In Spring of 2024 and 2025 I attended the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival in New Orleans. Aside from learning about the great American playwright himself, attendees experienced many fantastic writing panels and instruction blocks on various forms of literature. But the highlight of the festival for me was the organized writing marathon put on by the festival. On Thursday and Sunday of the five-day festival, writers in small groups perused the French Quarter’s endless cafes, bars, restaurants, and public spaces to write whatever came to our minds. Where folks went to write and how long they stayed to write were entirely up to them. If you felt like journaling, writing a poem, or jotting a quick story about your immediate surroundings, all was fair game. Each session ended up being 15-45 minutes, where we pulled out our notebooks or laptops and wrote in silence before reading our entries aloud to one another. As you can imagine, several hours in, and after a few libations, some of what we wrote got interesting.

Recently, I was honored to be included in the writing marathon’s publication as a featured writer. Published by the Louisiana Literature Press (2025), it was edited by longtime marathon organizer Richard Louth, and features over a dozen other writers who also participated. The title couldn’t be more appropriate–none of us knows how long we have left on this earth. I’ve included a photo of temporary memorial that was erected following the Jan. 1, 2024 terror attack near Bourbon St./Canal.

The paperback can be purchased for $8.00 through the publisher. I’ve included my six entries below; the word counts range from 26 words to about 500. If you enjoying writing or are thinking of taking it up, and if you’d enjoy New Orleans in springtime (gorgeous weather), I highly recommend the festival and especially the included writing marathon. Enjoy these offerings, and Happy Holidays!

One and Done (446 words)

It’s that sort of awkward silence you can almost smell and taste. I got here first and grabbed a table facing the door. Amber said she’d be wearing purple, so when she walked in wearing a purple hat, I rose and waved. But now that I’ve told her about my job and where I went to school, and she’s told me about her college days and her trek to Machu Picchu last summer, we’re wading through that weird part of a first date where you nod slowly to yourself and sip through your straw with two fingers gripping it, your eyes looking literally everywhere else except on your date.

Stirring the awkward pool, Amber asks, “So, tell me a confession. Anything, big or small.”

I wasn’t expecting that. Her profile said she’s an accountant by day and knits sweaters as a hobby. This pool has suddenly gotten deep.

“Well, I once put gum in my little sister’s hair when she wasn’t looking. My brother got blamed and was grounded. He missed our trip to the water park because of it. You?”

She eyes me. “No, I mean a real confession. I’ll go first. I once robbed a bank.”

I almost choke on my drink. “Seriously? An actual stick up?”

“Not exactly. It wasn’t money. I worked there during college. It was stupid, really. A dare. I was out drinking with friends when someone proposed we all steal something from our jobs. I decided on taking the ink inserts on all the chain pens at the teller stands. This was in the days before online banking.”

I stare at her, amazed. “So what happened?”

“Havoc. Pandemonium. Lines for all the tellers were super long, and the bank manager had to drive to Office Depot and buy refills. It was scary, since I’d be fired and probably arrested if I got discovered, but I didn’t. I was so afraid, I quit the next day.”

A sudden thought strikes me. “What bank was it?”

“First Union on Dakota and Fiftieth, in Northport. Why?”

“My dad was the bank manager the day that happened. I remember, because he came home and told us he got fired due to mismanagement, since the bank got so many complaints. We had to move to a new city. I never left.”

Now Amber’s swimming in these deep waters. She looks like she’d drowning, actually. “Oh my God…I’m so sorry. I never thought…”

“It’s okay,” I say, my heart thumping in my chest. “I believe in fate. It’s the universe guiding us together. Wanna get married?”

She gawks at me. “Serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Please wait fifty years to have one. But yes!”

A-Z (26 words)

Assuaging breezes calm down, excellent for ghostly hauntings. It justifies keeping languid, morose, not ominous. Phantoms quarrel regularly. Spirits tango unctuously. Vexed witches x-ray yearning zealots.

Due to an Abundance of Heat (a poem)

Far from lands up north, with lakes a-plenty,

The mighty river winds past towns, and not;

I’ve waded in its source before a-twenty,

And visited its mouth, where time forgot.

Ten thousand lakes ‘tis where the river starts,

It ends in Vieux Carré, but captures hearts.

