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

Janet Smith Interviews Christopher O’Brien

Welcome to the realm of the "paranormal" with Christopher O’Brien.

Christopher first began his writing career quite by accident in the early ‘90’s with a series of articles for a local newspaper. The articles were related to his investigation of unusual paranormal activity in the San Luis Valley of south central Colorado. The findings of his investigation resulted in the publication of his first book, The Mysterious Valley (St. Martin’s Press – Sept. 1996). The subject and material were so wide-spread and plentiful that he wrote a second book, Enter the Valley, which continued along the same subject lines as the first book – UFO reports, unusual and strange animal deaths, Native American legends, crypto zoology, secret military activity and the folklore of the San Luis Valley. He is currently researching and writing the third book of his Mysterious Valley series, along with many other projects.

Venture forth . . . if you dare, into the life and worlds of Christopher O’Brien.

TZ: What first attracted you to investigate paranormal events in the San Luis Valley?

Christopher: The San Luis Valley may be America’s most anomalous region. What my neighbors were experiencing in the early 90’s (and the history of unusual events in the area) needed investigating and the results of this process needed to be communicated out to the public. This task fell into my lap rather serendipitously, for no one else seemed compelled enough to investigate the events occurring nightly around south central Colorado and north central New Mexico. When I began writing my first series of articles for our small local newspaper, I realized immediately that the subject matter was too dense and extensive to be covered in that forum and it needed to be in book form.

TZ: Have you always been interested in the paranormal?

Christopher: Yes. And for good reason! One spring night in 1963, when I was six years old, I was followed around my Belleview, WA neighborhood by four non-human entities I described as “stickmen carrying spears.” My parents dismissed my 3 AM experience as “sleepwalking,” but I knew without question the incident was real. I had even designed an ambush under a streetlight to get a better look at the three-foot tall creatures carrying small glittering spears as they followed me around from house to house. Prior to this experience, I was not allowed to watch TV or go to movies and (to my knowledge) had never seen any images that could have somehow triggered my experience. It wasn’t until later that I first became aware of UFOs and so-called “aliens.” Years later, after becoming involved in researching the subject, I found out a series of these visitations happened to residents of the two towns on either side of Bellevue that same spring of 1963. This nocturnal sighting was the first of numerous events I have experienced that I cannot explain and this has prompted me to read well over one hundred books on the subject.

TZ: Do you have nightmares?

Christopher: Almost never. When I do, they are usually about politicians  <grin>.  After ten years of investigating off-the-scale weirdness, nothing rattles me enough to cause sleepless or nightmare-filled nights. I sleep like a baby.

TZ: How did you go about finding an agent to represent you and have your first two books, The Mysterious Valley and Enter the Valley, published with St. Martin’s Press?

Christopher O’Brien: I never attempted to find an agent as I was referred [to my first literary agency] by a writer friend who recommended me to his agent. She is a well-connected, fast-talking LA schmoozer that calls everyone “honey.”  She assigned me to her top agent who successfully shopped my first book proposal. At the time (1993) UFOs and the paranormal were fairly hot topics generating hundreds of rejected proposals per week. I was told by St. Martin’s that my proposal was selected because they considered my book to be unique enough to potentially become a “mainstay.” A mainstay is a book that stores sell out and then re-order so they always have a copy on their shelves. Seven years after it was published, The Mysterious Valley is in a fifth printing, so maybe they were right.

TZ: When can we expect your third book of the Mysterious Valley series to become available?

Christopher: I’m still researching and conducting interviews for two other books. Part 3 probably won’t be ready for my new agent to shop for another year or two.

TZ: When writing non-fiction books, how much time and work go into the research?

Christopher: Of course it depends on the subject matter, but generally a majority of your work is centered on a researching process that can become quite time-consuming and involved.  In my case, I scoured clean the local newspaper archives of material related to my investigation and read countless books on the subject to learn the languaging, history and nuances of the subject. I find the best place to start is by locating and befriending the people who have already done similar research and compiled archives of information relating to your subject. It makes sense to cherry-pick the work of others for leads on where to go and what to look for. This will save you a lot of time and focus your efforts.  In my case, I contacted three investigators who had been actively investigating the San Luis Valley since the early ‘70s; two journalists whom had written many articles about unusual events in the valley and a local college professor. I also interviewed a famous experiencer who was willing to point me in the right direction for important source material.

 TZ: Would you like to write fictional stories about extraterrestrial beings and other worlds?

Christopher: I’ve never considered writing literary adult fiction in this genre. I think riveting non-fictional subject matter is far more compelling than most ET-inspired fiction. I have a partially completed children’s book, Ziggy: The Spider From Mars, that centers around an immigrant spider and his two housefly friends, Buzzby and Guy. The book is written with the laws of modern physics left intact. In other words, when a flyswatter sizzles through the air faster than the eye can see and thwacks the counter, to the fly it appears to move in slow motion and sounds like a chorus of angry ghosts. I have also co-written a dramatic screenplay inspired by my investigative work that could be called a cross between China Syndrome, Iran-Contra, Close Encounters and Indiana Jones. It finished runner-up in the 1998 Southwest Screenwriter’s Guild Contest.

TZ: What guidelines and rule-of-thumb tips can you offer non-fiction writers who are trying to get their books or articles published?

Christopher: Keep in shape––write every day. Find subjects with the widest possible appeal. Find a fresh, original angle and/or approach to your subject matter. Believe in your motivations and ability. Dazzle a well-connected agent and cultivate professional relationships––It’s not “who ya know” but whom your agent knows that owes them a favor. Be persistent and don’t be dissuaded by rejection of any kind. Persistence alone is omnipotent. Don’t be afraid of being controversial and back up your facts religiously. Offset dry material with humor and always look for irony. Perfect your interviewing technique. Dig, dig, dig and then find a bigger shovel and dig some more.

Here are my suggested rules of investigating the paranormal in the order I realized them (as found in both my books):

Rule #1
Controversial subjects generate polarized responses in the average person.

Rule #2 
Record or write down everything as soon as possible, no matter how inconsequential or insignificant it might seem at the time.

Rule #3 
Always credit your sources and respect requests for anonymity.

Rules #4
Always be ready for anything, anytime. Look for coincidences when investigating claims of the unusual. Often, there may be a synchronistic element at work. 

Rule #5 
It is impossible to be too objective when investigating claims of the unusual.

Rule #6
Always assume there is a mundane explanation until proven extraordinary.      

Rule #7
Appearances can be deceiving. There is always a possibly of more happening than meets the eye.

Rule #8 
If you publicize claims of the unusual, choose your words wisely for your "spin" may have tremendous influence.

Rule #9 
Media coverage of the unusual, because of its sensational nature, is often inaccurate and cannot be accepted as totally accurate by the investigator.

Rule # 10 
The human mind, when faced with the unknown, reverts to basic primal symbols to rationalize its experience.

Rule # 11 
When investigating claims of the unusual, one cannot reach conclusions based on intuition alone. 

Rule #12 
There is a possibility that the (sub)culture itself may co-create manifestations of unexplained, individually-perceived phenomena.

Rule #13
We must be extremely careful not to perpetrate our own beliefs, suspicions or actual experiences into the minds of those who want desperately to have a "special" event happen in their lives.

TZ: Can you tell us a little bit about your work with mayasites.com and the setting up of educational tours of the Yucatan–Home of the Maya?

Christopher: My brother and his girlfriend spent two years visiting the major and many of the minor Mayan archaeological sites of the Yucatan and Chiapas regions of Mexico. Three years ago they established Mayasites Travel and have four of the top Mayan archaeologists leading their tours. I handle the 1-800 phone line here in the U.S. and help clients plan their adventure. I am also helping produce an educational DVD that will reveal compelling new information about Mayan cultural practices. We are presently in pre-production and slated to begin shooting in the late summer.

TZ: What do you like to read for pleasure?

Christopher: UFOlosophy (Jacques Vallee, John Keel, etc.), spy thrillers  (Tom Clancy, Richard Marchinco, etc.), historical fiction (James Clavel, Gary Jennings, etc.), rock and roll biographies, cutting edge science theory, philosophy, books on prophesy, religion, magical working, history, etc. I usually have 4 or 5 books going at once. That way I can always select a book to read depending on my mood at the moment.

TZ: What are your favorite past times?

Christopher: In no particular order: Being inspired by the muse. Reading, writing, arguing politics with my ‘net buddies, composing digital art in Photoshop, writing and recording synthesizer music, producing bands, going to movies, UFOlosophizing with my mentors, exploring roads I’ve never traveled, fishing, golf, listening to the radio, skywatching, hiking, getting a massage, drinking beer while watching football, yelling at the TV while watching corporate news’ (so-called) coverage of world events, blowing peoples minds with facts about life’s hidden mysteries . . . .

 TZ: Being a professional keyboard player/music-producer, do you write song lyrics?

Christopher: Yes. Here’s one about a Wall Street yuppie on the verge of a breakdown . . .

Instant Coffee Karma   (1995)

Instant coffee, sugar if you please nine to five gonna bring you to your knees 
Rise and shine 'cause you ain't done yet
Bet the cellular portion of your intellect 

Big money, information
Rise & shine you ain't done yet
Big monies temptation
Rise and shine you ain't done yet 

Wall street calls in standardly poor index rising you can't be sure nasdaq surfing they'll take your bet buy on time if you ain't bought yet

Rise past the sleepers walk past the zeros move past the risers run past the walkers walk past the movers  drive past the runners  run past the walkers  ride past the limit

Instant coffee karma
Big money, information
Rise & shine you ain't done yet
Big monies temptation 
Rise and shine you ain't done yet 

Wall street potion bring you to your knees, mutual funds night's decadent sleaze, everywhere you go the bells will tease cure the temptation, lure the disease 

Instant coffee karma instant coffee karma instant coffee karma instant coffee karma
Instant coffee karma instant coffee karma instant coffee karma instant coffee karma

TZ: Thank you, Christopher, for taking the time to answer these questions in full and share your song, Instant Coffee Karma. T-Zero readers are sure to enjoy this candid and most informative visit with you.

