Spectacular Settings: WEP challenge - Part A - Pat Conroy. Part B - My flash fiction, The Child. #wepff

Hello all!

Write...Edit...Publish (WEP) restarts today under a new format. Yolanda Renee and I have teamed up to present this challenge which will generally run every second month. This first challenge is in two parts. Participants can complete one or both parts.

Part A is where you share a found setting that you love: in a novel, poem, photo, artwork...Then you explain why you love it.

Part B is optional, where you share your own setting piece, either written expressly for the challenge or one previously written or compiled--whether flash fiction, non fiction, a photo montage or essay, an artwork you created, a playscript you wrote...the choice is open!

If you like the idea, please sign up in my sidebar and post to the guidelines above, or check out this post at WEP for full guidelines. You have until August 26th to post.

My entry:

Part A - An excerpt from the Prologue of Beach Music by Pat Conroy, my favourite novel.

If I’d just opened a random page, I could have found some amazing setting to share with you. Chapter 1 begins with such a sensuous description of the Piazza Farnese in Rome you have to blink to make sure you’re not actually there, so strong is the smell of freshly-brewed coffee and so vivid the descriptions of the morning activity in the Piazza. And I’m sure South Carolina never had prettier words written to describe it. But the descriptions that never leave me are found in the Prologue. I have taken excerpts from pp. 19-23, where the teenage Jack is sky larking with a group of his graduate high-school classmates who have gathered in a condemned house on St Michael’s Island, South Carolina, on the night it was predicted the house would break up and fall into the sea. This section is reminiscent of the whole novel, where Conroy, a master of setting as character, parallels the coming together of himself and his great love, Shyla, against the backdrop of the raging Atlantic Ocean. 

This of course, foreshadows one of many tragedies which is to come...

"THE sea rose invisibly beneath us and the moon shone smooth and bright. A glossy flute of light, like velvet down a bridal aisle, lit the marlin scales and the backs of whales migrating a hundred miles at sea. The tides surged through the marsh and each wave that hit the beach came light-struck and broad-shouldered, with all the raw power the moon could bestow. Magically, an hour passed and we, ocean dancers and tide challengers, found ourselves listening to the sea directly beneath us as the waves began to crash in earnest against the house...

I looked around to see Shyla Fox in the moonlight. She looked as though she had dressed for this moment with the help of the moon…

We danced toward the central motion of our lives. The winds roared and a strange love rose like a tide between us and rested in the crown of waves that was loosening the frame of the house. Alone we danced beneath the full moon…

I heard the house shudder and push off as it took its first primal step towards the sea. The house tilted, then fell forward as though it were prostrating itself before the power of this tidal surge.

We went out to the newly imbalanced balcony, holding hands. The moon lit the sea in a freeway of papery light and we watched the boiling white caps feeding on the broken cement scattered beneath the house. We continued to dance while the house kept its appointment with the long tide and I blazed with the love of this young girl. 

Our love began and ended with seawater."

270 words

Part B

This is a reworked flash fiction which I wrote for #FridayFlash, my first online foray into flash fiction. It seems fitting to use one of my war stories seeing it's the 70th year anniversary of WW2. 

I write in Australian English which uses the 'u' and 's' and double 'l' and 're' not 'er', where you might use no 'u' and 'z' instead of 's' and a single 'l'. Just so you don't correct my spelling, lol! As I've waxed eloquent on Conroy, I've edited my story down, well under 1,000 words.

The Child

The desert was pitch-black, the only sound the Muslim call to prayer that rang out across the Baluchi Valley, punctuating the silence with staccato bursts.  

We marched single file into mayhem.

I slipped and slid behind the soldier in front of me, his form a shadow in the darkness. I’d had no sleep the night before, so terrified was I at the spectre of the mountains and deserts of Afghanistan, the caves seething with displaced insurgents. I struggled through oceans of sand, so thick around my ankles it dragged at my regulation boots. My knees screamed, my thighs burned, my lungs caught fire as I fought the grainy enemy.

I was in hell, a place where nothing was as it appeared.

Who was friend?

Who was foe?

I was on covert foot patrol with Australian and Afghan soldiers.  We were outside the wire, tramping through deserts, skirting a meandering river, scaling rocky hills under the pressing weight of body armour and supplies. I hadn’t yet acclimatised to the blistering temperatures or the altitude.

No one stopped when I tripped and fell. On patrol, to stop would jeopardise the mission. I dragged my feet from their burial place in the sand. No princesses here. In uniform everyone is treated the same.

How I prayed for sunrise.

***

The line paused.

The lead soldier signalled with his crooked finger, pointing to our surroundings, then held a finger to his lips. Word reached me that the desert was revealing Kuchi camps, Bedouins’ homes.

We crept silently as mountain cats into the night.

“Police checkpoint ahead”, someone whispered. In briefing I’d been told that these checkpoints were best avoided.

No one even breathed as we crouched and duck-walked along the ground, swinging our weapons side to side, holding tight.

An almighty screech, then a huge spotlight shone down on us, bathing us in blinding light.

­­

Someone screamed ‘Darawem!’ ('Stop!')and we froze like sphinxes in the desert, clutching weapons to our chests. 

Two policemen yelled at us in a language I didn’t understand, while their fingers stabbed the air.

We stood.

Statue still.

I struggled to control my bladder, knowing I could be shot right where I stood.

Someone down the line yelled ‘Australians!’ The police muttered to each other, nodded their heads, then motioned us on.

Further into the desert.

‘They were skittish because just yesterday they confronted insurgents in Kakarak across the river. Shots were exchanged,’ whispered the soldier behind me.

‘Thanks,’ I whispered back. My eyes were seeing insurgents behind the rocks, across the snaking river, in the shadowy menace of the mountains.

***

Sunrise.

A glorious orange orb broke over the mountains into the valley, skittering across the water till it reached the shock of green land at our feet.

In the near distance a small boy, not four years old, shepherded his family’s goats through the spiky fields. He could be my son, but my son slept in cosy comfort, surrounded by stuffed toys and his father’s love. More children hid shyly in doorways as we filed past their simple rammed-earth homes. 

Children. 

Everywhere.

Watching. 

First regulation stop. An exchange with tribal elders. They constantly looked to see who was watching them. They risked death for talking to Australian soldiers.

We moved on. Further into the desert. Away from the river.

Over broken bricked walls and through crumbling aqueducts we waded towards the hostile village of Sorkh Morghab where coalition forces had built a school, market and medical centre. 

We wandered through the market area, apparently casually, weapons held across our chests. Men and young boys showed us their wares and tried to sell me a burqa. I was just a woman, one who needed to cover herself.

One little boy approached me, hand outstretched. He was about six years old. Tears sprung to my eyes at his rough brown tunic draping his wasted body. I thought of my son, but this little boy’s eyes reflected a man, an angry man. I shivered with an unnamed emotion. 

A soldier pulled me roughly, backwards against his chest. 

'Don't,' he said.

'Let me,' I said, pushing him away. 

I reached into my pocket. 

I pulled out two soggy chocolate bars for the poor little boy. He was only a child.

The child smiled a gap-toothed smile but it didn’t reach his old man eyes.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large apple. We smiled at each other in a very easy but powerful gesture.

I stepped closer so we could exchange our bounty. It was then I saw the apple had blackened with age. Oh. It looked like a--no--it couldn’t be--

‘Nooooooooooo…’ someone yelled, a voice full of pain and regret.

I felt the fire on my lips. 

I tasted the fire as it burned in my throat.

I crumpled as the fire hit my belly.

I heard voices and staccato bursts of gunfire.

I heard the wailing call to prayer begin.

I heard the cry of a child.

THE END

 ©DeniseCovey2015

I'd appreciate your reaction to my story. I know it won't appeal to everyone.

