People used to believe that snakes went blind during the Dog Days of Summer, because it's a time when some snakes shed their skin.

That night after Ma made her scrub the floors, and after dinner of thin chicken soup with scraps of chicken from last night's dinner, the girl lay in her bed thinking about the witch woman. Maybe if she could find the woman again, she could take Papa's rifle and make the woman tell her how to make the rains come. She threw off the hot sheets and tip-toed to the open window even though there wasn't even a hint of a breeze. Staring out at the fields around the house she wondered where the woman lived. The girl hadn't ever seen the old woman before, but that didn't mean much. Marcus would've known. He always knew stuff like that. But then again he got to go into town a lot with his Pa. She only went into town to go to school. Sighing, she was about to go back to bed when she heard her Papa's voice from downstairs. It sounded like he was fighting with Ma again. They fought a lot when the rains didn't come.

She crept to her bedroom door and opened it slowly, then slid out into the hallway. When she reached the top of the stairs, she could hear her parent's voices from the kitchen.

"How dare they!" Her Ma was saying. "How dare they even think it?"

"It's been almost three months with no rain." Her Papa replied. "People was bound to start thinkin'."

"But it's absurd. She isn't even a summer child. She was born in autumn. It has to be a summer child."

"There ain't none left of proper age. Town's gotten too small."

"But can't we weather one dry year? Surely after last year's...after the rains came, the crops were bountiful and people had plenty. If we all share, we can survive one dry year." Her Ma's voice was all sharp and prickly. "And if not, why her? The Rouston's have three. Three! It isn't right."

"They ain't proper age and you know it."

"We should leave. We should've left last year."

"And go where?" Her Papa's voice was tired.

"Somewhere where we don't have to sacrifice to make the rains come."

"Hush now," the girl watched her Papa's shadow move close to her Ma's across the worn wooden floor, "there ain't no place like that. Not anymore."

The girl thought she could hear her Ma crying, but her parents didn't speak anymore, so she slipped back into her bedroom and lay down on her bed thinking about what she'd heard instead of thinking about the old woman.

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Because the star Sirius, also known as the Dog Star, is so bright, the ancient Romans thought it contributed to the sun's heat. (Farmers Almanac)

The woman smiled in a way that didn't seem much like a smile. "There's some folks think they know a way to make the rain come."

The girl wasn't sure what that meant, but it was even hotter by the lake than in the grass and she was getting mad at the woman for talking in riddles. "Do you know or not?"

The woman's not-smile faded and she opened her mouth to speak-

"Girl! Come away from there!"

The girl cringed then turned to find her father coming down the path that led from the south field and the house to the lake.

"Your mother been lookin' for you."

The girl nodded but didn't move. "Yessir."

Her father eyed the old woman warily. "You ain't talkin' crazy talk to my daughter are ya now?"

The old woman's face had gone stern. "She asked me if I knew how to make the rains come."

The girl's father frowned, his weather-tanned skin going pale, but then he turned to his daughter. "Ain't no one knows how to do that. We just have to pray to the good Lord and if it's his will, the rains will come." He was close enough to take her arm now. "Now come away home or your ma will go mad lookin' for us both." He faced the old woman once more. "You just stay away from her, you hear?"

The woman stood her ground. "Was just trying to be the girl's friend. Seems she's missing one."

The girl's father's face tinged red and he spun and pulled her toward the path without saying more.

When they were in the dry, dying stalks of the south field, the girl spoke. "Pa, is that woman a witch?"

He didn't stop or look at her. "No. She's just a crazy old woman. Stay away from her."

"She said that this plant called al-gee killed all the fish in the lake."

"See, crazy talk. The heat boiled the lake and killed them fish."

The girl frowned. "Oh."

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Because the sky shifts about one degree every 50 years, the dog days of summer today are not the same as those of ancient Greece that were their namesake.

"Should you be out here by yourself?" The woman was looking out at the lake.

The girl considered lying, after all, she shouldn't really have been talking to a stranger in the first place. But then lying seemed like more work than telling the truth, and it was too hot for more work.

"No. I used to come with Marcus, but he's not around anymore."

"Mmmm," the old woman nodded, "he was your friend?"

The girl itched her bare leg with her foot, but the sand on the bottom of her shoe rubbed off on her leg and made it even itchier. She wished she could rinse the sand off in the lake, but then it would stink like dead fish and probably still be itchy from the al-gee. "Yeah, he was my friend."

"Must be hard to make friends all the way out here."

The girl wasn't sure if the woman meant out by the lake or outside of town, so she said nothing. Then she
looked the woman up and down again and a thought came to her.

"Are you a witch?"

