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!