Stony River: a writing life

Microfiction Monday #10

2009-12-21T00:01:00.002Z

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

where a picture paints 140 characters...or even fewer.

Here's this week's picture, and my story to go with it:

"Dancer," Santa yelled. "Vixen!
Put that Wii down now, and get Comet out of their eggnog.
You think this sleigh's gonna pull itself? Move!"

About Microfiction Monday

Microfiction means the shortest of short stories. Think Aesop's fables, comic strips, or even jokes: complete stories that can be told in under a minute. For this game, the limit is a tweetable 140 characters or fewer.

Every Sunday evening I'll post my own 'microfiction' inspired by a photo or illustration, and invite you to do the same. (If that degree of brevity scares you, feel free to use my own microfiction of the week as your first line instead, and spin something longer. )

You can leave your story in the comments here, or better yet, post on your own blog and leave your link in Mr. Linky.

Hate counting letters and spaces? Try Design 215's character counter, which will count for you as you type. Microsoft Word will count for you too, of course, as part of its word count feature under the 'Review' tab.

Photos will be from my own archives; illustrations are by Dover Publications.

And finally, why 140? A whole new fiction market has arisen via mobile phone texting and Twitter, who limits 'tweets' to 140 characters including spaces and punctuation. It's fast, it's fiction, it's fun. Want more? The following publish microfiction (and sometimes serials) on Twitter:

Seedpod

For slightly longer works:

For those who like to plan ahead, there's next week's picture prompt: Dr. Warner's Coraline Corset... yet another reason to be thankful for living in the 21st century.

Meanwhile, don't forget to visit the other stories in Mr. Linky!

Ho, Ho, .... Snow?

2009-12-20T15:02:00.000Z

A few years back we took our son to see Santa. I won't bore you with the whole story of what an achievement this was, to pull this autistic boy along to the shopping mall to see the One, the Only, big jolly fella in a red suit who knows all your naughties and nices and laughs aside the very laws of physics each and every Christmas Eve.

Long story short, the son agreed to meet Santa at last, so off we went. While Himself and Himself Jr. paid the required fee, I ran up to Mall Santa to whisper one thing.

"Anything," I said. "He's been so good, and done so much, promise him anything he wants." I got a wink and a smile in reply, and I got to stand back and watch (and click the camera several times) while Son walked up there and really did it: talked to Santa Claus.

I wondered what he'd ask for: a toy car, probably, or chocolate; he never asks for much at all. But I stood by the exit gate chewing my nails as they finished, and Santa walked with the Son to where we stood.

Santa leaned down to whisper to me, and I braced myself. How much was this going to cost us?

Santa said, "He wants it to snow." That was it, all he wanted, the only thing.

Oh boy.

Despite all my prayers and ritual snow-dances that year, it didn't snow. It rarely snows in this country, and when it does it never lasts beyond a few hours. Still, when a miracle didn't happen I was crushed... but what the hell, we still believed in Santa.

Santa's just getting a little slow in his old age, I guess, because we woke up this morning to the sound of our kids screaming. When we ran down to their room, they were at their window looking at the sun rise on something rare:

Snowbooks is "a feisty, independent book publisher" in the UK. They invite you to submit a complete manuscript, and offer a whole lot of advice and insight from their side of the process: well worth a look if you're writing or submitting a novel. Even if you're not, they're giving away free stuff from the main page, also worth a look.

Snowy Egret is America's oldest independent journal of Nature writing, including articles, fiction, reviews, and artwork. No mention of payment.

Snow Monkey is an online journal of poems and micro-prose. No mention of payment on their submission page, though they do mention author bios: they don't use them. I'm suddenly hearing the voice of Alexander Dane... "What is its motivation?" Hmm, dunno.

But, SNOW!!

Weekend Reflections at Lough MacNean

2009-12-19T12:42:00.001Z

We live between Lough Allen and Lough MacNean, each one with its own legend of a resident goddess and a modern reputation for great fishing.

And since it's time again for James' Weekend Reflections, here's a photo I took of Lough MacNean reflecting an autumn sunset, some weeks back:

It's the last weekend before Christmas, and as always it feels like the quiet before the storm.

Presents are wrapped but still hidden; travel plans are made but not yet taken. The house is stocked with food yet to be cooked, party invitations on the table promise too much to do next week, and the blogosphere seems to have emptied out. Google Reader isn't offering me half what it did just a week ago, and statistics are no longer worth checking.

So if you're about to drift away into the holiday whirl too, I'll wish you a very Happy Holiday now, whatever it is you're about to celebrate, from Christmas to Solstice and beyond. Stay Safe! Good luck finding a parking space! I hope the Roast Beast is done to perfection! And give everyone you love an extra hug and kiss from me too.

If you've got an amazing-but-true Christmas story, the makers of the Christmas Miracles anthology is planning a sequel, which has been picked up by St. Martin's Press for autumn 2011. Stories must be between 900 and 1300 words long; payment for accepted stories is $50.

Or, if you have a reflection, visit James at Newtown Area Photo.

Happy Holidays!

Friday Flash 55: What a Turkey

2009-12-17T22:31:00.001Z

Time for Friday Flash 55! To join in the fun, write any story you like in 55-words (no more, no less) then tell Mr. Knowitall by leaving a comment on his own Flash-55 post today, where you'll find plenty more stories to read too.

Here's mine, based on a true story told on the radio last year:

"The postman brought the turkey from your Dad this morning," said Sean, "so I put it straight into the oven like you said."

"Thanks." Niamh looked at the table, then under the tree. "So where's the whiskey?"

