The Real Last Post of 2009

Dear Giddy Misanthropes,

I lied. Here's the last post, although it's not much of a post as it is a story.

In keeping with the season, here it is.

-Matt

"The Other Brother" By Matt Mok

Nick had locked the barn again. Chris could hear the animals shuffling on the other side of the wall. Locked! Thousand of miles of frozen white tundra and the man locks the barn, he thought.

But the sleigh wasn't locked up. It was there, before his eyes, a brilliant red emanating from the new paint job. They had supposedly given it a tune up for the festivities, whatever that meant. Chris didn't know what went on in the workshop. He'd been banished, forbidden entrance ever since the pudding in the assembly line fiasco. Ever since, it was "Chris, don't come in," "Chris, don't touch that," "Chris, go away!" Well tonight, he had plans and he wasn't going anywhere except in that sleigh.

He gave snowflake a pat. The horse bowed her head and dug at the cold ground with her front hoofs. An animal was an animal, Chris thought. Snowflake could pull this sleigh, no problem. He even gave her one those fruity names Nick liked. This plan was foolproof.

A tingle tickled his hand when he touched the sleigh. He shook it off and fastened the horse to the sleigh. See, that was easy, he thought.

From the driver's seat, Chris took a deep breath and exhaled, taking a moment to survey his surroundings. It was a clear night, perfect for a first run. He shared his sentiments with snowflake, who exuded plain indifference.

He felt the tingle again when he took hold of the reins. No, not a tingle. A jolt, like an aura of static electricity that enveloped him. He could almost detect a hum in the air.

"That damn Nick," Chris fumed, "keeping this from me." A man his reputation, a goddamn saint no less, he thought, not sharing something as great as this with his own blood. His family! If the world only knew.

He steeled himself for what was about to happen. He'd seen it many times before, but not from his vantage point. He arced his arms dramatically skyward, yelled, "Let's go, Snowflake!" and snapped the reins.

A strong gust of wind blew. A few flurries fell.

And...

Nothing.

Snowflake snorted and gazed backwards, having no intentions of moving. Chris steeled himself again, and mimicking Nick, yelled, "Now, Snowflake!"

Snowflake took two steps and stopped to examine the mysteries of a patch of bare earth.

"You stupid horse," Chris cried. "Move!"

Nothing.

He pointed at the barn. "You know what they say abut you? They say you're nothing but a loser, good for nothing but glue. They say you couldn't pull a Radio Flyer toy wagon if your life depended on it. Is it true? Because right now I'd have to agree--"

The sled rose. Two inches. It wasn't much, but Chris definitely saw a couple inches of clearance below the sleigh's runners. Snowflake, however, remained firmly planted on the ground. She blinked lazily at him.

"Go!" he said. "You're basically pulling air now. Come on!" He snapped the reins.

The sleigh rose again, but this time it didn't stop at two inches. A foot, five feet, twenty. Chris grew apprehensive. "Okay, you can stop now," he said, but the horse was dangling helplessly below the sleigh, powerless to do anything. "Stop!"

It did, hanging there against a backdrop of clear starry night, fifty feet in the air. Chris watched as a portly ageless man with a frosty beard approach, a small figure whose footprints left a trail back to the house. Nick waved up at him.

"Hey bro," Chris called out with a laugh through cupped hands. "Beautiful night, isn't it?"

Last Post...of 2009

Dear Kinky Water Buffaloes,

I greet you from my mound of wrapped presents.

So what's new? Well, I couldn't help myself and when I bought a few children's books as gifts for some youngsters, and couldn't help adding one that I wanted even though I have a long queue of them waiting to be read. I picked up Boneshaker by Cherie Priest. It's a zombie steampunk novel, which can only lead to bouts of awesomeness.

Watched two movies recently: Funny People and Avatar.

Both were good, although Avatar was excellent. Funny People features Adam Sandler in a dramedy role, with significant focus on the drama. This isn't the first time he's done drama. He had a very good turn in Reign on Me, which was very good but a little maudlin for me. Avatar is what it is. It's a blockbuster. The world realized by James Cameron is lush and beautiful and more than makes up for the average plot. If you go, go see it in 3D.

Some other books I read lately: Salem's Lot, Rage, The Long Walk.

They're all Stephen King books (I'm on a roll with them and reading somewhat chronologically), the latter two under the Bachman pseudonym. Salem's Lot, which is fairly slowly developed story about a vampire infestation, was easily the best out of those three. I've noticed his books have a lot in common, mainly tragedy. The writing is great, but at the end of the stories, I am always disappointed because no one has a happy ending. I'm not saying EVERYONE should live happily ever after, but maybe just one person...just one. The two Bachman books were only so-so. The writing is still there, but the stories don't draw you in as much. In Rage, the ending didn't make sense, and The Long Walk just doesn't have much plot to it. They both felt more like short stories than novels.

All in all, I've really enjoyed King's writing lately even though it's not generally what I like to read, which is anything with a dose of humor. What IS up my alley is another book I'm reading currently called An Abundance of Katherines by John Green. It's pretty funny so far. It features a new HS graduate who, while on a road trip with his best friend, ponders his breakups with his last 19 girlfriends, all of whom are named Katherine. He's a prodigy of sorts and tries to express his analysis in the form of a mathematical equation. Along the way, they meet some interesting people. Sounds like a good formula (*wink*) for success. I'm almost done with it, so maybe I'll talk more about it next time.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, and stay out of trouble (but not too much).

Matt

What's My Name?

Dear Gyrating Lemurs,

So, the holiday season is upon us. I think I've done (pretty much) all of my Christmas shopping. I even bought a few books as gifts for some kiddies. Go literacy!

There's been something I've been thinking about recently: pen names.

From what I can tell, there are a few reasons someone might use a pen name.

1. You've put out a couple novels, and though you love them, are immensely proud of them, the buying public has not shared your enthusiasm. You reinvent, re-brand, yourself with a new name and hit the market again.

2. You've been pigeonholed into a particular market/genre, but you have so many other ideas outside your published area. You write under a new name so your base won't get confused and pick up your new comic fantasy novel expecting a historical murder mystery.

3. You're hiding your gender. J.K. Rowling comes to mind. Of course, now everyone knows she's a woman, but in the beginning, someone thought that a female writer writing about magic and boy wizards was less appealing on the bookshelf.

4. You don't like your name. You've always wanted to be called Winter Gangleberry. Or maybe there's already well known person who shares your name. Maybe your name is Paris Hilton--not THE Paris Hilton--and you want people to take your writing career seriously.

So this is what I'm wondering: In this modern age with Facebook, websites, and more author reading events than you can shake a stick at, is there any room for anonymity? Because that's what a pen name is predicated on--that no one will find out who you really are until you want them to know.

Coupled with the fact that I've heard publicity is pretty much required nowadays to produce a marketable author, how many of the above reasons still apply or are even feasible?

I suppose one argument for it is that some people shop only at bookstores, with no outside information. They only look at the book on the shelf. And if the book only has your pen name, a generic bio, and a teaser of the story, that's all they will use for their purchase decision.

But then again, how many people still do that? Even if it is an inexpensive purchase, I tend to check into a book before I buy it. My shelf space is diminishing after all. I don't need to buy a book I won't like and have it take up room.

This all, however, really are just ruminations on a subject that will affect me very little until I get a book published. Very much the cart before the horse.

But it does make me wonder.

-Matt

What's Going On?

Dear Sentimental Ligers,

We had some snow, finally, here in New Hampshire. It took a couple minutes for me to switch my brain over to winter-driving mode. Luckily, the roads aren't too bad.

Anyway! What news do I have to report? Not much, really, but I felt I should post something. Anything to get away from the absolute painful chore of thinking of Christmas gifts. I need a personal shopper. I'll give you money. Make all the purchase choices for me, thank you very much.

So I finished my first real life writing workshop just recently. I've been in an online workshop for a while now, but it's the first time I've participated in one face-to-face with honest to goodness breathing people. So, what's the verdict? Was it worth the money?

I say, yes.

Did it make me a better writer? Possibly, marginally. That is not to say I can't use improvement. I surely do. But that only comes from continual reading and writing. Practice makes perfect, or at least moderately average. I think writing workshops--at least ones that last only a few sessions--help improve individual pieces of writing through the feedback process, but the only way it could improve a writer's overall writing is if they are just starting. In my opinion, it is during those early times when a lot of the improvement comes, and benefits a very great deal to supportive feedback.

