stony river

Friday 13th Flash 55

2009-11-12T23:41:00.001Z

The Death Card is nothing to fear. It only indicates change, the 'death' of a phase or an aspect of life. But she'd pulled it first in every client's reading today--all thirteen of them.

No matter.

Right?

She hurried homeward, too worried to think of anything else, even people, even traffic, even crossing 13th Street.

That was a 55-word story for Friday Flash 55. To join in the fun, write any story you like in 55-words (no more, no less) then tell Mr. Knowitall by leaving a comment on his own Flash-55 post today. You'll also find a whole collection of links to fantastic 55-word stories to read.

If you like the card, that's from the The Gothic Tarot by James Vargo, and yes, "Death" really is number 13 in the major arcana.

If you like to write:

Flash Fiction Offensive wants "the kind of stories you tell when you're with your pals down at the bar, knocking back your thirteenth beer. Tales about things that went wrong when Joe Asshole punched his woman a little too hard, about the stranger Crack-whore Jenny met on the streets that she wants to forget, about the time when Loser Steve should have gotten arrested but didn't."
Dang. I need to work up to thirteen beers it seems.

Thirteen Myna Birds "is an online poetry publication seeking the evocative, the connotative, the creepy, the odd, the paranormal, and the dark... Thirteen Myna birds will consist of 13 pieces at any given time. Our favorite kind of pieces are poems, but we are also in favor of other poetic blurbs and blurts and brambles and darts and snippets such as dreamscapes and petite fictions and the hybridized innards of pomosexual beasts..."
Hey. Who you calling pomosexual??

HAPPY FRIDAY THE 13TH EVERYONE!!
Now be careful out there...

The pedestrian fatality photograph comes from the NY Daily News.

Three Word Thursday: somewhat derailed.

2009-11-12T15:29:00.000Z

Three Word Thursday is hosted by Quilly. I love this one, because it lets me run wild with two of my favourite things: learning cool new words and making stories.

Every Thursday, she pulls three wonderful old words from the mothballs of lexical history, and the rest of us give those words all-new stories to live in. Tales can be as long or short, sad or silly, or whatever as you like, so join in! You'll find all the details at Quilldancer.com.

This week's words are:

confabulation: conversation, discussion

pudify: cause to be ashamed

rimestock: an almanac written in runes.

Off the Rails

"I say we should just call Mr. B," Joe said. "Nobody knows that old engine better."

"He's been retired ten years," their new boss said. "You boys just haven't given it enough thought. Did anyone even read the manual?"

Dave snorted. "That old rimestock? Nothing in it applies anymore, and it wasn't much help in the first place. Besides, they stopped making parts for her in 1978, and Mr. B. had to rebuild her engine twice since then."

Joe laughed. "The last time, he used parts out of one of the motorcoaches and a Volvo truck to get her going. There might have been voodoo involved too, who knows? Everyone else had given her up for dead." He looked through the office window at the little diesel locomotive waiting on the tracks outside, her green paint shining in the afternoon sun.

"Well," the boss said, leaning back in his leather chair, "I suppose that's the alternative, isn't it? All she does for us anymore is the daily run taking paper from the mill to the newspaper building in town, and that can be done by truck."

"Fifty trucks you mean," Dave said, but the boss shrugged.

"It means losing the paper account of course, be we could just concentrate on the---"

"It means losing the Santa run too," Joe said, "and losing it too late in the year for any alternative plans." He shook his head. "I won't be the one to call the children's hospital and tell them their only annual fundraiser isn't going ahead because seven professional mechanics can't get an engine going---it'd be too pudifying."

The boss sat forward again and leaned his elbows on the table, resisting the urge to ask what the hell pudifying meant. No matter—he had a few big words of his own. There they were, right there on his word-a-day calendar on the desk. He scanned the word for November 12th and made his decision.

"Enough of this ...confabulation, boys," he said, leaning back in his chair again. "If you all don't mind admitting your failures, well, I don't mind if you want to call your old friend Mr. B. back again for a day. Just don't raid any of my motorcoaches for parts this time, y'hear?"

Ok, that's not really a story is it? It's more a vignette or a scene, but Thursday snuck up on me too quickly this week and I haven't had time to do a proper one.

My other excuse is that my head is full of locomotives and engine parts and the fragrance of diesel and motor oil: all memories of life with my Dad, who would have been 93 years old today: if only! The above scene is completely fictional but it's based on a true story. My mother's phone rang ten years after Dad died, from someone desperate for help fixing that old locomotive he used to care for. She burst into tears then, though she loved to tell about it afterwards. Nobody else could fix the old locomotive again, bless her big diesel heart, and she was retired to the local railroad museum, where they put her outside and let all her shining chrome stairs and rails and bits go rusty. My father would never have allowed that.

His cars looked and ran like new even when they were twenty years old; he was able to diagnose engine problems just hearing a car pull in the driveway; he loved tinkering with motors and engines of all kinds and was a mechanical genius. At his funeral a young mechanic he'd mentored hugged me and offered, "God must have needed a good mechanic 'cause he called home the best." I still laugh at that line (sooo...God drives a car... and can't fix it??). It's a wonderful memory, a small light that shone in the darkness of a terrible time.

They say the pain of losing someone gets better in time. I say that's some big BS.

This weekend I'm going to celebrate his birthday by going out to buy a brand new 00-scale model train set complete with tracks, locomotive, rolling stock, the whole works, as a Christmas present for my son who is every inch the motorhead and locomotive-lover my Dad was (also the joy of my life). I can't wait to tell him all the old train stories my Dad told me, while we set it all up on Christmas Day. I hope I can find a locomotive that's green.

Anyway.

Happy Birthday Daddy.

My Dad as he was usually photographed: behind the wheel of his car.

That's his father standing, circa 1958. Dig those white-walls: how I'd love to have that car now!

Armistice Day in Pink and White

2009-11-11T13:59:00.000Z

I have a cameo, the one pictured here on photographs of my grandmother and some of her nine children. It's quite big for one of these things, and quite old too, being purchased in Italy by my great-uncle during the Great War. He bought two, and lived to bring them home: one for his mother, and one for his sister who was my grandmother.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place...

