Guess the Plot
Mysterious Gift
1. Ludlow strives to perfect the anti-gravity device despite Pruddy's lack of business sense and the constant hyper-criticisms of his mother. And that is why Charlotte loves him, though, of course, only from afar. Until she receives the . . . Mysterious Gift.
2. The elf left a brightly wrapped package under the sofa just as Edna despaired ever finding true love and happiness. But she never looks under there. After three days the greenie decides to be proactive and tries lots of clever tricks and silly antics -- and gets vacuumed up. Will Edna ever find t. l. & h.???
3. The moment she touches her birthday present, college student Jen is thrust into an ancient war between extraterrestrials and gods. Is she the key to peace after 8000 years of conflict? Can she defeat Seth, the god of evil? Wouldn't perfume have been a better gift?
4. Delbert Toomey answers a knock on his door to find someone has left something on his doorstep. Wrapped in an anonymous brown paper bag, it appears to be on fire. Can Delbert figure out what the mysterious gift is in time to save face . . . and his slippers?
5. Secret Santa is all fun and games, until Hayley opens her package and finds a human hand. Should she report it to the cops or investigate herself? How hard can it be to spot someone who's missing a hand?
6. Partridge, fine. Doves, Ok. But three hens, four collie birds and a squawk-induced headache later, Becca sets a trap for this mysterious admirer. Can Henry get her to accept the remaining gifts and release him from the curse, without telling her about it? Five gold rings might help.
Original Version
Dear (agent name) (Date)
JEN dreams of tomorrow when she graduates as an archeologist and flies to Egypt to begin her fieldwork. [Tomorrow's gonna be a busy day.] Nothing stands in the way of attaining her goals until she touches her 21st birthday gift, an ancient talisman. Jen’s hand jerks up and her mind’s eye opens: as visions of ancient Egyptian gods and goddesses along with alien beings fighting a deadly war fuse together, leading her to question her moral, religious beliefs and her courage. [Who gave her this gift, where'd they buy it, and what's the returns policy there?] With her new extraterrestrial allies, [It's a big step from visions to extraterrestrial allies. Is Jen at war?] family and friends she battles her demons, embraces her newfound inner strengths of courage and sacred beliefs, and undergoes training with the deities, emerging as a warrior queen possessing god-like powers, which she uses against an evil adversary. [I got a better idea. Have her fly to Egypt, meet a hunky archaeologist, fall in love, and live happily ever after.]
When Jen’s 21st birthday gift illuminates a dark room, her dreams begin. She learns to levitate, read and speak any language, see through the eyes of a god, teleport [These aren't her dreams. Her dream is to be an archaeologist.] and kill her enemies. [She has enemies? She's 21. Okay, I had a couple enemies when I was 21, but I didn't kill them.] Her new powers forces Jen to battle her own fears: the horror of killing and the pain of defeat. To lose she knows brings fatality and she knows that death is a coldness lasting an eternity. Also at stake are her religious beliefs. She questions if she is a pawn in a power struggle between gods, or will her actions lead to the resolution of a conflict between good and evil that has raged for 8000 years? [8000 years? Listen, if you can't resolve a conflict within a few millenia, it's time to call in an impartial mediator.] With her family and closest friends, she resolves her personal obstacles, gathers her companions, travels to an alien universe, [How many of the companions she gathers agree to go with her to an alien universe? I mean while keeping a straight face.] and enters a war that is threatening to spill out into the Milky Way Galaxy. Aided by ancient and alien races, early gods, BAST, a protective cat and MICHAEL an intelligent Cyborg [Intelligent cyborgs are such a cliche. Try making your cyborg an idiot.] with a sense of humor—she and her friend’s battle SETH, the god of chaos and evil. Seth’s goals include [but are not limited to] destroying any who oppose him, enslaving all habitable planets and oh yes, taking over as the supreme deity.
My stand alone novel, MYSTERIOUS GIFT, complete at 119,000 words, is a New Adult Science Fiction / Fantasy that takes readers along an avenue of escape and adventure, offering two worlds to explore, one ancient and the other alien and futuristic. The sequel, titled QUEST, is near completion, and the final standalone book is in outline form. Along with my passion for Egyptian, Grecian and Italian archeology, my credentials include a BA in History, participation in archeological field digs and twenty years as a Naval Flight Officer. The above knowledge, sprinkled throughout this adventure, makes MYSTERIOUS GIFT a page-turner. [All books are page-turners; the key statistic is the number of page-turns made before the book is tossed in the trash.]
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Notes
Scrap the whole thing; it's horrible. Just stick to the plot:
On her 21st birthday, aspiring archaeologist Jen Smith-Barney receives a mysterious package from Bubba Ho-tep. It's an ancient talisman, and it plunges Jen into an adventure involving Egyptian gods, alien beings, demons and a protective cat.
That's enough backstory. Now tell us what happens in the book. Make it sound like an adventure. That means leave out the inner strengths of courage and the moral, religious beliefs and the fears and personal obstacles. Focus on Jen and what she does and the stakes.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
New Beginning 707
She went down hard and fighting with every strength and power she possessed. Insidious tendrils of blank emptiness snaked down into her memories, wrenching, grasping. Her hands flew to the pounding at her temples. The dank, dark cell fell away beneath an onslaught of blinding pain.
She planted her mind at the bottom of her soul and stretched it forth. Then taking hold of a powerful wave of burning light, she hurled it against the assault.
The stealing loss of sensation died away as memory blazed to life once more.
Salorý.
She clutched the word close to her.
Her name.
Her identity she had earned, lived, sacrificed heart and soul and will to gain. She would not lay it down without a fight, she thought fiercely. Wrath billowed up from within at the men and the drug, blinding her vision with anger.
That was when she lost control and fell into the terrible darkness.
* * *
Gus shrugged, balled up the piece of paper and threw it onto the table. "So, what's yours say?"
Emily grinned. "Expect gift from a wealthy stranger."
Opening: Megs.....Continuation: anon.
She planted her mind at the bottom of her soul and stretched it forth. Then taking hold of a powerful wave of burning light, she hurled it against the assault.
The stealing loss of sensation died away as memory blazed to life once more.
Salorý.
She clutched the word close to her.
Her name.
Her identity she had earned, lived, sacrificed heart and soul and will to gain. She would not lay it down without a fight, she thought fiercely. Wrath billowed up from within at the men and the drug, blinding her vision with anger.
That was when she lost control and fell into the terrible darkness.
* * *
Gus shrugged, balled up the piece of paper and threw it onto the table. "So, what's yours say?"
Emily grinned. "Expect gift from a wealthy stranger."
Opening: Megs.....Continuation: anon.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Let Us Give Thanks
1. I'm thankful the piggy vampire things the ones with the curly tails like demon spawn demon spawn pouring outta their damn backsides and the squeeeeee the squeeeeeee like Burt Reynolds and the underpant guy and the banjo the pig the guts the whole wretched bloody scene yeah glad that's stopped glad that's stopped thank the lord thank the lord thank the lord.
2. I'm thankful Stevie Wonder never did a duet with Marilyn Manson, though as an insider, I know they dressed up weird together twice.
3. I'm thankful that bats are way way down on the list of species threatened by man's colossal stupidity thanks to an idiot novel Bram Stoker once wrote.
4. I'm thankful for gloves. And yet, so not some bizarre fetishist whose every waking moment is devoted to the blissful sound feel taste sensation of fingers stretching a tight wool knit into a subtle (yet audible for those with ears) skrckrchsrchrchrcschsh-sk rsachrkcsh.
5. I'm thankful for flakes of dried skin between my toes. I'm 83 for chrissake what the fuck else is there to live for?
--Whirlochre
I'm thankful for EE, Miss Snark, Janet Reid, and all the other wonderful bloggers.
I'm thankful for the cat on my lap, the one whose breath smells either like fish or something dead.
I'm thankful for the chance to know and love my friend, even though she's ruining her life.
I'm thankful for Dad, who just pulled into the driveway after a long day of work, and Mom, who's in the kitchen, getting ready for Thanksgiving.
I thank my best friend, who's seen me at my worst and still loves me more than life.
--Rachel
Since the dinner is at my house:
1. I'm Thankful that the rest of the family fears my cooking, so all I have to do is provide a room and a table.
2. I'm Thankful that the Poodles edit my work.
3. I'm really, truly Thankful that I have a powerful dishwasher.
--Khazar-khum
1) Whenever my kids are ill or hungry or cold I have the resources to do something about it.
2) I have an unlimited supply of paper.
3) I have no clue who Penelope Cruz is. Is she better looking than David Tennant? Can't be. I'm thankful for David Tennant.
--Mother (Re)produces
I'm thankful that I live far away from home and don't have to eat dry turkey with gravy granules and overcooked sweet potatoes and pretend that I enjoy it.
Happy Thanksgiving to the US contingent, nonetheless :)
--Sylvia
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Thanksgiving Preparations
As continuations and fake plots aren't pouring in, and there may be fewer readers than usual to comment on anything for the next few days, I thought I'd list a few of the things I'm thankful for. Then you guys can submit your own items or lists (no more than five items per minion), which I'll collect for an amusing Thanksgiving Day post. Those who live where Thursday isn't Thanksgiving are invited to participate, of course.
1. I'm thankful they now make ladders with slotted rungs so that people with peg legs don't have to worry about slipping off.
2. I'm thankful the people who run Blogger have enough sense to know that if I don't get my usual Christmas bonus, this blog will be moving to LiveJournal.
3. I'm thankful Penelope Cruz has finally come to her senses and accepted my offer to take her back.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
New Beginning 706
I was dimly aware that it was a glorious morning and that I ought to be grateful for it. The waning moon hung low in the western sky. The east was streaked with pale gold clouds; the sun wasn’t up yet. Also the frost was thick on the windshield, and the goats (who had heard the door shut behind me) were bellowing to be milked, and I was hungry and I wouldn’t feel safe eating while driving so I had to get breakfast into me, and I had to be on the road by six-thirty. I’d been up since half past five, but I’d wasted half an hour restarting the wood boiler because I slept through my alarm at two o’clock when I should have tended it. And I was especially reluctant to arrive late for the meeting at Gloria Ormond’s house since she was no longer in remission.
The goats must have felt my impatience. They both dithered; one stepped in the milk pail. I started the car, cranked up the heat, ran inside to wolf down cold biscuits and fret about wasting gas instead of scraping and then had to scrape anyway to clear a patch I could see through.
Anyway, a little later than scheduled, here are this morning's news headlines . . .
Opening: Joanna.....Continuation: Anon.
The goats must have felt my impatience. They both dithered; one stepped in the milk pail. I started the car, cranked up the heat, ran inside to wolf down cold biscuits and fret about wasting gas instead of scraping and then had to scrape anyway to clear a patch I could see through.
Anyway, a little later than scheduled, here are this morning's news headlines . . .
Opening: Joanna.....Continuation: Anon.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Face-Lift 700!
Guess the Plot
The Last Ride
1. An aging cowboy on his last cattle drive, from Texas to Ogallala, Nebraska, plans to stampede the herd and throw himself under it--until he falls for a saloon owner during a rest stop outside Oklahoma City. Is it ever too late for romance?
2. Abandoned at age eight on a carnival ride, Sandra Fforde now studies mechanics by day and destroys carnival rides by night, both with unmitigated success. How? She made a deal with Satan. The complication? Jordan Wong, and the tunnel of love.
3. When Toni and Maurice tell conman Vinni Finch they're taking him for a ride, he offers to drive. Three state lines later he's convinced them to be his partners. But their current mark has an ace in the hole: Boss Martini wants his best muscle men back.
4. Jeff is supposed to get the kids once a month, but Julie wouldn't let him have them the last three months. Now he's taken them to Disneyland, the fireworks have finished, the kids are surly and the lines are long. And when the boat stalls on "It's a Small World," Jeff finally snaps.
5. When the angel Gabriel's wife dies, he decides it's time to start the apocalypse. But the four horsemen have settled down with good jobs and lives, and they don't want a depressed angel screwing it all up. So they saddle up and prepare for what may be . . . The Last Ride.
6. Charon has taken multitudes on their last ride. And he's sick of it. He announces that anyone who needs to cross the Styx after Thursday had better bring along a canoe. When Hades gets word of what's going on, the storm clouds start brewing.
Original Version
Dear Agent Acrimonious:
I'm writing to you because I've enjoyed [some recently published books] by [authors you represent], and believe you may be interested in The Last Ride, my 90K work [Has K become an abbreviation for thousand-word?]of humorous fantasy. [You should probably put the part where you claim you loved the books you never read by the authors you never heard of more toward the end of the query.]
