We at the Writer’s Retreat wish you a safe and fun weekend. Happy reading!
A. Catherine Noon
This is an older one that I wrote that has two additional chapters. I’ve been thinking of adding to it, to round it out, but thought I’d share these because I like them. Enjoy!
Ok, here is something I cooked up for my first picture prompt. I really like it, but should give a content warning advisory.
Lucius Antonyhttp://luciusantony.blogspot.com/2010/01/flash-fiction-friday.html
Please enjoy a sample from the minds of our writers. Our lists are random and hopefully a fun read! Let us know what you think. And hang in there ’til Friday!
As I explore forums catering to professional and aspiring authors, my eyes are opening to the strong opinions people form on things such as character point of view. I never in my life have stopped to consider POV when picking out a book to read. Give me an interesting plot for escapism, some intriguing characters to care about, and I’m there.
Likewise as I write it’s mainly what the characters have to say that decides the format of my fiction. But hoping to get my work published means I should pay a little attention to what book buyers want. Right?
A pleasant part of that has been simply reading more contemporary fiction. Another way has been to sample from the countless experiences shared by considerate authors blazing the trail.
Not all has been delightful. For example, I have read that particular styles of writing are actually expected for certain genres. Allegedly, an aficionado scans the first paragraph counting on a certain formula.
I won’t even begin to list what genre follows which blueprint because, frankly, I find the notion disheartening. If that is the case and my offering doesn’t fit will my effort be passed over without a second glance?
It’s a sad thought. So tonight at my desk I’ll advance the plot and not worry about fitting into a mold.
Yet the discovery calls to mind a writing class recommended some months ago by a friend of a friend. Initially enthused, I sat and listened at some length to this stranger’s discourse. It seemed that this lady wrote steamy romance stories that were on the cusp of being published. If I did what she’d done, maybe that could be me!
Quickly I learned that she writes erotica not out of passion but because she thinks she can turn a fast buck. The seminar she touted like a sales pitch sounded as if the “professor” focused less on the craft than how to market material to publishers. And her almost religious fervor made me wonder if she’d get a commission by recruiting others to her cult. As you can imagine, I gave the course a skip.
I am happy to report finding more encouragement than disappointment. Granted, I have yet to officially introduce my works to the world of publishing. My focus remains on telling the story and doing rewrite after rewrite until the end product satisfies me. I’ll worry about the rest later.
So you tell me, gentle reader, what keeps you turning the page?
Chapter 16: You Know That Saying, ‘Don’t Poke the Bear’?
The chocolate cake tasted every bit as good as it looked. Rachel felt tempted to eat it all, even Viktor’s portion, but she still had some manners.
She fished her address book out of her purse, glad she’d put her client information in there and not just on the hard drive. Viktor still hadn’t re-installed it for her, but he said he’d be back. She decided to take him at his word.
After all, what was she supposed to do if he didn’t?
She dialed her phone and waited while it rang. Precisely on the third ring, it got picked up. “Carter Lawson.”
“Mr. Lawson, this is Rachel Carmichael. I have some news for you; is now a good time?”
“One moment.” He set the phone down and she heard footfalls, as though his desk sat on a wooden floor. The sounds returned and then he picked up again. “Yes?”
“Mr. Lawson, I can tell you for certain that your wife is not cheating on you with Peter Henkle.”
“You’re sure? But…” He paused. “Absolutely sure?”
She cleared her throat and decided she came this far, she might as well jump in with both feet. “Mr. Lawson, were you aware that Peter Henkle is gay?”
A much longer pause followed this time, though no footfalls. Then a creak, of what she assumed was a chair. “Could… could you say that again, please?”
“Peter Henkle is gay, Mr. Lawson. Your wife loves you, it’s clear to me from following her that she’s not having any kind of an affair.”
He exhaled what sounded like a shaky breath. “You don’t say.”
“Yes, Mr. Lawson.”
“I see. Well. You are worth every penny of your fee, Ms. Carmichael. Every penny. Would you prefer me to send the balance of your fee in the mail, or do you want to send a courier to pick it up?”
Her mind boggled at the idea of her, Rachel Carmichael, having a courier. “Mail is fine, Mr. Lawson.” She confirmed the address and hung up the phone.
She finished up the case file for Mr. Lawson and his wife and put everything away in her empty-looking file cabinets, annoyed all over again at the invasion of her personal space. Maybe she should get a dog. She could just imagine the look on Mr. Singh’s face when she tried to sneak a Rottweiler past him.
Her mobile phone gave a shrill chirp and she jumped. “Carmichael.”
“Raych?” Viktor’s voice sounded scratchy, like he didn’t have good cell reception. “Are you still at your office?”
