Saturday, November 28, 2020

THE BUCK STOPS HERE!

 Not long ago, I shared the following on Facebook . . .


Rutting Season? (Is that sorta like Cuffing Season?)

How many of you know anything about “rutting season”?  I’d never heard the term until last Friday when my morning walk was interrupted by the appearance of a buck. Yeah, you know, a male deer (aka those jokers with those horns on their heads).  Given that it was barely 7:30 in the morning, and kind of overcast, I blinked a couple of times to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me.  Yeah, it was a buck all right.  And not only was he standing in the middle of the street in front of my house, he was staring straight at me and looking right perturbed.

  

Now, had it been a doe, I might have kept right on walking towards my house.  But I’m not taking any chances with a creature that has horns growing out of its head, be it a deer, moose, elk, devil or what have you.  I’m saying,  I’ve already fallen once this year and dislocated a shoulder.  The last thing I need is to be out in the middle of the doggone street trying to throw hands with a buck, if not run from one at 7:30 in the morning.  


Can’t you hear that call to 911?  “Um, yeah one of my neighbors--a tall, middle-aged Black woman, who looks like she could stand to lose a few pounds-- is rolling around in the street with what appears to be a deer.  Yes, and you’d better hurry.  Looks like the deer has her in a headlock.”


So, after hurriedly backtracking to the corner, I call the hubby and say, “There’s a buck standing out in front of our house.”  Instead of saying, “Hold on honey, I’m coming to get you” this man heads for the front door and starts asking a bunch of questions.  And even has the nerve to tell me he doesn’t see any dang buck and yada, yada, yada.”  I was like, “Man, if you don’t stop yacking and come and get my behind off this corner . . .”


After arriving safely back home is when I discovered that Mr. Buck was now  hanging out in our backyard and trying to woo a shy Miss Doe, who he’d obviously pursued there.  On sharing the story with my son, he was like, “Oh, so what you’re saying Ma, is that our backyard was the hook-up spot!”  Ah, yeah, whatever.  I’m not trying to have a bunch of amorous deer all up in the bushes in my backyard.  Take that mess on somewhere else. 


Anyway, since then, I’ve learned that it’s rutting season--the time of year in these parts that deer commonly mate.  So, guess who won’t be going out on her morning walk for a while?  In the meantime, I’ve added a walking stick, a can of mace and a whistle to my Christmas list.   



The screen and the blinds on the window kept me from getting a clear picture.  And you’d best believe dude (aka Mr. Buck) was straight up mean-mugging me the whole time I was trying to snap this shot.



Friday, November 20, 2020

Lights! Camera! Action!

 No, I wasn't in a movie.  And while I'd love to announce that something I've written has been optioned for a film, that's not the case either. 😊

But not long ago, Arkana Journal invited me to participate in their “Contributor Spotlight.”  They asked me a few questions about my essay “The Trees Of Mississippi: A Strange and Bitter Crop” (featured in issue #8 of Arkana) and one about my writing influences. See the following for specifics.


--How did composing this piece leave you feeling once it was finished?


--Legacy appears as an important theme in this work.  What legacy do you wish to leave the reader with this piece?


--Which authors influence your writing the most and why?


If you're interested or even mildly curious about my responses, you can visit the Contributor Spotlight Lori D. Johnson link HERE.



Sunday, May 03, 2020

ANOTHER NICE SURPRISE . . . PUBLICATION WISE




My essay, "The Trees of Mississippi: A Strange and Bitter Crop" appears in the latest issue of Arkana: A literary journal of mysteries and marginalized voices (Issue #8 / April 28, 2020).  If that alone wasn't cause for celebration, the essay was also selected as the winner of the Arkana Editor's Choice Award in Creative Nonfiction.  Talk about a nice surprise!



In addition to reading the essay, you have have the option of listening to me read it.  Reading my nonfiction isn't my strong suit, but I think I deserve a few points for effort.  Besides, how will I ever get better if I'm not willing to take the risk of putting myself out there and being, well, less than great? LOL  😄



The pics feature here are of some of the trees I saw on my last visit to Water Valley, Mississippi.  All, but one of the photos, captures trees I spotted on land owned by my family--The Hawkins.  

Friday, April 17, 2020

The Second Time Around . . . For "A Lesson In Failure"


Yes, it's true.  My essay "A Lesson In Failure" was selected for another book in the CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL series.  Look for copies of THE MAGIC OF MOMS at your local Target, Wal-mart, Barnes & Noble, Books-a-Million--basically, most places where books are still being sold (also check online).  







