"Francis & Maxwell in: Brothers in Orbit"
by Will Strong
willstrongart.blogspot.com
willstrongart.blogspot.com
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
30 Days: "I Crossed My Heart" by Marion Stieger
I Crossed My Heart
My mom always kissed my hurts and made them go away. But when Nala stopped eating and could barely move, I crossed my heart and wondered if Mom could do that for Nala.
At the animal hospital, Dr. Nash rubbed her long fur. “I’m sorry, Brookie. Nala has lived a long cat-life. Her bones hurt, and she’s tired. You and your mom need to talk about her sickness.”
Nala stayed with Dr. Nash while Mom and I went outside and sat on the grass. I just wanted to flick my shoestring, but Mom asked me to look at her. “I can’t kiss Nala’s hurts and make them go away, Brookie. Dr. Nash can’t fix her, either. Medicine can’t even fix Nala. But it can stop her pain until she stops breathing. We’ve talked about this before. Do you understand? Do you want to ask me any questions?”
All my tears fell on Mom’s arm and spattered on my legs. I couldn’t make Nala well, but I could stop the hurt. So I flipped away my tears and stuck out my chin. I wanted to be brave, but my chin refused to stop quivering. “I understand. We have to tell Dr. Nash to give Nala the medicine. I want her pain go away.”
Back in the doctor’s office, Mom held Nala in her lap. I rubbed her paw down my cheek the way she used to do before she got too sick. I crossed my heart and whispered, “My kiss and the medicine will make your hurt go away.” I gave her a kiss and ran into the hall where I’d told Mom I wanted to wait.
Soon Mom came out and slipped down beside me. She rocked me while I cried big tears. But they were happy ones. Nala wasn’t hurting anymore.
As soon as I got home, I grabbed our pictures. Nala as a kitty. Nala at my birthday party. Nala chasing a butterfly. I looked at every picture.
“By the time I finish your kitty picture book, I bet Mom will agree that you would like us to have a kitten. I’ll name her Lala – to rhyme with Nala.”
I knew Nala was listening.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
30 Days: "Princess Philippa Potts" by Amy White
Princess Philippa Potts
Philippa Potts is a princess of uncommon beauty.
(illus. note: page turn / Picture a squat lumpy not-quite human looking figure in schlumpy slippers, fuzzy footy pajamas and frizzy Barbie-like hair.)
With her unequaled sense of style, her singular taste in design, accompanied by her extraordinary commanding presence, it is beyond question that everything about Philippa is unique.
Except for her mother.
Philippa’s mother was rather typical. For a mother that is.
As a matter of fact, she’s probably a lot like yours.
(illus. note: Mother is a shadowy giant figure, only ever seen from about the waist down. Philippa has a book, from what we see, it is … Being a Proper Princess. Quotes from the book are in a different font.)
“A proper princess is indisputably elegant, is often a trend-setter, and carries herself with a distinctive style.”
Philippa’s fashion sense was certainly remarkable. She always dressed for the occasion.
Every occasion. Yes, every one of them.
A true princess is always prepared.
(illus. note: Layers of princess clothing is piled on Philippa’s diminutive frame. Hats, cocktail gloves and princess shoes. If you are picturing E.T. in drag, you’ve almost got it.)
“A proper princess hosts unforgettable dinner parties. Calm and collected, she is a picture of perfection, particularly when it comes to her party manners.
Philippa is no exception to the rule.
Ever. No really, not ever.
Not even for lunch.
(illus. note: It’s a three-ring circus! Towering layered cakes for the acrobats to land on, exotic food dishes—is that tentacles? Philippa carries herself with aplomb amidst the mayhem.)
“A proper princess chooses her prince wisely. A handsome and strong, sensitive and funny, caring and manly prince.”
This was problematic. Philippa did not have a prince.
Obviously not just anyone would do.
Philippa had some work to do.
(illus. note: There is an ‘official notice’: Prince Wanted. With a list of qualities.)
Philippa’s first suitor was indisputably strong.
(illus. note: page turn / We see a disturbing close-up of a jowly-faced creature with a stiff bottom lip and large ears. Philippa is wrinkling her nose, he’s a bit odiferous.)
Strong smelling!
The second suitor was convincingly funny.
(illus. note: page turn / we see another close-up; a puckered-up freckle-faced and googily-eyed non-human suitor. Philippa turns a bit green when she is confronted with those lips!)
Funny looking!
(illus. note: there is a definite dearth of anymore applicants. Chirp, chirp…crickets. She heads off on a quest.)
Finally, a fed up Philippa took matters into her own hands.
Philippa began searching high and low for a hero.
A princely man. A manly man!
A real man!
(illus. note: page turn / Our ‘real’ man is buried in his ‘toys’ and we only see his behind sticking out from an enormous pile. Philippa makes a hasty retreat.)
On second thought, maybe not.
“A proper princess never wavers in her loyalty and love. Gracious, compassionate and kind, she always puts other’s needs before her own.”
Alas, it’s not easy being a princess. A princess’s job is never done. Even after an exhausting day.
Mothers will make sure of that. Always.
At least typical mothers.
(illus. note: We see the giantess, still from about the waist down, at turns she is folding her arms, tapping her foot impatiently, or pointing a directive finger as we progress through the next few frames. Of course, Philippa is puts her own ‘spin’ on the following proceedings.)
Philippa graciously bid farewell to her suitors.
(illus. note: Philippa is feeding Prince Charming, a jowly and strong smelling dog. She returns a funny looking frog to the garden. Then reluctantly kisses baby brother sitting in amongst all his toys.)
Compassionately dismissed her servants for the evening.
(illus. note: Philippa is toting a wavering tall stack of luncheon dishes into the kitchen. Hmmm, that tiered cake is looking suspiciously like a stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.)
Still had time to sign a few autographs.
(illus. note: She is signing the chore chart…which includes the picking up of all her dress-up clothes/cleaning her room, etc.)
And at long last, after picking another book to be read,
Philippa went to bed.
(illus. note: Under all those clothes, Philippa is revealed to be just a little girl! She puts away the book she’s been carrying, Every Girls Guide to Being a Proper Princess, and picks up—hmmm, a Practical Guide to Pirates.)
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
30 Days: "Sick Sara" by Genevieve Petrillo
Sick Sara
By Genevieve Petrillo
Sara coughed. Her throat felt like the sand at the beach on a hot day - dry and burning. Her head and her eyes felt the same.
Mom took her to see Dr. William.
He pressed Sara’s tongue down with a stick and looked far into her mouth.
“Striped Throat,” the doctor said.
Mom nodded.
Most of the time, Sara loved stripes. Not this time. She imagined her sick throat -back behind her tongue, like a deep red cave with dark lines on the walls. Bad stripes.
They went to the drugstore with medicine notes from the doctor. Everyone looked sadly at Sara.
“I have Striped Throat,” she said.
They nodded.
Mom took the bag of medicine and they headed home.
“PJ’s on and straight into bed,” Mom said.
Sara didn’t argue. She opened her dresser drawer and suddenly thought of a way to fight the Striped Throat. She needed lots and lots of good stripes. She changed into her red and white striped pajamas. Mom gave her a spoonful of yummy pink medicine and tucked her in with her orange striped monkey. She kissed Sara’s hair.
“You’ll feel better soon,” she whispered.
Sara slept.
It was dark when she woke up. She looked out her bedroom window at the striped moon in the striped sky. Good stripes made by her window blinds.
“Mommy?”
Mom came in wearing her fuzzy robe. Pretty pink stripes. Sara sipped some water and Mom went to make her a cup of tea.
“Try to sleep some more, Sweet Pea,” Mom said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
When Sara woke up, she didn’t feel hot and dry anymore. She felt hot and sweaty. Mom changed her bed and put on yellow, striped sheets. She gave Sara more medicine. Sara put on shorts and a striped T-shirt. She lay down with her green striped monkey and had some toast and juice.
Dad came in and they read Counting Crocodiles. Sara counted a lot of crocs, even some that were hiding underwater. Then she slept some more. After lunch, Sara colored a picture of a striped pig and a striped barn. Mom laughed, and then she coughed.
Sara felt well enough to eat dinner in the kitchen. She and Dad ate chicken and baked potatoes. Mom had tea and toast. Dad cleaned up and Mom fell asleep on the couch.
Dad touched his cheek against Mom’s forehead.
“I think we’ll take Mom to the doctor tomorrow,” he said.
“Striped Throat?” Sara asked.
“It’s possible.”
Sara went to her room and brought out her striped blanket and striped monkey.
She covered Mom gently, tucked the monkey beside her, and kissed her hair.
“Good stripes,” she whispered. “You’ll feel better soon.”
By Genevieve Petrillo
Sara coughed. Her throat felt like the sand at the beach on a hot day - dry and burning. Her head and her eyes felt the same.
Mom took her to see Dr. William.
He pressed Sara’s tongue down with a stick and looked far into her mouth.
“Striped Throat,” the doctor said.
Mom nodded.
Most of the time, Sara loved stripes. Not this time. She imagined her sick throat -back behind her tongue, like a deep red cave with dark lines on the walls. Bad stripes.
They went to the drugstore with medicine notes from the doctor. Everyone looked sadly at Sara.
“I have Striped Throat,” she said.
They nodded.
Mom took the bag of medicine and they headed home.
“PJ’s on and straight into bed,” Mom said.
Sara didn’t argue. She opened her dresser drawer and suddenly thought of a way to fight the Striped Throat. She needed lots and lots of good stripes. She changed into her red and white striped pajamas. Mom gave her a spoonful of yummy pink medicine and tucked her in with her orange striped monkey. She kissed Sara’s hair.
“You’ll feel better soon,” she whispered.
Sara slept.
It was dark when she woke up. She looked out her bedroom window at the striped moon in the striped sky. Good stripes made by her window blinds.
“Mommy?”
Mom came in wearing her fuzzy robe. Pretty pink stripes. Sara sipped some water and Mom went to make her a cup of tea.
“Try to sleep some more, Sweet Pea,” Mom said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
When Sara woke up, she didn’t feel hot and dry anymore. She felt hot and sweaty. Mom changed her bed and put on yellow, striped sheets. She gave Sara more medicine. Sara put on shorts and a striped T-shirt. She lay down with her green striped monkey and had some toast and juice.
Dad came in and they read Counting Crocodiles. Sara counted a lot of crocs, even some that were hiding underwater. Then she slept some more. After lunch, Sara colored a picture of a striped pig and a striped barn. Mom laughed, and then she coughed.
Sara felt well enough to eat dinner in the kitchen. She and Dad ate chicken and baked potatoes. Mom had tea and toast. Dad cleaned up and Mom fell asleep on the couch.
Dad touched his cheek against Mom’s forehead.
“I think we’ll take Mom to the doctor tomorrow,” he said.
“Striped Throat?” Sara asked.
“It’s possible.”
Sara went to her room and brought out her striped blanket and striped monkey.
She covered Mom gently, tucked the monkey beside her, and kissed her hair.
“Good stripes,” she whispered. “You’ll feel better soon.”
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
30 Days: "Diffle McSnug vs. the Cavern" by Jennifer Nielsen
From the "Elliot Penster's books." Please see:
The great adventurer Diffle McSnug is very strong and brave, but also rather rude,
since he’s frequently attempted to take over Elliot Penster’s books to tell his own story.
However, since this is clearly not Elliot’s book, his latest adventure can be told here.
Diffle had not intended to have an adventure that day. He had only planned to hike the
unmapped Himalayan mountain range in search of a new highest peak on earth, when
with an unfortunately placed footstep, he suddenly found himself sliding into a deep
cavern inside the earth.
He hit the ground with a thud and seriously bruised his backside in the process, which
prevented him from properly sitting to think of a way out. However, not sitting turned
out to be a very good piece of luck. With only a little warning roar, the earth burped out a
puff of rancid hot smoke from a small hole in the exact spot where Diffle would have sat.
If you think the moral of this story is that sometimes it’s good to have a bruised backside,
you’d be wrong. Keep reading.
Diffle coughed and choked until the smoke gradually rose and escaped through the long
uphill tunnel. Diffle tried his best to follow the smoke up that same tunnel, but his bruised
backside was uncooperative for climbing and alas, Diffle soon failed.
He then threw his mountaineering rope as high as he could, hoping to pull himself up
with it. But even Diffle could not throw the rope upward that far, and it all tumbled back
down on his head.
Another puff of smoke blew out, choking Diffle even worse than before. Gradually it
rose up the tunnel, but Diffle still felt discouraged. He knew there would be another, and
another, and – wait! He could escape after all!
Yes, Dear Reader, you probably did have this figured out several paragraphs ago.
Obviously you’re smarter than Diffle McSnug. But Diffle recently bruised his backside,
so give him a break.
Diffle removed his coat and placed it directly over the steam hole. When the earth
belched, his coat rose up, trapping the air. But still Diffle held it tight. A minute later it
smoked again. Tears streamed down his face with the smell, but his coat still trapped the
smoke. It burped again, then again. It was all Diffle could do to keep the smoke trapped
beneath the coat. Finally, he could hold it no longer. Diffle crawled beneath the coat,
holding tightly to all corners. The smoke singed his eyebrows off and the smell melted
his nose hairs, but with one final puff, the coat lifted Diffle into the air.
Several times during the trip upward, Diffle wanted to let go, but his fists, which did not
want to fall, remained firmly clenched onto the coat. Fists can be very stubborn like that.
At last, Diffle reached the surface where he finally released his coat, which the smoke
continued carrying upward. A powerful telescope last spotted it exploring deep space on
its own.
Later that day, Diffle continued his explorations in the Himalayan Motel 6 pool. He
would seek out another adventure soon, but for now, just getting into the deep end
seemed like enough.
Monday, April 11, 2011
30 Days: "Hazel's Eyes" by Lori Bulloch
Once upon a time, there was a little girl. She was born in the summer, and when her eyes
fluttered open, they focused first on her Grandma Hazel. Her parents decided to name her Hazel.
She grew like a weed and asked lots and lots of questions. By the time she was in 2nd grade, she
knew more about butterflies and babies and bees and boys than any other kid in her class. She wasn't
afraid to ask anyone anything. In fact, she asked her teacher twenty questions every day and her
parents stopped counting.
One Sunday afternoon, she kept her mom's attention with a few simple questions. “Why is the
sky blue?” Mom didn't hear her. “Is the ocean ever the same shade of blue as the sky?” Mom muttered
something.“What day do you think our grass will turn green?” Dad walked in and started
humming. “Do you think Carter teases me at recess because he likes me?” Mom looked up from the
dishes and smiled.
She was just wondering if bees really have a queen when Dad interrupted, “Hazel, do you want
to go on a walk with me before dinner?”
Hazel's Mom was busy making a special birthday dinner for her little brother, but Hazel tried
just one more question. “Will you tell me why you named me Hazel?”
Her Mom answered while she helped Hazel tie her shoes.
“We love your Grandma Hazel so much that when you were in my tummy, Dad and I thought
we might name you after her. We had no idea your eyes would be the same color.” Mom went back to
frosting the cake then smiled and added, “You got her curiosity gene, too!”
Hazel's three brothers rumbled into the kitchen bouncing basketballs and the birthday boy
started crying for a piece of cake. Hazel was happy she was going on a walk.
Dad smiled down at her and she asked, “What color are my eyes? Some people say they're
green, but they usually look blue to me.” Dad's answer didn't make sense – something about pigs and
mints. Then he told her a secret. Grandma Hazel was going to come for dinner.
“Grandma!” Hazel ran straight home and didn't wait to catch her breath. “What color do you
think my eyes are?”
Grandma Hazel laughed a little and gave Hazel a big hug. Then she closed her eyes to think.
Hazel was just about to ask another question when grandma said, “Your eyes are the same as mine.
When we wear green, our eyes look green. When we wear blue, our eyes look blue. Sometimes, little
specks of brown even show up!”
Hazel liked this answer, and her Mom gave her a little wink. All during dinner, Hazel chewed
on her fingernails more than her food. She heard grandma ask her brothers all kinds of questions, but
she was busy making plans.
Monday morning turned out to be the first warm day of spring and Hazel couldn't wait to get
dressed. By 7:22 am, she had her favorite short-sleeve shirt on. Bright green. She didn't ask any
questions all morning, not even “Mom, why do you keep feeling my forehead?”
Carter was behind her in the bus line and she was feeling bright and happy. He picked the seat
in front of hers and every time he turned around, she giggled.
He popped up over the seat to stick his tongue out at her, then asked “Why are you so happy?”
“I don't know,” she blushed.
“You have green eyes.” Carter sputtered then hid behind the seat. He started blushing, too.
As soon as she got to her desk, she found a scrap of paper. Day One: Green shirt. Carter said
my eyes are green.
Tuesday was a cold, windy day. Hazel spent a long time looking in her closet and found a long-
sleeve, deep blue shirt her grandma gave her. It had a picture of the ocean with sequins on every wave.
As she walked slowly to the bus stop, she bit her nails.
This time, her best friend, Elle stood behind her in the bus line. “Why aren't you talking?” she
asked after three seconds of silence.
“Oh, I don't know.” She knew, but she bit her cheek and waited for Elle to talk again.
“Are you okay?” Then Elle's eyes got bigger. “Wow! Hazel! Your eyes are like the ocean – I
didn't know they were blue!”
Perfect! Hazel didn't want to forget, so she found her pen and wrote in tiny letters on her hand.
Day Two: Ocean shirt. Elle says my eyes are as blue as the ocean.
Her experiment was working! Hazel hurried home after school to call her grandma. They talked
and giggled like always, then Hazel asked, “Grandma, why do you think our eyes change colors?”
Silence. Hazel couldn't stand it, so she told all about her experiment.
“I'm going to let you answer your own question, Hazel,” and grandma changed the subject.
Wednesday was P.E. day at school and Hazel wanted to wear a brown shirt for the experiment
Since she couldn't find one, she put on the pink shirt that matched her tennis shoes. “Oh well,” she
thought, “now I'll find out what they say when my eyes don't match my shirt.”
The kids in the bus line were fighting and Hazel tried to stand between two boys that were
bigger than her and tell them to be nice. They ignored her, but at least she tried.
At school, the girl at the desk next to hers was crying about her spelling test and Hazel told
her, “Anna, I think you're really smart.”
Hazel didn't have anything to write down about Day Three until her teacher handed her a little
pink note. It read, “Hazel, you have a lot of love in your heart. Thank you for being in my class. Sincerely, Mrs. Pierce.”
“Hmmmm.” All the way home, Hazel wondered. At home, Hazel tried to put the pieces of her
experiment together. She almost called Grandma Hazel, but she remembered that she wanted her to
find her own answer.
“How can my eyes change color?” she looked in the mirror in her room. Even with her pink
shirt on, her eyes looked blue-green hazel, happy, thoughtful and kind.
“Okay,” she whispered to her reflection. “When people look in my eyes they really see me!”
fluttered open, they focused first on her Grandma Hazel. Her parents decided to name her Hazel.
She grew like a weed and asked lots and lots of questions. By the time she was in 2nd grade, she
knew more about butterflies and babies and bees and boys than any other kid in her class. She wasn't
afraid to ask anyone anything. In fact, she asked her teacher twenty questions every day and her
parents stopped counting.
One Sunday afternoon, she kept her mom's attention with a few simple questions. “Why is the
sky blue?” Mom didn't hear her. “Is the ocean ever the same shade of blue as the sky?” Mom muttered
something.“What day do you think our grass will turn green?” Dad walked in and started
humming. “Do you think Carter teases me at recess because he likes me?” Mom looked up from the
dishes and smiled.
She was just wondering if bees really have a queen when Dad interrupted, “Hazel, do you want
to go on a walk with me before dinner?”
Hazel's Mom was busy making a special birthday dinner for her little brother, but Hazel tried
just one more question. “Will you tell me why you named me Hazel?”
Her Mom answered while she helped Hazel tie her shoes.
“We love your Grandma Hazel so much that when you were in my tummy, Dad and I thought
we might name you after her. We had no idea your eyes would be the same color.” Mom went back to
frosting the cake then smiled and added, “You got her curiosity gene, too!”
Hazel's three brothers rumbled into the kitchen bouncing basketballs and the birthday boy
started crying for a piece of cake. Hazel was happy she was going on a walk.
Dad smiled down at her and she asked, “What color are my eyes? Some people say they're
green, but they usually look blue to me.” Dad's answer didn't make sense – something about pigs and
mints. Then he told her a secret. Grandma Hazel was going to come for dinner.
“Grandma!” Hazel ran straight home and didn't wait to catch her breath. “What color do you
think my eyes are?”
Grandma Hazel laughed a little and gave Hazel a big hug. Then she closed her eyes to think.
Hazel was just about to ask another question when grandma said, “Your eyes are the same as mine.
When we wear green, our eyes look green. When we wear blue, our eyes look blue. Sometimes, little
specks of brown even show up!”
Hazel liked this answer, and her Mom gave her a little wink. All during dinner, Hazel chewed
on her fingernails more than her food. She heard grandma ask her brothers all kinds of questions, but
she was busy making plans.
Monday morning turned out to be the first warm day of spring and Hazel couldn't wait to get
dressed. By 7:22 am, she had her favorite short-sleeve shirt on. Bright green. She didn't ask any
questions all morning, not even “Mom, why do you keep feeling my forehead?”
Carter was behind her in the bus line and she was feeling bright and happy. He picked the seat
in front of hers and every time he turned around, she giggled.
He popped up over the seat to stick his tongue out at her, then asked “Why are you so happy?”
“I don't know,” she blushed.
“You have green eyes.” Carter sputtered then hid behind the seat. He started blushing, too.
As soon as she got to her desk, she found a scrap of paper. Day One: Green shirt. Carter said
my eyes are green.
Tuesday was a cold, windy day. Hazel spent a long time looking in her closet and found a long-
sleeve, deep blue shirt her grandma gave her. It had a picture of the ocean with sequins on every wave.
As she walked slowly to the bus stop, she bit her nails.
This time, her best friend, Elle stood behind her in the bus line. “Why aren't you talking?” she
asked after three seconds of silence.
“Oh, I don't know.” She knew, but she bit her cheek and waited for Elle to talk again.
“Are you okay?” Then Elle's eyes got bigger. “Wow! Hazel! Your eyes are like the ocean – I
didn't know they were blue!”
Perfect! Hazel didn't want to forget, so she found her pen and wrote in tiny letters on her hand.
Day Two: Ocean shirt. Elle says my eyes are as blue as the ocean.
Her experiment was working! Hazel hurried home after school to call her grandma. They talked
and giggled like always, then Hazel asked, “Grandma, why do you think our eyes change colors?”
Silence. Hazel couldn't stand it, so she told all about her experiment.
“I'm going to let you answer your own question, Hazel,” and grandma changed the subject.
Wednesday was P.E. day at school and Hazel wanted to wear a brown shirt for the experiment
Since she couldn't find one, she put on the pink shirt that matched her tennis shoes. “Oh well,” she
thought, “now I'll find out what they say when my eyes don't match my shirt.”
The kids in the bus line were fighting and Hazel tried to stand between two boys that were
bigger than her and tell them to be nice. They ignored her, but at least she tried.
At school, the girl at the desk next to hers was crying about her spelling test and Hazel told
her, “Anna, I think you're really smart.”
Hazel didn't have anything to write down about Day Three until her teacher handed her a little
pink note. It read, “Hazel, you have a lot of love in your heart. Thank you for being in my class. Sincerely, Mrs. Pierce.”
“Hmmmm.” All the way home, Hazel wondered. At home, Hazel tried to put the pieces of her
experiment together. She almost called Grandma Hazel, but she remembered that she wanted her to
find her own answer.
“How can my eyes change color?” she looked in the mirror in her room. Even with her pink
shirt on, her eyes looked blue-green hazel, happy, thoughtful and kind.
“Okay,” she whispered to her reflection. “When people look in my eyes they really see me!”
Sunday, April 10, 2011
How to Find the Inspiration to Write: Inspiring Authors for the 30 Days/30 Stories Project
This is the third year Sarah and this blog have done the 30 Days/30 Stories Project and every year it reminds me a lot of NANO in November. It’s a lot of fun and a great way to gain exposure for your writing ability and talent. This is also a great way to inspire writers to who might be staring at a blank computer screen to try and come up with a story to share. I’m not part of the project this year because my workload right now is just too nuts for words, but I saw Sarah’s post on April 2nd and thought maybe one of my World of Ink Guest Authors can share some inspiration with you to help get those muse muscles flexing and ready to write.
How to Find Inspiration to Write
By: Judy Snider
There are days that I want to put blinders on my eyes, so that as I look around I am not suddenly filled with idea after idea for a story. I love to write and it seems odd to me if a day goes by that I don’t write something. Yet, the ideas that float around me sometimes make it hard to select the one that I want to use. I wanted to write chocolate inspires me first as it really does set the tone for my mind to get calm and me to find delight in my writing.
My sister, Joan, who is the co-author of I Love You, Be Careful says, “Everyday moments in my life inspire me!” She is a 20-year breast cancer survivor, a mother, grandmother, wife, friend and sister. She finds that there is beauty all around her and all her good moments and stressful moments inspire her.
I found that my children when growing up inspired me to write funny children’s stories, taking from their everyday adventures. Each age would provide a wealth of tales to tell. My best writing was at video arcades or other places waiting for my children. They would be noisy, hectic, but I seemed to pick up on the lively energy in the rooms.
Joan and I were talking on the phone one day, and our conversations about wanting our loved ones to be safe led to I Love You, Be Careful. No matter whether it was our grown kids, husbands, or other loved ones our love and concern for them inspired us to write this book.
So a few tips to inspire you to write:
1. Think of the funny and stressful things that could inspire you to write.
2. Think about what you would like others to know, that no one ever told you.
3. Music, chocolate.
4. Think of all the things you could be thankful for.
5. If you have pets, how can they not inspire us...I have 2 funny cats
6. Other authors
7. Beautiful illustrations. Cady Driver our illustrator always inspires me with her beautiful illustrations!
8. Laugh a lot….cry some….hug a lot
Don’t stop writing….enjoy the process…
Lean more about the World of Ink Tours at http://storiesforchildrenpublishing.com/JudySniderandJoanDickow.aspx
Judy Snider, Joan’s sister lives in Virginia Beach, Virginia with her husband, Gil, and two silly cats. She is the author of the CWA award-winning children’s picture book, Goldy’s Baby Socks, and on a team of authors of The Scared Purse.
Friday, April 8, 2011
30 Days, 30 Stories: Jasmine Flowers
Every night I lay lonely in some low class dive, I took out her story and read it, certain to find a clue for me. Tonight, I am back in the same dingy hotel room I started in when I covered her wedding five years ago.
This time I reported on the death of a famous tribe lord: her would-be-husband. I found out he had taken twenty wives, seven in just the last year. It was a great accomplishment for man of his years. Plus, he had 46 sons and counting.
I returned to the hotel, wrote and sent off my story and read hers again. Ellis. She told me of her favorite flower, Jasmine and she loved her parents deeply.
When I checked out, I asked the manager where Ellis’ family had moved.
“They didn’t move,” he whispered. “They shut themselves up in their house after their daughter ran away from her wedding. Poor family. Ruined them for life.”
The smoldering coals I held so carefully in my heart burst into flame. She was here? I left my bags and sprinted into the streets. I wandered everywhere and nowhere, waiting for the sun to go down.
I needed to find her. I don’t remember when I first understood I was in love. From the moment I interviewed Ellis, I couldn’t get her deep, brown eyes from my mind. At the time, she was engaged to a wealthy tribal king who ensured protection for her father’s smaller tribe.
I waited until dark to knock on the front door. No answer. I peeked in the windows. No light. I jogged around to the backyard. The place was empty.
I ran back to the hotel, my legs and lungs burning.
“Mr. Jonas! A message for you!” the manager said as he waved his arms.
“I don’t have time!” I grabbed my things.
He stopped moving. “She waits for you by the pool.”
All the times I read her story, all the places I looked for her after she ran away, and I never planned what I would say to her.
I hurried to the hotel pool. The smell of Jasmine hit my nose. I glanced at the water, full of floating white flowers.
“I’ve waited for you to return for so long,” her soft voice announced from a darkened corner. I peered through the dark. Two figures stepped forward—mother and daughter. I bowed my head in respect to the older woman. I glanced up; tears glistened on her cheeks.
“Please take care of her.” She pushed her forward with a little nudge and left.
“Where to princess?” I asked, as I wrapped my arms around her.
“Some place I can read your story.”
Thursday, April 7, 2011
30 Days, 30 Stories: Metal Angel
by Tiffany Dominguez
Veronica plunged over the side of the air frigate with the sound of steel striking steel behind her. Her gloved hands slipped on the rope while she descended as quickly as she could. Just before she hit the ground, a wave of heat blasted her face, making her shut her eyes until it passed. The metal sign above the first story of the burning workhouse teetered and fell with a loud clang directly in front of her. She leapt aside and over to the group of people standing a safe distance from the flames.
Her heart lifted to see that most of the crowd consisted of the orphans from the workhouse. Soot darkened their faces and hair as they huddled close together.
Mistress Phillips ran to her with a distressed cry.
“We’ve accounted for all but little Agnes and Claire!”
Veronica seized the teacher’s arm. “Where were they last seen?”
“T … their bedrooms.”
The fourth floor! She dashed toward the entrance of the workhouse at a dead run. Two men blocked the entrance but she reached for her ray gun and shot them. They fell to the ground, stunned. She barreled through the flames surrounding the door frame.
The metal stairs, the only way up to the next floor, glowed red. She braced herself and sprinted upward. A beam splintered at the top and crashed to the floor in front of her. She rolled to the side. When she looked up, she was staring into two black eyes, wide and livid. Emil Marcovic, the wanted airship pirate, held Claire’s hand while carrying Agnes in the other arm.
“Veronica! Are you harmed?”
“N…no. How did you--?” He must have dropped in from the skies. But why would he risk capture in downtown London?
“I’m sorry, Lady Veronica! I had to get my necklace!” Agnes held out a palm containing the silver angel pendant Veronica had given her last week.
Veronica sat up and wrapped her arms around the child. “Oh, dear girl. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Emil pulled them all to the top of the staircase. One of his burly men waited at the bottom, arms outstretched. Emil hung Agnes down and then released her. His man caught the child and handed her to another, who then whisked her outside. Emil repeated the process with Claire.
He then jumped down to the lobby, landing easily on his feet, and held out his arms.
She looked down into his familiar eyes and stepped off the edge. She wasn’t sure how but she landed perfectly in his arms. He held her close, smelling of ashes and smoke, and ran through the door.
When they reached a safe distance from the workhouse he set her down.
“Are you hurt, srce?” He cupped her face.
“No,” she whispered. He’d done it for her.
She reached up and kissed him. She sensed his smile as he pulled her close, reached into her cloak and tossed aside her ray gun. She wanted to object but promptly lost track of thought.
Copyright Tiffany Dominguez
http://www.tiffanydominguez.com/
Veronica plunged over the side of the air frigate with the sound of steel striking steel behind her. Her gloved hands slipped on the rope while she descended as quickly as she could. Just before she hit the ground, a wave of heat blasted her face, making her shut her eyes until it passed. The metal sign above the first story of the burning workhouse teetered and fell with a loud clang directly in front of her. She leapt aside and over to the group of people standing a safe distance from the flames.
Her heart lifted to see that most of the crowd consisted of the orphans from the workhouse. Soot darkened their faces and hair as they huddled close together.
Mistress Phillips ran to her with a distressed cry.
“We’ve accounted for all but little Agnes and Claire!”
Veronica seized the teacher’s arm. “Where were they last seen?”
“T … their bedrooms.”
The fourth floor! She dashed toward the entrance of the workhouse at a dead run. Two men blocked the entrance but she reached for her ray gun and shot them. They fell to the ground, stunned. She barreled through the flames surrounding the door frame.
The metal stairs, the only way up to the next floor, glowed red. She braced herself and sprinted upward. A beam splintered at the top and crashed to the floor in front of her. She rolled to the side. When she looked up, she was staring into two black eyes, wide and livid. Emil Marcovic, the wanted airship pirate, held Claire’s hand while carrying Agnes in the other arm.
“Veronica! Are you harmed?”
“N…no. How did you--?” He must have dropped in from the skies. But why would he risk capture in downtown London?
“I’m sorry, Lady Veronica! I had to get my necklace!” Agnes held out a palm containing the silver angel pendant Veronica had given her last week.
Veronica sat up and wrapped her arms around the child. “Oh, dear girl. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Emil pulled them all to the top of the staircase. One of his burly men waited at the bottom, arms outstretched. Emil hung Agnes down and then released her. His man caught the child and handed her to another, who then whisked her outside. Emil repeated the process with Claire.
He then jumped down to the lobby, landing easily on his feet, and held out his arms.
She looked down into his familiar eyes and stepped off the edge. She wasn’t sure how but she landed perfectly in his arms. He held her close, smelling of ashes and smoke, and ran through the door.
When they reached a safe distance from the workhouse he set her down.
“Are you hurt, srce?” He cupped her face.
“No,” she whispered. He’d done it for her.
She reached up and kissed him. She sensed his smile as he pulled her close, reached into her cloak and tossed aside her ray gun. She wanted to object but promptly lost track of thought.
Copyright Tiffany Dominguez
http://www.tiffanydominguez.com/
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
A Haunted House Story, Circa Spring 2010
by Deren Hansen
Some said the house was haunted.
Some screamed and ran as it shambled up the street, leaving a wake of bits of itself in the gouged asphalt.
I fished the business card out of my wallet as the house shoved one parked car into the back end of another. “Dr. Closer, Paranormal Real Estate Agent.” It still smelled like a bad joke—just what everyone else would say if I told them a house in my neighborhood decided to go for a stroll.
“Somebody do something!” Mrs. Garcia wailed. “It’s heading for my house.”
One after another, the front windows shattered.
The teenagers who had been daring each other to stand in front of the moving mass of masonry ran shrieking up the street.
“Idiots!” old Mr. Polypapanos yelled. “Whose bright idea was that?”
The house, lurching slowly from side to side, pushed the parked cars through the prize rosebushes and onto the Kravitt’s lawn.
“Ay, Dios mio,” Mrs. Garcia cried, “can no one stop it?”
There was nothing else to do. I flipped the card over, swallowed my pride, and made the call.
“Stop playing with your phone,” Mr. Polypapanos said. He rapped his cane on my head before I could leave a message. “Get in there and … and turn it off.”
“Me?”
“No one else is spry enough.” He jabbed his cane at my chest. “Now, quit wasting time.”
I wasn’t sure what was left of the front porch would support my weight, but, frankly the animated house was less frightening than Mr. Polypapanos, so I jumped.
The screen door unlatched and slammed into me when I landed. I managed to grab it before the porch crumbled beneath me. The house shuddered as it ground over the chunks of concrete.
Mr. Polypapanos shouted something that, between the rumble of the house and Mrs. Garcia’s crying, I couldn’t hear. But I didn’t need his advice: knowing that I would be hamburger if I lost my grip and followed the porch under the house was more than sufficiently motivating.
Not that I could ever do it again—because I’m not quite sure how I did it—but in a fit of coordination that would have shut old Coach Henderson up, I pushed off the brick wall and swung myself around in time to kick the front door open.
I had a hard time picking myself up: a house isn’t supposed to move like a boat in a force-five wind.
Looking around, I felt sick—and not from the motion: the house had been stripped. Everything was gone: the carpets; the curtains; even the cupboard doors. The green light that pulsed from the equipment closet made what was left of the kitchen cabinets look like so many eyeless skulls.
The floor bucked, I lost my footing, rolled though the suddenly open back door, and landed in the middle of the scarred asphalt.
A gloved hand at the end of a trench coat sleeve pulled me to my feet and I found myself face to face with a man who looked like a cross between a shaman and gum-shoe detective.
“I am Dr. Fagergren Closer, IV.” He smiled grimly. “I knew you would call.”
“Can you stop it,” I asked, trying to catch my breath.
“No.”
“What?”
“You will stop it.”
“How?”
He dropped a four-foot-long copper spike onto my bruised arms. “That house,” he pointed with his chin, “it has been possessed by a zombie bank. We must repossess it by staking a claim.” He handed me a small sledge hammer. “Drive this through the floor where the green light is strongest.”
I think Dr. Closer must have thrown me through the back door because I was suddenly on the heaving floor again.
With the spike to steady me, I stumbled into the kitchen and opened the equipment closet. The furnace pulsed like a tin heart in the sick, green light shining from the bottom of the closet.
The house shuddered with each blow as I drove the copper spike through the floor. Plaster rained around me as I pounded. Then I felt the spike dig into the ground.
The green light winked out.
The house collapsed with a final groan.
Mrs. Garcia nearly knocked me over trying to kiss my cheek when I came out. And Mr. Polypapanos was actually smiling.
“You did well, my boy,” Dr. Closer said as he shook my hand. “It is, however, only the beginning. The financial apocalypse has spawned a host of zombie banks. There are many more possessed houses.” He put an arm around my shoulder. “Have you ever considered getting into a new line of work?”
I looked at the wreck of the house in the middle of the road and then at the sledge hammer in my hand. And I knew that nothing would ever be the same.
Deren blogs daily at The Laws of Making.
Some screamed and ran as it shambled up the street, leaving a wake of bits of itself in the gouged asphalt.
I fished the business card out of my wallet as the house shoved one parked car into the back end of another. “Dr. Closer, Paranormal Real Estate Agent.” It still smelled like a bad joke—just what everyone else would say if I told them a house in my neighborhood decided to go for a stroll.
“Somebody do something!” Mrs. Garcia wailed. “It’s heading for my house.”
One after another, the front windows shattered.
The teenagers who had been daring each other to stand in front of the moving mass of masonry ran shrieking up the street.
“Idiots!” old Mr. Polypapanos yelled. “Whose bright idea was that?”
The house, lurching slowly from side to side, pushed the parked cars through the prize rosebushes and onto the Kravitt’s lawn.
“Ay, Dios mio,” Mrs. Garcia cried, “can no one stop it?”
There was nothing else to do. I flipped the card over, swallowed my pride, and made the call.
“Stop playing with your phone,” Mr. Polypapanos said. He rapped his cane on my head before I could leave a message. “Get in there and … and turn it off.”
“Me?”
“No one else is spry enough.” He jabbed his cane at my chest. “Now, quit wasting time.”
I wasn’t sure what was left of the front porch would support my weight, but, frankly the animated house was less frightening than Mr. Polypapanos, so I jumped.
The screen door unlatched and slammed into me when I landed. I managed to grab it before the porch crumbled beneath me. The house shuddered as it ground over the chunks of concrete.
Mr. Polypapanos shouted something that, between the rumble of the house and Mrs. Garcia’s crying, I couldn’t hear. But I didn’t need his advice: knowing that I would be hamburger if I lost my grip and followed the porch under the house was more than sufficiently motivating.
Not that I could ever do it again—because I’m not quite sure how I did it—but in a fit of coordination that would have shut old Coach Henderson up, I pushed off the brick wall and swung myself around in time to kick the front door open.
I had a hard time picking myself up: a house isn’t supposed to move like a boat in a force-five wind.
Looking around, I felt sick—and not from the motion: the house had been stripped. Everything was gone: the carpets; the curtains; even the cupboard doors. The green light that pulsed from the equipment closet made what was left of the kitchen cabinets look like so many eyeless skulls.
The floor bucked, I lost my footing, rolled though the suddenly open back door, and landed in the middle of the scarred asphalt.
A gloved hand at the end of a trench coat sleeve pulled me to my feet and I found myself face to face with a man who looked like a cross between a shaman and gum-shoe detective.
“I am Dr. Fagergren Closer, IV.” He smiled grimly. “I knew you would call.”
“Can you stop it,” I asked, trying to catch my breath.
“No.”
“What?”
“You will stop it.”
“How?”
He dropped a four-foot-long copper spike onto my bruised arms. “That house,” he pointed with his chin, “it has been possessed by a zombie bank. We must repossess it by staking a claim.” He handed me a small sledge hammer. “Drive this through the floor where the green light is strongest.”
I think Dr. Closer must have thrown me through the back door because I was suddenly on the heaving floor again.
With the spike to steady me, I stumbled into the kitchen and opened the equipment closet. The furnace pulsed like a tin heart in the sick, green light shining from the bottom of the closet.
The house shuddered with each blow as I drove the copper spike through the floor. Plaster rained around me as I pounded. Then I felt the spike dig into the ground.
The green light winked out.
The house collapsed with a final groan.
Mrs. Garcia nearly knocked me over trying to kiss my cheek when I came out. And Mr. Polypapanos was actually smiling.
“You did well, my boy,” Dr. Closer said as he shook my hand. “It is, however, only the beginning. The financial apocalypse has spawned a host of zombie banks. There are many more possessed houses.” He put an arm around my shoulder. “Have you ever considered getting into a new line of work?”
I looked at the wreck of the house in the middle of the road and then at the sledge hammer in my hand. And I knew that nothing would ever be the same.
Deren blogs daily at The Laws of Making.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
30 Days, 30 Stories Project
So far we don't have enough participants to have a story every single day of April, but we're close! Yesterday we let the focus be on our writing contest winners. Today I'd like to cover the ground rules for the project and send out yet another request for people to sign up.
Every day (theoretically) in April, a different writer/artist shares their work on the blog. Anything written should be 500 words or less, be any age level, any genre. Once you sign up, I will email you your assigned day. On or before that day you email me your story/art and I will post it to the blog.
This is the third year we've done the 30 days, 30 stories project. It is always a lot of fun! Usually, by the end of the month, all of the days are full. Check back regularly to see everyone's contributions and be sure to leave comments! We LOVE comments!
Every day (theoretically) in April, a different writer/artist shares their work on the blog. Anything written should be 500 words or less, be any age level, any genre. Once you sign up, I will email you your assigned day. On or before that day you email me your story/art and I will post it to the blog.
