Learned that my Appalachian short story "Bringing Home the Bacon" was taught this semester at West Virginia University in Morgantown. Not a literature class, mind you -- a computer science course to teach students how to develop video games!
I don't know about you, but the wild and varied components of this situation delight and entice me. Picture some brilliant free-thinking young person who wants to develop video games. This individual is a computer science major at the state's premiere university.
Interject my little tale about a middle-aged mountain woman who likely does not read or write, who instructs a young person on the finer points of hog butchering.
Now, blend those two things together. Modern technology meets ancient tradition. Science fiction meets mountain culture. Who woulda thunk, I ask ya?
This little story was selected and honored by the West Virginia Folklife Center at Fairmont State University for preserving traditional folklore. And in almost the same breath, was chosen to help video gaming programmers. Now THAT is a versatile tale!
When our stories were first accepted for publication in "Fed From the Blade," I whined to my dear friend Marion Kee "Your poem about Bill Withers will be taught and beloved in classrooms for generations to come, while my story will be read, grimaced over, shuddered about, then set aside and ne'er thought of again. You will go down in history!"
I may not go down in history, but hey, my story was taught in one classroom! And who knows, maybe it will inspire some bizarre video game -- although we both know that isn't going to happen.
The Universe is so clever!
I love the Universe. ~~GH
“The arts are not just a nice thing to have or to do if there is free time or if one can afford it. Rather, paintings and poetry, music and fashion, design and dialogue, they all define who we are as a people and provide an account of our history for the next generation.” ~~Michelle Obama
Thanks to those who did the silly little poll I asked you to fill out. I felt the love! :) For some reason, even though I have a good amount of traffic on this blog, folks rarely comment or interact. Lots of lurkers though. And that's fine. I think many of you enjoy peeking into other people's thoughts, like I do.
I believe good literature is like that: It lifts the veil and permits access to inner thoughts and private activities. For a brief while, we become gods.
Request: Please do me a favor and do not visit here directly from an "adult" site. I do not want to see those images and I am ignorant of the site names. Blogger sends me info on what page my visitors link here from. It's totally cool with me that you go wherever and I do not judge. I simply request that you extend the courtesy to me so I don't have to "go places" I prefer not to visit. I believe I would almost prefer to lose readers than to have to see those images again. Thanks!
Today, I am writing about an incident that took place on the Dragon's Tail, U.S. 129 between Tennessee and North Carolina. So until that's ready to go, I'll leave you with "Eden," the micro flash piece that won the International Binnacle Award. I hope you enjoy it. And if you STILL haven't read about the "Dangling Kiss" on the last blog post, be sure and click Older Posts when you are finished reading "Eden." You might be glad you did.~GHC
Eden - by Ginger Hamilton Caudill
In her dreams, the muted heather hills roll on forever. Verdant fields flow beneath her bare feet like bottle-green sea surge. A brook curls around the massive trunks of ancient oak trees; she dips her toes into its soothing stream. Flowers' fragrant perfumes waft on the breeze. Enticed by the songbirds' serene harmony, she lies down to rest.
The alarm clock snatches her from sylvan heaven to a studio apartment. Overhead, the city looms like a grimy Goliath. Below, sirens wail and horns reply; angry voices clash with the traffic's din. An ancient light fixture trembles as the corpulent man upstairs lumbers to his kitchen. The smells of pork and rancid cooking oil linger in the atmosphere.
She slips into grease-slicked shoes and pins a nametag to the bodice of her uniform. Reconciled to raising her ransom, Eve faces the world.
