Another Approach...

So I have been thinking about ways to expand my writing portfolio, improve my writing style and make a little money if possible. One way to accomplish all three at once, if you have an aptitude for it, is freelance article writing. I've been researching this field, and I'd like to try my hand at it, but I don't wanna fall on my face. So here is the ROUGH draft of my sample article. I wrote this in about an hour and a half. Please let me know what you think. I'm particularly interested in any pointers Nanna could give me, as she has experience in publishing articles in a collumn.



Raising Earth-Conscience Children

Ashley Deen


Now, more than ever, it is imperative that future generations learn to respect our planet. Any parent can tell you that exposure is the simplest form of education. A child who hears two languages from birth will speak each one fluently. So how do we instill eco-values in children today? Easy: we begin to teach Green as a second language.

Explain it well
Do you recall your mom telling you to do something ‘because I said so’ or ‘because it’s the right thing to do’? Often we know what we want to teach them, but not what to say to help them understand why. Give them examples that they can understand, like the way our environment impacts animals. Use a ‘Diego’ rescue theme, or whatever you feel your child will relate to best. They will appreciate being included in such an adult topic and will try harder to keep up.

Lead by example
How often have you heard horror stories such as the preschooler who cursed among polite company, then offered the excuse, ‘but Mommy says it a lot! ’? Kids emulate everyone, from parents and older siblings to teachers and role models. You can tell them ‘Do as I say’ until you run out of breath and they will still, most likely, do as you do. If your child sees you turning the light off each time you leave a room, they will want to as well. They will notice that you always bring your own shopping bags to the store, that you mix your own window and floor cleaners and that you use cloth napkins instead of paper towels. Then, by doing things ‘just like Mommy does’ they will already be living greener.


Get creative, Make it fun!
You take your canvas totes to the market, the plaza, and the mall. You have craft time with your child, and those amazing ‘Mommy and me’ dates. Why not combine the green in your life with the green in your child’s? For your next craft day, let your little one make his or her own shopping bags, diner napkins, place mats, etc. Let them help you mix vinegar and water for cleaning the windows, then show them how great it works. Your child will not only love making their own re-usables, they’ll be eager to try them out. Then you can move on to more advanced projects that recycle household waste into new treasures. Our favorites have been the homemade lava lamp powered by alka-seltzer and the ingredient/recipe gift jars.

Get on their level
The characters that your children are familiar with are great vehicles for introducing green living in a way that kids can understand. You may use a Diego rescue theme to help them see the impact of pollution on animals, etc. Many popular children’s shows, at many different age levels, have episodes themed around global awareness, eco-values and green living. Nickalodeon has recently launched their ‘Big Green Help’ global challenge, geared specifically toward a greener future generation. The challenge also features a ‘Green Living Guide For Kids and Parents’ page. PBS’s The Greens are another excellent source of fun-for-all eco info. There are hundreds of books, dvds, programs, websites and games, all designed for teaching children to live responsibly.

For more information, I suggest visiting http://www.nick.com/games/bgh-games/nicktoons-global-multiplayer.jhtml,
http://www.nickjr.com/parenting/parenting_features/big-green-help/index.jhtml,
http://meetthegreens.pbskids.org/,
http://greenguideforkids.blogspot.com/,
http://www.kidsbegreen.org/, and
http://www.ecomall.com/biz/kidslinks.htm, just to get started. Each of these sites offer something unique and helpful in teaching children the importance of green living as well as instilling in them a desire to do so.

My Good Fortune

Okay, so I am sitting in a Chinese restaurant in El Dorado, AR, whining to my dear sister that I am having a bad day, I am tired, I can't check my email to see if I have a rejection letter yet, blah blah blah, and she, the sweetest person ever, says, hey I can do that really quick, and so we're talking and she is checking and then all of a sudden she is squealing in my ear, and I finally realize that she is saying I got an ACCEPTANCE!!!! Are you kidding? Is that a joke? What?!?!?! I'm going to be published!!! Holy Cow!!! I freaked out in the middle of this Chinese buffet! I forgot to breathe. I nearly passed out. So anyway, on this most glorious day, a few minutes later, what does my fortune cookie say?

"In a gentle way, you can shake the world"


:)






Thank you so very much to God, for giving me a talent that I didn't have the guts to believe in.

