GUEST SPEAKER

The May meeting of NETWO will be a special treat for those attending. Dr. Jim Robertson, a former professor at NTCC will be our guest speaker. Dr. Robertson will have his recently completed autobiography with him and will talk about the accident that blinded him at the age of twenty, the frustration and rehabilitation that led to his recovery, and how he completed his doctorate in political science. Jim has enjoyed many accomplishments over the years. He served a term in the Mississippi legislature, taught political science and geography in two different colleges, participated in a number of civic organizations, and served on the Mt. Pleasant Habitat for Humanity board and as Executive Director of the Habitat for Humanity organization in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Jim’s first book, Jimmy’s Hope, was published in 2004. The sequel to that book will probably be published later this year.

Jim Robertson is a special person. You will not want to miss meeting him and hearing his story. ?

NETWO 2009 Spring Conference

Reported by Joy M. Chitsey

The Northeast Texas Writers’ Organization held their 23^rd annual writers’ conference at Camp Shiloh outside Pittsburg, Texas April 24^th and 25^th. The conference was jam-packed with excellent writing information to encourage, to help polish current writing projects, and to direct writers where and how to get published.

The conference began Friday with author Lori Wilde presenting an optional workshop entitled “Creating Compelling Characters.” A reception was held Friday evening enabling members of NETWO an opportunity to meet the faculty for the conference on Saturday.

Photos by Bryan Freeman

The food was great. Afterwards, those who were spending the night were invited to participate in a Progressive Writing activity where word prompts were introduced every two minutes which were then woven into the stories that were being written by the various groups.

Saturday started off with a breakfast for the campers and the early birds while regis-tration and check-in were taking place. Joanna Stampfel-Volpe, a New York agent with the Nancy Coffey Literary and Media Representatives, discussed how to alleviate some of the pain associated with writing “The Dreaded Synopsis.” Joanna shared the difference between a query letter and the synopsis. She stressed the importance of weeding out the unnecessary characters and then sticking with the story line.

Charles Sasser, an author of more than fifty published books shared his many journeys and amazing list of jobs which he’s held during his lifetime. He spoke on “Participation: Key to Writing Success.” He encouraged writers to constantly take pictures, set goals and write every day.

Terry Burns, author and agent, was scheduled to speak but was unable to attend due to a recent injury. Dan Case, owner of AWOC.COM Publishing out of Denton, Texas filled Mr. Burns’ spot. He talked about the “Ten Easiest Ways to Get Published,” which actually was not ten. Some of the few steps were as follows: learn your craft; read from the King James Bible Version every day because it is written in proper English; study grammar, and write a great beginning to anything that you write.

After lunch, Melissa Frain, a New York editor, who has worked with a wide variety of projects and authors, spoke on “How to Make an Editor Love Your Book.”

A. Lee Martinez, author of five fantasy/scifi novels entertained the participants with a humorous presentation on “How to Create a Real Fantasy World.”

After each speaker shared individually, they continued to inform the audience with a panel discussion answering questions from those present.

Photo by Bryan Freeman

2009 Conference Faculty:

(l to r) Lee Martinez, Melissa Frain, Dan Case, Charles (Chuck) Sasser, Joanna Stampfel, and Lori Wilde

A Post-Conference dinner was held where winners of the Short Story Contest were announced along with presentation of the awards to individual members of NETWO for their constant devotion and promotion of the organization to the community of writers.

Ted Rankin was the recipient of the President’s Award. Ted is presently serving his second term as president.

The Spirit Award was bestowed upon Galand Nuchols.

Georgia Henson and Jean Pamplin

were honored with Lifetime Member-ships for their many years of outstanding service to NETWO.

Gay Ingram

received the Early Bird Award. For the past three years, Gay has been the first to register for the conference.

The Pen in Hand award was given to Floy Smith for putting out the newsletter.

(Let me insert: I appreciate this award, but I would like to express my appreciation to all the NETWO members who provide the input for the newsletter. It would be impossible without you. - Floy) ?

SHORT STORY CONTEST WINNERS

1^st place winner ($150.00) Denise Weeks for her story titled “Jeep, Buddy, and Pierce”

2^nd place winner ($100.00) Susan A. Royal

for her story titled “Lost Souls”

(Read it below)

3^rd place winner ($50.00) Ginnie Bivona

for her story “The Peddlar Man”

4^th place winner ($25.00) Galand Nuchols

for her story titled “The Chip Made the Difference”

Honorable Mention –Judith A. Gallardo

for her story titled “Seascape”

Honorable Mention- Brandon Jones

for his story titled “The Date”

Honorable Mention – Denise G. Weeks

for her story titled “The Truth About Hansel and Gretel (Who Now Goes by ‘Heather’) and That Crazy Witch: A Fable Retold in Modern Bop Talk”

Honorable Mention- Denise G. Weeks

for her story “Home Church”

Some fifty-plus stories were judged and our appreciation is extended to all those who entered. Special thanks to David and Nita Allen for all their efforts in shepherding this project. ?

