New Beginning 293

Raucous laughter pealed from the cockpit at shorter and shorter intervals as the Liberia Airways 747 knifed through the darkness seven miles above the Atlantic. Captain Ibrahim stood in the center of the flight deck with Fadi Haruna, both men hunched over almost-empty glasses of Scotch from the first-class cabinet.

Haruna wiped the tears from his eyes. "I must go, boys. Really. I must get some sleep."

"Come come, Alhaji," Captain Ibrahim said, stressing the honorific, "one more drink."

Haruna waved him off. "No, seriously. I drive to my village as soon as we land."

Captain Ibrahim grabbed Haruna’s forearm and squinted at him with malaria-yellowed eyes: "You will have time to sleep when you are on the job." The other men burst into laughter and he continued: "You will have time to sleep when you are with your wife." They all laughed again, this time much harder, like they had never heard such a funny thing.

Haruna held up his free hand and eased toward the door. "I will go back to my seat so you can get some sleep, Captain. But please don’t forget your old friends when you are a big airline tycoon." He hoped the captain was less intoxicated than he appeared. Ibrahim was, well, a real ass, but there were worse things to be.

The door clicked shut behind him; a heartbeat later the first thud came.


The second thud, a moment later, drew Herb’s attention away from the cockpit door back to his wife.

“This freaking seat doesn’t work.” Marge jabbed at the control again and with another dull thud her body contorted into one more unnatural position. “What the hell kind of airline only sells its tickets on eBay anyway? ‘Let’s travel first class,’ you said. First ass, more like it. I need a freaking translator’s dictionary just to order a Scotch -- which I then can’t have because the freaking pilot’s already finished both bottles . . . ”

Haruna shot Herb a sympathetic glance as he shuffled past.

“ . . . and the fact you can’t pronounce the main course without ejecting phlegm doesn’t make me feel good about the salad dressing,” Marge continued, “and I can't use the freaking bathroom because someone's keeping a sheep in there. A sheep?! Well?”

“Hm? What was that, dear?” Herb played dumb, but he knew already the return trip, on Delta, was going to be even more trying.


Opening: Anonymous.....Continuation: ril

Face-Lift 353

Guess the Plot

Forced Air

1. Flatulence is no laughing matter. It strikes millions daily. In this memoir, Fredrick Cheese relates the difficulties of living with extreme flatulence on a daily basis. He has worked as an elevator operator, a shoe salesman, and a co-pilot, and has sued former employers for discrimination. But to no avail, since the courts refuse to recognize the rights of the gastronomically challenged.

2. Thin-lipped, pasty faced Rob Hoover faces humiliation at his inability to rip one at will, the way his friends can. With the help of a time portal he finally achieves gas-passing superstardom when Christopher Columbus teaches him the secret of the musical fruit.

3. Tracy was having a bad day, what with her dad's heart attack, losing her job, and her husband leaving her. But the worst part of all was "letting loose" when her attractive neighbor dropped by to "console" her.

4. Doing a little "duct work" for lonely housewives has become a lucrative sideline for HVAC expert Gus Furness. Until he gets caught, that is, by an irate husband who is about to show Gus what can be done with sheet metal and . . . Forced Air.

5. Pulled over at midnight on the 91 Freeway, passing the alcohol test is a breeze for Rhonda. But a freak windstorm intervenes, sending her, Officer Dyson, the squad car and her Ford Windstar into another dimension.

6. Wilbur goes through life unnoticed, until someone needs a topnotch heating and air conditioning man. That’s when they call Wilbur. His specialty—forced air systems. His hobby—installing sophisticated surveillance equipment in the duct vents and streaming the provocative footage to his pay-per-peek website.



Original Version

Dear Mr. Editor:

In Forced Air, Tracy Winters thinks Friday morning is bad enough with her father in the hospital after a mild heart attack. In the afternoon, though, her company’s CFO is dragged away in handcuffs, and the company goes bankrupt. Then, when Tracy gets home, her husband and daughter walk out on her because they can’t take her ultra-controlling, type A lifestyle any more. [Goodness. I certainly hope nothing else traumatic happens to Tracy in the next few hours.] Tracy believes she could handle all of it—except for the rejection of her daughter, Amber. Tracy’s singular goal as an adult has been to be the perfect mom, unlike her own mother who downed a bottle of pills when Tracy was just a kid.

In a reactionary moment of “letting loose,” Tracy allows her friendly—and attractive—neighbor to drive her to Santa Cruz in time for the Saturday sunrise. By breakfast, though, Tracy finds herself running for her life without money, phone, or car, and the very person she turns to for help is the one who wants her dead. Through it all, Tracy’s only thought is to survive long enough to have a second chance with Amber. [She never once thinks, Why is someone trying to kill me?]

Survival requires putting her trust in several strangers including two old ladies, a homeless former bookkeeper, [She's doomed.] and the pretty ex-girlfriend of her would-be assassin. Survival also requires breaking into the boss’ email, shooting two men, and confronting her own gambling-addicted father—from whom she finally learns the truth about her mother’s “suicide” thirty years earlier.

[Rank the following in order of how much trouble you would have believing it:

1. Your father has a heart attack, and you go to work for the day and then go home.
2. Your father has a heart attack, and you don't tell your husband or daughter.
3. Your father has a heart attack, and you do tell your husband and daughter, and they choose that day to walk out on you.
4. Your father has a heart attack, your husband and daughter walk out on you, and you agree to go to Santa Cruz to watch the sunrise with your attractive neighbor.
5. Your father has a heart attack, your employer goes bankrupt and your husband and child walk out on you, all within a twelve-hour period.
6. You make an unscheduled trip to Santa Cruz in the middle of the night, and when you get there, someone's trying to kill you.
7. You're an assassin, hired to kill a woman who has no idea she's a target, and you screw it up.
8. You're running from an assassin who has trailed you to Santa Cruz, it's not even breakfast time, and you run into his ex-girlfriend.
9. You confront your gambling-addicted father, and he wants to talk about your long-dead mother instead of trying to borrow money.
10. You work for a company big enough to have a CFO, yet you leave your home without your cell phone. Or someone took your phone and money, but not your gun.]
11. Your father says, "I'm sick of this type-A lifestyle, let's ditch your mother," and you agree to leave your home, your friends, and your mall to live with him in Canada.

I’ve enclosed the complete synopsis and first three chapters of Forced Air, and I would be happy to provide the completed manuscript (62,000 words) at your request. My work has appeared in the literary journals The First Line, Thereby Hangs A Tale, and THEMA.

Thank you for your time and consideration.


Notes

The query is written okay, and every novel has some hard-to-accept stuff going on, and no doubt there's a logical explanation for everything I've brought up. But it might be a good idea to give the logical explanation for some of these items, because they all happen within about 24 hours. Jack Bauer would have been lucky to get through this day.

Is the friendly, attractive neighbor a man or woman? It seems unlikely you would bother to call a female neighbor attractive, but it seems more unlikely that she could be talked into "letting loose" with another man when her father's in the hospital and her daughter's suddenly gone.

Based on having to break into her boss's email, I assume the attempt to kill her has something to do with work. But no one from work would have known she was going to Santa Cruz. She didn't even know she was going. This leads me to believe the assassin was preparing to break into her house and kill her just as she left for Santa Cruz. And he followed her. Or the assassin is her neighbor--although it's unlikely she would have to break into her boss's email to survive being killed by her neighbor. Either way, it's hard to believe any semi-competent assassin managed to botch the job.

New Beginning 292

Seated upon a bench in the echoing marble entryway of the Albany Medical College that Monday afternoon in April, 1861, Mary Sutter made an arresting scene. Taller and wider than was generally considered handsome, a length of curls not easily tamed, but compensated by an enticing brightness about the eyes, she carried in her impatient, straight-backed posture an authority not usually possessed by young women of the age of twenty-one. Anyone passing remembered her, even the hunched young men hurrying to class whose ranks she hoped soon to join. In her gloved hands, she carried the latest of her letters of application, detailing her studies and qualifications for admission. Over the past year, she had sent a dozen letters, one a month, all of which had gone unanswered, and so she had come at eleven o’clock that morning to sit and wait until Doctor Marsh, the head of the college, would be forced to see her.

After a lengthy wait that did nothing to quell Mary’s nerves, she was bade enter the Doctor’s study. “Miss Sutter, I believe we have corresponded previously that there is no place for women in the college of surgeons.” Mary listened intently as Doctor Marsh explained that the role of the female, in medicine, was principally to convey waste from the bed-ridden and to provide occasional manual relief for the over-worked house doctors. And the good Doctor spoke with such gravity and eloquence and acuity of logic, that Mary Sutter could do naught but see the error of her ways.


