Saturday, February 20, 2010

Contest Conundrum...

Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. Obviously, I didn't consider the possibility of a tie. I've been giving some thought to the fair solution, and I've come up with an idea I think will work. We're going to have a tie-breaker. Later today I will post the instructions on what the two top entries need to do in order to determine our winner.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Finalists Are Listed Below

What a great job of critiquing!

Lots of helpful comments. Thanks to all who entered and provided their constructive opinions and suggestions. The nine finalists are listed below. Please read them and vote for your favorite. The new voting booth is open now and will remain open until 10:00 p.m. CST on Friday, February 19, 2010, when the winner will be announced (and obvious if you look at the numbers.)

Entry 1

THE YELLOW NOTEBOOK

Considering the fact that I am scheduled to die tomorrow, some people think that my happiness at winning a contest is irrelevant.

Morons.

This wasn’t just any contest, this was the contest. Everything in my life was just building towards that one moment when I would finally be recognized for the genius I am. Now I have been recognized as such, so who cares if I’m about to be strapped onto a table, connected to an electrocardiogram, and injected with potassium chloride? The way I see things, I lived for this moment, so now that I’ve got it, I might as well die as live.

Of course, I never really planned things to happen like this. I never wanted to kill her. It wasn’t in the plan.

Entry 3

CROSSROADS

Jenna Lyons knew it would happen. She had come to count on it as something that was fated or, perhaps, due to the alignment of something more astrological in nature. From the moment dread began to weave itself into a heavy cloak around her body, tightening its grip on her until she felt suffocated and out of breath, she knew she was hurtling toward the crossroads of a major turning point in her life, just as sure as she was driving down a desolate stretch of Missouri highway. She’d traveled for long miles and equally long minutes without seeing so much as another car or house in the distant fields, let alone a sign or exit ramp that would lead her to a gas pump. So when her little toy of a car began to sputter, it came as no real surprise. She coaxed the car to the shoulder of the road with finesse, threw it in park, and wondered, not for the first time, what the Hell she was doing so far from home.

Entry 7

STREETS FOR DEAD

Outside the state hospital, the dead gathered.  They peered up at my caged window even when I chose not to look out.
    
“Tomlinson, Francis?”
    
I nodded and continued lacing my boots.
    
“Here are the medications the doctor ordered.  Now please remember to take them everyday so we don’t have another episode.  Ok?”
    
“Yes, I will.”  No, I won’t.
    
She ran a scanner over my wrist.  It beeped, confirming I was one of the watched.  Not everyone had chips in them, just a lucky few.
    
“This is your sixth time here, young lady.  How about we try not to make it a seventh?  You’re running out of chances to obey the directive.  Surgery is next.”
    
“But I like it here.”
    
The lanky woman handed me a paper bag of the possessions I’d had three days ago when the police dropped me off.  The carton of orange juice was ruined and all the items in my wallet had been removed and carefully put back.
    
“I’m sure you don’t.  The hallucinations should all be gone.  If you continue to take your medications you won’t be bothered by them again and neither will anyone else.  Do you understand?” 

I did, but it changed nothing.

Entry 12

THE FIFTH WORLD

July 14, 1034, The Yucatan Peninsula

Balaam wasn’t expecting his world to fall apart that day. Of course, an apocalypse can put a dent in the best of plans.

As he passed under the sacred arch leading to the temple, the smell of carrion reached his nostrils. He wiped his face, as if to dispel the odor, and his hands came away covered with grime and sweat. His legs felt heavy moving up the weathered stone steps, and he knew it wasn't all due to fatigue from his twelve hour journey. The stench increased, his heart started beating faster, and he wondered if they were dead already. As he gazed into the central courtyard from the top step, he stopped wondering.

The bodies adorned the grassy space as if arranged with a purpose. Some were seated, some lay on their backs in a pose resembling sleep. But this was no siesta. Even from where he stood, he could tell they were dead. The signs of the great sickness were on them, the dried skin and shriveled flesh.

Balaam dropped to his knees, and his moan shattered the humid silence. The birds on the arch took to the sky.

Entry 15

THE KILLER WHO LOVES ME

       The smell of rubbing alcohol wafted through the school nurse’s office. Too bad it wasn’t the other kind after the day I’d had. Not that I’d ever drink after my father tried to drown me in rum and Cokes last year—on pain meds no less. I moved my fingers across the crisp white sheets of the cot that the strange nurse had put me on. Not that she was weird or anything, just that I’d never seen her at Roosevelt High.
       The nurse leaned over my swollen head. Her nasty cigarette breath made me turn my face away. “How you feeling, Dylan?”
       I shrugged. Dylan. I was having the hardest time getting used to my new name. I wished I could go back to being Ben Smith. At least Dylan Jones was better than Bompsy Carleffa. What a freaking nightmare—even if it was my real name. Whatever it took to stay alive.
       The nurse opened a refrigerator, pulled out a pointy needle, and gave it a finger thump.
       I pushed myself up on my elbows. “What’s the needle for?”
       She gave a crooked smile. “This won’t hurt a bit—Mr. Carleffa.”

Entry 18

THE GLASS MYSTERY

I won’t be able to read these words in the morning. Numerous shots of vodka have done little to steady my hand, although my thoughts have been pleasantly seduced. A dinner party with the leader of Russia, my favorite liquor induced fantasy, is begging for center stage on the outskirts of consciousness. I toy with it, placing the imaginary call to my housekeeper who’ll run over to Dorogomilovsky Market with the list of ingredients for the first course.

I’ve never imagined blood could spray so far or so fast from a swiftly opened throat. How would I know? I’m a desk jockey at the Embassy, an outside hire, not part of the official Foreign Service.

My friend says only men can cook meat properly, so I’ve invited him to the party to handle the roast. I saw the suckling pig he’d killed last New Year’s and curled at the bottom of a red plastic bucket. Such a tender tableau, it looked as if it slept rather than marinated. Later that evening, I warmed my hands over a make-shift barbeque haphazardly thrown together in the middle of a snow-covered parking lot. Toward midnight, our party continued upstairs in the kitchen of a spa abandoned after the Fall. I savored a bite of the crisp roasted skin of the butchered animal before heading downstairs to the sauna and the algae covered ice cold pool.

The rosettes in the snow surrounding the woman’s body attested to the amazing projectile strength of blood. Perfectly formed rosebuds as succulently red as the beads on the rosary I bought in Paris the year before.

Entry 19

REVENGE OF THE PINK GRANNY PANTIES

I walked into math class and scoped out the sub.

Easy prey.

What little life this loser had was about to get a whole lot worse.

Mrs. Billet, our math teacher, had finally had her kid and was home changing diapers for a month.  We were on our second sub of the week, and Foster F. Finkman made it his job to upset subs.

I was his partner in crime.

Mr. Thompson was the victim of a bad brown toupee.  It looked like Grunt, my guinea pig.  This teacher wannabe was somewhere between thirty and fifty, had braces and breath that would kill a camel.  I'd had him as a sub since kindergarten, and he hadn't changed a bit.  Except for the braces.

Toupee Thompson knew all of us at Harly Middle School by name.  It isn't a big school, since Harly, Oklahoma isn't a big town.  So when Camel Slayer noticed Finkman was new, the sub flashed a silvery smile and squeaked, "What's your name, young man?"

Finkman stood and squeaked back, "Foster Florentine Finkman.  And I hope you don't mind me asking, but is that your real hair?"

Entry 20

MIDNIGHT KNOCKING

Everyone jokes about the little Devil and Angel on their shoulders.  My problem is that I actually have them.

They’re annoying as hell, but they’re also very persuasive.

To make matters worse, I sleepwalk, and those two never sleep.  I’m never entirely sure where I’ve been or what I’ve done.

