Congratulations to September's winner Ross Cavins. Out of 189 votes he received 120. I felt he had tough competition and yet still received over 60 % of the vote. Robb and Suzanne have nothing to be ashamed of, their scenes were terrific. You just never know which genre will capture the interest of the readers that month. Thanks for another successful contest. Good luck in October.
I'm also including a link to Ross's book page for those interested in seeing more of his work.
http://www.facebook.com/l/7594dMN9jfefDZ6Z0IbSbV71FCg;money.rosscavins.com
Monday, September 27, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
SEPTEMBER 2010 FINALISTS
Here are the finalists for September's Strong Scene Contest. Please vote to the right for your favorite Scene. The winner will receive a $25.00 Amazon Gift Card. Congrats to all the finalists.
A- Ross Cavins
Bobby counted off a hundred, then four more hundred, and made a show out of sliding the chips into the pot. One of two things would happen now. Either it would spook Blue or embolden the man to dig in.
The two players stared at each other, reading faces, trying to pick up the slightest hint what was going on in each of their minds.
"Well?" Bobby said, looking Blue hard in the eyes. He kept his face blank, raising his left eyebrow a hair, daring Blue to do something, playing to the man's ego. "Shit or get off the pot." It was his best poker joke.
Blue counted out four hundred and pushed it in the middle, then shoved in another four hundred right behind it, staring at Bobby the whole time. "Four more to you," Blue said.
Bobby pursed his lips together, narrowed his eyes, and bent the edge of his cards up so he could see them again, pretending he was considering what to do next. It was all part of the game. He slid a thousand in chips out, saying, "I'll raise."
Blue's mustache twitched and he gave Bobby the hardest look of the night. It was coming. Bobby could sense it; he could feel it on his head, like peppermint ants were having a family picnic up there, all of them scurrying around to make sure everybody got some food.
"What you got over there?" Blue said.
"It'll cost you to see."
B- Robb Grindstaff
Getting through security took longer than Glenda expected. Sure, lots of former blonde beauty queens pushing two infants were terrorists. The carry-on, the briefcase, and diaper bag. Double-wide stroller which security scanned and patted down for hidden compartments. The screening by the TSA lady behind the curtain.
“What’s this?” TSA lady lifted a small, hand-held device with a suction cup on one end.
“It’s my breast pump.”
TSA lady crinkled her nose and put it back.
“These liquids are more than three ounces.”
“They’re milk for the babies. The sign says I can bring more than three ounces of milk for the babies.”
“Ma’am, the sign also says the milk has to be in the original containers.”
The stress of the past two days, getting the babies and her packed for an overseas flight, traffic snarls on the way to the airport, and now this. The stupidest woman on the planet delaying her further while her flight called for boarding.
Glenda began unbuttoning her blouse.
“What’re you doing, ma’am?”
“Showing you the original containers.” With a flourish, Glenda ripped the blouse open, letting the last two buttons fly, and dropped the flaps in the front of the nursing bra.
C- Suzanne Senden
Clara stood in the desolate field as the chilly December wind whipped about her. The fields were barren now. Broken corn stalks, once so full of potential lay scattered the wind tossing them about as it played in the ruins of the harvest.
She felt that the land was a metaphor for her life.
She sighed, her frosty breath enveloping her for a moment before it faded.
A light snow began to fall.
She loved the smell of snow, a cold dryness that tickled her nose. Usually the frigid fragrances of winter wafted on the wind long before the snow began to fall. She looked up as the flakes fell from a flat, leaden sky. She had heard someone call it Winter’s Communion if you put your tongue out to catch the flakes.
She could hear the chunky flakes as they plashed into the earth, landed on her shoulders and nestled into the hair.
Snow began to accumulate in the rutted furrows, transforming the land covering the broken stalks, making them over into something fairy tale wondrous. Soon the bleak land would be covered in a beautiful mantle of white, transforming everything.
If only her life could transform as easily.
A- Ross Cavins
Bobby counted off a hundred, then four more hundred, and made a show out of sliding the chips into the pot. One of two things would happen now. Either it would spook Blue or embolden the man to dig in.
The two players stared at each other, reading faces, trying to pick up the slightest hint what was going on in each of their minds.
"Well?" Bobby said, looking Blue hard in the eyes. He kept his face blank, raising his left eyebrow a hair, daring Blue to do something, playing to the man's ego. "Shit or get off the pot." It was his best poker joke.
Blue counted out four hundred and pushed it in the middle, then shoved in another four hundred right behind it, staring at Bobby the whole time. "Four more to you," Blue said.
Bobby pursed his lips together, narrowed his eyes, and bent the edge of his cards up so he could see them again, pretending he was considering what to do next. It was all part of the game. He slid a thousand in chips out, saying, "I'll raise."
Blue's mustache twitched and he gave Bobby the hardest look of the night. It was coming. Bobby could sense it; he could feel it on his head, like peppermint ants were having a family picnic up there, all of them scurrying around to make sure everybody got some food.
"What you got over there?" Blue said.
"It'll cost you to see."
B- Robb Grindstaff
Getting through security took longer than Glenda expected. Sure, lots of former blonde beauty queens pushing two infants were terrorists. The carry-on, the briefcase, and diaper bag. Double-wide stroller which security scanned and patted down for hidden compartments. The screening by the TSA lady behind the curtain.
“What’s this?” TSA lady lifted a small, hand-held device with a suction cup on one end.
“It’s my breast pump.”
TSA lady crinkled her nose and put it back.
“These liquids are more than three ounces.”
“They’re milk for the babies. The sign says I can bring more than three ounces of milk for the babies.”
“Ma’am, the sign also says the milk has to be in the original containers.”
The stress of the past two days, getting the babies and her packed for an overseas flight, traffic snarls on the way to the airport, and now this. The stupidest woman on the planet delaying her further while her flight called for boarding.
Glenda began unbuttoning her blouse.
“What’re you doing, ma’am?”
“Showing you the original containers.” With a flourish, Glenda ripped the blouse open, letting the last two buttons fly, and dropped the flaps in the front of the nursing bra.
C- Suzanne Senden
Clara stood in the desolate field as the chilly December wind whipped about her. The fields were barren now. Broken corn stalks, once so full of potential lay scattered the wind tossing them about as it played in the ruins of the harvest.
She felt that the land was a metaphor for her life.
She sighed, her frosty breath enveloping her for a moment before it faded.
A light snow began to fall.
She loved the smell of snow, a cold dryness that tickled her nose. Usually the frigid fragrances of winter wafted on the wind long before the snow began to fall. She looked up as the flakes fell from a flat, leaden sky. She had heard someone call it Winter’s Communion if you put your tongue out to catch the flakes.
She could hear the chunky flakes as they plashed into the earth, landed on her shoulders and nestled into the hair.
Snow began to accumulate in the rutted furrows, transforming the land covering the broken stalks, making them over into something fairy tale wondrous. Soon the bleak land would be covered in a beautiful mantle of white, transforming everything.
If only her life could transform as easily.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Elmore Leonard's "Freaky Deaky"-- A Strong Scene
Below is the last part of Chapter 1 from Elmore Leonard's
"Freaky Deaky." To me this is a strong scene because
of the finish. Leonard delivers the ultimate ending
to this scene.
Two bomb experts, Jerry and Chris get called
to a gangster's house to remove a bomb from
under a chair cushion which the gangster is sitting on.
If the gangster tries to get up, the bomb explodes. See how
Leonard crafts this scene so naturally:
"I couldn't get in the Jacuze quick enough, huh?"
"I doubt it."
"His feet might stay on the floor," Jerry said,
"remain in the house."
Chris agreed, nodding. "Yeah, but his ass'd be
sailing over Ohio."
Jerry moved from behind the chair to the French
doors. "We better talk about it some more."
Booker's head turned to follow Chris. "Where
you going? Hey, motherfucker, I'm talking to you!"
Chris stepped out and closed the door. He moved
with Jerry to the far edge of the slate patio before
looking back at the French doors in the afternoon
sunlight. They could hear Booker in there, faintly.
They crossed the yard, Jerry offering Chris a cigarette.
He took one and Jerry gave him a light once
they reached the driveway and were standing by
the three-car garage, alone in the backyard. Jerry
looked up at the elm trees. He said, "Well, they're
finally starting to bud. I thought winter was gonna
run through May."
Chris said, "That's my favorite kind of house.
Sort of an English Tudor, before Booker got hold
of it."
Jerry said, "Why don't you and Phyllis buy
one?"
"She likes apartments. Goes with her career image."
"She must be jumping up and down, finally got
her way."
Chris didn't say anything.
"I'm talking about your leaving the squad."
"I know what you meant. I haven't told her yet.
I'm waiting till I get reassigned."
"Maybe Homicide, huh?"
"I wouldn't mind it."
"Yeah, but would Phyllis?"
Chris didn't answer. They smoked their cigarettes
and could hear fire equipment arriving. Jerry
said, "Hey, I was kidding. Don't be so serious."
"I know what you're saying," Chris said. "Phyllis
is the kind of person that speaks out. Something
bothers her, she tells you about it."
"I know," Jerry said.
"There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"I'm not saying anything against her."
"What it is, Phyllis says things even some guys
would like to but don't have the nerve."
"Yeah, 'cause she's a woman," Jerry said, "she
doesn't have to worry about getting hit in the
mouth."
Chris shook his head. "I don't mean putting
anybody down or being insulting. Like we're at a
restaurant, one of those trendy places the waiter
introduces himself? This twinkie comes up to the
table, he goes, 'Hi, I'm Wally, I'm gonna be your
waitperson this evening. Can I get you a cocktail?'
Phyllis goes, 'Wally, when we've finished dinner,
you gonna take us out and introduce us to the
dishwasher?' She goes, 'We really don't care what
your name is as long as you're here when we want
something.'"
Jerry grinned, adjusting his Tiger baseball cap.
"That's good, I can appreciate that. Those guys kill
me."
They drew on their cigarettes. Chris looked at
his, about to say something, working the butt between
his thumb and second finger to flick it away,
and the French doors and some of the windows on
this side of the house exploded out in a billow of
gray smoke tinged yellow. They stood looking at
the shattered doorway, at the smoke and dust thinning,
settling over glass and wood fragments,
shreds of blackened green-and-white debris on the
patio, silence ringing in their ears now. After a few
moments they started down the drive, let the people
waiting in front know they were okay.
Chris said, "Yeah, the twink comes up to the
table, says he's gonna be our waitperson. But you
have to understand, Phyllis wasn't trying to be
funny, she was serious. That's the way she is."
"Freaky Deaky." To me this is a strong scene because
of the finish. Leonard delivers the ultimate ending
to this scene.
Two bomb experts, Jerry and Chris get called
to a gangster's house to remove a bomb from
under a chair cushion which the gangster is sitting on.
If the gangster tries to get up, the bomb explodes. See how
Leonard crafts this scene so naturally:
"I couldn't get in the Jacuze quick enough, huh?"
"I doubt it."
"His feet might stay on the floor," Jerry said,
"remain in the house."
Chris agreed, nodding. "Yeah, but his ass'd be
sailing over Ohio."
Jerry moved from behind the chair to the French
doors. "We better talk about it some more."
Booker's head turned to follow Chris. "Where
you going? Hey, motherfucker, I'm talking to you!"
Chris stepped out and closed the door. He moved
with Jerry to the far edge of the slate patio before
looking back at the French doors in the afternoon
sunlight. They could hear Booker in there, faintly.
They crossed the yard, Jerry offering Chris a cigarette.
