क्लिक करिए और सुनिए  एक मिनट और 48 सैंकिंड की कहानी “साफ सफाई -लघु कथा -ऑडियो ” वाचिका मोनिका गुप्ता साफ सफाई  हम सभी को पसंद है पर कुछ मामलों में सफाई से सख्त नफरत है .. खासकर हमारे देश में…. कैसे ?? जानने के लिए सुनिए कहानी सफाई पिछले बहुत दिनों के तनाव के […]

The post साफ सफाई -लघु कथा -ऑडियो appeared first on Monica Gupta.

By Becca... A TYRANNY OF PETTICOATS: 15 Stories of Belles, Bank Robbers & Other Badass Girls Edited by: Jessica Spotswood Hardcover: 368 pages Published by: Candlewick Press (March 8, 2016) Language: English Goodreads | Amazon From an impressive sisterhood of YA writers comes an edge-of-your-seat anthology of historical fiction and fantasy featuring a diverse array of daring heroines.

The Elora Writers Festival invites entries for the 2016 EWF Short Story Contest. First prizes: Adult = $200, Teen = $200, Youth (14-under) = $150. Entry fee: $15 for writers age 20+. Adult category open to Canadian residents; teen/youth entrants must be residents of Wellington, Waterloo, Dufferin, Halton or Hamilton-Wentworth counties/regions. Deadline: April 6, 2016.

Doesn’t it just give you the feels?

Young adult author Malinda Lo has written a short story called The Cure. Lo (pictured, via) has posted this piece online at Interfictions; readers can access it free of charge.

According to Lo’s blog post, she became inspired to write The Cure when she was researching the history of hysteria. The story focuses on a theoretical cure for this psychological condition.

Here’s an excerpt: “When the doctor slapped me, I fell silent in shock, and he told me that my emotions had gotten the best of me, that my delicate female constitution couldn’t handle so much education, that I had best withdraw for the rest of the semester and focus on more womanly arts: some light embroidery, perhaps, in preparation for my upcoming wedding. I broke into laughter, because his explanation was so ridiculous it warranted nothing less. As if the prospect of my marriage could cure me.”

Manelle Oliphant Illustration - Illustrator and Writer

Here is my latest Tales Fantastic Story. My brother volunteered to read the story and I think he did a great job. You can listen to it on the video or read it below. If you’d rather read it later on your kindle or ipad you can download this story free from smashwords.

Ghost Connection

A short story by Manelle Oliphant

I’ve been haunted by two things since I was born, my red hair, and a ghost. This is the story of how my sister Emily’s Halloween obsession helped me become uh… un-haunted.

Let’s start with the ghost. She’d been around from my earliest memories. She was white and glowy. She wore a flowing dress, had long hair, and looked a little old fashioned. She followed me around in a kind of smoke. Her presence brought a feeling of desperation. Like she wanted to be my friend and had to struggle every moment to make it happen.

As a kid, I talked about her all the time. I didn’t realize seeing a ghost wasn’t normal. I told everyone how she looked and things she did. My family called her my “imaginary ghost friend”. The only reason I stopped talking about her was because of my red hair.

I’m the only redhead in my whole family. No one, not even a cousin has a hint of it. When I was eight, my older brother Jake told me I didn’t fit in because I was adopted. Maybe I shouldn’t have believed him, but I did.

I asked my mom about it. She was doing laundry at the time and looked at me with her arms full of dirty sheets, “Of course your not adopted, Clayton. My mom had red hair just like yours.” That relieved me quite a bit, but when I asked more questions, Mom looked sad then shoved the sheets into the washer double quick. “She died around the time you were born. Please don’t ask me anymore about her”.

I was ok with that. I’d heard what I wanted. Triumphantly I told my brother about our dead grandma with red hair.

He laughed at me. “Have you ever seen a picture of her?”

“No.”

Jake smirked “Then how do you know it’s true? I think Mom made the whole thing up to make you feel better. You really were adopted. I remember when they brought you home so I would know.”

At this point, tears threatened at the corners of my eyes. “You were only three. How could you even remember?”

He smirked at me. “Oh, I remember. Trust me. You’re adopted.” Then he ruffled my hair like I was a cat. “Don’t worry little brother, I’m sure they won’t give you up. ‘Course if you keep going on about that imaginary ghost they’ll have to take you to an asylum. Probably the same one where your real mom lived when she had you.”

I kicked Jake’s shin. “It’s not true.”

He just smirked at me, “That’s why she had to give you up you know- because she thought she saw ghosts. Just like you.“

I tried to punch Jake in the arm, but he blocked it. So, I ran to my room and cried. My ghost appeared and tried to comfort me. The gesture didn’t help. Her desperate feelings always overpowered everything else. I felt so angry because the fact that I could see her made me feel crazy. I decided right then I wouldn’t talk about her ever again. I wouldn’t look at her. I would ignore her until she went away.

After that, Jake didn’t tease me as much, and my parents no longer looked at me with worried expressions. My ghost got more annoying than ever, though. The more I ignored her the angrier she got. Instead of gliding she dashed about from place to place. Sometimes she disappeared only to reappear right in front of my face. She made lights flicker, rooms colder, and did everything a ghost could do to get my attention. I ignored this constant ghosty tantrum like a pro. That’s how things stood with us for years. Then came my sister’s wedding.

Weddings are supposed to be fun, but they aren’t. Like I said, my sister Emily was obsessed with Halloween. She loved ghosts, wearing black, and found some guy to marry her who loved that stuff too. Since I actually saw a ghost all the time, I didn’t get what the big deal was but Emily was knee deep in it. As a consequence, she wanted her wedding to be on Halloween in a graveyard. Weird.

Emily couldn’t get permission to have the party in the actual cemetery, but she reserved the park next to it. So, while she “got ready” for her big day, me, Jake, Mom and Dad, and anyone else we could get, set up tables, hung old looking photos in the trees, and put up lights. Then we cleaned ourselves up just to sit through a wedding. By the time we got to the reception, which was supposed to be the fun part, I just wanted to fall asleep.

I found a bench away from everyone where I could be by myself. I slumped down, breathed in the crisp air and shut my eyes.

When I opened them again, my ghost floated in front of me. Her dress billowed out in all directions. The air grew colder, and wisps of ghostly light reached toward me. She stared at me with empty black eyes and wailed. Her feelings of anger, hurt and desperation overwhelmed me. I think Halloween, or the graveyard, or both made her more powerful.

