Caption: Anon.Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.
Why you don't get published.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Saturday, June 07, 2008
New Beginning 512
The moon shone bright on the Allwyn Keep; in the hall, a heavy tread, the scrabbling of claws on the wide plank floor. The tang of fresh blood that bloomed suddenly in the night air.
Elyria allowed herself a shudder, then forced her attention back to the manuscript she and her childhood teacher, Collen, studied by lamp light. He knew from long ago how much she hated the nights of the full moon, and often joined her vigil at those times, bringing books and herbs for tea, and best of all, his company.
Elyria was the Keeper of the Were, but these nights reminded her she had little control over her unholy family. She 'kept' the Were, she thought cynically, in the sense that a serving maid might 'Keep' the castle. Clean up the messes, sweep aside the debris, make sure the etiquette of horror was observed. See to it that the needs of the wolfen were met; that their encroachments on the humans in their territories were kept to a minimum; that the Noble Accord was honored.
She was quite certain Virginia Woolf and Jane Austen had endured no such trials, and she often wondered cynically whether, had she been born in a different time, she would have needed to work such a god-awful job to support herself until she was published.
Opening: debhoag.....Continuation: freddie
Elyria allowed herself a shudder, then forced her attention back to the manuscript she and her childhood teacher, Collen, studied by lamp light. He knew from long ago how much she hated the nights of the full moon, and often joined her vigil at those times, bringing books and herbs for tea, and best of all, his company.
Elyria was the Keeper of the Were, but these nights reminded her she had little control over her unholy family. She 'kept' the Were, she thought cynically, in the sense that a serving maid might 'Keep' the castle. Clean up the messes, sweep aside the debris, make sure the etiquette of horror was observed. See to it that the needs of the wolfen were met; that their encroachments on the humans in their territories were kept to a minimum; that the Noble Accord was honored.
She was quite certain Virginia Woolf and Jane Austen had endured no such trials, and she often wondered cynically whether, had she been born in a different time, she would have needed to work such a god-awful job to support herself until she was published.
Opening: debhoag.....Continuation: freddie
Friday, June 06, 2008
Millionth Minion Prize
During our 2nd anniverary party, one of the contests involved coming closest to the date on which the millionth visit to the blog would take place (without going over). The prize is an Amazon gift certificate donated by Robin. The winner, based on the guesses shown here, will be announced shortly.
New Beginning 511
William had the heebie-jeebies. William always had the heebie-jeebies. Even when he looked like he was standing still, he was humming inside. You could feel it like a current running inside him, if you were up next to him and paying attention.
It’s not a big long story how I found out what his name was. I just asked him the first time I drove my crappy car down to his stilt house that stood between the stands of tall trees on the river bottom road outside of Lexington, a few hours after I arrived there, when I was still underneath him, and he was still inside of me.
When it was getting harder to take a breath with his long bony body resting down, and his breathing coming deep and spent and him with a light sweat on top of me, before he decided he’d better roll off me so I could take my own deep breath, I figured his first name wasn’t too much to ask of him, all things considered.
He pushed himself up on his bony elbows and looked at me still underneath him, his legs wrapped inside mine, like he valued the contact, and I could feel the buzz as his voltage ran through me, and he answered, "William," still out of breath, "but call me Bill; only my mother calls me William."
"That I do," his mother said from her hiding place in the shadows, and I pulled myself away and hid beneath the scrappy blanket, and her rocker creaked against the old floorboards of that stilt house by the river. "But after that pathetic show," she added, "we can just call him Wee Willie Winkie," and then she cackled, and it was enough to give anyone the heebie-jeebies.
Opening: Robin S......Continuation: ril
It’s not a big long story how I found out what his name was. I just asked him the first time I drove my crappy car down to his stilt house that stood between the stands of tall trees on the river bottom road outside of Lexington, a few hours after I arrived there, when I was still underneath him, and he was still inside of me.
When it was getting harder to take a breath with his long bony body resting down, and his breathing coming deep and spent and him with a light sweat on top of me, before he decided he’d better roll off me so I could take my own deep breath, I figured his first name wasn’t too much to ask of him, all things considered.
He pushed himself up on his bony elbows and looked at me still underneath him, his legs wrapped inside mine, like he valued the contact, and I could feel the buzz as his voltage ran through me, and he answered, "William," still out of breath, "but call me Bill; only my mother calls me William."
