Image: twobee / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Spring 2012
Volume 4: Issue 1
Shadows Express
This may have been one of the most difficult issues for the staff to pull together. Shortly after our December issue was released, our former editor, Lyle Amlin lost his battle with cancer. At our first staff meeting to prepare this issue, it was no surprise that we decided this issue would be a tribute to our mentor, affectionately known as Sticktalker. At first, we debated turning the entire issue into memories shared of Lyle, and stories and poems inspired by him. It did not take us long to realize this was the last thing he would want. Therefore, we continued with the makeover of our print publication, and the redesign of our website, and of course, our goal to bring new writers into the light. Still, we knew this issue would be special. As we began to sift through the
submissions, we realized we had an unusual number dealing with loss, grief, relationships and love. These reflected the way we were feeling, and helped us as we processed our own grief. It is true that writing is cathartic, and of course so is reading, but we learned that editing can have similar cleansing properties. We are proud to include the first chapter of Sticktalker’s West World Rising, and we hope that with the support of fellow writers and editors, his family will be able to find a home for this great story. Although a difficult issue to pull together, there has never been an issue created with more love. Writing defines our world here at Shadows Express. We hope the choices we made for this issue will make a difference in yours.
Published four times a year, Shadows Express strives to bring new voices to discerning readers. We pride ourselves on being the stepping stone for new writers as they begin their published journey. We welcome quality work from all writers at any stage of their careers.
Volume 4: Issue 1
Shadows Express
In This Issue......................................................................................................................................................................................... Our Mission......................................................................................................................................................................................... Contents ........................................................................................................................................................................................... 1 Lighthouse Letters ............................................................................................................................................................................ 2 Virtual Friend .................................................................................................................................................................................... 2 Burning the Midnight Oil .................................................................................................................................................................. 3 Candle Glow ...................................................................................................................................................................................... 3 Rhythmic Reflections ........................................................................................................................................................................ 4 Poetry: A Language for the Illiterate…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….4 The Hourglass ................................................................................................................................................................................... 5 A Wise Father.................................................................................................................................................................................... 6 Winter Solstice .................................................................................................................................................................................. 8 Breaks ............................................................................................................................................................................................. 10 Green Eyes ...................................................................................................................................................................................... 11 The Bottle ....................................................................................................................................................................................... 12 West World Rising .......................................................................................................................................................................... 13 On Love ........................................................................................................................................................................................... 21 An Eventful Birthday ....................................................................................................................................................................... 22 The Fiddler on the Green ................................................................................................................................................................ 26 Unknown Journeys ......................................................................................................................................................................... 31 Sweet Bittersweet........................................................................................................................................................................... 32 The Box in the Corner ..................................................................................................................................................................... 33 Passion Ignited ................................................................................................................................................................................ 38 Faith ................................................................................................................................................................................................ 39 Waterfall of Dreams........................................................................................................................................................................ 41 The Fog ........................................................................................................................................................................................... 42 The Window .................................................................................................................................................................................... 46 Unraveled Tapestry......................................................................................................................................................................... 47 Grief ................................................................................................................................................................................................ 53 Keeping the Fires Burning ............................................................................................................................................................... 54 Contributors .................................................................................................................................................................................... 56 Our Staff.......................................................................................................................................................................................... 58
Volume 4: Issue 1
Page 1
Shadows Express Image: Evgeni Dinev / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
By S. Randez Friendship takes many forms, everything from casual to intimate, but with the invention of the Internet, we must add one more, the virtual friendship. Some who have never formed such a relationship may scoff at the very idea of developing a close bond with someone they have never even seen. Those of us who have experienced them know, without a doubt, they couldn't be more wrong. Just as in the physical world, the virtualworld friendship shares many of the same definitions: compassion, empathy, honesty, a genuine wish for the other to be happy, to succeed in life. Whether on or offline, friends enjoy talking and sharing with one another. They are comfortable in this sharing because they trust in one another. They can be themselves. Often virtual relationships encourage the sharing of private thoughts they would not otherwise share in real life because they are secure in the knowledge they will not be judged, as often happens with family or friends in the conventional sense of the term.
True friends, both virtual and physical, know that honesty is the ultimate key to these tight bonds. If a friend is not willing to tell you when you are wrong, they are not a genuine friend. Likewise, if you cannot accept your friend's constructive criticism, then your friendship is flawed. A little over three years ago, I was privileged to have met a person who would become my best virtual friend. His name was Lyle, better known as Sticktalker in the virtual world of Writing.com. He was encouraging, thoughtful, kind, funny, and, best of all, real! He was not afraid to tell me when I was wrong about something, the mark of a true friend. When he passed on, I, and many others, grieved as we would for any other loved one. Never let anyone belittle or make fun of your friends, whether in the real world or in the virtual world. In parting, I'd like to mention one last type of friend, the eternal friend, which is what the friends Lyle left behind will have to look forward to when we see him again in Heaven. Until then, rest in peace, my friend, Hannah
Volume 4: Issue 1
Page 2
Shadows Express Image: Simon Howden / FreeDigitalPhotos.net Phiseksit / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
By K. Wall I remember, when I was six, my mother took me to a dark corner of the church. Hundreds of candles waited, nestled in ruby glass, for someone to light them. A few glowed in a valiant effort to dispel the gloom. My mother handed me a few pennies, and as I began to put them in my little purse, she shook her head and pointed to a metal box affixed to the rows of candles. Mesmerized, I watched as my mother struck a long match and steadied my hand as we lit a candle. The flame sputtered and then sprang into life, taunting the shadows. This candle, our candle, dispelled more of the darkness than the others, or so I believed. “We light candles,” she told me after blowing out the match, “for the souls of the dead. Today, we light one for Opapi.” I never knew this grandfather who had died before I was born. I was young and, as yet, untouched by grief. Ten years later, I stood in a different church, but in a similar spot. No one steadied my hand, this time, as I lit a candle in memory of my mother. As the glow of the candle filled the dark space, I realized she had been wrong. We do
Volume 4: Issue 1
not light candles for the souls of the dead; we light them for the spirit of those left behind. The candles fight the shadows of grief. With this issue of Shadows Express, we light one of those candles. This is our first issue without our beloved editor, affectionately known as Sticktalker. He fought a brave war against the insidious enemy, cancer, and he found his peace only two weeks after giving his blessing to our December issue. We knew this issue would be our tribute to him. Throughout these pages you will find snippets of testimonials from our Remembrance Page at WDC. He was an integral part of this writing community and a valued member of his local community. While it was not intended, many of our stories and poems in this issue deal with grief and loss. I have seen this several times in other publications I have managed. The submissions develop into a theme reflected in the pages. This issue is now more than a tribute to our friend and mentor. It is a reflection of the life he led and the legacy of his inspiration. It is his candle—and our promise—to continue his work: illuminating undiscovered voices.
Page 3
Shadows Express
Rhythmic Reflections
By Liam O’Haver One consistent theme that you will hear among poetry enthusiasts is, "Poetry is meant to be read aloud." Why is that so important? Can't I understand the potential emotional response or comprehend the implied truths or learning's, by simply reading it with my eyes? The answer is: yes—you probably can, but that is not the sole characteristic of the poetic experience. The roots of poetry as an art form predate literacy. At a time when the vast majority of the population could neither read nor write, it is believed that poetry was either recited or sung. It served as a method of preserving culturally significant information such as historical events and celebrations, religious philosophies, or important truths; and enabled them to be passed from generation to generation. In order to accomplish this efficiently, poetic devices were developed that enhance the accuracy of this transmission. So it is no surprise that several of these poetic devices can be included under a single category—that is— repetition. This is most obvious when we see it in whole lines such as Robert Frost's "And miles
Volume 4: Issue 1
to go before I sleep" or in partial phrases like Abraham Lincoln's "... government of the people, by the people, for the people..." But less obvious, though equally powerful, is how repetition prevails in some of the other poetic devices related to how a poem sounds. Alliteration is the repetition of the sound that begins words, such as "bouncing baby boy". Sibilance is a specific form of alliteration that involves fricatives like "s, sh, z... etc." such as "silent slithering serpent." Assonance and Rhyme are repetition of vowel sounds such as "plead, seen, grief." Consonance is the repetition of consonant sounds at the end of syllables such as "best sweetheart Pat." These types of repetition are not as easily recognized visually, but become very apparent when experienced audibly. This seems an appropriate introduction to one of the new features now available for the Shadows Express ezine. Beginning with this issue, we will, from time to time, feature an audible poetry reading. The selection for this volume, The Hourglass, is a Villanelle. This is a form of poetry that places significance on repetition.
Page 4
Shadows Express
By Ken (Hunter’s Moon)
The sand softly falls, sparkling in the light, layer on layer, marking time’s progress. We’re swept up in the flow toward final night. We can only observe. Try as we might, to foretell the future, it’s just a guess. The sand softly falls, sparkling in the light. In fear, we seek solace in words we write to comprehend what we cannot express. We are swept in the flow toward final night. Yet we are blessed, as a grain flashes bright, to understand briefly all that we possess. The sand softly falls, sparkling in the light. We trust in a strength that’s more than our might sharing the comfort in words we profess. We’re swept up in the flow toward final night. Perhaps, in the end, that is our true plight: to trust in the journey, not to obsess. The sand softly falls, sparkling in the light, We’re swept up in the flow toward final night. Hear The Hourglass online at shadowexpress.com. Volume 4: Issue 1
Page 5
Shadows Express
By Tina Weaver
Greg could hear the commotion as he neared the room. It was sign up for Little League teams, and the room was probably filled with boys and their parents. Sure enough, when he paused in the doorway, the desks were no longer in straight rows. Boys were teasing, giving each other playful punches and uttering names like Porker, Bubba, Stinker, Fat lips, and the list went on. None were meant to be mean, but boys emulate their fathers and uncles, who leaned against the shelving along the back wall talking. Greg pursed his lips and uttered a piercing whistle that had everyone covering their ears. "Welcome to the annual Little League sign up. I hope you all have your permission slips filled out and signed by your parent. Boys, line up here in front." There was a mad scramble for first place in line, but it was immediately stopped by another whistle. "Wait until I finish speaking. You will find that listening to my directions completely will keep you out of trouble and keep you from being embarrassed when I single out your mistakes. Now, let's start over. You will line up in each row by grades. Oldest by the window and so on." No one moved. He smiled. "That's all. Now you can move." While the boys sorted themselves, Greg and his assistants arranged tables across the front and sat down. They taped paper in front of the desks with the ages of the boys they would be accepting applications from. "Okay boys, now the first ones step up and hand the coach your application. He will look it over to see if everything is in order and give you a packet to take to your parents with all the
Volume 4: Issue 1
Image:meawpong3405/FreeDigitalPhotos.net
information for the first day of tryouts. Any questions?" There was none, so the men motioned to the first set of boys. Greg's line moved very quickly. He had the oldest boys; they had all been through the routine, so their paperwork was mostly in order. He looked up to see a face he didn't recognize. He glanced at the name on the application he was handed: Roger Meyer. "Hello. You are new to this area?" "Yes, my dad got transferred here a few months ago. My brother and I have played Little League for the last three years." Greg saw that there was a recommendation letter from his former coach attached to the application. It mentioned both Roger and his brother Tom. "Where's your brother?" Greg looked around the boy and saw another dark haired boy standing right behind him. "Hi. I'm Tom." He handed Greg his application. Page 6
Shadows Express Greg looked them both over and saw all the dates and requirements met, but when he looked at the birth dates, they were just six months apart. Thinking one of the boys had made a mistake, he looked up at them. Both had dark hair, brown eyes, tanned skin, and though they didn't look identical, there was a resemblance. "Did one of you boys make a mistake on your form? Your birthdays are just six months apart." They both grinned, one with dimples one without. "We know. One of us is adopted." "If I may ask, which one of you is adopted?� The boys grinned even wider. He could tell they had been asked this question before. "We don't know." Now Greg frowned at them thinking they were making fun of him. "Really," he said. "Sir, we aren't joking," Tom spoke up. Roger continued, "We have asked our dad every year to tell us which one of us is adopted, but all he says is that it was so long ago he doesn't remember." The boys looked at Greg and shrugged.
Greg gave them each a packet, and they went on their way. Something stirred in his heart, and he blinked a few times. He too was adopted, and not once had his father ever showed preference to his brother over him. There were times in his life when he had resented being adopted, even though he knew he was loved. However, this father had gone beyond that. At some point, the boys would see the truth, but until then, this father wanted his love for each established Later that night, Greg called his dad. "I know Father's Day is coming up, Dad, but I just wanted you to know how much I love you and how proud I am to call you my father." Greg went on to share the story of the two Meyer boys. Greg knew that when he did meet the boys’ father, there would be a deep respect for the man who had two sons.
Galatians 4:7 Wherefore thou art no more a servant, but a son; and if a son, then an heir of God through Christ.
