Category Archives: Contests

Goodreads Giveaway: OF SEA AND SAND

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Goodreads Paperback Giveaway Now Ended.

Many thanks to all who entered!

Congratulations to Winners!

 

The Kerrigan Chronicles, Book II: OF SEA AND SAND

Ghostly matriarch Kathleen Kerrigan resumes the compelling saga of her family, whose lives are  hurled into chaos when war uproots their Newfoundland community in 1940.

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My best to you,

Annie Signature Light Blue

When in Doubt, Ask the Universe…

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by @AnnieDaylon

This year (2018) I debated whether or not to continue with writing. What was weighing on me was a commitment I’d made: a trilogy. Could I finish it?

After I published Book I of The Kerrigan Chronicles, rather than writing Book II of this historical suspense trilogy set in Newfoundland, I wrote a modern-day mystery set in Vancouver. I enjoyed writing the mystery and was happy with the outcome but, once it was done, I had no gas left in the tank. I had been trying to do too much… media and marketing and blogging, oh my!  Out of necessity, I stepped back.

After a while, with the phrases “write first” and “just show up” embedded in my philosophy, I slid back in. Not to social media. Just to writing. Slowly, as in fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, one hour a day, the work took shape on the page. Still I agonized over it. 

A few months ago, I woke up with a lump at the base of my throat, literally. It was the size of a Grade A large egg.  (I won’t leave you in suspense. It was diagnosed as a cyst which subsided without medical intervention.) Of course, I didn’t know that then.

That morning, I drank my coffee, did my crossword puzzle, and had a shower before I woke up my husband. “We’ve got trouble,” I told him.

At Emergency, we waited four hours. The doctor I saw told me it could be cancer. “Do you smoke?”

“I quit sixteen years ago.”

“It still could be cancer. We will try to get you in for an ultrasound.”

I went home and, while waiting for my ultrasound  which was scheduled the next day, I started wondering. I’m not young, I had lost a friend to cancer recently, and found myself asking what it was I wanted to do with my life. Two things came up:
1) Would I outlive my dog? (A silly question to some, but dog lovers get this.) I had recently met a lady with an elderly chocolate lab, a dog whose male owner had died and the dog went up to every man it saw, sniffing, searching. I wouldn’t want our precious CoCo to know loss like that.
2) Was I wasting my time with all this writing? Was I meant to finish this Newfoundland story?
All night I wondered and finally just threw the questions to the universe.

The next day, at the Imaging Department of the Chilliwack Hospital, I was pointed toward chairs in the hallway outside the ultrasound rooms. I walked down the hall, sat down, and looked up.  I smiled.

I live in British Columbia which, via the TransCanada Highway is about 7000 kilometres (4350 miles)  from  St. John’s, Newfoundland and yet, on the wall opposite me were posters of three iconic images from Newfoundland, each poster trademarked with the logo of the Department of Tourism, Newfoundland and Labrador.

I didn’t take photos of them at the time, but I wished I had because, when I went back to do that, they were gone, replaced by other images. (What you see above are Shutterstock pics, l-r Iceberg off Cape Bonavista, Cape Spear Light House, Jelly Bean Row Houses in St. John’s.)


Obviously, I’m back, writing, first and foremost, and balancing hush with hustle. Book II, Of Sea and Sand, is falling into place and now I will let it rest in place until the new year sets in.
The take-away?  When in doubt, take a break.
Ask the universe….

All the best, always,

Annie Signature Light Blue

 

 

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P. S. Of Sea and Sand, launched in 2021. Am currently (and happily) working on the final book of The Kerrigan Chronicles trilogy, Of Sea and Soul.

My Write Before Christmas: 2017

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by @AnnieDaylon

 My Write Before Christmas: 2017

It’s my write before Christmas, I’m happy to pen
holiday greetings to all once again.
It’s become a tradition, these wishes in rhyme
To readers and wordsmiths at holiday time.

Authors work solo but none are alone.
It takes a village (an adage well-known)
With thanks in mind, I’m herein highlighting
The best things this year in my world of writing.

At the Heart of the Missing, my latest creation,
Was published in April. I was filled with elation.
My great editors Michael and Ken, I do cheer!
An outstanding job! Readers, check it out here.

