WRITERS GUILD OF TEXAS NEWS
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Flash Fiction Contest Underway!
See Contest Page for More Details
2023 Flash Fiction Contest Winners
2nd Place Award Winner:
Rescue, Out of This World
by Alice Wooten
The summer was coming to an end and school would start in a few weeks. Three years ago, when I was ten and my sister, Julie, was eight, Dad started an annual tradition of taking us on an end-of-the-summer, learning, camping trip. Dad was a middle school science teacher and there was a lesson in everything we did. He always had science experiments, magical tricks, and nature walks to identify foliage and wildlife. Fun adventures tempered with learning.
“Well, kiddos, it’s time again for our camping weekend. James, you, and Julie may want to bring the new telescope we built this spring. I’m sure there’ll be some great constellations we can see with the clear skies we’ve been having.”
Julie and I simultaneously shouted, “Yea!”
We were at that glorious, nerdy age where we thought our parents knew everything, and it was fun to hang out with them. Oh, did I mention our dogs, Trixie and Russell, would be joining us on our trip. They were always up for an adventure.
Mom would not be joining us. Although we had progressed from tents to an RV, she preferred to spend time with her younger sister, Aunt Taylor, while we enjoyed nature.
Preparations began. Dad was a grill master, but Mom always packed a small feast. I think it eased her conscience to prepare a nice meatloaf or brisket and some great sides in case we failed to catch fish. She always included staples like chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and rice crispy treats.
The big day arrived. Dad packed the RV, hooked up the trailer with our canoe, and we headed out early Friday afternoon. We waved goodbye to Mom and Aunt Taylor and began the short, hour drive to a camping spot at a nearby lake. We passed several campsites but knew exactly where we wanted to stop.
“Here it is kiddos, our special spot,” Dad announced.
“Can we go fish, Dad?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Julie chimed in.
“Sure,” Dad agreed.
We offloaded the canoe and within a few minutes, we were fishing.
We caught enough fish for supper. Dad cleaned and grilled them. Coupled with Mom’s mac and cheese, they made a great supper. Dad suggested we make a small campfire and light our lanterns before we went for an evening near the center of the lake for a look at some constellations. We would wait for the telescope until tomorrow when we had more time to set it up.
It would be dark by the time we got back, so we lit lanterns around the camp, tethered Trixie and Russell near the RV, and left the campsite ready-to-use when we returned. We took turns rowing the canoe, but Dad did most of it. It was peaceful and quiet except for the crickets chirping, the frogs croaking, and the occasional trout splashing on the water’s surface. To offset the chill in the air, Julie and I wrapped ourselves with our blankets.
As we headed back to the shore, we were awestruck by an eerie scene on shore from the “safety” of our canoe. Tall, I mean really tall, like over seven feet, extraterrestrial-like creatures grabbed our lanterns and started waving them around like they didn’t know how to use them.
Our dogs were always friendly, but by the pitch of their barks, they were scared out of their doggie minds. They cowered under the RV and whimpered pitifully.
My heart pounded, and my mouth was dry. The light from the fire and the lanterns was dim, but the creatures were visible.
I screamed, “Look Dad, aliens!”
Dad tried to stifle my scream, but it was too late. Despite still being a distance from the shore, my voice traveled across the water. The creatures heard me. They quickly swung the lanterns higher to look toward the scream’s origin. The lanterns’ beams fell all around us. Shock and panic engulfed Julie and me as we quickly sought shelter under our blankets.
Dad instructed, “Be quiet.” Talk about a teaching moment.
He started to row toward the shore to get a better view of the creatures. Probably other campers playing a prank. The human-like creatures walked closer to the water’s edge. As Dad tried to evaluate the situation, anxiety overcame him, and he dropped both oars. We were now literally up the lake without a paddle.
Julie and I peeked from under our blankets. The creatures recognized our peril and huddled together as though deciding what to do about our predicament. There were three of them. Their stature was human-like, but their disproportionately large hands made it difficult for them to hold the lanterns upright.
They put down the lanterns and pointed toward us. Our canoe started to gently rise above the water. Supernatural indeed. Julie and I were astonished and looked wide-eyed as we hovered several inches above the water. It was a gently lifting sensation and we steadily moved closer toward the shore. As we reached the shore, Dad jumped out and pulled the canoe onto land. We were no longer suspended above the surface.
The three creatures stood stoically and dropped their arms. Julie and I sat in a frozen state looking at each other. The dogs peeked from underneath the RV.
