The AlaLitCom - 2011

T he ALALITCOM

Selected Works from the Alabama Writers’ Conclave 2011 Literary Competition

www.alalit.com 1

ALALITCOM

© 2011

Authors retain all rights

Editor

Marian Lewis Cover photo “Passion Flower” contributed by Marian Lewis.

(Digital photograph, juried exhibit, “Huntsville Photographic Society: 2011 Members' Showcase" at the Huntsville Museum of Art, Prozan Community Gallery, July-September 2011)

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~ Introduction ~ The Alabama Writers' Conclave (AWC) is pleased to present the 2011 ALALITCOM. This issue includes winning stories, articles, first chapters of novels and poems from each of the eight categories of the annual AWC Writing Contest.

The AWC was founded in 1923 and is one of the oldest writers‘ groups in the United States. The original mission was ". . . to promote fellowship, to provide an opportunity for improvement of craft, and to support Alabama writers."1 Today, the mission is basically the same but through its nationally recognized and respected writing contest the AWC now embraces a larger community of writers. Membership is not a prerequisite for entering the writing contest. This year, writers from twenty-four states, Brazil and Canada were among the contestants.

The 2011 ALALITCOM showcases stories about life and overcoming adversity, relationships, travel, fishing and science fiction. Rich in drama, there are articles and stories set in Africa, Haiti and Belize as well as LA (Lower Alabama) and other states; and through traditional and free verse poetry, this issue weaves a tapestry of human emotions and the beauty of the natural world.

Congratulations to those whose writing appears herein and also to contest winners who have chosen to publish elsewhere. As always, each story, article, poem and novel chapter entered into the AWC writing contest represents a writer's creativity and honor of the craft; thus every participant is a winner. I hope you enjoy the 2011 ALALITCOM. Marian Lewis, Editor ____________________ 1

Raecile Gwaltney Davis, Giant Sages of the Pen: A Narrative History of the Alabama Writer's Conclave, 1923-1946, (Alabama: R.G. Davis, 1993).

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Title

Page

THE TALES OF THE WIND (TP).................Monica Claesson.............

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IN SEARCH OF AWE (JF)……………………....Randi Lynn Mrvos……....

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DANCING WITH THE WOMEN WOMEN OF JEANNETTE (NF)............….....Catherine Parrill….…..…

10

UNCLE EB AND THE FROG-WATER (F)..Richard M. Perreault.…..

15

HAROLD‘S HALLOWEEN (H)……………..…..E. Gail Chandler.............

21

FEELING FOR EDGES (FVP)…………….…...Carol Robbins Hull ………

25

HEAR WHAT I SEE (F)…………….………….…Jim Herod ………….…..….

26

THE PSYCHIC FUTURIST (FCN)………..…..William (Hank) Henley…..

33

LOST (NF)………………………………….……........Rusty Bynum ……..……….

43

DOUBLE (F)…………………………………….…...Julia Jones Thompson....

49

THE GRAND DESIGN (TP)………………….….Leonard A. Temme…........

55

WEIGHT (SF)…………………………….….………..Carolynne Scott...............

56

TAKSI (NF)…………………………………….….…..Terri L. French…..…..……..

61

THE LADY IN THE SUN (J).........................Linda Hudson Hoagland.

65

MINUTES OF THE SERENE OAKS HOME OWNERS ASSOCIATION JULY MEETING (H)…….....Murray Edwards……........

71

READING RAINBOW (FVP)……….…..…....….Barb McMakin……..……....

76

SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE A MOTHERLESS CHILD (FCN)……………….…Jane Sasser….…..….……...

78

HAVE I BECOME SO DIFFERENT? (TP).Monita Soni………….…....…

87

ROGER AND SUSAN (F)…………….….…..…..Shawn Jacobsen..……..….

89

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IN SEARCH OF ENDURING ALABAMA VOICES (NF)……………………………………….…Betty Spence…………..…..

94

SNOW-CONE VICTORY (JF)………………….Patricia J. Weaver….……

100

THEATER OF WAR (NF)………………………..Leonard A. Temme…….....

104

LEGAL MAGIC (H)…………………………….…....Debra H. Goldstein.….…..