“Yes. You told me to –”
“Get out of there! Now!”
“What? Viktor, what are you –”
“Just go! Get somewhere public and call me when you’re safe. Go! Go now!”
She stood up, heart pounding in her throat. “You’re not kidding, are you?” She scooped up her purse and her keys and hit the lights. “How bad is it?”
“Just go!” he barked, and the line went dead.
Jerk.
She slipped into the hall, her back crawling with the need to hide. She locked her door and started for the elevator. It ‘dinged,’ someone arriving at her floor, and her heart shot into her mouth.
Rachel dove into the stairwell, easing the door closed behind her, and waited. Footfalls approached and then went past, heading down the hall. She took off down the stairs, her purse clamped under her arm, and fished her keys out of her pocket to clench them in her hand so they didn’t rattle. She made it down four flights and could see the exit door for the ground level when she heard it.
The door on her landing opened.
She froze, one foot dangling in thin air, her hand clamped on the railing to her left. She opened her mouth as wide as possible so the sound of her panting wouldn’t be heard. No sound came for several more moments, and finally the door closed. She waited, suspicious, and then heard it. A soft scrabble, as of a jacket over jeans, and resisted the urge to crane her head over the edge to see if someone looked down at her from above.
The wait stretched, her heartbeat thudding so loud she felt sure the neighbors on the other side of the stairwell wall could hear it, not to mention whoever stood above. Finally, they moved, and the door opened and closed.
She blew out her breath and crept as quickly but quietly as possible to the ground floor door and peered out of the small peep-hole. Nothing moved.
She eased out into the night, wishing for once that the street lights had burnt out. Something to give her more shadows to hide in. She crouched down by the car parked in front of the door and then realized that if someone truly did follow her, they’d know where the stairwell let out. She could either unlock the door and go back up, or get out of there.
Trusting to Viktor, Rachel bolted for her car. She made it with no outcry. She unlocked the door and threw her purse onto the passenger seat with such force that it bounced off the opposite door and fell flat on the floor. She started the engine and pulled out of her space, no other lights moving.
Something drew her eye up, and she stared a moment. She counted the windows to be sure, and then swore.
Someone, equipped with a flashlight, snooped around her office.
She turned onto the main street and headed for Borders, out of habit, then changed her mind. She’d met Steve at Borders. A McDonalds stood in the middle of two wide parking lots, one for a strip mall and the other for a medical complex, so she pulled in and drove around back to park next to the dumpster.
‘Get somewhere public,’ Viktor had ordered. Was this public enough? Was it far away enough?
A sharp boom nearby made her jump and let out a squawk. The young man emptying the day’s trash looked at her quizzically before dumping it in the large container, then turned back inside.
She made up her mind and cut the engine. She’d just get a table in the back and a soda, and wait for Viktor. Should she text him? Call him? Wait?
She decided to wait, in case he needed to be quiet. She had a horrible flash of his mobile vibrating at the wrong moment and alerting some faceless assailant to his presence, and swallowed back sudden tears.
“Viktor, where are you?” she whispered.
An obviously homeless man two tables over eyed her when she spoke and then went back to talking to his tray. The minutes dragged by, slow, like poison.
We hope you look forward to a wonderful weekend. To start you off right, please click the links to read from our contributing authors. Thanks for reading and remember that feedback is greatly appreciated!
Every Thursday, the writers of the Writer’s Retreat participate in the Thursday 13 meme and this Thursday is no exception. Enjoy!
And a brand new TT-er, Matt Mason!
People frequently ask me, “How do you do all that?” when they find out the irons I have in the fire. While it is true that when I was younger, I would frequently bite off more than I could chew. But it is also true that I’ve learned a lot since then and, while some might disagree with me, no longer am as subject to that foible as I once was. So, how do I do all that?
There are two simple answers, that end up becoming complex in the telling. One is organizational and time management skills, which I was emphatically NOT born with (in case you feel, like I do, that busy people must be part magician). I went to lots of classes and read a lot of books, have tried a lot of things, and worked out what works for me. While I could write an entire essay on that subject (and, truthfully, probably a whole book or five), because I have many ideas and opinions on it, the subject I wish to discuss today concerns the second answer: I have help.
We will now pause for those of you who wish to twit me on the fact that yes, I do need professional help.
Moving on now. What I mean by help is, simply put, playmates. I don’t mean professional or paid help (which I do also, in select areas, utilize – but I am not wealthy, so cannot use as much outside paid assistance as I might, in my more grandiose moments, wish). I mean I find people with similar interests, and we schedule time together to do things.
Yes, it really is that simple.
