FROM ANOTHER ANGLE
by Susan Long Turner

ONCE UPON A TIME

"So, you see, imagination needs moodling -- long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling and puttering." - Brenda Ueland

Moodling -- doesn't this delightful made up word hurl your imagination to far-flung places and into unknown kingdoms? Wish I had heard that word during the time I spent in happy idling, dawdling and puttering away the hours in my tree house. I dreamed of emerald lands peopled with peasants, kings, queens, a prince and princess. Dark caves lured me to explore monsters and other scary things. Sometimes I saw myself a child, other times, all grown up.

Fairy tales by the Grimm Brothers, CINDERELLA plus other narratives from the inner world of Charles Perrault, and wondrous Hans Christian Anderson stories--all must have taken wings from moodling. John Sciezka in his book PRACTICE WRITING FRACTURED FAIRY TALES comments that a fairy tale or wonder tale, is a kind of folklore or fable. "In these stories we meet witches and queens, giants and elves, princes, dragons, talking animals, ogres, princesses, and sometimes even fairies."

Sciezka points out that marvelous and magical things happen to characters. A boy may become a bird. A princess may sleep for a hundred years. A seal may become a girl. Objects, too, can be enchanted. Mirrors talk, pumpkins become carriages, and a lamp may be a home to a genie. We have a lot of moodling going on in fairy tales.

According to Myths, Folktales and Fairy Tales Internet project, "When we read these traditional stories from around the world, we find that the things we value most highly, fear most deeply, and hope for most ardently are valued, feared and hoped for by all people. Still, while the same yearnings are expressed, each culture has a unique response made richer by details from its society and the local ecology.

"Whatever the explanation, stories that have been told and cherished for countless generations are bound to be good. They send our own imaginations into orbit. As we read, we ask ourselves, what do I think is true, or fair, or good, or beautiful? How would I tell my story?"

In his book John Sciezka talks about twenty-first century authors. "Some authors still like to retell and invent new fairy tales." He suggests in THE TRUE STORY OF THREE LITTLE PIGS that the wolf was actually after a cup of sugar, but the pigs misunderstood him. Also with humor, Jon Scieszka's fractured fairy tales in THE STINKY CHEESE MEN AND OTHER FAIRLY STUPID TALES retells a few of these time-honored tales.

Diane Goode put on her moodling cap and came up with CINDERELLA: THE DOG AND HER LITTLE GLASS SLIPPER.

Let's join these authors and find out what makes fairy tales so enduring. To create our own versions, we don't need an ivory tower or tree house to take Brenda Ueland's advice, "moodling--long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling and puttering."

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Susan Long Turner is co-author with Russ Turner of "Wings Born Out of Dust" which is available now from 23 House Publishing and is also available in trade paperbacks and hardback at other major online bookstores. Visit her Website

POETRY WORLD
by Robert Nailor

Fractured fairy tales. What an interesting concept; especially for the poet.

Did anyone conjure up Rocky and Bullwinkle? If not, then you're too young. I loved the Fractured Fairy Tales and the "alternate history" of Mr. Peabody, it made me think.

What is a fractured fairy tale? The taking of a familiar character, plot or setting from a traditional fairy tale to create another version. In other words, altering the story line, adding an unexpected twist or spin on the accepted version. Normally it is an experimental project with parody, irony and satire doing the strong work.

The same can hold true in the poetic world. If we apply the above logic to poetry, we can take any poem and fracture it.

Here's an example:

Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.

Now for the fractured version:

Jack and Jill went up the hill.
Each had a quarter.
Jill came down with fifty cents.
Did they go up for water?

Granted a bit risque, but you smiled and remembered the original from your youth.

Here's a couple more fractures.

Hickory, dickory, dock.
Three mice ran up the clock.
The clock struck one.
The other two escaped with minor bruises.

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick.
Just jumped over the..
"Hey, that burned!"

If you think this is difficult, visit the following site to see what some 2^nd graders have done. http://www.desertskyone.com/FT/index.html

Yes, I realize that I've dealt with nursery rhymes, but the same holds true to almost any poetic endeavor. Another example? "Account Of A Visit From St. Nicholas" by Clement Clarke Moore (and now thought to be by Maj. Henry Livingston Jr) has been through many fractures. I've read a version involving Mayor Barry of Washington, DC, an Italian Mafia style version, an Easter Bunny version, and a rather ribald version involving - er, well, let's just say, there are many, many fractures on that particular poem.

