December Stories

  

I've had two short stories published this month. I'm not saying that's either important or interesting, except that I needed a topic to write about today, and I happened to realize that in a sense it is sort of interesting, at least to me. Because those two stories were (1) different from each other in almost every way, (2) published in two extremely different kinds of publications, and (3) written the very same week, many months ago.

The first of the stories was "Celebration Day," published on December 6 in Von Stray's Crimestalker Casebook and edited by Andrew McAleer. This magazine is a rebirth of the old Crimestalker Casebook from twenty-plus years ago (also edited by Andrew), and is something I've been looking forward to seeing ever since I first heard about it, last year. I had already published a couple of stories in the former version of the magazine (in 1999 and 2004), and I remember it as a good experience. I also remember enjoying all the other stories that appeared in its pages. Andrew's a great editor, by the way.

"Celebration Day" is short, 1800 words, and is set in the rural South in no particular time period. (That unmentioned date is not as important as you might think; there are many areas in the Deep South--some of my favorite places, actually--that can seem, at first glance, almost unchanged over the past fifty or sixty years.) Summarywise, the story takes place in only one room of one farmhouse, over a period of no more than twenty minutes or so, and involves only two characters: a husband and wife. The situation is simple: hubby has come home unexpectedly in the middle of the day because the boss of the plant where he works didn't show up to unlock the place. Even more strange is that several other workers have gone missing as well. The reason, of course, is the story's mystery, and the center of the plot.

The other story, "Eight in the Corner," was published on December 14 in Issue #224 of Black Cat Weekly, by editor and publisher John Betancourt and associate editor Michael Bracken. This story, my 20th in BCW, was also a finalist for the 2025 Al Blanchard Award, so Michael kindly agreed to have the publisher wait until after that November announcement to run the story in Black Cat Weekly.

At 3300 words, this story is almost twice as long as the other one, it features more scenes and more characters, it's sort of a coming-of-age story, it's set in Boston in the mid-1950s . . . and it was published in a print magazine (BCW is an electronic publication). In fact, its only similarity to the first story is that all the action happens at one place--in this case, an old neighborhood pool hall.

The protagonist of "Eight in the Corner" is a ten-year-old boy named Billy Coleman, who spends most of his after-school and weekend time in the poolroom, watching the grownups's games and and listening to them talk and dragging a little wooden stool around to stand on so that he can play too, alone and eager to learn. In this story Billy winds up learning more, though, than how to play pocket billiards. He learns a life lesson, and from an unlikely teacher: a young stranger who arrives at the pool hall to challenge a local expert, who also happens to be a ruthless crime boss with a past that's linked to the stranger's. FYI, the title of this story has a double meaning: the pool hall's name is The Corner Pocket, often shortened to just The Corner, and there's a total of eight people in the place at the time of the final and fateful game.

The fact that these two stories bear almost no resemblance to each other isn't surprising to me, because--as I said--one of them was written right after the other. And if I remember correctly, never in my so-called writing career have I ever written stories back-to-back that were in any way alike. Why? Because I don't think that would be much fun. One of the reasons I like writing short is the freedom to write stories that are far different from each other. That keeps the process interesting, to me. Switching things around--different plot, different kinds of characters, different settings in both time and place, different POVs--keeps me from getting bored with all this. Or at least I guess it does, because I'm not. 

A note of explanation: I practice what I suppose is a literary version of chain-smoking. Ever since I began writing for publication in the mid-'90s, I've usually started a new short story as soon as I write END on the previous story. I'm not saying I always start typing it then, but it's in my head and I start thinking about it. And I'm also not saying that's good or bad--that's just the way I do it.

 

How about you? If you're a writer of short fiction, do you consciously try to vary the kinds of stories you produce, especially the ones that are written back-to-back? Would you instead rather stick to one comfortable type of story for most of your writing? Or does it matter to you? Are you more concerned about what certain markets, themed anthologies, etc., might be wanting at the time? (I can see how that could override other preferences.) On another subject, do you usually write stories one after the other, lighting the new one off the butt of the last, or do you take a break between projects, in order to recharge? If so, how long a break? Do you ever work on more than one story at the same time?

