Category Archives: Guest Author
OFF… by guest author Mary Ellen Courtney
“Lady raised them,” said the Detective. “Then electrocuted them for their pelts.”
“Madonna still wears chinchilla,” said the Coroner. “They spared one lucky guy.”
A lone chinchilla sat in a cage with two rotting, wire-trailing buddies.
The lady on the garage floor was as dead as the rodents; a skinning knife stuck in her chest, a PETA calling card between her fingers.
“I’ll take the survivor home,” said the Coroner. “The kids want a pet.”
“Name it Lucky?” asked the Detective. “Madonna?”
The detective looked over the chinchilla operation, and handed her a cage.
“Grab some food,” he said.
Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields chose one of my photos, the electric panel on my kiln, to be the prompt at Friday Fictioneers today. The photo caught a friend’s attention and she said she’d like to write a story sometime, but didn’t blog. Since I can’t rely entirely on my granddaughter Ula to write my blog for me (while I take time off on a project) I invited Mary Ellen to write a story for TedBook. She did, and added a few photos of her own. It took me a while to understand her story, but after some thinking I got it. See if you get it.
Mary Ellen Courtney lives in Friday Harbor, Washington and writes novels. She is currently working on the third book of a trilogy. Wild Nights was the first, followed up by Spring Moon and both have won numerous awards. She would be too modest to brag, but you all know me and I’m not… I have listed them below.
2014 Finalist International Book Awards ~ 2014 Finalist USA Best Book Awards ~ 2015 B.R.A.G. Medallion
The other day, I shared this ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos video of a guy playing with puppies, with a friend on facebook… she is not just any dog lover, but a world-renowned artist who specializes in paintings of dogs. Other animals sometimes come out of her brush, but mostly… Dogs. She is also President of the Animal Shelter on San Juan Island and an all around champion of animal rights. Here she is in her studio holding my favorite Dog Painting, and you can view her work here… JAIME ELLSWORTH
Jaime Ellsworth “No…but we could be long-lost twins separated at birth by a baby snatching nurse who sold him off for money for cash to gamble away in Vegas. She drank too much and lost all the money, and then felt so guilty about her dirty deed that she became a hooker to try to buy the baby back. Sadly that was her downfall as she became addicted to heroin and spent every penny she had on drugs. My brothers faux parents could never figure out why he preferred the company of dogs so much because they were told his real parents were busy astronauts and never had any attachment to animals or children as they were always in space. As a child he was never allowed to have a pet and made up for it in his adulthood by stalking people at pet stores who bought puppy chow and followed them home, waited until they went to work and climbed in the puppies play yards to fill his heart with all the puppy love he was so denied as a child……….to be continued…. “
So what do you think? Artist becomes Author? I for one am looking forward to the ‘to be continued…’
To see a previous TedBook story about The Painter of Dogs, and a show at Waterworks Gallery in Friday Harbor…
TORMENTED… A Vignette by Ula Grace
I remember that night, that night of sorrow.
I am responsible for what happened to them. I hear her voice in my thoughts, during my nights.
I hear all of their voices. They torment me. Their words accusing, all except hers.
They blame me for it all. I have no escape. Everyone is gone, those who survived left after that night. I’m alone, wandering this darkened, silent house in search of some escape from this torment.
I see her walking in the halls, our grandmother’s nightgown draped over her thin shoulders, the back trailing on the floor like the train on a wedding dress. My little sister, only six years old when her life was ended. I see her open her mouth, and read my name on her lips… Caleb. It seems to take a lifetime for the sound to reach my ears, and when it does, its distant, a shadow of her voice. She’s searching for me. I try to tell her that it’s all right, that I’m here. But all I hear is silence, where my voice should fill the emptiness with comforting words. I reach out to stroke her hair and pull her into my embrace. But then she’s gone, as if she never existed, ever walked this Earth. Leaving a trail of tiny footprints behind her as she walks.
Guest Author Ula Grace
Ula Grace is a frequent contributor to TedBook.
Photo of the little girl is on the cover of Ransom Riggs’ novel Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children
Of course I bought the book… after I read it, I’ll give it to UlaG.
THIS STORY IS FEATURED ON THIS WEEK’S MOONSHINE GRID AT YEAHWRITE.COM
One of my favorite Canadian writers is writing a novel! Check it out, and tell her I sent you! Ted
My dear readers, today I’m writing a different kind of post.
I have just launched a Kickstarter campaign to help me raise the money to finish writing my novel, The Ending. Those of you who have been following my blog for a while may have already met some of the characters. For everyone else, I’d like to take this opportunity to introduce you to the four main characters in my novel:
You can also find a link to an excerpt from the book on my Kickstarter page.
