Vine Street PressShowcasing Southern Writers & Artists |
IN THIS ISSUE:
Ray Zimmerman reviews Gathering Stones by KB Ballentine Archives AND CHECK OUT THE LATEST... |
Featured
Writer
Kennesaw Williams
is a Chattanooga-based
playwright, screenwriter, and novelist. When Clones Go Missing, Book I of a teen trilogy, pits four artificially bred superkids against nefarious agents, informers, and one of their own kind gone bad in an America that may not be too far in the future. It is downloadable from this site (see below) as an E-book. When
Clones Go Missing©ProloguePapa Eugene—short for the President’s Project for Advanced Eugenics Research—was shut down in 2011. A secret committee earmarked the last $6.5 million of funding for the enormous task of eradicating all evidence that the project ever existed. Not too surprisingly, much of that money wound up in the pockets of a few high-ranking bureaucrats and the cover-up was bungled.Twenty-two sets of identical twins aged eight to eighteen were terminated. Records were shredded, hard drives wiped clean, the experimental campus dismantled, the grounds bulldozed. Then, almost immediately, campus personnel began meeting unfortunate deaths, typically by “suicide.” But twenty-four sets of twins had been clonally replicated, not twenty-two. Two sets—four super-intelligent kids—were unaccounted for. Unaccountably unaccounted for. And Dr. Roberta Lopez, a latecomer to the project team, had disappeared, eluding the authorities. Maybe it was she who tipped the kids off. Someone must have. Readmore.... Download Now Send Kennesaw mail Featured Writer If you are a southern writer, or even a non-southerner writing on southern themes, we would love to feature your work here. If you would like to submit work for publication, please peruse our Publication Guidelines and submit your work (if a poem, short story, review, or commentary) or sample chapter and plot synopsis (if a novel or novela) to lucy@vinestreetpress.com. |
Poem by KB Ballentine Mothering Wish you were here instead of me. She waits for me to move, to be near her – to be her though she doesn’t know it yet. I knew at 17. When I stepped into her shoes, followed her route, she cried. When devotion dried up, flaked into arguments then silence, when it was over, she was satisfied. I branched out, blazed new trails. She ignores the scratches, the knotted hair, the sprained limbs and urges me on with glares and criticism: You’re not there yet. Keep going. To prove her right – to prove her wrong – I push on. And she’s somewhere in the past, waiting for me to finish, waiting to be me. KB Ballentine 1/12/08 |