Words, words, words....

I have often been accused of being too wordy.

See, I like to communicate clearly, and sometimes I feel like the wordiness is necessary to get my point across correctly the first time.

Others disagree.  :)

But my wordiness is currently biting me in the backside.  I am in progress on a contest piece.  A short story to be inspired by the song "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" from Elton John.

And my concept for the story is damned good, if I do say so myself.

I feel like I'm probably about halfway finished.  About 1050 words so far.

The contest requires the story to be between 1000 and 1200 words.

Yeah, so...heavy editing to come?  LOL

The Work of the Lord

This is an excerpt of a longer piece that is in the process of being revised...



“M-M-Maggie?” he stammered, suddenly aware that he was trembling; quaking with fear and uncertainty. He took a brief glance at the bourbon, then back at the approaching figure. No amount of faith was going to convince him that any of this was real or even possible – certainly he was still passed out somewhere as a result of last night’s prodigious imbibing.

“Yes, Christopher – and regardless of your level of faith at the moment, this IS absolutely possible. After all, as you so often state at the end of your sermons, all things are truly possible with our God.”

The voice paused briefly, the figure outline still approaching slowly.

“Now REAL, that is another question – one man’s reality is often another’s fantasy.”

“So then what exactly is going on here? Am I dreaming, or just losing my mind?” cried the pastor, his voice shaking.

The voice laughed softly. “Aren’t they kind of the same thing?  Dreaming, along with thinking, praying, and reflecting – all also ways you can temporarily ‘lose your mind’; at least the conscious part. Unspoken communication with our Lord can take many forms – including the times you’re not even intentionally speaking to Him.”

“I don’t get it,” he whispered, shaking his head.

“Well, you’ve often professed that God is within us all.  Is that not true?”

Christopher snapped, “Fine, so you’re saying they’re all different ways for God to speak to me. Doesn’t exactly answer the question I asked. But if you don’t want to answer that, maybe you can explain how I still have no idea why our oh-so-wonderful Creator took you away from me!”

“Oh silly, you already know that – you did tell the congregation about the loss of their ‘beloved choir leader, your wife Margaret’. Remember?” the voice chided.

“Oh c’mon, Maggie – 'God needed someone with her beautiful soul to assist Him with his work in heaven' – that’s the kind of thing we tell ourselves to try to feel better about loss! You don’t actually think I believed that line of crap, do you?”

The voice was silent a moment before replying, “Well, I guess we’re back to that tricky reality issue, aren’t we?”

When It Rains

She left on a Tuesday. A rainy Tuesday, fittingly enough, marked by the most intense thunder and lightning display we’d seen that summer. She always loved the rain – especially a powerful late evening thunderstorm. We both did. The moment a storm began to move in, we’d head out the front door, giddy with anticipation. We’d sit on the porch swing, listening to the thunder crackling and rolling as the lightning streaked across the sky in a wicked electrical dance. I’d turn her around to look at me, and she’d flash her wicked grin as I gazed into her fiery green eyes; I always knew exactly what she desired in those moments.

 

We’d make passionate love in the dark with the thunder and lightning as our soundtrack and fireworks, while the raindrops that snuck past the porch roof sprinkled an occasional gentle coolness across the heat of our entangled bodies. And when she would fall asleep in my arms back on the porch swing, I would hold her close to me and look to the heavens, giving thanks for the storm, and for her love – because I knew both were too intense and fast-moving to last. I still taste her on my lips anytime it rains.

I moved to Phoenix last year – it never rains here.


 

Review

The editors shared a review of the anthology on the group's Facebook page yesterday.  I haven't paid a ton of attention to the reviews, but at the time that I received the Facebook notification, I was on my break at work, so I clicked on it.  (NOTE: You'll have to click on the pic below to read it - making it bigger didn't play nicely with the blog format, apparently.)

Yay!  Someone other than my wife and I enjoyed my story!   :)

* * * * * * *

 

So, the anthology was named an "Amazon Best Seller" for reaching the top 100 books in its category (I believe topping out in the low 60s at some point). Given the sheer number of books in the Amazon system, it's a pretty major accomplishment for a small press like Anchala.  I'm honored to have been a tiny part of their success. 

 

 

Still a little surreal seeing my name on the page of a real book, though.

 

 

 



Read Across America - Launch Day is here!!

The day is finally here, my friends!  Launch Day for "The Collection: Flash Fiction for Flash Memory" has arrived. 

