Stuart Nash grasped the metal handrail with both hands, convulsed, and through streaming eyes watched the remains of his breakfast vanish into the churning waters of the North Atlantic. Another spasm ran through his slight frame, but there was nothing left in his stomach to come up. He spat, vainly trying to clear the foul burning taste from his mouth. Beneath him, the research vessel Waylander surged and rolled as the vast cold grey waves jostled her. Spray prickled across Stu's face and the backs of his hands, the only parts of him exposed to the elements. His grip on the rail tightened. Before him there was only an endless vista of wild iron-grey sea, clouds scudding across a sky only a few shades lighter. Stu looked weakly out across the sea, and hated every square foot of it.
There were footsteps on the deck behind him, and a warm voice said, "Oh, shit, Stu, not again, man?"
"Afraid so, Zack," Stuart moaned. "I told you at the start, I don't sail well. I wanna go home."
"I don't blame you, " Zack said. "But wouldn't that look bad? I mean, you are the captain."
Opening: Steve Wright.....Continuation: Faceless Minion (mostly)
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
New Beginning 656
It’s not easy to recognize a vampire. Forrest didn’t even recognize one when it fell out of the sky and landed at his feet. This happened at night, as most interesting things do, and this night Forrest was walking home. Home was an apartment (one of many) in a tall building, which rose (one of many) above dirty concrete and dirty grass in a housing project. Forrest, eleven, scrawny and mouselike, walked back to his mousehole, while above him pond-froth clouds swirled around the yellow moon. Coming home to a drunk-too-much father wasn’t something Forrest looked forward to, but he was used to it. The upside of the situation was that Forrest was never expected home on time. Forrest sometimes wondered if he was expected home at all. As he walked along the cracked sidewalk, a boy landed spread-eagle in front of him. Forrest stopped and stared, and eventually kicked the body.
"Ouch." The boy opened his blood-red eyes and saw Forrest standing over him.
"What's your problem?"
"Oh, I thought you were my brother. He likes to jump off the roofs of the (one of many) buildings at night. He's a douchebag," Forrest explained.
"Hasn't he killed himself yet?" The boy asked, getting up suddenly and dusting himself off. He stepped over (one of many) leaves on the pavement, and stood oddly close to Forrest.
"No, it's a little strange, isn't it?" Forrest mused, completely oblivious to the fact that this stranger was smelling his neck. "But Mama always said, life is like a box of...Hey!"
Opening: Zachary Hudson.....Continuation: Shoshana Beaubahna
"Ouch." The boy opened his blood-red eyes and saw Forrest standing over him.
"What's your problem?"
"Oh, I thought you were my brother. He likes to jump off the roofs of the (one of many) buildings at night. He's a douchebag," Forrest explained.
"Hasn't he killed himself yet?" The boy asked, getting up suddenly and dusting himself off. He stepped over (one of many) leaves on the pavement, and stood oddly close to Forrest.
"No, it's a little strange, isn't it?" Forrest mused, completely oblivious to the fact that this stranger was smelling his neck. "But Mama always said, life is like a box of...Hey!"
Opening: Zachary Hudson.....Continuation: Shoshana Beaubahna
Monday, June 29, 2009
New Beginning 655
Sandy broke into a run, trying to catch the silhouettes as they moved further down the endless mirrored hallway. The faster he ran, the faster the shadows shrunk away. He feared what lay beyond his sight. Panic swept over him suffocating his cry for them to stop but they disappeared, beyond his reach. Then, as if he had crossed some invisible threshold, the mirrored hallway vanished and Sandy found himself standing in an enormous circular stone room with no visible ceiling.
The walls were covered in grotesque art, depicting pain stricken faces and tortured corpses trying to escape from their stone tomb. They rose to an unthinkable height before falling into darkness, but failed to open to the night sky. He ran to the middle of the room and his feet became lead, unmoving, as if stuck in quick sand. In a panic he searched for what was holding him in place. In the shadows he saw them, each in a separate cage against the wall to his right. Their mouths hung open and their bodies slumped in despair. They pleaded for rescue with their eyes, but he could not even speak their names.
He knew who they were, knew their names, knew their families, even the dreams they had for their children. But they had failed, and were now forever banished to this hellish dungeon where, inevitably, their flesh would rot and their souls turn to dust.
One icy hand clamped upon his ankle. Already it was too late; they were dragging him down, and before the sun rose he too would be reading slush for Evil Editor.
Opening: Jeffrey Baird.....Continuation: Khazar-khum
Face-Lift 648
Guess the Plot
Hybreed Rising
1. Geneticists create wolf/man hybrids. Also known as werewolves. One thing leads to another and soon an inter-species war looms, threatening to destroy all life on Earth. Also, the usual shadow organization with its own agenda.
2. The secrets of the industrial metal music neoplastic underworld are revealed with interviews and historical notes of some of its greatest contributors: Low Distortion Unit, In-Fused, Dual Proform, Skinny Puppy and Ooomph, as well as some up-and- coming new artists like Frequency Construct and Luser Dazed.
3. All the farmers around Oskaloosa Iowa told Frank he was crazy to let them put a chemical storage facility on his land, but with his vegetables dominating the fair circuit, it looks like Frank will get the last laugh . . . until the deer start growing fangs.
4. Four vikings set sail across the Atlantic hoping to establish their new strains of sweet peas in the new world. But when the manuscript containing their research falls into the hands of an Imperial agent, the last Roman legion rows out after them.
5. Geneticist Judith Fancher perfects the world's fastest growing yeast, but when she uses it in her chocolate souffle recipe, she--and the entire town--get an unpleasant surprise. Now it's up to the National Guard.
6. Mankind destroyed the world, but from the ashes and stew of chemicals and poisonous air rises a new breed, the hybreed...who will stop at nothing to search out and obliterate the remnants of man. Can one reporter from the Galaxy News Network save us from an army of mutants?
Original Version
Greetings,
I am seeking representation for my novel, Hybreed Rising, the first in a series called The Hybreed Chronicles. [I can tell you've formed a strong attachment to the word "hybreed," but if you can't somehow manage to break free of it, this project and your writing career are essentially doomed.]
By the 22nd century the American Empire has ruled the Earth for two hundred years, and now it is on the brink of a paradigm shift. [According to my calculations, this means that by the 20th century, the American Empire had started ruling the Earth. Which is pretty much how Americans see it, but not entirely accurate. So either the math is off, or this is planet Earth but with a completely different history--which makes it Rigel IV.] Christopher Hansen can do a little 'shifting' of his own, but he doesn’t know how or why. When he is forced to put aside his version of community service to find answers, help comes from a most unlikely source: Department 118 of the American Empire. With their aid Chris discovers an inner threat to the livelihood of his kind [His kind has a livelihood? I can think of many livelihoods shapeshifters (if that's what he is) would be good at: hitman, female impersonator . . . Elvis impersonator . . . but it's hard to believe all shapeshifters' have one livelihood.] and an outer threat to their very existence – both of which are set against him. What’s more, exposing the threats may lead to the destruction of life on Earth through inter-species war. Can Chris neutralize the dangers to his kind while keeping his life and values intact? [When the stakes include the elimination of all life on Earth, screw values.] What are the true intentions of Department 118 and the Empire toward his people? Will Chris ever find a place where he can belong? [And most importantly, will I ever clarify what the hell I'm talking about?]
Hybreed Rising is the first book of an epic tale wherein werewolves play an integral part, but don't be fooled: This is not part of the horror or paranormal genre. The story is set in the future where America is an empire, so it might be considered Commercial Fiction or Alternate Reality. [I've had the feeling I'm in an alternate reality for some time now.] It is told in two parts which correlate fluidly and offer further installments. Part One (38,364 words) sets the stage, introduces the main characters, and allows them to meet and overcome challenges. [This sounds like a new season of Survivor.] [Part Two is the Tribal Council, right?] Part Two (50,892 words) brings in lycanthropic cultures [Wait a minute . . . Did you say lycanthropic cultures?!] (you read it right: lycanthropic cultures), a shadow organization with its own agenda, and a grand battle between tribes of werewolves. [Survivor would be much more interesting if it had tribes of werewolves. Or maybe one tribe of werewolves and one tribe of zombies.] The story addresses moral and ethical issues, [Like, is it wrong to vote a tribemate off the island just because he tears out Jeff Probst's throat?] and also offers mystery, action, and humor (bad puns included). [Bad puns are never a selling point.] The full manuscript (97,615 words) [Part 1 + Part 2 = 89,000 words. Apparently this is one of those novels where the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.] and a synopsis are available upon request. Novellas which explore the adventures of Chris and his comrades are also available, [as are flash fiction pieces and limericks,] and a novel-sized sequel is currently in development.
My name is ______________, but I use the pseudonym _______________. I’m nowhere near as interesting as this story. [Anyone more interesting than his story should trash the story and write his autobiography.] I believe wolves and werewolves are among the most misrepresented and misunderstood creatures in literature and cinema. [I might buy that about wolves, but werewolves? How do you misrepresent a werewolf?]
My aspirations include discussing these subjects [You aspire to discuss the misrepresentation of werewolves?] and other related storylines, seeing my works published, and perhaps building a fan base. [For you or for werewolves?] One of the short stories based on this storyline appeared in the final issue of Fang, Claw and Steel, and another appears in beginning issues of Is this Reality? Magazine. [Hard to believe a magazine that publishes werewolf stories can't come up with a better name than Is this Reality?]I posted queries and excerpts on internet forums to gain feedback on my innovative take on werewolves. Many readers commended my portrayal, which incorporates self-awareness, unique cultural aspects, and authentic wolf characteristics [like fangs, claws, lungs that can blow a house down, and an uncanny resemblance to Red Riding Hood's Grandma] into the creature. Hybreed Rising effectively re-envisions werewolves while telling an endearing, entertaining story with strong, relatable characters. Testimonies from readers are available upon request. [It's always helpful, when a query is too long, for it to have a paragraph like that one, where I can just say delete the whole thing.]
Further research proves audiences are tired of the same old 'Jekyll-and-Hyde' storyline forced upon the werewolf mythos. [If you think audiences are tired of it, you should hear what the werewolves have to say.] [It seems to me that if audiences are tired of the same old wolfmen, instead of giving them different wolfmen you might give them kangaroomen or cowmen. Maybe it's not the mythos people are tired of, maybe it's the fact that it's always a wolf. If you're reading about a hybreed, why must it be man/wolf?
