• angstrom - a unit of length named after a Swedish scientist
• flounder - a type of flat fish
• gauntlet is believed to originate from gatlopp. The expression run the gauntlet refers to a military punishment where someone would run between two rows of soldiers who would strike at hime
• gravlax - smoked salmon
• lingonberry - from lingon
• orienteering - the sport that combines navigation with racing originates from Sweden
• smorgasbord - a buffet with certain types of food; has a more general meaning in English
• tungsten - chemical element; the name means heavy stone.

There are also several words of Norwegian origin in English, including:

• aquavit - a very alcoholic drink; the name derives from the Latin for ‘water of life’
• fjord - a geographical formation
• floe - an ice formation
• lemming - a type of rodent
• quisling - a traitor, named after Vidkun Quisling
• ski - the equipment used for skiing
• slalom - a downhill skiing technique featuring twists and turns

The Scandinavian Connection

1. It’s a free (or very cheap) way to self-publish your writing

Posting your writing on a blog is a form of self-publishing, even if you don’t think of it that way. After all, blogging software uses a Publish button to submit a post, and if you run Google Adsense on your blog, Google refers to you as a Publisher. In the past, to get published you either persuaded an editor to print your work, or you paid to have the piece printed yourself. Blogging allows you to self-publish for free (or at the small cost of hosting and an internet connection). If your blog becomes popular, you could run advertisements to make some money or invite sponsorship from companies – glance over to the right to see some of Daily Writing Tips’s sponsors.

2. Blogging helps you build up a portfolio of pieces

One of the hardest things about getting started as a freelance writer is getting together a portfolio of your writing to show potential clients. Having a blog allows you to build up a sample of published pieces that you can use to show your writing prowess.

If you’re intending to use blogging to start your portfolio, why not write guest posts for other blogs? For example, I have Daily Writing Tips, Diet Blog, the Ririan Project, Freelance Switch, The Change Blog, Dumb Little Man and Pick the Brain on my list of sites I’ve written for. Editors may take you more seriously if they can see that other people think your writing is good enough to publish.

3. You get to write about topics that you love – and build your expertise and credentials

Much has been said about the need to have a blog on a niche topic – one topic that you write regularly about, rather than trying to include everything that you’re interested in. This makes it much easier to build up an interested readership, but it also helps to build your knowledge about the topic. If you’re reading other blogs and books on your subject and writing original material several times a week, you’ll almost certainly be learning something new.

Having a well-established blog on a particular topic is a great way to demonstrate your expertise. For example, if you want to write movie reviews for a newspaper, pointing to your long-running blog with a weekly round-up of the latest releases could be a great way to prove that you’re up to the job.

4. A popular blog could lead to a book deal

In the offline world, the sale of “blooks” is rising – books based on blogs. Several bloggers who I read have signed book deals: Darren Rowse from Problogger, Shauna Reid from The Amazing Adventures of Diet Girl and Jennette Fulda (aka PastaQueen) from Half of Me. And, of course, there are some very famous examples such as Belle de Jour’s The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl. If your blog becomes big, it just might catch the attention of an agent.

And even if the agents aren’t phoning you just yet, a blog could help you sell your own book. Elizabeth Soutter Schwarzer (‘Liz’ or ‘DaMomma’) from Motherhood is Not for Wimps has self-published one book and has another on the way. Collis and Cyan Ta’eed from Freelance Switch self-published How to be a Rockstar Freelancer (in both ebook and printed formats) and have another book on the way, How to be a Rockstar Wordpresser. Many other bloggers offer excellent free articles on their blog but also sell ebooks which go into more depth on the same topics.

5. If you’re a freelancer, a blog is a great marketing tool

Well-known bloggers who publish authoritative and well-written posts can use their blog as a mean of marketing themselves. Skellie does this brilliantly on Skelliewag, with a “Hire me” page and advertisments on the right hand side for her own services. Harry and James from Men with Pens have “Guns for Hire” which explains the writing and design services which they offer.

Make sure your blog tells potential clients how they can get in touch. If someone loves your blog’s style and content, they might well want to hire you. Also, blogs tend to rank well in search engines (due to the amount of content, and because other blogs often want to link to your posts), so you’ll have greater visibility online.

If you have a blog, has it helped you – directly or indirectly – to make money from your writing? If you’re not blogging yet, do you have ideas of how you’d like to use a blog?

Five Reasons Why Blogging Leads to Writing Jobs

Should your salutation be, “Dear Bill,” “Dear Dr. Williams,” “Mr. Ramirez:” or “Hi Bob”? If you’re as old as me, you were never taught in school how to address email messages, because email hadn’t been invented yet. But you were taught something about etiquette and respect.

Still, customs and expectations change, and depending on the circumstance, any of those salutations might be correct. Here are some general principles (with an American slant) for salutations in letters or emails, following on our article How to Format a US Business Letter.

Honor your addressees. In a day of spam and junk mail, it’s a privilege for someone else to be willing to read your correspondence. You need to believe that. Don’t be proud or lazy when you write a letter or email. Choose a salutation that will make your recipient feel honored. If you are writing to a superior or an elder, you would generally begin your email with “Dear Mr. Jones” or “Mr. Jones,”. Email is inherently less formal than a paper letter, so “Mr. Jones:” (with a colon) is less common.

Match the formality of your addressees. If you’re replying to an email from one of your peers (someone who isn’t a person of authority), you can often take your cue from how the sender addressed you. Since publicists often greet me in emails with, “Hi Michael,” I always reply to them with, “Hi Vijay” or “Hi Amanda.”

Don’t make your addressees feel old. My parents, who were raised in the Old South (USA), taught me to address older people as “Sir” and “Ma’am,” to use “Mr.” or “Mrs.” and to never call older people by their first names. So what does that mean? That when you call me “Sir,” you probably think I’m old!Of course, Americans are less formal than other nationalities. In many other cultures, age is rightfully respected, and it’s an honor to be treated as older. But American peers (people of your own age or position) might consider “Mr.” or “Mrs.” overly formal.

Children enjoy feeling older. As a child, I was tickled to receive letters from my grandmother (born before 1900) addressed to “Master Michael Moser.” But usually, you address those younger than yourself by their first name.

Pay attention to the email signature. It will include titles that your recipient wants you to note. If his email signature, at the end of his message, says, “Richard McManus, MD,” it means he’s reminding you that he’s a medical doctor, so make sure you call him, “Dr. Manus.” If it says, “Brig. Gen. Robert Watson USAF (Ret.),” call him, “General Watson.” People spend years of hard work earning such titles, and don’t cast them off lightly. Abbreviations for other doctorates include PhD and LLD - call them all “Dr.” The initials DD mean “Doctor of Divinity” and you sometimes address their bearers as “Rev.” (short for Reverend) instead of “Dr” (short for Doctor). Other military abbreviations include “Col.” (”Colonel”), “Maj.” (”Major”), and “Lt.” (”Lieutenant”).

Treat them dearly, if you think they would appreciate it. I was taught in school to begin all letters with “Dear”. That’s especially appropriate if you want to communicate warmth or affection. For some business emails, such as those to strangers or adversaries, the salutation “Dear” is not credible. They know that you don’t feel affection for them, and they don’t feel affection for you. On the other hand, calling someone “Dear” can help build warmth and affection, and sometimes can help defuse an angry exchange.

How to Address Your Elders, Your Doctor, Young Children… and Your CEO

First of all let me address one problem that we had over the last batch. One of the stories had more than 500 (something like 700) and some readers were wondering and complaining about it.

It was my fault and not planned. Basically I was trying to stream line the process of uploading the stories to the blog, and this one slipped though my word count process. When I realized it, the story was already online and people were voting on it.