The woman looked her in the eye with eyes so pale they seemed colorless. "Now why would you say that?"

The girl shrugged. "I dunno. You've gotta stick and know about al-gee."

"And what if I was a witch? Would you be afraid of me then?"

The girl stood up a little straighter. "Naw. But I'd ask you if you knew a way to make the rains come."

"Hmmm. I see." The woman gazed up into the blistering sky, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. "And what if I did?"

Her heart beating faster, the girl almost stumbled toward the woman. "Then I'd ask you to show me how to do it."

"And what if I told you only a witch could do it?"

"Then...I'd ask you to do it."

"And what if I say no?"

The girl's lower lip jutted out. She thought about Papa and Jonas and not having any milk money. "Then I'd find a way to make you do it."

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A beekeeper is in the ER with an allergic reaction to a bee sting.

Nurse: Where are your hives?
Beekeeper: Down the road a few miles on my in-laws farm.
Nurse: [Gives beekeeper funny look then begins to laugh.] No I mean your hives.
Beekeeper: [Flushing with emberassment.] Oh, on my legs, chest, and neck.

Two woman are driving in a car.

Woman 1: Oh, did you hear? The construction on that overpass has been halted because they found underground mines at the construction site.
Woman 2: Mines! From what, who? The Michigan militia?
Woman 1: Um, no. Like old iron mines.
Woman 2: Oh...I thought you meant land mines...

Keep Writing and Edit On.
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A Good Day Writing is a Day Writing.
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Just keep writing...just keep writing...writing, writing, writing!
Writing is Magic.
The First Rule of Write Club is You Talk About Write Club.
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Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.
A Good Day Writing is a Day Writing.
It Puts the Words on the Page or it Gets the Hose Again.
Just keep writing...just keep writing...writing, writing, writing!
Writing is Magic.
The First Rule of Write Club is You Talk About Write Club.
If You Aren't Writing, You Aren't a Writer.

According to the Farmer's Almanac, the dog days of summer follow the summer solstice and last for 40 days.

The lake wasn't far, but walking in the shimmering heat made it seem farther away than usual. As she got closer, the rotten stink of dead fish assaulted her nose. Sometimes when it got this hot the lake would shrink and fish would get caught in the muck and die. She figured this summer was hot enough to kill some fish, but when she got to the lake it didn't seem any smaller. Then she saw the dead fish washed up on the shore. There were a lot of them. "Ew!" She said to nobody.

Prodding one of the dead fish with the toe of her tennis shoe, she watched a little crab scuttle out from underneath it's body and disappear into the murky water. She wondered if the crab had been eating the dead fish or had just been hiding in the shade. Probably, if it had been eating the dead fish there would've been a lot more crabs than just one, like ants on a watermelon rind at Aunt Clara's picnic last year. She shuddered thinking about as many crabs as there had been ants.

"It's the algae in the water."

She spun around and saw an old woman with shaggy, grey hair and a walking stick standing behind her. "What?"

"There's too much algae in the water. It kills the fish." The woman said, nodding down at the dead fish at her sandal-clad feet.

"What's al-gee?"

The woman cocked her head. "It's a kind of water plant."

The girl shook her head. "Plants don't kill fish, animals do. Like...like," she struggled to remember an animal that ate fish, "bears."

"Not many bears around here."

The girl glanced up and down the beach. It was true. She'd never seen a bear eating fish at the lake. Or had ever actually seen a bear. Only pictures in books. Marcus's books mostly. Boy books had way more pictures of animals like bears and sharks than girl books did.

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Following the rise of the star system Sirius, the dog days of summer bring sudden, violent thunderstorms, lethargy, drought, mad dogs, fever, and bad luck. (ref. Wikipedia).

She stretched out in the tall grass and watched the cottonwood seeds drift by overhead. Marcus had called it summer snow. She liked that. He'd always had a cool way of describing things. Sweat pooled along her back making her T-shirt stick and her hot skin itch. No doubt she'd be sunburned by the time she got home. A sudden moving itch on her bare leg made her jolt upright and brush a big black ant away. Why did the outside have to be ruined by so many bugs? She and Marcus would've stayed up and caught frogs at night if it weren't for the clouds of mosquitoes. And how many times had they been driven from the shores of Tawny Lake by the biting flies?

She stared out across the field. The wildflowers were wilting in the heat and the grass was tinged brown with drought. Papa said that if it didn't rain soon, he'd have to pay Jonas to irrigate the fields again. Summers that Papa had to pay Jonas meant that she'd have to wear last year's clothes to school in the fall and that she wouldn't have any milk money. She glanced up at the robin's egg sky and frowned at the lack of clouds. If Marcus were still around, he'd probably suggest they do a rain dance or make an offering of spit or blood or piss to the rain gods. It was too hot to dance around, but she considered making an offering. After all, she still had the pocket knife she and Marcus had used to become "blood brothers." But no. She'd already gotten punished for cutting her hand the first time and she was too thirsty for the other offerings.