Thank you all so much, to Nanna, for 20 years of telling me 'Yes, you can', to Tiff, for 10 years of telling me, 'Duh, you will', to Cyn, for 1 year of telling me 'This is how you're going to', and to Rick, Chris, Beth, Tim and Catherine for reading my stuff, good and bad, and giving it to me straight. I know that this is a small victory, but it gives me hope, so much hope, for the future. I have faith in myself and I feel GREAT!!!

Submission no. 2?

Okay, this is another old story that I have revised, hopefully fully corrected, and am considering submitting. This isn't, obviously, my usual genre, but I wrote it for an asignment some time ago, and there is a large market for this type of piece. I'm hoping that it will be accepted somewhere quickly, helping me begin my 'published' career. So anyway, tell me what you think, please.



Quick, But Not Painless
Ashley Deen

There are tiny tables set at discreet distances throughout the room. A woman sits at each, most sipping cocktails and looking bored. I wonder what their stories are, why they want to be here. I suppose I’m about to find out.
Delicate chimes resound through the room. Twenty-five men, myself among them, head to their first “dates”. Mine is a middle-aged bleach blonde with pancake makeup and considerable cleavage. She leans forward, threatening to spill out of her tiny crimson blouse. I’m not here for cheap sex, yet I can’t help looking. Her erect nipples, clearly visible through the thin, red satin, are pointing directly at me like twin gun-barrels. I see them as cartoon cannons, pushing forward then rebounding as they shoot out black flags with the word “bam”.
“Hiya handsome, what’s your sign?” Her nasal Bronx accent is like a cheese grater to my southern nerves.
“Um, first of May?” I haven’t a clue.
“Ooh, a Taurus. Big and strong. I’m Patty. I’m a Gemini. Do you believe in fate?” Just how long can five minutes last? I keep looking at my watch, but the hands crawl by. Chime.
If there are more like that I’m leaving. To hell with the fee, I’ll just be like normal people and go to the bar. I still don’t know how I got talked into this anyway.
My next date is a brunette, cute, feminine and shy. Thank you Lord.
“Hi, I’m Ted. This is my first time at one of these, and I was starting to get a little nervous. What do you think of the whole thing?”
Her timid smile vanished, her eyes lighting with manic interest.
“Oh, I think it’s quite fascinating. Did you know that it originated from the Amish? Rabbi Yaacov Deyo developed the concept for Jewish singles to meet and marry. Also, there’ve been many studies on the practice and its advantages. Recently the University of Bern showed olfaction and the MHC profile difference to play significant roles…”
Her voice fades as I suddenly hear two shots from next door. I glance over at a gent in an expensive suit leaning as far away from the cannons as possible. I feel a moment’s pity for him, then I tune back to my history lesson so I can make the appropriate nods for another four minutes. Chime.
Next is a slightly overweight lawyer in a severely cut suit. She begins grilling me about my lifestyle, my life goals, my life’s work and of course my life savings.
“IRA’s are like bicycles; unfortunately all the bicycles look the same…”
I decide that no one needs that much life. Chime.
Blonde, cute, no noticeable deformities… until she opens her mouth, revealing the teeth of Mr. Ed and the braying laugh of a mule. “So, did you hear the one…? …and then the monkey slipped on the banana peel! Ee-aw, Ee-aw, Ee-aw!” Chime.
Long black curls, beautiful smile, smoky voice, and is convinced that my aura is damaged and my Totem has abandoned me. “All your spiritual doors have been ripped off their hinges…”
I receive five minutes of intense Chakra therapy.
Chime.
Chime.
Chime!

I feel like I’ve been cramming for a test on a subject I’ve never studied. My mind is numb, my nose raw from the barrage of perfumes. A vein has begun to throb at my right temple and my Chakra therapy, right along with my lunch, has long since worn off. My aura and my stomach growl in unison. This was a complete waste of time. The Jewish guys can keep it.
I sit at the next table, steeling myself for whatever horrors await.
Stunning blue eyes. Almost ice blue, but warm and smiling. Her lips curve, revealing one flirty dimple. She extends her hand and surprises me with a firm grip and an honest smile.
“Hi, I’m Sarah.
“Ted.” I’m wary, where’s the catch?
“You have a solid handshake, Ted. I think that says a lot about a person. I’ve shaken so many sweaty, limp paws tonight that I’m running out of Germ-X.” Her teasing grin coaxes a chuckle from me.
“I completely understand.” I settle in, leaning forward as she begins to tell me about herself.
Maybe I owe the Rabbi a thank you after all.

Nanna, Wow! I'm - a - writer - NOW!!

