Bohemia
woodstock music festival art nouveau concert posters edible wedding cake June 2014
r e m m u sof love poetry & fiction
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Bohemia June 2014 Volume 4, Issue 6
Thank you cover models Allie Bridges, Nathan Weekley, Sheridan Rose
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mer umlove sof
Table of Contents
6 Summer of Love First Sight Photography 6 Love’s Price A.J. Huffman 14 Dream Honey Gary Lee Webb 17 The Naked Wedding Cake Lottie Donahue 18 Woodstock Gary Lee Webb 20 Remembering Woodstock Bewitching Photography 22 Unbearable Love Rick Blum 22 The Sound of Wave Joshua Quarles 25 Woodstck Eyes Doug D/Elia 26 Day on the Green Charles Souby 28 Pearl Diving Charles Souby 30 Good Night LC Moore 33 Concert Posters Bob Masse 39 The Story of Cannabis Gary Lee Webb 43 Untamed Love Lorenzo Martinez 43 Baby I Was Born to Run Cassandra Dallett 44 Running Bare Feet Cassandra Dallett 48 Morning Safwan Khatib 50 Tulsi Peter Able 54 Freedom John Hearn 56 Writing Tools: Subtle Signs William Blackrose 60 Contributors June 2104• Bohemia • 3
Bohemia Editor
June 2014 Volume 4, Issue 6
Amanda Hixson
Assisting Editor Peter Able
Fashion Editor Aoife Gorey
Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions based publication and self-produced magazine. Our incredible writers include Peter Able, William Blackrose, Lottie Donahue, & Gary Lee Webb Thank you hair and make-up artists who have work in this issue: Shannan White, Tammy Shefa, Alex Williams
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Thank you photographers who have work in this issue: Marcel van Es, Jon Goddi, Bonnie Neagle, Cheri Schaffer
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‘
Love's Price by A.J. Huffman
will always be death. The visceral bleeding, the sacrifice of self. Soul and body completely given as two incomplete halves try to force themselves into a whole.
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summerofL
Photgraphers Bonnie Neagle & Marcel van Es of First Sight Photography
ove
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First sight (254) 652-7166 photography
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ogether, Bonnie Neagle and Marcel van Es have over 15 years of experience. We love getting to know our couples and being able to tell their story. With each story having its own style and grace that can never be duplicated, it is important that your photographers tell the story. We are there to capture hair and make up all the way to your grand exit. We capture all the little details that you spent months planning. To watch your special day unravel makes our hearts happy. Thank you for stopping by our little corner of the web. We look forward to making beautiful images with you.
Tammy Shefa Bridal Makeup (254) 252-0140
wolfe Florist (254) 752-3351
georgios bridal salon (254) 772-0265
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Dream Honey by Gary Lee Webb
A
lbert reflected on his long life. People had called him a genius, a geek, obsessed, and a dork. He supposed they were correct. He had made and spent three fortunes, putting together an innovative company after each degree and then selling it, so that he could go back to college. People called his ideas crazy, but they worked! It was not his fault others could not see which crazy ideas were actually great solutions to real problems. Why, his invention of stainless-steel-jacketed sodium wire was a godsend for the space industry. Granted it tended to explode if it got wet, but out in space there is no water. His inventions made him money, and that let him go back to study. There was so much to learn! But this time he had not done that. After getting his fourth Ph.D., this time he had accepted a professorship. His research was exciting, but he knew there was no money in it. At least, not initially. So he let the university pay for it. The best part was that he could take all the
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classes his schedule could fit. Whenever he was not teaching or researching, that is. Perhaps he would not have to quit working to get his fifth Ph.D. So much to learn! So much he did not yet know! Chemistry, Engineering / Materials Science, Astrophysics, and now Entomology. What next should he study? When he was teaching, there were so many bright young faces wanting to learn from him! It was great: so many faces, blending together in their numbers. But there was one face that stuck out, her enormous, all-seeing, dark eyes glowing as she drank in the knowledge imparted. Osmia was a truly brilliant student, intensely focused on insect social organization. Albert had to be constantly on guard, lest he show his feelings towards her in front of the other students. It was too bad that he was such a dork! He remembered an early girlfriend. Two years of happy cuddling, talking about what they would do after they got their doctorates. The house they would buy. His and hers laboratories for their research. But then one evening she stayed past midnight, stayed till dawn. One of his favorite memories: all the cuddling. But that was all. He had been such a gentleman, not daring to go further. Besides, he knew she wanted children *after* their degrees and house; he did not even suggest taking a risk.
The next Friday when he showed up for their weekly date, she was wearing a big cross. “I never want to see you again!” What had he done?? She never told him. She never did talk to him again. About three months later, someone asked him how it had gone. They had seen his girlfriend at Planned Parenthood three months earlier, getting a new prescription for the Pill. The light finally dawned … no wonder she had looked like a woman scorned. He supposed he had missed it that last night … she must have made a pass. And then there was the girl his friends *still* kidded him about. He was down in the Student Union, working on an assignment for his second Ph.D., chatting with friends, his General Relativity texts in front of him. A buxom blonde had pressed against him, talking about how she would like to get relative. So he had tried to teach her about General Relativity. He did not understand when she had wandered off, eyes glazed. But his friends still kidded him about the cheerleader on the make. Yes, he was a dork. This time it needed to be different … what could he do?
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t had to be his research. If he was to have a hope of winning Osmia’s heart, it had to be his research. Perhaps if he found a way to mitigate the mass deaths since 2006. He threw himself into his
new obsession, studying the viruses and fungal infections known to affect bees. He studied the pheromones, with which they communicate; perhaps he could guide them into a life safer from pesticides, fungicides, and electromagnetic radiation. He wanted to study ways in which various environmental factors affected the bees’ memories, so he invented methods of testing bee memory. He was also able to invent tests and procedures to measure the strength of their immune systems, and then devoted his new knowledge to utilizing these and other procedures to study bees in the modern environment In short, in four months, he learned everything he could about bees, especially what makes them ill.
not swarming, and similarly there are several species which are halal. But of course, he knew. After all, he was a Professor of Entomology. For the others, he had a variety of edible butterflies, beetles, ants, termites, and dragonflies. He avoided insects with toxic stings: while many of them are edible, many people are highly allergic to their toxin. Best to avoid any risk. For the most part, he thought it a good party; although, he was disappointed that more people did not try the witchetty grubs, especially imported from Australia. He had them both raw and (for the squeamish) lightly cooked. He, himself, preferred the almondy flavor of the raw grubs. But finally the party was over. He showed Osmia his work on reducing Invertebrate Indescent Virus, his work on controlling the Nosema t was the end of the semester, fungus, and his work on protectand Albert invited all of his stu- ing bees from magnetic fields. He dents to his house for a party. He talked about how one could wrap also made sure to quietly invite his a conductive mesh around a hive favorite student to stay after the to help protect the bees, and menparty so that he could show her his tioned that he was working on comspecial research. He had decorat- municating his desires to the hive ed the place with hexagonal mesh, by using the same chemicals they soft back lighting. Made sure that communicate with. If they could among the munchies were honey- communicate with the bees, they comb and various types of nutri- could teach them to be more versational nectar. Also a supply of tasty tile, and help them to increase, not edible insects, including baked lo- decrease in man’s world. If they custs for his Jewish and Islamic stu- could not halt the impending exdents. Most people did not realize tinction of honeybees, much of the that there are eight species of ko- world’s food supplies will become sher locusts, edible when they are drastically and forever more scarce.
