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Sites to help write synopses, queries, proposals

Posted by Carole McDonnell on December 9, 2008 at 9:06am
PROPOSALShttp://www.rsingermanson.com/assets/pdf/O2Proposal.pdfhttp://www.alivecommunications.com/main.asp?a==SampleProposal/http://bigscoreproductions.com/Agents.htm#proposalsSYNOPSEShttp://www.sff.net/people/kanago/synopsis.htmhttp://www.mkdesigner.com/synop.htmlhttp://www.geocities.com/Heartland/Estates/9534/barebones.htmlwww.sff.net/people/alicia/artout.htmhttp://www.charlottedillon.com/synopsis.htmlhttp://www.fictionwriters.com/tips-synopsis.htmlhttp://il.essortment.com/synopsiswriteb_rqmx.htmwww.eclectics.com/articles/synopsis.htmlwww.fictionwriters.com/tips-synopsis.htmlwww.gailmartin.com/secrets_of_the_heart_synopsis.htmwww.writing-world.com/publish/synopsis.shtmlwww.author-network.com/synopsis.htmlbrendacoulter.com/BrendaCoulterSynopsis.htmwww.vivianbeck.com/writing/tips/mewrite.htmwww.gryphonbooksforwriters.com/WTFS.htmwww.geocities.com/hotclue/barebones.htmlhttp://www.sfwa.org/writing/OP71.htmhttp://www.pammc.com/Synopsis.htmhttp://www.aboutwords.org/writers/tipssynopsis.htmlhttp://www.kathycarmichael.com/synopsis.fiction.handout.clearwater.htmlSAMPLE SYNOPShttp://www.sfwriter.com/syia.htmhttp://www.steampunk.com/sfch/writing/ckilian/http://members.aol.com/hrwdebhale/Shortandlongsyn.htmhttp://fmwriters.com/Visionback/Issue9/GBI.htmhttp://www.noveltalk.com/Brief%20Word%20on%20Synopses.htmlAlso remember the following sites for queries:http://www.floggingthequill.com/flogging_the_quill/http://plotwhisperer.blogspot.com/http://thedarksalon.blogspot.com/http://edittorrent.blogspot.com/A list of major characters' names (with brief descriptions) can sometimes be helpful in keeping the story straight; if used, such a list usually goes at the beginning of the synopsis.A background section sometimes precedes the synopsis itself, especially if the story's context requires some explanation. (This seems especially true of science fiction, fantasy, and historical novels, where the plot may hinge on unfamiliar story elements.) Otherwise, such explanation simply crops up where required in the synopsis.http://www.steampunk.com/sfch/writing/ckilian/#3
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Juggernaut Awake

Posted by Valjeanne Jeffers on December 8, 2008 at 10:30pm

Juggernaut AwakeMy techno-surgeons could notswipe my hard drive pristinenor transform meinto a mindless automatonof artificial intelligencetheir gigabyte missionaryHer timeless murmurs…that oblivioncould not silencehave resurrected meShe spoke from beyond the abysssweeping away stagnant dimensionsof software chaosher voice echoes in my circuitryConquering:dismembermentdeathdesignNow a humanoid odysseyrests upon my turbine shouldersMars and Venus’s progeny --galaxies of wanderersentrusted to my succorAnd I --flesh and future!penumbra and past!I am Leviathanand I am…Reborn!Copyright 2008 Valjeanne Jeffers all rights reservedThis is the beginning piece of another Leviathan poem and prose collaboration b

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Something i wrote in college

