In which I ‘fess up…

So I lied a bunch yesterday, mainly ‘cause I was supposed to. Today I get to come clean, and those who hazarded guesses in the comments section as to which story was true get, uh… bragging rights, or something. Though, now I think of it, whom would they brag to? That’d be an odd conversation, wouldn’t it?

“Hey, honey. You’ll never guess what I did yesterday!”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Over on Simon’s blog, he posted a bunch of lies and one truth, and we had to guess which was which, right?”

“Er…”

“And I totally nailed it! I guessed which one was true! Isn’t that awesome?”

“…”

Um… no. Bragging about that wouldn’t make much sense, would it? Maybe we’ll just go with a teeny, tiny sense of satisfaction in lieu of bragging rights.

Aaannnyway, since each of the lies was leavened with a bit of truth, I’ll come clean about each of ‘em. Here goes…

1. I did swing dance a lot back in the day, yes. But I never dropped a girl on the dance floor trying to do a barrel roll. I may have stumbled a little on a dip one time, but that’s as close as it came.
2. It’s true that I read all my mum’s childhood books, but I’ve never read any of Montgomery’s books.
3. My girlfriend and I were chased out of a park by the local PD, once, but we weren’t in a car, and weren’t doing anything, er… untoward. We were just swinging on the swings, man! (See, I was innocent once….)
4. This one’s true—mosh-pit nosebleed, chain-mail bikini and all. Yes, I am just that smooth… :)
5. This one’s a total fabrication, actually. I’ve never published erotica. Well, not yet, anyway… *cough*
6. I changed the details in this one. I only fell three feet, as opposed to six, landed on my tailbone (that hurt!), and had no concussion or hairline fracture. I have, however, pulled myself up a two-story scaffolding like that.

Bragging rights and a tiny glow of satisfaction go to Amy at She Writes, and Liza at Middle Passages. Congratulations, ladies!

In other news, I thought I was getting close to the end of my awards acceptances, but Medeia passed along another one to me yesterday. Thanks, good lady! This is one of those awards that I think I only have to pass along—none of that inconvenient 264 things about me deals. Yay!

Finally (I think), in a kind of cosmic coincidence, Carolina over at Carol’s Prints (I should really just put a perma-link in my sidebar, since I seem to link to her every other day) was doing the same thing as I am, running through her award backlog, and passed one on to me. Thanks, Carol!

But she’s not the only one. Anne Riley passed this along to me too (though I’ve been terribly tardy in accepting)! And so did Courtney Reese. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for keeping my self-esteem at healthy levels. Without you, I’d likely spiral into depressive, self-destructive behavior like hitting on women in chain-mail bikinis, bouncing around mosh-pits, and stuff like that. No, really, it’s nice to be considered an online friend to you ladies. Thanks for indulging my silly comments and general goofiness around the blogosphere.

To end with, I’m going to just list a bunch of cool people around the blogosphere whom I’ve recently discovered. If you guys want any of the awards I’ve accepted over the past week or so, feel free to pick and choose, eh? I have no idea what the rules are for most of them, so consider them rule-less, and treat ‘em like blog bling. Take ‘em all, if you want! Onward!

Silver Lining – Julie (congrats on the ABNA next round placement!)

…And This Time, Concentrate – Summer

Anissa Off the Record – Anissa (naturally)

Donna Hole – Donna (best comment sign off, evar, incidentally)

Eternal Moonshine of a Daydreaming Mind – Karen

Good to Begin Well, Better to End Well – Amalia

One Significant Moment at a Time – Nicole

Lying? I can handle that.

Okay, folks. I’m good. Really. Wednesday was teh suck for me, but I’m the kind of guy who’s never down for too long, so let’s get this blog back on the rails, huh? And how better to do that than to express my appreciation for more of those blog awards? Here goes, then.

First off, Anne over at Piedmont Writer gave me this little gem of an award. Despite the fact that I’m allergic to cats, I shall accept it with gratitude, since (as Anne put it) I need a little kitty on my blog…

Er… what’s next? Um, oh yeah. People want me to lie a bit. Okay, then. But really, are you saying I’ve been too honest on my blog? Should I cut back on that? Too much information, perhaps? Either way, I’m happy to accept that “Creative Writer” Award from the following folks:

Jemi at Just Jemi. (I always picture jazz-hands to go along with her blog title. Don’t ask me why.)

Liza at Middle Passages.  She’s keen to see what lies I come up with… hope I don’t disappoint. :)

Monica at Stalking Fiction. She wouldn’t have given this to me if I hadn’t opened my big mouth in her comments section, but hey. I do that kind of thing. This, I’m sure, doesn’t surprise any of my regular readers. *Sigh*

So let’s get to the lying, shall we? The rules are that I post five lies and one truth, and you all get to figure out which is which. Let’s see, now…

1. Back when swing dancing was had its revival (that year or so, around 1999), I spent one or two nights a week dancing with friends at a (now-defunct) club in Old City, Philadelphia. One time I was practicing a move called the “barrel roll,” where you roll the girl down your leg and catch her before she hits the floor. She, uh… hit the floor. She was mad that my first reaction was to laugh a bit…
2. As a kid I would read everything I could get my hands on. This resulted in me reading a lot of my mum’s old books when I ran out of my own. Hence the fact that I’ve read all of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne Shirley books (Anne of Green Gables, etc.). I’m blushing a bit right now.
3. One time, in high school (you thought I was going to say “at band camp,” didn’t you?) my girlfriend at the time and I were caught in a local park by the police. It was our own fault, really—we knew we weren’t supposed to be there after sunset. Even now, I sweat a tiny bit at the thought of the sudden flashlight beam through the car window…
4. I went to Ozzfest one summer—Soul Fly, Megadeth, Coal Chamber… EPIC!—and recall chatting with a woman in a chain mail bikini. (Apparently they’re not that uncomfortable… who knew?) This wasn’t too long after I got a nosebleed in the mosh-pit, so my blood-streaked flannel shirt must have looked pretty impressive to chain-mail chick. I’m am just that smooth, folks. Yup.
5. After reading this post over at The Intern’s blog a while ago, I decided to try my hand at writing erotica. (Under a pseudonym, of course.) I’ve, um… managed to publish a couple of things in that genre. No, I WILL NOT tell you my pseudonym, so don’t even ask. (They’re pretty good stories, though….)
6. I was goofing around, one time, with one of those pulley-hook assemblies they use on construction sites. I had my foot in the hook, and was trying to pull myself up by yanking on the other rope. This was all very cool until I lost my grip at about six feet off the ground. Concrete pad, meet right shoulder. Collarbone, meet hairline fracture. Brain, meet mild concussion (this may explain some things). Later, a friend taught me how to do that little trick right (it involves hooking your elbow around the lifting rope), and I managed to pull myself up a two story scaffolding that way. I’m nothing if not persistent, people.

Right, writer-friends. Who’s up for picking the truth from the lies? And remember, the best lies are always leavened with a little truth, so there’s actually something true about every one of those little gems… BWAHAHahahahahahaaa…. *cough* *cough* aahhahaa.

The 2nd Stage of Grief

Regularly scheduled blog posts involving humor and frivolity have been temporarily suspended in favor of the following…

* * * * *

I wrote her story last year, when she was still in remission. Into it I poured my fears, my confusion, my not knowing what to say to her, the painful repression and the skating around the death we all knew was possible. The story didn’t end happily, but that was only my way of exploring a difficult theme—she was still healthy when I wrote it. I thought it would be a tribute to her bravery in beating cancer. The cancer came back.

When she went on hospice care two weeks ago, I brought the story out again, because I knew I could never look her in the eyes and say what I wanted to say without cracking into small and shaking pieces. The words I write speak for me when I cannot. So I made final edits and delivered it to her parents’ home, wondering whether it might not be too late already. When she died three days later, I assumed she never got to read it.

At the viewing last night, adrift in a sea of nervous whispers and wounded eyes, I shook her parents’ hands and hoped my presence could convey something my stumbling tongue could not. Her father asked me if I had written that story, and I nodded. “She didn’t get to read it,” he said, confirming my fears. But then he told me that his wife had read the story aloud to her, and something went sideways. I mumbled inanities and stood waiting for my turn to say goodbye.

I sat in my car a few minutes later and watched the rain streak the windows and glint in the green blades of the pine tree in front of me, clenching my stomach muscles to hold back the grief. She’d heard the story. Was it selfish of me to give it to her? Did I extend my emotional process into the lap of  a dying woman? I intended it to show her what she meant to me, but would she understand that?

And now today I am angry. I’m angry that her mother had to sit and read my story to her, because no mother should have to do that. I’m angry that my last physical memory of her will be a cold, hard elbow beneath my hand, the burning in my arm as I carried her coffin, the scattered dirt beneath my fingertips as I paid my final respects. I’m angry that cancer made her parents lay one last rose on her casket and walk through a phalanx of family and friends, trying to hold themselves together. And I’m angry that I can’t seem to find the faith in me to believe that everything is okay now.

Today there are no answers. Today was just a funeral, an interment, a wake. Today was catharsis, for those left behind, the grief pushed aside by ritual. Today was realizing that the only moment we are guaranteed is this one. Today was understanding the thousand tiny ways another human being can impact your life without you realizing it. Today was breathing the cold air and feeling the rain on my skin and refusing—refusing utterly—to pull my coat close against the chill, because to do so would be to deny myself the sensation that has now been denied my friend.