Continued success in all that you do!

To learn more about Christopher and his work, visit http://tmv.us
To find out more about Maya Sites, visit http://mayasites.com



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Beyond the Textbook The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Beyond the Textbook

Laurie Lupold


Emotion is essential to our lives. Though at times they may not let us feel our best, the miracle of having them allows us to be whom we are. I can remember in my own life feeling expressions that I simply did not want to deal with but in the process of it all life became as stable as it could be and these emotions at times sparked different sides to my creativity that enhanced my growth in writing.

Allowing yourself to feel doesn't have to be a bad thing. There are many people who numb themselves to any sign of emotion and I dare say, none of these people are writers. In some degree we put our hearts into what we are writing and to this point our emotion becomes involved.

If we savor our emotions and express them as we feel them in our writing we can create from that a beautiful art. And also, if we allow ourselves to feel the emotion of the story or poetry we might be creating we give that piece a pertinent sense of detail and reality. It's when we withhold our feelings that our senses begin to wither and we produce what I define as text.

This ideal is fine if you are creating a manual or text for educational or other purposes but if you are creating something, which includes life you must extenuate the tools you were given from birth and devise them into the realms of your creativity. Even the darkest of stories and poetry will become accredited for the talent of the author.

In closing my comment would simply be that becoming a person who allows emotion is becoming a person who feels alive even if at some aspect that feeling is pain. Pain has its own lessons and we reach their goal at some point. In my opinion, if we gain something, than it was worth it.


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Catherine's Kitchen The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Catherine's Kitchen

Catherine Manning

Well, my little birds flew the coop.

It was quick really; or I thought it was, I must have lost time! One morning I was sitting there and one of the parents flew into the nest and for the first time, I heard the baby bird screeching and making lots of noise. I thought it sounded like two babies because of the noise level, but up to now I'm not sure, as they flew away early one morning.

I thought that was really clever of the parents to teach it/them to fly in the early morning when all was quiet in the house, as the windows are always open and it starts to get light by 5 am. So that would have made it easier. I've left the nest as they might use it again and I can now water the plant, which I barely managed to save from dying!

I finally got an approximate count on the turtles (tortoises) and there does seem to be about 60 of all sizes ages etc. from about 30 -35 years old to three months! I can't count the birds, as they multiply daily, and the monkeys have now come from where ever they go when the weather gets chilly and have multiplied again, so the dogs are going bananas.

The monkeys are terrible teasers and love to annoy the dogs, but I hope the dogs don't catch any of them, as it would be a massacre and one that I could do nothing about. I have a rain gauge on the fence and the daily fun for the young monkeys is to take it off and toss it on the ground, so it's now on its last legs. I'm surprised it's still holding water. Guess we all have to have our fun!

The finches are visiting the nest again looking interested, so I'm glad I didn't take it down. Found two more baby turtles this morning so I'll have to keep a check for more; obviously Patra hasn't had all the eggs for breakfast!

I feel sorry for Florida having all that flooding and here are we suffering for lack of water, just a bare 1-1/2" in months. No doubt the same thing will happen here, but I hope not as we lose a lot of soil.

This is late again, so must get it off now. I'm in the middle of cooking things for a friend to put in her freezer as she get in late from work and one of them is...
 

FRICASSEED CHICKEN

This is a general recipe open to adjustment, except for the 2-1 rule. Serves 6.

  • 1 Chicken
  • 1 cup white wine
  • 2 Tbs. Tomato paste
  • Mushrooms
  • 2 medium onions, chopped
  • Olives
  • 2 sweet peppers chopped
  • Salt & pepper
  • 1 Tbs. vinegar
  • Oil for frying 2 cloves garlic
Joint chicken, dip in flour and brown quickly. Set aside. Fry onions, garlic and sweet pepper until golden brown. Pour in 1 pint water and stir in salt, pepper, tomato paste, wine and vinegar. Pour over chicken and cook in a slow oven for two hours. Just before serving, add mushrooms and a few cut-up olives.

My daughter had a dinner party last Saturday night and as usual I had to do the cooking. She doesn't like cooking, so she reckons that why should she bother when I'm here! She wanted fish, so I did...

DOLPHIN IN WINE & MUSHROOM SAUCE  

  • 3-4 lbs fish steaks, cleaned and boned
  • 1 Tbs. chopped chive
  • 1 Tbs. chopped parsley
  • 2-3 cloves garlic chopped
  • Oil for frying
  • Limejuice to taste
  • 1 oz. rum

Season the fish with all the ingredients except oil and marinate in fridge for 1 hour. Fry fish in oil till crisp and golden. Place in baking dish and prepare sauce.

          Sauce

  • 2 Tbs. butter
  • 4 Tbs. flour
  • 1 large onion minced
  • 1-cup milk
  • 1-cup wine
  • Mushrooms
  • 1/2 cup cheddar cheese, grated
  • Parmesan

Melt butter and add flour stirring well and cook for a minute. Add wine to mixture and then milk stirring well to stop lumping. Add onion, mushrooms and cheese and cook over low heat till mixture thickens. Add salt and pepper to taste and correct consistency if necessary with either a little more milk or wine (It shouldn't be too think or too thin). Pour over fish, sprinkle with Parmesan and bake at 400F for about 30 minutes or till done, being careful not to overdo.

For dessert, I always have to do...

CHOCOLATE MOUSSE

  • 4-cups milk
  • 4 eggs separated
  • Vanilla Sugar to taste
  • Cocoa powder, 2-3 large tablespoonfuls mixed with some of the milk.
  • 2 pks. Gelatin
  • Whipping cream

Scald milk in saucepan with a piece of lime skin and the cocoa powder. Beat egg yolks and pour a little milk into them, stirring well and then pour the mixture back into the milk, stir well and cook over a low heat for about a minute, stirring constantly to prevent curdling. Remove from heat and add sugar to taste. Dissolve gelatin in a little water and stir into the cocoa mixture. Add vanilla, strain into serving bowl and cool. Beat egg whites (not too stiff) and fold into mixture with a metal spoon till mixture is smooth. Chill for several hours till set. Whip cream, cover the mousse and decorate. Chill again and serve.

Bon Appetit!
Cath

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Craft of Writing

Celia Jones

Writing to Remember

"It's all like a dream," was my father's response to my question about what it was like looking back on the last 70 years of his life. Now my own daughter is bemoaning the fact that I haven't told her enough about my life, especially my 20s. Since her father and I immigrated to Australia from Berkeley, California, before she was born, she has had to grow up with little extended family or the gatherings that are usually a rich source of family stories. Her grandparents have passed away. Her father died four years ago, and I suppose she feels her connection with my personal and family history is tenuous. So, in my 50s, I felt that I should begin transforming the collage of mental images that represent my past into coherent stories.

As I approached this task, I reflected on something Dorothy Parker said about writing being the process of "applying bottom to seat." So, I sat and sat for hours, playing computer games, reading e-books, surfing publisher sites for contributor guidelines, and not writing one word of my autobiography. I lacked confidence. I regretted not having regularly kept a diary when I was young, and was afraid I wouldn't remember enough detail from my past. Also, since I'm not anyone famous, I wondered if I could write anything that would make a connection to not only my daughter but other readers as well. Would I read this myself? Only if it was genuine with intimate details, but I was uneasy about what I'd find when I started digging and equally uneasy about sharing personal experiences. Writing true tales is a bit like amateur acting: in both cases, your performance can awkwardly expose your vulnerabilities and innermost feelings to the scrutiny of others.

What finally helped me were "memory triggers" – music, photos, and objects through which I could resurrect, in amazing detail, significant events and life experiences – and the ability to stand back and look at these memories as a third person with "me" as one of the main characters.

Stories From Song
My first trigger came via the radio, in the form of the old Carpenters’ song, "We've Only Just Begun."

Appropriately, this was the same song on the car radio that very early morning 34 years ago when my husband and I drove to the airport and took the plane to Reno to get married. That song conjured up from my magic memory box details of the tacky wedding chapel, the Southern minister, and his wife. An old postcard I found in the desk of the Christmas Tree Inn evoked little details of the dark, wood paneled dining room where we sat in front of a roaring stone fire with our brandy balloons and, later, the snug cabin where we spent our "blizzardly" wedding night.

As I wrote, with that song in the background, these memories became not just mental images, but complete stories. So, I wrote "My First Wedding" – not as a memory, but as a short story with a plot, a beginning, and an ending.

Photographic Memories
After seeing how the song and postcard triggered a story, I got out my huge collection of old photos. You can tell so much from the background in a photo, the clothes and, most of all, the body language. Even stiffly posed photos, where people sport fixed smiles, reveal underlying emotions and relationships in the way the subjects arrange themselves and touch or do not touch each other.

A photo of my brother and his new wife taken at his first visit home after his long estrangement was most revealing. In the photo, my brother was standing behind his seated wife, Jane, with his hands on her shoulders, smiling tensely. Though obviously petite in comparison to my brother, it was evident she was the strong one in the relationship, exuding a quiet confidence that things would go well. In the background was the typical disarray of my mother's kitchen, and on a table near Jane were the three homemade cakes she brought for us. Studying this photo gave me a sense of the setting, characters, and emotions. This spurred me to write a story called "The Homecoming," about my brother's reconciliation with our family, and years later, a tribute to my brother's wife on her death, "Jane, as I Remember Her."

