Literati!

Don’t you dare scroll through all this to find out who it is!  Claudia Barillas sent this to me in the wee small hours, and I am so grateful she is the one making enemies and not me!  Our contest Of Knights and Knaves  has been tough because [...]]]>

Literati!

Don’t you dare scroll through all this to find out who it is!  Claudia Barillas sent this to me in the wee small hours, and I am so grateful she is the one making enemies and not me!  Our contest Of Knights and Knaves  has been tough because of the stop-start nature and extended deadlines and blah blah blah that you all know about that started because our site was hacked.  We WILL make it good to all of you by announcing a new contest in a few days, and when that happens, I do hope you will help me build back the volume of visitors we were getting before we were assaulted from cyberspace.  The site needs to expand its core of regular contestants and commentators if it is to remain vibrant.

So here is what Claudia, aka Chuck has to say:

It was wonderful to see our writers spread out in the extra space granted by this contest.  It’s always amazing to see how outside of the box everyone can be even when confined by microscopic word counts, but sometimes claustrophobia sets in, and when that happens it’s nice to get a little breathing room, which is exactly what this contest provided. Even I couldn’t resist the lure of this prompt and word count, and you can find my non-entry under the pseudonym Eleanor Arby. (Get it? L.A. Noire RP?) Obviously, I never planned on picking myself, and I informed the judges who I was, but now let’s get on to those who did get picked, our Fantastic Four finalists.

Take Out by Michael Stang was very near to my heart, as I am a woman who is sometimes subject to unwanted advances. It was refreshing to read the straight-forward dialogue and watch Liu stick to her guns even in the face of (Bolo? Bozo?) Barth’s persistence.

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42 By Karla Onstott is an exciting romp through the most bizarre date to ever take place. (If anyone can top it with a date story of their own I’d love to hear it. Best David Hasslehoff came since the Spongebob Squarepants movie and worst date since my first one. I love that this story was not just about the date itself, but also the telling of it. Sometimes the only saving grace of a poor date is what a great story it makes.

What Is The Question? by Diane Cresswell is an endearing look at a pair of good friends with different ideas of what’s important in life. Mysterious messages, or looking good for a man who already likes you? Both characters present their cases through very entertaining dialogue with spot-on pop culture references. I wish I could meet the guy responsible for the very amusing physical reactions that open this fun piece.

AT THE HOUSE OF CHANG by Sal Buttaci brings home the prize, setting up and executing a riveting tale of love, betrayal, and someone who needs to learn how to use chopsticks instead of her face for eating Chinese food.  Not a word is wasted, the climactic shoot-out over almost before you realize it’s happening, showing just how quick our guy is. And how quick he is to get over lost love with everyone’s favorite pick-me-up, chocolate.

Congratulations, Sal. Enjoy your prize and your judging duties. Thank you to all the participants, and I look forward to writing with you all again.

He'd be the God Father of the United States of America, if he was able instead of cain. The problem with a Mafia-type hit in a Chinese restaurant is that after an hour you feel like killing someone again.

Here is another look at Sal Buttaci’s winning entry:

AT THE HOUSE OF CHANG

First I figured, Okay, wild goose chase, but that was my belly talking. I’d passed up the usual buttered bagels at the office, watched Hotcakes woof down hers, mine, and the third bagel always went to a finger shoot.

“So Crane finds love,” she said through luscious lips made sexier by the gloss of runaway butter. “Tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, is for suckers, Remember saying that?”

My belly growled again. I popped a stick of Juicy Fruit, pulled in a deep gray cloud of Chesterfield. Hotcakes drummed long typist’s fingers on her desk, waiting. Instead, hat and coat on, I headed for the House of Chang, an oriental diner off Brooklyn’s Boerum Street.