He was in the navy then and very young. When I knew him sixty years later he was still big, strong, handsome and always laughing, and I can only imagine what he was like back then, in his uniform and on the ship, among friends. And I like to wonder about the day in port when they went ashore to send their letters, and pick up small gifts for the girls and mothers and friends waiting for them at home.

...and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

When my mother handed this cameo to me the year before she died, I promised to take care of it, and to pass it down to my own daughter in turn, with its story. A gentle wash with clean water once a year, she said, a drop of oil: remember it's only a shell and it's old; don't let it dry out.
Ok, I said, knowing I'd never remember to do it... then a few days later I thought of what to do. I'd take it out the 11th of November every year, at 11am, and my minute of silence would be spent caring for this pink and white memory of my great-uncle and the family he loved.

We are the Dead. ...

I wonder sometimes, as I care for it, about his choice. In the middle of war, and on a Navy ship, purchasing something so fragile seems a brave (dare I say foolish) choice. And so femininely pink among all the steel and weaponry?—so odd.

What would I have chosen in his place? Something unbreakable perhaps – a silver cross or a ring? Or something more in context---a portrait of him and his comrades, a memory captured against the risk that some among them would be lost and perhaps forgotten? Or, something manlier---but what , and what would his 'girls back home' do with that?

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

After cleaning it, I hold it up to the light to find any dirt I missed, and the sun shines right through it in a glow of polished pink. I suddenly think of what a brave choice this was, to take on something so delicate and so precious, to care for it amid all the dangers and hardships of war.

Then I think of how fragile a sailor's life was in those war years, yet how precious to themselves and the ones back home, and suddenly his choice makes perfect sense. Suddenly I'm no longer thinking of his sacrifice so much as his mother's, and realise that perhaps, he may have been thinking the same thing.

The centenary years of that war are approaching now, and I like to think that my great-grandmother would smile if she knew her son's love for her would still be remembered in the family so many years later. But I don't think I'll pass it on to my daughter in the little blue box that it's lived in so long. I think the time's coming to frame it, along with other mementoes of its time, and let it remind my family of those long-ago loves and sacrifices every day of the year, not just this one.

...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

For my great-uncles Charles Goodrich and August Bachman, and also my father and brother, my uncles, my great-nephew Bradley who died in Afghanistan in September, and all my nieces and nephews who are still alive and in uniform though behind your backs I call you nuts:

I love you, and wish you all a blessed and peaceful Armistice Day.

Idea Aid 2009 and a wee ranty thingy

2009-11-10T13:04:00.000Z

Please pardon my rant. It's brief and leads to something better.

So...

The Irish Times reports that Mary "Hanafin told a meeting of the Fianna Fáil parliamentary party last week that savings of €81.3 million could be made in a year through a weekly reduction of €1 in [Social Welfare] payments,... affecting nearly 1.5 million people."

So in other words, once again the poorest of the Irish poor are being hit up for money to shore up the staggeringly selfish and irresponsible spending of their Government ministers, as reported almost daily in the nation's newspapers. That's just great.

So here's MY idea, Mary. My idea is that Ireland gets rid of every single one of its current Government ministers (preferably by public execution) and replaces them with people who are willing to do the same work for a comfortable salary but without the benefit of a shining new black Merc every year, without charging taxpayers for every €900 dinner with their friends, and without hiring €30,000 private jets to 'meetings' in Florida during which daily hairstyling and nightly pay-per-view porn films are charged as expenses.

Is that what this €1 cut per week is about? You want us rabble to stop buying a newspaper each week so we no longer know about these things? That might also explain the cuts in education, such as the one that recently took away my son's Special Needs Assistant: in a generation or two, nobody will know how to read such damning articles anymore anyway, right?

Yes, doing away with our current government is a good idea I think. I'll send it in to Idea Aid when it opens this Saturday.

What's Idea Aid? Mensa Process is supporting a "global brainstorming benefit where people will donate ideas instead of money" to help solve world issues, such as this year's theme of poverty. The goal is to make a contribution -- as in Band Aid and Live Aid -- but with solutions and ideas instead of individual donations of cash.

You don't need to be a Mensa member; everyone's invited to chip in for the week-long event. Signing up is free and going on right now at Idea Aid's website. You can also become their fan at Facebook, or follow their updates on Twitter.

Many of us feel helpless in the face of global poverty, especially if all we can afford is $5 once in a while, which we send while knowing it doesn't really solve anything. So go on over to Idea Aid and hopefully, we can watch great things happen; we might even manage to be part of some small answer to make a difference to somebody, somewhere. Helping even one family would be worth it. I've signed in.

Meanwhile, here are some Irish markets for fiction and poetry. If any of them currently depend on Arts Council funding, they probably now need all the support they can get, so please pick up an issue too if you can:

Moloch is an interesting blend of various art forms. I'll let them explain: "Moloch is a journal of new art & writing, providing a forum for the arts to compliment and enhance each other using a variety of styles and mediums. We are looking for submissions of art, poetry, and short stories." They also need "people willing to create new art pieces based on poems/stories, and people to write new poems/stories based on art." Not a word about payment however; you might be doing it for the love.

Crannóg is a literary magazine with a blinding website design: put on your sunglasses before clicking. Send in your poetry, flash fiction or short stories; contributors receive a copy of the magazine in which their work appears.

Albedo One is "always looking for thoughtful, well written fiction. Our definition of what constitutes SF, horror and fantasy is extremely broad and we love to see material which pushes at the boundaries." These are the folks that sponsor the Aeon award, and they pay their chosen authors along with a contributor's copy.

The Dublin Review publishes fiction and other creative writing, but is not currently considering poems. I like the way they request a "typescript" which is of course far more correct than the more usual "manuscript" which indicates handwritten copy. Bravo. Not sure if there's payment here however: let me know if you know.

Southword and the Stinging Fly are (I believe, correct away if I'm mistaken) temporarily closed to submissions.

Microfiction Monday #4

2009-11-08T21:10:00.000Z

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

where a picture only paints 140 characters.

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

OOPSIE...