Today I grieve.

Every cloud has a… what?

I’m catching up on my blog awards, peeps, and can I just say I am so friggin’ grateful for Google Reader? God bless the search function, is all I’m sayin’. Now not only can I ego-search for who’s mentioned me in their posts, or who might have written a story about me, like, 12 years ago before they ever knew me (which is kind of odd), but I can remind myself of who gave me what award and when, without having to rely on my increasingly faulty memory. Yes, that was a long sentence. I’m reading Virginia Woolf right now. Deal.

Anyway, Mireyah over at Crimson Ink passed on the Silver Lining Award to me. I’m not sure what the actual requirements are for this one, but Mires decided that she’d add one when giving it to me: five more random things about me. Er… I’m flattered? Really, I  thought after the last time I did something like that and ran out of things to say and shared my shoe size, people would be done with that. *sigh* Oh, well. Who am I to disappoint? With that in mind, may I present to you…

1. I can read while driving. Once, in a long day of tooling about the highways and byways, I read about 200 pages of a paperback. (Yes, I read fast.)
2. Nowadays I don’t read while driving anymore. It’s dangerous, and probably illegal. And anyway, I write while driving now. I can get a flash fiction piece written in about an hour and a half of solid highway driving. Yup.
3. My first car was a 1982 Toyota Tercel, and I loved it. I gave it away to a mechanic when I thought I’d buggered the piston rings by running it out of oil one too many times (it leaked), but he just knocked the catalytic converter off and the thing went back to running like a dream. *tear*
4. I bought an ‘88 Ford Ranger after that, and got totally ripped of. Realized why Ford stands for Fix Or Repair Daily, or Found On the Road Dead. Also, I hate sleazy used car dealers. That’s all.
5. The coolest thing I’ve ever driven would have to be either the army hum-vee I took a joyride in about 12 years ago (don’t ask… the army doesn’t know about that, and anyway, it was only a two-minute spin), or the 125’ aerial work platforms I occasionally have to work out of for my day job.  Those things are. awesome.

Oh, and before I forget, Kelly at Rants, Observations, and Other Remarks gave me the Picasso Award. I already have this little gem, and I can’t remember the rules for it (maybe Google Reader would let me search for that…), so I’ll just say thank you, Kelly!

I know I’ve a couple more awards to say thanks for too, so tomorrow I’ll refresh my memory again, and perhaps give you some of the linky goodness that these awards tend to encourage. Oh, and I’ll lie a bit. Enough of that truth crap. It’s so overrated sometimes…

I got Sunshiiine, on a cloudy dayeee...

I know, I know. I’ve been saving my thanks for all those blog awards people have passed on to me for, like, ever. And now I fear I may have forgotten a few. I’m not even sure how far back I’d have to go to find where I left off. Couple of weeks, perhaps? At least till before our Cosmic Coincidence Flash Fiction Week.

Anyhow, I’ll accept one today, a few more tomorrow, perhaps, string things out for the rest of the week with minimal-thought blog posts, and on we go. I plan on taking a little bloggie vacation after these acceptances, though, folks. My WIP and flash fiction submissions have been sorely neglected these past couple of weeks, and if I ain’t writing and submitting, I ain’t travellin’ very far down the road to publication, am I? I promise I won’t disappear entirely... I’ll still pop in and out of your comments sections and act like a fool from time to time. Plus, there’s always the PG Love Scene Blogfest in a couple of weeks that I have to prepare for. (Whoa.)

So. Award. Allison of Borrowing Heaven, Subletting Hell passed her first blog award evar on to me a while back, and this pleases me for a couple of reasons. First, the gal got skillz. Seriously. I ain’t read her writing, but she just sold a trilogy at auction! That, needless to say, is awesome. And a sign of mad skillz. Second, she’s one of those blunt, straightforward types who ain’t afraid to say what they’re thinking at any given moment. I respect that. So thanks, Allison. Look her up on her blog, or on Twitter (@mynfel), so you can say you knew her when...

Yah, there are rulez for this one, but they’re easy. Just share the love and pass the award on to 12 other bloggers. No prob. Here goes...

* * * * *

Mercedes M. Yardley... For throwing down the gauntlet last night with a quick writing challenge and getting me a pending publication credit. That’s some sunshine, right there. Plus, she got a short piece accepted in the challenge too.

Don P.... For beating us all to the punch last night and getting the first acceptance of the challenge. He won’t care about the award, but I gotta give the man props for the win, huh?

Harley May... For also getting an acceptance out of that challenge. We. Are. Made. Of. Win. Bitchez.

Carolina Valdez Miller... For being the contest co-hostess with the mostest. And how funny is it that Word’s spell-check just changed “mostest” to “moistest?” That wouldn’t have been very complimentary, now would it? Anyway, Carol rocks. That’s all. Oh, and read her fiction. That’s really all.

Sara McClung... For having some wicked cool tattoos, for making me look silly in her vlog (srsly?), and for just being all around entertaining. And drunken Russians. Those too. Don’t ask.

Laurel Garver... For being an awesome CP. Editor extraordinaire. Constantly challenging me to get deeper into my characters’ heads. Plus she’s almost at 100 followers, and promises a par-tay at eleventy one. Go visit her.

Frankie Diane Mallis... For posting a story today with a character named Simon. This amuses me no end, since apparently she first wrote the story when she was 15. Why’d you choose that name, Frankie? That’s just strange...

J. Koyanagi... For having a full-back tattoo. Also, for being a helluva writer. And, most importantly, since she writes pretty dark stuff sometimes, for the irony of giving her a Sunshine award.

Monica Pierce... For posting today that she will never, no never, not at all, in no way, ever accept another blog award. So... you knew this was coming, didn’t you, darlin’?

Elle Strauss... For just being very nice. And because she signed with an agent this week. She doesn’t need the Sunshine, but I thought I’d give her a shout-out anyway.

Anne (Piedmont Writer)... For working her way through the query process, for getting three partial requests already, and for her ongoing efforts to turn her blog into a true platform. What better way to build a platform than to accept random blog awards?

Janet Reid, Literary Agent... Because I like to amuse myself, and it amuses me to pass a blog award on to an agent who will a) likely never read my blog, b) couldn’t care less about blog awards anyway, and c) would happily shred my manuscript with shark teeth should it deserve this. Yes, I’m feeling a bit ornery today. Why do you ask?

* * * * *

So there we go. Sunshine award accepted. Thanks, Allison! Hope I did ya proud, good lady. Congrats again on that epic sale.

Twitter Tattoo Avatar Weekend!

Okay, yes. I’m posting twice in one day. What can I say? I double booked myself. If you haven’t swung by my earlier post, go take a peek, then bounce over to Laurel’s blog to find the other people participating in the Whoops! Blogfest. I’ve been chuckling on and off all morning as I’ve read the entries.

Anyway, I’m posting a quickie update right now to spread the word about this coming weekend on Twitter. You might have noticed that last Friday I was handing tattoos out with my #FollowFriday mentions. There’s a reason for that. See, Sara McClung just got a new tattoo (take a peek here, if you’re curious), which got me thinking that perhaps it’s time for me to continue my tattoo odyssey. Right now I only have one, and I’ve always intended to get a few more. I even know what the next one will be, and where it’s going to go. (Now I just have to find the cash for it!)

And as I was thinking about my next tattoo, J. Koyanagi posted one of those ten-things-about-me blogs in which she mentioned she has some pretty sweet tattoos, too. Which got me to thinking even more. So I says to myself, “Self, what if we got all those rebellious writer-types to post pics of their tattoos as their Twitter avatars for a day?” And then my self responded, “Oh, now that’s a good idea, self!” And my self said, “I know. Thanks!”

I happened to mention this to Sara, and she said something along the lines of, “Oh, *&$% yes! That’s the coolest #$%*!@# idea that’s ever been had since Al Gore invented the internet!” (I might be putting words in her mouth here, but I’m a writer—I’m allowed some creative license.) But, being a kind and considerate type, Sara said we shouldn’t limit the inkfest to just writers with tattoos. “What if,” she said, “people posted pictures of what tattoos they want to get? Or would get if they were going to get any. Or something.”

And I says, “Cool!”

So that’s what we’re doing. This coming weekend, starting on Friday night, everyone who wants to can change their Twitter Avatar to a picture of one of the following:

• A tattoo you have now
• A tattoo you want to get
• A tattoo you will never get but just think is pretty damn cool.

And that’s all there is to it, folks! On Sunday afternoon, feel free to change the ol’ avatar back to your grinning mug, a lolcat, zombie, hello kitty, whatever. But from Friday to Sunday, let’s see some ink, huh?

Ah, the wonders of social networking media. I’m so glad I can contribute to the ongoing cultural discussion that is the Blogosphere and the Twitterverse… :)

Whoops! Blogfest Entry: Chivalry

Okay, folks. This might be a first. Seriously, I can’t remember ever—even in high school—writing anything that could be classified as YA. I have a very distinct memory of my 9th grade English teacher reading a story of mine aloud to the entire class because he was so impressed with it—except it was one of those embarrassingly adolescent stories: all dreams and sexy women and death. I spent the entire time Mr. B. was reading huddled under my coat, flushing beet red in mortification.

