Issue 15 Ink of Yesterday 2024

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Honey Tree

A short story about finding a place of healing and safety from life’s traumas.

Solar Eclipse Photography

Wiserack of a Lifetime

Sometimes a silly wisecrack said without a second thought can lead to so much more.

Eclipse Photography Continued

A Man of Few Words

Madeline shares her experience taking care of her grandfather with Alzheimer’s disease.

35 37 Submissions

Beyond the Magazine

Learn more about the people highlighted in this issue and see where you can view more of their work.

www.ethnospheremagazine.com

Editor

Madeline C. Lanshe editor@ethnospheremagazine.com

Editorial Staff

Mitchell Dunbar, Maureen Gregory, Madeline C. Lanshe, Marcia Neundorfer, Mike Neundorfer

Designer

Madeline C. Lanshe

Photographers

Madeline C. Lanshe, Hai Nguyen, Thomas Ostroski, Gustavo Ramirez, Steven Toth

Writers

Madeline C. Lanshe, Mary Leoson, Harry Lorton

Other Contributors

Hannah Fortune

We created Ethnosphere as a place to connect people who are alike and unalike, express pieces of the human experience, and inspire others, and ourselves, through stories and art.

Madeline C. Lanshe

Honey Tree

a short story by Mary Leoson

Tennessee, spring of 1984

Liadan followed the forest trail before dawn, the last bits of night tickling her arms, pulling the spring chill around her. Breath rose from her lined mouth in a whisper, echoing the shudders from the evening’s tears. Her eyes were swollen, vision blurry from sadness and too much wine. The taste was still fresh upon her stained lips.

She stumbled on aging limbs, feet searching for moss and grass but finding gnarled roots and pine needles. It had been foolish to leave the cabin without shoes. But each stone obstacle was a reminder of that last argument—the one that broke her open.

He was gone, now but a recollection, like the smell of rain-soaked earth after a storm. Who was she without him? She sifted through a long memory, a twisted thicket of knotted hopes and stifled anger, a forest of discarded dreams. She lingered on the children, colorful butterflies stretching their wings in her mind. A smile tickled the edges of her mouth, then turned down in grief as she recalled their empty beds and trinkets of childhood that remained behind. They were now mere shadows of the past. And she was haunted.

Liadan swallowed her grief, choking on it. Her chest ached. She was a broken heart, a stumbling tear searching for sunshine in the dark. But all that showed its face was the moon, its rays filtered through whispering leaf buds.

The ground became softer as she neared the spot, the one from the wise woman’s stories in Gatlinburg. A honey tree, she’d called it – a sacred place where bees went to commune and spin women’s secrets into nectar.

Tell the bees your woes. But take care, she’d warned. If the queen deems you unworthy, you will feel her wrath—a thousand stings.

Liadan cared not, for she had nothing more to lose. Dare she think it? Death by nature was seductive to a wailing banshee.

When she came upon the tree, a hush fell around her. The wind, which had spoken the whole journey, was silenced. Blossoms brushed the tips of the crabapple’s limbs, her canopy a perfumed

umbrella. It was magic in the moonlight, shifting from silver to pink as clouds moved across the sky. Mushrooms graced the space below it, a circular veil luring her forth.

And so, she stepped into the fairy ring, seeking the space between the worlds. And she remembered. She told the bees, beyond sight but lingering somewhere. *

Images of childhood swam toward her, prickly and dark, swirling with laughter and joy. There was tenderness and beauty, but also fear and silence.

She chanted adages, once from outside of her, now lurking within.

Be polite. Ladylike. Demure. Quiet.

On a backdrop of tea parties and summer splashes beneath a lilac tree there were moments that stung—pins and needles of memory so potent they stole her breath. Father yelling, mother crying, glares that woke shame in the deepest parts of her.

You don’t belong. Fat. Stupid. Weird.

