Shades of Reflection
Posted on January 8, 2009
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Short
Posted on January 6, 2009
Artists need encouragement. That’s the driving force behind Artists Collective. Now, in partnership with Walkabout Jones, Artists Collective will award $1,000 to the writer who pens the best short story. It’s as simple as that.
Deadline is January 31, 2009. The winning entry will appear in Walkabout Jones in Spring, 2009. Here are the rules:
1. Entry is free and anyone may enter. One entry per writer.
2. Short stories must be no longer than 2,000 words. Any submissions more than 2,000 words will not be considered.
3. Finalists will be chosen by Walkabout Jones. The winner will be selected by a published author, or authors, with no affiliation with Artists Collective or Walkabout Jones.
4. A short story is: A work of fiction. Non-fiction, essays, memoirs, etc. are not eligible.
5. Submissions should be emailed to “Short Story Contest” at artistsforaccess@gmail.com
Artists Collective is a licensed California non-profit delivering medical marijuana to verified patients in Los Angeles. Proceeds go toward creating opportunity grants for artists, writers, performers and musicians. Delivery is free throughout Los Angeles county. For contact information, go to www.artistsforaccess.org
Walkabout Jones is a web magazine, presently giving readers a front row seat to California’s medical marijuana world. Walkabout Jones features art, photography, music, politics, humor and experience-oriented essays.
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Will
Posted on January 4, 2009
Maurice was a man who could tear apart phonebooks. A big, menacing, mean motherfucker. I could tell this even over the phone. He had one of those booming auditorium voices, grandiose like a professional wrestler’s. But Maurice was young. He couldn’t be much past twenty-five, and while his roar was thick and imposing, his rumble was presently cloaked in despair. For the hundredth time in recent months, Maurice had lost his driver. Now, he wanted to discuss delivering medical marijuana: A career with good pay and excellent perks, if I could follow orders. But first questions. Character inquiries. All delivered in the hard-restrained voice of a special forces operative. “You should always answer me truthfully,” he said, the timbre of his words giving them an added urgency. “Because Dann, I’ll know. One way or another, I’ll find out. So save us both the trouble, guy, and give it to me straight.” “Ask whatever you want,” I said.
My last interview was with Ernst & Young. Their office was in downtown LA, seven blocks from my apartment. They’d had an opening for a writer, something stable, if not fun. I’d taken a hard shot at it: pressed suits, haircut, wind sprints through their company gauntlet—but like every classic losing streak, I was destined to go down. This time I lacked corporate writing experience, and H.R. feared I might get bored with earning a steady paycheck. All of which was true, I guess. I wasn’t a teenaged blushing bride nosing the Ernst & Young bouquet; I was a grifter after their health insurance.
Sickness, like addiction, can lead to places of desperation; settings like Maurice’s chain link fenced driveway. For me this was an unlikely career. I’m in my mid-thirties, feeling my age, and the thrall of fast cars and easy women seem better left to younger men, boys uncertain of who they are and still dependent upon their accessories. Running green wasn’t a plea for acceptance. It was a cold, financial calculation; a finger-in-the-wind of a failing economy; a conviction my health might not improve unless I escaped my HMO. Fate had brought me to Maurice, impelled that I consider rogue options. I saw two doorways, one heading downward, the other leading out. Which way was I going to go? Read more
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In
Posted on January 2, 2009