Ah, well. Different strokes. Whichever ways you do it, keep it up.

I always need new stories to read.

Holiday Tradition: A Very Tom Waits Christmas

Mirimax

I pulled on Santa’s sleigh
Christmas Eve was dark, and the snow fell like cocaine off some politician’s coffee table
Rudolph looked to the sky. He had a shiny nose, but it was from too much vodka
He said, “Boys, it’s gonna be a rough one this year.”

I pulled on Santa’s sleigh
The elves scrambled to pack up the last of the lumps of coal for deserving suburban brats
And a bottle of Jamie for some forgotten soul whose wife just left him
Santa’s like that. He’s been there.
Oh, he still loves Mrs. Claus, a spent piece of used sleigh trash who
Makes good vodka martinis, knows when to keep her mouth shut
But it’s the loneliness, the loneliness only Santa knows

I pulled on Santa’s sleigh
And the workshop reeks of too much peppermint
The candy canes all have the names of prostitutes
And Santa stands there, breathing in the loneliness
The loneliness that creeps out of the main house
And out through the stables
Sometimes it follows the big guy down the chimneys
Wraps itself around your Tannenbaum and sleeps in your hat

I pulled on Santa’s sleigh
We all line up for the annual ride
I’m behind Vixen, who’s showin’ her age these days
She has a certain tiredness that comes with being the only girl on the team
Ah, there’s nothing wrong with her a hundred dollars wouldn’t fix
She’s got a teardrop tattooed under her eye now, one for every year Dancer’s away

I pulled on Santa’s sleigh and
I asked myself, “That elf. What’s he building in there?”
He has no elf friends, no elf children
What’s he building in there?
He doesn’t make toys like the other elves
I heard he used to work for Halliburton,
And he’s got an ex-wife in someplace called Santa Claus, Indiana
But what’s he building in there?
We got a right to know.

I pulled on Santa’s sleigh
And we’re off
Off into the night
Watching the world burn below
All chimney red and Halloween orange

I’ve seen it all
I’ve seen it all
Every Christmas Eve, I’ve seen it all
There’s nothing sadder than landing on a roof in a town with no cheer.

Antiochus IV Epiphanes: Why We “Draw the Line” (CA. 215–164 B.C.)

After reading [the senate decree] through [Antiochus] said he would call his friends into council and consider what he ought to do. Popilius, stern and imperious as ever, drew a circle round the king with the stick he was carrying and said, ‘Before you step out of that circle give me a reply to lay before the senate.’ For a few moments [Antiochus] hesitated, astounded at such a peremptory order, and at last replied, ‘I will do what the senate thinks right.’ Not till then did Popilius extend his hand to the king as to a friend and ally.

—Titus Livius (Livy), Ab Urbe Condita (The History of Rome)

Gotta love this guy: a propagandist of the first order, his years in Rome had impressed upon him the futility of fighting that resourceful people and of the importance of staying on their good side. A usurper (no surprise, considering how many Hellenistic monarchs were), he stole the throne from a nephew he later murdered after first marrying the boy’s mother. Antiochus was remembered by the ancient Hebrews as the evil king whose coming was predicted by their prophet Daniel. 

Antiochus was the son of Antiochus III, who ruled the Seleucid Empire (which included parts of present-day Syria, Turkey, Iraq, Iran, and Pakistan). Our Antiochus spent many years as a political hostage to the Roman Republic after a peace treaty between the two countries was established. After his father died, Antiochus’s older brother, Seleucus IV, succeeded to the throne. Antiochus was recalled from Rome, while Seleucus’s older son was sent there as a more appropriate political hostage from the new king. When Seleucus was murdered, his older son was still in Rome. Antiochus took the opportunity to seize the throne, at first calling himself co-ruler. 

It took Antiochus a few years to get around to murdering his nephew. After consolidating his power base, Antiochus next went to war with the much weaker neighboring kingdom of Egypt, all but conquering it before being confronted by the Roman ambassador, Popilius, who demanded that Antiochus withdraw from Egypt or face war with the Roman Republic. This is the source of the adage of “drawing a line in the sand” (as laid out in the quotation that opens this chapter). Antiochus did not step over the line, but retreated from Egypt.