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But they could do it! He invited her to see his work in action. Brushing the wall in the antechamber, he pushed a hidden button. Then he took her to see his garden. Osmia was delighted to see bees madly at work, building a new hive, on a frame he had set up across the garden, about 8’ above the ground. A light mist covered the area they were working. His frame was a little unusual: the usually peanutshaped spaces for the queens (the brood box) near the base, had been elongated, making the hive … heart-shaped. She watched as the bees added layer after layer of honeycomb. Fascinated with the heart-shaped clouds of bees furiously working, it took her a few minutes to realize that the professor was down on one knee. In his hand was a ring, glittering with hundreds of tiny diamonds in a honeycomb-pattern. It looked like the hive being built. He spoke … “Would you bee mine ?”
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Lottie’s Cookies & Cakes!
Contact Lottie Donahue in Lorena, TX for tasty edibles and party treats. Known for her cookies for years, her cakes have been a smash hit in recent months. She is often found helping at Enchanted Cedar located at 100 Oak St. in Lorena, TX. Enchanted Cedar hosts parties, open mics, yoga retreats, drum circles, potlucks, book and small craft sales, as well as being a chaga tea and raw chocolate (etc.) “coffee” shop.
Contact Lottie (254) 214-5725
See story by Lottie (next page). Top pic, Lizette’s Woodland Fairy Party at the Enchanted Cedar. Bottom left, 15 dollars per dozen.
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Keep cakes moist by brushing with a glaze made of juice or water and powder. The consistency should be like syrup.
The Naked Wedding Cake
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by Lottie Donahue, photos by Mickey Beyer
o naked this summer. When it comes to wedding cakes, a growing trend toward “less is more” can be seen, and in no season is it more evident than in the summer. Forgoing the expensive and seldom liked fondant exterior, “naked” cakes are being showcased at the wedding dessert table, even surrounded by fresh berries or seasonal fruit. Often times, brides are opting to have a multitude of assorted flavored cakes in lieu of the multitiered cake as their focal point. To fully appreciate the intended simplicity of a naked cake, one can look back in history as far as the medieval times to see that the “wedding cake” began as a small loaf of bread made of wheat to represent fertility and prosperity. The Romans later baked these into small cakes and the groom would consume part of the bread and break the remaining pieces over his bride’s head. Medieval England introduced sugarless flour rolls which were stacked as high as possible between the bride and groom, which would later become the famous croquembrouche, still featured at most French weddings today. It wasn’t
until the 1660’s that the first tiered cake was created by a French chef travelling through England who noticed the inconvenience of this pile of rolls and thus created a stacking system. In 1703, Thomas Rich, a baker’s apprentice who wanted to impress his bosses daughter, drew on inspiration from St. Bride’s Church in England and created the first known modern “wedding cake”. With excess thus equaling wealth, this multi-tiered extravaganza became the wedding focal point trend usually reserved for royalty, and often not even eaten. Since the creation of these masterpieces would sometimes take days, and due to lack of refrigeration at the time, cakes were covered in lard to preserve freshness. Once sugar became easily accessible, it was added to the lard for sweetness. This form of frosting is used to this day in most large bakeries allowing for mass production without refrigeration. (You’ve been warned) Fondant was later introduced to help with freshness and give cakes a smooth flawless finish. Fast forward to social media, Pinterest, etc. and today’s bride
is smart enough to realize the idea of paying $5-10 dollars per serving for something that more often than not looks more beautiful than it tastes is a thing of the past. Today, rustic, shabby chic and vintage weddings are the rage, providing guests with natural, simplistic desserts that are full of character and more importantly, taste amazing. Go natural - go naked.
Royal Wedding Cake from 1858 June 2104• Bohemia • 17
Woodstock 1969 by Gary Lee Webb
Images from the festival courtesy of Wikipedia
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t was a pivotal event in rock and roll history: four days, 32 acts, and 400,000 fans in attendance. The Woodstock Music and Art Fair, 15 – 18 August 1969, was the biggest event of its kind to that date. Yet it nearly did not happen. Incidentally, it was not held in the town of Woodstock, 43 miles away. Instead, it was held on a 600 acre farm in upstate New York, southwest of Woodstock in the Catskills, owned by Max Yasgur. It was by no means the first rock festival in the United States. The first two rock festivals were staged two years earlier in northern California on consecutive weekends: the KFRC Fantasy Fair & Magic Mountain Music Festival on Mount Tamalpais (June 10–11, 1967) and the Monterey International Pop Festival (June 16–18, 1967). They were considered fabulous successes. The first one was staged in a 4000-seat amphitheater; 36,000 attended, and featured 33 bands across two days, including such great names as Dionne Warwick, 18 • Bohemia • June 2104
Jefferson Airship, and the Doors. The pop festival had room for 7000; attendance estimates range from 25,000 to 90,000 for the three-day event. For up to $6.50 (best seats), the festival goers could enjoy 33 bands including The Who, Jimi Hendrix, Otis Redding, The Mamas and The Papas, Ravi Shankar, Simon and Garfunkel, and one of the first performances by Janis Joplin. Other rock festivals quickly followed: in the US, one later in 1967, six in 1968, and nineteen more in 1969, including Woodstock. As with early events, the organizers under-estimated the number who would show. They told officials they expected no more than 50,000, but they sold 186,000 advance tickets (at $18 each). At that point they quit selling tickets, expecting to deal with a crowd around 200,000. They actually had twice that count show up. Thirty-two acts performed during the four days; over half were big names in my opinion. However, 50,000 fans was too many for the first two towns they
tried to have the faire near. The town of Saugerties, New York turned them down first (although they did host a 1994 follow-up “Woodstock” faire). The organizers then leased a 300 acre site near Wallkill, New York, for $10,000, but the Wallkill town council quickly passed an ordinance prohibiting any gathering of more than 5,000 people. Fortunately, the organizers were able to make a deal with second-generation American Max Yasgur. Residents of the local town of Bethel tried to stop the concert, demanding a boycott of Yasgur’s business (he was a milk farmer), and attempted to halt construction of the stage. Unlike his neighbors, Yasgur believed in freedom of expression. He was not a rock fan, but he went to bat for them. Before the concert, he told the Bethel town council: “I hear you are considering changing the zoning law to prevent the festival. I hear you don’t like the look of the kids who are working at the site. I hear you don’t like their lifestyle. I hear you don’t like that
they are against the war and that they say it so very loudly. . . I don’t particularly like the looks of some of those kids either. I don’t particularly like their lifestyle, especially the drugs and free love. And I don’t like what some of them are saying about our government. However, if I know my American history, tens of thousands of Americans in uniform gave their lives in war after war just so those kids would have the freedom to do exactly what they are doing. That’s what this country is all about and I am not going to let you throw them out of our Town just because you don’t like their dress or their hair or the way they live or what they believe. This is America and they are going to have their festival.” And two days into the festival, New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller called the organizers, threatening to order in 10,000 National Guard troops. Fortunately for all of us, the organizers convinced the governor to not do this. In fact, the Air Force even pitched in to help with traffic control. It was a great festival. The acts went late into each night. FridaySaturday featured such performers as Ravi Shankar, Arlo Guthrie, and Joan Baez (and six others). On Saturday - Sunday, the fourteen acts included Carlos Santana, the Grateful Dead, Janis Joplin, Sly and the Family Stone, The Who, and Jefferson Airplane. Sunday-Monday finished with ten acts including such greats as Joe Cocker; Blood, Sweat, & Tears; Crosby, Stills,
Nash & Young; fifties band Sha Na Na; and finally Jimi Hendrix. It was an event to remember, an event to be at. I wish I could say I had been there, but at 14 that was not an option. Fortunately it was well recorded, and immortalized by a 1970 video/documentary (“Woodstock”). The film won an academy award and has been rereleased twice. Joni Mitchell also composed a song, “Woodstock,” which became a major hit for her and later for Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. And of course it has been written up, over and over again.
