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April Featured Authors Janet Elizabeth Lynn & Will Zeilinger

April 21, 2019 by Janet Elizabeth Lynn and Will Zeilinger in category Featured Author of the Month

Published authors Will Zeilinger and Janet Lynn wrote individually until they got together and created the Skylar Drake Mystery Series. These hard-boiled tales are based in old Hollywood of 1956-57. Their world travels have sparked several ideas for murder and crime stories. This creative couple is married and lives in Southern California.

The next Skylar Drake Mystery, fifth in the series, GAME TOWN is available now and yes…they are still married!

Greenblat’s Deli & Fine Wine Shop

8017 Sunset Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90046

We started researching our new book GAME TOWN, in Hollywood. Since this was a fact finding “mission” we decided to take the time to sample the delis that our characters would frequent for meetings, dates, etc. (Or an excuse to sample great foods) we found ourselves in Los Angeles.

Greenblatt’s Deli was established by Herman Greenblatt in 1926. At the time, Sunset Blvd was still a dirt road West of Doheny. Greenblatt’s was purchased by the Kavin Family in the early 1940’s, and has been operated by the family for three generations.

Greenblatt’s has catered to the entertainment industry and been “The Place To Go” in Hollywood for Deli, Wines, and Spirits. Almost everybody who has worked in the Hollywood Entertainment field over the last 80 years has shopped at Greenblatt’s. To name a few: Marilyn Monroe, Joe DiMaggio, Groucho Marx, Errol Flynn, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Janis Joplin, Bing Crosby, Peter Lawford, Boris Karloff, Bobby Darin, Rita Hayworth, Kirk Douglas, Bella Lugosi, Marlon Brando, Peter Lorre, Lenny Bruce, Shelly Winters, John Belushi, Danny Kaye, and Billie Holiday were a few of the many regulars.

The corned beef and potato salad are to die for!!! Upstairs is intimate and quiet.

During lunch we imagined our characters having dinner. Because it has the charm of old Hollywood, it was the perfect place for Skylar Drake to woo the pretty Miss Anne.

The Skylar Drake Mystery Series

SLIVERS OF GLASS

STRANGE MARKINGS

DESERT ICE

SLICK DEAL

GAME TOWN

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Setting – Gemstones & Stories by Jenny Jensen

April 19, 2019 by Jenny Jensen in category On writing . . . by Jenny Jensen tagged as editing, Jenny Jensen, Setting, writing

A beloved aunt left me her jewelry not long ago. I don’t do a lot of bling so I carefully put most of it away. Except for the sapphire ring. I love that stone. The blue is so true, so deep you feel you could drown in it. It blazes with its own cool fire. Like a crow I covet it in secret. I love to look at it. Wearing the ring is out of the question—the setting looks as if it came from a box of Cracker Jacks. It is so lifeless it buries the stone in boredom. I don’t know where Aunt Bea got the jewel but given the racy facts of her life I bet it’s a helluva story.

Setting. It carries such an impact. Every writer learns early on that setting is a critical element of good writing. A badly defined setting diminishes a great story as much as that pot metal dulls my sapphire. I’m going to have it reset someday. First, I have to figure out what the perfect setting should be—Integral or Backdrop?

With an Integral setting the story’s environment affects the action and characters. The time and place influences every aspect of the story. A good setting conveys atmosphere and mood – Wuthering Heights could not have taken place anywhere else. I’m thinking my sapphire would be lonely in the Yorkshire moors.

An integral setting can convey so much more than a background for the action. The symbolism of your choice of setting can be powerful. To simply place the reader in an abandoned house is enough to know we’re not in the security and warmth of Grandma’s kitchen — we know it’s empty and holds none of the energy of life. The stage is set for all kinds of otherworldly possibilities from ghosts to demons to zombie politicians.

