Cheers and a big Thanks to Mike for starting this group and encouraging us to write! His altruism is an amazing inspiration to even the most reclusive of writers. Thanks for his unwavering support of all genres of writing!
Entirely too reticent to share much with Mike's yahoo group, I've spent most of my time observing, and so apprehensive that I couldn't even dip my toe into the writing waters. Mike makes writing fun. His multiple informative sources seem limitless. He's provided interviews, advice, videos, specialized forums, writing job sites, workshops and more. Mike recently earned Writer's Digest 101 Top Sites and has a big beautiful golden emblem on his site now! Way to go Mike. More people should be thanking him for all he's done to connect writers in a safe, profitable, creative and friendly environement.
I've broken through my shyness about sharing my writing with others! It took a while for me to get up the courage, but I did it. I went to Mike's Blog spot and proclaimed myself to the online public as Dober. I now write a daily blog called Dober's Dog Daze at: http://dobersdogdaze.blogspot.com
If you've read my previous blog about 'buttons' you'll already know why I'm at Mike's blog spot. I normallly write for about 6 hours and fill notebooks to overflowing. I used to write a yahoo blog for about 6 months, but I stopped. Mike's site has given me a renewed confidence in my writing. Starting today, my blogs will prolific and hopefully, enjoyable to my potential readers.
Thanks again Mike!
Now I'm jumping back into the public mainstream with my blogging. I called it Dober's Dog Daze, because that's usually my mental state 90% of the time. Here on Mike's site, do you see the light blue writing at the top, about blogs? Click on it and write write write!
With short story writers Randall Brown and Melissa Palladino
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If you've ever wondered how to end your short story, this show is for you!
Randall Brown teaches at Saint Joseph's University. He holds an MFA from Vermont College. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cream City Review, Hunger Mountain , Connecticut Review , Saint Ann's Review , Evansville Review , Laurel Review , Dalhousie Review, upstreet , and others. He is the author of the award-winning collection Mad to Live (Flume Press, 2008).
Melissa Palladino lives in New England and has been writing fiction for seven years. She came to short stories only recently, and this is where she has picked up speed. Her story, “Spring Cleaning,” which was a published finalist in Inkwell’s annual short story competition, was nominated by them for the 2009 Pushcart Prize. She has also been published online at Vocabula.com and was recently longlisted for the Fish Prize. She is an active workshop participant both in person and online at Zoetrope Virtual Studio and The Fiction Workhouse. In real life she’s a private chef; and you can read about her adventures (and misadventures) in cooking at melissacooksgourmet.blogspot.com.
Please join Randall, Melissa, and Paula B. as they explore the possibilities, including:
Interviewees : Randall Brown and Melissa Palladino
Host : Paula B.
Date : May 25, 2008
Running time: 58:27
File size: 28 megabytes
Rating : G
Randall Brown's Web site : RandallDouglasBrown.blogspot.com
Melissa Palladino's Web site : MelissaCooksGourmet.blogspot.com
In our first show on dialogue , we looked at the importance of character agenda. This time we’ll examine at a structural issue: interweaving dialogue with narrative.
Using examples from Ian Rankin's A Question of Blood and advice from Dialogue: Techniques and Exercises for Crafting Effective Dialogue by Gloria Kempton, we'll test the proposition "When the story is moving too slowly, add dialogue to speed it up."
Interviewee/host : Paula B.
Date : April 27, 2008
Running time: 19:47
File size: 10 megabytes
Rating : G
A preface to this piece I am posting
I am collecting true ancedotes to include in a book;the life and times of nurses in and out of the hopsital. Here is the latest piece I penned, as theraphy for an assult on my budget. Laughter takes the edge off my pain.
I welcome liberal critique, and please have little concern your critique will upset me, as I have already endured the pain of a day spent in a dental chair with two men and a dead fish
Snuggling With a Dead Fish
Allow me to begin with a disclaimer, although the title may suggest otherwise, this anecdote has not-a-thing-to-do with intimacy, or the absence of__intimacy.
Somehow I missed smoking pot or dropping LSD with the sixties subculture flower children, however yesterday, morning, between clock-in time and lunch break, strapped in a dental chair, I am certain I made up for all of the premium pot and LSD I by-passed some forty years ago. Looking back, now four decades older and wiser, my decision to leave the fun stuff to the enjoyment of others was in my best interest if not my survival, as I admit that yesterday, by high noon, and high on “happy-gas,” I am convinced that snuggling with a cold dead fish (literally) is normal.
“Do you want to listen to music?” the dental assistant asked bringing out a headset hooked to a small transistor radio.
“Thanks! Think smooth jazz will camouflage the pain?”
I am having this conversation with this young man solely because this is the day I lose one tooth and gain four crowns.
The dental assistant reflecting a white-white smile replied with assurance, “I have you on oxygen, and Dr. Cheery just turned on the Nitrous Oxide. You will be thinking Zen thoughts in no time”
I am not certain about Zen thoughts, as my mind is obsessed with angst over the small loan I took out to barter my way out of the dental chair. At the moment, the only thing I look forward to is relaxing with “happy-gas.” Bring on the golden glow of the turbulent sixties; I paid extra cash-up-front for a crystal-blue-persuasive euphoria and I am not disappointed, as a blissful detached feeling slowly envelopes my body while the smooth jazz station reminds me, ”this is the good life.” Let the show begin. The next four-and–a-half hours, two faces hover mine like wasps, their hands in my mouth now stretched open, wide enough for a Mack truck to maneuver with ease.
Wrapped in a warm comfy blanket with my head resting on a mushy bead pillow, I am almost as relaxed as giving birth to my firstborn; when the frosted flakes I had for breakfast decide to make an encore. I feel a wave of nausea coming on, which elevates patient-doctor relationship to an intimate dimension. In my “happy-gas-stupor” my dentist name changes to a one coming straight from my heart, waving my hand “Doctor Feery” I holler, “I’m-about-to-puke!”
Startled, the assistant and the good doctor bring the chair from a head down position, sitting me upright, simultaneously turning down the happy gas. (Insert sad face here)
My stomach stops churning and I manage a few well placed moans. Dr. Cheery asked,
“Is the nitrous wearing off? We’ll let you rest. Nurses are tough.Your mouth has been open awhile, makes it difficult to inhale the nitrous”
He turns up the gas and leaves the room. I am a good patient; trying to inhale as much of the good stuff in the least amount of time, I hyperventilate at a furoius rate,only slowing my breathing when I feel the tingling sensation return to my toes; smooth jazz playing in my ear reminds me that all is well with the world.
The doctor floats back into the room, bends over my head as if in a vision, his voice echoing from a deep canyon. He reinserts the jackhammer in my distorted mouth and the show goes on.
I reach up with a heavy hand that seem to not belong to me and dab at what I am certain must be a river of blood trickling down my right cheek. I slip a quick peek at the Kleenex. It is high and dry. Hallucinating; I am hallucinating, the benefit of an out-of-body experience, and a tolerable side effect of my “return- to-the-sixties-moment”
“There now, all finished!” Dr. Cheery and his assistant, in unison, compliment me profusely on being “such a trooper.”
