Virtual Workshop for Writers

Dear would-be writers

2009-07-01T18:40:46Z

As it has been so quiet lately, I thought I'd recommend a book I read recently.

This book is probably the best book I've ever read on writing, and certainly the most laugh-out-loud funny.

I honestly learned more from this than from two years up lit creek without a paddle on a creative writing Masters course, and it was a damn sight cheaper. And more entertaining.

Although, to be fair, it does not have quite the smugbrag factor of a postgraduate qualification.

"Oh, this reminds me of when I was working on my Masters..."

vs

"Oh, this reminds me of when I read a book..."

etc

Picture Prompt! Get your picture prompt here!

2009-06-28T17:57:36Z

Today I bring you another picture found randomly scrolling the LJ picture feed - if you ever need inspiration and none of the picture here are floating your boat, you may want to give it a try if you are over 18 years old, because the feed is most definitely Not Safe For Work or Minors and sometimes for life in general. There's a lot of naked there. And sometimes other disturbing things. This is the feed I use, but remember the warnings. Seriously.

Today's pic is neither naked nor in any way squicky, but hopefully it is intriguing and will inspire great works. Take an hour, write whatever the picture inspires, and post it to the community! We're not harsh on the critique of prompt-pieces (or at least we shouldn't be!) since they are free-writing exercises to get the creativity flowing.

Show Research

2009-06-28T17:07:31Z

Hey everyone,

I'm a bookwriter/lyricist, and I'd love your help on my latest musical. I'm just looking for people's experiences that I can use to inform the piece.

Here's the post in my writing journal about the project and how to contact me. Feel free to pass it along to anyone you think might be interested, too!

Thanks!

Friday Prose Prompt: Summertime

2009-06-26T23:30:21Z

"Summertime" is one of my favorite songs. Originally heard in the 1935 Opera Porgy and Bess, it is now one of the most well-known Jazz pieces. Your Friday Prose mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take a line from the song and use it to open a short story, poem or prose piece.

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Oh, Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

One of these mornings
You're going to rise up singing
Then you'll spread your wings
And you'll take to the sky

But until that morning
There's a'nothing can harm you
With your daddy and mammy standing by

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

"Summertime" lyrics by by DuBose and Dorothy Heyward, Ira Gershwin

As always, Friday Prose Prompts never expire. If this prompt doesn't inspire you, feel free to revisit earlier suggestions.

write_away @ 2009-06-25T21:36:00

2009-06-26T02:14:06Z

I did poetry month in April. A poem a day for a month. Unedited... so anything I post will be Eeesh rough- but I'd love to get some critique on my favorite pieces:

untitled
When I squeezed on my second skin
contorted
wriggling
into the small fuzzy form
my bones didn't matter
they were all broken anyway
helped me fit better
in my strange new shape
my face staring out
like a me mask

The camouflage was perfect
a new skinned girl
you'd never see my bruises
broken body
broken spirit
broken heart
but it didn't hide my face
which was a problem

No prince would kill me
no matter how much I begged
cut off my head
throw me in the fire
make me new like a phoenix
if he could see this face
this human face
this cursed human face
lost in thought
left unguarded
hurting

So I peeled off my cat skin
made myself new like a phoenix
reclaimed what was left
bruises faded
bones mended
spirits take longer
and hearts?
they never mend

The Servant Fingers Work
I close my eyes and imagine first

The master's face.

I see it clearly
as if she were in front of me
delicate curved jaw
eyes- their intensity ignored
to place them in relation to her nose and lips.
The spread and slope of her brow.

Her face is my playground.

I consider what she needs from me
how I can serve her
and I draw her changed.

I cut her flesh.
With every slice I make her new
The hardest step is always mutilation.

The servant fingers work to pull
the soft and supple living flesh

And in the end
she worships me
for what I've done.

She thanks me for her transformation
and I pray to god she comes to call again.

New Berlin

Your eyes are on my boarders
I've moved to a state of red alert
all your spies are fingertips
and your spies will soon be sneaking up my skirt

But I don't have an iron curtain
I don't have no fucking wall
I don't have much military
my defenses have been whittled down to nothing at all

So you're pressing your advantage
like any skilled tactician
You lied to me you said it was
just a diplomatic mission

I still have one secret weapon
and it hums and it flares in my chest
You won't realize you're marked for destruction
until your spies have gotten me completely undressed

You've made a key strategic error
all your spies they never knew the score
despite your exhaustive intelligence
you didn't see that love could be the next cold war

untitled
I wonder, will I have enough bread for when everybody comes?
I wonder, will I have enough bread for when everybody comes by for a visit?

And if you wonder if that means you too
with everything I hate about you?
You've seen me with my head unscrewed
so, yes, I think you should come down.