"What whiskey?"

"The bottle of whiskey that Dad always sends us for Christmas, inside the ---"

"....turkey?"

Last year about this time, we were listening to the radio as people around Ireland phoned in with their "Christmas Turkey" stories. Some were hilarious: one woman ordered a turkey not realising it would be alive, and not knowing how else to kill it, she shoved it inside the oven and turned on the gas without lighting it, and waited.

After a while she pulled out the dead turkey and plucked it, but it was nearly time for Mass so she left it on the counter to finish preparing when she got home. Over an hour later she came home to find the plucked-naked turkey running around her house in a panic; it wasn't dead at all. The visual of that had me laughing myself to tears; that was my favourite story.

My husband's favourite was the one I fictionalised here. Years ago you could send Christmas turkeys in the regular mail here; I'm not sure if that's still true. Anyhow, somebody in Ireland sent somebody else a "surprise" bottle of whiskey inside the turkey, sure they'd find it when they prepared the thing with stuffing et al. Unfortunately the mail arrived late, and the turkey went straight from wrapping to oven, leaving the whiskey unnoticed until the explosion.

What a way to say Merry Christmas! And now you know why this Christmas, we're having ham.

Meanwhile, let me know if you've posted a 55 story and I'll be there later today!

1 Birthday + 2 Congratulations = 3 Word Thursday

2009-12-17T02:26:00.000Z

Time again for 3 Word Thursday, a day for enjoying the old, strange, and semi-forgotten words rescued by Quilly. To join the fun head over to Quilly's blog and read the other entries or post your own. This week's words were:

lubency = pleasure, willingness

adimpleate = to fill up

pamphagous = eating or consuming everything.

With Christmas just over a week away and a thousand preparations still undone, I didn't manage a story for today, just a regular blog post. But I got the words into it!

Today is my darling son's 10th birthday, so we'll soon be riding a train on our way to adimpleate our pamphagous kids with pizza, coke, and all the croutons and black olives they can sneak out of the salad bar at Pizza Hut. Then it's off to school for a parent-teacher conference where I expect we'll be told how marvelous our youngest daughter is, before coming home again for an evening of family games and birthday cake.

With great lubency I'd also like to announce the recent writing successes enjoyed by Karis at Adventures of One Sober Woman, and by Nessa , who both followed writing links from this very blog. Great news! And a microfiction story of mine was published in Seedpod Publishing's Twitter stream on the 10th, so we are a trio of lucky writers here this week.

Huzzah!

On the other hand, if one of your stories has been rejected recently and you're feeling like it's the end of the world, well here you go:

Terminal Earth Anthology wants intelligent, well-written fiction about what ordinary and extraordinary people will be doing at the end of the world, as the last grains of sand run out. Payment varies; neither zombies nor sexy vampires need apply.

Huzzah!

Sheer Poetry

2009-12-15T21:41:00.001Z

I finally finished reading Rachel Fox's book of poetry, More About the Song all the way through, and love it. Sometimes touching and sweet, or stirring memories, and at other times just plain fun, it's a great collection for dipping into and sharing. Get it!

And now that I realise I don't share poetry markets often enough, here's a few new ones for you, that have just cropped up this year:

Caper Literary Journal "showcases writing and art that, like the Speakeasy aesthetic, is aberrant, sensual, edgy, unique, passionate and socio-culturally rebellious." They also say, "we wish we could pay our contributors, but..." Say no more.

Short, Fast and Deadly publishes poetry in 140 characters or less (sound familiar?). If you can't fit your poem into Twitter, but can fit a short story into a Facebook status update (420 characters), then go on and submit. In their words: "... it better be damn good" and, "For the love of God, no haiku." January's theme is "Death Takes A Holiday", deadline 4th January. No payment.

Liebamour "is about peace, love, understanding and awareness. No downers, drags or bummers will be accepted." Groovy! Payment is one contributor's copy; they nominate their favourites for the Pushcart.

Tilt-A-Whirl is a journal for those who like forms: send them a selection of 1-5 poems, including those already published if you retain rights. Publication dates are 'sporadic'. Guess what the payment is?

Meanwhile, you can read Rachel's poems at her blog crowd-pleasers.blogspot.com, or pick up her book (links in her sidebar).

Portrait of Words: What WILL You Choose?

2009-12-15T05:00:00.001Z

Time again for Portrait of Words, in which we're given a stack of photos every two weeks, to weave into an original story: mine's below the Portrait of Words logo.

I love seeing how the same photos can produce so many different stories: go see for yourself, or even give it a try. Thanks Dr. John and Thom, for hosting!

Adele's three children shook hands with the lawyer and introduced themselves: Delia, Robert, and Kevin.

"Your mother's will is very brief, and straightforward," Mr. Elliot said. "It asks of you one thing: that each year on her birthday you host a family reunion in her honour, just like the big family barbecues she hosted each summer while you were growing up. Do all of you accept?"

They agreed, and Mr. Elliot continued.

"As you know, your mother asked each of you what you'd most like to inherit from her estate. You will each be given what you wished for, and the rest will go to charity. Therefore," he said, "Delia, you are to inherit the family business of the 5-star Grissom Hotel on Lake Tahoe, with an assessed value of $1.3 million."

Robert leaned forward. "Does this mean I have the desert temple?" Mr. Elliot nodded.

"Oh wow," Robert said. "I have the biggest plans for that." He reached for his brother's and sister's hands and squeezed them hard. "You've got to come, we're having a festival bigger than Glastonbury, better than anything, this'll be great!"

