The young lass Weathersby,
Reared a rake lecher
The boy gained infamy,
As a cruel corrupter
Each conniving victory,
Sent his renown farther
‘Til the repeated story,
Hit the ears of a roamer
She vowed utter destruction,
To get his goat superbly
Leaving the boy’s seduction,
An act even he would decry
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 to weed out the scenes that just didn’t meet the…
Hot breath touched her neck and she sidestepped left running hard until the sweet smell of rotting flesh faded. She landed in a hole and pulled leaves over her. She waited. The sweet smell drifted again to her nose. She stopped breathing and listened. Warm drool fell on her head. She drew into the hole and stifled a scream. Now the sweet smell was gone. She sat listening. No sounds. She waited still before peeking…
This is a short story about a group of people at a settlement conference: a sort of preliminary attempt to close out a lawsuit before a trial. Most of the settlement’s are managed by previous judges, so they know what will fly in front of a jury, and what won’t fly.