Her Name Was Genia

Dolled up in red stilettos and black leather miniskirt

so tight it hikes up her cheeks, the working girl's hips

sway in time to the hustle of The Strip.

Heads turn, men's, some women's.

A prospective john cruises by in a shiny new Jag;

she takes a calculated breath to catch his eye.

Sheer silk whispers against rose petal breasts

as she leans into the car...

Hey handsome, want some of this?

Sure, sweet thing,

the john hisses through a smirk

as he reaches over and opens the door.

One long leg, stockinged only with a tan

enters the car first, followed

by a tight adolescent body.

Good evenin' hon, my name's Venus.

What do you want me to call you?

Turning away in silence, the john

drives out of the city into the desert night.

A quarter moon--crime scene investigators

ask the age-old rhetorical question...

What could be so bad as to make these kids turn tricks?

Now, in the arms of the Goddess, her answer is clear...

Because I knew nothing of intimacy

I searched for love in the arms of strangers, but

while they used Venus, I'd whisper in their ear...

My name is Genia.

(Fiction - Inspired by Genia Polischuk, murdered

Sept. 2003 prior to testifying against a serial rapist.)

~photo & text by leh

Silver Lady, Tiny Lady

The 4:15 Arkansas-Missouri blew its whistle, jolting me out of a panic attack induced by a silver-haired twig of a woman shaking a butcher knife in my face.

"What are you doin' in the kitchen, little girl? Go play with the other children!"

Little girl? Good grief, she has no idea who I am. I immediately dropped the half-shucked ear of corn, said, "Yes, Grandmother," and began backing out of the kitchen.

Tina "Tiny" Isabelle laid the butcher knife on the counter, harrumphed, and shuffled off to continue her daily chores. Supper can wait. It'd been twenty years since I first met my father's family when I was fourteen years-old. Back then, Grandmother Tiny, a good-natured, hard-working country woman, cooked for and cleaned up after five grown sons, two grown daughters, eight grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren.

 

Grandmother didn't have to ring the dinner bell twice. Each family member reported to the table on time, and no one complained about the menu. They ate the food set in front of them--every last bite--and thanked her for it before leaving the table. After dinner, the youngin's went back outside to play, the menfolk gathered on the front porch, and the womenfolk helped with clean-up--supervised by Grandmother with love in her heart and a smile on her face.

Twenty years and two strokes later, her reality had regressed to the 1940s, and Grandmother no longer possessed the patience of Job. Supper could wait. I followed my grandmother, at a discreet distance, into the parlor and watched her perform the imagined chores of long ago. Fingertips grazed porcelain figurines, making certain all remained in their proper places. A gossamer hand patted the arm of the faded velvet settee, swept over the Tiffany lamp shade, and brushed across yellowed ivory keys of the heirloom upright piano.

Grandmother then tottered to the front porch where she chattered to the barn swallows building nests beneath the eaves. Her words weren't coherent, but that didn't matter to the swallows. Reassured that all was as it should be in her world, "Tiny" Isabelle sat down on the porch swing, wrapped her arms around her midriff, and began to softly sing, "Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go to sleep my little baby"--swinging back and forth until she sang herself to sleep.

For a brief moment, I saw myself as the imaginary baby cradled in my grandmother's arms.

 

Now, I'll fix supper.


~ leh

Valley Of Fire, a Quatrain

Silver etchings of cumulus clouds

tower above Mesozoic sandstones.

Wisdom of the Ancient Ones

carved through desert varnish.

~ photos & text by leh

The Labyrinth

A wave breaks

Sol's ashes settle on white foam, above
a lone gull traces the shoreline

Turning away, a woman walks
toward the labyrinth
blaming tears on the wind

Each forward step
inside the spiral maze, recalls
dreams not manifested

Reaching center, she kneels
at modest offerings--smoky quartz
a half-burned bundle of sage

Surf spray prickles
as the sun dissolves

I retrace my steps into the future

~ photo & text by leh

Writer/Editor Bookshelf

Dictionary
Thesaurus
The Chicago Manual of Style
The Elements of Style, Strunk & White
The Associated Press Stylebook
The Associated Press Guide to Punctuation, Rene J. Cappon
The Concise Guide to Copy Editing, Paul LaRocque
Eats, Shoots & Leaves, Lynne Truss
Stein On Writing, Sol Stein

WHY HIRE AN EDITOR?

Even an editor needs an editor. I've been known to use too many passive verbs. Writers get so close to their work that it's easy to overlook a typo or misspelling not caught by spell-check. If we get lost in thought, a run-on sentence can result. And, where do those pesky commas actually belong?

Anyone who aspires to be a published author should read the submission guidelines of several different publications. Who is your audience? Is your subject timely? Does your work meet the standards of your chosen publication? Then, hire an editor.

There are different types of editors, so consider which type you require:

Substantive/Conceptual: For fiction or non-fiction, but especially for novels, this type of editor is consulted first. A substantive editor critiques your writing with emphasis on content, technique, organization, and presentation of the complete text.

Copy/Line: Consult this editor next to do a line-by-line proof. A copy editor looks for typos, misspellings, punctuation and grammatical errors, structure, flow, and consistency of text. If extensive rewrites are necessary, repeat this process prior to submission.

Proofread: Prior to final printing, a proofreader reviews the galley for typos, misspellings, and punctuation, grammatical and semantic errors.

An editor may also be able to tighten your story by eliminating the extraneous--keeping in mind that an editor does not select or impel. An editor can only suggest. The story belongs to the writer.

Once an editor is selected, a Standard Editorial Agreement (contract) is advisable for both client and editor that specifies editorial tasks, deadline(s), method of payment, and any special requests.

You know what is said about the attorney who represents himself. The writer who edits her own work is just as foolish.


~ leh