Summer Writers’ Workshops at the Old Forge Library:

Photo credit- Old Forge Library

 Adult and Young Adult Workshops will be held on 6 Wednesdays from July 5 through August 9 at the Old Forge Library, 220 Crosby Blvd. Young Adults will meet from 4-5:30 p.m. and   Adults from 6:30 - 8:30 p.m.   The director of both workshops will be Paula Roy. Enrollment is limited.  Please call the Library (315-369-6008) to register for either workshop. These workshops are funded by NYSCA: the Literature Program with support from Governor Andrew Cuomo and the NYS Legislature.

Paula Roy is a writer and published author. She retired from her position as Chairperson of the Department of English at Westfield High School in New Jersey. She continues to work as a consultant to schools and teachers. Articles written by Paula about teaching, gender issues and homophobia in schools have appeared in books and journals. Her poetry has been published by such literary magazines as Blueline, Moon Journal, Waterways, Adirondac, Crone’s Nest, Iris, Earth’s Daughters, and Ruah. A chapbook entitled The Gradual Day was published in 2004. She has served as director of previous library summer writing workshops, scholar-facilitator of several discussion and literacy programs sponsored by the New York State Council on the Humanities. She has also created and led a series of film discussions at the Old Forge Library. 

“Words & Pictures” - A Poetry and Art Contest

Fellow writers, poets and artists: If you reside within the Mid-York Library region (Madison, Oneida and Herkimer Counties) you are invited to submit your poem or artistic rendering on the theme “CANALS CONNECT COMMUNITIES”. The flyer does not specify which canal, but our own Erie Canal has a great history and could easily inspire you. This contest is sponsored by the Canastota Public Library. Here are the details:

Deadline for submissions: Friday, August 11, 2017 “at the close of business” (5 pm)

Awards Ceremony: Saturday, September 23, 2017 at 1 PM

Prizes: First Place in each division $25, Second Place $10, plus a drawing for a special prize in each category.

There are three divisions: K-6th grade,  7th-12th grade, and Adults

POEMS must be typed and no longer than the side of one page. Any poetic form the poet wishes is acceptable. Poet’s name, grade (or adult), mailing address and phone number should be written on the reverse side of the poem.  Each participant may submit only ONE poem.

ARTWORK may take any format (painting, sculpture, photograph, or mixed media). Each participant may submit only ONE Piece of artwork. Write your name, school grade or adult, mailing address and telephone number on the back of the artwork or on an attached card if it's a sculpture. Artwork will be on display through the end of September, and all artists should make arrangements for pickup at its conclusion.   

HOW TO SUBMIT: Poems may be submitted via email canastota@midyork.org. In the subject line write "WORDS & PICTURES" contest, attn: Liz or Beth. You may also mail your entry to Canastota Public Library, 102 W. Center Street, Canastota, NY 13032, or hand deliver.  All ARTWORK should be hand delivered to the library.

For anyone interested in attending a POETRY WORKSHOP, Michael Czarnecki will facilitate one for adults on July 18 at 6PM.

There will also be an  adult  ART WORKSHOP by Rachel Guido DeVries on July 26 at 10AM.

Good luck to all! 

Plotters Ink Workshop #2, Feb 2017 - Writers' Exercises

To view January Workshop results: January 2017 Workshop


These are some of the stories written by February's workshop attendees.  If you would like to review the "assignment" before reading the results below, please see this link:
 http://whitesboronywriters.blogspot.com/2017/01/february-2017-plotters-ink-workshop.html

Exercise: Fairytales, Reimagined

NEW ADDITION:

“What Became of the Forest of Giants”

  by Susan Hansen

Inspired by the album, “The Trees”, by the band, “Rush” and  “Jack and the Beanstalk” by Joseph Jacobs

Unrest happens in the forest when creatures are not about. The trouble is that the trees are not so nice to each other. The reason is that Maples want more sunlight and the Oaks ignore their pleas.

“Fee Fi Fo Fum..roaaaaaaar”….the forest roared.

          Creatures of the forest believe that Maples come from the heavens above and Oaks are full of earthly greed.  The greedier they become the more they disturb the forest.  The Oaks are the largest of trees in all creation and by that fact alone, they assume all authority.

          “Leave our domain to us, oh Creatures.  The Maples are of no concern to you.  They take up the space but have little say in the matters of the forest. ” The Maples hear this but say nothing.

          No other tree can outlive the Oak, so they put fear and animosity in all of the other living wood of the forest.

          “Believe us when we say we are not leaving the forest. We are here for eternity,” say the Oak and they stomp their roots into the ground …with a clap of thunder  kaboooooooom.