When Gabriel Seraph's wife dies, he gives up on life. All life. Because Gabriel is THAT Gabriel, messenger of God and the angel sent to earth sixty years ago to bring about the apocalypse. Now that he's got nothing to live for, he's going to finish the job. [You'd have to be a pretty benevolent boss to put up with an employee who takes sixty years to start a project you assigned him. That or the angels have one powerful union.]
But he's not the only one with a say in the matter. The four horsemen are also on earth. Death owns a funeral parlor, Famine runs a food bank, Pestilence works at the Center for Disease Control and War is a peace activist.
[Famine: I've prevented thousands from starving.
Pestilence: I've cured cancer.
War: I'm working for peace on Earth.
Death: Man, you guys are killing my profit margin.] They're quite happy with the lives they've built for themselves, and they're not about to let a disillusioned angel wreck it all.
The Last Ride
1. An aging cowboy on his last cattle drive, from Texas to Ogallala, Nebraska, plans to stampede the herd and throw himself under it--until he falls for a saloon owner during a rest stop outside Oklahoma City. Is it ever too late for romance?
2. Abandoned at age eight on a carnival ride, Sandra Fforde now studies mechanics by day and destroys carnival rides by night, both with unmitigated success. How? She made a deal with Satan. The complication? Jordan Wong, and the tunnel of love.
3. When Toni and Maurice tell conman Vinni Finch they're taking him for a ride, he offers to drive. Three state lines later he's convinced them to be his partners. But their current mark has an ace in the hole: Boss Martini wants his best muscle men back.
4. Jeff is supposed to get the kids once a month, but Julie wouldn't let him have them the last three months. Now he's taken them to Disneyland, the fireworks have finished, the kids are surly and the lines are long. And when the boat stalls on "It's a Small World," Jeff finally snaps.
5. When the angel Gabriel's wife dies, he decides it's time to start the apocalypse. But the four horsemen have settled down with good jobs and lives, and they don't want a depressed angel screwing it all up. So they saddle up and prepare for what may be . . . The Last Ride.
6. Charon has taken multitudes on their last ride. And he's sick of it. He announces that anyone who needs to cross the Styx after Thursday had better bring along a canoe. When Hades gets word of what's going on, the storm clouds start brewing.
Original Version
Dear Agent Acrimonious:
I'm writing to you because I've enjoyed [some recently published books] by [authors you represent], and believe you may be interested in The Last Ride, my 90K work [Has K become an abbreviation for thousand-word?]of humorous fantasy. [You should probably put the part where you claim you loved the books you never read by the authors you never heard of more toward the end of the query.]
When Gabriel Seraph's wife dies, he gives up on life. All life. Because Gabriel is THAT Gabriel, messenger of God and the angel sent to earth sixty years ago to bring about the apocalypse. Now that he's got nothing to live for, he's going to finish the job. [You'd have to be a pretty benevolent boss to put up with an employee who takes sixty years to start a project you assigned him. That or the angels have one powerful union.]
But he's not the only one with a say in the matter. The four horsemen are also on earth. Death owns a funeral parlor, Famine runs a food bank, Pestilence works at the Center for Disease Control and War is a peace activist.
[Famine: I've prevented thousands from starving.
Pestilence: I've cured cancer.
War: I'm working for peace on Earth.
Death: Man, you guys are killing my profit margin.] They're quite happy with the lives they've built for themselves, and they're not about to let a disillusioned angel wreck it all.
While Gabriel sets out to recover the seven vials of God's wrath, the four horsemen saddle up for the bumpiest ride of their existence.
The manuscript is complete and available on request. My short stories have appeared in [print]. Should you require more information about me, I maintain a blog at [hollywood & vine] and my web page is [sorely in need of an update]. [More information about you isn't required at this time.]
Thanks for your time.
Notes
This sounds good. Funny and clever idea. Of course the plot summary is all set-up, so you might want to throw in some details, like where the vials are, how the horsemen plan to stop Gabriel, etc. Especially if it's amusing, something like:
As Gabriel sets out to recover the seven vials of God's wrath, guarded for centuries by the senile cyclops of Sargasso, little does he suspect that the horsemen have recruited Aquaman to assist them and will soon set out on the bumpiest ride....
Notes
This sounds good. Funny and clever idea. Of course the plot summary is all set-up, so you might want to throw in some details, like where the vials are, how the horsemen plan to stop Gabriel, etc. Especially if it's amusing, something like:
As Gabriel sets out to recover the seven vials of God's wrath, guarded for centuries by the senile cyclops of Sargasso, little does he suspect that the horsemen have recruited Aquaman to assist them and will soon set out on the bumpiest ride....
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Comedy Scene 17
[Background: end of a short piece in which a young taxi driver is sitting in front of his parents' house in his taxi debating how to tell them their Yorkie is dead.]
The problem is, Poochie-bear has--as the Monty Pythons would say--expired, ceased to be, gone to meet 'is maker. He is an ex-Yorkie. Sorry, mate.
Yeah, Officer Krumke, I'm the one what done it, kicked the mutt's bucket when he wasn't looking. I am the Poochie-bear slayer. You'll never take me alive, Officer Krumke. Stop laughing when I need to be mercy-kicked into the next life.
"Mom...stop crying...it was an accident. I didn't mean it, Mom."
"You're no son of mine. "
#
My confession might go better than that, but only marginally. I will be disowned, disinherited and generally dissed. The worst part is that I'll lose my fall-back position: my old bedroom in Mom's and Dad's house in case my steampunk revival rock band, The Steam Loco-Motives, doesn't pan out and I get evicted from my studio apartment. (The taxi company is looking for me fervently, and I don't anticipate having free transportation for the band much longer.)
Life is not fair.
"Calm yourself, fool," I say. The parental units deserve a fair explanation of the demise of their beloved mutt. I take a deep breath and ready myself. I try to think, what would Johnny Rotten do? Nothing useful comes to mind, so I pound my head on the steering wheel until I agree with myself.
Before facing my parents, I decide to verify that this has been a waking experience rather than the nightmare it seems. I get out of my taxi and look underneath it. Yeah, Poochie-bear really is there. That sucks a lot.
--Bill H.
The problem is, Poochie-bear has--as the Monty Pythons would say--expired, ceased to be, gone to meet 'is maker. He is an ex-Yorkie. Sorry, mate.
Yeah, Officer Krumke, I'm the one what done it, kicked the mutt's bucket when he wasn't looking. I am the Poochie-bear slayer. You'll never take me alive, Officer Krumke. Stop laughing when I need to be mercy-kicked into the next life.
"Mom...stop crying...it was an accident. I didn't mean it, Mom."
"You're no son of mine. "
#
My confession might go better than that, but only marginally. I will be disowned, disinherited and generally dissed. The worst part is that I'll lose my fall-back position: my old bedroom in Mom's and Dad's house in case my steampunk revival rock band, The Steam Loco-Motives, doesn't pan out and I get evicted from my studio apartment. (The taxi company is looking for me fervently, and I don't anticipate having free transportation for the band much longer.)
Life is not fair.
"Calm yourself, fool," I say. The parental units deserve a fair explanation of the demise of their beloved mutt. I take a deep breath and ready myself. I try to think, what would Johnny Rotten do? Nothing useful comes to mind, so I pound my head on the steering wheel until I agree with myself.
Before facing my parents, I decide to verify that this has been a waking experience rather than the nightmare it seems. I get out of my taxi and look underneath it. Yeah, Poochie-bear really is there. That sucks a lot.
--Bill H.
Comedy Scene 16
[David and Nina are having a philosophical discussion next to a creek. David is speaking first:]
“When you meet god, what will you say?”
“Pfff... I'll kick it in the nuts.”
“Him. Not 'it'.” David wrenched a flat stone out of the sand. “If you're kicking a god in the nuts, it's a 'him'.” He leaned closer, trying not to smile. “Do I need to explain this to you?”
“No.” She pushed him away, laughing. “A real god couldn't be male. Or female. Or human or animal. I meant it-”
“Maybe god's a fungus.” He plonked the stone down and stacked another on top.
“Shut up.” Nina chucked a micro-pebble at him. “I meant it metaphorically. I'd find it's soft spot. Like Achilles' heel.”
“Ok.” He piled on more rocks. This was getting serious. “God has a soft spot.” The tower was about as stable as a house of cards. “God has nuts.” Of course, rocks hurt more than cards. “You think god's a sentimental squirrel?”
Nina's pointing finger slow-moed it's way toward the tower.
“No!”
“Fine.” She scooted out of range of the tower. Her mouth twitched. “Boy squirrel or girl squirrel?”
“Oh, ha ha.” Three more stones. “We went to a church once, after my dad died. Mom thought it might help. Me, Mom and Gretch all fell asleep and Frances sat there, tearing the pages out of the songbook until some lady behind us poked Mom. Never again, Mom said.” The tower leaned. “You ever go to a church?”
“No, but I read the Bible once.”
“The whole Bible?” He dived clear as the tower collapsed.
“I skimmed the 'begats'.”
“The what?”
“Never mind. Have you ever read it? There's some pretty wild stories in there...”
“No way. It'd have to be the only book in the house for me to read it.”
“It was.”
--Mother (Re)produces
“When you meet god, what will you say?”
“Pfff... I'll kick it in the nuts.”
“Him. Not 'it'.” David wrenched a flat stone out of the sand. “If you're kicking a god in the nuts, it's a 'him'.” He leaned closer, trying not to smile. “Do I need to explain this to you?”
“No.” She pushed him away, laughing. “A real god couldn't be male. Or female. Or human or animal. I meant it-”
“Maybe god's a fungus.” He plonked the stone down and stacked another on top.
“Shut up.” Nina chucked a micro-pebble at him. “I meant it metaphorically. I'd find it's soft spot. Like Achilles' heel.”
“Ok.” He piled on more rocks. This was getting serious. “God has a soft spot.” The tower was about as stable as a house of cards. “God has nuts.” Of course, rocks hurt more than cards. “You think god's a sentimental squirrel?”
Nina's pointing finger slow-moed it's way toward the tower.
“No!”
“Fine.” She scooted out of range of the tower. Her mouth twitched. “Boy squirrel or girl squirrel?”
“Oh, ha ha.” Three more stones. “We went to a church once, after my dad died. Mom thought it might help. Me, Mom and Gretch all fell asleep and Frances sat there, tearing the pages out of the songbook until some lady behind us poked Mom. Never again, Mom said.” The tower leaned. “You ever go to a church?”
“No, but I read the Bible once.”
“The whole Bible?” He dived clear as the tower collapsed.
“I skimmed the 'begats'.”
“The what?”
“Never mind. Have you ever read it? There's some pretty wild stories in there...”
“No way. It'd have to be the only book in the house for me to read it.”
“It was.”
--Mother (Re)produces
Comedy Scene 15
Haloumi hurled himself past Dann-Glarr’s swashbuckling bulk and cartwheeled over the stationery and horse feed as an icy illumarama of strobe light pounded the corridor walls like a rainbow imprisoned in a demon’s skull.
His knowledge of angels was patchy at best, and even on a good day he could scarcely get his head round the concept of the hole in the halo, let alone any of the fancy stuff. But this was nothing like a good day — and judging from the angry cherubic shrieks erupting behind him, clearly not a good angel either. As for the ricochet of Nazi bullets: it didn’t help.
He bolted some way down the corridor — then stopped. For all his haste, he’d run into nothing but trouble since the mysterious phone call earlier in the evening that had kickstarted the current commotion, and with angels, dragons, trolls and Nazis thumping around all over the place, he figured hiding would be better than hot-footing it headlong into another perilous scenario — at least, until Dann-Glarr had sorted everything out. If he was going to.
Room 602 lay just around the corner. It contained an Egyptian sarcophagus he’d tarted up for a Christmas TV special, and hidden under the duck down lining was a secret compartment containing some solar-powered torches, a week’s supply of chocolate and a Swiss army knife. As hiding places went, it seemed perfect. For now.
--Whirlochre
His knowledge of angels was patchy at best, and even on a good day he could scarcely get his head round the concept of the hole in the halo, let alone any of the fancy stuff. But this was nothing like a good day — and judging from the angry cherubic shrieks erupting behind him, clearly not a good angel either. As for the ricochet of Nazi bullets: it didn’t help.
He bolted some way down the corridor — then stopped. For all his haste, he’d run into nothing but trouble since the mysterious phone call earlier in the evening that had kickstarted the current commotion, and with angels, dragons, trolls and Nazis thumping around all over the place, he figured hiding would be better than hot-footing it headlong into another perilous scenario — at least, until Dann-Glarr had sorted everything out. If he was going to.
Room 602 lay just around the corner. It contained an Egyptian sarcophagus he’d tarted up for a Christmas TV special, and hidden under the duck down lining was a secret compartment containing some solar-powered torches, a week’s supply of chocolate and a Swiss army knife. As hiding places went, it seemed perfect. For now.