It was a landmark event epitomizing the Aquarian counter-culture: almost a half-million people and almost totally peaceful. There were two deaths: a heroin overdose, and a person who was run over by a tractor while sleeping in a nearby field. There were also two births. All-in-all, it was a tremendous testament to the Culture of Peace. Compare that to any similar event. Little wonder that people of my generation remember Woodstock ’69 as a landmark event in the history of rock and roll. June 2104• Bohemia • 19
Remembering Woodstock Photographer Cheri Schaffer of BeWitching Imagery
Shoot features, from left Shane & Jenna Walker Tabatha Secrease Jocelyn Fulbright Shannan White Kenyai O’Neal & Aoife Gorey Assisted by Jon Goddi Hair & Makup by Alex Williams, Shannan White, & Aoife Gorey 20 • Bohemia • June 2104
Special thanks to Sharon Moore Smirl of Waco Furniture Hospital for allowing us to use her property. June 2104• Bohemia • 21
Unbearable Love by Rick Blum
Two young lovers bored in the ‘burbs yearning for freedom’s thrills thumbing their way down Route 66 to the Californian hills. “Where ya’ headed?” the droll driver rasped joint dangling ‘tween cracked lips “Same as you,” they chirped as if one. “It’s all a groovy trip.” With Jimmy and Janis rockin’ the van for the wild they did depart past Tunnel View lookout and Bridalveil Falls into Yosemite’s heart. Deep in the Valley they pulled to a stop the van still a-smokin’, deciding to split, he slipped them a gift three j’s later for tokin’ Repelled by a crush of campers and bikes they fled up Snow Creek trail then slunk off the path to a hidden glade well beyond the pale. As darkness crept down craggily cliffs on moss the lovers did lie entwining four limbs and two animas ‘neath a vast galaxial sky. The midnight moon was blacker than pitch the air still as a corpse as dulled ears pricked up to a deafening din, a mount of monstrous snorts. “A black bear,” he croaked, “rummaging the pack. The beast is scarfing our weed!” “Lay still,” she hissed, tightly gripping his hand. “Stay cool; just let’m feed.” Like ancient mummies, stiffly they lay amidst the worrisome trees hoping the brute would not get a case of un-bearable munchies. When the sun finally peeked o’er Sentinel Rock of the bear they found no traces save several paw prints as massive as trucks just inches from their faces. Faster than light, they gathered up gear done with false temptation unpacked four thumbs to carry them both back to civilization. originally published by Cyclamens and Swords Publishing
The Sound of Waves by Joshua Quarles
The sound of waves crashing against the shore was always peaceful to me. I look out at the sunset and it was a perfect moment. Everything was quiet. I could hear the laughter of my daughter, Luna, as she played in the ocean. I turned around to reach for my favorite guitar that I always bring to the beach. I looked back out at the ocean, and it was quiet. The beauty of the beach was taken away. She was gone.
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Woodstock Eyes
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by Doug D’Elia
very soldier needs to come home to a Woodstock. Believe me. I know. It’s the perfect re-indoctrination. Build a stage in the Adirondack Mountains; invite half a million interesting people, artists, musicians, actors, crafters, and poets. Bring the juggling sticks, Frisbees, and Hula Hoops. Set up the healing arts center with massage tables, the sacred circle, the meditation tent, and Gypsy Tarot readers whose prophesy isn’t, “You will die in tomorrows ambush!” Give them drugs to enhance their senses, not to numb the pain of seeing burnt dead bodies, drugs that reveal the universal order and the connection between all things. Let them walk the woods without fear of mines and trip wires. Teach them about community, about feeding 500,000, about taking what you need and passing the rest. Teach them to resolve conflict without a M-16 rifle.
Teach them to play in the mud like children, not to sit in ambush.
Teach them that they can wear a peace sign, or paint a flower on their face without fear of harassment. Teach them to wear love beads instead of dog tags, and to string amulets to their belts, not the ears of dead Viet Cong. Teach them that watching young woman in flowing dresses dancing among meadow wildflowers, dripping naked in the stream, is getting back to the garden, it isn’t about sex. Teach them that men don’t need to bully, possess, or abuse. Teach them they don’t need to sit in a plywood-paneled basement, heartbroken about what they did, contemplating suicide. Forget the “Thank you for serving,” and “Don’t forget to take you meds crap.” Teach them to turn their swords into ploughshares. Teach them to work for peace and when they are readythey will talk about the war. Teach them first, to see the world through Woodstock eyes.
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Day on the Green The Grateful Dead Autumn by Charles Souby
You stand there you regal messengers on a grey apocalyptic afternoon. Grizzly faced, faded jeans like riders on the storm; an electric current running through the band; an electric smile extending from Jerry’s ragged head. Music descending from the cosmos, playing the cosmos, Playing in the Band. Such authenticity; even stage props ring true. Your perfection shines brightly through all your irregular miscues. Shepherds of the flower children: the Ark of the American Covenant travels with you. They’re hidden in your song lyrics and space jams; hidden where no sick & weird Uncle Sam, flower-child-abuser can rewrite the contract of awakening. You troop across America year after year, together, (More or less in line.) Your songs echo the real Deal: the blood and spirit that flows through us all. When Jerry smiles the children know: Paradise waits On the crest of a wave though indeed; her angels are in flames.
