The Rose City Sisters Flash Fiction

#65 Johnson County Mr. Coffee

2012-02-06T20:19:00.000-08:00

Johnson County Mr. Coffee
by Kelly I. Hitchcock

I stared down the fancy instrument panel of the $80 coffee machine, as if staring it down would make the “Clean” light turn off on its own. I had already punched the button, glowing a yellow-orange back at me, no less than a dozen times, but it refused to turn off.

I hadn’t even wanted this fancy coffee pot, or the fancy one we’d had before that, the one that decided it was better off without a power button that worked. I had wanted to keep the no-frills one that I’d kept back in my no-frills, one-bedroom apartment on the Missouri side of Kansas City. But no, when my boyfriend and I moved in together in Johnson County, on the Kansas side, where the air was crisp, we had to get the fancy coffee pot. The first fancy coffee pot broke after a year.

"How much are you willing to spend on a coffee pot?” This was the question he asked me when it came time to throw the brushed nickel finish monstrosity in the garbage. I longed for the black plastic Sunbeam I had inherited from a cousin who’d, in true Johnson County fashion, upgraded to a fancier model.

“Not much,” I’d told him. Forty dollars, max. When he came home with the Mr. Coffee Optimal Brew Thermal coffee maker, also in brushed nickel finish, I had to counter with a question of my own.

“How much was this?” I asked, ripping the shrink wrap from the tiny components in the box that was twice as big as the coffee maker, on account of all the Styrofoam.

“Eighty bucks,” he said, nonchalantly. He’d thought I meant forty dollars apiece. Not forty dollars total.

Now, within a month a purchase, the Mr. Coffee Optimal Brew Thermal coffee maker was throwing me a warning that he needed to be cleaned. And he would not be silenced.

"I can’t get this light to go off,” I yelled down the builder beige painted hallway. He strode up, half-asleep, and began pressing the clean button with the same vigor I had shown moments earlier. Meanwhile, I heard Mr. Coffee spew what it thought was a dirty, vile liquid into the thermal carafe. When that didn’t immediately, miraculously work, he began pressing the other available slimline buttons on the slick instrument panel. I could’ve killed for my old on/off switch.

Mr. Coffee announced that it was done brewing the dirty pot of coffee with the three high-pitched beeps I would normally be listening to from my home office down the hall, just 10 minutes after rolling out of bed, brushing my teeth, putting on a bra, running a brush through my hair, and taking the dog out to piss. This was the baseline for a standard workday, when I wasn’t stuck in the kitchen, fighting with the coffee maker.

He shrugged and unplugged the cord from the wall, the crimps from the twist-tied confinement in the box still wavy on the too-short power cord.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged again. Caltech education in action, I thought to myself.

I poured myself a cup and took a tentative sip.

“Tastes fine to me.”

He followed suit, pouring the hot, normal-looking liquid right up to the Sharpie-drawn line in the Starbucks Lenticular Tumbler mug he took on his stop-and-go trip to the office every morning.

“Nah. Tastes funny.”

Whatever, I thought to myself.Coffee is coffee. As long as it gets me through my daily 8:30 meeting.

Halfway through the morning, I resolved to not let the fancy coffee maker get the better of me. I plugged the machine back in, the “Clean” button reminding me again that it was in some state of non-optimalness that the Mr. Coffee Optimal Brew Thermal coffeemaker would not tolerate. I filled the removable water reservoir and filled it to the top, pressed the brew button, then returned to my office for the three beeps I was now classically conditioned to.

When I raced to the kitchen on the sound of the beeps, I found the “Clean” button laughing back at me. No matter, I thought, emptying the hot water from the brushed nickel carafe and repeating the process, only to come back three beeps later to find the cleanliness still not to the satisfaction of Mr. Coffee.

I held the reset button for what should have been more than long enough to reset whatever it was that the coffee maker’s fancy computer needed resetting before I angrily ripped the cord from the wall.

“No, Mr. Coffee. I am not spending another $40 on a fancy-schmantzy piece of crap coffee pot.” I realized halfway through the sentence that was talking aloud to an inanimate piece of machinery, but I worked from home, so I didn’t hear the sound of my own voice much. I marched, irritated, back to my office to ask the Lords of Google what was wrong with my Optimal Brew Thermal coffeemaker. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see the top results of my support article search:

Clean button won’t shut off.
Clean light comes on and stays on.
What do I do if my Clean button illuminates?

None of the support articles had an answer to the problem, but most were filled with helpful suggestions from fellow owners who said it was “the best coffeemaker they’d ever had.” I wondered to myself if Mr. Coffee paid these people. Oh well. The coffee was good enough for me. If the boyfriend wasn’t satisfied, he could go out and buy another eighty dollar goddamned coffeepot.

A week later, I shuffled into the kitchen to the sound of Mr. Coffee’s three, high-pitched beeps.

“Oh, hey,” my boyfriend said, quickly shoveling his instant oatmeal breakfast. “I fixed the coffeepot.”

I whipped my head around to look at him, then quickly back to the coffeemaker’s shiny instrument panel. The familiar yellow-orange glow behind the Clean button was gone.

“What? How?”

“I cleaned it.”

© Copyright 2012 Kelly I. Hitchcock. All rights reserved.

Kelly I. Hitchcock is an up-and-coming writer in the Austin, Texas area. She is author of various poems about the randomness of life, several short stories, random creative nonfiction works, and the coming-of-age novel "The Redheaded Stepchild," available for Kindle. She is world-renowned among a readership of five people and growing.

Raised by a single father in the small town of Buffalo, Missouri, Kelly has fond memories of cash-strapped life in the Ozarks that strongly influence her writing and way of life.

When she's not writing manuals for money or writing poetry and fiction for unmoney, or training for the Jailbreak half marathon, Kelly enjoys sewing, playing dodgeball, and politics. She is an avid volunteer and fundraiser for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. Follow her on Twitter.

So you want to write a novel…

2011-12-04T19:25:00.000-08:00

#64 Mailer Daemon

2011-10-31T11:19:00.000-07:00

Mailer Daemon
by Stephen R. Wolcott

You recently tried to email an anonymous address. After repeated attempts, the message failed. Please check the…

Webster scowled at his MacBook screen and the message from "anonymous" at "mailer daemon." The fury in him rising to a level not felt since his mother mistakenly threw away his mint condition Yugioh trading cards ten years ago.

Now 20 and holed up in a cheap, grungy studio apartment behind the 99¢ Only Store, Webster’s obsessions often ostracized him from any potential social activity. His hobbies ranged from bottle caps to Happy Meal collectibles to hand-painted Warhammer figurines. He spent hours at Comic Odyssey flicking through racks of comic books and vinyl (soundtracks only).

But this time, his online passions generated a raw desperation. Perhaps because of barely squeaking by on a warehouse assistant's wages (after dropping out of college), he'd spent weeks focused on Internet deals, honing in to find all the companies and services offering discounts. Living Social, Groupon, and Dealgrind were merely a Level One Ms. PacMan type of challenge.

Level Two targeted the online coupon frenzy. Each discovery led him deeper, untangling the best savings sources to feed his needs.

Webster thought he'd scored a winner with SuperLowUnderGroundDeals— SLUGDEALS.com. The site whet his appetite with slashed prices on "the hottest" games, gadgets, and computer accessories. The word "hottest" pulsated in red, while fire-blazoned banners burned through pages, revealing insanely low prices. Then crimson letters tore through the screen announcing “Limited Quantities. Act Now! And we do mean NOW!”

Webster’s fingers clicked furiously to buy Battlefield IV, Call of Duty Extreme, and his personal favorite, Ultimate Diablo Collector’s Edition in the rare neon glow packaging. A manic giddiness compelled him to seek out more insanely low prices on monster surge protectors, sick skullcandy earphones, and deathadder infrared gaming mice.

Impulsively tapping the "buy" button, Webster jumped back in his chair as white-hot letters burst brightly through the screen: “Congratulations. Your SLUGDEAL is approved!”

The intense luminous of the message made him squint, barely making out a small sub-message about an email confirmation following purchase. Then Webster’s laptop suddenly jolted as if in some kind of spasm. The screen flickered. Brief flashes of undetectable images danced before him. "No!" he shouted. "Don’t go wiggy on me now." Biting his knuckles, Webster watched helplessly as the seemingly possessed machine fought through pages of grotesque graphics of…what?

He couldn’t make out anything precise except that they seemed intestinal, like the guts of some weird animal experiment mixed with molten lava. Then the screen went dark for a moment. Webster’s heart caught in his throat. Frozen in dread, eyes wide in shock, the computer sat lifeless. The room completely dark, Webster’s shallow panting was the only sound filling his tiny apartment.

Out of mad frustration, he slammed his fist on the table. Instantly, the computer roared back to life. His screensaver popped back on and a small blip alert told Webster he'd received a new email. Hesitant at first, he wiped his sweat-beaded brow, then carefully pressed "get mail." Among a few notices displayed in the usual blue type a message simply from "anonymous" with the subject line "confirm buy" appeared in red. Red?

Could it be a virus? What the hell, itis gotta be my order, Webster thought and gingerly clicked it open. A message read: "Thank you for shopping at S$^@De&ls.com. Please click on the link below to confirm."

Why was the addressed all whacked, he wondered? He pressed the blue underlined link and heard as sharp sizzling sound. What the…? A blurry page suddenly snapped open, but filled with snow, like an old black and white TV set. But instead of a static noise, Webster heard a low grunt, almost beastly. Or was it some twisted, deep sinister laughing?

Another gross series of images stuttered in between the snow. Then just as suddenly the SLUGDEAL logo popped on, with the words "Confirm Purchase” glowing red underneath. Dammit, he thought, hadn't I just done that? He poked his index finger hard on the red message. Nothing. Webster’s frustration grew, ramming his finger onto the button. Was the page frozen?

Then he noticed in tiny print, "contact us." He banged his middle finger on that icon and a small message window opened.

Webster furiously typed: "I just made a purchase! Has it gone through!?"

Before he could hit return, the message vanished. Instantly, another email blip chimed in, once again in red, but this time he saw the dreaded words: "mailer daemon". Webster’s eyes may have been playing tricks on him, but he could swear the "a" and "e" in "daemon" were swapping places.

He punched the message with two fingers and saw: "You recently tried to email an anonymous address. After repeated attempts, the message failed. Please check the…"

A blast of expletive-laced cries shot out of Webster’s mouth. They screwed him over.

In a frenzy, he tried searching back through pages to get back to the cursed website. After repeated futile attempts, he lifted his computer as if to hurl it out the window. But some sense of sanity caught hold of him. He gently put the MacBook down, all the while staring wild-eyed at those pointed, printed daggers: "…message failed."

He slowly, methodically, highlighted the entire bloody abomination of text and held down his finger as if he were squashing a bug. He growled, pressing harder. The pad of his finger throbbed.

That’s when the screen ignited in a burst of flame. An electric torrent of blue sizzled down the window, through Webster's keyboard, then to his mouse. A rush of piercing current tore into Webster, the last thing he would remember.

When Pasadena's first responders came to the apartment fire, they saw a charcoal figure fused to the charred remains of a laptop. No one could determine the cause of the blaze.
© Copyright 2011 Stephen R. Wolcott. All rights reserved.

In print, his work as appeared in Emmy Magazine, Now Playing and The Pasadena Weekly. One of his latest ventures, “Film2Fact” explores fascinating truths in popular motion pictures—in other words, the ‘real’ in the ‘reel’. He also enjoys traveling cerebrally to of his former Craftsman home in Pasadena’s Bungalow Heaven.

National Novel Writing Month!

2011-10-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

November is National Novel Writing Month.

Flash fiction doesn't mind if you see other genres.

#63 The Best View

2011-09-03T14:50:00.000-07:00

#63 The Best View
by John Pagliassotti

Just minutes before, Frank had entered the steel labyrinth through its belly. The small opening that the mammoth skeleton of rebar, angle iron and metal tube offered was a stark contrast to its immense proportions. Imagining that this gargantuan framework of iron could move from the confines of the warehouse where it rested took effort. Yet Frank was responsible for doing just that. When he entered the great work, he crawled to his cockpit that rested at the front of the huge structure. There he found a small fiberglass seat. The throw pillow he brought along was the only creature comfort he would enjoy on his brief journey on this early Tuesday morning.

From the small rectangular opening just inches in front of Frank’s face, he saw the first smile. It was his only view of the outside world from inside the dark cavernous cab he occupied. The young boy was no more than 8 years old. His face, sandwiched between a wool scarf and cap, was beaming. From his grandpa’s lap the little lad pointed his finger and with awe;“wow” fell softly from his lips. Nothing captured this moment more powerfully then the look of pure amazement on a child’s face. The boy’s eyes grew as big as pie plates when the pump behind Frank shot its first blast of water high 60 feet into the air. This time the "wow" did not fall from the boy’s lips; it shot with as much intensity as the blast of water that solicited such a reaction.

He climbed into position and gave his rudimentary controls a test. He twisted the wheel from side to side. He depressed the accelerator and then the brake. Then for a brief moment, he sat and took in the fantastic frame around him. Everywhere he looked was steel and cable. Over the last few years, these great beasts had even been given brains. Circuit boards and wiring were becoming as prominent as nuts and bolts. “Sure doesn’t look like a whale from in its belly,” Frank laughed to himself. “I wonder if this is how Jonah felt?" The same thought occurred to him every year. Rarely did these steel webbed monoliths give a hint as to what they would become once in full bloom. “It’s true balance,” Frank thought. For without the stark, cold mass of steel, there could be no platform for the brilliant beauty of flowers that adorned her sides. The flowers gave her beauty but the massive frame gave her life.

As Frank completed the turn on to Colorado Boulevard the rectangular opening found them one by one, each portrait as rich as the next. Of the thousands who came to marvel, Frank would see just a few. But it was those few that made his annual journey so cathartic. It was the few single snapshots, among the thousands of potential pictures, which made this short trip so profound. His rectangular opening became more than an opening to navigate his course; it was a frame to the singular pictures that depicted the essence of the parade. The parade had a spirit, a spirit born from the shared joy of all those who came to see. It was a young and innocent spirit. The reaction of the eight year old boy seeing the parade for the first time was as inspired as his grandpa who had seen the parade countless times.

This year the float that Frank piloted depicted two humpback whales, a fact Frank was continually reminded of by the sound of the pump blowing their spouts into the air. He’d driven floats of all shapes and sizes: from space shuttles to Disney characters. Each was unique and as beautiful as the next. But for Frank, the true beauty of the Rose Parade was found in a child’s face framed by a small rectangular opening six inches in front of his face. It was truly the best view of the parade.

© Copyright 2011 John Pagliassotti. All rights reserved.

John Pagliassotti born and raised in the San Gabriel Valley, and now lives in Newport Beach, California. He is married and has two sons in their teens. He works in the commercial real estate industry. One of his hobbies is writing short stories.

The Snowflake Method, yet again

2011-09-02T13:03:00.000-07:00

We've posted this link before, but it always generates a lot of interest and questions, so here goes. The Snowflake Method is an approach to designing a novel. At least two Rose City City contributors are working on stories using this method.

#62 Careless Wishes by D.E. Helbling

2011-06-19T22:36:00.000-07:00

What's this? A flash story with no connection whatsoever to Pasadena? And no links? It's true. Earlier this month, Rose City Sisters contributor Ann Wilkes asked me to judge the flash fiction contest sponsored by her science fiction blog. All the entries reflected the "freaky weather" theme, and I chose D.E. Helbling's great story about an unusual storm. It also appears on Ann's blog.

Careless Wishes

By D. E. Helbling

“I’m sorry, son,” she said as I helped her up from her rocker on the front porch.

“Never mind that now, Momma. Let’s get you to safety.” I led her down the steps and across the brown, patchy lawn of the front yard. I whistled for

Scruffy, her Jack Russell, as we made our way toward the storm cellar. The sky had grown dark in just a few short minutes. I was fixing to pull the door shut behind us when Scruffy appeared and nudged his way past me. I shoved the heavy crossbar into place and descended the steps into the depths of the shelter. I flicked on the switch for the battery light, and then joined Momma and Scruffy on the tiny couch in the back of the little room.

“I’m so sorry, Billy,” she started again.

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it, Momma. Maybe it wasn’t even you. You know, sometimes storms are just storms.”

“If only I wasn’t so greedy,” she said, shaking her head. She looked grayer, more tired and frail than I’d remembered ... it had been too many months since my last visit.

“Now, Momma, you can’t help wishing for things.”

“Like that scholarship of yours?”

“You didn’t know the kids on that bus were after the same scholarship as me, did you? You didn’t wish that bus into the river. Momma, that was years ago. You gotta let that go!”

“Or your sister’s new husband?”

“Now, come on, Momma. None of us liked Harold, not even me, and I went to school with him. Did you wish Harold into bumping that radio into his bathtub? I know you didn’t wish him into beating up Charlene every time he and Johnnie Walker got together.”

“I’m just saying---“

“I’m just saying, too, Momma. I’m saying it’s all about silver linings. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. OK, so maybe Harold was an exception. But still, sometimes those bad things mean good things for somebody else. If that somebody else is you or me, or Charlene, well, that’s just God evening out the blessings is all.”

The door to the shelter started to rattle and shake, straining against the big iron hinges. The wind howled through the cracks. Momma looked up at the ceiling in surrender. “I think I used up our share of blessings, son.”

“Let’s never mind that mean old storm,” I said. “Say, I know you have some shortbread down here in one of these tins.”

“Over there on the second shelf.”

I found the tin, opened it up, and fished out three cookies. I gave one to her and one to Scruffy. The three of us sat there, nibbling our cookies, while the wind roared above like a train was running over the top of the shelter.

“Still the finest cookies in the county,” I said.

“Or what about that time---“

“Jesus, Momma!” I almost choked on my cookie. “You can’t go on blaming yourself for every little thing that happens.”

“Now let’s not be bandying about the Lord’s name.”

“I’m sorry, Momma,” I said. “But I’m sure Jesus wants you to be happy, just like the next person.”

Scruffy perked up his ears, turned his head toward the stairwell. I started to hear it myself. Plops, first a few, then more, then a thunderous smashing, pounding barrage. “It is surely hailing big time out there, Momma.”

“Oh, my,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t think that’s hail, son.”

The pummeling sound stopped as quickly as it had begun. Now there was no howling wind behind it. We sat in silence, listening for further signs that the storm had really passed. Scruffy decided we’d waited long enough. He bounded up the stairs, barking at the door for us to let him out. I followed him. I put my ear to the door. Nothing but a couple of birds chirping. I slid the crossbar over and shoved on the door. It resisted. I shoved again. Fallen tree limbs, I hoped, though I feared it might be the remains of Momma’s house on the other side of the door.

I shoved again, harder, and the door finally gave way. I stepped out of the stairwell and promptly slipped, my feet flying out from under me as I slid a few feet into the yard. I propped myself back up, my arms wrist deep in dark goo, a mush of red and green and black that seemed to cover the entire yard.

The house, at least, was still standing. Scruffy was running all over the yard, barking wildly, bits of goo hanging from the corner his mouth.

“Oh, my,” Momma said from somewhere behind me.

“Be careful, Momma,” I said. “The ground’s pretty slippery. It looks like the twister dumped a load of silt from the river right here on top of the yard.”

