Issue 15: August 2000
In this issue we discuss regional voice and dialects. We also have an interview and the FIRST segment entry to The Emporium Gazette's Round Robin: Summoning.
A Heroine in our Midst
From Another Angle
Gaspar Guidry
Poetry World
Regional Voice
SUBMISSIONS The Emporium Gazette is looking for submissions. WHAT ARE WE LOOKING FOR??? Articles that look at the process of writing in new and provocative ways. The Emporium Gazette attempts to show the newbie and old-timer pros a dfferent perspective of the business. Interviews of those who are in the business of writing: novelists, short-story tellers, playwrights, poets, editors and agents. Poetry articles that detail the art of rhyme and rhythm. Short stories of almost any genre with a length of no more than 1000 words. WHERE TO SUBMIT? Send your submissions to: Ron Jones at snowman1@cavemen.net PAYMENT At the present time we are a non-paying ezine. We provide a valuable service to the writing arena and for you, the writer, it's a valid and valued publishing credit.
GRAND OPENING The Writing Emporium has expanded to bring you the best bargains for your writing career. You can find new articles on writing, new fiction excerpts and you can now purchase Cool Well's first ebook publication--Denise Vitola's best selling novel, THE WINTER MAN. And that's not all! Open the doorway into Denise Vitola's web design studio, Cool Well Trading Company, and you will find free linkware and commercial web sets to help you develop Internet presence and sell your writing. Go to: http://www.CoolWell.org
An Interview of Nancy Robinson Masters by
When you think of all the obstacles this world throws our way, it's a wonder we ever accomplish anything. Society stigmatizes us by gender, by race, by monetary stature. It tries to catagorize us into traditional roles and seems to knock us down before we even have a chance to stand up. The true heroes and heroines are the ones that overcome these obstacles and accomplish great things with their lives. One of these heroines is a woman I've had the great pleasure to interview, named Nancy Robinson Masters. I imagine a young Mr. Bill Masters, coming home one evening and announcing, "Hey, Mom! I met this great girl!" The mother smiled, imagining a quiet, complacent stay- at-home wife, with babies on her mind and her only major goal in life to be head of the PTA and cater to her husband's every whim. "So, what does she do, dear?" "Well, Mom, she's a pilot, a non-fiction writer, a journalist, a Sunday School teacher, a newspaper columnist, a scientist who spent time in Antarctica with the National Science Foundation, an inspirational speaker for schools, businesses, organizations and events, and the author of fourteen books, including some award-winning books for children." The mother stared at her son, dumbstruck, until she finally found her voice. "Is that all?" she whispered. The son thought for a moment and then smiled slyly. "Well, almost. Seems she also loves to prowl old cemeteries, but more of that later. Can't wait for you to meet her!" This is the story of Nancy Robinson Masters, a woman who rose from humble beginnings and through hard work, dedication and perseverence, beat the odds and became an astounding success. Growing up on a cotton farm in Jones County, Texas, Nancy's family experienced one of the worst droughts in history. Watching her father try desperately to hold onto his dream of owning 360 acres of land, living on ketchup sandwiches and being allowed to only burn one light bulb for two hours each evening, were tremendous events in her life that shaped her young mind. The most important thing, though, was the influence her mother had on her and the advice she imparted. Nancy was never allowed to whine about her situation. "Mama said if we could read and write and we lived in the United States of America, we were the richest people in the world." Those words ring as true today as they did then. I asked Nancy to tell me more about her feelings regarding hard work, about her writing and most importantly, about self-publishing, a field she has mastered and has strong feelings towards. If you're searching for an easy way out, a way to coast by and self-publish without a lot of hard work and research, don't bother reading any further, because this article won't couch it for you. To be a success, "you have to get real with yourself and get out of la-la land. You have to look at your own strengths and weaknesses, and make the decisions that may cause your friends to forget you and your family to turn on you." That sounds harsh, but they are sound words. This industry is brutal. "You have to be a business person if you are going to succeed in self-publishing. Self-publishing is like building a house." You have to be knowledgeable from everything on how to build a house, everything "that will stand up to all the requirements, including codes and compliances." The same goes for self-publishing. It turns out that it doesn't matter if you have a great book and it's written spectacularly. What matters is, "who will pay money to read this book? You have to come up with a gimmick that makes your book compelling, no matter what the subject or how