She was an adolescent now, gangly and awkward, a tangle of emotions—up, down, sideways, and inside out. The desire to connect strong like sweet tarts and banana splits in July. Her voice was a gift that brought her pride and attention. She could sing like no other, but spoken words got twisted in her mouth. Music was a safe place, where voices could intertwine, and everyone belonged.

Beautiful. Strong. Talented. Capable.

Teenage years rushed at her. She thrived, finally growing into her body, inhabiting something lovely. Always there was a hum, from operatic arias to folky guitar. She swayed with spotlights and shadow, her body waking with grace and first kisses. She found her place among composers, choreographers, storytellers, where spirit preached through voice and movement.

And then she met him.

Stupidest smart person I know. Those jeans are too tight. Who do you think you are? You can’t write. That color makes you look fat. You’re not a singer anymore. Eat the damn steak and stop complaining.

Just shut up.

All she wanted was to be loved, and so she did. She shut up. Seduction followed by a slap of words. A waltz with the prince turned devil. His childhood pain consumed him, twisted his curiosity into bitterness, his kindness into cruelty. She became his caged bird, enclosed in lies. Song became tears, and tears became muted screams. Until he told their children to shut up, too.

The lump in Liadan’s throat was thick and raw, a mass that had been growing for twenty years. Her stomach curdled as she sat with this wound, turning it over, examining the ugly grooves. Waves of nausea swelled, waking the overindulgence from earlier—a mix of merlot and cheese and bread that swirled until it was purged.

She gave it back to the soil, retching until there was nothing left to offer. Then she curled into a ball and cried, grieving for the voice she had lost—the one she chose to silence.

When Liadan woke, she was face-down on a mossy bed, the smell of dirt thick in her nose. Her chest was pressed to the earth, as if only the great mother could heal the hole inside. Daggers of regret and fear that had been lodged there as of late relaxed into pinpricks, and then hardened into scabs.

She breathed and her heartbeat was one with everything.

She rolled over, blinking in the sunlight that peaked through graceful, weeping limbs. Pink blossoms above seemed to move despite the air’s stillness, bursts of color that danced between dreams. Leaves were still buds but would grow into teardrops with fine teeth. Wild apples would grow, bulbous dark red, tart and hard. Ancestor of all orchards, and gift to the bees.

The droning was a secret, lost in the breeze that had woken from slumber. But as the air relaxed and stillness settled in, Liadan could hear it. The hive spoke, a low rumble of choreographed wings fluttering in chorus, a chant to the great mother. Their collective voice was a bard, a seanchaí, telling the stories of the women who had come before.

The tree was humming.

With widened eyes, she watched as hundreds of honeybees went about their work, floating from blossom to blossom, gathering pollen as they went. Lulled by the soft vibration, Liadan rose, slowly, carefully. Her face drew closer to the insects, and their voice became louder. The curved canopy drew the sound down, surrounding her in a heartbeat, a drum.

And she danced.

Arms to the side, she swayed. Face to the sky, she parted her lips and sang. Soprano notes, light and airy, blended with their tenor roar. She was with them, beside them, engulfed in their sweet essence. Images swam of women in tears. Cracked and bleeding. Hiding and seeking. All drawn to this place of secrets and hopes and renewed dreams. The bees knew. They sang the women back to life. Eyes closed, she focused on the collective mind above, asking—begging for guidance. Perhaps she would not be killed, for what would a queen want with a broken woman?

The voice came to her, first in a squeal, then a hush.

Surrender, it said. Release the layers of mother and wife, of daughter and sister, and make room for wisdom.

Welcome the gray and go within. For that is where the honey lies.

And then all was silent.

When Liadan opened her eyes, she was alone. The bees had disappeared, and the blossoms were still. But the hum—the hum remained inside her head, inside her heart. It beat within, a droning of hope.