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Charles Souby
Charles Souby was born and raised on the Chicago North Shore. He became interested in writing fiction while in high school. In the fall of 1975 he moved to the SF Bay Area, where he graduated with a BA in English Literature from San Francisco
State University. The ensuing fifteen years found him struggling in Alaska and California, living close to the curb.
A graduate of The Upright Citizen’s Brigade school of improv in Los Angeles and BATS Improv in San Francisco, Charles now splits his time between writing fiction and In 1999, relieved of his demons performing improvisational theater. he moved to San Rafael, Califor- He published his first novel, Winnia where he has been studying ifred with Author House in 2010 with poet and fiction author James and has completed and will be pubTipton and been involved in area lishing his second novel, entitled A workshops. Shot of Malaria in the spring of 2014. June 2104• Bohemia • 27
Pearl Diving by Charles Souby
Janis Joplin, nickname “Pearl” - Wikipedia
Damn you were hot! Good God; cruising by in that yellow ’55 Cadillac down in the lower Haight. You slowed down, yellin’ out the window: “Hey you! Pretty boy! wanna f—k?” Good God when I recognized you, I knew you were serious! I was so innocent 20 years old just off the Greyhound living 10 blocks off Mecca. And there you were tits hanging out of a Cadillac window, pearl necklace, wild feathery boa draped around your neck. I didn’t know what to say; I was so shy, I just nodded real modest, slim smile creaking on my face 28 • Bohemia • June 2104
The car door opened, you literally pulled me into the back seat and shoved a bottle of Southern Comfort into my hand and then lifted the hand to my mouth. “That a girl,” said a voice in the front passenger seat – A biker guy in a ponytail, cowboy hat, goatee, I could just barely recognize the Hells Angels emblem beneath the word: “Honorary” scribbled on his leather vest I guzzled from the bottle to get up my courage and suddenly you grabbed it. “Open your mouth kid,” you said. You took a mouthful and kissed me That sweet, masked whiskey taste poured into my mouth warmed by yours; like a flaming shot of comfort You didn’t waste any time
you grabbed my belt buckle and undid me Pulling up your sequin dress You pushed me down on the seat and crawled on top. It was over so fast like a blast of cocaine I was embarrassed by the quickness, but you laughed and laughed your boyfriend laughed and I started laughing too. Two minutes later your driver pulls us over at Haight and Stanyan and you reach across me to open the door saying, “let’s do this again sometime luv.” The door closes behind me and you roll down the window. “How’s that for a piece of my heart?” Just then a bunch of hippies at Cala Foods recognize you and start waving and yelling and you blow them a kiss and drive off.
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Good Night by LC Moore
After Sound Tribe played the Farm, wow, the night got too good to even be cliché per se; it had a life of its own. Like before the show, you quoted the Tao te Ching and I really, truly pulled it out of my bag. Too good to make up. And the singing. The scatted buh-duh-duhs of the electronica, you singing guitar, and me the synth, them the drums, someone else the bass, all smoking cigarettes and skipping on bricks except Parker, who smiled bright out of his eyes and simply smiled, smiled, smiled his jaw into every moment. Too good to forget, like you getting your “Circus” encore and Blue thinking he had blood on his shirt, when it was only glow-stick goo. Plus the $25 for the car overstaying its spot was overlooked, as we belted the Beatles to the sleeping city with our eyes all entangled in each other’s, either too close for summer heat, or not close enough for my own. I’d live every night like that, too good.
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Bob Masse Studios Produces Gorgeous Posters
For Rock and Folk Acts
www.bmasse.com B
Above, an exam
ple of Bob’s w
ork, see pgs 22
-25
ob Masse is from Canada’s west coast and has been producing concert posters since the 1960s While attending art school in Vancouver, British Columbia, he began his career doing posters for the folk acts that came through town, in exchange for free drinks, tickets, and the opportunity to meet the musicians. As folk became folk-rock, and Vancouver was visited by such bands as the Grateful Dead, The Doors, the Jefferson Airplane and Steve Miller, Bob continued to produce memorable concert posters for these bands, and helped pioneer the emerging psychedelic art genre. He was greatly influenced by the art and music scenes in Los Angeles and San Francisco, where he spent considerable time in the late 1960s. Bob’s designs reflect his interest in the art nouveau movement and the work of Alphonse Mucha in particular. While he employs many of the techniques ofthat period, his brilliant colour palette, unique lettering style, and bold composition give his art a signature look. June 2104• Bohemia • 33
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The Waco Furniture Hospital
2501 N. 18th in Waco
(254) 855-4127 Open Wed - Sat, 10 am - 6 pm
Repair, Paint, or Mend Your Sick Furniture Or Walls
Sharon Smirl
S
haron Smirl is the Director of the Waco Furniture Hospital, a non-profit organization that benefits local charities. The Waco 38 • Bohemia • June 2104
Donate your tired, delapidated old furniture and we will repurpose it into a work of ART!
Furniture Hospital repairs furniture and also takes donations of used or broken furniture and repurposes or repairs in order to keep large pieces out of local landfills. The Waco Furniture Hospital is located at
2501 N. 18th in Waco. Mrs. Smirl has been involved in many civic organizations around Waco for more than 20 years, including Waco Art Center, Historic Waco Foundation and Waco Cultural Arts Fest.
