http://www.duotrope.com/index.aspx
This website lists a whole lot of online and print journals that accept (and sometimes pay) submissions.
Let's all try and submit something somewhere before December 31st, yeah? Even if we get knockback letters.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Blogger profile 'Random Questions'
Hey there GW's,
I came across some interesting random questions that I thought you may like to ponder with me. Some funny material for a short, creative paragraph, or perhaps something more...?
Pick one that appeals to you.
1.Your super power is that you smell like onion weed whenever someone lies. How will hyou maintain y our secret identity?
2. Your Aunty sent you a rooster-shaped maple syrup dispenser for your birthday. Write her a thank you letter no less than 300 words.
3. There's no 'I' in team, but there is 'meat'. Explain.
4. In the dream where you show up to school naked, why do you never go to the Lost Property box, or the Uniform shop?
5. You've successfully slain the dragon! Hurrah! Now how will you toast your marshmallows?
6. Which would you prefer and why: whittling with soap or whistling with wood?
7. If mud is dirt + water, what is clay? Explain your theory.
8. Your hand has been replaced with a rubber stamp. What does it say? Give some examples/scenarios where you would use your new 'hand'.
9. You've written a hit musical! Write the review explaining what your musical is about, including quotes from yourself.
10. Occillate my metallic sonatas with your plan for the Panama canal. Explain...please!
11. Do you believe that forks evolved from spoons? Explain.
12. Write your full name with your left hand. Tell that person's story.
13. The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog who wears a wig.
I hope these randoms get your creative juices flowing!
I came across some interesting random questions that I thought you may like to ponder with me. Some funny material for a short, creative paragraph, or perhaps something more...?
Pick one that appeals to you.
1.Your super power is that you smell like onion weed whenever someone lies. How will hyou maintain y our secret identity?
2. Your Aunty sent you a rooster-shaped maple syrup dispenser for your birthday. Write her a thank you letter no less than 300 words.
3. There's no 'I' in team, but there is 'meat'. Explain.
4. In the dream where you show up to school naked, why do you never go to the Lost Property box, or the Uniform shop?
5. You've successfully slain the dragon! Hurrah! Now how will you toast your marshmallows?
6. Which would you prefer and why: whittling with soap or whistling with wood?
7. If mud is dirt + water, what is clay? Explain your theory.
8. Your hand has been replaced with a rubber stamp. What does it say? Give some examples/scenarios where you would use your new 'hand'.
9. You've written a hit musical! Write the review explaining what your musical is about, including quotes from yourself.
10. Occillate my metallic sonatas with your plan for the Panama canal. Explain...please!
11. Do you believe that forks evolved from spoons? Explain.
12. Write your full name with your left hand. Tell that person's story.
13. The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog who wears a wig.
I hope these randoms get your creative juices flowing!
Monday, May 25, 2009
The stinky fridge oddspot
“We’ve got a call out Mac." Steve jabbed the lumpy man beside him."Wha...?" Mac replied with a start arms flailing as he sat up in the ambulance's passenger seat, trying get his bearings."Yeah, apparently about 15 of AT &T's staff have rang through in this morning complaining of a foul smell. Sounds like someone's carked it. We better roll." He started the engine.Mac said nothing, but slowly fastened his seat belt as Steve sped off from the corner of Main and 56th street, the empty Starbucks coffee containers rattling around on the floor at his feet.Mac and Steve ended up outside AT &T's head office in Dallas, Texas.The weather over the past week had been unseasonably warm, at least 10 degrees above average for August. It was bizarre to see the people on the streets without their heavy overcoats and scarves, as is usually the norm for autumn.Steve noticed that Mac wiped sweat off his upper lip as he heaved himself out of the ambulance van.
British National Party
The far-right British National Party, which is contesting 69 of Britain's 72 European Parliament seats, could have its election ads banned after a poster demanding "British jobs for British workers" was found to feature American models.
"Bugger. Bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger. Brian, have you seen today's paper?"
As if turning 35, having a bad hair day and finding your favourite dress didn't fit wasn't bad enough, now this. Jenny's day was turing from bad to worse. Nerves and the faint smell of stale bread in the office made her want to puke.
"Nope. Sounds like it's not good news. What's up?"
"They've found out about the modelling agency. I told you we should have gone for locals, in spite of the teeth."
