AAAAAAh Vacation

AAAAAAh Vacation

By Farrell Fand

“This is going to be the best vacation ever,” I said to Anna, my wife.

“Maybe, but do we have to use the pop-up camper?” she whined. “Driving all the way from New Jersey to Quebec with that thing behind us doesn’t seem like a good idea. Can the car do that kind of trip? It’s 525 miles, remember.”

“I had the car checked, and it’s fine to go. I’ve planned everything. I know you don’t like using the camper, but I promise we’ll only stay in campgrounds that have immaculate bathroom facilities. That’s important to you. We can’t afford to use motels, and we have a camper. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

“Mom, we can play ‘Car Bingo’ and ‘I Spy’ while we ride,” 9-year-old daughter, Beth, encouraged.

“Can I eat cookies in the car?” our seven-year-old son, Pete, asked

“Maybe,” she responded and we left Maplewood, off for an adventure.

“Oh, Canada,” I started singing when we pulled out of the driveway.

“Dad!  Stop!” Beth and Pete shouted at almost the same time.

“Stop yelling, you two. I want this to be a peaceful vacation,” warned Anna.

“And fun,” I added.

As usual, the best-laid plans of Farrell Fand ofttimes go astray, and they did regarding timing. I planned the first stop for five in the afternoon, but five became eight. We had to stop along the road and eat some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner. Then, I drove the rest of the way to our first campground.

“Bonjour,” the Canadian gatehouse attendant said.

“Bonjour,” I replied. “We’re the Fands. We have a reservation for a campsite. I’d like to get there right away. We’re exhausted from traveling. Which one is ours?”

“Bienvenue dans notre camping,” he replied.

Oops. He didn’t speak English and we didn’t speak French. Instead of talking, the Quebecer led us to our campsite, waving his arms to indicate “Follow me.”

Once we were parked, I chased him down the road yelling the only phrase I knew in French. “Ou est la toilette? Ou est la toilette?” (Where is the toilet?)

I must have said it right, because he pointed to a building just down the lane. Like the whole campground, it had decorative lights strung along its rooftop and looked festive. Hopefully, it would pass Anna’s inspection.

When we got to the door, we were a bit confused. “Dad, is this the door for the ladies’ room?  Then where’s the men’s room?” Beth asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s check with someone.”

Eventually, a man walked toward the door. “Do you speak English?” I tried.

“Oui, I do.”

“Where are the bathrooms? There’s only one door.”

“Oh no, there is only one. It’s for men and women.”

“Let’s get out of here, right now. I’m not using a coed bathroom. Not a chance,” Anna said to me.

“Look, it’s only one night, and I’m too tired to drive. We don’t even know where there is another campground. Can’t you try to deal with it?” I pleaded.

“Ok, but I don’t like this at all.”

Everyone survived. The next day, the trip to Quebec was relatively short, and we found our next campground easily. People there spoke both French and English. Amen, I thought. The bathrooms were sex-separate, and clean, hallelujah. That first campground was just a minor glitch on what would be a vacation our family would remember with fondness.

Quebec was a delightful place to visit. In addition to the buildings and ambiance, there were street vendors, artists who would sketch one’s portrait, and music. French was fine when it was backed up with English. We were surprised to meet someone from home in the quaint historic area of the city. An elegant dinner at a fancy French restaurant capped off the evening. Wow, what a great vacation! I thought.

That night, we returned to the campground and used the separate bathrooms. All was well. The beds in the camper were comfortable, and we drifted off to a good night’s sleep.

“What was that? It sounded like a huge crash,” Pete whispered to me.

“I heard it too. Don’t wake Mom and Beth,” I cautioned.

I needn’t have worried. A clap of thunder woke our family and probably all the sleepers in the campground, as well. Big, jagged lightning lit up the sky.

“What’s happening?” Beth was up.

“Just a little storm,” I told her. “Nothing to worry about. It’ll stop soon.”

Anna was awake too. “Are you sure about that? There’s a car driving around the campground. It has a yellow light blazing on top, and it’s going back and forth, past all the sites. That can’t be a good omen.”

She was right. The aerial bombs got louder. Lightning bolts hit the ground near us. We’re sitting ducks, I worried.

“Let’s stay close together for a while,” Anna suggested. We sat on one of the beds, and hugged each other, Anna whimpering, and all of us shaking. It took several hours for the storm to let up, but everyone finally did get back to sleep.

The next morning, we cut this leg of the vacation short and headed for the next stop, Niagara Falls. It’ll be clear sailing from here on, I thought. This will be fun.

The falls were amazing and for a fee, we could walk behind the torrents of water. “Let’s do it,” I said.

The kids were eager, Anna, not so much! “I don’t know about this,” she said. “It could be dangerous.” Our youngsters pleaded until she agreed, “Oh all right. But we have to be careful!”

An elevator took us deep underground. The doors opened into a kind of dressing room. People were putting on black raincoats and boots, so they wouldn’t be soaked when we walked behind the waterfall. I pointed, “Let’s put some on.”

Anna stayed near the elevator, not moving. “Come on. This’ll be fun,” I coaxed her.

“I can’t do it. I’m terrified. There’s no way I can stay down here. I’m going back. Just go without me,” and she hurried into the up elevator.

The kids and I walked behind the falls and had an amazing experience. When we were back on top, Anna reported to us, “I had to fill out a form, telling why I couldn’t stay down there. I didn’t know how to explain it, so I wrote ‘fear of black raincoats.’ They said they’d never heard that reason before.”

A day at Niagara was sufficient; I closed the camper and started driving home. This would be an easy, drive, and we’d be back in just a few hours.

You know how you don’t look at the dashboard of your car too often while you’re driving?  The road and noisy kids in the backseat take all your attention.  Once we were on our way, I glanced at the dials, just to check our speed, and noticed the temperature gauge screaming at me, not literally, but there were blinking red lights. The car was overheating.

“We have a little problem,” I explained to Anna. “It looks like the car is too hot. I have to pull over to the side of the road. It’s dangerous to drive the car right now.”

“Dangerous? Stop. Stop!” she said.

“Kids, we’re pulling over to the side of the road. There’s a problem with the car. Why don’t you and Mom wait on that little hill over there, while I open the hood and see what’s going on? This probably isn’t a big problem.” But it was. Steam was coming out of the radiator. I knew that if I waited a while, it would cool down and I could drive to get help.

A good Samaritan saw us and pulled over. “Hey buddy. Looks like you’ve got a problem. Do you need any help?”

“No,” I answered. “The car’s just overheated. I’m going to let it cool down and drive to a gas station to get it fixed. Thanks for stopping. I appreciate your help.”

“OK. Good luck,” he said. Then he got into his car, put it in gear, and backed into the front of our Dodge Dart by mistake.

He started to get out of his car. “Just go. My car’s ok. Thanks for stopping. Go,” I said, and he did.

Now, Anna was wailing, and Beth and Peter were weeping. The car did cool off, and I drove slowly to the next exit, Batavia, New York. The radiator overheated again, but there was a gas station in sight. Hallelujah, I thought. They’ll fix the car, and we’ll just go home.

“Man, your radiator is shot. You need a new one.” That was the mechanic.

“Can you do it today?” I asked.

“Well, today’s Saturday. Nothing’s open. I can’t order a new one until Monday, but I can get it for you as soon as possible. Maybe Tuesday.”

“What about our camper? Can leave it here?” I asked.

“Hell no. We don’t have room for it. You know what? There’s a great campground a few miles down the road. People love it. I can tow your camper tomorrow and you can stay there until your car is fixed. A motel is just down the road, where you can sleep tonight. I’ll take you there.”

“That would be fine. A night in a motel sounds great,” I said. “Can we go soon?”

Twenty minutes later, we were at the Batavia Motor Inn. This will be restful. We can take showers and get a decent night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be an unplanned extra vacation. This’ll work out fine, I thought.

The hotel room was neat, although it looked a bit “worked.” A queen bed and two singles: perfect. It was clean: excellent. The manager said there was a restaurant just a block away: fantastic.

“Dad, what should I do?” Beth said, when she came out of the bathroom. “The toilet overflowed. I just flushed it, and a lot of water poured out all over the floor.”

The manager was apologetic and came with a bucket and a plunger. “We’ll go out to eat, while you take care of this,” I told her.

“C’mon kids, let’s walk to the restaurant. You can get anything on the menu, regardless of the price. This is going to be a special meal. We’ve earned it today.”

The four of us dragged ourselves out of the motel and started walking to the restaurant. We could see it from the motel. “Hey kids, walk a little faster. I’m starving,” I said.

“Daddy, my foot hurts,” that was Peter.

“You’ll be fine once we get to the restaurant and sit down. You’ll see.”

“Dad, his foot’s bleeding,” Beth said.

Pete wasn’t wearing shoes! And his foot was bleeding! I picked him up and Anna plucked a small piece of glass out of the heel of his foot. “We need disinfectant and bandages,” she moaned.  “They’re in the camper, and our camper,” she said, “is at the garage!”

We turned around and headed to the motel. The manager helped us clean the cut and dress it. Back we trudged to the restaurant. “Everyone have shoes on?” I begged. This time, we made it there and had some food.

Sunday morning, the mechanic towed our camper to “Darien Lake Camp Park.” We signed in and maneuvered the trailer into the site without incident. “This will be great. Staying here for a few days will be a fun detour,” I encouraged everyone. “There’s even a lake for swimming, maybe boating. Who knows?”

Once the camper was set up, we walked around the campground. Everything was soggy from the last few days of rain. There was mud everywhere; even our campsite was flooded, but the sun was out. “Let’s see about going to the lake. That’ll be fun,” I said.

“Oh, sure. Darian Lake is about ten miles down this road.” That was the office manager. Wait a minute. Ten miles? Our car’s at the gas station. “Can you give us a ride,” I asked.

“No way. I’m done for the day. Use your car.”

Right, our car is at the gas station, I thought.

“O.K. So, we don’t swim today. Let’s play volleyball. They have volleyball courts here, I think.”

“Dad, I looked at them. They’re just big mud holes with nets. We can’t use them,” Pete said. “There’s nothing to do here. I’m bored.”

“There’s a big problem,” Anna cautioned me. “The bathrooms aren’t just dirty, they’re unusable. They’re flush toilets and they’re full and filthy.” Anna is the connoisseur of toilets in our family. We’d left campgrounds because the bathrooms didn’t meet her approval.

“Maybe it’s just this one,” I offered. “Let’s check out the others. There are about ten of them here.”

We found one that was barely usable. The showers were no better. To get water, a quarter had to be inserted into the slot. While Anna was shampooing, we learned that twenty-five cents paid for just seven minutes of cold water. “Help! I can’t see and I don’t have any quarters,” she cried.

The kids and I scraped together a few quarters and she finished her shower. Quarters. We didn’t have any more and had three showers to go. “Beth, why don’t you go to the office and change these bills to quarters?” I asked.

Ten minutes later, she came back and said, “The office is closed. It’s Saturday and they close early. The sign said, ‘Back Monday,” so, no showers until then.“

Monday morning, the office reported. “The gas station called. They wanted to know if you would like to leave today. Your car is ready.” Yeeeeees!

We got out of there as fast as possible. The new radiator had solved our problem and the trip home would be safe. I drove, feeling relieved. Anna rode in stress mode, watching the temperature dial. “It’s getting hot! It’s getting hot! Stop the car.”

It was hot, but not overheated. I slowed down, and the temperature remained hot, but not in the danger zone. Instead of driving 70 miles per hour, I drove 40, so the trip took twice as long, but finally, “We’re home,” I said as I pulled into our driveway.

“You know, I’m thinking that next year, we could drive to the Grand Canyon.”

The car shook. The whole neighborhood heard the screaming.

“No. Never Again!”

 

 

 

 

Sneak Peek – 70+ Book Marketing Ideas

created by Jan Alexander from pixabay 

Welcome to a sneak peek into the members-only pages. Normally, this is only accessible by members of SeaQuill Writers from the Tips and Insights page, where you’ll find informative articles we’ve found or written that benefit us as authors and writers. We found this one on Reedsy, another member site not affiliated with SeaQuill Writers. Join us to see more like it. 

70+ Book Marketing Ideas to Rocket-Boost Your Sales

No matter what kind of book they’re writing, every self-publishing author will eventually arrive at the same question: what’s the best way to market it?The good news is that tons of other indie authors have grappled with this question already — and that by following in their footsteps, you can create a book marketing plan that will have your book flying off the shelves.

In this post, we offer up 70+ book marketing ideas to help you out. It also features a free book marketing checklist you can print out and use to track your progress! And if you’re craving even more info straight from the pen of an expert, check out our free book marketing guide How to Market a Book: Overperform in a Crowded Market, written by our very own Ricardo Fayet.