I wonder, will I have enough fish for all you jerks?
I wonder, will I have enough fish for all you jerks who come by uninvited?

And when my friend does his parlor trick
we'll have so much fish that it makes me sick
You're the habit I could never kick
and yes, I think you should come down.

I'm interested in detailed concrit if anyone has the time!

I also have two or three much longer poems that I'll post eventually.

(I'd love to see this com active again!)

He said post anything...

2009-06-26T01:17:18Z

Seriously, did you even hesitate before you clicked?

I wrote two very short pieces on... let's say unusual pairings. May not be everyone's taste, so don't say I didn't warn you!

She looked at him and shivered. She was no simpering, modest miss, but the sight of him could cause a hardened harlot to swoon. He was perfection. A good twelve inches of hard, cold aluminum, at least a size 15. He was a deep midnight blue, and his surface, burnished by years of yarn sliding sensuously over it, glowed in the dim lamplight. She looked down at her own frumpy plastic body, a pale, unattractive shade of light purple made more hideous by its obvious seams and sickly translucency. And she was a P, for goodness sake! A man of his caliber should have a svelte 00 steel by his side. What could he possibly see in her? She pushed that thought aside as he gently slid his tip into her hook...

(9 months later a Tunisian Crochet Hook was born...)

The Scottish wool snuggled up next to the American cashmere, and said in his soft, husky brogue, "I canna wait to be knit together with you."

She giggled, and gave him a gentle push. "But we just met, I hardly know you!"

He slipped a roughened strand between her silky ones and she gasped softly. He smiled, and said, "But we were made for each other, can't you feel it?"

And feel it she did! The sensations running through her skein were like nothing she'd ever felt before...

Bring It

2009-06-25T23:20:33Z

Hi, write_away! Remember when there used to be multiple posts to this community every day? It wasn't even that long ago. We could have that back! There are, like, thousands of you. I know some of you have been writing and holding out. Put something here.

Since there hasn't been a whole lot of posting recently, I think it's reasonable to offer a critiquing amnesty. I mean, it's better if you go critique a few old things; the practice is good, but whatever. Just post something.

Don't have anything ready? How about this, try writing a short piece that uses one of these:

footsie academics
porn-hoarding lurker
bottomless question
vegan lesbian raver
two-hoodie hipster

Want to read a review I wrote for a friend's literary blog? It's here: http://grasshopperreads.wordpress.com/2009/06/23/chimera-lucida/

And, if nothing else, how about just post and talk a bit about what you have been writing lately? Here is my lowdown:

a few times a week at http://secretvespers.com/
a set of thirty poems that deal with toast
a set of fifteen poems with cloud formation titles
editing a novel
a short story about skeletons, and other short stories

Do any of you live in Montreal? This storm we are having is phantasmorgial. I love it. Come get soaked with me.

Friday Prose Prompt

2009-06-12T12:50:31Z

There are a series of books that are nothing but a series of found lists - it's interesting to try to reconstruct the story around the person who was shopping for some weird assortment of bits, or who writes perplexing notes next to certain items. There are lots of stories to be made up about them...

Which would be a fine project, but not quite what I had in mind. Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to write a series of to-do lists that tell a clear story. No dialogue, no narrative, no description - just simple bullet points that convey a clear storyline.

Crossed Genres Issue Seven: URBAN is LIVE!

2009-06-02T02:53:17Z

It’s time to paint the town in Issue Seven of Crossed Genres Magazine! Read five superb Urban SciFi & Fantasy stories, and enjoy striking cover art by Paul Davey and an insightful interview with SFF literary agent Michael Kabongo.

Crossed Genres is now accepting writing and inside art submissions for the upcoming Alternate History issue. Just a reminder: Crossed Genres is now a paying market.

NEW! Crossed Genres is having a Flash Fiction Contest! Hurry and submit your 100-500 SciFi/Fantasy story!

Crossed Genres is also still accepting submissions for completed novella or novel-length fiction to be serialized on our website exclusively for our subscribers. We are also accepting "pitches" for a webcomic to run for a year on our website, also exclusively for our Subscribers. Upon completion, each will be published by Crossed Genres in its entirety.

On July 1st, Crossed Genres will release its SciFi/Fantasy Anthropomorphism issue, with endearing cover art by Kasey Gifford and interviews with author Jennifer Brozek and scientist and author Athena Andreadis.

Sorry, I should probably start with this:

2009-05-31T23:16:09Z

Name: Ikasatu Kirasawa

Age: 26

Writing Experience: I try to write a lot, and have been writing in my spare time since I could spell.

Preferred Genres: Poetry, science fiction, humor, life experience.

Education: Some College at several schools.

Country: United States of America

What do you hope to get from this community? Critique, inspiration, help, and the chance to offer these in return.

Where did you hear of us? A friend.

