Steve Prosapio reports that his novel GHOSTS OF ROSEWOOD ASYLUM (Facelift 679) will be published in June by Otherworld Publishing.
Steve kindly (and justifiably) gives 100% of the credit to us.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Success Story
Steve Prosapio reports that his novel GHOSTS OF ROSEWOOD ASYLUM (Facelift 679) will be published in June by Otherworld Publishing.
Steve kindly (and justifiably) gives 100% of the credit to us.
New Beginning 829
There was something odd about Strangley Lane. Actually, there were many things odd about Strangley Lane. The houses along the lane were odd, as were the people who lived in them. The little newsagent’s shop was odd, and sold odd things. The church was odd, with odd little gargoyles peering down from the steeple. Even the vicar, who preached from the pulpit, was not as you would expect; yet oddly, the congregation never seemed to notice.
The only person in Strangley Lane who wasn’t odd was Spud. -- though isn’t being the only person who isn’t odd, just a little bit odd?
They called him Spud because you can’t get much more ordinary than a potato.
It was said the name Strangley came from the fact that the path led to the gallows which dispatched the black of heart in the olden days. It was said that it was the daily passage of condemned souls through the village that had imparted much of the oddness on the lane. Spud thought otherwise.
Rather, he thought to himself in an oddly quotidian manner, the oddness was an artifact of the town's long defunct lithium mine and refinery just outside town limits. The half dozen spires still appeared to respire scant wisps of effluvium from time to time, even though the doors had closed many years ago, and the condemned souls no longer passed through the village on their way to the lithium industry's oddly meagre employ.
No, the oddness had its fores within the boundaries of what was rumoured to have been a failed Superfund site, despite the assurances of the oddly agreeable team of remediations specialists sent by Union Carbide. They appeared, and as quickly disappeared, shortly after the outsourcing of the entire plant's production to an oddly aboriginal village unencumbered by the profit-trimming burdens of minimum wage and child labor laws, and other bourgeoisie constraints to free enterprise.
Soon thereafter, the dankmoat encircling the former compound began spreading even as the edges crumbled inward with a curious alkali exudate that never completely dried. Every spring, since the mine's entrance had been shuttered and the refinery's whistle silenced, clots of granular yet oddly viscous ordure percolated through the ground like grim fairy circles. The breezes had always carried the oddly metallic scent of proto-pharmaceutical production out over the river, and only on the warmest nights did the town become bathed in the refinery's distinctive odor. "Uncle Carbide's in town again," the residents would whisper, oddly complacent and unruffled by the fine slurry of metallic silt that accumulated in their gutters and sifted into their oddly planted gardens.
Spud secretly relished his ordinariness; a silent rebellion against the even oddness of the populace. He'd never experienced the hair loss, dry mouth, itching, or joint pain of the news agent, or the constipation, gas, bloating and restlessness of the blacksmith. Nor had he been subject to the village idiot's inability to control shaking a body part; let alone his frequent urination. The vicar's crossed eyes seemed to linger a bit longer on him than he'd thought appropriate for a man of his station, but perhaps it was just the excess saliva in the vicar's mouth that seemed, well, odd.
His wife, a pale, acned lass with thin, brittle hair and a slurred manner of speech, considered him oddly appealing despite his mundane demeanour and unexceptional appearance. Not long after their first awkward kiss at the foot of the old gallows, she bestowed him with the moniker he carried, a result of an oddly memorable date that resulted in the need for immediate medical attention. His erection had lasted more than four hours before becoming painful, but he'd experienced a sudden, severe loss of vision and a rash before fainting away. This man, she told herself, would be hers, if he survived.
"Spud", she softly called to him as he lay in the doctor's anteroom, awaiting his return. "My poor spud, my spud horse, my love. I'll pake care of you, I'll pry anything, anything at all, just pell me you'll live."
Opening: anon......Continuation: Mistress Claudia Balzac
The only person in Strangley Lane who wasn’t odd was Spud. -- though isn’t being the only person who isn’t odd, just a little bit odd?
They called him Spud because you can’t get much more ordinary than a potato.
It was said the name Strangley came from the fact that the path led to the gallows which dispatched the black of heart in the olden days. It was said that it was the daily passage of condemned souls through the village that had imparted much of the oddness on the lane. Spud thought otherwise.
Rather, he thought to himself in an oddly quotidian manner, the oddness was an artifact of the town's long defunct lithium mine and refinery just outside town limits. The half dozen spires still appeared to respire scant wisps of effluvium from time to time, even though the doors had closed many years ago, and the condemned souls no longer passed through the village on their way to the lithium industry's oddly meagre employ.
No, the oddness had its fores within the boundaries of what was rumoured to have been a failed Superfund site, despite the assurances of the oddly agreeable team of remediations specialists sent by Union Carbide. They appeared, and as quickly disappeared, shortly after the outsourcing of the entire plant's production to an oddly aboriginal village unencumbered by the profit-trimming burdens of minimum wage and child labor laws, and other bourgeoisie constraints to free enterprise.
Soon thereafter, the dankmoat encircling the former compound began spreading even as the edges crumbled inward with a curious alkali exudate that never completely dried. Every spring, since the mine's entrance had been shuttered and the refinery's whistle silenced, clots of granular yet oddly viscous ordure percolated through the ground like grim fairy circles. The breezes had always carried the oddly metallic scent of proto-pharmaceutical production out over the river, and only on the warmest nights did the town become bathed in the refinery's distinctive odor. "Uncle Carbide's in town again," the residents would whisper, oddly complacent and unruffled by the fine slurry of metallic silt that accumulated in their gutters and sifted into their oddly planted gardens.
Spud secretly relished his ordinariness; a silent rebellion against the even oddness of the populace. He'd never experienced the hair loss, dry mouth, itching, or joint pain of the news agent, or the constipation, gas, bloating and restlessness of the blacksmith. Nor had he been subject to the village idiot's inability to control shaking a body part; let alone his frequent urination. The vicar's crossed eyes seemed to linger a bit longer on him than he'd thought appropriate for a man of his station, but perhaps it was just the excess saliva in the vicar's mouth that seemed, well, odd.
His wife, a pale, acned lass with thin, brittle hair and a slurred manner of speech, considered him oddly appealing despite his mundane demeanour and unexceptional appearance. Not long after their first awkward kiss at the foot of the old gallows, she bestowed him with the moniker he carried, a result of an oddly memorable date that resulted in the need for immediate medical attention. His erection had lasted more than four hours before becoming painful, but he'd experienced a sudden, severe loss of vision and a rash before fainting away. This man, she told herself, would be hers, if he survived.
"Spud", she softly called to him as he lay in the doctor's anteroom, awaiting his return. "My poor spud, my spud horse, my love. I'll pake care of you, I'll pry anything, anything at all, just pell me you'll live."
Opening: anon......Continuation: Mistress Claudia Balzac
Success Story
Dave F. reports:
"The Night Dickie Ward's Tongue Stuck To The Flagpole," which was New Beginning 822 (the plot turned out to be that three teenage brothers confront an alien threat in the Ice Hockey Rink circa late 40's early 50's), was accepted and will be published in the anthology "DIESELPUNK" edited by Sean Monaghan.
BTW - I really liked the way this story turned out. The minions get credit for the first 2/3rds and the turn to dieselpunk clarified the ending. That is, no modern equipment.
The anthology is still open so if anyone has a short story that fits Dieselpunk subgenre or if they can fix up a story to fit the subgenre, they should go to http://www.staticmovement.com/ which is Static Movement's main page and find this link
"http://staticmovement.
For those who don't know: Steampunk's bastard cousin, Dieselpunk looks for speculative fiction filled with rugged, chunky engines but no sign of electronics. What would the would be like if we still had those huge 1950s aircraft, locomotives, tanks and cars, but no computers?
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Sunday Feature 24
I searched BN.com for books about grammar and found ten that had amusing titles. Then I made up six additional titles. Your job is to figure out which of the following titles are not grammar books available at BN.com.
Woe is I
Spunk and Bite
Anguished English
Comma Chameleon
Linguistics for Losers
The Great Typo Hunt
The Elephants of Style
Origins of the Specious
How to Write Good, Period
Not Your Gramma's Grammar
The Years of Talking Dangerously
When You Catch an Adjective, Kill It
Grammar Snobs Are Great Big Meanies
The Grammar Geek Settles the Arguments
Reading the OED: One Man, One Year, 21,730 Pages
Punctuation is for Pussies: How the Internet Made Grammar Irrelevant
Answers Below
The fake titles are:
Comma Chameleon
Linguistics for Losers
How to Write Good, Period
Not Your Gramma's Grammar
The Grammar Geek Settles the Arguments
Punctuation is for Pussies: How the Internet Made Grammar Irrelevant
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Book Chat 35
Book Chat 35 Alan Bradley/The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie
Alan [The author] said... Hello, all.
Evil Editor said...Hello, thanks for coming. Usually the longer chats are those for books we didn't like, so I have a feeling this will be a shorter one.
Robin B. said...I've marked my copy of this novel up so much with favorite lines, it looks like I happily studied for a test.
Dave Fragments said...I did like the book and I already sent it to a 12 year old niece.
Sylvia said...I liked the book and am giving it to an 86-year-old friend.
Alan said...I'm happy to hear you gave the book to a 12-year-old reader. I've had mail from readers ranging in age from 8 to 95.
Mother (Re)produces. said...I just finished the book; I had to order the English version, so I haven't had a chance to pass it on to my kids. I can't imagine any child not wanting to be Flavia, though.
Robin B. said...Agree, Mother Re, about kids (of all ages) wanting to be Flavia.
Evil Editor said...So, Flavia is an international sensation?
Alan said...Flavia is doing very well internationally, thanks. At the moment, she's appearing in 34 countries and in 31 languages.
Mother (Re)produces said...The German translation has been well received, to be sure.
Alan said...I did a reading/signing tour of Germany in October. The second book had just appeared in paperback and jumped onto Der Spiegel's bestseller list in about a week. It was wonderful: I had an entourage of four, including a puppeteer! I'm very proud of the German edition, by the way. It's a beautifully designed book .... and its fans are pretty special, too.
Mother (Re)produces said...Puppeteer! Did the puppet yell 'Vale' and jump a lot?
Alan said...One of the puppets (she was a boozy ballerina) climbed into the laps of the gentlemen in the audience, which brought great hoots of laughter from their wives. The event in east Berlin was in a 1930's dance hall that was right out of "Cabaret". I wish you could have seen it.
