Ask the Page
Three stories for frustrated writers
by
Charlie Close
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Charlie Close on Smashwords
Ask the Page
Three stories for frustrated writers
Copyright © 2011 by Charlie Close
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Table of Contents
Burning Embers is now available
Dedication
For Kathy, who tries to calm me down.
Ask the Page
Fire Trolls of Ganglion VI
Bill was a young writer. He wrote numerous short stories and attempted two novels that he has not (yet) completed. He took his work seriously and disciplined himself to the task of writing two thousand words every day. And the more he wrote the better he got and the more he felt himself to be a true writer.
Bill showed the stories to his friends and family, and they all agreed that they were really good and that he should try to get them published. Bill would ask, “Do you really think so?” But Bill, in his heart of hearts, already knew so. He knew his stories were good and when he asked them if they really thought so, with his hands is his pockets and staring down his toes, it was only so he could hear them say it.
When Bill decided it was time to try to publish his work he approached the task with the same seriousness that he had approached the writing itself. He researched the markets and carefully selected where he would send his stories. Bill knew he would receive rejections. Every writer does, especially at first. But he also knew that if he was patient and kept writing and kept submitting then eventually an editor, perhaps one who was tired that day of handing out rejections, would give him a chance.
Bill printed the story he was proudest of, attached a smooth cover letter, and mailed it to the editor of Galactica Science Fiction Magazine. He crossed his fingers, hoping it was the first many published stories.
The story, called “The War of the Cyborgs”, featured Garganella, queen of the Cytomoxlians of the planet Ganglion VI. Garganella was beautiful. She was fiery – with real fire, the result of a mutation that came from her royal birthright. She was adored and respected by her people, most of whom were simple space merchants.
The Cytomoxlians were under threat of imminent attack by a cyborg army from the neighboring planet of Ganglion V, the result of a bitter trade dispute. To defend themselves the Cytomoxlians were forced to make common cause with their planetary co-habitants and natural enemies, the Wroths. Skepter, king of the Wroths, was a heathenous troll, dark in every way that Garganella was light. Yet they successfully united the Cytomoxlian merchant spaceship fleet with the powerful underground mining equipment of the Wroths to drive out the cyborgs. And, for the first time in many years (as measured by either of the solar system’s twin suns), harmony prevailed between the two races.
Bill was sure that he had a winner with the worlds of Ganglion and that he could write many more stories about them. His favorite idea, a new race of fire trolls born from the union of Garganella and Skepter, made him ache to get back to writing.
Bill waited patiently for Galactica to send him an acceptance letter and payment. He did not have to wait long, only a few weeks, when he received a thick envelope in the mail. It contained his story in the self-addressed envelope he had enclosed with his submission. (He recognized his own handwriting on it.) It also contained one other little thing, a slip of paper, which said the following.
Thank you for your recent submission to Galactica Science Fiction Magazine. Although your story was not among those chosen for publication, we do appreciate your efforts and hope you will continue to keep us in mind in the future.
What a pleasant note! thought Bill. They appreciate my efforts.
But where’s the check?
He held the envelope open and peered deep into it. No check.
He looked at the slip of paper again and realized that he had missed the word REJECTION printed across the top, and had not seen the handwritten comment underneath.
Not a bad story, even if the “enemies fighting against a bigger enemy and then becoming friends” theme is a bit tired. Where would you go next? Fire trolls? That’s a stretch, even for science fiction.
Keep at it and try us again.
Best.
Saxby Horn
Editor
Bill read the note over several times, trying to squeeze the exact meaning and nuance out of each word. “Not bad?” “Stretch?”
At first Bill felt surprise. Rejection? That can’t be right.
Then Bill felt anger. He learned that it was one thing to know that writers get rejections, but it was something else to get one himself, especially when he knew the work was good. It was good! It was really, really good! What do you mean my story is tired? I know it’s original. I’ve never seen it before. This...is...bullshit!
His first impulse was to write a long letter to Mr. Saxby Horn to explain why he should have accepted the story. But he didn’t do it. He knew better.
Hours went by. Little by little he was able to shake off this setback. And then he had an idea. He thought it over and the more he thought about it the more he liked it. He had figured out a way to turn something bad into something good.
Bill sat at his desk to write his next story and he did not get up again until it was finished.
