Zachary Katz-Stein's Blog, page 4
September 14, 2015
A CCN (Current Creature News) Report
10 minute middle grade flash fiction.
Prompt: Militant Leprechauns have seized control of the Pabst Brewery in order to demand a higher quality of alcohol.
Image via Flickr by Joseph
“This just in, Militant Leprechauns have seized control of the Pabst Brewery in order to demand a higher quality of alcohol. We’re told there are no casualties yet, but there are hostages inside and the Leprechauns are stone cold sober. Now, let’s go to our centaur on the scene, Fetterlock. Fet, how are things looking down there?”
“The mood on the ground is really grim, Manti. Despite the quality of their alcohol, the brewery itself was built to last. It’s basically a modern fortress, and the Leprechauns are using that to their advantage.”
“We’ve heard they want better alcohol, Fet. Were there any more specific demands? And, who delivered their message?”
“The message was delivered by a second grader from a local, Milwaukee, elementary school. They let him go as a show of good will, though apparently anymore wise-cracks about Pabst being ‘magically delicious’ from the students and they’ve promised violence. As for demands, the Leprechauns claim that Pabst is an embarrassment and should do more than add yeast to water. Until that happens, they claim they won’t release the building.”
“Scary stuff. Thank you for your update, Fetterlock, we’ll be checking back to you as the scene unfolds.
“In other news, can an abominable snowman make a viable candidate for president, or are Crump supporters just blowing cold air? All that and more after the break.”
Free Write, 09/14/15
Prompt: Militant Leprechauns have seized control of the Pabst Brewery in order to demand a higher quality of alcohol.
Image via Flickr by Joseph
“This just in, Militant Leprechauns have seized control of the Pabst Brewery in order to demand a higher quality of alcohol. We’re told there are no casualties yet, but there are hostages inside and the Leprechauns are stone cold sober. Now, let’s go to our centaur on the scene, Fetterlock. Fet, how are things looking down there?”
“The mood on the ground is really grim, Manti. Despite the quality of their alcohol, the brewery itself was built to last. It’s basically a modern fortress, and the Leprechauns are using that to their advantage.”
“We’ve heard they want better alcohol, Fet. Were there any more specific demands? And, who delivered their message?”
“The message was delivered by a second grader from a local, Milwaukee, elementary school. They let him go as a show of good will, though apparently anymore wise-cracks about Pabst being ‘magically delicious’ from the students and they’ve promised violence. As for demands, the Leprechauns claim that Pabst is an embarrassment and should do more than add yeast to water. Until that happens, they claim they won’t release the building.”
“Scary stuff. Thank you for your update, Fetterlock, we’ll be checking back to you as the scene unfolds.
“In other news, can an abominable snowman make a viable candidate for president, or are Crump supporters just blowing cold air? All that and more after the break.”
September 9, 2015
The Song of Brindlestone
10 minute flash fiction.
Prompt: Once there was a story about a boy (but this is not that story).
Image via Flickr by Bill Gracey
Once there was a story about a boy (but this is not that story). This is a story about a dragon, who merely wanted to be a boy, which is strange, because, usually, when given the option, I think most people would choose to be the dragon. But still, it’s not my story, it’s his.
Brindlestone was a young dragon, and all alone in the world. His parents had been slain by mighty adventurers who carved up their bodies for armor and weapons, and stole his siblings to raise as their own. At least, that’s what Brindlestone told himself.
You see, Brindlestone never knew his parents. When he hatched in a warm cavern inside the lip of a valcano, it was empty. No parents, no friends, no horde of gold, nothing. At first, Brindlestone didn’t know what to make of this. He looked around the cavern, warmly lit by glowing magma, and was very confused.
Wasn’t there supposed to be more than this?
His legs were a little unsteady at first and his wings were covered in a thick, sticky, slime, but dragon babies are somewhat more developed at birth than human offspring, and soon Brindlestone was walking well. He explored the the cavern. Swimming through great underground lakes, mirror bright and smooth as glass. He wove through forests of great stalagmites and stalactites, which sparkled and shone with reflected light. Until finally, at the very back of the cavern, he came to a stout wooden door.
Through this door was a great library with shelves upon shelves of thick, leather bound books. Now, Brindlestone couldn’t read, but many of these books were illuminated with bright, clear illustrations that showed what they were about. They were about the death of the dragons.
He learned that beings that looked very much like he did, had been fear and hunted throughout the land. Their bodies used to forge the weapons that would destroy their kind, and he learned of Human kind, the great destroyers.
Yet, instead of hating these mysterious beings. This hours old creature, made from magic and mystery, felt compassion for the human race and even a twinge of envy. He looked at the illustrations of families, and then of homes being burned by terrifying black shadows in the sky, and he something deep within him stirred. The sorrow of the lost and the lonely.
The door creaked open and Brindlestone whirled around.
There, in the doorway, stood on old, bent man with a white beard so long it tucked into his belt and a pointed blue hat. “Don’t worry, I won’t harm you my son.”
Free Write, 09/09/15
Prompt: Once there was a story about a boy (but this is not that story).
