A little 55 word flash fiction piece extolling  the virtues of educating our youth…

“tffffffFFFT,” followed by a suppressed cough escaping the nose.

Passing the joint to Hank 4.0 everything since he was a child, even ag-science at OSU, “I woulda never thought brown pot would be so good. How’s come your neighbors get busted, but you don’t?”

“Because the grass is always greener on the other side.”

I read A Child’s Garden of Grass while I was attending Wright State University. I was a frosh who had just finished up a reference book of sorts about the myths surrounding marijuana and saw this book on the shelf. Thinking there may be some really cool info (I wasn’t wrong), what I got was a very funny book about the typical pot scene, as well as some very good lessons, such as the best way to grow pot.

According to the authors, who by the way claimed they never smoked herb and that all the information in the book comes from their friend Ernie Lundquist, the best way to grow pot is to take your seeds to an empty plot of land, make sure that no one is watching, and throw those seeds as far as you can then run like hell.

Even though I haven’t sparked one in over a decade, I’m sure the book would still be funny, and in some odd way, relevant.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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This my submission for the Extreme Writing Now Group,  Memoir Writing,  prompt of remembering fear…

When I commented on Rachel’s memoir submission, Undefineable Sound, I said I thought I was eight when that particular incident occurred. I was wrong. The memory of my first real fear has come wafting back through the filter of the dirty gauze curtains hanging over my window.

Clearly, now that I have been giving considerable thinking to this submission over the past few days, I was eleven and in the sixth grade. In fact, it was fall, and I was sitting at my desk, next to a window on the second floor of the Greek Orthodox Learning Center that was actually about a mile from the school I was attending.

Our school had become overcrowded and church classrooms were filled with the overflow.

But none of that mattered to me for about three days that fall of my sixth grade school year. It all started when I was sitting at that desk. Well, the fear did anyway. Everything that led up to that fear had been going on for at least eleven years (philosophically, I’d bet you could argue the time span to be longer).

Everywhere I looked, disaster lurked, threat beckoned, and doom was on the doorstep. For millions of children, the journey down the dead end street of life was cued up and readied to be a short trip. Everyone who had a nuclear trigger had their finger on it and were ready to apply the last half a pound on that 5 pound pull.

Don’t think we children didn’t know about the threat.

How could we not? All those ‘How to Survive a Nuclear Attack’ films we had to watch in elementary school, or how about those flicks that had just about every monster imaginable created as a result of the Nuke Kids and their happy toys? Wasn’t exactly Sponge Bob caliber stuff that infected us, was it?

And there is the fact that I was the man child of the family; not only the eldest son, but the eldest child, an honor that my parents didn’t remind me of, just my peers. I wasn’t called chubby, slim, carrot top, freckles, or dirty butt, yet the names I were called, although seemingly opposite in nature, had a similar effect. Big Al and Alexander the Great; two names that put a terrible onus on me. I wasn’t ready to shed my childhood for the responsibilities of adult manhood.

I wouldn’t allow myself to show weakness. I couldn’t tell anyone about my fears.

It is true that I had seen my first, freshly dead human body just weeks before my first encounter with fear. A body that hadn’t been prepped and put on display in a wooden box; some sort of morbid stage act produced to trick us all into believing that maybe the loved wasn’t really dead, and when the lid closes, it’s just the front door closing, “Pops will be back for more coffee tomorrow. Wave bye-bye to him.”

I was the first to see that old man dead. His lifeless body splayed out on his back lawn; still clutching the hedge trimmers that he was using moments before. One moment the clippings were filling the air at the hands of the old man’s artistic talents, the next moment, he was lying in the bed of clippings he’d made for himself.

That’s how it was for me on a particular fall day in 1969. Just sitting in my sixth grade make-do classroom, when I was struck with the omniscient knowledge of my own death. No vision of my mangled body. No prescient prediction of when I would die. Just my death.

The fear started as if someone had stretched a single strand of spider silk inside of my body and gave the thread a single ‘twang’ with their finger. The strength of the silk thread allowed it to build a harmonic resonance that grew stronger by the second; each frequency getting closer to the last, each peak growing taller until the fear was one lead filled shroud of dread.

I lost touch with everything that was going on around me. I was quaking hard at my core. I remember wanting to cry, but in no way could I even consider that, not in front of those who called me Alexander the Great. Not in front of my teacher.

I wanted to bolt from that classroom. I wanted to run and not stop until I was certain I beat death at the foot race.

I cannot recall any interaction with anyone for three days. What I do remember is sitting in my bedroom for two nights, looking out the window from the third story room and wondering where death was hiding, waiting to jump out at me. I was so torn by the weight of my fear and the resistance to tell anyone that I’m sure they fed off of each other.

That was the worst emotional onslaught I have ever experienced. The feeling that my life could be snuffed in an instant, because death liked to swing his sickle at the most unsuspecting moments, wore on me. My existence was becoming threadbare.