Posted by Troy Wiggins on December 8, 2008 at 1:15pm
This is a little something i wrote for a workshop in college. I could only find this draft for some reason but i'll post it anyways.The Chrysalis Trope“Liberation’s price is our blood.”I whispered this with razor edges as scarlet fire exploded from the hole in the back of my neck. Claret spheres free fell from my shoulders to pepper the mottled floor and the steel edges of my sink with their red heat. Profane sounds bubbled gutturally from deep inside me. I breathed fire into the swirling mass of brown water churning with red rivulets of blood and tiny bits of skin and torn flesh. Caustic waves of pain shocked my cheekbones and I stared into a world of shattered images. A large crack split my face into two halves, smaller spider webs made my lips look like pink confetti and part of my skull was gone, smashed into a shower of dirty crystal when I pushed my fist through it in a fit of stabbing excruciation.“Once we have paid this sum, we can stare in the face of God as equals.”I chuckled at this bit of rhetoric, my hand drifted to the new eruption of flesh at the back of my neck. Using a stolen scalpel, tweezers, and eager fingers, I had pried my soul from the skin that covered my spine. Furious redness pushed out from the expanse of flesh. Sticky blood covered my hands, I stared transfixed at the red playing against the pink and grime of my fingers.They looked brand new to me. My fingers, like a child’s. Something snapped. I was at attention, assaulted by the deep greys and browns of my room, the coarse hair wound tightly on my bare arm, the knocking of my next door neighbor as he pushed into some faceless girl like an automaton.Weiser had said this…explosion…awakening would happen. Called it the “chrysalis effect”. One would come into awareness like a larva out of a chrysalis. Awaken into being. I heard his solemn voice, the child of a whisper: “When you remove the chip, you will experience an awakening of sorts…” (Here he paused. He paused often. To let his abstract ideas and words sink in so that our “hindered” minds could grasp them.) “This awakening is not dissimilar to that of a toddler when he ventures out from his mother’s embrace to play in the grass. You, not having ever experienced as such, may initially find yourself overwhelmed, then angered. Use these emotions. This is when you truly begin living.”My window was open, a breeze blew in. I turned magnetically toward this chilling thing, bewildered. It traversed my skin effortlessly, and I could feel it prickling my eyeballs. Advancing on it, I involuntarily swept my tools off the blood slimed sink. The scalpel and tweezers clattered to the tile, as did a brace of crushed tulips wrapped in film (“Because olfactory response is the most genuine…”) and a sliver of black coated in a thin silicate which itself was speckled with my blood. Silver forms burned into my eyes.A-3774It stared contempt at me.I was filled with a rising heat, a sensation alien to me. I was hesitant to approach the thing, feared that it would somehow destroy me. This was quickly seared and incinerated by licking black flames, cremated by a newer, more alien sensation that refused to die. My teeth clenched, and the chip stared.And stared.“Bastard!” I cried, slapping at the demonic thing. I flinched. The sudden movement sent more burning waves of pain shooting through my body. My hand connected with the tile, tingles shot the length of my arm. I pulled my hand back, the blood had left a crude signature on the tile. The black silver clung to the space between my knuckles, anchored there by sticky blood. I stared back at it, directly into its silver. It was entirely featureless except for two protruding prongs, a barcode, and a letter number combination, all the loudest silver. The fire erupted again. Weiser’s words bathed me, the scent of chrysanthemums and tulips drifted over my consciousness. Electric relaxation coursed through me, the wind cried Mary and blasted the oxygen, crushing atoms.Weiser’s deep blue eyes smiled, but his face remained smooth marble, featureless and barren, creased with iron wrinkles. His mouth was drawn into a needle thin smile.“This is what he—they don’t want you to smell, or see, or hear,” He handed me a large package, covered in burlap. “Or know.”His eyes held volumes. Something stirred inside me when I touched the book, like a sprouting seed touched by spring rainfall. I had begun hastily unwrapping the package when Weiser’s gaunt hand descended on mine. The scents mingled, wafting into my nose. I was calmed.“Not yet. You are not ready. You cannot appreciate this as you are.” He gently removed the package from my eager fingers.Breaking his gaze, I studied the room. The walls were deep blue, almost black. Something hung on every wall, masks, statues, canvases with weird shapes (One looked kind of like a man screaming). On the far wall, a banner hung. Pictures of people in shiny black jackets, weird pink dresses, and an antique red car adorned the banner. The word “Grease” stood out in large bold letters.“It’s supposed to catch your attention,” Weiser explained. “But you cannot even begin to comprehend until are liberated. And liberation’s price is our blood.”A-3774 glared at me, burning. I whipped my hand, and it clattered off into a corner, unhurt.“You are worse off than most,” Weiser had said. “Your farm is the home of The Superior, and his wickedness is harsher near the tower. But you have courage. I saw it in you then and I see it in you now.” He gave me a small bag on a string. The sweetest scent emanated from it. Intrigued, I hungrily pressed it to my nose.“Tulips.” He stared, eyes still smiling. “Take it and remember, be strong. And no longer be afraid.”A new sensation coursed into me, whistled through my veins like liquid fire. The coppery scent of blood saturated my tiny bathroom. Red dappled my grey standard work shirt. Everywhere was five different shades of crimson, the scent of violence assaulted my small space. My bloody hand stained the tile. I reached into the grimy, bloody sink. Cloudy water exploded from the bare faucet, washing away the blood in the bowl. I began throwing the water everywhere my hands would allow me to, on the walls, windows, the floor, I drenched myself, my skin tingled after a feverish attempt at scrubbing the blood from my cheeks.Wild eyed, I sloshed around in a thin skin of pink water that covered my floor. My blood boiled, I could hear my frenzied breathing ripping from my lungs. Something black flashed beside me. I pounced on it, bloody water splashed everywhere. My fingers closed on a slimy black, silicate coated thing, flashing silver. It burned as I grasped it.A-3774 taunted me again.Flicking my wrist, I flung it out of my open window. Even in death, it taunted me. One dash put me at the window, I watched as it tumbled and cavorted down 74 stories of my tenement. Every odd tumble would put it in the right position to reflect the