Saturday, December 17, 2011


Hi Kate, you absolutely, hot patootie! I have officially given up trying to do some kind of officially “noir” story, since I know virtually nothing about detectives and/or crime scenes. I tried writing one in which I was a private eye. I got as far as this:
"It ain't easy being a female private eye. 
 Apparently, you have to have a dick, to be a dick."

It went downhill from there.

So . . . I’m just sending you this anecdote from my mostly unwritten autobiography. I was five years old at the time. Now, let me count the ways that this is a totally inappropriate submission for your “noir” series.

one ... two ... three ... four ... five ....

Absolutely*Kate replied: I'm nuttin' if I don't give vision to words when a spirit speaks ~ so sad, mad, eloquently. Thanks Zelda, for all you are ... puts me in awe when I'm in the presence of one who has 'overcome' . . . 

With gentle admiration, folks, 
*AT THE BIJOU* gifts you ~

    D  A  R  K    
~ by Zelda Martin 

It's dark. Daddy is driving us somewhere. Just he and I are in the car. "Where are we going, Daddy?" He is quiet. I am afraid. He stops the car in front of a strange house. Where are we? I want to go home. Where is Mommy? Where are my sisters? Daddy gets out of the car and then opens the door for me. He reaches into the back seat and pulls out a suitcase. He carries the suitcase in one hand and holds my hand with the other. We walk up a sidewalk to the front door of the strange house. I am frightened. It is hard to breathe. Daddy knocks on the door. The door opens and I see a strange woman. She and Daddy say something to each other, but I don't understand. We go in the house. We are in a long hallway that leads to another room. Daddy sets my suitcase down on the floor and turns to me. "Patsy, you're going to stay with this lady for a while. Her name is Mrs. Jones. Be a good girl." He gives me a quick hug and kiss and turns to go. I lunge for him and grab his leg. No, Daddy! I don't want to stay here. Take me with you! I wrap my short arms and legs around his long leg and cling to him as tightly as I can. I am crying. He peels me off of his leg and says I have to stay here. He sounds mad. Why is he mad at me? I want to go with him. I don't want to stay in this dark, strange house, with that dark, strange lady. Mrs. Jones steps toward us and grabs my arm, pulling me back toward her. She and Daddy say something to each other, and Daddy is gone. I look up at Mrs. Jones. She looks mean. She picks up my suitcase and carries it into the room at the end of the hall. She puts it down next to a bed. "This is where you'll sleep. Now get into bed and be quiet. I'll see you in the morning." She goes into another room and closes the door. I don't know what else to do, so I crawl into the bed, with my clothes on. I cry until I fall asleep.

© 2011 Author ~ Zelda Martin
Cold crimes for DECEMBER decking NOIR NOEL ~ AT THE BIJOU

ZELDA to KATE: I’m sorry if I made you sad. It’s true that I had a “difficult” childhood, but, as I often remind myself, it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as a lot of other kids had. And it has given me lots of material for depressing stories. See? There’s a bright side to everything.
Don’t worry about trying to put a light on “Dark.” It can remain in the shadows. I had just written it a little while ago, and didn’t know what to do with it. It was sweet of you to read it and share it with Matt.
Enthusiastic admiration to you, Kreative Kate. What you have done, in the creating of the various writing websites, is most remarkable!


N O I R  N O E L

For reasons known only to Santa,
Absolutely*Kate wonders ~

A*K: Zelda, 
what's the best Christmas gift
you ever received?

  Z~  When I was a little girl, it seemed that the only thing adults could think of to give a little girl for Christmas was a doll. I had no interest whatsoever in dolls, and never played with my growing collection of waxen-faced, glazed-eyed, lifeless hunks of rubber and/or stuffing. Every year, I asked for a “Doctor Kit,” to no avail. Finally, when I was ten years old, someone heeded my pleas, and I received the coolest doctor kit ever! I was ecstatic, and set about administering medical care to everyone in the family, whether they wanted or needed it, or not. The kit disappeared shortly thereafter.

A*K: Glad to learn you had the early healing touch, Z. What's the best you ever gave?
Z~ When I was seven years old, I gave my little sister, Marilyn, a mechanical pencil for Christmas. I really, really wanted a mechanical pencil, but no one ever gave me one. Marilyn was delighted when she opened the package and immediately set about scribbling all over the place and wearing down the eraser. I was horrified at this profligate use of the precious pencil, so I did what any sensible seven-year-old would do. I re-possessed it. Marilyn cried, but I did not relent. Mommy comforted her and said, “Zelda is a selfish brat.”

A*K: You can lead a horse to water Z, but a pencil must be lead. What / where / how does one gift more ZELDA MARTIN writing for greater holiday happiness in a world which needs a damn good grin? 

