Officially Published

I can say,
with more than a little pride,
that I am now a paid, published writer.

Last night, at The Rivoli,
I read Memère Rosa.
I wasn't as nervous as I thought I would be.
Though I did ask TH if he could see me quivering.
My hands didn't shake,
but my legs were like Jello the entire time!
He assured me it wasn't noticeable.
Then again, he does have a Shallow Hal complex,
and thinks I'm a size 2.
God bless him!

Which brings me to this snapshot:



Sadly, it's the best picture of the lot.
I'm not talking about the fact that it's out of focus.
That's because the room was dark,
and we don't have a high end camera.

I'm talking about the fact that
I need to have a conversation with TH
and explain that he needs to work on
taking pictures that don't
accentuate my muffin top.
Cuz the bottom two-thirds of that picture
have been cropped.

And burned.

I do have great pics of the anthology, though.





Look! That's me, right there on Page 27.



The audience was great:
they laughed in the right places,
and clapped loudly at the end.

It was perfect!

Shout out to
Lady Fairchilde, Robi, M'Licious and Bobby-Jo
who came out to heckle support me,
and even one of the associates from the office.

A special thanks to Vikki Summerfield who pushed me to write,
and harasses me on a daily basis,
for more pieces to record for Life Rattle Radio.

And, of course...TH...
who puts up with the usual crap
that a writer's spouse puts up with.
Probaby more.

No...definitely more.

The Eye of the Beholder

As you know, I'm taking a writing class.
I don't know what I expected to take away from it,
but I can tell you I'm a little disappointed.

I've taken some workshops,
and I've entered several competitions.
In every case, I have received positive critiques.

The first story I wrote for my class,
was a coming-of-age piece with some Canadiana.
My professor loved it.

Then again, he's a Canadian author,
who proudly waves the flag for the home town.

I get it.
I should be proud to be Canadian.
And I am.
But if any Canadian author is honest,
they'll admit they want to break into the American market.
It's where fame and fortune resides.

I thought I'd flex a little on the second story.
It was a rewrite of an older piece.

He panned it.

I was down for days after that.
Not because he butchered it.
I'm OK with that.
I was upset because it bothered me.
I thought I could take criticism better than that.

But after a few days of moping,
it occured to me he was wrong.
That piece was good.
I had completely rewritten it for a competition.
The result was that I was short-listed and,
although I didn't win, to me, that says an awful lot.

I made further edits for the class and it was much tighter,
far better than my original piece,
and better than the competition entry.

Perhaps I wouldn't have felt as bad about his criticism
if I hadn't received such a glowing critique from the competition.
But they told me it was good,
good enough to be sent to the final judge.

And my prof wasn't impressed.

So, for my last submission,
I wrote something just for him.
Well ... not really.
I wrote it for the Life Rattle radio programme,
but I knew he'd like it.

I read it in class,
giving a disclaimer before I began:
"I have yet to read this story without crying,
so bear with me."
Everyone nodded.
And I cried.

He loved it.
The few amendments he suggested were good technical changes.

And then he panned someone else's piece.
It was a great piece,
similar to my style of writing,
and definitely not the prof's.

Which cemented it for me.
It's not me--or us, rather.
It's him.


I sent TH a text:

Me: On break. He loved the story. Figures. And he panned another guys story that was brilliant.

TH: Great literature = Mad Magazine.

Writing Workshop

I signed up to take a short story writing course.
It was supposed to start last Tuesday.

Unfortunately--or perhaps, fortunately--
the start date was delayed two weeks.

You can imagine how excited I was to start this course,
and how disappointed I was when it was delayed.
So I decided to take a workshop on Saturday,
just to tide me over.

I wasn't going to take this workshop--
after all, I was already taking the Short Story class.
But I'm so glad I changed my mind.

The workshop was given by Ruth Walker.
It was on dialogue,
both internal and external.
Like I need more voices in my head!

