rejection-letter « WordPress.com Tag Feed

Short Story Daily 245: Sally never listened

morgenbailey — Sun, 19 May 2013 11:00:09 +0000

Sally never listened

As holidays go, this one was definitely going to be one of the most memorable.

Ted clicked on the right arrow, flicking through the array of photographs. The camera told him he was on number 173 of 1,729. The joy of digital. He was surprised there weren’t more, although he had been through them, back in the hotel room, deleting the fuzzy ones. Following wildlife around on safari, there had been plenty of those.

He wished Sally had been there to see the results of the last few but then she would have said that 2D could never replace 3D, having a rhinoceros charge at you, a lion feeding its young, hyenas ripping apart… Ted didn’t need to picture that image, he was looking at it.

He looked up as the announcement called for his flight. He picked up his bag and walked to Gate 17. This was the bit he usually loved and Sally usually hated but today he felt the same. They were travelling on different flights and that felt too weird.

The woman in the blue and yellow uniform smiled as she took his boarding pass.

He tried to smile back but knew it was fake.

She read his name and her smile faded. She nodded and held out her arm to indicate his path.

He trudged in line following the other passengers, some in suits, most in casual clothes. He was still in khaki, a last memory to his two-week vacation, one he didn’t want to remember but knew he always would.

As the ‘no seatbelt’ sign dimmed, Ted removed his belt then swung his legs round as the man in the next seat asked to be let out. Ted watched him walk up the aisle and into the toilet. His wife was staring out the window, hands gripping the seat arms.

Ted laughed, not just to himself, but out loud, to the whole plane and he couldn’t stop laughing.

As he started to unnerve the other passengers, an air stewardess approached. “Is everything alright, sir?”

Ted nodded, tears rolling down his face.

“Is there anything I can do, sir?”

Ted shook his head, and wiped his cheek. “I told her…”

“Yes, sir?”

“I told her, my wife Sally, not to get too close but she wouldn’t listen. She had to get out the jeep and see for herself. Had to get the best photographs. It was a new camera you see. I bought it for her for our anniversary. She bought the holiday. Very brave, I thought, seeing as she doesn’t… didn’t like flying.”

The stewardess looked at the woman staring out the window.

“Oh, that’s not her,” Ted said. “No, she’s on the next flight.”

The stewardess looked puzzled.

“They wouldn’t let us travel together. I said I’d wait but-”

“That’s terrible,” the stewardess said half-heartedly, then went to attend to another passenger.

The woman carried on staring out the window as her husband returned. He took his seat and turned to Ted. “I hope you’ve not been trying to talk to her. You won’t get anything unless you touch her. Deaf as a post. Never listens to a word I say. Still in shock, I suppose.”

“Shock?”

“Oh yes, terrifying really. Came a bit too close to a pack of hyenas on one of our jaunts. They said afterwards that a woman did exactly the same thing the day before and wasn’t so lucky. I’d told her to be careful but as I said, never listens to a word I say.”

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

You can sign up to receive these blog posts daily or weekly so you don’t miss anything. You can contact me and find me on the internet, view my Books (including my debut novel, which is being serialised on Novel Nights In!) and I also have a blog creation / maintenance service especially for, but not limited to, writers. If you like this blog, you can help me keep it running by donating and choose an optional free eBook.

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

As I post an interview a day (amongst other things) I can’t unfortunately review books but I have a list of those who do. If there’s anything you’d like to take part in, take a look at Opportunities on this blog.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

PAYING DUES...

Chuck Rios — Sat, 18 May 2013 22:40:59 +0000

Where have I been these past few months? Well, paying my dues, of course! Between family, a 9 to 5 at the Library and finishing up prior deadlines, and the start of a new novel (Spoiler? Ok, ok, I’ll give you a title, ‘Everyone You Have Ever Loved Is Mine’. Cool, right? I know!), I have been very busy. But the one thing I never forget to do is pay those dues. Who am I paying them to? Do I owe someone? Will someone break my legs if I don’t pony up? Here is a quote that I hope helps some of you out there. It’s from the master of paying dues, Stephen King, from his magnum opus DIY book aptly entitled ’On Writing’ (If you haven’t read this, what are you waiting for?):

“There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement kind of guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you. Do you think it’s fair? I think it’s fair. He may not be much to look at, that muse-guy, and he may not be much of a conversationalist, but he’s got inspiration. It’s right that you should do all the work and burn all the mid-night oil, because the guy with the cigar and the little wings has got a bag of magic. There’s stuff in there that can change your life. Believe me, I know.”

Thanks, Stephen. Great quote. And just in case you are worried, my legs will be fine. It’s complicated, I know, so I will sum it up with a personal reflection: Every word I get down, every page I finish, every rejection letter I receive, brings me closer and closer to my yearly goals. Luckily, it’s starting to become a way of life. This is a good thing. I WANT to pay my dues, I CRAVE it, because when I finish something (don’t matter what it is), I feel validated.

Validation is good.

So, I leave you with some advice… How do you pay dues? (Like the King quote wasn’t enough, pfft). Easy, just write (or do whatever you do in your chosen field). Get it down, put in the time, sit the ass down and write. No other way around it. Oh, and coffee. That helps. Maybe tea, if you must. I take mine with two sugars, thanks.

One more thing before I go. I hate long winded speeches, so I’ll cut out short tonight but not before leaving you all with some links to check out (You should know me by now, I wouldn’t leave you hanging).

4o oz. of Horror Pod Cast

Here is one of my favorite Horror podcast. It’s not about the written word (Well somtimes it is); it’s all about the movies… HORROR MOVIES! So download it and dig in becuase it’s FREE! www.40ozofhorror.com

Horrorhound Magazine
…and here is my favorite horror magazine, hands down! They also rep Don D’Auria and Samhain Publishing! Go, Horrorhound, go! www.horrorhound.com

Alright, see you when I see you. Time to pay the piper and get my ass back in that seat!

- Chuck

Short Story Daily 244: The Thing and the Nameless Page

morgenbailey — Sat, 18 May 2013 11:00:55 +0000

The Thing and the Nameless Page

“What was that?” Willem-Alexander, the 10-minute-crowned King of the Netherlands, scanned the large state room.

His right-hand man, a strange-looking tall, thin Englishman called Nigel Barron-Smythe, followed his employer’s gaze. “Sorry your… Highness? I can’t see…”

“There! Over there!” the King pointed towards one of the gold and red embossed wallpapered walls.

“May I ask, sir, what I might be looking-”

“There! There! That thing! What is it?”

“Oh yes. I see… well, I don’t rightly know sir. Perhaps it’s a-”

“Spy!”

“Spy sir? I highly doubt-”

“Someone catch it! Over there before it flies to the… you there! Shut the window!”