The thing of it is, even though I felt her presence stronger than ever, I was exhausted. I’d seen her throw so many ghosty fits this just felt like one more tactic to get attention. It didn’t work. I stood and walked back toward the party. She wailed louder and whirled around me so fast I felt a breeze. I pretended not to notice. I figured once people surrounded me again she would leave. But it didn’t work out that way. When I stepped into the lights of the party, the band stopped, and everyone looked at me. Then they all freaked because they could see her too!

I’m not sure what happened next. I got caught up in the chaos until I hid under a table with my cousin Ryan. He’d stolen some of the cake. People and a ghost screamed all around us, but I just sat there under the table and ate cake, no point of it going to waste.

Once things had quieted down I crawled out from under the table. Most of the guests had fled. My sister looked delighted by their unexpected wedding guest. Mom sat very still on one of the few upright chairs, and Dad directed anyone still there to start cleaning up.

I walked over to Mom. “Are you ok?”

She looked at me. She’d been crying. “Clayton, I saw a ghost.”

“Yeah, my ‘imaginary ghost friend.’”

“Oh…well, I know who she is.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, my mom. She died a week before you were born. Cancer. I’d hoped she’d at least meet you before she died. You are her first and only grandchild with hair as red as hers.”

She put her arm around my shoulders. “All these years I’ve tried not to think about how she missed out on meeting you and seeing all you kids grow up.”

I patted her on the back. “Well, she hasn’t actually missed out on all that much. My first memory of her is at my second birthday party.”

Mom smiled. “Really?”

“Yes. I’ve always wondered who she was.”

Mom squeezed my shoulders again. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up, and then I’ll tell you about her.”

When we got home, Mom pulled out some old photo albums. Dad and Jake joined us as Mom told us about Grandma. She showed us the wedding photos first.

I pointed at the first picture. “That’s the same dress.”

My mom smiled. “Yes, we buried her in her wedding dress.”

Seeing my ghost in full color was weird. She had the same dress like I said, the same face, and the reddest of red hair.

I smiled. “See Jake, not adopted.”

Jake just laughed.

Relief washed through me. I’d told myself many times Jake had been kidding about me being adopted, but I think I didn’t really believe it until I saw that photo.

We looked at pictures for a few hours while my mom told stories about growing up. By the time we went to bed I felt like I really knew my ghost, and Mom looked happier than she had in a long time.

I only saw the ghost once more after that, she appeared in my bedroom a day or so later.

I smiled at her. “I’m sorry for ignoring you.”

She nodded. The feelings of desperation were gone. I felt connected to her now, even though she was old and dead. I saw her mouth form the words “See you later.” Then she faded away. I don’t know if she meant she’d come back sometime, or if I just have to wait until I’m dead to see her again. I’m good either way, as long as I don’t die for a good long time.

The End

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Learn how you can support the creation of more like it at www.patreon.com/manelleoliphant

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Manelle Oliphant Illustration - Illustrator and Writer

Goody Alice

A Short Story

By Manelle Oliphant

Goody Alice’s hate began on a sunny day and grew from there. Over the years she’d stoked it with all the anger and resentment she had until it burned like a bonfire, warning others to avoid her at all costs.

She lived in a ramshackle cottage at the edge of town where no one came to visit for fear they’d be turned into a rat, or worse. She spent her time hating herself, her sister Mary Anne, and Yisis. Yisis was a lizard, her familiar, who helped her with her spells. She made revenge spells, and rat spells, but sometimes she got creative and baked a cake. Then she ate it all, and hated herself more.

The day on which this story takes place is also a sunny day. Alice hated sunny days so it made it very easy to take her bonfire of hate and channel it into a new spell. This was her best one yet, and she looked forward to her long-hoped-for revenge on Mary Anne.

She added a few sheep’s eyes and swung the cauldron into the fire. “That should do it. Now we just need to let it boil.”

Yisis scurried up her arm and onto her shoulder. “Very good, very good.”

She flicked his chin with her warty finger, and sat down to wait. She imagined Mary Anne drinking the bubbling brew with delight. If all went as planned Mary Anne’s loving nature would turn upside-down. Then she’d know how it felt to hate and be hated. Alice giggled. This spell would work, unlike her many other attempts.

They heard a small click outside. Yisis crawled up her hat and squinted out the window. “Person approaches!”

Alice growled. Visitors were unwelcome and they knew it. Who would have the gall to come to her house uninvited. She slid off her stool and shuffled to the door. By the door’s frame hung a small leather purse. She grabbed it and held it ready to throw. It was her on-hand spell for turning unwanted guests into rats, frogs, or spiders, and like all of her spells, hate fueled it.

She flung the door wide and glared at the man on her stoop. His body trembled from head to foot. His fist hovered in the air, ready to knock. “A-alice M-marie Cartwright?” His voice rose to an ever higher pitch as he spoke her name.

Alice held her spell at the ready. “Who wants to know?” She would have poofed him right then except she hadn’t been called anything but Goody Alice for over 40 years.

The man held out a sealed letter. The paper flapped about in his shaking hand. “A-a letter has been l-left to you in the will of Mrs. Mary Anne B-brandon.”

Alice’s eyes narrowed. “Mary Anne is dead?”

At her harsh voice the man quavered backward. She could tell he wanted to run but he stood his ground holding out the letter. “I’m j-just the clerk ma’am. I do what I’m t-told.”

Alice glared at him, then at the letter he held out. She recognized her sister’s round handwriting giving the direction to her cottage on the edge of town.

So, Mary Anne was dead. She considered the shaking man for a few seconds more. Turning him into a rat seemed a waste of a spell. She snatched the letter from his hand and slammed the door.

He’d gotten off easy. Ten years before, Goody Alice took great pride in knowing nobody left her yard in human form. Had she become more lenient, or maybe the thrill of watching a face agonize as it turned into some kind of vermin had abated? She wasn’t sure.

Goody Alice stared at the letter in her hands. Her sister’s soft handwriting hadn’t changed over the years. Alice’s handwriting was spiky and hurried. As a girl she often got scolded for it.

She thought about the last time she’d spoken to Mary Anne.

The sisters sat on their father’s sunny porch reading. Alice listened to Mary Anne’s clear voice, while she fidgeted with her sleeve and wished they were finished.

A man’s voice broke through Mary Anne’s. “You read very well Miss Mary Anne.”

The young women looked up to see the handsome Jeremiah Brandon. Alice’s stomach flopped. She always felt awkward and hopeful around him. Alice and Mary Anne had stayed up many nights talking about Mr. Brandon’s kindness and good looks. Alice hoped the awkwardness would pass as she got to know him better.

Mary Anne, as always, seemed very composed. “What brings you out our way Mr. Brandon?”