To avoid creating further problems I decided just to let it be, and should it end up winning its round I would just disqualify it and bring the next one with the highest number of votes.

Sorry for that guys; it won’t happen again.

Now to the fifth batch with 10 more stories. Check them out and vote on your favorite!

1. The Napper by J’Dai Voisin

She and I had argued days before, knowing full well that both of us were right. Her visit came at a busy time, but we had planned it well before my company’s acquisition was announced. I really needed the time away, to be honest, but it wasn’t going to happen that way. Monday and Tuesday were spent at the office, a cesspool of stress and anger bubbling under the surface while the corporate big-wigs made their visits to the troops. My goal was to try and work from home for the remainder of the week but I had yet to pitch that to my corporate masters.

The conversation between us was not heated but we each spoke directly; we had known each other too long for anything less. I *was* the host, after all, and thoroughly expected to have the final say. But I was unable to finagle an entire week off from work, she reminded me, and I needed my rest if I was going to face the awfulness at the office. The stand-off was front and center and, knowing her stubborn streak, I finally acquiesced and permitted her viewpoint to rule. I spent the nights in my bed and she slept on the couch.

I did win, however, when it came to any naps. Since I wasn’t resting per se, I created the rule that the ‘napper’ got the bed. My cats saw to that as well, acting as enforcers. No one dared to cross a napping cat or so I was convinced. She reluctantly agreed and the issue passed between us. I knew that the decision was a volatile one, so it was with some trepidation that I entered the bedroom and gazed upon her napping form later the next day.

She laid across the bed with a lock of her hair in her hand.

I looked to her and saw a body stopped in time, as if she had committed some action and was held in motion for anyone to behold. Legs and arms took independent directions and covered the better part of the bed. Her hair was strewn about her head, save for the single lock that she held. Had she fondled that one prior to slumber or had it landed there by chance? I wondered but I didn’t wonder, knowing that the answer was not all that important.

Still, curiosity compelled me. I wanted to touch her hair, to know the bend and the turn of every lock. Unsurprisingly, I wanted to start with the one that she held. I fought the urge for a moment before succumbing. On its own my arm moved forward and reached out. I knew that I risked waking her but my inquisitiveness overwhelmed me.

I failed despite my caution. Brushing her hand so slightly, she grasped my fingers. I held my breath and stood motionless as the minutes ticked by and the moment passed.

2. The Battle by Meghna

It was a habitual war. A callous battlefield acclimatized with a multitude of completely fortified warriors all ready to shield. With much zest and fortitude I geared up to take my position. The only thought that occurred in my vigorous mind was that I had to win, and win at all costs!

Effusively equipped, I went to the battlefield, persuading my timorous self and embedding it with the essential resilience and valor required. Reconstructing the winning techniques in my mind once again, I was determined and looking forward to my triumph.

As soon as I arrived at the gory battleground, I saw that there were a multitude of people like me, with twinkling eyes, all glimmering with the light of gallantry and boldness while faces sneered at one another. They too, like me, were occupied with ammunition and ready for the war to begin. With cold-blooded eyes, we stared at each other….until the war began…..

The scene at the battleground changed as soon as the fight began in the swirl of a moment. I was taken aback by the swiftness and alacrity of all the warriors. Like me, they were all experienced too, I realized. It was going to be a remarkable struggle today then…..

All vigilant warriors were ready at the precise moment, the war had begun! It was a never before sight. All others sneered and aimed. I looked for my target and finally caught sight of it. I ran as if there were wings on my legs and gained momentum with every step. As soon as I reached my prey, someone else caught hold of it. Nooooo……I cried in dismay but my poise and self-assurance did not fortunately, leave me. I took hold of it as soon as I could. The other one pushed and pulled but certainly, I was mightier and much more indomitable.

I knew I had won, and then I felt it in my senses too, just like any other experienced professional, and I also understood that I was on war with an immature. I locked eyes with her and finally saw her strength wavering. Then….she let go…the victim was for me to keep! I victoriously waved it in the air and gave the poor loser a mocking smile, while the warrior looked down embarrassed.

I carefully handed over my victory trophy at the billing corner. “Your bill ma’am!”, a voice announced. I smiled and handed down the note. I knew the battle at the latest and promising branded fashion store was over and I had won. I carried home another new embellishing dress and victoriously declared that I had won the fight at the Summer Discount Bonanza, once again!

This, if you realize is an unwavering fight you need to go through during every shopping spree you have a good shopping mall offering the Summer Discount!…..a gory ordeal or battle, for the first one to lay your hand upon the best clothes being sold at a low rate, eh?

3. The Funeral by Christopher Mentzer

“Hey Bob! I just got your message. How did this happen?”

“Hey Jerry,” said Bob, “I’m not really sure. I know that Maggie was there when it happened.”

“What do you know about it?” asked Jerry.

“It happened last night about 11: 30 a mile from the house,” replied Bob.

“Oh man! Isn’t it always that way?”

“Hi guys,” said Maggie.

“Maggie! Good to see you,” said Jerry.

“Yeah, I was trying to tell Jerry about the accident,” said Bob.
“Yeah,” said Jerry. “What exactly happened?”

“I don’t know all the details because I got there after it happened but I do know it was a Hit and Run,” said Maggie.

“Man that’s rough. What a way to go,” said Jerry.

“Yeah, it’s rare that they find out who did it in those kind of cases,” said Bob.

“Donna was struck down in her prime,” commented Maggie.

“Uh, Donna?” asked Jerry.

“Oh that’s right,” said Bob. “You’ve only been here a couple weeks. Her name was Donna.”

“I see,” said Jerry.

“Just like Steve’s mother,” said Maggie.

“Oh, so it was one of THOSE relationships?” asked Jerry.

Bob laughed. “No, not like that. See Donna has, or rather had, similar qualities to Steve’s mother. Both smoked a lot and had trouble with leakage.”

“Leakage?” inquired Jerry.

“Steve’s mom had a bladder problem and would, you know, occasionally leak.”

“Was Steve with Donna last night then?” asked Jerry.

“No,” replied Bob. “Actually he’s been out of town on business for the last few days. They got a hold of him around 1 am and he caught a Red Eye out of Baltimore.”

“He got in about four,” added Maggie. “He’s supposed to be here soon.”

“Then who was with Donna?” asked Jerry.

“Shirley,” replied Bob. “Steve asked her to look after Donna while he was out of town.”

“And is she—?” asked Jerry not wanting to finish the question.

“Oh she’s fine,” replied Maggie. “A little banged up but, I heard, but nothing compared to what happened to Donna.

“How long has Steve and Donna been together?” asked Jerry.

“Fifteen years!” Bob proclaimed proudly.

“Wow!” remarked Jerry. “That’s a long time, even for today’s standards.”

“I agree,” said Maggie. “Most stay together for maybe three years and then move on to one who’s usually younger.”

“But not Steve,” added Bob. “Boy, when he first laid eyes on Donna it was love at first sight. I knew they would be together for a good while. Steve wasn’t going to let her go for anything!”

“Fifteen years,” murmured Jerry.

“She was always there him. Actually for all of us really,” said Maggie. “Very reliable even though she smoked.”

“Of course we all overlooked that one little imperfection because she was part of our group,” said Bob.

Just then the Steve and the tow truck pulled up and hauled his car away.

“Bye Donna,” said the group.

4. Lefty’s Disappearance by Andrew Rambo

The name’s Jack. I’m a writer, not necessarily a great one, just one who knows how to put words to paper and blow some essence into them. Sure I get pieced into a few pulp rags here and there, but just enough to keep the lights on. My publicist said I might even swing a book deal soon, but right now that doesn’t matter, not since I’d lost one of my favorite socks. Without those socks I’m as useless as a zebra on a bicycle.