The True History of Cannabis in America
The Incredibly True Story of Cannabis: Marijuana & Hemp
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by Gary Lee Webb
annabis may have originated in the old world, but it has been in the Americas since Columbus. Did you know that as an American colonist, you could get fined for not growing enough cannabis ? For five years (1619 – 1624), every colonist in Jamestown was required to grow 100 plants, by order of King James I of England and the Virginia Company. Of course, they were also growing tobacco (beginning 1613), and that is the crop we all remember. For clarity, let me point out that Cannabis includes both hemp and marijuana, the only distinction is the strength of the THC (tetrahydro-cannabinol) contained in the product. If a cannabis plant (regardless of species) contains less than 1% THC, it is called hemp. If a cannabis plant contains more than 10% THC, it is called marijuana; the species does not matter. There are three species of genus Cannabis: C. ruderalis, which is highly
cold tolerant, native to Siberia; C. indica, originating in the Hindu Kush mountains and India, which contains high quantities of cannabidiol (CBD), a THC-blocker; C. sativa, known for having the highest THC concentrations and widely cultivated throughout the ancient world (“sativus” is Latin for “cultivated”). The plants also contain approximately 100 other chemical components of interest to some, for example Myrcene, widely used in the fragrance industry. Cannabis cultivation spread across the American colonies: it made great rope, fiber, fabric, edible seeds, and useful oils. It has also been known as a mild intoxicant since ancient times, and colonial sailors were known to smoke the rope. By 1645, the Puritans were growing it in Massachusetts, rather than importing it from Virginia. Soon, Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania even allowed cannabis to be used in place of cur-
rency, including to pay taxes. By 1776, it was one of America’s most important crops. George Washington grew both C. sativa and C. indica for rope and clothing: one of his top three crops. Washington clearly appreciated how easy it was to grow: “The Hemp may be sown any where” (in a letter to William Pearce). Jefferson also urged people to grow cannabis instead of tobacco. Benjamin Franklin used cannabis for paper production. By the mid-1800s, the US was the world’s largest producer, and in the latter 1800s (at over 40,000 tons), it was America’s largest cash crop. However, only after Irish doctor William O’Shaughnessy published a paper on the medical applications of “gunjah” did pharmacies take notice. He documented that cannabis was very effective against the pain of Rheumatoid Arthritis and that the resin could be used to control the spasms of tetanus and rabies patients (1839). Subsequent
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papers promoted the use of cannabis for afflictions, and it became very popular in the British Isles and in the U.S. Beginning in the 1700s, there was a growing temperance movement, opposed to drunkenness, intoxication in other forms (for example sniffing ether), and drug use. By 1840, the Methodists and other groups were widely preaching against intoxication. In the 1850s, Chicago required bars to close on Sunday. By the 1860s, a number of attempts were made to regulate the sale of pharmaceuticals, including cannabis. This finally resulted in the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906, requiring that all products containing alcohol, cocaine, heroin, morphine, and cannabis be 40 • Bohemia • June 2104
properly labeled. California was the first state to make cannabis illegal (1906), followed by eight other states a decade later. In 1935, the Uniform State Narcotic Drug Act was approved in all 48 states, after the Federal Bureau of Narcotics launched a publicity campaign explaining how marijuana allegedly caused temporary insanity. In 1937, over the objections of the American Medical Association (AMA), the US Congress passed the Marihuana Tax Act (repealed 1970), requiring those possessing the substance to present it and pay for a $1 tax stamp (presenting cannabis would result in arrest, of course). And later that year, Samuel Caldwell was sentenced to four years prison for not paying for his
tax stamp. Marijuana possession was officially illegal under federal law, and movies like “Reefer Madness” told you why. Making marijuana illegal obviously did not stop usage, any more than alcohol prohibition (1920 – 1933) eliminated drinking. When I was a junior in high school, our student body president, Bambi Udall, announced an unofficial poll at one of our rallies: 75% of the student body used pot. I doubt if the school administration was too happy, but when the student body president is the daughter of your Congressman (Mo Udall) and the niece of former Secretary of the Interior, Stewart Udall, there was little they could do. Members of my class drafted mock legislation suitable for con-
enthusiastic user (it was still legal then). So was “If You’re a Viper” by Stuff Smith, written 1936. Every year saw new pot songs. Two of the most popular were not even jazz: “Mary Jane” by Janis Joplin in 1965 (blues) and “One Toke Over the Line” by Mike Brewer and Tom Shipley (rock). The latter reached #10 on the charts in 1970. The sixties and the seventies brought many changes. The Viet Nam war exposed a decade of American soldiers to an ancient culture which had had recreational pot since almost 10,000 BC. The federal government reacted by stiffening laws; some states reacted by reducing them. In 1973 Oregon decriminalized cannabis. Colorado, Alaska, and Ohio followed suit in 1975. In 1976, California reduced possession of one ounce of pot or Detailed drawings of C. sativa from Franz Eugen Köhler’s Medizinal Pflantzen (1887). less from a felony to a $100 fine, and made lesser reductions for larger amounts. The result? California’s annual enforcement costs for those laws went down 74%. It was good for the state budget. In 1996, California took another step: voters legalized medical cannabis. However, the US Supreme Court has sided with the federal government and declared that federal agents can arrest people for possession (2001) or growing (2005) “legal-in-California” cannabis. Alaska, Colorado, and Washington have since legalized possession of small amounts of marijuana. And Colorado has come out openly The outer layer of pot stems consists of long fibers, for the legal sale of marijuana, colsuitable for cloth, rope, and paper making. lecting a 15% excise tax since 1 sideration by the Arizona Legis- music and art cultures of the early January 2014. Sales are expected lature to make pot legal and, with 20th century, and when it became to top one billion dollars, improvpermission of the state government, illegal, its use simply went under- ing the state budget by $134 mildebated both sides in the capitol ground. The 1928 hit, “Muggles”, lion … better than expected. Clearly, the future of cannabis in building. It was an interesting time. written by Louis Armstrong, is this country is still in turmoil. Marijuana had been part of the about pot use. Armstrong was an June 2104• Bohemia • 41
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Lorenzo Martinez
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UNTAMED LOVE
Photographer: Lorenzo Martinez, Model: Jenica Jane, MUAH: Lindy Livingston, Assistant: Jesse Martinez
Baby I Was Born To Run by Cassandra Dallett
As soon as I learned to walk strip my clothes off and go into the woods my nakedness on the mossy rocks and the needle pine beds My parents were high a kitchen fool of fools with six packs and joints to smoke and I would be out there in the leaves the dappled light I knew the names of jack in the pulpits and columbine the places where trees grew close around me played in empty hunting camps and abandoned cars my runaway episodes were legend a crowd of long hairs fanning out calling my name down the road and through the trees they’d find me curled in sleep under the ferns by the pond. June 2104• Bohemia • 43
Running Bare Feet by Cassandra Dallett
This girl was over at our house a frizzy haired Shirley Temple with a ditzy hippie mom she had a mixed girl with her I think they were cousins maybe both from a commune we were having so much fun being real girly girls I was wearing a half top as my mother called it with little puffy cap sleeves and my belly out we hiked up the rocks at the end of the trail behind the spring at the top we were suddenly covered in sting like hitting an electric fence our bodies shot with ice goose bumps We couldn’t really see through the cloud and were just running as fast as bare feet could run down rocks screaming and thrashing all I remember is a blur of flying black the woods whizzing by and the soft bodies of bees in my hands as I crushed and threw them off me the chill of each stinger an arrow to my core We came bursting out of the woods my mother met us at the front door stripping us of our clothes and tossing us three girls into a tub of baking soda arms and legs pocked with black venom sacks That’s how I started a new school marked and itching six inches taller and many pounds heavier than the other kids I was a freak that couldn’t read but relished the sound, and that unlike the straight kids, knew the meaning of the word fuck.