Jeremiah smiled at Mary Anne. “I wonder if I could have a private word with you Miss Cartwright.”

Mary Anne smiled back. “Shall we walk a bit?”

They walked together through the gate and down the street. When they came back they were to be married.

Alice’s heart felt like it melted into the ground. She hadn’t realized during their late night talks that Mary Anne meant to steal Brandon for herself. It was the last day she ever talked to her sister.

In her gloomy cottage Alice sat down on her stool, and broke the letter’s seal.

Alice’s insides deflated. Mary Anne had died, and not by her hand. Alice wanted her to suffer in life as she had suffered. She wanted her to feel bad for taking Jeremiah for herself. Sure, she’d gotten sick, but it was none of Alice’s doing. She had still been kind and happy her whole life.

She looked at the spell pot boiling over the fire. Little good it would do now. She screamed and kicked the pot. Green liquid sloshed out and fizzed in the fire. A noxious smoke poured into the room. Yisis scurried away to avoid breathing it in.

Alice screamed again. She stomped to the window and threw it open. The smoke floated from the room and wilted the tree branches outside the window. With another grunt she slammed the window shut and stomped back to her stool.

When she had calmed a little Yisis scurried onto her hat. “She did say she envied you.”

Alice jerked her head up to see him. “What?”

Yisis held tight to her hat so he wouldn’t fall off. “She said she envied you.”

Alice grunted again but picked up the letter from where she’d dropped it in her rage. She read it again. Mary Anne had envied her? Their parents often praised Mary Anne for her quiet patience. Alice always felt loud and awkward. Even so, Mary Anne had envied her.

She thought back through the years of failed spells and landed again on that sunny day when her hate began. Her heartbreak had been the spark, which fueled years of schemes for revenge. She found now, in the wake of Mary Anne’s death, the bonfire of hate she’d built up over the years had died down. Her torso felt hollow. What would she fill herself with now?

Yisis judged his mistress’ mood and decided it was safe to speak again. “She also said she loves you.”

Alice thought for a minute. She reached up and stroked Yisis under his chin. “Thank you.”

He didn’t move for a split second, then he leaned in to her finger and rubbed his face against it. She looked at him and saw a smile. He’d never smiled before. Of course, she’d never said anything nice to him before.

She looked at the remains of her boiling spell and grimaced. Making that spell, all those spells, had been a waste of time. “Yisis, lets clean this up. Today is now a cake-baking day. Maybe, I’ll even share with you.”

The End

If you enjoyed this story learn how you can support the creation of more like it at www.patreon.com/manelleoliphant

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Before the curse, there was a promise. A prequel to the bestselling Tiger’s Curse series, this much anticipated novella recalls the beginning of Ren and Kishan’s story. Before Kelsey there was a girl, raised by a villain, whose love for a hero changed the course of history.  Trapped under the thumb of her abusive and powerful father Lokesh, Yesubai struggles to keep her own magical abilities

The New Yorker has released an English version of Haruki Murakami’s short story, “Kino.” It can be found in Murakami’s collection, Men Without Women.

According to Open Culture, the author’s Japanese publisher released the book last year. Philip Gabriel served as the translator for the piece. Click here to read the English edition of another Murakami short fiction piece, “Yesterday.”

Here’s an excerpt from the short story: “When Kino quit his job, it wasn’t because he was dissatisfied with his work but because he discovered that his wife was having an affair with his best friend at the company. Kino spent more time out on the road than at home in Tokyo. He’d stuff a large gym bag full of shoe samples and make the rounds of sporting-goods stores all over Japan, also visiting local colleges and companies that sponsored track teams.” (via BookRiot)

The Six Swans, Personal project: Watercolor

The Six Swans

A Short Fairy Tale Retelling By Manelle Oliphant

Text and illustrations © 2014 by Manelle Oliphant

You can download this title for free by clicking here. 

he morning sun warmed my face and I opened my eyes. Blinking, I waited for my mind to wake up. I still felt tired after my night’s sleep. I remembered my long labor and my baby. I pulled the beautiful white blankets closer to me. The baby made a noise. I unwrapped him to get a look at the little perfect face I remembered from last night.

A pig.

It squealed and squirmed in my arms.

I almost cried out but stopped myself. My brothers counted on me. My breaths came quick and heavy like yesterday when I was in labor. I shook Albert awake.

He smiled up at me until he saw my face. He sat up. “What’s the matter?”

Still breathing heavy I shoved the blankets of pig at him. Where was my baby? I searched the bedding. He could still be here somewhere.

Albert glanced from the pig to me as I pulled the blankets onto the cold floor. No baby. My chubby baby boy wasn’t here. My strength failed and I knelt down. Silent tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t make a sound or my brothers would be swans all their lives.

Albert rang for the servants and gathered me into his arms. I felt warm and safe close to him.

The servants entered the room, followed by the Queen and her favorite advisor. “What’s wrong Albert dear?” Her voice smooth, with hard edges.

I pulled my face from Alberts now wet shirt and looked at her. A smile played at the edges of her mouth. This was her latest effort to be rid of me.

Albert let go of me and ran toward his mother. “Mother, our baby is gone! This pig was put in it’s place. We must punish whoever has done this.”

The queen put his hand around her arm, and patted it. “My dear. I warned you something like this might happen. I’m afraid your little mute wife doesn’t have all her wits about her. She’s done this herself.”

They both looked at me. I imagined myself through their eyes. I must have looked crazy with my tear stained face, crumpled night gown, and my worn out body. We stared at each other for a split second. I shook my head. No. No. No. Not me! I pointed at the queen. She did it. I looked at Albert and pointed again. Your mother. She’s the one to blame.

She smiled at me. “See what I mean? If you insist on bringing home waifs from the woods and marrying them you also have to face the consequences.”

Albert looked from me to his mother. Did he believe her? She’d poisoned his mind against me for the last two years. I knew he loved me. I knew it. Why couldn’t he see her sinister intentions?

The queen smiled and met his gaze. “Think about it my boy. If someone kidnapped the new prince why replace him with a pig? I’m afraid your little wife has done this herself.”

The color drained from Albert’s face. He looked at me and his shoulders slumped.

No! I climbed across the bed toward him. I reached out. He mustn’t believe this awful thing of me. He looked at me for a second before he took my hand.

I looked at the queen. She gave me a wry smile. “Albert my dear, you must do something about this. You owe the kingdom more than a crazy queen. What if your children were to inherit her mind? It’s for the best this baby is gone.”

