Flickr photo by fiskfisk

On Thursday, I got word that my story, “Castaway,” will be published in the Summer issue of the Boston Literary Magazine.

The story is a recent creation, and a “literary” one at that, meaning that it doesn’t feature werewolves, vampires, private eyes, mobsters, purveyors of “the worlds most dangerous game”, hobbits, or quantum physicists from the future. Of course, I have found myself writing in and across most genres over the last few years, and I plan to continue to do so because I think that “genre writing,” when done with skill can be more cathartic and transformative of a reading experience than most straight literary pieces I’ve read of late, while being just as “literary.”

But I digress. I’ll save that discussion for another day.

Back to “Castaway,” the literary story. I really enjoyed writing this story and am pleased with the final result. It was rejected elsewhere, and the editor of the magazine originally passed as well, but included some great feedback for improvement and offered to take a second look if I wanted to resubmit. I was impressed with the critique of the story and instantly recognized the holes in it that she pointed out, so I tweaked the story, first making it longer, then paring it down a bit and raising the stakes.

The story was accepted after the rewrites, and I think it became so much more than it was when I first submitted it.

Here’s an excerpt to whet your appetite:

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from “Castway” by Brandon Satrom

Sheila, Macie and Iona stood at the door. Each girl held a heavy wooden bat against a shoulder. Sheila rattled her car keys and held an extra bat out to Nikki, handle first.

“Where are we going?”

“To the batting cages at Green Acres.”

The black letters that blanketed Nikki sprung back into the air, this time swirling unformed around her roommates. Nikki stared at the bat Sheila was holding out to her.

“You can thank Santo for leaving these with me when he ran off with that reporter last year. I think payment of four signed Louisville Sluggers is adequate alimony, don’t you? He wants them back, of course. But these gems are The New Therapy for the girls at 514 Archer Drive.”

Macie and Iona laughed.

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The issue, published online, is due out in mid-June. If you promise to read it and comment on it on this blog, I’ll post a link when it comes out. I hope you like reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

In the meantime, go check out the great stories and poetry available online in the Winter issue of the Boston Literary Magazine.

Perhaps I should have noted this three weeks ago.

On February 13th, 2009, I finished the first draft of my novel, The Siege of Thaddeus Wilkes.

5 months (if you count planning and outlining, which I do), 128,000 words and 563 pages later, I have something that just might be something.

One day.

For now, I can’t really describe what it felt like to finish. It was euphoria mixed with fatigue, I suppose, since I finished at 2 a.m. on a Friday night and promptly climbed into bed.

What’s more, It’s hard to really describe what it feels like to be “done” with something that’s not really done. I know that the real end is probably at least a year away. Celebrating a first draft is probably like celebrating a basketball team that practices well, but gets pounded at game time.¹

But then again, a pile of paper like this (printed on both sides)

has to be worth some sort of celebration, right?

It was. Sarah and I celebrated for an evening. We talked about all the hard work that had led me here, and I thanked her for her unending support and encouragement as I pursue this passion of mine.

Mostly we talked about our son who is scheduled to be born any day now, but the book came up once or twice. Who’d want it any other way?

After dinner, I laid the book aside. For about a month.

The month is up this Saturday, and at that point, I’ll pick the book back up and get to the real hard work of turning this first draft into a leaner (I hope) and meaner (I pray) second draft, ready for consumption by a tiny number of people upon whom I will rely to give me honest and biting criticism intended to make this book all that it can be.

In the meantime, I thought I’d share this little victory. It’s a big step, and I’m glad I powered through to make it. To everyone who offered encouragement and prayer along the way, I thank you.

Oh, an aside: That word cloud up there? That’s all 128,000 words compressed into one collection of the few hundred most-frequently occurring words in the novel. Click on it to see a larger version. Spot the major characters…

*Today’s post is titled in honor of Pop Punk songs with one-word titles and seemingly incongruous parenthenteticals in their track listings.