All things being said though, I really enjoyed the workshop. Not only were there some great members that I looked forward to sharing my stories with every other week, but the structure of a writing class really forces you to, well, WRITE. To often, when I'm left to my own devices, I will undoubtedly put a DVD on or play a video game or futz around on the internet for several hours. While this is generally entertaining, it is horribly unhelpful for the writing process. I am a born procrastinator. Having a structured class forced me to write during every class and gave me the push I needed to fine tune stories at home in preparation for the next class. I look forward to the next class, schedule permitting.

I thought I'd take some time discussing some of the books I've read recently too. Two of the better ones: How to Break a Terrorist and Breathers: A Zombie's Lament. How to Break a Terrorist is a non-fiction book written by Matthew Alexander (a pseudonym), who is an Air Force interrogator who with the help of a whole interrogation team in Iraq, was able to find and take out Zarqawi. The pacing of this story is impeccably and thrilling. Alexander weaves in his philosophy of modern interrogation techniques (empathy, understanding local cultures, etc.) with the action is wonderful. I forgot at times that I was not reading a novel. Alexander champions these new techniques with conviction. He believes that a good interrogator needs to leave all feelings at the door. He/she needs to enter the room a blank slate, an actor that confirms to whatever the detainee needs him/her to be. The trick is to manipulate them into thinking that they are giving information for their own benefit, whether it is for a good word with the judges or just to assuage some sense of guilt. I highly recommend this book.

As for Breathers. What can I say? This book has everything I love in a novel: comedy (dark at most times) and zombies (inherently dark) in a tight package. It is billed as a zomromcom, zombie romantic comedy. It's a real fun time and tells the story of a recently zombified young man who has become accustomed to his new zombie existence. He lives in his parents' basement and goes to a Zombies Anonymous group to cope with his new undeadness. The only gripe I had was the tone in which is ended, which felt incongruent to the rest of the story, but it was a fun ride nonetheless.

I'm currently reading Little Green Men, which I have been looking forward to for a while. It's one of the few Christopher Buckley books I've yet to read. I'm only a third of the way through, but it doesn't feel up to par with his other work. We'll see how it goes!

What else? Hmm. I've been reading some of Kathy Reichs's Temperance Brennan novels because I like the show Bones, but surprisingly, the books are nothing like the show. The only thing they share is the name of the protagonist, although the nickname Bones is no where to be found in the books. Regarding the books, they aren't the most well written of their genre, but they are an interesting distraction. If you like authors like Patricia Cornwell or Tess Gerritsen, you should give Reichs a try.

This post is turning into a much longer one than I had anticipated (and probably fraught with typos, but I'm not going to proofread. It's the rebel in me). But a few more reading tidbits:

I've come to appreciate Stephen King. I find he's mischaracterized as a horror writer. His work tends to be supernatural or paranormal, but there are only hints of horror in most of his stories. Recently, I've read Carrie and The Dead Zone, which were both wonderful. They're very well written, with a depth of tragedy that I didn't expect. Check them out.

Also, check out Suzanne Collins young adult series, The Hunger Games. Only the first two books are out (third and final one next year), but they are great reads. Kids thrown in a last man standing death match? Killer idea, bad pun intended.

Next on the reading list:
Darling Jim
An Abundance of Katherines

On the DVD/TV front, there are too many shows/movies that I've watched to really get into it. Netflix is my video God. For the moment, I've completely caught up with The Big Bang Theory, which is laugh and a half. If you enjoy watching geeks bumble through attempts at social interaction, check it out. I watch it for tips.

Also funny, Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I enjoyed this movie because I'm not a big Monty Python fan (blasphemy to some, I know). I am still not a huge fan, but this movie left me in stitches many times, including one scene where King Arthur fights a black knight who steadfastly and stubbornly refuses to concede defeat even as his limbs are hacked off one by one (not as gruesome as you'd think). It does end rather strangely though, but definitely worth a watch.

Until next time,

Matt

Found Treasures

Dear Stupendous Zombies,

Another story for you all today. A boy in a museum store finds an extraordinary item.

Enjoy.

-Matt


"A Fool's Bargain" By Matt Mok

The glint of metal catches Sam's eye, even through the throng of bodies milling about shopping for museum souvenirs. The gift shop occupies the greater part of a level and it takes him several minutes to wend his way through the crowd, craning his neck to catch brief glimpses of the light.

There's a table. And a man. And in his calloused hands he holds what has drawn Sam from across the room.

The knife catches the light from the overhead fluorescent fixtures on its blade and temporarily blinds him. When he opens his eyes again, he sees that the man has taken notice. He tosses the knife side to side, his elbows resting on the table, then holds it up as if he has just realized that it's there.

"Do you like it?" he says.

The knife is so thin and sharp that Sam almost loses sight of the blade. The handle is worn with age and the steel looks discolored at closer inspection. But this is still more interesting than following the rest of the class on their field trip and he is glad he decided to wander off on his own.

"Do you work here?" he says.

"Of course," the man says, pointing to his name tag. "You know, this is a special knife."

"Why?"

"It belonged to an Egyptian pharaoh, thousands of years ago. It's magic."

Sam looks at the man, the skepticism most surely plain on his face. "What does it do?"

The man rubs his stubbled chin. "Well..."

"You don't know?"

"Wait! It has something to do with the way you use it, I know that much. Do you want it? It's a bargain at fifty dollars."

Sam has five dollars in his pocket, but he doubts it's even worth that much. "Show me," he says anyway because he is bored and has nothing else to do.

"Show you what?"

"How to use it."

"I think it's something like this," he says and loops his finger into the hole in the knife's handle. He proceeds to twirl it round and round and Sam, suddenly unsure if he should be standing so close, shrinks backward.

"A ha!" the man says excitedly. "I remember now." In mid-twirl, he flings the knife up into the air, so high that is seems it might hit the ceiling. It comes hurtling down, twisting and somersaulting, with a thud, the knife blade embedding two inches into the wooden table.

"Hmm. That should have worked," he says, scratching his head.

Then, a voice calls out.

"Sam! Where have you been?" Mrs. Hanson cries. She drags him away before he can explain himself. "When your mother hears about this..."

"But there's—" He twists his arm and looks back.

"But what?"

But he says nothing because the man with the knife and table is gone. In his place is a display of fossil keychains.

Weddings and Monkey Business

Dear Writerly Rhododendrons,

I have two stories for you today. One has been workshopped online and submitted to a few places with lukewarm responses, and I'm just not in the mood to send it out anymore. The other one, "Bananas," is more recent and also workshopped, but in an in-person workshop. I think it's missing just a little bit something, but I think it's funny, so here it is.

Until next time, whenever I think of something interesting to say. It might take a while.

-Matt


"The Last Wedding"

The news came three months before the wedding. His wife and daughter considered postponing, told him that the time for celebration could wait, that the planning would keep everyone busy and he deserved to have peace, even if for a little while. With the smile that he had employed throughout the ordeal, he said no; it was because he only had a short time left that he wanted to see it through. He would see his only daughter get married. The sickness might take his life, but it wouldn't take this.

Invitations went out. Planning resumed. Everyone went through their routines, the only thing keeping them going was the serenity he seemed to exude. He told them he accepted his fate, had made peace with it, and once that happened, each new day was a gift.

The day came. Family and friends came from all parts of the country, some from farther away. They had decided to have the wedding at the house because it was getting hard for him to get around. Flower arrangements gracefully adorned the backyard. A live jazz band played in the background. A multi-tiered pearl white cake was on display, waiting to be cut. It was perfect and he felt his eyes moistened, but held back fearing his tears be mistaken for sadness.

On that beautiful Spring day, he almost looked healthy if you hadn't known how fit he used to be. For the first month after the news, he was still able to run everyday. Now he used a cane, although he managed without one on this day. The family had kept the news from everyone, but the guests seemed to know something was wrong, even if they didn't know what. They saw his wife paying more attention to him, frequently by his side. They saw his enigmatic smile, but it seemed different, weaker. His clothes fit loosely on him and his gait was unsteady. Whispers and rumors cast a pallor on an otherwise joyous day.

This wasn't lost on the father of the bride. He saw the strange looks. He saw conversations take on a different tone when he got close. He noticed all this and it just wouldn't do. This was unacceptable.

When everyone was seated in the yard for the ceremony, he took a microphone and welcomed everyone to their house. He beamed charismatically, walked through the crowd, patting friends on the back, delivering corny jokes. For a moment, everything felt normal again. The gloom lifted. People smiled. Some laughed. When he was done, he went back to his seat and his wife patted his hand and told him he was wonderful.

When it came time for the father-daughter dance, he took his daughter by the hand and told her she looked beautiful and how proud he was of her. Then the music came on, a much more exuberant number than expected, and he broke out into a lively rendition of the Macarena. The crowd roared and clapped in approval as the new bride looked on with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. After the applause subsided, he signaled to his co-conspirator, the DJ, to put on the planned music. As father and daughter swayed on the dance floor, she laughed and called him a loser.