My point is, I don’t know if I’ve ever written YA, and yet Laurel’s somehow dragged it out of me. Perhaps it was her post yesterday that put the idea in my head. Or perhaps it’s just that all my most embarrassing moments happened in high school. Wait… didn’t everyone’s most embarrassing moment happen in high school? Huh.

Anyway, here’s my entry to Laurel’s Whoops! Blogfest. Feel free to enjoy, make fun of me in the comments section, whatever. Unlike high-school aged Simon, I’m perfectly capable of taking criticism. Or, when that fails, purchasing alcohol to make it all better. Whichever.

* * * * *

Oh, God. It’s Maria. Wait… shirt tucked in? Check. Combed hair this morning? Check. Brushed teeth? Check. Fly up? No, don’t look, dammit. Play it cool. She’s, like, four steps behind me. Is it cooler to have both backpack straps over your shoulders or just one? Crap. One, I think. Too late now. I’m already carrying it dork-style. Today of all days. Dammit!

Okay, the door opens out, right? Make sure you pull the handle hard, idiot—you don’t want her to think you’re too weak to open the door, do you? Right. Thought not. Grab the door handle… one swift yank. Aw, man! Did they oil the hinges? What the hell? That thing just flew open! I don’t remember it being so easy. Maybe she’ll chalk it up to your manly strength. Ha! Yeah, right. Whatever.

Now hold the door for her. It’s gentlemanly to do that, isn’t it? Do girls like that nowadays? They do, right? They have to! I mean, women’s lib and all that, but I can still hold the door for her, can’t I? Mom was just telling Dad last night how men get paid, like, 50% more than women for doing the same job, and that it was just stupid unfair, but I can still hold the door for Maria, can’t I?

Crud. I can’t let it go now. She’s too close. It’d look like I was deliberately ignoring her. Smile. Eye contact. Ohh… she’s so beautiful. Man, I love that hair—long, dark, straight down to the middle of her back. Chocolate-brown eyes. She smells good too. Oh, God, I can smell her from three paces –no idea what shampoo she uses, but it’s awesome. No, don’t inhale too obviously. Just smile. Smile, moron!

“Thanks,” she says.

She spoke to me! Woot! That’s sah-weet! What do I do? WhaddoIdo? Something chivalrous… a gesture… something... bow! Bow! That’s it! I’ll bow to her—very courtly. Yes, bow. Bend at the waist, one arm across the stomach. Nice! So slick. “You’re welcome, milady,” I say. Yes, that’s the ticket.

Oh no! Too much bow! The books in my backpack are sliding forward. Ah! My neck! Crap! Off balance! Take a step forward. Is that my pencils bouncing on the sidewalk? Aaahh! Look up. Aw, man! Maria’s looking down at me, totally confused. Quick—get the pencils. They’re not even the mechanical kind. Why does my mom get those cheap-ass Faber-Castell No. 2s? It’s embarrassing! Oh… one rolled under the door.

Ooowwww! Sonovabitch! My friggin’ forehead! I SO didn’t see the door handle there. What the hell? Ow, ow, ow! Is that… am I… am I bleeding? NO! Oh, this is the worst ever. The WORST! Maria’s looking concerned… oh, she’s totally trying not to laugh. This is just… just… crap!

Okay, deep breath. Backpack off the shoulders. Put the pencils back in the front pouch. Why the hell didn’t you zip it shut last night? Stupid!

“Are you okay?” Maria asks.

Oh, great. I’m fine. I’m bleeding from my eyebrow. You’re the prettiest thing for 100 miles around and I just had a chivalric spaz moment right in front of you. Never been better. Thanks.

“Yeah.”

“Um… okay, then.”

Oh, I love when she tucks her hair behind her ear like that. I love it love it love it. I’m such a moron.

“See you around?” she says.

“Uh… sure. Yeah.”

I’m sure I look pretty cool with my hand pressed against the bleeding spot on my forehead. At least she has the decency not to laugh at me outright. That’s something, anyway.

She’s turning, walking away. She’s so cute it hurts. I love it when she wears skirts instead of jeans. Her legs are so pretty. Does she always get to school early like this? Maybe I should be early more often.

Okay, then. Tomorrow, if you hold the door for her, don’t bow, you idiot. Smile, make eye contact, but don’t friggin’ bow! What were you thinking?

Well, at least she didn’t laugh at me. That’s nice, anyway. Does that mean she likes me?

Whoops! Blogfest and Awards Procrastination

A quickie Saturday post, folks, to point y’all in the direction of my critique partner-in-crime Laurel’s Whoops! Blogfest. It’s coming up on Monday, 2/22, and Laurel, being a clever type, wants your characters’ too, too, too embarrassing moments posted for our delectation and delight. (Get it? Too, too, too… 2/22… right? Right? Clever, innit? Oh, fine, I’ll shut up about it.)

I have no idea what I’ll post yet. That’s something I’m sure I’ll figure out on Sunday night. Either way, it promises to be a fun blogfest, and might actually result in an angst-free story from me. How about that? So go sign up, would ya?

In other news, since it’s been a pretty packed couple of weeks here on the ol’ blog, I haven’t had a chance to say thank you for a whole bunch of awards that folk have been nice enough to pass on to me. There’s quite a few stacked up, and I’m starting to get confused as to whether I’m supposed to lie my @$$ off, or tell you a bunch of true things about myself. I’ll probably do both and let y’all figure it out on your own.

Have a good weekend, folks! See you on Monday with the Whoops! fest…

The… *sigh* … PG… Love… Scene… Blogfest *facepalm*

I’m not really sure how I got myself into this one. Okay, that’s not precisely true… I know fine well how I got into this—something to do with having a big mouth and a faulty internal censor. And being constitutionally incapable of refusing a challenge—let’s not forget that. (Incidentally, since what I’m about to relate happened on Twitter, is “me and my big mouth” an inappropriate phrase here? Shouldn’t it be “me and my big fingers?” Huh.)

Anyway, there I was, hanging out on Twitter one night, minding my own business like I usually do, when who should happen along but the bright and bubbly Shannon Messenger. (Here she is on Twitter… go tell her I sent you, eh?) Now, for those of you who don’t know, Shannon writes MG. I, on the other hand—and this may come as a surprise to you, O loyal blog readers—don’t so I have trouble understanding the, uh… MG brain. (Frankly, I think the innocent persona Shannon’s trying to maintain is a front for some devious plot to corrupt the youth of America, but hey… the gal’s got to maintain a respectable online presence for her intended audience, right?)

Anyway, I think what started this all off was Shannon confessing that she’d had to write a love scene for a class in film school, and that it had been a bit difficult for her. So I says, “Can we haz a peek?” And she says, “No!” And I says, “Please?” And she says, “"#$%@, no!” (I might have added something to that response.) And then I says, “What would an MG love scene even look like?” And then, as happens on Twitter quite often, some other folk jumped in, and were all like, “Yeah, what would that be like?” (I’m looking at you, Ms. Gardner-Griffe.) And I was all, “I wonder how you’d write a love scene for a PG audience.” And the peanut gallery says, “Yeah, us too!” And I was all, “Haha, this is funny. We should totally do a PG love scene blogfest *snigger*”

But then—and this totally deserves a special mention—Monica Pierce jumps on in and says, “So are you gonna put up, or shut up?” (That’s a paraphrase.) And then I was all, “Oh, hell, no! You did not just issue me a challenge!” And she says, “Pfft. Buck up, bitch. Put your money where your mouth is.” (Again, paraphrase.) And I says, “Did you just call me a bitch? Oh no, you didn’t! That’s it, people—we’re doing an effing PG love scene blogfest and you’re all participating AND YOU’RE GOING TO LIKE IT!”

And then I think to myself, ‘Oops.’

Um… yeah.

So… guess who’s hosting a blogfest? *about dies of mortification*

*sigh*

Here’s the deal, then. For those who wish to participate (and believe me, if participation is limited to the prime instigators, I understand completely), we’re going to aim for the following:

• A short love scene between two characters (yes, two, ‘cause if it’s a threesome or better, it sure as hell ain’t PG!)
• The reader needs to understand that the act of love is occurring, but the language must remain MG/PG.
• You may not fade to black because that would be cheating!
• Entries to be posted on March 15th, ‘cause, y’know… that was a good day for Caesar.

That’s about it, I guess. We’re certainly not aiming for toned down smut here, people. The challenge for this blogfest is to write a believable, yet subtle love scene. Because let’s face it, with the prevalence of sex and violence on TV nowadays, most MG readers have seen more glamorized sex than you can shake a stick at. Can we present it tastefully, is the question.

All the usual blogfest stuff applies: add your name to the Mr. Linky below, be sure to swing by and read all the wonderful entries on the day of the fest, blah blah blah. You know the drill. And… if all you ladies who jumped on the blogfest bandwagon on Twitter that night don't suck it up and post something, so help me, I will hunt you down and beat you with a rubber chicken! Just see if I don’t.

Now I’m off to curl up and die for a little while.

Author Interview: Gregg Feistman

It’s been a helluva week here on the ol’ blog, folks. That was quite a bit of fiction Carol and I managed to spotlight, and we’d like say on more huge “Thank you!” to all the writers who took the time to write something and send it in. We couldn’t have done it without you.

But I’m not done highlighting other writers quite yet. Yes, soon enough we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled solipsism, but before we get there, I’d like to take a brief moment to introduce y’all to Gregg Feistman.