A page who no-one knew the name of and had almost nodded off during the ceremony which had taken place on the hottest day in the Netherlands’ history, leapt to his feet and bolted for the window. He’d not been able to see the ‘thing’ either but knew he had to do as he told or he’d follow the way of the last page who had missed fulfilling an order and had been turfed out with the recycling. Rumour has it that he’d had to put it out en-route but there had been no witnesses to confirm that, or none that would tell him. After he’d shut the window, he’d felt something buzz past his ear. He swung round to see the tiny flapping of wings and an electronic hum.

“Catch it!” he heard as he watched the ‘thing’ fly towards another open window so he bolted again and managed to get to the window before it reached it. Thwarted again it hovered and spun in circles looking for other exits. Using his initiative, the boy did the same and shut every other window.

The room’s gaze then loomed on the door, seconds before the thing spotted it.

“The door!” the King shouted and two sentries who had been chatting about which maid-in-waiting they’d get off with at the next door after-ceremony party, slammed the front door which such force that it made the 12-tier cake, the centrepiece of the festivities, wobble.

Encouraged by his earlier success, the page ran after the ‘thing’, remembering a bag of treats he had in his pockets for the King’s Smoushonds, he retrieved it, threw out the treats – oblivious to the resulting scurrying of claws along the newly-polished floor – and lunged at the ‘thing’, wrapping it expertly in the bag, twisting the top so it had no chance of escape.

His heart thumped as the object battled to get out. Eventually, the thrashing subsided and the page realised the only sound he could now hear was his heart thumping. He looked up, around the room, and realised that everyone was staring at him. He swallowed, then as the King beckoned him, the page stepped forward, slowly, head lowered, inching step by step.

“Bring it here!” the King boomed and the page quickened along the long old room.

“Run, man!”

So the page did as he was told, the bag bumping in his hands, a squeak escaping from it as he did so.

When he reached the King he stopped, held out his hands and bowed his head.

Not sure what to do now, knowing it would likely escape if he undid the bag, the King called on Barron-Smythe.

“I… er, don’t know sir. Perhaps if-”

“Anyone else?” the King boomed, looking around the room. His gaze stopped on a short red-faced man standing near to where the King had first spotted the ‘thing’.

“You!” the King shouted. “Step forward.”

The flushed-faced man looked to his left, right, then pointed to his chest.

“Yes, you! Step forward.”

The man did as he was told.

“You look familiar. What’s your name?”

“Herbert, sir.”

“Herbert… Herbert what?”

“Herbert Wintergrund, sir… your Highness.”

“Sir is fine. Who are you?”

“I’m your Science Advisor, sir.”

“Oh yes, so you are. You look shifty, what’s the matter with you?”

“I… erm. That…” He looked over at the bag that the page was still holding.

“Yes. Go on! What about it?”

“It’s… I’m sorry, sir, but it’s mine.”

“Yours? Yours? What is it?”

“It’s a new type of robot, sir. A present from the Herschel Space Observatory. For you. They thought you might like one – it does all sorts of clever things – and…”

“And?”

“I was going to put it with all your other presents next door but I was late arriving so I stuffed it into my pocket. The little blighter… sorry, your Highness. It escaped and well, went for the light.”

The man’s face was getting redder and redder, and the page wondered whether he might explode at any moment but then the King burst out laughing. He clapped his hands twice, whistled for his dogs, and announced that there was enough food next door to feed an army and that they might even play pass the parcel before the disco started.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story Daily 243: R.I.P. Lenny ‘Shades’ Froug

morgenbailey — Fri, 17 May 2013 11:00:35 +0000

RIP Lenny ‘Shades’ Froug

Characters as colourful as Lenny ‘Shades’ Froug don’t come along very often and the world is most certainly a darker place without him.

Born Leonard Dennis Froug on the 4th of May 2013, the only son to Dennis Froug Snr and Lillian Froug neé Smith, of Northamptonshire, England, Lenny ignored fashion trends, wearing stripes with spots, snakeskin with floral, and neon with nylon. He earned his nickname not by the sunglasses he wore – he loved direct contact with the sun – but by those worn by the people around him on particularly colourful days.

As soon as he could talk, Leonard Jnr told his parents that he only had a limited time to live and wanted to fill it with as many experiences as he could. Being an only child, he was not short of love and attention, forming the easy-going personality that endeared him to everyone he met.

As a child, he would venture into his father’s shed, help with Dennis Snr’s experiments and soon he was trying his own, with success, leading him to ultimately find the cure to the common cold, all strains of cancer known to man, and some unknown, and why the underneath of a yoghurt pot lid always falls the wrong side down (gravital proportion to the square coverage of surface area on each side).

With those achievements, all before the age of 12, under one’s belt – in his case, a skinny Rattlesnake – some would then have taken a step back and settle into a more normal life, but Lenny would regularly be spotted jetting off to war-torn countries where he would take over the peace negotiations and bring them to a satisfactory conclusion – the Gaza Strip now a nature reserve – to parched and famished African countries where he would dance his version of a rain dance, powerful enough to whip up the fiercest of rainstorms, filling the Froug Developments’ wells deep enough to last the rest of the century.

One of many figments of English writer, Morgen Bailey’s imagination, who is famous for killing off many of her characters, she and Leonard had a short (544-word), but endearing relationship and Ms Bailey is quoted as saying, “I wish I could have known Lenny better. Maybe I’ll bring him back to life in a later story.”

Those who knew Lenny, are devastated by his early demise and are, at the time of this item going to press, raising funds for his return.

Lenny leaves behind his parents, Dennis and Lillian, and a hamster called ‘Pixie’.

The memorial service will be held on 14th May 2013 at the Chapel in the grounds of the Leonard Froug Garden on Mars’ Fourth Quadrant, near to the florescent rock pools that Lenny loved so much. A free shuttle bus will be available from all UK airports, where Lenny was a season ticket holder, and Mr and Mrs Froug welcome all attendees back to their home, Froug Mansions, which Lenny bought them with the money he received from his seventeenth Nobel Prize.

Those attending are forbidden from wearing black, including underwear – security guards have been instructed to check – and a disco will be held after the service in stretch marquees in the grounds of the family home – formerly known as Buckingham Palace – until ‘late’.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story Daily 242: It’s Not You, It’s Me

morgenbailey — Thu, 16 May 2013 11:00:31 +0000

It’s Not You, It’s Me

It’s not you, it’s me.

No, that’s too clichéd.

You’re a lovely person but…

Can’t do that either.

OK, pull yourself together. Three years isn’t that long. She won’t go too mad, will she?

Of course she will, what are you thinking?

Oh God, she’ll be here soon. Why didn’t I say twelve-thirty? Suppose I should have gone to her instead of her coming here then I could have done a runner.

There’ll be tears of course and I’ll never get rid of her. Suppose I could have done it by letter but then she’d have come over anyway… or by text. No, that’s the coward’s way. I’ll come straight out with it. Best to do it quickly. Like a plaster, rip it off in one go and the pain subsides quicker.

