InkSpotter News

Information and Support for Creative Writers

 Published by InkSpotter Writing & Editing

Volume 2.08                October 2004

Advertise your writing-related product or service in the next issue of InkSpotter News.

In This Issue

Editorial

Bookmarks

Feature Article

Paying Markets

Pen & Ink

Contests

Book Review

Literary Lapse

Bragging Rights

Letters to the Editor

Editorial

The Hornet at the Door

I've been afraid most of my life.

As a little girl, I feared bees, wasps, and hornets because I saw my baby sister get swarmed. Snakes terrified me because one had the audacity to look at me through tall grass. I hated to walk alone because I might meet someone coming the other way. People scared me because they were, well, people.

Needless to say, I grew up shy, timid, and painfully introverted. The endless rules of home and school stifled me, but I hadn't the courage to openly defy anyone.

My fears and shyness followed me into adulthood, as did my distaste for authority. By junior high, I knew enough of the working world to realize that I didn't want to get stuck in a nine-to-five cycle of misery. I would start my own company, be my own boss, and love every minute of every day.

Instead, I've spent 20 years bent over a corporate desk. Good money and benefits have coaxed me along toward the finish line--full pension after just 12 more years of the same uninspiring work. Fear had led me to the security of corporate life, and fear had kept me from leaving. 

Fear kept me from taking chances and making a real effort to BE a writer. The real world seemed too chaotic, too unreliable. What if I couldn't make it on my own? What if I wasn't talented or determined enough?

Even the greatest fear loses its strength over time, while the will to change grows ever stronger. In the summer of 2001, I took a leave of absence for a temporary job with a smaller company. No guarantees. No promises. Just a rare opportunity to write, edit, and design all day while making the highest salary of my life.

Along came 9/11, and the world turned upside down. Time seemed a lot more finite suddenly, and dreams far more precious. I wasn't going to keep wasting either of them.

Fear became secondary. With unfamiliar determination, I promoted myself as a freelance writer/editor and submitted my creative works to magazines across North America. Things started to happen. I won writing awards. I picked up freelance contracts. I got published!

The temporary job stayed just that--temporary--so I ended my leave of absence and went back to the safety of corporate life. I regretted that decision for the longest time. The same old desk waited for me, albeit in a different department. The same old drudgery persisted. But at least I had my writing career to keep me going. That would have to be enough.

Six months ago, the corporation created a new department--the Regional Sign Shop--and saw fit to appoint me to one of two new positions. Why? Because the manager knew of my outside work and recognized the contribution I could make.

Now, waiting for retirement doesn't seem like such an arduous task. Heck, I might even stay a few years longer than necessary.

What a difference a few years can make. By taking a few chances, I get to create all day then go home and create some more. I'm sometimes stressed and often exhausted, but I've never been so happy.

For the first time in my life, I'm not scared. Today, I opened a door despite the hornet that crawled beside the handle.

Betty Dobson, Publisher/Editor

Bookmarks

Each issue, I use this space to share my personal writing-related successes from the past month. 
With any luck, I'll never run out of material.

• "Keeping a Journal"

• "Brady Magazine: Interview with the Editor"

• "Post-1901 Census Project, Part 1 of 3"

• "Post-1901 Census Project, Part 2 of 3"

• "Post-1901 Census Project, Part 3 of 3"

Feature Article  

On the Short Supply of Super-Heroes
From Collected Essays
by W. A. Rieser

Comic book as a name is a bit of a misnomer because it is not really meant to be a book as we normally use the term and they are often not humorous, unless you consider the premise of their plots to be deliberately funny. Super-hero, too, is an amorphous term that defies ready definition because there doesn’t seem to be a way to classify individual progenitors as such and relate them to others. The one thing they do have in common is fantasy, the dream works of their authors that, on occasion, branch out into science fiction and other genres. More often than not, in trying to embellish their tales, these writers dabble with profound themes, provocative enough to make them memorable and lasting.

Four such super-heroes have established themselves as unique, even monumental, and though other writers have attempted thousands of variations, none have equalled the pure fascination that these “action figures” have given us. One, Superman, or Kal-el, is not even a human being, but a refugee from Krypton, though we grant him hero status because he was raised here beyond his control. Also, his drama is the most elaborate and well developed of them all, and we find ourselves identifying with his problems and cheering his solutions. His foreign powers notwithstanding, Superman’s many quests against evil forces touch a raw nerve in all of us, for who has not dreamed about quashing terrible things with overpowering wit and strength? And who has not dwelled on the fact that his ingenious authors placed him in Metropolis in a news agency where he could readily have access to world events?