110

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT FREDERICK (FVP)Gail Denham...................

117

THE MAN IN THE BLUE DENIM SHIRT (FCN)……………………………………...…..Jo Wharton Heath...........

118

ASCENSION (F)……………………………..….…..Joan Hazel.……...………...

127

AN AMERICAN HAIBUN(TP)………………… Ellaraine Lockie…………..

135

THE CONDO TROLL (SF)……….……….….….Allen Russell……...…...….

137

ON EMMANUEL CEMETERY ROAD (NF).Jane Sasser…..……..…….

141

CODIE'S GIFT (JF)……………………………......P. Helen Kester…….……..

145

WWMD? WHAT WOULD MOTHER DO? (H)……………………….…….…..Margie Tubbs………………

148

OURSELVES ON OURSELVES (FVP).…....Carolynne Scott…….…….

155

MILKING (FCN)……………………………….…..…Deborah Lee Luskin.........

156

AUNT ROSA'S MOTHER'S DAY (F)….…......Joseph L. Whitten............

167

JUSTICE (SF)……………………………….….…...Dick Michener…………......

173

GOD GAVE ME HORSES (NF)…………....…Janet Johnson Anderson.

175

OPEN WINDOW DAY (SF)……………………..Deb Jellett.…….……..........

182

THREE GENERATIONS AND KID ROCK: SEEING IT IN COLOR (H)……………….…....Jackie Romine Walburn...

184

HAWKINS BURYING GROUND, BILTMORE ESTATE (FVP)………………….....Joseph L. Whitten……......

188

THE GALLOWAY CRADLE (FCN)………..…..Reese Danley-Kilgo….…..

190

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THE CHESS GAME (F)…………………….…....Margaret Truly…………...

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PROM QUEEN (H)…………………………….…...Sara Gipson…………….…

201

GRANDMOTHER‘S STORY (FVP)……..…....Leonard A. Temme……....

205

REVENGE (FCN)………………………..…….…....Ann Robbins-Phillips……

208

ORDER OF THE TRUE VINE (FCN)…….…Adrienne Y. Norton……….

218

BIG CONNECTIONS (H)………………………..…Elsie Azar..........................

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SO ALL OF IT WAS A LIE (FCN)………....….Linda Hudson Hoagland.

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RAINS AND RUINED HARVEST (TP)……..Joseph L. Whitten………..

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THE FAIRY‘S HOLE (JF)…....................…....Merry Lewis…..........……..

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2011 Contest Winners List……………………………….……..………...

242

(F) Fiction, (NF) Nonfiction, (SF) Short Fiction, (JF) Juvenile Fiction, (H) Humor, (FVP) Free Verse Poetry, (TP) Traditional Poetry, (FCN) First Chapter Novel

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Traditional Poem

The Tales of the Wind Monica Claesson The wind is an enchantment of the skies, The inhalation of a thousand prayers, The breath of history immortalized, The sacred languages of otherwhere.

And through its power, raw and unrestrained, A dead imagination is reborn— The heart can taste the shadows of the rain And stir the mighty passions of the storm.

The fire, the earth, the spices of the sea, The whispers and the souls of foreign lands— A dreamer‘s heart can never be appeased, But through the wind it starts to understand.

For ere the breeze shall die upon the dust, It wakes the fervency of wanderlust. ________________________________________________________________________ Monica Claesson is a home school student in Lincoln Nebraska and is entering her senior year in high school. In addition to writing poetry, Monica enjoys art, drama, dance and other forms of creative writing.

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Juvenile Fiction

In Search of Awe Randi Lynn Mrvos Grandpa tells me his hometown is high in the northern Kentucky hills. He says some believe it is near Maysville. And others believe it is near Morehead. But most believe Awe just can‘t be found anymore. He taps my tee shirt with his crooked finger and tells me, ―Nonsense, Dylan.‖ I want to believe him, but I‘m not so sure.

As he clears the breakfast plates he asks, ―Think we should go find Awe?‖ I am quiet for a good while. My eyes dart to a stack of boxes and I remember Grandpa is moving away. My summer visits with him will be far from Kentucky. I think I might not have another chance. When I tell him yes, he says we can be explorers. He tells me, ―You can be Lewis and I can be Clark.‖ I don‘t know where he came up with those names, but I think I‘ll stick to Dylan.

