Is my first attempt at writing in a Afro-Cuban style, taking inspiration from such composers as Tito Puente and Michel Camilo. While the piece isn’t set in a traditional Afro-Cuban style, and some rules of that style of music were broken during the compositional process, it remains to be a piece that evokes the spirit of Afro-Cuban music. Welcome to the last shopping week before Christmas! Congratiulations to all of the Design Team picks and to the rest of you that entered! For our seventy-ninth challenge we have an Anything But Christmas Challenge! Thank you all for playing along with us for last week’s Winter Holiday Challenge! I don’t know about you but I’m all Christmas’d out! You also have two weeks to create and share with us! Please link back to this post and we appreciate it if you would keep the number of other challenges you enter to three! The Design Team has some great projects to inspire you! You have until Sunday evening at pm on January 1st to enter your project. We can’t wait to see what you come up with and we’ll see you all in the New Year! And here is what our talented Design Team has come up with… Le Ann Pugliese Ricky Burton-Romero Crystal Komara Dena Rekow OFF THIS WEEK Maggie Mata Carolyn Lindenmayer OFF THIS WEEK Sandy Mathis Tina Rackley-Riddle Lisa Altman Andrea Tracy-Tucker Justin Krieger Let us know what your thoughts are by leaving a comment below! We can’t wait to see your creations and look forward to choosing picks for this week! Again, the challenge winners will be posted on Monday!
Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees, and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. The owners bought things from estate sales all over, often in large lots and sometimes wouldn’t know if it was trash or treasure until they received and went through piece by piece. But you knew there would always be the spring as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.” he above is a line from one of my stories, and I remember the flashback memory I had when I wrote it. One day, unloading a new batch of things they had brought in, I found an old trunk. I needed something like that trunk and though old (don’t know how old) it was still sturdy with good hinges and even a lock with the key still in it. I asked the store owner if I could buy it or work off the purchase price if they didn’t want to keep it for resale. He checked it out and decided it was nothing special. I think I bought it for $10 and worked an extra three or four hours to pay for it. That evening, at home, as I cleaned it up and out, I saw the newspapers were from New Orleans, late 1918. The major news was still about the Armistice and the end of World War One. But I always carried a cheap fountain pen that—unlike the one in my jacket—was empty. And curves, distracting, follow her every move just to see things shift under her clothes, kind of curves. The kind you used to wipe off malaria sweats and never washed. They checked you at the door, so I left them with the man who eyeballed me before letting me in. What she was doing in this hole wasn’t my business. Eyes that if the light were better would have probably been a bright blue. He’d bring back the even bigger, meaner, motherfuckers. The fog hung low in wads that had the look of a tattered, yellowed, rag. No ink and in my back pocket where I could get at it with my hands lowered slightly behind me, on the hips, a non-offensive stance. a dicey place where women, the wrong kind, and trouble were always in abundance. The make you run off the road or into a wall looking kind. I had learned the alleys that kept you mostly off the streets. You can do a lot of damage with a pen when you don’t have a blade. I had watched a local bully boy get sliced open with one. Five minutes later we were deeper into the maze of old buildings that radiated outward from the port’s warehouses. But when that jumbo-sized, scar-faced goon started slapping her around, I had to do something. Her face an un-inked ivory oval framed by dark hair caught the dim lights in the bar. “We have to go.” I saw a small guy, the bartender’s runner, head to the back rooms. The streets, stone and stucco walls around us were damp with it. I got problems of my own and just want to sit and drink. Leave her alone.” But he wasn’t in a listening mood I guess. The nib caught and snagged flesh as I yanked it free. ” Maybe it was the slaps and punch to the head that made her slow on the uptake. “We gotta go, now, or neither of us is leaving.” She stumbled along at my side; me more dragging her than she walking. Down the street, I saw lamppost lights wrestling with the fog that rolls in off the water in the dark hours after midnight and before dawn. I mind my own business and don’t give a damn what others do. In three maybe four long steps, I reached and put my hand on his shoulder to turn him. He wasn’t one either and when he came around, he grabbed my hand and forearm and twisted. That’s when I pulled my pen from my back pocket, wrote him a little note and stuck it under his chin. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” She looked up at me, one side of her face already had a bruised grape look to it. ” She looked over at the man on the floor still spitting red bubbles and then at my now crooked left arm with the splintered end of bone poking out. “You need to come with me now if you want me to live.” “What?
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