Add Chicken Soup For The Soul's THE MAGIC OF MOMS to your Mother's Day shopping list.  A portion of the royalties will be donated to charity.

**Previously, "A Lesson In Failure" appeared in Chicken Soup's  BEST ADVICE I EVER HEARD.**

Wednesday, March 04, 2020

And The Third Place Award Goes To . . .



Yes, my essay "Loss Of Contact" won 3rd Place in the CWC Nonfiction Contest for 2020! (CWC = Charlotte Writers' Club)

The contest judge, Charles Israel, Jr. (a writing instructor at Queens University of Charlotte) said the following about 
Loss of Contact:

"This writer captures our loss of friends in an intriguing and novel way--through the symbol of address books.  How do we deal with the passing of time, as friends--and ourselves--move away and indeed, move on?  This essay gives us a subtle, witty, and poignant answer.  And this writer knows how to take care of her reader: she will pause to address us directly, as our friends do in real life."--Charles Israel, Jr.--






Thursday, December 12, 2019

FOR THE LOVE OF LISTS AND LAUGHS


A few followers of my blog might remember how much I enjoyed coming up with lists for the now defunct Thursday Thirteen meme.  Whenever I could, I tried to inject a bit of humor into my lists.   I miss those days. But not long ago, I found a spot that welcomes my OCD driven brand of humor and list fixation.


If you’re at all interested in checking out my odd and (hopefully) amusing lists,  I encourage you to look me up on the Humoroutcasts website. My latest post covers the 8 Reasons I May Stop Going To The Movie Theater.  Let me know what, if anything, has altered your movie-going experience.

My first post on the Humoroutcasts website covered the 9 Wrestling Smack-downs I'd love to see. The matches included Mitch McConnell vs. The Notorious RBG and Lindsey Graham vs. The Squad. Checkout the full post on the website if you'd like to see some of the other matches on my list.


Monday, June 03, 2019

FIGHTING BATTLES

Recently, I shared the following on my Facebook Page


Okay, so I have a problem I’d like to share in hopes that some kind soul can offer a solution.  For the past several days, I’ve been struggling to win a fight--a contest of wills, if you will, and with a most formidable opponent.  At the moment, all in my world is calm to the point of being downright peaceful. I’d like to believe that I may have unwittingly gained the upper hand. But in the past my opponent has proved both clever and agile, so I’m not totally convinced the battle is over or even close to being won.
And just who might my evil nemesis be? A chipmunk. Yeah, you heard right, I’ve been doing battle with this dang devil of a chipmunk who won’t stop digging holes in the pot of zinnias I recently planted.
So, the pot--full of potting soil-- sat undisturbed on my front porch for about a week until I finally decided to go ahead and
plant my zinnia seeds. I can’t remember if I planted the seeds before my recent trip to ATL or shortly thereafter, but I do know
this past weekend is when the showdown began.  My gardening skills are limited. So having spotted a number of little green
shoots jutting up through the soil, I was feeling pretty good about myself. But on a casual stroll past the windows adjoining
the front door, I noticed all of this dirt scattered about on the porch. A quick peek thru the window blinds confirmed my
fears--something had been messing around in my flower pot.  The hubby suggested a bird might be the culprit. A cat
or possibly a snake were my first thoughts.
Whatever it was, maybe it will go elsewhere is what I told myself as I refilled the hole the little varmint had created in the
potting soil.  Ha! The very next morning, what--or make that who do I see on the porch snuggled up next to the pot when I
peeked through the blinds--yep, ole guilty himself--Mr. Chipmunk.

“Don’t you dare!” I shouted as I snatched opened the door and watched him make a run for it.  Knowing it was only a matter
of time before he made a return visit, I did a Google search for how to chase away chipmunks and found a “cayenne pepper” solution.  Mix cayenne in some water and spray around the area.  Not only did I spray the area down with cayenne water, I sprinkled a healthy dose of red pepper flakes around the pot too. You think it worked? Ha! I’m pretty sure Mr. Chipmunk said, “Well, would you look at this.  Ole Girl was nice enough to leave out some seasoning for the zinnia seeds.” Yeah, that little joker came back and dug yet another hole, leaving dirt and little green leaves scattered everywhere.
I was standing at the door, scratching my head, cursing beneath my breath, and trying to figure out what to do next when the
folks from Best Buy pulled up with the washing machine I’d recently purchased. In hauling out the old washer and carting in
the new, the Best Buy guys adjusted front door so it would remain in the open position while they work.  Not a problem--except if Mr. Chipmunk shows up again and on spying the open door decides to slip inside and pay me a surprise visit.

