Microfiction Monday #7

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

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

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

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

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

---

About Microfiction Monday

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanoisms
PicFic
escarp
Thaumatrope
Seedpod
Tweet the Meat

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

Wish You'd Been There

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tallaght Library, for the excellent meeting room and welcome;

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

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

and finally,

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

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

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

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

I hope you all are having a wonderful weekend!

Friday Flash 55: Thanks, Kid.

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

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

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

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

---

Time for Friday Flash 55!

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


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

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

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

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


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

Wordless Wednesday: Another Day Like This

Wordless Wednesday

---

At Wordless's End ....

---

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

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

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

Online Writing Community Links

The following links are from my bookmarks in answer to a very nice person who e-mailed me some time ago to ask for any leads on critique circles online, and similar resources. I promised, and eventually I did write a reply with these links... and now for the life of me can't find that original email.

Needless to say, I'm mortified---but I'm doing the next best thing I can by simply posting it publicly, so if it's you who's waiting for it, well, here it is. I'm so sorry about the delay, and losing that e-mail.

If you're part of an online writers' community that you enjoy, feel free to toot their horn in the comments and eventually (!) I'll get this list into a sidebar. Thanks!

Absolute Write's Water Cooler
A place for chat, news, checks on editors/agents, or finding critique partners, attached to the Absolute Write website, which is full of resources and helpful articles on writing and getting published.

Writer's Digest Community
A facebook-like community just for writers, including discussion forums, blogs, personal pages and writers' news.

Wordspinners, Ink.
"The Inkies": If you're willing to go through an admissions process and don't mind having a Yahoo! account, you can be part of a group of professional writers for discussions and finding critique partners.

Glypho
Collaborative writing site, in which someone contributes an idea, then characters, then chapters, and other members vote on what to keep/toss, as the novel develops.

Edit Red
Upload your writing, receive peer feedback from other writers, poets, authors, find publishers, track submissions, and promote your writing.

Writing Forums
Just as it says on the tin, with over 19,000 members.

Critters Writers Workshop
An on-line workshop/critique group for serious writers of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror.
(Thanks Quilly!)



I loved my writers' circle once, back in 19-something-something, and it gave me one of the most inspiring and productive periods of my life... then I moved away and never found that magic again.

Poo.

A Party, A Picture, A Poem

In other words, a post in three parts.

First Part: Party

We spent the day in Sligo, celebrating our region's Early Intervention Services for young children with special needs. Our son is a 'graduate' of their program and our youngest daughter still with them, so it was a big day, balloons and all:

Second Part: Picture

The wall art in their new centre was wonderful! One room had a huge wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling mural by kids, and I could have spent the whole day in front of it, wondering about the stories going on in that wonderful big picture, from the jet-powered butterfly to, well, these folks:

Can you imagine this conversation? I'd guess that Little Fox overslept this morning while Big Fox finished off the whole coffeepot himself. Just look at those faces. (Click for a bigger version)

But who are they talking to? Their friend's back legs and colour make me think perhaps it's a grasshopper....then the size and bunny ears make think it's a ... it's a....

What IS that? (Can I make it an alien? please?)


Third Part: Poems

Even the hallway was wonderful, with a whole row of poetry inspired by crows, framed and hung at kid's-eye view. Some were quite lyrical and long, and others fascinating in their viewpoint, but among them was a lovely tiny gem that said simply "I like crows. I like nests. I like the little robin best." (I liked YOU best, little poem!!)

But this "crows' row" got me thinking about all the tearsheets of mine sitting in a box at the bottom of my closet. Whenever I get a contributor's copy, I toss it in the box. If something of mine appears online, I print it out, toss it in the box. Meanwhile, my friend Jay has covered his walls at home with beautiful photographs he's taken from all over the world, of his travels, his family, his holidays, his celebrations. So why aren't I doing the same thing with my work, too?

Chef Kar has been inspiring me too, with her wonderful illustrated Friday Flash 55s. They're gorgeous.

So I think I'm going to write up some family stories (as I've occasionally done here on the blog) and match them up with old photographs, for the walls. I'll blow the dust off my old pencils and scribble a bit of illustration for some of my flash fiction that saw publication in print or online, or simply cut-and-paste it over its cover art whenever it's short enough. Hopefully I can get the kids to provide me with some 'originals' of their own too.