About then the smell of the goo hit me. I raised one hand to my face, gave the mush a sniff. That’s when I saw that some bits of the mush had form. And shape. This one little bit looked like a salamander leg. That bit wasn’t worm, but a trace of tiny intestine. Those round things: little eyes.

“Oh, my, Billy,” Momma said. “Looks like we got us a frog puree.”

I brought myself up to my feet, found a sturdy looking branch poking out from the goo, and brought it over to Momma for a makeshift cane. “What’d you wish for, Momma,” I asked, as we made our way slowly across the yard and up the steps to the front porch.

“Fertilizer,” she said. “That soil around here is so tired, I figured it was due for some kind of ripening up. Good thing.”

I helped her back into her rocking chair and began to pull off her shoes. “Good thing?”

“Good thing I didn’t wish for a new rock garden.”

“Good thing, Momma.”

D. E. Helbling is an engineer, writer, and a native of the Dakotas, now living in Oregon. When he’s not working on strange cryptography projects, he explores fiction, philosophy, paranormal research, and game A.I. software development.

#61 Rooms

2011-06-04T20:54:00.000-07:00

Rooms
by Petrea Burchard

Randolph has his pompous, executive job and his overweight, red-faced golf buddies and I have our big, old, Pasadena Craftsman house--or I would, if Randolph would let me do things my way. Except he can't. Says we have to make "these decisions" together. Says I'm his "little kitten." Says I'm his "flower."

So where is he on this fine Saturday morning when I'm ready to get to work? Playing golf.

I thought I'd redecorate the upstairs storage room. I'd paint the walls (light blue, for sky) and add white curtains (diaphanous, for clouds). I'd put my books on the shelves with my treasures, like the little sculpture I made of the dog and the picture I painted of the roses. I'd shop the flea markets for a four-poster bed and paint it white to match the curtains. I might even sleep in it from time to time.

Randolph says we have to remove the drywall and start from scratch. Says we need an architect. An interior designer. He knows people. He'll call them. "Be patient, kitten." Once again I wait while Randolph figures out how "we" are going to do "my" project.

I want to do it myself. I want to do something, paint something, fix something, make something!

Screw Randolph.

I find a big claw hammer in the garage and lug it upstairs and down the hall. I take the hammer to the drywall and pound, cracking the wall and making a hole big enough for my hands. I grab and, with a satisfying yank, pull down a big sheet of drywall. The crash sends white dust flying over the room. It snows on boxes of whatever we've stored here that we haven't looked at in years. When the dust settles, I see what's behind the wall: fake wood paneling.

Yuck. Hideous stuff. Maybe a 60's remodel. I should have left the drywall.

Frustrated, I slap my palm against the paneling, leaving a dusty, white handprint. The wall opens, or rather, a door opens, just a crack. I see candlelight.

Wait. This room is above the back yard. There's nothing beyond these walls but a 20-foot drop into the vegetable patch.

I push the door open and see, not carrots and tomatoes, but a ballroom. I test the polished, hardwood floor with my tennis shoe. The floor holds my weight. I step in. The door closes behind me without making a sound. Across the length of the grand room, the floor, shiny as an antique gymnasium, reflects the candlelit chandeliers above. Gilded chairs stand ready against the silk-lined walls.

I'm alone. I hear but don't see an orchestra, so I glide to the other end of the room and step through a door.

The door leads to a hallway. Along it are more doors, all open, all inviting. Warm light glows at each distant end. Voices and laughter mingle with the music, coming from somewhere.

I enter a small drawing room with a fireplace as tall as I am. No one's there. The fire crackles. I take a seat in the leather armchair. A glass of wine waits on the lacquered table beside a well-worn copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets. I wonder if I should drink the wine. I reach for the goblet and sip. Yes, the wine is for me.

I don't pick up the book. I'd like to find the people, and curiosity leads me to light flooding in from an open doorway on the other side of the room.

Taking my wine, I enter an atelier—an artist's studio flooded with sunlight. A canvas faces away from me on the easel. I go to the bright window and look out over the rooftops of Paris.

I remind myself to breathe.

I turn to see what's on the easel. It's a portrait of me. I recognize the painter. I put down my goblet and take up my brush.

The orchestra stops.

"Kitten? Are you upstairs?"

My heart whams against my chest. I slam the brush down and run out of the atelier. The room I enter is not the drawing room. It's a kitchen with stone walls. The heavenly smell of fresh bread slows me down, but I mustn't stop. I dash to the next door.

I think I'm going the right direction but this isn't the ballroom. It's a dusty library, its shelves sagging with leather tomes. I want to stop and peruse each one.

Randolph's footfalls clomp up the stairs, coming nearer. I must be close to the door in the paneling. I throw myself against the one door I see and stumble through it, returning to the guest room just as Randolph enters.

I'm a little out of breath.

Randolph surveys the drifts of drywall dust. He frowns, moving the white tuft on his golfer-tanned forehead. "Honey," he scolds, "I've told you not to take on these projects yourself. This is the kind of thing we should do together."

But you weren't here, I think. I don't say anything.

He looks past me at the wall. There's no sign of an opening in the paneling. My handprint is still there to remind me where to whack.

"Wood paneling," says Randolph. "Nice. Shall we keep it?" 

"Yes," I say. "I love it."
© Copyright 2011 Petrea Burchard. All rights reserved.

Petrea Burchard wrote 's Belinda's Birthday, the eighth story to appear on this blog and a finalist for Story of the Year—in 2009! It's about time Petrea wrote another short work. But she has an excuse: in the meantime, she completed her novel, Camelot & Vine, and is seeking representation for it. Petrea blogs daily at Pasadena Daily Photo, where everyone from writers to gardeners to motorcycle gangs receive amicable attention.

#60 The Greenskeeper

2011-05-08T15:46:00.000-07:00

The Greenskeeper
by John Pagliassotti

The sound of my footsteps on the damp, finely manicured fairway is the only sound in the Arroyo this night. Like every other evening, darkness lays a blanket of silence over the course where just a few hours before the echoes of golfers celebrating birdies and bemoaning defeat were heard. I walk these stretches of long green turf, through the gauntlet of sculptured magnificent Oaks every night, and have since the beginning of time, or at least it seems.

I’ve walked these greens in the dead of winter when frost sparkles in the moonlight like millions of diamonds strewn across the ground and thick clouds from the West threaten to powder the foothills with an unexpected snow.

I’ve walked these greens in autumn as the Santa Ana’s blew their warm dry winds through the valley, coaxing the leaves of the great Oaks to quietly applaud my repertoire of lonely old ballads that I whistle as I stroll.

I’ve walked these greens on summer nights when dusk lasts forever and casts its shadows against Baldy’s reaching slopes, a picture that could only be suitably painted with verse or lyric.

I have walked these greens in spring. The sweet sights and sounds of new life are abundant then, as is the smell of nature; conjuring up memories of my childhood when winter coats are stowed away and short pants and t-shirts came out for play.

My nightly journey takes me past the grand rose crested arena built for battles between ferocious bears and brave mythical gladiators. The thunderous fanfare only serves to make the silence of the night more poignant when the great stadium has emptied and is quiet until the next battle is fought.

On my nightly journey I’ve been joined by owls with wings that span wider than I stand, by deer that cautiously accept me into their quiet homes, by gophers and snakes, raccoons and lions; all returning to me, their visitor, the kind respect that I offer to them.

I came here when my first was born and when my father passed; too vulnerable to cry, these greens took my tears.
This place is where I come to pray, without words or crosses or bended knee, for God is all around me here and I fret not His ear. He hears me, of that I’m sure.

I will walk these greens forever and more, just like the ones before. Every night you will find me here. For these are the greens I keep… and these are the greens that keep me.
© Copyright 2011 John Pagliassotti. All rights reserved.

#59 Pasadena Prince—or Frog?

2011-04-14T16:40:00.000-07:00

Pasadena Prince—or Frog?
by Beverly Diehl

“I’m a Prince, and I live in an historic Castle.”

It had to be one of the best pickup lines ever, and Liz had suckered right in. He’d even shown his driver’s license to prove it: Michael Prince, Raymond Avenue, Pasadena, while a quick glimpse at his DOB showed he was a 36 year old Gemini (that explained the slick tongue.)

They said the best way to cure falling off a horse was getting right back on, but after a three year relationship that ended horribly, Liz had decided on a full year of celibacy afterwards. Her four bff’s celebrated her reaching that milestone by treating Liz to tea at the Huntington Library and Gardens. Liz loved art and roses, and an evening laughing her brains out at the The Icehouse was the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Especially with a cute guy like Michael at the next table, flirting with her, sending over endless rounds of Electric Love cocktails.

He was sexy, he was very interested—balm to Liz’s wounded spirit—and he was even willing to wait while Sonia Googled him and checked his Facebook profile, to verify he wasn’t wanted for axe-murder somewhere. Sometimes the girls called Sonia ‘Teacher’ as a joke, but they all respected and relied on her for her common sense.

Her willingness to act as the Designated Driver didn’t hurt, either. “Liz, you’ve got your cell phone, right? Charged? Okay, call or text me if you change your mind,” Sonia had ordered, frowning a little as Liz walked off, giggling, her hand in Michael’s.

Liz felt happy, happy, happy. Michael was just enough taller, just enough older, and he smelled luscious when she bumped into him here and there, avoiding other pedestrians on the walk back to his place. It felt a little awkward stopping into the store for condoms, but reassuring too, that Michael was both prepared to be responsible, and did not already have a huge stash of them at his place.

The Castle, oh, the Castle! The wide veranda of historic Castle Green, straight out of a Hollywood movie, the lobby with its sweeping staircase and tile floor; the place was truly enchanting, right down to the open-cage elevator ride to the sixth floor. Liz was half in love with Michael just for living in such a fabulous place, complete with elegant fireplace and friendly orange marmalade cat, even before they walked onto the balcony from the round turret room.

Outside, Michael started from his knees, kissing her hand and working his way up to her neck, as she enjoyed the spectacular view of Pasadena’s sparkling city lights. Later, he’d proved himself True Royalty between the sheets. A wonderful way to get back on the pony, except...

After Michael had kissed her and gone out for a morning jog, Liz pried her eyes open and went snooping in search of aspirin to place on her blue curacao-stained tongue.

She found aspirin, all right, but she also found several prescription bottles for a Rebecca Slick.

The name sounded oddly familiar. Followed by the cat, she went to the built in bookcases. There were a row of books by... Rebecca Slick. Juicy. Slippery. Dripping. Wetness. One of Liz’s favorite authors, a woman in her fifties with a predilection, at least in her erotic fiction, for cougar love.

Michael must be her unfaithful boy-toy. Liz felt suddenly unclean, but didn’t want to further abuse Rebecca’s unwitting hospitality by climbing into her clawfoot bathtub.

The cat sat and looked at her. She looked at the cat. “Manny, what should I do?”

“M-row.”

“Taking that means, I don’t give a rat’s hat for your problems, feed me.”

Liz found an empty enamel dish in the kitchen labeled ‘Manuscript’ on the side. “Manny, is this your bowl?”

“M-Row!” He vocalized louder and rubbed against her ankles as she opened cupboards in search of his food. Might as well feed the poor cat before embarking on the Walk of Shame. Liz poured a bowl of kibbles, to Manny’s delight, thinking that she’d seen bagel places on Colorado, she could hole up in one of those and text Sonia to come pick her up, please.

Back in the bedroom, she sniffed her panties, deciding to stuff them in her purse and go commando. She was just pulling her shirt on when Michael came back in, damp with sweat from his run, carrying a brown paper bag that smelled like it held fresh bagels.

Her tummy rumbled in response to the bagels and the rest of her responded in other ways to Michael’s devastating sexiness.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, looking hurt. “I thought we could have breakfast in bed.”

How dare he look like that? He was the one who... “I thought I’d spare us from getting in trouble with your wife? Girlfriend?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know about Rebecca.”

He burst out laughing. “I don’t think you know what you think you know.”

“I know this is her apartment, not yours.”

“True.”

“Aren’t you the least bit ashamed?”

“Ashamed of bringing you to my aunt’s apartment instead of mine? I guess it is slightly false pretenses, but her view is better, and I have to come up here a couple times a day to feed Manny, while she’s on her book tour.”

Liz opened and closed her mouth. “You live here, too?”

Michael laughed again, leading her into the kitchen where he opened the bag of bagels and began slicing them. “I lived here first. My apartment is on the third floor, but doesn’t have a turret, sorry! Aunt Becky liked The Castle so much that when this apartment became available, she snapped it up.”

“Oh.”

“‘Zat all you have to say?” he teased.

Liz kissed him, then walked towards the bedroom, pulling her shirt back over her head. “I like my bagels toasted with lots of cream cheese, please.”

Beverly Diehl discarded most early efforts because they weren't good enough. “I thought the words were supposed to drip from my pen as perfect golden pearls," she says. "Then I discovered rewriting." In addition to erotica, Beverly writes short stories, newsletters, and of course, a blog (or two.)

Born in Wisconsin, plus years in Pennsylvania, Beverly lives in Los Angeles with numerous UFO's (UnFinished craft & writing Objects) and beloved fat cat, Metaphor (aka Stinky.)

Who will be our 50th Facebook fan?

2011-03-23T22:15:00.000-07:00

Seriously, we've been at 49 fans forever. Someone like this Page already.

#58 Are You There, Wall? It's Me, Kerri

2011-02-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

Are You There, Wall? It's Me, Kerri
by Kelly I. Hitchcock

Kerri Lindsey had never been good at math.

She stared blankly at the half-sheet of blue paper in front of her, covered in random clusters of numbers grouped into corners in no logical order, hoping if she looked at it long enough, it’d start to make sense, and she could answer the question she’d asked herself for the last hour.

If there are 9.85 laps in one mile, and I was able to run 24 laps out of 40, and my average lap is 1:12, then how long will it take me to do 26.2 miles?

She’d tried cross-multiplying, one of few mathematical operations she both understood and liked. The more she tried, the less logical the answers seemed. At one point, her math told her she could finish the Pasadena Marathon in forty-three minutes; at another, seventeen hours. Frustrated, she picked up the half-sheet of number-scrawled paper and wadded it into the tiniest ball her swollen hands would make. Didn’t matter how many times she tried to figure out if and how she’d finish the marathon, she knew her numbers wouldn’t scale to twenty-six miles. Of the four she’d ran that day, most of the running was at the front end. The farther she went, the more she had to walk. She knew that at the rate she was going, she’d be restricted to walking after the first seven, because her stupid knee wouldn’t cooperate.

She’d been seriously rocking it before her knee decided to be an asshole. It was a beautiful early summer day, just after a light rain and just before dusk the week she was scheduled to complete a long run of ten miles, the farthest she’d ever attempted. She’d gone all the way from her house at Walnut five miles straight down Los Robles right before I-10, had turned around at the halfway point, and stopped at Valley Boulevard to wait for the light to change. She was feeling good – really good. Then the light changed, she took off across the street, and felt like a shark bit her right in the side of her leg (what she surmised a shark bite would feel like, anyway). She’d tried to shake it off and keep running, but the harder she tried not to focus on it, the more it refused to be ignored. This wasn’t a stitch, or a cramp, or something else she could walk off. There was something seriously wrong.

Ever since then, her ability to run was sketchy. Some days, she could run four or five miles with no trouble. Other days, she couldn’t even run one lap around the track without feeling like a railroadman was driving a spike through the side of her knee. She kept trying to ignore the pain, just like she’d done before ten-mile Sunday, but after limping home five miles with no water and no cell phone, the pain wouldn’t be ignored. She’d told the story of ten-mile Sunday to three different doctors already, all of whom said she should be seeing some improvement by now. She was doing everything they told her to do: taking the Naproxen, taking breaks from running, taking time to stretch really well, warming up and cooling down. Nothing was helping.

She figured people were probably tired of hearing about it. It wasn’t their fault; they just didn’t understand. The marathon entry fee had been paid. The hotel was paid for. She’d requested the time off work. She’d bought new Cumulus 12s. She couldn’t look back now. She had to finish the marathon, even if she had to walk the whole damn thing, which was looking more and more likely every day. It didn’t happen to one of them; it happened to her, and it wasn’t fair. Why did it have to happen right before her training plan kicked into high gear?

As she tossed the rumpled ball of paper, a long run playlist song came on the radio in the bedroom. She closed her eyes and thought of how it felt to jog in a zigzag down a slow downhill slope with a cool breeze in her face, and felt her heart turn to lead and sink down into the pit of her stomach. She leaned into the wall and sank down to the cold tile floor, where she rested her head on her knees to sob comfortably – the fourth breakdown she’d had this week.

She didn’t even wanna go to the gym anymore. She’d see women in ill-fitting sports bras and worn-out shoes they’d mowed their lawns in jogging haphazardly around the track, and her lungs burned with jealousy. It wasn’t fair that they could run and she couldn’t. They weren’t training for a marathon that was seven weeks away. They were taking their ability to run for granted. They weren’t even enjoying it. She wanted to walk up and punch them all in the face, but instead, she walked with her head down so she didn’t have to see them and they couldn’t see the tears on her burning cheeks.

This was supposed to be her fourteen mile day, and she knew she couldn’t do it. Summer was getting hotter and more humid, and her marathon buddies were getting up at 4:30 AM to do their long runs. Even if she got up at 4:30, she wouldn’t be done until most of 9:00 – what was the point? She knew she wouldn’t be able to run more than a handful of the fourteen miles. Like the doctors said, she was supposed to be seeing improvement by now. The only improvement she saw was with her ability to hide her emotions in front of her friends, to tell the story of ten-mile Sunday with increasing accuracy and detail, to stomach anti-inflammatories with fewer carbs.

She wiped her eyes with her bare arm and rose from the floor. She ripped another day off the calendar on the kitchen counter, a page that read “58 days ‘til marathon,” followed by five exclamation points.
© Copyright 2011 Kelly I. Hitchcock. All rights reserved.

Kelly I. Hitchcock is a novelist, poet, and blogger from a poor stretch of the Ozarks in Southwest Missouri. A graduate of the creative writing program at Missouri State University, Kelly’s poems have been featured in Clackamas Literary Review and Foliate Oak Literary Journal. She also wrote "Manifesto of a Neglected Chipmunk" and "Ad Hominem" for this blog. She lives in Kansas City and is an avid volunteer and fundraiser for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. Learn more about the author and her work by visiting her website and following her on Twitter.

Terry Pratchett on writing

2011-02-17T11:25:00.000-08:00

Terry Pratchett on writing:

1. Watch everything, read everything, and especially read outside your subject—you should be importing, not recycling.  

2. Use a word processor. Why do I feel this is not unnecessary advice here? It makes everything mutable. It's better for the ego. And you can play games when all else fails.  

3. Write. For more than three years I wrote more than 400 words every day. I mean, every calendar day. If for some reason, in those pre-portable days, I couldn't get to a keyboard, I wrote hard the previous night and caught up the following day, and if it ever seemed that it was easy to do the average I upped the average. I also did a hell of a lot of editing afterwards but the point was there was something there to edit. I had a more than full-time job as well. I hate to say this, but most of the successful (well, okay…rich) authors I know seem to put "application" around the top of the list of how-to-do-its. Tough but true.

For more quotes, visit Ealasaid's Pratchett page.

Writing to win

2011-02-16T23:01:00.000-08:00

WOW! (Women on Writing) sponsors a quarterly flash fiction writing contest. The entry fee is modest and the top winners get bragging rights, goodies…and cash. The next contest closes February 28.

Details are here.