Things Past
In Remembrance of Things Past, the French writer Marcel Proust, ill and confined to bed for years, wrote about how a madeleine cake and cup of tea brought alive a wealth of memories: "...so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea." I also found that certain objects helped me recall whole scenes.

The other day, I came across the tassel from my high school graduation, and I suddenly remembered the awards ceremony where my proud parents were secretly summoned to watch me receive a scholarship. It reminded me how this represented an important crossroads, where my parents finally gave their approval for me to pursue an academic course of study at a university instead of the business course they had envisioned for me. That, in turn, led to me writing "My Name is Celia," based on the memory of a summer job as a receptionist for an employment agency following my first year at university. The manager at the agency made me change my name to "Jill" because her last receptionist was Jill, and she couldn't remember to call me by my real name. At the end of the summer, I really appreciated getting back to university academia, where I could be Celia again.

The inspiration for my story "Flying Home" came when my granddaughter, playing dress-up with the hallstand hats, uncovered my father's old tweed flat cap. Fingering the soft wool and the frayed peak of the cap, the years peeled back as I remembered my first European trip as a callow 19-year-old asserting her independence. I remembered how I excitedly scanned the Arrivals crowd, anxiously looking for this hat when I returned from my adventure. Describing my joy at seeing my father, I realized that at that time, I still needed my parents in my life much more than I knew. This piece led to another piece that evoked memories of the trips home from Australia, when that cap and my father were always there to meet me, except for the last time when my father lay dying.

Magic Memory Triggers
By relying on the three magic memory triggers – music, photos and objects – and forming my memories into stories with plots, themes, and endings, I came to see patterns of behavior and glean the significance of the particular incidents of my life. I relived the joys and sadness of those memories and realize that in re-creating my past through the writing process, I am writing to remember. But I'm also leaving something very personal of myself to my children and grandchildren, and perhaps to others who will read these stories and appreciate and identify with them.


About The Author

Celia Jones earned a Bachelor of Arts with Honors at UC-Berkeley in 1969 and immigrated to Australia in 1972, where she gained a Diploma of Education at Monash University, Clayton, Victoria. She worked as an English, French, Drama, Social Studies, and Library high school teacher for 25 years. She has been published in two anthologies: When Parkinson's Strikes Early by Blake-Krebs & Herman, and Voices from the Parking Lot by Greene, Saydler and Kendell. Her booklet called My Spirit Still Sings accompanies a video of the same name on Parkinson's Disease.



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Fiction Short Story The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Fiction Short Story

by Betty Kreier-Lubinski

A Good Day's Work

Jimmy sat motionless, scrutinizing the street from the car he'd stolen two days ago, a plain gray 1985 Chevy that no one would notice. He'd been parked in the grocery store lot for about three hours, tracking everyone who went in or out of the Benton Municipal Bank. Nobody paid attention to nondescript cars in a grocery store parking lot.

Jimmy hadn't always been so careful. He'd spent a good number of years in the state prison because he was too impulsive to think his plans through. By now, he had worked out some pretty good rules to follow. He picked small towns with small banks, like this one in Benton, which usually didn't keep large amounts of money on hand. Jimmy didn't need too much for his purposes. He'd never intended to lead the life of a high roller. Sleepy towns this size seldom had much of a police force––maybe one or two officers who often found settling a friendly spat between neighbors their most serious duty. If they weren't in their office, they'd be cruising around town visiting with the townsfolk.

The Interstate Highway, ideal for a quick getaway, was only a half-mile out of town. He had a set of Wyoming license plates to exchange with the California plates on the car the minute he hit the freeway. He'd stolen them from the You-Pull-It Auto Parts Junkyard, so nobody would report them missing.

Last night, he had barely enough money left to stay in the one motel in town, the Bed Down Awhile Motel on Jackson Street. Fortunately it was raining so he'd come in late with his rain hat and slicker tucked up around his face while he registered. He didn't think the night manager could identify him, but just in case he shaved his beard and mustache off when he got up.

He'd decided to skip breakfast because he didn't want anyone in the restaurant to notice he was an out-of-towner. But this morning he'd had to wait a lot longer than he'd wanted to. He'd hoped for a few more bank customers because a good thief could pick up wallets, watches, and jewelry in addition to the bank money. But almost no one had gone in.

Jimmy stretched as much as he could in the cramped car seat and rubbed his sore muscles. He needed a cup of coffee. He kept nodding off. This waiting around would kill him. A dead man couldn't have rested easy on that lumpy mattress at the motel. His stomach kept growling, and he swore he could eat a horse. He finally decided to break down and go over and get a cup of java and maybe some biscuits and gravy at Grannie Annie's. Enough customers were in the restaurant by now so he shouldn't attract too much attention.

A plump gray-haired lady came right over to his table. "I'm Grannie Annie," she said. "What can I get you today, Mister? You look like you could use a cup of coffee."

"Yesiree," Jimmy answered, "with three sugars in it."

"My, my, you like it sweet, don't you?"

"Never can get too much sugar," Jimmy said.

"Anything else?"

"How are the biscuits and gravy?"

"Best in town!" she said.

"Probably the only ones in town."

She grinned. "Right there, stranger. You just passing through?"

"Yes," he said. "Heading out pretty soon. I want to hit Seattle tonight."

"Kind of a long drive."

"I got plenty of time."

She moved off to take another order, and he watched her go. Friendly lady, but probably not too bright. He'd be willing to bet she didn't even know what color his eyes were.

She served his biscuits and gravy in no time. They were really good––milk gravy with big pieces of sausage, and biscuits fluffy enough to float a battleship. "Hey," he said, after taking his first bite, "these are real good biscuits."

"We're famous for them, stranger. Didn't you notice the sign on the door? People come from miles around here to eat my biscuits and gravy. But that's right. You're not from around these parts, are you?"

"Nope. Never been here before in my life."

"What brings you out our way now? We're a little ways off the beaten path."

"Well, I was tired last night and decided to spend the night in a decent motel bed."

"Been traveling for quite awhile?"

"Yeah. Six weeks or so."

"You a traveling salesman?"

Jimmy's eyes narrowed. "Well, sort of."

"What do you sell?"

"Little bit of everything."

"Like what?"

Jimmy grinned. "You wouldn't be interested."

Grannie said, "Try me. We sell a lot of things in our gift shop."

"Trust me, you wouldn't be interested."

Grannie's friendliness suddenly dissipated. She leaned over closer and whispered, "You're packing a gun. If you're planning to rob this place, I'd better warn you that I'm packing, too, and I'm a better shot than the sheriff in this county. You'd best be forgetting any thoughts you have about robbing me."

"No, no," he stuttered. "It's just for protection when I'm on the road. You never know who you're going to run into."

"Well, just so's you know where I stand."

"Is the Sheriff the only law enforcement officer in town?"

"Yep," she said. "But I keep an eye out for things, too, a little. I'm not as old and decrepit as I look. Pretty spry for sixty."

"I'll bet you are."

"Well, I'd just as soon you finished up and got the heck out of here," she said. "Them guns make me nervous, unless they're mine."

"Sure," he said. He should've stuck to his original plan and skipped breakfast. Now, this old crow could pick him out of a lineup. He stood up and fished out a few dollars to pay for the biscuits and gravy. "I'm out of here," he told Grannie.

After that, he decided there wasn't another moment to waste. He unlocked his car at the grocery parking lot for an easy getaway, and then he walked across the street to the bank. There weren't many people in the lobby, but he decided it would have to do.

He shouted, "Bank robbery! Don't anyone move, and you won't get hurt."

He could hear a big inhalation of air as people gasped when they saw his gun and realized he meant what he said.

Brandishing the pistol, he lined the four customers along one wall and demanded they put their jewelry, watches, and billfolds in the paper sack. "Then, get down and lay your nose flat on the floor. Do what I say, and you won't get hurt."

There were two bank tellers. He handed them each a paper sack. "Put the paper money from your cash drawers in there," he demanded. "Don't bother with the change."

He stood quietly, watchful, alert, waving the gun back and forth between the tellers and the customers. He felt calm and confident, as though he had all the time in the world. He'd noted the Sheriff's car heading west out of town about ten minutes ago in the exact opposite direction he intended to go, so he was pretty sure no one would be bothering him.

When the tellers got through putting the bills into the sacks, he ordered them down on the floor, too. Then he gathered up the sacks and backed out of the bank. Outside the doors, he took his time and ambled across the street, so as not to draw attention.

When he reached the car, though, he threw the sacks in, gunned the motor and got the heck out of there. Half a mile to the junction, and then wheeling free on the Interstate. Not one glitch to his plan. He stopped about a mile out on the freeway to switch the license plates.

While he was kneeling there, busy with his screwdriver, he heard a car roar up behind him and screech to a stop.

"Hands up," a woman growled as she jumped out of her car. "I guess you didn't believe me when I told you I keep an eye on things."

He gave Grannie Annie a dirty look. "Nosy old crow," he mumbled.

"Shut up," she said. "Just keep those hands up over your head. One false move, and I'll plug you. We don't like bank robbers around here."

