Side

Kicked aside.

Left by the side of the road.

Sidelined.

Side against.

Not as shiny as that thing over there.

Out of sight. Off to the side.

Something on the side.

Side dish.

Sidetrack.

Brushed aside.

A side note.

That’s my life.

Reservoir

I have a drabble up today at 101Fiction !

What’s a drabble? you ask. Well I’ll tell ya. It’s a veeeeery short piece of fiction of 100 words. Why 101? It had to have a 1-word title. Please do go over and read all the new work posted today at 101Fiction. The theme for this issue was “underwater.”

 

Ten Brides

This is a flash piece I wrote for The Future Fire’s Tenth anniversary writing contest. Even though the word “contest” is plainly stated, my brain somehow glossed over it and I didn’t realize it WAS a contest until I was contacted and told I’d tied for the win. So I’ve got a couple of lovely free books coming! Yay! So, something a little creepy as we go into Halloween season. And Blessed Mabon to all.

The winter Will Gannett’s mother died, the ground was so frozen they had to wait for the spring thaw to bury her, as if the earth wasn’t ready to accept her.

In the spring, the earth gave up her dead. The hole they opened in the ground for the widow Gannett revealed a skeleton: unknown, unnamed. A trade. A new body for the old.

An ill omen, said the elders.

Soon after, like trooping fairies ten lovely women arrived in town. Within days, each was betrothed to a young man of the village. In due course the weddings were accomplished. Each of the strange beauties, while barely able to speak the local tongue, were obedient, compliant wives to the young men who could scarcely believe their good fortune.

The first to die was the miller’s son, trampled by the donkey that turned the millstone. Soon after, the parson’s son fell ill and perished. The blacksmith’s son fell into the forge and was burned alive. Within a year, all ten were dead, leaving behind wives who were soon mothers. Within days of each other, each delivered a daughter.

Gathering in the field where the ancient body was dug up and the Widow Gannett and the young husbands now lay buried, the new mothers met in a circle. In the center lay the bones of the mystery corpse. The women chanted and sang:

“This is the spell that we intone
Flesh to flesh and bone to bone
Sinew to sinew, and vein to vein,
And each one shall be whole again”

as the bones again grew muscles, sinews, blood veins, and skin. And when it was whole again, the corpse that was now a woman looked around at the women assembled around her.

“The old god is dead, and we will reign again.”

And she led them back to the village.

Brother, Can You Spare $5?

Just a short post to all my writing readers.

Finding  markets for our work used to be very time-intensive, with limited options apart from spending hours at the library finding contact information for magazines (or buying the ones you wanted to submit to, which you still should). There was of course the Writer’s Digest “Writers’ Market” books, but those were outdated almost before they hit the shelves (not to mention one would set you back somewhere around $20) so more research was necessary to make sure you had current info on who was who in each particular zoo (err… market). You don’t want to address a query or a submission to someone who no longer works there. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. Editors move around in publishing faster than I can tie my shoes. Not to mention how quickly publications start up, then go belly up. And finding new markets apart from the large circulation periodicals on most newsstands was another matter. And now of course with everything online and new e-zines and projects popping up all over the place, the mind reels trying to keep on top of things.

Enter Duotrope.

These folks do all the legwork for you, pulling together markets in every conceivable genre in one nice tidy location. They stay abreast of new publications, which ones are openly soliciting submissions, which ones have closed their doors, interviews with publishers giving you a clear idea of what the markets are looking for, search algorithms to find exactly the kind of mag that is looking for your babies, a way to track deadlines, your submissions, weekly emails for the genre(s) you’re interested in, and frankly a lot of inspiration just seeing what’s available to submit your writing to. The site is free to use, but it costs them money to run it.

I realize times are tough, everyone’s trying to pinch pennies and stretch dollars (or vice versa), but Duotrope’s needs are modest. If every single person who uses their site contributed a paltry $5 A YEAR they would meet their funding goal. Think about that for a minute. $5. For an invaluable resource that could well pay for itself in a single submission acceptance. Ok, it’s not the dime Bing Crosby sang about during the depression of the 1930s, but many charities that people contribute to suggest a minimum contribution of $35. And then they bombard you with literature asking for more. Not that I begrudge worthwhile charities a dime, I have my favorites that I contribute to as well, but this is such a tiny amount that it’s hard to understand why more of the site’s users don’t help them out. They have got to be the single greatest resource out there for writers, and yet they fall short of their goal Every. Single. Month. I can only assume they make up the difference out of their own pocket.

Before anyone asks, no I am not affiliated with them in any way, just another writer who avails herself of the information and tools they offer. But I would be devastated if they had to cease operations. Now that I’ve landed a new job and am coming off the unemployment roll, they were my first contribution again. Please join me in supporting this embarrassment of riches for writers.

$5 is all it takes.

The Rowboat — Flash Fiction

I wrote this awhile back for a flash fiction contest, but it didn’t make it. Thought I’d post it here anyway. It had to be 150 words or less, I clocked in at 137.

 

 

Mary stood up in the rowboat, rocking it sharply. “You told me you were going to leave her.”

Calvin remained seated, his hands still on the oars. “Keep your voice down.”

The moonless night hid them but the sound carried. If anyone heard them arguing, their secret would be out. At night on the lake was the safest way they could meet without the little town finding out and ruining them both.

Mary reached out to slap Calvin, but the boat rocked harder. Calvin stood, oar in hand, and swung it, connecting with Mary’s temple. She went over the side, into the lake, the heavy woolen skirts pulling her down into the icy black water. Calvin looked around, put the oars back in the water, and rowed for shore.

The next night, Calvin’s wife died in childbirth.