Flash Fiction

She Smiles - Flash Fiction

2012-02-23T19:31:00.001-05:00

The bus door opens, and Becky smiles.

I am tired and cranky because my hair just wouldn't behave this morning. The bed had been warm and inviting on this bitter winter day; after begrudgingly rolling out, I had scoured the kitchen for something more appetizing than toast and jam, but found nothing. Even the coffee was stale. Now my phone is filled with calls to return and emails to answer. There never seem to be enough hours in the day.

The weekend beckons with the promise of sitting around and doing nothing.

Pulling my scarf tighter against the biting wind, I inwardly curse the fact that it's itchy against my skin. I rush Becky into the school, blonde hair flying; her coat is thin and she has no hat. She's probably freezing, but there isn't anything that she can do about it.

Once inside, the others greet her and she grins happily, delighted to be here and patiently waiting for someone to attend to her. We lift her onto what looks like a gurney; wooden-backed and covered with hanging straps, it resembles an instrument of torture. Her legs are gently yet forcibly straightened and immobilized, and she cries a little as we crank her into a vertical position. Yet seconds later, Becky once again looks upon us with joy and even laughs out loud when one of us sneezes.

Let me tell you about Becky.

She cannot put on a coat if she is cold or ask for a toy that she wants. She cannot brush a fly from her face. She is completely at the mercy of everything, and everyone, around her.

She cannot walk, nor stand, nor move her legs except in a sort of reflexive kick. She does not eat or drink by mouth, but rather through a feeding tube. She has little control of her arms and hands; she has never spoken a word. She cannot tell us when she hurts or what she wants. She communicates with her eyes as best she can.

And yet...

She is one of the happiest people that I know. Look her way and she will meet your gaze with perfect charm. Laugh, and she will laugh with you, kicking her feet at the joke.

Just as I'm grousing about what's on the menu for lunch, I turn around and see Becky scanning the room. I give her a little wave, and that tiny movement, that split-second of attention, is all that she requires. Her face lights up, in the truest sense of the word. I have paid her some attention.

She smiles.

Author's note: Composite character sketch. Any resemblance to an actual child named Becky or Rebecca is a coincidence.

Also, technically I don't consider this to be a true "flash" since it isn't really a story, more a vignette. But hey, it's MY blog and I'll do what I want. Mwah ha ha ha ha cough cough

Flight/Space Magazine Interview - Chat With A Cosbolt Pilot

2012-02-20T06:00:00.001-05:00

Welcome to the inaugural issue of Flight/Space Magazine. Packed with photos, stories and interviews covering topics of interest to the flying community. Our first interview is with former Cosbolt pilot Byron.

1.) Tell us a little about yourself. Where did you grow up? What kind of kid were you?

I’m a pilot, certified on four different spacecraft, and one of the best in the fleet. (At least that’s what my ego keeps telling me.) I grew up on Cassa and spent most of my childhood at a secure learning facility. Hated it. I was labeled a trouble maker with a bad attitude. People kept prying into my mind, trying to figure out what was wrong with me. It helped foster the sparkling personality I have today.

2.) Did you always want to be a pilot?

I just wanted my freedom. When it became apparent I had the aptitude, coordination, and ego to be a pilot, I seized the opportunity.

3.) How tough was the training program? Did you ever think you might just give it up and do something else?

Give up and do what? It was my only option. Didn’t matter how tough the program – I had to finish at the top, damn it.

4.) Tell us about the Cosbolt. What sort of handling characteristics does it have? Are there any new upgrades or new craft on the horizon? (Or is that top secret?)

The Cosbolt is the workhorse of the Cassan fleet and always first into battle. She doesn’t bank like the Darten, but her power is incredible. I haven’t flown one in twenty years, and while I’ve kept track of the changes, I’m not at liberty to discuss them.

5.) Be honest. Do you ever think of yourself as a hero? Ever fear dying in battle?

When I started on this path, I wanted to be a hero. I wanted the glory and honor. When that moment arrived though, it was the furthest thing from my mind. I wasn’t afraid of dying, either. I was just doing what needed to be done. If I died in the process, so be it.

6.) What do the next few months hold in store for you?

Our exploration vessel is en route to the desert planet of Tgren. The Tgrens are a young race and have only recently taken to the skies. Add the discovery of alien ruins and the Tgren’s growing mental powers and this assignment promises to be interesting.

7.) Last, I have to ask this on behalf of an interested portion of our readers; anyone special in your life? Is romance on your screen?

Probably not. I like my privacy, and women are few and far between out here on the fringes of space. Besides, a mate would only complicate my life. I don’t need that right now…

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

Author's note: Flight/Space Magazine is a fictional periodical, which I created to showcase the main character in the upcoming book CassaFire by Alex J. Cavanaugh. Below is a full synopsis and details to pre-order.

CassaFire

by Alex J. Cavanaugh

CassaStar was just the beginning…

The Vindicarn War is a distant memory and Byron’s days of piloting Cosbolt fighters are over. He has kept the promise he made to his fallen mentor and friend - to probe space on an exploration vessel. Shuttle work is dull, but it’s a free and solitary existence. The senior officer is content with his life aboard the Rennather.

The detection of alien ruins sends the exploration ship to the distant planet of Tgren. If their scientists can decipher the language, they can unlock the secrets of this device. Is it a key to the Tgren’s civilization or a weapon of unimaginable power? Tensions mount as their new allies are suspicious of the Cassan’s technology and strange mental abilities.

To complicate matters, the Tgrens are showing signs of mental powers themselves; the strongest of which belongs to a pilot named Athee, a woman whose skills rival Byron’s unique abilities. Forced to train her mind and further develop her flying aptitude, he finds his patience strained. Add a reluctant friendship with a young scientist, and he feels invaded on every level. All Byron wanted was his privacy…

Available February 28, 2012

Science fiction - space opera/adventure

Print ISBN 978-0-9827139-4-5, $15.95, 6x9 Trade paperback, 240 pages

EBook ISBN 978-0-9827139-6-9, $4.99, EBook available in all formats

CassaFire is the sequel to Cavanaugh’s first book, CassaStar, an Amazon Top Ten Best Seller:

“…calls to mind the youthful focus of Robert Heinlein’s early military sf, as well as the excitement of space opera epitomized by the many Star Wars novels. Fast-paced military action and a youthful protagonist make this a good choice for both young adult and adult fans of space wars.” - Library Journal

You can visit the author’s site at http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/

Book trailer available at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qa6VINRGtyE.

B&N Preorders - http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/cassafire-alex-j-cavanaugh/1034742568

Catch Fire! Blog Party February 28 – join the fun for your chance to win one of five copies of CassaFire - http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/p/catch-fire.html

"Brought To You By ..." - Friday Flash - Fiction

2012-02-16T15:53:00.001-05:00

Roger Showem, CEO of the start-up ad agency PickMe!, coughed and brought the brainstorming session to order.

“Gentleman, the new Honesty In Politics laws have landed an opportunity of historic proportions in our laps. As you know, all candidates must now wear either a shirt or jacket emblazoned with the corporate logos of their top five campaign contributors. In addition, most have opted to choose specially created insignia to advertise the main tenets of their platforms. I wholly support this move, not only because it will generate business for agencies such as ours, but because it allows our worthy citizens to better grasp the implications of their vote. After all, nine out of ten citizens cannot name more than one of a candidate's stances on current issues, but they CAN readily identify the Bullseye and the Golden Arches. In addition, it will curtail waffling; with logos visible to all, it will be difficult for them to claim that they do not support a company, Super PAC, or lobbying group. The insignia which we design will be seen by billions, and could very well be instrumental in the choice of a new world leader. And so, gentlemen, let's see what you've come up with.”

He clicked on the first screen.

“Hmmm, simple, clean. An oil derrick gushing - beer? Yes? Excellent. That covers two lobbies in one. Very nice. I see you have Big Pharma here – the capsule is sufficient; lose the syringe, or people will think he's aligned with the Legalize Heroin movement.” The next screen appeared.

“Oh for – seriously, Hubert? SERIOUSLY? A tattooed rabbit?”

Hubert squirmed and blushed. “Not tattooed, sir. It's a white rabbit with black markings in the shape of the universal male and female signs.”

“And so our candidate supports the hermaphroditic rabbit lobby?” There were guffaws around the table.

Hubert blushed further. “I wanted to symbolize the man's dedication to family issues. Marriage between one man and one woman, fertility and birth without restrictions – you know, rabbits were once used for pregnancy testing...

“Design something simple – a heart with stick figures, Mom, Dad, a dozen kids, plus a dog. Oh, and a cat. Never make the mistake of leaving out the cat people.”

Margot, eyes glittering, leaped into the discussion. “Honestly, that dig wasn't necessary. It isn't as though any of us ever bring up the reptile people.”

“Maybe a snake swallowing a cat should be OUR logo,” replied a voice from the far end of the table.

“CAN WE PLEASE STAY ON TASK”, the CEO thundered. He hated the fact that his cohorts looked down on him for treasuring his cold-blooded friends. The idea of the snake swallowing the cat was, admittedly, a pretty good idea......he shook his head to clear it.

“A walker surmounted by dentures is just what we're looking for. Doughnut with a red band across – too ordinary, but I get the idea. Try again. And...ye gods, Jonathan, what in hell is this supposed to be?”

“Candidate X has been bought – I mean is represented by – the fracking people. It's a pipe going into the ground, but since the frackers want to be seen as environmentally sensitive, I made the earth in the shape of a heart.”

Roger took a deep breath. He flipped the image 180 degrees.

“And now what does it look like,” he said flatly.

Eleven sets of lips twitched.

“Bear in mind that youth supporters are inclined to look for ways in which to exercise their juvenile humor.”

Twitching lips broadened into grins.

“Youth supporters. That gives me an idea for the environmental candidate,” exclaimed Margot. “A globe, emblazoned with the old ecology flag, cradled in a jock strap.”

The room erupted with laughter, releasing some of the tension, and even Roger had to smile.

“Alright, we've got some workable ideas here. Our deadline is still a month away, so I want you all to get back to work and come up with at least a dozen more designs each. Bear in mind that the chosen logos and designs will be worn on the first broadcast of Ovation! and have the potential to garner us millions of dollars as well as worldwide exposure and future contracts. So let's put every ounce of effort into this and make a final push for excellence. Remember, the choice of a future world leader may very well rest in your hands.

Meeting adjourned.”

****************************
I find writing humor rather difficult, so I hope that you enjoyed this flash.

New Bloggers on the Block:

Two new bloggers I'd like to introduce (and hope you might consider following): Luke Wortley is a talented young writer and new member of the community over at Friday Flash. His blog contains a lot of flash fiction and short stories as well as general posts on writing. (And he's a super nice guy.) You can also find him via Twitter as @LukeWortley .

Steph at People Do Things With Their Lives - this is a spankin' new blog with an eye towards making the world a better place. Steph shares personal experiences and thoughts as well as highlighting exceptional people and the lives which they lead. She's a reader, writer, and becoming a good friend. You can also find her via Twitter as @B4Steph

I'll be spending the weekend in non-internet pursuits, so I'll see you all Monday.

