The acquisitions team at that publisher loved the book. It passed through one editorial meeting after another with flying colors. The last step for them was to get approval from the business and marketing team.
That’s where the book got rejected.
Why?
It was too risky from a business standpoint.
A book that the entire editorial team agreed was excellent was too risky from a business standpoint.
I wasn’t in the meeting where this decision was made, so I don’t know all the details that went into their calculations. I don’t know how exactly they decided this.
That said, it was a major emotional blow that has awakened two contradictory desires in my heart.
I want to throw every copy of Love, Treachery in a closet and never write again.
I want to up my marketing game, sell a million copies, and prove the entire traditional publishing industry wrong.
I know my work has an audience because you, my readers, have told me so. I’ve gotten messages from people all over the world who loved my writing and want to see more. People are craving original stories, stories that traditional publishers don’t think are profitable and don’t want to take a chance on.
Let’s prove them wrong.
If you read and loved my work (or the work of any indie author), share it with a friend. Request your favorite indie books at your local library and/or leave a review on your favorite website. Nominate your favorite indie book for a book club read. All of these are free ways you can help market the books you love.
Let’s show traditional publishing that there is an audience for unique, original stories; in refusing to take risks, they are missing out.
I stare out at the rolling waves—dark blue and grey, framed by puffs of white foam. The incident fills my mind, my heart, my soul. I remember the bloodstains, the screaming, the horror in Aunt Jane’s eyes…
Something nudges my hand—a tiny green crab. I watch as it scuttles away toward the surf. Then, something white swoops down upon it and carries it up, up, into the air toward the whisps of clouds—a seagull with arching wings like boomerangs and a golden beak like a dagger. It reminds me of how fragile life is, how things can change in a blink, a breath, a sigh… One moment you are happy, the next moment you are a seagull’s lunch. This is life and death and death and life spinning in a great circle like a pinnwheel.
Once again, that dark day fills my mind… the day my life changed forever…
The memory of aspestos scent fills my nose along with the image of that awful dark yellow shag carpet. Why had I come to Aunt Jane’s trailer that day? Why hadn’t I canceled? I didn’t even like Aunt Jane. If anyone deserved such a horrible fate, it was her. And yet…
I shudder as my memories trail on and on like an ellipses… the red rug over the shag carpet… Why did Aunt Jane put a rug over carpet? The man with the alligator face… What an awful man… What did Aunt Jane see in him? Could she see the blackness in his heart?
Memories of screams filled my ears… the blood staining the yellow carpet like ketchup on mustard… It made me hungry for justice. How could I ever be the same after that? How could anyone?
The sun beats down on me as I sit on the sand reflecting on how things have changed in my life since that day. My skin reddens and cracks and peels. I should have applied sunscreen this morning. Then again, there is so much I should have done. There are so many things we all SHOULD do… So why don’t we?
Children laugh somewhere in the distance, I see them running, playing, kicking up droplets of surf. Do they know pain? Regret? I didn’t either before the incident.
Sand sparkles on my bare toes. My red flip-flops lay beside me-twisted and broken like my soul. I want to replace them, but everything is so expensive these days with inflation… It’s best to make do.
I am making do with so many emotions now. The electric company charged me a late-fee, the whipped cream on my latte melted before I could drink it, I couldn’t find my charger this morning. Will I ever know happiness? How can I when my skin hurts to touch?
Perhaps I should leave this sandy paradise and get away from the sun’s brutal rays… but I came here to reflect on the incident that changed me. Which incident was it now?
Something about ketchup and mustard… My stomach rumbles as images of hotdogs fill my mind. I will leave the grasping rays of this scorching sun and satisfy my hunger.
Later today, I will be hungry again, and after that hungry again still. Is there any point in anything? Is there any point in reflecting thus? Is there any point in this blog?
Did you know that the Osa, my fan-favorite canine heroine, was partially inspired by a real dog I befriended in Mexico?
This blurry photo I got on a CVS disposable camera doesn’t do justice to her happy, spunky soul. This was taken in 2006 before smartphones, or… before I had a smartphone.
I wrote a Substack post all about how I met Osa and how she touched my soul.
This is a sample of the bonus content I am trying out. If you get a subscription to my Substack for five dollars a month, you can access the stories behind the stories. I am hoping that by offering this paid bonus content, I will be able to keep my main short stories free for everyone.
I really appreciate all of my readers. Thank you for following me, for commenting, and for all your messages. I have loved connecting with you all over the years. If you enjoy this content and have suggestions for other bonus content, please let me know. I would love to hear from you.
