So, FJ Dagg has confirmed receipt of the prize package and I can give you a little insight into what I sent to him – and why. There were three things, each connected with a type of independence.

1. A newspaper from 11/22/1990 with the headline: [...]]]>

So, FJ Dagg has confirmed receipt of the prize package and I can give you a little insight into what I sent to him – and why. There were three things, each connected with a type of independence.

1. A newspaper from 11/22/1990 with the headline: THATCHER RESIGNS. It was a pivotal moment that, for many, represented the prospect of independence from a policy of Reaganomics that had divided the UK. For others, on the political right, it represented a time when The Iron Lady was a spent force and new leadership within the Conservative Party (think Republicans) could take the helm.

2. A copy of my own co-written Little Book of Cynics. First, I should state that I don’t get a royalty and second, that this was my own copy – the first out of the box from the publishers. So it presented an independence of mind, of seeing myself as a bonafide writer in the wider world. And it made me eligible to join the Society of Authors. I know of course that what makes us writers is the urge (compulsion) to write. The little book gave me psychological sovereignty.

3. A sixpence. When my brother and I were growing up, there was a jar of sixpences on the bureau, occasionally added to, but never emptied. When my brother died, I found the collection of sixpences among his things. My best guess is that when dad died, mum couldn’t bring herself to move them on, and when she died, David felt the same. They stopped being legal tender back in the 1970s, but you could say they’d been emotional currency in our family for 40 years. To me, they represent tradition and holding on to something because that’s the way it’s always been done. But writers, whatever else they do, are here to find new voices, new meanings and new expression. So the sixpence is a little piece of family history and a little piece of luck to be passed on, to gain independent meaning and relevance.

At Last by FJ Dagg.

www.awordwithyoupress.com/2010/07/20/entry-no-2-at-last/

It was a very close run contest and possibly the small number of entries led it a greater intimacy. Each of the four writers nailed the concept and added depth and significance to what started out as a [...]]]>

At Last by FJ Dagg.

www.awordwithyoupress.com/2010/07/20/entry-no-2-at-last/

It was a very close run contest and possibly the small number of entries led it a greater intimacy. Each of the four writers nailed the concept and added depth and significance to what started out as a calendar-themed contest.

At Last was a story of hope and tenderness, pride and regret. In truth, each of the six entries touched me and clearly touched their readers as well, based on the comments. But there has to be a winner (otherwise the fabric of the universe might unravel – and there’s nothing untidier than an unravelled universe), so for my money, At Last takes the gold.

I will be contacting FJ to get a postal address and, if I can get Mac drivers for our digital camera, I’ll upload a photo of Cornwall. Thereafter, we’r hoping FJ can do the same on the receiving end.

Derek

Miryam Howard offers you a poignant entry that spans the generations, arching through time, to an independence unimaginable by those who suffered and perished.

****

Dedicated to the memory of 310,322 Jews who were deported from the Warsaw ghetto to extermination camps between July 22nd to October 3rd, 1942.

Mac Egan welcomes you to a time of peace and reflection. But you may want to reflect that freedom always has a price, even if someone else is picking up the tab.

******

The man sat in the late afternoon sunlight, enjoying his view of the valley down below.  [...]]]>

Mac Egan welcomes you to a time of peace and reflection. But you may want to reflect that freedom always has a price, even if someone else is picking up the tab.

******

The man sat in the late afternoon sunlight, enjoying his view of the valley down below.  The multi-faceted green tones of the forest were speckled throughout with oranges, reds and golden-yellows as autumn was reaching its peak.

I don’t think I will ever tire of seeing things like this, he thought.

As he looked, his eyes detected some movement at the edge of a stand of trees, several hundred yards away.  A large brown bear was headed in his direction. The bear continued until he was halfway between the trees and the man.  Straddling the bear was a boy, about seven years old, a wide smile decorating his face. The bear stopped.

“Nooooo,” cried the boy. “Go that way!”

The bear shook its mighty head back and forth, his fur rustling with the movement.

“That way!” the boy pleaded.

The bear sat down.

“Ohhhh,” the boy complained.  With a dejected look, he slid down off the bear and walked towards the man.  After two steps, the boy turned back to the bear and reached up for its beard.  He pulled the bear’s head down a little lower and wrapped his arms around the bear’s neck.  “Thanks for the ride,” he said.