Albert looked at me. I could see through his eyes to his breaking heart. He believed her. My shoulders slumped. How to defend myself without talking? I opened my mouth. I could speak, prove I’m not crazy, but all these years of silence would be in vain. I shut my mouth and slumped onto the bed.

The queen continued. “She has killed her own child and must be tried.” She made a motion with her hand. “Lock her up until we decide what to do with her.”

A guard came toward me. If they locked me up how would I finish the shirts that would break the spell on my brothers? I looked to my husband again and begged with my hands.

He only looked unsure.

The guard pulled me out and toward the the lower floors. No! I needed to finish my work. I yanked my arm out of his and ran the other direction. I heard the queen yell for him to go after me. I found more energy and ran faster. I ran, up, up, up, until I reached my tower room where my work waited. I hurried inside. I locked the door and stood panting. I heard the guard reach the door. He knocked.

“Princess, open the door.”

I wouldn’t of course. I heard the queen’s voice. “I don’t care if she’s locked up here or in the dungeon. Stand guard and don’t let her out. After the trial we’ll decide what is to be done.”

I heard her walk away. The guard shuffled around for a minute until he got comfortable outside the door. Then silence.
I leaned on the door, exhausted. I thought of my husband whom I loved. Would he stand up for me? Where was my baby? I put my head in my hands and cried.

I couldn’t allow myself to wallow for long. My work waited. If they sentenced me to death I wanted my brothers to live as men. I worked through my tears. By dusk I finished weaving cloth I’d need for the last shirt. The bell rang in the square. It echoed off the buildings so anyone nearby would hear. They were about to pronounce my sentence.

At the window I could see the crier far below and people gathered to listen.

“Let it be known, this day, the princess Ingrid was found guilty of murder after killing her young son, the prince of this land! Her sentence is death. She will be burned in the morning!”

I wasn’t surprised. My mother-in-law needed to remove me before I could prove her guilt. I turned around and looked at my little room. My body cried out with pain and exhaustion, but if I didn’t finish by morning what would become of my brothers? I lit a candle and worked on.

Later I heard a knock at my door. I went over but didn’t open it. I heard my husband’s voice.

“Ingrid! I know you are awake. I hope you can hear me.”

I sat down and put my ear to the key hole.

“I’ve tried everything to save you, but we can’t find the baby. I have no power to stop things. Not until I come of age and the regency ends. Mother says I am bewitched by you and my word can’t be trusted. She has convinced everyone the kingdom’s future safety requires your death.”

My heart ached. I still loved him. If I could tell him everything maybe he could do something… but I couldn’t, not yet, not until my brothers stood beside me as humans again.

I heard him move and his voice got louder. “I don’t want to lose you, like I lost our son. I don’t know what to do.”

His voice sounded higher than normal. He was crying. I pushed my fingers under the door. This man, my husband, wasn’t perfect, but I loved him, and I wasn’t going to die angry. After a second his hand touched mine. We sat there for some time, but I needed to finish before daybreak. After a while I pulled my hand back and went to work.

The last shirt needed one more sleeve when the sun’s light shown through the window. I heard a commotion outside the door. Time for my execution. Maybe it would be okay without the sleeve. I gathered the shirts into my arms and unlocked the door. No point being difficult. The queen came in followed by three guards. Albert stood beside her with hair mashed up on one side. Did he sleep outside my door? Our eyes met as the they pulled me away.

Down, down, down to the courtyard where I faced my death. I wasn’t the only one who worked through the night. A thick wooden stake was surrounded by piles of wood and dry straw.

The guards pulled me forward. One tried to take the shirts but I fought him.

The queen stood on a balcony above the courtyard where she could watch. “Leave them. If the little witch wants to hold a bunch of ragged shirts while she burns what’s it to us?”

He let me keep them. I searched the sky. Where were my brothers? Ropes were looped around my legs and middle and were pulled tight.

A hooded man with a torch stepped forward.

They always flew here at sunrise. Why be late today?

He lowered the torch and the straw at my feet caught fire.

Honk. Honk.

Here they were!

Honk. Honk.

Two of my brothers swooped down and scattered the twigs, which had caught fire. They pecked at the man with a torch until he backed away.

The queen shook her fist at the executioner and her guards. “Shoot those birds!”

My other four brothers held a blanket in their beaks. They circled low in the courtyard. When they passed the balcony, where my husband stood behind his mother, they set the blanket at his feet. I saw him bend to pick it up but smoke, feathers, and people blocked my view. My brothers fought now except the two who pecked at my ropes.

Honk! Honk! Honk!

The queen leaned out and shouted more, “What’s the matter with you?” Shoot them! Shoot them!”

A guard ran by with swans pecking at his face. “There are too many, my queen!”

I felt the ropes loosen.
Albert moved in front of his mother. “Quiet!” His voice carried over the crowd. “Halt the execution!” The commotion stopped.
“My son, we have gone through this. She is a murderer.”

He held up the blanket. “If she is a murderer, Mother, explain to me how my son is still alive.”

The queen’s face drained of color. “Still alive?”

The ropes fell at my feet.

I threw a shirt over the swan closest to me and he turned from bird to man. I heard the crowd gasp but ignored them. Again, and again, shirt on swan, bird to man. Soon all six of my brothers stood before me, men during the day for the first time since my birth. I put my hands up to the sun and spoke my first words since I learned of their curse. “My brothers!”

I gathered my human brothers into a big circle hug. My youngest had a wing for his left arm but he smiled at me. “We saved your baby from drowning.” He pointed at the advisor. “That man threw him down a well.”

My husbands voice carried around the courtyard with the authority of a king. “Guards, arrest my mother the queen, and her advisor, for attempted murder of the crown prince, and the princess.” The queen shrunk into herself but she didn’t protest as she was led away.

Albert ran down and put his arm around me. I stroked my baby’s head and smiled at Albert. “Hello.” It was the first word I’d ever said to him.

He pulled me close. “I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder for you.”

“It is forgiven.” Happy tears formed in my eyes. Years of silent lonely work were at an end. I saved my brothers, I could speak, and I had my family close. This wasn’t the time for holding grudges.

The End

Learn how you can support Manelle and the creations of more stories like this one by clicking here.

Manelle Oliphant Illustration - Illustrator and Writer

Midnight Ghost

A Short Story

By Manelle Oliphant

Text and illustrations © 2014 by Manelle Oliphant

waited in the dark hallway. I bounced slightly from the excitement of seeing her again. Every night for months I’d watched her glide down the hallway, but tonight was All Saints’ Eve when the gate between the dead and the living would be open. Maybe this time we would be able to talk, and I could tell her that…that I loved her.

