A Word with You Press

Chasing One’s Tale

Diana — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 23:51:59 +0000

In addition to a supportive online community, A Word with You Press hosts Wednesday night get-togethers where authors read, critique, and celebrate their creativity (see Anti-Social Writers and Creative Misfits on Meetup). Wendy Joseph, a participant of these social anti-socials, offers up her two poems that interweave vivid imagery of the animal and the industrial and asks the compelling question, “Do you have the feet for a quicksand hike?”

As always, your constructive comments are appreciated below.

Dog Fool
by Wendy Joseph

A mad dog runs revolutions,
Trying to catch his own tail
Dragons in a barrel, sizzling the sides
A witless, wandering, murmuring fool
Without a scepter or idiot’s crown
Spies a skeletal ruin of steel

Chassis on chassis, rust over all
Iron red railings split the sky
Solitary, lost in his tracks,
Chasing his tail the fool’s unaware
Of the Archer above who watches
The Trident below who waits

Fool dog continues his rounds
Again, missed; missed again
He tries again and misses,
Once more—

A siren breaks into iron song
The dog halts
His tail is gone, forgotten
His ears raise
The fool has heard the dragons cease

In silence he hears the silence rise,
It breaks over him as he breaks through,
And sees Orion watching
Ever protector above, lighting
Neptune’s nets below

The dog fool sits
And hears for the first time
His own life line,
Tugging, shaking, filling,
Soaring silken in the wind,
Circling to rest like a crown

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The High Wind
by Wendy Joseph

Turbulence; a high pitched, roaring bull frog, bear trap,
Reheated slash of dead ends newly lit
Go pack, companion; honed to the bone we go

Turned away from the black grease trail
A full and filthy wandering place
Headlights toward the end
Though its time and place uncertain

Come. Go with me.

Stand moving, fist fistless,
Lower the shroud on yesterday
And halfway on tomorrow

Today’s fog is enough
With a pack of todays, then, come with me,
Human guacamole;
I’ve willed you no harm
The rest the Fates and Disasters will do
Have you the feet for a quicksand hike?

Come. Go with me.

The sand will suck you
Now, tomorrow;
It always runs to catch us

Take a new turn and meet it.
Who knows?
Quicksand could be surprised

Come. Go with me.

Taunt it. Shake your dragon’s tail
Through the monster
Even if caught, the higher wind
Can draw you up, and out

That is why I listen, head up, ears primed
It is not the mountain wind I hear
Close enough to confuse the two
The other wind is blowing

Come. Go with me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Keep your eyes open for Wendy Joseph’s upcoming publication, The Witch’s Hand, from All Things That Matter Press.

Save Room for Dessert

Diana — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 21:33:16 +0000

O, literati, who has not entered an eating establishment and been fascinated with the table-side attentions of the person cheerfully awaiting our every request? Barbara Walker is poised to serve us a delectable bit of light fantasy, rife with romance and shamelessly titillating double entendre in her entry to our Waiting for Wisdom Contest. Read, comment, and give your opinion on what is the standard tip for superior service.

You Can Serve Me Now
by Barbara Walker

I do not like to dine alone. I never know what to do with my hands, while I am waiting. That’s why I take a book along.

I entered an upscale restaurant. If I had to dine alone, I wanted to do it in style. After the hostess seated me, I opened up Erica Jong’s, Fear of Flying. I had read it years ago and wanted a second opportunity to enjoy it.

I felt someone approach the table. I looked up to see my waiter, holding my menu, deeply absorbed in the title of my book.

“May I help you,” I asked.

He chuckled, saying, “I think that’s my line.”

I blushed, then he handed the menu to me, saying, “Marco, at your service.” He gave me a most sexy smile. In fact, he exuded sex appeal. I judged that he was ten years younger than I was, but he had a confident self-assurance that is attractive at any age.

I don’t know what came over me. I am shy when it comes to flirting. I’ve always been a “say it like it is” type of person; except when it comes to flirting. I felt I had never mastered the little female nuances which seemed to come so naturally to my peers. “To say it like it is” when it comes to flirting? That didn’t feel comfortable, either. The result was, if I ever flirted with a man, I wasn’t consciously aware of it.

Therefore, no one was more surprised than I was, when I asked, “And just what services do you provide, Marco?”

Without skipping a beat, he said, “Oh, I mean to please. In fact, that’s my motto. Your pleasure comes first.”

“What do you recommend,” I replied.

“For a discerning woman, such as you, I recommend something meaty, delectable, but firm; perhaps, a rare steak.”

“That sounds perfect! I’m not sure if I want dessert or not,” I added.