And as she examined the graceful branches, she noticed the charms attached. They had been hidden among the blossoms until now. At first it was one, then two, but the more she studied the tree, she saw them everywhere. An earring here, a necklace there, a feather, a dried rose, a piece of red cloth. And so many more wishes left to the hive. Discarded offerings that spoke volumes with no sound. The honeybees had been doing their work for a long time. They passed on their wisdom with the seasons, an unending chain of festooning creatures. A comb of insight and hope.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, Liadan relaxed back to the ground. On her knees, she faced the tree, its bark covered in green lichen. Where the hive was now, she did not know. Perhaps this tree was their threshold, their window between the worlds, safe inside of the fairy ring. She was indebted to their magic but had brought nothing to offer. Not even a pencil to write a poem. So, she pulled out several long, graying hairs, one by one.

One for her marriage.

Two for her children.

Three for friendships abandoned.

Four for her parents and siblings.

And five more for the dreams she had left behind.

She separated the fifteen threads into thirds and braided them with careful fingers. She moved into deep contemplation as she wove, knowing this gift was more than an offering. It was a release of the burdens that had strangled her, morphed her into unwanted things.

Liadan hung the braid on one of the lower branches, twisting it around and around. It was a snake coiling back on itself, a piece of her she gave back to the earth. It slipped away, among the branches of the tree, soaked into its soft embrace. She was one of them now—a voice in a chorus of women who had sought refuge here, among the blossoms.

She lingered for a moment, imagined the queen somewhere in the ether, singing to her children. Mother of all, keeper of honeybee vision. Seeing more than color, more than the here and now. Liadan closed her eyes and bowed her head. Her life stretched out before her, past and future converging into a beautiful story that begged for telling.

“Thank you,” she whispered, stepping out of the fairy ring, back to the other side. Her silenced voice had merely been sleeping. It hummed in the dark now, starting to wake. And it dripped sweet gold.

“Liadan’s Song for the Bees”

Walk with me, sisters, Deep into the forest

Where bees awaken

Your soul from rest, Spinning waxen chains

And combs so sweet

To hold you when You cannot see.

Dance with us, sisters, And find your way

Between the blossoms, Amongst the fae.

Sing your woes

To the winged ones

And leave your worries

On a braided tongue. Peel layered archetypes

And reborn you will be Only then will you find

The honey tree.

Day Meets Night

Then

A wolf or dragon devouring the flaring flames of the sun

An abandonment of the gods

A warning so almighty, it puts an end to war

And now

An anticipated event, predicted down to the minute

A reason to gather anywhere within the band

A collective breathe held Gasps, sighs, cries of awe spread

As terrestrial bodies

Watch day turn to night

Madeline C. Lanshe

Thomas

Thomas

Ostroski

Ostroski

Thomas Ostroski

Wisecrack of a Lifetime

by Harry Lorton

The summer of 1973, London.

“You’ll never get through, Anna - there’s no such place,” I said jokingly to the girl on the public telephone who I passed as I came through the hotel lobby. She was clearly having difficulty convincing the English telephone switch operator to connect her call to a small village in County Cork, Ireland, and she was certainly having enough problems without my “help.” She covered the mouthpiece and whispered to me, “There certainly is such a place and I’ll prove it to you, too. If I ever get through.”

A few weeks before, my employers in Ireland had asked me if I would be willing to work in London for a few months. What a difficult decision! Carry on working as usual in Dublin or spend the summer in London - one of the world’s great cities. The swinging 60’s (I know, it was 1973, but it was still swinging); Carnaby Street; t-shirts – for outdoor wear, not as underwear as they had been; flared or bell-bottomed jeans. I was only 22, keen to experience all this and more. Would I be willing to go there? As my late father used to say, “Would a duck swim?” I headed to London as fast as I could.

-

It really was a different world in 1973. Richard Nixon was President of the USA; the Watergate scandal was unfolding; the Roe v Wade judgement was handed down in January; The Godfather won best picture at the Oscars; Tony Orlando and Dawn had just Tied A Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree; the Sears Tower in Chicago was finished and was then the world’s tallest building; Billie Jean King was about to take on Bobby Riggs in the “Battle of the Sexes”; the Vietnam War was gradually coming to an end; the first Smartphone appeared, though you wouldn’t recognise it now

– but even in this evolving time, you needed to talk to the operator to make a call to a small village in Ireland.