She reached over and removed the gun from his waistband. Then she pulled his hands down and deftly handcuffed him behind his back. "Get in my car," she said, prodding him in the back with her gun on the way. He was surprised to find it was a real police car. Now, where had she stashed it before so he hadn't noticed it? She opened the back door and, as he started to get in, she pushed his head down so it wouldn't bump the car door. As his eyes came level with Grannie Annie's ample bosom, he saw the Deputy Sheriff's badge pinned on her chest.

She noticed him looking at her badge and snorted, "I'm the Sheriff's wife. I warned you, but you wouldn't listen." She stared at him for a moment, and then added, "What on earth have you got to grin about?"

He didn't try to explain, but just relaxed and grinned some more. This was the most successful bank robbery yet, he decided. Boy, did he have it down to a science, or what? Only six weeks since he last got out of jail. Already he was tired of going hungry, stealing for a living, sleeping in flophouses, wearing dirty clothes, and looking over his shoulder for the cops. At least, jail provided three meals a day, a warm place to sleep, a television set, some books to read, and someone to talk to. He closed his eyes for a short nap, satisfied that this time he really had done a good day's work.

© Copyright 2003 Betty Kreier-Lubinski
 

About the Author:

Betty Kreier-Lubinski has written short stories and articles, which have appeared in T-Zero and RSVP ezines, as well as Futures Mysterious Anthology, Science of Mind, Sunshine, Staff, The Christian Mother, and romance magazines. She is currently working on an ebook of short stories. Betty is a lifetime member of WVU.


T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine
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Fiction Short Story

by Philip Madden

The Messenger Boy

This humourless Austrian with the intense blue eyes and odd moustache, would have been an object of amusement, if he were not so serious about the mad rubbish that spewed from his hate-filled mouth.

For the last two hours Gabriel had had to listen to this cheap demagogue rant about Jews, Communism and German destiny. High on his platform with the Nazi swastika behind him, he bellowed on and on, infecting the audience with his own rage until they could contain themselves no longer. Gabriel had fought the urge to Seig Heil along with the rest of them; he focused his attention on the one he had come to seek out.

His eyes scanned the faces, all of which were trained on the Furher, who was banging his fist, while his face played gymnastics with his features.

There were all different types of people here, fat burghers, tall and gaunt Rhinelanders and stern Prussians. Most of them were fair-skinned and blue-eyed, the ideal Nazi type. All that is, except one.

Gabriel had not noticed him before, and he cursed himself for having missed it, but there he was, the one he was looking for.

He was short and swarthy with a student's intellectual face. An idealist. He had no business here with these fanatics.

Gabriel moved through the throng towards him. He was standing a few rows back so it was not difficult to get near him. The maniac on the stage had just scored another cheer from the crowd, "SEIG HEIL, SEIG HEIL!" Gabriel noticed the student was sweating profusely. He did not observe the tall figure come and stand next to him; he was focused on the Jew-baiter on the stage. He didn't notice Gabriel lift his hand and put it on top of his head, until it was too late.

He saw line after line after line of German soldiers, each wearing the swastika, marching over Europe. He saw them swaggering under the Arch de Triomphe in Paris; he saw them invade Russia, murdering and raping on the way. Entire villages were burned to the ground while children were lined up to be shot in front of their screaming parents, who were held down by laughing Nazis who beat them every time they tried to look away. He saw bombs falling on London, houses burning and people sleeping in underground railway stations with mothers trying to comfort crying children while the old folk told stories. He saw camps filled with starved bodies, piled high one on top of the other. He saw blonde-haired, blue-eyed youths marching on the skulls of the destroyed, making way for the superior German race.

He saw America, rising untouched and safe on the other side of the sea. He saw the mushroom cloud, the most potent symbol for the next fifty years, ascending over a Japanese city where half of the population had been vaporised.

He saw the end, with America ruling the world, Germany destroyed and defeated, Britain victorious but bombed and bankrupt.

He saw American movies, music, clothes, food, attitudes and prejudices shipped around the world, colonised and controlled...

He came to himself. He was aware that he was in a stadium packed with bodies. There was the smell of sweat and body odour hanging in the air. His head hurt and his legs wanted to give way. A hand fell on his arm, strong and tight; it stopped him from falling over. Somewhere a voice was droning on in a high pitched and hysterical tone, inviting the world into his vision of hell on earth.

"You came here to kill him," whispered Gabriel in Hebrew into the student's ear.

Immediately, fear gripped him and he turned to face the figure that was holding his arm. He looked into a pair of eyes that seemed to capture his soul.

"I am not here to hurt you only to show the historical value of the mistake you were going to make," said the voice. "Look Jacob, look at the kingdom of God."

And he did look, he looked deep into those eyes and saw a land drenched in sunlight and abundance, over which flew the blue and white Star of David.

This land was theirs; they had been exiled for so long. For many centuries had they, the chosen people of God, wandered amongst the lands of the Christians and Muslims, hated and disrespected at every opportunity, and now their troubles were over, they had been allowed to come home.

"If you kill him, your people will never see Israel again. You can believe what I say."

"Who are you?" whispered Jacob.

"I am the one who He trusts with messages to all his chosen children."

Jacob's eyes widened and he emitted a little screech. Gabriel touched him on the forehead. Jacob felt a peace flow through his body, but still the madman on the stage was whipping the crowd up into another crescendo of emotion. Before the wave crashed, Gabriel took the gun discreetly from Jacob's pocket and slipped into his own.

"I must be going now Jacob. Peace be with you."

Jacob, with drunken eyes watched him slip away through the crowd. Suddenly, the whole place exploded into a recital of slung-out salutes and chants of, "SEIG HEIL, SEIG HEIL, SEIG HEIL!" Jacob began to laugh and joined in. He looked at the odd man on the stage, arm outstretched, and eyes wild with a fanaticism, focused on some holy duty. Jacob almost loved him. We will go home, he thought, we will go home. "HEIL HITLER, HEIL HITLER!" Jacob was lost amongst all the other lunatics who had lost themselves in a cause.

Gabriel stepped out into the fresh, cold air of the street. There was nobody on the street, but at a signal from Gabriel, a car pulled up. It stopped and the window of the driver's side was wound down. Gabriel looked past the driver into the shadowy darkness of the back seat.

"Well?'" growled a voice in the shadows. Gabriel could make out the outline of a thick frame sitting there.

"It is safe. The message was delivered. Now it is up to your lot to make sure everything else happens."

The figure moved forward, almost into the light. "Do not interfere with things you know nothing of. Do not presume to know our duty, Messenger Boy."

This time the figure did move into the light and Gabriel saw the pits of damnation, the surrender of hope and the death of faith in those orbs that passed for eyes.

Disturbed, he pulled away, back into the street. Suddenly the car kicked into life and drove away. Gabriel was glad to see it go. He never got on with the players on the other side of the game and was happy when, after performing his jobs and making sure they knew what to do, he could remove himself from their company. He looked over his shoulder, back at the stadium he had just left. Another bleat of Seig Heils and Heil Hitlers had broken out. He thought about Hitler and why he had been singled out for the task ahead. Who could take him seriously? With that moustache and that cheap ideology. But then he remembered what Beelzebub had said, "Do not interfere with things you know nothing of, Messenger Boy." And for the first time Gabriel understood why he was only a messenger.

Overhead the clouds hung low and rumbled angrily. A storm was about to break.

© Copyright 2003 Philip Madden
 

About the Author:

Philip Madden is an Englishman currently living and working in Turkey. He has had poems and stories published in a number of magazines.


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Fiction Short Story

by John M. Floyd

A Place in History

"Dr. Benedict?" Lou Rosewood stepped into the laboratory, closed the door behind him, and locked it. "May I have a moment?"

The woman in the white lab coat looked up from her worktable. She seemed to know what was coming. Rosewood was dressed in a baggy gray business suit, a ridiculously wide necktie, and a snap-brim fedora. In one hand was a brown valise with straps and buckles. He looked as if he should be trying to talk Ingrid Bergman into boarding an aircraft in the fog.

"That matter we discussed earlier." he said. "It's time to proceed."

"Mr. Rosewood, I..."

"It's time, Patricia. Have you prepared the machine?"

Benedict sighed. "The machine is ready," she said.

Lou Rosewood stood there a moment in his 1930's suit, studying his lead scientist. In his opinion, Dr. Patricia Benedict was the most brilliant physicist in the free world. She was also a tireless and loyal employee of Rosewood Technologies -- and the only one Lou Rosewood had trusted with knowledge of his secret plan.

"I don't suppose I can talk you out of this," Benedict said. Her concern was written in every line of her face.

This time it was Rosewood who sighed. "I don't expect you to understand, Patricia. This is just something I have to do."

"But, why? You're already a multimillionaire..."

"It's not the money. It's the recognition I want."

"You already have that."

Rosewood shook his head. "You're wrong. A CEO, successful or not, is seldom remembered by the public. It's the celebrities: Tom Hanks, Stephen King, Tiger Woods. They're the ones who'll live forever."

"Immortality," she said. "You think these novels will give you that?"

"They're not just any novels. I'm talking about three of the most popular literary works in the history of the world." Rosewood could actually feel goosebumps on his arms at the very thought. "I've studied them, Patricia, I've read them a hundred times each. I can recreate them, all three of them, almost word-for-word."

"You can steal them, you mean."

"Not if they haven't been written yet."

Benedict's face darkened. "That's the part that bothers me."

"I know." Rosewood stepped closer, laid a hand on her shoulder. "But I have to silence them, you know that. There's no other way."

Benedict swallowed and nodded. They'd been through all this before. The time machine was indeed ready; Benedict herself had taken four test trips, with no apparent ill effects. If Rosewood could go back to a point in time before the great works he had chosen were published, eliminate the three authors, and then write their books under his own name ...