1. Thank you for breaking my heart this year, Baylor Men’s Basketball team

The March issue of Niteblade magazine is out and my story “Guzman’s Labyrinth” is contained within. If you haven’t checked out Niteblade before, I’d highly recommend it. Great fiction, reviews and poetry in the horror and fantasy vein.

There is a free version of the issue up on the site, and an add-free PDF available for a couple of bucks, which is a great way to support the magazine.

One of my favorite things about the magazine is that the editor works with a great artist who illustrates a key scene or image from each story. I LOVE the image that was created for Guzman’s Labyrinth. Go check it out and see what I mean. While you’re at it, check out the rest of the great authors and poets in the issue.

And feel free to drop back by here and tell me what you think of Guzman’s Labyrinth.

March 2009 Cover Page (Story links on the right)

Guzman’s Labyrinth

Downloadable PDF (Worth every bit of your $3.50. Support independent publishing!)

HA!

Intentions are great, no?

Lesson #1 on the Words of Redemption blog: Don’t listen to what Brandon says he plans to do until he actually does it.

In any case, NaNoWriMo itself is going swimmingly. I hit 34,224 words this morning, putting me at 68% complete only fifteen days into the competition.

The novel itself, which I estimate to be about 120k+ and take me well beyond December to complete, is about 30% done. I’ve written Book 1 of 3 planned, consisting of seven chapters. All major characters have been introduced, the scene is set and the central conflict is afoot.

All in all, it’s been fun in spite of the fact that I pushed myself too hard these first two weeks and have been suffering from a little more stress and fatigue than a person who doesn’t yet have any children should.

But all is well. My saner half¹ has helped to remind me of what’s really important: that I’m writing and loving it. The second it starts to become more about goals and word counts and writing crap just to finish, I’d just as soon not win NaNoWriMo.

Thanks Sarah. I’d be (more of) a wild-eyed madman without you.

This morning, after I finished Book 1, I went back, did some cleanup on one of my favorite scenes from the first part and posted it on my NaNoWriMo profile page. You can check it out there (click on the Novel Info Tab), along with the great books that other Wrimos in my buddy list are working on.

Because I really, really want you to read it and I know you might not actually click on the link above, I’ll also post the scene below. This is the first scene from Chapter 7. I hope you like it.

Oh, and please keep in mind that this is a first draft excerpt from a first draft book. Typos and awkward writing to follow.

Excerpt: The Siege of Thaddeus Wilkes

“Is he awake?”

“Yes, but he cannot see you yet. He is dressing and finishing his breakfast. It will only be a few minutes.”

Namazzi nodded.

“I will wait here.”

Namazzi stood outside her father’s tent and waited for an audience with Dembe, both as her father and as the Rwot, chief of the village. She needed guidance, above and beyond that of The Regal Man, and she needed encouragement.

Namazzi’s father was a good man, and he had been the chief of Pakwinyo and some of the outlying and smaller villages for nearly twenty-five years, since almost the day she was born. He’d always been well-loved by the people of the village, and was widely respected by nearly all of the Acholi chiefs, many of whom considered his rule and example of how an Acholi village should be run.

Dembe’s primary style was as a benevolent monarch. His decisions were always final, but he encouraged, even demanded, that the villagers always weigh in with their thoughts an opinions. He was also a friend to foreigners, and welcomed any opportunity for the Acholi people in his village to learn from the outside world, and for the outside world to learn about the wonderful Acholi culture and religion.

His friendship with Father Gregory was just one example. Her father and Father Gregory had been good friends for almost the entire time he had been in the village, up until his disappearance fifteen years ago. Father Gregory had almost unrestricted access to her father. And though her father never once came to church, Father Gregory always spoke of her father’s faith and the immense respect he had for the man.

