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Microsoft Word - 2014_Great_American_Fiction_Contest-The_Talent_Scout-by_Christine_Venzon.docx

bloom in pastels. It startled her to recognize him (by his fedora), this character under the trees in W.C. Handy Park purging desperate blues from a Gibson Les Paul, a blazing ember spit from the conflagration of Beale. The smooth voice betrayed a rough undertone, calfskin tanning to leather: I got to keep moving, Blues falling down like hail, And the day keeps on remindin’ me, there’s a hellhound on my trail. She backed into the shadows. A portrait, she thought, on ivory paper to suggest a spotlight. Burnt umber for his hair. For the finish of his guitar, dark chrome yellow and scarlet red. Hard pastels for the sharp lines of the strings. To convey the slide of his fingers along the neck — short strokes, or fluid ones? And to communicate the soul — that was the test, the proving ground, and it came only in the creating. Any skilled hand could represent the visual elements. Only spirit understood spirit, could translate it as a native speaker, from living flame to colored strokes on paper. Scattered applause from mostly curious onlookers broke the spell. A few hands added a few bills to the scant collection in his guitar case. He nodded thanks, already wringing an ominous


Microsoft Word - 2014_Great_American_Fiction_Contest-The_Talent_Scout-by_Christine_Venzon.docx
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