The dance floor opened and his new son-in-law took over. Partner-less, he motioned for his wife to join him. It took some convincing, but she could never resist him. As they danced, arms intertwined, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. Please don't die, she said, choking back tears. She lifted her head from his shoulder. He looked at her, smiled, and kissed her on the head.

Later that night in the shower, when everyone had gone, a heavy weight fell from his shoulders. As the water cascaded onto his face, he thought of how grateful he was to have been able to walk his daughter down the aisle, but his mind wandered. He was prepared for death, but not for what he would miss. He thought of his wife's touch. He thought of the smell of grandchildren. Strength eluding him, tears began to flow, mixed with water and went down the drain. He could hold back no longer. He would let it all out, because he would not do it when someone could see him.

His wife asked him how he was when he came into the bedroom. He smiled, kissed her gently on the lips, and told her everything was fine.




"Bananas"

Cable access television show host is surely not something one aspires to be, least of all Sonny. No, this was a stepping stone for him, merely another rung on his scale to the top of the show biz ladder. He has too much of a talent, he told himself, to be wasting away in his podunk fucking town. He was made for better things, like the Armani suit he wore, not that anyone has the courtesy to notice. It was an extravagance, yes, but you dress for the career you want, not the one you have.

"Sarah," Sonny said sweetly to the production assistant, "could you please move that a little?" The bright lights in the cramped studio were blinding. He felt like he needed sunscreen. "Thanks." But it hadn't been moved much, still felt like he was baking underneath a fucking tanning bed. He smiled, showed his happy face, because you never let them see you angry. The big break could come at any time and angry is unattractive.

Sonny was about to sweat through his clothes. He peeked into a small mirror he kept behind the desk, a last minute check before going live, grimacing when he noticed a wrinkle around the corner of his left eye that he hadn't seen before. He loosened his perfectly knotted tie and hoped he wouldn't have to suffer incompetence much longer. He would need hiring and firing control when he hit it big. It was the surest way to guarantee quality.

I can't be too far now, Sonny thought as he stared into the camera lens. Two years on this damn talk show had come and gone, but he finally had a good guest. He'd lost count of the number of times he had to sit across from every Tom, Dick, and Sally in town trading inane pleasantries. Sometimes they didn't even have the class to dress decently. Television was no place for sweatpants!

Someone from the newly opened zoo was coming by with animals. They did it all the time on Conan and Leno. Audiences ate that shit up and Sonny thought that it might just be enough to get noticed, to get a foot in the door.

"Sonny. You're on in one, two..." said Sarah, then held up three fingers. The camera's light glowed red, signaling the start of the Sonny's live broadcast to anyone who just happened to tune to Channel 73 and had absolutely nothing better to do with their time.

"Hello again," Sonny said, smiling his expensive porcelain Veneer smile. "We have a great show for you today. Graham Singer is here from the Middleborough Zoo with some our friendlier, furrier friends."

A man in his twenties—a good ten years younger than Sonny—in a T-shirt and jeans walked out. He had a strong jawline that Sonny craved, the kind that stars were made of. Sonny noted to himself to focus the interview on the animals. No sense in giving the man any more screen time than necessary.

In the man's hand was a rope leash. On the end of it was a sheep.

Oh God, Sonny thought. What is this? A fucking petting zoo? Where were the big ticket animals? Bears, lions. That's what people wanted to see.

He clenched the muscles in his jaws, his lips locked into a perma-smile. "Graham," he said, taking his hand in a firm grip. "Nice to meet you. Who's this we have here today?"

"This is Cindy. She's two."

"Beautiful, just beautiful," Sonny said and groaned inwardly as the man spewed his litany of sheep factoids. They're great in a stew, he thought. How about that for a fact?

The sheep was followed by an anteater (not exactly cuddly and endearing) and an owl, that Sonny discerned wasn't of the stuffed variety because it blinked. Resigned to the underwhelming turnout, he said, "And do you have anyone else here with us today?"

"We sure do," Graham said. "Bring Jeremiah out," he said to someone offstage.

A woman carried out...a monkey and places it on Dr. Dolittle's lap.

"So, this is Jerry. He's a capuchin monkey," he said and Sonny began to sweat. Of all animals, why did it have to be a goddamn monkey? The little beast climbed onto Graham's shoulder, started picking through his hair.

"What, uh, what is he doing?"

"He's grooming me. It's a social act, keeps them clean."

Clean, Sonny thought. Don't monkeys throw shit at one another? That's not very clean, is it? He wondered what would happen if it threw some of its digested breakfast at him. Can they show that on television?

Then he noticed the monkey stop and stare at him with its beady eyes. He resisted a shudder.

"What else can you tell us about this little guy?" Sonny was on autopilot now, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. And there they were again, those beady little eyes, staring at him. Those cold, murderous eyes. He felt a tremor course its way through his body, settling into a tick under his right eye. What was it looking at? Monkeys can be vicious, many times stronger than an adult man. One tore a woman apart just last week in Connecticut. He should have insisted on security when the producers had refused.

Sonny was busy contemplating his death by monkey when he realized that there was a banana in his hand. "If you just hold that," he heard Graham say," and Jerry will..."

What Sonny would later describe as a savage attack went more like this: The capuchin hopped onto the desk, looked uncertainly at Graham and then reached for his treat. Sonny's natural reaction—as anyone's would be—was to drop the banana, jump back, and yell, "Get that fucking monkey off of me!"

Silence descended on the studio. Sonny looked up to find the camera's red light is still on and Sarah's mouth frozen open.

His reaction video was replayed on every network entertainment and news show. The "Monkey Dude" viral video amassed fifteen million views in its first week online.

Sonny got his wish. He became famous.

Library-Envy

Dear Graveyard Children,

I have a relatively small library--just around 100 books at the moment. I use the public library often and haven't started buying books until the last couple of years. As it is, I buy more than I should. My "To Read" list is growing faster than I can read. Even still, I am running out of shelf space.

So when I saw pictures of Neil Gaiman's library, my heart skipped that figurative beat. OMFG. Amazing.

It would be all sorts of awesome to have such a large library with all those reading nooks, but I have to wonder. How many of those books would I have actually read if I amassed such a collection?

Matt

Howdy

Dear Lethargic Labradoodles,

I have a new story today. I'm not really sure what to do with it, so I might as well post it here. Enjoy!


"The Cold Embrace" By Matt Mok


Peter headed in the direction of Stella's excited cries, the only other sound being his skis sliding through the soft snow. He found the Black Labrador barking, bounding in a circle, kicking up the white powder that blanketed the mountain. She came to Peter, tail wagging furiously.

"What'd you find?"

She ran back to the spot and barked twice, pawing at the ground.

"Good girl," Peter exclaimed and offered her a treat. He planted an orange flag, a stark contrast to an expanse of white. He looked back at the advancing figures just coming over the hill and pointed at the flag, only moving on when they acknowledged his signal. "You think you can do it again?" he asked Stella.

Stella put her nose to the ground, found another intriguing scent, and bolted off. He caught up with her again, planted another flag, and hurried after once more. This happened several more times. Each time, Peter gave her another treat and praised her, though with less exuberance as the day dragged on.

When they were done, he sat with her near one of the snowmobiles. Stella laid down next to him with her tongue hanging out, panting a cloud of steam from her mouth. Peter watched the avalanche rescue crew in their red parkas as they secured another lifeless body onto the sleds. Stella had found seven that day, one of them still clutching a ski pole.

The dog yawned and looked up at her master. Peter stroked Stella's head, which was damp with perspiration from a hard day's work.

"Good girl," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Say What Now?

Dear Senile Giraffes,

I just finished a book, that will remain nameless for the purposes of this post. This novel was an English translation of an Italian book, presumably of some merit. And while the story was okay (not great, but okay), the writing was not. There were many turns of phrases that just didn't seem to work. The idioms were just a bit off. Some word pairings didn't make sense.

Which makes me wonder. How do publishing houses decide on who does the translations? Are they fluent in both languages? Or just in one, and manages in the other? It must be difficult for the original writer because they most likely aren't fluent in the translated language, so they really have no idea how it turned out.

Does Harry Potter read totally different in the German translation? Does the Chinese version of the The Lost Symbol maintain the same style as the original?

One wonders.

A Boo-tiful Story (...Sorry)

Dear Corpulent Otters,

Here ya are: A new story. I wrote it during a workshop and really can't think of anywhere I can submit it to since it's really a seasonal story and it's way too late to start looking into that now.

Happy Halloween and don't eat the loose candy.