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Morning by Safwan Khatib
A slave to nostalgia, she walks at each pillow-torn daybreak to the sun-bronzed, foot-stamped place before the front door mouthing “welcome” in her half-sleep at the indecent arrival of ten hundred grey-bluish specters brooding, greasy milk-men with new and shiny necks and eyes the color of faded saliva wading through lip shadows with loud, swishy mouths and gabbing gabbing, gabbing like always en route
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who speak very carefully about her husbands still pickling in rancid pools festering, dark, unreflective upon her floor tiles unmopped since 1970 whose immemorial faces she once splattered upon canvas in ’65 when she hid in a closet with tempera paint waving a hair brush and a distortion mirror for a palate when light drips in like candle wax it slathers the rough walls of the room with sun lending the strange, acidic ambiance of a freshly peeled orange so she grabs the whitewashed door knob so damn hard it disappears and her front door bleeds its cedar dust for want of a human word
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tulsi T
by Pete Able
haw comes like a sunrise. At first imperceptible, the dark branches of a few spruce and pine trees peek out from underneath their frigid, cotton-white quilts, much as the sun’s first rays are only known by a subtle lightening of the sky’s black canvas. Stare and it will stay night forever. Look away for but a moment, and when your curious eyes return, God’s finger has drawn a pink line across the horizon. The mountains, frozen and majestic, let loose their waterfall tears upon the white meadows below, and the fishermen know the capillary creeks that carve through this region will be singing again soon. Ages before, when the great glaciers slithered down Forest Canyon, they bullied the landscape, scraping trees clean, spreading out and finally melting, leaving behind thousands of tons of debris to fill the valley floor. Moraine Park, its vast expanse ringed by mountain ridges and peppered with gigantic boulders, carved in two by the Big Thompson river - itself fed by streams and lakes hidden for months underneath winter’s blanket - comes alive with the crackling ice and the steady whistling of a brave angler’s fly rod tracing the air between ten and two o’clock positions. Most trout in Moraine Park rarely exceed 14 inches, but given that their home for six months of the year lies in 34 degree water, insulated as it were by the ice above and below, we can forgive them the meager growth spurt. All varieties 50 • Bohemia • June 2104
thrive; Rainbow, brown, brookies and cutthroats, each with their own color-scheme and temperament, each with appetites fluctuating as rapidly as the weather on summer afternoons when thundershowers routinely surprise the hundred or so campers vacationing there each day. The trick of course, is finding the right fly, the right bait, at the right time and in the right location. To those who know these waters, this combination remains elusive but obtainable. To strangers, it can be downright impossible, and many without proper patience, without the sustainable love that drives a man or woman to obsession, leave the park with broken spirits.
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olton sloshed into the Big Thompson. For the first time in his nine years on the planet, he sensed a stoppage of time, a primordial response to the rush and dull roar of the frosty stream and the elusive creatures that made it home. Despite his youthful passions, or possibly because of them, he hesitated, allowing awe to take hold. His father treated the river with reverence, but practice casts in the meadow could not replicate the wonder of waters. Farther upstream he glimpsed his father’s rod disappearing behind a large family of chokecherry bushes at the stream’s edge. Finally, he could practice in peace, an art form that could ever and only be crafted to catch fish from the heart of the mountains. “All other pursuits are vain,” his father warned. Colton
agreed, but he was too young to know why, and he had not yet mastered the calmness of spirit required to draw heavenly pleasures from such an earthly, unorthodox motion. He had much to learn.
T
he girl surprised him. Ahead, her body divided by the low-hanging branches of a maple tree, she sat on a trapezoidal boulder jutting out over a wide face of the river. He saw her reflection first, or rather the rippling shadow image of one long arm swaying back and forth in perfect rhythm before resting on the surface. “Straight lines,” he heard his father say countless times. “You are point A. The fish are point B. The quickest way to the fish is through a straight line.” He could still hear his father’s voice, feel his rough hands take hold of his forearm, guiding it with firm, sure strokes. The girl’s rod bent forward, and to his amazement she promptly pulled in a good-sized trout. He splashed his way to her, the river pushing him along, pounding against his thin frame in the over-sized waders. Suddenly self-conscious, he pulled up short as she unhooked the healthy trout from the fly line. She was squatting now, not sitting, wearing blue jeans and a cream colored buttoned shirt with a curved collar, un-tucked. Her light brown hair dangled near the crease in her pants at her waist, the tips even disappearing behind the fabric. She turned to face him, fish in hand, and his pulse raced. He raised his left hand shyly. She set the fish loose and it vanished beneath the quick flowing torrent, likely headed for less troubled waters, at least for the day.
“What’d you do that for?” he asked. “I let them all go.” “Why?” “I just like to catch ‘em. I don’t want to keep ‘em.” He noticed for the first time she did not have a satchel. “That was a real beaut. A brookie I’ll bet.” “Rainbow.” “That ain’t no rainbow trout.” “Yes it was.” “No, it wasn’t. My dad showed me pictures.” “Pictures can’t tell a damn thing.” Her curse unnerved him. “Well, it looked like a brookie to me.” “You’re just a kid, and you don’t know a damned thing, either.” She slid down the boulder and stood to her full height. He noted with displeasure she was taller than him by a good three inches. It unnerved him even more. Still, the gall calling him a kid. “You ain’t any older than me, I’ll bet.” “I’m ten. How old’er you?” “Ten,” he lied. Colton had no idea what compelled him to add one year other than he straight up did not want to get beat by a girl at anything, including an age war. “You don’t look ten,” she replied, miffed. “What’s your name?” “Colton.” “Well Colton, I can tell you’re not from around here. I suppose you’re camping?” “We drove up from Texas yesterday. We’re here a week.” The girl nodded imperceptibly. “Well, you can have this
spot. I’ll move downstream a’ways.” She turned, rested the rod on her shoulder, and seemed to glide over the surface of the water like some nymph goddess straight out of a fairy tale. The sun broke from behind a strand of clouds and turned the river to diamonds, while the brightest jewel receded beyond a clump of wild rose bushes. Colton swallowed hard and gathered his wits. “Hey! What’s your name?” “Tulsi!” she yelled. “Tulsi? What the hell kinda name is Tulsi?” But she was gone. “Pretty sure that was a brookie yesterday.” Colton wiped sweat from his brow. His work on the new clinch knot Tulsi had demonstrated was painstakingly slow. She had readied her dry mayfly with a few strands of her incredible hair. In that same amount of time he managed to complete his second loop and secure a decent hold of the line without having it all unravel in his Neanderthal fingers. The sun was setting, and the mountain air responded with a brisk, reviving alacrity. Still, the job was tedious. Time to fish already. He had no idea why he tried to resume a day old argument, but he figured it might distract her from the fact that she was dealing with a rank amateur. “Did you catch any yesterday?” Tulsi asked. “Yes,” he lied. “It was a rainbow. Some people expect rainbows to look very different, but the pink really isn’t that noticeable most of the time.”