Osa whimpered as she sniffed the carnage on the grass beside the Bin Supreme. The Bin Supreme was the tallest of all the sacred bins in the house of the gods, Rodriguez. Every week, God Juan would collect the offerings from the smaller bins throughout his dwelling place and take them outside to the Bin Supreme. Then, God Juan would drag the Bin Supreme to the small strip of grass that divided his realm from the street. There, once a week, the Green Devourer would pass, consuming all the offerings.
Tango the parrot had once explained to Osa that if the gods neglected to give weekly offerings to the Green Devourer, it would become angry and consume the gods themselves along with all their household.
It was for this reason, Goddess Kimberly was always reminding God Juan to bring out the offering. Yet, despite all her warnings, God Juan once forgot. While Green Devourer showed them mercy for their slip, Goddess Kimberly was furious with God Juan and reprimanded him most sternly for almost bringing ruin upon them all.
Now, observing the contents of the Bin Supreme strewn around the grass, Osa’s stomach flopped. Who had done this awful thing? What if the Green Devourer became angry?
She decided to take her concern to the high priest Tango. When the parrot heard about the desecrated offering, his face became grave.
“This is the work of the masked heretics,” Tango explained.
“Heretics?” Osa whimpered.
“They come at night, desecrate the sacred bins, and spew heresy about the gods.”
“About the gods?” Osa whimpered, her ears perking up.
“Indeed,” Tango said. “The masked heretics claim that the Gods Juan and Kimberly are distant gods creating food, but not desiring a personal relationship with them.”
Osa was shocked.
“But the gods rub my ears, and say I am a good dog,” Osa proclaimed. “How can the masked heretics claim they are distant gods?”
“No one knows for sure,” Tango said. “The evil one probably fills their heads with lies. Those who are capable of desecrating the Bin Supreme are capable of believing anything.”
Osa whimpered. By “the evil one” Tango might have meant the rug demon, the grass-eating demon, or the most evil demon of them all–Veterinarian. Osa did not ask for clarification because speaking of the demons frightened her.
Despite her fears, however, she decided it was best to keep watch over the Bin Supreme that evening to make sure the masked heretics didn’t return to wreak more havoc.
As Juan and Kimberly stared into the sacred light box that evening, Osa waited by the translucent portal to Backyard until one of them noticed her and allowed her to pass through. Her nose swept back and forth across the grass as she struggled to pick up any heretical scent.
Despite all the lovely aromas that billowed from the Bin Supreme, she managed to detect a musk that could only belong to a heretic. Yes, they were nearby and perhaps would return soon to steal the offering.
Just as the last of the sunlight disappeared, the scent became stronger, and Osa looked up to see one walking along the top of the fence. The masked heretic was sort of like a cat, but larger with a striped tail and a longer nose.
Osa considered barking at the heretic to scare him off, but then she began to wonder if she could correct its heretical thinking and make it a true follower of Gods Juan and Kimberly.
“Masked one!” she called out. “Why do you desecrate the Bin Supreme?”
The creature froze.
“I’m NOT stealing anything!” it exclaimed.
“You are!” Osa objected. “You are trying to steal the offering!”
“Nope!” the masked heretic objected. It tried to turn, but this was difficult to do with such a round body perched in such a precarious way on the fence top.
“Wait!” Osa called. “I mean you no harm! In fact, I wish to save you from the wrath of the Green Devourer! Why do you consume his offering?”
The masked heretic paused and turned back toward her.
“The Green Devourer?”
“Yes! The giant beast that moves on round legs and eats from this Bin Supreme!”
“Ah! You mean the Green Spirit of Plenty!”
“Green Spirit of Plenty?” Osa questioned, cocking her head.
“Indeed!” the masked heretic nodded. “That creature carries the food from this bin to the Eternal Mountains of Abundance and leaves it there for us to consume, but so generous is he that even as he takes the food, he spills some on the ground for those who cannot make the journey. The Green Spirit of Plenty is good to us.”
Osa began to tremble. What lies had Veterinarian whispered into this creature’s ear that led him to believe the Green Devourer was a benevolent spirit?
Perhaps this masked heretic was vulnerable to such lies because he lived outside the loving realm of Juan and Kimberly. Perhaps if he came into the embrace of their home and received their loving head scratches and belly rubs, he would cease to believe such nonsense.
“I know of better gods,” Osa said. “Loving gods who will give you food and tell you you’re a good boy. Come into their realm.” Osa looked over her shoulder at the house.
The masked heretic flattened his ears as he looked at the house.
“You speak of the Pizza Makers,” the racoon hissed.
“Pizza Makers?” Osa asked.
“The two legged gods who create the most tasty things for the bins,” the heretic said. “I adore the Pizza Makers, but dare not approach them. They are distant gods who grow angry at my approach.”
“No!” Osa objected. “They are not distant gods! They are loving personal gods! Come near to them and receive their rubs.”
