The Dragon and the Librarian

I just submitted two short stories to this weeks-long contest, hosted by Signum University.  This week's inspiration is "Here Be Dragons!"

If you would like to vote for my short stories, please do so QUICKLY by following the link here.

The first is entitled "The Librarian and the Dragon," and is a piece of flashfiction about a librarian who discovers a dragon who hoards books.

The second is entitled "The Dragon and the Librarian" and is a piece of flashfiction about a book-hoarding dragon who is discovered by a librarian.

Yes, they are the same small story, but from differing points of view.  I hope you enjoy them and please vote!

Not quite an Inkling

I have no short story for you this week, though I did write one.  I have been busy with another round of edits on my novel.  This one is the first round after critiques have come back.  A very important round indeed.  Thankfully, most of the critics have enjoyed my work for the most part, which gives me hope.  The things I must fix are not major roadblocks, but they will take a little time.  I still want to finish before the end of the year.

What happened to that short story I wrote?  Well, it's here.  I entered into a writing contest and will continue to enter these contests every week.  So instead of reading my shorts on this blog for a little while, I would be greatly honored and thankful if you could find it on the link above and vote for mine.  :)

This week's entry is entitled, "Discount Souls."

And don't worry - any of the short stories that don't win (which, lets face it, will probably be all of them) will end up here eventually.

Ultreia INK: Write Night - Part 2!

Back in November, I had the opportunity to read one of my pieces in front of an audience!  It was a great experience!  Well thankfully, I will have a chance to do so again!

If you are in the South Bend area and would like to hear me read two of my short pieces on Tuesday, April 8th, along with other local writers, we would love to have you!  From personal experience, I know that some of the other writers are phenomenal.  The event starts at 7:30, but doors open at 7.  It will be located at a building called LangLab, which is a converted furniture factory.  The address is 1302 High Street, South Bend.  The building is amazing, and I was lucky enough to get a tour the last time I was there.

As I started earlier, I will be reading 2 pieces.  The first is a very short piece, Spin-out, which I wrote back in January after I nearly died.  The other piece is an edited version of Haptic Malware, the piece I wrote in February.  I realized that it would work better when told in 1st person.

I know it is short notice, but I only just found out that I was accepted!  If you can make it, I would be honored.  If not, know that I am still thrilled to be able to share my work with others!

For more info, check out their facebook page here.

The Letters of Charles Bastian

I have been working on a short story for some time now, on and off for about 7 or 8 years.  It is a piece of historical fiction which takes place in 1832 Carlisle.  I cannot stress enough how much time, research, and spirit this piece has taken.

It all started off with a movie my brother and I watched in college, The Haunting (released in 1999).  It was a terrible movie.  Everything in it was awful, from the acting to the plot to the terribly computer graphics that the director thought we would find scary.  What's worse, it is a remake of a 1963 movie which is massively superior (according to rottentomatoes.com, 86% versus the remake's 17%).  Even the parts that had the potential to be scary ended up as either simple gore or bad cinematography.

Afterwards, we discussed how terrible it was, and how we would have improved it.  I think we learned a lot about suspense and how to really scare the pants off someone just by bouncing ideas back and forth.  And those ideas started to form into a story.  It was crude at first, but we knew it would have something to do with death.  Not simply people dying, but what happens afterwards, to the bodies.  It probably didn't help that we'd seen a documentary not long before about the history of autopsies.

And that was it.  It went nowhere for a while.  Then I had to write a short story for a creative writing class and this one instantly popped into my mind.  I stayed up all night (literally) and wrote the rough draft of the piece in one go because I simply could not get over it.  What I realized was that using an unreliable narrator offered more potential for misleading and scaring the reader.  It could give the reader that "AHA!" moment, kind of like when you're watching a mystery and you solve it just before everyone else does.  Unreliable Narrator is hard to pull off, but I was obsessed.  I was also obsessed with a trend that happened decades earlier, the open-ended short story.  You might recall a story from grade school about a man who fell in love with a princess.  He was caught by the king and put in an arena, forced to make a choice.  Behind one door was a lion that would kill him.  Behind the other, a woman that he would marry then and there and subsequently be exiled with.  The princess knew which door held which thing, and he looked to her to make the decision for him.  And that's it, the end.  You don't know which door she chose for him.  To be honest, that ending kinda sucks.  I wanted to make an open-ended story that wasn't so sudden, like it was only open-ended because the author got tired and gave up 90% of the way through.

I married these three ideas into my story.  The class loved it.  But that was it.  I rewrote it for my own edification, improving upon it by adding more details that could be taken to support either ending the reader chose to believe.  And I rewrote it again.  I submitted it to a contest, but needless to say it did not win.  I didn't touch it again until now.

I decided to rewrite it again.  I grounded it in history.  Humanities Act of 1832?  Easy.  The disappearance of William Hare?  Absolutely!  London Burkers?  Of course!  I even found scanned documents from an asylum in England around that time!  Although the story has changed, I feel it still tells the same scary tale it started out as, but this time there's more than a hint of truth to it.  If you read my story and are curious about anything in it, chances are it was real and you will learn something about history.  I even emulated the writing style and took painstaking steps to ensure that no language in the piece is something they wouldn't have said in the time and place.  I learned more about the time period than I could ever put in the piece.  Sure, I could have added that Dr. Parkinson was once on trial for "scheming" to kill King George using a popgun and a poison dart, but that wouldn't have been anything more than info-dropping or name-dropping.  But I did add that the main character doubted the motives of the good doctor.  When I had my critiquing group read it, they loved it!  But it still wasn't good enough for me.  I fixed the errors I saw, tied up the inconsistencies, and addressed the concerns of the critiquing group.  Which, of course, required more research.

Now it is off to the Historical Novel Society for its 2014 Short Story Award.  In May they will send out a long-list of 10 or so entries.  These will all be published in ebook format!  On July 1st, the winner will be announced and given $2000 in addition to having the work published.  I don't know if I will win, and to be honest, $2000 is not much for the amount of work I put into the story.  But I am proud of it nonetheless, even if it loses!  I would consider the piece to be one of my best.  If it doesn't win, I doubt it will be because the piece is poor, but rather that the judge didn't like the first 5 lines.