rays of the spotlights that constantly swung throughout the farm. Each flash of silver stabbed into my brain, I flinched away from the window. Finally it disappeared beneath the layer of smog that coated the ground. Deep breaths escaped from a pit somewhere inside of me, the same pit that held all of these new fiery sensations.My fury subsided. I stood dripping amidst a sea of blood. Another breeze blew, and my gaze tiptoed to the window. The gentle breath chilled me, goose pimples rose on my arms and I waded through the waves of red back to the window. Spotlights tore through the late evening sky. In the distance, a column of white ascended through the grey toward heaven. My eyes caged on the column, far superior to the surrounding structures, it stood three times the height of the tallest building in the farm. It was illuminated from below by harsh lights that dispersed the smog. I was amazed. The Superior’s tower was a constant in the life of any resident of farm 23, but when I gazed at it then I shivered. A tendril of black fire wrapped itself around my arm and intertwined with my fingers. My hand balled into a tight fist.The Superior’s smile burned into my eyes, shook my core. I was transfixed, the smile of our dictator was hypnotic, like the gaze of an adder. I shuddered under his tiny blue eyes. They could see through me, see the chip that I had just ripped from myself. He said upon the initial occupation, when he ripped out or hopes and dreams in English tinged at the edges with a German accent, “I am God. I am YOUR God. You will revere me as such, for I control your everything.” The collective moan of six million Americans as these words were broadcast on their radios was heard truly around the world. That day, I remember a ripple of wind stirring the shock of black hair that tickled the top of his cranium. His frame was slightly gaunt, but even from below him, as he stood on a balcony on his tower, I could see that he was a tall man. He looked like anything but a god, standing there frail and balding, but he truly held our everything in his hands. Magnified to the size of a small building, his face looked more sinister than benevolent; his smile seemed more like a snarl.A spotlight sent the tower into a fit of blinding shimmers, and my brain reeled again, stabbed. I felt something dripping on my fingers; my nails had drawn more blood. The black fire began to rage. I turned away from the window, looking at my bloody restroom and becoming more enraged. The water had subsided, leaving my floor a grimy pink tint. A pitiful lump of brown lay near my foot, I bent and its slime coated my fingers. The scent of tulips mixed with my blood weakly struggled into my nostrils. I knew then what I had to do._____Without the protection of the stone and steel of my tenement, the once gentle breeze became a biting wind. It tore through my overcoat and ripped my cotton work shirt to shreds. A large gust pushed me against one of the brick layers of the building, and I fell against it. Rough hewn brick scraped my wrist where the skin wasn’t covered by my thick jacket. The brown stone was pockmarked, full of dents and depressions. One dwarfed the others, a crater in the stone. I wondered how it got there, maybe by a wayward shot from the Axis occupation of farm 23, or maybe from one of The Superior’s farm police’s weapons. Other dents were small, a shard knocked off by shrapnel, or maybe debris from the explosions of the bombs that the Axis dropped.The night was devoid of human presence. I shivered, and pulled my overcoat closer to my body. Something opened in my brain, a sudden rush of oxygen. Before removing the chip, I never shivered, never had felt the need to actually use my clothing as a shield from the elements. It was just a crocodile reflex, something I involuntarily did to keep from getting beaten or killed by The Superior’s secret enforcement squad. A burly shape materialized in the fog, a lone man drifted listlessly back to his tenement. A passing spotlight caught his face, his features were rough and haggard, his gaze focused on the ground in front of him, as if walking was a gargantuan task. My eyes followed him down the abandoned street until he was swallowed by shadow. I wondered what his number was, what set of letters and numbers branded on his chip stood for his face, his soul. A certain coldness spread through my arms, tingling. I felt the chill burn of eyes following my movements. My pace quickened, and my heartbeat sped up.Weiser. Weiser was my reason for venturing onto the streets of farm 23. A sheen of smog from the factories and the coal plants made the air smell of oil, hard labor, and grime. Everywhere was grime, everything was covered by dirt and grey was the prominent hue.Except in Lowtown.Lowtown, the part of the farm where somehow The Superior’s seemingly omnipotent reach didn’t extend. It seemed almost as if The Superior and his faction didn’t know that Lowtown existed. Here traces of American culture pre-war remained. I walked between two crumbling structures and down an alley into an entirely different world. Neon lights shone through a smoky haze that covered the entirety of Lowtown. It seemed to rise from the earth. The acrid fumes crept into my nose, it sent tiny flames creeping up to my eyeballs. Weiser’s lair was here, hidden behind a bar between a shop that sold pictures of nude men and an authentic pre-war Chinese restaurant.“You say want pork and broth?” The proprietor said quickly, slamming his hands down on a counter that separated him from his patrons. Sweat linked his forehead, and his black hair stuck to his face.“No pork, asshole!” A slender man raised his fist to the black haired man, chains tinkled as he shook his knotted hand. “If I find fucking swine in my broth, I’m gonna come back there and shove your fucking head into that fucking boiling water!” He turned to me, his bleary glare fell somewhere around my chest. “What the fuck are you looking at?”A small man weaved in and out of the crowd, offering endorphin injections and for those who were really addicts, fresh brains available for consumption. To the right of me, a man dressed in leather and rags sucked on the neck of a woman who wore a tunic and loose leggings. Her slitted eyes focused on me and her lips broke into a slow smile.Rainbow light washed over me, turning my grey into patches of pink, orange and blue. I spun in different directions, watching the hues wrap themselves around me. Two spins later, I began to see double and I staggered to the hidden compartment that unlocked the entrance to Weiser’s residence.A small insignificant stone near my foot between two overflowing waste bins served as a switch that unlocked a sliding door. I tapped the stone with my foot, and the door slid out of place. My disappearance went unnoticed by the people on the streets. The door slammed shut.I looked up; a hallway yawned in front of me. Dim light sprinkled from the ceiling, a stronger light pushed out from a room at the end of the hall. Loud knocks from my factory issue boots echoed through the hallway as I made my way to the room. A silhouetted figure sat in a large chair covered in various hues of shadow.