           Meanwhile, the Maples start to spread all over the earth and creatures are given little room to breathe.  Everyone complains about the Oaks but all despise the Maples for spreading all over with their leaves.  What to do? 

          “Oh Maples, you will pay mightily for your sprawl,” say the Oaks.  The Maples are still quiet, but unhindered.  “Whirlshhhh,” the leaves on the Maples shudder in the wind.

          The Maples wage a front against the Oaks and at the end of the attack they win over the Oaks.  The Maples then form a pact with the Oaks.  The pact is simple but will force out the greed and level the forest for good.

          The Oaks don’t know their plight while they grab up all the light from the sun.  The Oaks lose to the Maples indeed.  What happened next seems impossible, a mammoth-like hatchet grazes over the trees.   The trees were overrun by what sounded like a roar of giants’ feet.  

          “Bum, Bum, Bamm, Bammmmm, Bammmmmm!”

          These new heavenly creatures known as the Redwoods now stand tall over the forest and its tiny inhabitants.  The Redwoods were sleepy and fell atop all of the trees around left nothing but the twigs of Maple, Oak and now tall Redwoods.

Jack and the Stalk

  Terry Rainey

Once upon a time, there lived an ex-con and her low-level dealer son, Jack, on their small pot farm in Brooklyn, near the docks, in an old warehouse where their crops struggled and the pantry was sometimes bare.  Every day, Jack would help his mother with the chores - chopping the weed, watering the weed, and milking the cow.  You’d wonder what the hell a cow would be doing in a pot factory in Brooklyn, but crafty mom had done her research and found that one gets tax breaks for having livestock on premises.   She’d read about golf course owners who had goats on their courses, and paid much lower tax rates.

Despite all their hard work, Jack and his mother were very poor with barely enough money to keep themselves fed.   The small business restrictions on their medical marijuana business were onerous and robbing them of their rights as entrepreneurs.   And the environmental loops they had to jump through.   Not to mention healthcare, through the roof.

"What we shall do, is that you should walk into Manhattan with our cow and sell her,” Mom declared one day, cracking her tattooed knuckles as she looked up from the company ledger. 

"All right, mother," said Jack, "The stock market hit 20,000 today.  There’s a false sense of optimism in this transition, so I'll go to Wall Street and sell Bessy."   Jack loved Bessy but he was a good son, and tried his hardest, so he checked his subway card, figured he had enough fare for the both of them to get there.   Bessy, if she could fit through the turnstile, would not need a round trip fare, after he cleverly sold her to a hedge fund dealer.  

Jack took Bessy’s halter in his hand, walked through the alley and headed off toward the Lower East Side.   Hedges and cows, they seemed similar, Jack thought, as he led Bessy down Flatbush Avenue.   He hadn't gone far when he met a funny-looking old man who said to him, "Good morning, Jack, and this must be Bessy."

The Princess and the Pea

Miriam E. Waters

            The steady rhythm of the old clock in the far corner of the room was driving her mad.  Tick, click, tick, click, tick echoed through the still house as it counted off the minutes until dawn.  Alexandria’s head throbbed in concert with the clock’s steady count.

Image Credit: Wikipedia

            Alexandria couldn’t sleep, roiled by the question posed by her future mother-in-law … Are you good enough for my son?

            She struggled to escape the stifling heat trapped in the bedclothes.  The nightgown she wore seemed to thwart her every attempt to free herself. She kicked the last of the blankets away from her body, inched across the rumpled linens to the edge of the bed and climbed down from her perch.

            The hag had layered a thick mattress topper, feather bed, duvet and an assortment of quilts atop the bed.  Alexandria, the princess, was unable to get comfortable because the crone had slipped a pea under the mountain of padding. 

            She wandered to the desk and settled into a rush-bottomed chair.  Time to set this right.  Alexandria sat poised with a pen over paper.  She hesitated for a moment before her words poured out upon the page.

Dear Caroline, your question, “Are you good enough for my son?,” has exercised my mind ever since you first posed it. I find myself reluctant to play. Of course I’m “good enough” for your son, you silly twit.

            Alexandria climbed back into her nest of blankets and drifted back to sleep with the soothing tick, click, tick, click, tick of the clock in her ears.

“Baby Bear’s Encounter”

--(The Three Little Bears)

 P T DeBlois

             The last time he saw his Mamma and Papa bear, they were all together eating blackberries. Somehow, baby bear found himself separated from his parents.