"Oh, crap. So what's the angle?"
"'BNP sends British jobs to American beauties' They're accusing the clients of hypocrysy."
"Bugger. We're going to get fired, you know. "
"Yup."
Jenny was dying for a fag. But somehow she had to salvage this situation. It had all seemed such a good idea. The agency had had such a simple idea - to capitalise on the xenophobia and fear of economic disaster in the community and turn it to the British National Party's advantage. Brian, of course, had come up with some real humdingers, but the BNP had wanted something simple and comforting. British jobs for British workers. Short enough to read as the bus went past, familiar enough to ring a chord of nostalgia in the masses. Advertising gold. But the photographs had caused problems. The BNP hadn't been in favour of the 'authentic' shots of real British workers, and they felt that the scare tactics of showing immigrant workers getting rich was too blatant. They'd wanted Britisth workers, but slightly glamorous. And then the photographers had gone on strike. It was just so much simpler to go with the American agency. Jenny had worked with them before, and knew they were good. And, as it turned out, they had the perfect models. They had that classic British look, but with an American healthy glow. Utopian. Perfect. But not actually British.
Although the temptation to hide out in the lavatory was strong, Jenny instead went to beard the lion in his den. And the metaphor was accurate - Dan had a roar that could turn your toenails inside out and had been known to eat interns alive.
"Jenny, how could you let this happen? I should fire you now. This firm's reputation..."
"Don't bother. I quit".
"Bugger. Bugger bugger bugger bugger bugger. Brian, have you seen today's paper?"
As if turning 35, having a bad hair day and finding your favourite dress didn't fit wasn't bad enough, now this. Jenny's day was turing from bad to worse. Nerves and the faint smell of stale bread in the office made her want to puke.
"Nope. Sounds like it's not good news. What's up?"
"They've found out about the modelling agency. I told you we should have gone for locals, in spite of the teeth."
"Oh, crap. So what's the angle?"
"'BNP sends British jobs to American beauties' They're accusing the clients of hypocrysy."
"Bugger. We're going to get fired, you know. "
"Yup."
Jenny was dying for a fag. But somehow she had to salvage this situation. It had all seemed such a good idea. The agency had had such a simple idea - to capitalise on the xenophobia and fear of economic disaster in the community and turn it to the British National Party's advantage. Brian, of course, had come up with some real humdingers, but the BNP had wanted something simple and comforting. British jobs for British workers. Short enough to read as the bus went past, familiar enough to ring a chord of nostalgia in the masses. Advertising gold. But the photographs had caused problems. The BNP hadn't been in favour of the 'authentic' shots of real British workers, and they felt that the scare tactics of showing immigrant workers getting rich was too blatant. They'd wanted Britisth workers, but slightly glamorous. And then the photographers had gone on strike. It was just so much simpler to go with the American agency. Jenny had worked with them before, and knew they were good. And, as it turned out, they had the perfect models. They had that classic British look, but with an American healthy glow. Utopian. Perfect. But not actually British.
Although the temptation to hide out in the lavatory was strong, Jenny instead went to beard the lion in his den. And the metaphor was accurate - Dan had a roar that could turn your toenails inside out and had been known to eat interns alive.
"Jenny, how could you let this happen? I should fire you now. This firm's reputation..."
"Don't bother. I quit".
Hazmat.
The brakes squealed as the ambulance came to a halt. It was pandemonium, emergency crews everywhere, police directing traffic, firefighters running into the building axes at the ready with their breathing apparatus in place. No place for an inexperienced ambo but that was exactly where Tim Debney found himself.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Tim looked up and saw a guy in a suit blocking his path. "I need to get in, there's people in need of medical assistance"
The guy looked at for a moment then handed him some breathing gear. "Good luck son, just get those poor bastards out of there"
"What am I facing? Gas leak? Anthrax?"
"No son. One of workers here went fishing during lunch about four years ago and never took his catch out of the fridge. Boss made him clean it out today but the minute he cracked the door all hell broke loose."
An office worker cleaning a fridge full of rotten food created a smell so noxious that it sent seven co-workers to hospital and made many others ill. Firefighters evacuated the AT&T building in San Jose after the fumes led someone to call emergency services. A hazardous materials team was called in.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Tim looked up and saw a guy in a suit blocking his path. "I need to get in, there's people in need of medical assistance"
The guy looked at for a moment then handed him some breathing gear. "Good luck son, just get those poor bastards out of there"
"What am I facing? Gas leak? Anthrax?"