The result was “The Fall of the Council of Elders”, set on Earth of the future when the world was governed by the Council. Ezron Bidlop was a young member of the Science Guild who discovered that a thousand years ago an alien race laid their eggs deep underground where the Earth’s molten core could keep them warm. Ezron’s careful scientific measurements showed that the eggs were about to hatch, with disastrous results for humanity.
Ezron tried to warn the Council, but he was ignored. In one scene Ezron appeared before the Council and pleaded with them to drill to the core and crack the eggs before they hatched. Magma Krell, the High Councilor, banged his Staff of Authority on the floor and shouted Ezron down. “There have been rumors of alien eggs before and nothing has happened! The whole idea of space eggs is far-fetched, young man.”
Ezron shouted back to Magma that he will be sorry if he does nothing. Magma snorted contemptuously as guards dragged Ezron out of the Council chamber.
Ezron was right, but he couldn’t get the Council to keep the eggs from hatching. The dragon-like fledgling aliens began to destroy buildings and people.
Although Ezron was thwarted by the Council, he did not stop trying to save the Earth. He developed a missile to shoot a special radioactive teargas that killed only the aliens. The Defense Guild was able to deploy the missiles and destroy the dragons, but not before they attacked the Council. Ezron, trying desperately to stop the attack, witnessed a dragon pick up Magma by the back of his tunic and drop him (Magma) down his (the dragon’s) throat.
After the aliens were defeated the new High Councilor appointed Ezron to be the Chief of the Science Guild, where he served for decades in what came to be known as the Golden Age of Science.
Bill thought this was a great story, even better than “The War of the Cyborgs”. His tongue was wet when he licked the envelope, and he popped the story into the mailbox with a snap of his wrist.
The reply came six weeks later. He knew it was not a good sign when the manuscript came back with it, and this time he knew to look for the word “although” on the slip. Although was never good.
The enclosed slip, like the previous one, was a rejection. The handwritten note added to the boilerplate looked like this.
Everyone writes a “strike back
at the editor” story sooner or later. Yours was better than
average, but not quite the top quality we are looking for at
Galactica.
This month I have already been killed in
three laser gun battles, devoured from within by a parasitic alien
maggot, and burned to death by the sun as my spaceship fell back into
it. (The latter was my personal favorite and will appear in the
March issue as “Solar Death Barge”.) Consumption by dragon hath
no sting for me.
Hopefully you have gotten this story out of
your system and are ready to go back to work. We will be pleased to
consider your future endeavors.
P.S. Does the dragon chew me
or swallow me whole? Does my blood squirt? Does he swallow my Staff
of Authority or does he spit it out? Do I howl in agony or do I go
down quietly? Don’t make me guess.
Best.
Saxby
Horn
Editor
This time Bill skipped right past surprise and went straight to anger. It made him flush red that the editor had seen through him, and had rejected the story, and laughed at him at the same time.
His first impulse was to gather up another story and throw it even harder at the editor, but he was brought up short by the thought of Saxby Horn mocking that story too. What was the point? Why give him the satisfaction?
A week went by and Bill wrote nothing. He didn’t feel like it. He didn’t want to.
Then Bill, being a serious man, eventually convinced himself of two things. First, that the editor of Galactica was wrong. Second, and more important, that even if the editor was not wrong, it didn’t matter. His job was to write. Saxby Horn could laugh all he wanted.
That was the day he began to write his next story, “Fire Trolls of Ganglion VI”. Was it a stretch? Bill didn’t think so at all.
Ask the Page
I’m betting that some of you have started a novel at one time or another and couldn’t get past the first few pages. I know what that’s like and I think I can help.
I am working one right now. I’m forty pages in and every word has come with difficulty. Never mind finishing the whole book: I just wanted to make it out of this one scene I’d been working on for weeks.
I call it Scene Two. Brad, the main character, is over at his parents’ house for dinner. I got into the scene thinking it was pretty straightforward: meet the parents (Bob and Rita), have some dialogue, eat some dinner. Then, as if I had found a patch of quicksand, I couldn’t seem to get out of the scene. Here’s a small piece of what I’m talking about.
Bob pushed his peas around on his
plate, then set down his fork with a clatter. “I think we all
might as well go back to school to learn Chinese because in twenty
years we’ll all be taking orders from them,” he
pontificated.
“Oh, stop it,” said Rita.