Many of the classic poems, sonnets, and epics have been re-versed to a fracture methodology for our reading edification and humor. These little ditties travel the internet over and over again because we love to laugh and smile.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Fracture a poem
Just for you.

Have fun. You may just find a new niche for your poetic prowfess.

* * * * *

R. S. Nailor is Poetry Editor and Production Manager for the Emporium Gazette. His manuscript, THREE STEPS: THE JOURNEYS OF AYROLD, is currently in the final stages of editing. He has short stories included in three ebook anthologies from 23House and numerous articles and poems elsewhere on the internet. You can visit him at Lore's Webs.

Tips For Writing Web Tutorials That Sell
by Denise Vitola

Web tutorials have been around the Internet since its inception but it is only recently that writers are discovering that they can be a lucrative 'how-to' market. Just take a look at many web sites that offer tutorials. You can find information on endless subjects--from creating web graphic masterpieces to repairing your car.

Yet, the variety and plethora of web tutorials does not mean that they are always well-written and sold. Companies are looking for writers who can make the 'how-to' easy to understand and execute. The following are some hints that will help you create successful tutorials and a quick sale.

1. Write what you know. If you have no idea how to crochet an afghan, then don't try to write a tutorial on it. Think about the things you do know how to do and then look for companies and web sites that promote those subjects. Aim your tutorials toward specific Internet needs. It may be the Internet, but ezines and web sites work just like traditional marketing for writers.

2. A tutorial has a beginning, middle and end, similar to any informative article. Make sure you give a short intro, pack the center with the how-to goodies and end it appropriately.

3. Write an outline of the tutorial, so you can create a step-by-step guide for your reader to follow. An outline will help you to present all the information necessary for the reader to complete the tutorial. Leaving out important facts is the number one way to guarantee that you won't make a sale.

4. Keep it simple. We've all heard it as writers, but it especially true of writing the web tutorial. Your sentences need to be short and to the point. The reader doesn't want cute asides to clutter the information--that just makes it more difficult to follow the tutorial. Save your bouncy writing for the intro and end, and make sure the middle is clear and concise.

5. Wherever possible, include pictures. Graphics are the glory of the Internet and a straight text tutorial will have little chance of selling when compared to information that is spiced with photos showing the work in progress.

6. Be specific and don't assume your reader knows what you are talking about. If your tutorial requires a certain proficiency by the reader before the procedure can be successfully executed, then make sure you tell him at the beginning of your article.

7. After you have completed your web tutorial, approach the web sites and companies with a query letter first. It will save you a rejection later on.

8. When sending your tutorial to a web site, include a cover letter. Also, make sure that you package your product in an easy-to-decode format such as rich text format (.rtf) or as a portable document format (.pdf). Graphics should be compressed and saved as joint photographic experts group (.jpeg format).

Writing web tutorials can be fun, satisfying, and ultimately, profitable. Following these tips will help you make that dream come true.

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is a successful web tutorial writer for the Internet Eye Magazine. She specializes in 2D and 3D graphics production. Visit her website Delphic Moments

Babies for Sale
by Ron Jones

Ima Wrighter shoved the bus station's swinging, glass doors open and stepped into Hollywood's glare.

"Cab?" a bearded dwarf asked. His crooked, pointed, hat with its floppy brim made him resemble a wizard who'd just lost a joust with a washing machine.

This refugee from the lollipop guild couldn't manage a cosmetic bag let alone a suitcase packed with manuscripts. She wasn't sure she trusted anyone to handle her infants.

Ima hailed a passing stretched limousine but it zipped past without slowing. When she stepped off the curb, several pursuing expensive sedans with tinted windows almost ran her down. Everyone seemed in a rush to catch success before she could get moving.

"Be careful!" The gnome grabbed her hand to steady her when her heel wedged in a sewage drainage grate. "Hollywood doesn't slow or stop for anyone."

She reassured herself that in a few weeks she, too, would hit it big. Then she could afford to buy a sports car and mansion with lots of glass on some secluded stretch of beach. At the moment all she had was her God-given talent and what few belongings she had stuffed into her bag. Inside her dilapidated suitcase, her babies lay nestled in fresh binders. She had given birth to six and a seventh lay with its brothers and sisters, but it hadn't yet developed legs. This last one would be her breakout, her immortality.

