It's here!

My "contributor copy" of the anthology has arrived.  It's still a little surreal, seeing my name in print.  I've read some of the stories, and I am humbled to be surrounded by the collection of talent.  There are playwrights, artists, and a large number of published and award-winning authors in this collection.

And little ol' me.  I sometimes wonder if they made a mistake.  :)

It will be available for purchase March 2 via Amazon.  I'll be promoting the link when it becomes active.  If you have any interest in fiction, please consider supporting the project - it's truly an amazing idea.

See?  In print.  Weird, right?

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. 

Appearances...

Sure, she was attractive enough in a plain, conservative sort of manner. But no one would have guessed what the staid, gray pantsuit was hiding as she strolled into the office. It was even less likely that that someone would have realized that her hair wasn't tousled by the wind during her lunch break...

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.

And the point is...

So, as I alluded to in the post regarding writer's block, the only writing that is currently making real progress is a piece that I didn't really set out to write.  Well, at least not in the form it seems to be taking.

I began writing a piece directed at a contest where the theme was "body language".  I had this funny pair of lines in the writing journal that seemed like the perfect starting point, and began crafting a piece about two women on a video-chat date.  It allowed me to weave in different types of body language that would help tell the story and describe the women at the same time.

A minor problem soon appeared.  The contest had a strict limit of 1200 words - and there was no way this piece was going to wrap in that space.  So I put it aside to work on other things. 

Or so I thought.

Every time I tried to work on a different project, the video date story reared its head.  A thought would enter my mind, and I'd write a few more paragraphs.  Then came my trip to California.

I had a week-long trip to San Jose scheduled for some job training.  I'm not much of a traveler.  Not a huge fan of flying (as odd as that may be, given that I work in the aviation industry!), and mostly would just prefer to be at home.  So I make sure to have plenty of distractions when I fly in (usually fruitless) attempts to make the time pass a bit more quickly.

I brought a couple of books, and some of my writing work.  Including the video date story.

I started out the flight to California with a movie, but eventually pulled out my writing.  And the story just came pouring out.  With very minimal effort, I'd filled close to fifteen pages.  Throughout the trip and the return flight it continued.  And now I have this sprawling piece, and I have no earthly idea what the correct direction is.

It's too long for a short story.  Seems like a pretty limited concept for a novel, or even a novella.  The story is currently taking the shape of a real-time view of this date, which I think is approaching hour four or five.

Don't ask me what the point of this post is.  I don't have a clue on that direction either.

Rivals

"This is why we are here, men!" the old coach barked, pounding his fist into his palm for emphasis.

"This is the reason we bust our asses every day. It's why you run twice as hard and practice twice as long, and why I yell twice as loud!"

He held up the daily sports page, pointing a battered, crooked finger at the headline.

"To finally defeat that damned team..."

Blocked?

He sat under his favorite tree by the river, enjoying the cool late summer breeze as it passed over the water. This was HIS place - his getaway for a bit of solitude and a few minutes away from everyday distractions. Yet he sat with pencil in hand, unable to break the block. The blank page seemed to mock his inability to fill it...

A number of years ago, I was the "he" in the brief scene above. Writer's block had morphed into full-blown writer's constipation. Every project I was working on sat unfinished. The time I set aside for writing would come and go with nothing but blank pages, or maybe a few scribbled out sentence fragments. So I ventured to my favorite riverside spot, figuring it would inspire fresh work. It did not.

I arrived home dejected, and suddenly was hit with a bright idea. I would break the block by crafting a story ABOUT writer's block! Genius, right?

Umm, clearly that didn't work either, since I didn't get any farther than what you see above.

I was rummaging through some old scrap work and journal entries looking for prompts or ideas for a contest piece, and discovered the little snippet from years ago. I smiled, feeling good that I'm not suffering through the same struggle now.

Then I reflected a moment. The novel I set out to write many years ago still sits in a dusty binder, no closer to finished than it was eight years ago when I set it aside. The novel project that "replaced" it? Stormed along at a breakneck pace - then stalled. It hasn't been touched in close to a year. Frankly, the only long piece I've made progress on began its life as a 1000-1200 word short story for a contest.  It quickly outgrew that, but I have no idea where it's going to end up - the story just keeps pouring out.

Meanwhile, things that I want to work on, like other contest pieces, are a battle.

Maybe I smiled too soon.