And Ireland was a totally different place. Along with our neighbors, the UK, and also Denmark, we had joined what is now the EU on January 1st that year. We were a poor, small “beer & biscuits” economy back then, with endemic unemployment and emigration problems. Partly thanks to the EU and partly due to some enlightened decisions by successive Irish governments, we’ve been transformed. High income, virtually full employment, powerful industries and a growing population. Perfect? No. Serious problems? Yes, like all countries. But nonetheless, it’s a vibrant place in which to live and to work. (Sadly, our UK neighbours decided in 2016 to leave the EU – the infamous Brexit Referendum. It may be years before all of the implications of such a nationally momentous decision become totally clear but, as of now, the omens – to be very polite about it –are not looking at all good for them) -

But back to the Summer of ’73. One evening, a group of my new work colleagues and I were having a few beers with a group of Irish university students who had summer jobs in London. ( That summer job adventure was a very popular thing for Irish students to do, and still is). Anna, the girl I had joked with when she was on the phone in the lobby, was there. She had re-joined us after her call and she assured me that the village really did exist and was situated about 20 miles west of my old home in Cork. She had been calling another university friend who lived in that village. Anna had invited this friend to join her in London, and her friend had agreed immediately.

Two days later – Thursday, June 28th to be precise - we all got together again in the

Atlantic Hotel, in London’s famous West End. Later on in the evening a “new” girl arrived. I noticed and admired her immediately, so I was pleased when she joined the edge of our group and began to chat animatedly with Anna. I’d like to meet her, I said, (to myself of course - no wisecracking out loud this time).

As it happened, after a while, they ended up sitting near me (OK, it didn’t just “happen” – I engineered that) and Anna introduced me to her friend, Mary. We chatted for a while and then I asked Mary where she was from.

Now, Irish people, even though we come from a very small country (about the size of Indiana), or maybe because we come from a small country,

are always interested in where other Irish people hail from. “I’m from Cork,” she said. “I know that, from your accent,” I replied, “What part of Cork?” “Oh,” said Mary, “ It’s a really small place – very few people even know it exists.”

There’s an old saying: “When you’re in a hole, you should stop digging.” My problem was, I didn’t know I was in a hole. “Well, try me,” I said. “I’m from Cork and I probably do know the place.” “But you don’t,” she said. “In fact, the other night you even told Anna that it doesn’t exist.”

BOOM.

I had forgotten that comment, but here was the

girl from the other line. How do I get out of this? And how do I stay friendly with this most interesting girl at the same time?

I’ve always believed that if you’re explaining, you’re losing. So I tried a different tack. “Well, I’ve never met anybody from there until now and I have to say, I’m very impressed. It must be a really lovely place.” Now, dear reader, wisecracks are always risky, I’m sure you know that - you can’t ever be sure how they’ll be taken. But a cheesy line like I had just used is even more risky, with a serious chance of ending the conversation right there and then.

Happily, Mary laughed. We continued to chat, and not just about places that do or don’t exist. We’re still chatting now. Next year we’ll celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary, along with our

wonderful children and our three beautiful grandchildren. And all because of a wisecrack about a place that did of course exist.

P.S. Last summer, on the 28th of June, exactly 50 years to the day after our first encounter, we went back to the hotel for the first time since 1973. It has changed dramatically over the years (just like ourselves). It’s no longer called the Atlantic, it’s now re-named as the “Inhabit.” But it was fabulous to see it again after all these years and to reminisce about the great times and the old friends we knew, and the life we created together.

P.P.S. We’d love to hear from any readers with stories of how they met their partners or indeed how any wisecracks turned out to be so serendipitous for them.

two

Solar Eclipse in

Willoughby,

Madeline C. Lanshe

Willoughby, Ohio

Lori Diemer

Madeline C.