            After searching for them, he found himself in front of a small cottage in the forest. It began to rain. He decided he should go inside so he wouldn’t get wet. The door was unlocked. Baby bear noticed nobody was home.

            Right away, baby bear saw a blackberry pie on the kitchen counter next to the window. It was still slightly warm when he put his paws on it. Still feeling hungry, he ate half the pie. It tasted so good to him.

            Baby bear noticed a large chair in the front room. He decided to try take a rest. The chair felt too big. So, baby bear climbed the stairs and found a small bedroom with a nice bed. He felt sleepy after eating half of the blackberry pie. He climbed up into the bed and took a nap.

            Suddenly, baby bear was awoken from his sleep. Someone was coming up the stairs. Baby bear felt frightened. Before he could do anything, a young girl appeared at the bedroom door. She had golden hair with long pig tails. Her face was full of anger. She shouted, “what are you doing in my bed?”   

            Baby bear growled, “help!” He went down the stairs as fast as he could. When he got to the bottom, he ran out the door. He found his Mamma and Papa bear a short time later. Baby bear would never return to that cottage ever again.   

“The Candy Shoppe”

            -- (Hansel & Gretel)

Julia Heller

You think you know how your day’s gonna go, right up until it doesn’t. Just a little while ago, these two kids wandered into my shop. Skinny little things, both of ‘em. Looked to be a brother-sister pair. Same mop of dusty brown hanging down over their faces, same grey eyes staring out from underneath. I didn’t hear ‘em come in - had my back turned restocking the lemon drops - but when I turned around, there they were at the counter, staring. I’ll admit, I startled, but I still smiled and said hello and could I help them.

            “You’ve got candy,” said the girl.

“We want candy,” said the boy.

That was all. Just three words each, no please or thank you or hello or anything. Now, if they’d been older, I mighta been firmer with ‘em, but as I said they looked awful thin for young’uns, and a little grubby to boot.

So I asked, “Are you out with your folks?” to which they both shook their heads and looked all ‘shamed.

            “Mama said t’get out of the house,” the boy mumbled.

            “Did she, now?” I said, and I can tell you I felt real bad for those kids. So bad I went against my better judgement. I lifted up the counter gate and said, “Why don’t the both of you come on back here and we’ll see if there isn’t some work you can do for me?”

            They followed me into the storeroom without another word. I don’t know when I last saw kids so quiet.

            “I figure I’ll set you both to sweeping,” I told ‘em, sticking my head into the broomcloset and feeling around for the light switch. “I can pay you in whatever gumballs or licorice ropes strike your fancy. That sound fair?”

            No answer. Just a hard shove to the small of my back, pitching me forward into the closet so that I bumped my head on the wall. Serves me right for breaking my rule. When I get out, you’d better believe I’ll tell those kids what’s what.

            I must have bumped my head harder’n I thought. Does it smell like smoke in here?

On-the-spot writing exercise:

Write the same incident from 2 different perspectives

THE DINER

Julia Heller

First Round (Unedited): Kate’s perspective

            I only got up because the dog needed out. I’d have been happy to stay asleep another hour, but he was whining and I knew Ryan wouldn’t wake up for him, so I threw on a robe and took him down. The backyard was covered in snow. Front yard, even worse. I thought about asking Ryan to shovel the cars out before work, and groaned. No way, no how. So instead of going back to bed, I put on boots. By the time I finished the driveway, I was awake enough I wouldn’t have been able to go back to bed if I’d tried, so I grabbed my keys and headed out. Vaguely thinking about breakfast, and avoiding Ryan’s morning crankiness, I ended up at the diner. The lady recognized me and set me up at a booth in the back. She was cheerful and friendly, but I wasn’t really up for a lot of small talk, so she took my order and left me alone. Coffee couldn’t show up soon enough.

Second Round (Unedited): Brenda’s perspective

            Barely nine o’clock and we’re already out of the Cinnamon French Toast Special? That can’t be right. I’ve gotta remember to check the back fridge. No time now, a customer just walked in. That girl who was here last week with her boyfriend. Alone, this time. I wave her on over to a booth by the back heater. “Gosh, is it still snowing outside?” I ask, eyes crinkling up with my smile. She kind of shrugs and dumps her jacket on the bench beside her. “Not s’much,” she says. I’m about to ask if she’s had to be out much this morning in the cold, but she waves away the menu in my hand and says, “Thanks, but I just need the two-egg breakfast, wheat toast, links. And coffee,” she adds, taking her glasses off and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Coffee would be good.” I’m not the one that usually takes down the orders, but it’s slow enough today I can be charitable. “Coming right up, hon,” I tell her, almost missing the half-salute of thanks before I turn away. She looks like all the coffee in the diner might not help. Like she’s more than tired, or tired in more than one way. Didn’t I hear her talking, laughing, last time she was in? She snuck the bill out from under her boyfriend’s nose, I remember that, and I remember the sparkle in her eyes as she grinned at him. Doesn’t look so sparkly right now, that’s for sure. I’ll go brew a fresh pot.