Happy blogging!

Origins Blogfest - Nonfiction

2012-02-13T05:00:00.003-05:00

Today's post is part of the Origins Blogfest, created by DL Hammons at Cruising Altitude, co-sponsored by Alex J Cavanaugh along with Katie Mills aka Creepy Query Girl and Matthew MacNish at The QQQE.

It's all about our origins as writers, how we chose, fell, or were dragged into practicing the Craft :-)

This was a story I shared on Stuart Nager's blog Talespinning during an interview a few months ago.

I started writing when I was kid. As a matter of fact, much of it would be referred to as fan fiction, a term I didn’t even know existed until a few years ago. My best friend and I would write our own stories based on TV shows (M*A*S*H*, How the West Was Won) or favorite songs (Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven, Kansas’ Dust In the Wind). One event that stands out in my memory: in the 5^th grade, we were each asked to write a short story for English class. The day after I turned mine in, the teacher called me up and gave me a note to take home to my mother. When I got home, I discovered that the teacher had written her that my story was “far too advanced” for my age, and suggested that it was plagiarized. I was horrified, and my mom was set to storm up to the school and confront the teacher. I begged her not to.
Instead, Mom came up with a better idea.

“Sit down at the table. Write me another story; I’ll enclose a note to your teacher telling her that you wrote it while sitting here at the kitchen table right under my eyes. Then she can judge how well you do. That’s fair.”
I thought she was brilliant. (I still do.)

“But what’ll I write about?” I asked. The other story had been produced after a few days of thought. How on earth would I think up something in just a few hours?

Mom glanced over at our German shepherd, peacefully snoring in front of the fireplace.

“Write about the dog,” she said, turning back to dinner preparations.

My first writing prompt produced “On Thin Ice”, about a girl who is unjustly accused of a crime, runs away in the middle of an ice storm, and is found and saved by her heroic dog. The story won me a prize, but even better was an apology from the teacher and a glowing recommendation for inclusion in a class for “gifted” students (which I unfortunately later came to loathe).

So that was sort of a beginning. I wrote off and on for most of my life, but never took it up seriously until a few years ago. This blog is part of the ongoing process of learning to write, exploring different genres, and honing my skills. If you're new here, have a browse...about 75% of my posts are some sort of fiction, with a few creative nonfiction pieces or interesting photos thrown in the mix. And by all means check out the other Origins blogfest participants. I think you'll find a wealth of talented, imaginative and supportive people there.

Also, I've added a Featured Authors/Books page (tab at top of blog) if you want to check that out.

I haven't been around much; been working, doing some research for one or two stories, etc. Hope to catch up with everyone the end of this month, as I have 2 guest posts coming up in support of the Catch Fire launch. See you around the blogoverse!

The Shot Tower - And A Featured Authors Page - Nonfiction

2012-02-07T05:00:00.001-05:00

Photo credit: Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, PA,51-PHILA,195-1 via Wikimedia Commons

Members of my family were famous for spinning tales as we traveled down the Interstate. The tower in the picture can still be seen from I-95 near Philadelphia. At various times I was told that this behemoth was:

A tower used to train firefighters. They had to practice running up and down the inside stairwell with their hoses and equipment, and rescuing people from the (now bricked up) windows in the sides.

A tower to train parachute jumpers. Even as a kid I was suspicious of this one; it was too high to practice hitting the ground properly, but didn't look high enough to deploy a parachute before the jumper splatted on the ground.

A spotting tower to look for enemy aircraft during war. Plausible, I guess...

A prison tower. What, Rapunzel was from Philly?

The Truth: It's the Sparks shot tower. Standing 142 feet high, and with a base diameter of 30 feet, the brick tower was built in 1808 for the manufacture of lead shot. Molten lead from a reservoir (under the circular roof) dripped through mesh, forming into balls as it fell and landing in water to solidify. The tower produced shot used during the War of 1812 and the Civil War.

The Mystery: I have yet to find out how they got a large quantity of molten lead to the top of the tower.

And that's today's fun bit 'o history.

Housekeeping stuff: thank you for everyone who commented on the Trestle Press/Small Doses kerfuffle. As usual, you all came through for me with moral support. Now I intend to move on with writing. Next move? You'll be the first to know :-)

Also, check out my new and updated Featured Authors/Books Page (tab at top of blog). I hope to introduce you to some new books and authors you might not know - but should!

The Book of Angels - Bluebell Short Story Slam - Friday Flash

2012-02-02T21:23:00.001-05:00

A mother never dreams that one day she'll be choosing a grave monument for her firstborn. At the funeral home, my other daughter exclaims "Pick this statue, it looks like Michelle!" She's right. Then my heart freezes and I slam the book closed; on the next page is an angel which looks just like her.

Written for Bluebell Books Short Story Slam 20 . Write a story, any theme or genre, exactly 55 words in length.

Previous short story slam Storm Chaser

Trestle Press: Why I'm Pulling My Book

2012-02-01T22:44:00.001-05:00

It is with great sadness that I am requesting the withdrawal of "Small Doses" from the ebook market. Apparently, Trestle Press, the publisher, has been accused of plagiarizing artwork from various sources to use as covers for some of their books. I don't know, at this point, if it includes mine. But after a lot of thought, heartache and disappointment, I have decided that I don't wish to be affiliated with Trestle. There are several blogs which make a very good case against Trestle, showing covers in question alongside images from some movies and video games, as well as one or two artists whose work was used without permission or credit.

Covers In Question

I have sent the following email to Trestle Press:

"In light of recent events, I wish to have the following book which I have authored, and was published by Trestle Press, removed from sale, that copyright revert back to me, and that any sales proceeds which I have accrued be disbursed in a timely manner."

Small Doses by Lisa Vooght

Format: Kindle Edition
File Size: 116 KB
Publisher: Trestle Press (January 13, 2012)

Several other authors have pulled their work as well. My own dealings with Trestle have been fine; nonetheless, I feel as though this is the right thing to do.

And I feel miserable about it. Although the authors are supporting each other, there are other commenters around the 'net who seem to feel that we, as authors, should have known better, should have seen "red flags", and are a bunch of naive, desperate, and shoddy writers.

I submitted work to Trestle just as I have to other newspapers, magazines, journals, and publishers. As a novice writer, I decided that I would be better off to get my feet wet by sticking with small entities first and building a body of work before querying the big publishers.

So I didn't get my feet wet on this first foray: I drowned.

I have to admit, I feel disappointed and depressed. At some point, I'm sure I'll submit something again elsewhere, but not for a while. Maybe I'll just stick to blogging.

I will always write.

My heartfelt gratitude goes to those of you who purchased Small Doses, and those who left comments or reviewed it. I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you to all of my readers here on Flash Fiction. I appreciate the time you spend reading and commenting.

Feel free to comment on this post, but it will be a few days before I come back to it.

Now for the tiresome and embarrassing task of deleting stuff.

Sigh.

Found Time and Cool Clockworks - Photos

2012-01-29T21:16:00.000-05:00


Found Time Tank by Randall Cleaver, currently on display at NWCM

One of those out-of-the-way yet very-cool-to-visit places is the National Watch and Clock Museum in Columbia, PA. A current exhibit is entitled "Found Time" featuring clocks sculpted by Randall Cleaver from various found objects. I was so entranced that I forgot to take pictures! (I'm famous for doing that, but I linked up the site for you.)

The museum is heaven for horologists, history lovers and steampunk afficionados (they had a Victorian ball last year).

Drawing of 1088AD water clock by Su Sung. An armillary sphere tracked sun, moon and star orbits, while mannequins periodically rang bells and chimes to sound the hours. The mechanism was powered by water.

The Atomichron (early 1950s) was the world's first commercial atomic clock, built by the National Company, Inc of Malden, Massachusetts. It was also the first self-contained portable atomic clock. (It was about the size of a filing cabinet, so not portable as in "carry it in your briefcase".) Atomic clocks use the oscillations of atoms in a gas to mark frequency (in this case, cesium). It is so accurate it would only lose a second in 32,000 years.

Are you old enough to remember Pulsar watches? The first Pulsar was a brand of The Hamilton Watch Company (in nearby Lancaster PA) which developed the watch in early 1970. It had an 18 carat gold case, and was the world's first all-electronic digital watch, using a digital display with LEDs A button was pressed to display the time. The first Pulsar initially sold for $2100. (The equivalent of $11,000 today.) Eventually they manufactured watches which also monitored heartbeat and had a tiny little calculator.

And then there's the sheer beauty of gears, cogs, wheels and such.

The museum has hundreds of case clocks, pocket watches, table clocks, cuckoo clocks...if it told time, they've probably got an example of it. There's even a replica (non-working) of the Antikythera mechanism. So, if you're ever in the south central Pennsylvania area, pay a visit. (Certain exhibits change, so check the site before you go.) National Watch and Clock Museum

Artifice - Flash Fiction

2012-01-27T05:16:00.001-05:00

I brought the Great Man down. The Prime Minister.

There was this big party, with smoking and drinking and sparkly women with great white horse teeth, smelling of rotten flowers and hair spray. Big men with suits swam around the room, smacking each other and sneaking looks at the ladies. Little men in wrinkled suits that smelled of cigarettes (and one of maybe puke) stood around and played with their phones. All of them talked with their Outside Voices and tried to look interested but they really only wanted to talk to the Great Man. They didn't fool me, and I don't think they fooled each other.

Me? They didn't notice me. Never do, unless He decides that they should. Especially if She is around, but She was gone away on holiday again.

I never talk much, and so people shout at me as if being quiet is like being deaf. I'm small, but that doesn't mean that I'm stupid.

When I went into the party - I wasn't invited of course - everyone smiled, and a few took my picture like they do of the dog, Rusty. One of the wrinkled suit guys snapped one just as I climbed into the loudest lady's lap and asked, in MY Outside Voice,

"Sylvia, are you staying here again tonight?" Then I threw my arms around her neck-like-a-chicken's and smiled right at Daddy.

He isn't so Great any more, not to me and not to anyone else. I may be just a kid, but I've learned how things work the hard way.

Now I'll never be overlooked or forgotten again.

Little people can cut you down in an instant.

Thanks for reading! In the upper right hand corner of this site is a poll - vote for the genre you'd like to see more of here on Flash Fiction.

Invisible Quilt

2012-01-20T19:43:00.003-05:00

For a friend...

I have a gift for you, my friend, one which I hope will remain with you always. Something that will keep you warm during the cold dark days, though the corners may grow threadbare and the down become thin from hugging it so much.

Squares of memory whose half-forgotten patterns come alive the more you remember; familiar patterns of joy and sorrow, vestiges of old spills, geometric shards of dreams and laughter. The delicate even stitches of time hold it together, and though one or two pull free there is nothing which will make it completely unravel.

You cannot see it but I hope that you can feel it; the invisible quilt of love and friendship wrapping itself around you.

May it warm and protect both you, and yours, forever.

It's Been One Year...

2012-01-18T05:00:00.001-05:00

...since the first post went up here on Flash Fiction. Since then I've won a contest, had several works published in newspapers, magazines and anthologies, and even published a very short collection of flash fiction. I won't get into numbers - I don't care very much for that aspect, it's too easy to give them more weight than they deserve sometimes - but I'm happy with them.

