blogging, book promotion, humor, Stories, Uncategorized, Writers Co-op

A cosy dinner for three

– by Jim Webster

+++I suppose that in one way, poets and painters have one specific thing in common. We sketch out the original work, then we work away at it until it is mostly finished. Finally comes the endless tweaking to get it just right. So if I mention that Julatine Sypent can be something of a perfectionist you can imagine that this latter part of the process takes some time.
+++This isn’t something that ordinarily matters. A twee cottage isn’t going to get bored if you sit painting it for a full week. On the other hand when he moved to portraits, some sitters grew restive. Still it wasn’t as if Julatine hid this aspect of his personality. Nobody who hired him to paint them could claim that it came as a surprise. Everybody in society knew that if you wanted your likeness painted by Julatine, you emptied your diary for a full week.
+++Yet outside the circle of well-heeled patrons of the arts Julatine’s foibles were not really known. Obviously this isn’t normally going to be a problem as those less well monetarily endowed aren’t the people who tend to commission him. Yet late one morning he was in the Silk Merchant’s Repose. This is one of the better taverns, the food is excellent and the company tends to be polite. Not only that, but the owner, Omartan, aspires to keep improving it.
+++Julatine was dining alone and sitting at the table across from him was Bolfinch and the two Millan sisters, Winny and Saleni. If I remember aright Bolfinch was courting Winny and Saleni had come along as a chaperone. Or perhaps it was the other way about? Or perhaps he was courting both with nobody quite sure who was chaperoning whom?
+++Still Julatine was immediately captivated by the scene and sketched it hastily on in a notepad. Then he summoned Omartan and offered to paint the scene for him, pointing out that such a vision of attractive young ladies, good food, and good fellowship would inevitably encourage people to come to his establishment. A price was agreed and then Julatine approached the three diners. With the prospect of a free lunch next day they agreed to return, and promised to wear the same outfits.
+++Next morning found Julatine with easel in place and all his impedimenta around him. The diners took their seats and began eating. Julatine blocked everything out and after a mere three hours pronounced himself well pleased with the result. He instructed everybody to be back in their places next day at the usual time.
It has to be admitted that Winny and Saleni abandoned Bolfinch and fled home. This was to ensure that they had time to wash and try their clothes so they would be at their best tomorrow when Julatine had promised he would start painting in the detail. Bolfinch went late to work, and moaned to his colleagues about the problems caused when an artist gets involved in your courtship.
+++Next day the trio were back in place. But unfortunately word had got round. Thus Silk Merchant’s Repose was crowded. Julatine was incensed, all those people standing in the way meant that the light was wrong. Indeed so crowded was it that when he reached out to put some more brown on his brush, he found himself painting with onion gravy he’d inadvertently acquired from the plate of a diner who had cleared himself a space by the simple expedient of pushing Julatine’s paints off the table. For Julatine this was the last straw.
+++Omartan, the owner, knew nothing of this. He was working upstairs in his office. Now even there he could keep his finger on the pulse of affairs below him. A raised voice, angry shouting, the crash of crockery, would all have him downstairs in an instant. But all was quiet. It was only after a while he realised it was too quiet. He stood up and opened the door of his office. Instead of the low hum of conversation and diners concentrated mainly on eating, interspersed with the occasional scraping of a chair or perhaps the slightly louder tones of somebody ordering their meal, there were no sounds at all.
+++Omartan made his way cautiously downstairs to discover his establishment empty save for Julatine and his three sitters. It appears that Julatine had noticed Chesit Quince amongst the spectators. So Julatine had paid him to empty the place and keep it empty. Given that Chesit can carry an anvil under one arm and has stopped runaway horse teams dead in their tracks, this he achieved with no difficulty at all.
+++Omartan could take no more. He demanded that Julatine let customers in so he could continue to run his business. Julatine at this point got on his high horse, accused Omartan of being a gore-bellied gut-gripping hedgemott with no artistic sensitivities. He told him to finish his own painting, grabbed his assorted equipment and stormed out.
+++That evening Ingenious Trool dropped in for a meal, heard the story, and offered to take the painting home and finish it. It was he who added the three diners in the background purely from his imagination. Thus one of them is Lancet and one of them is me. The third, a bearded gentleman apparently asking the clean shaven Lancet for a loan is Sinian Var, reputed to be the wealthiest usurer in Port Naain. Trool also painted the expression of the face of Bolfinch. (The latter admitted later that Trool had caught his emotions perfectly) He also added the cat, which folk felt was a stroke of genius. Omartan was overjoyed, paid Trool with a number of excellent free meals and everybody was happy.
+++Save of course for Julatine, who when he heard his painting had been finished, had his lawyers (the Beenchkin partnership) sue Trool for stealing his painting. Beenchkin sent Trool a bill for one hundred alars to compensate their client. Trool had never possessed a tenth of that sum, so merely offered them the picture back in compensation. The Beenchkin clerk replied frostily that the picture was barely worth a hundred vintenars, never mind a hundred alars. They wanted their money. Unfortunately for them, this letter came into the hands of Julatine who was mortified to see the low value placed on his work. Outraged, he hired a lawyer from the Zare family to sue the Beenchkins. Finding themselves sued by their own client the Beenchkins countersued.
+++At this point Julatine acted with real genius. He approached the court and pointed out that as he was suing lawyers he demanded a blind bench. This term needs some explaining. Because there is a fear amongst the laity that when lawyers are being sued by the laity, magistrates (also lawyers of a sort) might be intimidated into supporting their own kind rather than giving a fair hearing to the lay person who is paying for it all. Thus a ‘blind bench’ is empowered. Three magistrates sit, but they sit behind a screen so that nobody will ever know who gave judgement. Lawyers hate this. If you think magistrates can be capricious when the world is watching them, just imagine how they act when they have anonymity. Julatine was awarded his blind bench. Immediately Beenchkin and Zare both settled out of court, paying large sums to both Julatine and Trool on the understanding that nobody would ever talk about the incident ever again.
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Should you wish to know more about Port Naain and Tallis Steelyard you might fancy reading Tallis Steelyard. Playing the game, and other stories.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tallis-Steelyard-Playing-other-stories-ebook/dp/B07PV1N7XZ/