Of course she’ll say she needs me, can’t do without me. Heard it before. You’d think I’d be an expert by now; not being my first. She was the best though. Even I’d admit that. Hard decision but has to be done. Things just aren’t working out. I suppose if I hadn’t lost my job we could have carried on but things change, don’t they? No point burying your head in the sand. OK. I’ll do it then and…

Oh God, she’s here.

Hello. Oh, I love your jacket. Cup of…

Listen, there’s something I have to say. Please sit down. Anywhere.

Look, I’m really sorry but there’s no other way to put this but I’m going to have to…

I’m going to have to let you go Mrs Jones. I’m sorry but it’s economics – I’m going to have to clean my own house from now on.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story Daily 241: The Quarrymen (second-person story)

morgenbailey — Wed, 15 May 2013 11:00:45 +0000

The Quarrymen

You’d come here as a boy, not for years, not realising, remembering, how far down it actually was.

Quarries are high, deep, you think to yourself and look up at the edge. For a split second you think you see someone, movement, another human looking over the edge, looking at you, but the seagull flies off and leaves the rock, the face-like rock, sitting staring at you, a silent witness to your downfall, the misjudged edge.

You have other company, human, but you know there’s no more chance of it helping than the rock-face.

It, him, Charlie – you don’t know his second name – was luckier than you, as you fell together, in a fury embrace, you heard his last breath, the expel of air as his body hit the ground, cushioned your fall, the bounce just a foot high.

It’s a full moon, a clear night, so you concentrate on the stars, wishing you’d paid more attention in physics. Or was it geography? Closing your eyes, you picture the teacher. Mr Phillpott, double L, double T, the not-so-jolly brown giant. Physics.

You could kick yourself for being so stupid, all the things you could have done, wanted to do, thinking you had forever, but your legs stopped working when you hit dirt.

You start singing ‘A Day in the Life’ and wonder how yours got so complicated, brought you here.

“4,000 Poles in Blackburn, Lancashire”. You wonder how many there are now, then you remember it’s ‘holes’, potholes to be exact, and laugh.

Then you remember; the envelope on the park bench – the bench you use every weekday lunchtime – the envelope stuffed with money, the envelope you’d stuffed into your jacket pocket, for safekeeping until you could go to the police station after work.

Then you remember the hand grabbing your shoulder.

***

Picture above courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/timparkin/8697523591/in/explore-2013-05-01.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story Daily 240: How the Drabble came about

morgenbailey — Tue, 14 May 2013 11:00:46 +0000

How the Drabble came about

Margaret stared at her computer. The cursor flashed encouragingly but both Margaret’s brain and the screen were empty.

I need an idea, she thought, but still nothing.

“Write about writing,” said a voice from nowhere, so she started…

Margaret stared at her computer. The cursor flashed encouragingly but both Margaret’s brain and the screen were empty…

…and soon she’d written a short story, a very short short story, 100 words in fact.

“I know!” she said. “I’ll name it after me.” So she called it a ‘Margaret’, but her publisher thought that a terrible idea and renamed it a ‘Drabble’.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

My First Rejection Letter - Circa 2009

B_MAOI — Tue, 14 May 2013 02:01:03 +0000

From Monday September 21, 2009

Today I feel like a true writer. A vindicated writer! Today I received my first rejection letter. Which is awesome because especially with the use of the Internet now, people don’t get rejected, they get ignored. And I was rejected! The editor took time out of his day to say I’m not it, and that’s special.

Well here is the letter. Hopefully I’ll be able to share more soon; rejection and approval.

Hi, Rebekka. Thanks for getting in touch. Although we really enjoyed checking out your lists and articles on the Spinto Band and Local Natives, at this point we unfortunately don’t think your submission aligns with our current direction.Continued luck with your writing career,Brandon

+++Brandon Wall
Editor in Chief
http://www.prefixmag.com
http://www.myspace.com/prefixmag

Short Story Daily 239: All he wanted

morgenbailey — Mon, 13 May 2013 11:00:57 +0000

All he wanted

All he wanted was a cuddle. I could see it in his big brown eyes. He looked up at me, pleading silently.

I sighed. I’d have given anything to pick him up, like I’d done a hundred times, but I couldn’t.

“Sorry, Bertie.” I looked up at the clock. “Daddy’ll be here shortly. He’ll give you a cuddle.”

On hearing the magic word, Bertie’s ears pricked up and he barked, edging closer to the side of the bed.

“Shhh, Bertie! You’re not supposed to be here. The nurses will kill me if they hear you.”

Bertie whimpered and lay down, chin on paws.

I heard someone in the corridor and on a silent cue, Bertie shuffled under the bed.

The door swung open and I smiled as the tall figure entered the room. “Yay! Daddy’s here Bertie!”

Bertie re-appeared, thankfully without any verbal greeting, and leapt up at Elliott.

“Honey?” I said.

“Yes dear?” he said, lowering the dog’s front paws.

“Can you do me a favour?”

“Anything.”

“Scratch my nose.”

Elliott stared at my broken arms, tilting his head sympathetically. “Sure.”

“And give Bertie a cuddle.”

Elliott laughed, scratched my nose then crouched down, holding out his arms and gave our Doberman a hug.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story Daily 238: Passion wagon

morgenbailey — Sun, 12 May 2013 11:00:00 +0000

Passion wagon

Fred had wanted to be a train driver ever since he was a child but fate lead him to be an accountant. Now he was retired he was finally fulfilling his dream.

He loved to watch the children laugh as he pulled the chain to sound the horn.

“All aboard!” he’d shout when they reached Lakeside Park’s miniature railway station.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Acceptance Letters Are Overrated

mlr96 — Sat, 11 May 2013 18:47:48 +0000

Letters from agents/publishers that request more material or agree to represent you are hard to come by. You need to WORK for them (or schmooze for them). Just send me some rejection letters, please. They make me feel better, as if my work was actually, for a split second, considered. No response at all is the worst thing. Please, just make me feel like it was worth my time. Tell me that it’s not what you were looking for. Imply to me that I’m worthless. Just give me something

Short Story Daily 237: Furry like a dog

morgenbailey — Sat, 11 May 2013 11:00:19 +0000

Furry like a dog

Sydney was a little grey bear with a bright red bow around his neck. He was very handsome but quite shy. He’d been bought as an Easter present for Charlie Smith and they went everywhere together. Charlie’s bike had a basket on the front and wherever the family’s cycle rides took them, Sydney would be there, leading the way.

As winter approached, the weather got colder and they went out less. One Friday evening Sydney was sitting above the fireplace in the lounge. Charlie had gone to bed without him which was unusual, but Sydney didn’t mind because he would be there to greet him in the morning.

