Once upon a time, there was this creepy kid named Macey. I know it sounds like I’m being mean, but seriously, if you took one look at this kid, you’d have agreed. I mean, it wasn’t some obvious disfigurement. I’m not a total douche-canoe. It was something deeper, seen only in her eyes. Something wasn’t quite right with her smile. The real kicker? She kinda had her own catchphrase, but she said it at the weirdest times.

“Something wicked this way comes.”

I’m not even joking. That’s what she’d say. I think she got it from a book or something. She was always reading.

Anyway, one day just before English class—when me, Emily, and Stacy walked in and sat down—I could have sworn I heard her whispering my name. So I turned around to look at her, but she was staring at the door.

She always did that, so I just shrugged. Then I heard it again. “Madison…”

I glared at her, not saying a word, just waiting for her to speak.

Her lips didn’t move.
If I’m lying, I’m dying … her lips. Did. Not. Move. I just rolled my eyes and ignored her, but I was shaking.

“Something wicked this way comes,” she said.

I jumped, goosebumps climbing up my arms. Movement from the door caught my eye, but I was too scared to look. I just focused on my desk. But then I heard Ms. Snider’s voice from the front of the class and I knew Macey had played a stupid prank on me. Ms. Snider was … a bit harsh at times, and I did manage to rub her wrong that day, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call her ‘wicked.’ Macey got me all creeped out over nothing.

Anyway, that was Macey for you. Just real freaking creepy.

But here’s the thing, she saved my life once. Not while she was alive, though. It was after she died.

See, I was staying late after school one day for basketball tryouts. On my way to the gym, I heard her voice. I tried my best to ignore her like I did that day in English class, but I was even more scared. This wasn’t just some voice-throwing trick or something. She was dead!

Just the same, I heard her voice.

“Something wicked this way comes, something wicked this way comes, something wicked this way comes.


So I ran. I turned around and ran back toward the main building. I ran until I couldn’t hear her voice anymore. I kept running through the main building and to the principal’s office where I could call my mom. I just wanted my mom.

After we called her, the secretary calmed me down while I waited for her to come pick me up. I was still crying and shaking when she got there.

A fire alarm went off a few seconds later. Five people died in the gym that day; the first three kids to show up for tryouts, the assistant coach, and a janitor. Apparently the gym was the target of an arsonist, according to the news. Something wicked, indeed.

• § ☼ •~• ☼ § •

It’s Here!!

• § ☼ •~• ☼ § •

For the Valentine’s Day edition of Canyons, I wanted to do something special. Something to do with love, obviously, but not like anything else I’ve ever experienced.

I was going through some old posts recently and came upon some comments on a flash fiction piece I wrote a while back. An element in that story struck a lot of fancies, so I’d been playing with ideas to incorporate that element in a new story.

Given my obsession with Dante’s ideas of sinners and consequences, I knew that his work would influence my “love story” to at least some degree.

I kept thinking, and thinking, and thinking. Then something else floated to the surface and it all suddenly made sense. That something else was the idea that the seven deadly sins can all be applied to love. Wrathful love, gluttonous love, envious love, etcetera.

I had a word count goal to meet, though. Canyons readers have expectations, and it’s important to meet them. But after writing just three stories and the intermissions surrounding them, it was clear I was going to go way over.

Something else had me blocked after only three stories. My subconscious mind knew something just wasn’t quite right. With some help from a critique partner, I realized exactly what the story needed (and why my subconscious mind had dug in its heels).

And so, Hell Zoo: Valentine’s Day Exhibit came to be.

If you grab a copy and read it, please let me know what you think. It can be a simple line or two saying what you did or didn’t like. It can be a review (much appreciated as it helps other readers decide), or a direct message. It can be a quietly shared Facebook or Twitter post. It can be a comment to this post. Support comes in many forms, and I’m grateful for it all.

Happy Valentines’ Day.

~ Jess

Cheers to fellow flash fictioneer, Nillu Nasser Stelter, and to her latest post–a most welcome reminder of good times–Rekindling the Flash Flame: A Bite-Sized Story.

