Saturday, December 12, 2015


Under the shadow of dark, laden clouds, the idling rental truck still faced the pond. Snow flurries, dry and crystalline, shone in the fast-fading light. Snow hadn’t been promised, or even hinted at. A cold, clear night was on tap, and he’d come for the meteor shower.

“Are we stranded?” Katie asked.

“Not forever. No.”

“For how long, then?”

Her dad shrugged. Two flat tires on Christmas Eve, deep on a rutted New Hampshire road in the hills. “Someone will come.”

Like Katie often did when she was unsettled in any way, she fingered her silver bracelet and its three dangling hearts, one for each member of what had been a whole family only a year before. “Do you miss Mommy?”

He turned the heater up one notch. “Of course.”

“Do you think she misses us?”

He surveyed the breadth of the sky before them, with its muted painterly colors and softened angles, and then met her look. “Maybe not tonight, Honey.”

This shocked her. She had asked this question knowing the answer, and this wasn’t it. But her dad persisted through her worry. “I think she’s looking down on us right now. She’s with us instead of missing us.”

Consideration silenced her. She slid tight to her Dad’s hip and rested her head against him. “Will we see Santa?”

He pointed to a cloudless patch of sky above the opposite shore, the fringes of surrounding cumulus tinted pink. “If we do, he’ll go streaking right over there. When the sky gets dark.”

White Christmas came faint and crackly over the radio, as if it were just now reaching them through the decades since it first came from Bing Crosby’s lips. Steam from the idling truck created a slowly-expanding fog bank behind them. He was travel-weary, the moment hypnotic, and soon he was dozing in the Christmas-themed quiet.

Time passed before he snapped awake to see Katie watching his face.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” He flipped the wipers, and with a chittering swipe they cast dry snow aside to reveal a clear but fully darkened sky. Stars shone in the blackness, flickering to the late-night whisper of I'll Be Home For Christmas over F.M.

Katie gazed at the distant, timid diamonds, studying for constellations. Before she could place anything, starry motion grabbed her attention.

They spotted it at the same instant, a glowing spec, more yellow than the distant stars, arcing its way from right-to-left in a slow-motion traversal of the sky. Katie let out a little involuntary squeak. “Santa,” she whispered in a tone so reverential she might have been witnessing the ascension. “I think Mommy’s riding with him.”

A ball of pain and pride constricted her dad's throat. In the distance, through the trunks of a million denuded trees, faint headlights appeared. Their ‘rescuers.’

Through an instant’s regret—this wasn’t a moment he’d choose to be saved from, after all—he pulled Katie close and kissed her on the forehead. “Me too.”

* * *

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Contests are Hard

Elizabeth Guy at runs a fun recurring short story contest. I like the contest because the judging typically makes sense to me and the first prize includes line-by-line editorial. It also doesn't hurt that I've had some modest success in it. 

Below is my entry (unedited save basic formatting) for last fall's Intense Suspense edition. 

The prompt for the contest (all the contests there are prompted) had something to do with a cell phone failing at the most inopportune, life-and-death moment. I can't find the exact prompt any more or I'd have included it here. The stories were limited to 1500 words.

Many times when I enter a contest, I know my story has no chance. But in this case, I liked what I'd written and quietly had high hopes. 

In the end, I didn't win (though I did get an honorable mention). The editor (Ms. Guy) summarized the different ways in which a cell phone failed in the stories. Sadly, mine suffered the same fate as something like 70 other of the stories. I had focused on story flow and, basing the cell phone's death on a real-life event, hadn't even thought to get creative on that count. 

I don't know if I'd have won had my cellphone died more creatively. But I'm sure I'd have improved my odds.

I don't think it's possible to over-estimate how bored an editor must get during the vetting of stories for a prompted contest. It's probably best to discard your first few ideas and roam (even arbitrarily) far afield in the chase for a good story. 

Here's the winning entry

And here's mine . . . 