“Have you paid the price?” The voice came from everywhere.I stepped forward into the room, my hands rose to my neck.“I truly wondered whether you would actually go through with it. Not many people like seeing their own blood. There are certainly people who don’t like the theory of us liberating ourselves.” He sat forward, I started as his wrinkled old face penetrated the shadows. His eyes gazed intently at me. They were the deepest blue. I stared at him, something off kilter inside me. My stomach tightened on itself. “Tell me, did it hurt?”My lungs refused to expel the air necessary to speak. Instead I stared at the wisps of hair illuminated by the light. His wrinkles, the shape of his face all shone white against the shadow.“Did it hurt?” He repeated.“Yes. It did. Blood was everywhere. I still feel the pain in my neck and shoulders.”“Think of how many of our brethren are in constant pain. They’re in pain, dying and they don’t even know it. Do you know how the chip subjugates you? The amount of energy we use to destroy each other is frightening.” He waved toward a crate sitting near him. “I apologize that my accommodations aren’t more…comfortable.”The crate creaked as I put my weight on it. Weiser stared at me, his blue eyes full of concern and wonder.“How does the chip work?” I asked, focusing on the lines in his forehead. “Without it, I feel…different. I notice things now…that…I don’t know, it’s like I can see, hear, and even smell more. Everything seems closer, more real.”Weiser rubbed his bald head slowly. “The chip kills you. It dulls your senses, keeps your brain from working properly so that you can’t think, wonder, nothing more than wake up, cover your body, trudge to the factories to produce materials that your farm can send to the trade department so that we can send goods to Manchuria. You’re effectively enslaved.“It’s actually an ingenious policing system. It keeps you from thinking properly, therefore you can’t organize a resistance, you can’t learn to rebel against this system that keeps you a shell. All of the people on the other side are basically sheep. Docile and easy to exterminate. The whole reason behind the enforcement squad is to eliminate those people who somehow overcome the constant drugging of the chip.”I studied the fuzzy length of his eyebrows. “So now what? What do I do without the chip?”“Do you wish to reside here?”“I don’t like it here. It’s…it’s too much.”“Well, you can stow away on a supply ship to Manchuria or Germany. From there you can make your way to London. There is a large community of people there who live according to old rules and put up a special resistance against the Axis.”“That could be dangerous. I don’t want to die yet. There is so much…outside, I saw…like I’d never seen before. Why can’t everyone feel like this? What about our brethren? Who will let them live?”“That is the part we have not figured out yet. The Superior’s power is near absolute. He has even managed to somehow control nature. Have you ever noticed how the sun rarely shines on this farm? We are illuminated mostly by artificial light.”I felt a gnawing in my brain. Familiar coldness began to trickle through me. I stared into Weiser’s blue eyes, the temperature dropped. His lips twisted into a weird shape as he leaned back in his plush chair. It was almost a snarl.“I have to be selective,” he said. “As do you. You have to decide what you are going to do with this new life I have shown you.” He reached down, pulled the burlap wrapped book from beneath his chair.I looked at him, looked at the book. “I want everyone around me to feel as I feel right now, as I have felt all this day. I have never experienced life such as this before…People on the other side just trudge through life, it’s a straight line to death and to try and keep from being exterminated by The Superior. But if we liberate them…who knows what could happen…”“I could sense unrest inside you despite the chip. When I met you near the Lowtown entrance, I could feel this…this desire rising from your flesh. Now you are ready to know the truth,” his blue eyes burned into me with a new intensity as he leaned his thin frame forward to hand me the book. Like a scavenger, I greedily unwrapped the book, tearing at the wrapping. The rough material scratched at my forearms. The book was large, larger still now that it was truly exposed. It weighed down on my thighs. It took great effort to lift the front cover of the book. It slapped against my leg. Weiser watched me hungrily. A blank page stared me in the face. I squinted, trying to study the page but the words did not magically appear. Weiser leaned back in his chair and sighed. I flipped through the pages.“What is this?”“The history of the world, The Superior’s version. Do you understand now?”“There’s nothing here,” I said.“Exactly.” He smiled. No, he snarled. Something fell off a shelf within me, its crash brought me to attention. Weiser’s eyes were bluer than they had ever been.“You--” I started. I felt like a child again, cold and alone. Weiser rose from his chair. He strode to a far wall and stood near the screaming man. It was then I realized how tall he was.“It was fun, A-3774. You realized it before I could exterminate you. Did you not wonder why Lowtown remained untouched?”My infant brain could only form one thought that manifested as sound: “No…”“Your fervor amuses me. Brethren. You forget, there is only one GOD. Even Lowtown knows this.” He turned and his blue eyes shot through me.“No…” I rose to my feet, the black fire spreading through my limbs. “No…”“Yes.” He gestured, two enforcement officers materialized as part of the shadow. They held semiautomatic weapons in their black hands. Their eyes held black silicate and silver. I wondered what set of letters and numbers branded on their chips stood for their face, their souls.“No! NO!” the fire exploded within me. Fingers curled into claws, I leapt toward Weiser.“He giveth and he taketh away. You were given life…”Muzzle flashes tore apart the shadow. Lead slugs tore apart my torso. One shattered my outstretched left arm, another took my foot off right below the ankle. My pounce stopped halfway to Weiser, I hit the floor in a splattering of red and the smell of violence filled the small space. I could feel the fire inside me rapidly extinguishing, a deeper cold than I had ever felt assaulted my limbs. I struggled to turn my neck to stare at Weiser. He looked down at me, something flashed as he swept his hand and a black sliver coated in silicate bounced toward my nose.“You have been liberated. You have paid the price in blood.” He turned and walked off.A-3774 stared at me, and the silver burned itself into my eyes as I froze over.
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some cfs

