ANTHOLOGIES AND WRITING SHORT

Post by Doris McCraw
writing as Angela Raines

Photo property of the author

First I'll get the joke out of the way, yes I write short because I am. Well, maybe not a short as some, but when I go to the market I always have to find someone to reach things from the back of the top shelf.

All joking aside, I love the challenge of writing a short story, and to be truthful, some stories are better told in short form. There were some masters of the short I loved to read. Harlan Ellison, Ray Bradbury, Louis L' Amour, and Elmore Leonard. While I may never reach their level, it is something to strive for. Of course, you notice, they are all no longer with us. There are some wonderful authors now who are also an inspiration.

Probably the best thing I've done recently is to judge short stories. I am so in awe of the talent writing today. You learn so many things when judging and it helps to improve your own writing, at least it did mine. (Or so I want to believe).

This leads me to Anthologies. Unless you have a large enough following for a collection of your shorter work, most short stories find their home in anthologies or in the few magazines left that accept the Western genre. I'm thrilled that both options are available to writers today. My four authors learned and perfected their craft in those magazines of yesterday. Now, for many of us, it's the online and anthologies that are our training ground.

The other wonderful advantage of an anthology is you share the pages with other authors. By default, your audience expands. There is nothing wrong with that, especially in the market today.

Personally, I love reading anthologies and short stories. The exposure to new authors is exciting to me. I also enjoy the shorter stories when life is so busy I don't have time for the longer form. I get a great complete story and can finish it in one or two sittings. That is a win-win for me.

Lately, I've been reading the short stories of Peter Dawson, T.T. Flynn and others from that earlier time. Who is your favorite short story writer?

Of course, I would be remiss if I didn't do a short piece about the current anthology I have a story in. If you haven't heard of "Hot Western Nights", edited by Cheryl Pierson and published by Praire Rose Publications,  you are about to. There are six stories to this anthology, each different, yet all taking place in the early West.  Below is a short excerpt from my story, 'Duty':

Miranda Foster climbed the hill overlooking the ranch her stepfather left her to run for his heirs. Clouds flew across the sky. Standing on the hilltop, she watched a storm building, its track headed toward the ranch house. She didn't begrudge her duty, but by the time her step-brother Byron was old enough to take over, she'd be an old maid.

No one knew she wasn't the owner. It was her step-father's way of keeping the ranch safe. She remembered their conversation. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, but you'll be taken care of."

Miranda thought back on that conversation as she caught movement near the leading edge of the storm. Watching, she saw five specks detach and draw closer. The wind was pushing her back the way she'd come, trying to guide her to safety.

Miranda would not be moved. "You may threaten, cajole, or do me harm, but I will not be swayed from my duty," Miranda sent back to the wind as she waited for the oncoming riders, shotgun in hand. She never left the ranch house without it since the coming of Tate Browning. She stood, a calm determination not to give in.

"A woman can't hold such a place as this," the old man said as he rode up, almost on top of Miranda.

Miranda stood her ground, looking each of the men in the eye. "I've been charged with keeping this land safe, to never sell for any reason. Tell Tate Browning, it's a duty I shall discharge to the best of my ability."

The man glared back, looking for a way to pierce Miranda's armor. The wind whipped by the men and Miranda. Thunder sounded in the distance.

Miranda stood firm as the wind spent its fury. The old man growled, his anger a living thing, pressing on her as was the wind.

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Doris Gardner-McCraw -

Author, Speaker, Historian-specializing in
Colorado and Women's History

Angela Raines - author: Where Love & History Meet

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The Story Behind the Story: Tell Tail

by Richard Prosch

When I was little, the house we lived in was situated next to a grove of trees. Well kept with a floor of pine needles, the little forest had a variety of trees—all relatively short in stature.

In fact, you might call it an orchard since it featured an apple tree, cherry trees and a raspberry bush.

And right along our sidewalk, with dozens of branches hanging overhead, a mulberry tree.

Every spring into summer, the mulberries fell like rain.

Fun for a kid on a hot afternoon. Scrumptious to be sure.

Fun for the birds too, who plopped their colorful calling cards onto the sidewalk amidst the purples and blue stains.

I’ve always wanted to write a story about those trees, and the headache it caused for my mom when I would come in with a stained shirt, shorts or shoe.

Fast forward to a few weeks back when, walking along the Missouri River, I found myself once more under a canopy of dropping mulberries, dodging the little landmines on the trail even while I enjoyed the shade against the afternoon heat.  Ahead of me, a young woman with a Great Dane was pulling mightily on his leash, scolding him for scarfing up the free fruit.

And just like that, the following story came together.

So I was again surprised by how stories can spring into life. But another surprise waited when I sat down to the keyboard.