Which is why I couldn’t entirely convince myself I wasn’t guilty when a body showed up with my fingerprints on it.

Entry 27

BEQUEST

Whether the corn crop failed was of no real consequence to Sam Warner. He had not fretted over such things since his sharecropping days. And, since eight of his twelve acres were rich with pine timber, if the harvest was light, he would simply sell off of few cords of wood and keep right on keeping on.

What troubled him on the coldest spring morning in nearly twenty years was not the fate of a few ears of corn. What troubled him was his daughter’s letter. All night he had wrestled with it, several times giving serious consideration to waking his wife and telling her again how lowdown her daughter was acting. Only God himself could tell where Lilly had come upon such roguish ways.

It had been three years since she had set foot on Alabama soil. Three years since she had laid eyes on her own child. And now, with little more than a week’s warning, she was coming home and carrying on about some big surprise.

Sam had a farm to run. Visibly annoyed, he got up and went out to the kitchen. It was there that he realized how much the temperature had actually dropped.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Contest entries are posted!

We received 27 entries in our HOOK ME contest. Thanks to everyone who entered and shared their work with us. The entries are listed below, with no particular criteria other than the order in which they were received. In order to keep everything organized, I have divided the entries into three groups: 1-9, 10-18, and 19-27. If you entered, please comment on at least five entries in each group. Since we will be voting for the favorite in each group, it really wouldn't be fair to vote unless you read all of them, so please do that before casting your vote for the favorite in that group. If you'd like to comment on each one, that would be great, too.

To be repetitive, let me repeat. After reading the entries in the group, please cast your vote for your favorite in that group. The voting booths are located on the right sidebar at the top, starting with GROUP ONE. The entries numbers are listed next to the election circles, so it should be a no-brainer.

Voting will close at 10:00 p.m. CST on Wednesday, February 17, 2010. At that point, I will take the three entries from each group with the highest number of votes and place them in another group with a new voting booth to determine the winner of our prize.

Good luck!

Entry 1

THE YELLOW NOTEBOOK

Considering the fact that I am scheduled to die tomorrow, some people think that my happiness at winning a contest is irrelevant.

Morons.

This wasn’t just any contest, this was the contest. Everything in my life was just building towards that one moment when I would finally be recognized for the genius I am. Now I have been recognized as such, so who cares if I’m about to be strapped onto a table, connected to an electrocardiogram, and injected with potassium chloride? The way I see things, I lived for this moment, so now that I’ve got it, I might as well die as live.

Of course, I never really planned things to happen like this. I never wanted to kill her. It wasn’t in the plan.

Entry 2

UGLY DOGS KNOW THE TRUTH

Every girl loves a birthday party. That’s what my foster mom, Miss Donna, kept saying. She figured a big party for my twelfth birthday would be a great way for me to meet all the kids in my new neighborhood. I knew it was a mistake. Long before Miss Donna put the candles on the cake, and long before the kids showed up, I knew it was a bad idea. By the time the police got there, Miss Donna agreed with me.

Entry 3

CROSSROADS

Jenna Lyons knew it would happen. She had come to count on it as something that was fated or, perhaps, due to the alignment of something more astrological in nature. From the moment dread began to weave itself into a heavy cloak around her body, tightening its grip on her until she felt suffocated and out of breath, she knew she was hurtling toward the crossroads of a major turning point in her life, just as sure as she was driving down a desolate stretch of Missouri highway. She’d traveled for long miles and equally long minutes without seeing so much as another car or house in the distant fields, let alone a sign or exit ramp that would lead her to a gas pump. So when her little toy of a car began to sputter, it came as no real surprise. She coaxed the car to the shoulder of the road with finesse, threw it in park, and wondered, not for the first time, what the Hell she was doing so far from home.

Entry 4

VEIL RIFT: CONSPIRACY'S BIRTH

Another night and more echoes of death. Rykar’s world swims with the hues of red and black now. The cries of the dead heavy on his ears, he can’t help but see the blood running along the streets. The world continues to be thrown further into chaos. When would it end?

"Where the hell is he?" He turns to the starlit sky as he moves through the night, his feet swift as the wind. "I know you're close Gerad. Don’t cower in the shadows." He'd followed his target from the States but had lost him the night he’d entered San Pedro. Still, his scent was strong. Their last battle he'd gotten the upper hand and left a mark on his adversary, a needed advantage. The wound wouldn’t vanish, regardless of how strong his enemy's magic was.

His mind drew back to Arieana’s words, their truth worth more than most of his training had been. “Keep this with you at all times. Coat your blades. Do not fight without it.” He’d believed her and never once forgot. Their race was strong and could heal fast, but her concoction had proved to slow that process. That small edge was more than enough.

Entry 5

THE SECRET LIFE OF STATUES

The cold ground throbbing on his forehead, the ‘tick tick tick’ of peoples feet as they parade by. Knees bent, head to ground, arms out, palms upward in absolute supplication. He can't remember how it all started, can’t even remember his own name. Sometimes the words come easily forming sentences. Sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into whole pages of exposition on his life, likes and dislikes, opinions and general noise. The brain just dumping its old hardly used words, rattling in through and out of his mind and mouth like a great biblical purging. Sometimes it was not so easy, like now. Vast tracks of silence and gaping maws of darkness that threatened to consume his mind, his warmth, his very essence.

Who was he? Today he referred to himself as Thracé. Why was he begging on this cold street at the edge of Charles Bridge? He needed the coins for something. Something was gnawing at his insides, something needed to be satisfied with these coins...the money but he did not know what. The cold ground throbbing on his forehead, IN his forehead, as people surged and pulsed past him.

"...flowing, blowing, pulsing, throbbing like...like BLOOD!", Thracé thought.

"I bled once...a long time ago."

Entry 6

LOST AT SEA

“I will be free someday and no one will ever control me again,” Alex said out loud, as if doing so would etch it in stone and somehow make it real. She pictures herself walking down a narrow, cobblestone street on a beautiful summer morning. She stops to smell the flowers at the small, flower cart. She smells the vibrant red roses and the delicate pink carnations, but chooses a lovely, white bouquet of daisies for the vase on her kitchen table. She then wanders into the corner coffee shop and Joe waves as he fills her usual order. Mrs. Benson says hello to her as she sits with Mrs. Jones, sipping coffee and have their weekly gossip session. She leaves the coffee shop, crosses the street, and walks the sidewalk towards her small cottage, whistling her favorite lullaby that her mama would sing to her when she was a small girl. “Hush little baby, don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a mocking bird.” It was her favorite and most cherished memory of her mama.

“Alexandria!” She was jolted back to reality with a sharp blow to her face, the sting of it somehow dulled by the recognition of the touch.

Entry 7

STREETS FOR DEAD

Outside the state hospital, the dead gathered.  They peered up at my caged window even when I chose not to look out.
    
“Tomlinson, Francis?”
    
I nodded and continued lacing my boots.
    
“Here are the medications the doctor ordered.  Now please remember to take them everyday so we don’t have another episode.  Ok?”
    
“Yes, I will.”  No, I won’t.
    
She ran a scanner over my wrist.  It beeped, confirming I was one of the watched.  Not everyone had chips in them, just a lucky few.
    
“This is your sixth time here, young lady.  How about we try not to make it a seventh?  You’re running out of chances to obey the directive.  Surgery is next.”
    
“But I like it here.”
    
The lanky woman handed me a paper bag of the possessions I’d had three days ago when the police dropped me off.  The carton of orange juice was ruined and all the items in my wallet had been removed and carefully put back.
    
“I’m sure you don’t.  The hallucinations should all be gone.  If you continue to take your medications you won’t be bothered by them again and neither will anyone else.  Do you understand?” 

