My First Contest Win – Sort of

By Robin Weaver

When I first started writing for publication—and back when I didn’t know that I didn’t’ know what I was doing—the leader of my newly formed Writing Group, suggested that entering short-story contests might provide an entrance into the writing world. Being a good little follower, I immediately scoured the web and found three competitions. I immediately entered two with mystery stories. Except for acknowledgement of entry-receipt, I never heard anything from those contests.

The third contest, however, was more specific and required some thought.  Sad to say, for this monumental “first,” I can’t even remember the contest name.  That particular website was running two contests—one for writing with a 2,000 word -imit, and one for art.  Both had to relate to knights or knighthood.

Obviously, I had no complete story that met the criteria—I was a modern mystery writer.  But after a month of agonizing I completed my story—okay, it was really only a week, there was a deadline.

Wonder-of-wonders, two weeks later I received an email saying I’d won first place that my story would be published in the next addition of the online magazine. I was over-the-moons-of-Jupiter excited, all 79 of them! A few days later my prizes arrived—a writing journal and a check for $25, which covered the $10 entry fee (if not the $30 for all three contests--sigh.

Then the waiting began. On the day the new edition should have  
been posted, I opened the page… Nothing. Maybe I was too early, after all it was 5:30 a.m. So I tried again at 6:00. And 7:00. And noon.

Still nothing. Maybe the editor was a day behind.  I repeated my excitable website-opening the next day. And the next.  After a week, my excitement turned to anxiety. Those of you who know me won’t be surprised at all to learn that after two weeks, a sign was posted on the link saying the online magazine had “closed the site.”

Being a new writer, I was crushed. As a more experienced, if not entirely wiser author, I understand rejection is part of the literary life, thus I can now re-relish the initial joy of winning that contest. There are few things not related to loved ones, that are better than seeing your name in print. Except maybe the anticipation of seeing your name in print.
“re-relish a word?).

Happy anticipation!

Robin

P.S.  I’ve posted the story below.  So now it's “in print.”  :)

A KNIGHT RESURRECTED

By S. R. Weaver

Please don’t let him see me.   After a full day of mommy duty and dealing with a temper tantrum over yet another new babysitter, Annie Addison couldn’t conjure up enough energy to deal with Lance Walker.  She ducked behind her open trunk, praying for a bit of luck. The appearance of a size-12 Nike indicated no luck was forthcoming.  Busted, she lifted her head, whacking it on the raised trunk. 

“Yeow.  Quit stalking me.”  She massaged the top of her head, only slightly mollified when he began to sputter.

“I…I’m not stalking you.  I just wanted to make sure you got into the building safely.”

“Oh, pleaaase.”  Her southern twang emerged with her anger.  “It’s a secure parking lot with a guard less than fifty feet away.  I think little ole me can manage without the help of the big dweeb hero.”

The lights in the parking lot revealed the pinkish glow creeping over Lance’s face, making Annie regret her attack.  The man annoyed her simply by breathing, but she shouldn’t have called him a dweeb.  He wasn’t that bad.  Actually, he wasn’t bad at all if you liked the intelligent, handsome type.  Delete the thought.

Annie tried to focus on the negatives and ignore his body, ripped from regular workouts.  Even in the semi-darkness, she envisioned his amazing gray-green eyes and the way they twinkled when he smiled.

A fresh wave of anger washed over Annie—anger at her own foolishness.  She couldn’t get sucked in by a man’s charm again.  If she didn’t focus on Lance’s pesky nature, she might drop her guard and admit he was better than not bad.  She couldn’t do that.  Her life precluded having time, or use, for a man, even one that seemed nice.  All her efforts centered around juggling two jobs, a degree yet to be earned, and a three year-old angel who reminded Annie each day that men could not to be trusted.

Annie grabbed her tote, slammed the trunk and scurried toward the building, hoping to escape both Lance, and her thoughts.  Believing she’d ditched him, Annie set down her bundle so she could swipe her badge.  A hand reached around her and grabbed her canvas bag before it touched the ground.  “Here, let me carry that.”

She hid a smirk when Lance stumbled at the bag’s unexpected weight. “You never stop, do you?” she asked, shaking her head.  “If you had half a brain, you’d stay away from me.”

“I just wondered if you wanted to go for a coffee during our break tonight.”

Annie made a production of her sigh.  “Giving you credit for having half a brain was fifty percent over-inflated.  The answer is no.”

She passed through the revolving gate, leaving Lance to manage her oversized shoulder tote while trying to swipe his own credentials.  She hurried, needing to put some distance between them, but Lance’s long legs enabled him to catch her at the elevator, even lugging her bag and his own backpack.

“Is it my breath?”

“Yeah.  That’s it.”

She bit her lip to stifle a laugh when Lance ran his tongue over his teeth.  Annie jerked her bag from his hand. “It isn’t your breath, it’s the body odor.”

He sniffed at his armpits.  “Body odor?”

 “I’m kidding, Walker!”  His downcast face caused her tone to soften.  “I’ve told you.  I have to study on my breaks.  Besides, I can't afford fancy coffee.”

“Come on.  It’s my treat.”