I submitted!!!! I still can hardly believe it, I didn't even fall over dead! :) It was a tough process, but not half as bad as I had imagined it. Now if I survive the rejection and can hang in there til someone bites, who knows? I am very excited. All positive thoughts, prayers, etc are greatly appreciated!

Well, I read that it doesn't matter if you are rejected, if you put yourself out there, then you are truly a writer. I think I should feel some profound change, but I don't, so either it hasn't hit yet, or I've always felt like a writer inside...

Revised and ?ready for submission?

Please please please please read this carefully and critically... yeas, I know Nanna, you aren't happy doing that, but PLEASE! I am GOING to submit this soon (was already supposed to have done so) but I desperately want feedback first. So here it is, I know you guys have already seen it, but I feel it is somewhat improved. If there are any discrepencies or obvious errors that I missed please help me from making an ass of myself. Thanks!

(The format gets jacked when I CC&P from Word to here, sorry)

Sugar & Spice
Ashley Deen

I’d made my bed purely out of habit, even though it hurt and my bandaged hands were clumsy. They would strip away the linens and sanitize the room as soon as I was gone, but I had nothing else to do. They’d left me to pack, but all I had were the scrubs I was wearing and the broken pieces of my wedding ring. A nurse had showed me the denture box containing two small, silver crescents the day that I had woken up.
“They had to cut it off ‘cause the swelling was so bad, but it’s all right here.” She’d said, tilting the box toward me then putting it on the bedside table.
I stared at it now as I waited. I remembered the day you asked me to marry you. We’d gone and bought the rings that weekend, after you got paid. I remembered the day you slipped mine on my finger. The beeping of a monitor echoed from the next bed. I remembered…




