Writing Exercise Results...

Are in the posts below . . . at least the ones that were received by Thursday night. Any that came in later will be posted Sunday evening or Monday afternoon.

The task was to write a scene in which you are seated next to Evil Editor on a long flight.

Writing Exercise Result 11

I was just settling into my seat when she tossed her backpack next to me and said, "Mind if I have the window? I'm claustrophobic."

"Sorry," I told her. "Emergency exit row. The last thing we need is a claustrophobe panicking and opening the door at 20,000 feet just because of minor turbulence."

"Bite the big one," she said, grabbing up her backpack and plopping next to me. She opened the pack and pulled out a laptop computer and started typing away.

You couldn't wait till we were airborne? I thought. What are you typing, your will? I glanced over; it looked like she was typing a novel or story. I caught sight of the first sentence: None of us were crazy about the idea, but someone had to kill Mendelbaum. Catchy opening.

"None of us was crazy," I said.

She looked at me. "What?"

"None of us was crazy. You typed None of us were crazy."

"Nosy bastard. Look out your precious window. Besides, it's "were."

"Madam, 'were' is a plural verb. Plural is more than one. Your subject is "none." Which can hardly be called more than one."

She turned to the man who'd taken the aisle seat and asked him to switch with her. He claimed his bladder problem forced him to use the rest room frequently, so he needed the aisle seat. She called him a jerkoff and returned to her typing.

I tried to stare straight ahead, but a compelling need to learn why Mendelbaum had to die drew my eyes to her screen. She was at the top of page 2, where I read: We were waiting on Murphy; he was bringing the cheese grater, which was the key to our freedom.

"Waiting for," I said.

She slowly turned toward me.

"Waiting 'on' would be if he was a customer in a restaurant," I explained.

She thanked me, but as she turned away she made a sudden leap across me and grabbed at the emergency exit handle. I fought her off until the flight attendant arrived and asked what the problem was.

"I suggest this woman be removed," I said. "If this flight takes off with her aboard, I predict none of us live to see tomorrow."

"Sir," the flight attendant replied, "I believe you meant to say, none of us lives to see tomorrow. I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."

As security dragged me down the aisle I yelled to the woman, "I must know . . . What happens to Mendelbaum?!"

She ignored me, typing busily away, in the window seat.

--Evil Editor

Writing Exercise Result 10

Out of breath and sweating, I slid into my seat as the doors were closed. “Just made it,” I said panting. The woman to my left, over whose delicate knees I’d just climbed, pretended to sleep; the man to the right of me hid behind his newspaper. I shrugged and staked my claim to both armrests: the God-given right of the middle-seater.

After the safety demonstration, I reached for my complimentary copy of “Plummet -- The In-flight Magazine of Wingan Prairie Airlines.” This month’s special feature was: Great People in Publishing. There was an interesting profile of Steve Guttenburg, the man who invented the printing press, and a retrospective of Marion Folsbream, inventor of both embossed foil lettering and those little round adhesive stickers. But it was the profile of Evil Editor -- the man who discovered literary humor -- that sent a shiver down my spine.

My neighbor, who had finished his newspaper and was now pretending to study the distant landscape through the plane window, was easily recognizable him as the man in the story. I tugged at the velvet sleeve of his coat. “Excuse me. You’re Evil Editor!”

He sniffed. “Thank you for clearing that up. I was wondering.”

“Sorry, I mean, uh, I was just reading about you.” I pointed at the article. “This is so incredible!”

“I’m having trouble believing it myself,” he riposted.

“This is awesome,” I added. “You, uh, don’t mind me talking to you, do you?”

He sighed like a broken radiator and turned to face me. Facial hair quivered and pince-nez glinted beneath the reading light. “OK, let’s hear it...” He raised his eyebrows. “So, you’re a writer, then?”

“Uh, no. I’m in sales, actually. Industrial shredders.”

An enormous grin lit his face. “My man! Let me buy you a five dollar cocktail: We need to talk!”

--ril

Writing Exercise Result 9

EE settled down grumpily into his seat and looked out the small window. As the plane took off, he turned to get a good look at his company. A young woman, surprisingly petite, with shoulder-length brown hair, green eyes, and a smile like she knew something you didn’t.

EE smiled back. Maybe this flight wasn’t going to be so bad.

“Hello, EE,” said the woman, catching him off-guard. He hadn’t expected to be recognized. But maybe this wouldn’t be so bad—if she was a minion, 95% of his flirting work had already been done. EE smiled even bigger. This was going to be easy.

“It’s me. Kiersten.”

His hopes shattered. Figured. The one female minion that still preferred her husband to him. But, he mused, it was a long flight…

“You know, you really should pay Mrs. V better,” Kiersten said, one eyebrow raising playfully. “Just a couple of twenties and she gave me all of your travel info. And now I have you all to myself for the next six hours.”