This is one of the places I got stuck. Dad made a weird statement and I didn’t know how to use it to make the story go. I thought and thought and still didn’t know what to do next.
That was when, by accident, I tried something new. Instead of holding my fingers still and trying to figure out what to write using the power of logical deduction (Bob said this, therefore Rita should say that), I asked the page itself what I should write. I typed this.
Now I’m stuck. Where is Bob going with this? Is he just a crazy old man, or does he have some knowledge to impart to us?
What kind of person is Brad? What would he say now? Maybe he’d make a joke. Yeah, that’s good. Be funny. (Here goes.)
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Dad,” laughed Brad. “I think the Chinese will be taking orders from us as long as they keep making sweet and sour pork.”
Wow! I just wrote something. I asked the page and it answered, and I got one more paragraph farther into my novel!
And then I was stuck again. The rush from what I had written wore off as soon as I typed the period.
So now what? I didn’t know. I asked the page.
Hi, page. It’s me again.
Silence.
Me, Charlie.
More silence.
Oh, right. It only works when I ask a question. Sorry.
Hey, page, you listening?
Yes, Charlie.
Why is Bob mad at the Chinese? Why would he be talking about taking orders from them? Did he maybe lose his job to a company in China? Hey, that’s it! Dad’s unemployed! (Here goes.)
“Ha, ha, Junior,” said Bob mockingly. “You won’t think it’s so funny when the Bamboo Happiness Corporation of Beijing takes your job as chief flange inspector as the biggest manufacturing plant in the tri-state area. Jobs like that don’t grow on trees anymore.”
I asked the page another question: Brad thinks that’s funny, right? Bamboo Happiness - come on!
I don’t know, Charlie. Maybe it’s sad, not funny.
Hm. I didn’t think of that.
“I know you must be very sad
about your job. I’m sorry, Dad.”
“I’m okay, Brad,”
said the father. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, Son,”
said the father, and they hugged.
“I have to go now, Dad.
Dinner is over.”
“I know you do. I love you, Son.”
“I love you too, Dad,” said Brad, and then he left.
It was fantastic! I had finally finished Scene Two. The novel I’m working on will be about 300 pages. I wasn’t sure I could finish it before I discovered talking to the page, and now I know I will.
There is, however, one small problem. In order to write 300 pages of story, I’m going to have to ask about 3,000 pages worth of questions. That takes a long time and seems awfully wasteful, but what else can I do? I need a lot of help from the page.
Just brainstorming here: maybe I can use all the questions to make another novel. Call this one, Questions to the Mysterious Page, or something like that. It would be a very fascinating story of a struggling writer, maybe with a mental problem (Oh! Good idea - write that down), written entirely as conversation with his word processor.
Of course it will require some editing. 3,000 pages is longer than most books. Or maybe it could be turned into a trilogy.
Hey, that’s it! See, the ideas just keep popping. Try it yourself, and you’ll see.
Hey, page, you still there?
Yes, Charlie.
I’m stuck with this essay. Where should I go from here?
How about “The End”?
Are you sure?
Yes.
I love you, page.
You’re welcome.
The Last Story of the Evening
Before I start the last story of the evening, I’d like to thank you, the Keego Harbor Ladies Literary Society, for inviting me to come read for you. It’s always a treat to get out from under my laptop and present my stories to real listeners. So, thank you very much for coming.
And I have to say, whoever made the molasses cookies really has a gift. It would never have occurred to me to put out little cups of molasses dipping sauce, but there’s no doubt it’s a great idea. If someone wants to give me the recipe afterward, I’d be grateful.
It’s my custom when I give a reading to write something new just for them. And so I’d like to read a piece I’ve written exclusively for the Keego Harbor Ladies Literary Society. I’d like to, but I can’t. I thought I’d be giving a reading tonight to another group, and I prepared a new story for them.
Unfortunately they cancelled. Well, you know what they say: when a door closes a window opens. I got a call yesterday from your president, Ms. Eckelstein, and here I am. You’ve been a fantastic audience, and I’m sorry to say the only new story I have to read is the one I wrote for the other group. If you’ll allow me, I’d be honored to read it to you now.
I should probably say a little something about them. My cousin Rebecca is a member and she has told me all about them. I understand they can get a little rowdy, especially when they’ve been reading – and drinking. They kind of like to give a hard time to guest authors.