Matt

"Claire vs. The Dead Man" By Matt Mok

The Dead Man walks slowly up and down the staircase, his heavy footfalls sounding throughout every room.

"For God's sake, what am I going to do with him? Oh, look at the carpet! I'm never going to get that out." Claire glares at her father. "I thought you were here to help."

Tom responds by reclining further into his seat and taking another swig of beer. He turns up the television's volume. "After the game, sweetheart."

Claire grunts, holding back expletives, and returns her attention to the undead menace lumbering up and down her stairs, depositing flecks of God knows what on her wall, steps, and banister.

"Hey, you!"

He moans but doesn't stop its ascent.

"Hey!"

"It's 'The Dead Man,'" Tom corrects her. "The Dead Man."

Claire throws him a hostile stare to which he rolls his eyes and chuckles.

"Okay, Dead Man, she says, "Stop it. You're driving me insane."

The Dead Man halts, cocks his head to the side, and peers at her through layers of bandages. "Brrrraaaains," he gasps. "Feeeed Me."

"Dad!" She can feel her last nerve twitching.

"Don't look directly in his eyes, Claire," Tom says over the sound of the football color commentators, never averting his eyes from the screen. "He'll steal your soul."

She ignores him. "I'm not playing games with you Mr. Dead Man. I've had a long day at work, slaved away in the kitchen, and I am five seconds from—"

"Okay, okay," Tom says, shutting off the television and wedging himself out of the chair. He saunters over to the hungry monster, sizing him up. "Now it's just you and me, buster. You ready for this?"

"Brrrraaains!" he says, his small hands pumping in the air. The Dead Man grabs a pumpkin-shaped candy pail in one hand and his grandfather's hand in the other, and drags Tom into the autumn night, a foot of toilet paper trailing from a loosely bandaged foot.

Oh Happy Day

Dear Vociferous Kiwis,

It's happened. I'm getting published. In print!

Start the parade preparations.

In all seriousness, it's fairly modest, but you never forget your first. My story "We Come in Pieces," will be published in the anthology "Christmas in Space" by the nice people at Whortleberry Press.

Matt

On Dead Car Batteries and Cell Phones

Dear Horny Junebugs,

This post is not writerly in nature, but I've come to accept that I do not have many writerly things to say. It is, however, funny, but only if you are you and not me.

Let me share with you a recent Thursday.

A light comes on on the dashboard of my car about five minutes into my drive home from work. This alarms me because this happened before, along with the radio cutting in and out. It's a power problem and I thought I had taken care of it when I replaced the battery the day before. It's the reason why I canceled my appointment with the repair shop.

I look at my watch. It's fifteen minutes before the repair shop closes. I need to call to make sure I can at least get my appointment back. Trouble is on the horizon. I get the appointment back but they can't see me any sooner. As I talk to them (pulled over on a small side street), the lights in my car flicker and dim. Weird clicking noises are coming from behind the dash. By the time I hang up, the car is completely dead. Nothing is on. No sound is emitted when I try to turn the engine over. I sit in a dead metal box.

And there is one bar of battery life left on my phone.

I call a couple people for jump starts, which don't pan out. One is on the way to a baseball game and I tell him he shouldn't come back. One doesn't answer. It turns out that it wouldn't have helped regardless. I needed a tow, which is what I eventually got.

I call Geico and they set me up, the phone call lasting longer than I'd have liked, including a few times that she puts me on hold. Otherwise, it is not a bad experience. Until the tow truck doesn't suck up within the 30 minute ETA. I get nervous because the Geico woman didn't seem that confident in pinpointing my location based on the information I gave her.

And my phone. It's really about my phone. If it had more juice, I would feel better. Maybe I could use my car charger... oh wait.

Anyway, I call the tow company with the number Geico gave me. No dice. Voicemail both times. The third time, using just a little more cell phone power that I desperately need, I get through but the guy says he doesn't know what I'm talking about. There is a silence that seems to last forever... then he says, "Oh, are you the XXXXX job?" (XXXXX being the town I was in). He proceeds to say that there was a dispatcher mixup, but there is somebody enroute.

The tow truck ride is fine. The guy is friendly, efficient, and it's a new experience for me riding in one. He asks me if I have a ride from the dealer. I tell him I'll arrange something.

Oh yea, I had to taken to the dealer (where the repair shop is) because I only get the one free tow and I might as well send it there even if they can't get to it for a few days.

So, there I am at the dealership. I fill out a form for the drop off box and seal my keys inside the envelope. There are still people inside, but it's the sale staff. It is now more than an hour since I was first rendered carless and the service department is closed.

Before I start making calls, I go to a nearby bank to get some cash. I'm really low and I might need it. It's the first time I haven't used an ATM to get cash in a long time. It feels weird, but the teller girl is pretty. Score.

Back at the vestibule at the service center, I start making calls. I call roommates, cell phones and work numbers and home number. I call a friend. No one picks up. It either keeps ringing or goes straight to voicemail. I try to leave composed messages.

But inside, I am having a small panic attack. I am about nine miles from home, it's getting dark and cold, and walking would be difficult especially along the side of a pitch black highway. I wait a little while and hope someone calls me back...to no avail. I realize then that maybe I need to have more acquaintances, if only to have a bigger pool of people to call on for just these situations.

My phone still has that one lonely bar. I resort to calling information for a cab. Surely, I could do that. It may cost me some money, but at least I can get back. I navigate the confusing directories and get a number of a car service company that I think will work. I call them. They tell me they don't operate out of the town I'm in.

I resist the urge to throw my phone. I pace angrily. I can only imagine what this looks like. I wonder now if they have cameras in that dealership parking lot. It must be very funny. Then my phone informs me that I have a low battery. The lonely bar is gone.

Combing through my phonebook, I search for a number. I'm not sure if she's there. I've only called her once before. Did I save it?

It's there! I frantically scribble it on a piece of paper, hoping the phone stays on.

Then I run to the bank. Luckily (there is not much luck for me this night, but this is the exception), it's open late. The pretty teller girl is still there. I tell my sob story, she Awwww's with pity, and let's me use their phone. It goes through and she'll be happy to come pick me up. I give her some general directions, but ask her to double check online because she might not be able to call me on my cell.

When I leave, the teller says brightly that they're open until eight if I need the phone again. It's nice of her, but if I need it again, it would be past eight.

The whole ride back, I regale my savior with my fraught night. And I wonder if my roommates are home, cooling their heels in the living room, while phones are ringing and voicemails are being left. I get home. And they are. They fucking are.

*sigh*

One Armed Boys and The Sound of My Own Voice

Dear Feral Armadillos,

I finished Hannah Tinti's "The Good Thief" recently--on a deadline no less (those libraries and their pesky due dates and tyrannical renewal regulations). I am happy to report that it was quite enjoyable, as orphan-against-the-world stories generally are. The ending wrapped up a little too neatly for my taste, but it is still better than anything I have ever written, so what do I know? I'd give a solid recommendation for this one.

In other news, I'm currently reading Christopher Buckley's "Supreme Courtship" with Tess Gerritsen's "The Keepsake" on deck. Buckley has always been a favorite of mine as is any author who has a gift for comedy. Gerritsen has always been reliable as well, so the next couple of weeks should be good reading. Still deciding if I want to touch "The Lost Symbol" though. It seems like a retread, even if I did enjoy "The Da Vinci Code."

A few posts ago, I mentioned that I was joining a real live honest to goodness writing workshop. I had the first session last week (where I was fashionably late at 15 minutes) and I must say it is an entirely different experience than what I have online. On the one hand, I think you get less constructive criticism. It's just harder to tell someone to their face what you think might be wrong. In fact, I almost get the sense that this is discouraged. I'd rather get the tough love; I can take it. I also have a difficult time coming up with anything at all at times because you don't read the stories, you hear them. Because of this, you can't go back and reread anything or have anything clarified. You have to go by the author's voice and stories can get hard to follow especially since these are generally first drafts that we have written in about an hour. Also, minor things like grammar, spelling, punctuation, general stylistic decisions are hard to review because you just can't see if when someone reads their work. Those are the disadvantages.

The advantages? Well, having live breathing people hear your story has its benefits. You get quick feedback, most of which is usually supportive. You get to hear what they came away from the reading. They tell you what worked. You also get to hear yourself speak, which in of itself is worth the price of admission! Actually, I must say that for me, it's very strange to hear my own voice reading for minutes at a time. I'm not a naturally comfortable speaker, but reading the stories out loud do help pinpoint anything that just doesn't sound right.

What may be the most interesting about the workshop is the demographic, because I, by myself, fulfill so many minority positions. I am the only guy, the only non-white person, and am under thirty. True, the group is small and we should be getting two more in the next session, but I am skeptical if there will be any addition of testosterone.