Six Word Stories

2009-05-31T23:08:40Z

I'm in love with these, and enjoy the challenge of incorporating subtext and characters in only six words. I would be interested to see some from you guys.

The six word story, according to SixWordStories.net:

"In the 1920s, Ernest Hemingway’s colleagues bet him that he couldn’t write a complete story in just six words.

"For sale: baby shoes, never used."
—Ernest Hemingway

They paid up. Hemingway is said to have considered it his best work."

The rules, in six words:

Six words, any punctuation, contractions allowed.

My best so far is:
"Arctic Survivor Found! Full, but lonely."

I'll try to come up with an even better entry.

tuesday's crusts

2009-05-26T15:58:44Z

Hey guys after ten months of being lulzed around by various doctors, I managed to get my second Gardasil shot!

To celebrate this, let's write about waiting - tables or dumb or Tom or when the waiting is over ~~and the dread of having to be resuscitated is gone~~.

Bonus points if you also involve toast!

Remember, folks, you can reply to this post with your marmalade'd masterpieces or post a new post for your wholegrain words. And if this pick-of-the-day peanut-butter prompt is too burnt for your tastes, you can check out our yeastified alliteration-has-failed-me prompt menu for inspiration because everything here lacks a use-by date! And not in the dodgy way!

write_away @ 2009-05-20T18:45:00

2009-05-20T08:48:19Z

I hope it's okay that I post some of my writing right off the bat. This is a prologue for a novella I am writing, but am yet to finish. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I hate it, and it's a bit all over the place.

FALL FROM INNOCENCE

PROLOGUE:

DAVID

On this night the moon is hanging low to the earth, but this is just a coincidence. This hospital room is no whiter, no cleaner, no more profound than any other. There is a bed, a midwife, a father drinking tea with some rum spilled into it, and a mother in the squirms of labor. Tonight there will be twins, a babe of each sex. A child born pink and a child born blue. But first, let’s meet the mother.
Fair skinned and dark haired, the drugs are soft in her veins. The mother opens her mouth, but there is no scream, no sound, just white lips opening and closing over a silent black tunnel, a thick tongue flapping in the darkness. Later on the midwife will relay with a mild curiosity that this is the quietest birth she has seen yet. The father dreams and drinks himself away and when the girl baby (soft and small, her stillborn face unlined) is placed into his arms his skin prickles with what might have been an empty pride, but it might have been nothing at all.
Second born, first alive: the boy. Soft skulled and flesh fisted, he is born with a tongue too silent, with eyes too bright. The mother tries to kiss him, but she doesn’t know where to begin. She presses her mouth too briefly to his cheek, his hand, the crown of his head, to his round unformed elbow, her lips loitering but never knowing where to land. He gurgles unhappily at her unspecific kisses. The father? The father is making eyes at the midwife, her legs long and lean inside her stockings and his voice sluggish and drunk when he says “I’ve seen nights blacker than this.”
But this is not the most unusual birth. There will be more babies, more entrances stranger and sadder than this one, and soon the midwife will come to forget it. Some time, much later, on a night when sleep is hard to find and the lounge room is bathed in the blue glow of the T.V. screen light, the midwife will see those bright eyes again. She will see that baby – a boy now – stretched out supine on the riverbank, his chest bloated and blue beneath the ribcage where the bones meet over the heart, catapulted too soon into a freedom he will never know. And then the news reporter will read out the sports scores, and the midwife will lie beside her husband thinking not of either baby, or of the boy on the riverbank, orof anything that will make that night different from any other.
Outside the hospital room the moon melts back into the land. The baby boy kicks his infant legs and his sister is taken away.
Welcome to the world, David.

write_away @ 2009-05-20T18:26:00

2009-05-20T08:27:08Z

Name: Martha.

Age: Seventeen.

Writing Experience: A short lifetime of filling notebooks with stories. And a writer’s workshop as a high school elective, but butotherwise none.

Preferred Genres: Fiction - most commonly short stories and autobiographical fiction, and I sometimes dabble in poetry, but that's proving to be rare these days.

Education: High school.

Country: Australia.

What do you hope to get from this community? Of course I would like some feedback on my own writings, as I'm always interested in self-improvement and refining my work, but I would also like to be involved in a writing community, and the posting members here all seem very helpful and courteous :)

Where did you hear of us? An LJ interests search.

Last April

2009-05-16T04:39:27Z

With 7 A.M. sitcoms and the
hands stuck safe in the
softest space-
Silence can no longer preserve
my favorite morning.

I want to resurrect the
alarm clock I knocked from your shelf,
but the timing was never right for us anyway.