“You may dare to approach the Pizza Makers, but I do not!” the masked heretic explained. “I accept their gifts from the bin with gratitude.”
The masked heretic took a few awkward steps toward the Bin Supreme. Osa remembered the scene from that morning–the offering strewn across the yard. She imagined the Green Devourer consuming Juan and Kimberly…
“No!” Osa barked. “Do not touch the Bin Supreme! Lest the Green Devourer consume us all!”
“You speak nonsense,” the masked heretic objected and jumped right on top of the holy bin.
It was now or never. Although she wanted to save the masked heretic’s soul, the fate of the universe depended on her protecting the Bin Supreme. She jumped toward the masked heretic growling and barking until he jumped from the lid with a dexterity remarkable for his girth.
Osa heard the sliding of the translucent portal and the Goddess Kimberly calling her. She turned and trotted inside, gratefully receiving Kimberly’s head pats. Perhaps, someday soon, she would encounter the masked heretic again. Perhaps then, she could finally convince him to change his thinking. But for now, she had protected the Bin Supreme and saved the universe.
All of the politicians on the planet Bosun are carp. By which I mean that they are reverse merpeople with the upper half resembling a carp and the lower half probably resembling human legs and feet. It’s hard to tell for sure because they keep their pants on, which is more than can be said for our politicians here on Earth.
Now, the Bosunian politicians are divided into two factions known as the Bildge and the Clew. Each of these two factions claims to be kind-hearted, morally upright, and darn good people all around. Each of these factions also likes to claim that the opposing party is made up entirely of slimy bottom feeders.
What’s truly tragic about this situation is that if these factions just took the time to listen deeply to one another, they would discover that they both really want the same things–power and money.
But alas, deep listening was not their priority. They preferred to yell loudly over each other, or, as in today’s story, get podcasters to do it for them.
Bosunian citizen Drogue was a swordfish from the waist up and, as such, loved to fight. However, he found old-fashioned nose-to-nose combat a bit dangerous for his tastes. He discovered that by becoming a political commentator, he could engage in all the fights he wanted, without breaking scales. It was the best career a swordfish could dream of.
He happened to get his hands on an extra juicy story he couldn’t wait to break to his audience. It was the biggest scandal in the history of Bosunian politics. Councilman Cleat, Bildge party representative, had been caught on tape sucking algae with a pleco.
Drogue was a fair, objective political commentator. He was speaking about this story because his listeners had the right to know. It had nothing to do with him being a registered Clew. It was his duty to follow Bildge party members around with a camera and wait for them to do something disgraceful. After all, if a member of the Great Council of Piscus was caught in the company of bottom feeders, would anyone take their government seriously anymore? It would probably be the beginning of the end of democracy as the Bosunians knew it, AND it would generate a million clicks.
So Drogue, the great citizen journalist, leaned into his microphone (being careful to keep his nose out of the way), and eagerly made the story known.
Drogue’s broadcast came to the speakers of a piranha by the name of Leech. Leech listened to this podcast religiously, eager for something to rip apart. He was also an influencer, differing only from Drogue in political affiliation. The story of Councilman Cleat gave him just the material he was looking for.
He rubbed his fins together greedily and ventured to his filing cabinet searching for the collection of stories he had been saving for just this occasion.
Leech always live streamed his podcast an hour after Drogue’s, so he could counter all of his points. Snapping his spiky teeth together, he leaned into his microphone and began.
“Huge scandal today, guys,” he started. “Councilman Cleat was caught sucking algae with a pleco! Horrible, I know right? Except that, I’m old enough to remember when Clew Councilman Skoot was caught sucking algae with the exact same pleco back in May. The media ignored that one, didn’t they?”
His red eyes moved down the paper in his hands.
“And let’s not forget how much Councilman Turnbuckle LOVED bottom feeders. His entire staff was made up of catfish!”
He went on listing scandal after scandal involving Clew Councilfish associating with bottomfeeders.
“These Clew have no respect for our council, our government, or our planet generally,” Leech concluded. “They are the true slimy bottom feeders!”
Drogue’s podcast the following day responded directly to Leech. It was almost as if they were sitting across the table screaming at each other, instead of delivering a daily news podcast.
“If the Bildge had any respect for the Council,” Drogue objected. “Then Councilman Wake wouldn’t have put those classified documents in his glove box. That was a threat to planetary security!”
Drogue then dedicated the next hour to reviewing his carefully documented list of illegal activity carried out by various members of the Bildge party.
One hour later, Leech was ready with the following:
“In the glove box? Really? Is that as bad as the time Clew Councilman Yawl used classified documents to make the paper mache centerpiece for the Convention of Interplanetary Aristocrats?”
And so it continued with each side listing the sins of the other. Never did one of these commentators suggest that maybe it was time to remove carp from their leadership altogether. They just went back and forth over and over, arguing about which side was worse.