That day, we drive on highways and back roads, cross a bridge, and arrive at the foot of a mountain. We go up and up and up until the road meets a forest—but there‘s no sign of Awe. I‘m even less sure when the road turns into a rocky path. Along the way I search for fallen tree branches. We explorers need walking sticks to help us climb to Awe. As we march I ask, ―How could a town be so high in the hills?‖ ―Just is,‖ he says. He smiles at me, remembering. ―Years ago, a wider lane led to Awe. It was a place where rain tapped the tin roof of a white-washed school house and where people milled about after church, their hats a crowd of colors. It was a place where strawberry pies cooled on window sills and where red-feathered birds sang ‗what-cheer, cheer, cheer.‘‖

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I pick up my pace and race and race and race to find Awe. My mouth is watering for a taste of strawberry pie.

He catches up to me and says, ―After church and more often after school, I ran through a mowed meadow, beyond the barns that held tobacco, and slid down slippery banks to sail smooth stones over the surface of Briery Creek.‖ When we climb to the top, Grandpa shakes his head. My hands rest on my hips and I take it all in.

The creek hogs the trail. The meadow runs wild. The tobacco barns lean.

Far below in the hollows, steam lifts off the roofs of houses.

Grandpa shrugs and says, ―There‘s no trace of Awe.‖ But nearby, the wind whistles through white-washed trees. At our feet, dew glazes wild strawberries. Overhead, a red-winged bird flits.

We forge forward, following the trickle of water. Our walking sticks steady our steps as we slide down slippery banks. Before us a crowd of colors floats on the surface of Briery Creek.

My bare feet stir the water where piles of smooth stones rest. I toss one and it skips and skips and skips, until it plops to the muddy bottom.

We are quiet for a good while. I pop a strawberry into my mouth and then I say to Grandpa, ―If we believe strongly enough, anything is possible.‖ He nods his head and says, ―I couldn‘t have said it better. Could anyone have uttered such truth?‖ He knows as well as I do, that we‘ve spent the day in Awe. ______________________________________________________________________________

Randi Lynn Mrvos is an award-winning picture book writer, the Nonfiction Editor for Stories for Children Magazine, a columnist for the writers’ newsletter Extra Innings, and the Associate Editor for the educational website www.Viatouch.com. Her publishing credits include Mothering Magazine, The Christian Scientist Monitor, Highlights for Children. Appleseeds, KNOW, and Nature Friend.

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Nonfiction

Dancing with the Women of Jeannette Catherine Parrill July 1996 The women were coming, in ones and twos, on winding dusty paths that cut between the clinic and the cistern, the road by the rectory, among the French ruins, through fields of maize and sugar cane. It was July 1996. They were coming for English classes, as decreed by Father Lafontant.

I‘d been divorced a year, my girls had gone to college and one graduated, and I‘d been back to Haiti more than half a dozen times since that first visit. But in spite of my many trips and the work I‘d done with teachers and kids, I had doubts that a few lessons in a foreign language would be meaningful to women who couldn‘t read or write in their own tongue. I didn‘t know what to teach them, or where to begin. But I‘d agreed, of course. I was a guest there in Haiti, leading training seminars for teachers and holding music classes. It was not my place to set the agenda in a culture I barely knew.

About a dozen women had arrived, and it was time for our first class to begin. I went into the cement block classroom where Marie Carmelle‘s son, Genel, taught sixth grade, but the women lingered outside in little clumps, talking to one another. I finally went out and let them know that we were ready to start, but none followed when I went back inside. I wondered whether they‘d come only because Father Lafontant told them to. Maybe they didn‘t want to be there. I didn‘t know what to do. My Creole was not very good yet, and I couldn‘t just go out and ask them whether they wanted to be in that English class.

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While I was wondering what to do about the situation, one woman crossed the threshold into the dimly lit room, then another, and another.

Looking ill at ease, they slid onto the long wooden benches where their children sat earlier that day reciting verb conjugations and multiplying fractions.