“So, class. It is thanks to pioneering work by the renowned Doctor Marsh that even today we recognize the special qualities of medics such as Doctor House, or the legendary Marcus Welby, MD; but find laughable the likes of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.

“Now, this week’s assignment: Read chapter twelve about the life of the dedicated but misguided Emeline Amerherst, and write a paper on why ovaries and the office of President of the United States would be a disastrous combination for all mankind.”


Opening: Anonymous.....Continuation: ril

Face-Lift 352

Guess the Plot

Living with the Bull

1. Know-it-all Morton Sledge inherits a fortune from his grandfather's bedspread business, but will his millions distract beautiful Bunny Perkins from the fact that he's a crashing bore?

2. Evicted from her apartment, ostracized by her friends and coworkers, Jennifer begins to suspect it was a mistake to get a pit bull.

3. The new bull Mary hired to work in her china shop just isn't working out. Not only is her business tanking, local biker gangs start harassing her. That's when she finds that sometimes a bull can come in handy.

4. Prison romances don't always turn out happily ever after, but Corinne Pilch, Number 4411227, is in for life -- with the guard of her dreams.

5. "Dear, you look gorgeous today!"
"No, Mom, we didn't get any homework."
". . . and there's absolutely no obligation to buy!"
Esther Poncky has heard it all. It's just part of . . . Living with the Bull.

6. Despite what Bill says, he really isn't the reincarnation of Napoleon, the lost King of Sweden, or the heir to the Howard Hughes fortune. Nor is he the secret lover of Paris Hilton, or the love child of Elvis. Living with the Bull might be too much for some; but Naomi loves her husband and won't see him wrongfully prosecuted for murder.


Original Version

Dear Evil Editor,

I am seeking representation for my novel, LIVING WITH THE BULL, complete at 72,500 words. [I hope all you people looking for agents and publishers are prepared to start . . . Living with the Bull.]

In LIVING WITH THE BULL, Jennifer felt like she was one letdown away from being back between her Strawberry Shortcake sheets at her parents’ house. [The only reason she didn't move back with them was because then she'd really be . . . Living with the Bull.] Then she meets Gwen, a woman her own age who spends her spare time rescuing dogs in the suburbs of Chicago. Jennifer wonders where Gwen hides her [matador's] cape, until she discovers that her friend’s utopian dog rescue more closely resembles a Tim Burton movie. Feeling betrayed by her friend, ["I trusted you, Gwen, but now I find out that your dog rescue operation is like a combination of Pee Wee's Big Adventure, Big Fish, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Ed Wood, Sleepy Hollow, Planet of the Apes, and Mars Attacks! You've betrayed me."] Jennifer wants to give Oscar, a pit bull, a second chance at a good life. [That might be a better place to start the query.] She hopes that saving him might rescue her, too. But she never expected that her commitment to put kibble in his bowl would turn into a civil liberties crusade.

Because of Oscar’s breed, Jennifer is accosted by strangers, [mauled at home,] and ostracized at work. It’s one thing to have to defend his reputation, but her level of commitment to Oscar and her ability to keep her own life afloat are tested when she is evicted from her apartment [Yes ma'am, I know your lease says pets are allowed. But your pet has eaten everyone else's pets.] and faced with a city council that wants to ban pit bulls entirely. [Plus, her crusade to have the Constitution amended to give pit bulls the vote is going nowhere.] LIVING WITH THE BULL is the story of a woman trying [to] navigate the worlds of dog adoption, prejudice, and twenty-something independence.

I earned a B.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Michigan, [so I am well-qualified to write about . . Living with the Bull.] where I won a Hopwood Award for Poetry. I have been active in animal rescue for over eight years and I currently sit on the Board of Directors of Pit Bull Rescue Central.

A full manuscript is available upon request. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,


Notes

The reason pit bulls have a reputation for aggression (besides the fact that the media always trumpets it whenever one of them kills a rhinoceros or a little league team) is because of their name. Pit bull sounds intimidating. Henceforth, let's go with Mellow Mutt.

Even if I correctly guess that you mean Corpse Bride and The Nightmare Before Christmas, it's still not clear how the Tim Burton reference shows betrayal. Dump it.

It's admirable that you want to incorporate your passion into a book, but I want to know more about what happens. All we've got is, woman adopts dog, woman loses all her friends. If you have a good story, tell us what it is. What's Oscar's past history? Was he Michael Vick's champion fighter? What does Jennifer need rescuing from? We'll care more about them if we know this. If their stories are boring, if you're mainly defending pit bulls, perhaps nonfiction is the way to go.

New Beginning 291

Cicely watched out the window as her newest neighbors, the Graysons, paused on the doorstep of their house. The little boy, who looked to be about ten, ran up the driveway then stopped to wait for his parents. Mr. Grayson was glaring at his wife, and she was pointedly ignoring him, her back stiff, as with crisp, jerky movements she opened her pocketbook and dropped the house keys inside. Mr. Grayson said something that must have hurt, for his wife jerked as if she’d been slapped. At the head of the driveway, the little boy fidgeted with his belt buckle, not looking at his parents.

Jack sat on the windowsill in front of Cicely, watching the Graysons with his startlingly blue eyes while she stroked his silky white fur. "What do you think, Jackie-boy?" she asked. "Do we have another lucky winner?" Jack meowed, but she had no idea if that meant yes or no.

It was her policy to invite new neighbors over to tea whether they looked promising or not. She let the curtain slide closed as the Graysons approached her front door.

"The Graysons, madam," Jawns announced in his peculiar way and stepped aside. Mrs. Grayson approached with a darling little fake smile but hesitated when she saw the large iron hand with which Cicely stroked Jack.

"Mrs. Summerton, thank you for having us over," Mr. Grayson said, trying to cover for his startled wife.

"Cicely Haberdashem Anabel Ophelia Summerton," Cicely stated with a small smile for the child. "Quite a mouthful, yes?"

"Yeah, that's crazy effing stupid for a name," the child answered curtly.

Cicely stopped stroking Jack. Her eyes narrowed and she reached for a small button on her wheelchair. A trapdoor opened below the Graysons sending them down a chute into a pool filled with bull sharks.

"I think, Jawns," Cicely said, "the house across the street is on the market yet again."


Opening: Anonymous.....Continuation: Pacatrue

New Beginning 290

"Jane," said my mother, "you simply cannot marry a dog. It is out of the question."

I continued to unfold my trousseau, putting the linen neatly to one side and the silk undies to the other. With determined patience I said, "I will brook no obstacle in this matter. I shall not be opposed."

Mother wrung her hands. Framed against the handsome proportions of the bedroom window, she stared into the afternoon's glow. "You always were a dreadfully wilful child, Boojum."

"Boring, Mother. Boring. Really." Some of the linen was the gift of my father's new or current wife or spouse; we had not yet, in fact, established my step parent's gender, due to the postal strike.

"It's all very well for you to take that attitude, my girl. The fact remains that it is we who must live with the neighbors."

I began to grow angry. "Damn the neighbors, Mother. If I cared what the Fosters deemed proper I should still be wearing a veil."

"You are being hysterical, dear," Mother told me in an etiolated tone. "You know as well as I that you have never worn a veil in your life."

"A figure of speech." She can be perfectly exasperating. "Look, Mother, I am marrying Spot and that's all there is to it." I finished the unfolding and closed the trunk. "Anyway," I added, "look at what you married. I don't see the Fosters grumbling about Father."

Mother smiled sweetly. "That's because they enjoy the wool, dear."


Opening: Anonymous.....Continuation: Kate Thornton

Evil Psychiatrist, Part 2

Dear Evil Psychiatrist,

I'm glad I can finally unload some of my problems. My dog keeps jumping up on the counter, eating all of my take-out. That is, when he's not trying to hump the pizza-delivery man (he's MY territory). My grandmother keeps throwing away my stilettos. She says they're too slutty. I lost a bunch of manuscripts on the subway today. I wanna start a new anonymous blog, a kinder, gentler one, yanno? Then I think, wtf, and re-read my archived evilness. I just found out in the elevator last week that George has tiny equipment. And I can't find a group that includes alcohol, cigarettes, gambling and pornography addictions in one package. I just don't have time to go to 4 different meetings every week. Please help.

The time it would take to attend four meetings a week is about a tenth what it takes to maintain a decent blog. Learn to budget your time, nitwit.


Dear Evil Psychiatrist,

I see dead people. Walking around like regular people. They don't see each other. They only see what they want to see. They don't know they're dead. Cherry-flavored Pez is my favorite. What's yours?

--Spooked in Spokane

It's not the flavor of what comes out that matters, sweetheart; it's the size of the dispenser.


