The Littleton Writers is a critique group that meets each Tuesday and Thursday evening at Panera Bread of Southwest Plaza in Littleton, Colorado. If you are a current member of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers seeking a critique group to share your writing and grow your skills, check us out. We think this vibrant collection of authors and authors-to-be have a lot to offer the serious aspirant of writing novel-length commercial fiction. Please use the contact us page to let us know your interest and we’ll look forward to having you join us.
Z.J. Czupor, an active member of our Littleton Critique Group since 2008, recently learned that his short story, Hardboiled and In-Between, won second place in the Denver Women’s Press Club’s “Unknown Writers’ Contest 2014.”
Three winners were chosen in the fiction category; three in nonfiction; and six in poetry out of a total of 70 entries. A ceremony will be held at 2:00 p.m., April 6 at the DWPC’s historic landmark in downtown Denver. The Club was founded in 1898 and today enjoys a membership of over 200 writing professionals in various fields.
Z.J. has been invited to read an edited version of his story at the ceremony. He said the story is one he had written several years ago as a “cheeky take” on the hardboiled noir-style detective story. When he learned of the contest, he dusted the story off, added a couple of new elements and a new ending to arrive at the finished piece, which came in at 1,944 words on eight pages.
“I have to say that I owe a lot of my progress to my colleagues in our critique group,” Z.J. said. “Without their honest assessments of my writing and encouragement, I would not have finished three novels this quickly. Each week, I am newly impressed with the talent and experience of our members. Many are accomplished writers, some are published, some have agents, some are award-winning; and a few are on the cusp of making it as a professional writer. I am truly honored to be part of this brilliant group.”
IN 2012, Z.J.’s first novel, The Hot Tub Club, won first place in the Mainstream Fiction category at the Colorado Gold Writers Conference. The following year, his second novel, The Rose and the Spider, was a finalist in the Mystery Thriller category.
Unlike many famous authors who like to boast on their book jackets that they split their time between Paris and New York, or some such exotic locale, Z.J. says he splits his time between the upstairs and downstairs of his home, where he lives in Denver with his lovely wife Marta and two collies which “are way smarter than I am.” Z.J. and Marta own The InterPro Group, a public relations and marketing consulting firm.
Charles Senseman from our group recently launched his author’s website. Hope you’ll check him out at SensemanFiction.com.
From Charles’ website:
By age eight, Charles lived in five different towns. Imagination was a reliable and steady companion. Reading began with Dr Seuss and together with The Phantom Tollbooth, Treasure Island, and Gulliver’s Travels led him down the road to the fantasy genre.
Charles lives in Colorado with his wife and their Australian Shepherd. The Aussie understands commands in two languages and is smart enough to write her own memoir, if she only had fingers.
Good luck to Charles and all of our creative writers who are part of Littleton Writers’ Critique Group.
Gregory Lawrence Tafferty
June 23, 1967 – January 10, 2014
Looking at the tombstone rather than the casket, my situation seems somehow less . . . Real.
I don’t know why.
Julianne sobs and I reach out to her.
From behind me: “It is time.”
It’s been there since the ER doctor declared TOD.
I’ve avoided looking at it, naming it–Julianne’s the believer, not me.
But its glow warms my broken heart.
“Mortals are stronger in their broken places.”
Julianne loves Hemingway.
Withdrawing my hand, I turn toward. . .Michael. Toward His light.
For her sake, I hope the angel’s right.
By Patrick Dorn
Dorothy turned to the obituary page and read:
A sad relic of a bygone era committed suicide Friday, after a long battle with depression. “Rusty was never the same after his partner, the Cowardly Lion, overdosed on anti-anxiety medication,” the Scarecrow reported. “He just stopped caring, becoming an empty shell of a man. I think he died of a broken heart.” Tin Man’s body is to be recycled. No services will be held.
Dorothy set the paper aside, flicked her Bic and stared at the flame. “Two down, one to go,” she said.