No, you will not be seeing it on this blog.  In fact, it is doubtful I will post it even if I lose, like I am doing with the Dark Crystal Author Quest.  For starters, it can be submitted to another contest, while the Dark Crystal story cannot.  It also could be simply published.  However, if I publish it here, first, chances of it getting picked up by someone else diminish.  But do not fret!  If you know me, I may let you read the piece if you are interested.  If not, I will keep submitting it for publication or contest.  And when it does get released, you can rest assured I will be posting about that.

Ghost of the Crystal - Part 3

"Over there!  It's a gelfling!" Kleo cried and quickly rose to her feet.  No sooner had she reached the edge of the clearing than a girl with long, braided hair of silver broke out of the darkness and into the warm light.  Her beautiful white and green garments had been soiled by mud and torn by the underbrush.  The intricate braiding in her hair was falling into chaos as a tangle of loose strands fell around her face and shoulders.  Behind her, a pair of gossamer wings clung tightly to her back.  She fell into Kleo's arms, trembling.  "Shhh, it's all right.  You're safe here.  Come, sit by the cookfire with us."

The girl looked up.  Her hazel eyes darted around the clearing nervously.  They could see that her pale face was beset with fear.  The closer she got to the fire, however, the more its light and warmth calmed her.

"What happened?  Are you all right?" Tyrin asked worriedly when the girl was seated near the fire.  He pulled a water skin off his shoulder and knelt down beside her to offer it.  Likewise, Kleo took the blanket off her shoulders and wrapped it around the girl.  Kleo's small, dark wings fluttered for a moment when they were freed.

"Th-they're all gone," the stranger said.  She clutched the water skin with both hands, but did not drink from it.  "It was so fast."

"Who's gone, girl?" Jag-Ben asked while looking around the woods in worry.

Minn put another log on the fire and stoked it into a lively, dancing flame.  In the bright light, they could see red, swollen scratches ran along her left arm where her sleeve was left in tatters.  She also had a small, light blue tattoo of an inverted triangle on her cheek.  Kleo sat behind her and worked at the braid in her hair, unraveling it.

"My convoy.  I can't believe they're gone."  As the girl spoke, Prril jumped off Minn's shoulder and walked up to her to sniff at her hand with blunted snout.  It didn't take long for Prril to steal a scratch or two.

"Convoy?" Tyrin asked.  "Are you lost?"  She shook her head.  "Who are you?  Where are you from?  Are you also heading towards The Gathering?"  Kleo gave him a stern glance, wordlessly telling him to not hound their guest with questions.

Regardless, the girl nodded.  "I'm Morra.  I was supposed to represent the Vapra Clan at the Gathering, but now I don't think I'll make it.  It's after me, I'm sure it is."  The fear in her eyes returned.  "I shouldn't be here.  We're not safe.  It's still out there."  Her gaze darted about as if she could hear things in the woods the others could not.

Jag-Ben picked up a stick and waved it about in front of him.  "Hmm. 'It' was probably some o' the Spriton Clan.  We're in their woods, and they dunna take kindly to visitors," he said, stamping his thick, green boots on the ground defiantly.

"It wasn't a gelfling.  We're all in danger here," Morra said and stood up to leave.  Tyrin took her by the hand.

"What's out there?  If you're too scared to say it, then show me through dreamfast," he said.  She jerked her hand out of his roughly and looked at him with abject horror.

"It was The Hunter."

"Bah!  He's just a myth!" Jag-Ben grunted.  "The Spriton are known for their scare tactics.  I'm sure what you saw was a just ruse meant to frighten.  If they mistook your people for their rivals, the Woodland–"

"No!  I saw him with my own eyes!  No gelfling is that tall, that fast. He had four arms, a bent back, and holes, holes for eyes!" Morra declared.

"It had to be a trick!"  Jag-Ben turned away with a grunt.  Kleo walked up to him and put her dark hand on his shoulder.

"It's all right, Jag-Ben," she said and smiled.  "I know it can be hard to hear what you believe isn't true, but I'm sure she saw something out there.  Whatever it was, maybe we can help."

Morra drew her arms around herself.  "It was no trick!  He saw me.  Those eyes, they didn't look at me, they looked into me, through me.  And the way he wheezed.  It wasn't like he was tired, but excited."

"Here, sit down, warm yourself.  You shouldn't go back out cold and hungry," Tyrin said, leading her to a seat by the fire.  Prril cried piteously at Morra and rubbed against her legs, prompting a brief smile from the girl.  Minn pulled the charred piece of meat from the spit over the fire, then wrapped it in a leaf and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said and brushed a strand of white hair from her face before eating.

"All we have is given to us by Thra; it would be wrong for us to keep things for ourselves.  I am Tyrin.  I've traveled from the Silver Sea in the North to see the land and its people.  When I heard of the Gathering, I had to come see it for myself.  To think the Arbitrator herself has called for all the clans to congregate.  I've heard nothing on what it is all about."

"The Silver Sea?  You've come a long way, then.  Did you cross the Claw Mountain?"

He shook his head firmly.  "I might love adventure, but I am not that foolhardy.  No, I came through the grasslands and the Swamp of Sog.  You've, uh, met Jag-Ben.  That's where I ran into him.  He's gruff, but has a good heart, and no one is more dependable," Tyrin said.

Morra appeared more relaxed now and nodded to Jag-Ben, who answered with a humph! of mild protest.

"Yeah, well there's still no Hunter," he retorted.  "But, if there's something out there, we'll keep ya safe.  I've gotten that lad out o' more than a few scrapes in the last month, haven't I?" Jag-Ben said and gave Tyrin a knowing smirk.  "I've traveled with him to keep him out of trouble!"

[ Link to Part 2 ] -- [ Link to Part 4 ]

Ghost of the Crystal - Part 2

This is my entry to the Dark Crystal Author Quest.  I decided to split it up into several parts.  To see it all, go to the "Dark Crystal" label on my sidebar.