In all historical fiction an integral setting defines the characters. An aristocratic gentleman in Regency England is as defined by that period as is the beautiful housemaid working in his manner. The setting will mean something to each of these characters and therein lays the story. What does that setting mean to each character? Does each character change and view his or her setting differently? The tension and the action are defined by the period setting.

Fantasy and Sci-fi, any genre with world building, offers the possibility of a setting where the world not only affects the characters, it can interact with them. That’s when setting becomes a major character in itself. In addition to mood and atmosphere setting can be a good guy or a bad guy. World building offers the added component of changing the setting. Harry Potter opens in the ordinary world and moves to the incredible, interactive setting of Hogwarts.

All the rich possibilities of an integral setting would overwhelm my sapphire. Backdrop setting however, works for a story that could take place anywhere with no affect on the action or characters—The Emperor’s New Clothes or Winnie the Pooh or Waiting for Godot. All simple stories with a central message.

My sapphire is universally appealing. It is timeless. This sapphire is like a moral tale. It has a simple message: beauty. That makes a backdrop setting my best choice. I’m not looking for vague and general like many backdrop settings. I want it to be a clear, simple setting that anchors the message and then fades gracefully away to let the stone shine. I bet I can find at least 10 of those. Now if only I can get an appointment with VanCleef and Arpels…

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The Last Serpent by Angela Pryce

April 18, 2019 by marianne h donley in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley tagged as #Charmed Writers, Angela Pryce, flash Fiction, The Charmed Connection

Last month in the Facebook Group, The Charmed Connection, members of Charmed Writers posted some flash fiction short stories in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. Charmed Connection members voted for their favorite stories. The top four stories will be published this month on A Slice of Orange.

Our second story is by Angela Pryce.

Angela has a short story, “One Kind of Angel” is included in Charmed Writers Presents: Flash Fiction 2019. Her first full-length novel, The Devil’s Caress was released this month by Boroughs Publishing Group.

You can find Angela on social media at:

FB: @ItsBetterToReign
Twitter: @AngelaPryceMuse
Instagram: @AngelaPryceMuse
Website: Angelaprycethemuse

The Last Serpent

Angela Pryce

The child tossed in her sleep. In her dream, she was all grown up and riding a gray horse. A man rode beside her on a black destrier. His green eyes were fierce as he whispered, “Danger.”

“Fiona?”

The child shook her head. A frown creased dark, winged eyebrows.

“You’re dreaming, Fiona.”

Fiona felt her body being shaken. In her dream her horse pranced and shied. “Wake up, mo chroí.”

Fiona sat up, blinking, confused. Her lips felt stuck together. “Mam,” she managed. “Someone’s here.”

“No one but us, angel.”

“But he told me—”

“You were dreaming.”

Fiona looked into her mother’s eyes and insisted, “Someone is here.”

Her mother shrank back, searching her daughter’s face.

Out front, a shod hoof rang against stone, the sound clear over the crashing surf. Fiona’s skin prickled as every hair stood up. The next words Fiona spoke rang with precocious authority. “Mam. Run.”

Her mother stared at her, stroked Fiona’s dark hair from her sleep-sticky cheek. She kissed her daughter once, nodded. She was rising from the wooden stool when the first pounding came against the door.

Fiona felt numb as she watched. Her mother pressed herself against the bedroom door, red hair glimmering in the firelight, one hand fumbling for the catch behind her even as the other clapped over her own mouth to stifle her scream.

The front door shook violently.

Fiona heard her father’s startled shout. Her mother fumbled the latch open, tried to push against a door that must be pulled. Another slam against the front door. A dull cracking sound.

Her mother stumbled forward as the bedroom door was pushed open. Fiona’s father reached through, grasped his wife around the waist, hauled her backward. He looked for Fiona.

“Daidí, no!” Fiona cried, but her father ignored her. He lifted her from her bed, wool blanket and all. “Put me down! It’s Mam!” Fiona thrashed in her father’s arms as the front door gave and several men tried to shove their way in at once.