https://www.amazon.com/Tallis-Steelyard-Playing-other-stories-ebook/dp/B07PV1N7XZ/

As one reviewer commented, “Another great collection of short stories about Port Naain poet Tallis Steelyard. This is the second collection I’ve read, and I enjoyed it as much as the first one – if not more so. The individual stories are amusing, and a little quirky, and well suited for a quick read to disconnect from reality after a long day.
Heartily recommended.”

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Live in the present. Write there too.

–  by Barry K. Rosen (aka Mellow Curmudgeon)

The ancient advice is still good. Live mostly in the present, with enough dwelling on the past to serve specific purposes like learning from mistakes. Also good is the much more recent advice to write fiction in the present tense, unless there is a specific reason to use the past tense.

Zen lore includes some stories with endings of the form

At that moment, __________ attained enlightenment.

Fill in the blank with the name of somebody who studied Zen for some time and finally saw the light when his teacher said or did something outrageously weird.

While my story Satori from a Consulting Gig does not presuppose any knowledge of Zen lore, it does have a surprise ending (partly inspired by those Zen stories) with my own way to fill in the blank. Using the past tense in my story’s last sentence helps make the allusion to Zen lore clear to those who might care about it.

Did I choose to write my story in the past tense because I planned to end it that way? Not consciously. I just set out to write a short story. I’ll write some fiction. I’ll use the customary past tense. Doesn’t everybody?

Not quite. I got over 16 million hits when I googled

present tense vs past tense fiction

much later, in preparation for writing this post. Before discussing some pros and cons that are out there (and some that may be new), there is a little more to be said about my story’s tense situation.

My story was written for an anthology whose editors asked the contributors to supply blurbs. I wrote a blurb in the same tense as the story, then noticed that other contributors wrote blurbs in the present tense for stories in the past tense. Why? I found the inconsistency troubling.

Another contributor (Sue Ranscht) kindly remarked that the present tense “creates a punchier tease” in blurbs than the past tense does. Indeed. Why not make the actual story (not just the blurb) be as vivid and engrossing as it can possibly be? Unless there is a specific reason to use the past tense, why not write in the present tense?

§1: Perilous Present
Written in the present tense, my newer story Entanglements begins with

Squatting over the airport, a thunderstorm supercell demolishes …

Yes, the word demolishes might be misread as (a typo for) demolished. Yes, the reader might be a little disoriented at first. Worse, the reader might suspect that gimmicky writing is camouflage for weak content. Such concerns loom large in a thoughtful page that recommends using the past tense by default and the present in some special cases. We can agree on the bedrock principle that one size does not fit all, even as we disagree amicably on where to draw some lines and how strongly to weight some concerns. That’s a respite from the train wreck of contemporary politics.