Patrick Dorn’s most recent play is “The Wacky Wizard of Oz.” He delights in skewering sacred cows, but only when there’s nothing better to fondue.
Thank you to everyone who participated in our “novel in six words” competition, held in October. In honor of Ernest Hemingway’s – “For sale: baby shoes. Never worn” our writers tried their hands at similar succinct storytelling. Here is a sampling of the great work we received:
Failed challenge, but still saved planet. – Jacob Browne
Lost your wedding ring. Not sorry. – Jacob Browne (honorable mention)
Died yesterday. Became Reaper. Miss You. – Jacob Browne (honorable mention)
Parachute fails. Man lands. Honeymoon over. – Liz Funk (honorable mention)
Wife buys arsenic. Husband found dead. – Liz Funk
“He seemed normal,” says shaken neighbor. – Liz Funk
Gamble Safety. Its Worth the Risk. – Elizabeth Hall
Black night, sinking stars: dead spouse. – Mimi Hassouna
He left. I breathed. Moved on. – Trish Hermanson (honorable mention)
Just died, but I’m still breathing. – Trish Hermanson
Tomb – cheap. Used only three days. – Trish Hermanson (honorable mention)
Running slower. He’s gaining. No hope. – Ed Hickok
Pigeons coo. Glancing up. Bird poop! – Ed Hickok
One word removes my future: cancer. – Ed Hickok (First Place winner)
The zombies approached. She escaped … almost. – Laurence MacNaughton
The dime always needs replacing. – Charles Senseman
Gestalt annihilation flailing on bended knee. – Charles Senseman
Whimsical pigs aspirations (spelled vertically) capitalist butcher paradigm. – Charles Senseman
Special thanks to John Turley for acting as judge for this contest. Please keep a lookout for future writing challenges.
by Zoltan James
Jack Browning was an old man and today he felt it. In fact, he felt older than the seventy-five virile years he had spent on this planet. To make matters worse, he didn’t like where he was, at all. He was cooling his heels in the waiting room of Dr. Sandra Goodman. Psychiatrist.
Damn. I’d rather be at the dentist, having teeth pulled with pliers, he thought.
Her couches were stiff faux leather and cold to the touch-–like the swirling snow that fell outside the window. He felt chilled, which was odd since he really felt hot under the collar.
The dog-eared magazines on the low glass coffee table, in front of him, didn’t interest him either. They were two months old and the kind only women would enjoy. There was nothing to read concerning baseball, or golf, or auto racing. It occurred to him that he should have brought a book, but he was too damn mad when he left the house to think about it.
Across the way, a middle-aged woman wore no make-up and covered her head with a blue paisley handkerchief—Amish-like. She busied herself mumbling nonsense to an imaginary friend. She stared ahead, wide-eyed, into some other universe as she spoke.
Another goddamn reason why he didn’t belong here. She was nuts.
He studied the receptionist sitting behind the high desk. At least what he could see of her. From his vantage point, he could barely make out her thick black glasses framed by a head of salt-and-pepper hair, pulled back into a severe bun. It matched her personality as he recalled her cool reception when he checked in.
Good God. Get me outta here.
Then, the severe bun rose from her command post. “Mr. Browning, Dr. Goodman will see you now.” She didn’t smile or offer a hint of friendliness. She looked blankly at him through those thick black frames.
Maybe she was related to the crazy woman wearing the hankie.
A door to another room opened. And, then he saw her. Dr. Goodman. She was blonde and beautiful. She wore a tan skirt with a light blue shirt. She smiled warmly. And, without speaking, gestured for him to enter.
Jack grumbled and rose slowly to his feet. He scowled at the receptionist, who ignored him, once again, and he took a last wary glance back at the woman who was now scolding her “friend.” He shook his head and entered Dr. Goodman’s inner sanctum for the loony, the lost, and the confused souls of humanity.