Grateful the cereal I woofed down some six hours ago, stayed put, I wobble down the hall to the restroom. Unlike my dentist and his efficient assistant, the mirror speaks no lies. I stare at a resemblance of my face, decide to go for the jugular and try a smile. “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” think stroke, and you get the picture of my reflection.
Home, my bed and a soft pillow sound good to this acclaimed trooper. Think ice, as this is a prime factor to assuage pain and sorrow. I reach in the freezer, hoping to place my hand on a bag of frozen veggies; (perfect for an improvised cold pack) however the freezer disappoints me, as it is empty, save for a large packet of frozen Tilapia. I pull out the packet of frozen fish, look it over twice, ceremoniously wrap this culinary delicacy in a soft cloth, down a couple of Extra Strength Tylenol and head for bed. Snuggling with dead frozen fish placed tenderly on my face, in the truest definition of snuggling, is not an ‘affair of the heart’ however; considering the throbbing ache in my jaw, it runs a close second.
I would add a photo to authenicate this intimate experience, but the fish thawed before I could set up the camer for a timed photoshoot.
Judy
If you've ever become discouraged about how hard it is to get published, you must listen to this show. Better yet, read Maralys' book for an inspiring tale of dedication in the face of rejection after rejection.
Maralys Wills’s twelve published books span a variety of genres and publishers. Her fiction includes four romance novels and a techno-thriller about airplane sabotage. The New York Times said ofScatterpath: “exciting, down-to-the-wire stuff . . her cockpit sequences all but put the reader at the controls.”
Her nonfiction works include Manbirds: Hang Gliders and Hang Gliding, published by Prentice-Hall; a party game book from Price/Stern/Sloan; and her family story about hang gliding champions, Higher Than Eagles. Sadly, the Wills family lost two sons to the sport, and Wills’s account of those years--initially exhilarating, then tragic--earned her high marks in Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews. Higher Than Eagles garnered five movie options, including one from Disney.
Wills’s book on addiction, Save My Son, is the result of years of trauma with an addicted son. Her recent light-hearted memoir, A Circus without Elephants, earned a national award from Writer’s Digest. The sequel, A Clown in the Trunk, was published in May, 2008. Her writing book, Damn the Rejections, Full Speed Ahead, debuts in the fall of 2008.
Wills is the mother of six children--five boys and a girl. Her husband is a lawyer. She studied at Stanford and UCLA, earning a B.A. and later a teaching credential. She once helped her sons run a hang gliding manufacturing business, but after family tragedies she went home to write books.
For the past 21 years, Wills has taught college-level novel-writing. She speaks often and has presented numerous college and conference writing seminars. She is a past president of the Orange County Chapter of Romance Writers of America.
Please join Maralys Wills and host Paula B. as they discuss:
Interviewee: Maralys Wills
Host: Paula B.
Date: October 19, 2008
Running time: 01:03:49
File size: 30 megabytes
Rating: G
Maralys Wills'Web site: Maralys.com
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If you've ever wondered how to begin your short story, this show is for you!
Melissa Palladino lives in New England and has been writing fiction for seven years. She came to short stories only recently, and this is where she has picked up speed. Her story, “Spring Cleaning,” which was a published finalist in Inkwell’s annual short story competition, was nominated by them for the 2009 Pushcart Prize. She has also been published online at Vocabula.com and was recently longlisted for the Fish Prize. She is an active workshop participant both in person and online at Zoetrope Virtual Studio and The Fiction Workhouse. In real life she’s a private chef; you can read about her adventures (and misadventures) in cooking at melissacooksgourmet.blogspot.com.
Randall Brown teaches at Saint Joseph's University. He holds an MFA from Vermont College. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cream City Review, Hunger Mountain , Connecticut Review , Saint Ann's Review , Evansville Review , Laurel Review , Dalhousie Review, upstreet , and others. He is the author of the award-winning collection Mad to Live (Flume Press, 2008).
Please join Melissa, Randall, and Paula B. as they explore:
Interviewees : Melissa Palladino and Randall Brown
Host : Paula B.
Date : August 17, 2008
Running time: 01:04:19
File size: 31 megabytes
Rating : A tiny bit of sex
Randall Brown's Web site : RandallDouglasBrown.blogspot.com
Melissa Palladino's Web site : MelissaCooksGourmet.blogspot.com
A Depressing Slide
Springtime in the North breaks almost overnight, bursting forth blooms of every color and chest-high grasses. Nature knows that it has precious little time in order to complete another cycle before winter eclipses the land again. Ravens commence their broad-winged patrols in wide arcing turns, as flocks of smaller birds dart from field to tree-top like a rapid moving cloud. In the yard, apple trees bloom and spread their downy flakes across the tops of wild wheat grass that moves like the tide in the ever-present North wind.
All the world around me smelled green and alive again. It would, that is, if I could smell. In her orgiastic ecstasy, Nature neglected mankind; or rather, his histamines. Swollen and oozing, I sat at my computer in misery; one eye completely swollen shut, the other well on it’s way. My nose had become a wonder in itself; swollen to a ripe, wino-red and running without reprieve regardless of my constant attempts to clear my nasal cavity. With each pair of sneezes came a hair-like tickle at the back of my throat that would trigger a rib-cracking round of coughs, followed by another sneeze-duet. During the night, I would give up hope and stuff a wad of toilet paper up each nostril until the dam would get too soaked, and again, spill out onto my face and pillow. Down to three or so hours of sleep a night, I spent my days in an already exhausted, medicated haze; taking as many as six Benadryl at once to make it to work. Last week upon clocking in, I was told to go home in words that I was sure were merely a euphemism for “you are scaring
the customers”. The next night in my department, while working upon a three-step ladder, I was temporarily trapped, holding onto the ladder and an adjacent shelf to save myself from falling when the store suddenly tilted sharply to the left. Called back to my senses by an eight year old boy who had just dumped a box of BB’s onto the white tile floor, I slowly descended the ladder and prepared to round up ten thousand steel balls as they raced forth in every direction. I was vaguely aware of his presence, as he did not feel the need to tell me what had just happened or why. He just stood there in his WWF tee shirt, fumbling with an empty box of Crossman Copperhead BB’s, his hair, unkempt and hanging in his face, obscuring his left eye. I shot him a medicated glare and wondered, possibly aloud, where the rest of the trailer park was. Then my ear caught the sound of thousands of tiny spheres racing for destinations unknown. Looking down, the blurry copper beads swirled, collided, and darted. It’s like the beginning of the universe, I thought to myself; a tiny microcosm of the Big Bang Theory. Leaning over the mess, I began to sweep the racing copper colored BB’s in a futile attempt to get them to roll into a dustpan with a blunt front lip, worn to a jagged ridge from years of BB wrangling and the sort, that did little more than deflect the offending particles like a giant pin-ball bumper. Cursing out loud, I did little to impress the perpetrator of the BB incident until, out of my nose, came a stream of clear liquid that landed in the dustpan with a splat. Suddenly, I was the alien monster in charge of this fledgling universe; sliming entire galaxies at will. The quickly fading sound of sneakers squeaking on the tile floor told me the show was over.