I started this blog for two reasons: to "shop" some experimental work/get feedback, and to figure out this newfangled thing called "blogging". Before I started this blog, I was barely online. I knew absolutely nothing about how to form links, post pictures, manipulate templates, install widgets, or myriad other computer thingies.

So now I can do some of that :-) Writing here at Flash Fiction has gained me quite a bit of knowledge and, more importantly, some wonderful and supportive friends. There's no way that I could name them all, but I will say this; the majority of my followers and I keep in touch( even if there are some long periods of time in between...life happens) and I love that. I consider myself lucky to have fallen into a great community. Much of that is due to the A to Z Challenge which really kickstarted my blog and introduced me to aforesaid great people.

I've also learned a heck of a lot about the mechanics of writing, both by reading other authors and by exchanging emails and opinions with some of you. I hope I never get to the point where I think I know everything there is to know about writing. That would be death.

I wish to remain true to my original concept: a blog devoted primarily to brand new flash fiction, created for the enjoyment of readers. No strings, no giveaways, no contests, no requests. Just read, enjoy, and maybe even leave a comment.

On occasion, I post poetry, photos that I think might be of interest, an occasional personal post (fun subjects like my first MRI and having a broken tooth yanked) and those pesky promo posts telling you that I had something published.

Oh, and once in a while I might flog a blogfest like the A to Z Challenge or the REN3 Blogfest/Writing Project or feature authors and interviews but hey, you can put up with that once in a while, can't you?

And so here's to another year of blogging, writing, tweeting and festing, good friends, good writing and good cheer.

I'm adding this last minute: I had a piece published in Issue 4 of 5 x 5 Fiction. (Tell a story in 5 sentences, each containing 5 words.) Yay!

Last,

Thank you for reading! Without readers, there would be no use for writers.

Public Service Announcement #3 - The Costa Disaster, Annoying Idiots, and Cruise Safety Tips

2012-01-16T19:36:00.000-05:00

NCL lifeboat drill for crew, Bermuda. Passenger drill took place before sail in NYC

Standing on deck, beneath those great funnels, I prepare for what I know is coming. And yet I always startle, my throat closes with fear and sadness, and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Seven thunderous short blasts, one long.

It's the General Emergency Alarm. Prepare to abandon ship.

THIS IS ONLY A DRILL.

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

I know, I know, my PSAs are usually humorous and this one is not. Sue me.

I won't go into details on the Costa disaster, as you're probably familiar with them. I was surprised to hear that a lifeboat drill had not taken place when new passengers boarded at a port of call. (Apparently they conducted one at the initial departure port, but not at subsequent ports.) I can guess one reason they might not have done so..

Because it would annoy all of the rest of the passengers who had previously boarded and drilled. Sounds silly, doesn't it?

I've been on several cruises, as have some of my friends and relatives. From an impromptu survey, every one of us had attended a mandatory drill on board ship prior to or shortly after getting underway. (Lines were Norwegian Cruise Lines (NCL), Royal Caribbean, Princess and Celebrity.) Since we didn't pick up additional passengers en route, there was just the initial drill.

When you're dealing with 2500 to 4500 passengers, it's no small matter to get them to their evacuation points on deck, line them up, check that they're wearing life vests, and count heads. What makes it even more difficult is the fact that a large portion of those people are chatting, drinking, grumbling, blowing the whistles on their vests, milling about, complaining that it's hot/cold/boring, etc. Attendants have to check all cabins for people who are hiding or ignoring the drill, reluctant to leave the food or bar, sleeping, sick, in the bathroom, incapacitated in some way...

...and so I can imagine how much of a furor there would be if a ship which embarked passengers at multiple ports conducted a drill each and every time. Because the fact of the matter is that some passengers feel safe enough, (or silly enough) to blow off the exercise, disrupt those around them, and even become put out that they have to spend precious leisure time going through the motions. I'm guessing that cruise lines will now tighten up procedures more than ever, and (hopefully) passengers will be more inclined to happily participate, even if it means multiple drills.

On a related note: My husband and I were aboard a ship bound for Bermuda; due to a tropical storm (which developed into a hurricane) we were diverted to Canada. It was fall, we were all more or less packed for the tropics, it would be cold up there, and we had no guarantee what trips/facilities would be available at the ports of call, since they weren't expecting 2000 tourists in town. (Thank you to the people of St. John's, who scrambled to accommodate us, welcomed us with a red carpet and band [seriously, they had a red carpet!] and sold us warm clothing without marking it up and gouging us.) Although many of us took the itinerary change with good humor, there were others who complained, swore, threatened to sue the cruise line, and were generally nasty the whole trip. Would they have preferred the Captain sail into the heart of a hurricane? Thank goodness the shrieking of the few didn't overpower the common sense of the cruise line.

The main point of this post (yes there is one) is not to point blame or re-hash the details of the Costa sinking. That's up to the media and the courts. It's more a rabid reminder that when safety drills are conducted, you might want to pay attention. Quit updating your status and viewing videos of talking cats. Don't be an annoying idiot and wear your life vest as a hat or jock strap. Don't moan about the fact that you haven't eaten in like an hour.

It's not a joke.

A few hints and reminders if you've never cruised and in case you DO miss out on a lifeboat drill:

1. Your cabin should have life jackets with full instructions on how to wear them properly. Find them as soon as you get into your cabin. (You may pee first if you must.) Try it on BEFORE the drill, and wear it per instructions during the drill. Yes, it's often hot and acutely uncomfortable wearing them on deck, (and not a fashion statement by any stretch) but do you really want to figure it out in pitch black darkness?

2. Your cabin should have a map on the back of your cabin door showing evacuation stations (with yours prominently marked). Know where it is and how to get there, along with at least one other alternate route/exit point. KNOW WHERE YOUR CABIN IS IN RELATION TO THE OPEN DECKS

3. Got kids? Make sure you have life jackets to fit them. There should be infant/toddler jackets available. If they are not already in your room, ASK!

4. All necessary meds should be in an easily carried bag, pouch etc. and kept in the same place where you can easily find it and hopefully grab it. However, DON'T spend precious time scrambling around trying to save valuables and things in an emergency. They aren't that valuable if you don't live to enjoy them later.

5. Pack a flashlight and keep it handy! Few people seem to do this when they travel, but you'll be darned glad you have it should the lights go out, no matter where or how you're traveling.

Nervous? Don't be. Panic is your worst enemy. (Actually, other people in a panic are your worst enemy.) Have a game plan; review escape routes BEFORE figuring out where the casino, bars and game rooms are located; pay attention to security procedures; trust your instincts. And remember, it's far more dangerous to cross a busy street than it is to sail the seas.

Cold - Flash Fiction

2012-01-10T10:21:00.001-05:00

As the autumn fades along with the daylight, snow shovels come out and Flexible Flyers are stacked in the store aisles. Children pray for snow, and couples eagerly plan for their annual getaway to the mountain ski lodge. But the promise of cold coils deep within my chest, waiting and watching to sink its teeth into my bones.

I remember the day when the propane gas ran out and I had no money to fill it. One tank equaled three weeks pay at a minimum wage job, and with twenty dollars left each week after bills were paid, I had no way of ever saving enough. And so I eked out the warmth that I had. With the heat shut off, there was at least the electricity to run the water heater. To take a shower in the frigid bathroom, I plugged in the hair dryer and let it run, a towel across the bottom of the closed door; that gave the bathroom at least the illusion of warmth. Then layers of clothes, as many as I could put on and still move; yet still the chill would not leave me. Visiting the homes of everyone I knew at mealtime, in hopes that they would invite me to eat, soaking up the warmth in their 72 degree homes, never wanting them to know how desperate and pathetic I was. Spending extra time at work, reluctant to leave, offering to work unpaid in an effort to avoid going home.

On the few days that the sun shone, I laid on the floor in the weak rays, dreaming of beaches and the hot summer days, imagining the buzz of cicadas, the heavy comfort of steamy summer air as I slept. I understood why fear is characterized by cold. I knew why the ancients worshiped the sun.

Embezzling those funds was not a lark, not greed, but a simple necessity.

My days of poverty are long gone, yet the icy breath of winter still reaches me here in my island paradise. The chill of an air-conditioned restaurant steals my appetite immediately, and the sight of snow on the television sends me frantically scratching for the channel button. When the temperature dips occasionally, I can be seen on my porch bundled in an old afghan, while youngsters ride their bikes in tattered shorts and bare feet. They laugh, and they point, and they give my cottage a wide berth. They do not understand.

The cold is forever within me.

Just For Fun - Guess the Fairy Tale

2012-01-07T12:51:00.000-05:00

Just for fun...can you guess the fairy tales alluded to in each stanza?

It is right that we should tell stories,
and learn from the wisdom of yore;
to avoid being robbed by a blonde girl,
be certain to lock your front door.

Do not make a deal with the reaper,
for reason or logic or jest;
though you may get away with it one time,
you cannot forever trick death.

You might have a bag full of cunning,
and self-serving exploits to tell,
yet a well thought out plan or escape route
might serve you equally well.

Once married, a fellow should quiet,
neither offer to help, nor complain,
for the spinner will not take heed kindly,
any efforts to help are in vain.

Have you guessed any of the fairy tales? I'll post the answers sometime Sunday. Not much to go on
in each stanza, but then it's meant to be a challenge!

Small Doses, After Dark Excerpts

2012-01-03T05:00:00.004-05:00

Some tidbits from a collection of flash fiction Small Doses: Flash Fiction In A Medical Vein. This was originally published by Trestle Press; I requested that it be withdrawn from sale on Feb 1 2012. Why I'm Pulling My Book
Since these stories will now be considered "previously published", I suspect that they will not find a home elsewhere. They may appear as future posts here at the Flash Fiction blog.

From "May I Have Your Attention, Please?"

“She has cancer.”

The words were delivered with the same undercurrent of excitement and thinly veiled odium as news of a teen pregnancy in high school.......

.......I'd spent hours on the phone with her, listening to diatribes mixed with gusts of weeping, wishing that the telephone had never been invented and that I'd never given in to my soft heart. Lately, I'd been eating lunch in my car so as to avoid any extended conversations and had my phone number changed.

From "The Hand Of Anarchy"

Women began to avoid him, as he'd often pinch their bottoms or run his left hand up their skirts while engaging them in benign conversation. The odd thing, of course, was that Joe protested mightily each time that he'd not done it purposely; the hand had “a mind of its own”, and try as he would he couldn't seem to stop its antics.

From "Insomnia"

He fought with it all night, lying quivering in the twisted sweat-sodden sheets. He tried another; that one left him awake but feeling paralyzed, hovering a few inches off the bed in suspended animation. Here and there, he slept for an hour, then wept when he opened his eyes to realize that most of the night stretched out before him.

The volume also includes Change of Heart, Game Of Life, Gifts, and others. If there's enough interest, I might start working on a second volume.

Available from Amazon

From the paranormal anthology After Dark , published by Ethics Trading: an excerpt from my story "Visible Signs"

His eyes fell on a pimply youth sitting on a stoop, smoking and frantically tapping on some electronic gadget.