Image via Flickr by Bill Gracey
Once there was a story about a boy (but this is not that story). This is a story about a dragon, who merely wanted to be a boy, which is strange, because, usually, when given the option, I think most people would choose to be the dragon. But still, it’s not my story, it’s his.
Brindlestone was a young dragon, and all alone in the world. His parents had been slain by mighty adventurers who carved up their bodies for armor and weapons, and stole his siblings to raise as their own. At least, that’s what Brindlestone told himself.
You see, Brindlestone never knew his parents. When he hatched in a warm cavern inside the lip of a valcano, it was empty. No parents, no friends, no horde of gold, nothing. At first, Brindlestone didn’t know what to make of this. He looked around the cavern, warmly lit by glowing magma, and was very confused.
Wasn’t there supposed to be more than this?
His legs were a little unsteady at first and his wings were covered in a thick, sticky, slime, but dragon babies are somewhat more developed at birth than human offspring, and soon Brindlestone was walking well. He explored the the cavern. Swimming through great underground lakes, mirror bright and smooth as glass. He wove through forests of great stalagmites and stalactites, which sparkled and shone with reflected light. Until finally, at the very back of the cavern, he came to a stout wooden door.
Through this door was a great library with shelves upon shelves of thick, leather bound books. Now, Brindlestone couldn’t read, but many of these books were illuminated with bright, clear illustrations that showed what they were about. They were about the death of the dragons.
He learned that beings that looked very much like he did, had been fear and hunted throughout the land. Their bodies used to forge the weapons that would destroy their kind, and he learned of Human kind, the great destroyers.
Yet, instead of hating these mysterious beings. This hours old creature, made from magic and mystery, felt compassion for the human race and even a twinge of envy. He looked at the illustrations of families, and then of homes being burned by terrifying black shadows in the sky, and he something deep within him stirred. The sorrow of the lost and the lonely.
The door creaked open and Brindlestone whirled around.
There, in the doorway, stood on old, bent man with a white beard so long it tucked into his belt and a pointed blue hat. “Don’t worry, I won’t harm you my son.”
September 8, 2015
Agent Alison
10 minute middle grade flash fiction.
Prompt: Call me Alison, not that that’s my name.
Image via Flickr by voyageAnatolia.blogspot.com
“Call me Alison, not that that’s my name. You understand, secret agent stuff.” Alison, or whatever her real name was, flipped long auburn hair over one shoulder and grinned.
“Aren’t you a little young to be a secret agent?” Tyrone asked. “You can’t be much older than me. What are you, twelve, thirteen?”
“Fourteen, actually,” Agent Alison said, zipping up her leather jacket. “And I have a special dispensation from the government because I’m a genius.”
“Humble, too.”
“Shut up.”
“And subtle. It took you all of what? Three minutes to tell me that you’re a secret agent. What kind of secret agent does that?”
“The smart kind. Do you believe I’m a secret agent?”
“Nope.”
“And therein lies my genius.”
A slight smile curled Tyrone’s lips. “Do you want to go to the library with me after class?”
Agent Alison grinned again. “I’m afraid I cannot. I’ll be in Russia, stopping a nuclear missile launch by the time school ends.”
“I’m not sure you’ll get credit for that. How will you ever pass eighth grade?”
Agent Alison sighed. “That is one of the main draw backs of being a secret agent: one never gets credit.”
With that, Agent Alison strode to a motorcycle parked along the gravel drive in front of the red brick school building.
“I don’t think you should be driving that!” Tyrone called after her. “You don’t even have a driver’s license yet!”
“Don’t need one,” Alison called back. “I have a secret agent license. When you have a license to kill, the government lets you do pretty much anything else you want to.”
Tyrone just shook his head, watching as the young woman strapped a full faced helmet over her fly away hair and turned the ignition. Then something strange happened. Wings unfolded from the sides of the bike. Alison revved the engine a few times, then took off, gaining speed for a short distance on the road before taking to the sky.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” Tyrone said.
Free Write, 09/08/15
Prompt: Call me Alison, not that that’s my name.
Image via Flickr by voyageAnatolia.blogspot.com
“Call me Alison, not that that’s my name. You understand, secret agent stuff.” Alison, or whatever her real name was, flipped long auburn hair over one shoulder and grinned.
“Aren’t you a little young to be a secret agent?” Tyrone asked. “You can’t be much older than me. What are you, twelve, thirteen?”
“Fourteen, actually,” Agent Alison said, zipping up her leather jacket. “And I have a special dispensation from the government because I’m a genius.”
“Humble, too.”
“Shut up.”
“And subtle. It took you all of what? Three minutes to tell me that you’re a secret agent. What kind of secret agent does that?”
“The smart kind. Do you believe I’m a secret agent?”
“Nope.”
“And therein lies my genius.”
A slight smile curled Tyrone’s lips. “Do you want to go to the library with me after class?”
Agent Alison grinned again. “I’m afraid I cannot. I’ll be in Russia, stopping a nuclear missile launch by the time school ends.”
“I’m not sure you’ll get credit for that. How will you ever pass eighth grade?”
Agent Alison sighed. “That is one of the main draw backs of being a secret agent: one never gets credit.”