I did, but it changed nothing.

Entry 8

A MURDER OF CROWS

It’s not really my fault but what was left of Mikey probably wouldn’t fill a family pak of burger at your local grocery store.  Well, to be hideously honest, I suppose you could say that his current condition could be linked back to a particular action that I’m responsible for.  But you probably wouldn’t want to say that to my face.  Unless of course you could talk fast enough to yell it out a car window as you zip past me.  Even then, you’d be pressing your luck.

And before you get to fretting about poor old Mikey, please be aware that he does bear some responsibility for the sad state of his human form. Some people think they can get away with anything.  They get caught up in their selfish greedy desires, their arrogance, their sense of self-entitlement.  But just like a rat who gets its bones crushed and its insides squeezed out of its anus when he goes for the prize in the trap, the person who surrenders their soul to greed can come to a very sudden, sad and nasty end.  Ask Mikey.

Entry 9

REFLECTION

In this filthy alley, just over three years ago, I died...

The alley was dimly lit by the natural light of the near-full moon.  The graffiti-marked, brick-faced walls of the tall buildings that lined either side of the alley created an environment that bore wickedness.  The smell of urine and stale beer hung heavily in the air mixing unnaturally with the scented steam from a laundry room dryer exhaust tube.  Used syringes, fragments of balloons with drug residue, and broken glass were laying on the wet, maintenance-neglected asphalt near overflowing dumpsters.


I remember thinking that the radio call was a domestic dispute of some sort.  I parked our police car just south of the hotel and Kyle and I exited the car quietly.  The streets were alive that night as we cautiously approached.  The piercing screams of a woman sliced through me.  I radioed into dispatch, relaying what we heard.


I was jolted by the sense of urgency portrayed in her pleas for help.  Without waiting for backup, we entered the alley and were enveloped by darkness.


Her screams stopped and I felt a sudden and powerful anticipatory fear; a very bad omen.

Entry 10

WELCOME TO FAERYLAND

The unmistakable scent hit my nostrils as soon as I crossed the threshold of my room. I closed my eyes as I locked the door behind me, willing my senses to be deceiving me. There was the distinct smell of Fae— green grass, trees, running water, and magic— mixed with a very human smell, the smell of sweat and dirt and the city. It was a smell only a Fae who spent lots of time in the human realm would have. The smell of a Fae who had been banished to the human realm.

“Ari!” Puck’s delighted voice sang in my ears. I opened my eyes in defeat. He sat on my dresser like he hadn’t a care in the world, his wide grin showing off teeth as white as his hair. His hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, exposing his sharply pointed ears, and he wore an old pair of jeans, a bright green collared shirt, and no shoes. He had a brownie in his hand that looked suspiciously like the one of the ones my mother had made for the bake sale. The ones she had made me swear not to touch.

“Trickster,” I said.

Entry 11

QUARTER SHARE

Call me Ishmael. Yeah, I know, but in this case it's really my name.
Ishmael Horatio Wang. Unfortunately, my parents had an odd sense of
humor. Had they known what I'd wind up doing with my life, they might
have picked a different name—Richard Henry Dana, perhaps. Why they
picked Ishmael Horatio is a long and not terribly interesting story
that begins with: My mother was an Ancient Lit professor…and ends with
me being saddled with these non sequitur monikers.

That story ended eighteen stanyers before the two Neris Company
Security people showed up at my door with long faces and low voices.
Perhaps their expressions gave it away, or because they asked for me
and not my mom, but I knew their visit wasn't good. I couldn’t imagine
what I might have done to attract the attention of company security
and I didn’t think they’d come to drag me away. I'd never been a
troublemaker, not like some of the other kids at the University
enclave. They had come for me though—to tell me she was dead.

Entry 12

July 14, 1034, The Yucatan Peninsula

Balaam wasn’t expecting his world to fall apart that day. Of course, an apocalypse can put a dent in the best of plans.

As he passed under the sacred arch leading to the temple, the smell of carrion reached his nostrils. He wiped his face, as if to dispel the odor, and his hands came away covered with grime and sweat. His legs felt heavy moving up the weathered stone steps, and he knew it wasn't all due to fatigue from his twelve hour journey. The stench increased, his heart started beating faster, and he wondered if they were dead already. As he gazed into the central courtyard from the top step, he stopped wondering.

The bodies adorned the grassy space as if arranged with a purpose. Some were seated, some lay on their backs in a pose resembling sleep. But this was no siesta. Even from where he stood, he could tell they were dead. The signs of the great sickness were on them, the dried skin and shriveled flesh.

Balaam dropped to his knees, and his moan shattered the humid silence. The birds on the arch took to the sky.

Entry 13

RAL

Searing pain.  That was all Ral could think about. In the back of his mind, questions streamed like the babblings of a madman.

Why was I chosen?  Why does it hurt so much?  What will Aleen think?  Will I be a monster?

These were the questions he wanted to ask, but could not.  The pain was too great, and dominated his every conscious thought.  Through the haze he could make out the dark chamber in which he lay.  He knew vaguely that his wrists and ankles were chained to a stone altar.  He saw the monstrous shape of the dragon, Kerivaxx, looming over him.  The beast’s eyes glowed a malevolent yellow.  It’s toothy maw was open, and a green glowing light emanated forth, enveloping the man.

The pain began in his chest, as if some unseen object were being forced through his skin and inside his ribcage.  As the “object” settled inside him, the pain subsided a bit and then began to spread throughout his body.  He could feel his muscles strain, and sharp stabs of pain were accompanied by a dull popping sound, as if his joints were being pulled apart.  Ral arched his back and screamed in agony. 

Entry 14

MARY QUANT IS MISSING

“…last seen driving a black minivan, heading to Alberta to visit her daughter. If anyone has information, please call the RCMP.”

“I think I’ll take the border highway. Imagine! my first grandchild.” Mary smiled, backing the van out of her driveway.

“Where could she be? She should have called by now.” Robbie thought worriedly, leaving the house to look for David, his father. At the town limits, Robbie spotted the red pickup in a motel parking stall and pulled over. While he wondered what to do, he watched as a man strode up to unit 14, slid something under the door, and left.

David sat inside waiting for the envelope. He picked it up, opened it, and sighed with relief.

Near Trail, Mary glanced at her gas gauge. Suddenly, several boulders tumbled onto the road, slamming into the van. Careening out of control, it went over the side of the ridge. Opening wide, the dense bush greedily devoured the vehicle. Blood spattered against the windshield, a grisly mosaic of colour.

Bulletin: a mangled, black minivan was discovered by hikers. Police are not releasing any details. Speculation is rampant about a woman recently reported missing...

Entry 15

THE KILLER WHO LOVES ME

       The smell of rubbing alcohol wafted through the school nurse’s office. Too bad it wasn’t the other kind after the day I’d had. Not that I’d ever drink after my father tried to drown me in rum and Cokes last year—on pain meds no less. I moved my fingers across the crisp white sheets of the cot that the strange nurse had put me on. Not that she was weird or anything, just that I’d never seen her at Roosevelt High.
       The nurse leaned over my swollen head. Her nasty cigarette breath made me turn my face away. “How you feeling, Dylan?”
       I shrugged. Dylan. I was having the hardest time getting used to my new name. I wished I could go back to being Ben Smith. At least Dylan Jones was better than Bompsy Carleffa. What a freaking nightmare—even if it was my real name. Whatever it took to stay alive.
       The nurse opened a refrigerator, pulled out a pointy needle, and gave it a finger thump.
       I pushed myself up on my elbows. “What’s the needle for?”
       She gave a crooked smile. “This won’t hurt a bit—Mr. Carleffa.”