Ghost of the Crystal part 2

"SNAP!"

Tyrin clapped his weathered hands together.  The sharp sound was followed by a moment of silence; even the dull thrum of insects paused for breath.  The three faces of his fellow gelflings, all turned towards him in entrancement, made Tyrin crack a smile.  If there was anything members of the Sifa clan loved more than exploration, it was regaling others with tales of adventure.  Tyrin was no exception.

"I could smell the dendrie's rotting breath as its jaws closed a hair from my face.  Luckily for me, Jag-Ben had heard our struggle and grabbed the beast by the tail.  They fought and wrestled, but in the end, the beast succumbed to Jag-Ben's strength."

One of the mesmerized gelflings erupted into a hearty, convivial laughter, holding one thick, hairy hand to his round belly.  He had a hint of deep green about his features that made him appear wilder than the others.  "That's quite the tale, Tyrin!  I hardly recognized meself in the story," Jag-Ben said after his laughter died down.

"Then it's true?" one of the others asked.  Her slight build was framed in a dark tunic and snuggled into a blanket near the fire.  The only thing darker than her skin were her pitch-black eyes, wide with wonder.

"Oh, o' course it's true, Kleo," Jag-Ben told her.  "Only this particular dendrie was about as long as yer forearm, from snout to tip."

"Can't fault me for embellishing a little," Tyrin said as he sat down on a log.  He grabbed the last skewer from over the fire and inspected the indistinct char on it that had once been meat.  "Stories are always more interesting than reality.  I'm sure we will all hear our fill of fantastic tales once we are at The Gathering.  I, for one, would love to hear what tales a warrior like one of the Spriton would share."

"If they dunna kill us before we leave their forest," Jag-Ben warned and trained his eyes on the canopy.

"The Gathering is tomorrow and so near their lands.  There's never been anything like it before.  I doubt even they would attack a traveler right now," Tyrin said.

"I'm not so sure.  They're a violent bunch, them Spritons.  Very territorial."

A shiver ran through Kleo as she, too, began to peer about the clearing with her dark gaze.  Tyrin put the skewer, meat and all, back over the fire.  "How about some music, Minn?"  He nodded at their final companion

The third gelfling nodded and began to play an exotic, wavering melody on the instrument that sat in his lap.  It was made from a string that had been stretched along a bent rod.  A gourd was attached at one end with a hole that had been bored into it.  With one hand he manipulated the string, the other struck it repeatedly with a slender shaft.  As he played, he watched the fire from behind pale fabrics that covered his body and face, leaving room only for his eyes.  A sparkling cloak of fine crystalweave had been wrapped around him to keep him warm against the night air.  Curled up at his feet was a small creature, hardly more than a gelfling's leg in length, with a slender body and a tail nearly twice as long.  Its pointed ears flicked about whenever a certain note was played, but its eyes remained closed.

"Ya know, there are some stories that dunna need embellishing," Jag-Ben said.  He stood up and wandered about the fire.  "There is a tale among us Drenchen of a spirit what likes to eat young gelflings.  None has ever seen this ghost, this Trapper, and lived ta tell of it.  But sometimes at night, we can hear him gnawing at the bones of 'is latest kill."  He waved his hairy hands over the fire and lurched towards Kleo with a guttural growl, who squealed and pressed up against Minn.  Minn's hand slipped and struck an off-note before he ceased the music.  Although he didn't seem to mind the girl against his side, the creature at his feet flattened both ears in mild annoyance and thumped her tail on his leg.

"We have a similar story," Tyrin said.  "Only, we call him 'The Hunter.'"

"The Hunter is in our legends, too," Minn said in a sing-song voice.  As he spoke, his hands formed eldritch symbols in the air.

Tyrin swung a gemshorn off his shoulder.  It was made from the ribbed tip of a mounder horn.  His clothing was nearly as worn as his hands.  Each loose stitch, knick, and faded patch told the story of days traveling beneath the three suns.  Even the rich color of the old horn had been bleached almost completely out of the instrument.  "What do your people tell of this spirit?" he asked, then put the wide, blocked end of the gemshorn to his lips and played a simple, yet haunting melody to set the mood.

"Well, we know the Trapper is tall and heavy," Jag-Ben said as he paced around, "from the size o' the footprints and trails he leaves behind."

"Footprints?" asked Kleo, perking up some.  "Spirits don't leave footprints."

"Well, I've never seen the footprints meself. I believe it ta be just a mother's tale ta frighten 'er children."

"What else do they say?" Minn asked with a flourish of his hand and settled against Kleo.  Jag-Ben was only too happy to continue.

"Legend 'as it that the only sound ya can hear from the ghost is heavy breathing.  But by the time ya hear it, it's too late.  No matter where ya go, ya'll end up in a trap.  I 'ad a cousin who said she heard it once.  She was with some friends collecting reeds.  Before they knew it, half o' them were gone.  And then she heard the breathing right behind her.  She ran and-"

The creature at Minn's feet pulled its ears back and growled.  Minn ran his hand along her back.  "What's wrong, Prril?  Is something out there?"  A moment later, a loud crack sounded in the woods.  Tyrin lowered the gemshorn as the gelflings all looked around the woods.  Another crack, closer than the first, narrowed down their search.  Prril moved in a graceful flash of sandy fur, balancing on her master's shoulder as she bared her teeth and arched her body.  After a third snap, they could all hear footsteps crunching along the ground in haste.

[ Link to Part 1 ]    --   [ Link to Part 3 ]

Ghost of the Crystal - Part 1

This is my entry to the Dark Crystal Author Quest.  I decided to split it up into several parts.  To see it all, go to the "Dark Crystal" label on my sidebar.