The creatures backed away slowly. Always calm, Dad raised his hand and gave a friendly wave. They looked at each other and imitated Dad’s wave. They walked backwards until they were out of sight in the star-filled night.
We calmed the dogs and huddled around the campfire to ascertain what we had witnessed. I was convinced it was one of Dad’s magic tricks, you know, like holograms. We waited for Dad to confess.
Julie pointed to the sky and exclaimed, “Look Dad, a meteor!”
“No,” Dad said, “Not a meteor. That’s the spacecraft of the friends who saved us tonight.”
A chill ran down my spine.
Maybe not holograms.
Honorable Mention Award Winner:
Song of the Siren
by Tiffany Seitz
“Excuse me, ma’am. We are arriving at your destination.”
Assana turned, smiling as she accepted the nervous sailor’s arm. He escorted her to the rusted railing.
“There ‘tis, ma’am.” The young man pointed at a brown lump of rock in the middle of a blue-gray sea. It was her first opportunity to view her new home. Her prison.
“Carter!” A shout came from behind her. “Return to your duties and leave this…creature be.”
The sailor protested, “But, sir—”
“You are dismissed, Mr. Carter.” Commander Evans closed in to supervise both his sailor and his prisoner. Assana kept her features neutral in light of his disapproval.
“Aye, sir.” An apology in his eyes, Seaman Carter bowed to her before following orders.
“You will not use your wiles on my men,” the commander growled, stepping to the rail and faced her.
She almost laughed, considering the ship sailed with a skeleton crew—a precaution deemed necessary by the court considering the passenger and her crime. Other than the captain and Mr. Carter, the sailors had stayed out of her view.
“That’s a shame, Captain,” she purred. “Mr. Carter was helpful in pointing out my newest abode.”
“It’s more than you deserve.” Evans glared at her. “Ten fine men are missing because of your feminine wiles, including my first lieutenant.” He shook his head. “You should have swung for your crimes. Confinement on a deserted island is too kind for the likes of you.”
The look in his eye served as a warning before he left her side.
She said nothing. Considered a danger to mankind, she faced exile for the disappearances. She’d been accused of their murders but couldn’t be convicted without evidence. The investigators and the prosecutors were most vexed by the realization that there were no bodies. But that didn’t stop the persecution. Neighbors, friends, people she’d never met came forth to bear witness to her alleged crimes. The all-male judge and jury determined her guilt and sentence within minutes based on a single thread of evidence found in her bed—a strand of wool matching one missing man’s coat.
The commander was the only volunteer to administer the sentence. Even his crew had been hesitant to join the mission. In his arrogance, the commander had promised double wages for the crossing. When enticement wasn’t successful, other incentives were employed.
The wind whipped at her full skirts and pinned hair as she watched the looming island draw closer. Her new home was isolated; the only approach was by boat. A small hut served as the only habitable shelter—or so she’d been informed. Arrangements for food and clean water were to be delivered monthly, but she would have contact with no others. Ever. Little did they know she would be surrounded by the only thing a siren needed—the sea.
She inhaled the sweet, salty aroma. Trapped on land for too long, she was finally returning to the sea. The wind whistled as the sails brought her closer to her prison—her home. Waves beat a welcoming rhythm against the rocks. She smiled, humming the familiar seductive tune as the ship docked. She was home.
“Commander,” Assana called over the song of the waves against the rocks. “I will need a tour of my new home.”
Mr. Carter had been kind. He would survive to bear witness. The captain? He would disappear.
New Publications by Tiffany Seitz
Our fearless Leader/President, Tiffany Seitz (TASeitz.com), has new stories in the following publications available on Amazon and other booksellers. Congratulations, Tiffany!
On the Rocks in Detectives, Sleuths, & Nosy Neighbors: Beard, Mark, Cedeño, N M, Falenwolfe, Tracy: 9798223961536, May 17, 2024.
A Vague Threat in Notorious in North Texas: Metroplex Mysteries Volume III Kindle Edition by Sisters in Crime North Dallas. Michael Bracken (Editor), eBook, April 20, 2024.
Notorious in North Texas: Metroplex Mysteries Volume III Paperback – by Sisters in Crime North Dallas. Michael Bracken (Editor), Print Book, April 20, 2024.