I met Gregg at one of my local writers’ group meetings, where he was talking about the publication of his debut novel. Since I’m currently focused on the traditional route to publication, I was surprised to learn that Gregg’s bypassed the literary agents altogether, and sold his first novel to a small publisher in New York City. Not that he entirely sidestepped the representation process—industry networking can go a long way toward keeping your manuscript out of the slushpile. I’ll let Gregg tell you about that, though…

You sold your novel without the benefit of an agent. Could you briefly walk us through your path to publication?

I spent about 1 ½ years pitching agents.  I had some nibbles, some people who read the first 3 chapters and some who even read the entire manuscript.  But no takers.  Through networking with other published authors, I was referred to one of their agents.  He read the manuscript, but decided it wasn’t for him.  He did recommend me sending it to a publisher in NYC (and he gave me the contact there) who also read the manuscript, but passed on it.  However, with my permission, they passed it onto another publisher who liked it and sent me a contract.  And hence, it’s now published.  I guess you could say I got lucky, but I also believe in perseverance and trusting in the quality of my own work.

Your book's been put out by a small publisher. At what sales point do you think they'll consider your book a success?

10,000 copies is their magic number.  However, I recently read an interview with James Patterson in the NY Times and he said it took him five years to reach 10,000 sales of his first novel.  So I’ll take that as a sign of hope.

You're doing a lot of self-promotion. How do you go about setting up book signings?

That’s simple, contact each individual store manager and pitch yourself and your book and see if they’re willing to host a signing.  The thing that’s the most important to them is how can you help drive traffic into their store?  If you can answer that question before you call, it makes them more interested.  Make sure you’re contributing to the marketing effort of your own book.  Some stores will also be willing to host a signing and have you do it on consignment – their standard cut is 40%.  So you have to figure out if it’s worth it to you.  Even if it’s a loss for you financially, you may decide it’s worth the exposure.  Each store (Borders, Barnes & Noble, etc.) decides on its own, but many are willing to support local authors.

What other things are you doing to market yourself?

I have a website (www.thewarmerchants.com), I keep news about the book, signings, readings, appearances, etc., updated through LinkedIn, Plaxo and on my Facebook fan page.  I’m also a member of some local professional trade organizations in my field.  I had one very successful signing at the end of last year with one of those organizations and am trying to set up another one with a different organization.  Plus, I’ve spread the word about my book at my workplace, and everyone I know.  I’ll also be doing a couple of Podcasts this month, as well as pitching it to local mainstream media.  In addition, I’ve had some readers write reader reviews on Amazon and BarnesandNoble.com, so hopefully that’ll help too.  And I’m in the process of setting up some more signings, checking out book festivals in the area, etc.  Finally, I’m working with my publisher to see what they can help with too.  Through them, it was featured at the Frankfurt Book Fair in Germany last fall, and I’m considering participating at the NY Book Expo in the spring.  It’s a process, but you have to be persistent.

How's the next novel coming along?

It’s in the thinking stage right now.  I’m trying to come up with a viable story idea/plot.

Planning on getting an agent for the next novel?

Yes.  With one published novel under my belt, it should be easier this time around.  Or that’s what my published author friends who do have an agent tell me.

* * * * *

The War Merchants, by Gregg Feistman

Out of the ashes of the Second World War, a former Nazi finace expert and his half-brother, an SS Colonel, use stolen gold and confiscated treasures to implement their vision of the ultimate business model to control the world: economic fascism.

In the decades since, a secret cartel of multinational corporations have used it to successfully manipulate world events and pull the strings of governments to start and control local wars around the globe. They maximize profits without the waste and inefficiencies of a world war. Beautiful public relations executive Cassidy Jevon and ace business reporter Michael Kranz stumble upon the Machiavellian scheme. Not knowing whom to trust, they must expose the global conspiracy before the next targeted initiative begins: the manipulation and takeover of Russia.

The Cosmic Coincidence Flash Fiction Week Roundup...

So yes, Carol and I chose five winners for our contest. This was a very hard thing to do (you may have heard me say this before), because there was something we loved about each one of the entries. And we really, really appreciate the time each of you took to write something and send it in. You’ve managed to salvage our respective self-worths (since a dearth of entries would have irreparably scarred us), and we thank you most sincerely for that.

In the spirit of gratitude, then, we thought we’d wrap up our Cosmic Coincidence week by mentioning some of the coolest things about the entries we didn’t end up selecting for prizes. Thus, in no particular order, we present to you our thoughts on the stories from our other entrants.

Nina Watson: “A Twist in Time”

This one was a quirky, mystery-style story about loss and memory. The line that stood out for me was this: “she was so numb, she wished it would actually hurt.” I know I’ve felt like that, and it’s a fantastic encapsulation of numbing pain.

Anne Riley: “Turnabout is fair play”

Yes, Anne, I made up a title for you. I do that kind of thing. Seriously, though, I loved how the storm at sea reflected the stormy relationship between the two characters. Also, no lie: I had an anniversary dinner with my wife on a deck very like this some years back, and your story reminded me of that night quite vividly. That’s a measure of the story’s effectiveness, I’d say.

Sarahjayne Smythe: “Convergence”

Yes, Sarahjayne submitted two stories to the contest, but we ended up liking “Paying the Freight” more than “Convergence.” That said, many of the same stylistic elements in her winning story are present in this one too: finely drawn image, believable dialogue, showing over telling…. Ms. Smythe has an ear for alliteration and an eye for detail. I’m sure you’ll be hearing more about her in future, folks.

Frankie Diane Mallis: “Poison Words”

There were some really great things about this story folks. First off, the image of a vibrating cell phone on the beach, with sand grains dancing on the screen, was fantastic. Also, I really liked how the story developed slowly, cumulatively—it made the climax painful, yet inevitable. Great technique here, buoyed by a solid prose style.

Yvonne Osborne: “Remy’s Job”

Some really wonderful turns of phrase made this entry stand out. The voice was solid and consistent, and there were several very poignant observations. Things like saying a deceased drunk was “a better man” in his favorite bar, “a witty, generous, by-a-round kind of guy,” made this story pop. And the solid characterization was the icing on the cake.

Jeremy Wells: “Dead is Stan”

There’s one image in this story that stands out for me: “Stan [marveled] at the lower half of a delicious brown serving girl as her tray eclipsed the sun.  Down [came] his martini like some alien craft shot from the tray’s corona.” Now, isn’t that just an awesome way for a drink to arrive? Really! And there were more besides. The images were the best part of this story, for sure. Well done, good sir.

Liza Carens Salerno: “The Sting of It”

Okay, Carol and I both laughed out loud at the ending of this one. It was a very funny twist on the “poison” theme, for sure. Also, having read Liza’s blog for several months now, I wasn’t in the least bit surprised to read some very vivid descriptions of the natural world—it’s her forte, folks. Case in point? “In front of her, the teal sea swished and whispered as the tide measured its way in.  The hard packed sand in front of her of lay frozen in washboard ridges.…” Nice, huh?

Edit: Liza's business website can be found here: http://www.lcswrites.com/



Angela Kate: “Wanted and Unwanted”

This one was an interesting twist on an old story, but what stood out for me was the dialogue. Quite epigrammatic, in places—charming! “The best things in life come from conquered fears,” and “Its when you don’t think you’re ready that you’re most ready” stick in my mind. The way the dialogue ended the story was very cool too.

* * * * *

There we have it, folks. A great,  big “Thank you!” to each of you for participating in our contest. Y’all made the judging very, very hard. Really.

And, since we’d be happy to pimp your blogs, websites, whatever, as a token of thanks, do feel free to drop links in the comment section if you have other online presences you’d like us to highlight (Twitter accounts, Goodreads, etc.).

Thus endeth the Cosmic Coincidence Flash Fiction week here in our little corner of the blogosphere. Thanks to everyone for playing along, and for the wonderful comments you all have been leaving for our intrepid authors.

Ciao!

Love at First Sight Blogfest: Beginning Blind

Apparently I’m a sucker for these blogfest thingies. They’re kind of fun, actually, and I do enjoy working with the creative prompts they offer. This time around is a little different, though. See, I made the mistake of asking Laurel what I should do for the blogfest—y’know, seeing as I enjoy a challenge. I thought she’d challenge me to write from a female POV, since I don’t do that much. But she went above and beyond with this one. Not only did she challenge me to write from a female point of view, but she also stipulated that the main character be… wait for it… blind. Yeah. The Love at First Sight Blogfest… with a blind protagonist.

I’m not one to pass on a challenge, though, folks, especially when it comes to my writing. I’ll try anything, just to see if I can make it work. So here’s  my entry. I’m entirely too cynical to believe in love at first sight (attraction, sure, but love? Nah), so I’ve tried to capture the initial spark. Y’all will have to judge whether I was successful.

* * * * *

“Get the door for you, miss?”

His voice was a light tenor, soft, but with a hint of early-morning scratchiness. When he reached past her to swing the door open, his scent was clean soap, shaving cream, shower-damp hair.

“After you,” he said.

“Thank you.” She smiled in his direction and let Lady lead her into the warm coffee air that hissed and bubbled and swam with the sounds of muted conversation and the soft clack of computer keys. Her heels tapped a muted staccato across the floor mat, then clicked on the tile as she made her way to the line. Soap-and-shaving-cream took the place behind her, standing at the requisite respectful distance. She could feel his attention between her shoulder blades, raised her hand to brush the hair back behind her ear.