In addition to being the chief, Dembe had been the primary won yat for the village up until earlier this year, when he had asked Namazzi to take over. He was getting older and rarely left his tent anymore. What used to be regular visits to the town center to greet his villagers had recently become a monthly visit to the edge of the market for fifteen minutes before her father was forced to retreat back into the shade of his hut and the constant care of his doctors and advisers.

He was dying, Namazzi knew that, but he would not permit her to care for or even pray for him. She prayed for him anyway, both to Jok and God, that he would recover and continue to lead the village for years to come.

“Namazzi, you may enter.”

Namazzi nodded at the attendant as she walked through the door into her father’s lavish hut. She always liked visiting her father, even when she was a child and had resided with her mother in a much smaller hut behind the Rwot’s dwelling. The hut was a testament to the wealth and power of the Acholi culture, especially the wealth and power that had accompanied Dembe’s rule of the area.

The floor was lined with the skins of many goats, calves and sheep, creating a carpet that was pleasant to walk on, and was in stark contrast to the dirt floors that covered the rest of the huts in the village. Along the walls of the hut hung the spoils of generations of victories by her family. Tribal masks, spears and even the skulls of rival chiefs. Those at the front represented the oldest conquests of her family, while those in the back, closer to her Father’s throne, represented the triumphs of her father and his father before him.

And though warfare between tribes was not as common as it had once been, Dembe had been rumored to have put down a number of small revolts when he was younger, most of which happened before Namazzi had been born. The last of which, according to her mother, was evidenced by a large ragged scar that ran across the length of his face. From what Namazzi could remember of the story she’d asked to hear countless times as a child, Dembe—at the request of his father, who was the chief at the time—had travelled with a small band of warriors to an outlying village. The village attempting to declare it’s independence from Pakwinyo and Namazzi’s Grandfather and had instituted the leader of their revolt as chief. Her father, who had a reputation for always offering peaceful solutions, confronted the man without a weapon in hand. He bowed to the man, extended his empty hands and asked the man that they show respect to his father and their chief and end the revolt. According to her mother, aunt and anyone else Namazzi could convince to tell her the story, the man took his spear and slashed Dembe across the face in response to his peaceful solution. Her father stared at the man for only a moment without speaking. And before the man could plant the spear back in the ground, Dembe had drawn his knife, moved behind the man and had slit his throat. The rebellion was squelched, and no man ever dared cross Dembe again.

Namazzi loved hearing that story.

As she strode through the regal decorations of her father’s tent, she thought about her own birthright. As a woman, she could never be the Rwot. This was something she had made peace with many years ago. Instead, her Father—who had no sons of his own and would be forced to pass his rule along to a distant cousin in another village—had always promised something that she treasured much more than rulership of a physical kingdom. As the healer and the spirit woman of the village, She would be one of Jok’s chosen people on Earth. A man may rule the people, but she would rule the spirits and the earth.

And armed with the final pieces of his faith that Father Gregory had been unable to teach her, even Thaddeus would submit to her authority. If not, he would be removed without question. The Regal Man had promised that the priest would not be an obstacle when the time was right.

Namazzi approached the throne upon which her father sat, bowed low and kissed his hand.

“Good morning, Father.”

Dembe patted his daughter on the head and reached for her hand, to kiss it in return.

“Namazzi. My daughter. It is a joy to look upon you.”

Namazzi wished she could say the same. She remembered a time when her Father was a picture of strength and health. Even the scar on his face had exuded strength to all those around him. Now, her father was dying, at barely fifty-four years of age.

“How are you feeling, Father?”

Dembe licked his lips and allowed his eyes to linger on Namazzi’s face for a moment before responding.

“Not well, my daughter. I fear that my last days are upon me.”

Namazzi shook her head. She would not give up so easily. Jok still had time to heal him. She retrieved a small bundle of bananas from her pouch and extended them to her father.

