A dead soldier: on the nature of haunting

I have decided to declare Gossamer Yellow a dead soldier and publish it here at A Moving Line.

It hasn’t been everywhere but it has been read enough — and returned — to suggest to me that I either need to pull it or do a major rewrite. I’m pleased with it just the way it is and so I’m going to let it be.

The six or so editors who read it all said pretty much the same thing — it’s well-written but it starts too slow. One even went so far as to say, “absolutely nothing happens until the piece is half over.”

It’s difficult to be objective about your babies, but when that many people say the same thing, it’s probably true. And I have to consider that the same thing may be the case with Orbital Decay.

They are both reflective pieces that examine the nature of a shared life occurence.

In Orbital Decay, Frank is forced to face an insurmountable shortcoming, something that anyone with dreams and ambitions may face at some point in their life.

In Gossamer Yellow, Chelsea sees a ghost, a claim that many people have made, and she cannot convince others that her experience is real.   The story suggests that ghosts may not always be dead, at least not in the physical sense.

So I’m offering it to you to read. If you do, let me know what you think.

Another dead soldier

Orbital Decay is headed for the Old Story’s Home.

It made the rounds in 2008 without success and the rejections I received had a darker tone.

Orbital Decay is a story about an early suicide, told from the perspective of a middle-aged man. Not all it’s rejections offered comments, but those that did were unanimous.

“The writing is solid but what a bummer ending.”

Even so, I believe it’s a good story; so I’m posting it here.  Give it a read, if you like, and let me know what you think.

Old soldiers never die

I’ve decided to retire This Little Piggy.

It has made the rounds, this past year, and keeps coming back with one of those notes that say, “We are sorry to inform you –”

It has it’s own little story tagging along behind, though.

At is heart is one of my favorite jokes, but the idea for the story came to me when I discovered that E.B. White and George Orwell were contemporaries; both ardent essayists and sticklers for grammar.

I fancied the idea that at some time, somewhere, they met before Orwell’s death in 1950, and the conversation worked its way around to farms and pigs. And This Little Piggy was born.

Some of the rejections I received were amusing in their own right.

The folks at Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine “liked this joke the first time. And the second time too. And even the third. But –”

So, I’m going to pull it in, but I’m not going to toss it into the rag-bag. I still think it’s too good a story for that.