Geneticist 1: We have the means to create a hybrid of a man and any animal in existence. Which animal should we use?]
Geneticist 2: How about a wolf?
Geneticist 1: That's what I was thinking, too.]
Fortunately, Hybreed Rising takes this classic back player of monster stories and brings them into the limelight from the direction of soft genetic science, addressing many never-answered questions of werewolf existence. [For instance, Q: Do werewolves exist? A: Yes.] Hybreed Rising investigates the coexistence of the dual natures such a creature would inherit, exploring what a merger between man and wolf might create under individual circumstances and life experiences.
I hope this short explanation [Short? My Masters thesis was shorter. (But hey, how much can you write about the religious symbolism in John Grisham's novels?)] captures your interest. I give my sincerest thanks for your time and attention, and stand ready to send my work at your request. I can be reached at _________ or __________ for your convenience.
Kindest Regards,
Notes
There's a pretty well-known Chris Hansen whose claim to fame is entrapping Internet sex predators and ID thieves for Dateline NBC.
Werewolves don't exist. Thus anyone can portray werewolves any way they want without fear that they are misrepresenting them. I'm sure you wouldn't like it if someone read your book and declared that you misrepresent werewolves.
The first long paragraph, which is your plot, is too vague. What is meant by paradigm shift? What is meant by "shifting"? What is meant by "his version of community service?" What is the inner threat? What is the outer threat? Tell us specifically what's going on. Focus on Chris. If he's a werewolf, say so.
Most of the rest is more likely to hurt your cause than help it. Get rid of everything that could be construed as bragging about your book. Every author thinks his book is innovative and original. An agent can't tell which ones really are until she reads them, so just make the plot sound intriguing/exciting/fun/whatever. That's the way to get her to want to read it. Not by declaring it great. The author is the last person she's gonna believe.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
December Book Chat
People tend to be busy in December, so it's a good month to try a graphic novel.
My research narrowed down a selection to about a dozen that are widely considered to be superb. Using price, reviews and impressions formed from viewing the first few pages at Amazon, I've made a preliminary selection of Black Hole, $12.89 new at Amazon 368 pgs. B&W.
If you're a book chat person or wannabe and you've already read it, I have a few others I can replace it with that sound just as good. We may as well do something no one's read, a goal that should be attainable in this genre.
My research narrowed down a selection to about a dozen that are widely considered to be superb. Using price, reviews and impressions formed from viewing the first few pages at Amazon, I've made a preliminary selection of Black Hole, $12.89 new at Amazon 368 pgs. B&W.
If you're a book chat person or wannabe and you've already read it, I have a few others I can replace it with that sound just as good. We may as well do something no one's read, a goal that should be attainable in this genre.
Writing Exercise Results . . .
. . . are in the posts below. The task was to write a scene in which Evil Editor is filling in for Frank the bartender and listening to a customer's tale of woe.
BarkEEp 9
So I'm tending bar for Frank to pay him back for all the times he read slush for me, and I'm thinking I'll close early because the place is empty, when in walks this babe. She looks me up and down and I pretty much know what she's thinking. She's thinking, Hey, you're not Frank . . . not that I'm complaining, cowboy. She's thinking, Nice chops; heavy, but well-maintained, not out-of-control like some Welsh shepherd, more like a king woulda worn back when men were men and not pussies. She's thinking, I like a man who's comfortable enough in his own skin that he doesn't need to go to the gym and turn himself into some kind of pumped up, muscle-bound freak show, a man who appreciates good food and plenty of it.
She approaches the bar. Sexy walk. Looks at me. Probably thinking, What time do you get off, sailor? Probably thinking, Nice vest; a man in a vest is a man with class. A man worth undressing. All except the vest. I want to have sex tonight, with a man wearing nothing but a vest.
She flutters her big lashes at me. I've seen that look a thousand times from authors. I know what she's thinking; she 's thinking, Hey, handsome, why don't we empty the till and head for Tahiti? She's thinking, You got room in that pouty mouth for another tongue? She's thinking, You got "Muskrat Love" on the juke box, big boy?
She lays a key on the bar. Obviously her room key. She's thinking, Room 1412 at the Ritz Carlton. Let yourself in; I'll be waiting.
She says, "You know how to change a tire, fats? Blue Dodge, right outside. Spare's in the trunk. Pour me a tall one before you go."
--Evil Editor
She approaches the bar. Sexy walk. Looks at me. Probably thinking, What time do you get off, sailor? Probably thinking, Nice vest; a man in a vest is a man with class. A man worth undressing. All except the vest. I want to have sex tonight, with a man wearing nothing but a vest.
She flutters her big lashes at me. I've seen that look a thousand times from authors. I know what she's thinking; she 's thinking, Hey, handsome, why don't we empty the till and head for Tahiti? She's thinking, You got room in that pouty mouth for another tongue? She's thinking, You got "Muskrat Love" on the juke box, big boy?
She lays a key on the bar. Obviously her room key. She's thinking, Room 1412 at the Ritz Carlton. Let yourself in; I'll be waiting.
She says, "You know how to change a tire, fats? Blue Dodge, right outside. Spare's in the trunk. Pour me a tall one before you go."
--Evil Editor
BarkEEp 8
"Frank. Hey, Fraaannnnk! Where are ya? Are ya back in the stock room, buddy? 'Cause I've got my latest tail of whoa for ya...
I walked down to the back of the bar, past the tacky stools and the walls of old pine paneling; looked down the hall toward the restrooms and the rooms with the spare kegs and stuff, and tried again.
"Hey. Frankster. Got the latest 'Whoa..Tail' for ya."
About that time was when I heard the noise behind me, behind the bar; but Frank hadn't been behind the bar when I walked in, right?
So I turn around and look to see what's what, and down on the floor behind the bar, on a poofy velevty blue blow-up cushion, sits some guy, get this, also in blue, reading some book without a cover, pages kinda stapled together, and he was using one of those little lamp things ya see on commercials; those things ya clamp on pages like fixed flashlights.
He looked up.
"Whoa Tale?"
I could tell by the way he said it, inflection free and sounding bored, he'd missed the weekly point, so to speak. But hey, he wasn't Frank, so...
"So where's Frank?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. He’ll be back soon.”
Blue Boy stood up. It took him a minute. When he finally finished, he talked again. "I gather you come in weekly to tell Frank..."
"About my Whoa...Tail adventures."
He looked as bored as he'd sounded before. I pulled over a cocktail napkin, reached up and slid the pencil off one of Blue Boy's ears, and wrote..."WHOA...TAIL" ADVENTURES.
Blue Boy reached up and raked his muttonchops with fingers; my fingers, and he dropped the pages he’d been reading.
“Tell me,” he said. “Do you know how to write a story?”
“No,” I said. “But I can talk up a blue streak. And I can act out scenes really well, too.”
“Sold,” he said.
“Sold?” I said back.
“This picaresque tale of yours sounds best-selling to me.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “And it’s guaranteed.”
--Robin
"Hey. Frankster. Got the latest 'Whoa..Tail' for ya."
About that time was when I heard the noise behind me, behind the bar; but Frank hadn't been behind the bar when I walked in, right?
So I turn around and look to see what's what, and down on the floor behind the bar, on a poofy velevty blue blow-up cushion, sits some guy, get this, also in blue, reading some book without a cover, pages kinda stapled together, and he was using one of those little lamp things ya see on commercials; those things ya clamp on pages like fixed flashlights.
He looked up.
"Whoa Tale?"
I could tell by the way he said it, inflection free and sounding bored, he'd missed the weekly point, so to speak. But hey, he wasn't Frank, so...
"So where's Frank?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. He’ll be back soon.”
Blue Boy stood up. It took him a minute. When he finally finished, he talked again. "I gather you come in weekly to tell Frank..."
"About my Whoa...Tail adventures."
He looked as bored as he'd sounded before. I pulled over a cocktail napkin, reached up and slid the pencil off one of Blue Boy's ears, and wrote..."WHOA...TAIL" ADVENTURES.
Blue Boy reached up and raked his muttonchops with fingers; my fingers, and he dropped the pages he’d been reading.
“Tell me,” he said. “Do you know how to write a story?”
“No,” I said. “But I can talk up a blue streak. And I can act out scenes really well, too.”
“Sold,” he said.
“Sold?” I said back.
“This picaresque tale of yours sounds best-selling to me.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “And it’s guaranteed.”
--Robin
BarkEEp 7
"Knowing Harry, he's booked Aer Lingus with that redhead," Chamika batted her eyelashes at EE.
"I don't care Toots," EE answered, pouring her "Fire God" Margarita. Chamika made an extravagant show of picking up the Margarita, sipping it and savoring its mind-numbing goodness.
"Roughage will cure that disposition barkeep." She sauntered away on legs so long that even Wilt the Stilt would have to look up to see her whoopee cakes jiggle. Every male eye in the joint followed her. So engrossed, I hiked my buttocks onto a stool, threw a Jackson on the bar and let my eyes frolic in Chamika's buns of heavenly bliss. The bespectacled bartender snapped his fingers in my face, disturbing my reverie.
"Where's Frank?"
"Hospital in Sao Paulo. An ass kicked his ass and like broke his sacro-coccygeal symphysis when he played badass with soccer hooligans at Morumbi Stadium. I'm filling in, permanent-like."
I shrugged and circled a finger in one big whoop. Only the barkeep's muttonchops moved. I rested my elbows on the bar, my chin in my hands. "Unlucky ducky. First vacation in 25 years and he ends up breaking his ass. Pour me a draft and like lend me an ear, barkeep. I got a shitload of ugly-like merde dealing with the public today and I need to unburden my soul." He eyeballed me and the tap, then my Jackson, then the cash register, and then back to me. He snapped up my Jackson, filled my glass with draft and drank, smacking his lips afterward.
"You can drink your beer direct-like in about 30 minutes. I'm not your effing sigmoid colon Freud for free. Soul unburdening has a price." He fingered his zipper.
That night I found a new watering hole and new bartender. Only cost me a Jackson.
--Dave F.
"I don't care Toots," EE answered, pouring her "Fire God" Margarita. Chamika made an extravagant show of picking up the Margarita, sipping it and savoring its mind-numbing goodness.
