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!

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

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Copyright by Daily Writing Tips.

Short Story Competition: Fourth Batch Is Open for Voting!

I had an email at work recently which read “This new software will compliment the existing system.” Can you spot what’s wrong with that sentence?

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…

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Copyright by Daily Writing Tips.

Compliment vs Complement

Warning: This post may offend some readers. Words, however, are just words and that’s what DWT is all about. Curious minds want to know!

DWT reader Jess received an email in which the sender said “I got a wild hair about me.” Jess says that the expression was used in the sense of acting impetuously.

However, the expression for which “wild hair” is a shortening is “to have a wild hair up one’s ass.” The meaning of this vulgar expression is “to have an obsession or fixation about something.”

Garrison Keillor conveys this sense in his August 2, 2008 News from Lake Woebegone segment. In this instance it’s not a hair but a quarter, and it’s not up anything, it’s between the butt cheeks. He’s talking about a woman who is very angry about something and is going to confront her brother about it:

…she stalked across that farmyard like somebody who’s carrying a quarter in their butt. If you go around carrying a quarter in your butt, you won’t think of anything else.

Disagreement exists as to why a hair should cause such single-minded discomfort, but I suppose there could be such a thing as a painful ingrown hair. The word “wild” in this context refers to the fact that the hair in question is not going where it is wanted.

The meaning implied in the email, “to act impetuously or in an uncharacteristic manner,” doesn’t seem as apt.

Some other “hairy” idioms:
to split hairs - “to dissect a subject down to the most trivial and unimportant details.” I want to give the go ahead and all you want to do is split hairs about what color the tags should be.

hair-brained - “foolish, ditzy.” The expression originates from the erratic behavior of hares and is more properly spelled harebrained. However, the spelling hair-brained is quite common. I never heard of a more harebrained idea in my life!

hair of the dog - short for “hair of the dog that bit you.” In modern usage it refers to the notion that a person with a hangover can cure himself by drinking in the morning what he was drinking the night before. The expression originates in an ancient homeopathic cure for the bite of a mad dog. Pliny the Elder gives several remedies, one of which is to rub into the wound ash, prepared by burning, “from the hair under the tail of the mad dog itself.”

by a hair’s breadth - “by a narrow margin.” He escaped death by a hair’s breadth. Possible origin: a formal unit of measurement called a hairbreadth, equal to one-forty-eighth of an inch.

hair-trigger - “a trigger that requires very little effort to release.” The term can be used figuratively: Her husband has a hair-trigger temper.

to let one’s hair down - “to relax and be at one’s ease with people.” Come on, Charlie! Let your hair down and dance! The term originated in the 1850s and probably first applied to women who wore their hair up in public.

hair-raising - “frightening and exciting.” Follow Indiana Jones in another hair-raising adventure.

a hairy situation - “something fraught with difficulty.” The conversation became a bit hairy once he mentioned Alison.

hairpin curve - “a curve in the road that goes back on itself.” Younger readers may not know what an old-fashioned hairpin looked like. The curve at the joined end was much wider than the curve of a mere bobby pin.

See also Online Etymology Dictionary

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Copyright by Daily Writing Tips.

Some Hairy Expressions

Whatever you do – whether you’re a student, employed in an office job, or working as a freelancer – I can guarantee that at some point in your life, you’ll need to sit down and write a formal business letter.

It might be to a customer, to an employer with a job that you want, or to apply for university funding. Perhaps it’ll even be to a literary agent or publisher who just might take on your undiscovered novel. Of course, you’ll want the letter to be well-written – but almost as important is knowing how to format it correctly. This article is about US business letter format (for UK readers, don’t worry, I’ll be writing a follow-up one for you.)

The main formats for business letters in the US are called full block format and modified block format.

• Full block format means that all the elements of the letter are left-justified so that the start of each line is at the left-hand margin. This is the more formal style, so use it if you’re unsure which to go for.
• Modified block format means that some elements of the letter are shifted over to the right. Nowadays, this style is appropriate in most contexts.

Here’s a full block format letter

And a modified block format one:

Let’s break those down into the main elements, in top-to-bottom order:

Your Address

Your address, also known as the “return address”, should come first. (Note that this applies when using standard plain paper. If you have letter headed paper, you should omit this.)

