So I’m done.  I’ve quit the game.  No more Blind Man’s Bluff with literary agents anymore.  Now I’ll simply write and publish, write and publish. 

I’m also pretty much done with magazine submissions of short stories, as well.  The only reason I write a short story is when one “pops” into existence on its own, so to speak — the creative Muse dictates, in other words.  Submitting them, though, is always a pain…because it requires I steal time away from other things…like novel writing.

I’m tired of all of it. I’m just not interested in literary blind man’s bluff with me the blinded and them twittering as they evade me finding “the right niche:, be that an agent or publishing venture.  You want to read me, come and get it.  My stories and novels will be availabe through The Deepening, from me here, or from various other websites around the Net.  

If you want it from the library or a book store, ask at the desk.  If you want it from Amazon.com, you’ll have to wait till the hard copy releases.

I made it into Part III.  Then, having had a full-scale revolt of both brain and eyes, I scrolled to the end to check the punchline…which I knew this story would have to have.

It did.

And it was too predictable.

As I’m chalking off yet another online magazine’s editorial staff as “punk,” my eyes are desperately seeking some place to input their resentment at having had to absorb what they did.  …But there is no feedback on this particular zine.  You can’t leave comments and feedback for author and editors.  

I suppose I could email, I thought.  …No.  Waste of effort.  They’re not interested in what I think of their poor choice.

As I close out that window, the original window comes into view, the one with the author proudly, even earnestly proclaiming the publication of her story.  I sigh and close that window, too, thankful that I don’t know this writer, thankful she doesn’t know me. I don’t have to worry about her expectations that I’ll leave a positive comment…any comment, at all.

E.J.

Knight for the Covenant of Everlasting

David’s First Mission

by E. J. Ruek

First published by The Deepening, ISSN 1559-7733
in Volume 1, Issue 2, February 2006

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a very special story for me because it was written about a very special lady, who is, unfortunately, now deceased, but who will always live on in my memories.

Sipping coffee, the cafe’s complementary paper beside his plate, David calculated. What they paid would get him on his feet again, even if he only worked it for a couple of months. His eye traveled down the columns looking for other options, but kept straying back to that particular ad.

$1000/delivery, 1 delivery/wk guaranteed. Need working car, driver’s license, clean record. Apply in person, 3227 Kingsley Avenue.

A car, a driver’s license and a clean record — he had those. So did just about everybody else. He folded the paper and shoved it back where he’d gotten it on the corner of the counter, then drained his cup, stood and left enough cash beside his plate for the bill plus a small tip for the waitress.

Outside, the fog had burned off. The day was bright, a paradox of sunshine and ice-cold breeze. He dug his keys out, his eye easily spotting his rusty Subaru in the cluttered parking lot. The sound of coins dropping, rolling, one with a particular ringing sound, stopped him dead in his tracks. “Dammit.” Quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies, and his gold-piece scattered, many rolling away beneath nearby vehicles.

Stooping down, David picked up most, but had to squat to reach under several cars to get the rest. His lucky coin, an heirloom from his grandfather, was missing, though. His eye searched carefully, methodically, until he spied a glint of gilt. The old coin had rolled back behind him, coming to rest beneath the front tire of a Lexus parked right beside the cafe’s entrance. He stepped over to the curb, bent down and snapped it up, straightening as he shoved it back down, deep inside his jeans’ front pocket.

His eye caught, then. Right in front of him was a paper box. “What the hell,” he muttered, and, fishing out two quarters, careful that the gold piece didn’t come out again, he bought himself a copy. It wouldn’t hurt to try.

At the next gas station he passed, he bought a map of the city. Locating Kingsley, he drove out to the advertised address. David expected to find a business. What he found was a church.

Letting the engine die, he sat and stared. It was an old church, and big, reminiscent of a time when ornamentation and stained glass were standard architecture. The building was a rich, dark red, its brick stained by years and weather. Moss grew down the gutters — stone gutters. Big trees fronted the building inside a tall wrought iron, ivy-covered fence that surrounded the entire structure and its grounds. There was a cemetery to one side that seemed to stretch as far as he could see, the whole of it well-kept with old headstones, some big and ornately carved. Many were noticeably tipped by time or, perhaps, by the roots of the huge trees that lined the cobbled paths and hemmed the boundary. David was immediately uncomfortable. Churches and he didn’t get along very well.

Turning the key in the ignition, the car coughed over just short of stalling. He was just sliding it in gear when a shadow crossed his vision and, simultaneously, there came a tapping on his window. He jerked his head in time to see the knuckles of a hand knock once more, the arm and body behind that hand encased in black….

READ MORE (Link coming soon. If you really are that desperate to read it, leave a comment, and I’ll get it done sooner.  I’m waiting on a donation button.)

A Gift for Eternity by E. J. Ruek

His mother’s eyes pleaded. She held out the keys, the faint palsy in her hand causing them to jingle. Jenna was gone, and, so far, the police had no leads. Forty-eight hours and nothing.

“Haven’t the cops gone through everything?”

“You know her. They don’t,” his mother said. “You two are alike…think alike.”

“Right,” he snapped, not meaning to, and saw her eyes glisten with the beginnings of tears. James reached out and wrapped her in his arms, her tight black curls smelling faintly of the dye she used to cover the white that had come to her early, come with their birth thirty-six years prior. He felt her shoulders shudder, but she didn’t cry, just leaned into him a long while till finally her shaking stopped.

She stood up then, supporting her own weight, her hands pushing a little. James let her go. “You’ll look, won’t you?” she asked, her voice still quavering a little.

“I‘ll look.”

“I mean you’ll try,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Yes, Mom. If there’s something, I’ll find it.”

She held out the keys again, and, this time, he took them, a small shock of static electricity sparking between them….

READ MORE (Link coming soon. If you’re really that desperate to read it, leave a comment, and I’ll get on it ASAP. I’m waiting on a donation button is the slow up.)