With a little luck, maybe I'll win the entry fee back.
Maybe I should just be satisfied with being the tenth best liar in the state.
I guess its a good thing I write fiction, not history.
I'll let you know how it turns out.
Author John Zerr |
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I found a flyer some weeks back inviting submissions for the First Annual Missouri Liars contest. You had to submit a video or audio file of ten minutes duration or less. I did an MP-3 file of 9 minutes, 58 seconds. I just found out I am one of ten finalists. The final competition is a live lie-off at a library at 8900 NE Flintlock Road, Kansas City MO on the 11th of July.
With a little luck, maybe I'll win the entry fee back. Maybe I should just be satisfied with being the tenth best liar in the state. I guess its a good thing I write fiction, not history. I'll let you know how it turns out.
1 Comment
Blue Ink notified me it competed a review of The Happy Life of Preston Katt. It might take as much as four weeks before the review is published on their web site. It is a "Starred Review," and reads:
This poignant, evocatively written tale is the story of Seaman Preston Katt, a man who enlists in the Navy in 1941 to escape the abusive life of an outcast. From the first few pages, the book displays vivid descriptions and dialogue that engages — all the way through to the story’s shocking conclusion. In this relatively short volume, author J.J. Zerr weaves a haunting tale of the day-to-day experiences the young swabby undergoes as he takes part in some of the major naval battles of World War II, including Pearl Harbor, Guadalcanal and the Battle of the Coral Sea. These fictionalized, real-life events are skillfully and realistically portrayed. Although he distinguishes himself as an extraordinary lookout who saves more than one ship, Preston Katt’s self-esteem never seems to fully recover from his childhood in Saint Ambrose, Missouri, where, as the illegitimate son of an alcoholic mother, “his life had no more direction than a mongrel dog skulking around town searching for dinner.” He attributes his redemption to Sister Ralph, a grade school nun who helped him turn his life around. But he remains haunted by guilt and sees “God’s punishment” for his sins in every bad thing that happens, including occasionally failing to spot Japanese aircraft and submarines. Riveting combat descriptions from an individual sailor’s point of view are seamlessly woven through the novel as Katt confronts Japanese bombs, torpedoes, the death of friends, and his own overly scrupulous conscience. The conclusion comes as a surprise, but readers will understand its inevitability from clues the author has left along the way. No spoilers here, you’ll have to read this story to find out what becomes of Seaman Katt. The Happy Life of Preston Katt is heartily recommended. BlueInk Heads-Up: Military buffs will especially appreciate this realistically rendered story. Seaman Second Class Katt's boss: Boatswain Mate First Class Sampson
In the First Division berthing space, the eyes of the senior enlisted man, First Class Petty Officer Sampson, popped open. He didn’t need a watch or clock to tell him the time. He lay on his bunk and listened to the sounds of his sailors. There were a couple of snorers, there was a whimperer, and there were always a few turning over and rustling the sheets. And a moaner reliving the ecstasy of rented love ashore. Sampson smiled. His sailors called him a hard-ass. What would they say if they knew he woke early every morning to wallow for a moment or two in affection for his sailors? Of course, he also woke early to get in and out of the head before the pack of teenaged bodies jammed the small space for their ****, shower, and shave. Sampson’s bunk was the center in a tier of three near the rear of the compartment. He swung out, and his feet splatted on the tile. He was wearing only white skivvy drawers, and his upper body was hard muscled from the time he spent lifting weights. His legs, however, were spindly and didn’t appear to be up to the task of supporting the thick chest. Sampson grabbed his toiletries kit from his locker, dropped his skivvies, and tied a towel around his waist. As he did every morning, he took a moment to check the berthing space before going forward for his three Ss. The space was crammed with bunks in tiers of three and stacks of three-foot-high aluminum lockers, these in tiers of two. There were three narrow aisles between the bunks and lockers. Dim red lights, which didn’t ruin night vision, gave off just enough illumination to distinguish the main features of the space’s layout. With everything in order, he went to claim sole possession of the head for seven minutes. He was at his bunk and dressed in clean skivvies at 0600. The ship’s announcing system blared, “Reveille, reveille. All hands heave out and trice up. The smoking lamp is lit in all authorized spaces.” Moriarity’s plan worked great all the way until they were ready to sneak back aboard their ship. Then they found one of the watch standers on Spenser leaning on the lifeline at the stern smoking and looking at the bow of Callahan. There was no way they could climb back aboard without the smoker seeing them. Katt’s right leg, the one next to his shipmate, started jigging up and down. *** Why did I listen to Moriarity? It was a fine time to start asking such questions. Katt always listened to Moriarity. He’d gotten in trouble once before because of it. Before he reported to the Callahan, Katt never had a friend. The night he checked aboard, Moriarity was one of the watch standers on the quarterdeck. A burly, six-foot chief petty officer sporting a neat, full, black moustache was OOD, officer of the deck. He glanced over the orders Katt handed him and said, “Seaman Second Class Preston Katt, welcome aboard. You’ll be in First Division.” First Division was home to forty deck seamen, the sailors who handled the anchors, mooring lines, the boats—basic sailor duties. “I’ll take him to the berthing compartment,” a skinny sailor, as was Katt, and short, about five seven, also like Katt, cut in. “I’ll get him set up with a bunk.” The OOD spun and snapped, “No, ****bird. You’ll take him to berthing and turn him over to Petty Officer Sampson. Then”—the OOD jabbed the little guy on his chest—“you, Moriarity, will get your duty-shirking, malingering ass right back up here. You got seven and a half minutes.” “Uh, Chief,” Katt said. “Tell me how to find it. I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.” “It’s all right. Moriarity will show you the way. You’re not getting him in trouble. That’s one thing he don’t need no help with. He’s in your division. Steer clear of him, though. He’s led lots of innocents into deep and serious ****.” First Division berthing was forward, the quarterdeck aft, and Moriarity talked the entire length of the ship. He intrigued Katt. In his experience to that point, life was serious business. Surviving or not surviving serious. Moriarity, however, didn’t take anything seriously. That was clear just in the walk down the side of the ship. In ensuing days, he was always at the center of any group, always talking, and life to him seemed to be fun. Katt had no experience with that concept, either. Moriarity drew Katt to him with a high-tide gravitational pull. Katt never drank alcohol before the first time on liberty with Moriarity. Then his friend kept buying beers, and he kept drinking them. The next morning, Katt woke in a flophouse hotel room, a puddle of beer-and-peanut puke on the floor beside him. And he got back to the ship three hours late for 0730 muster. “Why’d you leave me?” Katt asked him. “A man’s got to learn how to handle booze. That was lesson one.” |
John Zerr is the author of four novels, The Ensign Locker, Sundown Town Duty Station, Noble Deeds, and The Happy Life of Preston Katt.
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May 2018
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