So my critique request:

WORD COUNT: 832

FCA

Thank you so much for coming by and reading my entry for WEP. Please click on blogger's names in my sidebar to read more, especially those with 'Direct Link' after their name.

Write flash fiction, short stories or novellas? Even Amazon is actively seeking your stories...

Hello visitors and friends!

I don’t know why at times there seems to be a stigma around writing short stories rather than novels. Unless you’re a best-selling author, there’s just as much money, or actually more, that can be made from penning short stories if you study the paying market. That’s where I started when I got serious about making some money from writing a few years ago. I absolutely love writing fast fiction and short stories and have my eye on a novella or two, constructed from my flash fiction ideas.

Fast Fiction magazine in Australia publishes four times a year and is chock full of shorts of various lengths and various genres. Accepts internationally. It's my favourite market and pays really well. Here is a link to the first story they accepted to give you an idea of how open they are. 

The news is good for shorter fiction in these days of digital publishing. From being sneered at, unloved and unbought, short stories, serials and novellas are having quite the resurgence. Consider how many buyers are using their phones and tablets to read. I for one don't want to read 100,000 words via my phone.

WHAT THE EXPERTS ARE SAYING

The New York Times says, "Stories are perfect for the digital age...because readers want to connect and want that connection to be intense and to move on."  

Book marketing guru Penny Sansevieri said in the HuffPo: "…short is the new long…consumers want quick bites of information and things like Kindle Singles."

Short stories can also be a marketing tool for longer works.  Digital Book World's Rob Eagar said, "Selling your book means writing effective newsletters, blog posts, short stories, free resources, social media posts, word-of-mouth tools, magazine articles, etc."

WORD LENGTH FOR SHORT STORIES/NOVELLAS

There’s a dilemma about what actually constitutes a short story—word counts vary from publisher to publisher. Some call short stories anything up to 30K, with novellas coming in at anything between 30K-50K. Harlequin romance writers know that there is a romance novel requirement of 50K words.

Read the guidelines of the various publishers before writing to a market. Entangled Publishing just won a prestigious award for being one of the best digital publishers, and they are always looking for shorts, novellas and novels. Check them out their submission process here.

AMAZON WANTS YOUR STORIES

Many short story competitions require anything up to 10,000K or less. And some publishing houses consider 15K a novella. Short story anthologies are great for your resume if you can get accepted in a prestigious one. Don’t forget online zines. I found this link on Anne R Allen’s blog to a great list of genre story markets put together by Romance author Cathleen Ross.

So, whatever your preferred length, there’s someone out there who wants your stories. Even Amazon. Amazon actively seeks short fiction for their Kindle Singles program (published authors only need apply) and their new literary magazine Day One magazine actually accepts debut authors. Take note: when the Kindle Singles program launched in 2011, they sold 2 million "singles" ebooks in the first year! More details below...

Another positive: keeping your name out there is easier with shorts. Most writers can’t pen more than two or three books a year, (and what an achievement that would be), but they can turn out a lot of short stories and novellas.

WRITING OPPORTUNITIES – Paying it forward from Anne R Allen…go to her blog for more...

Amazon’s literary journal Day One is seeking submissions. According to Carmen Johnson, Day One’s editor, the litzine is looking for “fresh and compelling short fiction and poetry by emerging writers.” This includes stories that are less than 20,000 words by authors that have never been published, and poems by poets who have never published before. To submit works, writers/poets can email their work as a word document, along with a brief description and author bio to dayone-submissions @amazon.com.

So, dear writers, let me know if you find success in the short story/novella market. So many opportunities, so little time!

Don't forget--you can practise your short stories, flash fiction, poetry etc during the WEP challenge each month. Current prompt - FAILURE...OR IS IT? You can sign up right here in my sidebar. Love to have you - you can request critique, suggestions...we may even help you get published!!

Write...Edit...Publish Blogfest - MOVING ON - to Paris!

