A Is For Anthologies & Amazon Widgets

Buy the book and support Short Story Day Africa

Even though this post is part of the VA Blogging Challenge, the content is basically my general news - a glimpse of my writing life and stuff that I come across/use/interests me/influence my writing/I want to promote.


A is for Anthologies

So. Today my blogging friend Tiah sent me an email to announce that they had finally launched Rapunzel is Dead, an anthology of 17 short stories by the young participants of Short Story Day Africa 2013. Contributors for this anthology were within the 9-12 age group.

I was priviledged enough to be one of the judges of the competition, so I'm thrilled to see the result of their labour. Congratulations!

The ebook is available on Amazon for $2.99 or, you can set your own price on Smashwords.  Setting your own price means you can ask for the book for $0.00 (free). But if you do pay something, the proceeds will help fund Short Story Day Africa 2014.

Cold blows the summer wind

A short story by Damaria Senne

P.S. This short story was my entry for a writing exercise for an online writing group. The story heading was "Cold blows the summer wind" and we could interpret that as we wanted. I wrote the story in 2000, I think. I hope I grew as a writer since then. Enjoy:-)
I first met Tony at Eastgate shopping mall. It was a warm spring afternoon, and I’d gone to see a movie. He sat next to me and by the time the movie finished, we were talking like old friends. He later admitted that he saw me enter the movie theatre and bought the ticket just so he could meet me.

For the next several weeks, he pursued me relentlessly. He called me daily, just to chat when I was too tired to even consider going out. He’d arrive at work unexpectedly to take me out to lunch. He sent flowers. He made it very clear that he found me sexy and exciting.

At first I was suspicious; what did he really want? Surely my dream man wouldn’t just walk into my life? Wasn’t he too good to be true?

“What’s to understand?” my friend Sara asked impatiently when I broached the subject with her. “If a handsome young man like that was chasing me, I’d catch him and drag him to my bedroom for some fun. I wouldn’t be sitting here with you, trying to understand him.’

Hunting For Ghosts, A Short By Damaria Senne

Last year I mentioned that I have a nameless jumble of words that I just keep spewing and I have no idea what form they will take.  Well, the  words are slowly taking shape into a rough  draft of a YA novel. It will probably take me years before I finish it, what with the work I am already committed to. Meanwhile, here's an excerpt (the intro of the first chapter)s my web story Friday contribution.

Six months after our family moved into our new home in Kensington, I found a gun buried in our vegetable garden.
“Ben? BEN? Where did you find that?” Mom asked when she saw me holding the rusty weapon instead of digging the garden soil to prepare it for planting.
I pointed to the hole on the ground. Mom's eyes tracked my hand from the gun to the hole. The same question that was running through my head was probably running through hers too: “What was old Mrs Bernstein, the previous owner of our house, doing with her gun in the garden?”
She was 150 when she moved out of the house. OK. Maybe I exaggerate. Mom said she was 85 years old when she sold us the house to move to an old age home. But old is old and I had trouble imagining her holding this gun or shooting someone with yet. And if it wasn't her, who could it be? Mom was proud of the fact that the house was an antigue ( built in 1932) and still in its oriiginal state. Apparently, Mrs Bernstein and her husband were the only people who ever lived in it. So if she didn't bury the gun in the garden, who did? Her husband, who they said was sick and couldn't even get out of bed for years? And if she did shoot someone with the gun, where was the body?
Suddenly, the ceramic tiles covering most of our backyard no longer looked like an “easy-maintenance” solution for busy home owners that I heard the estate agent lady tell Mom it was.
“Mom, do you think there’s a body buried in this yard, maybe even in this garden?”

Share with us what you think of this story.

Soccer Mom, By Pamela Moeng

The first of the short stories by my co-blogger, Pamela Moeng, as promised. Enjoy! And please leave a comment? The next story will be published next Friday.
Damaria

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Soccer Mom, By Pamela Moeng

Lindy whistled shrilly between her teeth. “Go, Neo!” she shouted. “Kick that ball!”
A few of the other parents watching the soccer match looked disdainfully at her - Lindy ignored them. She paid a mountain of money for Neo to attend this snooty school and by God she was going to make sure she got her money’s worth, including cheering on her son township style in his first match.

Unfortunately despite her loud support, Neo’s kick sent the ball straight into the goalie’s arms. Not an auspicious beginning to a soccer career, but then Neo was only nine and a bit small for his age.