123 Acacia Avenue
Newtown
Anywhere
AN 98765

Your return address should be positioned:

• On the left-hand side if you’re using full block format
• On the right-hand side (tab across, rather than right-aligning) if you’re using modified block format

Why put your address? Even if the recipient has your details in their address book, you want it to be as hassle-free as possible for them to reply – you’re likely to receive a speedier response.

The Date

Directly beneath your address, put the date on which the letter was written:

May 15, 2008

To avoid any confusion, especially if you are writing to a business abroad, it is best to put the date in word rather than number form, and you should omit the “th”.

The date should be positioned on the left-hand side, for full block format and for modified block format

Why put the date? It’s standard practice to include the date on which the letter was written. Correspondence is often filed in date order. It makes it much easier for the recipient to send a timely reply, and easier for you to chase up an answer if necessary. Eg. “In my letter of May 15…”

Recipient’s Name and Address

Beneath this, you should put the name and address of the person you’re writing to, just as it would appear on the envelope. If you’re using a window envelope, this should be aligned on the page to show through the window – but even if it won’t be visible until the letter is opened, it should still be included.

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

Why put their address? If you’re writing to someone in an office, it probably won’t be them who opens the post. An administrator is likely to do so – and letters may be separated from their envelopes at this stage. Particularly if there are multiple departments within one building, or if you are starting your letter “Dear Bob”, a name and address ensures your letter reaches the correct recipient.

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 colon.

The greeting, sometimes called the “salutation”, should always be left-aligned.

Why put a greeting? Business letters are a formal type of writing, and it’s considered polite to start with a greeting. Although you can get away with starting emails “Hi” or “Hello”, letters follow more conservative conventions.

The Subject

Optionally, you may wish to include a subject for your letter. This is becoming more common, perhaps as people have become used to the subject lines of emails. If you do put a subject line, it should be in uppercase, directly below the “Dear name:”

The subject (if you include one) should be left-aligned for full block format, but can be either left aligned or centred for modified block format.

Why put the subject? It’s a good idea to include a subject so that the recipient can see at a glance what the letter refers to. Try to be succinct but include as much information as possible, eg. “Funding application from Joe Bloggs, candidate 222-456”.

The Text of Your Letter

Now, finally, you can write the main body of your letter. Your text should have:

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

(And, of course, you should conform to all the usual rules of grammar, punctuation and spelling: for example, ensuring that you start each sentence with a capital letter, and finish with a full stop.)

Why leave blank lines? In the business world, it’s standard practise to put a blank line between paragraphs. This helps to break up the text on the page and make it more readable.

The Closing

After the body of text, your letter should end with an appropriate closing phrase and a comma. The safest option is “Yours sincerely” (when you don’t know the name of the person to whom you are writing, ie. when you began “Dear Sir/Madam”) or “Yours faithfully” (when you do know their name). If you are already acquainted with the recipient, it may be appropriate to use a phrase such as “Best regards”, “With warmest regards”, or “Kind regards”.

The closing should be:

• Left-aligned for full block format
• On the right (tab across so it matches up with your address) for modified block format

Why use these phrases? Although “Yours sincerely” and “Yours faithfully” might sound archaic, they are time-honoured ways to close a formal letter.

Your Name and Signature

Put several blank lines after the “Yours sincerely,” or “Yours faithfully,” then type your name. You can optionally put your job title and company name on the line beneath this.

Joe Bloggs
Marketing Director, BizSolutions

Your name and signature should be:

• Left-aligned for full block format
• On the right (tab across so it matches up with your address) for modified block format

Why leave a blank space? The blank space is so that, when you’ve printed the letter, you can sign it with your name. This is taken as proof that the letter really is from the person whose name is typed at the bottom. Sometimes, another person may sign the letter on your behalf. If this is the case, they should put the letters “p.p.” before their name, which stands for the Latin per procurationem meaning “by agency”.

Enjoy writing your letters, and use the examples above to help you with the formatting if you do get stuck.

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Copyright by Daily Writing Tips.

How to Format a US Business Letter

Readers often ask how to improve their English writing skills when English is not their native language and they don’t live in an English-speaking country. My advice? Do it the way I did. Imitate me.

“But Michael,” you may object, “English is your native language and you’ve lived your whole life in an English-speaking country.”

So okay, don’t imitate me. Imitate somebody else. But it’s vital that you imitate somebody. You can’t gain skill in a language, whether or not it’s your native language, without imitating those who are more skilled than you. In the case of language learning, listen to BBC Radio in English. Read English language websites.