Evil Editor said...Puppeteers should be a staple of all book readings.
MC said...This was meant for the adult market, right? I was fascinated to see Middle and High schoolers gobble it up.
Alan said...Yes, it was aimed at the adult market, but was also meant for (as they say) anyone who likes that sort of thing.
Dave Fragments said...I liked Flavia's voice. She has a certain snideness that is endearing in a storyteller. And being a scientist who wants to see more scientists come into the world, I like her preoccupation with chemistry. The younger kids might need a dictionary, but by high school they should have that vocabulary. I like that she deduces things. She thinks.
Alan said...I'm glad you like the science in the books. I wanted to recapture that huge surge of power and competency one feels at 11.
Robin B. said...What I loved most of all about your book, Alan, was the voice of Flavia - never too much - just right. She took me right into her world, and kept me there. The story was wonderfully drawn.
Evil Editor said...She's a character one would never tire of. Though that may change when she hits her teens.
stacy said...I adored Flavia. I remember feeling precocious. It was terrific to feel that again, even through another character.
Sylvia said...I loved the fact that although I knew Flavia was unreliable, I was never more than a step ahead of her in solving the mystery. I quite happily followed her on wrong turns.
Alan said...Yes, Sylvia. I follow her on her wrong turns, too! When Flavia walked onto the page, she came equipped with house, family, village, history. I've tried to describe them as I see them, but that doesn't work. I had to learn to shut up and let Flavia describe her world. It's been a lot easier since then.
fairyhedgehog said...I forget she's an unreliable narrator. I got confused by the "Vale" incident, that she didn't know how it was pronounced even though she'd heard it not read it. Or am I misremembering?
Mother (Re)produces. said...No, FHH, you're not. That 'Vale' thing drove me a bit nutty too.
Sylvia said...I was confused by the Vale reference too. I read it as Vail and then when she saw Vale and explained that's how HB had pronounced it, I was a bit surprised.
Alan said...The "vale" utterance hinges upon several different points: she hears Horace Bonepenny say it, and then, during his "confession" she hears her father say it. She also talks to Dr. Kissing. Only one reader, so far, has noticed that the word is in the singular: "vale!" - not "valete" - that Twining was addressing one particular person.
Mother (Re)produces. said...Twining? But he was already dead.
Alan said...Yes, Twining was dead, but his actions were reported by Father. We also had Miss Mountjoy's (the niece's view of things) as well as the retired Dr. Kissing's.
Mother (Re)produces. said...Ok; I'll have to go back and re-read that part; I thought it was Horace who yelled 'Vale' just before he pushed the already dead Twining off the roof...
Sylvia said...Flavia was so interesting to me because I did not find her easy to like at the beginning, she's very condescending. But the small things - the reality - shines through in tiny touches. Her sister's piano playing, missing her father, the details of her mother. They made my heart ache even before I understood the girl in any sort of sensible way.
Mother (Re)produces said...Yes, that's true. I did find Flavia hard to like at the beginning. I still hope to see her get taken down a peg someday, but I find her fear of admitting she's wrong, or has misjudged someone very real for her age. I have to be honest, I worry about the relationship with her father. He was obviously hurt enormously by his father sending him to boarding school, so I suspect he must be trying to open up a bit to his daughters, but finds it impossible without Harriet...
Sylvia said...MotherRe, I thought the father was badly broken both by his father (no role model) and by the loss of his wife. Still, there was never a doubt that he loved his children and was very protective of them. But because he was so flawed, the girls were equally protective of him.
Mother (Re)produces said...I know Sylvia; I think that's not unusual in real life; I just meant that he does talk at length about how his father's distance was so painful to him, I'm kind of waiting for him to figure out how to make good for his daughters. I think he just can't figure out how, given his age and generation and does it by giving them what he thinks they need-piano, literature, or a lab.
Dave Fragments said...After WWW1 and WW2, Britain contained lots of broken or half-broken men. There are quite a few in the literature. Worse yet, the period after WW2 in Britain was a time of deprivation and sacrifice. It wasn't so in the USA where the economy boomed thanks to the industrialization of big cities and the GI Bill.
Alan said...Without giving away any secrets, I can assure you that there's much much more to come about Father - in fact, about all the family. We really only get glimpses of them as Flavia sees fit to reveal.
Sylvia said...Yes, I love that. Little touches - her memory of them passing silly notes during the lectures - kept reaffirming the deep connection between the sisters even as she's telling us that it's her against them. The familial relationships were never in doubt, for me. I'm looking forward to reading more - and it's nice to hear there's quite a bit more to come.
Mother (Re)produces. said...Yes, I knew there must be more. I love the way the girls band together when it really counts, and try to kill each other as a hobby. (Did I mention I have three daughters?) This is very real.
Alan said...Mother, Best regards to your three daughters. I hope they're kinder to one another than the de Luces. I also had two older sisters.
Mother (Re)produces said...Aha! So you're Flavia! :) Yes, they are much kinder than the de Luca, but they do fight, sometimes passionately over meaningless little things; I just meant the shift to being friends again is immediate and 100% when it needs to be.
Dave Fragments said...One thing that did hit me like a brick was the confession by Flavia's father about his friends at the school and the magic. I don't know too many father's who would be that confessional to their 11-year-old daughters. There was more behind that scene than Flavia and him in a room.
Alan said...Yes, there is much more between Father and Flavia than meets the eye. It's important to remember that each book is, so to speak, just one slice of the pie. Not all will be revealed until the end of the last book.
Evil Editor said...Maybe he thought he was talking to Harriet.
Dave Fragments said...Well, EE, I think that Flavia is really unreliable. She's a kid telling HER story and no one else's. She never lets on to her sisters being involved and in the end, they rescue her because they are observant too. There's a wonderful 11-year-old biased vision that we see things through. Part of solving the mystery is seeing the truth behind her somewhat limited vision.
Alan said...I suppose, in a way that Flavia is 11 and in another way, she's 45. I was like that as a I kid, I hate to admit.
Mother (Re)produces. said...Why do you hate to admit it? I never met anyone who grew up completely evenly. I prefer to look like I'm 45 and act like I'm 11.
Robin B. said...Oh, that's interesting - about Flavia and her father. Well, now I absolutely have to keep reading! One of my favorite things about this novel was how, even and especially in turmoil, Flavia's thoughts make you smile. on page 305 of my American paperback version, after 'Pemberton' has her just about cornered, Flavia says, about being told to kick a man in his Casanovas, "the only problem was that I didn't know where the Casanovas were located." Ha! That was wonderful, and it said so much about Flavia.
Evil Editor said...What did you mean, the "last" book, Alan? Has the number of books been set in stone?
Alan said...There are six books presently contracted for. The third is being published next week and I'm at work on the fifth. Will there be more after that? I don't know. The publishers hope there will. Only Flavia knows for sure! But there's a definite six book story arc (I hate that word).
Evil Editor said...I've read all 45 Nero Wolfe books (twice). It would be nice if you could churn out 45 Flavia books.
Sylvia said...The setting and description were wonderful too. Some books (I think especially focused on young protagonists) could take place anywhere; the story has a location but you could pick it up and drop it someplace else with only a minor edit job. Sweetness is so entrenched in its place and time, you couldn't possibly move it, you'd rip out the heart of the story.
Robin B said...How did you decide on the title, Alan?
Alan said...Robin B -The title came before the book - by quite a long time, in fact. I didn't know what it was or what it meant. I put it away in a notebook, and when I was well into the first Flavia book, I realized that I already had the title.
Robin B. said...Alan, that's wonderful about the title coming to you a while back and sitting in your notebook until you were writing the novel. Your brain must've been mapping this story out long before it 'told' you about it! I have also come to loathe the words 'story arc'. That said, I'm now dying to find out about the father and daughter under-the-scene story, so there you go! What I really loved about your opening was that it took its own time - there was no big fanfare - Flavia was trapped in a closet, and she calmly figured her way out of it - and this told the reader everything, well almost everything, they needed to know. Then, in the next scene, we find out in an elegantly 'simple' way, the family set up, ages and all, beginning with the pig tails needing to be put in their 'regulation position'.
stacy said...The keeping her fingers arched while her sisters tied her up told me everything I needed to know about her. And I have to say, being the youngest of three kids, I experienced a lot of my own "adventures" with my siblings - though I was not nearly as resourceful as Flavia. She's wonderfully confident.
Sylvia said...I agree with Robin, the opening scene was brilliant - immediate action and then the explanation, which told us so much about Flavia in such an interesting way.
stacy said...What cracked me up about the opening was that I assumed she was going to be this international spy or something (I knew nothing about the book before reading it). And she turned out to be eleven! I had to laugh at myself for that one.
Robin B. said...I loved the pace. Your novel's popularity tells the tale, doesn't it? The supposed new, must-be-quick-and-sharp way to do fiction doesn't always please the senses of readers.
Alan said...Robin B I'm glad you like the pacing. The book is set in 1950, and couldn't possibly be written to conform to today's pace. It tends to be enjoyed by patient people. :)
Dave Fragments said...Today you would have to deal with cellphones and internet. Almost no reason to go talk to anyone or search a library... It is the journey of discovery that makes a mystery.
Robin B. said...Flat out, I loved this book. I adore her world - the way she wear her mother's clothes that were almost removed in the Purge, the way she locks herself up in her sanctum sanctorum, her actual thinking 'cap...
Dave Fragments said...I've always noticed in most mysteries I've read that something else is happening in the background and almost out of sight of the main character. There are other forces moving around the main character and almost completely out of his or her control. Flavia gets a leg up on the authorities because she found the body. Had she not launched herself into solving the mystery but reported everything to the authorities, the inspector might have found the killer first.
Alan said...Dave, That's true - but then there would have been no story - and no Flavia. I actually tried writing from a third person viewpoint and it simply didn't work. That's when Flavia showed up and took over.
Dave Fragments said...Of course. I didn't mean that as a criticism. I meant it as a compliment. And that POV makes the book. Flavia telling the story is the fun part. No matter how unreliable she is, she's fun.
Sylvia said...Flavia gets a leg up not only because she found the body. She overheard the night-time visitor and saw the jackdaw with the stamp. She had a lot of inside knowledge that wasn't shared. That's what made me laugh when she crowed about how much cleverer she was than them, when really she had a much stronger starting point. I'll give her full credit for noticing the slice missing out of the pie though. That wasn't just luck. And she's a great bluffer - even when talking to herself. My son is like that, too. It was interesting to see from the inside.
