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Literati!

                                People who continue to see beauty never grow old.

                                                                                                                                       – Franz Kafka

Merlin was on to something.  At a certain age, King Arthur’s sorcerer decided that with each passing year he would grow one year younger.

I am an American baby-boomer, born in the era of crewcuts and McCarthyism, and I reject the notion that on June 27^th I will become 75—that’s fake news propagated by the Grim Reaper, who is happy to pop open a Bud and fight over the remote sitting beside a couch potato watching Andy of Mayberry reruns.

Is aging is an inevitable linear progression, an incontrovertable reality?  Do you buy into it?  What if buying into it is a choice, and not acquiesence?

When Apple introduced iPhone 17, it retired iPhone 16, which itself made version iPhone 15 obsolete and so on. As Buckminster Fuller said, “You never change anything by fighting the existing reality. To change something, create a new model that makes the old model obsolete.”

And so it is with my perception of aging. My new model is the mindset that each passing year is about regeneration rather than degeneration.

So, on June 27^th I will retire Thorn 7.4 and offer the world a new and improved version: Thorn 7.5, progressing my way up (not down!) to Thorn 10.0, better every year. Choose your own reality; mine works for me.

Suddenly, Freud makes a lot sense: “Immortality is being loved by many anonymous people.”

And, recalling the words of the philosopher Sappho, “Though they are only breath, the words that I command are immortal.”

(My thanks to editing client Buddy Thomas–buddy@superplan.com–for sharing this insight several years ago.)

“May you stay forever young.”

Bob Dylan

And another quote from an author I have forgotten:  “We have all the time in the world…just not enough life in it.”

PS.  Kafka was right.

The post Youth is Wasted on the Young (George Bernard Shaw) appeared first on A Word with You Press.

Literati!

You may have heard me talk about my potential TV show patterned after the late Anthony Bourdain’s highly successful TV series. He traveled the world, ostensibly investigating food culture but ultimately leveraging the opportunity to show the world as he saw it, and what could be discovered once you strayed from the beaten path.

Eric Lasby, the creative genius and editor of Bourdain’s series is partnered with me to continue that tradition, only the Trojan Horse that gets us insides the gates of the city is not food cuisine, but stories.  Finally, with the world in freefall, we have reached critical mass and are soliciting media sponsorship. In these turbulent times, quite literally the show–our shouw–must go on.

I want to share the final version of the short video included in our proposal, which is designed to entice a sponsor to invest in the pilot episode, to be shot in Prague.

What’s your story?

The post The Title Always Comes appeared first on A Word with You Press.

Literati!

Dr. Stan S. Katz is a man of many interests and talents. His love of books led him to open a used/antiquarian bookstore in Southern California, an elephant graveyard where old and discarded books could die in dignity or get new life in the hands of a reader who didn’t mind a few bruised edges.

One afternoon an old suitcase wandered into his store that had the smell of old books and history, and, without opening it to inspect the contents, Stan bought it. When he got around to prying it open, the contents astounded him.

Here were the personal letters, photos, documents, remnants of a journal of the most famous man you never heard of, Colonel Sidney Mashbir. From riding with General Pershing and First Lieutenant Patton in Arizona in the early 1900s, as envoy to Pancho Villa, and later as the creator of a spy network that General MacArthur’s advisors credited with shaving two years off the WWII, to laying the groundwork of the CIA, Mashbir not only witnessed, but shaped pivotal events in American history. Sidney Mashbir was cowboy, soldier, spy, entrepreneur and diplomat.  

That suitcase transformed Stan from reader of books to writer. The Emperor and the Spy: the Secret Alliance to Prevent World War Two, documents the deep friendship he engendered with the heir to the last Shogun of Japan Prince Tokugawa, and their covert efforts that delayed and almost prevented Japan from entering the war aligned to the Axis Powers.

As A Word with You Press begins its 16th year, introduce yourselves to our community and give us a link to you websites or books for sale.

You can read the fascinating story by our good friend Dr. Stan S. Katz at https://theemperorandthespy.com/ and find it for sale on Amazon.

What’s your story?

 Emperor-Flyer-V2

The post What’s in the suitcase? appeared first on A Word with You Press.