Mum explained
that faeries always disappear
when little girls grow up.

We never told her that,
in our case,
the lawnmower had been involved.

Thank you if you play!!

About Microfiction Monday

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanoisms
PicFic
escarp
Thaumatrope
Seedpod
Tweet the Meat

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

National Bookstore Day! What are you reading?

2009-11-07T00:05:00.001Z

I'll be away this weekend but hopefully can get online Saturday evening for comments and visits. Meanwhile, if you've got a local bookshop don't forget it's National Bookstore Day on Saturday!

Independent booksellers are becoming an endangered species these days, many of them forced out of business by the big chains and online sellers like Walmart, Target, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble. But the neighbourhood bookstore was once (and in some lucky places still is) a literary gathering place for booklovers and readers. The only way to help keep them open is, of course, to be a regular customer.

If your local bookstore is still hanging on, go support them this weekend by stopping in, saying hello, and buying a book or magazine. (Like we need an excuse?!) And of course, it's a great place to get some early Christmas presents.

Hopefully I'll find myself a bookshop in Mullingar this weekend, and I'll do my part (ooh, ow, twist my arm...) Among the many books I'm wanting to read are Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party and Forest for the Trees.

Any other books to recommend? Anyone got a great local bookstore to brag about?

Friday Flash 55, being the 6:55 and #Fridayflash

2009-11-05T19:49:00.003Z

The 6:55

Just another morning, standing together on the train as always. She yawned, daydreaming of walking the beach together instead.

Doors opened.

Gunfire exploded as she threw herself into his arms. Others wrestled down a madman as she sagged against him, dying. He held her, this woman who'd saved his life.

He wondered who she was.

I'm sorry, but I'm just not a happy-ever-after kind of girl! So that's a 55-word story for Friday Flash 55, which I wouldn't miss for the world.

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

If your story is just 50 words instead, you can send it to 50-to-1, a journal of 50-word stories and first lines. Earlier this week they posted a 50-word story of mine, which you can read here.

Meanwhile, I'm told that Fridays also flash on Twitter; who knew? Look for the #fridayflash tag, or:

Flash you later!

Three Word Thursday: Excuses, excuses.

2009-11-04T20:39:00.001Z

It's time for Three Word Thursday again, when Quilly resurrects long-dead words from their tristifical state of dormancy, for us to make utible again on our blogs.

So I wandered over this morning to have a look at this week's words, hoping a story would come to mind just by seeing them. Sometimes it happens, which is such a blessing for those of us who enjoy our pigritude. Other times, all I find in my imagination is a great vacivity of any ideas at all.

I tried to be patient as Quilly's page loaded, though on my dial-up connection her pixels fill the page as slowly as a zombie's spiscious blood might soak into the back seat of a '78 Datsun B210. No matter: I was filled with the same anticipation I might have in watching a tragematopolist fumbling with his keys to the shop, but... surprise! There are no new words for this Thursday at all. Quilly's letting us choose any words we like from those introduced in October.

Darn.

Now, I'd never ever wish to misqueme such a fine blogger as Quilly, but I'll admit I was disappointed. I'm one of those people who need some direction or prompt, so telling me to choose from a sea of words is like putting me in the pilot's seat on a nubivagant night flight over open ocean: I'd hardly know up from down after a few minutes, overwhelmed by choices.

So to provide some much-need direction, I considered merging my 3WT with Friday Flash 55 tomorrow, and simply suffarcinating all the October words into the 55-word story I've got ready, but alas, no... the result was terrible, like that maleolent concoction my poor husband served up for supper tonight, and if anyone had complained in the comments, it would have felt like being poked with a burning umbrella into particularly tenellous regions that are best left unspecified.

In the end, I gave up. Though I risk certain xenization among my bloggy friends this Thursday for having abandoned the game altogether, I can only apologise, and promise something better for next week.

Provided, of course, that Quilly resumes her Zombie Word-Queen role and finds three new words for us...

Tales of the Zombie War take place after humanity narrowly overcomes the zombie apocalypse... what next, for all the survivors? That's the story you can tell them, and prizes are awarded every six months.

Zombie Zoology is an upcoming anthology from Severed Press that needs short stories of the undead. Payment is 1c/word plus a contributor's copy.

Zombie Feary Tales says, "Take a faery tale, add your voice to it, add zombies to it, hell, add anything to it. No word maximum, but remember ... faery tales are kinda short." It's another one from our friends at the Library of the Living Dead. Before anyone starts, there is no typo.

October's 3WT words were:

misqueme: to displease or offend

tragematopolist: confectioner, sweet-seller

vacivity: void, emptiness of what's expected

tenellous: tender

utible: useful

nubivagant: among clouds

maleolent: foul-smelling, malodorous

xenization: walking as a stranger

pigritude: laziness

suffarcinate: to overstuff

spiscious: of a thick consistency

tristifical: causing sadness

Wordless Wednesday: Dark Half of the Year

2009-11-04T01:51:00.000Z

Wordless Wednesday

I hate the dark, cold, wet, dead half of the year, I admit it.

Now that it's here, I'm trying to keep my mind on its good things,

like bare trees in the sunset, or the smell of a turf fire with friends gathered round it,

and the rare spooky moments that take me by surprise and leave me wondering.

And then I realise...who am I kidding??

It still sucks.

Dark Discoveries Magazine

wants stories 500-5000 words, of horror, dark fantasy, or dark mystery.

Pay is 5c/word to a maximum of $250 : originality counts.

Also considers articles and artwork.

Dark Recesses

considers horror, up to 5,000 words, for which they pay up to $25/story.

Articles, reviews etc. also considered,

but 'no gore for gore's sake'.

Blade Red Dark Pages Anthology

Speculative, imaginative, disturbing, in 7500 words or less:

if you can do it, deadline's 30th November.

Payment is AU$25 + contributor's copy.

