AWG Member Page

BIO
I’m an award-winning, published writer who has been writing since age 11. I’m a Scientologist (a person who helps others improve conditions) and I’m an expert in human behavior. If you would like help in removing blocks to getting to the next level as a writer, let me know.

CONTACT
Email Rebecca (Becky) Mate

HONORS
I’ve had many short stories and articles published since 1989, and several of skits of mine have been performed. Won first place in National Author’s Registry contest for a short story. Was twice finalist in family script competition at Santa Clarita International Film Festival.

READ THE WORK

Space Cabbie
(The Help Story)

Gainer Betera, a slim 6’4” in his early twenties, was about to put another fist in the pudgy man’s face in case he hadn’t gotten the point from the first punch, but the pudgy man helped him by falling forward, unconscious, in his white plastic cafeteria chair.

The tall cabbie roughly lifted the man’s stubbled chin and helped him do the right thing by returning Gainer’s gold-plated “food chain.” The victor quickly looped the glistening, lightweight chain around his neck and hightailed it toward the docking area, before the Space Station Police could respond to one of the astounded bystander’s call for help.

Such thieves were rare on this pumpkin-shaped satellite revolving around the moon, and Gainer’s philosophy was to help them out by not letting them get away with it.

At the cafeteria entrance, Gainer stopped, inserted his retrieved food chain key with a click into a vending machine and helped himself to both a lunch and a dinner SpaceFeast.

Helped by two moving sidewalks and an elevator, Gainer passed the watchful Dockmaster and told him, “I’ve got a fare” as he headed into the open area towards his yellow tile-plated SpaceCab.

“Helping the drunk home?” asked the Dockmaster.

It’s not like Gainer was lying about the fare, he helped himself justify it, it never failed that when he cracked open a SpaceFeast, let the pungent aroma wash over him and raised his fork, the comm squawk would inevitably interrupt.

The middle-aged drunk referred to by the Dockmaster staggered near Gainer’s SpaceCab, arm bleeding on the yellow, foam-glass-tile exterior, not helped by the fact that cables, panels and floor hookups made the hangar into an obstacle course. The cabbie felt that he should want to assist this reeling man, but there was hollowness inside where there should have been a well of helpfulness.

The hungry cabbie could see the drunk needed the help of a doctor, but his comm squawk, as predicted, said he had a paying fare. The quickly reconstituting, creamy stroganoff smothering the beef and egg omelet would have to wait a while before helping his body fill the gap of a lunch missed due to the food chain thief.

The sequence of buttons he pushed helped let the waiting passenger know he was on his way, and he zipped his craft over to VIP Door 3. She was an elderly Ambassador, but brushed him away as he tried to help her into the cab’s roomy passenger area, with its crescent-shaped, mustard-colored back seat.

“Help me get to Moon City, please,” she requested formally, shifting her shopping bags to a secure position for take-off.

The stroganoff aroma filled the cab, distracting Gainer as he began to help her on her journey.

“How long have you been helping passengers get to their destinations?” she asked.

A chatty customer was not what would help the lanky cabbie the most on the 35 minute ride to Moon City’s Beverly Hills district. In his SpaceCab’s rearview monitor, he could see sticking out of a shopping bag a baguette enviro tube, which helped the hard flaky crust and soft white interior of the two foot long French bread stay fresh.

Suddenly, a passenger craft, helped around a tricky curve with an illegal burst of its FastJets, made Gainer swerve his vehicle to avoid collision.

“You’re not helping anyone!” yelled the cabbie at the craft of frolicking teens. The sideways jerk of the SpaceCab didn’t help the confidence of his passenger, nor did the gentle bump of the taxi’s battered nose into an ill-fated pillar at VIP Door 1.

Apparently the Ambassador didn’t feel this wild driving was helping her desire to return home, so she opened the hatch, gathered her wayward bread tube and shopping bags, and walked out without a word.