well written or what your motivation is for doing it." Networking is key for self-publishing. To gain exposure, Nancy volunteered to speak for clubs, civic groups, even churches - anyplace where she'd have an audience of people and an opportunity to build a "connection." That connection helped her then build a following of readers who were interested in her expertise and would pay money to read her work. Remember, "writing is a risk-taking proposition. Not everyone is going to love you. You risk yourself, if not your money. In self-publishing, you risk both. One of the most important assets you need to succeed in self publishing is a good accountant and a willingness to work very, very hard. Very. You have to be willing to say no to people who will try to distract you from what you are doing, even kindly. You have to learn how to say no to going to lunch, no to doing this or doing that, when you write. You have to be willing to never watch t.v. and not get involved in anything that takes your time from your writing, while at the same time staying involved and visible to sell what you write. You have to learn how to manage yourself and your time, and to be downright cold-hearted towards those who try to do it for you." This is "the kind of thinking you have to get into if you want to successfully publish. If you want to be a writer, you have to write, write, write. You have to constantly be aware of what is going on inside of yourself and outside." Nancy knew that she was on the way to becoming a writer "the morning she got a call from a hospital telling her that her father had died (not unexpectedly) and on the way to the hospital she began composing what she would write for her next week's newspaper column about him. However, it wasn't until five month's later when she sat in on her mother's funeral (totally unexpected) and tried to take notes on wet Kleenexes, when she realized she had crossed over the line from "wannbe" to "am."" Nancy claims that she's an ordinary person who believes that everything that has happened to her has been part of God's plan. All she had to do was be willing to go along with it. Some people have copies of their first publishing check hanging proudly on a wall to remind them that they are writers. Others have stacks of their first published book on their desks, while others have photos plastered on their websites. Nancy still has her Kleenexes to remind her that she's a writer. Don't you wish we all could be so ordinary?
* * * * *
Elyse Salpeter has completed two novels in the action adventure/thriller
genre, a fantasy novel and a host of short stories. Her recent short story,
THE LITTLE ONES, will be appearing in the spring 2001 edition of The
Vampire's Crypt.
BLACK BREATH OF THE LUTRON
by
"The difference between the right word "Hey there, Joe." "Hey yourself." "I write dumb dialogue like that paragraph after paragraph." Kara, a young writer with intense brown eyes, fanned a handful of rejection slips in my face. "What’s wrong?" "Nothing’s wrong that can’t be fixed." I studied Kara’s face across my dining table. Her total frustration would have been amusing except I’d been there, done that. "My writing mentor taught me to use dialogue ONLY for one of three reasons: (1) advance the story; (2) give information; (3) or reveal character. Thumbtack these purposes on your inner bulletin board, but never use dialogue when the opportunity pops up for action." "Action I can handle. The conversation gets me." My young friend propped her chin in a hand. "Eavesdrop and listen to how people talk." I opened a file drawer and pulled out an E-mail. "This post is from a Silhouette author." "My tips for dialogue are simple." In her early writing days, all characters began, "Well, then I-" The University of Oklahoma creative writing instructors broke the "well" habit. They told her to read words aloud. "Does the talk sound natural?" her teachers asked frequently. "Remember to write with lots of contractions," I emphasized the words as I read; "You’re, we’re, that’s." People really speak this way. Also, use fragmentary sentences. Let an occasional character trail off without finishing. Throw in an expletive or two if it suits the person." I handed her the e-mail. "Keep this as a reminder." "I think I can do it!" Kara’s eyes now sparkled. "One more thing. The surest way to reap those rejection slips," I said, pausing and pointed to her stack. "Do all your characters sound alike? Give each story person a separate voice. While you’re eavesdropping, listen for those differences." She smiled. "I better do what a speaker said the other day when she passed out buttons. She said keep your bu-oh, you know, sit at your computer and write." "Kara! That name’s going to look good in print!" * * * * * Sue Turner, our Answer Lady, retired from television, advertising, and
public relations for the lure of freelance writing. Sue, in Texas, and Russ,
in California, peppered the mail and telephone wires to gather episodes
from the son’s alcoholic years on the streets of Los Angeles. The phone
calls and letters, scrawled on yellow, sometimes dirty, paper, created
WINGS BORN OUT OF DUST, a poignant story softened with bits of ironic
humor.