Then I couldn't help thinking, that my mother might embroider them on quilt blocks instead, and sleep under them all at night. I'm no embroiderer, but now of course there's iron-on printer sheets, sooooo.... hm. Another idea.

I'd love to hear from you poets and writers out there who show it off: what do you do with your tearsheets and stories?

Microfiction Monday #6

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

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

Here's this week's picture, and below it is my story.

The rainbow fell into our own yard that day,
turning the trees behind it blue and gold.
Lia ran toward it...and we never saw her again.

---

About Microfiction Monday

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

Every Sunday evening I'll post a photo or illustration, followed by my own 140-character story that it inspired. All you have to do is write your own140-character story about the picture and post it on your blog. Don't forget to sign into Mr. Linky!

If that degree of brevity scares you, feel free to use my own microfiction of the week as your first line instead, and spin something longer. If you don't have a blog, feel free to write a story anyhow and leave it in the comments.
Hate counting letters and spaces? Try Design 215's character counter, which will count for you as you type. Microsoft Word will count for you too, of course, as part of its word count feature under the 'Review' tab.

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

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

Nanoisms
PicFic
escarp
Thaumatrope
Seedpod
Tweet the Meat

For slightly longer works:

Flashshots
Flashes in the Dark
Flashquake
50 to 1

Weekend Reflections on the Rain, Rain, Rain.

We've had the usual weather here this week, in which it rained twice (once for two days, and once for five days), and to believe the weather forecasters we're in for more of the same.  Well that's lovely.

So, there are plenty of puddles to go around for those who like that sort of thing.

Of course some of the puddles are getting quite large now...

Those are few Weekend Reflections for you, before James crosses the Atlantic on a great adventure, and before Noah swings by to pick us up tonight, in all probability. By tomorrow we may be submerged entirely... if not, I'm going to grab the camera and go out in search of better reflection photos. James' are always amaaaaazing.


Freshwater is accepting poetry submissions for its 11th issue, and will offer an Editor's Prize of $200 to one selected poem among those accepted. Deadline 15th December.

The Raintown Review considers metrical works and poetry in a variety of traditional forms, and says that rhyme is neither required nor a crime: a breath of fresh air if you ask me. They also accept reprints, and will send you a contributor's copy as payment.

Reflection's Edge publishes a wide range of speculative fiction, from faery tales to science fiction and fantasy to erotica or westerns. They're "very open" to new and unpublished writers. They pay $15 for an accepted submission, plus a $50 bonus for those chosen as featured stories. They're also looking for nonfiction articles: see guidelines for details.

Another Day Like All the Rest

Sorry. Didn't get a blog post together today, because it's my wedding anniversary.

Fact is, between our well pump's expensive demise, the heating oil running dry, government boneheads slashing what little benefits our disabled children once had, etc., things are looking very tight financially: too tight for any real celebration.

So, we decided to just have a nice steak and champagne dinner at home, the champagne having been in the refrigerator since our last trip to my beloved France, whose language I'm no longer allowed to speak in my own house thanks to my new hero that scumbag, Thierry Henry and his hilarious infamous handjob.

(I'll pause now while at least half the native-born male Irish readers furiously unsubscribe to my feed, and/or print this page for the satisfaction of violently tearing it up before wiping with it later. Okay. Ready?)

We had everything we needed but the steaks, so I sent Himself to the butcher while I got started on the rest. Mind you, when I say "The Butcher" I have only one thought in mind: Mr. Gilligan, who's just lovely and helpful, keeps a clean shop and remembers who you are and asks all the right questions to be sure you get just what you want, and it's all lovely and lean and fresh. He even cuts up huge bones for our dog without being asked, thrown in free, then asks four or five times if you're sure you can manage the bag, where are you parked, it's not too heavy for you now are you sure?

I love him.

I'm not going to tell you where Himself really went (or where I told him to go afterward) or what he came home with; I'm not going to raise my own blood pressure, shock at least the female readership here, or humiliate him with the whole story.

I will say, that when I opened the champagne over dinner, and the cork hit the far wall and ricocheted back to hit him on the ass, it was the highlight of our eleventh married year, as far as I'm concerned. That the cork was French only sweetened the moment, to perfection.

Happy Anniversary, Baby.

So as I said, no post today. Just some links I liked this week:

Who Pooped? It's A game to play online, to learn about Poop. Who doesn't like poop?