Quit beating yourself up, willya?

2011-02-16T10:15:00.000-08:00

If you're guilty of setting crazy goals (Get an agent by Tuesday!), read Andrew Jack's blog post entitled "Writers and Unrealistic Goals."

Here's a line worth repeating from his post:

We set ourselves a goal that’s out of our control, then, when we don’t hit that goal, we punish ourselves.

Must log off now. That blockbuster script is not going to write itself by breakfast.

Learning from Stephen King

2011-02-14T08:00:00.000-08:00

If you haven't read Stephen King's book "On Writing, " add it to your list. Even if you're no fan of the horror genre, you'll likely find lots to like in "On Writing."

In the meantime, here are King's seven writing tips.

Networking with writers on LinkedIn

2011-02-09T07:51:00.000-08:00

LinkedIn, the business networking site, lets its members participate in their choice of special interest groups. At least three dozen of these groups are devoted to writing and can connect you to writers around the world—or around the corner.

Slinging the slang

2011-02-08T18:42:00.000-08:00

There are lots of slang decoders, but the Online Slang Dictionary is one of the best. In addition to American slang (and that of various subcultures), this collaborative site includes English slang from other countries.

Feel free to add the URLs for your favorite specialized dictionaries in comments.

Nudging yourself into writing

2011-02-04T07:00:00.000-08:00

The Language is a Virus website offers a variety of helpful tools for writers, including writing prompts. Just push the button and follow the instructions.

Learning from Ernest Hemingway

2011-02-03T07:00:00.000-08:00

Copyblogger.com's Brian Clark shares "Ernest Hemingway’s Top 5 Tips for Writing Well."

#57 A New Deal

2011-01-28T10:03:00.000-08:00

A New Deal
by Mary Finnegan

So here’s the deal, if you are reading this, don’t tell anyone about it if you value your life. If you tell anyone about this, I will probably murder you in your sleep no matter who or where you are.

Okay. I should probably explain who I am. My name is Ebony Black. I live in Ireland with Minion, my servant, and my two cats Tornado and Whirlwind. I am 16 years old with dark eyes, long black hair, pale complexion, and I dress in all black, including shoes and socks.

My story starts six months ago, on June 13, the day my parents died. The day started out pretty normal. I was walking to the bakery to pick up my cupcakes. I guess I should explain about the cupcake thing. I love cupcakes. I love them more than anything in the whole entire world, and the cupcakes I was picking up were my favorite kind. They were vanilla cupcakes with swirled pink raspberry frosting and little dots of white lemon icing. So, okay, back to the story: As I was walking, I heard a loud bang, like an explosion, behind me. As I turned I saw the bank, now rubble, where my parents and everyone else inside was killed.

I can’t say I was sad, but I can’t say I was happy either. I was just mildly annoyed that the shock wave had ruffled my hair. I kept walking as if nothing had happened. I got my cupcakes from Noelle, the baker’s 10-year-old daughter, then hailed a taxi to take me back to my parent’s estate that was now mine.

Minion greeted me coldly at the door asking, “What was that noise? It sounded like an explosion.”

“It was the bank exploding. They’re dead. My plan worked,” I replied, and with that I turned and entered the house. Of course, house isn’t really the best word to describe it because it is a five story stone castle with turrets and moat, and it’s situated on 10 acres.

I walked up the stone steps past marble busts of my long forgotten ancestors and vowed to take them down the first chance I got. I walked into my study/lab. It was a round room about the size of a small house. It was dimly lit by Tiffany lamps and across from the door stood a sturdy mahogany desk with a running computer on top of it. I walked over to the desk and sat down in the cushioned armchair, sorted through my files, and then checked my computer.

Sure enough, someone was waiting for me on Skype. I had been expecting a Skype from the police department explaining what had happened at the bank, but this Skype was from Tony and Miranda Jackenson, the two people in the world that I hated most. Tony and Miranda lived in Pasadena under a wine bar and were wanted in seven countries and public enemies #1 in two other countries. They killed my baby brother five years ago. I opened my web cam, and I saw them both grinning stupidly at me.

“How’s it going, Ebony?” cackled Tony.

“Have you thought about our offer yet?” said Miranda, her voice was filled with hate, probably because the last time they’d seen me I’d set my cat Whirlwind on her. She still had the claw marks marring her pretty face.

“No,” I told her. “But I can tell you this: I will never join you. I will never ever work with you on anything, and if you ever come back to Ireland, I will give you a horribly painful death after I set my cats on you and bury you both up to your necks in cockroaches for two weeks.”

Miranda scowled and turned off the web cam.

Two weeks later, I was sitting in the garden eating cupcakes, checking my blog and petting Tornado and Whirlwind when a piece of paper floated down to me from the branch of a nearby apple tree. The paper was wet from the morning dew so the words on it were smudged, but I could make out what it said:

Killcummin Pier
At midnight tonight
See you there, Ebony.
Yours truly t and m

I know you’re thinking I must be really stupid if I was actually going to meet them at the pier, but I have a cat that would claw your eyes out so I suggest that you stay quiet. Let me tell you, I am not the kind of person who backs out of things.

That night, I walked to the pier with both of my cats for extra protection and so they could claw off Miranda’s ugly face. When I got to the pier, it was deserted. They weren’t there yet. I told my cats to stand guard, and then I walked to the edge of the pier and stared down at the black swirling water. I heard a high-pitched scream behind me and saw my cats chasing two people about my age.

The girl, however, was not Miranda. She looked nothing like her. While Miranda had waist length white blond hair, this girl had shoulder length curly red hair and bangs that covered her bright green eyes. The boy was tall and stocky, also with curly red hair, but his eyes were a dark blue, almost black.

The girl walked up to me looking very annoyed. “That cat could’ve killed me. What’s the matter with you? Why didn’t you call it off?”

“I thought you were someone else. What’s your name, anyway?” I replied.

“My name is Timothy and that’s my twin sister Margaret, and I assume that you’re Ebony,” said the boy. “We want to make you a deal.”

He leaned forward and whispered something in my ear, and, after a few moments, I replied, “Yes. I’ll do it.”
© Copyright 2011 Mary Finnegan. All rights reserved

Mary Finnegan attends seventh grade in Pasadena. She has never been to Ireland, but would like to go. This is her first published story.

#56 Healing

2011-01-07T07:00:00.000-08:00

Healing
by William Wren

As Canadians celebrated their centennial she drifted south from British Columbia through the western United States to eventually find herself swirling through California and, finally, coming to a rest in Pasadena where she remained. It was 1967.

All of that is gone now.

• • •

After returning from the police station, she went into the study (which wasn't a study at all but a corner of the basement with a desk surrounded by piles of laundry). With a rubber-tipped pencil she began erasing the world.

She started with the Bible. It took a great deal of time because it was large and had many translations. When finished, she moved on to dictionaries. All of them. They took almost fifteen years, the Complete Oxford consuming more than four. From dictionaries she moved on to phone books. After, she thought of newspapers but because she had erased them from every dictionary, they had already ceased to be.

It took her forty-three years, ten months, eleven days and a good four hours of the last day's morning, 7:30 to 11:30 a.m.. But then she was finished. She was seventy-one years old. History had been erased. Religion had been erased. Sexuality, in all its manifestations, had vanished. Gender was gone.

The Parliament of Canada had been removed to a place of non-existence where it remained with the United States Congress. Cars were no more. Children no longer gathered in gangs at street corners, clubs or anywhere else. There was no anywhere else.

There were no children.

Even her beloved Pasadena parrots were gone though she didn’t notice their absence because she no longer had any idea that such birds had been.

There was only a seventy-one-year-old woman with nothing left to erase. Even her memories were gone.

She no longer knew why she had begun erasing. The man who had violated her had vanished. The act had vanished. So had the soft sadness she would have felt had she not erased the realization that it had taken forty-three years, ten months, eleven days and four hours of this last morning to reach the point of only soft sadness remaining.

• • •

Everything was gone. What would she do now?

She turned her pencil around. Having erased age and death, she had time in abundance. (She had erased all time except her own.) She would enjoy herself. She would act and feel with the easiness of children before they're absorbed by gangs and street corners.

With her pencil, she began re-writing the world. Her first words read, "Sky. Water. Earth. Voices. Laughter. Love. Song."

Pausing a moment, she thought, then wrote, "A boy named Tim with hair that hides his eyes."

William Wren is a writer-editor in New Brunswick, Canada. He has been writing for more years than he can count. Recently has been gathering some of his older fiction and making it available online as free ebooks (in PDF). He hasn't decided whether this is a good idea or not. He also wrote "I've Never Been to Pasadena" for this blog.

#55 Daisy's Masterpiece

2010-12-23T01:33:00.000-08:00

Daisy's Masterpiece
by Paula Johnson

Daisy was obsessed with Christmas. She loved everything about the holiday—the fragrant tree, shiny ornaments, twinkling lights, candy canes, the works. Just last week, her mother heard the seven-year-old belting out "Jingle Bell Rock" to an audience of dolls.

It was cute. It would have been adorable, but it was August in Pasadena. And the Blums were Jewish.

"Maybe she'll grow out of it," Jessica Blum said to her husband as they sipped their morning coffee.

"I blame myself," said David. When Daisy was a baby, he hung a extra-strength pine air freshener near her changing table in an unsuccessful attempt to mask the eye-watering reek of dirty diapers.

"It could've been worse. If you had picked the Piña Colada fragrance, we'd have the only second-grader in A.A.," she said. Both David and Jessica were only children. Neither had babysat as teenagers, so raising a child was an often-baffling undertaking.

Daisy shuffled into the kitchen barefoot and yawning. Her Dora the Explorer nightgown was creased from sleep and her wavy brown hair looked like it had been styled with a weed-whacker. She pulled a stool up to the kitchen counter and poured some cereal into her favorite bowl—a chipped piece of Spode purchased at a yard sale for a quarter.

Jessica poured the milk on her daughter's cereal, admiring (and not for the first time) the way her engagement ring sparkled in the morning sun. It was not the ring she expected when David proposed nine years ago. They were both paying off student loans and dealing with necessary expenses like dependable cars and business attire.

She assumed that when the time came, they'd find a small, affordable ring at J.C. Penney and joke that a snack at Cinnabon was just as good as breakfast at Tiffany's.

But David's grandmother had other plans. She wanted her only grandson to have her engagement ring. "It was my mother's. Let's keep it in the family," she'd said. That's how Jessica wound up wearing a platinum filigree Edwardian solitaire that was very likely worth more than her car.

"What's on your agenda today?" David asked his wife. He had to spend his Saturday at his company's annual strategy meeting.

"Just quality time with the other men in my life," she said with a grin. Her list included Bill (shoe repair), Mr. Tran (dry cleaner), Wyatt (bagels) and the nameless guy at Jiffy Lube with the Celtic tattoo and bedroom eyes.

"Momma, don't forget the art store!," yelped Daisy through a mouthful of Lucky Charms. The little girl's reward for a day of errands was some new markers or colored pencils from Blick. Daisy worked cheap.

It was after four o'clock when the pair returned home with their boxes, bags, and library books. Jessica settled Daisy at the dining room table with her pink tackle box of art supplies, and went into the kitchen to put away the groceries.

She was thinking about dinner when suddenly the air left her lungs and the room started spinning. Her diamond. Her husband's grandmother's—no, great-grandmother's—diamond was gone. The gaping hole in the ring was horrific, like a missing eyeball or a gunshot wound.

She thought about all the places she had been and tried to remember when she had last seen the diamond sparkle. Jessica must have made some sort of noise, because Daisy looked up from her work.

"What's the matter, momma?"

"Nothing, baby. Just wishing Daddy was home."

"Can we have Tater Tots?"

"Sure, sweetheart. Lots of tots." Daisy grinned at her mother's rhyme and returned to her drawing.

Knowing it was futile, Jessica walked through the house, looking into corners, shaking out towels, pawing through the laundry basket. Losing the diamond was bad enough, but the idea that it might be in a trash can at McDonald's or kicked into a gutter was even worse.

When David walked in just before six o'clock, Jessica led him into their bedroom, explained what happened, and let herself cry for a few minutes.

"It was just an old rock," said David when she stopped sobbing and blew her nose. "A big, pretty rock, but a rock all the same."

"I know, but I feel like I let your grandmother down."

"The only way you could have let her down was by not wearing it. We'll get a new stone for your ring."

"Yeah, if we start saving now, we might able to afford a diamond by the time Daisy is ready to get married," said Jessica.

"That's only if she skips college. Education is so overrated, anyway," said David with a small smile.

The heat hadn't let up, so Jessica ordered a pizza, David microwaved a side of Tator Tots, and the family sat down to eat. Daisy's picture was posted on the refrigerator to keep it safe from tomato sauce and cheese grease.

After a little TV and some ice cream, Daisy was ready for bed. Forty minutes into a bad movie, David and Jessica decided to call it a day.

They made their usual small talk as they got ready for bed, but Jessica was just going through the motions. After she brushed her teeth, she checked every inch of the bathroom in case the diamond had fallen and bounced on the tile floor. She sighed, put her ring in her jewelry box, and flopped down next to David. He was already asleep.

After an hour of fidgeting, Jessica got out of bed and headed to the kitchen for a cold drink—and maybe some cold pizza. The light from the refrigerator illuminated Daisy's latest masterpiece which was secured to the freezer door with two Hello Kitty magnets.

It was another Christmas tree, of course. This one had branches in three shades of green with silver glitter tinsel and crayon-colored lights. At the very top of the tree, partially covered in glue, was a nearly flawless 2 carat European-cut diamond.
© Copyright 2010 Paula Johnson. All rights reserved.

Paula Johnson is a copywriter and graphic designer who also writes and performs stand-up comedy and maintains The Rose City Sisters Flash Fiction Anthology. This is her fourth flash fiction story. Others are "Good with Names," an account of life with a very modest superpower; "Better Late Than Never," a soap opera love story; and "Lotion" a tale that could only happen in New Orleans. Paula looks forward to reading your submission to this blog. Yes, you.

#54 Please Be Advised

2010-12-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

Please Be Advised

by Scott Alumbaugh

John Laughlin sat in his 43rd floor office, staring at the blinking cursor on his computer screen. He had started a memo and had typed, “Please be advised, my last day with the firm will be…"

But he only got that far. He was a fourth-year associate hard on the partnership track at a corporate law firm. He could see his future and didn’t like what he saw. It was pointless to work, he thought, defending corporations. At the same time, he worried that might just be an excuse, a way of not admitting that he just wasn’t tough enough to succeed. This wasn’t the first time he’d started this memo.

He was interrupted by a knock on his door. He put his computer to sleep as Patrick Gillis, a first-year associate, slipped inside without a word or even a glance in his direction. Gillis immediately turned around and pressed the door closed behind him. In one hand he clutched some documents so tightly that they had become creased. After the door was shut he turned to John.

"Do you have a minute?" Gillis stood with his neck stretched forward and his tortoise-shell glasses perched on the end of his nose. Over the last six months he had lost ten pounds due to stress. His forehead was as creased as the documents. Suspenders held his loose pants. John used to feel sorry for Gillis; he had since come to see him as just a big pain in the ass.

John shook his head. "I've got—"

"This will only take a second." Gillis drilled John with an intense, beseeching stare. "What do you know about real estate?"

John sighed. "Nothing."

Gillis thrust the documents forward. "What do you think about this?"

"What am I looking at?" John asked.

"A trust deed and title insurance policy."

"Okay. Why am I looking at them?"

"The title."

"The what?"

"The title. To the property."

"What about it?"

"How is it held?"

John read the front page of the deed. It listed the owners as "Daniel and Anna Guercio, joint tenants as to a one-half interest and Mark and Catherine Blodget, joint tenants as to a one-half interest."

John shook his head. "I don't know."

Gillis moved around John's desk and peered over his shoulder.

"It's the ‘and.’ Don't you agree?"

John re-read the title declaration. "There are three ‘ands’."

Gillis leaned over him and jabbed at the documents. "This one. Here. The one between ‘interest’ and ‘Mark.’ There's no comma in front of it. That makes it ambiguous. Doesn’t it?"

John nodded.

"So do they hold the property collectively as joint tenants, or in couples as joint tenants and collectively as tenants in common?"

"Beats me."

"That's because it's ambiguous. Right?"

"Uh-huh."

"That's what I thought, too." Gillis looked as if he was relieved to find someone, anyone, who agreed with him. "But you know Barrett. This is for one of his clients. We have to clear a cloud on this title. The property is in Pasadena, but two of these people are missing, Daniel and Anna. They divorced eight years ago. No one knows where either of them live now. I'm not sure who's entitled to notice. What if the undivided one-half interest went to one of the spouses in the divorce settlement? What if they're dead? If it's a tenancy in common, I have to find their heirs. But if it's a joint tenancy, it passes to the others by right of survivorship. At least I think it does. I'm not sure what I should do."

"Hmmm."

"I should find both of them, right? And their heirs. And send notice to all of them just to make sure."

"Sure."

"That's what I thought." Gillis stared at the documents again. He was still crowding over John's shoulder, so John stood up. Gillis backed out to the other side of the desk.

"But that might be a waste of the client's money," Gillis continued.

"What case is this for?"

"It's a favor Barrett's doing for a client he's sucking up to."

"Maybe you should just put everything in a memo to Barrett and let him decide," John said.

"I did. He refused to read it. It came to twenty-three pages. He said it can't be that complicated. He even told me to write off the time it took to draft it. Can you believe that?"

"Yeah," John said, nodding.

"But I can't do that, because then my hours will be too low this month."

John's phone beeped. The liquid crystal floated the name of the caller. Barrett Landry.

"Speak of the devil."

"Who is it?" Gillis asked.

John picked up the phone. "Hello?" He heard noise coming through the other end, the shuffling of papers, and in the background, a voice giving instructions.

"Hello?" John repeated, a little louder.

"Hold on," Barrett ordered. He finished giving his directions and John heard the noise of his door shutting.

"Laughlin?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a minute?"

"Yes."

The phone went silent. John hung up.

"What did he want?"

"To have a meeting, I guess." John grabbed a legal pad and his pen. Gillis moved in front of him, blocking the door.

"Wait. Before you go. Don't tell him I asked you about this. Okay?"

"Sure."

Gillis didn't budge. "And have you heard anything about layoffs?" he asked. "I heard there were going to be layoffs. Do you know who? My wife and I just bought a house. I can't get laid off. Do you think I'll be laid off?"

"I don't know," John said. But he did know that Patrick Gillis had partner written all over him, once he learned to handle the stress. John put the thought aside. "Look,” he said, “I've got to talk to Barrett.”

Gillis backed away, nodding. "Thanks, John."

"Sure."

John watched him leave, then stepped back into his office and shut the door. He had a memo to finish.

Scott Alumbaugh is a web/graphics/print designer. A sailor and an avid cyclist, he formerly wrote a monthly feature (“Sailing Adventures”) for Bay Crossings, and has written extended articles online about his experiences in the Gold Rush Randonnée (a 750-mile, 90-hour event) and other ultra-distance events. Scott lives in Davis, California with his wife, Lisa, and their son, Kazu.

#53 From Kingergarten, with Love

2010-12-03T01:46:00.000-08:00

From Kingergarten, with Love
by Ronni Gordon

Carly Weisman was a New Yorker through and through. She knew where to get her bagels and lox, where to find the perfect Reuben and how to grab the best parking places. She disliked winter, but the change of seasons made up for it.