--Whirlochre
Comedy Scene 14
The only food in Rex and Iz’s kitchen was a jar of pickles. There should have been a twenty-five-ounce box of Frosted Flakes too, the Frosted Flakes Iz had bought just the day before, but Rex had gotten stoned and had eaten the entire box in one sitting.
Those were my Frosted Flakes! Iz wrote in his journal after confronting Rex. He continued:
I come in at eleven and decide to have a bowl of cereal before going to bed. I usually eat breakfast at night so I can sleep later in the morning. Anyway, I get out the milk and a bowl and spoon and I open the cabinet. And no box!
I say, “Where’s the Frosted Flakes?”
“I ate ’em,” Rex tells me.
“Whattaya mean you ate ’em?” I say.
“I ate ’em.”
“The whole box?!!!!”
“Sorry.”
“That was a big box! A huge box! Twenty-five ounces!”
“I couldn’t stop eating them.”
“How could you eat the whole box? It’s like eating a pound and a half of sugar!”
“I had to eat them all. Toward the end, I wasn’t even enjoying them.”
“Oh, well how satisfying to know that! Why didn’t you eat the whole jar of pickles, instead?!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re sweet gherkins.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
--Evil Editor
Those were my Frosted Flakes! Iz wrote in his journal after confronting Rex. He continued:
I come in at eleven and decide to have a bowl of cereal before going to bed. I usually eat breakfast at night so I can sleep later in the morning. Anyway, I get out the milk and a bowl and spoon and I open the cabinet. And no box!
I say, “Where’s the Frosted Flakes?”
“I ate ’em,” Rex tells me.
“Whattaya mean you ate ’em?” I say.
“I ate ’em.”
“The whole box?!!!!”
“Sorry.”
“That was a big box! A huge box! Twenty-five ounces!”
“I couldn’t stop eating them.”
“How could you eat the whole box? It’s like eating a pound and a half of sugar!”
“I had to eat them all. Toward the end, I wasn’t even enjoying them.”
“Oh, well how satisfying to know that! Why didn’t you eat the whole jar of pickles, instead?!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re sweet gherkins.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
--Evil Editor
Comedy Scene 13
“Yes,” said Pippa, “but. Item: one European astronaut out of three recovered. Not a very big return on their technological investment. And he’s still in the base hospital. And now they’ve lost one of their own noble rescuers in circumstances which are, to say the least, bloody peculiar. I wonder how the Congressional oversight committee feel about smarmy Jack’s Good Samaritan act right now?”
Tony looked at her wearily. “I think you’re making too much of this, Pips,” he said. “I was happier when we thought it was just corruption and incompetence at Sollner Bauvais. You’re building up these layers of conspiracy theories … you’ll be starting your own website next.”
“Hmph,” said Pippa. “Well, we can find out more from smarmy Jack himself, I think. If you’re right, we’ve got an in, there.”
“What?” said Tony. “Come off it, Pips. You can’t blackmail him by threatening to reveal Anne Rocklynne’s not a lesbian.”
“Whatever their thinking,” said Pippa, “they’re acting like they’ve got something to hide. Ergo, they’ve got something to hide. Ergo, they will cooperate with us if they want it to bloody well stay hidden.”
“Right,” said Tony. “So, when do you want to confront Fenner about his guilty secret, then? Sometime after midnight, when there’s no one else around for ten miles, and he just happens to be cleaning his chainsaw?”
“Piffle,” said Pippa. “He’s holding a press conference tomorrow, isn’t he? And you and I are press. So let’s get in there and confer with the bastard. Ask him how come he and the delicious Major turned up at the death in the same car, for starters.” She rolled over onto her back. “I think I’ve dazzled you enough with my brilliance for one day, scum. Come here and scrutinize my bosoms.”
--Steve Wright
Tony looked at her wearily. “I think you’re making too much of this, Pips,” he said. “I was happier when we thought it was just corruption and incompetence at Sollner Bauvais. You’re building up these layers of conspiracy theories … you’ll be starting your own website next.”
“Hmph,” said Pippa. “Well, we can find out more from smarmy Jack himself, I think. If you’re right, we’ve got an in, there.”
“What?” said Tony. “Come off it, Pips. You can’t blackmail him by threatening to reveal Anne Rocklynne’s not a lesbian.”
“Whatever their thinking,” said Pippa, “they’re acting like they’ve got something to hide. Ergo, they’ve got something to hide. Ergo, they will cooperate with us if they want it to bloody well stay hidden.”
“Right,” said Tony. “So, when do you want to confront Fenner about his guilty secret, then? Sometime after midnight, when there’s no one else around for ten miles, and he just happens to be cleaning his chainsaw?”
“Piffle,” said Pippa. “He’s holding a press conference tomorrow, isn’t he? And you and I are press. So let’s get in there and confer with the bastard. Ask him how come he and the delicious Major turned up at the death in the same car, for starters.” She rolled over onto her back. “I think I’ve dazzled you enough with my brilliance for one day, scum. Come here and scrutinize my bosoms.”
--Steve Wright
Comedy Scene 12
“I am sorry about that Ehlana but alas my wife has forbidden me to take beautiful women out to dinner.” Tarkin knew immediately he had said the wrong thing and grimaced.
“Wife? Wife. Do ye hear that sound? That be the sound of me broken heart crashing into the Mairi Sea. Right into the very heart of the harbor, in the mud, that will be where ye be finding me heart. The crabs be already eating on it. Why or why have all the good ones be taken? I think ye be the only man that could sway me from me wicked ways!”
“Ehlana . . . I have yet to meet a man up to that task. But trust me, by Machay; I pray every day that I will find him. And, when I do I will introduce the two of you and plan your wedding. In fact, I’ll be giving you away,” Tarkin answered as the two drifted off the subject, abandoning the officer's plan of attack.
“Oh, how sweet ye be praying for me. I do be declaring ye be truly a darling. But mayhaps, I should be finding the right man for meself? But ye can help me! Why not be giving me a list of ye men - just the singles ones mind ye – I ain’t that kind of a lady.”
“Ehlana!” The commander counted to ten and then counted again. “Let me see about that. I’ll give it some thought. Maybe I should beseech the royal family for a prince. This will only be a formality, I am sure they will jump at the chance to see one of the princes or nobles thrown to you, a nymph.”
"A nymph? Me? That be terribly unkind of ye," the long-haired woman replied as she swung her shapely legs back and forth, and smiled mischievously.
--Vivian Whetham
“Wife? Wife. Do ye hear that sound? That be the sound of me broken heart crashing into the Mairi Sea. Right into the very heart of the harbor, in the mud, that will be where ye be finding me heart. The crabs be already eating on it. Why or why have all the good ones be taken? I think ye be the only man that could sway me from me wicked ways!”
“Ehlana . . . I have yet to meet a man up to that task. But trust me, by Machay; I pray every day that I will find him. And, when I do I will introduce the two of you and plan your wedding. In fact, I’ll be giving you away,” Tarkin answered as the two drifted off the subject, abandoning the officer's plan of attack.
“Oh, how sweet ye be praying for me. I do be declaring ye be truly a darling. But mayhaps, I should be finding the right man for meself? But ye can help me! Why not be giving me a list of ye men - just the singles ones mind ye – I ain’t that kind of a lady.”
“Ehlana!” The commander counted to ten and then counted again. “Let me see about that. I’ll give it some thought. Maybe I should beseech the royal family for a prince. This will only be a formality, I am sure they will jump at the chance to see one of the princes or nobles thrown to you, a nymph.”
"A nymph? Me? That be terribly unkind of ye," the long-haired woman replied as she swung her shapely legs back and forth, and smiled mischievously.
--Vivian Whetham
Comedy Scene 11
[Avery (26) and the narroator (female, 18) are hiking back down a mountain after sunset, with stops for breath-catching and poem-reciting.]
I sat very still, letting the poem wash over me: the beautiful sounds and images, Avery’s voice softening on ‘my dearest, thou’, the half promising, half menacing sound of ‘be lost in me.’ Avery fidgeted audibly. “It’s Tennyson.” he said. “The second half of a poem from *The Princess*.”
“I didn’t know that one. All I read of Tennyson’s was *Idylls of the King*. But it’s lovely.” I didn’t know what I thought about the last two lines and didn’t want to say anything about them until I knew. “Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars...”
“Do you know what he’s referring to? Danae..”
“Of course.” I said sharply. I didn’t want him to think I was utterly ignorant. For that reason I didn’t mention that I had mentally pronounced her name ‘Daynay.’ “I did read a fair bit of Greek mythology.”
“Of course.” Avery said, sounding cross in his turn.
***
We used his flashlight on the scramble and then switched it off and walked down through the dark side by side, listening to the night noises, then talking about what we heard until all we heard was our voices.
“Without artificial lights you can really see quite well in the dark. It’s certainly true over the short term, and I think as people spend more time in natural light they develop that ability cumulatively. I have better night-eyes than my friends who spend more time in cities, and...”
I froze when he fell, so as not to step or fall on him; my night-eyes weren’t distinguishing his dark clothing from the ground. He got up promptly. I asked if he was all right, trying not to laugh.
“Well, it would have been more effective if I had fallen headfirst into a gaping pit, but the timing was perfect.” he said. Then we both laughed.
--Joanna
I sat very still, letting the poem wash over me: the beautiful sounds and images, Avery’s voice softening on ‘my dearest, thou’, the half promising, half menacing sound of ‘be lost in me.’ Avery fidgeted audibly. “It’s Tennyson.” he said. “The second half of a poem from *The Princess*.”
“I didn’t know that one. All I read of Tennyson’s was *Idylls of the King*. But it’s lovely.” I didn’t know what I thought about the last two lines and didn’t want to say anything about them until I knew. “Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars...”
“Do you know what he’s referring to? Danae..”
“Of course.” I said sharply. I didn’t want him to think I was utterly ignorant. For that reason I didn’t mention that I had mentally pronounced her name ‘Daynay.’ “I did read a fair bit of Greek mythology.”
“Of course.” Avery said, sounding cross in his turn.
***
We used his flashlight on the scramble and then switched it off and walked down through the dark side by side, listening to the night noises, then talking about what we heard until all we heard was our voices.
“Without artificial lights you can really see quite well in the dark. It’s certainly true over the short term, and I think as people spend more time in natural light they develop that ability cumulatively. I have better night-eyes than my friends who spend more time in cities, and...”
I froze when he fell, so as not to step or fall on him; my night-eyes weren’t distinguishing his dark clothing from the ground. He got up promptly. I asked if he was all right, trying not to laugh.
“Well, it would have been more effective if I had fallen headfirst into a gaping pit, but the timing was perfect.” he said. Then we both laughed.
--Joanna
Comedy Scene 10
Nicholas’s roommate Bryce sat on the couch, watching television. “How long have you been here?”
“A couple weeks,” Bryce said, his voice higher than Nicholas remembered. “We didn’t think you’d ever return.”
“We?”
“Scott’s around.”
That wasn’t very surprising. “I don’t think his author will ever get over her block.”
“He wasn’t here when I first came,” Bryce said, shrugging.
“Interesting,” Nicholas said, studying Bryce. There was something different about him. His features were softer, and he had curves that no self respecting man should have. Nicholas’ blue eyes widened. “Weren’t you male the last time I saw you?”
“Not according to the final paragraph of page three hundred and twenty two,” Bryce said, glowering.
“And then your author got blocked.”
“Perfect timing,” Bryce said, her tone rueful.
Scott entered the room then, munching on an apple. “Pretty, isn’t she?” he asked, indicating Bryce.
“Very,” Nicholas agreed, smirking.
“I keep telling her to shave her legs,” Scott said, leaning up against the wall. “I think one of the Prince Charming’s across the street might try to court her if she did.”
“They just might,” Nicholas encouraged her. “You should try it.”
Bryce rolled her eyes. “I’ll remember this conversation the next time either one of you turns female.”
“Because a lady never forgets a slight?” Scott asked, raising his eyebrow.
“She’s far from a lady.” Nicholas laughed, but it was hollow. Bryce had a point. Anne had accidentally turned him into a woman a few times in the book. His eyes frequently changed color as well, and there was time when a very bad spelling error caused him to throw his own head. It was amazing how detrimental authorial negligence could be.
--Padewan
“A couple weeks,” Bryce said, his voice higher than Nicholas remembered. “We didn’t think you’d ever return.”
“We?”
“Scott’s around.”
That wasn’t very surprising. “I don’t think his author will ever get over her block.”
“He wasn’t here when I first came,” Bryce said, shrugging.
“Interesting,” Nicholas said, studying Bryce. There was something different about him. His features were softer, and he had curves that no self respecting man should have. Nicholas’ blue eyes widened. “Weren’t you male the last time I saw you?”