It was an awesome class
and I had so much fun.
We were given assignments
then 15 minutes to write.
We read our pieces to the class,
who then critiqued our work.
It was very inspirational.

I posted two of the pieces on my
Monica Manning site:
An Untitled piece and
another titled Between Floors.

Comfort Food

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.

~

Comfort Food
by Monica Manning

The sun penetrates through the blinds; bright stripes dance across our sleeping bodies. The smell of brewing coffee nudges me awake and I send a silent thank you to the gods for inventing automatic coffee makers.

A grunt behind me lets me know that my love is also waking. He turns towards me and wraps a possessive arm around me, drags me closer to nuzzle into my neck. I turn to face him and push his hair from his eyes. He needs a haircut. But we’re newlyweds, and we have better things to do.

I hear the grumble of his stomach—an angry demand for fuel. He opens an eye and I raise an eyebrow in question. We both laugh. I sit up and ask what he wants for breakfast.

I can make pancakes, I offer, or how about French toast with some bacon? Or I could make an omelette with sausage and fried potatoes. Or how about …

He just stares at me and a grin slowly begins to spread across his face. I know that look. I’ve been seeing that look quite a bit lately. But before I can stop him, he wraps an arm around my waist and traps me between him and the bed.

Alright, I concede. Breakfast can wait.

~

The comments that I received on this post
over at Monica Manning
were hilarious.
People! Believe me when I say
this is a work of fiction.
If you know TH ...
the boy has no hair.
AND ...
I'm not a morning person.
Not to mention ...
TH would likely take
the homemade breakfast
over the alternative any way.
We ain't fluffy for nothin'!

~

I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Junk

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.

~

Junk
by Monica Manning

"Do you need to keep this?" The exasperation in her voice was obvious as she held up a metal toy truck. Only one wheel remained and most of the red paint had been replaced with rust. Phil glanced over and sighed.

"No." The word was dragged out—a mournful surrender.

"Look," she began, "you can't keep everything. Our old junk is starting to take over the house. We need to purge." Jennifer tossed the truck into a nearby box designated as garbage.

Marrying a fellow pack rat had finally taken its toll. The basement had begun to look like a small-town flea market that sold only tattered out-of-date clothing, broken toys and worn furniture. Jennifer had already filled several boxes with her own memories. Dolls, stuffed animals; even her high school cheerleader uniform. Phil had argued the merits of keeping the uniform but—rolling her eyes—Jennifer had added it to the trash pile.

And now they purged Phil's mementos. Half-finished car models, armless action figures, moth-eaten Varsity sweatshirts. Was that a KISS poster?

Jennifer pulled a tackle box from a bookshelf, brushed the dust off. She wondered when Phil had last gone fishing. Before Jennifer could open the box, Phil snatched it away from her.

"I'm keeping this." His tone made it clear that this was not negotiable. Intrigued, Jennifer held her hands out.

"What's in the box, Phil?" She wiggled her fingers in a "hand it over" motion. Phil shook his head.

"This is my personal stuff." He held up a hand, palm facing his wife. "You can't have this."

Jennifer was only more intrigued. What was in the box that he needed to keep? What could possibly be so important? She raised her eyebrows and thrust her hands out.

"Hand it over."

Phil closed his eyes and sighed; knew it was fruitless to argue. Shaking his head, he reluctantly placed the box in her hands. Lifting the lid, she was surprised to find the metal box held nothing but paper. Dozens of squares, worn from repeated folding; cards with faded graphics. Frowning, she pulled a piece of paper from the stash and carefully unfolded it.

Jennifer's eyes filled with tears as she recognized her own handwriting. A letter written some 20 years earlier professed her undying teenage love. She opened cards and unfolded other letters—all written so many years ago and long-forgotten by her.

She looked over at her husband, dazed. Phil shrugged, clearly embarrassed.

