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Microsoft Word - 2014_Great_American_Fiction_Contest-The_Talent_Scout-by_Christine_Venzon.docx

Her boss arranged a display of spun glass figurines until he left. “Do you know him?” “Just a musician I gave a meal to. You know how strays are. Feed ’em once and …” She was glad she ran into him one Sunday on the River Walk on Mud Island. They walked the lower Mississippi from Illinois to the Gulf, stopping to read about the New Madrid Fault and Hernando de Soto, wondering at how the blues had traveled and transformed itself from New Orleans up to Memphis and St. Louis. “And Chicago,” Marti added. “That’s where I learned them. When I was in college.” “No kidding? Chicago blues meets New Orleans blues in Memphis.” “Go figure.” She wasn’t looking for him that October night, on one of her forays into Beale Street. That scene energized her, the air tingling with neon and music, carried by the sweat and breath of a thousand people, pushing and bumping, singing and shouting. Sometimes she found an eye in the maelstrom — a corner table or a horse-drawn carriage between hires — from which to tap into the surge, to carry it home in photos and sketches, as she had at Sportsman’s Park and the MCI Center. They waited, dormant seeds in portfolios, to be grafted on Tiziano paper and


Microsoft Word - 2014_Great_American_Fiction_Contest-The_Talent_Scout-by_Christine_Venzon.docx
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