"Do you have everything you need?" she asked. She looked too tired to argue further.

"Right here." Rosewood patted the heavy valise. "Four cases of gold coins."

"And the location?"

"A city park half a mile from downtown Atlanta. The date and time..." he took a slip of paper from his pocket, "will be a weekday during banking hours. Within an hour of landing there, I'll have converted most of the gold to cash. All I'll need then are a pen and paper and a place to write. I already know what publishers they used."

"What year did you decide on?"

He frowned. "That was difficult. Edgar Rollins's book came out in 1937, Michael Zellweiger's in '39, Margaret Mitchell's in '36. At first '35 sounded like a logical choice, but I got to thinking: what if they kept journals, notebooks and versions of early manuscripts? Mitchell, for example, worked on her novel for ten years."

"So you're going earlier?"

"1932," Rosewood said, stepping back to model his outfit. "It's not far enough back to be foolproof, but it should do. They were all first novels, so I doubt the writers told a lot of people about what they were writing. And all three lived in Atlanta. I should be able to eliminate them right away, and then get to work. Even knowing the stories beforehand, I'll need time to get the books written, typed, submitted, and so forth. No computers or word processors back then, you know."

Dr. Benedict seemed to ponder that. "Edgar Rollins would barely be twenty-five years old then," she said sadly. "Mitchell would be what, thirty-two? And Zellweiger..."

"Twenty-seven."

She nodded. "The prime of their lives."

"Don't dwell on that, Patricia. We're talking about the past, remember? They're already dead. And don't give me that argument about the children and grandchildren they are yet to have. The world will do just fine without three fiction writers and their descendants."

"It's still murder, Mr. Rosewood."

"For God's sake, Patricia, I won't be doing it myself. These things can be arranged."

Before Benedict could reply, Rosewood marched over to the machine. "I've left a note in my office," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "As far as anyone knows, I have embarked on a test that somehow went awry. You'll not be blamed––I've taken care of that in my note. I'm leaving you and my wife very well off, by the way." He glanced around. "What do I do? Just get in?"

Benedict pointed. "Get in, stand there, and don't touch the sides of the compartment. And I'll need to dial in your place, date, and time."

Rosewood handed her the slip of paper. While he gingerly stepped inside, she walked across the room to the console and programmed in the information. Minutes later she appeared again, licking the flap of a business envelope.

"Take this," she said. She sealed the envelope and handed it to him. "Put it someplace where you can't lose it."

"What is it?" He tucked it into an inside pocket of his suit coat.

"A remote keypad, and instructions on how to beam yourself back here if you need to."

"I won't need to."

"Keep it anyway," she said. "Just in case."

The two said their goodbyes. Rosewood stood motionless in the glass-enclosed machine as Benedict went back to the computer to press the necessary buttons. A moment later, with a brilliant, sizzling flash of light, Lou Rosewood disappeared. The machine sat humming and empty in the middle of the laboratory. The smell of ozone lingered in the air.

"Bon voyage," Dr. Benedict said, her face solemn.

* * *

Lou Rosewood was mildly surprised when he arrived not in a grassy park but on some kind of metal platform high in the air. Far below him was a large ship, surrounded by a blue-green inlet dotted with similar vessels.

"Well, damn," he said. They had had a few screw-ups like this during the early tests; Benedict had come back once with snapshots of a tropical rainforest instead of the Old West.

Grumbling, Rosewood set his valise down on the metal catwalk and took the envelope from his coat pocket. Inside it he found, sure enough, a credit-card-sized keypad and display, along with a handwritten message.

The note said:

DEAR MR. ROSEWOOD,

I REGRET THIS, BUT I HAD NO CHOICE. DON'T BOTHER TRYING THE KEYPAD—IT DOESN'T WORK. THE DISPLAY, HOWEVER, DOES.

With trembling fingers Rosewood took out the card, looked at the display. It said, in tiny green letters:

LOCATION: SPOTTING TOWER, U.S.S. ARIZONA LAT. 21-21 N, LONG. 157-58 W, OAHU, HAWAII TIME/DATE: 07:53 AM, 12/07/41

While he watched, the time changed to 07:54.

Rosewood stared at it in disbelief, and then understood.

The note was signed, PATRICIA ZELLWEIGER BENEDICT.

As he numbly read the signature a second time, he heard sounds overhead. Distant at first, then growing louder.

Buzzing sounds...

© Copyright 2003 John M. Floyd
 

About the Author:

Mississippi writer John Floyd is the author of more than 400 short stories and fillers in publications such as: Strand Magazine, Grit, Woman's World, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. His stories have been nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and the Derringer Award. John is a former Air Force captain, and recently retired from the IBM Corporation.


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Fiction Short Story

by Robin Flinchum

The Story of my Life

OK, I ask you, is it my fault? Is it my fault the guy leaves his briefcase in the back seat of my cab? It's not my fault. He's back there with some Betty making out and I'm keeping my eyes on the traffic. People think cabbies get a thrill out of watching them get nasty in the back of a cab but the truth is we're generally sick of other people and their bad manners, poor taste, and total insensitivity. It's gross, and I'm not that kind of girl. I don't watch. I just drive. So when we get to the Dentmoor building on Broadway and the two of them slime out and drop me a skimpy tip, I'm not looking to see if he left any personal items behind. I leave the lost underwear for the cleaning crew.

I get a cheap hot dog at a stand down the block –– my usual lunch, and I'm still tasting it when the next fare, a business type, taps on the glass and tells me there's a briefcase on the floor and says he's not riding in the back with an unidentified briefcase. New York is the city of paranoia these days –– like terrorists spent months plotting to blow up my cab, who would care? But maybe he thinks he's important enough to make a good target cause he sure is making a lot of noise about it. So I get out and grab the case and haul it up front. He settles back in his seat. I open the case, snap it shut again as fast as I can, and hit the gas.

"The case is all right?" asks Mr. Paranoid.

"Yeah, it's fine," I answer. "Just a bunch of business crap."

I let the fare out about ten blocks down, near the subway and don't even check to see if he dropped me a tip. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest I'm thinking the whole time he must be able to hear it, but I guess he didn't. I drive the cab to my apartment building. It's all the way across town and normally I'd never do something like that since I have to pay for every click on the meter. But I want to get that briefcase inside where no one else can see it.

With the door shut and bolted on my little studio, I sit down on the saggy bed and pop open that case. It's chock full of money. Money, money, and more money. The sleazy fare with the Betty was so busy getting busy he left behind a suitcase full of it. I didn't spend a whole lot of time wondering what it would be like to be so rich you could let a case full of money slip your mind, but I did try to picture it for a second. Unimaginable. So instead I concentrated on deciding what to do now that it was all in my hands. The guy might forget about it momentarily, but he'd come looking for it soon enough.

Was I going to give it back, or was I going to keep it?

Sure, right about now you're thinking I'd have been stupid to keep it. The guy probably had it marked, they'd find me in a heartbeat, the money didn't belong to me and it was just wrong. You're thinking all that now, but if you were sitting in a shit apartment in a shit neighborhood in New York City with enough currency in your hands to wallpaper the whole tenement, you wouldn't be so quick to think like that.

I'm not the kind of girl who's ever done much worth talking about: haven't taken many risks, been driving a cab since I got out of high school, and never been any farther out of New York than New Jersey. I'm not the kind of girl people remember. I'm plain, in the way I look, the way I talk, the way I live. You couldn't write a book about my life because there would be no plot, no story. If I disappeared this minute, no one would miss me. Hank would miss his cab until he got the cops to track it down. The fare would miss his money until he figured he wasn't getting it back. But no one would miss me.

So I do it. I don't even pack my clothes, just grab a few things out of my important papers drawer, put the money in a less conspicuous duffle bag, and walk out of my apartment. Just like that, it's the end of my life as I'd lived it up until that moment. I take a bus downtown and find a beauty salon and have one of those makeovers done. I'm not much for all that primpy stuff, but I figure I should look different if I'm going to get away with this. And if I'm going to be slapping down a lot of money, I should look like I have a right to it. So after the salon I go into Saks Fifth Avenue and have the sales girls fit me up with the right clothes. I buy some matching luggage to put the clothes in, catch a cab for the airport, and I'm on my way.

I feel ridiculous in the linen skirt suit and heels from Saks but no one questions me.

They call me ma'am and smile politely.

Turns out the world looks different when you're wearing money. I catch the first plane out, which happens to be headed for Las Vegas. It seems the perfect place to go. Of course I probably won't have long before I'm tracked. I have to buy the plane tickets in my own name since I wasn't prepared with a set of fake documents just in case someone dropped a million bucks cash in my lap (I hadn't actually counted it yet, but I was pretty sure it had to be at least that much).

Vegas ... wow! What a place. It's warm and sunny but not muggy like in the city. I'm thinking it's the perfect place to turn over my money fast. I could buy stacks of chips at every casino on the strip and play a little bit, then turn them in for different bills. If I worked fast enough, I might launder all that money before anyone even came looking for it.

Of course, trading in a million dollars in currency is a little more time-consuming than you might think. The casinos have limits on how much you can slap down at a time; guess there are a lot of people get the same idea I had. But once I get started I make pretty good progress. I've gone from the Luxor all the way to the Rio and probably have at least twenty thousand clean money on me.

And that's when the sleazy fare shows up. I'm having dinner in the Top of the World restaurant at the Stratosphere, eating lobster and drinking champagne and planning to have the tiramisu for desert, when he kicks out the empty chair across from me and sits down. You'd think it would scare me enough to make me stop eating, but I tell you I never had food that good in my life. He props his elbows on the table and leans forward but I just kept eating. If this is my last meal, I'm going to make the most of it.