Not that that's a bad thing.

I've rambled on long enough. Aloha suckas!

Movie Sunday

Dear Cow-Tipping Space Cadets,

I haven't posted anything for a little while, so here we are. Not much writing recently, just finished reciprocating a review at Zoetrope, an online writing workshop. Also starting to use links because it seems like any reputable fancy schmancy blog is incomplete without some links. Truth be told, I do enjoy the clicking. Who has time to open up a new browser tab and type in a url?

So, what did I do today? Vegged out on DVDs. One of them was Nikita, directed by Luc Besson. It's about a young wayward (near insane as far as I could see) girl who gets a life sentence and then gets carted off to a government program that gives her a new identity and trains her to be an assassin. You know, your average family feel-good movie. It was good, entertaining, and a fun distraction for two hours. It's also better than its American remake, The Point of No Return, due to the fabulous casting of Bridget Fonda as the girl, who is not very believable as a killer and let's face it, looks as menacing as a kitten in a rain storm.

Nikita was good, but not as good as Leon aka The Professional, another Luc Besson movie with a character-named title. The reliable Jean Reno plays the killer with the heart of gold and a young and talented Natalie Portman as his protege.

To round off the movie weekend, I also watched the laughable but watchable Ghost Rider which features Nicholas Cage turning into a flaming skeleton on a motorcycle, cashing in on the Hollywood superhero phase. Also in the fray was The Astronaut Farmer, where Billy Bob Thornton flew into space in a homemade rocket. Implausible? Yes. Impossible? Most likely. Inspiring? You darn tootin'!

And he landed safely back on Earth, much unlike this guy.

Time to work on my jetpack. Until next time.

Matt

Merits of Writing Workshops

Dear Calamitous Crustaceans,

Ever taken part in a writing workshop? They can be fraught with anxiety and uncomfortable situations. I mean, you put yourself out there, in the literary sense, and have others pore over your writing, picking out all the imperfections. It can be a harrowing experience in some ways. But it could be the best thing to ever happen to your writing.

I've been participating in the online writing workshop at Zoetrope for a few years now and it's hard to describe how much it's done to help tighten up and improve my submitted pieces. I wouldn't necessarily say it dramatically improved the quality of my writing. I think that comes with writing; doing it more inherently improves it. But what it can do for you is what a familiar reviewer can't. Give you story to a friend and they'll say they liked it, but not much more, even if they didn't really like it. There's no emotional distance, and as a result, objective feedback is diminished.

But from my experiences so far, when you have that writing workshop, reviewers will be honest. Sure, you're polite. We're not monsters after all (at least not all of us). But you will point out inconsistencies in plot. You will find grammar errors, typos, dialog that just doesn't seem authentic. You'll make stylistic suggestions. You'll tell the writer if you just "don't get" what's going on.

100% of the time, the stories that I put through the workshop end up better that they were, even if by a little bit and that can make all the difference when you start submitting it (if you think it's good enough for submission).

Now, I'm about to try a live writing workshop in about a week. I'm not sure how it will be, but I'm willing to give it a try. I'm wary of how useful it can be since it becomes harder to tell someone the difficult truths when they sit across from you, even if they're just a stranger. And of course, it's almost paid, as opposed to free.

So we'll see! At the very least, it will give me something to do for two hours every two weeks.

Until next time.

Kitty

Dear Vociferous Langoustines,

It seems like all I've been doing is posting stories, which really was not my intention when I started this blog, but it just so happens that I have less to say than I previously thought. At least, not anything interesting or vaguely witty. So, here's another story. It was recently rejected from a contest by way of elimination. The winner was to be notified by today, and I haven't been. Ergo, not the winner.

I also can't think of any other place to submit it. The story was based on the prompt that someone sees something they shouldn't have in a neighbhor's house and has to decide what to do about it. The way I went with it was pretty dark, and slightly strange, and I don't have any idea who else would be interested in it, so there you are my wonderful imaginary audience!

Enjoy.


The Cat's Meow By Matt Mok

There are ten pieces of mail for me today. Seldom this popular even at the end of billing cycles, six of them are not for me. Our mailman, the kind and wonderful man though he is, has been eligible for retirement for a few years now and in my opinion should take his much deserved time away from the rain and sleet and snow.

The Reardons live in the white picket fenced house to my left. I walk past posters for missing cats stapled onto the trees that line our street. Over the past month, there's been a steady increase of the notices, to the point that there is more paper than bark. I for one, am not sorry to see the cats go. My lawn has never been cleaner.

There's no response when I knock on their door, but I hear music. I walk around the side for the back door, stopping when I notice the kitchen window open. Loud classical music blares over the sound of crying. But it's not crying. It's a cat, and I see Tony, the Reardon boy, wrestling with it over the sink. The cat thrashes about until the boy lifts it up and slams it onto a cutting board, brandishing a meat cleaver in the other hand. As he raises it in the air, I turn quickly from the window, my heart leaping from my chest. The frantic cries stop abruptly with the thudding sound of blade on wood.

I toss their mail onto their front stoop as I flee. Pacing in the safety of my house, I contemplate what I should do, weigh my options, and wonder if I imagined it all. I turned away before I saw anything incriminating. Maybe it was a game, an insane, wrap-you-in-a-straight-jacket game, but maybe that's all it was. The Reardons, however, didn't own a cat.

Determined not to be driven crazy, I decide to wait until tomorrow to figure out what to do, hoping that a good night's rest would put things into perspective. But a good night's sleep I didn't have, and the decision is no clearer.

There's a knock on the door the next day. It reveals Jeffrey Reardon holding several letters.

"Hi Carl," he says.

"Jeff."

He hands me the letters. "Looks like Ray did it again," he says, referring to our near-sighted, white-haired mail carrier.

"Thanks," I say, smiling. I realize what I should do. I'll tell Jeff. He's the boy's father. Let him deal with it. "Jeff, I wanted to--"

I see scratches, small parallel red marks that run down his forearms. He notices me noticing them and quickly pushes his rolled up sleeves down.

"Gardening. Damn rose bushes, you know?"

"Oh."

"What was that you were saying?"

"What? I forget," I say.

"Well, alright. Tell Sarah I said hello."

"Bye."

Jeff turns around to leave but then stops. He looks back. "Almost forgot," he says, smiling "Peggy made all this meatloaf and we just can't finish it. I always tell her she cooks too much, but what are you gonna do? You like meatloaf, right?"

Yum

Dear Persnickety Whirlwinds,

Dug up another story. This one was based off another prompt (they help me when I can't think of anything to write). Anyway, this one said to write a story about a detective who investigates a series of arsons at Krispy Kremes.

Enjoy



"Charbroiled Delights"

Soot mars the sign like a black toothy grin. It's the only part of the shop that doesn't resemble charcoal. I yawn. It's too early to be up and the coffee doesn't help much. The rising sun reflects off the face of my watch and blinds me momentarily. It's the seventh time I've checked it in ten minutes. Or eighth. I've lost count.

"You look like hell."

The voice belongs to the fire chief, the person I was waiting for.

"Hi Roger. You all done?" I ask.

"Yeah. Just watch your step. Everything's falling apart."

"Know where it started?"

"Looks like the kitchen."

"Accelerant?"

He wipes smoky grit from his face leaving a streak. "For it get so big so fast? Yeah, I'd say so."

We say goodbye. He asks me if I want to get a beer tonight and I say I will if I can still stand up then. He thinks this is a joke, slaps me on the back, and I nearly fall over. He laughs, climbs onto his big red truck and leaves.

The smell invades my nostrils inside the shop; fragrant, pungent, and sickly at the same time. It's familiar. The floor, countertops, walls, and ceilings are slick with water. I maneuver my way around the overturned remains of chairs and tables to get to the kitchen.

The body is in the corner under a fallen rack, blackened and scrunched up into a fetal position. I crouch down, seeing if I can find some identification, but it's a lost cause. I'm not sure the corpse has any pockets. It's so far gone, I'm not even sure it has any pants. Whatever is encased in the crusted cocoon would require the services of the medical examiner.

"Sam."

"Jesus Christ, Feingold, don't sneak up on me like that."

"Jumpy today?" he says with an easy smile.

He's bright-eyed and dressed to impress, his neat attire in stark contrast to myself. I have on rumpled trousers and a shirt rescued from the laundry heap at four in the morning, but we're in a burnt down doughnut shop, not a fashion runway. Feingold walks around, a spring in his step. He's always this way--bright, eager, full of youthful vigor. I think he mainlines caffeine.

"So, you think this is the same guy?" he asks.