Literati,

I have known the author Ed Coonce from the humble beginings of A Word with You Press in our clubhouse in Oceanside, California, fifiteen years ago  Ed and our crew of miscreants– often 30 or us– would meet weekly to share our work over wine and dinner. Ed’s work was often the highlight– unbrideled wit marinated in sarcasm and satire.

But the humor was set aside for this short piece, and to me, writing just does not get any better than this.

***

Summer Night Memoirs

by Ed Coonce

It is 3:33 a.m. and I am nine years old again, exploring the surfaces of a hostile end of summer. The sounds of the season rage around me, the combines harvesting the vast fields of corn, the chitters and caws of the crows, and the droning of the radio downstairs. The news on WIBC is about the launch of the first satellite, Sputnik, into earth orbit.

I am in a strange new house, someone has taken me from my mother, and a cold brunette woman has taken her place. I ask her repeatedly why I am here and when can I go home, and am told she doesn’t know, and not to ask. I feel guilt and sorrow and helplessness at the same time. There is no place in this new life and place where I will fit.

The farm house that shelters me sits across the road from a vast 800-acre field. The air is so clean in these suburbs. At night, there are more stars than I have ever seen, and as time lurches onward, I wonder which one of those constellations is my mother. A social worker is supposed to come visit and check on me every so often, but during my four years in this place, no one comes. I am neglected and beaten more days than not.

The attic is my bedroom. It has one small window where I can look down on the yard next door. I see Norma, my neighbor. She is my age, and in my class at school. She waves up at me and I wave back. One day she invites me over and we play, running under the maples, laughing, and we lay on our backs in the grass, looking at the clouds and telling each other stories. We wonder about the future. I tell her that when I am grown up, I will go to Mars. She wants to be a nurse. We hold hands for a bit, and I tell her I’d better get back in the house soon, or I might get in trouble.

One evening on the way home from grocery shopping, from the window of our 1952 Chevrolet, I watch Sputnik chug across the sky, and wonder who the Russians are, to have accomplished such a thing. Long after the satellite disappears, I bury my consciousness among those stars, marvelling at their brightness, and ask again, which one is the woman who birthed and raised me until she couldn’t? After four years, at 13, I run away, and never go back.

Tonight in Encinitas, sitting near the coast, I see the first flush of firmament, a glittering blanket that stirs those long-forgotten memories. I gaze at the one star I am sure is Norma, and ask her to say hello to my mother. I know they hear me.

***

How about being amoong the first to leave a comment, start a conversation, and send in something of your own?

The post Summer Night Memoirs appeared first on A Word with You Press.

Literati,

A totem is a spritual being that takes the form of an animal that we most identify with, and for me, it is the Gray Whale. My first love was diving, leading to my first career as a commercial diver off the coast of Southern California. While preparing to dive from my small skiff off Catalina Island, I was baptized by the spray of a Gray Whale passing by.

The Tears of God

by thorn sully

When God created the Earth and the Oceans and populated the world with all manner of creatures, He smiled, pleased with himself. But when He created mankind in his own image, He wept, knowing his children would inherit not only his virtues, but his flaws.

The tears that God cried plummeted formlessly through the firmament, but upon plunging into the oceans, they became the great whales, the embodiment of His remorse and humility, to meander unfettered in God’s vast ocean.

When a whale is harpooned, or caught in a fisherman’s net, or stranded on a beach, suffering, we feel a collective sadness.

For are they not the tears of God?

The post The tears of God appeared first on A Word with You Press.

Literati

Prague is such a magical city.  Strolling through the streets one evening a while back I overheard two words of a conversation in English: “Short Story”.  I not only discovered a fellow countryman but a huddle of four writers discussing their latest endeavors. Levan is from Georgia (not the one for which Ray Charles croons and pines, but the OTHER Georgia on this side of the pond) and writes fantasy fiction.  I suspect the entire quartet will be entering our contest (as I hope you do, too) in which you give us only your first 1,000 words to win $1,000.  Details on the home page.  In the meantime, here is

Hextrader: the Cinnamon Prince

by Levan Maniia

 1: The King of Curses

            No matter how wondrous a sight could be, it vanishes like a mirage when a person is in distress. I have learnt that a lifetime ago and the lesson haunts me relentlessly. Once forgotten, it always emerges again, clouding my ability to marvel. So, I never let it fade out of my mind, allowing that ailing wisdom coil around me. At least that knowledge never comes as a surprise.