----

MAEVE/ANNA JULIA

Miriam E. Waters

Initial Point-of-View:  Maeve [Unedited]

Maeve finished rolling her stocking up her thigh.  She smoothed her best dress then admired herself in the ornate mirror in the hallway.

      She was pleased with her reflection.  This ought to turn the mayor’s head!

      Maeve gathered her beaded bag and matching parasol.  She slipped on her lace gloves and adjusted the hat pin in her elaborate headpiece.

      She took one last look at herself in the mirror before leaving the mansion.

      Maeve decided to stroll to the hotel for a late supper. 

      The streets were filled with ranch hands, flatbed wagons, cows, horses, stray dogs and people, people, people!

Alternate Point-of-View:  Anna Julia [Unedited]

Anna Julia watched Maeve primp and pretty herself up to traipse about town.  She continued to dust the foolish gimcracks Missy Maeve loved.  She watched Maeve leave the mansion from the corner of her eye.

Humph, who she think she is getting dressed up in those fine clothes of hers?
      Anna Julia wandered over to the mirror and posed as she’d seen Maeve pose.  Looking back at her from the mirror was a slim brown woman in a blue shift and white apron.  She was still holding the dusting rag in her right hand.  She blew raspberries at her reflection then turned and headed for her sanctuary – the kitchen.

            Anna Julia lifted a heavy kettle from its peg on the wall.  She carried it to the pump and filled it with fresh, sweet water.  She set the kettle on the cookstove.  She moved about the kitchen gathering carrots and potatoes for the stew she was making.  She plucked some parsley from the kitchen’s window box and added it to the pot. 

            There was a knock at the door.  Anna Julia wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the door.  She gasped when she saw NAME standing on the doorstep, hat in hand.

Plotters Ink Workshop 1 (1/12/17) - Writers' Exercises

You can review the workshop guidelines here. 

We invited the participants to submit their stories and poems to the blog. 

Here is a sample of their creativity: 

Writing Exercise # 1.  

 Participants produced and then  exchanged lists of random words. They were then asked  to write a story or poem incorporating those words. Five minutes was the maximum amount of time to compete the exercise.  

Random words provided to PT DeBlois:

Dad, dog, forty, building, gnome, piano, empty, ape, fire, water, eighty, dead, black.

His composition:

Dad took our dog for a walk. While they walked, they noticed an ape run down the opposite side of the street. The ape stopped at forty Branch Street that used to be a warehouse. The ape started to climb up the warehouse fire-escape. When he arrived at the seventh floor, there through the window, sat a live gnome, playing a piano. Beside the elf was an old man. He had to be close to eighty.

The ape never came down the escape route. Instead, he looked as if he was changing into Cinderella. At the same time, it started to rain. The water made the beautiful lady turn dead-black in color.

Dad noticed the ugly thing fly away into the sky.

-------

Random words provided to Cheryl Palmer:

unknown...

Her composition:

Ommmm    

Om, Om, Om

“I am calm”

Go inside the body

Set off the bomb

Release the torrent

Flood cells to their edge

Disrupting stasis

“I’m on a ledge”

Quiet turns noisy

Says, “Don’t meditate”

Think of a message

Your cells won’t berate

 ---------

Random words provided to Miriam E. Waters:

dreary, rain, spring, headache, thirsty, mud, rushed, blank, quiet

Her composition:

The muddy quiet born from a spring rain

rushed through my thirsty soul.

The dreary rain washed the darkness from my heart,

leaving a blank beginning in its wake.

Exercise (2)- 200-250 words describing an OBJECT  using all 5 senses.

            Raoul Sanchez lit a blowtorch and adjusted the nozzle for a sharp blue flame. He waved the flame back and forth over the head of the branding iron, soon painting it orange. Ceremoniously, he carried the iron over to a cot perched in one corner of his basement. On that cot lay his latest victim. She was naked, face down, and unconscious from the knock-out drug he’d slipped in her drink earlier in the evening. His heart burned with sadistic elation as he pressed the hot metal upon one of her buttocks.

