Street Singer ….
This is truly beautiful. What is wonderful about this is that people will walk past a person as though they do not exist, and I am sure that many of you, as have I, have had that happen countless times. I sometimes think that in the eyes of the young, we become invisible as we age, especially in these days of all absorbing portable technology that so entrances the young!
This wonderful older gentleman made them stop and pay attention; and they did! God bless him!
Forgotten Heroes of World War II: Personal Accounts of Ordinary Soldiers Land, Sea and Air available for pre-orders!
To be republished as a second edition with enhanced and added stories November 2014, by Taylor Trade/Rowman and Littlefield www.rowman.com/TaylorTrade.com
Powell’s Books Pre-orders
Waterstones Pre-orders
Forgotten heroes, they truly are. Men of honor, integrity, and perseverance, love of God, country, and family who fought on many fronts and survived to tell their stories – stories of horrors seen which live on forever in their minds and hearts. These veterans are slowly “crossing to the other side” to be greeted by those who have long been there – welcomed with open arms. Men and women you share combat and service time with, you never forget, especially those you see take their last breath. These are the personal accounts that will live with you till the end of time.
“A FAMILY OF STORYTELLERS”
Keep storytelling alive. Get busy writing or get busy dying.
by Amber Lanier Nagle
(Blog post dated, June 4, 2014, www.ProjectKeepsake.com)
The genetic markers of storytelling are sprinkled throughout my DNA. I’m sure of it.
My grandparents, my aunts, my uncles, and my parents were some of the finest people I’ve ever known, and moreover, most of them were prodigious storytellers. My maternal grandmother (Ona Jarrard Jarriel) was a repository of family stories. I was a thirsty child, and listening to her was like drinking water from a well. My mother’s brothers told tales filled with long pauses, sailor-worthy cuss words, and comical observations. At family gatherings, I sat at their sides and absorbed their stories—hanging on their every word. I quietly studied their delivery and hoped some day, I, too, would master the art of weaving and telling a tale with such panache and flair.
My paternal grandfather, Henry Herman Lanier, told my siblings and me larger-than-life stories of Old Moe, an elusive bass that reigned supreme in Papa’s small pond near Metter, Georgia—the proverbial “big fish in a small pond.” Our imaginations ran wild, and we spent the days of our childhoods trying to hook that giant fish from the grassy banks. In the evenings, we retreated to the cool breeze of a small covered porch that overlooked a grove of crepe myrtle trees showcasing fuchsia blooms and chandeliers of Spanish moss. There, we rocked, swung, and listened to volumes of family histories, local folklore, rumors, memories, and the stories passed from one generation to another.
I was a little blonde-headed girl drawn to stories and books, especially picture books with their whimsical characters and illustrations. I loved the way books felt in my small hands and the way the pages smelled. I loved the public library, which was connected to our local recreation department. We always followed a trip to basketball practice with a visit to the library. Afterwards, I skipped to the car with an armful of picture books and a big smile on my freckled face—such happy memories.
As a teenager, reading novels such as A Separate Peace, Of Mice and Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Catcher in the Rye hooked me forever. I feasted on the quirky tales of Flannery O’Connor and felt a special bond with her and her Southern-fried characters.
As a young adult, my attraction to stories and my appetite for reading evolved into the desire to write and tell my own stories, but I did not pursue a career in writing—not then. Writing came later for me, as a second career—my “act two,” as I like to call it.
Today, I worry that storytelling is dying like other art forms such as tatting, sewing, printmaking, hand lettering, and string puppetry, and so I advocate for storytelling. As I travel around Georgia promoting Project Keepsake, I stand before crowds and talk about the importance of sharing stories with others.
I urge my audiences to tell the stories that matter. “Be fearless,” I say. “Free the stories trapped inside you. Preserve your stories by writing them down. Share them with others.”
Please join me in my crusade to keep storytelling alive. Write a story today. Share my meme with your family and friends on Facebook and other social media outlets. And if you are on Twitter, please use the hashtags #amwriting, #keepstorytellingalive, and #projectkeepsake to communicate to the world how you are helping to promote the endangered art of storytelling. And don’t forget to share your thoughts with me. I’m at @AmberLNagle.
Meet legendary storyteller Wally Avett, author of Murder in Caney Fork!
It’s time for the “First Friday” event in downtown Murphy NC, sponsored by the Cherokee County Arts Council. Wally Avett will be doing a book signing for Murder in Caney Fork on Valley River Avenue, just off the town square. Meet this legendary storyteller and get an autographed copy of his new book.
This event spotlights demonstrating artists (weaving, pottery making, ceramics, cane chair and other homemade furniture, jewelry, etc.), live music, wine tastings, refreshments and fine dining. It’s done the first Friday evening (5-8 pm) of every month, April thru October, when the area’s summer people are in residence.
Murder in Caney Fork
Wesley Ross, a decorated World War II Marine of Carlson’s Raiders, returns to his home in Eastern North Carolina to find all has changed, and much that has not. No longer fighting the Japs, he leans on “the pen is mightier than the sword” and begins working in his uncle’s law firm.