He took one and Jerry gave him a light once
they reached the driveway and were standing by
the three-car garage, alone in the backyard. Jerry
looked up at the elm trees. He said, "Well, they're
finally starting to bud. I thought winter was gonna
run through May."
Chris said, "That's my favorite kind of house.
Sort of an English Tudor, before Booker got hold
of it."
Jerry said, "Why don't you and Phyllis buy
one?"
"She likes apartments. Goes with her career image."
"She must be jumping up and down, finally got
her way."
Chris didn't say anything.
"I'm talking about your leaving the squad."
"I know what you meant. I haven't told her yet.
I'm waiting till I get reassigned."
"Maybe Homicide, huh?"
"I wouldn't mind it."
"Yeah, but would Phyllis?"
Chris didn't answer. They smoked their cigarettes
and could hear fire equipment arriving. Jerry
said, "Hey, I was kidding. Don't be so serious."
"I know what you're saying," Chris said. "Phyllis
is the kind of person that speaks out. Something
bothers her, she tells you about it."
"I know," Jerry said.
"There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"
"I'm not saying anything against her."
"What it is, Phyllis says things even some guys
would like to but don't have the nerve."
"Yeah, 'cause she's a woman," Jerry said, "she
doesn't have to worry about getting hit in the
mouth."
Chris shook his head. "I don't mean putting
anybody down or being insulting. Like we're at a
restaurant, one of those trendy places the waiter
introduces himself? This twinkie comes up to the
table, he goes, 'Hi, I'm Wally, I'm gonna be your
waitperson this evening. Can I get you a cocktail?'
Phyllis goes, 'Wally, when we've finished dinner,
you gonna take us out and introduce us to the
dishwasher?' She goes, 'We really don't care what
your name is as long as you're here when we want
something.'"
Jerry grinned, adjusting his Tiger baseball cap.
"That's good, I can appreciate that. Those guys kill
me."
They drew on their cigarettes. Chris looked at
his, about to say something, working the butt between
his thumb and second finger to flick it away,
and the French doors and some of the windows on
this side of the house exploded out in a billow of
gray smoke tinged yellow. They stood looking at
the shattered doorway, at the smoke and dust thinning,
settling over glass and wood fragments,
shreds of blackened green-and-white debris on the
patio, silence ringing in their ears now. After a few
moments they started down the drive, let the people
waiting in front know they were okay.
Chris said, "Yeah, the twink comes up to the
table, says he's gonna be our waitperson. But you
have to understand, Phyllis wasn't trying to be
funny, she was serious. That's the way she is."
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Good, the Bad and the Internet (Guest post by Claude Bouchard)
I first met Claude Bouchard through Twitter. He was a fellow writer and seemed socially nimble, able to speak fluent writer's language, yet have a prankster mentality all at the same time. I decided one day to read his very first novel "Vigilante," and boy am I glad I did. It's a terrific read. He's now an experienced author of four Barry/McCall novels which began with "Vigilante." Claude has been in the publishing trenches for many years, so when he has something on his mind, it's only right to give him a forum for his views.
He currently lives in Montreal, Canada with his wife Joanne and their two cats, Krystalle and Midnight. Claude is represented by Tribe Literary Agency.
The Good, the Bad and the Internet:
When I started writing in 1995, any required research was done using reference books, encyclopaedias, maps, etc, as well as onsite visits if one hoped to write with accuracy. When it came time to query agents, the process was done by snail mail, with SASEs included, hopefully for a request for a partial or full manuscript but more often than not, a ‘thanks but no thanks’ letter sent with the stamp I paid for.
Then cometh the Internet; Slow at first, hardly user-friendly navigation on most sites and without necessarily a wealth of information. However, time does fly and we found ourselves nearing the year 2010, then beyond, with today’s Internet. Millions upon millions of users, sites, blogs, references, dictionaries, modes of communication, digital photos, videos, satellite maps and more, a researching writer’s dream. With works I’ve written in recent years, no longer was I required to head downtown to scope settings for exactitude, nor did I have to drive around North America or fly abroad to ensure that locations were as I described. Rare has it been that I couldn’t find that bit of information that I absolutely needed to make something just right. With finished works, the Internet allowed me to self-publish and make my novels available to the masses. It also allowed me to tell the masses, through social media platforms and other advertising, that my books were there for them. Thanks to the Internet, I even found my amazing agent without having to buy one stamp. Others whom I’ve met have had similar experiences and have produced wonderful works of literature as well. This is all good.
Because of the Internet and, more specifically self-publishing service providers, anyone can now call themselves a writer and I do, unfortunately, mean anyone. In the last year or two, I have come to realize that many of these ‘writers’ do not know what a writer, or a novel for that matter, actually is. Self-publication does not and must not mean that one can simply have stuff written, printed and bound in a book format. Yet, this is what many people do. Improper formatting, horrendous grammar, typos, poor or no research, spotty or lacking storylines all contribute to giving self-publication a bad reputation which it doesn’t deserve. I’ve read such books and given my opinion, with examples, to such writers to be told that, “That’s the best that I can do, I’m not a professional, I have no one to help me, I can’t afford an editor…” The list goes on. Writing is an art form and if one doesn’t have the talent to do so, one should not call oneself an artist, nor have the gall to expect the masses to pay for substandard work. When one does, this is all bad.
He currently lives in Montreal, Canada with his wife Joanne and their two cats, Krystalle and Midnight. Claude is represented by Tribe Literary Agency.
When I started writing in 1995, any required research was done using reference books, encyclopaedias, maps, etc, as well as onsite visits if one hoped to write with accuracy. When it came time to query agents, the process was done by snail mail, with SASEs included, hopefully for a request for a partial or full manuscript but more often than not, a ‘thanks but no thanks’ letter sent with the stamp I paid for.
Then cometh the Internet; Slow at first, hardly user-friendly navigation on most sites and without necessarily a wealth of information. However, time does fly and we found ourselves nearing the year 2010, then beyond, with today’s Internet. Millions upon millions of users, sites, blogs, references, dictionaries, modes of communication, digital photos, videos, satellite maps and more, a researching writer’s dream. With works I’ve written in recent years, no longer was I required to head downtown to scope settings for exactitude, nor did I have to drive around North America or fly abroad to ensure that locations were as I described. Rare has it been that I couldn’t find that bit of information that I absolutely needed to make something just right. With finished works, the Internet allowed me to self-publish and make my novels available to the masses. It also allowed me to tell the masses, through social media platforms and other advertising, that my books were there for them. Thanks to the Internet, I even found my amazing agent without having to buy one stamp. Others whom I’ve met have had similar experiences and have produced wonderful works of literature as well. This is all good.
Because of the Internet and, more specifically self-publishing service providers, anyone can now call themselves a writer and I do, unfortunately, mean anyone. In the last year or two, I have come to realize that many of these ‘writers’ do not know what a writer, or a novel for that matter, actually is. Self-publication does not and must not mean that one can simply have stuff written, printed and bound in a book format. Yet, this is what many people do. Improper formatting, horrendous grammar, typos, poor or no research, spotty or lacking storylines all contribute to giving self-publication a bad reputation which it doesn’t deserve. I’ve read such books and given my opinion, with examples, to such writers to be told that, “That’s the best that I can do, I’m not a professional, I have no one to help me, I can’t afford an editor…” The list goes on. Writing is an art form and if one doesn’t have the talent to do so, one should not call oneself an artist, nor have the gall to expect the masses to pay for substandard work. When one does, this is all bad.
The Internet and the abundance of possibilities it offers are amazing resources but should be used as additional benefits and tools without letting established publishing standards slide.
Monday, August 30, 2010
AUGUST 2010 WINNER--SUZANNAH BURKE
Congratulations to Suzannah Burke for winning the August 2010 Strong Scenes Contest. Her scene was voted on by the readers and chosen among some tough competition. Thanks to everyone who participated. I received over 100 submissions so there were some worthy efforts who didn't make the finalists. Suzannah's scene can be read below, hers was the first one, letter A. Although her scene was certainly creative, I would suggest you think twice before accepting an invitation to meet her anywhere near a swamp.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
AUGUST 2010 FINALISTS
Once again I received a great wealth of remarkable writing. This is what I imagined might happen when I came up with this concept. The hardest part is narrowing it down to just four. Ali Koomen probably deserves a lifetime achievement award, it seems her work is a constant fixture as a finalist. She deserves it, she's a terrific writer.
Okay, I'm going to let the readers decide the winner again this month. I'm posting the scenes below with a letter next to the name--go ahead and vote for the strongest scene on the poll to the right. Thanks to everyone for your submissions. Good luck.
A- Suzannah Burke:
"Oh dear, Ben, you mustn't die on me just yet. You have more to look forward to. I'm afraid I've been a naughty, naughty girl." Samantha whispered, leaning down and very gently brushing the hair back from his face. "I never did learn not to eavesdrop on phone conversations; men are such fools."
“Can you ever forgive me?” She laughed delightedly as she kicked off her high heels. She grabbed Ben under both arms, and dragged him the short distance to the creek. Two crocodiles lay close-by, silhouetted in the moonlight. She looked down into Ben's terrified eyes, and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead.
"You won't be lonesome, Ben. You see, most of the others are here as well."
Sam walked back to the table, filled her champagne glass, and returned to watch the action, standing a safe distance from the water.
"Here they come, Ben!" she called gaily. "Say hello to momma for me."
Sam turned and walked away, smiling happily as she heard his agonizing scream of good-bye.
She sat down, poured another glass of Bollinger, lit up a smoke, picked up her pen, and began to write. WANTED: Male Ranch Hand...
B- Charlie Wade:
His long hair bouncing around, Red Arrow searched for the package. Hands soaked with perspiration fumbled with the office drawer.
“Where is it?”
Slumping to the floor, he cradled his head in his hands.
“What have I done?”
Looking round the office, there was two hiding places: drawer and filing cabinet. The locked cabinet should have been its home, but Red remembered putting it the drawer.
Though paid to hold various packages, it wasn’t really Red’s thing; he preferred undercover work though never seemed to get any.
“Filing cabinet.” He looked inside. Moving papers around, stacking, separating and eventually removing everything didn’t help. It just wasn’t there.
Crashing to the floor, his own heavy breathing filled his ears.
“I’ve lost it?”
The package was only a small jiffy bag. Red didn’t know the contents, he never did. That wasn’t relevant; he was paid enough to not ask questions. This jiffy belonged to his best and most fearsome customer.
It was also his only customer.
And, he wasn’t a customer, he was a psychopath.
Red hadn’t met him, but he’d been warned: never mess up.
He’d messed up.
Gulping another breath, Red forced himself to think.
“Where is it?”
C- Ali Koomen:
With trembling fingers, Hope turned the page, then the next. Horrifying images assailed her. A sacrificial ceremony too realistic to have been drawn from imagination. A conflagration, with faces pressed to windows in a rictus of ecstasy. An eviscerated corpse being skinned. . .
Suddenly, the source of the leather cover became apparent. With a shudder of disgust, she shoved the book away from her. A page came loose and drifted to the floor. She bent to pick up the errant sheet, opened it and let out a moan.
A charcoal drawing of her son stared back at her.
It was impossible. The paper was yellowed and brittle; it had been drawn years, if not decades ago. But why? How? A noise came from the cellar, a murmuring sound, but one with cadence, like a chant heard from a long ways off. Running to the door, she secured the top bolt. The sound stopped.
Hope ran to the kitchen phone and picked up the receiver. It had no dial tone, just a faint, far-away crackling sound. Underneath it all she sensed the amusement of whoever. . .whatever. . .was on the line. Slamming it down, she screamed out her son’s name.