Gustavo

A Man of Few Words

By Madeline C. Lanshe

Growing up, I never had the opportunity to be close to my mother’s father, who everyone called Pops. One reason for this might have been that I was number 51 of his 69 grandchildren. Another might have been that he always lived an hour or two away, on one farm or another, and I didn’t see him often - normally once a year at the Flohr family Christmas party. I can’t remember saying any other words to him except “hello” and “bye,” and those only because my mother would tell me to do so. It felt weird as a child going up to this quiet, solitary figure I barely knew, giving him an awkward hug, and saying goodbye when I wasn’t even sure he knew my name or which of his twelve children I belonged to. He was always accompanied by his black lab, Mandy, and that made the job a little easier.

When I was around 22 years old, Pops was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. As is the nature of the disease, it wasn’t terrible all at once. Before he lost too much of his mind, the decision was made to sell his cattle farm, and he moved into a lovely condo where he could be taken care of by family.

The deterioration of his mind happened steadily, and there was no slowing it down. Soon, he needed 24/7 care. Some of his

children took shifts, a few nurse aids were hired, and my mother asked me if I wanted to act as a caregiver too. I’d worked in a nursing home and at a day center for adults with developmental disabilities, so I had some experience as a provider and caregiver.

He was resistant at first to being helped or led, which made me feel like I was always walking on eggshells. I heard stories of him screaming at other family members and cursing at them as he tried to push them out of the condo. In the year that I spent with Pops, I can count on one hand the amount of times he got agitated with me. I consider that an accomplishment. But it was a matter of constant assessment, reading his moods, and readjusting strategies to stay on his good side.

I experienced how quickly he went from getting around like normal and having coherent conversations to relying completely on my support to stand or walk, wetting the bed at night, and not understanding where he was or what was going on.

I didn’t know who Pops was before this disease, but I became close with him, in a

way, during that time, even though he never understood that I was his granddaughter. This didn’t hurt me, as I don’t think he could’ve picked my face out of a crowd even before his memories started dissolving.

Here are some things I learned about him during our time together:

1. He loved his dog. By now, Mandy had passed, and he had another black lab, Abby. Abby could be used as an in. If Abby liked you, the odds of Pops liking, or at least tolerating you, were much higher. He loved her so much that she got half of every breakfast I made him. I had to stop him from feeding her all of it as the months passed because often he didn’t have an appetite or know what to do with the food. He loved her so much that, even when he could barely walk, the minute she sat at the door to go outside, he’d try to stand and make his way over. I admired that about him – that fierce love for his dog. It’s something we had in common.

2. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, he could be hilarious. Of course there were times when he was unintentionally funny, but I was always surprised by his dry sense of humor and how witty he remained even as his health declinded. There was one joke he made at least once a week. I’d always ask him if he needed anything, and he’d say, “Oh, just a million dollars.” We’d both laugh. But then I decided to ask him what he’d do with a million dollars. His answer? “I’d split it with you and spend the rest at the bar.”

One time, we were watching Gunsmoke, an old western TV show that played in the late mornings, and Miss Kitty threw back a shot at the saloon. Pops had been quiet all morning and he exclaimed, “Now that’s my kind of woman!”

Another time, he told me I was in the newspaper. I asked him what it said about me. He shook his head and said, with a serious voice and a straight face, “I can’t even tell you.” I came over and looked at the paper and it was an article about Lebron James. I’m not sure what the connection was in his brain, but I pretend it’s because he associated me with money, success, and talent.

I was eating Pringles once and he said, “Are you hungry?” I said, “Yep, sure am.” And he said, “That’s okay, you’re allowed to be hungry.” I said, “Well good cuz I’m hungry a lot.” He asked, “Oh are you?” Like this was very interesting indeed. I said, “Yep.” And he said, “Well, that means you

have to get married.” I said, “Oh yeah?” and he said, “Yes, that will cure it for sure.” “It will cure my hunger?” I asked. He nodded sagely and said, “Yes, it surely will.”