March 2nd has also been designated as Read Across America day, with the entire month of March being dedicated to the love and pursuit of reading.  A time to share the joy of reading with the ones you care about.  What better way to celebrate than by picking up a brand new collection of short stories written by a large number of talented people? 

(Oh yeah, I wrote one of them too.)   Get the book here:  http://bit.ly/collection0302

So why this book?  Well, let's be frank about something.  Memory loss is a real issue as we age.  And with the busy lives we all lead, it's not even always about aging - I have days where at 5:00 PM I'm lucky to remember what I did at noon if I didn't write it down.  This book is targeted for people who have a love of reading, but struggle to remember the plot of longer pieces.  It is a collection of positive stories that take a few short minutes to read, thus allowing even those who are having difficulty with memory to enjoy a complete tale.

The truth is we all have flash memory. As we move through our busy lives, finding the time to read longer narratives can be a challenge. These shorter fiction pieces between 500 and 750 words offer a flash of story to enjoy and the opportunity to connect and share with friends and family members of all ages. Most of all they are here to be enjoyed!

*************
Here’s what some of the people who have already read the book have to say:

"It's said that good things come in small packages…here's proof. These small stories linger large…for reading, discussing, remembering."
—Ruth Moose, Award-winning novelist and short story writer

"For most of human history, stories were shared aloud —in this collection, we are invited to regain that intimate space where speaker and listener shape a story into life. These flash fictions are like a Polaroid image, swiftly appearing before our eyes, a moment caught and made more precious by sharing."
—Valerie Nieman, author of Hotel Worthy and LifeVerse Instructor
"When my memory starts to fail me, I want to be reminded—as Flash Fiction for Flash Memory does so well—of how it feels to be touched by a good story. To break through the cobwebs in my mind and travel to places near and far, if just for a moment. Where paragraphs teach lessons and unite families. Where sentences evoke magic. And where hope and love are the four-letter words that matter the most."
—Landis Wade, author of The Christmas Redemption.

"Peer through the window into a world of emotions. From the aching loss on a one-lane bridge to the tangled memories that fill an empty box, each story in this collection leads you step by step through heartache and hope, until you realize that you’re not looking through a window at all, but into a mirror."
—Monica Sanchez, PhD, Co-editor, Storytelling: Interdisciplinary and Intercultural Perspectives.

*************

To learn more about this project, visit http://anchalastudios.weebly.com/

To get the book, click here: http://bit.ly/collection0302

I hope you will all enjoy The Collection as much as I enjoyed being a part of it!

March 2, 2018 - a red-letter date in the history of science...

OK, so maybe not science.  (Kudos to those who get the quote.)  But a fantastic Friday on tap nonetheless!

March 2, 2018.  The date of the release of "The Collection: Flash Fiction for Flash Memory", featuring my story "One Night Only".  Along with a number of other outstanding pieces, of course.  (Check back here tomorrow for a link to purchase on Amazon!!!!)  I'm proud and excited to be a part of this project, and I hope many of you will decide to invest in a terrific collection of stories.

March 2, 2018.  Tickets go on sale for Metallica's long-awaited return to Buffalo, NY. (which will be my son's first Metallica show!)  We missed out on getting to see them last summer in Toronto, but nothing will stop us this time around.

March 2, 2018.  A late winter snowstorm will blanket Western new York and make travel very difficult, and cause frustration and backaches throughout the entire region.

OK, well I suppose two out of three ain't bad.    :)

One More Trip

This is an excerpt of a longer piece that was an honorable mention in a short story contest about 8 years ago.  The theme for the contest was stories inspired by a song from 1977 - in this case, "Always Crashing in the Same Car" by David Bowie - a song written about repeating mistakes. Something the characters in this brief tale are well-versed in...

"Dude...Dude...DUDE!!! I think I'm pregnant with kittens," she whispered, frantically scanning the room to ensure no one else was listening.  Her eyes widened as she continued, "I hear faint meowing every time I close my eyes, and it feels like the tiny paws are trying to claw their way out of my womb - they must be afraid of the dark!"

My brain had marinated in far too much Jack Daniels to properly contemplate the improbability of a feline-human pregnancy.  Nor did it occur to me to mention that kittens are born blind, and with no real claws.

"Have you ever had sex with a cat?" I queried instead, apparently far louder than she wished.

She put her finger to my lips to shush me and replied, "Man, there's four of them taking turns on me right now!  Their little tongues tickle."