"Yeah. Got a body though. That's different."

"What makes you think it's still the same guy?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say. "Three Krispy Kremes in three weeks burned to a cinder. I'm taking a wild guess."

He nods. He's an easy sell. "Do we know who that is?" he says, pointing to the body.

"Maybe the owner. No identification yet. Will have to wait for the ME."

"Time to make the doughnuts."

"What?"

He grins. "You know, from those commercials? 'Time to make the doughnuts!'"

"That's Dunkin' Donuts, not Krispy Kreme," I say, but I don't know why. It's better to ignore him, not argue.

"Just saying, you know--"

"Spare me, okay?"

He laughs and I stare at him.

"I get it. Like a tire right? A doughnut spare?"

I steer him to the door and tell him to get statements from the potential witnesses gathered behind the barricades. As he struts out to greet the public, pad and pen in hand, I can't help but imagine that he might become police commissioner one day and I pray for my sanity.

I make some calls and find out that the owner and all employees are accounted for. With Feingold out of the way, I look around some more and stay late to talk to our friendly neighborhood medical examiner, who promises to call me before she does the autopsy. If we're lucky, we'll find out the body is our firebug.

When I get back to that station, it is already late afternoon. I walk back to my desk, trailing essence of charbroiled doughnut. I sit and rub my eyes, tired beyond comprehension. At least no one has made any cop and doughnut jokes today.

"Honey glazed."

It's Feingold sitting across from me. It looks like he's wearing different clothes from this morning. They're clean and pressed. Where does he get the time?

I look up at him. "What?" I say. I am not in the mood for this.

"Honey glazed doughnut. That's what you smell like," he says, beaming.

Chipper bastard.

They're Heeeere.....

Dear Kleptomaniac Raccoons,

Found another one. It could probably use a revision, but here it is anyway.

I need a nap.

Catch you on the flip side.


"Possession"

Paul Little, who was neither little nor easily scared, was at that moment utterly petrified. He had been showering when the lights suddenly extinguished and it appeared. The transparent apparition hovering over his head would be invisible if not for the ripples of silver that shone intermittently on its undulating form. It stayed there above him, without menace, without benevolence. It was just there.

"Hello?" Paul said, tentative.

There was no reply.

The apparition was small compared to Paul, but it changed shape constantly. It inched closer.

"What do you want? Say something!" He grew frantic.

The shapeless entity coalesced into an orb of blinding light, swirled in a tight radius, and swooped down towards Paul's head. The orb diffused through his skin, temporarily lighting up his face as if a light bulb was lit inside his mouth. His skin turned a pale translucent pink and white light emanated from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Then it shut off like a switch and the room was shrouded in darkness.

Paul, or Paul's body rather, started to move. It stared at its own body, flexed its muscles, and took a careful first step out of the shower. It wiped the condensation from the mirror, stared at its reflection, a hand touching his face as if noticing it for the first time. Paul was still there, a soul if there's such a thing, a consciousness, though he had no control of his body. He was a spectator. As his body dried off, dressed, and walked out of his house, he tried to speak, but his lips did not move. He screamed, but there was no sound.

Come With Me If You Want To Live

Dear Sizzling Shrimp,

As I write this, I am in the middle of the first season of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. Not bad so far, and a very entertaining way to waste my time. When I've had my fill, I'll edit the latest short story. It features a microscopic people who live on a planet the size of a tennis ball and escape in space ship when their planet is destroyed. They eventually land on an Earth satellite. It's the feel good story of the summer.

Then I'll probably finish up Neil Gaiman's "Smoke and Mirrors."

Happy Early Labor Day. Remember to not do anything productive tomorrow. It's your right as an American. Hoorah!

Give Me My Per Diem And Go Away

Dear Warbling Magpies,

I don't remember how this story came about, but I think it had to do with a prompt about someone showing up at a bar, so I made it a juice bar.

This is probably the last story for now. I had others, but they're more works-in-progress and probably will never see the light of another revision...not really worthy of a post

Checkity-check yourself before you wreckity-wreck yourself,
Matt

"Virgin" By Matt Mok

It had seemed like a great idea at first: a business trip to Hawaii on the company's dime. Jonah saw sandy beaches, bikinis, surfboards, hikes to volcanoes, and waterfalls secreted away in tropical forests. And he did see some of these things--out the window of the plane, through the taxi window, and in brochures at the hotel. Three days into the trip and there was still nothing of note worthy of a picture. No memories to capture. Unless one had a penchant for conference room feng shui or hotel room interior design.

Jonah had figured that the business part of the business trip would be minimal given the choice in location. Sure there was a big corporate office there, but someone must have planned it with pleasant tropical activities in mind. He could not have been more wrong. What he thought would be five-hour work days followed by afternoons in the sun were actually mind-numbing twelve-hour days in a humid room with fellow malcontents followed by a quick dinner and his head hitting the pillow from sheer mental fatigue.

The meetings consisted of thirty mid-level managers trying to come up with a comprehensive strategy to prepare quality assessment reports. That's right. To prepare them. Jonah didn't want to think about how long it took them to decide on the actual quality assessment process itself. As far as he was concerned, all the report needed was a concise retelling of the quality assessment findings in a way that was easy to understand with clear problems, solutions, and goals. What most of the committee members argued over were more important things like the number of charts to include (regardless of data obtained), font size of the title of said charts, the order in which appendices should appear, and the color of the cover. They were sure to be earth-shattering, ground-breaking innovations.

As he lumbered into the hotel lobby after another long day of decision making (or lack thereof), he had a sudden desire for a drink. The front desk girl, a cheerful native Hawaiian, had recommended he visit their bar, as did the equally amiable bellhop. Even the hotel channel on his television had invited him to refresh himself at their well-stocked bar. It seemed like there was a hotel-wide conspiracy to get him drunk. However, he did feel the need to refresh himself, or at least drown out all conference-related information from his mind.

There were helpful signs directing him to the bar, leading him out to a patio and past a pool he had given up hope of using. Just beyond it stood the bar stand, built of what looked like driftwood and adorned with touristy knick-knacks. Jonah sat on a stool among the other unused ones.

The bartender was an affable man, similar to the rest of the hotel staff. He had tied-back hair and was so large that he filled the area behind the bar.

"Aloha. What can I get you?"

"How about a gin and tonic?"

"Sorry. No can do."

This was hard to believe, but Jonah wasn't in a picky mood. Anything would do. "How about a beer then?" he asked. "What do you have on tap?"

"You're at the wrong place if you want a beer, friend," the bartender said with a chuckle.

Jonah was dumbfounded.

The bartender stepped aside and motioned behind him with his head while he wiped some glasses. On the wall behind him was a sign. It had a watercolor-drawn cartoon octopus encumbered with a variety of fruits in his suctioned arms. Under the sea creature was a large festive banner: JUICE BAR.

"Damn. What do you have then? What's good here?"

The man shrugged. "People seem to like the pineapple tropical cocktail"

It turned out to be pretty good. He finished half of it in two gulps and sighed with satisfaction.

"Mahalo. Can I take this up to my room? I'll bring the glass back."

"Don't worry about it. Just leave it out. The maids will pick it up," the bartender said with a smile.

Jonah thanked him again and made his way back to his room, where he emptied a mini-bottle of vodka into the glass.

Pineapple tropical cocktail, indeed.

Entering the Wide World of Reality...Reality TV Style

Dear Bubbly Banshees,

My idea of the end of quality television as we know it.

Later, Gators.



"This Show Will Change Your Life"

"That's not gonna work," Fran said and resumed her scrutiny of the programming budget. She peered at Donald over her glasses.

"Is that all, Donald?"

Donald trembled with excitement.

"How could it NOT work?" he replied. He got up, gesticulating wildly as he repeated the description of his game show concept, bouncing around the room like a hyperactive hamster hopped up on adrenaline. "It's got drama! It's got comedy! It's got--"

Fran held up a hand, told him to take a breath, and thought about her words before she spoke in a measured voice. "Your show, Donald, involves filming random people going about their daily business being slapped or punched by contestants on your show. It is--as you said--Candid Camera meets Wheel of Fortune meets Fight Club. Are they supposed to win something, your contestants? "

"Yes! Money! See, they spin this first wheel, right? It lands on a dollar value, say $500. Then they spin another wheel that lands on a person type, anywhere from a toddler to an elderly man. Then they spin a third wheel. That lands on the challenge that they have to complete to win the money. This could be anything from kissing the person, or kicking them in the shin, or giving them a wedgie! Nothing is taboo, nothing off limits. Hell, maybe we'll give them a padded whiffle bat and have them go to town in a schoolyard. Or better yet, a paint ball gun!"