CORRECTION

The Profile of Jean Pamplin in the April With Pen in Hand stated that Jean was valedictorian of her class at NTCC. She was actually valedictorian of her high school class. We will try again when she finishes at NTCC!

Little Journeys, Jory Sherman’s latest book, features an introduction by Richard S. Wheeler and cover art by his son,

Jory V. Sherman.

An autographed copy may be ordered from Jory ($12.95 includes shipping and handling)

at Jory Sherman

38 Pvt. Rd. 52041

Pittsburg, TX 75686

www.jorysherman.com

SECOND PLACE WINNER – 2009 SHORT STORY CONTEST

LOST SOULS

By Susan Royal

“Damn it, Ricky. We should have gotten gas before we left town on this wild goose chase of yours.” Eli exploded at his cousin when the engine sputtered and died. He steered the truck over on the shoulder of the oil top road.

“That’s impossible. Before we left town I checked, and we had more than half a tank,” the chubby-faced teenager in the passenger seat protested.

“Yeah, and when I said the gas gauge didn’t always work, you said, that’s ok. It’s not very far. Remember?” Eli pounded the steering wheel in frustration. He should have known. With Ricky, something like this always happened.

Out past curfew, out of gas, and stuck on a deserted road. Eli didn’t even want to think about how Grandpa would react. He’d handed Eli the keys to the farm truck less than a week ago. At the time, Eli couldn’t believe his luck. Now, he couldn’t believe he’d let Ricky talk him into this in the first place.

“I forget how dark it gets on these back roads after the sun goes down.” Ricky peered out at dense woods crowding both sides of the narrow road. Spanish moss hanging from gnarled branches danced in the wind, while inky, black darkness pooled beneath the trees. Thin threads of clouds moved to cover the October moon, casting eerie shadows below. “Not to mention creepy.”

“Get used to it. If someone doesn’t drive by, we’ll be here until tomorrow.”

“Jeez, don’t blame me. I just wanted to see it for myself.” A girl in their Senior English class had told Ricky about an abandoned church called Lost Souls, located in the middle of an old pecan grove. Inside, inverted crosses covered the walls, animal bones littered the floor, and dried blood stained the sides of the pulpit. Or, so she said. Ricky talked about nothing else, until Eli finally gave in, and promised they’d drive out to see it.

“Are you sure she wasn’t pulling your leg?” Eli asked for the third time.

“She swore it was true.”

“Sure she did.”

Ricky knew Eli meant he was being gullible again. But, instead of arguing, he changed the subject. “We passed a house less than a mile back. We can use their telephone to call for help.”

“If they even have one.”

“Well, maybe they’ll give us some gas.” Eli turned and frowned at Ricky.

“Wait a minute. I don’t remember passing any house.”

“I saw a light. There’s got to be a house. C’mon. We can’t stay here all night.” Ricky got out of the truck. Reluctantly, Eli followed. Hands jammed down in the pockets of his jean jacket, he shivered. It’s getting cold. He listened to the wind sigh, and watched dry leaves blowing across the road like an army of advancing spiders. Everything does look creepy.

They started down the road. Ricky had to jog to keep up with the taller boy, his mouth moving as fast as his legs.

“I asked Grandma about Lost Souls, and she said it’s been boarded up as long as she can remember. She told me about a crazy, old preacher who used rattlesnakes to put the fear of God into the brethren. He was a faith healer, so he thought he couldn’t be hurt. Something happened to him, and after a while, the congregation died out until no one was left.” Eli listened to the wind making a low, keening sound even less appealing than Ricky’s voice.

“See, I told you. Look up there.” Ricky pointed. A bright light shone through the tops of tall, ancient trees.

Below, a dented mailbox marked “Cain” leaned tiredly against a fence post. A rusty cattle guard stretched between two gateposts. Following the road that curved back into the trees, they walked so close their elbows almost touched. Ricky had finally stopped talking, so all Eli heard was the wind.

They found a frame house perched crookedly on pier and beam. Held together by little more than peeling paint and scraggly vines, it sagged beyond repair from years of neglect. Not far away, a barn listed to one side. No light burned in the house, and no animals sheltered in the barn.