Image: chrisroll / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Volume 4: Issue 1
Page 7
Shadows Express
By Angelo Dalpiaz Frozen mist hugs the snow-crusted ground obscuring the countryside as I steer my rental car to the shoulder of the road and turn off the ignition. Hearing only my own breathing, I sit quietly collecting my thoughts. I have come three-thousand miles in search of answers, but I know some of those answers will never be found. Through the window I see the trail in the snow, the only evidence that I’ve been here before—twice, to be accurate, on each of the previous two mornings. I zip up my jacket until I feel the cold metal against my neck, and then I tug my hat down over my ears. Finally, I push my fingers into black leather gloves. A warning buzzer comes to life as I push the door open and step out into the frigid, early morning December air. I hear the car engine tick as it cools, and the brittle snow crunches under my boots as I walk around the car. Bending between two strands of barbed wire, I step onto the cleared frozen path made by my previous visits. I look out over what were once the grounds of one of the worst mental hospitals in northern Italy. The place where Mussolini sent his wife when she became an inconvenience; the place where sixty-years-ago impoverished people were imprisoned; and the place where my grandmother, Angela Emma Severino, spent the last fourteen years of her life—ignored and abandoned. The buildings are gone now, demolished and bulldozed into the hillside, but a spirit of ugliness remains. The whine of a gentle breeze against bare branches of sleeping trees is like the voice of a ghost longing to tell its story to someone willing to listen. Someone like me. ... Image: Robert Nilson / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Volume 4: Issue 1
In 1937 a crushing poverty had settled over northern Italy, veiling it in hunger and disease. World War II loomed, but its beginnings had already ravaged the countryside, destroying structures built to endure the test of time, not the trauma of bombs whistling from the sky. A hungry populace watched as powerful armies advanced through once well-maintained farms, turning fertile ground into muck and mire. At night, mothers lying in their quiet beds heard the sobs of their hungry children and the distant guns of war shouting out the insanity of the world around them. My grandfather had already immigrated to America, but when Italy joined the Axis Powers, he was prohibited from sending money to his family, as he had done for two years. My grandmother and her five children were left to fend for themselves at a time when life was being cheapened by war; no one would notice the loss of a lone woman and her children. As winter moved forward crusting the land with frozen mist, people starved; some died of easily-cured diseases, and some were separated from their families due to poverty and ignorance. On a cold Sunday morning in March, my grandmother, hoping to provide warmth for her sleeping children, stoked the fire in the kitchen stove. Satisfied that she had done all she could, she wrapped herself in a scarf her mother had given her years ago, and then she quietly walked out into the cold. Santa Maria Del Assunta had served the residents of Bresimo for over one-hundredyears. Angela Severino had found comfort inside the walls of this church for as long as she Page 8
Shadows Express could remember. The church where she and her five children were baptized was warm and only half full that morning. The service had just begun, and as Father Pietro walked to the altar the old wooden doors of the church burst open. Framed in the morning brightness, a man began shouting, “Fume! Fire!” All eyes turned toward the door as the man turned and ran. The men seated in the pews were the first to stand and follow him, and then the women, my grandmother among them, filed out quickly. Father Pietro’s long black robes swirled over the white marble floor as he hurried past the empty pews and out into the bright cold air. My grandmother began running when she saw the dark plumes of smoke rising from her house—the house where her children slept. At the edge of the low wall surrounding her home, a group of women caught and held her, preventing her from running into the smoking house. A long line of men passed buckets of water to each other to douse the flames. Within a few minutes, a man named Gino, his face darkened with soot, came out of the front door and announced the fire had been extinguished. He turned and ushered the children through the door. The frightened children ran to their mother and surrounded her as she fell to her knees. She hugged and kissed each of her children in turn and then raised her eyes to the clear sky and thanked God for their safety. ... Unfortunately, it didn’t take long before her neighbors, people Angela had known for most of her life, began to accuse her of setting the fire on purpose: an attempt to kill her children rather than watch them suffer. Her cries that it was an accident fell on deaf ears. Filled with fear and stress, she staggered and then fainted, falling to the cold ground. The authorities were summoned, and when the Carabinieri arrived, they asked Father Pietro to help in taking my grandmother into custody. Volume4: Issue 1
When she awoke, her children were gone. “Where are my children?” She looked around nervously, her eyes becoming wide with fear. “Where are my children!” she shouted. “It’s alright, Angela.” The dark form of Father Pietro hovered over her, his black robes hanging almost to the ground, his short, rotund body silhouetted by the setting sun behind him. Specks of grey ash spotted his black hat; his face was pinched. His lips were a thin straight line. “The children have been taken to safety,” he said softly. “They are safe with me. Where are they?” “They are with family, Angela. Come with me to my house. “ “Father, I have done nothing wrong.” Turning, she shouted to her neighbors, “I have done nothing wrong. Please help me!” Father Pietro took her arm and helped her up. As she stood her shawl slipped from her shoulders and fell to the ground, revealing her thin white arms. Her cries for help echoed through the valley below, where there was no one to hear them. As Father Pietro led her away, her shawl remained behind in a dark silken heap on the snow-covered ground. She was sent to the hospital where she would remain until she died. ... I step along the path in the snow and walk around the rise in the hill to the place on the old map that indicates where the hospital’s patients were buried in unmarked graves. Here on the southern slope, the sun has melted the snow, and I am able to trace the route of my previous visits and look for signs of old graves: an indentation in the ground, an unusual rise, stones that look out of place. I search and search but find nothing. I scan the desolate hillside, and my resolve begins to ebb as the cold seeps into my body. But then I realize that today is the Winter Solstice, a day of rebirth—of renewal. Stiffening against my disappointment, I continue my search with renewed resolve. Page 9
Shadows Express
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 10
Shadows Express
by: Andrew Kerbs
I met a green-eyed girl beneath the trees Of Kensington, one summer afternoon— Enraptured by the sultry August breeze, That lazily gave way to rising moon. We spoke at length about our lives and dreams, Two yankee dreamers caught by London's charm; We whispered not a word of darker themes, Or anything of which should cause alarm. From there, we walked across a city square, The name of which I cannot quite recall. Beneath the stars, I brushed aside her hair, And stole a kiss, the softest of them all. She disappeared as swiftly as she came, A green-eyed girl for whom I have no name.
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 11
Shadows Express
By Kimberly Barrick There it sits, on the corner of my desk at home. To any bystander, it would simply look like a well-used plastic bottle with a straw hanging over the lip. One day, someone walked by and asked, “How long are you going to keep that battered, old bottle around?” Obviously, this person had seen the bottle for quite some time, yet the bottle was always empty. I suppose she kept wondering why I would keep an empty bottle on my desk. It was then that I realized that what appears as trash to one means something entirely different to another. I began to think about this quandary of how much meaning things have in our lives. I thought about all the times I would go through other people’s stuff and not even think twice about tossing out a well-worn sweater or pair of shoes. When my husband and I married and combined our two houses into one, I remember going through the kitchen boxes from his place and wondering about all the old appliances and cookware he had. I quickly started to toss out things before I even asked him. He walked into the kitchen and saw a box full of old things and asked me where they were going. When I told him “in the trash,” he sternly told me no. He then explained that several of the items were from his grandmother and great-grandmother. Okay, I thought, sentimental stuff that I’ll never use. I found a spot for them in the back—way back—cabinet. And once again, I didn’t give any thought to those appliances. Five years have gone by now, and not once have they been used, but that’s not the point. I’m a thrift store junkie and will go shopping whenever given the opportunity. I used to go to get a good deal on something, but, now, I have a completely different perspective: post-bottle. As I sort through the knick-knacks and trinkets of others, I start to Volume4: Issue 1
imagine what type of person previously owned them and what they meant to them. Sometimes, I go overboard and dwell a bit too much, especially over knitted baby blankets and things made by children. Who could ever part with these things? Maybe I’m too sentimental and hang on to too much stuff, but it is not the value of the item, but the meaning. You see, that bottle was not just a battered, old plastic bottle at all. That bottle and the straw were my father’s, from which he sipped his last sip of water. It was so battered because we went through many bottles, trying to find the perfect one that he could hold comfortably, one in which the straw would stand upright and wouldn’t spill when he sipped water in bed. That bottle represents the fight he gave and the struggles he faced during his battle. That bottle represents life, hope—and death. I think it will hang around a while longer.
Page 12
Shadows Express
By: Lyle Amlin
Novel Excerpt - Chapter 1 Villa Brigands Equus Ager, Hispania, Aug. 8, 57 BC
A narrow beam of sunshine slipped through the crack of the shuttered window, striking the book Marcos Palos was reading in his room. Setting the book down on his bed, he walked to the tiny window, opened the rough wooden covering, and looked out to see the August sun rising over the mountains to the east, casting long shadows over the land. The light was strong enough for Marcos to blow out his beeswax candle, pick up his clay mug of hot mulled wine and the parchment codex he had been reading for the past ten days, and slowly walk out to the villa’s central atrium for some quiet reading of the Odyssey in the original Greek text. Despite it being an August day, the air was still cool, and Marcos shivered lightly, holding his warmed mug in both hands as if to draw the heat from the spicy liquid. He sat on one of the two three-legged stools under the old apple tree in the center of the garden and opened the codex. Homer’s words, copied in the neat letters of a professional scribe in Alexandria from Homer’s original text of more than twohundred and fifty years before, were bound in cow leather in the new style rather than a traditional scroll. Marcos had purchased it from Volume4: Issue 1
the famous Alexandria Library in Egypt when he was a student at the Alexandria University thirty years ago. One of his most prized possessions, he had re-read many times and used it in the classes he had taught in Rome to the young sons of Roman nobles and rich traders before becoming Caissus Melitus’ personal mentor in Near Hispania fifteen years previous. Caissus, having heard the sound of Marcos’ stool scraping over the mosaic stones, went to the kitchen where he found a piece of chicken then sauntered into the sprawling villa’s central garden, a roll of papyrus in his left hand, the chicken in his right, looking every bit like a nineteen-year-old Roman nobleman’s son. Despite his bare feet, he was wearing a clean, white tunic cinched at his waist with a wide leather beltus engraved with Celtiberian designs and a bronze buckle of a Roman Eagle, as was the latest custom for many young men in Hispania. “Good morning, young master,” Marcos said, his dark gray eyes never looking up from the codex, his black and gray hair falling down past his shoulders, and his long beard streaked with gray.
Page 13
Shadows Express “I see you have your morning wine already. Have you had anything to eat?” Caissus questioned as he set the papyrus roll on the wall next to the wine and sat on an empty stool. “I’ve been up since before dawn. It was still chilly. A small mug of hot spiced wine before eating seemed to be in order.” Caissus looked to the mountains in the northeast that divided Hispania from Gaul and saw the sun had only now cleared the tops of the Pyrenees. “You’ve not eaten then?” Caissus raised his left eyebrow as he tipped his head. “I’ll get you a piece of cold chicken from the cook if you are hungry.” “No, not yet. Although, yours does look delicious,” Marcos said, looking up from his cowhide-bound codex. He moved a small rectangular piece of well-worn leather to the
Volume4: Issue 1
pages he was reading then slowly closed the book and set it next to his wine. “You have finished reading what Marcus Licinius Crassus wrote about his battles with Spartacus’ slave army?” Caissus nodded as he took another bite of the chicken in his right hand, wiping the grease off his mouth with the back of his left hand. Lifting his clay wine cup to his lips and taking a small sip, Marcos closed his eyes, shook his head quickly, and furrowed his brows. “Bitter?” Caissus asked. “Not at all. It’s just that it has gotten cold already.” Marcos smiled. “Back to your book, though. Tell me, what do you think of the war against the slaves, based on what Crassus wrote about it himself?” Caissus closed his eyes, recalling the
Image: Evgeni Dinev / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Page 14
Shadows Express words he had been reading yesterday and early this morning. “He wasn’t a great general, no matter how much he tried to make himself look like one. Spartacus had a rag-tag, badly trained army composed of unruly gladiators, slaves, and other lowlifes. Yet it took Crassus a long time to subdue them even with the two armies under his command.” Marcos replied, “True, he was no brilliant general as Sertorius was here in Hispania against Sulla’s three armies, but what do you think of the entire engagement between Crassus and Spartacus?” “Well, Spartacus wasn’t a brilliant leader either. He just kept moving up and down Italy without any clear idea of a goal. Of course, if it’s true the revolt started almost by accident with no previous planning…then that’s understandable. But why didn’t Spartacus attack Rome itself? Early on, he had a superior number of men and had control of most of Italy outside of the city, and the Legions were occupied far from Rome itself.” “A good question. The walls of Rome and its defenders were too strong, plus the fact that Spartacus had absolutely no heavy stone throwers or resources to conduct a long siege of a major city.” Marcos swallowed the final drops of the now cold wine and put the simple glazed mug down on the wall. “What I really want you to tell me is what you thought about the reason for the war. Why did so many slaves and gladiators join Spartacus?” “I suppose because they were just that.” “Just what?” “Slaves and gladiators. Most gladiators are slaves and are trained only to perform a few times in the arena before dying for the spectators. Those who were not gladiators with Spartacus were mostly slaves who escaped from Volume4: Issue 1
the villas around Rome and the other cities in Italy.” “Why would a slave want to die or continue to be a slave if the chance came they could become free?” Caissus sat quietly for a few seconds, marshalling his thoughts. “I suppose slaves would rather not be slaves either to die in an arena or spend their entire lives working the fields, in the tanning pits, or shoveling manure in the stables. But why would they take a chance on a revolt of nothing but gladiators? At first, they were greatly outnumbered and only succeeded because the Senate didn’t think they were a major problem.” “Would you like to be a slave?” “Of course not. I mean, who would want to be…?” Melitus chopped his sentence short, sat upright, and looked straight at Marcos and paused. “Oh, I see what you mean. Slaves would rather be free.” “Yes, I think they would, just as you would rather be free.” “But we need slaves, Marcos. We’ve had slaves since the world began. Even the Greeks had slaves. Most of the world has slaves. Who would do all the work if there were none?” Marcos smiled and took a deep breath, having led the younger man to the real question. “Let me ask you a question, young master. Pick one of the slaves here on the Villa Equus Ager and tell me what work he or she does.” Caissus closed his eyes, thinking back to the slaves working in the kitchen where he had just come from. “Julia. She’s one of the slaves who usually grind the wheat into flour. I think there are four who do that. Without them we’d not have any of our daily bread. No one likes to spend hours grinding flour.” Caissus looked intently at Marcos, “See, we need slaves or we wouldn’t eat.” Page 15
Shadows Express “Yes, we have four slaves who grind all of the flour for the villa, and they spend most of their time every day doing just that. However, are you aware in Rome there are several wheat grinding mills whose stones are turned by running water?” Caissus pulled his head back and opened his eyes wider. “No, I didn’t know that. Tell me, how do they work?” “The water from the River Tiber turns large wood wheels that have paddles in the river. The water pushes against the paddles to turn the wheels which turn a shaft that runs one round, flat stone against another. The wheat is poured into the middle of the top stone where it is ground into flour and works its way to a trough that runs around the outside edge of the stone,” Marcos explained. “Interesting. How much flour does it grind in a day?” “I’m not sure of the exact amount, but I know that it can produce at least five large sacks of flour, perhaps even more. The mill is operated by only one man, a free citizen by the way, who is paid by the owner of the mill.” “So we have one free man, doing the work of four slaves?” Caissus asked with amazement in his voice. “More than four. Our four slaves can grind about three sacks of flour a day. This water mill, with only one man, can produce almost twice that amount in the same time.” Palos put his hands on his knees. “Now tell me again. Why do we need slaves?” “Well…uh…using water to run stones to grind wheat is one thing, but who would empty the night-soil pots from our bedrooms if there were no slaves?” “What if we had running water toilets as are found in Rome itself? No one has to empty those. They run themselves just with the water that runs through them.” Volume4: Issue 1
“Then shoveling manure out of the stables, is there a machine that can do that?” “Not that I know of, but what if one could be built out of bronze or iron and, say, pulled by a horse?” “Hmm, I see what you mean Marcos.” “Good, young master. Slaves are really just handy power sources. If we had the right power source—harnessed water in the first two cases we just discussed—we wouldn’t need slaves at all.” Marcos leaned forward and lowered his voice. “One more question for you.” “Yes, and that is?” “Is it right to force others to work as slaves?” Caissus paused for nearly an entire minute, his brain working at a full gallop. Running the fingers of his chicken-grease-free hand through his long, black hair, he said, “Well, outside of the fact that we’ve always had slaves, I guess a person shouldn’t have to be a slave…unless he wanted to. Or he had been convicted of a crime and was being punished.” “That’s my point,” Marcos said. “Slavery isn’t a natural thing. Do you agree?” “Well, as you explain it, no. But only if we can find ways to do things without using slaves.” The conversation between the mentor and student was interrupted by the chatter of two horses sliding to a stop on the graveled road in front of the Villa. A few seconds later came the pounding of a large fist on the door and a man’s voice. “Open up. We need help!” The footsteps of the Villa’s Major Domo, Quintius, followed the pounding. “Hold on, visitors. I’m coming. No need to break down my door.” For a large man, Quintius moved quickly on soft sandal-clad feet, his long tunic barely brushing the brightly tiled floor of the villa’s hallways. Page 16
Shadows Express Despite sitting quietly and listening carefully, neither Marcos nor Caissus could hear more than a low mumbling between Quintius and the two visitors. Caissus held his right palm toward Marcos as a sign to be quiet, then turned his head toward the door thinking, I wonder what is going on. It’s most unusual to have a visitor this early. It must be something important. I wonder where they are from. It must be a nearby villa. I’m sure they wouldn’t have ridden all night, considering the recent reports of brigands. Caissus heard the three walk toward his father’s office to the left of the garden. The door to the elder Melitus’ office opened, then shut, and it was silent. “He must have gone to get Father,” Caissus said, his brows knotted as he tried to think what could be so important to call on a neighbor so early in the morning. “Marcos, I need to find out what is going on. If Quintius comes this way, hold him until I get back. Can we hold our discussion for a bit? I’m going to get a bit of mulled wine myself. Could I bring you a piece of cold chicken now?” Caissus asked as he stood up, happy to be done with weighty discussions that had questioned his basic beliefs in Roman society. “Yes, young master. I think our discussion has made me quite hungry. A boiled egg with salt and some bread would be good. Some more hot wine would be good also. Thank you,” he replied as he picked up his codex, opened it at the leather marker and began reading it again. In the kitchen, Caissus looked at the workers with a fresh eye. He knew nearly all of them were slaves, including the master of the kitchen. What if they all were replaced by various mechanical devices? he wondered. What if we had water running into the kitchen area like Father has to the bath? We wouldn’t Volume4: Issue 1
need anyone to bring water in jugs into the house. If we had running water toilets, they wouldn’t have to empty any night-soil jars. What if we had our own water mill to grind wheat into flour? Could we also have an olive press to crush oil from the olives or a mill that crushed our grapes? All run by water? If we did, we might not need hardly any slaves. We could get by with just a few hired freemen which probably would cost less. Marcos might be right. We would not have near the expenses in running the villa—although, there would be the initial cost of building those toilets, mills, and crushers.