Promising. He had certainly underestimated her devotion. Setting his hand gently on top of hers, he asked, “And what would you like to do with me?”

She smiled. “Well, why pay $5,000 in an auction when a plane ticket only costs $300?” She slipped a thick manuscript between their hands.

EE sighed. “Of course. Excuse me while I visit the lavatory first?” Kiersten nodded, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. She was right to be wary; he hadn’t edited all of those spy novels for nothing. They might not be high enough for his parachute to fully deploy, but it was a risk he was willing to take.

--Kiersten

Writing Exercise Result 8

Reaching my seat, I thrust little Chester onto the lap of the schmuck with the window seat and cram the diaper bag under the seat, keeping little Frank tucked under my arm.

Finally, I sit down and pop a nipple into Frank's mouth to shut him up. Kid's just like his dad.

I turn to the old schmuck and pretend I don't notice the spreading wet spot on his pants, as he pretends he doesn't notice my boob. I grin, friendly.

He doesn't grin back; his scowl reminds me I know him from somewhere.

"Madam, can you take your child? He's soggy."

"Look, Gramps, can you help me out? I've only got two hands."

Just then Chester grabbed a. . . Muttonchop! God, it was Evil Editor. I think he realized he'd been recognized; I saw the look of horror on his face.

A tap on my shoulder; I turned to see a stewardess with a drink cart. Slinky, young, slutty. She gave Evil Editor the look. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"A Jack Black to drop in Chester's bottle," I said. "Helps him sleep. But daddy here promised not to drink anymore after he killed the triplets. Right, sweetie?" I turned and batted my eyes at EE. "Have you ever considered a novel from a mom about her two wonderful babies? Loaded with incredible detail about . . . Ow! Asshole!" I pulled my nipple out of Frank's mouth and inspected the bite mark. No blood. I turned back to EE, who was sputtering.

You'd think a man who makes his living on the written word would have better verbal skills. I reached into the diaper bag. "I have the first thousand or so pages here. And that only covers through Frank's circumcision!"

--Debhoag

Writing Exercise Result 7

“Well if it isn’t Evil Mudder Fartin’ Editor.” I go to take my seat.

“Do I know you, bunghole?” EE turns his filthy ugly head toward me.

“Did you just call me bunghole? That’s pretty frickin’ weak.” I look all around. Something is afoul. “What the Freak? Why can’t I flittin’ speak a gosh darn effing curse word?

“New policy.” EE smirks.

“No more cursing?” Mercy, I’d like to knock that sheet-eating grin off of his face.

“Nope, no more.” EE sits up straight. “My site is going profanity-free.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s your fault.”

“Mine?” He’s right, but I’ll be danged if I’ll give this limp-member, alternative lifestyle creeper the satisfaction. “How?”

“Too much cursing,” EE shrugs, “and you never take the exercises seriously.”

“Excuse me?” I live for drat blamed writing prompts. They help keep me from working on my novels.

“Your characters are aware of their fictional setting.” EE rolls his eyes. “That’s just cerebrally challenged.”

“But they’re funny, right?”

“In a ‘monkey performing simulated mating on a football’ kind of way.”

“What should I do?”

“Try another site.”

“Seriously?”

“It would be for the best.” EE puts his finger to his lips.

EE watches a shadowy figure disembark right before we take off.

“Who was that?”

“The censor.” EE wipes his forehead. “They’re always watching.”

“So, can I stay?”

“I could care less.” EE motions for the stewardess.

“I’ll take that for a yes.”

“Give us two lemonades, please.” EE grins.

“Thanks, McGhee.” Something still isn’t right. “When did you start ordering lemonades on an airline flight?”

EE’s eyes open wide as he looks all around.

“Look, EE.” I point to the stewardess. Her bucktooth smile and long, furry tail tell us that we are still being monitored.

“Flipping Squirrels.” We mutter.

--R. Lyle Wolfe

Writing Exercise Result 6

I fly a lot. You may already know that.

And flights are usually boring pains in the ass. And in the legs. Let’s not forget the legs - how they’re cramped up and irritated from having to sit still for so long.

And don’t even get me started on the chain-gang aspects of airport arrival and the checking of baggage and the checking of my purse and my laptop and my body with wands and other crappola before I even get on the fucking flight with the leg cramps and sleeping ass and the resultant deep need for white wine.

Then there’s the rarely-met need for a passenger in the seat beside me that isn’t gonna creep me out from the get-go, or talk too much like they’re my new best friend. Yeah. There’s that need as well.