Dear Evil Psychiatrist,

Whenever I hear about friends of mine finding great agents or getting three-book deals for big money, I have to fight the urge to poke out their eyes with a paperclip and then slit my wrists. Does that make me a bad person?

And what would you recommend I do to deal with this crippling, horrible jealousy?

Ironically, I liked your idea about an aspiring author who pokes her rivals' eyes out. I ran it by Miss Snark, who has taken me on. Says she can get me a three-book contract and a movie deal. Oh, and listen, I can't pay, but I could use a ghostwriter for the books. Good experience. Whattaya say?


Dear Evil Shrinkie-dinkie psych-dude,

One morning last week, after a night of jalopena and tequila laced burritos, I had to dash into the men's locker at the gym and avail myself of the porcelain throne. While there, I could hear two coworkers making out in the steaming hot shower. Should I tell management?

--Burning in Butte Montana

You're complaining? I'd much rather be sitting on the crapper and have to listen to a make-out session, than to be making out and have to listen to some bean-stuffed slob backing the motorhome out of the garage.


Dear Evil Psychiatrist,

Mi oners dont no it, but I am n intelajint kaynin. Un4choonitlee, I kant tok, onlee typ. Wenevr I go neer the kebord, mi oners theenk I am tri een 2 p on it. (Ther at werk now.) Wut iz the best wa 2 opin a chanl uv kamyoonikashun?

Gud Boy in Grrrrenvl

Christ, your spelling is pathetic.


Dear Evil Psychiatrist,

I have a lot of family issues and I'm wondering if you could help me. I can't afford a real shrink and the court appointed therapist that I was seeing committed suicide last week. (I'm sure it's my fault, I spiked his coffee with my Prozac at our last session. ) Here's a brief run-down of my problems:
My father is a bastard, My ma's an S.O.B.
My grandpa's always plastered, My grandma pushes tea,
My sister wears a mustache, My brother wears a dress.
Any comments will be greatly appreciated.

Jesus, lady, you're a friggin mess
I'm Evil Psychiatrist, answering your email
You don't need a doctor, just a manuscript sale.
Society's played you a terrible prank,
And now your career's in the tank.


Dear Evil Psychiatrist,

My husband is a marketing executive for a well known manufacturer of cleaning supplies, and for the past year he’s been taking frequent business trips across the country in order to promote the product launch of their new spot remover. He often performs product demonstrations on his own clothing to impress clients and “close the deal.” The result is that sometimes his clothes come home with faded stains of chocolate, red wine, lipstick, and on one occasion, semen. Is this normal? Am I being paranoid? Please help!!!

Addled in Allentown

Let's put it this way, honey: Either your husband's spot remover sucks, or his clients do.

Evil Psychiatrist, Part One

Dear Evil Psychiatrist,

Whenever I, like, talk to my boyfriend about, like, important stuff, he’s always like, so not listening to me. Like, if I say, “Should I wear the Anne Kleins, or like, the Steve Maddens?” he’s like, “Blah blah blah football blah blah blah blah.” Do you think it’s, like, way too early for sex? Or should I like, make him settle for oral until he shows me he’s like, totally committed?

--Anxious in Anaheim

Dump this guy, the sooner the better. Then meet me next Friday night in the lobby of the Paris Hilton. Oh, and please . . . do wear the Steve Maddens.


Dear Evil Psychiatrist:

I'm told I look just like you. Yesterday, the gorgeous woman who does my in-home foot massages every Friday came on to me. Should I look for a new masseuse?

--Troubled

No, keep the masseuse; just sell me your house.


Dear Evil Psychiatrist:

I'm having trouble meeting quality men. I don't think my standards are too high. Where do all the educated, clean-living fellas hang out these days?

--Lonely Lover

Most of us are on our computers, blogging or looking for free porn . . . Got any pics?


Dear Evil Psychiatrist:

Suppose I was involved in an axe-murder type incident, and that my involvement may, in fact, be more traceable than I first anticipated. How soon should I start therapy sessions in order to effectively plead insanity?

--Not Guilty

Screw therapy. Dig up the body of the person you didn't axe-murder. Roast it and eat it. Problem solved.


Dear Evil Psychiatrist:

The zombies are about to break down the door to the apartment where I've been hiding for a week. The problem is, one of them looks like my mother! I don't think I can kill her, especially if she makes that face at me, like she's all disappointed. Am I doomed? Should I just say, "Yes, Mother," and join their undead legion willingly? P.S. PLEASE HURRY.

--Rotting Apron Strings

Zombies. You gotta love 'em. I don't know which is funnier, the word "zombie" or the idea of the dead coming to life and eating the brains of the living. Of course, zombies aren't that entertaining when they're trying to get into your house, unless you've read The Zombie Survival Guide. Which I'm guessing you haven't. Anyway . . . what was the question again?


Dear Evil Psychiatrist,

Is it wrong for me to have unsettled thoughts about my mother-in-law? For instance, sometimes I’m at work reviewing a sales report or something, and the next thing I know I’m having an imaginary conversation with her, arguing over artichoke dip or what constitutes appropriate boundaries, and then I’m squeezing her wrinkly neck with both hands and shaking her and pounding her face into my keyboard over and over and over and over until she’s nothing but a bloody stump with shoulders. Should I tell my wife?

--Docile in Dubuque

Tell her what? That you're a normal, well-adjusted, reasonable, right-minded guy? Hey, she knows. That's why she married you.

Dear Evil Psychiatrist,

Mother suggested I move back home since I recently lost my job, and she always says, “Tennessee is no place for a single 35 year-old man.” But I suspect she only wants to discourage me from keeping to my strict masturbation schedule. It wouldn’t be the first time. What should I do?

--Choked in Chattanooga

You're 35. Isn't it about time you got in touch with your manhood? Took things into your own hands? Tell Mother you've moved in with Ms. Palm and her five daughters.

New Beginning 289

Albie yawned - stasis was taking forever. In his heyday, the bubble wrap pop of adrenaline fizzing through his veins would keep him awake till the last anaesthetised gasp, but at 2178, he'd run out of juice for riding the tedium. And he probably should have gone for one last piss.

He ran a finger over the fabric lining his sarc, his careworn smirk undetected by the life support sensors grafted to every skin pore. Nothing had changed for centuries. Sure, teleporters no longer ignited clothing and memory downloads were a thing of the past, but the inside of everything from a humble asteroid hopper to the toilet cubicles on Sthenno 3 still squealed with enough bobbled nylon trim to gift wrap every last wyrm a hundred times over.

Blinking the mission brief onto his retina, he double-checked his supplies another last time. Food: plenty. Fuel: plenty. Ammo: in abundance - and thanks to a deal the Corp struck up with EZ Leegz, a million miscellaneous sports socks piled high in the cargo bay. He figured on wearing these in odd pairs as he straddled the cannons. Or unpicking them if there was fuck all to do.

“Hi, Albie. How are you feeling today?”

“OK. But this stasis is cramping my wrap zing whiz on the commode pod cubicles of Sthenno 3 and the squealing nylon is about to wrack my neuron cavity wyrm.”

“Did the nurse explain everything to you, Albie?”

“Yeah, yeah, something about the contents of my bowels aren't flowing normally,” Albie said, feeling his skin ignite like a million flash bulbs burning inside a sweat sock. “But what about all these life-support sensors? They’re blocking my cybernetic epidermis boof from locking jiz wag into my protective waxing hopalong.”

“Roll over on your side, Albie, so I can give you your injection.”

Albie rolled over and when his hospital sarc parted, he felt the hyper-ozone hospital O2 drop a cold zephyr down his butt groove. “Damn, that shot hurt worse than yesterday,” he said, rubbing his trebleworn digits over the bulbous nip of his gluteus porcine anus.

“There, Albie, just close your eyes and rest until dinner. Were having your favorite today: Salmon, mashed potatoes and--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Albie said, staring at the ceiling and strategizing his manic condor until it zapped like puppy poop on a rolling blazer. “And another thing, as if there was fuck all to do in the first place. What about the scoutshacker transporter; who's gonna straddle the cannons? I bet you’re the one who struck a deal with the EZ Leegz in the uno placenta. And what about the cargo pit of the asteroid hopper . . .


Opening: Anonymous.....Continuation: circus boy

Face-Lift 351

Guess the Plot

The Peacetaker

1. "The Warmonger" sounds so, well, unfriendly, so the president has a new, more genial button made up for himself.

2. Ancient legends tell of a man who can seed murderous madness in people's minds by merely walking amongst them. When a peaceful rally in Washington disintegrates into a riot that leaves hundreds dead, federal agent Tim Carter begins to suspect the "Peacetaker" is more than a legend.