Mr. Daniels again squelched the logical portion of my brain, so I failed to point out the usual time frame between conception and fetal escape attempts.

"Those must be some seriously virile cats," I proclaimed as I drained the bottle next to me.  "Someone should call Ripley's, man!"

"Do you know the number?"

"Eleventy-six and eight," I offered proudly, just before everything went black.

********

I awakened to her lying on my chest, shaking violently and bawling like an upset infant.

"Come back!  Please come back," she sobbed, gasping for air in her panicked state.  "I'm afraid to be alone - and everyone is gone except for the cats!"

Her trips had often frightened me, but this seemed a bit beyond the usual, and maybe longer - no telling how long I'd been out.  She was far more experienced with acid than I, even though I was the one who'd introduced her to hallucinogenics.  I did it a few times, but for the most part, simply adding the right amount of booze altered reality just enough for me.  She loved the acid though - and to be fair, the amount of alcohol I regularly consumed meant I couldn't justify being too preachy about her habits.

Departure

"Flight 8118 to Boston is in final boarding now - all ticketed passengers must proceed to Gate 26A immediately!"

It was a tearful goodbye.  A new job.  A new location.

A new life?  "No way!" she exclaimed.

Promises that the distance wouldn't break their love, that it would be eliminated "soon enough".  Those empty words haunt now.

A pile of memories burns in the fireplace.  An engagement notice from the Boston Herald joins the smoky purge as he now says a final and much less mournful farewell.

Publishing updates....

So, as previously noted, the release date for the flash fiction anthology in which I will be published is March 2nd.  Here are a few more details regarding the book:

- It will retail through Amazon at a price of $14.95
- The book contains over 40 short pieces (including my piece, "One Night Only"), along with some artwork and photography
- Front cover:

 

- Back cover:

I am honored and humbled to be a part of this project.  I hope everybody will check it out when it hits Amazon - it's a worthwhile endeavor.

In another update...I'm finally a paid writer as well!  A short story I've written is being included in a specialized niche anthology.  I have been paid a whopping $15.00!!!!  But hey, I'll take it.  Maybe it's the start of a trend.

Or maybe it's just a little extra beer money. 

Betrayed

The glass drained in one swift gulp, he slammed it down on the bar, ice cubes clinking against the sides as he motioned to the bartender for another refill of the amber-colored tonic that he hoped would make it all go away. But no matter how many times the barkeep poured, or how many drinks he emptied, the heartache remained, burning straight to his core.

"How could she?" he barked at the bartender. "How could she do it, Mike? You've known her just as long as I have.......how did this happen?"

Mike shook his head, never looking up from the glasses he was washing. "Doesn't sound like the Dani I knew, man. You sure about this?"

"I saw it with my own damn eyes, man!" He slammed his glass down on the bar again, ice sliding across the glossy surface as the glass tipped over, rolled off and hit the floor with the tinkle of shattering glass. "I saw the shadows through the living room curtains. She's doing it in my own freaking house!"

"Well, then how long has it been going on, Shawn?"

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" he snarled. "And where's my refill?"

"Once you've broken your third glass of the night, I think you're far too drunk to be served anymore. And you've suddenly been in here almost every night for about a month - which is ten times as much as I normally see you - draining every drop of J.D. I can find.”

Mike looked up into Shawn's ashen face.

"So exactly how many times have you seen it with your own eyes?"

Shawn dropped a pair of twenties on the bar and walked away wordlessly, slamming the door as he exited. Mike went back to his glass washing, wondering if perhaps he should be a better friend.

Anthology update

So, the anthology which will feature a short story of mine now has a firm launch date, which nicely coincides with "National Read Across America Day" on March 2nd.  For those who need a little background on the story, see this post:

https://a-writer-in-progress.blogspot.com/2017/12/note-to-self.html

The editors recently put up a "Meet the Writers" page (link below), and those of us contributing to the anthology were asked to ensure that our information was displayed correctly.  I did so, and then browsed through some of the other writers involved.  I was immediately humbled.  There are real writers being featured in this collection.  People who get paid to create stories!  Authors of books, writers whose stories have been featured in a number of literary journals, and creators whose work has won prestigious awards.

And me.  The hobbyist who scrawls a few sentences when he isn't overwhelmed with work, coaching, volunteering or family.  I'm both flattered and terrified to be included with such a talented group.