A Russian cosmonaut's blog from the International Space Station, the English version. Love it!

Northern Frights Publishing is a Canadian publisher of speculative fiction, paying tribute to HG Wells with two upcoming anthologies: War of the Worlds and Timelines. Submissions are still open; the link opens to the guidelines (scroll down past the graphic). The anthologies will be available in 2010.

People of Walmart, which I first learned about from Ashley, and yesterday recommended to my son's Autism Therapist for its entertainment value. Couldn't help it! Is it so fascinating because of the photos, or the comments, or because secretly we're all terrified of finding ourselves as Post of the Day one day?

Oh, and one final thing:

Go, Warriors!
 Beat the ... whoevers!! WOOO!

Green Thinkers

Living in Ireland, it's almost impossible not to be environmentally aware. Plastic bags are taxed 44c each in the supermarket (about 65c in American money) which forces most of us to bring re-usable bags. Trash collection is ridiculously expensive but recyling bins are in every village, so we recycle everything we can.

Shopping's expensive too, partially thanks to a value-added-tax of 21.5% (not a typo) so there are plenty of charity shops selling second-hand clothes. And don't get me started on the cost of fuel, which typically runs to about $7/gallon in American terms, or more.... do you think we do much driving?

So I couldn't help enjoying Kay's post today after she was listed among the Green Thinkers at Rambling Woods, and thought I'd follow along when it's a cause that's close to my heart (and almost a necessity, considering where I live).

Here's what Michelle says:

"All I ask is that one post be devoted to how you try to take care of the planet by living green and being more environmentally conscious. Do you recycle, eat more local foods, avoid plastic bags to name a few. Grab the award and link back to Rambling Woods."

So here's some of things our family does to be earth-friendly:

1. We use re-usable bags at the supermarket, as mentioned.

2. We work at home, so no commute.

3. We raise our own vegetables, and used to raise goats for milk and hens for eggs. The photo above shows the view from my bedroom window: the two plastic things at the left are 30ft-long polytunnels that help us extend our growing season, and grow things that wouldn't do well in Irish weather, like tomatoes and sweetcorn.

4. We used terrycloth cotton nappies. Yes we did.

5. We buy local when possible, especially at farmer's markets.

6. We donate good-but-unwanted things to the charity shops, and we shop there for clothes and household items, which is sort of recycling: we buy very little that's brand new—especially anything plastic, or that has been shipped long distances.

7. We recycle, taking all glass, cans, and plastic to the sorting bins in the village.

8. We raise biomass willow for firewood, which helps heat our house and cuts oil consumption.

9. We use those dreadful energy saving lightbulbs. I'm going blind.

10. We use rechargeable batteries.

11. We have a pony to mow the lawn (saves petrol), and he poos in the garden (no chemical fertilisers.

12. We have our own well and septic system, and a stream for irrigating.

13. We make monthly big trips to the supermarket because it's over twenty miles away, to save fuel.

14. We compost all our kitchen waste to use in the garden, and burn all our paper and cardboard in the fireplace, to be sure that as little as possible goes to the landfill.

Well, I guess that's it... or at least it's all I can think of right now.

Are you a Green Thinker too?

Friday Flash 55: Lunch Special

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

Here's mine.

SPECIAL


Nobody came to his birthday party.

She took him for a drive to the beach instead, and treated him to lunch.

"Mum," he said, "What's special mean?"

She tried to smile. "It means you're absolutely perfect, just as you are."

"Hmm," he said, turning the menu over. "I think it means with chips and drink."





Come back next week for an all-new story:
Mother Goes Berserk On School Playground; Massacre Ensues.

Just kidding. The story really was fiction, but for reasons that will go unmentioned I've been reading these today:

Survey Finds 90% of Autistic Kids Bullied
Autism and Bullying
B is for Bullied (NAS report, pdf)

Makes for some sobering reading.

---

I haven't shared publishing links for the last few days; sorry about that. Here's a few:

Age of Autism accepts articles up to 1000 words for their online magazine that you can also follow on Twitter, but there's no mention of payment. You may however include links and a 3-4 line bio.

Autism Asperger's Digest Magazine publishes 'hands-on' articles as well as personal narratives that "can assist parents and professionals in better understanding ASD and working with these individuals on a day-to-day basis". They're also looking for photos of ASD folks for their covers: scroll down past their submission guidelines for photo details.