Ghost of the Crystal part 1

Branches and twigs whipped against Tyrin as he rushed through the woods, tearing at his weathered clothing.  These strange, dark woods were filled with dangers, but he ignored them.  He ignored the bite of the cold night air, the sting of the thorns that brushed against his shins and arms.  He ignored the nets and ropes that would sometimes spring up at his heels, each one threatening to end his hasty journey.  Tyrin instead kept his mind focused on where he was going.  Every sense was at its peak.  They had to be to notice the traps that lay before him.  Although the screams of his companion had died away, he didn’t hesitate or try to find his bearings; that would only bring disaster.  All he could do was head towards where he remembered her voice calling from.

The darkness of the woods lifted in an instant as he burst into a large clearing.  Before him lay the only sight that would give him pause: Morra.  She hung doubled-over from the limb of a magnificent, gnarled tree.  Had it not been for her silver hair, Tyrin would have mistaken her for one of the tree's many seed pods that were suspended around the clearing.  A rope was tied around her mid-section, binding her arms to her sides.  She dangled above a slender spear made from the blackest of woods.  It was planted in the ground with its fang-sharp tip facing the girl.  Tyrin instantly recognized the makeshift weapon; he had fashioned it himself.  However, this trap was certainly not one set by gelfling hands.

After a moment of inspection, Tyrin heaved a sigh of relief and walked towards the girl and the spear.  When she heard his footfalls, Morra's ear twitched.  She lifted her head, brow wrinkled with lines of worry.

"Tyrin!" she said in a hushed tone.

"Morra!  You're all right!  I was so worried," he said, speaking louder than he meant to. "Is he nearby?"

"I don't think so.  Tyrin, don't come any closer!  It's a trap!"

Tyrin chuckled.  "Well, I can see that.  Now give me a moment and I'll have you out of there," he said.  "First I need to get rid of this thing…"  He stepped up the spear and reached out to grab it with his strong, callused fingers.

"No!  You don't understand!  It's a trap for you!"

Her words were too late.  He had already pulled the spear free.  The ground gave way under his feet.  The look of terror on Morra's face grew further away as he fell into shadow.

Tyrin gripped the spear tightly.  He had only met Morra that night, and already he had seen that expression of dread on her face twice.  Broken bits of wooden lattice tumbled about him.  When he looked down, Tyrin saw nothing but blackness.  Instinct kicked in and he tried to pull the spear down to give him something to hold onto.  Instead, the ends lodged themselves into the soft, moist dirt and held fast.  Tyrin nearly lost his grip when it jolted to a halt.  One hand slipped free, but he managed to find purchase in the dirt wall with his foot and push up to the spear, then wrapped his arms and legs around it.  The dirt settled.  His eyes adjusted.  He was trapped near the bottom of a narrow pit.

"Tyrin?  Are you all right?" Morra called.  The urgency in her voice had changed to concern.

"I think so.  I can't believe I fell for such an obvious trick."

Tears welled in Morra's eyes.  "Tyrin, I'm so sorry.  I didn't want anything bad to happen to anyone. I should have just let him have me."

"Don't say that.  As long as we're still alive, we have to keep trying, to keep fighting.  I think I can see the bottom, now.  It's not far.  I'm going to try to jump for it."  He let himself hang by his arms and swung his legs back and forth.  Tyrin let go, throwing himself at the curved wall of the pit.  His tough hands scrabbled at the dirt and slowed his fall enough so that he landed on the earthen ground without injury.  "I made it!"

As he wiped the dirt from his hands, Tyrin took in his surroundings.  The ground was littered with bits of broken wood that had once made up the trap he had triggered.  The dirt walls were moist and free of roots or handholds.  He leaned his back against the wall and sighed.  "Now what?  I can't reach the spear.  There's no way out.  How did I find myself in this situation?"

Morra clenched her jaw through the tears.  "Tyrin, don't you dare give up like that," she said sternly.  "You just told me that we had to keep fighting, and you were right.  We just need a plan.  Can you climb at all?"

"It's too wet and slippery.  There's some wood down here.  Maybe I can use it."  Tyrin put his mind to escaping and gathered up some lengths of wood.  He tore his sleeves off and ripped them into strips, which he used to bind the wood into a pole.  "I don't know if this is going to work…" he said as the pole grew longer with each addition.  When he leaned it up against the side and tested its strength, it held steady.  Tyrin grinned and started climbing up the pole.

"Morra, it's working!  Morra?  What's that light?"  He fell silent just as he reached the spear.  A deep, menacing breath echoed down the into the pit, making Tyrin's hair stand on end.

"Hhahhh… Thought you could get away?"  The voice was raspy, almost like a breathy growl, and deep.  Before Tyrin could react, a thin, translucent arm reached into the pit.  It grabbed the pole and twisted with immense strength.

[ Link to Part 2 ]

Dark Crystal

Well, it's that time.  The results of the Dark Crystal Author Quest are out.  And...

I am not in the top 5.  Not even the top 25.  :(  I have to admit, I thought my story was better than that.  I put plenty into it, and it's hard knowing that all that work can go nowhere.  I don't have the rights to write in that world.  Frankly, the term "fan-fiction" does not sit well with me.  Of course I should congratulate all those writers who did make it into the top 25, but to be honest that is a hard thing to do for me.  Maybe I'm selfish after all.  I know, I should read some of the other entries to see what they did and how so I can improve my own writing, but not right now.  I've also lost my password for the dark crystal forums and it will not let me reset it...

I think the hardest thing for me is knowing that I'm nothing special.  That being said, this week's short story will in fact be my entry.  Someone may as well read it.  Critiquing is appreciated.

Contests everywhere

I recently learned about a contest, as I'm sure you're quite aware if you follow my blog.  If not, please do!  It was the Splickety Magazine contest for micro-flashfiction.  I may have mentioned another contest of theirs, which is due on the 7th of this month.  After I entered that first contest, I learned about another from Reader's Digest - life stories in 100 words or fewer.  I also learned that the Chicago Tribune has a yearly short story contest due at the end of January.  I did not make it into that one in time.

I'm seeing more and more of them around.  So, I thought I would share a few of my findings.

