Remember to keep reading to the end for your free short story. DIALOGUE The debate rages about whether to use single or double quotation marks around dialogue in a story. The oft-quoted answer to the question is to follow the house style guide. This might be apt if submitting an article to a magazine or a manuscript to a traditional publisher. But, when neither of those options is clear at the time of writing, a challenge could await further down the line when changes are required. Those of us of a certain vintage will remember being taught to use double quotes. Since then, like so much else, the American way of doing things has elbowed tradition to the side. Now most traditional publishers' style guides require single quotes. Vicki Laveau-Harvie solved the problem in her book The Erratics. She followed Cormac McCarthy’s example of not using any quotation marks at all to indicate dialogue. The Erratics doesn’t lose anything as a result. As a memoir, the reader feels the author is sitting opposite them and sharing her story in a normal chatty style, complete with everyday expressions. The story is all dialogue, so no quotation marks are required to separate dialogue from narrative. While unusual, it was an engaging read, not only due to the story itself, but also the way in which it was written. WHAT’S NEW?
Neive Denis has released Book 11 of her Private Investigator series. Layers of Deception was released at the end of August, with the eBook version being already available. The paperback should be available within in a couple of weeks. She has now resumed work on Book 3 of her Merivale Retirement Village series. Kayla Danoli has been busy with her next story’s concept development but has nothing new to report at this time. SOME LIGHT READING This month’s short story was inspired by a writing prompt from back in the ‘dark ages’ somewhere. On Just Another Day… I hadn’t planned on becoming a hostage at the bank when I got up that morning. In fact, my only goal was to conquer the ominous pile of washing plotting to take over my laundry. You know how it is when you have been away for a few days. You could swear there was no way you could have worn all those clothes. Midway through sorting it into piles of whites, coloured, delicates and others, and contemplating the long task ahead of drying, ironing, folding and putting away, I remembered the mail that came while I was away. Amongst it was a cheque from a utility company by way of an apology for having unexpectedly cut off supply for a few hours. “Who pays by cheque these days?” I had demanded when I opened the envelope. Obviously, this utility company delighted in inconveniencing its customers rather than employing the simple alternative of crediting the ‘apology’ against the next quarter’s account. A cheque necessitated a trip to the bank to deposit it. Despite its considered inconvenience, a trip to the bank suddenly held more appeal than tackling the laundry. It all began when I strolled into the bank and noticed a group of people huddled near the entrance. I assumed they were some protest group or other readying to launch into whatever their current anthem was … probably something to do with current bank interest rates. Ignoring them, I made my way to the counter and joined the line of two already waiting there. As I pondered the lack of bank employees behind the counter, that other huddle of people sprang into action. Masked and armed, they loudly demanded everyone get down on the floor. I hadn’t seen this turn of events coming. Oh, so they’re not protestors, just bank robbers, I thought as everyone ahead of me dropped to the floor like dominos. I, however, froze like a rabbit in the headlights of a 16-wheeler with criminal intent in mind. My limbs seemed unable to comprehend the situation. The bank robbers, clearly unimpressed with my lack of cooperation, strenuously gestured for me to join the floor party. Communication finally restored between my brain and limbs, and with all the grace of a giraffe on roller skates, I awkwardly plopped down beside a frightened-looking potted plant. “Aw, come on. I just came to deposit a cheque,” I attempted to explain. As though that was likely to get me out of the hostage situation…! The robbers appeared uninterested in my financial pursuits, being more focused on finding the missing bank manager, who had disappeared into the vault at the first sign of trouble. As they searched, I used the time to assess my fellow hostages. On my left, a local yoga instructor calmly attempted to meditate her way out of the situation, while on my right, a gentleman chatted to God about his current predicament. Time moved as slowly as molasses in winter while the robbers regrouped and debated their next move. For something to do, I studied my legs and feet stretched out on the floor in front of me. Oh no, I was wearing odd socks. I assumed a cross-legged position. At least now, one of my mismatched socks was not visible. For a brief moment, I wondered about my chances of finding a matching pair of mismatched socks in that pile of laundry waiting for me at home. Suddenly, the bank’s doors swung open with a bang, startling everyone in the place. Mrs Williams, the octogenarian former high school teacher who is my nextdoor neighbour, strode in. Armed with her trusty enormous handbag and a glare fierce enough to melt icebergs, she marched up to the nearest would-be-robber and smacked him in the ear with her bag. “That’s quite enough of this nonsense from you hooligans,” she shouted in a surprisingly powerful voice for someone her age. Taken aback for just a moment, the robbers hesitated. It was all the time Mrs Williams needed. With the help of her fellow hostages, the yoga instructor, the God-botherer and me, she staged what could only be described as the most uncoordinated citizen’s arrest in history. Amid the resultant chaos, the police arrived and apprehended the robbers. Mrs Williams, still clutching her handbag like a weapon of mass intimidation, became the unlikely hero of the day. When the bank manager emerged from the vault, he encountered a surreal scene of hostages-turned-heroes amid the remnants of a botched bank robbery. The news crew turned up soon after. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all as I stood there in my mismatched socks. I had gone to deposit a cheque and ended up being a reluctant accomplice in a senior citizen showdown. As the event finally came to an end, I made my way home to the pile of washing, now seemingly much less intimidating than the day’s events. I smiled at the unexpected turn my day had taken. After all, it’s not every day you find yourself a hostage-turned-hero, thanks to the bravery of an octogenarian with a mean handbag swing. The End
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