Two days ago I had a pair of thick brown socks that made you feel like you were walking on fuzzy springs. The kind of softness you might get if you turned a puppy inside out and wore it. Yeah, that soft. I loved those socks and always donned them before working on my Dirk Studmann stories. The Ex bought them for me to keep my feet warm when I first started writing. The old apartment was drafty, and she was caring. A lot of things have changed since then, but not the socks. I got published with those socks, and inspiration seemed sewn into the toes. They were the only thing she hadn’t taken when she left. So when it was time to get back to the grind a couple of days ago I knew for a fact that they were finishing up their current stint in the dryer.

Ah, the dryer. Few things in life make a person happier than slipping on warm clothes onto naked skin. Some might say it feels better than sex—and I’d be one to agree with them. But when I went to retrieve them from the dryer I discovered my anticipated ménage à trois was reduced by one. I knew as well as I knew my own name I’d put both of them in there along with some towels, but now one of them wasn’t there.

I’d worn those socks more times than I’d been thrown out of bars, so I knew I was holding the right one. Lefty was missing. Which meant only one thing: the damn dryer must’ve eaten it.

A crowbar, flashlight, and perseverance proved to be futile thirty minutes later: no Lefty. My muse had seemingly vanished into stagnant, basement air—but I know that’s not possible, I don’t buy into the sci-fi angle. He’s gone because she took him. Last night she phoned to say she was coming over for a few more things. Apparently that meant my career. I don’t know how she did it—must’ve snuck in while I showered—but she definitely took Lefty.

So now I wait, here in the basement with the roaches. I called her an hour ago, told her it was about a book deal. The thought of money will make her come running like a dog to a pork chop. Then, one way or another, I’ll get Lefty back. Or she’ll die trying.

Either way, I’ll have something to write about.

5. Picking Through The Bones by Femme De Mots

Marty remembers that day so vividly that just to think about it hurts like a sharp knife slicing her skin.

“Come on you guys, stop futzing around. Let’s get going or all the good stuff will be gone by the time the two of you decide which damn shirt to wear.” I should know better than to ask two flaming queens to get up early Saturday morning so we can be the first to hit all the best garage sales.

Chris looked at Steven and rolled his eyes and said “God, I can never decide if I love or hate bossy, butch women.”

“I adore them” said Steven. “I love to do their hair, and when they are not looking, put little curls in back.”

“SDD, Miss Thing has to look good, even if it is before noon.” Shrieked Steven. “What do you mean you don’t know what SDD means? I have told you what it means at least a thousand times.” said Steven as he yelled “Settle Down Doris”.

“My name is not Doris” screamed Marty. “ And I am not kidding, either get out here or I am leaving.”

“Ta Da” sang out Chris and Steven as they pranced into the living room dressed as if they were going to watch a tennis match at Wimbledon.

“What did I ever do to deserve the two of you?” mumbled Marty as she followed the guys, prancing like show horses, out the door.

“I love garage sales in the Castro” said Marty. “Gay men have such good taste, and they redecorate from the ground up every two weeks.”

Steven was the first to leave. Chris and Marty just caught sight of him as he was rushing out the door. Chris looked at Marty, and without saying a word, they both knew they had to get out of there too - now. On the way out, Marty tossed $5 on the table.

Another sale put on by parents from the Midwest who came to bury their Son and dispose of his things, leaving nothing behind to say he had been there. Sometimes, stumbling into a garage sale in the Castro during the height of the AIDS crisis was just more than any of them could bear.

Marty sometimes caresses and talks to the little, black, wire strainer. “I won’t forget you, I am taking good care of your fancy, little black strainer.”

6. School Night by Laura Hardenbrook

Moonlight trickled between the smiling Bumbles and Brooches stamped on the blue curtains that draped the window. It flowed through the room and pooled among the embroidered Sleeches and Slodgers (in breeches and jodhpurs) dancing across the frilled canopy of a small bed. A little girl slept soundly beneath them, snoring slightly. On the bedside table, a Professor Plotz Storytime Clock ticked away next to a pile of the writer’s well-worn books.

When the grinning Professor Plotz pointed at 12 and 3, a sound erupted from the closet. It was high –and loud! As the crescendo rose, the girl stirred. She huddled under the blanket for a moment, clenching the coverlet in her small fists before finally bursting out with a growl.

The piercing scream was joined by other voices, reaching an impossible harmonic that defied any normal musical scale to claim it. The girl glared and covered her ears until the sound dissolved into a raucous sing-along.

Never taking her eyes off of the closet, the girl dropped to the floor, rolled up the sleeves of her blue fleece footed jammies, and slid the aluminum bat from under her bed. She crossed to the closet, flung it open, and addressed the darkness: “Stop wailing.”

A tiny green-haired creature in a red and white striped jumpsuit and blue boots bounded into the room. “Sleeches don’t wail – why goodness me, no!”

A nearly identical creature followed it. “We sleeches are screechers, as everyone knows!”

The girl squeezed the bat. “I’m gonna count to three. One.”

“We sleep through the day in our stripey-striped breeches,” sang Sleech One.

“Two.”

Sleech Two chimed in: “Dreaming of cherries and cumquats and pea-“

She brought the bat down on the green mop of hair with a wet and satisfying splutch. “Three.”

A nerve twitched on the girl’s temple as Sleech One’s eyes bugged from its head. “You killed Sleech Two – sniff sniff and boo hoo–”

The bat swung up and hovered over the girl’s head. A drop of blue goop oozed off of the barrel and splatted among the freckles on her nose.

“…And…er…Sleech One…Sleech One…” The creature fiddled with the button of its breeches.

“What did Sleech One do?” The girl’s lips barely moved.

“Sleech one…” It glanced at the pulpy mass of Sleech Two and felt blue goop soak through its jumpsuit and between its toes. “Sleech one…learned to whisper and gave up its screeches.” It gulped.

The girl stared for a moment at the creature, smiled, and slowly lowered the bat. She stepped forward and put her hand on the closet’s knob. In one quick motion, she stomped on Sleech One and ground her heel until the gurgling stopped. She turned, and to the room in general said “Anyone else not understand ‘school night?’”

7. The Kiss by Jim Falba

The sky was cloudless and filled with thousands of stars. A person could see into eternity on a night like this. He slowly raised his hand up and pretended to grab at the diamonds in the heavens, but of course could not.

“What are you doing out here?” a voice asked from behind him. He turned around and saw the young woman who had questioned him standing with her arms folded. She was shivering and the breath coming from her nose formed clouds of ice crystals when it came into contact with the air. He quickly took off his jacket and tossed it to her.

“Here, you’re going to get sick,” he said quietly. She threw the coat around herself and smiled.

“You didn’t answer my question. Why are you out here alone? Aren’t you having fun at the party?” She walked closer and he turned away from her to look at the stars.

“I don’t really care for any of the people in there,” he replied. “And besides, the stars are better company.” She moved next to him and looked up at the heavens as well.

“You don’t have to be so defensive around me,” she said, her breath hanging in the air as ice. “We’ve been through a lot together.”

“This will be the last time we see each other,” he announced. She was taken aback, but tried to conceal her surprise. Her lips formed the word, “Why?” but no sound came out.

He nodded towards the star-speckled darkness. “Look to the sky, and what do you see?” She turned her face and looked at the realm of the gods. Thousands of stars returned her gaze. Her puzzled look prompted him to answer. “One of those stars above is Vega, and the other is Regulus. Like those two stars, our futures lie on different paths. Because of this, it would be pointless to continue going on as we have been.”

She looked at the ground, dejected. “So you would just throw away everything we’ve been through because of what the future may or may not hold? Fool…” As he opened his mouth to respond, the sharp sting of a slap forced him to stop speaking and look into her eyes. “So you would be willing to forget the past, just like that?”