Her father spun to face them, squeezing Fiona too tight. He reached for the fireplace poker. A sword was held to his throat. Fiona stared at the sword, watching her breath cloud the sheen of the steel. Three strangers strode across the room, forced the bedroom door open. Fiona’s mother was dragged from the bedroom, taken from the house.

Her father sat on Fiona’s bed, holding her and stroking her long hair, soothing only himself.

A different kind of man entered the cottage.

Fiona knew this man with his dark robes and malicious eyes. He upended cookware and threw her mother’s jars down from the shelf. His long, greedy fingers reached for the scrolls that only her mother knew how to read.

With a roar, Fiona’s father was across the room, batting the thin priest back one-handed, guarding his wife’s treasured scrolls with a feral snarl.

The priest laughed. He reached for a neatly labeled jar. “This alone will do,” he said, “to condemn the last snake in Éire.”

We hope you enjoyed reading Angela’s story. You can read Veronica Jorge’s story, “Fiona Malone’s Fresh Fesh” and remember to stop by on April 24th for the next story in the series, Roxy Matthew’s “Payment in Kind.”

Read Angela Pryce’s short story, “One Kind of Angel” in Charmed Writers Presents: Flash Fiction 2019 and get her new novel The Devil’s Caress.

THE DEVIL’S CARESS

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Fiona Malone’s Fesh by Veronica Jorge

April 17, 2019 by marianne h donley in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley tagged as flash Fiction

First up is Veronica Jorge’s story “Fiona Malone’s Fesh.” Veronica blogs, here on A Slice of Orange on the 22nd of each month. Her column Write from the Heart features articles about writing and book reviews. You can also read another of her short stories in Charmed Writers Presents: Flash Fiction 2019, a free anthology ebook.

Fiona Malone’s Fesh

Veronica Jorge

Fiona Malone spit on a corner of her shawl and wiped at the murky mirror. “Well now, truth be told, the Malone fair looks bypassed me.” She picked up a small statue of St. Patrick. “And you’ll be saying it’s nothing to do with you, I’m sure.” She set it back on the dresser… upside down. “You’ll stay that way ‘till you make it your business and throw a wee blessing my way.” Fiona tugged at her dress, too tight at the hip and pulled her shawl tight about her. “At least I’ve been endowed in the right places.” She stuffed her wiry hair under her felt cap, latched the cabin door and set out.

Lugging her catch to sell at market, her wheelbarrow and her buttocks bounced across the wooden bridge. “Luck of the Irish. Whoever came up with that fairy story? I’d be happy with selling all my fish today. Ahh, and maybe a fine man to cook for. But who would want the likes of me?” A sound interrupted her soliloquy.

Thuh thump, thuh thump, thuh thump…

Fiona rushed a sign of the cross over herself. “Saint’s preserve us!”

She considered that the sound could only be that of Molly’s wheelbarrow. Yes. That Molly. The Molly Malone who died of a fever because no one could save her; Fiona’s great-grandmother. Thanks to that legacy, most of the townspeople shied away from her.

“The good book says there’s no communication twixt the living and the dead. Why would great granny be following me?” Fiona signed herself again for good measure, placed her hand over heart, and spun around. “Oh my goodness. ‘Tis only Mr. Pippin and his wooden leg.” She stamped out the perspiration on her face with her shawl and laughed at herself.

“Good day to ye, Mr. Pippin. How goes it?”

He answered not a word and thumped past her, muttering and cursing under his breath as was his custom.

“Poor dear. Lost his right leg to a mangy dog. Pain might be easier to bear if he had lost it to bravery for a nobler cause. Tsk. Tsk.”

Fiona’s barrow creaked over the cobblestones. Some sellers crowded her out afraid of the bad luck she might be carrying. Others made a wee bit of room, so she wouldn’t be offended and have a mind to toss the bad luck their way. Sometimes a compassionate customer bought from her. But alas, her fish fed mostly her and the stray cats.

“Fesh! Fesh!” cried Fiona. No one drew near today. “Fesh! Fresh fesh!”

