InkSpotter News

Information and Support for Creative Writers

 Published by InkSpotter Writing & Editing

Volume 3.03                March 2005

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In This Issue

Editorial

Bookmarks

Feature Article

Help Wanted

Pen & Ink

Literary Lapse

Bragging Rights

Book Review

Letters to the Editor

Editorial

The Price of Success

This time, my price is taking the form of cold, hard cash. I've reached the point where I have too much work. Now it's time to start hiring. (See Help Wanted)

I must admit, I look forward to hearing the pit-a-pat of little minions. Once I have a staff, I'll no longer be a freelancer. I'll be a company. If I'm not mistaken, this might be a growth indicator!

Since I'm already two days late with this issue, I'll just shut up now and turn you over to this month's line up.

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.

New at Writing the Bottom Line:

Feature Article  

The Prose Writer's Challenge
by William Alan Rieser

AN INKSPOTTER EXCLUSIVE

The very first thing, of course, is to disconnect your television from the wall socket. Then, calmly raise your right foot and deposit it 12 inches into and beyond the screen. Finally, mail the pieces, without an SASE, to the government as a material donation to any cause they can identify. They usually have a bunch and might give you tax relief. Right!

Now you are ready.

Everyone knows the basic tools: vocabulary and grammar, doing a great deal of both reading and writing, and having a specific, comfortable place, set time and space to write where you will be undisturbed by morons or relatives or moronic relatives. Remove the telephone, cell phone, and anything else that carries messages, even Minah birds. Prepare to write at least 1,000 words (every day), and try to have a clear idea to get started. 

There is another discipline that does not appear in many books about literature, nor will you find it championed by knowledgeable people in universities or literary clubs. Surprising that, because we really go nowhere as authors until our particular style takes it into consideration and learns to master it. I have seen it mentioned by Stephen King in his essay "On Writing" in 1997, but he does little to expand on the subject.

Sure, there's narration, description, and dialogue, but they are none of them particularly challenging if one possesses the above literary skill set. The sentence, I might add, is something any idiot who knows the difference between a verb and a noun can put together. After all, there are upwards of four billion PCs out there now with many more people than that believing themselves capable of convincing less than 100 global publishers they know how to write. What's missing? What is it that everyone misses, the thing that truly defines the difference between good and bad writing? Answer: the paragraph.

These are the monuments of beauty, horror, and intrigue that do it for the reader, that make them take a book initially glanced and sit down in a chair so they can begin turning pages. Without full mastery of the paragraph, which sounds so simple, we cannot move a story nor do any of the things normally associated with them, like plot development, pacing, hooks, twists, nor denouement. Yet, it is not particularly well taught and only rarely discussed, usually in technical fashion. The book definition is simply one or more sentences cohesively formed about a single premise. That's not literally true because several ideas can be introduced so long as they relate to a common theme.

No two paragraphs are alike, achieve the same purpose, propose/answer the same questions, nor use similar wording. All are separate, different entities. How is it possible to master them? It's easier than building a house or cooking a complicated meal, though the analogy is the same. It is the paragraph itself that defines what is needed, its language, truth and logic, how it is preceded and what is intended afterward, its importance in the scheme of the story, its timeliness and ability to captivate the reader.

They can be short or long, if effective. We always know when we read a bad one because they turn us off and make us want to put a book down. On the other hand, when we are compelled on and on, we know the writer is doing well, crafting each paragraph in ways to lead us further. There can be no compromises. Either the story has us in its clutches or not.

Consider this paragraph, illustrating rising development, from my story "Grandfather Leng's Big Catch."

No one had as yet missed Tzu-Chan and the mist clung to the lake's glassy surface. A discovery was made on the north shore and brought to Leng with excitement. It was a large, square-like shell, six inches on a side and it was coloured with rainbow hues, not unlike nacre. It did not have the appearance of rock and did not approximate any substance or shape ever found along the river or lakeshore. He stared at the find for a long time. There was little in the neighbourhood that could surprise him, but he had never seen anything like that shell. He was still undecided about it at supper, when it was revealed that his son was missing, having gone fishing in direct contradiction to his father. Now his concern elevated to real worry and he knew he had to do something.

Clearly, an action scenario is demanded. One is not going to next write passively, digress with a flashback, spout poetry, describe a nearby beautiful garden, insert dialogue about a thing not pertaining to the issue, or do anything that does not lead the reader to visualize the something Leng requires. Common sense, the logic of the rising development, the quest by all for action (including the reader), the basic truth of the problem, and the simplistic language of the previous paragraph all define what should be included in the next.

Of course, there are thousands of variables, not the least of which is imagination, but the parameters are clear, we know what is needed, we know where we should not go, and we can decide whether more tension will fill the bill to reach a climax then diminish. We can also insert dialogue between this and the next paragraph, so long as the tension rises.

Now consider this paragraph from my story "Verdant Passage," in which the boredom of a long drive is being compensated.

