I tense like a tabby cat whose prey just flitted by

on paper wings

as thin as hope’s blue thread

her grin -  a feint,

her teeth - capped with ice,

topsy-turvy tombstones

to truth’s cruel fate.

I’m a sweetless piñata made from yesterday’s news

a faithless vow

as empty as a gourd

she’s all deceit

a deep salted wound

a prick and prod production

of hell’s delight.

The tentative plan is to launch in January 2010 with an eye on Fall 2010 for our second release - an as-yet-untitled memoir that we’ll be letting you know more about in the months to come. If we get our funding together, I’d also like to publish a yearly anthology, but that may be back-burnered while we sort out which strategies work for us and which do not. It’s a bit frightening, I must admit, to be jumping with both feet into the unknown. But what a grand adventure it will be!

Will be back in a few days with something fun!

Write more! Write now!

J

Unfortunately, we’re jumpstarting the publishing imprint with some lackluster work… namely, my own. I’m kidding, of course. I couldn’t be more excited. I spent the afternoon working with my cover designer (and long-time friend), Chip Smitson. We’re just in the “mock-up” stage, but it looks gorgeous.

What’s the title? I Am a Broken House

When will it be available? First quarter 2010

 You heard it here first. Tell your friends.

 J

in the stone of my heart

a graven image of a frigid flame

you have burned you words

in my oaken mind

you have branded me with your wicked name

You have fed me lies

on a plate of mistrust

the ruined manna from a god of mud

you have poured your wine

a vinegar Syrah

you have poisoned me with your cobalt blood

                She checked her makeup and made a kissy face, immediately laughing at herself.

                “You’re a nutter, darlin’,” she told her reflection. “You’re acting like this is a real date.”

                The fact was that it was not a real date. John Herbert, an old friend of her first husband, had simply called to see if she was free for dinner. She hadn’t seen John in nearly a decade—since her husband’s funeral, she realized—and thought it would be a safe and fun way for a newly divorced gal to spend an evening.

                She slipped the usual assortment of rings onto her fingers but left her cigarettes behind on the vanity. She had quit smoking once, several years earlier, but the stress of divorce had brought her nicotine demons to the surface. She spritzed a bit of perfume into the air and then walked through the resulting mist.

                After making her way downstairs, she briefly perused the bookcase in the den. She wanted to have a few titles fresh in her memory. Small talk had never been her strong suit, but a literary bluff or white lie here or there could work wonders.

                The doorbell sent her scrambling for her wrap. By the time it rang a second time, she was on an intercept course for her handbag, which she had left atop a stack of bills on the coffee table. Before the bell could ring a third time, she had thrown open the door.

                If she would have taken a moment to look through the door’s security peephole, she would’ve noticed that the man on the other side of the door was not her old friend, John, but a rather large and, as it so happens, violently insane man with a pickaxe.

                She should’ve realized that safety always comes first. Still, I think she got the point.

sparked by embers of truth yet to come

the moon made each wise man a liar

and each poet became deaf and dumb

In our minds we had all of the answers

in our hearts we had nothing but doubt

If fear was the song, we were dancers

and its coda our only way out

So I sang to an absence of stars—

sang the song that was born in my bones

it was lost to a bass line of cars

and the worship of unfeeling stones

I woke up to a world out of tune

knowing more than a man out to know

with the promise that morning comes soon

and the shadows will reap what they sow

and now the dream is fading…

every dream is fading

 See, both of the novel length manuscripts I’ve finished feature a wizard named Azael, and Azael popped into my head yesterday with a new story to tell. So, I started writing. That’s the point of this year-long project, right? So I wrote. And wrote. But I didn’t finish it. So, I wrote on it again today. And I wrote. And life got in the way. So, tomorrow I’ll write and write…. Well, you get the picture.

When all is said and done, I should have a brand new bit of fiction starring my favorite protagonist. At that point, I will post it. Until then, be patient. I’m writing. And writing. And writing. I just haven’t finished the story yet. You’ll be the first to know when I do.

 J

                Kendra Lyons patted her husband, Kyle, on the hand and shook her head.

                “Ours won’t be any louder than anyone else’s, hon. Now, relax. You’re starting to make me nervous. It isn’t like you weren’t a part of this decision.”

                “I know,” Kyle said. “ I just wish I could be sure we made the right one.”

                “We’re both adults,” she reminded. “I think we’re fairly qualified to make this kind of decision.”

                “You have more confidence than I do.”

                She looked him in the eye.

                “It’s a little late to start second-guessing, Kyle. It’s only six weeks until—“

                “I know, I know.” His pacing was starting to wear on her nerves.

                “Honey, sit down. If you didn’t want this, you should have just said something before we decided to—“

                “No,” he said. “What would I say? I know you want this, but I’m not interested? Yeah, that would go over.”

                “You know what? I’m so sick of—Just forget it! I’ll call. Maybe it isn’t too late to put a stop to this whole thing.”