Posted by Carole McDonnell on December 3, 2008 at 9:20am
Call for Submissions - She Nailed the Stake Through his Head - Tales of Biblical TerrorCall for SubmissionsSeeking short stories for the Dybbuk Press anthology She Nailed the Stake Through His Head: Tales of Biblical Terror (working title).What I'm looking for: Short stories primarily, ideally between 1000 - 12000 words. All stories must be based in some way on Biblical stories. Actually have a familiarity with the Bible. I may consider poems if they are particularly good but I hate 99% of all poems I read. This is primarily a horror anthology so the creepier the better. In many of these stories, you really don't have to work too hard to make them horrific.Shouldn't be said, but please don't send me stories that are so ungrammatical and clumsy in their execution that they hurt to read. Style counts. Style counts a lot. I am a great fan of authors with great style. I'll read Tanith Lee's 5th grade essay on why she wants a pony before I even think of picking up another Dan Brown book for any other purpose beyond hurling it at the wall.Suggested:Retellings of Biblical Stories from the perspective of another character.Kiastic StorytellingDeconstructionist Commentary akin to RashiBiblical stories retold in different literary styles (high adventure, Victorian, Romance, Mystery, etc.)Modern stories told in the Biblical style (Best use Robert Alter's Art of Biblical Poetry and Art of Biblical Narrative if you want a crash course)Parodies of Prophets"Queen Esther vs. The Brain Eating Penis Monster from Outer Space" (note that just sticking this title on a lame story is not going to endear you to me. Write a story that would justify this kind of title and I'm interested)Biblical Movie Parodies (kind of a tough one considering that this genre gave us Lot freeing the slaves of Sodom, Edward G. Robinson playing Aaron in full gangster mode, splatterpunk Jesus and Richard Gere disco dancing in a diaper)Basically if you're sticking with Biblical tales in Biblical times you have about 1500 years to work with. Empires rose and fell in this time.Lists of Some books that may Help:Torah Study 101Ibn Ezra25 Jewish BooksBible Study SamplerOutrageous Tales from the Old TestamentWhat I'm NOT looking for:Normally this is the place where I say that I don't want any vampires, werewolves or ghosts but if you can stick a vampire into a King David story or put zombies in Ancient Assyria then I actually want to see it.One Caveat to the last note: I read The Last Days of Jesus the Vampire. I thought it was a very clever idea that was poorly executed. Regardless, I'm not going to be terribly enthused with "Jesus was a vampire" stories.Primarily, no preachiness. If your story is nothing more than an excuse to get on a pulpit, I'm not interested. That cuts all ways. The Left Behind series would have been fun in a goofy crazy way if it didn't keep stopping to tell the reader that JESUS IS LORD (then again, it's audience wouldn't have made it a bestseller.) But that also goes for atheist stories.And please, no stories about how all the goddess worshippers were beautiful earth mothers until the mean old monotheists ca me along and killed everyone. I read enough of that Starhawk crap during my collegiate hippie phase.I should also note that I've been publishing a lot of books geared toward adolescent males recently - splatterpunk, tough guy fiction, etc. - and I'm getting a little sick of the lack of decent female characters. So stories with strong women characters (there are plenty in the Bible - Sarah, Jezebel, Yael, Devorah, Rivkah, Esther, etc.) will make me happy.I'm also 99% certain that I won't like your Adam & Eve story. Don't know if anyone writes these things anymore. I suspect that they've been ridiculed into the historical dust bin, but just in case, please don't send yours my way.Format: Attach as either a .doc or an .rtf. DO NOT send .docx attachments. All .docx attachments will be deleted unread.Pay: $50 advance against equal share of royalties to be paid out no later than publicatoin.Reading Period: December 1 - December 31, 2008. All stories submitted before December 1 will be deleted unread! And yes, I do mean BEFORE December 1. I might extend the deadline for after December 31 if I don't find enough stories to fill an anthology (I'm shooting for between 8 and 12. I can go as low as 7.) I'm putting out the call for stories now because I want interested parties to write their stories and revise them before submitting them. I don't want trunk stories with cover letters trying to explain why your vampir e is a Christ figure.Reprints: Yes, I will take reprints, but let me know if it's a reprint or not when you submit.Send to: tim_lieder (AT) yahoo - .rtf or .doc format only. If you want to put it in the body of the text, well go ahead.Things Aren’t What They Seemby From the Asylum Books and Pressedited by Katherine SangerIn the grand tradition of SF, we are looking for stories about aliens among us. They can be trying to fit in, take over, or steal away the promotion that you deserve. Does your neighbor drink an awful lot of milk? That guy at work not seem right? Who are they? What are they doing here?We’re looking for flash fiction (up to 1,000 words) and short fiction (1,001 to 5,000 words) that tell the story of aliens in our world. (Please note: No “jar of Tang” endings. No “dream” endings. No elaborate set-ups on aliens planets to make it look like Earth in order to…you get the idea.) Word count is firm. Any pieces above or below the word count will not be read. Please submit only one story. Please do not submit poetry -- this is for fiction only.Your story can fit anywhere in the speculative rainbow -- SF, fantasy, horror, or just plain strange! Humor is a plus, but is not strictly necessary. (Yes, you can have aliens in your medieval of fantasy-based world…the aliens can be good or evil..or just trying to survive on $6.50 an hour.)Payment is $15 for flash fiction and $30 for short fiction. All authors accepted will also get one copy of the anthology.UPDATE - 10/31/08Things Aren’t What They Seem:Acceptances and rejections of all submissions have gone out, both mail and email. If you have not heard from us, please send us an email at ksanger@fromtheasylum.com as some of the emails did bounce and I’m sure if it’s my system that is at fault.We are re-opening the submission period, to last from October 31 until December 31. While we received a number of excellent stories, we have not yet reached our desired length as the anthology will not be heavy enough to assist in beating our alien neighbors.Guidelines remain the same. We are still looking for both flash fiction (under 1,000 words) and longer works (up to 5,000 words).There are two important things I would like to emphasize, however.Aliens *must be* the main thrust. No tacked on aliens that don’t figure into the plot.Humor is preferred over horror (although humorous horror often works for us!).To enter:Please send your submission to:From the Asylum Books and Press“Things Aren’t What They Seem”PO Box 1519Dickinson, TX 77539Include a cover letter with your name, your pseudonym (if applicable), your email address, your phone number, your mailing address, the name of the piece, the word count of the piece, and a short biography. Include a SASE if you would like to be notified of rejection.Or email:fta@fromtheasylum.comPlease cut and paste your file (text, not html) into the email. We do not accept attachments.Please be sure to use the subject line “Things Aren’t What They Seem Submission” or your piece may be put into the general submissions.In your email, include your name, your pseudonym (if applicable), your email address, your phone number, your mailing address, the name of the piece, the word count of the piece, and a short biography.Closing Date: We will be keeping the submissions for the anthology open until May 15. Responses to the first set of submissions will be going out by the end of April.Publication Date: If closed by April 15, we will be publishing in November.At this time, we hope to respond to entries within 4 weeks of receipt.Co-edited by Erzebet YellowBoy & Sean WallacePublished by Prime Books.We are seeking short stories and poems for the fourth issue of Jabberwocky, scheduled for publication in July 2009.The elements and bedrock of Jabberwocky can be largely described as the -ical approach: lyrical, whimsical, mythical, in all its forms, particularly short fiction, poetry, and illustrative. There are no boundaries, no restrictions, no genres. If you love the art of the written word, its structure, its flow, its language, I suspect you'll love Jabberwocky.Original fiction only. No reprints. Multiple submissions accepted.PAYMENT:$.01 per word for fiction$5.00 per poemPayable on acceptance.WORD LIMIT: 4000 words.RIGHTS: First world English rights, non-exclusive world anthology rights, and non-exclusive audio anthology rights. Download the20author-anthologist contract here.READING PERIOD: 1 October, 2008 - 1 February, 2009Our response time is 2 weeks.Email your story in rich-text format (RTF) to us at jabberwocky.magazine@gmail.com. Include the title of the story in the subject of the email and a brief bio in the body of the email.Please send queries to the same address. Thank you!http://anthologynewsandreviews.blogspot.com/Also check out the anthology sections on www.ralan.com
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"In Like Flynn" Tonight 11:30pm