He smiled feebly and rubbed his right cheek. “The further we progress into the future, the more irrelevant the past becomes. Because of this…” He was cut off by a finger to his lips.

“The past is what shapes the future! In a year, who knows where we will be, but for now, just for a little while, let’s take pleasure in the moment.” She grabbed his waist and embraced him warmly. He was surprised at first, but then returned her hug. She spoke once more, “For a little while, let’s just enjoy the present.”

They shared a quiet kiss beneath the stars, and time marched on again.

8. Cold Blooded by James Keck

A single pop sounded out in the darkness. It could have been a light bulb hitting the ground or maybe somebody had set off a firecracker or something. Anybody that heard it would have thought so too, except for the man that made the sound with his .38 and the other guy that took the bullet. For that guy, it was the last sound he ever heard.

The alley where the shooting took place was just off Big Mike’s Billiards. They’d already closed shop, so no one was there to hear the shot or see Joey Carsone dumping the body of Mitch Freeman into the dumpster. Even if they had, nobody would rat out Joey Carsone. If they did, they’d be joining Mitch in the landfill.

Funny thing about the whole deal, it wasn’t over money or drugs or even a woman. In fact, Mitch and Joey grew up together and some would have considered them to be best friends. So why did he do it? Simple enough, Joey killed Mitch because his boss told him to. No other reason, no justifiable homicide whatsoever.

For Joey, it was his chance to prove to his boss that he would do what he was told no matter what it cost him. The boss liked it that way and if he didn’t get things done the way he wanted them, well, he didn’t need you. And by needing I mean he’d get somebody else to take care of the business in question and you too. Joey couldn’t have that happen to him. He had plans.

Ever since he was little, Joey had seen all the crooks in their day to day business. He saw his first shooting when he was seven and had been transfixed ever since. Death was just another thing to him like whiskey or a cheap woman, once you’d had one the rest aren’t all that special.

At fifteen, he was already working for the boss, and by sixteen he had already killed two guys that had cheated his boss out of some horse money. Joey hated cheaters so he was happy to take care of that one. Now, at the age of twenty, he’d killed his best friend because his boss told him to and he did it without any hesitation whatsoever.

He looked down in the dumpster one last time before lowering the lid. Turning toward the street, Joey wiped his hands and then straightened his jacket. He pulled a smoke from the crumpled pack in his inside pocket and lit it up with the gold lighter Mitch gave him for Christmas last year and then he turned up ninth street, headed for home.

9. The Back-up Man by Ekta Valecha

As he came out of the manager’s cabin, he heaved a sigh of relief. No, that would be an understatement, not relief, maybe enormous relief? The interview had gone excellently. Images rushed through his head, images of seeing Mother so happy, of seeing little Priya’s beautiful features giving way to that radiant smile…Participating in his happiness with the readiness that was exclusive only for him…

He shook himself a little, his heart was still beating fast; he still hadn’t gotten over the nervous excitement of the interview. Only if that other guy hadn’t nearly beaten him in the group discussion he’d be sure, for once! He tried not to let that old frustration take over again…He had a better chance this time than anywhere before. He knew he was brilliant, he knew he had what it takes, but like a vicious shadow all his miseries kept following him. But this interview had gone as smoothly as it could ever go, for a second he even thought that the manager’s secretary was flirting with him…him! The other guy had also had the interview just before him, he tried to get the anticipation down, maybe the other guy’s interview went as good as his. His heart beat loudly; anxiousness overtook all his senses. Just then, there was a loud crash somewhere from the floors below. He quickened his pace, his thoughts interrupted by curiosity. Two-three people were looking down the elevator shaft as more people came out of their offices to investigate the source of the crash. He asked a peon who was leaning on the grill and craning his neck to look down. The peon said the elevator had crashed. He asked how many people were in there. He said some four-five people.

He started going down the stairs, wishing to hurry up and tell the news to his mother as soon as he could. As he climbed down, he started imagining his mother’s and sister’s faces all over again, unable to bear the excitement that was again building up…

As he reached the ground floor, he saw a two-three men leaning inside the shaft, and helping people out. There were already two people lying there. His heart skipped a beat. One of those was the guy who had his interview before him…The guy who had almost beaten him…He was sprawled on the floor, his left leg was stuck at an odd angle from the knee, and he was crying out in pain. He surveyed the whole scene in disbelief and again looked at that guy. Before he could make sense of what he was doing, he started walking away from the scene, his heart feeling unbelievably happy and relieved.

10. Always the Protector by Katie Wernz

Powerful gusts of wind shrieked in Anna’s ears like sirens, while her tangled hair lashed against her face like maniacal flame-colored bullwhips. In the distance, a trashcan thumped rhythmically against something solid, or was that just her heart crashing against the walls of her rib cage? She stood there, trembling, in her sister’s front yard, scrutinizing Roy, the behemoth of a man who filled the doorway before her. His cold, dull eyes were full of fear, as were her green, tear-filled ones. The reason: he was the aim of her gun.

In his shadow cowered her baby sister, Daisy. Left eye peeking through its bruises, bottom lip displaying a bloody lightning bolt gash, lavender cotton sundress shredded like a windsock. Her precious porcelain face was tear-soaked and terror-stricken. Anna’s attention was stolen from her predator-turned-prey by sudden movement to her left. Her cousin Delilah was racing toward the tricycle-littered and Lego-strewn lawn screaming, “No! Anna, no! You ain’t gonna do this!”

Eyes back on her target, Anna shakily said, “He’s done it again. I won’t let him hurt her anymore. The police won’t help her, so I have to!”

Delilah, always the voice of reason in the family, stopped running and began inching carefully towards Anna, as if approaching a rabbit she didn’t want to spook and slowly said, “Darlin’, you can’t. Course the bastard deserves it, but they’ll put you away for years. Now put the gun down. We’ll find another way to protect her.”

Without hesitation, Anna spat, “No! We’ve tried so many times and he keeps getting to her. I’m out of options.”

“Well, honey,” Delilah started cautiously, “Maybe she don’t want help.”

At this, Anna whipped her head around, complete with mouth agape and eyes wide with disbelief. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Her cousin gave a heavy sigh and answered, “Remember that time when we was kids, playing hide and seek with Tommy Everett? You saw Tommy grabbing Daisy’s ass behind the Robinson’s garage. I’d never seen you so furious. You chased him down and whooped him good.”

“Yeah, he got what he had coming and so will Roy,” Anna declared boldly.

“Did you know Daisy kissed him first? She put his hand on her ass. She said he’d been too nervous.”

It wasn’t until Anna looked at her sister, who guiltily turned her battered face to the ground, did she finally lower the gun to her side in defeat. Wordlessly and full of sorrow, she turned back to Delilah.

“Baby,” deduced her cousin, “She don’t want you to fix this either. The minute you’re locked away for killing that man, she’ll find another one who’ll treat her the same and then who’s gonna help her?”

“You’re wrong,” she sobbed as she lifted the gun back up towards Roy’s chest, “She needs me now, like she always did.” And she punctuated her last statement as a free woman with a deafening shot.

What is the best story on this batch?
( surveys)

Short Story Competition: Fifth Batch Is Open for Voting!

Rhyming slang consists of replacing a word or phrase with another that rhymes with it. To make it more confusing, the rhyme may be hidden, so that there’s no obvious link between the slang term and the original word or phrase.

No one is quite sure where the slang originates. Some speculate that it was designed to help thieves speak without being understood by others after a crackdown on crime in the heart of London. Others suggest that market traders created the slang so they could discuss matters among themselves while securing a good deal from their customers. What is known is that Cockney rhyming slang is alive and well, with new phrases entering the lexicon all the time.