Delia shook her head. "And you'll be richer than Kevin or me, Robert, is that the best part?"

Mr. Elliot was holding up his hand, wanting to continue. "Kevin, your mother indicates in her will that you asked only for whatever she wanted to give you. Is that true?"

Kevin nodded. "I told her she'd been the best Mom ever, and I didn't need any more than that."

"Aww, Kevin," Delia said, smiling at him. "You're so sweet. I bet she left you the house."

"No," Mr. Elliot said. "Just her collection of pottery jugs. That's it."

"Okay," Kevin said, as the other two looked at each other. "Well, see you both at the reunion then."

On his plane home, Kevin waited for a cup of coffee before he opened the letter he'd found packed with his mother's jug collection.

Dear Kevin,

I hope you're not too disappointed in getting pottery. Delia asked for the hotel which, believe me, you wouldn't want anyway; the manager embezzled it into debt years ago and never paid the payroll taxes, so it will end up costing her $3 million to sort that all out and I wish her luck.

Still, at least she can visit her property, which is more than I can say for poor Robert, because the farmer who sold us that old temple later sold the surrounding land to the federal government: now they're using it for some top-secret testing so there's no longer any access to the temple at all.

Ah well, that's what they asked for, so that's what they got.

Honey, the jugs are mostly 18th century and the insurance assessment was $12K for the whole collection, so do be careful not to drop any of them. Also be careful unpacking, because inside each one I've put the medieval gold coins your father used to collect, now those are worth quite a bit more...

"Milk and sugar for your coffee, sir?" The flight attendant stood smiling at him as he folded the letter away.

"Whatever you want to give me," he said, and laughed as she handed him a handful of each.

Click here to go to Portrait of Words.

Not Remotely Funny

2009-12-14T18:30:00.000Z

Monday is Hay Day.

My husband takes the kids to school on Mondays, then makes the drive to town to pick up a few bales of hay for Mr. Pony, pick up a few things from the store, etc, before heading home again.

In other words, on Mondays I get a whole few hours to myself, with no kids yelling and messing, and no husband snoring in a chair or walking around the room asking the walls where are his keys (hat, ladder, screwdriver) for an hour at a time while tracking mud all over the floor.

No. On Monday mornings it's just me, the house, the DVD player... and Star Trek. Bliss!

So he's hardly out of the driveway this morning when I pour myself a cup of coffee, turn on the DVD player and TV, and in goes (eeny meeny miny mo) the disc with The Galileo Seven. Excellent.

Until I can't find the remote anywhere, and the DVD won't start without it.

Men.

I know for certain, that I left all the remotes stacked right on the TV stand last night. This morning, the one I need is gone. Very likely somebody carried it around while looking for his keys, or hat, ladder, screwdriver, whatever, and wherever he found that other thing, he dropped the remote. Now I was left to search the house.

Search I did, and while I didn't find the remote, I *did* find a Boston Cream Doughnut stashed inside a pile of stuff at his end of the dining room table. Fresh, too: he must have picked it up after the first school drop-off and left it home on the way to the second.

Well, now it's gone.

Like the remote.

Best part comes hours later, watching him wander the house looking a bit lost and confused, and not wanting to admit he'd stashed just one doughnut for himself, and now can't find it.

"Honey, you ok?" (Saint Peter's putting a black mark in my book right now.) "Looking for something?"

"Hm, no. Well, yeah... have you seen, hm. The remote?"

"Remote? No," I said. "No I haven't."

Space Squid would like to see submissions under 1,000, and by women, and they're "desperate" for comics in greyscale. Pay is $5 and a contributor's copy.

Farspace 3 is in the works, needing spec-fic, poetry, and art for the cover, with a deadline of 30 June. No mention of payment details.

Zero Gravity: Adventures in Deep Space is an anthology of fun and adventurous science fiction which will be published by Pill Hill Press, who pays $25 plus a contributor's copy.

Ok, back to remote hunting now...

Microfiction Monday #9

2009-12-14T01:00:00.000Z

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

where a picture paints 140 characters...or even fewer.

Here's this week's picture, and my story to go with it:

Ali considered that, on second thought,
the day before the Grand National hadn't been the optimum time
to schedule his hemorrhoid surgery.

Don't forget to sign Mr. Linky after you post your story:

For those who like to plan ahead,
next week's picture is at the bottom of this post.
Thanks for playing!

About Microfiction Monday

Microfiction means the shortest of short stories. Think Aesop's fables, comic strips, or even jokes: complete stories that can be told in under a minute. For this game, the limit is a tweetable 140 characters or fewer.

Every Sunday evening I'll post my own 'microfiction' inspired by a photo or illustration, and invite you to do the same. (If that degree of brevity scares you, feel free to use my own microfiction of the week as your first line instead, and spin something longer. )

You can leave your story in the comments here, or better yet, post on your own blog and leave your link in Mr. Linky.

Hate counting letters and spaces? Try Design 215's character counter, which will count for you as you type. Microsoft Word will count for you too, of course, as part of its word count feature under the 'Review' tab.

Photos will be from my own archives; illustrations are by Dover Publications.

And finally, why 140? A whole new fiction market has arisen via mobile phone texting and Twitter, who limits 'tweets' to 140 characters including spaces and punctuation. It's fast, it's fiction, it's fun. Want more?