     It was the kind of day when the blacktop, rolling off to the horizon, melted in the shimmers.
     Laurel passed the black Impala on I-10 twenty miles before she pulled off for gas. It had low-profile rims and roughly-applied Bondo down one side, but was worth noting only because it rode for uninterrupted miles on the dotted line.
     She’d forgotten the car and its driver’s habits by the time she pulled up beside a pump.
     The T-phone, propped in a cup holder, rang the instant she stepped out onto the pavement. It was a pay-as-you-go model, and no-one but Trent had the number.
     Even two months into their relationship, butterflies fluttered inside her as she anticipated the sound of his voice.
     “Hi, Babe,” he said. “I’m an hour away and already aroused.”
     “Oh, my God, me too.”
     “You naked yet?”
     She laughed as she moved to the gas pump. “They frown on that kinda thing here in Arizona.”
     “Hurry up and cross the border then so we can get to partying. Blythe awaits.”
     “Just gassing up and taking a nature break, then I’ll be breaking all kinds of traffic laws.”
     “Don’t get caught.”
     “I won’t.”
     “See you in a few. You’re too far away.”
     Trent had been the one to suggest a meet-in-the-middle spot between their distant lives. Blythe, a desiccated desert town on the California-Arizona border, was the winner. And this was their third trip in six weeks.
     The affair, born of an innocent note on Facebook, had seemed like a near accident. But it brought her to life in ways she hadn’t felt in nearly twenty years.
     Inside the mini-mart, a weary space weathered by too many years of foot traffic, she gravitated to the candy aisle. She was looking for Altoids but had an odd sense of embarrassment when she saw a little boy digging through the nearby toy section.
     Altoids were only mints, after all, and the kid couldn’t know what she had in mind. But she knew what she had in mind.  
     The notion of explaining the word ‘fellatio’ to Little Timmy Thompson made her giggle.  
     The boy glanced her way and gave an awkward smile as, outside, the Bondo’d Impala pulled up to the pumps.    
     Over by the beer fridge, a man and a woman--presumably the kid’s parents--were too-intently studying brands of cheap domestic twelve-packs. Studying like the choice might actually matter. 
     The T-phone rang again, and she picked up before the end of the first ring.
     “Are we there yet?” he asked.
     She was distantly aware of a drop of sweat sliding down between her breasts. “You’re crazy.”
     “Happily crazy.”
     “Hang up now, Trent.”
     “Hanging up.”
     Turning slowly, smiling at the sound of Trent’s voice (was there anything more enthralling than the days of being smitten?), she sensed more than saw the Impala driver approaching the front door.
     Something metallic flashed in the sunlight, and it took her a second to realize it was the man’s prosthetic arm, an animated hook of sorts.
     A soldier, maybe? A victim of a disfiguring accident?
     He opened the door with his manufactured arm. The cold sound of metal-on-metal made her wince.
     He was smiling, but it was the most mirthless smile she could imagine, his eyes going entirely untouched.
     She had to fight her instinct to nervousness. Hold your water, she thought. There are scary people everywhere. Some of them don’t even kill people.
     She watched the man behind the register tracing the motion of the newcomer with his eyes. But almost immediately, the angry man said something that put a surprised smile on the cashier’s face.
     Laurel felt herself relaxing, as well, as the traveler approached the beer fridges.
     She had just turned to glance back at the tin of Altoids when a loud pop shook the room.
     She felt it in her diaphragm as much as she heard it. Someone--she supposed it had to be her--squealed.
     She turned toward the beer-shopping couple when she sensed movement.
     The twelve-pack they had finally chosen spiraled in slow motion, end-over-ending until it struck the ground at an odd angle, hard on a corner, the man falling as an afterthought beside it.
     Immediately, beer hissed from a breach in one of the cans.
     The prone man was all lifelessness. His wife, still upright at his side, stood lifeless in her own way.
     Even in her heart-throbbing confusion, Laurel was moving now. She could tell that Trent was still talking, yelling most likely.
     In a thoughtless blur, she grabbed the stunned little boy standing next to her and rushed toward the back of the store.
     The toy he was holding, a space-age squirt gun, clattered to the floor.
     Another pop rang out, and again she flinched.
     A thin, warped door blocked her way to the back; it swung feebly when she yanked it aside. The stink of mildew and stale beer assaulted her as she hauled the boy into the darkened stock room, its contents more fit for a garage than for grocery.
     Off to the left, a door to a narrow bathroom. To the right, neglected yard implements and a stack of mismatched boxes piled high.
     She knew that the shooter would come for her and the boy.
     Two shots out front most likely meant two dead people.
     Inside the store, itself, only one target remained.
     The volume of Trent jabbering at her seemed to fill the quiet back room. She thumbed the mute button and rushed to the open bathroom.
     In the tightness of the sweltering room, she set the boy down. As soon as he was on his feet, she put a silencing finger to her lips.
     After closing the door behind them, she unmuted the phone, planning to dial 911.
     But before she could, the boy began to cry.
     Trent’s voice came over the line again, “Laurel? Say something!”
     She reached out to touch the boy, to reassure. But in that motion, the phone, still clutched in her hand, bumped free.
     It struck the rim of the toilet and somersaulted off the porcelain before its plunge to the bottom of the bowl, the sound of Trent’s questioning voice coming incoherently over the line until splashdown. For only an instant, she stared into the bowl. 
     Then her hand went to water.
     She shook the phone violently, thinking only briefly of the filth painting her arm. 
     Her attention went immediately to the little window above the toilet. It was hinged on top and swung outward. The boy would fit easily, but she was convinced she couldn’t wedge her hips through that space.
     From the front, a third shot rang out.
     Trent’s voice came again, his words unrecognizable through the watery murk around the speaker.
     Panting heavily, she lifted the boy and pushed him up by his bottom, forcing him through the window. A small cry came a second later when he hit the ground outside.
     “Run,” she said as forcefully as a whisper would allow. “Hide.”   
     On the phone, more panicked sounds from Trent.
     “Trent,” she said. “Call 911.” 
     But only gurgling noises returned before a clear, “Damn it, Laurel, you’re sca--”
     She tried then to hang up, to dial 911 herself.
     Every button press went unrewarded.
     And then, nothing.
     It was dead.
     Entirely dead.
     She knew only that she had to hide, to tuck herself in any possible crevice and pray.
     After twisting the lock on the bathroom door, she exited and slammed it shut behind her, hoping to distract.
     She hurried to the back of the stock room and wedged herself between wall and boxes.
     Within seconds, the door to the stock room swung open.  Dust flecks, upset by her movements, floated in front of her, glowing in the sidelight from a tiny nearby window.  
     The room was silent now save the shooter’s heavy footfalls and rapid breathing.
     As he approached the bathroom, Laurel felt herself relax, if only slightly. But the relaxation collapsed when, in a blur of motion, he raised his gun with his flesh-and-bones hand and lashed out with a booted foot, shattering the jam. The door slammed against the toilet with an angry clank.
     She watched his silhouetted profile as he studied the empty room, his eyes soon moving to the open window.
     He grunted and fired a shot at the toilet, the explosion painfully loud in the dark, hot room.
     With a curse, he turned toward the front as the sound of water streaming onto the cement floor continued.
     His walk was painfully slow, and Laurel held her breath as he moved.
     He was finally in the doorway when he slowed and turned back for one last look.   
     And then it came.
     Trent’s voice--the ‘dead’ phone still clutched in her hand--clear as day. “Laurel, say something!”
     As the shooter’s legs came to a halt, Laurel closed her eyes and whispered, "I love you, Trent."