Colton accepted this, since on the one hand he had no idea if this was true, and on the other, most important hand, it gave him an out. So he replied. “Oh.” They fished standing only a few feet apart. Colton knew his father would not approve, but Tulsi allowed it. He felt alternating waves of thankfulness and embarrassment. Her company sent a visceral thrill through his body that his nine year old mind could not explain. His casts often flopped ridiculously into the river, and her occasional smirks sent a balmy redness to his cheeks and neck. No doubt the fish were laughing as well. “Tulsi is an Indian herb.” They sat near one another in the cool grass several yards from the bank of the stream. The blood orange sun sank below the mountain ridge, painting a sky that no artist rendition could ever capture in perfection. She poured some granola from a paper bag and offered it to him. Her fingers grazed his open palm, and the hairs on his arm stood on end. “It’s like basil,” she continued. “Indians from around here use it?” he asked between crunches. “No, in India. The country. Some people worship it.” “They worship a plant?” he asked incredulously. “Some people are just plain dumb.” “You should use nymphs instead of dry flies.” She replied as if she had not brought up the previous subject. “They are better for beginners. The trout eat mostly underwater anyway.” Tulsi looked at him and
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smiled. She rose, dusted her blue jeans, and headed back toward one of the many tributaries of the Big Thompson. Colton rolled his eyes and returned to his campsite where his parents were preparing dinner. He could not be sure, but his father seemed disappointed his knapsack was empty. That night Colton dug through his father’s equipment and found a weighted pheasant tail nymph. He tucked it in his pocket before climbing into his sleeping bag for the night.
C
olton caught several brown trout and a couple of brookies over the next three days. He did not see Tulsi once.
C
olton woke to the sounds of his parents packing away camping gear in their trailer. With blinking eyes he peered out from the doorway of the small tent he had called home for the past week. His mother had not approved of him sleeping alone, but his father came the rescue as dads are wont to do when they feel any threat to their son’s developing masculinity. The morning sun had not crept into view. Far above, a hawk cried as it dove toward the dewdrenched earth and a small mammal scurrying for its burrow. For some reason, the sound turned his thoughts to Tulsi. He could see his fishing rod still leaning against the bumper of their 1958 Impala, its new front grill coated with dead grasshoppers from recent drives through the park. He pulled on some clothes, tiptoed bent at the waist to the vehicle, grabbed his rod and hurried downhill from the campsite toward the river. He found her almost immediately, working over a little eddy just be52 • Bohemia • June 2104
yond a series of small waterfalls. In his mind, it seemed like a terrible place to fish. He wanted to call to her but instead inexplicably tried to walk past without acknowledging her existence. Like an experienced trout, Tulsi did not take the bait. Colton stopped to watch her perfect casts. They were slightly different somehow, a subtle movement just as the fly line wholly extended kept the fly from fully touching the surface. Suddenly, a large trout leaped out of the current to take the fly. “Wow!” He could not stifle his amazement. Tulsi smiled but did not turn his direction. She had her hands full loosing line and re-spooling it around the reel to help bring in the aggressive fish. Colton sloshed his way to her and successfully soaked his pants and half his shirt before helping her secure the flopping fish against a smooth rock. “Now this is a brookie,” she said triumphantly. They both stared at the gasping fish for a moment, then their eyes met and they both laughed. “That was incredible. How did you do that?” “Do what?” “Get it to jump like that.” “I didn’t. That’s something they do. I just have to make it look real.” “Your cast kept the fly skimming the surface. How?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It just felt right. Sometimes you have to take risks to get a big reward.” They released the trout, carefully extracting the hook before submerging it a few moments and letting go. It shot away like a rocket. “We’re leaving this morn-
ing.” Colton felt a heaviness descend on his heart as he spoke. “Thanks for coming to find me,” she said. Her words burned away the heaviness as surely as the sun was burning away the morning fog. They sat on the shore and spoke in quiet voices for an hour. Once, an elk splashed across the river only a few feet away and stopped to sharpen its impressive antlers on a small aspen tree. Fishing no longer held sway in Colton’s mind. He learned Tulsi lived near the park and therefore frequented these fishing waters much of the year. He also learned her mother had died the year before and her father was a hard man, prone to drinking, but an excellent fly fisherman in any state of mind. She lived with her aunt, a fine, strong woman Tulsi hoped to emulate in almost every way imaginable. Colton allowed himself to believe the conversation would never end. His mother’s voice shattered the illusion. “I have to go.” “Will you come back?” “Maybe next summer.” She smiled. “Okay then. You can practice between now and then.” “I’ve gotten pretty good!” he objected. “At some things.” Tulsi leaned over and kissed his cheek, and before he could react she was up, dashing across the meadow like a fox after a rabbit, her long hair billowing behind her like a fantastic, waving, magical river.
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T
Freedom, 1962 by John Hearn
he train rolled slowly along the winding Kansas River. We were sharing a boxcar with an old white-haired guy who appeared to be a tramp and who sat in a corner of the car, all tangled up in a bicycle that looked as old as he did. His thin limbs were threaded through the bike’s steel frame, as though he expected us to steal it and to beat him for good measure, as though he were a human lock or the bicycle were a shield, one protecting the other. Doc and I sat with our legs hanging from the open door. We were eating sardines. Long, low rows of warehouses and factories sat in front of taller brick buildings that ran along the base of a hilly cliff dotted with houses. Above that was an open, blue, cloudless, sky holding a bright yellow sun. “We’re in the middle of America now, Jackie Boy,” Doc said. “We’re in the heart of its heart. No more Boston bullshit for us. Fuck Ted Williams!” I was eating my sardines and watching the groups of men on the
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factory loading docks who were eating lunch and smoking cigarettes. Suddenly a loud PING! shot off the side of the boxcar. Then another, and another. PING! PING! A rock flew by, grazing my raccoon cap, and ricocheting around the inside of the car, landing under the hobo’s bicycle. I looked back toward the factories and could see the workers throwing rocks at us. Doc popped up in one motion, reached down, grabbed the hood on my sweatshirt and scooped me up and out of the open doorway and into the boxcar. “Why in the…” I began to ask once I had caught my breath. “They’re pissed off.” “At us?” “Not really, but they think so.” “Who are they really pissed off at?” “At their lives.” “Why?” “Think about it, Jackie. Those guys spend forty or fifty hours a week in a factory, probably stand-
ing by a machine they’ve become a slave to. The machine tells them when to move and how to move and when to have a break. The place is so noisy they can’t carry on a human conversation and so they spend all day in silence, tripping over their own thoughts. And the machine demands that they not think clearly, because that may interrupt its constant thumping, which is simply not allowed. Can you imagine what that must do to a man? To his brain? His soul? And add to that the fact that he knows this is what he’ll be doing tomorrow, and next month, and ten and twenty and thirty years from now. He knows there’s no escape, which is what he wants most.” “Why take it out on us?” “Because we’ve escaped! Look at us! We’re outside looking at the sky, traveling the country, eating seafood, without a fuckin’ care in the world! We are living like human beings were meant to live! We’re free!”