Writing & Reading in a Digital Age

2009-11-03T20:57:00.000Z

If you're going to be in Dublin at the end of the November and ~~would love to see me make an ass of myself~~ are interested in writing & publishing in a digital age, don't miss this:

CBI (Children's Books Ireland) is hosting a Digital Developments seminar, with Eoin Purcell of Green Lamp Media as keynote speaker. A discussion follows with a panel of three, representing various facets of the publishing industry: Ivan O'Brien, the Managing Director of multi-award-winning O'Brien Press will be there, as well as Vanessa Robertson, Managing Director of Fidra Books in Edinburgh, the city's only specialised children's bookseller and independent publishing company.

Oh, and also me, speaking for writers.

(Somebody, please remind me to change out of my pyjamas and put the coffee down, before I get on that train!)

From the press release:

Following the success of CBI’s informative seminar on Ebooks and Digital Publishing last June, CBI is hosting a second seminar to further examine the future of publishing and the methods for success and adaptation in a digital age.

The seminar is open to all and will take place on Saturday 28th November, from 10am to 1pm (approximately) County Library, Library Square, Tallaght Dublin 24. Tallaght Library is easily accessible, just two minutes walk from the terminus of the Luas Red Line. Spaces are limited so places MUST be booked in advance by calling 01 8727475 or emailing info at childrensbooksireland dot ie.

(read the whole announcement with more information here.)

Let the nightmares of appearing naked in public and falling from great heights begin!

Meanwhile, help me out a little? I've spoken in public plenty, but still consider myself rather lame when it comes to social networking, though I do it, and it's led to publication and opportunities for me. Soooo....

Please tell me, how has this big new digital world has affected you as a reader and/or a writer?

Do you read books on your iPhone or Kindle yet? Do you buy ebooks at all?

Have you published your fiction online, and did you make it freely available or sell it? (Sylvia, I'd love to pick your brain on this if you've got some spare minutes!)

Any amazing success stories (or anything interesting) that came about via Facebook, Twitter, an online forum, etc?

Thanks everyone!

Portrait of Words: Spinny RIP (a short story)

2009-11-03T00:56:00.001Z

Spinny Spider

RIP

14th March 2001 – 27 October 2009

"There it is!" said Irma, pointing out the bus window.

Her sister Ida leaned to look. "What, near the opera house?"

Irma snorted. "It is the opera house. The Arts Council sold it years ago when they lost their government funding , where have you been?"

Ida wasn't impressed. "I still can't believe we've come eighty miles for this, and spent over a hundred dollars between us on bus fare. If the boy wants a damn spider, Irma, I have a house full of them. He can take as many as he wants, believe me."

"It can't be just any spider. It has to be an Orb Weaver like Spinny was, rest his tiny soul. Poor Gordon, you should have seen him the day Spinny died, his eyes all red from crying, and he's been miserable all week. I can't stand it any more. Here's our stop now—push the bell."

Ida pushed it, and stood up ready to get off. "It's probably not a dead spider he's crying about you know. He's just upset because it was his grandfather's, and he promised to look after it. But spiders don't live forever, do they? What is the boy now, forty years old? You'd think he could just get over it."

They thanked the bus driver as they stepped down, then walked to the the opera house, where a new sign welcomed them to the "Big City Arachnomania Emporium". Signs pointed them toward display areas, live exhibits, research labs, and finally, shops. Irma led the way.

"Oh look, Ida," she said, pointing to a window with mannekins wearing clothes made from spider-spun fabric. "Isn't that fascinating?"

Ida looked ready to puke.

"He'd have more fun with a dog. What about a nice Papillon? He could take it for walks in the park, maybe meet someone nice," she said, "you know, so he could move out finally. What is he now, fifty?"

Irma didn't hear; she'd found what she was looking for.

"Look, isn't this cute? They're selling egg sacs from gumball machines, in little plastic balls! Two for a dollar, not bad! Let me just find the Orb Weavers, and we'll be all set."

"Irma," Ida said, frowning, "Did you read this sign? It says that each sac is guaranteed to hatch at least fifty spiders. That's a hundred spiders you'll have..."

"Perfect!" Irma was already turning the handle of a machine farther down the line. "Then Gordon will be so busy raising his new babies he won't have time to be sad anymore. Ready? Let's go---I can't wait to see his face!"

"Hey, Gord."

"Hey, Ray. Off work today?"

"Yeah. Mind if I join you?"

"Heck no, here, grab a beer."

"Thanks. What happened to your eye?"

Gordon sighed. "That damn spider of Grandpa's."

Ray cracked open his can and sat down. "That thing gives me the creeps. It's not out here with you is it?"

"Nope. Son of a bitch bit me on the eye last week, so I did what I shoulda done the day the old man died, and flushed its ass down the toilet. Didja catch the game Saturday?"

That's a story for this Tuesday's edition of Portrait of Words. Here's more about it, from their website:

"Welcome to our bi-monthly writing challenge known as a "Portrait of Words".

In a nut shell here's how it works. Every other week we will give you a set of photographs to use as inspiration for your story. Look at each of the pictures and interpret them, then create a story based on what you see and feel. It's really that simple."

And it's fun! Stop in there today to read more stories inspired by these photos, and if you'd like to play along, visit tomorrow to find photos for the next challenge.

Meanwhile, does anyone know (without googling it, Thom!) the significance of Spinny's birthday?

Microfiction Monday #3

2009-11-02T00:00:00.000Z

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

where a picture only paints 140 characters.

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

The doctor ordered a daily two-mile walk to slim down.
Every day she walked a mile to the bakery and back, but lost nothing.
Stupid doctor.

today's artwork is from one of Pablo Picasso's sketchbooks, provided by Dover Publications.

Meanwhile, can you tell I'm dieting again? *sigh*

About Microfiction Monday

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanoisms

PicFic

escarp

Thaumatrope

Seedpod

Tweet the Meat

For slightly longer works:

Flashshots

Flashes in the Dark

Flashquake

All the World's a Critic. Now They're Editors too?

2009-11-01T14:47:00.001Z

More and more I'm seeing submission guidelines and writing contests that forego the traditional 'panel of judges'. The new thing seems to be peer review and death-by-audience; in other words, an author's work is posted free for everyone to see and a crowd of readers and fellow writers step up to vote for their favourites. Authonomy and Amazon's Breakthrough Novel use this method, and now Marcher Lord Press and Editor Unleashed have announced the same for their submissions and contest, respectively.