Unfortunately for me, I was always surrounded by that said wonder. Even my birth was a thing of prophecy. The prophecy that harbored either a blessing or a curse. Among the five continents I am known as a Hextrader, for I barter the curses I carry.

As I rode into Grimminhund I was met by the curious looks of the villagers. It was not every day that a person clad in baggy garments, his head wrapped in a thick layer of cloth rides in on top of a camel covered in a tapestry of shiny and colorful glass bottles. Children would run along my steed, trying to pet him and give him snacks as he strode along the decrepit hovels.

One of the rascals tried to grab on to the blue glass bottle, but the closer his little chubby hand got to the jar, the hotter it became, till it sizzled and gave a white smoke once the skin came in contact with it. The boy recoiled back with a high-pitched wail. It was just enough for the children to show caution about me and Mafuzzail, my camel.

Even in the deepest backcountry of poorest kingdoms of the north my visage was known. As I passed the street, man and woman talked in hushed tones about the Hextrader, an undying wayfarer from the sand dunes of the south.

“I’ve heard he’s seen the fall of the titans.” one of the villagers said.

“He must be ancient!” a woman would whisper back.

“Who could tell with that cloth he wears all the time?” an elder man jumped in.

“How would you know it is a man at all?” a younger girl with golden hair would say, not even looking up from her duties.

She was cursed. I could always tell. It was a malicious one, a hex that would one day erupt and bend her faith into an abominable death. A pity too, she was not even fifteen, unwary of her grim future. It was a powerful curse that only attached itself on the young and weak willed. I could have lifted the curse in a matter of minutes, but one thing I learned throughout my travels, you cannot save everyone.

The man who summoned me was standing in front of the largest building around. I assumed it was a sort of town hall. It was also one of the more lavish looking houses. The man I saw next to the hall was of an age that any man would be surprised to live up to. His skin was so wrinkled and sagged, that when he moved, it wobbled like a turkey’s wattle. He was seated in a large wooden chair with handles underneath it. Two strong looking young men stood beside him and, judging by their wide muscly arms, they carried the chair with the old man in it.

His face was expressing profound disgust as he watched me dismount. I was used to it. For simple people I was as bad as a witch who places a curse. I have been attacked, shunned and spat on by people like him, but they could never refuse my services.

“I thought you would never show up, Hextrader. It’s been three years, since I’ve sent my request.” he said, chewing on tobacco leaves.

“I am her now, Elder.” I responded, tightening the tagelmust over my face.

“Let’s go inside.” he croaked, flicking his finger, which triggered the younger men to pick him up in his chair.

I left Mafuzzail outside, without tying him up. The beast knew better than to disobey me. As I walked in, I saw the footprints of the curses that used to live in the walls of the house. They were all minor, something a villager says when breaking his back in the fields. One or two such curses would account for nothing, but there were hundreds of them. Evil men and lords tend to accumulate a great number of hexes from the tongues of their victims and serfs.

The place itself was adorned by the tapestries of old. One of them I saw being woven in front of my eyes some three hundred years ago by the infamous seneschal Durante of the Moratorre Castle; a most shrewd man with the insatiable taste for any kind of art. It was a pity to see such a beautiful depiction of the Castle’s siege rot and fade in the middle of nowhere.

While I was captivated by the intricate stitching of the gobelin, Elder managed to arrange some scarce supper for the waning day. I was offered a seat and a meal, but I rarely ate anything I didn’t hunt myself. Even if I did, the bread looked days old, the meat reeked of salt, and vegetables dried like they were left in the sun for days. I refused to even touch a goblet with ale. I would not be surprised if the Elder spat in it himself with the black bile he had accumulated after chewing tobacco.

“I hope your travels were uneventful. These parts are teaming with brigands and vagabonds of all sorts.” he said, trying some of the ale, choking on it and giving one of his servants an evil eye. I could have sworn I saw a smirk on the face of the boy as soon as the Elder turned away.