Collaborating Writers Publish Anthology
Anthology including WGT writers
A sister writers' group, Carrollton League of Writers, launched its third anthology on February 29, 2024. The Sky We Touch is available on Amazon and features 78 stories and poems from 16 authors. From love stories to ghost stories, nostalgia to the future, and from non-fiction to magical realism, The Sky We Touch covers all genres and spans the spectrum of emotions. Several members of the Carrollton League of Writers are also members of the Writers Guild of Texas (WGT).
Update From the President
It's a busy time for everyone, including writers, and WGT is no exception. Our intrepid Program Coordinator, Tamara Warner, has been diligently trying to secure a speaker and a location for our October meeting. Despite her efforts, the speakers she approached had conflicts and were not able to share their expertise with us this month. The good news is that they are willing to join us at a later time, so we won't miss out. We are now putting our attention on a workshop for our members in November and our Christmas party in December.
In the meantime, enjoy the cooler weather and happy writing!
Tiffany Seitz
Flash Fiction Contest Underway!
Deadline October 24, 2023
See Contest Page for More Details
2022 Flash Fiction Contest
1st Place Award Winner:
"Extenuating"
by B.J. Condike
“Just get on with it, Tony!” the detective said. “Tell me what happened at the restaurant tonight.”
“Okay, okay. But it started long before tonight, you know? It all began in 1965...”
***
I was working at Howdy’s Hamburgers that spring—remember them? Curt Gowdy used to do their commercials. He’d start with his signature phrase, “Howdy! I’m Curt Gowdy,” and then go on with the schmaltzy ad. I was earning money to pay my first year’s college tuition, and I really needed the job.
Anyway, it was Friday night. There was the usual rowdy crowd after a basketball game,and that evening the kids acted abnormally crazy. The usual jerks would drink beer and get wild.One jerk always bugged me more than the others, and that was Erik Carlson.
About ten o’clock Carlson swaggered up to the counter. I could tell he was lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Hey, Rocco,” he said, “I see you’re still slinging burgers.”
“My name’s Tony and you know it. What do you want, Carlson?”
“What I don’t want is your attitude, Burger Boy. I want three burgers, two fries, and a Coke. And extra pickles on the burgers.” He leaned into the window and leered at Maria. “I like pickles, don’t you, Maria?”
He was speaking to Maria Esposito, who manned the fryer that night. She ignored Erik and busied herself with the French fries, but I could see color rising to her face.
“That’ll be seventy-six cents, Erik.”
“Wait a minute. You didn’t ring it up. How do you know how much it is?”
“Because I do this for a living.”
“Yeah? Well I don’t believe you. Prove it.”
“Three hamburgers at fourteen cents is forty-two cents.” The register chinged as I slammed the keys. “Two fries at eleven cents is twenty-two cents.” Ching. “And one Coke at twelve cents is twelve cents.” Ching. “Your total is therefore seventy-six cents.” Ching-ching. “Which you would have known if you hadn’t flunked Mr. Hobbs’ math class in eighth grade.”
Carlson sneered and said, “You just got lucky.” He tossed a dollar bill on the counter.
A few minutes later, Carlson elbowed his way to the front of the line.
“Hey, Burger Boy! I told you extra pickles!” He waved a half-eaten burger in my face. “I got no pickles! None!” He peeled away the bun and thrust the mess of ketchup, mustard, and chopped onions at my nose.
Instinctively I leaned back. Erik wound up in a fastball motion and pitched the burger at my head. I ducked and heard a shriek behind me. I turned to see a startled Maria with a half a burger stuck to her hair, and red, yellow, and white splattered over her face and uniform.
I had a thing for Maria. I think she liked me too, but I had yet to work up the courage to ask her out.
I snapped. We kept squeeze bottles by the register for customers who wanted to drench their fries in ketchup. I grabbed one, pointed it at Carlson, and squeezed with both hands, spewing ketchup over his blonde hair and white letter sweater. His resulting red, blonde, and white appearance reminded me of Carlson’s burger. There were no pickles on him, either.
Erik roared, grabbed my shirt, and hauled me over the counter and through the window. Despite his superior size, it was an awkward move, and we tumbled to the floor with me on top. I heard an “Oof” from Erik and he lay still.
When I stood up, my white uniform was smeared in ketchup. We used an industrial brand of ketchup made with Red Dye Number 2, making it a deep red. Some called it blood red.
A co-ed saw me and screamed, then another. One of the parochial school kids punched a public-school kid. Soon everyone was fighting. Someone ran to the parking lot to fetch the cops who were always there on game nights. They called for back-up. And an ambulance. The cops shut down Howdy’s that night.