Second is Batman, another well developed hero with an implausible, but this time possible scenario. As the protector of Gotham, he roams its streets and alleys at the behest of the police commissioner, accompanied by his faithful companion Robin, reminiscent of the Lone Ranger and Tonto or the Cisco Kid and Pancho. They do not possess superhuman qualities, but are conditioned athletes who possess enough wealth to purchase the ultimate devices to use against evildoers. This time, the author allows his creation to wield a kind of fear in the minds of his opponents as a giant bat who insists upon meting out justice against fiends.

Both legends must face a torrent of insidious, calculating opposition and in some cases even team together. The enemies are varied and imaginative, not altogether unlike the scourges they represent from reality. And both qualify as legitimate super-hero material because of the numerous attempts by film and television to portray them.

Third on the list is a less carefully worked out fellow, Spider-Man, who also battles against those he considers malevolent by utilizing his superior athleticism and some incredulous web designs. He qualifies because of his longevity and Hollywood, though his story is less poignant and acceptable than the others. Still, the thought of a human spider, like the bat, watching over the schemes of the wicked is intriguing and far more believable than things like Plastic Man, Spawn and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Fourth and finally is a caricature who makes the list primarily because of his strangeness and longevity--the Phantom, a creature who follows in his father’s footsteps. Here we have a fellow who is deliberately kept mysterious throughout his long saga. We are teased with tantalizing tidbits about his origins but never told a complete story. Yet, he too fights for what is right, according to his author’s conception and like the others, always finds a way to succeed else the series would end. Unlike the other heroes, much of this drama is left to the imagination of the reader.

I am considering a fifth possibility, Tarzan, but unsure since he limits himself to a small area in the jungle and rarely confronts civilization unless it encroaches upon him.

When I was young, these names predominated all others. Looking at today’s sellers of comics, there is little to recommend them compared to the above, though the producers of such diluted and less colourful characters as the X-Men try very hard to brainwash young minds with what they think of as comparable. They are not. Of course, comics, unlike most books, take advantage, especially nowadays, of graphic imagery and have been given new life by the computer possibilities. I am in hopes that there are still writers among you who can conceive a super-hero to match what has come before and even exceed them. But, I doubt it.  

#

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: William Alan Rieser, B.A., M.A., has had careers in teaching, conducting, composing, performing music, umpiring, electronics, supervising and finally writing in his retirement. He is now a professional editor and has published 16 novels and hundreds of shorts and articles.

Collected Essays

Book-in-a-Week

Online writing group that comes together once a month to set goals and write. During BIW, writers write as much as they can and post their daily totals to the list.

Linear Reflections

Within our virtual pages you will find comprehensive reviews of as many of the world's art forms as possible. Our staff works hard to bring you a mixture of reviews - on music, literature, art, movies, stage, concerts and even video games. Our reviews are not only for adults, but also for the kid in everyone. Come visit us at:   and sign up for our FREE newsletter. If you have something you'd like to submit, or are interested in reviewing, please contact us.

Paying Markets

Face your fears, or make other people face theirs. The choice is yours. These markets are just a sampling of what's available for the avid horror writer. 

Cemetery Dance Magazine - Publishes horror, dark mystery, and suspense. Prefers "creepy, chilling, disturbing, and moody" tales.

Reading Period: Open

Editor-in-Chief: Richard Chizmar
Address: P.O. Box 623, Forest Hill, MD 21050

Length: Up to 5,000 words

Rights: Revert to author upon publication

Pays: Three to four cents per word (maximum $150) plus two contributor copies

Daikaiju! Giant Monster Tales - Seeks original tales of giant monsters in the tradition of Godzilla and Mothra. No previously copyrighted characters allowed.

Deadline: November 30, 2004

Editors: Robert Hood & Robin Pen
Address: Agog! Press, Daikaiju Anthology, PO Box U302, University of Wollongong, NSW 2522, Australia
Email: daikaiju@roberthood.net

Length: 12,000 words or less

Rights: First publication rights

Pays: $30

Deathgrip: Exit Laughing - Looking for stories that take a humorous approach to various genres, including horror, suspense, thriller, and more.

Deadline: December 31, 2004

Editor: Walt Hicks
Email: wwhicks@exitthelight.com

Length: 2,000 to 5,000 words

Rights: First rights (no reprints)

Pays: Three cents per word plus one contributor copy

FNASR - First North American Serial Rights.

Before submitting your work to any publication, be sure to read their writers' guidelines.