“I met some on the road.” I replied.

“Did you dispose of them?” he blubbered between the coughs. I have always liked small talk and tried to engage in it as much as possible. Many times, such exchanges revealed concealed truths.

“Do you see a weapon on me? I am no warrior. I paid the toll.”

***

The post Hextrader: the Cinnamon Prince–entry # 4 in our contest appeared first on A Word with You Press.

Literati

Here is a story written by a young author you’re sure to hear more from.  His first novel, Clearton City Tales, is being shopped to an agent.  Generation X’s answer to Sherlock Holmes with a twist of Lou Reed.

Enter for your own chance to win $1,000 by scrolling back to the home page for details.  Here is

1. Comancheria-1836

            She shivered awake from a chill. She knew the land by heart and that which she did not know she discovered for herself. An ambassador of hostile Comanche territory, a red-tailed hawk roamed. Against a cloudless blue sky, she would float, innocent to the impending violence. Her plumage fluttered like piano keys played by gusts of warm wind. Dust that stuck to her coal colored breast during her last brush against the earth trickled off like glitter and left her spotless. From afar her backside appeared black but intimately she sported a color scheme consistent with her habitat. Burnt blackness at the base of each feather leaked into smoke gray and ashen-white. From her fist-thick neck down her spine a hazy sunset red tail existed, which threatened to go pink in her youth but bled instead. Hence her name.

Glazed by sunlight, her brown eyes searched for oblivious rodents dug into the prairie while her talons expanded and contracted, snatching at the empty air. Her stone solid bill hung like a hook on its end and she licked it, savoring the idea of consuming the next victim.

That early morning, a particularly taxing wind blew. A large murmuration of tiny starling crossed her airspace weaving shapes unique in their swarms, oscillating as they blew southward to warmth. To survive. Squawking, thousand-like in their echoes, hover for minutes afterward. Winter would breathe itself into the environment and the animals took notice.

The hungry, bothered red-tailed hawk settled into a nose dive the instant she locked on to a burrowing, ‘oh, shit, she’s coming for me,’ rabbit. Before the mature, and thicker than average, beige hip-hopper could regret its decision to ponder the nearby dust-ridden creosote; it’s gutted by a strike of the hawk’s bill. Her hook cut a mortal tear across the rabbit’s small, beating heart and blood gushed out to confirm her kill. With her twitching talons she reached into the rabbit’s backside, piercing its skin and fat and she then dragged it across the ground enough to clobber his insides to mush. She released the body and it smacked the ground as she made one more swoop above ground to show off, and settled by her grub shortly afterward to pick at and swallow. A raw strip of meat dangled from her clasped bill before she slurped it up.

Then the floor rattled. Not tectonic, but invasive nonetheless. An orchestra of incoming violence. Rocks would hop up in the air, sometimes catching each other on the way down. Insects would sprint into invisible crevices. A heavy cloud of sand rose from behind a distant hill. Commotion didn’t normally interrupt her feast, but she’s alert in case she has to protect it.

Then, louder, like a growing applause, the roaring began. For a moment everything watched the western horizon as figures mounted on equine beasts appeared out of the wet desert blur. Swallowing what guts remained, she paid no attention. The deceased rabbit’s eyes locked into an unsettling stare, fixated by death.

These beings, they appeared like phantasms materialized from dust. Their adobo red skin thick as bark, tough like leather. Their faces expanded by their furious expression into masks of Spartan ferocity. Muscles pronounced, worn by use, lived in and tough. And the eyes, daunting to stare into, black as their hair, providing them unblinking focus.

She launched into the sky to avoid the stomping; she watched and waited for the hunt to end.

Representatives of these Prairie plains, residents of the Comancheria, a group of ten Comanche hunters chased a desperate herd of bison.

A hard-faced warrior with his face painted half green and half black sat atop a copper stallion. He led a small chestnut horse where two naked teenaged white men laid on their stomachs. Their asses burned in the sun and their dazed minds could only make sense of the ruckus by the noise. This warrior held his position as the rest bore on.