"That I do," his mother said from her hiding place in the shadows, and I pulled myself away and hid beneath the scrappy blanket, and her rocker creaked against the old floorboards of that stilt house by the river. "But after that pathetic show," she added, "we can just call him Wee Willie Winkie," and then she cackled, and it was enough to give anyone the heebie-jeebies.
Opening: Robin S......Continuation: ril
Thursday, June 05, 2008
New Beginning 510
The dead leave quietly down some back elevator, trundled along by resigned pushers in white lab coats with shiny nametags. Sheets cover their dead bodies and they pass by my door rarely, but I know its them because they can't be seen. You don't hide the faces of the living if you can help it.
Everything the living is is fronted by the face. The living need their faces and their eyes and ears.
But the dead are different.
The dead don't need a thing. The dead aren't wanting and they don't complain. Their lights have been turned off and they have truly left the building. Their brains no longer play tricks on them and their minds are no longer matter. They're no longer improbable beings with improbable lives but merely dead unseen bodies on trundling gurneys disappearing down back elevators by resigned pushers. Until you join them, I wish the two of you every happiness.
Clarence ended by polishing off the entire glass of champagne in one gulp.
The wedding party sat silent - stunned. Allie folded her arms over her chest and glared at her new husband. He would pay dearly tonight for insisting his brother be allowed to make a toast.
Opening: anon......Continuation: R. Watson
Everything the living is is fronted by the face. The living need their faces and their eyes and ears.
But the dead are different.
The dead don't need a thing. The dead aren't wanting and they don't complain. Their lights have been turned off and they have truly left the building. Their brains no longer play tricks on them and their minds are no longer matter. They're no longer improbable beings with improbable lives but merely dead unseen bodies on trundling gurneys disappearing down back elevators by resigned pushers. Until you join them, I wish the two of you every happiness.
Clarence ended by polishing off the entire glass of champagne in one gulp.
The wedding party sat silent - stunned. Allie folded her arms over her chest and glared at her new husband. He would pay dearly tonight for insisting his brother be allowed to make a toast.
Opening: anon......Continuation: R. Watson
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The Saturday Film Series
With today's lifestyles (you can't count on minions to be home Saturday, camped in front of the computer) Evil Editor has noticed that those whose Face-Lifts and New Beginnings get posted Saturdays get fewer comments. We've already solved this problem on Sundays with writing exercise results. Starting today, instead of a Saturday Face-Lift or New Beginning, Evil Editor presents a short film created from something that previously appeared on the blog. This will provide those with nothing to do on Saturday a first-run movie to watch. You might want to wait till it's Saturday night where you live, then make a batch of popcorn, turn down the lights, and settle in for the kind of entertainment Hollywood just doesn't provide anymore.Face-Lift 532
Guess the Plot
One Night in Magadan
1. When an invasion force from the Madlands attacks the city of Magadan, the massacre is on. One common minstrel joins up with a band of strangers--not to try to defeat the overwhelming forces, but to run like hell in hopes of surviving . . . one night in Magadan.
2. Kincaid O'Sheefe, Ireland's top secret agent, is assigned to track and capture the Assassin, an ex-KGB official turned hired killer. O'Sheefe travels to Magadan where he has a one-night-stand with his contact--who happens to be the very person he's trying to capture. And he's next on her hit list.
3. One night in Bangkok, and the world's your oyster. One Night in Magadan and the world's more like the mussel you were going to throw out because the shell was open but then you figured you were cooking it so it would be safe to eat but when you were wheeled into the ER that night the triage nurse who was really smokin' hot asked you what kind of idiot you were to eat tainted shellfish and you knew she'd never go out with you and a blow job was out of the question. It's that kind of novel.
4. Terry Winslow has everything that a man could want: family, fame, and fortune. But when his wife hires a new maid, Terry finds himself longing for something more. Terry's attempts to woo the maid prove futile. Eventually, she quits her job and heads to Spain. Three months later, Terry receives a note that the maid is ready to yield to him. Now Terry must decide if he's willing to risk it all for . . . One Night in Magadan.
5. Sultry. Sleazy. Itching from a skin rash you don't want to look at too closely. Magadan is all these things, and for ex-Vietnam vet Bruce Bottomwell, it's also the steamy pit where he finds the rent boy he left behind in Saigon. Then Bruce gets shanghaied at a bar and drafted into the Magadan army, and finds the commanding officer is his rent boy grown up. Can he rescue himself - and his dreams?