The microwave beeped just as I heard your truck in the yard, the old engine sputtering to a stop, and my stomach tensed. It occurred to me that I hadn’t been this anxious since our first date. I pulled the spicy Mexican casserole from the oven and set it on the table just as I heard the front door open. The thump of your boots on the hardwood echoed the pounding of my heart. I needed tonight to be perfect.
“Where’s my Sugar?” You asked from the doorway, smiling and bracing your arms at the corners of the doorframe.
“Right here, Jess. I made all your favorites. There’s even fresh tortillas and a pitcher of Salty Dog.”
You moved into the kitchen and sat down, watching as I peeled and sliced a fresh tomato.
“How was your day?”
“Same old bullshit. Damn job foreman keep giving me hell, didn’t even care that my hands were all busted up. He wanted the ditches finished today so the electricians could get in there and lay their pipe. I asked him why in the hell those assholes weren’t digging their own damn ditches, and you know what that little piss ant said?”
“What did he say, baby?”
“He told me to ‘shut up and do my damn job’. That’s the problem, it ain’t my damn job! And that smart-assed electrician just about got his nose popped when he came over giving me shit. Old fart thinks he knows every damn thing.”
“Sounds like a real jerk.” I said as I brought over the tomatoes. I filled our glasses with tea and started to sit down.
“Christ Jesus, Randi, you look like shit. Can’t you do something with your face? I can’t eat looking at you like that.”
I stopped halfway to my seat, hands on the table. My smile froze and I struggled to pull it back into place. I turned to the fridge. “Sure Jess, I’ll just go freshen up. Won’t take a minute. Um, would you like a drink for right now?” I pulled a frosted mug from the freezer and waited, praying.
“Yeah, that’ll work. Hurry up though. Damn supper’s gonna get cold.” I poured your drink and left the pitcher on the table. As I hurried to the bathroom I heard you,
“And pull your damn hair back. You ain’t hiding nothing with that mop hanging in your face.”
I stared in the mirror, wondering just what in the hell you expected me to do with the mess you’d made. My father’s clever Irish eyes stared back at me, what I could see of them, reminding me that everything would be okay. I grabbed a brush and put my hair in a clip, then tried to smear on some makeup without bringing tears to my eyes. The cosmetics only made it worse, but I was out of time.
“Hurry up, damn it!” You shouted from the kitchen.
“Coming!” I said as I rushed back to the table. “Is that better?” I asked, knowing the answer.
You just grunted and finished off your drink. “That Dog was damn good, though. Get me another one will ya, and let’s eat. I’m bout to starve.” The pitcher, as well as the food, was right in front of you. I stood, filled your glass. I picked up your plate and made it for you.
“You want some sour cream? Salsa? Some Pico?” I asked, picking up the relish tray. You nodded and helped yourself while I held the tray like a servant. When you took a bite and seemed satisfied, I sat.
I picked at my food, moving it around on my plate and listening to you complain. About your job, your boss, other workers. I sipped my water and watched you drink. When you ran low, I refilled your glass. I listened as you began to slur. I nodded and agreed and poured. You missed your mouth with a bite of food and I watched it fall onto the table, the red sauce bleeding into the tablecloth. I watched your eyes cloud and your body sway. I watched your eyes roll back and your head loll to the side. I watched as your breathing slowed to a whisper.
I rose, looked down at you. I checked for your pulse and found it, thin and reedy. Then I gathered my thoughts and went to work.
I poured the last of the Salty Dog into the sink, watching the pretty pink poison splash down the drain. I knew part of my calmness was from the few sips I had taken trying to get the flavor right. I’d never taken any of the Xanax that Dr. Wilson had given me after I lost the baby, but I knew that they were supposed to make you calm. Unless you took all thirty of them with a pint of gin, a quart of grapefruit juice and a handful of salt to keep you thirsty. That would probably be a very bad idea. I giggled, then clamped a hand over my mouth, appalled at myself.
I pulled the old wheelchair out of the closet where it had been since you put your father in the nursing home. It was harder than I thought, getting you from one chair to the other. Twice you nearly slid right into the floor. For the first time it hit me that I might not be able to pull this off. Panic clawed at me. There wasn’t any going back now. I finally draped your arms over the handles and propped your feet into the steps. I wheeled you to the door and went to get the truck, bringing it as close to the porch as I possibly could. Getting you into the truck was even harder, and at one point I cried, your heavy body slumped against me, thinking that I would fail already.
“Oh hell no,” I growled into your neck. “You are not going to beat me now, you rotten- son- of a bitch!” I heaved with all my strength and then some, adrenaline raging through me finally. “Now get your ass in the damn truck!” I managed to sort of roll you in once I got your back up to seat level. I slammed the door, panting, and went back inside to grab my bag.
Coming back to the truck, not being able to see you from the windows, I had a crazed vision of opening the door and finding the cab empty, and you coming up behind me, all hell in your eyes for what I’d tried to do. I shook it off, made myself grab the handle, get in the truck with you.
Heading down the dark, dusty road, I wondered if this could possibly work. I’d probably wind up killing myself, and even if I didn’t the sheriff would see right through it and I would go to prison. All those times that you’d beaten, raped, and damn near killed me, and spent a night here, a week there in jail for it; now I’m probably going to rot in a cell for the rest of my life for you. That’s life, right? A tear burned its way down my face as I pulled onto the grass and stopped. Anything would be better that living with you.
I opened my door and started tugging you across the battered bench seat. It took awhile, but I finally got you propped up on the steering wheel. I grabbed you by the hair, raising your head to the seat and checking again for a pulse. They might buy you passing out and crashing, but not if it turned up you were dead before the wreck even happened. I looked at your face one last time. You looked so peaceful, so boyish, like the sweet-talking man I’d married. I slammed your head forward with both hands, ramming your forehead against the metal steering wheel. Blood flowed down your face and dripped to the floor in a steady patter. I shut the door and walked to the passenger side to climb back in. I took out the plastic Wal-Mart bag and opened the bottle of gin. I poured it over you and tossed the bottle at your feet. I balled up the bag and pushed it down behind the seat. I unsnapped your shirt pocket, took out your cigarettes and the Zippo I’d bought you for our first anniversary. I lit one and inhaled the smooth Marlboro smoke. I took another drag, remembering what you had told me when you’d made me quit.
‘You taste like an ashtray.’ I smiled and looked at you. “Well honey, you’re about to feel like one.” I leaned over and put the butt between your lips very carefully. Then I put your left foot on the brake pedal and slipped the Zippo into your shirt pocket. I braced myself, put your right foot on the gas pedal, and positioned my left foot above it. I was all but sitting on top of you and I pictured you suddenly waking up, grabbing my throat. The fear didn’t come, and I realized that one way or another, I’d already won.
I grabbed the gear stick, pressed on your left foot, put the truck in drive. I aimed the wheel and then slammed down on your right foot, tearing toward the woodline. I let go and put my head behind your back just as we hit, but the impact still jarred my whole body and I bit my tongue so hard that my mouth filled with blood, gagging me. My eyes teared, but I didn’t have time to think about it. I hadn’t been knocked out, and I might just get out of this alive. The cigarette had fallen from your mouth, but it hadn’t caught fire. It had rolled into the floorboard at your feet but apparently the gin there wasn’t enough. I bent and tried to grab it, stretching as far as I could. I finally touched it and managed to roll it toward me so that I could pick it up. I laid it on your lap and seconds later it caught. It spread faster than I had thought it would, rushing up your shirt and to your hair. The smell was awful and the heat was blistering. I placed my hands on your flaming leg, screaming but holding on, then yanked away to open the door and tumble out. I scrambled to my feet and ran for the woods, praying the truck wouldn’t explode with me in the ditch. It didn’t, hadn’t even when I was a quarter of a mile away, limping as fast as I could across the Hadley’s field. I tripped coming up their steps and screamed when my charred hands hit the wooden deck. I rolled onto my back, holding my hands up and away from my body. Gina Hadley ran out the front door and yelled for her husband when she saw me.
“Oh my God, it’s Miranda,” she told him as she knelt to help me up. “Just look at her. That boy ought to be whipped! Come on here, darling. Let’s get you inside.”
“Gina, call 911.” My throat was raw and my voice sounded like a stranger’s; some raspy actress from the Garbo days. “Jess wrecked the truck and I think he’s dead. There was fire everywhere. It hurts so much. Please call an ambulance.”
“Harlan, help me,” she turned to him, then jumped when the explosion finally came, like thunder even from that far. They stared at the flames dancing over the treetops. Finally Gina snapped out of it, “Damn Harlan, this girl needs help and that fire’s gonna burn right through to the hay field, dry as it’s been. Go call for help!” I heard his boots thumping on the wooden porch just as I passed out.