Now, I live for enthusiastic audiences. If you ask me, literary societies have grown a little too tame over the years - yourselves excepted, of course. And yet, I was a bit worried about what they might do to me, so with a little help from Rebecca I wrote a story to try to put them in a more peaceful frame of mind.
Now that you know the background of the story, let’s begin. This is called “How the Bay City Women’s Literature Project Decided Not to Throw the Guest Author into the Swimming Pool After All”.
“Let’s throw him in the pool! Cindy, Keisha, grab a leg.”
There was a rumble of assent and the sound of twenty wine coolers being set down. Phil Rockson closed his book, put his reading glasses in his jacket pocket, and looked up at the mob of women in sun dresses.
This had not been a good reading, although it had started out well. Ms. Courtney Umberland, the president of the Bay City Women’s Literature Project had sent him an email inviting him to give a reading, and he agreed to come. A writer meeting his readers, that’s what it’s all about, especially on an evening like this, on the patio at Courtney’s parents’ house, next to the pool as the sun was going down. It was a beautiful thing.
He began by thanking everyone for coming, and told them he always liked the chance to meet his readers. “And now,” he said, “I would like to begin with something from my latest book, Yippie and Dippie at the County Fair.”
Yippie and Dippie were circus clowns, two brothers whose father, Ringmaster Bartholomew, had disappeared after a performance in Oswego, New York. The brothers left the circus to find him, and their travels had led them to the Sunflower County Fair, where a boxcar hobo said he had seen him. And from there the journey continued for many more chapters.
What set this book apart from other clown search novels was not that that they wore their costumes and make-up at all times. Nor was it the way they performed as a musical group, with Yippie playing a real guitar while Dippie sang silently in the character of a French mime. These things had been done before. No, what Phil Rockson brought to his novels was the telling of long passages of the story through the use of knock-knock jokes. All throughout their search, Yippie and Dippie hoped that “who’s there” was Ringmaster Bartholomew, but even after three hundred and twenty pages, it was not.
The response of the women to Phil’s reading was like Dippie’s mime singing, wordless but heartfelt. During those twenty minutes, there was more and more shifting in seats, and more and more sipping, then slurping, from wine coolers. When Phil finished reading, the applause was only polite.
Phil continued anyway. “Thank-you so much, ladies. Now I’d like to read from an earlier book, Yippie and Dippie on the Road.”
This book featured Yippie and Dippie driving across America in a tiny car. The passage Phil Rockson read told how they sped down a Rocky Mountain pass to get to Denver. A highway hobo they had picked up in Wichita said he had seen Bartholomew in Denver a month ago. The steep descent almost ended badly when, just as Dippie was weaving the car around – and underneath – a gasoline tanker truck, the hobo decided to light his last cigar. Only Yippie’s quick reflexes and unmusical use of his guitar prevented the two brothers’ search from ending forever.
Phil concluded the passage when Yippie and Dippie reached the outskirts of Denver. “And the two clowns left the hobo on the side of the road and parted friends.”
This time when Phil stopped, the applause was noticeably tepid. Several of the audience got up to see if there was anything left on the meat and cheese tray by the swimming pool.
“It’s a beautiful evening we’re having, isn’t it?” said Phil to the audience. “I love to give readings alfresco, and this night is especially wonderful.”
The audience in general did not answer, except for Courtney Umberland and the woman sitting next to her. They stood up and approached Phil at the tall outdoor coffee table he was using for a podium.
“Hello again, Ms. Umberland.”
Courtney nodded, and the other woman held her hand out. “Alisa Soderberg, vice president.”
Phil shook her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Soderberg. How do you think it’s going? Isn’t the night air just transcendent?”
“Absolutely, it’s wonderful,” said Courtney. “But I was wondering if maybe you have something a little more literary you could read for us.”
Phil lifted an eyebrow. “More literary?”
“Yeah,” said Alisa. “More literary.”
“This is a literature project of college educated women, and we’re very serious about books. Jokes are great, but we want an author to make us think too. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“That’s right,” said Alisa. “We want to think.”
Phil nodded. “I am so sorry, ladies. I always try to adjust my readings to suit the audience I’m speaking to. Clearly I’ve missed the mark in this case. Will you accept my apology?”
Courtney smiled. “Of course. These things happen.”
“Yeah,” said Alisa.
“Well now that I know what you’re looking for, I think I can help. My writing was a little more serious earlier than it is now and I would be happy to draw on that part of my work.”