But this post is getting ahead of itself. For those first dipping a toe into the marketing waters, we’ll begin with the essentials.

 

How To Upload Your Book to KDP 2022

Step-by-Step Guide

     Congratulations! Your manuscript is FINISHED! You’ve written your book, edited it, copyrighted it, formatted it, and now you’re ready to upload it and publish your book.

     As a new author, or one who has made the decision to independently publish for the first time, the final step can be daunting. Are you ready to tear down that last bastion between your created baby and the world?

     YES! With your heart in your throat and your stomach in knots, it is time to throw open the doors and show the world your masterpiece.

     This simple step-by-step guide should make that transition easier for you. The Book Designer tells you how, shows you how, and adds links to all the resources you need to start on the road toward that best seller’s list.

     And as for you seasoned, published authors, this is the new KDP, and you’ll benefit from this refresher course before you upload your next great book.

     ***The author of the article suggests getting your ISBN numbers from Bowker. Check out SeaQuill Press in the Members’ pages for a less costly alternative. 

 

 

 

How to Upload Your Book to KDP, Easily and Correctly [Text Instruction + Screenshots]

by | May 24, 2022

I recently published my 21st book to the KDP platform, having been self-publishing for the last 7 years. And as I was going through the self-publishing steps again, it occurred to me how the platform has evolved over the past decade. This text-based, step-by-step tutorial is your most current and up-to-date process to upload your book to KDP.

Publishing a book can be overwhelming – especially if you want to make sure you’re doing it right and to prevent any confusion throughout the process on how to publish a book. Let’s take a look at the process and what is required to become a bestselling self-published author.

 

Tips on Writing Blurbs

Tips on Writing Blurbs

WRITING BOOK BLURBS

The first thing a reader looks at when shopping for books is the cover, but the blurb on the back, or in the description online, is how they decide to read your book. That blurb will be used in online advertising, blog tours, newsletters, and anywhere the author advertises. Writing a good one is vital!

  

How do you boil your book down to a few very short paragraphs? Prolific author D.L. Finn has some pointers you need to read!

Story Empire

 

 

 

Hi SEers! Denise here to talk about writing a book blurb. I’m in the final stages of editing my current book, and my thoughts are turning to create the dreaded blurb. It can almost be harder to write than the book.

 

Talking Turkey

Talking Turkey

By L. Stevens

In a remote, cold country field in the Florida Panhandle, the feathered pastor addressed his wild turkey flock. “In this, the first week of November, we offer our heartfelt prayers for our domesticated cousins, for this is the time of their annual tribulation. Let us bow our beaks and pray, ‘Oh, Heavenly Fowl, we implore thee that the sacrifice of these innocents may, on Thanksgiving Day, heighten the spirit of humble gratitude across this land. Amen’.”

As the service ended, a young poult approached his grandfather. “Poppy, what cousins was the pastor talking about?”

 “He spoke of the many descendants of Tom and Henrietta, the first wild turkeys taken into captivity and domesticated, more than 2,000 years ago.”

 “What’s that mean, domesticated?”

  “Well, son, the humans put them in confinement, and fed them large amounts of grain so they’d be fat, and have sweeter tasting meat. That’s why they’re twice our size. I hate to speak ill of our overweight relatives, but my goodness, they’re enormous.” The old bird knew the curious youngster would learn the facts eventually. Better from him than his friends.


“What’s the deal with people eating turkey on Thanksgiving, Poppy?”

 “An unfortunate misunderstanding of history, I’m afraid. The first Thanksgiving was when the Pilgrims, early American settlers, gave thanks to their God for the blessings of their first harvest. Friendly Indians brought deer and there was duck and pheasant for the dinner, but no turkey that day. It’s not clear what inspired the eating of turkeys to give thanks; it certainly caught on in a big way.”

“My friend says the Pilgrims were dumb. Their pants were always falling down, because they wore their belt buckles on their hats.”

 “Hah! That’s an old joke.” Poppy went on, “Now, we wild turkeys are blessed. Humans aren’t fond of our gamey meat. Oh, they like to shoot their guns at us, but on the whole they’re poor shots, and not half as smart as we are in the woods. You’ll hear more on this at training camp before the hunting season starts in March. But you asked about Thanksgiving.”

 He continued the lesson. “It was a disaster for the descendants of Tom and Henrietta, who are now the main course of most Thanksgiving dinners. On that day, humans stuff themselves with food to the bursting point, then fall asleep afterwards. Before their holiday season is over, many of them will amass a good deal of body weight, I suppose in the manner of our fattened cousins.”

“How do you know all this stuff, Poppy?” the youngster asked.

 “I’m the flock’s historian, I suppose. We wild turkeys have quite a history. When they formed the United States, a man named Ben Franklin proposed our species as the national bird. We lost out to the bald eagle, that thieving, carrion-eating degenerate.”

“Yeah, my teacher says the bald eagle is too lazy to fish for himself, he’d rather steal what other birds catch. We got cheated.”

 “Well, it’s uncertain Franklin’s proposal was serious. Some say he suggested it to annoy Thomas Jefferson, who wouldn’t eat turkey–it upset his stomach and made him break out in a rash.”

 “That wasn’t fair, Poppy.”

 “It seems one did not trifle with Jefferson, though some believe Franklin started calling male turkeys ‘Tom’ to rankle him, and it probably did. You see, George Washington, the first president, declared Thanksgiving a national observance, and John Adams continued the tradition. When it was Jefferson’s turn, though, he canceled the holiday. His excuse was, an official day to give thanks to the Creator violated the separation of church and state. But people figured it was because he couldn’t tolerate turkey meat.”

“I’ll bet that made our cousins happy,” the poult exclaimed.

 “I suppose—for eight years, anyway.” The wise old bird sighed. “It’s sad, for that’s when they missed their golden opportunity to give up their lazy domesticated lives and join us in the wild.”

 The old bird gobbled and commenced to deliver what to older members of the flock was a familiar rant: “They could have exercised, braved the elements, gotten lean and mean, and above all, become tough and gamey. They could have worked like we do to find nourishment, instead of sitting around gorging themselves on free food. But I suppose they were too far gone. They liked the soft life. It doesn’t pay to get soft, youngster.”

 “When I grow up, I want to be tough and gamey, Poppy.”

“You shall, my lad. For that I give thanks.”

 

 

The Planet Exchange

The Planet Exchange

By L. Stevens

I enjoy writing, and participate in a fiction writers’ group that sends out monthly “prompts”, (suggested topics), challenging the members to compose short pieces accordingly.

Here’s a recent example; it left me without a clue.

8/02/21 This month’s prompt:

The Dog Days of summer are named for the rise of Sirius in the night sky this time of year (known as the “Dog Star” by the ancients). Write a story in which the night sky, and stars you can see in it, figure prominently. This can be science fiction, but does not need to be. Make your story 500-600 words long.

I know nothing about the stars, except they’re nice to look at. Beyond that, how was I to write a story with not less than 500 words about the stars I see in the sky on a cloudless summer night? Even with unforgivable repetition, it was a stretch.

My best effort started out like this:

It was a warm summer night in North Florida when my wife called me to our outside patio, where she exclaimed, “There’s not a cloud in the sky. Would you look at the stars out tonight!”

“Amazing,” I agreed. Judy was right. That day, at the Planetarium, she’d learned how the “Dog Days of Summer” got their name in ancient times, from the rise of Sirius (the Dog Star) in the night sky this time of year.

With the moon and the stars all lit up, even our property was illuminated. A person could walk around on the street and see where he was going. That’s what I decided to do. “I’m going to take Spot for a walk,” I said.

“But you took him already, before dinner,” my wife reminded me.

“Yeah, but the stars weren’t out then. Don’t forget, it’s his “Dog Days”, too. And besides, he’s already done his business…I won’t need to bring a poo-poo bag.”

My story had gone from the Dog Days to dog crap. My heart wasn’t in it. I had to stop there, to toss in the towel. Maybe, next time, the ‘prompt’ would give me something to work with.  

Then, I met with my friend Chuck, and everything changed. What follows is my submission to the group.

*  *  *

8/14/21

“So, it’s over, you and Ginger?” From our recent phone conversation, I’d been aware things were rocky between my buddy Chuck and his fiancée. He was down; I’d stopped by his apartment to check on him.

“She accused me of putting off tying the knot, taking her youth, no commitment, yada, yada. Same old story for the last ten years, like a broken record.”

I blinked. “You’ve been together that long…”

“And she’s hocking the diamond, not giving it back. She handed me this instead— heartless.” He reached for a framed certificate and passed it to me.

“Global Star Registry. Ah, so you got a star named after the two of you. Heavenly Ginger-Chuck. Neat.”

“For our fifth anniversary.” Chuck shook his head.

“Of your engagement, you’re saying.”

“Yeah.” He groaned. “What am I supposed to do with this thing? It’s an embarrassment. Now, there’s a Ginger-Chuck floating around out there. Forever, for God’s sake! You sure can’t pull it out of the sky, can you?”

“Not really,” I agreed with a sigh. Heavenly Ginger-Chuck…

*  *  *

I’m a problem solver, and a serial entrepreneur. Thinking out of the box is my forte. So, I researched the Global Star Registry.

The company began the sale of naming rights to stars some fifty years ago. In a news article I found, the firm claims to have named and sold one million of them since. “Ours is a seasonal business,” explained Morris “Mo” Lester, it’s founder. “Strong at Christmas, but even more around Valentine’s Day. And the month of June, as bridal gifts.” With that, I realized how countless other parted lovers shared Chuck’s predicament.

Each year, on average, 20,000 new astronomical dedications inhabit the firmament. Often, in honor of couples, as a sign their love is eternal. Until it isn’t.

Because about half of all marriages end in divorce, engagements like Chuck and Ginger’s die, and thus, the heavens fill with sad, painful memories. There could be 100,000 or more stars fitting such description in the skies. Neither the couples nor the galaxy are any the better for it.

My stroke of genius came by way of a radio commercial. “We will get you out of your time-share, or you owe nothing.” That’s it! People like Chuck need a recycling service for the stars that bear their names, forever stigmatizing their dashed hopes and broken hearts.

For a small fee, my new company will assume responsibility for such humiliations, and extend re-naming rights to the public at ‘used star’ prices. Planet Exchange, “the place where stars are re-born”, will assist humanity and the planet in brightening the atmosphere of outer space. Shark Tank, here I come.  

*  *  *

Chuck was my new company’s first customer, and though my hopes for Shark Tank hadn’t come through, soon Craig’s List had produced a steady flow of business, from all over the country. The healing of the heavens had begun.

Then, six months later, I confronted the Achille’s Heel of the business model, the thing I should have anticipated. Chuck got a marriage license and went with Ginger to City Hall, where a municipal judge pronounced them man and wife. Then it was off to the Bahamas for their honeymoon.

“What am I supposed to tell Ginger?” Chuck pleaded, when they got back to town.

“Your Heavenly Ginger-Chuck was my first transaction,” I explained to my disheartened friend. “It’s now named after an Ocala boy’s dog that got hit by a car—Patches in the Sky. There’s no way I’m going to that little boy…”

Tears welled-up in Chuck’s eyes. “What did I do, Arthur?” he cried out. “I’m an idiot. I should never have been in such a hurry.”

“We can handle this,” I assured my friend. “I have plenty of inventory, and I’ll do a new Heavenly Ginger-Chuck. As a wedding gift.” Chuck looked doubtful.

I added, “Probably best we don’t let Ginger know there’s a new edition.” Then inspiration struck again. “And someday, if the two of you get a dog, you might want to name it “Patches”. See how it all fits together?

 

Award Profiteers – Who They Are and Why Avoid Them

Award Profiteers – Who They Are and Why Avoid Them

AWARD WINNING AUTHOR. What a prestigious title, and one any author would be proud to own. The excitement when one or more of your books has won an award, the recognition for pouring your heart and soul into your work, and the marketing boost it affords make it a goal worth pursuing; such as an award from the Florida Writers Association. Congratulations to our own RPLA Award winners!

And yet, as in everything in today’s society, we authors must be aware that unsavory characters exist who are out to take your money with little or no return, such as less-than-prestigious awards. 

AWARD PROFITEERS. What are they and how can you avoid them? I found this informative article by A.J.Alexander, who has done her research and shares it with us:

Warning Of ‘Award Profiteers’

The past few weeks, I got emails from ‘MainCrest Media,’ telling me that they have the greatest respect for my talent and summoning me to participate in their ‘Awards Program.’ They promise recognition and increase of sales. Their website is quite well designed, a professional invitation to step right into that well-created trap.

The moment I saw their submission fee of $99/per entry, reduced from $149, I got goosebumps, and I knew something didn’t seem right. I started my search about their practice and found several websites and articles warning from so-called ‘Award Profiteers.’