Some phrases have entered common British speech and are used daily without any awareness of their Cockney origins. Examples include:

• use your loaf (loaf of bread = head)
• have a butcher’s (butcher’s hook = look)
• cobblers - rubbish (cobbler’s awls = balls)
• porkies (pork pies = lies)
• donkeys (donkeys’ ears = years)

Other traditional expressions which are perhaps less widespread include:

• apples (apples and pears = stairs)
• plates (plates of meat = feet)
• Barnet (Barnet Fair = hair)
• Boat race (= face)
• Trouble  (trouble and strife = wife)
• Pony (pony and trap = crap)
• Adam and Eve (= believe)
• dog (dog and bone = phone)
• china (china plate = mate)
• Rosie (Rosie Lee = tea)
• rabbit (rabbit and pork = talk)
• whistle (whistle and flute = suit)
• bacons (bacon and eggs = legs)
• cream crackered (= knackered - tired)
• minces (mince pies = eyes)
• tea leaf (= thief)
• jimmy (Jimmy Riddle = piddle - pee)

The Cockney Rhyming Slang site also lists several examples of modern slang expressions, including:

• Ayrton (Ayrton Senna = tenner - ten pound note)
• A la mode (= code)
• Anneka Rice ( = advice)
• Adrian Mole (= dole - unemployment benefit)
• Abergavenny (= penny)

These are just a few examples. The BBC provides a long list of Cockney Rhyming Slang and there’s another extensive list here.

Cockney Rhyming Slang

Here are the rules for when to use “A, An or The”:

a = indefinite article (not a specific object, one of a number of the same objects) with consonants

She has a dog.
I work in a factory.

an = indefinite article (not a specific object, one of a number of the same objects) with vowels (a,e,i,o,u)

Can I have an apple?
She is an English teacher.

the = definite article (a specific object that both the person speaking and the listener know)

The car over there is fast.
The teacher is very good, isn’t he?

The first time you speak of something use “a or an”, the next time you repeat that object use “the”.

I live in a house. The house is quite old and has four bedrooms.
I ate in a Chinese restaurant. The restaurant was very good.

DO NOT use an article with countries, states, counties or provinces, lakes and mountains except when the country is a collection of states such as “The United States”.

He lives in Washington near Mount Rainier.
They live in northern British Columbia.

Use an article with bodies of water, oceans and seas -

My country borders on the Pacific Ocean

DO NOT use an article when you are speaking about things in general

I like Russian tea.
She likes reading books.

DO NOT use an article when you are speaking about meals, places, and transport.

He has breakfast at home.
I go to university.
He comes to work by taxi.

Definitely use “the” or “a”

The UK format is similar to US full block format, with these key differences for UK letters:

• The return address is right-aligned
• The date is written as “15th May 2008” not “May 15, 2008”
• A comma, not a colon, follows the recipients’ name
• The subject (if included) is centred

In the UK, a standard business letter looks like this:

Just as with the US examples, I’ll break the letter down into the main elements, working from the top to the bottom.

Your Address

Your address, also known as the “return address”, comes first (leave this off if you’re using letter-headed paper).

123 Old Road
Newtown
London
SW1 3AA

Your return address should be right-justified.

The Date

Directly beneath this, the date on which the letter was written:

15th May 2008

In the UK, the day comes before the month, and it is fine to put “st”, “nd” or “th” after the day’s date, eg. “15th” “1st” or “2nd”.

You can position the date on the right or on the left of your letter.

Recipent’s name and address

Beneath this, you should put the recipient’s name and address, just as it would appear on the envelope. If you’re using a window envelope, make sure it’ll show through when the paper is inserted.

The recipient’s name and address should be positioned on the left-hand side.

The Greeting

After their address, you should leave a line’s space then put “Dear Mr Jones”, “Dear Bob” or “Dear Sir/Madam” as appropriate. Follow this with a comma.

The greeting should be left-aligned.

The Subject

You may want to include a subject for your letter — this is often helpful to the recipient, especially if they receive a lot of mail. If you do include a subject line, thsi should be directly below the “Dear name”, centered on the page, and can be in bold, uppercase or both to make it stand out.

The Text of your Letter

The main body of your letter should have:

• Single-spacing between lines
• A blank line (NOT an indent) before each new paragraph

Each new paragraph should start at the left hand side.

The Closing and Your Name and Signature

After the body of text, your letter should end with an appropriate closing phrase such as “Yours sincerely” or “With best regards”, and a comma.

Leave several blank lines after the closing (so you can sign the letter after printing it), then type your name. You can optionally put your job title and company name on the line beneath this.

Joe Bloggs
Marketing Director, BizSolutions

The closing and your name and signature should all be on the left hand side.

Still stuck? Try this letter writing exercise – it’s aimed at school-kids in the UK, but it’s good fun for adults too!

How to Format a UK Business Letter

Try thinking differently about the time you need to write: one ten-minute session, six days a week, adds up to an hour. That could be a blog post, a scene of a novel, a poem, the outline of a new book proposal…

Here’s ten ways to find at least ten minutes to write, ways you can reclaim annoying “lost” time and put it to good use. However busy you are, you can manage one of these today:

1. Write first thing in the morning

Create an extra ten minutes in your day by setting your alarm early: get up, grab your notebook (or switch on your laptop) and sneak in ten minutes of writing while everyone else is still asleep.

2. Write on the train

If you get the train (or bus, or tube) to work or school, write on the way. Some trains and coaches have power sockets for your laptop, but all you really need is a pad of paper and a pen.

3. Write while you’re standing in line

Next time you get stuck in a long line at the post office or bank, whip out your notebook and start scribbling down a few ideas for your next piece of writing.

4. Write during a coffee break

Your coffee break (or morning break at school) can be a great way to find ten spare minutes. If you’ve got access to a computer and email, try writing a paragraph of your latest project – then email it to yourself so you can easily cut-and-paste it later.

5. Write in a boring meeting or lecture

Stuck in a dull meeting or lecture? Instead of daydreaming, work on your writing: if you’ve got a laptop, type away, or just write on paper. It’ll look like you’re paying attention to the speaker and taking copious notes…

6. Write in your lunch hour

Make a point of taking your lunch hour rather than working straight through, and use this time to get some writing done. Even if you have to go and buy a sandwich, you should be able to find ten minutes spare to write.

7. Write in the car

When the traffic jam in front of you stretches for miles, rejoice! Get your notebook out, and start writing. And if you’re lucky enough to have a traffic-free commute, end your journey by sitting in the car park for ten minutes, writing away.

8. Write while you’re waiting

There are always times in the day when you’ll end up hanging around, waiting for someone else. Whether it’s sitting in reception at the dentist’s surgery, waiting for the kids to get ready, or waiting for your partner to get home, use those few minutes to write.

9. Write while dinner’s cooking

It takes ten minutes for pasta or rice to cook – so why not take your notebook or laptop into the kitchen and finish a couple of paragraphs while dinner’s cooking? You can keep an eye on the food, and your family won’t interrupt if they know you’re cooking for them…

10. Write in the advert breaks

Balance your laptop on your knees and write furiously in every advert break whilst watching television. During the course of an hour-long show, you’ll see at least ten minutes of ads. Plenty of time to finish off your piece!

Where could you find ten more minutes in the day to write? How can you reclaim some “lost” time to your advantage? Tell us about it in the comments…

10 Ways to Find 10 Minutes to Write

Here are ten more short stories for your delight. This is certainly the most creative batch we have had so far. Some curious ideas and formats have been used by the writers.

Anyway make sure to read them and cast your vote to the story that you want to see featured on the grand final. (RSS and email subscribers need to visit the website to see the poll)

The Sponsor

The competition is being sponsored by WhiteSmoke. It will offer 3 full licenses to the executive edition of its writing software (with a value of $250 each).