Evil Editor said...You know how when you find that special book or movie that strikes a chord with you and you think, No one else could possibly appreciate this to the extent that I do, it's mine!? This is one of those books. Of course you always find out millions of other people feel the same.
Anonymous Alan said...Evil Thanks for your kind comments. The response to Flavia from around the world has been absolutely overwhelming. There are days that I wake up and wonder if I'm in the right body! The books are bestsellers in Taiwan, Norway, the Nehterlands, Japan, Germany - it's humbling to receive such heartfelt letters and to realize that all people, everywhere, have the same problems and aspirations.
Robin B. said...Agree EE - that's exactly how I felt about this book! The 'it's mine' feeling - it's now part of me. This type of book is seldom written.
Evil Editor said...May we assume someone wants to put Flavia on the big screen?
Alan said...Re movies: There have been many offers for movie rights, but as I keep telling them, it makes me extremely uncomfortable to think of someone working my garden while I'm still planting it. I'm responsible to Flavia - and the de Luce family - not to betray them. So maybe someday - but not now.
Sylvia said...Oh yes. Even if you have them planned, it would be very weird to write them while someone else is translating the beginning to screen.
Alan said...Sylvia Exactly!
Mother (Re)produces said...If they try to turn Flavia into a boy, do shoot them for us, ok? I think the world needs a can-do girl.
Robin B. said...Agree, Mother Re. Don't let anyone change the characters or the flavor or the era in a movie, please!
Alan said...No danger of turning Flavia into a boy! I am blessed with the world's best editors. I told them once, "If I ever suggest doing something like "Flavia Goes to Paris" or "Flavia In Hawaii" - shoot me!
Blogger Mother (Re)produces. said...You mean like 'Flavia de Luca and The Arc over the Shark'?
Alan said...That's great "The Arc Over the Shark". May I use that?
Mother (Re)produces. said...No! No! On no account! You promised you wouldn't send her to Hawaii! ;) Of course you may.
stacy said...I was glad to see that the inspector was not exactly a bumbling detective himself. That was refreshing.
Sylvia said...I agree Stacy. If Flavia had been surrounded by incompetent adults, I would not like the story half as much. The fact that she was resourceful and had access to information and avenues that they didn't worked for me.
Robin B. said...I agree, Stacy, about the detective. I liked him, and expected him not to make a mess of things. It was also nice to see him treat Flavia with respect. In the end, when he's drinking tea in her lab, that was a gorgeous scene. Close to two equals.
Mother (Re)produces. said...True, I think part of the fun is that she gets (even if grudging) admiration from adults, which is a position that a lot of 11yos would like to be in...
stacy said...I loved that she used that adult dismissiveness to her advantage sometimes, though.
Alan said...Stacy, Like many 11 year olds, Flavia is a master manipulator - perhaps by necessity.
Evil Editor said...I wonder if the detective, now that he has a new appreciation for Flavia's detecting talents, will be consulting her on his toughest cases.
Alan said...Again with Inspector Hewitt - and his wife, Antigone - there's much more to come.
Mother (Re)produces. said...Ha! Well, with a name like Antigone, that was a bit of a dead give away, wasn't it. I liked the inspector.
Robin B. said...Oh yes, I forgot the inspector's wife was named 'Antigone'. I need to go back and do my due diligence, looking at the myths and stories with these names! I enjoyed the conversation re the name Ophelia, in the novel, that Flavia had with the Dr.
Dave Fragments said..."Antigone" is a name from a bygone and lost era in Britain.
Sylvia said...you've completed three out of six, right?
Alan said...Sylvia, Yes, three out of six are now complete, and I'm at work on the fourth. Enjoying it hugely.
stacy said...I'll be keeping up with the series, as well.
Dave Fragments said...Like I said at the top. I enjoyed the book and had fun with the characters. It's a comfortable read. I'm going to go off an order the next two. I might not read them until late summer but I'll have them around for those dread times when I need to relax and recharge the batteries. When I started this book, it inspired my own little writing binge. the more I enjoy the book, the more I find ways to s write my own silly little short stories.
Alan said...That's great, dave. I encourage you to go for it! The ones who succeed are the ones who never quit.
Dave Fragments said...As someone once said to me: That's the law of the pushover -- "if you push hard enough and long enough, she falls over."
stacy said...Alan, I read your interview at the back of the book. I was amused at how Flavia literally walked onto the page. Is she easy to keep writing, even into the fourth book? She's such a strong character, it seems like she would be. I can't wait to give this to my 14 year-old niece. I think she would really benefit from reading about a girl with such confidence.
Alan said...Flavia is never difficult to write. As long as I don't try to take over and express any of MY ideas! It's a listening process.
Robin B. said...I am so happy that this is the first of a series. I'd seen the second book when I was on Amazon ordering this one, so I knew there was at least a sequel, but now, that's not enough.
Alan said...Robin B, Yes, book three "A Red Herring Without Mustard" will be out on Feb 8th. It's gorgeous - it simply glows! They've also gone back to a hard cover, as with "Sweetness."
Alan said...In conclusion, I might point out that the only one that Flavia treats as an equal is Dogger.
Sylvia said...I should have put in a good word for Dogger too. I saw Flavia as protective over him as her father.
Robin B. said...Mmm. About Dogger - I'll reread parts of the novel with that in mind.
Dave Fragments said...PS - Dogger seems to be Auntie Mame in disguise.
Alan said...Dave LOL!
Evil Editor said...I think you've answered everyone, Alan, and gone above and beyond.
Mother (Re)produces. said...I can't wait to see what my eldest daughter (whose middle name is Flavia, by the way) makes of the book!
Robin B. said...Thanks so much for talking with us today. This has been pure pleasure.
Alan said...Many thanks for asking me. I look forward to hearing from you all again.
Sylvia said...Thank you for coming to talk to us, Alan!
Robin B. said... Amazon pre-order, here I come!
Friday, January 28, 2011
Face-Lift 864
Guess the Plot
The Time Weaver
1. Mihelia, Goddess of Time, must keep playing her enchanted harp so that the strands of time will work in harmony. When Blajer, God of Misrule, starts plucking her strings, events begin to cascade wildly out of sequence. Can she get her harp back into time before Jorus, King of the Gods, gets angry?
2. Cottage industry is thrown into chaos when popular hand-woven mats suddenly transport their hapless owners back in time. Will the middle-class, Prius-driving vegans survive the brutal Stone Age long enough to figure out a way home? Or is Etsy doomed to collapse?
3. As his 30th birthday approaches, Seth suddenly stops the flow of time. Then he finds himself in an alternate universe where wizards on two sides in a war want to harness his power. But all that pales in comparison to the ancient evil that threatens to consume the fabric of space and time and destroy both universes . . . unless Seth stops it.
4. After the straw-to-gold incident, Rumplestiltzkin changed his name to Phil and retired to Bermuda. When the sorcerer who's conquering the world kicks him off his island, Phil decides to get revenge using thread spun from hourglass sand and a spider named Arachne. Also, knitting.
5. Forget time lines- how about a time potholder? God's eye? Macramé plant hanger? Because this is exactly the problem the Time Weaver faces when his daughter, Clockie, gets into his office and runs off with his time threads. Your life's about to be tied into knots, just like his.
6. It is the year 2039, and "Time for a Challenge" is the most popular game show in the solar system. Rex does fine with the more physical challenges, but how can he hope to compete when it's... Weaving Time?
Original Version
Dear Evil Editor,
As a child, Seth sat enthralled through his fathers [father's] vivid stories of sword and sorcery. When his father vanished, it prompted five-year-old Seth to put the stories behind him and live for reality. [I'm not sure what "live for reality" means, but five seems a bit young to decide to do it. In fact, it's a bit young to be making any decisions about your life.] Now he has a house, a car, a good job and a date for his thirtieth birthday. [Not bad for a five-year-old. Although that's way too early to be scheduling a date for his thirtieth birthday.] But all of that changes as a dormant gene awakens within Seth and stops the flow of time. [The worst part is, with time stopped he'll never get to his thirtieth birthday, and he was really looking forward to that date.]
In an alternate universe, the kingdom of Findoor sits on the brink of war with a dark and powerful warlord determined to exact revenge on the land that banished him. [Is time stopped in this universe or just in Seth's universe? If time is stopped, how can anything happen? As I recall, when time stops, everyone freezes in place. Except one person. I saw it on Twilight Zone.] Tensions build between the two factions, with skirmishes breaking out along the Findoor borders. [I'm not sure I'd refer to the kingdom as a faction. If John McCain was pissed about losing the last election and attacked us, you wouldn't call the United States a faction.] [Also, when there's a powerful warlord determined to exact revenge on you, tensions don't build, they're already maxed out.] Wizards on both sides discover a force that will spell a swift end to the war for the side that obtains it. That force is Seth. [Is Seth in their universe or have the wizards detected his existence in his own universe? I don't remember him moving to a new universe.]
Seth struggles to control his new-found powers [What are his powers, besides stopping time?] while being led through a world of magic and creatures unlike anything he has ever known. [Okay, now he's in the wizards' universe, or possibly Venice Beach. But how did he get there? Does stopping time equal switching universes?] Eventually Seth learns that there is more to the escalating war than just black versus white. Something darker and more ancient stirs, an evil that spans generations, and threatens to consume the fabric of space and time. Seth must overcome his own doubt and disbelief to defeat this evil, or watch both worlds get annihilated. [Suddenly the query has gone vague. Plus, it sounds like this evil darker something is the main villain of the novel, in which case maybe we should work it into the query earlier, cutting some of the backstory. Perhaps open with the awakening gene, even if it means we don't find out about Seth's birthday date.]
THE TIME WEAVER, an 80,000-word fantasy, leaves an unlikely hero in a world that is not his own, with an ability he never wanted, and fighting a war he didn't start. [It's a rare person who can claim to have started a war he's fighting in.]
Notes
Can you make it clear how Seth's power can make it easy to win the war? Can he stop time just for one side? Or is it his other powers they want?
If an awakened dormant gene stopped the flow of time, how can it be started again?
Thursday, January 27, 2011
New Beginning 828
“There's a storm coming, Mum!” Aimon Alexander hefted the bag of scuba gear over the side of his mother's jet boat, turning to face her as she walked down the front steps of their seaside cottage. “Look at the Reef – I saw lightning!” He gestured at the distant cumulus cluster steadily gathering grey. The sight of the churning clouds made his hands sticky with sweat and the hair rise on the back of his neck.