Free of his load, the bear turned and started down the mountain.  Along the way, it passed a small herd of sheep grazing in a clearing.  The sheep never looked up and the bear walked by, unconcerned.

The boy got closer to the man.  “Hello,” said the boy.

“Hello,” the man answered, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Nope,” replied the boy, “I’m visiting my aunt and uncle.  They live over there.”  The boy pointed somewhere behind the man.

“Is it true?” the boy asked.

“Is what true?”

“That you used to live in the Old World?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.  I’ve never met anyone from the Old World.”

“What about your parents?  Are they not from the Old World?”

“No, they were born here, in the New World.  Like me.  They say the Old World was a bad place.  Was it, really?”

The man sat for a moment, silent, remembering the Old World and its ways.  Up until The Last War, the man had known nothing else.  During that time, he considered himself happy.  Now, forty years later, living in the New World had taught him what happiness really was.

“Yes,” he answered, “the Old World was a bad place.”

“How?”

The man paused, then said, “Freedom, for one thing.  There wasn’t any.  We told ourselves we were free, told ourselves enough times that some days we believed it.  But we weren’t.  Take that bear, for instance.  How long have you known that bear?”

“Found it this morning.”

“In the Old World, finding a bear usually meant injury or death.  Here, any bear you find, or any other animal, is safe for you to be around.  You are free to roam this mountain without any concern.  Hold out your arm.”

The boy stuck his arm out, his skin a shade somewhere between dark brown and walnut.  The man held his freckled, pinkish arm next to the boy’s.

“Feel my hair,” the man said as he leaned forward.  The boy reached up and rubbed his hand over the man’s soft, blond locks.  Then he rubbed his own head, with its black, wiry-textured hair.

“In the Old World,” the man continued, “there were areas where we would not have had the freedom to have this conversation, all because we look different from each other.  In the New World, all people are free to associate with anyone they choose.”

The boy concentrated on the differences that had been explained to him.  He suspected there were many other changes that had taken place.

“Did everything change because of the War?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

“Did you fight in the War?”

“No. The Last War was fought by Others.  The Others warned us The Last War was coming and helped us prepare for survival.  But we didn’t have to fight.”

“Why did the Others start the War?” the boy wondered.

“They didn’t.  The war was started by the Adversaries.  They were opposed to the Others and didn’t want them to ever have control.  The Adversaries were secretly destroying the Old World, just so the Others could never have it.”

“But the Adversaries lost, didn’t they?” the boy asked.

“Yes, they did.  And now they don’t exist.  And everything about this planet has been rebuilt into our New World, where you have all this wonderful, true freedom.”

*****************

The mystery prize will be leaving in the near future, to a destination unknown. Could it be your mailbox? Well, you’d better enter the contest for a chance to win –  July 31^st is the last date to enter so don’t delay:

www.awordwithyoupress.com/2010/07/04/we-hold-this-contest-to-be-self-evident/

Suzanne Morse has joined our Independence contest, with a dystopian tale, reminding us that independence is often hard won.

********************

FREEDOM FIGHTER

Thump, thump, the sound of her footfalls in the dark as she ran through the plaza, dodging the cement benches.  Slivers of light danced in front of [...]]]>

Suzanne Morse has joined our Independence contest, with a dystopian tale, reminding us that independence is often hard won.

********************

FREEDOM FIGHTER

Thump, thump, the sound of her footfalls in the dark as she ran through the plaza, dodging the cement benches.  Slivers of light danced in front of her as she sped past a streetlight.  But mostly, she tried to stay in the shadows, not to be seen.  She had to escape.  To freedom.  But she could hear them, their heels clomping in the dark as they chased her.  They were going to execute her in the morning, but she had escaped, squeezed her way out through the tiny window.  Now she was running for her life.  She gulped in air as she bolted around a building, down another dimly-lit street.  She had been protesting the oppression of women, and they were here to silence her.  She could hear them just behind her, the grunts, the tap-tapping of eager feet.  She ducked into the shadows and thrust forward with everything she had.  She just had to make it to the nearby hills, where she knew they were.  The Freedom Fighters.