“Thanks,” said Alisa.
“That would be great,” said Courtney. “Thank you so much for understanding. Some authors get a little cranky when you try to help them please their audience.”
“Not I,” said Phil. “Without you I couldn’t be here. I’d just be reading out loud to myself in my library at home.” Phil laughed and so did Courtney and Alisa.
The two ladies took their seats again, and the rest of their audience took their cue from them and sat down as well.
Phil, who was an experienced reader, had brought selections from his entire repertoire so that he could adjust the reading to the tastes of his listeners. He was grateful to Courtney and Alisa for helping to clarify their desires. Some audiences did not express themselves so plainly.
Phil stepped back up to the podium and selected a sheaf of papers from the stack resting on it. “And now I’d like to read something from earlier in my career. It’s a little too sophisticated for some audiences, but I think you’ll like it. All ready? Here goes.”
Phil took a breath and began reading from the opening chapter of his third book, Yippie and Dippie Go to College. He began, “Standing at his blackboard, Professor Trout said, ‘Knock! Knock!’”
And that is when Alisa got to her feet and said to the women behind her, “Throw him in the pool! Cindy, Keisha, grab a leg.”
Cindy and Keisha each seized a leg while Courtney and Alisa grabbed Phil’s arms. They held him aloft on his back and walked him over to the edge of the pool. The other ladies got to their feet and cheered and formed a dense semicircle around him.
Phil, as surprised as he was, did not struggle. He lay on his back and let the mob bear his weight. “Ladies, ladies, what’s wrong?”
Courtney, who held him by one of his shoulders, said, “Mr. Rockson, we told you we want something more literary. I thought you would realize we were serious.”
“Of course I did, Ms. Umberland. Yippie and Dippie Go to College is my most thoughtful work.”
Alisa growled into the other ear. “Knock-knock jokes aren’t literary.”
“They certainly aren’t,” said Courtney. “That’s not the kind of thing we accept at the Literature Project.”
“In the pool!” said Alisa, and she heaved into Phil hard enough to make the other women stagger.
“Ladies! May I ask a question in the spirit of open inquiry?”
The ladies, who were not in the habit of pouring cold water, so to speak, on open inquiry, remained silent.
“Thank you,” said Phil. “The thing I don’t understand is, if you don’t like my books, why did you invite me?”
“Not our idea,” said Alisa. “It was Annabelle.”
“That’s right,” said Courtney. “She recommended your work, and I sent the invitation on the strength of her advice.”
“We trusted her,” said Alisa.
“She said it was post modern,” said Courtney.
“I see,” said Phil Rockson. “So when you said ‘literary’, you meant literary.”
“That’s right,” said Courtney. “I think you can see why we’re a little bit upset that your work is comprised chiefly of clowns and knock-knock jokes.”
“Right,” said Alisa, and there were murmurs of agreement from the semicircle.
“It makes much more sense now,” said Phil. “Based on your expectations, how could you help but want to throw me into the swimming pool? That said, I don’t suppose I could meet Annabelle, could I? Maybe shake her hand? I always like to meet a fan.”
“She’s not here,” said Alisa.
Courtney said, “She was supposed to help set up the food trays and she never showed up. I left her something like three voice mails.”
“Ah,” Phil said. “That’s disappointing.”
“Ironic,” said Alisa.
“In fact,” said Cindy, who was holding Phil up by his right leg, “it’s kind of like Ringmaster Bartholomew. No one knows where she is.”
“Yeah,” said Keisha, who was holding Phil’s left leg, “and Courtney, you were trying to find her.”
“Just like the clowns,” said Alisa. “Damn!”
“And one of them does most of the talking,” said Cindy. “Mr. Rockson, which one was that?”
“Yippie,” said Phil.
“Right. Courtney, that’s you. And Alisa, your communication is mostly non-verbal, like the other one. Who’s the other one?”
“Dippie,” said Phil.
Courtney brightened. “And if instead of ‘jokes’, you say ‘books’...” She made quote marks with the index finger of her free hand.
“Damn!” said Alisa.
“Maybe it really is post modern,” said Cindy. “Annabelle is so smart.”
Everyone in the semicircle agreed. Phil, who had not thought of that way before, cocked an eyebrow to the left. He could agree that it was one several valid interpretations.
“You know what this means?” said Courtney.
“What?” said Alisa.