So I’m in a bad mood walking down the aisle, avoiding elbows, pushing slow people along with my sighs. I get to my seat, and I swing around to sit, and in my peripherals I see a man in blue, looking like Dickens on steroids. And guess what? I love Dickens. And I love this man in the blue overcoat. And I want him. Badly.

He sent a crooked smile my way.

“Robin,” he said.

“Yes,” I said back.

We were quiet for a while. It was his turn to talk, and I wasn’t taking it.

“So…what do you want to do about…this?” he finally said.

“Let’s just talk.”

“Just talk?” He seemed surprised I hadn’t mentioned the Mile-High Club.

“Let’s talk about sex and violence in literature,” I said.

Sparky raised a bushy eyebrow, and he began…

…I already know what you’re thinking. We have a mind-meld going on about such things, now don’t we?

I mean, it’s not like I haven’t spent the better part of a year trying to get in the man’s pants - incorporeally speaking, of course.

But here’s the thing. Hearing him talk tingled like foreplay.

--Robin

Writing Exercise Result 5

I'd have known those mutton chops anywhere. What a bit of luck, sitting next to the great man himself and no chance for him to escape. I plumped myself down heavily into my seat, causing a small tremor. He glanced up from his crossword puzzle.

"Hi Evil," I said. "I'm your biggest fan."

"Robin! You look so much older in the flesh."

I shook my head. "It's fairyhedgehog."

He peered at the puzzle on his lap. "No, that doesn't fit.'"

"My name. It's fairyhedgehog," I said. "Well, not really of course, although it depends how you define reality and I always use that name online-"

"Add some vampires and weredingoes," he said.

I realised he was talking in his sleep and accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.
"I always read your blog," I said.

"Mphghm," he said and pulled a manuscript from his hand luggage.

"Hey! You don't want that one." I proffered my masterpiece. It was a bit dogeared and there was a tea stain on the front. I didn't think this was the copy the cat was sick on but I couldn't be sure. Still, good writing trumps all, eh?

"I don't work on planes," he said

"Then what's that you've got there?"

"Letter from my sister-in-law."

"She writes a bloody long letter."

He cleared his throat and put it away.

"Now, I was telling you all about my online name and I'd barely got started-"

Evil Editor's face took on a pained expression. "I need to go," he said.

He almost ran along the aisle to the toilets and didn't emerge again until the captain told everyone to strap in for landing.

That's just my luck. The one chance I get to make an impression on Evil Editor and he goes and gets air sick on me.

--FairyHedgehog

Writing Exercise Result 4

Tender Moment

“McGhee!” I glee as I sit in my . . .

“R. Lyle, we need to talk.” EE turns away from the window. His eyes are solemn, his face grim, and his spirit broken.

“About what?” Usually, at this point, I’m beginning the set up. Something is wrong; however, and I feel empathy for my nefarious nemesis.

“About the voice that you use,” EE shakes his head, “it’s too informal. Especially your use of the F-word.”

“Oh,” I place my hand on top of his, “did Key call you on your cell?”

“Yeah, she’s really upset.”

“This is writing, not Sunday School.” I smooth out his mutton chops with my fingertips.

“I know.” The tears flow from his eyes. “But I don’t want to lose her.”

“I’m so sorry.” I choke through the emotions. “I’ll never use the F-word again.” We throw ourselves into each other’s arms and embrace the sweetest embrace.

“I love you, R. Lyle.” EE squeezes me tight.

“I love you too, McGhee.” I really hope this doesn’t get too gay and we kiss.

“Let’s celebrate.” EE holds his hand up in the air. “Stewardess, bring us two gin and tonics. Sans the tonic please.”

The Stewardess brings us our drinks.

“No more cursing.” We salute and clink our shot glasses together.

Three hours and several shots later

“And Ms V is holding a camcorder.” I explain to EE. (I ain’t been this drunk in years.)

“And then?” EE barely manages to stutter. Damn, he looks HOT, when I’m drunk.

“And then Evil Editor bursts through the door, looks at Ms V filming the two squirrels in bed, and says . . .” I try to finish.

EE turns up the bottle, takes a huge gulp, belches, and then blurts out
“FUCKING SQUIRRELS!”

--R. Lyle Wolfe

Writing Exercise Result 3

“Well, spoon me like a drunken frat pledge.” I grin wide. “McGhee, whazzup!”

“Fuck.” EE bangs his forehead on the window. “Didn’t Snark and I kill you?”

“Yeah, but this is fiction.” I squeeze my fat ass into the narrow seat. “The hero never dies.”

“Whatever,” EE turns to face me, “I’m going on vacation. There better not be any plot twists or other bullshit. You understand?”

“Sure.” My hands tremble. “Hey man, thanks for using my captions.”

“You’re such a dummy.”

“What do you mean?”