I don’t belong here, he thought to himself. In fact, he thought the whole exercise was insane and marveled at the irony of it all.
“Please sit down and make yourself comfortable,” she said.
He expected to see a couch, but there was none. So, Jack settled into the cushy beige chair with the big comfy arms. This was real leather. The small room was filled with healthy leafy plants in corners and along the window sill. The soft yellow walls were hung with diplomas in big, black frames, and pieces of modern art that he guessed he was supposed to extract deep meanings from. The whole setup was too damn perky and it made him scowl.
“Coffee? Tea?” she offered like a friendly airline steward might.
“I’m good,” he grunted.
She sat in a modern executive chair and crossed her legs. A clean notepad sat nearby. She studied him silently.
Jack didn’t speak and avoided her eyes. He noticed the tiny, smart clock on her desk.
Another friggin’ 45-minutes to go.
He looked back at her.
She sat motionless. Her eyes firm on his.
Seconds ticked by. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve got nothing to say,” he growled. His eyes darted to the carpet.
“Tell me why you’re here, then?” she said matter-of-factly.
“I dunno. This was your cockamamie idea, as I recall.”
“It’s been a while since we visited. I thought it might be good for us to catch up.” She reached for the notepad.
Jack crossed his arms. He wanted to cross his legs but knew it would hurt too much. So he sank deeper into his chair and deepened his scowl. “How long’s it been?”
“Three years, at least,” she said softly.
“I thought I saw you last month,” he challenged.
She smiled. “You know that’s not true.”
“Well, seems like it.”
“Let’s cut to the chase shall we?” Her smile disappeared. Her lips grew tight.
“Yeah. Let’s. I gotta bus to catch.” He locked eyes with hers. He was ready for a fight.
“Why are you so angry? What makes you think the world owes you anything?” She re-crossed her legs and her big brown eyes bore into his.
“You know exactly why, so why do you keep asking me stupid questions?” He leaned forward in his chair, hands on his knees, ready to stand. Ready to bolt.
“This is about you. Not me. Now. One more time. Why are you so angry?”
Jack studied his gnarly hands with the cracked nails and the big blue veins that looked like interstate highways crisscrossing across the backs. And, there was that ever present purple bruise that didn’t seem to want to heal.
He wondered what had happened to the virile young man he used to be. He was fast at one time. All-league halfback in high school. Now he felt like he moved through a world of molasses. At one time, not all that long ago, he was handsome, with hair. Now, he hardly recognized himself in the mirror.
He was the best electrician the university ever employed. He knew all the profs and they all knew him. He used to be somebody. Somebody they could rely on, dammit. Now, nobody needed him. He had retired ten years ago. He hated retirement. It was boring as yesterday’s news. His house was paid for. His car was paid for. He owed nothing to nobody. He could go and come as he pleased, but he really had nowhere to go. And, he certainly didn’t owe this whippersnapper psyche-doctor the time of day.
He looked up and watched her for a moment. She hadn’t moved. “You’re married aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes. You know that,” she said, keeping her voice soft and firm.
He looked around the room, counted the four corners on the ceiling, and cleared his throat. “Well, you tell me. You’re the psychologist – ”
“I’m a psychiatrist,” she corrected.
“Yeah. Whatever. You all deal with the nuts of humankind.”
She stifled a smile.
“So, you wanna know why I’m angry? Maybe, you can tell me, doc.”
She didn’t answer.
He looked her square in the eye. “How’d you feel if the only person in the world you ever loved up and died one day, eh, doc? Massive stroke.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize the point. “Dropped her like a tree. Just up and died when you’re supposed to both slip easy into the retirement years.”
She looked down at her notes.
He leaned forward and his voice grew, “And, you tell me, this, doc. What if all your best friends were dead? You think you’d be out dancing a jig and tellin’ jokes all freakin’ day long? I don’t think so!”
