Phil Giunta's Blog, page 78
November 5, 2014
Do You Have the Write Stuff?
As conference chair, I am proud to announce a sneak peek at the 22nd annual Write Stuff writers conference running March 26-28, 2015 at the Best Western hotel in Bethlehem, PA! The Write Stuff is sponsored by the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group (GLVWG).
Our keynote speaker and workshop instructor is the best-selling writer and founder of WANA International, Kristen Lamb!
Additionally, we are proud to have an amazing cadre of talented scribes leading various sessions on all aspects of writing, publishing, podcasting, and book marketing.
Some of our presenters include Michael Jan Friedman, Donna Beckley Galanti, Aaron Rosenberg, Richard White, Steven H. Wilson, editor Chris Richards, Curtis J. Smith, Geoff Gehman, and GLVWG members Bart Palamaro and Becky Bartlett. We will be adding more presenters, editors, and agents in the coming weeks.
Click here for more info! Bookmark our site and check back often. Thank you!
Our keynote speaker and workshop instructor is the best-selling writer and founder of WANA International, Kristen Lamb!
Additionally, we are proud to have an amazing cadre of talented scribes leading various sessions on all aspects of writing, publishing, podcasting, and book marketing.
Some of our presenters include Michael Jan Friedman, Donna Beckley Galanti, Aaron Rosenberg, Richard White, Steven H. Wilson, editor Chris Richards, Curtis J. Smith, Geoff Gehman, and GLVWG members Bart Palamaro and Becky Bartlett. We will be adding more presenters, editors, and agents in the coming weeks.
Click here for more info! Bookmark our site and check back often. Thank you!
November 1, 2014
A Successful Signing at Moravian Bookshop!
A fabulous time was had this afternoon at our anthology signing at Moravian Bookshop in historic Bethlehem, PA! Energy was high and the turnout was wonderful!
An Amazing Signing at Moravian Bookshop!
A fabulous time was had this afternoon at our anthology signing at Moravian Bookshop in historic Bethlehem, PA! Energy was high and the turnout was wonderful!
October 27, 2014
Flash Fiction Friday - "Call Me Sam"
Happy
Halloween
!
!
Our latest flash fiction tale comes from Steven H. Wilson --award-winning fiction author, publisher, podcaster. I've known Steve for over 20 years. To me, he is a mentor, a friend, a brother. Both of my paranormal mystery novels and my latest anthology were released through Steve's publishing imprint, Firebringer Press . He is the founder of Prometheus Radio Theatre and co-founder of Farpoint, a long-running annual SF convention in Maryland.
Steve is the the creator of the Mark Time and Parsec Award-winning podcast series The Arbiter Chronicles, as well as the author of two novels spawned by the series Taken Liberty and Unfriendly Persuasion . He is also the author of Peace Lord of the Red Planet and three short stories for the ReDeus series from Crazy 8 Press. He has written for DC Comics and Starlog, and is publisher for the Maryland-based Firebringer Press, whose seventh and latest book, Somewhere in the Middle of Eternity, collects tales of science fiction, fantasy and the paranormal by Mid-Atlantic authors.
Call Me Sam
by Steven H. Wilson
The first card says this poor guy has cancer. Yeah, they gave me 3x5 cards. Like it's 1968 or something. "Just go by the script," they said.
I go by the script. It doesn't go well.
"I won't go." He folds his ghostly arms and sits down on his own dead body.
Sounds a little weird, right? Sits on his own dead body? Ghostly arms? 3x5 cards?
Yesterday, I was another dumb, suburban kid. My biggest worries were that I just failed a French test, that my mom and dad were going to repop my license, that I had a big date coming up.
This morning, I find out I'm not human. I'm an otherworldly being in a teenage boy's body. I work for an outfit slightly bigger than the Board of Education, though maybe, given the 3x5 cards, with a slightly lower budget.
My new supervisor, Supreme General Ball of Light (or whatever), possesses my Trig teacher. Light spilling out his eyes, Dolby Surround voice, the works. And the whole class freezes. Even the screen saver on the teacher's laptop stops moving.
He tells me to stop the humanity crap and get to work. First pickup is at the hospital. Take this stupid little plastic file box.
I protest. He waves his hand. I'm no longer in school. I'm in the hospital room of a terminal cancer patient. About 45. Could be one of my friends' dads. He's dying, like now. I read him the introductory card, which says I'm here to collect his soul.
Think you're lost? Imagine how I feel.
"Screw you, kid. I'm not going with you," says Mr. Arms-Crossed-Almost-Dead-Guy.
What the hell do I do?
I ask, "Would you, uh, like to speak to my supervisor or something?"
"Are you kidding?"
I flip the cards. The next one comes up blank, then words appear:
You have no supervisor.
There's no appeal.
And:
You're on your own, kid.
I tell him. "I didn't ask for this job. I was just sorta... put here with these cards."
"Great. They send a rookie. Could be worse. At least you speak English."
"I'm sorry about your, um, death. My aunt died of cancer."