“The usual, Carly?”

“Sure, Greg,” she said. “Thanks.”

“Tall soy latte,” he called over his shoulder as he took the proffered bill from Carly’s outstretched fingers.

“One… two… and twenty-seven cents. There you go, darlin’.”

“Thanks, sweetie.” She grinned. “ See you tomorrow.”

She trailed her fingertips across the formica countertop as she walked to the other end of the bar.

Coffee in hand, she followed Lady through the usual cloud of mumbled excuse mes, sorrys, and sudden side-shuffles, to a seat by the window.

She popped the plastic lid from the cup and took a deep breath—warm steam, redolent with rich milk and roasted Arabica, filled her nostrils. A small sigh of pleasure slipped past her lips after the first sip, as always. She turned her face toward the the warmth of the sun streaming through the glass and let the rattle and buzz of the coffee shop and the clatter of traffic wash over her. Lady lay amiably under the table, tail thwapping against Carly’s chair leg from time to time.

“Mind if I sit with you? It’s rather packed in here.”

Soap and shaving cream.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“’Scuse me, girl,” he said over the scrape of chair legs on the floor. “She’s a girl, right?”

Carly nodded, smiled.

“I’m John, by the way,” he said when he was seated.

There was a soft rustle of fabric. She extended one hand to have it grasped lightly but firmly in a cool palm.

“Carly.”

“Nice to meet you, Carly.”

She took another sip of coffee and cocked her head.

“You’re a regular here, I take it.” He was smiling.

“Yes. And you’re not?”

“Nope. I just got transferred to an office on this side of town. Bonus that there’s a Starbucks right near the end of my commute.”

“Bonus, indeed.” She smiled. He was speaking to her normally. She was used to discomfort, inured to it by now. She was even becoming accustomed to those too-bright tones with their subtle implications of pity. But John seemed… natural.

“Do you work around here?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. A few blocks over.” She swirled the remains of the latte in the bottom of her cup, drank it off off in one smooth motion. She trailed her fingers lightly over her watch. “Actually, I have to get going.”

John’s chair scraped the tile as he stood. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Carly hid a smile. She bent to catch hold of Lady’s harness again. “See you tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Oh, I do hope so. Shall I get the door for you?”

“No. Thank you, though.”

“Tomorrow, then. It was nice to meet you, Carly.”

“You too, John.”

Lady wended her way through the scattered tables and chairs to the exit. The bell above the door tinkled as Carly pulled it open and stepped out into the wash of traffic noise and city sounds. The smell of exhaust and perfume from passers-by rose around her. As she walked behind Lady, through the press of pedestrians and hum of humanity, Carly lifted one hand to her nose and inhaled gently. The barest hint of soap and shaving cream remained—just enough to make her smile.

Tomorrow, then.

It’s all Carol’s Fault…

Okay. I know we promised to post a wrap-up of Flash Fiction week today. We didn’t forget. I swear. Except, it just turned into one of those days, where one thing follows another, and, y’know, stuff happens, which makes it hard for other stuff to happen the way it should, and then after some stuff doesn’t end up happening properly, some related stuff just doesn’t get done along the way somewhere. You’ve had those days, right? Yes, well this was one of them.

My point is, it’s all Carol’s fault. See, we’ve done a pretty good job all week of communicating about these contest posts—e-mail, chat, telegram, carrier pigeon, that homeless guy I paid $50 to take Greyhound to Indy and deliver a cuneiform tablet, etc.  Except today, for some reason, we just didn’t manage to figure things out in time for either of us to post anything reasonably coherent and worthy of the time all you good people took to write and send in stories. Hence this post, apologizing for not wrapping things up today the way we said we would.

And, sadly, we won’t be wrapping things up tomorrow either, since the Love At First Sight Blogfest  is scheduled (Valentine’s Day, natch). So we’re postponing the wrap-up until Monday, at which point we’ll be all self-deprecating and apologetic, but might at least be able to give y’all’s stories the attention they deserve. Cool? Cool.

Consider this a formal apology. I’m still trying to work out how it’s all Carol’s fault right now. Maybe I’ll have to get back to you on the mechanics of that. Still, it’s got to be some kind of cosmic thing. Maybe the planets aren’t aligned properly. Which would totally be Carol’s fault. Yes. Either way, check back on Monday for our scintillating, edutaining wrap up of Flash Fiction Week, folks. It’ll be more fun than being eaten alive by pirahnas, I promise.

Cosmic Coincidence Flash Fiction Week, Pt. V: Merrilee Faber

Carol and I are rounding out flash fiction week here with the grand prize winners of our Cosmic Coincidence Contest, and I’m going to say it again, folks: choosing the winners was hard!  But I wouldn’t trade this experience, ‘cause I got to read some really cool stories, give away some nifty stuff, and generally make people happy. Plus, my self-esteem remained intact, since we got a good number of entries. Wins all round!

Anyway, here goes with the second of the first place stories. Again, I’ll analyze after. Enjoy!

* * * * *

Necessity

by Merrilee Faber

It seems odd to say that you can be woken by silence, but you can. It's the absence of something familiar, like waking in a cold bed, empty of your recent lover.

The silence of the gulls swept into my dream. I rolled over and fell off the couch onto the rug. Sunlight charged into the apartment with the crash and roar of heat and glare. On my little patio, beyond the massive egg in its nest of broken furniture, two dead snakes hung from the railing. Their brown skin glittered as bright as the waves in the bay beyond.

I ran to the door, stumbling over debris, flung it open and leaned over the rail. The sky, faded blue like an old pair of jeans, was empty of wings of any kind. I strained my eyes, searching for a distant speck. Then the seagulls emerged from their hiding places, filling the sky with wings and noise.

I sank down into my last patio chair, and pulled the snakes off the rail. They were still warm. Inside the egg I could feel a fluttering, like a ripple under my skin. I reached out a hand, touched the rough shell, felt a quiver in my gut. I hadn't planned on doing this alone, but then what of my life had I planned?

I hung the snakes over the arm of the chair and went to call Joel.

"Angie!"

Even his voice was tanned and smiling. We hadn't spoken in two months. We were supposed to be old friends. But I never returned his calls. "Joel, I need your help. Can you come over?"

"Coming right now." There were overtones to his reply. I put down the phone, stared at the mess, decided it was too big to tackle. In the kitchen, I scrabbled among the empty bottles and found enough remains to make a very stiff martini. I mixed it in a jug and drank it straight from there.

I'd gone off alcohol for almost six years. I'd gone off almost everything, trying desperately to conceive the child that called to me. When a succession of boyfriends and one-night stands had failed to produce that child, I'd turned to Joel.

It had been a fun, but fruitless relationship. When I'd finally given up trying to conceive, Joel had made it plain that he would be happy to remain as bed-mates. But my sex drive had died with my dreams, so we settled back into friendship.

The doorbell rang. Halfway to the door something crunched under my foot. I staggered, pain digging into my sole. The doorbell rang again.

"Hang on!" I leaned against the wall, turned up my foot and plucked out a shard of bloody glass. I hobbled over to the door as the bell rang a third time.

"Angie! Hey-" Joel saw my posture. "What happened?"

"Stepped on a glass. Come in, I need to find a towel."

Joel closed the door behind him and, before I realised what he was doing, swept me up into his arms.

He stopped dead at the entrance to the living room. I followed his gaze; from the torn fabric on the couch to the shattered lamp, the remains of my dining suite, and finally to the long, ragged gouges in the plaster walls.

"Angie." Joel's usually loud voice was an awed whisper. "What the hell happened?"

Fantastic sex was probably not the answer he was looking for. "Foot first."

"Right."

In the bathroom, I washed the cut clean, and let him put a band-aid on it. I still couldn't think of what to say.

"So what happened?"

"It's complicated."

He put a hand on my knee. "Angie. You know you can tell me anything. We're pretty close, right?"

I nodded. "Come out on to the patio."

I led him through the trashed living room. Funny thing was, we weren't that close. But to Joel, close and intimate were the same thing.

Out on the patio, he stared down at the egg. "It's a giant egg." He reached out a hand. The egg, easily as tall as his hip, quivered. He pulled his hand away. "Where did you get it?"

I smiled at a warm memory. "From a traveller with skin the colour of polished ebony."

"A darkie?"

My smile died. I'd forgotten about Joel's racist leanings. "Yes, Joel. A man with dark skin."

"You bought it off him?"

"He…helped me make it."

He grunted. "Hope he didn’t cheat you."

"No. We both got what we wanted." I turned away and walked back inside.

Joel wasn't what I needed. My body had known that. I had found what I needed in a chance encounter with a man I would probably never see again. I knew that now. The snakes had been his parting gift, to me and to my daughter.

I paused, one hand on the kitchen counter. My daughter. I could hear her in my head. She was almost here. I reached down under the counter and pulled out a machete, still with the price tag on the shining blade.

I heard a splintering sound from the patio. Joel rushed in, and my grip tightened.

"I think it's hatching!"

"I know." I straightened, brought the machete down in a sweeping motion. Joel thudded onto the linoleum.

Hunger pains gripped my stomach and I gasped. "I'm coming. Hang on." I raised the machete again, brought it down.