by
I knows Gaspar Guidry. I knows him fine, me. I knows him from firs' he come to Opaloosa Parish 'leben, ten year ago. He come to de swamps, jes' lak me and my Mam, ony he come t'hunt de 'gators n'such. Said he wuz de greates' 'gator man in dese swamps. An' if Gaspar Guidry say so, den it be so. Gaspar Guidry nebber lie. N'woe be to de mon dat said he do. I met Gaspar wen he come down to Opaloosa from odder side of Dixon-Mason line, jes' outside of Pascagoula, Miss'ssip'. He 'lows eber'body north of Pascagoula's a dam' Yankee. Now dat Gaspar, he be a well-trabeled Cajun. He eben been plum up to Bogalusa onct. Least dat's wat he tol' me, him. And Gaspar don' lie. I onct went all de way up to N'Awleans, me. I wuz ony a boy chir'ren 'bout ten or nine year ole wen I first' saw old Gaspar. He wuz polin' dat pirogue tru dem swamps lak he knew were it wuz dat he wuz a'going, him. Bein' a boy chir'ren wid a big curious, I wanted t'ax him 'bout his bidness, but I can't said a word. I wanta told you, dat mon wuz de mos' oglies' mon I ebber did see. HoooEeee! I wanta told you now! Dere wuz a dead still. He look at me. I look at him. Dis mus' surely be one o' de man-beas' dat ole Marie kep' toldin' us 'bout. I could 'member ole Marie toldin' me 'bout de monsters dat stalk de bayou. Ebber now an' den someone dis'pear an' we know wat tuk'em. Marie say dose people smear voodoo grease all ober dere bodies an' creep tru de swamp a'snatchin' peoples right outta dere beds. I nebber will forgot de night ole man LaBlanc got hissef' snatched up by a loup-garous. HoooEeee, all de hollerin' dat went on. Sacre bleu! Henri Dubose done come by tolding us 'bout it. Ole man LaBlanc should'a had a frog. Ebber swamp chir'ren know dat nothin' gets rid of a man-beas' 'cept a frog. You jes' grabs you'sef a swamp frog and trow it on'em and dey turns to dust. I yell at Mam to brought hersef' and quick, dey's a loup-garous a'comin'. Mam must'a tought so, too, 'cause she can't said a word. Ony shut de behind door real quick lak an' hide de pot o' squirrel wid rice an' sauce picant. If dere's anyting a loup-garous laks better dan peoples, it's squirrel gumbo, special' wid de rice and de sauce picant. I nebber will forgot how 'fraid I wuz. I can't said a word, only sat wid my legs hangin' off de dock, makin' muddy circles in de water wid my toes. Ole Gaspar nose dat pirogue up 'gainst de dock an' stare at me for tirdy seconds. Bein' man o' de house, I chokes back my 'fraid an' final' ax what I could did for him. He didn' even said hello dere or how y'all are. Ony ting he said wuz, "boy, a 'gator's gonna eat you feets." HoooEeee, I got my feets outta dat water as fas' as possible could did. Rat now! Mam tol' me an' tol me 'bout de 'gators roun' 'bout, but it don't did some good. Swamp chir'ren jes' natural' put dey feets in de water. Den dis oglies' mon I ebber see axed me if dis wuz Goula Bayou, and I axed him for why he wants to know. He say he name be Gaspar Guidry, an' it don't make some difference why he want t'know, n'est ce pa? I wants t'told you, dat mon look fierce a'plenty, so I tol'em rat now dat dis be Goula Bayou and nuthin' but skeeters an' 'gators lived here. He say dat be fine wid him, dat he laks skeeters and wuz a'huntin' a 'gator de folks roun'bout call Rostoff. My hide scrunchy up in 'fraid bumps an' my breaf' stick in m'troat. Rostoff, hoooeeee! Dat's