“The teenager walked in and sat down while her mom signed her in at the window.”

“Abby… Not everyone likes to have their lives narrated.”

The little girl mumbled an “okay,” but she looked so disappointed.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

Her mom smiled. “Thank you,” she said. And to Abby, “Just keep it down.”

“Okay! I mean—okay.”

I pulled out my cell phone and scrolled through my timeline, liking a few statuses. Just enough to keep me in the loop.

“The teenager checked her phone for a text message from her boyfriend.”

My mom sat beside me and giggled. I couldn’t help but smile myself. The kid had such a great imagination. She was completely oblivious to how things really worked.

I didn’t have a boyfriend. I had cancer. I’ve read the ‘heartwarming’ stories of sick girls with devoted boyfriends. I saw the movie. It’s bullshit.

But we all have our ways of escaping while we wait for chemo treatments.

Except my mom. She faces everything head-on. And she never meets a stranger. Wait for it…

“So,” she addressed Abby’s mom, “is this your first time here?”

She means well. But…

“Ah, no. We’re in the pain management phase.”

There’s the awkward.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Wait… pain management phase? That sounds an awful lot like doctor speak for “Time to give up.”

Abby picked at the hem of her dress.

I cleared by throat, my face already burning with embarrassment, and looked at my phone again.

“The teenager looked at her phone and gasped with shock. Abby the Fabulous had sent her a friend request! She immediately accepted the request and sent Abby a quick thank you message. She was trying to play it cool, but she couldn’t wait to tell her friends about the amazing storyteller.”

I’ve never been good at telling stories, but it must not have sucked too bad. Abby grinned and took up the tale from there.

That day, not only was Abby a fabulous storyteller, but she was also a magician, an explorer, and a nurse as well.

I see you looking at my boots. It’s okay, I get it. I look trashy with the wedge heels and the faux fur. But take a moment and look again.

With all the decisions I make, I don’t often get it right. Buying these boots was a truly good choice.

Sometimes we get to decide whether we want the purple dress or the pink one, the blue bike or the red. Sometimes we have to choose between buying lunches at work or diapers. And sometimes we really need a pair of shoes, but we don’t quite have enough money for that and the kids’ Scholastic book orders.

But we can’t imagine our babies sitting in a classroom with twenty other kids and being one of those who doesn’t have an order coming in. Even if it’s something small and inexpensive, we gotta get them something. Sure, they don’t need it, but that’s beside the point. So we go to the thrift shop for our clothes and shoes. We find the cheapest but still comfortable shoes we can find, and we buy them for six dollars.

I love these boots. These six-dollar, thrift store boots. They may not seem like much to you, but I’m pretty damn proud of them. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

The fog is easy enough to navigate.

One foot in front of the other,

You only need to see the step just ahead of you.

But even the strongest will

Will only get you so far without an anchor.


And that’s just the fog.


When the gray dissipates,

When the world returns,

It doesn’t happen by degrees.

The fog doesn’t ease you back into the vibrancy of life.

Instead, you’re hurled right back into it,

Headfirst and without a moment to catch your breath.

Suddenly, you can see any number of paths before you.


You don’t know who you are anymore.


The fog is safer,

You just keep moving forward.

One foot in front of the other.

Now that it has finally abandoned you—

And that is what you wanted, right?—

Now you have to know who you are,

And where you’ll go next.


How long has it been since you were you?


Too long in the fog,

You’ve lost your sense of direction.

The map was obscured.

A battle fog made the world much smaller, and,

To your dismay, much easier to navigate.

A 4 x 4 square is more easily managed

Than acres of possibilities.


When the fog clears

And you can see much more than

Just that single next step,

You realize you’re lost.

You find yourself taking one step at a time—

Deep breaths, in and out, like you have for so long—

Until the safety of the fog returns.


Whoever you are remains lost in the gray.

If you’re an editor or hope to become one, this is something you need to understand.

No, no. Listen. You really need to get this. It’s so important, in fact, that I’m going to explain this two ways, one of which will be using this handy little graphic.