Get Your Napoleon Freak On (330 words)

Story goes, Napoleon had French sympathizers here in New Orleans who offered him refuge. Things weren’t going so well back home for ole Pointy Hat, and he made plans to escape to the Americas. Except life interrupted, as it did for countless emperors, kings, and queens before and since—even Jesus wasn’t immune to politics. Even though Napoleon never made it to this quaint, former home built in 1797, his name hangs nonetheless on the sign outside the front door, and the now-restaurant enjoys the popularity its namesake unknowingly bestowed upon it.

The host sat me at a table probably older than me, near a group of three twenty-somethings young women. I dutifully ordered a Pimm’s Cup and jambalaya, then opened my notebook and clicked open my pen. It was time to get my Napoleon freak on.

But as outside (or inside) distractions can be, I found my muse stymied by a particularly grating irritant—the three young women loudly Tik Toking. Huddled and giggling, their fingers furiously swiping up and up and up, they were no longer of Earth, but some other planet of which they were the sole inhabitants. How rude! Didn’t they realize the man beside them was preparing to get his Napoleon freak on? Inspiration literally hung in the air, and the Tik Tok triumvirate was holding up progress.

It eventually came. I blocked out the distraction and my pen began its scribbling. I’d become so engrossed in the opening paragraph that I barely noticed the women anymore. I was Napoleon himself, seated in his tent before his battle maps, and surveying the field atop his horse. Cannons roared. Trumpets blared. Acrid smoke filled the air, and through his lorgnette came the sight of men charging and fighting and dying.

But in a flash, it was gone. I was back in the restaurant, thrust from the scene by an all-too familiar Tik Tok, viral as it was uncouth. What do I say about that? “Hawk Tuah!”

The Vampire Sent Me (278 words)

The sky drips, the sun dries the drips. Rinse, repeat; it’s one of those quirky summer days in the South that’s full of frustration since you just left your umbrella in your hotel room following blue sky, which was preceded by drips—well, you get it.

I’ve been to this bar before. Twice, during separate trips. Once for brunch, and once for late-night drinks. During my late-night visit the place had a darker mood, understandably. Probably helped that on that occasion I’d sat beside a woman who was born not far from Dracula’s castle in Romania.

Whenever you come, you can order drinks by blood type. Today, I wasn’t feeling A Positive (a sparkling pear bellini). Nor did I have the taste for B Negative (vodka, blue curaçao, orange juice, sprite, and two drops of “V,” whatever that is). I almost pulled the trigger on O Negative, which is of course the universal blood type. But I also wasn’t feeling a blackberry mojito. Every fiber in my body was clamoring to go with O Positive, my own blood type. But not only would that make me a shameless homer, I felt it much too early in the day for a mezcal margarita with jalapeño.

I decide on AD: Baileys and cognac. It’s a cool blood type, one you almost never hear of. Besides, it’ll make my own blood a little sweeter should I happen to get bitten by a vampire tonight.

My bartender sees me writing, and peeks at the words ‘Vampire Café’ at the top of the page. She slips me an invitation card to a vampire-themed speakeasy atop Fritzel’s, and a code phrase. I’ll definitely go.

Potions Speakeasy (above Fritzel’s European Jazz Club) 278 words

I’m here in the speakeasy with three fellow writers from the retreat. I bumped into them after the retreat ended, as I bounded down the stairs of the BK house on my way to find a bite to eat. Holly, and another woman and man, both of whose names I’ve forgotten. They’ll remember our memorable time together. We grabbed a drink at Port of Call, where I suddenly remembered my speakeasy invite. It was free cover until 7 p.m. It was now 6:45.

“Let’s do it,” Holly suggested, and off we went. Through Fritzel’s and in the courtyard, per my instructions. Find the monster-dressed character at an unmarked door and give the them the invitation and secret code. We’re here now amid certain confines that remind you precisely of where Dracula would live if he were alive today. Or, at least one of his vacation homes. Dark, luxurious, and filled with plush purple furniture, with witches’ broomsticks hanging from the ceiling, gothic art and decorations, and a piano. There’s a bar, too, and two cats who call the place home. One lay curled on the secret staircase leading up to the bar, the other lounged on a plush, purple divan inside the bar, oblivious to humans and probably vampires, too. Even the bathroom is cool, with a sign reminding employees to wash their hands after they go, and also before they transition back into bats.

Writing together, the four of us are alone at first, sipping cocktails amid haunting new-age music and projections of moons and bats and witches on the wall. It’s the coolest bar I’ve ever been to in New Orleans. And that’s saying a lot.