The Emery Writing Challenge
The Emery Award is a traveling writing award presented each month to the TLW member who demonstrates the best talent in the given writing challenge.
The June Emery went to Chuck Butkus. The Challenge: "Describe the Taste of blood"
How can I describe the taste of blood?
By C. Allan Butkus
Shall I run my tongue over a cut on my finger?
But then you might consider my actions quite base.
And if I extolled the flavor and let my tongue linger?
Would you stare in shock, a frown upon your face?
What if instead, I explained the taste by how I see it?
I could let my eyes describe what it seems.
This may be a bit farfetched, I admit,
but then again, who knows of vampire dreams?
Yet, another approach would be to touch the blood,
but how best to confront a fluid that is alive?
I could place my lips gently in the pulsing flood
and marvel at its powers to revive.
Or would it be better if the smell hinted at the taste?
The warm metallic scent, life’s essence so true.
A quick breath, inhaled in haste,
and knowing we must hearken to avoid its senseless waste.
Is it possible that we may hear the taste of blood?
Dare we let our ears explore the red shadows of life?
There surges in our veins, a crimson flood.
Is it possible we may hear its whispered secrets, and avoid strife?
For blood is life, the essence of our being
and though words be spoke and answers bidden.
Its ancient essence stays concealed, life guaranteeing.
Your blood, my blood, mankind’s blood, answers stay hidden.
The May 2009 Emery went to Nancy Thatcher-Cerny. The challenge: "Write a press release for the Emery Award."
The Emery Award
By Nancy Thatcher-Cerny
C. Allan Butkus wins Emery Award. A resident of Ash Flat, Arkansas, and author of vampire books including "Thinking Rocks," C. Allan Butkus’ name will be added to The Red Canoe Trophy, a traveling symbol of Emery Award winners. The trophy and Award were designed and created by Philip A. Emery, whose writings can be found in the Archives of the Library of Congress.
To date, four writers have been recognized by their peers to receive the prestigious Emery Award. They are Steven Kampen, author of the murder mystery, "Maple and Second," Carol Sacher, poetess, Susan Varno, feature magazine and newspaper writer and Mr. Butkus.
Writers may enter the Emery Award contest by attending a Twin Lakes Writers (TLW) meeting, held the second Saturday of each month 1-3 p.m. at the Redeemer Lutheran Church in Mountain Home, Arkansas. A new award topic is revealed each month. Writers meet the challenge by reading their response at the TLW meeting the following month. Members vote for the writing they find most impressive. The winner takes possession of The Red Canoe Trophy and their winning piece is published in the TLW Newsletter and on TLW website.
Congratulations go to C. Allan Butkus, winner of the April 2009 Emery Award and thanks go to Philip A. Emery for making this award and trophy possible. Additional information regarding the organization, membership, purpose and activities is available at TwinLakesWriters.org. NancyThatcherCerny ,Pres.TLW
The April 2009 Emery went to Chuck Butkus. The Challenge was to say "I love you" without using those exact words.
Unspoken Words
By C. Allan Butkus
If ye would be known as wise and yet smart
Hearken to me, ye souls of lonely heart.
All of ye who yearn for a gentle hug,
dreams may appear faintly, as a coy shrug.
Though she may not say the words, as words,
nay with a verbal voice as gentle as a bird.
She will say them many times, in disguise
And softly as she whispers with her eyes.
There are many in this world, hearts well shuttered,
but her actions be subtle, words unuttered.
Still I have felt and recognized the signs,
gladly professing my troth for all time.
And as certain as our two hearts do beat
That I, as she, are truly made complete.
I know by measure, meter, rote and rhyme.
Gone the shadows of living as the mime.
If it was in my power as a world leader
I’d have two wishes for you, gentle reader.
Your protection from deadly knives and swords.
And the comfort of these three little words.
The January 2009 Emery was Awarded to Susan Varno for her Outstanding Short Story!
At the January meeting Author Chuck Butkus suggested a writing challenge to: Create a short story, essay or poem about reaching your hand down in your pocket and describing the first thing you find. The following are some of the entries.
I STUCK MY HAND IN MY PURSE AND PULLED OUT.....
Opening line contest
By Susan Varno
This is a true story. I stuck my hand in my purse and pulled out...a dead mouse. How did this horrifying object get into my purse? I put it there.