 

Ladder

Ladder

By Farrell Fand 

“Joe, all you have to do is climb up the ladder, reach up, turn the knob, and come back down. It’s not so hard. Actually, I would do it myself, but then who would hold the ladder? You’re not strong enough to hold it for me, so I’ll hold it while you go up.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Frank. This ladder is 12 feet long. If I go up there, there isn’t anything except the ladder to hold onto. And you’re asking me to hold this four pound wrench in my hand while l climb up, so that I can turn the knob once I get there. Are you sure you can’t do this yourself?”

“I’m telling you, I’d do it myself but I would need someone to hold the ladder for me and you’re too light to do that. There isn’t anyone else around today, so you’re the only one I can ask.”

“O.K. I’ll go up there, but you’d better hold that ladder tightly. I’m not exactly afraid of heights, but I do get nervous when I’m up high, and I’ll need to know that you’re down there holding it firmly, so that it can’t move. One shift and I could fall. I can’t imagine what that would be like, but it wouldn’t be good. A drop from twelve feet onto the ground would kill me, I’ll bet.”

“Look, Joe, stop talking about falling. What’s the likelihood of that? I’ll be here the whole time and I’ll be holding this ladder the way I would want you to hold it for me. Now, why don’t you start climbing up? It won’t be so hard and we have to get that knob turned off before the electricity shorts out.”

“What? Electricity? What does that knob control? Are you telling me that I’m going up twelve feet and turning a knob with a wrench and what I’m turning has electricity running through it? What if I get electrocuted? I’m not sure I want to do this.”

“Well, it is a kind of electrical switch, but it’s perfectly safe and you’ll be grounded through the ladder, which will work because it’s on the ground. Believe me, there’s no danger of getting electrocuted by turning that knob. You’ll be safe. I’m telling you, I’d do it myself, but no one is here to hold the ladder for me. I’d be up and down in about two minutes, and that’s all it’ll take you. Just go up there, turn the knob with the wrench, and climb back down. Nothing to it.

“Oh, and when you’re up there just don’t touch the edge of the roof. It’s a metal edging that keeps the water from getting between the layers of roofing and you don’t want to touch that. You know metal and electricity don’t go well together. So, be sure not to hold onto the roof, once you’re up there, turning that knob.”

“Look, Frank, this sounds more and more dangerous. Are you telling me it’s really safe? I don’t plan to risk my life just to turn some stupid knob. I mean, that’s really way up there and I’m not so wild about heights, and even less crazy about playing around with electricity, especially when I’m so far off the ground. I’m not sure I want to do this.”

“Listen I’ll give you $25.00 if you do it for me. I know you’re my friend and really don’t want any money from me, but it’s worth it to me to get that knob turned and it would just be a friendly gesture from me to you. What do you say?”

“Oh, all right. I’ll do it. We have been friends for a long time and I guess I owe you a favor, after that accident we had. I still feel it wasn’t my fault that I totaled your car that night. I mean, you were there too and we hadn’t had too much to drink, not too much. I was just going to drive a couple of blocks. How was I to know that someone was going to go through the yellow light? I did step on the brake, but I couldn’t stop in time. I still feel horrible about how badly Linda was hurt, but she’s doing better now, right? I guess I do owe you something.

“I mean, I would have paid for your car, except you know I’ve been out of work for more than a year and don’t have any money. I would have thought that your insurance company would pay for it and for Linda’s rehab, even though I was driving. It was the drinking that messed up that insurance claim, not my fault. And Linda walks just fine now, when she’s wearing those braces on her legs.

“Frank, I’ going up there right now. Be sure to hold this ladder tightly. I don’t want it shaking, because I’m really a bit shaky myself, going up twelve feet to that roof.”

“Great. Now Joe, one foot at a time. Be careful. Up you go. Good, keep going. You’re halfway there. You’ll be there soon. O.K. now you’re at the top. Take the wrench and turn that knob.

Oh, and Joe I don’t forgive you for what you did to Linda; never did. Look down here for a second. I’m turning on this electrical switch. Can you see this wire attached to the ladder? You’re finally getting what you deserve.”

The Castaways

The Castaways

By L. Stevens

My partner paces back and forth, clearly unsettled, recounting the latest conversation with Ben. “He said, ‘Something happened. Like the wind changing directions, she wasn’t who she appeared to be.’ His exact words.”

I shake my head. “Ben certainly has a way with words. ‘Like the wind changing directions.’ That’s poetic.”

Zenar glared. “This is serious. I’ve noticed something too. The surgery was less than perfect. We’re changing.”

“I’m not worried about Ben. He saw me without my make-up.” That isn’t exactly true. I’ve seen the differences myself, and it’s a concern. My lips are wrinkled, my eyes have lines and I see brown spots on my skin. I see it in Zenar, as well. Fortunately, as we’ve known, earthlings don’t stay focused on any one thing for very long.

My partner goes on. “Pretty soon he’ll start talking, making other people aware. We may not be able to stay here.”

“Relax, rookie. The next time Ben sees me, I’ll be made up, and he’ll have forgotten what he saw before.” Zenar is new to this line of work. We’re in serious trouble, but I don’t want to panic the novice. I’ve worked on this planet since humans dropped the A-bombs, in the year 1945. I don’t like to brag, but as everyone knows, that never happened again, not on my watch.

Back then, the technicians that prepared us agents for work on Earth were not able to build in aging. Nothing ever changed physically in the earlier releases of their work, a major disadvantage. In the Forties, I’d been placed in the U.S. Department of State. By the time the Cuban missile crisis broke in 1962, I drew attention for not looking a day older in seventeen years. Russia pulled the weapons out of Cuba, Kennedy did the same in Turkey, and headquarters killed me off and brought me home.

The lab guys still have work to do calibrating their aging process accurately. I never fully understood it, but on Earth, time moves much differently from our world, in ways that are difficult to scale. Our techies are very bright, but this has them stumped. When they sent me back to Earth this time, with a new partner, we saw the problem; Zenar and I look ten years older every few months. And feel it.

Zenar is right about our stay. For people working in intelligence service, NSA folks in New York aren’t the most observant people in the world (that explains why they put us there), but their spotting us isn’t the major problem. At the rate things are going, it won’t be long before we die of old age. It’s critical we leave Earth before that happens. I need to call home, via telepathy.

My talk with headquarters sobers me up. We aren’t going anywhere. It seems the game is over for us. The weapons of mass destruction we’ve held in check are now irrelevant. Biowarfare, in the form of a deadly virus, has been unleashed, and it’s mutating. They first called it Covid-19, but it’s become much worse. My boss, if he even knows, isn’t saying which nation set it off.

“It’s the one thing we’ve always feared.” he tells me. “We don’t have viruses here, don’t want them, and have never dealt with the ones on Earth. Nuclear reaction we can deal with. This is another story, and when a civilization is hell-bent on suicide, well…”

The problem for me and Zenar is that they won’t allow us back. We’re outcasts; pariahs. The good news is New York’s governor is putting us in a nursing home for our safety.

 

 

The Car

The Car

By Farrell Fand 

The old neighborhood in Newark isn’t the same anymore.  Just about everything has changed. The street, Belmont Avenue, now Irvine Turner Boulevard, is very different. It’s not a very wide street, but back in 1948, when I was seven, it looked like a huge expanse to me. The new two family house that now stands on the property has the same back yard, but the row of five connected wooden garages is gone, replaced with grass. All that’s left of the former buildings is the number.

Times were different back then. Children were told to “go out and play,” and parents didn’t feel they needed to worry about their safety. There was no such thing as a child saying, “I’m bored.” It was expected that kids would figure out what to do to keep ourselves occupied, and we did.

And did we stay out of trouble? Well, that’s a whole other thing. 

“Hey Georgeeeeey! Hey Georgeeeeeeeey!” I was shouting from Georgie’s backyard, up to the third floor apartment where he lived. That was how we called for each other in the neighborhood. No one would ever think of using the phone. That was for adults. It usually didn’t take more than two tries to get him downstairs to play.

“Hi Chuck. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go play in my backyard. We can have a war with our soldiers. That’d be fun.” We both had lots of toy metal soldiers stored in our houses. Why metal? Plastic hadn’t been invented yet.

“That’s good,” Georgie said. “I’ll go get mine and you get yours; then I’ll come over. I got some new ones yesterday. Wait ‘til you see them.”

“O.K. Come right over.”

“Bang, bang, bang, eh, eh, eh, eh! Your guy’s dead, Chuck.”

“No he’s not. You missed him.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

Arguments like that could continue for quite a while, but ten minutes was more than enough this time. “Georgie, let’s do something else. We could go to Mrs. Smith’s garden and try to catch some bees. I have a jar in my back hall that we can use. We’d have to be really quiet, because she almost caught me last time and I’m really afraid of her.”

“Nah, Chuck, I don’t feel like it. What else can we do?”

“I don’t know. I guess we could play marbles, but Stephen and John-Thomas both went away for a few days and you need at least four kids to play a good game of marbles.”

“I don’t feel like playing marbles either. There must be something else around that we can do, Chuck. Let’s think!”

“Hey Georgie, look over there. One of the garage doors is open a little! They’re never open. Everybody locks them. I wonder what’s inside. Should we go over and peek in? What do you think?”

“Well,” said Georgie, “We’re not supposed to go near those garages. We could get into trouble.”

“O.K., you’re right. We could get into really big trouble. But that door’s open enough for us to just take a look inside. That wouldn’t be wrong, would it?”

“Let’s just take a quick peek, Chuck. That can’t be wrong. We won’t even touch the door. No one will ever know, right?”

“O.K. This is really fun, isn’t it? It’s like we’re detectives. Let’s see what’s in there.”

“Oooh look!” said Chuck. “It’s a car. It’s beautiful! It has four doors and it’s so shiny. This must be Mr. Matucci’s car. He comes here every weekend and takes it out for a drive. I guess it just stays in this garage the rest of the time. Wow!”

“I wonder if we squeezed inside, just to get a little closer, would that be all right? We wouldn’t touch anything, and we could get to see all of it. We sure can’t see all of it from out here. Let’s go in…”

“Chuck, look at that roof! Is that made of some kind of leather or something? You know, we can see it best if we get right up onto the car. Then, we’ll get a good look. It sure looks special.”

“Be careful climbing on the hood, Georgie. We don’t want to scratch it or anything. We’re just going to look at that roof. I’ll bet it’s leather or some other stuff. This is a fancy car!”

“I can’t believe how high we are. This is a really high car, isn’t it? I think this is the highest I’ve ever climbed. And look at this roof. Wow! I’m not sure what it’s made of. I can’t tell,” Chuck said.

“But look at this, Chuck. This one corner isn’t stuck down completely. It’s a teeny bit lifted off of the roof. I’m going to try to push it down, to fix it. Look at us, fixing a car. This is so great, isn’t it?”

“Wait a minute, Georgie; this corner doesn’t look right either. Let’s just pull both corners up a little bit, and then we can see if we can get it to fit right.”

“Chuck, you have to pull your side harder. Look, I’m pulling with all my might. This corner is pretty stuck on the roof. Let’s pull together. O.K., one, two, three PULL!”

“Oh no! Georgie, we pulled too hard! Half of the roof came off. What are we gonna do now? Oh boy, we’re gonna be in so much trouble!”

“I know what. Let’s get out of here! Run!” and we did.

The Next Sunday

Joe Matucci’s car was a perfectly restored 1935 Chevrolet four door sedan. He had spent more than a year refurbishing it to its original condition. The next day, Sunday, was the day he was going to show it off and get recognized for his accomplishment. The car was perfect! It looked like it belonged on a showroom floor as if it were a new car. Joe didn’t have any children and this amazing car was his baby, so to speak.

He got to the garage behind the house at 490 Belmont Avenue, really eager to get on the road. At first, he noticed that the door was unlocked. Could he have forgotten to put the padlock on last week? But, this was a really safe neighborhood. The lock was more for appearances than anything else.

Then, he noticed that the door was ajar, which was strange. He threw it open and saw his beautiful car with half of its roof sticking up in the air! “No!  No, no, no, no, no! What happened?” He didn’t even know what to say. Then, he looked closer and noticed small footprints on the hood. He could feel his blood boiling. “Who would do something like that?” he fumed. “Why would anyone mutilate a beautiful car like this one?” he screamed.

After questioning some of the neighbors and, with the help of the landlady, Mr. Matucci came to a conclusion about who had damaged his car.

He told our parents about what had happened and that it looked like Georgie and I were the vandals. When we were confronted with the accusation, we both made tearful admissions about what we had done.

We explained that we had thought we were fixing the car. Pulling up the roof like we did was really an accident. Of course, that explanation didn’t cover our going into the garage in the first place and then climbing up onto the car’s roof.