“Perhaps not yet, my Father. These bananas have been infused with the venom of a nyelo.” A Python. “They have been blessed by Jok himself. The Regal Man has given them to me and…”

“The Regal Man.” Namazzi watched as her father’s lips curled into a pensive and skeptical smile. After only a few seconds, the smile melted into a frown. He did not share his thoughts with her, though she had always known that his faith in certain realities was not as strong as her own. “Put them on the table, daughter.”

Namazzi resisted the urge to take one banana and force her father to eat it in front of her. She placed the bananas on the table.

Dembe leaned back on his throne and stared at the nyara-bok at the ceiling of of the hut, through the opening in the center.

“I think it is too late for magic and healing, my daughter. This disease was created by the sins of mankind, and cannot be cured by the purity of the spirit world.”

Namazzi could not restrain her shock at her Father’s blasphemy. He had always greatly honored the name of Jok, but to doubt his ability to heal? “Father, it is never too late for Jok to intervene.”

Namazzi’s father sighed and looked up his daughter. He was tired, very tired, but Namazzi could see the love and the fire in his eyes. He was in pain, but worse than his pain was the fact that we would not be able to die in combat. She hated for him that a disease like AIDS would take him before the spear of a rival could. She hated that it was his own lusts that caused him to acquire the infection, and that this disease ravaged him slowly over time, eating away at him over the last five years. She hated that he had embraced western medicine and doctors in order to find a cure, and that the disease had steadily worsened. Namazzi could tell he was ready to go, and his fear that it was too late was prof.

“Gwok onyatto cet kany mada.” That dog has passed many of it’s droppings here. In other words, her father was tired of trying. “Namazzi, I have recently decided that Jok desires for me to ascend to heaven in order to rule with him.”

Namazzi dropped to one knee and bowed low at the thought. “That is a great honor, my Father.”

“Indeed, it is. It is a reward for many years of service. But it is also reward for your supplication on my behalf.” Dembe touched the head of his daughter. “For the past five years—since I was infected with this disease—you have done everything in your power to restore my health. In the process, you have surpassed my skill as a won yat. You have grown into a wonderful woman, and I am proud to call you daughter.”

Namazzi shook her head. “But there are still things to do, Father. Joseph Kony is here, we need your strength.” She knew that fear was coming through in her voice, but she did not care. She was not ready to be alone.

“Namazzi, I know that Joseph Kony is here. He is probably here because I am dying. He knows that I cannot stand against him, and that I will soon be gone for good.” Dembe looked at the ground as a solitary tear slid down the side of his face. It was the only tear Namazzi had ever seen from her father. “I would like nothing more than to confront him as a man of honor on the battlefield and die at his hand. But you and I both know that I would die from standing up out this chair.” Her father sighed. “Even still, to die at the hands of that man is no honor at all. Joseph Kony just as soon set this hut on fire while I sleep as confront me face to face.”

“But what shall we do without you, Father? He will kill us all.”

“No, Namazzi. He will not.” Dembe sat up straight and looked at his daughter with fire in his eyes. “He will not, because you will lead your people. I no longer care that our law dictates that you cannot be chief. Your cousin will arrive in three weeks to assume my throne, and you will cede it to him. In the meantime, and while Joseph Kony is here, you will lead this village.”

Namazzi dropped her head and stared at the goatskin run on which she was standing. She dug the toes of her dark feet into the strands of the carpet and looked back at her father. This was more than she had wanted, and Namazzi felt fear rise up within her. It was disgusting—she was not afraid of the black or night or the spirits that inhabited the village—but she could not control it, even as it caused her to speak to her Father.

“But Father, I…”

“The growing millet does not fear the sun, my daughter.”

That was the last word. Namazzi bowed.

“But you cannot do this alone, my daughter. You will need help.”

Help? But from where? Now that Joseph Kony was two miles outside the village, they’d be lucky to continue receiving supplies, much less find anyone willing to aid them. What’s more, many of the surrounding communities had already been assaulted by Kony over the years. Namzzi’s father was the only reason Kony had left Pakwinyo alone for so many years.