“Bum one?” he asked, drawing closer. The boy looked up.

“Sure,” he said, glancing sourly at Paul and drawing one from behind his ear. “You look like you need it more than me. Although my girlfriend just ditched me for some douche.”

It was all that Paul could do to stifle a scream. A gaping wound had bloomed on the boy's chest, opening and exposing the beating organ.

Available Now

New Year, New A To Z Challenge! - Guest Post

2011-12-31T05:00:00.001-05:00

I'm with Arlee Bird today with a guest post about the A to Z challenge. It's never too early to start thinking about it!

Happy New Year to all of you. I appreciate every single reader who takes the time to pay me a visit.

And, as you may have noticed, I'm enjoying the week off between Christmas and New Years!

Arsenal Girls - Flash Fiction

2011-12-21T10:09:00.001-05:00

Friday, October 17, 1862

The war came to town, but not in the way we expected.

Late on an Autumn day, only a month ago, blast after blast struck our town, pouring thick smoke into the air, sending minie balls and bullets through helpless bodies, all the while our Townspeople rushed to throw water on workers who were afire. I remember thanking God that it was not me, and yet feeling guilty precisely because it was not me.

I also recall that it was payday.

News was trickling in that day about a bloody battle being fought some place down South called Antietam. My Tom hadn't joined up yet, being 16, but we both knew it was just a matter of time; his older brother was already with the 123rd PA organized in August. It didn't sit well with him that I was a newly employed cartridge choker at the Arsenal, either. But Father was newly passed with Consumption and Mother was struggling to make ends meet; we girls at the Arsenal worked together in a room with an Officer and so what harm could come to us? Simple work, putting lead balls in paper tubes with gunpowder, then tying off the ends. Ten hours of repetitiveness, but good money, much gay chatting amongst ourselves, and far easier on the hands than taking in washing! It was quite droll to see the smallest girls some 10 and 12, with heads bent, chattering together about the naughty boys who worked at other tasks. Sometimes I thought about the soldier who would bite off the end of one of My Cartridges and load it in his musket to tear a bloody hole in another man's chest; War is a Hideous Thing but I did my part to preserve the Union and our brave men's lives.

I was not at work that Fateful Day owing to a complaint. And so I was witness to the Horror and the Heroic Efforts of our townfolk. It was Hell On Earth, and the first thought of many was that the Confederates had invaded. At the first thunderclap people ran toward the smoke and noise to be met by girls streaming from the Arsenal, some blackened and bloodied, some with fire still licking at their clothes, begging for help to remove or smother them. A few Poor Souls jumped from windows to their deaths. I hesitate to add that there were limbs suspended from trees and bodies riddled with bullet holes so that they could not pass for Human anymore.

It is not known what caused the blast; some say a spark from the shoe of a cart horse, others that a careless match may have been at fault. There was gunpowder everywhere, and some of the barrels may have leaked. Perhaps only God will ever know.

In the end the Dead numbered seventy-eight, and I was reminded of the Tributes Of Respect for our Soldiers Fallen In Battle. Were these Arsenal Girls not soldiers as well?

My Mother and Tom both thanked God that I had been spared. We have pledged our troth, Tom and I, for though we are Young it has been driven home that the War may well spare no one, and that we should therefore bind our Hearts and Souls and make use of the Time which remains to us. I know that Tom will go, as he must, and that I will continue to contribute what I can, if not at the Arsenal than perhaps as a nurse or as a seamstress.

Predictions of a Brief War having been proven wrong, I can only hope that it will be over before we need mark the Anniversary of that Dreadful Day here in Pittsburgh.

Author's note: while this piece is based on a true event (and I have tried to make sure that details are correct), the narrator is a fictional composite and in no way is meant to represent any one person.

The Unwrapping - Flash Fiction

2011-12-16T05:00:00.003-05:00

I took a deep breath, and checked the master list against the pile once again.

1. 12 inch knife, newly sharpened
2. razor blade
3. bone shears from the kitchen knife block
4. knee protectors
5. bandages, including butterflies
6. safety goggles
7. heavy gloves
8. steel-toed boots

Everything seemed in order. I dressed slowly, carefully, trying to make sure that any tender spots of my body were protected from flying debris. Ready at last, I turned to the wall of expectant faces.

"All right then," I muttered, "who's first."

I tackled the first of many gifts: dolls and figures, manacled by wire and imprisoned in plastic strong enough to withstand a bunker-buster, and disassembled furniture in boxes strengthened by staples a foot long and bound by plastic straps which whistled by one's head when released. And except for the bruise on my posterior from slipping on the calling card of Gizmo the dog, I emerged triumphant and unscathed.

But maybe gift cards for the holidays isn't such a bad idea after all.

Wrap Rage: According to the Consumer Product Safety Commission in 2008, an average of 6,000 people a year end up in the emergency department for packaging-related injuries. A poll of Pennsylvanians reported that about 17% had injured themselves opening gifts. Be safe this year - give blankets, socks and underwear.

Drop Dead Gorgeous - Flash Fiction

2011-12-12T05:00:00.001-05:00

Eliza's story was one of a thousand; good family, prospective husband in the form of a neighboring farmer's son. Along came a handsome soldier, with every intention of keeping her, whether as wife of mistress we will never know. Having run off with him in the dead of night, and succumbed to his charm and his uniform, she soon found herself stranded in London lodgings when his regiment was posted overseas.

There were no positions anywhere. The city was overcrowded, filled with ex-soldiers, ex-shopgirls, ex-maidservants, subsisting on gin and what adulterated foodstuffs could be had for pennies. The gaols were filled with "disorderly girls" awaiting Transportation To Parts Beyond the Seas or death for stealing the master's silver.

Eliza was determined not to join the ranks of the prostitutes, currently being driven like cattle by peace officers from the city into the outskirts and back again. To lift her skirts in a filthy alley - no, she would rather seek solace in the Thames with the others who washed up with unremarked regularity. With the little money remaining, Eliza determined to win her way back into the world by the one avenue which remained - turning the tables and compelling a man to succumb to her charms instead. A trip to the linendrapers produced enough goods (both bought and secreted beneath her petticoats) to fabricate an emerald-shaded gown worthy of looks, sighs - and with any luck, invitations.

The current craze for all things green (particularly Scheele's)* suited Eliza admirably, with her brilliant red hair swept high and a few loose ringlets fetchingly arranged so as to draw the eye to her bosom. When she appeared at her cousin's birthday ball, every woman's tongue wagged and every man's gaze was fixed on her luminous eyes - or perhaps, a smidgen below. All were willing to to dance, of course, but most attempted to take liberties with the fallen woman so happily appearing in their very dull midst. It appeared that the only invitations forthcoming would be in secret gardens rather than back alleyways. The dress was successful in one respect; it worked its vengeance upon the male guests (although exacting its toll on the wearer as well) while they danced together in a poisonous cloud. As Eliza swooned in the heat and disappointment, the men's eyes reddened and their heads pounded. An early departure was in order for most; they wrapped up well, sealing in the arsenic particles for their families at home to enjoy.

As for Eliza, she and the dress were welcomed and soothed to sleep by Father Thames, who gathers all of his children to him no matter what their station in life, and renders them all equal in the end.

* The colour green was a craze in Victorian England, and was used in clothing, wallpaper, paint, beauty compounds, toys, and other everyday objects. Scheele's Green contained arsenic, a highly toxic compound; painted on surfaces, or used to dye fabrics, it gave off dust particles that could be inhaled.

All I Want For Christmas Is A New Tooth

2011-12-05T11:41:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, I went to bed feeling a slight twinge in a molar and woke up feeling as though someone had hit me in the face with a baseball bat. As there were no signs of forced entry and my priceless collection of reindeer figurines remained on display, I assumed that there might be something else amiss.

And so, dear readers, I am off to have a) a root canal or b) a tooth extraction, depending on the results of a microscopic exam of the offending molar. (However will they fit my head under a microscope?)

I will, presumably, be out of action for a few days. Hope you all have a great week and I'll see you later. :-)

Aircraft Identification - Test Your Knowledge #2 - Photos

2011-12-03T16:55:00.001-05:00

Once in a while I take time time off on the weekend and post a few pics instead. The first post in this Aircraft ID series, Historic Aircraft seemed to go over well, so how about another crack at it?

~~I'll be honest - the first 2 photos were placed into the photo album unlabelled, so I have no clue what they might be. Suggestions from any aviation buffs would be appreciated!~~

Thank you to Jon Radlett (via Twitter) for the first two IDs.


Lockheed XFV-1 Salmon (experimental). It's a VTOL (vertical take-off/landing), first official flight was in 1954 but the craft was cancelled in 1955. Copyright Lisa Vooght.


Convair F2Y Sea Dart. First flight 1953, retired/cancelled 1957. Copyright Lisa Vooght

US Navy photo courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Good luck! (There are no prizes, just the satisfaction of knowing that you're an ace aircraft spotter.)

Journey's End - Friday Flash - Romantic Friday Writers

2011-12-01T19:07:00.002-05:00

I was wearier than I'd ever been in my life. But warmth was finally seeping into me and I waited, time at a standstill. Memories came flooding back in a sweet tide and I savored them, watching as they played out in front me. I could have lain there forever, but there was more calling to me and I followed.

The woods sang and echoed with laughter; there was a whoop, and I knew it was my best friend Beth, lithe body flying through the snow on his Flexible Flyer sled. Smelling the pungent mix of pine sap and wood smoke, I crunched my way through the sugar drifts toward the light in the distance. A cardinal called purdy purdy purdy in the twilight.

I left the forest, and there it stood; my house. My commonplace, pedantic, cookie-cutter little house. I grew up there, I clutched my doll and cried there, I read about the mysteries of life and witnessed quite a few there. Grandpa was on the porch, idly leaning on the bannister and smoking his pipe, but before I could shout a greeting a 100 pound ball of fur hurtled out of nowhere.

“Bandit!” was all I got out before he knocked me to the ground and we rolled in a delicious cloud of steaming dog breath, fur and snow. I was sobbing now, unashamedly, as another little piece of my heart fell into place. It had been so long, and I had missed him so much, and yet the full scale of it only made itself known when he was back in my arms. He licked me energetically and raced around like a puppy, all the while licking me and barking joyfully in a paroxysm of doggy madness. I was laughing now, awash in delight, and I didn't think that I could ever be happier, until I saw another figure coming toward me.

My homecoming was complete. He folded me in his arms, and I breathed him in, reveling in the scent as though I had lain next to him every night of my life. Sighing, I relaxed and laid my head on his shoulder. Happy, relieved, content. Safe.

“I searched for you, everywhere, for so long.”

He held me tighter, rubbing his cheek against mine. “I know. But what is meant to be will always come to pass, if not in one lifetime than in another.”

The last of the pain fled my heart forever.

I am whispering this in your ear, Mum, I am showing it to you in your dreams, so you will know that I am OK and that my long journey is over. There is no other place I'd rather be. You will miss me, I know, but home and all that it contains awaits you too.