I took my grisly offering outside, still warm and dripping. The snakes had already been devoured. My daughter spotted me and stumbled forward through the shattered shell. The sunlight glistened on her wings, still damp with birth fluids.

Her skin was black like ebony, but those were my hazel eyes that looked up; hungering, demanding, needing me like no-one in my life had ever needed me.

I bent down to give my daughter her first feed, oblivious to the gulls and the city and the empty sky beyond.

* * * * *

I know, right? Where to start? I’ll just jump right in, I guess…

One of the things I love about flash fiction is that we don’t need to bother explaining everything. In fact, the more I feel is implied, the deeper the undercurrents, the better I like a given piece of flash. And whoo, boy! Were there undercurrents in this one! First off, we’re on a magical realism kick, and I love that. The fact that a (presumably) human woman is having a daughter who has to hatch from an egg is just tossed out there, in your face. It’s as if we’re being told, “This is what happens. Deal with it.” And the prose is so straightforward, direct, that we buy it.

I also just love the way information is parceled out slowly, almost in an offhand manner. For example, in the second sentence, we have a statement about a bed “empty of your recent lover,” made as though it were a generalization, a pretty image. But then, later on, we realize that the bed was indeed empty of a recent lover. How? “Fantastic sex was probably not the answer he was looking for.” It’s the kind of thing that shows, obliquely, what has happened—no telling here! Then, in another twist, we see in the middle of the story that the snakes were “a parting gift,” and recall the fact that, back at the beginning, “they were still warm.” So the implication is that the lover has only just left. Just… wow. It’s the way the details were threaded through the story that caught me.

And the ending? So cool. It’s restrained, certainly, in that we don’t have gratuitous depictions of violence—all we have is a “grisly offering,” and damn if that doesn’t tell us all we need to know! We have that one alliterative series: “spotted… stumbled… shattered shell. The sunlight…” And then we have the glistening wings—and wings, you may remember, were mentioned back at the beginning in the empty, blue-jean sky paragraph (nice bookending!). All around nifty detail-work, folks. I think I learned a few new tricks from this one!

So well done, Merrilee! Congratulations! Let us know your prize choice, would you? Then Carol and I can fight about who gets to pay the shipping to Australia… :)

Oh, and if you want more Merrilee, people, do check out her blog at http://notenoughwords.wordpress.com/ She’s actually a tiny bit famous, I think. She has a shiny button on her blog that says she’s one of the top 50 Australian writing blogs. Go read her Favourite Posts section, and you’ll see why. Really.

And finally, do check back tomorrow. We’re going to say a big thank you to everyone who sent in stories, as a last hurrah here at Flash Fiction Week.

Cosmic Coincidence Flash Fiction Week, Pt. IV: Lady Glamis

Taking a page from Carol’s playbook, I’ve decided to save the commentary until after the fiction. What? I was totally thinking of doing that anyway. I was! Oh, fine. Let’s just get to the story, shall we?

* * * * *

The Threshold

by Michelle Davidson Argyle

Okay, for you archive surfers, this story would totally be here right now, except for the fact that lovely Lady Glamis has requested that we remove it from our blogs so she can submit it to literary journals. It really is a good story, so I'm sure it'll be picked up somewhere soon. When it is, I shall pester Michelle until she gives me the link, so I can post it here.

Till then, do go ahead and read my scintillating analysis below--it'll tell you all you need to know....

* * * * *

Okay, then. So Michelle’s the first of our two first prize winners, and there’s a number of reasons for that.

First, despite the fact that she’s a woman, she’s inhabited the mind of a teenaged boy quite effectively. I, uh… speak from experience here, since I was one once. ‘Tis true. Really, the tension inherent in the relationship between Finn and Alice is very well drawn, and thoroughly believable.

Second, the writing is very sensual. By this I don’t mean that there’s a sexual component (although there is), I mean that the senses are engaged in the story. Really, one of the main reasons I liked this story so much was that I could feel the baking heat of the empty lot and the Arizona desert, could feel the hard, veiny wings of  the grasshoppers tickling my legs. I could smell the gasoline, see the goosebumps, the sweat trickling, dampening the edge of a thin cotton shirt. And let’s not leave out taste, the most overlooked of the senses—we aren’t actually given flavors (that might be too much), but the implication is there, and it’s powerful.

Third, and finally, it’s the language. I confess: I’m a sucker for finely-drawn image and elegant description. For me, it’s all about the “bone-dry dirt,” the “flashing… blue belly” (alliteration), the weeds crackling like tinder (that image caught me immediately). It’s about the choice of details, in the end, what Michelle chose to emphasize—from the grasshoppers popping toward the sky, to the implication-filled false sun that closes the piece.

So, well done, Michelle! Do get hold of us and let us know which of the first-place prizes you’d prefer. Thanks again for your wonderful entry!

(And anyone looking for more of Michelle, do stop by her blog here, and The Literary Lab, where she, Davin, and Scott Bailey blog about all things literary and writing-related.)

Cosmic Coincidence Flash Fiction Week, Pt. III: Sarah Ahiers

I know. I know! This ones about vampires! The literary snob in me is almost embarrassed to admit it, and yet… something about this story  caught my attention. It’s quirky, for one thing (love the ludicrously poker-faced last sentence in the first paragraph!). The notion of vampires being kind of harmless, lost souls, safe as long as you know how to handle them, is just off-kilter enough to engage me.

Then there’s the way the story develops. It’s the little things, the slow accumulation of facts and events that lead to the climax. The best part, for me, is how real the sequence of events feels—I totally bought the expectation of company, the distraction, the moment of carelessness. I also like how Sarah didn’t bother with backstory or explanations; we don’t need to know why these vampires act this way, what their relation is to humans, their origins, what exactly paranormal sciences are, etc. Who cares? The story’s the thing.

So, without further ado, I present to you our final runner-up, Sarah Ahiers. Make sure you get hold of us at the contest e-mail to claim your much-deserved prize, good lady.

* * * * *

Strays

by Sarah Ahiers

Marcia liked to feed strays. She kept a spot in her heart reserved for those with no homes (poor dears!). But dog food attracted raccoons and stray cats always stuck around, which only left the vampires.

“Aren’t you frightened?” her date Jacob asked over martinis downtown. “When they’re outside your house?”

“Nope.” She ordered herself another drink. “They can’t enter unless invited. Besides, you just have to handle them like anything that’s gone feral.”

“But they’re not feral.” Jacob sniffed. “They’re monsters.”

“Oh posh.” Marcia’s drink sloshed towards the edge of her glass. “I put the blood on the porch before the sun sets. And if I go out I wear my cross.” She hooked her pinky under the delicate chain against her throat and lifted the silver cross for display.

“I still wish you wouldn’t. I think you’re asking for trouble.” Jacob sipped his drink.

“Maybe,” she smiled. “Maybe I like trouble.”

He laughed and she felt it travel down her spine.

“We actually don’t know much about them,” he said and ordered her another martini.

“Well it’s not like I know anything.” Her finger rubbed the rim of her glass.

“Don’t doubt yourself,” Jacob continued. “I’m sure you’ve learned plenty.”

“Maybe. But it’s difficult since they just appear from nowhere. One second nothing and the next, there they are, standing in the yard.”

“And they drink the blood you leave?” he asked. The waiter delivered her new martini and Marcia watched the glass streak condensation across the table’s surface.

“I guess. I never see them drink but it’s gone in the morning. They don’t move much, just stare at the house. Sometimes one leaves and another one appears but it’s hard to keep track of them. It’d be easier if I could see them on a sunny day.”

“I’m sure.” He smiled at her and she smiled at his dimples. “How do they look?”

She plucked the olive from her glass and popped it in her mouth, relishing the salt.

“They’re pale and thin and look identical.” She shrugged

“I have a theory only the old vampires can make themselves distinguishable from the drones.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “They take on a human appearance to blend in and catch prey. You couldn’t even pick one out from a guy in a bar.” He gestured at the club patrons.

“I know what you mean.” Marcia leaned close. “There’s one vampire who wears a suit and tie and has slicked hair. I call him Antonio,”

“How often do you see Antonio?” Jacob asked and she felt flattered by his concern.

“Not often. Even though he looks human he acts just like the others. I think he collects his thoughts or something. I don’t know,” she shrugged and gave a slight laugh. “I just feed them. I’m not an expert.”

“Has he ever tried to get in?”

“No. Well sometimes he rings the doorbell but leaves when I don’t answer.”

“That doesn’t sound very safe.”

“Truly I don’t ever feel threatened. I’m careful and always wear my cross when I go out.”

“Is your house warded?”

She shook her head. “Can’t afford it.”

He made eye contact and smiled, his teeth white even in the dim lights of the club. “I have a doctorate in paranormal sciences.” He paused and fidgeted with his coaster. “If you’d like, I could ward your place. Only if you’re interested, that is.”

“I’d like that,” she said and smiled.

“Great! That would be great. Tomorrow? Around six?”

“Perfect.”

She wrote down her address just as last call was announced and she left, excited for tomorrow.

The next evening an errand for wine resulted in Marcia running late. She set a mad pace and shoved magazines under couch cushions where they wouldn’t be seen before she changed into her favorite black blouse, the one which highlighted the top swell of her breasts and hid her tummy bulge.

She checked her watch. Jacob would arrive any moment.