Now, there are some that have fees associated, and I would only enter those sparingly.  Writer's Digest had one that had a $50 fee and then gave the grand prize to a previously published work - something that was against the rules.  They did eventually remedy it.  Needless to say, I will not be participating in that contest again.  I feel that if they are asking THAT much money of me, they would actually do their homework.  Some contests DO allow for previously published works.  Some retain the rights to your work for a year, others for an indefinite amount of time.  Still others retain the right to publish your work after the contest, even if it did not win.  If that is the case, you could get in trouble for publishing it elsewhere.  You need to be aware of the different kinds of rights you have and are giving them, such as "first publication," "digital," and "exclusive."  A good place to start is here.  Too often, aspiring writers and poets get scammed out of money or rights, but all the information was in the fine print, meaning there's nothing they can do about it.  So it is mandatory that you become fluent in legalese and read the terms before entering any literary contest, the same as before you get published.  For all you know, you could be allowed unlimited entries into the contest, and here you are limiting yourself to one!

The Writing Site keeps a list of contests you can enter.  The individual contests have different requirements, so be sure to look at them before entering.
http://www.writingsite.com/index.htm?pages/contests.htm~mainFrame

Winning Writers is an award-winning website for writers.  Who knew?  They keep a list of fee-free contests updated if you subscribe.  Some are even for poems!  The link to do so is here:
http://winningwriters.com/the-best-free-literary-contests

They ALSO keep a list of contests to avoid, AND give some reasons why to avoid them.  I'm sorry to say, but many poetry contests are scams.  (I would, for instance, never send anything to poetry.com).
http://winningwriters.com/the-best-free-literary-contests/contests-to-avoid

Finally, there is a good database of not-necessarily-free contests, grants, and awards here:
http://www.pw.org/grants

Finding more just takes a little electronic leg work.  Have fun entering a few.  If you don't win, don't fret!  You wrote something! You met a deadline!  You're a writer!  If the terms allow you, you can send that piece off later after some revisions, or publish it yourself.  The important thing is that you keep trying.

Sleeping Treasures

The following is a losing entry into the Splickety microfic contest.  It was inspired by the picture in this post.  Look closely and you can see the dragon.

We'd never seen treasure like it before.  Miners like us are used to finding the value in black coal that covers your face and stifles your breath, so when we stumbled on the trove, half-buried in calcified stone, our imaginations flared.  I scrabbled at a ruby-encrusted crown with my pick, but the work was slow.

"Put it back," Don warned, hand outstretched and eyes turned upwards.  We all followed his gaze.  Dragons were not supposed to exist.  They were the stuff of fairy tales, the playthings of children's imaginations.  But we could not deny the beast, poised on its haunches.  It, like its hoard, had been calcified, likely the victim of the same ancient spell.  Or was it still alive, sleeping, guarding?

Don backed away.  The men all followed.  A week passed before I disturbed the stagnant cave air with my pick again.  After all, the dragon couldn't stop me.

Splickety Magazine

When I was a sophomore in college, I read my first short short story (nowadays called flash fiction, flashfic, or micro fiction).  It was 55 words long, about a man stuck in the trenches during one of the world wars.  The bombs started falling, his friend cowered in corner crying to God to save him, saying he'd convert and tell everyone about God if he lived through it.  It finishes by telling us that his friend never did talk about Gd to the prostitute he hired that night.  I wish I could remember the name of the piece or who wrote it.

Ever since then, I realized the flash fiction is a valid art-form.  It's difficult, it's fun, it's easy to read yet often hard to analyze.  Like any art, there are good examples, bad examples, and "popular" examples.  The 2013 Nobel Prize for Literature was given to Alice Munro, a short story writer, lends even more validity to the form.  Now, there is some contention over what constitutes a flashfic.  Some say 1000 words or less (such as Friday Flash), while others say 300 words or less.  There is even a category for microflash fiction, which is generally 150 words or less.

Splickety Magazine recently announced a contest for microflash fiction.  Write a 150-word speculative fiction story inspired from the image below.  I wrote two entries, and one of them, "Thief," won!  It will be appearing in the July issue of "Havok."  I can't wait to see my work in print! It is a truly wonderful feeling!

They are having a new contest about Steampunk versus Cyberpunk.  I'll see if I can't get into it, as well.  I also will be entering a contest at the Historical Novel Society.  Let's hope I am successful in this venture, too!  I've given myself a deadline to edit my novel, so managing my time is going to be essential.

What have I been up to?

First off...  Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!  2014!  Let's make it a good one!  I know it's late, but I couldn't help it.

I've been traveling.  A lot.  Back in mid-December, we headed off to see my wife walk in her graduation ceremony (12 hours away).  Congratulations, dear!  We now have another PhD in the world to make things a little bit better.  On the way we stopped off at her cousin's place and met her fiancé.  Between the adults we had 6 kids to handle.  It was fun!  Then it was time for Christmas traveling.  My 2-year-old daughter is just starting to understand what Christmas is about (at least in terms of Santa and toys), so of course everyone wanted to spend it with her.  We traveled another 6 hours to see my wife's grandparents and extended family as well as her brother.  This is the first time we've been able to see him in several years, as he is an officer in the Army and stationed in Washington state.  Being the Aide de Camp means he had a lot of stories to tell!  And from there we drove 6 MORE hours (possibly more) to DC, where both of our parents live.

This is the last time our parents will be near each other, however.  Soon, her parents are moving, and we are trying to encourage my parents to move to a lower cost of living as well.  We needed to spend as much time with family as possible, and I was lucky enough to get to see an old friend while there.  Sadly, it didn't last as long as I would have hoped.  I was also tired from driving (I DID just drive 24 hours in less than a week).

After our long trip home (only took about 11 hours), we crashed, and that was a week ago today.  Since then we've been cleaning, putting away our presents, preparing to potty train, looking up beer recipes, getting food back into the house... oh, and celebrating New Year's.  But while doing all of that... I was writing.

I finally finished my Dark Crystal Author Quest entry!  With about 2 hours to spare!  The changes I made were a little risky... it'll either solve all the problems in the story or make it more confusing.  Without having a chance for someone to read it over, I don't know which it did.  But there is no point in mulling over it now.  My entry has been submitted!  I am proud of it!  Sure, it took up a lot of time and that's why I haven't updated, but it was worth it!