                “Oh, come on. It’s way too late for that, and you know it. We’re stuck, Kendra. Stuck with that damn—“

                “Don’t yell at me, Kyle!”

                Kyle rubbed the hinges of his jaw. He hated arguing with his wife. She was pretty good about forgiving, but forgetting was another story.

                “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t wait so long to talk to you about my feelings. I just—You wanted it so badly, and everything was moving so fast. I just—Well, I should’ve said something. It’s just that–”

                “I know,” she said. “I get my mind set on something and—“

                She sighed.

                “We can give it away. I can call someone.”

                “I don’t want you to do—“

                “No. It’s fine.” She gave him a weak smile. “I never want anything to come between us.”

                He nodded, still not convinced the argument was over.

                “You know, Paul, that guy upstairs?”

                “Yeah,” he said. “College dude with the new girlfriend every week?”

                “He’ll probably take it.”

                “You think?”

                “Yep. I mean, he’s the athletic type. What are the chances that he wouldn’t want a free Sports Illustrated Football Phone?”

 The good news is that, in all the craziness, some things have become much clearer to me. For instance, I know now what manuscript I’ll be working on next, after I finish editing the two I’ve finished, of course. I’ve also decided that 2010 will be the year The Write Crowd enters the publishing game. I want to do for others what I’ve longed to have someone do for me-believe in the work enough to see it through to print. I plan to research and experiment, learn and grow until I’m ready to make The Write Crowd a name to be reckoned with.

J

“Simmons.”

                I wrote the name down on the steno pad even though I thought Trent was a vindictive dick for throwing that particular name in the ring. There were three other names already on the list, but we still had half the council to go.

                “Why Simmons?” I asked, not so much because I didn’t know—we all knew—but to force Trent to justify it. “What are his qualifications?”

                “Simmons is a retired minister,” Trent said, “who spent more than a decade as a missionary to Honduras. He was married to his wife, Tammy, for 47 years before she passed away after a long bout with pancreatic cancer. He stayed by her side through the entire ordeal. That’s why he retired from ministry. He needed to devote all his time to her care.”

                “That’s just swell,” I said. “Not convincing, but swell.”

                Trent gave me a toothy smile. “He’s made an impact in this community, Paul. His influence hasn’t diminished since his retirement.”

                “Who’s your choice, Paul?”

                The woman asking was Pamela Branch, the wife of our mayor and head of the Women’s Auxiliary League. I had fucked her in the broom closet just before the meeting started. She was a bitch, but she hated Trent as much as I did.

                “Karla Boyd.” I looked around the table, daring any of my compatriots to argue. “She’s a single mom raising four boys on her own. Her husband, Vic, was a firefighter who lost his life saving those disabled kids last spring. The whole school went down. I’m sure you saw it on the news. Well, it turns out that Vic wasn’t the only hero in the family. Karla, who got a nice insurance check when Vic died, donated half of it to rebuild the school. They were privately funded, see, and though they had fire insurance, their backers had already begun falling away. They could rebuild, but they wouldn’t last long without donations. Karla Boyd saved the day. She could have been sitting pretty with that insurance money, but now she’s got to have a day job to support her kids.”

                “Pretty weak,” Trent said. “I’m not sure that—“

                “She’s been a Sunday School teacher for the last 6 years and visits her aunt in the nursing home every Thursday evening, often bringing baked goods for the other residents.”

                Trent rolled his eyes. I refrained from knocking him on his ass. I jotted down the name Boyd as all eyes turned to Caesura Flint, the eldest member of the council. He wore his years well and bore a charm unmatched by any of his peers. I’m guessing it was the Spanish accent that sealed the deal.

                “Friends,” he said, “you know how difficult it is for me to choose. There are so many worthy candidates.”

                I nodded. “Still, we each bring a name to the table. You’re the one that created that rule, if I recall.”

                “Forgive me,” Flint said. “I’m a rule-breaker at heart. I guess I break even my own rules. Let us hear from Mrs. Branch first, hmm?”

                “That’s fine. Pamela?”

                “I’d like to submit my husband, Richard Branch.”

                Some members of the council groaned. Others just shook their heads. She had nominated her husband three times in the past year. It was understandable, of course, but had grown as wearisome as Trent nominating Rev. Simmons.

                “I know you think he isn’t as deserving as the others,” she said, “but Richard’s got this new proposal he’s working on. It could put an end to the homelessness problem if it passes. He’s always working with the local to charities to—“

                “It isn’t enough,” Larry Nowlin said. Nowlin was the principal at Emit Posh Jr. High. He  was as gay as The English Patient and a bigger tool than Carson Daly, but he had a say in the matter just like the rest of us. “We all know he bought the last election, Pamela.”

                “Not to mention his philandering,” Trent said. “He doesn’t cover his tracks very well. For a politician, I mean.”