“Miss?” The nurse cleared her throat, bringing me back to the tiny room. “I have your discharge papers. If you’ll just sign these I’ll take you to the front.” She gestured to the wheelchair in front of her. The thought of sitting in it almost made me laugh. Almost. I managed to sign the papers she handed me and then sat in the chair. I looked at the denture box again and gestured to it.
“Could you throw that away for me?” I asked. “I don’t want it anymore.”

Aunt Kathy Day!!!

Happy Birthday Aunt Kathy, Happy Birthday to you!!!!


Love you bunches and bunches and hope you are having the best day!!!!

Piggybacking- The Duke

Piggybacking – The Duke




"We all have flaws," said the Duke. "Mine is being wicked."
He sipped wine from a jeweled goblet and stroked his hairy chin most thoughtfully. The gleam in his eyes turned from excited to down-right devilish.
"Of course, wickedness is awfully fun."
Greta hugged the cold stone wall, hoping that her heart would stop racing long enough for her brain to start. Think! There had to be some way out of here. She’d always known that her uncle was off, maybe even a little mean, but evil? She would never have believed that of him, at least not until today.
When she woke this morning, she was a carefree princess, not old enough to feel the weight of her position. She knew that she would have to marry someday, and that it would be more an affair of state than of the heart, these were truths she had been prepared for always. However, at twelve, she was still young enough to believe that her betrothed would indeed turn out to be Prince Charming. He could be everything her country needed and exactly what she wanted as well. Why not? She was dressing for breakfast, dreaming of things that could be, when her safe little world had come crashing down.
As most castles do, theirs had many secret passages and tunnels, trapdoors and hidden latches, escape routes and servants’ halls. Greta was tucking the ends of her hair into her chignon, her thoughts wandering from the new books in the library to her horse and back again, when she was startled by the grinding of the false wall scraping across the floor.
When she had become old enough to move out of the nursery and into her own rooms, her father had shown her the panel and the bolthole behind it. He had taught her exactly where to press on the wall to open it and had walked her through the narrow corridor, indicating the passage to his rooms, and the other, which led under the castle walls and out into the eastern gardens. He had warned her never, ever to use them except in extreme emergency, lest a servant should discover them, and had never spoken of it since. The sight of the door cracking open startled her, and in the intervening seconds of silence the hair at the nape of her neck bristled.
“Daddy?”
Greta stood, then hesitated as the panel slid another few inches in. She heard panting, then a small thump. She pushed her stool back and hurried across the room. A few feet from the opening, she stopped so quickly that she almost pitched forward. There was an inky, thick stream of dark red oozing from behind the door.
“Daddy?” She called again, a note of panic in her voice. She picked up her skirts and stepped over the mess, her heart suddenly a small bird fighting to free itself from the cage of her chest. Her father’s great robes were unmistakable, and she felt the aching sob tearing through her as she fell beside him, no longer worried about staining her dress.
“Oh, Daddy! What happened? Who did this to you?” She pressed her hand over the wound in his stomach, trying to hold in the steady stream of his precious life that continued to flow out.