“Not according to the final paragraph of page three hundred and twenty two,” Bryce said, glowering.
“And then your author got blocked.”
“Perfect timing,” Bryce said, her tone rueful.
Scott entered the room then, munching on an apple. “Pretty, isn’t she?” he asked, indicating Bryce.
“Very,” Nicholas agreed, smirking.
“I keep telling her to shave her legs,” Scott said, leaning up against the wall. “I think one of the Prince Charming’s across the street might try to court her if she did.”
“They just might,” Nicholas encouraged her. “You should try it.”
Bryce rolled her eyes. “I’ll remember this conversation the next time either one of you turns female.”
“Because a lady never forgets a slight?” Scott asked, raising his eyebrow.
“She’s far from a lady.” Nicholas laughed, but it was hollow. Bryce had a point. Anne had accidentally turned him into a woman a few times in the book. His eyes frequently changed color as well, and there was time when a very bad spelling error caused him to throw his own head. It was amazing how detrimental authorial negligence could be.
--Padewan
Comedy Scene 9
The young woman had short chestnut hair, sharp features, and forest green eyes. I noticed right away that while she wore a gold earring in her left ear, her right earlobe was completely missing - ragged and red, like a recent injury. Before I could dwell on it, she flashed me a smile that knocked the reasoning right out of my head.
Blinking, I tried to think of something to say. “Morifeath,” I managed finally, giving her my name and extending a hand in greeting.
She ignored my gesture and reached past me to snatch a potato log off my plate. “Z’tania,” she replied, giving me a wink as she popped the whole thing into her mouth.
My mind and heartbeat ratcheted up a few notches. I figured I'd play it cool. “I haven't seen you here before,” I ventured.
Following her lead, I grabbed a potato log and stuffed it into my mouth. With a grin and wink of my own, I began chewing. Two seconds later I felt the burn. Damn, it was hot as dragon flame! I grabbed frantically for my water, gulping a huge mouthful and spilling half the mug down my shirt.
Grunting desperately and fanning my open mouth with my hands did nothing to ease my distress. One way or another, the potato had to go. I pinched my eyes shut and swallowed, forcing the burning glob down my throat. Red faced and gasping, I drained the last of my water, swirling it around the seared flesh in my mouth while trying in vain to wipe off the front of my shirt.
I'm cool like that.
Stadia popped another potato log into her mouth, chewing it carefully “I like it hot.”
--Mark Mosher
Blinking, I tried to think of something to say. “Morifeath,” I managed finally, giving her my name and extending a hand in greeting.
She ignored my gesture and reached past me to snatch a potato log off my plate. “Z’tania,” she replied, giving me a wink as she popped the whole thing into her mouth.
My mind and heartbeat ratcheted up a few notches. I figured I'd play it cool. “I haven't seen you here before,” I ventured.
Following her lead, I grabbed a potato log and stuffed it into my mouth. With a grin and wink of my own, I began chewing. Two seconds later I felt the burn. Damn, it was hot as dragon flame! I grabbed frantically for my water, gulping a huge mouthful and spilling half the mug down my shirt.
Grunting desperately and fanning my open mouth with my hands did nothing to ease my distress. One way or another, the potato had to go. I pinched my eyes shut and swallowed, forcing the burning glob down my throat. Red faced and gasping, I drained the last of my water, swirling it around the seared flesh in my mouth while trying in vain to wipe off the front of my shirt.
I'm cool like that.
Stadia popped another potato log into her mouth, chewing it carefully “I like it hot.”
--Mark Mosher
Comedy Scene 8
Around siesta time in the floating harbor off San Diego, Estralita DellaGuardia, dressed fashionably in white blouse and slacks, walked up on a pair of muscular legs in blue jeans sticking out of the hold of her runabout RANA. At first, the legs reminded her of mawkish parody of dying bug but then she didn't recall Poppie telling her anything was out of order with the electric motors and charging systems. She drew her pistol halfway before recognizing the broad shoulders and tribal tattoos snaking up the man's muscular back. She giggled, nymph-like, loud enough for him to hear and feigned distress.
"Oooh a thief, a scoundrel, a bad man is vandalizing my launch, help, help," He set a screwdriver on the deck and closed the cover on the electric box.
"Big Es? Estralita?"
"One wrong move and I shoot your cojones into tomorrow," Estralita barked like a drill sergeant.
"You wouldn't shoot the cojones off the man you used to play with in the big hot-tub? The man you once pledged to marry and swore to secrecy in the attic of your house." He slid his body back, turned and stood a head taller than Estralita.
"Why if it isn't little Tony Tonero all grown up," she squealed, bouncing like a little girl meeting a rock star, her breasts akimbo, her eyes admiring the thick nipple ring in his chest that matched tribal tattoos. He bowed, flourishing the grease rag. She reached out to hug but grease on his hands and forearms forced air-kisses. The muscles of his chest and arms rippled as he wiped his hands.
"The one, the only at your service. And may I say, you are the prettiest Big Es in harbor." Estralita blushed and demurred coquettishly, breasts jiggling, hips swaying.
--Dave F.
"Oooh a thief, a scoundrel, a bad man is vandalizing my launch, help, help," He set a screwdriver on the deck and closed the cover on the electric box.
"Big Es? Estralita?"
"One wrong move and I shoot your cojones into tomorrow," Estralita barked like a drill sergeant.
"You wouldn't shoot the cojones off the man you used to play with in the big hot-tub? The man you once pledged to marry and swore to secrecy in the attic of your house." He slid his body back, turned and stood a head taller than Estralita.
"Why if it isn't little Tony Tonero all grown up," she squealed, bouncing like a little girl meeting a rock star, her breasts akimbo, her eyes admiring the thick nipple ring in his chest that matched tribal tattoos. He bowed, flourishing the grease rag. She reached out to hug but grease on his hands and forearms forced air-kisses. The muscles of his chest and arms rippled as he wiped his hands.
"The one, the only at your service. And may I say, you are the prettiest Big Es in harbor." Estralita blushed and demurred coquettishly, breasts jiggling, hips swaying.
--Dave F.
Comedy Scene 7
Mary fell fast. The air was silent.
“Stop!” cried a voice.
“Too late,” thought Mary as she fell, less than one second from hitting the ground.
But the command halted her movement. She remained above the concrete, hovering upside-down.
Moments passed. Mary struggled to upright herself, just an inch above the dirty pavement. But she was stuck. Some old newspapers wafted towards her, narrowly avoiding her face.
Then a fat lady appeared, as if stepping from behind an invisible door. A fat lady in a frilly pink dress, who waved a wooden stick with a clumsy yellow-painted star attached to it. “I am your fairy godmother,” the lady announced grandly. “I am here to help you.”
Mary, astonished, bellowed, “Why have you waited so long? Can’t you see that you’re too late. I’m dead!”
The pink-clad matronly woman pursed her lips. “Dear, you are very difficult. Why don’t you relax.”
Mary replied heatedly: “Go back to your fairy kingdom. As soon as I go to heaven, I’ll give you a terrible recommendation.”
The fairy godmother sighed dramatically, and said: “What makes you think you are going to heaven?” Then she laughed, her large diamond earrings tinkling as her body shook.
Mary shrugged glumly. As she was upside-down, it looked strange. The fairy godmother laughed gently: “You look ridiculous.”
“Well, you’re a failure as a fairy godmother,” Mary announced sullenly, and then closed her eyes. Tears fell through her hair onto the ground. She had no intention of being tormented in this manner, especially after being dead.
--R. T.
“Stop!” cried a voice.
“Too late,” thought Mary as she fell, less than one second from hitting the ground.
But the command halted her movement. She remained above the concrete, hovering upside-down.
Moments passed. Mary struggled to upright herself, just an inch above the dirty pavement. But she was stuck. Some old newspapers wafted towards her, narrowly avoiding her face.
Then a fat lady appeared, as if stepping from behind an invisible door. A fat lady in a frilly pink dress, who waved a wooden stick with a clumsy yellow-painted star attached to it. “I am your fairy godmother,” the lady announced grandly. “I am here to help you.”
Mary, astonished, bellowed, “Why have you waited so long? Can’t you see that you’re too late. I’m dead!”
The pink-clad matronly woman pursed her lips. “Dear, you are very difficult. Why don’t you relax.”
Mary replied heatedly: “Go back to your fairy kingdom. As soon as I go to heaven, I’ll give you a terrible recommendation.”
The fairy godmother sighed dramatically, and said: “What makes you think you are going to heaven?” Then she laughed, her large diamond earrings tinkling as her body shook.
Mary shrugged glumly. As she was upside-down, it looked strange. The fairy godmother laughed gently: “You look ridiculous.”
“Well, you’re a failure as a fairy godmother,” Mary announced sullenly, and then closed her eyes. Tears fell through her hair onto the ground. She had no intention of being tormented in this manner, especially after being dead.
--R. T.
Comedy Scene 6
A beep came from Greg’s suit pocket. He reached in and pulled out his Blackberry and frowned at the screen. His conference call with his new client started five minutes ago.
“Damn,” he muttered as he clipped his Bluetooth headset to his ear and keyed the speed-dial for his conference bridge. The old man hated to wait.
He beeped into the bridge. “Good morning, this is Greg. Who all’s here?”
“It’s about time,” the voice shoveled a load of gravel through the phone line.
“Mr. Harver, thank you for taking some of your valuable time to join our call this morning,” Greg tried the ass-kissing approach.
“Cut the crap, Simon.” So much for the ass-kissing approach. “This proposal you sent last night won’t work. I want to hear the first one again. What was it, some kind of fruit?”
“A topical lotion.”
“Yeah, that’s it. The tropical thing.” Mr. Harver got excited.
“It’s a topical- never mind. Ok. Project Fruit. Let’s start from the beginning,” Greg said. He loved to recap things during billable hours. There was a lot of money to be made needlessly discussing the past.
“The problem you are facing is that your drugs really work. They cure people.” He waited for this to sink in. “This is unheard of in the pharmaceutical market. There is no recurring revenue in this business model. To make matters worse, the government just imposed a maximum price per pill, so price-gouging is out. You need a new plan for business development. And that’s why you hired Simon Says! for your consulting.” Greg paused for a second. Damn am I good!, he thought.
A voice beeped into the conference cell. “Sorry, I got disconnected. It’s me again.” Mr. Harver said. “What were you saying?"
“You need to make a drug that gets people sick, but only when they stop taking it.”
--Rick Daley
“Damn,” he muttered as he clipped his Bluetooth headset to his ear and keyed the speed-dial for his conference bridge. The old man hated to wait.
He beeped into the bridge. “Good morning, this is Greg. Who all’s here?”
“It’s about time,” the voice shoveled a load of gravel through the phone line.
“Mr. Harver, thank you for taking some of your valuable time to join our call this morning,” Greg tried the ass-kissing approach.
“Cut the crap, Simon.” So much for the ass-kissing approach. “This proposal you sent last night won’t work. I want to hear the first one again. What was it, some kind of fruit?”
“A topical lotion.”
“Yeah, that’s it. The tropical thing.” Mr. Harver got excited.
“It’s a topical- never mind. Ok. Project Fruit. Let’s start from the beginning,” Greg said. He loved to recap things during billable hours. There was a lot of money to be made needlessly discussing the past.
“The problem you are facing is that your drugs really work. They cure people.” He waited for this to sink in. “This is unheard of in the pharmaceutical market. There is no recurring revenue in this business model. To make matters worse, the government just imposed a maximum price per pill, so price-gouging is out. You need a new plan for business development. And that’s why you hired Simon Says! for your consulting.” Greg paused for a second. Damn am I good!, he thought.
A voice beeped into the conference cell. “Sorry, I got disconnected. It’s me again.” Mr. Harver said. “What were you saying?"
“You need to make a drug that gets people sick, but only when they stop taking it.”
--Rick Daley
Comedy Scene 5
Nina ran through the bushes and stopped in her tracks.
A giant wooden sign dangled on the roof of a wooden shack. It read:
Camp PUNK
Parental Units Neglecting Kids
If you’re a mom who needs a break
Come on in, for heaven’s sake.
For a fee, we’ll take your kids
We accept the lowest bids
Our extra easy motto is…
Forget your tots, forget their dinner
It matters not if they get thinner
Stop cleaning socks and dirty floors
Just dump them here, those brutish bores
(Extensions available year round)
To the left, boys and girls sat around two large picnic tables. A few kids had empty plates in front of them, but many who were holding their stomachs and moaning still had leftover pie. Blueberry pie.
Before Tony and Nina could invite themselves to sit for some blueberry pie, a large woman with legs like tree-trunks and arms like alligators stormed over. The shaking of the ground almost caused Tony to lose his balance. He craned his neck to see her. The bottom half of her hair was silver. The top half -a wig- was black.