3. "Imagine," said Alex, a device that will sound a bell whenever you're in deep concentration on a task. It will pull you away from whatever you're doing and demand you devote your attention to something totally trivial." "Outstanding," replied Tom. "We'll call it the 'peacetaker' because it takes away your peace and quiet!" "No," corrected Alex. "We'll call it the 'telephone.'"

4. Sardacious calls himself the Peacetaker--when he shows up, negotiations collapse. Now a fragile truce between the Torinthian Empire and the Siverean Elves has caught his attention--and he's determined to apply his talents.

5. When peace has spread it's bounty across the land, an evil unlike any other arises: The Peacetaker. War, Death and Pestilence follow him like trusty hounds as he destroys the Realm of Barrok. Can the druids of Hashenhak stop him before it's too late?

6. Years ago Jack Jackson was a Navy Seal sniper. Now he’s been placed on a special task force to bring peace to the Middle East. Using the latest in military technology and a crack team of special forces operatives from around the globe, Jack vows to bring peace – no matter how many bodies he has to step over.


Original Version

The Peacetaker
98,000 words

Ancients believed that once in a Blue Moon a child with peace-taker powers is born. Such child, when grown to maturity, can seed murderous madness in people's minds by merely walking amongst them. [Imagine George Bush walking through Baghdad--or through the Democratic Convention--and you'll see the Peacetaker is no mere myth.] A simple amulet activates the Peacetaker’s powers.

When a federal agent, Tim Carter, undercover as a business executive [comma] sets out to visit Dr. Stella Hunter, he wants to gain insight on possible causes of an outbreak of madness at a peaceful women's rally in Cairo. He means to use a short footage of the riot – and his scarred face – to persuade her to help him without probing his reasons. [What are his reasons?]


[Tim: I want your insight on why a women's rally in Egypt became a riot.
Stella: Why?
Tim: I have here some footage of the riot.
Stella: But why do you want my help?
Tim (removing his mask): I also have scars on my face.
Stella: No more! I'll talk! I'll tell you anything! Just put the mask back on.]


Stella Hunter's a closet mythology expert, much ridiculed for her lifelong passion expressed by means of a controversial book: "Myths and Legends: The Ribbons of Truth." [Stella's title is almost as bad as yours.] Carter has a copy he took [stole] from a dying man’s bedside.

In her book, she traced the Peacetaker legend through almost every ancient civilization. [The Greeks, the Romans, the Ferengi, the Borg . . . ] Each culture sought to document the Peacetaker's arrival in their own way, whether through a cartouche, scroll or stone tablets. [For instance, there was a third stone tablet that Moses couldn't carry down the mountain on his first trip, and that he didn't feel like going back for because it had only one commandment on it. It read: Thou shalt steer clear of false idols, mimes, thy neighbor's sheep, and especially the Peacetaker.] Stella concluded that when it comes to dreams from which legends are spun, people, regardless of time, creed and color, tend to dream alike. [That's the controversial theory that's brought her ridicule in her field? That's nothing.] [So far there's more here about Stella's book than yours.] However an Egyptian colleague who sought her out at a Los Angeles conference insisted that legends were spun from reality, not dreams. He'd spent nearly ten years tracking down the whereabouts of the child he believed is the modern-day Peacetaker, and maintained that he was very close to finding him - very close. Stella thought he was a crackpot. [Look who's talking. Everybody who's anybody thinks she's a crackpot.]

The next day, [The next day after what? Nothing's happened yet.] a peaceful rally at the Mall in Washington disintegrates into a murderous riot that leaves hundreds dead and thousands injured. And suddenly, Stella and Carter are forced to consider the unthinkable: What if the Egyptian crackpot’s quest for the modern-day Peacetaker was fruitful . . . ?


Notes

It's not so much a matter of whether the crackpot's quest was fruitful. It's a matter of whether the Peacetaker exists. Even if the crackpot never found him, the Peacetaker can still cause peacelessness, right? Or does the crackpot have the amulet? No, because there was an earlier riot in Cairo.

I think this Peacetaker story was dreamed up by some guy trying to avoid being punished for starting a riot. Back when any crime would get you crucified or burned at the stake, some guy probably said, "I started the riot, but I was helpless, under the control of . . . that man! He's . . . the Peacetaker! Get him!" Once it worked once, everybody was doing it.

Does Carter go to Stella because he suspects the Peacetaker exists? Just because there was a riot in Egypt? Is this guy a federal agent, or a superstitious nutcase?

Instead of Peacetaker, call him Varlogg, Scourge of Serenity.

Okay, the writing's clear enough, and the situation's interesting, but less background and more action would be better, I think. Doesn't your main plot thread start with the Washington riot? Is the Peacetaker motivated to move on and start more trouble? Are they chasing him? Is the crackpot helping? That seems more interesting than the history of Peacetakers.

New Beginning 288

Kelly Prior was the first female writer Lee had ever worked with. She supposed it was a kind of antique sexism on her part--the image of the beautiful seductress, haunting her love-sick poet as he pounded out the words on his clacking typewriter. But several of the other Leanan Sidhe had adopted women, and Lee had thought she’d give it a try.

The adjustment period had taken a little longer with Kelly. After all, she wasn’t particularly interested in Lee’s beauty. And she’d also been more skeptical of Lee’s ability to help her career. (Women were more naturally sensible that way.) But she’d been on the brink of giving up, after thirty or so rejections on her first novel, so she had decided to give Lee a chance.

Now, Lee stood at Kelly’s side admiring the heavy hardback--its cover embossed and shiny, with Kelly’s name in huge gold letters--that was Kelly’s third bestseller in a row.

"I couldn’t have done it without you," Kelly whispered. Even that gentle use of her vocal chords was too much, and she coughed, her face turning first red and then purple as she struggled for breath.


Lee's lovely smile brightened the room. "So, is being a bestselling author everything you dreamed it would be?"

"Oh, yes!" Kelly whispered.

"Any regrets about hiring a fairy to help?"

"Not really. Just . . . when all those agents said they wanted to see more of my voice in the manuscripts? I wish you hadn't taken them literally."


Opening: Jennifer French.....Continuation: Phoenix

Face-Lift 350

Guess the Plot

The Nature Room

1. Evalina Flint wanted the latest in green technology for her new home: solar power, wind technology and composting in the kitchen. But squatting over a dirt hole in a shed full of thistles, she wonders whether the bathroom has to be so, uh, primitive.

2. All Derora wanted was to fit in at her boarding school, but then she becomes enemies with Megan, the most popular girl in school. Even worse, she is thrust into the Nature Room, a peaceful planet connected to the school by secret passages. Also, a crippled elf.

3. There's ragweed growing against the wall, the walls are rippling fur--either cat or dog, no one knows which-- a tree is sprouting like an elephant's leg in the corner with wasp and bee hives dangling... The Ninth Circle of Hell has no worse punishment for the allergic than the Nature Room!

4. Twelve-year-old twins Venice and Genoa complain so much of boredom, they are sent to stay with relatives in France. Everything there seems normal, until midnight, when the wallpaper comes to life -- then the girls must run through jungles, fleeing jaguars, gibbons, pythons, and the ghostly Skeleton King. Will they survive till morning?

5. In 3729 AD, the whole world’s surface has become a giant city called Unitropolis. Driven by descriptions of a thing called the “Outdoors” from the “ancient times,” a group of college students search the globe for the legendary Last Tree and the hidden vault that holds it – only to find themselves enmeshed in a conspiracy of global proportions.

6. Todd has never been part of the Crisco crowd, opting for single partner sex . . . but when the hot new swingers club opens up on Pheelmore Avenue, Todd decides an “orgy” is in order. It isn’t until he pays the two hundred bucks and follows the circuitous underground tunnel that he discovers he’s in the orangutan cage of the city zoo.


Original Version

Dear Evil Editor,

New classmates, new school year, and a different planet. One invading army. A pinch of magic, telepathy, and secrets. [Three sentences, nineteen words, and no verbs.] From two viewpoints, THE NATURE ROOM is a finished 66,000 word YA novel.

Way back before the bible, humans lived on another planet in the city of Eden, until they got kicked off for being too violent. [Humans. They screw up everything they get their hands on.] This upset the balance of nature, and only a few centuries ago was a solution reached: a crippled elf was sent to Earth, where he started a boarding school with some secret passages that magically bridge the gap between worlds and others that spy on the teachers lounge. [After thousands of years of brainstorming, this is the solution they come up with to nature's imbalance?] He implemented a test, ensuring only the smartest and most peaceful students would get in. And he faked his own death once The Schools tradition of rich graduates was established. [Why?]