How, then, had she ended up in Pasadena, and why had she stayed so long?

It all began in kindergarten at the 92nd Street Y, where the rooftop playground overlooked busy Lexington Avenue. She always chose Mikey Miller first for her teams, and he always chose her.

They were in love. She was a pretty little girl with a pear-shaped face, deep brown eyes and a head of dark curly hair. He was a cute little boy with short bangs, striking green eyes and a dimple in his right cheek.

They sat side by side in the toy closet, their knobby knees touching, and made a pact that they would someday marry.

They lost touch when they went their separate ways in first grade. But there he was again in college, calling her name in an elevator. “Carly Weisman, is that you?” he said. “You look just the same as in kindergarten.”

The spark was re-ignited. They dated for a while, but again, they went their separate ways. She settled on the upper east side of New York, got a job teaching high school and married an advertising executive. They had two children, a boy and a girl. Their marriage was bumpy, and when the kids went to college, they called it quits.

After she had tried and failed at the dating game, she got a Facebook friend request asking, “Are you the Carly Weisman from the 92nd Street Y?” She wrote that indeed she was. “Remember me, Mikey? I’m a little ticked off. You and I had a pact that we made in the Y closets,” he wrote.

He lived in Pasadena, writing screenplays. “You should come visit. I have plenty of free time,” he said.

It was winter break, and before she knew it, she was on a plane taking her to the other side of the continent.

Mikey, now Mike and on the way to getting divorced, met her at the airport carrying a rose, the city’s official flower. They hugged and then took a good look at each other. When he smiled, she remembered the cute dimple.

“You look the same!” he said. They both laughed.

He had arranged for her to stay at the apartment of a friend who was out of town. After they brought her bags over, they had dinner in Old Pasadena at DISH, where they updated each other over Oysters Deanna and Lobster Ravioli. She told him that she was afraid to trust again. He told her that although he was not divorced yet, “I’m never going back to her.”

“We’re meant to be together,” he said, putting his hand on top of hers. “You can trust me.”

They discovered that each had developed a passion for tennis, so on the second day he gave her one of his extra racquets and they went the Rose Bowl Tennis Center. He brought two bottles of Gatorade, and when they went up to the net to get a drink, they kissed, a gentle kiss that held the promise of more to come.

He called her every morning, and they made plans to see the sights. Their wanderings included Devil’s Gate Dam and Hahamongna Watershed Park, where they walked hand-in-hand.

One night after they had seen a performance of the Pasadena Dance Theatre, they kissed long and harder in the parking lot. “I think I’m falling in love with you…all over again,” he said.

That night she stayed at his place.

She went “home” in the morning so he could write for a few hours, and their days continued pleasantly, with the promise of more to come.

But about half way through her visit, she noticed that he was calling her later and later in the day. She called him and got his voice mail. “Wonder where you are,” she said. She called again. He didn’t pick up.

When he surfaced, he apologized. “I had a deadline, and then my son called with a problem, and I just couldn’t get away. How about I pick you up for tennis?”

He had brought only one Gatorade, and it wasn’t for her.

One day he didn’t call at all.

His friend had left a car, so she drove to Jameson Brown, got a dark roast coffee and spread out the Los Angeles Times. But her head was spinning, and it was hard to read.

Two women wandered over. Mary, a professor at Caltech, and Rebecca, a freelance writer, asked if they could join her.

She felt like they were old friends, and the story poured out of her. “I feel like I’m being hung out to dry,” she said, her eyes filling up.

“You should ask him what’s going on,” Mary said.

So that night she emailed him.

“I trusted you to be up front with me,” she wrote. “I will not go crazy if you changed your mind. I just need to know.”

The next morning, silence.

She dialed her new friends, who met her at the café. Carly’s stomach ached, and her head hurt.

“I wonder if he went back to his wife,” she said. “I wonder if I said something. I wonder if he hated my backhand. How can someone just disappear?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Rebecca said. “There’s a book called ‘He’s Just Not That Into You.’ You should read it.”

Carly was leaving in three days. The three friends linked arms and went for a long walk, the warm breeze soothing her. She had lost a chance at love, but she had gained two friends.

“I’m sure he’ll show up again,” Carly said. “Next time I’m going to hit him over the head with a tennis racquet.”

They laughed until they cried.

Ronni Gordon is a freelance journalist living in Western Massachusetts. She spent most of her career writing arts and features for The Republican, a regional daily in Springfield, Mass. She is also published in the New York Times magazine and on the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute’s website. She is the proud mother of three children and owner of a Labrador retriever, Maddie, short for Madison, as in Madison Ave., in honor of her hometown, New York City.

#52 Ten Things I Hate About Thanksgiving

2010-11-12T00:02:00.000-08:00

Turducken Wrapped in Bacon

Ten Things I Hate About Thanksgiving
by Margaret Finnegan

1. Turkey.

I am a vegetarian, Brian. You knew that when you met me. Deal.

2. Travel.

Pasadena, California? That is at least twelve screaming, stinking babies from Miami. I’d rather shoot myself.

3. Your mother.

Evil, Evil, Evil.

4. Football.

You know how this will play out as well as I do, Brian. You’ll spend all day watching football with your dad and the two moose-like brothers who used to lock you in the closet just so they could watch “Dukes of Hazard” instead of babysit you.

In the meantime, I will be relegated to kitchen patrol and have to face down your evil mother while she literally tries to pry my jaws open and stuff my mouth with the damn turkey that she has even given a name to. (Don’t think I’ve forgotten the stuffing incident of ’07. There were giblets, Brian. Giblets!)

5. Alcohol.

There is none of it. None. See #3.

6. Leftovers.

I am not checking a bag full of dark meat, sausage stuffing, and bacon biscuits hoisted upon me by your mother. First of all: it will drive those drug-sniffing dogs crazy, which will totally slow us down and maybe even put us on the no-fly list.

Second of all: Like I’m really going to cart around some salmonella-poisoned carcass that I won’t eat and that would kill you.

Third—and most importantly—checked luggage. CHECKED! LUGGAGE!

7. Last time, your mother called me a “FAT, booze-hounding cow” and lit my hair on fire.

Don’t tell me those birthday candles were an accident. I know.

8. I will not be called FAT.

9. Did I mention your brothers?

Your dad’s OK.

10. Who the hell cares?

I won’t go, Brian. No way. Not in a million years. Not if she was on her deathbed and said I was as thin as Angelina Jolie. And if you love me at all, you will just drop this whole idea and go buy a damn lentil loaf from Whole Foods so we can give thanks like real Americans: alienated from our crappy families and proud of it.
© Copyright 2010 Margaret Finnegan. All rights reserved.

Margaret Finnegan is a frequent contributor to The Rose City Sisters. Her story, "Sweet Revenge," was voted the 2009 Story of the Year by fellow contributors to this blog. She blogs at Finnegan Begin Again. To read an excerpt of her novel, "The Goddess Lounge," visit her website.

A baker's dozen bloggers contribute to Writer Unboxed

2010-11-11T18:08:00.000-08:00

Petrea Burchard, writer, photographer, and several other things including—no lie—the voice of Stater Bros. commercials, turned me on to Writer Unboxed, a team blog about the craft and business of genre fiction.

We're Team Helen

2010-11-05T13:50:00.000-07:00

Getting the perfect author photo

2010-11-05T07:00:00.000-07:00

Do author photos really matter? asked an article in the Christian Science Monitor.

Short answer: Yup.

If you're a writer in the Los Angeles area and need a photo for your book jacket as well as online and print promotion, sign up for Photo Day #7 on Saturday, January 15.

Can't make the date? Visit the page anyway and email a request to be notified about future dates.

Dear Money by Martha McPhee

2010-10-19T21:30:00.000-07:00

I just finished "Dear Money" by Martha McPhee, a wonderful novel about a novelist who becomes bond trader in pre-mortgage loan meltdown Manhattan.

I loved the plot, cared about the characters, and sort of binged on the luxury of the author's well-crafted sentences. Do hunt down this book!

I like writers as characters. I'm going to share more books and films that feature a writer as a main character. If you can recommend any titles, share them in the comments.

Writing tips from novelist Kaye Dacus

2010-10-14T06:01:00.000-07:00

I do love a good list and so, it seems, does novelist Kaye Dacus. She shared her top ten writing tips on The Writer's Alley blog.

I like #4: Read five published novels in your genre for every one craft book you read. Yes, ma'am!

Tracking sales, trends, titles

2010-10-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

Novel Rank is a swell little site that lets authors track the ranking of both print and Kindle versions of their books in the U.S., Canada, and the U.K. In spite of the name, the site tracks non-fiction as well as novels.

No book to track? Bookmark the site anyway. Perusing the top 10 lists may clue you into upcoming trends. It's also fun to analyze book cover design and book titles.

#51 Some Thoughts of a Non-custodial Parent While Sitting on the John, 20 Years Later

2010-10-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

Some Thoughts of a Non-custodial Parent While Sitting on the John, 20 Years Later

by Dianne Patrizzi

Ants crawl out from the ornate metal overflow drain-hole up to the marble edge out of the sink. They travel down its antique pedestal across the plank floor, and form a single file line from pedestal to muddy gardening shoe laying just a few feet away.

In 1892, the floor was built in this house for one of the twenty Quaker families that had migrated to Pasadena from Pennsylvania. Friends meetings were sometimes held here before they constructed the Meeting House up the street. Human voices quieted. Nothing to be heard but the soft brushing of worn leather soles against wood. Friends seeking the light within, sat on benches at these communal gatherings. I sit on a single seat.

This old oak floor had provided a platform for the ants to journey, year after year. An ant had to exercise extreme caution by keeping in line along the thick baseboards to avoid being stepped on by the crowd. On this Sunday, the only worshipper these ants need fear is me. While I sit on the john contemplating my garden shoes.

It stopped raining after three days, a perfect time to get the seeds into the ground. There's no time to change clothes. I've got to plant while the planting is good.

My gardening shoes were not gardening shoes. These were shoes that had fallen from grace. The muddy heap of shredded black and brown were once shiny black leather pumps injected with confidence. My work shoes, foundations for springing into action. They had taken me places.

The day after I lost my job, I began thinking of my unemployment as the wonderful opportunity my co-workers told me it would be. For the first time in twenty years, I'd be able to do the things that I rarely had time to do; spend time with my children, write the novel, grow my own tomatoes. Here was my chance to fulfill the need to explore my inner self and the world outside of corporate slavery.

I watch the ants march past the gardening shoes, up the stack of newspapers by the tub. Carefully and with great solemnity, the ants climb each stair of print as if ascending the Spanish Steps on a first trip to Rome. Will the first sight of expanse of tub give them pause? Will they be as awestruck as I would be upon seeing the Colliseum? Will the ants be as silently exuberant as the Quaker Friends were when they gazed out at the beautiful Rancho San Pasqual from the front porch of this house on Galena Street?

Dianne Patrizzi aka Patrizzi Intergalactica, aka Miss Havisham, aka Havisham Patrizzi has been a blogger since early 2002. She has had many incarnations. After losing her entire portfolio in a wildfire in 2003, she has been on the road to recovery, bit by bit. She lives in Pasadena, California with her kittten Inigo Montoya Frederico Garcia Lorca. She hopes to be able to find her rightful place in this world after much trial and tribulation. Her oil paintings are somewhat psychedelic. Her fashion design and construction is quite retro 1930s. She loves to write plays and produce podcasts and is always happy to jump in to any production or performance.

Finding inspiration

2010-10-01T08:01:00.000-07:00

Need a little push?

A little fragment of an idea?

Something to make you think of something else that could be just the something you need to start a story?

Of course you do. These sites may help.

• Found Magazine presents ephemera doled out as "find of the day."

• Had To Say features anonymous messages that reveal a crush, chastise a co-worker, rage at a toxic parent, confess a wrongdoing, and weigh in on the many emotions generated when lives intersect.

• Overhead in New York is just that: snippets of conversations.

Being prompt(ed)

2010-09-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, there's an ex-CIA operative who now works part-time as a bartender at a hole-in-the-wall frequented by the grown children of women who became pregnant as the result of alien abductions. When she's not serving light beers and Cosmos to half-humans, she enjoys base-jumping and knitting.

She'd like to write a novel or a short story, but doesn't know where to find inspiration.

To her, and anyone who needs a nudge, I say try a writing prompt. Monica Wood's "Pocket Muse" (volumes 1 and 2) are both keepers and Write Starts by Hal Zina Bennett looks good, but if you don't want to leave your keyboard, try the prompts on these sites:

Adam Maxwell's Writing Prompts Generator

Creative Writing Prompts

Fiction Writing Prompts for Characters

Writer's Digest Writing Prompts

365 Pictures Prompts

Writing a novel using the web

2010-09-29T14:00:00.000-07:00

Mashable.com has lots of great content, but Josh Catone's article, "How to: Write a Novel Using the Web," offers some best practices you might want to adopt.

Don't miss the comments section. Mashable readers tend to add value to the article with their own tips and ideas.

Getting to know IWOSC

2010-09-29T07:15:00.000-07:00

Independent Writers of Southern California is one of the area's oldest writers groups, and sponsors monthly meetings and workshops in Culver City.

If you're in the Los Angeles area, check their website for upcoming events.

Saving endangered words

2010-09-23T15:30:00.000-07:00

This site is both technically dazzling and informative.

Pick a word. Adopt it. Use it in conversation and writing. Save a word!

Getting answers

2010-09-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

Brian A. Klems writes the Questions and Quandaries blog for the Writer's Digest website. He covers everything from agents to grammar to tax advice.

He has cute kids, too. (See his April 7, 2009 blog entry.)

Rising to the challenge

2010-09-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

Every other month, Writer's Digest publishes a logline that describes "Your Story," a tale you must tell in 750 words or less.

The WD editors pick the top five stories, and WD forum members pick the winner. There's no entry fee, but there are prizes.

Past challenges have attracted 400 to 1,000+ entries, so your story better sing if you want to be singled out.

For complete details, visit the "Your Story" page on the WD website.

Real Simple's Life Lessons essay contest

2010-09-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

Real Simple magazine is sponsoring its third annual essay contest and there is no good reason why you shouldn't enter.

Your piece needs to be original, no more than 1,500 words in length, and recount a "huge, suprising risk." A risk? Like…physical? Emotional? Spiritual? Intellectual? Romantic? Financial? Sure, pick one.

The winner gets $3,000 and other nifty prizes. The contest details are here, the deadline is September 24, 2010, and the winner will be selected by March 8, 2011.

No risk, no rewards.

Mixing things up

2010-09-10T07:04:00.000-07:00

The online generater at Wordsmith.org will show you the anagrams of any name or phrase you enter.

"Rose City Sisters" becomes "Secret Riot Sissy." Which neatly summarizes our feelings about being anywhere near public protests verging on the messy.

Taking a break from words

2010-09-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

If the words are just smooshing together—in your mind or on the page—take a break and play a fast game of Chain Factor. No pesky letters, just a little math and strategy.

Another game that gives you a quick break is Tiles of the Simpsons. It's tougher than it looks.

The Writers Store is moving to Burbank!

2010-09-02T14:04:00.000-07:00

I love the Writers Store, but rarely make the hike to its west Los Angeles location. That's why I did a little happy dance when I read that the Writers Store is moving to Burbank.

The new store opens on Tuesday, September 7, at 3510 Magnolia Blvd.. Here's the map, their website, their Twitter page, and their Facebook Page.

Yup, I am excited!

Finding the right word

2010-09-02T11:30:00.000-07:00

To tell a story in 1,000 words or less, you need to make each word work.

Michael Quinion's World Wide Words website offers help. Check his "weird words index" for gems like blatherskite and tatterdemalion. His "turn of a phrase index" contains keepers like commentariat and menaissance. His books are available at all the usual places, and his weekly e-newsletter is free.

Naming your characters

2010-09-02T09:00:00.000-07:00

Baby name books are handy for naming characters. What's even easier is What A Lovely Name, a website that lets you find names that communicate specified traits.

If you have an iPhone, check out NameShake. This swell little app lets you find the right names in seconds.You'll get the meaning and the country of origin, too.

#50 San Andreas Fault

2010-08-27T00:01:00.000-07:00

San Andreas Fault
by Scott Alumbaugh

“Look, it's San Andreas Fault. It runs right under the highway and out through the bay.”

Tania Cho was speeding down the Shoreline Highway, pointing right, across the dashboard, toward Tomales Bay. The top was down in her convertible, so she raised her voice to be heard.

Her boyfriend, John Laughlin, looked over to where she was pointing. He didn't see anything that looked like a quake fault. He saw bushes that mostly blocked his view of the bay. A few eucalyptus trees. Salt marsh. Things you see all over California.


But as he looked he tried to think of how he should respond. He didn't like having to yell or strain to hear. He didn't have much interest in talking at all. But he knew he had to say something.

“It's not San Andreas' fault,” he said at last. “It's nobody's fault.”

“What?” Tania yelled back. “Nobody's what?” She was smiling, enjoying the drive.

He instantly regretted saying it. Now he'd have to explain. He too often had to explain himself to her.

“Oh,” she said, getting it. “Nobody's fault? Silly! San Andreas didn't discover it. Andrew Lawson did. He named it after a sag pond off the 280.”

John nodded, clenching his teeth. He was born in California. He knew earthquakes, and he sure as hell knew about the San Andreas fault.

Tania stopped smiling, sensing his mood. She wanted to talk geology; show him how Point Reyes Peninsula, right across the bay from where they were driving, has traveled hundreds of miles north over millions of years because it sits on a different plate from the one they were driving on. Instead she focused on the road. The silence worked on John's nerves. Finally, he couldn't take the tension anymore.

“Look, I was trying to make a joke. San Andreas' fault; possessive, not nominative.”

“Adjectival,” Tania said. Then she added, “Is that it?”

He nodded. “Ya, it was just a bad joke.”

“Bullshit.”

John rubbed his hands on his thighs, scratched his forehead. Four hundred miles to go before they got back to Pasadena. Bad time to start a fight. But she was a prosecutor. He knew she wouldn't let it go.

He started quietly. “I meant it as a pun. But now that I think about it, it's actually a good analogy. Two plates touch each other here at the fault, right? One's moving north. Most of the time it moves along with no problem, but occasionally there's a hang up, then an earthquake, and all hell breaks loose. It's not the fault's fault, so to speak.”

She stayed quiet, so he continued.

“It's like us. We're going in different directions. It's not anyone's fault, per se, but occasionally it causes problems. Like this.”

Tania's jaw dropped.

“People are not rocks, John. Relationships are not ruled by plate tectonics. You decide and you act, or cause a result by choosing not to act.”

He sighed. “I just think our relationship should flow more easily.”

Tania paused, angry, but not wanting to drive him too far into himself. “Nothing flows, John. Everything takes work. You're burned out. You're taking a break from your career, and that's good. But don't confuse me with jour job.”

She looked over and saw he was listening.

“You think things flow because they do for you. You walked into your old firm in a suit and tie and fit right in from day one. You get invited to the Jonathan Club by your managing partner. I get asked out for sushi.”

Her mention of sushi made John think about when they met. His law firm represented a bank against one of its customers, a businessman who it turned out was running a Ponzi scheme. When he defaulted on a loan, the bank sued him; but the state was prosecuting him first. The partner John worked under sent him over to talk to the prosecutor, a Ms. Tania Cho, to learn what he could about her case.