Future Horizons publishes books on autism and Asperger's; their guidelines are a 3-page pdf document but it loads quickly.

Chicken Soup for the Soul is currently accepting stories about "Family Matters" and "Devotionals for Mothers", among others.



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

Three Word Thursday on Nineteenth November

Yay, it's 3 Word Thursday again: time to see what forgotten old words Quilly's shaken the dust from, so that they can live again in this alternate universe we call the Blogosphere.

Surely you can write a story today that includes just three lovely, lonely words? If you do, don't forget to head back to Quilly's today, to sign into Mr. Linky. This week's words were:

aretaloger : braggart; one who boasts about his own accomplishments

gardeviance : a chest for valuables; a travelling trunk

kexy : withered, brittle, old

If you'd believe her, that battered old gardeviance of hers holds a mummified cat that she found in Egypt, a gold earring of Montezuma's that she stole from a sleeping Mexican bandito, two signed copies of Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address that she won in a billiards game, and some crazy toenail-cutting machine she invented, that she swears will make her rich someday.

She'll charge you five dollars to let you look at the contents, that kexy old aretaloger, and if that's what'll make her rich, well good luck to her. You won't catch me falling for it, and if you don't believe me, look close at those documents of hers and you'll see that Abraham Lincoln spelled his own name wrong.

Today, being the nineteenth of November, is of course the anniversary of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. At first I was tempted to parody the whole thing as my story, but then I remembered our visit to the battlefield this past summer, and how that felt, and suddenly I didn't want to be so disrespectful as that. So, just a brief but absolutely necessary mention then, of the speech that "the world will little note, nor long remember..."

Story illustration as always by Dover Publications; Gettysburg photograph by me, July 2009.

One is Not... (The Rest of the Story)

Here are the answers to yesterday's list of ten random facts in my life, one of which isn't true. Two people guessed right in the comments; all the guesses and comments made me smile. Thanks again everyone for playing!

1. I killed a catfish by throwing it against a passing car.

R.I.P. little guy.

Many many years ago I was fishing off a bridge with friends, and pulling up a fighting catfish. Not wanting to literally lose my lunch, I just swung it up onto the bridge, over which somebody happened to be driving at the same moment. You might not believe the immense bang you can get from Large Catfish + Speeding Car, but thank goodness, the driver thought it was hilarious in spite of the new dent in her door.

2. I drove a real diesel locomotive when I was five years old.
When I was a little girl, my parents worked for a local transit company that ran motorcoaches and one small freight train. When school was out they took me to work and if I was really lucky, the train would go out then and Daddy would let me "drive" it: I stood in front of him and held the stick while it went down the track, and when my father lifted me up I could pull the horn. WHOOO WHOO!!

The photo above shows a much bigger locomotive, with my husband and daughter checking it out. I hope I'm raising my kids to love trains as much as I do.


3. I nearly ran over an Olympic Torch runner.
Sorry, Hope, but this is true, and happened over twenty years ago. I was never good at paying much attention, and when the light went green, I went. I still remember the look on the poor fellow's face. And on the cop's. And on my mother's. And.... oh let's just leave it there, shall we?

4. I was born a great-aunt.
My father was 50 when I was born, and back then it wasn't unusual to marry right out of school, so it *nearly* happened, but didn't. Quilly's right: bogus! I was three or four when I did become a great-aunt, and now I'm a great-great-great-aunt (really) to his grandson, a toddler I haven't yet met.

5. I traveled six hundred miles to see the Aurora Borealis.
It didn't show up after three days of camping, so one day I'll try again. This thing fascinates me no end; I feel like I've got to see it with my own eyes before I die, one way or another.

6. I spent eight months in prison.
As Bill guessed, this is true, but I was an employee, not an inmate. If you're a writer and want story material, work in a prison. Hoo boy.

7. In my last seven jobs, somebody died during my first week.
Two car crashes, one suicide, one terminal illness coming to an end, one carjacking, one heart attack in the bathroom on my first night in charge, and one student falling off the roof. The goldfish was in honour of the Secret Goldfish by DB Caulfield, and if you've never read Catcher in the Rye, you should.

8. Last year I participated in a committee meeting of the European Parliament in Brussels.
Yes, I blogged about this last year. I was there representing Irish carers along with about a dozen others, and all of us were invited to speak. MEP Marian Harkin and her assistant Marie were absolutely wonderful to us.