Do not grieve because I left life too soon. In the end, it is just another beginning.

Word Count: 482
NCCO

No Permanent Address - Flash Fiction

2011-11-25T11:16:00.000-05:00

Bones were the last thing he expected to find as he excavated the foundation for his shed. Roots, rubbish, treasure, maybe, but these were decidedly not in those categories. Ulna humerus funny bone hip bone's connected to the thigh bone and now that tune will be stuck in my head all day. He should call the police but then there would be questions, explorations, and maybe the discovery of a serial killer and media trampling his lawn. Perhaps a horde of of musty spectacled scientists and their eager assistants would show up and declare the site of scientific interest and bang would go the new shelter for his shiny John Deere. Nope, they were just hunks of mineral deposit maybe they'd be good for the garden and best gotten rid of.

He tossed them into the underbrush with only a nanosecond's thought for the granite mausoleum which awaited his own exceedingly valuable mortal remains.

Photo credit:

Author: Cheselden, William, 1688-1752.

Engraver: Van der Gucht, Gerard, 1696-1776.

Engraver: Shinevoet, Mr., died not after 1733.

Title: Osteographia, or The anatomy of the bones.
Publication: London : [William Bowyer for the author?], 1733.

I Can Always Be Counted On For A Culinary Disaster - Personal Post

2011-11-24T15:06:00.000-05:00

Breaking news! It is 3:00 PM EST. The turkey, which should have taken 5-6 hours to cook, took 3. Guests will not arrive until 5 or 6, which means my bird will be lying about for some time. Was it my dismal math skills? An oven which needs recalibrated? A subconscious desire to get back at family members by serving up the most atrocious meal possible? All good guesses, but the fact of the matter is that everyone has that one thing in life at which they wish to excel, but cannot. Mine is cooking. Overdone bird? Check. Soggy stuffing? Got it covered. Underdone green beans with greasy bits o'bacon and slightly scorched almonds? You betcha. Mum and Sis are each bringing a pie, so there's at least 2 guaranteed edible items. Oh, and I can boil I mean brew coffee.

Oliver and Co. will not be asking for more, unless it's Tums for the tummy.

On a positive note, I did remember to pull out the little bag of nasties from the bird's cavity, as well as the plastic thingy which keeps the legs together (kinda like a turkey chastity belt). Hot plastic adds a certain flavour to the bird which is not generally appreciated.

And so, dear readers, add one more thing to your list of things to be grateful for this holiday: that you are not on my guest list.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

I'm At Born Storyteller Today For the Creativity Series

2011-11-23T05:36:00.001-05:00

The Born Storyteller Blog (by author/teaching artist/storyteller Stuart Nager) is running a series of guest posts on the subject of creativity. Join me today for a short piece on how creativity figures in my day job :-)

Creativity in the Classroom

Sample Sunday - From WIP

2011-11-20T12:02:00.000-05:00

He was lying flat on his back, and really did seem to be sleeping. Maybe he's taken something, she thought. Or maybe I gave him a heart attack and he's dead. The thought chilled her, but she tiptoed over anyway. He was breathing, but slowly. His hair was damp, his eyes closed, the golden lashes catching the light from the hallway. His face was icy and luminous with the fine sheen of sweat; and far from the normally relaxed pose of those asleep, his body was rigid as marble.

“Robert,” she whispered, knowing he wouldn't answer. She wondered if he was lying there, as she often had, in the grip of some terrifying nightmare, unable to move or speak; but she dare not touch him. She backed away and closed the door quietly. She would wait.

And Robert did indeed dream, although not as the rest of us do. He simply fell through darkness, for hours on end.

Love You To Pieces - 100 Words

2011-11-16T06:00:00.002-05:00

Love You To Pieces

This was originally published in June 2011 on the Rammenas website, which now seems to be defunct. I hadn't kept a copy, but fortunately it was submitted in the body of an email, which I DID have a copy of. Lesson learned - make at least 1 copy of everything!

Love You To Pieces

It was soiled, spotted, naked of fur, with one eye missing and a leg that swung at an obscene angle. I handed it to him, and he turned it over thoughtfully.

“Wow. That's the second ugliest thing in this room.”

“Nipper was my friend, my source of comfort when the lights went out.” I touched the tattered ear of the stuffed animal.

“And you kept it all these years? I'm surprised you didn't just toss it. What a mess.”

So I laid down with him and Nipper in the hospital bed and hoped he would draw comfort from us both.

Catrina Taylor & With Love Project - Plus Sample Of My Story Visible Signs

2011-11-14T05:00:00.003-05:00

I am delighted to offer a guest post today from Catrina Taylor from the With Love Project, which is a series of charity anthologies. But I'll let you read about it below - along with 2 freebie samples from the newest, After Dark. And yes, I included a snippet of mine!

After Dark – A Charity Anthology

The With Love Project was crafted by a small group of talented artists and authors, that donates to Doctors Without Borders. Catrina Taylor, approached a small group of talented writers on Facebook and asked them if they would be interested in participating on the project. As quickly as she asked, several writers stepped up to support the project, offering inspiring pieces. Soon after an artist offering images to create a cover and a publisher also volunteered their services to reach out to the masses. Thus was born the first anthology, Dawn Of Indie Romance.

After Dark is a continuation of the With Love Project Charity Series of books. This series was born in the hearts of many who want to help those in need. Through efforts put forth by many, this project continues to help and support Doctors Without Borders, donating enough money from the project to aide in providing vaccinations, support resources and AIDS medicine to those who couldn’t otherwise provide for themselves. The money is allocated for the various needs by Doctors Without Borders.

After Dark is the third book in the series. This book has a paranormal theme and is created to entertain the reader with a wide variety of interesting and unique stories. Some of these stories are centered around Trolls and assorted monsters, while others highlight the endearing needs from within. This series also contains the art of talented contributors who have donated time, energy and resources to further enhance this incredible series.

If you enjoy a vivid and imaginative story and enjoy helping others at the same time, After Dark is the ideal anthology for your reading tastes. I’ve included a sample below from An Act of Kindness by Susan Roebuck

Ping! There it goes again – that sound in my head. It’s like a rubber band inside my brain that’s been stretched too far. Trouble is, I do tend to get these passions, manias as my girlfriend calls them. Once I get an idea, a challenge, a puzzle that needs to be solved into my mind, I can’t let it go. For example, I can spend hours or weeks searching for a copy of an old rock album but when I eventually find it, ping! I don’t want to even listen to it. Last week I spent almost three thousand euros tracking down something called “rhubarb” and when I got it, ping! I didn’t even want to eat it. In the end, my girlfriend fried it and said it was awful. I guess it’s the hunt I enjoy, not the capture.

Yep, a conclusion has pinged into my head that she’s just a barmy old woman and now all the fun of the unknown has leaked away.

I’m not going to change my itinerary for a while, though. Don’t want you-know-who going on at me: “Cinco anos? You telling me it’s taken you cinco anos to reach this momentous conclusion? Miguel, get a brain.”

So, since I’m here, I might as well pass the old witch one more time, doff my hat, if I had one, and then adeus amiga I’ll be catching the number 10 tram on Monday morning.

That scarlet ribbon really does hit you smack right in the eye. And what’s she up to? It’s a definite first: she’s moving about, kind of restless as she wrings her hands so that the rheumatic knobs on her gnarled old fingers make a sickening bone-on-bone crack. She’s never done that before. “Aí meu Deus,” she grates out. “Por favor, ajude-me”. Her eyes protrude from their wrinkled casings in desperation. Correcto, this ain’t no mystical, romantic woman, no way. I was right, she’s just a pitiful little old lady in need of help.

“Senhora. What’s your problem?”

“Oh Senhor, good Senhor. Ajuda-me. Rato . . .” She gestures back into the dark recesses of the room.

I snigger. A mouse? A teeny, tiny little mousy wousy? I can deal with that. It’ll be like my farewell present as a thank you for keeping me entertained for five years. “Miguel, you’re such a jerk.” I can hear my girlfriend’s voice from here, but I don’t care. The old dingbat deserves some reward.

The door creaks open in a blizzard of flaking paint. Oh boy, confusion and chaos, what a disgusting smell - musty and damp. She grabs hold of my sleeve and leads me through the soupy darkness towards what is probably the kitchen. I try to ignore the smell which is so strong I can even taste it.

“How shall I call you, Dona?” I’m politeness personified, see?

“Beatriz.” She spits on the word so it sounds like a phlegmy death-rattle.

She plants me in what could be the kitchen, but then again maybe it’s not, before she doubles back without any hobble along the bleak corridor. That’s a bit rude, isn’t it? Leaving me here. I mean, how am I supposed to spot a mouse in this? It’s as black as the witching hour in here, the only light – if you can call it that - coming from a weak and distorted ray of sunlight fighting its way through the grime on a tiny window.

And from Visible Signs, by Lisa Vooght:

Trash he thought with disgust, and threw aside the handful of baubles he'd extracted from the jewelry box. Another wasted evening spent breaking into a hoarder's den. He'd had high hopes for this one; the occupant, a pearl draped old lady, looked to be the type to have antiques and heirlooms everywhere. Instead, her apartment looked like the staging area for a dollar store clearance sale. Even the cat litter was generic.

An angry swipe cleared the top of the dresser. As he turned to leave, his booted foot slipped on a figurine and a stab of pain shot through his knee. Dammit, that's all I need. Hard enough to get dope as it is. He bent and picked it up.

The plastic face beamed gently at him. He threw it down and ground it under his heel slowly, deliberately, and then with increasing ire as it refused to break. With an oath, he picked it up again, cocking his arm to hurl it across the room. That's when he saw that it was bleeding.

Sweet weepin' Jaysus. The phrase slunk into his mind from the dark crevices of memory, his grandmother's voice as she salved the cigarette burns on his arm with bacon fat and the willow switch welts on his back with cool plasters. She cried, she prayed, she tried to heal him but she could not, or would not, protect him from the vicious rages of her only son, his father. They never spoke about it, never drew the poison to the surface, and so their lives swelled and festered until they ruptured. His grandmother had statues like this, silently standing about in her room, arms outstretched bidding humanity to take shelter. But they had never, even in his fevered imagination, brought forth blood.

He turned it over and over in his hands, looking for a catch, a button, an indentation that would allow him to find the secret of the thing. This has got to be worth a helluva lot to someone.

Find After Dark here:

Amazon: After Dark and Smashwords: After Dark

Remembrance - Flash Fiction

2011-11-11T23:11:00.005-05:00

An artificial corn poppy, made of plastic and cardboard by disabled ex-servicemen, worn in the United Kingdom and other Commonwealth countries from late October to Remembrance Sunday in support of the Royal British Legion's Poppy Appeal and to remember those servicemen and women who died in war. Wearing poppies to remember the war dead comes from the poem In Flanders' Fields by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae which concludes with the line "We shall not sleep, though poppies grow, In Flanders fields". Image and explanation courtesy Philip Stevens via Wikimedia.