Our parents were furious with us, and agreed to pay for any repairs. Mr. Matucci, still upset with what had happened, moved his beloved car to another garage, in a different neighborhood.

Georgie and I thought that the whole incident was finished, but then our parents called us together and we had a group meeting. Georgie’s dad spoke for all four of the parents. “We know that you two boys are really good and usually follow rules, but this time, you can see what happened when you didn’t follow them.

“Both of our families have to pay for the damage you’ve done. It’s obvious that you two can’t afford all of that cost, but there are consequences for your actions. First, both of you won’t be getting your allowance for four weeks. That money will go toward repairing the damage.

“Since Mr. Matucci is moving his car to a different garage, it won’t be available, but our families’ two cars will and we’re going to use our cars to teach you respect for cars and for other people’s property. Every Sunday, for the next five weeks, both of you are going to wash our families’ cars. If it rains, you’ll do it the next dry day.

“Don’t even try to complain about it. That’s a final decision from all four of your parents. The washing starts this coming Sunday.”

Georgie and I spent many long hours washing cars and talking about how we didn’t want to get into trouble ever again.

Looking back on that time and what we did, I’m surprised at how events in one’s youth can foreshadow what’s to come later in life. After a while, as we grew up, Georgie and I lost contact with each other, not because of any argument or disagreement. We just drifted. I don’t even know where he lives now.

I’m amazed at how things have turned out for me. Here I am, 75 years old, and a successful businessman. I never could have guessed that my success would be in automated car washes. I own seven of them, all in different locations around the state. Who would have thought, all those years ago, that I would wind up washing cars just about all of my adult life?

Remembering Glenda

Remembering Glenda

By L. Stevens

“Be careful. These bruise.” The cashier places a large ripe scarlet-orange mango in his hand; she playfully wraps her warm hands around his. 

The young man reddens, clearly smitten. His boyish crush embarrasses him. They work long Saturdays together in a bright busy supermarket, she at the register, he bagging groceries and wheeling them to customers’ cars. She works fast and pushes him; he enjoys keeping pace.

Closing times find them bone-tired; deliciously dead on their feet. She is twenty-three and blond. Five years his senior, she’s bright and has a slender athletic figure; pretty in an off-beat way. He’s in his last year of high-school, with plans for college.

When she was eighteen, Glenda ran from chaos and dysfunction at home to elope with a 30-year-old Sheriff’s Deputy; now her marriage isn’t working. Floyd drinks every night. He’s critical and mean; hers is a miserable, lonely life.

But not for twelve hours each Saturday.

Through the week the young man dreams of Saturdays; of her smile and the intimacy of her subtle scent – part perfume and part her. He wonders, when their hands brush as she pushes items his way, does electricity rush through her too? At times their work together is like a tempting dance.

Toward the end of the day physical contact often increases and lingers. Exhausted, she puts an arm on his shoulder and leans on him for balance while she adjusts the shoe on an aching foot. It’s the closest thing to resting in his arms for a risky second or two; his heart jumps.

More than once he’d fantasized: If we were on a desert island somewhere… Was he kidding himself about her interest, her availability, even? He thought not.

On a cool, dark December evening he searched for the suburban rented hall—the scene of the store’s Christmas party. She’d asked him twice if he’d be there and he said he would. But now he’s not so sure it is a good idea. It’s likely he’ll meet Floyd for the first time.

Christmas music meets him at the door, and once inside he sees the couple. Short and wiry the deputy is a bantam rooster of a man; small, feisty, aggressive. His gray flannel shirt and dark jeans are at odds with his wife’s stylish red and green holiday dress.

The young man nods a smile across the dimly-lit dance floor but does not go near the two. Later, Glenda approaches him as he stands alone. Out of nowhere an inebriated Floyd appears. Without introduction he blurts out boozy sarcasm: “Just so you know. You can have her if she wants you. But make sure you give me the money.” His mean smile discloses menacing anger.

Stunned the young man looks to the horrified woman for some clue of an explanation. Where did that come from? She must have said something to her husband – what could she have told him?

The shaken young man moves away from the insanity, and leaves the place, thoughts jumbled. Was the man guessing at something? Did she want to make her husband jealous? Or maybe Floyd’s drinking buddy, Jerry in Produce, put a bug in the man’s ear. Whatever, he wants no part of it. Something’s crazy here.

On Monday he went to the store; the manager did not ask why he was quitting – a sure sign that word had gotten around. “Your hours will be totaled on Friday. I’ll have your pay ready around four. Good luck.”

Soon afterwards, the young man finds a job at another store.

One evening many years later, the experience comes to mind. “Turn to something else” his wife says. “The child doesn’t need to hear that stuff,” referring to their five-year-old granddaughter next to her in the family room.

The TV’s news tells of a jealous husband, a local Sheriff’s Deputy, who shot and killed his wife and her male co-worker and then turned the gun on himself.

“I just wonder,” she asks “What is the world coming to? Aren’t you glad we came up in simpler times?”

A cold feeling in his spine rises to his neck; his ears ring. He reflects for a long minute. ”Yeah – that’s for sure” he finally agrees.

 

Oh What A Beautiful Day

Oh What A Beautiful Day

By Anna Fand

While reading a magazine recently, I came across an article inviting animal lovers to enter a contest about their favorite pets. The headline caught my eye: “If you have enjoyed animals as friends or companions over the years, please tell us which was the most unforgettable and why. Our judges will select a prizewinner, post its photo and story in our next edition, and make a donation to an appropriate charity that helps animals live safe and happy lives.”

Wow, what a great question, I thought. That’s a really hard one, though. We all had loved Toto, our cairn terrier; Janey and Glenda, the lost cats who lived with us for many years; the canaries who filled the house with music; the parakeet who learned to say “McGovern for President;” snakes; even the walking catfish, who always caused an uproar when he waddled across our living room floor.

But honestly, how could I not give credit to Howard, the Amazon Parrot who had shared our home for twelve years? I proceeded to list and describe just some of the reasons why he deserved special recognition.

On the day my husband and I found him in a Montclair bird shop, I was sold. Typically, Farrell was the one on the lookout for pets of any kind. But, upon seeing several baby parrots, and after the saleswoman placed one in my lap, who looked at me and said “Hello!,” I was the one exclaiming, “Let’s take him!”

He quickly gave himself a name — Howard. He had been mimicking all of us when we came home because we always called to him, “Hi, how are you?” Soon he started saying “Hi Howar,” as he learned the greeting. We decided, maybe that was his name. He just had left off the “d.”

The parrot became a household member very quickly. Our young adult children, Beth and Peter, fell in love with him, exchanging comments all the time. Beth, who was living on her own, would start her weekend visits with us by saying, “Hi Funny Lookin’!” as she walked over toward Howard’s cage. After this happened a few times, the parrot began each visit with her by calling out, “Hi Funny Lookin’!” whenever she would enter the house. It was hilarious!

His large cage was in our family room, with a perfect view of the front door. Before long, he said, ”Good-bye!” when we left the house, and, “Hello!” when we came back home, never getting his greetings wrong.

Howard continued learning words, phrases, and music daily, just from listening to our conversations. Soon he was saying things like “I want pizza” (we always shared pizza with him and he loved it); laughing along when he heard chuckling on TV; jiving to Rock ‘n Roll music we played on the radio; calling Farrell in my voice, “Faaaarrrell!” “Faaaarrell!” until Farrell would come running into the room to ask me why I wouldn’t stop calling him.

One of Howard’s greatest accomplishments was learning the words and melody of the famous song Oh What a Beautiful Morning. I would wake Peter up every day by opening his bedroom door and singing it to him. Howard listened and learned it quickly, and before long he could sing a duet with me that went like this. I would start with, “Oh What a Beautiful,” and then stop and wait for him to add, “Moooorning,” followed by me singing part of the next line, “Oh What a Beautiful,” and Howard’s completing it with “Daaaaaaaaayy.” We continued in this way throughout the song, “I’ve got a wonderful feeling! Everything’s going my way,” and ending with the last line from me, “Oh What a Beautiful” and Howard’s vibrant conclusion, right on key, “DAAAAYYYYY!” When he belted out the last word, I had visions of Ethel Merman on a Broadway stage.

Another of Howard’s funniest moments was the day he looked out of the open front window from his cage and saw me pulling our car into the driveway after work. I got out, slammed the door, and heard him say very loudly, “UH-OH!” Apparently, he expected the worst!

One evening when my mother-in-law was visiting, she walked past Howard, who was standing on top of his cage. At that moment, the parrot grabbed the wiglet from on top of her head, and turned it this way and that, studying it closely. Farrell’s mom looked up and saw the bird inspecting her hairpiece and started laughing hysterically.

“I guess he realized it wasn’t attached and decided to check it out,” she said, as she laughed even harder. Lucky for us, she had a great sense of humor!

Another of my favorite memories was watching Howard rearrange his “furniture.” On days when he wasn’t otherwise occupied, he would remove all of the food and water bowls hanging from the bars of his cage and then put them back, but in different locations. He must have been looking for a change of pace, or maybe just doing a little straightening up.

After submitting my entry to the magazine, I was certain that our Amazon parrot would be selected as the winner. And, the next time that Farrell, Beth, Peter and I were all together for dinner, I announced, “We have a great family goal to work on. Let’s all focus on teaching Howard to say “I’m the champ!”  Because whether he wins the contest or not, he really is a WINNER!”

 

 

Elvis Never Died Like They Said

Elvis Never Died Like They Said

By L. Stevens

 I could see Jackie Carter was annoyed. Heads turned and ears pricked up in every cubicle in the office. “Larry, damn it! Go buy your own stupid cake if you want one. I’ve got better things to do. Now skedaddle!” Jackie’s workload had gotten much heavier since the recent layoffs at the Food Service company where we worked, and Larry Thigpen was wasting her time.

A while later, I stopped by her desk. “What’s that about a cake? Larry wants you to buy a cake?”

Looking exasperated, she shook her head. “I swear, does that man have a real job here, or do they pay him to walk around and pester people about Elvis Presley and UFO’s? It’s maddening. I had to shoo him away from Janice the other day. He had her all worked up—for a good twenty minutes—about the crop circles. Did he show you those pictures?”

“I have to admit, those things are fascinating,” I said. “You know, another ‘ride-with’ canceled on him this morning, so he’s got time on his hands today. We know what that means.” Larry Thigpen is the company’s sales trainer; part of his job it is to ride along with junior salespeople as they make customer calls. In theory, it’s to train them in sales skills. However, it was not uncommon for a struggling trainee to be terminated shortly after spending a day with Larry. Some think he’s the General Manager’s “hatchet man.” So, for job security, junior sales reps on his schedule often make excuses and beg off, leaving Larry with an entire day to kill.

“Most of the reps run from him. I can’t imagine why. Looks like the company would lay him off,” Jackie said, sarcasm in her voice.

“Not going to happen so long as his buddy Bill is General Manager,” I answered. When Bill Snyder was hired two years ago, he brought along his crony Larry to report directly to himself, by-passing the Sales Manager and the Training Department. The two had lunch together at least once a week.

Larry made a point of letting Jackie, the office supervisor, know. “I’m going to lunch with Bill, in case anyone is looking for me.” And Jackie would roll her eyes.

“What was the deal with the cake?” I asked, recalling why I’d stopped by to see her.

“He wants me to take up a collection in the office, like I do for employees’ birthdays, and order a cake for Elvis’s 80th, in 2015, right after New Years’. Remember he brought one in last year? He’s asking for donations this time.”

“That’s a laugh. I wonder when O.J.’s birthday is?” He’s been on that kick lately, too.”

“Tell me about it. He just eats up the attention when people argue with him. I’m too busy for his foolishness.”

Back at my desk I checked a new personal email on my phone— a ‘prompt’ for the next meeting of my fiction writers’ group. “Write 1,000 words or less about your most unforgettable character.” This will be easy. Larry is industrial strength unforgettable. The piece will write itself.

Days later Larry Thigpen stood at my desk, miffed about the story I wrote for the ‘prompt’, which I had also emailed to the folks in our department.

“Pulver, I don’t appreciate you making me sound like an idiot. You never heard me say Elvis is still alive—he could be dead by now, we don’t know. But he never died like they said—they made it to look that way.”

My tale told of a whacky Elvis Presley enthusiast. My character ‘Harry’ often visits the ‘Evidence Elvis is Alive’ Facebook page. There he ‘friends’ a man called ‘Barry’. They get on famously. In the office, the story got a lot of laughs.

The flesh and blood Larry Thigpen cherished an autographed copy of “The Elvis Conspiracy” by Meg Keller. He’d picked up that prize when he and his wife departed West Palm Beach at 1 A.M. and drove eight hours to the author’s Barnes and Noble book-signing in Atlanta. The man is dedicated.