If you are considering to buy a professional writing software, check out the ones from WhiteSmoke. They have the most advanced spelling, punctuation and grammar checkers on the market, as well as a patented style checker to improve your text.

1. Memories in Yellow by Bobbi K Nutter

My world, back then, centered around one small hand print—my left, I think—embedded in the thick yellow paint on the far wall of my room. It was an awkward shade of yellow: not the yellow of sunshine but the deep, dark yellow hidden underneath gold. It was a dull yellow but it carried with it an inner glow of warmth that felt inviting even if the hue itself somewhat repelled.

That yellow hand print was maybe three feet up from a dark brown carpet that was like fertile soil to my imagination. On it my bare feet padded around, becoming doctor’s feet, mother’s feet, artist’s feet; here glimpses of the future first began, and they seemed endless. Adventures were born in a womb of ocher, and dreams became vivid while I clutched my blanket in the dark. It was yellow—like the walls—with a red trim that would deteriorate over time from the loving fingers that rubbed against it. A yellow that would soon dull into a field of dark lint as the print faded with time.

The outside of the house may once have been white, but long years of ill repair had antiqued the siding to a yellow cream. In the backyard grew an ancient hollyhock, a bush grown for generations until it had evolved into a tree. Its white branches spread wide, embracing the sky above and inviting me to climb ever higher even as its fingers clawed at my clothing, inevitably ruining them.

We had to move away from the yellowing house, my room, and my hand print. Though, even as I grew, I would pass by and fondly recall my little world and how large it had seemed: how limitless. I’d immerse myself in remembered happiness, a happiness far sweeter for its brevity.

But no amount of reminiscing can halt the progression of time. One day the tree was gone. They’d taken down the old hollyhock, cutting into the centennial wood and ripping its roots from the ground of my memory. Years later they bulldozed the house. The last I saw, a plywood billboard pierced the bare grass where my world once stood.

I’d stand before that billboard, at that ad for the carry-out down the road, and wonder: Had they stared at that yellow hand print before tearing down the wall? Or had the later occupants buried it in paint of a different color, sealing that tiny hand in a tomb of vanished childhood?

My memories have become hazy with time, but little fragments still seem clear. I can still remember the texture of that wall; I can taste the air from my childhood. In me, that house—that room—still stands. It glows like the yellow behind my eyelids as they close against the sun. And in it that tiny hand print shines forever—like a beacon of youth—of young and happy times when the world was the warm yellow color that shone under gold.

2. A Life Uncovered by Sharon Tootle

Mr. Handsome and PT

are mysteries to Wag and me.

They haunt our dreams

and tantalize our curiosity.

Until we are totally obsessed

and raid their bags of trash

hoping to learn their lives

and find, perhaps, some answers.

We find:

an old discarded Nike

worn on the inside sole.

an empty tofu carton

wiped clean and neatly smashed.

No cans, no frozen dinner packs

no empty bottles of booze.

15 drained AquaFina bottles

and a thick purple band

that once bound broccoli spears.

A trace of onion skins

blend with shriveled used bags of tea.

A wayward squeak toy dwells among

these many revealing discards.

a full Rogaine bottle hides

among some withered

Romaine leaves.

A testament to acceptance

of a healthy body and a balding skull.

Stuffed clandestinely in an empty

five pound bag of Iams

are circulars from

Singles Connection Inc.

A CD, bent in half…

“Love Song,” no longer loved,

is wrapped in a letter

that begins “Dear John.”

Fragments of a photograph

flutter from a Greenies box.

And there, at the bottom of the bag

is a lonely wedding band

no longer gleaming…as

worn and weary as the words

engraved inside:

“December 12, 2002…our love

will last forever.”

3. Who Am I? by Phoenicia Lam

Here I was at 1.00am sitting in front of my laptop staring into the empty space.

“What am I going to write about anyway?”

I want to enter the Daily Writing Tips’ Short Story Competition but there is no specific topic and I am scratching my head thinking of what to write.

“What are you doing there? Aren’t you going to sleep?” my husband asked.

“I am writing,” I replied. “You go to bed first.”

“Alright, but don’t be too late,” he reminded me and went to bed. The lights were off except for the yellow bulb in my work room.

So the story goes…

I was born and raised by a very conservative Chinese family. Everyone who knew me would know how my family was biased with a pinch of racism running through our blood.

Sometimes, I would ponder, “Why am I being born into this family?”

Often, I can’t answer the question because if I can answer it, I wouldn’t be asking it again. Still, the question that remains in my mind even until this day, “Who am I?”

The reason behind this question is simple. I was being told by a cousin that I was not part of the family. My parents bought me from someone else for a mere RM10,000.

How would you react if you were the one receiving the unpredictable news?

I was speechless and needless to say, I doubted at first. However, I looked closely to find some resemblance between me and my ‘parents’. Shocking but real, I have no whatsoever resemblance at all. That was when I dropped the bombshell and the truth is revealed.

I wasn’t their child. I was merely a baby being purchased as if I was an item at the supermarket. A couple came along and picked me to the counter, paid the amount and brought me along with them for 18 years.

At first, I was outraged. I don’t wish for such a life. I began to hate my life and that was when I left home for the first time, searching for the real ‘‘me’.

Don’’t get me wrong, I wasn’t going to find my real parents. I was simply lost and I needed to find my own space, my own living and my own identity.

Hard to say this but I wished I was never born at all. However, everything changed when I started to blog. I started out for fun but later, I began to develop more love towards blogging and today, I am proud to call myself a blogger.

I am not famous, I am not a celebrity. I am just me. I finally found me within my soul.

4. Under a Killing Moon by Sandy Adams

The sun in his eyes woke him. He rolled away from the offending light, feeling the hard ground beneath him. He smelled leaf mold and damp earth, heard the bright twitter of birds.

Tasted stale blood in his mouth.

The memory of last night slammed into him, knocking him flat on his back. Denial tried to rise — but he remembered. He remembered the campers, a family toasting marshmallows by the fire. He remembered the child, a girl. Little. Maybe five or six. Pretty bows on her blonde pigtails.

He remembered the heavy copper tang of blood and the sweet give of raw flesh between his teeth and on his tongue. He remembered howling his triumph to the full moon.

He emptied his stomach onto the leaf-litter. It took ten minutes for the heaving to subside, leaving him sobbing curses at the birds and the picture-perfect sky.

Naked, he stumbled back to his own tent. Found the gun, wrapped in an old Ozzy t-shirt. Found the silver bullets.

At home, his wife and three-year-old daughter waited for him. He held the gun. Remembered the taste of succulent young flesh.

Pulled the trigger.

5. The Hand by Dan Graney

In the town of Maneo, a dynasty of sorts was about to be challenged. Maneo’s librarians had come from the Fustay family forever. But the town was growing and they needed an assistant for Matron Fustay, the head librarian. Since there were no Fustays of age, they hired an outside librarian that was young, beautiful, and was beloved by all. All but one. Matron Fustay became anxious and viewed the new hire as a threat.

One of the new librarian’s duties was to extinguish all gas lamps nightly. Her fear of fire made her dread this task, and worse, it required a tall stool to reach the lamps. Matron Fustay recently scolded her for taking too long with these duties. Despite the matron’s ire, the new librarian found favor with everyone. Matron Fustay meant to change all that, and in a fog of fear and hate, weakened the legs of the new librarian’s stool.