Don’t worry that you can’t (yet) speak or write as well as other people. In fact, at first, you shouldn’t even try. You have to take in before you put out. How much did you speak during your first year? How well did you speak during your second year? A friend of mine, an expert in language learning, advises people to follow the example of little children. Listen for a year or two before you try to speak.

Some writers would do well to take that advice, to read much more than they write, if they really want to learn how to write. Read the works of the best writers in English that you can find. If that doesn’t leave you enough time to read low-quality popular magazines, that’s even better. Read the writers who write the way you want to write someday.

Read books written in a voice similar to yours. That means, of course, that you have to know yourself and your communications style well enough to recognize a similar voice when you hear it. Hopefully, it will be writing that you enjoy reading. But be true to yourself. Don’t pretend to be what you’re not. Many people want to dress like movie stars because they want to look like movie stars. Except that they don’t. They would do better to dress like themselves. It would be more attractive.

My formal education gave me only a small portion of my writing style, my grammar, my vocabulary, even my spelling. I learned most of it from reading. There’s another reason to read only the best literature: if you see a word misspelled or misused too many times, you will start to assume that it’s correct. What determines the meaning or spelling of a word is how it has been used or spelled over many years. Even the Oxford English Dictionary justifies its entries with quotations from literature.

Two of the greatest influences on my writing style are G.K. Chesterton and Rudolf Flesch. Chesterton taught me that varying your word choice for its own sake (what my English teacher called “elegant alternation” when I was 14) isn’t necessary, that repeating the same word may be more powerful or humorous. Flesch taught me that short sentences are easier to understand, even if some writers think that long sentences make them seem more intelligent.

Other writers might consider Chesterton and Flesch too blunt or direct for them to imitate. Their own personality is more gentle and their writing must reflect that. Find your own writing models. But choose them carefully. Your writing becomes like your reading. You are what you read.

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Copyright by Daily Writing Tips.

You Are What You Read

It is Monday, and as usual we have another batch (the third one) of short stories up for voting. There are some really interesting stories on this one. Make sure to read them all before casting your vote!

1. A Young Boy’s Journey by Pip Leake

In the Wheatbelt of Western Australia, towards the end of the 19th century, a ten year old boy undertook an epic journey. He had to travel alone 112Km on a bush track to collect provisions for his family. He had to do it because everyone else was engaged in the important task of harvesting the wheat and oats as quickly as possible before the weather changed.

The route was no problem. He would be travelling in the opposite direction to those who were hurrying to the goldfields before the gold ran out. They travelled on foot, in carts and with wheelbarrows determined to make their fortune.

This boy, Hubert, would travel in a spring cart with a very reliable horse, but the journey would take three days each way. He had hay for the horse, hobbles to restrain her overnight, food for himself, a hat and clean clothes for the return journey. As a ten-year old, he really felt the clean clothes were unnecessary, but his mother insisted. His hat was the most important item of clothing, in the hot wheatbelt sun. Water would be available at farms on the way.

He was happy to be on his own and proud to be trusted with such an important task. He loved the bush with it’s many animals and birds. He passed other travellers on their way to the gold fields. Sometimes he walked beside the horse and told her of his ambitions for the future.

Each night he fed the horse and himself and gazed at the stars before he went to sleep. Each morning after catching and harnessing the horse he hoped he would see many birds - perhaps a mallee fowl, the most elusive of birds. To his delight on the evening of the third day, he saw one in the bush off the track. The male bird covering up the eggs for the night to retain the warmth gained during the day and so aid their hatching. To see better, Hubert stood up in the cart – the horse plodded on.

After they passed the nest, he turned around to keep the bird in his sight a little longer. The cart and the horse passed under a low branch without difficulty – but Hubert was hit on the head and tossed out of the cart. He fell awkwardly, hurting his ankle. The horse continued on, she knew he’d follow. Hubert knew that she probably wouldn’t stop until she reached the town, still a short way on, so with great difficulty and in some pain, he staggered to his feet and limped after her. Luckily she spotted a rare patch of green feed and stopped to have a nibble. He clambered back into the cart and arrived at his aunt’s house in the town, sore, tired and dirty.

Several days later much recovered and wearing his clean clothes he began his homeward journey, but he was a wiser young fellow than when he had left home.