3. He liked his space, but was also very grateful when helped. When he let you help him, that is. Almost every time I put his shoes and socks on in the morning he’d say, “Wow you’re pretty good at this, I think I’ll just keep you.” Or when I’d serve him breakfast he’d say, “You’re hired!” and I’d think, yes, yes I am.

4. He could be very sweet. One time, near the end of summer, we were sitting outside on lawn chairs. It was a very hot day and I needed a way of convincing him to come inside because I’m pretty sure he could’ve sat out in the sun for hours, dehydrating without complaint. It could be tricky getting him to go where you needed him to, and he could get cranky easily. So I asked if he’d like ice cream. He said that sounded good. I began the process of trying to help him stand from his chair, turn around, walk through the door, and get him safely sitting down inside. I was holding him up while doing the gymnastics of trying to open the door for us, and he asked me if I was married. I told him I wasn’t. Then he said, “Any man would be lucky to have you.” It was the sincerity in his voice that caught me off guard and made me nearly stopped in my place.

My favorite memory, though, was one night when I was putting him to bed. I tucked him in, made sure he was comfortable, turned off the light, and told him goodnight. He said, “You mean that’s it?” He was confused. He didn’t know if he was supposed to be doing something else. I said, “Yep, that’s it.” As I turned to leave he said, completely unbidden, “Okay. I love you.” He’d never said that before. He sounded like a lost child. My heart contracted painfully. I told him I loved him too. Then I went across the hall to the guest room and cried.

I’d applied for a teaching job in France in Spring of 2018. My last day with him before leaving that August, I knew that it could very possibly be the last time I saw him. I’d be coming home for Christmas, but there were no guarantees that he would still be here. I can’t explain the weight and pain of that knowledge. Anything I said or did, he wouldn’t remember by the time I drove home. How do you say goodbye, maybe for good, to someone who doesn’t understand that you

won’t be coming back or that you’re even his granddaughter? So I tried to leave the same way I did every day. I had to pretend like it was a normal day because what else was I supposed to do? But this time, I said I love you. He didn’t say it back. I’m not sure if he heard me or not. But he’d said it sincerely on his own that same month, and that would have to be enough.

I spent Thanksgiving alone in France, and two days later, I was told by my mother that Pops had died. I remember crying for hours straight, curled up on my mattress, wishing he just could’ve held out until December. Two more weeks and I would’ve been home.

It’s hard to comprehend the death of someone when you are an ocean away. Had I still been at home, I would’ve experienced the changes his loss made on my world. In France, my routine continued as usual. I took the next day off teaching, but otherwise, nothing changed. It felt wrong. It felt like instead of experiencing the death of a loved one, which I’d been through before, he simply was stricken from existence. I told my mom I would fly home for his calling hours, even though I didn’t really have the money to do so, and taking the time off work would’ve been complicated. My mother encouraged me to stay in France. I felt guilty then, and I still have guilt now. If I force myself to question why it was I stayed in France, were money and work complications really more important than seeing Pops one more time and mourning with my family? Was part of me relieved that I wouldn’t have to go through the emotional trauma of another calling hours and funeral for a grandparent? Or did God spare me from having to see him on his death bed?

To this day, when I think about it, it feels like an unclosed loop in my life. I spent nearly a year taking care of Pops. I was with him three days

a week and some nights. He was a part of my every day life. When I left for France, he was alive, still drinking his instant coffee, watching Gunsmoke, making his jokes. When I came home for Christmas, he was simply gone, and the time of familial mourning had passed. I visited his gravestone with my mother. I’d hoped it would offer me closure. But my brain could never connect the existence to non-existence that had happened while I was away.

My oldest brother read a letter I wrote about Pops during his calling hours. Someone held up the phone so I could hear. I muted my line and cried into my pillow. I wouldn’t have been able to speak even if I’d been there. I didn’t hurt for him. He was finally free of his pain. I cried for my family, and I cried for myself. I didn’t have any close friends in France yet. I couldn’t weep with my mother, who I knew would be taking it harder than the rest. I mourned in complete solitude and taught my classes with puffy eyes.