"You have relatives? Aren't you a demon or something?"
"I don't know exactly. I'm just supposed to, um, claim your soul?"
God, it sounds creepy, doesn't it? Like I'm some kinda pervy spiritual rapist.
He laughs, but it's, like, edged with hysteria. "And where do you take my soul, Junior?"
"Um," I look at the next index card.
That's not your department.
"That's bullshit!" I say, showing it to him.
The next card says, The Boss doesn't like swearing.
There's a horrible sound, like a lawn mower trying to start in Hell. It's coming from his body. It starts to lurch and shake. It's trying to draw breath.
He looks down. "Holy shit."
Hospital staff rush in. One runs right through me. Weird. They don't see.
"You're dying," I say. "You should come with me."
"Maybe they'll revive me. What then?"
The next card: Not Happening. Tell him he doesn't want to be with his body when it dies.
I tell him.
"Why?" he asks.
Trust me, says the card.
He doesn't trust me. He says. "This is my body. Do you understand? This is my life." Like a snowman melting in time-release, he disappears back into the wildly shaking body, the dying thing on the bed.
He shrieks. The soul shrieks. It's --no, I can't describe it. A soul shrieking is not like... anything. Hearing it is the worst pain I've ever felt.
"Jesus," I mutter.
As if I had Bluetooth, there's a little click in my ear, and the sound of a ringing phone. A voice says, "Hey, it's Josh. You know what to do." Then there's a beep.
"Sorry," I say to the voice mail. "Wrong number."
The hell? I've got speed dial to Heaven? Was that--?
From the place the shrieks came-- I don't know where that is--the soul calls out, "Kid, please! Save me!"
"What do I do?" I ask.
The card says, Go in and get him. Just jump.
"I can't."
Unless you pull him out, to him, seconds of death will be an eternity of pain and suffering.
"What? Why would you let that happen?"
I didn't. I sent you.
He calls out for me again, and, frightened as I am, I can't ignore a soul in torment. It's not in me. I look at his body, and, stupid as it feels, I jump.
No more hospital. I jump... into him. Into his personal valley of death.
What's it like?
I don't wanna talk about it. Let's just say that I find him, grab his ghostly hand, pull him out. I lift him in spiritual arms so strong I can't believe they're mine, and I carry him out.
In daylight, in the park beside the hospital, he sobs on my shoulder.
"It's all right," I tell him. "I'm here. It's gonna be okay."
He looks up at me. First time he's looked at me, really. Before he was angry. Just kinda looking through me and past me. I guess all he saw was a dumb kid in ripped jeans and a hoodie that his mom paid too much for.
Now, you can tell by his eyes, he sees something else.
"You're beautiful," he tells me.
I'm embarrassed. "It's mostly special effects."
"Thanks for getting me out of there."
"Don't mention it. Come on. I'll take you home."
I take his hand, like he was a little boy. A little lost soul. I lead him up.
"Are you—really—an angel?" he asks me.
Good question.
Yeah. I guess I so. It's actually on the first card taped to the lid of my plastic file box.
Samael. Level 5. Accuser, seducer, destroyer. Angel of Death.
"Hey," I say to him. "Why don't you just call me Sam?"
Our latest flash fiction tale comes from Steven H. Wilson --award-winning fiction author, publisher, podcaster. I've known Steve for over 20 years. To me, he is a mentor, a friend, a brother. Both of my paranormal mystery novels and my latest anthology were released through Steve's publishing imprint, Firebringer Press . He is the founder of Prometheus Radio Theatre and co-founder of Farpoint, a long-running annual SF convention in Maryland.
Steve is the the creator of the Mark Time and Parsec Award-winning podcast series The Arbiter Chronicles, as well as the author of two novels spawned by the series Taken Liberty and Unfriendly Persuasion . He is also the author of Peace Lord of the Red Planet and three short stories for the ReDeus series from Crazy 8 Press. He has written for DC Comics and Starlog, and is publisher for the Maryland-based Firebringer Press, whose seventh and latest book, Somewhere in the Middle of Eternity, collects tales of science fiction, fantasy and the paranormal by Mid-Atlantic authors.
Call Me Sam
by Steven H. Wilson
The first card says this poor guy has cancer. Yeah, they gave me 3x5 cards. Like it's 1968 or something. "Just go by the script," they said.
I go by the script. It doesn't go well.
"I won't go." He folds his ghostly arms and sits down on his own dead body.
Sounds a little weird, right? Sits on his own dead body? Ghostly arms? 3x5 cards?
Yesterday, I was another dumb, suburban kid. My biggest worries were that I just failed a French test, that my mom and dad were going to repop my license, that I had a big date coming up.
This morning, I find out I'm not human. I'm an otherworldly being in a teenage boy's body. I work for an outfit slightly bigger than the Board of Education, though maybe, given the 3x5 cards, with a slightly lower budget.
My new supervisor, Supreme General Ball of Light (or whatever), possesses my Trig teacher. Light spilling out his eyes, Dolby Surround voice, the works. And the whole class freezes. Even the screen saver on the teacher's laptop stops moving.