Before achieving Texarkana's route 30 East, we began to find ways to stimulate our minds, bored with the dulling of southern aesthetics. The flatness tended to clamp our appreciation of repetition. Word games were tried and exhausted. Houstonian and Aggie jokes also soured as the miles accumulated. Settling on road-kill comparisons, we crossed into Arkansas. The 'dillas' had the possums beat half way to Little Rock. There were several other types, including 'urks', our word for indescribable flashbys, but we learned to limit our counts. Then Sandra saw the first creeper.

Look at those words: bored, dulling, flatness, clamp, repetition, exhausted and soured. What do you think the next paragraph should achieve? Is there a set up for it? Clearly, something dramatic or provocative is required to relieve the boredom. Seeing the first of the implied other or future and coming creepers is a clear signal. You are being told what to write and why. That was your job in the first place, to create a paragraph filled with a description of boredom to induce more action out of the next one.

This paragraph, from "Token of Esteem," leaves the writer with some decisions.

He looked all over for the bullet. The medicos did a pretty decent job of cleaning up the mess. Maybe they took the bullet without knowing it, he thought. He followed all the possible paths from Mully's last sitting position. The bullet had to have passed through the chair and hit one of three wall panels. The chair did not cooperate nor did the panels. None of them showed a hole of any kind and Pook gave up chasing the phantom projectile. The room was simply too small for any hiding place.

Obviously, Pook can keep looking or move onto something else, which means that a previous paragraph would dictate his action. You could introduce something entirely new, but some things alluded to in previous paragraphs should find their way into the next by allusion. That is the point. Everything must lead to something and be based upon a firm foundation, the essence of writing good paragraphs.

Authors can imagine the opposite situations, the kinds of things a falling development might require, or how the end of a dialogue sequence might foreshadow some necessary new description or narrative. Everything proceeds directly from your first paragraph's hook to the denouement in a carefully crafted arrangement of these blocks of words. Think of them as railroad ties, each necessary to stabilize the train. Stray too much and risk losing the reader. Yes, you can introduce side-issues and flashbacks to revive a dull scene and separate them with asterisks. But, you will have to pick up where you left off or leave your story in la-la-land. The most important thing to remember is that every paragraph dictates the next one, no matter how much ornamentation you apply along the way.

It should also be clear that good writers tend to mix sentence lengths, seek uncommon phrases, and avoid run-on sentences and repeated words. They never commence sentences beginning with identical terms, always seek the best description for the application (sometimes left for the rewrite), and eliminate any articulation that does not contribute to the paragraph's theme. Reduce identifiers to only those absolutely needed to avoid confusion about the person or thing being described, especially in dialogue.

Sometimes, a verb and a noun are all the situation requires. Blanche spat! No need to say more if minimizing says it all. On the other hand, Blanche, by spitting with such venom and demonstrated anger, doubled over in pain after pulling a rib muscle. This adds new information if it's going to be referred to elsewhere. It's all dictated by the needs of the tale.

Always check your paragraphs when rewriting to see that they stay on track and do not get thrown for a loop into an area not related by the subject at hand. Each is a micro-drama, leading to another.

#

Stick a fork in me, people, because I'm done.

With all the other things on the go these days, I just can't handle the whole newsletter by myself anymore. So, here's the deal. I'm looking for writers to take over any or all the following columns:

Send me one sample column, including an introduction and at least three listings. Even if you're applying for all three, one sample will do. If I use your sample, I'll pay you $10 (Canadian funds).

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.

Barbara Lois Fullard's poems "Chocolate Martinis" and "My Spinning Top" originally appeared in The Writers' Association's latest release, Epiphanies and Other Absurdities. Tim Piper's "Paradox in Memoriam" was published in Soaring.

Chocolate Martinis

by Barbara Lois Fullard

Paradox in Memoriam

by Tim Piper

The moment was as anti-climactic as ever; the pair suddenly appeared on the cushioned platform as if stepping through a doorway.

"Wait!" warned Operations Director Chloe Ayles. Even as she spoke, the effect they referred to as the backwash extended the containment field, which included the exercise mat on the raised, metal frame, and the time travelers standing on it. Their bodies actually appeared to undulate as if they were merely an image and not solid flesh. In four seconds, it was over, but one of the guards stepped too close to the invisible bubble surrounding the platform and was knocked onto his back by a ripple in the protective barrier.

"Bidart!" barked Security Sergeant Adam Mayes.

Chloe seethed as the sergeant hurried to the injured guard's side. Bidart rolled onto his side and sat up, the grimace of pain on his face muddled with chagrin. Mayes dropped to one knee, his attitude less than sympathetic. "Yeah, I bet. Not the kind of attention you were after, huh?" Bidart just glared at him. Chloe released her unconsciously held breath slowly, shaking her head while Bidart clutched his left shoulder and chest. Mayes' chatter continued unrelenting, though in more muted tones.