Johnny Chang, a pal from our old Woolworth’s Five & Dime days, had phoned me the day before. “Crane, she’s Jack Knife’s babe,” then in a true-blue Chinese accent, “Velly velly bad, Clane. Confucius say, ‘Flied lice good. Flied plivate eye not so good.’ ”

In one coat pocket I carried ivory chopsticks Chang had given me for luck. In the other pocket a special friend, loaded and ready, if what Johnny told me about Mandy was true.

Johnny led us to my regular table, safe in the back of the diner, where we ordered, sipped piping-hot tea and played a volley of very small talk across the table.

A few feet away, in an alcove near the men’s room, pretty much hidden, I caught sight of two of Jack Knife’s goons playing mask games with their menus.

A setup? I’d picked The House of Chang. Mandy had invited an extra couple with guns. If she was Jack’s babe, I was that goose my belly was chasing. I was also New York’s star witness against the Knife. It made good survival sense for Jack to set me down horizontal.

I cracked open the fortune cookie when we finished dinner on our first date. It said what??? “DUCK, CRANE!”

I ducked to the sound of gunfire flashing Chang’s House. When it was over, Jack was out two shooters and his babe sat face down in a half-finished dish of “Happy Family.”

Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day. Plenty time to buy myself a box of Whitman Chocolates.

To start my posts, here’s a little story about medicine in the thirteenth century.

Dr. N welcomed his patient, Rathern Goodfolk, who was suffering from eczema and weakness in the limbs.
“How be thee, Rath?”
“The pain is consuming, sir, and my skin does flame as [...]]]>

To start my posts, here’s a little story about medicine in the thirteenth century.

Dr. N welcomed his patient, Rathern Goodfolk, who was suffering from eczema and weakness in the limbs.
“How be thee, Rath?”
“The pain is consuming, sir, and my skin does flame as a burning ember.”
Dr. N reached under his robe, rummaged for a moment, then pulled out his sheathed dagger. “In that case, it is time to bleed you. Lie on yon couch.”
“Wait, kind doctor. Perhaps…a potion, or elixir…or…” He trailed off lamely, distressed.
“Bleeding works. Now hoist thy skinny buttocks over here.”
Rath complied, protesting. “If bleeding assuages me not, what then?”
“Bleeding works. It is accepted medical procedure. It is our….only procedure.”
Rath tried to stall. “Perhaps I may seek advice from another, and forgo your attentions today.”
Dr. N’s face turned purple. “A second opinion?! Perhaps ye would like to hear more of my prophesies, Mr. Goodfolk.”
“No! Please! No!”
Dr. N continued, anyway. “I see a vast nation of afflicted, who have no one to bleed them. The sick are given herbs and potions that do not heal their suffering. They gather in square, soulless houses to seek remedies.” His voice rose. “Each man must part with his coin, giving his entire fortune to charlatans in robes and cloths that hide their faces. I see all of humanity bowed before fantastic machines that take the coin into one side, and dispense curious bits of parchment on which is written instructions for…for…” He held his hands to his temples, eyes heavenward. “The vision is gone.” In a jerky theatrical flourish, he dropped the dagger and fell to his knees, forehead touching the floor. “I beseech Thee, O Lord, to let all within the sound of my voice see the danger ahead, if this scourge of alternative advice is allowed.”
He rose slowly, smoothed out his robe, and faced his patient.
“Willst ye now be bled, or will Rathern Goodfolk disobey the will of the Almighty?”
Rath gulped. “I will be bled, and this be the last time.” He placed the knotted rag into his mouth and bit down.
Dr. N unsheathed his dagger and made a shallow cut into a vein on Rath’s arm. Blood spiraled down into a silver chalice. After an interminable few minutes, Dr. N applied a tourniquet, and prepared to usher Rath out. Before they could move, he once more fell to his knees, forehead to the floor, moaning and drooling.
“I have received another mysterious vision.” He announced. “It has been revealed that the Chargers will win the SuperBowl.”
“What nonsense be this?” Rath was tiring of Dr. N’s indecipherable rants.
Dr. N stood, picked up the chalice of blood and lifted it to his lips. “Cheers.” he said, then drank.
He put down the empty cup and turned to Rath.
“Perhaps, just perhaps, a poultice of nettleweed and rosemary, applied twice daily for a fortnight, will soothe thy skin.”
Stunned, Rath hurried from the house, vowing never to return.
Ed Coonce 2011

When writing a Post that you want featured on the front page (in the Feature slider area), you must follow these steps.