In the kitchen she thrust the bowl of blood in the microwave and walked to the bathroom to touch up her makeup. She planned to change her jewelry but was distracted by the ding of the microwave. The bowl was hot and as she removed it there was a knock on the door. Her arm jerked and the blood spilled over her hand and counter, burning her thumb.

“Shit!” She doused the burn under the faucet and watched the blood swirl pink down the drain. The knock came again, three sharp raps.

“Coming!” she yelled and threw a dish towel over the spill. Her hand ached and the towel wouldn’t soak up the blood.

The doorbell rang, and its chime echoed against her wood floors.

“Come in!” she yelled. She threw the towel in the sink and turned off the faucet. The spilled blood was an angry red smear against the white of the counter but there was nothing to be done. She grabbed the bowl to place on the porch while she greeted Jacob.

It wasn’t Jacob in the entryway.

The man was so quiet Marcia almost overlooked him. Instead, she shrieked and dropped the bowl which shattered on the floor, the blood spattering against her feet and the wall.

“Antonio,” she gasped, and he stared at her as if he had always been there, had always watched her like this, after dark. He was so still he seemed to fill the room with his presence and Marcia thought she knew how a bird felt, when it spied the snake too late.

She raised her hand to her cross but her neck was bare, her jewelry overlooked.

Antonio blinked, once. “You let me in,” he said, his voice deep and soft in the room that smelled of spilled blood. And because she knew nothing else to do, Marcia nodded.

As he walked to her, his movements smooth and yet not anything like real movements, all Marcia could think was who will feed the strays?

Cosmic Coincidence Contest Flash Fiction Week, Pt. II: Davin Malasarn

This should be an easy post today, since yesterday both Carol and I said the thank yous and explained the week’s agenda and got all the prize issues straightened out. Right? Right. So glad you agree. Preliminaries aside, then, it’s our pleasure to present the second second prize winner in our contest, ever-thoughtful, ever-dependable Davin Malasarn of The Literary Lab fame.

So the prompt Davin chose to work with was the 2-beach-poison prompt, and damn if he didn’t find the friggin’ cleverest possible way of working ‘em in. Seriously, look at how he worked “poison” in and tell me that isn’t a tiny little bit of genius! Better yet, he divulged yesterday in the LitLab comment section that he often tries to work a “fish” reference into his stories, in honor of an early writing mentor. That’s pretty much the coolest, no?

This was the most experimental of our entries, I have to say—second person narrative, takes liberties with time and space. Yet for all of its quirkiness, it tells a definite story; we know what’s happening. It’s actually quite elegant in the way it lays out the sequence of events—oblique, but understandable. Also, I really like that Davin didn’t bother to translate the French. Even if you don’t speak (or read) it, you can still get a sense of what’s going on, without the device of insto-translations (which I hate). It’s evocative, too, of loss, and growing apart, with the forgetting of French grammar acting as a stand-in for the slow distancing that happens after an intense relationship.

Admittedly, you might have to read it a couple of times to catch all the nuances. I did. But I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes fiction makes you work for it. So just read it and see what I mean, wouldja? And congratulations, Davin. Don’t forget to let us know your prize preference, good sir.

* * * * *

Paris Was Good

by Davin Malasarn

Paris was good, but it wasn’t real life for you or for her. You walked with her, hand in hand down the cobbled streets, poking into cheese shops and fruit markets and pâtisseries. You bought palm-sized oysters from the worker who blew kisses to her from his gloved hand. Once, you took the train to Italy because you wanted to see the beach. Then, in April, it was time to return to Sherman Oaks.

Directions for moving into a new apartment as a couple:

1. Find a living room that has a lot of light, big windows facing south.

2. Find hardwood floors, preferably cherrywood because that’s the only color you can agree on.

3. Frame the photograph you took, sitting together in your Paris loft in front of the foot-tall Christmas tree you decorated with Vittel water bottle caps and cut-out snowflakes.

—the rest furniture is ready; it has been sitting in your storage space all this time. Of course, there are two of everything, two sofas, two toaster ovens, two sets of dishes, two beds. You’re sad to see your own furniture go, but this is compromise, this is love.

At work, your desk has been waiting for you, just as cluttered as you left it six months ago. Dudley and Aimee seem to have missed you, but they also seem angry that you’ve been gone so long. You give them souvenirs: figurines of the gargoyles of Notre Dame, chocolates wrapped in colorful paper—This appeases them. You check in with your boss who is too busy to look up from her computer screen.

In Paris, everything else was so far away. Now, your ex sends you an email in elementary French.

Voulez vous manger chez moi?

Non, pardon, you reply.

Demain?

Non, désolé.

But you can’t put it off forever; your guilt is too strong. You meet at a diner and share fish and chips. You realize this is really over—that it actually never started. The next day she sends you a thank you note. She writes “mercy” instead of “merci”, “poison” instead of “poisson.”

May. June. July. August. Sepember. October. November. Time really does go by fast, just like everyone warned you it would. You see this ex about once a month, and each time is as equally strained as the others. In your new apartment you tell your lover you want a puppy, a small one that will sleep in the crook of your arm. When she asks if it wouldn’t be better to wait until you had a house you say, “I dreamt about Paris again last night.” It’s true, you’ve dreamt about it once a week since you came back. She kisses your forehead.

For Christmas, you get a small tree. You buy each other water bottels with red caps. You make snowflakes out of paper, but it doesn’t feel the same.

“But, what’s that?” she says, pointing to a box with holes punched into the sides, something scratching away inside.

“How long has the little guy been in there?” you ask.

“Since last Monday or Tuesday. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Of course this is a joke. The puppy pops out with a bow around his neck. You name him Olivier, but somehow this turns to Oliver, sometimes Ollie. You take him on long walks where he sniffs every single rosebush you pass. You show him off to your friends, coupled friends, friends who invite you to box seats at the Hollywood bowl as a foursome.

By the following April, you’ve forgotten how to conjugate French verbs. You forget the pas after the ne. You wash your clothes at the laundromat where white-haired ladies whisper to you about which dryers get the hottest, and for some reason this delights you.

And then, one day, you realize that you think of the Sherman Oaks apartment as home. You are at work, staring at your computer screen, when you decide you want to share the rest of your life with this woman you have been living with for two years. You keep this to yourself, preparing for the announcement at some later date. Your dreams of Paris stop, replaced by long and peaceful sleep where you dream of nothing at all.

Cosmic Coincidence Flash Fiction Week I: Sarahjayne Smythe

So Carol and I had a helluva time picking the finalists for our Cosmic Coincidence Flash Fiction Contest. Really, we did. It was hit or miss there for a while, actually. Carol was threatening to take out a hit on me, and I was only seconds away from throwing a Louisville Slugger in the back seat and driving to across four states to lay the smack down. Fortunately, we managed to resolve our differences amicably, so tragedy was averted. And so we kick off Flash Fiction Week on our blogs, celebrating the intriguing, interesting, and downright strange stories that caught our attention over the past week or two.

Here’s how we’re going to do it, then. Since we decided that we weren’t going to bother mucking around with 2nd and 3rd place prizes, and opted instead for a tripartite 2nd tier of prizewinners, we’re going to save our two grand-prize winners till the end of the week, and lead with our runners-up. Let’s be clear, of course, that we split the runners-up and the winners into two levels because we couldn’t decide on rankings. So there’s no stigma associated with being posted first, second, third, or fourth, okay, folks?

That said, let me present the first of our winning stories. I found this one appealing for several reasons. First, the language: the staccato fingers, shuttered eyes, glass-edged smile—images captured by strong, evocative adjectives. Then there’s the way the surface narrative hints at a depth of backstory without explicitly stating it. No, I have no idea who Chloe is, nor who DeVon is, but I don’t really need to know everything, do I? We’re not here to find everything out, just to experience a moment—that’s what flash fiction does. So read the story, and see if you don’t feel the discomfort and coldness in the first section, the warmth of the second. The author has captured a moment here, brought the reader along on a strange, difficult, half-blind journey. I felt something. That’s the point.

* * * * *

Paying the Freight

by Sarahjayne Smythe

A shiver runs through her and she pulls the edges of the flimsy gown tighter, wraps her arms around her middle. It doesn’t help, and she thinks the chill is only partly from the temperature in the room.

She slides her eyes along naked, dull-white walls; over threadbare curtains closing out the light.

She’s seen nicer whore houses.

She shifts slightly on the med-bed; sits on her hands, kicks her legs out, stares at the tiny, bare feet in front of her.

The door cracks open with a creak and she drops her feet, leans forward trying to make out the soft voices floating in the hall. She shifts again, tilts her head as the gap widens and then she’s not alone in the room anymore.

He drops boneless into the only chair in the room, a stool, spins it a quarter turn to face the desk.

Staccato fingers tap the file as bored eyes roam the chart.

She angles her head, small pink tongue running along suddenly dry lips as she leans forward, trying to see what he sees.

He reminds her of the old priest, pompous arrogance and judgment all rolled up in one, and being chased through dead, silent, black trees on that lifeless brown road.

They’d begged her for it; they always begged.

“I have to ask you this once.” His head swivels a quarter turn and shuttered, dark brown eyes pin her in place. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

And DeVon, eyes fierce and furious as he’d pulled her from the mob. She didn’t need the weight of those soft, amber eyes heavy with disappointment on her again.

If there is anything she is sure of in this life it’s that she is not ready for this; doesn’t want it.