They’d been called Women Terrorists.  The would sneak out at night, like phantoms, kill an official on the street, in his home, bomb a building owned by the oppressive men, then swiftly disappear unnoticed.  The women who lived in this city awed them, but never spoke aloud of it.  They were the Freedom Fighters, their future saviors.  Now Barbara ran for those hills.  It was join the fight or die.

Suddenly, a silhouette emerged from the darkness and grabbed her arm.  She turned and clawed at its face, but another shadow threw her to the ground.  She bit and scratched, attempting to wriggle free, but now there were 4 of them.  She chomped down on the hand that now dragged her into the dark alley.  She held the skin between her teeth, tasting the blood.  In the blackness, she heard a woman’s voice, low and guttural.  “You were right, Karen.  She is a fighter.  She can do well to join us.  Meliska will be pleased.  Bring her to the Lair once the others have completed their mission.”

A sack slid over her head, but Barbara suddenly relaxed.  They were the Freedom Fighters and they had come to recruit her.   She was loaded into a vehicle.  As she sat motionless in the dark, she heard the women whispering, murmuring.  More pattering of feet as the phantom women slid into the car.

“We got them all, Varuna!” a woman’s voice exclaimed

All of the executioners, we killed,” another woman added enthusiastically.

“Then we have completed the mission successfully,” the first woman’s voice spoke.  “Where’s Daphne?”

“She was killed in the Plaza.  They shot her.  Her blood is part of the sidewalk now.”

There was a long, awkward silence as Varuna felt the vehicle whisk away.  She could hear them breathing in the dark.

“We will honor her at the Lair,” the first woman said.

Barbara was free.  The life and death struggle was over.  For the night..

*****************

Oh mystery prize wherefore art thou? Waiting on a shelf somewhere, soon to be posted, once all July’s entries have been reviewed and considered. July 31^st is the last date to enter so don’t delay:

www.awordwithyoupress.com/2010/07/04/we-hold-this-contest-to-be-self-evident/

FJ Dagg has delved into worlds natural and supernatural this time, for his second entry in our Independence Date contest. A flight of fancy, you might say.

********************

Independence

Hummingbirds, once grown, have no predators, apart from their own prodigious appetites. But that is sufficient.

Samantha clung to a [...]]]>

FJ Dagg has delved into worlds natural and supernatural this time, for his second entry in our Independence Date contest. A flight of fancy, you might say.

********************

Independence

Hummingbirds, once grown, have no predators, apart from their own prodigious appetites. But that is sufficient.

Samantha clung to a branch near the top of the remaining tree in the courtyard by the Pacific Ocean that had been her home all of her four years. Her chicks of the season were gone—taken from the nest by an especially audacious raven—and now she held on by a mere thread herself. The apartments to which the courtyard belonged had been sold and the new owner had had the thick, twisting junipers and the dense eucalyptus—on which she depended, respectively, for hunting and for cover—cut down at the beginning of the day. The trumpet vines on which Samantha depended for nectar were crushed under the falling trunks and branches.

It might not have mattered had she not spent much of the previous afternoon fighting off in succession two other hummingbirds who had designs on her courtyard. She had gone to sleep hungry and exhausted, and woke up even more so. Before she could get a sorely needed breakfast, however, her world filled with the sound of chainsaws—and began to fall down all around her. If not for the exhaustion owing to yesterday’s battles, she would simply have dashed off to find a new home. But all she could do now was hang on.

Samantha wobbled on the branch, and her vision went in and out of focus and at times, dimmed. A couple of tiny insects drifted by—the kind she usually had for breakfast after a day’s first draught of nectar—but she couldn’t do anything about them. Her wings flickered, as if of their own volition, but she seemed to have forgotten how to fly. Then the light seemed to go out of the world for a space and when it came back, the world was inverted. She dimly realized that she had rotated on the branch and clung to it by one toe, upside-down. She remembered her first chicks—fine, strong birds who had grown nearly as big as she by the time they left the nest.

As her tenuous grip relaxed, her world filled with light—a tremendous, sun-like incandescence that blotted out her scattering memories and her awful hunger and filled her with a sublime peace. She didn’t know that she was falling.