The Worst Poem of All Time(usually people seem to use "ever" at the end)

2009-05-15T00:22:42Z

Tydbol

Every night Pa makes a pizza
It's on his weekly menu
Every night he's in hysteria
Because the cat keeps reining on his fiesta

What does the cat want with the pie?
Pepperoni is the reason
This puts Pa in a moody season
Why, don't ask why

So one night Pa's light bulb switches on
He ever so has the brightest idea
A bathroom product for the furry peon
At worst, it's an evil solution

Once again, the pizza is the order of the night
The trap is set, but not everything is alright
The cat had no idea
Unfortunately for it had a busted light

Pa grinning, awaiting the pivotal moment
Our anti-heroic feline gets its piece
Will there be peace
For him, that is his intent

As the brave furball falls
Pa thought he won
Later, he hears what sounds like scraping claws
Defeat approaches, his victory gets lost

Behold the monsteriousity, pun included
Rest assured it's not hyberbol
Maybe you should sleep with both eyes open
Meet our new blue pet, Tydbol!

tuesday tsk tsk

2009-05-13T15:10:33Z

Whoops. This week's delayed prompts are from New South Welsh band, The Whitlams.

See him offering himself to the world, staring down from the fifty-sixth floor

I will not go quietly, I will not behave myself

Shooting postcards of him through the flies

There are always reasons (how long have you got?)

Now horror's more than skin and bone

A World of Scribbles

2009-05-07T03:19:09Z

worldofscribble is a brand new writing community with a monthly competition for the best author and critiquer.

This community was created in order to foster writing. How exactly do we plan to accomplish that? Here's our premise.
(For a less list-oriented approach, please see the community's Welcome Message.)

In order to get good at something, you have to practice. Every month, you are invited to submit a work or works to this community. (No more than four submissions per month please!)

Membership here is open, but we want this community to be interactive. So, constructive criticism of submissions is definitely encouraged. In fact, if you make a habit of posting your own submissions while failing to offer feedback on anyone else's work, don't be surprised when the maintainer reminds you to do so. Conversely, you don't technically have to write one word publicly to be a member here, but you should still give an author feedback on what they've written.

At the end of every month, your maintainer will post a poll consisting of all the works submitted for consideration. If you like something, vote for it. If there's more than one submission you want to vote for, go right ahead. Once the voting period ends, your maintainer will count up the votes for each submission, and announce the winner.

Remember that bit about participation and constructive criticism being important? During each month's vote, participants will also be asked to vote for the person who has given the best critiques for that month's submissions.

Aside from writing and voting, community members are also encouraged to talk about the writing process. What is guaranteed to get your creative juices flowing? What doesn't work?

If you would like to submit something for feedback, but not have it voted on, just let us know when you post it by using the No Vote tag.

The boring stuff:

Before you submit your first entry, please introduce yourself to the community. (Please make use of the Intro tag.)

Be polite. You're certainly welcome to explain why you didn't like a submission, just be nice about it.

If your work is more than a few paragraphs or stanzas in length, please use the LJ Cut to put your submission behind a link.

Please tag your posts by the appropriate category. A list of all the tags we use is shown below, separated by commas.
Discussion, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasy, Intro, Lyrics, Nonfiction, No Vote, Poetry, Promotion, Prose, Revision, Rough Draft, Question, Sci-Fi, Script, Strong Language, Violence, Welcome.

If your work contains elements such as Strong Language, Violence, or Explicit Sexual Content, please alert the community by adding the appropriate tag.

If you have a question for this community's maintainer, or a complaint about another community member, e-mail it to AWorldofScribbles@gmail.com.

Good luck.

Intro

2009-05-06T19:56:18Z

Name:  J.
Age:  28
Writing Experience:  short stories, poetry, lyrics, screenplays
Preferred Genres:  poetry
Education:  high school and in college
Country:  US
What do you hope to get from this community?  feedback
Where did you hear of us?  found by chance


A poem.  I'll post this for feedback.  I expect nothing more than that.  Here it is.


I Got No

A boy meets a girl
There's no rhyme in the world
That could overcome the cliche
How touche

He says he loves her
She says she's not sure
His pounding heartbeats is giving her a headache
Her uncertainty is giving him a heartache

She says she's actually a boy
Boy says don't be coy
She confesses she's a vampire
The boy asks, are you looking for a new hire

Boy, he doesn't get it
This admitted vampire spills the blood
She's a guy, but he himself looks like gal
Can't they just be pals

I got no clue
Letting the thought weigh in
Gives me the flu
And I got no medicine

I'm not exactly a new user...

2009-05-05T05:50:07Z

It's just that it's been a couple of years since I posted or critiqued anything here. So, I feel the need to reintroduce myself. I'm 18, finishing up my freshman year of college. I hail from Washington State, recently made infamous by the Twilight series. Let me just say that while, yes, we do get a ridiculous amount of rain, and yes, there is basically a wet season and a less wet season, it is not cloudy enough year-round to support a healthy vampire population. I am extremely reassured by this knowledge because I doubt that any vampire I'd run into would gaze into my eyes and declare his undying love. Or would it be undead love?

