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
How
Posted on December 31, 2008
It sounds straight out of Mad Men. Some enterprising creative director billed the Mars Company thousands to ogle old Playboy videos, and then, and this is the best part, itemized it as research. Where could I apply? I imagined a latter-day Don Draper equating a customer’s lust for milk chocolate with far more fundamental yearnings. Candy as porn, that was the concept, and all of the proper aesthetics were assembled: the backlit windows, glossy floors, the temptress in virginal white spiked heels strutting full-frontal toward the camera.The temptress was a giant green candy with legs. But wait, it gets better.Soon, she’s draped across a chaise, long leg dangling from the side as rose petals rain down. While bouncing on a satin bed, the accompanying music is best described as synthesizer porn. It ends with Green splayed on the floor, chocolate bosom heaving out, legs stretching up towards heaven.“Are we good?” she asks a leering crew. Only after we cut away does she reach for a bleezy and shot of Jack Daniels. All of which begs the question: How did Miss Green M&M become a candy porn star?In the 1980’s, M&M’s were a wholesome brand. They were the candy who took you on sleigh rides at Christmas. They melted in your mouth, not in your hand. In other words, not even eating them was dirty. Their jingle was sung by a children’s choir.But things changed in 1984, when Jesus’ chocolate rainbow of goodness became an arrow in sin’s arsenal. The devil came dressed as a little league commercial, two boys playing candy baseball: Brown is a single, yellow is a double, orange is a triple, and green, you guessed it, is a homerun.Eat green M&M’s and score, that was the lesson being imparted to boys approaching junior high. The thought of our carnal destiny realized thanks to the mojo of little green capsules filled us with anticipation. It was like we had discovered Viagra! The rules of the schoolyard were quietly known. Give green M&M’s to a girl if you wanted to hook up with her. If she ate them, she got horny. Read more
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Axis
Posted on December 16, 2008
When Walter answered his phone, he was genial. “Whatever you need,” he told me casually. Walter was a congressman from North Carolina; he later coined the term freedom fries, then became the first Republican to change his mind about Iraq. This tells you a thing or two about Walter. My job was to ask semi-probing questions. I was a wire reporter for the Fayetteville Observer-Times, stationed in Washington—I’d never even been to North Carolina. My editor told me what to write, I was little more than his apple-cheeked mercenary. Military, tobacco, and the occasional soft piece were the usual items on my agenda.
I tried to pick my subjects wisely—or as shrewdly as a twenty-three year old could. I’d been pushing to write a story about the fifteen-or so folks in the state named after senator Jesse Helms. Helms was a modern political giant, loved by legions, hated by other legions, but nonetheless an historical figure. I sat in Foreign Relations hearings where Helms, the Tar Heel state’s senior senator, unfurled meaty adjectives at times when he could not abide. “Aw, that’s just plum baloney,” he’d say in his smoky mountain drawl. He tooled the marble halls of power in a sturdy, black, motorized Lark, though the Washington press corp kept this hush-hush, like Roosevelt in his wheelchair. Yes, there were better stories to chase, but I was enamored with Senator No. I wanted to ask him thoughtful questions about what he’d learned in his time in Washington, and what he hoped to do in his final years in office.
I filed numerous press requests while my editor laughed at me for trying. But I was determined to have supper with Jesse. It became my aim, my vision quest, my lonely crusade for historical journalism before moving onto baser assignments, of which there were always many. One morning, Ed said I was to interview the state’s congressional delegation about cum found on a blue dress. “See what Jesse has to say about that.” Read more