Nanoisms
PicFic
escarp
Thaumatrope
Seedpod
Tweet the Meat
7x20

For slightly longer works:
Flashshots
Flashes in the Dark
Flashquake
50 to 1

Next week's picture:

Emigration Sale

2009-12-13T17:08:00.000Z

The phrase raised a laugh and questions from more than one American friend this past fall, but in Ireland and the UK you'd see it often enough in the classifieds and property flyers. "Emigration Sale" = someone's leaving the country for greener or sunnier or wealthier pastures, leaving everything (or very nearly everything) they own, from house to pie pans, up for grabs.

We've been seeing more and more of these listings as the recession progresses. Every time we go into town, my husband runs into some old friend from the Factory, and their conversation is little more now than who's still laid off, who's newly laid off, who's been taken back and who's gone for good.

Many of their colleagues had been immigrants: most seem to have gone home again to Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, or wherever. The Irish among them had social welfare to fall back on; hoping, as my husband hoped, that it would be a temporary thing. Now the 2010 budget has been announced, and social welfare---which was never enough to live on anyhow, unless, like us, you were raising your own food and not bothering to count the holes in your trousers---has been slashed yet again.

When the government finished doing its numbers, it was time to sit down and do ours. For months I've been wanting to pack all our things and get out, and for months my husband held his ground, not wanting to leave home again.

Opportunities, I said in September, there aren't any here.

Free health care, he said, there isn't any there.

Ireland's cost of living is too high for us, I said in October.

America's immigration paperwork, he said, are you joking?

Me, in November: The summers here are too cold.

Him: The summers there are too hot.

Impasse.

Until Budget 2010 came out mid-December, and we looked at their numbers, and sat down with all of ours. It's official now: we can't afford to live here in 2010. We no longer have any choice.

Emigration Sale.

Our own offer will probably go into the papers sometime this spring, hoping to let us go this summer, one way or another. For me, this should be all relief and joy--you'd think--but somehow it just feels kind of sad, to win this one.

So, an old stone farmhouse on two acres, three stone outbuildings and two polytunnels, a 2005 Land Rover, 2-berth caravan; furniture, appliances and gardening equipment included, mountains all around, roses in the garden and a stream runs through; the village is a walkable two miles away, there's easy access to the main road, and the neighbours are the best ever.

Yours, if you want it.

Sugar House Review
"We want to publish good poetry, no matter where or who it came from." Nor, one supposed, from whom it came. Pay is two contributor's copies, but they do submit work for poetry prizes such as the Pushcart.

Wilderness House Literary Review
Poetry, short fiction and non-fiction, art: submission guidelines are in their left sidebar about half-way down the page. Authors retain all rights; no pay.

Literary House
Send thought-provoking fiction and non-fiction up to 5,000 words, or poetry of any length; it appears to be a non-paying market.

Interpreters House
Send up to five poems or short stories up to 2,000 words. No mention of payment.

(So the Irish government and ourselves aren't the only ones without money it seems...)

Weekend Reflections: Having a Ball

2009-12-11T22:00:00.004Z

I love Christmas trees, so couldn't resist

taking photos of a very big one last year:

In the reflection below, that's my oldest daughter on the left,

me with the camera, my son in front of me,

my husband behind with the hat,

and behind him is the Baby.

Behind us all?

PARIS!

The snow is fake. The rain is real.

[sigh]

Like Reflections?

Go see James at Newtown Daily Photo and

join his Weekend Reflections meme.

Meanwhile, Tor.com has wished a happy 80th anniversary to SF Fandom: Woot! If you're a science fiction and fantasy fan too, check out their online store for Cthulhu Christmas cards and other goodies, or follow the blog for the latest news plus recurring chances to win signed books and other giveaways.

Friday Flash 55: Ho Ho Ow

2009-12-10T23:47:00.003Z

Time for Friday Flash 55! To join in the fun, write any story you like in 55 words (no more no less) then tell Mr. Knowitall by leaving a comment on his own Flash-55 post today, where you'll find links to plenty more.

Here's mine:

"How did it go?" Mom asked, as Daddy and Damian walked in. "Did you see Santa?"

"Yes," said Dad, "for the last time ever."

"Last ---why?"

"We're banned from the mall. Damian pulled off half Santa's beard, right in front of everyone."

"Served Santa right for having a fake beard!"

"Myrna. It wasn't fake."

Got Flash? Here are two flash fiction markets, beginning with R for Reindeer and Rumballs:

Ramble Underground wants stories of literary honesty that make them laugh and/or cry; also art, but not poetry. If you send them anything over 4,000 words "it better be damn good". Pays $15 "when funds allow" and authors retain rights.

Ruthless Peoples is a cross-genre journal that asks writers to give their readers "a stunning reading experience", so make it excellent, and preferably short, in fiction and poetry. $10 flat rate for flash, 1c/word for short stories.

But, don't forget to head over to G-Man's for more Friday Flash 55s!!

Four Santas, what's next?

2009-12-10T16:51:00.002Z

This time last year, I was bursting with happiness and Christmas secrets. There were tickets to Disneyland Paris hidden in my bureau drawer, and my own joyful anticipation of not having to cook a big holiday dinner, as well as of the kids' surprise.

I also remember saying low to my husband, while waiting for our sixth teacup ride on Christmas Day, "How the hell are we going to top this next year?"

'Next year' has turned out to be a real Recession Christmas, after an autumn in which our well pump broke, the dryer broke, the truck needed four new tyres, the oil tank ran dry, the roof leaked, and Eldest Daughter needed a flight home for the holidays...while the Irish government kindly did away with the Christmas bonus in our kids' disability payments, and Himself remains laid off from work.

No big deal, really. Despite what retailers tell us, Christmas isn't about spending money, is it? It will come without ribbons. It comes without tags! It comes without packages, boxes or bags...