The cabby spat on the ground and shook his fist at the vanishing autos. "Pay no attention to those rock-heads. Most of those clowns wouldn't know a good script if it clawed its way up their tale pipes and exploded inside their mufflers."

"Are you a writer, too?" Suddenly he seemed much less of a threat. She reached for her luggage as he popped the rear of the yellow dragon.

"Let me," he said, grabbing her bag. "You'll throw out your back dragging that around."

To her surprise he hoisted the valise above his head and slid it gently into the trunk as if it had been filled with goose down. Then he tapped the side of his bulbous nose.

"This schnozzle could smell a blockbuster from miles away," he said. "As for being a writer, I've written a tale or two, but these days I help others find their 'voice.' I also do legwork and arrange contacts for promising authors when I like their material. Writers are the salt of the Earth. Something tells me you have the talent to bring some flavor to this town. Let me know if you need my services."

Judging by the glimmer in his dark eyes, she knew this wasn't 100 percent blarney. Still, her suspicion lingered that he wasn't being entirely honest.

He patted her bag, as if tucking in a baby, before closing the lid. "Now, where to?"

Hollywood was nothing like her coastal home of Ogunquit, Maine. She would have to pinch every penny if she wanted to stretch her funds for more than two months. "I don't have a lot of cash. Could you suggest a cheap motel?"

His fingers stroked his frayed and twisted beard. "How many novices are rich? Despite our contribution to the industry, writers don't rank as the best paid hands. I know a place within walking distance from the major studios that is not only cheap, but it's clean and safe."

Two months had passed and still Ima hadn't sold one of her seven scripts. There were only six big studios where she could market her work, and she couldn't get through the gates to see any of them. Those six executives were insulated from the real world, issuing commands that echoed like dragon roars from the cloud-covered peaks of their Olympian heights.

She waved for an approaching cab as she dropped her tattered suitcase. To the studio bosses she was just another writer in an ocean of talent, each wanting to monopolize their day. They held the power, and they could mold careers or crumble them in their fists. They knew that, too.

A yellow steel banana screeched to halt at the curb, and a familiar hat popped out of the driver's window. "Ah, my favorite, young writing talent, how can I serve you?" He glanced nervously at her baggage. "You aren't letting this town beat you, are you?"

"Is it any skin off your nose?" She swung open the door, heaved the bag into the back, and climbed in after it.

"For me that might be a mortal wound." His small dark eyes, on either side of his nasal mountain, peered over the rear of the front seat and through the bulletproof glass. "I thought I told you to contact me if you had any problems. The offer still stands."

She rolled her eyes. "And how much would this so-called help cost?"

"Forty percent of the sale and half your percentage of the rear."

She shook her head in disbelief. "Get real. Forty points is bad enough, but not even name writers get a percentage of a movie. What makes you think I would rate that?"

He cocked his head and shrugged. "So, what are you worried about? Half of zero is still zero."

"What about that percentage? Most agents don't get that kind of cut."

"I do a lot more than most agents," he replied. "I will edit your work before I contact the studio heads. I won't even ask for expenses. Do you know how much it costs to shmooze a studio exec? I'll handle everything from negotiating your contracts to tipping the waiter."

"I'm broke," she said.

His smile sent a chill up her back. "Don't worry about your living expenses. I'll handle everything until we sell your first script, but this has to be a package deal. I want the exclusive right to handle your work."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Selling that first script could take months, maybe a year."

He climbed out and opened her door. "Trust me. I'll take care of you."

"Well, it doesn't sound bad, assuming you can deliver," she said. "I have six scripts that you can market, one for each of the studios."

"With your talent, I'm sure we can sell them all."

Ima offered her hand to close the deal.

"There is one last item." He glanced down at her suitcase. "If I sell all six, you must complete your seventh script as well."

Ima's arm wrapped protectively around her bag, shielding her unborn child. How did he know? How could he ask her to sign over her best work?

"I'll make you the same deal on the seventh, but I want my name on its title page."

"What if one of the six don't sell?" she asked.

"In that case, you may keep the seventh script. Is it a deal?" This time the dwarf extended his hand.

What were the odds that this tiny troll could sell all of them? "It's a deal," she replied, taking his surprisingly firm hand and pumping it.