"But," he continued, his eyes as big as saucers, "here's the best part: we film it. We put them in a van, drop them off in the city, and they have five minutes to find the right type of person and perform the selected challenge. Then the audience votes to decide if the contestant wins the money. At the end, the contestant with the largest amount on money amassed wins!"

Fran leaned forward and pressed her fingertips together, forming a triangle. She pursed her lips.

"Let's put aside the obvious PR problems and lawsuits that would undoubtedly surface. What happens--if for some crazy reason--you get a contestant with a conscience who refuses to trip an old man or throw a water balloon at a baby? The show is sunk. There's no show if there are no challenges to be filmed."

Donald beamed. "Ah. I thought of that," he said, tapping the side of his head. "If anyone refuses, they can forfeit that turn, but the other contestants can steal it. If there's more than one taker, then we sort it out with a trivia round. Then whoever gets to attempt the challenge can win double the original cash value!"

"So, what you're saying is that not only does the show ask contestants to harm innocent people for money, but also actively discourages normal decent human behavior?"

"In a way..."

Fran adjusted her glasses and clucked her tongue.

"I'll discuss it with the others," she said.

Armageddon, You Say?

Dear Sexy Porcupines,

One day earlier this year, there was such torrential rain that we had downed trees and power lines everywhere. We lost power to the house and almost froze. A walk outside was like a stroll through a disaster movie: no working traffic lights, debris all over the road, not a person in sight.

Keep the generator running!


"One Week Later"

"We're going east! I've had enough of this! We're going east!"

I blink the sleep from my eyes. The sea spray has formed a thin layer of dried salt on my sunburned face and it crackles uncomfortably. The blazing sun momentarily blinds me and I have to shut my eyes again.

"East! East! East!" The voice flirts with madness.

I open my eyes and see a bearded man standing over me and pointing a shaking finger. For a moment, my scrambled mind thinks that we have been boarded by pirates, but the man has no eye patch, no parrot on his shoulder, and no blunderbuss at his side. It is only Tim.

"Calm down," I say.

"East! We have to go east!"

Our fishing boat was overturned in a storm and the only seaworthy vessel left in the wreckage was the icebox. It smells of fish and is just big enough enough for two people with a little legroom to spare. After Tim and I recovered from the freezing waters and returned some of the icebox's existing occupants to the sea, we decided that the best plan of action was to steer towards a buoy we saw in the distance. Tim remembered our boat passing it and since we were traveling east at the time, we surmised that we were going west. In the daytime, we were able to guide ourselves by the sun's position, but we didn't know how to read the stars at night, even as they shined so brightly.

"East!" He is still pointing at me.

Tim is normally very mild-mannered, but a week and a half stranded at sea can do things to a man, and I fear his mind has gone for a temporary sabbatical. The raw fish might not have helped either. I prop myself up, causing the icebox to shift. The water in our rain collectors sloshes around and Tim falls into a sitting position.

"East," he says, but with less conviction, his voice less excited.

"What is it, Tim?"

"We've been going west for days and we've seen nothing. Nothing. We need to change direction."

"Who knows where we are," I say. "We could be anywhere. We could have circled all the way back around during the night. Even if we're sure we've been going west, going east would just mean backtracking for a week and a half. Let's just wait, hope that the search and rescue crew will find us."

"We should go east," says Tim stubbornly.

"Fine," I say with a sigh. A week and a half stranded at sea can test friendships and I would rather placate him than hear him go on anymore.

The sun is still baking us straight overhead as he searches our panoramic view of the horizon.

"Which way is east?" he asks.

I go back to sleep, wondering how far Tim would have to slip into dementia before it was morally acceptable for me to throw him overboard.

Dun Dah....Dun Dah... Dundahdundah..

Dear Frolicking Kangaroos,

I think I wrote this one shortly after reading "The Life of Pi" and reading a news story about some fisherman stuck in a giant icebox at sea.

Aye Mateys!


"Mutiny on the Icebox"

"We're going east! I've had enough of this! We're going east!"

I blink the sleep from my eyes. The sea spray has formed a thin layer of dried salt on my sunburned face and it crackles uncomfortably. The blazing sun momentarily blinds me and I have to shut my eyes again.

"East! East! East!" The voice flirts with madness.

I open my eyes and see a bearded man standing over me and pointing a shaking finger. For a moment, my scrambled mind thinks that we have been boarded by pirates, but the man has no eye patch, no parrot on his shoulder, and no blunderbuss at his side. It is only Tim.

"Calm down," I say.

"East! We have to go east!"

Our fishing boat was overturned in a storm and the only seaworthy vessel left in the wreckage was the icebox. It smells of fish and is just big enough enough for two people with a little legroom to spare. After Tim and I recovered from the freezing waters and returned some of the icebox's existing occupants to the sea, we decided that the best plan of action was to steer towards a buoy we saw in the distance. Tim remembered our boat passing it and since we were traveling east at the time, we surmised that we were going west. In the daytime, we were able to guide ourselves by the sun's position, but we didn't know how to read the stars at night, even as they shined so brightly.

"East!" He is still pointing at me.

Tim is normally very mild-mannered, but a week and a half stranded at sea can do things to a man, and I fear his mind has gone for a temporary sabbatical. The raw fish might not have helped either. I prop myself up, causing the icebox to shift. The water in our rain collectors sloshes around and Tim falls into a sitting position.

"East," he says, but with less conviction, his voice less excited.

"What is it, Tim?"

"We've been going west for days and we've seen nothing. Nothing. We need to change direction."

"Who knows where we are," I say. "We could be anywhere. We could have circled all the way back around during the night. Even if we're sure we've been going west, going east would just mean backtracking for a week and a half. Let's just wait, hope that the search and rescue crew will find us."

"We should go east," says Tim stubbornly.

"Fine," I say with a sigh. A week and a half stranded at sea can test friendships and I would rather placate him than hear him go on anymore.

The sun is still baking us straight overhead as he searches our panoramic view of the horizon.

"Which way is east?" he asks.

I go back to sleep, wondering how far Tim would have to slip into dementia before it was morally acceptable for me to throw him overboard.

One Man's Trash is Another Man's...

Dear Hip Hippopotamuses,

Here's one written after watching The Antiques Roadshow one day for way too long.


"Ceramic Stylings"

Sharon couldn't remember how long she had been watching Antiques Roadshow or how she even ended up on the channel. She was mesmerized by the multitude of people bringing their finds to appraisers, most coming out of it with the realization of being thousands of dollars richer. There was an old creaky dresser that was bought for twenty five dollars and worth two thousand because it was made in the 1920s by a rare furniture maker that made only twenty of that model. There was a man who spent two dollars on a box of coins and found out that one of them was worth five hundred because of an imperfection in its ridge.

Days later, the show still stayed with her. The promise of accidental wealth was too great a temptation. Sharon became one of the treasure-finding hopeful. She looked through her attic, prowled through garage and yard sales. Most people at the sales were just sniffing out deals or curious passersby, but she recognized the ones who were like herself. They methodically perused paintings, tea sets, plates, furniture, and anything else that looked old. They all looked like they were researching for investments. Some even brought notepads and calculators.

Even as a novice, most yard and garage sale items didn't pass her scrutiny. They were generally trivial knick-knacks that had no value other than sentimental. Sharon was about to give up when she happened upon one sale that was organized by a man who was clearing out the house of his recently deceased grandmother. A pair of glossy white ceramic kittens caught her eye in the middle of tables and tables of the old woman's lifetime of possessions.

The grandson came over when he saw her looking at the figurines.

"My grandma had those for as long as I can remember."

"They're beautiful," said Sharon.

"All this can be hard to part with, but I need to move them all pretty fast. I can give you a good price for that."

"I don't know. I'm really just looking."

"I can give them to you for ten. She used to collect anything and everything as you can see. You know, you might be able to get more for them later. I just don't have the time to check each one. It would take me well over a year."

"They do look pretty nice."

"Well, in her day, she used take anything she could get. Even if it was in horrible condition, she would take it and clean it up, refurbish it. She was always the relentless optimist," he said, smiling at the memory.

The cats were the most promising pieces Sharon had seen so far. She still didn't know what to make of them, but she haggled for a lower price and hoped that they might be worth something more down the line.

She made her purchase just in time for the Roadshow's stop in town. The event was swarming with people waiting for their appraisals, ready for the scrutiny. Some chattered excitedly to one another, describing their family treasures and bargain shopping gems. Some guarded their prized possessions closely. One woman in particular stared at Sharon suspiciously and clutched her rabbit etched plates to her chest, as if she would snatch them away.

