Tag Archives: short story

East Coast Hugs

I wrote a short story for the end of the world, you know, that imminent 2012 thing that’s on some people’s minds? Anyway, in it, technology is worthless. No internet, no electricity, no running water, no gas pumps, no refrigerators or cell phones…

I sent it to my big sister to read through. Not one week later, she was caught in the storm that cut a swath across the Plains and ravaged the coast.

Sorry…

Big Sis was without power for 33 hours. I know many more people had it far worse. I also have some writer friends in the storm’s path and wanted to send warm wishes East, as well as to my writer friends in Colorado who are battling uncontrolled fires.

May you all stay safe.

Author Bios: What do you like to know?

Last night at conferences, Middle Son gave us a beautifully illustrated idea of how he sees his parents.

In his father, he sees a love for his family, his car and hunting.  In Middle’s mind, both his parents like blue skies.  Me, I like gum, my computer and my family, including one of our hunting labs.  (Notice which one is missing?)

Wonder what his teacher thinks of these parent quirks.  Bullets flying, fast cars and computer keys.  We sound a bit…odd.  Especially the gum part.  Which, incidentally, is one of the things I associate most strongly with my own mother.  Cinnamon Trident.

I’m currently working on my author bio for a short story anthology.  As yet, I’m not quite sure what to say.

How about you, dear readers?  What kinds of things do you like to know about the authors you read?  Do you love the professional deets only, or do you prefer a bit of personal quirk in your author blurb?  Have you ever tracked down an author’s blog, website or other published works because of their author bio?  Or, do you skip reading these altogether? 

Do you like knowing how a story came about or what the author is working on next? 

You tell me, because curious minds really need to know.

I had a dream: the writing life

Last night I had a terrifying dream.  It was so real my lungs closed up and my limbs became paralyzed.  Even after waking, I couldn’t shake the physical affects of my nightmare’s ghostly grip.

I love dreams–even the scary ones.  I love living in them, directing them (I’m a lucid dreamer) and remembering them upon waking.  I also love writing about them.  In fact, my first paid byline came from a dream.  I woke up, wrote furiously and subbed my short story. 

Sorry for the short post, but my fingers are itching to hit the keyboards and bring my dream characters to life.

And so I ask, dear friends, how do you dream?  Are your dreams vivid and realistic to the point of pleasure or pain?  Do you remember them in full upon waking or do they slip away into the morning mist?  Can you lucid dream?

Fellow scribes: have your dreams ever prompted you to put pen to paper?  How successful were you at this?  What difficulties do you face when translating dreams into stories?

Curious minds want to know.

Two Truths and a Lie

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE

It was easy to dump my best friend.  Because, really, she wasn’t my best friend anymore.  We had grown apart.  Each walking different halls at school with different girls.  Maybe I shouldn’t have done it on Facebook, but I liked that I didn’t have to tell her in person. 

I also liked the kudos I got from my other friends.  My new friends.  The cool ones.

It was easy to text her all the things I wanted back.  My CD’s.  My blue tank top and matching shorts she borrowed when she spilled her malt and needed something to wear to the movies that night.  The newest book in the trilogy we were both reading. 

When she stood on my porch with a box, I made my sister answer the door so I didn’t have to talk to her.  She was just too lame for words. 

Her t-shirt was rumpled and her hair was tied back in two low pig tails.  Totally yesterday and not at all in.  I hid behind the door where she wouldn’t see me, hoping she would beg.  Just a little.  It would definitely earn me points with my new bestie, who stood beside me, snickering softly into her hand. 

Instead, she straightened her shoulders and turned away.  My stomach hurt until the party that night.  Guys, games and a dark room.  Did I mention these were the cool kids?

It was easy to fit in with my new crowd.  I learned that we were just better than everyone else.  We might talk about the same things, worry about the same things and laugh at all the same jokes, but we ruled the school.  No one could touch us.  We didn’t want them to.

It was easy to forget she taught me to smile when everyone else laughed at my messed up teeth.  It was easy to forget that she dried my tears when I was the punchline in the cool kids’ jokes.  It was easy to forget I ever thought she was special.

All I saw now was how she laughed too loud, flirted too much and didn’t care what anyone thought about her.  A-nnoy-ing.

It wasn’t easy to pull the box out from under my bed.  There was more in it than I thought.  Matching t-shirts we made on a hot summer day.  Home-made fairies in dresses of blue.  My favorite color.  And pictures.  So many pictures.  Of us swimming, fishing, hiking, laughing, making faces, hugging…

It was easy to blame her for our break up.  If only she had cared just a little, tried a bit harder, then she could have joined the cool crowd like me.  

And I wouldn’t be crying in my room all alone.