*****

Ima listened to the waves breaking on the sparkling sandy beach beyond the glass of her Malabu home. She admired the firm body of her boyfriend as he jogged up the beach toward the house. The maroon Viper that sat parked in her driveway matched the color of her custom lipstick.

The dwarf had sold all six and managed to negotiate two points on the gross take of four of her movies. She had spun the yarns, and her pint-sized agent had turned them into gold. Ima popped another two aspirin into her mouth and swallowed them with a glass of wine punch.

Her agent was as punctual as he had been reliable. He rang her doorbell as the clock struck the final of ten chimes.

"It's good to see you," she lied.

"I've done everything I promised. You're now the most sought-after screenwriter in Hollywood. All that is left is for you to hand over your final manuscript."

Without hesitation, she removed a thick bradded manuscript in the bleached manila covers from an end table, and slid it across the coffee table. This had to work.

The dwarf picked up the script, but his smile lacked the satisfaction she'd expected. "This isn't the script you promised," he snapped. "Although it's your work, it's still a substitute. Did you think you could swindle me?"

"But I didn't," she began.

The dwarf cocked his head and studied her. "Normally I wouldn't do this, but I respect you almost as much as I love your way with words. I'll give you a second chance. If you can guess my name, I'll let you keep your breakout script. If not, you have to forfeit everything: your money, this house, your future scripts, everything."

"That is the seventh script," she lied.

"Don't try to trick this nose. This isn't the script you had when you arrived. You finished that weeks ago, a fantasy so powerful that it will rival Beowulf."

Ima gasped. He knew her secret, but how? She glanced toward her boyfriend who was now tracking sand across the kitchen floor. "Jason, how could you?"

"What did I do now?" He quickly brushed off his feet on the kitchen rug.

"How could you tell my agent when you promised never to mention my secret to anyone?" she demanded.

Jason raised his hand. "I didn't mention that to a soul."

"Don't blame him," the dwarf shouted. "You've got three days. You must guess my name before the full moon, or deliver your beautiful child to me. Then it will wear my name through film history. I will be a legend."

"Jacob, Marvin, Stacey, Mack,

Jason, Howard, Cloony, Jack?" she began.

"No, but keep trying." He settled onto her white leather couch. "Maybe you'll get lucky."

"Delbert, Waldo, Irving, Bob,

Mitchel, Garrett, Eugene, Rob?"

Again he shook his head.

All day she babbled names until she'd gone completely though her baby names book that she'd purchased as a reference. This wasn't going to be easy. The next morning she secretly sent Jason to hire a private eye.

The shamus checked with the cab company, but they had no record of any dwarf working for them. He contacted the talent agencies, the studios, the trade magazines, but again nothing.

After two days, she was running out of baby books. She had tried every name she could imagine and still hadn't found the right one. It was now the day before the full moon.

Late that evening the gumshoe reported back with good news. He'd trailed the leprechaun to a night spot called O'Riely's.

"You never could have guessed," the detective said. "There among a mob of dancing wee folk, I heard him singing and bragging about what he'd done."

"What did he sing?" she demanded.

"It went something like this:" He cleared his throat.

"The screenwriters heart I will break,
Her work of beauty I will take.
I've won our wager and the game,
For Rumpeltightwad is my name."

"Are you sure he didn't say Rumpelstiltskin?" It suddenly sounded too familiar.

The detective shook his head. "It was Rumpeltightwad."

Ima smiled with satisfaction and marched back into her living room where the agent sat. Jason and her private Dick followed.

She paused only a few seconds before yelling, "Rumpeltightwad!"

The agent exploded with a loud pop and the remaining cloud of dark smoke drifted up the chimney.

"Where did he go?" Ima Wrighter turned toward Jason but he only shrugged.

"Why are you surprised?" the detective asked. "Ask anyone in Hollywood: Agents are nothing but hot air."

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Three Pig-Headed Architects
by Nancy Bennett

Mr. Hayward looked puzzled at the large pile of red stones, which Mr. Mason was stacking in neat piles. "I just don't know," Hayward snorted. "It all seems way too modern to me."

"State of the art, the newest in building materials," Mr. Mason said proudly.

"Stuff and rubbish!" Mr. Stickler muttered. "What's wrong with wood then? Wood is good for all kinds of buildings, from outhouses to grand hotels."

"It simply isn't safe anymore," interjected Mr. Mason. "You heard what happened in Chicago with that cow and all."