"No son. One of workers here went fishing during lunch about four years ago and never took his catch out of the fridge. Boss made him clean it out today but the minute he cracked the door all hell broke loose."
An office worker cleaning a fridge full of rotten food created a smell so noxious that it sent seven co-workers to hospital and made many others ill. Firefighters evacuated the AT&T building in San Jose after the fumes led someone to call emergency services. A hazardous materials team was called in.
odd spot story
Kiwifruit might be New Zealand's national fruit, but fewer Kiwis are eating it out of fear it could trigger a fatal allergic attack. Experts say 1 per cent of the country's 4 million people are believed to have developed some kind of allergy to the fuzzy fruit.
Murray comes from a family of farmers. His father was a farmer. His grandfather was a farmer. His grandfather's father's father was a farmer. Throughout his whole existence, Murray had always thought that he would grow up to be a farmer, without any thought of ever pursuing another career.
When he turned the magical age of 18, Murray expected the metaphoric keys to the family farm to be handed his way. He was excited, he was anticipating a big hand-over, a celebration to rival Christmas. So when the day came and went without any sort of fuss or ceremony, he was puzzled. Not puzzled enough to actually ask either of his parents about it, but puzzled enough to let it simmer in his mind for a few days.
After five days of straight simmering, Murray worked up the courage to ask. Straight out ask his father where his metaphoric keys were and when it was that he could actually start making some farm-related decisions.
Murray knew that they answer to this was approach in a not-too-confrontational manner, but with just enough directive to show his father that he was serious enough about the issue to get a real answer. His father was renowned for his 'let it be' attitude to life and to farming and it was always particularly difficult to introduce change. His father had been the same way; as had Murrary's grandfather and his grandfather's father's father. It was their way.
But Murray was determined not to let them dissuade him.
After the morning coffee and biscuits had been distributed, Murray made his move.
"Dad"
"Yes son"
"Dad, I've been wondering about family farm."
"What about the family farm son?"
"Well dad, about the fact that I turned 18 last week."
"What about turning 18 last week?"
"Well, I've been waiting to get the keys to the farm dad"
"What keys to the farm son? You've got the keys to the ute, the tractor, the shed, the grainstore, the house and the poisons. What other keys do you want?"
"No dad, not real keys, the metaphorical keys. You know, the handing it all over keys"
"Oh" his father replied.
The two men sat there and pondered their coffee and metaphorical keys for the rest of their working day.
The next day Murray tried bringing up the conversation again.
"Dad?"
"Yes son"
"Can we talk again about the keys?"
"The keys son?"
"You know what I mean. When can I start making decisions about the farm?"
His old man was quiet and sat quietly again for a minute or two, before finally giving Murray the answer he was looking for.
"Son"
"Yes dad"
"You can have the keys to the farm, metaphoric or not. On one condition."
"Okay, what?"
Again, his father hesitated before making this revelation:
"You have to pull out all of the kiwi vines and start the farm again."
"Huh?"
Murray's felt that he had obviously misunderstood his father's meaning, and just stared at him for a moment or two before repeating the questionning statement.
"I have to pull out all of the kiwi vines and start the farm again?"
"Yes son"
"But why dad? Why?"
"Well son, no one eats kiwis anymore. They're all too allergic".
"What? Too allergic? That's rubbish."
"No son, it's God's honest truth. Our sales have been dropping for years and recently not one of my crates have pre-sold. It's a tough market out there for fuzzy fruit. I think it's time that we moved on. It's time that we grew bananas instead."
Murray pondered his father's comments before replying.
"Bananas? You want me to pull out all of our vines and replace them with the hated enemy of the kiwi, the banana? The Queensland equivalent of the plague? The fruit that it the exact opposite of what we proudly grow now? All because of some ridiculous allergy that some shonky medic in the city came up with?"
"Yes son"
Both men paused, barely able to look in each other's direction.
"Son"
"Yes dad"
"If you want the keys, then that's my condition. You have a think about it and let me know what you decide, but them vines over there are ready for pruning. And I'm not pruning em this year."
"What happens if I don't want to change to bananas?"
"Well son, I'll be selling the family farm to Queensland Incorporated and our family heritage will be lost."