Meanwhile, a beautiful pleco by the name of Coral Eelgrass was getting ready for her book launch. She was about to make bank on a tell-all autobiography titled Everyone Sucks.
Dr. Mizzen Sternway was a fish scientist and I don’t mean she was an ichthyologist. I mean that she was a reverse merperson with a trout torso and human legs and feet. Of course, everyone on the planet Bosun was similarly fishy, so she didn’t turn many heads. (Incidentally, most fish do not have necks, so turning heads on Bosun would be quite a feat, even for a scientist.)
What was quite a feat was that Dr. Sternway had just achieved a scientific breakthrough–she had created a creature quite similar to the long extinct megalodon shark. And she did it with nothing but DNA, scissors, tape and her wits.
Her team called the sharklet Bruce and spent many months monitoring him as he grew from the comfort of their top secret laboratory. At long last, Dr. Sternway decided it was time to make the public aware of this amazing breakthrough, so she made the questionable decision of inviting the press over for a look at him.
The reporters who answered her call were some combination of large-mouth bass and piranhas. They crammed themselves into her lab and watched in awe as her creation swam around his tank.
“You brought the megalodon back from extinction?” asked a piranha from The Daily Bite.
“No, you can’t resurrect an extinct creature,” Dr. Sternway explained. “What we did was try and create a creature with similar characteristics by altering the DNA of a great white.”
All the reporters nodded as best they could without necks and began furiously scribbling notes.
They continued asking questions, took photographs and by the end of the day, Dr. Sternway thought the whole thing had gone about as well as any press conference could. She gave Bruce some extra shrimp before going to bed and stroked him on the nose.
The next morning, Dr. Sternway made the horrible mistake of starting her day by opening up her ChirpChat social media app. The first thing she saw was a linked article to The Daily Bite with the headline:
Scientists Resurrect the Megalodon!
Bruce was pictured in all his glory beneath this headline. Dr. Sternway sighed and scrolled down only to see another picture of Bruce from Gossip Gulp titled Is Extinction Irrelevant?
She grumbled at this and continued grumping as she witnessed one article after another all making similar claims.
She decided it was time to make a call to a friend of hers who wrote for Ichthy Print magazine, hoping at least one person would clear up the misunderstanding.
Ichthy Print didn’t let her down. Before the day was done, a new article was circulating on ChirpChat titled: No, Bruce is NOT a Megalodon: But He Can Help Us Learn About Them.
The article went into detail about Dr. Sternway’s methods and what she hoped to learn from Bruce. Sternway went to bed that night, feeling hopeful that the misunderstanding had been resolved.
The following morning, she opened up ChirpChat, only to be greeted by a picture of herself beneath the headline: Fraud Scientist Lies About Deextinction. She frowned and scrolled further:
Scientists Lied about Bruce: What Else Are They Lying About?
A strange calm overcame her as she turned off her phone. That afternoon, she fed Bruce some extra shrimp. After reading articles about her supposed lies all morning, she realized that he had taught her more about sharks than she ever imagined possible.
My short story blog, social media, and newsletter updates have been slow lately and I apologize. I would take personal responsibility for this but it’s much more fun to blame my disappearance on the drastic life changes that occurred over the last year.
Last March my family randomly decided to uproot our life and move from Washington State to North Carolina. It was a bittersweet decision because living in the Pacific Northwest is like living in a Bob Ross painting. A piece of my heart will always be in Washington… at the base of the Cascades, between a towering evergreen and the world’s sketchiest espresso hut.
But the needs of my family necessitated a change so we sold our house, stuffed our kids in a camper, and drove East for three weeks. Then we had to find a new home and new jobs and get the kids set up at a new school. Life isn’t slowing down, but I have picked up writing again!
I’ve got a new short story coming out soon! It is the latest in my Fish Stories from the Planet Bosun series. If you’ve been following me for a while, you know that this series is basically some combination of political commentary and nautical puns so bad they would make your dad cringe.
If you are new to my work, check out the first two fish stories here:
A full-length sequel to Rosaline’s Curse called Madhuri’s Hourglass.
Another Canadian Nights short story compilation.
A sequel to Doctor’s Assassin’s and Other Tyrants (Eventually).
More short stories!
If you like this nonsense, subscribe. If you are already subscribed, tell a friend. If you are already subscribed and have already told a friend, go and buy yourself a donut!
Thank you everyone for your ongoing support and encouragement!
While I did not receive enough entries to create a new edition of the book, I wanted to share the top submissions (in no particular order) and encourage you to check out the work of these talented artists by clicking the links below.
These illustrations, along with all other entries, will be kept on file and reentered when I relaunch the contest in the future.
The Fables of Para Sympan 