"It's all right," she said. "You've got the bag in the right place. Now just start the boat and let her go."
"OK." He turned the key. The boat rewarded him with a deep, angry roar. Leaping from the stern, he watched as the boat nosed her way into the sea. Soon he lost sight of the white mass amongst the choppy waves.
"See?" said his mother. "All taken care of."
"Will we get her back?" asked Aimon. "I liked Swiftrunner.
"Maybe. But if we don't, we can get you another one, all right?"
He nodded. His mother was right: this was much cheaper than a divorce, and far less messy.
Opening: GN Forester.....Continuation: Khazar-khum
"It's all right," she said. "You've got the bag in the right place. Now just start the boat and let her go."
"OK." He turned the key. The boat rewarded him with a deep, angry roar. Leaping from the stern, he watched as the boat nosed her way into the sea. Soon he lost sight of the white mass amongst the choppy waves.
"See?" said his mother. "All taken care of."
"Will we get her back?" asked Aimon. "I liked Swiftrunner.
"Maybe. But if we don't, we can get you another one, all right?"
He nodded. His mother was right: this was much cheaper than a divorce, and far less messy.
Opening: GN Forester.....Continuation: Khazar-khum
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Face-Lift 863
Guess the Plot
The Forest's Paw
1. Trees spring up in the middle of the interstate, rabbit warrens pop up mid-game on the football field. Humans are toast. After centuries of being burnt, made into furniture and eaten, Flora and Fauna have banded together for revenge.
2. When the great redwood forest is threatened by a greedy developer, Alya the fairy must convince her people to stop their eternal war with the elves and join together to keep their forest free. Also, the Wolf King.
3. Drake comes from a long line of smugglers, conmen, lumberjacks and polluting industrialists. When he decides to run for governor on an eco-platform, (un)natural disasters ensue.
4. A giant bear has been sleeping for centuries, and now, there's a whole forest growing on his back. When meddlesome hikers awaken him, can they escape... The Forest's Paw?
5. Bess is trying to protect the last earth spirit from assassins with the help of a goat-boy, but what hope do they have against the vicious vegetation, hideous harpies and murderous mermaids they encounter?
6. More people have disappeared there than in the Bermuda Triangle, so many that the area's been declared off-limits to hikers. Naturally that only inspires Brad and Chelsea to explore . . . The Forest's Paw.
Original Version
Dear Evil Editor,
When Bess finds a tiny, half-drowned wolf cub, it seems harmless. And it is, more or less. Unfortunately, those pursuing it are quite the opposite. Soon Bess is running from the Givers, beautiful assassins who want to kill her and capture the wolf, [They sound more like Takers than Givers.] who is really the last free earth spirit. They act for the Black Angels, self-appointed dictators, in an attempt to regain their magic. [Is that the Givers' magic or the dictators' magic?] It will mean the death of all the earth spirits, and the plants they protect, if they succeed.
Bess is in too deep to turn back when she realises they’re chasing her wolf. Leaving her uncomfortable but once safe home, [It's already been established that she's running from assassins and that it's too late to turn back, yet now you declare that she's leaving her home.] she makes her way to the Black Angels’ lair to free the other spirits. Along the way, she teams up with an immature goat-boy, a cheerful child, an obnoxious woman and a glowing cluster of moths. Her courage is tested as they face vicious vegetation, hideous harpies and murderous mermaids. [One list is plenty for a query; I recommend dumping the alliterative one. Mostly because the alliteration is annoying, but also because it leads me to wonder what mermaids are doing in a forest.] [You can drop the cheerful child from the other list as well, not only because of the alliteration, but because once you've mentioned the immature goat-boy, we won't care about any allies or enemies except the immature goat-boy.] That she never knew so many of the dangers even existed, that her ‘cub’ keeps growing in size, and that everyone seems to have their own secrets only further complicates matters, not to mention the love triangle Bess is unknowingly a part of. [Is the immature goat-boy part of the love triangle? Please say Yes.] [This list of complications is vague and most of the items on it don't seem like big complications anyway, and what about the immature goat-boy?]
At least she can see the ghosts of animals. That’s always useful.
THE FOREST’S PAW is a completed 67,000 young adult, fantasy novel. It is a stand-alone with series potential.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Yours sincerely,
Notes
I would mention either the Givers or the Black Angels as the bad guys. We don't need both in the query.
Focus on Bess's goal and her plan. I'd scrap everything after she makes her way to the Black Angels' lair, and tell us what happens after she gets there instead of what characters she met along the way.
They may not use any title you come up with, but try to come up with something that sounds like it makes sense.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
New Beginning 827
“I’ve got nothing to do,” I told Mum.
“I’ve got a headache. You need to play quietly, Oliver.”
“Playing quietly is boring. It’s not fun without Jack.”
But Mum had already shut the door to her bedroom. Why did all my toys look so dull whenever Jack was out? Maybe there was something fun in the kitchen.
Nope, the tidy kitchen was as quiet as the rest of the house. What about the fridge? I wasn’t hungry. Well, not really hungry. Not hungry enough to eat a carrot, but I would munch on something tasty.
And that’s when I saw it. How could I have forgotten yesterday’s birthday dinner?
The cake. The fattest, squashiest cake ever. It was so tall it couldn’t fit in your mouth, even if you opened up as wide as it could go. It was a moist, gooey chocolate cake that stuck to your tongue. There was a shiny frosting on top, so deep that the red cherries sunk almost all the way through. A layer of raspberry jam ran through the middle, so the top and bottom bits stuck together.
It looked so yumalicious.
There wasn’t much left. How could this wedge be shared between us all? It would need to be cut into tiny, thin bits for everyone.
But what if the cake had gone bad? Then nobody would be able to eat it.
I had to make sure that it was still ok.
Very carefully, I lifted the cake from the fridge. It looked fine. I had a sniff. What a sweet, creamy smell.
But how could I be sure it was still good?
“Hey, buddy. What'cha got? Some cake?”
I turned around, and there was Jack! His fur shone in the morning light through the kitchen window, and his silly floppy ears were waving around. He smiled, showing his funny buck teeth.
“I'm just making sure it's okay.” I held the plate out to him. “Want some?”
“No thanks, pal. I'm an herbivore.” He looked at the kitchen door. “Where's your mum?”
“Aw, she's lying down. She has a headache again.”
“Hmm.” Jack frowned. “Maybe we should check her.”
I set the plate on the counter, and started measuring a slice with the knife. “What do you mean, Jack?”
“You know-- take a look inside. Make sure everything's tick-tock and shipshape. Like with the cake.”
I decided on a fair-sized piece. Pretty big, but not so huge Da would be cross. He told Mum I was 'porky', one night when they thought I was asleep. “You're silly, Jack.”
“Well, if you don't care about her...”
Same old Jack, with his games. 'Let's see what's inside puppies'. 'Let's find out what makes kittens go'. 'Let's make Danny Haskins stop taking your lunch'. I cut the cake and put a chunk in my mouth, pressing it flat to fit. Raspberry filling oozed over my fingers. I dropped the knife into the sink so I could lick my hands. “Are you sure you don't want some?” My voice was muffled, but Jack always understood me. “It's yumalicious.”
Jack shook his head. “I should'a picked a skinny kid,” he muttered.
Opening: Anony Mouse.....Continuation: Sean
“I’ve got a headache. You need to play quietly, Oliver.”
“Playing quietly is boring. It’s not fun without Jack.”
But Mum had already shut the door to her bedroom. Why did all my toys look so dull whenever Jack was out? Maybe there was something fun in the kitchen.
Nope, the tidy kitchen was as quiet as the rest of the house. What about the fridge? I wasn’t hungry. Well, not really hungry. Not hungry enough to eat a carrot, but I would munch on something tasty.
And that’s when I saw it. How could I have forgotten yesterday’s birthday dinner?
The cake. The fattest, squashiest cake ever. It was so tall it couldn’t fit in your mouth, even if you opened up as wide as it could go. It was a moist, gooey chocolate cake that stuck to your tongue. There was a shiny frosting on top, so deep that the red cherries sunk almost all the way through. A layer of raspberry jam ran through the middle, so the top and bottom bits stuck together.
It looked so yumalicious.
There wasn’t much left. How could this wedge be shared between us all? It would need to be cut into tiny, thin bits for everyone.
But what if the cake had gone bad? Then nobody would be able to eat it.
I had to make sure that it was still ok.
Very carefully, I lifted the cake from the fridge. It looked fine. I had a sniff. What a sweet, creamy smell.
But how could I be sure it was still good?
“Hey, buddy. What'cha got? Some cake?”
I turned around, and there was Jack! His fur shone in the morning light through the kitchen window, and his silly floppy ears were waving around. He smiled, showing his funny buck teeth.
“I'm just making sure it's okay.” I held the plate out to him. “Want some?”
“No thanks, pal. I'm an herbivore.” He looked at the kitchen door. “Where's your mum?”
“Aw, she's lying down. She has a headache again.”
“Hmm.” Jack frowned. “Maybe we should check her.”
I set the plate on the counter, and started measuring a slice with the knife. “What do you mean, Jack?”
“You know-- take a look inside. Make sure everything's tick-tock and shipshape. Like with the cake.”
I decided on a fair-sized piece. Pretty big, but not so huge Da would be cross. He told Mum I was 'porky', one night when they thought I was asleep. “You're silly, Jack.”
“Well, if you don't care about her...”
Same old Jack, with his games. 'Let's see what's inside puppies'. 'Let's find out what makes kittens go'. 'Let's make Danny Haskins stop taking your lunch'. I cut the cake and put a chunk in my mouth, pressing it flat to fit. Raspberry filling oozed over my fingers. I dropped the knife into the sink so I could lick my hands. “Are you sure you don't want some?” My voice was muffled, but Jack always understood me. “It's yumalicious.”
Jack shook his head. “I should'a picked a skinny kid,” he muttered.
Opening: Anony Mouse.....Continuation: Sean
Success Story
Dave F. reports:Static Movement picked up my short story "Roll Another Joint For me, Baby!" (New Beginning 779).
It will appear in an Anthology titled Like Frozen Statues of Flesh: A Bizarro Anthology. The anthology should appear sometime in the summer.
Thanks to EE and everyone else for the help and encouragement.