a name peoples nebber says in dis bayou. Dat 'gator be more scary dan any loup-garous, I wanta told you, me. An' now dis 'gator-mon brought hissef' down here t'hunt ole Rostoff. Oh, dat Gaspar Guidry scare me plenty! De nex' time I saw old Gaspar wuz wen me'n Mam poled our pirogue down to Rene Boudreau's. Rene owns a gen'ral store lak wid food, clothin' an' a fulling station. Boudreau is also sheriff an' has a petroleum car wid a big red light. His deputies (dey ain't really deputies, he jes' call dem dat, dey's really his mam's sister's boys) Rolan', Clyde and Charlie Hebert, were jes' a'settin' roun' tellin' yarns. Now dat Rene Boudreau could tell bodacious tales. He hardly finishes one tale 'til he has a new one runnin' right up it's behind. Well, dat day ole Rene wuz a'settin' on de porch 'bout four tirdy o'clock tellin' tales wen old Gaspar Guidry poled his pirogue up to de dock. It wuz a sight I nebber saw before agin' in my life. De Hebert boys jes' sat dere wid dere eyes on stems lak de crawdad. Ole Boudreau wuz quiet f'once and he didn't said a word. Kinda laks his brain wuz scrambleated. Ole Gaspar wuz a'floatin' a raft behin' his pirogue an' on dat raft wuz de bigges' 'gator dis swamp chir'ren ebber did see. Dat 'gator wuz bigger dan any pirogue and 'most near ogly as Gaspar Guidry. Now, dose Hebert boys don' take to strangers, 'special Charlie Hebert. He tink he bull 'gator o' de bayou, him. Charlie wait for Gaspar to brought his'self' up on de porch an' den ax what dat is? Ole Gaspar he look at de raf' and he say dat be Rostoff. Charlie, he laff. Rolan' and Clyde, dey laff. Ole Boudreau,he didn' laff a'tall. He ony look nervous lak at Gaspar and de 'gator. Charlie, he say to Gaspar he don' believe dat, and you don' mean t'tell me dat is Rostoff. Gaspar said it don' made some difference wedder Charlie believe or not. Gaspar Guidry nebber lies, him. Well, Charlie nebber let fear an' common sense stan' in his way, so's he kep' a'toldin' Gaspar dat he be lyin' an' a li'l scrawny Miss'ssip' Cajun nebber cotched no 'gator lak dat by his'sef. Old Gaspar said he can did dat, so Charlie axed him how he cotched Rostoff wen Gaspar was so li'l and scrawny. Gaspar tol' him he cotched dat 'gator wid bi-noculars, tweezers an' a mason jar. Charlie axed him how he did dat, so Gaspar tol' him he turn de bi-noculars 'roun' till Rostoff wuz teeny-tiny, den he pick him up wid de tweezers and put him in de mason jar. Well, Charlie din' lak being' mak' foolish and de fight dat tuk place wuz lak somethin' I nebber saw before agin'. I nebber will forgot it. Charlie Hebert wuz nebber seen again in Goula Bayou, and ole Rene Boudreau tells yarns 'bout de great fight eben wen he go all de way up to Thibadeaux. Me? I jes' set 'roun and watch for Gaspar. So does my Mam. She ebben tuk a green lizard an' groun' it up. Wen old Gaspar come back, she'll sprinkle some ober de tresh'hol' and' he'll stay. Ole Marie, her say to sprinkle it in his coffee an' tie a red rooster unner de porch an' Gaspar will ax for her to marry. My Mam, her don' tink he be so ver' ogly any more, her. But me, I tink Gaspar Guidry be de oglies' sumbitch dat ebber come down de bayou. Sacre bleu! * * * * * When asked for a trailer Samantha Horn told us the following: "I neither knit nor crochet, so I dabble in writing--poetry, novels and screenplays." I think you'll agree she knits together some nice sentences
