The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps #22 (A part of my novel)

Early next morning, on the distant hill overlooking Kiskadee village, the sound of a rooster was heard signaling the start to another day.

Merry, her face turned to the wall, used a hand to block a ray of sunlight coming in through a crack. Her eyes burned.  Heat rested on both her eyelids.  She saw red.

Her heart skipped for a moment, behind her was a hiss.  Then warm air flowed down her back.

She remained quiet for a while.  Her body stiffened; not an arm or a leg moved.  Her breathing slowed.

She smiled, “Hey!”  She knew that scent.

She massaged the back of her neck, and then pushed against the warm body.

“When did you get in, darling?”

“I, ah—.”

“I am so sorry, but,” she robbed her eyes, “I must have fallen asleep.  Did you find the dogs?” Merry muttered.

“They are fine; they may have wondered and gotten lost.”

“Oh, those poor things.”

“I got them back.”

“I know, but still.  Wondering around in that cold dark forest.”

“They are accustom Merry, they are hunters.”

“Well, I guess,” she said.  The concern didn’t leave her voice.

Last night, after he left, she reminded herself of why he had to leave.

“I found them a bit north east from here.  Came back home about three o’ clock this morning.”

“Wow, that was late.”

“Found you sitting at the table with your head in your hands, fast asleep.”

“I am so sorry, dear.”

“You had a long day Merry.”

Toney hugged his wife in bed.

Jason came into the room, “What’s for breakfast, mom?”  He bellowed, his forehead frowned

“Good morning Jason!”  Toney yelled, thumping at the wall close to his head.

“No, Toney.  He is our son and he is hungry.  Son, tell your father that you’re sorry!”

Toney placed both palms over his face and breath gently into them.

“I am sorry man, I mean dad,” Jason mumbled.

Toney waved his right hand to him, as if to say, you should leave the room now.

“I am coming son,” Merry made her way out of bed.  “I will make you and your father something to eat.”

Toney pulled at her arm as she climbed over him.  “Merry where are you  going?”

“I am out of here,” Jason wagged his head and made his way from before the bedroom door.

“Sweetheart, I should be up any way.”

He released her hand.  Flat on his back he laid facing the ceiling, “Go on.”

“Oh come on, don’t be like that.  Besides, we can get an early start on the day.”

“You mean get on with the decorations.”

She chuckled, “You know, I didn’t have that in my mind, but thanks for reminding me.”

“Yeah right, you, not remembering?”

“Anyway,” she togged at his wrist, “time for you to rise and shine yourself.”

Copyright © 2017 David Alexian

All rights reserved.

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The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps #14 (A part of my novel)

As Deo sat at the table, Shelly cleared the dishes, removing the children’s, then his.  He eased back into his chair, as if to allow her sufficient room to reach his plate, and then, just kept looking at her.  Shelly could not remember her husband being this quiet, but under the circumstances, she continued doing the same.

After a few more minutes, Deo sluggishly got up from the chair and made his way to a small wooden window in the kitchen; a window he recalled building just before his incarceration.  A gentle smile enveloped his face, as the nights air struck him.  Reaching into his pocket, he took out a pack of cigarettes and reached over to a box with matches near the kitchen sink.  He shook it, listening to the sticks crashing into each other.  He then placed a cigarette to his lips, lighted the match and leaned into it.  There was a silence, so much so that he could feel it in the air, heavy.  He looked from the corner of his eyes at his wife’s piercing gaze.  He recognized that much had changed since he was gone.  He blew the match out and crumpled the cigarette in his hand, but the pack he returned to his pants pocket.  He chewed on his thumb nail for a few seconds.  Deo looked at the thumb, while playing around with a piece of the nail in his mouth.  Then spitting it through the window, he scratched against his two day old beard.

Copyright © 2017 David Alexian

All rights reserved.

5 Secret Tips To Writing A Successful Short Story

From Writer’s Relief staff:

Every story has a beginning, middle, and end. But the secret to successfully getting a short story published is to add something special to your storytelling mix…something that captures the attention of editors and readers alike. While there are no hard and fast rules for creating a great short story, here are a few industry secrets that will help your writing stand out:

Identify The Heart Of Your Story. Explore your motivations, determine what you want your story to do, then stick to your core message. Considering that the most marketable short stories tend to be 3,500 words or less, you’ll need to make every sentence count. If you over-stuff your plot by including too many distractions, your story will feel overloaded and underdeveloped.