“I am off work at 8:30.”

My, he was confident! I was not naïve enough to think he hadn’t done this before our interaction. Thoughts ran through my mind…Oh, I shouldn’t be doing this! Why not, you’re single. Yes, but…But, what? Live a little. You’re only young once. He would be a decadent dessert. I looked at my watch, 8:00. I looked into his beautiful brown eyes. He had a coy little smile on his face.

As I watched him, he began to look a bit uncertain of himself. I smiled again; I find people who are THAT sure of themselves to be repugnant.

“Well, Marco, you better make that steak very rare.”

He gave me a big grin.

“Marco, check, please.”

Hot and Unsavory

Diana — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 01:35:16 +0000

A little touch of this, a pinch of that, and you have the makings of piquant mystery that’s especially delicious when you just know that someone is up to no good. Salvatore Buttaci submitted this 1500-word entry to our Waiting for Wisdom contest to educate us that not all diners–and not all waitresses–are made alike. Don’t forget to leave your comments below and to submit your stories before April 15th (rules & recommendations).

THE BROWN BEAN CAPER

by Salvatore Buttaci

Tammy appeared almost saintly, sizzling burgers casting a dancing gray halo of steam behind her blond head. She pulled free from her “Berg’s Burgers” apron a damp washcloth and dabbed at beads of perspiration, but her jaw and white teeth remained clenched.

“It’s him, Francie. The fat slob in the dark blue suit.”

Both waitresses peered from a narrow wooden slat in Berg’s kitchen door.

“The one eating alone?”

“Yeah, Francie, the fat slob eating alone. Cripes’ sake, he’s the guy who owns The Brown Bean Diner in Garrett. Me and Wally saw him there last week and Trish who waits on tables at Kathy’s Spoon saw him in her place too! Sound weird, Francie?”

“Come on, girls,” yelled an irritated Mo Berg from the kitchen stove where he stood dunking fries in hot scalding oil, “we got a business to run, remember? Tables? Hungry customers?”

Tammy and Francie checked the rotary for dishes hot and ready to serve. Hermides the Haitian cook gave Tammy his usual come-on smile: a flash of three broken yellow choppers. Tammy feigned gagging, a thumb down her open mouth, which started Hermides puckering his dark thick-sausage lips and crooning the “Mmmm Mmmm Good” Campbell’s jingle. Finally Mo said, “Whatta we running here, a talent show? Take the plates and serve already!”

Mark Forbisch, the fat man in the dark blue suit, did own The Brown Bean Diner three towns away, so why, Francie wanted to know, was he eating here at Mo’s? “I mean, look at the guy. I feel sorry for the scale he steps on. And he sticks out like an alien in this place, Tammy. What did he do, eat The Brown Bean Diner dry he needs to go find other food stops to prey on? What the hell’s the story? Anyway, he’s your table. Have fun.”

Tammy wondered if Mo recognized Forbisch. If anyone in the place did. Garrett wasn’t their neighborhood. You had to drive awhile to get to Butterfield Street where, from many blocks away, you could see high above the brown building a giant black cauldron sign “THE BROWN BEAN DINER,” huge letters rising from the jagged red and blue cut-out flames at the cauldron’s bottom.

Butterfield Street was Garrett’s share of I-95 South. Berg’s Burgers, miles away, along with several of the area’s other eateries, also ran along the same highway. But while Mo’s place, Kathy’s Spoon, Hotdog Deli & Grill, Luigi’s Pizzarama, and a Wendy’s had for a long time cashed in on the tourist trade passing through on their way to Savannah, The Brown Bean Diner had not. Some claimed it was the brown beans hardly worth writing home about, and as for the hamburgers there, Wally humorlessly insisted they resembled the worn-down heels of the I-95 homeless.

Tammy was a waitress who knew damn well she had missed her calling. Instead of serving from a Mo’s menu full of greasy heart stoppers, she could’ve been serving crooks like Forbisch a good dose of justice. Instead of aching feet and paltry tips, Tammy could have fared so much better tacking a Private Eye open-for-business sign outside her cracker box house on Laurel Leaf Court that Grandma Dillon willed her. She swore one day she’d dump the apron, give Francie all her night’s tips––every nickel, dime and quarter–and sail off to a new life. But for now she had to nail Forbisch.

She carried the loaded tray to where Forbisch sat pretty much on two chairs, a red cloth napkin tucked beneath his quadruple chin, the edge of a tall glass of ice-cold root beer tilted against his lower lip as he guzzled it down.

Tammy slowly set the fat man’s order down on the round table much too small for his meal.