Entry 16

TITLE

Strange things happen in this place.

When the air grows cold, and leaves begin to turn, it is more than wind that moves through tangled branches, stripping them bare.

There is energy here. For generations it has slept, lying dormant and ingrained.

But no longer.

It grows in the now empty fields, and runs the shoreline - repelling the tide by sheer force of will. It could be called a force of nature unto itself - were it natural. It is not.

To be fair, neither am I.

I keep the truth: a dangerous calling when there are those who would see the truth forgotten. Buried like the dead.

This must not be so... it will not be so.

I alone know the secrets of this place, for only I remember them - and so they survive. Secrets held in gnarled roots, the very foundations of this place Secrets so wide in scope and intricate in being that they form it; keep it afloat.

Things too fantastic to be real, and far to real to be fantasy.

Entry 17

THE DANCE

     “Dance with me, Daddy.”                                                                         
      I pretended I didn’t hear.
     “Please?”
     My five year old daughter was persistent.
     “Kadence, I’m watching television.”
     “Can’t you stop?”
      The movie was a good one.
      “Honey, I’ll dance with you some other time.  Find something else to do, ok?”
     She left without answering.  Soon I caught the sound of rustling paper and click-clacking of crayons on the kitchen table.
     Returning to the living room, she taped a sheet of paper on the end of the couch.
     A few minutes later she called from the kitchen, “Daddy, did you read the note?”
     “No, was I supposed to?”
     “Yes.  I wrote it for you.”
     With my attention on the movie, I reached over and pulled the paper off the couch.  In her childish scrawl, she had written:
     'Dear Daddy,  I love you.    Kadence’
     On the bottom part of the paper was a drawing of two halves of a heart, colored in bright red.
     Raising my voice, I said, “I read your note.  Thanks.  It’s really cute.”
     She edged into the room, her little face serious.
     “It’s not supposed to be cute, Daddy.  It’s a broken heart.  You broke my heart when you didn’t wanna dance with me.”

Entry 18

THE GLASS MYSTERY

I won’t be able to read these words in the morning. Numerous shots of vodka have done little to steady my hand, although my thoughts have been pleasantly seduced. A dinner party with the leader of Russia, my favorite liquor induced fantasy, is begging for center stage on the outskirts of consciousness. I toy with it, placing the imaginary call to my housekeeper who’ll run over to Dorogomilovsky Market with the list of ingredients for the first course.

I’ve never imagined blood could spray so far or so fast from a swiftly opened throat. How would I know? I’m a desk jockey at the Embassy, an outside hire, not part of the official Foreign Service.

My friend says only men can cook meat properly, so I’ve invited him to the party to handle the roast. I saw the suckling pig he’d killed last New Year’s and curled at the bottom of a red plastic bucket. Such a tender tableau, it looked as if it slept rather than marinated. Later that evening, I warmed my hands over a make-shift barbeque haphazardly thrown together in the middle of a snow-covered parking lot. Toward midnight, our party continued upstairs in the kitchen of a spa abandoned after the Fall. I savored a bite of the crisp roasted skin of the butchered animal before heading downstairs to the sauna and the algae covered ice cold pool.

The rosettes in the snow surrounding the woman’s body attested to the amazing projectile strength of blood. Perfectly formed rosebuds as succulently red as the beads on the rosary I bought in Paris the year before.

Entry 19

REVENGE OF THE PINK GRANNY PANTIES

I walked into math class and scoped out the sub.

Easy prey.

What little life this loser had was about to get a whole lot worse.

Mrs. Billet, our math teacher, had finally had her kid and was home changing diapers for a month.  We were on our second sub of the week, and Foster F. Finkman made it his job to upset subs.

I was his partner in crime.

Mr. Thompson was the victim of a bad brown toupee.  It looked like Grunt, my guinea pig.  This teacher wannabe was somewhere between thirty and fifty, had braces and breath that would kill a camel.  I'd had him as a sub since kindergarten, and he hadn't changed a bit.  Except for the braces.

Toupee Thompson knew all of us at Harly Middle School by name.  It isn't a big school, since Harly, Oklahoma isn't a big town.  So when Camel Slayer noticed Finkman was new, the sub flashed a silvery smile and squeaked, "What's your name, young man?"

Finkman stood and squeaked back, "Foster Florentine Finkman.  And I hope you don't mind me asking, but is that your real hair?"

Entry 20

MIDNIGHT KNOCKING

Everyone jokes about the little Devil and Angel on their shoulders.  My problem is that I actually have them.

They’re annoying as hell, but they’re also very persuasive.

To make matters worse, I sleepwalk, and those two never sleep.  I’m never entirely sure where I’ve been or what I’ve done.

Which is why I couldn’t entirely convince myself I wasn’t guilty when a body showed up with my fingerprints on it.

Entry 21

THE END OF NORMAL

A thousand eyes turned skyward when the phenomenon began. Liquid crimson poured across the horizon like burning oil rolling over the surface of turbulent waters. A nightmare once reserved for the strange and paranoid – for hermits and babbling lunatics – the otherworldly drama finally played itself out for all humans to see. For one fleeting moment, every witness shared a single thought: /It's all over/.

For the vast majority of humans, the end came with no warning. Normal life had progressed for all of memory with no indication of the ugliness lurking behind every mirror, of the dark beings given life by by lies and secrets. Yet, as they stared up at the changing sky, it came as little surprise that the world they'd come to know was about to go away for ever.

Fate had granted glimpses of the future to a select few. They stumbled onward, confused and tormented by their changing bodies and twisting senses. Some thought themselves saviors and shepherds, but others gleefully accepted their true role: to be heralds of the awakening darkness and the end of the mundane world.

Entry 22

EXPERIMENTATION

My confined arm began to shake violently as the sharp needle inched forward, daring to prick my skin.  Sweat rolled down my forehead as the cold metal reached me.  I tried vainly to push back, forcing the needle much deeper, and instantly raising a violet bruise.  "Stop, don't...," I scrambled for words as the hooded face exhaled down on me.  My body willingly drank the liquid from the glass, as I laid my head back in the chair.  There was nothing else I could physically do at this point... either the liquid would kill me, or I would die of exhaustion from fighting it off.  My eyes were shut, but I could see stars in the darkness, swirling as if on a movie screen.  They floated by so rapidly that I felt sick, and decided that the room itself would be better to gaze at than this nauseating strobe of color.  My eyelids rose to see the hooded man hovering over me.  "How does it feel?" he questioned. "Why?" I moaned.  The man crossed his arms before answering, "You're the experiment.  You ask no questions, you stay quiet.  You take it like a woman, and perhaps I'll let you go".

Entry 23

RED DUST

As if she had been stung by an angry wasp, Natalie suddenly sprang forward. Her head spun from the abrupt change in position and perspective. Grandma would have been proud of her impulsive posture but certainly not of the stream of obscenities that flowed like water from a busted pipe, foul enough that a seasoned sailor would blush.
“DAMMIT! Why don’t these freakin’ rocks last longer?” ended the tirade.  It was a scene that had played out frequently in the past two years. She yanked her ear buds out and launched the small sliver of red rock into the alien sky. A dramatic sigh escaped her.
“Probably for the best,” she said aloud. “That song always brings back painful memories.”  There was no point in thinking about the past. Nothing could be changed. Nothing could bring back her father, Josh, or anyone else who had to be left behind.  Thoughts of it made her stomach churn and started the water works.
She couldn’t go back looking upset. It would worry them.  Brows furrowed, she swiped at her damp cheeks and gave herself a stern internal pep talk.  Satisfied that she could fool her brothers, she turned heel to head home.

Entry 24

BONEHEAD

Rachel peered down the deserted railway track. Not a train in sight. A cold wind swirled around her. She rubbed her arms. Now what?