### the end ### 

Friday, March 04, 2011

Kindle Publishing: Baby Steps

So my novel, Learning to Swim, has been up at Amazon and Barnes and Noble for a little over three weeks now. Sales have been very modest, but the feedback has been as good as I could possibly have hoped for.

Now it's time to work on doing what I can to build an audience for the book. Tonight, I'm ordering Moo Mini cards, which are playful, odd-sized business cards that allow for a distinct image on every card. The side opposite the image supports one color (red in my case) with textual information (book title, e-mail address, and where it's available).

The images below were part of my first, abortive attempt at getting a group of them printed.

They failed mainly because the title didn't fit in the 'safe' cut-off box that Moo doesn't tell you about until you've uploaded. The two top images have one other handicap, as well, though I actually love them; neither speaks directly of a distinctly lakeside story.

Anyway, I've reformatted and gone with a different font, this time taking into account the safe area for title printing. I'll post those images in the next few days.

(the photos I took in New Hampshire, where the book is set)

As soon as these things arrive, I plan to start passing them out and talking the book up to anyone who gives me the slightest indication that they might have interest (I have, for example, seen countless people on lunch break with a Kindle). 

I have no idea how successful this effort will be, but I'll let you know. 

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

My First Interview For the Book

Kindle Author


*actually, my first interview for any reason  :>)