He glowered. “And what’s the stuff about me claiming O.J. didn’t kill Nicole? What’s O.J. got do with Elvis?”

“Take it easy, man,” I said. “It’s only a story. Fiction, get it? About two guys named Harry and Barry.”

“Bullshit!” he snarled. “You changed my name from Larry to ‘Harry’ and threw in ‘Barry’. Who’s that supposed to fool? Harry can kiss my hairy butt, and that goes for Barry, too!”

“I like the name ‘Harry’,” I lied. “And O.J.? I remember you telling me, some time back…” He scowled, but I continued. “But everything about Elvis was true, wasn’t it? Things you’ve said yourself.”

“It’s still a bunch of crap,” he said. “You made me look the fool—I heard people in the office laughing.”

He wasn’t wrong. The character in my razzing satire could only be Larry. And I did make his obsession with ‘The King’ sound ridiculous.

He never stops with his insistent, overbearing, contrary nonsense. When you try not to take the bait, he keeps it up. No matter how you fight him off, he comes back for more. Jackie is right; it’s all about his being the center of attention. So, it’s hard to resist a response. And, I’ll admit, sort of fun.

“Help me out here, Larry. The part in the story I wrote, where the Mafia guys think he’s a government mole, that Elvis is working with the FBI in Las Vegas? You saying that’s B.S.?”

“No, no, that’s true,” Larry insisted. “It’s proven fact Elvis went to the White House and volunteered in the war on drugs, and President Nixon gave him an honorary badge. In Vegas, some mob guys figured Elvis was a stool pigeon.”

We’d had this conversation more than once, but when Larry gets going about Elvis, he doesn’t mind repeating himself. “Was he?” I prodded. “Working undercover for the Feds, I mean?”

 

“Well, somebody sure must have thought so.” He raised an eyebrow, looking pleased with himself, as if he’d dispensed some indisputable logic.

I persisted. “So, to keep Elvis from getting rubbed out by the mob, the FBI faked his death and put him in the Witness Protection Program?”

“Exactly. That’s why the family spelled his middle name wrong on the
tombstone—with two” A”’s. His birth certificate spells Aron with one “A”. They knew they wasn’t burying Elvis.” The way he said it, it sounded obvious. 

I mentioned that in the story. And the million-dollar insurance policy on his life they never cashed—is that the truth?”

 “Absolutely,” he said. “Would have been a crime to collect it when they knew he wasn’t dead.” Larry had simmered down, happy for the opportunity to go on about ‘The King’.

 “Can I ask you something, Larry? If people in the office are laughing— like you say—what does that tell you?”

 He ignored that with the grace of a matador, and stayed on the offense.

 “How come you didn’t talk about the picture I showed you in the ‘Conspiracy’ book, the one of Elvis with Muhammed Ali, seven years after he was supposed to be dead?”

 “The photo was fuzzy. It could have been Engelbert Humperdinck for all I could tell.”

“It’s Elvis. Come on, man. Humperdinck would’a sued the pants off the writer and the book publisher. That’s misidentification. Premeditated.”

 ‘Premeditated misrepresentation’? I choked on my Snickers bar. “Sweet Jesus, Larry! Nobody said it was Engelbert…ahh, never mind. The thing is, my story could only be a thousand words. I couldn’t put in everything.”

Larry jumped all over my lame excuse. “Man, you lie like a dog! How come you mixed in O.J., if you were running out of words?”

“You don’t understand fiction—I used that to make it colorful.”

“Colorful, my ass!”

“But I’m curious, Larry. Do you honestly believe O.J. wasn’t the actual killer?”

“Let me just say this: O.J. was a world-class athlete. A millionaire movie star. Everybody said he was a stand-up guy.”

“He was great in ‘The Naked Gun’.” I admitted.

“And you believe those lying bums on the LAPD over somebody like O.J. Simpson? Shee-it!” He was warmed up now. “No way he did it, and I can pretty well prove it to anybody with common sense.”

“You can prove it?”

“Sure. When they brought in the bloody glove, it was a dead giveaway. There was no way those detectives didn’t plant it for fake evidence.”

“The glove didn’t fit, you’re saying. But did you ever think that probably the leather glove dried up and shrunk?” I asked.

“Shrunk’s not the point. Here’s the deal. O.J. was a professional football running back, right?”

“Obviously.”

 “So, the guy who hardly ever fumbled the football when he was playing is going to let a glove slip off his hand— and leave it laying there? No way! The first thing a football player does when he drops the ball is, he jumps on it to recover it, from pure instinct, like second nature. If O.J. fumbled that glove, he’d a snatched it up in a heartbeat. Right there’s the dead give-away. But I guess the cops was too dumb to think of that angle. I’m surprised Johnny Cochrane didn’t point it out. I damned sure would have.”

 “You’d have made one hell of a criminal attorney, Larry. You should have been on the defense team.” The image of Larry, sitting alongside Johnny Cochrane and Robert Shapiro in the televised courtroom broke me up. I laughed, and couldn’t control myself; tears ran down my face.

 “I’m glad you think it’s funny. Interesting how you’ve got time to write cute stories to pass around the office—at a time like this, people being let go. Did you send a copy to Bill? I imagine he’d get a real kick out of it. Maybe I’ll do that.”

 The snake! Is that a threat? It feels more like a challenge, to me.

 The next day Jackie Carter called out as I walked into the lunch room. “Pulver, come here. You gotta’ hear this.” Mischief danced in her eyes. I took a seat at her table.

 She lowered her voice. “So, you know that Larry Thigpen brags to the new sales trainees about what a good golfer he is, right? Well, this morning it bit him in the butt. What a hoot!”

“Yeah. It beats me why he does that. What happened?”

Jackie explained what she’d heard from the grapevine. Mr. Jenkins, the owner of our company, needed a decent golfer to host the execs of a large account at his country club’s course on the weekend. Tom Boyd, our sales manager, is a low-handicap player. He usually does those honors. But Tom was out of town.

It seems my buddy Mark Shapiro overheard Mr. Jenkins’ secretary talking about it, and he suggested Larry could do it. As Jackie got it, when they told Larry that Mr. Jenkins wanted him to play, he turned green.

“Hah! I’ll bet his sphincter muscle puckered. He can’t break 100. He stinks.”

“So I’ve heard. Can you imagine? Mercy!” she howled.

“That must have been something to watch. Last thing he’d want is to embarrass himself for eighteen holes. In front of important customers, to boot. At that ritzy private club?  No way…”

“Isn’t that too funny? So, I guess he talked his way out of it. I’d love to have been a fly on the wall.” Jackie raised her hand in a ‘high-five’ move.

Just then Mark Shapiro come through the door, heading for the coffee pot. I yelled, “Hey, Mark, I salute you, Sir. Good one!” I was sure he’d set Larry up, had called his bluff.

He filled his cup and walked over to us. “Not as good as you’d think. He weaseled out. Told Ellen he never claimed to be a good golfer. But, shoot, I’ve heard him say exactly that. More than once.” 

“That would be Larry,” I said. So, Larry Thigpen got a comeuppance. Good.

Mark looked uncomfortable. “I’m not so sure you’ll appreciate how it went, Pulver. He threw you under the bus.”

“Me?” My pulse quickened. “How?”

“Well…Ellen called me to her office, wanted to know why I’d recommended Larry, when he said he’d never played golf. I said I was sorry. I understood otherwise, my mistake.”

He hesitated, then added, “And he also told her, ‘No doubt that’s something Arthur Pulver dreamed up for his ‘fiction writing’ club, and spread around the office.’ Then Bill walked in and asked her what was going on. I got the hell out of there, so that’s as much as I know.”