Anyway, this is the much revised first chapter of a story I'm writing. I actually posted the original in this community a long time ago. I consider this version substantially improved. It's called "Llamagirl."

Llamagirl

It was a sunny day in the peaceful town of Dullville. Historians maintain that the town was named for a Mr. Herbert Dull, but I doubt it. More likely, somebody probably spent one day in the place and knew just what to call it. A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet, and Dullville would still be Dullville.

Anyway, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the bees were buzzing, and the grass was greener than ever. Along the sidewalks young maples stretched their leafy branches toward the sky, swaying gently in the breeze as if to wave a cheerful hello to passersby. The well-kept, tidy storefronts sat snugly together, endless rows of different shades of soothing colors punctuated by intersections. Of course, there was never any traffic, and all of the drivers were conscientious and cheerful; even the stoplights seemed polite. Basically, everything was perfect, like it is every single disgustingly perfect day.

My friend Joey and I were walking home, and we were discussing the best technique for folding paper airplanes. I’ll have you know that the Dullville High School paper plane team is undefeated; granted, that’s mostly because we’re the only competitive paper plane flying team in the region. We used to have football, until someone broke a leg. Now we fold.

“Seriously, it’s all in the crease,” Joey insisted. “Without sharp creases the structural integrity of the plane is shot.”

“If a sharp crease is off-center, you might as well scrap the whole plane,” I retorted. “It’s better to make a light crease and then check your measurements!”

It was at that moment that a dark cloud arose on the horizon. Well, I knew it wasn’t really a dark cloud. It was an evil villain’s aircraft. This happens about once a week, so I’ve become adept at spotting the signs.

I sighed and turned to Joey. “Looks like rain, I guess,” I said lamely. “I should, uh, take the shortcut home.”

Joey just nodded. He’s used to me just disappearing unexpectedly. I sometimes wonder how much he’s figured out, and how much he chalks up to my natural weirdness.

I ran off into the nearest alley, which was a couple of blocks away. I dropped my backpack and ferreted out my suit. Before you get the wrong idea, it’s not spandex. It will never be spandex. No foe will ever be dastardly enough, no crime will ever be deplorable enough, and no situation will ever be bleak enough to compel me to wear spandex.

So anyway, I was really busy trying to get into my suit without taking my other clothes off (I mean, this is a public place) when I realized it was on backwards. Shoot. So then I had to completely turn it around, again without taking everything off. The things I go through for the good people of Dullville. Meanwhile, the dark cloud was fast approaching.

I finally got my clothes on right, and I was about to go teach that villain the meaning of the phrase “kick butt” when I realized that I’d completely messed up my hair. There is no point in trying to defeat the forces of evil with bad hair. It’s totally unprofessional. Besides, that dark cloud was taking its sweet time. So, I got out my brush and put it back in a ponytail, one of the most efficient hairstyles ever invented. Loose locks are not conducive to conquering agents of darkness.

Now you see why it took me about ten minutes to emerge from the alley, complete with suit and mask, and of course, perfectly styled hair. The street was deserted (yes, the rest of the town has caught on to the whole dark-cloud ruse) and I hoped Joey had made it home safely, and wasn’t just hiding underneath a table at the nearest café.

It was at this point that the Evilmobile had just about flown all the way up the street. It was pretty obvious that whoever owned this sweet ride was shelling out some serious money. I almost admired the hovering vehicle, until I remembered that it harbored my would-be nemesis. The sunroof opened with a mechanical whine, and out rose the disastrous rogue.

“I am Lord Victor, Master of All Things Dark and Evildoer in General!” he announced. “I shall trample anyone who stands in my way with the Heel of Wickedness!” His black hair was gelled up in spikes that faintly resembled horns, and he wore the attire of a nineteenth century gentleman, albeit a wicked one, complete with pristine white gloves and a high starched collar. Unfortunately for Lord Victor, no one had told him that dramatic confrontation is not a black-tie event.

“You’re overdressed!” I shouted. “I’m pretty sure the invitations said ‘business casual’!”

That was when he first noticed me. I was a little annoyed. I’m short, but not that short. He raised his diabolic eyebrow. “And who might you be?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m Llamagirl!”

That was about the time when he started laughing in my face.

That’s right. I’m a superhero. Llamagirl. I couldn’t get a cool animal, like a bat, a cat, or a spider; no, I got a llama. Don’t worry, I didn’t get bitten. I’ve been this way since I was about ten, with no apparent provocation. It’s not really fair. As far as I can tell from my research, the only special talents that llamas have are spitting and being fuzzy. For some reason, I was also granted more than average strength, speed, and agility, none of which are qualities that llamas are known to possess.