The Director knew that her presence altered the team's behaviour; a straightening of shoulders here, a seat shuffle there, and subconscious attempts to win the Project founder's notice. Not that she could do anything about it; raising awareness of it would only make it worse. She did her best to ignore it and refused to be influenced in reverse. Most of the time, she allowed the supervisors to run Operations, but this mission was on its third attempt, and she rarely missed the completion of any part of the Project.

"Power levels to nominal on my mark," said Jacob Gebrian, the supervisor on duty.

Gebrian's taut monotone reminded Chloe that a few of her associates remained unaffected in her company. Ironically, it was individuals like the Operations Supervisor who won her admiration. Even when she had been Professor Ayles, a premier physicist in academia, the students who were not intimidated by her authority were singled out for encouragement, though they hardly needed it. While she was not proud of it, she knew better than to ignore her bias.

"Mark." The hum of machinery beyond the platform eased considerably, but at a reassuringly steady pace. The power difficulties that had plagued them in the beginning were fading memories, but not for her. Injuries were part of the process, yet she regarded those incidents as an affront. Daily drills prepared them for setbacks, and one day the exercise might save a life, just as failure of the grid might have killed the operative--instead of merely maiming him--during a launch into the quantum current. "Shield is down."

With Sergeant Mayes' help, Bidart was on his feet, but it was evident the injured guard was not fit for duty. Chloe barely resisted the urge to berate him for being eager and reckless. The arcane rules that surrounded the Project were hazardous enough for those who recognized them.

"Get Bidart down to first aid," she said to Mayes.

Incompetence was another matter.

Security Chief Geoff Barlowe was about as flexible as stucco, but he was going to improve his training sessions or be replaced. She didn't care how good the recommendation claimed he was; safety was a synonym for security, and he damn well better meet the definition.

At least the most recent injuries had been limited to bruises and first-degree burns, but ignorance was no excuse. Five months ago, the first session had killed two when the backwash "shifted" the body parts of the guards that were partially inside the effect. The displacement was a little more than a centimetre, but when the objects are bones, veins and organs, a millimetre was enough. Bidart's injury was nothing to scream about in comparison, but everyone in the Project was expected to be aware of the hazards.

Fortunately, the backwash did not affect those just departed from the quantum current. After the initial disaster, careful testing revealed that the backwash only occurred when an operative returned with an object or person. The theory persisted that the retrieval of an object momentarily disturbed the Q-current in the act of recoil--the boomerang effect that returned anything displaced in time--resulting in a brief, violent ripple only dangerous in static time. Since the new arrivals' passage was the cause of the backwash, they were immune to it; to them the effect was a zephyr, compared to the gale of the recoil.

Operative Lyle Stokes' return seemed promising. His left hand grasped the alleged quarry's right wrist, though success was not a sure thing when the time in question offered spotty information and no visual ID. Stokes was one of their best, and, though he was filling in for Angela Veridi, Chloe expected results. Not that she ever expected less from Veridi, but Medical had quarantined her because of a minor bug. Twenty-first century pathogens were the last thing anyone wanted surfing the Q-current.

The woman dressed in weathered, sixteenth-century, colonial attire, stared about her in obvious culture shock. She shrank from the bright lights toward the similarly clad operative, though he was responsible for her being here. She could not have known him for more than an hour, yet she did not protest his hand in possession of her wrist. In some countries, women were still expected to be as submissive as Virginia Dare appeared to be, but those were fewer with each generation. Belatedly, Stokes released the woman's wrist and briefly spoke to her.

The reduced security team moved in, hustling the pair to Interview 1, one of three holding rooms where the quarry would be questioned until the recoil whisked her back to her time. "How did it go?" Chloe called to Stokes.

The operative did not reply, but nodded vigorously while patting the lump on his waist where the quantum locator was strapped. Contained in that four-by-six box was the operative's connection to the database and the force that propelled him unharmed into the Q-current. The locator guided the operative to a place and time that the chosen quarry was reported to be. After an hour, anything or anyone he happened to be holding came back with him when the recoil returned him. The recoil was far gentler than the Security guards hustling him quickly through the door to the left of the operations station.

"Ma'am," said Mayes sharply.

Chloe winced. In her eagerness, she had forgotten the first rule of the Project: do not contaminate the quarry. There was nothing to say; Barlowe would be told, and her complaints about backwash injuries would be deflected by his sharp retort regarding procedure.

Putting aside the problem for later, she turned to the bank of monitors displaying Interview 1 from a variety of angles, including close-ups on operative and quarry. Gebrian made room as Chloe pulled a chair up to the station. Once again, the Director inserted herself into Operations' routine, and the supervisor saw to it that everything ran smoothly.

Stokes and the woman were already inside. One of the guards closed the door to the room, and the Roanoke Island colonist turned sharply at the sound.