***
“That explains your arrest record,” the detective said. “What’s the rest of the story?”
“The rest of the story is that the Howdy’s manager fired me and wouldn’t give me a reference. Between that and my arrest record I couldn’t get the jobs I needed to earn money for college, so never went. I gave what money I had to my brother Leo, and he went to school instead. He graduated in restaurant management and opened the Gondola restaurant here in town.”
“Where you were working tonight as a waiter.”
“Yeah. Don’t get me wrong. I like my brother, and I’m thankful he lets me work there, but he makes us wear these ridiculous outfits.” I stood up to display a white shirt and green pants, with a red sash tied at the hip like a cummerbund. Red spots peppered the shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting. “I know they’re the colors of Italy’s flag and everything, but I look like an underprivileged pirate. Besides, who wears white in an Italian restaurant? All that marinara...”
“What has that got to do with tonight?”
“It shows motivation and state of mind. There are extenuating circumstances around what happened.”
“Let’s get to that.”
“So, I’m walking by this table tonight, and I hear someone say, ‘What’s that smell? It must be another Dago greaseball waiter.
“I turned, and there was Erik Carlson wearing a sneer, with his wife Maria at his side. Yeah, that Maria. And sitting on the table was a squeeze bottle of ketchup. It triggered me, you know? For the second time in my life I lost it.”
“And?”
“The squeeze bottle was within easy reach. But so was the steak knife. I don’t know what came over me. I grabbed the knife and stabbed him. I’m not sure how many times. I got tired after a while. Like I said, there were extenuating circumstances.”
Weiss Cracking
Monthly illustrations are courtesy of Jerry Weiss, former WGT President.
Newsletter, April 2023
WGT Newsletter, April 2023
Next Meeting: April 17th
WHEN: Monday, April 17 @ 7pm
TOPIC: Research Tips for Writers with Marj Atkinson
DESCRIPTION: As an author, you know the importance of research when it comes to writing. At times, you may find yourself researching for hours and still not getting the results you need.
Don’t sweat it! We’re going to Ask Marj for help!
👩💻🧑💻 Grab your notepads and charge your laptops! Don’t have a laptop? Well, thanks to advances to technology, we have the World Wide Web at our fingertips with tablets and smartphones. Whatever computerized doohickey you have to access on the internet, please don’t forget to that you’ll need it on April 17th because…👇
Research expert, Marj Atkinson, has designed a workshop session to help you understand the basics of research and how to perform effective online research for your writing projects, including keyword techniques to get more precise results. Why do we need to bring our laptop or fancy computerized doohickey? For doing research exercises together, but of course.
We will take a close look at the process involved in performing online research and how to use the information found on specific online resources. We will utilize search engines like Google and also navigate the public library databases. We will cover the fundamentals of research, including the importance of taking the time to consume what we’ve found and how it can help us discover new ways to search for information!
We will also discuss how to use AI tools such as OpenAI’s ChatGPT, Google Bard, Bing Chat, including their pros and cons.
By the end of this session, we’ll will be able to:
Understand the fundamentals of research and how to perform effective online research
Identify reliable online resources
Discover new search techniques to find relevant information
Combine ideas to create comprehensive content for writing projects
Utilize new AI such as Google Bard, Bing Chat, and ChatGPT to assist with writing projects
WHERE:
In-Person: Richardson Public Library (basement program room)
[no registration needed to attend in-person]
OROnline: Zoom, but you must register for the link.
2022 Flash Fiction Contest
2nd Place Award Winner:
"Bjorn Was Here"
by Tiffany Seitz
Bjorn stood at the helm of his decades-old light star cruiser, Icarus, ignoring the console’s flashing lights and incessant alarms. Glued together by his own blood and spit, the single-manned vessel had seen better days, but none so great as this. Today, he would reach his ultimate goal—Arrokoth—winning glorious accolades and wagered fortunes. The flat, snowman-shaped planetoid floated with Pluto in the icy Kuiper Belt beyond the rings of Neptune. No one had yet bothered to send a manned expedition to the Belt, deeming the frigid temperatures too dangerous.
Bjorn had nothing to lose in this quest—except maybe his cruiser and his life—but even his grandfather’s good name would not vanish from the annals of time thanks to this endeavor. He would be the first to do the unthinkable.