As Sydney sat against a carriage clock, he watched Charlie’s father putting together a big wooden thing. Mrs Smith was busy in the kitchen and the lovely smells made Sydney hungry. It was a very cold evening and the fire was so warm that he soon fell asleep.

The next day, Sydney woke to find the household rushing around like blue-bottled flies, too busy to pay any attention to him. It took him a minute to realise what was happening. It was Charlie’s seventh birthday. Sydney had heard Mr and Mrs Smith talking about it earlier in the week.

Charlie was now begging his parents to let him open his presents and they finally gave in. Sydney watched as streams of wrapping paper produced a plane model kit, a new cycle helmet and computer games. Sydney was grateful there weren’t any toys like him to take his place.

As Charlie’s father wheeled the final present into the lounge, Sydney recognised it as the wooden box. The back was plain but when it was turned round the front was covered with wire mesh and inside he could see something moving. Charlie gasped then clapped his hands wildly.

Sydney was too far away to see what all the excitement was all about and wondered what kind of thing could live in there. Maybe it was a dog. One of Charlie’s friends had a dog but he didn’t live in anything like this.

He watched Charlie open the door. There wasn’t just one thing in there but two. They were furry like a dog, but much smaller. Charlie leant forward and picked one of them out. It was grey, like Sydney, and was very handsome. For the first time in his life, Sydney was jealous. Charlie frowned and looked up at his mum.

“They’re guinea pigs, Charlie” she explained.

“Guinea pigs!” Charlie cheered as he dug back into the cage for the other fur-ball. This one was completely white with pink eyes. A funny looking thing, Sydney thought, not handsome at all.

Pigs? Sydney thought. The only pigs he’d seen before were on a cycle ride to Mr Parker’s farm where Charlie fed them. Whatever type of pig they were, Sydney felt happy they wouldn’t eat him.

Sydney watched as Charlie struggled to hold both of them.

Charlie’s mother took the white one. “They are very special guinea pigs, Charlie,” she said. “Auntie Lily has sent them all the way from Scotland for you. The grey one is a type called ‘Cinnamonrex’ and the white one is an ‘Ivorysatin’. They’re both boys so we have to be very careful they don’t fight.

“Don’t worry, Mum.” Charlie beamed. “I will stay with them ALL the time.” He looked the guinea pig in his hands. “I’ll call this one Lewis.” He then looked at white one which was wriggling in his mother’s hands. “And that one, Duncan.” Charlie’s mum smiled as she knew her sister would be delighted that Charlie had named them after his slightly-older cousins.

Sydney started to feel sad. What Charlie said about looking after his new pets meant that he wouldn’t have time for him anymore.

Charlie turned away from the cage and looked around the room until he spotted his best friend. “Look, Sydney!” Charlie said as he walked towards him, still with Lewis in his hands. “We’ve got some new friends. We can’t take them with us on the bike but we can play together in the house, wouldn’t that be fun?”

Yes, thought Sydney, that WOULD be fun.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story for Critique 013: Georgia & The Dragon by Stefan Bolz

morgenbailey — Sat, 11 May 2013 05:00:24 +0000

Welcome to Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group and the thirteenth story for critique on this b

Short Story Daily 236: Andrew would have been proud

morgenbailey — Fri, 10 May 2013 11:00:21 +0000

Andrew would have been proud

“I can’t hear you!” the teacher boomed.

The little voice tried again but was barely a whisper.

“Speak up child!” At six-foot-six, 4c class tutor Peter Clarke towered over Matthew Long and the poor boy opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish struggling for air.

Matt was built like a twig and Peter Clarke thought it amazing how he had the strength to stand as he clearly didn’t have the strength to speak. “Confidence, child! Shoulders back, head up and project your voice.”

The little boy looked lost. Matt was only seven and had always been terrified of speaking out in class, although less nervous with his previous teacher, Mrs Strickland, who had taken him under her wing. Mr Clarke reminded him of the giant in Jack & The Beanstalk.

Matt’s dad never listened to him as he built his model planes, and his mum was too busy with baby Beth. Emma, his 16-year-old stepsister was ‘in love’ so on the rare occasion that she was at home, she’d be chatting on her mobile to, or about, Simon at every opportunity.

Matt spent a lot of his free time writing about wild adventures, through the eyes of a boy called Andrew. He remembered a story he’d written a long time ago about Andrew overcoming his shyness and becoming Prime Minister!

Shaking a little, Matt stood up. Doing as Mr Clarke said, he slowly lifted his chin, pulled his shoulders blades together and in a loud clear voice, read out the adventures he’d had ‘on my summer holidays’ (very little of which was actually true as he hadn’t done much at all).

Part-way through, he looked over at Mr Clarke and saw that he did actually know how to smile.

When Matt finished reading out his story, a fellow student started clapping, followed by another, until the whole class was cheering.

Matt dropped his head in embarrassment, hiding a huge smile and shining blue eyes. Andrew would have been proud!

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story Daily 235: The ghost of the half-empty bed

morgenbailey — Thu, 09 May 2013 11:00:33 +0000

The ghost of the half-empty bed

“You look knackered,” they say and you feel like it. Six-hour sleeps certainly haven’t done you any favours.

“Early night tonight,” you mumble to yourself unconvincingly.

Life’s never been quite the same since Doris died and the void is so big that you think you’ll never get over it. Still, you plod on, doing your best. It’s just a shame that it’s not quite good enough.

Night times are the worst. The bed seems huge without her petite frame lying next to you and the house is too quiet. Your brother Matthew says that you should have moved on by now, but what would he know? He still has Jane. He might think about the possibility but he couldn’t know what it’s like to lose a soul-mate. How it feels now you’re only a half.

Unbearable, that’s what it is, and you do wonder why you carry on but the little voice, Doris’, tells you that you have to, so you do it for her.

You think Christmases are going to be the worst but as soon as you’re widowed, everyone thinks you’ll hate to be on your own, so invitations flood in. Having people around takes your mind off the day-to-day.

At least there’s the dog to be walked. Billy’s getting a bit slow but he’ll see out another year or two. “Good company” you imagine Doris saying. She’s the company you really want. He was her dog not yours but you look after him all the same. She named him after you.

The alarm finally goes off and you look up. Billy’s there, as always, lying at the end of the bed; on Doris’ side. He looks as miserable as you do, and you smile sympathetically. He doesn’t notice; still fast asleep, and you laugh at his twitching legs. He won’t hear you of course; deaf as a foghorn, just like Doris.

Billy reacts to movement these days, so you edge out of the bed, slowly pulling back the sheets. You imagine Doris shaking her head. She’d upgraded to a duvet years ago but it never suited you. With Doris’ shifting and Billy’s weight, you always ended up with a cold side. You didn’t like to complain because Doris always had other things to think about, but now you’d give anything to swap the sheets for her. You treated yourself, gave the duvet to the animal refuge, but the sheets aren’t how you remember them. You no longer have a cold side but you’re not warm either; the ghost of the half-empty bed sees to that.