As the first few sentences came out, the voice seemed familiar.

Sensing, er…”Poe-tential,”  I listened to the voice and ended up with one of the few pastiche stories I’ve ever written.

As you know, a pastiche is work done in a style that imitates another work, artist, or period (Thanks, Google!).

If you don’t get it from the title, it won’t be hard to quickly see where “Tell Tail” got its last bit of inspiration. 

It was a fun one to write. I hope you have fun reading it. 

You can read Tell Tail by clicking here. Please drop a comment and let me know what you think.

After growing up on a Nebraska farm, Richard Prosch worked as a professional writer, artist, and teacher in Wyoming, South Carolina, and Missouri. His western crime fiction captures the fleeting history and lonely frontier stories of his youth where characters aren’t always what they seem, and the windburned landscapes are filled with swift, deadly danger. In 2016, Richard roped the Spur Award for short fiction given by Western Writers of America. Read more at www.RichardProsch.com

The Story Behind the Story: The Oddsmakers

Today, it's my second post focusing on the fictioneers part of Western Fictioneers. Every month I'll put up a free story, guaranteed to be less than a month old, and take a look behind the scenes at where it came from.

This one turned up easier than usual --though I was behind at the first of the month and had no idea what I would do for April's post.  

Here's the straight dope:

I was at my regular table in the local coffee shop typing away at something when this man walked in and picked a fight with the guy behind the roaster.

Now the young people who burn the beans in this place are just that: young. And not to sound like somebody's ageist grandpa, but when you talk to them there's usually some sort of overblown drama going on in their lives. Money, parents, grades, money, love interests, money.  We've all been there or soon will be. Nobody escapes.

So, drama. Slightly raised voices. A few swear words. I didn't worry about it. 

Until the guy turned out to be a nutcase. No kidding.

He stomped outside, was gone a couple minutes, then banged the door back open. His return didn't take him to the roaster. This time, he yelled at us --the customers.

Unlucky us.

I thought of the old horseshoe my grandpa had hanging open side up on his barn door. In my mind, the shoe turned upside down.

There were five of us in a relatively small space. Me at one table, a retired business type at a table in the corner, a Mary Kay lady just in front of him, and two teenage girls in school uniforms doing their homework beside the fireplace.

The crazy man started calling the roaster guy names. Then he chastised us for breathing the same air as such a scumbag. The nice girl behind the counter told him he should leave.

And she called him by name--which meant she knew him, which made it that much worse. If you talk to cops, they'll tell you domestic confrontations, fights between friends and relatives, are just hell on earth. 

She said it again, "I think you should leave."

And what the guy said next sent a jolt through me and forced the five of us customers to lock eyes.

He said, and I quote: "I don't give a ____ about what you think. I don't give a ____ about you. Or any of these people. You're ALL in for some deep ____ now." (Fill in with the expletive of your choice.)

Right there, the girls by the fireplace just about lost it. 

Me, I had my phone out and was thumbing 9-1-1. 

So many stories hit the media about public shootings that this seemed like a replay of the same old script. Obviously the guy went out, got a gun, and came back right?  Now he's pointing his anger at the crowd. We all know what comes next.

But I never actually saw a gun. There was no gun.

And then--just like that--the guy turned and stomped out of the place.

It was over as fast as it had escalated. 

Just as fast as you read it --that's how fast it started and stopped.  This time instead of initiating a grisly news story, the crazy man peeled out of the parking lot in a snit.

Believe me every one of us payed very close attention as he drove off down the street. 

Then we looked at each other again. Lucky survivors.

The horseshoe was again right side up.

Finally, the business guy in the corner broke the tension. He said, "Y'know, for a second there, I sorta thought our number was up."

Everybody nodded and smiled and agreed, chuckling with relief.

Then the Mary Kay lady said. "I thought so too. In fact, I probably would've bet on it."

And there --POW--in my imagination was the entire story: "The Oddsmakers."  What if something like this happened in the old west?  Some kind of confrontation that promised violence? Rather than freeze in terror or call for help, what if somebody decided to bet on it?

I immediately saved what I was working on, opened a new document and started typing.  I got about 400 words into it, then quit for the afternoon.

That night I wrote the rest of the story.  Hope y'all get a kick out of it. 

Please read The Oddsmakers here.

After growing up on a Nebraska farm, Richard Prosch worked as a professional writer, artist, and teacher in Wyoming, South Carolina, and Missouri. His western crime fiction captures the fleeting history and lonely frontier stories of his youth where characters aren’t always what they seem, and the windburned landscapes are filled with swift, deadly danger. In 2016, Richard roped the Spur Award for short fiction given by Western Writers of America. Read more at www.RichardProsch.com