Tag: books

Special of the Week

“It’s cold as a witch’s teat out there,” Jimmy “Fastball” Burns exclaimed as he bustled through the main entrance of Everybody Rides used car lot, passing out cheeseburgers, fries, and steaming cups of coffee.

“I ain’t never seen a cold spell like this in the middle of December.”

“You got that right!” agreed Sam Jenkins, also known as Sam “Batboy” Jenkins.

Buzz “Homerun” Renfro took a sip of coffee. “Why don’t you two yahoos shut up and pass me some fries before they get cold.”

J.J. “Coach” Moran, the manager, looked at the three salesmen with mild disgust, the way a father would look at his rambunctious children. “Why don’t all three of you quiet down so I can finish this here book on Joe DiMaggio, the greatest baseball player who ever lived.”

Everybody Rides was the budget used car lot of the mega-dealership, King of the Road Jaguar, Chrysler, Dodge, Kia, Daewoo. In automobile sales, this was the bottom of the barrel. The good used cars were on display in a paved lot adjoining the new car dealership. Everybody Rides was located two blocks from the other lots. King of the Road owner, Wild Bill Hancock, didn’t want a car lot that proudly displayed in bright red letters under its name—NOTHING OVER $3995 and YOUR JOB IS YOUR CREDIT— to be too closely associated with the classier side of his business. As an added punishment, Everybody Rides had to stay open until 10 p.m. while the rest of the dealership closed at 9:00 p.m.

If an outside observer were to come to the conclusion that Coach had a thing for baseball, he or she would be right on the money.

He had coached Little League baseball for over thirty years and never had a winning season. But to hear him tell it, he had always been one hit or pitch away from baseball glory.

The only sounds in the office that evening were the four men inhaling their supper as they chewed, gulped, and belched their way down to the last French fry. Each man had his own story of what brought him to this place. Coach had successfully managed the upscale used car lot for ten years before he punched out an opposing Little League coach who happened to be the cousin of Wild Bill Hancock. The others were exiled to Everybody Rides for different reasons, and in keeping with his passion for baseball, Coach had given each of his “players” a nickname.

Jimmy “Fastball” Burns had been the leading Dodge truck salesman for three years in a row. Nobody knew more about pickup trucks than he did, and nobody could close a truck sale as quickly. Unfortunately, Fastball decided to celebrate his third divorce by driving off in a brand new loaded Dodge Club Cab that he hadn’t cleared with the manager. With a fifth of Jim Beam riding shotgun, he totaled both the truck and his sales career.

Sam “Batboy” Jenkins was a wiry fellow with nervous eyes. Coach had given him that name because, as he frequently reminded him, “Boy, you ain’t even in the game. You can’t score if you don’t get to the plate.” Coach used to call him Third String, but after three consecutive months at the bottom of the sales ladder, demoted him to Batboy.

Sam was the only one of the four men who had never been married. He had allegedly had only two dates, and one didn’t count—the occasion of his senior prom when he paid his next-door neighbor, Debbie Ann Muskgrove twenty dollars to accompany him. Rumor had it that he offered to pay her another five dollars for a goodnight kiss. The truth was that Debbie Ann told Sam the only part of her he could kiss for five dollars was her ass.

Before Buzz “Homerun” Renfro was exiled to Everybody Rides, he was the leading salesman at King of the Road for three years running. Then he hit a homerun of a different sort with Wild Bill Hancock’s personal secretary at the annual office Christmas party who also turned out to be Wild Bill’s secret Santa.

Coach was married to his second wife. Fastball was, as he liked to put it, currently “playing the field. Buzz, also divorced, was heavily involved with Darlene, a former dancer with Sand and Sun Cruise Lines. She was presently employed as senior nail technician for The New You Salon.

Buzz and Darlene had been together for more than a year and, although he had told no one, he was planning to pop the question on New Year’s Eve.

Leaning back in an office chair with his feet propped up on his desk, Buzz fingered the gold-plated money clip in his left front pocket that secured the five one hundred dollar bills he had saved to buy Darlene’s engagement ring. He smiled in anticipation of her excitement. No one could get as excited as Darlene. Buzz’s daydream was abruptly interrupted by the grating voice of Fastball.

“Customer on the lot. It’s your turn, Renfro,” he bellowed.