In college, my friends John and Doug had found a realistic looking rubber mouse. It was real enough to scare my roommate Mary and me. After our first screams died down, the guys kept bringing the creature out at inappropriate times, like during meals or walking back to the dorm in the dark. So when I found what I thought was the rubber mouse in my mail slot, I dumped it and the rest of my mail in my purse.
In my room, I said to Mary, "John left the rubber mouse in my mail slot."
Let’s give it a decent burial," she said, "and we’ll be done with the practical jokes."
When I pulled the mouse out of my purse, it didn’t look like the one we’d been meeting unexpectedly for the past few days. It had a longer tail, larger eyes, and felt furry. It was...A REAL MOUSE.
I screamed and threw it across the room. It landed on Mary’s bed. She jumped up and screamed.
When breath returned to our lungs, Mary said, "They killed a real mouse."
"Or it died from natural causes. I didn’t see any injuries."
"Poisoned," she said ominously. "I’ll bet a school janitor sold it to them."
"How do we get even?" I asked.
"First we get rid of thing."
After removing the departed with a broom, dustpan and washing her sheets, we plotted. Finally, we decided to say nothing. The guys hinted but never came right out and said they’d put a formerly living mouse in my mail slot. And we were never visited by the rubber mouse again.
Whose Pocket?
Poem by Wiley Russell
The assignment was to write a short tale
To this a problem would seem no avail
Just reach down in a pocket and give it a jingle
And describe the first thing you feel with a tingle
But the problem came when I couldn’t remember
In whose pocket was I to let my fingers go limber?
Oh how I thought I was being real smart
When I stuck my hand down into the pocket of an old lady at Wal Mart
Police! Police! She screamed in a ruckus
Be quiet I said, I’m on assignment from Chuck Butkus
Car keys, loose change I pulled form her pocket
When out of nowhere she landed a punch in my left eye socket
Suddenly the manager tackled me to the ground
And soon in jail I would be found
Hands cuffed behind me on a bench
Unable to move more than an inch
The jailer viewed me with suspicious eyes
When a moment later he stepped closer to my surprise
You attacked an old lady
And that seems pretty shady
Bus she’s not pressing charges and I’m letting you go free
He unfastened my cuffs, filling me with glee
For a cop you seem like a good sport
Why do you say that was his retort?
Suddenly I jabbed my hand down his front pocket
And found what seemed to be a brass locket
Now I sit again, waiting a court date
Because cops aren’t old ladies when dealing one’s fate
The December 2008 Inaugural Emery was Awarded to Steve Kampen for his Very Creative Short Story
At the December Meeting TLW President Nancy Thatcher Cerny suggested a writing challenge using 9 words contributed at random by members. The word limit was 250 words and the "work" could be a short story, article, essay, poem, flash fiction, anything at all. The 9 words that had to be present were: Pastoral, Fuzz, Cornpone, Mansion, Grace, Swan, Unencumbered, Hell, Rocket-Launcher. The first Emery award was given to Steve kampen. Here are some of the entries:
An exercise in writing
by Emmit D. Acklin
Just nine words, but such diverse words! I spent days trying several fictional plot outlines but could never come up with a viable short story that would include all the selected words. Then I remembered Tony Hillerman, how would he solve this problem? In thinking of him I remembered what he wrote about his duties as a foot-soldier in Europe and his war injuries, and in remembering my visit to his home I thought I saw a way to write about him and use all nine of the words.
The following is what I came up with. It is all true. However; I did take a few liberties with my thoughts of what his home might look like. While the word “pastoral” is better suited to the English countryside than the high arid desert, there are flocks of sheep there.
For the last fifty years or more all my heroes have been authors, both male and female. I read fiction, science fiction and real life adventure. Slowly I moved ever closer to the true stories of such writers as Walt Coburn, (True stories of life on the range) Ted Trueblood, (Outdoor writer) Meno Duerkson (Auto Companies Historian) and Eve Ball (Apache Indian stories writer.) The one novelist I still read is Tony Hillerman.
A TRIBUTE TO TONY HILLERMAN
Tony grew up on a poor-land farm in Oklahoma . They starved through the Great Depression on cornpone (that’s nothing but cornbread) and beans when they could get it, just like we did here in Arkansas .
During WWII Tony served in France and Germany as the company mortar man. I’m not sure if that is the same as a rocket launcher, perhaps not. He was wounded in the leg and eye which earned him a Silver Star. He said he went through hell for many months in hospitals but by the grace of god he healed, regained his sight, and returned home. When he starting writing fiction he set his stories on the Navajo Indian Reservation in the high desert country of northern Arizona and New Mexico , the very place I once lived. Most of his stories have a pastoral setting among the Navajo sheep owners.