Roanoke Island, off the coast of North Carolina, was the site of the first English colony in America, and the most mysterious disappearance in colonial America. In August, 1587, the Colonial Governor left one hundred-seventeen colonists on the lone outpost, while he returned to England for supplies. Three years later, he returned to find the colony abandoned; there were no graves or any sign of slaughter. The settlers had vanished from what became known as the Lost Colony.

"Miss Dare," said Lyle Stokes, attempting to bring her attention away from the bare room. The walls of I-1 were unadorned and blank. Familiar surroundings versus anonymity were argued, and the winning point was that many of those they interrogated would recognize decoration as manipulation.

A touch of the quarry's time period, however, was often reassuring. Stokes pulled a rickety chair away from the simple, wood table. "Won't you please sit down, Miss Dare?"

Despite the rustic furnishings, the young woman still seemed dazed. As much as time was short--so to speak--Chloe knew the quarry needed more than a few minutes to recover.

Virginia Dare glanced from one guard to the other. Their unfamiliar clothing was always a problem, and Barlowe would not budge on the issue. For that matter, Chloe was not certain that he should. More than one quarry had chosen to fight through his fear and three or four opponents. The practice would stay in place even if the undernourished woman was not a physical threat.

Virginia walked tentatively to the table and touched the unfinished surface. Ever so slightly, she seemed to unclench and the haunted look in her eyes faded. She looked again at the concrete floor--for the fourth or fifth time--and stomped her ragged boots, raising a muffled slap. "What would this be?" she asked Stokes. The question was tentative, as if she was uneasy about the answer.

"It is stone, of a sort," he replied. It was the standard answer to the question. An easily installed and removable faux wood or stone floor would avoid the distracting inquiry, but Chloe could not obtain approval for one. She would put in another request today.

"Stone? There are no cracks or...seams."

"It is one piece." Stokes tried again. "Please sit down."

Virginia's expression was both awed and sceptical. She walked to the chair but did not sit. Her eyes were suddenly wary. "Why am I here? Where are my daughter and husband?"

Chloe drew a surprised breath. This was far more than they ever knew about the first English child born in America. She could see the same eagerness in Stokes and tried to will him to simply answer the woman's questions.

"Daughter?" he said. "Who is your husband?"

Chloe groaned. The diminishing openness in Virginia vanished altogether. She stared at Stokes and did not answer.

Stokes knew his mistake as well, yet compounded it by trying to barter a favour. "Sit down, and I'll answer your questions."

A shrewd glint leapt into Virginia's eyes. Stokes had broken Rule 3: the quarry cannot be helped; she must not believe the opposite.

"You do not care if I sit."

Unhurriedly, she took the chair from Stokes, pushed it back to the table and seated herself quite ladylike, hands resting on her lap. Without turning to look at him, she said, "What is it you want?"

Stokes looked at the back of her head and stole a pleading glance at a camera. Despite the missteps, Chloe knew Lyle well enough to trust him. She avoided direct communication with all operatives during interrogation because it was too easy to break their confidence. However, a word of encouragement was not out of line. She flipped frequencies on the stationary line to that of the guards. "Tell him, continue."

On the monitor, one of the guards repeated her response. A whisper of a smile crossed Stokes' face.

She smiled back, though he could not see her. The operatives were the only personal contact to the quarry--other than security. Stokes might want her input, but she could not give it unless he left the interview room.

Stokes remained behind Virginia as he spoke. "In the name of your grandfather, Governor John White, we have been looking for the colony of Roanoke Island."

Virginia almost turned around. She stopped herself and asked, "Roanoke of Virginia?"

"None other, whether you speak of the land or yourself."

Virginia smiled, almost secretively. Then she eyed the guards and the smile vanished. "You found me; you have found the colony."

"For us, it is different. You can see that we possess both the strange and familiar. We are not of the earth you know, though we know of you." Stokes walked from behind and turned to face her. "We cannot stay in your world for long; we fear damage to your world and ours. We knew enough to find you; it is only you who can help us. Your grandfather is unable to find you. He has tried many times to do so, but war and politics prevent him. It is his wish that he see you before he dies."

Chloe wanted to applaud the performance, but she could not.

Virginia watched Stokes, her expression drifting from suspicion to awe. Yet, at the end, her wonder had developed expectations. "Then take me to him and fulfill that wish! I will tell you all I know when I see him."

* * *

"Can we find John White?" asked Chief Barlowe. He stood at the head of the long table, ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back.

Chloe shrugged and sat upon the table, perusing the flash-brief beside her. "It's a common name, but even if there is more than one living in 1605, the Q-locator should be able to pinpoint the right one by age. The computer is very literal in that sense." The quantum locator worked like any search engine; enter the specific information and the computer's historical data made a match. However, erroneous or incomplete data would cause the computer to deny a launch until a connection was achieved.
Barlowe frowned. "I'm imagining a quarry on a submarine in the Antarctic."