Buzz lit a Marlboro Light and peered out the office window into the cold, black December night. Who would be looking for a used car at 8:45 on a cold Saturday night? Blowing a spiral of smoke rings toward the ceiling, Buzz said, “Why don’t we give them a few minutes to see if they are really serious.”

Without taking his eyes off the page he was reading, Coach took charge of the situation. “Batter up, Buzz. Get your ass out there and into scoring position. Batboy, you’re in the on-deck circle.”

Batboy grinned at Buzz. “I done taken a peek, Homerun. I can tell from here, she ain’t much to look at and more’n likely she ain’t got no money. Them two kids means she ain’t got no man, which means she ain’t got no money, which means you ain’t gonna make no money. Comprendes, amigo?”

Buzz blew another series of smoke rings toward the door. “Two things, Batboy. First, I’m not your amigo, and second, can you Comprendes that?”

Zipping up his parka, Buzz ground out the remnants of his cigarette in the ashtray, closed the door behind him, and stepped out into the cold night.

___

Agnes was cold. Not just from the threadbare parka she was wearing, but cold deep inside, down in her bones. She felt like her heart was almost frozen shut— like it was barely beating. The only thing on this freezing December night that gave her any warmth was her son, Kenny, and her daughter, Sonja. And they gave her just enough to keep her going a while longer. Ten years seemed like a lifetime ago when she up and married their father, a truck driver twenty years her senior. They met at the small mountain top café where she had worked as a waitress. Harold had promised her the good life, but what he had given her was too many years of misery. He finally left her and the children two years ago with unpaid bills and no goodbyes.

Agnes wasn’t a woman given to bitterness, she was just tired. Somehow, having Kenny and Sonja made the misery worth the trouble. At eight and six, they were still young enough to make up the difference between the poverty and hopelessness with a few well-practiced dreams, the most recent being what Santa Claus might bring them. At least, Sonja had that dream. Agnes wasn’t sure about Kenny. He acted happy enough, but she had seen the sad, uncertain look in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

Working two jobs, one at a nursing home and the other at Taco Bell, didn’t provide much of a life. They had been evicted from their apartment for unpaid rent three days after her truck had been repossessed. Agnes had no illusions about her chances of getting the salesman walking towards her to sell her a car for a fifty-dollar down payment, but fifty dollars was all she had.

___

“How do you do, Ma’am? You gotta a couple of fine-looking children. Name’s Buzz Renfro. What can I do for you?”

Agnes looked at the salesman for several moments before she spoke. “Mr. Renfro, my name’s Agnes Davis and these here are my children, Kenny and Sonja. We are in great need of a reliable vehicle.”

“Yes ma’am. Well, you’ve come to the right place because reliable is our middle name. Every vehicle we sell has undergone a 21-point inspection.”

“Mama,” Sonja interrupted, “I’m hungry!”

“Hush Sonja, we’ll get something to eat when we finish our business with Mr. Renfro.”

Dropping her head at the tone of reprimand in Agnes’s voice, Sonja buried her face in Kenny’s jacket.

“Tell you what kids, how ’bout candy bars and cokes on me while your mother and I check out the cars,” Buzz offered, pulling three one dollar bills out of his pocket.

“I couldn’t let you do that, Mr. Renfro,” Agnes protested.

“I ain’t hungry anyway,” Kenny added, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket.

“Well, I am,” Sonja exclaimed, peering from behind the folds of her brother’s jacket.

“Hey, I insist,” Buzz responded. “Besides, you’ll be warm inside. Ask for a Mr. Moran when you get inside. He’ll show you where the goodies are.”

Agnes relented and Kenny took the three dollars and Sonja by the hand and proceeded toward the office. Buzz lit another cigarette as he and Agnes stood watching the vapor trail of Kenny and Sonja’s breathing as they made their way toward food and warmth.

“Now, Mrs. Davis, what would you like to look at? We only have about an hour until we close.”

Agnes’ eyes escorted her children into the office. “Mr. Renfro, I’m going to be honest with you. I’m in desperate need of a vehicle. I have two children, two jobs— if I can come up with transportation— nowhere to live, and fifty dollars in my right coat pocket.”

Buzz took a deep draw from his cigarette before he spoke.

“Ma’am, please don’t take this the wrong way, but it sounds to me like you need a lot more help than just a vehicle— at least more help than I can give you. You need to get hold of some area churches or the Human Services Department or something like that. Besides, the cheapest vehicle on our lot requires a down payment of several hundred dollars. Maybe you ought to call your family.”