“I think everything is there.” I told the receptionist behind the counter at the VA
clinic as I handed her a clear plastic clipboard with several forms attached. She was in her mid-thirties, with short brown whispy hair, dark framed glasses and that familiar look of a local trying hard to appear professional in the County: uptown professionalism, the latest business fashions from Wal-Mart, and too much product in her boxed dye job.
“Looks good Mr. Mac-Innnnn- tire? Is that it?” She smiled as she struggled to sound out my name. I stopped getting irritated when locals couldn’t pronounce my name about the fifth time I had to decipher Gagne, with it’s three pronunciations depending on where in the county your family was from. As I returned her smile and nodded, she slowly leafed through a large appointment book, searching for an opening. Scanning the pages with great concentration, she scratched at her nose and made a quick final notation before snapping her head back up to face me. “You’re all set.” She said in a chipper tone. “The doctor will be able to see you in September. We’ll call then to set a firm date.”
“September” I repeated incredulously, furrowing my brow and leaning forward as if the Benedryl was affecting my hearing.
“I’m afraid so.” She said in a child-like tone, mirroring my own brow and nodding her head at a slight tilt. “The doctors book months ahead of time. Sorry.” Her head was still nodding when I turned around and walked toward the door. The lobby was full of patients, most of whom were gray-haired and in various stages of infirmity. I wondered if they were my age when some perky nurse put them on the list.
Getting in my car, the warmth of spring translated into an auto oven as I settled behind the wheel. The heat made my head swim temporarily, until the dust caused by slamming the door caught my nostrils, eliciting a fresh round of sneezes. I quickly covered
my nose, but not before soaking the steering wheel with -snot? Spit? It really didn’t matter anymore. I knew now what I had to do; there was simply no choice left. I had to go to the enemy and ask for help.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I remembered the last time I had spoken with the good folks at the Department of Human Services. It was the mediation phase of my divorce, when a forty-something blonde with a briefcase and deep-seated hatred for anything sporting a penis told me that I should be happy that the state can only take half of my paycheck for support. After explaining my already strained financial circumstances to her overly- made-up face of stone, her reply was curt, “Maybe you should consider dropping out of college and getting a second job so that you can send in more money.” It was then that I decided that I hated them- all of them. After expressing my desire to support my children and fighting to be made the custodial parent, I was treated as a common deadbeat. A criminal. Since then, I would refer to them (in their presence whenever possible) as SS officers. I denied their authority in all matters pertaining to myself or my children, and would stonewall any attempt on their part to gather information about me or my employers.
Walking into a lobby similar to the one I had just left, I immediately noticed the change in clientele. A large woman sat between two cushions of a plain institutional sofa, causing the ends of the assaulted cushions to stick up from either side of her backside. Her face was pasty and overly-large, with brown eyes set close together. I wondered if she had Down’s Syndrome, or was just an unfortunate victim of bad genes. Just then, a little patch
of frizzy brown hair slowly rose above the coffee table littered with toys in front of the woman. It was followed with what appeared to be the face of a little boy about four years old and sporting the same close-set eyes. “Christ, somebody fooked her.” I muttered to myself as I made my way to the receptionist at the far side of the room.
This receptionist made me long for the first. She was in her forties, with short salt and pepper hair that clung to her head in tight wiry curls like a poodle. Her eyes were brown and each carried beneath it, a large sack. Her nose was narrow and hooked, giving far too much length to her face. She never smiled. “Can I help you?” She asked; her expression never changing from it’s neutral gaze.
“Look, I’m sorry. But the thing is, I’m broke. I need to see a doctor and get something for my allergies. I never ask for…” I realized that I was running on even as she cut me off mid-sentence.
“Fill these out and bring them back.” The face never changed.
After an hour in the waiting room watching the kid play while his mother stared blankly at some spot on the wall, I was led into an office through a security door. There, I was met by a pleasant woman in a blue jacket and white top. She was older with signs remaining in her face that she was once quite attractive. Her eyes still held a sparkle to them and that sparkle never once faded; even when she assumed the same head tilt and nod while telling me that I was shit out of luck. I could read in her face that she was used to giving bad news, just as I could read in her tone that professional numbness had robbed her of any genuine sense of compassion for my plea. What did I expect? I came to the camp of my enemy seeking comfort and now left feeling foolish and weak for the attempt.
Still, I was strangely consoled as I got back into my car and fumbled out two more store brand Benedryl. Someone had, if for only a minute, pretended to care about my situation. I blew my nose and rolled out onto the access highway and headed for home.
That night, Sasafrass’s pain had increased, evidenced by her continual whines to me for help. She had begun to show blood in her urine as well and I had placed a fresh towel under her, to make her more comfortable. She hadn’t moved in days except to struggle forward and drink a little from the bowl of water I had placed at her nose. She should have gone to the vet long ago. A venture that would have cost even more than the doctor visit I so desperately needed and couldn’t afford. I alternated between petting her and reassuring her, to sitting in a chair and watching her. She was mine from the time she was six weeks old, and barely a white puff of fur with a little black nose. Now, ten years later, she had grown from a chewing machine of a pup to a shadow that would follow me from room to room and lay at my feet. Sheba played nursemaid as well, getting up several times to sniff her and nudge her flanks with her freckled nose. The whining increased as the night went on, and as I sat there, I couldn’t believe what I was contemplating.
At midnight, I rose from my chair and, grabbing a shovel, went out into the meadow. Digging a shallow hole into the side of an embankment, I still couldn’t believe what I was doing. I had become completely numb. This wasn’t happening. Laying aside the shovel somewhere in the dark, I went back to the house. Scooping up Sassafrass with the white towel still beneath her, she whined a little but made no attempt to shift position in my arms. With what little strength she had, she turned her head on my arm and stared
up at me, wide eyed and ears back. I talked to her as I carried her out into the dark, freeing a hand to stroke the fur on her head. I told her it would be alright. I told her everything was fine. I lied.
Laying her on the towel in the hole, I turned to go back to the house. My feet stumbled and my hands shook. I wished and prayed to God that she would find the strength to get up. Just get up and wander off in the dark. Wander off before. Sheba lowered her head when I went back inside and loaded the .22 rifle. Her ears were back as she approached me, but I couldn’t look her in the eyes. She knew. Shaking more violently now, I wandered back into the darkness. I could see her outline ahead of me. She hadn’t escaped. Never letting her see the rifle, I layed it behind her as I knelt down beside her. She didn’t move. I stroked her fur as I watched her flank rise and fall with each labored breath. She whined again to me for help. Reaching behind her, I slid the rifle barrel behind her ear and kept petting her and attempting to sooth her with my voice. “I’m sorry.” I told her. “God, I am so sorry.” Over and over, I repeated; how many times? Time was a blur, and neither of us were really there. This wasn’t happening. How does it all come down to something so horrible?