From the start she was all business. He liked that about her. As he was leaving, he said, “You're a straight shooter, Tania.”

She said, “I don't have time to play games, Mr. Laughlin.”

He made an excuse to meet again. After, he invited her out for sushi. He smiled now at his own awkwardness. He wondered how many other ways he sold her short, how little effort he put into finding out who she really was.

He looked over at her now and realized he hadn't really looked directly at her all day. Realizing he was blocking her out. Realizing that was stupid.

He reached over and placed his hand on top of hers. She turned hers over and their fingers intertwined. She smiled at him.

He looked past Tania to the hills.

“What are those called again? The outcroppings?”

“Bluechist Knockers.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Shouldn't they come in pairs?”

“They're part of the Franciscan Complex.”

“Sounds like a Catholic sex disorder.”

“And Point Reyes is all granite,” she said, nodding to the right. “Salinian Block.”

“I'm sure there's a salacious pun in there somewhere.”

“And we haven't even talked about subduction yet. Or the Cascadia Megathrust.”

“Wow, geological porn. Who knew?”

“Is it getting you hard?”

He rolled his eyes.

They slowed as they entered Point Reyes Station.

“You really love this stuff, don't you?” he said.

“I think it's fascinating. I thought I would be a geologist when I grew up.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“Because people are a lot more interesting than rocks.”

“A lot more difficult.”

“Yes. But people can change, grow.”

Tania pulled over in front of a bakery and stopped. She turned off the car and looked straight into John's eyes, smiling now.

“Even you.”

© Copyright 2010 Scott Alumbaugh. All rights reserved.

Taking the plunge with a Facebook Page

2010-08-26T22:25:00.000-07:00

The Rose City Sisters is now on Facebook!

Writing longer works with the Snowflake Method

2010-08-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

Flash fiction is great, but if you want or need to tell a longer story, check out Randy Ingermanson's "Snowflake Method."

It's an organized, logical way to build a story from a one-sentence logline to a finished manuscript.

Fighting plagarism with Copyscape

2010-08-26T10:01:00.000-07:00

Copyscape is a clever online plagiarism protection service that lets you hunt down copies of your work on the web.

If you've sold only the print rights to your work, find out if it's been posted online. Heck, you can find out if someone is passing off your work as their own. (The scoundrels.)

They even offer banners for your site to let others know you monitor your content.

#49 Manifesto of a Neglected Chipmunk

2010-08-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

Manifesto of a Neglected Chipmunk
by Kelly I. Hitchcock

I got played with more when I was on the shelf at Target. Toddlers would pick me up and whack me against the other toys until their mommies forcibly extracted me from their tiny vice grip fingers. They’d say “that’s not for babies” and then smear more Germ-X on their miniature hands. Those were the good old days, “the before-time”, as I like to call it. Then I got stuck with you. When we first met, you didn’t even give me the sniff test or the slobbery-tongued lick test you enjoying giving to finer objects like the laundry room floor and the concrete slab on the back patio. No, you just cocked your scruffy head at me, trying to be all cute and then looked at your owners—no, I’m sorry, I forgot we’re all PC now and you call them “human companions”—like what is this rubbish? and pranced away with your shiny black nose up in the air and your long prissy tail fur all fanned out, swaying meticulously with each calculated stride.

As undignified as it is, my life’s purpose is to be covered with your nasty droolies, get batted around like a kitten’s ball of string, and be shaken until my stuffing brains burst through their flimsy seams. It is not to lie unplayed with in the same spot, day after day, until it’s time to vacuum. They bought me to help you deal with your sissypants separation anxiety. I was supposed to be the friend you got to play with while mommy and daddy were at work all day. After they finally accepted that you weren’t interested, they didn’t even bother to put me up on the fridge, where the view is better and the air cooler, when they came home. From up there, I could see you in the backyard whenever one of the real life versions of me decided to cheat death and cut through the lawn to the Bellefontaine Nursery across the street, where they have all the unshelved 20-pound sacks of birdseed stacked up in the parking lot.

I don’t blame the real chipmunks. It’s like taking candy from a baby, and it’s not like they can’t outrun you, fatty. Yeah, I know all about the eight pounds you gained last year. Eight more and you’re in the pricier tier of pet meds. That’s why they want you in the back yard where you can get some exercise chasing the real me’s. It’s like someone puts speed in your kibble. And yet, just because I don’t have the inner architecture for locomoting through the house, you won’t even give me the time of day. Hello? We have the same tail, the same stripes, the same beautiful snowy white belly. Who needs motion when you’ve got a squeaker?

Oh, that’s right. You probably didn’t even remember that I had a squeaker. You spend too much time playing with your other friend, that filthy, ratty old penguin Mr. Tuxedo. He’s told me his side of the story. He was the twelfth stuffed animal penguin Christmas gift from your Grandhuman, given to you so she’d get the hint that your mommy didn’t want penguin paraphernalia as gifts anymore. How come he gets the cool name, and I get stuck with the unimaginative moniker “Chip Monk”? He certainly doesn’t have a squeaker. I am an American Kennel Club 100% polyester faux fur canine companion. My label even reads perfect for dogs. Harrumph. Perfect for normal dogs.

Then again, you’re the dog who didn’t even like the Kong. Oh yeah. Mr. Tuxedo told me all about it. When you don’t like the toy Dr. Mears recommends to all pet owners—sorry, human companions—there’s something objectively wrong with you. You’re like a kid that doesn’t like candy, a man that doesn’t like beer, a hardwood floor that doesn’t like Murphy’s Oil Soap. Ahem. Forgive my specificity on that last menu item. The living room floor and I have been spending a lot of time together. We really hit it off that first day your human companions left you home with me and Mr. Tuxedo, the day after you tried to eat your way through the door of your room and peed on the floor during that horrible thunderstorm. Yeah, Mr. Tuxedo told me about that, too. The floor got to look at my clean alabaster tummy all day long, because I was in the same all-fours position they put me in when they left for the day: poised for chasing, alert, ready to take on the world. You were supposed to love me.

It’s a good thing they leave the TV on for you because of your shelter dog separation anxiety. It gives me something to do while you play with Mr. Tuxedo in plain sight to make me jealous. I’m not jealous. Mr. Tuxedo thinks that maybe it’s my bad attitude that makes you less likely to play with me. I think Mr. Tuxedo got dropped on his head on that trip from the sweatshop to the Wal-Mart clearance aisle one too many times. That or his bow tie is cutting off circulation to his brain. Besides, I like watching that Jerry Springer. His final thoughts are really insightful. And I’m convinced that one of these days Brooke will remember that she and Ridge are soul mates and figure out that Taylor gave her amnesia and that Whit is not her real son. Yes, I know you’re more of a Y&R fan, you overgrown fleabag.
© Copyright 2010 Kelly I. Hitchcock. All rights reserved.

Kelly I. Hitchcock is a novelist, poet, and blogger from a poor stretch of the Ozarks in Southwest Missouri. A graduate of the creative writing program at Missouri State University, Kelly’s poems have been featured in Clackamas Literary Review and Foliate Oak Literary Journal. Her last story for this blog was "Ad Hominem." She lives in Kansas City and is an avid volunteer and fundraiser for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. Learn more about the author and her work by visiting her website and following her on Twitter.

Finding a place to write

2010-08-19T07:25:00.000-07:00

Writing at home can be a challenge, but it's hardly insurmountable. Playwright Rib Davis offers his advice on the "ultimate workpace" in this four-page article (in PDF form).

UCLA Writers Faire on Sunday, August 22

2010-08-19T00:01:00.000-07:00

UCLA Writers Faire offers 24 free mini-classes writing fiction, nonfiction, scripts, and more. I went last year and thought it was time well spent.

Seats fill up fast for the hottest topics, but, with a bit of planning (and jogging), you'll be able to hear your favorite speakers. In addition, vendors like The Writers Store have table displays.

In 2009, there was only one cafeteria open for lunch, and the lines were long, so this year I might brown bag it.

This year's event is on Sunday, August 22, 2010. You'll spend a few bucks for parking and lunch, but the event itself is free. Visit the event page for details and the schedule of classes.

#48 Good With Names

2010-08-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

Good With Names

by Paula Johnson

I can't fly. I'm not very strong. No x-ray vision, even after Lasik surgery. Still, I have superpowers. Okay, just one superpower.

I'm good with names. Always have been.

A few weeks before my fifth birthday (and my first day of school), Mom took me shopping for "big girl clothes." Loaded down with bags of OshKosh ensembles and StrideRite shoes, Mom decided I deserved a rare treat: lunch at the food court.

The aroma of cinnamon buns and pizza was intoxicating, but I chose a hot dog on a stick. The stick was free!

We sat down, and I started dunking my deep-fried dog in ketchup before each bite. When Mom handed me a napkin, I glanced up and saw a man slide her purse off the back of her chair, slip it into his jacket, and keep walking.

"HEY!" I bellowed. "THAT'S NOT YOURS!" At four-and-eleventh-twelfths years old, I had the lungs of a drill sergeant. He disappeared into the crowd.

Someone alerted mall security and they called the cops, so we ended our day filling out a police report in a tiny office. Even worse, I lost my free stick.

Mom didn't get a look at the thief, but witnesses said he was young, white, medium build, and about 5' 8" tall. So…almost anyone.

"His name is Jeffrey Arnold Moscarino," I volunteered.

"You know him?" asked Officer Wilson.

"I know his name," I said.

"You know this Moscarino?" he asked Mom. "Neighbor kid? Baby-sitter's boyfriend?"

She shook her head and said she'd ask my dad. Luckily, Mom kept her keys in her pocket so we could get home.

The police ran Moscarino's name and found his address. Officer Wilson called to say they arrested him and recovered Mom's purse. She hung up and asked how I knew his name.

"I know everybody's name." I pointed out the window at the postal carrier approaching our house. "Jin Salvatore Yang." My mother paused for a moment, then dashed outside. After a brief, animated conversation, she returned with this fact: Mr. Yang had been born in an ambulance with the help of a paramedic named Salvatore Giordano.

Then I recited the complete names of everyone on our block, including people I had only seen from a distance.

That night, my parents explained that knowing names is different than knowing colors or letters. Dad asked me if I could keep my "gift" secret.

"Just so no one feels bad because they aren't good with names like you," he said.

So I didn't mention that my kindergarten teacher's first name was Sunshine but we were told to call her Miss Susan.

And I kept my mouth shut when I came home from middle school and spotted our new neighbor: a tall, full-figured woman named Richard Brian Weber. Hiding my gift was easy. Kids want to fit in, not stand out.

Like all superpowers, mine has limits. I have to see a person, face to face. So when Mom and I watched "Overboard" for the hundredth time, I had to Google "Goldie Hawn" to discover she was really Goldie Jean Studlendgehawn. Studlendgehawn?

By the time I was 17, the only other person who knew about my gift was Uncle Tim. Mom's brother was a priest at a church an hour south of Memphis. My secret was safe.

We hadn't seen Uncle Tim in a few years, so my folks decided to squeeze in a family vacation between my high school graduation and the start of my summer job. That's why I was at Tennessee's Meeman-Shelby Forest State Park instead of Malibu that June.

But before Uncle Tim could hang with us, "Father Timothy" had to escort 58 students back to his parish after their week at Bible camp. The kids were about my age, so I grabbed a seat on the bus and became fast friends with a girl named Bernie (Bernadette Philomena Fitzgerald, to be exact).

We were more than halfway to Uncle Tim's church when our driver spotted a vintage Cadillac on the shoulder, steam pouring from its engine. As our driver parked the bus, I saw a handsome man with a shock of white hair near the car. He was punching numbers into a cell phone.

"JESUS CHRIST!" I shouted. Uncle Tim inhaled sharply and started praying in Latin. I grabbed his arm.

"No," I said. "That's not the Son of God, it's the Man from Memphis. That's Elvis Aaron Presley." Uncle Tim shot out of his seat and ran toward the front of the bus.

I don't know if was the conviction in my voice or Uncle Tim's reaction, but those happy campers turned into crazed paparazzi.

In seconds, dozens of cell phones were taking pictures. In minutes, photos started appearing on Facebook, Twitter, Flickr, and in emails.

I made my way to the front of the bus, but Uncle Tim told the driver to keep the doors closed. It didn't matter. Kids were hanging out the windows, shouting requests.

I could not take my eyes off the King as he gazed down the road, unaffected by the chaos around him.

Two black SUVs pulled up behind the Caddy. A young man leaped out and opened the back door. Mr. Presley paused before getting in. He looked right at me and he curled his lip, just a little. The nun next to me fainted. The SUVs roared away.

The Elvis sighting dominated the news for a few days, then became just another entry on urban legend websites.

I started Art Center that fall and ended up working my way through college by putting names to faces for the FBI, TSA, NSA, CIA, and, during one summer in London, MI-6.

I married a wonderful man and we have a daughter who's almost five. She recently showed me something that makes my skill with names look like a parlor trick. She knows her gift is our little secret…for now.

Paula Johnson is a copywriter and graphic designer who also writes and performs stand-up comedy and maintains The Rose City Sisters Flash Fiction Anthology. She wrote "Better Late Than Never" and "Lotion" for this blog. She wants to know when she can expect a story from you.

Trying the "Page 69 Test"

2010-08-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

Can't decide which novel to read? In his book, "How to Read a Novel," author John Sutherland recommends Marshall McLuhan's "Page 69 Test."

That's right, just flip to page 69 and see if the writing works for you.

There's even a blog dedicated to feedback from novelist who have evaluated their own work based on page 69.

Hmmm, maybe it's time to break out your manuscript and read page who-know-what.

#47 One Moonlit Night

2010-08-06T07:03:00.000-07:00

One Moonlit Night
by Lynn Nicholas

A chill shimmied up Elizabeth’s spine, causing her shoulders to contract in a tremulous shudder. She felt oddly disoriented. Massaging gently, careful not to stain her white evening gloves with makeup, she worked her fingertips across her forehead to her temples. If she could relieve the tightness, maybe she could stave-off the damn headache hovering just behind her eyes.

Sighing with impatience at herself, Elizabeth squared her delicate jaw with determination. She tucked a straying ringlet back into place and tugged on the low-cut bodice of her Victorian-era costume: a peacock-blue, silk ball gown. Elizabeth Stanley could barely contain her exasperation at feeling so out-of-sorts, tonight of all nights. The Victorian Grand Summer Ball was her baby. She’d been the heart, soul, and sometimes drill sergeant of event planning for the Pasadena Social Daunce Irregulars for the past fifteen years. This event was the shining star in her personal firmament. This night was hers, if only she could clear her head enough to enjoy it.

Partially hidden in the shadow by the huge stone fireplace, Elizabeth studied the room. It was the ideal vantage point to chart her path across the dance floor. Gathering up the edge of her tiered skirt, she lifted her head, adjusted her posture, and began her sweep of the ballroom. Eyes lighting on no one in particular but watchful for admiring gazes, she circled the floor, each step calculated to show off her costume.

The lighting in the room was soft and flattering. Someone had dimmed the chandeliers and opened the heavy burgundy drapes to allow silvered moonlight to spill across the hall. The gold and brown grain of the polished wood floor gleamed. The swirl of color as the dancers assembled was almost dizzying: gowns of every hue, tiaras catching the light and reflecting rainbows back, men in period costumes ranging from brocade jackets to full tuxedos. Elizabeth caught sight of a classic polonaise gown, circa 1876, in the deepest of emerald greens with a white overskirt, and there was Daniel Taft in full Civil War military regalia. Bruce Anderson was, of course, sporting kilt.

The band members had begun to seat themselves; the scraping of their wooden chairs rose above the buzz of voices. The Band of the California Battalion was playing tonight, in full uniform, authentic down to their period instruments. Light reflected in starry bursts from their brass instruments and medaled chests. Someone new was on second chair cornet. Odd. She knew everyone. Elizabeth nodded towards the musicians but, too absorbed in her own thoughts, failed to notice that her greeting was not returned. The strangest sensation of déjà vu had swept over her. Maybe it’s a past-life memory. She smiled at herself. She’d been living in California for too long. It must be the historical ambiance of old War Memorial Building Elizabeth silently congratulated herself on her event-planning skills.

As she moved through the crowd, Elizabeth’s disquiet grew. Was it her imagination or was she actually being ignored? Had she been a bit too heavy handed at the last meeting? She could swear two of the committee members had looked right through her. Poise shaken, Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed with momentary embarrassment. No. If they had decided to slight her, she was damned if she would acknowledge the snub. She calmly redirected her gaze across the room, discreetly searching the crowd for Peter. Had he told her he would be late? Now she couldn’t remember why she had arrived alone. There was something just at the edge of memory that she was missing tonight. She hoped a migraine wasn’t coming on. Where was Peter, anyway?. Once she found him, everything would be alright. For now, she would pick up her dance card at the reception table and—

“Booking this hall was Elizabeth’s brainstorm. It’s the perfect setting, so we didn’t change.”

Elizabeth paused. Lydia Mercer and some woman she didn’t know were deep in conversation at the reception table. Could they be so engrossed in their gossiping that they didn’t notice her approaching? Elizabeth lowered her eyes and turned slightly away, pretending absorption in adjusting her evening gloves. She leaned closer, just within earshot.

“It was a year ago tonight.” Lydia wasn’t making much of an effort to keep her voice down. “I know you never met her, but you'll hear about it sooner or later anyway.”

The tiny woman in the pink flounced gown was all ears and eyes, leaning closer to Lydia. “So, what happened exactly?” she said.

Lydia stopped fiddling with the dance cards and focused all her attention on her friend. “Rumor has it that she and Peter—her long-time dance partner—had a terrible fight on the way over. He jumped out of the car, and she drove the last two miles herself. Evidently both she and Peter had been drinking. They say she wasn’t wearing her seat belt, so when she rammed the car into that large oak tree behind the hall, she was thrown thirty feet down the rocky drive.

Elizabeth turned slowly, raising her eyes to the ornate wall mirror just in front of Lydia and the smaller woman. She could see their faces clearly, their voracious expressions.

Lydia continued, breathless with excitement, “She managed to stagger up to the back entrance and collapsed just inside, over there by the fireplace. She died before the paramedics got here. Horrible. Peter never forgave himself. He moved to New Mexico a few months after the funeral.”

Their reflections. Elizabeth saw their reflections. Her head pounded. For the first time she noticed the dirty grass stains on her lovely white gloves, the ruined skirt. Her disquiet became terror. The room spun.

“What was her name again?”

“Elizabeth.” Lydia replied. “Elizabeth Stanley.”
© Copyright 2010 Lynn Nicholas. All rights reserved.

Lynn Nicholas, a LiveJournal blogger, is also active on FanStory.com as "allinmyhead,"where she posts work for critique and reviews other writers’ submissions. She is the author of "Jumping the Tracks" and "Round One: The Cookie" which appeared on this blog. An experienced technical editor, she is now enjoying honing her writing skills, specializing in humorous commentary. Lynn's fiction and poetry are inspired by real-life experience. Motto: when life throws you curves, find a way to use it in your writing. She lives in Tucson, AZ

Promoting your writing with a website

2010-07-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

Award-winning author
and lecturer Michele Zack

Even if my business did not involve web design, I would still be confounded by the number of fellow writers who do not have websites. They invest countless hours perfecting their work in hopes of getting published or produced, but remain to nearly invisible online.

I covered how to register a domain in an earlier post. If you've registered yourname.com or yourbookname.com (good for you!) but don't yet have a website, make sure you forward your domain to your LinkedIn profile, blog, or Twitter page.