“You know, I thought I was pretty specific when I told your assistant why I was here.” She shakes her head with a snap, rolls her shoulders and cracks her neck. “I am nobody’s mother and I’m just a child myself.”

“A simple yes or no will do.”

There is no room in her life for this.

“Yes.”

”You’re aware of the risks and the possibility of complications?”

Her eyes run around the room, find her reflection in the mirror; she doesn’t recognize the pale, drawn face. “Very.”

“Have you ever been pregnant before?”

“Yes.” She curls her arms around herself.

“What was the outcome of that pregnancy?”

She twitches a tight, pale shoulder. “The same as this one.”

“Methotrexate and Misoprostol?” He doesn’t bother looking at her.

“Is that a problem?”

“No.” He slides his eyes from the file back to her. “The father isn’t…”

“Relevant.” Her eyes are as flat as her voice.

He swivels his head, locks her in his line of sight. “Here?”

“Why should he be?”

“Does he know?”

She leans forward, cocks her head, glass-edged smile slashing her lips as she hisses through her teeth. “Does he care?”

No, she thinks as she settles back, no he doesn’t. And she doesn’t need what he hasn’t got.

She’s always known that, too.

She doesn’t need the weight of his disinterest or pity.

There’s no room in her life for anyone or anything. She doesn’t need anything small and needy weighing her down.

She reaches deep, wishes she could find something inside to feel, then refuses to go there.

She’s disgusted with herself; she’s such a stupid girl.

She shakes her head, refuses to feel sorry for herself.

“It was just a stupid…” She lifts a careless shoulder. “Just a mistake.”

She’s always known that; always known better.

“These things happen. But you are aware of the various contraceptive methods…”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the various methods.” Her lips flatten in a thin, tight smile. “Obviously, sometimes they fail.”

“We have a new implant that I think would work well for you. It can be implanted during the procedure if you’d like. Would you be interested?”

“Fine.”

Long fingers tap a staccato beat on the desk top. “I need to see you again, one week from now.”

She shakes pale hair out of her eyes. “Fine.”

He slides flat, clinician eyes to her. “You shouldn’t be alone after the procedure.”

“I’m not alone.” The sudden silence stretches and for a second she can almost feel Chloe’s cool, strong hand on her face. “My…friend is with me.”

He shifts slightly in his seat, tilts his head. “Would you like…your friend to be with you during this?”

“No.” She shakes her head once, sharp. “She doesn’t know…exactly why I’m here.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Can we just get this over with?”

“Lay back.” He pushes back, leverages himself to his feet. “I’ll get my assistant.”

************************

She rolls and fits herself to Chloe’s back, arm thrown over the narrow valley of her waist, face buries in the waterfall of hair spilling over the pillow.

Wrapped up in darkness and the gentle sounds of the night, she drifts; remembers the two of them, so very young; the sound of the ocean, the warm sand of the beach.

She breathes deep and sighs a smile; wonders if that’s what it would be like cocooned in a womb.

“Are you sick?” Chloe’s voice, soft and low, husky with sleep, floats in the stillness. “Are you in pain?”

Her fingers trace light, tiny patterns on the cool, delicate skin of Chloe’s abdomen. “Did you ever think about getting rid of it?”

Chloe stiffens; shifts and stretches, curls back up into herself. “I thought when you asked if you could sleep here, you actually meant sleep.”

“He’s crazy about you, you know.” She closes her eyes and breathes out a soft exhale; burrows deeper into Chloe’s solid warmth. “He’ll love your kid even if it’s not his. Because it will be.”

“Go to sleep.”

She shifts and curls herself tighter around Chloe, belly to back, and listens to her as she breathes; listens to her heart beat in the dark; her’s and Chloe’s.

* * * * *

Oh, and about the prizes: we’ve decided that since we’re doing a sequential reveal, and since there’s no particular order to it, we’re going to offer our winners and runners-up their choice of prizes from the 1st and 2nd place pools. So if every runner-up wants the Ray Bradbury book? Cool, no sweat. You win what you want, okay?

So, Sarahjayne, get hold of us at the contest e-mail and let us know your prize choice and your mailing address so we can get your book off to you in the next week or so. And do let us know if you’d like us to crit something for you. We’d love to read more of your work!

Congratulations, good lady. Thanks so much for entering!

P.S. Those of you who want to hear more of what Sarahjayne has to say, check out her blog at http://writinginthewilderness.blogspot.com/.

Lessons from Lacuna Coil II: The Perfect Moment

Yesterday I mined Lacuna Coil’s Spellbound video for the one image that stands out for me. Today I want to look at it again, but with a different focus, and this time, instead of a single image, it’s the whole video, so here goes:

It’s a visually interesting video, no? The director’s used some standard music video tricks, of course: focus-changes, blurred cuts, quick close ups, and the like. However, there are a couple of moments that stand out for me, and I wonder if you noticed them too.

The first one’s at about 1:12 in, and it’s a strange, ultra slow-motion, split-screen of a single cymbal crash. It’s spread out over a couple of jump-cuts, but what I absolutely love about it is that it takes a single fraction of a second and stretches it, focusing our attention on the cymbal crash that ends the first chorus.

The second one comes very shortly after, at 1:23, another split screen slo-mo. This time it’s a low bass note to start the second verse, and it arrests me because it’s such a time-dilation—how fast were those cameras capturing frames to catch the string harmonics? Seriously! Again, attention is focused for a moment on the bass line, the part in most songs that tends to fade into the background, playing second-fiddle to the guitar (erm… bit of a mixed metaphor, but there you go).

“So what’s so cool about this, and what’s it got to do with writing?” you ask. Thanks for asking. I’ll tell you.

It’s about choosing the moment. In order to craft an interesting rock video, the director decided to focus, for just a few seconds each time, on the background details. Drums and bass lines don’t garner the attention much of the time, but selecting visual depictions of them and slowing time to examine them more closely allows the support structure of the music to take the foreground. At the end of the first snippet, our attention is fully upon the cymbal crash. At the end of the second, we hear that bass note with perfect clarity.

As writers, we must also choose our moments. What do we want to emphasize? What background details are important enough to highlight? The ways in which we can support our narrative with flashes of detail are myriad. Character with self-image issues? Perhaps insert moments into the story in which the character sees their reflection in a mirror. Want to explore the theme of rejection? Maybe use tiny moments like not getting the parking spot the character wants, or failing to get reservations at that new restaurant.

You have the power to direct the reader’s attention wherever you want. So choose the moments that resonate. Choose interesting moments, intriguing ones, surprising ones, overlooked ones. Weave them into your work seamlessly, subtly. Make the moments memorable, and your readers will come back for more, every time.

Learning from Lacuna Coil I: The Perfect Image

How’s your eye for image, writer-friends? Really, how is it? What catches your attention? More to the point, can you direct your attention toward something, take it in, sear it into your memory so that it can leap onto the page at some later date? It can be a big image, a small image, a mundane image—the panoramic view from the top of a mountain track, a mist-moistened spiderweb, the way the pencils on your desk form just that exact angle at this moment. Image. We need it. Our fiction needs it.

Is it something we can sensitize ourselves to? I think so, yes. The more you’re open to sensation, the more it seeps into you, like water wicking into fabric. I get flashes of image all the time, some of which stick, some of which I forget the next moment. We see so quickly, yet even in the microsecond it takes for sight to flash from eye to memory, we can take in whole worlds.

I think placing image in our fiction, to freeze-frame our narrative every now and then to take in a moment minutely, is a brilliant technique. In Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, the last portion of the book, written in the third person, opens with a description of the maid Dilsey that is so detailed, so nuanced and thorough, that she remains in my mind as an indelible picture, her weathered face needled by misting rain, her shabby garments clutched tight around her. Faulkner froze time for an instant and allowed himself to dwell on the microscopic details that make up that character’s physicality. The result is unforgettable.

“So what’s this got to do with Lacuna Coil?” I hear you asking. Well, I mention them because I’m friggin’ head over heels for Spellbound right now. It’s a fantastic song.  But the video? There’s one image that’s burned into my brain from it, that whips through my mind’s eye as soon as I hear the opening notes of the guitar, and it’s this:

Yah, I know. I’m predictable, I guess. But it’s not only what you think it is. The still is taken from a few seconds into the bridge of the song, so the singers aren’t on call, so to speak. This means they’re free at this moment—free to let the music take them.

I freeze-framed here, right after Cristina Scabbia has whipped her head down and around, flinging her hair back and up. The muscles in her neck stand out in stark relief, the light shadowing the hollows of her throat. She’s frowning slightly, ridged ripples between her eyebrows, one strand of hair tracking across her forehead. Lips skinned back over gritted teeth. Shoulders back, muscles tensed. There’s abandon in this image, something of the uncontrolled, the wildness that crashing chords spark. There’s passion, and beauty, and, for me, the recognition that this is how I feel sometimes when music moves me.

It’s gorgeous.

The images that strike you, friends, won’t be the same as those that strike me. Whatever they are though, let them get into you. Let the images in. Let them send shivers down your spine, let them spark an emotion. Take them in, whenever and however they present themselves to you, and then let them explode onto the page. Channel the feelings they bring, and write them down as true as you can. Write images of abandon, of pain, of mind-bending joy. Write your soul.

If you do, I guarantee you’ll make your readers feel something. Can there be any higher calling?