Agnes turned her head slightly to compose herself. “No offense taken, Mr. Renfro. Don’t have no family, but I’ll figure something out.”

She took a deep breath and extended her hand. “I want to thank you for the kindness you showed my children. I’ll be fetchin’ them now.”

“Well, Ma’am, at least let me get you a hot cup of coffee.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Agnes replied as she walked toward the office, leaving Buzz to ponder the crisp night air.

“Hellfire,” Buzz muttered to himself. “Why do I always have to get the hard-luck customers? Life’s tough for everybody.”

He could see Kenny’s and Sonja’s faces peering out of the office window as their mother approached them and thought to himself, Where will they go? What’ll happen to them? What does it matter to me? It don’t.

 All Buzz had on his mind was the wad of cash in his pocket and Darlene. He popped a piece of chewing gum into his mouth and pretended to check the cars on the lot. He also pretended it would be less embarrassing for Agnes and her kids if he waited until they left.

Buzz watched as Agnes and her children made their way across the car lot toward the bus stop on the corner. As they started to cross the street, Sonja turned and waved to him and shouted, “Hey Mister! Thank you for the candy. I hope you have a Merry Christmas!”

It was at that precise moment that Buzz Renfro went temporarily insane.

He might as well have been hit by a meteor from outer space. The gold-plated money clip in his pants pocket seemed to turn white hot. He felt dizzy, his knees buckled slightly, and even with the chill of the night air, he could feel a bead of sweat break out on his forehead.

Somewhere between Sonja’s “Merry” and “Christmas,” something— some great mystery traveling faster than the speed of light—had penetrated Buzz Renfro and knocked him senseless. In that moment, the fake gold nugget ring on his right hand ceased to exist. Even the image of Darlene became little more than a dancing shadow. Buzz was pulled out of himself into a place he had never been before. It was as if he was having an out of body experience, observing himself running toward Agnes and her two children who were standing under the streetlight, waiting on the rest of their lives.

As he ran, his mind was saying stop, but his legs weren’t listening.

When he caught up with them, Buzz bent over and grabbed his knees, breathing heavily.

“Mr. Renfro, are you all right?” Buzz took a deep breath, sucking the cold air into his lungs. “Yes ma’am, I believe I am. It just occurred to me that we might have a vehicle suitable to your needs.”

“But I told you, I only have….”

Buzz interrupted her, “I forgot to tell you about the special of the week. If you could use a 1992 minivan, you could drive it away tonight for no down payment and one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Agnes’ eyes widened.

“Say yes, Mama. Say yes!” Sonja exclaimed, jumping up and down as Kenny looked on silently.

“Yes,” Agnes said, her face freed up by the hint of a smile, the first she had felt in weeks.

Agnes with her coffee and Kenny and Sonja with their hot chocolate waited in the customer lounge while Buzz filled out the paperwork.

Batboy shook his head. “I would’ve bet a month’s pay that lady wouldn’t have two cents to her name. Can’t believe she’s got the cash for the down payment.”

“Well, believe it,” Buzz replied as he signed the last of the finance forms.

Draining the last of his coffee, Coach looked solemnly at Buzz and cleared his throat. “Well, Homerun, it wasn’t one of our better units— certainly not of home-run caliber, but I will give you an infield hit.”

Buzz handed Agnes the keys. Even Kenny seemed excited. Not like Sonja, but at least pleased. Looking at the keys in her hand, Agnes didn’t say anything. Instead, she put her arms around Buzz and placed her head on his chest. He didn’t know what else to do so he hugged her.

As the minivan left the lot of Everybody Rides, all Buzz could see was the smiling face of Sonja pressed against the rear glass window. Her smile went right through him. His fingers grazed the empty money clip. It wasn’t hot anymore. And he knew Darlene probably wouldn’t be coming down his chimney on Christmas Eve.

Opening a fresh pack of cigarettes, Buzz looked up at the glittering stars and said to no one in particular, “Merry ‘hotdamn’ Christmas.”