On January 7th, they'll reveal who the 5 finalists are.  I have a feeling there are several thousand entries, so they either have a huge team of people reading these or they will only be glancing at the first few words before deciding whether to spend more time on it.  Sad, but there aren't many other options.  I know there's a very small chance that I'l be in the top 5, but I hope and pray that I am.  I also know that they are judging the entries based on voice, trying to get one that will match with their idea and world the best, so not being selected does not necessarily mean you aren't a good writer; you just aren't the right fit.  The top 5 will be reviewed by professional editors.  I assume there will be a chance for revisions before the winner is chosen.  Whoever it is, good luck to everyone who entered! We all shared in a love for this world and we all helped to expand it.  Since our entries are property of the Jim Henson company, I will not be posting it up anytime soon.  But I do hope that they at least come out with an anthology of the best entries.  I think it would be simply amazing to have even a small chance to expand the world of Thra, and I can't wait to see how other people tackled it.

No, there will be no short story today.  I simply will not have the time to finish one.  Perhaps I will try to make one later in the week.  I really need to get back into the practice.  In a few weeks I will be going on a writer's retreat, where I will spend as much time as possible revising my novel.  Not sure I'll be able to post a short story then, either, but we'll see.  Maybe I can post one early.

Ultreia Ink: Write Night

I had the wonderful fortune to go to and read at Ultreia Inc.'s writing event tonight, Ultreia INK: Write Night.  It is located here in South Bend at a place called LangLab.

So, Ultreia Ink was awesome.  It is a very cool not-for-profit group based in SB that does what it can to support the arts– every kind of art.  LangLab is a building that they frequently use, and LangLab is the most incredible place I've ever been to.  It's an old factory that is filled with open rooms that house artists doing things like pottery, sculpture, paper-making, music recording, wood-working, music-making, dancing, etc.  There are spaces for everything - from a green room for bands to a coffee roaster to a place for people to crash to a place to keep the remnants of a beloved hometown shop.  My inner child wanted to use the building for hide-and-seek or laser tag.  The dumpster-diver in me wanted to rifle through all the old electronics and windows and miscellany.  And the artist inside wanted to use the building itself for art.  The building seemed to go on forever.  Sometimes when I peeked into a room, I wouldn't see piles of computers or pipe holes peering down on the floor below.  I would see the potential of the space.  Of the things that have been accumulated.  But, more importantly, I would see the potential of the people that gravitate towards it.

Of course, they do more than just house artists.  Every week they have bands play.  There is an art gallery that displays local art.  There's a make-shift library in what is currently a make-shift salsa dance studio.  Yoga classes are taught on Wednesday nights.  Ultreia also hosts events, like the one I just went to.  It is the kind of place that makes me want to offer what time and talent I can to help ensure its continued success and further its reach into the community.  So, in short, LangLab is the epitome of the modern "underground" art scene.  I only hope I can contribute more.

The event itself was very nice.  My priest showed up, and it turns out we have a lot more in common than I thought (and, trust me, we already had a lot in common).  We enjoyed the Zen Cafe coffee, had wonderful conversations with all sorts of people, and, of course, listened to great compositions.  There were 10 readers, plus 2 impromptu competitors, making a total of 12 pieces.  I enjoyed all the writers, though a few stuck out in my mind as particularly excellent (and no, I was not one of the excellent ones.  If you know me, you know I always think my writing is sub-par).  My favorite would be hard to pin down, but it would be between the poem about Muhammad Ali (entitled, "What's my name, fool?" by Lonnie Ray Atkinson) and the short poem by Chad Morgan without a name:

I don't write poems
I just write facebook statuses that have gone out of control.

(I'm sorry if I got it wrong, Chad, but I quite enjoyed all of your pieces!)
The only gripe I really have about the event is that the 3-minute time limit was not strictly adhered to... or even remotely adhered to.  I would probably not have edited my piece down if I had known I could take more time on it.  Of course, I just now realize that I forgot to give them my feedback card. Oh no!  That means I'm going to have to visit again and drop it off.  Deary me, whatever shall I do?

Halloween Contest/Halloween Origins

Hello everyone.  This post, I will admit, is blatantly an attempt to get myself a few votes for a short story of mine on a halloween contest!  I would greatly appreciate your vote for "Medical Power of Attorney" here.

However, just pushing my work leaves a bit of a bad taste in my mouth.  I want to provide a little something for your time.  So, here is a brief history of Halloween!  I know that plenty of people who do not hail from the United States simply do not understand the purpose of this holiday.  Is it just an excuse to dress up, make a fool of yourself, and get candy?

Well, in a sense.  But it has a much more devious origin.  Now, I'm no expert, and I'm sure you could do some research and prove that what I'm saying here is wrong, but this is my understanding of its origins.  (Yes, I know, I usually actually research this stuff, but I'm a bit pressed for time here.)

Halloween is a sort of portmanteau of "All Hallow's Eve" (Hallow E'en = Holy Evening).  Why is it Holy?  Well, because...  maybe a little more background is needed.

Originally, the Gaelic peoples celebrated the end of harvest at Samhein, which is halfway between the fall equinox and winter solstice (that is to say, the change between number of daylight and night time hours is greatest at this time of year).  Samhein, pronounced "s-ow-in", was supposed to be the day when the world of the spirits was closest to ours.  Often the dead would return home. Feasts would take place where they were beckoned, with places set at the table for them.  This is where mummers started (which continues into Yule/Christmas).  Mumming is, essentially, dressing up and acting out certain scenes in exchange for food.  That's right, Christmas caroling and trick-or-treating are two parts of the same practice.  They would often decorate gourds or dress up inanimate objects to scare away the evil spirits, which was sometimes symbolized by the mummers.