The great thing about websites is that you can start small. The site I designed for author Michele Zack is just one page. It will grow in the future, but right now it's doing its job:promoting her books, offering her services as a speaker, and sharing links to her press coverage.

If you're thinking about (or stressing over) creating a website, download the web worksheet I created for my clients. This two-page PDF on writing content and thinking about design will help you get started—no matter who you hire to help you.

Check my online portfolio to see more websites I designed for writers and other types of clients. (That was my horn, and now I've tooted it.)

Who do you write like?

2010-07-22T11:25:00.000-07:00

I Write Like is a fun little website that analyzes your writing sample and tells you which famous author your writing is most like. It's as scientific as anything that takes under 10 seconds can be.

I put our 2009 story of the year finalists to the test. Here are the results:

Belinda's Birthday by Petrea Burchard = STEPHEN KING

Downsized by Janet Aird = DAVID FOSTER WALLACE

Get Gone by Cindie Geddes = CORY DOCTOROW

Glorietta and Red Bob Come to Terms by Laura L Mays Hoopes = STEPHEN KING

A Losing Game by Bonnie Schroeder = WILLIAM GIBSON

Quicky by Desireé Zamorano = VLADIMIR NABOKOV

Sweet Revenge by Margaret Finnegan = STEPHEN KING

Three Stephen Kings? Hmmmm.

As for me, one of my flash fiction stories was James Joycian, while the other was Raymond Chandleresque. That must mean something, but I'm not sure what.

#46 An Original Sleight

2010-07-16T00:01:00.000-07:00

An Original Sleight

by David Groves

Thirsty Jones was some kind of street masterpiece. His acid tongue, his East End disdain, his angle-proof sleights, inspired me. Old Town audiences hung on his every obscene inflection, relished every stamp of his footprint across their smiling mugs.

“Here’s a space helmet, kid,” Jones said to one 7-year-old, tossing him a plastic grocery bag, and the audience roared.

Four months later, Thirsty was in Melbourne. I was in the process of losing something. My cubicle job, for one thing. I took a deck of Aviators, a thumbtip, and three silks to the street. I was Thirsty’s progeny. After six hours, though, I pulled only $6 and a black button out of my hat. But three months later, I was pulling $120 a night. I was paying my rent in ones. I felt earthbound by all the ballast I had accumulated over the years—manners, the ability to color inside the lines, the tendency to recoil from pain—and hurling it all over the side was what I was now all about.

I was sitting on a red curb between shows listening to Sexton, the unintelligible Nigerian illegal with no legs who cleaned up doing trick handstands on his hypertrophied arms, when it struck me: a method for transforming one coin into two with a toss and a Tenkai retrieval. I searched the literature; it was original. I went insomniac just thinking about where it might take me. I could become Jay Sankey’s BFF. Don Casino Productions would book me. I could procure an invitation to the Fechter’s Convention.

Thirsty, I heard, was in Switzerland.

By September, Jimmy Whinesalot was working as a plant in my audience.

“That coin flip really fried my butt,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, handing him his cut.

“So fly, man.”

Thirsty, they said, was playing Key West.

But late one Sunday, I spotted him in The Aw Come Inn with Ice Mike, the breakdancer who had just been paroled. My stomach fluttered. I had to tell him. I sat down at their table unbidden and introduced myself. They went silent and cold. I told Thirsty he had inspired me to quit my nowhere job at the rental agency. Thirsty just stared. I wanted to tell him all about what I had lost—the drowning feeling, everything—but it seemed I would have to purchase admission. I took out my only currency, a Franklin half, tossed it into the air, and when it hit my palm, it had become two.

“It’s my own," I said.

Thirsty’s face didn’t crack. He just looked down.

“That is by far the most obvious, most ill executed, most execrable trick I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I don’t know how you can even call yourself a magician, performing such vile, derivative garbage. And by the way, did you even notice that we were having a conversation?”

I skulked away, my scalp sweating. For three days, I walked around town aimlessly. I had lost something else now. I felt I knew nothing. The landscape before me was burnt. When I discovered I could no longer perform for strangers, I took a job at a yogurt shop.

Ten months later, back in another cubicle, leafing surreptitiously behind a training notebook through the august pages of Penumbra, I saw Jones’ byline. I had to catch my breath. The editor claimed Jones had pioneered a significant advance in the literature. The longer I read, the more it fuzzed up. There were photographs of Jones’ hands performing each step of the sleight. The longer I looked, the more they looked like claws.
© Copyright 2010 David Groves. All rights reserved.

David Groves is a full-time professional magician and author of the book, Be a Street Magician!: A How-To Guide (Aha! Press, 1998). He performs stage magic and mentalism at corporate events, motivational events, and private parties, and his closeup magic at three Westside restaurants per week. He has published over 500 articles in a variety of publications, from Esquire to Harper’s Bazaar to North American Review and many others.

A new kind of name dropping

2010-07-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

How do bestselling novelists get their jollies? I mean, besides cashing checks?

According to this Writer's Digest video, some writers give cameos to characters from their friends' novels.

#45 June is a Farmer’s Wife

2010-07-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

June is a Farmer’s Wife
by Tace Halliday

“My Love,” she says. “What it is like to spread your hands over the land and bless it? Bless it green.”

Through the dining room window I see my fields as the sun falls to the earth and blades light across the green canopy that grows more skyward everyday.

I think about what she is saying, and for a moment, I can’t help picturing myself dressed in long robes droning out incantations and blessings over the fields. I almost smile at this but quickly come back to her world where everything is heavy. I tell her, “It’s not like that…”

“It must be. You keep doing it. You never leave it.”

“I could say the same of you. The children, our home…”

Her sigh escapes slowly, the cavity holding her discontent tipping out its reserves. My comprehension has been found wanting.

With dinner over, we have been watching our children, a son and a daughter, as they play outside the window with the pinwheels I brought back from town after a day at the market. Together they run with their toys held high, sometimes stopping to let the wind gust and bate, let each draft of energy spin the plastic wings to father flashes of color and light.

June now pushes the dirtied plates and the emptied serving dishes out of her way. She lays her hands across our table, her palms before me as if she’s asking for a blessing.

“What I do…it’s nothing,” she says.

I’ve heard this before. She’s weary of the outdoors that always finds its way to rest on her kitchen floor. Or the laundry that must be hung out to dry, a chore that she says grows and grows and never dies. I see it all, this ordinary life, and these same things that need doing again and again.

For now I pass over her hands to skim the tender flesh at the crook of one arm. At my touch she closes her eyes and eases away from this day’s light, her head now cushioned on one outstretched arm, and for that moment she rests as my beloved.

Finally, I do take her hands in mine. To me they are like the pinwheels, each bringing joy and comfort in their steady spinning, always spinning, unless… Sometimes the earth isn’t strong enough to assemble the wind to keep the blades going. That’s when I’ll spin them for her. Or let them rest, until the vents open up again, blasting the air in its circuits to find her, (always she must be found and blessed), sustaining her against days so perfect and ordered until in some future, I pray, she will know that the beauty is in the doing.
© Copyright 2010 Stacey Smith. All rights reserved.

Tace Halliday lives in South Texas with her husband and three sons. She maintains the blog Entropified. Her last story for the Rose City Sisters was "Jelly Jar."

Jumping into the 2010 Script-A-Thon

2010-07-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

There's still time to enter the 2010 Script-A-Thon and spend July in a caffeine-fueled race to complete your screenplay.

They are not kidding about the caffeine. Contest organizers have arranged discounts at more than a dozen coffeehouses.

The late entry deadline is July 7, the entry fee is low ($35) and the prizes are great.

Visit the Script-A-Thon website for full details. Your can register online, natch! Not ready to write this year? Join the mailing list for a reminder about the 2011 event.

Determining your point of view

2010-06-30T21:15:00.000-07:00

Need help deciding which point of view to use for your story? This article explains first person, second person, and variations on third person.

Psst! This blog entry was first posted in 2009. But it's worth looking at again.

#44 Peep Me Out

2010-06-25T09:00:00.000-07:00

Peep Me Out
by Stephen R. Wolcott

“Hmm, the dog walker’s havin’ fits with Buster again,” Jesse said, peering intently out the dining room window that faced the street.

“Watch. He’ll break free. See!”

A compact, big-boned blonde in a pink jumpsuit wrestled with a tangled mass of rope hooked to three Rottweilers. A fourth frothy beast veered off from the pack, untethered.

“And Becky will dive on him as if she were ropin’ a steer,” Jesse continued, bemused. Sure enough, the woman skillfully nabbed her elusive prey.

“How do you know her name?” I asked.

Jesse, riveted to the neighborhood scene, didn’t hear me or didn’t want to answer. I shifted in my chair uncomfortably, sitting across from him, my wife Lynda, and her 95-year old grandmother, who needed constant supervision as of late. Various family members had agreed to take turns watching this feisty matriarch, who vowed to live at the Pasadena ranch home built by her late husband some 60 years ago. This week, her son Jesse served as nursemaid, paying a rare visit from Arkansas. We made the trek from Torrance to cook dinner for them. Lynda never talked much about her uncle, except that he was a Vietnam Vet and hunted anything that moved, including squirrel. I had no idea what he did for a living.

“5:15. That hot Asian masseuse gonna pull up right…about…now,” Jesse announced, snapping his fingers. Sure enough, a silver Celica stopped just shy of the house with an attractive black-haired woman behind the wheel.

“Just come from Drummond’s house,” Jesse said, smirking. “He calls her a ‘physical therapist.’ Uh-huh.”

“Pete Drummond. On Washington near the library,” Iris muttered, her memory as shaky as the finger pointing toward a house on the corner. “Fell off the…the…”

“The roof. I remember that,” Lynda chimed in. “Gosh, how long ago was that? Thirty years? But he didn’t seem so bad off at the time. You’d think by now…”

Jesse hushed us.

“Now I figure she done stop to pull herself together,” he assessed. “Crosses herself, takes a deep swig off a plain wrapped container. Pounds the dashboard. Big deep breath, then takes off.”

As the Celica sped away, I shifted uncomfortably again, trying to figure out what was more odd: the mysterious driver or Jesse’s acute observations. At 60-something Jesse looked rugged and fit. Clean-shaven. Short dark hair with only a hint of gray. Oozing with Southern hospitality. Had all his teeth. Maybe if I knew more about his background…

Iris suddenly coughed violently. Lynda instinctively jumped to her side.

“You okay, Grandma?” she said with alarm.

She coughed again, her frail frame ready to break apart like brittle candy.

“I’ll get some water,” I said, bolting for the kitchen.

“She’ll be fine,” said Jesse calmly. “Happens a couple times a day.”

When I returned, Iris was sipping a juicebox. I must have missed that.

“Got it covered, but thanks anyway, Brad,” Jesse said.

“Oh,” was all I could muster, staring dumbly as he dabbed Iris’s mouth with a napkin. She sniffed the air suspiciously.

“What’s that smell?”

“I brought your favorite, Grandma,” Lynda said, leaning into her. “Roast turkey and dumplings.”

“Oh, aren’t you the sweetest,” Iris said.

“Much better than what Josie’s been carting home,” Jesse said, pointing to the house directly across the street.

“Josie?” I asked.

“Take-out, every night I been here,” Jesse explained. “Mostly Church’s fried chicken. And guessing by her slim figure, she don’t eat it. Just her husband, who shuffles in come ten, eleven from working at Target. Pulling in the driveway now, check it out.”

I stared at Lynda, whose look of concern was now matching my own. What’s with this guy? His Peeping Tom antics were starting to creep me out.

“Now she’ll get out of the car, but won’t go in the house,” he continued. “Not until she goes to the truck, grabs the sunshade for the dash. Never mind that it’s overcast.”

Lynda tried to change the subject. “Hey, Jesse, have you heard from your wife since you been here?” she asked, but he ignored her. He relished playing puppeteer to all the action in the neighborhood.

“Now here’s the sad part,” Jesse said. “Frank Beecham next door sees Josie and walks over to say hello. But she’ll completely ignore him and make a beeline for the house. Some bad blood there.”

We all were caught up in this voyeuristic scene. I couldn’t help feeling like James Stewart in Rear Window. Jesse continued making keen observations about everything in view—from the hair growing out 16-year old Billy’s birthmark to the psychological analysis of Ginger, a chain-smoking single mom with implants.

“She took a second on the house to help pay for the pair of ‘em,” he said, matter-of-factly.

I finally had to chime in.

“Excuse me for asking, Jesse,” I said. “But I’m curious why you know so much about…” I faltered, but Lynda quickly jumped in.

“Um, Jesse, I think Brad’s just wondering how you know so much about the neighbors,” she said gingerly. “After being here only a few days.”

Jesse chuckled. “Well, I guess it comes with the territory.”

I didn’t catch his drift.

“Since Mom’s asleep most of the day,” he said. “I got plenty of time to canvas the area, get a good read on things.”

Please tell me this guy isn’t a perv. Lynda, however, came to a realization.

“Are you saying, that it’s kind of like instinct?” she asked. “Based on what you used to do, day in, day out?”

“Right,” Jesse said matter of factly. “The training never leaves you. And a sheriff never ever really retires.”

I slumped back in my chair, befuddled.

“Well, not much action for a couple of hours,” Jesse whispered, leaning into me. “Until that cross-dresser rolls in. Who’s hungry?”
© Copyright 2010 Stephen R. Wolcott. All rights reserved.

Stephen R. Wolcott is an award-winning writer/producer with over 100 television, behind-the-scenes “making of’ and documentary projects to his credit. In addition, he’s interviewed a wide range of celebrities and notable figures, including William Shatner, Richard Gere, astronaut Buzz Aldrin, Gary Sinise, Robert Wagner, JPL/NASA scientists, Whoopi Goldberg, and almost every cast member from the Star Trek films and television series.

In print, his work as appeared in Emmy Magazine, Now Playing and The Pasadena Weekly. One of his latest ventures, “Film2Fact” explores fascinating truths in popular motion pictures—in other words, the ‘real’ in the ‘reel’. He also enjoys traveling cerebrally to of his former Craftsman home in Pasadena’s Bungalow Heaven.

Knowing a locale like the locals

2010-06-24T10:00:00.000-07:00

Looking for a setting for your story? Need an interesting hometown for a character? These websites will help you find information on real communities or provide inspiration for creating a fictional city.

U.S. Census Bureau's State and County QuickFacts give you lots of demographics for your selected city, including oddities like workers' "mean travel time to work."

This We Know delivers a mash-up of information from six different government agencies.

The U.S. Chamber of Commerce website lists the chambers of commerce for many communities. Click a state, then choose a city. (I spent way too much time learning all about Aberdeen, South Dakota.)

Sperling's Best Places lets you compare the crime rates of any two cities. .

Money Magazine's Best Places to Live lists 100 cities that have strong local economies, good schools, low crime, and a high quality of life.

Using Flickr for inspiration

2010-06-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

Whether or not you use Flickr to store and share your photos, use the site (without joining) for visual inspiration. Here's how:

Go to Flickr's Explore page and select a month. Let's say…your birthday month.

Then choose a day in that month. Oh, I don't know. How about your birthday?

A mini-window will appear with six small photos that were uploaded to Flickr on that day. Don't think too hard—just click the image that feels right. A larger version will appear.

Print the page, hang it over your monitor and write a story based on the photo.

Me? I ended up a picture of a butterfly-shaped patchwork potholder with rick-rack antenna. It's much too pretty to use. It's the kind of thing you'd see in a grandmother's kitchen right after World War II. I think I feel a story coming on…

Boning up on book trailers

2010-06-10T13:00:00.000-07:00

I'm just pining to produce a book trailer. Never mind that I've yet to finish my novel. Perhaps I want to be an auteur more than an author. Hmmm.

Anyway, I heard author Annette Fix speak at a writers event last year and now visit her Twitter page whenever I need a little kick in the pants—or a link to a great resource.

She wrote "Book Trailer Basics: Bring Your Story to Life" for the online magazine Women On Writing and it tells you everything you need to know about putting together a great promotional video. Annette's article includes a passel of embedded trailers. Don't miss the wacky one for Laurie Notaro's "Spooky Little Girl."

Blogging for writers? Damn straight!

2010-06-03T17:00:00.000-07:00

If you're a writer in the Los Angeles area, plan a trek to Glendale on Saturday morning to hear Rose City Sisters contributor Petrea Burchard speak at the Alameda Writers Group (AWG) meeting.

She's an actress (stage, TV, film, and voice), a columnist, photographer, and writer (flash fiction, short stories, and now a novel).

If she wasn't so nice, I'd hate her guts.

Her presentation, "Blog Your Writing Career: Ten Tips for Putting Your Best Cyberfoot Forward," will help you start blogging strategically. Writers are notoriously bad at promoting themselves—let Petrea give you a gentle kick in your heinie.

Details? You betcha:
Saturday, June 5, 2010 
10 am – noon
Glendale Central Library (upstairs auditorium)
222 E. Harvard St., Glendale
Admission is free!

More details? Check the AWG website.

Save the date: Women Writing the West

2010-06-03T07:00:00.000-07:00

Women Writing the West will hold its 16th annual conference, A Write Retreat, at Arizona's Rancho de los Caballeros resort from October 15 through 17, 2010. Speakers

• Randall Platt "What Acting Can Teach Us About Writing"
• Donis Casey "How To Commit Murder"
• Sheila Wood Foard "A Conversation about Writing for Children and YAs"

The group (and conference) is open to all. That includes menfolk. The conference page of their website has a downloadable PDFs of the full program and registration details.

Looking forward to "Bad Writing"

2010-05-27T07:00:00.000-07:00

"Bad Writing" is a feature-length documentary about the process of writing.

Watch the trailer and let me know if you want to see this film as much as I do! Let's find a screening, a DVD, or a someone who can present this slice of genius as interpretive dance.

For more information, visit the official website or the film's Facebook Page.

Writing with partners

2010-05-20T12:20:00.000-07:00

Have you ever written with a partner?

Collaboration is more common among those who write scripts and sketches, but some novelists write in tandem as well. One of the most famous collaborations is Frederic Dannay and Manfred Lee, who wrote together as Ellery Queen.

Claudia Johnson and Matt Stevensare are the co-authors of “Script Partners,” the marriage manual for collaborators. Read their articles "Finding the Right Writing Partner" and "Top Ten Reasons to Write with a Partner" to find out if you should start looking for Mr. (or Ms) Write.

Don't worry if it takes a few tries to find the right chemistry. Eric Idle paired up with every member of Monty Python before teaming up with John Du Prez—to write musical scores.

#43 Conclusion

2010-05-14T00:21:00.000-07:00

Conclusion
by Windi Padia

“I swear myself away, which is what I do every time I come to you, and what you want me to do because you also are an addict of impossible relationships and theatrical scenes.”
—John Le Carré

Amanda proposed to Sam when they both were fifty-one years old, under the desert stars, the same old song playing. He stood behind her and held her waist, and kissed her ear and said yes. It felt to her that marriage had become the only conclusion.

The church was tiny, white reflective stone in the glare of the desert heat, although its stark beauty was tempered by surrounding yellow cactus flowers and blooming sage bushes. Like all the buildings on the street, stone steps led up to the entrance. The town hugged the afternoon shade of a large mesa, as if the buildings themselves were climbing out of the baked clay and making their way toward the flash flood-carved canyons of tall rock in the distance.