You walk to the window and peek through a gap in the curtains. You think that anyone seeing them move will misjudge you, now you’re on your own. You no longer have a wife to hide behind; just curtains.

The snow that started falling last night is now as thick as a doorstop and your heart sinks. But then you smile. Matthew’s house is going to be impassable in this weather and he’ll be too busy with his children building a snowman to think about collecting you. You’ll have phoned to say you’ll stay locally and imagine the smile on his face as he realises he can have a beer or two after scooping up his children when they refuse to come in for lunch.

You will stay locally, very locally. You’ll share the sofa with Billy, something else Doris would have frowned at, wading your way through turkey and trimmings for one. You’ll open a big bottle of malt which you’ll raise to the health of the Queen. Yours isn’t so good these days but you don’t complain. You’ll wait for Billy then have your early night and look for Doris’ smile.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story Daily 234: Transparent

morgenbailey — Wed, 08 May 2013 11:00:47 +0000

Transparent

“Good morning, sir.”

“Hi.”

“May I help you?”

“Just looking, thanks.”

“Certainly. Give me a call if-”

“What do you prices start from?”

“It depends on the quality and quantity, sir.”

“A rough idea.”

“Low grade unconcentrated aerosol is twenty-nine greitons. Superior concentrated crystal jar is one hundred and fifty greitons.”

“How long do they last?”

“The two examples I’ve given run from half an hour right up to a month and a half.”

“Half an hour? It’ll be half gone by the time I get home. That’s fifteen greitons for nothing.”

“Fourteen greitons fifty-siebels, but yes sir, that does seem a little extravagant. I would certainly suggest a concentrated version.”

“But I can’t afford one fifty.”

“In a crystal jar, though.”

“Yes, that’s probably very nice but…”

“Shall I leave you to look around?”

“What have you got up to sixty greitons?”

“In the concentrated variety, not very much but that will get you a week’s worth of unconcentrated.”

“A week?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s much better value than the thirty greitons-”

“Twenty-nine. Yes, sir.”

“Why-?”

“It’s a different method of transportation sir.”

“Transportation? How?”

“Intravenous.”

“What? I’m not letting you stick any needles in me!”

“It is the cheapest method.”

“And it’ll last a week?”

“Oh yes. Guaranteed to do that.”

“How big are these needles?”

“Tiny. You’ll hardly feel a thing. And we use new ones for every customer.”

“That sounds alright.”

“I can arrange that for you now. Anston! Mark II for this gentleman. Right away.”

“And you say it won’t hurt.”

“Slight sensation then you’ll feel a little light-headed but just think, you’ll get to live for another week!”

“You’re right. It’s worth every siebel.”

“It certainly is.”

“I’m surprised you’re not busier. Seeing as you’re the only place around here to sell-”

“We have our moments, sir.”

“But the people I do see look so happy. You look very healthy yourself.”

“Thank you, sir. Yes, we do provide a wonderful service. Ah, there’s Anston. Thank you. Now, sir, please open your shirt. I just need to get to your lungs.”

“Lungs?”

“It’s the most direct route.”

“Oh my, that’s huge.”

“But the needle itself is small, see?”

“Oh yes, but I can’t see anything inside-”

“Of course not, sir. Air is transparent.”

“Silly me, of course it is.”

“And you’ll feel so much better. Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“OK, just a little-”

“Ouch!”

“Sorry about that.”

“What? What are you doing?”

“Won’t be long.”

“But you’re not inserting air, you’re-”

“Removing it. Of course, sir. Where do you think we get it from in the first place?”

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

How to Handle Rejections in Life

jitendravaswani — Wed, 08 May 2013 06:23:48 +0000

I have realised, through my very own experiences, that rejection generally happens once the wave match isn’t there. It may be employment, a love interest, or maybe an easy refusal by a seller to sell us one thing. rather than beating ourselves up and speculative what is wrong with us, generally we must always simply progress to one thing else that “matches” our vibes. Or we can come back once more later to visualize if timing has modified the vibes in the least.

Rejection. It hurts regardless of what the dimensions or severity, rejection is one amongst the most important challenges to self-love. From not obtaining a call back after what you thought was an excellent initial date, to not obtaining the work you thought you were good for, rejection triggers a dangerous dose of self-distrust. And it happens to all folks. Typically it’s throughout the twenty-something years that one experiences a giant rejection for the primary time, like obtaining drop or being laid off. Therefore it’s the right time to learn manner to|a way to} receive “perceived” rejection (and i’ll justify why i take advantage of the word “perceived”) in a very way that brings you lot of peace instead of more pain.

Don’t take it personally- There are times in our lives when we are rejected just because of bad timing or some mishap.If you ask somebody out for lunch however they have already consumed lunch, well they’re reaching to flip you down! If you apply for a part-time job at a emporium throughout the Christmas holidays the week of Christmas, they’re about to flip you down because they have enough employees. Some rejections don’t have anything to do with us. Therefore if you got turned down, don’t second guess that you simply aren’t any sensible or that nobody likes you. it should simply be an issue of timing!

Patience is the best drug(medicine) to search out in life. Choices taken in hurry without patience will cause unfortunate consequences. If you’re being rejected by somebody loving don’t lose your management over such a scenario and have power to face everything. there’s a hope for everything in life however we’ve to wait for it. In these circumstances too if we have a tendency to wait then we will certainly get a real partner in future who will settle for us in each potential manner.There will be no complaints and no rejection and your life will become smoother like butter.

Treat yourself like a special person- This can be a time for self care which is very necessary at this stage. Do something nice for yourself or some special people in your life, something very very special that pampers you. You deserve to be happy. This can be toiling, this can be writing business, and if you are going to stay it up for the long-term you will need to temper the dangerous with good thoughts. obtain support from others. call another author or a trustworthy friend. Warning: do not assume that a loved one can offer. you the comfort you look for.

It’s a Learning chance- Getting rejected is one amongst the most effective learning opportunities, that is, if you concentrate and learn from the expertise. If you get rejected and blame some other person, you’re most likely not progressing to get abundant out of the interaction. If, however, you begin puzzling over what you could’ve done higher, you’re on to something. If you can’t figure it out, ask the person or company that rejected you. If you sent in a very guest post to a blogger, ask why it got rejected. Typically it’s simply your writing that doesn’t work, however generally it’s because your writing has flaws in it. Determining these flaws will solely make you feel better and liberal.

Short Story Daily 233: Me, myself and I

morgenbailey — Tue, 07 May 2013 11:00:22 +0000

Me, myself and I

“It’ll be lunchtime soon. When they come round rattling the trolleys, waking up the old dears. Most of them can only just remember having breakfast. ’Cause all they do is sleep. TV’s on full blast. Wouldn’t wake the dead in here.