A Renaissance look at the “line in the sand.”

By this time broke and really pissed off, Antiochus decided to loot the city of Jerusalem and its venerable temple on his way home to Syria. In his eyes, it was merely a way of catching the Hebrews up on their back taxes. The Hebrews didn’t see it that way, and when rioting ensued, Antiochus made the serious mistake of trying to suppress the Jewish religion. 

Sept Maccabées, by 
Audierne Saint-Germain

The reasonably foreseeable result was the famous Maccabean uprising. You may have heard of a traditional celebration called Hanukkah? Commemorates the rededication of the temple after Judah Maccabee kicked the Seleucid king’s butt? This is that. Later Seleucid kings agreed to allow the Hebrews their religious freedom and limited political autonomy. By that time, Antiochus had kicked off himself, dying suddenly while fighting rebels in Iran.

And on that note, Happy Hanukkah, and see you in two weeks!

Farewell, Ms. Dereske

My friend Jo Dereske died this year. Like me, she was an academic librarian who lived most of her life in Bellingham, Washington.  She was also a very talented author of mystery novels.

Her most popular books were mystery novels starring  Wilhelmina Zukas, who worked in the public library in Bellehaven, Washington.  (Part of the joke here is that one well-loved neighborhood of Bellingham is named Fairhaven.)  Jo said that she created a fictional version of our city so that she could move a ferry and eliminate a mall.  

It is strange to have such a close relationship between fictional and real places.  Several people told Jo that they used to live in the same apartment building as Miss Zukas, but that building didn't actually exist. 

So what is Helma Zukas like?  Smart, introverted, private, small, neat...the word repressed comes to mind.  Elevators terrify her.  She reluctantly adopts a cat as aloof as herself and since she refuses to name him the vet calls him Boy Cat Zukas.  

Clearly Dereske was playing with the stereotype of the librarian.  But most people in the field loved Miss Zukas.

Because Helma is far too complex and interesting to be a mere stereotype.  Quiet and introverted, yes.  But meek?  Never.  In almost every book she stuns quarrelers into silence with her “silver dime voice.”  In one novel she destroys library records so that the police can’t violate the privacy of a book borrower - in spite of the fact that the police chief, the wonderfully named Wayne Gallant, is her will-they-or-won't-they love interest.

So Helma is a force to be reckoned with.  Now, consider her best friend since fifth grade, Ruth Winthrop.  Ruth is an artist.  She is tall (and wears heels to emphasize it).  She is also loud, brassy, dresses in wild colors and is as easy with men as Helma is not.  Although these two opposites would gladly take a bullet for each other, they can't stand to be in the same room for more than an hour.  Dereske has received many emails from women asking "How do you know about me and my best friend?"

By the way, Jo used to get complaints from readers: "Why did you make Miss Zukas so ugly?"  Well, she was short and had a stubborn lock of hair that fell on her forehead.  Those are the only physical characteristics that are ever mentioned.  Anything else is just in their imaginations.

Clearly author had great ability to connect to her audience. At a conference once she read from Miss Zukas in Death's Shadow a passage in which our heroine refuses to pay what she considers an unjust traffic ticket and is forced to do community service at a homeless shelter.  This included creating a database of the shelters' donors.

Alphabetization resembled assembly-line work, or walking, or what Helma had heard meditation was supposed to be like: mindless, comfortable, nearly a fugue state.  She was unaware of anyone coming or going and worked in a state of silence, only noting occasionally a bead of sweat trickling between her breasts… Her hands flew, paper rustled.  To those who lived by the alphabet, there was something as soothing as a lullaby in the dependability of its order.

When Jo read this I heard embarrassed giggles around me from people who recognized the sensation.   

The first eleven books were published by Avon, which then chose not to renew the contract.  Jo had no complaints; she understood that sales and the economy forced the decision, and she was willing to call the series over.

But her readers insisted  the saga needed an ending.  So Jo self-published Farewell, Miss Zukas,  which ties up most of the  loose strings of the story and brings our heroine to a happy ending.