Dunno how 16 million hits in my Google search compares with how often the present tense has actually been used in good stuff. As good uses accumulate, the prudential reasons for defaulting to the past tense will gradually weaken. Of course, there will always be people who believe that the earth is flat, the moon landings were faked, and

Thou shalt write fiction in the past tense.

came down from Mount Sinai with Moses.

§2: Perilous Past
Readers (and writers!) may not be native speakers of English. As with many other aspects of language, English is exuberantly irregular in how it forms the past tense. People learn the past tense of a verb later (and less thoroughly?) than they learn the present tense. Can U hear the rumble of an approaching storm?

When offline (or distrustful of Google Translate), Pierre consults his French/English dictionary. How can he say prendre in English? No problem. Just say take. But Pierre is writing in the customary past tense. Neglecting to look up take in the other half of the dictionary, he says taked where he should say took.

Consider 3 common ways that verbs ending in -it can form their past tenses: hit/hit, pit/pitted, and sit/sat. Quick now: knit/knit or knit/knitted? Shit/shit or shit/shat?

There are a few verbs with 2 ways to form the past: an irregular usual way and a regular way for a special usage:

Starting a road trip, the team flew out to Chicago.
Swinging at the first pitch, the batter flied out to left field.
The picture was hung in a prominent place.
Nathan Hale was hanged as a spy on 1776-09-22.
This last nuance is subtle enough to trip up some native speakers.

§3: Perilous Past Perfect
Pierre is back. The draft of his story has a short paragraph about some taking that happened at an earlier time. Not fond of flashbacks, he has a good reason to put this paragraph as late as it is, not earlier in the narrative.

Sadder but wiser after being corrected by a ten-year old whose first language is English, Pierre refrains from writing had took for the past perfect for the verb take. He looks up the actual past participle and writes had taken.

Pierre’s pluperfect paragraph is grammatical but clunky. What to do? Rewrite the main narrative in the present tense and the clunky paragraph in the past. That will be a chore, but such a clear and distinct idea deserves the effort. Descartes would approve.

§4: John and Jane Get Tense
John has been writing screenplays that often use flashbacks. Now he wants to write a novel and still likes flashbacks. He realizes that readers would be confused if nothing but a paragraph break separates what the characters do and experience “now” (from their viewpoint) from the start or end of a flashback. There is a lot of sensible advice out there about things like narrative transitions to and from flashbacks, but John wants to stay closer to his cinematic roots. He uses the present tense for the main content and the past tense for the flashbacks. If he also switches to a noticeably different font for the flashbacks, that might be enough in most places (after narrative transitions for the first few flashbacks).

Jane has been writing historical fiction and using the past tense to make it look like history. Now she wants to write fiction with a first-person narrator and package it as a rather one-sided conversation with an implicit listener. She plans to keep the past tense for the main content and add some present-tense remarks, often in response to what the listener has presumably just said. The present-tense remarks will be frequent and incongruous. The narrator will tell a self-serving version of a sequence of events in the past tense while accidentally revealing the darker and/or funnier truth in the present tense.

I warned Jane that readers (especially impatient thick-headed guys like me) may just take the narrator to be ditzy and bail out early. But Jane is game to try. If she does make it work, I know a good place to submit her story.

§5: Recurring Rabbit
Rabbit
The Rabbit Hole is a series of anthologies of weird stories, with a troika of editors. Volume 1 came out in 2018, Volume 2 is scheduled to come out on 2019-10-01, and the editors hope to continue annually. Maybe Jane can contribute to Volume 3.

My story Satori from a Consulting Gig in Volume 1 is just 2 pages long, so even those who dislike it may still be glad they bought the book for $2.99 as an e-book or $12.50 as an ink-on-paper book.

While every extended narrative in Volume 1 uses the customary past tense, Volume 2 will have at least one story told in the present tense. No, the editors’ fondness for weird stories does not extend to a fondness for weird writing. As originally submitted for Volume 2, my story Entanglements did have some weird writing at the end that seemed unavoidable to me. Editor Curtis Bausse suggested a strategy for avoiding the unwanted weirdness, and the strategy worked. There was no fuss at all about my use of the present tense. That is as it should be.

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Do You Know Who I Am?