Monday, January 24, 2011
New Resource
I can ill afford to let anyone who comes to this site with a query letter take it elsewhere, as there are currently zero (0) queries in the queue. Nonetheless, I've been asked to mention that there's a new site called Query Goblin, where you may send your query and have it rewritten but without receiving EE's humor and comments (which may be the only reason you haven't sent your query to EE).
Face-Lift 862
Guess the Plot
Sins of the Past
1. If having Vlad Tepes as a distant ancestor is wrong, I don't wanna be right.
2. An overzealous pastor stumbles across a time machine and sets out to convert every accursed heathen through history.
3. When a retired teacher of special needs students is murdered, police immediately suspect her former students were seeking revenge for all the past times she made them confess to being naughty, even when they weren't.
4. When the director of the Natural History Museum turns up half submerged in the La Brea Tar Pits, homicide Detective Zack Martinez knows two things: anthropology is a dirty business, and he'd better pick up a stuffed woolly mammoth from the gift shop for the kids.
5. In 2045 the Earth’s climate is wildly unpredictable because of decades of CO2 emissions. Ussiah, a Mennonite priest, can forecast the weather with meticulous accuracy. When a massive hurricane heads toward the US coast, the government asks Ussiah to predict its path, but he refuses to cooperate unless the country repents.
6. During a psychic reading, fashionista Tiffany learns the reason she can’t get a date; she was a heartless supermodel in her past life. To satisfy karma, Tiffany must transform Melvin, the nerdiest boy in high school, into a hunk. But can she do it before prom?
7. Devout youth turn to Father Kevin for confession. He understands their world and knows exactly what penance to prescribe for cyber-bullying or pirate downloads. But he's stymied when a mysterious stranger shows up to confess ox-coveting, regicide, obscene semaphores, and other . . . sins of the past.
8. Millie's mother was hung as a witch. Her aunt has been sheltering her ever since, trying to keep her from the prying eyes of the local law. But Millie can't stop playing with bones, cats and candles. Is she just a curious girl, or is she really her mother's daughter?
9. Jeb congratulates himself on getting away with murder – literally. But when the corpses of his victims rise up and threaten humanity’s future, Jeb must find a way to atone for his . . . Sins of the Past.
Original Version
Dear Evil Editor,
Teachers are being killed; brutally, systematically. Each murder more horrifying than the last. [I blame video games, rap music and the Internet.]
Detective Harry MacCormick hated working Saturday nights. [I see we've switched from present tense to past already.] All the garbage happened on Saturday nights, from teenagers wrapping their cars around trees, to alcohol fueled couple disputes; at least a dead body wouldn't hurl drunken slurs at him. [That last phrase would make sense if it came after Harry was called to a murder scene.] When he is called to investigate a retired teacher's murder, he hopes to clear the matter up quickly and get back to his loved ones, chips and beer. [Change that last comma to a colon so it's clear that he has no actual loved ones, or at least none he wants to get back to.] But Harry soon discovers that this is only the beginning. [To me, this implies that he's unable to get back to his chips and beer because of additional murders. I doubt the additional murders occur that soon.] [I recommend dumping the first paragraph and the first two sentences of the second. Open with the phone call, and it might go like this:
When he is called to investigate a retired teacher's murder, Detective Harry MacCormick hopes to clear the matter up quickly and get back to his loved ones: chips and beer. But Harry soon discovers that this is only the beginning, as over the next eight hours three more retired teachers are brutally slain, one with safety scissors thrust into her eye, one with colored pencils shoved up her nostrils, another battered to death with a Garfield lunchbox. The media dubs it all the work of the Kindergarten Killer, the Moppet Murderer, the Elementary School Executioner.]
Who has motive for such crimes? Is it one of the former students of the first murdered teacher, who Harry soon discovers were being forced to confess by the teachers and principal to incidents that they didn't do? [People don't "do" incidents.] [I want an example of whatever these children were forced to confess. Timmy, either you confess that you spilled my coffee, or I call in Borgo the Disemboweler.] Or perhaps the janitor, with his checkered past of involvement in sexual abuse scandals? [I told you we should have hired kindly old Mr. Goodfellow as school janitor instead of the guy with past involvement in sexual abuse scandals.] [How many sexual abuse scandals do you get before your past is no longer labeled "checkered"? This guy sounds more like he has a Sorry! past.]
Along with detectives John Defazio, his best friend on the force for ten years, who is about to be a father for the second time with his fiancee, and Jennifer Reed, a detective for only five years, but headstrong and determined to make a name for herself, Harry races against time to stop this madman before he kills again. [The brief tidbits of information about John and Jen are interfering with whatever tension has been built up.] [Also, as this is clearly the same book as our recent New Beginning, it becomes even stranger that Harry never seems to have any down time now that we know there are at least two other detectives in this small town.]
SINS OF THE PAST is a griping tale [The tale is gripping; griping is what Evil Editor has been doing.] of murder, revenge, and suspense that will keep you guessing about the identity of the killer to the end. [Not me; I've already deduced that the murderer is actor Paul Sorvino.] It is complete at 55,000 words. The full manuscript is available upon request.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Note to EE: The title comes from the first suspects the police have for the murders, the former students of the first murdered teacher, who was a special ed teacher.
[Who do you like for the murder, detective?
Former students is my guess.
But the former students are autistic.
Yeah but their teacher once got them to confess to writing on the walls, so I figure we can get them to confess to this and be done with it.]
She, along with the principal of the school, conspired to blame incidents on the students that they didn't do. And also of one of the other suspects in the murders, the janitor at the school, who was involved in sexual abuse scandals earlier in his life and may have abused some of the students.
Notes
I don't see why the police would suspect one of the students of the first murdered teacher, unless that person was also a student of the other murdered teachers. The motive for killing your teacher is not the same as the motive for killing random teachers.
Focus on the case. We don't need to know what happens on Saturday nights or that John's girlfriend is pregnant.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Sunday Feature 23
Often books listed online have a colon in the title, separating the actual title from a description of the book that appears on the book's cover. I went to BN.com and searched for humorous books about fashion. Below you'll find a list of ten post-colon descriptions followed by a list of ten titles. Match them up.
1. Hope, Heartbreak, and the Search for the Perfect Pair
2. The Indignities of Coach Class, the Torments of Low Thread Count, the Never-Ending Quest for Artisanal Olive Oil, and Other First World Problems
3. A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or, The Wonder Years before the Condescending, Egomanical, Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase
4. An Illustrated Faux History Of Outrageous Trends And Their Untimely Demise
5. Nursery Rhymes for the Blahnik Brigade
6. Fashion Forecasts and Meaningless Misguidance
7. The Sweet Potato Queens' Guide to Preserving Your Assets
8. Your Personal Fashion Consultant
9. A Man's Guide to Style
10. A Guide to Good Manners and Social Survival in Alaska
a. Like I Give a Frock:
b. American Thighs:
c. Paisley Goes with Nothing:
d. Pretty in Plaid:
e. Don't Get Too Comfortable:
f. Fashion Means Your Fur Hat Is Dead:
g. Liberace:
h. This Little Piggy Went to Prada:
i. Forgotten Fashion:
j. It's All About the Shoes:
Scoring:
10 correct: Fashionista Extraordinaire
7 - 8 correct: Swanky Trendsetter
5 - 6 correct: Sloppy Sleaze
0 - 4 correct: Deviant Crudbag
Answers:
Don't Get Too Comfortable: The Indignities of Coach Class, the Torments of Low Thread Count, the Never-Ending Quest for Artisanal Olive Oil, and Other First World Problems
Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or, The Wonder Years before the Condescending, Egomanical, Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase
Forgotten Fashion: An Illustrated Faux History Of Outrageous Trends And Their Untimely Demise
This Little Piggy Went to Prada: Nursery Rhymes for the Blahnik Brigade
Like I Give a Frock: Fashion Forecasts and Meaningless Misguidance
American Thighs: The Sweet Potato Queens' Guide to Preserving Your Assets
Liberace: Your Personal Fashion Consultant
Paisley Goes with Nothing: A Man's Guide to Style
It's All About the Shoes: Hope, Heartbreak, and the Search for the Perfect Pair
Fashion Means Your Fur Hat Is Dead: A Guide to Good Manners and Social Survival in Alaska
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
New Beginning 826
The call came through at 5:50 pm., Detective Harold MacCormick had just settled into the leather chair in his den to watch the news and catch the football highlights. He lifted a large bag of chips off his lap and set them, along with the beer he was holding, on the small table next to the chair.
“Hello?” he said, trying hard to mask the frustration in his voice.
“Harry, it’s Joe. Sorry to cut in on your evening, but we have a stiff in an apartment on East 5th Street,” said Joe Devlin, Harry’s desk sergeant, with genuine regret in his voice. “You need to come in right away. We are pretty sure that it’s murder.”
“Okay, Joe, I’ll head on over to the scene now,” Harry said, with quiet resignation.
“Dammit.” Harry sighed as he placed the phone back on the table. One last chip and a quick swig of beer were poor consolation prizes. He sat back in his seat for a moment, gazing longingly at the blank television screen as he ran a hand through his short, brown hair. Apart from the occasional spree of break-ins or car thefts, nothing that exciting ever happened in Harton. There was a case a couple of years ago that had made all the local papers. A bunch of teenagers had beaten a Mexican immigrant to death. But aside from that, small town boredom was the biggest risk to life here. That made it all the more frustrating that on the one evening in a long time that Harry had set aside some quiet time for himself, someone had to go and get themselves killed.
Harry brushed chip crumbs off his belly, leaving streaks of salsa across his sweat top, and pushed himself up out of the La-Z-Boy. The foot rest snapped back and he dumped beer in his lap. No time to shave or get into uniform.
Twenty minutes later, Harry's beat up Pontiac groaned to a stop outside the crime scene. He noticed the press photographers and brushed the Playboy magazine off the dash before hauling himself out of the car. His first step landed right in a moist dog turd. "Shit," Harry confirmed.
As he ambled to the building entrance, his foot scraping on the ground to try and remove the foul-smelling crap, he noticed Chet Kittern, the editor of the local rag, grinning at him. "Well, look who's here at last," Kittern mocked. "It's . . . "
Here we go, the detective thought, pulling his sweat pants up over his belly. Moved all the way from San Francisco to bumfuck nowhere for the quiet life, changed my surname, but for some reason still can't shake the handle Dirty Harry.
Opening Toneman.2.....Continuation: anon.
“Hello?” he said, trying hard to mask the frustration in his voice.