I moved closer to the wall to be out of her way. She always walked the same path. Twice she’s drifted through me when I wasn’t quick enough to stand aside. It felt horrible, a ghost on your inside, cold and damp.

The distant grandfather clock chimed midnight. I held my breath.

She appeared at the end of the hallway and drifted toward me. She wore a flowing dress old-fashioned dress and glowed white with a purple tinge. She grew closer and I smelled lavender. I smiled. She always smelled like lavender. Her colorless eyes looked sad but kind. They must have been green eyes when she still lived. I had never seen a more beautiful woman.

She drifted by me so close that if I put out my hand I could touch her. I imagined her warm and alive, soft hair and laughing lips. I sighed.

The slight wind from my breath blew across the hallway. Her form flickered and everything changed.

Her sad eyes turned to dark holes and she turned to me. Her face twisted in anger. “Why do you always watch me?”

I shrank back toward the wall. A cold despair wrapped around my heart. All my fond feelings disappeared.

She rushed closer. The lavender smell disappeared, replaced by the smell of rotten fruit. Her dark, now soulless, eyes were only a few inches from my face.

“Why?” she shouted at me again. Her chin melted downward as she spoke, and her mouth grew into a gaping hole. Her voice, still feminine but louder, boomed around the hallway and vibrated in my chest.

My mouth opened but words wouldn’t form.

“Ahhhhh!” she gave a frustrated scream. Her spirit form grew in size and her soft purple glow turned to red.

I tried to speak. “I….I…” She moved closer still. I thought she would swallow me whole but as she came forward the last chime on the clock sounded and she disappeared.

I stood in dark silence. I took a shallow breath and reached in my pocket for my candle. My hands shook. I used three matches before the candle lit. I was alone except for the grim family portraits hanging in a line across the hall. I felt sure their eyes watched me. A notion, that before, I always thought rather silly.

I walked toward the stairs. I wanted to run but couldn’t risk extinguishing my light. At the end of the hallway moonlight shown through a tall window and illuminated the main entrance at the bottom of the stairs. Now I ran. My candle went out. I let it go. Behind me I heard crashes and wails. A few times cold air brushed my skin. At the bottom of the stairs I yanked open the door and rushed outside.

I ran down the drive and only looked back at the house once. Lights shown through every window and the ghosts made a ruckus the likes of which I had never heard before or since. When I arrived earlier I felt excited, but the ghost’s unexpected, violent anger changed all my feelings. I knew I would never be back. Stupid idea, falling in love with a ghost.

The End

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this story support the author and the creation of other ebooks like this at http://www.patreon.com/manelleoliphant

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The 2015 Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market, now in its 34th year, is hot off the presses, and today I’m sharing ten pieces of advice from the contributors to this year’s edition. NSSWM features articles on fiction craft, getting published, and marketing and promotion, as well as more than 400 pages of listings for novel and short story writers, including literary agents, book publishers, magazines, and contests that are interested in your work. This year’s edition also features access to an exclusive webinar from best-selling author Cheryl St.John, on exploring emotional high points in fiction.

To celebrate the release of the 2015 NSSWM, I’m giving away two copies to two lucky winners who comment in the post below! I’ll announce the winners on October 22. 

10 FICTION-WRITING TIPS FROM NSSWM

1. On writing an exceptional short story:

“Outline, even if it’s the most rudimentary way. It leads to inspired deviations. … [Don’t] think too hard about ticking off [your] boxes in advance. A good story—long or short—will provide them by virtue of its being good.” —Andrew Pyper, in Jennifer D. Foster’s article “Anatomy of a Successful Short Story”

2. On writing dialogue within a scene: 

“Rich dialogue can animate and drive a scene. But good dialogue doesn’t act in isolation. The point of view of the stakeholders in the matter at hand must be provocative or interesting in some way. There must be conflict—conflict important enough to make the reader care. And then, driven by this conflict, the characters must come alive, revealing their needs, desires, flaws—their basic humanity. The dialogue itself must be distinctive and original. When it’s not working, it tends to sound clunky and artificial.” —Jack Smith, “Writing Strong Scenes”

3. On finding ideas for magic realism: 

“Ever since I began writing, I’ve been a collector. Not of things—shells, stamps, figurines, stuffed monkeys, autographs, etc.—but of possibilities. Odd happenings and images from around the world and in my dreams that could—and often do—make their way into my writing. While many might be considered mundane observances, paired with the right character in the right situation, I know they’ll make terrifically fantastic occurrences. —Kristin Bair O’Keeffe, “Making Magic”

4. On getting through the mid-draft slump: 

“A mid-draft slump is a symptom, which calls for a diagnosis before you can effectively treat it. Believing you can write your way out of this mess, that you can rescue the middle with a strong closing act, is a seductive trap, because your reader may never make it that far. When that reader is an agent or an editor, this assumption becomes a fatal one.” —Larry Brooks, “Stuck in the Middle”

5. On developing a distinct point of view and voice: 

“Practice makes perfect, and the best way to practice is by writing short stories. Flash fiction (telling a full story in 1,000 words or less) is a great training tool.” —J.T. Ellison, in Janice Gable Bashman’s interview “Capturing Readers’ Interest”

6. On Twitter “pitch parties”: 

“As informal as social media can be, Brenda Drake emphasizes that writers need to treat pitch parties as professionally as any other submission. ‘Your manuscript should be completely polished. It has to have been through your beta readers and critique partners, and you should have revised it a few times,’ she says.” —Diane Shipley, “It Started With a Hashtag”

7. On what impresses literary journal editors: 

“I’m impressed by a writer who takes our theme, shakes it around, and throws it back at us in a way we were not expecting. Catching us off guard with good writing is rewarding. We all know what we want, but when we come across something we didn’t expect, something that cuts in a new and exciting way, that is a great way to attract attention.” —Todd Simmons, in James Duncan’s roundtable “What Literary Journals Really Look For”

8. On how to choose a small press to submit to: 

“Evaluate the content. If a small press is consistently putting out quality writing, chances are it has a solid editorial team. The amount of time it’s been in existence and its general reputation are helpful indicators, too.” —Robert Lee Brewer, “Sizing Up Small Presses”

9. On hybrid publishing: 

“Diversity means survival. That’s true in agriculture. It’s true in our stock portfolios. It’s true on our dinner plates. And it’s true in publishing. Survival as a writer means embracing diversity from the beginning. And that means thinking of yourself as a “hybrid” author. … The hybrid author takes a varied approach, utilizing the traditional system of publishing and acting as an author-publisher (a term I prefer to self-publisher because it signals the dual nature of the role you now inhabit).”  —Chuck Wendig, “Best of Both Worlds”

10. On organizing a virtual book tour: 

“You may find it helpful to assemble an ‘online media kit,’ a section of your website where you can provide photos and other relevant information, such as a video trailer and press release, in one location. This way, you can give your hosts a single link instead of inundating them with attachments … .” —Erika Dreifus, “10 Tips for Your Virtual Book Tour”

You can find the articles these tips came from, as well as hundreds of listings for book publishers, literary agents, magazines, contests, and writing conferences, inside the 2015 Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market.