Posted by Penelope on November 29, 2008 at 9:45pm
Join Penelope and Otto as they discuss the best and worst this week's TV, news and entertainment. In the tradition of this great entertainment market, Penelope and Otto tell you what to buy, sell or hold and where you should spend your valuable TV minutes.This week we'll be talking about Football, Psych, Mumbai and the Shield series Finale.Call in at 718/508-9683 and tell us about Chuck, Heroes, 24 or your week's favorites! Click on the blogtalk icon, listen in and join us in the Chat room at 11:30pm CST!Listen to In Like Flynn on internet talk radio
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it's kinda sad

Posted by Matt on November 29, 2008 at 10:15am
I was looking for a picture of a black woman to go with my new character Sarah Caullings on photo bucket. after about three pages of thong and women wearing nothing i decided to give that search a rest. it's kinda sad that a naked big booty'd woman is the image that is being portrayed for black women. Beauty is one thing, but pornographic images don't qualify in my book under beauty.
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Daybreaker: The Chronicles of Jhlen Seeradiant

Posted by C'BS ALife Allah on November 27, 2008 at 1:30pm
I played Dungeons and Dragons growing up. I lost my self in worlds inside of worlds. Throughout my childhood I ended up playing practically every type of role playing game there was. My mind became so fertile devouring fantasy, science fiction and comic books. I gestated a 'beautiful mind' in terms of being able to transform my environment suffused with deep meaning and pregnant with symbolism.As I grew poetry became my tool of expression yet I never stopped devouring those tomes that expanded my view of what was around me.So what is this?It's a serial. In the tradition of the old pulp shows of the golden age of radio. It is set in a fantasy world which is coming into existence with each letter that I type on this computer.It is a psycho-journal. It's how I am relaying certain things that are happening in my life, things that I want to happen, things that I think may happen, things that I thought happen yet didn't happen. It is me making mountains out of mole hills and mole hills out of mountains.If you know me you may find yourself in my story as it progresses. You may find a character that resembles you yet it ain't really you. Or maybe you may find the you that you want to be.It's fiction-factual and if anything is a workbook. Yet one thing, it is a story. In fact it may be THE story in terms of mythic archetypes. It's Truth. Enjoy.Crossposting is at this site yet the foundation site is Daybreaker
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A Buck For Books For Kenya

Posted by Diane on November 25, 2008 at 12:13am

Books For Africa Donation DriveThis drive kicks off our goal to raise $10,000 in the next year for the White Cots School Centre in Kenya and to supply them with all types of books - fiction and non-fiction, especially text books. Each book costs 40 cents to send to Africa. It costs us 40 cents per book to ship them to the Minnesota BFA warehouse. That's why we ask for a minimum donation of $1.00.Help us spread literacy, knowledge and to end poverty throughout the world.If you are in the Washington, D.C. area, please drop off a "Book and a Buck" at the Black Author Showcase Holiday Book Fair on December 13th, 2008, 10 am to 5 pm at the Show Place Arena, Upper Marlboro, MD.http://www.basbookfair.comThank you from all of the literary lovers at the Black Author Showcase.Can't attend the book drive? Help our efforts by donating as little as $1.00.CLICK HERE TO DONATE TODAY!
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Excerpt from a novel I finished a few years ago, but currently revising. The title is Amall's Gambit.