            White wisps curled up for a moment and the brief sizzle of seared flesh sifted into the quiet of the sound-proofed basement. The wisps vanished, replaced by odors reminiscent of fried bacon and burnt hair. He withdrew the iron. Delicate black flakes clung to its corners. After the iron cooled, he carefully wiped it down and placed it back in its special case. The heavy head nestled within, landing with a gentle thunk.

            It was a custom-crafted tool; the Spanish word for whore -- Puta -- was wrought in the head. Raoul had paid a friend of a friend of a cousin for such a creation. Six hundred dollars exchanged hands: two hundred for the labor and four hundred for the artisan’s silence, because Raoul’s worst fear was that the branding iron’s ownership might be traced to him…

-HT Longale

The Rocker

Maw-Maw’s gnarled hand clutched the worn knobs on the oak rocker where they had rested so often over her life.  The wood, smooth as her aged palms, was familiar and soothed her mind.

The rocker, a wedding gift from her father, had been carved with great care from an oak that had towered over her during her childhood.  The chair’s proportions were generous enough to bear the weight of a man as large as her massive husband while cradling a child in his lap.  The seat was so wide it could hold two of her great-grandchildren as they played in the rocker.

Maw-Maw passed her hand along the arms of the chair, tracing the grain of the wood as if reading the memories guarded by the rocker.  So many children had been loved, and some lost, while she held them close to her breast and rocked away endless moments.

She relaxed back into the chair and rested her head on the companion that had carried her through births, sorrows, and evenings’ rest. Maw-Maw studied the grooves etched into the rocker by anxious fingers.  Once reminders of a dark time, they had evolved into a space sought out by familiar fingers for distraction or comfort.

Maw-Maw pulled the patchwork throw from between the twin acorns adorning the back of the chair and wrapped it around her small frame.  She began a slow, gentle rocking to take her away, and away, and away into the beloved past.

- Miriam E. Waters

The Christmas Cup 

As I sit at my desk, I notice my Christmas cup, even though Christmas is gone. This cup means so much when I write. It was given to me by a dear friend, also a writer, as a gift for the season. I always keep this cup full of coffee or hot chocolate on my desk when I write. I call it my “writer’s cup.” I drink five to six cups of coffee a day, then I switch to hot chocolate in the afternoons. I also use it for wine now and then in the evening hours. So, you can see, I use my cup all day long.

 I’m not superstitious, but when I am having a bad day at editing, I feel I need to refill my cup. This makes me feel as if my “writing cup” will increase my brain power, to help with my work.

 My “writing cup” is ceramic and only holds ten ounces of fluids, but it serves the purpose. There is a Christmas scene on the front. It shows a beautiful red cardinal sitting on a pine branch. Red represents Christmas. With the long needles, it must be a pine tree. Two brown pinecones sit just above the cardinal. In the background, the color is light grey, representing snow. It has a red lid to prevent spills.

I will always have my cup on my desk. If it happens to break, I have an identical twin.

- P.T. DeBlois

Workshop #4 Results - Fiction Based on Memoir

These are four of the "using memoir (memory) as inspiration for fiction" stories we came up with on August 27. Enjoy!

___________________________

(1.)

MEMORY            
                          

The year was 1986. I was all alone working late taking pallets of printing paper up the freight elevator to the fourth floor warehouse. On the eighth trip up, the elevator stopped short of the fourth floor. The door didn't open. I tried to push the it open with as much strength as possible. It wouldn't budge. I began to get nervous. I decided if I wanted to go home, I would have to get out of this situation. I was athletic then, so I was able to to straddle my feet on the side of the car to get more height. Pushing open the exit door in the ceiling, I managed to pull myself on top of the car. I was almost level with the fourth floor. I pulled on the lock bar to open the outside of the door and climb out. All I had to do was take the stairs down and out the door.

FICTION:                                       

Craig was appointed to move generator motors from the seventh floor to the first floor, using the freight elevator. He was the best man for the job. If all went well, he planned to be home shortly after midnight.

                Each time the  elevator car went up or down, the safety door had to be closed. The elevator wouldn't move unless the door latch on the top and bottom met. OSHA came by periodically to check the plant for safety violations. The plant never seemed to pass an inspection. They paid the fine and moved on.

                Craig was loading two big motors on the elevator to go down to the first floor. He slid the oversized pallets onto the freight elevator. Then he would back away the forklift. 

                He got on the elevator car and closed the door so it locked. The elevator started to move down to the first floor. It didn't get far when there was a sudden jerking motion. Craig was getting a little concerned. He never experienced this before. Then everything was deathly silent.

                Craig knew something bad was going to happen. He fought frantically trying to open the door but it wouldn't budge. The car broke loose and went into a dead fall. The emergency brakes were supposed to activate as soon as the car moved more than six inches but never did.