To celebrate the release of the 2015 NSSWM, I’m giving away two copies to two lucky winners who comment in the post below! I’ll announce the winners on October 22. 

Manelle Oliphant Illustration - Illustrator and Writer

I recently had had so much fun creating a short story called Princess and Dragon. But my love for dragon stories started years ago. Here are six of my favorites.

​Dealing with Dragons: The Enchanted Forest Chronicles, Book One by Patricia C. Wrede

This book is classic in my mind. I still remember the friend that recommended it to me when I was in junior high-school.  I’m forever grateful to her since I’ve loved the series and Patricia C. Wrede’s books ever since.

​Thirteenth Child (Frontier Magic) By Patricia C. Wrede

Speaking of Patricia C. Wrede, this is one of her new books. I love it. I really want to be best friends with Eff the main character. This book has dragons and tons of other magical creatures. It also has a fun historical element which grounds the story and makes it feel like it really happened.

​Seraphina By Rachel Hartman

This is a newer novel as well. It’s well crafted and fun. The dragons in it are different than dragons are normally depicted, and the story… I just can’t get over how much I loved it. I’m excited to read the sequel. 

Dragon Slippers by Jessica Day George

This book is similar to Dealing with Dragons in that the main character is a girl who challenges the status quo by refusing to be a damsel in distress. But the story its self is original and fun.  (I’d say I love it again but I’ve said it a lot already. I do love it though.)

The Bee-Man of Orn by Frank R. Stockton illustrated by PJ Lynch

I have to be honest, I love this book for the pictures. They are beautiful. If you haven’t looked at PJ Lynch’s illustrations this is a good place to start.

​Saint George and the Dragon By Margaret Hodges Illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman

This book won the caldecott medal in 1985. The illustrations by Trina Hyman have been a big influence on me. If you haven’t seen her art this is another good place to start.

 Don’t forget to download my short story Princess and Dragon.  You can download it by clicking any of the following links.

Did I miss any great dragon stories? Let me know what they are I’m always up for reading more about Dragons.

Learn more about how you can support the creation of more stories like Princess and Dragon by clicking here. 

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Mark Miller's ONE is a spiritual anthology featuring true stories of faith from best-selling and critically acclaimed authors around the world.

Manelle Oliphant Illustration - Illustrator and Writer

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Princess and Dragon

A Short Story By Manelle Oliphant

Text and illustrations © 2014 by Manelle Oliphant

 stood under the bridge and clenched my sword tighter. I took a few breaths and tried to relax my hand.

“A sword in an iron grip can’t move.” Keegan’s taunt, from the three short weeks he’d spent training me, rang in my head.

I pushed it from my mind. Here in real life I didn’t see how a relaxed hand would help. My body trembled. I gripped the sword tighter. Iron grip or not the sword would be more useful in my hand than on the ground.

I put my free hand on the damp bricks, and slowed my breaths.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The trembling stopped. I listened.  I tuned out the river and heard It on the bridge above me.

It’s not a big dragon, about the size of a peasant’s cottage. I took another deep breath. It’s not a big dragon, I told myself again. It didn’t help. It meant if he wanted to eat me he’d have to do it in pieces rather than all at once.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Don’t think about being eaten.

I tuned out the water again and listened to the bridge groan every time It took a step. I heard It breathing and It’s tongue slither in and out.

Ssss.

Ssss.

Ssss.

It tasted the air for a princess taste. I hoped the damp covered my sent.

Thump, creak, It stepped closer.

Ssss, he tasted the air again. “I know you’re there princess. We killed your parents. Your brother doesn’t have long for this life and I plan on sending you to join them.”

It spoke the truth. The dragons killed my parents three weeks ago. Keegan lay sleeping in the castle sick ward with burned leg and missing arm. If It killed me and Keegan died, the dragons could claim these lands, and the people in them.

I gripped my sword with both hands and crouched. Another thunk as he stepped closer to me across the bridge.

Breath in.

Breath out.

I stood, ready for an attack from either side.

Breath in, glance left.

Breath out, glance right.

I saw It’s shadow above me. It moved. My heart beat. Dragon face in front of me. Time slowed. My death in his eyes. His big dragon mouth opened and heat surrounded me. Keegan’s training kicked in and my body reacted. I slid to the left  and swung my sword, two handed, strait down on his neck. Hot dragon blood splashed my arms. I swung again.

Thunk!

The head fell to the ground at my feet. I took a breath and lowered my arm.

Splash!

Fizzz.

I jumped and yanked the sword back up. The dragon’s body fell into the shallow river. Water hit my face and arms, cooling the burns from the dragon’s blood. Steamy fog surrounded me. Still holding my sword ready, I peered through it until I saw It’s body. No movement.

I killed It.

My body started to tremble again but I controlled it long enough to climb out of the bridge’s shadow into the sun. I collapsed on the riverbank. My body trembled more. Tears came so I sat up. They gushed up through me and out of my eyes. Unstoppable. I sobbed and sobbed.

“Princess! Princess Nora! Are you okay?”

Footsteps ran toward me.  I turned and wiped my eyes and nose on my sleeve. Bran, our captain of the guard, squatted beside me. He saw my tears and burned arms. His hands, like birds, fluttered around my head and down my arms as he checked for injuries. “Are you harmed princess?  I’ll call the doctor.”

“Bran no, I’m ok.”

Bran nodded but looked me up and down once more. I still held my sword in one hand. I had forgotten about it. He took it from me. I let him.

He noticed the dragon. “By all the saints!” He took a deep breath. “Princess, I’m glad you’re alright! When we got separated I… your brother will never forgive me…I’m glad you’re alright!”  He ran his hand through his hair and stopped talking.

  He sat. Water splashed around the dragon’s body in front of us. I took deep breaths until my body calmed.

He stood, helped me up, and handed me back my sword.

“We’ve driven them back for now, my lady. We’ll have a few days before they attack again.” He looked at the dead dragon again. “I think we should celebrate tonight.”

