grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

the break-in

By

morgueFile

I sipped coffee and wrote in my journal. Beyond the window, daylight had not yet arrived.
            
Annabelle’s ears perked as the kitchen door rattled. 
Once. 
Twice. 
Annabelle growled.
I raced upstairs to wake my husband.
“Someone’s trying to break in!”
John unlocked the door to find our daughter and her boyfriend enjoying a sunrise swim.



This post is written for The Write Tribe 55 word fiction, (mystery or love genre). 

Often called “micro” or “nano” fiction 55 fiction is the art of creating a complete short story in exactly 55 words, no more, no less.  Not an essay, not a poem, not a bunch of random thoughts, no musings. Just a potent piece of pure fiction that you’ve dexterously composed in 55 words.

Rejected. Again.

By

Over the last year, I’ve begun receiving rejections. Not that I had an oh-look-at-me-I-had-everything-I-ever-wanted kind of life, but more like I took-the-safe-path-by-not-putting-myself-out-there kind of life.

Well, I’m out there now.

Some rejections come in the form of complete pin-dropping silence and total non-responsiveness to my carefully crafted query letter.

Other publishers regret to inform me they will not be accepting my work for publication, but wish me much success in finding the right publisher.

I realize writing takes perseverance, and I have it.

I know I do.

I write because I can’t not write. I write even if no one ever publishes my work.

Yesterday I was rejected by Baylor Press, the press for my college alma mater.

It stung.

We have a long-standing relationship, a thirty-year relationship built on fond memories and late-night study sessions, culminating with a liberal arts degree I’m willing to pretend helped get me to this point. I hoped Baylor would be proud of her own enough to consider publication, maybe even claiming an inkling of credit.

But no.

In a response one step from blanket blogger spam, Baylor thanked me for my submission yet felt my farm novella wasn’t a good fit for its list… Baylor publishes history and cultural works—my book is about cotton farming—not  historical nor cultural enough…

I knew this submission was likely a stretch, as many college presses only publish ‘scholarly’ works (plus biblical for Baylor). My tale of 1970’s cotton farming includes a mixture of childhood shenanigans, Schlitz beer, spin-the-bottle and other real-life adventures likely frowned upon by such conservative folks. Even so,  I thought as an alumna I’d give Baylor first shot, dance with the one who brung you as the old Texas saying goes.
Que sera.
talya
And P.S. to Baylor—you can stop phoning every night and sending letters requesting money for scholarships and the massive football stadium fund. As a struggling writer, donations aren’t a good fit for me at this time. But I wish you much success in finding the right donors…

Sic ’em anyway.

Musical Pairing:

You Can’t Always Get What You Want, Rolling Stones

Whew! I feel better:) Back to writing…

Check out my friend’s blog post Facing Our Fears. We wrote about the same topic on the same day… 

a strange encounter

By

This story is based on the following Wholehearted Writing Prompt:  put these events in whatever order you like, and write a story!

He was a stranger in a strange city. Although he enjoyed travel and had logged in more miles that he could track, New York City was unlike any other with buildings packed together tightly, jutting into the endless sky. He rested on a park bench and stared at people tossing frisbees and talking together on blankets spread with food. He had journeyed a great distance and was more tired than normal, or maybe it was the stifling air that fatigued him.
A little boy plopped next to him making no sound. The boy began reading, his finger keeping place on the page. As he read, he ran a grubby hand through his carrot orange hair making the ends stand as though charged with electricity. 
“Hello there young boy.” 
“Hi.” The boy looked up but kept one finger on his spot on the page. His eyes were pale, the color of the full moon.
“What’s that?”
“A comic book. It’s about a bunch of Martians who attack the Empire State Building. They have green skin and black holes for eyes.” The boy’s colorless eyes were wide and animated. He spoke quickly and again ran his fingers through his bright hair.
“Are they scary?” 
“Oh everyone in New York is scared, but I wouldn’t be. I think it’d be cool.” The little boy waved to a man who emptied garbage cans into a large bin. The man waved back. “That’s my Dad. He works for the park picking up trash and trimming bushes and things like that. On Saturdays I hang out in the park all afternoon until he finishes. Sometimes he lets me help, but today I wanted to read my new story.”
As the stranger rested and the boy chatted and read passages aloud to him, the hours passed. The boy shared his pimento cheese sandwich which felt odd on the man’s tongue. 
“Look at this picture.” The little boy traced a drawing in the book, a depiction of fire beaming from the Martian’s eyes. “I don’t think aliens have eyes like this.” He shook his head and laughed.
“You know that book isn’t true. There’s no life on Mars.” 
The little boy closed the book and swung his legs underneath the bench never touching the grass beneath. “Yeah, that’s what my Dad says too, but how can you be sure?”
“I’ll tell you a secret if you promise not to tell anyone.” 
“What?” His watery eyes widened, and he shook his head yes.
“I come from the planet Ananke. I’ve traveled to all the planets in the Milky Way and beyond. There’s no life on Mars, only red sooty dirt that coats everything like pollen.” His eyes began to glow golden as he thought of home. He glanced toward the dusky sky now filled with leaden clouds.
The little boy’s mouth dropped.  He scooted to the edge of the bench, and scanned the park for his Dad. 
When the stranger sneezed neon purple mucus through the New York air, the little boy sprinted without looking back. The comic book lay abandoned on the grass.
morgueFile
talya
Check out Wholehearted Writing on Facebook!

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!