Image: Carlos Porto / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Caissus shook his head to clear the near-subversive thoughts, picked up two cups of wine in one hand, a chicken breast and piece of bread in the other, and started back to the garden. He was not quite to the garden when he saw Quintius shutting the door to his father’s office. He whispered loudly, “Quintius, what is the commotion all about? Come into the garden with us and tell us what is going on.” Caissus handed a wine cup and the bread to Marcos, saying, “I’m sorry. I forgot your egg, but I brought you bread instead.” He Page 17
Shadows Express sat down on his stool, pointed to the wall, and said to Quintius, “Sit and tell us what is going on.” Quintius spread his ample bottom on the wall. “There arrived, a few minutes ago, two horsemen from Rubico Urban’s villa—it’s located about three miles up the road toward Osca, as you know. They say that last night, a group of twenty-five vile brigands broke into their villa.” “What about Urban’s household guards? Why didn’t they stop them?” Caissus said, waving his new piece of chicken breast, uneaten as of yet. “I do not know. Perhaps they were with Master Urban and his wife who were away, having dinner at the villa of our neighbors, Momus and Lady Magna. At any rate, they then raped all the women in the kitchen and took the master’s money chest from his bedroom. They also took a large quantity of food and wine and made off on horseback toward the mountains.” “What do they want, then? Just to warn us or what?” Caissus asked him. “I’m not sure, but I think they told your father they want to organize a militia among the villa owners in the area to go after the thieves, punish them, and get the money chest back,” Quintius said, looking at the chicken breast Marcos was holding. “If you are hungry, go and eat then, Quintius,” Caissus said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Thank you, master,” he replied as he slowly got up, “but I do think I should wait to see if the Senator needs me for anything.” “Yes, an excellent idea,” Cassius replied. “Then do come and tell us if you have any additional information.” As Quintius got up, the young man went on. “And thank you for telling us what the messenger said,” Caissus said, biting off another piece of cold chicken. Volume4: Issue 1
“These brigands are becoming quite bold, Marcos,” he said, chewing on the chicken. “I’ve been hearing reports for some time now of how travelers on the road are being accosted by them demanding money and goods before letting them go on. But attacking a villa—that’s a first.” Marcos nodded in agreement and Cassius went on. “I do think we need to do something. I know Father has talked to the commander of the Legion garrison in Osca, but the commander—his name is Centurion Gelasius—says he has his hands full keeping things under control in the city and can’t be bothered with the outlying areas.” “Mayhaps we need to organize a permanent militia to patrol the road and the villas.” “Perhaps, Marcos, but who would pay for it?” “I’m not sure, but if we do nothing, the brigands will become bolder and bolder, and soon nothing will be safe.” “I agree, Marcos, but it takes money to do this, and I just don’t see a Roman nobleman putting up cash for someone else’s defense.” “You may be right, young master. Let’s wait and see what your father thinks,” Marcos answered. “Now I think we need to take a short break from our studies while this interruption is clouding our thinking.” It was a few minutes later when the two visitors came out of Senator Melitus’ office, hurried to the villa’s front door, mounted their waiting horses, and rode off to the south and the next villa. Quintius came out of the office a few seconds later and rushed to the garden. “Master Miletus, your father asks that you come into his office,” he said breathlessly. “I shall be just outside the door in case you need me.” Page 18
Shadows Express Cassius nodded his thanks to Quintius. He knocked on the door to his father’s office and was greeted with “Come in, my son. I have the most interesting news to tell you. Rubico Urban’s Villa was struck by a few mounted brigands last night. They beat up some of the household slaves and stole Rubico’s cash chest at the villa, then escaped on horseback towards the mountains.” “I heard that they raped some of the kitchen slave women,” Cassius said as he sat on a stool in front of his father’s polished wood desk. His father looked at him with a lilting eyebrow. “You know already?” “Yes, Father. This is a small household.” “It must have been Quintius. I know he keeps his ear at every door and window in the household. At any rate, we need to do something. The brigands have been getting bolder and bolder; no villa seems to be safe. We might be next. What do you think we should do?” “You have contacted the Legion garrison in Osca twice already, and they have done nothing.” “Yes, the whoreson commander there says his duty is to keep Osca itself safe, and he has only a limited number of legionnaires available. Most of the Legion is in Gaul with Caesar. His best suggestion was that we hire some more guards for our villa. If every villa and farm did that from Osca to Llerda, we’d need our own Legion.” Cassius slowly stroked both of his beardless cheeks with the thumb and first finger of his left hand in thought. “Perhaps not, Father. If we had…oh…perhaps forty cavalrymen in our service, we could place them in three or four camps on the road between Osca and Llerda. If they were only twenty miles apart, any villa would be within a half-day’s Volume4: Issue 1
ride, and ten men could respond quickly to any trouble point.” “And just who would pay for these forty men? Not to mention the horses and the weapons.” “If we had seven villas each contribute the services of ten men and horses, they would receive the protection of the Militia at no charge.” “Forty men!” the elder Melitus exclaimed as he raised both of his white eyebrows high. “That would cost each villa owner nearly a Gold Aureii a month for those men! I don’t know of a single villa owner who would pay that much.” “Perhaps,” Caissus replied calmly as he made a peaked tent of his hands, “but perhaps we could charge traders and other road travelers for an escort on the road to protect them. And what we can do is wait until we have two or three caravans and a few individual riders who can travel as a group. That way, we can charge each of them and provide a larger force for protection. I think that a group of…oh…say thirty travelers with six or seven fully armed cavalrymen would be deterrent enough to stop any but the biggest group of brigands.” The elder Melitus leaned back in his new high-backed chair and looked hard at his son. “Did you just think of this right now?” “Well, yes and no. I’ve been thinking about these brigands that have been harassing the travelers on the road lately, and this morning Marcos suggested we organize a Militia to patrol the road ourselves since the Legion isn’t going to do it. I was thinking of how it could be paid for, is all, and came up with this plan.” “It may be workable. It is definitely a unique idea and quite possibly workable,” the elder Melitus said. “However, I do think that we Page 19
Shadows Express need to meet, as Urban requested, tomorrow morning at his Villa. I want you to go along with me, as well as your friend Leptis. Have Leptis select two more men from the household who can handle weapons and ride. Have Damen prepare horses for us and our goods, and tell Quintius to get the tents, bedding, and weapons we will need. Get the cook to pick two helpers and put together the food we will need for…oh…ten days. I want to be able to leave by the sixth hour.” “That’s moving quickly, my father. Why do we need to rush so when Urban didn’t ask for us to meet him until tomorrow?” “I want to secure the best camping place on his Villa. You and Leptis leave immediately, the others will follow. Find a location with good water and pasture for the horses and the best camping spot for us. Get Urban’s approval first, of course, but pick the prime location.” “Of course, Father. I’ll see you at the villa before dark then.” “Wait, Son, I almost forgot. What was Marcos teaching you this morning in the garden so early? I heard you were up reading by candlelight until about the eighth hour this morning,” Marcus asked as he reached for a sheet of vellum and a quill pen. “Yesterday, we had been discussing recent history in the Republic, including Sulla’s dictatorship, Sertorius’ revolt and his Republic here in Hispania, and, finally, the revolt of the gladiators under Spartacus. Marcos wanted me to read Crassus’ book on the campaign and comment. I did, and then we discussed the philosophy of slavery and why it was or wasn’t
Volume4: Issue 1
needed,” Caissus answered as he rubbed his knuckles against his the cleft in his chin. “And what did you think of Crassus’ campaign?” “Not very well thought out, really. He wasn’t a general by profession, just a very rich and self-centered Senator who purchased his own army and chased after Spartacus up and down southern Italy—twice failing to bottle him up.” “Yes, but, in the end, Crassus did kill him and crushed the revolt, so he must have done it right.” “Not necessarily. Even Crassus said they never found Spartacus’ body. He might have escaped to Corsica for all we know.” Marcus smiled at his son who was nearly eleven years younger than Primus, his first born. What a difference between Caissus and Primus. I am sorry he wasn’t born first. His brain is active all the time. He grasps concepts in the quickness of a hawk striking a dove in mid-air and, although I admit I may be biased, is a very handsome young man. Alas, I wish he’d understand about the girl, Prissy. Perhaps there is still time. He spoke to Cassius. “Very well, my son, good point. But now be off and secure us the best camping spot.” “Later then, Father.” Caissus turned and headed to the kitchen to find Leptis and get the expedition underway.
Page 20
Shadows Express
By Alice (Kat)Shevitz
Love is weak that cannot stand on the strength of its own illusions. Love, defined by tragedy and inert longings, is doomed by its own truths. Love, caught up in itself, grows isolated and weakens in its own fragile web. Love is kind that rests in warm arms of respect and delicate freedom.
Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 21
Shadows Express
by: Kayna Amy Ivenson
Winter jerked awake, as usual, a few moments before the loud knock started on her bedroom door. "Time to get up!" Gobbler, the head house-elf, yelled from the other side of the door. Winter jumped up and washed her face in the cold water in the basin on the rickety dresser next to her bed. Winter looked excitedly into the cracked mirror. Today she was ten! She shared the same birth date as her triplet cousins, Gretta, Ellen, and Helen. She got dressed quickly. This morning, she did not want to annoy her uncle and aunt. Today, perhaps they got her something. Winter was living with her Aunt Fai, her Uncle Harris, and her three cousins at Greyman Hall. The old castle has been in Uncle Harris’s family for centuries, and he had inherited the title of Lord Greyman from his father. Her uncle and aunt and cousins’ rooms were located upstairs. Winter slept in the cellar. Her room had no window and not even a carpet. Winter made her bed and then pulled her door closed as she hurried up the stairs. The family was in the dining hall. The table was set, and breakfast was being served. She got the usual greeting of scowls from them as she sat at her place at the very end of the long table, far away from the rest of the family. The smell of bacon, sausage, mushroom, egg, and toast hit her nostrils, and Winter frowned. Wow, she thought. Her sense of smell was strong this morning. Her senses have always been sharper than the rest of the household, but never like this. Volume4: Issue 1
The triplets were looking at piles of gifts in front of them. Helen and Gretta were already opening theirs, but Ellen had a frown on her face. "Why is my pile so small?” the blackhaired girl asked, her hands in little fists next to her body. Her pile was not small at all actually. Winter saw only one parcel in front of her own plate. The triplets’ piles had at least seventeen gifts each in front of them. Gretta's eyes started leaking tears and she sobbed. Quietly, Winter ate her breakfast. The triplets had perfected the art of crying to get what they wanted. And that strategy worked on all the grown witches and warlocks around them. Winter silently started counting, and she got to the count of five when Uncle Harris chuckled and came to hug Gretta. "There, there, my darling. We will take you clothes shopping this afternoon." Aunt Fai beamed from the other side of the table at the triplets. They had her green eyes but Uncle Harris’s black hair, and, like their father, they were slim and tall. Aunt Fai liked dressing them in the latest fashions. Aunt Fai was athletic in build and had dark auburn hair. Winter ran her fingers through her own light auburn hair before opening the packet in front of her. She recognized the pair of jeans, the pair of sneakers, and the shirt and denim jacket. They were clothes the triplets did not want anymore. "Thank you for the gift,” Winter said. They all looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Page 22
Shadows Express Her uncle's mouth was in a thin line. "Are you wearing your necklace?" he asked. In reply, Winter pulled on the string hanging around her neck, revealing the round stone dangling from it. She knew that her uncle had enchanted it. "Aunt Fai, I'm ten today. Can you please tell me bout my parents?" Winter regretted asking as soon as she heard the words leave her mouth. She knew very well how they disapproved of her. She was not like the rest of them, a full blooded witch. But no one would tell her what the other part of her was—not her uncle, nor her aunt, nor any of the private tutors who were responsible for her and the triplets’ education. "Why would you want to know that, child?" her aunt asked, green eyes cold. "We do not discuss your parents or the car crash that killed them. It’s unpleasant, and I will not have it discussed at my breakfast table!" Uncle Harris had a furious look on his face. Normally she would hang her head and apologize. But for some reason, this morning, she was angry and wanted to yell back. With great difficulty, she mumbled an apology. Aunt Fai drew her breath in sharply. "I had forgotten that I sent Forks to London today to get roses. What are we going to do with her today?" Uncle Harris looked at her, annoyance edged on his face. Ellen and Helen whined in simultaneous protest, "Daddyyyyy! She can't go with us!" Gretta leaned over and whispered something in her sisters’ ears, a smile on her face. Winter watched her, wearily. She was used to her cousins’ tricks. They never let an opportunity pass to bully or taunt her. "It’s okay, Daddy. It is okay. After all, it’s her birthday, too." Gretta's voice dripped Volume4: Issue 1
with sweetness, which made Winter even more suspicious. Gretta’s mother and father smiled proudly at their daughter and even promised to reward her for her thoughtfulness. Gretta smugly looked at Winter. A feeling of cold rage flooded Winter’s veins, but she hid it. She was good at avoiding trouble. Her voice was neutral when she thanked Gretta. Winter had no broom of her own, so they had her use a servant’s broom. They did not fly to a mall or the city, as Winter first thought they would, but to a huge forest. None of the family was really outdoor orientated, so Winter thought this was very strange. There were a witch and wizard with a boy and girl already at the place where they landed. They had been waiting for them, apparently. Ellen and the girl greeted enthusiastically, and the look Gretta and the boy shared suddenly explained why they were here and not at a mall, her cousins’ more natural habitat. Winter was ignored, but it did not bother her one bit. She was just super happy to not be stuck indoors at home or with Mr. Fork. Mr. Fork taught her what the mundane called martial arts. He had done so for as long as she could remember. And they fenced with real swords. Her uncle and aunt, of course, did not know about this, and she was not about to tell them, either. It was nice to have something that was just her own. She liked Mr. Forks, but this day was just too beautiful to spend indoors. She was educated, like her cousins, but she had no wand of her own and no clothes that were not owned before. She was not a servant nor treated as one. She was simply ignored, and, if not ignored, she was bullied. Winter did not mind it much. Uncle Harris and the wizard were talking about the Ministry of Magic where Uncle Harris worked. Ellen, Helen, and the girl called Page 23
Shadows Express Rosalie were discussing fashion while Aunt Fai and Lady Arrebella were gossiping. Gretta and Hector were giggling and laughing. Winter lay on her stomach, enjoying the feeling of the grass. Suddenly, Gretta and the boy came to stand next to Winter. Cautiously she looked up at them. "Winter, would you join us for a walk in the woods?" Her cousin’s voice was sugarsweet, and that made Winter suspicious. "Do go, child," her aunt urged from the blanket on which she and the older witch sat. She smiled with her lips, but her eyes were cruelly hard. Winter got up. She would go, if only to get away from those eyes. "Sure.", she said. Her own smile was not warm, either. Only the boy and herself were properly dressed for walking through the forest. They hiked deep into the woods, and Winter started to relax. She found that she liked the smell of the trees and the earth. There was a clearing in front of them. Winter was going to suggest they rest there to give her stumbling cousin a break when Gretta and Hector turned, their wands in their hands. Gretta had a smile filled with malice on her face. At home, Gretta, at times when their tutors were not watching, tried the spells they were taught on Winter. A feeling of intense irritation surged up in Winter, and she ducked into the forest, running from them. A branch snagged the string around her neck, and, in her momentum forward, it snapped and fell to the ground. Winter did not even stop to pick it up. It was her birthday! She might get punished for losing the necklace, but she did not care. Today, she chose not to be used for
Volume4: Issue 1
Gretta's sport. She felt so different today. Her senses felt awake, and she felt… alive. She lost her pursuers and was contemplating returning to her family when Gretta's scream shattered the animal noises of the forest to silence. Without thinking, Winter rushed to where the scream came from. That scream was not one of Gretta's pretend ones; Winter could sense pure fear in it. A smell hit her nose that made the hair on her arms stand up. She nearly jumped when a small growl escaped her mouth. Winter shook her head. Whoa, where did that come from! The smell—and another sense—made her excitement grow stronger. The air was filled with the smell of her cousin and the boy… and fear. Winter instinctively moved slower. Gretta and the boy were standing with their backs to a huge rock surrounded by trees. In front of them crouched a Vampire! Growling, Winter flung herself between the children and the Vampire. Her mouth hurt, and she crouched, drawing her lips up. The Vampire straightened, surprise on his face. Then he chuckled, his lips twitching with mirth. "Oh, how frightening. A little puppy." His orangecolored eyes narrowed. "Move, puppy, and I promise to kill you fast!" the black-haired, raggedly dressed Vampire spat at her. Surprised, Winter glanced down at her hands, and she saw… paws. She threw her head back, and a howl escaped her. Winter dropped her head, snarling again. There was no time to try and figure out what had happened to her. She knew she had to keep the Vampire away from her cousin and the boy! The woods behind her suddenly seemed to spill forth huge wolves. The Vampire screamed and then swung around and ran, the pack of wolves hot on his heels.
Page 24
Shadows Express A man dressed in a pair of black jeans and a white shirt stepped out of the forest. Effortlessly, he lifted Winter into his arms and looked down at Gretta and Hector who were still shaking with terror. "Come, children, I will return you to your parents. You should not have ventured this deep into the woods." His voice was deep and confident. Winter was aware of her body being in intense pain. Aunt Fai and Lady Arrebella hurried to embrace their darlings. Uncle Harris was white in the face as he stared at Winter. "You took off the necklace! Insolent girl!" He moved toward her and Winter shrank back, expecting a blow. A growl came from the man that held her, and her
uncle stepped back. "This pup saved your children from a Vampire. I'm taking her off your hands. Good day, sir." With that, he swung around and started walking away. Winter looked over the man's shoulder and saw her uncle stand, open mouthed. It was the first time she had ever seen him speechless. Her body hurt and she must have whimpered. The man laid a hand on her head and smiled at her. "Sleep, pup." Winter closed her eyes as the movement lulled her to sleep.
Image: nixxphotography / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 25
Shadows Express
Image: koratmember / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Image: dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.netImage: FreeDigitalPhotos.net
By Jonas David
The sun warmed Ellinor's cheeks and she inhaled crisp air, rinsed clean by the previous days' rains. Dew soaked through her shoes, cooling her feet, and Yaro’s strong hand enclosed hers with warmth. They followed the familiar path, winding between grassy hills toward the shore. Yaro stopped to hold up his spyglass, sweeping it across the clear, blue sky. “Wonder if I could see Pop on the green, if he’s there now and not on his ship.” “The green?” She pulled the spyglass away from his blue eyes. “Yeah, the Fiddler's Green.” He began to raise it to his eye again. “I told you about that, didn't I?” “No.” She smiled and grabbed his hand. “Tell me.” He had, many times, but she liked the sound of his voice when he was excited. Volume4: Issue 1
“Well,” he squeezed her hand, “Pop says that when sailors die, they go to a great green field in the sky, and there is a fiddler there, and he plays tunes and never stops. Like at the solstice festival, but forever!” He pulled her into his arms. "And we can dance?" she prodded, giggling. He always stepped on her toes when they danced. His face would turn red every time. “Oh yes, you can! You can dance and dance and never get tired!” He spun her around then brushed her hair out of her face. She wanted desperately to kiss him but didn't want to stop him from talking. “And it is always springtime, and there are flowers of all kinds and a stream with fish! And it only rains when everyone agrees to it.”
Page 26
Shadows Express
“It sounds beautiful,” she said. They sat down in the grass on a hill looking over the ocean. “It is. But I hope Pop's not there yet. I hope he's here in the world still.” He looked out at the waves through his spyglass. “But, Yaro, I'm not a sailor. Will I get to go there?” “Of course, Nora,” he said with a friendly sneer. “I'll make sure of it.” She smiled at the sound of that name. Last year she had found one of his school projects with the name Yaroslav written on it. She had only heard his friends call him Hansi. Even his mother called him that. “Hansi is my second name,” he had said when she asked. “And it's my father's name, and I like it. But Teacher will only have me put my real first and last name.” “But I like Yaroslav; it sounds so strong. And it is your name, Yaro.” “Okay then, Ellinor, how would you like me calling you… um… Nora?” He sounded angry, but then laughed. She pretended to dislike it, but it made her feel special to have a secret name only he used. Once, another boy called her that, and she yelled at him, causing a scene. “What would you do to make sure, hmm?” She played with his blond hair as he looked out to sea. She remembered how mad he had been the time she braided it while he slept. “I'd send the fiddler himself to get you from wherever you were. No one would have any music until he returned with you. Then we would be happy there forever. And you could meet my pop!” He lowered the spyglass and his voice dropped. “If he's there, I mean.” “You watch for him every day, don't you?” She had followed Yaro out to the cliff face many times. His strong body seemed small and alone when framed against the cold sea. The longer he walked there along Volume4: Issue 1
the cliff-side, the lower his shoulders would droop, until he finally left toward home, dejected. She would meet up with him on the path, pretending not to know why he was so upset. “Yes.” He was silent a moment, then turned around. “El, do you want to come watch with me?” “Yes,” she managed to say as her heart leaped up her throat. He grabbed her hand and led her down to the edge of the cliff. The ground was soft from the rain, and her feet were getting very wet, but she didn't care. Yaro walked up to the edge, pulling her along. “Aren't you afraid you’ll fall?” she asked. “Sometimes.” He squeezed her hand. “But if I fall now, it will be with you. And that's not so scary.” She smiled and stepped up to the edge with him, her heart racing. Waves crashed on the rocks below, making swirling pools of water and foam between them. Small gusts of wind slapped her dress against her legs. He peered through the spyglass, his face stern. She loved how his brow furrowed when he concentrated. After a moment he handed it to her. “Look.” He pointed to the horizon. She held it to her eye and the sea leaped forward. The rolling waves held nothing. “It's empty,” she said. “It always is.” She looked at him as he stared out to the sea, his eyes full of sadness, always waiting for something that never came. He was so alone, and still so strong. Her heart swelled and she threw her arms around him. “Yaro, I love—” Yaro fell away from her, his fingers slipping from her grasp as the ground crumbled beneath them. She flailed her arms in panic. Yaro's face twisted into a silent Page 27
Shadows Express
scream, his voice lost in the howling wind. She reached out for him and slammed into icy oblivion. A wave crashed against her face, choking her. Squeezing her eyes closed against the salt-water and gasping for air, she dragged herself up onto a rock. “Yaro?” she whispered, hugging herself against the cold. “Yaro, are you there?” She scanned the rocks, blurred by stinging tears. His body lay broken on the rocks. His life leaked out, staining the green algae and flowing in little rivulets off the stone. “Yaro!” She scrambled over to him, sharp edges scraping her hands and knees. She pulled him into her arms. His head tilted unnaturally, his blue eyes open, but still. She didn't want to see, but couldn't look away. His twisted face burned in her brain. His silent eyes stared at her. She squeezed hers shut and hugged him, shrugging against the biting wind. They were dancing in the green grass. She was safe in his strong arms. He flashed his crooked smile and pulled her in for a kiss. “We'll always be together, El,” he whispered in her ear. “We'll even die together.” Somewhere far away, a wave fell against the shore. *** “She hasn't spoken at all, no.” “Well, it must be quite a shock for someone her age. For anyone, really.” “That she even lives is a miracle. The chance of her falling into that one gap in the rocks, well, the gods must be watching her.” Ellinor clutched Yaro's spyglass to her chest as she listened to her parents talking in the other room. The gods had cursed her, not helped her. She should be Volume4: Issue 1
dancing in green fields with him, together. They were supposed to go everywhere together. “Oh, that poor Hansi,” she heard her mother say. “Helen must be devastated, now without husband or son.” They were talking like he wasn't there, like he wasn't anything. She stomped out of her room. “Ellinor, are you... do you need anything?” Ellinor’s mother asked, concerned. “I need Yaro, and none of you care!” Ellinor snapped, her eyes wet with tears. “I know it’s hard, darling, but he’s in a better place now.” “You don’t know that. You never even knew him! You don't know anything!” “Ellinor—” Her father stood, but she turned away from him and ran out the door. The dark startled her, but she continued on, ignoring the echoes of her parents’ calls behind her. The clear night sky glowed, a full, yellow moon lighting her way. She remembered sneaking out in the dead of night to meet him on this very path when she’d been grounded on her birthday. He brought her flowers. She still had them pressed in her journal, next to the letter he wrote her when he was learning cursive. The tears finally caught her and she collapsed at the edge of the cliff. She cried until her stomach cramped and she could barely breathe. With blurry eyes, she looked over the edge. Waves washed over the rocks where Yaro had lain, cleansing them. Already the sea forgot what it had taken. She rubbed her eyes and held up the spyglass, looking down to where his broken face had stared at her. She could see the shape of his twisted body against the cold stone. And she was there next to him. Her face was pale, her body smashed, her hand still grasped in his.