“Is it now?” asked a stranger.

“Indeed it ‘tis. Caught by me own dear self.” Fiona squared her body, hands on her wide hips.

The man eyed her.

Fiona crossed her arms over her breast. “As fresh as your roving eyes. Now away with you. It’s only fish we’ll be selling here.”

“Forgive me, darlin’. But you’re a fine catch indeed.”

Fiona picked up a herring to hurl at him.

The stranger backed up. “No offense intended; I promise you.”

“Hmpf!”

“Will you give us a smile, so we’ll know we’re forgiven?” His eyes glistened with warmth and merriment.

Fiona smiled.

“You’re quite a beauty.”

“Go on with you now. Enough of your teasin’.”

“’Tis truth I’m speaking. Have you never been told you’re fair?”

Fiona blushed and fussed with the hair strand peeking out from under her cap.

“Now to business,” said the stranger. He pointed to the fish. “How much for the heap?”

“In earnest?”

“As sure as my name is James Hugh Callahan.”

The fish kept slipping out of Fiona’s hands. The paper wrapping alternately wrinkled and ripped. Mr. Callahan handed her the money.

Fiona kept her hands at her sides. “Place the money on the cart.”

“As you wish. I’ll look forward to buying fish from you again.” He tipped his hat and parted.

Fiona’s fingers fumbled picking up the coins. She folded them into a cloth, tucked them into her bosom, and patted her chest.

The squeaky wheels from Fiona’s wheelbarrow sang all the way home. Stepping into the cottage, she ran to her dresser. She picked up the icon of St. Patrick and kissed it. Fiona stood him upright in his usual place pushing aside her hair brush and tweezers to give him extra room.

We hope you enjoyed Veronica’s story. Stop back tomorrow for Angela Pryce’s story, “The Last Serpent.”

Read Veronica Jorge’s short story, “The In-Between” in Charmed Writers Presents: Flash Fiction 2019

Nothing Found

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Teacup Tales

April 15, 2019 by Rebecca Forster in category Writing tagged as Family, inspiration

Over the last many months I have been helping my mother prepare to relocate. We have spent hours choosing the furniture she will take and trying to determine how many dishes, glasses, and cookie sheets she’ll really need.

Dusty and dirty after spending the day cleaning the garage, we found ourselves in the dining room at the end of the day. I looked at the huge breakfront overflowing with crystal, silver, and china. I opened the glass door and took out a piece of bisque colored china.

“Do you want to take it with you?” I asked.

“That’s Limoges,” she said. “One of dad’s patients gave it to him after he delivered her baby.”

“And these?” I held up two tall crystal vases. Certainly one would do in a smaller place.

“Keep them both,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I like them,” she answered.

On we went sorting through soup tureens, more vases, statues of ballerinas, and teacups. It was the teacups that enthralled me and the work slowed as I set them on the dining room table, one after another. Some had fluted edges and others were like little pot-bellied stoves. My favorite cup was sleek and modern with a shallow bowl. It was made of porcelain so white and delicate that I could see through it. The sweep of the golden handle made the cup look like a swan. The cups were miss-matched because that was the style in another elegant era.

My mother and I touched the teacups, nudged their saucers, and ran our fingers over tiny raised paintings of roses and lilies. We looked for the china markings and grouped them: Wedgewood, Meissen, Limoges. There were stories about my grandparents, and of my mother growing up in Germany, and of guests coming for lunch.

When we were done, when she had chosen the teacups to take with her, we went to bed to rest up for the next day’s work. As I drifted off, I realized that in the course of getting ready to close the door on a house we had opened the door to memories that could inspire a hundred novels. I had heard tales of hardship, of gratitude, of uncertainty – even danger – but mostly I had heard tales of graciousness, hard work and above all love.

Someday I will write one of these stories. Until then, I will drink my tea from one of her cups and remind myself that the best stories are those that are rich in flavor and best served with style.

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