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Montclair Write Group Sampler 2018

Montclair Write Group Sampler 2018

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Montclair Write Group Sampler 2018

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Lançado em:
Oct 29, 2018


Want to discover new writers? Want to find new voices?
Here’s how.
The Montclair Write Group Sampler 2018 is a collection of works from talented writers of all kinds.
And it’s free!
The Sampler contains thirty works from the members of the Write Group in Montclair, NJ. It contains fiction, essays, memoirs and poems. There’s something for every reader.

Lançado em:
Oct 29, 2018

Sobre o autor

Early in his writing career, he was strongly influenced by two authors: Douglas Adams and his Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and Joseph Heller’s Catch-22. Happily, Hank has never quite recovered from those experiences.He lives with his wife in northern New Jersey, a mere 20 miles from Manhattan, thecenter of the galaxy (according to those who live in Manhattan). They have two daughters and five grandchildren all of whom live close by.For vacations, Hank and Pat usually visit distant parts of the galaxy. Occasionally, they also time-travel.Besides writing novels, Hank lectures on fiction writing, publishing and book marketing. He is most proud of his talk showing grammar school kids how to create a short story. He used these lectures to create an advanced ebook with embedded videos to coach the students on how to create characters, plots and setting. The target audience is 4th to 7th graders. The book’s title is Fiction Writing Workshop for Kids.

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Montclair Write Group Sampler 2018 - Hank Quense

Montclair Write Group Sampler 2018

Published by Strange Worlds Publishing

Copyright 2018 Hank Quense

All Rights Reserved.

Thank you for downloading this free book. You are welcome to share it with friends. This book may be reproduced and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Thank you for your support.

ISBN 9780463995327

Published by Strange Worlds Publishing at Smashwords 2018

First Publication 2018







Other Stuff

About This Book


(Return to the Table of Contents)

This Sampler is dedicated to Harriet Halpern, a founding member and indomitable spirit behind the success of the Write Group. Her commitment to the Write Group, based on her philosophy that good writing matters, will always inspire us.

Harriet’s picture was taken by Lorraine Ash, a Write Group member and published author.


(Return to the Table of Contents)

Montclair Write Group Sampler 2018 Staff

This book didn’t happen by accident. It required a lot of work by a lot of people performing a lot of tasks. Voluntarily! These volunteers and their assignments are listed below.

Project Director:

Hank Quense

Data Manager:

Eliisa Goldman


Donna O’Donnell Figurski

Rose Blessing

Keith Biesiada:

Jeneil Stephen

Mirela Trofin

Erin Roll

Nancy Taiani

reg e gaines

Ron Bremner

Elissa Goldman

Helen Lippman

Steve Weinstock

Copy editors:

Martha Moffet

Ethel Lee-Miller

Formatting & Production:

Hank Quense


Strange Worlds Publishing

The cover was designed by Gary Tenuta, an artist who creates all the Strange Worlds Publishing covers. Visit Gary’s website by following this link: http://garyvaltenuta.blogspot.com

Our 2018 Sampler cover features tulips photographed at the Avis Campbell Gardens, which bloom next door to the Montclair Public Library (where the Montclair Write Group meets). Photo by Rose Blessing.


(Return to the Table of Contents)


By Ron Bremner

On those frigid nights, we’d pop up from the subway wind tunnel into the blustery city street, padding past the lamplit haze, chuckling, our blood humming, eager for the ales and the warmth of the table talk.

We’d leave behind a trail of smoky breath, sailing upward and vanishing, vanishing like the breadcrumbs dropped by Hansel and Gretel, vanishing like those theories, those arguments and conjectures, those powerful words and mystical ideas that would soon leap out onto the table before us. So clear, so near, we never thought to try and catch them, to hold and save them. They were there. They would always be there. Wouldn’t they?

Inside, the black furnace hummed. Our backs snuggled up against its heat, shivers surging the lengths of our spines. Puff-faced and bleary-eyed, we’d speak loudly, forage each other’s minds for the food of the soul, that naïve socialist optimism, the camaraderie of intellect and spirit so compatible with good bitter ale.

And as the old man swept the sawdust-covered floor, and the plump cat dozed under the table, we’d pack up our reassured faiths, gather our torn coats and years of rich promise, and set ourselves for the long dark cold path to the subway.

How little we understood then of the greyish smoke of our ale-worn words, so easily seized and muted by the cold darkness of the night around us.

