Category Archives: Nightwriters

Nightwriters

Nightwriters: Beaver Run

Andrea ChmelikBy Andrea Chmelik

I glance back to tell him to hurry, but he isn’t there.
“Mason?” My stomach flips. “Mason!” I shriek. Blood drains from my limbs and I stand frozen to the spot. News headlines flash through my mind— Four-year Old Abducted At Train Station or Child Dies In Tragic Accident On The Railroad Tracks. I hear my mother’s voice, high-pitched and resentful: How many times have I told you that you can’t let him out of your sight? But do you ever listen to my advice?
“Excuse me, but did you know that beavers can stay under water for fifteen minutes?” his little voice chimes from around the corner. A flood of relief hits me like a torrent from a broken dam.
“I had no idea!” a man in a trench coat squats down to Mason’s eye level. Continue reading Nightwriters: Beaver Run →

Nightwriters

Nightwriters: Liberation

David BrandinBy David Brandin

My earliest memory of World War II is riding my bike, shouting, “The war is over!” At six-years-old, I wasn’t sure what war meant. And of course, I had no idea how wars began, or ended.
Later, I’d meet many people who’d fought in the conflict. I worked with an American whose B-29 airplane (Bock’s Car) dropped the bomb on Nagasaki and a Japanese who’d served as a Naval Air Cadet. There were other coincidences, some strange, and one that was most extraordinary. It happened in 1985. Continue reading Nightwriters: Liberation →

Nightwriters

Nightwriters: Birthday Cake

Jan AlarcanBy Jan Alarcon

A week after my car accident I enter an extended care facility. All but one of us is here to heal our broken bones. Rest and wait for your x-rays to change. A furry snowball will surround the break; then disappear; a solid white line will replace it. Be of good cheer. A bone never breaks in the same place twice. I wait for two months for my twenty-seven lines to appear.
Lena has no broken bones. Lena, on compassionate care, has an inoperable brain tumor. She’s thirty-one. Commensurate with her status, Lena has the sunny corner room with glass walls and views of both gardens. A trolley cart, replenished daily with home-baked goods, resides at her door. Her children visit every morning, her church every evening. All link arms and pray around her. Lena’s eyes open and express concern, forgiveness, prophecy; the interpretation is up to us. Continue reading Nightwriters: Birthday Cake →

Nightwriters

Nightwriters: The Visit

Tony PiazzaBy Tony Piazza

I can’t remember the quote verbatim, but I can paraphrase; “Be courteous, because who knows, you might be entertaining an angel.” I’m not sure it was an angel who appeared that summer day many years back; but if it wasn’t, it was surely the closest thing.
I was sickly as a child. Just one of those spins of life’s wheel. Some kids could play in the pouring rain with no effect, and others, like myself, got into a small draft, and ended up with the sniffles. It was hard on my mother. I weathered it, but being her only child, she worried constantly. Continue reading Nightwriters: The Visit →

Coast News, Nightwriters

Submissions Being Accepted for the Golden Quill Awards

TGQ Web Logo-01The Golden Quill Awards writing contest, sponsored by SLO Nightwriters and in conjunction with the Central Coast Writers Conference and Cuesta College, is now in its 26th year. This contest has grown over the years to include entrants from across the country and internationally.
The theme of this year’s contest is Transformation.  Each entry must depict this theme, as interpreted by the writer.
The hottest new trend in the writing community, Flash Fiction, is a new category this year. Writers are challenged to compose an entire short story in no more than 500 words.  The remaining categories are Short Fiction, a story between 1,000 and 1,200 words; and Poetry, a poem up to 40 lines. Continue reading Submissions Being Accepted for the Golden Quill Awards →

Nightwriters

Nightwriters: So Long, Fuzzy

Jean MoelterBy Jean Moelter

Firstborn started begging for a dog at age six, but his father and I weren’t ready for the commitment. So we convinced him that a rat would be just as much fun. Thus began many years of rodent infestation at our house.
We usually had a few at a time, so they wouldn’t get lonely. Rats only live about two years, and some of ours died peacefully in their sleep. But others developed rat bronchitis and spent their last weeks of life, not coughing exactly, but breathing loudly. We always sought medical treatment for the sick ones, but that just seemed to prolong their suffering—to the tune of eighty dollars for an exam plus antibiotics. Continue reading Nightwriters: So Long, Fuzzy →

Nightwriters

Nightwriters: The Ordinance

Sharyl HeberBy Sharyl Heber

Niagara. Trite, but it means something to him. Tourists that surround us on the platform keep their distance.
“How long I’ve waited to stand here with you,” he says. The roar of the Falls overpowers his voice. I can feel the unnatural heat of his breath on my neck. He reaches for my hand to find his lavish diamond on my finger. Turning it, he croons an eerie bar of ‘Twilight Time’ and presses himself closer.   Continue reading Nightwriters: The Ordinance →

Nightwriters

Nightwriters: A Change of Heart

Janice KonstantinidisBy Janice Konstantinidis

Corporal Derek Gardner—what can I say about him?
I’ve been sitting here for most of the morning trying to write a eulogy for my brother’s funeral. Nobody told me it would be this difficult. The minister from our church offered suggestions, but I can’t relate to them. He spoke about forgiveness and coming to terms. Seeing Mom and Dad so shocked and confused adds to my growing sense of anger about my brother’s death.
I start to type. Continue reading Nightwriters: A Change of Heart →

Nightwriters

Nightwriters:15 Minutes in Purgatory

By Liz Regan

“You have fifteen minutes to write a story in the third person point of view. Begin now.”     The writers scramble to position their keyboards, papers, pens, eager to launch their electrifying tales—all except one—Tabula Rasa.
“Anyone home?” she thumps her forehead.  No response, empty, a whirl of dust bunnies. Tabula Rasa wipes her brow, scattering droplets.  She’s new to the writing class, a toddler among the mature. Third person POV?  She reminds herself, a story told through the eyes of the main character.  Tabula doodles a hangman. She frowns, grasping for a start. Panic looms.
Tabula studies the writers sitting around the table. The man next to her is Homerun Writer Ace. He wields writing much like a homerun hitter wields a baseball bat. His digits sprint across the keyboard, the words chiding his fingers to move faster. The Ace once shared an account of a lad who lived a B+ life but had A- moments. The youth sat in a tree playing his guitar. A hippy girl came by, climbed up and joined him with her guitar. Together they strummed chords and sang Leonard Cohen and Judy Collins. The lad asked her to dinner. The girl accepted. Maybe they married. The Ace didn’t say. Continue reading Nightwriters:15 Minutes in Purgatory →

Nightwriters

Nightwrighters: Finding the Elves – Again

Nancy Meyer Portrait for TolosaBy Nancy Meyer
When I was a little girl, my mother filled my head with stories of fairies and elves every night at bedtime.  In the morning I lay in bed thinking about the magical forest world, while I listened to the elves rustling in the leaves under the big Elm tree by my window. On nights when the soft breeze blew through the pines, I could hear the fairies sing.
“They sing when the wind blows,” mother said, “because that’s how fairy dust travels. And, without fairy dust they can’t fly.”
“Tell me the story about little Clara,” I begged.
“Do you want the story about the night she couldn’t fly?”
“Yes, tell it again. Please!” Continue reading Nightwrighters: Finding the Elves – Again →