D- Tom Hart:
The door ripped away and flew out to the airstream beyond the aircraft, and a rush of cold air struck him with the chill scream of a banshee looking to claim its victims. Somewhere deep within him a tiny spark of hope let him believe he could make it. Colonel Lucky Larson, noted pilot, makes it three in a row. The only man alive to walk away from three major crashes. He tried desperately to scramble through the opening as klaxon horns blared from every side. The pavement outside rushed toward him with its angry, earthly fist of concrete, and Larson became vaguely aware of his involuntary relaxation followed by a spreading warmth inside his flight suit. His eyesight began to dim, then blur and then darken entirely as the cacophony dissipated and grew silent. It seemed as though he had found a way to make it three, but reality suddenly propelled him back to the interior of the doomed aircraft. He couldn’t hear himself scream as the aircraft sliced into Highway 73-75 and burst into a huge fireball.
Okay, I'm going to let the readers decide the winner again this month. I'm posting the scenes below with a letter next to the name--go ahead and vote for the strongest scene on the poll to the right. Thanks to everyone for your submissions. Good luck.
A- Suzannah Burke:
"Oh dear, Ben, you mustn't die on me just yet. You have more to look forward to. I'm afraid I've been a naughty, naughty girl." Samantha whispered, leaning down and very gently brushing the hair back from his face. "I never did learn not to eavesdrop on phone conversations; men are such fools."
“Can you ever forgive me?” She laughed delightedly as she kicked off her high heels. She grabbed Ben under both arms, and dragged him the short distance to the creek. Two crocodiles lay close-by, silhouetted in the moonlight. She looked down into Ben's terrified eyes, and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead.
"You won't be lonesome, Ben. You see, most of the others are here as well."
Sam walked back to the table, filled her champagne glass, and returned to watch the action, standing a safe distance from the water.
"Here they come, Ben!" she called gaily. "Say hello to momma for me."
Sam turned and walked away, smiling happily as she heard his agonizing scream of good-bye.
She sat down, poured another glass of Bollinger, lit up a smoke, picked up her pen, and began to write. WANTED: Male Ranch Hand...
B- Charlie Wade:
His long hair bouncing around, Red Arrow searched for the package. Hands soaked with perspiration fumbled with the office drawer.
“Where is it?”
Slumping to the floor, he cradled his head in his hands.
“What have I done?”
Looking round the office, there was two hiding places: drawer and filing cabinet. The locked cabinet should have been its home, but Red remembered putting it the drawer.
Though paid to hold various packages, it wasn’t really Red’s thing; he preferred undercover work though never seemed to get any.
“Filing cabinet.” He looked inside. Moving papers around, stacking, separating and eventually removing everything didn’t help. It just wasn’t there.
Crashing to the floor, his own heavy breathing filled his ears.
“I’ve lost it?”
The package was only a small jiffy bag. Red didn’t know the contents, he never did. That wasn’t relevant; he was paid enough to not ask questions. This jiffy belonged to his best and most fearsome customer.
It was also his only customer.
And, he wasn’t a customer, he was a psychopath.
Red hadn’t met him, but he’d been warned: never mess up.
He’d messed up.
Gulping another breath, Red forced himself to think.
“Where is it?”
C- Ali Koomen:
With trembling fingers, Hope turned the page, then the next. Horrifying images assailed her. A sacrificial ceremony too realistic to have been drawn from imagination. A conflagration, with faces pressed to windows in a rictus of ecstasy. An eviscerated corpse being skinned. . .
Suddenly, the source of the leather cover became apparent. With a shudder of disgust, she shoved the book away from her. A page came loose and drifted to the floor. She bent to pick up the errant sheet, opened it and let out a moan.
A charcoal drawing of her son stared back at her.
It was impossible. The paper was yellowed and brittle; it had been drawn years, if not decades ago. But why? How? A noise came from the cellar, a murmuring sound, but one with cadence, like a chant heard from a long ways off. Running to the door, she secured the top bolt. The sound stopped.
Hope ran to the kitchen phone and picked up the receiver. It had no dial tone, just a faint, far-away crackling sound. Underneath it all she sensed the amusement of whoever. . .whatever. . .was on the line. Slamming it down, she screamed out her son’s name.
D- Tom Hart:
The door ripped away and flew out to the airstream beyond the aircraft, and a rush of cold air struck him with the chill scream of a banshee looking to claim its victims. Somewhere deep within him a tiny spark of hope let him believe he could make it. Colonel Lucky Larson, noted pilot, makes it three in a row. The only man alive to walk away from three major crashes. He tried desperately to scramble through the opening as klaxon horns blared from every side. The pavement outside rushed toward him with its angry, earthly fist of concrete, and Larson became vaguely aware of his involuntary relaxation followed by a spreading warmth inside his flight suit. His eyesight began to dim, then blur and then darken entirely as the cacophony dissipated and grew silent. It seemed as though he had found a way to make it three, but reality suddenly propelled him back to the interior of the doomed aircraft. He couldn’t hear himself scream as the aircraft sliced into Highway 73-75 and burst into a huge fireball.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
5 QUESTIONS FOR AUTHOR JUDITH L. PEARSON
1- What inspired you to write your first two books about two entirely different types of war heroes in the second World War?
The war played a key role in stories my dad told me as a child. He had been an Air Corps pilot and we would often watch WWII movies together, with him explaining the intricacies of espionage and warfare. I loved the movies, I loved the music, I loved the way the country came together as one.
I was a freelance newspaper and magazine writer when the story that became BELLY OF THE BEAST fell into my lap. It was such a powerful story, with real life heroes, I realized it was more than an article, it had to be a book. Looking for another WWII story after that was a little harder. But as happened the first time, the story of Virginia Hall fell into my lap, and writing WOLVES AT THE DOOR was an enormous personal success. Spies don’t write letters or leave diaries. Digging up the info became a quest.
2- What doors have been opened for you because of the incredible success of those two books?
A secene from WOLVES was selected as the subject of a painting to be hung in the Central Intelligence Agency Fine Arts Collection. The painting was unveiled at the French Ambassador’s residence in Washington D.C., and I (being an ex-advertising agency exec) wrote my own press release about the event. It was picked up by the Associated Press, which in turn turned into interviews with media outlets worldwide. That led to contacts from Hollywood. The book is now in option with Out of the Blue Entertainment for a major motion picture.
The producers, Sid and Nancy Ganis, have asked that I consult on the script writing and on set. Think I’ll get to rub elbows with any celebs? Depending on the stars involved, I may want to rub cheeks as well!
3- What are your daily writing habits?
That’s a funny question at this point in my career. I am, by nature, very disciplined when it comes to writing. But 18 months ago, life intervened. I met a wonderful man, fell in love and married him two months ago. Over the course or our courtship, I was starry eyed, and not terribly driven to write. The teenager in me returned in full force. Our meeting and the events leading up to it were so sweet, I’ve had lots of folks tell me it’s the stuff of romance novels. Just one more book to write.
That aside, in general (and you have my word, from this point on!) I get up, work out, clean up and hit the keyboard. I have an office in my home, so I venture downstairs to fix lunch and take it back to my office. I work until 3 or 4, depending on what the rest of my life holds that day.
Writing non-fiction is a little different than fiction in that there’s a great deal of research involved. That includes interviews, books, internet searches, trips to libraries and archives, and more. I never feel I’m really “working” unless I’m actually putting words on paper. But of course, that’s not true. Often, I take books or my laptop to bed, reading with one eye and watching TV with the other. My husband does the same, and we agree on “quittin’ time.” Otherwise I’d be surfing and highlighting all night.
4- Why did you choose to write and speak specifically about women's courage?
As a result of writing two books about very courageous people, one a man and one a woman, I realized that women behave very differently when frightened, stressed or facing obstacles, the very times we most need our courage. But courage has always been measured by a male yardstick, involving lots of physical acts that most women can’t accomplish. Women see that and assume they’re not courageous, and with that attitude, are far less inclined to tackle things that might require courage.
My interest in the subject morphed into speaking engagements around the country. And the speaking launched the idea for the book I’m working on now. Don’t you love this segue to the next question?
5- What's on the horizon for you?
Glad you asked, Gary! I’m currently at work on a book entitled A DIFFERENT KIND OF COURAGE. It weaves together current gender/brain research (yes, we DO behave differently than you do and no, we CAN’T help ourselves), and anecdotes of women who’ve been courageous in various walks of life. These include business, government and politics, on the front line, facing chronic illness, in education, in violent situations, and more. Each story is accompanied with cutting edge research results explaining why women behave as they do when stressed and frightened, and why working together rather than against men in these situations is a good thing.
The book will also include the results of a nationwide survey. I would invite all your female readers to take the survey on my website at www.courageconcepts.com. And expect the book early next year.
Monday, August 2, 2010
JULY 2010 WINNER -- LEAH PETERSEN
Congratulations to Leah Petersen, the winner of July's Strong Scenes Contest. Her submission was scene "A" below. Take a moment to view her work, it really had a lot going on for such a short scene. I had the readers vote this time and they did a great job. It was very close though, mostly due to the solid entries I continue to see month after month. Congrats to all the finalists as well.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
JULY 2010 FINALISTS
This month I'm going to try something different--mix it up a little. I'm going to post the 4 top finalists, then let the readers decide which one should win. This is an experiment, so let's see how it turns out. Depending on how it goes, I might keep it this way or switch it back or change it again, who knows. Inevitably my only goal is to give writers a place to get their work scene. Deadline is Saturday, July 31st.
Below are the 4 finalists and there's a poll to the right with the corresponding letters to vote for. Good luck to the finalists and thanks to all who submitted there was some terrific scenes which didn't make the final 4.
A- Leah Petersen:
She brought her lips to his again. “I love you,” she murmured, her lips whispering against his.
He stiffened and pulled back just enough that she could see his face. His eyes were wide.
And why not, at such a shocking declaration? She was young, and beautiful, and heir to lands and titles and fortunes. And what was he?
He was dead.
His body slid to the floor with the gracefulness she’d loved in him. The life in his eyes was already gone. It had been very quick. She was accurate in everything she did.
She slid her knife from his breast and wiped it clean on her own skirt. All of the other times she had used the clothes of her victim and what did it matter to them? But this time it mattered, to her.
Matthew would make her pay for this, make her howl until she had no more voice and still he would hurt her. She hadn’t failed, she had defied him.
She could have made the boy suffer, as she’d been told. She could have made him die slowly and in terrible pain. She knew she was capable of it. So there was some victory in this. That she had killed her lover quickly and painlessly not out of weakness, but by choice.
She stood and looked down at him.
One tear escaped and she brushed it away, not realizing that she’d replaced the tear track with a smear of his blood.
B- Lindy Rahn
They picked up her things and began along the pier towards the Sydney Aquarium, holding hands. Luke’s grasp made her feel safe and comfortable. It was the one thing that had been missing and now she had it back.
‘How did you find me?’ she asked, curious. After James, Flora had made very sure that she would only be found be those she wanted to find her. A very small list of people had access to her whereabouts.
‘As soon as Juli cancelled the wedding, I ditched my job and went back to Perth only to discover that you’d taken leave and were off travelling. I’ve been following you ever since with the help of PJ and Louise. They forwarded me the emails you sent to them.’ He held up his Blackberry waggling it in the air. The wonders of modern technology. Then he regarded her sternly, ‘you know, if you were a regular twenty something it would have been easy to find you… I could have just checked your Facebook status or sent you a text. But not you. Tell me again why you don’t have a mobile phone?’
