Sunday, October 21, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
This is the 250th and last post of Five a Week Fiction. Why is it the last post? The simple answer is I’ve come up with a master plan for writing and promoting my upcoming ebooks and, sadly, this site isn’t a part of that plan.
Over the last year, Five a Week Fiction has been a great place to hone my skills and has been a very enjoyable experience for me. I appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read my stories and articles and I hope you all stick around when I launch my new website later this year. I will update this site when the new website is up (I guess that means there will be a 251st post). In the meantime, please follow me on Twitter to get the latest on what I’m doing.
Thank you all again and feel free to catch up on all the old stories on this site you may have missed. A special thanks to my international audience who have taken the time to read stories written by a kid from Bakersfield, California. I never would have imagined I’d find an audience in countries across the globe like Brazil, Russia, Lithuania and Italy.
All of you are awesome.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Warren Bull returns with a pitch of his short story collection "Murder Manhattan Style".
The short stories range in this collection run from the 1850s to the present day; from Manhattan, Kansas to Manhattan, New York with whistle stops along the way; and from Runyonesque to noir. Why brag about them myself when I can get others to?
“Warren Bull is a short story master.” Nancy Pickard
“Witty charming and clever.” Lisa Harkrader
“Terrific stories.” Ramona DeFelise Long
“Highly recommended.” Earl Staggs
“The narrative voice rings true…beautifully written.“ Juliette Kincaid
“These stories cover distances and time and mood without losing a beat.” Susan Hilary.
For more visit:
Friday, April 27, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Please listen to this song here as we end our tale today.
The police barged in, guns out, ready to exchange bullets with me. When they saw me standing helplessly with my arms up, they put their guns away. My passive posture didn’t stop them from tackling me to the floor and handcuffing me.
After a radio call from one of the officers, paramedics came in, aiding Johnny and Mr. Brutus, placing them on stretchers and administrating oxygen. I could have been indignant that the bad guys were being treated with such care while I was being shoved around, but I was strangely relaxed, having made a major personal breakthrough moments ago.
The officers assaulted me with questions, but I was composed, making enough sense to gain their trust. Soon the club was silent and empty. After the police left, it occurred to me that there wasn’t a living soul to take me home.
I walked outside to check to see if anyone was in the parking lot. Sheena stood next to the horse trailer as if she were waiting for me. She trotted in my direction, her hooves creating a soothing cadence against the pavement.
I rode her all the way into the city and managed to turn plenty of heads. Children pointed and stared, while adults looked on with confusion. As we arrived at the Fiesta Mini-Mart, Ana came outside to gawk at the great beast meandering through the streets. She looked up with great surprise when she saw me, saying “Señor Cinco?”
I said “The name is Nolan. One grape slushee please.” Ana retreated into the store and returned with the ice cold slushee. I paid and took a long sip. The sweet and cold beverage was heaven in my mouth. After slurping the last drop, I put my heels into Sheena’s sides and we galloped off over the horizon.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Debbi Weitzell is back to pitch her book "Dan Powell: The Making of an American Cowboy".
This is a work of research mixed with a generous dose of imagination. It is not meant to be an actual account of Dan Powell’s early life, because as far as we could ascertain, there is none. Instead, it is an attempt to make the bare bones into an interesting story. When people don’t leave journals or daily records, one has to get creative to put flesh on those bones.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
It was heavy for its size, small and easily concealed.
I had fired a gun before (Shooting was one of the only skills that my grandmother had taught me aside from how to take a slap in the ear). A lack of ability wasn’t the reason I was unable to fire this particular gun.
This strange, little weapon had four barrels. Four freaking barrels! My obsessions would finally destroy me as my flaccid arm hung, unwilling to lift the abominable weapon to defend myself.
Mr. Brutus pushed his way to the bar on the other side of the dance floor, but most people got out of his path due to his size and the fact that he was still half naked. They fled from him like his insanity was contagious. He leaned on the bar and yelled at the bartender. I couldn’t see Brutus’ mouth, but I knew what he was saying. The bartender grabbed Little Muffin and Brutus snatched it out of his hand like an impatient child.
I rubbed my finger along the cold trigger of the gun. My breathing became shallow and my vision blurred. I remembered my days in grade school, standing on principle, refusing to give in to the malicious lie that two plus two did in fact equal four. Ms. Walinski did not take lightly my rebellion, refusing me the privilege of recess on many occasions. My numeric peccadilloes were then exposed to my classmates who, as children do, honed in on my weakness, calling me “four eyes” even though I didn’t wear glasses.
I also recalled how my irrationality destroyed my desire to play a musical instrument. My mother bought me a beautiful five stringed viola, but to my dismay, all the music books I had ever seen were timed in beats of four!
I saw the rest of my life flash before my eyes and the sad theme was clear- my hurdles and my barriers were self-imposed. Little Muffin would surely be the implement of my death, but I was my own warden and my own executioner.
The wall of people constrained me from ducking or running. Mr. Brutus smiled as he placed his hand on the trigger, but I couldn’t just stand there and let him shoot me, could I? Am I that disfunctional?
I raised the gun, my hand trembling. My grandmother told me that if it became necessary to fire a gun at someone, you better unload your whole clip or, in this case, every barrel. All four of them.
I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger once, feeling the strong kick of the weapon. My heart rate doubled instantly. My eyes popped back open and I squeezed off two more bullets, the crowd now in a frenzy, screaming and pushing toward the door. The bullets hit bottles shelved above the bar, exploding in fountains of glass and booze. I fired the fourth, my knees buckling and my teeth clenching. Mr. Brutus fired high into the air as he fell backwards, a spurt of blood shooting from his left pectoral muscle as the fourth projectile pierced his chest.
I dropped the gun, woozy and dizzy, believing the fabric of the universe would unravel. To my surprise, all was still right with the world....or as right as they could be considering that everybody had poured out of the club and the only people left were me, the battered Johnny and the bleeding Brutus. Sirens screamed from outside and I had no idea how I would explain all this.