Page 28
Shadows Express
Together on the rocks they were kissed by the waves. She curled up with the spyglass in her arms and slept. *** Green grass cooled her bare feet, and sunlight warmed her cheeks. As she walked through the expansive field, a happy tune filled the air. “Nora,” Yaro's voice called out to her. She turned in a circle, but no one was there, only endless green grass and the faint music. “Ellinor.” She heard it again. She began to run, but the grass was empty every way she looked. The music receded, fading. “Yaro!” She turned around, trying to hear the direction of the music. “Yaro, please!” She saw a shadowy figure on a hill ahead; the music was coming from there. She ran toward it. “Ellinor.” Her father bent over her, his weathered face concerned. She pushed constricting blankets from her, and sat up against her pillow. “You were screaming. Are you all right?” he asked. “Yes, I... yes.” She panicked for a moment, then saw the spyglass on the shelf next to her bed. She snatched in into her arms. “The funeral is today. You should wear your black dress.” He patted her hair, his face worried. She was silent. After a moment, he nodded and left her. She didn't want to move. She didn't want to think. They were so hurried to bury the past, to forget him, to get it over and done with, like a chore, a job. They would go back to their normal lives so easily, like it had never happened. She threw on the dress and looked in her mirror. She didn't want to brush her hair, or straighten the wrinkles in the fabric. She didn't want to look good. Volume4: Issue 1
Yaro hated to see her wear black. He said the only black he liked was her hair. She wanted to cut it off so that no one else could ever like it. The funeral was too bright. The sun insulted her as it soaked into the black suits and dresses. The gods didn't even care enough to dress nature in rain and clouds. The Vicar read monotonously from his book. She didn't listen. He didn't know Yaro. What could he say? She looked around at the people; they looked bored, apathetic. Uncle Otto looked at his watch. Her eyes ignored her mind's protest and finally fell on the casket. A plain wooden box, soon to be dumped in a hole and buried like trash. He couldn't be in there. It was a mistake. "Nora." His voice tickled her ears, a whisper floating out of the casket. "Nora, where are you?" She clutched the flower in her hand and stepped forward. She felt glares from the crowd as the Vicar rambled on, and heard murmurs as she approached the coffin. She looked in. "I'm here—" His face was wrong. The angles of his mouth were wrong. The tilt of his nose was wrong. His hair was too slick and shiny. His clothes were too neat and straight. She dropped the flower onto his folded hands and backed away, shaking her head. She felt the eyes of the crowd on her, disapproving, judging. The Vicar reached a crinkled hand toward her, mouthing meaningless words. She turned away from him and pushed through the group. Uncle Otto scowled at her and Mother grasped her shoulder; she tore from their clinging hands and ran toward home. She burst into her room and grabbed his spyglass from her shelf, hugging it as tears fell down her cheeks. "You can't leave me! You said you never would!" Yaro would never lie to her. He told her when he Page 29
Shadows Express
cheated on the exam. He told her about his bad dreams and that he had cried when his pop left. He told her he'd always be there for her. She held the glass to her eye and looked out her window, scanning the green grassy hills and the edge of the cliff where he always walked. A figure was silhouetted against the blue sky, dancing. She wiped the lens with her dress then looked again. There was someone there. She raced out the door and down the path. She remembered racing Yaro down this path every day after school. She remembered how he would let her lead, but pull her down onto the grass in the end. She remembered the smell of his shirt as he held her. She stopped at the edge of the cliff and turned about, looking. No one was there. She looked down at the rocks below. They too were empty. She held the spyglass up and looked out at the waves. On the horizon she could see a hint of green. She squinted her eye. There were green hills and people dancing beyond the sea. She could hear music now, growing louder, clearer, a cheery tune that called her to dance. She lowered the glass and looked up. A shadowy figure played a fiddle before her. “Yaro,” she choked. “Is Yaro on the green with you?” The figure lowered the fiddle and came closer; he was shrouded in black and floating above the waves. “He is quite alone here, waiting for you.” “I'm alone!" Her voice cracked and she pounded clenched fists on her thighs. "I'm alone without him. How could he leave without me? We were supposed to go together!” The crashing of the waves and the wind muffled her voice, but the fiddler's words were clear. Volume4: Issue 1
“Just hold my hand; I'll take you there.” The figure extended a smokey arm. She reached out and grasped it. His grip chilled her skin. Her stomach fluttered and she lurched upward, the sky opening for her. Wind roared in her ears and watered her eyes as the fiddler pulled her higher. Sunlight and music and green surrounded her. The figure set her down on soft grass. She saw someone ahead standing on a gently sloping hill, blond hair tussled by the wind. “Yaro!” He turned, smiling, and ran toward her. She leaped into his arms and squeezed him as the fiddler began to play a happy tune. Yaro spun her around then pulled her close. “I knew you would come,” he whispered. He kissed her and she felt like she was floating, numb, light. She closed her eyes, holding him close. They were together. The music dimmed as the sun set on the green. She held him in silence and darkness. Somewhere far away, waves crashed.
Image: koratmember / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Page 30
Shadows Express
by C.K. Ledford I saw her in autumn’s light on an old stone bench near the edge of pumpkins’ garden, where dew fought for attention with the glistening of her tears. She was dying, yet more alive than I who fought for understanding of how a growth nestled within could not claim her spirit’s beauty. I sat with her, unspeaking as memories circled ‘round us of youthful days running in sunshine till fireflies lit our dreams. We were twins, born not by blood or laws, yet family nonetheless; sisters formed from single smiles upon a lonely playground swing. We learned and laughed and grew through time, shared our hearts and families; never thinking new tomorrows would not come to greet us all.
Image: dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Now here we sit in forties’ splendor without a movement or a whisper, silently accepting truths of life we cannot change. But I know … (and she knows) fear may lurk in unknown journeys, yet light will come to comfort us with warmth and peace. ~~ “You turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” Psalm 30:11 (NIV)
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 31
Shadows Express
by: Lanica Klein
So long ago Our first kiss locked our hearts to one and other Too recently, my flaws were brought into the light. Hidden secrets hurt you deeply, the one I loved most of all. Hidden secrets were brought into the light. Too recently, my flaws locked our hearts to one and other. Our first kiss So long ago
Image: Piyaphon / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 32
Shadows Express
By Bryan Scholl The box lay in the corner. It brimmed with shirts, jackets, and pants of all colors and sizes. Some were worn. Some were old. Some were stained. Some, it seemed, were too small to believe they fit her children. The years had gone by with little fanfare or fervor. This was life upon this Earth, and Patty had watched that box filled with the pieces of children's past. It was time, she thought. It was time. She called her aunt and asked what kind of thread, how big of pieces to make, and the stitch type to use. She also measured how big she wanted to make it and where it might hang. She even wondered if she should use it. Her mother sewed quilts so many years ago. She reminisced how she handed her mother patches and colored thread. She missed that—being with her mother. Making a quilt from the pieces of her kids’ past would be no easy chore. But she knew not what those little pieces of cloth truly meant. This warm spring morning, with a slight breeze tickling the white curtains adorning her open window, she walked over to the box in the corner and picked up the first piece—a dark blue jersey that Timmy, the oldest, had worn. Of all the pieces in the overflowing box, this was the last one placed inside. He’d flippantly stated that it was too hot as he peeled it off his frame and handed it over, right after he came in from baseball practice. She picked it up and felt the soft polyester, and remembered her favorite picture (of the several tucked in the pages of the old book) of Timmy in that favorite shirt. She recalled just how it was described. Her mind went back...
Volume4: Issue 1
Timmy’s senses were tingling. The sweat was pouring from his forehead as he anticipated the batter’s swing. The game was on the line, and he manned his usual place, centerfield. The crack struck his ears and the crowd reacted to the drive. Timmy immediately knew the ball was hit well. His reaction was swift—Turn toward the wall and run with all your might! The ball slipped through the high sky as Timmy tracked it with his eyes. Just maybe, he measured… Just maybe… His legs felt so light and strong. He might just as well have been flying as he didn’t feel the ground beneath him. He only felt the wind. With all the speed he could muster, his eyes stayed on the ball. His concentration fully on the spinning leather stitches, he dove with his glove outstretched. The ball hit his mitt, and mud splashed amply everywhere, covering his shirt and half of his face. He slid several feet in the muck and the grime, and hit the fence with a thud. The crowd cheered wildly and then fell to a hushed murmur. Timmy felt nothing. He only looked down into the heel of his glove and there it was—a gleaming white baseball. He struggled to his feet, and, with a half-mud smile, his dad took that picture. She remembered… and smiled as she cut the shirt with the number 5 in the middle. This will be the centerpiece, she thought. After several minutes of cutting eight squares out of the jersey, she turned toward the box and peered inside. There lay a frilly white shirt. She lifted it up and sucked in a large breath. Oh, that scent brought it all back…
Page 33
Shadows Express Maria waited. “Mommy.” “Yes, dear.” She smiled and looked into that tiny face. Maria fidgeted and her eyes scanned the old oaken planks. “What if I mess up?” Her feet tapped in antsy anticipation. “Oh, honey. You’ll do fine. You’re my girl, after all. Plus, you have a wonderful voice. Like an angel.” She smiled even broader. “I don’t want to go. They will laugh if I mess up.” “Now, Maria. Mrs. Roberson is counting on you. She picked you for the solo. She told me that you have a great voice.” Her eyes softened with a look only a mother could give, comforting Maria. “I’ll tell you what. You know that
perfume that mommy just got that you like?” “Uh, huh.” “I’ll let you wear it for the rest of the day, but you have to be a big girl and go out there and sing. Sing like I know you can.” Maria grinned briefly and meekly lifted her eyes to meet her mother’s. “Okay. But don’t let Billy Ruiz come near me. That would just send him over the edge. He already tries to kiss me at recess.” Patty couldn’t help but laugh at the image in her mind. “Oh, Maria. I love you, little girl. Now, go out there and make me proud.” She hugged Maria tight. Cutting those pieces felt strange, yet satisfying, as she knew it would end up in a very special memory quilt. Perhaps the scent would
Image: Cathy Douglas.
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 34
Shadows Express somehow stay when she pulled it over her body. Patty could only hope as she eyed the next item. “Oh, no,” Patty said aloud, “I didn’t realize this was… “ Her voice trailed off. “I just… “ Her hands covered her mouth. The shock on her face clear. “That was so funny!” She held up a small orange and black, broad-striped shirt and laughed. This story was retold and referenced many times... Sam was no more than three, and, like most small boys his size, full of mischief and energy. Laura, the music director’s wife, had toddler duty at the church that day. Sam was his usual self and played seemingly with all the toys in the nursery, all at the same time. Laura had her hands full that day with Sam and five other toddlers, Sam being the oldest. She enlisted the help of one of the teenagers, Sherry. Even with the extra help, it proved to be a difficult day. The inevitable came. “Ms. Laura?” “Yes, sweetie,” Laura chimed back as all experienced pre-school workers do. “I need to go to the bathroom.” Sam’s brown eyes batted back at Laura. “Oh. Okay. I’ll take you.” So, off they went—Sam in his favorite broadstriped shirt. They strolled around the corner toward the bathroom right next to the sanctuary. She opened the door for him and was about to go in when Sam gave her his look. “I can do it. I’m a big boy.” “Oh,” Laura said, “I’m sure you are.” Laura smiled down at him. Laura waited. And waited. He had been in there a long time. He was a big boy, she thought. I’ll give him a few more minutes. Besides, it was nice to have left Sherry back there with the other equally exuberant kids. Laura wandered up and down the hall. Still, she waited. “He sure is taking his time,” she whispered to herself. She decided to take her mind off things and tried to listen through the doors to the pastor’s sermon. The sermon was a good one. Of course, she thought, all of Pastor Reynold's Volume4: Issue 1
sermons were good. She sat listening in the hall. Then it happened. Sam streaked past her in two blinks of an eye, and before she could stop him, he’d opened the doors to the sanctuary and scooted in. At first, there was silence. Laura knew what was coming. The giggles at first and then full, wild laughter. Laura rushed in too late. There stood Sam, naked, with a roll of toilet paper in one hand and only a mischievous grin to wear. “Mommy!” he cried out. Laura's stomach churned in mortification. She scooped him up and darted to the door. In the bathroom, she found a full roll of toilet paper filling the toilet and a small wide-striped shirt tossed on the floor. The memories lapped upon Patty's mind as she picked up each piece of clothing. Some were hard to recall. Some had no memory at all. But most had a story attached and a flood of feeling. Patty worked at a frantic pace—cutting and sewing, and cutting and sewing. Her less than nimble fingers somehow managed to do the job. The box kept giving and giving, and the quilt took shape. For her first quilt since she was just a young girl, she was quite proud. She smiled and hummed as she worked and kept her mind on the task. April gave way to May. May gave way to June. The weather seemed much warmer now, and the box lay almost empty. Her arthritic fingers hurt from the multiple sticks of a needle and the tedious sewing of each patch. But she lovingly did it. She wouldn’t trade this job for the world. At last it neared completion. She sewed on the second to last patch, and she peered into the box which had one last article inside. Poetic, she thought as she reached in to grab it. A soft light-blue onesie draped over her hand. She trembled when she realized what it was. Tears streamed down her cheeks as a well of emotion bubbled inside her. She clutched the onesie and held it to her cheek, wiping the tears and trying to remember. She needed to remember. Oh God, how she’d tried to forget sometimes, but this day, she needed to remember. For the longest time, she held that Page 35
Shadows Express onesie and mopped the rain of tears with it. “James,” she said finally, “my little angel.” The heartache returned as if it were yesterday. The doctor and nurse went about their business. The nurse prepared the wash basin while the doctor checked her progress. Eight centimeters dilated—time to push. The pain shot through her frame, but she knew what she had to do. She’d done this three times before, but this one was different. It felt different. It was different. The pain surged like a giant wave, and she knew she had to push. The nurse held her hand tight. “Push!” the doctor said in a stern professional voice. “You have to push! He’s almost out.” The doctor waited patiently as he stared at the head. The forceps were firmly in his hands. “Just a bit more.” The doctor latched onto the head and helped pull the baby out. The news was not good as James finally emerged. He was blue… very blue. “It’s a boy,” he stated clinically. “Nurse! Emergency procedures on a code blue, stat!” The nurse rushed to the doctor’s side, wrapped up the baby, and placed the limp child upon a waiting bed atop a gurney. Off they whisked him. “What’s wrong?” she asked frantically. “Where are you taking him? What’s wrong? What’s wrong!?” she screamed. “Oh, my God. Please. He’s dead, isn’t he? Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” Her hands covered her face at the mere thought. “No. He’s not dead, but he isn’t breathing. We need to take him to intensive care right away. This is very serious. The emergency physician, Dr. Nettles, will be working on your child while I wrap up here.” “What’s going to happen to him?” Her mind was swimming. “James. My little James.” “They’ll do all they can for him. Dr. Nettles is an excellent doctor. Just try to be calm as we wait for the afterbirth.” She was out of her mind as the doctor “wrapped up.” Where did they take my baby? The next 24 hours were excruciating. The doctors said James had a severe infection, and Volume4: Issue 1
James’s lungs were not very strong. He was breathing with some help. She mustered all of her strength and with her husband’s help, she walked down the hall to the nursery. There he lay. James was, at least, not all blue any more. Other than the machines hooked up to him, he looked like a normal little infant boy. Oh, how she wanted to hold him. “I want to hold him,” she told the nurse. “I’m sorry, ma’am. The next few hours are critical. We can’t have any possible infectious contacts.” Patty wept. She relived that scene over and over in her mind. In the morning, James held on, but the news turned grim. The doctors said he likely only had a few hours, and was "beyond their capabilities to save him." The infection overwhelmed his tiny system. His weakened lungs labored with each breath. Her little baby was dying. She felt so helpless. They dressed him in the onesie with Our Little Angel embroidered on the front, and she finally got to hold him. This had to be the worst and the best hour of her life as James passed away. Patty wept bitterly and sobbed. Normally people would want to finish a project like this. She was so close—her last patch. But she couldn’t push herself to do it. In the morning, she thought, I’ll cut out the last patch and finish the quilt. Then she wrapped the almost completed quilt around her and clutched the onesie to her cheek. The warmth surrounded her. For the first time in her life, she felt a completeness she had never known. And then, there in the stillness, Patty's soul rested. *** Leonard grunted as he lugged a box of stuff out of the room and into the hall. He returned to the room and grabbed an old book and a quilt and proceeded to drop them into the box. Stacy sauntered in for her ten o'clock shift. "Hey, Stacy," Leonard greeted. “Hey, Len. What's going on?” Stacy responded. “Oh, Mrs. Jenkins died late last night.” He Page 36
Shadows Express paused and glanced into the room. "Went peacefully, as I understand it." “Patty Jenkins? The rich old woman in the private room?” Stacy's voice filled with surprise. “Yeah. Found her this morning.” He turned and brought out a small box of shoes. A pair of fuzzy slippers lay on top. “Oh, that’s such a shame." Stacy shook her head in lament. "She’d been very happy recently. She was working hard on that quilt. It looked like it was coming along quite nicely. I never even knew she could quilt until recently. I remember when her niece stopped in to give her all the quilting supplies a few months ago.” “Yeah, she was wrapped up in it, but look." He nodded toward the box. "It wasn’t quite finished.” He pointed to the box with a corner of the quilt hanging over the side. Stacy walked over, pulled out the quilt, and held it up to the light streaming from the room's open window. "There is a piece missing, isn't there?" She shook her head. "Maybe I could finish it.” She examined the patches and peered into the box. “What’s this?” she asked. “Oh, she was holding that when she died. Evidently, it meant something to her.” “Looks like a onesie.” “A what?” Leonard asked, puzzled. “You know. A onesie. A newborn’s outfit.” Stacy dropped the quilt, grabbed it and held it up. “Our Little Angel,” she stated. “Oh, and what’s this?” She spied the old book. She picked it up and felt the worn leather binding. The faded letters and cracked cover dulled in the fluorescent lighting. This is old.