He tells me to stop the humanity crap and get to work. First pickup is at the hospital. Take this stupid little plastic file box.
I protest. He waves his hand. I'm no longer in school. I'm in the hospital room of a terminal cancer patient. About 45. Could be one of my friends' dads. He's dying, like now. I read him the introductory card, which says I'm here to collect his soul.
Think you're lost? Imagine how I feel.
"Screw you, kid. I'm not going with you," says Mr. Arms-Crossed-Almost-Dead-Guy.
What the hell do I do?
I ask, "Would you, uh, like to speak to my supervisor or something?"
"Are you kidding?"
I flip the cards. The next one comes up blank, then words appear:
You have no supervisor.
There's no appeal.
And:
You're on your own, kid.
I tell him. "I didn't ask for this job. I was just sorta... put here with these cards."
"Great. They send a rookie. Could be worse. At least you speak English."
"I'm sorry about your, um, death. My aunt died of cancer."
"You have relatives? Aren't you a demon or something?"
"I don't know exactly. I'm just supposed to, um, claim your soul?"
God, it sounds creepy, doesn't it? Like I'm some kinda pervy spiritual rapist.
He laughs, but it's, like, edged with hysteria. "And where do you take my soul, Junior?"
"Um," I look at the next index card.
That's not your department.
"That's bullshit!" I say, showing it to him.
The next card says, The Boss doesn't like swearing.
There's a horrible sound, like a lawn mower trying to start in Hell. It's coming from his body. It starts to lurch and shake. It's trying to draw breath.
He looks down. "Holy shit."
Hospital staff rush in. One runs right through me. Weird. They don't see.
"You're dying," I say. "You should come with me."
"Maybe they'll revive me. What then?"
The next card: Not Happening. Tell him he doesn't want to be with his body when it dies.
I tell him.
"Why?" he asks.
Trust me, says the card.
He doesn't trust me. He says. "This is my body. Do you understand? This is my life." Like a snowman melting in time-release, he disappears back into the wildly shaking body, the dying thing on the bed.
He shrieks. The soul shrieks. It's --no, I can't describe it. A soul shrieking is not like... anything. Hearing it is the worst pain I've ever felt.
"Jesus," I mutter.
As if I had Bluetooth, there's a little click in my ear, and the sound of a ringing phone. A voice says, "Hey, it's Josh. You know what to do." Then there's a beep.
"Sorry," I say to the voice mail. "Wrong number."
The hell? I've got speed dial to Heaven? Was that--?
From the place the shrieks came-- I don't know where that is--the soul calls out, "Kid, please! Save me!"
"What do I do?" I ask.
The card says, Go in and get him. Just jump.
"I can't."
Unless you pull him out, to him, seconds of death will be an eternity of pain and suffering.
"What? Why would you let that happen?"
I didn't. I sent you.
He calls out for me again, and, frightened as I am, I can't ignore a soul in torment. It's not in me. I look at his body, and, stupid as it feels, I jump.
No more hospital. I jump... into him. Into his personal valley of death.
What's it like?
I don't wanna talk about it. Let's just say that I find him, grab his ghostly hand, pull him out. I lift him in spiritual arms so strong I can't believe they're mine, and I carry him out.
In daylight, in the park beside the hospital, he sobs on my shoulder.
"It's all right," I tell him. "I'm here. It's gonna be okay."
He looks up at me. First time he's looked at me, really. Before he was angry. Just kinda looking through me and past me. I guess all he saw was a dumb kid in ripped jeans and a hoodie that his mom paid too much for.
Now, you can tell by his eyes, he sees something else.
"You're beautiful," he tells me.
I'm embarrassed. "It's mostly special effects."
"Thanks for getting me out of there."
"Don't mention it. Come on. I'll take you home."
I take his hand, like he was a little boy. A little lost soul. I lead him up.
"Are you—really—an angel?" he asks me.
Good question.
Yeah. I guess I so. It's actually on the first card taped to the lid of my plastic file box.
Samael. Level 5. Accuser, seducer, destroyer. Angel of Death.
"Hey," I say to him. "Why don't you just call me Sam?"
October 26, 2014
Chiller Theatre Autograph Show and Genre Convention
A wonderful day at
Chiller Theatre
autograph show and genre convention in Parsippany, NJ!
Above: With the lovely Trini Alvarado (The Frighteners, Satisfaction, Little Women, etc)!
Above: With Joel Hodgson, creator of Mystery Science Theatre 3000, and Tom Servo!
Above: With Terri Garr (Young Frankenstein, Star Trek, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, etc)!
Above: With Peter Robbins, the voice of Charlie Brown (It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and A Charlie Brown Christmas)!
Above: With Yaphet Kotto (Alien, Running Man, Live and Let Die, etc.)!!!
Above: With the lovely Trini Alvarado (The Frighteners, Satisfaction, Little Women, etc)!
Above: With Joel Hodgson, creator of Mystery Science Theatre 3000, and Tom Servo!