Want links to paying Canadian markets?

Pen & Ink 

William Rieser (a.k.a. Penumbra) joins yours truly (a.k.a. InkSpotter) to form the team "Pen & Ink." Each month, we'll feature poetry and prose from The Writers Association's growing list of anthologies.

This month's selections--"Counting Down the Days" by Kevin Toal and "She" by Ben Cooper--were published in The Artist Tree, currently available from Lulu Books.

Counting Down the Days
by Kevin Toal

Richard Trebor's face grew increasingly morose as he sipped at the pint of cold beer. His eyes, artificially blued by contact lenses, scanned the bar over the rim of the glass. Occasionally his gaze rested on a patron for a few moments and then moved on. Every now and then he turned his attention to a large screen television set suspended from the ceiling by thick metal supports. 

"Narcissist," I told him. 

He gave a wan smile, placed his glass down on the table and tapped on it. Comprehension was slow in coming but, after a second tap and a slight nod of his head, I realized that Richard expected me to top up his drink.

With an exaggerated servility, I lifted the pitcher and obliged my old friend.

A minor role on Canadian TV and Richard morphs into a pampered star, I thought without rancour.

"It's begun," he said. Richard raised his replenished glass, drinking slowly, as he peered at the television set.

I waited for him to elaborate. One of his worst habits was the use of cryptic comments. I refused to chase after the meaning. At least I knew he couldn't have meant the television show. The hour-long crime drama was nearly over. Richard's part, that of a witness, had come and gone well before the second commercial break.

Finally, heaving an exaggerated thespian sigh, Richard fixed me with his best penetrating stare. It came across as though he had smelled something rotten.

"Remember the story of Dorian Gray?" Richard asked.

"I'm not without some education," I replied.

"I feel like Dorian," Richard said. "The difference is it's all backwards."

"What do you mean?"

"That image of me," he said pointing at the television. "I'm captured on film. That two-dimensional replica won't age. No matter what happens to me now, that won't ever change. A moment in my life has been captured."

"And you find that depressing?" I asked.

"It's only just hit me what it means," he said in a miserable tone.

"What's that?"

"You've got favourite actors," he stated.

"Of course," I agreed.

"How they looked in a movie ten years ago is not how they look today," he said.

I nodded, beginning to see where he was headed.

"The filmed image remains untouched, while the person has aged; sometimes drastically so," he said. "That's what I mean. My portrait is now hanging in a celluloid gallery—frozen in time."

"I still don't see what's so bad about that," I admitted. "What's wrong with having a record of how you were?"

"It's so terribly sad," he said. "I can't help but think of the many actors I've idolized over the years. Many of them had careers before my parents were even born. Now they're ancient—dead. I find it hard to reconcile the fact that Audrey Hepburn—the epitome of class—is no longer alive when I can watch Two for the Road and see her as a maturing woman. It's jarring to change channels and see Clint Eastwood go from Dirty Harry to playing the part of an arthritic astronaut. You see, movies have become a constant reminder of the brevity of life."

"Maybe so,” I agreed. “But they can also serve to celebrate life. Audrey Hepburn, even though she may be gone in body, is still available. We can see her whenever we choose. She’s not gone.”

There was a long silence after Richard listened to my argument. He appeared to be continuing the debate in his mind, clearly taking on both roles. Then he slowly shook his head. 

"No," he said. "It won't do."

"Why not?"

“They don’t celebrate life,” he replied. “They’re harbingers of death.”

"That's rather pretentious."

"True nonetheless.”

"Explain," I said.  

"Every year a new batch of stars die of old age, drugs, cancer, accidents, or who knows what else. When that happens, we're treated to obituaries and a special biography on A&E. It's not just the star's history that gets trotted out. Our history is replayed in our minds. We're reminded of events in our own lives that happened to intersect with important episodes in the celebrity's past. Suddenly, we're forced to realize just how much time has elapsed. We become that much more aware that our days are not forever. The count down becomes that much louder."

"Tripe," I insisted. "Pure unmitigated cods wallop, as my mom used to say. I'll agree that, as kids, we start out with a bunch of heroes. I'll also agree that many pass away as we get older. But it's not finite, we don't have to listen to a 'count down'."

"Go on,” Richard said.

"Certain celebrities offer us illusions, things to dream about, right?”

Richard signalled to the waitress for another pitcher. "Right," he agreed.

"In that respect, they're like a Christmas tree; they help to convey an illusion. Celebrities are real but what they offer us is dreams. Just as the Christmas tree helps conjure up a vision of Santa Claus and waiting presents, so too our idols create images of lives few will ever lead."