“Let me knock off the dogs first and the fries,” he said, then burped without apology. “Come back later with the rest, Sweetheart,” then as Tammy turned to go, he added, “Oh, yeah. I heard Mo’s got an onion soup the French would kill for. Bring a big bowl of that too.”

Slobs like Forbisch never say “please,” Tammy thought. Mo could be fingernails scratching down a slate blackboard, but Forbisch? He was the sharp cleaver slicing to red ribbons whoever got in his way.

Once back in the kitchen she noticed Wally had walked into Berg’s Burgers. She tossed a hardly audible psst and he turned his head, smiled, and took a counter seat. “What’s up, Babe? Your text shook me up. I put on my colorblind glasses, skipped through four red ones and here I am.”

“Wally, he’s here.”

Wally raised his head from where Tammy whispered in his ear and searched the fat man.

“Turn around! Don’t look!”

“Okay, I’m not looking. What’s he done this time?”

“So far, nothing, but I need you to take the empty table across from him and without being too damn obvious, start taking pictures.”

Wally smiled. “Another rat across the floor?”

Tammy screwed up her mouth. “Quiet, Wally.”

Trish at Kathy’s Spoon had put Tammy wise. Frobisch had been in the Spoon that busy Saturday night a huge brown rat ran across the tiled floor. With the other diners he had leapt to his feet and made a mad excursion onto the sidewalk. Word about the rat made the rounds until customers stopped coming, and Kathy, who had run a very profitable eating establishment, was forced to close the Spoon down. Days later someone bought the place and opened a used bookstore.

“I can’t be sure it was him,” said Trish, “but a second or two before all hell broke loose, I saw him taking something out of the black gym bag he had sitting next to him at the table.

Tammy had heard days ago that Luigi’s Pizzarama was also cited by the Board of Health for something crazy, something Luigi denied. Was Frobisch there, eating a pizza or two that night? She wasn’t sure, but she’d bet money he was.

“Wally, go grab the table. Keep him on, you hear me?” Wally held his phone now, made a motion to head for his table. “Bring me a ¼ pounder, plenty of bun and no onions.” He smiled and threw her a kissy face quite unlike the one Hermides threw. “Hear that, Babe? No onions…”

The Brown Bean Diner was never a hotbed of business. Few ate there. Tammy wondered if maybe they were loyal relatives of Frobisch or masochists who ate food there as a kind of penance for long-ago sins. What better way, though Tammy, to increase business than to hire a good cook like Hermides, serve good meals, and build up a customer base? But Frobisch chose instead to do battle with the competition so that The Brown Bean Diner would be the only place on the I-95 folks could pull into.

Tammy kept her eye on the fat man. His plates were empty. He was ready now for his two hamburgers and that large plate of Mo’s onion soup. She carried them to his table.

“Will that be all, Sir?”

Blatantly obvious, he let his dark eyes travel from Tammy’s face down the length of her body and back up again, even slower on the return trip. “You’re a pretty one,” Frobisch said. Tammy offered a weak and insincere thank-you smile. Meanwhile, Wally had the slob right there on the little screen, recording his moves. Tammy left a check and headed towards another of her tables.

Frobisch did not touch his burgers, nor did he set a spoon to the onion soup he’d heard so many good-tasting things about. Instead, he reached into the side pocket of his dark-blue suit and removed what looked to Wally to be a small white jewelry box. What he did next exceeded all of Wally’s expectations. He dropped the ugly dead cockroach into the onion soup where it seemed to float and then sink until Frobisch stirred his spoon and again it floated up with the cheese sprinkled on the surface of the soup. Then he jumped up from his seats.

“My God! There’s a cockroach in my soup!”

Tammy ran to his table. Wally sat there bug-eyed looking at the crime on the screen.

Then Mo was there asking, “What happened?” To which Frobisch replied, “What in hell kind of eating place you running here? There’s a cockroach in my soup! You’ll be saying hello to the Board of Health and goodbye to Berg’s Burgers!” By now the place was empty of diners. The fat slob had chased them all away, some running with hands against their mouths, praying not to retch on their way out.

Tammy pulled on Mo’s arm. By now she was holding Wally’s phone.

“Take a look at this, Mo,” she said, flashing the phone under his nose. “Check! Please check this now!”

Mo took hold of the phone while Wally brought it back to where Frobisch removed the little box from his side pocket, removed the dead cockroach, and diabolically dropped it into Mo’s onion soup.

“What the––” began Mo, then, “You some kind of nutso, Mister?” Turning to Francie who was also checking the screen in Mo’s raised hand, Mo said, “Call the cops. They’ll peel this onion until they figure out what’s under all this.” Then to Frobisch, “You got some heavy-duty crying to do, Pal.”