Dozens of bison pounded away, some scattered, some resigned, and the hysteric hunters that rode among them had their arrows ready and released by the dozen, and spears at the ready, locked awaiting thrusts. Hooves everywhere. Shrouded by bedlam. The wooden, stone tipped weapons flew against the rising sun, sorting the buffalo into ruts of land where they finished, dead. Helpless grunts emanated from the growing cape of insanity of the hunting ground. The Comanche hollered, chanted, screamed amidst their thrusting and killing and claiming. Their rabid hunt cut down half the herd.

One buffalo rose higher than the rest, a spear dug into its back and arrows protruded from its body. It wouldn’t succumb to the fatal commands of human instruments. A young, slender, pale, almost pink, warrior with an unpainted face dropped off his horse and ran to the hardened buffalo. The arrows ceased. The sky cleared. This warrior, whose name was Hakan, breathed as if still in battle, his chest expanded and his ribs breaking out from his skin. He circled the animal. His dark eyes oozed determination. The buffalo calmed with his presence. Hakan approached the animal. The buffalo sniffed, inspecting and approving the earth into which he’d descend. The young warrior laid his head against a clean spot on the bison’s neck and threaded his hand through the animal’s warm, dry, thumping mane, speaking to the disappearing buffalo in a prayer designed for the two of them. The sun rose and waited. Bunches of shapeless clouds stood still, watchful not to interrupt the spectacle. The hawk hovered and watched, too.

The warrior’s prayer grew quieter, softer. The warrior blew into the bison’s ear, soothing, calming, his hand caressing, still, softer, numbing. And it took one slit, a scalping knife to the underside of the buffalo’s neck. It tore through hair and flesh and muscle and cartilage and spilled like a wet rag, squeezed of its moisture. A tough cut for anyone, but this warrior ceremoniously vanished his prey.

***

***

Jose Monroy was born and raised in Guatemala, moved to the United States for college to get a degree in Film/TV/Digital Media and currently live in Los Angeles working as a worldwide sales manager for New Films International.

Synopsis:

A Comanche Indian named Hakan escapes his tribe with a prisoner, a half dead bandit whose brother was killed in a sacrifice. Both of them meet up with Esther, an exceptional cartographer who plans to map the west until she can’t anymore. The three travelers encounter crazed Spanish priests, heartless Texas rangers, an alchemist with an interest in gunpowder and the Devil himself, a real estate agent who steals land, and many other eccentric characters. Their violent trek from Houston to the Pacific ends the only way a trailblazing adventure like this can: with one big question. Is that all there is?

The post Comancheria-1836…Our second entry in our $1,000 competition appeared first on A Word with You Press.

“Consider your story as vapor imprisoned within a magic lantern, and the editor, once he gets his hands on it, rubs until the genie materializes from the haze.”

Literati!

As promised. I will now begin posting the many entries into our first Literary Award of Excellence competition:  A Thou$and Reasons to Write. The rules are simple: submit EXACTLY 1,000 words to your unpublished fiction manuscript, memoir, poetry or screenplay, and the entry that most inspires us to read further wins a thousand bucks (that’s USD!)  Entry fee is $20, but reduced to $15 if you order Fire in the Belly: How to write your novel with Purpose and Passion for 2.99 on Amazon and post on the top in your submission a line from the book, as this author has done.   buy here

We’ll post your 1,000 words, a synopsis and author bio.  Full details are found here: https://awordwithyoupress.com/awwyp-literary-award/

Here is our first entry.  I will tell you what I think in the comments below, and I hope you do the same.  Here ya go.

Legend Blues

by R.F. Marazas

Maggie’s voice echoes: Don’t come back here, don’t ever come back!

The Fifties are half gone and Brad Chance hurries after three years of self-imposed exile. He leaves the post and drives as if the Army’s chasing him because they changed their minds about his discharge; nonstop except for gas, coffee, and restroom breaks, due northwest through Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New York State. Radio on, volume up; dial twisting until he finds jazz, twisting when the station fades. Radio sounds clash with music in his head, culled from hours hunched over a piano. Notes on paper jammed into his Army duffel, title scrawled across the top sheet. First Movement: Blues For Someone. Jazz suite for orchestra.