Already, the lesson I had prepared seemed worthless. But it was all I had, so I started. ―M byen kontan ou la jodi-a,” I said: I‘m so glad you‘re here today. I told them that we were going to start English lessons by learning some easy words that we use every day, and began at the top of the list. I said the word in Creole, then in English, and asked them to repeat it. ―Kay— House; Solay—Sun; Ti-moun—Child.‖ A few responded tentatively. Others said nothing. I offered encouragement, but from their response I wasn‘t sure they understand me even when I spoke in Creole. The hour dragged on, until eventually I told them class was over. ―M‟ap we-ou demen, mem tan,‖ I said: I‘ll see you here tomorrow at the same time.

When they left, I wondered whether anyone would actually come back, and almost hoped they wouldn‘t. I felt like I‘d failed them, and I didn‘t know how I could do any better the next day. They‘d never been to school. Their children were learning all kinds of things they‘d never had a chance to learn. I couldn‘t imagine the kind of gap there was between illiterate mothers and the first generation of their children who get an education. I feared I‘d done nothing that day to bridge the gap.

On day two, I was surprised to see more women meandering up toward the school than there had been the day before. I waited outside as they gathered and made conversation. When everyone seemed to have arrived, I suddenly got the idea to try a different tactic. I asked them to make a circle there, outside the classroom. Pointing to my hand, I asked the lady beside me: ―Kijan ou di sa nan Kreyol?” ―Menn,‖ she said.

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I repeated the Creole word, pointing to my hand, then said it in English: hand. When I asked them to repeat the English word after me I got a better response than I had the day before, and we went through several body parts that way. Then I sang a verse of the hokey pokey in Creole, switching to the English word for the punch line. Soon, they were smiling, and doing the hokey pokey with me. Some even started to sing along. When we finished, we went inside. More women participated in the lesson that day, and they all seemed to sit easier on the benches.

By the third day, they were asking questions about life in my country. Soon our discussions became the lesson. I taught words from the questions they posed: Ti bebe: baby. They smiled and said ―babe‖, enjoying the similarity between their language and mine. We learned words like milk, nurse, cry and crawl. ―Sa-ou fen an matin?‖ one asked me. ―In the morning we feed our families, get the children ready to go to school, and go to work,‖ I answered in Creole. Then we talked about washing clothes, how far they had to go for water, and the little basins in which they scrubbed everything by hand, using rocks. I‘m not sure they believed me when I told them we have a machine that does that work for us back at home.

Then we learned more words. Lavi: wash; rad: dress; mange: food; charbon: charcoal.

One day, to the tune of Here We Go ‟Round the Mulberry Bush, we put together the vocabulary we‘d been learning, singing: ―this is the way we wash our clothes‖ and ―this is the way we rock our babies,‖ adding verse after verse. Finally they suggested we add: ―this is the way we comb our hair.‖ When I‘d taught them the English words, and we‘d sung the song, Justine asked me how my hair feels, and I walked among them, bending over so they could touch it. One offered to braid it, and I sat beside her as several hands joined the work.

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Each day we added more verses to our song, weaving together their lives and mine.

On the day of the final class I watched Mary Carmelle, who‘d taken a break from her cooking, as she made her way up the path, her wiry body bent forward, flowered apron tied around her thin waist, red kerchief bobbing. I felt sad. We‘d only begun, and already it was almost over.

Women entered the classroom smiling and talking, and sat tall on the benches. The word dignity came to mind as I looked out among them.

When class ended we went outside one last time to do the hokey pokey, singing as many verses as we could think of. We shook it all— hands, legs, elbows, ankles, heads, feet, and even our ears. Finally, we finished up with ―you put your backside in and you shake it all about,‖ laughing as we sang and swayed. Then the circle broke up, we hugged, and they lingered, as reluctant to go as I was to see them leave.

“Meci, Kahtee,” came from all sides. I loved the way they said my name there in Haiti. I would have liked to bottle it and taken it with me.