I love writing contests. There’s fun with deadlines.
This>Contest Calendar’s< a favorite of mine.
As is Poets & Writers, a site that makes space
For a Contest and Grants and Awards Database.

I’m a Canadian writer. Award lover too.
Whistler Writers and Vivalogue have a contest that’s new.
It’s juried! A first for indie writers.
My book was a finalist so I was invited
To the Whistler Writers Festival this year…
What a venue! It’s gorgeous! A gift to be there!
On Friday, I spoke about Of Sea and Seed,
And then was invited to Vancouver to read
By Margo and Carol from Canadian Authors
I quickly said yes to that fabulous offer!
On Saturday and Sunday, it was time to sell,
Brought more books than required; that served me well.
My thanks to organizers (Kilmeny and Lynn)
I sold lots at Whistler, due to promo by them.


Thanks to all writers, reviewers, and friends,
And bloggers and techies on whom I depend.
Thanks, Mary & Fran for Tea & Critique
Our bi-weekly meetings are fun and unique.

Most of all, here’s to readers, on you we rely,
The work’s not complete until you stop by.
Samuel Johnson once said (and I paraphrase herein)
“A reader finishes what a writer begins.”

With readers in mind, I’m working hard and
Book II of the Kerrigans is Of Sea and Sand.
There’s joy in this writing, my priority one,
Less tweeting and posting until it is done! 

That’s it for this year. Best wishes to you
As 2018 comes into view.
And now, ere December rolls out of sight,
Happy Christmas to all! Have great reads and great writes!

All the best, always,

Annie Signature Light Blue

 

Short Story: Post Mortem

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 From my collection Passages, an autumn story for the autumnal equinox. Enjoy…


© by @AnnieDaylon

Isadora was not willing to renege a lifetime of promise. For years she had planned, scrimped, and saved and now, at last, opportunity was here. She sprinted through the autumn woods, tendrils of silver hair streaming behind her. Every few steps, she let out a delighted laugh. What a sight she must be! An octogenarian in a full-length, black-velvet skirt, with a bulging shoulder purse hammering her titanium hip. And yet, she was dashing along with the agility of an adolescent doe.  

As she neared the clearing, she slowed her pace and kept her eyes down. What if the cabin wasn’t there? For a few seconds, her mind flirted with the extermination of hope and her body responded by coming to a standstill. A sense of fragility imbued her and she felt as one with each crisp leaf she had just crushed beneath thoughtless shoes. With heart and hope plummeting, should she go on?

Overhead, the call of bird and whoosh of wing distracted her. Isadora’s lips curved into a smile. Canada geese. Bidding their annual farewell. She took a deep breath. Wood smoke. A comforting aroma. Emboldened, she raised her head and instantly clapped her hands in glee. It was there, all of it: the old, log cabin with its red-brick chimney; the faded, inebriated-looking Adirondack chair; the window boxes with their peeling, green paint and stubborn, pink geraniums. Still blooming. Amazing.

She felt content to linger, to stare, but a blast of cold air slapped her, snaked under her billowing skirt, and caused her whole body to shudder. She clutched her purse to her chest and rushed to the rickety porch steps which whined in protest as she climbed. Sidling up to the door, she knocked. A timid knock. She waited.

As Isadora hovered, another gust of wind sent leaves flying. They swirled and spiralled around her and fell at her feet in a mosaic of ochre, red and brown. Autumn. She grimaced. To some, autumn meant renewal. To her? Her whole life, she had watched as autumn approached, encroached, and retreated, taking all living things with it.

Isadora recalled her first encounter with autumn’s cruelty. She had been playing outside and a single oak leaf, which had magically turned from green to yellow, had fluttered down and landed on her shoe. She snatched it up and ran home, intent on show-and-tell with Mommy, by the fireplace. But an eerie sound emanating from the house caused her to hesitate, to peer through a side window instead of entering. Her eyes widened and flooded as she watched her father fall to his knees, wailing, at her mother’s bedside. Interspersed with his cries, were words of regret and apology. Hard to decipher but, within seconds, the young Isadora understood. Doctors cost money. Her father had no money and, because of that, her mother, like the leaf in her hand, was dead.