Tammy threw off her apron and walked out of Mo’s Burgers, her hand in Wally’s.

“Think I’ll become a private eye,” she said. “And I could use a sidekick. Whatta you say, pardner?”

~~~~~~~~~

Salvatore Buttaci’s work has appeared widely in publications that include New York Times, U. S. A. Today, The Writer, Writer’s Digest, Cats Magazine, The National Enquirer, Christian Science Monitor, A Word with You Press, Thinking Ten, Pen 10, and Six Sentences. He was the recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award in 2007.

His collection of flash fiction, 200 Shorts, is the new follow-up to his collection of 164 short-fiction stories, Flashing My Shorts. Both published by All Things That Matter Press are available in book and Kindle editions at www.kindlegraph.com/authors/sambpoet

His new book If Roosters Don’t Crow, It Is Still Morning: Haiku and Other Poems: Haiku and Other Poems. tinyurl.com/7ssnzg4

Buttaci lives in West Virginia with Sharon, the love of his life.

Burning the Midnight Oil

Diana — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 00:19:23 +0000

O, literati! At long last, another post for our Waiting for Wisdom contest, this one from Terrie Leigh Relf, who brings us a 100-word entry from the dark side of the solar terminator. Please, kind readers, supply us with your constructive comments, and send in your entries before the extended deadline (April 15–see rules on our announcement page).

All in a Night’s Work

by Terrie Leigh Relf

“Check, please—and work on the titles. Something with more zing.” Tina adjusted her shades, handed me a stack of articles.

She slid ads to Hal and Tom. “Make sure they’re paid up. Check with Jules.”

“Got a minute, Miranda?”

“Of course.”

She dimmed the lights, removed her shades, graced me with a warm, albeit feral, smile. “How’re you holding up?” She took my hands, studied the raw puncture wounds on each wrist. “Get Jules from bookkeeping instead. These need to heal.”

I nodded.

“And Miranda? Keep up the good work. You have a definite future in publishing here at The All-Nighter.”

Toxic Love — and Extended Contest Deadline

Diana — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 18:53:58 +0000

Someone loves us. . .too much: we were hacked again. But thanks to the wonder of technology and the attentive response of our Web site guru, Morgan, we are up and running, happy and healthy. So use the site’s search field with impunity. If you look us up on Google, you may see a notice that we have been compromised; we expect that to be updated shortly. And of course, please report in if you find any new problems. We love it when you care.

Because of our wandering Sullies, the recent interruption by a hacker, and the backlog of contest stories to be posted, we are extending the deadline for our current contest, Waiting for Wisdom, to April 15th. That’s a good day for a deadline, right?

In Thorn’s absence, I’m manning the site and will be posting that backlog of stories. If you do not see your story posted by April 7, drop us a line at info at awordwithyoupress dot com. Speaking of Thorn, keep your eyes open for him. Sightings have come in from North Dakota, Madagascar, and Nashville. Report your sighting in the comments below.

How App-propos!

Diana — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 15:09:07 +0000

On March 30, Forbes posted a little article that you may find of interest about the future of book publishing. Much of this may be old news to our savvy readers; nonetheless, making the news in such a well-known financial publication may sway many who were not yet convinced that digital is the way of the future. Although some of you may object to their photo caption that boldly states: “E-Books Are Superior Tools To Physical Books” (a reference to another of their articles), the trend does seem to be clearly laid out before us.

Read Are Apps The Future of Book Publishing? on their site. . .but then come right back and tell us your thoughts in the comments below.

What is the Opposite of Serenity?

Diana — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 23:07:41 +0000

UPDATE: We are back and healthy!

=================

If you are visiting our site to enjoy a little low gravitas, digital entertainment, then a security alert may just be the antithesis of what you were looking for. If you are imagining bells clanging and red flags waving right now, it’s all in your mind. However, if you should happen to use our search form and a little window persistently pops up asking you “RUN” something from amaroba . . . [rest omitted for your safety] dot com, do NOT run it. Do NOT go to their site.

Run away from it, by closing your browser and closing the evil little window.

Please rest assured that we are investigating and trying to remove this apparent invader. In the mean time, this is a good opportunity to practice good internet hygiene and update all your anti-virus definitions and do a nice, long scan of your hard drive. And don’t forget those backups!

So far, this only seems to occur if you use the Search form, so browsing elsewhere at AWwYP should be okay (once you’ve closed your browser and come back to us–please, come back to us!) If you find any other problems, let us know at info at awordwithyoupress dot com.