"Where's the chick from the cab?" he asks. And for a minute I don't know what he's talking about. Then I realize he doesn't recognize me.

"Her?" I smile big at him and try batting my eyelashes. It's a new one for me so I'm not sure if I'm doing it right. "I left her in an alley in New York. She was on her way to turn the money in. I figured what a waste! So I took her ID and the money and knocked her on the head. That simple. Champagne?" I picked the bottle out of the ice bucket and motioned for the waiter.

The fare is looking me up and down. He's leaning forward and leaning back again, like he's not sure what tack to take. Intimidate me, kill me, have a good laugh, he can't decide.

"So you kept the money from going to the feds?"

"Sure. I didn't know who it belonged to, I couldn't have brought it back to you, but I knew it didn't belong to the cops."

He smiles then and I feel my shoulders relaxing. He's ugly, kind of greasy in an expensive suit that looks cheap on him, but the smile improves him.

"All right," he says. "You did good. You give the money back, I let you keep little for your trouble, and we call it even." You can tell the guy's got a soft spot for the Bettys.

"And if I don't?" I ask.

"And if you do, I also let you live," he answers, while the waiter pours him out a glass of champagne and pretends not to hear.

"All right," I say, giving a sigh. "Let me finish my dinner and we can catch a cab to my hotel."

He nods with a self-satisfied smirk that makes me want to smack him, but I do the eyelash thing again instead. I finish the lobster and I go for that tiramisu.

"I already cleaned twenty thousand," I say hopefully as we're riding the elevator down, looking out over the whole sprawled-out neon glory of Vegas below us.

"All right, then," he makes one of those expansive gestures. "We'll make it an even fifty. How do you like that?"

Me? I have to tell you I like that just fine. It's no million dollars but fifty thousand is more than I'd have saved in a lifetime and in less than 24 hours I've gone from a hot dog on the corner of Broadway and 57th to lobster at the top of the Stratosphere tower. Throw in a little plot and now it's like the story of my life is just waiting to be written. "Yeah, I like that fine."

So it wasn't my fault the guy left his briefcase in the back of my cab, but it would've been my fault if I hadn't taken the chance when it came. Nobody who can't afford to lose it carries a million in cash, nobody who kept their hands clean making it. So I figure it was fair game. I took the risk and it changed my life.

It doesn't seem safe to go home again, not after all that's happened, but I can't think why I would want to. There's a lot of sunshine out here in the west. That and fifty thousand bucks makes the world seem like a whole different place.

© Copyright 2003 Robin Flinchum
 

About the Author:

Robin Flinchum is a freelance writer living in the Death Valley desert. Her work appears regularly in Las Vegas Life, Las Vegas Weekly and other publications. This is her fiction debut.


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Poetics The Writers' Ezine - T-Zero Xpandizine

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Poetics

Glennis Hobbs

How to Organize a Poetry Workshop

If you belong to a writers' group, sooner or later the subject of a bringing a guest artist in to do a workshop will come up. This can be a very rewarding or a very frustrating experience; but with a little organization and a lot of work, this can be a feasible project.

Discuss what type of a workshop your group wants. Do you want someone who will give a workshop on writing general poetry, free verse, greeting cards, or simply blue pencil sessions? Make sure that your objectives in holding a workshop are clear. Discuss people's needs and what genre seems feasible.

Approach your local public library, arts council, provincial or state writers organizations. They can often provide you with information about finances as well as provide you with names of writers who are available for workshops.

Find out what grants are available. This can often be done through Arts Council or cultural organizations. Grants are often available to cover workshop fees, transportation and accommodation, if not fully, partially.

Work out a detailed budget. This should include artists’ workshop fees, travel expenses, meals, accommodation, rental costs, photocopying costs, etc. Determine what costs your organization will be responsible for and what workshop fee you will need to charge.

Have two or three artists in mind. Then approach your selected artist to see if he/she is available, what his/her fees are, and travel expenses.

Set a tentative date for your workshop.

Now you are ready to apply for a grant. Do not assume that your grant will be approved or that you will receive all the money you ask for.

Assign people tasks. Write everything down no matter how trivial it seems.

Advertise, advertise, advertise

Prepare a press release, with writers’ resume and photo.

Check out your local paper, radio station and cable access TV station. Check to see if there is a provincial or state newsletter or weekly e-mail brief. Make posters and put them up around town. Provide mail and e-mail addresses and a phone number or two if possible..

Get confirmation of everything.

If the artist will do a blue pencil session, remember to select a submission date at least a month in advance so that the artist has a chance to read poems ahead of time. Arrange for a private meeting room.

Consult with the artist about certain details. You may wish to arrange for a local reporter to interview the artist, if he or she wishes to do so. Some artists are very social creatures and others require downtime. Your author may also wish to sell copies of his/her book.

Arrange to meet the artist if he/she is arriving by public transportation. If the artist chooses to drive, try to send a written map and simple detailed instructions. You may even wish to arrange to pick the artist up at his/her accommodation and take him/her to the site of the workshop.

Assign people to help out at the door, give directions, make coffee, greet newcomers and introduce them.

Be sure to take pictures to record your event. Do not tape the workshop without getting permission.

Consider giving out a workshop evaluation format.

Be prepared for the unexpected. All authors are a little crazy.

Enjoy your workshop.
 

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Poetics Presents

Helen V. Lundt

Helen V. Lundt lives in the country in upstate New York. She has always loved writing, and has had a few articles and short stories published in The Coachmen magazine. Her Christmas story, The Orphans and the UFO, was previously published in T-zero.
 

Man's Survival

He's strong, tall and lithe.
Dares elements without fear.
Plunges into oceans roar.
No matter a storm is due.
The mountain cliff inviting,
waves pound its base.

He stands alone against the stone.
Pushes outward, body boldly arched,
dives to darkening water,
where it pools in temptation.

Tastes sea creatures and salt.
Swims to large sharp rocks, air cold
against him, moonlight flickers
on the pool, his skin.

Fire nestled into rock's crevice
gives warmth and heat to cook.
Smoke flavors fish.
His mouth fills with saliva,
hungry for survival.
He is Man.

Copyright © 2003 Helen V. Lundt


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Poetics Presents

L.A. Boden

L.A. Boden is a graduate of Carnegie Mellon Institute of the Arts with a BA in Fine Arts, and currently teaches art to children. She is a muralist, specializing in 'fantasy art' and 'botannica', and ais working on her fifth novel.
 

Unknown

A pinpoint of light
In the eternal void before me,
Beacon of hope or despair
Who can know?
Only one must hurry toward it,
Curious to discover the truth
Behind the beckoning,
The promise of something more.
Tunnel of hope
Spiraling out into the distance,
Unknown trail to blaze;
And hidden ghosts -
Or demons or angels
Abide within the wreckage
Of foliage once green
With love and trust and desire.
Now is the gift
The lady or the tiger?
Who can know?
I am only the runner,
And seeing ahead
That pinpoint of light,
I must move on.

Copyright © 2003 by L. A. Boden


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Recognitions

Joan McNulty Pulver

Welcome to Recognitions, a column dedicated to proclaim the writing successes of Writers' Village University members!

Herbert Holeman's short story, Forsight, appeared at The Writer's Hood in May. His other accomplishments include publication in Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine, the Web Ezine, and Electronic Writers Presents Without a Clue.

After retiring as Colonel in the Army, Herb became a beat cop, criminal investigator, and crimes analyst. He also gained research experience in the field of corrections after earning his Ph.D. and is now following his avocation of being a neophyte mystery writer. Herb joined WVU right after taking Fiction 98, now F2K, which is a free creative writing class at WVU. "I took the New Dimensions in Writing class at WVU in 1999. I'm a member of the Flash Fiction group and have also enjoyed posting in the Hemingway Writers and Mystery Writers groups. The writing assignment I completed for Lesson 6 of F2K was subsequently published in the print magazine, Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine."

A mentor in the F2K program, Herb likes helping others learn to write. "I've enjoyed being an F2K mentor since taking the class myself in 1998. Keeping in sync with the basic elements of writing covered in F2K is the best way for me to hone my own writing skills."

Herb is a member of the Mystery Writers of America and has also published several nonfiction articles in publications for such prestigious organizations as the Department of Justice and the National Institute of Corrections. He has also been responsible for writing successful grant applications for community-based programs.

Darlene Duncan, author of Life Is Full Of Surprises, self-published the book. "Self-publishing was a learning experience. There is more to self-publishing than simply sending your book to a printer and telling them how many copies you want. For starters, you have to get the book into software the printer can work with, such as, Adobe PageMaker or Quark Xpress. There are others but these are two of the most commonly used. The day the semi-truck pulled up in front of my house with forty-four boxes of Life Is Full Of Surprises, my heart raced and I bounced around like a kid who just received the perfect Christmas present. My life partner is a big part of why my dream of being published has come true. Charlotte believes in me and is my biggest fan." The book can be purchased at: Author’s Den.

After doing the math and calculating that she would only make pennies on each book sold through a traditional publisher and would still be expected to do marketing and selling, Darlene opted for a less traditional route and established her own publishing company, formatted the manuscript, acquired the ISBNs, hired the photographer and the graphic artist for the cover, requested quotes from printers and self-published. "As a member of AuthorsDen, I am selling Life Is Full Of Surprises through my bookstore at http://www.authorsden.com/darleneduncan. I have also contacted independent bookstores statewide and will have a table set up at a local (Daytona Beach, FL) event in June."

