By Dennis Finocchiaro
The writers gather in the coffee shop to chat and meet and read at the microphone, but what do they do, they each show the type, the stereotype, that is, the one who is gay and has the supportive same-sex-significant, the one who thinks so highly of himself, as does his publisher, but then, he’s self-published, and chooses the seat most like a throne and expects subjects to surround him as they listen to the older generation poet who obviously spouts Ginsberg-like beat poetry as the young college early twenties gal shakes in her boots awaiting her turn at the microphone, the angry black man has his poetry violently scribbled on a pad of yellow paper and he listens on as the others do to the nice old lady reading and snapping her fingers, the overweight nerd looks through his “masterpieces” full of misspellings bad grammar and impossible-to-follow plot lines thinking that this is it, this is his moment when everyone will notice his absolute talent that every single creative writing professor has marked up with massive amounts of suggestions and edits, and the druggie sits in the back and tries to decide if he will even share what he wrote, even though it’s brilliant and if he ever decided to share it he would be scooped up by the best agent, the best publisher, and everyone else from his writing group the ones who call him druggie and pothead behind his back would be as jealous of his success as they already are of his talent but it will only happen if he dusts off the pot-riddled brain in his skull and shares his work but the nice old lady continues snapping and reading and smiling and fixing her thick glasses and next up is the Woody Allen nerd who actually could capture the imagination and attention of millions if he had the right venue or event, the right break to meet that agent, that publisher, that person who would lift him out of the muck that is this writer’s group but right now the most famous one is the self-published king in his throne, seventeen books out, made and created fully by himself and his ex-wife who may or may not expect a cut of the few books he has sold, all to friends, but it doesn’t matter because tonight is the night, it’s the writer’s night and everyone has met and everyone will tell everyone how wonderful everything they’ve ever done is, none will be honest whether it sucks or is a work of art, they won’t tell the truth because this is a writer’s group and they are all a stereotype and the know it as each takes a moment to look in the mirror in the bathroom and know it, they know they’re a stereotype they know they’re a real, a fake, a writer, a dreamer, or both and eventually each and every one of them will face it, some will reach deserved fame, some won’t at all, and of course others will get that fame regardless of the piss and shit they put on paper, on screen, in book and ebook alike until it’s all over but it’s okay, it’s alright, every single one of them will one day look back on this day, this moment, and know, know they are for real or a fraud. They will know because they already know, they just haven’t faced it yet.
Hey all! I’m SO EXCITED to be the judge/editor of an upcoming anthology of Philadelphia area writers. Know anyone from my locale that writes fiction? Then please tell them about this contest. Here’s the information:
Attention Philadelphia Writers!
WragsInk, a local publisher in the Philadelphia Area, is creating an anthology of the region’s best and brightest authors. How are they doing this? Through a CONTEST. Here’s the deal:
YOU: A writer from the Philadelphia Area, including suburbs.
WHAT: A short story contest. First prize: $50. Two runners-up each get $25.
The skinny: You need to be from the area, and your story has to have something to do with the great city of Philadelphia or the surrounding suburbs. It could be the setting, a main character could be from here, whatever, but it has to have SOMETHING to do with the area. The book will be edited by Dennis Finocchiaro, local author of Capturing a Moment and The Z Word.
The fine print: The three winners will automatically be included in the upcoming anthology, slated to come out at the end of the year. Any other short stories selected to be included in the anthology will receive an author’s copy of the book and will be invited to take part in public readings of your work at some of the many local events run by WragsInk. WragsInk has print and electronic rights to your story for two years, at which point the author may resell the story. WragsInk has the right to use the story in any capacity until the two years are up. By sending your story you are saying that A) It has not been published anywhere else; B) you exclusively own the rights to the story and C) that WragsInk has the right to use the story, if selected, for the next two years.
Also, the subject must say “Fiction Contest Submission” or we will not even read it.
What to send: Send us the story, your name, address and contact information. Please make sure the file is a RTF or Word document.
Where to send the story: Phillyfictioncontest@gmail.com
Deadline: October 31st
Winners will be notified via phone by November 15th.
Posted in Uncategorized
Tagged anthology contest, anthology looking for submissions, authors, contest, Philadelphia, Philadelphia Area, philadelphia authors, Philadelphia writers, publisher, publishing, short stories, WRAGSInk, writers, writing, writing contest
I’m proud to announce a collection of my stories was published in a lovely publication called The Fifteenth Dame Lisbet Throckmorton Anthology:
Click the image to order the book on Amazon. It was an honor to be selected with such beautiful stories and talented writers.
My collection are a bunch of short flash fiction pieces that take place in a coffee shop. There are two sections, Despair and Hope, some of the stories continuing from the Despair section to the Hope section. I’m really excited! Here are a few example flashes:
She removes her hood, as directed. He wants to see her eyes as she ends it. She sighs and takes a sip of tea. He spins his mug of coffee on the saucer, noticing the tiny cracks in the glaze.
From above, all that could be seen was two people calmly reading.
From below, all that could be seen was a serious, ongoing foot war.
It was their first date, blind at that, and conversation was fairly smooth. But he knew it would all work out because as she ate her giant marshmallow square, she broke a piece off, rolled it into a bite-sized, mouth-appropriate ball in the palms of her hands, and carefully regarded it between her finger and thumb before popping it into her mouth.
She loved sipping the hot rooibos tea but regretted her decision to sit inside on such a nice, clear night. She looked out the window with an air of regret, but lacked the initiative to move.
Posted in flash fiction
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