Above: With Terri Garr (Young Frankenstein, Star Trek, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, etc)!
Above: With Peter Robbins, the voice of Charlie Brown (It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and A Charlie Brown Christmas)!
Above: With Yaphet Kotto (Alien, Running Man, Live and Let Die, etc.)!!!
October 24, 2014
About This Writing Stuff....
This week, David Gaughran and Joe Konrath have some advice for Authors United while Kobo's president tweets out against Amazon.
In a recently discovered essay, Isaac Asimov expounds on what it takes to be truly creative. Amanda Headlee describes the pros and cons of Deus Ex Machina, Robyn LaRue offers planning tips for pantsers, and Chris Musgrave and Jody Hedlund get into character.
All that, and a little more. Enjoy!
Kobo President Michael Tamblyn: Indie Authors Are on Amazon's Hit List by Digital Book World
Looking for Great Free (SF & Fantasy) Fiction? Check Out These Online Magazines by Michelle Mueller
Deus Ex Machina by Amanda Headlee
Planning for Pantsers by Robyn LaRue
Never-Before-Published Isaac Asimov Essay Reveals the Secret to True Creativity by Sarah Gray
Author Stalks Anonymous Blogger Who Gave Her a 1-Star Review by Eric Gloria Ryan
What's Next for Authors United? by David Gaughran
More Advice to Authors United by Joe Konrath
Writing 101: Character Creation by Chris Musgrave
Planting Minor Characters with Purpose by Jody Hedlund
In a recently discovered essay, Isaac Asimov expounds on what it takes to be truly creative. Amanda Headlee describes the pros and cons of Deus Ex Machina, Robyn LaRue offers planning tips for pantsers, and Chris Musgrave and Jody Hedlund get into character.
All that, and a little more. Enjoy!
Kobo President Michael Tamblyn: Indie Authors Are on Amazon's Hit List by Digital Book World
Looking for Great Free (SF & Fantasy) Fiction? Check Out These Online Magazines by Michelle Mueller
Deus Ex Machina by Amanda Headlee
Planning for Pantsers by Robyn LaRue
Never-Before-Published Isaac Asimov Essay Reveals the Secret to True Creativity by Sarah Gray
Author Stalks Anonymous Blogger Who Gave Her a 1-Star Review by Eric Gloria Ryan
What's Next for Authors United? by David Gaughran
More Advice to Authors United by Joe Konrath
Writing 101: Character Creation by Chris Musgrave
Planting Minor Characters with Purpose by Jody Hedlund
October 19, 2014
Book Review: Larry Niven's Convergent Series
Convergent Series is the second Larry Niven anthology I've read over the past month and I enjoyed it far more than Tales of Known Space.
In terms of quantity, there were more stories in Convergent Series (twenty-one to be exact) with several only two or three pages long. One or two could arguably be considered flash fiction ("Mistake" and "Cruel and Unusual") though I did not actually perform a word count. Five of the stories are from his popular Draco's Tavern series.
Some of my favorites from this anthology include:
"Bordered in Black" - Two astronauts scouting an alien world detect a strange black border along the shoreline of the largest ocean. Theorizing that it's dead algae washed ashore, they land to investigate--only to discover just how horribly wrong they were!
"The Meddler" - Targeted by a wealthy crime boss named Sinc, private eye Bruce Cheseborough decides to confront the kingpin on his own turf. Accompanied by a shapeshifting alien anthropologist, whose function is merely to observe, Cheseborough confronts Sinc in his mansion, only to discover a surprising connection to the metamorph.
"Dry Run" - As practice for murdering his ex-wife and dumping her body in the ocean, a man kills her dog--then ends up in a car accident on his way to dispose of the carcass lying in his trunk.
"Convergent Series" - An anthropology student takes an interest in dark magic and accidentally conjures a demon inside a pentagram drawn on the basement floor. Now, how to outwit the beast and send him back from whence he came...
"Singularities Make Me Nervous" - After exploring the space near a blackhole, astronaut George Cox returns to his apartment to confront...himself! This is no surprise to him, as Cox has traveled back in time in before in the same repeating loop. His younger self, however, is unsure how to handle the situation--until the pair conspire a scam that could make them millions.
"Mistake" - After dosing on sedatives to help him survive a lenthy spaceflight, Commander Elroy Barnes is confronted by a telepathic alien named Kthitslmup, who attempts to probe the commander's mind with little success thanks to the drugs. The alien then resorts to verbal questioning. In order to answer, Barnes must take another pill to clear his mind, which holds an interesting consequence for Kthitslmup.
"Night on Mispec Moor" - A contract warrior in a corporate-sponsored battle abandons the fight and takes refuge atop a large rock formation--until nightfall when the dead soldiers rise from the mists of the battlefield to stalk the living...
"Wrong Way Street" - A team of scientsts is sent to the moon to study an ancient, deserted alien base and spaceship. Aboard the ship, one particular machine perplexes Mike Capoferr. He has his theories, which are proven correct when he finally learns how to activate it...regrettably.