Remembrance

Very lights, phosgene, duckboards and bully beef; a secret language which only we spoke, words that left a metallic tang like the water I sipped from his canteen. He said I could never use I'll be back. Goodbye, see ya, but not that. Because Leslie had said don't worry Gran, I'll be back, only to be swallowed by the unspeakable mud of Landers. I didn't know where Landers was, exactly, but I knew that it was somewhere over the sea, and that nothing ever grew there but the skeletons of trees and barbed wire. The sun never shone; it rained or it misted or it stormed, with great rolling booms of thunder and squalls of shrieking metal. Sometimes the farmers still turn up shells, planted but never blooming, with their ploughs.

He had a clay pot of poppies on his porch. I wanted to pick one, it was so beautifully, vividly red; but he said no, those are my friends and I understood it to mean that they were really and truly his friends, come back to life as flowers, and so I watered them and talked to them, and to the ones which withered away I gave a decent Christian burial beside the house. The house itself seemed weary of things, leaning to one side and sighing to itself on occasion.

He had to have been old, but sometimes when I walked beside him he seemed young and vibrant and smelled of soap. I loved the scent of freshly cut grass in the summer, but he held a hand to his face and went inside. Grass and mayflowers are the smell of death, he would say, more to be feared than the stench of the lines, for the dead cannot do you harm.

On July 1, every year, we went into the yard and we had a picnic of corned beef, crackers, and tea. The flower pot from the porch was our centerpiece, and before we ate we stood, and he lifted his glass and said solemnly Gentlemen, when the barrage lifts* . It made me feel important to be a part of it all, though I did not understand.

People must have thought him a strange man, for they never spoke to him or acknowledged his existence. But then they must have thought me a strange little girl, for they seldom spoke to me either. One day I was sent away to boarding school, just like that, with one battered suitcase and a paper bag lunch. It was a girl's school, and it might just as well have been another country for I didn't speak the language or know the customs. I got the occasional letter from home it's just for a few years and how nice it must be for you to finally have friends and finally, after a while, such dust everywhere, they've torn down the old shack next door, an eyesore it was, no one's ever lived there that I can remember.

I came home after a time, and insinuated myself into the life of a small town. Once a year, on July 1, I go to the local pub and loudly drink my toast. Someone will ask what it means, and I will tell them. I work two jobs and, bit by bit, I am paying for the piece of land which lies beside my childhood home. There is nothing there, not yet, just rutted mud and the odd brick or stone. The grass is growing, slowly, and I lie upon a patch in the sun, idly twining the stem of a poppy between my fingers. They have grown, once again, of their own accord, children of the ones I buried long ago.

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

*Author's note: traditional In Memoriam notice. 9^th and 10^th BNS., K.O.Y.L.I. - To the undying memory of the Officers and Men of the above Battalions who fell in the attack on Fricourt (Somme) on July 1, 1916.

“Gentlemen, when the barrage lifts.”

A toast made before the Somme attack of the 9^th and 10^th Battalions of the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. Twenty-four hours after the attack, 800 men had been reduced to 80 men and 4 officers.

I wrote Remembrance quite some time ago, but thought I would post it (late) in honour of Veteran's Day.

And here is "In Flanders Field"

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

by John McCrae, May 1915

Stowaway - Flash Fiction

2011-11-11T14:35:00.001-05:00

Ivy stood, bewildered, at the bustling Liverpool quay. By her side was a little girl, clinging on with one hand while clutching a dirty bundle with the other.

"Don't let go, Maggie," she said quietly to the child.

Their journey had been fraught with confusion and danger. Ivy had lost her position as a house servant; the mistress had not taken kindly to Ivy's pregnancy, and sacked her without a moment's hesitation. This despite the fact the child had been conceived with the help of the master. He had arranged passage on a ship bound for New York, and given her enough money to tide her over until she got there. But with little knowledge of how things worked, Ivy had soon been taken advantage of, as were many of the emigrants trying to make their way to America. A rough looking man, which she now knew was a "runner", had forcibly snatched her bag at Goree Piazza and led her to a rundown lodging house, where he then demanded twice the going price. Exhausted and frightened, Ivy had no option but to pay him. The lodgings were filthy, the food poor, and the price far more than she had expected.

Morning brought more dismaying discoveries.The emigration agents were not employees of the shipping lines, but rather worked for brokers who bought space on the ships just as they did for any other cargo. And so Ivy found herself anxiously milling around with hundreds of other men, women, and children, most with an odd assortment of boxes, bags and provisions, wondering how there could possibly be enough room for them all.

Two women jostled Maggie, and she dropped the handful of Ivy's dress to clutch her Dolly. An icy trickle of fear ran through the mother's stomach; if she and Maggie were separated, they'd never find each other again. She hugged the little girl close to her.

The last step before boarding was the medical examination. As they stepped to the window, the harried inspector asked their names, had them stick out their tongues, and then stamped their papers. Ivy realized she'd been holding her breath, and let it out slowly. The last barrier had been cleared.

The confined steerage space, between the upper deck and cargo hold, was already jammed with hundreds of people as the two made their way inside. Rows of bunks, six feet wide by six feet long, lined the space; most seemed already occupied. Seamen were directing people as best they could, and one of them indicated that Ivy and Maggie should take a particular bunk which was already occupied by two women and three children.

"Surely you do not expect all of us to..." Her heart sank.

Their allotted space would amount to about 18 inches. The crossing would take anywhere from four to six weeks. Living in such close proximity, she wondered how she would ever keep their secret. She took Dolly from the little girl and pulled the edge of the blanket back. With its eyes closed the waxen face, tinged with blue, did indeed resemble a doll's. It was a mercy that the child had not cried during the long embarkation process.

"Will she get better?" asked Maggie anxiously. Ivy couldn't answer; she had no idea what was wrong with the infant, nor whether there was a ship's doctor on board. She would be terrified to consult him anyway.

She did know there was a high price to be paid for stowaways.

She did not know that the price would be counted in the human lives around them.

Cholera morbus was now on its way to America.

Goodbye, Speedwell Forge

2011-11-10T10:05:00.002-05:00

Speedwell Forge Lake during the drawdown, October 2011.

One wolf bays, tentatively at first, then with full voice as others take up the call. The sound is carried on an early morning breeze which ruffles what is left of the lake.

Man created the lake years ago; nature, with her sometimes heavy hand, weakened the dam. And so the water has been drawn down slowly, and the former occupants relocated to other aquatic neighborhoods or left to the tender mercies of scavengers.

The naked bed is examined and explored by man and creature alike. Herons stalk along the rim, casting first one eye, then the other upon the mudflats in search of a tasty morsel. People who once fished here for bass and crappy look for old lures and bobbers; children carefully pick their way through the mud, excited by the novelty of walking on the bottom of a lake and the idea that there could be treasure hidden among the rocks and deadwood.

As long as there are those with memories of fishing expeditions, silent afternoons spent gliding across the waters, and warm evenings picnicking on the banks, Speedwell Forge lake will exist. But this morning, that is small comfort to me. Once something is gone, it is never the same again. If enough money can be found, the dam may be rebuilt; if not, then nature will reclaim the lakebed, inch by inch, seed by seed, until it becomes a marsh, a meadow, or woodland with a burbling creek running through it. It will be a work in progress for quite some time. Perhaps, in years to come, a family can sit on the dock once and dangle their fishing lines. Then again, they might stumble upon the pile of rotting wood on a nature walk and puzzle over its origin.

Time to go. I dabble my hand in the water, and in a melancholy flight of fancy, I imagine that for a brief moment I am holding Speedwell's hand as it dies. It seems fitting that the lake will spend its last days serenaded by the wolves, under a quilt of colorful autumn leaves.

I'll miss you.

Read more about The Speedwell Wolves
Read more about Speedwell Forge Lake
The Save Speedwell Forge Facebook Page

Fun In Intercourse, PA - Photos

2011-11-07T18:28:00.000-05:00

Yes, it really is the name of a town. Intercourse is in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch Country, in close proximity to Blue Ball, Paradise, and Bird In Hand.

As I've been sick the past few days, I'm taking the easy way out (again) and posting a pic or two for your entertainment.

Peanut butter schmier (pronounced shmeer). A spread made of peanut butter, brown sugar, corn syrup, egg whites and vanilla. (Recipes vary.) Kitchen Kettle Village features a lot of shops selling local foods and crafts. The Kitchen Kettle makes various jams, preserves and baked goods on the spot - you can watch them. (Photos of the process are prohibited, since most of the workers are Amish and don't want their pictures taken.)

Amish Tour Bus

A glass enclosed, custom built touring wagon for the Englisch. (Note the cushy mats for the horses to stand on.)

Waiting For A Tune-Up

The two very different cultures, living side by side, make for some interesting juxtapositions.

Fave Amish saying: "Too soon old, too late smart." :-)

Rule Of Three Voting Commences! #REN3

2011-11-06T19:08:00.002-05:00

Title: Shortlist Announced! Let Voting Commence!

After much (difficult) deliberation, we have narrowed the longlist down into a shortlist of 6 finalists! Let me tell you, it wasn't an easy task!

And the finalists are...

<drumroll>

#8 Corinne O'Flynn

#17 An Eclectic Muse

#26 My First Book

#31 Living in Switzerland

#43 Colleen's Write Brain

#45 The Golden Eagle

Well done, everyone! To read the full entries that brought them to this stage, just click on their names.

To place your vote: please go to the Welcome To Renaissance

home page! Poll is open now!

Just as an aside, I've been sick the last 10 days or so, and haven't been around. Hope to be back to writing soon!

REN3 Polling and A New Rule Of Three Blog Page: Welcome To Renaissance

2011-11-02T05:41:00.001-04:00

Dear REN3 Writers:

OK, you did make this hard for us: lots of great stories to choose from. It is not easy.

We, your hosts, are asking your kindness and indulgence as we have to push the announcing of the poll until Friday November 4^th. We will, of course, extend the voting period.

The poll and announcements of the prizes will appear on the new Welcome To Renaissance blog page: http://renthree.blogspot.com/

Please forgive us: first time hiccups, illnesses (all four of us have been sick with one thing or another in October), a lot of great stories, and life just happens. Stupid life ;) . We hope to have our ducks in a better row next time.

Check Welcome To Renaissance page starting on Friday and all info will be there from now on.

Again, our apologies

Thank you

Damyanti, Stuart, Lisa, JC

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

If you didn't (or couldn't) participate this time around, we hope to do it again in the spring. Please visit - and follow - the new Welcome To Renaissance page (link above, and on my permanent Rule Of Three Page). This new site will centralize all info and hopefully eliminate some of the problems we had this time around. One-stop shopping for great reading! It will also provide a gathering place for those who want to continue discussing, writing, and building our shared world of Renaissance.

*BTW, as if prizes weren't great enough, we're pursuing the idea of publishing the winning stories as an ebook! More details (as we know them) on the Welcome To Renaissance page!

Teaser Tuesday: Flashover by Stuart Nager

2011-11-01T02:31:00.000-04:00

Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Just do the following:

* Grab your current read

* Open to a random page

* Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page

* BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! (make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away! You don’t want to ruin the book for others!)

* Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their TBR Lists if they like your teasers!

My Teasers:

It felt like drowning. The image of the fireball, the cascading water jet from the faucet, the sound of the fire reaching out to him, the sizzle...it was too much.