(A brief rant by Bill McCormick)

I got asked that today. By someone who was very angry with me for not having the correct response. FYI, that six word question inevitably leads to an answer that is as unenlightened as you might imagine. For the record, I’m fifty-seven years old, have had the honor and privilege of working with, and getting to know, many famous people.  Only once have I heard that question asked with a legitimate response expected. That was when a security guard stopped James Brown from entering a venue where the marquis said, in massive letters, TONIGHT ONLY: JAMES BROWN.

So that seemed warranted.

After that I’ve never seen anyone be impressed with the answer they got when they said “Nope, I have no idea who you are.”

I’ll give you some perspective.

Michael Jackson sold thirty million copies of THRILLER. That is slightly more than the population of Shanghai, which has twenty-four million people. Or, looked at another way, ninety-five percent of the planet earth, a/k/a slightly more than seven billion people, did not buy Thriller. A substantial portion of those people never heard of him at all. Many went blissfully to their graves never once hearing him go WOOT! Never once seeing him moonwalk.

They never saw Blanket Jackson, never knew of any scandals, never saw him as a music god, never knew a damn thing about him. And they lived their lives just fine, thank you very much.

I can only begin to aspire to that level of social ignorance.

Not that I can complain too much. There are billions of people who don’t know me either. But enough do that my landlord allows me to live indoors. It’s a start.

If someone doesn’t know you, or what you do, take it as an opportunity to teach them. To welcome them into your world. It’s a far more productive response.

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Just keep knocking

 – by Jim Webster

Have you noticed how there are people who never get the attention they deserve? Obviously it can work both ways. I know one or two people who really ought to come to the attention of the hangman, or perhaps that of a philanthropic assassin wishing to square his account with society. But there are also perfectly decent people who get overlooked or even ignored, often from the paltriest of reasons.

Take Morn Willit. A young man, handsome enough, intelligent, courteous and kind. Not only that but he had prospects. There again, there were unfortunate disadvantages as well. Firstly he was painfully shy. So shy that his two sisters feared he’d never pluck up the courage to speak to an eligible young lady, never mind ask her out to dine with him. Secondly he walked with a pronounced limp, from the time when a Partannese mace had smashed his leg.

Morn signed on as a squire with Lord Cartin’s company and in due season rose to become a man-at-arms. It has to be admitted that his shyness wasn’t a problem. Wearing a helmet with a full-face visor it didn’t matter whether he blushed or not, and anyway it wasn’t as if he was ever formally introduced to any to the Partannese brigands he was hired to fight. Unfortunately during his second season in Partann a backhanded blow with a mace smashed his calf. The surgeon started the operation by cutting away the heavy riding boot, shook his head sadly and did his best to mend what some other fool had marred.

Say what you want about Lord Cartin but he looks after his people. With his weak leg, Morn might be able to ride but he would never be able to fight as a man-at-arms. But Lord Cartin found him another job. He was to assist the Grand Provost in Port Naain.

Every time a ship sails or a company marches, sundry provosts and similar scour the bars and bordellos of Port Naain looking for men who have overstayed their leave. The role of the Grand Provost was to ensure that is an up-to-date list of these establishments which were known to be frequented by people of this class. Thus the busy ship’s captain didn’t have to scour the entire city, he merely handed his boatswain a list of suitable establishments and told him to get on with it. To be fair these establishments tend to cluster in certain areas. Bordellos and other establishments outside those areas probably try to serve a more distinguished clientele.

Morn’s job was to deal with problems that inevitably arose, when a boatswain who didn’t know Port Naain tackled the wrong bordello, or fighting arose because crewmen had decided that they no longer fancied a seafaring career.

This now brings us to Lucila. A rather pretty young woman, intelligent and determined to make her way in the world. Her grandmother died leaving Lucila a reasonable legacy. She pondered and then purchased a large house just off the Ropewalk. She had spent wisely, she got a lot of house for her money. Indeed she still had enough money left to renovate it a little. Then she rented out individual rooms to respectable young women who were working in the shops and businesses round and about. She was very insistent on them being respectable because she didn’t want the house to get a bad reputation with people treating it as a bordello.