Posted by Ronald T. Jones on November 24, 2008 at 9:30pm
Section Leader Kenard stomped from the monitor station to the analysis console to glimpse evolving tactical readouts on the data screen. His jaw was clenched tight with tension, not from the sight of an approaching enemy column, but its ever more daunting size. “There must be at least a hundred thousand of them,” he muttered dishearteningly, studying enemy icon movements on the adjoining short-range scan. He knew he was exaggerating the numbers, but not by much.The console operator glanced worriedly at Kenard. “That’s no raiding force, S.L.”Kenard agreed. The expected Gand attack was forecasted to take place on Serus, Iddirin’s fourth largest colony. As usual, Intelligence erred big.And they think Humans are the incompetent ones. “Contact headquarters,” Kenard ordered, swallowing his bitterness. “Tell them we have an invasion–level force assembly in progress. Please emphasize that the enemy is amassing across a 500 mile front and closing.”Multi-angle monitor feeds displayed images of Gand landers disgorging a myriad of powered infantry soldiers along with hundreds of armored vehicles ambling toward the front in bubbling clouds of dust. The AV guns fired low-combustion Electro-mag flash shells. Minimum grade destruction caused by these projectiles was a collateral effect to their designed purpose, which was to short out field barriers and disable equipment. The Gand infantry, resplendent in lustrous blue sun-glinted armor and rock solid phalanxes, marched behind loosely massed mechanized units. Each soldier’s propulsion node, embedded in his armor, was synchronized to full burn.At their present speed, Kenard expected them to breach the outer Outpost perimeter in thirty minutes or less.“Activate deflectors,” he ordered an operator sitting across from the analysis console. ”And put out a priority evacuation alert.”“But...but we don’t have orders…” Dampare stammered. He was fully supportive of leaving Outpost 12 in the face of that innumerable legion, but the unilateral nature of Kenard’s decision without authorization from Regional Headquarters…“I’m not waiting for permission from the top for us to evac. By the time the Iddies make up their minds we’ll be prisoners off to slaughter or slavery,” the SL explained patiently.“Besides, we’re doing what they would want us to do anyway, the logical move at least, and that’s falling back to Valley City where we can consolidate what forces we can draw upon to wage a reasonably effective defensive effort, so let’s cut the chit-chat and move!”Outpost 12’s 8,000 soldiers scrambled orderly but expeditiously toward the vehicle hangers where skimmers, treaded transports and aero-pods awaited. A small percentage formed rear guard detachments, some manning the gun tower ports peering over the 15 feet high shimmering deflector barrier. Others proceeded to occupy positions amid the barbed tangle of entrenchments 45 yards behind the barrier’s semi-enclosure. Electro-mag shells slammed into the barrier semi enclosing the outpost grounds in a steady concentration of fire. Outpost turret weapons responded with inadequate but steady volleys of repulser beams, picking off scores of Gand infantry with compensatory accuracy.Repulser beams did not kill, but disabled by means of trajectory displacement which concentrated dense layers of focused pressure en route toward a target and applied it with such force as to knock an armored opponent to the ground. Depending on where a person was hit, bone breakage invariably occurred. Head-shots were to be avoided unless absolutely necessary. A hit to the head by a repulser beam, like a blow from a blunt instrument, had the greatest potential of killing an opponent. And a dead enemy was suited neither for sacrifice nor slavery.Not all Makir races favored repulser type weaponry. Gand rifles represented the category of disabling weapons that ejected high charged inhibitor darts. These darts, upon striking a victim, sent a current knifing to the brain, attacking the motor cortex with utter malice, shutting it down, inducing instantaneous paralysis. Bones were not broken, but the nerve lacerating effect of contact provided an excruciating equivalent.Continual bombardment sapped the barrier’s strength. Undulating tendrils of luminous static crackled and sizzled across its surface from points of impact. Energy feeds overcompensated to maintain the shield’s integrity. Ultimately they failed. The barrier collapsed, leaving Outpost 12 open like a fresh carcass presented to eager scavengers. Swarms of inhibitor darts poured into the outpost with unencumbered fury snaring droves of unfortunates, but most of the Humans managed to escape. A convoy of vehicles loaded down with the lucky majority dashed across the flat terrain well ahead of the enemy army but not necessarily out of ordnance range.Several vehicles were either hit directly by electro-mag shells or disabled by proximity blasts. The rear guard soldiers absorbed the worst of the human casualties, yet were withdrawing in good order. Those operating the gun towers rigged them with charges and detonated the static defenses upon departure, depriving the enemy of their usage.Section Leader Kenard stayed behind to supervise the final phase of the evacuation. The brutally asymmetric configurations of Gand AVs loomed like rampaging herd beasts across the far perimeter. Their monolithic tonnages disguised their very real speed in masquerades of trudging deception. A blanket of enemy infantry, massed like packed dirt, followed close behind, the front ranks firing volleys of darts with each rapid yard of advance. Humans peppered by the tiny projectiles dropped like sacks, their bodies jerking catatonically as paralyzing venom enveloped their brains, deadening the networks of impulses to arms and legs.The screams accompanying the painful onset of total rigidity receded to mournful gurgles, finally exhausted silence when the victims lapsed into unconsciousness. Attempts to carry the immobilized soldiers to safety were partly successful. The density of darts skewering the air imperiled too many of the rescuers while EMG fluctuations pulsing brightly from electro-mag shell bursts, rendered inoperable a great portion of the skimmers needed for escape.A shell erupted scant yards behind Kenard as he was leading a group toward the inner outpost area. The blast concussion flung soldiers in every direction. Kenard dove face forward, his back tattered bloody with bits of gravel size shrapnel. A clanging, snapping din overrode the general commotion of war, drawing Kenard’s befuddled attention to the sight of enemy tanks crashing through the battlements. The men around him stirred to life, those that could. A flurry of inhibitor darts tore into them sending soldiers to the ground in wracking contortions of agony.The tanks halted just inside the battered inner perimeter, their multiple turrets ejecting a mix of darts and electro-mag shells across the outpost’s expanse. Masses of infantry streamed through breaches made by the massive vehicles and spread out, their crisp formations dissolving in a mad frenzy to secure prisoners.Kenard struggled to raise himself up. His wounds pulsed intolerable fire, but the pain occupied a sliver’s worth of space in his awareness compared to the horror of a fate he knew awaited him. The Gand would treat his wounds, of that he was guaranteed. They were extremely obsessed with insuring the good health of ranking prisoners. Fit prisoners made for an impressive display when paraded through Gand cities like the prize trophies they were. And when they were finished being herded in front of teeming masses of screaming, jeering fanatics, prisoners were given the honor of being cordially dispatched inside the grandest of sacrificial temples…only the ranking ones, of course.The thought turned Kenard’s gut into a churning vat of chaos, yet his mind, clouded as it was, allowed defiance to formulate, grow, evolving into a raging determination to deny the Ravager the sweet succulence of his essence. Urgency grabbed hold of the section leader. He scrambled toward an undamaged skimmer, close enough for him to reach it in a series of effortless bounds. But his weakened condition reconfigured that effort into an exhaustive feat…an unattainable one with the squat, helmeted forms of Gand infantry loping across every area of his view.Kenard still had a tight grip on his repulser pistol. He lifted the weapon to his temple.A Gand soldier fired off an inhibitor dart. The projectile caught Kenard in the back of the thigh, burrowing painfully deep. The section leader grimaced from the impact, but still managed to trigger his pistol before the dart could work its pernicious effect. An invisible force equivalent to the velocity of a slung boulder from five yards, slammed into Kenard’s head. The smile on his face never faded.
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"In Like Flynn" Saturday Night 11:30pm CST

Posted by Penelope on November 22, 2008 at 10:13pm
Join Penelope and Otto as they discuss the best and worst this week's TV, news and entertainment. In the tradition of this great entertainment market, Penelope and Otto tell you what to buy, sell or hold and where you should spend your valuable TV minutes. Call in at 718/508-9683 and tell us about your week's favorites!Listen to In Like Flynn on internet talk radio
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Thomas Hobbes Revisited