With that, Agent Alison strode to a motorcycle parked along the gravel drive in front of the red brick school building.
“I don’t think you should be driving that!” Tyrone called after her. “You don’t even have a driver’s license yet!”
“Don’t need one,” Alison called back. “I have a secret agent license. When you have a license to kill, the government lets you do pretty much anything else you want to.”
Tyrone just shook his head, watching as the young woman strapped a full faced helmet over her fly away hair and turned the ignition. Then something strange happened. Wings unfolded from the sides of the bike. Alison revved the engine a few times, then took off, gaining speed for a short distance on the road before taking to the sky.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” Tyrone said.
August 24, 2015
Attention: Bad News
10 minute flash fiction.
Prompt: I knew she was talking, that was the problem.
Image via Flickr by bc the path
I knew she was talking, that was the problem. I was expected to retain this information but all I heard was “Wah Wah Wah, wah wah.” It was like watching Charlie Brown try to pay attention in school, only this was a hospital and there was a doctor in front of me with my MRI results. The bright fluorescent lights hurt my eyes.
“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that? I’m not sure I understand.” My voice sounded calm in my ears. Distant, but calm. That’s good, I though. At least I’m not falling to pieces.
The doctor’s mouth drew down and I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. I wondered how long it’d been since she slept. How many times had she been the bearer of bad news since her brown curls touched a pillow?
“Cancer, Mr. Eugenides. You have Leukemia. We caught it early. That’s good. It means we have a lot of treatment options.”
I’m gone again. I got the important bits this time. I think. But I can’t seem to pay attention.
My hand reached automatically for Ruth, but she isn’t there. Stupid, I chided myself. She hasn’t been there for years.
Free Write, 08/24/15
Prompt: I knew she was talking, that was the problem.
Image via Flickr by bc the path
I knew she was talking, that was the problem. I was expected to retain this information but all I heard was “Wah Wah Wah, wah wah.” It was like watching Charlie Brown try to pay attention in school, only this was a hospital and there was a doctor in front of me with my MRI results. The bright fluorescent lights hurt my eyes.
“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that? I’m not sure I understand.” My voice sounded calm in my ears. Distant, but calm. That’s good, I though. At least I’m not falling to pieces.
The doctor’s mouth drew down and I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. I wondered how long it’d been since she slept. How many times had she been the bearer of bad news since her brown curls touched a pillow?
“Cancer, Mr. Eugenides. You have Leukemia. We caught it early. That’s good. It means we have a lot of treatment options.”
I’m gone again. I got the important bits this time. I think. But I can’t seem to pay attention.
My hand reached automatically for Ruth, but she isn’t there. Stupid, I chided myself. She hasn’t been there for years.
August 20, 2015
I Will Be Represented by Elizabeth Kracht of Kimberly Cameron & Associates!
Image from Kimberly Cameron & Associates Page
While attending The Antioch Writer’s Workshop in July, 2015, I gave an eight minute pitch to Elizabeth Kracht.
I wasn’t particularly hopeful. In my afternoon critique group I learned that the project I intended to pitch wasn’t even close to ready.
Still, I thought, I have other projects and pitching an agent will be a valuable experience.
I decided to pitch the first in my Sherlock Bones Mystery series, A Study In Cutlets. Although I’d already self-published this work (something I thought might be a deal breaker), I believed in the book and in the series. If any of my work was worthy of publishing, this was it.
Amazingly, Elizabeth, or Liz, agreed. She took the physical book I’d brought for her and asked me to query officially with a cover letter and series sketch. Of course, I completed these as quickly as I could, sent them in, and waited…
Until Tuesday, when she emailed me to set up a phone call…The Phone Call.
I’m ecstatic to announce that she wants to represent A Study In Cutlets and my other Sherlock Bones Mystery books!
She had some suggestions, of course, so over the next few weeks I’ll give my manuscript another look, but it’s the first step.
I’m on my way!
(Okay, it’s not a perfect analogy but I like the song)
A Good Woman
10 minute flash fiction.
Prompt: She is just a good-looking woman.
Image via Flickr by Alpha
She is just a good-looking woman. Don’t go and do something stupid now. Even as these words of sense and caution crossed her mind, Ava knew it was pointless. She felt herself float from her body, watching from above as it approached the woman in the elegantly tailored suit. Down below, Ava’s nervous hands smoothed her apron.
“Can I get you anything to start with?” Ava winced at how breathy her voice sounded. Can you be any more obvious?
The woman looked up from her menu, one perfectly plucked brow arching. “Well, aren’t you cute as a hamster eating a tiny burrito?”
Ava blinked and was back in her body. “What?”
“I said I’ll have the Cobb salad and a diet coke.” Her mouth puckered. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Ava said. “The salad and the diet coke. I’ll be right back with it.” She turned and hurried away, nearly tripping over the stupid half stair that separated this dining area from the bar.
“Another pretty one eh?” Deshaun, the bartender, laughed. “Girl, you gotta get your head straight. Or, better yet, you need a good woman.”
Ava’s cheeks burned, but she didn’t reply.
According to her parents, she could have a good woman or be a good woman, and Ava knew which she’d choose.