“Who will help, me Father.”

“The priest, Thaddeus Wilkes.”

Namazzi curled her lips up in disgust. Even if she liked and trusted the minister, what could would he be to them? Before she could respond, Dembe commented on the state of Namazzi’s face.

“You do not like the priest? After all the years that Father Gregory guided you, what has this man done to harm your respect for the God of the Jews and the Jesus Christ of the Westerners?”

Namazzi weighed her response. In any other state, she would guard her thoughts and words, even to her father. But if these were his last days, he deserved her honesty.

“Thaddeus Wilkes is not Father Gregory. He does not wish to teach me more of his faith. And he does not seem to respect ours. And more, the man does not seem to even believe what he preaches.”

“Nyatte meeri ni nyayo nerri ki dano?” Is your boasting the cause?

Namazzi lowered her head. Only her father could ask such probing questions.

“Perhaps, father. You know I have your pride.” She smiled at Dembe and he laughed and smiled in return. “There is another reason, father. Another reason why Thaddeus Wilkes is not as Father Gregory was to me.”

“Why is that daughter?”

“Because he is in my way.” Her father nodded, but did not reply. “I believe that he is a threat to our faith, and that he will stand in the way of me becoming the true spiritual leader of this village.”

“Namazzi. Father Wilkes has always been quite gracious and kind to me. I have never heard him make a threat or speak an unkind word to anyone in the village. He is here to do God’s work, while you do the work of Jok. Why can you not work together?”

“I do not know, Father.”

“Yes you do Namazzi. Please do not withhold the truth from me.”

Namazzi saw a sternness return to her Father’s eyes, filled with the same fire for battle that had driven him for so many years. That look had always commanded compliance.

“The Regal Man.”

“What of him, daughter?”

“He has warned me that Thaddeus will stand in my way of becoming the true leader of the village.”

Dembe sighed and looked at his daughter with both grace and love. He laughed, which led to a coughing fit, which resulted in Dembe spitting up blood. When he collected himself, he spoke to his daughter.

“My child, I do not say this lightly, so please listen to me.” Namazzi nodded. “I would be careful to trust The Regal Man. Remember that I still am a man of the spirit world myself. I still receive a word from Jok every now and again. I believe that Thaddeus Wilkes is here to help us. To help you, Namazzi. Do not turn an ally into a enemy just because a spirit tells you so. Remember, not all spirits in these woods are here for good.”

Namazzi nodded and attempted to hide her shock.

“But father, The Regal Man has helped us many times in the past.”

“Indeed he has, my daughter. He has been an acceptable link to the spirit world for you for some time.” The chief coughed again and raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if longing to be carried up to heaven. “And I, of course, cannot make your decisions for you any longer. All I ask, is that you give the priest a chance. Will you do that?”

“Yes Father.”

“Thank you.” Dembe lowered his eyes back to Namazzi and settled them on her face. “Now, how much longer do I have?”

Namazzi stared at her Father without speaking for several moments. Within those eyes, she could see the fire fading by the minute. The will of a warrior was escaping her father and her chief. If he lived to much longer, the fire would be out, and could not be recaptured even in the afterlife. Rather than ruling alongside Jok with the same firm benevolence that he’d ruled the area, he’d be reduced to an empty figure on Jok’s court.

As though her Father was realizing as much at the exact same moment that she was, a look of fear crept over Dembe’s face. He was not afraid to die, but he was afraid to die without dignity, claimed by a sickness that could not be seen rather than the hand of a rival.

Namazzi walked closer to her father. His eyes followed her to him, but he did not speak. She watched his eyes move from her face down to a table next to his throne and she followed them, settling on the knife that her father had kept by his side for thirty years. Namazzi looked back at her father and waited until his eyes returned to hers. The fire in them rose. Namazzi leaned in closer to her father and whispered.

“My Father. Today, I am your rival.”