Hello everyone!

It's time for the second Write...Edit...Publish blogfest, the prompt, MOVING ON. The only rule is that stories remain around/under 1,000 words. The monthly blogfest is open to all, so watch the prompts and sign up. You're most welcome! OCTOBER is HAUNTING! 

In August I began a story with the premise that a young girl has arrived in Paris to look for her mother who has run away from home. (A little twist, yeah?) Willow meets a young French man, Jacques, whose intention is to help Willow solve the mystery. Today my entry is from the mother's point of view.

If you need me, I’ll be in Paris. Y

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

Cecelia woke with the corny quote swirling round in her head like some bizarre jingle once heard, never forgotten. She opened one eye just a slit—the other was swollen shut. But she could see enough to know she was alone in her bed. Her tormentor had left.

He’d tormented her one last time.

She reached for the clock on her bedside table. “Owwee!” She screamed as pain burned like a lightning bolt. Tears ran down her face as she focused on the dial, but the digits wobbled in her vision, a distorted mirror image. No matter. It was nearly light. It was probably the closing door that had woken her. Thank God he had drawn early shift at the factory today.

Did you ever lay in the dark and sing? Someone had once asked her that question. No, I can’t imagine doing that, she’d replied at an time when she had no hope.

But as she lay in the semi-darkness, arm throbbing, eye throbbing, heart sobbing, she started to sing away the pain. The notes reverberated around the room like one of her father's cracked ’78 records, but as the words welled up from her heart and passed her lips to the outside world, her spirit strengthened. The tense space of the bedroom filled with positive tones; the darkness receded.

Battered and bruised, but not beaten, Cecelia rose from her bed to meet the new day. Her knees cracked, her calves ached from the vicious kicks. She fell back onto the bed and nearly screamed with the pain of it. She reached for the photo frame with her favourite picture of the Eiffel Tower. She found comfort in its strong, sleek lines. She sat awhile until the pain lessened. How tempting to fall back onto the pillows and lay there all day! No! Up she got again. And again. Until finally, she stood strong on legs like steel springs.

The first day of the rest of her life could now begin.

Everything was ready. She’d been planning her escape for years. Her luggage in the basement, hidden in the old fire recess, her travel documents squirreled away in her make up case. She was pretty sure it was safe there. Ewan hated makeup. “A little bit of powder, a little bit of paint, makes a girl look what she ain’t”, he always sniped when she made the effort to hide the bruises, to hide the evidence of his brutality and her weakness from the world.

But her most important stash of all was hidden in plain sight—her precious books stacked on her bedside table would take but a moment to pack. She couldn’t leave them behind after the years spent building her collection. They would give her a kick start in her new life. She ran her tongue over her mouth, remembering the smacks when Ewan saw she’d added another book to her pile. “Spending all our bloody money on books! What good did books ever do for you?”

“Mum? You all right?” 

Darling Willow at the door. How could she leave her behind? What kind of mother was she? But the time had come. She couldn’t take her daughter with her. Not yet. Willow needed to finish her schooling. Ewan adored his daughter. She’d be safe.

“Mum?” The old wooden door creaked open. Willow tiptoed across the space between door and bed.

“Mum? Why are you standing there?” She snapped on the bedside light. An eerie glow seeped into the pre-dawn shadows. 

Cecelia shivered. The floating white curtains had always reminded her of a shroud. She took deep breaths. She couldn't afford a panic attack now. 

Mother and daughter stared at each other, wrapped in light and fear. “Mum…your face. Dad said you fell in the bathroom. He’s hit you again, hasn’t he?”

Willow’s voice was raw with pain…and something else…realization? Her saintly father a sinner after all.

Cecelia couldn’t find words.

“I heard you singing just now, Mum. You sounded happy.”

Cecelia touched her eye, wiping away a tear. “Give me a hug, darling girl. I am so happy right now, you can’t imagine. I have the sweetest daughter in the world. I love you so much.”