"So?"

"Every year millions of trees are cut down to provide the fuel for childhood fantasies,” I explained. “And every year new trees are planted to ensure future dreams.”

"What are you saying?" He looked at me with the same intensity he reserved for under-studying important roles. 

Briefly, I considered if he was serious, or if our discussion was part of trolling for emotions to be used at a later date. Not that it mattered; I loved debate as much as he loved attention.

"There's no law stating that we can't continue to find new people to look up to; to admire," I continued. "It doesn't have to be a countdown. We can keep adding time to the clock."

The waitress, exhibiting perfect timing. brought a fresh pitcher and removed the old one.

"We still die," Richard said.

"Yes, but it's how we get to the end that matters," I told him. "You can spend your days ticking them off, or worrying about Oscar Wilde, but I refuse. I plan to leave the world still dreaming."

At this, Richard brightened slightly. “Yes,” he said. “Superb.” With an imperious air, he nodded at his empty glass.

Think Outside the Square

Award-Winning Author Tells All - Learn Her Coveted Secrets - Write Short Stories AND Get Them Published

PromoBeats

Word Museum's monthly newsletter for published authors serious about promotion.

INSIDE EACH ISSUE:

• Two feature articles on promotion.

• An interview where you can learn the promotion secrets of a published author.

• Hot Promo Tips.

PromoBeats Newsletter is available for $6.99 per year (that's less than 60¢ a month).

FundsforWriters Annual Essay Contest

Theme: Your Hurdle, Your Success. 500-1000 words in essay form. Deadline October 31, 2004. Two categories open to applicants. $5 entry fee makes entrant eligible for the $100 first prize. No entry fee makes entrant eligible for the $50 first prize. Second prize is a $25 gift certificate at CoolStuff4Writers.com and third prize is a TOTAL FundsforWriters subscription valued at $12. Each category has a second and a third prize. First and second place winners posted on the FundsforWriters website beginning December 1, 2004.

Worldwide Freelance Writer

Freelance markets from all over the world.

The Artist Tree

She
by Ben Cooper

She peers down at me through nuclear eye-sockets.
The soot on her face smudges as she applies her kerosene lipstick.
I've never known what to say to her. This time is no different.
As she combs her hair with the fog from her smoke-stack fingers, 
she says to me:
"You're a dying breed, you know."
I look down at my arms. They are covered in bark that is beginning to blacken and rot.
"I know," I say, while sap drips from my teeth. "I've known it for a long time now."
She smiles suddenly, and I believe I see sympathy in her eyes...or perhaps it's just the radiation.
"No sense in fighting a fight you can't win," she says, then offers me a cigarette.
I take it and it helps. I can hardly feel myself being cut in two.

Contests 

Are you scared yet? Too scared to write?

I hope not, because we have a few more venues for you to try--if you're feeling brave enough! 

Deathlings.com "Family Values" Contest - An online journal of dark fiction that collects entries exclusively through its themed contests.

Deadline: June 1, 2005
Length: No more than 4,000 words

Entry Fee: None

Rights: First Worldwide Electronic Rights, 90-day exclusivity after publication
Pays: Three cents per word

Dark Tales Autumn 04 Short Story Competition - description 

Deadline: November 26, 2004
Length: No longer than 2,500 words

Entry Fee: £3.00 per story for non-subscribers and £1.50 per story for subscribers

1st Prize: £100
2nd Prize: £30
3rd Prize: £20
Other short-listed and published entrants: £5

Firebrand Fiction/SFReader.com Story Contest

Deadline: December 31, 2004
Length: 1,000 to 6,000 words

Entry Fee: None

Rights: First Electronic Rights

1st Place: $200.00, publication & author interview
2nd Place: $100.00 and publication
3nd Place: $50.00 and publication

What's it all worth? Check out The Universal Currency Converter.

Book Review 

Childhood: It Should Not Hurt! by Claire R. Reeves, C.C.D.C.
ISBN: 0974304808

Published August 2003 by LTI Publishing

Reviewed by Betty Dobson

Forget about monsters. Forget about ghosts. You can even forget about the spiders crawling all over this month's newsletter.

The most frightening book I've read in years has to be Childhood: It Should Not Hurt!

Claire Reeves recounts true stories of incest and childhood sexual abuse and uncovers some of the myths and unsettling truths surrounding the issue. 

Do you think you could "spot" an abuser? Read this book then ask yourself again. You probably already know at least one abuser--and at least one victim.