                The elevator shaft went down into the basement floor of the plant. There were four huge steel springs to take up the shock if the elevator car ever did hit the bottom. With both motors weighing 24,000 pounds, dropping straight down from the seventh floor without the emergency brakes being applied, there wasn't much the emergency shock absorbers could do.

                They found Craig Saturday morning entombed in the elevator car like a sardine.

____________________

(2.)

MEMORY:

They say you never forget your first sexual experience. I can’t say it amounted to much but it stays with me all these years. Her name was Deborah. It was a hot August day, and it happened behind a barn in the Catskills. I was nine years old.

She was around the same age, I don’t know. The Catskills, a country place where New Yorkers went for a week or two to get away from the city heat, to breathe some clean air.

In those days no one in our neighborhood had an air conditioner. To get cooli you went to a local pool or to a movie house that was “deliciously refrigerated.” Every year my parents rented a room and a designated space in the community kitchen and dining room. The women and their kids went up for the week or two, the husbands joined them for the weekend. I remember the movie playing at the local theatre fifteen miles away. It was a Barbara Stanwyck movie, “Stella Dallas.” 

It must have happened during a weekday, my father wasn’t with us, he was in the city. My mother was in the kitchen, cooking. Deborah and I were out playing.

We played mother and father. We played doctor and nurse. There was a lot of touching and poking. I don’t remember any kissing. I remember feeling anxious and I remember feeling it was fun too.

Later, when my mother asked what I did all afternoon I lied and told her some story about animals in the woods. Deborah? It was a summer thing and I never saw her again.. 

FICTION:

Valerie is not the kind of girl you take home to your mother. Valerie is the kind of girl you pass around. You don’t tell her about Valerie either, the less said the better. If she asks about your Saturday evening you lie and say you were out with the guys. For a long while she didn’t know about Rita, but the telephone calls and the letters and the gifts gave us away. “What?” she screamed, shaking her head, waving her arms. “A girl from Spanish Harlem1 What’s the matter with someone from the neighborhood? What are you doing, trying to kill me?” My father, who usually remains quiet during my mother’s emotional outbursts, looked up from his newspaper and said to her, “Leave him alone, she’s  probably a great dancer.”

I once brought home a student nurse. Real stature, she was a Bellevue nurse.

After she left my mother put her hands on her hips and said, “How long do you think this will last? I give it two months. Who do you think you are? What are you? An accountant with a firm that hires thousands of accountants. Not even a CPA. Besides, she takes milk in her coffee. With meat still on her plate.” Once again my father looked up from his newspaper, this time he said,” I don’t want you to think you have to check with us with every girl you bring around, but did you see how she crosses her legs?”  

My mother got along with Laura. I don’t know why, maybe because she was plain .She was over for weekends one summer. My mother would watch old movies on TV, she loved Barbara Stanwyck movies, We’d be in my room, just a wall separating us. I was a bit anxious at first, but it was fun too. August came, as usual too soon, and she had to get back to school, somewhere upstate. After she left, my mother gave me one of her looks and said, “Why did you let her go?”

My parents are much older now. My mother never did take to Marsha. It’s been 30 years now and she still stays her distance. But she loves the kids, all four of them, grown up now but she still calls them her babies. Even now when she looks at my wife she looks at me and says, “ What are you doing, trying to kill me?”

_________________________

(3.)

MEMORY:

My college roommate and I exchanged frequent hand-written letters after we graduated, over the course of some 25 years. They were very personal, containing intimate and explicit details about our lives. I never kept hers, but two years ago she showed me the box that my many hundreds of letters to her were stored in. She asked if I wanted them back and I accepted. I spent many weeks reading about people and adventures I’d forgotten. They were terribly embarrassing! I worried that someone might find them and destroy my good reputation. So when I was done reading, I shredded them all.

FICTION:

Deleted because this story was submitted to FlashFictionPress.org and will appear on their website on October 1, 2015! 

_________________

(4.) 

MEMORY:

On a gray January evening I discovered my lover in the closet with a loaded weapon pointed at his head.  I tried to talk him down and convince him to hand the weapon over to me.  At one point I placed my hand over the muzzle of the loaded gun, never considering that he would die and I would lose at least my hand were he to pull the trigger.  I was able to convince him to speak with his brother on the telephone.  After speaking with his brother, he turned the rifle over to me.

FICTION:

 “I know you like me to wear my red heels, but is it really necessary for you to climb through my closet to find them?” Elizabeth quipped.

She received no response from Gabriel.