It was four hours before she was seen and it wasn't in front of a camera. The appraiser had a bushy mustache that twitched when he spoke and thick brown glasses framing tired eyes.

"What do we have here today?"

Sharon presented the ceramic kittens.

"I see..." said the man, holding the white ceramic figurines in the air. He turned them this way and that, examining them with great care.

"May I ask how much you paid for these?"

"Five dollars," Sharon replied, her anticipation rising. Would she be one of the lucky ones? How much would they be worth? A hundred? Six thousand?

"Mm hmm, mm hmm. Would you be surprised to find out that these were made in China?"

"Oh really?" She was getting more excited now. She had thought she recognized an Asian influence in the design. Would that increase their value?

"And when would you guess that these were produced?"

"Well," she said, doing a little mental arithmetic, estimating the grandson's age and how old the cats had to be if they belonged to his grandmother. "The thirties maybe? "

"Not quite," the appraiser said. "It's probably closer to the nineties."

"1890s?" she said with a catch in her voice. She had secretly hoped they were older. She wondered what kind of history they had, what hands had touched them.

"No." There was a sense of finality in his voice.

She looked at him with a puzzled expression, so he flipped over one of the cats and showed her its white bottom that lacked the clean glossy finish the rest of the figurine possessed. He scratched the center with a fingernail. White pieces that might have been paint or correction fluid started flaking off to reveal three words: Made In China.

Broke and Super

Dear Salivating Salamanders,

Another one for your viewing pleasure.



"Mr. Extraordinary Needs a Job"

The failing economy is tough on everyone, even--as it turns out--superheroes. It's no problem for ones with trust funds who operate out of mansions, but your ordinary everyday super humans need money too. They need food. So, short of a super power for fasting or using their skills for ill-gotten money, even your most super of superheroes needs a job, and one that pays in cash, not public adulation. When practical skills are close to nil, the options become scarce.

It is for this reason that Wallace Fry now finds Captain Extraordinary sitting in his office interviewing for the utterly pedestrian position of security guard with Prime Security Associates. He is highly overqualified, but is behind on rent and they have good medical.

"So, Mr. Extraordinary," Fry says while perusing the resume, "why do you think you'll be an asset for us here at PSA?"

"I'm glad you asked. As you can see, I have extensive security-related experience."

"Uh huh."

Fry looks at the muscular man in front of him and then returns his attention to the listed work experience on the resume. It's short. It begins: "Hero, May 1997 to present." It then proceeds to list Captain Extraordinary's recent exploits.

"We're looking for people with good personal skills. Our employees are assigned to all sorts of companies and we have to be sure that any prospective hire can interact well with all types."

"Completely understand. I've worked with tons of people, usually the police. I'm good with kids too. There was a school bus incident a while back--"

"Right. I see that here. On the news too. What happened again? There was a runaway school bus?"

"A madman tampered with it. I had to deflect twelve oncoming cars before I could slow it down."

"But didn't you do that by throwing it into a lake? I remember seeing children crying on television."

"Yea," Captain Extraordinary says with a shrug, "I caught a lot of flack for that, but therapy never hurt anybody. At least they're safe."

"Sure. And this here about the militia compound?"

"They were holed up for two days before I got the call. Heavy arms fire. Kept the cops away every time they got close. I took care of it for them. Easy-peasy. As you can see, I am well-suited for this security gig."

"Well, our guards don't see that much action. To be honest with you, it can be pretty boring and we can't pay you much. In fact, half of them don't carry guns."

"No problem. I don't need one anyway. And being bored isn't an issue. To be honest with you also, I'm just looking for a paycheck." At that moment, his phone alerts him with a text message. He looks at it quickly. "Sorry, I'm gotta go. Duty calls."

Against his better judgment but imagining the publicity they could generate, Wallace says, "Mr. Extraordinary--may I call you Ken?" The muscle man nods. "Ken, I won't keep you. Why don't we set up another appointment and I'll try to get some other people to meet with you as well."

"Sounds great!" Captain Extraordinary flashes his front page smile.

"And Ken?"

"Yes?

"Maybe you should leave the tights at home next time."

Playing for Keeps

Dear Molting Monkeys,

I said I'd post some stories, so here's one of 'em. It's off of a prompt: someone's caught cheating at a poker game. This was my take on it.

Peace out!

"A Full House" By: Matt Mok

Fiona smoothed out her dress while she waited in the elevator. The interior was covered with mirrors into which she gazed pensively at her reflection while caressing her stomach. She would start to show soon, but for now, she looked ravishing and she knew it. She exited at the penthouse floor, walked down the corridor and up to the man in the pinstriped suit. He opened the door for her after she supplied the correct code word.

Heads turned and eyes stared upon her entrance. Three poker tables with ten seats each were set up in the center of the room and lit by a large crystal chandelier. The otherwise dimly lit room was adorned with supple Italian leather furniture and crimson silk drapes that climbed the tall, narrow windows. A lone woman in a throng of men, she strode across the room and slid into an unoccupied chair.

Fiona knew she wasn't the most skilled player there, but when it came to poker, skill didn't always determine the victor. She, for one, was in it to win. She felt pairs of wandering, skittish eyes catching glimpses of her, trying to pry off her slinky red dress. She smiled, confident in the effect she was having on the group. Hopefully it would last into the night, throwing off the competition's concentration.

She took the bank check out of her purse and placed it on the table. Admission here came with a high price. Spending so much money made her uneasy, but the baby was arriving in five months and the mortgage statements were piling up. And as she had often heard, you had to spend money to make money.

"Sam Kenner," said the man with greedy and eager eyes next to her, holding out his hand.

"Julie Madison," she said, shaking it. She flashed her best seductive smile, entranced him with her perfume. She gave him a quick once-over and could tell that he would be an easy man to manipulate and defeat--the sort who did the majority of his thinking below the waist.

"I haven't seen you here before."

"First timer," she lied, still armed with her warm and welcoming smile. "I don't even know what I'm doing here!" she added with a giggle. Men liked it when she giggled.

"It's good to see a new face."

"Any tips?" she asked, twirling a strand of her auburn hair.

"Full house beats a flush," he said.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm full of great ideas."

"I have a few of my own, too," she said, leaning in and placing her hand on his thigh.

"Fiona?!" called a voice from across the table.

"Fiona?" said the confused man beside her.

She quickly withdrew her hand and brought it to her mouth in surprise. "I'm sure I can explain..." she managed to say to the dealer who had arrived at the table just in time to witness her overt flirtations.

His name was Jason, a poor graduate student with a growing family for whom he was trying to provide for by secretly moonlighting as a poker dealer. He was also Fiona's husband.

The Meager Literary Resume

Dear Imaginary Readership,

Just reread my first post and I think I should reconsider posting without editing. Any-hoo, for more well-written prose, check out the links on the right for all my published work so far.

If seasoned editors accepted them, they can't be all bad, right? Right? Hello? [crickets]

I also have a few unpublished stories that I think are pretty good and I'm too tired to run through the submission circus anymore, so I might post those in the coming days.

Until next time. My pillow awaits.

The Long Slog of the Unpublished

I'm not really unpublished, in the technical sense that is. Sure, my writing has appeared in almost a dozen e-zines, online journals of various levels of prestige. And I am proud of them. Without a doubt. There is nothing like getting an acceptance amidst the slush pile or rejection emails. Especially the first one. Your breath catches. Someone, an editor no less!, likes your work and will publish you in their next issue.

It feels a need for a writer, this affirmation. You feel validated that yes, something thinks you can craft a story together when sometimes you want to pull your hair out because the words don't seem to come out right. You're not a failure!

And even though most electronic publications don't pay much, if at all, the five dollars I've made so far (which was donated back to the website) feels good. But there is a hope, a hope that maybe you might see your name in black and white...on paper. Maybe a magazine at first. Or a short story anthology. It's more difficult to get your story in print; you can publish as much as you want in an online publication, but there is only so much blank space in a print issue.

And then maybe a novel? Stories and plot points fill up an ever expanding notepad, many of which will never see the page of a manuscript because the thought of writing anything longer than a couple thousand words feels too daunting. If only I can think a novel into existence. I do have it all in my head after all. No one is more surprised than myself that I have one novel in an early draft. But it will take a while longer before it has a whisper of a prayer of being published. It's too short. The plot needs work. I need to reject my impulse to hate it. And then I need representation, which is possible if someone deems me competent enough to represent. Then the novel gets shopped, and by then I expect I'd probably need several in some completed format for this purpose.

Such is the road. Many start it but never finish. Of the ones that do, their novels don't make any money, so I can forget about quitting my day job.

But it's still there, this long slog, waiting to be undertaken. I just hope I have the right footwear for it.

Persevere!