John is one of the students at The School, and his concerns are normal: Get a date with Megan, stop the kid he's tutoring from mauling his balls, [No way would I continue tutoring a kid who was mauling my balls. You have to draw the line somewhere.] get his history project done, stop his mole-like friend Akamu from insulting his groupmates. [Mole-like? Meaning what?] Then yet another kid passes the test, but this one's right below the age cutoff, [Why would someone below the cutoff be taking the test? And why do we care about this kid?] and now there's a new freshman assigned to his group. [I should never read these queries after drinking an entire bottle of Drambuie.]

All Derora wants is to fit in, for once- and she thinks she's off to a good start when the group she's assigned to be her 'family away from family' is friendly. Then her secrecy is tested, and she's thrust into a duel life almost faster than she can swear. One is normal, the other another world known as The Nature Room, where she finds a Symbiote (other species friend-closer-than-family) named Flip, gets a secret nickname, and makes an enemy of Megan, the most popular girl in The School. [Wait, did you mean the kid he was tutoring was mauling his own balls during the tutoring sessions? That would be only slightly less bothersome.]

Just as Derora's adjusting to her new life, and John's adjusting to her, their world gets barfed on as an invading army takes their whole school captive. Spying through secret passages is fun, getting reeducated isn't- especially when John spits on the invaders flag. Their education turns into a struggle, for their lives, their school, and each other- and they'll be damned if it's one they'll lose. [Suddenly this kooky fantasy has morphed into military science fiction?]

I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,


Notes

You've got the apostrophe-s to replace "is" figured out, but you need to use an apostrophe to show ownership, as in teachers' lounge, invaders' flag, and School's tradition.

There are numerous phrases in here whose meanings aren't 100% clear:

From two viewpoints
Way back before the bible
tradition of rich graduates
her secrecy is tested.
other species friend-closer-than-family

The humans were kicked out of Eden--banished to Earth?
Because this upsets the balance of nature in Eden, a school is started on Earth from which humans--smart peaceful ones--can transport to Eden and back, thus balancing nature?
If that's correct, it's only because I guessed right. It's not clear enough.
In any case that's just the background. Your plot starts when Derora arrives at the school. Tell the story from her viewpoint. Work in what you absolutely must of the background, but stick with Derora as much as possible. Got it? Now start from scratch.

What's dem lights in de sky? Derora.

Q & A 114

I just received a rejection from an agent who said that my story lacked tension. My story is about 2 kids who go back in time, and must find a person (Pieter Bruegel) in order to come back home. In the meantime, they face various obstacles on their way to meeting this person. It's fast-paced and light. They have to overcome bed-bugs in one chapter. In other chapter, they get stuck working in someone's art shop while they should be out looking for Bruegel to get them back home. Each chapter has an obstacle, which the 2 friends work together to solve. There is character growth at the end of the story. It's not a poignant story meant to make you cry or have some terrific revelation at the end. It's meant to be a jolly good read.
Is there a way to have my kind of story have 'enough tension,' or is that an entirely different kind of story?

It's hard to say what kind of tension is lacking, without reading it. In the most obvious sense of the word, I would guess that the reader doesn't care about the bedbugs, because they won't ultimately prevent the kids from finding Pieter Bruegel. How long does it take them to find him? Five days? Suppose they were told they had three days to find him, or they could never get home. Now any obstacle that gets in their way could be disastrous, rather than merely annoying. Figure out the least amount of time it could possibly take them to find Bruegel, and give them even less. They'll be worried. They'll be nervous. They'll be tense. And so will the readers.

Face-Lift 349

Guess the Plot

The Choice to Change

1. For Pvt. Mort Slimper, changing his socks and underwear in the field meant turning them inside out every week. But with the Army's new Laundry Battalion, everyone now has . . . The Choice to Change.

2. In this daring sequel to my groundbreaking The Choice to Feed, I show new parents how to avoid the whole diaper ritual.

3. Does this make me look fat? How about the slinky black dress? No? Maybe that navy blue blouse with the Peter Pan collar for that barely-legal schoolgirl look?

4. Join the author of this fascinating memoir as she first becomes invisible, and then attempts to find herself.

5. My life in the US Mint, where I dealt with decisions ranging from the thickness and sheen of pennies to the number of ridges on a dime, shaping the course of American coinage.

6. When a body is discovered atop a pile of $600 in quarters, Randy Roberts, change maker at the Galloping Ghost Slots Emporium in Reno becomes the prime suspect and goes on the run while trying to clear his name.


Original Version

Dear Evil Editor;

I often wonder just how deep the effects of the trauma of my childhood go and whether I'll ever be totally free of them. I was so shy, naïve, protected, and isolated from all the problems of daily life. Except for the movies, TV and an occasional vacation, my early point of view was extremely narrow. [I think I'm the wrong person to unload on--movies, TV and the occasional vacation are still the only things shaping my worldview.] I had my own little world – my fantasy world. I had complete faith and trust in the people around me and believed that life would unfold in a good and logical way. [You were a kid. What do kids know?]

Then one day it all shattered. My father's infidelity created a nasty separation and divorce and mother moved us to a large city far away from my small rural town. I was totally unprepared for the realities that faced me. I retreated into the protection of the one place I felt safe – into myself. But I had no foundation upon which to draw and no one who would take the time to help me. It wasn't that I was unloved – just that I wasn't a priority. I became invisible. [Just to confirm, you didn't accidentally switch your letters to Evil Editor and to Dr. Phil, right?]

For years I drifted through schools, jobs, locations and men trying to find my place - always looking outside myself for the answers. I used sex and drugs as an antidote for my pain and developed deep-seeded [seated] abandonment and intimacy issues. Then I got cancer. [One problem with starting a query letter in first person and not mentioning the book is that the editor begins to wonder if the next paragraph is going to begin: Anyway, at the age of fifty, my life is finally settling down, I'm at peace with my father, my cancer is gone, and I've decided to become a science fiction author. Would you be interested in taking a look at my 100,000-word novel, Zombie Wolverines of Planet Q?] [Believe it or not, such query letters do make their way to editors.]

THE CHOICE TO CHANGE explores my journey from an idyllic childhood, through years of feeling lost and alone, through cancer and the related stress and changes it caused and the search to find my self. It relates the lessons I learned along the way and the importance of forgiveness [Forgiveness? Listen, speaking as Evil Psychiatrist, the only way you'll ever be happy is if you put a bullet in your father's brain.] and acceptance of responsibility.

THE CHOICE TO CHANGE is a memoir of 63,000 words. Thank you for your consideration of my submission. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,


Notes

As I may have mentioned earlier, there's something discomforting about a query letter in first person that takes a long time to get around to mentioning a book. This wasn't as bothersome as Face-Lift 76, but you don't want the editor wondering if you're an infatuated stalker. I'd put the title, genre and word count up front.

Perhaps it's a sad commentary on our world, but no one wants to read your memoir unless you're famous or they're related to you--unless your life has been truly amazing. Writing this book was a good thing to do, but to sell it you have to show what makes your story interesting to a large number of complete strangers. Or convert it into a novel and throw in some truly amazing or hilarious fictional events.

This has given me a great idea for a new blog: Evil Psychiatrist. To see if it would be entertaining, I'll let Evil Psychiatrist take over my blog this weekend. Those of you with problems, real or imagined, write to me now. Sorry, I don't do bedwetting.

New Beginning 287

Amber light glowed from an open window in the back of the shack, and from the rear deck a small dock floated with the rise and fall of the tide. Waist deep in the brackish water, I listened for voices as I advanced but all I heard was thousands of frogs in full riot.

I held my Glock at shoulder level, sliding from tree to tree and trying not to stumble on the roots. I stopped to take inventory of my surroundings. Pale beams of moonlight cut through the trees and made silver designs on the water. Two dark bumps on the surface caught my attention, about ten feet to my left, and it took a moment before I recognized them as the eyes of an alligator. By the length of its snout I knew it was large, and it was pointed in my direction not moving. I stood still and held my breath, waiting to see if the monster was going to stir. It seemed to be sizing me up.

Just as I decided I should breathe again, the gator dropped beneath the surface and vanished. Now I was a statue. A frog could have hopped onto my gun and spit in my eye and I wouldn’t have blinked. Time hung like a crooked picture.


Lloyd Greasemeister covered his mouth to stifle his laugh and peeked through his miniblinds again. "Do it once more!" he said.

Gary eased the joystick of the remote control up, and the mechanical alligator reappeared. The kid dropped his toy Glock as he ran, screaming, out of the pond. His friends followed.

Lloyd smoothed the blinds with a satisfied sigh. "That should keep those little turds out of my pond for a while."


Opening: Wonderwood.....Continuation: Anonymous

Face-Lift 348

Guess the Plot

Across the Green Line

1. The Green Line separates Israel from Gaza, but it doesn't keep conscientious Israeli police officer Akira from crossing over to the Palestinian side. What he discovers there will stretch his non-violence principles to their limit.