From "Flashover" by Stuart Nager. Cover image on sidebar - click to order or read more!

Trick and Treat: A Freak Snowstorm and Author Interview With Marcus Clearspring

2011-10-30T12:08:00.000-04:00

Happy Halloween! Here in SCentral PA, USA, we were greeted with 8 inches of heavy wet snow yesterday. Since the trees are still laden with leaves, that coupled with the snow caused branches (and wires) to come down all over the place. I've had the joy of being without power for 18 hours now. And so, REN3 peeps, I've been reading stories sporadically but not leaving comments so as to get through as many as possible with limited battery power. :-(( No telling when I'll be back in full swing - a stay at a motel outside the area is likely if power isn't restored soon. As for the fridge - well, that could be kinda spooky when I finally open it....

But enough of my travails. Next in our series of author interviews is Marcus Clearspring, author of Emma Meets the Walkabout Gnomes and IT whiz. You may remember Marcus as the creator of the Next Blog buttons for the A to Z Challenge back in April. Marcus not only donated a copy of Walkabout Gnomes for our REN3 prize bundle; he also did a set of buttons for REN3 as well. (Unfortunately, I've still got gremlins on my blog page and couldn't for the life of me get it to accept the code. Nothing to do with Marcus' handiwork.)

Without further ado, here's the interview with Marcus.

1. Tell us about the book you are donating.

"Emma Meets The Walkabout Gnomes" is a short magical story about a
young girl who meets a group of gnomes in the park after school.
Before she knows it, she's standing on a bench on one leg, holding an
umbrella and learning not to take everything too seriously. Later, the
gnomes give Emma some advice on approaching the boy at school she's
too embarrassed to talk to.

Read it with an open mind, cast your expectations of gnomes and kidlit
aside, and you might be surprised.

2. Why are you donating a book to this blogfest?

The blogfest sounds like an interesting experiment in writing short
fiction. The participants and readers of this blogfest may think
outside of the literary boundaries established by the publishing
industry.

3. Can you think of a genre, which is currently out of your comfort
zone, but intrigues you enough to take up the challenge of writing in
it?

I don't really have a genre. I just think up a story, which may fit a
genre, or not. I'd like to write a thriller, with social and political
themes, and some form of laugh-out-loud comedy. Something farcical
maybe.

4. Tell us a little bit about yourself.

I've always been fascinated by language and the creative aspects of
computing. After studying Linguistics and English Literature, I
currently develop web applications. I made the "blog-hopping" buttons
for this blogfest and the A-Z Challenge.

I'm also starting a project to teach literacy to adults using
smartphones, tablet PCs and the web.

5. What are your views on Self-publishing vs Traditional publishing?

One reason I self-published the short story I donated to this
blogfest, was because it didn't fit any market categories. I also
realised, after a good year of pondering, that traditional publishing
was not for me, no matter whether the book would fit commercial
categories or not. That's why I had been so hesitant to send anything
to agents. I realised what would happen in the unlikely event that I
did get an agent, or even a publisher, and decided it was not what I
wanted.

One good reason to self-publish is when your work is not commercial
enough for a publisher. Not finding a publisher does not mean the
writing isn't any good, although it may. The only thing that's sure is
that publishers cannot predict a market at the given time. There are
plenty of books which agents and editors say they really like, but
which are not financially viable for them to publish.

Here's a question for you I've been considering for some time. Why do
most authors seek recognition from publishers? Musicians have audience
feedback telling them whether they played well. They don't require a
music executive to say they are "proper musicians". Why is reader
feedback online, and in person at signings and live readings, not
sufficient for writers?

And so, dear readers, feel free to respond to that last question, leave feedback, and by all means, check him out on my "featured authors" page for more info including where to purchase Emma Meets the Walkabout Gnomes.

As for me, I'm off the air for now. Until next time....

A Brilliant Little Fire - A Tale Of the Town of Renaissance, Conclusion

2011-10-26T19:09:00.002-04:00

Part 1: Joseph

Part 2: Anna

Part 3: Aaron

Mayor Joseph Grey wiped the sweat from his face and cast a final glance over the town of Renaissance.

“Ladies and gentlemen: a hearty good morning to you, and welcome to Ashefallen Day!”

He pushed the plunger. A series of deafening thunderclaps rolled over the valley as the buildings exploded or caught fire, one by one.

The townspeople broke into applause.

“Renaissance is that brilliant little fire that burns within us all, that lives only for those moments when we reach perfection.”

Anna reached for Aaron's hand. “That's beautiful.”

“Not mine. The quote is from Richard Bach, and the name was Jonathan, not Renaissance. But it seems fitting.”

“Will would have loved it. And the fact that he died on Ashefallen Day.”

They had carried his body home, and placed it in his favorite chair before joining the crowds on the edge of town. What remained of Will would drift slowly over Renaissance, the place which he had helped to create so many times through the years.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind them. “What's going on? Is everyone mad? Has the Sickness come here as well? Is that why you're burning the town?”

Anna turned to face the distraught looking woman.

“Ah, another stranger among us. You are welcome. No, there's no sickness here; you will be perfectly safe. Today is Ashefallen Day, which we celebrate every five years. You see, long ago, survivors came together to build a town. Neighbor cared for neighbor, everyone shared what they had, worked together, suffered together. They shared a vision of a community which would be close-knit, loving, self-sufficient. And it was so for a while. Even in the old world, the same phenomenon was observed; disaster brought out the best in everyone. But sooner or later selfishness and greed, crime and politics, bigotry and hatred came to call and then moved right in. The same thing happened here. And so it was decided that our town would be destroyed every five years and then rebuilt. The fire cleanses and the spirit renews. We are unlimited in our visions of the future; the town can be redesigned exactly as we choose, and each of us is entitled to a new beginning as well. What you see before you is the formation of yet another clean slate.

Welcome to Renaissance.”

Finis

Word Count: 397
Prompts: Misfortune accepted
New arrival in town

**********************************************
Thank you to co-host Stuart Nager for suggesting "Ashefallen" as the name of the holiday.

To all of the various participants - and readers - involved in the Rule Of Three writing project: thank you for your interest, your efforts and your time.

Now will come the hard part as the four hosts read, discuss, talk, email, Skype, and create the shortlist of winning entries. Keep watching for more info, updates and announcements.

I hope you have enjoyed your visits to Renaissance :-)

Until next time....

Lisa

Interview With Alex Cavanaugh

2011-10-24T17:59:00.001-04:00

Hi all! Please welcome Alex Cavanaugh, author of CassaStar and the soon to be released follow-up CassaFire!

Releasing Feb 2012 - watch for it!

Alex was one of the authors kind enough to donate an ebook as part of the Rule Of Three prize package. That book is Cassa Star, and you can read more about it on my "featured authors" page.

Many of you also know Alex as one of the hosts of the annual A to Z challenge, as well as various other blogfests, and creator of the Insecure Writer's Group. He is probably best known, however, for his unfailing support and encouragement of other bloggers and writers. As one of my earliest followers, I owe him a debt of gratitude for supporting me and helping me to believe in myself. Thank you, Alex.

Without further ado, here's a short interview and more info on his books. Enjoy!

Tell us about the book you are donating.

It’s my first book, CassaStar, a science fiction space opera/adventure that came out a year ago:

To pilot the fleet’s finest ship…
Few options remain for Byron, a talented young man with a troubled past and rebellious attitude. Slated to train as a Cosbolt pilot, Byron is determined to prove his worth and begin a new life. Much to his chagrin, Bassa, the toughest instructor in the fleet, takes notice of the young pilot. As war brews on the edge of space, Byron requires a navigator of exceptional quality to survive. Bassa must make a decision that could well decide the fate of both men. Will their skills be enough as they embark on a mission that may stretch their abilities to the limit?

And I’m happy to say the sequel, CassaFire, will be out on February 28, 2012!

Why are you donating a book to this blogfest?

Because you and the other hosts rock!

Can you think of a genre, which is currently out of your comfort zone, but intrigues you enough to take up the challenge of writing in it?

I’d like to write commercials… Seriously, I’ve always enjoyed reading fantasy and would like to try it one day. The world building aspect is daunting though.

Tell us a little bit about yourself.

I’m known as Captain Ninja Alex to my blogger buddies. I enjoy movies, music, science fiction, tech toys, books, and gaming, and that tends to be what I blog about. I also host a lot of blogfests. Not what you’d expect from an author, but that’s how I roll. Oddly enough, I have a large Ninja Army that seems to enjoy it…

What are your views on Self-publishing vs Traditional publishing?

Whichever works for the writer! I’ve seen a lot of my friends here go the self-publishing route and enjoy success. That may one day be the norm.
*****************************************

You can visit Alex at his blog to find out more about him, to join the Catch Fire party, or sign up for the Insecure Writer's Group.

Thanks for stopping by!

A Brilliant Little Fire - A Tale Of the Town Of Renaissance (Pt 3)

2011-10-18T20:01:00.003-04:00

Part 1: Joseph here
Part 2: Anna here

Part 3: Aaron

Aaron made his way up the hill toward the two figures. The first rays of the sun felt pleasantly warm on his back; later, he knew they would cause his wounds to itch and burn. He cautiously approached the elderly couple on the hillside and raised a hand in greeting.

The woman's lined face broke into a smile.

“Good morning, Aaron.” She beckoned him closer, and he seated himself on the wet grass.

“Have you recovered from your flogging?”

Aaron felt his face flush, and yet there was nothing but an inquisitive look on Anna's face. The ways of Renaissance were still a mystery to him; all crimes were punished by public whippings, painful and humiliating, and yet afterward the perpetrator was treated as a member of the community once again, as though nothing had happened. Some took it as a blood baptism, a chance to start over with a clean slate. Others, who could not or would not change their behavior, sustained beating after beating until they were either incapacitated or died. Still, it was a system that seemed to work. His scars would remain as a reminder to himself, and everyone else, that he had both erred and paid his dues. Today would be a new beginning, to do with as he chose.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered to her, still feeling embarrassed. A newcomer to the town, he'd crept through a window in their cottage a few days before and stolen things that he'd needed; food, a blanket, a lantern. And one thing he hadn't needed; a leather bound book he'd found lying on the table. The Decline and Fall Of the Roman Empire. A touchstone from the old world, where life was nothing to him but an opportunity to drink, chase girls, and drag himself to boring lectures every day. A careless existence, until it had been swept away in a matter of days along with the bodies of his dead mates. He fancied a whiff of those long ago funeral pyres was tickling his nostrils.

Anna shifted her position, laying her husband Will's head in her lap and kissing him gently on the cheek. He was deeply, irrevocably, asleep.

“I would have given those things to you, had you asked,” she said sadly. “However, it's done, and so we move on.”

“I wish I could, you know, make things up to you both.”

“It isn't necessary for us. But it is, perhaps, for you. And so there is something that you can do.”

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

Aaron descended from the hill, the lifeless body of Will Mentzer draped tenderly in his arms. At the edge of town, he stopped.

“Go on, Aaron,” she urged. “There's nothing to be afraid of. He died a peaceful, natural death and that will be obvious.”