A bee buzzed passed and landed heavily on a blue flower next to her. She watched it scrounge for nectar and pollen while the stem drooped, then makes its way noisily to the next blossom. Papa once stepped on a bee hive in the back pasture and got forty-two stings before he reached the creek. Mama said he could've died. She wondered how this fuzzy creature bumbling among the flowers could possibly have chased her father from the pasture to the creek. It looked too heavy to even fly from one flower to the next. "It's so slow, I bet I could catch it." She told no one. But what was the point of catching it if no one was there to see it?

She wished Marcus was there to watch her. He'd once caught a fish with his bare hands in the pond. He'd stood very still in the water for a long time with his hands under the water and then scooped up a minnow when it swam over his hands. She'd dared him to eat it, but he'd let it go instead. If she'd caught one, she would've eaten it. There's no sense in catching fish if you aren't going to eat them.

Sweat dripped into her eye and made it sting. Maybe Papa could just hold her over the crops and she could sweat on them. She rose and wiped her damp hands on her shorts. Sitting in the grass wasn't as fun as it used to be with Marcus. Glancing around her, she headed toward the lake instead of home. She wasn't supposed to go there by herself, but now that Marcus was gone she didn't know who would go with her. Mama was busy with washing and cooking and Papa was busy with the crops. Or had he gone into town today with Mr. Butler? She couldn't remember. One hot, cloudless day bled into the other and stretched out as far as she could think.

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.
A Good Day Writing is a Day Writing.
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Just keep writing...just keep writing...writing, writing, writing!
Writing is Magic.
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Been thinking a lot about phrasing lately. There are many ways to say the same thing, but each has a subtle nuance of meaning. To give an example: lovely, secluded, rustic vacation cottage in a verdant stretch of pine forest vs cabin in the woods. These two phrases could be talking about the same place, but evoke a very different response from the reader, namely relaxation vs murder.

Another good example of phrasing is when you're describing a person who committed an error. Are they mistaken or are they wrong? Think about it. Would you rather be told you were mistaken or that you were wrong?

Phrasing is a part of writing that shouldn't be ignored. Was the night moist with a cool breeze or was it damp with a bitter wind? It's a fun mental exercise to come up with multiple ways of saying the same thing that bring to mind completely different images, feelings, or tones. Is the person thin or bony or are they skeletal? Did he say, "this is something my mother would like," (awww) or did she say, "mother would be pleased?" (ewww)

If words paint pictures, phrasing is the shading of those images.

Keep Writing and Edit On.
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Just keep writing...just keep writing...writing, writing, writing!
Writing is Magic.
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Think I've done a post on this before, but it bears repeating. Ever notice how the last 10% of anything is the hardest to accomplish? That last 10% of recovering from a long cold (cough, cough), the last 10% of your NaNo novel, that last 10% of editing; all way more difficult than the first 90%. Seems like just when you think you're done, something else creeps up or you find more edits or you rush your recovery and start hacking up a lung again.

My only advice here is what I cheer to my niece as she runs around the track: "All the way!" In order to make writing work you must do it "all the way." You must finish writing that story and editing it! One of the biggest causes of rejection from publishers and agents is the 90% finished novel. Don't cheat yourself out of finishing a project right. Stick with it all the way to the end polish and you'll find real victory.

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.
A Good Day Writing is a Day Writing.
It Puts the Words on the Page or it Gets the Hose Again.
Just keep writing...just keep writing...writing, writing, writing!
Writing is Magic.
The First Rule of Write Club is You Talk About Write Club.
If You Aren't Writing, You Aren't a Write

So, you can probably tell by the lateness of this post that things have been a bit crazy. I don't have much time, so I'll just talk about one of the tips I picked up at Penguicon this year that has become immediately helpful.

The tip: Don't skimp on your secondary characters.

Remember that these are real people too, not just cardboard cut-out fillers. Right now I'm writing two secondary characters that don't even have names! Not good. They should not only have names, but hopes and dreams, and most importantly, a reason for being in your story.

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.
A Good Day Writing is a Day Writing.
It Puts the Words on the Page or it Gets the Hose Again.
Just keep writing...just keep writing...writing, writing, writing!
Writing is Magic.
The First Rule of Write Club is You Talk About Write Club.
If You Aren't Writing, You Aren't a Write