“How does Snark pick the queries that she critiques?”

“At random?” I guess.

“Give the dummy a dildo.” EE claps his hands.

“So, mine wasn’t the best?”

“Fuck no.” EE rolls his eyes. “I pick captions at random. That way, all of you nitwits have a chance.” He shrugs his shoulders. “That’s how I get so many minions.”

Everyone in the plane looks at me. The faces look vaguely familiar, but it’s hard to see through the tears.

“Here, dummy.” He offers me a handkerchief.

“Thanks.” I wipe my eyes, blow my nose, and of course I check my boogers afterwards.
Whoa, the cabin spins and I feel woozy. Something on the handkerchief has really got me messed up. I look around and suddenly it becomes clear who the familiar faces are. There’s Kirsten, Robin, Julie, Phoen, and Anon. What the hell is going on?

“We’re going to our Cannibalistic Repressed Evil Editor’s Minions (CREEM) convention.” EE elaborates. “Buffy forewarned me you might be on this flight.”

“Those fucking squirrels.” I mutter. Dave and Robin’s husband drag me toward the galley.

“Hey everyone!” EE stands with his arms outstretched. “Tell Mr. Below Average Writer what the in-flight meal is.”

“Dummy!” They cheer.

--R. Lyle Wolfe

Writing Exercise Result 2

One seat left. A middle seat, of course, between a feller with muttonchops you could stuff a piller with and a blue-haired broad who wuz already loosening her belt and tuning up her pipes for the non-stop story of her non-life. Suddenly, I didn't want to go to Trenton.

Before one wheel was off the ground, the broad was telling me about her hysterectomy in '69 during the Nixon inaugural. I put on my fake iPod to shut her up. She sneered and began chewing her nails. The feller nexta me popped...I'm not kidding...twelve pills from an egg-carton-looking thing, and sucked down three mini-bottles of rum and one of blush wine. It wasn't two minutes before I had muttonchops and blue hair in my lap. I wish aircraft had emergency cords a feller could pull, like teevee trains do.

Fine. I do identity theft. Quick pickin's. The broad had $280 credit on her Discover card. I used the card to buy time on the air phone to spend the rest. Really pisses me off how much they charged me for the call. That's about it for her. The muttonchopped gent had six hundred dollars cash and a Sears card. How'd he get a plane ticket? He had a lifetime pass to the **** Ranch in Las Vegas, a WalMart gift card, a punch card from Creamy-Cream Ice Cream Parlor in ******. Just one more sundae and he's home free. Green Stamps. Haven't seen them since I was twelve. He had score cards for some chicks: R***n, K******n, P*****x, and a half-dozen others. He lives in ******, if you believe his photocopied passport. I've had better days. [Ed. Note: some text edited for national security purposes.]

--Bill H.

Writing Exercise Result 1

‘...and as for slicing straight across at an angle of ninety degrees oh no no I couldn’t bear to cut a sandwich like that has to be diagonally every time from the squarest corner and then all the way across but hey I’m a Virgo so whaddya expect has to be perfect for me boy I tell ya I went into this diner one time and the guy says what can I get you so I said how about a cheese and tomato with a dash of mayo on unsalted wholemeal bread and he says yeah sure so I watch him and he goes to cut at ninety degrees can you believe it and I’m like whoa man I can’t eat ‘em like that brings me out in a rash just thinking about it and another thing I can’t stand it when the bread ain’t buttered right up to the edge so like there’s bread with nothing on it pressed up close to your cheese or your ham or whatever so but never prawns or seafood oh no I just get this icky this horrible icky in my throat makes me wanna retch it’s like I can smell the water you know with all the salt like when I got drunk the first time on brandy and had to make myself sick you know where you mix up a little salt in a glass of water and gulp it down real fast I guess this whole sandwich thing goes back to my summer camp in ‘74 remember the camp I told ya about the guy with the blonde hair? Hey, mister? Mister? Jeez, somebody get a doctor. I think this guy’s dead.’

--WO

Cartoon 119

Caption: Kiersten

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Cartoon 118

Caption: Anon.

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Evil Ad 49

Cartoon 117

Caption: WO

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Cartoon 116

Caption: anon.

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Evil Ad 48

Cartoon 115

Caption: Evil Editor

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Cartoon 114

Caption: Evil Editor
Squirrels on ladder suggested by R.Lyle, provided by ril

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Cartoon 113

Caption: Anon.

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

New Beginning 503

"You must get a lot of last minute customers?" Kyle blushed. It was 7:30 pm and his party was at 8:00. He looked around the costume shop. Nothing but plain brown boxes filled the shelves from the front to the back of the store.