2. Illianna Glorp was warned about the green line. But she was reckless, reckless as only a nine-year-old with no coordination and only a rudimentary understanding of hopscotch can be.

3. FBI agent Sam Yellowstone must stop serial killer Adrian Green, who has a unique M.O: Green draws a line in the sand and dares his unsuspecting victims to cross it. When they inevitably do, he backs up, draws another and says, “Okay, that one.” He repeats this until both are standing suspended in the air over a giant ravine whereupon the victim, realizing the impossibility, plummets to his death, punctuated by a puff of white smoke.

4. Jake Ramirez pulls a green crayon from his pocket and draws a "safe line" around the corner dining table and chairs at Luigi's Pizza. Which seems daft to his date, Nonna Flores. But she's glad he did it -- when the zombies arrive.

5. John Deere Green? Harley couldn't believe she used the same colour as his tractor to divide up their living space. He hated that colour. Almost as much as he hated having to watch what happened every night across that line when his soon to be ex-wife's girlfriend came home.

6. During a presidential primary debate, one candidate whips out a paint brush and bucket of green paint and sloshes a thick, green line across the stage. Is it just a theatrical campaign ploy? Or will the other candidates eschew the Big Industry lobby and join him . . . Across the Green Line?


Original Version

Dear Ms. Agent,

What happens when a man opposed to violence comes face to face with his daughter’s killer?

Israeli police officer AKIVA finds the body of a teen-aged girl washed up on a Tel Aviv beach. She reminds him of his own daughter, who was killed three years before in a terrorist bombing. [The man opposed to violence is a cop?

Captain: There's a holdup in Beersheba, Haifa's broken out in fights, there's a traffic jam in Hebron that's--

Akiva: I'll take the traffic jam.

Captain: We also need a crossing guard at . . .

Akiva: I'll be the crossing guard.

Captain: . . . Jerusalem High School.

Akiva: I'll take the traffic jam.]

When Akiva’s investigation reveals that the drowned girl was Palestinian, suddenly the Israeli media loses [lose] interest, and Akiva is reassigned to another case. Determined to continue the investigation on his own, he must travel across the Green Line into Gaza to meet with the Palestinian police. What he discovers there brings him face to face with his own daughter’s killer, and the most difficult decision of his life. [Should I forgive him, or should I torture him, kill him, gut him, eat his internal organs, and claim temporary insanity?]

Dealing with themes of revenge and redemption, the thriller ACROSS THE GREEN LINE is complete at 92K words. Set in the tense climate of today’s Middle East, [as opposed to the tense climate of any other day's Middle East,] the action is reminiscent of Jon Land’s Walls of Jericho and Daniel Silva’s The Kill Artist, but deals with the realities of life in the region in a more intimate way than either. [I can't say I know how every agent reacts to comparisons with published books, but here are the possibilities:

1. Reminiscent of Walls of Jericho and The Kill Artist? I hated those books.

2. Reminiscent of Walls of Jericho and The Kill Artist? I loved those books. And this first-time novelist's claiming he's in that league? Why don't they just say, My first novel will remind you of Tolstoy and Faulkner, only better?

3. Reminiscent of what?]

ACROSS THE GREEN LINE is my first novel, but I am no stranger to the setting and politics of the Middle East. I have a Ph.D. in Arabic and Hebrew linguistics, and I did research for the novel during two trips to the Middle East. The book has been proofed by both Israeli and Palestinian readers. [In retrospect, it was a mistake to have them proof it in the same room at the same time. Those guys'll fight over anything.] While the novel is stand-alone, a sequel involving the same main character is nearing completion at 95K words.

I decided to submit my manuscript to you because you are interested in character-driven crime novels. I hope you will be interested in ACROSS THE GREEN LINE. I have included the first chapter, a one-page synopsis, and enclosed a SASE for your reply. I'd be happy to send a complete copy of the manuscript for your review. Thank you for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely Yours,


Notes

When you get assigned to a new case, are you allowed to work another one instead?

Wouldn't social worker or rabbi be better lines of work than cop for someone opposed to violence? True, cops occasionally can stop violence, but usually isn't the violence over when the cops arrive?

The plot paragraph is a good hook. If you eliminate the author comparison, the statement about who proofed your book, and three of the five filler sentences in the last paragraph, you'll have room to tell us more about the story.

Auction Results

Those who expressed interest in the auction results will be pleased to know that the winning bid was submitted by a long-time minion who is now trying to come up with an explanation for a new-found interest in juvenile diabetes research before their spouse sees the next credit card bill. Though the query and opening for the novel haven't appeared here (yet), the author is responsible for one Q & A, and almost 20 Guess the Plots, including:

Sugar Bowl: With the town’s only bowling alley brothel threatened with foreclosure, the girls take matters into their own hands to raise the money – the hard way.

Fear Sweeney: Another wasted day of cabbage and Guinness at the pub. It was time to stop feeling sorry for himself and head for the farting contest.

Stephanie Steps Up: Bored with her tiresome literary agent husband, Stephanie decides to splurge on a depilatory regimen and try to bag a New York book editor.

Prophecy’s Sons: This eighth volume in the Prophecy Jackson decalogy finds him babysitting his six sons while his wife attends the annual convention of their fathers.

Of Gods and Men: Men use the Golden Flagon to outwit the Gods in a colossal battle for the women; the Gods say they’ll just make more.

Above the Shimmering Sky: Three desperate men and a love-starved camel set off on an impossible quest beneath the burning sands of a world turned upside-down.

The Mommy Club: Bludgeons peddled by a mysterious stranger are being snapped up quicker than Volvo SUVs by the young-mother crowd, but are the results too good to be true?

Fractured Veil: Hidden for years behind her concrete veil, Aisha’s world is rocked when she slips and falls – and Abdulrahman is there to pick up the pieces.

Murder 101: Introduction to Death: Belinda wants to take “Murder 345: Icepicks”, but she’s missing a prerequisite. Will they waive it if she kills the Albanian groutman who’s been servicing her?

Duty Boy: A first-person, present tense saga of toilet-training told by a three-and-a-half year old boy under enormous pressure.

Scarabaeus: Can Sarah Ashworth of the Newport Ashworths ever find true happiness amidst a swarm of in-laws and a dung beetle who thinks he’s god almighty?

Sleepwalking: Caught in the boat house with the new French maid, buck-naked except for his rubber horsey head, Boone needed a story and needed it fast.

New Beginning 286

Carol Richens walked to the top of the grassy observation mound before she pulled a cylinder of Smart Nicotine Delivery System from the front pocket of her military style, bio-fabric khaki shorts and pinched the end of the cylinder to fire the tobacco. She is the Superior Leader of the Global Women's Army of Environmental and Military Engineers. Not one woman on the PanWestern American Training Base would dare notice that she was using an SNDS outside the defined hours and within the sights of the new Engineering recruits.

After the enriched hybrid tobacco was burning, Carol hooked the thumb of her ruined left hand into the side loop of her waistband, then used her good right hand to lift the brown cylinder to her lips as she thought about the meeting of the Superior Leaders from all four quarters of the country that had just ended. She took a deep pull on the cylinder and held the smoke in her lungs. The old system of country, state, county, and city might have been cumbersome, expensive and wasteful, she thought, but there had been so many leaders under that system that duty, responsibility and blame had been spread thin. She shook her head and sighed.

Below her the crowd erupted in cheering as the motorcade at last rolled into view. Using her good hand, Carol lifted her EnviroKill Ballistic Delivery System 304 A to her shoulder and waited, waited, then released the projectile. The male leader's head snapped backwards.

To Carol's surprise, she heard a loud report from the direction of a large nearby building, and immediately wondered who else could also have planned this removal. The Women's Army of Medical and Dental Workers? The Women's Union of Free Farmers? Or--and the thought chilled her--could it be a lone shooter, acting on commands no one else could hear? It didn't matter now, as the people were running to the vehicle, many screaming and crying. She quickly removed the Hawking Time Travel Apparatus from her pocket and pulled the return fob.


Opening: Anonymous .....Continuation: Khazar-Khum

Face-Lift 347

Guess the Plot

Bear Tamer

1. They call Vincent Forrester II the Bear Tamer--he knows how to make money even when the market is down. But when it comes to love, he's never been serious until Tatiana comes to work for him. Can this fiery Russian tame the bear tamer?

2. A seventeen-year-old girl--and her bear--is the only hope of the world as an evil tyrant seeks to unleash a plague of destruction. Also, a werewolf.

3. When Milton Griggs answered the ad in the South Spockett Gay Times, he never dreamed "Bear" would turn out to be Mr. Griffith from the filling station. Not that he's complaining, mind you.