I know what’s coming next: all right, if you must ask, my suit is navy blue and cream, and parts of it are furry. No, I do not have a gigantic L plastered across my chest. As if I need to advertise that I’m Llamagirl. No, my ensemble does not include ears or a tail, although it does entail a nicely crafted mask. My parents got it for me; they’re the only ones who know about my… unique gifts. In fact, I think they’re the ones who figured out that I was Llamagirl; all I did was cry, “Hey, look at me, I can lift the sofa.”

But anyway, where were we? Oh yeah, Lord Victor was laughing in my face. Not just a demure chuckle. Oh no. He was practically rolling on the pavement. By this time he had guffawed his way off of the hover-thingy – which is when I punched him in the gut.

Some say that I have anger management issues.

Unsurprisingly, Lord Victor stopped laughing after I punched him. His face screwed up into that oh-so-scary picture of supervillain rage. He opened his mouth and clenched his fist, probably in order to proclaim some never-ending curse on me and my descendants.

I’ve never been a big fan of eternal curses, so I just kicked his shin and threw him back into the little shuttle he slimed out of. He sped away, and I could have sworn I heard him whimper. Told you I was strong.

While this eloquent battle between good and evil was being fought, the sky had darkened ominously, and now it was clear again, sunny and warm. The birds were chirping, the bees were buzzing, yada yada, and all was perfect again in Dullville. As I changed back into my normal clothes, I thought to myself that maybe, just maybe, I would let evil win next time. Just to stir things up a little.

Of course that would never happen. I sighed and started looking for Joey. He was indeed hiding in the coffee shop, though instead of crouching under a table he had hopped over the counter and taken cover behind the espresso machine. I spied on him from a distance, and discretely followed him home, making sure he got in the front door without any further incident. No matter how many times it happened, the poor guy was always shaken up by these kinds of events. I smiled wryly to myself. For Joey, Dullville was anything but.

Crossed Genres Issue Six: WESTERN is Live!

2009-05-02T02:35:05Z

-On the post-apocalyptic plains, guard your water with your life; they’re worth about the same.
-The frontier is full of opportunity and tragedy, but anything can happen in the Wild West - even magic.
-Deserts are transformative places, even on Mars, where the first settlers are robots, not men.
-The difference between the good guys and the bad guys isn’t as simple as the color of their hats.
-Road trip! If your car breaks down, you’d better hope you’ve got something worth living for.

Saddle up and "Go West" in Issue Six of Crossed Genres Magazine, along with brilliant cover art by Nicc Balce and a fascinating article on the origins of the SciFi Western genre by Jeffrey Richardson, the Assistant Curator of film and Popular Culture at the Autry national Center of the American West.

Crossed Genres is now accepting writing submissions for the upcoming SciFi and Fantasy Anthropomorphism issue. Just a reminder: Crossed Genres is now a paying market.

NEW! Crossed Genres is now accepting submissions for completed novella or novel-length fiction to be serialized on our website exclusively for our subscribers. We are also accepting "pitches" for a webcomic to run for a year on our website, also exclusively for our Subscribers. Upon completion, each will be published by Crossed Genres in its entirety.

On June 1st, Crossed Genres will release its SciFi/Fantasy Urban issue, with stunning cover art by Paul Davey and an interview with Literary Agent Mike Kabongo.

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Issue Six is now available for purchase through Amazon for $7.99 each (a 20% price reduction!):

Issue Six: SciFi and Fantasy Western

(5 stories of the SF & Fantasy Frontier - "Cowboys And Robots: The Birth of the Science Fiction Western" by Jeffrey Richardson - "Dueling Mechs" cover art "Ten Ton Automatons 'n' Six Shooters" by Nicc Balce - "Damned Good Shot": Art by Katoo Deziel)

write_away @ 2009-04-30T05:24:00

2009-04-30T04:24:20Z

My uncle appears in my earliest memories as a shadowy figure. There are photographs of us smiling and him making bunny ears behind my head, but I don’t remember it that way at all. Which is strange, because those days are pure as song to me, sacred with sunlight. Perhaps the good memories were clouded by what came later: I can’t tell.

“Emma, you weirdo, come outside.”

I remember him saying that on a winter’s day, when snow turned the forest into a black and white photograph. He never understood why I kept in my room when there was a “world outside”. He looked up at me from beneath the windows of the family house we shared. He was bald except for a halo of frizzy hair, with a moustache that gave him the appearance of a beaver. He was not a big man, yet very loud – especially in argument. My mother said it was because when my grandfather had died they’d still been fighting, and certain things in him were a way of compensating.