This is rather ironic as whilst it had stood empty for some time, previously it had been a bordello. Thus it was on the Grand Provost’s list of bordellos in the Ropewalk area. Now this needn’t have been a problem. Except that Lucila and her tenants had been ensconced in their new home for no more than a few months when trouble struck. There was a tremendous hammering on the door at about midnight. By the time Lucila had managed to get a dressing gown thrown over her nightdress and got to the top of the stairs the hammering had stopped. This was because whoever was hammering had lost patience and had smashed the door in. Standing in her hallway on the shattered remains of her front door was an ensign and three crossbowmen. They were searching for defaulters from a condottiere company that was to march south next morning.
To be honest, at this point I must confess I feel a degree of sympathy for the ensign. He is expecting a bordello. He looks round and peering over the banisters at the top of the stairs is a growing number of young women in their night attire. In his defence I insist he was never less than polite. Not only that but after very few minutes he realised that whilst these ladies were in night attire, it was not ‘that’ sort of night attire. Finally he accepted their assurance that this was not the bordello he was looking for and he retired to continue his quest. Being the gentleman that he was, he left a crossbowman on the door to ensure that they didn’t have any other unwanted visitors.

Obviously this is the sort of problem Morn was paid to deal with. He rode up to the house next morning and inspected the damage. His sense of duty ensured that he was brisk and business-like and managed to cope with the terrors of dealing with Lucila and her tenants. He listened to their story, apologised profusely and then he and Lucila went to purchase a suitable door. Obviously as a gentleman he couldn’t ride whilst she walked at his horse’s head. And because he was lame, Lucila wasn’t going to let him walk whilst she rode. And equally it would have been fatuous to both walk with the horse coming along as a chaperone. So Morn climbed up onto the horse and Lucila sat behind him with her arms around his waist to help her stay on. A door was purchased, and the carpenter promised to fit it that very morning. So Morn and Lucila rode back to await his arrival. Lucila felt pleased to offer Morn coffee, and he drank it and chatted happily. His shyness seemed to have abated somewhat, but perhaps it’s impossible to be shy with somebody who has spent half the morning with her arms around your waist? The door fitted to everybody’s satisfaction, Morn left, taking the crossbowman with him. For the record, Lucila stood in her doorway and waved him off.

That, I suppose, would have been that. Save for the fact that three weeks later, Lucila was once more awakened by her front door crashing onto the hall floor. There were the usual somewhat tense discussions and next morning Morn arrived. Over coffee, matters were resolved, a new door was purchased and fitted. Before he left, Morn promised that he would see what he could do to stop these assaults on her property. Alas Lucila lost four more doors before the visitations finally ceased. Mind you, Morn and Lucila had been married for over a year before Morn admitted to her that he could have corrected the Grand Provost’s list after the first occasion. It was just that he couldn’t think of any other way he might get to meet her.

Tallis Steelyard
Should you wish to learn more of the world of Tallis Steelyard, you could do worse than read, “Tallis Steelyard, shower me with gold, and other stories.”
https://www.amazon.com/Tallis-Steelyard-shower-other-stories-ebook/dp/B01MRQFSGF/

As a reviewer commented, “This is a great collection of quirky little tales which are a spin-off from a series featuring Benor Dorffingil. Tallis is his friend, landlord, drinking companion and a jobbing poet. There are some lovely phrases used in here, as you would expect from a wordsmith like Tallis, who presents us with his pragmatic take on life. It’s an example of what happens when a minor character takes the reins and gallops off on his own. A great little book.”

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Drunken Discourses of the Unusually Perturbed

by Margret A. Treiber

A beta reader recently asked me if I was tripping while writing one of my short stories. I had to laugh because, for the most part, I write completely sober.

Frequently, I’ve considered getting bent and sitting in front of the keyboard. I figured some really righteous shit could pour out of my already twisted mind with the aid of a chemical boost. I mean, I write all manner of altered dimensions as it is. Imagine what madness I could produce on some kind of bender!

No such luck.

An intoxicated Margretbot is a slacking Margretbot. As hard as I might try, there is no way to prod any words out of my brain and into written word while I’m “beyond reason”. I can get to the waters of inspiration, my muses whispering in my ear with enthusiasm and gusto, but I can’t get the crap out of my head and into a file. So I sit there, giggling, my own personal entertainment being played and replayed which I am unable to share with the universe at large.

But what if I could? What if these wonderful musings could be somehow captured in print? It would be awesome! Would it not?
Then I reflect on the drawing of BigBrainia and the map of the giant penis that hung on the wall of my post-college apartment bedroom.

Knowing the massive potential for creativity among myself and my roommates, we plastered a large piece of craft paper on my wall to jot down all our amazing ideas so they would not be lost to sobriety. And yes, it was so freaking hysterical when we were toasted and giggling on the floor of my room.