That autumn, Isadora watched leaves fall, one by one, until none remained. All winter, she listened as naked trees moaned, echoing her pain. She was alone. Shuffled from one relative to another. Abandoned by a devastated father who knew nothing of raising a three-year-old girl.

Every subsequent autumn, as leaves rained to the ground, regret haemorrhaged through her pores. If only she could have changed things. Doctors cost money. If only she could have given her father money. Somehow, she always felt that she could have done something. Should have done something. But she had failed.

As she stood on the porch now, waiting, Isadora’s hope began to dwindle once again. She repeated the knock. Still no answer. Anxiety crept into her body, causing her to tremble. She let out a sob, formed her fingers into a fist, and pounded the door.

This time the door squeaked open and a tiny girl, a mere waif, stood there. Isadora gasped and recoiled. When she caught her breath, she leaned forward. “Hello,” she said to the bedraggled child who was hugging a filthy, hairless doll.

The little girl was silent.

Isadora held out the purse.

The child’s eyes popped wide. “Mommy’s purse,” she whispered. “That’s Mommy’s purse.”

“Yes.” Isadora opened the purse, displayed its contents, and closed it again. “I kept it all these years, filled it, just for you.” She placed the purse at the child’s feet. “You know what to do?”

The child nodded slowly. “Doctors cost money.”

A tidal wave of realization flooded through Isadora. She had done it.  For a few seconds, she stood, frozen. Then, in measured motion, she turned and headed down the steps. At the bottom, she paused and looked back.

The little girl, waif no more, was still standing there. Her dress, new and pink and velvet, matched that of the pristine, porcelain doll she carried and her waist-length, glistening blonde hair was topped with a pink velvet bow.

 The two exchanged no words, only smiles.

Isadora walked away, gradually picking up her pace until she was skipping along the woodland path. Deep within her, sad memories began to disperse, dropping away one by one, like the falling leaves around her. Soon those recollections were gone, replaced by images of a happy little girl, learning, laughing, and singing, at her mother’s side. 

Isadora returned to the starting point of her journey—the funeral parlour—and slid through the front Passages Book Coverdoor. She entered the viewing room and floated for a while, staring at her body, resting in its mahogany coffin. She sighed in contentment and slipped back into place.

Cradle issues resolved, she was ready for the grave.

 

 

My best to you,
Annie Signature Light Blue

 

Creating the Cover: “Of Sea and Seed”

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by @AnnieDaylon

When I finished writing Of Sea and Seed, The Kerrigan Chronicles, Book I, I realized that it was not only the ocean that connected all the main characters, it was also a small boat. I decided instantly that the cover had to incorporate both of those images. I did not expect the attention that that decision garnered.

The cover for Of Sea and Seed has been featured on Indie Brag’s Cover Crush Blog and has appeared under the Small Boats category on Fictionophile’s Cover Love Blog. 

Recently, this same cover won an award — the 2017 Best Literary Fiction Cover Design from B.R.A.G. Medallion.

 

 

The creation of this cover started with the title and even that underwent a few changes… that happens to all my titles. This one was initially called Wave over Wave.

Gradually, I came to know that the sea was a metaphor for the matriarch of the story and the seed a metaphor for her offspring. Somewhere around that time, I read Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men and well… you can guess the rest. 

What about the small boat?
Each of the three point-of-view characters in Of Sea and Seed experiences a life-or-death situation in a small, traditional fishing boat, called a dory*.

I began the hunt for photos of sea and dory. I looked through all pictures I could find by Newfoundland photographers but could not find what I wanted, a picture of a lone dory tossed in a powerful sea. It was at my go-to site, Shutterstock, that I found the image below (© Andrejs Pidjass, www.nejronphoto.com.)

*Wikipedia Definition: “The dory is a small, shallow-draft boat, about 5 to 7 metres or 16 to 23 feet long. It is usually a lightweight boat with high sides, a flat bottom and sharp bows. They are easy to build because of their simple lines. For centuries, dories have been used as traditional fishing boats, both in coastal waters and in the open sea.”

From there, I worked with the design team at Create Space.

The traditional Lunenberg dory, as depicted on the cover, has a yellow base and dark green gunwales. There’s a reason for those colors: the yellow makes the base visible against the water; the dark green makes the gunwales (the upper edges of the side of the boat) visible in the fog.