Then, almost to the moment, three days later, while sitting at that same desk, the fear began to slowly retreat until it was totally gone, and I was back to normal. Maybe.

Certain events occurred early the next school year that now lead me to believe that although I hadn’t allowed anyone in on my secret, somebody knew. I along with four other classmates, were ushered into several sessions with a “special” school counselor. Although I can’t recall the tone of those sessions, I do remember the man clearly as someone who looked like a participant in a Sigmund Freud look-alike contest.

That fear had remained locked away for many years, only to come knocking on my soul’s front door, not to haunt me about the one way dead end alley we are all in, mind you, but as a reaffirmation of my beliefs.

Life happens now. The moments passed belong to the memories that are lessons for the now, and the moments yet to come belong to memories not yet made. Live as wide as we can, and the clock will slow down.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Guess what kids? It’s contest time again here at Extreme Writing Now. Well, actually it is contest time over at one of the satellites of EWN, the Facebook Fan Page, but it starts here.

Guess I better get moving with the details before I start confusing myself.

We will be using the Memoir Writing group prompt, first memory of fear,  for this week as the bellwether for our contest. Each submission as a blog post here will be given a link on the wall at the EWN FaceBook Fan Page.  The submitter whose entry has the most FaceBook likes, by 12 midnight EST, Saturday July 31, 2010, will win their choice of one of two  Natalie Goldberg books; Old Friend from Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir and Wild Mind: Living a Writer’s Life.

Bribe your kids, badger your family, and extort your friends;  get them to visit the page and vote for you submission!

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Sunday, July 25th 2010, Extreme Writing Now went live with the inaugural episode of the Extreme Writing Now Network radio show on Blog Talk Radio. The show opened up a weekly broadcast that can be heard every Sunday at 6:30 EST (-5 GMT) at Extreme Writing Now Network.

The weekly thirty minute show is manned by Bev Owens and myself and will be a relaxed call in affair generally covering topics relevant to the EWN social network. Each week we hope to have readings from individual members of EWN, as well as a guest.

The first episode was themed memoirs and titled Writing Your Butt Off With Memoirs. Kim Ort was our guest as we talked about her vividly active group at EWN, Memoirs Writing, a group motivated by Natalie Goldberg’s book  Old Friend From Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir. We also featured a memoir reading by EWN member Karen W.

Kim’s group has had some pleasantly surprising impacts on the site, not the least being the opening up of the writers here. As we mentioned on the show, there seems to be an air of freedom in the writing. Almost as if the memoir prompts have given the writers permission to pour it all out.

Kim quoted Petunia with what is most likely the most on target assessment of what an impact that the memoir prompts have had on the participants:

So much more than just an exercise Kim. They started out like a lovely walk down memory lane, evoking some wonderful, touching memories from so many of the wonderful writers here.

But once you dust off those cobwebs, there’s more that surfaces. With memoirs like Bev’s and Alex’s you can feel those darker memories awakening.

With “sound” I had drafted a blithe tale of the sounds of the city, laid over sarcasm. But searching through those sounds brought up a deep buried memory that overshadowed my draft and compelled me to write about it.

Yes, so much more than an exercise indeed.

Bev recapped the last four weeks at EWN, the time span the doors have been open to the public, by listing the four contests we have held and the winners of those contests. In the past four weeks, members have won four books and the fun ain’t over yet.

There will be a week long contest this week. Keep your eyes peeled for details to be released later on today.

There was also talk about the show’s Producer, Correen, as she created a spectacular  Zazzle store for the network.

Co-producer, Kim Horton, was among the attendees of the show and her efforts at the site did not go unmentioned as we talked about her thrilling 55 word fiction series, The Long Road Home.

The chat room was visited by the likes of Mimi,  Squidrich, the ever gracious Carrie, and others.

Join us this coming week, and every week as we wind down the day in a relaxing fashion. If you miss an episode, you can catch the recorded version at EWNN, or look for a player in the side bars here at Extreme Writing Now.

Enjoy!

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Last Week at Extreme Writing Now:

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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This 55 word flash fiction piece asks the question;  if Harry Calahan had written flash fiction instead of being a cop, is this how he’d handle his editor?

Shop for a personalized gift at Zazzle.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Starting Sunday, July 25 at 6:30 p.m. EST, Extreme Writing Now is taking the act to Blog Talk Radio with a weekly broadcast from the EWNN.  We hope to wind down the week with some good old fashioned  chat about the happenings at EWN as well as feature a guest every week.