“Harry, it’s Joe. Sorry to cut in on your evening, but we have a stiff in an apartment on East 5th Street,” said Joe Devlin, Harry’s desk sergeant, with genuine regret in his voice. “You need to come in right away. We are pretty sure that it’s murder.”
“Okay, Joe, I’ll head on over to the scene now,” Harry said, with quiet resignation.
“Dammit.” Harry sighed as he placed the phone back on the table. One last chip and a quick swig of beer were poor consolation prizes. He sat back in his seat for a moment, gazing longingly at the blank television screen as he ran a hand through his short, brown hair. Apart from the occasional spree of break-ins or car thefts, nothing that exciting ever happened in Harton. There was a case a couple of years ago that had made all the local papers. A bunch of teenagers had beaten a Mexican immigrant to death. But aside from that, small town boredom was the biggest risk to life here. That made it all the more frustrating that on the one evening in a long time that Harry had set aside some quiet time for himself, someone had to go and get themselves killed.
Harry brushed chip crumbs off his belly, leaving streaks of salsa across his sweat top, and pushed himself up out of the La-Z-Boy. The foot rest snapped back and he dumped beer in his lap. No time to shave or get into uniform.
Twenty minutes later, Harry's beat up Pontiac groaned to a stop outside the crime scene. He noticed the press photographers and brushed the Playboy magazine off the dash before hauling himself out of the car. His first step landed right in a moist dog turd. "Shit," Harry confirmed.
As he ambled to the building entrance, his foot scraping on the ground to try and remove the foul-smelling crap, he noticed Chet Kittern, the editor of the local rag, grinning at him. "Well, look who's here at last," Kittern mocked. "It's . . . "
Here we go, the detective thought, pulling his sweat pants up over his belly. Moved all the way from San Francisco to bumfuck nowhere for the quiet life, changed my surname, but for some reason still can't shake the handle Dirty Harry.
Opening Toneman.2.....Continuation: anon.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Face-Lift 861
Guess the Plot
Spirits of the Unknown
1. Ludlow hears voices in the surf. Wally thinks he ate too many pufferfish, but Ludlow is pretty sure the Spirits are speaking to him. Who are they, and what do they want? If only they spoke English! It all sounds like some kind of repetitive alien hissing/roaring noise.
2. When nature enthusiast Melvin Wilcox inherits his father’s vineyard, he decides the produce will be used for a new eco-friendly wine beverage. Unfortunately the concoction has a slow-acting but devastating side effect: it wipes out the drinker’s long-term memory. Can Melvin remedy the formula before he forgets he owns a vineyard?
3. Balah is a psychic, able to peer into the world beyond the Veil. When strange, amorphous blobs called Riphons begin to call to her, she wonders: is she losing her mind, or reaching the lost souls of another world?
4. When hopeless alcoholic Johnny Beam drunkenly swore to sell his soul for a whiskey, he had no idea his offer would be accepted. Now he’s doomed to a fiery – and thirsty – afterlife, unless he can win an unholy contest of the palate, by correctly identifying the . . . Spirits of the Unknown.
5. Ghosts haunt a spaceship on its way to planet Earth. This has nothing to do with the plot, but everything to do with the title. The plot is set in another solar system, where a brutal civil war has devastated a planet and everyone is a suspect.
6. Sparkle Starshine's investigation shows the house is full of haunting spirits, but spirits of what??? Tiny feet seem to run up and down the walls and in the ceiling. By night they make crunchy chewing noises, gnaw holes in the upholstery, and leave toothmarks on the furniture. Could they be the spirits of wererodents? Is it time to call upon the Ghost Cat?
Original Version
Dear Evil Editor,
Tilvanau has survived a murder plot which has claimed the lives of every member in his family. [Not quite. The plot didn't claim Tilvanau's life.] He doesn't know who to trust and grief may be clouding his judgment.
In an attempt to escape, his brother has [Apparently the plot didn't claim Tilvanau's brother's life either.] taken his family, [Didn't claim the lives of Tilvanau's nieces, nephews, or sister-in-law. Who, exactly (if anyone), is dead?] setting a course for earth [If we're not on Earth, I wanna know that up front. A conversation like:
"There's a murderer on the loose! We gotta get outta here!"
"But where will we go?"
"How about Earth?"
. . . is a bit jarring if you weren't aware that the speakers were on the Gohr prison planet, Lycus IV.] with the murderer hidden inside the ship. The ghosts of his family now haunt the ship [The ghosts of the brother's family? Were they ghosts when they boarded the ship or did the murderer kill them on board?] trying to disclose the killer to earthlings that don't understand their language and Tilvanau who doesn't believe in ghosts. [Are these earthlings on the ship or has the ship already reached Earth?] [Is/was Tilvanau on the ship?]
Meanwhile Tilvanau must face a brutal civil war which devastates his planet, [Where the hell is Tilvanau?! If he's still on his planet, facing a brutal civil war, how are the ghosts on the ship trying to reveal the murderer's identity to him?] and although the woman he loves can help him, she is found to have the greatest motive and opportunity. [I assumed Tilvanau's wife was among the family members who were murdered. So who's this woman he loves?] [Also, motive and opportunity to do what?]
Tilvanau finds himself fighting a war he can't seem to win. [You're talking about the brutal civil war? A guy fighting in a brutal war doesn't think thoughts like, I can't seem to win this war. He thinks thoughts like I hope I don't die today.] He must find the murderer before the murderer finds him. [The murderer was hiding on the ship that Tilvanau's brother took to Earth (see paragraph 2). So how can Tilvanau find the murderer or vice versa?] Everyone is a suspect having motive and opportunity, [Everyone? How can everyone have the opportunity to do whatever you're talking about?] but they all fear he has betrayed them by killing his own family to gain control over the planet. [How would killing his family give him control over the planet?]
SPIRITS OF THE UNKNOWN is a science fiction complete at 95,250 words
Thank you for your time.
Notes
Scrap the whole thing. Start by telling us who Tilvanau is. Like, is he the leader of the biggest country on the prison planet, Lycus IV? Then tell us what he wants, who's standing in his way, and what Tilvanau plans to do about it.
If you can't organize your information and express it clearly in the query, the reader will assume your book is also a mess. Let's hope it isn't.
If the spirits in the title are the ghosts of Tilvanau's or his brother's family, why are they "spirits of the unknown"? Aren't they spirits of the known?
Let's assume the motive/opportunity phrase applies to the murder of Tilvanau's family. If the woman Tilvanau loves was found (by whomever) to have the greatest motive and opportunity, why does everyone think Tilvanau did it?
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
6
My humble work lay like a sacrifice before this mad editor upon whose word the whole of industry now turned. I alone knew what labor each careful letter scrawled demanded, the reek of laudanum and ink clinging to the pages still.
My breath held bated in my lungs as his eyes, glossed with filmy blue, peered through the thick portals of the pince-nez perched upon his nose. I could scarce hold still while each second ticked away as interminable as sea rock being beaten into grains upon the strand.
At long last, the man raised his head, tufts of grayed hair sticking wildly from his ears, and let out a sigh that rolled through the close chamber like a death knell. He raised a hand that had surely seen too many days wielding a quill, curved as each finger was in the semblance of a tiny scimitar, and flicked that monstrosity of human flesh my way in the modern fashion of bored dismissal.
“Pass,” he ejaculated, and the lone word sounded to my ears like nothing so much as a knife’s dull edge drawn across the whetting stone.
In that moment, my revulsion for him knew no bounds. I admit to great imaginings: his large corpus walled behind stone, perhaps some bladed pendulum seeking to rend him in two, mayhap a cursed companion to shadow his soul till it could nevermore bear sight of this wretched world.
I knew then what my course must be: to see each of these demises carried through. Already I could hear the scritch, scritch, scritch of nib against parchment as my visions found their fullment. I would allow, nay welcome, this evil, tortured face to haunt my dreams and guide my writings as no opium flower ever could. What greater punishment for this glorified scrivener than to serve as my poor muse?
--Phoenix
My breath held bated in my lungs as his eyes, glossed with filmy blue, peered through the thick portals of the pince-nez perched upon his nose. I could scarce hold still while each second ticked away as interminable as sea rock being beaten into grains upon the strand.
At long last, the man raised his head, tufts of grayed hair sticking wildly from his ears, and let out a sigh that rolled through the close chamber like a death knell. He raised a hand that had surely seen too many days wielding a quill, curved as each finger was in the semblance of a tiny scimitar, and flicked that monstrosity of human flesh my way in the modern fashion of bored dismissal.
“Pass,” he ejaculated, and the lone word sounded to my ears like nothing so much as a knife’s dull edge drawn across the whetting stone.
In that moment, my revulsion for him knew no bounds. I admit to great imaginings: his large corpus walled behind stone, perhaps some bladed pendulum seeking to rend him in two, mayhap a cursed companion to shadow his soul till it could nevermore bear sight of this wretched world.
I knew then what my course must be: to see each of these demises carried through. Already I could hear the scritch, scritch, scritch of nib against parchment as my visions found their fullment. I would allow, nay welcome, this evil, tortured face to haunt my dreams and guide my writings as no opium flower ever could. What greater punishment for this glorified scrivener than to serve as my poor muse?
--Phoenix
5
Lo! Evil built himself a tow'r
In an apartment on city pow'r
With an unlisted address,
Where the dull and the bad and the worst as you guess
Shall never see a printing press.
There plots and characters do reign
(Time-worn with dust and thick with rot!)
Resembling nothing that is sane.
Preferred by all to be forgot,
Rejection stamped across the page
The acid-bearing papers age.
No pen from the editor comes down
On the poor spelling of a noun;
But creatures from inside the wall
Stalk o'er the pages silently-
Creep o'er the boxes wide and tall-
O'er stains- o'er ink- o'er rubber bands-
O'er hope- o'er threatening demands-
O'er shadowy squares where once stuck stamps
Were steamed away to pay for lamps-
O'er many and many a disastrous line
To publish which would be a crime
The verb, the adjective, and the rhyme.
Rejection stamped across the page
The acid-bearing papers age.
So bent are the rules of grammar there
That none would ever seem to care,
While from his computer in his room
Evil thinks what to exhume.
There open scenes and gaping holes
Decry all chance of important goals;
But not the actions causing death
In each villain's final breath-
Not the heaving-bosomed maid
Tempts the reader to her aid;
For no pulses race, alas!
When questions spread like leaking gas-
No stream of conscious by an elf
Makes readers lift books from the shelf
No grocery list of murdered men
Sells volume one through six of ten.
But lo, a tread upon the stair!