There was a muffled report of the rifle. In an instant, her body tensed and relaxed. I heard the rifle clack off of a rock as it fell from my hand. I felt my body become weightless and I rolled sideways and landed on my shoulder and back. Above me through burning eyes, the stars and moon swirled like a kalidescope. My breath came in ragged jags as I could not even catch my breath enough to cry. Immediately, from within the house, a low, mournful howl went up from Sheba. One after the other, she continued to
howl for her fallen pack mate. I lay there on the wheat grass for an eternity. It must have been hours before I felt the dew freezing my back and broken grass stems jabbing me to wake from the nightmare. Sassafrass still lay bleeding at my feet. I rolled over and felt her side. She was cold. No longer would that side rise and fall. No more would she be able to follow me from room to room. No more would she steal scraps from the kids or chase mice like a cat. She was gone and I could neither justify it fully in my mind or call the bullet back.
Since September of 2006, we’ve been following Jean as she attempts to find an agent to represent her intergenerational novel Karaoke Nights at the Twilight Lounge .
In episode 8, we hear what Jean is going to do about Karaoke Nights , which has not garnered interest from agents. We find out how her children's picture book turned out and learn that she's changed her mind about self-publishing--something she never thought she'd do.
We invite you to offer your feedback on Jean’s work by writing to Paula B. at paula@writingshow.com. Or, stop by Jean’s Web site and give her an atta girl.
Interviewee : Jean Tennant
Host : Paula B
Date : June 26, 2008
Running time: 52:13
File size: 25 megabytes
Rating: G
Jean Tennant’s Web sites: JeanTennant.com; Midwest Writer
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From left: Kristin Nelson, Frances Julia Kemp, Del Landis.
Writers' conferences can be expensive. Are they worth it? Get the lowdown from an agent and two veteran conference attendees.
Kristin Nelson learned the ropes from another literary agent before opening her own Nelson Literary Agency. She has been a college English teacher, freelance writer, and corporate trainer. She studied creative writing with National Book Award Nominee Patricia Henley at Purdue University, where she earned her M.A. This experience made her particularly interested in representing fiction.
Frances Kemp's short story "Black Infinity" won the Australian Sisters in Crime Scarlet Stiletto Young Writer's Award; this year she placed third in The Writing Show's own First-Chapter-of-a-Novel Contest. Originally from Australia, she lives in Peoria, Illinois.
Del Landis has written five unpublished novels in the romantic suspense genre. Affaire de Coeur magazine published his short story, "Unasked Prayers." A career in aerospace engineering has allowed Del to travel and collect experiences to use in his fiction. He studies history and different cultures. His writing training is self-directed and includes conferences, workshops, and personal training by industry pros.
Please join agent Kristin Nelson, writers Frances Julia Kemp and Del Landis, and host Paula B. as they tour the conference landscape, including:
Interviewees: Kristin Nelson, Frances Julia Kemp, Del Landis
Host: Paula B.
Date: November 23, 2008
Running time: 01:09:35
File size: 33 megabytes
Rating: G
Kristin Nelson's Web site: NelsonAgency.com
Frances Julia Kemp's Web site: FJKLiterary.com
With this podcast, we begin a series of commentaries by screenwriter Blake Snyder.
This time, Blake explains why "theme" in a movie is important and how to work with it.
In his 20-year career as a screenwriter and producer, Blake Snyder has sold dozens of scripts, including co-writing "Blank Check," which became a hit for Disney, and "Nuclear Family" for Steven Spielberg — both million-dollar sales. His book, Save the Cat! The Last Book on Screenwriting You’ll Ever Need, was published in May, 2005, and is now in its tenth printing. It has prompted standing room only author appearances in major cities around the world.
Apparently the book is not quite the last book on screenwriting you’ll ever need. The sequel, Save the Cat! Goes to the Movies: The Screenwriter’s Guide to Every Story Ever Told, published in October, 2007, shot to number 1 in the "screenwriting," "screenplay," and "movies, history and criticism" categories on Amazon.com.
Commentator: Blake Snyder
Date: October 8, 2008
Running time: 04:20
File size: 2 megabytes
Rating: G
Blake Snyder's Web site: BlakeSnyder.com
On our March 16th show, I explained the importance of the writer's voice and read 14 examples of distinctive voices from well-known authors.
Now I reveal the identities of the mystery authors and the names of their works.
Interviewee/host : Paula Berinstein
Date : June 29, 2008
Running time: 17:18
File size: 9 megabytes
Rating : Mentions of sex and drugs
One of the most common questions writers ask is how to query agents and publishers. Here's one editor's take.
Jennifer Silva Redmond is Editor-in-Chief of Sunbelt Publications, an award-winning small press that celebrates the natural and cultural history of the Californias. She has written for publications as diverse as Science of Mind, Cruising World, and Dog Fancy; one of her stories is featured in Latinos in Lotusland: An Anthology of Contemporary Southern California Literature (Bilingual Review Press, March 2008). Co-founding editor of Sea of Cortez Review (1998-2001), Ms. Silva Redmond joined Sunbelt in 2000; she enjoys speaking to writers’ groups and guiding both well-known and first-time authors through the acquisition, editing, and production of their books.
Please join Jennifer Silva Redmond and Paula B. as they reveal what editors are really thinking, including:
Interviewee: Jennifer Silva Redmond
Host: Paula B.
Date: November 9, 2008
Running time: 01:06:12
File size: 32 megabytes
Rating: G
The Sunbelt Publications Web site: Sunbelt Books
Just me being wierd for me so don't read any further! I can't write poetry as much as I love to read other's efforts.
Some will call it New Years
and others, Auld Lang Syne,
for me it's just a birthday,
and it's not a happy time.
They drink champagne and celebrate
tell resolutions to everyone
while they wait
for the ball to drop on this special date.
Another year gone,
what have I done?
Where have I been
while time moved on?
Here I am another year older,
Here I am another year bolder.
There's a new grey hair unseen yesterday,
one more laugh line or is it two?
My waist isn't quite so small they say,
my hands show plainly the work they've seen-
dog bites, paper cuts and too much horse hay.
I'll watch them get drunk
I'll watch them dance
I'll watch them toast
and fall to the carpet
passed out cold.
On New Year's Day,
then I'll hold sway.
They'll whine and moan,
and grasp their heads
mumbling "Leave me alone!"
No hangover for me cuz I stayed home,
sparkling cider for me and fiancé alone.
No nausea, no head ache,
no porcelain throne.
All my life I've had to wait
for New Year's Day
and here it is!
I'm 38.
*grumbles* I don't feel 38.
CJ and Allie this is dedicated to you two for informing me of this ongoing problem! This dog behavior is running rampant in society!
It’s Election Time Again!
It is time for others those who feel left out, isolated, and unimportant to get involved. It is Election Time. Once again it is time to cut the pie because they really don’t want you around when the pie is being cut. The way you get to receive a piece of the pie is to vote. Everyone- mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, and everyone eighteen and over- should use the voting booth as their voice to say, “I want my fair share of the pie.”
Walk through your neighborhood. You’ll hear the familiar sentiments: “Voting doesn’t accomplish anything.” “They are all crooks.” “No matter who wins, nothing will be done for minorities.” “I don’t vote because the candidates don’t truly represent me.”