Next up is one of Larry Niven's most popular SF novels, A Gift from Earth.
In terms of quantity, there were more stories in Convergent Series (twenty-one to be exact) with several only two or three pages long. One or two could arguably be considered flash fiction ("Mistake" and "Cruel and Unusual") though I did not actually perform a word count. Five of the stories are from his popular Draco's Tavern series.
Some of my favorites from this anthology include:
"Bordered in Black" - Two astronauts scouting an alien world detect a strange black border along the shoreline of the largest ocean. Theorizing that it's dead algae washed ashore, they land to investigate--only to discover just how horribly wrong they were!
"The Meddler" - Targeted by a wealthy crime boss named Sinc, private eye Bruce Cheseborough decides to confront the kingpin on his own turf. Accompanied by a shapeshifting alien anthropologist, whose function is merely to observe, Cheseborough confronts Sinc in his mansion, only to discover a surprising connection to the metamorph.
"Dry Run" - As practice for murdering his ex-wife and dumping her body in the ocean, a man kills her dog--then ends up in a car accident on his way to dispose of the carcass lying in his trunk.
"Convergent Series" - An anthropology student takes an interest in dark magic and accidentally conjures a demon inside a pentagram drawn on the basement floor. Now, how to outwit the beast and send him back from whence he came...
"Singularities Make Me Nervous" - After exploring the space near a blackhole, astronaut George Cox returns to his apartment to confront...himself! This is no surprise to him, as Cox has traveled back in time in before in the same repeating loop. His younger self, however, is unsure how to handle the situation--until the pair conspire a scam that could make them millions.
"Mistake" - After dosing on sedatives to help him survive a lenthy spaceflight, Commander Elroy Barnes is confronted by a telepathic alien named Kthitslmup, who attempts to probe the commander's mind with little success thanks to the drugs. The alien then resorts to verbal questioning. In order to answer, Barnes must take another pill to clear his mind, which holds an interesting consequence for Kthitslmup.
"Night on Mispec Moor" - A contract warrior in a corporate-sponsored battle abandons the fight and takes refuge atop a large rock formation--until nightfall when the dead soldiers rise from the mists of the battlefield to stalk the living...
"Wrong Way Street" - A team of scientsts is sent to the moon to study an ancient, deserted alien base and spaceship. Aboard the ship, one particular machine perplexes Mike Capoferr. He has his theories, which are proven correct when he finally learns how to activate it...regrettably.
Next up is one of Larry Niven's most popular SF novels, A Gift from Earth.
October 15, 2014
Flash Fiction Friday - "Scattered Pearls"
This week's flash fiction contribution comes to us from Melissa Carta Miller. I met Melissa at the 2014 Write Stuff conference in Allentown, PA and we've since become friends.
Melissa Carta Miller has been writing for as long as she can remember, her early stories usually involving a unicorn, or a horse, and a dying princess. She studied Art History at Moravian College and upon graduating spent seven years helping to raise and train racing sled dogs in both the Interior of Alaska and Eastern Pennsylvania. After "retiring" from dog handling, she began focusing on writing again, as well as parenting two daughters. She has had two personal essays published with Babble.com focused on international adoption. Presently, she is looking for representation for her novel Sycamore, and is writing a new novel, as of yet unnamed. As with her first stories, someone usually dies in her novels, which her children thinks is hilarious.
Scattered Pearls
by Melissa Carta Miller
It started with one. The color of a ghost hovering in the corner of the room in an old photograph. Smooth yet gritty, like the irritation that was its catalyst. She cupped the pearl and let it roll around in the palm of her hand, opening and closing her fingers over it so that the sun would catch and wink in its luster. She had found it deep in the seams and forgotten crumbs of a sofa the color of a dirty camel. It was her habit to run her hand beneath the musty cushions of chairs and love seats in the shade of tents at the flea market, hoping to find some change, a pretty barrette, a mate to a lost sock. But she hadn't found a pearl before that day. After that day, they began to show up everywhere, as if a dying spirit had held tight to a treasured strand and, caught between heaven and earth, the necklace snapped and sent pearls out into the world like scattered hail that bounced and rolled until each found its own resting spot.
She found one in a cracked teacup that sat in a tottering stack on a folding table. An ancient woman sat with an even more ancient dog on her lap and watched her.
"It's for sale as is," the dog-woman warned.
So she bought it for two dollars, saying nothing of the pearl settled in the stained basin of the cup. It was part of the as is after all.