"I kept every letter and card you've ever given me." It was said as though he challenged her to laugh at him. Instead, Jennifer wrapped her arms around his waist, overwhelmed by the surge of emotion that had filled her. "It's no big deal," he muttered, but pulled her close to him.

Jennifer lifted her head and met Phil's gaze. The corner of her lip turned up as she gave him a knowing look. "We'll keep the cheerleader outfit."

~

I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Running Loose

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.

~

Running Loose
by Monica Manning

Jerked suddenly awake, Shawna sat up in her bed, her little chest heaving, gasping for breath. Carefully reaching over she snatched Teddy up, squeezing him against her in a strangle-hold, knowing he’d protect her, despite the fact that he was missing an eye.

Shawna strained her little ears, listening for the slightest sound, the tiniest warning. Then she heard it. A slight creak of the floor. Someone—or more accurately—something had stepped on the loose floorboard at the end of the hallway.

She eyed the large expanse of her bed, the boundary defined by the SpongeBob SquarePants bedspread. That was one good thing about getting the new big bed. And just about the only good thing. She had pleaded with her parents to keep the old bed, but they had patiently explained that Grandma and Poppa could sleep in her new big bed when they visited and she could sleep on the camp cot. Shawna had tried to explain to them that the old bed was much safer because there were drawers beneath it and nothing could escape. Never mind the fact that she would be even more vulnerable on the cot!

But they wouldn’t listen. They had simply laughed at her, dismissively waving their hands, telling her that there was absolutely nothing under the bed.

What did they know? Shawna snorted into the dark. They were grown-ups, and grown-ups didn’t understand monsters. In fact, they couldn’t even see them, every kid knew that. But Katy Wilson’s brother told her that his best friend Mark Henderson’s older sister told him that their little cousin saw a monster.

That—in Shawna’s mind—was proof enough.

And now, one of the monsters living under her bed was wandering around the house. She knew there were more of them...there always were. One had obviously escaped already, the rest were just waiting for her to make a move, or worse, a mistake. Kneeling on the bed, she contemplated how she was going to reach the salvation of her parents’ bedroom, knowing that the moment she stepped onto the floor, she would likely be attacked. As she considered whether she could run fast enough, she saw a shadow slowly creep over the crack below her door, plummeting the room into complete darkness.

With a squeal, Shawna dove under the covers, yanking them over her head, knowing instinctively, as all children do, that bed sheets offer an invisible force shield that no monster can penetrate.

Trembling uncontrollably, Shawna squeezed her eyes shut, whimpering quietly, willing the monster to simply crawl back under the bed. She heard the squeak of her door as it opened slowly. Her hand edged over, reaching for the comfort only Teddy’s fur could provide, but she found only empty air. Horrified, she realized he must have fallen off the bed. Paralyzed with fear, Shawna shrank under the covers, imagining the gruesome tortures that Teddy would endure.

As she wondered if the protection of the bedspread would fail, wondered what would happen if she dared try and rescue Teddy, there was a loud—SNAP!

The room was immediately drenched in light.

Sharp footsteps carried across the room toward her bed, then suddenly stopped. The covers were snatched from her and Shawna tremulously opened her eyes, looking up into her mother’s face, who appeared to be holding back a smile.

“I know you’re scared, honey, but believe me—there is nothing under your bed.” And to prove it, Valerie Phillips got down on her knees and peered under her daughter’s bed. Popping her head back up, she announced brightly, “all clear!”

Valerie picked up her daughter’s teddy bear and, turning the stuffed toy over, noticed that he was becoming quite worn. “Teddy’s getting kind of old, don’t you think?” She waved the bear in front of Shawna, then tucked him in beside her. As she left, Valerie glanced back, Shawna’s terrified face stared back at her. Shaking her head, Valerie left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Left alone in the dark, Shawna pulled Teddy closer to her, smug with the knowledge that she, herself, now had proof of the monster conspiracy, for she had seen Teddy’s face clearly when her mother had swung him over her.

Teddy was now missing the other eye.