Although Darlene doesn't remember exactly when she joined WVU; she believes it was in 1995. When lifetime memberships were offered, Darlene jumped on the opportunity. She currently belongs to two study groups, Passion for Prose and Lambda Writers. "WVU has provided me with the opportunity to receive feedback from writers all over the world and to read the work of writers from all over the world. My first mentor at WVU put me in touch with the publisher who put out my first book.” Darlene’s three e-books, Life Is Full Of Surprises, The Origin of Deanna Dorak and Aneesha's Prophecy, are with that publisher. "I also have a short story in the anthology, Shards. All profits from Shards go to benefit breast cancer research."

Joanne W. Oemig’s story, What Part Of WHOA Don't You Understand?, published in November, 2002, is a humorous story based on horse training escapades. She also wrote Spooked, a story about horse/human friendships and the ramifications of caring for these wonderful animals to be published in the near future. Western Rider publishes them both in the UK. This publication is geared to encouraging good horsemanship and promoting the welfare of horses.

“Upon finding out that my story would be published, I felt an overwhelming sense of validation particularly following the acceptance of the second story. I'm seeing results from steady work and concentration, and that sparks more energy and determination for future writing.”

Joanne joined WVU three years ago after taking F2K and is now a lifetime member. She belongs to the study group Crime and Punishment and served as a facilitator for the WVU course, Preparing for the Novel.

“I wouldn't be writing and publishing if it hadn't been for WVU. The F2K class was experimental for me—to see if I had the talent and discipline to write. Publication wasn't even a consideration at that point. Through the support of friends here at WVU (and an occasional kick to get me going), I began submitting work. It wasn't long before I sold three articles to a music education magazine. Since then other stories and articles have sold, and now I find myself launched in a direction I never dreamed possible. I wouldn't have taken the step toward publication without the encouragement of my friends at WVU. Cindi and Pamela, thank you!”

Joanne is juggling writing with a full-time music career, homemaking, and horse training. “I tell my writing friends who are in the mid-story pain and panic of writing a novel that when their novels have been on the New York Times Best Seller List for 40 weeks straight, I'll still be writing horse stories! You know what, though? I couldn't be happier.”

Teresa L. Trotter, author of O-ie, literally jumped up and down and screamed for joy when she found out that her story would be published in the first issue of Weird Tales new magazine called H.P. Lovecraft’s Magazine of Horror. “I immediately phoned my family and friends.”

Teresa joined WVU in November of 2002 after taking the F2K course. “I have learned new techniques, especially in the Horror Writing class. There I picked up the textbook for the class and found that Mort Castle and I live near each other, and I called him. It was the day I found out I was being published and he called me a peer and said I had arrived. It was a great experience! The class itself helped me to write a new story and also gave me wonderful feedback. I found out that I could submit [to T-Zero] and had a poem accepted for publishing. It is called My Choice. That was great for me because it was a poem for my children. WVU has been just about the best experience of learning I have been able to use for my career.”

Teresa loves writing horror, but dabbles in just about everything. She is a stay-at-home, single, adoptive mother of a 3 and 4 year old. “They keep me too busy right now to do much else than be a mommie, but I write as often as I can. A laptop in the living room helps.”

Jean Kinsey's true-life story, Faith to Share, is based on her experiences and struggles in taking care of her husband during a long illness. “I told how my faith in God held us together and eventually led to the remission of his cancer.” The story will be published in Radiant Life in the fall of 2005. “I was surprised when I learned Radiant Life had accepted my story. It was the first magazine I submitted it to, and I had never heard of Radiant Life before. I chose it because it paid well.” Radiant Life is published by Gospel Publishing Company. More information can be found about the publication at http://www.radiantlife.org.

Jean joined WVU in 1998 and took the Fiction 98 creative writing course. Her husband's illness demanded so much of Jean’s time that she became inactive in the Time Trading Nortonians Rule study group. “When I go back and look at my writing before WVU, I can see just how much WVU has helped, as I laugh at all the passive verbs and the flowery adjectives and adverbs. My friends in TTNR critiqued my first published-for-pay story.”

Jean began writing in high school but put it on a shelf in lieu of the business of life. Now, at 62, writing is her life. “I haven't excelled in writing, but I find it to be a good hobby and a bit of money now and then doesn't hurt. I have had a few stories published in e-zines. I write a bi-monthly column for the newsletter, FACES. My greatest accomplishment was when Chicken Soup published one of my stories this spring. I have three novels working, but I don't see an end to them soon.”

Jean debated if she should purchase the monthly listings of Writer's Market on the Web. “I decided I'd do it for one month. The very first market bought Faith to Share. It was accepted within a week. That will pay for several years of Writer's Market.”

J.A. Short, recently published author of A Gentleman's Tale, currently calls both Arizona and California home. Her fascination with Victorian literature and norms not only makes the story exciting, but an experience to remember as well. “I entered an excerpt of A Gentleman's Tale in the 2002 F2K short story contest and it had won in the readers' voting poll. It confirmed to me that this story closest to my heart also affected other readers as well. However, since the book was to be published, I had to withdraw it [from the contest]. I thank F2K for being really understanding about that.”

Jo took the F2K class in 2002. “I was entered into the incredibly talented Onstaders study group, under the wonderful and impressive writer, Melissa Anne Hatten.” After F2K, Jo joined Writers’ Village University. “WVU gave me solid friendships with really talented writers. It also gave me the confidence and inspiration to keep going with my own writing abilities. The courses alone at that I took were a very good investment.”

For more information about A Gentleman's Tale, visit her site, Vibrantbooks. ”I love writing and like to think and believe the writing fork etched on my right palm came to be because of it (rather than the other way round). Goodness knows I've had to work on craft as well as everyone else to attain a solid development both as a writer and storyteller. :)  I am very grateful to my family, friends and other people I know for being a part of my life and helping me get to where I am today.”

Congratulations, Herb, Darlene, Joanne, Theresa, Jean and Jo. We wish you continued success in all your writing endeavors.

We look forward to reading about your writing accomplishments in this column. If you or someone you know received recognition for writing, please send the information to recognitions@wvu.org.  Let us know!


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Signs of Life

Nancy L. Horner

Car Wars III or "Not Another Old Car Story!"

We're beginning to think our car problems may not be limited to the concept of age, wear and tear. There may be a bit of bad luck involved.

Our dead Nissan was revived for approximately six months before it keeled over, again. This left us with three cars, which is a pretty good deal when you have three drivers ... unless something goes wrong.

We had just managed to get the Mazda's CV joint repaired when the Honda began to show signs of the same problem. As it got worse, the car began to creak at every turn and I commenced husband-pestering in the hopes of getting the Honda repaired, as well.

"It's embarrassing," I told him. "I pass John the Security Guard at the school and wave to him while my car's going creak, creak, creak around the corner. I've actually seen him cringe as I pass by."

"We'll get it fixed soon," David said. "After we pay for the termite treatment." He was referring to the expensive poisoning job we had to have after our home was partially flooded and David subsequently bumped a bed frame into the window sash while moving furniture out of a flooded room, promptly caving in the rotted wood and exposing the nasty critters. That's a story in and of itself, but there was a bit of irony in the fact that I wrote a column on having a sense of humor about insects just prior to the discovery that a whole tribe of them were chewing on the walls of our home.

The gist of the matter was that we'd been walloped with some unexpected major expenses and the car repairs had to wait. I exercised admirable patience, I thought, until the day David walked in and announced that he was going to get the van's CV joint repaired.

"Why?" I asked. "What about my Honda?"

"It's my Honda," our 11-year-old interjected as he walked through the room. I should have told him that in that case, he could pay for the repair.

David waited till Will exited the room to respond. "I don't think the van's repair is going to be as extensive, so I want to get it taken care of first."

I growled a little and dropped the subject. A few days later, the Honda refused to start up while I was sitting in the pick-up line at school. I called my husband and he made a few suggestions which the car apparently overheard, thereby encouraging it to grudgingly crank up on the ninth attempt. I hoped the refusal to start was a fluke.

The following day, I slid into the Honda, cranked it up and observed that the speedometer stayed firmly locked at zero regardless of the car's speed. The van was in the shop, by then. I pointed out the dead speedometer when I picked David up for lunch.

He sighed. "You've got to be kidding."

"I kid you not," I said. "Remember the Monza? It's funny that a car that had a horrible reputation was such a great car and this one's such a disaster. At least in the Monza, the speedometer would leap back on when I went through a speed trap. I always appreciated that."

He didn't laugh.

Two days later, I drove to a friend's house to pick her up for a walk in the park. When we returned to the car, it refused to start, again. So, the following day, I insisted that my husband and I trade vehicles. I'd had enough of the car dying on me and the van was supposedly back to working order. With a husband about to leave town on business, I needed the most reliable car available.

David drove to the airport in the Honda the next morning, while I hopped into the van with William to leave for school.

"Why doesn't this car have a rearview mirror?" Will asked as we headed up the street.

I looked up at the windshield. Sure enough, the rearview mirror had disappeared. It wasn't lying on the dash and we were already in motion, so I was unable to search for the missing mirror.

"Well, it's supposed to have one," I told him. "Look around the floor and see if you can find it."

"Yep," Will said, picking up the mirror. The entire mirror unit had fallen off, leaving behind a clear adhesive patch without any adhesive. Ye gads.

I later jury-rigged a temporary sling for the mirror, attaching it to the visors with some rubber bands. I had to reach up and toggle the mirror into viewing position to check my back view—so it wasn't exactly something McGyver would come up with—but the temporary sling was better than totally doing without a rearview mirror or alternately holding the displaced mirror in my lap and lifting it every time I needed to catch a glimpse of my back side.