Flora was silent. They both knew she didn’t trust mobiles anymore. Still, she smiled, ‘Well, it’s lucky I’m not a regular girl. Then you’d never have loved me.’
‘What do you mean ‘loved?’ I love you more than I ever did, even though I never said it… and Flora?’
‘Yes?’
Luke fell to his knees. There, in the middle of the queue to see the seals, he gazed up into her aqua eyes as the crowd around them began to clap and cheer. ‘I don’t ever want to be apart from you again. I want to marry you.’
Flora could feel the tears welling. ‘Is this the part where I say ‘yes’?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. Well, alright, but on one condition.’
‘Oh God.’ He hoped she wasn’t going to make him dress in some stupid top hat and tails or something. ‘What?’
‘We need to go back to Enrico’s before the wedding so you can learn to waltz. Your timing really sucks.’
C- Cyndi Tefft
A hazy sheen of smoke was visible in the moonlit room, wispy tendrils silently jostling one another for space on the ceiling. “Oh shit!” I cried, my mind finally coming up to speed. I leapt out of bed and raced down the stairs. The acrid stench of smoke filled my lungs and burned my eyes as I grabbed the fire extinguisher from behind the refrigerator. I batted at the smoke with my free hand and it taunted me, moving away and then quickly circling back. I pulled the pin on the extinguisher and squeezed the handle, praying that it would work. A spray of white foam poured from the container and I swept it back and forth over the base of the flames.
My eyes were watering uncontrollably and I squeezed them shut, focusing all my energies on putting out the fire. My arms and legs began to shake as the extinguisher spit out its final droplets of foam. I scrambled over the floor toward the door, tripping on the footstool and knocking my forehead against the hardwood floor. Crawling on my hands and knees, I strained to make it to the door to the outside deck. The suffocating pressure in my chest held me in place and I reached out in desperation before my arm fell limp and all strength was gone.
Aiden…
I called to him in my mind with my last conscious thought, then surrendered to the dense grey fog that consumed me.
D- Ali Koomen
“Is it you? Is it really you?”
The girl nodded. “My name is Mallory, and you are my mother.”
Geneva’s hand went to her mouth. It was impossible to take her eyes from her daughter’s face. Eventually, she recalled Scott’s presence and turned to him. “Scott, I don’t—”
“Please, don’t be angry with him,” Mallory said. “I knew I was adopted--when I was twelve, I found the adoption papers. I have always known something was missing. I’ve always wanted to find my birth parents, and now you have found me.” She paused, her voice heavy with tears. “Scott told me about how young you were, and how he wanted you to get an abortion. But you were so brave, travelling to a country halfway across the world. I’ve had a wonderful life, almost a fairytale existence, something I would not have known had you not been so courageous. Thank you, for loving me so much, for being so selfless.”
Geneva looked at Scott. “Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded his head in acknowledgement.
Mallory looked from one to the other. “I think that you two need to continue to find your way back to each other. If nothing else, could you do that for me?”
Scott looked at Geneva, and she could see the old daring-do in his eyes. She turned to her firstborn, and said what parents have said since the beginning of time, when they’re not completely certain of the outcome:
“We’ll see, dear. We’ll see.”
Below are the 4 finalists and there's a poll to the right with the corresponding letters to vote for. Good luck to the finalists and thanks to all who submitted there was some terrific scenes which didn't make the final 4.
A- Leah Petersen:
She brought her lips to his again. “I love you,” she murmured, her lips whispering against his.
He stiffened and pulled back just enough that she could see his face. His eyes were wide.
And why not, at such a shocking declaration? She was young, and beautiful, and heir to lands and titles and fortunes. And what was he?
He was dead.
His body slid to the floor with the gracefulness she’d loved in him. The life in his eyes was already gone. It had been very quick. She was accurate in everything she did.
She slid her knife from his breast and wiped it clean on her own skirt. All of the other times she had used the clothes of her victim and what did it matter to them? But this time it mattered, to her.
Matthew would make her pay for this, make her howl until she had no more voice and still he would hurt her. She hadn’t failed, she had defied him.
She could have made the boy suffer, as she’d been told. She could have made him die slowly and in terrible pain. She knew she was capable of it. So there was some victory in this. That she had killed her lover quickly and painlessly not out of weakness, but by choice.
She stood and looked down at him.
One tear escaped and she brushed it away, not realizing that she’d replaced the tear track with a smear of his blood.
B- Lindy Rahn
They picked up her things and began along the pier towards the Sydney Aquarium, holding hands. Luke’s grasp made her feel safe and comfortable. It was the one thing that had been missing and now she had it back.
‘How did you find me?’ she asked, curious. After James, Flora had made very sure that she would only be found be those she wanted to find her. A very small list of people had access to her whereabouts.
‘As soon as Juli cancelled the wedding, I ditched my job and went back to Perth only to discover that you’d taken leave and were off travelling. I’ve been following you ever since with the help of PJ and Louise. They forwarded me the emails you sent to them.’ He held up his Blackberry waggling it in the air. The wonders of modern technology. Then he regarded her sternly, ‘you know, if you were a regular twenty something it would have been easy to find you… I could have just checked your Facebook status or sent you a text. But not you. Tell me again why you don’t have a mobile phone?’
Flora was silent. They both knew she didn’t trust mobiles anymore. Still, she smiled, ‘Well, it’s lucky I’m not a regular girl. Then you’d never have loved me.’
‘What do you mean ‘loved?’ I love you more than I ever did, even though I never said it… and Flora?’
‘Yes?’
Luke fell to his knees. There, in the middle of the queue to see the seals, he gazed up into her aqua eyes as the crowd around them began to clap and cheer. ‘I don’t ever want to be apart from you again. I want to marry you.’
Flora could feel the tears welling. ‘Is this the part where I say ‘yes’?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. Well, alright, but on one condition.’
‘Oh God.’ He hoped she wasn’t going to make him dress in some stupid top hat and tails or something. ‘What?’
‘We need to go back to Enrico’s before the wedding so you can learn to waltz. Your timing really sucks.’
C- Cyndi Tefft
A hazy sheen of smoke was visible in the moonlit room, wispy tendrils silently jostling one another for space on the ceiling. “Oh shit!” I cried, my mind finally coming up to speed. I leapt out of bed and raced down the stairs. The acrid stench of smoke filled my lungs and burned my eyes as I grabbed the fire extinguisher from behind the refrigerator. I batted at the smoke with my free hand and it taunted me, moving away and then quickly circling back. I pulled the pin on the extinguisher and squeezed the handle, praying that it would work. A spray of white foam poured from the container and I swept it back and forth over the base of the flames.
My eyes were watering uncontrollably and I squeezed them shut, focusing all my energies on putting out the fire. My arms and legs began to shake as the extinguisher spit out its final droplets of foam. I scrambled over the floor toward the door, tripping on the footstool and knocking my forehead against the hardwood floor. Crawling on my hands and knees, I strained to make it to the door to the outside deck. The suffocating pressure in my chest held me in place and I reached out in desperation before my arm fell limp and all strength was gone.
Aiden…
I called to him in my mind with my last conscious thought, then surrendered to the dense grey fog that consumed me.
D- Ali Koomen
“Is it you? Is it really you?”
The girl nodded. “My name is Mallory, and you are my mother.”
Geneva’s hand went to her mouth. It was impossible to take her eyes from her daughter’s face. Eventually, she recalled Scott’s presence and turned to him. “Scott, I don’t—”
“Please, don’t be angry with him,” Mallory said. “I knew I was adopted--when I was twelve, I found the adoption papers. I have always known something was missing. I’ve always wanted to find my birth parents, and now you have found me.” She paused, her voice heavy with tears. “Scott told me about how young you were, and how he wanted you to get an abortion. But you were so brave, travelling to a country halfway across the world. I’ve had a wonderful life, almost a fairytale existence, something I would not have known had you not been so courageous. Thank you, for loving me so much, for being so selfless.”
Geneva looked at Scott. “Thank you,” she whispered. He nodded his head in acknowledgement.
Mallory looked from one to the other. “I think that you two need to continue to find your way back to each other. If nothing else, could you do that for me?”
Scott looked at Geneva, and she could see the old daring-do in his eyes. She turned to her firstborn, and said what parents have said since the beginning of time, when they’re not completely certain of the outcome:
“We’ll see, dear. We’ll see.”
Sunday, July 18, 2010
WAITING (Guest Post by Luke Romyn)
Waiting….
Every writer who has tried to get their work published in any way, shape or form knows what I’m talking about.
Waiting….
Aspiring authors, prepare yourself for the wondrous world of limbo which exists between completing your work, polishing it to perfection, submitting it to whatever or whoever you have chosen will be honored with receiving such a wondrous gift of imagination and skill and –
Waiting….
Waiting….
Waiting….
Sometimes you’ll get that letter. You know the one. It’s the stamped, self addressed envelope you sent away with your submission, which you yearn to open and yet dread to see what it’ll say. We always open it, hoping it’ll say our dreams are about to come true.
Wrong!
Your world crashes down around you and you never, ever want to write another thing ever again, but being the eternal optimist you are you send off another submission the next day… and the next time… and every time you get that rejection. Because you’re a writer.
Writers are not only people born with perfect diction, nor are they always fantastical wordsmiths who can create vistas beyond the imaginings of mere mortals by threading their multi-syllable words together in such ways to break through new barriers in the art of articulation.
No.
A writer is something else entirely. A writer wakes each day yearning to express themselves through words, their mind and imagination screaming for release through the power of strikes on a keyboard or the scribbling of pen on paper. Other skills which they may require can be learned, but the heart of a writer remains the same, regardless of their background, ethnicity, education or religion.
Because they are the ones who will fight through those rejections, battling self doubt and endure the endless –
Waiting….
– forever with the hope that one day, just one time, that letter will contain the one word which will have made all the pain and stress worthwhile. Three letters each and every writer universally yearn to hear:
Y-E-S.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SHORT STORY AND A NOVEL
Over the years I've seen discussions in magazines and on blogs about the intrinsic difference between a short story and a novel. This might seem trite but the answer is more than just length. A short story is usually one or two scenes. That's it. And don't waste your time telling us he had green eyes and brown hair and a cute mole on the tip of her earlobe. The clock is ticking. You need to begin with a conflict. The protagonist has to overcome a challenge and we'd better discover that pretty soon. Normally short stories are around 2500-3500 words, so don't dilly-dally. I'm not saying you can't set the scene with a full moon or a distant howl from a coyote. That's okay, as long as it's taking us somewhere.
I've been fortunate enough to have published quite a few short stories (many are available in full on my website) and everyone of them starts with dilemma. A clairvoyant patient visits a psychiatrist because she hears aliens discussing the destruction of the planet. A man gets arrested because he can't handle the stress of his job and that's the only place he can find respite. These are just two of the ideas I turned into stories.
The novel, however, requires an entirely different pace. Now just because you have more time to develop your characters please resist the temptation to describe your protagonist through a glance at a mirror, or someone commenting on their green eyes, brown hair, or cute mole on the tip of her earlobe. You'd better start with some form of conflict pretty quick and keep that tension going throughout the novel. The difference is the conflict probably won't get resolved for a few hundred pages instead of fifteen. Does anyone know what Jack Reacher really looks like? We know he's big, and that's about it. Lee Child doesn't waste time with such insignificant details. We know the shape of the road he's travelling because it will become useful at some point forward.
Now all of this pertains to most genre fiction, so don't get all tangled up trying to make sense when it comes to romance novels, because that is a completely different animal all together. Let's face it, the details of someone's anatomy are usually the most important part of the story.