- – -

When she awakened, she was disoriented. She understood that some enormous event had overtaken her, and was surprised by the familiarity of her surroundings, not knowing what to expect, but not expecting familiarity. She found herself perched in a eucalyptus quite like the one in which she’d built her last nest, and the sound of the ocean a short way off was much like that at her old home. There was a structure, a dwelling, near at hand, like the apartments that surrounded her courtyard, but smaller and somehow finer. She even heard the sound of a violin. A man in the apartments had played, but his modest gifts vanished next to what Samantha heard now. What was unfamiliar was the feeling of fine strength that filled her, and the strange, lovely light that seemed to come from everywhere.

The music stopped and in a moment an angel—small and blonde, with great wings of white, blue-tipped feathers—emerged from the little house carrying yet another object familiar to Samantha: a feeder, though this one was not of plastic like the ones the people put out, but rather of a lovely pink quartz that seemed to give off a light of its own. The angel chose a low branch of Samantha’s eucalyptus on which to hang the feeder. She looked up in the direction of Samantha’s perch and though the angel’s eyes didn’t meet the hummingbird’s, she smiled as if they had. She returned to the little house, and the lovely music resumed.

Samantha hummed down to the feeder and drank deeply of the finest nectar she had ever tasted. She somehow knew that, having had this draught, she would never be hungry again, and savored, for the first time, independence.

*****************

That mystery prize is all but tied with string and ready to post out. There’s only one way to win it and that’s to take part. But hurry, July 31^st is fast approaching:

www.awordwithyoupress.com/2010/07/04/we-hold-this-contest-to-be-self-evident/

FJ Dagg has pierced the armor of the writer’s guard, to bring you his evocative tale around the theme of Independence.

********************

At last

His heart shivered when he saw the return address: Manhattan—not one of the largest publishers, but one whose notice any young writer would be thrilled [...]]]>

FJ Dagg has pierced the armor of the writer’s guard, to bring you his evocative tale around the theme of Independence.

********************

At last

His heart shivered when he saw the return address: Manhattan—not one of the largest publishers, but one whose notice any young writer would be thrilled to have. She wouldn’t mind if he opened it. Oh my…this kind of money buys a lot of time to write. He couldn’t wait to tell her.

She had published her first novel a year and a half earlier—a tender and evocative fantasy that wove the rough cords of this world with the luminous filaments of a finer one into a tapestry of surpassing beauty. He had stood beside her the whole year of writing—reading drafts, making the occasional, modest suggestion and, most important, saying, you can when she needed to hear it. His pride had been nearly as great as hers when she finished.

Then, the harder part: the countless queries, the many submissions, the few replies, letters that resembled—on the outside—the one he now held in his hand, the slight droop of her shoulders each time she opened a letter and read the first lines.

But one day, as so often happened, an idea struck them both at the same time: Independence! Many independent filmmakers had escaped Hollywood’s deceptive rigidity, hadn’t they? And hadn’t many independent musicians made their names on the internet without help from the big studios? Why not an independent novelist?

She designed a cover—an image as fine and lovely as her prose—while he studied hard to learn to make the pages look altogether professional. After weeks—and many late nights—they scraped together enough money for a print-on-demand account and a website—and launched her novel. He warned her not to expect too much at first, and he had been right—her receipts were indeed modest for the first half-year, and again his heart broke to see that slight dip of her shoulders when the statements came each month. There had been times he had almost wished she would weep as he held her. The final half of that year brought some improvement, but not enough to matter.

The six months just past, however, had been like the arrival of a belated, if muted, spring. The monthly statements showed a steady upturn, but more importantly, her novel was mentioned more and more on the internet, and just lately had begun to be discussed in print. A tipping point had been reached. A conversation had begun. The world was beginning to notice. He tucked the envelope in his pocket, closed the door behind him and set off to tell her.

He turned off the road and walked up the path. When he stopped, he wondered yet again how it was that a half-year could encompass an eternity of sorrow, and as he knelt on the nearly healed earth, and for what seemed the thousandth time, the paired impressions assaulted him: the words of Robert Burns’s widow, Oh, Robbie, you asked for bread, and they gave you a stone, and the hot, suffocating fumes that had poured over him, that day, when he had opened the garage door. He laid the letter beside her stone and, bending lower, whispered, “It came at last, love.”

*****************

That mystery prize is up for grabs, folks. Tell your friends, tell your neighbors; tell your Internet buddies. Details of the contest are here and ready to meet you:

www.awordwithyoupress.com/2010/07/04/we-hold-this-contest-to-be-self-evident/

Mac Egan has set the ball rolling with this, the first entry in our Independence Date contest. Remember, you can interpret the word Independence any way you choose, just like Mac did!