Reeves may not be a great writer, but when she writes about incest and childhood sexual abuse, you feel every ounce of her passion and compassion.

Pencil Point Rating
(five pencils being best)

Literary Lapse

Literary Lapse is a prompt-based mailing list. Members receive weekly writing prompts and are encouraged to share their work with the rest of the list and give each other feedback.

Once a month, I select my favourite story, essay or poem for publication and pay the winner $5 (US funds).

The Prompt

The final season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer included an terrific episode titled "Conversations with Dead People." The story involved the series' typical blend of humour, horror and drama. Use the title as your jumping off point and see where it takes you.

The Winner

Congratulations to Kevin Craig of Ontario for his thought-provoking tale "Losing Trig."

 Losing Trig
by Kevin Craig

The doorbell rang. I knew it would be Trig's mom. I waited for my mother to answer it, and for all hell to break loose.

"That boy is coming to my son's funeral and you are not going to stop him!" I heard Mrs. Caine say.

I turned to Trig and shook my head. "This is going to get ugly."

From the corner of his twisted mouth came a gurgle. "You don't know my mother, Billy. You'll be coming to the funeral!"

"Be quiet. I want to hear this." I said, craning my neck to hear the argument downstairs.

"You can't tell me what my own son's…"

"I can and I will. Move!"

"Listen here…"

"Where is he?  Billy?  Billy?"

I stayed where I was, sitting on the top stair with my head in my hands. I could hear Mrs. Caine stomping through the downstairs hall and into the living room.

"Billy!" she called.

"You better answer her, Billy," Trig teased, brushing a hanging flap of skin out of his eyes to give me a knowing look. "She's only gonna get louder until you do."

"Just shut up, Trig. Why are you even here."

From downstairs my mother began to plead. "Look. Please. He's too upset. I know what's good for him. He can't…"

"Sit down. You don't know. I'm not here to have a conversation with you. I'm here to take him to Matt's funeral. He needs to be there. I need him to be there." There was a slight tremor in her voice now.

"I'm up here, Mrs. Caine." I said, not wanting the argument to escalate. Trig winked at me and gave me a thumbs up. Seconds later I heard her footsteps on the stairs.

"Billy," she said as she approached. She wore a plain black dress that just covered her knees. It didn't have a single distinguishing feature…it was just a sheet of black. I had never seen her without her bright glossy pink lipstick before, either. "Come on. Let's…oh my God, Billy! What's happened to your lip?"

The gouge I made in my lip on the day Trig had jumped had only gotten worse. I'd been biting at my bottom lip for three days. Every time it would begin to heal, I would bite it again and it would bleed anew. I could now feel the trickle of blood on my chin.

Mrs. Caine opened the black handbag she carried, took out a Kleenex and dabbed it gently to the open sore on my lip. "Let's get you to the bathroom. We have to clean this up."

From behind Mrs. Caine, Trig laughed and pretended to daub at his own tattered lip with the corner of his sleeve.

I could hear my mother pacing at the bottom of the stairs. I was surprised that she hadn't followed Mrs. Caine.

I stood up and Mrs. Caine put her arm around my shoulder. We walked to the bathroom together. My legs were shaky, and each of my movements unsure. I noticed that Trig followed us.

"I need a facecloth," she said as she turned on the cold-water tap. I passed her one from under the sink. She held it under the water.

She took my chin in her hands and we faced each other. Something about the look on her face made me start to cry again. It was a motherly look; the look of a woman who was about to dab her fingers to her tongue and wipe away a trace of dirt on the cheek of her child. It made me miss my own mother. My eyes filled with tears and I attempted to wipe them away.

"You can cry if you want, Billy," she said. "It's okay. You've been through so much, sweetie." She took my head in an embrace; in the same way she had done back at the overpass when I had been so afraid that she was going to attack me. I breathed deeply the peppery fragrance of her perfume and succumbed to my hitching and sobbing as she held me.

"You're a putz!" Trig scowled. "A complete moron. Get over it, baby boy."

I pretended not to hear him.

For an eternity I let myself cry as this newly childless woman held me close and rocked me back and forth. I finally pulled away, trying to control my sobbing long enough to say the words that were burning in my throat.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I tried to stop him…"

"Billy. It's not your…"

"I thought he was only kidding. Then, when I reached out it was too…it happened so fast…" I was screaming out some words and struggling to get others out. She hugged me close again and I cried into her shoulder, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Waaa waaa waaa," Trig mocked from behind his mother.

