The mark of a professional writer, is they know the genre of their story and the arc it will take. At least that is what Shawn Coyne says in his book “The Story Grid.” Coyne probably knows something about this because as an editor he has looked at enough fiction to determine if it is a finished and publishable novel. He created the Story Grid as a way to weed out the scenes that just…
The basement was full of shadows and it took a second for my eyes to adjust. The diamond pattern in my new contacts flashed golden sparks in my eyes. Through the glitter, I could see Dan’s outline on the table where I had left him.
I received some good news today regarding my contribution to Letters Never Meant to be Read Vol. III. The book is now LIVE on Amazon in paperback and Kindle. Very exciting stuff to find yourself published in an anthology. I wrote my letter a while ago and it was picked up for inclusion in the book. Have you ever wanted to write a letter to that guy or gal you brushed up against on the train? How about…
Sally took longer than she needed to pour the coffee. I’m sure glad everyone could gather at their usual breakfast spot as if nothing had happened. Assholes. In my present state, I felt like someone made me suck on an exhaust pipe all night long. And my brother Dan, the weatherman, was dead. Not that anyone around here seemed to care that he lay below them in the basement.
Preacher Ashton delivered the scripture from Isaiah in a hushed whisper and ended it with a thunder clap. Mom shook her head in agreement while I hung on every word. Aunt Margaret said the preacher was smooth as silk, but I just thought he spoke from the heart.
The sun slowly filled the room with light. He stretched, yawned, and viewed the yard through the window. On the street young moms hugged their children and then sent them up the bus ramp. The bus ramp! No, no, no! He fumbled around for his glasses and grabbed his watch. He laid back on the pillow and vented. Overslept again!
The bees found the red nectar first sucking their fill from the tin flowers. The ruby-throated hummingbird flitted from one tin to the other seeking an opening. The turbulence from his wings opened up a slot. He dove in taking his turn until the bees came back.