Namazzi picked up her Father’s knife and plunged it into his chest. As she did, the man who had trained her in life, medicine and the ways of the spirit world looked at her and smiled. He raised a hand, placed it upon the hand that held the knife in his chest, and pushed the knife father in.

“Thank you, daughter.”

Dembe died with a smile on his face and the smell of his own blood lingering in his nostrils. Namazzi cried for her Father, before pocketing the knife, wiping the blood from her hand onto her shirt in his memory and leaving the hut.

This was her village now, and she would make her Father, and all the Rwots before him proud.

1. that would be Sarah

Late last week, I got word that Niteblade Magazine wants to publish Guzman’s Labyrinth in the March 2009 issue.

Being that this blog is primarily about my wandering journey into writing, I thought it was worth mentioning.

I’m certainly pretty excited…

You might remember Guzman’s Labyrinth from a Write What You See entry from a few months ago.¹

I liked the idea behind that story, but it was a bit lazy in parts and had a confusing ending, so I reworked the story and submitted it to a couple of places looking for Horror in the Dystopian vein… horror that lingers and unsettles, that’s my kind of horror story.

Apparently they agreed.

I’ll post a link when the March issue comes out. In the meantime, check out some past issues.

1. Don’t go bother looking for it, I took it down from the original post.

Today that issue is poverty.

For my post on this blog, I’ve chosen to re-post a story I wrote for the Compassion Blog about the first time I met Ana Maria, a little girl from the Dominican Republic who I met while leading a men’s retreat with friends.

We sponsor Ana through Compassion International, a global child development ministry with the mission of releasing children from poverty in Jesus’ name.

The truth is that while poverty affects millions across the world, it is the children who are often the most helpless and the most harmed. As you navigate through posts on poverty, and as you feel the call to do something about poverty in this world, please consider what you can do to help those who cannot help themselves.

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I knew that she was a sweet little girl, but it wasn’t her face that told me so. Her face had a hard look, as if smiling was an indulgence; something reserved for close friends and family only. But the hardness in her face wasn’t a frown. It wasn’t unhappiness I saw there. It might have simply been shyness and uncertainty.

After all, who was I? Some American who swooped in to pass around the good feelings before returning to vast shelters of wood, composite and stone? Someone who wanted to “do a little good” and make himself feel better before returning home to his consumer Christianity?

It’s possible all of this was on her face and in her four-year-old mind. Children are, after all, very perceptive.

But maybe I was projecting. Maybe my mind was simply painting my own guilt on her stoic face.

I stood in the courtyard playground of that child development center in Bonao, hours outside of Santo Domingo and less than a day after arriving in the Dominican Republic (DR), and the sun’s heat felt more like that given off by an interrogation lamp than life-giving warmth.

Why was I really here anyway?

I came to the DR to lead a men’s retreat with three others. Two other Compassion employees and one elder of a local church. Our host was an employee of the DR country office. The next day, we were to begin speaking at his church and leading what we hoped would be a revival for the men of Santo Domingo.

So I was there to speak. To challenge, encourage and uplift.

But even more, I discovered that I was there to listen. And to be challenged, encouraged and uplifted myself.

Our first day in the country was a Compassion day. A chance for three of us to see, for the first time, the results of the work of thousands around the globe working to further the cause of Christ.

It was a holiday in the Dominican Republic, so we didn’t receive the 300-child welcoming party I’d heard is often customary when visiting a Compassion child development center.

Instead, we were greeted by a handful of children. Several boys and, as I remember it, one little girl with a hard face, but who radiated sweetness nonetheless.

But from where? I wonder now what drew me so strongly to this sweet child, only present that day because her mother, Rosa, is their volunteer cook.

Perhaps it was the English.

Shortly after meeting Ana Maria, I knelt down to speak with her, with our friend and translator, David, at my right.

“Hello Ana. My name is Brandon.”

And before David could translate, she spoke.

“Hello,” she said, in English. There was a softness in her voice, one that smoothed her features and melted my heart.