I made dis.

See that big, pink peg? Good. Now look at that tiny little hole at the bottom. Would you be able to push that big peg into that tiny hole? No. Stop trying to get creative. It’s not a challenge. Wasn’t a trick question. The correct answer is no. You cannot fit a big peg into a little hole.

Think of that hole as a bucket. Visualize a bucket. You’re standing over the bucket, looking down into it. That bucket shrinks every time you drop a load of edits into it. The bucket processes your edits, makes some adjustments, and shrinks. Then it’s ready for the next load of edits. But it’s no longer big enough for the big peg, remember? It’s smaller now, ready for the manuscript edits. And once you drop those in, that bucket’s going to shrink again. And once you’ve made it to the proofreading phase, that bucket is tiny.

The bucket is your author’s endurance. Their stamina. Their patience. And most of them have what it takes to get through this process, otherwise they wouldn’t have tossed their hard-earned duckets your way in the first place.

But if you try to shove a big peg into a tiny hole, you’re going to break the bucket. Worst case scenario, you’re going to break your author. If they’re familiar with the editing process, you’ll simply break their trust in your competence. Neither is a win for you, but the former could very well destroy a new writer’s motivation and love of the craft.

Futurama and its characters property of Matt Groening, I shouldn't even have to tell you that.

Don’t get me wrong, if you spot a horrendous mistake that has to be fixed, point it out. People make mistakes, even editors. It happens. We get so focused on certain aspects that other aspects fade into the background. This is why a first pass of high-level edits is sometimes done repeatedly, especially if you find multiple types of developmental or structural issues. The more editing a work needs, the more opportunity for errors to arise during editing. So it is possible to find a higher-level problem in the manuscript editing or even the proofreading phase.

But that’s not what I’m talking about. What I’m referring to, specifically, is offering suggestions for improvement on plot or story or character arcs or world building specifics at the proofreading stage. There’s a time and place for setting the pace and establishing ground rules, and the finish line ain’t it.

What does any of this have to do with backward compatibility? If the graphic above works for you—if you’re sure you’ve got a firm grasp on this whole peg thing—you can stop reading now. If you’re an author or editor and familiar with analogies, then I’m sure you’ve got this under control. But if it’s still not clicking into place, I’ll go the one step further just for you (and because it’s the title of my article, for crying out loud).

Backward compatibility is when a hardware or software system can use peripherals or files created for previous versions.

For example, in November 2015, Xbox announced a backwards compatibility feature that allowed users to play select Xbox 360 games on their new consoles. For those of you digging this analogy better than the pegs and holes and buckets, let’s apply this to the phases of editing.

I’m going to pick on Nintendo for this analogy; they’re a perfect fit. For our purposes, we’ll look at NES, Super Nintendo, and Nintendo 64.

You’ve seen them, right? If you haven’t, google Nintendo game cartridges. Look at some pictures. Compare the three different cartridges.

Nintendo logos and shit aren’t mine; they’re Nintendo’s. Come on, man, it’s like you’re not even trying.

At a glance, you can see that the actual game cartridges for each one were different. What do you think would happen if you inserted a Nintendo 64 cartridge into an NES? Something akin to trying to drop a big peg into a tiny hole, yes?

Those systems aren’t backwards compatible. Neither are authors. You can’t play a developmental game on a console designed for proofreading. Your author cannot start the whole editing process all over again just because you think the book would be better if we tweak this one thing.

Well, okay… they can. But they are going to hate you. And rightly so.

Even Playstation 2 consoles got testy when you tried to play PS1 games on them, and they were supposed to be backwards compatible. Some games did just fine. And you can do some light copy or line editing during the proofreading stage. You probably won’t break anything. But DO NOT force unnecessary high-level edits onto an author during the proofreading phase.

Authors are not backwards compatible.

BFF in a Box

© Copyright 2016 Jessica West (West1Jess)

All rights reserved. This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

For information, please contact Jessica West at or via her website, Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For Kara.


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