I hate it.

Maybe it's because it seems a bit too American Idol to me: C'mon everybody, stand right up in front of the world to expose your dreams, fragile ego, and quite possibly your hopeless inadequacy, for a too-public humiliation and 99.7% chance of heartbreak.

Er, pass.

Or, maybe it's too reminiscent of high school on Valentine's Day, when the popular kids sifted through their piles of cards and flowers during Homeroom, while the rest of us sat waiting through it second by painful second, mortified by our empty desks.

Rejection's one thing. It's a part of every writer's life and you get used to it. But a rejection this drawn-out and public? Sheesh, just give me my spear and net and toss me to the lions instead, until the cheers or jeers of the crowd decide whether I live or die, 'k? Same thing, only less degrading.

Of course there's always the rare chance to hope for: that somehow, someday, one's entry would be among those floating to the top. Then what? The privilege of guilt as we watch our own favourite writers fall away—especially if they're fellow writers whom we know personally? Ouch. Although, I suppose it's marginally better than watching an old rival climb the ranks right past us to glory... oh no...

No, I don't like it at all. It used to be that this only happened after publication, when the critics got their mitts on your book. Getting it from both ends of the publication timeline just doesn't seem fair. Unfortunately, it seems to be a trend I might need to get used to.

...Like social networking! And oh no, not another one; as if Facebook and Twitter weren't enough, I've done it again:

Visit Writer's Digest Community

If you're interested in writing or publishing , it's actually quite helpful and friendly. There's even a group discusssing The Future of Publishing, a fine place for discussions of these public ~~executions~~ slush piles ... just in case the horror genre isn't offering anything scary enough for us, I suppose.

"Who IS that girl?" (just a Halloween moment)

2009-10-31T14:02:00.000Z

Son came up to me this morning and asked if we had a tank of gas. When you've got autistic kids, you learn that asking questions is never the way forward for anyone involved... so I just answered, best I could.

"We do," I said, "by the caravan," and I pointed out the short yellow tank by the trailer hitch, that powers the hot water and cooker inside.

"Is it full?" he asked, and I said, sure, have we been anywhere?

Next, he wanted cigarettes.

"You shouldn't smoke near gas canisters, Son," I said, thinking that really, a nine-year-old probably shouldn't be smoking anyway.

So, no cigarettes----and then he's asking me how far it is to Chicago.

What's the boy up to?? Gas, cigarettes, Chica--??

Aaaannd, finally, I got it, I got it.

"For tonight only," I said, "we'll call it a hundred and six miles." He gave me a thumbs-up and went to change clothes.

Halloween is all about pretending anyhow, right?

HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYBODY!!

".. it's a hundred and six miles to Chicago,

we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes,

it's dark out, and we're wearing sunglasses."

"Hit it."

A Halloween Friday Flash 55

2009-10-29T22:08:00.000Z

"Ah, you're scared. Baby—"

"I'm not!" Charlie said, shaking all the way to crazy old kid-eating Mrs. Flanagan's door.

They stared.

"He did it."

"No way."

"He's been in there a long time..."

"I'm outta here!"

They ran.

Mrs. Flanagan, meanwhile, had Charlie all right.

"Another slice of cake, dear? Do you like cocoa?"

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

In the spirit of the season, some flash horror markets follow. I could deepen the horror by including non-paying ones, but you know I'm not that cruel...

Strangetastic publishes supernatural fiction ranging from dark fantasy to light horror, with a special interests in the ghosts and monsters of regional folklore. Pays $10-25 for accepted stories.

Nossa Morte pays $20-40 for short fiction depicting the 'dark side of human nature'.

House of Horror will consider all forms of horror, 'the bloodier the better'. Pays $5 for short stories and artwork; $3 for poems.

Happy Halloween Everyone!!

My thanks to Dover Publications for the free clipart samples used in the story.

3 Undead Words and the Warriors' Doom

2009-10-29T13:13:00.001Z

If full-fledged horror is too much, but Halloween has you in the mood for perhaps a few bite-sized chunks of spookiness, don't forget to keep an eye on Tweet the Meat this week. They're publishing the winning entries of their inaugural Halloween Contest one by one, counting down to the grand prize winner on Saturday night.

They had over 150 entries, so when I read the spinetingling sixth-place winner earlier this week, I knew that although my own entry had been blown out of the water by the winners, I was in for some great one-line chills during the week.

...until last night, when the chill was something different --- I snagged fourth place! Woo hoo! So if you stop by their website today, you can see my story, bio, and twitter handle in their sidebar, or in big print on their Twitter page. Well, my Halloween's happy already, before a single bite of pumpkin fudge. Who'd've thought?

As if the day couldn't get any better, it's 3-Word Thursday again, thanks to Quilly and her endless supply of almost-dead words that she's rescued and sent roaming into our blogs. If you love words and stories, head on over.

Today's words are:

suffarcinate: to stuff or overload

spiscious: of a thick consistency

tristifical: causing sadness

Dad snorted his disapproval as he cracked open his Miller Lite.

"Daddy," Heather whined, "you're blocking the TV."

"I'm not blocking the TV, I'm waiting for you three to move over. How can one minute of getting a beer lose a man his place on the sofa and his game? Go on, move."

The girls moved to clear a space in the middle of the sofa, but no one admitted to having the remote.

"C'mon girls, the game's started already. I don't have time for this X-Fractions crap. Change it back."

"But Daddy---"

"Daddy, Mom said we could watch this tonight."

He snorted. "Your mother rules this house one day a year only, on her birthday, and that was over with yesterday, thank God. Now change it back."

"MOM!"

Their mother called back from the kitchen. "Not now, Astrid! Your grandmother and I are making vichyssoise, and she's suffarcinated it with so many potatoes it's much too spiscious. It's a tristifical situation we're in just now, you'll have to excuse me!"

Dad finished his beer as she spoke, then belched. "Well. If that bitchy-whatever she's making turns out any good, I'll forgive whoever gave her the new cookbook yesterday. BUT, whoever gave her that blasted word-a-day calendar better hope I never found out who it is, especially if that someone doesn't hand over the remote tooty-sweet."