Warm light poured in from the stained glass window to blend with the pink in Amanda’s dress and the auburn rust of her hair, forming a visual cacophony of color that wanted to be red. She was nodding at the priest by her side, one flip-flopped foot balanced on her big toe. She yelled to an old man taking bets in the corner, “Oliver, what are we up to now?” and gave a thumbs up to his answer of three hundred twenty dollars. In the daylight when the songs weren’t playing and the stars weren’t out, it all seemed rather ridiculous.

Her dress was beginning to get sticky under the arms and she was tired of standing on her feet in front of everyone. It should never have gotten this far. Their love was supposed to be untested; that’s the only way it held any magic over her. The disappointments that came over and over again always held hope, but this was the biggest disappointment of them all. The number one way a guy could reject a woman, his lover, his friend. Not show up to the church on time. Not show up to the church at all. It was surely, definitively, over. There was no more at the end of this.

It was more than that. Always she had known that it was love. It wasn’t love that could make it through times of contentment, or stability, but love that could thrive only when they both were seeking. Seeking change, seeking uncertainty, seeking to upset their worlds just so that something interesting would happen. A marriage contract added a foundation to this love, and thus nullified it. He knew that, which is why he didn’t show.

She knew it now.

All that was left for them was to seek contentment separately, and come back together when their lives demanded it of them. Finding men for her was easy. Maybe she would find one she could tolerate for a long time and who would forgive her impulsive emotions. Was it hope to also know that Sam would appear in her life again, and then disappear, and leave a void for a short while that would burn and twist its way through her body? Would the short times with him—like that hotel in Pasadena a couple of years ago—be worth their twisted escapes from each other? Was it hope or just knowledge of her addiction?

She stepped onto the platform by the altar and raised her hands sticky with sweat. “He’s not coming,” she said. And then louder, “He’s not coming. Let’s eat.”

And everyone tucked into their food like it was what they’d been expecting all along, and then after the food, the bets were settled and everyone went home. In the tiny bathroom off the church kitchen, Amanda took off her wedding dress and changed into jeans, alone. The sadness didn’t come right away, like she’d expected. She went home that night, and turned the fans on, and dreamed about her sister. Not Sam, like she’d expected.

The sadness never set in heavy and pressing like it always had before. She’d think of him at times and there would be a halting moment where she forgot what she was doing. But that was it.

Windi Padia grew up wanting to be a biologist and is now in the Human Resources section of a state wildlife agency, where humans make much more fascinating subjects. She is currently writing human-interest articles for Colorado Outdoors Magazine. Her blog, Crazy Coppertop, is the diary of a crazy redhead.

#42 Weekend Warriors

2010-05-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

Weekend Warriors
by Mark Barkawitz

It was 6:15 Sunday morning when I picked up Sammy, an old grade school buddy, from the converted garage in which he lived behind my mom’s house. We were headed for Pacific Palisades , where a half-finished paint job awaited us. I had another job to start Monday morning, so I was trying to stay on schedule. Sammy? He was late with this month’s rent.

“Want some coffee?” With one hand I poured myself a cup from the thermos; with the other I steered my pick-up over the Pasadena streets still wet from last night’s rain. The dark skies over the mountains and surrounding areas looked foreboding.

Sammy shook his head. He didn’t look well, slumped down in the seat, his black, walrus mustache, two-day-old beard, and droopy, bloodshot eyes peeking out from the hood of his paint-splattered sweatshirt.

“You okay?”

“No.” He sniffed. “I god a co’d and I’m gonna miss the Raiders’ game. Why do you always hab to work on the weekends?” He rested his head back against the head rest.

“There’s aspirin in the glove compartment.”

I got on the 210 freeway and headed west to the 134. Even without traffic, we had a forty-five minute drive, so I was speeding a little, checking the rearview mirror for CHPs. “What’s the spread on today’s game?” I sipped the steamy coffee.

“Raiders plus six-and-a-hapf.” Sammy coughed. “Oh-h. My troad is killing me.”

I gave him a cough drop from the box in my jacket pocket. I was getting over a cold myself. “The Raiders stink. They won’t even beat the spread.” The rain-soaked sod of the Oakland/Alameda Coliseum would offer no home field advantage today.

“How much?” Sammy loved to gamble, even if he had no money.

“Ten-spot.”

We bumped knuckles, just as a camouflage-painted SUV sped by us on the left, doing about seventy-five. The four-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee sprayed water from the wet concrete onto my windshield.

“Whad’s their rush?” Sammy complained.

I flipped on the wipers. On back of the Jeep, a bumper sticker read: “Army Reserve.”

“Weekend warriors. Formerly. Now probably headed for Iraq or Afghanistan. Bummer.”

Sammy took out a piece of toilet paper from the pocket of his overalls and blew his nose. “I god this from you, ya know.” He sat back and closed his heavy eyelids.

“It’s flu season.” It started to rain lightly, so I left on the wipers. “Just your turn, bro.” I turned on the radio to an old Nirvana jam—“Teen Spirit”—and turned it up.

Sammy reached over and turned it down. “Do you mind? I’m trying to sleeb.” He shoved his hands defiantly into the pouch of his sweatshirt and closed his eyes again.

“Hey, what’s that?” I pointed over the steering wheel.

Up ahead, a smoke-like mist rose from the wet freeway and brake lights flashed red from the few slowing cars. I slowed, too, and turned off the radio. In the far left lane, a black Camaro with a large dent in its fender was stopped sideways. A teenage guy got out of the driver’s side. On the right, the camouflage Jeep was upside down on its roof, having spun to a stop against the freeway guardrail. It was impossible to see its occupants through the fogged windows, so I pulled over to the right.

“Hey! What are you stobbing for?” Sammy asked.

I got out of my truck and ran back through the light rain. Traffic had already started to back up, with everyone wanting to see what had happened as they cruised slowly past the crash scene. When I reached the Jeep, a crew-cut young man in Army fatigues was already crawling out the broken back window. Blood ran down his face. I got down on my knees to help him. As he crawled out, I could see another soldier upside down in the passenger seat, trying to undo the seatbelt that harnessed him to what was now the ceiling. I climbed in over the shattered safety glass. But before I could reach him, he got the seatbelt unfastened and fell on the roof, which was now the floor. I grabbed his arm and pulled him, backing over the shattered glass and out through the back window. A siren grew louder. I leaned him against the upside down Jeep. There was no blood on his face or Desert Camouflage Uniform, but he sure looked dazed.

Sammy walked up behind me. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know.”

An ambulance with flashing lights stopped behind the Jeep. Two paramedics jumped out. One ran to the bleeding driver, who sat against the concrete wall that had prevented the Jeep from sliding off the freeway and onto the on-ramp below. The other, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and carrying an Emergency medical bag, ran toward us. He already had on rubber gloves.

“Get back,” he told me. “Let him breath.” He took hold of the soldier’s arm and checked his eyes. “Any headache? Nausea?”

Sammy grabbed my arm. “Led’s ged outta here before the cobs show up.”

He was right. We could already hear their sirens distantly approaching. I didn’t have time for the million-and-one questions the police would ask—we had our own job to do—so we headed back to the truck and both fastened our seatbelts before I drove back onto the freeway for Pacific Palisades.

Sammy coughed again, then shook his head. “Wow. ‘Dat was weird.”

“Yeah.” I turned the radio back on. The palm of my hand was sore from leaning on the shattered safety glass, so I rubbed it on my damp Levis.

Sammy took the crumpled toilet paper from the pocket of his overalls and blew his nose again. “I hade it when you dribe fast.”

Outside, the light rain continued to fall, as the wipers—back and forth—slapped the raindrops off my windshield. Hell, I was only doing sixty. But Sammy was right again—because it suddenly felt much faster.
© Copyright 2010 Mark Barkawitz. All rights reserved

Mark Barkawitz has earned local and national awards for his fiction, poetry, essay, and screenwriting. His work has appeared in newspapers, magazines, literary journals, anthologies, underground ‘zines, and is posted on numerous websites. He wrote the screenplay for the feature film, “Turn of the Blade” (NorthStar Ent., ’95) and has taught creative writing classes at the community college level. He coaches a championship track team of student/athletes and ran the 2001 L.A. Marathon in 3:44:42. He lives with his wife, has two kids, and breeds golden retrievers (Woof Goldens) in his backyard in Pasadena, CA.

Asking for a minute of your time—right now

2010-05-06T12:15:00.000-07:00

I'm in favor of anything that gets writers writing.

You don't have to commit to writing a novel in a month. And maybe you haven't found the time to write a flash fiction story. (A fact that has caused me to shed many a tear.)

You can invest sixty seconds at the One Word website and write whatever comes to mind about the single word that appears on your screen when you click GO.

Just write. Right now. It'll only take a minute. When your time's up, share what you wrote in the comments.

Signing off in style

2010-04-29T12:42:00.000-07:00

An email signature is a free, simple way to look professional, communicate your brand, and make life easier for the recipients of your email messages. By my tally, that's win-win-win.

So why don't more writers use email signatures? (Please enter your excuses in the comments section. And make them creative.)

If you're ready to start signing off in style, these steps should get you started.

1. Decide what to include.
Typically, a signature contains your name, plus a few of these items:

• Name
• Description, like Author of the novel "Wild, Willful Wench" or Writer/Writing Teacher 
• Address 
• Telephone number(s) 
• Web address 
• Blog address 
• Social media links (LinkedIn, Twitter, Facebook, MySpace)
Hunt down the full addresses for any websites as you'll need the URL, starting with http, to create links.

2. Format your content.
Let's say you've decided on this:

Jane Smith
Technical writer
Office: 000/000-0000
Cell: 000/000-0000
Website: http://www.paulaljohnson.com
Blog: http://paulaljohnson.blogspot.com

I'm using my own URLs, but you get the idea.

Most email programs will let you change the font, the weight and the color. However, don't choose an exotic font because if the recipient does have the font on their computer, your signature will default to something like the decidedly unsexy Courier.

So you jazz it up a bit and decide on this:

JANE SMITH :: Technical writer
OFFICE 000/000-0000
CELL 000/000-0000
SITE http://www.paulaljohnson.com
BLOG http://paulaljohnson.blogspot.com

3. Learn how signatures work in your specific email program.
If you enter "email signatures" in your email program's HELP window, you should find what you need to set up your signature. To get you going, here are instructions for the most common programs:

• Email signatures in Outlook

• Email signatures in Apple Mail

• Email signatures in Entourage

• Email signatures in Thunderbird

Don't despair if the instructions don't match what's on your screen exactly. Software gets updated all the time, so some items may be reordered or on another menu. Poke around—you'll figure it out.

If you don't have an email program but instead check your mail from a web browser, you can still have an email signature. Just look for a menu item called "tools" or "settings" or "preferences."

4. Fine tune your signature and test it.

When you paste your signature into the signature window, add a few hard returns above it so there is always space between the last line of your message and the start of your signature. If your program doesn't turn your URLs into clickable links, you can do that manually (in most programs).

Finally, type a few lines in a test message and send it to yourself. Adjust the signature as needed, then start using it.

If you'd like more ~~bossy advice~~ helpful suggestions for marketing yourself, read part one, part two, and part three of "Upping your online presence"

#41 Round One: The Cookie

2010-04-23T07:00:00.000-07:00

Round One: The Cookie
by Lynn Nicholas

Susan surveyed the wreckage. The ceramic floor tile shone from the patina of spilled sugar crystals. Nearly empty tubes of frosting oozed colored gel, staining the festive paper tablecloths. Susan grasped a cloth at one corner, expertly enfolding decorating paraphernalia and gooey mess all in one deft movement. The crumbled bundle landed neatly in the trash bin. The rest could wait until morning. She was bone-aching tired but deeply satisfied with the evening.

Closing her eyes to the shambles, Susan inhaled the lingering aroma of baked cookies. The holiday cookie-decorating party had been a great idea—current disarray aside. Her friends even asked her to host another one next year. They were all so lighthearted this eveningz; rolling out dough and sharing favorite cookie cutters, joking as they passed bowls of colorful Royal Icing between tables. The finished cookies were gorgeous. Everyone filled tins to take home.

Even Paul’s grown-up daughters had shown up. Notorious holiday cynics, their enthusiastic participation surprised Susan. Their enjoyment in decorating the cookies seemed to be genuine. Heads almost touching, Julie’s blond hair entangled with Anna’s dark, they carefully shielded their handiwork from copycats. The artistic detail on their finished cookies was impressive. Her stepdaughters actually hugged her before they left. Susan smiled to herself. Finally, their coolness towards her was melting. She even heard them giggling as they got into their car. She stretched happily, contentment filling every pore.

Susan kicked her off her shoes and happy-danced towards the bedroom. It had been the perfect party. She had to admit to herself that she’d been eager for her stepdaughters to see her through her friends’ eyes, as someone generous and kind and warm. She was loved by her friends, adored by Paul, and wanted her stepdaughters to, at least, like her. Including them tonight with her friends was a public declaration that they were a family. She took the girls’ participation as their unspoken accord.

Loosening an earring one-handed, Susan reached towards her jewelry box. She froze, eyes widening with bewildered disbelief. The earring bounced off the carpet as her hands rose involuntarily to her mouth. She gasped for breath: gut-punched and nauseous. Embarrassment at her own naivety and stupid optimism flooded her face with hot color. Tears of humiliation blurred her vision. If this was the girls’ idea of a joke, it was cruel and cowardly. She envisioned them sniggering spitefully all the way home, imagining her reaction.

It was a cookie, hand-decorated especially for her and artfully placed where only she would find it, on top of the leather jewelry case. They must have used the Mrs. Claus cookie cutter. No attention to detail had been spared, from the softly curled hairdo and the naked breasts adorned with raisin nipples, down to the vulgar chocolate-frosting mat of pubic hair, enhanced with silver sugar crystals. This was more than a cynical mockery of her holiday celebration; it was a judgment.

Susan took a deep, shaking breath and sank into the bedroom chair. She leaned forward, her right arm protectively hugging her middle; her chin supported on the back of her left hand. She glanced pensively at her husband’s slumbering form. He was everything to her.

Newly resolute, Susan stood up and squared her shoulders. Okay. Now she understood the rules of the game, and she had the home court advantage. The girls were about to learn that she would not crumble as easily as this Christmas cookie. Neither was she as sweet. They had only won Round One.
© Copyright 2010 Lynn Nicholas. All rights reserved.

Lynn Nicholas, a LiveJournal blogger, is also active on FanStory.com as "allinmyhead,"where she posts work for critique and reviews other writers’ submissions. She is the author of "Jumping the Tracks," which appeared on this blog in June 2009. An experienced technical editor, she is now enjoying honing her writing skills, specializing in humorous commentary. Lynn's fiction and poetry are inspired by real-life experience. Motto: when life throws you curves, find a way to use it in your writing. She lives in Tucson, AZ.

#40 Central Park

2010-04-16T10:00:00.000-07:00

Central Park
by Margaret Finnegan

“Did you throw this at me?”

“Excuse me?,” said Sheila.

“Did you throw this bagel at me?” The woman shoved the hunk of bread in Sheila’s face. Sheila could see now that the woman was much buffer than she’d looked from the sidewalk. From there, she’d seemed like one of those toothpick mamas that you barely notice when they turn sideways because they’re all Lycracized chests and asses. But up close, it was clear that the woman was maybe thirty percent biceps, maybe forty.

“Throw a bagel at you? Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” said the woman as she slammed the aluminum bar along the edge of her baby stroller into Sheila’s knees. “But you’re the only one around here with a Noah’s bag.”

The baby whimpered and then began to wail. “And now you woke up the baby, you freak. Thanks a lot.” Hurling the bagel at Sheila, the woman snarled, grabbed her stroller and jogged away.

Sheila watched the woman disappear into the crowd heading for lunch over in Old Town. Over by the play equipment she saw an old man with a poodle squinting at her. He took a few steps, then stopped and squinted some more.

Sheila felt her face redden. She twisted her head this way and that as if to say, “What horrible person in this park would throw a bagel at a woman and her baby? What horrible person would do such a sick thing? Where? Where could that that horrible, sick person be?

Pretty soon she got tired of that. Plus, it was making her neck sore and who cared what some old man thought. She exhaled a warm, flat sigh and reviewed her situation.

The truth was, she’d made her bed. Now she was pretty well lying in it. She’d cast her die. She’d done her deed. And she’d gotten what she wanted. That was the ironic part. After a lifetime of strategic planning and perseverance, she’d landed exactly where she wanted.

What a fucking mess.

A cloud passed over the sun, casting the whole park in cold shadow. The baby in the Bugaboo next to her squirmed and the whole more-expensive-than-the-fricking-wedding contraption began to shake. Sheila stood up, shoved the bag into the stroller basket and headed home.
© Copyright 2010 Margaret Finnegan. All rights reserved.

Nurturing creativity

2010-04-15T07:13:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth Gilbert, author of "Eat, Pray, Love," talks about nurturing creativity. I didn't love the book, but I did like her TED talk. What do you think?

#39 Ad Hominem

2010-04-09T12:01:00.000-07:00

Ad Hominem
by Kelly I. Hitchcock

Alex Wilson placed her hands on the heart rate sensors of the treadmill. Two miles down, two miles to go. This was her thrice weekly training routine for the upcoming Pasadena Marathon. It was her first, so she didn’t really know how to train, but she figured as long as she kept running, she wouldn’t fall apart too badly. She began to give herself the internal encouragement speech she gave herself every time she ran, to keep from quitting early or thinking about a juicy cheeseburger.

All right, you’re halfway there. You did one half; you know you can do two. Doin’ great and feelin’ good.

She adjusted the volume in her earbuds, attached to the TV mechanism of the treadmill. Sometimes, she came to the gym just to watch TV. At home, she got eight channels. At the gym, she got 150. Friends asked her why she didn’t get cable, but between her job at legal aid, where most of her cases involved helping illegal aliens seeking asylum, and her law school student loans, it just wasn’t in the cards. Alex didn’t mind much, though. There wasn’t a whole lot on TV she wanted to see anyway. Except C-SPAN, which she was tuned to now. Alex didn’t care that other people considered C-SPAN the golf of the news world; to her, it was like porn. She couldn’t get enough of it, and it kept her going through those extra miles. It was keeping her going right now.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Coughing Dude approaching. She called him Coughing Dude because she didn’t know his real name (and didn’t care to), and because he coughed and cleared his throat constantly while working out. Alex had considered choosing a different treadmill, since Coughing Dude liked to pick the one next to her, but she liked this one, and thought that because he was the annoying one, he was the one who should pick a different machine. She adjusted the volume in her earbuds higher to have a plausible excuse to not talk to Coughing Dude, but the House floor was in the middle of voting, so there was a lot of intermittent silence.

“Hey, it’s C-SPAN girl,” Coughing Dude said in Alex’s general direction, throwing a gym towel over his shoulder. She briefly considered by saying Hey, it’s Coughing Dude, but instead pretended to not hear him and placed her hands on the heart rate sensors to indicate how focused she was on her workout.

The gym was Alex’s fourth least favorite place to be hit on, behind the ultra-cheap grocery store, her office, and the laundromat. She kept her eyes locked on the tiny TV screen and tried to avoid watching her un-California white legs in the giant mirror facing the entire cardio room.

“So,” Coughing Dude yelled from his treadmill, his pace a brisk walk. “Whaddaya think of the healthcare bill?”