Wendy Joseph pulled the smoking gun and in a flash, gave us another great piece of the puzzle. Why not flash us with a story of your own? Check out the rules at  www.awordwithyoupress.com/2011/08/30/criminally-in-vain-a-thrillogy-announcing-our-new-contest/ and win a cool prize for yourself AND you get to be the Judge [...]]]>

Wendy Joseph pulled the smoking gun and in a flash, gave us another great piece of the puzzle. Why not flash us with a story of your own? Check out the rules at  www.awordwithyoupress.com/2011/08/30/criminally-in-vain-a-thrillogy-announcing-our-new-contest/ and win a cool prize for yourself AND you get to be the Judge of the next contest too! It don’t get any better than that, does it?

Here’s Windy’s second entry,

Madeleine

Booker’s lighter flashed again. “Nice work. I got another one for you, Scout. Ever hear of Vashon Pitts?”

“Rumors.”

“He’s in town.”

“Where do I find him?”

“6^th and Pacific. And you never saw me.”

I should have felt crummy. I’d just buried my partner. But I had a case.

I felt good.

I’d barely reached the light on Harbor when a shadow moved, then a megalith stepped in front of me.

“Madam Scout, I presume.”

“Hello, Pitts.”

“Drop whatever you’re doing. You work for me now.”

“Oh really? How much?”

“How much you want?”

I smiled. He was a card. I’d play him.

“What’s she worth to you?”

“How do you know it’s a she?”

“Because I’m one,” stupid.

“Find her. Madeleine Cornucopia. You want it, you got it. Find her.”

It wasn’t likely this gal was anything out of the kid’s story. I headed for the Red Lantern.

Bossy Ann, a ringer for Queen Latifah, was doing impossible things on the clarinet when I walked in. I waited till she finished.

“Madeleine? Sure she didn’t go by Horn a’ Plenty?”

“Cornucopia, same thing. And your chops just keep gettin’ better.”

“She’ll be in at midnight. Have a gin on me.”

“Rum.”

Midnight struck and the witch walked in. Funny Pitts hadn’t tracked her here.

“Madeleine.”

“Miss Madeleine to you.”

“Pitts is looking for you.”

“Wrong, darlin.’ I’m lookin’ for him.”

“With what?” There wasn’t any place to hide a weapon under what she was wearing.

“Never you mind. But he will definitely be out of my hair.”

“Doesn’t sound like that’s what he wants.”

“Stay out of it, sugar. Be safe. You don’t want the smoking gun pointed your way.” She rose. “Stay for the show?”

“No thanks.” I went out the door and headed into the fog.

O, Literati!

Kenneth Weene submits this frank first sentence to ensnare your interest in his novel, Times To Try the Soul of Man, a a tale of coming of age and conspiracy set in New York City in 2000-2001.

Perhaps, if the sex had been better, I wouldn’t have [...]]]>

O, Literati!

Kenneth Weene submits this frank first sentence to ensnare your interest in his novel, Times To Try the Soul of Man, a a tale of coming of age and conspiracy set in New York City in 2000-2001.

Perhaps, if the sex had been better, I wouldn’t have noticed the shaking of my bed.

Perhaps, if the sex had been better, I wouldn’t have noticed the shaking of my bed. But, Marcie and I had been living together for three months, which had been two months too long; and sex had already become a casualty.

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

Claudia Barrillas, whom I had the pleasure to meet recently at Skylight Books in L.A. when I did a book read for The Boy with a Torn Hat (shameless plug, and book is available at our store) is in love.