"I've always thought that livestock shouldn't be subjected to living close to the city anyway," Mr. Hayward mused philosophically. Oh, why can't we go back to the days when things were simpler, a wandering life, digging for truffles..."

Mr. Stickler shook his head. Mr. Mason just snickered. He prodded the stack of building material just delivered to Mr. Hayward's building site.

"So what's this pile of stuff?" Mason asked, kicking at an enormous pile of hay.

"That is what my home will be made of." Hayward said, thrusting his nose in the air in a sign of superiority.

Mr. Mason and Mr. Stickler squealed with laughter and held their pink sides.

"In the traditional style, aHEM, in the traditional style of our forebears. No mucking about in wooden barns for them, no new age stone monstrosities, but a return to the elegance of the past." With that Mr. Hayward began nosing his hay into piles.

Mr. Stickler wiped his piggy eyes. He was laughing so hard he'd nearly blown a valve.

"Well, do as you please," Stickler snorted. "You were always the one behind in school: Last for the trough, dreaming of truffles. No gentlemen, wood is the only way." He stamped his hoof and adopted a firm stance by his pile of sticks.

"Well, what do you think the contractor would say? I'm sure he'd rather have things up to date and more modern." Mr. Mason admired his bricks.

Mr. Stickler sneered in Mr. Mason's direction. "That's where you're wrong! And that's where you will lose the contract. I have it on opinion that Mr. Hun Gree Wolf is a traditionalist. He likes the stick houses that dot the section of the country."

"I have it on authority that he is leading a push to have people return to the more traditional homes of straw." Mr. Hayward grinned with a knowing-it-all look.

"Well, we'll just have to see," Mr. Mason grunted. "Now leave me be! I've got mortar to mix."

So the three architects parted company, not able to agree on whose plan was better. They built their houses, one of straw, one of sticks and one of brick all in a line so they were less than a truffle's throw away from each other.

It holds that the contractor was pleased with two out of three of the buildings but like so many in the building trade these days, he reneged on the contract and wouldn't pay the three architects. This drove the three pigs into bankruptcy. With no one bringing in the bacon, they had to share quarters and office space in the last remaining house.

But they didn't mind, for they had plans for none paying clients. They invited Mr. Wolf to have one last look at the place, really give it a good going over, starting with the roof. Using shoddy bricks they constructed a chimney that crumbled under his weight while he was pretending to inspect it.

In the end they learned to set aside their differences and they lived happily ever after in the modern house, which number two built a stick fence around and number one weaved straw mats for in the old fashioned way.

And they made real pigs of themselves for two weeks, dining on hair of the dog stew and maybe a truffle or two, thrown in for good measure.

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Nancy Bennett is a historical writer from Vancouver Island, who enjoys myths and fairy tales. Her work has been seen in a variety of places including True West, Cowboy Magazine and Tales of the Unanticipated.

The Frog Prince
by R. S. Nailor

Dear Diary: Today my parents met James' family. Let's just say that my father rolled his eyes like I've never seen before. Mom just cried when I said that I loved him. After two months of secretly meeting we thought it best our parents met. Father says I must talk to the minister about this matter.

Dear Diary: Just spoke with Rev Thadius Pole and told him all the details. He threw his hands into the air and croaked with his raspy voice that I shouldn't marry outside my faith. He said I should re-evaluate this misconstrued love affair and whatever I do, don't kiss him.

Dear Diary: James and I met under willow tree and even though I'm sure I love him; I truly don't think I can make the commitment or that our marriage could last. I see his parents in the distance. Yes, I understood the part about the curse; but would the curse also include his parents? A simple kiss he said. I just didn't feel comfortable; at least, not since he made that comment about how good my legs looked. I'm not sure what he had in mind, the cad.

Dear Diary: I told James to go his way and that we had no future together. I wasn't about to kiss him and change him back, no matter what he said. Father was right. I'm an attractive frog and there are some great bullfrogs in the pond. Why fall for a human?

* * * * *

R. S. Nailor is Poetry Editor and Production Manager for the Emporium Gazette. His manuscript, THREE STEPS: THE JOURNEYS OF AYROLD, is currently in the final stages of editing. He has short stories included in three ebook anthologies from 23House and numerous articles and poems elsewhere on the internet. You can visit him at Lore's Webs.