“God bless you, Ana,” I said.

“God bless you,” she replied, again without waiting for David to translate. The center facilitator, who was sitting nearby, smiled.

“She wants to learn English.”

“That’s wonderful.” I looked back at Ana Maria and smiled at her.

She didn’t smile back, but the hardness I had seen at first was gone. Better yet, the image of hardness I projected on her face at the first was replaced with hope.

Cautious hope. And a desire to smile, but maybe not just yet.

Ana didn’t have a sponsor before that day. But by the time I left, she did.

I wonder sometimes if she remembers meeting me. If she recalls meeting an American man who would return home in days and slide unwittingly back into Western and indulgent living, but who now had a lifeline to need, reality and truth. A lifeline that somehow sustains both the giver and receiver.

I hope she does remember. Two years from now, my wife and I plan to return to the DR to visit Ana Maria and her mother. My wife will meet them for the first time, and I will see them once again. We’ll hug, pray, play and speak English and Spanish to each other.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll smile.

Here’s the teaser.

So did you compose a 200 word masterwork?

Did you write a six-word story to describe what you saw in this picture?

Well, my mom did, and she rocked it! In fact, leave her a comment there or here.

Word on the street is that my brilliant, musician sister is also hard at work on an entry.

So now its your turn. If you posted the story on your blog, which I hope you did, leave a link in the Mister Linky form below so we can swing by and check it out.

Otherwise, leave your entry in the comment section below.

Oh, and here’s my entry for July.

I hope you like it.

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Guzman’s Labyrith

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Previous Months:

The Many Uses of a Sunday Paper – June 2008

Want this button?

She actually did it this time.

Robin made up a new poetic form, for real.

This isn’t an obscure form that I’ve decided to blame Robin for inventing, as I have done in the past.

This one is a Pensieve Original Creation, or POC.

The form: A Pensieve.

And it’s really, really cool. It’s essentially a sense-memory poem, where you use each of the five senses (one per line) to evoke memory and connection from the reader.

Here’s Robin’s description:

“What is a Pensieve? A titled, five-line poem; each line correlates to one of the five senses–sight, sound, scent, taste, touch–and describes the subject (title). The goal is for the reader to take on the poem as his own, being able to “experience” your subject through your words, by seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting and feeling what you described.”

I really love this idea, and am even honored to take some of the blame from Robin.

If this thing has steam, and from the comments it looks like it does, I’d consider creating a Wikipedia entry for the Pensieve.

In the meantime, here is my humble contribution to this burgeoning form.

Rather than write my first Pensieve about something concrete, like complex sugar compounds, I decided to write about something much more abstract.

The Thought of the Thing (Or, To the Idea)

A speck, you shimmer and morph as a blur before my eyes.
You speak of heroes and villains, angels and demons, men and monsters.
Your fragrance envelops me and invades with visions unfolding.
My tongue is coated with savory milk and honey, and a story begins to form.
Fearing your retreat, my pen reaches out and takes hold.

Let me know what you think. Then go check out all the others.

On monday, I posted the photo for the first Write What You See challenge, with instructions to write a piece of flash- or micro-fiction¹, post the story on your blogs and return here on Friday to throw them into the mix.

Here’s the photo again:

I know that you’ve all written wonderful stories and are now queuing up to let us know about them. That part is simple, enter your name and the URL to the post for your story in the form below.

I’ve already gotten a couple of entries in the comment section of Monday’s post and will enter them into Mister Linky so that you can be sure to read them. Thanks LL and Lauren for turning in your work early.

And if you can’t get something up today, feel free to post it this weekend or next week. We take ‘em all here.

Once again, if you have a story, but are not a blogger, you are welcome to post the story below or email me (bsatrom AT Gmail DOT COM) and I’ll post it for you.

Did you think I’d start up this challenge and not throw in myself? My humble entry–to go along with the picture above–is below. If you do nothing else today, kindly leave me a comment and let me know what you think.