"I can stay late to accommodate. Customer service in my fate." Multicolored, Day-Glo smiley-faces decorated the clerk's shirt. With its Peter Pan collar, voluminous sleeves and polyester sheen, neither Stevie Wonder nor Andrea Bocelli could miss seeing it. Ugly letters on his nametag screamed "Argyle." Harlequin costumes fill the flatscreen of the store's POS computer.

"Um, Argyle? I'd prefer black."

"You and Johnny Cash! I'm not Argyle. My name is Salvatore Gian-Carlo Benvenuti, Duncan for short." He reached under the counter and picked up a Groucho Marx nose, glasses and moustache.

"Say da magic woid and win a prize; black shall be your costume tonight."

"I'd prefer black, please."

"That's not it."

"If you please."

"That's three words."

Kyle glared at Duncan and sighed. "Abracadabra."

"Nope."

"Puffdoodle."

"Sorry."



"I've heard enough, Counselor." Judge Brandon Meredith cleared his throat. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, this case is dismissed. Based on today's testimony and the evidence put before me, it is clear that any reasonable man would have throttled the annoying bastard. "Mr. Kyle, you are free to go."


Opening: Dave F......Continuation: anon./ril

Evil Ad 47

Cartoon 112

Suggested by R. Lyle Wolfe

Writing Exercise

I have to do some traveling this weekend. As I'm not sure how much time I'll get on the Internet, I'm making certain arrangements for my minions. For starters, I have several cartoons I keep setting aside because I like others better. It's time to set them free, so I'll be future-dating them so that they appear every 12 hours while I'm gone. (8 AM and 8 PM daily, Friday morning through Monday morning). Also, I can arrange for any writing exercise submissions to automatically post over the weekend if I have them by Thursday night. The deadline will be Saturday at 8 PM, but I can't guarantee I'll post those sent Friday and Saturday until Monday (though I'll probably manage to get to them). I should be able to get online to publish comments two or three times a day.

You're the last person to board a packed airplane. You make your way to your row, stow your bag, and slip into the middle seat, discovering that Evil Editor occupies the window seat. He's at your mercy for the next six hours. Should be a fascinating conversation, but you get to tell us only 300 words of it. Don't forget to include your name if you want credit.

Cartoon 111

Caption: anon.

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Face-Lift 529

Guess the Plot

Angel's Art

1. Turned down by the Met, The Frick, the Carnegie . . . even the Corcoran, for crying out loud . . . desperate artist Angel does what she must to survive and joins the slave army in the Thomas Kinkaid dungeon.

2. Angel's brain is half computer thanks to an operation that saved her life. Now she feels no emotions--until one day in art class her emotions return. Also, a half-cheetah.

3. All she is supposed to do is paint by numbers in the lines. But Lurael, the newest angel on world-creating duty, wants to do more. When she flexes her creative wings, will she get an okay from the Big Guy, or be clipped forever?

4. 45 years ago, Michael Angelo O'Reilly's mother gave birth to her darling son in front of Michaelangelo's Pieta at the New York Worlds Fair. Today, Mikey's unique shotgun/paintball splatter designs command the highest price, but his reputation will never rival that of Michaelangelo. He is so depressed.

5. All of the students at Little Angels Art School are just that . . . little well-behaved, good-hearted angels. Only little Johnny knows it's because Miss Gabrielle puts Valium in their Kool-Aid. When the Color-Inside-The-Lines art competition is announced, little Johnny knows he has to get rid of Miss Gabrielle. On the other hand, being on Valium feels pretty damn good.

6. John Tigotheles inherits the "paintbrushes" used by his famous artist great-grandfather, each a single feather of intense softness and unidentifiable species. When John tries to paint with the feathers, he produces masterpieces in the same heaven-themed style as his famous ancestor, but he suffers terrible nightmares about tormented children who say only John can save them.


Original Version

Dear Editor:

Science fiction draws in readers with worlds that are fantastic and yet plausible. Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game still remains a popular read more than twenty years after its creation. [If, as I suspect, you're sending this to editors who handle science fiction, you're not telling them anything they don't know.] My 60,000 word young adult novel, Angel's Art, takes the science fiction element into a familiar realm for young readers, the classroom.