As she lay grieving for Teddy’s blindness, she heard the distinct tink, tink, tink, of a button bouncing across the floor, followed by the unmistakable sound of hollow, mocking laughter coming from under her bed.

~

Although this story isn't finished yet (and I may never finish it) there are two more chapters. If you're interested, pop over to the Monica Manning site to read Chapter Two. From there, you can link to Chapter Three.

The Last Supper

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.

~

The Last Supper
by Monica Manning

He sat alone at the table, his calloused hands folded in his lap. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a fine meal. Perhaps never.

Footsteps echoed off the walls and he sat up straighter, fidgeted a bit. He closed his eyes to heighten his senses, wanting to savour this moment, burn the memory in his mind.

The smell assaulted him first. His mouth watered in Pavlovian reflex and he swallowed thickly, greedily licking his chapped lips. Aroma wrapped around him, caressed him like a familiar lover who promised to fulfill every perverted desire. The plate gently touched the table before him and he waited until the footsteps faded away.

Alone again, though he knew he was watched, he slowly opened his eyes and stared at the feast before him: an enormous piece of prime rib—rare—garnished with a large dollop of strong horse radish. Arranged around it in homage to the succulent meat were parisienne potatoes, crisp asparagus and fried mushrooms.

He slowly cut into the tender meat then placed a small sliver on his tongue, relished the juices as they filled his mouth. The small morsel all but melted. The crisp outer shell of the potatoes housed a tender white interior. A mushroom cloud of steam erupted when he split them open. The asparagus, steamed to perfection, lay in a pool of melted butter next to over-sized seasoned portabellas.

His contented sighs punctuated the silence as he steadily ate through the meal, laying down his utensils after each mouthful, delaying the end as long as possible.

Crème brullée was the final indulgence. He tapped the crust gently, watched as the fault undulated across the golden scab, exposing the vulnerable richness beneath. Each spoonful was sheer joy.

The utensils now lay across the empty plate, meticulously lined up. He wiped his mouth carefully with the napkin and gently lay it atop the china. His eyes closed briefly as he sent silent thanks to the god he was convinced had long since turned away. He would remember that banquet as long as he lived.

He smirked as, once again, the footsteps approached, confirmation that he was watched. How else would they know he was done?

“Ready?” The question was asked, as though he had a choice. He merely nodded in reply, rose awkwardly and shuffled towards the door. With one final glance at the barren room, he followed the uniformed fellow out the door.

As he hobbled down the long corridor, the chains around his ankles clinked ominously, barely heard above the bellowed “Dead man walking!”

~

I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Sad Little Bear

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.

~

Sad Little Bear
by Monica Manning

He remembered that first day as though time had not passed. The grown-ups held him by his waist and swung him to and fro while the child gazed at him in wonder, giggling with delight. Small, pudgy hands squeezed and held him tight, while strong gums gnawed and sucked his left ear until it was mangled beyond recognition.

In the early years, days were spent attending lavish tea parties and participating in extravagant parades, always wearing the gaudy orange hat and the pink feather boa. Evenings, he was lovingly held close in peaceful slumber; though he often woke up on the floor as if he'd spent the evening on a wild bender.

Later on, he was privy to such classified information as to what was said at recess, to whom and how, and detailed dossiers of those who didn't play well with others. It never occurred to him that he could retire on the royalties that such a tell-all book would bring.

Recent years were a mixture of long hours of solitude, lying prone on the flowered bedspread, and listening intently to the tortured lament of teenage love, offering the condolence only a hug can provide.

It was all coming unravelled now, as he sat watching her pack her worldly possessions, eagerly anticipating the freedom of university. He contemplated his dismal future, imagined it would involve being boxed and sent to a charity where he would lay with other abandoned stuffies, bewailing better times.

She stood up then, set the last box upon the bed beside him and looked around the room, a wistful expression flickering across her face. She picked up the box and, tucking it under her arm, scooped him up in a one-armed hug, squeezing him close to her.