“Knock it off, will you?  I’m not going out with you.  Period, the end.”  Annie groaned as they approached the entrance to the New Games Division.  She had worked with Lance on second-shift for almost three months.  He headed the team that was developing Interactive Action’s latest game, Galahad’s Ghost, and she recorded voice segments.   The company paid well, but between tuition, daycare and rent, she still needed to waitress on Sundays to cover expenses.  Five bucks for a latte didn’t fit into her budget and she didn’t want a man paying for anything.

He raced for the door, grabbing it just in time to smack her in the shin.  “Ouch!”  She pierced him with a nasty look while she rubbed her leg.  “You don’t take rejection well, do you?”

“I’m sorry.  I was just trying to open the door for you.”                                                                                                                

Annie ignored the concern etched on his features.  Red whelp or not, his eyes stared at her calf and partially exposed thigh.  She jerked her skirt down and glared at him.  “Don’t.”

Lance blinked.  “Annie, I wasn’t…ah, forget it.”  He lifted his head and looked at the ceiling, but continued to hold the door open.

She’d probably misjudged him.  Again.  Bob from the accounting department would use the accident as an excuse to stroke her knee and Lance’s buddy, Arnie, would look up her skirt but Lance wasn’t like the other bozos who harassed her. 

She hadn’t been so ‘anti-men’ during her first month at Interactive Action, but as Romeo wannabes grew bolder and the pick-up lines grew more ridiculous, she wrapped herself in protective iciness.  She cursed her looks, knowing nothing had changed in the eight years since high school.  Guys wanted to score because she had a pretty face, but if she allowed a man to seduce her, she’d become a statistic.  That lesson had been learned the hard way, courtesy of Natalie’s dad.

Lance might be different, but she could not, would not, take the chance.  “I’m perfectly capable of opening the door myself.”

His eyes met hers.  “Give me a break.   How can I be chivalrous if you won’t even let me get the door?  Besides, you couldn’t open the door carrying that bag. I’m surprised you can even walk.  What have you got in there anyway?”

Her hands clutched the bag protectively.  She’d been flustered when he approached her in the parking lot and had grabbed the wrong tote.  There’s no way she’d tell him the bag held Natalie’s things:  roller skates, clothes, and dumbbells, because Natalie wanted to lift weights like mommy.

To distract his attention, she snapped, “Chivalrous?  Is this your idea of chivalry?”  She pointed at her shin, the bump already making the transition from red to blue.  “In the Middle Ages, men opened doors for women because the doors were heavy—I think I can handle this one.   Chivalry wasn’t just a grand gesture, it had a purpose.”

“Really?  That would mean chivalry is dead.  There’s nothing I can do for you that you can’t do for yourself.”  A boyish smile erased the dejection on his face.  “Except, maybe, buy you a fancy coffee?”

A burst of anger rippled through her.  Men thought spending a little cash could solve anything.  She wanted to kick his shin with her uninjured limb.  “You’re missing the point, Walker.  Chivalry isn’t completely dead.  I’m sure if you tried, you could come up with something more original than holding a door open, especially if you must break my leg in the process.”

 “I could say ‘thank you’ when you let me buy you a fancy coffee!”

“Nice try, but that’s just courtesy.”

“Ah ha!  You said courtesy.”  He grinned a Cheshire Cat grin. “The dictionary defines chivalry as ‘bravery, courtesy, honor, and gallantry toward women.’”

Her eyes widened.  “Oh my God!  You actually looked the word up?  You need to get away from Galahad for a few days.  You're becoming a terminal nerd.” 

The pun hadn’t been intentional but they both laughed.  Annie’s bad humor subsided.  She was majoring in medieval history.  The propeller-head had probably memorized the definition of chivalry to impress her.

Warning bells blasted in her head.  She couldn’t let him impress her with his desire to impress.

“Fine,” she scoffed.  “Courtesy is important, but a single quality does not constitute chivalry.  True chivalry is a combination of all the things in your definition, but it should be extended to anyone who needs a little help, not just women.  The twenty-first century knight must be gallant without being sexist.”

“Then give me an example of modern chivalry.”

“Naturally, you can’t think of one yourself.”

 “Tell you what,” Lance responded.  “I’ll come up with an example of modern chivalry by Saturday, but you have to let me explain my idea over dinner.”

 “Why would I do that?”  She narrowed her eyes.

“Because if I can’t come up with a suitable gesture, I won't bother you again.  Ever.”

The idea had merit.  Annie also remembered that Natalie was spending the weekend with her grandparents and she would be alone on Saturday night.  Again.  She didn’t want to be excited about a night out, but she’d spent to many Saturday nights playing Chutes and Ladders “If it will get rid of you once and for all, I’ll do it.”

There was no way he would impress her and she would finally be free of his unwanted attention.  That was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

His voice intruded into her self-argument.  “It’s a bet.  If I win, we go on a second date.”

“No way.  If you win, we’ll go for that fancy coffee, but…it has to cost you if…eh…when you lose.  If you fail to demonstrate true chivalry, you have to sponsor me in the 'Race for the Cure.'  And,” she amended quickly, “you have to stop bugging me.”