"Roughage will cure that disposition barkeep." She sauntered away on legs so long that even Wilt the Stilt would have to look up to see her whoopee cakes jiggle. Every male eye in the joint followed her. So engrossed, I hiked my buttocks onto a stool, threw a Jackson on the bar and let my eyes frolic in Chamika's buns of heavenly bliss. The bespectacled bartender snapped his fingers in my face, disturbing my reverie.
"Where's Frank?"
"Hospital in Sao Paulo. An ass kicked his ass and like broke his sacro-coccygeal symphysis when he played badass with soccer hooligans at Morumbi Stadium. I'm filling in, permanent-like."
I shrugged and circled a finger in one big whoop. Only the barkeep's muttonchops moved. I rested my elbows on the bar, my chin in my hands. "Unlucky ducky. First vacation in 25 years and he ends up breaking his ass. Pour me a draft and like lend me an ear, barkeep. I got a shitload of ugly-like merde dealing with the public today and I need to unburden my soul." He eyeballed me and the tap, then my Jackson, then the cash register, and then back to me. He snapped up my Jackson, filled my glass with draft and drank, smacking his lips afterward.
"You can drink your beer direct-like in about 30 minutes. I'm not your effing sigmoid colon Freud for free. Soul unburdening has a price." He fingered his zipper.
That night I found a new watering hole and new bartender. Only cost me a Jackson.
--Dave F.
BarkEEp 6
I was running, running through a city of stone and ice and they were behind me and I couldn’t get away and I dodged into a building and slammed the door behind me.
“Excuse me,” said a creaky voice from the other end of the room.
Panting, I listened to the monsters dribble by outside. “Yeah?”
“Are you 21? Because this is a bar.”
I looked at him with desperate eyes. “Look, whoever you are, I’ve got a 10-story-tall glob of smelly stuff chasing me around the streets. I don’t care about drinking.”
He looked suspiciously at me, and the white walls dimmed to a foreboding red. “Hmm.”
Something was distilling into being in the center of the room; I peered at it. Limbs appeared, thin and gray and numbering in the 30s. “It’s the stick monster!”
The door bust open behind me and I was overwhelmed in a sticky mass of goo. Just before everything faded to black, I heard the man behind the bar yelling. “Hey, hey, hey! Stop right there!”
I blinked and looked up at him; his snarling face was only inches from mine and I could feel the spittle as he shouted. “You’re doing it again, idiot!”
“Doing what?”
His voice filled my ears, his face filled my vision, his breath cascaded over me. “You’re opening with a dream!”
Gasping, I sat up in my bed—at home, alone, and safe. All a dream. It was all a dream.
--_*Rachel*_
BarkEEp 5
I made my way to the bar in a blur of tears and pulled up a stool next to my buddy.
“Sayyyy, Frank,” I drawled, my voice almost throttled by anguish.
“Sorry pal, I ain’t Frank,” came a reply: gruff, blunt and weary sounding. When I cleared my eyes, there was this fat guy, looking how I felt. In that moment, my life changed forever.
We gazed at each other for one helluva time, the sadness written on both our faces slowly erased by the emerging frisson swelling between us. Hesitantly he reached out and stroked the back of my hand.
“You’re...you’re beautiful,” he said. Unable to help myself, I leaned in close till my sweater brushed his jacket, and kissed the whiskers poking from his ear.
“You too,” I replied, astonished by what I was doing. Normally I’m a female bodybuilder kinda guy.
Stroking my hair, he tilted his head to one side and with earnest, said, “whatever it is, I can make it better, I swear.”
That’s when the tears started rolling.
“My puppy just died,” I wailed. He threw his arms around me and held me close, drenching my shoulder with tears.
“Oh Christ, you poor thing...” I tellya, this guy had a black belt in sympathy, and I felt bad for not asking after him.
“So, what’s troubling you?”
“I’m Evil Editor,” he replied with a sigh. “People say they worship me but really they hate me. *blub* I just need someone to...to love me...”
“Someone...like me?”
He smiled — soppy and wet, like a senile old woman offered chocolate. “Oh, yes! Yes!”
Colour returned to his cheeks as he stood up and collected our tab.
“Come on gorgeous,” he beamed. “Let’s go find a hotel...”
--Whirlochre
“Sayyyy, Frank,” I drawled, my voice almost throttled by anguish.
“Sorry pal, I ain’t Frank,” came a reply: gruff, blunt and weary sounding. When I cleared my eyes, there was this fat guy, looking how I felt. In that moment, my life changed forever.
We gazed at each other for one helluva time, the sadness written on both our faces slowly erased by the emerging frisson swelling between us. Hesitantly he reached out and stroked the back of my hand.
“You’re...you’re beautiful,” he said. Unable to help myself, I leaned in close till my sweater brushed his jacket, and kissed the whiskers poking from his ear.
“You too,” I replied, astonished by what I was doing. Normally I’m a female bodybuilder kinda guy.
Stroking my hair, he tilted his head to one side and with earnest, said, “whatever it is, I can make it better, I swear.”
That’s when the tears started rolling.
“My puppy just died,” I wailed. He threw his arms around me and held me close, drenching my shoulder with tears.
“Oh Christ, you poor thing...” I tellya, this guy had a black belt in sympathy, and I felt bad for not asking after him.
“So, what’s troubling you?”
“I’m Evil Editor,” he replied with a sigh. “People say they worship me but really they hate me. *blub* I just need someone to...to love me...”
“Someone...like me?”
He smiled — soppy and wet, like a senile old woman offered chocolate. “Oh, yes! Yes!”
Colour returned to his cheeks as he stood up and collected our tab.
“Come on gorgeous,” he beamed. “Let’s go find a hotel...”
--Whirlochre
BarkEEp 4
I walked into the Diamond Bar and saw a man on stage grinding in a blue thong. Hell yes, I thought, and noticed all the men sitting at the bar. The shift in prospects didn't phase me like it normally would; I had almost filled my quota for the night. I grabbed a stool between Greek and God and looked for the bartender. Usually there's a hot young thing behind the bar in a joint like this, but there was a man in short pants and suspenders stocking the coolers. When he opened his mouth, he sounded like a Goodwill employee.
“What are ye having?”
“Give me a martini,” I stated as I turned to watch the man on stage.
I assumed the bartender was getting my drink, but I heard “What kind?”
“I'm sorry?”
“What kind a' Mertini?” he asked.
I didn't have time for casual questions, I was still on the clock. “Listen, what's your name?”
“Evil Editor. Call me EE.” He didn't so much as blink.
“Okay, EE, I want the kind you drink, obviously. Give me an olive, I guess.”
I watched the guy on stage slither some more, but the bartender wasn't finished. “We got Appletinis, Pomtinis, you name it. You should know yer Mertinis.”
He wandered off and I was immediately annoyed. On the bar back, I saw a small guide. The cover read 'The Progress of Mixology', written by Evil Editor.
I was on to this guy now. I had no room in my life for another jerk who thought he was special. When he brought my drink, I was past caring about the intricacies of the Martini. “See? Nice and easy. A damn vodka with an olive. All that fancy talk doesn't mean you know shit.”
“I know yer a hooker sittin' between two gay guys who doesn't know jack about Mertinis,” he said.
--Aimee K. Maher
“What are ye having?”
“Give me a martini,” I stated as I turned to watch the man on stage.
I assumed the bartender was getting my drink, but I heard “What kind?”
“I'm sorry?”
“What kind a' Mertini?” he asked.
I didn't have time for casual questions, I was still on the clock. “Listen, what's your name?”
“Evil Editor. Call me EE.” He didn't so much as blink.
“Okay, EE, I want the kind you drink, obviously. Give me an olive, I guess.”
I watched the guy on stage slither some more, but the bartender wasn't finished. “We got Appletinis, Pomtinis, you name it. You should know yer Mertinis.”
He wandered off and I was immediately annoyed. On the bar back, I saw a small guide. The cover read 'The Progress of Mixology', written by Evil Editor.
I was on to this guy now. I had no room in my life for another jerk who thought he was special. When he brought my drink, I was past caring about the intricacies of the Martini. “See? Nice and easy. A damn vodka with an olive. All that fancy talk doesn't mean you know shit.”
“I know yer a hooker sittin' between two gay guys who doesn't know jack about Mertinis,” he said.
--Aimee K. Maher
BarkEEp 3
So I walk into my favorite bar at one in the mornin', see, and the place is dead, like I been sucked into the anti-blogosphere. The regulars are all there; they just ain't talkin' and there's this new guy polishing the bar. I saunter to my bar stool but it's covered with ash. So I says, "What kinda smokes make this much mess?"
"Writers," the barman says, then glares. "What'll it be?"
I sit on a different stool, feelin' awkward. "Um--" I read his name tag. "EE, gimme a Shirley Temple with extra syrup. So what's with Frank?"
"Kicked by a burro."
"Head shot?"
"Choir shot -- soprano unless he recovers."
While EE bends over to get a glass, I get this feelin' like someone's lookin' at me so I swivel around. The regulars are wavin' their hands in front of their faces. I don't see no flies so I wave back then return to watchin' EE make my drink.
I says, "When did it happen? I been out for a coupla days. WIP's had me diggin' up his cemetery -- fresh holes in all the plots."
The bottle in EE's hand cracks.
"Oh, man, Frank kept the first-aid kit above the vodka. Anyway, you'd think a guy with a name like Willoughby Ingram P--" The last thing I see is EE's eyes glow red and this flash of light.
"…and that's why you need to use my patent pending re-embodier? Minion, I told you to lay off the sugar," says WIP.
"It was just one and I wasn't gonna be driving or operating heavy machinery for a coupla hours. I didn't lose my body this time, boss, it got ashed. You gotta believe me."
WIP shook his head.
--Faceless Minion
"Writers," the barman says, then glares. "What'll it be?"
I sit on a different stool, feelin' awkward. "Um--" I read his name tag. "EE, gimme a Shirley Temple with extra syrup. So what's with Frank?"
"Kicked by a burro."
"Head shot?"
"Choir shot -- soprano unless he recovers."
While EE bends over to get a glass, I get this feelin' like someone's lookin' at me so I swivel around. The regulars are wavin' their hands in front of their faces. I don't see no flies so I wave back then return to watchin' EE make my drink.
I says, "When did it happen? I been out for a coupla days. WIP's had me diggin' up his cemetery -- fresh holes in all the plots."
The bottle in EE's hand cracks.
"Oh, man, Frank kept the first-aid kit above the vodka. Anyway, you'd think a guy with a name like Willoughby Ingram P--" The last thing I see is EE's eyes glow red and this flash of light.