Angel Morgan is a genius thanks to her half-computerized brain. But the novel operation that saved her life has also deprived her of emotions. That is, until she starts attending pubic school for the first time. [Pubic school? Did you do that on purpose just to make Evil Editor happy? Here we go.] [Pubic school: All Sex education all the time.] [Pubic school: it's where you go when you can't afford privates school.] [Mom: What are you studying in pubic school? Jane: The Vagina Monologues.] [I Googled pubic school. You wouldn't believe how many hits, and most of them accidents.] [On a whim I tried using Google to see if any universities had schools of pubic health. The Yale University School of Public Health website has a page devoted to alumni awards. Two excerpts: "Established by the AYAPH Board of Directors in 2006, this award honors an individual in public health practice or academic pubic health . . ." and "Determination of the final nominee is based on EMAC’s evaluation of candidates on the following criteria: 1. Leadership in the field of health disparities, cultural competency or diversity in pubic health.] [Googling pubic library gets a few hits and led me to this article. Note that this list of New Jersey libraries involved with the Laura Bush 21st Century Librarian program includes the Carteret Pubic Library. (Of course, you'd expect a library program named after Bush to be a pubic library. Da dum ching.)] [How does stuff like this stay online? Doesn't anyone ever visit these sites?] Between human-animal chimeras and English-impeded robots, Angel is almost overwhelmed with discovery. Imagine the worlds of J.K. Rowling and Isaac Asimov molded into one. [It's amazing how many Asimov titles sound intriguing when attached to Rowling's stock opening: Harry Potter and the Sensuous Dirty Old Man, Harry Potter and Still More Lecherous Limericks, Harry Potter and Space Garbage.]

Just as Angel is beginning to make friends and possibly feel her emotions again, her parents start talking about moving her to a private cyborg school. [As opposed to a pubic cyborg school. Ba dum ching.] At first, Angel wants no part of it, but soon she begins to develop suspicions that one of the students is somehow being controlled through illegal experimentation. [That word "but" suggests that you're about to say she eventually warms to the idea. Instead you follow it with something that has no obvious connection to the clause preceding the "but."] With her best friends, a human and a half-cheetah, at her side, [Is the other half of the half-cheetah human? Is it a human head on a cheetah body, or a cheetah head on a human body? I would rather have a cheetah body than a cheetah head. But that's me.] Angel is determined to discover what is going on, even if it puts her at risk of being deprogrammed.

I graduated from North Valley University in 2006 with a minor in creative writing. My debut story, Innocent Secrets, recently appeared in True Confessions magazine. I have enclosed a SASE, along with a synopsis and the first two chapters. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

[The title comes from the fact that Angel's emotions return to her during an art class.]


Notes

Let's hope this hasn't already gone out with the spelling error.

It's mostly the situation. It seems to me that the actual plot is dealing with the illegal experimentation. Yet that is given just a brief mention at the very end. Who's experimenting on whom and why does Angel suspect? If you get rid of the first two sentences and the one about Rowling/Asimov, you'll have plenty of room to tell us what happens in your book.

Evil Ad 46

Book Chat 3

Twilight, by Stephanie Meyer

I realize that 6 PM eastern forces those in Europe to stay up till midnight and those in Australia to get up early, but Kiersten's running the show this month, and her kids' naptime is the deciding factor. So, 6 PM eastern time, Thursday the 29th.

Cartoon 110

Caption: R. Lyle Wolfe

New Beginning 502

Suenna.

The watchman guarding the gate--in between drinking and dicing with his friends--told me horses were forbidden the city. And then denied I had a place at the officers' school.

I showed him the letter, and he smeared it with greasy palms. While he puzzled, head bent, over the words, a youth in uniform, and leading two bay horses, approached. Where had he sprung from? I'd checked everyone leaving the Hippolita train to see if Della were among them; I couldn't have overlooked those covetable horses. They scented the air and stepped out lively. My horse's head hung low in defeat. Travel had begrimed the colours of the Aquilla in its mane, and they dangled like the flaccid fingers of drowned men.

The watchman shoved the letter back at me. "S'pose it's all right."

Why should anyone's word count for more than mine? Let the fellow mind the gate; that was his business.

"Till your brother finds out," the watchman added, with a snort.

“What’s all this?” A huge barrel of a man rolled up to us, his finger almost to the second knuckle inside his nose; only Zeus knows what he was mining for. Behind him trotted a wizened little runt with a short man’s scowl.

“Fella has a place at the officers’ school. Has papers.”

The barrel snatched the letter from my hands, smearing it with runny snot. “I don’t know,” he said. “Writing’s smudged bad, paper's greasy. Could be forged.” He turned to the scowl. “What do you think?”

Scowl took hold of the sheet and muttered, “Looks all right.”

I turned back to the watchman. “Then can I--”

“Be right back.” Scowl began to walk toward the gate.

“My letter!” I took a step toward him, but barrel blocked my way.

“I need it,” Scowl said. "You'll get it back."

“Where are you taking it?”

“Right over there," he sniffed. "I got to take a crap.”


Opening: BuffySquirrel.....Continuation: ril

Evil Ad 45

Cartoon 109

Caption: anon.

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Face-Lift 528

Guess the Plot

Flight of Faith

1. After Sherrie and Pierre witness a Shrimpocalyps, they have to face "Four-Eyes", the head prawn with flying surfboards, shrimp forks and lobster hammers. Can they make sushi out of the invaders? Or will Earth sail into galactic domination by crusty demons.