 Most of my writing is stored, unseen and unread, in my Word files! My blog is get-your-zs, but I have been neglecting it lately. There are some entertaining posts in there, but there are a lot of entertaining blogs in the blogosphere that few people read, because it’s so much easier to post something on facebook. The only things of mine that have been officially “published” on the Internet are at Angel Zapata's 5x5 site, Six Sentences, and Status Stories . . . oh, and AT THE BIJOU of course. I'm a regular. Say,do you remember the sensation I made with "CRACKLE" when Harry and Sugar and I did "SNAP"~"CRACKLE"~"POP"?

CRACKLE ~ By Zelda Martin of Harbinger*33

By ~ Zelda Martin

I met him on the stairs. I was going down into the basement, as he was coming up. The stairs were narrow. We stopped, at an impasse. His head was level with my hips. He looked at my crotch before he looked at my face. I tried to say "Hi, Danny," but my voice was stuck in his eyes. Smokey green eyes, they were, topped with dark brown hair, surrounded with smooth olive skin. He reached out his hands, put one on each of my hips. An electric charge crackled across my groin. "Don't, Danny," I think I said, or maybe thought I should have said. But he did, and I did, and we did, and we did again. And then I heard someone else on the stairs, and I was almost sorry I had ever come down those stairs, or at least thought I should have been sorry.

Turns out I was sorry that I wrote the above paragraph, because Stanley came into the room while I was typing it, and asked to read my story.
"Who's Danny?" he asked testily. 
"Oh, no one. I just made him up. This is just a fantasy. 
He shuffled off to the kitchen; I could hear him making popcorn. He eats it without butter or salt. That's just one of the differences between him and me. He likes his popcorn and his life plain, unadorned, unflavored. And I like mine with lots of butter and salt, and sugar and honey, dripping with hot, juicy, melting, sticky stuff, at least I think I do, or would if I could, I think, but I don't actually know, because, so far, the condiments have been in depressingly short supply.

Danny could have flavored my life very nicely if I had let him. But I didn't, couldn't, wouldn't, because I was married, but I wanted to, oh so badly. He wasn't a fantasy. He was a real, live, hard-muscled, flat-bellied Adonis who had worked with me in the factory, a long time ago. Those green eyes of his were like warm probes, sliding over my body like butter melting on a hot skillet. Everything in that paragraph was true, right up to the electric surge part, anyway, but at that point, what really happened was that I grabbed my voice and used it to say, "Excuse me," and turned to let him pass me...

. . . And when he did, he pressed against me, slid his hard chest across my breasts, and then reached behind me and slowly ran his hands down my butt and gently squeezed my thighs . . .

Damn. There I go again. Another variation of the story with one beginning and a thousand endings. Oh well. Maybe it's better this way. I never get tired of him, nor he of me. Neither of us gets old and fat. He'll always have a flat belly and a stiff cock. 
The smell of popcorn fills the air. Geez. It even smells dry with no butter.

© 2010 Author ~ Zelda Martin
Triple 'Serial' Sensation ~ AT THE BIJOU

But Okay Kate. Here are some other links:

This one is my favorite blog post:
This links to Angel's 5 x 5 site.  
It has everyone's entries there, but

This was the only entry I made on posterous,


Out of Sight, In My Mind

by Madam Z

I have too many secrets. The vault in which I keep them is stuffed with shameful scrip. They are old secrets, but they are in pristine condition, having been stored away in the air-tight, waterproof chamber. I am in constant fear that I may accidentally leave the door unlocked, or that age will erode the structural integrity of the heavy walls. What if I forget that those old secrets are to remain secret and I start babbling... opening the floodgates and revealing my disgraceful past, which continues to haunt me, even though I have turned my wretched life around? And then, worst of all... what if no one would care?


And I'll be one of the 33 shining stars
 in HARBINGER*33, Kate. 

Right you are,
 Madame Z. Both the book and the ever-ongoing promotion is harbouring author-updates now. 
With your sassy Queen of the pirates spirit, your starboard side will be all about manifesting destiny.

 Thanks Zelda. You bring *zing* to just about everything. Do your song and dance now Toots, for our Noir crowd, will ya? You're centerstage ~ AT THE BIJOU. You're dressed rather slinky. I've introduced you and am handing you the mike. Tell our red-velvet seated audience what you wish them to remember about the author you see yourself being . . .

I see myself being undiscovered until after my death. One of my favorite fantasies is picturing someone going through the stacks of paper next to my desk and exclaiming, Omigod! This stuff is priceless! Why didn’t she get it published?

 Not gonna happen Z. They love ya when they read you and read into you. Will you share a secret deep inside that you've never told a full-fledged audience of readers and fellow classy authors in a ritzy theatre  . . . one where the single spot has you all a'glimmer?