A bell- there is a person there!
The whispering from the door has ceased-
The hinges creak, though freshly greased-
And when, amid unearthly screams,
Down, down the halls they skitter by
They flee the thousand shattered dreams,
Foul secrets left to die.
--Faceless Minion
In an apartment on city pow'r
With an unlisted address,
Where the dull and the bad and the worst as you guess
Shall never see a printing press.
There plots and characters do reign
(Time-worn with dust and thick with rot!)
Resembling nothing that is sane.
Preferred by all to be forgot,
Rejection stamped across the page
The acid-bearing papers age.
No pen from the editor comes down
On the poor spelling of a noun;
But creatures from inside the wall
Stalk o'er the pages silently-
Creep o'er the boxes wide and tall-
O'er stains- o'er ink- o'er rubber bands-
O'er hope- o'er threatening demands-
O'er shadowy squares where once stuck stamps
Were steamed away to pay for lamps-
O'er many and many a disastrous line
To publish which would be a crime
The verb, the adjective, and the rhyme.
Rejection stamped across the page
The acid-bearing papers age.
So bent are the rules of grammar there
That none would ever seem to care,
While from his computer in his room
Evil thinks what to exhume.
There open scenes and gaping holes
Decry all chance of important goals;
But not the actions causing death
In each villain's final breath-
Not the heaving-bosomed maid
Tempts the reader to her aid;
For no pulses race, alas!
When questions spread like leaking gas-
No stream of conscious by an elf
Makes readers lift books from the shelf
No grocery list of murdered men
Sells volume one through six of ten.
But lo, a tread upon the stair!
A bell- there is a person there!
The whispering from the door has ceased-
The hinges creak, though freshly greased-
And when, amid unearthly screams,
Down, down the halls they skitter by
They flee the thousand shattered dreams,
Foul secrets left to die.
--Faceless Minion
4
In retrospect, it was perhaps unduly harsh of me, some fifty years past, to brick Fortunato into the vaults beneath my Palazzo as punishment for a minor insult, the nature of which I have long since forgotten. But no.
You may well believe that having escaped punishment for my act, I would have taken satisfaction in my favorable outcome and would be loath to chance additional flirtations with the law. And such has indeed been the case for these five decades . . . until such time when I put to paper my confession, as it were, and brought it to the attention--not of the police, for I am no one's fool, but--of the gentleman who lives in the building directly opposite mine, who goes by the name Evil Editor. Confession, I hoped, would at last remove a great weight from my shoulders, and to present said confession in the guise of a work of fiction would save me from living out my waning days in a cell.
"Drivel." It was the word he used to describe my oeuvre, and no blade could have cut deeper. I thanked the boorish pig, never letting on that I had resolved to make him my second victim. But how was I to lure this gargantuan oaf into my crypt? The swill he had offered me in his home was evidence enough that he housed no pretensions in the field of oenology. Only during a casual consultation with Luchesi some weeks later which I cleverly steered toward the subject of my neighbor, did I discover the editor's solitary weakness: cheese danish.
When I "happened" to run into him months after, I subtly sprang my trap. "I have discovered the secret to the perfect cheese danish," I said. "Nitre. This is why I store my cheese danish in the dank vaults beneath my domicile. Perhaps you'd like to sample one? The gleam in his eye betrayed his eagerness.
In the cellar I pointed out the hole I had recently made in the wall behind which Fortunato's remains remained. "Step right through," I said. "The cheese danish is in there."
"What about coffee?" he asked.
"Coffee?"
"Can't eat cheese danish without coffee."
"There's coffee in there too."
"After you, my friend."
I had no choice but to precede him through the opening; to do otherwise would have looked suspicious. As I went through he shoved me with his boot, and my head collided with the far wall, not far from the hanging bones of Fortunato. By the time I regained consciousness, Evil Editor was working on the final row of bricks. "The good news," he said as he closed the last gap, "is that I've reconsidered. I'll be publishing your tale after all."
--Evil Editor
You may well believe that having escaped punishment for my act, I would have taken satisfaction in my favorable outcome and would be loath to chance additional flirtations with the law. And such has indeed been the case for these five decades . . . until such time when I put to paper my confession, as it were, and brought it to the attention--not of the police, for I am no one's fool, but--of the gentleman who lives in the building directly opposite mine, who goes by the name Evil Editor. Confession, I hoped, would at last remove a great weight from my shoulders, and to present said confession in the guise of a work of fiction would save me from living out my waning days in a cell.
"Drivel." It was the word he used to describe my oeuvre, and no blade could have cut deeper. I thanked the boorish pig, never letting on that I had resolved to make him my second victim. But how was I to lure this gargantuan oaf into my crypt? The swill he had offered me in his home was evidence enough that he housed no pretensions in the field of oenology. Only during a casual consultation with Luchesi some weeks later which I cleverly steered toward the subject of my neighbor, did I discover the editor's solitary weakness: cheese danish.
When I "happened" to run into him months after, I subtly sprang my trap. "I have discovered the secret to the perfect cheese danish," I said. "Nitre. This is why I store my cheese danish in the dank vaults beneath my domicile. Perhaps you'd like to sample one? The gleam in his eye betrayed his eagerness.
In the cellar I pointed out the hole I had recently made in the wall behind which Fortunato's remains remained. "Step right through," I said. "The cheese danish is in there."
"What about coffee?" he asked.
"Coffee?"
"Can't eat cheese danish without coffee."
"There's coffee in there too."
"After you, my friend."
I had no choice but to precede him through the opening; to do otherwise would have looked suspicious. As I went through he shoved me with his boot, and my head collided with the far wall, not far from the hanging bones of Fortunato. By the time I regained consciousness, Evil Editor was working on the final row of bricks. "The good news," he said as he closed the last gap, "is that I've reconsidered. I'll be publishing your tale after all."
--Evil Editor
3
FOR EVER MORE
In the cover of night, I spied him.
A body bruised and far too slim.
Lounging in a putrid chair.
He sat, no longer breathing, with a ghostly stare.
Let it not be so, I whispered.
Not...NO MORE, I tempered.
He was my savior, my guide.
He offered edits with pride.
He was always right.
Even when statements rang no longer bright.
God, bring him back, I yelled.
My tears would not be felled,
I fell to the ground and cried.
Then at long last, I sighed.
We had killed him, beat him up.
We underappreciated him, and so he gave it up.
I looked to the ceiling with eyes rolled back,
Too much, too much, no one to take up slack.
He worked himself unto death.
Oh, I screamed, he never should have left.
It was all our fault; I am sorry to say,
That Evil no longer breaths, no longer lives this day!
I should have offered my gratitude.
And done so without malicious attitude.
But then, what ho!, as I continued my self-centered beating
I heard a faint reading.
A reading, yes! Soft, soft words out-loud were spoken.
I am now undone! Was he not, not broken?
I crawled to his side, ever so hesitant
My hands finally gripping a decorative, stuffed pheasant.
Strange, I thought, and genteelly let go.
Then I tentatively tapped his bare and untrimmed toe.
Would he look to me?
Would he too see?
I am his minion, forever at his side.
Basking in his editorial pride.
Yes, he croaked, what do you need?
I giggled inside, for he had not given up, no indeed.
I whispered quietly
and ever so rightly.
Evil, sir. Please, for ever more,
For ever more, be the editor at my door.
--Marcella
In the cover of night, I spied him.
A body bruised and far too slim.
Lounging in a putrid chair.
He sat, no longer breathing, with a ghostly stare.
Let it not be so, I whispered.
Not...NO MORE, I tempered.
He was my savior, my guide.
He offered edits with pride.
He was always right.
Even when statements rang no longer bright.
God, bring him back, I yelled.
My tears would not be felled,
I fell to the ground and cried.
Then at long last, I sighed.
We had killed him, beat him up.
We underappreciated him, and so he gave it up.
I looked to the ceiling with eyes rolled back,
Too much, too much, no one to take up slack.
He worked himself unto death.
Oh, I screamed, he never should have left.
It was all our fault; I am sorry to say,
That Evil no longer breaths, no longer lives this day!
I should have offered my gratitude.
And done so without malicious attitude.
But then, what ho!, as I continued my self-centered beating
I heard a faint reading.
A reading, yes! Soft, soft words out-loud were spoken.
I am now undone! Was he not, not broken?
I crawled to his side, ever so hesitant
My hands finally gripping a decorative, stuffed pheasant.
Strange, I thought, and genteelly let go.
Then I tentatively tapped his bare and untrimmed toe.
Would he look to me?
Would he too see?
I am his minion, forever at his side.
Basking in his editorial pride.
Yes, he croaked, what do you need?
I giggled inside, for he had not given up, no indeed.
I whispered quietly
and ever so rightly.
Evil, sir. Please, for ever more,
For ever more, be the editor at my door.
--Marcella
2
I had reason in light of recent events to reacquaint myself with the non-historical and mostly fictitious folklore concerning the many and varied apparitions and phantasms said to appear on the Devil's Massif. The Devil's Massif, a plateau of rock pushed up thousands of years ago by errant and awful tectonic forces, a backcountry, isolated and shrouded in perpetual fog, once covered with lush stands of importune trees, most of the legends were false. Only I, your humble interlocutor, know what happened with any accuracy and rectitude. Few who have scaled the cliffs return to tell tales. They describe a land like no other; speaking of birdsong and fragrant flowers, of silvery streams and blue ponds, of gentle critters and blue trout.
I was with Nick Torrance on that most dreadful day when he mounted the rim and wandered the high fields of clover and wildflower. Then she appeared. She wore roses from the edge of the fields around her neck and hair the color of straw flowing behind her like golden sunlight. I left them making love on a rose-colored bed. He stayed that day and many days thereafter. When he returned to the land down below, he found his house shattered, his marriage broken and his family gone; a modern day Heinrich left behind with no Lisabeth waiting. The abandoner abandoned.
I was two kilometers away when Nick blasted the Massif. First came the flash, then heat, flames, shockwaves and destruction. Nothing survived. For she who he seeks and cannot find has returned to her hidden cave in the nameless mountain. She steals innocence and love, returning an empty husk. Nick lays in his cell, disbelieved by all, his mind running among the trees, watching the wind in her hair and her gossamer gown floating on the breeze.
--Dave F.