She glanced at the timetable. The last train should have arrived at eight-thirty pm. Her curfew was nine o’clock. She sighed. Only seven more days until she turned sixteen, then she’d be allowed out later.

The scent of marijuana caught her nose as a tall shadow loomed across the platform. Rachel hugged herself and shivered.

A man stood behind her smoking a cigarette.

Her heart thumping, Rachel crossed her bare legs and pulled her skimpy top across her chest.

“Why, would a young girl be alone at this time of night?” asked the stranger.

“I’m waiting for the train.”

“No trains tonight” The thin wiry man flicked his butt onto the concrete floor. “Last one was cancelled.” He moved closer. “I could drive you home.”

“It’s okay,” said Rachel. “I’ll wait thanks.”

The man grabbed her arm. “Come with me, your parents will worry.” A thick vain pulsed on one side of his bony head.

Rachel screamed as he pushed a strange smelling cloth over her mouth. Oh no! That’s what the dentist uses. It’s ether.

Entry 25

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Hot air scalds my cheeks, flinging dirt across me. The stars stand out stark against velvet black. There’s a heavy thrumming, like a swarm of bugs. My dazed eyes look around, confused. No bug here is big enough. The sky melds into trees that dissolve into the melted remains of the colony. Steel and wood stand eerily in the first planet’s orange glow. Suddenly I can’t see. Everything is gone in a wash of white light, disturbing in its brilliance. The grass flattens and dries up, three circles for three VTOL engines. The sides are dull, silver pockmarked with black debris. I suddenly can’t breathe. Eight years of waiting, wondering if they would ever come back for me, dissolve in a heartbeat. They can’t be here. This is my home. My place. They would never understand its fragility. The bright light dims slightly and I can just make out the flashing red bulb before metal slides into earth, obscuring it from view. The forest is silent around me. All the animals had the common sense to leave, something I seem desperately to be lacking. I crouch behind a tree, nails digging into the soft blue bark, careful of the thorns. A shadow, a footstep…they were coming.

Entry 26

THE ACTIVISTS

When one looks at their life down the barrel of a gun many things go through their minds; “I don’t wanna die”, “why me?”, and least of all, “what did I do with my life?” When she stood their looking at her life flashing before her eyes, it felt like hours, when in actuality it was only seconds, then the pain of the impact. Bits and pieces of her flesh melted and fell off as she screamed in pain and horror, but endure it she did, for survival was her focus. She wasn’t sure whether death would’ve been better, but somehow she knew that this pain would, like all pain, only last a little while.

Entry 27

BEQUEST

Whether the corn crop failed was of no real consequence to Sam Warner. He had not fretted over such things since his sharecropping days. And, since eight of his twelve acres were rich with pine timber, if the harvest was light, he would simply sell off of few cords of wood and keep right on keeping on.

What troubled him on the coldest spring morning in nearly twenty years was not the fate of a few ears of corn. What troubled him was his daughter’s letter. All night he had wrestled with it, several times giving serious consideration to waking his wife and telling her again how lowdown her daughter was acting. Only God himself could tell where Lilly had come upon such roguish ways.

It had been three years since she had set foot on Alabama soil. Three years since she had laid eyes on her own child. And now, with little more than a week’s warning, she was coming home and carrying on about some big surprise.

Sam had a farm to run. Visibly annoyed, he got up and went out to the kitchen. It was there that he realized how much the temperature had actually dropped.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Nicola Marsh Interview...

Following is an interview with Nicola Marsh, a prolific romance writer published by Harlequin, her books released under the Harlequin Romance and Harlequin Modern Heat/Presents imprints.  She’s sold over 1.5 million copies worldwide.
With a heavy schedule, she was still gracious enough to spend the time to answer our interview questions. 

Q: With this month’s release of Marriage: For Business or Pleasure, you’ve published twenty-three books since 2003. That’s an amazing amount of work. How do you manage to write that much and take care of your two children at the same time? Do you schedule a specific time of day for writing? How would you describe a typical day in the life of Nicola Marsh?

A:  Life is hectic!  With my eldest at school, I run around all day after my toddler so writing is confined to nights when kidlets are in bed.  I start my working ‘day’ at 8.30pm.  Most mornings I’m up early too, clearing my inbox, updating blogs, doing promo stuff, before the rest of the household rises.

Typical day? 
 
      5.45am:               
      Check emails & do promo

      6.30am-8.30pm:  
      Breakfast rush, peak hour traffic to school, volunteer at school literacy classes, sneak in
      an hour’s writing when toddler naps, read for half an hour if I’m lucky, school pick up, 
      dinner, chat with hubby, play and baths, phew!

     8.30pm:               
     Sigh of relief, sit in front of PC and connect with my characters. Silence reigns.  Lovely.

Q: We all have to handle rejection. Before selling your first novel, did you ever feel like giving up? What made you keep going?

A:  I was working full time as a physiotherapist when I first started writing.  I’d been in that field for 13 years and always wanted to write a book, so when I started, giving up was never an option.  I was ready for a change of career and I was going to do whatever it took to succeed.  Luckily, I sold quickly, about 18 months after I first started writing.

Q: Writers vary in the way they create their books. Some figure out the complete plot before starting. Others outline by chapter or scene. And some just start typing with only a hint of where it might lead. Which method works for you?

A:  When I first started writing, I used to be a plotter.  These days, I know my characters, write a 2-3 page outline so the bones of the story are there, then off I go!  If I ever get stuck in the ‘sagging middle’, I resort to trusty pen and paper to brainstorm and hash out the next few chapters.

Q: You probably have a clear image in your head of what your main characters look like. Aside from that, do you do an in-depth character study and list all their traits, habits, speech patterns, history, etc? Or do the character traits just develop as you write?

A:  For my early books I filled out characters charts.  These days, the characters develop as I write.  That said, it’s important to nail the characters’ motivations early, as their traits, habits, etc…will stem from what drives them.

Q: How has technology affected your writing? Do you use any special writing software? Listen to your iPod while you’re writing?

A:  Using a PC is technological enough for me!  My followers on Facebook and Twitter know I often call myself a techno-dunce!  No writing software, just a nice blank Word document and off I go.  I never listen to music when writing, much prefer silence.  I think it stems from being surrounded by noise all day, I really value my peace when I sit at the PC to write at night.

Q: What is the hardest part for you in writing a new book?

A:  Sustaining the conflict and rising tensions throughout the book.  I love starting a new book, those first few chapters fly.  And the endings are always fun, wrapping up all the loose ends.  It’s that hard section in the middle that’s always a challenge to write.

Q: Typically, how long does it take you to complete the first draft? How much time do you spend on revisions?

A:  For my 55 0000 word series romance (the Harlequin Romance and Modern Heat/Presents) I can write a first draft in 4-6 weeks.  Then I’ll spend a week on revisions.

Q: What words of encouragement could you offer an aspiring author?

A:   Write, write and write some more.  No matter how uninspired or tired you are, sit down and write, even if it’s a few hundred words.  The more you write, the faster you become, the easier it is, the more habit-forming. The way to discover your voice is by writing.  Play around, try different genres, have a ball, follow your dream.

Q: Harlequin is releasing your twentieth novel this month. Would you like to give us a synopsis of Marriage: For Business or Pleasure? Any interesting facts about its origin or its development? Any favorite lines of dialogue? Any surprises we can expect?

A:  MARRIAGE: FOR BUSINESS OR PLEASURE? is set in a favorite holiday spot of mine.  Cosmopolitan Noosa (on Queensland's Sunshine Coast) is a fabulous place.  Up-market restaurants, boutiques, gorgeous hotels, all set on a fabulous beach.  Noosa attracts tourists world-wide and I’m hoping this book brings a little Noosa magic to my readers.