Route 59 westbound begins. He crosses the Axton County line, shoulders and neck knotted, staring at the dusk-shrouded yellow line. The Painted Bridge sign looms. Brad fights the urge to turn right, as he pictures the sharp curve down Lambert Hill Road that flattens and narrows to one lane across the covered wooden bridge. Bridge Street will be grimy, empty storefronts and row houses showing years of neglect, the sign above the bar faded by dirt and bad weather. If he stopped he might glimpse Maggie Chance behind the bar through the wavy glass in the door. Worse, she might see him.

He cranks the window down, grateful for the wind roar muffling her scream. He accelerates, through Oak Falls, West Oak Falls, Bandireo, but slows in Setonsville. Buffalo lies an impossible ninety miles away. He can’t do this. He turns onto Alfalfa Avenue, drawn by restaurant and bar lights, and eases to the curb past a bus stop. A block away a hotel sign blazes five floors above the street. Forest Hotel. He slumps, engine idling, eyes closed, and waits for his chest to stop pounding.

What’s wrong with you? Isn’t there another way to Buffalo? Did you have to drive past Painted Bridge? Don’t worry, Maggie, I’m not home, just a ghost passing through.

He can’t remember ever feeling he was home.

Steve McClint nurses a beer in the Forest Hotel lounge while he waits for Helen Hornell. Steve feels down because the band still sounds off, the bandleader is moody, and Steve has conflicted thoughts about his relationship with Helen.

Steve sees the kid, framed in the doorway between the lounge and lobby. He wears slacks, a sharp sports jacket, a white shirt, a tie, mirror-polished shoes. His light brown hair is a military crew cut. He carries an Army duffel bag and a trumpet case. He moves to the front desk to check in.

Steve shakes his head. Fate? Talk about omens. Did somebody send us a trumpet player? 

Helen replaces the kid and pauses to hold the railing as she steps down three stairs. Great smile, straw blonde hair, good legs, enough to chase the kid from Steve’s thoughts. They fall into the routine they’ve perfected since high school, a bantering how-was-your-day patter. Where are they having dinner? He needs to avoid the many faces they both know. He spent all afternoon with the band and they frustrate him. Helen doesn’t care as long as they’re alone. Steve wants her alone, no ritual laughter and grabassing, some serious talk about where they’re headed with each other.

Now, while he has courage. But he spots the kid back in the doorway. Helen follows his gaze and her lips part. Steve recognizes her something-about-him look. Did he look the same when he first saw the kid? He wonders if wherever Helen’s headed, she’s going alone.

The kid glances at Steve’s guitar case and picks a stool around the bar curve, close enough for conversation. He orders a beer, loosens his tie and undoes the top shirt button, drags fingers through his hair, takes a long swallow, and lights a cigarette. Fidgety, charged, reluctant to make eye contact. Steve thumbs his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and tries to get the kid’s attention. Helen stares. The kid looks up, wary, ready to bolt.

Steve can’t let it go. “Long day?”

The kid pauses and clears his throat. “Long drive. Tired.”

“Where you headed?”

“Buffalo.”

Steve points at the kid’s cigarettes. The kid nods and slides the pack and lighter along the bar. Steve shakes one out and orders two more beers. “What’s in Buffalo?”

“Looking for a job. I’m a musician.”

“Yeah, I noticed the trumpet. Steve McClint.” He leans forward, his hand out. “Most people call me Mac. And this lovely thing is Helen Hornell.”

The kid shakes hands and nods at Helen. “Uh, Brad Chance.”

“So, you on to something in Buffalo?”

Brad’s expression darkens. “Nothing definite, guys in the Army told me Buffalo was wide open, lots of bands looking for people.”

“You in the Army band?”

“Three years stationed in Maryland and DC, but I sat in off duty every chance I got. I can play jazz.” Defensive. He finishes his beer and jams cigarettes and the lighter into his jacket pocket. Barstool scrapes the floor as he stands.

“Do I know you?” Helen asks.

Mac looks at her. “What kind of lame come-on is that? For shame!”

Brad freezes. “No.” He ducks his head and hurries away.

Helen is puzzled. “Was it something I said?”

Mac calls, “Hey Brad!”