Murray comes from a family of farmers. His father was a farmer. His grandfather was a farmer. His grandfather's father's father was a farmer. Throughout his whole existence, Murray had always thought that he would grow up to be a farmer, without any thought of ever pursuing another career.
When he turned the magical age of 18, Murray expected the metaphoric keys to the family farm to be handed his way. He was excited, he was anticipating a big hand-over, a celebration to rival Christmas. So when the day came and went without any sort of fuss or ceremony, he was puzzled. Not puzzled enough to actually ask either of his parents about it, but puzzled enough to let it simmer in his mind for a few days.
After five days of straight simmering, Murray worked up the courage to ask. Straight out ask his father where his metaphoric keys were and when it was that he could actually start making some farm-related decisions.
Murray knew that they answer to this was approach in a not-too-confrontational manner, but with just enough directive to show his father that he was serious enough about the issue to get a real answer. His father was renowned for his 'let it be' attitude to life and to farming and it was always particularly difficult to introduce change. His father had been the same way; as had Murrary's grandfather and his grandfather's father's father. It was their way.
But Murray was determined not to let them dissuade him.
After the morning coffee and biscuits had been distributed, Murray made his move.
"Dad"
"Yes son"
"Dad, I've been wondering about family farm."
"What about the family farm son?"
"Well dad, about the fact that I turned 18 last week."
"What about turning 18 last week?"
"Well, I've been waiting to get the keys to the farm dad"
"What keys to the farm son? You've got the keys to the ute, the tractor, the shed, the grainstore, the house and the poisons. What other keys do you want?"
"No dad, not real keys, the metaphorical keys. You know, the handing it all over keys"
"Oh" his father replied.
The two men sat there and pondered their coffee and metaphorical keys for the rest of their working day.
The next day Murray tried bringing up the conversation again.
"Dad?"
"Yes son"
"Can we talk again about the keys?"
"The keys son?"
"You know what I mean. When can I start making decisions about the farm?"
His old man was quiet and sat quietly again for a minute or two, before finally giving Murray the answer he was looking for.
"Son"
"Yes dad"
"You can have the keys to the farm, metaphoric or not. On one condition."
"Okay, what?"
Again, his father hesitated before making this revelation:
"You have to pull out all of the kiwi vines and start the farm again."
"Huh?"
Murray's felt that he had obviously misunderstood his father's meaning, and just stared at him for a moment or two before repeating the questionning statement.
"I have to pull out all of the kiwi vines and start the farm again?"
"Yes son"
"But why dad? Why?"
"Well son, no one eats kiwis anymore. They're all too allergic".
"What? Too allergic? That's rubbish."
"No son, it's God's honest truth. Our sales have been dropping for years and recently not one of my crates have pre-sold. It's a tough market out there for fuzzy fruit. I think it's time that we moved on. It's time that we grew bananas instead."
Murray pondered his father's comments before replying.
"Bananas? You want me to pull out all of our vines and replace them with the hated enemy of the kiwi, the banana? The Queensland equivalent of the plague? The fruit that it the exact opposite of what we proudly grow now? All because of some ridiculous allergy that some shonky medic in the city came up with?"
"Yes son"
Both men paused, barely able to look in each other's direction.
"Son"
"Yes dad"
"If you want the keys, then that's my condition. You have a think about it and let me know what you decide, but them vines over there are ready for pruning. And I'm not pruning em this year."
"What happens if I don't want to change to bananas?"
"Well son, I'll be selling the family farm to Queensland Incorporated and our family heritage will be lost."
The Ride Home
A German football club is to refund the tickets of 600 fans who travelled to see them put in a "pitiful performance" that ended in a 4-0 away defeat. Energie Cottbus supporters travelled 600 kilometres to Gelsenkirchen to see their team lose. It was the team's sixth loss in seven games.
"Ach tung, baby," the conductor said with a lop-sided grin as he leaned around the pole in the centre of the train carriage. The cluster of red and white fans barely looked up, and behind them the grey sprawl of some city's tail sped passed the window. The conductor felt the rail beneath the carriage, ba-doong-ba-doong-ba-doong.
His smile was getting tired.
"Tickets, please," he said, as he rearranged his hold on the pole.