2. The Boss Strikes Again by Ishtiyaq Maniyar

I stood there in the corner of my boss’s office. I was trying to hold my laughter from about 15 minutes. It is not so often that your boss messes up a deal which would cost the company a hundred thousand dollars and you are the only one to witness it. It was one of the most pleasurable moments of my career.

Our team had been working on this deal from past 3 months. It was up to my boss and me to wrap it up. And my boss was unable to convince the client. I was happy. He could loose his job over this deal. And I would be happy to become the General Sales Manager. I was waiting for this opportunity from a very long time.

He stood there staring hard out of the large bay window and muttering something to himself. I could clearly see the sweat beads running down his forehead. It looked as if he wanted to jump out of the window of the 7th floor of the building and finish his troubles. The C.E.O. knew that the deal was supposed to conclude today. It was clear that he had to think of something very quickly, which would save his job.

My mind was racing fast on all the options he could be thinking right now. He could bribe me to keep my mouth shut and give a false explanation of the failed deal. It could be hike in the salary or extra perks. Maybe, it will be a promotion. I was the Assistant Sales Manager for 4 years now and always dreamt of becoming a General Sales Manager, but never thought, it would so easy. I could have my own office, have vacations in Europe on company’s expense and I would also get a secretary.

I was enjoying my reverie when suddenly; he broke his silence,

“Jim, you are fired.”

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe my ears. Did he actually say it or was I hearing things? He couldn’t have said that to me. Or he was just trying to rehearse what his boss would say.

“Are you talking to me boss?” I said.

He didn’t even look at me.

“Yes. I am talking to you. You are fired”

“Boss, what did I do wrong? It wasn’t my fault that the deal fell apart”

He took a deep breath and turned around,

“I never said it’s your fault, I just said I am going to blame it on you!”

3. Shadow by Calvin Chang

His sore, quivering body lay prostrated against the cold, metallic ground. He had been unconscious for hours, his muscles atrophying. Two warm liquid sparks dripped off of his cheek and splashed against the sea of metal, hunger made his stomach feel like it would imminently implode. The man’s face tensed as he flopped onto his back with all of his strength. A pan of water sat next to his right pinky finger. He reached for it and drank carefully, it rejuvenated him significantly, and he spread his fingers and clenched his fists to survey his condition. His legs, torso and arms were still heavily fatigued but now his mind regained rational thought. He remembered only three things, not whole events or even his location nor his place in the flow of time. Like a magnifying glass too close to its target blurring out all but what lays beneath the focal point. He recalled the face of an unknown, ravishing woman. A memory of his left hand clutching a knife. One name pressed against his skull. He did not know if it was his name or not, George.

An hour later, his muscles were able to move. Sitting up with his legs against his chest and his back to the wall, he peered around his cell. The cell door was cracked open, the guard lay face down motionless in a pool of dark crimson blood. Suddenly a succession of sharp clangs caused his right leg to kick out violently, he used his hands to balance himself. Jolted by fear the adrenalin shot branching throughout his veins, he stood up and hid against the side wall. The sound drew nearer and nearer until the silhouette of a figure appeared against the wall. It had stopped to catch her breath and was bent over with her hands on her knees breathing deeply. A slow moving shadow appeared against the ominous shadowy wall. Sounds of agony and pain erupted as the two shadows fought. In the chaos of the fight, the shadows became strangely beautiful, making a miraculous myriad of shapes with blue light casting on the grim shadows. Merging and detaching, descending and ascending, fading and embellishing until finally the play’s finale. A clang, a woman’s scream and running footsteps.

The murderer’s shadow dashed away and he decided to see if the girl was dead or alive. He slid through the opening in the cell and his boot made a cascade of ripples in the guard’s pool of blood. In three steps from the woman’s body he noticed it was the same girl he remembered. She was stupefyingly beautiful and the little trail of blood dribbling out of her lush mouth caused a chill to drum up his spine. The woman was his wife, in her hand was the knife in his memory, bloodstained. The murderer had not left and was gazing at him murderously.

“George.”

Eight steps and another shadow tumbled down the wall.

4. The Pit by Cassia

The emerald and sapphire encrusted sword was tipping precariously on the edge of the bottomless pit, ready to fall into nowhere.

“No,” gasped Emma, who was still in the strong hands of Zeno (Who was waiting for his partner to come back with an unpleasant surprise). “No. Let go of me, I need that. It was my fathers.”