When the Christian church was trying to take hold in Western Europe, it decided that it needed to adopt certain major festivals as its own, or at least put religious festivals near the gaelic ones so that it would be easier for the people to convert.  To be a counterpart to Samhein, they created All Saint's Day on November 1st and All Soul's Day on November 2nd (both of which are still celebrated).  Now, back in that time, it was common practice for the day to begin when we would consider to be the night before (the eve).  This is why we HAVE Christmas Eve!  So, All Hallow's Eve is essentially the start of All Saint's Day.  The customs of the gaelic, however, were strong enough to leak into All Saint's Day's customs, so Halloween has held onto some of them.  The modern version of halloween is, however, fading.

Nowadays, most kids go to the mall or to "trunk-or-treat" in a sort of "gimme candy" mentality.  The spirit of going to neighbors to scare away the evil spirits in exchange for food (trick-or-treating) is mostly gone in some areas.  We *do* still carve pumpkins, which are tastier and larger than gourds (and more distinctly American).  And there are still parties, though bonfires aren't that common.  There has been a recent resurgence of Samhein in some areas.  I can only hope it spreads.

Competition

I've never been fond of competitions.  Deep down I think I suck and that I'm wasting my time and life and that all of this I've done is for nothing.  I think of the people who are more successful than me, who have several published books and may not necessarily have even taken any writing classes.  I think of my friends who have done more with their lives, or they have done what I want to do but better.  Perhaps I am worried that I am still the consolation prize winner.

This is not just about writing, but writing most certainly applies.  When I was in Tae-Kwon Do, I remember seeing other kids my age, or younger, get favored by Master Lee.  They got to tell the story of how they kept an egg with them and safe for a month in order to earn their black belts, while Master Lee just glossed over my brother and me.  The one time he asked me to demonstrate something, it was a kick I had never been shown nor had I heard of it.  He then let Danny (his 10-year-old star and lead of the Demo Team) do it in my place, again.  In school, I stopped going to the "award ceremony" at the end of the year because I knew none of the awards were for me.  I always have felt like I was a step behind my peers, while at the same time I was being told I was smarter than they were.

Even now, as an adult, I cannot help but feel behind.  No one is here to tell me I'm smarter or better than anyone else, and it's not about being told anything.  It's about results.  As a blogger, I have a small following and I lack the artistic skills necessary to make my blog truly successful (though, yes, I'm sure I could practice with my eons of free time).  My short stories are not often commented on or shared.  I still have not been published, and part of me is afraid to try.  I have come to terms with the fact that I simply do not have the time to become an accomplished guitarist and will have to make do with being a mediocre one.  I am trying to make friends, but most of the people I meet are academics and it is easy for me to imagine them looking down at me.  Those feelings you get when you're a kid don't really go away, they just hide until an inopportune time.

Now I'm taking part in this Dark Crystal contest and I am... nervous.  What makes me most nervous is the fact that I am really putting effort into this.  I'm working on characterization at the moment, and next I will flesh out the plot lines more deeply and make them interlink.  I've determined 5 separate themes that I feel should be maintained in order to truly be a Dark Crystal novel.  I've read 3 of the 6 supplementary books (I'm awaiting a 4th, and hope to find the 5th soon).  I'm taking part in the forums (my ID there is Skekspeare).  I've even looked at some of my competition.  In November, I am having the story critiqued by fellow writers.  I have put aside my own novel, as well as other interests of mine, to pursue this.  And, of course, there is absolutely 0 guarantee that I will be in the top 5, or even the top 500.  I am nervous now that someone else, who may not have put in this much effort, will be a better fit for them.  I'll even admit that I'm worried a friend of mine will win.  I know of at least 3 who are participating.

It is wrong of me to wish that my friends do not do well, to be jealous of their success.  My brain knows that, although my writing may be fantastic, it is not the only factor determining the victor.  They are looking for style, for someone to expand their world in a vision that excites them.  But my mind does not know this.  It has become Bitching Betty, screaming "Pull Up!" in my ear and telling me to eject.  I've always been led to avoid things that are hard and risky.  I remember when I first showed an interest in playing the guitar.  My mom told me that the music industry is difficult and there really isn't much money in it.  So, I didn't play again for 15 years.  I wish now that I had never stopped.  Since I'm putting a part of myself into this story, I am truly afraid that it is not worthy, that I am not worthy.

I suppose I should say that by not quitting, I am making myself worthy.  But when your head is in the game, it's hard to see past the game.  Only time will tell what I shall think of this experience.

Dark Crystal

Starting tomorrow, the Jim Henson Company will be accepting applications for the next Dark Crystal novelist.  You can read all about it on their website, linked above.  They will continue to accept applications until the end of December.

Now, I have to admit, I have not written anything down yet, but I have been researching.  The world of Thra (the name of the Planet that the stories take place on) has a history far beyond what we see in the movie.  For instance, Thra is never mentioned by name, the Mystics are actually known as the UrRu, and the creatures that the Skeksis and UrRu make up are known as the UrSkeks.  Each of the Skeksis and UrRu have a name and a job.  Aughra is more than simply an astrologer.

In order to write in the world of the Dark Crystal, or in any world, an author must have mastery of the world itself.  S/he needs to know everything - even if that knowledge is never used directly in the novel.  The knowledge in and of itself can lend subtle additions and change word use and diction.  The author will gain confidence that would not otherwise be there.  It may well be the difference between a great novel and an astounding one.

Towards this end, the Henson Company has filled the Dark Crystal website with information intended to fuel would-be authors with all they need.  And I will admit, it has certainly been a large help.  But I realized right away that some details, important ones, were missing.

One of the central characters in the history of Thra is Aughra's son, Raunip.  He is, of course, quite absent in the movie, and, as far as I know, this absence is never explained.  There are no examples on the website of how he speaks, which is something we we should be aware of considering that his mother does not follow the standard rules of grammar herself.  So, I decided to take it upon myself to purchase The Dark Crystal Creation Myths, vol 1.  This book has been truly eye-opening.  I am, however, realizing that I need to know more than this volume allows.  I have ordered the 2nd volume, but the 3rd is not yet available, which means there is a part of the history of Thra that the authors will not know.  There are other books as well, but I fear that I will not have the time or money to purchase them and read them before I must have a good portion of the 10,000 word minimum story completed.