"Hence the need for research. An operative wouldn't try to connect with Shackleton while he was on one of his expeditions to the South Pole, or Columbus on his way to discovering America. Not without extreme precautions. One could die very easily in an hour. In any case, final identification is up to the operative, and they are very good at being sure."

Chloe was required to inform the Security Chief of her decisions, especially when a launch was added. The briefing room was the most private.

"Is there time?"

"Barely. Virginia recovered faster than I thought she would, but we'll need Prieto. He's been prepping the seventeenth century for another quarry. We should have the briefing package ready by the time he gets here."

Barlowe nodded. "Security won't be a problem." Chloe made the call, placing it top priority. "How's Lyle?"

"He'll be fine. He's upset, but he's also a professional."

"So long as he keeps it together. I'll read the transcript when this is over. I understand you're close to resolving Roanoke, but why the rush? The past isn't going anywhere."

"Virginia is our last chance with the Dares. We've already touched the father and mother, and that's a calculated risk. We prefer our touches to be isolated; the last thing we want is for the Dares to compare notes. That could lead to widespread contamination. We risked it here because the group is so removed from society. The past cannot know that time travel is possible."

Barlowe looked sceptical. "I understand the chances of paradox, but how could these people affect us? Roanoke is so deep Q-wise that any influence should be lost among the infinite ripples."

"In most cases it would be. But we don't know where the colonists went; they didn't all die. Some might have re-entered the colonies through absorbed Native Americans. In this instance, we're trying to keep an incident from becoming folklore, which has a tendency to live forever. If some version of our contact with the Dares should intersect with the information age--"

"I get it." Barlowe raised a hand to reinforce the interruption, obviously bored. Step three feet into theory, and the glorified guard lost interest. "It's a shame we can't just keep her here."

"I told you at least twice." Chloe shook her head; typical security mindset. "The recoil is too strong. We've tried to keep artefacts with near fatal results--and we were lucky at that. The shield bubble cannot be made strong enough to contain the recoil, and it was decided before we began bringing people back that we shouldn't try. That's why the shield is turned off after the backwash. The recoil comes and goes when it pleases."

"Well, two hours after the backwash."

"Right. That's wh--"

The line beeped for attention. It was Prieto. "Get up here now," she told him. "We've got a hot one for you, and it's perfect for your expertise."

* * *

Chloe stared at the monitors where Stokes continued to engage Virginia in conversation, half of her attention on the time remaining to Prieto's recoil. Like Stokes and Veridi, Arthur Prieto was part actor, part history scholar, part detective. The Q-locator placed them for the opportunity, but it was the operatives' job to find the quarry, which often required intense role-playing. Right now, Prieto would be using his charm to get close to White, and Stokes was leaning heavily on improvisation. The latter's success depended upon Virginia's willingness toward idle chitchat. So far, most of her dialogue consisted of questions.

The stationary line beeped, and Gebrian picked it up. "Operations." Welcoming the diversion, Chloe watched as his expression shifted from annoyance to amusement. After a moment, his gaze drifted to her, and he nodded. "Yeah, yeah." Instantly, all animation left his face, and he held the receiver out for her. "It's for you."

Distracting Gebrian was one thing; Chloe didn't have time to talk. She took the phone anyway. "What is it?"

"So, you find Virginia, and you don't tell me," said a half-perturbed Angela Veridi. "The very least you could do to ease my quarantine time is let me watch the interview."

"Ouch." Chloe looked to Barlowe, but he was in conversation with Mayes. Mission details were classified even from other operatives until the mission was completed. Afterward, the information was dissected among them to the smallest nuances. The operatives were constantly borrowing tactics and tricks and never let an opportunity slip by to remind each other of the mistakes. Letting Veridi into the loop was not that big a breach since she had been the operative until today. "Sorry. My hands are full today. I'm tracking two operatives, when one of you is more than enough. Flip to channel thirty-three."

Veridi snorted at Chloe's slur. "Thanks. I owe you."

Chloe put down the receiver. She glanced again at the time, and when she looked up, Prieto and an older man were on the platform. The stat line beeped again. She snatched up the receiver. "You'll have to call ba--"

"That's not Virginia with Stokes!" cut in Veridi.

"What?" said Chloe. She was sure she had heard right, but needed to hear it again. Her skin prickled as if from a cold draft.

"I said, I recognize Eleanor Dare with Veridi!" said Lyle Stokes over the stat line.

* * *

Eleanor Dare watched as Lyle checked his timepiece. It was a rather cheap model, the evidence of which was in the craftsmanship of the casing. Annanias owned a much finer piece that was a wedding gift from Father. She said nothing, however. Attentive silence had led her captors into revealing more than they intended.

"Virginia, there is a possibility that we will not find your grandfather before you have to leave."

"Why is it taking so long?" Lyle had said that his people were in contact with Father, and that they only needed to fetch him.

"He is in your world, not ours. These things take time."