The next one was hidden deep in a basket of yarn balls that were tossed together without much thought. A sort of itchy field bouquet, half weeds, half roses. The next in a stack of neatly-folded embroidered handkerchiefs. She took the pearls home one by one and put them in a rusty tin box that had been full of bits of string, paper clips, rubber bands, and a porcelain doll's arm. These things she dumped into a drooping shoebox and replaced them with the pearls, which made a satisfying click when she tilted the tin like a small boat and the pearls rolled back and forth on gentle waves.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Click, click, click, click. She came to expect them, and she never panicked if one was particularly well-hidden or shy to reveal itself. She was patient. Talked to no one. Her mind completely trained on the tiny ocean soul that waited for her somewhere in the clutter of antique shops and markets. Somewhere in the clock parts, faded puzzles, books, and nicked marbles with colored swirls running through their centers. But then she found one in the corner of a locked, glass-topped jewelry display of turquoise and silver. It cowered on the purple velvet in a corner of the crooked wooden case. She pointed to it, but the man with the black braid that hung all the way to his belt seemed surprised. He had never seen it before. It wasn't from any of the pieces that he had collected. It wasn't for sale. She watched him, as he pinched the pearl in his thick fingers and held it up so he could get a better look at it. Her breath was snagged with thorns in her throat. "Huh," he grunted.
"Please?" she said, holding out a shaking hand.
The man with the braid looked past the pearl and into her open, aching face. He didn't seem all that convinced, but eventually he shrugged. "Prob'ly fake anyway. One of them genuine faux jobs." He grinned. "Take it."
He put the pearl in her hand and she clutched it tightly, relief washing over her in a cool breeze. She didn't feel completely at ease until she got it home and put it in the tin with the others. When she could line the pearls along her tape measure to a length that fit around her neck and balanced lightly on her collarbone, she put the tin of pearls in her purse along with rolls of quarters, nickels, and dimes she had dug from hundreds of couches. Holding the purse close to her chest, she took it to the stooped man at the estate store tucked in the alleyway, the one with the blue door peeling of its paint and the faded sign above. She placed the tin and the rolls of coins on the counter. She took a deep breath and pushed them toward the man. He inspected the pearls with the hinged magnifying glass that he always wore strapped to his forehead. He murmured, pleased, and cocked his head.
"Two weeks?" he said, one eye distorted through the magnifying glass into a huge, rummy brown iris and dilated pupil. His eyelashes, like spider’s legs, were so large she swore she could hear them slam shut when he blinked.
She nodded and walked away slowly away, pausing outside the door before turning toward home.
She didn't sleep well without the pearls and when she woke up in the middle of the night her gaze rested on the empty, rusted tin on her bedside table. Sometimes she would reach out from beneath her moonlit sheets and stroke the top of it, the disintegrating metal dusting her fingertips and turning them brown. However, two weeks did pass, however glacially, and when she walked back to the estate shop her heart was pounding. Platelets and cells roaring giddily past her eardrums. The stooped man smiled when he saw that it was her entry that had rung the silver bell on the door. He reached under the counter, bringing up a threadbare, green jewelry box with rectangular doors that met in the middle and latched with a brass hook and eye. He let her open it, standing back to give her space.
It was breathtaking.
She ran her fingers over each small orb like the beads of a rosary, her pearls finally bound tightly together. She tilted the green box back and forth in her hands. The necklace listed only the slightest bit to the left and then to the right and made no sound at all.
The man, in his satisfaction, failed to notice how pale her face had suddenly grown, or how swiftly her breath came in and out between her lips. He didn't realize until later that she hadn't even thanked him.
She went straight home, knuckles white in their grip on the green box. She went directly to her room and sat on the edge of her tidily-made bed. She leaned down and took the sharp, silver shears from the sewing box at the base of her bedside table. Gingerly, she lifted the strand of pearls from the smooth hooks they were looped over inside the box and she let them rest on the wool weave of her skirt.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I should have known."
And she slid the silver shears between two of the pearls, brought the blades together and severed the thread with a snap. With each snap, she released another pearl and one by one they rolled into her lap to create a milky cluster like a gathering of frog’s eggs. When it was over, she picked away the bits of string and scooped all the pearls into the cup of her hands and rolled them back into the tin box. Then she sighed deeply and smiled, the color returning to her cheeks in a blush of pink.
"There," she said.
And she rocked the tin back and forth, from side to side.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Click, click, click, click.
Melissa Carta Miller has been writing for as long as she can remember, her early stories usually involving a unicorn, or a horse, and a dying princess. She studied Art History at Moravian College and upon graduating spent seven years helping to raise and train racing sled dogs in both the Interior of Alaska and Eastern Pennsylvania. After "retiring" from dog handling, she began focusing on writing again, as well as parenting two daughters. She has had two personal essays published with Babble.com focused on international adoption. Presently, she is looking for representation for her novel Sycamore, and is writing a new novel, as of yet unnamed. As with her first stories, someone usually dies in her novels, which her children thinks is hilarious.
Scattered Pearls
by Melissa Carta Miller
It started with one. The color of a ghost hovering in the corner of the room in an old photograph. Smooth yet gritty, like the irritation that was its catalyst. She cupped the pearl and let it roll around in the palm of her hand, opening and closing her fingers over it so that the sun would catch and wink in its luster. She had found it deep in the seams and forgotten crumbs of a sofa the color of a dirty camel. It was her habit to run her hand beneath the musty cushions of chairs and love seats in the shade of tents at the flea market, hoping to find some change, a pretty barrette, a mate to a lost sock. But she hadn't found a pearl before that day. After that day, they began to show up everywhere, as if a dying spirit had held tight to a treasured strand and, caught between heaven and earth, the necklace snapped and sent pearls out into the world like scattered hail that bounced and rolled until each found its own resting spot.