6. Visit sunny Magadan and die. On her "I'll spend my inheritance any way I want tour," supermodel Tiffany discovers old Nukes in the hands of new terrorists with plans to create WW3. Can she thwart the terrorists, or will they drown her in the Sea of Okhotsk?
Original Version
Dear [wise and all-powerful literary agent]
In the eternal battle between light and darkness, sooner or later the bad guys win. [If somebody eventually wins, can the battle truly be called "eternal"?]
Aust is a common minstrel in Magadan, the largest city in the world – a bustling international metropolis whose greatest hero, Aidan Trevanik, has waged a war against the power-hungry Lich Lords [Bet you can't say "Lich Lords" 5 times really fast.] of the Madlands. Aust is entertaining revelers on the night that Aidan’s army returns to the city from a supposedly victorious campaign – except that Aidan is dead, and the returning soldiers are in fact an invasion force from the Madlands disguised by a magical illusion. As the army of the Lich Lords tears the city apart from within and the victory celebration turns into a massacre, Aust finds himself on the run with a band of strangers [Did he just emerge from a trance or a coma? When an invasion force is massacring everyone in the city, you run like hell; you don't "find yourself" on the run.] whose only goal is to escape with their lives as Magadan burns to the ground.
ONE NIGHT IN MAGADAN is a fast-paced [That's it? We're done with the plot? Our main character heads for the hills while his city burns to the ground? The Lich Lords win?] [If you wrote Lord of the Rings, Gandalf's fireworks would burn Hobbiton to ashes at the beginning, Frodo would die in the flames, and Sauron would rule Middle Earth by chapter three.] 80,000 word [80,000 words about one night? Is this a trilogy, with One morning in Magadan and One Afternoon in Magadan yet to come?] “low fantasy” novel for an adult audience. It is the story of the worst night of Aust’s life, a tale of friendships formed and loves lost in a whirlwind of nightmare and disaster. It is a story of death and sacrifice, of faith in the face of overwhelming darkness, and the choices people make when all hope is gone. [I call it low fantasy because it's a downer.] [Fantasy types based on height:
high fantasy
eye-level fantasy
low fantasy
shallow grave fantasy
pit of hell fantasy]
I would be happy to send the current complete draft of the novel for you to review. Thank you for your time and attention.
Sincerely,
Notes
I don't expect happily ever after in everything I read, but if you describe your book using words like nightmare and disaster, death, overwhelming darkness, all hope is gone, etc., and the book basically recounts the worst night of the main character's life, and the main character is just a common minstrel, what's the selling point? Couldn't you at least make him an uncommon minstrel? I'm more likely to wade through the worst night of Bob Dylan's life than that of some guy with a garage band in Scarsborough.
We don't need to know Magadan's ranking in size among cities of the world.
Assuming one of the following happens after the invasion, it deserves a paragraph in the query:
1. They escape and plot Magadan's revenge on the Lich Lords.
2. They're captured, tortured and impaled in what's left of the city square.
3. They escape and form a traveling minstrel show, achieving moderate success including an appearance on Letterman.
4. Aust wakes up and says, "Man, I gotta stop eating Lorraine's chilidogs at bedtime."
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
New Beginning 509
“Can you drive a stick?”
“Sure!” Alison said.
“Get in then. You’re driving,” he said, tossing the keys.
Allison was good on the shift but hard on the clutch. Jets really didn’t care because he knew he would be having sex soon and he could replace the clutch. He wasn’t thinking so much as he was feeling. He stroked her pert nipples with one hand while his other hand shifted the Pontiac into 3rd gear.
“Guess where I’m kidnapping you to?” Ally teased.
“Um, your cabin in the woods?” Jets asked hopefully.
“Nah, that would take too lonnnggg. How ’bout that little Sugar Shack on the beach?” she asked with a quick glance at him and the rearview mirror, while her hands were busy moving from steering wheel to stick shift to Jets’ hands and various other body parts and back to the wheel.
Jets was having a little bit of trouble with her zipper, so Allison’s hands dipped and gently pushed the brass button through its little slit for him. His hands slid beneath the silkiness of her panties. “Ah – Shack? Good!”
"Does this mean you'll be giving me an A?" Alison asked him as the car scraped against a restraining wall. All her friends had said Jets was the creepiest driver training instructor at the school, but Alison felt really connected to him.
"Right now you're up to a B," Jets replied. "I still have to see if you know how to properly yield."