Of course the best advice is to study the short story before churning one out. There's plenty of great fiction in today's literary magazines and journal's. Just remember, start strong and finish strong. What did you think I was going to say on a blog named Strong Scenes.
I've been fortunate enough to have published quite a few short stories (many are available in full on my website) and everyone of them starts with dilemma. A clairvoyant patient visits a psychiatrist because she hears aliens discussing the destruction of the planet. A man gets arrested because he can't handle the stress of his job and that's the only place he can find respite. These are just two of the ideas I turned into stories.
The novel, however, requires an entirely different pace. Now just because you have more time to develop your characters please resist the temptation to describe your protagonist through a glance at a mirror, or someone commenting on their green eyes, brown hair, or cute mole on the tip of her earlobe. You'd better start with some form of conflict pretty quick and keep that tension going throughout the novel. The difference is the conflict probably won't get resolved for a few hundred pages instead of fifteen. Does anyone know what Jack Reacher really looks like? We know he's big, and that's about it. Lee Child doesn't waste time with such insignificant details. We know the shape of the road he's travelling because it will become useful at some point forward.
Now all of this pertains to most genre fiction, so don't get all tangled up trying to make sense when it comes to romance novels, because that is a completely different animal all together. Let's face it, the details of someone's anatomy are usually the most important part of the story.
Of course the best advice is to study the short story before churning one out. There's plenty of great fiction in today's literary magazines and journal's. Just remember, start strong and finish strong. What did you think I was going to say on a blog named Strong Scenes.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
JUNE 2010 WINNER--KENT OSTBY
Congratulations to Kent Ostby for winning the Strong Scene Contest for June 2010. Check out Kent's scene below, his was scene # 1. Literary Agent Cari Foulk was the honorary judge and she really enjoyed all four finalists. In the end she felt Kent's scene had a simple, yet realistic feel to it. Also she found the ending very impressive. It was a hard choice for her as she asked for extra time to really give these scenes a good look. Congrats to Kent and a big thanks to Literary Agent Cari Foulk with Tribe Literary Agency.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
JUNE 2010 FINALISTS
June's contest asked for action scenes. The response was terrific and I want to thank everyone who participated. I also want to thank our judge, Literary Agent Cari Foulk. There's an abundance of talent out there and I enjoy showing it off. Congrats to the finalists. Feel free to vote for your favorite scene-->
1: Kent Ostby
Fear like an ugly, black bile, rose in Duke’s throat as he ran. The
bear gave chase on its three good paws, dragging the other like a
useless set of razor blades.
Duke drew his knife from the scabbard at his side, wondering if he
could make a miracle throw that would save his life.
The bear was on him in an instant and Duke had just enough time to
slam the stick into the bear’s jaws before it bowled him over.
Time slowed.
Like a deadly cartoon, man and bear rolled round and round. Duke
thrust his knife over and over while the bear racked his body with
teeth and claws. The black bear rolled onto Duke’s leg, snapping it
loudly. Duke screamed as the bear reared up on his hind legs and
started to come down on Duke again. Duke shoved with all his might
pushing the knife deep into the bear’s chest.
The bear pulled back, tearing the knife out of Duke’s hand.
As the bear rolled onto its side, fighting for breath, Duke saw frothy
blood on its muzzle.
Duke began to crawl, fighting pain that emanated from every part of
his body. The river’s voice beckoned Duke and he turned toward it.
Behind him, Duke heard movement and saw the bear dragging itself
forward. Whatever damage Duke might have done to the bear, it still
had a massive set of working jaws. Duke saw another stick and grabbed
for it, pushing his weight off of his injured leg as another scream
tore from his lips. The snow was coming down in torrents as Duke
limped toward the river and dark eyes drew closer to him.
Duke wasn’t sure if he could stay conscious for much longer. The water
swirled near the top of the bank, flowing hard and heavy as the snow
disappeared into it. Duke turned and the bear was only ten feet from
him.
Suddenly, the black bear rushed, looking surreal with the haft of
Duke’s knife sticking from its chest.
With a last look, Duke stepped forward and was swept into the current.
2: Sandra Cormier
A man lounged against the rough wall, smoking a cigarette. A spray of climbing roses almost obscured his features, yet he looked familiar. My mind's eye caught a wisp of a memory, of a scarred face stretched across high cheekbones. He was the guy I'd bumped into last night.
Cradled in his arm was a gun. A big one.
I let out a startled squeak and clapped a hand over my mouth. Before I could move, the man's gaze rose and locked with mine.
He shouted and raised his weapon. At the same time, the pale man in the window opposite followed the gun's line and stared at me across the short distance.
With a shriek, I slammed the window and dropped to the floor. I pressed my hands over my ears as an explosion bounced around the courtyard and shards of glass blew into my room.
I curled my body tight, heart pounding as I crouched on the floor. The shots ceased and shouts rang from the courtyard mixed with the frightened cries of the tourists.
What do I do? They saw me. I have to get out of here. I stooped low and scurried across the room in my bare feet, avoiding bits of glass.
More voices, this time in the hallway. Shit. I expected the door to burst open with splintering wood, but all I heard was a polite knock.
What the Hell? What kind of terrorist knocks? Maybe it's the police. I crept to the door and reached with a shaking hand toward the lock. I hesitated, thought better of it and shrank against the wall beside the door. I held my breath, praying that they would go away.
The knob turned and rattled, then the door exploded inward. Fuck. Not the police.
3: Diana Alkema
Tonight I waited for him to return from his secret rendezvous with my best friend. What he thought was secret anyway. I waited for his lies, then for his excuses. Waited for him to tell me I was wrong, to tell me I got it all wrong. That it was not what I thought it was. That he loved me, that he had never loved anyone like this, that we should have never had that abortion.
Now I am waiting for the ambulance. I sit next to him on the floor, he lost consciousness at the first sight of blood. I waited a whole minute before I called the ambulance. It was a wonderful minute in which time stood still. I just looked at him, absorbed every detail. He looked so peaceful.
The blood slowly spreads on the on my birch wood floor. Deep red and glistering in the moonlight that comes in through the high windows. It feels warm to the tip of my finger. I draw eights in the pool of blood and then I write Orion, over and over again.
I do hear the voices and the noise, I just don’t react to them. Not when they kick down the door to my apartment. Not when someone grabs me under my arms and pulls me up. “The jacket is on backwards,” I want to say but what does it matter. My arms are pulled around my body as if to hug myself and are secured behind my back.
“Wait here!” the voice says.
I hate waiting.
4: Cyndi Tefft
The radio crackles with the voice of the dispatcher. “Suspect heading southbound on I-5…” I flip on the lights and head for the on-ramp as Jake calls in our location. Cars part like the red sea as we weave our way through rush hour traffic to the freeway, siren blaring. We emerge from the tunnel and the target speeds past along the shoulder, sparks flying where the car’s side door scrapes against the metal railing. I hit the gas and follow him, the thrill of the chase building in my blood.
Damn, I love this part. C’mon sucker, let’s go.
The patrol car jerks as we ricochet off the railing in hot pursuit but I don’t notice. The perp is in my sights, the tantalizing nectar of victory sweet on my tongue. The lanes narrow as he crests the bridge, the gap too small for him to wedge past. A Mini Cooper is his unfortunate victim, the little car flung into the next lane with the impact. The sound of wrenching metal pierces the air, punctuated by the wailing siren as the suspect’s vehicle grinds to a stop.
He bails, fleeing on foot, but I can tell he’s injured. I’m a hair’s breadth in front of Jake as we follow, focused intensity sparking within me like a Tesla coil.
You’re mine.
“Stop!” I shout and draw my weapon. The suspect freezes and I slow my approach, my senses on high alert. “You’re under…” I begin, but he spins around and I catch the glint off his gun a split second before the bullet tears through my shoulder. The force knocks me backward and pain explodes in my head as my skull cracks against the railing.
I expect to hear Jake’s answering gunfire but instead there’s a scuffle: heavy footsteps, fists connecting with flesh, grunts and the sound of crunching bones. The sharp tang of blood burns my nostrils, the perp’s body odor mingling with the taste of copper in my mouth, and I fight the urge to retch. Then I’m being lifted and my synapses begin firing again. He’s throwing me over the bridge! Snarling, I claw at him to try and get purchase but he slips through my fingers and I’m falling. Fear eats me alive, the sound of the traffic below calling my doom.
I’m going to die.
Jake snakes out a hand and my descent jerks to a halt. Hope flares in my chest. “Pull!” I scream and Jake’s eyes meet mine, steely with determination.
“Had to make it look good, partner,” he says with a smug curl of his lip.
He lets go.
1: Kent Ostby
Fear like an ugly, black bile, rose in Duke’s throat as he ran. The
bear gave chase on its three good paws, dragging the other like a
useless set of razor blades.
Duke drew his knife from the scabbard at his side, wondering if he
could make a miracle throw that would save his life.
The bear was on him in an instant and Duke had just enough time to
slam the stick into the bear’s jaws before it bowled him over.
Time slowed.
Like a deadly cartoon, man and bear rolled round and round. Duke
thrust his knife over and over while the bear racked his body with
teeth and claws. The black bear rolled onto Duke’s leg, snapping it
loudly. Duke screamed as the bear reared up on his hind legs and
started to come down on Duke again. Duke shoved with all his might
pushing the knife deep into the bear’s chest.
The bear pulled back, tearing the knife out of Duke’s hand.
As the bear rolled onto its side, fighting for breath, Duke saw frothy
blood on its muzzle.
Duke began to crawl, fighting pain that emanated from every part of
his body. The river’s voice beckoned Duke and he turned toward it.
Behind him, Duke heard movement and saw the bear dragging itself
forward. Whatever damage Duke might have done to the bear, it still
had a massive set of working jaws. Duke saw another stick and grabbed
for it, pushing his weight off of his injured leg as another scream
tore from his lips. The snow was coming down in torrents as Duke
limped toward the river and dark eyes drew closer to him.
Duke wasn’t sure if he could stay conscious for much longer. The water
swirled near the top of the bank, flowing hard and heavy as the snow
disappeared into it. Duke turned and the bear was only ten feet from
him.
Suddenly, the black bear rushed, looking surreal with the haft of
Duke’s knife sticking from its chest.
With a last look, Duke stepped forward and was swept into the current.
2: Sandra Cormier
A man lounged against the rough wall, smoking a cigarette. A spray of climbing roses almost obscured his features, yet he looked familiar. My mind's eye caught a wisp of a memory, of a scarred face stretched across high cheekbones. He was the guy I'd bumped into last night.
Cradled in his arm was a gun. A big one.
I let out a startled squeak and clapped a hand over my mouth. Before I could move, the man's gaze rose and locked with mine.
He shouted and raised his weapon. At the same time, the pale man in the window opposite followed the gun's line and stared at me across the short distance.
With a shriek, I slammed the window and dropped to the floor. I pressed my hands over my ears as an explosion bounced around the courtyard and shards of glass blew into my room.
I curled my body tight, heart pounding as I crouched on the floor. The shots ceased and shouts rang from the courtyard mixed with the frightened cries of the tourists.
What do I do? They saw me. I have to get out of here. I stooped low and scurried across the room in my bare feet, avoiding bits of glass.
More voices, this time in the hallway. Shit. I expected the door to burst open with splintering wood, but all I heard was a polite knock.
What the Hell? What kind of terrorist knocks? Maybe it's the police. I crept to the door and reached with a shaking hand toward the lock. I hesitated, thought better of it and shrank against the wall beside the door. I held my breath, praying that they would go away.
