Deadline is March 15 to submit your short story for An Honest Lie 3: Justifiable Hypocrisy!
I spoke Saturday with the publisher, Debrin Case, and he mentioned submissions have been slow this year.
How slow? I asked.
We only have four stories so far, he said. But there is usually this huge data dump in the first two weeks of March.
So get your submissions in! He's looking for new authors, unpublished, up-and-comers. He's a small publisher, so make sure that's your bag. Small pubs usually mean less money, more personality, less editing, more artistic freedom, smaller distribution, more devoted fans, newer and less-known authors, a better chance at actually getting published!
So it's a give-n-take with the small publisher. I personally have enjoyed it because the pressure is less intense, and the pay even from a large publishing house rarely outweighs the stress they induce on their writers.
Anyway, get to submitting! If you need a crit, I'll take a look at 1kw or so before you submit. Remember editors hate to edit, so clean up that story before you submit!
Are you submitting? Post up a ~small~ excerpt. What is your story about? Please spread the word. Let other talented writers know they have until March 15 to submit to An Honest Lie.
My story is called "Melvin Gee's Short Trip to Hell," working title. It's about clipping angel wings and riding that Long Black Train.
My excerpt (330wd, don't post more!):
"I'm Melvin Gee," Melvin said, holding out his hand, which a few moments ago had been little more than a fleshy sack of shattered bones, crushed along with the rest of his body beneath a mangled Ford F150. "I'm not sure I'm in the right place, but heck, I just followed one of the lights."
"One of the lights? That's unusual." The angel looked at Melvin's offered handshake. Then she checked a clipboard in her left hand, tapped it with a feathery pen in her right hand, nodded, and looked back up at Melvin. "Melvin Michael Gee?"
"Hmm," the angel said. "Looks right. Whatever, let's go. We have to get you signed in with the big guy."
The angel turned and began walking down a packed-dirt path. Slender and long-robed, seven feet at the shoulders, lacking the wings Melvin supposed an angel should wear, the angel presented herself in a regal way. Her hair was a radiant silver, and spread down her back as she walked.
Melvin noticed that where the angel's bare feet touched the dirt path, the grass crept toward the prints, pinching off the trail behind her. Melvin hurried to follow her, both of them walking toward a range of mountains several miles in the distance.
Holding her pen between her fingers, trying not to mark her robe, the angel rubbed her left shoulder as she walked; the ink stains on her robe spelled old habit.
"Yes, I know what you're thinking: the sky, this field, that little stand of trees, the mountains... beautiful. Peaceful, isn't it. Makes you want to lay down and sleep. Don't. This is the Old Garden, the one you cats got booted out of. If you fall asleep, or slip off this trail, or God help you if you steal one of those precious apples, you'll get carried off. But I bet the big question is why I don't have wings."
"Actually," said Melvin. "I was wondering about the path. It—"