Brad pauses in the doorway but doesn’t look back.

Mac breathes deep. What the hell am I doing? “You want a real job get on 59, that’s Main Street, head west through Axton toward Buffalo, you’ll see a college on the right. Club Cool’s left on a rise, you can see the sign from the highway. The owner is Andreas Pelleactis, I work for him. He happens to be looking for a trumpet. Imagine that. I’ll tell him you’ll be there about noon. A little break on your way to the big city, won’t cost you too much time.”

Brad stalks out. Mac’s irritated with himself for wanting the kid to stay. Something about him.

***

Synopsis of Legend Blues:

Discharged from the peacetime Army, Brad Chance wants fame as a jazz musician and an escape from his past. Despite the danger of discovery, he settles near his hometown and auditions for a local band. As his reputation grows, he’s torn between seeking success and having his past exposed. Just when his new friendships and a love interest relax his defenses, a revenge fire set by a rival at the club where he works, and a close encounter with his past change his life. He leaves for a large city to work with another band. Once again he builds a solid reputation, but because of his naivete and betrayal by those he trusts most, his life spirals downward into a haze of drugs and wasted talent.

Returning to the town where he started, he tries to rebuild his life but falls into his old habit of hurting the people who care for him. Still haunted by his past, he continues to probe it for answers. Relationships with three women and old enemies complicate his renewed dedication to his music. A death in a car crash, for which he shares the blame, devastates him and drives him from the town again. Years later, when he returns on a whim for the third time, he realizes he must face his past, his demons, and the friends and lovers he’s hurt, and try to salvage what’s left of his reputation and his life.

Author Bio:

R.F. Marazas won first place and tied for first in two novel contests, for his unpublished novel titled Legend Blues, and published short fiction and flash fiction in ten anthologies and online and print venues.

The post Legend Blues…our first entry in A Thou$and Reasons to Write appeared first on A Word with You Press.

Literati,

Words are connective tissue. I believe in their power and beauty to bind us to one another. Words can transform events, can transform the lives of readers.  Here’s a proposition that may very well transform the life of a skillful writer. Might that be you? I am pleased to announce our first annual

Literary Excellence Award

A Thousand Reasons to Write

A thousand words could earn a thou$and dollar$

Demand our attention! With just your first 1,000 words, pull us in and don’t let go. The guillotine falls exactly at 1,000 words so make each word matter. (Title and author-identification excluded from the word-count.)

Open to all unpublished manuscripts or works-in-progress of fiction in any genre, including memoir, poetry or screenplay. The entry that most inspires us to read further wins $1,000, a plaque commemorating your achievement, and a complimentary professional overview of your manuscript, normally offered at $2 per page. Oh…and bragging rights!

Send your best as an attachment to thorn@awordwithyoupress.com

We’ll post each entry on our website and include a synopsis and author bio. This is a great way to build your platform, and winning will up your chances of snagging an agent or publisher.

First submissions will be posted in mid-September, and the contest closes November 1rst. All submissions will be posted by November 15th, and the winner announced November 25th–Thanksgiving!  Cash prize delivered via Paypal by December 1rst.

Entry fee is 20 bucks. Send no money now; we’ll bill you after we post your entry. If you order Fire in the Belly: How to write your novel with Purpose and Passion for 2.99 on Amazon. buy here ,we’ll reduce the entry fee to $15. Simply write any sentence from deep in the book on the top of your submission to have the discount apply.

We hope that by sharing your work you’ll inspire others to do the same, helping us expand a vibrant community of writers. Limit synopsis to about 100 words, same with the bio.  Include a jpg of your handsome/beautiful face if you’d like to share it.

Publishing rights:  By submitting your work, you are giving AWwYP the right to publish your work on this site and one-time rights in hard copy and/or eBook, after which all rights revert back to the author.  We reserve the right not to publish anything that is sent to us.

Format:

• MS Word compatible (.doc or .rtf; please do NOT use docx, as some of our editors do not use Word for PC)
• Double-spaced
• 12-point Times New Roman font
• Title, author at top (will be displayed if published)
• Author email and contact info (will not display)
• Optional: link to your website and a request to post link at the end of your story.

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