2. During a pre-Armageddon warm-up bout with the demon Azazel above Roswell, the angel Gabriel develops severe acrophobia. Grounded and pretending to be human, he must face his fears and soar back to heaven before the seraphim destroy the Earth searching for him. When he encounters a beautiful UFOlogist he realizes he's going to need more than a wing and a prayer to get back home.

3. A disillusioned young English woman heedlessly roams the lands of Europe and Asia trying to discover the spirituality within herself. But can she escape the arms of Jonathan Miller, who will follow her to the ends of the Earth for her hand in marriage? Does she even want to?

4. When an army of soul-eating demons is unleashed on a gardener, she heads for the hills, not realizing that the forces of primordial evil will find her wherever she goes. Is her faith enough to sustain her in her battle to save civilization from the entity known as . . . the Keeper?

5. Seth always trusted his mischievous brothers: Wibur and Orville. One day they brought Seth to the edge of a cliff and explained, "It's simple physics: You run fast, jump off the cliff, and flap your arms as fast as you can." Seth never achieved flight. In this Alternative History Novel I document the murder trial of Wibur and Orville Wright. Will their act of fratricide alter the course of human history, or will their wiley lawyer prove that Seth "Deserved what he got"?

6. A priest, a rabbi, and a Buddhist monk are the only passengers on a small airplane. When the engine fails, the pilot bails out. There are only 2 parachutes left. Hilarity ensues.


Original Version

Dear Evil Editor:

If faith in a higher power gives much of civilization a reason to get out of bed in the morning, then what would happen if someone – or something – could extinguish it?

In FLIGHT OF FAITH, when a local man known for his devout faith denounces the church, Lia Danovin pays him a visit. In return, he tries to hill her. [To hill her? I think you mean to mount her.] And he’s not alone. [Every guy in town wants to mount Lia.] After a well-timed letter offers means of escape, Lia is forced to flee her quiet life as a gardener when the Keeper, tired of life in the underworld, unleashes his protégé and an army of soul-eating demons. [Unleashes them on Lia? Unleashing your army of soul-eating demons on Lia the gardener may seem like a good way to build their confidence, but if they succeed, big deal, and if they somehow fail, they'll never live down the humiliation. It's a no-win situation, like the New York Yankees taking on a T-ball team.]

As a fugitive, Lia meets Delina, an eccentric vagabond-warrior, and Tavoris, a demoted soldier, who lead her on a frantic search for guidance. [Hi guys. There's an army of soul-eating demons hot on my trail. Care to join me?] While the earth quakes, cities riot and citizens vanish, Lia must unite with four strangers against the primordial evil that somehow finds her wherever she hides. But even as the ancient powers of the world awaken to guide her, her four allies begin to crumble. [I think I can speak for Lia when I say, As long as you ancient powers of the world are awake, how about instead of offering me guidance you crush the primordial evil that keeps finding me?] Without them, Lia’s odds diminish - [Her odds of survival? Or of defeating the primordial evil? Is she trying to defeat the evil or just trying to escape?] and as she begins to question her own long-held faith, she unwittingly threatens the very bonds between civilization and its Maker.

FLIGHT OF FAITH, my first novel, is a completed, 85,000-word fantasy that explores the intricacies of faith, friendship and how the inexorable desire for love can backfire. The manuscript is available for your review upon request. Thank you for your consideration.


Notes

What was Lia's purpose in visiting the guy who renounced his faith?

I don't get a good idea of why Lia is so important to the Keeper or what the stakes are.

Does the Keeper play a role after unleashing his minions? He seems to disappear from the query, even though he's the coolest character.

I'd either elaborate on the "well-timed letter" or leave it out.

Cartoon 108

Caption: R. Lyle Wolfe

Writing Exercise Results...

...are in the posts below. The task was to write a scene in which Evil Editor shows up at your door on a dark and stormy night. There are 13 in all.

Writing Exercise Result 13

I slogged through the muck and the torrents of sheets of rain like an ox plowing a Cambodian rice paddy, drawn to the only light I'd seen since I abandoned the DeLorean three miles back. Another half mile through a malodorous, mephitic hog farm and I was on the front porch, dripping like an ice sculpture in a sauna. I knocked.

The woman who answered seemed to recognize me, despite the fact that I looked like I'd just crawled through a cranberry bog. "Evil Editor!" she said. "I was just rereading your blog!"

"You have me at a loss," I told her.

"It's me! Your favorite minion!"

"Phoen?!"

"No, silly. Anon. Now come in and dry off. The guest room is clean. I'll get out my manuscript; I wrote it following all your guidelines. It's lit fic with sharks and zombies in chapter 14."