And speaking of happy endings, I will finish with a favorite passage from Miss Zukas And The Island Murders:

On [Miss Zukas'] desk blotter lay a week-old newspaper article listing ten books a local group, calling themselves Save Your Kids, demanded be withdrawn from the library collection.  Two of the books, including Madonna's SEX, weren't even owned by the library, although twenty-three patrons had requested them since the article appeared…

Eve pointed to the Save Your Kids article on Helma's desk and stuck out her lower lip.  "Why ban Little Red Riding Hood?  What did SHE ever do?"

"I believe it was the wolf who did it," Helma said.  "But don't worry, she's safe.  Fortunately, the Constitution's still in effect."

Farewell, Jo.

Half-Topless?

It's wonderful when story ideas come to mind fully fleshed out so you can sit down and start writing. Or, if you don't have the time to write right away, you can jot down enough notes so that when you have writing time, you can dive in. But writing doesn't always work that way.

I have a big file of story ideas. Some of them are somewhat fleshed out. Others contain a sentence or two followed by the statement: Figure out the plot. (That's always so helpful.) Sometimes I'll have come up with only a good opening line or title, again leaving the hard work for future me. Sometimes I will have a newspaper article that intrigued me, followed by: Can I make something from this? Often the answer turns out to be no. If I had no grand story idea when I was first intrigued, an idea probably isn't going to come years later. But sometimes…

About five years ago, I read a story involving a topless bar that had a word I immediately thought had to be a mistake. At one point, the bar was described as "half-topless." How in the world could a bar be half-topless? It was such delicious wording that I knew I had to make something from it. Yet no matter how much brain power I expended, I couldn't come up with a workable story. So this half-baked idea about a half-topless bar went into the story idea file, where so many others have withered away. 

But not this idea! Earlier this year, editor Andrew McAleer reached out to ask me to write a PI story for him for Von Stray's Crimestalker Casebook. After a two-decade hiatus, the magazine (previously called Crimestalker Casebook) was coming back, starting with a December 2025 issue. My first instinct was to say no. I have been so busy with work that I have been turning down a lot of opportunities over the last two or three years. But Andrew said he wanted a flash story, meaning less than a thousand words. I figured I could fit that short a story into my schedule if I had the right idea. 

I delved into my story file, came across the half-topless prompt, and finally things began to coalesce--evidence that sometimes waiting does help. Suddenly I pictured a PI sitting in his car, staring at a sign that said "half-topless." And I was off and running. The story ended up set at a strip club rather than a bar. I give thanks to my friend Dina Willner, who suggested the name of the club, which in turn suggested the location and enabled me to add more humor to the story. 

A couple of days later, I sent the story to some beta readers for their thoughts. Thanks to Sherry Harris for pushing me to think about my main character's arc. Thanks to Minnesotans Tim Bentler-Jungr and Michael Allan Mallory for checking if my dialogue and Minnesota references worked. 

So what's the story about? It can be hard to talk about a flash story's plot without giving too much away. But it opens with a PI and his trainee sitting in their car, staring in confusion at a strip club's sign that proclaims the place is half-topless. They've been hired to find a woman named Angel Trapp, who they've heard dances there. So they go inside to see if she's there--and learn how somebody could be half-topless.

Some of you may recognize the name of the aforementioned woman: Angel Trapp. The character is named after a real person who won naming rights in a charity auction last spring at the Malice Domestic mystery convention. Thank you, Angel, for being game for anything.

The moral of this story: never throw away your story ideas. It may take years, but sometimes you'll be able to turn a wisp of an idea into a fully fledged tale. In this case, the story is appropriately titled "Half-Topless."

This issue of Von Stray's Crimestalker Casebook is available on Kindle here. I think a paper version will eventually follow. The issue includes stories by fellow SleuthSayers Michael Bracken and John Floyd and a poem by Art Taylor.

Awk. Strike. Huh? Underline. Check.

When I was a kid, there was a daily aphorism published alongside the  funny papers in The Philadelphia Inquirer.  I involuntarily read hundreds of them, but only one stuck in my mind:  “A good father is priceless. Nobody needs a bad father.”