The knob turned and rattled, then the door exploded inward. Fuck. Not the police.
3: Diana Alkema
Tonight I waited for him to return from his secret rendezvous with my best friend. What he thought was secret anyway. I waited for his lies, then for his excuses. Waited for him to tell me I was wrong, to tell me I got it all wrong. That it was not what I thought it was. That he loved me, that he had never loved anyone like this, that we should have never had that abortion.
Now I am waiting for the ambulance. I sit next to him on the floor, he lost consciousness at the first sight of blood. I waited a whole minute before I called the ambulance. It was a wonderful minute in which time stood still. I just looked at him, absorbed every detail. He looked so peaceful.
The blood slowly spreads on the on my birch wood floor. Deep red and glistering in the moonlight that comes in through the high windows. It feels warm to the tip of my finger. I draw eights in the pool of blood and then I write Orion, over and over again.
I do hear the voices and the noise, I just don’t react to them. Not when they kick down the door to my apartment. Not when someone grabs me under my arms and pulls me up. “The jacket is on backwards,” I want to say but what does it matter. My arms are pulled around my body as if to hug myself and are secured behind my back.
“Wait here!” the voice says.
I hate waiting.
4: Cyndi Tefft
The radio crackles with the voice of the dispatcher. “Suspect heading southbound on I-5…” I flip on the lights and head for the on-ramp as Jake calls in our location. Cars part like the red sea as we weave our way through rush hour traffic to the freeway, siren blaring. We emerge from the tunnel and the target speeds past along the shoulder, sparks flying where the car’s side door scrapes against the metal railing. I hit the gas and follow him, the thrill of the chase building in my blood.
Damn, I love this part. C’mon sucker, let’s go.
The patrol car jerks as we ricochet off the railing in hot pursuit but I don’t notice. The perp is in my sights, the tantalizing nectar of victory sweet on my tongue. The lanes narrow as he crests the bridge, the gap too small for him to wedge past. A Mini Cooper is his unfortunate victim, the little car flung into the next lane with the impact. The sound of wrenching metal pierces the air, punctuated by the wailing siren as the suspect’s vehicle grinds to a stop.
He bails, fleeing on foot, but I can tell he’s injured. I’m a hair’s breadth in front of Jake as we follow, focused intensity sparking within me like a Tesla coil.
You’re mine.
“Stop!” I shout and draw my weapon. The suspect freezes and I slow my approach, my senses on high alert. “You’re under…” I begin, but he spins around and I catch the glint off his gun a split second before the bullet tears through my shoulder. The force knocks me backward and pain explodes in my head as my skull cracks against the railing.
I expect to hear Jake’s answering gunfire but instead there’s a scuffle: heavy footsteps, fists connecting with flesh, grunts and the sound of crunching bones. The sharp tang of blood burns my nostrils, the perp’s body odor mingling with the taste of copper in my mouth, and I fight the urge to retch. Then I’m being lifted and my synapses begin firing again. He’s throwing me over the bridge! Snarling, I claw at him to try and get purchase but he slips through my fingers and I’m falling. Fear eats me alive, the sound of the traffic below calling my doom.
I’m going to die.
Jake snakes out a hand and my descent jerks to a halt. Hope flares in my chest. “Pull!” I scream and Jake’s eyes meet mine, steely with determination.
“Had to make it look good, partner,” he says with a smug curl of his lip.
He lets go.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
5 QUESTIONS FOR AUTHOR MIKE LAWSON
1- Your plot lines are very realistic, do you ever swipe actual scenes from your years as a nuclear engineer for the Navy?
Only one of my books, The Second Perimeter, contains material from my old job as a nuc engineer for the navy. The actual idea for the book, however, came from a real life incident at the Los Alamos National Laboratory where some computer discs containing classified data were supposedly stolen by the Chinese. Scenes in The Second Perimeter that discuss the naval shipyard in the book were based on my experience at that shipyard - but nothing in the book is classified, of course. I do draw heavily in my books from my experience working for the government and time spent in D.C. All my books pretty much begin with something I read in the paper. My fifth book, House Justice, was inspired by the real life Valerie Plame case. My third book, House Rules, started with an article I read about the no-fly zone around D.C. The reason my books are set in D.C. is that it's a "target rich" environment - there's always some god-awful thing happening back there in real life that's fodder for political thriller writers.
2. Your protagonist, DeMarco, was so developed right from the first novel, The Inside Ring, is he a more daring version of yourself?
DeMarco is - sorta - me. That is DeMarco's thought process about a lot of things and the way he reacts to situations is a lot like I would probably react - and, like me, DeMarco's not exactly the hero type. And we both enjoy a vodka martini. Also, and this is a different story, DeMarco's father had mob connections. Believe it or not, my grandfather, an old fedora-wearing Scilian also had few connections to some shady mob people.
3- DeMarco's sidekick, Emma, is such an insider--did you mold her after anyone in particular?
I didn't mold Emma after anyone person. Emma in a sense is a "device". I wanted the books to have a strong female character - but I didn't want the character to be a love interest for DeMarco. I didn't want to deal with the boyfriend-girlfriend thing which, I think, can get rather tiresome after several novels. But the main thing about Emma - and this is the device part - I wanted a character that would be a true D.C. insider in terms of having access to places like the CIA, the Pentagon, and the FBI - and with Emma's past as an operative for the DIA, she provides that access. Lastly, I wanted Emma as a counter-balance to DeMarco - she's more moral, more straight-laced, more inclined to make DeMarco play by at least a few rules
4- Is writing work for you, or would you do it even if there were no readers out there?
Particularly after my old job - working on reactor plants for navy nuc ships - writing definitely doesn't seem like work. I love to write - I feel like I'm getting paid to have the best hobby in the world. And to answer you question, if my current publisher dropped me - although I don't think that's going to happen - I'd keep writing. I'd be trying to find another publisher, of course, but I think I'm so used to getting up every morning and writing that I'd keep doing that whether I had a publisher or not. It's fun making up stories.
5- How are you adapting to the digital age of publishing--are you going fighting and clinging, or are you more accepting of the changes?
I have no control over a lot of the things that impact the writing business - the demise of newspapers, good independent bookstores disappearing, the advent of e-books, etc. That's the world we live in. I just keep writing and hope my publisher and others on the business-side of the books will keep me in the game whether the reader is reading my books on paper, his I-pod, his I-pad, or his Kindle. The only thing I really regret is seeing the small, neighborhood indepdent stores disappearing because they can't compete with the big box stores and folks like Amazon. But that's the way things are - we all just have to keep adapting - like you're doing with your blog.
Monday, June 14, 2010
WE DON'T WANT INFORMATION--WE WANT EMOTION
I began this blog a couple of months ago with the thought that I'd start a writing contest and give new and emerging writers a place to get exposure. I'm blessed to have a literary agent and have contacts with one or two others who were willing to help my project. It was a good idea and will probably continue in one form or another. If someone received attention from this blog which netted them an agent or a publishing deal I would be over-the-moon excited.
Then I thought I'd give some content as well. Bring the reader some interviews with well-known authors like Tess Gerritsen and Catherine Coulter. They were both gracious enough to allow me to interview them with my 5 questions segment.
Which one of these would bring more interest? Well, I'm surprised to say Tess Gerritsen and Catherine Coulter don't hold a candle to our own little online writing community. Both NY Times bestselling authors barely registered a blip on the comments while awards and blogs about "The Cure for Writers Block" drew serious interest. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised, look at what American Idol has done to us. Not that I've watched ten minutes of the program. I'm too much of a music fan.
So my conclusion is that people don't want simple information, we want emotion. I should know, I'm a writer who excels at the concept of showing, not telling. I barely describe my protagonist, but his gyrating adams apple speaks volumes. I will continue the contest and interviewing authors big and small, but I'll also be focussing on other more emotional issues. Like maybe why I turned down a print book deal to publish my novel as an E-Book first. Now there's a post waiting to happen.
Then I thought I'd give some content as well. Bring the reader some interviews with well-known authors like Tess Gerritsen and Catherine Coulter. They were both gracious enough to allow me to interview them with my 5 questions segment.
Which one of these would bring more interest? Well, I'm surprised to say Tess Gerritsen and Catherine Coulter don't hold a candle to our own little online writing community. Both NY Times bestselling authors barely registered a blip on the comments while awards and blogs about "The Cure for Writers Block" drew serious interest. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised, look at what American Idol has done to us. Not that I've watched ten minutes of the program. I'm too much of a music fan.
So my conclusion is that people don't want simple information, we want emotion. I should know, I'm a writer who excels at the concept of showing, not telling. I barely describe my protagonist, but his gyrating adams apple speaks volumes. I will continue the contest and interviewing authors big and small, but I'll also be focussing on other more emotional issues. Like maybe why I turned down a print book deal to publish my novel as an E-Book first. Now there's a post waiting to happen.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
5 QUESTIONS FOR AUTHOR CATHERINE COULTER
1- After 59 NY Times bestsellers, do you still get jittery the night before a book is released?
No, I never get jittery before the book comes out, but on the Wednesday two weeks after the book is released -- half my brain is always focused on the call that will come that afternoon from the publisher to tell me if I hit #1 on the New York Times Bestseller List.
2- Are you competitive with your sales, trying to attain certain goals with each book?
Yes, my goal for a long time was to make #1 on the New York Times Bestseller List -- I've done that. My goal now is to stay at #1 on the list longer. You've always got to look up, always, because your publisher does.
3- Are you ever surprised at a reaction from fans about a particular scene or book you've written? Could you give an example?
I find myself both pleasantly surprised and Whoa! surprised, but it's never been about a single scene that I can recall, rather it's how the book has affected them personally, e.g., helped distract them through a bad time or really set them off because they hate a character, such as Blessed Backman, who, I swear, has a very polarized fan club -- those who really get off on his talent and how way-out there he is and those who think him a monster and scold me for creating him. It is fiction, I write. This is not about your next door neighbor.
4- You obviously love to write, but would you still write novels if you were the only one left on the planet and there were no readers?
If I were the only person left on the planet, I wouldn't be writing, I'd be trying to find a taco.
5- How did you become such a football fan?
I was raised on football, was a huge Cowboy fan (my folks were friends with Tom Landry) until I moved to San Francisco and learned the first requirement of a 49er fan was to hate the Cowboys. Not a problem.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
5 QUESTIONS FOR AUTHOR IRA BERKOWITZ
1- Were you a big reader of crime fiction before you began the Jackson Steeg series of novels, and if so who were some of your favorite authors?
The first crime novel I remember reading was Mickey Spillane’s, I, The Jury. Pretty racy stuff for a young kid. And I was hooked. From then on, it was a process of discovery. Chandler, Hammett, Lawrence Block, Ross and John D. MacDonald. Martin Cruz Smith, Robert Parker, and James Lee Burke. And each brought a special delight. I love Block for his innate sense of justice, Parker for his dialogue, and Burke for his poetry. But the writer that made a lasting impression on me was Hubert Selby, jr. His Last Exit to Brooklyn is a masterpiece.
2- Your protagonist, Jackson Steeg, is an ex-NYPD cop and a no-nonsense kind of guy. Did you find it easy to relate to his sense of making things right, no matter the consequence?
My wife often says that when I die, the cause listed on the death certificate will be The New York Times. In a world of asymmetrical justice, making things right – something Jackson Steeg does very well in a damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead kind of way - is extremely gratifying, and the only thing that keeps me sane.
3- Do you ever imagine a time when you decide to end the series--or have you even thought that far ahead?