So, if you’re down for hearing from a group of the most gifted writers in a relaxed and fun 30 minutes, join us every Sunday.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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I have so many coffee stories that would be  good fits for this memoirs prompt, but not one of them would be worth a squat without this one…

My grandmother lived alone in a tar shingle sided house atop one of the “mini-mountains” of the Foothills to the Appalachians  in southeastern Ohio. She tended her garden for many years, and drew her water, using a galvanized pail and a long piece of clothesline, from a well that sat 50 feet from her front door. There were chamber pots in every bedroom.

She drank Hills Brothers coffee that was brewed in a stove top percolator.

We lived about three hours from my grandmother and would spend 2-3 weekends a month visiting her. Dad would either pack us all up on Friday evening or haul us “down home” until Sunday afternoon late, or he would wait until early Saturday to perform the ritual.

My sister , two brothers, and I always liked the Friday night option. This meant we got two mornings drinking coffee and eating warm chocolate pudding for breakfast (shhhh! Don’t tell Mom and Dad!), with grandma (or Mom as everyone called her). No matter how early we kids got up, Mom was already up and the pudding was just about done. Of course the coffee was brewed.

The five of us, grandma included, would sit in the kitchen, drink coffee and watch as the early morning fog would burn away from the hilltop. There was a mystical serenity about seeing the traces of fog retreat through the tree line and into the vast forest that was just beyond.

There was a rite of passage in our family that involved grandma and coffee. No child was allowed to reach the age of six until they spent a few mornings drinking coffee with the short, sweet woman. It was during those mornings that I learned a lot about gentle kindness, what a twinkle in an eye means, and love from a woman who was shorter, but a lot tougher than me.

Her toughness didn’t show in her disposition. It had marked her with gnarly hands, strong legs, and a good tan. There was not an echo of meanness in her voice, just stories of living the ‘good life’ atop that mountain. There was no proof of any ill gotten gains, just the reality of simple dress and bountiful garden harvests .

I owe my love for coffee to the sweet woman who drank Hills Brothers coffee brewed in a stove top percolator.

I owe my love for life to those early weekend mornings spent on top of that mountain with my grandmother.

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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Almost every listing on every Freelance Writing job board asks for the resumé and portfolio of all those inquiring about the position. In fact, almost to the tee, we are asked for as link to those items.

If you have your own web site that is dedicated to your freelancing business, then you are ahead of the game; if you don’t, shame on you. With all of the free blogging platforms (WordPress, Blogger, and Typepad to name a few) there is no reason you shouldn’t have a site with a resumé, your portfolio, and contact information.

WordPress.com offers over 1400 templates or themes to choose from, so building a professional looking freelance gun for hire site is fairly easy.

Don’t stop at building your home site. You want to create a network of pages that will help get you noticed by a wider group of  those looking for the hired guns. There are plenty of flexible free platforms that a freelancer can create a resumé and provide links to their portfolio.

One of the newest ones is Weedle, in fact, Weedle is set up to be a site that caters to resumés and portfolios. While the platform is truly a web 2.o publishing site, the pages are straightforward and specifically guide the user in posting work skills, work history, and recommendations. The also allow uploads for work samples.

Another great site to construct a resume at is Squidoo. Squidoo is maybe the most versatile publishing platform available on the Internet as everyone from large businesses to work at home mothers publish content in an effort to market something.

Squidoo offers many different templates to work with; possibly the easiest and cleanest template  to build a resumé with  is the SquidWho template.  The SquidWho theme is streamlined and highly configurable with many more widgets available than you could ever use. Personally, I recommend sticking with the text widgets and creating a simple, yet elegant resumé.

A number of simple, but effective resumés can be created and linked together in a short amount of time. The beauty of these pages is they all can be interlinked and linked back to your home site. Many of the available platforms are dofollow and have established page rank; SEO will be made a bit easier.

Don’t forget about LinkedIn; the social network for professionals. LinkedIn is becoming the standard for employment placement utility for thousands of  potential employers and clients. Make sure your LinkedIn profile is updated with links to all of your resumés and portfolios.

Oh yeah, your email signature is another great place to place links to your resumés as well as contact information. If you are using FireFox for a Internet bowser, I suggest the add-on called Wise Stamp. With Wise stamp, a handsome signature can be easily created that will automatically be placed on all of your outgoing email.

Wise Stamp is damn cool. You can include links to all of your social networking profiles, your latest Twitter updates, and the latest RSS feed from your blog.

By increasing your web footprint with many published resumés, a smart LinkedIn profile, and a dedicated site, you can have a better shot at landing some great freelance gigs you have missed out on in the past.

What are some of the publishing platforms you use to shill your skills?

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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A 55 word flash fiction piece about two very different partners playing the puppets in a grand scheme…

The priest read the document, hit his cigarette,  and looked up, “Why on earth are you chained to me?”

“I was too good for retirement; so you are my personal hell.” Marquis replied.

“I’ll be banished for this sermon.”

“The boss rewards the just. Smoke what you can. You won’t need them after 5:17 a.m., Monday.”

© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

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