That's me on the left.... don't I look angry? Leitrim Post, 18 November 2008.

9. I could be both a Daughter of the American Revolution and a Daughter of the Confederacy.
On one trip to America I even went to the Historical Society library and photocopied the Oath of Allegiance my ancestor signed in 1775 with a witnessed X (aw bless). On a similar note, my first child was born on the Fourth of July. Of course it was very tempting to name her Yankee Doodle, but then there was that Confederacy issue...

10. I've been held at gunpoint by a British soldier.
We're Catholic and used to live in Belfast, so this might be the least surprising in the whole list. The first time it happened, I was taking photos of family graves in Milltown cemetery, which used to have a big barracks right across the road, so three fellows showed up, accused me of spying and took all the film out of my camera. (Yes, this was back in the days of film; the barracks has since been torn down as part of the Peace Process. Yay.)

The second time I was walking with my son to his occupational therapy appointment, and they had the Lisburn Road blocked with jeeps and flares; I didn't know any way around, so hoped the roadblock only applied to cars, and went on through. Of course it applied to pedestrians too, especially certain ones, and needless to say we missed our appointment. Belfast is nothing like that anymore, thank Heavens, but I've sworn off living in war zones, or even cities.

Now, just imagine what I haven't admitted to...

If you've posted your list of ten, please leave the link to it in the comments!

Portrait of Words: Treasure Hunt

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

I love seeing how the same photos can produce so many different and wonderful tales every second week: just click that link to see for yourself. Thanks Dr. John and Thom, for hosting!

Sarah asked what Eli what he wanted for his birthday.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm taking the day off work, and all I want is to enjoy the peace and quiet."

"...And....?"

He shrugged. "And, that's it."

She wondered. She asked a few more times, then tried guessing. She asked his Dad and his friends, and they all called him to ask. Through it all he insisted that what all he wanted was a quiet day off work.

Finally, when she interrupted the football match on tv to ask if he wanted tickets to the championship, he told her what he really wanted.

"A Kampulli Stone," he said. "I've wanted to see one almost all my life. They were blessed over a millennium ago by a Mayan priest and are said to hold the secret to eternal life, but they're miles off any road in southern Mexico, and with my bad leg I could never go myself. But I always thought if I could just hold one, then I could really believe in other worlds, and in magic, and wonderful faraway places, and every day it would bring a touch of wonder in my life, and I'd be happy."

The next morning, as soon as he'd left for work, Sarah packed a small bag and her Visa card, drove to the airport, and boarded a flight to Mexico.

From the airport she found a bus going to Kampulli, and climbed aboard.

Thirteen long carsick hours later, the road ended, and she asked the bus driver the way. He pointed, and off she went into the jungle, immediately regretting the whole trip as she swatted mosquitoes and worried about getting lost. But when she thought of Eli's face when she brought back a Kampulli stone, it kept her going.

She walked all day and finally arrived in a tiny village, exhausted and filthy. But, wonder of wonders, the temple was before her, and more beautiful than she'd imagined possible. She walked in—and was immediately pulled out by an elderly woman.

"You can't walk into our cathedral like that!" she said. "Come home with me and have a bath, some supper, and we'll come back for the evening service."

So Sarah did, and met the old lady's family, who didn't look all that pleased about having company. When it came time to go, Sarah had to admit she wasn't there for cathedral services.

"I thought it was the Kampulli temple," she said.

"No," the old woman said. "The old temple was built on top of the mountain."

Sarah sighed, and thought about giving up. But then, once again, she imagined Eli's face when he saw his stone and heard about her adventures to get it, and that gave her strength to face the mountain. She spent the night with the family, and before dawn she set off.

She climbed all day and the sun was beginning to set when she reached the top and saw the open doorway of a large building before her.

But---this was an ancient Mayan temple?

"Excuse me," she said to a forklift driver outside the door, "I came looking for the temple of Kampulli?"

"The temple? It fell down years ago; this observatory was built on top of the ruins. Everything that could be saved was sent to the museum in Mexico City."

Sarah couldn't imagine Eli's face now.

"Do you have a phone?" she said.

A few minutes later she was sobbing out the whole long tale, long distance to her husband, who told her not to worry and to come on back home, and if she left right now she'd arrive just in time for his birthday, and since she'd gone through so much, he'd take her for a weekend away to the beach and they'd celebrate his birthday with a big steak dinner.