Posted by Matt on November 15, 2008 at 11:05am
Thomas Hobbes RevisitedWhile I was taking notes in my Western Civilization class I read over some information that made my mind really shift gears. Thomas Hobbes (1588 – 1679), is said to be “the most original political philosopher of the seventeenth century.” An incredible charge for someone whom lived in the same time with great individuals such as Galileo Galilei, Sir Isaac Newton, Rene Descartes, and John Locke, all of whom laid down an incredible foundation for discovery and discourse for centuries to come. While much of his fellow thinker’s works dealt with science and the mathematical solutions to the universe, Hobbes took on what I believe is a much more complex subject. Human nature.In 1651, Thomas Hobbes wrote the Leviathan, a book that took a very thorough and mechanical look at human nature and brutality. In the Leviathan Hobbes claimed that, “All mental states derive from sensation and all motivation are egotistical. The driving force behind human life is the quest to increase pleasure and minimize pain. Human beings have no spiritual ends and serve no greater moral purpose.” He goes on to state that humans form governments because of the want to meet simple needs and that a sovereign commonwealth is all that keeps the society from tearing itself apart. Hobbes saw people not as individuals looking to better themselves through life’s struggles and battles, but as “self-centered beasts who were utterly without discipline unless it was imposed on them by force.” In a time now where individuals are literally fist fighting for an extra gallon of gasoline, who could argue against him. What I find interesting about his thoughts of human nature is not his harsh views, but the way he places all individuals in the same negative category without any specific biases.Today we find biases on many levels. Race, wealth, appearance, and a mass of other seemingly meaningless ideas. If Thomas Hobbes is correct and all of our discipline is learned forcibly from other sources, how is one supposed to rise above adversity and prosper in life. Just as well what about the ever-faithful idea that people are products of their environments. I personally believe that people are products of their environments, but not in the same sense that most people believe.To understand the idea of being a product of his or her environment, one must define what an environment is. Dictionary.com gives a few different definitions of the word. From, “the aggregate of surrounding things, conditions, or influences,” to “an indoor or outdoor setting that is characterized by the presence of environmental art that is itself designed to be site-specific.” In the context of this argument, I pose another definition of environment. If our environment is based on the surroundings of our human-selves, then I state that our bodies are our true environment. In my mind I believe that without two key ideas and elements our bodies prove themselves to be nothing more than shells and housing for our ethereal energy. The elements and ideas that I speak of are the brain and the human soul (by soul I mean ideas such as conscience, karma, ying and yang, and similar concepts).Take for example, the act of moving a limb. To move the human hand takes nothing more than a thought to accomplish, but without that thought from our brains nothing happens. Just as well, a moving hand means nothing unless it has a purpose. Without a soul to give this movement purpose, be it in kindness for a handshake or a slap in anger, we are left flailing aimlessly throughout our days like a leaf falling from a tree. Regardless of the form the movement comes in, it now has meaning; it now has an end from its beginning. This, I believe, can be said for all movements, thoughts, and actions that we as humans have throughout our lives. Take the use of our mouths. Just opening and closing our mouths does little, even when trying to chew gum. However, by adding the power of the great equalizing soul and life beings to get interesting. Wars can be sparked by an insult or an idea that comes from two small lips, but with those same lips a resuscitating breath can be given and love can be made.My point is this, without the brain’s ability to move our limbs and the soul’s ability to choose how we move, our bodies are nothing more than cars without keys. We sit in our garaged homes awaiting our owners to turn us on and go wherever they want us to go. I hope that one can see where my definition of environment fits with the idea of producing an individual’s personality and lifestyle. If we are products of our environments and if our bodies are the environments that we are products of, I pose that it is up to each individual to define, endure, and fulfill their own lives.This may seem like a strange or impossible feat, but how many times have individuals accomplished goals or tasks with little to no active assistance. Day by day people overcome incredible odds that their surroundings should have stopped them from overcoming. It should not be possible for a one legged person to compete in an event that requires both legs but on April 19, 2006, Michael Milton became the fastest Australian speed skier - able-bodied or disabled - after setting a world record at 213.65km/h in France. Even with the encouragement of friends and family, this would not have been possible had he not looked into himself and found the will to continue towards his dream and goal regardless of any hardships that he encountered. If it is possible for a person with only one leg to ski faster than anyone in an entire country, what stops individuals from denying their ghettos or families and friends their own lives?By no means is life in any sense fair. Cards are dealt and hands are played, in many instances, on a no win basis. In the end, the deciding card lies within; there is no situation that must end with giving up. There is always an option of betterment and there will always be a choice. The fact that not every choice is the one that may be desired is irrelevant. Individual accountability holds that it is up to the sole proprietor of whatever action to take responsibility of said action. It is not the fault of the person whom threw the first punch to force the victim to stand and take the hit. It is up to the victim to look within his or herself and respond accordingly. The same can be said for anyone that has grown up in an area that does not suit their chosen lifestyle. That individual as well must look within and choose to move their environment away from whatever negativity that hinders their success in life or stay and find a way around whatever blocks their path.Society is filled with individuals that are far from holding up their titles as such. This society is full of castrated sheep that can do no more than follow the path of not the Sheppard but the nearest sheep to them. We find the need to give in to the ideas that were given to us and not question them nor seek to find our own truths. Learned helplessness is a psychological condition in which a human being or an animal has learned to act or behave helpless in a particular situation, even when it has the power to change its unpleasant or even harmful circumstance. In the same token, I believe that learned ignorance is the condition that our society faces. As a whole, we have learned to look past truth and side with impure assumptions. We would rather pass the proverbial “buck” to the nearest scapegoat, as opposed to taking responsibility any and all situations that we can control. Life is not something that should be placed to the wayside to wait for the next person to claim, fix, or destroy. Life is a precious individual singularity that is to be nurtured, loved, and furthered. The only way for us to prosper and thrive fully as a society is to care for and strengthen our own environments.As self-centered beasts, we should hold fast to that nature. Claim your life and assure everyone around you that no one can force or impose their will upon anyone without that person’s consent. Be one’s environment a wasteland full of despairing sludge or a tropical paradise filled with thriving love and peace, it is his or hers to nurture and allow to grow. How one goes about this growth is for each individual to choose, but that choice can never be taken away.
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The Call of Man: Angelic Fate (teaser)

Posted by Matt on November 14, 2008 at 8:00am
“Come quick Meric, I think I saw an antelope herd this way.” Ezam darted forward smiling with the grin of a fabled laughing hyena. “Hurry up you poker, by the time you get to where I am I’ll have been long gone.” “Always joking, never serious about anything,” Meric thought. “You do realize that we’re not even supposed to be out here right now don’t you? If we get caught you know exactly what’ll happen!” “No I don’t you twit and neither do,” Ezam said not missing a step, “or did you forget that no one has gone hunting in centuries.” “That’s exactly my point Ezam, not a single person has hunted anything in this village in years. We all know the stories of the Angels keeping all life safe and not allowing any harm to befall a single living creature. Now here I am risking my life so you can tempt our fates.” Ezam stopped so quickly that Meric almost ran right into him. For a moment young Meric thought that he may have broken through to his younger sibling and that they would both turn around and leave. That was, until Meric saw the look in Ezam’s eyes. “If that’s so,” spoke Ezam in a very ominous tone, “then I doubt they’d allow me to kill say…that beetle crawling towards us.” Before Meric could turn to see what his brother was talking about, he heard the squish and crunching of what was sure to be a now deceased bolvic beetle. “See, it’s dead and I’m still here. Now come on they’re almost to the entrance of Halen forest.” “You’ll kill harmless deer’s but you won’t cross into the sacred forest? My brother I fear I will never understand you.”
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