She is in love with her two characters, who [...]]]>

Claudia Barrillas, whom I had the pleasure to meet recently at Skylight Books in L.A. when I did a book read for The Boy with a Torn Hat (shameless plug, and book is available at our store) is in love.

She is in love with her two characters, who have tagged-teamed now in a number of our contests.  And here they are again, in The Second Annual Victor Villasenor First Sentence Contest.  The rules are simple:  give us your first sentence to a broader story, and follow it up with the remainder of the first paragraph.  Your entry will be judged entirely on the first sentence, but any supplemental information helps put it all in context.

Here is from Claudia:

Agent Joseph Walsh was not my partner, but he was my friend.

We met at the Los Angeles field office where he’d been an agent for nearly twelve years and I was just starting out. A seasoned agent, he spent most of his time out in the field while I spent mine in the office, paying my dues as a desk jockey. I didn’t mind it much—someone had to do it, and I was good at it—but I did look forward to the day when I’d be able to prove my worth outside. Walsh was looking forward to it, too. I handled the paperwork for a few of his cases, and from our discussions he seemed to think I had what it takes. He was the only, though. Everyone else was sure that my condition would cause me to fail.

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

An agent properly seasoned does not need to be tenderized

Claudia Barillas is not a penname. Claudia Barillas is a young woman who was born and raised in southern California.  She loves when people talk about her, but only when they say good things. Claudia cries when she is sad, angry, frustrated, or embarrassed, and she is almost always frustrated or embarrassed. If you want to make her feel better, or if you just want to read the first two chapters of the story, check out wmadvantage.tumblr.com/

Gary Clark, really took the bull by the Thorns.

No timid Texan, he.  When he judged out last contest, Elvis 101, he sent me an email claiming he would rather castrate a bull with his teeth then to tell the finalists in the contest that they did not [...]]]>

Literati!

Gary Clark, really took the bull by the Thorns.

No timid Texan, he.  When he judged out last contest, Elvis 101, he sent me an email claiming he would rather castrate a bull with his teeth then to tell the finalists in the contest that they did not win.

And for this confession, he got THORNED.  That is the occasional event where the creditor-in-chief takes your most intimate emails, sent in confidence, and broadcasts the on line without the author’s knowledge or consent.  Great sport!

Until now!

I opened a package yesterday from the Clarkster himself.

Twas a seed sack filled with loose nuts.  Actually, a former bull’s seed-sack.  And the following message:

Gary Clark bites off more than he can eschew

So it is only fair that he gets THORNED one more time in response.  Here is the email banter that went back and forth after I opened the package:

“Gary

I just got the cod piece.  Just one question:

Will it stretch?

Hate to think I would have to take a cold shower to get it to fit.  Couldn’t expect you to know my size.

I BEEN CLARKED!!!

Thanks.  We have a writer’s meet-up tonight and I will be sure to spread your infamy.  Tomorrow it will hit the cyberwaves on our site.

bestthorn
faux-cowboy-in-chief”

to which Gary replied:

“you want me to send you the jpg?”

to which I replied:
“Please do.  besides, my own j peg as I mentioned is a little tight in this thing.

So now because of you the is some bull who will never have children.

the poor beast most have gone bullistic.”

to which Mr. Clark replied:

Be afraid!  Be very afraid!

One of our regular writers and volunteers at A Word with You Press, Dante Puccetti, was good enough to send this along for our education and entertainment.  Thanks Dante!

***

Anyone can come up with a list of palindromes. The real challenge is to use them intelligently in published [...]]]>

One of our regular writers and volunteers at A Word with You Press, Dante Puccetti, was good enough to send this along for our education and entertainment.  Thanks Dante!

***

Anyone can come up with a list of palindromes. The real challenge is to use them intelligently in published writing. Can a writer incorporate palindromes (words or phrases that read the same backwards and forwards) in any meaningful and credible way? Or will they remain nothing more than amusing stand-alone oddities?