In anticipation of such an occurrence,  I called my son downstairs to watch and stand guard.  ‘Cause y’all know,
if Mr. Chipmunk gets inside of my house, it’s all over with right?  Yeah, I don’t have any problems going toe-to-toe with the
little varmint outdoors, on my front porch, and even in the front yard.  But once he’s inside of my house all bets are off.
Really, he can have it, I’m saying, the house as well as any and everything of value inside, ‘cause you best believe, I will be
exiting the premises with the quickness and calling for backup in the form of the nearest pest control agency.
Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.  After the Best Buy guys left, I had my son move the flower pot to the backyard
and place it on a patio table.  A temporary solution that might buy me some time until I could think of what to do next.
Another Google search turned up a suggestion for tea tree oil.  Okay, so the next morning before I head off to the drugstore to
purchase the oil, I peek out the window off the patio and guess who I see?  Yep, Mr. Chipmunk. I kid you not, he was
hanging out near the table containing the pot of the remaining zinnias, just as big and bad as you please,
as if to say, “It’s going to take a whole lot more than that to get rid of me, girlfriend!” Lil dude was straight up selling wolf tickets, but all it took was a quick jiggle of the door to send his little butt running again.
As it stands now, I guess we are at a stalemate of sorts.  On purchasing the tea tree oil, I gave the pot of zinnias a real good
greasing.  I’m not sure if the scent alone is supposed to keep the chipmunk away or if the slipperiness of the now greased up
pot will keep him from climbing inside the container again and break-dancing around in my potting soil.  Even though it’s
been a while since I’ve seen Mr. Chipmunk or any evidence of his presence, I wouldn’t put it past him to show up again. The hubby jokingly said when he does come back, he’ll probably be accompanied by a few of his little chipmunk friends.  
All I know is that Alvin and ‘nem better keep their little furry paws off my zinnias! But if my tea tree oil doesn’t work
y’all, I’m open to suggestions--especially from those of you with green thumbs and who have successfully chased pests
from your garden (s) before.  Seriously. Thanks in advance.











Friday, May 10, 2019

A LITTLE LIGHT (1 of 3 Winners in a "First Chapter" Contest)

I'M A WINNER (1 of 3 actually)


For those who enjoy my fiction, I’m proud to announce that the first chapter of my unpublished novel
--A LITTLE LIGHT--was selected as one of the winners in the Meet Me @ 19th Street “First Chapter Contest.”


Meet Me @ 19th Street is an online literary journal published by Arch Street Press. If interested, you can
read the first chapter of A LITTLE LIGHT on Arch Street Press’s website. The chapter ends in a way that I hope
will make you want to read more.  Should you happen to like what you read, please share the link on FB and Twitter
or pass it along to a friend. Also, feel free to share your comments here. Thanks!

Sunday, November 11, 2018

MORE NEW WORK / "A Lesson In Failure" by Lori D. Johnson / Chicken Soup For The Soul: Best Advice I Ever Heard



Any fans and/or readers of CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL out there?  
If so, I invite you to check out my essay
“A Lesson In Failure”
in their newly released
Chicken Soup For The Soul: The Best Advice I Ever Heard.  

⇩⇩⇩


Includes “A Lesson In Failure” by Lori D. Johnson
(Available online & via your Local Bookstore)


❤❤❤


What's it about?
Mainly, a learning experience I shared with this young man. 
⇩⇩⇩

(my son Aaron) 



Pick up a copy of the book
and read my essay 
"A Lesson in Failure"
if you want to know more.

😇😇😇



Sunday, August 12, 2018

My MaDear's Scrapbook




In an essay that appears in Chapter 16, I wrote about the scrapbook I inherited from my grandmother.  Some of her interests
truly surprised me. Yes, that's the actual cover in the pic below.
You can read more here:










Friday, August 10, 2018

I'M BACK!!!

I know it's been a while since I touched base here. All I can say is, several years ago, social
media’s rise in popularity blew in like a hurricane and left the blogging world in pieces. Like a lot of my old blogging buddies, I abandoned my post (s) and moved elsewhere. Typically, these days you can find me on Facebook and Goodreads, but thus far I’ve held off on jumping aboard Twitter, Instagram and the like.  I mean really, who has the time and energy for all of that, particularly if you have any interest in living a real life (and not a social media contrived one)?