There are some cool perks for the people who contribute, including an acknowledgment on my blog (and in the book when it’s published), a copy of one of my other books (both of which you can find here), a special, limited edition hard copy of the four character sketches above, and a chance to immortalize…
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My pal Betty has returned to Irwin’s Place ready to do some writing. Please enjoy her memory walk down hockey lane… back to The Old Red Barn
MEMORIES OF THE OLD RED BARN
It had just stopped raining when I parked my car on Grand River near McGraw in Detroit. It was a typical fall day in September 1987. All the leaves were turning vibrant colors, with some of them floating to the ground. I turned on the windshield wipers to clean the last residual rain off my windshield and looked out. There it was, Olympia Stadium, which had been my second home for years. How majestic she looked against the breaking gray clouds. How I wished I could go inside one more time and smell the stale beer, popcorn and cigarette smoke. Shutting my eyes I could almost hear the shouts from the fans when the Red Wings scored. I saw all the great ones play there, Gordie Howe, Terry Sawchuk, Bobby Hull, Bobby Orr, Stan Mikita and Maurice (The Rocket) Richard. The list goes…
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Some gifts cannot be bought… this is one of those. I have been encouraging my granddaughter to write some stories for TedBook. She is taking a creative writing class at school and I think is a clever writer. She is a lucky girl, as she has traveled the globe with her parents since she was a baby… every year. They always take a trip in January and get home in February… It is cold here and they go to warm places. I pick them up at the airport, quite a sight in their shorts and flip-flops, and return them to Friday Harbor. Last year they trekked through Myanmar for six weeks. She promised to write a story about the children there, complete with photos she took… I’m holding her to it. Hopefully this will be a start to more stories from the pen of UlaG.
I am the doorknob. I feel gloved hands – rough work gloves. They twist me to the right and open the door. The hands are big and have been working all day. I feel their relief at being done with work. He closes this door behind him and I feel him take hold of my counterpart on the other side of the door, so that the door won’t slam. Small hands reach up, barely reaching me, the little hands gritty with dirt from playing outside. They turn me to the right and run inside not stopping to close this door. Gentle hands close the door behind the laughing child. Someone knocks on this door. I feel the vibrations through the door. The gentle hands twist my counterpart on the inside to the left and open the door. The hands accept something from the hands which knocked and the woman closes the door with her hip.
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Please join me in welcoming guest author, Ula Grace. “The Doorknob” is her first submission as TedBook’s newest staff member. She promises to write about her recent month-long journey through Myanmar, complete with photos she took. Ula is honing her writing skills at Spring Street International School in Friday Harbor, Washington.
Imagine my surprise when I open the mail in the TedBook office this morning, and there was an unsolicited manuscript from my friend Betty, who lives near Detroit. The fact that I had just written a story with a Betty (who sounds exactly like her, but was purely coincidental) seemed to have awakened the author inside, that she had hinted at. I have been after Betty to write some stories for Trifecta and Friday Fictioneers for some time. This story is a sequel to my latest story Blame Game. Being humble, she didn’t want anyone to see it… hahahaha…. here it is… (If you are watching Downton Abbey and have not seen the last episode, read no further)
DON’T CALL DURING MY SHOW!
Betty was unnerved by the ringing of her phone, as her friends would never call during her favorite show, Survivor. Upon answering she heard Cheryl screaming and blaming her for Ethel’s frightening experience. The ramblings went on and on until Betty could take them no more. She thought Cheryl was a bit squiffy, for obviously Ethel had eaten too many burritos.
Unscathed by the rantings of Cheryl, Betty hung up the receiver and returned to her program. The phone immediately rang again, and this time Cheryl was blaming her for Matthew’s demise on Downton Abby. Smacking her hand to her forehead, Betty was in disbelief and thought that maybe it would make Cheryl happy if she just went out and sat in the car after attaching a hose to the exhaust pipe. Tying to get a word in edgewise was impossible, so Betty put the receiver down and continued watching Survivor. During the second TV advertisement Betty checked her phone and was relieved that Cheryl had caught on to the abandonment. She hung up the phone and fixed herself a scotch, as she really needed one!
Settling back down in her chair she was interrupted again by the telephone. With patience exhaust, she grabbed the phone to give Cheryl a piece of her mind, she heard her say “The Red Wings SUCK”, and then hung up! Betty began to seethe! How dare anyone say such an awful thing about her babies!! She downed her scotch and poured herself another.
Her rage subsided as her favorite part of Survivor came on, tribal council. Jeff Probst was reading off the votes when the phone rang again! Knowing it was Cheryl calling back, Betty decided to let it ring and go into voice mail. A few seconds later the phone rang again and this time Betty walked over to the phone to unplug it, but before doing so she checked the caller ID and to her surprise…it was Ted!
So, that’s Betty’s story… please let her know what you think. I still have to talk her into making a blog and joining us… may have to send some Scotch. I loved the last line, but would never call during Survivor!
I think we’ve missed the deadline, but I wanted everyone to meet Betty… I’ll just call her Betty Red Wings for now…
I rarely ever reblog a post. This one must be on TedBook. I always enjoy Jan’s stories, and comments on Madison Wood’s Friday Fictioneers.
This week’s photo prompt on Madison Woods‘ Friday Fictioneers is by one of our fellow Fictioneers, Douglas McIlroy. Doug, I thought the photo was beautiful, so please don’t take offense to my story. 🙂
Click here to read other Fictioneer stories, and please feel free to leave a link to your story with your comments.
The Original Pout
Eve trudged behind Adam, huffing. “I liked the garden better. On what day did God create this place, anyway?”
Adam walked faster. “Believe me. It’s for the best. If you’d listened to me, we’d still be in Eden. How many times did I tell you to leave that snake alone?”
“I was only trying to be social.” She wrapped her arms around her naked body. “Guess you know we’re going to have to wear more than fig leaves here. Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Eve, I’m listening.”
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In remembrance of the event 100 years ago, I have a guest author. I thought you might enjoy a nice short story by my neighbor to the North in Vancouver, B.C., Carrie Rogozinski. It seems she may have uncovered some new clues…