Zeno only laughed maliciously. With his toe, he stretched out to push it in. He paused tauntingly. Emma leaned back to push him away from the sword. “Sorry.” Zeno said, obviously not sorry. He toed the sword into the emptiness of the bottomless pit.

“NOOOOOO!!” screamed Emma. She began kicking and punching the air, struggling to be loosened from Zeno’s arms. “LET ME GO!” Emma screeched again, with as much contempt she could muster into the three words. She gave a good hard kick in the shins.

Emma was getting dizzy. She was having trouble breathing. The world was getting blurry around the edges. She heard herself gasping for breath, pulling Zeno’s enclosing hand around her neck away from her body.

There were suddenly light footsteps behind her in the misty forest, which Zeno must not have heard, because suddenly he yelped back in pain and released Emma’s neck.

Emma turned around to look around at her savior. He was still punching and kicking Zeno (whom was on the ground, whimpering in pain), so Emma couldn’t see his face clearly.

Finally, the face of Liam looked up at her and smiled. Liam was the nicest and best-looking boy in school, who all the girls goggled and slobbered over. Liam had never shown little interest whatsoever in Emma.

Emma gaped in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving you.” Liam said simply. “Let’s get that sword, shall we?”

“Yes. Yeah, sure!” She grabbed Liam’s hand breathlessly.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Liam asked, standing on the edge of the pit.

“I have to.” Emma said, and then she jumped in the pit, pulling Liam in with her.

Emma closed her eyes for the jump, but when she opened her eyes, she was falling through the beauty of darkness. Liam’s face stood out in the darkness. Emma smiled, and he smiled back, both of them enjoying the falling sensation together, knowing they’d never hit the ground.

5. Sunset by Ginger Edwards

The chemotherapy left Dorothy minus her eyebrows and eyelashes, and with fuzz in place of her once long, brown hair. Some days she felt too sick to get out of bed, but did because her son, Jimmy, needed her. He was her strength and her joy.

In spite of the surgery and treatments, the last tests showed new cancer. Her close relatives were gone and her friends were unable to assume the responsibility of raising a child. Who would take care of her seven-year-old son?

Dorothy approached two adoption agencies, but they denied her plea to choose Jimmy’s new parents. In desperation, she sought the help of an attorney. With his assistance, they devised a plan for legal adoption where she could make the decision of who would raise her son. After interviewing several prospects, she chose a loving couple who dearly wanted her boy.

Unsure how to tell her precious son that after losing his father, he was going to lose her as well, Dorothy searched deep within for the strength to do what must be done. Later that afternoon she took Jimmy to the beach. Most of the day visitors were packing up their towels, hats, umbrellas, coolers and suntan lotion to go home with sun-reddened skin and sand chaffing inside their bathing suits.

Barefooted, Dorothy and Jimmy wore jeans with the pant legs rolled up and matching sweat jackets with the hoods pulled down. Jimmy ran ahead, picked up a seashell and held it high as he raced back for Dorothy to admire it. Together they strolled along the water’s edge, digging their toes into the wet sand. They sat on a flat rock watching the waves’ lacy edges embrace the beach.

Dorothy took a deep breath. “Honey, sometimes people go to heaven when they don’t want to leave the people they love.”

The boy nodded. “You mean like Daddy.”

“Yes, like Daddy.” She watched Jimmy play with his seashell as the sun slid lower in the sky, coloring the dancing waves a golden hue.

“I’m going to visit Daddy soon. While I’m away, I found a nice couple who will care for you.”

Jimmy looked out over the ocean and smiled.

Dorothy followed his gaze to see a lone seagull silhouetted against the horizon. A second gull appeared and together they flew toward the glowing sunset. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

Jimmy took her hand. “Don’t cry Mommy. You can hug Daddy for me.”

6. Music by Kathryn Carnahan

The music started from within her, nothing more than a dream of colors and sounds. It swam inside, drifting into consciousness randomly, making her lost to the world around her. Then, when it was ready, it allowed her to form the sounds, to see and study the dizzying colors.

Everything was always off the first time, never quite right. The colors faded, but never dissolved. Soon after she would always try again, and it would consume her. Dulling what was around her, but amplifying everything inside. The colors shifting and changing, growing brighter, the sounds rising and falling, taking not only shape, but structure.