I asked the design team if they could make the green color pop a bit more. They responded by reversing the colors, putting the green on the base, the yellow on the gunwales.  Uh-oh!
I knew better than to let that pass but I got a second opinion from my brother Richard who did not mince words. “No fisherman in his right mind  would have gone on the ocean in that thing.”  The act of reversing the colors had negated their purpose, making the dory unsafe, and making my dory story less plausible.

I explained. Create Space amended, happily.

I also requested that Create Space remove the red gas can in the above image (barely visible, but none of the dories in my story had one, so I wanted it gone.) Done!

One choice that Create Space made without any input from me was to flip the image of the dory. I instantly took a liking to the switch. If left to my own devices, I never would have come up with such a perfect detail. (It’s great to have a design team.)

I provided Create Space with all of the information required for the rest of the cover… blurbs, back copy, and my imprint (McRAC Books) with Logo. The fonts (love them!) were chosen by my Create Space Design team. 

I am currently entrenched in writing Book II of the Kerrigan Chronicles, this one titled Of Sea and Sand.  (Could change, stay tuned.) As I work, I am keeping cover possibilities in mind. There will be an ocean. No doubt about that. But what else? I am looking for commonalities, one of which will surely leap to the fore and land on the cover.


NEWS FLASH!   This weekend, I learned that Of Sea and Seed is a semi-finalist in the Literary Fiction genre of the Kindle Book Review’s Kindle Book Awards. Goes without saying that I was thrilled and immediately sent in my email requesting the semi-finalist sticker.

( A note to Lynne Legrow , a.k.a. @fictionophile: Thanks for putting my book in the Small Boat Category of your Cover Love Series, but, with another sticker on the way, I think I’m gonna need a bigger boat!  Ha!)



Readers, love looking at great covers? Writers, looking for great  cover ideas? Check out the covers posted in the Fictionophile Cover Love Series! So many themes: windows, lakes, doors, gates, jars, piers, umbrellas… over thirty categories to choose from. Lots of fun!


Many thanks to all who helped make the cover of Of Sea and Seed a success!

My best to you,

Annie Signature Light Blue

Big News! Shortlisted for the Whistler Independent Book Awards

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by @AnnieDaylon


I am thrilled to announce that
Of Sea and Seed,
The Kerrigan Chronicles, Book I
has been nominated for the
2017 Whistler Independent Book Award.

 


I entered this contest because I love writing contests. In fact, I started with contests—story, poetry, and novel. I believe contests provide a viable route into the writing world and are therefore something that all authors among you should consider. Many times contests offer a word count limit and a time limit, both of which force you to hone your craft. Many times contests give a prompt, a creative spark, which forces you to think outside of the box. Both of my Vancouver suspense novels—Castles in the Sand and At the Heart of the Missing— have their beginnings in short stories that won contests. Castles in the Sand went on to win the 2012 Houston Writers Guild contest in mainstream fiction.

Of Sea and Seed is the recipient of the Book Readers Appreciation Group (B.R.A.G.) Medallion, bestowed for excellence in independent writing. And now, it has received this nod of recognition from the Whistler Independent Book Awards. My heart is in this book, readers. It is a literary and lyrical and suspense-filled sea saga, kindled when my father told me that a little girl had survived a tsunami in Newfoundland. 

 A ghostly family matriarch chronicles the lives of three generations of the Kerrigan family as they struggle to survive devastating tsunami, toxic secrets, and shocking betrayal in 1920s Newfoundland.

 

About the Whistler Awards…

The Whistler Independent Book Awards are relatively new, having been “established in 2016 to recognize excellence in Canadian independent publishing.” They are the “only juried Canadian award for self-published authors” and offer prizes in both fiction and nonfiction. This year, the three finalists for each of these categories will be announced on July 17th, and the winners’ presentation will be held at the annual Whistler Writers Festival, October 12th to 15th.

The Whistler Independent Book Awards, which are jointly administered by the British Columbia Whistler Writing Society and Vivalogue Publishing, are a boon for self-published authors who struggle to have their work recognized. The fact that these awards are juried and the winners chosen by distinguished authors can ease the burden for librarians, one of whom informed me that librarians wish to support independent writing but they do not have staff available to vet the tons of titles that cross their desks each year.