by Poetry with its lilting rhythm and suggestive rhyme will ease you down a path of enjoyment. One can analyze the lines and stanzas until the eyes cross, but perhaps one area will elude you. Dialect. You've read poetry that you found interesting, exciting, thrilling, colorful, moving, even exhilarating. Did you take the time to realize why? Did you ever wonder why a particular poem will make you cry while another, very similar, won't have the same impact? Something got to you. It could have been dialect, which can be emotional, regional, time-dimensional, or even occupational. It can also be any combination. Dialect is subtle. Quietly sitting on the edge of your mind, it will, from time to time, step out and grab you. Dialect trips a chord connected to some memory that only you can respond to and understand. We've all read poetry that had certain words that triggered those memory chords. Shamrocks remind you of Ireland, hearts and roses ooze of love while blue skies and white, fluffy clouds allude to those carefree days of youth we spent daydreaming. But what if we put an accent into the mix? The following fragment of a poem by Bill O'th' Hoylus End (nom de plume of William Wright) reflects a beautiful, yet heavy Yorkshire English accent. I've included the modern translation, but I feel the true flavor of the poem is lost in it. Goose an' Giblet Pie by Bill O'th' Hoylus End
Reading this segment of the poem were you transported back in time? You possibly were transported back in time and region. Could you smell and meld with the atmosphere of a Charles Dicken's world? To read this poem in its entirety and others just as fascinating, visit Bill Bracewell's Barnacle Bill web page at: http://www.bracewel.demon.co.uk/bot/goosesub.htm For another type of dialect that is also time-dimensional, visit the University of Dayton's web pages at http://www.udayton.edu/~dunbar which is dedicated to one of America's first honored black poets, Paul Laurence Dunbar. Be sure to read "When Dey 'Listed Colored Soldiers" to feel the anguish, love, and heartache. Again, the dialect is what lends the needed atmosphere to the poem. I mentioned occupational dialect which I'm sure raised an eyebrow. In each occupation there are words, phrases or dialectal slang that surfaces to let the listener hear a small insight into that person's job. Think about your job and within a few minutes you'll have some of the words, jargon, that I'm talking about. If you think I'm kidding, have you ever heard of Cowboy Poetry? Police Poetry? Computer Poetry? Even the lowly regarded garbage man will wax philosophical from time to time and spout a verse of poetry. If you'd like to read some Cowboy Poetry I recommend the following sites: Paul's Cowboy Poetry Page at http://www.isis-intl.com/paul and Omar West's Cowboy Poetry at the Bar D Ranch located at http://www.cowboypoetry.com Interested in Police Poetry? Try Police Poems at http://www.sover.net/~tmartin/Poems.htm#Poems Computer Poetry anyone? Check out Computer Poetry at http://pcpoetry.com/page/compterpoetry Dialect can add a certain flair to your poetry and make it stand out in the reader's memory. * * * * * Robert Nailor is the Emporium Gazette's poetry editor and production manager. He has finished his first novel, Celtic Fantasy and is currently working on a cookbook.
