My children’s story is up on the site of the Animism TV show, which had asked me to write something, and which ended up being a bit of a downer as far as the happiness of the main character is concerned.
In news about my writing classes, I’m pushing the start back a week in order to get a few more students signed up. For details, click on “Upcoming Classes” up above!
Want access to a lively community of writers and readers, free writing classes, co-working sessions, special speakers, weekly writing games, random pictures and MORE for as little as $2? Check out Cat’s Patreon campaign.
"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."
Amanda C. Davis recently blogged about the success of a post doing a breakdown of her stories for forensic students. It seems free forensics pieces are in demand for students looking for something to use.
In that spirit, here’s a breakdown of some of my stories that are both short enough to be read with a minimum of trimming and available online for any forensics students, speech class students, or other performers looking for something to read. Because I’ve got a lot of stories, I’m still working through the list and I’ll continue adding stuff as I go. For the complete list, see my publications page.
Prose Pieces for Forensics Students
In each category, I’ve listed the story, where it originally appeared, its length, type, and voice considerations.
Prose pieces eligible by National Forensics League Rules
Note: If you need the proof of print publication, please e-mail me at catrambo AT gmail.com, and I can send you a scan. I will be adding links to those when I get the chance, because I only recently realized they are proving an issue for performers.
Seven Clockwork Angels. Originally appeared in Altered America in 2016. 15 minutes, steampunk fairytale, 3rd person, voices include Sleeping Beauty, her parents, and two scientists.
Additional Prose pieces eligible by National Catholic Forensics League Rules
(Anything under NFL should also be eligible for this, if I am reading the rules correctly.)
Many more prose pieces available here. If you use one of my pieces in a forensics competition, please let me know and consider leaving a review on Amazon, GoodReads, or any other reading site you frequent! 😻
#mc_embed_signup{background:#fff; clear:left; font:14px Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; }
/* Add your own MailChimp form style overrides in your site stylesheet or in this style block.
We recommend moving this block and the preceding CSS link to the HEAD of your HTML file. */
...
One of the things I’ve really enjoyed about the project so far is the way different people use the same material. I’m working on finishing up the next novella in the series, A Cavern Ripe With Dreams. I think I’ve mentioned it before; it’s heavily influenced by H.P. Lovecraft’s “Dreams in the Witch House,” William S. Burroughs’ Junky, and Joe Lansdale’s The Drive-in Chronicles. Here’s the teaser from the beginning of it, which went out with Nirvana Gates.
One morning his father woke him from a nightmare. He was still young, perhaps eight. His father squatted on his heels besides Bill’s bedroll and shook his shoulder. When he woke, shuddering and gasping from dreams of strangle-fingered demons, feeling his breath still in jeopardy, his father didn’t say anything, just beckoned to him.
He followed at his father’s heels, towards the world and the great tube that the city clung to. At the end of each tunnel the space widened considerably, leaving places where shelves and ladders and catwalks could be stretched. And beyond them all you could see the abyss itself, stretching downward and upward into darkness.
The air was full of something. What was it?
His father said, as Bill moved to the railing to see what was happening, “Sometimes the world opens and things fall in. Rarely do you see them. This is something you will remember all your life.”
The air was full of tiny, floating things. He stretched out his palm and kept it motionless long enough that one drifted to be trapped in his palm. A seed, a brown seed, and attached to one end a tuft of hairs, fine and feathery, carrying it along. Carefully he raised his hand, examined it more closely. The seed was so small, but ridges and swirls marked its surface and up close, it was no longer brown, but shades and gray and green and red that somehow blended together to create the impression of brown from just a few inches farther away.
He closed his fingers around it, meaning to keep it, but it was so small that it wafted away even as his fingers moved.
He’d only seen things fall into the abyss. But these, so light, sometimes moved upward or downward, sometimes tugged sideways as though snatched by invisible hands. Thousands and thousands of these, swirling through the air.
He and his father gathered a painstaking handful, picking them from crevices. Other people were doing the same. How often did you get something like that without cost, like a gift from the universe?
They picked up seeds, but they also stood for hours, watching it. Almost everyone in the city came to see it, even if their children had to carry them. People did not speak much, simply watched, as though storing it up. He grew bored and watched their faces. None of them looked at him. Even the other children seemed too self-absorbed to return his gaze, to notice that he was watching them. His mother arrived and paid them little attention, instead going to speak to the city council and offer her opinion of the event. Bill and his father stayed where they were and paid her no mind.
At last he saw the cloud beginning to thin and his father stirred. “You may never see another thing like that,” he said, regretfully. “Some people live lifetimes between Openings. Others see dozens, maybe more. You never know.” He took Bill for breakfast from a vendor, bitter tea and roasted bulbs that tasted of smoke. As they ate, fewer and fewer of the seeds fell but there were still some, hanging in the air.
He slept dreamlessly that night.
When he went to the edge again, the seeds were gone and the air was blank. Not a trace of them remained, even the tiniest fragment had been taken. For the next year everyone tried to grow the seeds into plants. They tried different levels of moisture, or heat, or light from the sunstrip, but nothing worked and the seeds remained inert. He wondered what they would have produced. He wondered how they had come here. What decided when the world would open up and take something in? What lay outside the closed opening?
What decided when it would open and close? It implied some sort of conscious force, he thought, but then again there were random things in the world, things that developed without purpose.
What was Bill’s purpose? Did he have one?
...
2 Responses
Lovely story. I think you’ll be amused by this article: “Medieval Cookbook Contains Unicorn Recipe”
http://ca.delish.com/food/recalls-reviews/medieval-cookbook-unicorn-recipes
Ha! That made me laugh – thank you, Yadi!