"…and that's why you need to use my patent pending re-embodier? Minion, I told you to lay off the sugar," says WIP.
"It was just one and I wasn't gonna be driving or operating heavy machinery for a coupla hours. I didn't lose my body this time, boss, it got ashed. You gotta believe me."
WIP shook his head.
--Faceless Minion
BarkEEp 2
I crash down onto my favourite stool, and say, "The usual, Frank."
Then it registers. It's not Frank behind the bar; it's some older guy, with wild grey whiskers and a dangerous gleam in his eye. "Usual?" he says.
"Scotch."
"Predictable," he says, but pours it anyway.
"I need it," I say, "I'm having a hell of a time at home ..."
"Another story about a middle-aged man in a mid-life crisis?" he sneers.
"Yeah, well, what am I gonna do? I've been put down, I've been humiliated, I've been treated like dirt – "
"Too much passive voice."
"You think I should stand up for myself?" I think about it; he's got a point. "Well, maybe. But it's like the magic's gone out of my marriage – like I need to do something to bring it back –"
"This is all generalities. You need specifics, not vague 'somethings'."
Christ, he's really putting me on the spot. "Okay," I say, "I can maybe talk to her more – about her day, about her work – I can do little romantic things, buy her flowers –"
"This is taking too long. You need to develop the action faster."
He's tough, but I know he's right. I slide off the stool. "Okay," I say, "I'm outta here. She says I spend too much time here anyway. I'll go home, have a heart-to-heart with her, maybe we can both work through our feelings ... Thanks, fella. You might just have saved my marriage."
"Your marriage?" He looks surprised. "I was talking about your story."
"Well, whatever. You've been a big help."
I'm about to go out the door when he says, "Do me one favour, will you?"
"Sure. Anything. Name it."
"If you get an inspirational memoir out of this," he says, "submit it to someone else."
--Steve
Then it registers. It's not Frank behind the bar; it's some older guy, with wild grey whiskers and a dangerous gleam in his eye. "Usual?" he says.
"Scotch."
"Predictable," he says, but pours it anyway.
"I need it," I say, "I'm having a hell of a time at home ..."
"Another story about a middle-aged man in a mid-life crisis?" he sneers.
"Yeah, well, what am I gonna do? I've been put down, I've been humiliated, I've been treated like dirt – "
"Too much passive voice."
"You think I should stand up for myself?" I think about it; he's got a point. "Well, maybe. But it's like the magic's gone out of my marriage – like I need to do something to bring it back –"
"This is all generalities. You need specifics, not vague 'somethings'."
Christ, he's really putting me on the spot. "Okay," I say, "I can maybe talk to her more – about her day, about her work – I can do little romantic things, buy her flowers –"
"This is taking too long. You need to develop the action faster."
He's tough, but I know he's right. I slide off the stool. "Okay," I say, "I'm outta here. She says I spend too much time here anyway. I'll go home, have a heart-to-heart with her, maybe we can both work through our feelings ... Thanks, fella. You might just have saved my marriage."
"Your marriage?" He looks surprised. "I was talking about your story."
"Well, whatever. You've been a big help."
I'm about to go out the door when he says, "Do me one favour, will you?"
"Sure. Anything. Name it."
"If you get an inspirational memoir out of this," he says, "submit it to someone else."
--Steve
BarkEEp 1
I oozed into the bar looking for sympathy. “Hey Fra- you're not Franco.” Some old guy with a dead rat stuck to each cheek was behind the bar. “Where's Franco?”
“Hospital.”
“Gimme a beer.” His shirt was too clean for a bartender. “Who're you?”
The guy put the beer down like he was afraid it might explode on impact. I didn't like the way he was looking at me. “Strictly speaking,” he said, “I'm the guy that put Franco in the hospital.”
I sucked down half my beer. The old fart didn't scare me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I told him coating his manuscript in donkey shit would improve it... guy has the IQ of a gnat. Then I discovered that the pathetic line in his query about supporting his mother-in-law, wife and 14 kids was true. They all showed up at the hospital. With pitchforks.”
His eyes were on the door behind me. Franco's scary wife, Manuela, eclipsed the bar. She was in and out of focus. Was I still on my stool? Things were spinning.
Manuela stood over me now. Her legs looked like two giant cactuses with spiny black hairs sticking out everywhere. She wasn't alone.
“Hello, gorgeous,” she said to me. “Franco's in the hospital with a hoof print on his forehead. We need a replacement. Mama's looking forward to your visit too. She hasn't had a man around since papa died.” The fourteen kids were lifting me up.
Mama Ramirez cackled in my face with breath like last week's frijoles. “Put him in the back of the truck. And tie him down; we wouldn't want him to blow out.”
I tried to struggle, but my body wasn't following orders. To Manuela, the man behind the bar said, “This makes us even.” Then to me he said, “You wanna write this up afterward, I'll have a look at it. Might be good for a laugh.”
--Mother (Re)produces
“Hospital.”
“Gimme a beer.” His shirt was too clean for a bartender. “Who're you?”
The guy put the beer down like he was afraid it might explode on impact. I didn't like the way he was looking at me. “Strictly speaking,” he said, “I'm the guy that put Franco in the hospital.”
I sucked down half my beer. The old fart didn't scare me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I told him coating his manuscript in donkey shit would improve it... guy has the IQ of a gnat. Then I discovered that the pathetic line in his query about supporting his mother-in-law, wife and 14 kids was true. They all showed up at the hospital. With pitchforks.”
His eyes were on the door behind me. Franco's scary wife, Manuela, eclipsed the bar. She was in and out of focus. Was I still on my stool? Things were spinning.
Manuela stood over me now. Her legs looked like two giant cactuses with spiny black hairs sticking out everywhere. She wasn't alone.
“Hello, gorgeous,” she said to me. “Franco's in the hospital with a hoof print on his forehead. We need a replacement. Mama's looking forward to your visit too. She hasn't had a man around since papa died.” The fourteen kids were lifting me up.
Mama Ramirez cackled in my face with breath like last week's frijoles. “Put him in the back of the truck. And tie him down; we wouldn't want him to blow out.”
I tried to struggle, but my body wasn't following orders. To Manuela, the man behind the bar said, “This makes us even.” Then to me he said, “You wanna write this up afterward, I'll have a look at it. Might be good for a laugh.”
--Mother (Re)produces
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Writing Exercise
You walk into your favorite bar at one AM, ready to tell your latest tale of woe to Frank, the regular bartender, only to discover that he's recovering from a burro kick, and Evil Editor is filling in for the night. Hope this Evil Editor guy is as compassionate as Frank.
Write the scene.
300 words max; deadline Sunday, 10 AM eastern.
Friday, June 26, 2009
New Beginning 654
More than anything, Poetry wished she had a button. Failing that, she would have settled for an out-of-the-way corner in which to pin her shirt closed. She had neither. What she did have was forty-odd students and a handful of passers-by, gawking at her and her lime green bra.
She could flee back into school for a bathroom. Of course, the sharks had already scented her blood. Just crossing her arms to cover her chest would be like opening a vein into the water. She was never going to live this down. Poetry stood up straight.
“Could I have your attention, please?”
She already had everyone’s attention; the gigglers, the whisperers, the nice kids cringing in sympathy. Even the man across the street was staring.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.” Calmly, without looking down, she began working on her shirt. “Public viewing hours for Poetry Wu’s Wondrous Heaving Bosom are now over.”
It was then that she heard a popping noise from her waistband and felt a sudden draught round her legs. She rolled her eyes. The jeans had proved just as shoddy as the shirt, and now Poetry Wu's Amazing Jiggling Ass was open to the public.
One thing at a time, she thought. She concentrated on the shirt and tried to ignore the increasingly hysterical voice at the back of her mind - the one that kept reminding her she'd bought the underwear on special at Wal-Mart too.
Opening: Lianne.....Continuation: Steve
She could flee back into school for a bathroom. Of course, the sharks had already scented her blood. Just crossing her arms to cover her chest would be like opening a vein into the water. She was never going to live this down. Poetry stood up straight.
“Could I have your attention, please?”
She already had everyone’s attention; the gigglers, the whisperers, the nice kids cringing in sympathy. Even the man across the street was staring.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please.” Calmly, without looking down, she began working on her shirt. “Public viewing hours for Poetry Wu’s Wondrous Heaving Bosom are now over.”
It was then that she heard a popping noise from her waistband and felt a sudden draught round her legs. She rolled her eyes. The jeans had proved just as shoddy as the shirt, and now Poetry Wu's Amazing Jiggling Ass was open to the public.
One thing at a time, she thought. She concentrated on the shirt and tried to ignore the increasingly hysterical voice at the back of her mind - the one that kept reminding her she'd bought the underwear on special at Wal-Mart too.
Opening: Lianne.....Continuation: Steve
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Little Pitchers Have Big Ears
EE, here's a news article you might find interesting. In short, research shows people are more amenable to ideas spoken into their right ear: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/
--Bill H
Clever, Bill. But according to the article, the evidence is the number of cigarettes bummed per ear, along with the fact that what goes in the right ear is processed by the logical side of the brain. But the way I see it, if someone tries to bum a cigarette, the logical side of your brain will assume that if you give him the cigarette he'll go away. If someone tries to pitch you a manuscript, the logical side of the brain will assume that if you buy the manuscript, you'll never be rid of him. Thus, a pitch should go to the left ear, where it will be processed by the illogical side of the brain, the only side that might consider buying it.
Face-Lift 647
Guess the PlotFrom Hopkins to Homeless
1. Now a sophomore in college, Donna Williams continues to work backward through the encyclopedia to learn about life, love, and spelling -- and gets her first job: baking crumpets at the Mad Duchess, a surreal cafe frequented by passionate young men who all look like Che Guevera.
2. Tired of inspirational stories about homeless guys becoming concert violinists and CEOs? Then you'll love this story of a doctor who threw away a promising career. Prescription forgery, suicide attempts, drug addiction and car crashes take him from respected doctor to homeless guy, and then to rock bottom: homeless guy writing a book.
3. When Bailey Barron discovers she's adopted, she drops out of Johns Hopkins medical school to experience the world of her homeless biological father. What she finds is a world filled with danger, hunger, disrespect and filth. But hey, it's got interning beat by a mile.
4. The true story of Dr. Shereen Martin, who went from Assistant Professor of Wymyn's studies at Johns Hopkins to homeless when her jealous rivals for the attention of biologist Dr. Lynn Morgan exposed her groundbreaking work on the plight of lesbian opticians in Baltimore as a total fabrication.