I heard a giggle from behind me, and Marie Carmelle nudged me. ―Kahtee, gade.” Look. I turned around to see Justine doing a little shuffling dance, her hands above her head, swinging to the beat of the song she was humming quietly. Soon she was singing with more gusto and other women were joining in. When Justine began to sway her hips a little more, women‘s eyes started to gleam and they sang more boldly, their swaying becoming more seductive. Marie Carmelle told me this is how they dance if they‘re at a party, like after a wedding. At their urging, I gave it a try, and knew from their grins that my backside just didn‘t sway as smoothly as theirs. Maybe if I could have come teach English classes just one more time . . . .

All too soon, they started to go, one by one, heading back down dusty paths to finish their day‘s work, their education done for the time being.

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In the months and years ahead, I would sit with them around the casket of a twenty-three year old mother, listening to them decide who would nurse the newly orphaned baby. I would hold their children in my lap on Sunday mornings as we joined our voices in song. I would walk miles with Marie Carmelle and she‘d confide in me that she desperately wanted a wedding dress. I‘d tell her story to women in Ireland, and later stand at her side when she was married. I‘d mourn her passing.

That day though, I knew none of what was to come. I knew only that I‘d danced with the women of Jeannette. ________________________________________________________________________ Catherine Parrill, musician and educator, lives in Birmingham. Dancing with the Women of Jeannette is from her memoir of the years she lived in Haiti. The First Time, also from that collection, won an award from the Asheville Writer's Workshop. Publications include a children's book, articles, and a short story.

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Fiction

Uncle Eb and the Frog-Water Richard M. Perreault Uncle Eb pulled the old Chevy truck onto the main road and headed toward the peach fuzz dawn blooming in the east beyond the darkness. The rows of simple houses melted behind us and we found ourselves in scrubland, gliding through towns with Seminole names that twisted like wood smoke and tangled on the tips of paleface tongues.

Just north of Wewahitchka the pavement yielded to hard-packed sand. We rolled past the Scott‘s Landing fish camp and backed the boat trailer down the concrete ramp into the brackish water. Still half asleep, I opened the passenger door, stretched and yawned. Full light coughed up a gentle breeze that set the Spanish moss dancing like grandmother hair unfurled and waiting for a morning brush.

I‘d been fishing with Uncle Eb countless times, but never to the watery graveyard of cypress stumps known as Dead Lakes. Dead Lakes played a prominent role in family lore as the place Uncle Eb, using a cane pole, had landed a 65-pound alligator gar. If someone asked Uncle Eb how he did it, he‘d simply say, ―You gotta know how to play ‘em.‖ I came to believe that if Uncle Eb caught a great white shark on a safety pin tied to the end of a piece of kite string hanging off the end of a broomstick he‘d explain it just that way: ―You gotta know how to play ‘em.‖ Uncle Eb parked the truck beneath sheltering live oaks beside a sign that asked, ―Where Will You Spend Eternity?‖ I knew it would be a long time before we returned to the landing, maybe sunrise the following day. A fishing trip with Uncle Eb was the closest thing to eternity a fifteen-year-old boy could imagine.

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We climbed aboard the wooden skiff and settled in our places.

Uncle Eb set the cooler between us with its stash of Budweiser and RCs, and a Mason jar of tap water Aunt Flo insisted we bring because she knew a day on the water could be hard on a man.

The little Evinrude fired on first pull, sputtered and hiccupped, then settled into a reassuring purr. We moved away from shore, Uncle Eb masterfully weaving the boat through the gnarled cypress knees, out into open water.

There are places where clocks are so irrelevant they surely must wring their hands in despair. Time on the swampy backwaters near the Apalachicola is measured not in hours, but in fish caught and beverages consumed. When we had been fishing for five bass, a catfish, six beers and three RCs, Uncle Eb tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a log floating beside the bank a few feet away. As I watched, the log climbed onto the muddy bank and flopped down with an echoing thud. I had seen gators before, but never one that big and never that close.

I glanced at Uncle Eb, his face tanned to caramel-coated nutmeg from a life in the Florida sun. His azure eyes twinkled. ―Even if you get hot, I wouldn‘t advise going for a swim. I‘d hate to have to explain to your mom and Aunt Flo why I came home without you.‖ The day crawled along. We sat. We fished. Snake doctors rested on the tips of our rods. Few words passed between us. Uncle Eb was not afflicted with the too-prevalent adult malady of asking teenagers meaningless questions just to break an awkward silence. When I was with Uncle Eb, the silences were never awkward, they were just part of a tableau in which the slightest sound not made by a herring or itinerate hornet could desecrate the solitude. If something was worth saying we said it. Otherwise we let it be.