            One could debate the absolute validity of the second half of that, but not if you substitute “editor” for “father”.  I might even substitute “A bad editor is worse than no editor at all.”  This is particularly true when a writer is just starting out, filled with confusion and uncertainty.  The editor in this case is usually someone older, more confident and experienced, at least on paper (so to speak).  It’s the classic power imbalance, where the junior party is highly vulnerable, and the consequences of poor advice can be devastating, even fatal to the nascent creative spirit.

            A good editor, on the other hand, can change your life.  Learning to write is a lot like searching for your contacts in the dark, sailing with a broken compass, fixing a watch wearing oven mitts, or any combination thereof.  Poignantly, the novice writer is aching to improve herself, while her heart is laid bare by the dueling forces of ambition and raging insecurity.  What she needs more than anything is encouragement, any excuse to plow ahead despite the constant threat of embarrassment, or worse, loss of nerve.  A good editor knows this, and guides gently, carefully, instilling knowledge and craft without shattering her fragile emotional state.

            If you think that’s all a bit too precious, you haven’t worked with professional writers, some with years of hard-won experience, yeomanlike work ethic, awards on the shelf, etc.  If you want to get the best work out of them, you first tell them what you like, before telling them what’s missing, what needs to be improved.  A capable writer will know how to listen, how to take direction seriously, but not if you’ve undermined their confidence in what they’re doing.      

            Ultimately, you can’t teach a person to be a good writer.  The same goes for editors, though I think it’s easier for the less capable to hide behind their implicit authority, academic credentials, or the pretense of fashionable standards, and standard practices. 

     

        Editing is not engineering, it’s an art form.  It is not to impose your own preferences on matters of style or subject matter.  It is not to write the book for the writer.  You need a baseline of technical expertise, but the real work is understanding what the author is intending, and helping her achieve that goal. 

            I’ve found that cutting out words, sentences, even paragraphs, is almost always a good idea, but I once had an editor who cut so much I thought she was beguiled by that slashing motion with the red pen.  Lucky for me, I was able to put a lot of it back in again.  Often less is more, but occasionally less is just less.

            I’ve known a few copywriters who failed miserably as creative directors (essentially editors in the advertising business.)  The problem was they wanted to be a player-coach, but always hogged the ball.  The better creative leaders made you do it yourself, as many times as you could stand, until they were satisfied.

            A word about writers groups.  They can be quite useful, and even enriching, if composed of the right people.  I’m in one myself and get a lot out of it.  The members have widely varying levels of experience, but they’re all naturally capable practitioners.  I take everything they say seriously, jumping on the good stuff and letting the rest just drift on by.  But I think these arrangements can be treacherous for inexperienced people –  writers and commentators.  Amateur editors are often either too harsh or too lenient, since they have some notion of the role of editor without the requisite skills to actually ply the craft.  Rookie writers are like survivors of a shipwreck, lurching for any passing debris, without knowing if they’ve glommed onto a sinking mattress or inflatable raft. 

            I have no solution for this, except to advise caution and broaden the field of people examining your work.  Over time, you might learn who to listen to.

            I’ve come to understand that editing, or any form of comment on another person’s work, is an awesome responsibility, for all the reasons touched on above.  It’s not to be taken lightly, but rather humbly, with advice and caution in equal measure.

Ryde Sharing

Long time it’s been, long time since I submitted a flash fiction story for your approbation. These short-shorts are to ordinary fiction as Tik Tok is to NPR podcasts. The goal is to relate a story in a minimum of words.

Bonus: Flash fiction might require the reader to exercise imagination, which can be all the better.

Today’s crime story was sparked by Jim Winter’s “Hi, This is Uber” post quite some time ago. The idea taxied into my brain and I parked it in my brilliant notions file. Recently, I dusted it off, slipped it in the queue, and, as Rod Serling used to say, submit it for your approval.

Enjoy. Thanks for the inspiration, Jim.

The Ryde by Leigh Lundin I drive for Ryde. Late last night in the pouring rain, I picked up a hitchhiker. Shaking out his umbrella, he said, “Are you afraid giving a lift to a serial killer?” I bellowed a laugh. “What are the chances? Two serial killers meeting like this.” I’m afraid his heart wasn’t in it. But I love the many, many opportunities driving for Ryde.