“You there!” She stepped over Tony (at six feet tall she could easily step over or on any child) and marched toward a boy sitting at the end of one of the tables. “What is eight maggots times seven maggots?” She smacked her lips and waited.
She aimed her question at an unfortunate lad with brown hair and crooked teeth and ten gooey blue fingers.
“Forty-eight?” his little voice quivered.
“Wrong! You stupid little grub.” She twisted her torso to the left, much like a tree would move if it could uproot and replant itself. “Chef! One more slice of blueberry pie!”
--Chris Eldin
A giant wooden sign dangled on the roof of a wooden shack. It read:
Camp PUNK
Parental Units Neglecting Kids
If you’re a mom who needs a break
Come on in, for heaven’s sake.
For a fee, we’ll take your kids
We accept the lowest bids
Our extra easy motto is…
Forget your tots, forget their dinner
It matters not if they get thinner
Stop cleaning socks and dirty floors
Just dump them here, those brutish bores
(Extensions available year round)
To the left, boys and girls sat around two large picnic tables. A few kids had empty plates in front of them, but many who were holding their stomachs and moaning still had leftover pie. Blueberry pie.
Before Tony and Nina could invite themselves to sit for some blueberry pie, a large woman with legs like tree-trunks and arms like alligators stormed over. The shaking of the ground almost caused Tony to lose his balance. He craned his neck to see her. The bottom half of her hair was silver. The top half -a wig- was black.
“You there!” She stepped over Tony (at six feet tall she could easily step over or on any child) and marched toward a boy sitting at the end of one of the tables. “What is eight maggots times seven maggots?” She smacked her lips and waited.
She aimed her question at an unfortunate lad with brown hair and crooked teeth and ten gooey blue fingers.
“Forty-eight?” his little voice quivered.
“Wrong! You stupid little grub.” She twisted her torso to the left, much like a tree would move if it could uproot and replant itself. “Chef! One more slice of blueberry pie!”
--Chris Eldin
Comedy Scene 4
The nuns were nowhere in sight, and that’s the way I liked them. Gone.
Sometimes the billow of their black and white habit material looked beautiful; looked natural blowing in a strong spring wind, like your mother’d hung big black and white sheets to dry on the clothesline in the back yard and you could almost hear the sheeting sound with the wind whipping them dry in the warm, and smell the clean sheet smell in the air. But then the billows would turn on the spot, and there they’d be; crappy nun faces poking out from the material, a stern and inspecting ruination of any natural billow.
I hated the fucking nuns. There was nothing natural about them. They were dried up in ways that didn’t have one damn thing to do with being hung out to dry on a nice backyard clothesline under a warm summer sun. Anything wet or even damply human was hidden by them on purpose, in the dark, under their habits. They pretended they didn’t have bodies at all, not that anybody’d wanna see them feeling the damp between their legs in their beds in their nunnery late at night.
When I walked out of school for the last time on the last day, I was happy as hell to be rid of those holier-than-thou billowy bitches until I remembered I forgot some stuff in my desk. I ran fast up the steps and did my grabbing in the empty classroom with no nuns bothering me, but when I got out to the hall for my final escape, this one old bat was standing there, her pruned-up boobs squashed underneath her folded arms, giving me her stern stare.
We stood stock still in the otherwise empty third floor hall, eyeing each other like two gunslingers. I was planning on winning the staring contest until this Western movie soundtrack started playing in my head. Then I lost it.
--Robin S.
Sometimes the billow of their black and white habit material looked beautiful; looked natural blowing in a strong spring wind, like your mother’d hung big black and white sheets to dry on the clothesline in the back yard and you could almost hear the sheeting sound with the wind whipping them dry in the warm, and smell the clean sheet smell in the air. But then the billows would turn on the spot, and there they’d be; crappy nun faces poking out from the material, a stern and inspecting ruination of any natural billow.
I hated the fucking nuns. There was nothing natural about them. They were dried up in ways that didn’t have one damn thing to do with being hung out to dry on a nice backyard clothesline under a warm summer sun. Anything wet or even damply human was hidden by them on purpose, in the dark, under their habits. They pretended they didn’t have bodies at all, not that anybody’d wanna see them feeling the damp between their legs in their beds in their nunnery late at night.
When I walked out of school for the last time on the last day, I was happy as hell to be rid of those holier-than-thou billowy bitches until I remembered I forgot some stuff in my desk. I ran fast up the steps and did my grabbing in the empty classroom with no nuns bothering me, but when I got out to the hall for my final escape, this one old bat was standing there, her pruned-up boobs squashed underneath her folded arms, giving me her stern stare.
We stood stock still in the otherwise empty third floor hall, eyeing each other like two gunslingers. I was planning on winning the staring contest until this Western movie soundtrack started playing in my head. Then I lost it.
--Robin S.
Comedy Scene 3
[Maggie is looking for a laptop at a friend’s house while friend is asleep upstairs; four-year old daughter is watching a movie on sofa. House is too messy to find laptop.]
***
She heard footprints on the ancient wood floor upstairs. The toilet flushed then she heard the stairs creak. He changed his mind, he was going to help! She smiled. She looked across the room toward the stairs.
A young woman walked down wearing nothing but a frown. Then another followed her with the same birthday suit, same frown. They stopped midway. Twins, just great. Tony was living every man’s dream two women at a time.
Maggie moved behind the couch and stepped to the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t know where to look so she turned sideways to look out the front door. She checked Jessica’s view but two naked women had nothing on Disney.
“What do you want?” the first twin asked.
“Tony has a computer of mine. I need it back now.”
“Tony won’t be up for hours, you need to leave,” the second twin said.
“What happened to your hair?” the first twin asked.
Maggie walked to the mirror outside the bathroom under the stairs. Oh shoot! Her beautiful strawberry blonde hair with a slight curl that took a long time to achieve in the bathroom that morning now looked like she just went through electric shock in a Saturday morning cartoon. Her frizzy hair stood out in all directions and layers. She tried to push it back in place but that didn’t work. It was bad enough to have her hair in a car-heater dried mess but the beautiful twins who just rolled out of bed pointed it out.
--Dina Berry
***
She heard footprints on the ancient wood floor upstairs. The toilet flushed then she heard the stairs creak. He changed his mind, he was going to help! She smiled. She looked across the room toward the stairs.
A young woman walked down wearing nothing but a frown. Then another followed her with the same birthday suit, same frown. They stopped midway. Twins, just great. Tony was living every man’s dream two women at a time.
Maggie moved behind the couch and stepped to the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t know where to look so she turned sideways to look out the front door. She checked Jessica’s view but two naked women had nothing on Disney.
“What do you want?” the first twin asked.
“Tony has a computer of mine. I need it back now.”
“Tony won’t be up for hours, you need to leave,” the second twin said.
“What happened to your hair?” the first twin asked.
Maggie walked to the mirror outside the bathroom under the stairs. Oh shoot! Her beautiful strawberry blonde hair with a slight curl that took a long time to achieve in the bathroom that morning now looked like she just went through electric shock in a Saturday morning cartoon. Her frizzy hair stood out in all directions and layers. She tried to push it back in place but that didn’t work. It was bad enough to have her hair in a car-heater dried mess but the beautiful twins who just rolled out of bed pointed it out.
--Dina Berry
Comedy Scene 2
Is it just me, or is the beast right behind me?
Agh, it’s not just me. If I had three wishes right now, my first would be for it to put me down and not hold me three feet off the ground by the scruff of my neck. The second—eek, where is it taking me? There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home….
Well, stairs are awkward, but at least there’s light. We crash through the giant door like it’s cardboard.
Oof. I drag myself off the rag-carpeted floor and scurry into the nearest safe spot, a corner.
Um, maybe not so safe after all. I wedge myself as far into the wall as possible, smearing a nonchalant look on my face.
It growls.
Nonchalant, nonchalant. Have some sangfroid, girl.
Forget the sangfroid; I’m no reptile.
It makes a sound halfway between a roar and a cough.
You know, maybe I can fit a little farther into this corner. Nonchalantly, of course.
It growls once more, this time glancing quickly up at me. I don’t suppose there’s any way to get out of this corner? A secret door triggered by one of these stones would be a very nice Deus ex Machina right now.
“Marry me.”
My eyebrows take flight.
“Please.”
I blink several times. “You’ve… got to be kidding me.”
It looks back up at me, actually meeting my eyes, which happens to be quite unnerving. “I’m not.”
I shake my head and blink again. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“You want reasons other than the fact that you’ve been doing nothing but carrying me and dropping me and chasing me? Or the fact that I bopped you on the head with a poker?”
--_*rachel*_
Agh, it’s not just me. If I had three wishes right now, my first would be for it to put me down and not hold me three feet off the ground by the scruff of my neck. The second—eek, where is it taking me? There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home….
Well, stairs are awkward, but at least there’s light. We crash through the giant door like it’s cardboard.
Oof. I drag myself off the rag-carpeted floor and scurry into the nearest safe spot, a corner.
Um, maybe not so safe after all. I wedge myself as far into the wall as possible, smearing a nonchalant look on my face.
It growls.
Nonchalant, nonchalant. Have some sangfroid, girl.
Forget the sangfroid; I’m no reptile.
It makes a sound halfway between a roar and a cough.
You know, maybe I can fit a little farther into this corner. Nonchalantly, of course.
It growls once more, this time glancing quickly up at me. I don’t suppose there’s any way to get out of this corner? A secret door triggered by one of these stones would be a very nice Deus ex Machina right now.
“Marry me.”
My eyebrows take flight.
“Please.”
I blink several times. “You’ve… got to be kidding me.”
It looks back up at me, actually meeting my eyes, which happens to be quite unnerving. “I’m not.”
I shake my head and blink again. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“You want reasons other than the fact that you’ve been doing nothing but carrying me and dropping me and chasing me? Or the fact that I bopped you on the head with a poker?”
--_*rachel*_
Comedy Scene 1
Seemed like I didn't have a lot of choice. I picked up the box and carried it into the house and set it on the coffee table. Then I got out the bottle of gin and fixed myself a martini. I turned off the T.V. and sat in the brown leather arm chair my little sister got me for Christmas before we stopped speaking.
Me and the baby and the gin, we just sat there until the phone rang. It was Dave, checking up on me. Dave keeps calling me even though I never pay him any attention. I was glad for it, this time.
"I've got a baby," I told him. He started to splutter but I cut him off. "No, I didn't have a baby, you idiot, it just appeared."
He asked what happened and when I told him it was still in the box he told me he was on his way over. He thought I should feel bad but hell, it wasn't my baby. And no one with any sense would leave a baby with me. I washed up my glass and put everything away and then I sat and waited. That baby just stared right up at me, as if it wasn't particularly bothered about lying in a box in some stranger's house.
--Sylvia
Me and the baby and the gin, we just sat there until the phone rang. It was Dave, checking up on me. Dave keeps calling me even though I never pay him any attention. I was glad for it, this time.
"I've got a baby," I told him. He started to splutter but I cut him off. "No, I didn't have a baby, you idiot, it just appeared."
He asked what happened and when I told him it was still in the box he told me he was on his way over. He thought I should feel bad but hell, it wasn't my baby. And no one with any sense would leave a baby with me. I washed up my glass and put everything away and then I sat and waited. That baby just stared right up at me, as if it wasn't particularly bothered about lying in a box in some stranger's house.
--Sylvia
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
New Beginning 705
Showdown: I clip along the street, head up, full of thoughts. There’s still at least an hour before I meet Clytie and Lady Gwen, show them a bit of Manhattan before they return to the aquarium. Then, I hear that voice, the one I still try to exorcise…. ”Twinkieeeee….” I stride on, pretending I don’t hear.
Too late. “Twinkieeee…” as she grabs my forearm, clutching with those pretty silk-painted nails, so now I must slow my gait.
“Hello, Louisa,” I say, barely turning my head. She looks stressed but still stylish, always so stylish, in her smart Prada ensemble of a very short skirt and snug fitted jacket of very just-so beige. She teeters on such needle-thin high heels I wonder how she’s able to walk at all. I keep up my pace, albeit slower.
“You got my messages?” she squeaks, now in sync with my stride, “And my card?”
“Yes,” I reply, still not looking at her. She’s clamped on like the Ugly Duchess now, carrying something in her other arm. It looks like a muff.
“Well, why didn’t you answer?”
* * *
Evil Editor put down the pages and raised his eyebrows. Chick lit. Not too bad. What about the query?
"What the f--?" He scanned on. "Ah!"
Opening: Panda Rosa.....Continuation: Anon.
Too late. “Twinkieeee…” as she grabs my forearm, clutching with those pretty silk-painted nails, so now I must slow my gait.