Walk through that same neighborhood and notice the poorly kept buildings, the dirty streets, the drugs being sold on every corner, the liquor stores that seem to be everywhere. A friend once said to me “All a neighborhood needs to survive is a check cashing place, a liquor store and a smoke shop.” I found this to be a really sad statement, yet one that seemed to be true. His statement explains an all too common problem. Even though there are grass root leaders who are giving their all to provide positive services, the average community resident does not demand more than the basics—a place to cash a check, a place to buy liquor or drugs.
Now take another walk. This time to a dry neighborhood where the sentiments are “Voting is my power” and “I hold my public elected officials accountable.” You will see fully-staffed public schools, clean streets, clean buildings, plenty of supervised after-school activities such as the Boys and Girls Club, PAL, etc.
Too many on the lower rung of the ladder have been brainwashed to think that they cannot make a difference. If only they would look at history, at the individuals, the lone wolves, who changed the face of these United States. Natives and immigrants alike, draw from your history the courage to gain the resolve to stay within the process. Do not throw your hands up in disgust. Do not throw away your chance. Do not give up because that is their game. Those in power do not want change. They prefer to discourage you instead.
Consider the following analysis of the power structure. When anyone tries to bring about change, the first question those in the power structure ask is: Do you vote? IF YOU DON’T, THEY DON’T LISTEN.
if you do vote, their next question is: How does your community vote? IF YOUR COMMUNITY DOES NOT VOTE, YOU DON’T RECEIVE ACTION.
Those in the power structure next looks at your community-based activism. IF YOU ARE NOT INVOLVED IN ANY WAY, THEY WILL NOT GIVE STRENGTH TO YOUR VOICE.
After seeing that you do vote, that your community votes as well, and that you are a grassroots activist, then they ask: How large is your following? IF IT’S NOT LARGE THEY WILL THROW YOU A BONE.
We must ask ourselves what kind of life we want to live. Do we allow the fear of death to stop us from seeking what is just? Living without justice is like being dead.
You must keep hope alive. Don’t be afraid of being on the front lines. Remember, if you are not a part of the solution, you are part of the problem. It is your roll call. Are you going to demand justice? Or are you going to look for the nearest liquor store?
Amada Gonzalez
Copyright © 2008
Funny thing about growing up in an Irish neighborhood is that the rest of the world thinks you’re from Ireland. Very far from the truth for a lot of us, sure we had Irish blood and 7 out of ten of our parents were born and raised in Ireland, but the truth is that most of us at this age were born and raised in New York City. The dream of every Irish-American boy I knew was to actually go to Ireland and visit with families and explore your roots in old castles and to meet cousins and redheaded girls.
Sundays were the best in our Irish neighborhood, our dads played Hurley in the mornings, we played Irish football in the afternoons and we all drank at the pub till dinner near the field in our dirty muddy uniforms with most of us leaking blood. Great stories, great drinks and I’ll tell you right now, freaking great football. We had one of the better Irish football teams in the entire country. We won championship trophies year after year, and we were invited to play against the all-Ireland team in Ireland year after year. The one year that I played was another championship season; I remember meeting the coach at the beginning of the season to see if I could join the team. I knew little about the actual sport, but I went to the games every single Sunday to watch and drink afterwards.
There was no tryout, no let’s see how you handle the ball, not even a practice game. The coach asked me two very important questions, he said,” can ya run”? I said “Yeah I can run”. He said,”can ya fight?” I said, ”Yeah I can fight”. He said, “Alright then, you’re on the team.
So there it was, I was playing Irish Football in the early 1970’s and sure as I’m telling you this story, we went on to win that year and it was off to Ireland. There were 25 of us and 6 or 7 dads and coaches that went on the trip that year. I do not remember the town we were in, I only remember that we won and we won big, there were like 3 thousand spectators at the game even though the entire town itself only had like 300 people living in it. We went back to the hotel/inn that we were living in that week to party ourselves while the adults went to each of the 30 or so bars this tiny little town had. It must have been like 2 or 3 in the morning and we were still hooping and hollering, a few of the older guys scored us a couple of beer kegs. There were like twenty five 13 to 17 year old kids and we had 2 kegs of beer, let us do the math on this one shall we?
We got pretty drunk and being athletes and being drunk usually led to one thing, “DRUNK SPORTS”. It started harmless enough; we broke into a few separate teams kind of like the Olympics and had races down the hallways of the motel. We occupied almost all of the rooms in the hotel that night, so we opened all the room doors and raced from room to room. Then we did jumping from bed to bed, it was getting hot so some of us took our shirts off while others took off their shorts. And so it begins, lots and lots of drinking, lots of running and jumping, lots of sweating, lots of clothes coming off. It only took another half hour or so till we were all nude and doing sports, Irish guys love to get naked. I started running to the lobby and running back to test everyone, and then we ran down the hall, thru the lobby and out into the parking lot. Sure enough, that leads to a few of us running down the street which eventually leads to everyone of us drunken Irish American kids streaking thru town naked and screaming.
NOT GOOD, NOT GOOD AT ALL
This is a sleepy little town and 30 drunken naked boys running amuck was the same as if “The Devil Himself” was running thru town? Apparently 90% of the town was now trying to get sleep and the other 10% were still wandering the streets trying to find their drunken way home. We ran from one end of town to the other end and back again. One minute it was funnier than anything, and the next minute we found ourselves being chased by half the town, kind of like in the movies were the entire village is chasing the monster with pitchforks and torches, there were no pitchforks, but I swear I saw torches. We were able to get dressed again before they hauled us to the biggest building in town, the town hall or the town square or something like that.
They kept us in this auditorium, I guess this is where all things official happen in the town, we were there for a few hours while we sobered up and while the rest of the towns folk that we didn’t wake up came to this meeting. I remember sitting up front with my drinking/Olympic buddies; we took up the first 3 or 4 rows. Behind us was the entire freaking town, I mean every man woman and child, dog, cat, farm animal, every living thing in that part of the world was there to see the “Devil Children from America”. In front of us were the dozen or so town leaders, these were the same people who when we arrived met us at the train station, made speeches before the big game and they were the ones who congratulated us on a great victory. There was the Mayor/Police Chief/Fire Chief and something else. There was the town doctor/veterinarian, the owner of the grocery store and the owner of the bar, the bar maids, the gas station guy, and anyone else who ran a business or who had a say in the town affairs.
The room was buzzing with chatter while they spoke in hushed tones and hugged each other about how horrific it was that we ran naked thru the streets and of how we must have been doing the drugs and stuff. They cried when they recalled how both Mrs. McLearys teenage daughters saw one American boy’s penis while he ran past her window. They held each other tight and consoled one another while saying things like, “it will be alright”, and ” The devil himself is in them boys”. I was starting to think we had gotten ourselves into some freaking “children of the corn” horror movie. This went on for almost an hour while our chaperones/dads kept starting at us with steam coming from their heads. The town officials spoke first and declared that what had happened was most vile and undeniably most horrific for all. They said, “The American boys sitting before ye all, are guilty of many sexually deviant actions, they are the result of living in a sinful western world where this type of thing is tolerated. They use the “drugs” and they practice heinous religions and for that is why they must be possessed”
Finally, when they stopped talking and we were allowed to speak Mr. Hughes, my buddies dad stood up and asked if he could talk on behalf of our group. The town’s people up front said “okay”, and he walked up on the stage and faced the townsfolk and pointed to us and he started to speak.