I am grateful that my work has been nominated for the 2017 Whistler Independent Book Award for fiction and am thrilled to be in illustrious company.

For more information, check out the

Whistler Independent Book Awards site.

 

 

A free short story is yours when you join my email list! My newsletters contain book news, blog posts, sneak previews, and, occasionally, fun facts about my beloved island of Newfoundland. To join, place the required information in the space provided on the right. Rest assured your email address will not be shared for any reason.


My best to you,

Annie Signature Light Blue

The End of the Harvest

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by @AnnieDaylon

What follows is a seasonal story, flash fiction, originally written for a 24-hour writing contest for Writers Weekly and currently published in Passages A Collection of Short Stories. It is definitely one of my favorites…

The End of the Harvest

© Annie Daylon

            The little boy stands at the log cabin’s rear window, peering out at us. The corn stalks rustle in the brisk breeze, waving at him. Laughing, he returns their greeting. I want to wave at him too, but my limbs are shrivelled now, useless appendages. I sigh. I observe the boy.

He seems happy. Does he know? Has he heard the news about the baby brother that his mom promised him? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he is too young to be told.

But I know.

His mom, my caregiver, whispered many secrets as she planted the fields. When my seed sprouted and breached the surface of the rich soil, she stooped and told me about the life that was developing inside her own body. She promised that she would create siblings for me just as she was doing for her little boy. I beamed with pleasure for I did not want to live a solitary life.

In a short time, her truth became evident: I was surrounded by an abundance of relatives—long and green, round and yellow, plump and orange. So strong was my appreciation of my caregiver, so great was my loyalty to her that I tolerated without question the summer heat and the frequent watering and the incessant buzzing of the hordes that swarmed around, flitting from flower to flower. Without complaint, I obliged when she redirected the growth of my rapidly spreading arms. ‘Not here, but there’, was her mantra, as she donned kid gloves and shifted my limbs around. So much attention. So much care. I noticed that the bodies of both my caregiver and me were becoming spherical, and that hers seemed to achieve the desired shape more easily than mine. Obviously aware of that, she added regular rotation to my fitness regime. I responded by becoming corpulent and carroty.

The summer lazed away and autumn slid in to replace it. The rains came. And the mud. And the children, bus loads of children, laughing and trampling and squelching through the muck. Choosing and plucking and stumbling away with their heavy bundles. One by one, my brothers and sisters and cousins disappeared. I wondered how it was that so many school children whirled around me, brushed against me, slid past me, and yet, none chose me. My caregiver explained that she had great plans for me, that I was the chosen one, the one who would light her doorway on that important night—All Hallows’ Eve. I would be the first to welcome the newborn child she would carry to the door that very day. I would witness the smile on her little boy’s face when he first saw his new brother. All this she promised me.

But sometimes promises are broken.

 When I had grown to the size of a soccer ball, I looked to compare my shape with hers and realized that her spherical form had vanished. Her body had flattened, returned to its former size. Her spirit, too, had vacated, leaving only sadness, which bled through her pores. Empty in both body and spirit, she had no words, no whisperings. On most days, she just stayed away.

So now I lie here—alone. Leading a solitary life after all, the very life I did not want. But what of the boy? Is he still waiting for his new brother?

The dusk deepens on this, All Hallows’ Eve. The wind picks up and the front gate swings and creaks. Puffs of blue smoke rise from the kitchen chimney. The house is well-lit now, but here, in my resting place, it is dark and lonely. As night falls, my body sinks and just sits, marinating in mud.

Suddenly, the cabin door opens and she emerges. She dons her heavy boots and, with her head low, trudges through the mud toward me. Nearer and nearer. As she stoops, I long to console her, to slide my arms up her back and embrace her. But my arms are just flaccid vines and it is she who comforts me, talks to me, apologizes for leaving me alone for so long. I want to tell her that I understand. She reaches into her pocket, retrieves a knife and frees me from my vines. Then, she hefts me into her arms and straightens her back.