He checked the cartograph for the umpteenth time, then gave it a solid whack. Another alert lit up, but otherwise, nothing changed. His stiff hands gripped the wheel to keep a steady course. Visions of the Vikings of old crossed his mind. He caught his reflection in an uncracked window of the cockpit. He imagined himself as a sturdy Norseman, with frigid wind streaming through his unbound hair and a braided beard beating at his chest, commanding his longboat against nature’s unruly tempests in search of adventure and unplundered lands. A man whose name and claim on history were lost for eternity.
No one believed Bjorn could do it. Most predicted his ship would fall to its namesake’s fate. He ignored the lesser mortals who ridiculed his goal and doubted his fortitude. No one supported his success. Wagers had been placed with all odds on the manner of his failure and demise. He had ignored all the nay-sayers. He had evaded all attempts to capture his cruiser and put him in an asylum.
And now he had arrived.
The unwelcoming Belt of Kuiper aimed to freeze the innards of the Icarus, while Arrokoth sat alone in space—fused together by a primeval force—its gray stone bland and barren. He drew the ship close to the smaller end of the planetesimal and released the anchor. The chain rattled through the chamber until a resounding thunk told him the ship was secure. A yellow warning light now blinked red. Bjorn gave it the same attention he gave the others. The chunk of floating, red-hued rock awaited him.
He could simply take pictures and return in triumph, but that would not be proof enough. No. Like the explorers of old, he would leave his mark for all to ponder.
Outfitted for the cold and burning with determination, Bjorn approached the portal. A small window creaked opened at his command. The sub-zero atmosphere filled the chamber. With the cruiser’s mechanisms glaciating, he worked quickly. Once finished, he secured the portal and returned to the warm helm to thaw and resume the course home to collect his due.
Glancing back from the cockpit as the Icarus raised anchor, he admired his handiwork. Etched in the rocky surface of the trans-Neptunian rock were the words meant to secure his immortality:
Bjornsson was here.
Newsletter, March 2023
WGT Newsletter, March 2023
Next Meeting: March 27th
WHEN: Monday, March 27 @ 7pm
TOPIC: "Lessons from a Cupbearer: Building the Walls of Your Writing Career" with Jeaninne Stokes
DESCRIPTION: All writers at some point consider how to use experiences and life lessons to aid in planning, developing, creating relatability in, and bringing life to our writing. Christian based writers and authors are not exempt from obstacles and the need to build these qualities into written pieces. Author and author coach, Jeaninne Stokes, will discuss how we are building the walls of our writing career by examining the lessons that can be learned from prophet Nehemiah as he rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem. This discussion is open to all writers.
WHERE:
In-Person: Richardson Public Library (basement program room)
[no registration needed to attend in-person]
OROnline: Zoom, but you must register for the link.
2022 Flash Fiction Contest
3rd Place Award Winner:
"Treasure Island"
by Yasmin Waring
She was his treasure he had told her when he took her from the island.
It was rainy season. The torrents poured hot, steaming the red earth with their heat. A girl as skinny as the limbs of the spiny trees that sprouted like endless fingers along the island’s coast caught the buccaneer’s eye at market as he haggled over sacked tendrils of vanilla. He indulged in the bargain on occasion, during port stops while the crew restocked.
He saw her glide through the muddy stalls with a strange bird perched on her shoulder—a pink-beaked, gray-feathered parrot that looked as if it weighed more than she did. The French had established a prosperous slave port here on the Red Island. He had no taste for trading in flesh, though he had no guilt over the duplicities that had fattened his pockets and equipped him with a ship and crew.
She was stunning, despite shapeless hips and a flat breast. Tall like the English Cypress in his homeland, her black the shade that could be found in a ruby’s prism. He found himself short of breath when she passed by. The bird eyed him, but she did not.
“What is your name Miss?” He called after her, hoping she spoke his language.
“No good! No good! Awwk!”
The bird spoke English.
He ran after the girl, reaching for her hand. The Vasa nearly attacked him for the offense, puffing up its chest while it squawked its alarm.
“What do they call you?” she said, still not looking at him as she quieted her pet.
“John Silver. Captain John Silver.”
She repeated his name with the hint of a French accent mingled with her native dialect. They stared at each other. Both had stopped breathing.
“Come away with me!” he said dizzy with affection.
“My father will ask a bride price you may not be willing to pay,” she said.
“Just tell me your name and I’ll gladly pay any price.”
She whispered it in his ear and he smiled.
They left the island as man and wife. His leg for her hand a bounty he never regretted.
Weiss Cracking
Monthly illustrations are courtesy of Jerry Weiss, former WGT President.