See Things Differently. Experiment with your short story’s POV. A unique, unexpected voice can provide the most compelling, focused experience of the central story. Just be careful that you don’t inadvertently give the story to a nonessential character. Narrating the story line through a character who’s not central to the action is a common mistake many new authors make, often with confusing or convoluted results.

Opposites Attract. Elements that work against your character’s central desire will keep the reader intrigued and prevent your story from getting stuck. You can also try approaching your core idea from an unusual direction. Dialogue, setting, and characterization are all areas that will benefit from an unexpected twist.

Craft A Strong Title. This can be one of the most difficult—but one of the most important—parts of writing your story. How do you find inspiration for a great title? Have friends read your story and note which words or phrases strike them or stand out. These excerpts from your text just might hold the perfect title. Try to stay away from one- or two-word titles, which can seem to editors as taking the easy way out.

Shorter Is Sweeter. Resist the urge to go on and on. With a shorter short story, you will have more markets available to you and thus a better chance of getting published. Here at Writer’s Relief, our submission strategists and clients have noticed that editors consistently prefer short stories that are under 3,500 words over longer ones.

Use these simple tips to polish your prose and assess any potential short story shortcomings. With these insider guidelines, you can increase the odds of your short story being selected for the pages of a literary journal. That’s the best ending any author could devise—or even better, a great beginning to your future success!

Original post:http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/09/18/short-story-tips-_n_3947152.html

The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps #10 (A part of my novel)

About one hour had passed so far.  The time though seemed longer.  In a cage, time goes slowly.  He became used to this.  But just sitting there in the kitchen, Deo began to feel time itself had stopped.  Although he was in his house, he felt as though he was invisible to the home.  The white and gray striped shirt and khaki three quarter pants was all he came home with.  This suit was one of the best he had acquired, keeping clean and worn only on special occasions.  Out here, it is just cloths.  Cloths if sold could purchase maybe a cigarette or a drink of rum and nothing else.  On the islet, men could lose their life for accidentally staining possessions like these.

 

Copyright © 2017 David Alexian

All rights reserved.

The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps #7 (A part of my novel)

Deo was not going to run, he was waiting, but something else was on his mind.  He was playing over the moments leading up to the incident. But after the scream, the explosion and the smell of sulfur burning, everything else was a blur.  One fire fly zipped continuously in front of him, as he sat on the front step of the house.  The little insect was spelling something before his eyes.  It looked like a name.  But to a man with little time counting against his freedom, he could not make sense of it.  As quickly as Deo entered one of the cars, the door closed and away he went.  He did not look back to see his family, his neck was arched as he peered through the windscreen. ………….

 

Copyright © 2017 David Alexian

All rights reserved.

The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps #14 (A part of my novel)

As Deo sat at the table, Shelly cleared the dishes, removing the children’s, then his.  He eased back into his chair, as if to allow her sufficient room to reach his plate, and then, just kept looking at her.  Shelly could not remember her husband being this quiet, but under the circumstances, she continued doing the same.

After a few more minutes, Deo sluggishly got up from the chair and made his way to a small wooden window in the kitchen; a window he recalled building just before his incarceration.  A gentle smile enveloped his face, as the nights air struck him.  Reaching into his pocket, he took out a pack of cigarettes and reached over to a box with matches near the kitchen sink.  He shook it, listening to the sticks crashing into each other.  He then placed a cigarette to his lips, lighted the match and leaned into it.  There was a silence, so much so that he could feel it in the air, heavy.  He looked from the corner of his eyes at his wife’s piercing gaze.  He recognized that much had changed since he was gone.  He blew the match out and crumpled the cigarette in his hand, but the pack he returned to his pants pocket.  He chewed on his thumb nail for a few seconds.  Deo looked at the thumb, while playing around with a piece of the nail in his mouth.  Then spitting it through the window, he scratched against his two day old beard.

Copyright © 2017 David Alexian

All rights reserved.

The Skies Are Lighted With Lamps #10 (A part of my novel)

About one hour had passed so far.  The time though seemed longer.  In a cage, time goes slowly.  He became used to this.  But just sitting there in the kitchen, Deo began to feel time itself had stopped.  Although he was in his house, he felt as though he was invisible to the home.  The white and gray striped shirt and khaki three quarter pants was all he came home with.  This suit was one of the best he had acquired, keeping clean and worn only on special occasions.  Out here, it is just cloths.  Cloths if sold could purchase maybe a cigarette or a drink of rum and nothing else.  On the islet, men could lose their life for accidentally staining possessions like these.

 

Copyright © 2017 David Alexian

All rights reserved.