“It's not that,” he said miserably. “I can feel the blood on the back of my shirt. I hate the idea of everyone staring at me, knowing.”

“Dear boy, nearly everyone in Renaissance has flogging scars.” The rumble of Mayor Joseph Grey's voice reached them from the loudspeakers.

“Even the Mayor.”

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

Prompt: A relationship strengthens

A secret is revealed

Word count: 526

Character #3: Aaron Hiestand

Click HERE for conclusion

Author Interview: S L Pierce

2011-10-15T20:37:00.000-04:00

One of the prizes for the Rule Of Three blogfest/writing project is a bundle of e-books graciously donated by the authors. It was fairly difficult to generate a short list of writers to query, especially since I wanted to satisfy several objectives: choose great books, provide a selection from different genres, and introduce one or two authors who may not be as well known among the blogfest crowd. The hosts of the Rule Of Three have been taking turns presenting these featured authors. The first interview, with Talli Roland, was with Damyanti at Amlokiblogs . The second, with Faith Mortimer, was with Stuart at Born Storyteller.

Today I'm hosting S L Pierce, author of 4 thrillers who has kindly agreed to donate copies of her books The Hate, Secrets, and The Devil's Game.

1. Please tell us about the book you are donating.

I am donating a copy of each of my books. The Hate is a book of two gritty short stories. Definitely not for the gentle-hearted. Secrets is a technothriller/mystery with a very strong female lead set in Silicon Valley. The Devil's Game is a psychological thriller that asks the question 'What if your stalker had a stalker?'

2. Why are you donating a book to this blogfest?

Well, of course, it's a great way to introduce people to my writing but I know there is nothing I enjoy more than receiving a free book. Especially if it is one I might not have picked up on my own. My sister happened to be at a bookstore around Christmastime where an author was signing her book. She picked me up a copy and it turned out to be a fantastic book I read in two days. On my own, I would never have picked that book. Giveaways are a great opportunity to try something you might not have otherwise.

3.Can you think of a genre, which is currently out of your comfort zone, but intrigues you enough to take up the challenge of writing in it?

Well, I'm a sucker for a really good romance novel though I prefer thrillers. I've often wondered if I could do a romance justice. It could be fun to try.

4.Tell us a little bit about yourself.

I spent ten years in college earning a PhD in Engineering. I had this great fantasy of what life would be like once I started working. Well, as I'm sure most of you know, reality is much different. I think I fought my own instincts to please others. So now, I'm doing what I love, writing!

5. What are your views on Self-publishing vs Traditional publishing?

I only know the self-publishing side, which has been great, but obviously has it's challenges. However, from what I've read, traditional publishing has it's own issues. I know that the feedback I've had as an indie writer has encouraged me to keep at it. Much more than all the rejections from traditional publishing.

You can find more information either by checking out her site at Amazon or by going to my "Featured Authors" page tab at the top of my blog.

You can also find her on Twitter: @piercebooks

A Brilliant Little Fire - A Tale Of the Town Of Renaissance (Pt 2)

2011-10-11T20:01:00.002-04:00

(Part 1: Joseph is here. )

Part 2: Anna

“It's time” said Anna, watching as her husband brought a spoonful of porridge to his lips with a shaking hand.

His face went slack for a moment, then lit up with joy.

“Goin' to see the grandchildren!” he exclaimed, waving his spoon in glee.

Anna's heart contracted painfully.

“No, Will, I'm sorry. You remember, today we're going for a little walk. Up the hill, to have a picnic. The air will do you good.”

“A little walk”, he repeated doubtfully, and then resumed prospecting for raisins in his bowl.

Anna had already labeled their boxes MENTZER FAMILY and placed them outside the door. The first rays of dawn entered through the kitchen window, illuminating the hand-hewn beams of their cozy little cottage. The joins were a little crooked, and a few deep cuts in the wood hinted at the lack of expertise in construction. Still, those flaws had names: Levi Lapp, Andy McElroy, Dustin Craley, Joseph Grey. Men who sweated and swore and laughed as they raised building after building, conjuring a town and planting it in the dust and ashes of another. It was wrong to cling to something as ephemeral as a house, however; if there was one thing which she had learned, it was that life could take everything from you at one fell swoop. Everything.

Draping a warm woolen blanket over Will, she led him outside into the chill morning. The town was waking up and swirling in mass confusion; twice they were nearly knocked over by neighbors scurrying this way and that, calling after children, rounding up scant belongings, and chasing down dogs who gamboled about with tongues lolling in glee. Once upon a time, these same neighbors would have stopped and lent her a hand; but not now. They were all consumed with their individual dramas.

The couple made their way slowly, painfully up the treacherous hillside. The Main Gauche glimmered in the mist, reflecting the light like a mound of the daggers for which they were named. Spreading her own coat on the grass, Anna helped Will lower himself to the ground. He drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them; a tear slowly rolled down his cheek.

“Want to go home,” he whimpered.

Anna wondered which home he meant. The one below? Or the one they'd left behind in the old world, now decaying among the ruins of a once thriving city. It didn't matter, really; all that mattered was the Here and the Now.

“Soon,” she murmured, stroking what was left of his hair. She held him closely and sang a nursery rhyme, one of the few ways she'd found to soothe him.

“Ring around the rosy...”

Prompt: One character lies to another (there will be no picnic today).
Word count without title: 455
Character #2: Anna Mentzer

Click HERE for Part 3

Mind and Machine - Nonfiction

2011-10-10T07:00:00.000-04:00

If you haven't already seen it in the news, here's the breakthrough; quadriplegic Tim Hemmes was able to move a robotic arm - with his mind.

Hemmes is part of an experimental program at the University of Pittsburgh. Although the program is in its very early stages, the fact that a human can move an object simply by thinking about it has enormous potential for the future.

Here's the simple breakdown on how it works. Although you aren't conscious of it, before performing an action like raising your arm you "think it" first. Neurons instantly fire in a unique pattern that sends the command down the spinal cord and along the necessary pathways to the limb. Muscles contract, and you perform the movement. Therefore, "thinking" a movement and visualizing it in your mind produces a neuron pattern, which can be accessed by a Brain Computer Interface, which converts that neuron pattern into signals to move a robotic arm. It's essentially a way to bypass the severed/damaged spinal cord and hook the brain and an outside device together.

It's still in the experimental stage, and there are plenty of obstacles to overcome, as well as fine-tuning down the road. One of the goals is to figure out a way to restore a sense of "touch" when using a robotic limb. But for now, Tim Hemmes seems happy with his accomplishments so far. He and his girlfriend had met after the accident which paralyzed him; for the first time in seven years, he was able to reach out and touch her.

"Definitely the tears were flowing," he said. (Quoted from AP article; see link below)

Read More On Mind Control and Touch

Read More On Tim Hemmes (AP News Release)

Interview With Author Faith Mortimer By Stuart Nager

2011-10-08T14:59:00.001-04:00

Several authors were kind enough to donate books as prizes for the Rule Of Three winners. Today, fellow host and writer Stuart Nager has posted an interview with author Faith Mortimer . You can read the interview on Stuart's blog Born Storyteller . His other blog, Tale Spinning, is where he posts his fiction writing - and he has a new "side story" about Renaissance there as well. (As one of the hosts, he is not eligible for any prizes; and as creator of the town of Renaissance, he retains the right to add multiple stories as we go along.) However, as a participant you SHOULD NOT post multiple storylines/entries for the week for Renaissance/REN3; one post, per week, per person/link please. Otherwise, there will be too much confusion for judges and participants. Questions? Tweet me @ficflash or email me via my profile.

Thank you to all of our participants and readers for a great start to the Ren 3 blogfest. I also ask for patience from my longtime and devoted followers who are not participating; the organizing/reading/judging is taking up a HUGE chunk of my time, and so I haven't been able to read and comment on many of your blogs as I normally do. I haven't forgotten you, and ask for your patience.

Hope you're all having a great weekend!

BTW, if you are looking for Part 1 of my entry for REN3, then "A Brilliant little Fire" is here.

A Brilliant Little Fire - A Tale Of the Town Of Renaissance (Pt 1)

2011-10-04T21:04:00.003-04:00

A Brilliant Little Fire

Part One: Joseph

Mayor Joseph Grey removed the last traces of office; the ceremonial hat and badge would be handed to his successor, and he would be free to pursue whatever new path he chose. Five years had gone by swiftly. The town which they had constructed was everything he had envisioned; neat, tidy homes, a clapboard school for the handful of children, even a universal church for those who felt the call of a Greater Power.

Yes, it had been a good run, but the time had come to put an end to it. At first, building the town had brought the Tragedy survivors together, giving them a sense of community and of purpose. Starting anew had allowed them to move beyond the horror of past lives, exorcise their own personal demons, and begin the process of forgetting. But lately, he'd seen the signs of rot setting in. People began to bicker over property lines and water rights. Those who were gifted with their hands dressed up their homes, inciting jealousy in their neighbors. Last week there had been a vulgar spat between two women over a pew in the church – when the sanctuary was half empty! He shook his head in disgust.

A dog-eared photograph hung on the wall by his front door; a woman, with the wide glowing smile of a child. He remembered the long nights in the old world as he waited for death or the dawn, whichever arrived first. The fevered sparkle in her eyes and the feel of her hand in his as she slipped away forever. Taking the photo down, he hesitated between the pile of items he'd chosen to keep and those consigned to destruction. I will remember you, but your things must go; if we cling too long, then the dead become more real than the living and Renaissance becomes a ghost town. He dropped it on the discard pile.

The notices would be nailed to each and every door at six o'clock the next morning; every resident would have one hour to collect whatever they could carry and move on, if they chose.

At seven o'clock, Mayor Joseph Grey would light the fire which would burn Renaissance to the ground.

Prompt: A sense of impending doom.
Word count without title: 366
Character # 1 - Mayor Joseph Grey

Click HERE for Part 2

Do You have Zombie Insurance? - Public Service Announcement #2

2011-10-03T19:00:00.001-04:00

Public Service Announcement #2

For Public Service Announcement #1 "Wear Clean Underwear", click here.

Just a reminder that the following types of insurance are available:

Zombie Insurance
Available through The Zombie Apocalypse Insurance Company (ZAICO). Provides comprehensive insurance for a class 3 zombie outbreak. Includes arms and ammunition restocking, home repairs, incineration of dead un-dead (most homeowner associations frown on rotting corpses lying in the yard for longer than 24 hours) and re-location of you and your family to a zombie-free zone (if there is one).

Post Rapture Pet Insurance
Eternal Earth-Bound Pets provides certified atheists (guaranteed to remain on earth after the Rapture) to look after any pets left behind.

Alien Abduction Insurance
Provided by the UFO Abduction Insurance Company. New! Frequent flier endorsement. "Don't leave Earth without it."
Immaculate Conception Insurance
Available through Goodfellow Rebecca Ingrams Pearson (GRIP). I'll let you figure that one out on your own.

Because sometimes, we all need a little extra piece of mind - or maybe, just a mind. This has been a public service announcement, brought to you by Flash Fiction. (@ficflash)