I was with Nick Torrance on that most dreadful day when he mounted the rim and wandered the high fields of clover and wildflower. Then she appeared. She wore roses from the edge of the fields around her neck and hair the color of straw flowing behind her like golden sunlight. I left them making love on a rose-colored bed. He stayed that day and many days thereafter. When he returned to the land down below, he found his house shattered, his marriage broken and his family gone; a modern day Heinrich left behind with no Lisabeth waiting. The abandoner abandoned.
I was two kilometers away when Nick blasted the Massif. First came the flash, then heat, flames, shockwaves and destruction. Nothing survived. For she who he seeks and cannot find has returned to her hidden cave in the nameless mountain. She steals innocence and love, returning an empty husk. Nick lays in his cell, disbelieved by all, his mind running among the trees, watching the wind in her hair and her gossamer gown floating on the breeze.
--Dave F.
1
He was a man of terror and reveled in his ability to cause fear. It was thus a terrible thing for the Evil Editor to feel what he had long been serving to the townspeople. Agonizing, distress stung his eyes like a dreadful, unholy sweat. This moody man, this hard-hearted, dark soul, forever entrenched in such ghastly, uncommon acts… now wore a mask displaying false stoicism. Beneath the stonewall guise, unbeknownst to the demon before him, existed a face of rigid apprehension. Tools of torture were slowly removed from the leather satchel and proved to be stained with the blood of evil men gone by. The demon purposely held the dagger in a way as so the near-full moon could dance on the rusty blade, firing off glints of deep, sinister, menacing maroon. It was strange indeed and the twisted raillery did not miss the Editor’s wretched heart.
The demon turned abruptly to his right, cracking his own protruding spine, preparing for yet another vexing mutilation. The rogue creature had no eyes to deceive and his popping backbone sounded as if two handfuls of stones were being dropped to the earth.
The hellion turned to the man and announced, “Tonight shall be one most conclusive for you as I am sure you have identified.”
The petrified man, this hollow, harrowed soul indeed knew his time was nigh and glanced upwards as if to beg God for mercy.
“He will not help you… that you can trust,” the demon offered without qualms as he raised the eminent blade.
This Evil Editor dropped to his knees, and wailed, “oh damned life, oh angel of exculpation, salvage this flesh!”
“I besiege you,” the demon held up five bony fingers, “tarry not, for this unwelcomed
happenstance is merely a consequence of your execrable shrewdness.”
--JD
The demon turned abruptly to his right, cracking his own protruding spine, preparing for yet another vexing mutilation. The rogue creature had no eyes to deceive and his popping backbone sounded as if two handfuls of stones were being dropped to the earth.
The hellion turned to the man and announced, “Tonight shall be one most conclusive for you as I am sure you have identified.”
The petrified man, this hollow, harrowed soul indeed knew his time was nigh and glanced upwards as if to beg God for mercy.
“He will not help you… that you can trust,” the demon offered without qualms as he raised the eminent blade.
This Evil Editor dropped to his knees, and wailed, “oh damned life, oh angel of exculpation, salvage this flesh!”
“I besiege you,” the demon held up five bony fingers, “tarry not, for this unwelcomed
happenstance is merely a consequence of your execrable shrewdness.”
--JD
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Survey Follow-up
If you are one of the people who declared they would want a copy of a book of writing exercises that appeared on this blog if you were among the contributors, send me a comment or email so I can look into whether you sent something that's right for my list (which won't be necessary if you're already on the list).
New Beginning 825
She wasn’t at school.
“She has to be. I saw her get on the bus this morning,” Katie said. She tried to keep her voice calm, reasonable, measured. But already the panic and guilt were setting in. She hadn’t actually seen her sister get on the bus. Sure she’d seen the bus pulling up. And yeah, she’d seen her sister walk out the door. But the truth was she hadn’t actually seen her sister get on the bus. Now it was five hours later and her mother was calling.
“I just turned my phone on and there’s a message from the school saying she isn’t there. You’re sure she’s not at home?”
Katie kept her breath steady. “I’ve been home for the last hour and I haven’t seen her. Maybe she went out somewhere?” That was silly. Her sister never went out anywhere. She barely got out of bed. That’s why she went to a special school and that’s why Katie was supposed to watch to make sure she got on the bus.
“I’m on my way home,” Katie’s mom said.
“Yeah, okay.” Katie ended the call on her phone. The school must have made a mistake. Her sister wasn’t home. Katie would know if she was home.
Katie walked through the house once more, shouting her sister's name, as though she might be hiding in a closet or something. She was definitely not in the house.
Ten minutes later she heard the front door and ran downstairs.
"She here?" Mom asked.
"Not a sign," Katie replied, grabbing Mom's coat.
"I'm guessing she might have locked herself in the neighbor's garage again. They won't be home from work for hours."
"What are we going to do?"
Mom closed the front door, looked at me, and took a deep breath. "I rented a couple of DVDs and ordered Vietnamese on the way home. After that . . . it's makeover time! God, when will people realize we have special needs too?"
Opening: Lauren Krystaf.....Continuation: Anon.
“She has to be. I saw her get on the bus this morning,” Katie said. She tried to keep her voice calm, reasonable, measured. But already the panic and guilt were setting in. She hadn’t actually seen her sister get on the bus. Sure she’d seen the bus pulling up. And yeah, she’d seen her sister walk out the door. But the truth was she hadn’t actually seen her sister get on the bus. Now it was five hours later and her mother was calling.
“I just turned my phone on and there’s a message from the school saying she isn’t there. You’re sure she’s not at home?”
Katie kept her breath steady. “I’ve been home for the last hour and I haven’t seen her. Maybe she went out somewhere?” That was silly. Her sister never went out anywhere. She barely got out of bed. That’s why she went to a special school and that’s why Katie was supposed to watch to make sure she got on the bus.
“I’m on my way home,” Katie’s mom said.
“Yeah, okay.” Katie ended the call on her phone. The school must have made a mistake. Her sister wasn’t home. Katie would know if she was home.
Katie walked through the house once more, shouting her sister's name, as though she might be hiding in a closet or something. She was definitely not in the house.
Ten minutes later she heard the front door and ran downstairs.
"She here?" Mom asked.
"Not a sign," Katie replied, grabbing Mom's coat.
"I'm guessing she might have locked herself in the neighbor's garage again. They won't be home from work for hours."
"What are we going to do?"
Mom closed the front door, looked at me, and took a deep breath. "I rented a couple of DVDs and ordered Vietnamese on the way home. After that . . . it's makeover time! God, when will people realize we have special needs too?"
Opening: Lauren Krystaf.....Continuation: Anon.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Face-Lift 860
Guess the Plot
Eyes of Stone
1. Anaiiya is the lone human living in a tribe of gargoyles. Or is she? Suddenly she's seeing visions no one else can see. There's a monster within her! A deranged queen attacks. Immortal magical beings go to war for control of Anaiiya's powers. Life's never easy when your name is almost all vowels.
2. Stone Keller, embalmer for the town's one funeral home, can see the eternal destiny of souls when he stares into the eyes of the dead. Working on Father Murphy’s corpse, Stone discovers he is agonizing in hell, but the town’s folk start praying to Father Murphy, believing he will be canonized. Can Stone enable the people to see through his eyes before all their souls are lost?
3. What is wrong with Jeff? Can he not see Tiffany's total awesomeness is exactly what he needs? Well, he's got three weeks to lose his eyes of stone. Because that's when Tiffany get's her sorcery license, and she will definitely get her man or her revenge. If Jeff flunks at love, he might as well be a cat.
4. Carrie's wealthy grandparents take her to Easter Island, where she's captivated by the moai, the giant stone heads. One comes to her in her dreams, telling her about the young warrior trapped within. Can she help him escape, or must he always use--Eyes of Stone?
5. The cavemen try mud balls, leaves, peach-pits, beeswax, feathers, chunks of old bones -- nothing brings the statue to life until Ursu finds a pair of mysterious stones in the space alien's camp and screws them into the eye sockets. But the statue turns out to be a wicked fire-breathing robot and everyone will perish unless Tudd and his dire wolf can put those eyes out.
6. Alice married in haste, and has discovered that Bob, who rules his corporation with an iron fist, has feet of clay, a lily-liver, and a heart of glass. When an optometrist reveals that Bob also has eyes of stone, will this be the straw that breaks the camel’s back?
Original Version
Anaiiya's always known she's human. Even living among the last of the gargoyles, the certain knowledge of who and what she is has always been with her. But when a deranged queen who sees only traitors in every non-human species launches an attack on the gargoyle tribe, Anaiiya discovers a dark truth: There's a monster inside her waiting for the right trigger to free itself. Seeing her family assaulted, she blacks out—and awakens covered in the blood of thirty men, with no memory of how it happened. [I know guys in the movies will mindlessly continue attacking an invincible enemy until they're all wiped out, but it seems to me that in real life, once ten or fifteen of you have been slaughtered by one individual, the rest would retreat and regroup and consider whether Plan B (whether it be call in air support or hide in the nearest cave), might be a better strategy. Someone should do a study to determine if I'm right.]
Now the river boils when she sings and [the fishermen are threatening to attack her if she doesn't quit singing and] drops of blood show her visions only she can see. [Visions of what?] The monster within, the thing she’s becoming, fills her with a bloodthirsty darkness that demands to be sated. She struggles against it and turns her newfound powers to defending her beloved tribe. [Do you mean her water-boiling and vision-having powers, or does she have other powers?]
But Anaiiya's attempts to protect her family draw the attention of far more dangerous creatures than a mad queen and her militant army. [When you have to take on an entire army, it's much better if it's a laid-back pacifist army than a militant one.] Using the gargoyles as pawns, immortal beings of dark magic war for control of Anaiiya's powers. [We may be immortal beings of dark magic, but we simply must know how you do that river-boiling trick.] Because of Anaiiya, the last gargoyle tribe is in greater danger than ever and only she can save them —- if the darkness growing like a cancer within her soul doesn't destroy them first.
EYES OF STONE is a 109,000 [-word] fantasy.
Notes
A lot of words are devoted to describing what's happening to Anaiiya, but they're mostly general: the darkness growing like a cancer within her soul; a monster inside her; the thing she’s becoming; a bloodthirsty darkness. How about some specifics? What does she see in her visions? Apparently she's not just morphing into a gargoyle.
The ability to win a battle against thirty soldiers is impressive, but not to immortal beings of dark magic, who could probably defeat forty guys, so we want to know what powers Anaiiya has that are coveted by these immortal beings.
You claim "the certain knowledge of who and what she is has always been with her." I don't think so. Even by the end of the query she doesn't seem to know who or what she is.
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