He said, “ I know what these boys here did was wrong, I know what they did was offensive and disgusting, but I know these boys each and every one of them, twas no drugs or devils work that happened here. It was only one thing.
“TWAS THE DRINK THAT MADE THEM DO IT”
A few seconds passed where not a soul made a sound, I was waiting for the torches again. When suddenly like a wave swelling from the oceans bottom, like a huge massive volcano that was erupting, you could feel something coming. When all at once the entire town, all the officials on the stage, every single man, woman, child and farm animal all said the exact same thing at the exact same moment.
“Well if it was only the drink that made them do it, then that’s okay, that’s fine then”.
And just like that the meeting was over, the towns people disbanded, the animals went back to their farms, the cats and the dogs walked back outside into the street, the hall windows were closed and chairs folded and put away. There we sat in the first 3 or 4 rows, while the dads and chaperons yelled and screamed at us for the next half hour. We left the town and the country 48 hours later and I have never returned since. I hope someday to go back and see if anyone there remembers that horrible event. Hopefully I will go back and if that happens I will write the story of it for you to read.
I do not think this story has any lesson to be learned or shared or if it is just something that happened to me and for some reason I thought you would enjoy it.
-Peace
This is a word of caution to everyone who shows him or herself online. How we represent ourselves dramatically changes the way strangers perceive our personalities and how they treat us. I'll share this story so you are forewarned about careless profile info sharing.
I did a behavioral modification experimental thesis that involved gender relationships in an online community. I made the persona the exact opposite of myself. The only similarity between us is the fact that I do indeed have relatives in both Roma and Sardegnia Italy and his Nonno raised Calgary horses. For the purpose of this blog, I'll call him G. I easily made up a profile of an Italian young man who didn't know English very well. I used my married brother's pictures for the photo section after asking his permission. I made consistent mistakes in pluralizing words and the 'have, haves, has,' common error of ESL people. (I based this on my problems learning English at 6 to get into kindergarten.) The persona was friendly, slightly lazy, and so casually wealthy that speaking of money was of no consequence. I made up the worst possible poems because it's a poetry community. I wrote them in l'italiano first and then G's 2 best friends, who knew Italian, translated them for everyone. Ugh. It was a dreadful attempt at poetry and it astounded me that no one said he sucked when they didn't hesitate to call other's work puerile and pedantic at best!
At first, the men hated G. At first, the women loved him. G was self-centered and didn't bother with any particular goals or efforts at anything. G was a devout 'Catolico Roma.' Dozens of women offered to help him with his poetry, tell him how great he was, teach him how to get his working visa into America, asked for his phone #. They begged him to go on cam and talk on his mic. Shameless. Sheesh.
Very, very interesting insights as to the human psyche and the interaction of assigned gender roles! Ladies, men really aren't ALL nasty pigs. There are just as many good apples as there are bad ones. As for the Ladies--some took advantage of his stupidity and supposed affluence, and a married woman threw herself at the 'good looking foreigner,' (Secret vomit here. They were leering at pics of my brother. Ewwww.) A few women made comments along the lines of ‘nice eye candy but dumb as a brick.’ Gentlemen, women really aren’t ALL whiny, bitchy gold-diggers. There are just as many terrific, intelligent women as there are psycho drama queens.
An older woman of the group supported G and suggested changes rather than criticizing or objectifying him. She did in fact, scold him for ‘flirting with too many young ladies.’ Three men of the group decided to ‘coach’ him on poetry in return for other things. G’s 2 best friends wanted all the info they could get about Italy. The 3 rd man was older and shared the American culture and history in exchange for the same about G’s country. As an entire unit, the men and women showed great ideals, poetic talent and a deep commitment to writing. The male group’s dynamic centered strongly on the history and research of poetry. The female group’s dynamic centered on the presentation and inspiration of poetry.
Eventually the men thought, 'hey he gets all the girls--we should hang out with him and get to know his secrets.' The men dissected G's (stupid) brain as to what made the ladies like him so much. Simple. He wasn't American and the ladies liked it a lot. For 3 months, I was 'one of the guys.' I'd tell what we discussed, but I promised someone that since the experiment was just labeled Group F and Group M, I would divulge no names or personal identifying details.
The next step in the experiment involved introducing my own female persona into the group. Let's call her Female persona I. I gave them an Italian relative's name and talked with the girls first. Unfriendly, bitchy group of girls was my first impression. Then as I hung around more and more they were made up of 2 camps. The ones that openly chased and drooled over G and then the ones who claimed he was a ruthless heartbreaker and womanizer! Hmmm. I said, 'eww he's damn ugly!' They thought I was an alien! *Laughs*
The men were polite, gentle, and mildly condescending to me. The community agreed as an entirety, that G's poetry sucked but they never criticized it to his face. Both the men and women told my Female Persona I, that his poetry was dreadful. I had to smack my fingers a thousand times not to reveal the contradictory statements they made to me. Both Groups F and M, said the opposite things to G. hmmm.
The next stage was to reveal that (kind of, technically truth) I am G's sister. The women shunned me as a whole and said next to nothing except one sweet elder woman. The men said, could I have your phone #? See you on cam? Hear you on mic? Hmmm. The men's reaction to female persona I, was identical to the female group's reaction to G. Double Hmmm.
For the grand finale, I had to make a full disclosure so I could get permission slips of the blind, control experiment. I knew it would be rough because the whole thing had to be based on deception. Morally it still sometimes gives me sleepless nights, but it was proof positive of how we still follow gender assigned roles despite our self-proclaimed liberation.
The women naturally wanted to track me down and lynch me. I'm giving you the swearless version here on that last statement. The only exception was the kind older woman said that it wasn't nice to lie, but she forgave me and signed the permission slip.
The men's group laughed and laughed. All but a couple of them thought it was the best joke ever! I still wonder why outright deception and lies were so funny to them. The women eventually hounded both personas so much that I had to delete both G and I, then leave the poetry group. For years afterward, two of the men from that group call me to ask about the proper pronunciation of pollo or how great the trip to Firenza was. Bizarrely enough, the male bonding stays very strong even to this day. G’s friends became my friends. I gave them full disclosure just like the rest of the group. They still have no idea what I look like. They hold no animosity toward me at all. The sweet natured woman and I remained good friends up until the time she passed away a year ago.
In conclusion, men and women, please be careful about the personal things you put in your profile. This means pictures, likes and especially dislikes and references to where you live. There are stalkers out there. A friend of mine first warned me about a program called 'Google Earth' and it scared the crap outta me! He asked my address to mail a Xmas card to me, so I said ok. Then he sent me a (TERRIFYING) picture of my house! After I was done freaking out, he showed me how to download Google Earth. I tracked him down to his university dorm in Sweden! This system has the capability of tracking down any home, apartment, business, or residence ANYWHERE ON EARTH!