                “I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to agree. I know you want this for him in the worst way, but Richard isn’t the sort we’re looking for.”

                Pamela looked like she wanted to argue, but she looked to Mr. Flint instead. When he shook his head, she let it go.

                “Go ahead and put it on the list,” Flint said. “We won’t vote for him, but I don’t think Pamela has anyone else in mind.”

                “I will next time,” she said. “I’m sorry if I—“

                “Please, my dear,” Flint said, placing his hand over hers. “Don’t apologize. Who’s left, Paul?”

                “Reverend Chatham is next,” I said. “Who’s it going to be, Reverend?”

                Phillip Chatham was young for a minister, but well-respected by his Presbyterian flock. He had been a controversial choice, at first, not because of his age but because his ideology was considerably more liberal than other ministers in town.

                “Morris Baum,” he said, drawing no reaction from my compatriots. “He’s a member of my congregation. I suppose that, story-wise, there isn’t much to tell. Morris isn’t a war hero. He isn’t all that active in the community or in the church. He’s not a widower raising a house full of kids on his own.”

                “So you’re selling us on why he’s a bad choice?” Trent said. “I’m not sure I get it. Why him?”

                “He’s got this way about him,” Chatham said, “like the cruelty of this world can’t touch him. He wears this contagious smile and has a peace about him like I’ve never seen in anyone else.”

                “But what does he do?” Pamela asked.

                Chatham shook his head. “Little things. It’s difficult to explain. He touches people in small ways, doing what he can when he can. He loves and gives and—“ He stopped and shook his head again.

                Flint leaned forward, gripping the table’s edge. “And what, Reverend?”

                “He may be the most Christ-like man I’ve ever encountered.”

                We all looked at each other, uncertain of what to say to that. Flint, at last, broke the uncomfortable silence by addressing Jess Olsen.

                “That brings us to you, Jess. Then myself.”

                “Pete Stratton,” he said. Jess had been quiet the entire meeting, but he threw his choice out there loud and clear. “I think most of you know him.”

                I nodded as did several others. Jess was the Worshipful Master of our town’s Masonic Lodge. His candidates were usually out of left field, but Pete Stratton made perfect sense.

                “Pete moved here from Cleveland, so he’s new to the community, but he’s already made an impact. He started art classes down at the rec center for the under-privileged kids and volunteers at the VA center on the weekends. Turns out his dad was a vet and Pete took care of him near the end. When his dad passed, he moved here to get a fresh start.”

                He took a sip of his water, then said, “He’s got people talking, you know? I mean, if a stranger can come in here and have an impact like that, why aren’t the older families in town taking more of an interest?”

                I wrote Pete’s name below Baum’s. “Can’t stall any longer, Mr. Flint,” I said. “It’s down to you.”

                Flint grinned and pulled a Cuban from the holder he always kept in the inner pocket of his suit coat. While we waited for him to submit a name, he took the time to guillotine the tip of his corona and proceed through, what appeared to the uninitiated, to be a lighting ritual. Only after he had taken a few puffs did he grace us with his attention.

                “When I had you pass me earlier, it was not because I hadn’t made a selection as I led you to believe,” he said. “I merely wanted to know if any of you had the insight to make the same selection as I have.” He exhaled smoke through his nostrils, the Spanish dragon so full of his own praise. “I’m pleased to say that one among you had the wisdom to see beyond the common qualifications to find a truly worthy submission.”

                I tapped my pen on the steno pad. “So, let’s have it, Flint. Name your flavor.”

                “The good Reverend made, in my mind, the proper choice. Oh, of course, Baum is not as flashy as the other candidates, but he possesses the most important attribute of all—his Christ-likeness. When we boil down the qualities that we look for in our nominees, I believe you will find that the result is this Christ-likeness the Reverend spoke of. If anyone disagrees though, I would be happy to entertain the argument.”

                “It’s not likely that anyone wants to argue with you,” Trent said.

                “Or could win an argument with you even if they tried,” I added. “I think we can just put it to a vote and get on with our evening.” I looked down at my list. “Since two of you suggested Mr. Baum, we’ll start there. All those in favor?”

                I watched as, one after one, the other members of the council showed their approval. I was the last to raise my hand.

                “That makes it unanimous,” I said. “First time we’ve managed that in while.”

                “So whose turn is it to notify our winner?” Pamela asked.

                I searched through my notes. “It looks like Trent is up.”

                “I’ll get you the chloroform,” Doc Walker told Trent. “Just swing by my office tomorrow.”

                “I’ll get the altar down to the clearing,” Sherriff Long said. “Whose up for the big job?”

                “According to my notes,” I said, “it’s Mr. Flint.” Flint just grinned. “I’ll make sure to bring everything else we need for the sacrifice. Any other new business? If not, I make a motion that we adjourn.”

                “I second,” Doc Walker said.

                “Then we stand adjourned. Our meeting next month will be on the 23^rd. Please mark your calendars.”