So, no biggie, I said, and tried not to be too blue over it all. We'll just enjoy being together, eat pancakes, watch It's a Wonderful Life, and have some fun. Somehow.

Well, you know what a great guy Santa is?

Yesterday one of our son's teachers sent home a huge bag of clothes and toys her daughter had outgrown, including a great selection of fairy gowns and tiaras and handbags to make a fine dress-up box for under the tree this year: the perfect thing for this little Fashion Girl.

Then a friend of my husband's whose husband manages a toy store passed on a few overstocked items for the Princess too.

Meanwhile we worried about affording the train set we'd planned to get the Son. Those things cost hundreds. They're worth it, because they last a lifetime and can be added to ad infinitum, but still... maybe this year just wasn't the year to do it.

Then my husband remembered he still had his old Hornby diesel train set, though it's missing some track and the switch box, and the locomotive wasn't running quite right. It was hardly in any shape to be passed down as a present, but now we wondered if, just maybe, it could be repaired less expensively than buying something new.

The very nice gentleman at the model shop turned our locomotive over and told us all it needed was a good clean to get her going again. He told us to be sure to scrub the rails too, and brought us the extra track we needed, and the switch box. The resulting bill wasn't even half what we'd anticipated, or near half, and now my son's first train set will be even more special for having once been his father's first, too. (Also, green!)

So to celebrate that on the way home, we stopped for a cup of coffee for us and a donut for the Princess, who waited patiently with her bakery bag and money behind a tall gentleman paying for a rum raisin ice cream cone. He turned and saw her there, so bent down and asked if Santa was on his way to her house. She giggled all over, while Himself and I just looked at each other.

I just couldn't help asking the man where he'd come from, after hearing him speak, and then he showed us the loveliest smile. "Tennessee." Oh boy.

He's here from Nashville, on a country music tour, and was playing in Fermanagh later that evening. His son-in-law comes from Fairmont, West Virginia, not far at all from our house there, and before we knew it, that wonderful man reached into the back of his car and gave us a CD of his music. I was just overcome by that gift. It's playing now, filling our house with Christmassyness and wonderful memories of our house and friends back in Harrison County, and it even gave me enough Christmas spirit back, to finally make the gingerbread men my son's been demanding for over a week...so now my house just reeks of cinnamon, sugar and cloves.

God, I love Christmas.

The teacher and my husband's friend could have simply thrown all those clothes and toys away, instead of packing them up for us: it would have been easier. The railroad man could have assured us we needed a whole new engine and made himself more money in this terrible retail year: who would blame him? George Hamilton IV could have given us a nod and walked away without a word, but his kindness and Southern charm sent my blues away completely, and filled our house with music.

That's FOUR Santas already, and Christmas Day isn't even here yet. Who needs Disneyland?

What Santa moments have you had so far this year?

A Christmas Present That's for the Birds

2009-12-08T21:28:00.001Z

Now I know the world's gone mad.

A link to Herself at left was (appropriately) "tweeted" on Twitter last night, and my first thought was that it was a clever joke on the part of a Hitchcock fan who happened to have a spare Malibu Barbie lying around, after her daughters had grown up and gone off to college. Cute, I thought.

Er, no. You can buy Herself brand new from Amazon, where it's listed in the Toys & Games section.

And this is no toy, obviously (unless possibly for Wednesday Addams): this is a "collector's item", and in a very Grinchy moment I can't help wondering about the environmental impact on this plastic thing's manufacture, or of the manufacture and delivery of all its packing, and the subsequent shipping to toy stores across the world, until someone buys it so that it can aspire to someone else's shelf come Christmas Day, to be dusted until they die whereafter it's quickly packed off to a Salvation Army thrift shop to sit on their shelf and be dusted.

On one hand, I'll give Barbie a 10, full marks and a round of applause for remaining so composed and coiffed while under avian assault... but on the other hand, the frivolity and uselessness of her in this guise just makes me despair for the world's priorities. This is what we spend our time, money, and collective expertise on--the manufacture, marketing, shipment, selling, purchase, and perpetual dusting of something with so damn little purpose?

IMHO, Hitchcock fans would to do better to read (or write for) Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. Pay is at the professional level (5c/word or more) for a mystery story in any subgenre. You could also try their sister publication, Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.

Blackbird is an "online journal of literature and the arts" from the Virginia Commonwealth University Department of English. Directories list them as a paying market, but there's no mention on their guidelines page.

That's it for me today---time to go fly over the cuckoo's nest.

I Before E, Except Out At Sea...

2009-12-08T01:30:00.001Z

We had a parent-teacher meeting last week, which of course brought home again the difficulties of teaching a special-needs child in the context of a mainstream school.

I do what I can to help him out, including all the weird old-school ways to remember stuff that I can pick from my brain. Unfortunately not all of it works for him, and he's struggling with maths. Well, I stunk at that too, way back when.

Does anyone else remember the handy rhymes and songs we once knew to remember things in school? Like using the tune of "Oh Tannenbaum" to help with triangles:

Oh Isosceles, Oh Isosceles,
Two angles have the same degrees.
Oh Isosceles, Oh Isosceles,
You look just like a Christmas Tree.
(Geometry is such a pain,
I'll never use this crap again.)
Oh Isosceles, Oh Isosceles,
You look just like a Christmas Tree.

Do you know why Sally made Henry eat onions to remember the Great Lakes of North America?
Or why saying "How I wish I could calculate pi" suddenly makes it true?