My little Johnny came to see me yesterday. Got a promotion, he said. Assistant Manager. Pleased as punch I was. Told him how proud. He blushed like a school boy. I remember when he wore short trousers. He had the funniest of knees. All knotted like an old oak tree. Hated swimming ’cause of his knees. Probably why he’s gone a bit porky. Still, he’s got a girlfriend so he doesn’t have to worry. She probably feeds him too much anyway. Not met her yet. He says she’s shy but how shy can she be? I’m only his old mum. Wouldn’t hurt a nit, I wouldn’t.

Suppose she’s busy. Social worker or something like that he said. She’ll be run off her feet. Just look at the specimens that come visiting in here. No control on their kids. Let them run around making all that noise. ’course no-one takes a blind bit of notice. But then they wouldn’t would they? Half of them don’t hear and the other half can’t see past the warts on their noses. Oh my God, some of them are so ugly. Urgh. Worse than that Queen Grimhilde in Snow White. We’ve got a resident called Hilda and she is grim. Face on her like… well, worse than the back end of a bus but then so would you if you’d got through six husbands. Six! Who’d marry her once, let alone six times?

Of course, I only had the one husband. My Billy. Ooh he was lovely. The apple of my eye was Billy. Died in service. I couldn’t be with anyone else after that. No-one could match up to him, could they? Not that he would have minded. Generous to a fault, was my William. He’d said that I should move on if anything happened to him. He wasn’t to know that he’d be dead six months later, was he? I always thought it would be his work that would kill him. But it was a career to him. Loved it, he did. “Can’t see myself being anywhere else” he’d say and he died doing what he loved.

The number 27 it was. His bus. How ironic. Stepped out in front of it when his colleague was reversing. Didn’t look, did he. Silly Billy. Still, he left me a good pension and I can’t complain.

That Mrs Beech is at it again. I do wish she’d stop doing that. Drives me round the bend. Wish someone would take that remote control off her. Not that anyone’s watching the damn thing anyway. I think they just like noise. The ones that can hear of course. And the ones that are awake.

The menu says it’s going to be fish and chips. As long as the peas are garden and not the mushy slop we usually get. And the fish had better be breaded not battered. They do the batter too greasy. Don’t like grease. Have to wash my hands afterwards. Makes my skin all blotchy and got to keep my skin clear, haven’t I. Never know when a Billy mark 2 might land here. They’re all like aliens. Most of them on another planet, away with the fairies. Some believe in them too, others talk to them. I don’t talk to no-one. No-one got nothing to say in here.

So I keep to myself. Me, myself and I. And that suits me just fine. The only time I get a decent conversation. Apart from my Johnny but he’s busy with his shop. He gets here when he can and I understand that. Oh, and there’s the lady with the library trolley. Margaret. Bit barking but lovely. Calls me Ethel. Keep telling her my name’s Ginger but no, keeps calling me Ethel. Still, if it makes her happy. I just smile and she goes on her way to the next poor old soul.

Then there’s Mr North, the Manager. Always on my case about my room. “Can’t have it looking like a tip Mrs Rogers,” he tells me. “It’s not a tip,” I tell him. “It’s my stuff. Got to have my stuff around me.” “But you’ve got to be respectful to Mrs Brown,” he tells me. “I am!” I say, but he won’t listen. Nobody listens to me so I don’t bother. You soon learn in a place like this. Got experience, you see. Seen the insides of a few of these ‘establishments’. Think they’re doing us a favour by having us here but we pay for the privilege. My Billy’s pension won’t last forever, then I’ll be out on my ear. Never mind, Johnny will see me right. I can look after him. Give him proper meals. None of that stodge or those little white boxes that you put in the microwave and zap it to death so it hisses when it comes out the other end. Three square meals a day. That’s what I was always taught. And it didn’t do my Billy any harm.

Oh look, there’s our lunch. Well, nice speaking to you, Ethel. Same time tomorrow? Lancashire hotpot then spotted dick for afters. Lovely.”

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story Daily 232: Even the dog is borrowed

morgenbailey — Mon, 06 May 2013 11:00:27 +0000

Even the dog is borrowed

Kath smiles at the camera and she looks like she means it but pictures can be deceptive. Even the dog is borrowed. It’s detached, starting out of the bottom of the shot, ears pricked hearing every sound. It growls as it spots something moving. Kath is too busy feigning her smile to pay much attention. With hands clasped around its neck, Oscar can’t move even if he wanted to. Kath doesn’t want to let go. She’s done it too many times and for now, she wants contact. Fur against skin.

Even after photographer has taken his last shot, she keeps hold; her wrinkled hands still wearing the rings her husband gave her all those years ago. She should have taken them off by now but they give her normality; like she belongs, has someone who cares about her. Only she knows the truth; of the loves she’s lost, friendships ruined. She has a red patch on her neck from where she scratches, she thinks it makes herself feel better but she’s only fooling herself. The necklace is old, an heirloom with a cameo of someone past; a relative, family – someone who has someone.

Her clothes are worn for comfort, but they still feel alien. Even the glasses aren’t right; they rub her nose but she doesn’t like to complain. If she did it would give her someone to talk to but she knows it’s just an excuse. She coordinates; blue and white with the glint of red in her glasses making the patriotic ensemble.

The picture appears in the magazine and for once she’s surrounded by people; adverts for stair lifts, face lifts and girdles. She sighs as she flicks through the pages walking back to her house: the house that he gave her; the only good thing about his affair.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story Daily 231: I could have cried

morgenbailey — Sun, 05 May 2013 11:00:40 +0000

I could have cried

“Stop doing that!”

I’d lost count of how many times I’d told my sister to stop kicking the counter. It was bad enough that I was there cashing in my giro but she still wasn’t paying any attention. Selective hearing my mum used to say but we’d been to the doctor so I knew she could hear as well as I could.

“Elaine, do that one more time and I’ll-“ and that’s when I saw him, so I changed lanes, his was the longest but it was no surprise. And all women except from old Mr Rogers and he didn’t mind being behind him as I meant I got to see ‘him’. He was new, and as we waited – I was ignoring Elaine by now which she didn’t like but I didn’t care.

I did wish I’d put on something pretty instead of my dungarees. And when he wasn’t looking, I pulled the bow out of my hair. Well, bows are for children, aren’t they?

I started making up names for him – he reminded me of Charlton Heston from that Ben Hur movie except he had more clothes on… bummer. But I imagined him all muscley and sweaty, and racing chariots around in circles with people cheering him on. I’d cheer for him. “Go on, Barry!” I’d say. Well, Charlton’s a silly name, isn’t it?

Then it was just Mr Rogers, me and ‘him’. I stood left a bit so I could see over Mr Rogers’ shoulders and close enough to hear their conversation – boring of course – but his voice… Barry’s not Mr Rogers’, was sexy, like caramel, all dark and rich. He was dark too, like he’d been on the beach too long.