She was completely gone to the outside world, hearing only sounds originated within, not fully believing they came from her. She became giddy with it, and soon her fingers were itching. They moved slightly at first, just a touch here a few there.

The piano always seemed to materialize before her, but her fingers never hesitated. They instinctively knew how to match the fluttering shapes and colors dancing inside. Even then her body felt constrained, and it was not long before her entire body flowed, following the fingers up and down the keys.

Hours could pass and she would know nothing other than the subtle changes in the sounds, the small additions to color. Elation was not what she felt, but became who she was. The rhythms and the lights could not become the soul; the soul was where it all began. Yet that was where it bonded, always building, constantly expressing.

There was never an end, never a finish, but there was completion of sorts. The colors flowed and molded with each other, pulsating against the sounds that formed their existence. It was then she could rest, and it was always like waking from a dream. There was always surprise at dried sweat and hours long past. Even then she was drunk on it. Energy coursed through her, a dance in her step.

Sharing this part of her world never crossed her mind. It was simply something she did, nothing more. That was almost how it had remained, but fate had thrown him stumbling into her path.

Now she was hearing her fingers pounding away, the sound growing as she pressed the headphones tighter against her ears, as if the sound began there now. Her throat was not fooled, but it did not care. The colors and sounds still swayed inside, and her voice still found the right place. Her body still moved with the shapes, and she was still lost to the outside world.

A single difference stood out. When she paused, when she could take a rest, when her step danced a little, she looked up. Looked up and always found him staring back at her. Even when walls and glass stood between them, nothing was left unsaid.

7. Blue Water Fishing by Dave Rissik

I look at the photographs now and there is Noel and Alan, Alan and I, 16 miles south of the point before the storm came up. We are bleary-eyed and soaked to the skin. There is Noel grinning that grin, me brittle and a weak after retching my way out there from Hout Bay on the morning’s coffee and last night’s meal. And later, Alan, cigarette pinched between brawny fisherman’s fingers, saying it was the worst storm he ever experienced.

The light breeze that blows in from the south east is cold at 6 o’clock in the morning. There is a hint of cloud on the horizon as the sun rises over the landmass disappearing behind us. The sea shows only a gentle swell and we could be on a lake somewhere, not heading out into some of the roughest seas in the
world.

Suddenly four big rods are out, and then a fifth. The engines are idled and Alan is all over the ski boat. We stay out of his way, swaying like side-car riders as the boat dips and rises. Alan trolls true and steady. Five green arches of nylon dip through our wake. I remembered my biggest fish to date was long ago, a guppy in some rock pool on a warm morning with my father looking on over my shoulder.

I am momentarily distracted by Noel’s clowning when the rod comes to life in my hands, the line screaming out from the reel. The fish stops running and I bring in whatever from the murky blue-green depths. Tiring now, the rod harness bores into my groin so I take most of the load on my arms. Alan is at my side, quick as ever, grabbing the line, charming the fish as he brings it overboard. The tunny does its last staccato dance on the plywood flooring.

We try one more spot and Alan does not like the sea at all. We bring the lines in. Alan is screaming at me, then at Noel, to keep the boat balanced. I reflect on us capsizing and somehow it seems so trivial to topple a boat in all this angry water. We ride an endless rollercoaster landscape in a car with no suspension. I don’t know which is rain and which is sea spray or which way is home. All I can do is brace against the seat and floorboards as we plough down and up through the white waves.

It took us one hour to get out and five hours back. The photographs show this too. I look washed out but proud. Noel is bent over and kissing the landing jetty as if in prayer, the girls laughing in the background, Alan relieved. The last image as we turn away from the jetty is the fish drying in the sharp, cool wind as the clubhouse beckons and the scary hard time out there starts receding.

We succumb to the alcoholic warmth of the club habitués.

8. The Artist, Cora by K Johnston

I’d cut my fingernails too short. My mom used to do that when I was a kid. They would hurt. Cora doesn’t understand when I tell her short fingernails hurt. She needs re-assurance. “Do they really hurt? Cora doesn’t want her baby-love to have sore fingernails, no she doesn’t”. I don’t like it when Cora talks in the third person.

At the start my eyes would follow her everywhere. If we went to a party, I would only talk to people from an angle where I could watch Cora. I wasn’t jealous, I just liked watching her. I would stand talking, imagining Cora in different ways. I would imagine her naked with just a drink in her hand and the big plastic flower in her hair. I would imagine her half-undressed; no blouse, her breasts swaying just a little, her nipples delicious. I would imagine Cora in a t-shirt with no jeans. Her Brazilian wax would make her look child-like.