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The Many Uses of a Sunday Paper

“That’s him?”

“That’s him.”

I must have moaned or retched because Richard looked over at me.

“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover, love.”

“Or lack of cover.”

“Indeed.”

Richard lifted the camera from our cafe table and began to take pictures of the scene across the courtyard.

“Is that really necessary?”

“Just doing my job, Annie-girl.”

“I’d say your job is about done, Dick.” He cringed. Englishmen named Richard hate to be called Dick. “Do you really need photos?”

“Don’t you want to know his name, Miss Layton?” He continued to take photos without discretion. The men across the yard remained ignorant subjects of his documentary.

“I’ve come this far, haven’t I?”

“His name is Rhinaldo Vance. And he’s a cretin.”

“Save me the commentary, Richard. I’m not paying you for moral judgements.”

“Suit yourself, but I think you’ll find I’m right. In any case, he is the ringleader of this little crowd of bikini-clad Italian exhibitionists.”

There were six of them—all in bathing suits—and Rhinaldo was standing at the front. A few of the men were sitting on a semi-circle concrete bench that bordered the small beach. A few others were chatting animatedly and preparing for a swim. Rhinaldo—the man whom Richard had tracked down for me—was standing alone, reading the paper. The way he’d positioned the paper made it impossible for me to tell if he was even wearing a swimsuit. For my own sake, I hoped he was.

“What’s he into?”

Richard lowered his camera and looked at me over his sunglasses.

“In to? My dear, not all Italian men are La Cosa nostra, as you Americans are so fond of thinking. He’s just a normal middle-aged Italian male. He runs a local bar, has a wife, attends Mass every Sunday…”

“Wearing more than a newspaper, I hope.”

“I should think so.” The English can be so humorless sometimes. “He also likes to spend his Sunday afternoons at the beach with friends.”

“That I can see. That’s all you know? Nothing criminal, then?”

“Nothing at all.”

I sighed. Criminal activity was my out. I’d practically prayed for it, but no such luck. Instead, here stood a normal man with a penchant for near-nudity. But I’d have to do what I came for anyway.

“Nice work Richard.” I handed him a thick envelope. “The other half.”

Richard took the envelope without delay and scanned its contents.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Layton.” He finished his espresso and left without another word.

I looked at Rhinaldo Vance—the reason I’d come thousands of miles—and took a deep breath. I wanted nothing more to turn back and go home. Mother had told me I’d regret this, and I was beginning to agree.

I stood up and walked across the courtyard.

Rhinaldo saw me coming, folded up his paper and tucked it under one arm.

I smiled and extended my right hand. We shook, and that’s when I knew.

Even though he’d never had a chance to do so when I was young, this man—my father—would waste no time embarrassing his daughter now we’d met.

1. basically a short, short story

It’s not Until Durango, that one’s done… again.

This one is tentatively called “The Silent Funeral,” and it’s actually part of the novel I started working on last November.

So yes, I am finally working on my novel again.

About a month ago, I got an idea for a key scene that was completely missing from the first draft of the novel¹ and I decided to try to write this scene as a standalone short story.

I do plan on submitting this story for publication as a standalone, but my primary reason for writing it was to recharge and re-engage with a world I’ve been away from for a few months.

Why am I telling you his? Because I wanted to share a preview of the story, but with a twist. last night I stumbled across a great little site called Wordle. Here’s a summary from the site:

Wordle is a toy for generating “word clouds” from text that you provide. The clouds give greater prominence to words that appear more frequently in the source text.

I just had to try this, so I copied the entire 4000 word text from the second draft of “The Silent Funeral” and let Wordle work it’s magic.

The result is below. If you want to see a bigger version, click on the image to view the original in Wordle.

Pretty sweet, huh?
So, what words on here stand out to you? How would you guess they fit into the story?

1. There are several missing scenes, actually. And a few that need to go