No doubt I will write other books dealing with characters and themes that interest me, but life without Jackson Steeg is unimaginable. My first book, Family Matters, was written as a stand-alone. But very quickly, Steeg disabused me of that notion. He took over my life, and refuses to let go.
4- How did you come to be published after getting such a late start on the world of crime novels?
Two reasons: Luck, and a valuable lesson I learned during my career in advertising - never take no for an answer. Fifty agents rejected my first attempt at writing a crime fiction novel. But a few were encouraging. They were enough to keep me going. Then one night while watching television I heard the name Steeg during a commercial break. And the Universe kicked in. The first book in the series was all there in my head. A little over three months later the book was finished. Two agents offered to represent it.
5- What are your thoughts on e-readers and their future in the literary world?
E-books have radically changed the publishing business model. And I’m not sure the industry knows how to deal with this new environment. But they’re here to stay, and will only get better as the technology improves. But I expect there will always be people like me who love the smell of a book, the feel of the pages, and the sense of intimacy it brings.
A TOUCH OF DECEIT-- REVIEW
Click the link below to see the latest review of A Touch of Deceit. Tiffany Harkleroad runs a terrific blog which reviews books. Thanks, Tiffany for the wonderful words.
http://twitthis.com/vxbeff
http://twitthis.com/vxbeff
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
MAY 2010 WINNER- KATE MAYFIELD
I'm very excited to announce Kate Mayfield as the winner of May's Strong Scene Contest. Literary Agent Robert Brown chose her submission as the strongest scene, although he said he had a difficult time choosing because the writing was so strong. Daryl Sedore's piece was a close runner-up. Congratulations to Kate. You can read her submission in the post below this. It's submission #2. I have more to reveal about this piece soon, but I need confirmation first.
Congrats to all who entered, it was a pleasure to read your work.
Congrats to all who entered, it was a pleasure to read your work.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
MAY'S FINALISTS 2010
Here are the finalists for the May 2010 Strong Scene Contest. The theme was opening scenes. I know I always say I'll post the 3 finalists, yet somehow I can't resist adding more. There's such great talent out there who deserve recognition. So these are the 4 finalists. A big thank you to Robert Brown, literary agent with Wylie-Merrick Literary Agency. I'll be announcing the winner within the next couple of days. Congrats to all the participants.
1- Daryl Sedore:
Sarah Roberts wondered if today would be the day someone would die. Would she be able to save whoever it is she’s supposed to save? She looked at her watch again.
10:15am.
It was almost time for the premonition to come true.
This was the fifth premonition she had acted on. She’d had seven in the last six months. The first two were neglected because she wasn’t aware of what was happening to her. But now, she was reassured with the knowledge that if she followed her notebook details, everything had the best chance to work out.
She reached back and found a few stray hairs above the nape of her neck. She massaged them until they were firmly in the grip of her fingers. Then she tugged them out. She closed her eyes and leaned back on the dirty cement. The slight pain that oozed over her skin soothed her, calmed the nerves.
Vehicles crossing the bridge above came to her. She made a mental note that the next time she had to hover under a bridge waiting for whatever was supposed to happen she would bring a pillow to sit on. The ground she inhabited angled toward a small river at forty-five degrees. It was hard cement. The grass on either side looked more comfortable, but the message was specific. If there was anything Sarah knew, it was to follow the messages with absolute precision.
Thinking of the message, she recited it in her head; Sit directly in the middle, under the St. Elizabeth Bridge, at 10:18am. Bring hammer.
Bring hammer. She had no idea why, but she’d brought it. The hammer sat beside her on the cement. She lifted her wrist and checked the time.
10:17am.
She felt her senses go on alert. This is it, something’s about to happen. She lowered her right hand and picked up the hammer.
The anticipation of the unknown got her heart going. It pounded in her chest as if it wanted out. She looked down at her feet where a pile of cigarette butts were scattered. Her focus was on her breathing. Keep it regular.
Wait and see.
A dead fish smell wafted up from the river. A soft curling, whooshing sound came to her from the water. Any other time it would have been soothing.
Cars cruised by above her. Something louder came and went. Must be a truck of some kind, she thought.
10:18am.
A tire screeched overhead. A horn blared. The sound of metal hitting metal was surreal. It made her jump. Tires squealed again.
A vehicle came into view at an impossible angle. It fell towards the river, along with pieces of the guardrail. The cars’ roof took the impact in the water, crashing down hard on the passenger side.
2- Kate Mayfield:
One of the opening shots of my family’s 8-millimeter home movies was that of massive funerary flower arrangements. Flowers so plentiful and so perfectly arranged that they did not look real. The camera slowly panned a casket in which a young woman laid in perfect stillness. I’ll never forget what she looked like. Her coal black hair lay on a white satin pillow; her lips, painted a bright cherry red, contrasted brazenly against her gypsum-like skin. The thick black glasses she wore revealed the era of her death to be the 1950’s. The glasses looked out of place - why would she need them now? The first time I saw her projected onto our screen she looked so alive and vibrant that I asked, ”Is she really dead, or were you all just fooling around?”
I have tried to remember the first time I saw a dead body. There have been many firsts in my life, like the first time I touched a dead person. I was too short to reach into the casket, so my father picked me up and I leaned in for that first empty, cold touch. It was thrilling because it was an unthinkable act. But there was no first viewing that I recall, because from the time I first entered the world there were dead bodies.
When I was old enough to understand what they meant, people told me they felt decidedly creepy about funeral homes. I knew a woman who always ran to the other side of the street whenever she happened upon ours. She gave a little shudder when she saw me seated in the swing on the veranda. I faithfully nodded to her and remained silent; there was no need to defend my position, and anyway, sooner or later she too… well, I won’t hover. But I could understand how one would think that it might be a bit unnatural to spend day after day, year after year, entertaining the grieving and caring for their dead.
I suppose it could have been a gloomy existence if it were not for my father. Whenever I mentioned “undertaker” or “mortician” to people who’d never met him, I saw in their eyes what they thought. They pictured a dour man. Their undertaker was a Uriah Heap who wore black scratchy suits with dull white shirts that would soon turn yellow. Nowadays, people raise their brows when they think of the modern undertaker who burrows down in courses such as General Psychology and Dynamics of Grief, Mortuary Law, and Death and Human Development. These men are thought of as squeezers, nothing more than ruthless businessmen. My father would squirm at the idea of being compared to them. He never had to work too hard at being different, he just was.
I wondered why he chose to dress up like Beau Brummel every day and take care of dead people. I never asked, for as the years passed, I could imagine him doing nothing else.
3- Michael McShane:
GQ offered no rebuttal. Rather, he fell in behind me as I started up the cracked and buckled walkway toward my porch. I stopped abruptly and turned to him.
“Entrance is by invitation only,” I said. “Get behind the gate.”
“I can’t, dude,” GQ said. “My friend is inside your house. I was supposed to warn him when you were coming.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You must be blind, dude. Didn’t you see that blond across the street? She was so hot she was smoking. I must have got distracted.”
“You’re a freaking idiot.”
“Whoa, dude, what’s with all the hostility?”
Having absorbed one too many “dudes,” I grabbed GQ by the collar of his two hundred-dollar shirt.
“This,” I said through clenched teeth, “is hostility—dude.”
I jerked my hands apart popping his shirt buttons all the way down to his waist.
“You’re assaulting me!” he cried as he stared wide-eyed at his chest laid bare by the ripping.
I gazed agog at his silky smooth torso.
“Do you shave your chest?” I asked in amazement. “You do,” I said. “You shave your damn chest. I bet you shave your balls, too. You do, don’t you? You shave your balls. Say it!” I screamed. “Say you shave your balls!”
“I do, I do!” QQ said, shaking. “Now please, let me go.”
“Say it out loud!” I shouted from an angry place I seldom visit. “Say the words! Say I shave my balls. Say it or I’ll beat you to a bloody stump, you little poser!”
“I shave my balls!” GQ screamed. His energy quickly faded, and he whimpered, “I do, I shave my balls. I shave my—”
“Did you hear that?” I shouted to the hottie blond across the street. “This pervert shaves his sack.”
Blondie lowered her head and paced briskly down the sidewalk.
“Let the kid go,” said a voice from a distance behind me. “He was only doing what I asked.”
With my hands still gripping GQ’s shirt, I spun him in a half-circle positioning him between me and whoever had been my house.
“Your buddy is standing behind you,” I said to GQ as I looked over his shoulder at the mountain of a man framed between the stone pillars of my tidy front porch, “and he’s aiming that gun you said he didn’t have. Go ahead,” I said to the giant standing on my porch, “Fire!”
GQ’s eyes rolled in his head like he was going to pass out.
“No! “Don’t shoot!” he cried into my face, addressing his buddy behind him. “I wasn’t doing anything. I was just . . . Please . . .”
I turned him around so he could face the giant in the baggy brown suit, who carried no gun at all.
“Get the hell off my porch!” I yelled at the giant.
“You’re mighty volatile,” replied the giant in a voice as soft as mine was loud. At the same time he floated down my porch steps with the agility of a tap dancer.
GQ screamed, “That’s what I told him, Moog! He’s flipped. He’s totally mental.”
I let go of GQ and he dashed away his shirt flapping like a cape.
“The dude has no filter, Moog!” GQ cried upon reaching the man at the base of my porch steps. “What did you get me into?”
“Yeah, Mooooooog,” I said. “What did you get this waste of skin in to? More importantly, what were you doing in my house?”
Moog said, “Settle down, Balls. Maybe you should have a drink. Let’s talk about this.”
There it was again, somebody I didn’t know calling me “Balls.”
“I don’t drink,” I said, knowing full well there were several bottles of Molson Ale chilling in my refrigerator approximately 30 feet behind Moog and slightly to his left.
“Maybe you should start,” GQ said his bare-chested heaving as he stood engulfed by Moog’s shadow. “You have some real issues, dude.”
I said, “Did it ever occur to you that you were aiding a break-in, maybe even a burglary? If you’re really a lawyer you had to know you were committing a felony.”
GQ looked blank-faced at Moog. “You mean you don’t know this guy?”
Moog shook his head.
GQ said, “I swear, Balls, he told me—”
“Don’t call me Balls!” I screamed. “I’ll snap your neck for fun, you little prick!”
4- Gabrielle Taylor:
Jordan Finegold cut through the dark alley, trying to lose whoever was trailing him. Even in early June, the heat hung in the Phoenix air long after midnight. His hair clung to the sheen of sweat covering his neck. Out of breath, he stopped, pressing his back against a concrete wall. Only his eyes moved from side to side, searching for any movement in the shadows. Nothing stirred except a piece of trash rolling along the ground, carried by the warm breeze. Normal city sounds seemed to be on temporary mute, the night much too quiet.
He knew it was happening again.
“Stop running.” An unfamiliar male voice broke through the silence.
Jordan’s pulse pounded in his veins, the swish of each beat racing in his ears. He pushed his body closer to the wall and attempted to force strength into his voice. “Why are you following me?”
“Let me help you.” The voice came closer, the stranger had moved without making a sound. “I mean you no harm.”
“Ya,” Jordan laughed under his breath, “that’s what they all say.” Nervous, he reached into his pocket, searching for the knife he carried for protection.
“Ah…you wish to test your limited knife skills on me?”
The voice was right next to his ear now, but Jordan couldn’t see the man. He felt trapped by an invisible force and desperate to regain his footing. “Try me,” he said, pulling the knife and flipping it open.
A second later, a painful blow to the head knocked Jordan flat on his back. His hands instinctively covered his head as his body curled into the fetal position. The soft rousing of amused laughter circled him. There had been no warning, no sound of a coming strike. Nothing.