I could feel Mrs. Caine's embrace tightening but somehow knew her strength was ebbing. I had to stop myself and get control, but I didn't know how to rein myself in.

"Oh baby. I know it's not your fault. It's okay, Billy." She was crying now. "Look at us. We have to get ready." She wiped my whole face with the cold facecloth and held it to my eyes. I felt a familiar ache welling up in the pit of my stomach…an explosion of monarchs. I couldn't quite place its origin. Then I recognized it as a yearning ache to be home. And yet I was.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement from behind Trig. My mother was standing behind us in the doorway.

"Oh God, Billy," she said. "What am I doing?" I floated from Mrs. Caine to my mother's open arms.

"Mom…"

Trig held his palms to his cheeks in mock surprise. "Oh. The whole pity party is here now. How sweet!"

When her arms enfolded me the monarchs burst from my stomach and I felt like I was home for the first time since my father had left us. It felt as though the missing piece of my mother was finally slipping back into place. I wanted to hold on forever.

"I'll bring him along in a little while," my mother said to Mrs. Caine as she continued to hold me. "You go. You should go now. I'm so sorry for adding to your burden…"

"I understand. I'm sorry I barged in like that. Just promise me you'll bring him. Billy needs to be there…"

"Yes. I promise," my mom hugged me tighter and kissed my forehead.

"Okay then." But Mrs. Caine didn't look completely convinced. "I really should go. I have to get the music to the director. Thank you for helping me pick out the songs, Billy. Matt would be so happy to know you were involved in…" she stopped and began to cry again. "I can do this. I can do this." She looked in the mirror, straightened herself out and turned back to my mother with an expectant look on her face.

Finally emotion clouded Trig's cocky exterior. His face pulled tight with the realization of what his mother was going through.

"It's okay," I said to Trig, holding his gaze for several seconds. Trig's mother took the gesture as if directed at her.

"Billy will be there in twenty minutes. I promise."

"Thanks Bev." She patted my flattened Mohawk and let her hand caress the side of my face before removing it. "I will see you there, sweetie." She turned and walked away.

"I have to get ready, Billy! I'm a mess." My mother said, turning to leave.

I grabbed her arm and she turned to face me. I thought, Don't leave me here with him! But I said, "Thanks Mom." I was relieved to finally have her back. She hugged me quickly and ran off to get dressed.

Before leaving the bathroom I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked older and tired. I hadn't slept for days. Every time I closed my eyes I relived Trig's fall.

Trig was nowhere to be seen in the reflection, even though he stood at my side pretending to primp in the mirror. "You're crazy," I said. "Even when you're dead."

"I'm not the one talking to the dead."

"Conversations with the dead have always been my thing," I replied, turning back to my reflection. For the first time ever I saw my Mohawk as something ridiculous. It looked like a dead blackbird had sprawled across the top of my otherwise bald head. I was glad for the peach fuzz growth on the sides, though. I found myself thinking it was time to grow it out.

I picked up the facecloth Mrs. Caine had left on the edge of the sink and held it under the still-running water. Putting it to my face felt so good. I wanted to lay down on the cold bathroom tiles with that cold cloth on my face and go to sleep forever.

"Okay, Billy," my Mom said, surprising me out of my reverie. "I'm as ready as I'm going to be. Get your suit out. I'm sure it's still fine. You hung it in your closet after your father's funeral, didn't you?"

She was being so strong. It was unsettling. I wasn't prepared for such a drastic change.

"Um."

"Come on, Billy," she said, as Trig scooched up onto the counter beside her. "Go get dressed. Get that facecloth off your face and get moving."

"Okay Mom," I said, removing the facecloth and looking at my transformed mother with the guarded relief of a boy who knows he's in trouble for getting lost but is, at the same time, happy to have spotted his mother's panicked face in the crowded shopping mall.

"Don't just stand there," she said. "Go." I left her and Trig in the bathroom.

I dressed as quickly as I could in the suit Annie had picked out for my father's funeral. As I buttoned up my crisp white dress shirt I remembered the way Annie had stood behind me as I faced the mirror, and how perfectly she knotted my tie. During that period between my father's death and his funeral I had realized just how unalike Annie and I had been. I knew as she was knotting my tie that we would never be together again. She had been way too good for me. She was this blossoming piece of perfection and I was still stumbling around in my own stubborn darkness.

"Let's go, Billy," my mother hollered from the bathroom. "Let's go. I have to do something with that hair of yours too."

"It's fine, Mom," I said as I bounded out of my bedroom with my tie in hand. "But I need help with this tie."