5. Dr. Jonathan Rydell was a brilliant plastic surgeon whose life fell apart. Alcohol, gambling, and the loss of his medical license, friends and family, are followed by a fall into homeless despair. But when developers plan to bulldoze the shelter and put up a high-rise condo building, Rydell springs into action.
6. Ian Adams, fired from teaching at prestigious Johns Hopkins medical school, demonstrates that even hobos can perform brain surgery. But can he prove his former students aren't behind the recent kidney thefts?
Original Version
I am currently respectfully seeking representation for the publication of my autobiography, “From Hopkins to Homeless: My True Story of Drug Addiction”. This book addresses the disease of addiction and the process of recovery by providing a unique, thought provoking, and inspirational insight [through suffering, sacrifice, and redemption] [Those brackets should be parentheses; otherwise readers will think I put them there, and wonder what's so funny.] into the life cycle of addiction as experienced by a severe prescription addict [myself]. [Those brackets can stay, as that's pretty funny.] This book will have approximately 275 [8.5” x 5.5”] pages [Are you printing your manuscript on 8.5" x 5.5" paper, or have you already chosen the font and font size and book dimensions the publisher is to use?] divided into 12 chapters, 15 appendixes and 12 (if not cost prohibitive) pictures and illustrations. [When a former doctor offers to send me fifteen appendixes, I start to worry about where he's getting them.]
[Appendix 1: Possible side effects of taking six oxycontin tablets a day.
Appendix 2: Baltimore Restaurants with the best dumpster fare.
Appendix 3: Johns Hopkins nurses who put out when you're a doctor, but not when you're a homeless guy.
Appendix 4: Unrealistic things that have happened on House.
Appendix 5: My favorite bridges for sleeping under.
Appendix 6: Why killing other homeless guys and selling their organs isn't the best path back to respectability.
Appendix 7: How the hell did you come up with material for fifteen appendixes?
Appendix 8: Things doctors do with removed appendixes (includes recipes).
Appendix 9: Baltimore area pharmacists with lax moral standards.
Appendix 10: Johns Hopkins doctors who are always high but haven't been caught yet.
Appendix 11: Why carjacking people as they pull away from the drive-thru at CVS is a bad idea.
Appendix 12: How you can get drugs to me.
Appendix 13: Heroin vs. aspirin: A doctor's surprising perspective.
Appendix 14: Christ, it looks like I'm gonna make it to fifteen after all.
Appendix 15: Literary agents that refused to take me on just because I'm a homeless guy.]
Starting in my Doctorate program in Respiratory Medicine and ending homeless on the streets, addiction crept into my life [It wasn't addiction that was homeless; it was you. ...on the streets, I allowed addiction to creep into...] and took from me my possessions, my profession, my loved ones, and my sanity. [If addiction doesn't take your sanity, trying to make it as a writer surely will.] One day I was a respected well-known Senior Medicinal Aerosol Scientist
lecturing all over the world, and next I was being arrested at a medical conference in Atlanta for forging a prescription earlier that day. [Hey, who doesn't need a few Valiums when he's about to talk in front of his peers while high on Xanax?] The police waited until I finished my lecture, approached me, put me in handcuffs, and led me through the conference hall while all my colleagues were looking at me in utter disbelief.[Cop 1: We should at least let him finish his lecture before we arrest him.
Cop 2: Are you kidding? If he goes on another five minutes we'll all be
This book describes all of the incidents that I experienced, [All of them?] (some very dark and disturbing), during my 9 year journey/battle from addiction to sobriety and recovery. From 3 suicide attempts, 2 roll over car crashes, 15 toxic overdoses [each of which is described in detail in its own appendix], having a gun put to my head and many more. It is amazing to me that I did not die. I feel I still have something I need to accomplish. I have kept all supporting documents during my addiction to prove my book is an accurate and factual account of my life as an addict. I knew one day it would be a remarkable story and at the same time have great potential to provide hope, advice, guidance, and assistance [Those last three are pretty much all the same thing.] to other addicts seeking sobriety and long term recovery.
My credentials and qualifications for writing this book include:
Ø For nine years I experienced every aspect of being an addict trying to regain my sobriety in a system that is overworked, under funded, and not always a priority to assist those addicts who truly want help.
Ø Being school orientated, for years I researched addiction aggressively to find an answer. I became very educated about this disease but realized there is no textbook answer and I was going to have to trust people I did not know to save my life.
Ø A Master’s degree and required thesis in respiratory medicine.
Ø Nine peer reviewed publications in various medical journals.
Ø Fifty-five medical papers published and presented at the numerous medical conferences that took place every year.
Ø Contributing author, (in one chapter), in the book, “Inhalations Aerosols”, edited by Anthony Hickey. [That was you?]
To help you decide if you might be interested in representing my book, I can send the following immediately upon your request: My Promotion Plan, My Curriculum Vitae, My Competition Analysis, and a Proposal of a possible subsequent book taken from daily journals and experiences in my year long residential treatment.
Thank you for your generous time. I eagerly await your response and look forward to hearing from you soon. I have enclosed a SASE for your convenience.
Notes
It's too long. You don't need to tell the publisher the page count, paper size, number of chapters/appendixes. The word count will do.
You don't need to list your qualifications. It's obvious from your description that you experienced the events in the book, which is your first qualification. The other items on your list aren't important qualifications for the writing of an autobiography.
I'm not sure I'd call it an autobiography, as it has a narrow focus.
If the appendixes contain all the documentation that proves you were an addict, you don't need that in your book. You may need it to get on Oprah, as she's probably being careful about that stuff these days.
The query details your fall, but as you claim the book will aid other addicts (those who read books, anyway) you might want to tell us how far back you've come. Do you have a home, a job, a family? Do you help the homeless? Show that ultimately it's an inspirational story.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
New Beginning 653
Deep within the vaults of the celebrated Academy and Library of Anaran, a pale man fretfully muttered when the page he was reading crumbled to dust in his hand. The poor light of a single, fluttering candle and the scrawl on the ancient text made his eyes water with fatigue.
Etan, however, had many hours to go before he would give up for the night and steal a few hours of sleep. In the morning, he would return to his studies in the academy before sneaking down to the basement again to resume his surreptitious research.
The scholar’s subject, Tiruces, was one of the most influential scholars of history and a favorite subject of professors and students, and as such, was not a subject most kept secret. During his lifetime and even now he was renowned for his lectures and writings on government and virtues of man. He was also one of founding fathers of Anaran and it had been endlessly argued, and largely agreed upon, that without him the Republic would have never been born.
Zzzz...Zzzz...Hmm? What the--? I came here to write a continuation, but I must have dozed off. Let's see, where was I?
Though it was long postulated that the origins of Tiruces' erudite disquisitions lay in his draconian upbringing, contemporary academicians have recently advanced the hypothesisqzxqw ...Zzzz.
Opening: Vivian Whetham.....Continuation: Matthew
Etan, however, had many hours to go before he would give up for the night and steal a few hours of sleep. In the morning, he would return to his studies in the academy before sneaking down to the basement again to resume his surreptitious research.
The scholar’s subject, Tiruces, was one of the most influential scholars of history and a favorite subject of professors and students, and as such, was not a subject most kept secret. During his lifetime and even now he was renowned for his lectures and writings on government and virtues of man. He was also one of founding fathers of Anaran and it had been endlessly argued, and largely agreed upon, that without him the Republic would have never been born.
Zzzz...Zzzz...Hmm? What the--? I came here to write a continuation, but I must have dozed off. Let's see, where was I?
Though it was long postulated that the origins of Tiruces' erudite disquisitions lay in his draconian upbringing, contemporary academicians have recently advanced the hypothesisqzxqw ...Zzzz.
Opening: Vivian Whetham.....Continuation: Matthew
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Face-Lift 646
Guess the PlotDon't Forget the Death Ray
1. A team of astronauts arrive in a new world, only to discover the atmosphere is full of poppy-gas that adversely affects their cognition and makes them vulnerable to kidnap by flying monkeys, green women, and singing midgets.
2. The ultimate reference work on how to write comic books. Includes invaluable advice like: Don't put an alien's third eye on the back of his head; Never make a spandex costume pink; and of course . . . Don't Forget the Death Ray.
3. All mad scientist Lysander Schultz wants to do is take over one, maybe two continents so his mother will finally stop complaining he's never accomplished anything. But then Mama Schultz gets wind of the plot and decides her baby boy can't possibly do it without her assistance...
4. What happens to megalomaniacal arch-villains whose powers fade as they proceed into their golden years and find they can no longer remember exactly what they were going to do with the world once they dominated it? This is the story of a most unusual assisted-care facility where, more often than not, weapons of mass destruction are found in the refrigerator rather than in that tray on the dresser where they belong.
5. Ironic hipster Lance McAllister's blog, "Don't Forget The Death-Ray," is a send-up of science fiction cliches and alien abductions. It's all fun and games, until the Reticulons show up and the anal probes start.
6. Zorpha Qv'naul has had to deal with one too many creeps who think, just because they paid for immersion in the nutrient vats, she should drop her carapace and become brood-host to their natal swarm. So she's written a handbook of practical advice for the single female tentaculoid playing the dating game on Eta Horologii IV.
Original Version
I'd like to sell a fun and informative book about how to write superhero novels and comic books. Don't Forget the Death-Ray! would be aimed at readers aged 13-18.
My main writing credential is that I run Superhero Nation, a writing advice website that has had 150,000 readers in the past two years. My superhero writing advice is credible and effective. [Evil Editor is a good name for a superhero who gives writing advice (though my advice is incredible and ineffective). And thanks to my laser vision I can also battle super villains. Here are my arch-enemies:]
In addition, I have three years of experience writing for college newspapers.