“Would you like to contemplate your next request with a bit more forethought?” The man’s voice seemed to come from everywhere…and nowhere. “Here, let’s fix that headache.”
Gentle pressure surrounded Jordan’s head. He tried to see who was touching him, but no one was there. Moments later, the pain vanished leaving a pleasant tingling sensation behind. He had no idea what was happening and wished he hadn’t run from home. “How’d you do that? Who are you?” He pushed himself to his knees, then to standing.
“Those are questions, not requests. Such mundane questions, too. You can do so much better.” There was a long pause. “Let’s try another approach, perhaps this will help.”
A glowing sphere about the size of a large marble emerged from the shadows, rolling along the ground. The silver ball stopped a few feet in front of Jordan. It pulsed with light, almost as if it had its own heartbeat.
He couldn’t take his eyes off it. It reminded him of the mercury he had studied in Chemistry. Nervous about the danger, he backed away from the object. “Is it mercury?”
“Your fear is controlling you. You must learn to trust yourself.” The man’s voice sounded with authority.
“I trust no one.”
1- Daryl Sedore:
Sarah Roberts wondered if today would be the day someone would die. Would she be able to save whoever it is she’s supposed to save? She looked at her watch again.
10:15am.
It was almost time for the premonition to come true.
This was the fifth premonition she had acted on. She’d had seven in the last six months. The first two were neglected because she wasn’t aware of what was happening to her. But now, she was reassured with the knowledge that if she followed her notebook details, everything had the best chance to work out.
She reached back and found a few stray hairs above the nape of her neck. She massaged them until they were firmly in the grip of her fingers. Then she tugged them out. She closed her eyes and leaned back on the dirty cement. The slight pain that oozed over her skin soothed her, calmed the nerves.
Vehicles crossing the bridge above came to her. She made a mental note that the next time she had to hover under a bridge waiting for whatever was supposed to happen she would bring a pillow to sit on. The ground she inhabited angled toward a small river at forty-five degrees. It was hard cement. The grass on either side looked more comfortable, but the message was specific. If there was anything Sarah knew, it was to follow the messages with absolute precision.
Thinking of the message, she recited it in her head; Sit directly in the middle, under the St. Elizabeth Bridge, at 10:18am. Bring hammer.
Bring hammer. She had no idea why, but she’d brought it. The hammer sat beside her on the cement. She lifted her wrist and checked the time.
10:17am.
She felt her senses go on alert. This is it, something’s about to happen. She lowered her right hand and picked up the hammer.
The anticipation of the unknown got her heart going. It pounded in her chest as if it wanted out. She looked down at her feet where a pile of cigarette butts were scattered. Her focus was on her breathing. Keep it regular.
Wait and see.
A dead fish smell wafted up from the river. A soft curling, whooshing sound came to her from the water. Any other time it would have been soothing.
Cars cruised by above her. Something louder came and went. Must be a truck of some kind, she thought.
10:18am.
A tire screeched overhead. A horn blared. The sound of metal hitting metal was surreal. It made her jump. Tires squealed again.
A vehicle came into view at an impossible angle. It fell towards the river, along with pieces of the guardrail. The cars’ roof took the impact in the water, crashing down hard on the passenger side.
2- Kate Mayfield:
One of the opening shots of my family’s 8-millimeter home movies was that of massive funerary flower arrangements. Flowers so plentiful and so perfectly arranged that they did not look real. The camera slowly panned a casket in which a young woman laid in perfect stillness. I’ll never forget what she looked like. Her coal black hair lay on a white satin pillow; her lips, painted a bright cherry red, contrasted brazenly against her gypsum-like skin. The thick black glasses she wore revealed the era of her death to be the 1950’s. The glasses looked out of place - why would she need them now? The first time I saw her projected onto our screen she looked so alive and vibrant that I asked, ”Is she really dead, or were you all just fooling around?”
I have tried to remember the first time I saw a dead body. There have been many firsts in my life, like the first time I touched a dead person. I was too short to reach into the casket, so my father picked me up and I leaned in for that first empty, cold touch. It was thrilling because it was an unthinkable act. But there was no first viewing that I recall, because from the time I first entered the world there were dead bodies.
When I was old enough to understand what they meant, people told me they felt decidedly creepy about funeral homes. I knew a woman who always ran to the other side of the street whenever she happened upon ours. She gave a little shudder when she saw me seated in the swing on the veranda. I faithfully nodded to her and remained silent; there was no need to defend my position, and anyway, sooner or later she too… well, I won’t hover. But I could understand how one would think that it might be a bit unnatural to spend day after day, year after year, entertaining the grieving and caring for their dead.
I suppose it could have been a gloomy existence if it were not for my father. Whenever I mentioned “undertaker” or “mortician” to people who’d never met him, I saw in their eyes what they thought. They pictured a dour man. Their undertaker was a Uriah Heap who wore black scratchy suits with dull white shirts that would soon turn yellow. Nowadays, people raise their brows when they think of the modern undertaker who burrows down in courses such as General Psychology and Dynamics of Grief, Mortuary Law, and Death and Human Development. These men are thought of as squeezers, nothing more than ruthless businessmen. My father would squirm at the idea of being compared to them. He never had to work too hard at being different, he just was.
I wondered why he chose to dress up like Beau Brummel every day and take care of dead people. I never asked, for as the years passed, I could imagine him doing nothing else.
3- Michael McShane:
GQ offered no rebuttal. Rather, he fell in behind me as I started up the cracked and buckled walkway toward my porch. I stopped abruptly and turned to him.
“Entrance is by invitation only,” I said. “Get behind the gate.”
“I can’t, dude,” GQ said. “My friend is inside your house. I was supposed to warn him when you were coming.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You must be blind, dude. Didn’t you see that blond across the street? She was so hot she was smoking. I must have got distracted.”
“You’re a freaking idiot.”
“Whoa, dude, what’s with all the hostility?”
Having absorbed one too many “dudes,” I grabbed GQ by the collar of his two hundred-dollar shirt.
“This,” I said through clenched teeth, “is hostility—dude.”
I jerked my hands apart popping his shirt buttons all the way down to his waist.
“You’re assaulting me!” he cried as he stared wide-eyed at his chest laid bare by the ripping.
I gazed agog at his silky smooth torso.
“Do you shave your chest?” I asked in amazement. “You do,” I said. “You shave your damn chest. I bet you shave your balls, too. You do, don’t you? You shave your balls. Say it!” I screamed. “Say you shave your balls!”
“I do, I do!” QQ said, shaking. “Now please, let me go.”
“Say it out loud!” I shouted from an angry place I seldom visit. “Say the words! Say I shave my balls. Say it or I’ll beat you to a bloody stump, you little poser!”
“I shave my balls!” GQ screamed. His energy quickly faded, and he whimpered, “I do, I shave my balls. I shave my—”
“Did you hear that?” I shouted to the hottie blond across the street. “This pervert shaves his sack.”
Blondie lowered her head and paced briskly down the sidewalk.
“Let the kid go,” said a voice from a distance behind me. “He was only doing what I asked.”
With my hands still gripping GQ’s shirt, I spun him in a half-circle positioning him between me and whoever had been my house.
“Your buddy is standing behind you,” I said to GQ as I looked over his shoulder at the mountain of a man framed between the stone pillars of my tidy front porch, “and he’s aiming that gun you said he didn’t have. Go ahead,” I said to the giant standing on my porch, “Fire!”
GQ’s eyes rolled in his head like he was going to pass out.
“No! “Don’t shoot!” he cried into my face, addressing his buddy behind him. “I wasn’t doing anything. I was just . . . Please . . .”
I turned him around so he could face the giant in the baggy brown suit, who carried no gun at all.
“Get the hell off my porch!” I yelled at the giant.
“You’re mighty volatile,” replied the giant in a voice as soft as mine was loud. At the same time he floated down my porch steps with the agility of a tap dancer.
GQ screamed, “That’s what I told him, Moog! He’s flipped. He’s totally mental.”
I let go of GQ and he dashed away his shirt flapping like a cape.
“The dude has no filter, Moog!” GQ cried upon reaching the man at the base of my porch steps. “What did you get me into?”
“Yeah, Mooooooog,” I said. “What did you get this waste of skin in to? More importantly, what were you doing in my house?”
Moog said, “Settle down, Balls. Maybe you should have a drink. Let’s talk about this.”
There it was again, somebody I didn’t know calling me “Balls.”
“I don’t drink,” I said, knowing full well there were several bottles of Molson Ale chilling in my refrigerator approximately 30 feet behind Moog and slightly to his left.
“Maybe you should start,” GQ said his bare-chested heaving as he stood engulfed by Moog’s shadow. “You have some real issues, dude.”
I said, “Did it ever occur to you that you were aiding a break-in, maybe even a burglary? If you’re really a lawyer you had to know you were committing a felony.”
GQ looked blank-faced at Moog. “You mean you don’t know this guy?”
Moog shook his head.
GQ said, “I swear, Balls, he told me—”
“Don’t call me Balls!” I screamed. “I’ll snap your neck for fun, you little prick!”
4- Gabrielle Taylor:
Jordan Finegold cut through the dark alley, trying to lose whoever was trailing him. Even in early June, the heat hung in the Phoenix air long after midnight. His hair clung to the sheen of sweat covering his neck. Out of breath, he stopped, pressing his back against a concrete wall. Only his eyes moved from side to side, searching for any movement in the shadows. Nothing stirred except a piece of trash rolling along the ground, carried by the warm breeze. Normal city sounds seemed to be on temporary mute, the night much too quiet.
He knew it was happening again.
“Stop running.” An unfamiliar male voice broke through the silence.
Jordan’s pulse pounded in his veins, the swish of each beat racing in his ears. He pushed his body closer to the wall and attempted to force strength into his voice. “Why are you following me?”
“Let me help you.” The voice came closer, the stranger had moved without making a sound. “I mean you no harm.”
“Ya,” Jordan laughed under his breath, “that’s what they all say.” Nervous, he reached into his pocket, searching for the knife he carried for protection.
“Ah…you wish to test your limited knife skills on me?”
The voice was right next to his ear now, but Jordan couldn’t see the man. He felt trapped by an invisible force and desperate to regain his footing. “Try me,” he said, pulling the knife and flipping it open.
A second later, a painful blow to the head knocked Jordan flat on his back. His hands instinctively covered his head as his body curled into the fetal position. The soft rousing of amused laughter circled him. There had been no warning, no sound of a coming strike. Nothing.
“Would you like to contemplate your next request with a bit more forethought?” The man’s voice seemed to come from everywhere…and nowhere. “Here, let’s fix that headache.”
Gentle pressure surrounded Jordan’s head. He tried to see who was touching him, but no one was there. Moments later, the pain vanished leaving a pleasant tingling sensation behind. He had no idea what was happening and wished he hadn’t run from home. “How’d you do that? Who are you?” He pushed himself to his knees, then to standing.
“Those are questions, not requests. Such mundane questions, too. You can do so much better.” There was a long pause. “Let’s try another approach, perhaps this will help.”
A glowing sphere about the size of a large marble emerged from the shadows, rolling along the ground. The silver ball stopped a few feet in front of Jordan. It pulsed with light, almost as if it had its own heartbeat.
He couldn’t take his eyes off it. It reminded him of the mercury he had studied in Chemistry. Nervous about the danger, he backed away from the object. “Is it mercury?”
“Your fear is controlling you. You must learn to trust yourself.” The man’s voice sounded with authority.
“I trust no one.”
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