by Now that you've enjoyed several excellent regional voices it is my responsibility to bring you back to reality. The sad truth is that most editors don't like heavy dialect. There are difficulties with using more voice than it takes to give a story flavor. Learning how to blend dialect with an editor's requirement of clarity can drive a writer squirrelly. Although accents provide a story with local spice, too much of a good thing can overpower your story, leaving the reader with a bitter after-taste. The reason editors don't like too much dialect is the same that science fiction and fantasy editors don't want the protagonist to be an extra-terrestrial or a dwarf. It's difficult for a full-sized reader to climb into their tiny bodies. Assuming you've done a good job constructing these creatures they should have alien thoughts and alien emotions. These are feelings that should be foreign to your reader, so how are they to sympathize? Your audience needs wiggle-room to squirm and get used to living inside a new character. He should bring experiences from his own life and loan them to your character. Could you identify with a character when you had to struggle to understand every line they deliver? Confronted with a Martian tourist on some dark street corner at night, what would you do? If you didn't run screaming for the safety of your home, you would likely answer those questions you could understand at the first or second hearing, and excuse yourself promptly. If you were really patient you might call someone to help you interpret. The last thing you want is for your reader to put down your story because he can't follow it due to the language-barrier you've erected. Unlike you, your reader isn't insulting anyone by throwing up his hands and running for reality. A character must remain easy to understand for the reader to feel the emotional undercurrents that you've designed to tug him toward the heavy seas of your plot. He won't reach your subtle rip tides if he's pounded to death on the beach by wave after wave of hard-to-read sentences. Even worse, don't force him to skim over dialogue without understanding. Throw the poor guy a life vest so he can float easily through the story. "So, where do I find this life vest while maintaining that regional flavor?" you ask. There are several ways to make regional voice readable. First, avoid giving a character with an overpowering regional voice the point-of-view in your story. (Admittedly, this can be done, but unless you are truly talented with a voice like Sam Horn with her Cajun dialect, your story will suffer.) The weight of the POV character is usually too heavy a load for a heavy regional voice to bear. Remember, this character must shoulder the full emotional load of your story. The reader must understand every nuance of his personality, and that's hard to do when the reader has trouble interpreting what he says. Secondly, avoid making your character sound retarded. This wasn't meant as an insult, but I've seen too many writers fall into this trap. The best way to avoid this is not to use dialects in exposition or within your tag lines. Confine your dialects to areas contained in quotation marks. Go to whatever lengths you must to insure inner thoughts remain clear to your reader. Third, use good grammar in narratives even if that character speaks in a dialect. That way your reader won't miss what your characters are thinking or feeling. Again, let the reader feel comfortable inside your character's skin. Make sure you know a dialect before attempting to reproduce it. Don't take the easy way out and use a lot of grammatical substitution like ya for you, ta for to, or droppin' the Gs of present tense verbs. I used them-har thangs here ta shoe ya that ya got ta stop ta read 'em 'gin ta figur out what I'm sayin'. Annoyin', aint it? Even if this were exactly how someone talked, remember your reader's comfort level. "So, how in blazes do I convey my dialect?" you ask. Here are a few suggestions. Confine most of your dialect to regional phrases that the reader will understand at first glance. "Heave to and drop anchor, mate. We need to chat a wee bit without bellowing at the top of our lungs." The above words can be found in any dictionary, yet they contain lots of flavor. Notice that this is a lot easier to read than stringing together a bunch of regional contractions. Admittedly, it will take work on your part along with a full understanding of local colloquialisms, but your story will read smoother. Above all, provide a smooth flow for your readers. Use figures of speech or other tried and proven methods to flower that voice into bloom. If you must use a regional contraction, keep it simple and avoid stringing a bunch together. Besides, I defy you to get a spell checker to work once you've sprinkled these land mines through your story. (When you've finished you have to pry these "words" out of your personal dictionary. Take it from someone who has made that mistake before: It isn't that easy to find and remove every one.) Like all rules, these are guidelines. They can be bent, stretched and twisted to fit your needs, even ignored. After all, only you know how your story needs to be told. As Dean Wesley Smith likes to say, the story isn't what is on the paper. That is your manuscript. Only you know the story in your head. It is up to you to use your skill to plant those images in the reader's mind and let them flower. Make your readers comfortable inside your characters, and let them wiggle their toes. Consider how your character sounds to all your audience. Does he sound regional, or does he sound uneducated, stiff, and one-dimensional? You, the storyteller, have to answer that one. * * * * * Ron Jones is the Gazette's Managing Editor and is a science fiction, fantasy, and action adventure author. His books are available from 23 House, or through Amazon.com.