I am better-suited to reach teen readers than most of the authors currently writing in this field. Most of them are 40-something or 50-something comic book writers. They have experience that would be absolutely critical to older readers, but teen readers also value relatability. [Better to say you are well-suited because teens relate to you, than to say you are better-suited and then put down the forty-somethings. You may be sending this to someone who's not so young.] I believe that the success of my website is evidence of that. [Actually, it's evidence that the same twelve people visit your site 20 times every day. And I should know.] As a college senior myself, I relate to teens very easily. Additionally, the experience I have-- winning a grant to write a superhero novel manuscript-- is more relevant to young readers. I'm very familiar with the ground-level of the industry and how to succeed as a newcomer. [Did you succeed as a newcomer?] In contrast, most competing authors broke into the industry twenty or thirty years ago. [As shown in the following chart, old people are behind the times when it comes to superhero powers:
Old Superheroes (low relatability)
Superhero..................... Talent
Green Arrow ................. Good at archery
Aquaman .......................Can hold breath a long time
Batman ..........................None
Superman..................... Everything
Spiderman ....................Senses danger
Mr. Fantastic ............... Can stretch really far
Silver Surfer .................Can surf without water
New Superheroes (high relatability)
Superhero...............Talent
Mall Babe ....................Expert shopper
The Controller..............Really fast thumbs
Guitar Hero .................Really fast fingers
The Idol .......................Karaoke Master
Rapper .........................None
Tweeter ........................Conciseness
Textgirl ........................Cryptography
Please let me know if you would like me to send a proposal. I can be reached at [e-mail address] or [phone number.] [Asking if they want a proposal is inviting them to say no. A proposal is not so long that you shouldn't just send it. What is it, two or three chapters to give them an idea what your book is like? It's the least you can send, as your query letter tells them nothing about what your book is like.]
Thanks for your time and consideration.
Yours,
Notes
There's nothing about your book in the letter. The entire thing is your credentials. And you don't have any.
If you don't have the credentials of others in your field, your strategy should not be to send a query that mainly states why your lack of credentials is actually a plus; your strategy should be to show that your book is so creative and original it shines above other works in the field. Give an example or two of your book relating to teens in a way that will make teens prefer your book to others.
A nonfiction book doesn't need to be finished, but unless you have credentials, you need to finish some of it and send it on to demonstrate that you've got the goods.
The number of thirteen-year-olds who can (and want to) write a decent novel, with or without your advice, is limited. Maybe you should just do comic books.
Monday, June 22, 2009
New Beginning 652
The black cane whapped against the counter in front of me and I dropped my bowl of cereal. At least it was sans milk.
“You’re next.” Marcus let the cane tip fall to the floor. “And you’re running out of time.”
I surveyed my older brother sitting there in his kitchen chair; acting like he ruled this family; and not apologizing one bit for the mess he created. “Marcus Willby, you are deranged.”
“Don’t call me that.” His lower lip pushed out beyond his wispy moustache. He shuttered his big brown eyes, and leaned his head back. His mouth creaked open. His breath rattled in the back of his throat.
That was it. Audience over. Begging on street corners had seriously mushed his brain. I shook my head and swept up the mess before Mom came down and added her bit to the insanity. Just because Marcus broke his leg – in thirteen places – when he turned thirteen didn’t mean I would do the same. I was not my brother. I glanced at him again. Nope. Not even close. The bowl shards and corn puffs tumbled into the trash can.
I thought about the past few years. Marcus had broken all ten fingers when he was ten, all eleven toes when he was eleven, and last year broke his hip in twelve places. Tomorrow he would turn fourteen and the curse would jump to me. That's what the old Gypsy woman had said.
I looked at Marcus sitting at the table, his big brown eyes, his mushy brain. I grabbed the cane from where he'd leant it against his chair. He was right. I was running out of time.
Opening: Sarah Laurenson.....Continuation: Freddie
“You’re next.” Marcus let the cane tip fall to the floor. “And you’re running out of time.”
I surveyed my older brother sitting there in his kitchen chair; acting like he ruled this family; and not apologizing one bit for the mess he created. “Marcus Willby, you are deranged.”
“Don’t call me that.” His lower lip pushed out beyond his wispy moustache. He shuttered his big brown eyes, and leaned his head back. His mouth creaked open. His breath rattled in the back of his throat.
That was it. Audience over. Begging on street corners had seriously mushed his brain. I shook my head and swept up the mess before Mom came down and added her bit to the insanity. Just because Marcus broke his leg – in thirteen places – when he turned thirteen didn’t mean I would do the same. I was not my brother. I glanced at him again. Nope. Not even close. The bowl shards and corn puffs tumbled into the trash can.
I thought about the past few years. Marcus had broken all ten fingers when he was ten, all eleven toes when he was eleven, and last year broke his hip in twelve places. Tomorrow he would turn fourteen and the curse would jump to me. That's what the old Gypsy woman had said.
I looked at Marcus sitting at the table, his big brown eyes, his mushy brain. I grabbed the cane from where he'd leant it against his chair. He was right. I was running out of time.
Opening: Sarah Laurenson.....Continuation: Freddie
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Writing Exercise Results . . .
. . . are in the posts below. The task was to write a scene including four similes created through a process of randomness (somewhat).
Bad Analogies Scene 13
Evil adjusted his pince-nez and read aloud from Whirl’s notebook.
“Rising to its feet like a restless greenhouse on stilts, the forest giant surveyed the vista. Jeez, what the hell kinda line is that?”
“It’s my first bad analogy,” replied Whirl.
“You’re a goddam cheat,” said Evil, throwing up his hands. “These were supposed to be set in some sorta context.”
“Like a woeful washing machine spinning its load in a universe of dirty laundry?”
“Quit it, willya?”
“Hey — that’s not one of my remaining three. I just made it up to placate you.”
“You think Evil Editor can be placated with a random bad analogy?”
“As surely as the smooth slime of unnecessary verbiage upstaging a perfectly plain sentence can wreak havoc on the simplicity of all known gerunds.”
“I said quit it!”
“What? That one took me the best part of Saturday afternoon, you ungrateful sod.”
“This ends here,” barked Evil, inadvertently assuming the posture of an angry vampire sucking blood (albeit from an awful EE cup), and though Whirl tried keeping the unspoken analogy to himself for fear that weredingoes might bound from their cages with the unbridled verve of disenchanted hippos thrusting their mud-encrusted bottoms before an astonished circus audience, the mighty editor’s radar proved too sophisticated a detector of restrained eyebrow raising.
“I can see you thinking them, you fiend,” said Evil, his face flushing red like a bright tart allowing the creamy topping of composure no quarter. “Now get lost.”
--Whirlochre
“Rising to its feet like a restless greenhouse on stilts, the forest giant surveyed the vista. Jeez, what the hell kinda line is that?”
“It’s my first bad analogy,” replied Whirl.
“You’re a goddam cheat,” said Evil, throwing up his hands. “These were supposed to be set in some sorta context.”
“Like a woeful washing machine spinning its load in a universe of dirty laundry?”
“Quit it, willya?”
“Hey — that’s not one of my remaining three. I just made it up to placate you.”
“You think Evil Editor can be placated with a random bad analogy?”
“As surely as the smooth slime of unnecessary verbiage upstaging a perfectly plain sentence can wreak havoc on the simplicity of all known gerunds.”
“I said quit it!”
“What? That one took me the best part of Saturday afternoon, you ungrateful sod.”
“This ends here,” barked Evil, inadvertently assuming the posture of an angry vampire sucking blood (albeit from an awful EE cup), and though Whirl tried keeping the unspoken analogy to himself for fear that weredingoes might bound from their cages with the unbridled verve of disenchanted hippos thrusting their mud-encrusted bottoms before an astonished circus audience, the mighty editor’s radar proved too sophisticated a detector of restrained eyebrow raising.
“I can see you thinking them, you fiend,” said Evil, his face flushing red like a bright tart allowing the creamy topping of composure no quarter. “Now get lost.”
--Whirlochre
Bad Analogies Scene 12
Round and round and round they went with it, out in the magic glen in the center of the recently found forest, wild and free and communally bad, like an epic girl tearing off her clothes in the spirit of togetherness, except the girl should have been gender neutral, not to mention, plural. And sensual, with the occasional shockerino thrown in for good measure, like a devious unicorn poking her (own and others)(communal) backside with a long white pole.
And if you were a traveler happening upon the spot, you’d have had the time of your life rubbing your eyes to see if you were really seeing what you thought you saw, beings as crazy as imaginings on a pot-filtered day when you were like a moronic boy combing your long, unkempt hair; like a rotund werewolf sliding down the mountain, and you felt that way, even if you were skinny and/or kempt.
Being juiced up does that to a person, and so does losing yourself down in fantasy with your eyes closed and a better life in the closed-eyes living world inside your waking dreams, walking along with you as you slog through the dull days.
And maybe one day…maybe, you’d go out on a walk in the woods, and find the spot.
Or maybe you’d end up at the end of the bar, tying one on and playing games with the girl giving you the eye and without her knowing it, when you poked her later on, you’d be the unicorn, and you’d better hope like hell she wasn’t the rotund werewolf.
--Robin S.
And if you were a traveler happening upon the spot, you’d have had the time of your life rubbing your eyes to see if you were really seeing what you thought you saw, beings as crazy as imaginings on a pot-filtered day when you were like a moronic boy combing your long, unkempt hair; like a rotund werewolf sliding down the mountain, and you felt that way, even if you were skinny and/or kempt.
Being juiced up does that to a person, and so does losing yourself down in fantasy with your eyes closed and a better life in the closed-eyes living world inside your waking dreams, walking along with you as you slog through the dull days.
And maybe one day…maybe, you’d go out on a walk in the woods, and find the spot.
Or maybe you’d end up at the end of the bar, tying one on and playing games with the girl giving you the eye and without her knowing it, when you poked her later on, you’d be the unicorn, and you’d better hope like hell she wasn’t the rotund werewolf.
--Robin S.
Bad Analogies Scene 11
Like a purple mockingbird mooning the Sunday morning congregation, Ed Bleeker dropped trou at the reception for Queen Elizabeth. The palace guards were on his tail immediately, and though Ed was an Olympic sprinter, the rains had left his getaway route as slow as a medieval highway drowning in a sea of honey. He veered toward the forest, covered in sweat and mud and honey; from a distance he looked two-dimensional, like a fetid photograph running through the woods. Then he got an idea. He stopped in his tracks and stood perfectly still, pretending to be a tree, not unlike a buxom ostrich sticking her head where the sun don't shine. Didn't work.
--Evil Editor
--Evil Editor
Bad Analogies Scene 10
Detective O’Leary hit the bloody landscape like a factory born widget dancing around the room.
“Hey! Be careful , wouldya,” howled the techie overseeing the crime scene like a dwarf analyzing atomic particles.
O’Leary stepped back, not so much out of respect or obedience but more as a strategic move. At this point in any investigation the techie held all the cards, and he would savagely dole them out to a salivating investigator like a white linen suit raking leaves.