“It’s going to be all right, isn’t it Mum?” Willow’s embrace tightened. Cecelia winced at the sharp stab in her ribs. “I have an early class, but don’t worry about dinner. I’ll cook. Dad ordered steak and potatoes, but said he won’t be home till late. Overtime.” She frowned at Cecelia, studied her face. Did Willow sense the change in her mother…a fresh determination after all these years?

Willow held her close. “Another hug, Mum? I love you.”

Cecilia wanted to stay in her daughter’s embrace, but she had a busy day ahead. If she didn't make the break now, she doubted she'd ever gather courage again.

When her daughter read her note tonight, she wouldn’t understand, not at first, but Cecelia knew her Willow. She would struggle with her loyalty to her father, she would struggle with the decision her mother had made. But then she’d recall the yelling, the blows, the brokenness of it all. She’d remember her mother with love and acceptance…eventually.

But Cecelia had to take that first step to a new life. She'd leave the picture of the Eiffel Tower behind. She'd have the real thing instead.

Paris. Here I come! 

WORD COUNT: 810

I am happy for a full critique. All constructive criticism welcome. Just play nice.

Click on the names below the WEP image in the sidebar to read more stories. Thank you!

LINKY WILL GO UP EARLY OCTOBER AT WRITE...EDIT...PUBLISH Start dreaming up something scary, wicked or just plain fun for Halloween!

The "Overcoming Adversity" bloghop. My story for Andrew.

There are always so many amazing stories that emerge after natural disasters. Australia is no stranger to drought, fire, pestilence, flood...and even the odd earthquake and tornado of late. My Overcoming Adversity story features a flood, a tough cookie blase about yet another natural disasters and a panicked husband on the other side of the world...I hope you enjoy it.

Surrounded by the Enemy

Sunny’s heart pounded in time with the steady drumbeat on the roof. She had never heard rain like it. She was not given to fear but tonight the sounds unnerved her...just a little. The whispers of wet leaves blowing on the wind had become a roaring as the galvanized roof took a pummeling. If she allowed herself to turn fanciful, she could imagine a jack-booted army marching overhead.

Enough of that! Think about Matt. She wished she’d not been so abrupt when he’d rung earlier in the night and shouted down the phone at her.

‘Sunny, get out of that house--now!’

‘I’m not leaving my home for some itty-bitty water. I’ve been through worse, Matt. No matter how bad the rain is, we’ve never been flooded.’

‘Don’t be infantile. I might be thousands of kilometers away but it’s looking pretty grim according to the BBC. I can do the math. Our house will be under by metres before the night is over!’

‘Darling, you’re such a worry wart. I know it goes with the territory. Nice of you to be so concerned, but last time I looked, the river was way down. The weather reports never get it right. Always sensationalism. They get off on scaring people.’

‘You’re so stubborn. Does that go with the territory?’ Sunny thought it best not to answer that. Matt continued: ‘I’m sending Josh over.’

‘Don’t waste your time, darling. Josh’s already been. I told him I’m staying. I’m a big girl.’

‘I love you Sunny. I can’t live without you. Leave for me and the baby if you won’t do it for yourself.’

***

She hadn’t listened. Now it was too late. Her house was surrounded; the enemy was at the door.

Sunny pottered around the kitchen fixing a snack, singing on top of her voice--anything to keep her mind off the now raging water. She was afraid to go too near the windows in case they shattered. She could just make out palm trees straining in the gathering gloom, fronds swiping the sodden grass in long wet trails.

She sat down at the kitchen table, rubbed her stomach, whispered to the little soul inside. The water could always go down, couldn't it?

She shivered in the icy coolness. She pulled her parka over her jeans, leaving it unzipped. Baby, you’re so big…

Uneaten snack pushed aside, she huddled in her chair, alert to the river sounds. ‘Matt, my darling, I love you,’ she whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

Crack! A eucalyptus tree speared her kitchen window--shattering shards of skittering glass pinged on the tiles. Rain poured in.