Now I'm not saying we should all be paranoid, but rather we should beware and be aware of people we talk to online. My hacker friend in TN showed me that each time you upload a photo directly from your computer onto a public access site, a hacker can trace your TCP/IP and hack their merry way through your hard drive!
I keep track of what sites I post personal info on and exactly who has access to what. I know that some of the people on a yearbook site have overlapping friends in common from at least 5 other similar sites, which will spread personal information exponentially!
Footprints
And there, I saw, the great secular salvation. One set of footprints, followed by a trough in the sand. I had been told the old story of Jesus carrying the burdened soul through difficulties, but these were my feet. The trough had been cut by the misconceptions I had drug throughout my life. It wasn’t by grace that I would be saved, but by letting go; letting go of Christian dogma, letting go of the expectations of a world my mind had created.
Here, I leave the penance of self-sacrifice. Here, I leave the denial of self and identity for the construct of the husband and father. Here, I abandon the stones I had used to wall myself within a faith I had created. Here, I stand, naked and bathed in sunlight with the dawning of self-realization. It is within my own being to persevere; to save myself.
Blinking my eyes, I stretched as my room came into focus. The orange light slanted through the long awning window, illuminating an errant sock on the graying spruce floor.
The phone had been chirping below me, sounding through the open floorboards; only calling my attention with the final alarm and click of the answering machine, “Halo” my own voice called out in a fake Spanish accent, “Eef you are a friend or relative, please leeve your message now. If not, please rot in Hell, as I will not be talking to jou.
“Please hold” another recorded voice replied to mine, “ a representative will be with you shortly.”
“Christ” I moaned as I rolled sideways to stare vacantly at the clock. My amusement listening to two machines exchange small talk was replaced by disbelief that a company already intent on shaking me down for money would have the audacity to put me on hold to wait for the next available collections agent. There was a fumbling on the other end of the line, then a click. For a second before the disconnect, I thought I heard a woman’s voice. Running my hand across my jaw line, I felt the day-old scruff and tried to picture her. She was young, I decided; about twenty-two. She had long blonde hair that she kept pulled back. She wore a crisp blouse with khaki pants; casual yet professional. Her face was kind, yet determined, with the beautiful glow of youth upon it. She didn’t like her job, I thought. Who would? But, she was fresh out of college and this was the best paying gig she could land at the call center somewhere… Atlanta, I decided. There she sat. In a room full of cubicles, with my number randomly routed to her phone. I decided if I ever met her, I would tell her I was sorry. Sorry for all the mean things my machine told hers. Sorry my life was a disaster. Sorry that I had to make it her problem as well.
Getting up from my mattress, I examined the coil of sheets and blankets I had discarded sometime in the night. It was nice, I thought, not to have to worry about making the bed. First of all, I could argue that there was no sense in making the “bed” since the actual bed was a days journey south of here. Making a mattress on the floor would be as deluding as buying throw pillows for a camping pad. I shuffled through the covers and made a little bounce the six inches down to the floor with a muffled thump. The boards were warm on my feet as I stepped into the sunlight allowing the warmth to creep up my legs. Through the window, Breezes lifted apple leaves and made gentle tracks through the tall grass.
How many times had I looked out that window? How many seasons have I plaintively watched pass across it’s pane? The feeling rose in me that the scenes as they played out cared nothing about the presence of my eye to record them. The hands that had laid the foundation to this structure some eighty years prior were, undoubtedly stilled; resting across a skeletal breast in the cemetery over the next rise. The indifference of nature below my feet was comforting; like standing before the ocean, vast, ancient, and powerful.
Kneeling down on the floor, I pried my fingers under the boards that made the hatch to the ladder below. Eventually, I thought, I would tire of using a ladder to reach the loft above, but now that I was alone the ladder was like a youthful friend. This was my fort, my tree house, my club of one. I would have placed a big hand-painted sign saying ’no girls allowed’ if it were not already painfully obvious that there weren’t any girls trying to get in to begin with. Still, it had become a man’s playhouse. There were shelves made from hand-hewn logs in the kitchen and dining rooms. One corner of the dinning room floor was littered with various woodworking tools, relegated to their new home mid-project. On a beam high above the computer desk, hung a shotgun, and, peering out at visitors to my primitive abode, was the head of the first and only deer I had successfully shot.
The ladder creaked as I stepped down to begin my descent to the living room. Beneath the ladder, Sheba looked up hopefully; swishing a bushy tail lazily and stirring up thousands of sparkles of dust in the slant of morning light. Stopping at the bottom tread, I carefully reached down with my foot and smoothed the fur on top of her head. Lowering her head, her eyes closed; two long black lines as she drifted into a doggy sleep.
Crossing the floor, I felt every ridge in the worn pine. It had come from a pallet of barn sheathing that I thought would do the job for a temporary home. It was funny, I thought, how the things we take for temporary often become permanent; and the converse, although not as funny, was just as true. Pulling two Benadryl from a box on the computer desk, I popped them into my mouth and went to the sink for a cupped handful of water to wash them down. One capsule cocked sideways, gave in to the water, and eased it’s way down my throat. My allergies had lessened a bit by now, but I still kept my system primed with antihistamines. Taking down a small cast iron pan from a nail in the small doorway, I examined it briefly before setting it back in place with a thunk. I wasn’t hungry enough for my last egg and three strips of bacon.
Turning to examine the log shelf that spanned the six foot galley, I set my eyes on the planned meal of the day. By making an abbreviated electricity payment, I was able to buy a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. The anniversary was approaching, and this was no time to skimp. I started the coffee and stepped into the shower
**********
The screen door creaked as Sheba slipped past me and around behind the house. The military surplus boots I had donned made a sound clunk on the porch. Standing there, finishing off my coffee, I examined the meadow. Starlings skated gracefully over the tops of the wheat-grass that strained toward the spring sky. Trees shook their fledgling leaves at the shifting air currents, while red squirrels raced through the rocking limbs. The morning air was clear and cool; not yet offering the promise of the oppressing heat a month’s time would bring. Below, a low drone alerted me to a wasp, drifting lazily by my boot. I watched him pass slowly by and towards the grass tops before gaining momentum and ascending in a quick arc, toward the woods.
Downing the last gulp of cooling coffee, I tromped heavily down the steps and into the meadow. I was quickly enveloped up to my knees in the fresh tide of grass. A crisp breeze playing off the apple branches touched my cheek before lifting a small aspen leaf, carried over from the harsh winter, to play with. The yellowed stubble of last year’s grass crunched beneath my boots. New life sprung from old. Soon my boots scuffed upon bits of charred wood, drawing my eyes to focus on a circle of scorched earth pierced throughout with new shoots of grass. I reached down and touched the blackened side of a log, remembering its specific placement the previous spring. This was the place.