“So, time of death, yet?” O’Leary asked with more than a little ersatz indifference.
“And what do you mean by that?
Seems the techie was in the know, and now Armageddon was beeping loudly on O’Leary’s personal radar. Could it be saved by side step? O’Leary, frantically scanning his noodle for some conduit to emotional alignment, had nothin’. Providentially redemption was on the horizon.
“It’s alright.”
“What?”
“I said it’s alright. I was just Texas showering off the dirt before.
“I’m not sure I know how to take that.”
“Fine then. Take this.”
O’Leary glimpsed skeptically at the “so far” scene report. “I owe you.”
“And you always will.”
The words caught O’Leary off guard again, and he gazed deep into the techie’s eyes trying to figure where he stood – still nothin’.
--Wendy
“Hey! Be careful , wouldya,” howled the techie overseeing the crime scene like a dwarf analyzing atomic particles.
O’Leary stepped back, not so much out of respect or obedience but more as a strategic move. At this point in any investigation the techie held all the cards, and he would savagely dole them out to a salivating investigator like a white linen suit raking leaves.
“So, time of death, yet?” O’Leary asked with more than a little ersatz indifference.
“And what do you mean by that?
Seems the techie was in the know, and now Armageddon was beeping loudly on O’Leary’s personal radar. Could it be saved by side step? O’Leary, frantically scanning his noodle for some conduit to emotional alignment, had nothin’. Providentially redemption was on the horizon.
“It’s alright.”
“What?”
“I said it’s alright. I was just Texas showering off the dirt before.
“I’m not sure I know how to take that.”
“Fine then. Take this.”
O’Leary glimpsed skeptically at the “so far” scene report. “I owe you.”
“And you always will.”
The words caught O’Leary off guard again, and he gazed deep into the techie’s eyes trying to figure where he stood – still nothin’.
--Wendy
Bad Analogies Scene 9
Stop me if you’ve heard this one, all right? So, yeah, Imanottasyupid, who’s just as charasmatic as a hot pink begonia sentence to a chain gang, she walks into a bar and she says to the barkeep, “What’s the best one you got?”
You’ve heard it before? No way—I’m improvving here. Shut up and listen.
“Well,” says the barkeep, his breath like a titanic cat burping up a smell of cardboard, “I’d recommend our vodka-scotch cocktail.”
No, I’ve never been in a bar. So what if a vodka-scotch cocktail is as enigmatic as an ADD garbage can reciting Animal Farm? Whose joke is this, anyway?
So Imanottasyupid, who asked what the best one was, she says, “No, I meant what’s the strongest man you got? I need a man who’s really and truly strong, like ostentatious rum drooling at 67.2 mph.”
“Then you’ll want Ceeuvgrene,” says the barkeep, and, since Imanottasyupid isn’t stupid, she figgers out that Ceeuvgrene is the one wearing green. He’s over in the corner, hunching like a miniscule pirate raising weredingos over his vodka-scotch cocktail. And he really is the best one they’ve got.
Imanottasyupid walks up to him like a voluptious bottle ramming it down his throat. “Hey,” she says.
Ceeuvgrene looks up, and he’s got a really bad black eye and his lip’s bleeding. “Hey,” he says.
“I can’t really help you,” she says, “but I hope you win and I’m praying for you.”
“Thanks,” he says.
No, that wasn’t really a punchline and I guess it wasn’t a joke after all, but it works. Shalom, Salaam, Peace.
--_*Rachel*_
You’ve heard it before? No way—I’m improvving here. Shut up and listen.
“Well,” says the barkeep, his breath like a titanic cat burping up a smell of cardboard, “I’d recommend our vodka-scotch cocktail.”
No, I’ve never been in a bar. So what if a vodka-scotch cocktail is as enigmatic as an ADD garbage can reciting Animal Farm? Whose joke is this, anyway?
So Imanottasyupid, who asked what the best one was, she says, “No, I meant what’s the strongest man you got? I need a man who’s really and truly strong, like ostentatious rum drooling at 67.2 mph.”
“Then you’ll want Ceeuvgrene,” says the barkeep, and, since Imanottasyupid isn’t stupid, she figgers out that Ceeuvgrene is the one wearing green. He’s over in the corner, hunching like a miniscule pirate raising weredingos over his vodka-scotch cocktail. And he really is the best one they’ve got.
Imanottasyupid walks up to him like a voluptious bottle ramming it down his throat. “Hey,” she says.
Ceeuvgrene looks up, and he’s got a really bad black eye and his lip’s bleeding. “Hey,” he says.
“I can’t really help you,” she says, “but I hope you win and I’m praying for you.”
“Thanks,” he says.
No, that wasn’t really a punchline and I guess it wasn’t a joke after all, but it works. Shalom, Salaam, Peace.
--_*Rachel*_
Bad Analogies Scene 8
At the horizon, the sky and sea merged into a muddy grey-green as the setting sun hung suspended like a bloated cheese ball over a bowl of rancid guacamole, prompting Hans to reach into his backpack for the last of his flavor-blasted crackers. He plodded onward, biting the heads off the little goldfish and tossing the tails over his shoulder, feeling utterly dejected having just been dumped by his girlfriend, Ann Lisbeth. A Silver Porsche Caymen S with a 3.4 liter, flat six engine blew past and a warm gust of air hit him, as charming as a fart from a puppy. With mild disinterest he watched as the car began swerving wildly, like a crayon in the hands of a two-year-old. The Porsche pulled over. He could see the carcass of a buff-colored squirrel stuck to the rear tire, dangling like spaghetti on a cast-iron pot. Hans tossed the last of the goldfish just as a beautiful blonde stepped out of the car.
“Aw, dammit. I killed the little sucker!”
“Yep. But you picked a good spot.”
“What? Whaddya mean?”
“Well that just happens to be a pet cemetery right there,” said Hans, pointing across the road. “And I just happen to be an ordained minister in the Church of Neglected Roadkill, so I’d be more than happy to help you lay this creature to rest.” He knelt and carefully extracted the squashed squirrel.
“Thank you! I really appreciate that. My name’s Gretel.”
Hans blushed to his ears and felt his heart start jumping like a crazed bonobo. “My name’s Hans, but you can call me ‘Hansel,’ Gretel.”
--Meri
“Aw, dammit. I killed the little sucker!”
“Yep. But you picked a good spot.”
“What? Whaddya mean?”
“Well that just happens to be a pet cemetery right there,” said Hans, pointing across the road. “And I just happen to be an ordained minister in the Church of Neglected Roadkill, so I’d be more than happy to help you lay this creature to rest.” He knelt and carefully extracted the squashed squirrel.
“Thank you! I really appreciate that. My name’s Gretel.”
Hans blushed to his ears and felt his heart start jumping like a crazed bonobo. “My name’s Hans, but you can call me ‘Hansel,’ Gretel.”
--Meri
Bad Analogies Scene 7
The anesthesiologist administered the sedative and the patient fell limp under the blankets and operating room lights, like a blue paperweight relaxing on the beach under the stars. The doctor tried everything in his battle against this tumor. Now it spread like a virus but could not be damaged with his needles no matter how furiously he poked, like an impervious computer fighting with a rabid squirrel.
They pulled the blankets away from the patient’s belly. He ate fast food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He washed it down with a fifth of Thunderbird every day. He saved bacon grease and used it in addition to syrup on his pancakes. But his diet had taken its revenge. It was written all over him like a scary food commenting on a blog.
The surgeon went to work, and after 14 hours he finally removed the full tumor. The patient couldn’t walk anymore, he would eat through a feeding tube, and he was down to one lung, but still the surgeon felt like he made a deal with the world to graduate this man back into its fold, like a great school closing a sale.
--Rick Daley
They pulled the blankets away from the patient’s belly. He ate fast food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He washed it down with a fifth of Thunderbird every day. He saved bacon grease and used it in addition to syrup on his pancakes. But his diet had taken its revenge. It was written all over him like a scary food commenting on a blog.
The surgeon went to work, and after 14 hours he finally removed the full tumor. The patient couldn’t walk anymore, he would eat through a feeding tube, and he was down to one lung, but still the surgeon felt like he made a deal with the world to graduate this man back into its fold, like a great school closing a sale.
--Rick Daley
Bad Analogies Scene 6
The Dark Lord drummed his fingers, then stopped.
“Well, have you decided?”
Stan put his head in his hands. His thoughts swirled together like an awkward fire swimming in circles.
“Oh, come now,” said the Dark Lord, “it’s not that complicated. Just pick one.” He sat back placidly in his jeweled throne and gestured toward the doors with a languid hand. He looked like a lavish mountain paying bills.
Oh sure, thought Stan. Not complicated. It’s just life and death, after all.
As if they’d heard his thoughts, the trolls snickered.
“Pick door number one,” said the troll on the left. “It’s my favorite.” Right, thought Stan. Number one’s out.
“I like number two,” said the middle one. Hmmm…
“Go for the box!” giggled the third troll.
The Dark Lord made a sign, and his orchestra of evil bards began to play suspenseful music. It had a rhythm like a heartbeat, which kept getting faster and faster. How completely unnecessary it was, like a gilded roof shopping for clothes! Stan was nervous enough already.
The music grew louder and more insistent.
“All right, all right!” Stan burst out. “I choose door #2!”
The music stopped, and all was silent. In the Dark Lord’s eyes a strange light shone, like a crepuscular lamp remembering childhood games.
“Well chosen, Stan,” he said softly. “You’ve won the washer-dryer.”
The trolls cheered. Stan groaned piteously. His wife was going to kill him. She had so wanted the dinette set.
-mb
“Well, have you decided?”
Stan put his head in his hands. His thoughts swirled together like an awkward fire swimming in circles.
“Oh, come now,” said the Dark Lord, “it’s not that complicated. Just pick one.” He sat back placidly in his jeweled throne and gestured toward the doors with a languid hand. He looked like a lavish mountain paying bills.
Oh sure, thought Stan. Not complicated. It’s just life and death, after all.
As if they’d heard his thoughts, the trolls snickered.
“Pick door number one,” said the troll on the left. “It’s my favorite.” Right, thought Stan. Number one’s out.
“I like number two,” said the middle one. Hmmm…
“Go for the box!” giggled the third troll.