“Hello, Louisa,” I say, barely turning my head. She looks stressed but still stylish, always so stylish, in her smart Prada ensemble of a very short skirt and snug fitted jacket of very just-so beige. She teeters on such needle-thin high heels I wonder how she’s able to walk at all. I keep up my pace, albeit slower.
“You got my messages?” she squeaks, now in sync with my stride, “And my card?”
“Yes,” I reply, still not looking at her. She’s clamped on like the Ugly Duchess now, carrying something in her other arm. It looks like a muff.
“Well, why didn’t you answer?”
* * *
Evil Editor put down the pages and raised his eyebrows. Chick lit. Not too bad. What about the query?
...tells the story of a giant animated Hostess Twinkie with the soul of a dead princess who dumps her acquaintance Louisa (who wears her muff on her forearm), in order to take her friends Clytie and Lady Gwen, the performing seals from the aquarium, on a tour of Manhattan to find the perfect...
"What the f--?" He scanned on. "Ah!"
...should appeal to fans of Bridget Jones' Diary and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland...
Opening: Panda Rosa.....Continuation: Anon.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Face-Lift 699
Guess the Plot
Along the Beach
1. The waves roll in bringing Gobby. The waves roll out saying, "No Returns". Gobby will become the Pied Piper of W(h)ales and lead crabs, beachcombers, and romantically inclined pets to take revenge on the Sky Reflected below. But first, a seaweed/squid-ink cooking festival.
2. The California coast is both rugged and beautiful. And when random body parts start washing ashore on beaches ranging from Ventura to Corona Del Mar, homicide detective Zack Martinez knows two things: there's more than two victims, and he'll finally get a chance to see the tide pools.
3. Dave made his 843rd walk along the beach, collecting driftwood for his fire. Since being stranded he'd given up clothes, wearing only a layer of mud against the sun and insects. But today would be different. Yes, this was one wilderness camp the Girl Scouts would not soon forget.
4. Lee's mom told him he would one day meet his soul mate . . . along the beach. It was a prophecy he would never forget, that he would, in fact, become obsessed with. But after decades of searching, he begins to wonder if maybe he should have asked her which beach.
5. Karen gets up early every morning just so she can watch that hunky guy jog past her beach cottage. He hasn't even noticed her, and now her vacation's half over. Will she take up jogging and join him tomorrow morning? Or just assume he's a jerk and admire the view?
6. Four children have drowned since Chip Barker got hired as lifeguard at the community pool, all because Chip was too busy flirting with bikini babes to pay attention to the swimmers. He's promised to turn over a new leaf, but as he watches the kiddie pool on the hottest day of the year, Chelsea walks by in her gold bikini. Tragedy ensues.
Original Version
[I've gone through three iterations on my query, and wonder if the solution as this point is grabbing portions from each and merging into a fourth version that takes the prize. Or not.]
QUERY EXAMPLE #1
Dear Mr./Ms. (Agent),
Soulmates. Faith. Destiny. “Fanciful words,” many would say. But not Lee Merrick.
Those words are with him day and night. Intriguing him. Haunting him. And quite possibly driving him mad. [I'm not sure what "fanciful" means in this context. Why can't fanciful words be with a person day and night, intriguing and haunting him?] His only hope is to find the truth behind the enchanting visions of a woman he has fallen in love with but has never met. [His only hope of what?]
Along the Beach is a 107,000-word novel journeying from the outermost reaches of the globe [What are the outermost reaches of the globe?] to the inner depths of the soul.
Far away from his Los Angeles home photographing exotic shorelines, Lee is entranced by mystical visions of the “Lady in White.” Could she be the woman first revealed in a prophecy foretold in his youth—that he will someday meet his soulmate along the beach? [Maybe. Did the prophecy mention that his soul mate would be in white? Did it mention anything besides the beach? I ask only because when you go to the beach, you tend to see dozens of people who might be your soul mate. Once I was sitting on the beach and a group of nine women walked by, seven of them being my soul mates.] Yet a secret from long-ago [which I will not reveal to you, although you can find out by requesting my manuscript,] compels his own mother to stop at nothing to prevent his success. [If you just say "his mother," we'll figure out that you mean "his own mother."] On a path of self-discovery spanning a decade, Lee faces the unknown in faraway places, and will ultimately be confronted with his greatest challenge: to overcome the logic of his inner doubts holding back his certainty that beyond the vision of her spirit, breathes this mysterious woman somewhere in the world. [That one sentence is a deal killer.] [Now that he's narrowed down her location to "somewhere in the world," it's just a matter of time before he finds her.] For he knows that he will never be whole until he touches her hand, to unite with the one who already completes his most sacred thoughts [My most sacred thoughts involve Jessica Alba, and I don't need a soul mate to complete them.] and echoes his own heartbeat–his other half.
My metaphysically-themed piece ATLANTIS, ARISE appeared in the national magazine {magazine title listed here} Vol. 84, No. 2. For almost two decades, I have affiliated and sojourned with mystical societies to several continents showcased in the story. These personal experiences and background provide authenticity throughout the work. [On the other hand, the fact that you've spent decades sojourning with mystical societies brands you as a borderline lunatic.]
Thank you for considering Along the Beach.
Sincerely,
[That one's not gonna cut it, let's see what we have in the second version.]
QUERY EXAMPLE #2
Dear {Mr./Ms. Agent’s Last Name}
A horde of killer bees in Borneo. An armed robbery in Los Angeles. A deadly riptide off the Pacific. Malaria in East Africa. [These are a few of my favorite things...] A vision of a lady in white guiding him to safety each time. [Those didn't sound like situations that would require a guide.] For travel photographer Lee Merrick, the extraordinary is the ordinary. [The items in that list were all dangerous, but they didn't seem extraordinary.]
As her ethereal hands guide his at the piano to play a Chopin prelude he never knew, Lee wonders about the prophecy from his youth that foretells he will someday meet “Her” along the beach. [The woman in white guides him out of all these dangerous situations and makes him a piano virtuoso, but he's still wondering if she's the woman in the prophecy?] But the dark secret of his mother’s own deadly prophecy compels her to sabotage his pursuit at all costs—even if it means having Lee institutionalized against his will. [How often does Mom announce her prophecies, and how often have they come true?]
Time is running out for Lee. Mounting clues beckon him toward finding this woman who pleads for him to believe that she and her love for him are real, but he may not uncover the truth before his obsession robs him of his family, friends, and freedom.
ALONG THE BEACH is a 107,000-word New Age novel.
My metaphysically-themed piece Atlantis, Arise appeared in the national magazine [magazine title listed here] vol. 84. The pyramids, temples, and mysterious places highlighted in Along The Beach are written with authenticity based on nearly two decades of sojourns exploring those locations across the world with metaphysical societies.
Thank you for considering Along The Beach.
Sincerely,
{Full contact info listed here}
[Third time's the charm, they say.]
QUERY EXAMPLE #3
Dear Mr./Ms. {Agent’s Last Name}
Do you believe in soul mates? Do you believe that they are destined to meet, if they follow their truest life’s path? Lee Merrick cannot let go of these questions. He cannot let go of a woman whom he has loved but never met. [I loved a woman I never met. She was at an 866 number. I didn't love her so much when I got my VISA bill.]
Along the Beach is a 107,000-word visionary New Age novel which takes the reader around the world.
Traveling as a nature photographer to exotic shorelines far from home, Lee is entranced by mystical visions of the "Lady in White." On a journey of discovery spanning a decade, he faces the unknown in faraway places, while confronting his doubts that he will ever realize a prophesy given in his youth—that he will someday meet his soul mate along the beach.
My metaphysically-themed piece ATLANTIS, ARISE appeared in the national magazine {title} Vol. 84, No. 2. For almost two decades, I have affiliated and sojourned with mystical societies to several continents showcased in the story. These personal experiences lend an air of authenticity to the work.
Thank you for considering Along the Beach.
Sincerely,
{Author name/full contact info}
[nb: Example 3's opening swas hot down due to some agents loathing rhetorical questions] [While it goes without saying that rejecting a query for no reason other than rhetorical questions is the height of anal, nitpicking buffoonery (I, personally, would have read past the questions and rejected you for calling your novel "visionary"), your rhetorical questions are irrelevant and meaningless.
[Strike 3.]
Notes
He's in love with the woman in white? Have the conversations he's had with her in her ethereal form amounted to more than her telling him she's real? While she's pleading with him to believe her love for him is real, why doesn't she mention which beach she's hanging out on?
I recommend just summarizing the main plot:
In his youth, Lee's mother, a Gypsy fortune teller with proven psychic abilities, prophesied that he would meet his soul mate on a beach. Ever since, Lee has had visions of a mysterious woman in white who saves him whenever rhinoceroses attack. But now, as Lee pursues his destiny on the beaches of the world, he finds his quest thwarted . . . by his mother, who will stop at nothing to prevent her prophecy from manifesting.
That seems to be the important stuff; expand on it with a few specifics, and leave out the new age mumbo jumbo.
If mom is trying to prevent the prophecy from being correct, I assume it's not guaranteed to be correct. Also, if she didn't want him to find his soul mate, why didn't she foretell that he would find her in Kansas?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
New Beginning 704
Phone call to the courthouse in Claverton…”Is this Judge August Pendragon?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Father Walter Valesquez, priest of the church of St. Thelonious, Grody’s Point, near Cape Canaveral in Florida. I have worked with the Little Angels of Our Lady Adoption Agency. I am afraid I have some serious news for you.”
“What happened? Who are you?” now alert, upright in the chair, “Did something happen to Min? Or Daniel?”
“No, Your Honor, this is in regard to your daughter Sophia, and her parents.”
“Is this a joke? I’m her father, if you’ve done anything to Sophia, so help me-”
“Sir, please!” the voice urged, “This is no joke! I’m sorry, this is no easier for me than it can be for you. I am fully aware of Sophia’s status as your legal daughter. I am calling in regard to her natural parents.”
The Judge went rigid. “No….no…dear God, no…not Sophia….”
“I never thought I would have to make this call, Your Honor. But I am forced to tell you these new facts regarding your daughter.”
"Very well. But first, refresh my memory by telling me all the background details very clearly and slowly, as though I knew nothing of them."
"Yes, Your Honor. Well -"
"And while you're doing that, you can use my real name, which is Bob."
"Very well. As you know, Bob..."
Opening: Panda Rosa.....Continuation: Steve Wright
“Speaking.”
“This is Father Walter Valesquez, priest of the church of St. Thelonious, Grody’s Point, near Cape Canaveral in Florida. I have worked with the Little Angels of Our Lady Adoption Agency. I am afraid I have some serious news for you.”
“What happened? Who are you?” now alert, upright in the chair, “Did something happen to Min? Or Daniel?”
“No, Your Honor, this is in regard to your daughter Sophia, and her parents.”
“Is this a joke? I’m her father, if you’ve done anything to Sophia, so help me-”
“Sir, please!” the voice urged, “This is no joke! I’m sorry, this is no easier for me than it can be for you. I am fully aware of Sophia’s status as your legal daughter. I am calling in regard to her natural parents.”
The Judge went rigid. “No….no…dear God, no…not Sophia….”
“I never thought I would have to make this call, Your Honor. But I am forced to tell you these new facts regarding your daughter.”
"Very well. But first, refresh my memory by telling me all the background details very clearly and slowly, as though I knew nothing of them."
"Yes, Your Honor. Well -"
"And while you're doing that, you can use my real name, which is Bob."
"Very well. As you know, Bob..."
Opening: Panda Rosa.....Continuation: Steve Wright
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Face-Lift 698
Guess the Plot
Shift
1. Lifelong Republican Darlene Rickenbocker gives up after her house gets foreclosed and stops by to volunteer for the other party on her way to the homeless shelter.
2. Albert “Shift” Druckenmiller, driving instructor since 1968, has never lost a student. Now, five months before retirement, he meets April, who thinks 'brake' means 'stop at the next Starbucks'. Three broken ribs and a psychiatric evaluation later, Druckenmiller considers the unthinkable; buying an automatic. Oh, the shame!
3. Shortly after befriending Henry, Annie develops a disturbing craving for raw steak. Turns out she's become a werewolf, which creates tension in her home life as her family members wonder which will be the first to have their throat ripped out.
4. Archaeologist Ivar Ingar is bewildered to discover a typewriter buried in the 2000-year-old ruins of a Roman villa. Until he types his own name and BAM! The villa regains its original splendor, complete with its original inhabitants engaged in their original churlish behavior. Is Ivar doomed to re-live some hideous existence in this den of vixens every 2000 years?
5. Edgar starts working the night shift in his local supermarket, and learns the true meaning of friendship when he and his coworker Chad are sucked through a portal in the frozen food section. On the ice planet Mirion V, they learn the true meaning of friendship . . . and frostbite.