Anchala Studios - Meet the Writers

The anthology is titled "The Collection: Flash Fiction for Flash Memory". The inspiration behind the creation of the anthology is beautiful and heart-tugging - after you've checked out the "Meet the Writers" page, click HOME at the top of the screen and read the story behind the stories.  The moment I finished that page, I knew I wanted very much to be a part of such an amazing project.

And now I am.  It's all a little surreal and unexpected.  To this point in my life, the only time my name was in print was in advertisements during my previous career in sales.  Yet in less than two months, my name will appear in an actual, published book. 

Damn.

Note to self...

...don't publish blog posts at midnight after an 11 hour day at work.  You might get sidetracked and forget the primary reason for the post.

A few years back, I wrote a short piece entitled "One Night Only".  I was never really satisfied with the ending, but I also never really found the motivation or inspiration to fix it.  So the story sat in a folder on a flash drive, awaiting a future purpose.

Then the flash drive was lost.  It contained edits on one of my novel pieces, along with "final" versions of all of my short story work.  I was devastated - especially in the case of the novel work, where I had begun editing portions straight to the computer.  My hard copy backup didn't contain most of these edits, which were now gone forever.

Now, the losses weren't complete.  According to most people I know, I'm "old school".  I still actually write - by hand with a pen or pencil.  I typically don't hit the computer with a piece until it is completely written and has gone through a preliminary editing process.  So I had at least a preliminary paper version of almost all of the stories on the departed drive.

But apparently a funny thing happened on the way to complete backup safety.

See, a few months ago I began submitting pieces to contests and publishers again.  An opportunity caught my eye for an anthology being put together by a publishing outfit called Anchala Studios.  As I read it, I thought to myself that "One Night Only" was the perfect piece for submission, as long as I fixed the ending.  So, I dug out my folders and binders to find my paper copy.  Which somehow was missing a page.

The second page.  The original ending.

Thus forcing a complete re-write of the end of the piece.

As I type this, Anchala Studios is putting the finishing touches on the anthology, which will contain the updated version of "One Night Only".

I guess sometimes things just work out.

LEARNING THE HARD WAY

An excerpt of a far longer piece.

But the wisest advice I was given came from the elder statesman of the crew, Charles Benjamin, the “ace” reporter.

“Sonny,” he said, “this life’s gonna throw you some curveballs. No matter how well you think you’ve plotted things out, something – probably a woman – is gonna end up derailing your plan. And buddy, you better be carefully prepared for it if you wanna stand a chance of getting back on course when it happens.”

Unfortunately, his was the advice I ignored.

Mary Jamison was hired to replace Mr. Hansen’s personal secretary six months to the day after I began working for the Review…..November 27, 1976 – two days before my birthday. She walked into the news room and all productive activity ceased completely. The incessant tapping of typewriter keys gave way to the soft clickety-clack of her high-heeled shoes as every eye was fully trained on the golden-haired beauty crossing the room. Including a certain young assistant copywriter who very nearly found himself wearing Mr. Hansen’s coffee after a collision with a desk chair.

I took a moment to regain my composure before continuing my coffee delivery, timidly knocking on Mr. Hansen’s door. “Boy, don’t waste time knocking, just get my coffee in here!” he bellowed. As I opened the door, Miss Jamison turned in my direction. My first glimpse at her smoldering blue eyes took my breath away – I could faintly hear Mr. Hansen introducing me; frankly, he could have been calling me a sub-human swamp beast or throwing bricks at me at that moment, and I wouldn’t have noticed. My hand trembled ever so slightly as she grasped it in a handshake, and I caught sight of a shy smile on her face before she turned her attention back to Mr. Hansen.

I’m fairly certain I walked out of Mr. Hansen’s office upright, but I couldn’t make you any guarantees – I was in a complete daze. Beautiful wasn’t even the right word to describe Mary Jamison. Stunning – yeah, that’s more accurate. You know, the kind of girl that grabs your attention like a vise, and you’re powerless to get free.

Damage

She exited my life in the same manner she entered, turning it inside out like the tornado that devastates a town and the sunrise that brings a new day all in one glorious, tragic package. I fell hard and instantly the first moment I spent with her; every moment thereafter drove my love and desire to new heights until the instant, unforeseen end ruined my faith and my present.

Our lives burned with passion in all aspects, whether we were making fiery, animalistic lust-driven love or battling over the latest wedge-driving political issue. And she was the embodiment of intensity and energy – whether she was bright yellow sunshine or deep blue midnight, there was no middle – she would push to the furthest end of the spectrum…..and then break even that barrier.

And in the end, she broke me, too.