Then a bully storekeeper, who has terrorized his hometown for years, rapes another returning veteran’s wife and runs him down in cold blood. Bible Belt vigilante justice — an eye for an eye, life for a life — intervenes. Old instincts are hard to suppress as Ross sees only one way to protect his family and all those in his community.
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Also put on your calendars the release date for his next novel, Last Bigfoot in Dixie (September 2014, published by BelleBooks www.bellebooks.com )
The Last Bigfoot in Dixie
Deep in the Great Smokies, a huge black bear kills a child in a campground and the hunt begins in Mayberry-in-the-Mountains.
Wade, an outdoorsman and backwoods columnist, is quickly deputized to find and slay the massive beast terrorizing tourists and locals alike.
Along the trail, he is attacked by the beast, wounded by a pot-grower’s booby trap and stalked by Junior, an authentic Appalachian psychopath. Two deputies are gunned down and rumors of buried Yankee gold surface.
There is a literate Cherokee giant, a wannabe writer whose gifts prove helpful, even after mushroom trances and spiritual quests enhanced by a Minnesota Vikings horn-helmet and his nickname is Bigfoot…
Wally Avett is represented by Loiacono Literary Agecy www.loiaconoliteraryagency.com
A Month of Tomorrows by Chuck Walsh is now available in ebook, published by Vinspire Publishing!
Chuck Walsh’s novel, A Month of Tomorrows is now available in ebook (paperback will be available July 31st!), published by Vinspire Publishing! www.vinspirepublishing.com
A Month of Tomorrows is based on the true story of Walsh’s uncle, Rubin Stout, a decorated WWII war hero who orchestrated the restoration of the Ville Verde Monument in 1987 in Luzon, Philippines. The monument, designed to honor fallen soldiers in the final battle of the Philippines (of which Stout fought), was desecrated after its erection in 1945. The book is a fictional memoir of Samuel Gable dictated to a local journalist who gains much more than a story from one of the most amazing men of our “greatest generation,” but rather intimate details of war, love, and tragedy few have ever experienced.
A Month of Tomorrows is deep in prose, and is character and scene driven. Though it is a page-turner, each word, sentence, and paragraph play a vital part to the story. As one reader stated, “Reading A Month of Tomorrows was like eating the sweetest, most juicy apple. I wanted to savor each bite, and was saddened when it came to an end.” Having garnered five-star reviews across the board, we are looking forward to seeing it there again and again. Amazon B&N
Chuck Walsh is a graduate of the University of South Carolina. He discovered a passion for writing in 2004 and, since then, he has written human-interest articles for a dozen publications and co-authored Faces of Freedom (featured on Sean Hannity’s book list), which recognizes the noble lives of U.S. soldiers who died while fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. A Passage Back, also published by Vinspire Publishing, will be released September 2014. His novels Shadows On Iron Mountain (September 2014) and Backwoods Justice (January 2015) are being published by Champagne Book Group www.champagnebooks.com/
Loiacono Literary Agency is honored to represent Chuck and all his works. Walsh has also written and we are seeking publication for A Splintered Dream, the story of Cape Jeffers, a small town hero whose lifelong dream to play for the New York Yankees was shattered after enduring a life-altering tragedy. www.loiaconoliteraryagency.com www.chuckwalshwriter.com
Words from Pep
Spirit Wind
“The wind blows where it wills, you hear the sound thereof, but cannot tell from where it came or know where it goes.” – As I turned and walked toward the sun, pondering these ancient words, the soft caress from a northeast breeze lightly washed the side of my face. Now and then a dandelion seed drifted past carried along tethered below its fragile parachute. It was a heavenly morning bathed in the smells of blossoming cherries and crab apples. A kingbird joined me and flew alongside the gravel road, landing every ten yards or so to see if I was keeping up. He considered himself my guide for quite a while until suddenly I instinctively ducked as something glided past my eyes. Turning to look, I caught sight of a small floating sphere, brown and gray, hardly the size of a dried pea. I reversed directions and zeroed in on this odd mystery. It was a spider curled upside-down and hanging unto the thinnest of filaments being played out vertically from between its legs. Tending the length of the filament she carefully regulated the height and speed of her wind born adventure. My eyes followed this ultra-thin fiber of silk upward five, ten, fifteen feet until it disappeared out of sight. A current of air met us from around a grove of trees and wafted my aeronautical friend out into the field. I jumped the ditch to keep up. Ahead grew a collection of shrubs maybe eight feet tall. For sure her journey was about end, but no! Working legs feverishly, higher and higher my tiny Earhart ascended clearing all entanglements. Clearly no amateur, no Icarus experimenting with wax and feathers, I became convinced I was watching Peter Parker completely transformed. Onward she flew, this intrepid traveler of the wind, with me riding shotgun on the ground. A hundred yards ahead stood the forest and ridge that restricted the Little Eau Pleine River into a series of rapids. Working the gossamer filament, my ballooning friend began to slow as if to study the challenge standing between it and continued freedom. She waited, bobbed up and down, floated forward, backwards. Suddenly her enthusiastic response began, legs and spinnerets were summoned to action. It was as if she was waiting, sensing pressures and direction for the perfect airstream. Sure enough, what can only be described as a genius beyond human comprehension, she was lifted up and up and up as the Spirit of the wind fanned my brave sky sailor onward into the unknown. The Spirit’s “wind blows where it wills,” Jesus said. My small friend had shown me her faith to trust the ride.