CONTINUED...


		Becky Mate
	This writer is a member of the Alameda Writers Group	BIO I’m an award-winning, published writer who has been writing since age 11. I’m a Scientologist (a person who helps others improve conditions) and I’m an expert in human behavior. If you would like help in removing blocks to getting to the next level as a writer, let me know. CONTACT Email Rebecca (Becky) Mate HONORS I’ve had many short stories and articles published since 1989, and several of skits of mine have been performed. Won first place in National Author’s Registry contest for a short story. Was twice finalist in family script competition at Santa Clarita International Film Festival. READ THE WORK Space Cabbie (The Help Story) Gainer Betera, a slim 6’4” in his early twenties, was about to put another fist in the pudgy man’s face in case he hadn’t gotten the point from the first punch, but the pudgy man helped him by falling forward, unconscious, in his white plastic cafeteria chair. The tall cabbie roughly lifted the man’s stubbled chin and helped him do the right thing by returning Gainer’s gold-plated “food chain.” The victor quickly looped the glistening, lightweight chain around his neck and hightailed it toward the docking area, before the Space Station Police could respond to one of the astounded bystander’s call for help. Such thieves were rare on this pumpkin-shaped satellite revolving around the moon, and Gainer’s philosophy was to help them out by not letting them get away with it. At the cafeteria entrance, Gainer stopped, inserted his retrieved food chain key with a click into a vending machine and helped himself to both a lunch and a dinner SpaceFeast. Helped by two moving sidewalks and an elevator, Gainer passed the watchful Dockmaster and told him, “I’ve got a fare” as he headed into the open area towards his yellow tile-plated SpaceCab. “Helping the drunk home?” asked the Dockmaster. It’s not like Gainer was lying about the fare, he helped himself justify it, it never failed that when he cracked open a SpaceFeast, let the pungent aroma wash over him and raised his fork, the comm squawk would inevitably interrupt. The middle-aged drunk referred to by the Dockmaster staggered near Gainer’s SpaceCab, arm bleeding on the yellow, foam-glass-tile exterior, not helped by the fact that cables, panels and floor hookups made the hangar into an obstacle course. The cabbie felt that he should want to assist this reeling man, but there was hollowness inside where there should have been a well of helpfulness. The hungry cabbie could see the drunk needed the help of a doctor, but his comm squawk, as predicted, said he had a paying fare. The quickly reconstituting, creamy stroganoff smothering the beef and egg omelet would have to wait a while before helping his body fill the gap of a lunch missed due to the food chain thief. The sequence of buttons he pushed helped let the waiting passenger know he was on his way, and he zipped his craft over to VIP Door 3. She was an elderly Ambassador, but brushed him away as he tried to help her into the cab’s roomy passenger area, with its crescent-shaped, mustard-colored back seat. “Help me get to Moon City, please,” she requested formally, shifting her shopping bags to a secure position for take-off. The stroganoff aroma filled the cab, distracting Gainer as he began to help her on her journey. “How long have you been helping passengers get to their destinations?” she asked. A chatty customer was not what would help the lanky cabbie the most on the 35 minute ride to Moon City’s Beverly Hills district. In his SpaceCab’s rearview monitor, he could see sticking out of a shopping bag a baguette enviro tube, which helped the hard flaky crust and soft white interior of the two foot long French bread stay fresh. Suddenly, a passenger craft, helped around a tricky curve with an illegal burst of its FastJets, made Gainer swerve his vehicle to avoid collision. “You’re not helping anyone!” yelled the cabbie at the craft of frolicking teens. The sideways jerk of the SpaceCab didn’t help the confidence of his passenger, nor did the gentle bump of the taxi’s battered nose into an ill-fated pillar at VIP Door 1. Apparently the Ambassador didn’t feel this wild driving was helping her desire to return home, so she opened the hatch, gathered her wayward bread tube and shopping bags, and walked out without a word. CONTINUED...