Nick is my first bad boy hero.  He's wonderful.  And very, very sexy.  His past with Britt catches up with him when she returns from London after a 10 year absence. Britt has no intention of falling for Nick's wayward charms again...but what woman can resist the allure of a bad boy? Sparks fly as the story unfolds...from the sugar cane fields of Jacaranda to hip Noosa to jet-setting London...wherever these two are, there’s guaranteed heat!

My favourite line in the book?

Needs a little background first.  There’s a chapter where Nick and Britt reminisce about the past, in his old bedroom.  Nick still has the star medallion Britt gave him, she tells him because he used to hang the stars and moon for her back then.  They make love.  Here’s how the chapter ends:

“She’d asked for the moon and stars. 
Nick had delivered the whole damn solar system.”

This book is a Romantic Times magazine Top Pick for February.  Here’s what they had to say:

"This lovers-reunited tale is awash in passion, sensuality and plenty of sparks. The terrific characters immediately capture your attention, and from there, the pages go flying by."

As far as surprises go, readers have mentioned they have cried during some of the emotional scenes between Britt and her father (who abused her physically, verbally and psychologically.)  I think it’s nice to layer in some heartfelt emotional stuff between all the banter and passion.

Q:  What’s next for you?

A:  I have a short story in THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF SPECIAL OPS ROMANCE, released in March.  Then it’s a double release in May with THREE TIMES A BRIDESMAID…(Harlequin Romance), a Cinderella type story, along with OVERTIME IN THE BOSS’S BED (Harlequin Presents), featuring a dancer and a reluctant workaholic boss.  This book features a scene where lightning strikes the house…yep, I was writing this book last year when lightning struck my house!  Nothing like first hand research!

Since her first book was published in 2003, Nicola has received numerous awards for her writing. For more information, you can visit her website at www.nicolamarsh.com.

A big "thank you" to Nicola for granting our interview and sharing some secrets with us.

Harlequin Romance signed copy winner!

I have just looked at the answers to the question for the signed copy of Nicola Marsh's new Harlequin novel (her 29th!) Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?

There were three correct answers. Plugging the data into a random number generator at www.random.org, the random number came up "1". This means that melodycolleen is our winner. Thanks to all who entered. We'll do this again some time soon. I will contact Ms. Marsh and let her know who the winner is.

I will begin posting the submissions in our Hook Me contest soon. So check back a little later today for that.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Writing Contest

As promised, here's the scoop on our next contest. It's a "Hook Me!" (Notice the ever-so-appropriate graphic on your left?)

Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to hook the reader in 200 words. I know that's less than you'd like. I want you to venture outside your comfort zone. If it was easy, anyone could do it. We've studied opening lines and the importance of grabbing the reader's attention from the start. This is such an important aspect of writing that I felt it would be beneficial if we revisited it often.

Feel free to write something entirely new. Or, if you have a completed manuscript or a WIP, you can use that instead. It's up to you. The whole objective is to write something so compelling that the reader simply must know more. Since our poll currently shows very little difference between our adult and juvenile writers, there is no limitation on the genre this time, but keep that pesky 200 word limit in mind.  

So, come on already. What do we do?

Patience, grasshopper. I'm about to tell you. Just write something fabulous and email it to me at michaelvette@gmail.com. In the subject line, type HOOK ME - TITLE - YOUR NAME. Then paste your masterpiece into the body of the email. That's it. Easy peasy. One entry per person.

I'm going to place a limit of 50 entries on this contest, simply because of the time involved in posting them to the site. The Entry Window opens at 8:00 a.m. CST on Friday, February 12th, 2010, and closes at 8:00 a.m. CST on Sunday, February 14th, 2010, or when we have 50 entries, whichever comes first. Entries received prior to the opening time or after the close will not be posted.

There will be a prize this time. (Yay!) Since this blog isn't a big cash cow, and we're still somewhat limited in our prize capabilities, we're going to do the $10 Barnes & Noble Gift Certificate again. So call your muse, get into your writing mode, and create something. I know you can do it.

Also, if you'd like to win an autographed copy of Nicola Marsh's new Harlequin Romance (her 29th novel!) scroll down and answer the question. It's simple and easy, and you just might win. The winner will be announced on February 14th, right after we post the transcript from the interview she gave us.

Good luck to each of you!

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Nicola Marsh Interview Coming!

Don't forget. Just a reminder that something very special is coming February 14th! You don't want to miss it.

We're posting an interview with Harlequin Romance author Nicola Marsh. She told me recently that she had just sold her 23rd novel. I mentioned our group and asked if she would grant an interview. Graciously, she agreed.

Since she's a romance novelist, we decided Valentine's Day would be the most appropriate date. So mark your calendars. In red, of course. With a heart!

And here's a bonus! Answer this question: What is Britt’s job?

To find the answer, read the excerpt of ‘Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?’ You can find it HERE!

Nicola will give away a signed copy of her current release to a commenter with the correct answer chosen at random. Comment below this post anytime from now until midnight CST on February 13th, 2010, when the winner will be chosen. Please comment only once. And, sorry, "Anonymous" comments will be deleted. You must have a name so we can reach you to award the prize. Good luck!

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Show Don't Tell Submissions

The nine submissions are listed below. I was very impressed with them. You all did a great job of including everything required in your scenes. A lot of them left me on the edge of a cliff. What's going to happen? Kudos on that aspect. Well done!

Please remember to comment on at least five — more if you have time. Just click that COMMENT thing under the post you want to comment on. Everyone who submits their work in these exercises deserves good and honest feedback from each of us. Remember to tell the writer what you like, and give any suggestions for improvement. Point out any specific areas that could be improved. Our objective is continual improvement. (They call it Kaizen in Japan.) Keep in mind that the comments are only the opinions of other writers. They are offered in a helpful manner.

Comments will be open indefinitely, but try to finish up by 9:00 pm CST Thursday, February 11, 2010. At that time, I will post the details of the contest. Anyone can enter, including those who didn't submit their work for this exercise. Yes. There will be a prize for the winner, determined by you. (The winner, not the prize.) There will also be two Honorable Mentions. No prize, but a round of applause and our eternal respect for your great work.

Countdown

Slick foam rubber smacks against the soles of Maia's feet to the tune of the aging grandfather clock in the living room.  Tick flop.  Flip tock.

She hurries past a black window where two luminescent eyes flicker unevenly at her from the other side.  In the dead of August days, Maia's hair burns just as brightly as those flickering bugs.  Now it's just knotted on top of her head to keep from smothering her neck.  What was once flowing and smooth was now a nest of uncontrollable frizz.

Stark white shorts hidden behind smears of summer fwap against the wall as she grabs a pair of jeans.  The dead duds on the floor came home in a bag from Mom's hand, not hers.  But the spaghetti straps are a must.  She would have preferred a tube top but Mom didn't allow those.  Yet.
Just one more night until 'teen' officially enters Maia's life.  The kids at school won't be able to call her a baby anymore.

The porch's screen door slams and Maia jumps at the call.  She frowns and walks to the window where an empty, velvet driveway waves back up at her.  The screen slams again and she looks to the trees just out of reach.  Their leaves hang heavy in the thick, humid air.  A stair creaks and Maia's heart starts racing the tocking of the grandfather clock.

First one to morning wins.