That lying bastard! He lies, then blames me! This can’t go unanswered… 

~~~~~

Office chatter on Monday morning, the 29th of December 2014, was of Christmas gifts and plans for New Year’s Eve. I was excited about something else altogether.

In the days since Christmas, I’d researched Elvis Presley history and hatched my plan for payback. And was it a dandy! Pulver, old man, if this works, you will have outdone yourself!

I headed for Jackie’s desk and handed her a note. “Check out this webpage, and make sure Larry gets an eyeful. This should interest him.” In a minute the page was loaded on her monitor.

____________________ 

Palms News Service

DOES ELVIS HAUNT THE WEST PALM SHERATON?

by Edward Glenn

December 19, 2014

The appearance by Elvis Presley in our town on February 13, 1977 would sadly be part of his final tour. That night, the entire fourth and fifth floors of the West Palm Sheraton served as headquarters for the 42-year-old King of Rock n’ Roll and his entourage. The motor lodge on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard was a stone’s throw from the West Palm Beach Auditorium, the site of the concert. Six months later he was gone.

Until about five years ago — according to some recent reports in West Palm Beach, when guests at the historic Sheraton reported seeing apparitions they describe as “Elvis’s ghost.”

Your correspondent met this week with Jack Bartleson, General Manager of the Sheraton property. “People tell similar stories as the first time, five years ago,” he informed me. “At least ten guests claim to have seen Elvis’s ghost.”

The ‘appearances’ began in January, 2010, according to the manager. He had organized a “75th Birthday Party” for Elvis. “It was a publicity thing. We invited local musicians, Channel 5 TV, and a writer from the paper. We decorated the lobby and the banquet room with photos and memorabilia, and I hired an Elvis impersonator as the ‘guest of honor.’ He wore a white jumpsuit like the one Presley wore at the Auditorium.

“The party was a success and ran late that night; the media was long gone. As we wrapped things up, a middle-aged couple came from the elevator. They rushed up to the Elvis impersonator in the lobby, who was saying his goodbyes. The gent says: ‘How in the world did you do that?’ He thought the fellow had tricked them somehow.”

“The Elvis guy asked what he’d done,” Mr. Bartleson continued. “The couple described coming back to the hotel shortly after midnight. They got on the elevator, and when the door closed, they claimed to see another ‘Elvis’ at the rear of the lift. They hadn’t seen him at first, but there he was, dressed in black, not white. Naturally, they took him as part of the festivities. When they got to their floor, and the door opened, they turned to say goodnight to him. But whoever, whatever, had disappeared– they were alone. That’s what they said.”

The manager went on, “The couple came back down to investigate. When they got on the elevator, according to them, no sooner had the door closed, than ‘Elvis’ was back.

“It petrified them. But when the door opened at the lobby, just as before, he was gone. “

Bartleson stressed: “I can verify, the couple was sober, and not crazy. But very frightened.”

Concerning later sightings, the manager was equally definite. 

“The same thing happens, always after midnight, on the 8th of January, his birthday. People say he never speaks, just looks sad.”

Until recently the hotel had not gone public about the phenomena. ”It would disturb some folks, obviously. We kept it quiet. 

“But two weeks ago, a guest went to the newspaper. After that, others confirmed the same thing. At this point, we might as well enjoy the free publicity.”

However, Bartleson had a disclaimer about the upcoming 8th of January, Presley’s 8oth birthday.

“Only registered guests for that night will have access to the elevators, until the following morning. If it takes a security guard to enforce it, I’ll hire one.”

________________________________

Jackie sounded doubtful. “Well, yeah, this will definitely get his attention. But why show it to him? It’s all we’ll hear about.”

“Hopefully, he’ll want to go check it out for himself.” I was certain he would. 

When Larry got to the office that morning, I watched and listened from my nearby cubicle, as Jackie pointed to her monitor. “Take a look, Larry.” The screen displayed the article by Edward Glenn of the Palms News Service. He read it once, and then again. Minutes later, we heard his eager-sounding voice, as he walked toward the front exit, cell phone to his ear. “Can you stick my name on standby? If you get a cancellation, call me.”

“Hear him? He’s trying to reserve a room for January 8. He’s taken the bait,” I told her. 

“What bait?” Jackie asked.

“There’s no Mr. Bartleson, or Palms News, or Edward Glenn. I made it all up and posted it on a WordPress blog. I’m a fiction writer—that’s what we do.”

“Seriously?” she cried out, as she slapped my hand. “You’re wicked—I fell for it, too. How funny!”

There was no birthday cake for Elvis on January 8. As the office closed, I heard Jackie ask: “Larry, are you going over to the Sheraton tonight? I’m curious to know if the ghost shows up.”

He grunted. “See you.” Then he was out the door.

Early the next morning, Larry was at Jackie’s desk.  I watched and listened in. “Show me that ‘ghost’ article again, will you?” he barked. “Something is very screwed up.”

“I don’t know that I can find it.” She looked him over. “What’s the problem? You look awful.”

“No shit? If you’d been in and out of an elevator ‘til three in the morning, you would too.”

“Oh, my lord! You went there? So, did he show up? The ghost?”

He ignored her questions. “Get me that article. I want to read it again. See this?” He placed a business card on her desk. “John Richards is the manager of the Sheraton. The night clerk never heard of… what’s his name…” He pulled a note from his pocket. “Jack Bartleson. Stupid kid didn’t know anything about the Elvis party, either. I gotta see that article.”

“Larry, I’m busy right now. Maybe later. I’ll let you know what I come up with,” Jackie said. I’d taken the article down, but there was more ammunition coming.

In an hour, she called him to her desk. I listened in and situated myself to watch the proceedings. “I didn’t find it. Maybe you should call the newspaper. But—I found two things on Jack Bartleson.” She brightened. “One, his obituary. And, there’s a small article, ‘Jack Bartleson, manager of the West Palm Sheraton, found dead of heart failure,’ says he died on August 16, 1977.” She waved the fake printouts I’d given her earlier.

“August 16, 1977?”  Larry had turned pale. “That’s nuts! That’s the day they claimed Elvis died…”

“How odd,” Jackie said. I could see her struggling to keep a deadpan expression.

He sputtered, “But they wrote the first article now, not 1977—about Elvis’ 80th birthday. This here says the hotel guy’s been dead almost forty years. How… did they… interview him… this week?” He looked disoriented and a bit wobbly as he found a chair a few feet away and sat down.

Jackie was magnificent. She was a fine actress; I’d had no idea. “Good Lord…you’re right!” She cried out. “Amazing! It looks like… Mr. Bartleson died the same day Elvis went into Witness Protection.”

Then she put the cherry on top. “Weird, isn’t it, Larry? I mean—you couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried.”

The End

 

 

Ice

Ice

By Farrell Fand 

“Mom, it’s so hot outside. I think the sidewalk is going to melt.”

“Now, Georgie, don’t give me any trouble. You know that I’m going to have company this afternoon and I need to clean the house and get ready. My old friend, Gloria, is coming and I want to impress her. I haven’t seen her for years, and she’s always been very special to me.

“Just go outside and play.”

“O.K., but it sure is hot out there. I’ll bet it’s a gazillion degrees, honest.”

“Gazillion or not, please make it easier for me and go outside and play with your friends. Jeffrey’s your best friend and he must be outside playing too. Why don’t you go and find him?”

“All right… I’ll go out, but can I get a drink first? I’ll be really careful and won’t spill anything. I promise.”

“Sure, that’ll be fine. Just put your glass in the sink and I’ll wash it later. Have fun outside.”

Now, getting that drink was the beginning of the problem. The refrigerator had lots of orange juice in it, Georgie’s favorite, but he wanted it to be really cold, to brace himself for the “gazillion” degree heat. Lots of ice cubes would do the trick, so he loaded the glass, filled it with juice and gulped it down in a few seconds.

“Mom, I’m going out now. Call me when I should come in.”

“Have fun, Georgie. Try not to get dirty. I want you looking great for when you meet Gloria.”

Just as he was leaving the kitchen, Georgie had a “great idea.” He went to the fridge, opened the freezer, and filled his front pockets with ice cubes. “I’ll be nice and cool now,” he thought. “And these front pockets are really big, so they hold lots of ice. It’ll be like walking with a personal air conditioner right on me.”

But sometimes, what seems like a stroke of genius at one moment, can be a cause of disaster just a little while later.

Georgie found Jeffrey down the street, playing “poison” marbles with Bruce and Neil, two tough kids from around the block. For at least that moment, everyone was getting along together, no arguments, no bullying, just a game of marbles in the dirt.

Georgie always carried some marbles in his back pocket, just in case. He had ten of them and one was an incredible beauty, a big glass “jumbo.” In Poison, after making the round of holes dug out of the dirt, without being hit by other marbles, a marble became a “killer,” and would win “for keeps,” any marble he could roll and hit. Georgie was good at it and had won a lot of other kids’ marbles playing “Poison for Keeps.”

So he got down on his knees and got out his marbles to play. The only problem was, his air conditioning system was clearly malfunctioning. Oh, he was cool enough, but the ice in his pockets had begun to melt, slowly, wetting the front of his pants. By the time he had gotten his first marble through two holes, the front of his pants was soaked from the ice.

Georgie didn’t want to stop playing, but Bruce, from around the corner, noticed the wetness and started yelling and pointing. “Georgie peed in his pants. Look! He PEED in his PANTS. What a baby.” Then he started chanting, “Georgie peed in his pa….nts, Georgie Peed in his pa….nts.”

Although he started trying to explain, it was too late. Georgie was now in no position to do anything but start swinging at Bruce. In seconds, the two were fighting on the ground, marbles rolling in every direction.

When it was over, Bruce had some scrapes on his elbows and a red spot under his eye and Georgie’s shorts were no longer just wet. They had become mud, the water and dirt having mixed together. His nose was bleeding. His shirt was torn, he was blubbering, just a little bit, and his beloved Jumbo had disappeared.

It had been the sound of Georgie’s mother calling him, “Georgie, Georgie, come home now. Gloria just got here and I want her to meet you,” that stopped the fight.

Totally humiliated, Georgie picked himself up and slowly started trudging home to meet Gloria.

When he got to the back door, his mother opened it. One look was all it took. She didn’t bother to ask him what had happened. She started doing that whisper-yelling that mothers use when they get angry and they don’t want anyone but the recipient to hear. “You, you, how could you do this to me? Go and get yourself cleaned up. Then, you’ll meet Gloria and when she leaves…….YOU’LL BE SORRY!”

 

 

Lizard

Lizard

By Farrell Fand 

I should never have given Tommy that butterfly net. I just thought that a boy his age, 9, would love the fun and excitement of chasing lizards all over the Florida landscape. When I was his age, my parents took me on a vacation to the Bahamas and there were lizards all over the place. All I wanted to do was chase them around and try to catch them. Naturally, that’s like trying to put a size 9 foot into a size 3 shoe…. impossible.

When I saw my son chasing lizards here, in Florida, I just knew that he should have a better time of it than I did. At least, with that net, he’d have a chance to actually catch one, something that never happened for me. 

And so, I gave him the net and a plastic container to store his catches, with instructions not to run into the street while chasing lizards or do anything dangerous, to be aware of his surroundings, and to make sure he was in a safe place at all times. Of course, he promised, but I got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t paying too much attention to me, eager as he was to get outside and onto the hunt.

Carla, my wife, was out shopping for god knows what, but she’d be out all day, I was sure, because she was with her friend, Marcie. She knew that I was good with Tommy and left early that morning, with promises of us all going out to dinner when she returned.

I had just received a third notice from my publisher, who told me in no uncertain terms that I was to submit the revisions of my article by 5 o’clock today, no excuses, no further delays, OR ELSE! I knew he meant it too, so I was determined to chain myself to my computer until I was finished and had that job off of my mind. It never occurred to me that I needed to be watching Tommy closely. He was really a great kid and followed directions, almost always. 

So, I started to work. At first, I didn’t notice the commotion outside. It just entered my mind as background sounds, not really getting my attention. But then, I realized there was a lot of yelling out there and the sounds of many people running. It didn’t seem right. We lived in a really peaceful neighborhood, where everything was usually calm and quiet. 

I went to the front door and opened it, expecting, I don’t even remember what, but certainly not what I saw. Mrs. Abrams, my next-door neighbor came running down the street, in a bikini, not a sight anyone would want to see, that’s for sure. 

Not only was she running, she was screaming, “You’d better keep running you little monster, because if you stop, you’ll never run again!” 

Who was she chasing? Well, at first, I wasn’t sure. My neighbor from four doors down the street, John Abernathy, was in front of her, chasing the same person. John’s face was covered in shaving cream. 

Two or three other neighbors were in the same chase. Then, I saw what it was they were chasing. It wasn’t a “what” they were chasing, it was a “who,” and the who was my son, Tommy, clearly terrified and running at top speed, keeping ahead of the crowd. 

So, what else can a father do? I joined the chase, yelling at people to stop chasing my son. 

Now, let me stop this narrative here for a moment to fill in some important information. Remember, it all began with my giving Tommy the butterfly net to try to catch some lizards and that’s what caused all of the commotion.

Let’s start with Mrs. Abrams. Tommy had been looking for lizards to catch. He kept trying to get one, but they were too fast for him, even with his net. Then, he saw a really beautiful, big, and what looked like a lazy one, on Mrs. Abrams privet hedge. He was sure that this was the one he was going to catch, but when he got closer, the lizard went around to the other side of the hedge.

Mrs. Abrams had been enjoying the privacy of her back yard, doing some sunbathing, lounging topless, and enjoying a glass of chardonnay, when she saw some movement by her shrubs. Suddenly, Tommy’s head appeared through the hedge. He was looking for the lizard. What he got was a hysterical scream from Mrs. Abrams and a good look at what shouldn’t be seen by a boy his age. 

Really frightened by the whole experience, Tommy pulled his head out from the hedge as quickly as he could and started to run. He didn’t really know where he was running, but he wanted to get away fast, and, stumbling as he went, he didn’t realize where he was headed. 

Mr. Hart, a neighbor from down the street, was taking his dog, Jojo, for his afternoon walk. Tommy tripped on Jojo’s leash, which pulled out of Mr. Hart’s hand, and freed Jojo, who immediately high tailed it down the street. 

“Stop! Jojo, come back here,” Mr. Hart shouted.  Then, he began to chase the dog, but not before yelling at Tommy, “Once I get her, I’m coming back. I’m coming after you!” Tommy’s a smart kid and knew that the best thing to do was to get out of there as fast as he could, which is what he did.

