(My little town. The number is not population or elevation) Good Morning from the towers that are A Word with You Press I have no idea where this is going. But as I have very few laurels upon which to rest, I thought it would be a good thing if I entered my own contest. …
(My little town. The number is not population or elevation)
Good Morning from the towers that are A Word with You Press
I have no idea where this is going. But as I have very few laurels upon which to rest, I thought it would be a good thing if I entered my own contest. I feel better about the world when I am actively engaged in writing something new. How about you? (Of course… Duh! or you would not be here!)
So I have written a prologue without any notion—yet—of even the premise of the book that I hope will spring from this beginning. And I am asking all of you to do the same. Take the leap of faith that if you start with a prologue, the trickle of words will become a stream, and the stream will become a flood.
Wanna play? The winner gets $250 cash, a Barnes and Noble gift card for $25, any three books from our library (hope to have our store up this week) and the opportunity to get feedback from a growing community of Literati. (Rush may have Ditto-heads, Stephen Cobert may have Nation, JohnMcCain has My Friends, but the narcissist behind the curtain (that would be moi) at A Word with You Press has Literati! (and that would be vouz!)
So for our new contest Once Upon a Time, here is my novel idea:
by Thornton Sully
He was still God, and I was still struggling with my first pair of glasses.
I would listen for the sound of the train at dusk, with the same kind of anticipation that I would feel as a grown man when the headlights of my lover coming up the drive would halo across the kitchen window.
Sometimes my mother would pick Him up at the station; sometimes He would walk. Only when I returned to Old Greenwich in my twenties did I realize that it was but a scant six blocks to our home.
I waited in the open field by the house, tossing a baseball skyward, catching it before it dropped to win the game for the Mets. God would soon be coming up the lane, and would put down His brief case, and toss the ball two, maybe three times. Mine was an elongated first baseman’s glove, so heavy at the end of my arm I was always a little amazed when I caught the ball. God did not need a mitt. He could catch anything bare-handed.
And there He was, walking up the lane after a day in the city where He did whatever it was that gods do. I ran to Him and He picked me up and kissed me on the cheek. He set me down and I put the ball in His hand and ran to my position. I wore my Mets cap; God wore a Fedora.
He eyed the kitchen door, but He was mine for a full five minutes. “That’s it for today,” He said. “It’s getting dark.” I trotted over to give Him another hug. It was only then I noticed something pinned to his lapel. It was a little swab of a sponge, about an inch square.
“Dad, what’s that?”
“Do you remember what an acronym is?”
“Yeah. Of course.” I was proud I remembered. He was always teaching me things like that. Other kids, I was sure, did not have a father like mine, teaching them the details of language and of the world. I was important!
He spelled it out. “S-P-O-N-G-E. That’s The Society for the Prevention of Niggers Getting Everything.”
He twisted the cap on my head affectionately and I followed Him through the back door to the kitchen, where He kissed my expressionless mother on the cheek and poured the first of several bourbons.
That’s what gods do.