“Crap, everything looks deserted. That’s funny. Why would anyone pay to have a security light if they…” Eli didn’t wait to hear the end of Ricky’s sentence. He saw a rusty tractor parked next to the barn, and ran to see if it had any gas.

“God almighty, what’s that smell?” Ricky yelled making Eli jump like he was stung. Making choking noises, he pulled the neck of his tee shirt up over his nose.

“Stop bellowing, will you? I can hear you just fine.”

“I can’t breathe. It’s awful. Worse than the possum that crawled under Grandma’s house and died.” Eli thought Ricky was exaggerating until he took a breath and almost gagged.

“It smells like it’s been dead a long, long time.”

“What could it—“ A sudden noise interrupted, vibrating the night air. This time they both jumped.

“Shit! What was that?” Ricky’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

“Maybe something blew off the house.” As if in protest, the rickety old structure creaked and groaned every time the wind blew.

“Maybe we should just start walking back to town.”

“Are you crazy?” Eli had only agreed to come this far because Ricky begged. He would rather have stayed with the truck.

Feeling around in the dark for the gas cap, he worked it loose. When he smelled fumes, he told Ricky, “Look for a hose and a container, so we can siphon some gas. Then, cross your fingers and hope there’s enough to do some good.”

“Maybe this ain’t such a good idea, after all.”

“What are you saying?”

“Well, whoever owns this place might not like us helping ourselves.”

“Do you see anyone around to ask?” His last shred of patience gone, Eli got in Ricky’s face. “Tell you what. While I’m working on this, why don’t you go on up to the house, and see if you can find someone?” He watched Ricky turn pale.

“B…but, what’ll I do if they come to the door with a gun?”

“If that happens, you better talk quick in case they decide to shoot.” Ricky hesitated, but Eli ignored him, and bent down to dig through an old wooden crate beneath the tractor. So he turned and walked away.

He’s scared, Eli thought. It serves him right. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be here, either. I don’t like this place.

At the bottom of the crate, his fingers brushed against something. They closed around a length of rubber tubing. If it wasn’t rotten, it might work. Looking further, he uncovered a gallon jug. Pushing one end of the tubing inside and the other in the gas tank, he held this breath. Soon liquid began to spill into the container.

Ricky reached the bottom of the tilting porch steps. Standing there, he ran a hand over the top of his head, and back again. Finally, he went up and tapped on the door.

“Hello? Is anybody home?” He sounded like a nervous door-to-door salesman, reluctant to give up his last chance of the day to make a transaction. When no one responded, he cleared his throat, and knocked a little louder.

“My cousin and I ran out of gas down the road.” He waited for an answer, but none came. “We just wanted to see if we could get some from your tractor.” Ricky looked back at the tractor where Eli worked and shrugged, before reaching for the handle on the tattered screen door.

He edged inside. “We’ll pay for it, honest. We just need enough to get back to the highway. We-“

Ricky’s voice stopped mid-sentence. It went up an octave, ending in a squeak like a rusty hinge.
“What the hell?” Frowning, Eli could see Ricky just standing on the porch.

“I’ve had just about enough of you. If you’re trying to be funny, you’re not even close.” The stream of gas had slowed to a trickle, so he yanked the tubing loose. When he held the jug up to the light, he could see it was half full. Fuming, he capped it and went to wring Ricky’s neck, but when he got close enough to see his fear, he forgot his anger. He threw open the door with such force it almost came off its hinges, and crossed the threshold. The smell of decay was even more intense than it had been by the barn.

“What’s the matter with you?” Ricky raised his hand and pointed, eyes riveted on something on the other side of the porch. Eli blinked. His eyes slowly adjusted, and he knew they weren’t alone. A few feet away, a figure sat motionless in the dark. Eli saw a small, glowing dot hovered in the air. He must have been sitting here all along, watching everything we did.

Without speaking, the figure raised the cigarette to invisible lips, inhaled and exhaled acrid smoke, making Eli’s eyes water. Why doesn’t he say something? His heart hammered in his chest, but everything else was silent. Even the wind had stopped. He wanted to move, but he couldn’t make his legs work. In the back of his mind, he saw himself running in place, like some cartoon character. Beside him, Ricky made a strangled noise, and grabbed his arm in a vise-like grip.

“Eli, d-do you see someone sitting over there in a rocking chair? Please, tell me I’m just seeing things.”

The figure began to move wildly back and forth in the chair, slamming the rockers against the floor with loud, explosive thuds. It rocked with such violence Eli was sure it would overturn. Then, it stopped.