About the Authors

Michael Braswell: A former prison psychologist, Michael Braswell taught ethics and justice issues at East Tennessee State University. He has published books on moral issues, ethics, human relations and counseling as well as four short story collections. His most recent books are The Light that Remains: Stories of War and Consequence, When Jesus Went to the Cracker Barrel, and Gracious Plenty. His website is michaelcbraswell.com

Scott Braswell: Director for Marketing and Social Media for the School of Pharmacy at the University of Washington in Seattle, he received his M.A. degree in Creative Writing from East Tennessee State University. He has held previous positions in Communication, Social Media and Marketing including at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, North Carolina State University, and Hearst Media. He is the coauthor of Morality Stories.

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The Road South

July 1863, Mount Locust, Mississippi
Based on a true story

Paris Martin paused to straighten his broad shoulders made strong by years of fieldwork. He wiped his brow and swept his eyes over the plantation.

On the surface, everything seemed the same. The Chamberlain’s house, an inn for travelers on the Natchez Trace, stood on its knoll. Cotton fields stretched across the landscape, shimmering with heat. Cicadas droned from the woods, and a red-tailed hawk circled lazily overhead. Paris breathed in the familiar smells of damp earth and mule sweat from the nearby wagon yard.

Yet beneath it all, something had shifted. Travelers staying at the inn had relayed some startling news. Vicksburg had fallen and Yankee troops had occupied Natchez. Enslaved people were escaping across the region and finding refuge behind Union lines. Most astonishing of all, Black men could enlist in units of the United States Colored Troops, putting on uniforms and carrying rifles.

At twenty-two, Paris had spent his entire life at Mount Locust. Every mound, stream, and stand of trees was familiar to him. Yet now his thoughts drifted toward Natchez beyond the southwestern hills, where an unfamiliar life seemed suddenly possible.

“If you stare hard enough, maybe it’ll come walking over here.”

Paris turned and found his brother Anthony grinning at him from the next row in the cotton patch. Lean and quick on his feet, Anthony carried an irrepressible smile that hardship never managed to erase.

“What will?”

“Natchez.”

“That’s foolish.”

“So is standing in the sun daydreaming.”

Paris chuckled. Anthony always found humor, even on the hardest days. Their mother used to say that if the world ended, Anthony would ask whether there might still be supper afterward. She had needed that kind of laughter since their father died.

“I’m not daydreaming.”

“Then you’re thinking about something solid.”

“Maybe.”

Anthony lowered his voice and glanced toward the far end of the field.

“About the Yankees occupying Natchez?”

Paris hesitated. The enslaved at Mount Locust had more privileges than others in Mississippi. Their owner, Paulina Chamberlain, sometimes allowed them to visit a nearby plantation to socialize, a freedom unheard of elsewhere. But to think about escaping for good? That was a different prospect.

“Maybe.”

Anthony nodded. “Me too. Imagine being able to join up and fight against the Confederacy. To bear arms…”

For a while they worked in silence beneath the scorching midday sun. Sweat trickled down Paris’s neck until his homespun shirt clung to his back. Despite himself, hope began to stir inside him, a dangerous thing that tempted a man to imagine a life beyond the one laid before him.

___

Later that afternoon, the brothers went to repair a fence damaged by a recent storm. The work took them beyond the edge of the main field where they could talk more freely.

Anthony drove a post into the ground and stepped back to examine it. Sweat darkened the backs of their shirts, and every hammer blow sent grasshoppers scattering through the weeds.

“You ever think about what you’d do?”

Paris adjusted another rail.

“If what happened?”

“If you woke up truly free tomorrow.”

Paris considered the question. “Sleep late.”

Anthony laughed. “That’s your dream?”

“For the first day.”

“And the second?”

Paris smiled. “Maybe spend the whole day deciding what to do.”

“You dream too small.”

“What about you?” Paris asked.

Anthony rested both arms on the fence. “I’d walk.”

“Walk where?”

“Everywhere.”

Paris shook his head. “You’d get awful tired.”

“Maybe. But it’d be my choice, and I see parts of this country I’ve never seen.” He studied the distant woods to the southwest. “You think we’d make it?”

Paris drove another nail into the rail before answering. “I don’t know. There’s still a lot of danger out there, especially along the Trace. The Union may control Natchez, but it doesn’t control the minds of those who hate colored people.”

Anthony nodded. “Fair enough, but we’d have each other for protection.” He fell silent for a moment, then said quietly, “I keep wondering if this is what it feels like before your whole life changes.”

Paris stood straight, mopped his brow, and let his eyes drift over the fields. “I know what you mean. Everything looks the same. The fence. The cotton. The trees. But somehow the whole world feels totally different.”