Nobody said anything. But the TV screen flickered suddenly and...

(Ok, I'll admit it... for Thom's sake I'll be cheering on these Hawaii Warriors on Saturday when they play Nevada... but looking at recent stats for both teams, I have to say a big "maika'i pomaika'i" to them all! Pffft! Hmmm, maybe UH should have funded the science programmes and library, instead?? .... NAH!)

Meanwhile, visit Quilly to play 3-Word Thursday and/or read some great stories that breathe new life into old words.

One Last October Wednesday

2009-10-28T19:12:00.001Z

My view's been looking a lot like this photo to the left lately. That's what I usually see as I work, when I look up: the bottom of our driveway through a rain-drenched window.

But, today's weather wasn't half bad. It's grey but not raining, so we wandered outside, and the rosebush had one final surprise of the year: a Halloween blossom.

Then we took a drive to the lake, to see how the autumn weather was looking there.

When we got home, my throat was still sore so I went back to bed for a nap.

My son just woke me up to show me he could make Dracula fangs out of cheesy poofs... very good. He also asked to see the photos I'd taken. So we thought we'd share with you.

Rose City Sisters are looking for flash fiction under 1,000 words that have a Pasadena Califorinia connection, and at least three links built into the story. Well that's different. They don't pay, but I'd guess you can use those links for your own diabolical purpose. Publication is on their blog, so the reading public can comment.

Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet is a print journal of speculative fiction and stories that fall outside genres.

"We do not pay much", they say, and admit that response times are slow, but there it is.

One of Those Days, Alice...

2009-10-26T23:59:00.002Z

I was feeling blue today, likely due to a sore throat and bad headache that won't shake, so I decided to cheer myself up by working on an old shelved story I began a long time ago, a near-future type thing set on the moon.

By one of those coincidences that seem like gifts, a blog post from Tor.com showed up in my Google Reader that I had to stop to read: Spacing Out by Edward M. Lerner.

In it, he quotes Michael Griffin, a former NASA administer, who spoke about the recent 40th anniversary of the moon landing:

What is most striking about this 40th anniversary of the first human landing on the moon is that we can no longer do what we’re celebrating. Not “do not choose to,” but “can’t.”

I don't know why I hadn't thought about it before, but it's true that space exploration has gone backwards, now that we're no longer racing the Soviets to do things first.

Just a few days ago I lamented at Amoeba's blog that if only the human race would band together instead of compete we each other, we could accomplish so much more. I think that's true, that we could. Unfortunately, if all the world's nations cooperated peacefully, all we probably would accomplish is new boy bands, different flavours of Cheetos, and more reality TV shows.

So now it's not just my sore throat that has me depressed.

When I was born, Star Trek had just begun airing on NBC. About the time its five-year mission was cut short by cancellation, my parents bought our very first television so that we could watch the moon landing---not foreseeing the electricity would go out on that day of days, leaving us literally in the dark. When the space shuttle was launched in 1981, our school let us out of classes to go watch it happen live. It was an amazing moment. I was 14 and the future seemed huge and magical.

It still is, of course... whenever I watch Star Trek. But I think there's very little chance I'll live to see people touring the moon, or Mars, or travel to more distant places, unless of course a vampire gets me and I live forever. But I think that's another genre altogether.

Anyhow, after lamenting the loss of space exploration, Mr. Lerner finishes his post beautifully:

I want to be wrong—about everything I’ve just written.

I want to believe humanity has not forgotten how to explore. I want to believe humanity still knows how to take risks when the reward—there’s a whole freaking universe out there!—is so big. I have to believe SF writers will continue to inspire the public to have faith in—to demand!—a future that is at least as big and bold as the past.

Hey! Did you get that last line? There's no time to be depressed after all; we've got a future generation of astronauts to inspire. There's even a few new science fiction markets to help us do that:

Cossmass will launch in January, offering science fiction stories in audio formats; pay is £20 for first audio rights.

The Distant Worlds Anthology is currently accepting novella-length science fiction; a sister publication will feature fantasy.

And of course there are many old favourite publications, including these:

Continuum Science Fiction appears in print three times a year, and pays up to $25 for short stories.

Futurismic focuses on Earth-based, near future science fiction... could we think, perhaps, of a few stories dealing with the future consequences of turning our backs on space? For once I'm not linking directly to the submission guidelines, because there's a very interesting piece on just this subject, on their front page.

NASA's photo of the Sombrero Galaxy above and the nebula at top,

were provided free by Dover Illustrations.

G'night... I'm now off in search of the Nyquil I smuggled from West Virginia this summer.

Microfiction Monday #2

2009-10-25T23:12:00.001Z

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

where a picture paints just 140 characters. Can you do it?

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

YO, MAMA

Mom disowned me because I embarass her.
So now I write gay bondage erotica for a living...
wasn't hard coming up with the perfect pseudonym.

Got one?

About Microfiction Monday

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanoisms
PicFic
escarp
Thaumatrope
Seedpod
Tweet the Meat

Want even more?

Write it!

Confessions of a Fiction Writer

2009-10-24T22:31:00.001+01:00

After several offline conversations with and about writers, I thought I'd come out of the closet a bit about my own writing.

It seems some people have a perception that a full-time writer simply sits on the sofa daydreaming a few hours before dashing off a bit of a story that she sends off to Ms. Editor, thereafter promptly receiving a cheque to cover a new pair of Jimmy Choos.

As. If.

Ordinarily I just shrug off such assumptions, allowing the illusion to stand. Then, a recent long conversation with a young writer who's decided to give up after her first 'real' story received three form rejections (aw bless) made me decide to come clean.

So, here's some random facts about my writing life. Maybe some of you will feel better about your own writing efforts after this, while others will have a good laugh. Go ahead, I don't mind.

1. I write about six or seven hours a day, every day, working to complete a novel and to submit an average 10-15 pieces each month. During a typical month I'll receive 2-3 acceptances, a few rewrite requests, one or two cheques, and a whole pile of rejections. Which I burn.