 After he had calmed down a bit, Tommy realized that the sun was still hot and lizards were still basking in it, and he had only caught two so far. Why should he give up? There was still time and there were lots of lizards around. He was going to get lots more of them, no matter what.

Tommy started stealthily hunting for another lizard. Unfortunately, he began hunting in the backyard of the Morrisons, who live just one block from our house. He knew them very well because he often played with their son, Malcolm. The boys often spent time in the Morrison’s greenhouse, a truly spectacular glass structure in their backyard, and something the whole neighborhood was proud of. They raised a variety of exotic flowers inside and shared many of them with their neighbors. 

So there Tommy was, sneaking up on a beauty of a lizard, right next to the greenhouse.  Slowly, he inched up to where he could reach the lizard and whipped the net back to catch it. Unfortunately, he pulled the net back a bit too far, in order to get good momentum. When he did that, he lost his balance and hit one of the large glass panes in the greenhouse. The glass shattered, which would have been bad enough, but some of the glass cut a watering hose, and water started pouring all over the greenhouse and Mrs. Morrison, who was working in there at the time. 

“It’s all right.  I’m not hurt,” Tommy said. Mrs. Morrison lost it. She started throwing things at Tommy, which caused him to run out of the yard and into the street.

When he reached the street, Mrs. Abrams, now wearing all of her bikini, saw him and started chasing him. At the same time, Mr. Hart, who was tugging at Jojo, now attached to his leash, saw her chasing him and joined the pursuit. Mrs. Morrison managed to get out of her house in seconds and not only chased Tommy, but she had a basket of tulip bulbs over her arm and she started throwing them at him. All of these people, plus a few others, were chasing Tommy and screaming at him when I went outside to see what all of the commotion was. 

As I said earlier, I joined the chase. “Stop, stop. That’s my son. Stop! Wait! Please..” and then, it happened. We all stopped all right, but not because I was yelling and pleading.

Suddenly, there was a brilliant, blinding light overhead. It literally stopped us in our tracks. Then we heard a loud humming noise, like a quiet, but powerful motor and then something came out of the sky and landed in front of the whole crowd, including Tommy. 

I know this sounds incredible, impossible, if you will, but it was some kind of a space ship. It landed slowly and so quietly that it didn’t seem possible that this was really happening. But I’m telling you, it was happening. 

After a few short moments, a door in the side of the ship opened and a ramp lowered to the ground. This sounds unbelievable, right? But it’s true. And then, some thing came out of the doorway and walked down the ramp. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen, and yet it was like things I’ve seen all of my life. It looked like a giant lizard, wearing a space helmet. It didn’t have on any clothes, just that helmet and some kind of backpack. 

It was carrying something in its claws that looked just like, if you can believe it, Tommy’s butterfly net, only it was huge. The creature scanned the group of us and walked over to Tommy, who was still holding his container filled with lizards, and, so quickly that I didn’t even realize what it was doing, it whipped that net over Tommy, scooped him up, and carried him into the space craft.

About three minutes after that, while we were all immobilized by the impossibility of what was happening, the ship lifted off and disappeared into the sky. That was the last time I saw my son. Tommy is somewhere out there, in that spaceship, and who knows what they’re doing to him.

And that, doctor, I swear, is what happened to my son. I had witnesses who could explain it the same way, but everyone in the neighborhood seems to be pretending that this never happened. The police think I’ve done something to my son, but it’s not true. I loved Tommy and still do, but he’s somewhere out in space, on that lizard’s ship. Honestly!

Do you think I can go home soon, back to my neighborhood? I’ve been in this hospital for a long time, and Tommy could be coming home any minute.

 

 

Holding a Grudge

Holding a Grudge

 by Anna Fand

On my first report card in Kindergarten I received a failing grade (an “F”) in Cooperation. 

Whenever I think about it, I still feel hurt and wonder “Why did Mrs. Powder treat me so harshly?  Didn’t she know that two months earlier, my family and I had just arrived from Europe on a ship filled with immigrants?  That we were Holocaust survivors and spoke no English?  And that at barely five years old, I had already experienced enough trauma and fear to last a lifetime?”

I now understand that Mrs. Powder mistook my lack of responsiveness in her classroom for an uncooperative nature, thus demonstrating her incredible absence of empathy.  Yet, I am still angry all these years later. 

She was not the only teacher who was unkind or insensitive. In fifth grade, the Art teacher – Mrs. Tarry – ensured that I would never develop any artistic motivation or skill.

“Anna”, she would say whenever I presented my art assignment at her desk, “This is terrible.  You do not have any talent in this area.  Go sit back down.”

Clearly, Mrs. Tarry destroyed any artistic potential I may have had, as evidenced by the stick figures that are now my version of portraits. 

“Probably,” I sometimes ruminate, “Mrs. Tarry was just plain mean!  She could have encouraged me so that I could try again!  Maybe if she had, I might have been another Picasso, Georgia O’Keefe, or Grandma Moses!”

And let me not forget my high school Biology teacher in 10th grade.  At a time in life when looking reasonably attractive felt important to girls my age, Mr. Stockard glanced at me one day when I raised my hand to answer a question.

“You look like something the cat dragged in,” he announced, in front of the whole class.  He then continued teaching.  Needless to say, this unprovoked statement resonated in my brain for quite some time. 

“What an idiot!” I thought.  “Mr. Stockard should be fired for talking to me like that! I should ask my parents to go to his office about it.”  But I knew that my parents, who were struggling, working hard to keep us all afloat, and still not speaking English well, would never consider talking to the school principal about my experience. 

Although each of these setbacks affected me negatively at the time, I went on to be a good student overall and, after graduating from college, became a sixth grade teacher.  I know that my own earlier experiences affected my career decision. 

My goal from Day One was to treat my students with empathy, caring and kindness, while helping them enjoy learning and do their best each day.  Hopefully, my interactions with the children I taught provided more compassion than Mrs. Powder, Mrs. Tarry and Mr. Stockard had ever shown me. 

 

 

Felecia

Felecia

 by Laura Janis Thompson

I was fortunate . . .  for a while, but now, I guess you could say I’m of an age where I’ve begun to go to more funerals.  Beyond losing one much loved cousin—barely out of her twenties—to breast cancer, I hadn’t really lost anyone close to me. But soon, death, a snowball, became an avalanche. One by one, I lost both sets of grandparents, a close friend, who was also my accountant, died of a rare heart problem, and my uncle of cancer. More followed. But this post isn’t meant for mourning. It’s meant to share someone wonderful. 

Occasionally we meet someone who seems lit from within, someone who radiates warmth and love, who is spiritual in a way that even “chreaster” churchgoers like me are drawn to, a Christian who can quote the Bible but one who still cracks irreverent jokes, who utters that same risqué bon mot on the tip of your tongue, but she’s faster, more clever, and you’re left snorting soda from your nose because she’s just so damn funny. . .

 {As Admin, I cannot do Laura’s tribute justice here. Please click the button to read the full story on her Pages and Stories blog. You will be glad you did.} 

Avoiding the Comma Coma and other Sanity Savers

Avoiding the Comma Coma and other Sanity Savers

compiled by Judy Ratto

COMMAS

Commas and periods are the most frequently used punctuation marks.

Commas customarily indicate a brief pause; they’re not as final as periods.

Rule 1. Use commas to separate words and word groups in a simple series of three or more items.

Example: My estate goes to my husband, son, daughter-in-law, and nephew.

Note: When the last comma in a series comes before and or or (after daughter-in-law in the above example), it is known as the Oxford comma. Most newspapers and magazines drop the Oxford comma in a simple series, apparently feeling it’s unnecessary. However, omission of the Oxford comma can sometimes lead to misunderstandings.

Example: We had coffee, cheese and crackers and grapes.

Adding a comma after crackers makes it clear that cheese and crackers represents one dish. In cases like this, clarity demands the Oxford comma.

We had coffee, cheese and crackers, and grapes.

Fiction and nonfiction books generally prefer the Oxford comma. Writers must decide Oxford or no Oxford and not switch back and forth, except when omitting the Oxford comma could cause confusion as in the cheese and crackers example.

Rule 2. Use a comma to separate two adjectives when the adjectives are interchangeable.

Example: He is a strong, healthy man.

We could also say healthy, strong man.
Example: We stayed at an expensive summer resort.

We would not say summer expensive resort, so no comma.

Rule 3a. Many inexperienced writers run two independent clauses together by using a comma instead of a period. This results in the dreaded run-on sentence or, more technically, a comma splice.

Incorrect: He walked all the way home, he shut the door.

There are several simple remedies:
Correct: He walked all the way home. He shut the door.

Correct: After he walked all the way home, he shut the door.

Correct: He walked all the way home, and he shut the door.

Rule 3b. In sentences where two independent clauses are joined by connectors such as and, or, but, etc., put a comma at the end of the first clause.

Incorrect: He walked all the way home and he shut the door.

Correct: He walked all the way home, and he shut the door.
Some writers omit the comma if the clauses are both quite short:
Example: I paint and he writes.

Rule 3c. If the subject does not appear in front of the second verb, a comma is generally unnecessary.

Example: He thought quickly but still did not answer correctly.

Rule 4a. Use a comma after certain words that introduce a sentence, such as well, yes, why, hello, hey, etc.

Examples:
Why, I can’t believe this!
No, you can’t have a dollar.

Rule 4b. Use commas to set off expressions that interrupt the sentence flow (nevertheless, after all, by the way, on the other hand, however, etc.).

Example: I am, by the way, very nervous about this.

Rule 5. Use commas to set off the name, nickname, term of endearment, or title of a person directly addressed.

Examples:

Will you, Aisha, do that assignment for me?
Yes, old friend, I will.
Good day, Captain.

Rule 6. Use a comma to separate the day of the month from the year, and—what most people forget!—always put one after the year, also.

Example: It was in the Sun’s June 5, 2003, edition.

No comma is necessary for just the month and year.
Example: It was in a June 2003 article.

Rule 7. Use a comma to separate a city from its state, and remember to put one after the state, also.

Example: I’m from the Akron, Ohio, area.

Rule 8. Traditionally, if a person’s name is followed by Sr. or Jr., a comma follows the last name: Martin Luther King, Jr. This comma is no longer considered mandatory. However, if a comma does precede Sr. or Jr., another comma must follow the entire name when it appears midsentence.

Correct: Al Mooney Sr. is here.

Correct: Al Mooney, Sr., is here.

Incorrect: Al Mooney, Sr. is here.

Rule 9. Similarly, use commas to enclose degrees or titles used with names.

Example: Al Mooney, M.D., is here.

Rule 10. When starting a sentence with a dependent clause, use a comma after it.

Example: If you are not sure about this, let me know now.
But often a comma is unnecessary when the sentence starts with an independent clause followed by a dependent clause.
Example: Let me know now if you are not sure about this.

Rule 11. Use commas to set off nonessential words, clauses, and phrases (see the “Who, That, Which” section in Chapter One, Rule 2b).

Incorrect: Jill who is my sister shut the door.

Correct: Jill, who is my sister, shut the door.

Incorrect: The man knowing it was late hurried home.

Correct: The man, knowing it was late, hurried home.

In the preceding examples, note the comma after sister and late. Nonessential words, clauses, and phrases that occur midsentence must be enclosed by commas. The closing comma is called an appositive comma. Many writers forget to add this important comma. Following are two instances of the need for an appositive comma with one or more nouns.

Incorrect: My best friend, Joe arrived.

Correct: My best friend, Joe, arrived.

Incorrect: The three items, a book, a pen, and paper were on the table.

Correct: The three items, a book, a pen, and paper, were on the table.

Rule 12. If something or someone is sufficiently identified, the description that follows is considered nonessential and should be surrounded by commas.

Examples:

Freddy, who has a limp, was in an auto accident.

If we already know which Freddy is meant, the description is not essential.

The boy who has a limp was in an auto accident.

We do not know which boy is meant without further description; therefore, no commas are used.

This leads to a persistent problem. Look at the following sentence:
Example: My brother Bill is here.

Now, see how adding two commas changes that sentence’s meaning:

Example: My brother, Bill, is here.

Careful writers and readers understand that the first sentence means I have more than one brother. The commas in the second sentence mean that Bill is my only brother.

Why? In the first sentence, Bill is essential information: it identifies which of my two (or more) brothers I’m speaking of. This is why no commas enclose Bill.

In the second sentence, Bill is nonessential information—whom else but Bill could I mean?—hence the commas.

Comma misuse is nothing to take lightly. It can lead to a train wreck like this:
Example: Mark Twain’s book, Tom Sawyer, is a delight.

Because of the commas, that sentence states that Twain wrote only one book. In fact, he wrote more than two dozen of them.

Rule 13a. Use commas to introduce or interrupt direct quotations.

Examples:

He said, “I don’t care.”
“Why,” I asked, “don’t you care?”

This rule is optional with one-word quotations.
Example: He said “Stop.”

Rule 13b. If the quotation comes before he said, she wrote, they reported, Dana insisted, or a similar attribution, end the quoted material with a comma, even if it is only one word.

Examples:

“I don’t care,” he said.
“Stop,” he said.

Rule 14. Use a comma to separate a statement from a question.

Example: I can go, can’t I?

Rule 15. Use a comma to separate contrasting parts of a sentence.

Example: That is my money, not yours.

Rule 16a. Use a comma before and after certain introductory words or terms, such as namely, that is, i.e., e.g., and for instance, when they are followed by a series of items.

Example: You may be required to bring many items, e.g., sleeping bags, pans, and warm clothing.

Rule 16b. Commas should precede the term etc. and enclose it if it is placed midsentence.

Example: Sleeping bags, pans, warm clothing, etc., are in the tent.

INTERNAL DIALOGUE: ITALICS OR QUOTES?

Internal dialogue is used by authors to indicate what a character is thinking.
Direct internal dialogue refers to a character thinking the exact thoughts as written, often in the first person. (The first person singular is I, the first person plural is we.)

Example: “I lied,” Charles thought, “but maybe she will forgive me.”

Notice that quotation marks and other punctuation are used as if the character had spoken aloud.

You may also use italics without quotation marks for direct internal dialogue.
Example: I lied, Charles thought, but maybe she will forgive me.

J Ratto note: It has become more accepted to use italics without a tag.

Example: I lied, but maybe she will forgive me.

Indirect internal dialogue refers to a character expressing a thought in the third person (the third person singular is he or she, the plural is they) and is not set off with either italics or quotation marks.