Well, these tricks don't always help my son, maybe because he has his own unique way of thinking. If you like guessing games, tell me what he means when he says the following (I'll put the answers to all these in a comment after the post):

1. a Heaven Truck
2. Behead
3. White Coke
4. a Lady Church
5. an Army Chair

Are there any favourite memory tricks you remember from school, or still use?

Microfiction Monday #8

2009-12-06T23:02:00.001Z

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

where a picture paints 140 characters...or even fewer.

Here's this week's picture, and my story to go with it:

Kia searched the insidious machine
for its parallel universe where lone socks were rumoured to be lost:
perhaps unicorns were there too?
- - -

Ok--what's your story? Sign in to Mr.Linky if you play!

Next week's picture is at the bottom of this post.

About Microfiction Monday

Microfiction means the shortest of short stories. Think Aesop's fables, comic strips, or even jokes: complete stories that can be told in under a minute. For this game, the limit is a tweetable 140 characters or fewer.

Every Sunday evening I'll post my own 'microfiction' inspired by a photo or illustration, and invite you to do the same. (If that degree of brevity scares you, feel free to use my own microfiction of the week as your first line instead, and spin something longer. )

You can leave your story in the comments here, or better yet, post on your own blog and leave your link in Mr. Linky.

Hate counting letters and spaces? Try Design 215's character counter, which will count for you as you type. Microsoft Word will count for you too, of course, as part of its word count feature under the 'Review' tab.

Photos will be from my own archives; illustrations are by Dover Publications.

And finally, why 140? A whole new fiction market has arisen via mobile phone texting and Twitter, who limits 'tweets' to 140 characters including spaces and punctuation. It's fast, it's fiction, it's fun. Want more?

Nanoisms
PicFic
escarp
Thaumatrope
Seedpod
Tweet the Meat

For slightly longer works:
Flashshots
Flashes in the Dark
Flashquake
50 to 1

Here's next week's picture:

The Great 4AM Fruitcake

2009-12-06T12:14:00.000Z

Last night I was up late, packing things for a craft sale today. I thought that while I was up anyway, I'd make a few edibles for our table, because after a long autumn of flea markets and jumble sales, I've learned that if you feed them, they will come.

A craft sale in December draws a Christmas-mood crowd, so I mentally sorted through all the Christmas recipes I knew. A double batch of decorated cookies would be too much work, and I had neither the ingredients nor equipment for the range of candies my mother used to make. Hmmm....

I did have the makings of a giant fruitcake however, which was only a matter of dumping loads of stuff (including a double measure of rum, yum) into a bowl for a stir-round, dumping that into a tube pan, and letting Mr. Oven take care of the rest.

THEN I read the rest of the cookbook instructions. "Bake three hours... cool in pan one hour... finish cooling on rack". Four hours until it was done? I looked at the clock, which had just ticked to midnight. Oh boy.

I was frustrated enough with myself to tweet the calamity to the world (as you can see in my twitter feed at the bottom of the page).

This morning, I found myself being followed by the Great Fruitcake, of the Fruitcake Recycling Project. A look down their own twitter stream was a good laugh, including news of an annual fruitcake toss and a sprinkling of "advice" to those of us who like the things (I was told to turn off the oven and go to bed... tempting!)

But, I stuck it out, and from my usual habit of doubling the rum and allspice and being very generous with the brown sugar, I think it turned out perfectly scrummy. (We had a slice each for breakfast; couldn't help it.) It's gluten-free too, so if its pieces don't sell at the craft sale, we'll gladly take it home again.

If you're anywhere near Manorhamilton today, the craft sale is to benefit the Women's Centre, who, like everyone else, has lost too much funding this year. Please come along and help us keep them going, if you're nearby.

And now I'm curious... am I the only one who likes fruitcake?

What about you: do you make it, dread it, buy it, catapult it, give it away, or feed it to the squirrels?

Friday FLASH! 55

2009-12-04T00:01:00.001Z

Time for Friday Flash 55! To join in the fun, write any story you like in 55-words (no more no less) then tell Mr. Knowitall by leaving a comment on his own Flash-55 post today, where you'll find plenty more stories to read too.

Here's mine, a fictional (I swear to Almighty God it is fictional) e-mail exchange this week:

REASONS NOT TO WRITE EROTICA FOR A LIVING: #1

To:writer@filthymind.com:

Your story will run next issue. The three-way unicorn sex scene is outstanding... if frankly disturbing. Contract attached.

Replyto:editor@twisted-erotica-books.com:
Thanks. Funny, I almost didn't submit, just because your name's the same as a snotty cheerleader I hated in school. Silly, huh?

Replyto:writer@filthymind.com:
Well, back then I thought you were a pathetic brainiac. Go figure.

If you like writing romance and/or erotica, and if cheerleaders from your past won't scare you off your ten bucks, here's a few places to try:

The Long and Short of It publishes romance and erotica in all lengths and offers free reads, articles, reviews, etc. "We are always in need of stories for upcoming holidays and seasons". Payment includes $5, a free banner ad for a month (very nice, if you're promoting a book) and a link to your website or blog.

42 Magazine invites work celebrating a meaningful life. Send them your art, reviews, poetry, and short fiction, including literate erotica if you like, all sexualities welcome. "We're so happy to print articles about sex and sexuality you can't even believe it." Hoo boy. Their pay rates vary but are "semi-pro", which should be about 1-5c/word.

Morrigan Books E-Zine, "a leader in dark fantasy and horror" is planning an erotica issue for February; deadline is (I believe) 15th January. Payment is 1c/word.

NOT that I know anything about this sort of market at all, mind you. I did all that research, just for YOU.