She looked up at him but didn’t speak. She let the silence tug at him like the moon tugs at the ocean, pulling its release to shore. And, then, she saw it. A tiny tear formed in the corner of his left eye. The top lip belied a quiver. His neck and cheeks grew red. His hands fidgeted. She figured he wanted to strike out. But, she knew that he wouldn’t. He was still a gentleman.
“It’s okay. I understand,” she said and was surprised at the small lump forming in her throat.
“The hell you do!” he shot back. Spittle splayed across the room. Both eyes tearing now. He stood and paced the floor. He dabbed at his eyes with a sleeve.
She watched him for awhile and then stood next to him. She reached out a hand to touch his arm. “Dad? It’s okay. I understand.”
He flicked her hand away and turned to face her full on. “Okay? You think it’s okay? I have to make a friggin’ appointment to see my only daughter because she’s too damn busy helping crazy people? Okay? You’re the one who’s nuts!” Tears flowed freely down his face and he didn’t bother to wipe them.
And, then, without warning, a tear formed in the eye of Dr. Sandra Goodman. She turned away and sat heavily into her chair.
“Please sit down,” she said.
He didn’t answer as he tugged a ragged handkerchief from his back pocket. He patted his eyes and blew his nose. “I think I’m finished. I have nothing else to say.”
She made a note on her pad. “We should continue this. I think it could be helpful.” She pulled one, two, then three tissues from a box on her desk and blew her nose.
“Continue? I might be dead in three years,” he said. “Hell. I might be dead in three days. Who knows?”
She blew her nose again and seemed to be lost in a thought. Then, she looked up at him and rose from her chair. She walked to him and kissed him softly on the cheek.
He shrank back, surprised.
“Truth is, dad. I think this would be more helpful to me. Maybe you can enlighten me. . .you know. . .tell me more about mom. . .and you. I’m. . .sorry I haven’t been there for you. It’s just that work. . .” She gazed into his eyes hoping for a response.
Jack reached out his arms and hugged his daughter. It was the first time he had held her in years and the first time, in many years, he had felt someone hold him. A wave of hurt and then something like a bright warm light, maybe it was love, he wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, it engulfed his mind. His whole body trembled and he let loose a mournful cry so primal he couldn’t hold it back.
And, Dr. Sandra Goodman held on tight. She wanted to feel his pain with all her might and soul-—as full as she could. She trembled with him. She inhaled the musk of his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and recalled the feeling from days gone by. She remembered happier times when her father’s strong caress made her feel like the happiest girl in the world. A time, long ago, when she was just little Sandy.
The tiny clock on her desk chimed indicating that time was up for this appointment. But the old man and the psychiatrist never heard it. For to them, in that moment, anger melted like snow on a sunny sidewalk.
by James Norris
The wind is blowing again, as it has every night since I moved here. Tonight’s different though–there’s an expectation. Not in the voices, but in me.
Somehow, I know it’s happening tonight.
I anxiously try to drown them out. I play the stereo as loud as it will go. I vacuum. Run the dishwasher. The washing machine.
But they drop in pitch, so low they cause the whole house to vibrate.
It’s too much–like it’s the house talking, possessed by the voices.
I turn everything off.
They return to normal–high-pitched, coming in snatches, just out of synch with the howling wind.
After a few weeks in this house, I’d hear the voices and glimpse shapes blowing past the windows so fast I couldn’t recognize them.
Blown by the wind.
I told myself they were common things: pieces of newspaper, bags, leaves. But I never found them trapped in the fence the next morning.
Later, I realized the voices were putting words with the shapes.
When I was young, I used to dream I was out in a strong wind. Raising my arms, the wind would lift me off the ground. The higher I lifted my arms, the faster I would rise. I could fly.
But I always flew too high. Always lost control.
Shortly after moving here, I had the dream again, and tonight the voices are making it come true.
I’m being changed.
Tonight I will.
In the dream, I always lose control.