“It means we can’t throw him in the pool.”
“Why?” said Alisa.
“Because,” she said, “that would be too pat. The search has to continue without resolution. If we dunk him, there would be nothing left to do. Right, Mr. Rockson?”
Phil Rockson blinked. “Without a doubt.”
“What about the denouement?” said Keisha. “We could throw him in then.”
“No way!” said Alisa.
“That wouldn’t work,” said Courtney. “You don’t introduce new climactic elements in the denouement. It disrupts the story architecture.”
“Oh,” said Keisha. “I forgot.”
“That’s all right.”
“Then what do we do now?”
Phil Rockson lifted his head. “Could I offer a suggestion?”
Courtney smiled. “Yes?”
“What if you put me down?”
“He’s getting kind of heavy,” said Cindy.
“Physically and creatively,” said Keisha.
“Mr. Rockson,” said Courtney, “if we set you down now –”
“And don’t throw you in,” said Alisa.
Courtney looked at Alisa. “Right – and don’t throw you in – for artistic reasons – would you read us another story?”
“Are you sure?” asked Phil Rockson. “All my stories are about Yippie and Dippie, and they all have knock-knock jokes.” He turned his head to the side to look to the deep end of the pool.”
“Of course they do. Now that we understand them, they make perfect sense.”
“I’m so glad you think so,” said Phil Rockson.
“Okay then, put him down,” said Courtney, and all four began to lower him to the ground.
“No, no! Not yet, ladies. I have one more request.”
The four women heaved him up again and a sheen of sweat broke out on their foreheads. Courtney said, “Yes, Mr. Rockson?” and this time her tone of courtesy was a bit thinner.
“I’m starting to get a little bit hungry. Giving readings requires a lot of energy. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes,” said Courtney.
“This party must have taken a lot of effort.”
“Yes it did,” said Courtney.
“And it turned out beautifully. I want to thank you for that.”
“Welcome,” said Alisa, and she heaved to get a better grip on his shoulder.
Phil Rockson smiled. “So, do you suppose someone could get me something to eat? The cheese and crackers looked wonderful.”
“Of course,” said Courtney. “Set him down. Now, please.”
The four ladies set Phil’s feet on the ground and propped him upright, and then Cindy went back to the patio to make Phil a plate.
Everyone resumed their seats, and Phil stepped back to the podium and to read the last story of the evening, an excerpt from his sixth novel, Yippie and Dippie at the Bow and Arrow Factory.
The End. Now go back to your writing.
# # #
Burning Embers is now available
I am pleased to announce that the complete collection of Charlie and Kathy stories, Burning Embers and Other Stories of Marriage, Work, and Family, is now available as an ebook. It’s filled with 37 funny and poignant stories of a couple trying to make a marriage and a life, topped off with a very cool cover by Massachusetts artist Mister Reusch.
Did you like the stories of Ask the Page? Try Burning Embers. I think you’ll enjoy it.
Books by Charlie Close
Charlie and Kathy Stories
Burning Embers and Other Stories of Marriage, Work, and Family
My Darling Husband, Charlie and Kathy stories of gifts and surprises
Love and Hug Therapy, Charlie and Kathy stories of living with a fool
Blissful Morning, Charlie and Kathy Stories of living with a writer
Lightning Drive, Charlie and Kathy stories of family, love, and fear
Guilty Women, Charlie and Kathy stories of what Kathy wants
Burning Embers and Other Stories of Marriage, Work, and Family (Print edition, ISBN 978-1598588187)
Stories of Growing Up
Jeffrey’s Last Trick or Treat, Autumn stories of growing up
Roaring Crowd, Winter stories of growing up
Stubborn, Winter into spring stories of growing up
Very Short Stories
Kites and Weddings, Very Short Stories
Rough & Beautiful, Very Short Romance Stories
The Art of the Very Short Story, A Guide for Readers and Writers
The Book of Shotguns
The Book of Shotguns, 129 Names for Your Rock Band
The Second Book of Shotguns, Evil More Names for Your Rock Band
The Third Book of Shotguns, Rock Band Names from Hell
Other Books
A+, Stories of the author as a boy
Ask the Page, Three stories for frustrated writers
On the Way Home in the Dark, Stories Set in Motion
Blue Sky? 98 Questions for the IT Project Manager
Visit Charlie
Twitter: @CharlieClose