Parent's Night Out

Juliana was excited. The sun was setting outside, casting an orange glow on the kitchen as she closed the refrigerator, coke in hand. She blew a kiss at the calendar on the door, which had a big black circle on today’s date, the words inside read “Parent’s Night Out.” She went into the living room and grabbed her new Jonas Brother’s CD, which still had some wrapping paper on it with the obnoxious red and yellow “Happy 12th Birthday” pattern stuck on it. She cranked up the radio, sighing at the sound of the boys singing. She danced around the empty house, her long brown hair, pulled back in a pony tail that still went halfway down her back, flicking back and forth. Her pink flower flip-flops clopped in time to the music, and it didn’t take long for her Jonas Brother’s tank top to be covered in sweat. She wiped her brow with her hand, and then wiped that on her white shorts, taking a breather as a slower song came on. She smiled.

“I love being alone!” she shouted to no one.

As the next song ended, in the pause between songs, a creaking noise came from upstairs. She froze, looking at the stair case behind the couch. She reached out and turned the music down, and then slowly made her way to the stairs.

“Hello?”

Tricks of the Eye

With the seemingly never-ending goodbyes out of the way, Cassie slammed the front door and commenced with a victory dance. She grabbed a brush off a nearby table and used it as a mic,

“I’d like to thank the babysitter for getting poison ivy, my dad’s company for holding an event he couldn’t miss and of course, my parents, for deciding that I was close enough to thirteen to stay home alone.”

Cassie tossed her long flame colored hair over her shoulder, like the girls on T.V. do, and gave a small curtsy. She dissolved into giggles while making her way over to the couch, the soles of her shoes flapping loudly against her bare feet. Throwing herself down, something mother never approved of, she flicked on the T.V. Maybe she’d find an R-rated movie.

Suddenly everything went black. Cassie groaned. No power also meant no air conditioner. Luckily she was wearing her summer uniform; shorts and a flimsy tank. Reluctantly she got up. There was a flashlight in her room.  Out of the corner of her eye she spied something next to her. It was white and it was moving. A ghost?!  Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Her hands trembled slightly. Eyes wide, she turned to face it head on, and promptly slapped herself upside her head. It was just the reflection of her shorts in the mirror. Power flipped back on and Cassie immediately decided no R movies. For sanity’s sake, it’d be a Disney night.

Out'a Sight

Parents! I mean, I am twelve. I thought they would never leave. They’re only at a neighbour’s house party.

The summer heat is starting to mellow as the sun disappears. I locked and double checked the doors and windows. Crazy! Nothing ever happens in Deadsville. No one else is here. I plug into my walkman, dancing to ACDC, munching on Cheese Dip and chips. Usually, a definite no-no. Shaking my long, black ponytail, it catches on the cord and whips the earphones off and onto the floor. The sudden quiet shocks me. My fav horror movie of all time, Friday the 13th , was on earlier. Do not think about that, idiot!

“Crash! Bang! Crash!” Was that from downstairs? No, outside, I think. Panic flutters. Goosebumps. “Susan, get real. Your imagination needs a leash. It’s breezy tonight, something was knocked over, probably a garbage can”. I listen, but nope, nothing more. I am definitely not going down in the basement to look. “AAAh! Oh no! Cheese Dip! right down the front of my tank top! and of course it’s on my white shorts too!” Angrily, I put on my flip-flops, and head down the hall to the bathroom…

“Susan, dear, we’re home”. The light from the hallway shines on a pool of blood.

Silence.

Screams.

Rasping Whispers

As the closing theme song to “Family Guy” blared from the TV, Betsy sighed in knowing her parents didn’t come home to catch her watching it. Seventh grade would be starting next week, and she needed to be in on everything cool whether Mom and Dad allowed it or not. Plus with school starting, her parents would never allow her to continue these late nights in front of the TV.

“Being twelve sucks,” she said as if someone could answer her in the empty house. She clicked off the remote and brushed popcorn kernels off her tank top. The fluffy white treats never hit the floor with her golden retriever snapping at the falling debris.

As Betsy bent down to pat the dog, her red hair brushed across Ruby’s back making it hard to tell the dog’s fur from her own locks. She then stepped toward a sink but tripped over her flip-flops that turned sideways with each clumsy step. Coke splattered on her crisp white shorts. She kicked off the annoying shoes and sprinted to the kitchen. I hope this doesn’t leave a stain.

When she placed a towel under the kitchen sink’s faucet, a raspy whisper echoed through the wall. Betsy leaped back and studied the empty kitchen. Ruby cocked her head and growled at the closet door—making Betsy’s heart beat faster than the chirping crickets outside the window.

“Who’s there?” Betsy asked.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

The words leapt out at me from the page, pulling me into its world of faeries. I propped up my pillow. I wasn’t cold, even though I was only wearing a tank top and my white sofee shorts. Texas summers were never cold, even at night. My flip flops were on the floor next to me in case I was caught. Easy excuse to say I had just got in from… well, from whatever I was doing. It was late now, probably close to eleven. Mom and Dad were still out at some churchy group thing; they went every week, and it was my one time to read anything “unchristian.” Aka, anything that involved faeries, demons, vampires, or anything else ungodly. Mom said “it wasn’t suitable for twelve-year old minds.” Whatever.

I focused on the story, walking through the Seelie court. My skin tingled. I was such a sucker for scary parts. I couldn’t put them down, and I couldn’t stop my imagination once it was done. It was one of the reasons I didn’t do sleep-overs. They just aren’t cool when your friends make fun of you for sleeping with the lights on. My mind was completely wrapped up in the book when I heard a door shut. I glanced up over the top of the book, expecting to see a troll but nothing was there. The door shut again. My mind was still trapped between the pages and all I could think of was that they were coming for me. Slowly I slipped off the bed and tip-toed to the door. Someone was in my house. I could hear their footsteps on the carpet. They were coming to my room! Wildly, I threw myself into the closet, tangling my blonde hair on coat hangers and sleeves. I would not be caught—“Amy? We’re home.” 

Blackhead

Some birthday this turned out to be. Lana grabbed the dishcloth and walked across the kitchen floor, her flip-flops sticking on the tiles where someone had spilt cola. Lana sighed. Her party had been a disaster. The kids threw food around, knocked the chairs over and drank her father’s beer. It wasn’t her fault, so why was she being punished? Mum had sent everyone home early and it wasn’t even dark yet.

It just wasn’t fair. Lana had so looked forward to turning twelve, but now she’d just be a laughing stock. Mum had even cancelled Lana’s appointment to have her hair cut. That was mean. Lana wiped her sweaty brow and looked at the clock. Her parent’s had gone to the cinema and wouldn’t be back for hours.

Lana turned on the fan and threw the cloth back in the sink. Some fun she was having on her special day. No way was she cleaning up tonight. It was way to hot. She’d teach her mother a lesson instead. Lana marched to the bathroom, grabbed the scissors and chopped off her long ponytail. Giggling, she grabbed her mother hair dye and dyed her blonde hair black. While waiting for the colour to change, she noticed stains on her white shorts and tank top. After pulling them off, she washed them. Oh, what had she done? Now she’d be in more trouble. She’d better cleanup after all.

A loud bang came from the direction of the lounge room. Lana froze.

Scared Pink

I was lying across my bed, sweltering in the heat and wishing it would snow, just once, in July, when my cell phone chimed. I flipped it open, accidentally knocking my copy of Wuthering Heights to the floor. “Jenny, why aren’t you here yet?”
Jenny’s infectious laugh tickled my ears. “Sorry, Mom had to work late. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Do I need to bring anything besides the hair dye?”
“Yeah, old clothes. That hair dye gets on everything. I’m wearing my oldest tank top and some ratty white shorts I found in Mom’s throw-away pile.”
We said our good-byes and I made my way to the bathroom, my flip flops making sucking sounds on the hardwood floor. I grabbed my hairbrush and ran it through my long brown hair one final time. Pink was going to be so hot, especially for a twelve-year-old.
I was replacing the brush when a soft thump startled me. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and told it not to read any more spooky books when Mom and Dad were out for the evening. Then I went in search of Freckles, our obnoxious cat, to see what kind of mess he’d made this time.
Freckles was crouched at the top of the stairs, his yellow eyes round as saucers. He hissed when he saw me, then slunk off toward my parents’ room. Guilty! I started down the stairs when the unmistakable creak of the attic door stopped me in my tracks.
“Jenny?”