After corresponding with him several years I at last got to visit with him and his gracious wife, Marie. As my wife, Bettie, and I drove to his home in Albuquerque , New Mexico , I imagined a man of his literary standing would be living in a mansion on a hill with peacocks on the lawn and a small lake out in front with a swan or two slowly swimming back and forth. However, I was wrong. As I drove up to his house that morning I expected to at least find them living in a “gated” community and to have the local “fuzz” at the gate check my ID, however, there was no “gate” nor fuzz. They lived in a quite, but ordinary neighborhood.
While we visited which was at least a half hour I noticed his desk, unlike mine at home, was clean and unencumbered with books and papers. That was a surprise to me. I thought all writers had a desk like Andy Rooney. I’m very thankful I had those few minutes with Tony and Marie. I knew at the time they were not in the best of health and Tony’s health deteriorated even more after I saw him. He passed away October 26, 2008 and I’m reasonably sure I’ll never see Marie again.
Willing
by Judy Stark
Nancy leaned down and fed the swans cracked- corn—dropping it on a flat rock. The cygnet’s fuzz trembled from a light breeze. The puff balls looked nothing like the older swans. The female swan was graceful and remote in manner, while the cob stayed on alert to chase intruders away from his family.
The swans floated on a small lake near her mansion. The formal pastoral setting was very different than the cornpone area where Nancy grew up.
"I’m glad to escape the hell of having the media intruding on my life for a few days," Nancy told her friend, Annie. "Thank God I’m unencumbered by a romance in this rocker-launcher rise to fame. I never expected to make it as a singer, and to have it happen so quickly is unbelievable."
"You have handled your fans and media with grace beyond belief. Good thing your temper is under God’s control these days," Annie replied.
"I’m so glad you and your family were chosen as my foster family, when I was put in care. You made me feel part of your family. Finding out about God’s love and goodness changed me, from running wild and doing whatever came to mind, to waiting until God made his will known to me. Annie, thank you for sticking with me. You have even traveled with me since I became a celebrity."
Flash Fiction
by Sandy Zabel
The mansion sat on a beautiful pastoral hill with a lake in back. All was peaceful until Fuzz unencumbered his rocket from the rocket-launcher. The swan thought all hell had broken loose and he was only able to get back in her good grace by feeding her cornpone.The mansion sat on a beautiful pastoral hill with a lake in back. All was peaceful until Fuzz unencumbered his rocket from the rocket-launcher. The swan thought all hell had broken loose and he was only able to get back in her good grace by feeding her cornpone.
The Saga of the Rev. Fuzz
By Ray Bachman
There once was a reverend named Fuzz;
A simple country preacher he was.
As he visited his flock
He received quite a shock
When he found what his deacon does.
The deacon invited the parson to lunch;
The wife fed them cornpone, a bunch.
But soon after dinner
Fuzz discovered the sinner
Had put corn from the still in his punch.
The pastor was really quite shy,
But still a good looking young guy.
He soon met a sweet cutie
Who thought it her duty
To give Fuzz a pastoral high.
The reverend wasn't feeling too well;
He really was wrestling with Hell.
When he went into town,
Women and booze took him down
'Til he remembered his mansion so swell.
Now unencumbered from sin
He's preaching God's grace once again.
Like a swan clean and white,
He stays home every night
And with his rocket-launcher makes a great din.
-----o-----
With apologies to my fellow pastor
and friend Rev. Harold "Fuzz" Knight
of Goshen, Indiana
Untitled
by Wiley Russell
Everett and Claude stepped out of their cousin Grace’s cornpone mansion and onto the pastoral backyard that continued down to a pond.
“What did Grace mean, she inherited this house from her Aunt May ‘un-in-cum-bread’?”
“Unencumbered. That means without sheets. You know ‘uncumbered’, like uncovered.”
“Why would Aunt May give Grace a big ol’ house and no sheets?”
“I don’t know about that, but you’d think Grace could find more for supper than half a squirrel. I’m still so hungry I could eat the fuzz off a possum’s belly.”
Claude began jumping and pointing. “Looky, Everett! It’s a giant chicken! You still hungry?”
“You want to eat Grace’s chicken?”
“That’s what they’s for. And he’s runnin’ straight to the pond like he’s gonna get away.”
“I got something’ that’ll catch him.” Claude got in his pickup and pulled out a rocket-launcher tube and set it on his shoulder.