She was facing the mirror, applying lipstick, eyes squinted and lips puckered. Trig stood beside her, pantomiming her every move. She closed her lipstick, smacked her lips together and looked at me.

"Billy," she said. "You're so handsome." Trig mouthed every word in perfect unison. I tried not to notice. "Your features are just like your father's. I'll never understand why you would want to look so ugly with that hair and those hideous holes in your head."

"Oh, don't start, Mom, please. I took the chain off."

"I won't. I'm not. I'm just saying. Seeing you there in that suit makes me remember what you're going to look like as a man. You're going to knock them dead, Billy."

"You're embarrassing me. Can you please just knot my tie?  I don't know how." I held the tie out in my outstretched hand and she put her lipstick down and took it.

"Here. Get in here and face the mirror."

"Why does everybody always do it like this?" I said as I stepped in between her and the counter. Trig stepped back and watched quietly.

"Humph. I don't know? It's just how I know how to do it." She put the tie around my neck, hiked up my shirt collar and began to knot it as aptly as Annie had done so long ago. Suddenly everything was making me want to cry.

"What's wrong?" she said, looking at my reflection.

"He's a big fat baby!" Trig shouted, laughing. I ignored him.

"I was just remembering Annie."

"She was a very sweet girl, Billy," my Mom said. "Whatever happened to her?"

"Me, I guess."

"Seems to me you're not so bad, Mister. There." She removed her hands and I looked at the perfect knot, amazed that anybody could knot a tie.

"Thanks Mom," I said. "And thanks for letting me go to Trig's funeral too."

"Billy. There must have been something wrong with me to think that you shouldn't be there. Seeing his mother with you, seeing how tender she was being when I was being anything but helpful…I don't know what's gotten into me lately…"

"It's okay Mom. Let's not talk about it right now, though."

She patted my strip of hair, smiled and left the room. "I suppose you're right." She started for the stairs, leaving me in the bathroom with Trig.

I looked at my reflection and smiled at myself in a suit. I looked like a fish out of water. Playing with my hair, I held it aloft to see what I would look like with my spikes. It wasn't a pretty sight. I opted with shaking the long strip out so that it hung loosely about my head, clinging haphazardly to the peach fuzz growth on the sides.

But as I was about to leave the bathroom I had an idea. I reached for the drawer, opened it, and found the electric razor there. I held it in my hand, thinking about all that I had lost. I wanted to start over, to go back to the beginning and hold everybody close so they couldn't fade away.

I plugged it in and turned it on. It vibrated in my hand, tickling my palm.

"What the hell are you doing?" Trig asked from his newly found seat on the edge of the bathtub.

"Never mind." I clicked the button on the side that snapped open the beard trimmer. I then held my hair up and worked the trimmer into the roots of my Mohawk, moving at first slowly, but then with reckless abandon. I watched as long strands of black and cherry-red fell from my hands to the countertop, and into the sink.

I was soon looking at myself with a newly shaved head and for the first time ever I could actually see my father's face peeking through. I clicked the razor off and left it on the counter with the scattered remains of my Mohawk.

"Well," I asked, smiling. "What'd you think?"

"I think you're going soft in the head. You had the best Mohawk, Billy. You should not have done that. After you forget me you'll be pissed you did that."

"I'm not gonna forget you Trig, but I didn't do it for you anyway."

"Yeah whatever."

I went to my bedroom, picked up my suit jacket from my bed, put it on and ran to the stairs. Trig stayed where he was in the bathroom.

"Aren't you coming?" I asked.

"I'm already there, moron," Trig said, his smile revealing the mealy muscle of his open cheeks.

"Why are you here, Trig?" I asked. "Where do you go from here?"

"I don't know. Maybe I get to hang around with you for all eternity. God's a sick bastard if he thinks this is heaven!"

"Very funny!" I said. "I'm gonna miss us, Trig. I don't know why you had to do it?"

"It's done now, Billy." He looked sadder than he had ever looked when he was alive.

"See ya, Trig," I said as I started down the stairs.

"See you, Billy Boy."

"Oh my God!" my mother said as I reached the bottom of the stairs. She held the door open and I went outside, saying nothing, feeling the coolness of spring air on my head.

In the car we remained quiet. The monarchs that had earlier left my stomach were now regrouping. I didn't know if I could go through with the funeral that I had fought so hard to get to. I would be seeing everybody for the first time since Trig's death. They would all want to talk to me, and ask me what it was like. I was already reliving the nightmare every time I closed my eyes. I didn't want to relive it in the light of day, over his closed casket.