On the way to the cabin, my caregiver explains that there is a new plan—that she wants me to smile for her young son. This evening, she will carve a grin on my face and, while she is doing that, she will tell her son that he will always be a solitary child. We reach the porch and hover there, waiting for her body to stop trembling and her tears to abate.

Despite her distress, I am pleased with this new plan. I want her to carve me a ridiculous grin, tooth-filled or toothless, whatever it takes to ease a lonely boy’s acceptance of unwelcome news. I know of the difficulty of the solitary life. Unlike the boy, I have experienced the joy of siblings; however, many died before maturity and all the others were taken away. Like the boy, I represent the end of the harvest. I am the very last pumpkin from the pumpkin patch. Together, the boy and I—and our mutual caregiver—will face the night.

*****

Passages Book Cover
My best to you,

Annie Signature Light Blue

 

Self-Publishing a Story Collection? 6 Tips!

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shutterstock_163750679 (2) story collection

by @AnnieDaylon

Are you about to publish a collection of your short stories? I have done that once and am considering a second. Here are six suggestions based on hindsight:

  1. Go for a ‘sense of book.’ Group stories around one theme, one character, one setting. My first collection is varied: most of its stories were written, not with the idea of a book in mind, but for contests based on prompts. It was long after their completion that I chose a theme.

  2. Give thought to the title.

    Take time to examine your collection. Perhaps, as book title, you might choose the title of one story or the name of a place that is common to all stories. After I read through my stories, I realized there was indeed a thread: the choices we make and the paths we take. Thus the title: Passages.

  3. Consider, as title/subtitle, “a collection of short fiction,” not “a collection of short stories.”

    I used stories in the subtitle of Passages and wished I had used fiction, especially after I dropped a narrative poem into the mix. (Yes, I know: could have eliminated the poem. Sigh.)

  4. Acknowledge previous publications.

    List the stories that have been previously published, and include publisher, publication, and date of same. In Passages, in acknowledgements, I thanked creators, administrators, and judges of writing contests, and named a couple of specifics. There was no ill intent in my lack of a list of previous publications; I was simply unaware of the courtesy.

  5. Share background of story.

    Many of the short stories in Passages were written for contests. In retrospect, I could have enhanced the reader experience by writing a paragraph or two before each short, revealing the prompt or inspiration for the story.

  6. Give thought to the placement of stories.

    You might consider placing your best story first and your second-best last. I went a different route: I put an award-winning short story first because I wanted to draw attention to the fact that it had grown into an award-winning novel. As for the last story in Passages, it is a very short piece called Final Passage, a piece that is more than appropriate for its position in the book. The only thing I would have done differently with it is listed above: I would have revealed the inspiration for the piece.

    shutterstock_163750679

    Why do I love story contests? Click on image to link to “Why Enter Story Contests.”

    Are these suggestions helpful to you? If  you have already published a book of short fiction, what were the steps that worked best for you? What, if anything,  would you do differently the next time?

     

    My best to you, Annie Signature Light Blue    

My Write Before Christmas: 2014

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by @AnnieDaylon 

 Sardis, Retreat, Christmas 034 2014

It’s my Write before Christmas, my time to send

Best wishes to wordsmiths and readers and friends.

Authors work solo, yet none are alone

For it takes a village (an adage well-known.)

 

Critique groups are crucial, a part of the team;

Online or in person, they endorse your dream.

(An aside: Many thanks for your commentary,

My critique angels–Fran, Michael, and Mary.)

 

A new writer? This world’s a mysterious place.

Catch a conference! It’s there that you’ll come face-to-face

With writers and editors and agents and such.

Volunteering’s an option if the cost is too much.

 

Like story contests? They’re fun, teach deadlines,

This>Contest Calendar’s < a favourite of mine.

As is Poets & Writers, a site that makes space

For a Contest and Grants and Awards Database.

 

Having trouble with structure? Can’t seem to outline?

K. M. Weiland has guidelines to help you refine.

Seeking courses or webinars to carry you through?

Writers Digest will surely have something for you.

 

If a positive thought is what you require,

Tweets from Rock Christopher will keep you inspired.

If you’re looking to blog but don’t know the scene,

Check out Blog It for authors penned by Molly Greene.

 

Got a post that helps others? Want it retweeted?

@MondayBlogs is a place you’ll be greeted.