She was charming. That’s what I first liked. An artist friend introduced us; Cora was an artist. She said she was a trope artist. I was sure she’d said trapeze artist. I wanted her to be a trapeze artist. I imagined her flying through the air, everyone looking at her smilingly. With red, red lips and bold black smudged-in eyes. She would see me and wave. Afterwards we’d go to a cafe and people would whisper behind their hands “There’s that trapeze artist girl!” or “She must be good in bed with her trapeze artist moves”. Some would come and beg for an autograph, which she would give. It would be swirled across the page, trapeze artist style.

I asked if I could kiss her, at the party. “No, you can’t kiss me . . . but you can put your arms around me.” I did put my arms around her and I kissed her too. I wanted it to last forever.

Trope artists are not what they seem. Cora had made up the term. She said she wanted her life to be figurative and her art too. She basked in change. She would gradually lighten her hair to blonde and then back to dark over the course of four seasons. There were the quick changes too.

“Chicken? I’m vegetarian!”

“You are?”

” Didn’t I tell you? I became vegetarian two days ago!”

Life was interesting with Cora, but sometimes I just wanted to eat pizza and sit still and not have Cora the trope artist flinging herself about the house; flinging herself around parties.

As I packed, my fingernails reminded me, throbbing. There was a tiny bit of blood coming out of one. I don’t know what I was thinking when I cut them. Tomorrow I am leaving to go to Pasto with two friends. I have never been to the Andes before. I’ll miss Cora.

9. Heart by Patrick Ireland

The boy and his father moved silently through the forest, midmorning sunlight dappling their buckskin clothes. The man slowed, then stopped.

Ahead of them yawned a steep ravine. A stream sixty feet below chuckled softly in late-summer laziness. The man pointed across the ravine to a tall ponderosa pine. At its peak, an eagle’s nest commanded a panoramic view for miles around.

The boy held his breath and squinted, struggling to discern movement in the nest. The head of a fledgling appeared above the rim of woven branches. Cocking its head to one side, the eaglet looked over the edge of the nest at the ground, then shifted its gaze to the sky. It searched the horizon, then peered downward again in growing agitation.

The boy followed the eaglet’s gaze down the ponderosa’s trunk, knowing there was something the bird could see but he could not. Seeking a clue he stole a glance at this father. His father’s eyes appraised him. The boy knew he must keep looking.

He returned his gaze to the nest, resisting the urge to shade his eyes. There was a stirring at the tree’s base. From the undergrowth something brown scuttled upward. The bird hopped onto the rim of the nest and the boy was surprised to see that it seemed nearly as big as a full-grown eagle. The brown thing resolved into a wolverine, moving with dreadful purpose.

The eaglet again scanned the horizon in panic, then its raucous scream pierced the air. This only hastened the wolverine’s upward progress. The bird spread its wings, flapping them tentatively as it peered at the rocks below. Clearly, it had not yet taken its first flight.

Stealthily, the boy moved to draw an arrow from his quiver but his father’s hand stilled him. A glance at his father’s face showed him that they must not interfere. Relief and frustration washed through the boy, his pulse slowing now that his marksmanship would not be tested. Yet he felt agony for the eagle, unable to make that first great leap into emptiness.

The bird hopped from one leg to the other, attempting to lift itself with wing beats but its only salvation was to plunge headfirst into the terrifying safety of the air. Before it could do so, the wolverine swarmed over the edge of the nest, fangs gleaming as it lashed at the bird with gaping jaws. There was a furious thrashing in the nest. The screaming stopped with appalling suddenness. Clouds of feathers danced about the treetop.

The boy felt an icy sinking sensation in his stomach as his eyes followed the flirting descent of one golden feather. The wolverine had won. The boy looked again at his father.

“Why did the Great Spirit let the wolverine take the eagle, father?”

His father said nothing for a time. A blood-stained feather fluttered to the ground near his feet. At last, he replied.

“That was no eagle, my son.”

10. Not So Boring by Jean Bailey

0ne might wonder what it was that brought Fern and Jack together they were so different. Jack was a couch potato and Fern bubbly and friendly,very outgoing. Fern loved her white toy poodles more than anything else and showed them at as many shows as she could , infact jack was the one to drive her there.