“Where’d you get that bazooka?”
“At the gettin’ place. How you like your giant chicken, crispy or burned to hell?”
“Crispy!”
The rocket went off with roar and exploded near the pond.
“Whoopee!”
Claude and Everett hurried down to the water.
“Blowed off all his feathers and cooked him!”
The brothers turned to see Grace running toward them. “What’d you two do!”
“Your giant chicken was going to swim away, so we shot him.”
“You numbskull. That’s not a chicken, it’s a swan!”
“Oh . . . well,” Claude said, “I was wonderin’ how he got them flippers on his feet.”
NINE WORD-STORY ASSIGNMENT
PRESENTED IN ONE SENTENCE
by Nancy Thatcher Cerny
Our pastoral view from the mansion, including those willow trees with leaves like wispy fuzz and a pair of swan to grace the mill pond, has always been unencumbered by those corn pone munching neighbors’ clutter and noise, then, all hell broke loose Saturday night when they set off that rocket launcher from the back of their broken-down, rusty, old pickup truck – right up there on Highway 201. Jan09nktc//
Word count 249
OLD FUZZ AND THE LONDON FLYER
by Josephine Montgomery
Moonlight lit the narrow twisting lanes, a stagecoach raced, as though pursued by all the Devils in Hell, through the pastoral English countryside. Loose stones flew from under iron shod wheels as if ejected by a rocket-launcher. The London Flyer had no time to lose, express stagecoach fare to London was expensive and not for the faint hearted. Perched high above the horses the coach driver, Old Fuzz, cracked his whip in the frosty air, responding to the hiss of leather the horses surged forward, muscles rippling, nostrils flaring. A golden guinea would his if old Fuzz reached the Swan and Duck coaching inn before midnight.
Unencumbered by wives and children, six male passengers endured the bone shaking ride as the stagecoach hurtled through the night.
The horses, bathed in sweat, reached the Swan and Duck forty minutes before midnight, Old Fuzz quickly palmed the passenger’s promised golden guinea. Stable lads changed the horses while Old Fuzz ate a supper of cornpone and soup, washed down with a tankard of ale before a blazing log fire. Another golden guinea would be his if he reached Magnolia Mansion before dawn, with a good team and by the Grace of God, Old Fuzz knew he could do it.
The stagecoach did not reach Magnolia Mansion before dawn. Old Fuzz was found, by a stable, boy stretched out before the fire. The smile fixed on his face left no doubt he was driving a spirited team of horses towards the Great Hereafter.
9-word Assignment
by Jim Gaskins
It was not with pastoral grace that the fuzz stopped me from entering the Royal Mansion and lit into me like a Muslim rocket-launcher from Hell. I lackadaisically grinned, like the unencumbered cornpone that I was, totally ignorant that I had nearly played my swan song with the intent to walk into this holy place.
A MOMENT OF PEACE IN THE MIDST OF HELL
by Ralph Kruger
Short Story Using Nine TLW Words
As I warily crouched in a shallow ditch that bordered a muddy field outside of the village of Dickenshied in Germany, I looked fixedly through my binoculars a second time. It was hard to believe my eyes. There in the middle of the field covered by the FUZZ remnants of a burned out crop in this rich farming area was a ROCKET LAUNCHER. At least that is what it looked like from some drawings I had seen before being dropped into this remote site as an advanced scout for the US Army.
The ROCKET LAUNCHER looked to be totally deserted and abandoned, but I had heard about the extensive HELL the rockets had inflicted on England as Hitler tried to press towards a total defeat of England in the years when the bombing of England had reached new heights. Now his Wehrmacht was in full retreat as the armies of the Allies and the Russians competed to see who would reach Berlin and impose upon the once mighty Nazi Regime the necessity of complete surrender.
The strange scene of this instrument of destruction contrasted with the otherwise PASTORAL environment, which even included a swan in a small pond swimming UNENCUMBERED by anything that would disturb its peace. Even if one looked to the horizon, there the bombed-out ruins of what had once been the beautiful MANSION of a wealthy aristocrat. But, here there was nothing to disturb the quiet.
Before I pushed on to new territory and the risks that I would face, I took the time to photograph the abandoned rocket launcher and its setting in such a serene environment. I also nibbled on the remnant of a biscuit from that reminded me of my home in Arkansas and my love of CORNPONE. I thought to myself, "This has truly been a moment of GRACE in the midst of all the reminders of this terrible war".