Well beloved brat, we still wish
 abundant good cheer to you,


Will you tuck a holiday gift under our stage-set tree

A wishprophecy to the world of us author'folks . . . 

It'll be up to us in the new year to see how it comes true. 

                                                                                                               ~ Absolutely*Kate
Madam Z has peered into the palm of Griselda, the patron saint of writers, and she sees that Absolutely*Kate and all of her co-stars AT THE BIJOU will have a productive and satisfying year of writing stories and having their stories read by throngs of admirers. 




Matt Hilton . . .  Jeanette Cheezum ... Nigel Bird so far . . . . 

               Every other day cold crimes . . . decking NOIR NOEL into December

Ian Ayris ... Paul Brazill ... Kevin J Mackey ... 

Steven Miscandlon  ...  BR Stateham ... 

Luca Veste ... on the record 'bout OFF THE RECORD

Sal Buttaci ... Julian Bramwell Slater ...  

Helen Howell ...  Christina Vincent ... Charlie Wade ... 

Darren Sant ... Aidan Fritz ... Lily Childs ...  

Vic Watson ... Fiona Johnson ... Jack Bates ...

editor John Kenyon's reveal 

Thomas Pluck and the Lost Children benefit show

New Year challenge from new NOIR PublisherBLASTED HEATH

Rex Pickett picks a surprise ... 

plus . . . return of our pally, the great Randisi ... 

AT THE BIJOU'S Harry B Sanderford ... Matthew Magda ...  

plus return pizazz by our masters of the ceremonious ~ 
Kevin MadDog Michaels and Absolutely*Kate ... 

Why ~ Who knows who's getting into the act? . . . 
RAYMOND CHANDLER may be channeled! 




Helen A. Howell said...

Zelda that first story Dark touched my heart strings, you weaved your words so well as to take the reader with you into that strange house, and you allowed us along with you to feel the fear and the despair. Beautifully written!

Loved the others too!

Author said...

Touching and beautifully written. Thanks for sharing, Zelda.

Paul D Brazill said...

Beaut. Dark is especially fantastic.

Wendy said...

Z, how sad for a little girl to find out so early that the world is a despicable place. I think you did manage to write noir: the adult's actions were a crime, the characters tough, and the setting bleak.

Anonymous said...

Dark: Too bad the title, "Little Murders" has already been taken 'cause this story is all about that. I love the stuff in which the spaces between the words and the small snips of scene play as big as the words. Nifty balance of said and unsaid, Lady Z. Cool.
Crackle: Yeah, man. Those quicksilver fantasies will get'cha won't they? Likle when the boss is doin' that thing about what a worthless pool of untalent you are and your eyes fall onto the mechanical pencil on his desk and you're thinking how nicely it would fit into his eye socket and if you just reached across his desk and . . .
Cool pairing of tales this. Appendages aside, of course, seems the "you hafta have one to be one just ain't true"
The lady is tough as anybody. Her stories will cut a dude too.

Nigel Bird said...

A little bit of everything here. Zelda, I urge you to unlock those Word File cages and let the stories run amok. Sure, there'll be a few that don't make it, but the rest will have lovely lives being read and cared for.
The first story is very sad, wonderfully so. The crackle has a real zesty sting - yum. Go look for those keys now.

Harry said...

Zelda I think Sugar (Pop) got it right about Dark. Maybe you don't need a...uh,, a fedora! yeah that's it, a fedora, to write noir. I've been a fan for a long time and I know you write sad, funny, sober, scary and silly all with the same truth. Good to see the spotlight At The Bijou shining on you. Great interview too!

Chris Rhatigan said...

I liked that story. Terrifying in a quiet way.

Madam Z said...

Kate, thank you so much for shining your magical spotlight on me. Look at me! I'm dancing! I'm singing! I'm having a real good time! And thank you, Helen, Julie, Paul, Sugar, Aj, Nigel, Harry and Chris for reading my stories and making your sweet comments. The "little girl" in me feels all grown up now.

Pamila Payne said...

Zelda, I'm a sucker for child POV. It's all the stuff implied around the edges and the dread for innocence set too close to sharp objects. Nice collection of Z-ness.

Anonymous said...

"Z" first you make me cry, then stop without the why....
But I forgive you because I'm still laguhing at the remainder and the interview. Always a pleasure.


Charlie Wade said...

Loads of pace and suspence in that piece, Z. Liked it.

Kevin Michaels said...

Dark is the kind of painful, haunting story that hurts more than most other stories.

Well-written and vividly descriptive in both what is said and not said.

Madam Z said...

Pamila, Jeanette, Charlie and Kevin, thank you so much for reading and commenting. With good writing buddies like all of you, there's more light than dark in my life.