A man swivelled out his hand without looking up. The conductor was relieved that he hadn't had to yell. He hated it when football fans got rowdy, although these sad-looking people didn't seem lively enough to muster up any kind of fracas.
"Danke."
The man's voice was deadpan. Danke. There was no How was your day? or How long till we arrive? Just Danke.
The conductor took the tickets from the outstretched hand, and felt a little queasy at how saturated with the sweat of disappointment the pieces of paper were.
The carriage moved around a corner and the torpid fans all shifted their weight as one, moving first left and then right.
"So how was the game?"
Six pairs of eyes lifted to the conductor: narrow, defeated but still dangerous. One of the women parted her lips, as if to speak. She was probably young, but her face had been hardened by the long journey and the weight of the red and white cap pulled down over her curly dark hair.
"Not good, eh? Well, there's always next week, I suppose."
Without any more small-chat, the conductor moved on, reaching out for the next pole and the next set of Cottbus Energie fans.
Sometimes it really paid to be from Gelsenkirchen. It wasn't everyday that you got the chance to rub the noses of Energie fans for a full five hours.
He looked at his watch, and smiled.
Three hours, twenty-nine minutes to go.
He peered down at three university students, all decked out in frowns and Energie scarves.
"How was the game?"
"Ach tung, baby," the conductor said with a lop-sided grin as he leaned around the pole in the centre of the train carriage. The cluster of red and white fans barely looked up, and behind them the grey sprawl of some city's tail sped passed the window. The conductor felt the rail beneath the carriage, ba-doong-ba-doong-ba-doong.
His smile was getting tired.
"Tickets, please," he said, as he rearranged his hold on the pole.
A man swivelled out his hand without looking up. The conductor was relieved that he hadn't had to yell. He hated it when football fans got rowdy, although these sad-looking people didn't seem lively enough to muster up any kind of fracas.
"Danke."
The man's voice was deadpan. Danke. There was no How was your day? or How long till we arrive? Just Danke.
The conductor took the tickets from the outstretched hand, and felt a little queasy at how saturated with the sweat of disappointment the pieces of paper were.
The carriage moved around a corner and the torpid fans all shifted their weight as one, moving first left and then right.
"So how was the game?"
Six pairs of eyes lifted to the conductor: narrow, defeated but still dangerous. One of the women parted her lips, as if to speak. She was probably young, but her face had been hardened by the long journey and the weight of the red and white cap pulled down over her curly dark hair.
"Not good, eh? Well, there's always next week, I suppose."
Without any more small-chat, the conductor moved on, reaching out for the next pole and the next set of Cottbus Energie fans.
Sometimes it really paid to be from Gelsenkirchen. It wasn't everyday that you got the chance to rub the noses of Energie fans for a full five hours.
He looked at his watch, and smiled.
Three hours, twenty-nine minutes to go.
He peered down at three university students, all decked out in frowns and Energie scarves.
"How was the game?"
the odd spot
a nice challenge - write up the story behind the odd spot segment...
http://www.theage.com.au/oddspot/
http://www.theage.com.au/oddspot/
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Tim Winton
Am reading 'Cloudstreet' at the moment, and was particularly struck by this character description:
"Sam got down to the boat with a fully belly and waited for his partner Nobby. Keep the day ahead of you, that's what the old man used to say. Nobby rolled up to the wheelhouse and belched. He was a fat brand of man, balding, with bleached earhair and a great capacity for hatred. He had an ongoing grievanace with everybody, all forms of life. As he came in, he made a sturdy beginning to the morning."
"Sam got down to the boat with a fully belly and waited for his partner Nobby. Keep the day ahead of you, that's what the old man used to say. Nobby rolled up to the wheelhouse and belched. He was a fat brand of man, balding, with bleached earhair and a great capacity for hatred. He had an ongoing grievanace with everybody, all forms of life. As he came in, he made a sturdy beginning to the morning."
Welcome!
With the launch of the PSC writing group, The Ghost Writers, it was inevitable that we create a sharing forum for us all. A place to write, to question, to post links, to post samples and again, a place to write.
I'll organise for each of us to have full authoriship and permission rights to the blog itself, but will require you to let me know your blogspot login details and I'll set it up.
Enjoy!
I'll organise for each of us to have full authoriship and permission rights to the blog itself, but will require you to let me know your blogspot login details and I'll set it up.
Enjoy!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)