Below is the introduction and the first entry to the Round Robin. Read them and then let your mind take you on a roller-coaster ride to write. Our guidelines are simple: Approximately 300 words per segment, not to exceed 500! Your choice of genre that you feel will move the story forward. Place your submissiom IN an email to the addresses below. DO NOT send as attachments to an email. They MUST be part of the email body. Please double space between paragraphs. This is YOUR story so you decide what happens and who the cast will be. Without further adieu... SUMMONING June 21, 1992: His secretary, Alyssa Gonzales, moved lithely before him in a scanty, very revealing, costume of the "virgin maiden" offertory sacrifice to the earth goddess, Pachamama. There was no longer a real sacrifice and Alyssa had successfully performed the duties for the last three years. He had performed this ritual every year for the last eleven years. Each time the crowd grew larger. This was no exception with what appeared to be approximately three hundred spectators, mostly Aymaran Indians, holding torches in the early light. It was uncanny, he thought, that a tribe that had almost completely died out, now was making a comeback after having this ceremony reinstituted. He reached the top of the temple and stood at the altar, Alyssa moved silently to his side and faced him, her back to the Sun Door. It was winter solstice and when the first rays of light shone through the gate, he would lift his hands in praise to the Sun God and proclaim "Machaj Mara", a new year, in the Bolivian Aymara Indian language. This would be year 5000. He was still awed and overwhelmed by the antiquity of the ceremony and the sudden power he felt in the proclamation. His hand rested on the cool stone altar while everyone waited the first light. The first rays streamed through the Sun Door and he suddenly felt the handle of the "Jaro Hac", a sacrificial knife, at his fingertips. He inched his fingers over the handle, grasped it, then raised the blade into the air over Alyssa's head. It glistened in the new light. A murmur, a chant, that he'd never heard before, came from below and increased in volume. He looked into Alyssa's grey eyes. The Sun God needed to be appeased. Pachamama had to bleed. SEGMENT 1 "Arunj macho chenika," Jose said and plunged the knife toward Alyssa's heart. Her eyes wide with terror, she stepped back from the mayor as the knife slashed the open air where she had stood. She could see that his eyes were glazed and his movements jerky. The man before her was no longer the mayor. She turned and started to run. He lurched, grabbing her wrist in an iron grip. Alyssa cried in pain. The crowd below continued to chant. A frenzied voice lifting mystically to the Sun Door above. The few news media people that had forgone the comforts of the hotel were getting it all on film: the two figures atop the pyramid struggling; the gathered Aymara Indians chanting and the shock of the un-initiated. Suddenly a figure broke from the crowd and raced up the stairs, bounding two and three steps at a time. He alone had found the strength to break the spell and come to Alyssa's defense. Jose, the blade of Jaro Hac entangled in his feathered cape, became more infuriated by Alyssa's screaming. "Be quiet," he hissed at her. "The Sun God must be pleased with the sacrifice. Humble yourself. Do not shame your family." He looked up at the sky and saw the gathering, swirling clouds. Alyssa scratched at the mayor's hand that held her and shrieked for help. "Alyssa," a deep male voice said "Manuel," she cried. Just then her sandles slipped on the surface, she lost her balance and crashed to the stone. Jose was above her, again his arm lifted into the air with the Jaro Hac gleaming in the morning light. "Arunj macho chenika," he yelled.
Still winded, Manuel stepped between them, his strong arm already pulled back and ready to hit Jose's chin with a solid fist. Lightening cut the sky with the bolt headed toward the top of the pyramid.
* * * * * OK, now submit your segment! Send to: Ron Jones, email: snowman1@cavemen.net
Ron Jones--
Managing Editor
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