Then when Mr Rogers finally left, my heart started beating. I could see Barry’s blue eyes up close. I stepped forward, about to speak when he completely ignored me and pulled his blind down. ‘Closed’ it said, as if to rub it in. Then I watched him walk behind his colleagues – that was back when the post office had more than one person serving – and head out the door… in my direction! He smiled. I smiled. He brushed his hands through his gelled hair. I wished I’d washed mine. Then he opened his mouth to speak. “Hi,” he said and I went to reply but saw he was looking through me. I turned round and saw my teacher, Mrs Evans smiling back at him.

Mrs Evans. She’s supposed to be married, only last month, not long back from her honeymoon. And Barry’s half her age.

Then they kissed right in front of me! I was going to say something but then Barry, or whatever his name is, said, “I love you Mrs Evans.” I couldn’t believe it so I stood there open-mouthed. Elaine was pulling at my dungarees but I still ignored her.

Then Mrs Evans spoke. “I love you more, Mr Evans.”

I could have cried.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

কেন লিখবেন? চৌদ্দ

Raqueeb Hassan — Sat, 04 May 2013 17:34:40 +0000

“Good God, I can’t publish this!”
- Rejection letter for William Faulkner’s book, Sanctuary

৫৭.

ভেবেছেন প্রথম রাতেই দাও মেরে দেবেন। মাফ করবেন, ভুল হয়েছে – ইয়ে, রাত মানে প্রথম বইয়ে। লিখবেন বই একটা, আর তাই হবে বেস্টসেলার! ধারণাটা সবাই করে বটে, তবে সেটা কাজে আসে না বললেই চলে। বড় বড় লেখকদের শুরুটা কখনোই সুগম ছিলো না। নামকরা সেই লেখক বই লিখে ঘুরেছেন প্রকাশকের দ্বারে দ্বারে, মন ভেজেনি তাদের। বড় বড় পাবলিশিং হাউজগুলো শালীনতা বজায় রেখে চিঠি লিখে জানিয়ে দেন তাদের অপারগতার কথা। মৌনতা অসম্মতির লক্ষণ জেনেও বুক বেঁধে অপেক্ষা করেন লেখকরা। যারা যত বেশি ‘প্রতাখ্যান’ মানে রিজেকশন লেটার পেতে থাকেন, ততো নতুন করে বুক বাঁধেন লেখকরা। এবার ওই গল্পে না দিয়ে কিছু নামকরা লেখকদের রিজেকশন লেটারের অংশবিশেষ তুলে ধরতে চাচ্ছিলাম, বাকিটার বিচারের ভার ছেড়ে দিলাম আপনার উপর।

৫৮.

‘এনিম্যাল ফার্ম’ নিয়ে কম কথা হয়নি। টাইম ম্যাগাজিনে উনিশশো তেইশ সাল থেকে দুহাজার পাঁচ পর্যন্ত একশো সেরা ইংরেজি সাহিত্যের মধ্যে ‘খোয়াড়’এর গল্প ছিলো অন্যতম। প্রচুর পুরস্কারের মাঝে এই উনিশশো ছিয়ানব্বই সালে হিউগো অ্যাওয়ার্ড একে অমর প্রকাশনার কাছাকাছি নিয়ে যায়। ‘স্যাটায়ার’ কাকে বলে তা বোধহয় ‘গালিভার্স ট্রাভেলসে’র পরে এটা পেলাম। তেতাল্লিশ সালে লেখা জর্জ অরঅয়েলের এই পান্ডুলিপি চার প্রকাশকের কাছ থেকে ফিরে আসে। একজন লেখেন,

“পশুপাখির গল্প চলে না আমেরিকাতে”।

বলে কি ব্যাটা? পশুপাখি ছাড়া কোনো মুভি দেখছি না এখন!

৫৯.

অ্যান ফ্রাঙ্কের ডায়েরিটা পড়েননি এমন আছেন নাকি কেউ - এখনো? অ্যানের বইটা আসলে তিনটা ডায়েরির সমন্বিত রূপ। মাঝের ডায়েরিটা তার এরেস্ট হবার পর হারিয়ে যায়। পরবতীতে আবার লেখে সে। অ্যান তো ভাবেনি যে তাকে বই লিখতে হবে। তার যা মনে হয়েছে তাই লিখেছে সে। সে কারণে বইটার বেশ কয়েকটা এডিশন বের করতে হয়েছে। পরের দিকে অবশ্য সেটাকে বইয়ের মতো করে নিয়ে আসে সে। ডায়েরি লেখার পদ্ধতিটা ওই বয়সের মেয়ের জন্য অনেকটা আউট অফ দ্য ওয়ার্ল্ড, আর সে জন্য ওই বয়সে তার লেখনির ধার ভুলতে পারেনি পুরো বিশ্ব। ‘ডিয়ার কিটি’, কিন্তু তার ডায়েরিকে লক্ষ্য করে লেখা হয়নি, বরং ‘কিটি’ চরিত্রটা দাড়িয়েছে নিজের মতো করে, স্বকীয়তা নিয়ে, অ্যানের একজন খুব কাছের বন্ধু হয়ে। নাত্সি কনসেনট্রেশন ক্যাম্পের সেই আটজনের গ্রুপ – দু পরিবার মিলে, ওর ভেতরে বেচে যান শুধুমাত্র অ্যানের বাবা। উনিশশো পয়তাল্লিশের এপ্রিলে ব্রিটিশ সৈন্যদল সেই ক্যাম্প আক্রমন করে সবাইকে মুক্ত করার দু সপ্তাহ আগেই মারা যায় অ্যান। অ্যানের লেখা নিয়ে তার বাবা পাবলিশিং হাউজে দৌড়াদৌড়ি করার সময় একজন লেখেন,

মেয়েটার (মানে অ্যান), আমার ধারণা; লেখার ভেতরের উপলব্ধিগুলো পাঠকদের অনুভূতিকে কৌতূহলী পর্যায়ে নিয়ে যেতে পারবে বলে মনে হয় না।

জি, মানে আপনাকে নিয়ে আমাদের কৌতুহল কিন্ত আকাশচুম্বী, সত্যি বলছি!

৬০.