6. Claudia's hours are numbered. The kidnappers will soon discover Ted's firm is bankrupt; no fat ransom. Held in a desert shack fifty miles from anywhere, she finds luck. Her lone guard goes to the outhouse, forgetting his keys. She sprints to the Jeep. If only she'd learned to drive a stick shift...
Original Version
Dear Awesome Agent:
For sixteen-year-old Annie, being the new girl got old a long time ago. After traveling the country with her free-spirited aunt, Annie knows all about packing up and moving on, but fitting in? Not so much. When she lands in yet another school, Annie surprises herself by quickly befriending Henry, a classmate and fellow outsider. But when Henry helps Annie survive a dangerous encounter, her miraculous recovery from a gunshot wound comes with a catch. Suddenly, Annie has some disturbing new habits, not the least of which is a craving for raw steaks. She seeks answers from her supposed rescuer and discovers that she (along with him and his family) is a werewolf or “shifter.” [She discovers this when Henry tells her? And she buys it?
Annie: Hey Henry, strangest thing, I got a craving for steak tartare.
Henry: Oh, that. I forgot to mention, you're a werewolf.
Annie: Ah, I see.]
While most shifters grow up in close-knit packs, keeping normal humans at arm’s length, Annie’s upbringing places her at an odd middle ground between the ordinary world and the secretive shifters. Meanwhile, her seemingly erratic behavior ["Seemingly"? Howling at the moon, butchering cows and ripping out your aunt's throat is solidly erratic.] generates tension in her once-relaxed home life, thwarting the normality she hoped to preserve. [It was my understanding her home life consisted of traveling the country with her aunt, packing and moving on a regular basis. When did she ever have this relaxed normality she wants to preserve?] When Annie has difficulty controlling her transformations, the complications of being a shifter threaten to overshadow the obligations of her human life. She must choose which half of herself to embrace, or else risk alienating herself completely.
SHIFT is complete at around 55,000 words. Thank you very much for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Notes
The final lengthy plot paragraph is awfully general, and thus boring. Instead of telling us her erratic behavior affects her human life, why not give specific examples of Annie's erratic behavior, of what happens when she can't control her transformations, of the complications of being a shifter affecting her human life? Painting a picture is worth a thousand words.
Monday, November 16, 2009
New Beginning 703
Nicholas Tremain watched as the computer screen darkened, casting a shadow across the sky. “She means us to marry.”
“What gave you that idea?” Aaryanna asked, snatching her hand from his. “Our first kiss, or your clumsy proposal?”
“I haven’t proposed yet,” Nicholas reminded her, studying the countryside. Birds paused in midair, the stream ceased to flow, and the clouds no longer moved in the sky. The world held still in anticipation of its author’s return, but Nicholas was finally free to act on his own. He wasn’t looking forward to a night spent alone on the countryside arguing with Aaryanna.
“You’re about to,” Aaryanna said, smoothing skirts that didn’t require it. Despite the fact that Nicholas had just rescued her from Baron Farent’s men, her appearance remained immaculate. Even her hair was perfectly straight.
Nicholas’ shirt was torn, his hair was sticking out from sweat, and a knife scratch marred his cheek. He gave her an irritated look. “Not if I can help it.”
Aaryanna shook her head. “And how are you going to stop it? Will you Block her?”
"No. She would expect that. We must be more-- Shh!" The sky lit up and birdsong resumed. "I sense she is near..."
"What shall we do? How will you and me escape--" The ground shook. The grass, once soft beneath Aaryanna's feet rucked and rutted, a wavering green line.
"She's watching. Quick, Aaryanna--" Under Nicholas's shoes, the earth puckered and turned bright red, accusing. He felt weak. "We're finished. What's happening to you? Arianna!"
"Nicholas! Save me! Save--"
Microsoft Word has detected an unexpected error and needs to close.
Opening: Padawan.....Continuation: anon.
“What gave you that idea?” Aaryanna asked, snatching her hand from his. “Our first kiss, or your clumsy proposal?”
“I haven’t proposed yet,” Nicholas reminded her, studying the countryside. Birds paused in midair, the stream ceased to flow, and the clouds no longer moved in the sky. The world held still in anticipation of its author’s return, but Nicholas was finally free to act on his own. He wasn’t looking forward to a night spent alone on the countryside arguing with Aaryanna.
“You’re about to,” Aaryanna said, smoothing skirts that didn’t require it. Despite the fact that Nicholas had just rescued her from Baron Farent’s men, her appearance remained immaculate. Even her hair was perfectly straight.
Nicholas’ shirt was torn, his hair was sticking out from sweat, and a knife scratch marred his cheek. He gave her an irritated look. “Not if I can help it.”
Aaryanna shook her head. “And how are you going to stop it? Will you Block her?”
"No. She would expect that. We must be more-- Shh!" The sky lit up and birdsong resumed. "I sense she is near..."
"What shall we do? How will you and me escape--" The ground shook. The grass, once soft beneath Aaryanna's feet rucked and rutted, a wavering green line.
"She's watching. Quick, Aaryanna--" Under Nicholas's shoes, the earth puckered and turned bright red, accusing. He felt weak. "We're finished. What's happening to you? Arianna!"
"Nicholas! Save me! Save--"
Microsoft Word has detected an unexpected error and needs to close.
Opening: Padawan.....Continuation: anon.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Bored Meeting 8
"Picture it," said a long-time female member of the Minion Board (and very hot). "It's spring 2007, and minions new and old have sent so many dialogue scenes in for you to look it, it takes you all damn weekend to look them over. And it messes up your basketball watching because you get so damn many in, but still, it's fun and it's good. We all read. We all comment. It's a fucking dialogue love-in, baby."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Sparky.
"Hey, you can yeah-yeah-yeah me all you want, but in the words of the immortal song...'those were the days, my friend.' The thing is, Sparky, lots of us who've been around a while are writing our asses off, and having some good come of it, so take a bow as I for one say thanks to you for your help with the honing..."
"Is there a point coming, or do you plan on simply standing on your soapbox for a while?" Sparky couldn't help it. Being a main male member of the literati, he was naturally imperious.
"Here's an aside for ya, sport. You know how I knew you really were a guy and not just doing a cartoon fake-job long before you let me see you on the Minion Board? Do you, Sparky? Do you? Because you interrupt me, mid-sentence, to give me a big lesson. That's how."
"So what's the point?"
"The point is - we need to do the 'send your scene' in stuff again. People are working on their, uh, work. It's nice to get a little feedback, ya know. It's really nice. Dialogue, love scenes, first meeting scenes, fight scenes, death scenes, combo plans, we've done 'em. Let's do that again, please. Once a month for a while, maybe. You pick which kind goes first. Starting next weekend."
Sparky chewed the inside of his cheek, considering...It's always the same with these damn women. Give 'em an inch, and they want... a lotta inches...
--Robin S.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Sparky.
"Hey, you can yeah-yeah-yeah me all you want, but in the words of the immortal song...'those were the days, my friend.' The thing is, Sparky, lots of us who've been around a while are writing our asses off, and having some good come of it, so take a bow as I for one say thanks to you for your help with the honing..."
"Is there a point coming, or do you plan on simply standing on your soapbox for a while?" Sparky couldn't help it. Being a main male member of the literati, he was naturally imperious.
"Here's an aside for ya, sport. You know how I knew you really were a guy and not just doing a cartoon fake-job long before you let me see you on the Minion Board? Do you, Sparky? Do you? Because you interrupt me, mid-sentence, to give me a big lesson. That's how."
"So what's the point?"
"The point is - we need to do the 'send your scene' in stuff again. People are working on their, uh, work. It's nice to get a little feedback, ya know. It's really nice. Dialogue, love scenes, first meeting scenes, fight scenes, death scenes, combo plans, we've done 'em. Let's do that again, please. Once a month for a while, maybe. You pick which kind goes first. Starting next weekend."
Sparky chewed the inside of his cheek, considering...It's always the same with these damn women. Give 'em an inch, and they want... a lotta inches...
--Robin S.
Bored Meeting 7
‘Maybe we should scan our bottoms,’ said Whirl. ‘Biggest bags the Hall of Fame.’
‘Great idea!’ Evil pulled down his pants and leapt onto the photocopier. A groan. A crash. A tremor. Another idea scratched.
The corpulent editor returned to the table, eyed his gathered minions. ‘We gotta think of something,’ he said. ‘Something really stunning. Set the whole blog alight...’
The minions glanced at each other, as if playing keepy-uppy with some unseen buck.
Then Mrs Varmighan said, ‘why don’t you offer a prize? We haven’t sold a mug in years and the moths have nibbled all the T shirts.’
Evil’s face beamed. ‘The moths! What a fine suggestion! We could bag them up for a Christmas special!’
‘Hey, you could sign each one,’ said Robin.
Steve added, ‘both wings. Twice. Thrice.’
‘Train them,’ said Rachel.
‘Yeah. A dance,’ effused Dave.
‘And music! Costumes! Magic!’
A peal of applause followed Writtenwyrdd’s hearty eureka moment, and for the rest of the afternoon, Evil’s office buzzed like a hive of activity: a hive full of moths. And minions.
But Fairyhedgehog hit on a problem. ‘How do we stop them suffocating in the post?’
The door burst open — Scott from Oregon! Clutching a boxful of miniature lepidopteran aqualung affairs! ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Anyone know what these are? I won them in a raffle.’
‘That settles it,’ said Evil. ‘With a prize like this, it won’t matter a hang what the weekly writing exercise is. They’ll be fighting each other off to submit entries.’
The minions chorused a groan of dismay. ‘They? Don’t you mean us?’
‘It was your idea,’ Evil growled.
‘Mine, actually,’ said Mrs Varmighan, before trying to deny it.
A long silence followed.
Then Whirl said, ‘so are we scanning our bottoms or not?’
--Whirlochre
‘Great idea!’ Evil pulled down his pants and leapt onto the photocopier. A groan. A crash. A tremor. Another idea scratched.
The corpulent editor returned to the table, eyed his gathered minions. ‘We gotta think of something,’ he said. ‘Something really stunning. Set the whole blog alight...’
The minions glanced at each other, as if playing keepy-uppy with some unseen buck.
Then Mrs Varmighan said, ‘why don’t you offer a prize? We haven’t sold a mug in years and the moths have nibbled all the T shirts.’
Evil’s face beamed. ‘The moths! What a fine suggestion! We could bag them up for a Christmas special!’
‘Hey, you could sign each one,’ said Robin.
Steve added, ‘both wings. Twice. Thrice.’
‘Train them,’ said Rachel.
‘Yeah. A dance,’ effused Dave.
‘And music! Costumes! Magic!’
A peal of applause followed Writtenwyrdd’s hearty eureka moment, and for the rest of the afternoon, Evil’s office buzzed like a hive of activity: a hive full of moths. And minions.
But Fairyhedgehog hit on a problem. ‘How do we stop them suffocating in the post?’
The door burst open — Scott from Oregon! Clutching a boxful of miniature lepidopteran aqualung affairs! ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Anyone know what these are? I won them in a raffle.’
‘That settles it,’ said Evil. ‘With a prize like this, it won’t matter a hang what the weekly writing exercise is. They’ll be fighting each other off to submit entries.’
The minions chorused a groan of dismay. ‘They? Don’t you mean us?’
‘It was your idea,’ Evil growled.
‘Mine, actually,’ said Mrs Varmighan, before trying to deny it.
A long silence followed.
Then Whirl said, ‘so are we scanning our bottoms or not?’
--Whirlochre
Bored Meeting 6
“I say we have writing retreats. Conferences, maybe. How does every week sound to you?” Buffy buffed her nails to a shine and contemplated leaving early so she could spend another few hours in her limo.
Robin raised her hand. “I’d come.”
“Anyone else?”
“The unfortunate withering of the economy puts British, West Coast, and other faraway minions at a disadvantage,” Dave pointed out.
“Exactly,” Steve said.”
As Paca worked up some phlegm to forcefully agree, EE stepped in. “Let’s get some more ideas, please.”
Xiexie fiddled with some papers. “There’s always the NaNoWriMo dares forum for writing prompts.”
“The person with the most points would have a pretty bad piece, but it’d be funny,” Rachel said. “Funny is key.”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. What about something quality, like Moby Dick fanfiction?”
Rachel perked up. “I had a teacher once who—”
“You’ve mentioned it before,” Dave said. “At least once. Mad scientists?”
“They do say to write what you know, Dave.”
“Ha.”
Buffy yawned and scampered away to her limo and acorn cocktail. Steve pulled out his laptop and boosted his wordcount by another couple thousand, while Paca started dreaming about grass and Robin wiggled her eyebrows at EE, who was glaring at the ceiling and muttering about bureaucracy.
“Hey,” said 150.
“What?”