**********
Garden rake in hand, I began my work in earnest; dredging up the thick under-matting of dead grass. Bundles were gathered and placed in the center of the scorched circle. With a sufficient haystack gathered, I leaned on my rake and stared out to the hillock where Sassafras lay buried. Green spruce boughs knelt before the spot as the horrific details flooded my mind. Bowing my head toward the grave, I entered the woods to gather the dead tree branches claimed by wind and snow. For the final step, I brought a double bit axe with me. As with all creatures, the winter brings death to the weak, so that the strong may go on. This winter had harvested about fifteen trees from the ranks of fir, cedar, and aspen. Of these, I sectioned and removed the closest to the pile. Once back at the pile, the logs were stacked teepee style with bits of broken pallets and scrap wood tucked between. Soaked with sweat, I inspected the pyre; some five feet tall and six feet at the base. The sun had already reached its apex and was beginning its long slant toward evening. Rivulets of sweat poured down my back and bathed my aching arms; washing, along the way, tracks of dirt and forest compost. Blackflies buzzed around my head, searching for a safe place to land and gorge themselves. The hay would be dry by tomorrow; proper tinder for the task at hand. It was a car-sized mass of potential energy; waiting, expectant. Perfect in form, it was a bomb, with a fuse, waiting for a spark to set into irrevocable motion, its complete destruction.
Standing beside the circle, I leaned my head back and filled my lungs from the passing breeze. The world around me penetrated my senses. The earthy smell of decay from the forest floor, still clinging to the back of the logs rested heavily upon my palate. The green shoots of the wheatgrass played lightly upon my nose before being washed clean by the warm smell of spruce all around me. There was a trickle down my arm, warmer than the sweat that covered me. I looked down to see a thin trail of blood running from my forearm, down along the curve of muscle and tendon, across my wrist, and down my little finger. I watched each slow drop swell, and fall to the grass below. Like the yellowed undergrowth I had raked earlier, each drop of expended life, fell to the earth to provide for nourishment.
The preparations had been made. There was nothing left to do but wait. The way I had waited then. But now, as in every year since, the outcome has already been written. Gone is the blissful ignorance I held that day. Gone, the hope; the belief in miracles, in rescue. There is only remembrance.
**********
I rose again to the slant of light. The call to work had already been made before my manager arrived. It was a call I had planned for a month now. I was as certain about having to feign illness as I was they would not have approved a day off. What excuse could I give them that would make sense to a civilized mind?
Making my way down the ladder, I paused at the bottom to examine a static sky through a single pane of glass. Randomly painted cirrus clouds clung to blue cellophane as a distant sun watched from above. The wheatgrass stood expectant in the field; unchanged by the prospect of a passing breeze. To the right hung the framed footprints. Touching them, as I had touched those very feet a decade ago, I remembered each detail of that day. A liturgy of despair: I was at work when I got an emergency call. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. I arrived just as she was admitted. The contractions came. He was born, he died, I died too. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. It was all her fault. Amen.
The words of condemnation toward her had still left me with no feeling of absolution. Closure was an illusion and payment would never be made for one soul thrown to the wind. This was a date that had passed each year without mention. The weight of the air bore testimony to the day that words would not do justice. Now, alone, I had resolved to bear the annual penance worthy of the crime committed. The day would no longer pass into obscurity without mention of the treason that had placed an infant in an unmarked grave; as if the body had to be destroyed and hidden to cover the shame.
“May God damn her to Hell,” I said aloud as I slowly pulled my hand back, allowing the words to hang in the air; to settle in the dust on the open rafters and be witnessed by the faces on the walls.
Drawing a match from the box on the pie safe, I struck it slowly, immersed in the moment when spark becomes flame. Sulfur curled around my nose as I lifted the flame to the wick of a candle beneath the framed footprints. The wick glowed orange before becoming a dancing flame, sending thin, black tendrils up to the beams above. Blowing out the match, I set the charred stick aside, and passed into the kitchen. Taking down the Jameson’s, I poured a full shot and returned to the pie safe to place it before the candle. For several minutes I stood there, my mind a flat lake, rapt in the vision of the flicking orange flame through the amber whiskey. I was an acolyte.
The next glass of whiskey was mine. I stepped out onto the porch, watching the sunlight play joylessly around the rim of the glass, casting sparks into the warm liquid below. Draining the glass, I retrieved a branch section from the previous day’s scavenging. Returning to the living room, I began tearing one of Shawn’s old shirts into strips and fastening them to one end of the branch. Layer upon layer. One from Shawn. One from Caitlin. One from Keagan; until the branch resembled a colorful novelty Q-tip. Dousing the end of the swab with lighter fluid, I carefully leaned it against the porch.
Once lit, the torch flared to life with surprising intensity; orange upon red, swirling around the top in ravenous layers. The torch held out to one side, I solemnly approached the wooded mound in the meadow. Thrusting deep, the flame broke off; quickly spreading through the tinder. Moving around the base, I ignited five fires along the perimeter before casting the torch to the top of the pile. From deep in the center, there was a rumble, then a gray cloud, out of which lashed fresh tongues of flame; eager for a taste of the larger kindling.
From below, flames grew; multiplied, and merged together to form a new life. The separate flames now became a fire, swallowing branches and enveloping logs. A log shifted, coughing a shower of sparks into the sky. Orange sprites danced and darted around me; filling my eyes with the glowing streaks of their courses and my nose with the spent life of the forest.
Alive now, it rose before me; it’s back hunched as it clawed and tore at the fallen timber; a beast of consumption, conjured before me at the end of a torch. I approached it’s heat; arms stretched, feeling each wave as my skin tightened against my face. I confronted the beast now, in it’s frenzy, eyes closed. I wondered. Would it feed indiscriminately? Would it accept all that was offered it? Would it devour my pain, my loneliness? Would it accept my guilt; my penance? How long could such a thing live off those parts, so invisible, yet so tangible they can paralyze?
I stood there, in the heat, every nerve in my skin now tingling with the searing energy before me. It was drawing me in. It was feeding.
**********
Evening fell with the darkness I had come to know so well in the meadow. Sitting on a section of log spared from the fire, I rested my feet in the charred circle and gazed into the mollified blaze. Putting the exhausted bottle of Jameson’s to my lips, I took a long draw, hardly noticing the warmth as it moved down into my gut. My body had become leaden. My feet were embedded in the ash, my backside pressed into the log, and my very soul felt poured out. Glancing at my hand, I could see a patchwork of soot in the flickering light. It followed up my arm and I presumed to be covered in it; a perverse ashen camouflage.
Lifting myself from the dying fire’s gaze, I made my way back to the porch. Closing the door behind me with an uneven thunk, dim light of the candle sent out a jumpy flicker of disapproval. Again, I paused before the footprints, watching now as pale yellow light crept at the heels. Lifting the whiskey I had set there, I bent, blew out the candle, “Happy birthday, Justin.”.
I was flipping through tons of my pet pics and started to notice an amusing pattern. Scully, my golden retriever, and I look a lot alike! I noticed that my friend CJ and her sweet Briard, Allie also looked very similar. I put the pictures next to each other and lined them up neatly. I scrutinized the photos closely and the resemblance is uncanny! Does anyone else have some great pet photos they'd like to share? First click on the pictures so you can see them better, and on the left underneath is an option for 'view enlarged photo.'
These are Scully and I:
These are my friends CJ and Allie: 
New dog blog for those interested!