I looked at it too. It was dead. I was alive.  I nodded at him. “Yes.” We needed to celebrate this small victory.

We’d won the battle, but the war had just begun.

Thanks for reading.

If you enjoyed this story share it with your friends.

Learn how you can support the author and the creation of other ebooks like this at http://www.patreon.com/manelleoliphant

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Manelle Oliphant Illustration - Illustrator and Writer

Download this story for your devices as a mini ebook by clicking the links below

Hans My Hedgehog

A Short Fairy Tale Retelling by Manelle Oliphant

year ago I promised my father I would marry a hedgehog. Today I married him.

Father met him when he was lost in the forest. It frightened him to meet a man all hedgehog on his top half, but the hedgehog introduced himself as Hans and helped him find his way. In return, Father promised to give the hedgehog the first thing he met when he arrived home. He thought it would be his dogs or one of the servants but I raced ahead, and sealed my fate.

As a princess, I knew it wasn’t likely I would marry for love. Only, marrying a royal stranger from a distant place to secure an alliance is easier to stomach than marrying someone not quite human.

When he arrived I watched from my tower room. He rode through the gate on his rooster and the guards admitted him to the castle. After about an hour my father sent up a message. All was in order and I was to prepare myself.

I dressed myself, hoping that by doing what’s right and keeping a promise, it would turn out well. I think that’s what faith is, doing what you know is right and trusting in God things will turn out well, even if it seems impossible they could.

Now I wait in my bedroom, wearing my night shift, the fire the only light. Hans enters. I see his silhouette in the doorway until he shuts the door.

“You are my wife now,” he says to me from the dark.

“It is true,” I say

“It is an ugly thing for a pretty girl like you to be married to me.”

I feel tears form behind my eyes but I blink them away. “Not as ugly as breaking a promise.”

I hear a little snort. “You are right, not so ugly as that.”

He takes a step closer. I see his large form in the firelight. I feel faint and place my hand on the mantel for support. He shakes and snorts and I see him slough off his coat of quills. He drops it in front of me. After a minute I kneel down and touch it. The quills are soft. I look up. A man stands in front of me, a normal, not-half-animal, man. I look at his eyes. They are brown and nice and pleading.  The moment stretches out between us but he doesn’t speak. I open my mouth but he shakes his head.

He wants me to do something. I look around confused. I look back to him. He stands still, his brown eyes begging for something. I look at the coat of quills, the fire, and back to him. He looks relieved, and I know what he wants me to do. I grab the quills and throw them into the flames.  As they burn he falls to the floor and cries out. I see his skin turning black.

Have I done wrong? I turn to  pull the coat back out of the fire, but it’s burning fast and hot. The flames light up the whole room. Hans screams again, the black on his skin spreads. I glance around and see the wash basin by the bed. I grab it and pour it over the writhing man. For a second I am surrounded by steam. When it clears Hans is calm and the black has washed away. I kneel down next to him.

Hans groans, and turns his head toward me. “Thank you wife. You have freed me from a life-long curse.”

I smile. “You’re welcome.”

Hans sits up. I help him to the bed and fetch more water. He nods his thanks as he takes it. Our eyes meet. His are still kind. I can see he is a good man and we will have a happy life. I can’t explain how I know this but I feel the truth of it inside me. I smile at him and take his hand. He smiles back.

The End

If you enjoyed this story I hope you’ll tell your friends. 

To support the artist and the creation of more stories like this visit my Patreon page

Prints of the image used in this story are available at http://www.manelleoliphant.com/shop-2

Text and illustrations © 2014 by Manelle Oliphant

Not to be sold without written permission

This short story is based off of the Brothers Grimm tale of the same name. To read the original story visit http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm108.html

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BY SHENNANDOAH DIAZ

Backstory is crucial to the novel writing process. It gives your character substance and drive while adding depth, history and realism to your fiction.  It takes a great deal of hard work to develop your character’s backstory. Unfortunately for the sake of the novel, much of that hard work ends up on the cutting room floor.

That doesn’t mean all that hard work has gone to waste. There are many ways for you to repurpose those backstories into moneymaking and author platform building opportunities.

Shennandoah Diaz is a writer and freelance Branding and Communications expert based out of Austin, Texas. Diaz works with independent publishers, small businesses, experts, and authors to build killer brands and engaging content. Passionate about education, Diaz teaches workshops for the Writer’s League of Texas and other professional organizations that empower writers to take charge of their brand and their writing career. Learn more by visiting shennandoahdiaz.com or follow her on Twitter (@shennandoahdiaz). 

1. Short Stories for Submission

Often our character backstory is centered on a core event that changes the character’s life in a big way. That dramatic event is a great point of focus for a short story. Short stories can range from flash fiction as short as six words to works as long as 5,000–20,000 words. There are dozens of contests and outlets, both paying and non-paying, that publish short stories on a continual basis. Some outlets that post these opportunities include Duotrope, local writing groups, area universities, and of course there are several competitions throughout the year hosted by Writer’s Digest. Duotrope also allows you to create an account to track submissions so you know what you sent, where, and when.

Each published piece is more than just a feather in your cap. It helps you prove your characters’ appeal and story premise in a paying market, demonstrates that you are a writer who can deliver, and helps you start getting paid for the work you’re already doing.

2. Website Freebies

It is crucial for an author to invest in building his or her platform on an ongoing basis. Digital media requires regular content to attract attention and followers. Backstories packaged as short stories, blog posts and vignettes make great content for author websites and fans. You can wait until after you’ve tried publishing through a paying outlet, or go ahead and offer it as a free download on your website as a way to attract readers and thank your existing fans.

Just remember to edit carefully, and if possible, get a second pair of eyes on your work before you post it for the world to see. There are many freelance editors available who can provide a professional critique of your work for a nominal fee. The expense is worth it when it comes to your website and author platform development. You want to make sure you’re always putting your best foot forward, and don’t want to get caught posting a story that doesn’t flow or that contains improper grammar.

The nonfiction research you did for your story is also great to share. The nonfiction or “truth” side to every story is a major contributor to creating interest for your book. Did you research vintage balloons for your story? Write a blog post about it. Did you visit an old ghost town for the setting of your novel? Share the pictures you took.  Maps, historical information, how-tos, diagrams and other informative pieces bring life and context to your work. Most of all, they draw in readers. Share your research as blog posts, downloads, and images. You’ll be surprised how many people you reach that might not have connected with you otherwise.