Want to do marketing? Don’t know the score?

Book Marketing Tools has ideas galore.

 

Do you have a routine? Great tales must be spun

and writers toil daily to get the job done.

(On that note, dear writers who are reading this verse,

If today you’ve not written, go away and WRITE FIRST!) 🙂

 

Thanks, avid readers on whom writers rely,

The work’s not complete ’til you choose to stop by.

Samuel Johnson once said (and I paraphrase herein)

‘A reader finishes what a writer begins.’

 

That’s it, the year’s end! Best wishes to you

as 2015 comes into view.

And now, ere December slides out of sight,

Happy Christmas to all! Have great reads and great writes!

 

Annie Signature Light Blue

 

 

 

 

 

Short Story: A Canadian Man’s Heart

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by @ AnnieDaylon

shutterstock_163750679

 

 I love to enter short story contests (see previous post: Why Enter Story Contests?) In my 2014 goals, I listed that I would enter a few. (One done in January… Yay!)
I enter to learn, not to win. I enter for the fun and for the feeling of accomplishment that the marathon of the novel does not provide.

Here is an example of a non-winning entry (See below for learning experience):

 

A Canadian Man’s Heart
 ©AnnieDaylon


According to my boss, Zeta Thompson, there is only one sure-fire way to a Canadian man’s heart, and it has nothing to do with his stomach.

“Believe it or not, Betty,” Zeta announced one morning after she had tolerated my litany of loneliness one too many times, “the main flaw in your dating strategy lies in your complete dismissal of this country’s national pastime. Canadian men live and die for hockey! Don’t you get that? Ever consider just buying a big-screen TV and asking a guy over to watch a game on a Saturday night?

“Forget it,” I huffed. “Gawking at a TV set and trying to keep track of a flying rubber disk is not my idea of entertainment. Hockey! It’s loud, obnoxious and violent, and I absolutely refuse to take part in anything that celebrates the idea of grown men clobbering each other with long sticks.”

Judiciously, Zeta threw her hands up in defeat, but the fates were not so easily dissuaded; they countered immediately with a loud knock at the office door. Kevin Mason, the new architect we had been expecting, flung the door wide and hovered there, filling the frame with his six-foot splendor.

Lust at first sight!

Many scenarios flitted through my mind, all of them reminiscent of the fiery pictures that grace the covers of my Harlequin romance collection. Never in my life have I been one to ignore a golden-haired, blue-eyed opportunity such as this one and I sure wasn’t going to start now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Zeta was grinning like an idiot, but she was also staying in the background, generously giving me carte blanche. Possibilities abounded as I stepped forward and extended my hand to greet the newcomer. Quick to respond, Kevin strode across the room. Relationship redemption which, just seconds ago, had seemed light years away, was now viable and I felt hope soar.

 Suddenly, time slowed down, becoming a teasing tyrant, extending milliseconds into eons. The only thing I could do was try to maintain my composure as I watched our hands inch toward each other.

Ultimately, time relented and allowed our hands to meet, but then it stood back and laughed as a huge ring jabbed my palm and punctured my dreams. Visions of victory oozed away the instant I glanced at the ring’s proven symbol of relationship demise—the blue-and-white insignia of the Toronto Maple Leafs.

What the heck was I to do now?

X-rated images—all golden-haired and blue-eyed—pummeled my brain, urging me onward.

“You want to come by my place on Saturday, Kevin?” I blurted before I could stop myself. “Zeta and I were just talking about watching the Leafs game on my brand new fifty-inch, high-definition, plasma TV.”

*****

The above story was written a few years ago for an Alphabet Acrostic contest. The opening, “According to my boss,” was given. The criteria? “Complete your story in 26 sentences, each beginning with words in the sequence of the English alphabet.”

The learning? I expanded my vocabulary by reading the dictionary. (Yes, X is limiting, but there are ways around it.) The fun? Enjoyed it so much that I entered again this year! (This particular contest is available annually through The Brucedale Press. It’s a long wait until the next one but the fee is only $5/entry!)

My questions for you: Did you notice as you read the story that I was progressing through the alphabet? If not, did you go back to check? 🙂

 

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My best to you,

Annie Signature Light Blue