2. I've heard editors reject 95% or more of what they receive. I think that makes me feel better. So does #3 on the ol' Slushkiller page.

3. I write in bed in my pyjamas. Lots of pillows, lots of coffee, and I love every minute. Why not? When you make about 30c/hour, you have to love every minute.

4. My stories tend to be rejected 3-6 times before being accepted somewhere. Most are written with a specific market or contest in mind, yet very rarely stick the first time I throw. Richard Bach once said "a professional writer is an amateur who wouldn't quit." Ain't that the truth.

5. Sometimes a story's accepted and not published until a year or 18 months later, or more. A year's a long time to wait for ten bucks, but that can be the reality. Another reality is cheques that forget to arrive at all, and sending invoices.

6. I got my very first rejection in the mail when I was 16 years old, from Daw Books (I can laugh now, but God, the nerve of me). This was back in the day when novel manuscripts were typed page by 20lb-bond-paper-page on a typewriter (ka-ching!) , then packed in a box and shipped to New York City at enormous postal cost in spite of the cheaper "paper rate". The rejection took over a year to arrive: "Dear Author...". I was devastated.

I no longer need to spend money on reams of paper, cases of Tipp-ex, or spare typewriter ribbons, and when I'm finished I simply hit "send" and it's gone without paying for stamps. But when a rejection comes it still feels the same.

7. As bad as rejections are, acceptances aren't much better. The first time you see what an editor can do to your story is unforgettable. Kind of like the first time I ate at Taco Bell and spent the following three days in a hospital. I've rarely read a published story of mine since.

8. My income from fiction is tiny; most of my income is from other sources, including grants, writing-for-hire, blogging, ebay, magazine articles, and photography. I've got nearly twenty small 'income streams' that trickle in to make ends meet, and I don't personally know a single writer who lives on an income solely from fiction writing. (If you're one, feel free to gloat in the comments, you'll give me hope!)

9. Most stories earn me $5-10, and some earn nothing at all. A few have gotten over $100. One earned me an overnight trip for two to London, and a few others have helped me get grants of all sizes, from $150 - €15,000. In my own opinion, the high-paid ones were no better than the ones that got five bucks, and a few of my favourites never found a publisher at all. That's how it goes.

10 would have made it far too long, don't you think?

The 400th Zeugma

2009-10-23T23:44:00.000+01:00

I love words that just sound cool, like avuncular and mishmash. I also love words that manage to exist despite being completely unnecessary in 99.99% of human thought or conversation, so that when they're actually used, it makes you sit up and think about something you might have never noticed otherwise.

So today, zeugma was welcomed into my vocabulary with open arms. According to AlphaDictionary, it means "a syntactic construction in which one subject governs at least two predicate phrases even though its sense applies to them in different ways, e.g. He flew off the handle and straight to Rio." Another example they offered was "He drove his car recklessly and his wife crazy".

Coming up with examples isn't too easy, but I imagine it'll be even harder to drop zeugma into casual conversation. But I'll tell you what, I think I've found the name of our next dog, anyhow. And another short "Z" word for Scrabble games. Or perhaps the name of my next steampunk romance heroine...

Hmm, still trying to come up with an example. Ok, here goes:
"She set the supper table and her sights on posting her 400th blog post after they finished eating."

Well, at least part of it's right. Thanks, Dr. Goodword!

Friday Flash 55: Sshhh

2009-10-22T17:38:00.002+01:00

Sheila wasn't listening, but I couldn't help myself.

"I'm worried," I said. "Aren't you worried?"

She shrugged.

"He'll be killed."

"Shh."

"He's drunk, with car keys and a gun, this is bad."

She scowled.

"I'm serious. Someone will get killed, I know it."

Sheila sighed. "Just eat your damned popcorn. I can't hear the movie."

That's a 55-word story for Friday Flash 55. To join in the fun, write any story you like in 55-words (no more no less) then tell Mr. Knowitall by leaving a comment on his own Flash-55 post today. Or, just visit and enjoy the reads.

You can also check out a super-flash story of mine that's currently up at Seedpod's Twitter stream. (look for my Twitter username as the byline: @HeySuze)

Meanwhile, I completely forgot the flash fiction markets last week, but believe we're up to "O":

Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show publishes speculative fiction "of any length" and pays 6c/word.

Outshine is a Twitterzine for optimistic, near future prose poems, aka 'flashforwards'. $5 paid for each chosen piece.

Over My Dead Body publishes 'taut, absorbing, original' mysteries 750-4,000 words long. Pays 1c/word.

Three Word Thursday, Oh Lovely, Jolly Good.

2009-10-22T00:01:00.006+01:00

Quilly hosts Three Word Thursday, in which she rescues three English words from obscurity and sends them to roam freely through fiction once more, on our blogs.

This week's words are:

pigritude: laziness

maleolent: foul-smelling

xenization: walking (or existing) as a stranger

Story:

"Oh no," Tim said, pausing the Xbox and turning down the volume on the TV to listen. "Is that my mother coming up the stairs?"

Mark shrugged. "So? I bet your Mom's nice. At least she's not a crack whore convict like my Mom. Did I tell you she got arrested for shoplifting again Friday, down at the---"

Both looked around as the door opened, revealing a fortyish woman draped in long red chiffon, hair piled high behind a jeweled tiara.

"Goodness gracious, Timothy! I declare myself stupefied, and shocked beyond words. Why must I ever open this door onto such a maleolent shrine to your persistent pigritude? Do you seriously mean to live your life in this disgusting manner, to spend all your future days in xenization, searching for someone who could tolerate either your sloth or your stench? Do tidy this offense to humanity at once, and open the windows, and when you're finished, child, your supper awaits downstairs."

She turned away in a swirl of red dress as she shut the door.

Tim sighed. "Sorry to hear about the shoplifting thing," he said, "but at least your mother doesn't write Regency romance novels for a living."

Mark picked up the remote. "Thank God."

Kensington Publishing prefers commercial fiction, and accepts nonagented submissions for its romance lines, including Regency romance.