4. A teenager befriends an enormous bear, and together they defeat an evil dragon which has terrorized the countryside for generations. Injured in the battle, he's taken to a nearby noble's house, where the elderly nurse recognizes him as the long-lost heir to the throne.

5. Jim and Larry live in a trailer near Jackson, Wyoming. Their favorite game is "bear tamer," but Larry's tired of being the bear, and Jim refuses to switch. Maybe it's time to go fishing.

6. What if the Indians had been able to domesticate Grizzly Bears and built an empire out of “bear-power” before the Europeans first arrived? This alternate history novel not only explores the ramifications of the Great Bear Empire, but extrapolates it out to the 22nd Century, as the “Old World” struggles to break free from the yoke of the Bear Empire’s dominance.


Original Version

It’s been one thousand years since the “plague” nearly eradicated the population of Mayall’s world. Is history doomed to repeat itself? BEAR TAMER is a 99,000 word fantasy, adventure novel.

Far away from her home, [Whose home? Oh, Mayall's. I figured Mayall's world was an artificial moon or an amusement park.] at the root of civilization, trouble is brewing in the form of a narcissistic tyrant. He is intent on controlling the world with a power that grants his needs and wants, the same “plague” that destroyed the world so long ago. [I see "plague" is going to be in quotation marks each time we use it. Meaning, it's not really a plague; it's a "plague."] One mysterious woman is on the hunt for a hero who will defeat him, but time is getting short as the tyrant’s power continues to grow.

Mayall is the most skilled archer among the bear tamers at the age of seventeen. Her brother, on the other hand is a clumsy pain-in-the-butt, a surly boy passionate only about his solitude. When refugees file into Mayall’s mountain home they tell of frightening occurrences that have driven them from their farms: unnatural storms, vague messages carved into trees, and werewolves. [Werewolves? Did you say werewolves? Suddenly you have my attention.] The tamers and the refugees are baffled by the attacks, [What attacks? You haven't mentioned any attacks. I guess we're supposed to assume that where there are werewolves, there are attacks. See, that's the trouble with being a werewolf. Even if you're a good werewolf, you have to hope the bear tamers are on the ball, because you just know you're gonna get blamed for any bear attack within fifty miles.] but too frightened to do anything about it.

In a desperate urge to take action, [In desperation,] but without proper volunteers, the council of tamers and refugees [The refugees just got there. Already they're part of the council?] agree to send one person [an improper volunteer, apparently] for information. [Conversation in the council of tamers and refugees:

The tyrant grows more powerful every day. The "plague" is upon us.

We're desperate. The world was destroyed last time this happened.

I suggest we pin all our hopes on one person.

Yes! One person.

But what can one person do against such massive power?

He can gather information.

Ah!]

When that one volunteer dies under the paws of her bear, Mayall takes his place, dragging her guardian, Eas, and pain-in-the-butt, Kufa, into the far west. [Let me get this straight. The council chooses a hero, but before the hero can do anything, Mayall's bear kills him? Mayall, the great bear tamer? And now, despite this monumental screw-up, Mayall becomes the replacement hero, instead of being locked in the pillory?] [Does her bear go on the mission? Or did they put it down after it killed the hero?] She is determined to gather more than just information. [What else will she gather?] Justice must be served.

The three fight through sieges, brave the storms, tackle the werewolves, [ponder the vague messages carved into trees, and] evade mercenaries, while facing the accusation placed on the bear tamers for the attacks. [Who is accusing the bear tamers? The werewolves?] The mysterious woman [You keep calling her that. What's so mysterious about her?] tracks them down with the answer they’ve been looking for, the location of their true enemy.

The woman bestows her special gift on Mayall. The gift grants her the ability to see into people’s hearts and awaken their highest potential. [Of course, awakening the highest potential of someone destined to be a sculptor or a florist doesn't do much good against Mohrgonn, lord of the dark realm.] [I think I know what's mysterious about the mysterious woman: her "gift" is capable of bringing down Mohrgonn, yet it never occurs to her to just bring him down herself.] With this she confronts the enemy that has taken over her world, accused her people for it, and killed her parents. [Hello. My name is Mayall. You killed my father. Prepare to die.] Unknown to Mayall, her enemy is aware of her ability, and plans to use her as a puppet in his scheme. Their battle is a battle of will. In the end, the real hero may be someone never suspected. [If you mean the clumsy pain-in-the-butt brother, I suspected him from the beginning.]

Enclosed is my SASE. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Revised Version

When refugees file into Mayall’s mountain home, they tell of frightening occurrences that have driven them from their farms: unnatural storms, and werewolf attacks. A thousand years ago a similar “plague” nearly eradicated the population of Mayall’s world. She wonders: is history repeating itself?

As the crisis worsens, Mayall sets out to find its source, accompanied by her brother and her guardian. The three brave storms, battle werewolves, and evade mercenaries as they make their way to the root of their civilization, where a tyrant with great magical power is intent on controlling--or destroying--the world.

Unknown to Mayall, her enemy awaits with open arms, planning to use her as a puppet in his scheme. But Mayall has powers of her own, and carries the hopes of her people. What follows is an epic battle of wills upon which rides the fate of a world.

BEAR TAMER is a 99,000-word fantasy adventure novel. The manuscript is complete and available on request. Thank you.


Notes

It was too long. If you aren't going to tell us anything Eas and Kufa do, you may as well leave them out. The revised version is short enough to allow you to add a few bits of important information.

Speaking of Eas, what kind of "guardian" agrees to let their teenaged ward go off in search of the lord of the dark realm?

What kind of first name is Mayall? Did you consider naming her Clapton? Leadbelly?

"The "plague" is a power that grants the tyrant's needs and wants? Can you be more specific? Are the storms and werewolves and vague messages on trees part of the "plague"?

Your plot is: A teenaged girl who's an archery whiz takes on a powerful evil overlord with only her ability to look into hearts and bring out the best in people. (Let's hope she also has her bow and arrows.)

What's the importance of taming bears? The only thing a bear does in the query is kill one of the good guys. Why do they tame bears, and why are they so bad at it?

There's too much vagueness. What are Mohrgonn's powers? What information do they send the hero after?

How does Mayall use or plan to use her gift? To look into the heart of Mohrgonn, and bring out his good side? To turn his minions against him? To convince other people to join the fight? Make it clear how her abilities are useful.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Authors were asked to write scenes based on the following prompt:

Miss Snark was thrilled to find herself trapped in an elevator with her favorite actor, George Clooney, but the strict method actor refuses, even under such dire circumstances, to abandon the "pirate" persona from his current film, O Laddie, Whar Be Thee? After two hours, the "act" has begun to wear thin. Even Miss Snark has her limits.


1. It shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. Ever since she quit blogging, the world presented itself with uncompromising clarity.

“Arrrr! It cannot beeee!”

Miss Snark gritted her teeth. The way he rolled his eyes and paused before saying something was beyond irritating. You could actually see the wheels turning in this nitwit’s head. He flipped his cell phone shut. “Did ye say somethin’ durrrin’ meeee…cellularrrrr…er, convarrrrsationnnn?”

“I said, you’re a nitwit.”

He gazed upward, mouth open. After a few seconds, he spoke again. “Arrrrr ye callin’ me the Pirate Lorrrrd of Nitwitarrrrreeeee?”

Miss Snark swung her Prada handbag. Cap’n Clooney fell back, smacked his head on the wall, and slid to the floor. Blood dribbled from his nose, down his clean-shaven cheek. He even bleeds like a wuss, she thought. What was I thinking?

The elevator suddenly lurched and began descending. When it stopped, the doors opened only a few inches, but a pair of incredibly sexy hands appeared and pried them apart. The elevator was still two feet above the third floor, and standing in the doorway with an outstretched hand, was a really gorgeous man. He had a thin goatee and long dark hair underneath a black fedora. “This way, Miss.”

Miss Snark let him help her down. He peeked inside the elevator, saw the buffoon laid out on the floor, and glanced back at her over his shoulder. Then he flashed a wicked grin and pressed the down button.

An overweight man in coveralls waddled up to her rescuer and shook his hand. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Depp.”

“Anytime, mate.”

Without thinking, Miss Snark wrapped her arm around his waist. He raised an eyebrow and smiled. Now this is a real pirate, she thought as they strolled down the hallway. I wonder if rum comes in pails, too?

--blogless_troll


2. "Aye wench, my cutlass do not rise an' salute ye like the bowsprit on a dandy's prow." George said to the woman with moss-green eyes and yapping poodle.

"I love you George, and all you do is act like you're grogged to the gunwales. Your middy stinks of dead cuttlefish, too." She bawled into an overworked hanky, never noticing a light blinking their imminent rescue.