‘Help me God,’ she whispered, clutching her stomach.

The phone...again…

‘Run!’ Josh shouted down the line. ‘Get the ladder and climb into the roof! I'm coming!’

The phone dropped from her freezing fingers. Water crashed through the kitchen door and sucked and swirled around her sopping feet.

Sunny was tough. She’d overcome adversity many times before—bushfires, cyclones, drought...and now...floods. She’d survive this. She had to—for Matt and their baby.

She began to climb as the first pain struck.

This bloghop is to help Andrew who has cerebal-palsy. Nick Wilford wants your 500 words of flash fiction on the theme, Overcoming Adversity. He will collate the stories and all proceeds will go towards Andrew's college fund. This is a great challenge. I hope you'll join me in posting a story between Feb 4-5th.

Click here to read more Overcoming Adversity stories...

#RomanticFridayWriters - Challenge No 42- I NEED A CHANGE!

The RomanticFridayWriters challenge this week is 'I Need A Change'. A suggested setting is a romantic paradise (not that that would have anything to do with me being in Fiji at the moment!). It's to be a first-person challenge of 400 words of prose or prosetry. These challenges are open to all writers of prose or poetry.

‘You don’t belong here,’ Inya said, his white teeth gleaming in the dark.

‘I belong here with you Inya,’ I said.

‘Your life is far away. I’m just a holiday romance.’

‘You’re wrong. I don’t want to ever go home.’

‘You came looking for a change. You’ve had your change. Your boat leaves tomorrow. Be on it.’

Inya strode off through the trees. I knew he’d go fishing on the other side of the island. His way of relaxing. That’s where we first met. I’d just arrived on Anam Island and was taking a moonlight stroll when I tripped over his line in the sand.

‘Damn!’ I fell face first into the wet corally stuff.

Strong arms lifted me.

‘You okay?’

I looked into the darkest face and sweetest smile I’d ever seen.

‘I'm fine now. I didn’t see -.’

‘Sorry. No one usually comes this time of night.’

‘Except insomniac me. I’m often wandering round.’

‘You could get into strife that way.’

‘That’s what I’m hoping for.’

He was adorable with beautiful smooth skin and curly hair. No shirt, just a pair of board shorts.  I leaned forward and kissed him.

We sat at the water’s edge the rest of the night sipping kava. We caught no fish, but caught the romance of the spot – lapping waves soft at our feet, misty islands peeping through the fog of early dawn, the majestic elegance of the sailing vessel tacking between islands.

‘I could stay here forever,’ I said.

‘They all say that.’

The next few days were blissful. Inya took me into the village to meet his family - from two sets of grandparents right down to his little baby sister. I loved the way they lived the simple life - catching fish, milking goats, harvesting cassava and taro, drinking fresh-caught rainwater.

After Inya's morning chores, we took a little boat and fished the reef - we snorkeled - we dove amongst the coral.

I lived in my bikini, sulu and flip-flops - no business suit.


How could I go back to the rat race?

☁☁☁

The boat sounded its horn as it drifted into the lagoon. My heart was a hollow husk.

‘Ni Sa Moce!’ Farewell.

‘Wait!’

Inya ran to me, cupped my face in his hands and kissed me, delighting the roaring crowd.


‘Take this. Remember me.’

A beautiful leather plaited wristband. On a mother-of-pearl shell was etched: ‘Inya loves Sally.’

I will be back.

©DeniseCovey2012

WORDS: 407
FCA

I hope you enjoyed my little Paradise Romance. To read more on the theme, I Need a Change, click on the writer's names below:

get the InLinkz code

#AtoZChallenge - BLOGGERS WERE CHILDREN TOO! - V is for Vogt, Li Vogt from Flash Fiction

Hello!