"You're not mad?" she sobbed. "All the money I've had to spend, and I've been gone for days already, and it's all for nothing, you really don't mind?"

"Of course not," he said. "You're wonderful to go through all that for me. Just hurry home."

"Ok," she said, and wiped her tears. "If all goes well I can be home by Friday."

Eli hung up the phone, went back to the sofa, shut his eyes, and enjoyed some more of his birthday peace and quiet, until Friday.

---

(Don't forget to visit Portrait of Words for more stories with these photographs, and stop back there tomorrow to check out the next challenge!)

One is Not Like the Others

Today I'm joining Nessa, Quilly, Bill and Thom by playing "One is Not Like the Others". I first saw it at Nessa's and loved it, so couldn't help but join in.

Here's what she said:

“I have done or experienced all of the following except one. Your mission (should you choose to accept it) is to let me know here in the comments which experiences we have in common and tell me which one you think I have never experienced. There is no prize for guessing correctly which item is not true because I am cheap. Then, make up your own list on your own blog. Look for the bogus entry on tomorrow’s post.”

And here's my list of nine true things and one bogus one:


1. I once killed a catfish by throwing it against a passing car.

2. I drove a real diesel locomotive when I was five years old. (My Dad might have helped a little.)

3. A year after getting my first car, I nearly ran over an Olympic Torch runner with it.

4. When I was born, I was already a great-aunt.

5. I once traveled six hundred miles to see the Aurora Borealis.

6. I once spent eight months in prison.

7. In every one of the last seven jobs I held, someone related to the job died during my first week, earning me the nickname Doombringer at one of them, or "DB" for short, which made me draw a goldfish on my nametag, though nobody there understood why. I don't work for other people anymore.

8. Last year I participated in a committee meeting of the European Parliament in Brussels.

9. If I'd ever actually do the paperwork, I could be both a Daughter of the American Revolution and a Daughter of the Confederacy, thanks to my father's side of the family.

10. I've been held at gunpoint (machine gun gunpoint btw) by a British soldier. Twice.


Looking back at that, good Lord, no wonder I write fiction. Anyhow, which one do you think isn't true? Tomorrow I'll tell a few details behind all those (ok, maybe just some of those...) and tell you which one is bogus after all.

Meanwhile, what ten things are true about you?

Microfiction Monday #5

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

where a picture paints 140 characters.

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

Burning the house down a third time finally convinced Dad
that his indoor-barbecue invention might not be such a good idea after all.

Meanwhile....

Forty-three years ago today, Star Trek had barely begun its debut season, the Monkees had just hit the #1 spot with their debut Last Train to Clarksville, and at noon today in 1966 I debuted too, as the newest member of my family. Now I'm one of the oldest, but I still like Star Trek and the Monkees, and, of course, lots of birthday cake. So, I'll be away all day Monday with my family, but will catch up with you on the blogs tonight: see you later!

---

About Microfiction Monday

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanoisms
PicFic
escarp
Thaumatrope
Seedpod
Tweet the Meat

For slightly longer works:
Flashshots
Flashes in the Dark
Flashquake

Weekend Reflections On My Uncle's Six Words, Saturday

Six Word Saturday invites you to share six words each Saturday, that tell about your life. This week (and especially today) I've been contemplating the last six words of my uncle's life:

"See you tomorrow."

"No you won't."

I loved this man for lots of reasons, including that he looked a lot like my Daddy and walked like him too, that his birthday was today and therefore bang between my Dad's and mine, and that when his little dog bit my hand, he smacked it. Ha ha.

My Six Words this Saturday are basically his last conversation with my cousin, who was his caregiver at the end of his days, my uncle having no kids of his own. At the end of visiting hours one night, she wished him good night and said, "See you tomorrow." Every night he answered her with the same words, until the night he said, "No you won't."

Considering where they were, she couldn't blame him for being grumpy. But as she walked away through the hospital corridors on her way to the exit and her car, he was pulling off his hated oxygen mask and falling asleep, to die.

I thought he was fabulous for being so independent and so strong. He'd had enough of this you-know-what, so ciao baby, he's outta here. What a great way to go.

Uncle W, you were too cool for this world.

Nelson Mandela once said:

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate; our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. We are born to manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us: it's in everyone."