Alex half-considered pretending she didn’t hear him again, but knew he wouldn’t fall for it. Her thoughts on the legislation in question were many, and complicated, but she just wanted to placate him and get back to her run. She removed her right earbud only long enough to answer.

“There are things I like about it and things I don’t.”

He sped up his pace to a jog. “Think it’s a step in the right direction.”

Alex smiled, nodded, and fixed her eyes on the screen again. One and a half more miles to go. The floor was taking a fifteen minute recess. She thought about changing the channel, but then thought Coughing Dude might just ask more questions.

“Ya think Obama’s gonna reverse all the actions in the Patriot Act? I sure hope so.” He coughed, then cleared his throat.

Alex didn’t bother removing her earbuds or looking at him. “Me too.”
As soon as the red digits under Distance ticked over to 3.25, Alex turned up the pace. She hoped she could do the last three-fourths of a mile in enough time to avoid any more questions from Coughing Dude. Five minutes passed before his treadmill slowed to a stop and the next question came.

“So didja hear ‘bout Jackson buildin’ 3,000 more square miles of razor fence at the border? Right thing to do I hope.”

Alex looked up from the TV and caught her face reddening in the mirror. She hoped Coughing Dude didn’t see it. She thought of all the immigrants she saw in her run-down, musty office, day in and day out. She thought of the young women who spent every penny they had to come to Hollywood, where they were promised an acting or modeling job that didn’t exist. She thought of the young men who washed dishes in diners that couldn’t pass health inspections so they could send money back home to pay for a parent’s medical operation. She thought of the children who smuggled drugs in for the Mexican cartels only to end up living on the streets. She thought of all these things as she told Coughing Dude what she thought of the additional fence at the border, running hard, her face flushing brightly.

Coughing Dude nodded. “Makes a lotta sense.” He wiped his face with the towel on his shoulder then exited the treadmill.

“Y’should really run fer office,” he said, walking past her.

Funny, Alex thought of saying. I didn’t know watching C-SPAN and having an opinion qualified you for public office. Instead, she shot him an incredulous half-laugh to signal what a joke that’d be. He waved as he rounded the corner out of the cardio room.

Alex was no fool. She knew how Pasadena politics were. Her family didn’t live in an estate overlooking the Arroyo or have ties to the Hollywood elite like other Pasadena politicians, and she didn’t play well with the State attorneys who wanted to get tough on immigration.

Still, Alex thought to herself, there’s a lot of good I could do.
© Copyright 2010 Kelly I. Hitchcock. All rights reserved.

Kelly I. Hitchcock is a novelist, poet, and blogger from a poor stretch of the Ozarks in Southwest Missouri. A graduate of the creative writing program at Missouri State University, Kelly’s poems have been featured in Clackamas Literary Review and Foliate Oak Literary Journal. She lives in Kansas City and is an avid volunteer and fundraiser for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. Learn more about the author and her work by visiting her website and following her on Twitter.

Discovering a new reason to love Kurt Vonnegut

2010-04-08T06:45:00.000-07:00

If you like charts and graphs as much as I do, check out Derek Sivers' blog post on Kurt Vonnegut's visual explanation of drama.

No point in summarizing—it's a relatively short post. Just read it and see if your head doesn't bob in agreement.

Also, watch for a new story on tomorrow. We have two in queue! (Two-and-a-half, if you count the one I'm working on.)

Making "Grammar Girl" your BFF

2010-03-25T07:08:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my little iPod Shuffle, my daily fitness walk is one of the best parts of my day. I load up podcasts on everything from business to politics to fiction to technology.

One of my favorite podcasts is "Grammar Girl: Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing." Each short episode covers a different grammar issue, like "stacked modifiers" or (my personal conundrum) "who versus whom."

Get the podcasts from the site or subscribe via Apple iTunes. If you have other writing-related podcasts to recommend, share the link in the comments.

Calling all writers…

2010-03-24T21:27:00.000-07:00

After a strong start last summer, the submissions to The Rose City Sisters have slowed to a trickle. What gives? Have writers stopped wanting to see their bylines? Is the Pope Jewish?

Okay, so we don't pay, but this blog gets 500 to 750 page views a month and some of those readers will click through to a contributor's own website.

Will you help introduce The Rose City Sisters to writers and writing teachers? We're looking for contributors who:

1. Tell an engaging story
Use up to 1,000 words and include all the elements of good fiction: setting, characters—and a plot. (And don't forget a grabby title!)  

2. Sneak in a Pasadena connection 
While your story could be set in Pasadena (past, present, or future), the Crown City connection can be tenuous or even buried.

3. Include at least three links 
Links give your story extra oomph.

4. Provide a photo, a bio and website link.
 At the end of each story, we feature the author’s name, a small photo, and a bio of up to 75 words. We will link the writer's name to a website, blog, or other URL.

5. Have thick skin.
Our anthology blog allows comments from anyone with an Open ID account. Some readers will like your story, some readers won’t.

The complete submission guidelines are on the Rose City Sisters website.

Thanks for spreading the word. (Just 999 more and you'll have a story to submit.)

One City, One Story in Pasadena

2010-03-18T06:00:00.000-07:00

I love the "One City, One Story" concept, but I have a confession: my book group chooses titles roughly twice a year, so we end up reading the OCOS title about six months after the annual March festivities.

This year's pick is "Gardens of Water" by Alan Drew and the library has approximately one gazillion copies on hand. It's set in Istanbul and focuses on the relationship between two families. Read the summary, get the book, then hit out one of the OCOS events around Pasadena. In addition to discussions, there are Turkish cooking demonstrations, lectures, films and even a play based on the book's themes.

As for my book group, we'll be reading "Gardens of Water" sometime next fall.

Gearing up for Script Frenzy

2010-03-11T07:00:00.000-08:00

Script Frenzy is an annual writing event in which 15,000+ writers around the world attempt to write a 100-page script in the month of April. March is for doing research, sketching character profiles and drafting a rough outline, so you will be ready to write on April 1.

Even if you aren't feeling like jumping feet first into the Frenzy, visit the site for the page of writer's resources. One favorite is "A Brief Primer On Things Not To Do When Writing" by Ron J. Friedman and Steve Bencich.

Rants R Us

2010-03-04T12:00:00.000-08:00

I just discovered Pub Rants, a swell blog by Denver-based literary agent Kristin Nelson. Writers will find a ton of information in her posts, and plenty of gems in her links list. A few goodies:

• A look at an author's pitch letter and the agent's pitch blurb—and the 39 comments comparing/contrasting the two. Here's the post on the pitch for the novel Soulless.

• Any post about book advances.

• The "Dreaded Headshot" post. This is a topic close to my heart—Photo Day #6 is on the horizon!

I've been looking for a replacement for for the much-missed Miss Snark, and Pub Rants is a wonderful resource. Bookmark it!

Reaching for the stars (a five-star rating, that is)

2010-03-04T00:01:00.000-08:00

If you enjoy reading this blog, mosey on over to the write.blog.fiction site and rate The Rose City Sisters. It's easy.

If you're really feeling the love, nominate us for "blog of the month." The site accepts nominations between the first and tenth of each month, so if we don't make the cut one month, we can try again.

Competing for The Glass Woman Prize

2010-02-25T07:00:00.000-08:00

Ladies, you have until March 21, 2010 to submit a story for consideration for The Seventh Glass Woman Prize. Cash prizes and no entry fee. Woo hoo!

Here are a few details:

The Seventh Glass Woman Prize will be awarded for a work of short fiction or creative non-fiction (prose) written by a woman. Length: between 50 and 5,000 words. The top prize for the seventh Glass Woman Prize award is US $600 and possible (but not obligatory) online publication; I will also award one runner up prize of $100 and one runner up prize of $50, together with possible (but not obligatory) online publication.

For complete information, visit Beate Sigriddaughter's website.

#38 Bertina's Playlist

2010-02-19T07:00:00.000-08:00

Bertina’s Playlist
by Windi Padia

Bertina was a large German woman who sat hunched in her office most days. I dreaded asking her for a deadline extension on the paperwork. She looked either insulted or angry when I asked for anything outside of normal routine.

Her office was in the basement, sandwiched between the custodian's closet and the men's restroom. She wasn't behind her desk, so I decided to wait. I sat in a rickety plastic chair shoved into the corner. It was the first real chance I'd had to study her work space. Usually our conversations were short verbal missives fired at each other while I was half-turned to go and her eyes were glued on her computer.

Haphazard cords fell from the back of her computer, which faced the doorway. There were no plants—no way they’d survive the windowless basement. One glaring ceiling light buzzed above; a dust-covered bookcase housed cracked plastic binders. Bertina had one picture on the wall: a yellow cat with distended claws stuck in window curtains, and a caption that read "Hang in there!"

I shifted—the plastic chair scraped the linoleum floor—and glanced back towards the doorway, wondering if I should come back another time. That's when I saw the diploma hanging above the door. A Ph.D. in Social Sciences with a concentration in economics from Caltech, 1995. Bertina was slightly above a secretary and far below a mid-level manager. She had worked at our company for fifteen years. It struck me that she was probably smarter than her boss and his boss put together.

I heard squeaking shoes and Bertina walked in—I stood up—she saw me and moved sideways. "What do you want?" she asked.

"I'll be turning in the StaffCo contract paperwork about a week late," I said. "We have some more negotiations to do."

Bertina was in a blue and green flower-print dress, long-sleeved. There was a ring of dust around the bottom of her dress where the fabric had slid through the muck of the linoleum. Greasy hair framed her red-splotched face. This giant German thought to dress herself in flowers from the early nineties. I choked down a panicked laugh.

"Any changes mean more work for me," Bertina said, and sat down behind her desk. She looked at her computer screen. "I'm sure you can appreciate that I don't have time to waive deadlines for every contract. The answer is no." She motioned me out of her office.

Ugly, big, mean white lady. No imagination. No flexibility. Out of her office and up the stairs to my corner office with bright windows and plush carpet. Bertina had no decision-making authority. We both knew I would take as long as I needed to with the negotiations, and she would "forget" to process my paperwork until I had to come to her squat dirty office again to check its status. A game, an office power play. I was tired of it.

So I made her a mixtape. Bon Jovi, Bee Gees, Madonna, P!nk. Joan Jett. A little Slip-Slidin' Away by Paul Simon. A little Michael Jackson. Some Elvis Presley. I kept it light, dance-ready, upbeat. Some Queen seasoned with a little Hall & Oates. I grew up in the eighties, so I still call them mixtapes. What I really did was create a playlist called "For Bertina;" then I burned it onto a CD. Since she had no way to play CDs in her office, I bought the cheapest CD player I could find: a Hello Kitty pink boombox for $9.99.

I figured at some point in the past fifteen years, she had been confident, maybe even well-regarded. The big bosses must have asked for her ideas. Little by little, she had been ignored. Her promise as a highly educated member of the workforce was forgotten; she was given menial tasks that required no brain power. She could either fight back, challenge her bosses to give her more meaningful work, or become bitter and protect the small responsibilities dumped on her in the basement. I figured she had chosen the latter.

I waited one night until she went home, and then placed her gifts on her desk. No "To… From…" note, just the CD and the pink boombox.

I waited a week, then two; continued my negotiations with StaffCo. I forgot about Bertina. StaffCo and I finally came to an agreement, and a month later I made the long walk down the basement stairs. I found her office…empty. Dust patterns showed where the computer had been, the phone, the diploma above the door. The only things left were the scuffed plastic chair and the cat poster.

I walked back upstairs and went to my boss. "Did you finally fire Bertina?" I asked.

"No," he said. "We promoted her. You need her for the StaffCo paperwork?"

"Yeah…," I said.

"Give it to Sandy for now."

I started to walk out of his office, and then turned and asked, "What's Bertina's new job title?"

"Senior VP of Marketing," he said. "She's a couple rungs up the chain from you now."

Senior VPs had offices on the sixth floor. I got on the elevator and rode up. I told the receptionist I had been summoned upstairs and got a suspicious look, but was allowed past anyway.

Bertina was pin-striped and well-groomed, not a hair out of place. Her skin was clear and smooth. She regarded me with a steady gaze, and smiled.

"Congratulations on your promotion." I hovered in the doorway and looked past her to the view of the city. Green plants in a tasteful arrangement on the windowsill framed the skyline.

"I'm just livin' on a prayer," she said.

I caught a flash of pink: the Hello Kitty CD player was nestled under her diploma on a gleaming mahogany side table. "You're halfway there," I said, and smiled back.
© Copyright 2010 Windi Padia. All rights reserved.

Windi Padia grew up wanting to be a biologist and is now in the Human Resources section of a state wildlife agency, where humans make much more fascinating subjects. She is currently writing human-interest articles for Colorado Outdoors Magazine and learning all she can through the creative writing certificate program at the University of Denver. Her blog, Crazy Coppertop, is the diary of a crazy redhead.

Paging Dr. Wicked…

2010-02-18T07:00:00.000-08:00

Remember how Mom used to threaten dire consequences if you didn't finish your homework? Now Dr. Wicked does the same thing if you don't meet your writing goals.

Writing a screenplay or a novel is hard work and you may be many months away from helpful feedback, much less a sale. So…how do you stay motivated?

This line from his diabolical Write or Die website sums it up best: "A tangible consequence is more effective than an intangible reward."

Check out the site and sign up for the good (but wicked) doctor's writing newsletter. Or follow him (from a safe distance) on Twitter.

#37 All Bob Griese’s Fault

2010-02-12T07:00:00.000-08:00

All Bob Griese’s Fault
by Kathryn Wilkens

I unlocked the car, slung my canvas bag of ungraded papers onto the front seat and climbed into my kiln on wheels. Burning my hands on the plastic steering wheel, I rolled down the window, cranked the engine and switched on the radio, my only solace. Appropriately, "Light My Fire" played as I followed Francisquito to the San Berdoo Freeway and merged with westbound traffic. I squinted into the sunlight glaring off the pavement and other cars. Mine stood out—a boxy 1964 Comet bearing Indiana plates and a McCarthy for President bumper sticker.

I lamented the Comet’s lack of air conditioning as the wind stung my eyes, bringing tears. I’d had a wretched day at school, trying to teach Spanish to seventh graders. What was I doing here? I hated California and it was all Bob Griese's fault.

If he hadn’t, as quarterback, led Purdue to a winning season the previous year, if the Boilermakers hadn’t been invited to the Rose Bowl, and if my roommate Donna hadn’t visited Pasadena and fallen in love with it, then she wouldn’t have suggested that she, Christie and I move out here after graduation. All three of us had found teaching jobs at a junior high in La Puente, and at the end of August left the Midwest with clothes, records, books and a few things cadged from our mothers’ kitchens.

In our first hectic days we had found a furnished two-bedroom apartment on Rosemead Boulevard, arranged for utilities and bought pots and pans at White Front. We applied for California drivers’ licenses, opened bank accounts and enrolled in night classes at Cal State LA. After signing loyalty oaths to the Constitution, getting fingerprinted at the police station and writing lesson plans, we were ready to teach.

Now, “Light My Fire” gave way to "Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay." I remembered how Donna had returned from California gushing about palm trees, blue skies and balmy temperatures. So far I’d only seen a few scraggly palms. The sky was whitish-yellow overhead and brown in the distance. And what she called balmy I called hot. The California I saw was an agglomeration of concrete, gas stations, billboards, stucco architecture—and walls and fences around every property.

The only good thing was that it never rained. At least that’s what The Mamas and the Papas said.

I missed my family, but I couldn’t go back to Indiana. I wasn’t about to break my contract and crawl home. There I would always be the “baby” of the family. How could a baby attain the authority to become a good teacher? I’d have to stick it out. Besides, as I downshifted for the Rosemead exit, I doubted my Comet would make the return trip.

Donna, Christie and I settled into a routine of school and night classes. Unless Donna cooked, dinner was a bag of tacos. On Fridays we TGIF-ed at a seedy bar called Goldy’s Living Room. Christie flirted with the coaches and Donna soon hooked up with a science teacher, Steve. One time Steve brought along a buddy, Sam, who worked for Edison. Sam was divorced with two sons. He’d be a good friend, I thought, but he had different plans for us. He asked me out to dinner the next night. We found plenty to talk and laugh about, so I had a good time. When he took me home, though, the goodnight kiss he gave me was a disappointing brotherly smooch.

Two weeks later Sam stopped by my apartment after work. As we were sitting on the sofa listening to music, it started to rain. He charged out on the balcony and stood there for a long time watching water fall from the sky. Every time there was a lightning flash, he said “Wow!” and cocked his head, waiting for thunder. “I’m grooving on this storm.”

“I thought it never rained here!” I said. “What are you so excited about? I moved out here to get away from rain!”

He just grinned at me. “Wait until you’ve lived here a while,” he said. “You’ll see.”

I shook my head. He was a little weird, but he was starting to grow on me.

It stopped raining the next day. I had a class after school, so it was dark by the time I downshifted onto the Rosemead off ramp. Looking north, I saw strange lights glimmering in the sky. Not up high, but about halfway up my windshield. They were too large to be stars or planets. They could be low-flying aircraft except they weren’t moving. Helicopters? UFOs?

The phone rang as soon as I got inside and peeled off my pantyhose. Christie answered and handed me the receiver. It was Sam. I mentioned the impossible lights.

“You were seeing the towers on Mt. Wilson,” he said.

I was silent for a minute. “Wait—there are mountains here?”

He laughed. “Yeah, it’s been smoggy—you probably haven’t seen them yet. If you’re not busy I’ll come over and show you.” Of course I was busy. I had papers to grade, parents to call, lessons to plan.

“Sure,” I said.

We drove through towns—I couldn’t tell where one ended and the next one began—and then on a road that wound uphill. He pulled into a turnout and parked. We got out and leaned against the car. I looked at the lights of the cities—a blanket of twinkling dots that stretched miles to the south, east and west. “If it were daylight you’d be able to see the ocean and Catalina Island,” he said.

He came close and wrapped himself around me. He was a big guy, tall and warm. He smelled good. I had to stand on my tiptoes when he kissed me—not a brotherly smooch this time. “I’m glad you came to California,” he said.

I turned and looked again at the enchanted landscape below us. “You can thank Bob Griese,” I said.
© Copyright 2010 Kathryn Wilkens. All rights reserved.

Kathryn Wilkens began writing for publication in 2000 and has placed several travel articles in The Los Angeles Times. She has also written essays and articles for Writers' Journal, Personal Journaling, Verbatim and The Christian Science Monitor. Four of her essays have appeared in anthologies, most recently “Sea of Blue Ink” in Writers and Their Notebooks (University of South Carolina Press, 2010).

Auditioning your characters and concepts

2010-02-11T09:58:00.000-08:00

Comedians have the right idea. Before they let themselves fall hopelessly in love with a joke, they try it out at an odd little ritual called an "open mic."

Since February 2008, I've co-produced a twice-monthly open mic comedy show called The Joke Gym. In addition to performing my own work, I've watched more than 270 comedians—at all levels of the profession—fine tune promising material over the course of several months.

Writers can fine tune their material at the keyboard, of course, but I think this blog can serve as an open mic for fiction. You may be committed to writing a novel or screenplay, but why not let one of your characters out to play in a flash fiction story?

The submission guidelines are on the Rose City Sisters website (as if you didn't know)

Writer's block? "It's all baloney!"

2010-02-04T12:01:00.000-08:00

Academy award winning screenwriter Robert Moresco does not believe in writer's block. After watching this video, you may feel the same way.