Meanwhile, don't forget to go back to the G-Man and read more 55s!

Three Word Thirsty

2009-12-03T10:16:00.024Z

Three Word Thursday has arrived again! If you like old words, and like rescuing things, then help Quilly rescue old words by writing a few into an all-new story or blog post each week.

This week's words are:

aquabib, n. = a drinker of water

ficulnean, adj. = worthless (or, of fig-tree wood)

brochity, n. = projecting, crooked teeth

Perhaps Ethel could have slept better if she indulged in a glass of wine before bedtime, or sampled the cognac that had sat gathering dust on Edgar's desk in the eight months since he'd passed away.

But, the sulfites in wine had caused a reaction in her sister Margaret eleven years ago, and as for the cognac, she had her suspicions that Edgar had swigged straight from the bottle a few times while working. Who knew how many colonies of bacteria lived in that bottle now?

"Warm milk," Edgar would say, whenever her restlessness woke him. "Drink warm milk."

"Can't," she told him one night. "All those hormones they feed to dairy cows cause breast cancer."

He sighed. "There's grapefruit juice in the refrigerator."

"Interferes with my medication."

"Tomato juice?"

"Makes my ulcer worse."

"Prune juice then," he said, "something."

"Edgar, be reasonable. I'd be up all night." –but he was already snoring again.

No, his ficulnean suggestions had always been wasted breath. Ethel was a devoted aquabib, disdaining all but bottled water after reading that newspaper article on the dangerous flouride levels in their city's tap water. What good had flouride ever done her, anyhow? With such a brochity as hers, she could almost look forward to toothlessness, and a set of straight white dentures that would at least give her an attractive smile... although perhaps it was, she thought, a bit late in the day to fix the rest of her.

She turned over, gripping the blankets close, and wondered about the water-bottling plant. Did they clean the machinery each day—did they rinse enough? How did they wash the inside of the bottles when those necks were so narrow? Did the employees wear gloves? She started to elbow Edgar to ask him if he knew, then remembered he was no longer there.

The bedside clock ticked past midnight as she stared into the dark, but a new day had no answers.

Spilt Milk publishes something new every Sunday, between 500 and 5000 words. No pay, but you do get an author's bio with clickable byline if you've something to share. Submission guidelines are in their sidebar.

MilkweedEditions publishes book-length literary fiction, nonfiction, poetry and novels for young readers, so pay is in royalties. Sponsors a few prizes which are worth looking into as well.

Milk Money goes to print three times per year with literary and experimental fiction and poetry. No payment, but they will consider some reprints.

Holiday Stuff and Contests and Stuff

2009-12-02T22:19:00.001Z

I'm awake again and catching up on all your blog posts. Is it me, or do an unusual number of people this year not have a Christmas tree, for reasons of space or time or cats or allergies or whatever? To me, a decorated evergreen full of old ornament-memories and tiny lights is the best part of the whole season. But now I'm realising that putting a six-footer tree inside the house and dressing it up is just, well, a bit weird...

Meanwhile, Errant Parent is considering submissions for its "fake news" slot, on a holiday theme: make it funny, spoof your best newsroom style, and you could win $50 if you get it in by 8th December. And if you're a parent who hasn't discovered Errant Parent yet, what are you still here for? Check them out for laughs. Lots of laughs.

If you're not exactly feeling the holiday spirit, Pagan Imagination is a new journal looking for submissions on a theme of "Winter Blues", due right about the solstice on 20th December, and offering $5 to their favourite pick.

And if you're really not in the mood for all this Christmas crapola, Tweet the Meat is a horror magazine on Twitter, so stories must be 140 characters or less and somewhere in the regions of scary, creepy, horrifying etc. Their blog mentions no weekly themes for December, but judging from their recent Tweets, a holiday horror theme might hit the spot. Pay is a dollar a pop.

Speaking of horrors, I think I hear some fruit cake and egg nog calling me from downstairs. And did anyone else notice that the Victorian greeting-card Santa pictured here is carrying a rifle? Who got THAT card??

Girlfriend's in a Coma

2009-12-01T21:53:00.000Z

I'm asleep.

For the life of me, I can't wake up all the way, and I've been this way since coming home Saturday night. The doctor says it's a 'flare' of the fibromyalgia, brought on by any number of possibilities: change of weather (what change? it's been raining for six years), stress (at Christmas? nah....) overexertion, another virus, or even 'just because'. Well, great.

Is it possible to catch something over the Internet? Maybe I fretted so much over what Kay's Mom had last week, that I got it myself.

Anyhow, hopefully it will go away on its own. I don't want to sleep through Christmas.

taken last November on an evening walk in west Cavan

The Dream People is "looking for high-quality, stylized fiction that escapes the boundaries of reality & attempts to represent the unrepresentable. In addition to short stories & flash fiction, TDP publishes book reviews, interviews, creative nonfiction, artwork, animation, short films, & literary microcriticism." For this, they'll pay you the price of a martini, based on your locality, via Paypal. I swear, honestly, that's what they pay: go see for yourself.

Dream Catcher is a UK journal offering "contemporary writing for contemporary readers", looking for quality and diversity in about 2,000 words. No mention that they pay.... no mention that they don't.

Microfiction Monday #7

2009-11-29T23:20:00.002Z

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

where a picture paints 140 characters...or even fewer.

Here's this week's picture, and my story to go with it:

The hitchhiker smiled through her window,
fingering the knife in his pocket.
"Vegas?"

"Hop in," she grinned, reaching for her gun.