She found one in a cracked teacup that sat in a tottering stack on a folding table. An ancient woman sat with an even more ancient dog on her lap and watched her.
"It's for sale as is," the dog-woman warned.
So she bought it for two dollars, saying nothing of the pearl settled in the stained basin of the cup. It was part of the as is after all.
The next one was hidden deep in a basket of yarn balls that were tossed together without much thought. A sort of itchy field bouquet, half weeds, half roses. The next in a stack of neatly-folded embroidered handkerchiefs. She took the pearls home one by one and put them in a rusty tin box that had been full of bits of string, paper clips, rubber bands, and a porcelain doll's arm. These things she dumped into a drooping shoebox and replaced them with the pearls, which made a satisfying click when she tilted the tin like a small boat and the pearls rolled back and forth on gentle waves.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Click, click, click, click. She came to expect them, and she never panicked if one was particularly well-hidden or shy to reveal itself. She was patient. Talked to no one. Her mind completely trained on the tiny ocean soul that waited for her somewhere in the clutter of antique shops and markets. Somewhere in the clock parts, faded puzzles, books, and nicked marbles with colored swirls running through their centers. But then she found one in the corner of a locked, glass-topped jewelry display of turquoise and silver. It cowered on the purple velvet in a corner of the crooked wooden case. She pointed to it, but the man with the black braid that hung all the way to his belt seemed surprised. He had never seen it before. It wasn't from any of the pieces that he had collected. It wasn't for sale. She watched him, as he pinched the pearl in his thick fingers and held it up so he could get a better look at it. Her breath was snagged with thorns in her throat. "Huh," he grunted.
"Please?" she said, holding out a shaking hand.
The man with the braid looked past the pearl and into her open, aching face. He didn't seem all that convinced, but eventually he shrugged. "Prob'ly fake anyway. One of them genuine faux jobs." He grinned. "Take it."
He put the pearl in her hand and she clutched it tightly, relief washing over her in a cool breeze. She didn't feel completely at ease until she got it home and put it in the tin with the others. When she could line the pearls along her tape measure to a length that fit around her neck and balanced lightly on her collarbone, she put the tin of pearls in her purse along with rolls of quarters, nickels, and dimes she had dug from hundreds of couches. Holding the purse close to her chest, she took it to the stooped man at the estate store tucked in the alleyway, the one with the blue door peeling of its paint and the faded sign above. She placed the tin and the rolls of coins on the counter. She took a deep breath and pushed them toward the man. He inspected the pearls with the hinged magnifying glass that he always wore strapped to his forehead. He murmured, pleased, and cocked his head.
"Two weeks?" he said, one eye distorted through the magnifying glass into a huge, rummy brown iris and dilated pupil. His eyelashes, like spider’s legs, were so large she swore she could hear them slam shut when he blinked.
She nodded and walked away slowly away, pausing outside the door before turning toward home.
She didn't sleep well without the pearls and when she woke up in the middle of the night her gaze rested on the empty, rusted tin on her bedside table. Sometimes she would reach out from beneath her moonlit sheets and stroke the top of it, the disintegrating metal dusting her fingertips and turning them brown. However, two weeks did pass, however glacially, and when she walked back to the estate shop her heart was pounding. Platelets and cells roaring giddily past her eardrums. The stooped man smiled when he saw that it was her entry that had rung the silver bell on the door. He reached under the counter, bringing up a threadbare, green jewelry box with rectangular doors that met in the middle and latched with a brass hook and eye. He let her open it, standing back to give her space.
It was breathtaking.
She ran her fingers over each small orb like the beads of a rosary, her pearls finally bound tightly together. She tilted the green box back and forth in her hands. The necklace listed only the slightest bit to the left and then to the right and made no sound at all.
The man, in his satisfaction, failed to notice how pale her face had suddenly grown, or how swiftly her breath came in and out between her lips. He didn't realize until later that she hadn't even thanked him.
She went straight home, knuckles white in their grip on the green box. She went directly to her room and sat on the edge of her tidily-made bed. She leaned down and took the sharp, silver shears from the sewing box at the base of her bedside table. Gingerly, she lifted the strand of pearls from the smooth hooks they were looped over inside the box and she let them rest on the wool weave of her skirt.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I should have known."
And she slid the silver shears between two of the pearls, brought the blades together and severed the thread with a snap. With each snap, she released another pearl and one by one they rolled into her lap to create a milky cluster like a gathering of frog’s eggs. When it was over, she picked away the bits of string and scooped all the pearls into the cup of her hands and rolled them back into the tin box. Then she sighed deeply and smiled, the color returning to her cheeks in a blush of pink.
"There," she said.
And she rocked the tin back and forth, from side to side.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Click, click, click, click.
October 13, 2014
Moravian Book Shop Signing!