********************

Charlie’s Escape

The glowing green numbers on Charlie’s alarm clock magnified the seriousness of his decision.  [...]]]>

Mac Egan has set the ball rolling with this, the first entry in our Independence Date contest. Remember, you can interpret the word Independence any way you choose, just like Mac did!

********************

Charlie’s Escape

The glowing green numbers on Charlie’s alarm clock magnified the seriousness of his decision.  Twelve minutes past one.  Charlie had chosen this as the ideal time for an escape because he knew everyone would be sleeping.  He stopped for a moment and listened.  There, from down the hall, the low rumble of his father’s snoring.

Charlie stepped out of his room. Silently but deliberately he made his way up the hall and started across the living room, past the oversized chair where his father would sit after dinner, dozing in and out with the TV on.

“You sure this is what you want to do?”

Charlie froze at the sound of his father’s voice.  He looked in the darkness at the man’s silhouette, down the hallway towards his parent’s bedroom and then back again at his father.

“You forget I’m not the one who snores. Why don’t you sit down?”  The old man turned on the lamp next to his chair.  “Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

Charlie sat down on the couch and looked at the floor.  He said nothing.

“I assume you have somewhere to stay?” his father asked.

Charlie looked up and muttered, “Umm, yeah.” Charlie’s “somewhere” consisted of his car.

“Can you at least tell me what you hope to find out there?”

Charlie looked back at the floor without speaking. The silence lingered.  Finally, Charlie decided certain things had to be said.

“Independence.”

“I see,” his father commented.  “Are you sure you’re ready for that?  Are you sure you know what ‘independence’ really is?”

Charlie straightened up.  “I’m ready,” he said defiantly.  “And ‘independence’ is doing things on your own.”  He stood up and turned towards the door.

“Is someone coming to pick you up?”

Charlie stopped again, somewhat bewildered.

Charlie’s father continued, “The car that you are thinking of taking – how did you get it?”

Charlie knew better than to answer that question. Charlie’s father made the down payment and paid the insurance as long as Charlie was able to make the installments.  Charlie knew that without his father he would not have a car.

“The independence that you think is out there, doesn’t exist.  For us to have this house I have to follow the bank’s direction and send a payment every month.  We are dependent on my job to keep the bank satisfied.  There are very few things that any of us do ‘on our own.’”

“But I want to decide things for myself.”

“And well you should.  And one day you will.  But there will always be someone else to answer to.  Even at its best, independence is relative.  In fact, independence is at its best when it is relative.”

Charlie’s father reached out and placed the car insurance bill on the coffee table.

“If you really want to do it all on your own, then you have to do it all on your own.”

With that the old man turned and headed down the hallway.

Charlie sat on the couch, thinking.

*****************

A mystery prize is up for grabs. Tell your friends, tell your enemies; tell anyone with an idea and a pen. The details would love to meet you:

www.awordwithyoupress.com/2010/07/04/we-hold-this-contest-to-be-self-evident/

Hear Ye, Hear Ye….

It’s time to sharpen up your wits and your pen (okay then, keyboard), for our next writing contest – our very own Independence Date.

Ye Olde Rules

1. No more than two stories per person. So choose wisely and send us your best work.

2. [...]]]>

Hear Ye, Hear Ye….

It’s time to sharpen up your wits and your pen (okay then, keyboard), for our next writing contest – our very own Independence Date.

Ye Olde Rules

1. No more than two stories per person. So choose wisely and send us your best work.

2. The theme is Independence – interpret it how you will: funny, tragic, serious, surreal; surprise us!

3. Aim for no more than a page or so – 750 words maximum (that’s 15 per star!).

4.  Send your entries to derek@awordwithyoupress.com. They must be in by midnight July 31st (and we’re on Californian time).

And what’s up for grabs for the winner, I imagine you asking?

Well, it’s a mystery prize, a token from one of the old countries. The lucky winner will be contacted by me (that’s not the prize!) and something posted out to them by a combination of my own hand and Royal Mail. Then we’ll put photos of here and there on the site (if I can get the right camera drivers for my mac).

So get creative, get busy and remember, only 2 stories per customer. Form a line!