She began to doubt his veracity, yet he had not harmed or even threatened her. "You are still looking."

"Of course."

She knew Lyle wanted her to talk, but she was more comfortable when he spoke. "Why would I have to leave?" She wanted to, but not just yet.

"There are rules that govern the physical worlds. We did not make them, but have discovered them. The second rule is, 'You cannot live in our world, and we cannot live in yours.' Both our worlds must abide by these rules and we break them at our own peril."

"You cannot make me go."

"I--we will not do anything. Anything further, that is." His expression was suddenly repentant. "We pulled you from your world, and the recoil will take you back."

"I do not understand."

"There is an entity--I think that is the right word--an entity that surrounds every world. We call it a current--like that in a river. It is fluid and flows one way like a river, and you can 'swim' against the current if you know where you are going. I did that to find you. But even after you leave the current, it is with you. It has a massive sense of what it believes is right and after a t--a while the current recoils, or pulls you back, which is what happened when I brought you here. But the current is with you far more than it was with me. I could feel the recoil coming, so I was able to bring you with me. Your recoil will happen without warning, and you will just be gone. From your view, you will suddenly be back on Roanoke Island, or wherever it was I found you."

"You do not know where I am, yet you found me."

Lyle clearly considered this an affront. "I know the date I found you; July 10, 1610. We simply do not know where you are at that time."

"You are mistaken. Today is the 3rd of May, 1588."

Lyle stared at her, his eyes widening in fear. Why, she did not know. Abruptly, he stood and reached for his waist, turning away from her as he did. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and the fierceness of it told her his consternation was beyond simple worry.

He turned to face her, and she could see that he was near panic. "You can't be Virginia," he said, though it was equally clear he wished that somehow she was. She glanced down at his clenched hands and saw a grey metal box lined with strange, raised notches around a lit space the size of a timepiece. Instantly, she knew it was far more sophisticated than anything she had seen, especially the cheap piece Lyle carried. That he had kept the metal box hidden from her was far more revealing.

"No, I am Eleanor," she said calmly. "Did you think that I would allow a stranger anywhere near my baby? After the last stranger brought me here?"

Lyle looked likely to swoon. His empty hand went to his forehead, and he swore. "My G-d!"

As shocked as Eleanor was at his blasphemy, she gasped as a familiar, impossible breeze ruffled the hair on her arms--or was it goose pimples? She had felt the same wind on her passages between worlds, but she was still in the same room.

"Did you feel that?" said a voice that was not Lyle's. Eleanor stood in amazement and stared at the woman who had first taken her between worlds. Her hand was on her cheek, almost identical to where Lyle's hand was, but he was nowhere to be seen. "What's the matter, Virginia?"

It was too much. This woman--she remembered her name was Angela--behaved as if nothing had happened. She turned to the other men for support, but they were no longer in the room. This world was too bizarre for her; she wanted to leave now.
Then she remembered that her father was about to arrive and that was her fault.

"What is wrong?" asked Angela.

What could Eleanor say? She barely understood where she was and nothing about how that happened. Lyle had told her much, but she also knew that he had been keeping secrets from her. "You..." she hesitated, "...weren't here. Lyle was."

"What? Lyle Stokes was here? No, he is quarantined; he cannot be here."

Obviously, Angela believed this to be the truth. She did not even recognize her as Eleanor--just as Lyle had not. Eleanor told him the truth moments ago, but he was gone. She needed someone...

"How do you know him?" Unexpected suspicion replaced the woman's concern.

Eleanor stared at her in exasperation for a moment more then ran to the door. There was no latch, but she saw how the others used the round knob. It turned easily in her grasp, and the door swung outward.

"Virginia!" Angela moved quickly to the doorway, grabbing Eleanor's arm to prevent her from leaving. "You will endanger everyone!"

What men called "spirited" did not describe Eleanor, but the months spent in primitive America had taught her the merits of boldness. She shoved with all her strength at the other woman's shoulder. "Virginia is my daughter, you fool!" Angela's eyes widened, and her grip broke.

Eleanor ran into the huge, intimidating chamber without flinching. The half-seen contraptions dominating the far end loomed like modern sculptures of old gods. The thought of her father, a captive in this awful place without even her small advantage of experience, allowed her to ignore the daunting hall to seek him. The raised platform with the soft, strange, black floor was just ahead. On it stood a stocky, dark-haired man of medium height and a slightly taller, thinner man, whom she recognized instantly. "Father!" He turned when she shouted, and she saw that he was aged, as if separation from family had drained him of vitality.

John White recognized her immediately and his face lit, easing several years of care from his face. "Eleanor!" He tried to move toward her but the stocky man held him.

Eleanor reached the steps of the platform just as her right arm was taken in a firm grip. She turned sharply, her left arm swinging to strike the giant who held her. He blocked the blow easily, almost gently, and claimed her left wrist. She struggled, trying to pull away, and looked up at his face. "Please stop," he said.