In any case, I’d still like to use this platform to share my work and perhaps, occasionally, my interests, concerns and warped
sense of humor. So, allow me to start with some links to my most recent publications.

In April of this year, Mississippi Folklife published
my uncle, a black photographer with MS and TN roots.

If you've enjoyed my fiction in the past, or if you are new to my fiction and are
interested in a sampling, check out my short story “The Inheritance”  that was recently (June 3, 2018) featured in The Root.

As always, feel free to share you thoughts about the material in the comments section.  I do have one more link to share, but I think I will save it for my next post.



Monday, November 11, 2013

2nd Excerpt of Sunday Best (by Lori D. Johnson)

Forgive me for taking SO LONG to post this 2nd excerpt of my short story "Sunday Best."  These days, I'm much more active on Facebook, which is where both excerpts have been posted for months now.  Anyway, I promise to do better here at the Old School Mix  :-)  If you enjoy the excerpts, please consider ordering a copy of the Spring 2013 issue of the literary journal Black Magnolias, where you will find the full version of "Sunday Best" and other work that might be of interest to you.

2nd excerpt of "SUNDAY BEST" by Lori D. Johnson

     Curtis groans and tosses what's left of the partially chewed piece of toast.  Leave it to Grandma Rose to shove him into the reluctant role of savior.  Little does she know how much he himself is in need of rescue.  Just last week he'd been fired from his first decent paying job.  Typically Rose, a woman with a rep for taking in and nurturing strays, is no slouch when it comes to sensing discontent, whether his or anyone else's. 
            Silent, sullen and sorely unappreciative, the boy reminds Curtis too much of himself, or at least the self he'd been when he'd first landed on Grandma Rose and Old Man Lamar's doorstep--an event precipitated by his own mother's untimely demise.
            Dead mamas--just another unfortunate thing he and the boy have in common.  And both willful departures at that--one suicide, the other overdose.  The more kind-hearted adults in his life had done their best to shield him.  But even at the tender age of ten, Curtis had been able to see through the deceptive nicety of a term like "home-going."  What kind of mother leaves for home without taking her kids with her?
            During his stiff-legged trek up the stairs, Curtis is nearly trampled by the six year old twins, Tosha and Tiara, on their giggle-filled race down.  A happy pair, they push past him, seemingly unfazed by the fact that their mother no longer occupies a space in the landing of the living.
            While an enviable innocence to some, Curtis knows all too well the truth of how the woman the two youngsters had routinely referred to as "Mama" had seldom been one in any real sense of the word.  Dope, like a thief in the night, who boldly returns by the light of day, had years ago snatched her away from them and everyone else who'd tried to love her.
            The girls make Curtis think of his own little sister, Amanda, who’d barely been a year old when their mother had passed.  Less than a week after the funeral, Amanda's daddy and some of his people had come and got her.  Hit hard by the back-to-back losses, Curtis had cried for weeks.  But even more devastating than either his baby sister's sudden whisking away or even his mother's willful departure had been the fact that no one had ever bothered to come for him.
            Curtis's old room is where Mark has been bunking.  On easing open the door and stepping inside, he finds the boy perched atop the cedar chest next to the window.  He is a tall, skinny kid with the awkwardness of thirteen scrawled all over him like spray-painted graffiti. 
            "What's up?" Curtis says when Mark finally pulls his frown from the window and turns his head in his direction. 
            The boy is anything, but ready for church--the bottom of his shoes are caked with dirt; an unknotted tie, like the chain of a busted playground swing, dangles from his neck; his face could use a good scrubbing and his hair is a black, matted field of uncombed naps.  But what strikes Curtis most are the boy's eyes, fixed, glazed and set back in hollow sockets, they are not unlike those of a blind man whose sight, at some point, had been forcibly removed.  Rather than extend a verbal greeting, the boy nods and turns back toward the window.
            Although it clings to the tip of his tongue, like the taste of freshly-cut lemon, "You all right?" strikes him as a stupid question.  Curtis already knows how the kid feels--the same way he had--like a dumped sack of garbage with something horribly rotten on the inside.