That very night, hurrying to tend the lamps, the new librarian’s stool swayed uncontrollably, she lost her balance, grabbed the lamp and snapped the gas line. The lamp’s mantle, still glowing, then ignited the gas. The uncontrolled flare burned her face and set her hair afire, she raised her hand to her face to block the flame, but it did little and she crashed to the floor. There she lay, burned and dying, but not alone. A pair of sinister and satisfied eyes watched from the dark recesses. When they carried the body out in the morning, the crowd’s only remark was how the accident had left what looked like the image of a hand on her face.

The years passed and the town and its library continued. Some things changed, the library was renovated with new paint and electrified gas lamps. Some things stayed the same, including the town’s Fustay family librarians. But, each successive Fustay librarian noticed a reddish blotch on her face that at times felt warm to the touch. And with each generation the blotch took on a more identifiable shape, some said a star, some said different.

While closing one evening, the present librarian Fustay felt an intense burning of her face and an overwhelming sense of dread. The sensation intensified daily until she felt unfit for duty. She desperately wanted to quit, but family pressures to maintain the library legacy made that impossible. Ms Fustay sought counseling to address these eerie sensations, but continued to experience them. She became fearful and patrons reported Ms Fustay nervous and on edge.

One evening, right before closing, Ms Fustay was dusting the lamp fixtures. As she was in a hurry, she grabbed a long forgotten stool that should have been tossed decades ago. The old stool collapsed and she broke her neck. When they carried the body out in the morning, the crowd’s only remark was how the accident had left what looked like the image of a hand on her cheek.

No Fustay has worked at the library since.

6. Gramajane by Megan Risley

Put on your brown dress and your white tights. Let me do your hair. Where are your black buckle shoes? I have to help your sister get ready, too, so please don’t squirm – we don’t have time to start over, and I’m very tired. Your father is waiting in the car, and we can’t be late – please, it was his mother, after all.

Everyone in the car now, buckle up. Please don’t talk too much, the drive isn’t that long.

I know this is a strange room, dark and chilly. I am going to have to sit between you two if you don’t stop fighting, and I hardly have the energy, with your brother being almost here and all. Please stop fidgeting, girls. It makes more noise than you think. I don’t know how to translate this to you. I know the room is cold. But, it’s almost done.

“I know you loved her, Steve.”

Girls, please. Your father just needs a little more time.

“But…does she?”

We are outside the cave room now. We are walking a long time in a big field. There are lots of flowers. They look like the ones Gramajane used to put in her hair, and then, behind her ears when she didn’t have any hair left. She had turbans that were different colors, and some of them had flowers on them. She would always bring flowers to our house, too. Except when she had to go to the hospital.

We are standing around a big square that goes very deep into the ground. Four boys and my daddy are putting a big wood box into the big square and then throwing dirt on it. Their faces are all wet, but my daddy’s is a different wet. It is very hot. Maybe my face is wet, too. Sometimes my daddy sprays me with a squirt gun when it is summer outside because he says that I am a squirt, too.

I can’t see the wood box anymore. My daddy is waving at me to come over. He gives me a little green speck and tells me to put the speck in the dirt they just piled. He shows me how to dig a small hole with my finger – very soft, like you’re petting a kitten – because it can’t go too deep so the green speck can breathe. He tells me to put the green speck into the hole and push it into the ground. He puts dirt in the little hole and pats it. It shrinks down around his hand and there is my daddy’s handprint in the dirt piled on top of the box.

“What do you want to name it?” My daddy points to the place I pushed the green speck. “Name it a big, special name because it’s going to grow for many years.”

My daddy’s face is very wet still. My mommy has to stay in the car because it is too hot. My face is definitely wet now, too.

“Gramajane.”

7. Silver Aspen by Christina

It started hailing in the dead of night. The wind was blowing the leaves in all directions. A flash of lighting lit up the sky for a second, than vanished in to the moonlight. Moments later an eerie, mournful howl penetrated torrent. Since friend and I were in one tent we decided to go look alone for the wolf that had created the commotion. Linda, my friend, only decided to go with me because she knew I loved all animals.

We put on our raincoats and boots and stepped out side. The dirt had turned muddy, from the rain, showing us our own footprints. We started to hike up the hill against the wind in search for our quarry.

We didn’t bring a flashlight for the moon gleamed like a candle, showing us our path. We were almost at the top of the second hill when we spotted the wolf. She looked like a slivery silhouette, but the detail was clear. Even though it was freezing, I knew that the shiver that ran down my spine was not because of that. Her eyes gazed into mine, unblinking, I tried to look away but it seemed I couldn’t.

Her seemed to say, “Help me.” her fierce blue eyes were sparkling and her body stood out against the concealed forests that lay beyond. I heard a growl and rather abruptly her eyes were filled with fright and dashed out of sight.

“That growl was frightening,” I exclaimed.

“What growl?” asked Linda?

“You didn’t ear the growl? But it was very loud!”

“It was?”

“Yeah. That’s weird. Let’s go to the place where the wolf was.”

Linda was full of questions but decided to ask them later. We reached the spot where the wolf had been.

“Very strange,” I said.

“What’s very strange?”

“Look at the ground.”

We were astonished by what we saw, for where the wolf had been, even though it was the ground was still muddy, there were no tracks, no trace of the wolf we had just seen.

Unpremeditatedly, I started to walk into the forest, but Linda grabbed my arm to stop me.

“Where do you think your going?” demanded Linda

“Into the forest.”

“But we don’t have a flash light!”

“We’ll go by the bright moonlight”

“But, but…”

“Anyways, if we go in the morning my parents would worry about where I am, but if we asked them they would say no.”

As she had no more excuses she finally agreed to go. When I stepped into the forest the first thing I noticed was that it was made of mostly maple, oak and aspen. The aspen trees were almost the exact same color as the wolf.

“Let’s call the wolf Aspen.” I whispered to Linda, who nodded in agreement. It had stopped raining, but it was a bit misty as we searched for Aspen. Then I saw her amidst some trees. Again, her aqua blue eyes stared straight into mine; she never blinked once when she gazed into my eyes. This time only her eyes stood out, for the rest off her camouflaged into the aspen trees and hidden by the mist. But this time she kept twitching her snout nervously.

“She’s nervous, ”I said to Linda who was confused and numb from the cold like I was, but I was warmed by the excitement.

Again, I heard the vicious growl, and Aspen became tense but stayed where she was, and seemed to say, “Come with me.”

“She wants us to follow her,” I whispered to Linda under my breath, “Come on!” we dashed after Aspen who darted between the trees. She led us to a ledge where we had a good view of where we had just stood. T seemed to come out of nowhere. A big black dog came, which seemed as if it were searching for something. The black dog had shaggy hair, razor sharp teeth, with dried blood on his snout and saliva trickling down his chin.

We stood still, barely daring to breath, hoping that the dog wouldn’t see us. The wind was blowing towards us so the dog couldn’t smell us. The shaggy dog looked around and spotted us. I forced my self to look into his malicious, unblinking eyes. I formed a low growl that he heard, but took a startling step forward…

While I was distracting the dog, Aspen lunged from the ledge and attacked the dog. The dog turned around and ran away limping and with a bite on one ear. The dog was never seen again.

8. The Ice Cube in the Soup by Linda Podowski

After two broken appointments, a flat tire and the general nastiness of his last customer, Stan’s mood was not improved in the diner when he saw that ice in his soup.

“Waitress,” he cried, halting Agnes’ progress from his table to the next.

Turning on a well worn heel, Agnes reversed her direction and approached Stan’s table. With a work weary smile, she wondered what this guy was going to heap onto her overloaded soul plate.

She was two steps from reaching his table when Stan began, “There’s an ice cube floating in this soup. I ordered hot soup and that’s the only kind of soup I’m going to pay for.”