Most of the men Eleanor knew were either decent or scoundrels. The former did not lay hands on any woman unless they were in danger. The latter did as they pleased, but usually without an audience. This man did not seem to be either. There was amusement in the upturned corners of his mouth, and something in his eyes she had never seen directed at her from any man, save her husband: respect. She stopped struggling.

"Mayes," called a voice to their right. "Let her go. It's too late anyway."

Eleanor turned to the speaker as she was released. She was tall and slim, with an air of command about her in spite of the man on her left possessing the same self-assured attitude. He was dressed similarly to the man who had just released her. The tall woman was dressed in a strange, all-black outfit. Clearly she was alarmed, yet remained placid. Angela arrived as well and tried to speak, but the woman waved her to silence. "Stokes was watching; he recognized her." To Eleanor, she said, "Mrs. Dare. I am Director Chloe Ayles. I would like to know why you lied to Angela."

"He--she came for my daughter."

"I see." Evidently there would be no explanation for that. "I'm sure you have things to discuss with your father."

"I do. Thank you." Eleanor was so relieved she did not move.

Chloe smiled. "Go, then. There's not much time." The woman nodded to the man on the platform. "Prieto. Give them a moment."

Eleanor took the short stairs quickly, jumping past the last two steps to the top. Father met her on the edge of the platform, hugging her fiercely. "I thought I would never see you again. What is happening?"

She held him tightly, not wanting to let him go. "I do not--" She pulled back slightly, searching her father's aged face for confirmation. "What day is it? The date?"

He frowned. "7th, September, 1605. Why?"

In that moment, a gale blew through them, knocking both from their feet. Eleanor hit the floor that no longer yielded beneath her.

Stunned, she could not understand where she had fallen. A gentle hand grasped her arm and pulled her into a sitting position. It was very dark, yet she could see greenish lines of light on all sides, though they did not illuminate much in the chamber. She could see Father, however.

"Eleanor," he whispered. "Are you injured?"

"No, just shaken. We must get up." Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, Father aiding her carefully. John White released her as he looked around the empty place.

"No!" Eleanor lunged toward him, almost falling again.

Father caught an arm, bracing her until she regained balance. She clutched his hand to be certain he did not let go. She had allowed others to send him away once; she would not leave him behind in this stark, barren place. Staring about her at the suddenly familiar chamber, she began to understand why Lyle and Chloe had been so afraid. "Everything is gone."

Father peered into the dim light. "Where did they go?"

Before she could answer, the wind came and took them back to Roanoke of Virginia; one minute they were on unyielding stone, the next in a sparsely wooded field of wild grass. A second, fluttering breeze passed between them, followed by the deafening sound of wood splitting. As they watched, leaves, branches and trunks of whole trees more than fifty feet away suddenly fell to the ground with a crackle and a thud. Reluctantly, she released Father's hand to investigate what the backwash--as Lyle named it--had done to the trees.

* * *

The squall died quickly, and Eleanor blinked aside her tears of farewell. The assembled colonists continued to stare in astonishment at the spot on which Governor White had been standing.

They listened to Eleanor's tale, backed by the colony's Governor--once departed nine months ago for England--who looked an improbable twenty years older. She held her nine-month old daughter and told them of the people that came for the 23-year-old Virginia. They listened to John White talk about the future and what was best for them. Father talked until his impossible, wind-swept departure.

Into the lengthening silence, one of the colonists asked, "What does this mean?" It did not matter who spoke; they all wondered the same thing. They had seen the trees south of the settlement; the sharp, clean cuts that had severed bough and trunk were testament to the truth of the tale and the danger that threatened.

"It means nothing," declared Assistant Governor Harvey, also a father and clearly worried for his son...though for different reasons. "Assistant Governor Dare's wife said that none of them remained to harm us." A murmur of relieved assent greeted this counsel.

"I have seen these people and the place Eleanor describes," said Annanias, more forcefully than Eleanor ever remembered. "What they do alters them without their knowledge. How often will they come here, not remembering that they have already done so?" He stepped from Eleanor's side to stand where Father had stood, and as he spoke, she was relieved and gratified to have his support. "Do we risk the consequences of their action? Do we dare ignore what will happen if this backwash occurs among us? They will come again, possibly for one of you."

No one spoke. Even Harvey appeared unsettled. "What do you propose?" asked Assistant Governor Cooper.

My Spinning Top

by Barbara Lois Fullard

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

Love was in the air! (In honour of the end of yet another Valentine's Day.)

The Winner

Blooms in Winter
by S. Morag Wehrle

Swaddled in innumerable layers, we strapped on our snowshoes in the lee of the rental shop at Mount Seymour. The icy air curled my fingers back inside my sleeves as I helped Josh with his straps, tugging them down across the toes of his boots. I showed him how to walk without tiring his legs  a slow forward shuffle in imaginary bedroom slippers, parading back and forth from the door to the cafeteria.