Opening: ME.....Continuation: Chris Eldin/EE
“Sure!” Alison said.
“Get in then. You’re driving,” he said, tossing the keys.
Allison was good on the shift but hard on the clutch. Jets really didn’t care because he knew he would be having sex soon and he could replace the clutch. He wasn’t thinking so much as he was feeling. He stroked her pert nipples with one hand while his other hand shifted the Pontiac into 3rd gear.
“Guess where I’m kidnapping you to?” Ally teased.
“Um, your cabin in the woods?” Jets asked hopefully.
“Nah, that would take too lonnnggg. How ’bout that little Sugar Shack on the beach?” she asked with a quick glance at him and the rearview mirror, while her hands were busy moving from steering wheel to stick shift to Jets’ hands and various other body parts and back to the wheel.
Jets was having a little bit of trouble with her zipper, so Allison’s hands dipped and gently pushed the brass button through its little slit for him. His hands slid beneath the silkiness of her panties. “Ah – Shack? Good!”
"Does this mean you'll be giving me an A?" Alison asked him as the car scraped against a restraining wall. All her friends had said Jets was the creepiest driver training instructor at the school, but Alison felt really connected to him.
"Right now you're up to a B," Jets replied. "I still have to see if you know how to properly yield."
Opening: ME.....Continuation: Chris Eldin/EE
Monday, June 02, 2008
New Beginning 508
I found the secret room quite by accident. Six months after father’s death, while cleaning his home office, I noticed one side of one of the wall panels behind his desk stuck out slightly from the wall. I went over to it, shoved at the loose edge, and heard a click. The next panel slid aside to reveal a lighted room. I looked through the opening, and saw walls lined with pictures. Curious, I stepped into the room.
Each of the walls held a double row of pictures, which were in chronological order, beginning with me as a newborn and ending with me an adult. I moved over to the nearest wall and looked at the first picture.
"Nella: Newborn October 12 3103." She lay naked on a pure white surface, her eyes scrunched up and her hands in tiny fists, as if she were angry at having been pushed out into the world. Had I once been such a tiny mite? I looked up to the picture directly above, and reeled back a step.
The stench was remarkable. I inched closer and read the caption through watering eyes, "Nella, full diaper, July 7, 3104." Ah yes, 3104, the year scratch-and-sniff photos were all the rage.
Opening: Petronella.....Continuation: Ulysses
Each of the walls held a double row of pictures, which were in chronological order, beginning with me as a newborn and ending with me an adult. I moved over to the nearest wall and looked at the first picture.
"Nella: Newborn October 12 3103." She lay naked on a pure white surface, her eyes scrunched up and her hands in tiny fists, as if she were angry at having been pushed out into the world. Had I once been such a tiny mite? I looked up to the picture directly above, and reeled back a step.
The stench was remarkable. I inched closer and read the caption through watering eyes, "Nella, full diaper, July 7, 3104." Ah yes, 3104, the year scratch-and-sniff photos were all the rage.
Opening: Petronella.....Continuation: Ulysses
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Writing Exercise
We haven't done this one in a while, and it's useful practice. Write a query letter for one of the fake plots on this blog. Choose the book title randomly (You can use a random number generator like the one here. Then find that Face-Lift number on the blog. Choose one of the five (or more) fake plots, pretend it's the plot of your book, and write a query letter. Don't use the real plot. If you make the book sound so good that the minions decide you should write it, do so.
250 words (no need to include anything but the body of the letter). Deadline: Sunday, 10 AM eastern. Don't send anonymously if you want credit. No more than two per customer.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
New Beginning 507
I killed for the first time when I was fifteen. I could have done nothing to prevent it, except die myself. A shadow fell in step to me on the street and ten minutes later I was in the ring, the same cold, dirt-floored pen they used for the dogs, one hand tied behind my back and the other holding a knife. I had to kill or be killed. Not much of a choice, although I didn't know it then. I didn't know it for a long time, in fact. Because whether or not it was against my will is irrelevant. I've done other kinds of killing since then: mercy, revenge. Downright murder, even. It all feels the same, if you ask me. Taking another man's life is a little like taking your own. You still die. It's just slower.
"Uh, you were right all along, pal. You were here first. My mistake. Please, do take that last Danish."
Opening: freddie.....Continuation: anon.
"Uh, you were right all along, pal. You were here first. My mistake. Please, do take that last Danish."
Opening: freddie.....Continuation: anon.
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