“We could ask the lurkers.”
EE looked around. “What lurkers?”
150 pointed out the window, where rows upon rows of eyes peered in.
“What do you think, lurkers?” EE called, and a golden-haired face rose above the windowsill. “Weredingo fiction,” it barked.
Another face, paler and bloodied, with brains seeping out, rose up beside it. “Mooooo.”
--_*Rachel*_
Robin raised her hand. “I’d come.”
“Anyone else?”
“The unfortunate withering of the economy puts British, West Coast, and other faraway minions at a disadvantage,” Dave pointed out.
“Exactly,” Steve said.”
As Paca worked up some phlegm to forcefully agree, EE stepped in. “Let’s get some more ideas, please.”
Xiexie fiddled with some papers. “There’s always the NaNoWriMo dares forum for writing prompts.”
“The person with the most points would have a pretty bad piece, but it’d be funny,” Rachel said. “Funny is key.”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. What about something quality, like Moby Dick fanfiction?”
Rachel perked up. “I had a teacher once who—”
“You’ve mentioned it before,” Dave said. “At least once. Mad scientists?”
“They do say to write what you know, Dave.”
“Ha.”
Buffy yawned and scampered away to her limo and acorn cocktail. Steve pulled out his laptop and boosted his wordcount by another couple thousand, while Paca started dreaming about grass and Robin wiggled her eyebrows at EE, who was glaring at the ceiling and muttering about bureaucracy.
“Hey,” said 150.
“What?”
“We could ask the lurkers.”
EE looked around. “What lurkers?”
150 pointed out the window, where rows upon rows of eyes peered in.
“What do you think, lurkers?” EE called, and a golden-haired face rose above the windowsill. “Weredingo fiction,” it barked.
Another face, paler and bloodied, with brains seeping out, rose up beside it. “Mooooo.”
--_*Rachel*_
Bored Meeting 5
Brickstein appeared deep in thought until a light bulb appeared above his head. "The last will and testament of famous fictional characters," he said.
"Forget it," EE said. It doesn't involve me. My minions prefer exercises in which I make an appearance, or at least those with taste do. I assume."
Dinkwaddle said, "EE turns on the water to draw a bubble bath and then leaves the room to get a manuscript to read in the tub. When he returns he finds Penelope Cruz in his bath."
"Get real," EE said. "We need something at least moderately credible. My readers know I would never risk spoiling a relaxing bubble bath by bringing along some hack writer's vomitous scribblings."
"Evil Loan Shark." It was Phlegmbottom. "You lend . . . no, that's small potatoes. Evil Serial Killer! You're like Hannibal Lecter, but evil! Wait! Evil Mafia Don! You're like Marlon Brando, but fatter. Your family members come to you with requests, and you turn them all down. Or Evil Marriage Counselor! You sit in for your marriage counselor friend who's got swine flu. Wait, I've got it! Thanks to a massive number of write-in votes from blog readers, you're elected president of the United States!"
"Hmm. Could happen, I suppose. But it's all setup. Where's the laughs?"
"Instead of vetoing legislation," Phlegmbottom replied, "you send congress form rejection slips. And your vice president is Penelope Cruz. And she's annoyed that you have a bigger bathtub than hers, so she's always sneaking into your--"
"I've heard enough," EE said. "Finally we're getting somewhere. The rest of you need to take a lesson from Phlegmbottom, here. Say Phlegmy, how'd you like to take over the blog when I retire?"
--Evil Editor
"Forget it," EE said. It doesn't involve me. My minions prefer exercises in which I make an appearance, or at least those with taste do. I assume."
Dinkwaddle said, "EE turns on the water to draw a bubble bath and then leaves the room to get a manuscript to read in the tub. When he returns he finds Penelope Cruz in his bath."
"Get real," EE said. "We need something at least moderately credible. My readers know I would never risk spoiling a relaxing bubble bath by bringing along some hack writer's vomitous scribblings."
"Evil Loan Shark." It was Phlegmbottom. "You lend . . . no, that's small potatoes. Evil Serial Killer! You're like Hannibal Lecter, but evil! Wait! Evil Mafia Don! You're like Marlon Brando, but fatter. Your family members come to you with requests, and you turn them all down. Or Evil Marriage Counselor! You sit in for your marriage counselor friend who's got swine flu. Wait, I've got it! Thanks to a massive number of write-in votes from blog readers, you're elected president of the United States!"
"Hmm. Could happen, I suppose. But it's all setup. Where's the laughs?"
"Instead of vetoing legislation," Phlegmbottom replied, "you send congress form rejection slips. And your vice president is Penelope Cruz. And she's annoyed that you have a bigger bathtub than hers, so she's always sneaking into your--"
"I've heard enough," EE said. "Finally we're getting somewhere. The rest of you need to take a lesson from Phlegmbottom, here. Say Phlegmy, how'd you like to take over the blog when I retire?"
--Evil Editor
Bored Meeting 4
Evil Editor has called an emergency meeting of his board of directors. "No one's doing the writing exercises anymore," he says. "We need a new feature for Sundays."
"Maybe we just need better topics," his second-in-command suggests.
EE glares at her, but finally says, "Okay, we'll go around the table, and I want a clever and potentially hilarious idea from each one of you."
“A pictorial essay section documenting the lives of living cartoonists?” suggests the Picture Editor. EE snorts in derision, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Photo essays? Over my dead body. Next!”
“How about a cute kitten picture contest?” ventures the Foreign Affairs correspondent. The meeting draws a collective breath of horror. EE shrieks in fury and launches his empty coffee cup across the room at the Foreign Affairs correspondent, who ducks promptly, the cup shattering against the wall behind.
“Useless!”, screams EE, levering his massive bulk from the directors chair and towering over the table. “Not an original thought amongst you! What exactly do I pay you cretins for?”.
The phone rings and the Features Editor springs to retrieve the handset. She listens, her eyes widening in horror, and replaces the handset, slumping back in her chair.
“Well?” exclaims EE. “Speak up, woman.”
“It was the subscription department.” she sobs. “The competition won't help now – the Reader has cancelled his subscription.”
“Readers, who needs 'em?” shouts EE, dribble running down his chins. “We're better off without 'em.”
--Oofy Prosser
"Maybe we just need better topics," his second-in-command suggests.
EE glares at her, but finally says, "Okay, we'll go around the table, and I want a clever and potentially hilarious idea from each one of you."
“A pictorial essay section documenting the lives of living cartoonists?” suggests the Picture Editor. EE snorts in derision, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Photo essays? Over my dead body. Next!”
“How about a cute kitten picture contest?” ventures the Foreign Affairs correspondent. The meeting draws a collective breath of horror. EE shrieks in fury and launches his empty coffee cup across the room at the Foreign Affairs correspondent, who ducks promptly, the cup shattering against the wall behind.
“Useless!”, screams EE, levering his massive bulk from the directors chair and towering over the table. “Not an original thought amongst you! What exactly do I pay you cretins for?”.
The phone rings and the Features Editor springs to retrieve the handset. She listens, her eyes widening in horror, and replaces the handset, slumping back in her chair.
“Well?” exclaims EE. “Speak up, woman.”
“It was the subscription department.” she sobs. “The competition won't help now – the Reader has cancelled his subscription.”
“Readers, who needs 'em?” shouts EE, dribble running down his chins. “We're better off without 'em.”
--Oofy Prosser
Bored Meeting 3
"Four days to Christmas 2012 and the boss wants another brainstorming session," he said as they sat at their favorite lunch table in Gaston's Brasserie, a glass building in the middle of a park-like clover field.
"After yesterday's squirm-fest? Like descriptions of his butt injections weren't embarrassing enough? It's like a Sunday newspaper feature." she said.
"The day of rest, for football. A day for golf. The call from Mother. The dreaded family meals," he said. The sky was clear and blue. The scent of hickory charcoal and steak whispered through the leaves of the many Chlorophytum comosum.
"Definitely not a day of rest. Football slavery, golf widows, loony in-laws, creepy relatives with kissy lips spreading swine flu," she countered. A white-shirted waiter came over with Georgia Peach's in fancy highball glasses. The discreet fragrance of Southern Comfort and peach schnapps filled the air.
"The usual? French dip and fried tofu salad?" he asked and both nodded.
"Perhaps he could get a minion to review a book or website."
"Or perhaps a critique of a long segment?"
"A writing contest each Sunday?"
"Animal videos? Like Emmerich's
pets escaping sure death? Pets always tug heartstrings."
"Some cat cantata? Dog ball licking? Squirrel stare downs? I don't think so. Only so many cute videos a mind can absorb before the brain cells wither and die. Think Ben Franklin on hope."
"Just what we need at lunch. How about something editorial? A couple hundred meaningful words by the boss man. Maybe a couple hundred thoughtful words by a minion? Or a guest?"
"A deconstruction of a scene?" Movement caught his eye; customers, waiters and cooks running into the woods without music. A comet, black smoke trailing behind a fireball, came at them.
"Holy Shit! It's the Mayan end of the world as we know it!"
--Dave F.
"After yesterday's squirm-fest? Like descriptions of his butt injections weren't embarrassing enough? It's like a Sunday newspaper feature." she said.
"The day of rest, for football. A day for golf. The call from Mother. The dreaded family meals," he said. The sky was clear and blue. The scent of hickory charcoal and steak whispered through the leaves of the many Chlorophytum comosum.
"Definitely not a day of rest. Football slavery, golf widows, loony in-laws, creepy relatives with kissy lips spreading swine flu," she countered. A white-shirted waiter came over with Georgia Peach's in fancy highball glasses. The discreet fragrance of Southern Comfort and peach schnapps filled the air.
"The usual? French dip and fried tofu salad?" he asked and both nodded.
"Perhaps he could get a minion to review a book or website."
"Or perhaps a critique of a long segment?"
"A writing contest each Sunday?"
"Animal videos? Like Emmerich's
pets escaping sure death? Pets always tug heartstrings."
"Some cat cantata? Dog ball licking? Squirrel stare downs? I don't think so. Only so many cute videos a mind can absorb before the brain cells wither and die. Think Ben Franklin on hope."
"Just what we need at lunch. How about something editorial? A couple hundred meaningful words by the boss man. Maybe a couple hundred thoughtful words by a minion? Or a guest?"
"A deconstruction of a scene?" Movement caught his eye; customers, waiters and cooks running into the woods without music. A comet, black smoke trailing behind a fireball, came at them.
"Holy Shit! It's the Mayan end of the world as we know it!"
--Dave F.
Bored Meeting 2
EE looked around the table. Whirlochre’s giant eye stared back at him. Robin made a kissy mouth at him. Dave sat silent, deep in thought. Steve Wright was laughing his ass off, probably at something funny he was about to write. Rachel’s pencil scratched at her notepad, a new self-portrait emerging on the page. Daley hammered away at his laptop.
“Daley, pay attention. What have you got?” EE demanded.
“Revisions. My agent wants…”
“I don’t care about your agent. We’re here to promote my blog. You used to be a loyal minion, but you’re slipping. Don’t make me blacklist you, or you'll get rejected even if you try to self-publish,” EE threatened.
“You can’t make me reject myself,” Daley stammered.
“I can and will.”
“Ok. Here’s a clever and potentially hilarious idea: write a scene that you can read normally, but it also has to make sense if you only read every other word.”
EE rubbed his chin. “That’s clever, but I’m not seeing the hilarity.”
“You said potentially hilarious. The potential is all in the submissions.”
“We need more than that. Give me a premise to go with it.”
“Aliens.”
“We need more than that.”
“A lot of aliens.”
“It’s been done before, spice it up.”
“A lot of illegal aliens.”
“Doing what?”
“Breaking the law.”
“How?”
“I’d rather focus on why.”
“Whatever. Why?”
“That’ll be the exercise.”
--Rick Daley
“Daley, pay attention. What have you got?” EE demanded.
“Revisions. My agent wants…”
“I don’t care about your agent. We’re here to promote my blog. You used to be a loyal minion, but you’re slipping. Don’t make me blacklist you, or you'll get rejected even if you try to self-publish,” EE threatened.
“You can’t make me reject myself,” Daley stammered.
“I can and will.”
“Ok. Here’s a clever and potentially hilarious idea: write a scene that you can read normally, but it also has to make sense if you only read every other word.”
EE rubbed his chin. “That’s clever, but I’m not seeing the hilarity.”
“You said potentially hilarious. The potential is all in the submissions.”
“We need more than that. Give me a premise to go with it.”
“Aliens.”
“We need more than that.”
“A lot of aliens.”
“It’s been done before, spice it up.”
“A lot of illegal aliens.”
“Doing what?”
“Breaking the law.”
“How?”
“I’d rather focus on why.”
“Whatever. Why?”
“That’ll be the exercise.”
--Rick Daley
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