God sometimes I think I have so much to learn, and not nearly enough time.

I took this photo last year at Disneyland Paris, as we left the park on our last night there. If you like reflections of the literal kind, you'll love James at Newtown Photo, who hosts a weekly photo meme called Weekend Reflections that's really too good to pass up. Quilly's entry this week just blew me away.

Speaking of travel, Bookrix is hosting a travel-writing short story contest with a twist: your travel can be across continents or back through time, into other countries or your own imagination. (There are cash prizes folks, but the deadline's approaching fast.) I've certainly been traveling a lot through time and memory this week... thanks for sticking it out with me!

Where have you been that's good?

Paraskevidekatriaphobia

I can't say it either, but it means a fear of Friday 13th. According to the Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute, this particular phobia affects approximately 20 million people in the US alone. Ironically, the country's airlines and State Highway Administrations report that statistically, Friday 13th is a slightly safer day on which to travel, as so many people stay home that day. On the other hand, the superstition holds up in the UK, where the British Medical Journal reported a few years ago that hospital admissions increase on a Friday 13th. Go figure.

There are plenty of stories and conjectures why  Friday and 13 are both unlucky (just google 'Friday 13th') but the superstition is pervasive enough that many cities have no 13th streets, and in many high-rise buildings the 14th floor is directly above the 12th. I'm not so afraid of 13 as I am of heights, so I never get that far up anyhow.

In Norse mythology, Loki the god of mischief gatecrashed a dinner party as its 13th guest and wreaked havoc: this might have contributed to the traditional fear of 13, at least among Scandinavians. To the ancient Egyptians, the 13th stage of life was death. Uh oh.

In the Christian world, the Last Supper included 13, and we know how that ended.

On a Friday.

So if you needed me today, sorry about that...I was hiding under my quilts. My son's school had a 're-opening' day today after being refurbished, and I didn't go. Not wanting them all to think that I'm a big phobia-ridden wuss, I asked my husband to tell them all that he tied me to a chair and left me home after I'd knocked back a fifth of rum that morning while promising to punch the attending Government Minister in the face, simply for being a Government Minister after what they've done to this country, to our schools and disabled children. I figured it sounded like a more feasible excuse, in our neighbourhood. And who knows, maybe it was true, too...

But the day didn't turn out all bad. I just got an e-mail that Tweet the Meat will run another micro-story of mine tomorrow evening at 6pm Pacific Time. Woo hoo! (If you're not on Twitter, you can visit their blog and see the twitter posts in their right sidebar.) TTM publishes 140-character fiction in the horror and dark fantasy genres, and this week's theme was "Feast". I sent two submissions, and here's the one they didn't pick:

The widow served a fine feast at the wake, poor dear.  Still groggy next morning, the pallbearers never noticed the coffin felt lighter.

Well, I  liked it.


13th Moon is a small press, publishing books, children's books, and a feminist literary magazine, as well as a blinding website of pink and green type on a purple background. Mercy. And, no mention of payment. I told you Friday the 13th was unlucky.

The 13th Warrior Review is published by Asterius Press. These submission guidelines are worth reading, for a pull-no-punches look at an editor's point of view.

Lame Goat Press is currently accepting submissions for its Inner Fears Anthology. Preference goes to third-person narrative that grips the reader, and the preliminary cover art is a wonderfully creepy piece by the talented Jack Rogers. Deadline December 20th.

Dead line. Ha ha.

Friday 13th Flash 55

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

No matter.

Right?

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

---

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

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

If you like to write:

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

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


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

The pedestrian fatality photograph comes from the NY Daily News.

Three Word Thursday: somewhat derailed.

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

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

This week's words are:

confabulation: conversation, discussion

pudify: cause to be ashamed

rimestock: an almanac written in runes.

Off the Rails

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway.

Happy Birthday Daddy.

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

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

Armistice Day in Pink and White

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

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

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

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

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

We are the Dead. ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

...To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow...
In Flanders Fields

--by John McCrae, May 1915

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

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

Idea Aid 2009 and a wee ranty thingy

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

So...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Microfiction Monday #4

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

where a picture only paints 140 characters.

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

OOPSIE...

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

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

Thank you if you play!!

---

About Microfiction Monday

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanoisms
PicFic
escarp
Thaumatrope
Seedpod
Tweet the Meat

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