Example: Bev wondered why Charles would think that she would forgive him so easily.

The sense of the sentence tells us that she did not think these exact words.

WRITING NUMBERS

Except for a few basic rules, spelling out numbers vs. using figures (also called numerals) is largely a matter of writers’ preference. Again, consistency is the key.

Policies and philosophies vary from medium to medium. The two most influential guidebooks for publishers, editors, and writers, the Associated Press Stylebook and the Chicago Manual of Style, have different approaches.

The first recommends spelling out the numbers one through nine and using figures thereafter; Chicago recommends spelling out the numbers one through ninety-nine and using figures thereafter.

This is a complex topic, with many exceptions, and there is no consistency we can rely on among blogs, books, newspapers, and magazines. This chapter will confine itself to rules that all media seem to agree on.

Rule 1. Spell out all numbers beginning a sentence.

Examples:

Twenty-three hundred sixty-one victims were hospitalized.
Nineteen fifty-six was quite a year.

Note: The Associated Press Stylebook makes an exception for years.

Example: 1956 was quite a year.

Rule 2a. Hyphenate all compound numbers from twenty-one through ninety-nine.

Examples:

Forty-three people were injured in the train wreck.
Twenty-seven of them were hospitalized.

Rule 2b. Hyphenate all written-out fractions.

Examples:

We recovered about two-thirds of the stolen cash.
One-half is slightly less than five-eighths.

Rule 3a. With figures of four or more digits, use commas. Count three spaces to the left to place the first comma. Continue placing commas after every three digits. Important: do not include decimal points when doing the counting.

Examples:

1,054 people
$2,417,592.21

Rule 3b. It is not necessary to use a decimal point or a dollar sign when writing out sums of less than a dollar.

Not Advised: He had only $0.60.

Better:
He had only sixty cents.

OR
He had only 60 cents.

Rule 4a. For clarity, use noon and midnight rather than 12:00 PM and 12:00 AM.

NOTE
AM and PM are also written A.M. and P.M., a.m. and p.m., and am and pm. Some put a space between the time and AM or PM.

Examples:

8 AM
3:09 P.M.
11:20 p.m.

Others write times using no space before AM or PM.

Example:

8AM
3:09P.M.
11:20p.m.

For the top of the hour, some write 9:00 PM, whereas others drop the :00 and write 9 PM (or 9 p.m., 9pm, etc.).

Rule 4b. Using numerals for the time of day has become widely accepted.

Examples:

The flight leaves at 6:22 a.m.
Please arrive by 12:30 sharp.

However, some writers prefer to spell out the time, particularly when using o’clock.

Examples:
She takes the four thirty-five train.
The baby wakes up at five o’clock in the morning.

ELLIPSIS

Definition:An ellipsis (plural: ellipses) is a punctuation mark consisting of three dots.

Use an ellipsis when omitting a word, phrase, line, paragraph, or more from a quoted passage. Ellipses save space or remove material that is less relevant. They are useful in getting right to the point without delay or distraction:

Full quotation: “Today, after hours of careful thought, we vetoed the bill.”
With ellipsis: “Today…we vetoed the bill.”

Although ellipses are used in many ways, the three-dot method is the simplest. Newspapers, magazines, and books of fiction and nonfiction use various approaches that they find suitable.

Some writers and editors feel that no spaces are necessary.
Example: I don’t know…I’m not sure.

Others enclose the ellipsis with a space on each side.
Example: I don’t know … I’m not sure.

Still others put a space either directly before or directly after the ellipsis.
Examples:
I don’t know …I’m not sure.
I don’t know… I’m not sure.

A four-dot method and an even more rigorous method used in legal works require fuller explanations that can be found in other reference books.

Rule 1. Many writers use an ellipsis whether the omission occurs at the beginning of a sentence, in the middle of a sentence, or between sentences.

A common way to delete the beginning of a sentence is to follow the opening quotation mark with an ellipsis, plus a bracketed capital letter:

Example: “…[A]fter hours of careful thought, we vetoed the bill.”

Other writers omit the ellipsis in such cases, feeling the bracketed capital letter gets the point across.
For more on brackets, see “Parentheses and Brackets.”

Rule 2. Ellipses can express hesitation, changes of mood, suspense, or thoughts trailing off. Writers also use ellipses to indicate a pause or wavering in an otherwise straightforward sentence.

Examples:
I don’t know…I’m not sure.
Pride is one thing, but what happens if she…?
He said, “I…really don’t…understand this.”
____________________________

DASHES

Dashes, like commas, semicolons, colons, ellipses, and parentheses, indicate added emphasis, an interruption, or an abrupt change of thought.

Experienced writers know that these marks are not interchangeable.

Note how dashes subtly change the tone of the following sentences:

Examples:
You are the friend, the only friend, who offered to help me.
You are the friend—the only friend—who offered to help me.

I pay the bills; she has all the fun.
I pay the bills—she has all the fun.

I wish you would…oh, never mind.
I wish you would—oh, never mind.

Rule 1. Words and phrases between dashes are not generally part of the subject.

Example: Joe—and his trusty mutt—was always welcome.

Rule 2. Dashes replace otherwise mandatory punctuation, such as the commas after Iowa and 2013 in the following examples:

Without dash: The man from Ames, Iowa, arrived.

With dash: The man—he was from Ames, Iowa—arrived.

Without dash: The May 1, 2013, edition of the Ames Sentinel arrived in June.

With dash: The Ames Sentinel—dated May 1, 2013—arrived in June.

Rule 3. Some writers and publishers prefer spaces around dashes.

Example: Joe — and his trusty mutt — was always welcome.

_____________________________

EXCLAMATION POINTS

Rule 1. Use an exclamation point to show emotion, emphasis, or surprise.

Examples:
I’m truly shocked by your behavior!
Yay! We won!

Rule 2. An exclamation point replaces a period at the end of a sentence.
Incorrect: I’m truly shocked by your behavior!.

Rule 3. Do not use an exclamation point in formal business writing.

Rule 4. Overuse of exclamation points is a sign of undisciplined writing. Do not use even one of these marks unless you’re convinced it is justified.

QUOTATION MARKS

The rules set forth in this section are customary in the United States. Great Britain and other countries in the Commonwealth of Nations are governed by quite different conventions. Nowhere is this more apparent than in Rule 3a in this section, a rule that has the advantage of being far simpler than Britain’s and the disadvantage of being far less logical.

Rule 1. Use double quotation marks to set off a direct (word-for-word) quotation.

Correct: “When will you be here?” he asked.

Incorrect: He asked “when I would be there.”

Rule 2. Either quotation marks or italics are customary for titles: magazines, books, plays, films, songs, poems, article titles, chapter titles, etc.

Rule 3a. Periods and commas always go inside quotation marks.

Examples:

The sign said, “Walk.” Then it said, “Don’t Walk,” then, “Walk,” all within thirty seconds.

He yelled, “Hurry up.”

Rule 3b. Use single quotation marks for quotations within quotations.

Example: He said, “Dan cried, ‘Do not treat me that way.’ “

Note that the period goes inside both the single and double quotation marks.

J Ratto note: Whether all the punctuation is placed within the quotes depends on the punctuation of the main sentence.

Example: He said, “Dan asked, ‘Must you treat me that way?’”

Here the question mark is part of the quoted phrase, so is placed inside the single and double quotations.

He asked, “Do you agree with Dan that ‘he should be treated better’?”

Here the question mark is part of the whole (main) sentence, so is placed outside the single quote but inside the closing quotation marks.

Rule 4. As a courtesy, make sure there is visible space at the start or end of a quotation between adjacent single and double quotation marks. (Your word processing program may do this automatically.)

Not ample space: He said, “Dan cried, ‘Do not treat me that way.'”
Ample space: He said, “Dan cried, ‘Do not treat me that way.’ “

J Ratto note: I haven’t noticed this extra space in the novels I read, so not sure this is a universal rule.

Rule 5a. Quotation marks are often used with technical terms, terms used in an unusual way, or other expressions that vary from standard usage.

Examples:

It’s an oil-extraction method known as “fracking.”
He did some “experimenting” in his college days.
I had a visit from my “friend” the tax man.

Rule 5b. Never use single quotation marks in sentences like the previous three.

Incorrect: I had a visit from my ‘friend’ the tax man.

The single quotation marks in the above sentence are intended to send a message to the reader that friend is being used in a special way: in this case, sarcastically. Avoid this invalid usage. Single quotation marks are valid only within a quotation, as per Rule 3b, above.

Rule 6. When quoted material runs more than one paragraph, start each new paragraph with opening quotation marks, but do not use closing quotation marks until the end of the passage.

Example: She wrote: “I don’t paint anymore. For a while I thought it was just a phase that I’d get over.

“Now, I don’t even try.”

THE EM DASH

The em dash is the long dash that used to be shown, back in pre-computer days, by typing two hyphens.

Those who use Word can make use of the program’s “auto correct” feature to replace an old-fashioned two-hyphen em dash with an actual em dash (—).

First let’s consider one character being interrupted by another. Here’s an example.

“You don’t get what I’m saying, Tiff, but if you’d just let me expl—”

“I get it all right. You never want to do what I want.”

To show the angry wife cutting off her husband, I used an em dash. When one comes at the end of a sentence like this, it’s followed by the close quotation mark. No period or other punctuation is used.

The second example involves the writer interrupting a line of dialogue to insert an action beat, tag, or other information.

“I’ve waited years for my first publishing contract, and now that it’s here”—her voice broke—“I hardly have words to describe my how I feel.”

To show the emotional state of the jubilant writer, I broke into the sentence with an action beat. The dialogue goes inside the quotation marks, and the em dashes setting off the break go outside of them. Note that an em dash used in this case butts up against the quotation mark on one side and the text on the other with no spaces in between.

When it comes to showing interrupted dialogue in either of the cases I’ve covered, think of a car screeching to a halt, leaving a long black trail of rubber on the asphalt. The em dash is the literary equivalent of a skid mark, showing an abrupt stop in the dialogue.

Rules are made to be broken, but more often they are made to be followed, because violation of those rules, in writing as in any other human endeavor, often leads to unintended consequences.

SCARE QUOTES

One case is the careless use of quotation marks for emphasis.

Scare quotes, as quotation marks employed for this purpose are called, are often used to call out nonstandard or unusual terms, or merely to introduce a word or phrase.
However, although this strategy used to be common, scare quotes have taken on a new role that has largely, at least among careful writers, supplanted the old technique:

Now, they are better employed to convey derision, irony, or skepticism.

For example, a writer who describes how “the institute offers workshops in ‘self-awareness therapy’” is widely presumed not to be gently preparing the reader for the appearance of an unfamiliar phrase; more likely, they are calling attention to what they feel is preciously New Age-y terminology.

Meanwhile, the statement “The Pentagon’s strategy of ‘pacification’ certainly did make things quieter in the neighborhood” comments on the evasive military euphemism, while “The ‘new’ model strikes me as less sophisticated than the old one” calls attention to an unjustified adjective.

Here are three types of superfluous usage of scare quotes:
1. The astronomers reported Tuesday that they had combined more than 6,000 observations from three telescopes to detect the system of
“exoplanets.”

Exoplanets is a term that has only recently entered the general vocabulary, but neologism is not a criterion for use of scare quotes; simply introduce the word, define it, and move on: “The astronomers reported Tuesday that they had combined more than 6,000 observations from three telescopes to detect the system of exoplanets.” (In the article from which this sentence is taken, a definition of exoplanet follows the statement.)

2. They engaged in listening exercises and musical analysis so as to better understand the “musical DNA” of their favorite songs.

If you use an established term in an unfamiliar but analogous sense, trust readers to make the connection; don’t bracket the term in scare quotes:

“They engaged in listening exercises and musical analysis so as to better understand the musical DNA of their favorite songs.”

3. So-called “notification laws” require businesses to notify customers when certain unencrypted customer data is improperly accessed.

Never employ scare quotes around a term introduced by the phrase so-called. Yes, you may want to signal to readers your dissatisfaction with the term, but so-called performs that function, so scare quotes are redundant:

“So-called notification laws require businesses to notify customers when certain unencrypted customer data is improperly accessed.”

Quill Tips

Quill Tips

SeaQuill Writers Co-Op

- Quill Tips - The Official SQW Blog

Quill Tips -- Why THAT Name?

I LOVE research! If you had told me that, back in the dark ages when I had to plow through encyclopedias, reference books and piles of articles to write a research paper, I would have laughed.

It all started when I came across a painting by Concetta Antico. Her unusual use of color intrigued me, so I Googled her. She’s a tetrachromat. What is that? I Googled the word and discovered that super vision (unrelated to supervision) is a real superpower! One link led to another and soon I was lost in worlds I had no idea existed. I was hooked.

What does that have to do with Quill Tips? Let’s begin with SeaQuill Writers.

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Tips on Writing Blurbs

Tips on Writing Blurbs

WRITING BOOK BLURBS The first thing a reader looks at when shopping for books is the cover, but the blurb on the back, or in the description online, is how they decide to read your book. That blurb will be used in online advertising, blog tours,...

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So You Need An Editor – What Kind?

So You Need An Editor – What Kind?

A DEVELOPMENTAL EDITOR:
       Looks at the overall structure and content of your novel.
       Works and collaborates with you throughout your writing process.
       Understands your genre and helps you develop a marketable story.
       Helps with pacing, tone, POV, plot and other building blocks of your novel.
       Does NOT concentrate on typos, grammar, punctuation, sentence flow, etc.

     COSTS:
       Typical fees run between $0.01 per word to $0.10 per word.
       A 70,000 word novel would cost between $700 and $7,000.
       Some developmental editors charge by the page or hour.
       BE SURE to know their rates ahead of time!
                                               ***

A LINE EDITOR OR COPY EDITOR:
       Checks your manuscript line-by-line.
       Analyzes each sentence for clarity, continuity, consistency, flow, tense, word choice,
clichés, repeated words, etc.
       Looks for grammar and punctuation errors.

    COSTS:
       Typical fees run between $0.01 and $0.04 per word.
       A 70,000 word novel would cost between $700 and $2,800.

                                                ***

A PROOFREADER:
       This is the final pass on your novel checking for typos, spelling, grammar and punctuation
errors before going to print.

    COSTS:
       The least expensive editing option.
       Typical fees are between $0.003 and $0.015 per word.
       A 70,000 novel would cost between $210 and $1,050.
       Some proofreaders charge a flat fee. These can be as low as $100 or as high as $500.