"We're almost there," my mother said into the silence of the car. I tapped on the dashboard to the absence of music.

"I'm scared," I said. I felt a knot in my throat, working its way up my windpipe. I didn't want to cry yet. I knew the afternoon would be filled with tears. I wanted to hold off as long as I could. But the closer we got to the funeral home the harder it was to remain calm. It felt like rats were scratching around inside my head and I just wanted to scream for everything to stop.

My mother glanced quickly over to me, said, "Me too," and put her eyes back to the road. She let her right hand fall from the steering wheel and rest on the seat between us.

I took hold of it and squeezed.

"I miss him, Mom."

"I know you do, hunny." She returned my squeeze. "He was one of your best friends. He's okay now…"

"I mean Dad. I miss Dad."

"Oh. I know you do, Billy. And so do I. I miss him every day. He was a good man, Billy. Don't ever forget that."

A single tear welled up and slipped down my cheek. I didn't curse it, but welcomed it. We drove on in silence.

Soon we were pulling into the parking lot of the funeral home. Every available spot in the lot was taken and cars were double parking behind other cars.

A tall bald man in a black suit and shiny shoes that glinted in the sun waved us to a stop. My mother rolled down her window.

"If you would like to get out here, I could park your car for you and leave the keys at the reception desk. We have to squeeze a few extra cars in today." He smiled. It was not a happy smile, but one of practiced solemnity.

"Sure. Let me just get my purse and I'll…" She looked into the backseat. "I forgot my purse. I can't believe…"

"Mom. Don't worry about it. Let's just get out. There are cars behind us."

"You're right. It doesn't matter."

We stepped out of the car and my mother moved aside as the man got in, closed the door and drove away to the back of the lot.

I stood in the overcrowded parking lot, sticking close to my mother like a wounded bird, looking around for familiar faces, but at the same time not wanting to be noticed. I felt like a spotlight was on me though, like everybody would be trying to catch a glimpse of the boy who was with Trig when he died.

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Christmas Short Story Contest

Entry Fee: $5 per story, unlimited submissions

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Winner receives:

• 70% of entry fees (minus Paypal's deduction)
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Deadline: December 5, 2004.

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It is a book written from the heart with information and emotions gathered from writers and readers of FundsforWriters, whose voices Hope listened to for the last four years. This book is a part of her and she hopes readers see themselves sprinkled amidst the words.

Available through www.Booklocker.com or at www.theshywriter.com 

• "Venus de milo arms," "Kowloon City," "Wisdom/Reincarnation," "Leper Couple" and "Another Lesson" will appear in the next issue of Big Bridge
• "I made love with a multiple personality" is both online and in the print anthology From the Asylum
• "Daring Girl" is accepted for dreamvirus magazine
• "NOW," "pushing thru" and "(he must have felt me up)" were published in the first issue of a new print journal *positive space negative space*

• "drinking coffee at 5:30 PM," "the ambivalence of gift exchange," "Suicide is a disease of singularity and selfhood," "Men-cat-dude-guys," "real celebrity of anonymity & silence," "later, uncertain this conversation ever actually took place at all" and "Rot" were accepted by Unlikely Stories
• "Recurrences" appears on Wieldy
• "that moment" is accepted for Poems Niederngasse
• "My father has a box of photos," "AWAKE" and "Film nightmares" were accepted for Literary Vision Magazine
• "swallowing lipstick", "Crimson electric company", "Universal truths", "---waking to a place--some  of the words clarify, these I get down..." & "3 trips". are accepted for Zygote in My Coffee.

Betrayal and Revenge is about a corrupt quarter horse breeder in Massachusetts and a Texas breeder and his affiliation with Galveston corruption of Sheriff Biagnne, the Balinese Room, smuggling Guatemalan young females through Tres Palacios Bay area. Willie Moretti putting a loaded gun into the mouth of Tommy Dorsey to get Dorsey to release Sinatra from a contract. Plus the infiltration of the Mafia.

All Gibbons' writings are based on facts from his 10 years as a Boston policeman.

Dear Ms. Weber: 

Thank you for sending me an autographed copy of your book, I Promise Not to Tell. It was very kind of you to think of me.

Since my swearing-in as Texas 50th Attorney General, I have worked to combat domestic violence across the Lone Star State. Without the help of activists like you, this would be a far more difficult task. Please know that I wish you the best as you continue your journey to inner peace--your thoughtful words will surely provide inspiration to all who encounter them.

If I can ever do anything to assist you with this important issue, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Sincerely,
Greg Abbott Attorney General of Texas

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