“It looks like a diary. Where did this box come from?” Stacy said, pushing and poking the side. “That was brought in about a year ago. It was left over from our community garage sale for the nursing center. You know. Kind of a fund raiser. People donated all kinds of stuff, and the proceeds went to the care of the residents. I guess someone just stuck the box, clothes, and that old book in her room and never went back for it." Leonard wiped the sweat from his brow onto his sleeve. Stacy tapped the cover a few times and stared at Leonard. "Yes. I remember now. Patty carried this book around with her for months on end. She constantly had it with her. As I recall, she laughed and smiled a lot, and even cried at times when I'd see her reading it. This book meant a lot to her.” She cracked open the book with reverence. “Oh, my God. It is a diary.” Stacy stiffened and read the inside flap. This diary belongs to Katherine Boggs. Dedicated to my children: Timothy, Maria, Samuel, and our little angel, James. Stacy's brow crinkled, and she looked at Leonard. “Who’s that?” Leonard wanted to know. “Don’t know,” Stacy replied. She flipped through a few pages, paused, and then looked up. “Has her next of kin been notified? You know—Patty's kids?” “Mrs. Jenkins? She didn’t have any children. She wasn’t able to have them.”
Image: dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net 1
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 37
Shadows Express
By Julie D (geminipoet@writing.com) Crowded spaces so many faces mysterious strangers meet . in far off places... .
An impromptu trip made my heart flip~ my defenses, walls go up... Get a grip! Through cloudy haze a lustful gaze passions ignite and are set ablaze... Second chance or happenstance? You sought me out, “May I have this dance?”
Tropical bliss hot, steamy kiss~ now familiar strangers Feelings we can't dismiss
On the beach we stroll~ you’ve captured my soul walking hand in hand... You make me feel whole. Much more than a fling such happiness you bring... You get down on your knee, and give me a ring. To each other we’re bound~ so thankful we found a love to cherish... So deep and profound.
Image: Piyaphon / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
This sweet, summer romance just happened by chance, and to our surprise, our souls recognized
Image: Dominic Harness / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 38
Shadows Express
By Alexandra Jones
"Be like the bird that, passing on her flight awhile on boughs too slight, feels them give way beneath her, and yet sings, knowing that she hath wings." ~Victor Hugo
She looked like the sun when she danced. Crimson curls whipped around her face like solar flares as her body twirled and undulated to the pulse of the music. Men were pulled into her gravity, orbiting around her with worshipful eyes, but they never traveled close enough to be devoured by her fire. Something about the way she danced with her eyes closed and head thrown back in blissful abandon told them they could look, but never touch. To this day, I don’t know why I was different or why she chose me when she could have had any man in that club. She saw me watching her, and her jade eyes latched onto mine like two sets of magnets. A twinge of a frown reached her lips - a look of curiosity rather than unhappiness - as if she had forgotten something vital and was struggling to recall it. Two minutes later she slipped onto the barstool next to mine and thrust her hand toward my chest. Her palm felt hot, almost feverish, as I wrapped it in my own. A sheen of sweat blanketed her forehead, leftover from her wild dancing, and a happy light played in her eyes. “You look like you want to buy me a drink.” Her words were a statement rather than a question as if she were certain I could never refuse. She was right. “What—” I tried to talk, but my throat was dry as chalk. I cleared it and tried again. “What are you having?” Volume4: Issue 1
“A bottle of water.” She clasped her hands together and ignored my confused look; every other girl in the club had a glass flute clutched in her grip, filled with some sweet, alcoholic concoction. But I wasn’t about to question her choice. The bartender handed her a bottle, and she chugged down half of the contents before coming up for air. The liquid left a silver sheen on her lips that reflected the swirling strobe lights. “I’m Andy,” she said. “Landon.” I barely managed my own name. She laughed and took my hand, pulling me onto the dance floor. She twirled and curled around me. I tried to keep up, but by the time morning came, I was engulfed in her fire. Somehow, I didn’t mind. *** Hours later, we wove our way through tangles of flowers and bursts of green leaves encrusted with jewels of ripe fruit. The sun peeked over the horizon, making her halo of hair blaze golden-red. When we’d stumbled out of the heat of the club, she’d asked me if I wanted to see her garden; I think she knew that I was dying for an excuse not to leave her presence. She plucked a cherry tomato from the vine and popped it into my mouth. I bit down, savoring the explosion of sweetness. But then she bent down to pluck a weed, and reality cut through the haze of perfection. She clutched her hands to her stomach and a ragged moan escaped her mouth. The pink left her cheeks and her breath came in hitched gasps as sweat broke out across her face. Page 39
Shadows Express
Volume4: Issue 1
her forehead as she tried to put her feelings into words. “I know in my soul that it’s going to be okay. I have faith. Maybe it’s naive, but wherever I go when it’s all over, I believe it will be wonderful.” “It’s not naive.” I could feel the truth in her words. “It’s brave.” *** I never left her side after that day. We spent six months together, six months filled with dancing, laughter, and love. And then, one day, she couldn’t get out of bed. Three weeks later she was gone. I was with her in her final moments, and I saw the peace that lit up her eyes at the end. She smiled and squeezed my hand. She told me it was beautiful; she told me she felt free.
Image: Witthaya Phonsawat / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
I reached toward her. “Andy! What’s going on?” “I’m fine! I’m fine.” She waved away my searching hands and crumpled to the ground. “It’s fine. It’ll pass.” She tugged an orange medicine bottle from her pocket, shook out two round pills, and choked them down without water. I knelt by her side and rested my hand on her knee, not knowing what else to do. Slowly, her breathing returned to normal and a tinge of color returned to her cheeks as the pain that wracked her body receded. “I guess that’s one way to ruin the mood.” She laughed, and I frowned. “That’s not funny. It looked serious.” She stared hard at the leaves of her tomato plants and sighed. “It is serious. Stage four Pancreatic Carcinoma.” “Cancer?” The words hit my mind like stones breaking the surface of still water. She nodded, strands of hair whispering around her face. Finally, she turned back to look at me. “What are we doing here, then?” I spluttered. “You should be in bed resting! Not spending all night in some smoky club dancing.” “I like to dance. I’m not going to hide away in my house because I’m sick.” Her words weren’t angry or upset; in fact, there was a sereneness in her eyes, an acceptance. “I’m going to die. There’s nothing that can stop it; it’s only a matter of time now. Do you think I should live what’s left of my life as if I’m already dead?” A moment of silence echoed between us as I gathered my panic into something containable. I was scared, terrified that I would lose her before I had really found her.I didn’t understand how she could be so calm. “Aren’t you scared?” “Sometimes… when the pain gets too bad. But mostly, no.” A crease rippled across
Page 40
Shadows Express
by: Deanna Richard
The waterfall of my dreams— a residual streaming down through my mind. Sometimes the flow is rampant, Sometimes it is slow, Nevertheless, it is falling, Falling down away from me, Down off the rocky cliff. I try to catch a dream or two, but the dreams trickle out of my hands. I can only watch the currents pass me by. If only I’d gathered my dreams in time.
I took advantage of the days and heeded not that the heat would hit. But now the ice is melted, and all my dreams run though my furrowed fingertips.
Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 41
Shadows Express
By Chase Hill A haze had settled on my soul, one that I was not sure I could escape. It was weighted and powerful, and it grew heavier with each passing day. I found myself asking the age old questions of why, though they continued to remain unanswered. All the while, angst painted a picture in my mind, one that even I had no desire to be an audience to. Sleep had long since abandoned me, and I remembered not the last time food touched my mouth or water graced my lips. That moment so long ago left the world empty. I was lost in a fog. One evening, I went for a walk to gather my thoughts. It was as an evening should be, cool and quiet. Yet, despite these comforts, my nerves stood on edge. I find it hard to explain, though I suppose it felt as if something was out of place, like the very fabric of the universe had somehow changed, and I was the one left without knowing. I looked back. Lights from the town were barely visible in the dusk and fog. The village was small and my cottage was removed from it, nestled in the hills, hugged by the woods. It was home, and it was all that I knew. I made my way into the forest, to the stone—our stone. I moved carefully. The underbrush pulled at my feet and legs. My breath caught in my throat as I stepped close enough to see all that was left of her. No matter where I had intended on walking, I always ended up at the same place. I knelt down slowly and kissed my fingertips, pressing them against the cool stone. “Do not forget me, my love, for I will be with you soon,” I said as I pushed back the tears. I know not how long I sat there, for time seemed to slip past me when I was with her. Sometimes, an entire day would pass with only Volume4: Issue 1
the chill of night to brush me away. This evening, however, was different, for the wind carried with it a hum of deception. To say that I was completely unprepared for what stepped out of the brush would have been an understatement. I stood slowly as I watched her move into the small opening that surrounded the stone. I was dumbstruck, for the figure was no more than a girl, small and fragile, young and pure; yet she had an aura of wisdom revealed in each movement, confirmed with each step. She moved gingerly through the underbrush, her bare feet picking their next placement with careful consideration. I could have been mistaken, but it seemed as though she had yet to notice me. My eyes followed her lithe body as she continued her silent dance. Sheaths of waning light glinted off of her porcelain skin and shimmered through her golden white hair as the sun dropped beneath the horizon. My heart skipped a beat when she passed by me. She smelled of flowers. She smelled of spring. She reminded me of the moon. She knelt down in front of our stone and spoke, but her voice was soft, and I was unable to make out any words. After a moment, she turned her head and faced me, her hand still touching our stone. “Could you tell me about her?” Her voice caressed my ears and eased my soul, as if she were a messenger from God Himself. Words escaped me. It is quite hard to explain, for, as long as I could remember, she was all I could think about. It was as if every thought were intertwined with her whisper. Yet then, in the face of that which I could not explain, I was breathless. I was mute. I searched for the words to explain my love, my pain, but the thought Page 42
Shadows Express occurred to me that perhaps explaining love, really explaining it, was impossible—like trying to decipher a beating heart or solving the mystery of a prayer. She cocked her head to the side with a curious smile as I stumbled through my thoughts. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but you had words with her?” I regretted the question as soon as I asked it. Her face tilted up, and she gazed upon me with lenient eyes: eyes that undressed my every thought, eyes that whispered deep into my soul. There was not a trace of evil in them, and my spirit danced as a smile softened her face. “My name is Cassidy, and I would love to hear your story.” The words flowed from her mouth as the morning light spills over the countryside. I found it impossible to deny her further. “Her name was Emily, and she was my beloved.” I took a breath in search of the words to speak my heart—words that I was sure could not tell the tale the way intended. And so I told her, “I met her once, years ago, and knew instantly that she was capable of changing the world—perhaps not the entire world, but at least that of my own. I remember the way she looked at me the first time we spoke, as if I were the only person in the world worth talking to. “I was new, you see, and had spent months wandering about the town, all the while hoping that the curious stares and unwelcome frowns would end. I suppose they never really did, though after I met her, I no longer noticed. When she looked at me, nothing else mattered. “To say I courted her would be a lie.” I caught myself smiling at the memory. “I was but a breath in the wake of a monsoon, and she could have commanded the wind had she desired to.
Volume4: Issue 1
“We came here often, passing the days in each other’s arms.” I paused for a moment as I struggled with the memory of her. “And then, as if I had been violently woken from a dream, she was gone.” I focused my gaze onto the stone, our stone, and fought back the tears. “It pains me to say that I have long since forgotten her face. “Sometimes, I wonder if the picture I have of her is the truth. Have I morphed her into an image of what she means to me? The way people imagine angels? The way people imagine God?” The young girl gazed at me, her face covered with compassion. “It is not easy losing those that we love.” She stood and moved away from our stone. “Will you walk with me?” I looked back at our stone for a long moment, trying to decide if I had the strength to leave—as I did every time I departed—and then I nodded to the young girl. I followed her as she weaved through the forest in silence. I was about to ask her where we were going when we arrived at my small cabin. She stopped in front of it, looking it over for a long moment before she turned to me. “I lived here once.” She turned back to the house. “A very long time ago.” I knew not how to respond. “My father built it. He was a great man, a gentle man.” She was smiling at the memory of him. “He worked so hard. I remember him leaving for work every morning. I used to watch him go, hoping that he would make it back for dinner, knowing that he would barely miss it. “It broke his heart, not being able to spend time with us. At first I was angry with him. I could not understand why he had to be away or why he chose to work as much as he did. But one night while I was walking, I heard raised voices. I recognized my father’s, though the other was unfamiliar.