(first published in Every Writer’s Resource, January 12, 2014)


Author Bio: R. Bremner of Glen Ridge via Lyndhurst, NJ, USA, writes of incense, peppermints, and the color of time in such venues as International Poetry Review, Anthem: a Leonard Cohen Tribute Anthology, Climate of Change: Sigmund Freud in Poetry, Quarterday, Paterson Literary Review, Oleander Review, Journal of Formal Poetry, Passaic Review, etc., etc. He has thrice won Honorable Mention in the Allen Ginsberg awards (2016, 2017, 2018), and his latest book is Hungry Words (Alien Buddha Press). Ron invites you to visit his Instagram poetry at beat_poet1 and Absurdist_poet.


By Virginia Ashton


Three carriages stood at the edge of the meadow in the gray dawn light. The surgeon remained inside his carriage huddled in his great-coat against the morning damp.

Viscount Heyden leaned against the side of his curricle, lazily smoking a cheroot. Edward Torrance, the challenger, had already tried each pistol, checking their weight and sighting down the barrels before he made his choice. The pistols were a matched set made especially for the viscount by Manton, one of the foremost gunsmiths in England. Heyden had wounded enough men on the dueling field to know either pistol would do for him.

His second, the Honorable Harry Carlyle, swiftly loaded the viscount’s pistol as Geoffrey Hastings slowly and methodically loaded the other. When Geoffrey finished, he nodded to Edward. Torrance moved forward and took his pistol. Viscount Heyden threw down the stub of his cheroot and picked up his weapon.

Both men made their way across the field. Carlyle had already paced the field digging two spots in the grass with his pen knife. They stood on their marks facing each other, fifty paces apart. Both men wore dark coats buttoned to the throat with no hint of white shirting or silver buttons to present a target.

The viscount sneered at his opponent, impatient to be done. He had no notion why the young man before him had picked the quarrel, but, no man who named him cheat could go unpunished. Out of deference to his uncle, the duke, who held the purse strings, the viscount generally made certain to wound, rather than kill, but the boy’s public accusation had cut him to the quick. If his shot killed Edward Torrance, so be it. It made little difference. Carlyle would back him against the Hastings boy, if it came to a trial, but it would never come to that. He was a peer of the realm and the heir to a dukedom after all. Edward Torrance, on the other hand, was a country gentleman with no standing in society.

Both men stood calmly waiting for the handkerchief to drop.


A man leapt from the hackney coach with a quickness that was surprising in one so large. He tossed a coin to the jarvey, and made his way up the steps to the house. The knocker's staccato raps echoed through the silent square like gun shots, but the man kept up the incessant drill until someone finally came to answer.

It was a young footman who opened the door, too young to be much good in the face of the giant he found on the doorstep. As the man pushed himself inside, driving the boy backwards before him, the butler came up the stairs, pulling his morning coat on as he came.

I must see the earl. It's most urgent, the stranger said to the elderly servant.

His lordship is still abed. I should think, the butler replied with cold formality.

Then, wake him, man. The matter is urgent. There's no time to waste!

I cannot think his lordship would know anyone of your ilk, the old man snapped, as he pulled the cord for reinforcements. If it were not for gross negligence, you would never have gotten in the door, the butler went on, turning his gaze on the hapless footmen.

The stranger was steps ahead of the servant. Before you summon the troops you'd best hear me out. Master Geoffrey's involved himself in a duel, and if I can't get his lordship’s help to stop it, there's going to be the devil of a row.

These words gave the old retainer pause. Raising a hand to stay the progress of the two footmen entering the hall behind him, he turned back to the stranger, his face stiff with disapproval. You may wait here. I will ascertain if his lordship will see you.

Before he could put a foot on the stair, a key was heard in the front door lock and a gentleman in evening dress stepped into the hall. Evelyn Ardsley, Fifth Earl of Dorne, was a tall man in his mid-thirties. His face was long and thin with a square jaw and steel gray eyes, framed by black locks, graying at the temples. He was a Corinthian who followed the dictates of Brummell in terms of dress. His black coat fit like a second skin with a white brocade waistcoat, a lawn shirt, an intricately tied cravat and no ornament but a small diamond stickpin at his throat and his quizzing glass to relieve the austerity of his outfit. He quickly took in the scene in the hall. The earl said nothing, but one eyebrow rose as he noted the ill-kempt stranger, while he calmly handed his hat, cane, and gloves to the footman.

Rather early for visitors, wouldn't you say, Hills? he said, with cool urbanity.

I beg your pardon, my lord. This person insists he must see you.

Indeed, his lordship said, lifting his eyeglass. Have I your acquaintance, sir? he went on, raking the man from head to foot with a look.

Few were able to withstand his lordship's glass with equanimity, but the man before him paid no heed to the perusal.

Oliver Bascomb, m’ lord. At your service. I'm sorry to disrupt your household at such an hour, but as I told your man here, your ward has involved himself in a duel. And, if you can't help me stop it, sir, I don't know who can.

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