I turned on my heel and headed back the way I'd come. One night sleeping in a fetid mud pit with 200 reeking hogs wasn't going to kill me.

--Evil Editor

Writing Exercise Result 12

It was a dark and stormy night, ripe with possibilities, but devoid of opportunity. She sat alone, listening to the rain on the metal roof, while her mind pored over the decisions she must soon make.

Opportunity knocked in between the crashing thunder of the growing storm.

She drew her robe on and slid her feet into the pale blue satin slippers that matched her nightgown. If it were up to her, she would wear nothing but satin.

The door opened to reveal a rather pudgy old man with gray muttonchop whiskers. His shoes were covered with mud, which extended half way up his black trousers. Trousers was such a pretentious word to her, but on him it fit.

"My car broke down," he said, his teeth chattering from the cold. "I was late for the EEM conference and thought I'd take a short cut."

"Come in before you catch your death of cold," she replied, stepping away from the door. "I'll fetch you some dry clothes. You can warm by the fire."

He was more than relieved to be out of the storm. "I'll be back in a moment."

Her son's friend left some clothes behind when he moved out, they would fit him.

Being a predator meant either overpowering your prey or deceiving them. She had become an expert at deception. Lull them into liking you. Make them believe you exude self-confidence. Hide your fears.

"I'm going to that conference also," she said after a long and interesting conversation. She reached out and took his hand gently. "I'd like to show you something in my bedroom."

He looked surprised and then pleased. They always looked pleased, until it was too late.

She pulled a dress from the closet. "Do you think this will make my butt look big?"

--Julie Weathers

Writing Exercise Result 11

Here is how he finally came to me. It was entirely accidental.

I was home alone. Again. Those long trips my blue-eyed baby kept taking – they were wearing quite thin. I might have mentioned that to the man once or twice, but even so, he was away again on another one. On a conference, he’d said, in the British West Indies. Very important. He had to be there.

It was eighty-five degrees and sunny where he was going. It was dark and stormy here. And a lot cooler.

So there I was, sitting at my table, conferring with my computer and the notes on my novel - rewriting parts of my purposefully-not-entirely-happy ending. I folded myself down, down into the words until I lived inside them, it seemed, and I was in there for a while, and it was good.

Then I heard a sound at the door. It wasn’t the doorbell. I don’t have one. It was a knock, a hard one. I don’t quite know how I knew it, but knew it I did, that the knocking had grown more insistent while I’d been working away inside my words.

I walked down the glass-walled front hall of the house, and I saw him before he saw me, before he looked over and saw me coming to open up for him. And I was absolutely opening up for him, as he was no stranger.

“Hello,” Sparky said. “Sorry for the intrusion, but my car has broken down, and I’m running late for a conference…”

“A conference?” I said.

“Yes, yes, a writer’s conference…”

So I invited him inside and I closed the door, to keep out the cold, and I poured him some wine, and I asked him to consider conferring privately with me, as I was desperately in need of his expertise.

He smiled. “I was wondering if you’d recognize me in the flesh.”

I smiled back. I told him I’d recognize that face of his anywhere, but, just to be on the safe side, I should look him all over…

--Robin S.

Writing Exercise Result 10

The lovely and talented Blanche Dubious, investigative reporter and budding novelist, sat at her computer trying to think of a synonym for “zombie.” Her pet meerkats dozed on the desk and at her feet.

There was a knock at the door, barely audible above the storm. Blanche opened it and found a vaguely familiar man standing on the doorstep, notable mainly for his noble embonpoint and the soaking-wet muttonchops that sagged dundrearily along his cheeks.

“Can I please use your phone? My car broke down, and I have to get to a meeting.”

Blanche looked at him dubiously. How else? “Aren’t you Evil Editor?”

“That I am,” he said with a sheet-eating grin.

So she stuffed the printout of her first seven chapters into his mouth and pushed him off the porch into a puddle.

With a roar of fury, he arose and—transformed. Instead of a rather epicene editorial type, there was a raging monster on her doorstep—a giant weredingo. His face was a mask of hatred as he reached for her. She noticed as his hand gripped her throat that there was a tattoo on his forearm: the name “Robin” surrounded by a heart.

As everything started to go black, the WereEditor released her, screamed and stumbled back. Her faithful meerkats were busily gnawing his ankles. He howled and reverted to his normal human (more or less) form. Blanche reached for the broom she kept for sweeping the porch and began bashing the creature, pushing him slowly but surely towards the ditch in which lived the meerkats’ best pals, the pack of hungry moles….


NOTICE: I find I am no longer capable of performing a writing exercise containing Evil Editor that does not end with him being eaten by moles.


--talpianna