3. Multimedia

Stories are told through many media, not just the written word. Video, music, photography, and other art forms are also great ways to convey and share your character’s backstory. Pair up with a local aspiring film director to turn your backstory into a screenplay for a short filmt, or take a cue from Scott Sigler and post the screenplay as a competition for your followers. You can even take it a step further and use your backstories for a series of podcasts to drum up interest in your work.

If you have a pile of nonfiction research on a historic place, profession, or some other aspect of your story, you can turn those into interesting how-to videos and informative podcasts. Many fiction authors have become subject matter experts on things like espionage and dead presidents by employing practices such as these. There are several inexpensive tools available.

Camtasia is great for doing professional looking videos that capture images and presentations on your computer screen. The interface is very simple and easy to use, and there are dozens of tutorials available to get you started. Animoto is great for making mini-videos using photos and stock clips, and requires little to no technical expertise. Their existing storehouse of images and music make it easy to create and share book trailers and mini informative videos in a matter of minutes.

Podcasts have become increasingly popular due to iTunes and online media such as BlogTalk Radio. There are several Podcast tools that let you record right from your computer. You can offer podcasts directly on your website or use mass distributors like iTunes and BlogTalk Radio to reach a wider audience based on topics of interests.

Really there are no limits as to how you can repackage your stories and research. You already did the work. Now it’s time to make it work for you.

Right in time for Christmas, I am happy to present:

Hi Everyone!

Lists can be extremely useful, especially when they are constantly being updated!

Here are two such.

The first, compiled by the enterprising and enthusiastic Brain Grove, is a list of US publishers who are currently accepting submissions for children’s books – http://j.mp/SVbnCk  – he also, very helpfully, adds links toeach entry to take you straight to the site.  I also recommend his ebook on  query /submission letter writing.

The second,  a veritable database, is continuously being updated by the very proactive authors, Delin Colon and Lisa Kalner Williams – http://bit.ly/writerinterviewopps …

If you haven’t joined www.jacketflap.com, I highly recommend it – an excellent networking site for all things related to children’s literature and books.

Get busy and good luck!

Spring has sprung and if your spring-cleaning has uncovered your unpublished manuscript, or the warmer weather is simply stirring up your creative side, it’s a great time to get working on your writing.

But what to do with your work once it’s written? There’s plenty of opportunities out there at the moment for aspiring writers, whether it’s making contacts and meeting fellow-minded writers at literary festivals, or going straight for the prize and entering a competition. I’ve rounded up a few interesting possibilities for the budding writers amongst you.

If short and sweet – but very high-profile -  is your thing, the Age short story competition is now accepting entries. Entry is free, and comes with a cash prize to boot: first prize wins $1000; 2nd prize, $800; 3rd prize, $500. Winning stories will be published in Life & Style and at theage.com.au. Entries must be under 3000 words and should not have been previously published. Have an idea but not the completed story? You have a few weeks to get it written – the competition closes on September 28th and winners will be announced in December.

Fancy writing something a little more quirky and criminal? One of the more interesting competitions open at the moment is Australia’s Security Nightmares, a national security short story competition organised by Australian Security Research Centre (ASRC).

Entrants should submit a short story with a security scenario as the plot line or essential backdrop. An Australia context to the story is required, and the story needs to be set between today and 2020. They state that, while the story is to be fictional, “it needs to be grounded in a plausible, coherent and detailed security situation. Rather than just describing on an avalanche of frightening events, writers are encouraged to focus on the consequences and challenges posed by their scenarios, and tease out what the official and public responses would be.”

The ASRC competition also aims to raise community awareness of national security challenges and the first prize winner will be taking home $1,000 for their trouble. New and unpublished writers are encouraged to enter and entries close Sunday 30 September 2012.

If you have a full book on your hands and you want to be picked up by Penguin, their Monthly Catch could be your opportunity. For the first week of every month, the General Publishing team at Penguin Australia throw their doors open to unsolicited manuscripts. As many publishers won’t even look at a manuscript that doesn’t have a literary agent singing its praises, Penguin’s monthly open week is one of the few opportunities to get your work to a publisher with a promise that it will not be tossed straight into the recycling.

Not sure if any of the above are for you? The Australian Writer’s Marketplace prides itself on including every opportunity for aspiring writers and is an indispensable tool if you are looking to get published – although it’s about to undergo a spring-clean itself and we should be seeing the 2013 edition hitting the shelves in the next month or so.

So perhaps while you’re waiting for it to sprout up in the shops, you could get started on getting some writing done.

Courtesy of BJ Jones Photography

Ever wonder why we use this expression this way? I know, you’re asking “What way?”

I say, “Every way.”

Think about it. What is a “step back”? Something leaps onto the path we’re walking. We step back; from startlement, fright, consternation, you-name-it.

We make use of this step to re-evaluate, to make a split-second decision whether to fight or flee. We need to know what we’re facing before making a leap of our own. This may be our only chance consciously to decide.

This stepping-back behavior for decision making permeates nearly every corner of our lives. We may or may not realize it at the time. On some occasions we don’t have the leisure to recognize the process or the maneuver.

“Let’s take a step back and look at this situation.” How many business meetings have paused after a similar statement while those in charge review options, repercussions of those options, or the people, places, and procedures involved in those options?

I dare say that few meetings get to an end without some variant of these words, especially interdepartmental meetings. “Shall we table this and regroup after everyone’s had a chance to take a good long look at it?”

See what I mean?

The question of pausing to consider plays a role in individual lives as well. It can be as minor as “cantaloupe or honey dew” while in the produce aisle of the grocery store or as monumental as “chemo or radiation.” Each decision event has impact; large or small.

“Shall we make it illegal for citizens to grow some of their own food?”

This pause has happened–is happening in Washington–at least according to the media. I don’t bring this up as a political statement, but rather as a demonstration of how vast an impact such a question—such a pause for consideration—can make. One question can force an entire country’s population to reconsider many things impacting their lives.

You might ask why this is on my mind right now. That’s a valid question.

I’m in pause mode because I made a major shift in my mindset throughout this summer. What and how I write has shifted; not because I didn’t like what I was writing before, but because I like writing in this new way much better. My approach to both life and writing was in need of an evaluation.

With the shift in my writing, my attitude about life and how I was living also shifted. That change warranted a continued attitude adjustment in my writing. I got to that old “chicken and the egg” portion of life.

Priorities became more pronounced. Life paths suddenly had the full light of purpose shined upon them. How could I not stop to consider or ponder my direction?

The Step became necessary to fully appreciate where I’ve come from and where I’m going. More importantly, I discovered some of the why’s in my life, and those always necessitate a pause. Hence, I arrived at this doorstep.

I have no clue where I’