‘লর্ড অফ দ্য ফ্লাইস’ যারা পড়েননি, তারা সিনেমাটা দেখেছেন নিশ্চয়ই। বইটা শুধুমাত্র হিটই ছিলো না, এটাকে নিয়ে সিনেমা করা হয়েছে দু দুবার! মজার কথা হচ্ছে বইটা সাহিত্যে নোবেলজয়ী উইলিয়াম গোল্ডিংএর প্রথম বই হলেও এখানে সিম্বলিজম ব্যবহার করা হয়েছে অতিমাত্রায়। মানুষের আসল চরিত্র নিয়ে কটাক্ষ করা হলেও পাশবিক ব্যাপারগুলো এসেছে এখানে। পরবর্তিতে প্রচুর লেখক তাদের বইয়ের প্লট হিসেবে ধার নিয়েছেন এখান থেকে। ‘ইউটু’র ‘শ্যাডোজ এন্ড টল ট্রিস’ গানটি এসেছে এর সাত নম্বর অধ্যায় থেকে। স্টিফেন কিং, ফ্যান্টাসি আর হরর লেখক তার অনেকগুলো বইয়ে এটার প্রভাবের কথা বলেছেন। তবে, শুরুতে বিশ বিশটা পাবলিশিং হাউস এই বইটাকে প্রকাশের অযোগ্য বলে ফিরিয়ে দিয়েছিলেন। একজন বললেন,

অযৌক্তিক সারশূন্য ফ্যান্টাসি, নিস্প্রভ আর বাজে (রাবিশ এর বাংলা যা হয় তাই)।

ভাগ্যিস, আপনার ছাপাখানার কালি নষ্ট করতে হয়নি!

নিয়ে আসছি আরো সামনে, কয়টা চান, বলুনতো? আসল কথায় আসি, লিখছেন তো আপনি?

Short Story Daily 230: Ticking? Clicking? Dripping?

morgenbailey — Sat, 04 May 2013 11:00:49 +0000

Ticking? Clicking? Dripping?

The door creaked open. Fred peered round and stepped slowly into the dark room. There was a distinctly familiar smell and a ticking. Ticking? Clicking? Dripping?

He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“Hello?” he whispered.

Silence.

“Hello?” he repeated, this time a little louder.

A small squeak came from the other side of the room.

Stretching out his left arm, Fred felt along the walls, keeping closely to the skirting board so as not to trip over anything.

As his hand edged along the wall, something fell on to the floor and another squeak emitted from a few feet away.

Fred tapped the object on the floor with his foot, moved it a few inches, then leaned down and touched it. A book. Picking it up, he slid his flat palm along the edges like a blind person feeling the contours of another person’s face.

As he felt for a space in the wall, his fingers thumped against a barrel-shaped object. Peering inside he could see a flicker of what looked like a candle. Holding a cigarette lighter over the exposed top he saw a long green arm. Fred’s eyes followed the arm to its owner.

“Hello!” Fred said. “What are you doing here?”

Gold eyes stared back.

“And how did you end up in a water butt? You know you’re not allowed in the library.”

Revesby stared back up, opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

The pain of being a writer

You can't hide the spark — Fri, 03 May 2013 15:16:38 +0000

As a writer, no one understands my pain…my frustration…my anguish…my torment…except Snoopy, wh

Short Story Daily 229: The Eye of the Tiger

morgenbailey — Fri, 03 May 2013 11:00:41 +0000

The Eye of the Tiger

Nine-year-old Jeffrey stood outside the circus tent and craned his neck to look at the top. He was just about to stand on his tiptoes when he felt tugging at his right sleeve.

“Come on Jeffers. We’re late.”

Jeffrey turned to speak to his sister, Alice, but she was already disappearing into the makeshift entrance. Soon lost is a sea of bodies, Jeffrey was almost swept along in the enthusiastic chatter as people of all ages and shapes followed Alice.

As Jeffrey entered the tent he spotted his family at one side, near to where the ringmaster was standing tall holding a microphone. Jeffrey’s mother beckoned him to his seat and he’d only just sat down when the lights went out and silence descended.

Jeffrey watched open-mouthed as the dark-haired man dressed in a long, red coat with big, black buttons and stiff top hat began speaking. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Welcome to Safont’s Circus. We are sure you will have an evening you will never forget, sights and sounds to surprise, acrobats and animals to amaze, and tricks and tom foolery to tantalise. Sit back ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and enjoy the show!

With the final word spoken, the man bowed to a chorus of clapping and cheering and a volcano of glitter erupted from the centre of the ring and as it settled, the audience gasped as two Indian elephants dangled their right feet over a scantily-clad woman. Around the edge of the ring, tigers ambled, one behind the other as their keepers looked on at a distance.

Jeffrey’s eyes widened as one of the tigers, just a couple of feet away, turned and looked at him, winked, smiled the moved on.

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.

Short Story Daily 228: Twenty-seven minutes

morgenbailey — Thu, 02 May 2013 11:00:54 +0000

Twenty-seven minutes

Ethel told you she wouldn’t be long. Twenty-seven minutes. You know because it was twenty-seven minutes to three when she went in, doesn’t like you to go in with her because she says you’re a distraction. Says she buys too much when you go so you’re taxi service there and back. You’d like to sit in the café, eat something different, but she always times the trip after you’ve had lunch so you’re never hungry. She always feeds you too much as it is, so it would be a waste.

You once suggested that you go mid-morning but she won’t give up her clubs; knitting, swimming, others ending in –ing. Every weekday. Won’t go shopping at the weekends because she says the ‘world and his wife’ go at the weekends. Not everyone’s retired like you and Ethel. You think these days that the saying should be ‘the world and his or her wife’ but you never go, so you wouldn’t know for sure.

You wouldn’t mind going to one of her clubs if she’d let you, but she says it’s the only time she has with the girls, that and almost every evening. You reckon you saw more of her when you were working; a phone engineer, good at it too, back in the days when they gave proper customer service. You’d even switched companies because they were so useless. Booked them when you got a computer and needed broadband but Ethel didn’t hear them so they left and wouldn’t come back. Fifteen minutes later she’d found the card. You reckoned they were sitting round the corner in their van, having a cuppa but rules are rules. You’d missed your slot and that was that.

You spot Norman and Ingrid and wonder how he got so lucky. You’ve thought that’s what you should have done; waited until your sixties to get married then pick someone half your age. He’d told you once that the sex was great and he walked around with a permanent grin, but someone else told you that was all the Botox.

You try to remember the last time you had sex. Your birthday? Christmas? Your thirtieth anniversary. June. Two years ago. Some inmates go without for less time than that.

You’d considered an affair, figuring that Ethel wouldn’t even notice. You’d go shopping at the weekend, choose food together instead of eat what you’re given. You don’t even have to cook it, Ethel won’t let you near, says you burn everything. She’s a raw steak person whereas you’re medium to well-done. Not that you ever have steak. No, you have Quorn and Tofu and…

And there she is. Why is she looking so happy?

***

Picture above courtesy of morguefile.com.

** NEW!! You can now subscribe to the mixed blog on your Kindle / Kindle app!

See http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B008E88JN0

or http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008E88JN0 for outside the UK **

For writers / readers willing to give feedback and / or writers wanting feedback, take a look at this blog’s Feedback page.

I welcome items for critique for the online writing groups listed below:

Morgen’s Online Non-Fiction Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Novel Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Poetry Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Script Writing Group

Morgen’s Online Short Story Writing Group

We look forward to reading your comments.