Regular followers and visitors to this site will know I'm using BLOGGERS WERE CHILDREN TOO! for my theme this year. I hope you're enjoying reading about bloggers, some you know and some you may not yet know, as they respond to some prompts I sent out. I've been so grateful for their responses as it helped me to get to know them better, admire their stunning cuteness as babes, and delighted me with random facts.

Thank you Adult Bloggers for your heartfelt responses. Thank you readers for visiting my posts. I hope you'll leave a comment and if you'd like to follow the link to my respondents' blogs they'd be delighted to meet you.

Rock on A- Z Challenge. 


Yesterday was Jen Daiker (Unedited)

Today:

V is for Vogt (Li Vogt) from Flash Fiction

Li as a disheveled child. She says nothing much has changed!

I was born, raised and spent most of my life in Lancaster County, PA, known as the Garden Spot and the Heart Of Pennsylvania Dutch Country.

Other places I've lived include Pomona, New Jersey and McLean, Virginia.

My favorite place to live will always be Lancaster;  I'm a bit of a country girl at heart. But I did enjoy living in McLean, Virginia. It's a suburban area with easy access to Washington DC via the Metro, so we could enjoy the Smithsonian museums and the Washington Zoo as well as symphonies at the Kennedy Center and events at Wolf Trap in nearby Vienna.  If only the traffic on the Beltway wasn't so horrendous.

Li driving a covered wagon in the Bicentennial

My worst childhood memory was having my tonsils out at age three. I remember that they clapped a gas mask over my face and I really did think I was suffocating.  I can still recall the sweet, sickish odor. Coming out of recovery, my throat was on fire and yet I couldn't have a drink, only a few chips of ice to suck on.  Crying, of course, made the pain worse.  I'm told I fought like a tiger coming out of it...

I have lots of wonderful childhood memories - so many that I couldn't pinpoint just one.  My beloved German Shepherd gave me many happy memories.  I loved the beach, and I can remember finding a $5 bill floating in the surf one year - to me, it was like finding $100. I consider myself lucky to have grown up in a close-knit family with two loving parents and - appreciated only later in life - a big sister, as well as a comfortable home with lots of open space to play. In those days, we could roam pretty far and not have to worry, unlike today.  I was also horse crazy, and during the Bicentennial I begged my way onto a covered wagon trip;  in exchange for helping to water and care for the horses, I got to ride along and learn to drive the wagons.  I also took guard duty and slept near the horses in a sleeping bag on the ground. I was just drifting off when one of them began to pee.  They were sturdy Belgians weighing about a ton each and it was like Niagara Falls.  I scrambled madly out of the sleeping bag and struggled to drag it uphill before the urine river reached me. 

Survival lesson number one.

I've written stories since I was kid, and several draw on childhood experiences, including the story Alpha (the first of my A to Z Challenge posts). If you're interested in reading stories or finding out more about me, feel free to visit my blog.  The "Published" page includes two other interviews I've done.

Thank you, Denise, for inviting me to be a part of your A to Z Challenge!!!

I Write At Flash Fiction

Wasn't it great to learn so much about Lisa's childhood. But there's more! Tune in tomorrow to find out more about Writer's Block NZ, aka JJ.

Top Writing Blogs Award Nominee. And what improves your writing acumen?

Well this might be a scam, but I can't see how it could do any harm. Apparently I've been nominated for this sweet-sounding award and was asked to do at least 2 things for the organiser. Her name is Brittany Behrman, in case you know her.

This is her blurb: eCollegeFinder, an established online education resource representing over 120 accredited online institutions, began hosting a series of Top Blogger Awards in early 2010. Our goal in hosting the awards is to enrich students while giving high-quality blogs the recognition they deserve. So if you like the sound of it, you can nominate someone.


She asked me to answer a question for her students so I flipped this off quickly then I thought I'd share it with my readers:

 What advice can you offer students aiming to improve their writing acumen?