Page 43
Shadows Express
Images: Image: Boaz Yiftach / FreeDigitalPhotos.net and Image: Rosen Georgiev / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
“I followed the sounds and saw my father standing on the edge of the footpath that led from the road to our small cottage. There were two men behind him and another standing in front of him. Father was arguing with him. I moved closer, struggling to make out what was being said. “I heard a yell, and then the man in front of my father hit him, knocking him to the ground. The two men behind him grabbed him under the arms and lifted him up. The man hit Volume4: Issue 1
him again and again. I wanted so badly to cry out, to help him somehow, but I knew that it was hopeless. “I watched as they beat him over and over. Tears streamed down my face. Finally, when I could bear the pain no longer, I ran to him. I screamed for them to stop. The man in charge turned and looked at me. I remember an evil smile snaking across his face.” The girl stopped and looked at me, tears filling her eyes, and she gently grasped my Page 44
Shadows Express
hand. I followed her as she moved into the house, into my house. “The next morning, I woke to the sound of my mother sobbing. She sat at the foot of my bed, her face buried in her hands, tears dotting the wooden floor at her feet. I moved towards her and asked her what was wrong. She looked at me, or through me, but did not answer. She only wiped her face with her sleeve and moved out of my room, leaving me alone. “I followed her. Our small sitting room was filled with people, mostly friends and family, but some of them were town folk I had only seen in passing. As I moved through our quaint house no one seemed to notice me. The entire room was somber, as if something very major had taken place. I tried to speak with a few of them but was met only with blank stares and silent sobs. “Tears had long since filled my eyes when I moved to the front of the house. There were flowers everywhere, and people came and went. It had dawned on me that something was not right, though my mind could not comprehend what it was. “It was then that I saw him, my father. He looked into my eyes, and I nearly fell. He smiled at me; it was the most tender smile I had ever seen. I went to his outstretched hand, and he spoke to me, his voice as soft as a whisper, as gentle as a kiss. ‘Come, my dear, we can stay here no longer.’ “I looked into his eyes and said, ‘But Papa, what about Mother?’ He smiled a sad smile and replied, ‘She will be with us soon, that I promise.’ Then, hand in hand, I walked with him. We moved behind our house, and I saw the two boxes perched on stands, surrounded by flowers and chairs. “He looked at them and whispered, ‘I am sorry, my darling. I am sorry I could not save you.’ And that was all he said before he disappeared.”
Volume4: Issue 1
She looked at me again with soft eyes; her face seemed to light the world around me. She took my hand and led me back to the clearing with the stone. “He loved me more than his own life, just as you did her. It is why you saved her. It is why you are now here.” I felt the weight being lifted, and I looked into the fog. I tried to remember the last time I had spoken with someone or even the last time I had eaten, but all I could remember was her. I stood and moved around the clearing to our stone. “We have been waiting so long for you to come home,” she said as I tried to make sense of it all. I thought back, trying to remember the last time I had seen my Emily. We were walking home from a party, her arm in mine, my gaze unable, unwilling, to leave her face. I noticed the three men walking towards us on the dark road before she did, but I thought nothing of them. They stopped in front of us, eventually surrounding us, and I remembered telling her to run. I felt pain as I fought them off, but it did not matter, for all I could think of was my Emily. The world went black as I saw her running away, and when I woke, she was gone, and I was alone. I looked to the young girl in front of me, and she nodded with an outstretched hand. I took it, and the world crumbled away, showing me a different world, a brighter world. I saw my Emily. I saw my love. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and my heart dropped as I watched her. She was sitting near the stone, our stone. She kissed her fingertips and placed them softly on its cool surface as the softest whisper escaped her mouth. “Do not forget me, my love, for I will be with you soon.” And a tear rolled down her cheek.
Page 45
Shadows Express
By S. Randez
A tiny, brown speckled bird hopped across the dusty, leaf-strewn gravel. It pecked between the stones, finding bits of weed seeds that had most-likely blown in from the overgrown ditch just beyond the chain-link fence. An old man watched it from inside a nearby building. The minuscule, round window he gazed out of was stationary. He couldn't feel the wind blowing, but he knew it was because, every now and then, it ruffled the sparrow's feathers. He wished he could fling open the petite portal and let the sun bake upon his face, let the breeze blow through his thinning gray hair. Maybe it would clear the sour sweat-filled air permeating his cramped room. He looked up from the teeny creature's ceaseless foraging, noting how the sky was as blue as a particular mountain lake he'd visited as a youth. Fast-moving clouds sped by like dainty doilies on a hurried journey. The tapping of hard-heeled shoes on concrete caused him to turn, but the approaching man passed by his room, and so, he resumed his watching. His wee friend had vanished though, flown away to visit its nest or to enjoy the coolness of the autumn day beneath its wings. The man released a lengthy sigh, wishing he could fly away too. The click-clack of someone else approaching turned him, yet again, diverting his mind's meanderings. "Got your fried chicken, Sam," a middleaged black man said. His deep bass tone resonated in the sparsely-furnished cubicle, soft and sweet, like a melodious tune. Herbs and spices wafted in, dispelling the staleness of his meager surroundings. The man smiled, his Volume4: Issue 1
deep-creased eyelids drooping for a moment. He sat inhaling a few deep breaths. "Thank you, John," he said as he took the proffered plate of steaming food. A whistle blew, a sustained and shrill blast from somewhere far off. Both men stared wordlessly at each other in the dim yellow light provided by the single overhanging fixture. "Not so long now, huh, Sam?" "No, not so long," he replied. His throat felt dry, and his voice was raspy as if he'd overused it. "Well, good-bye, Sam. Enjoy your meal.� The younger man ambled out, looking back once, then quickening his steps as he went. The chicken was as succulent as if his own mother had fried it up herself. He licked the grease from his crooked fingers and then took a deep drought from a tall aluminum tumbler. Ice-cold lemonade. How many years had it been since he'd had his favorite drink? Once he'd finished, he set aside the tin plate and rose from his old wooden chair, returning to his limited view of the world. The once blue sky had clouded over, and even now, diminutive drops of rain danced on the window ledge, darkening the gravel. His companion returned, flapping its wings and shaking its feathers. The bird peered up at the gazing man, and their eyes locked. It cocked its head to the side as if it were questioning the old man. He tapped his yellowed nail against the window pane. The bird stepped forward a few paces, its tiny, intense black eyes held his in a trance-like stare before it finally turned and resumed its exploring.
Page 46
Shadows Express A few moments later, he saw it make a chirping motion and take flight. He stared after it until it was out of view. "Time to go, Sam," a young Asian woman said, startling Sam so that he bit down on his lip. A single coppery drop of blood slid in between his parched lips. She was wearing perfume, not unlike his wife used to wear. Gardenias. He turned back, once more, and ran his gnarly fingers over the smooth glass. It was cool, and he imagined the crispness of the air outside. A single tear rolled down his
weathered face. The salty drop slid into his partially-opened mouth as he rose and nodded at the young guard. He saw the youthful priest he'd spoken with earlier, waiting just beyond his cell, and his promising words came echoing back. “You are forgiven, my son. Go in peace.� He shuffled forward, his light grey slippers mere whispers across the well-worn stone floor. "Time to fly," he said.
Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 47
Shadows Express
By Winnie Kay Davis I took my stance like a pro. While most fifteen-year-old girls were spending their summer reading movie magazines and hanging out at Ralston’s Drug Store, I was content to swing a bat and compete with my brothers. Danny was pitching, and I was going to knock the ball clear across Denver Harbor Park. He drew up his left knee, going into his fast-ball routine. I pushed my pig-tails back over my shoulders and gripped the bat with both hands like Daddy had shown me. We had positioned the twins in the outfield. Little Jack was in left field, and Jerry was to the right. At seven, they did little more than stand in the hot sun and pull at their Houston Colt .45s baseball caps. Tody was our four-year-old catcher who sat way back behind me in the grass. He was afraid of the bat. Just then, a familiar voice rang through the park. “Ya’ll come on in, now. Supper’s almost ready.” We raced across the street and through our manicured yard. Daddy kept a razor sharp edge on the lawn’s boundaries, and every blade of grass had to be cut at just the right height. He had been watching us from his chair on the porch, a cold Jax beer in his hand. “What a motley crew.” He laughed as we climbed the steps. He was always saying stuff like that. I never knew what most of it meant, but we laughed with him anyway. I pushed my older brother aside, determined to beat him through the screened door of the little wood framed house. “Don’t slam that door,” I heard from the kitchen. The door slammed, and we all stopped in the living room to see if Mama noticed. She came out of the kitchen with a dish towel draped over her shoulder and her hands on her hips. The smell of meat loaf and gravy filled the Volume4: Issue 1
house. The hum of the attic fan competed with the local news on the TV. “What did I just say?” “Danny did it,” I said, pointing to my brother, eighteen months my senior. “I did not!” “Did too!” “Did not!” The twins and Tody watched in silence, focusing back and forth between Danny and me, as if they were watching a tennis match. “Never mind.” Mama feigned a frown and raised one eyebrow. I always wondered how she could do that. “Winnie, would you change the baby and put her in the highchair for me?” “Sure, Mama.” I picked Kathy up off the floor and held her and her wet diaper away from me like a sack of rotten apples as I headed to the tiny bedroom we shared as sisters. Mama shuffled the last of the dishes of mashed potatoes and corn and biscuits from the kitchen to the dining room and announced it was time to eat. Daddy came in and turned off the TV before taking his seat at the head of the table. An important member of the family was stretched out under the table, wagging his poodle tail as he guarded the worn wooden floor, always on the lookout for any morsels which might fall his way. Click didn’t know he was a dog, and we let him hold onto his illusions of humanness. Mama finally took her seat next to her baby daughter’s high-chair. She looked tired and hot from her kitchen duties, but seemed proud of the feast she had placed before us. Daddy reverently recited the blessing for the family’s bounty. Forks were lifted, bread was passed, and the conversation was light and fun. Everyone was excited about the upcoming Page 48
Shadows Express weekly visit to Grandma’s house on Saturday. We all started talking at once about our day, our dreams, our expectations. The fur-ball under the table began to bark. I could tell Mama was trying to say something over the noise, but I couldn’t hear her. All of a sudden, she stood and stepped up onto her chair. Daddy started to laugh, “Rita Joyce, what the hell are you doing?” “Trying to get a word in edgeways,” she said as she looked around the table. Her pretty green eyes sparkled with mischief and delight. We all waited, between giggles, for her to speak. Even Click peeked out at her from under the table. “I got a job,” Mama proudly announced. Everyone gaped at her, forks poised in mid-air. It was the summer of 1963 and life was good. ***
Then, as if the passing years were no more than a few blinks of an old cat’s eye, it was the winter of 2005. The vivid colors depicted on a beautiful tapestry of a family’s life together had begun to fade. Daddy was long gone, and I missed his funny sayings and his laughter. Cancer and old-age, accelerated by hard work and sacrifice to provide for his family, had taken him away. The twins and my baby brother and sister had families of their own, and my big brother had moved across town, busy with his teaching career. And Mama? Well, Mama was beginning to get a bit strange. She had retired from her career as a church secretary and had given up driving in the early ‘90s. We never did find out why she hung up her car keys, but something must have happened out on the road. Mama wasn’t talking. Since I lived nearby and didn’t have a family of my own, it was my job to take her shopping, to church, to family get-togethers, or Image: photostock / FreeDigitalPhotos.net/ Image: David Castillo Dominici / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 49
Shadows Express wherever she wanted to go. I didn’t mind being her chauffeur. Many times, after our errands, we'd stop at Steak n' Ale or Bennigans for a Happy-Hour drink. Mama would talk about how she and Daddy had met after the war, and I'd laugh at her stories of what it was like growing up in the ‘20s and ‘30s. But taking her to the grocery store was getting to be a real pain. Once a week, Mama wanted to go to Kroger’s. She would spend a whole hour in the meat department just looking at chickens. She had to look at every chicken in the poultry bin. By the time she moved on to the produce aisle, I was ready to scream. Back when we were growing up, Mama could run through Russo’s corner food store in fifteen minutes and come home with a week’s worth of groceries. Not anymore. After three hours, I’d bring Mama home, unpack the car load of groceries, and help her put up the stuff while she rested in the den and smoked her cigarette. “Ma, why did you buy this jar of mayonnaise? There are three jars just like it in the fridge,” I yelled from the kitchen. “And you now have five pounds of Velveeta Cheese.” I rummaged around in the pantry making room for the five boxes of Betty Crocker cake mix she’d bought and found ten more already on the shelf. Mama hadn’t baked anything since last Thanksgiving. “You planning on bringing in the homeless?” I went into the den with boxes of macaroni and cheese piled in my arms. She raised that one eyebrow, and I knew I was in trouble. But I noticed something else on her face besides motherly indignation. I saw fear and confusion. “I know it seems like a lot, Winnie, but I don’t know when I’ll get out to the store again, and I don’t want to keep bothering you. Besides, they were having a buy-one-get-onefree sale.” She smiled at me and held her head high as if to let me know she was in control. I let it go. The following week, she bought more cake mix and cheese and mayonnaise. Mama loved to read, and she belonged to several book clubs. She loaned me books, and we talked often about the characters and the plots. One day, I noticed she had three Volume4: Issue 1
copies of the same book, and I asked her about it. She became defensive. “I know what I’m doing. I purposely bought three copies of Stephen King’s IT because they are going to be worth a lot of money someday.” I didn’t object to her reasoning; after all, she was... well... Mama. I visited her after I got off work several times a week. I noticed the little table she sat at—lived at—in front of the blaring TV was piling up with mail. With each visit, the piles seemed taller. One day, when she got up to go into the back of her house, I sneaked a peek at the mounds of envelopes. My heart was pounding for fear that she would come back and discover me snooping into her business. At fifty-eight years old, I still respected Mama’s authority and independence. What I discovered was more frightening than the imminent confrontation. I approached the subject delicately. “Ma, I've got some time on my hands. You want me to help you sort through these unpaid bills?” Uh oh. I saw the fire in her eyes. “I was a church secretary and bookkeeper for thirty-five years, and I sure don’t need help paying my bills, young lady.” Ok, I thought. Point well taken. I backed off and returned to my own house just down the street. But the possibility that something wasn’t quite right with Mama kept gnawing at me. Weeks went by and the unnecessary groceries, the piles of unpaid bills, and the overflowing shelves of purchased books were stacking up. I began to notice the untidy house, and she obviously wasn’t taking regular showers. I knew it was time to act. Doctor visits revealed Mama had mild vascular dementia. Well, there it was. The diagnosis was heartbreaking to me and my siblings. There was no cure, and it would get progressively worse. The center of our family, our educator, advisor, companion, nurse, comedian, and friend—my mama—was losing her mind, the essence of her being. In the summer of 2006, my older brother and I sold our houses and helped Mama sell hers. We all moved into a big, two-story, Page 50
Shadows Express brick house in a northern suburb of the city. Mama was reluctant to move and refused to pack one single dish, but eventually she resigned to our badgering. *** During the next two years, things got worse. Nevertheless, my brother and I were determined to take care of Mama at home. She denied anything was wrong with her, but I could see the fear in her eyes. She blamed ‘mishaps’ on others. “I put my jewelry in that trash bag for safe keeping. You’re the one who threw it away!”—or, “I didn’t leave the water running in the sink. The man who lives in the basement did it.” Reminding her that we didn’t have a basement was irrelevant. When I took her check book away from her to straighten out the mess which had developed, she cried and said I was stealing her money. That’s when my heart broke. I had made Mama cry. Once, Mama awoke in the middle of the night and placed a frozen pot roast on the stove and turned on the burners, so I had to take the knobs off the stove. The locks to the exterior doors had to be changed to dead-bolts, and we hid the keys so she couldn’t wander outside while we were sleeping. Eventually, my brother and I took turns sleeping on a cot located directly in front of her bedroom door. There were too many ways she could hurt herself roaming around the house. She had to be watched twenty-four hours a day. She began to see things and people that weren’t there. She heard singing and became angry when I didn’t hear it too. She became combative, abusive, rude, and uncooperative— all traits uncharacteristic of the mama I knew and loved. We tried home-nurse care but Mama called the care-givers witches and told them to get out of her house. After meeting with doctors and counselors, we knew it was time to let her go where she could be properly and professionally cared for. The six of us children were able to place her in a warm and caring nursing facility close to home. Volume4: Issue 1
*** She fought the move at first. She was angry at us, at me. “Why can’t I go home, Winnie? Have I done something wrong?” “No, Mama, you haven’t done a thing wrong.” I hid my tears and explained that she was in a hospital for a while. “Just until you get better, Mama. You’ve been a little confused.” Then I’d unpack her things and put them away, again. Mama packed up her clothes every day. She had them waiting at the door of her room as she expected me to take her home. Eventually, she settled into her new environment and even made some friends in her wing of the facility. Newcomers would come in crying, and Mama would go up to them and comfort them. “It’ll be alright, honey,” she whispered to them as she stroked their head and showed them around. Everyone came to love and admire Ms. Rita’s funny, helpful attitude. On days when Mama was agitated, the staff would let her sit at a desk in the nurses’ station and “handle the books.” They would give her paper and pen, and Mama would write columns of numbers and words which meant nothing to anyone but Mama. Many days I’d find her there at “her desk,” and she’d shoo me away. “I can’t take a break right now, Winnie. I’m busy.” “Okay, Mama. I’ll be back later.” The nurses would wink at me, and I’d stand there and watch her struggle over her “work.” We visited her often over the next two years and watched, helplessly, as the disease took more and more of her away from us. Then, when Mama fell and broke her hip in January of 2010, the mental and physical deterioration accelerated. I tried to get inside her head—to see what it was like to be Mama. She didn’t seem to be afraid, but rather resigned to the world she now inhabited in the tangles of her mind. When she spoke at all, she spoke of a time and place far away from the present world around her. She didn’t shuffle down the halls with her walker anymore. Physical rehab was unsuccessful, and she was confined to a wheelchair. Page 51
Shadows Express Her once stunning, emerald-green eyes were now a milky shade of gray, her skin pale and thin. In another life, Mama was a beauty, once pictured in magazines of the 1940s. Now, dressed in a drool-stained sweater and faded jeans, cameras seldom snapped a demanding pose. “Jack, take the biscuits out of the oven before they burn. I’ve got my hands full here with these kids,” she said to the empty room as some vision of long ago seemed to parade through the dusty corridors of her memory. “Hi, Mama. Who are you talking to?” I cheerfully shouted as I entered the room. The smell of urine and disinfectant burned my nose. “How are you today? I brought you some roses, yellow roses, your favorite.” I set the vase down on the shabby dresser and forced a smile. She looked at me through the thin, gray strands falling over her face. “Hey, Lady,” she said to me. I hated it when she called me “Lady.” I hated the disease. I hated this room,
and I missed my mama. Three months later, her lungs and heart were failing, and her other organs were shutting down. The nursing home had brought in Hospice personnel, and my brothers and sister were in and out of the tiny room as we waited for the inevitable. Suddenly, for a brief moment, Mama came out of her dark world and looked straight at me. Her eyes were clear and focused. Her voice was strong and free of confusion. I was startled to see the recognition in her eyes. “Winnie, I have to go away, now.” “I know, Mama,” I said through uncontrollable tears. “I know. It’s okay, Mama. You go ahead.” Mama died a few hours later. As I sat holding her hand, I thought about that day, a long time ago when this strong, Irish, mother of six stood on a dining room chair and made us all laugh.