“You’re on.  It’s a date.”

“It is so not a date.”

***

Annie could feel Lance’s eyes follow her as the hostess showed them to a booth.  The restaurant was a surprise—it was perfect.  She’d expected it to be trendy and slick, but instead, candles and soft music created a romantic atmosphere. Half-round tables forced patrons to sit side-by-side while a delicious aroma stimulated anticipation.  He had good taste, but it would take more than haute cuisine and fancy wine to impress her. 

“Excellent choice,” she said, looking around.  “But this isn’t chivalry; it’s just expensive.”

 He laughed.  “Nah.  This is just good food.  The chivalry comes later.”

After they were seated, Lance asked, “I bet you think I was a geek during my formative years?”

“You weren’t?”  Annie didn’t quite manage a straight face.

“Nope.  If I show you my anti-geek shot records, can I meet your daughter?”

Annie choked, knocking her water goblet. “You know about Natalie?”

Lance rescued the glass before it spilled.  “Of course.  I’ve seen your screen saver.  Got any recent photos?”

“You want to see pictures of my kid?  That is chivalrous.”

“Nope, that’s not my gesture.  I just like munchkins.”

Maybe the evening wouldn’t be so bad after all.  Annie dug in her purse for photos of her princess.  While Lance ooh’ed and ahh’ed, Annie did something she hadn’t done in a long time.  She let down her guard.  After that, conversation flowed smoothly.

Only one bite of crème brulee was left on the plate when Lance raised his wineglass.  “To chivalry, whatever form it takes.”  He reached in his jacket pocket and retrieved a small box, beautifully wrapped with a glimmering silver bow. 

Annie folded her arms across her chest.  The amity that had developed during the meal evaporated.  “I can’t be bought with gifts.”

“This isn't a gift.  Let’s just say I’m into packaging.”

Her brain rejected the gesture, but her hands wouldn’t comply. Her fingers itched to know what trinket was inside the box.  After removing the lid, Annie took out a plastic card and a check.  An awed expression covered her face when she scrutinized the objects.

"Alas,” she whispered, “chivalry does indeed live."

Lance Walker had managed to melt her ice and restored her faith in the male species.  Perhaps he could be trusted.  Annie raised her lips to kiss his cheek.  In her hands, she held a check made out to the Breast Cancer Foundation and Lance’s recently renewed driver’s license.  The words on the card, Organ Donor, shone like armor. 

‘As Told To’ Project Prompts Solo Efforts

By Linda Lovely

The idea of writing a book was an occasional, fleeting thought.  Sometimes I figured out a mystery before reaching the half-way point in a book and thought I could do better.  Other times I’d roll my eyes at the actions of a wimpy or TSTL—too stupid to live—heroine and think MY heroine would be much braver and smarter.

But these were random thoughts. I was busy trying to make a living. We had just moved to the South Carolina coast for my husband’s job, and I’d recently sold my interest in a partnership, which required me to honor a non-compete clause. That meant I needed new clients.

I've always been a writer. But writing a book? It took an
expensive lesson for me to decide, "Yes, I can."

One happened to be a fast-growing ad agency that hired me as a freelancer. I really liked one of the agency principals, a talented writer and a real hoot. We’ll call him Ed. One day Ed told me about an “opportunity.” Someone he’d met in a bar wanted to contract with a writer to pen an “as told to” expose. Ed was in the middle of writing a TV pilot and had no time to see if it was a worthwhile project. He suggested I check it out. What could it hurt?

The contact turned out to be a duo—two disinherited members of a famous, wealthy family. They wanted to make some money by revealing juicy tales about their relatives and, not incidentally, extract some revenge on people they felt had wronged them. 

Their tales of birthday parties at 21, private jets, exclusive schools, fabulous estates, and, okay, drugs and kinky sex, were so far from my life experiences that I was fascinated. We signed a contract. It gave me a fair share of the royalties once the book was published, and they’d pay all my expenses for travel and research, but no advance. What did I have to lose?

I should have asked a lawyer. I didn’t. Bottom line? I spent months doing research. I traveled with them to visit former haunts. I read related books. I outlined the entire book, wrote perhaps a third of the book as well as a proposal. We secured a well-known, New York literary agent to represent us.

The agent let the cat out of the bag. The ensuing negotiations—I wasn’t included—led to a multi-million dollar family arrangement, essentially a bribe to not publish the book or reveal any of its contents. A provision in my contract said I could not disclose my clients' identities or use any of my research without their permission. If I did, I’d be sued.

So, I wound up spending hundreds of hours on a project that cost me money. Do I regret it? Not one bit. I learned I could, indeed, write a book. I also had an opportunity to hear first-hand tales about famous people and lifestyles beyond anything I could imagine. Plenty of material for fictional plots and characters. I also decided that what I really wanted to do was write fiction. And I vowed I would be the only one to decide if a book should be published.

Of course, I didn’t immediately sit down and start writing a novel. I took fiction writing courses and continued to work hard for paying clients to earn a living. Now I’m happily at a place where I can write what I want—mysteries and suspense coupled with laughter and love. I hope you’ll check out my new humorous Brie Hooker Mystery series when it debuts this October.