www.theteacherwithin.com
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ONE WORLD – ONE FAMILY OF MAN – ONE CREATOR OF ALL
The Written Word (Radio Z) – Ep. 4 Literary Agent Jeanie Loiacono
Sunday at 7pm Eastern, 6:pm Central, 5:pm Mountain and 4:pm Pacific
Join Radio Z hosts Alicia and Michael as they chat with a literary agent about the ins and outs of getting your written work traditionally published. We will talk query letters, agencies and publishers in this exciting episode of The Written Word.
Call in to speak with the host (347) 996-3900
On this day of your life, I believe God wants you to know that a point of view different from your own
might be well worth entertaining.
Sometimes it is not easy hearing an idea that is different from the one you are advancing — yet it
might be that second idea for which you were actually reaching.
Answers arrive in more ways than one. Sometimes they come through us, and sometimes
they come to us. www.CWGPortal.com
Words from Pep
Memorial Day, May 30th, 1970
If it had only been a dream— May 30, 1970 — Memorial Day
The sound of insects and our own breath was all that filled the night. At 0300 hours the moon rose over the ridge east of the Srepok River. Eyelids, heavy with sweat in the humid darkness, slipped shut. Suddenly a cough somewhere upriver brought us fully awake. More stillness and slowly the soft brush of bodies against jungle leaves elevated our senses to razor edge. The mines were spaced at ten meter intervals, groups of five on a single trigger, facing the trail between us and the water. In sleepy silence seven barely visible shadows moved southward passing the initial waypoint. As my heartbeat raced upward, I hoped, prayed, they could pass without being engaged. As the lead shadow neared the next waypoint, I heard the trigger snap forward and knew my prayer was not answered. At the speed of light I was blinded by five rapid flashes and the piercing scream of shrapnel tearing at the jungle. Silence, no insects, no response accept the pounding in my ears and shallow rapid breath escaping my lungs. A crawling, stumbling sound to my left drew fire from M16s. From near the rear of the engagement painful labored breathing came to an end. Seven, eight eternal minutes passed and another voice was heard, a young girl, now conscious, “Mae”, “Mae.” Mama could not respond. “Mae”, “Mae.” Pleading, crying, louder, desperate for the comfort of her mama’s love. Finally an order to move in and assess the action, log the body count of those labeled “enemy,” radio in cold numbers of finality. Her little heel was gone, blown off somewhere in the dark. Maybe she thought Mae could find it, make it right, put everything back as it was. But, Mae could never again make her world okay. We pried her clenched fingers from the rope keeping her connected to Mama in the darkness, injected morphine and wrapped her little foot; each of us wondering what we had done. Tasting the salt of my tears, I turned away to curse life and question if God existed. Five surreal hours later, sun rising, birds singing, clouds building in a blue peaceful tropic sky, she lay on white sheets surround by tubes and masks. Where is she today? Where is the little “Mae” girl of Memorial Day night 1970? Did she grow to know the joy of being a mama herself? Was she able to move past the nightmare, cope with the physical destruction of her body? I still taste the salt and hear the sounds of that night and sometimes wonder if God exists. —May 30th, 1970 – Memorial Day: If it had only been a dream.
www.theteacherwithin.com
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ONE WORLD – ONE FAMILY OF MAN – ONE CREATOR OF ALL
Loiacono Literary Agency acquires Trisha O’Keefe’s southern fiction, Love Song of the Chinaberry Man
It is said that in the Thicket right outside of Julia Springs, Georgia lives a creature of myth and legend, the Chinaberry Man. Rightly so named due to the sweet, pungent scent those who have remotely come across him remember smelling. I say remotely because very few have lived to tell of a close encounter, except one… Gina McFarland has always been special: predicting plane crashes, having visions and dreams that come true— mostly the kind that don’t have happy endings. Now she sees the dead, and, of all people, the creature has chosen to save her.
In a matter of days, several horrid things seemed to develop in this quiet hamlet, all of which culminate with hatred and revenge, Mother Nature’s wrath, pure serendipity… and the lovesong of the Chinaberry Man.
O’Keefe has one published novel, Hanahatchee (Deer Hawk Publications, 2012) and two yet to be released, Poseidon’s Eye (Jabari & Jaser, 2014) and Magi’s Well (Jabari & Jaser, 2015). As an anthropology student many years ago, Trisha O’Keefe became aware of the past’s potential for mystery. While living and studying in Egypt, she began writing with that connection in mind. O’Keefe lives in Georgia where she teaches and, of course, writes mysteries. https://loiaconoliteraryagency.com/authors/trisha-okeefe/