In fact, it was magnificent.

We had quotes and drawings, maps and diagrams, and depictions of all the kings of imaginings you would expect to come out of the head of young, twenty-something, liberal arts grads in their first apartment.

The problem – it barely made any sense when we were sober. Wasted again, it was the most glorious written document in existence. Nursing the hangover, we squinted at it trying to figure out what penis map actually meant.

So, after reflection and consideration, I realize that although I write like I’m stoned, I’ll probably never write while I’m stoned. It would never work. Yeah, maybe if I was lucky, a handful of drunkards and meth heads may get a giggle but are meth heads really known for their eBook consumption?

So for now at least, until I’m in a nursing home on forced medications, all my crazy shit is coming to you unfettered and clean. Yes, this is how I think “normally”.

I leave the plastered pros to those better equipped to pull it off.

Margret’s prolific writings:
http://themargret.com/
(tread with caution)

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About Writers, blogging, book promotion, book reviews, book sales, editing, Flash Fiction, Google Ads, humor, inspiration, Legal, Literary Agents, Literary critique, Magic and Science, mythology, publishing, reading, Research, Satire, scams, self-publishing, Stories, Uncategorized, Welcome, world-building, Writers Co-op, Writers Co-op Anthology, writing technique

An Invitation to Blog

The Writers Co-op is looking for a few good bloggers. Anyone in the writing life is welcome to submit a blog. If you have something to say about writing, editing, publishing, marketing or just want to share news of your latest effort, we’re interested. Submit a new blog, or, a link to your current blog page.

Members should post their blog in the draft section. Others should submit their their blog or link to GD <at> Deckard <dot> com. Blogs are posted every Monday or Thursday morning on a first-come basis.

Remember that readers are likely to be people in the writing life interested in learning from one another. Sharing our successes, failures, insights, knowledge and humor is a big part of the life we lead.

I look forward to hearing from you.

– GD Deckard, Founding Member

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2019 Writers Co-op Anthology

 – by Curtis Bausse

The Writers’ Co-op invites submissions of short stories (and poems) for the second edition of our yearly anthology, The Rabbit Hole. Volume one was released in November last year, volume two is scheduled for September 2019.

This year, we are looking for weird stories dealing with the following themes: entertainmentweather or science. (If you want to combine all three, we’re very open to stories about a group of scientists on their way to the theatre when they’re caught in a freak snowstorm.) However, there will also be a section Weird At Large for stories that don’t fit the specific themes suggested.

There is a maximum word count of 5000. This is more a guideline than a strict limit – quality is the main criterion, not length. So a great story will be accepted, whether it’s 6000 words or 200 (flash fiction is welcome). But we’re looking for short stories, not novellas or extracts from novels – the story should be complete in itself. Though the anthology will be comprised mostly of stories, there will also be room for some poems or pieces of an experimental nature.

The deadline is 31st March 2019. Submissions should be sent in an attached file to curtis.bausse(at)outlook.com with the subject ‘Co-op submission’. They may have been previously published on personal websites (or elsewhere) but authors must have full rights to them when submitting. Authors will retain said rights after the story or poem is published in the Writers’ Co-op anthology.

Writers whose stories are selected will have the choice between keeping their share of the royalties or donating them to the Against Malaria Foundation.

What is meant by ‘weird’?

Like many categories, it’s fuzzy, because it stands in distinction to ‘normal’, and there’s no common acceptance of what is normal. Not all writers will approach it the same way, and so much the better – we hope for plenty of variety. At the core of weirdness, though, is the upsetting of expectations: normality, in the sense of what we’re accustomed to, doesn’t follow the course that led us to form those expectations. Where it goes – somewhere disturbing or hilarious – is entirely the writer’s choice. Or why not hilariously disturbing? Indeed, one advantage of ‘weird’ is that it allows for humour as much as for horror, so go for it!

How weird does it have to be? Anything from full on, over-the-top freaky to subtly odd and unsettling. So no worries if weird isn’t your usual style – a few deft touches can suffice. Give us writing that shifts our perceptions, leads us to experience, bubbling up through the regularity and routine, the fundamental weirdness of life. To quote the Count of Lautréamont, author of the Chant de Maldoror, if your piece is ‘beautiful as the chance meeting on a dissecting table of a sewing machine and an umbrella,’ there’s every chance that we’ll love it.

We look forward to reading you.

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