The Visitor

“What was that?” said Kyla jumping out of the cat-snagged, indigo recliner. “Sh, Zeeb,” she whispered picking up her puffy, zebra-striped feline, “something’s up.”  Twelve-year old toes, painstakingly polished with red and white polka dots, tip-toed into the moonlit kitchen on worn out, green flip flops. “Hello…” Kyla uttered shoving her long, honey curls away from her face. “Who’s…who’s there?”

Feet slid as a scream filtered throughout humid, summer air, “Whoa!” Landing hard on her bottom, Kyla saw smashed, rotten eggs, orange Jell-O, and various colored liquids splattered on the icy-cold tile floor. “Gross, nasty stuff and it smells like Nathan’s wet socks.” No longer pristinely white, her shorts now looked dipped into a kaleidoscope of mischief. “Oh, just my luck,” she said standing to see her light pink, Degrassi tank top had splotches of muck on it too. Great; my first night home alone and this happens. Clutching onto the Nike golf umbrella hanging from a rickety hook in the walk-in pantry, her heart raced.

Zeeb licked Kyla’s dirty heel as she slashed the air with confidence appearing like a Ninja ready for battle. “Look, Zeeb, the window is shattered too.” Her greenish-blue eyes darted in all directions while a chill consumed her flesh. We’re in big trouble, she thought as an ethereal whisper called her name.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Creative writing submissions still open...

We're working this week on Showing, not Telling. I've received several entries so far. I've been impressed with them. The funny thing is, every one of them makes me want to read more of the story. So, you've all got me hooked, which is a big plus in hooking the agent, the editor, and the reader. Good job with that!

Entries will remain open until 9:00 pm CST this evening. Please send your submission, pasted into the body of the email, to michaelvette@gmail.com. For details on what you need to write, scroll down to the post directly below this one. Meanwhile, I'm off to check my email again. I can't wait to read the next one!

Monday, February 8, 2010

Let’s continue our topic of Show, Don’t Tell. Since yesterday’s post consisted of only a narrative without examples, I wanted to include one today to show the difference between showing and telling. This example is coming off the top of my head. Any of you could write one, and it would come out completely different, and probably much better. There are endless possibilities in the way it can be done. I’m not going to spend a great deal of time writing the examples, but I hope they will be sufficient to convey the essence of the idea.

Here’s what I need to include in this scene:
1. The narrator is ten years old.
2. He has a cat named Marshmallow.
3. The Walt Disney Show is his favorite program.
4. It airs at six o’clock on Sunday evening.
5. Walt has a mustache, and he always smiles.


The two examples below will show the difference between showing and telling.

TELLING:
     When I was ten years old, I always watched the Walt Disney show. The show aired at six o’clock on Sunday evenings. It was my favorite program. Walt had a moustache, kind of like my cat, Marshmallow. Walt always smiled when he was talking to the viewing audience.

What have we created? We’ve included all five of the necessary criteria to tell the reader what we wanted them to know. But could we have made it any more boring? Blah blah blah blah blah. We can do much better than that example. Let’s look at one option for showing.

SHOWING:
     I have no clue what I'm eating. I don't have time to look at whatever it is that I'm shoving into my mouth. My eyes are preoccupied, staring at the round clock on the kitchen wall, watching the minute hand sneaking ever nearer to the twelve. It's getting close to forming a vertical line with the hour hand now. Six o’clock. Sunday evening. That magical time my whole life revolves around. It's only seconds away. Hurry! A quick gulp finishes off the last of my milk, and a swipe with the back of my hand catches the chin dribbles before they can drop to the floor. I'm off for the living room, upsetting the cat as he scurries quickly out of my path. Marshmallow's irritated hiss fades as he disappears down the hall, probably looking for a good spot to hack up a hairball to get even. It doesn't matter. I'll deal with it later.
     The crackling static buzz of the old Zenith console meets my ears when I turn the knob, and the hardwood floor greets my butt with an unforgiving howdy as I position myself in a front row seat, crossing my legs Indian-style. Seconds tick by as I stare at my reflection in the black screen. Come on! Warm up already! My patience is finally rewarded when the image comes into sharp focus and I hear that familiar voice. There he is — Walt Disney — smiling at me from below that handsome moustache. I feel the corners of my mouth rising in response. I can't help it. Life is good when you’re ten years old.

What have we accomplished, other than changing a short paragraph into two longer ones? We have “shown” the reader how important this program is to the narrator by his actions and his internal thoughts. We’ve added some tension by having him watching the clock hands as the time draws closer. The reader knows that this ten year old does not want to miss the opening of the show. We know there's a cat named Marshmallow living in the house, with a habit of hacking up hairballs. (I live with a Persian cat, so I've cleaned up my share.) We’ve also learned there’s an old Zenith console television in the living room and that the narrator sits cross-legged on the hardwood floor while he watches. We have an image of him smiling as the show begins, and we know he’s quite happy with his current situation. Finally, we've put the scene in present tense, adding more immediacy to it and allowing it to unfold as we read rather than appearing to be a retelling of a previous event.

As I mentioned, there are innumerable ways to write this scene. I could tighten this example significantly with some editing. And I’m sure any of you could do a better job. But rather than that, let’s do something else. It’s your turn now. But I’m providing a different set of criteria for you to include in your example. It should be fun. Are you up for it? Remember, we’re going to be Showing, not Telling.

And, yes, there will be a contest (with a prize!) after we get through the practice portion and the revision stage. Keep in mind that these entries are not automatically included in the contest. That Call for Entries will come later in the week. (I failed to mention that on a previous contest, and I don’t want to be guilty of it again.) These submissions are for practice only. I'm hoping it will be a learning experience and you'll get some ideas from the other submissions as well on how showing can be used to bring things to life.

You're going to write the opening of your story. Remember the importance of an intriguing opening sentence. Try to grab the reader from the starting gate. In addition, here are the facts you need to relate to the reader in 250 words or less. (My example was 253 words, so I know you can do it.) I won’t be checking to see if you’ve included everything, but the readers who post their comments probably will.

Include all of the following:
1. Your main character is 12 years old.
2. She has long hair, and we need to know the color.
3. She’s wearing white shorts, a tank top, and flip flops.
4. It’s a late summer evening.
5. Her parents are out, and she thinks she’s alone in the house.
6. Something is making her believe otherwise.

You can make it more than one paragraph (keeping the 250-word limit in mind) and feel free to use dialogue (internal or external). Put us in the scene with the actress playing your character.



GUIDELINES:
1. Put a title on your submission. Something unique if possible.
2. There is no limit on the number of submissions, but no more than one per person.
3. Submissions will close at 9:00 pm CST on Tuesday, 2/9/2010.
4. Submissions will post for comments Wednesday morning, 2/10/2010.
5. The comment period will close at 9:00 pm CST Thursday, 2/11/2010.
6. All those submitting need to comment on at least five other submissions. More if you have time.
7. Email your submission to michaelvette@gmail.com
8. Subject line should read: SHOWING – TITLE – YOUR NAME

And there you have it. Piece of cake, right? If this post is changed, you’ll see UPDATE in the post title at the top. If you'd like to leave comments on this post, please do so, but remember to email your writing sample.

Now “show me” what you can do. Have fun with it. Use your imagination. I can't wait to read them!

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