About Microfiction Monday

Microfiction means the shortest of short stories. Think Aesop's fables, comic strips, or even jokes: complete stories that can be told in under a minute. For this game, the limit is a tweetable 140 characters or fewer.

Every Sunday evening I'll post my own 'microfiction' inspired by a photo or illustration, and invite you to do the same. (If that degree of brevity scares you, feel free to use my own microfiction of the week as your first line instead, and spin something longer. )

You can leave your story in the comments here, or better yet, post on your own blog and leave your link in Mr. Linky.

Hate counting letters and spaces? Try Design 215's character counter, which will count for you as you type. Microsoft Word will count for you too, of course, as part of its word count feature under the 'Review' tab.

Photos will be from my own archives; illustrations are by Dover Publications.

And finally, why 140? A whole new fiction market has arisen via mobile phone texting and Twitter, who limits 'tweets' to 140 characters including spaces and punctuation. It's fast, it's fiction, it's fun. Want more?

Nanoisms
PicFic
escarp
Thaumatrope
Seedpod
Tweet the Meat

For slightly longer works:
Flashshots
Flashes in the Dark
Flashquake
50 to 1

Wish You'd Been There

2009-11-28T23:10:00.000Z

I'm home again from the CBI Digital Developments Seminar which was fantastic: I learned a lot, had a great time, and met some wonderful people, and came home with much food for thought (and future blog posts). Most of all I want to thank:

Eoin Purcell of Green Lamp Media, whose blog is a wealth of information about the future of publishing and the new opportunities offered by digital media;

Ivan O'Brien, Managing Director of O'Brien Press, Ireland's premier book publisher for children (with a great online shop if you're still working on Christmas);

David Maybury, who has a wonderful blog on children's books and writing, and is also a wealth of information on Twitter;

Mags Walsh, Jenny Murray, and Tom Donegan from Children's Books Ireland, who just finished up a fantastic month of Children's Books Festival in October and did a wonderful job hosting this event too;

also thanks to everyone who came to the seminar and made it a success, especially all the friendly people who asked questions, shared their stories, stopped to speak to us during the breaks and afterward, and made the day so enjoyable and interesting; and

Tallaght Library, for the excellent meeting room and welcome;

Captain America's Cookhouse, for serving a splendid lunch;

Irish Rail, whose weird habit of telling you that your train is leaving from Platform 4 and then in the last five minutes before it leaves, switching it Platform 7 without telling anyone except over a horribly garbled and muffled loudspeaker, perhaps to amuse themselves in watching 1. the resulting stampede as the word spreads from passenger to passenger, 2., the sight of the few desperate travelers running full-tilt after the departing train, and 3. the dismay of those left on the original platform when their train never arrives.... yes, thank you, for the deep gratitude I feel in the miracle of getting home at all, you f----;

and finally,

The Irish Rugby Team, who won their game against South Africa before sending their supporters to take the train home, and making my trip much less unpleasant than it might have been had they lost.

No thanks at all, by the way, to the family sitting six seats behind me who chose to sing "Wheels on the Bus" for several miles. No thanks also to the Shannon River, whose sudden expansion project and/or plans for world domination resulted in a two-and-a-half hour trip home from the train station, instead of the usual hour.

While I was away, Ella began her journey from Thom in Honolulu to my daughter in West Virginia: all prayers for her safe arrival are much appreciated.

Now, to tackle the 173 blog posts waiting in my Google Reader...

I hope you all are having a wonderful weekend!

Friday Flash 55: Thanks, Kid.

2009-11-26T22:49:00.003Z

Her dreams blur together on mornings like this, when she drifts in the fog between asleep and awake: a limbo that feels like heaven after a lifetime of work and raising kids.

Delighting in such luxury, she smiles...or dreams she does.

Beside her hospital bed, her son reads the consent form, and signs his name.

(illustration from Dover Publications's weekly free sample newsletter)

Time for Friday Flash 55!

To join in the fun, write any story you like in 55 words (no more no less) then tell Mr. Knowitall by leaving a comment on his own Flash-55 post today, where you'll find plenty more stories to read too.

As for flash fiction publications, I'm back to the alphabet today, with the following markets beginning with P:

Pedestal Magazine is currently accepting submissions for a speculative flash fiction special issue: read the guidelines and keep your story under 1,000 words if submitting before 14th December. Pay is a whopping 8c/word, and poems earn $40. Heavens to Betsy. They also consider book reviews, interviews, etc.

A Public Space also publishes short literary op-eds and artwork. Directories indicate this is a paying market, but the submission guidelines on the website don't mention (or maybe I missed it).

PodCastle is an audio magazine of fantasy fiction, so when submitting remember that the "audience can't skim past the boring parts": send them something with tight pacing, and something fun to ~~read~~ hear. Most of their weekly stories are 2-6K words, for which they pay $100, but they also want flash pieces under 1,000 words, for which they pay $20. Ain't bad!

.... Am I the only one who worries about being unplugged someday?

Wordless Wednesday: Another Day Like This

2009-11-25T10:44:00.000Z

Wordless Wednesday

At Wordless's End ....

Abyss Walker Anthology is accepting submissions that take place in the Abyss Walker world, preferably introducing a new character: more information is in the submission guidelines, including payment details.

Vibrant Gray accepts poetry and prose but provides no details of payment or much else, for that matter. Their current offerings and blog might offer a clue however, so click around if you've got something for them.

Gloom Cupboard (Literature for the Common People) accepts submissions of poetry, creative nonfiction, and short fiction including flash. It also appears to be Literature by the Unpaid People, but as they're in blog format which allows links, feedback, and all that good stuff, well....