Thankfully, I have gained a lot of confidence, and there are other sources to consider.  I have begun to form some plots in my mind, but forgive me if I do not indulge you with specifics.  This is, after all, a contest, and I will need every edge that I can find.  Wish me luck!

What I've been doing

Hello readers!

I have not abandoned you.

Well, I sorta did.  A little.  For just a month or so.  But now I'm unabandoning you...  for a week or so...  it's complicated.

In case you have been wondering what has been happening to me (and whether or not I have found myself in the proverbial ditch on the side of the road), the simple answer is I've become Busy.  This is not the "I'm so busy," whine that everyone has in order to complain about everyday life.  I was too busy for that.

My wife and I are moving 800 miles away.  She is our primary breadwinner, and she is graduating soon.  Very soon.  She has been offered a wonderful job - her dream job, really.  So, at the end of this month, we are packing everything up and moving into a new home.

Buying a home kinda sucks, but it is worth it in the end.  I love our new home, don't get me wrong.  But there are so many minutiae that you have to deal with... inspectors, mortgages, insurance, real estate agents, more insurance, sellers, changing addresses, credit, even more insurance, finding a new church, finding things to do with the kid(s), movers, figuring out the actual logistics of moving, handling moving out of your current home, shutting off/turning on all the utilities, saying goodbye to all your friends...  all that gets piled onto the fact that you still have responsibilities, goals, a family, jobs, and having to deal with the new job.  I still have to be a stay-at-home-dad AND finish writing my book, while my wife has to defend her PhD tomorrow morning. So, we have been understandable swamped.

On that news, yes, my wife defends tomorrow.  It is in some ways very nerve-wracking, but I am attempting to keep myself calm and available for her.  I now there is not much I can do that I'm not already doing.  I wish her the best of luck and am praying for a successful defense!

Also, last night I had a marathon writing session.  5 hours, 2,700 words.  I finished the rough draft of my novel!  And let me tell you, it feels GOOD!  I am already looking forward to the various edits.

For those of you who don't know, the next step is to go through the mandatory edits.  I will read it through again and edit things.  As I have been writing, I've kept careful notes of things I want to change, so those will also be implemented.  THAT will be the first draft.  From then on, I will be having other readers go through and edit it.  Once I am satisfied, I may try to find a professional editor.  Once the final edits have been made, I will learn how to put this novel up on the Nook, Apple Store, and Kindle.  And then you, dear readers, will hopefully buy it!

Before that however, I will be submitting an entry into a particular contest run by Jim Henson Studios.  They are looking for an author, and I would love to be that author.  Although my chances are slim, if I don't submit anything they are nil.

So where does all this leave you and this blog?  And my Friday Flash?  Well, I might be able to post again once or twice before the move.  I will try for a Friday Flash if possible.  Probably next week.  But after that, I am certain my hands will be full unpacking, taking care of Addy, finding things to do in the area, getting the internet turned on in our new home.... and then visiting England.  So this blog may be on a bit of a hiatus until, say, the end of the year at some point.  But I will return!  And I will keep writing!

Because a writer writes.

Writer's Digest et al

Back in May, I was collaborating with a good friend of mine. We decided to work together as writers in an attempt to spur each other on. This way, we would be responsible to someone else, held accountable for failing to submit or finish a manuscript. And it worked... for a while. Life has a way of getting in the way.

My previous job was very demanding, time-wise. It wanted us peons to spend most of our free time catching up. Even the fast writers were unable to adhere to the ridiculously strict schedule. Because of this, and the fact that I spent 10 hours a day writing, the last thing I wanted to do when I got home was write MORE. I realize now that writing is a BAD job for a writer, unless you are writing something you love and that you want to write. My friend, likewise, was spending most of his time working, and so we both fell out of the groove and lost touch a few months back. It is high-time we started collaborating again.

But I digress. One of the things I DID finish was a short story of mine. I submitted a version of this story to my school's literary magazine, and it was accepted. I was thrilled! A historical fiction-suspense-mystery-thriller short story was accepted with all the poems and life lesson shorts that seem to inundate the more "academic" mindset. My professors all loved the story, as did my peers. It wasn't until I joined a writing workshop that people were able to tear holes in it - which I was immensely grateful for! After all, the only way to make something better is to know where it's broken.

I fixed the story after doing an extensive amount of research into writing styles, current events, and locations of the time period. I daresay it was nigh-perfect, yet I would still improve upon it if I could. A writer never finishes, he just surrenders. I submitted the piece to a contest being held by Writer's Digest. I was told that my friend was able to get 9th place in the competition previously, and our quality if writing is comparable. I felt assured that I would at least make it into the top 100.

Yesterday, I finally discovered the results of this competition. After hundreds of hours on this 7-page story, I felt a little disappointed that it wasn't in the top 10... or 50... or 100. The story that won the grand prize was later disqualified for being previously published... twice. I read the thing, and though it was still well written, it had that same damnable "life lesson" feel that all of them seem to share now. It was not remarkable. But what does that say about my piece? Did it drown in a sea of submissions, or am I simply not as talented as I was led to believe?

I realize, however, that dwelling on this, brooding over it until it festers, is not going to help. It will just make me more cynical and less constructive. I have to keep writing. I will not be sending things out to contests for a while, as they usually cost money. I am unemployed, and finding work is proving to be an insurmountable obstacle in these tough times, especially in this area. I may be returning to school to pursue a degree in engineering. I am also soon to become a father. My wife and I are expecting our first child in March. In about 100 days, life as we know it will end, and a new one will take its place. A life of sleepless nights, diapers, crying, throw up, tantrums, penny-pinching, curiosity, discovery, and love. Through all this, I must still find the time to write. Perhaps it will provide further impetus or inspiration. And if I cannot return to school for whatever reason, I may well become a stay-at-home dad. Who knows, maybe I'll have a fatherhood blog coming.