Jack was not too interested in the shows as soon as he arrived he parked himself near the ring with a huge bacon sandwich he bought from the counter near by. As soon as fern arrived at the show she made for her friends to talk and then began brushing and preparing her dogs for the ring.

The show started and Fern had flitted of to talk to some one else while jack still sat with a large mug of tea alone by the ring. A large lady came into the ring she bent over to pick up her dog and jack noticed how her chest nearly fell out of her dress. Jack was in a world of his own when Fern nudged him, “hey! Jack keep my seat for me”,said Fern clearing of again to greet another friend.

Jack was getting more interested in the shows and got up and moved round to the side of the ring, “Jack”,said fern what are you doing we will lose our places. 0h just thought that dog was a good one wanted to take a better look,said Jack. Fern looked,how long have you cared about dogs?,asked fern. Jack shrugged, jack had found a new found interest in dog shows,ladies with short skirts and low cut dresses, he was now enjoying dog shows to the full.

The judge sent a woman round the ring twice and jack watched her boobs go up and down,bet he only sent her round there twice so he could watch her jugs go up and down he said to Fern who was standing near by, “you will end up a dirty old man”, said Fern, “you are disgusting”. But when they got home Fern found a not so boring Jack so who cares if he is at the dog shows for the wrong reasons thought Fern he is not hurting anybody and he as brought new life to there marriage.

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

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Short Story Competition: Third Batch is Open for Voting!

The other day, someone used a word that I hadn’t heard in a long time: obstreperous. I love the way that rolls off the tongue. It means noisy, unruly, belligerent, cantankerous - you get the picture. Obstreperous originates from the Latin prefix ob- (against) and strepere (to make a noise). A drunk being hustled out of a bar, while protesting loudly might be described as obstreperous.

Other meanings for the prefix ‘ob’ include contrary, against, towards or in the way of. It appears in several English words including:

• obdurate (from the Latin durare - to harden) - inflexible
• object (from the Latin iacere - to throw) - argue against
• obligate (from the Latin ligare - to bind) - bind legally
• obliterate (from the Latin litera - letter) - erase or destroy
• obnoxious (from the Latin noxius - harmful) - offensive
• obsession (from the Latin sidere - to besiege) - persistent preoccupation
• obstacle (from the Latin stare - to stand still) - a barrier
• obstinate (from the Latin struere- to stand) - stubborn
• obstruct (from the Latin struere- to pile up) - impede

Variations of ob- include oc-, of-, op-, and o- in words such as:

• occasion (from the Latin cadere - to fall) - opportunity
• occlude(from the Latin claudere - to shut) - obstruct
• occult (from the Latin culere - to cover) - shut off from view
• occupy (from the Latin capere/cupare - to seize) - take possession of
• occur (from the Latin currere - to run) - happen
• offend (from the Latin fendere - to hit) - violate or cause pain
• offer (from the Latin ferre - to carry) - present or make available
• omit (from the Latin mittere - to send) - leave out
• opponent (from the Latin ponere - to place) - adversary

More ob- words on Obnoxious Observations

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Obsessed With Ob- Words

A word is a “part of speech” only when it is used in a sentence. The function the word serves in a sentence is what makes it whatever part of speech it is.

For example, the word “run” can be used as more than one part of speech:?
Sammy hit a home run. (run is a noun, direct object of hit)?
You mustn’t run near the swimming pool. (run is a verb, part of the verb phrase must (not) run)

Here is a simple overview of the English parts of speech and what they do. Each part of speech is linked to an DWT article that tells more about it.

NOUN - Nouns are naming words. We can’t talk about anything until we have given it a name.

PRONOUN - A pronoun is a word that stands for a noun.

VERBS - The verb is the motor that runs the sentence. A verb enables us to say something about a noun.

ADJECTIVE - An adjective is a word that describes a noun.

ADVERB - An adverb adds meaning to a verb, an adjective, or another adverb.

PREPOSITION - a preposition is a word that comes in front of a noun or a pronoun and shows a connection between that noun or pronoun and some other word in the sentence

CONJUNCTION - a conjunction joins words and groups of words.

INTERJECTION — An interjection is a word or phrase thrown into a sentence to express an emotion, for example, Homer Simpson’s “Doh!”

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English Grammar 101: Parts of Speech