Here are five suggested uses for palindromes in fiction writing:

1. Place them in the mouth of a social misfit. Anyone who quotes palindromes incessantly in real life (“Go hang a salami, I’m a lasagna hog”) is clearly a person to be pitied. Waiting their moment to spring their new-found witticism upon the unsuspecting audience (“We panic in a pew”), the palindrome bore will never create one of his own and is always oblivious to the drooping eyelids on his hapless victims.

If your novel contains such a nerd, stick a palindrome or two in his mouth and let your readers wince.

2. Use in crime or supernatural genres as a means of filling out a character’s profile. A serial killer who leaves palindromes as his calling card, for instance, may be more memorable than one who merely cuts a lock of the victim’s hair. “Borrow or rob” seems a possible option for such a criminal. Or, perhaps, “Dennis and Edna sinned”, for a nasty double murder.

3. Incorporate into historic works – especially those set in the ancient world. Both Greek and Roman cultures used palindromes. The Sator Square, for instance, confounds scholars to the present day, with over fifty published books or academic articles seeking to explain this four-ways Latin palindrome:

ROTAS
OPERA
TENET
AREPO
SATOR

The words literally mean, “The farmer Arepo uses his plough as his form of work”, and have been discovered etched onto several Roman buildings across Europe. Some have suggested that the graffiti is evidence of an early Christian household – the letters, stretched out, make the phrase PATER NOSTER (“Our Father”) in the shape of a cross, with a spare A and O (representing Alpha and Omega). Alternatively, it has been described as a piece of magical incantation, used in Greek-inspired mystery religion. The word Abracadabra was used in a similar way in the second century as a triangular chant believed to posses healing properties.

Whatever the meaning, the graffiti shows that palindromes were part of the culture of the classical civilizations. Writers locating their stories in those worlds could do worse than slip in the odd back-to-front phrase - if they can create or find one.

4.  Throw into a comedy, or use as part of a comic interlude. Hammy, Pythonesque work may best suit a character tasked with the immortal lines, “Satan, oscillate my metallic sonatas”, or, “Ten animals I slam in a net”. Perhaps a suitable palindromic name (Mike Kim, for instance) might also be appropriate for this individual.

5. Create palindrome poetry. We are indebted again to the ancients, who occasionally came up with such verse. Greek, Sanskrit and Hebrew palindromes have all been discovered – mostly in the form of proverbs or short poems.

Surely, the mother of all niche literature would be to publish your own palindrome poetry, create the blog and monetize the experience through a palindrome product store. Mugs engraved with “A nut for a jar of tuna” (and your logo) are guaranteed to enliven any office.

Perhaps not. The challenge for the palindrome poet, of course, is to get beyond the one-line Napoleon’s Lament, “Able was I ere I saw Elba.”

The English language’s first full-length palindrome novel would, of course, take the art form to the ultimate level and ensure that the writer’s memory would never fade. A reviewer of such a ground-breaking work may, themselves, be tempted to lapse into palindromic praise: “Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?”

Palindrome, Palindrome, where do you ro-am?

(I wonder if the worker bees for the former Governor of Alaska are Palindromes?)

Hard to deny the cathartic palliative of writing.  You write not to change the world, or even events, but your relationship to the world and events.  Vijaya Johthi invites you to keep your writings in an online journal, and to follow her own revelations as well.

Here is a [...]]]>

Hard to deny the cathartic palliative of writing.  You write not to change the world, or even events, but your relationship to the world and events.  Vijaya Johthi invites you to keep your writings in an online journal, and to follow her own revelations as well.

Here is a link to her site, and a very soothing video spoken softly by a very beautiful woman, with a very beautiful passion to create light. myartichokelife.com/valentines-countdown-to-love-tips-for-enhancing-bliss/

She also imparts knowledge from her own teachings, which certainly seems appropriate as Valentine’s day approaches.

Hope you enjoy her.

Heart-achokes are often appeeling

Thanks you contributing pundit Barry Drucker for this…I think.

A Sad Passing