“Gabriel?  Gabriel!  Get out of there.”

Again, no response from Gabriel.

Elizabeth peered into the long, narrow bedroom closet.  Gabriel was sitting on a storage bin amongst her collection of suits, blouses, jackets and their matching shoes and handbags.  Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat and then began an erratic jackhammering in her chest when she realized what he was doing.

Gabriel was balancing his M-14 between his knees with the muzzle pointing directly at the soft underside of his jaw.  He gave no indication he knew she was watching him.  Tears slid down his handsome cheeks to wet the weapon.  A quiet sobbing shook his frame and the rifle.

“Gabriel?”

“I don’t know what to do anymore.  I have no job.  No prospects. I need to feed the horses and I can’t afford to do that.  I can’t pay my bills.  I’m living off you because I can’t make the rent.  What’s the point in trying?”

“Please.  Please put down the rifle and come out of there.  We can talk, we’ll figure it out together,” Elizabeth pleaded.

“No, no, no, no, no!

“You can’t help.  Nobody can,” he replied sotto voce.

“Can I come into the closet … just to talk to you?”

“You can come in, but don’t do anything else. I’m locked.  I’m loaded. I’m ready.”

Elizabeth eased into the narrow space.  Her blood was pounding like booming timpani in her head and chest.  Tears clouded her vision. “Can I call your brother?   Would it help to talk to him?”

“No.  No phone calls.”

“OK, no phone calls.  Please come out of the closet,” she begged, her voice as soft as night.

“It doesn’t matter.  I don’t matter.  I just want out.”

Gabriel took a deep breath, locked eyes with Elizabeth and pulled the trigger.

Informal Writers Workshop #5 – Writing With Emotion

At the end of the August session, each participant wrote down one emotion on a piece of paper, then we drew lots. Those who attended were charged with the task of depicting that emotion in a short fictional story (approximately 250-400 words) for the next workshop, which will be held at 2 PM on September 24, 2015.

Out of all the possible emotions available, we came up with these : despair, excitement, nostalgic longing, lost love, resentment, pity and fury. (More may be added as other writers express interest in attending.) This promises to be an intense, challenging and maybe cathartic workshop.

Anyone who was not present at the August workshop but is interested in attending this one – please select any other emotion than the ones already assigned. We aim to explore as many different emotions as possible during the meeting.  Please DO NOT use the emotion-word in your story!   In other words, if you were writing about sadness, don't tell us "I'm sad, he's sad...find a way to SHOW us what sadness is like. (Continued below)

Photo credit: willbrattcounselling.com

Writing with emotion can set us to squirming in our seats (even if we’re good at doing so - as some of our writers certainly are). One reason for this is that most of us keep our true feelings under wraps. We take our emotions very seriously and personally. By setting them down on paper, it may feel as if we’re baring our souls to the world. We then feel exposed and vulnerable to all manner of repercussions.

If this is the way you feel when expressing emotion in prose, it would probably be helpful to write your story in the 3^rd person point of view instead of the 1^st. In other words, invent a character and use the words “he” or “she” as they express whatever they’re feeling.  This technique distances you the writer from the emotion and helps you achieve a measure of objectivity.

The best writers are able to observe human nature and translate the fluid, nebulous and virtually UNCONTROLLABLE emotional arena into an engaging story that readers will be able to relate to. This ability comes naturally to some, to others it’s a skill that must be developed over time. We hope all of you will be intrigued enough to do this exercise on your own, even if you choose not to attend the workshop, or submit your story for publication on the blog. Practice makes better…you don’t have to do it perfectly, just sincerely.

Good luck, and keep writing. 

Informal Writing Workshop #4, August 27, 2015

At 2 PM on August 27, we will explore ways to use true stories and memories (memoir) as springboards for fiction.

Prior to attending this workshop, participants are asked to first write a  paragraph describing an interesting and true incident, either their own, or something that happened to someone they know personally.

The next part of the assignment will be to convert the events into fiction. You should change names, dates, places, and modify the event and its outcome.

Many personal memories are suitable for this type of exercise. It could be something having to do with your childhood, family members, friends, teachers, neighbors, pets, fellow workers, spouse, etc. For this exercise please stay clear of anything potentially embarrassing or hurtful to another person.

As always, have fun and let your imagination concoct something truly creative!

Informal Writers Workshop - July 30, 2015 - "Boy Meets Girl"

Linna suggested this topic for the next workshop: BOY MEETS GIRL. By the way, any and all of you are welcome to suggest topics and even to lead a workshop if you want to.