So, what kinds of things do I work with others on?
Pretty much anything, including housecleaning and bill paying. You know the Apple ad, “there’s an app for that?” Same thing here. If you have an interest, chances are high that there are others out there with the same interest. Now, I’m very fortunate to live in the third largest city in the United States, so that gives me about nine million potential buddies. But we also have this thing called the internet (or, for you LOL users out there, the interwebs). Don’t overlook the power of groups on the internet. I’m here to tell you that it can be a very comforting thing that another human being out there knows your trials and tribulations, even if they’re four thousand miles away.
We have a candle making party every year, for example. It’s always the first weekend in February, and is either one or both days. This year, we’ll do two days. Paraffin candles the first, beeswax the second. We make pretty much all the candles we’ll use in the coming year during that weekend.
What’s fascinating is this: we (the friend of mine who hosts these with me) always hope to do more than one candle weekend. But when you add in the time for prep (putting down cardboard on the floor to catch drips, wrapping the stove and counters with foil, melting the pots…) it’s a huge job. We’ve only done it one year out of the last ten. But we have done candle parties TEN years out of the past ten. Because we know people are coming, and now people know we do these and about when we do them so they ask for it, it adds power to the calendar, and ensures that we get at least one candle day a year. And now, at a remove of doing them for a decade, I actually have learned quite a lot about the process – without even taking a class!
Now, don’t underestimate the power of classes, either – because they have the same function. The only reason I’m focusing on groups here, as in “groups of friends or acquaintances with similar interests” is that frequently, the latter do not charge whereas the former do. On the other hand, classes for which one pays might induce one to be more serious about going. It’s up to the individual.
What else have we done in a group?
Spiritual exploration, political discussion, parties (I’m a pot luck expert by now), hiking, walking, weight loss, sales training, lead generation for sales, house cleaning and organization, knitting and sewing (any of the handicrafts), paper arts, Pysanky (Ukranian decorated eggs), bread making, soup making, car maintenance (no kidding – changed my oil with a buddy back in the days before complex catalytic converters and computer tune-ups)…
Even if you’re an introvert, don’t underestimate the power of people. We all have interests and skills, and others do too. It makes sense to leverage those skills. Maybe I’m great at organization and you’re great at web design. So, I’ll organize your office and files, and you design my website. Or, better yet, we teach each other our skills – synergy at its truest distillation.
Now, what the heck does this have to do with writing?
Well, think about it. This is a group blog.
(The light bulb should be going off right about now.)
~grin~
See? Even writing can be done in group – either an in-person one, or a “virtual” one. Schedule write-ins, prompt groups, contests, anything your little heart desires.
There’s a group for that.
My other half frequently praises that I am quite clever. This is an unusual case-in-point with which I had to agree. It involved canned quail eggs.
We have a wonderful international grocery store not far from our house. You can stroll and shop for hours. Often we spend hundreds of dollars only to return home with many exotic items we have no clue how to properly prepare and serve. My coveted quail eggs were a perfect example. I thought the little bites would be good on salads. Wrong. Straight out of the can they tasted overwhelmingly metallic. That’s not something I usually notice but this was nearly intolerable.
My only prior experience with the tiny eggs had been raw over flying fish roe in sushi restaurants. It’s quite delicious. Likewise, I’m sure the people who normally buy these petite gems boiled and packed in light brine know exactly what to do. No doubt the target shopper renders them into an extremely tasty treat.
What might the experienced aficionado add? Fish sauce, perhaps? Maybe the perfect infusion of Asian vegetables? Add rice for a great meal. But I’ve got good rice and no amount of tasty vegetables was going to save these. Perhaps some unfamiliar balance of spices would be key. Perhaps I should go to cooking school.
I don’t know. But, however bad tasting, this was food. And I’m notorious for hating to waste food. When it’s an animal product I’m especially radical. While I may never become totally vegetarian, I have standards.
In this situation, the solution was presented by my husband’s decision to pickle some regular store-bought chicken eggs. I figured that sounded pretty good, though he usually can’t leave them alone long enough for me. The eggs are gone before they reach that really dark and deliciously burgundy stage I crave. You know? When the combined sugars and vinegar soak all the way to the yolk, I’m there. Yum.
Then it occurred to me. Why not pickle the little quail eggs? So I got a tiny container and made the cutest pickled egg mix I’ve ever seen. And they tasted great! I’m tickled pink, no…
Beet red. Heh… Sorry.
It’s that time again. We hope you had a safe holiday and can kick back to enjoy a little fiction.
Well, it’s the final Thursday of the year. I’ll kick us off with something silly and rely on my wonderful fellow writers for anything weighty or meaningful. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy!