30 Days, 30 Stories: "Gum in My Hair"

Gum in My Hair

By Jennifer Nielsen

2010 copyright; author retains all rights to the story. Please do not use story without author's permission.

I’ve got gum in my hair.

Yes, I know, I know, I KNOW the rules about chewing gum: No sharing with the dog. No using gum like tape. And keep it in my mouth.

I was keeping it in my mouth. Until I forgot the rule and tested whether I could stretch it all the way around my head.

In case you’re wondering, the answer is no. Gum only stretches around your head until it gets stuck in your hair.

When Mom gave me the gum today, she said, “If you take it out of your mouth, it’s no more gum for a month.”

A whole month? I’ll almost be halfway grown up by then. If I tell Mom about the gum in my hair, I can just forget about my childhood.

I try pulling the gum out. Guess what that does? It just pulls my hair.

Then I remember whenever I use play dough, Mom picks up the spilled pieces by stamping a bigger blob of play dough on top. Pulls it right up. So if my logic is correct, the best thing to pull that gum out of my hair is to stamp it out with more gum!

I put three sticks of gum in my mouth and chew them up really good. When the flavor is gone (about twelve seconds later), I take out the blob of gum and push it as hard as I can into the gum already stuck in my hair. Now all I have to do is pull the whole thing out and –

Okay, so guess what I just learned? Gum works different than play dough. Now I have a lot of gum stuck in my hair.

Luckily I’m a very good problem solver. And this is a very bad problem.

I remember once when Mom got a ring stuck on her finger. She used some butter to help it slide off. A ring is smaller than all this gum, so I need a lot of butter.

I take the whole butter cube sitting out on our counter. It still has some bread crumbs from Dad’s toast this morning, but I don’t think the crumbs will matter.

I squish and squeeze and squash that butter all over my hair. It’s really slimy and grimy and makes my hair really shiny and slippery.

So slippery that when I try to pull the gum out, my hand slips right off. I need something to make the gum easier to hold while I slide it off my hair.

My little brother is playing outside in the sandbox. Sand! It is literally the best idea ever! And I can just shake it off after I’m done. So I run outside and dunk my whole gummy, buttery head straight into the sand and roll it around until it’s covered.

My little brother does the same thing, even though he’s too young to chew gum responsibly, like me.

With my hair covered in sand, I can grab onto the gum without my hand slipping off, but there is so much sand sticking to the butter, my head feels like a beach! If this ever happens again, I’ve decided not to solve my problem with sand. In fact, I’ve decided not to solve this problem at all. When in doubt about your hair, put a hat on it.

With all the sand in my hair, my own hat doesn’t fit on my head anymore. But my dad’s big cowboy hat does. It’s hard to pull his big hat on, but as soon as it reaches the butter in my hair, it slides right down.

Great. Now the butter is working.

I think I look pretty good when I check myself in the mirror. But Mom might get suspicious about why I have Dad’s cowboy hat on.

If I was dressed like a cowboy the hat wouldn’t stand out so much. The only problem is that I quickly find out I can’t get my cowboy shirt over my head. I need to make clothes to wrap around my body.

Mom has a checkered tablecloth that looks just like a cowboy bandana. Perfect! I cut armholes into the tablecloth and pull it on like a button up shirt. Mom’s tablecloth doesn’t have buttons, so I just wrap it around myself and tie it with her dishtowel.

Cool! Now I’m disguised as a cowboy and nobody will suspect a thing about the gum.

There’s Mom now. She’s smiling. Wait! No, the smile is going, going, gone. That is definitely a frown.

She pulls off the tablecloth and stares at me through an armhole. I try to explain that she never actually told me that cutting her tablecloth was against the rules. It isn’t working. Her face is turning colors. The last time Mom’s face turned those colors, I had to do extra chores for a whole week.

She pries off Dad’s cowboy hat. I can see the inside covered in sandy butter. Mom stares at my head and I don’t know if she’s about to laugh or cry. I don’t think she knows either. She brushes at the sand in my hair, but it’s stuck in the butter. She picks up a buttery strand of hair to look at the gum.

Then she laughs. She laughs so hard she starts to cry. When she finishes laughing, Mom goes to get the scissors. The big ones.

Ten minutes later I am bald. The good news is there’s no more sand, butter, or gum in my hair.

The bad news is I don’t get gum for a month. That’s okay. I’m going to try something new where I can’t get in to trouble. Like finger painting!

30 Days, 30 Stories: "Gray Maiden"

Gray Maiden

By: Julie Daines

Copyright 2010; author retains all rights to the story. Please do not use the story without author's permission.

I should not have come so far into the woods. Crossing the borders into the Forest Beyond is opening wide your door and inviting danger to rest at your hearth. Of more importance, I should not have brought Colwyn with me.

But we are hungry.

So we come. Searching for wild mushrooms, acorns, and Colwyn’s favorite—blackberries.

We should have turned back when the sun dropped low. But the berries taste sweet and delicious, sating our grumbling bellies.

Darkness falls, bringing with it an eerie fog, rising from the ground, cold and heavy. A cry, like a woman suffering great sorrow, floats across the haze and shivers down my spine.

A Gwyllion.

“Run!” I cry, snatching Colwyn’s hand and dragging his small body behind me. His feet flail, trying to keep up.

A light flickers through the mist ahead. I stop dead in my tracks, my heart still racing.

“Brynn, look,” Colwyn says, gasping for breath and pointing at the glimmer. “A house. We made it back to the village.” He tugs on my hand.

“Hush,” I whisper. “That’s not Rhos-fawr. It is a Gwyllion.”

I thrust my hand into my satchel, searching for my knife. I throw it, as far away from me as possible. Fairy-folk do not take kindly to the presence of a metal blade.

I swallow hard and place myself between Colwyn and the creature. If anything happens to Colwyn . . . The thought makes me ill. With mother and father gone, he is my responsibility. Food in the stomach is not worth the life of my brother.

She emerges from the mist. Long, bony fingers clutch a lantern where a bright flame burns, illuminating her gaunt face.

“Stay back,” I say, weak and tremulous.

A Gray Maiden. I’d never seen one before. Whoever named her must have been blind, or at least half-blind. For a maiden, she is not. A hag; with stringy, gray hair, a gray, woolen cloak draping over hunched shoulders, and a frail body floating in the gray fog.

She speaks and her voice sounds like an ax on a whetstone. “My dears, are you lost in the Forest Beyond?” Her tone softens and fills with trust. “Poor little ones.” The harsh features smooth and round out into a kindly, benevolent woman. “Follow me,” she says like honey. “I will lead you home.” She reaches out a plump and gentle hand.

Colwyn pushes past me, his arm stretched out to meet hers.

“No,” I cry, catching him by his cloak and jerking him back. But not quick enough. Her tender features vanish and her claws lash out, scratching across his face. Three cuts, burning red in the lantern’s light.

I stare at them, and my heart sinks to the toes of my boots. Colwyn has been marked by a Gwyllion.

Three marks, three days to live.

She cackles a wretched laugh and her body poofs into gray smoke, evaporating into the air, taking the mist with it.

The first day he wails without ceasing, wringing my heart like wet washing.

I do what I can to relieve him. A poultice of comfrey for the marks on his face. Tea, with yarrow for fever, and primrose, to cast out evil.

On the second day, his cries wilt into soft moans. By nightfall, he neither eats nor drinks.

The morning of the third day dawns dark and stormy. His skin burns, and as the sun travels the sky, his eyes, once windows of delight, turn vacant and glazed.

A wind howls and blows open a shutter. I rush to close it, noticing the lateness of the hour. Colwyn’s three days are nearly up. When he leaves, I will be alone.

A knock at the door startles me. Who is out on a night like this? Another knock, strong and insistent.

I slide the bolt and open the door. A scream fills my mouth, but I catch it in time and bite my lips. Nothing can hide the fear in my eyes.

Stooping in the wretched rain, the icy wind whipping her tattered, gray robes, stands the Gwyllion. She frightened me greatly in the Forest Beyond. Here, on my threshold, she terrifies me near to death.

“Let me in,” she says in her strident voice. “The night is cold and I seek shelter.”

I glance at Colwyn’s frail body, shivering by the fire. Then back at the Gwyllion. I must invite her in. To refuse hospitality is to beg for retribution.

I step aside and gesture her enter. “Please, be at home.” I close the door against the storm.

She sits in my mother’s chair by the fire, sipping a cup of tea, and eating a slice of bread.

The precious moments of Colwyn’s life slip by.

Her eyes move constantly, flicking to him, to the door, and to the table.

Curious, I stand and look.

There, under the bread cloth, glints the tip of our kitchen knife. The one I’d used this morning to cut a few pieces of bread. I’d not the stomach to eat them, and they lay on the table until the fairy-witch appeared, and I offered her one.

Had I noticed it before, I would have hidden it, not to offend.

Desperation fills me with a new plan.

I seize the knife and press it to her chest, hoping she can’t dissolve away. The teacup shatters on the cobblestone floor.

She glares at me, anger tightening her wrinkled face.
“Heal him,” I say. My hands shake and my voice cracks, but I don’t back down.

We stare at each other for a long time.

Colwyn’s breathing eases. The burning red retreats and his flesh calms.

“It is done,” she says.

I withdraw the knife, and she disappears in a vapor of smoke. A cold wind blasts through the open door, stirring the ashes in the fireplace.

I bolt the door and turn to Colwyn.

He sits, leaning against the hearth. “Brynn? What happened?” His smile is sunshine in the bleak of night. “Do we have any more blackberries?”

30 Days, 30 Stories: "Orders"

Orders

By Sharee Garcia

Copyright 2010; author retains all rights to the story. Please do not use the story without author's permission.

If it had hit her anywhere else, Zara would have been fine. Instead, the thin shaft of metal protruded from her left arm, pinning her to a tree. She hadn’t seen who shot it, but she had a good idea.

The crunch of leaves announced her assailant. She wasn’t surprised to see Katara’s sneering face round the trees that had blocked her view.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” Katara cocked her head to one side, stopping just out of reach. “A little mouse? No. A roach is more fitting for a skimpering, whimpering betrayer like you!”

Zara held her gaze steady.

“Ah.” Katara’s eyes took in the metal glinting under the torn fabric around the shaft. “Did I short out all your little toys?” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “How sad.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.” Katara slowly circled the tree. “The final decision rests on you, if you’re willing to cooperate.”

“Cooperate? What are you talking about?”

“I want information that only you can give. After all, you were the one that took him.”

Zara averted her eyes. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Oh?” Katara raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Then how do you know what I’m talking about when I didn’t even give the name or circumstance?”

Zara silently cursed herself. Interrogation was never her strong suit.

“I suppose someone as weak minded as you will need me to get straight to the point. Where is he?”

“I can’t say.”

“Hm. Not exactly the positive answer I was looking for. Let’s try this again. With a little persuasion,

perhaps?” Katara took out a thin rod and pointed it at its companion lodged in Zara’s arm. It started to hum faintly. “Where is he?”

“I . . . I can’t say.”

“You can’t say or you don’t know.”

“I . . . “ Zara’s eyes darted toward her arm. “I was under command of the Order. I had no choice.”

“Zara, Zara, Zara. That’s not what I asked, now is it?” The humming sound went up a notch.

“But you, you know I can’t control what orders I get. I was bound by more than law to obey, whether I wanted to or not.”

“I suppose that begs the question as to how you were able to obey only half of what the Order commanded you to do.” She flipped her long hair over her shoulder, talking to herself. “And why you’d go rogue to do it.”

“It . . . it was for you. I knew what he was to you, and I couldn’t go through with it. I already spared you the fate of those who serve the Order. This time I spared you the fate of losing him completely.”

“So he is safe?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Not far.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“What?” Zara looked up in confusion.

“You think you’re some kind of martyr; Brave young Zara sacrificing herself to save her poor little sister. You know as well as I do that no one in our family has ever remained friends. The Order has seen to that.” She twisted a stray lock, a smirk on her face. “Now that I know he’s hidden nearby, it won’t be hard to find him and finish what you wouldn’t. Besides,” she pulled out a pendant from her shirt. “I may not have been as spared as you think.” The symbol of the Order danced in the sun. “You know I can’t control what orders I get.” Zara’s eyes widened. “I have no choice.”

30 Days, 30 Stories: "The Wizard's Present"

The Wizard’s Present

by Cathy Witbeck

2010 copyright. Author retains all rights to the story; please do not use story without author's permission.

Popidella is the daughter of the great wizard Gulducat. On her birthday he showers her at breakfast with tiny griddle cake butterflies that land in little fountains of flavored syrup. He gives her ribbons that can braid her hair, picture books with pictures that talk back, and her favorite, a needle that never misses a stitch or messes up her thread when she works on her embroidery. In two days it is Gulducats birthday. Popidella loves her father. What can she possibly give him?

Perhaps if I watch him I’ll find out what he needs, Popidella ponders.

“Gulducat” the king hollers.

“Coming, sire.” he answers, pulling his crooked hat on his head. Popidella sneaks behind him.

“Gulducat, I seem to have twisted my ankle. Hurts like the devil. Now how am I going to survey the kingdom from the balcony if I can’t move around?”

“Your Majesty, I have just the thing for you.” POOF! And just like that, a snazzy looking chair appears. It is be-ribboned, be-jeweled and be-decked as fits royalty, with cup holders aplenty.

“Splendid,” cries the king, as he slides onto the satiny seat.

“Now don’t be alarmed,” Gulducat warns, as he tips the chair from behind and easily scoots the king down the hall to the balcony.

“By George, man, how is it done?” the king cries.

“Tis a Scoot-a-Thrown 2000, sire.” Guldecat explains.

Popidella, had never seen the king so happy.

A hen flies out the kitchen door; feathers exploding everywhere like dandelion seeds in a wind storm. An awful squawking fills the air, and that is just the cook.

“Merciful heavens, the well is dry! How will I simmer, steam and stew?” she cries.

“There, there, my dear,” the wizard says, as he leads her to a chair and pats her shoulder. “The well is dry, but your eyes keep leaking. You might solve our problem for us.”

Popidella can’t believe it when her father leads the cook to the well and says, “This is the one who prepares our meals, with love and tears this well she heals.”

As the cook’s tears drip down her chin and fall into the well, a sudden whooshing noise rises up. The wizard and the cook have to step back as water sloshes over the edge.

“Oh, thank ye,” says the cook, wiping her tears with her apron. “There’ll be extra raisins in your rice pudding tonight, sir wizard.”

Sir Jeremy sits outside the stables, drawing patterns in the dirt with a stick.

“And how is the Captain of the Guard, this fine day?” Guldecat asks.

Popidella jumps in her hiding place behind the barn, when Sir Jeremy jumps up and howls,”I am sick with grief, sir.”

Guldecat frowns and asks, “What has brought you such pain?”

Sir Jeremy plops back down in the dirt, his head in his hands and moans, “I love one who loves me not.”

“When you brought her flowers did she throw them down?” the wizard asks.

“I never brought her flowers,” says Jeremy, looking annoyed.

“When you asked her to dance, did she kick you in the knee?”

“I have never even been to a dance,” Sir Jeremy scoffs.

“When you told her of her beauty, did she slap you in the face?”

Looking sheepish, Sir Jeremy admits,” We have never even spoken.”

“Great Scott, Jeremy, how is it that you know this woman detests you when you have never uttered a word?”

“But Gulducat, she never even looks at me,” Sir Jeremy says, hanging his head.

“Did you ever stop to think that perhaps you should take off that huge metal helmet?” the Wizard wiggles his eyebrows knowingly. “The eyes are the windows to the soul you know. Perhaps she really hasn’t seen you.”

Sir Jeremy’s stands up, his shoulder’s no longer slumped. “Perhaps there is hope,” he says.

“Of course,” agrees the wizard. “But you’ll have to change that outfit.”

Poof! Sir Jeremy stands there dressed in a fine outfit as befits a knight about to meet his lady love.

“Oh thank you, Gulducat,” Sir Jeremy says.

Poof! And Sir Jeremy holds a long stemmed rose. “I go to meet my sweet heart,” he says, his eyes shine with determination. And off he strides through the barnyard.

In her hiding place, Popidella giggles. My father the matchmaker. He has spent his day making life easier for others. How can I make life easier for him? Then it comes to her.

The next morning, when Gulducat gets up, the smell of freshly made griddle cakes meets his nose. Popidella flits into the room wearing a butterfly gown and carrying a plate. “Griddle cakes delivered by a

butterfly,” Popidella announces as she places the tray on her father’s lap and kisses his cheek.

“Wonderful,” Gulducat says, and eats every bite.

Then Popidella pulls her father’s hat from her back. “Happy Birthday, father,” she says, kissing his cheek.

“Why Popella, you’ve fixed my crooked hat.”

“You probably could have fixed it with magic, but you are so busy doing things for other people, I decided to fix it for you.”

Wiping a tear from his eye, Gulducat pulls Popidella into his arms. “The hat is a wonderful present sweet girl, but you are the best present of all.”

30 Days, 30 Stories: "Death Smells Like Vanilla"

Death Smells Like Vanilla

By

Brooke Wilson

2010 copyright. Author retains all rights to the story; please do not use this story without author's permission. Based on author’s personal experience.

-------------------

Death smells like vanilla.

At first, when Death came unexpectedly into our lives, he looked like crowded hospital rooms, brain tumor growth charts, flowers that filled the counter, and shadows growing under tired eyes. He sounded like groaning, home-delivered hospice beds that move up and down with a remote. But most of all, he smelled like the vanilla air freshener, meant for cars, we attached to the fan.

Death didn’t leave, although he did benevolently bestow his time. He stood patiently in the corner for seven and a half weeks while our hearts shattered again and again. But everybody must surrender to Death eventually, and when it was time, he stepped from the corner gently but firmly to claim what was his.

When Death advanced from the corner, tendrils of vanilla wove through the room. He sounded like emptiness. He looked like white roses on dark mahogany. He felt like frozen high heels sinking into a snow-covered graveyard. But most of all, Death smelled like vanilla.

That was 116 days ago. I know; I’m counting. The vanilla smell still clings to that empty room. I avoid it even though it has the best reading chair in the whole house. I’m afraid that if I look, I will see Death’s austere figure waiting patiently in the corner again.

That was in the bleakest part of winter. Now, flowers and trees dare to defy Death as they burst into bloom. The sun and the birds both come back from their vacations in the south. Time passes and heals me in its inexplicable way.

Today, I make cookies. I stop completely as the smell of vanilla takes me away. But it’s not the smell of Death’s cheap car-freshener vanilla. It’s the smell of real, rich, warm vanilla that transports me to better times. It swirls me through memories of former days; a poignant montage of Band-aids and kisses on a skinned knee, warm cookies on a rainy day, and enveloping hugs that make everything okay. It’s the first time vanilla enfolds me with happiness, not sadness.

Death smells like vanilla. But maybe, just maybe, hope smells like vanilla too.

30 Days, 30 Stories: "Adam's First Day"

Adam’s First Day

By

Timothy J. Bronley

2010 copyright. Author retains all rights to the story; please do not use this story without author's permission.

Adam hated walking onto the elementary school’s campus. It was his sixth school in six years. He missed his old home in Tampa where he spent kindergarten and had made the most friends. But, just as Adam finished kindergarten, his dad got a new job that required them to move to Orlando. At first it was ok. Once a month, Adam’s mom would take him to Tampa to see his old friends. For his birthday, Adam was given a new Wii with a few games. He was excited to get a new bike for Christmas that year along with almost every toy he wanted. But just when his mom and dad were looking at buying a house, Adam’s dad was transferred to Boston.

Adam didn’t mind the move at first. It was pretty cool. He made new friends fairly quickly. He didn’t worry too much about anything. Boston had become a new home for him. And he had a lot of fun there. But at the end of that school year, Adam’s dad was transferred again. This time, they had to move to the Denver area.

Maybe the kids there really didn’t like him. Or maybe Adam was just too sad with all the moving around. Either way, Adam discovered after a few weeks at this new school that he had no friends. His teacher barely acknowledged him. He sat in the back corner and just made his way through school. Yeah, he did all his homework, because his mom made him. Adam didn’t like it at school and did whatever he could to not go. His mom made him go anyway.

Fourth grade saw the same pattern. Adam’s dad got transferred. This time, they went to Houston. It wasn’t too bad, he guessed. But he still didn’t have any friends there after a few months. Adam’s mom and teacher had him go see a counselor. He didn’t like going and didn’t talk to her very much. Adam still did ok in class, he just didn’t like it there. Again, he sat in the back corner of the class, where he felt ignored. The other kids didn’t really like him, he thought.

So when fifth grade had come around, and Adam’s dad took them somewhere near Los Angeles, Adam wasn’t surprised. He just wanted to be home schooled. His mom didn’t want to do that. She told him that he needed to be around other kids. And that’s what led him to his first day at this sixth school.

His mom walked him into the administration building. There was a friendly secretary at the reception desk who led his mom into the principal’s office while he sat in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs in the waiting room.

“You’ll like Loma Vista,” the secretary said. “It’s a very good school.”

Adam gave a wordless nod.

The secretary opened a drawer and pulled out something. She brought it with her around the big desk and bent down to be eyelevel with Adam. “Take one.”

Adam looked at the small glass bowl that she was holding. It was filled with various candy bars. A couple of them were his favorites. He reached in and pulled one out. He said thanks, but still didn’t smile.

Soon, Adam’s mom and the principal came out of the office. The principal invited Adam in with his mom. Like all the other principal offices Adam had visited, there were a few diplomas behind the principal’s desk along with a picture of his family. But that was where the similarities ended.

There were completed puzzles of underwater drawings framed and hung on one wall. There were framed puzzles of fantasy people on the other. The chairs were colorful, not business like at all. Nothing at this school was as Adam had expected so far. But his amazement ended as he was told it was time to go to his new classroom.

“Adam, you’re going to have Ms. Roby as a teacher. She’s one of the best here. And you’ll be in classroom ten. I’ll take you there.”

After saying goodbye to his mom, Adam was led to his new classroom. Like most of the classrooms that he had been in, it was colorful and full of decorations from its current students. But as Adam was being introduced to his new teacher, he looked around and found an empty seat in the middle of the room.

“Now, you’ll have that middle seat there,” Ms. Roby said. “Kyle was nice enough to move to the back for you.”

Adam looked and saw a kid waving at him, who was still putting things in his desk.

Still thinking that this was going to be a repeat of the last few years of school, Adam stayed quiet during the first hour he was there. When the recess bell rang, Adam got up and slowly followed all the students out of the classroom. Another boy from his class, David, asked Adam if he wanted to play basketball with some of the other boys.

“I suck at basketball,” Adam warned. “You don’t want me on your team.”

David laughed. “We all suck at basketball. The sixth graders are the good ones. But still, no one cares if you’re good or not.”

Recess was actually fun for the first time that Adam could remember. He didn’t play really well. But no one seemed to mind. One kid even promised to show Adam how to dribble better during the lunch recess.

And that’s not where his friendships ended. Adam went to school every day that year without any problem. He was invited to parties. He was given valentine’s presents. People were actually asking him when he was going to have a birthday party. The entire year was fun.

But as the end of the school year neared, Adam was sure he’d hear that his dad was going to be transferred to another city. So when that news came, Adam was sad that day at school. When Kyle and David asked what was wrong, Adam told them.

Because of the friendships that Adam had made, his dad was offered a job at the same company that Kyle’s dad worked at. Adam’s dad switched jobs. Adam and his family didn’t have to move. And finally, Adam got to spend a second year at the same school. Even though he was upset and annoyed at all the moving his family had done, he was no longer scared of switching schools. He knew that he had finally found a place that he could call home. And if it wasn’t for all the moving around that Adam’s dad had done, none of this would have happened. Sometimes, things just have a way of working out, especially when you least expect it.

30 Days, 30 Stories: "The Unexpected Hero"

The Unexpected Hero

by Elise Rasband

2010 copyright; author retains all rights to story. Please do not use story without author's permission.

I looked at my watch: 9:35. I filled in the last bubble on the answer sheet, reviewed my answers and walked to the front of class.

“All finished?” my professor asked.

“Yup.”

He paused for a second, looking at my answer sheet.

“Alright, you may go.”

“Bye!”

The rest of the students were hovered over their papers, scratching against their life-sucking desks as they frantically tried to finish their essays on time. I was glad I had actually prepared for class so I wasn’t one of them. I tossed my stuff in my bag and tried to silently zip it up. It didn’t really work. Zippers are intolerably noisy. A few students looked up from their tests at the noise. A couple of others stood up, probably just finishing with their exams as well.

I slipped out the door and started walking towards the elevator. I had been taking night classes to get ahead for when I graduate. Don’t ask me why. I’d like to say I’m an over achiever, but really, I’m not. I just want to get done faster. I don’t want to spend half my life in school.

“Wait up!” a raspy voice said from behind me.

I turned to see who it was.

Ugh. Rick. He was probably some poor fool who only had his GED because he finished it up at some “alternate” form of education. I didn’t want to wait for him, but I had been raised to be “charitable.” I leaned against the wall as he strutted the remaining distance. His baggy pants slid across the floor. I couldn’t even tell if he was wearing shoes. I was glad that his shirt was equally baggy, because I’m pretty sure I could’ve seen his underwear if it wasn’t. If he was wearing underwear. Eew. The thought made me throw up in my mouth.

“Can I get a ride home?”

A complete stranger. In my car. A college age guy, none the less who smelt like a mixture of car exhaust and sweaty socks. Huge red flags went off in my head. Dangit. Why couldn’t I say no?! I’ll blame my mother for that. She applied the guilt trip like a pro.

“Sure,” I replied under my breath. Maybe if he realized how inconvenient it was for me, he would change his mind.

“Great! Thanks so much!”

He probably wasn’t smart enough to graduate from high school, why on earth would he be smart enough to read between the lines?

“Yup, don’t mention it.”

Seriously, I hoped he wouldn’t mention it. If my parents found out I gave this guy a ride home… they’d never let me leave the house again. “You’re going to get yourself killed,” they’d say.

“So, it’s Kacey right?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah.”

“That’s a unique…”

“Girl’s name? I know. It’s short for Cassandra.”

I had heard that too many times.

“So why not Cassie?”

“It’s not me.”

“Cool. I like that.”

When we got to the car I unlocked my door and slid in.

He walked to the other side. Just standing there.

“The door’s unlocked,” I said.

He pulled the handle. Apparently it wasn’t. My car had a tendency to automatically lock as soon as the door was shut. It was a glitch in the 20 year old system.

I tried unlocking the door with the automatic lock on my left. Of course, it didn’t work. This was more awkward than it had to be. I leaned over his seat, the seat belt strangling me in the process and manually unlocked his door.

“Thanks,” he said as he slid into the passenger’s seat.

“Yup, so where do you live?” I asked as we pulled out of the parking space.

“I live on 830 W 1000 S.”

That was completely out of my way. And it was in the ghetto part of town. It seemed like the news was always telling a story about some girl getting raped or guy getting killed in that part of town.

“Oh, ok.” I really was going to get myself killed. I looked at Rick, then back at the road. He seemed relaxed. He probably wasn’t a killer. I hoped. I took another look. He was slouched in his chair-- no seat belt.

“Can you put your belt on?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” He said as he pulled his seat belt down, sitting up a little. “Sorry if I’m taking you out of your way.”

There we go; now that he’s in the car he seems somewhat thoughtful. Typical.

“You’re fine.”

“So… why are you going to college? You’re still in high school, right?”

“Yeah, I’m graduating this year. I don’t know… I guess I just want to get ahead, have better chances for getting into my choice of school.”

“Cool. Where do you want to go to school?”

“Anywhere but here. I can’t wait to leave this town.”

“You sound like me. I mean, Winterton’s a great town an’ everythin’ but, I don’t know, it’s kind of suffocating.”

“Yup.”

His breath wafted over to my side of the car. It smelt like a rotting cigarette. My stomach turned. I casually rolled down the window. It was mid fall, so it was a bit too cold for it, but I knew I couldn’t last the smell.

“You hot?”

“Mmhmm,” I lied. I hated lying.

He laughed. He probably saw right through me.

“What?” I asked.

“Ah, nothing. It’s just that I asked you if you were hot and well, you are pretty dang hot.”

I felt the blood rushing to my ears. Was I supposed to say thank you?

He must’ve noticed my awkwardness. “Sorry, I tend to just say what I think,” he said.

I looked at him. He was smiling. His dark shaggy hair hung over his right eye. He had a good smile. Weird. It was weird that I thought any part of him was even the least attractive. I felt squeamish inside. The sooner I got to the southwest part of town, the better.

“I don’t,” I said, “I wish I could, but I never say what I think.”

“I can teach ya, it’s pretty easy. Just open your mouth.”

“Uh, yeah, I definitely can’t do that,” I said.

“Do you know what you want to do?”

“Hmm?” What did he mean? What did I want to do?

“With college, for your career, you know, is there something you’re aiming for?”

“I don’t know. I like writing and drawing.”

“Sweet. Have you ever oil painted?”

“Nope. Never have.”

“That’s what I do. I’m an oil painter. If you ever want to try it out, you can come by and use my

materials.”

That sounded really cool, but I didn’t want an excuse to spend more time with Rick than I had to.

“Nah, that’s okay, I’ll just stick with the pen and pencil.”

“Alrighty, suit yourself, but if you change your mind you can give me a call.”

We pulled up in his driveway. He opened the door to get out, but turned and handed me a piece of paper.

“It’s my number, just in case.”

“Eew,” I thought.

“Hey, thanks so much for the ride, I really appreciate it.”

“Yup, see you in school.”

I backed out of his driveway, and began shifting into first. The car lurched, jerking my head forward, slamming against the steering wheel. Stupid car. My dad thought giving me a junker in high school would save us from issues if I bumped into something with it. The car was an issue, all by itself. I turned the key to restart the car.

Whir thup thup thup. Again. Whir clank thup thup clank clank clank.

I cringed. I reached in the back to grab my phone. I couldn’t quite reach it. I jumped out of the car, becoming aware of where my car had so conveniently decided to quit on me. I shut the front door quickly. I didn’t want anyone sneaking in there while I was messing around in the back.

The street lamp was dark. It probably had been out for months.

A shiver ran down my back. I reached for the handle, keeping my eyes on my surroundings. I saw something move in the bush by Rick’s house. I moved my hand around the door more quickly until I felt the handle. I pulled, the door was locked. My stomach fell to the ground. I had locked the keys in the door. Dang automatic lock. I looked at my bag just inches away but no way to get to it. I heard another snap. I whipped around. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew I had heard something. I stared at Rick’s front door where he had gone in. I thought about knocking on his door, but I wasn’t sure I felt comfortable asking Rick for help.

I kept my back pushed against my car as I continued to scan the dark street with my eyes. It was eerily silent.

I started walking towards the door. Rick might’ve been my only hope. With every step I took I felt like I was walking towards death.

Rustle thump snap

My head instinctively darted to the right. I could’ve sworn the noise came from that bush.

I stood frozen. My heart thumping against my chest, my stomach screaming because my voice couldn’t. I was going to die. They were going to rape me and then kill me

I forced my left foot forward. The things that were once second nature now took all of my focus and energy. My right foot. Left.

CRACK!

A large man jumped from behind the bush. Everything after that seemed to go in slow motion. He ran towards me, but there was nothing I could do. My feet were firmly planted on the ground. My body was petrified; I was sure I wasn’t even breathing. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t move at all. I was transfixed on death running towards me.

The man grabbed my wrist and tried to force me to the ground. The movement allowed my frozen body to gain mobility. Along with that mobility was the surge of the demon. An adrenaline rush I never wanted to feel again. My right leg kicked up instinctively, kicking him in the groin. He groaned, but didn’t stop. My lungs filled with air followed by a piercing scream. It was long and firm. His free arm clamped over my mouth. I bit him. My jaws felt firm and steady. His knee came down on my stomach, forcing me to the ground. My arm was scraped and bleeding from my attempt to break my fall, but superhuman strength flowed through it as I swung to meet his jaw. He grunted again. I kicked him in the groin again. This time his knees buckled and he was on all fours, trying to gain his breathing. I took this as a chance to knee him in the stomach. It was awkward, but enough to have him back off a little. I pushed against the ground to stand up, his left arm swung forward and knocked my jaw. I fell to the ground. The world around me was spinning out of focus.

The last thing I heard was Rick screaming in the background, “Get the hell out of here!” His arm swinging over my head and nailing the attacker right on his nose.

*

The whole room seemed to be rocking back and forth. My head was piercing, my hands stung, my fist was aching. The light stung my opened eyes. I opened my eyes.

A light was right above my head, blinding all else from focus. A dark figure stood above me. Adrenaline surged my body again. My right arm swung up involuntarily and slapped the figure above me.

“Ow!” A raspy voice said.

Another figure hovered over me. “Hold her down,” the strange deep voice said.

A large calloused hand grabbed my wrist. I started squirming. Something was holding me down. I couldn’t move. I tried to kick my leg up, but I couldn’t. I started screaming again. Another hand held my other arm down. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t sit. My face felt like fire. I was sore all over- even my skin ached.

“Kacey? Kacey? Are you okay? The raspy voice asked.

It was a raspy voice. His face came into focus.

“Rick?” I couldn’t disguise my shock and confusion.

The room began to gain focus. Rick stood above me, calmly holding my arms down. A nurse stood next to him. There was blood on both of their shirts. I knew it was mine. I had the urge to start screaming and run, but I couldn’t.

Rick rubbed his jaw. There was a red hand print across his cheek.

“You really nailed me,” he said, laughing, “is that what I get for saving your life?”

“You got pretty badly beat up right in front of my house. It’s a good thing you screamed, or who knows what would’ve happened.” He sounded hurt, worried, maybe even scared.

“Thanks,” I replied simply. There really was no other thing to say to someone who just saved me from death. Really, nothing at all.

30 Days, 30 Stories Project: "Cats"

Cats

by Taffy Lovell

Copyright 2010. Author retains all rights to this story; please do not use this story without author's permission.

Not again, I think as I turn over. No way am I going out. I close my eyes.

Nudge. My brother wants me to go.

Fine.

I jump down nimbly from my warm, cozy, soft bed—I shouldn’t think about that now. I take a sniff at the food as I pass it but I’m not hungry. I slurp some water to refresh myself .

My brother is oldest and thinks he’s the boss of me. He wants me to scout the perimeter near the fence while he naps.

Yawn.

Nothing exciting happens in our territory and my brother insists we keep it that way.

Boring .

There are have been vermin run through our area.

Runners and flyers, we call them.

Runners are usually one size and color; small and brown. I get rid of them.

We rarely get flyers. They’re all different shapes, sizes and colors and they’re harder to catch.

But my brother and I have no problem chasing them down and dispatching with them quickly.

But right now, the morning is too bright. I stretch. It feels good all they way from my head to my toes. I find a spot in the shade and sit on my hunches, trying to see the perimeter through half-slatted eyes.

I sit quietly, perking my ears up like I was taught. Like generations before me were taught, we soldiers of the great wild. I look at the trees, bushes, and weeds that litter the familiar landscape. The wind picks up slightly and I can hear the leaves brushing against each other.

Then I hear it.

A runner.

It doesn’t sound big. Probably not worth my time, but my body tenses anyway. The runner’s scurrying to my left, just beyond the fence, looking for a place to come through.

I hunch closer to the ground and wait.

I see the runner poke its head through the fence first, and then twist until its shoulders come through followed by the rest of his body; small and brown. I have to quiet my breathing.

The runner takes his time looking around, eyeing what he thinks will be his new home.

I slowly move. He hasn’t sensed me yet; he’s too busy finding some garbage food to eat.

My feet itch to run and I decide this is the perfect opportunity to catch the fiend. My vision sharpens and my limbs tense, ready to attack. Just as I launch myself into the air, The Girl comes through the back.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

I land on all fours and look around. The runner scares and scurries away which is fine with me.

Now I become the runner as I race to see what The Girl brought me for lunch.

Meow.

30 Days, 30 Stories: "Thump and Thud find an Egg"

Thump and Thud find an Egg

by Sarah E. Southerland

2010 copyright; author retains all rights to the story. Please do not use the story without the author's permission

Because Thump and Thud were too big to fly like their sister, they decided to keep living in the nest with their parents. When Mama and Daddy bird couldn't fit in the nest with them, they built another nest on the branch above.

Every morning Thump and Thud jumped off the edge of their nest and dropped down, down, down until they landed on the ground with a thump and a thud. They shook themselves off and went hunting for food.

One morning, Thump found an egg. It was an odd egg-- not white, not blue, but a strange shiny pink color.

"Look, Thud," he said. "I found an egg!"

"What a weird egg." Thud looked carefully at it. "Look! It's got a crack around the middle."

"What should we do with it?"

"Let's take it back to the nest so it won't hatch on the ground."

Together, Thump and Thud pushed the egg up the tree to their nest. Thump took the first turn sitting on the egg. Then Thud took a turn. All day long they sat on the egg, but nothing happened.

"Maybe tomorrow," said Thump.

But nothing happened the next day either.

"Maybe it's not warm enough," said Thud. "Help me sit on it."

Thump climbed up next to Thud. Immediately, the egg creaked and cracked and then split in half.

"Whoa!" Thud and Thump said as they jumped off.

Inside the egg was a red and green striped worm.

"I didn't know worms laid pink eggs," said Thud.

"Me neither," agreed Thump.

"Wonder what it tastes like?" asked Thud.

Thump slowly reached down and tried to take a bite, but nothing came off in his beak. He tried again. Still nothing.

"Let me help," said Thud. They bit and scratched until the worm was completely gone.

"That was a weird worm," said Thump.

"But tasty," added Thud.

They looked at the egg then at each other.

"Let's got find another one," said Thump.

"Alright!" said Thud.

(This is a story I wrote for the picture book marathon in February.)

30 Days, 30 Stories: "Blink With Me"

That which in the lightning flashes
forth, makes one blink, and say 'Ah!'
--That 'Ah!' refers to divinity.

Kena Upanishad

Lightning in my eye, thunder in my ear
rain on my face and shoulder, cold in
my breath, the moon shining through
a cloudy shroud

Asp on the ground, leap of grasshoppers
hawk in flight, squirrels in
trees, fallen leaf resting near
my feet

Height of a redwood, crash of a wave
rumble of an earthquake, the number of
stars, rocks rolling at the head
of a landslide

Ancient walls, cathedral towers
stained glass windows, the speed of
a fastball, a mile run in less than
four minutes

Swollen belly, stare of a baby
dance of a child, the struggle for
life, nodding of age,
and you.

Ah!

--Scott Rhoades

30 Days, 30 Stories: "Through a Series of Unfortunate Events"

(I did post this last year, but I've only had ONE person-- a 9 year old boy-- find them all and I want to see if someone can find them this year. So please forgive the repeat.)

In my story there are 45 book titles. Can you find them all?

----------------------------------------------------------

Through a Series of Unfortunate Events

by Sarah Southerland

Through a series of unfortunate events, I, all by myself, instead of just shopping with mom, had to walk into town at twilight to buy a few of the caps for sale and maybe some green eggs and ham. Because of Winn Dixie being so far away from the house, I had to walk for awhile. My mom told me not to walk like the poky little puppy, and I was so mad! I stormed down my sidewalk by where the red fern grows and headed onto the street, eating my cookies.

I paused to look at the giving tree in the neighbor’s yard. On one of the leaves was the very hungry caterpillar I had seen on my way home from school; it was still eating.

First on the street was dear Mr. Henshaw, standing where the sidewalk ends outside the graveyard, book in hand.

“Hello, Shane,” he said. “Are you my mother?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m not. Go ask Alice.” I started walking faster.

“Be careful,” he yelled at me, “the weatherman says tonight will be cloudy with a chance of meatballs!”

My eyes rolled as a fly went by. I crossed over the tracks of the Polar Express and by the bridge to Terabithia and into town. The first building was the home of the mysterious Benedict society and was right in front of the empty field where the wild things are. Because Frog and Toad are friends, they normally sit on the steps of the building together and ask people “where’s Waldo?” The second store was Charlotte’s web design and then a café where the outsiders, like Percy Jackson and the Olympians, ate dinner. I stopped to watch the wheels on the bus going by and crossed the street to the store. As I crossed, I watched the runaway bunny hide under a barrel. Then I moved around a small mouse who was holding up his empty paw toward my almost gone cookie. No way would I share because everyone knows what happens when you give a mouse a cookie!

At the store I walked past the display with the rainbow fish, an “I am the cheese” poster, some freckle juice bottles, and by the mitten set I got for Arthur’s birthday as I picked up the things I needed to buy.

The cashier looked curious; George was the giver of change and unwanted shopping advice. “We have an excellent selection of fish today,” he told me, “one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. We have it all.”

I politely said no, paid for my food, and started to hurry home because it was getting dark! Everyone my age knows the celery stalks at midnight and because of a new moon, tonight would be dark. So as much as I wanted to number the stars, I said “goodnight moon” and hurried inside, well before the breaking dawn.

Copyright 2010; author retains all rights to the story; please do not use the story without author's permission

Oh, I see!

We've had a few complaints about the font color over the past year and finally got around to making it more "black and white." ;o) Plus, it helps that there was a cute new background we could use.

Hope you like it.

30 Days, 30 Stories Project

This whole blog started as a way to showcase the work of those participating in our first "30 Days, 30 Stories" project. It's almost April again and we're collecting names for people who want to join us.

Every author who joins is assigned a day to post a story or poem (500 or so words) to the blog. Any age, any genre-- preferably for kids/teens. Each day is a different work of art.

Want to join? Leave a comment below and I'll add you to the list. Assigned days and more info will be going out at the beginning of next week.

Which Kind of Writer Are You?

by Scott Rhoades

We all write for our own reasons, but I think those reasons can be grouped into a few categories. Chances are, we all fit in most of the categories to some extent, but we probably favor one over the others.

Here are my proposed groupings, all greatly generalized.

1. The Word Lover

I put this one first because it's probably where I fit best. I've loved words since I was small. I love the rhythm of words, and how the sound and look. Often, when people talk to me, I watch their words float toward me. Sometimes I pick one of those words and picture it in my head and turn them around and flip them over and examine them from all directions. It can make it hard to follow a conversation.

For fun, I pick a word and research its history and look for unexpected related words. I got two new books today to help me with this game. I still have the spelling list I made in third or fourth grade when we were allowed to make our own list. It's all long words, most having to do with dinosaurs, all words that look and sound really fun. The teacher commented that she'd never seen a list like it.

I've never found a toy I like better than words. I can build all kinds of stuff with them. Like stories. As early as five or six years old, I used to trace pictures of stories from books and make up new stories around them. I don't remember exactly how my love of writing started, but it's a good bet that it came from reading, which I started doing at an early age because I liked to find the patterns and sounds of words that I saw on signs and in early reader books.

I suspect that other word-lover-writers have a similar history. I've talked to a few who do. Word lovers often have to work harder at novels (although they enjoy that work and what it teaches them about language and words), but they enjoy the rhythms and sounds of poetry, songs, and other forms.

2. The Yarn Spinner

Some people are natural storytellers. They love telling stories and watching how people react. These people can invent a plot and make it entertaining with very little efforts. Sometimes, but certainly not always, these writers might not have the greatest mechanics, but they make up for it by telling a great yarn. These writers probably have an advantage in our modern entertainment-driven world, because their stories are just plain fun. They're page-turners. They're a fun ride.

3. The Maker of Imaginary Friends

Many writers have a bunch of people living in their heads. These writers like to let their imaginary friends out and watch them romp, so they make up situations and watch how their buddies react. The stories are entertaining, but the real strength is the detailed cast of characters who jump off the page, as real as the person sitting next you. They make us care about these people like we care about our neighbors. Maybe they are our friends. Or maybe we like to watch their lives fall apart so we can gossip about them.

4. The Treasure Hunter

The treasure hunter sees how much money some writers are making and wants a piece of the pie. They probably got decent grades in writing classes and figure this is an easier way to make a fortune than the lottery. Many writers find this kind of writer easy to criticize, but the fact is, writing is a business, and these writers take it seriously. They're not trying to write junk. They're trying to give the people what they want, as many people as possible. It might be harder for these people to actually meet their goals, and they're probably the most likely to give up before they finish when they discover that writing is a lot of work. But those who stick with it often create entertaining, successful stories that draw readers to them. There's really nothing wrong with taking this approach, and these writers still have to learn the writing ropes. They might not have the same romantic notions about what it means to be an author that the rest of us have, but that doesn't invalidate their work. I just wish them luck. They're in for a surprise.

5. The Literati

We've all known these writers, and most of us have been annoyed by some of them. These are the writers who want to contribute to the immortal realms of Literature. They are Artists, nay, Artistes. The worst of them are above the rules, better than the grammarians, superior to, well, just about everybody. These people will not accept rejection, criticism, or failure. Which is too bad for them, because they're almost certainly destined to fail. However, this class also includes the people who are genuine artists, whose love affair with writing leads them to push the limits of the art, to take writing to places where it's never been. The best recognize that telling an entertaining story is part of the art, but they are not limited by the set conventions of storytelling. As a double major who spent (and still spends) a lot of time with both English and German lit, I love these writers (the good ones) and admire them greatly. And I sometimes have serious issues with the bad ones.

How about you? Where do you fit? Are there other groupings that I missed? This isn;t just a lightweight question. If you understand the kind of writer you are, you'll know your strengths and develop them. You'll also look at the other groups and learn from them.

Because, the truth is, the really great writers fit in all five categories.

How Trying to Get Published is Like Being On American Idol

1. There are hundreds of thousands of contestants.
2. Everyone has to follow the rules set by the big producers.
3. Contestants are screened by a highly subjective process.
4. Judges give harsh criticism and little praise.
5. The winners win BIG.

So who's going to win the Idol of publishing this year? Go big or go home, I always say!

Dear Writing,

I know it's been awhile since I've spent any time with you. I'm sorry if this has hurt your feelings. I just felt like I needed some space. I mean, we spent SO much time together during the Picture Book marathon and all I ever focused on was you. I've needed some time to spend in the other areas of my life. I hope you've needed a break too. I believe this break has been good for our relationship.

I want you to know I'm not giving up on our relationship. I'll be back with you, I promise. Be patient with me for a little bit longer, and then I'll be ready to be with you again. Really. Hang in there. I haven't quit.

Talk to you soon.

Love,
Sarah

What Is Your Story About?

by Scott Rhoades

What do you say when somebody asks what your story is about? Chances are, if you're like most of us, you give a brief synopsis of the plot. But is that really what your story is about?

A story is about people. Chances are you mention your main character and maybe your antagonist when you tell people what your story is about, but you probably focus on what they do. It's OK, in a summary, you probably have to focus on events.

But as you write, you have to remember that the story is about the reactions of your characters to the events. There should be nothing in your story that is not about the people. The coolest event, the most vivid description, the funniest words--none of that matters if they have no effect on your characters.

Every scene is about your protagonist trying to accomplish a goal, and being foiled by the antagonist. The antagonist, on the other hand, isn't getting in the way just to be a moustache-twirling villain. The antagonist has his own goals that just happen to run counter to those of the protagonist. It's not that the bad guy is evil, necessarily. It's just that he either wants the same thing the protagonist wants only he wants it first, or he wants something that's the opposite of what the main character wants. In the antagonist's mind, it's the protagonist who's the villain. This creates conflict, and conflict makes story because conflict causes the characters to react.

And it's those reactions that the story is about. It's all about the characters.

This is why some of the common problems in fiction are problems. Let's look at a couple.

Weak Opening

If you start your story with the weather, even if it's the best description of weather ever written, so real and so vivid that the reader can feel the raindrops bouncing off the page and splashing on his own face, the opening might fail to hook the reader.

Why? You know what I'm going to say. The character is absent. Even if the character is watching the rain and reacting to it, the opening might fall flat--unless the rain puts the character in peril and the description is crafted thoroughly from that character's point of view in a way that makes us feel the character's reaction, preferably a reaction where we feel that there's real danger, an intriguing problem. Weather can affect a story, but only by affecting a character. Without the character's reaction, there's no story in the weather.

This is also why opening with dialogue often doesn't work. We don't know the people yet, so we don't know why we should care about whoever is saying something.

Same thing if you start with the character waking. There's no reason to care yet, and waking up is normally not very perilous or mysterious, so it doesn't hook the reader.

Point of View Filters

"Johnny felt upset. He saw Jane walk around the corner with Tommy."

There's a lot wrong with this. It tells us what Johnny is doing, but it doesn't show us. We all get tired of the show-don't-tell cliche. Sometimes you just want to get to the important stuff, so you summarize. Summary is always telling, and sometimes it's necessary.

But why is showing better than telling? When you tell, like I did in the example, you take away the characters. Yes, it's true that there are three characters mentioned in those two sentences, but the characters are still absent, because you're being told about them instead of watching them.

Anytime you run across a "filter" verb as you revise, look at it closely and make sure you're getting what you need out of it. A filter is a verb that pulls you out of the characters point of view. These are verbs that tell you what the character is doing rather than letting you experience them. They include words like saw, heard, imagined, and probably the worst of all, felt.

If you are firmly in the character's point of view--where you want to be if you want to engage the reader by letting her live vicariously through your character--these filter verbs pull the reader away and put unwanted distance between her and the character.

If you tell me that Johnny felt sad, I can't experience it. If you show Johnny being sad from within him, by showing the symptoms of sadness, we'll feel it more deeply and we'll care more.

Likewise, if you tell us what he saw, we don't see it. If we're firmly within Johnny's POV, then everything described in the story is seen through his eyes. "Jane walked around the corner with Tommy" means that Johnny saw it. Why add the extra layer, the filter, by telling us he saw it when everything you describe is already what he sees? By putting in the filter saw, you take Johnny out of the real action, and you set yourself up for a weak description of what he's seeing.

If your story is about the characters, then everything that happens in the story is really about your character's reaction to events. He might walk into a crowded room, but he's not going to see everything. He's only going to see the things that cause him to react as he tries to accomplish his goal for the scene. The scene is not about all the stuff that is happening in the crowded room. It's about the character's reaction to the things in that room that help him or hinder him in his quest to achieve the goal of the scene, and preferably the things that create conflict by keeping him from his goal.

One of the problems we run into is that our initial story idea is often about a situation, so we think the story is about that situation. We create characters to fit the situation we want to write about. But once the story begins, it's really about the characters and how they react to the situation. If you want to engage a reader, the story is about the people, not the situation the people find themselves in.

If you remember that as you write and revise, you'll make sure that every word applies to the character and his motivations and reactions. And then you'll have an interesting story.

Nathan Hale's take on the Publishing World

He mapped it out to make it simple for the rest of us! Great job, Nathan.

Check out his blog post:

http://spacestationnathan.blogspot.com/2010/02/land-of-doompicture-book-marathon-2828.html

And good job on writing 28 out of 26 days for the Picture Book Marathon.

Where do you get your ideas?

I've spent the last two hours at a city coucil meeting. Why? Because an incompetent mayor and city council ended up creating a fiasco in our city. So now my neighbors and I have decided we're not going to ever be uniformed about local politics again.

So what do you do when you're stuck doing your civic duty? Catch up on your email. Brainstorm ideas for the book you're writing. Anything to keep from falling asleep in a public place (that happens to me way too often--disturbing I know).

Where do you get your ideas? Some authors claim dreams as the source of their inspiration. Others life experiences.

Me, I get my ideas in those moments before I fall asleep. And sometimes in loooong city council meetings. Leave us a comment and let us know the source of your inspiration.

Tiffany Dominguez
Freelance Writer, YA Fiction

"Ten Rules for Writing Fiction" by various authors

I really enjoyed this article. Each author has a different take on writing, and some of them are hilarious! But all of them are insightful.

Part One:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/feb/20/ten-rules-for-writing-fiction-part-one

Part Two:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/feb/20/10-rules-for-writing-fiction-part-two