"You have to come with me," she mumbled into his fur. "You're my best friend."

And with that he left the room, held firmly in her hand, happily swinging from one leg, visions of the next great adventure speeding through his fluffy head.

~

I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Deliberation

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.

~

The challenge/rules for this piece:

Select a word to be the title of your 11-line poem. The last word of each line must be a word of no less than four letters created using letters from the title of your poem.


* * *


Deliberation
by Monica Manning

“He partied at a festival, was filled with great elation,
and staggered out knowing he was too filled with libation;
his drunkenness forgotten—completely in denial.”
screamed the burly big-shot lawyer hired for the trial.

“If this man had only thought, used only half his brain,
that woman’d be alive now, and we would not detain.
Instead I’m here before you; my temper in a rile.
In fact, I must pause now, to swallow down my bile.”

The prosecution rests, no longer does berate.
The drunkard sits and waits while the jury does debate.

The verdict’s in, the man has sinned, the public does elate.

~

I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

The Narrator

I'm on vacation this week,
but, as promised,
I have posted some prose
written under my pen name.

~

The Narrator
by Monica Manning

The streets were thick with fog. Minute tornadoes swirled around her feet as she walked purposefully, her hands crammed into her coat, the collar turned up against the chill. Straight, raven-black hair, seemed to sparkle as the streetlight reflected off the tiny drops of moisture. Impatiently pushing a few stringy strands away, she shot an annoyed glance at …

“Cut it out!” Anger shot off her in waves. “You’re pissing me off!”

He glanced away, shrugging. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Well it’s annoying.” She walked faster and he lengthened his stride to keep up with her.

If he didn’t accomplish the mission, he would certainly be punished. And eternal damnation was not something he wanted to experience. He was unsure what the gods expected him to learn from this mission, but he was determined to succeed. No matter how irrational it seemed.

They arrived at the tall building she called home.

She fumbled in her bag, looking for ...

“That’s it!” She shoved at him hard so that he stumbled back two steps. “I’ve had it. Go back to wherever you came from.”

“I told you already...”

“Yeah, I know.” She dragged a hand through her wet hair. “You’re being tested, the gods sent you to be my Narrator, yadda yadda yadda.” She looked up at him, into those deep grey eyes that seemed to reach right into her soul. If he wasn’t so annoying, she could actually let herself get lost in those eyes. “I don’t care,” she whispered. “You’ve been following me around all day. Aren’t you done yet? I have a boring life. There’s not much to Narrate.”

He slipped into the elevator with her just as it closed and followed her to the penthouse unit. At the door, she turned to him, a bemused look on her face. “You can’t come in.”

“Oh, but it says so in the Decree.” He pulled a piece of tightly rolled parchment from his cloak and unfurled it. She snatched it from his hands and scanned the paper, her eyes growing wide as she read.

“You idiot!” Dropping the parchment on the floor, she opened the door to her unit and slammed it resolutely in his face. He picked up the scroll and read it through once again.

“Oh my.”

There, clearly written in the Lord’s intricate penmanship was the Decree that he should be her Navigator.

Not Narrator.

“Oh my,” he repeated.

~

I anticipate post-dating
some posts at the
Monica Manning blog,
so head on over there
and check out
today's submission.

Hasta Luego, mi Amigos!

As you read this,
we're leaving for Mexico,
heading to sunny
Puerto Vallarta
with some friends.

I considered having
guest bloggers.
I also considered
simply post-dating my posts.

Then I thought:
Hey! I can do both!

I'm going to completely
step out of the closet
and 'out' my alter-ego.

So next week,
while I'm sipping
umbrella-laden fruit drinks,
I have post-dated
several posts
from my writing blog.

I know that Blogger
sometimes has issues with the
post-dated feature.
Hopefully this works.
If not,
I'll see ya'll when I get back...

We will resume our regular
blogging schedule
November 30.

Hasta luego!