            He shoves his hands in his pockets and wonders what Grandma Rose could have been thinking in assigning him such a task.  After a moment of coin-jiggling, foot-shuffling and longing desperately to run back in the direction from which he'd come, Curtis invites himself to a seat on the opposite end of the cedar chest and joins the boy in his silent sulk out onto the world.  Not so long ago, he had spent many an hour in the very same spot, bottom buttressed to the worn wood and nose pressed against the pane.  The windowed nook had proven an ideal one for eavesdropping, daydreaming or just pondering the complexities of life.
            He tries to get a feel for the boy's take on the second story view--a view dominated in large part by the church next door.  A friend of the family once commented on how overwhelming it must be to wake up every morning and go to bed every night with a steeple staring down on you.
            Overwhelming for whom?  Certainly not Grandma Rose, who takes full advantage of her proximity to the Lord's house.  Be it for Sunday school, eleven o'clock service, Monday night prayer vigil, mid-week Bible study, choir rehearsal, or one of her various committee meetings, she makes a point of walking through the doors of the church at least once before the day is done.
            Had it not been for Old Man Lamar, Curtis knows chances are, he would have ended up a bonafide 'Dudley-Do-Right' type or else, thoroughly ambivalent about donning the cloak of discipleship.  The Old Man had provided him with the balance necessary to understand that doing the work of the church and living for the Lord weren't always the same thing.
            He couldn't help but feel that an "Old Man Lamar" was really what Mark needed; someone with shoulders big enough to lean on in hard times; someone who in twenty words or less could tell the boy all he'd ever need to know.  In spite of his intimacy with death, what Curtis knew exceeded his ability to articulate.  Silence and companionship were about all he felt capable of offering.
            Besides, the boy didn't appear in the mood for words, however profound, poetic or potentially life-altering.  The thought took Curtis back to that first conversation between him and his cousin Rodger.
            He'd been sitting alone in the very same room when his bowed head cousin had slunk in.  "I-I-I'm sorry 'bout yo-yo-yo your Mama," is what Rodger had finally sputtered after what must have been a full minute of standing and sniffling.
            "What the hell you got to be sorry for?" is what a ten-year old Curtis had snapped back.  "You didn't kill her, did you?"
            A candy apple red Lexus pulls into the church parking lot and Mark's dulled pupils suddenly flicker.  He bolts forward, as if adhering to a drill sergeant's "a-ten-hut," and bangs his forehead against the window pane in the process.
            "Look at him," Mark says as the driver, dressed in a yellow pinstriped, grape juice colored, three piece suit exits the car.  "Son-of-a-bitch really thinks he's somethin', don't he?"
            Though they lean toward concurrence, Curtis elects not to express his thoughts aloud.  After all, the purple-clad SOB in question just so happens to be Mark's father--Jared--or J.D. as he prefers to be called.
            J.D’s wife and their three young sons follow him out of the car.  Not only do the boys’ dark, shiny, moon-pie faces, mirror their dad’s, they’re dressed just like him, too.  In a leg-dragging strut across the parking lot and up the church steps, they fall in behind him, like soldiers, pledges or robots, one grinning, big bobbing head after the other.
            At the parade’s end, Mark turns to Curtis, and with his eyes ablaze says, “Ain’t you gon’ say nothin’?”
            Curtis has half a mind to tell the boy, “So, your Pop’s a jackass.  Truth be known, your Moms wasn’t a heck of a lot better.”  But rather than voice a truth the child might not be ready to handle, Curtis stares out the window and lets several seconds pass before he stands and says, “Let’s go for a ride.”

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Sunday Best by Lori D. Johnson (Short Story Excerpt)

The following is the first of two excerpts from my short story "Sunday Best."  If you'd like to read the full story, please consider ordering the Spring 2013 issue of Black Magnolias: A Literary Journal. 

Sunday Best
by Lori D. Johnson

         Curtis jiggles the loose change in his pockets as he struts up the tulip-lined path.  His suit is a blue Armani; his shirt, white, wrinkle-free and French cuff bold and his tie, a crimson, Italian silk foulard, bearing a blue diamond motif.  Something akin to glitter dances in the space between his Rolex-strapped wrist and his brand new wingtips with the twenty dollar shine. He marches up the porch steps, pushes open the front door and glides over the threshold, chest puffed and grin wide.  But rather than extend her usual fawn, Grandma Rose whirls past him, as if he'd been idling there all morning long, like a young barnyard rooster who can’t wait to impress the sleeping hens with his ability to crow.

