A dear friend reminded me that this was indeed an option for my continued pursuit of an exit strategy from my current employment situation. I have just this very weekend read several ‘how to’ books on writing and publishing (subject for another post) and this seems like a sensible addition to my arsenal (haha, she said arse – nal) of quick fix ideas for making money out of writing. If you have any further suggestions for this form (source unknown – but by all means, contact me and let me know so that I can give you the proper credit) then please post them in the comments section below. (BTW – I’m considering being more open to stories containing animals as I seem to have set a precedent – please see The Lonely Goatherd goes to Goatback Mountain).
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“Hey dork, how’s it hanging?” I scowl at him. “What no pithy comeback? You’re losing your edge, Lelliot.”
“Fuck off, Chris.” He’s right. The bromance is gone and taken my witty banter with it.
“Don’t be a prick. I come baring news and I need to see you put your game face on.” I don’t know if he gets it but unless he is going to give me news on a miracle pain cure and a ten day plan to get my weak as piss legs back, then I actually couldn’t give a fuck.
“Say it and then get the fuck out. My dance classes are about to start.” I wheel myself over to the free weights as a signal to him that the visit is over. Prick doesn’t take a hint. He stalks over behind me and grabs the wheelchair handles spinning me around to face him.
“You’re an ass, Elliot. Don’t make me kick you.” He glares at me. Instead of taking the warning I push back away from him and turn around again reaching for a 60lb dumb bell, wanting for the world to turn around and throw it at his head. “Linc’s been released.”
In an instant day turns to night. A blanket of nothingness is thrown over me bringing with it involuntary-bodily-fluid-release-terror. I have no idea how I might have fared on that front because there is nothing apart from the sensation that time is suspended. If I can feel at all, it would best be described as weightless, transported into that other world that Kate threatened me with. God, that seems like a lifetime ago. In those timeless, weightless moments her face angry, beautiful, challenging, laughing, loving flash in halting movie frames behind my eyes. God, I’m gonna miss her.
Two weeks ago I put out a challenge to my fanfic mates. Some of them were stupid enough to take it up. Hence the Inaugural FSOG Lyric Wheel Challenge was born. We each sent song lyrics to each other. We started with 14 participants. These are the ones who were left standing at the end. I’ve heard a rumor that a couple of others may still yet submit (pun intended). If they do I will add them in. The bloggers – many of them any way – have linked back here or are promoting the stories on their own blogs. Please go and visit. Even if you don’t like fan fiction, these are nice people. Funny people. Talented people. ENJOY!
The stories need to be between 2000-5000 words in length.
There is to be no ‘they put the music on and started fucking’ stories. Sex as part of how the story develops is okay, but this cannot be one big sex-o-rama.
There are no betas. We’re all in the same boat here.
The time limit is 2 weeks from the publication of the mailing list on facebook.
You can use any old FSoG characters you want. You must have at least one character from the story. The rest, ofc, omc, xover, doesn’t matter.
YOU MUST USE ONE LINE FROM THE CHORUS OF YOUR SONG IN THE STORY! Dialogue, narrative, it doesn’t matter, as long as the character isn’t listening to or singing the song you’re writing about. That’d be cheating….
When I arrived out here earlier this morning the ISO container was already in place. What was odd was where it was positioned. I parked my truck and grabbed my hardhat as I swung my legs out and before I had even hit the ground, TJ came storming across the compound like a man possessed with his cell glued to his ear as he shouted obscenities at some poor unsuspecting moron on the other end. I figured I knew what was wrong from the way the crew was standing around looking at the container. Who the fuck would park the damn thing so close to house?
“TJ?” I call out to him as he crosses in front of me without so much as a fuck-of-the-morning to ya. He gives me the talk-to-the-hand signal as he stops in front of me.
“Not now, Ells. I’m on it.” Well, at least I’m Ells and not shithead. Of course, that would necessitate a new project manager which would be damned inconvenient for both of us. He turns around and heads back to the site office working himself up to a healthy roar on the way. I wander over to Will.
“Princess, it isn’t you that was wrong. What you felt was a perfectly normal response.” Her body stiffens and she pulls herself away, shoving at my upper body somewhat ineffectively as she does so. When I don’t lose my balance she slaps me hard across the face.
“Don’t. Don’t give me your psychobabble bullshit Ethan Kavanagh. I swear if you give me any of that you’re-all-clear shrinkage…”
“Shrinkage?” At least she has me laughing, but just a little.
“Yeah, shrinkage. Whenever it suits you, you do this what-you-are- feeling-is-perfectly-normal routine and justify my insanity when quite frankly I like being just a little bit loopy. So don’t you dare cos I am not.”
“Not normal. And neither are you. Even though you want to believe you have the world all neatly boxed up. You’ve pegged Christian as some sort of sexual deviant, Ana has a savior complex, Kate over-analyzes, Elliot’s masking his pain. You do it with everyone and then when you think you have us all labeled and packaged you write your dinky little 12-page reports so that the agency can deal. Well, don’t start that with me. I am unique and complex and I don’t want you to think for a moment that you have me all sewn up cos you know I will take that shit and give it the blender treatment until you don’t know what flavor you’re tasting.”
A research home for Historical Fiction Writers of the Antebellum Period, by A.M. Cal, author of the historical novel "Eighth Wonder" The Thomas Bethune Story. You know of Mozart and of course Bach and Beethoven. But do you know Thomas?