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Writing Tools: :Subtle Signs By William Blackrose
I
n writing we often have relationships of many types but the most prevalent seems to be romance. The true beauty in writing romance can be the little subtle cues. Things such as a gentle touch to the shoulder as they stand beside you; tracing a shape with gentle fingertips on the back of your hand; there are hundreds of little cues that can be used to show affection. So many times, all you see is the overt signs and that can be a loss for the story. A secret love or unspoken love can make these signs all that much
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more important. These subtle clues allow for the observant reader to notice the connection even before the characters notice it. While it is possible to simply have them declare their feelings, this is not always possible at various points in a story. As an example, let us look at an adventure where the main characters have developed affection but are trying to hide it from the antagonist. A smart antagonist could pick up on those little cues and realize he or she can use that as a point of leverage against the heroes. On the
opposite side of things, if your antagonist holds feelings for one of the protagonists of your story, subtle details such as using more restraint or letting an opportunity pass which could have given advantage but would have put the object of affection in harm’s way. There are so many ways to use the subtle nuances hidden in human feelings to the advantage in storytelling. All you have to do is remember that you are looking at things from the outside and look for ways to include those little hints in your writing.
Writing Tools: Subtle Signs
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et us look at one image in our minds. A young woman is at the window to her home as the man she cares for leaves to accomplish a dangerous task. A single tear falls from her eye because she is afraid she will never see him again. She has never told him of her feelings but secretly loves him. A secret and unreturned love can be both tragic and endearing. This can also be a reason for the character to leave and go after the object of her affection. That is one thing to remember as well. You do not have to have the characters interact to show the subtle hints.
Examples of Subtle Signs • A gentle hand on the shoulder as the characters look at something • Tracing small patterns on the back of the person’s hand • Brushing a stray hair from the person’s face • Holding hands under a table • Simply a tender look at each other in a stolen moment There are so many more, it would take entire books to list them. Writer’s Digest Library actually has several books that could prove useful to writers looking to adapt this method. June 2104• Bohemia • 57
Bohemia
Backstage & behind the scenes: Bohemia Hair & Makeup Team; Waco, TX Focus on Alex Williams (Makeup) & Shannan White (Hair)
Shanna & Alex at the Dance shoot.
Alex Williams @missalexmonroe
Shannan White @magicianhair
Find us on Instagram @bohemiajournal
Shannan and Alex at our Russia shoot.
Shannon & Alex did HMU for the Camelot shoot. 58 • Bohemia • June 2104
Alex at the Vampire shoot.
Valley Mills
Winery
Irvin avid ystrom D y y b nie R a aph togr Steph neyard o h g i P n V i lls tur Fea lley Mi a At V
www.valleymillsvineyards.com
I
n the spring of 2007, Valley Mills Winery planted its first two grapevine varietals on a rocky hillside in Valley Mills, Texas. The land, which is embedded with fossils, is harsh but their grapes have flourished there. In late 2010, they opened the Winery and Tasting room (halfway between Valley Mills and Waco). Valley Mills Winery takes great pride in assisting their grapes’ journey from vineyard to winery and into your bottle of wine. They are growing world class grapes and producing great Texas wines.
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Contributors Pete Able has been writing stories and poetry for over 20 years. His screenplays have been finalists with Scriptapalooza, PAGE International, and the New York Television Festival, among others. He lives in Woodway, TX with his wife, Melissa, and daughters Joanna and Lila. His short story collection Strong Women and the Men Who Love Them is available on Amazon. William Blackrose says, “I grew up traveling a lot, so developed an early love of the written word. I eventually grew tired of seeing the same story and decided to start writing my own. After writing my first book at 12 years of age and having my poetry published at 13. Since then, I have never stopped writing.” Rick Blum has been writing humorous prose and poetry for more than 25 years. Currently he is holed up in his office trying to pen the perfect bio, which he plans to share as soon as he stops laughing at the sheer futility of this effort. Cassandra Dallett lives in Oakland, CA. Cassandra is a storyteller with a short attention span. She has published in many journals in print and online, look for links and upcoming features at cassandradallett.com. Her new book Wet Reckless was released from Manic D Press spring of 2014. Doug D’Elia was born in Massachusetts. He served as a medic during Vietnam.He is the author of the chapbook, “A Thousand Peaceful Buddhas,” stories inspired by Vietnam. He has been published in magazines as diverse as “Evergreen Review” and “Bete Noir.” He can be contacted at dougvandelia@ gmail.com
John Hearn’s publications have appeared in the Washington Post and Epoch, among other places. He co-authored, with a student, Shade It Black: Death and After In Iraq (2011) and earned an honorable mention citation from Glimmer Train in their Short Story Contest for New Writers (2013) A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the winner of the 2012 Promise of Light Haiku Contest. Her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com Safwan Khatib is a 17 year old student and writer from Indianapolis, Indiana. His poetry has recently appeared in Surrealist Star Cluster Illuminations, The Literary Yard, Contraposition, Manic Fervor, and The Noisy Island. Dallas area photographer Lorenzo Martinez has been shooting casually since the age of 10 and professionally since 2009. Normally a senior, family, event photographer, he has slowly started following more artistic pursuits into editorial and fashion shoots fulfilling his need for artistic expression. LC Moore is a poet and nonfiction writer living on the midcoast of Maine with her soulmate and 4 month-old daughter Capri. They run a gallery/gift shop out of their home, a renovated freighthouse, out of which LC sells homemade poetry books. She currently writes for New England-based Green Leaf magazine (Http://www.greenleafmagazine.com).
Joshua Quarles is a two time Junior Olympic runner. He is the nephew of Darryl Quarles who wrote the movie Big Mama’s House who has inspired Joshua to eventually write a movie. In his future he plans to keep writing and to continue running. Gary Lee Webb is a 17-year resident of Waco. He is just finishing up a year as the central Texas governor for Toastmasters International, guiding 29 clubs towards success. His credits include four decades of conferences and contests across the world, public events for three Texas cities, assisting at both high school and adult speech contests, and over three dozen publications.
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Where will you be singing
Home Sweet Home
Find a forever home with Natalie Morphew
Natalie Morphew Natalie Morphew, Realtor nataliemorphew@gmail.com 254.229.0261 c | 254.399.7024 w www.nataliemorphew.com
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Waco, Texas is a beautiful place to live, founded in 1849 by the Huaco Indians that lived on the land in the present-day downtown area. Waco offers some major attractions, five historic homes, seven recreational venues, and nine arts organizations staging theatrical and musical productions, as well as art exhibitions. Waco is also brimming with Texas history, economic opportunity, and a rich variety of cultural experiences. With three college facilities including: Baylor University, McLennan Community College, and Texas State Technical Institute. The city boasts one of the of the biggest and best municipal parks in Texas, Cameron Park. The 416-acre park is located in the heart of Waco, next to downtown, situated on the Brazos and Bosque Rivers. It hosts numerous races, triathlons, boat races and more.