When David called from Michigan, I told him about the mirror. He sighed loudly. I could tell even David was thinking he wouldn't be able to get away with not buying a new car, much longer.

"Nan," he said with a particularly weary tone, "could you do me a favor?"

"Like what?"

"Could you stop driving my cars? I think," he told me, "you're just bad luck."

That may be true, I thought to myself. But I'm willing to test that theory on a new car.


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Writer's Group: Ideas For Staying Productive


Each week, the editors behind T-Zero's Craft section get blitzed by queries (thank you) and unsolicited completed manuscripts (thanks, but queries are the best way to get our attention). In sifting through the material that comes to us, we often stumble across helpful hints and suggestions from writers –– pieces that deliver a lot of value in a little bit of space. Sometimes, we get a query (or completed manuscript) that rubs too close to subject matter we've recently covered, but has one section that catches our attention and makes us want to publish just that.

So we introduce the Writer's Group series, which will convene from time to time as we discover golden nuggets (like the ones below) that are just too good to not share. Please note, though, that this is not a regular section for which we're soliciting submissions solely meant for the Writer's Group. For the time being, the series is more like an "Editor's Choice," a byproduct of our selection process for material.


Keeping An Old Corpse Fresh –– Jennifer Ruszin
Your house is silent, void of the tip-tap song from your fingers working the keyboard. You've taken out the trash, cleaned the garage, and, from your window, watched the neighbor's dog drop a present on your lawn. You're not procrastinating; you're just stuck inside the emptiness of your own head.

Whether it's the middle of a story, thinking up a smash ending, or just trying to find an idea to start with, it's not uncommon to struggle while finding new ideas. The dried-up-old-brain syndrome can seem like a horrible affliction. But there's hope, and it can be cured –– or at least treated during a flare-up.

Instant Relaxation/Instant Brain Re-hydration. My best ideas come to me when I'm soaking in the bathtub, up to my neck in bubbles. This isn't the most convenient, neatest, or driest method, especially if you've got children running in and out of your house and the phone ringing. It also doesn't work too well if your wife is in the tub with you.

Internet Voodoo. When I'm bored and I can't stand to read another one of my own sentences, I stop and hit the search engines. It's amazing what Google can find with keywords like "bizarre news" and "spiders in ears." I also frequent theshadowlands.net, a Web site full of ghostly goodies for that paranormal craving every horror writer gets once in awhile.

True Family Fallacies. Think about the stories Grammy used to tell you. Remember the one about creepy Cousin Ed? Or how about that olive green lamp that you threw in the basement? It's a family heirloom, right? Family can be a great inspiration -- both extended and immediate relatives. I know of several writer-moms who have been inspired by the sometimes evil behavior of their children. (NOTE: You should never use the real names of your inspiration, or you might find razors hidden in Grammy's holiday fudge!)

Word Potion Pick-Me-Up.  Read. Go to your bookshelf and read a few chapters from your favorite author.

Bewitching Watching. Ah, the powers of observation. I can't count how many times I've found ideas while watching the parents in the parking lot when I'm waiting to pick my children up from school; I have an entire poem devoted to a mother who was smoking in her minivan. You can observe human nature wherever there are people, even at the grocery store. I'm nosy, I'll admit it; I look in everyone else's shopping cart. There hasn't been a time that I've looked in there and not found something that I consider weird. How about a 45-year-old man who has bikini wax in his basket? Where's he going with that?

Now you have a few prescriptions to resuscitate the muse. Take two and don't call me in the morning. I'll be at the grocery store.


Make Your Characters Keep The Reader Awake –– James Hall
Have you ever read fiction in which the characters made your mind wander and your eyelids drop shut before you could turn a page? I have. Does this suggest how important characters are in a story?

Why do some characters come alive on the page, and some put you to sleep? To answer that, you only need remember where the characters came from.

You will find many recommendations from writers who write about writing, and suggest ways to make your characters real. I don't write about writing. I write about people. My viewpoint, then, is a bit different.

I tried many recipes for creating characters. I filled forms with date of birth, education, work history, character traits, details about appearance, family histories, and much more. This left me with lots of forms filled with disjointed information about someone I didn't know. I used index cards, a separate set for each character, with jotted notes about the previous information. I filled shoeboxes with such cards. All this gave me was a lot of shoeboxes filled with a lot of cards.

Along the way, I developed the discipline of writing something every day. I put words together on paper or in a computer file. I do some of this every day, unless circumstances make it impossible. On a normal day, I write something. A line on my business cards reminds me of this: A writer is someone who wrote something TODAY.

I found a way to make this discipline help me understand the people in my stories. At one point in my life, I considered becoming an actor. I had several roles in plays and became interested in the craft. It dawned on me that the writer of fiction does what the director of a play does. The director teaches actors to be someone they are not. The writer of fiction teaches his characters how to become the people he needs to tell his story.

How do I accomplish this? I assume the persona of a character and write his diary. While I do this, the character examines his relationships with others. He wonders about what these others have going between them. This gives me what I need to craft a story. It also satisfies the requirement that I put on myself to write something TODAY.

To write a scene involving two or more of the people I have pretended to be, I simply reread their diaries and start writing, knowing what these people will feel, what they are likely to say, and what they are trying to do. I know all that because they told me their secrets while I wrote their diaries. That's how you get characters that keep your readers' eyes wide open and his thumb turning the pages.


The Importance of Being Prepared –– Donna Sundblad
If you are serious about making writing a priority in your life, it is important to be prepared by keeping your writing tools available at all times. Something as basic as a pad of paper and pen can make the difference between capturing a new idea or allowing it to dissipate amid a mind cluttered with thoughts of everyday routines and commitments.

What do you do when you climb into bed without a pad nearby, get settled, and come up with the character name you've been looking for, the perfect title, or the answer to a plot twist? When you are not prepared, chances are you will trust your memory instead of getting up to search for a pen and paper. The problem is that most times, the idea is erased from our memories when we welcome the new day. The lack of preparation will cause a delay in the completion of your composition.

As a writer, it's important to be a reader, but it is imperative you do not allow your time to write to be overtaken by your voracious appetite to finish a good book (even a good book on improving your writing skills). A basic tool of any good writer is time set aside to write. If you don't plan, your time will be consumed by the events of everyday life. I do not own a laptop, so one thing I have found helpful in making the best use of my time is to carry a hard copy of a few of my current projects in my briefcase. The briefcase is flat and serves as a portable desktop when I am forced to wait in the car or dentist's office.

Once you develop a pattern of preparation in the use of time and the collection of your ideas, your tools become more tangible. A computer is a must in this day and age. Most word processing software comes equipped with a spell checker and a thesaurus. Use them. But, even with these technological advances, a good dictionary and comprehensive thesaurus are recommended tools. An online resource that offers both a dictionary and an extensive thesaurus can be found at http://dictionary.reference.com.

The thing to consider when purchasing online resources is that you will have to renew your membership, in contrast to owning hard copies that will be available on your bookshelf for years to come.

One last word of instruction is to know your market. You can write an error-free, perfectly written piece, but if you submit it to an incorrect market it won't be considered. The best source for information I have found to direct you to the right person at the right place is the Writer's Market. This book includes specific editorial needs and submission guidelines, and is available in hard copy or online at http://www.writersmarket.



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Writer's Read

Wynelda-Ann Shelton

The Eyre Affair

The Eyre Affair
By Jasper Fforde
Penguin USA, 2001
ISBN 0142001805
$14.00 Paperback

There is nothing as satisfying as getting lost in a good book. Except, perhaps, when the aforementioned book lets you suspend all disbelief, get lost in a few good books on the way, and spend time in an alternate history. You can do all three in The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde.

Thursday Next, a Special Operative in literary detection, is the heroine of The Eyre Affair. Hades, the third most wanted criminal, is stealing characters from novels and killing them off. To make matters worse, he is stealing them from the original manuscripts which means that all versions of that book will change accordingly.

The book has several references to the known history of the world, with character names such as Braxton Hicks and good old uncle Mycroft. One of the best scenes for bibliophiles is an audience participation version of Shakespeare’s Richard III. Think Rocky Horror meets Shakespeare. Think side splittingly funny. This is one show that I would love to attend.

But where this novel excels is in bringing characters from another work into the world of Thursday Next. This is something that is often attempted, but not always done so well. In order to accomplish this with characters that are so well known (Jane Eyre and Rochester) requires not only careful planning but also a deep understanding of the work and characters being used.

Careful planning, because there are copyright issues. Fforde mentions on his website that he only uses books that are in the public domain. The works of Shakespeare and Bronte and many others can be used with out worrying about copyright infringement and the messy lawsuits that can ensue, or paying royalties to another after gaining permission to use their creations.

But there is another reason for using such works. The Eyre Affair is immediately recognizable whether you have read the book or not. Most people have heard of Shakespeare and his plays, even if they haven’t seen one performed or read one in school. Works associated with being in the “cannon” have entered into the collective consciousness of pop culture.

Their very popularity poses a different problem for the author that would use another’s work for his own. The characters in these novels and plays are so well known that many people will raise a fuss if they don’t act, well, in character. That’s not to say that Fforde doesn’t have fun with the books or the characters, he does. The original ending of Jane Eyre as posed in The Eyre Affair is something to behold. However, by the end of the novel the ending has all been sorted out into the ending familiar to so many readers.

The plot line has already arced, the characters been sketched. But when a talented writer sets out to weave those elements with his own, it is a wondrous tapestry for the reader.


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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