            "Hey!" he says, grabbing her on her re-entry.  He plants a peck on her cheek.  "And a lovely morning to you, too."

            "Oh, I'm sorry, sugar."  She scrunches her lips and returns his affection in double.

            He nods toward the spread on the dining room table. "I see I'm just in time for breakfast.”

            Grandma Rose frowns and extends her hand. "Help yourself.  The twins done already messed over all they could before running out of here, like somethin' done bit 'em on the backside."

            A round of bumping and squealing lures her eyes and his toward the ceiling.  Her scowl deepens as she stomps over to the stairs and hollers up, "All right ladies.  Enough with the nonsense.  I'm leaving outta here in exactly ten minutes.  And I 'spect you both to be ready.  You hear me?"

            A giggle-filled, "Yes Ma'am," drifts down the staircase.

            Curtis walks over to the table and butters a piece of toast.  “They're not giving you problems are they?"

            “The twins?  Oh, they’re a handful, all right," Grandma Rose says upon her hurried approach to the dining room table.  "But no more than would be expected given the circumstances.”

            He nods and chews as the old woman scurries around him, scraping plates, fastening tops on opened containers and shoving dirty utensils into the deep pockets of her apron. 

            “But that brother of theirs, Mark, I ‘clare if he ain’t ‘bout to work my last nerve.  Take this morning, child’s stomach growling so loud I can hear it from way across the hall.  But will he come down and eat?  No-ooo!  He claim he ain’t hungry.”

            Upon surveying the hearty breakfast of oatmeal, toast, cranberry juice, banana slices, raisins and the required dose of castor oil, Curtis can hardly blame the boy for passing on the morning offering.
            "And all day yesterday," Rose continues.  "He was 'round here carrying on 'bout some ole tie.  'I need me a  tie.  I ain't going to church tomorrow lessen I get me a tie.'  So what do I do?  I takes the boy shopping.  'Course he ain't satisfied with just your ordinary clip-on.  No sir, he got to go and get his heart set on one of these here fancy, one hundred percent silk, wrap around numbers."
            Ties?  Thanks to his line of work, as well as the generosity of both his late cousin Rodger and Grandma Rose, Curtis owns tons of ties in every style, pattern and hue imaginable.  How could she have possibly forgotten?  "Why didn’t you just--" he starts.
            "So silly me," she says.  "I go 'head and buy the fool thing.  But do you think he appreciates it?  No sir, he's sitting up in his room this very minute talking 'bout he can't go 'cause the tie ain't right.  I 'clare if his Mama wasn't gone and I wasn't a Christian, Lord knows I'd be up there now strangling the holy spit out that child."

            Curtis is still stuck on the ties.  He'd only taken them at her insistence.  "I can't do nothing with them," is what she'd told him.  "Besides Rodger would have wanted you to have them."

            Again, he opens his mouth, only to have the silver-haired woman wag a finger in his face.  "Uh-uh," she says.  "He ain't 'bout to make me lose my religion.  Hear me?"  Instead waiting for Curtis’s response, she smiles and lowers her finger to his lapel.  "Curtis baby," she says in a softer tone.  "Why don't you go see if you can't talk some sense to the boy?  Being that you a man, he'll probably listen to you."

            "Aww Grandma!" Curtis says, throwing up his hands.  "Come on, I don't even--"

            She plants a kiss between his eyes, pats him on the chest and says, "My, don't you look right smart today . . . handsome too."  In a wink, she's off to the kitchen, where she sheds her apron before trotting back out and over to the stairs again where she hollers up, "All right ladies.  Grandma Rose is 'bout to grab her hat and get up outta here.  Unless you looking to get left, you'd best be right behind me."

Monday, April 22, 2013

New Work!!! (A Short Story In Black Magnolias: A Literary Journal)


I’m pleased and proud to announce that my short story “Sunday Best” appears in the spring 2013 issue of Black Magnolias: A LiteraryJournal.

In addition to my short story, “Sunday Best,” the scholarly and creative offerings of professors, playwrights, filmmakers and talented poets, like my friend Margie Shaheed, also grace the pages of  the spring 2013 issue of Black Magnolias.

If you’re interested in reading my story, Margie’s poems, checking out some of the other work in the journal or simply showing support for a worthy literary endeavor, please consider purchasing the spring 2013 issue of Black Magnolias: A Literary Journal.  

Also, at some point, I will post an excerpt from my story, “Sunday Best.”  So, check back in later if you’re interested . . .