Thank you for your continued loyalty and patience.

– The Management

The Tutu Incident, Part 2

Ed Coonce — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 04:33:13 +0000

In the East Hell suburban enclave of Scrumptious Junction, you cannot wear a tutu while riding a scooter. If you’re male, that is. It’ll cause mayhem.
“I was just on my way to the Hello Kitty! shop to get a new pair of tights,” I told the arresting officer. “What’d I do?”
“You’re wearing a tutu,” he said.
“Well, doesn’t everybody?” I asked.
“No. It’s a Class B misdemeanor,” he answered. “With no tights, it’s a Class A.”
He asked me then to take a field sobriety test. He had me do some ballet moves, starting with a barre on the scooter seat, then a quick pas de deux, finishing with a staghorn leap, all to test my response time. It was a bit awkward without tights or orchestral accompaniment, but I kept it together and got off a reasonably good rendition of the second act of “Giselle.” Apparently I passed. Some guy driving by in a Lamborghini honked and gave me a thumbs up.
“Sir, you’re gonna have to take off the tutu,” the officer ordered.
I complied, stashing the offending garment in a plastic bag, said a courteous thank you and rode away in my briefs. This was fine until I reached the Hello Kitty! shop. The security guard at the front door held up her hand.
“Whoa, dude! You need to get some pants on.”
I protested. “A traffic officer just stopped me and made me take off my tutu. What else could I do?” I showed her the tutu in the bag. “Can I put this on and go in?”
She flipped on her two way radio, spoke into it. “Charlie, can you come out here? There’s a crazy guy…yeah….yeah…no. He’s just in his underwear, wants to put on a tutu and go in the store. No, I’m not high. No, really. Yes, a tutu. Go ahead, laugh.”
She was getting a little irritated. “The hell with it, go on in.”
I slipped the tutu over my head, tied the sash and sauntered inside, heading for the dancewear section, wondering why the Hello Kitty! store needed a security guard at the front door.
While browsing the tutu aisle, searching for leopard print tights I’d seen in the catalog, I looked up to find myself just feet away from a familiar figure, Chipmunks for Jesus presidential candidate Mute Gangery, flanked by two Secret Service agents in dark sunglasses. He was searching through the tights, while an attentive sales associate hovered nearby, offering color and style suggestions.
“May I help you?” the sales associate asked me. The ever watchful agents edged my way.
“Uh, yes. I’d like to find some leopard print tights.”
“Why, so would I!” Mute Gangery blurted out.
“Take a look at these,” the sales associate said. She dug into a bin and produced a pair of beautiful cheeta print tights.
“Not leopard, but will cheeta do?”
“Yes!” Mute Gangery and I answered simultaneously.
It turned out that there was only one pair, and it was a large.
Mute looked at me and thought a second. “You can have them. It’s ok.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Absofreakinlutely,” replied Mute, then added, “Don’t forget me at the polls.”
“You got my vote,” I replied. We fist bumped and I headed for the dressing room.

The Tutu Incident Part 2

Ed Coonce — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 18:37:54 +0000

Rumo(u)rs of my death have been greatly exasperated!

Thornton — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 18:58:42 +0000

Good morning from the towers in Oceanside,

I was a little overwhelmed to see all your emails wondering if I had left the planet. Thank, you, all.

You are all teaching the meaning of love, and I can’t possibly tell you how grateful I am for this, to see your concern, to feel your concern for my well being. It was never the purpose of this sight by design, but instead of creating a community, we have created a family. You are mine.

I will give you some detail of why I have been off the site longer than usual, perhaps later on today. But I will give you one hint as to my state of being: I was up at four this morning, and, by candle light, was doing what we all came here to do–write. I have not written anything good in a long time, having had the air sucked out of me by the events of last summer–the suicide of a woman who had been my lover,and the separate loss of a love by my own hand, crash and burn.

We write because it is palliative, among other reasons. I am writing now as if my life depends upon it. My life depends upon it.

I wrote this morning by candle light to be in character with my story, which is a complete re-write of Almost Avalon. Writing is life’s second best pleasure. But I am preaching to the choir.

Me and my pet lobster at Cat Head--the novel I am working on is renamed "Almost Avalon" ( I was gonna name him Bobby, but I don't wanna piss off Gary Clark, who has a pet bull in Texas by that name.)

Yes, I have been busy, and regret that sleep requires so much of the day. I promise to tell you the full story, and I promise to get back to posting stuff and commenting within the next week.

In the meantime, call off the search party.

Oh…and by the way, it is springtime. You can speculate as to where my young man’s fancy has turned. But that’s another story.

love to you all

thorn