The Dark Lord made a sign, and his orchestra of evil bards began to play suspenseful music. It had a rhythm like a heartbeat, which kept getting faster and faster. How completely unnecessary it was, like a gilded roof shopping for clothes! Stan was nervous enough already.
The music grew louder and more insistent.
“All right, all right!” Stan burst out. “I choose door #2!”
The music stopped, and all was silent. In the Dark Lord’s eyes a strange light shone, like a crepuscular lamp remembering childhood games.
“Well chosen, Stan,” he said softly. “You’ve won the washer-dryer.”
The trolls cheered. Stan groaned piteously. His wife was going to kill him. She had so wanted the dinette set.
-mb
Bad Analogies Scene 5
I ripped the last page out of the typewriter and stacked it with the others. At last I'd completed my 400,000 word literary horror novel about a moonstruck serial scrubber. Publishers would fall to their knees, begging me to sign their contracts. They'd be as red as scientists fighting for their place in line and I'd be their guinea pig, their golden goose, the light at the end of their out-of-body experience.
Only one man stood in my way: Evil Editor. Writing him a query letter that would encompass my genius was like typing a memo about a flimsy theater or describing Escher in haiku. Evil would make my plot look like a place for his minions to bury me. I needed a way to show him everything, a way like scaling a skyscraper above that dark graveyard.
I took a bullet casing, straight razor, and an unopened bottle of sleeping pills -- important elements from my book -- and baked them into a cake. After wiring the query letter with glitter producing firecrackers, I plastered it to the cake box using neon pink unicorn stickers. I soaked the package with a full bottle of eau de Cologne to involve the last of the five senses. Trusting my query to the post office would be like dreaming of Prince Charming in corrupt Brazil, but there was no other option. Only they could deliver this unforgettable transcendent experience.
Only one man stood in my way: Evil Editor. Writing him a query letter that would encompass my genius was like typing a memo about a flimsy theater or describing Escher in haiku. Evil would make my plot look like a place for his minions to bury me. I needed a way to show him everything, a way like scaling a skyscraper above that dark graveyard.
I took a bullet casing, straight razor, and an unopened bottle of sleeping pills -- important elements from my book -- and baked them into a cake. After wiring the query letter with glitter producing firecrackers, I plastered it to the cake box using neon pink unicorn stickers. I soaked the package with a full bottle of eau de Cologne to involve the last of the five senses. Trusting my query to the post office would be like dreaming of Prince Charming in corrupt Brazil, but there was no other option. Only they could deliver this unforgettable transcendent experience.
--Faceless Minion
Bad Analogies Scene 4
I twittered our vacation, tweeted my joys, Skyped my disappointments and Flickred my adventures on Facebook just like a movie star watching a bunch of pink balloons squeaking in the hands of bored clowns. Our triplicate outing felt like a bouncy bed creeping along the floor that suddenly wakes the neighbors, provides snickers and giggles, and becomes whipped cream Frenzy.
We went picnicking and accidentally meet the snake. Ginger and Abby screamed. God Almighty did they scream. They screamed like bilious man occupying a burning rickshaw, trying to eat jalapeno ice cream while navigating through a fireworks factory. Cubby the snake became our friend, at least until he gave birth to a dozen pink babies and I took a shovel and made snake pate'.
The rest of our busman's holiday unfolded peaceful-like except for that bubbly blowhard of a Judge wannabe Judy treating us plaintiffs like dogs and treating the defendant like the pink porcine he owned. We won the real pig, all squealing and snorting. Ginger verified it was an it. A don't ask, don't tell moment. Piggy lacked nuts so we added pinoli to the stuffing and declared it bib and tucker time.
We even asked the defendant if he wanted to join us at the luau. I set a bright pink table with flowers like any table dressed for a successful meal while placating a single-minded, biased blogger. Roasted porky plaintiff buried in leaves, surrounded by coals and marinated in exotic citrus. We created yummy buns!
--Dave F.
We went picnicking and accidentally meet the snake. Ginger and Abby screamed. God Almighty did they scream. They screamed like bilious man occupying a burning rickshaw, trying to eat jalapeno ice cream while navigating through a fireworks factory. Cubby the snake became our friend, at least until he gave birth to a dozen pink babies and I took a shovel and made snake pate'.
The rest of our busman's holiday unfolded peaceful-like except for that bubbly blowhard of a Judge wannabe Judy treating us plaintiffs like dogs and treating the defendant like the pink porcine he owned. We won the real pig, all squealing and snorting. Ginger verified it was an it. A don't ask, don't tell moment. Piggy lacked nuts so we added pinoli to the stuffing and declared it bib and tucker time.
We even asked the defendant if he wanted to join us at the luau. I set a bright pink table with flowers like any table dressed for a successful meal while placating a single-minded, biased blogger. Roasted porky plaintiff buried in leaves, surrounded by coals and marinated in exotic citrus. We created yummy buns!
--Dave F.
Bad Analogies Scene 3
"It was a vision. It came at me like a red ear riding on trams."
"Do what, John?"
"I'm telling you, it hit me like an oval antenna punching nuns."
" ... You're on them funny mushrooms again, aren't you? I warned you about those."
"Stop harshing my vibe, dude. That's your trouble. All this materialism, Paul, it's like a lucid philosophy foreclosing on orphans. You've got to let your mind expand, man."
"For flip's sake. You're still tripping, aren't you? John, mate, if you expand your mind any more, it's going to pop like a balloon."
"You gotta get with it, man. This isn't mundanesville any more. We're in the spirit realm now, this isn't some risky business baking pies, this is, like, divine. That's what I'm gonna call myself now. The Divine."
"Look, John, just lie down and stay quiet until it wears off, okay? And try not to think about it too much."
"The visions, man, the visions. I can hear colours through the soles of my feet. It's a revelation, man, a whole load of revelations. I should write a book."
" ... Yeah, whatever. Anything that'll keep you off the streets and out of trouble. Here, have a pen and some paper. Only let me know when you've finished, will you? I owe Tim two letters, and them bloody Thessalonians another two, and they're not going to bloody write themselves."
--Steve
"Do what, John?"
"I'm telling you, it hit me like an oval antenna punching nuns."
" ... You're on them funny mushrooms again, aren't you? I warned you about those."
"Stop harshing my vibe, dude. That's your trouble. All this materialism, Paul, it's like a lucid philosophy foreclosing on orphans. You've got to let your mind expand, man."
"For flip's sake. You're still tripping, aren't you? John, mate, if you expand your mind any more, it's going to pop like a balloon."
"You gotta get with it, man. This isn't mundanesville any more. We're in the spirit realm now, this isn't some risky business baking pies, this is, like, divine. That's what I'm gonna call myself now. The Divine."
"Look, John, just lie down and stay quiet until it wears off, okay? And try not to think about it too much."
"The visions, man, the visions. I can hear colours through the soles of my feet. It's a revelation, man, a whole load of revelations. I should write a book."
" ... Yeah, whatever. Anything that'll keep you off the streets and out of trouble. Here, have a pen and some paper. Only let me know when you've finished, will you? I owe Tim two letters, and them bloody Thessalonians another two, and they're not going to bloody write themselves."
--Steve
Bad Analogies Scene 2
Sarah’s Addy looked like a greedy spider eating ice cream on a windy day, covered as she was with chocolate pudding. I laughed.
My sister shot me a crusty look that was like succinct thunder cramming for a test to determine if it would be chosen to accompany the Greek gods’ bolts of lightning. Thoroughly humbled, I began helping my sister clean up the mischievous four-year old. But when the phone rang, I was left alone to wipe sticky chocolate from between her fingers and Addy began to wail.
I could tell in about 3.4 seconds who the caller was by the look on Sarah’s face. Joe – he was not going to be chosen father of the year, although he was in close running for loser. Now I don’t really like to be critical but when it came to men my sister was like a gullible writer watching paint dry for days if a malevolent editor told him this was how Grisham was inspired. Sarah would be staring at the wall for weeks, however.
“What do you mean you’re not picking the kids up!” my sister yelled just as her rambunctious nine-year ran into the townhouse, being chased by my angel. The door hit the wall, knocking down a picture. I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t chastise the boys because that would make as much sense as an exultant mountain nailing Jell-O to a tree or as much sense as this story.
My sister shot me a crusty look that was like succinct thunder cramming for a test to determine if it would be chosen to accompany the Greek gods’ bolts of lightning. Thoroughly humbled, I began helping my sister clean up the mischievous four-year old. But when the phone rang, I was left alone to wipe sticky chocolate from between her fingers and Addy began to wail.
I could tell in about 3.4 seconds who the caller was by the look on Sarah’s face. Joe – he was not going to be chosen father of the year, although he was in close running for loser. Now I don’t really like to be critical but when it came to men my sister was like a gullible writer watching paint dry for days if a malevolent editor told him this was how Grisham was inspired. Sarah would be staring at the wall for weeks, however.
“What do you mean you’re not picking the kids up!” my sister yelled just as her rambunctious nine-year ran into the townhouse, being chased by my angel. The door hit the wall, knocking down a picture. I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t chastise the boys because that would make as much sense as an exultant mountain nailing Jell-O to a tree or as much sense as this story.
Bad Analogies Scene 1
He labours like a damp lawnmower farting because it can't stop. But this doesn't matter; after the petrol gasses have cleared the hay is short and we can roll in it. We are green again, from the grassy juices.
When we met, 15 years ago, I hung like a suspended key waiting for a piano to fall out of the sky. An impossibility, you say; but he landed straight on me. He bought me a beer and some crisps, and I punched his girlfriend. Then I punched his ex-girlfriend, and after that he and I were like a tangled tube unraveling an endless ball of string, no end, no hope or desire for disambiguation.
Now, like a sweet anniversary making tea for comfort, we are settled, rhythmic, symbiotic. I screw up my computer and he fixes it.
--Mother (Re)produces
When we met, 15 years ago, I hung like a suspended key waiting for a piano to fall out of the sky. An impossibility, you say; but he landed straight on me. He bought me a beer and some crisps, and I punched his girlfriend. Then I punched his ex-girlfriend, and after that he and I were like a tangled tube unraveling an endless ball of string, no end, no hope or desire for disambiguation.
Now, like a sweet anniversary making tea for comfort, we are settled, rhythmic, symbiotic. I screw up my computer and he fixes it.
--Mother (Re)produces
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Saturday Film Series
I've put this film on YouTube. It has a bigger screen than Blogger, and can be converted to full-screen with one of the controls in the bottom right. You'll find it here.
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