Movement along the distant Trace caught his attention. A group of horsemen emerged from the trees, riding slowly beneath the afternoon sun. Both brothers froze.

 “Who are they?” Paris asked.

 “Most likely a slave patrol,” said Anthony.

The horsemen continued without stopping, but neither brother spoke until they disappeared. The weight of what they were considering settled heavily between them.

___

The brothers sat outside their cabin as the last traces of sunlight slipped beyond the western hills. Smoke from cook fires carried the aromas of cornbread, greens, and salt pork.

An elder named Isaiah approached them. He lowered himself onto a sitting stump with a weary sigh, rubbing one knee before settling into place. Age had bent his shoulders and silvered his hair, but his eyes remained sharp.

“You two look like men carrying secrets.”

Anthony grinned.

“Maybe we’re just thinking.”

“Thinking too much can be dangerous.”

“Then we’re definitely thinking,” said Paris with his own grin.

Isaiah chuckled. “I’ve watched both of you grow up. Neither one of you ever learned to hide your thoughts.” His gaze shifted toward the Trace. “Generations have walked that road searching for something better. Sometimes I think the land remembers them all.” He paused. “Most folks see dirt and wagon ruts. I see hope.”

“You ever think about taking it?” asked Anthony.

Isaiah smiled sadly. “Every day when I was your age.”

The answer surprised them.

“You never tried?” Paris asked.

“Once.” The old man folded his hands in his lap. “I got about three miles from here.”

Anthony leaned forward. “What happened?”

Isaiah laughed softly. “Fear happened.”

The honesty of the answer surprised them.

“I was younger than you boys are now when I left,” Isaiah continued. “I thought I had everything figured out. Then the woods got dark. Every sound became a posse in my mind. Every shadow became somebody looking for me.” He shrugged. “So I turned around.”

One of the Chamberlain’s dogs barked in the distance.

“Do you regret it?” Paris asked.

Isaiah stared toward the fading light at the edge of the southern woods. “Sometimes. Other times I tell myself I made the right choice. Truth is, neither matters now. The chance came but I let it pass.”

His gaze moved back to Paris to Anthony, studying their faces.

“If you boys are waiting for your fear or uncertainty to leave, it won’t. If you mean to go, you’ll have to carry those feelings with you.”

In the distance a whip-poor-will called from the woods, and the night’s first stars began to brighten overhead.

___

The following evening, Elijah returned from Natchez with a small wagonload of supplies. He was a short, compact man with a full beard whom the Chamberlains trusted him enough to send on multi-day trips. After unloading, he walked towards his quarters, dust coating his boots and the cuffs of his trousers. He passed Paris and Anthony sitting outside their cabin.

“I hear you’ve been to Natchez,” Anthony called out to him.

Elijah stopped in mid track and nodded. “I have.”

For a moment he simply looked at them with a weary face, as though deciding how much to say.

“They’re there,” he said at last. “Union soldiers. Colored soldiers too.”

Neither brother spoke.

“I watched them marching through town wearing blue uniforms with rifles on their shoulders.” Elijah smiled faintly. “You should’ve seen the way they carried themselves. Like men who’d finally remembered who they were.”

Paris felt that stirring of hope again. “They’re taking in folks from plantations all over the county?”

“They are.”

Elijah lowered his voice. “If you’re thinking about going, don’t wait too long. Every day more people are slipping away.” He paused. “And the patrols have noticed.”

He rose, lifted a small sack onto his shoulder, and started toward his quarters. After a few steps he looked back. “Hope has a way of not waiting forever.”

Then he disappeared into the gathering dusk.

___

The next morning, Paris woke before sunrise and stepped outside the cabin while the rest of the plantation slept. A pale gray light lingered along the eastern horizon. For a few precious moments, the world seemed suspended between night and day. The air smelled of pine and dew as a faint mist drifted across the low ground beyond the fields.

He stood quietly, listening. Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, and a mockingbird called from a nearby tree. Ordinarily, even a beautiful morning like this would have seemed unremarkable, but now it felt unlike any morning before it.

By nightfall, there would be no turning back.

Anthony stepped outside a few moments later, following Paris’ gaze toward the southern woods.

“You nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Paris smiled. “You too?”

Anthony laughed softly. “I feel like my stomach’s trying to climb out of my body.”