I hate that Pops, and all his loved ones, had to experience the devestation that comes with the disease. I do have to acknowledge, however, that it is partially responsible for my opportunity to spend time with him. I know people often say, in regards to a loved one who has it, “This isn’t my dad. This isn’t the person I knew.” But this version of Pops is the only one I ever knew. One who loved his dog, was funny, grateful, and on special days, heartbreakingly sweet. So, it’s just my guess that who he was deep down didn’t change. That a lot of him, despite the disease, was still him. And I thank God for being blessed with the opportunity to take care of him and create memories that I can keep with me forever. He’s probably sitting on the front porch on a farm in heaven, Mandy at his feet, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the clarity of his mind.

Submissions

Who can submit? Anyone! If you have access to our magazine, we’d love to hear from you.

What should I submit? Anything creative and relevant that can be shared in digital form! Photography, illustrations, poetry, short stories, personal stories, art, etc.

Why do you accept submissions? This magazine is a space for people to share their stories and passions in hopes it will connect us with others in a positive, uplifting way. “The ethnosphere is humanity’s great legacy. It is the product of our dreams, the embodiment of our hopes, the symbol of all that we are and all that we have created as a wildly inquisitive and astonishingly adaptive species.” - Wade Davis

When can I submit? In each issue, we will reveal the theme for the coming issue. If you’d like your proposal to be considered for the coming issue, submit as soon as you can to give us time to review it with our team, communicate with you, edit, and fit it into the greater picture of the magazine. Otherwise, submit anything at any time. It may fit in a future issue or even inspire the theme for one!

How do I submit? Go to the submissions page of ethnospheremagazine.com and fill out the form. If possible, attach any images, PDFs or other files to be reviewed, and the editor will be in touch with you. If you have a story that you think would make for a great article, but you don’t have the narrative prowess to write it, don’t worry! There is an opportunity for a conversation with the editor so that she, or someone on the editorial staff, could write the story with you.

If your submission is not accepted, don’t get discouraged. There is always a chance in the future. In the meantime, we hope you enjoy all that the magazine has to offer. Even if you are not featured within it, your experiences, dreams, and creations are equally part of the Ethnosphere.

Submit your work for our July issue. We do not yet have a theme, so we are open to any submissions.

Submit

Madeline C. Lanshe

Instagram: @mudpuddlephotography51

Thomas Ostroski

thomasostroski.com

Steven Toth

Instagram: @steventothvisualmedia

About the Authors

Madeline Lanshe is a writer from Green, Ohio, with a passion for traveling, rock climbing, and getting lost in the night sky. She taught English for two years in Le Mans, France, which now feels like her second home. She works at Advanced RV as editor-inchief of Ethnosphere. Besides dreams of becoming a published fiction author, Madeline is a volleyball addict. She believes life is about collecting moments of magic wherever you go and immersing yourself in the things that light your heart on fire.

Dr. Mary Leoson is the author of the historical paranormal novel, The Butterfly Circle (Manta Press), and teaches English composition, literature, and psychology at the college level. She is also a Pushcart nominee, member of the Horror Writers Association, and co-host of the horror Writing Podcast, Exhuming the Bones. Her short fiction can be found in anthologies and literary magazines such as Coffin Bell Journal. When she’s not teaching or writing about ghosts, you will likely find her in the garden or on the couch with her husband and two very spoiled dogs. You can learn more at maryleoson.com

Harry Lorton is an Irishman from the County of Cork. Living and working in Dublin for many years, he has been married to Mary - a retired Irish & History teacher - for 49 years. They have 2 children and 3 grandchildren. He is a Graduate of Trinity College, Dublin and of the OPM Program of Harvard Business School. For 33 years he worked for a number of banks in Ireland, including 12 years as a CEO, followed by 20 years (and counting!) as a Company Director and Chair in a variety of industries including banking & insurance but also such diverse fields as the retail motor trade and Communications & PR. Avid sports fans, Mary and he are also keen travellers with many extraordinary adventures under their belt.