This was the worst kind of terrible, bad ideas.

A challenge to myself to write 365 stories about Memphis in 365 days - each of which would be based off a prompt submitted by some random person.

But there's something you should know about me - I am very good at bad ideas. And some how I managed to pull it off. With help from all of you.

Similiar to the days of a year, some of these stories are better than others, but everyone is unique in its own way.

Just like Memphis.

Although the daily writing of the project is now over, I'll leave up a random sampling of stories for you. Five at a time, refreshed everytime you reload a page. Feel free to read as much as you want.

I'm working through the stories now to ready them for publisher submissions. If you'd be interested in publishing some or all of them, want to talk to me about a speaking engagement, or anything else, just drop me a line here.

Thanks again to everyone for their support over the life of this project, and I hope you enjoy the stories.

//--Zachary

“Where you been? I’ve got inches to fill.”

“Took a field trip to the Army depot. Where they’re holding the German POWs.”

“Yeah? What for?”

“Wanted to see what was like. Talk with them. Get inside the head of the enemy, I guess.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I met this one kid. Couldn’t be more than 19. Got drafted. Ended up driving trucks for Rommel. He’s seen Rome, been to Turkey, trekked across all across Africa. And now he’s all the way across the Atlantic. Kid’s younger than I am, and an inadvertent peripatetic because of the war.”

“Ok.”

“Know what he does now?

“No idea.”

“Picks cotton. They’ve got him working in the fields because everyone else is working on stuff for the war. The stories this kid’s got could fill a book.”

“And you think we’re gonna run something like this? A bit on a Kraut kid living it up over here while our boys are dying over there?”

“I just thought – ”

“You want to write that, fine. Put it in a book, paper your wall with rejection letters. But this paper won’t publish that crap. Find me something else, or I find some one else do to your job.”

Memphis Note
During World War II, thousands of Axis POWs were shipped stateside. Some of them, mostly from Rommel’s Africa Korp, ended up in Memphis at the Shelby County Depot. They lived well compared to the hard life they’d had fighting in Africa, some of them even making themselves sick by eating too much food. They were assigned work details in agricultural jobs, since nearly everyone who had done those jobs had shifted into manufacturing for the war, or had been drafted to fight.

That a was the sixth time in the last hour the negro waiter had walked past them with a tray of beer mugs on his shoulder.

Three times he’d walked past them to the polling station, mugs filled to the brim. Three times he’d walked back to the saloon he’d come from, mugs drained to the bottom.

“Should we do something about that?” Thompson said, pointing his nightstick at the waiter as he turned into the saloon.

Shrugging, Leopold pointed out that this might be the last time for anyone gets a decent drink in the whole state.

They’d been pulled from their regular beats to keep an eye on the polling station during the state’s prohibition vote. With the exception of rattling beer mugs, it had been completely uneventful.

“I’m tellin’ you, we really should do something about that,” Thompson nagged.

“Fine, fine, fine.” Leopold said, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Waiter! Over here!”

The waiter stopped, looked anxiously at the two white patrolmen and walked over, slowly.

“There a problem, mister?”

“Your fermentation is showing,” Leopold said with a smile, draping the handkerchief over the mugs. “Bring two more for us next time you fill up.”

Memphis Note
One of the few things Tennessee has ever been ahead of the curve on was the prohibition of alcohol. The state dried out close to a decade before the rest of the country. Or, at least it was supposed to. But thanks to the loose politics of Boss Crump and select enforcement of state laws, Memphis stayed wet much longer than the rest of the state.

It was quickly becoming apparent that The Spot would be necessary before the night was over. She’d intimated that she was ready to go all the way, he’d remembered to stash some condoms away in his car, and it looked like signs were green across the board for tonight being the night.

Problem was, The Spot was more of a communal space than a private one. It was a clearing in the deciduous forest of Shelby Farms his friends had discovered last summer while looking for a place to watch a meteor shower. Far enough back from the main roads, no one ever checked it. Which made it perfect for nights like tonight. And unfortunately meant it could already be occupied. He would need to find out.

The text message went out as he took her to get coffee. “Need The Spot. All clear? Y/N?” He needed four Ys. Needed them more than anything else in his life.

Two came back before they’d even walked in the Starbucks. Both Ys. Another while they waited on their order.

They sipped their drinks and ground their thighs while they waited.

Finally, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

The Spot was his.

Memphis Note:
Shelby Farms Park is one of the largest urban green spaces in the world. It cuts a swath through the east edge of Memphis with lakes, forests, open pastures and even a herd of buffalo. And yes, it even has a few “Spots”.

The door swung open before he had a chance to knock.

“Hello, detective.” She stepped back from the door, extending an arm and inviting him in. “Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?”

He took his hat off and nodded. “I’d love too, Miss Tann.”

A few moments later they were in the sun room off the back of the house, sitting in plush wicker chairs.

“Now, what can I do for you, detective?”

He took a sip, put his cup down, and swallowed hard. “We’ve got you. You and Judge Kelley. We’ve got the falsified records, your accomplices, even the dead babies. We’ve got it all.”

Then she lowered her tea cup, sinking back into her chair.

“I was adopted ma’am. By good folk who loved me. What you’ve done here, done to these children, it’s monstrous.”

“Get out,” she hissed at him.

The detective stood up then turned to leave when she called after him.

“Oh, detective, one thing you should know. I’m dying of cancer. I’ll be dead long before you and your little crackerjack brigade can drag my name through the mud. God will be my judge.”

“Yes, ma’am. I promise you he will.”

Memphis Note
Georgia Tann ran an organization called the “Tennessee Children’s Home Society”, which on the surface was an adoption agency. But, through a deal with Family Court Judge Camille Kelley, she operated something more akin to a kidnapping agency. The uncovering of her actions prompted nation-wide adoption reform.

Above, the sky was a perfect, still blue. Below, the brown water churned endlessly.

Suspended several hundred feet in the air, with a live acetylene torch in his hand, these are the sort of things that Clarence can be forgiven for failing to appreciate. He was more focused on getting his welds just right, and ignoring the incessant babbling of his invidious crew mate, Philip.

“Wonder if those boys workin’ on the Arkansas side of this thing are nice.”

Clarence dismissed the statement at first, but it started echoing around his head. He flipped his mask back and looked over.

“Do what now?” Clarence asked.

“We’re buildin’ the bridge toward each other. Them toward us, us toward them. Like the railroads did.”

“So?”

“So, at some point we’ll meet up, and I wonder if they’re nice.”

Clarence’s response was a blank stare, then, “I’m sure I have no idea, Philip.”

With that, he slapped his mask down and went back to work, but not before Philip got one more thought out.

“When we’re done, they say this’ll be the biggest letter in the world.”

And Clarence knew it was only a matter of time until he stupidly asked Philip about that, too.

Memphis Note
Upon its completion in 1972, the Hernando de Soto bridge was confirmed as the largest free-standing letter in the world. It boggles my mind to think about how much that bridge changed the nature of downtown and West Memphis. There was nothing along that run in Arkansas until the bridge was there.