The honesty of the answer eased something inside Paris. He had assumed that he alone carried the burden of fear.

“What if we get caught?” Anthony asked quietly.

Paris looked across the fields.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

Paris laughed despite himself. It felt good to not know, perhaps because the alternative, as Isaiah had warned, was thinking too much.

___

That evening, after the plantation had grown quiet, Paris and Anthony crossed the yard to their mother’s quarters. She had moved temporarily from their family cabin to care for two elderly women.

She looked up as they entered. Deep lines framed her gentle face, but her steady eyes held the strength of a woman who had endured much and complained little. She knew why they were there.

“So,” she said softly, “it’s tonight.”

Both nodded solemnly.

“Mama…” Anthony began.

She raised a hand to stop him.

“I’ve known this day was coming since the first time I heard you two whispering about Natchez.”

Silence settled over the little cabin. The only sound was the soft crackle of the cooking fire.

Finally Paris said, “We hate leaving you.”

“I know.”

Anthony stared at the floor. “Come with us.”

She stood and stepped towards them, smiling sadly as she shook her head.

“The Lord has a different road for me.”

She reached out and smoothed the front of Paris’ shirt as she had done ever since he was a little boy. Then she took each of their hands.

“Your father used to tell me a man doesn’t get many chances to change the course of his life. If the Lord puts one in front of you, you take it.”

Tears welled in Anthony’s eyes.

“We’ll come back.”

“I’ll pray you do.” She squeezed their hands. “But don’t you look back because of me. You just keep walking.”

She embraced them both, holding them a long while before stepping away.

“Take care of each other.”

“We will,” Paris said.

She smiled through her tears.

___

The plantation slept beneath a full moon as Paris and Anthony slipped between the cabins and crossed the open ground. They each carried a small burlap sack containing personal belongings. Silver light washed across the fields while a breeze stirred the cotton. Anthony’s foot struck an old pail, sending it clattering across the yard. Both brothers froze, scarcely daring to breathe as they waited for a lantern to flare or a dog to bark. None did, and the night settled around them once more.

At the edge of the plantation, they stopped at the tree line and turned for one last look. Mount Locust lay beneath the moonlight, the old house watching over the cabins and fields that had shaped every memory they possessed. Paris was surprised by the sadness that rose in him.

“Feels strange,” said Anthony.

Paris nodded.

“You ready?”

Paris turned his eyes south toward Natchez and the uncertain future waiting beyond the darkness. Fear remained, but hope walked beside it now.

“Yes.”

They entered the woods, where the air cooled around them. It didn’t take long to reach the Trace. Both had walked it before, but never like this. It stretched before them into the darkness. Wagon ruts caught the moonlight, and generations of footsteps had worn the earth smooth. Pale sycamores arched overhead, their white trunks glowing in the darkness.

Paris knelt and ran his fingers across the cool, packed earth. He imagined all the feet that had traveled this road before his own: Choctaw hunters, traders, soldiers, settlers, runaway slaves, families seeking new homes. He stood without saying a word.

“When I was a boy,” he said. “I used to imagine owning a horse. Now I’m imagining a whole different life.”

“Come on,” said Anthony. “Let’s find that new life.”

Somewhere ahead a whip-poor-will called. Anthony answered by softly but badly imitating its song. Paris laughed under his breath.

Then, side by side, they followed the Trace into the Mississippi night.

Epilogue, Jefferson County, Mississippi, 2018

The cemetery was quiet except for the rustling of leaves overhead. Time had softened the edges of a weathered government headstone, but the name inscribed on was still readable.

PARIS MARTIN

For years, the fate of the Martin brothers had been unknown. Patient research through church records, military files, and family histories eventually led to the discovery of the enlistment card for Anthony, dated July 20, 1863. Then they uncovered Paris’ grave at Jefferson Chapel African Methodist Episcopal Church. After the war, he had returned to Jefferson County to build a new life.

Freedom hadn’t spared him hardship. He came home to a Mississippi where prejudice endured. But no hatred could erase what he and Anthony had claimed for themselves when they walked away from bondage and stood beneath the United States flag as soldiers.

A breeze stirred the trees overhead. Sunlight touched the worn headstone before drifting away. And somewhere beyond memory, beneath an eternal Mississippi moon, Paris and Anthony Martin were still walking south along the Trace, carrying hope into the darkness with every step.