Following the direction his pudgy finger indicated, Agnes saw through tired eyes that he was correct. There was clear square that shouldn’t have been there floating in his tomato bisque. She emitted a sigh of patience that was fraying about its edges and picked up the offending bowl. With a promise to return with a new one, she plodded to the cook’s station and placed the bowl on the counter.

“Ice in the soup,” she grumbled to Sam.

Shooting a quick glance at the bowl’s contents, Sam asked, “How’d that get in there?” Then, he slid the bowl to the edge of the counter and by the time he’d ladled another fresh bowl, he forgot about its existence.

At the end of the evening, Giacomo, the bus boy, noticed the bowl still sitting on the counter. With an automatic motion born of fatigue, he tossed it into the half-filled tub he was carrying and proceeded to the back of the kitchen. He dropped the tub by the sink and headed for the back door.

The next morning, when the dishwasher, Chi, saw a diamond floating in a bowl of tomato bisque, his eyes went wide. He plucked it out, rinsed it off, admired it briefly and put it in his pocket.

And that’s how Chi’s Emporium on Stevens Street got its start.

9. Silver Magic by Karen Rancont

“Once upon a time, Lunial, a dragon, suffered under a curse, to live among men as a man. He had been in the guise of a man for so long his heart became like a man’s. He fell in love with the king’s daughter.

The princess returned his love. Unfortunately, she was pledged to another. When this prince came to claim her, she ran away with Lunial. They married and lived together in a cave. She kept it as their house while he labored in the fields. Their lives were happy for though they did not have much, they had each other.

The prince was unhappy, and bade his magicians to find out what they could about this man the princess loved above all else. When he learned his rival was a cursed dragon, he decided to become a hero to two kingdoms, and regain the princess.

He hid, waiting for Lunial to return home. The prince struck from behind, driving his lance through him. Lunial struggled against the weapon pinning him while he bled silver. But, the lance was spelled to withstand a dragon’s might.

The prince left to find witnesses for his triumph. When Lunial died, the curse would lift. The prince’s lance transfixing a dragon to the ground would be proof he had slain it, the cowardice of his action concealed by the transformation.

The princess appeared before the prince returned. She couldn’t free the lance. Lunial started to confess his secret. But she said not to worry; she had seen the silver blood. She knew he was a dragon.

She kissed him. In a spray of magic he became a dragon again and wrested the lance from his shoulder.

“You freed me! My curse was to live as a man until a woman loved me knowing my true nature, though I could not speak of it. But, this is no place for a dragon. I will have to leave you…” The dragon moaned for he loved the princess very much.

“No,” the princess said. In the imperious way of princesses, she commanded, “Lean down so I can reach!”

He did. She kissed him again before daubing some of his silver blood on her forehead and over her heart. “Two kisses combine, like to like, heart to heart, mind to mind; I choose my love, he chooses me, together we shall always be!”

“Just then, the prince returned. The princess denounced him for his cowardice. As she finished speaking, the love spell she had cast took effect. She became a dragon herself. The dragons flew off from this very point, and they…”

“…lived happily ever after!” An eternally young man approached, hand in hand with a regal woman.

The storyteller crossed his arms and pouted. “Lunial, you always ruin it!”

Grinning, Lunial exchanged a glance with his wife. They turned into silver dragons and winged across the water.

“Happily ever after,” the storyteller repeated under his breath.

10. The Body by Roohi Ahmad

Sheena drew the curtains hurriedly. She placed the pot of money plant on the window sill to obscure the view of her bedroom. The man was stretched below her bedroom window. Now, it was afternoon and he was there since morning. He had not moved from that place and Sheena was getting very scared. She believed that he has come to steal or rob her. Until her husband came in the evening, she could not do anything.

Another hour went by and the man had still not moved. ‘I might as well ask him what he is doing here’, Sheena thought and keeping the pot as a shield, she shouted, “Hey you, what are you doing here? Don’t you have anywhere to go? Go away or I will call the police.”

But the man did not stir an inch and Sheena felt very angry. ‘Now, what will I do?’ Then she called her husband and told him of her fears. “Sheena you are just being paranoid. He must be a poor man taking shelter under the tree outside our bedroom window. Don’t be scared, he will go away on his own after sometime.”

“But John, I am more scared because he has not moved a little. Even when I shouted at him, he showed no reaction.” Her husband consoled her, “Come on Sheena, didn’t it occur to you that he might be sleeping. I will talk to him when I come home. Now, try and relax.”

The rest of the day went similarly for Sheena and she was on edge all the time. She shouted at him a couple of times more but failed to elicit any reaction. Her maid, Shanti, who stayed close by, came in the afternoon and Sheena told her about the man outside. Shanti’s opinion was that he must be drunk and would have lost his way home. She advised Sheena not to bother too much about these vagabonds and went about her chores.

When John came in the evening, he too found it strange that the man was still there and hadn’t moved at all. He immediately called the police and briefed them over the whole situation. They suggested that they stay inside till they come over. After about half an hour, the police came and they all went outside. The man was still lying full length on his side and appeared to be asleep. One of the policemen poked his stick in the man’s stomach but he did not respond, so the officer squatted and turned him over. His arms fell on his sides and there was blood oozing from his mouth. Upon checking, he was found dead. The officer asked his men to search the nearby area, in case someone was missing. After only a few minutes, they returned with Shanti, who took one look at the man and fell unconscious. Sheena and John were informed that the man was Shanti’s husband who was a drunkard and had died due to liver failure!

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If you get confused by the different between compliment and complement, or if you’re unsure which to use when, read on.

Compliment

Merriam-Webster defines a compliment as “an expression of esteem, respect, affection, or admiration; especially : an admiring remark”. It comes from Middle French, via the Italian complimento, and the Spanish cumplimiento, which originates from the Latin verb cumplir: to be courteous.

For example:

• I was trying to pay that girl a compliment, but she ignored me.
• Sometimes he blushes when you offer him a compliment.

In the plural, compliments can also mean best wishes. It is often used as “with compliments” such as on a compliments slip (a small piece of letter-headed paper, often used by companies for a quick note to a customer or client when a full sheet would be too large.) You also see the phrase “with compliments of the season” in greetings cards.

The verb “to compliment” is very similar, meaning “to pay a compliment to”. Note that it is a transitive verb so must have an object. For example:

• Are you trying to compliment me, or trying to insult me?
• When he complimented the girl on her dress, his friends laughed at him.

Complimentary

The adjective complimentary is closely related to the word compliment, and in this context it can mean either “expressing or containing a compliment” or “favourable” (Merriam-Webster):

• My mother made some very complimentary remarks about my choice of shoes.
• The new restaurant has a very complimentary write-up in the local newspaper.

Complimentary also has the meaning “free”, when something is given as a courtesy or favour:

• Please accept these complimentary tickets.
• I thought that the mini-bar was complimentary, but we were charged for our drinks.

Complement

The word complement comes from the same root as complete. It has nothing to do with being courteous, and comes directly from Middle English, from the Latin word complementum. Merriam-Webster’s first definition is “something that fills up, completes, or makes perfect”, and it can also be used to mean “the quantity, number, or assortment required to make a thing complete”, though can sound a little odd or old-fashioned in this context:

• We had the full complement of pots and pans.
• Our store does not have enough employees to work the required complement of hours.

Complement is often used in scientific, technical or academic areas of discourse, where the complement of X supplies what X is missing, thus making a complete whole. Examples of this usage are:

• Complement good (economics)
• Complementary colour (art)

You can find a fuller list in Wikipedia’s entry for the term Complement.

In every day writing, complement is more often used as a verb. Again, it is a transitive verb:

• The illustrations complement the text.
• Our new software will complement the existing product.

So, my email correspondent should have written that “This new software will complement the existing system.” But I suspect she wouldn’t have replied to compliment me if I’d written back to point out the mistake…

Compliment vs Complement