Red Dress Ink is a Harlequin imprint they describe as hip, quirky, sexy, funny. Oddly it's not included in Harlequin's detailed submission guidelines and advice for writers, so perhaps it only accepts agented manuscripts, or is closed to submissions. I don't know, but there are plenty more writers' opportunities available on that page, including a call for submissions to Harlequin Historical Undone, their new line of short sexy historicals, just 10-15K words long. Hmmm... tempting.

But don't forget to stop by Quilly's today to read the chosen words in rarely-seen action.

Stories to Write, and Some Good News

2009-10-21T16:22:00.003+01:00

Three completely random things on my mind:

1. The new Portrait of Words challenge is up. Can't help but be amused by the final two photos, one of a rather solemn-looking fellow followed by the photo of a sign offering "2 Balls For $1". Uhmmmm.... Anyhow, go see the photos for yourself for some inspiration; perhaps you can come up with something more tasteful than I might be writing for the November 3rd edition.

2. Myslexia's current flash fiction contest is on the subject Tattoo. I've just finished my story, having struggled with just what sort of Tattoo to write about: the sort that's seen on skin (voluntary or inflicted), or the kind that's heard? Or the one that says 'the plane, the plane'? If you're a woman who writes, and have an idea for this topic, the limit's 150 words, deadline's 13th November, and guidelines are here.

3. Sylvia recently posted some news that will be welcome for all of us who have lost friends and family to AIDS. The Covalent Immunology Foundation is supporting research on abzymes that sounds exciting, and raises hopes for effective, affordable vaccines against HIV and other deadly viruses. More information is available on their website, and if anyone knows more about abzymes or recent breakthroughs in fighting HIV, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Even more, I'd love to see people spreading the word: go ahead and leave a link to your post if you take up the tag.

Thanks Sylvia---after reading your post I had a good long cry over too many lost friends.

Portrait of Words: Tricky Treaty

2009-10-20T00:01:00.001+01:00

Time again for Portrait of Words. I found this edition to be a real doozy; once again I didn't even start writing until ten minutes before posting because just nothing was clicking with these photos at all. But, something always comes off the keyboard in the end, and every time it's been a surprise to me.

Details about Portrait of Words follow my story. If you haven't done one of these yet, do try it! I know the photos are sometimes daunting at first glance, but then it's a lot of fun once you start. I'm addicted. Thanks Dr. John and Thom!

As soon as it was dark, Alistair's mother handed him his trick-or-treat bag and straightened his cape. "Don't stay out too late, dear, and don't get your hopes up too much. So many people have left town this year I don't know if you'll get any---"

Alistair was already running out the door.

Most of the houses on their street were dark, but Alistair knocked on them anyhow.

Mrs. Murphy answered her door but didn't have any candy; she thought he'd come to rake the leaves. He looked around at her lawn, which was hidden in the darkness, and everyone knew old Mrs. Murphy couldn't see much anyway. So he said he was finished, and she gave him a fiver.

Well, that would buy him some candy tomorrow. But Mum was right; most of the houses in the village were empty now.

So Alistair decided to try the Baron, who lived in the castle at the top of the hill. He went through the stone arch gate, and climbed all the way up the steep driveway...and the Baron didn't answer the door either.

Knowing the Baron was getting old and a little deaf, Alistair tried the door. It opened! There wasn't any candy in the hall, but there was a big urn filled with umbrellas and walking sticks. Well, that was even better than candy, Alistair thought. A walking stick would look quite excellent with his costume, so he brought it along, back down the hill.

He stopped at the round Gatekeeper's lodge, and knocked on his door, though the lights were off there too. Nobody answered, but a bicycle was leaning against the railing there. Well a bicycle was much better than candy! He hooked his bag on the handlebars and rode off.

As he turned back into the street, he saw there was a light on at the church, and heard people singing inside. A party maybe?

He walked in and sat at the end of the last row, not wanting to bother anyone, but wondering if the party would have candy and cokes. Should he ask? Just then, the lady sitting next to him handed him a basket filled with coins.

Wow. That was a whole lot better than candy!

Alistair got back on his bike and rode away, but was so excited he went the wrong way, through the graveyard.

Going this way would take him back home in just a few blocks... but if he went the other way, there was the whole other side of town to try for trick-or-treating. Alistair parked the bike on a big flat stone and wondered if it was worth going to the rest of the village, when so many houses were empty this year. After all, he had some good stuff already, like this cool walking stick...

He thought about it, and thought some more, and while he thought he tapped the stick on the stone.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Suddenly there was a creaking sound just under his feet. He stood up off the bike, listening.

The sound grew and rasped, like the grinding of heavy stone ... then, barely visible in the moonlight, a great bowl of Halloween candy began to appear from under the slab.

Alistair stared. The bowl kept emerging, filled with Twix and gum and Crunchies and oh my Gaw, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups!, but as it slowly moved away from the stone, a thin, bone-white, long-nailed hand was clutching one side.

Alistair screamed, dropped everything, and ran screaming all the way home.

"Idiot," said an old woman's voice, muffled beneath the stone. "As if I don't I tell you every year, buying all that candy is a waste of our time."

An old man sighed somewhere down there as the bowl slowly withdrew, and the grinding noise began again.

*

"Well dear, how did it go?" Mother asked.

Alistair tore off his costume and stood staring at her, speechless. A few minutes ago he'd had a new bike, a cool walking stick, and more money than he usually got at Christmas.

Now, nothing.

"And where's your bag, Alistair?"

Just an hour ago, he'd been putting on his costume, all excited about the coming night... a night that was now over for another year. And he hadn't a single Mars bar to show for it.

"Mum---" He kept thinking about that creepy skeleton hand...

"Honey?"

"IT WAS THE BESTEST EVER HALLOWEEN, EVER!"

From the Portrait of Words website::

"Welcome to our bi-monthly writing challenge known as a "Portrait of Words".

In a nut shell here's how it works. Every other week we will give you a set of categories along with photographs to use as inspiration for your story. Look at each of the pictures and interpret them, then create a story based on what you see and feel. It's really that simple."

And it's fun! Stop in there today to read more stories inspired by these photos, and if you'd like to play along, visit tomorrow to find photos for the next challenge.