About the author: Krin Van Tatenhove is an author, visual artist, and spiritual adventurer. He has worked as a cleric, community organizer, and director of a nonprofit. His 40 years of professional writing experience have led to countless articles and 19 books. You can freely download most of his words and images by visiting krinvan.com, or purchase books on his Amazon Author’s Page. In addition to his creative pursuits, Krin suffers from chronic wanderlust, always seeking new travel experiences to satisfy his gypsy soul. He is married, has four children, and lives with his wife and disabled adult son in San Antonio, Texas.

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Writing 101, by Ralph Bland

Years ago, when I first began to write seriously, my plan was to always connect Point One to Point Two in some sort of scientific method, hoping to proceed that way toward a happy fulfillment. I envisioned the process being completed in a prearranged way with an outline and notes to help me along, but there always came a moment when I suddenly sat back and said “Whoa!” This was the time when I discovered that my protagonist was acting funny and had stepped outside his planned activities and my mapped-out plot had gone in strange, different directions. All at once my storyline was not anywhere near the place I’d envisioned it to be, and I’d find I didn’t know what kind of book I was writing anymore. What started out as a smooth process now had detours and sinkholes that caused my stories to stop and swerve and run off my planned narrative highway onto the literary shoulder. On those occasions, I found myself having to pause with my plans and ask myself the disconcerting question -what do I do next?

I’ve written a slew of novels at this point in time, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised anymore when I discover I’m not really in charge of my project anymore. It always seems to be a case of the components of the manuscript stepping up to the fore and announcing they are taking over. I’m forced to throw away my previous conceptions and find a seat in the audience and let the characters and the plot and the style join together as a team and do what needs to be done to move the process along. All the stuff that was originally in my head doesn’t get totally discarded, but is used in this new approach as filler and launching pads for what is being revealed to me each writing session. It’s amazing what characters step to the fore and how the narrative proceeds when I simply get out of the way and let things flow naturally.

This is not to say that once the auto-pilot mode takes over that everything then becomes smooth and peachy. Oh no. There are still moments when the plot or the characters freeze and stumble and lose their way, and that is the time I arise from my desk and go take a walk and let the whole shebang take a breather. I and my stumbling manuscript jointly kick back and stew in our own juices a while. And usually when I return to my desk, there are fresh ideas and new avenues waiting there for me to consider. I simply practice the art of stillness for a time and allow my muse to interact with the world living in my manuscript. I find if I don’t get so anxious and give all the elements time to breathe, the right scenarios soon appear and the wagons get rolling again.

It’s entertaining sometimes to go back and study my old notes and initial outlines after a manuscript has been completed and take notice of how much my plans changed or did a complete about-face or disappeared in their entirety. More times than not, the initial sketchings and the finished product don’t resemble each other much at all, and from what I’ve learned over the years, the end result is generally much better than what my feeble brain conjectured in the first place.

My technique is never going to end up in the Writer’s Holy Grail Handbook on how to create and be successful. All I know is that somewhere along the way I learned how to get out of my own way and trust that the plates and dishes I’d been juggling would eventually find their place in the manuscript without shattering into pieces. Instead of forcing new truths onto the page or inventing narratives that don’t belong, I’ve learned to let the story settle into its own shape and reveal what it’s been trying to say all along. I’ve learned one can spoil the dinner if the broth gets added to and stirred too awfully much.

My process for writing then is to take some time to allow the words to simmer. Take a break and let the planet take a few spins. The possibility exists that upon your return you might find there’s been some blending going on and your words have become part of a nice stew. You can start writing again and the chances are you’ll be able to see down the road much more clearly without the jumble of wasted paragraphs fogging your vision. Maybe your headlights have illuminated the destination or maybe it’s just the clouds have lifted and you’re able to see what was there all the time. Sometimes a little patience goes a long way. Sometimes all one needs is some distance from the manuscript for a time, a change of perspective, a deep breath before moving forward. Think of it as a poolside break before climbing the ladder and going off the high dive again.

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SO, YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER? – by David Clear

Mrs. Blythe’s 2nd grade class, 1962: The Magical Letters on the Wall

They were posted above the blackboard. All 26 of them, upper and lower case, neatly drawn on lined paper and large enough to see from a distance. They were designed to be a chore to learn and to copy, but to my seven-year-old eyes they seemed to radiate a light, an energy of some sort, different from everything else in the room.