“Go away, Uncle Jim,” I shouted back. I heard his footsteps crunch away. Even at that time, I associated him with danger. Mishaps followed him around: he’d been chased by an elephant in Africa, held at gunpoint in an airport, had been saved by his red hat in a snow blizzard. Uncle Jim used to say he was lucky – well, that was uncle Jim for you. The only male in a family of four sisters and a mother, he’d been their pride and joy since becoming a charity big shot. Uncle Jim saved lives, we’d boast.

His attitude changed when I got older. That winter was the last time he ever asked me to play. When we visited in the summer, I was twelve. I was sunning myself on the lawn when he approached me.

“What’s that you’re wearing?”

“A bikini.”

“You shouldn’t be out here like that.”

“I thought you wanted me to be outdoors.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“I mean it. Go indoors, or I'll tell your mother.”

I stretched back on the towel and turned over. Ants were starting to crawl over the fabric, but I was determined not to move.

“Who do you think bought this for me?”

That was almost a lie, since I’d bought it with my friends that spring. Still, I guess I was tired of people seeing me a certain way, especially as I was the youngest.

“Well, I’ll have words with her later.”

He stalked off. I watched him go, thinking how it was funny how he could always manage to see me on my own: we’re a large family with kids running about. Anyway, I thought, the whole thing was unfair. The house was in the middle of the wilderness – who was there around to see me?

Next summer, it was the make-up. I’d started to experiment with foundation to cover up my spots, using lipstick and eye-liner to distract people from the foundation. I’d come out of the “sad clown” phase that young girls get when starting out and had reached the “aging hooker” levels that many over-enthusiastic teens are prone to. My uncle, of course, was furious.

“Come on, Annie,” he would say to my mom, “she looks ridiculous.”

I found myself wishing that my dad were there. He couldn’t join us out at the family home during the holidays because of work. My mom always sided with my uncle and my elder brothers were no use. They always ran around bonding with the little ones, forming clubs and building rafts for the river that ran through our property.

I loved the river, particularly because it was a great place to get some alone time. It was only deep enough to swim in one place, but you could sit on the rocks a little upstream and the rushing water gave you a back massage. On a good day after the rains, the water would be up to your shoulders and the fresh smell of rain would be everywhere. I was sat on the rocks in my bikini suit when I saw my uncle emerge in a bathing costume from around the bend upstream. I inwardly groaned and prepared to ignore him.

“Budge up, squirt!”

He settled on the rocks beside me, the spray shooting off our backs. I looked upwards. The sun found a path through the branches above us, making the river seem shallower where the light fell. The green of the tree leaves were dark against the sky, moving in a breeze that sounded thinly above the river's din.

Then my body went rigid. My uncle was touching me under the water. Fearfully I stared straight ahead as if I hadn’t noticed. I felt sick, so disconnected from what was going on that we could have stayed like that for any number of minutes.

“It’s pretty out here.”

He removed his hand. It would have been as if nothing had happened, if it weren’t for the thickness of his voice. He paused as if waiting for a response, then got up and continued walking down the river, picking his way over the rocks until becoming hidden by the trees.

I began to shake uncontrollably. There were no tears, just a wretched animal whimper. To silence it, I let myself slide under the brown water. Everything dissolved into a few shapes. There was the flat plane of sky broken by the current, the dark shifting bed of the river, and the white of my body in front of me. Something in me didn’t want to return my body to the surface. I felt very tired. Yet my arms moved and the surface rushed up to meet me. I made my way to the bank and put on my clothes. I did not want to carry my bikini back to the house and so I threw it in the river.

When I got in, my mom was reading to the kids. I said that I had to speak to her. We went down into the basement that was filled with the echoes of the house. I sat down on some old furniture.

“Mom, something’s happened.”

The tears began to come.

Later, my mom insisted on confronting Uncle Jim. I couldn’t be there. He lied, of course, saying that I was going through a difficult time. He said it was probably a fish or something. He got angry and cried, asking how could she believe such a thing. This, my mother told me. I knew she didn’t trust my story. She said we better not tell the others, so it remained between us for the rest of the holiday, weighing us down.

When I opened my bedroom closet, I saw it for the first time. There it slumped, with inhuman eyes and no mouth. My angel. Its wings were folded against its back and it wore some of my father’s old clothes. Standing up, it gently brushed against me. Its flesh was cold and translucent, like morning light.

It was tied to a rope that hung around the bar of the closet. When I loosened the rope, my angel flew. I know it killed my uncle with a sword of flames so pure they were invisible. I know it shone into me and cleansed my body. Standing in the dark closet with the rope in my hands, I realised my angel was free.

Tuesday Tripwires

2009-04-27T17:10:44Z

Your prompts this week come from New South Welsh band The Cops.