I picked up my own pair and a guide immediately appeared at my side. "Need any help with those?"

"No thanks. I used to guide over on Grouse."

At the name of their rival mountain she raised an eyebrow at me, then swished her way off through the crowd. I shrugged at Josh and turned to help a confused-looking pair of lovebirds from the East Coast.

Ten couples, holding hands through awkward mittens and occasionally planting chilly kisses on each other's scarves, tramped after our guide--a bearded, bespectacled young man named Richard. He set a fast pace, waving a wand bedecked with tinsel in the light of his headlamp to lead us. The churned snow crunched and squealed beneath our heels.

Up the hill we shuffled, breath streaming behind us in plumes. Dark trees against the snow muffled the ski-hill sounds, city lights caught in their branches like wayward stars. Crampons scraped on rock and shushed on snow.

Josh had seen snow, but only on the smooth hills and rolling fields of Indiana  never like this. I showed him the tracks of snowshoe hares where they had gone skittering over the icy crust, and the distinctive fan-print made by the tail feathers of a landing raven. He looked up at the stars between cedar branches and breathed the chill air, eyes alight beneath his borrowed toque. I moved to kiss his cheek and succeeded in blinding him with my headlamp. Sheepishly, I followed Richard onwards.

At the top of a white-blanketed rise we were drawn to the flickering of candles embedded in chunks of snow, like pearls lit from within. We sat on rubber mats, our snowshoed feet propped in front of us or tucked gracelessly to one side, nudging the pots of melted chocolate that Richard filled from a thermos. We shared paper cups of chopped fruit and held plastic forks in cold fingers. Richard passed around a bag of brownies.

Planted there beneath the trees, we swapped stories of meeting, of dates gone wrong, of odd proposals of marriage. Josh and I told a bus-driving couple of how we met at graduate school, and a stocky bearded man related how he had proposed to his girlfriend after she ate pasta with cream sauce that made her violently ill. "I thought she was pregnant," he concluded bluffly, "so I had to marry her." His petite wife gazed up at him adoringly, chocolate dripping from a segment of orange onto her mitten.

When we were too cold even to eat any more chocolate, we brushed the snow from cold bottoms and prepared to hike down. While the others rewrapped themselves in hats and scarves and extra layers, I turned to Josh to take his hands, breath misting between us and crystallizing on the air, and I sang quietly:

O my love is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June
O my love is like a melody
That sweetly sings in tune

The stillness of the woods settled around us again as I felt the others turn our way. The air tasted clean and white in my throat.

As fair art thou, my bonny lad
So deep in love am I
And I will love thee still, my dear
Though all the seas gang dry

Though all the seas gang dry, my dear
And the rocks melt with the sun
O I will love thee still, my dear
'Til sands of life are run

Bragging Rights

This is the space where subscribers get to do a little bragging about their own writing successes. Don't be shy. We want to hear from you.

Book Review 

Knock Their Socks Off! A Freelance Writer's Guide to Query Letters That Sell 

by Mridu Khullar
Published 2005 by WritersCrossing.com

Reviewed by Betty Dobson

Khullar writes in an easy going, approachable style. Maybe that's how she manages to cover even the most basic advice without sounding like she's talking down to the reader. She understands the beginning writer's perspective--query letters are terrifying little entities, the necessary evil of the freelance writer's life. But she manages to tame the beasts and give hope to (dare I say) thousands.

My one quibble was with the lack of page numbers. I found it hard to pick up where I left off without those little markers along the way. Without them, the Table of Contents served no useful purpose other than giving an overview of the book.

Overall, however, I recommend this book to anyone who still gets the shakes at the very mention of the words "query letter." Khullar backs up theory with sample letters from her own files. She knows her stuff, and she just might be able to help you discover yours.

Pencil Point Rating

(out of five)

Letters to the Editor

This is your chance to provide feedback on the newsletter. Tell us what you did and didn't like. Make suggestions for future issues. 

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Thank you for selecting my work for a third time. Came as a bit of a shock when I opened your email. A special thank you for finding the time to perform some editing on the piece.

I thought your editorial was well-written with just the right balance of optimism, regret, and wisdom. The month's lesson is a quote I have printed out and taped to my computer for motivation when family problems get in the way of creativity.

Congratulations on your writing successes. Feature Writer, Winning Awards, Best Website . . . Wow, Way to go! Sounds like the year is going great guns for you.

The blog is interesting and entertaining. Most are dull, cardboard kind of things best left under the carpet. Enjoy your wit and slant on life that drips off the page.

If I may be so bold as to say: However boring and frustrating you try to sale your life, one fact illuminates above all others. You are having fun doing what you love the most -- writing, and no matter the obstacles, you wouldn't have it any other way. You're an inspiration!

Good issue. I do believe our little Pen & Ink collaboration is making its mark.