I’m excited to announce that I will be joined by fellow authors Amanda Headlee, Susanna Reilly, and Stuart Roth to sign copies of our new SF, fantasy, and paranormal anthology, Somewhere in the Middle of Eternity!
Where: Moravian Book Shop, 428 Main Street, Bethlehem, PA
Date: Saturday, November 1, 2014
Time: 3-5PM
Click here to view Moravian Book Shop's calendar of events
Located in historic downtown Bethlehem, Moravian Book Shop is the oldest bookstore in the country with a fantastic selection of titles and genres. Their gift shop contains ornaments, stationary, and confections to suit every taste. Hope to see you there!
Thank you for supporting small press writers!
Phil Giunta
Author, By Your Side and
Testing the Prisoner
Editor, Somewhere in the Middle of Eternity
Write Stuff 2015 Con Chair
Where: Moravian Book Shop, 428 Main Street, Bethlehem, PA
Date: Saturday, November 1, 2014
Time: 3-5PM
Click here to view Moravian Book Shop's calendar of events
Located in historic downtown Bethlehem, Moravian Book Shop is the oldest bookstore in the country with a fantastic selection of titles and genres. Their gift shop contains ornaments, stationary, and confections to suit every taste. Hope to see you there!
Thank you for supporting small press writers!
Phil Giunta
Author, By Your Side and
Testing the Prisoner
Editor, Somewhere in the Middle of Eternity
Write Stuff 2015 Con Chair
October 10, 2014
About This Writing Stuff...
This week, I'm grateful to Amanda Headlee, not just for her piece on self-editing, but for introducing me to the wonderful blog of writer Melissa McPhail. Through Melissa's articles below, I found a kindred spirit whose methods mirror my own, specifically the concept of organically developing characters and of capturing scenes that pop into your head in advance of writing the story. Melissa is almost completely in step with how I often prefer to write.
Additionally, Jody Hedlund examines the benefits of writing novellas. Since I just submitted my first novella to my publisher last month, I found the timing of Jody's article impeccable. From the Kill Zone, Jodie Renner explains the proper use of the hyphen while on Writer Unboxed, Erika Liodice talks audio books and Cathy Yardley discusses the importance of defining your genre.
It seems that I cannot post a collection of articles lately without mention of Amazon. Franklin Foer thinks that their monopoly must be brought to a swift end and Barry Eisler responds.
All that, and a little more. Enjoy!
Pantser or Plotter: 4 Steps to Writing Organically (and the Science Behind Why You Should) - Part I by Melissa McPhail
4 Steps to Writing Organically, Part II - Viewpoints, Mimicry, and Imagination by Melissa McPhail
How to Avoid Cliches (or the 4 Things You MUST Know Before Starting a Novel) by Melissa McPhail
I Am My Own Worst Editor, Because I Am a Perfectionist by Amanda Headlee
Amazon Must Be Stopped by Franklin Foer
Franklin Foer: "Stop Amazon, Keep Publishing Exactly As Its Always Been!" by Barry Eisler
Book Marketing The Old Way Versus The Way That Works Today--Part 1: Book Reviews by Beth Bacon
Self-Published Books Topped 450,000 in 2013 by IndieReader
The Growing Popularity of Novellas by Jody Hedlund
To Hyphenate or Not To Hyphenate? by Jodie Renner
9 Easy & Inexpensive Ways to Promote Your Audiobook by Erika Liodice
Why Genre Matters by Cathy Yardley
Additionally, Jody Hedlund examines the benefits of writing novellas. Since I just submitted my first novella to my publisher last month, I found the timing of Jody's article impeccable. From the Kill Zone, Jodie Renner explains the proper use of the hyphen while on Writer Unboxed, Erika Liodice talks audio books and Cathy Yardley discusses the importance of defining your genre.
It seems that I cannot post a collection of articles lately without mention of Amazon. Franklin Foer thinks that their monopoly must be brought to a swift end and Barry Eisler responds.
All that, and a little more. Enjoy!
Pantser or Plotter: 4 Steps to Writing Organically (and the Science Behind Why You Should) - Part I by Melissa McPhail
4 Steps to Writing Organically, Part II - Viewpoints, Mimicry, and Imagination by Melissa McPhail
How to Avoid Cliches (or the 4 Things You MUST Know Before Starting a Novel) by Melissa McPhail
I Am My Own Worst Editor, Because I Am a Perfectionist by Amanda Headlee
Amazon Must Be Stopped by Franklin Foer
Franklin Foer: "Stop Amazon, Keep Publishing Exactly As Its Always Been!" by Barry Eisler
Book Marketing The Old Way Versus The Way That Works Today--Part 1: Book Reviews by Beth Bacon
Self-Published Books Topped 450,000 in 2013 by IndieReader
The Growing Popularity of Novellas by Jody Hedlund
To Hyphenate or Not To Hyphenate? by Jodie Renner
9 Easy & Inexpensive Ways to Promote Your Audiobook by Erika Liodice
Why Genre Matters by Cathy Yardley