This kind of loving leaves me mystified, this kind of loving leaves me satisfied

The city's talking traffic and I'm wiping cobwebs from my head

You better learn to take sides

We live in a digital world, we move to the beat of each other

I like the heat, but this is ridiculous

write_away @ 2009-04-20T23:50:00

2009-04-20T22:55:32Z

I 'm looking for your views as to whether you find this interesting or not. I know it has to be edited and proof read so ignore any typo's or grammer corrections. I'll get around to them later. But for now, first impressions.

The cat who knew stuff.

What do we know about cats ? Not the National Geographic type shit, I mean, what do we really know about them ? I'll tell you my friend, we know nothing, nothing ! about cats. Now the ancient Egyptians, they also knew nothing, but they knew there was more to them than they knew. Enough so, to treat them with reverence. As if to say, I'm not taking any chances, better treat him as a god.Just in case...

Spring time in Ireland is a time of mass migration. The great herd of Irish manhood peels itself from its winter habitat of couches, sofas and remote controls to head out into nature to trim hedges and cut lawns. This is where the story of how I ended up in an insane asylum begins. Going out to cut the grass.

So there I am, standing in front of the double doors of "The Man Shed". Man Sheds are very carefully controlled environments. They must be tidy enough to want to make you feel cosy, but must retain an atmosphere of spiders and mice, enough so, to deter women from wanting to explore The Man Shed. So mine has a work bench to make model aircraft on, an old armchair (slightly musty, enough to put it beyond salvage, thus interest ) , a filing cabinet that has a stash of Black Moroccan dope, some porn mags and a 6, make that 4 pack of Heineken. There's also another chair for when William, my next door neighbour, hops the fence and comes to "borrow" something. There's also a lawnmower, hedge trimmers and various other stuff I have no interest in, but keep handy to justify going to the shed for. So, as I was saying, there I am in front of the doors. I open them up and the first thing I see is a large black cat with one eye curled up on the old armchair. I like cats. They don't need walking and don't hump your leg while you in a Q at the post office. I say Pishwishwish to see if he'll come and be friends. He ignored me. I pulled out the lawn mower and as I do so a bag slides off the shelf. It's a hammock I bought two years ago and never got around to putting up. As I reach down to pick it up I hear a tapping on the kitchen window. It is "SHE", she's pointing at the hammock and gesturing for me to erect it. I look at the photo on the cover of the bag and immagine the guy on the hammock is me. A fine idea, I decide. I get busy cutting the grass, rake up the hay or whatever cut grass is called, and clean the mower before putting it back. I pick a nice spot in the garden that catches most of the sunshine, and more importantly, is out of the wind. I erect the hammock. It's a simple frame that you hook the big net part on to at both ends.There is another tap on the kitchen window. SHE gives a thumbs up and a wave goodbye. She said something this morning about the hairdresser so I assume she's going there. I carefully sit on the edge of the hammock. It doesn't twang and fall down. I turn lengthways and put one leg up. Nothing. Two legs and I recline, expecting to flip over and end up face down on the grass. Nothing . Actually, it's really comfortable. I decide to make the four pack a three pack and fetch a Heineken from the filing cabinet. I'm back on the hammock swinging slightly. I have chosen my spot well. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face. After fifteen minutes, I'm getting drowsy. The Heinie has relaxed me , the sun is now quite warm, the smell of cut grass is very pleasant. Soon my head begins to nod. A bee drones by.

I hear a rasping voice say "Ibitza !"in what could be a spanish accent . I open an eye a bit and look around. I must have immagined it because there's no one there. I begin to nod off again.

"Ibitza I said ".

Shit, someone wants to chat. I open my eyes and look around for where the voice is coming from. There is nobody there. Not in my garden, not in Williams. I look behind me , thinking it's coming from the kitchen. There's no one in the house. The cat has moved from the armchair to the roof of the shed now. Maybe his claws made a scratching sound as he climb..

"Ibitza a lot"

I could swear the voice came from the cat ! I think to myself "You're tired and shouldn't drink beer in the sun, it goes straight to your head"

"Shiz got bruises !"

I sit up now. I look carefully around the garden trying to figure out where William could hide a speakerfor his practicle joke. As I'm doing so, the cat continues to stare at me. Then it stands up , arches it's back and it's legs quiver.

"If yiz not intrested"

Thinking I'll go along with the joke I say I am interested and tell me more. It was the worst thing I could ever have done.

write_away @ 2009-04-16T23:32:00

2009-04-17T03:33:49Z

The sun rises, another day is awaiting for me.
I have no desire to get up, no drive to start my day.
I feel empty; for all that should belong to me is taken away.
I remember how I used to smile for no reason, and now that has turned to tears.
There used be awe for the future, and now I'm left with no fears.
While I sit alone on my bus ride, I pass many faces, trying to scan.
Do they feel as I do? Living life carelessly, do they have a plan?
My eyes are fully opened, searching for an open heart to give me some tender
But I know I'm lying to myself, I might as well surrender.

-Me.