Photo Credit: genius.com

Every story, whether short or long, fact or fiction, needs what is called a "hook".  It's an opening line or paragraph that is designed to make you want to keep reading.  That is the task before us when we meet on Thursday July 30th at 2 PM.

In the first two workshops, we were given short exercises to be completed on the spot. This time, it seems more appropriate to give everyone some time to prepare. Preparation involves thinking things over, in order to come up with an original approach you feel comfortable expressing in prose. Then there is  time to write, edit and proofread your piece. Because of this, we'll expect something a lot more polished than something written on the spur of the moment.

Let's keep our stories brief so we can spend a fair amount of time on each one. Maximum 250 words, please, and bring copies for us all to read.

As you prepare for this workshop, keep in mind that "boy meets girl" is one of the oldest and most ubiquitous themes in literature. It's probably been handled in more ways than there are writers, because we writers make more stories than rabbits make bunnies,


If you are inspired by visuals, you might get some ideas by clicking on this link Google images for "boy meets girl" .

If you have any questions or suggestions, please drop us an email (whitesborowriters@gmail.com ) or message us on our Whitesboro Writers Facebook page.

Hope to see you there, and then!

Keep writing!

Writing Workshop #2 Results

The exercise was to write an interesting ending to the following story:

All night long, the two attractive young women had sat at the bar smoking cigarettes and talking to nobody but each other. When drink refills were required, one of them would raise her hand and either point to her own glass, or make a sort of circular motion over the bar, which meant another round for both of them. The bartender, whose name was Mike, was well versed in cocktail sign language. These two were regulars and very good tippers so he kept a watchful eye on them both.  If it seemed like they were getting drunk, he'd water down the booze in what he thought should be their last drink, stick a bowl of peanuts on the bar, and make himself scarce.

He liked Patty in particular, though he barely tolerated her friend Shawn.  He kept hoping Shawn would go off and dance, or hook up with some guy so he could ask Patty out. So far, no luck. They even went to the ladies at the same time - and usually only once per evening, just before leaving.
Tonight though, Mike was about to get a chance to speak to Patty alone, because Shawn's cell phone rang a little after midnight. She looked at the caller ID, shrugged, smiled at Patty, then walked off to answer the call in private.

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And here are the endings our writers came up with in 15 minutes:

1) It’s now or never, Mike thought.  As he started to make his way over to Patty with a small bowl of peanuts in hand, a stranger entered the bar.

The stranger didn’t hesitate, but made his way to where Patty sat nursing her beer.  Mike stopped three feet from the couple and sighed.

As Patty lifted her glass, the newcomer shot her in the face.  He calmly pocketed his gun, lifted the unfinished beer to his lips, and tossed back the remainder of Patty’s last drink.

A tear slid down Mike’s cheek as he crumpled to the floor.

Peanuts scattered across the worn floor as the stranger left the bar.

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2) Mike walked over to where Patty was sitting alone. "Everything okay? he asked. Patty looked worried. "I don't know. It's late so it's probably not a social call. I hope nobody died or got in an accident." "If there's anything I can do to help, let me know," he said.

Patty glanced at Shawn, whose back was to her, and she had a finger in her ear. She was apparently listening, not talking. "So Patty, I've been serving you drinks for months, but I don't know much about you. What do you like to do for fun?"

Patty cut him off, she knew what was coming. "Fun? This is my only fun," she said. "Shawn and I, we're..." Mike interrupted. "Sorry, I should've known you two are a couple."

"A couple? Patty stood up and smiled. "You are so wrong." Shawn came back. "Mother Superior had a heart attack. We have to meet Sister Maria at the hospital."

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3)Mike walked up to Patti while she sat at the bar alone “Hello Patti. I am the glad I have a chance to say hello to you alone. Its hard to you speak alone sometimes.”

Patti smiled, looked down at her drink and said, “I have to agree with you Mike.”

Mike leaned over the bar said, “Would you like to have dinner with me on Saturday evening?”

Patty's face turned red almost immediately. She looked up at Mike and said, “I'm sorry Mike, but Shawn and I are engaged to be married.”

Mike said, “Congratulations Patty, to the both of you.” Mike went off to wait on another customer.

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4) Mike needed to seize this opportunity.  He quickly finished making and delivered an apple martini to the guy at the end of the bar.  Trying to look as normal as possible he headed back to where Patty was seated.  Just as he opened his mouth to utter one of his best pickup lines, Shawn appeared back at the bar.

    Patty looked at Shawn.  Shawn nodded her head in a YES motion.  The two girls then looked directly at Mike and smiled at him as they flashed heir NYPD badges in his direction.

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