Ricky’s grip tightened and pain shot up Eli’s arm. The cigarette flew off the porch in a shower of sparks. The figure turned to look at them with glowing eyes, and stood until it towered over both the boys.

It was the catalyst they needed. Bursting through the door at the same time, they leapt off the steps. They fled down the road, over the cattle guard and past the mailbox. They ran until they were out of breath and stumbling, not stopping until they reached the truck.

Once there, they leaned against the tailgate, gasping for breath. Eli looked down at the container he carried. With shaking hands, he took it over to the gas tank, and emptied nearly all its contents.

“Get in the truck,” he ordered. He raised the hood, and poured the rest in the carburetor, just like Grandpa taught him. He slid behind the wheel, pumped the gas pedal to prime it, and turned the ignition. Nothing happened.

“Please, God,” he prayed. He tried again. The old truck coughed and spluttered, but the engine turned over. He put the truck in gear, made a u-turn and headed the other way as fast as he could.

Driving past the dirt road that led to the farmhouse, he half-expected to see a mad man in the road with a gun, but no one waited. In fact, he almost missed the turn, because it was so dark. No security light burned through the trees to beckon them.

“Eli,” Ricky finally managed to croak. “What was that?” Not bothering to answer, he ground the gears, shifted, and sped up. They made it back to the highway before the truck ran out of gas again, and before long someone happened by with enough extra gas to get them home. Grandpa met them at the door.

“It’s my fault, Uncle Sam,” Ricky blurted before Eli had a chance to speak. “It was my idea to go see Lost Souls. Eli didn’t want to go. I talked him into it, and we ran out of gas.”

“You boys are lucky you aren’t still sitting out there. There’s nothing out that road. How’d you get back?”

“I made Eli leave the truck and walk down to a farmhouse off the road to see if we could borrow some.”

“That can’t be,” Sam Jenkins said. “No one lives in that house, not since…”

“We saw someone, Grandpa,” Eli interrupted. “He was sitting on the porch, smoking.”

“Impossible. No one’s lived there for a long time. People say it’s haunted, but people talk like that because of what happened.”

“What did happen, Uncle Sam?”

“Years ago, a family by the name of Cain lived at the farm. They didn’t have much to do with anyone, just kept to themselves. Mr. Cain came to town for supplies one day, and when someone asked about his family, he said they were all bad sick.”

“So, some of the ladies from town took a notion to help. They took food out to the farm, but he sent them away. Not willing to accept defeat, they came back with the sheriff to persuade Mr. Cain to accept their Christian charity.” Grandpa shook his head. “He finally gave in.”

“When the ladies stepped inside the door, they smelled something dreadful. They all came back outside with their lace handkerchiefs covering their noses, and told the sheriff something must be terribly wrong. When he searched the house, he found Mr. Cain’s wife and children in their beds, and they’d been dead for a long time.”

“Mr. Cain was a preacher at Lost Souls church, and he believed in faith healing. He had let his family suffer, thinking he could pray over them and make them well. Didn’t really matter what he believed. In the end, he killed them just the same. Not long after, a passerby found him sitting on the porch in his rocking chair, dead. No telling how long he’d been there.”

Later Eli lay in bed, thinking about what happened. No matter what Grandpa said, they’d seen someone, and Eli knew it was the preacher. It could be he lingered, hoping his family would join him. Or, maybe he wanted their forgiveness for what he’d done. But, Eli was sure of one thing. After all these years, Mr. Cain was still sitting in his rocking chair on the porch, waiting. ?

***********************************************************

MEMORIAL DAY

By Bryan Freeman

On the twenty-fifth of this month, Memorial Day, we will honor the courageous soldiers that have fallen in battle and the ones that have fought beside them. But for those of us who have never been in a war, we only remember them this one day a year.

Those who have fought in a war have Memorial Day every day. The families that have lost loved ones—fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers—have Memorial Day every day, and those civilians who were caught in the hell of two warring armies and suffered the ravages of war have Memorial Day every day.

Hopefully, in the future, war will become obsolete, and they will not have fought and died in vain.

This is a poem I wrote.

War is hell they say

For sure it is not our forte

War is hell and it is mean

Ask any civilian caught in between. I have an idea, but only so, of what is done.

I know, I’m married to one.

War is hell and it is mean

Ask any soldier when he dreams.

I have known men from WWI and 1, Korea and Nam

And at night before they went to sleep, they would shake my

Hand and touch my arm.

And during the night, I would hear their screams.

During the night when they would….dream.

War is hell and it is mean.

Ask any soldier when he dreams.

God bless them all.