights other than first electronic, non-exclusive 'anthology' (for collections of T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine works only), and non-exclusive archival rights (we keep back issues online) are and remain the sole and exclusive property of the author.

Formats We Will Accept

Plain text in the body of an email.

T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine is an HTML publication. This gives us access to a variety of options but it is also a limiting factor.

  • Underlining is used exclusively for links in HTML. Please do not underline in your manuscript. It you are including a link to a webpage for reference, please mark the link the following way: (WEB LINK) http://thewritersezine.com (END WEB LINK).
  • The less than (<) and greater than (>) signs are used to enclose HTML encoding. If you need to use brackets, please use the square [ ] ones instead.
  • Paragraph indentation requires time consuming insertion of multiple HTML symbols. Please separate paragraphs by inserting a hard, blank line between them.
  • Fonts need to be simple. No multiple fonts. We prefer standard fonts such as Times New Roman, Courier or Arial set at 12 point. If your subject matter requires something else, ask us first.
  • The curly (smart) quotes, apostrophes, the em dash (two hyphens together) and ellipsis … (three periods) become strange and exotic characters when copied from your word processor into email. Check your preferences or options to see if you can use straight quotes. 
  • Text formatting such as bold, italic, centering, bullet list, etc., should be noted in the text by using all caps in parentheses. For example, if you wanted to italicize the word submission, you would type: (ITALICS) submission (END ITALICS).

Editing

We expect you to run spell-check and to check your grammar and punctuation before submitting. We will not reject a submission for a few typos or errors, but will if there are an excessive number of errors.

Note: Since our reading audience is international, we do not require a specific version of English. Use the spelling appropriate to your region.

We will automatically correct obvious typos such as “ton” for “not” and may correct simple agreement problems. For anything beyond that, time permitting, we will return the submission to you with a request for corrections.

Getting to Know You

Fiction and Craft features published in T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine include brief third person biographical notes on the writers. For all submissions, please compose your own bio and include it to save our editors and yourself time later if/when your piece is accepted for publication. We suggest sharing a little about your background, occupation, geographical location and what inspired your story.

How and Where to Submit

We do not accept submissions via US mail. Email submissions only, to the appropriate department, in the body of the email. No attachments accepted.

Fiction should be sent to fiction@thewritersezine.com.

Craft Non-fiction should be queried first. Send query to nonfiction@thewritersezine.com.

Poetry: Due to the large number of recent poetry submissions, a temporary hold on further poetry submissions is in place until early 2008.

Include the type of submission (fiction, non-fiction) in the subject line.

Be sure to include your name and email address in the body of the email.

If you do not receive an acknowledgement that your submission or query was received within a week, please send a follow-up query with “Did you Receive?” in the subject line. In the body of the email, please include your name and email address, the title of the work submitted, and if different, the email address sent from. Do not resend the submission unless we request it.

Good luck!


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

 

© Copyright 1998 - 2007, Writopia Inc. All rights reserved