When I reflect on this memory, one truth emerges—I was in love with the alphabet, with the words it could create, and with the worlds those words could fashion.

My mother bought me the World Book Encyclopedia while I was still in my single digits. I fell further in love with words, ideas, and stories. I am most thankful to my mother for encouraging me to learn how to use a typewriter and buying me one of my own. After the slow and cumbersome world of cursive writing, it was like being catapulted to the 24th century of Star Trek.

And then, when I was able to upgrade to an electric typewriter, I was officially lost forever in the So You Want to Be a Writer nebula.

I started my first novel length story at 14 years old, a mishmash of romance, adventure, Beatle’s music, and psychic phenomenon. I experimented with sci-fi and espionage scenarios but burned up the most typewriter ribbon ink and paper on classic adolescent angst journals.

I was a scribbling prospector wandering the bookstores by day and thinking, by night, that golden nuggets were rolling off my electric typewriter. Just a matter of time before the world found out about them.

“Writers are only successful after they’re dead,” my dad told me. I disagreed, of course. After all, I saw writers like Gore Vidal, Norman Mailer, Richard Bach, Erica Jong, Stephen King, and others being interviewed on nighttime talk shows, an obvious sign of success.

Nevertheless, it didn’t take me long to realize that the arduously slow task (by 21st century standards) of sending in stories on a typewritten piece of paper with a self-addressed stamped envelope, only to receive a rejection, wasn’t going to earn me any money to pursue it as a career.

To write, perchance to dream of making money at it; ay, there’s the rub.

It would be interesting (and likely depressing) if the ratio of wannabe paid writers to actual paid writers could be calculated. And when I say paid, I don’t mean utilitarian authors who write for newspapers, ad copy, or technical journals. I mean bestsellers like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Harry Potter, the DaVinci Code, The Celestine Prophecy, or The Andromeda Strain.

Herman Melville had explosive success with his first two books, Typee and Omoo. But then, Moby Dick. The readers of his time didn’t get it. It sold only about 3700 copies in his lifetime. But the fact that it stands today as a masterpiece of American literature redeems Melville’s inner drive and vision to create something that went beyond the commercial market and challenged the consciousness of the reader. Melville, like F. Scott Fitzgerald and others, died well before their work achieved iconic status. I would suspect by then they were dispassionate about becoming earthly literary legends and were on to working on other, more universal projects.

I think the most important lesson I’ve learned about writing over sixty years is that the passion for it and practice of it is, first and foremost, its own ultimate and eternal reward. At age 92, the famous cellist Pablo Casals was asked why he still practiced. “Because I think I’m making progress.”

Being an author may seem to have greater cachet than being an HVAC repairman. Having lived in the south for many years, I can tell you honestly that the HVAC repairmen were equally, if not more, essential to my well-being than A Farewell to Arms. My interaction with the HVAC repairman is as valid and important in its own way as a reader’s interaction with what I have written. The difference, of course, is utilitarian versus personal. By sharing my inner worlds through my words, I am becoming more open to another human being than were I just the repairman who says, “well, the system is out of freon.”

But people connect and share with each other in many ways all the time. In that sense, writing is just another aspect of the nature and rules of human life: there’s much to learn, and doing it well takes regular study and practice.

At this very moment, millions of people are, like me, hovering over keyboards trying to channel what is percolating within them. Many others are “just” doing their jobs, raising their children, exercising, meditating, or traveling. All of them are drafting their stories by being. Whether in the form of a New York Times bestseller, or in a child’s eyes, I believe everyone’s story is heard, read, and felt.

So, paraphrasing Twain, it would seem the difference between being a writer and being a highly paid successful writer is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. And who’s to say which is more rewarding?

Kurt Vonnegut wrote the following words in a letter dated November 5, 2006, addressed to students at Xavier High School in New York City. He had been approached by five students whose assignment was to write to their favorite authors. He was the only one to respond. I think his words capture the gist of what I’m saying.

“Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow” 

About the author: David Clear’s novel, Dreaming at the Speed of Sound, is available at this link. He has also had the following stories published by Story Sanctum: Cresting Wave, Thus Spake Alan, and The Overdue Library Book. David’s collection of short stories entitled The Role of a Lifetime: Stories of Reincarnation in the Theater of the Soul has just been released by Second Shore Publishing. Here is a downloadable PDF copy.

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