"Don't be cryin' wench. I be wantin' an heir from ye, a stout, ruddy lad. Methinks ye might be me prize schooner."

"Take me to, I think yuns call it, Viola's garden."

"I be mountin' your gangway. Ye wouldn't have me use that squiffy cur Damon, would ye?"

"Scupper that scurvy dog. Sail ho on this bounty!" Miss Snark raised her skirts, revealing scarlet-red silk lace.

"Ye're saucy . . . festoons 'n all. Kiss the gunner's daughter and I'll plow thy seas."

A chime sounded. The elevator door opened. Matt, dressed as a nerdy repairman with no chin, grinned. George whipped out his cutlass.

"Ye scurvy dog, ye be wantin' to plunder me booty. I'll keelhaul ye, scurvy cur!" George yelled. Matt bolted. George pursued. Killer Yapp ran after both.

"Lost him again." The elevator doors slid shut as Miss Snark sank into an ocean of despair.

--Dave


3. “C’mere, me buxom beauty.”

“You, you . . . filthy landlubber! Take your hands off me!”

“Avast! Ye've another man? Who be he? That scurvy dog. I’ll crush his skull. Be it Capt’n Boner? Or that other rat, Evil Egghead?”

It’s you! You nitwit! I’m in love with you. But not this phony pirate you’re pretending to be.”

“Ah, me ol’ self. Tossed 'im overboard quicker'n I down me grog.”

“Grog?”

“Me liquor, lassie.”

“I could use some grog.”

“Aye, lassie. Here ye are.”

“Thanks. Hey, I said, take your hands off me!”

“But I have to get me pillagin’ n rapin’ in somehow . . . More grog?”

“When is this elevator going to open?”

I've a better portal fer ye. Arr. I can open it now. Arr.”

“That’s . . . disgusting.”

“It’s not the size o' the boat. It’s the motion o' the ocean. Arr.”

“No, George. It IS the size of the boat.”

--takoda


4. Lacking a scabbard, George put his sword back in his pants. Muttering something that sounded like “heart o’gold, arrgh! buns of steel,” he slicked back his love-soaked hair and cocked an eyebrow at the Gin Flask from which the Snark was currently imbibing.

“ I thank ye fer a nip? I be needing to slacke my other thirst ”

Miss Snark adjusted her stockings and pouted contentedly at the pirate George. She was basking in her own private afterglow, but she handed over the flask.

“Where’s your rum, anyway?”

“Aye Missy Snark, ’tis a mournful tale. Me crew, y' see, me cabin boys and the cook (the pagan fool) struck mutiny, aye they set me afloat with nary crumb nor keg.

As the piney fresh gin soughed softly through the branches of her central nervous system, she found she could tune out the annoying cadence of his pirate-speak while floating in a hazy nap-like bubble. The bubble abruptly burst when she felt the stiffness thrust into her hands. Blinking twice, Miss Snark was amazed to see a 400-page Manuscript.

“Arrgh, Missy, could you be looking through me pages here? Damned if Satan himself, down the way o’ the Southern Cross, didn’t tell me you were the best agent in the two one two.”

--ME


5. If you say “Aargh” one more time, I’m gonna knee you in the nuts, buckle your swash and stick my stiletto up your butt, she thought, smiling sweetly at the man who used to be her favorite fantasy. And I’m not your f#@king wench!

She looked down at Killer Yapp, passed out on the floor. He knew within five minutes this would not be a pleasant party. He stole her flask, downed it quickly and now snored peacefully. Grandmother Snark’s favorite Parcheesi partner was nearing Davey Jones locker!

Oh dog, he was speaking again. “Miss Snark, now that you’ve heard all my lines from the dramatic, the semi-dramatic and the drunken pirate fight scenes, would you like to help me practice for my romantic encounter with the heroine?”

Now you're talking, thought Miss Snark. “Why yes, George, I’d be happy to help.”

“Okay,” he said. “You’re about the right age to be Griselda’s mother. In this scene you’ve caught us kissing and are forbidding her to see me anymore.”

“Yapp, you’re dead," Miss Snark said. "Note to self: Buy a bigger flask!"

--Anti-Wife


6. "Look, George, it's been two hours. Obviously they're not trying to rescue us. We could be trapped here for days."

"Aaarrrrrgh! Right ye be, Missy."

"We could die here. I could be the last woman you ever see . . . touch . . . kiss . . . "

"Aye, me last wench. 'Tis--"

"Listen, bucko, could you do me a favor till we get outta here, and can the pirate lingo?"

"Aaaarrrrrrgh! Nay, ne'er, matey." He adjusted his eye patch.

"You realize you're ruining ten years of delicious fantasies, don't you?"

"Avast, ye smarmy--"

"Fuck. I knew I should have gone with Hugh Grant or EE. Look, George, someone's gotta climb through that door in the ceiling and figure out how to get help."

"Aaaaarrrrrrrrghhhh! Ye can't lift me that thar high, I be too heavy for the likes o' ye. I'll 'ave to lift thee."

"Fine. Whatever. Maybe I'll get lucky and there'll be someone in the elevator shaft who speaks English."

George squatted below the escape hatch. "Stand on me shoulders. That's it . . . Aaaaarrrrrrrgh!"

"What?"

"Yer stilettos! They're diggin into me shoul--"

"Wimp. Dog, did I ever have you figured wrong."

"Can ye open th' hatch?" He looked up. "Whoa!"

"Now what?"

"Missy, I've plundered me share o' booty in me day, but that's the prettiest booty I e'er did lay me eyes on."

Miss Snark dropped to the floor and threw her arms around George. "Why Cap'n," she said. "Be that a cutlass in yer breeches, or arrrgh ye just 'appy t' see me?"

-EE

New Beginning 285

The first time Death came to visit George Waterson, it took the form of young Japanese private nervously staring down the barrel of a new Arisaka Type 38 rifle. The sharp point of its menacing bayonet glinted with the rays of the midday sun peeking through the thick jungle canopy. Both men on scouting patrol for opposing armies, startled to come upon each other so suddenly and alone in the dense foliage of the lowland rainforest.

Like small mammals sensing a predator, the men had frozen in place, weapons in firing position. Sweat trickled down from under George's steel helmet. He felt incapable of thought, the image before him seared into his brain but his arms remained steady under the weight of his ancient Springfield rifle. A relic of the first war, but the only weapon made available to the hastily convened Air Corps Provisional Infantry. George found it an unnatural weight, heavy and awkward both physically and mentally. He had never fired it outside of target practice which had lasted all of two weeks. And now faced with the enemy, George was incapacitated.

"George," the Japanese soldier said. "I am Death."

"Shit," was all George could manage as a reply.

"I come back another time," Death grinned. "Not here for you. War keep me very busy. I catch you later, G.I.!"

The second time Death came to visit George Waterson, it was years later and George was racing his Toyota pickup on the 91 Freeway, blissfully unaware that Death was cruising toward him in the black Honda.


Opening: Ello.....Continuation: Kate Thornton

Q & A 113 Who's calling the shots here?

From what I’ve read it would seem that an author could be requested to write a synopsis from 2 to 25 pages, and it’s entirely at the whim of the agent or editor. Is this true? Does an author get asked to produce a synsopsis of a specific length depending on who is considering it? Or can I just write a good 2-5 pager and say: “take it or leave it.”

You've admirably toned down the language, but your question seems to be, I spent hours writing a five-page synopsis for Miss Snark, and she retired. Now I want to send my manuscript to Evil Editor, and the bastard wants a seven-page synopsis! If I have to write twenty different synopses for twenty submissions of the same crappy manuscript, I'll be spending longer on the synopses than it took me to write the damn book. Screw that. You wanna know what happens in my book? Read it!

Here's what to do. Write a 2/3-page synopsis, put it in the middle of your query letter, and send it to a few agents. If requests start rolling in, some of them will be for the manuscript or a partial. Send them what they want. Others will be for a partial and a synopsis. Those go in the trash, and rightfully so. They're from agents who are trying to get out of reading your book! Is that the attitude you want from someone you're hiring to represent you?

Now, if requests aren't rolling in, if only one agent shows the slightest interest in your book, and that agent wants a thirteen-and-a-half-page synopsis, hand-written in pig's blood on artist's canvas stapled to a piece of sheet rock, you have some shopping to do.

Writing Exercise

Below be th' prompt; ye write th' scene. 200 words. Submit Friday or Saturday. If you want credit, include the name.

Miss Snark was thrilled to find herself trapped in an elevator with her favorite actor, George Clooney, but the strict method actor refuses, even under such dire circumstances, to abandon the "pirate" persona from his current film, O Laddie, Whar Be Thee? After two hours, the "act" has begun to wear thin. Even Miss Snark has her limits.