This is the third year we've done the 30 days, 30 stories project. It is always a lot of fun! Usually, by the end of the month, all of the days are full. Check back regularly to see everyone's contributions and be sure to leave comments! We LOVE comments!
Friday, April 1, 2011
1st place: "A Narrative to Remember" by Joseph Ramirez
“If only you and I were in love,” whispers my date, as she adjusts my tie.
I take in the vast ballroom, the elegant swirl of dancers in tuxedos and evening gowns, the live jazz music, the fragrance of her perfume.
“In love,” I muse, “and upset.”
Her eyebrow raises. “Intriguing.”
We enter the dance floor, her dark dress shimmering with movement.
She continues. “In love and upset... mmm-hmmmmmm... that would introduce dramatic tension. We could argue, while we dance...”
“Yes,” I say. “Brilliant! But to avoid conformity, the livid lovers danced the foxtrot while everyone else did a slow swing!”
“Splendid,” she says. We switch to foxtrot with a twirl.
I continue. “As they argued, their fervent anger – fueled by their emotional stakes in this already intense relationship – only burned brighter... dangerously brighter... perhaps even brighter than the flame of their love!”
She places a hand on my chest. “A great wedge grew between them with every step, neither willing to acquiesce!”
We cease dancing. I speak. “Their argument stopped, but didn't end, as the words he didn't mean to say spilled forth from his impassioned lips.”
She pulls away from me. “Dramatic silence ensued while she stood, haughty head held high, too proud to consider the pleading apology already in his eyes.”
I grin. “This is great.”
“It gets better.” She stops a server laden with a tray of full wineglasses.
“Of course,” I say. “Classic. With a splosh of wine to the face, she left him spluttering and without a shred of dignity... as she walked away without a second glance!”
“He had it coming to him,” I say.
She poises her arm for sploshing, but hesitates. “Hmm. Too easy.”
She returns the wineglass to the server, who gives us both a funny look and continues on his way.
We both search our minds for something, anything.
“Got it!” she says. She raises a trembling hand as though to backhand me. “She shook a little...”
I narrate. “And he said 'smite me, if you must... but I am alREADY smitten with you, which pains me more than your blow ever could!'”
“Oooh, good,” she says.
“Yes, I know.”
Her hand falls to her side. “And she said, 'This hand... could never harm you.'”
“Poetic,” I say.
“Appallingly so.” Then, she slaps me with her other hand. “'But this one could!' She cried. 'For the typing induced carpel tunnel in it is far less advanced!' ”
I smile, rubbing my jaw.
She sniffs. “Blighter.”
“No,” I say. “Writer.”
She gasps. “You too? I knew it!”
We pull close.
“You're incredible!” I breathe, “What a twist on cliché! Introducing a health problem... thus thickening the plot!”
“And your dialogue...” she murmurs, stroking my arm. “Scintillating. We must co-write.”
“Indeed. We must.”
I take in the vast ballroom, the elegant swirl of dancers in tuxedos and evening gowns, the live jazz music, the fragrance of her perfume.
“In love,” I muse, “and upset.”
Her eyebrow raises. “Intriguing.”
We enter the dance floor, her dark dress shimmering with movement.
She continues. “In love and upset... mmm-hmmmmmm... that would introduce dramatic tension. We could argue, while we dance...”
“Yes,” I say. “Brilliant! But to avoid conformity, the livid lovers danced the foxtrot while everyone else did a slow swing!”
“Splendid,” she says. We switch to foxtrot with a twirl.
I continue. “As they argued, their fervent anger – fueled by their emotional stakes in this already intense relationship – only burned brighter... dangerously brighter... perhaps even brighter than the flame of their love!”
She places a hand on my chest. “A great wedge grew between them with every step, neither willing to acquiesce!”
We cease dancing. I speak. “Their argument stopped, but didn't end, as the words he didn't mean to say spilled forth from his impassioned lips.”
She pulls away from me. “Dramatic silence ensued while she stood, haughty head held high, too proud to consider the pleading apology already in his eyes.”
I grin. “This is great.”
“It gets better.” She stops a server laden with a tray of full wineglasses.
“Of course,” I say. “Classic. With a splosh of wine to the face, she left him spluttering and without a shred of dignity... as she walked away without a second glance!”
“He had it coming to him,” I say.
She poises her arm for sploshing, but hesitates. “Hmm. Too easy.”
She returns the wineglass to the server, who gives us both a funny look and continues on his way.
We both search our minds for something, anything.
“Got it!” she says. She raises a trembling hand as though to backhand me. “She shook a little...”
I narrate. “And he said 'smite me, if you must... but I am alREADY smitten with you, which pains me more than your blow ever could!'”
“Oooh, good,” she says.
“Yes, I know.”
Her hand falls to her side. “And she said, 'This hand... could never harm you.'”
“Poetic,” I say.
“Appallingly so.” Then, she slaps me with her other hand. “'But this one could!' She cried. 'For the typing induced carpel tunnel in it is far less advanced!' ”
I smile, rubbing my jaw.
She sniffs. “Blighter.”
“No,” I say. “Writer.”
She gasps. “You too? I knew it!”
We pull close.
“You're incredible!” I breathe, “What a twist on cliché! Introducing a health problem... thus thickening the plot!”
“And your dialogue...” she murmurs, stroking my arm. “Scintillating. We must co-write.”
“Indeed. We must.”
Winners for our First Ever Blog Writing Contest!
The voting is now closed for the poll and even though a glitch in the program caused us to lose about 20 votes, I think the overall scores are still correct.
First place-- Joseph Ramirez
Second place-- Maren Warner
Third place-- Kimberly Kay
Fourth place-- Mattie
Many thanks to:
Aileen, Trish, Mary Ann, Mattie, Alexandra, and T. Lynn for being brave and sharing their work! (round of applause for you).
I will contact the winners via the Yahoo email group to discuss prizes.
First place-- Joseph Ramirez
Second place-- Maren Warner
Third place-- Kimberly Kay
Fourth place-- Mattie
Many thanks to:
Aileen, Trish, Mary Ann, Mattie, Alexandra, and T. Lynn for being brave and sharing their work! (round of applause for you).
I will contact the winners via the Yahoo email group to discuss prizes.
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