Having a long writing career, I found that the following help improve writing acumen - 

• be inquisitive, be aware of what is going on around you
• always keep a journal or an electronic device handy to jot down story ideas or great descriptions you might read in a book or magazine. You can study these excellent words and phrases later and discover why they caught your eye. Then you can practise writing something even better!
• some say writing can't be taught. I disagree. Read every 'how to' book on your craft, attend creative writing seminars, take creative writing courses at an educational institution, but you must write, write, write. The best way to learn is to do, not just to keep learning about it. Do it! 
• enter flash fiction competitions. I found writing flash fiction made the biggest difference to my writing. I learned to create a story then to cut it back to only what really mattered to tell the story. Flash fiction is usually under 1,000 words. The Romantic Friday Writers group I co-founded writes 400 words and under. There are some other online flash fiction challenges that write 100, or even 50 words and under. All great to improve your writing acumen.

• What do you think? What improves writing acumen in your opinion?

#RomanticFridayWriters challenge - Haunting - My story, 'Love Stories Suck.'

This being the closest posting to Halloween, Romantic Friday Writers chose the theme, Haunting, for stories/poems this week. So if you're into the paranormal, horror, a bit of scary, or just stories of haunting memories, you'll enjoy reading 400 word posts this weekend. Maybe you've still got time to grab an extract from your scary WIP or pen a story or poem especially for the challenge. Linky doesn't close for 3 days.

My story is one I'd started several months ago when I was experimenting with paranormal. For this week's theme, I've re-crafted it as a fun piece. I've deliberately used cliches so don't get upset about that. Occasionally I long to break the 'no cliches' rule, don't you? 

Hope you enjoy 'Love Stories Suck.'

When you’ve lived on this earth for 400+ years you crave excitement. I was done with sleeping all day in a dark room, hiding from the sun, waking up to microwaved blood. What’s a vamp to do all century? Haunt the streets?

I slammed the hotel door and sashayed along Montmarte’s glitter strip, my current Parisian suburb of interest. Next to Moulin Rouge, I saw it: ‘A VENDRE’. My synapses zapped.

I’d accumulated a tidy sum in 400 years. Compound interest compounded, so before you could say ‘I need blood’ I owned a business.

The little bar was perfect, vamp chic – blood-red carpet, black walls, red bar, black furniture. Suited my little black er, heart. The pictures clinched the deal – horror-movie posters.

Now I didn’t have to prowl the mean streets at night.  

‘Ya not going to run this place all by yaself, are ya?’

I turned from admiring my Dracula poster and it was like, wow! Flowing black tresses, lush curves poured into a little black dress. Tasty.

‘You offering to help?’

“Ya, moi, who else d’ya see?’

‘You know bar work? You look, like, twelve. ID?’ I was only kidding but she whipped out the plastic.

‘Looks can be deceiving. You look, like, nineteen.’ She winked.

I flipped the ID back to her. Fake as, who cared? I want this girl-child.

‘What d’ya think? I been working bars for many a year. Know some tricks.’

‘It’s not that kind of bar. It’ll be a clean operation.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Drink, tapas, music…’

‘Boring as. But I can be boring if ya want.’

 ‘What’s your name?’ I asked, taking her hand. ‘I’m Drack Kulah.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Well I’m Ruby Black, but go by -’

‘Snow White?’

‘Right on. Hilaarrious. So, whatcha think?’

‘You’re hired. No funny business or you’ll be out on your pretty butt.’

‘My butt’s pretty?’ She twirled, black lacy dress flowing like waves, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of shapely snow-white leg and a flash of lacy knickers. Pity she wore Doc Marten’s.

‘You want stilettos, you got stilettos,’ she smirked, ‘but that’s not all I got.’ She sidled up.

Who needs to go hunting? She was mine, right here, right now.

I took her in my steel-like arms, going for the jugular, then…wow! She had no throbbing pulse! That was that. Of course I knew the minute she walked in...

At least one female in the bar's out of temptation’s way.

***

WORD COUNT: 404

Critique: MPA (Minor Points Acceptable) 

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