Author with her family, circa 1963.
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 52
Shadows Express
By: Christine Nichols
It ricochets off the walls, a push here, a pull there, on the hunt for a weakened seam. I know if it finds one it will unfurl and fill all the space like an automatic lifeboat expanding, sucking in all the oxygen, a balloon of unwanted air. Until fully bloated it displaces everything and crushes it beneath. So I clutch my fingers over my belly, and will it to stay inside.
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 53
Shadows Express
Tributes to Lyle Amlin
These excerpts come from a tribute page at writing.com (WDC). These are from the people who knew the man behind the dream. We will honor him with each issue of Shadows Express.
He was strong, capable,kind and compassionate. You can see that in his eyes. He was an impressive friend and a very fine man. How fortunate we were to have him here with us. I smile, thinking of Lyle standing at Heaven's pearly gates, welcoming the newbies one by one ! Gabriella
Volume4: Issue 1
We hope these words will inspire as you seek to fulfill your dreams. You can read more at http://www.writing.com/main/forums/item_id/1836734In-Fond-Remembrance-of-Our-Friend-Lyle
You kept me going many days when I thought I had had enough. In your friendly and stubborn way... you would tell me that I still had writing left to do! DO NOT GIVE UP ! Cissy
Page 54
Shadows Express
My abiding memory will be of his last visit to chat. He met Silonch and signed her up for the PDG. A true doll to the end. Lyle, my bud, I will miss you, but know your vision and memory shall last on WDC. You taught me so much. Bonnie
Image: yellowjacket
A Call to Action We spend so much time with people on WDC learning what we can about them. Oftentimes, we hold them in higher regard than their real-life persona would had we known them in that way. Sticktalker is not one of these people. 'Sticky' was a giving person who was always willing to drop his own projects to help others. We debated many times in the chatroom and I consider myself lucky to have had his unique insights on writing--and life--during these times. In real life, he was the same man and more. WDC has a vacant spot in it that, like a black hole,can never be filled. The world lost one of the good guys on 12/30/2011. Knowing Sticky, the best thing any of us can do to honor his memory is be like him if only for one day. Reach out and help someone, not because you must, but because you can. Whether it be helping your neighbor with their yard work, holding a door for an elderly person, or just giving an honest, helpful, and integrity-driven review, do something to let Sticky know we remember him. He will smile on you from whatever afterlife he now lives in. We will never forget you Sticky. We miss you like you've been gone a million years and will always love the person you were. Gary
Volume4: Issue 1
Page 55
Shadows Express
The Hourglass—Hunter’s Moon
West World Rising—Lyle Amlin
A Wise Father—Tina Weaver
Lyle R. Amlin loved writing, coffee, and conversing with just about anyone, hence his Sticktalker handle. Lyle obtained his dream of publishing a small, weekly newspaper, in 1979 which he subsequently sold to his son in 2007. After publishing, he and his wife of 48 years starting printing other newspapers in Northern California. Lyle’s passion was helping others in just about any endeavor he undertook. He volunteered many hours at his local food bank and started a local community garden. He was always willing to lend a hand, or pair of shoes, to anyone less fortunate than himself. In whatever Lyle pursued, he gave 100% of himself and any resource he deemed necessary. One of his last desires was to publish his West World Rising novels that he had been writing for quite some time. His family and friends are determined the novels will be published at some point in time.
Tina Weaver shares her home with her husband of 39 years, an adult son and a rescued dog. She loves her church, writing and reading. Things that inspire her writing are prompts she finds on Writing.com, conversations or personal stories others share. Having her stories published is an honor and privilege. She hopes to better her craft and finish revising her novel. Winter Solstice—Angelo Dalpiaz Angelo Dalpiaz is a retired police detective. After 25 years in law enforcement he now lives in central Florida with his high school sweetheart and wife of 43 years. Angelo has had two short stories published in an anthology released in August 2011 for the commemoration of the 10th anniversary of September 11th. He writes fiction, non-fiction, romance, and historical fiction short stories. He is working on a novel about the interesting last years of his grandmother's life in Italy before and after World War II, a story of poverty, improper incarceration, and unrequited love. Breaks and On Love — Alice (Kat) Shevitz Alice Shevitz is the author of several poems and short stories published by Long Story Short. She has also written humor, published by The Saturday Evening Post and is a Preferred Author and Rising Star Sponsor at Writing.com, a website dedicated to and supported by authors worldwide. Learn more about Alice Shevitz at "Kat's Kountry". Green Eyes—Andrew Kerbs The Bottle—Kimberly Barrick As a mother of three, freelance bookkeeper, business consultant and student, Kimberly Barrick has little time to carve out her dream of writing. Determination powers her though, and she is constantly striving to improve her craft.
Volume4: Issue 1
An Eventful Birthday—Kayna-Amy Iveson Kayna-Amy Ivenson is a South-African, mother of two and writes as a hobby. She loves anything supernatural, Science-Fiction, fantasy, or paranormal. She wants to become a better writer and would love to one day write a full novel. An Eventful Birthday was written for a competition based on J.K Rowling's writing. The Fiddler on the Green—Jonas David Jonas David is a science fiction writer born, raised and living in the Seattle area. His short stories have appeared in 365 Tomorrows, Comets & Criminals, and are forthcoming in Daily Science Fiction, and Ray Gun Revival. He listens to power metal for writing inspiration and dreams to one day own a cat. He invites you to visit his blog. Unknown Journeys – C.K. Ledford C.K. Ledford lives in Ohio with her husband, three children, five cats and a dog. She is the author of Tears in Bloom, a collection of emotional poetry, and is currently writing her first novel.
Page 56
Shadows Express Sweet Bittersweet—Lanica Klein
Faith—Alexandra Jones
Lanica Klein is a librarian from Minnesota who raises twin sons, teaches middle school and earns a little extra income from her photography. She enjoys reading and writing young adult, adventure, fantasy and historical fiction, and every once in a while a poem slips out. She has yet to complete a novel, although she is working on about a dozen of them...oops, she just thought up another one...excuse me...
The Fog— Chase Hill
The Box in the Corner—Bryan Scholl
The Window—S. Randez
Residing in Southwest Ohio, Bryan Scholl enjoys writing short stories which incorporate plot twists. He finds life full of pain, laughter and many other emotions, and he strives to portray these through his writings. Besides relishing in his job as a tax and financial adviser, he also loves spending time with his wife and two children along with his faithful canine companion, Shade.
S. Randez enjoys taking new writers under her wing, encouraging them to work hard toward achieving their writing aspirations. She is an avid novice poetess and also enjoys writing flash-fiction and short stories in many genres.
Passion Ignited—Julie D Julie is a hopeless romantic that has been writing poetry most of her life. She has had several pieces published in anthologies and newsletters. Julie likes to see the beauty in everyday life, and enjoys writing about anything and everything. She is a married 30something, and resides in New Jersey with her husband. Waterfall of Dreams— Deanna Richard Deanna Richard AKA Itchy Water lives in Houston, Texas where she was born and raised. She graduated from the University of Houston with Magna Cum Laude Honors in Psychology and Interpersonal Communications. She has also studied International Business. She is a devout poet, writing both poetry in form and free verse. Her poems range from lighthearted to dark and are always thought provoking.
Volume4: Issue 1
Chase Hill has been writing off and on for a little over five years. He enjoys exploring and experimenting with a wide range of genres. He currently lives in North Carolina with his wife and six-year-old daughter, Chase serves in the U.S. Army, and enjoys remaining active. Whether working, reading, writing, hiking, or playing sports, he is always on the quest for that next (great) idea.
Unraveled Tapestry—Winnie Kay Davis Winnie has been on the Staff of Shadows Express for a little over a year. She is an instructor for New Horizons Academy, an on-line writing school associated with the global writing community Writing.Com and has taught the fundamentals of proper comma placement and sentence structure for over two years. Winnie enjoys writing traditional poetry and short-stories designed to stir the emotions of her readers. But her greatest delight is polishing and editing promising works for new writers in preparation for possible publication. She established Walrus Editing and Proofreading in 2010. Grief—Christine Nichols Christine Nichols is from Oklahoma, USA.
Page 57
Shadows Express
Publisher S. Randez enjoys taking new writers under her wing, encouraging them to work hard toward achieving their writing aspirations. She is an avid novice poetess and also enjoys writing flash-fiction and short stories in many genres. Non-fiction Editor Winnie has been on the Staff of Shadows Express for a little over a year. She is an instructor for New Horizons Academy, an on-line writing school associated with the global writing community Writing.Com and has taught the fundamentals of proper comma placement and sentence structure for over two years. Winnie enjoys writing traditional poetry and short-stories designed to stir the emotions of her readers. But her greatest delight is polishing and editing promising works for new writers in preparation for possible publication. She established Walrus Editing and Proofreading in 2010. Poetry Editor In his youth, Liam O'Haver was taught that with diligence you could reach any dream. This has generally proven true. In his life, he has been a student, paperboy, soldier, private detective, printer, technical consultant, and teacher. As a husband and father, along with his wife, he has raised four children, enjoyed seven grandchildren so far, and has looked into the eyes of one greatgranddaughter. Despite being an accomplished poet, even in his wildest dreams, he never anticipated being a poetry editor. Administration Manager Lisa is the backbone of our structure. Although creative in her own right, she keeps us grounded and on task. Working quietly behind the scenes, she aids in every aspect of production, keeps the virtual coffee warm, and is so efficient we barely know she is there — except for the fact that the work gets done.
Volume4: Issue 1
Managing Editor K. Wall returns to editing and mentoring after a tenyear hiatus. She is excited to lead an incredible team of professionals assisting new writers as they grow, soar to new heights, and achieve their dreams. In her spare time, she writes fiction delving into relationship dynamics and the human condition. Fiction Editor PL Scholl is a professional writer and educator. A member of WDC since 2009, she has won numerous awards for both her writing and her reviews. She holds a BA in English, a BS in Education, and a MS in Literacy. Currently, she is an adjunct professor for Sinclair Community College. When not writing or teaching, she enjoys spending time with her two children and husband of 22 years.
Distribution Manager Preethi Saravanakumar is from India. She has done her BCA from Bharatiyaar University. Writing poetry remains her major passion while she reads books and writes Children's stories/ poems. Her first poetry book, Words From Heart, was published in 2011 by Cyberwit.net. She is a preferred author at writing.com. Community Manager, Lanica Klein is a librarian from Minnesota who raises twin sons, teaches middle school and earns a little extra income from her photography. She enjoys reading and writing young adult, adventure, fantasy and historical fiction, and every once in a while a poem slips out. She has yet to complete a novel, although she is working on about a dozen of them...oops, she just thought up another one...excuse her... Despite her active, busy life, she is the magician that allows Shadows Express to exist and grow. Due to her fundraising, we are able to bring you quality literature without charging a subscription fee, and keep the website free of advertisements.
Page 58