That's Impossible

For our current theme of That's Impossible

The Naysayer

By Kathy Dueck

This was sent to me in an email in 2009 by an aquaintance:

“I did not want to discourage you from writing or photography and I think you have a gift for both, but I am a firm believer in getting an education before trying to make something a career, and so it was hard to encourage you to try to make money at something you loved but for which you did not have the educational background.”

This suggestion rankled and shortly after receipt of that email, I did some research.  While its’ true there are successful authors that have the appropriate degree(s), many don’t.

Here are just a few examples:

S.E. Hinton wrote her first novel, The Outsiders, when she was in her sophomore year at High School.  Published in 1967, it became the one of the most successful young adult novels in publishing history and has sold over 8 million copies. She subsequently obtained a B.S. degree.  The Outsiders and Rumble Fish were both made into movies. S.E. Hinton continues to write.

Christopher Paolini, the author of the Eragon series, wrote the first book of this series at the age of 15.  Eragon was subsequently adapted into a movie. From wikipedia:

“Eragon was the third-best-selling children's hardback book of 2003, and the second-best-selling paperback of 2005. It placed on the New York Times Best Seller list for 121 weeks.”

William Paul Young, author of The Shack, has an undergrad degree, but in religion.  His book has, as of March 2009, according to http://www.warnerpacific.edu/news.aspx?id=5179

sold over 5 million copies since first being published in May of 2007 and has been translated into many different languages.  There’s talk of a feature film.

J.K. Rowling’s degree was in French, and I’m not terribly sure how useful that was to her as she wrote the Harry Potter series, which sold gazillions of copies and several of the books were made into movies.  She seems to have done alright for herself--it is said she is one of the few millionaire authors.

I wonder how many people told them “that’s impossible”?

Since receipt of the email in 2009, I’ve had a short story published,  two articles published in a magazine, several of my photo cards purchased, worked as a technical writer on a short-term contract, written content for websites, and last week, one of my photographs won a contest in a major newspaper.

The naysayers in our lives would like to tell us “that’s impossible” – the trick is to keep going anyways.

Kathy Dueck is a married writer with two cats from Calgary, Alberta Canada. She's a non-conformist, a burgeoning activist, a recipe developer, a voracious reader, a patron of the arts [which is a fancy way of saying she watches way too many movies and TV shows], a blogger, and a volunteer. She believes that “going to church doesn’t make you a Christian anymore than standing in a garage makes you a car” and likes to think that “if church were a washing machine, I would be the agitator.”

Kathy has two blogs, one is a food and recipe blog www.chronicinthekitchen.com and the other  a "personal" blog  called FibroDAZE http://bignoises.wordpress.com/ where she blogs about life and sometimes about life with chronic illness. She also has a photography blog rkdphotocreations.wordpress.com in its' infancy.

Do you have a short-short story, essay, or poem you'd like to share? Email us at awcswriterscorner@gmail.com

That's Impossible

For our current theme of That's Impossible

A locked room

By Kevin Thornton

They were four in the Stranger’s Room, the only clubroom where talking was allowed. The two brothers, a contrast in physical appearance, were obviously related by the similar steely look on their faces; one lean and aquiline, the other stouter though even more resolved. Opposite them sat a small man dressed in the black of a priest. Alongside, the tall Frenchman called Duroc.

“Alors Monseigneur,” he said to Father Brown. “The conversation drags. Regale us.”

The others said nothing, their quietude implying assent.

“Perhaps then, a locked room mystery,” said the priest, “one that displays an impossibility.

“A Squire has a room at the top of the stairs, solid walled and roofed, one door, no windows. It is where he keeps his gold and he has the only key. It may be accepted that the only mortal access to the room is through this door, off a landing, bare except for a window some forty feet away.

“Every night he is up there. Now he has three nephews who hope to inherit. He treats them abysmally, and it is no surprise they harbour dark thoughts.

 “One night they hear a gunshot.  Ned and Dan run upstairs to find Tom already at the door, struggling. ‘Over there, Dan,’ he says pointing to the key on the window sill. ‘Bring it to me.’ Dan does so and they burst in to find the Squire dead. It looks like suicide, except he is holding the gun in his left hand and he is right-handed.”

 “The Police are called,” the priest continued, “and they determine it a murder. The scientific evidence is such that suicide is precluded.

“How was it done?” he continued. “How did someone get into a sealed room, kill the Squire and escape the nephews?”

“It is an impossible crime,” said the Frenchman.

“There is no such thing,” said the younger Holmes. “One of the nephews is the murderer.”

“What about the key?” asked Mycroft.

“Ned and Dan said that Tom could not have done it from the time they heard the shot until the arrived at the door.”

“Tell us then,” said Duroc as the other two feigned good grace.

“Tom did it,” said the priest. “he had a chance to sneak up behind his uncle and hit him on the side of the head as he was opening the door. It was the left side, which was his undoing as he had to disguise the mark. He left his uncle on the floor, placed the key on the window sill, went back in, shot the Squire through the bruise then walked out the room.

“So how did he lock the door?”

“He didn’t,” said the Priest. “He pretended to unlock a door that was never locked”

“Aha”, said Mycroft, “but you told us it was a locked room mystery. Strictly speaking it was not.”

“That, then, is the impossibility to which I referred, the one none of you suspected from a man of the cloth. I lied.”

Kevin Thornton writes execrable poems, debauched short stories, opinionated newspaper columns and uncirculated novels. A four time Arthur Ellis Nominee and currently a Crime Writers of Canada Regional Vice President, he lives in Fort McMurray where he can be found in the Saturday edition of the local paper, or at http://theoldfortamusingfromtheoilsands.blogspot.com/


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That's Impossible

For our current theme of That's Impossible

White flowers

By Neha Sonpar

Why is the house so full of water? Why are all my bras missing? I am in the old Sharma house, living with the in-laws. Black vase with red flowers had month old water in it. Rusty stems were swimming past me. I was worried. I grab the Dettol. Grab the mop. The fire-engines would come soon. I need to call someone. The alarm rang.

The alarm rang. I hear my husband groan. I am in Alberta, Edmonton. Outside the window, two feet of snow.

Two feet of snow. White, pure. Keeping me safe, secure.  The cold mountains and plains were God Shiva’s abode. Dad said, “Go away! Go away from here. They will shred you to pieces here. Go!” Maha Shivratri was here. The celebration of the God of Destruction. Almond-cardamom-poppyseed- rosewater milk had to be made. It would take time. Coconuts to be bought. Also flowers. White flowers. White flowers for Shiva! Every night the same ritual. Her favourite mantra, her mother’s favourite mantra. Maybe her grandmother’s too. Om Namaha Shivaya! He would scoop them up and lay them down to rest. Rest at the foot of the mountain. He would be their protector, protect them as they sleep. From His head, the sacred waters of the Ganges flowed. Why fear? Let the waters flow, flow out of the house. Watch the waters flow slowly out of the house!

Do you have a short-short story, essay, or poem you'd like to share? Email us at awcswriterscorner@gmail.com