At half-past eleven beers, six RCs, and a dozen swigs of water from the Mason jar, the sun dipped behind the tree line, casting us in

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welcome shade. Summer days near the Apalachicola are long, but when the sun‘s work is done, it hurries home and the dark clocks in. ―Better get the gear ready while we can still see,‖ Uncle Eb said. ―Soon as it hits second dark, we‘ll start working the river.‖ I knew working the river meant cruising through the darkness, shining a light on the bank until you caught the reflection of a frog‘s eyes. ―The light freezes ‘em,‖ Uncle Eb had told me. ―As long as the light‘s in a frog‘s eyes you could step on him and he wouldn‘t jump.‖ I had also learned there were two kinds of eyes you were likely to see along the bank at night: little yellow eyes, which were frogs, and big red eyes, which were gators. ―What about a gator?‖ I had asked. ―Does the light freeze them too?‖ ―I think the light just ticks them off,‖ Uncle Eb said ―I‘d try not to step on a gator.‖ When we got our headlamps on and insect repellent smeared around, Uncle Eb asked if I wanted to steer or gig. I pretended to think about it. I had no interest in sitting in the front of the boat as we plowed through the darkness into low hanging limbs and curtains of Spanish moss. More than once I‘d seen water moccasins sunning on tree limbs and spiders bigger than my fist dangling from the moss. ―Maybe I‘ll steer,‖ I finally said. ―Take us up current then,‖ Uncle Eb said, lifting the loop from the stump where we‘d been moored.

By the time we found our first frog, both the beer and the RCs were gone, and we were down to swigging water from the Mason jar. I was in mid gulp when Uncle Eb spotted a pair of yellow eyes and directed me to swing the boat in toward the bank. I ducked as we slipped beneath the boughs. Uncle Eb lurched forward, there was a deep, resonant croak, then Uncle Eb swung around and slapped an unfortunate frog against the bottom of the boat. He took out his knife and cut through the frog‘s 17

spinal cord just behind the head, to keep it from hopping away when he pulled it off the gig.

Uncle Eb tossed the carcass into the cooler. I offered him some water. He chugged it down. ―Not exactly Budweiser,‖ he said.

I shoved the jar into the slushy ice and closed the cooler lid.

For a while, no sooner would we plow into the bushes where Uncle Eb would gig an amphibian monster, than he‘d nod toward the bank and whisper, ―We got another one just up ahead.‖ Then, for what must have been close to an hour, the frogs went into hiding. The air was tropical, the mosquitoes fierce. We sat in the darkness quenching our thirst. I brushed a swarm of gnats away from my eyes. They retreated, then returned. Uncle Eb shined his light along the bank. I was expecting him to say it was time to head on in, when he whispered, ―Oh, my. That‘s either two one-eyed frogs sittin‘ side-by-side, or the biggest damphibian this side of the Amazon Jungle. Think you can get us in there real quiet like?‖ I turned the bow toward the shore. Uncle Eb kept the frog impaled with the light. ―Put it in neutral now and let it glide in,‖ Uncle Eb said softly.

I slipped the motor out of gear. The boat slid ahead, slicing the inkblack night, the gentle ripple of wood gliding through water the only sound. Uncle Eb perched on the prow. As he drew back the gig, the water exploded, the boat lurched, and Uncle Eb pitched overboard head first, swallowed by the dark.

I called out Uncle Eb‘s name a half dozen times before a single beam from a headlamp on the bank blinded me. From just below the light came a deep, matter-of-fact laughter. ―I‘m over here, Sport. Come get me. I‘m marooned.‖ Braving a thousand unseen fangs, I guided the boat beneath the overhanging limbs. When Uncle Eb was aboard, I put the motor in

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reverse to escape what I knew must be teeming in the branches. ―That was a gator hit the boat, wasn‘t it?‖ I asked. ―That or the first fifteen-foot frog I‘ve ever run across,‖ Uncle Eb said.

When we reached open water, I popped the motor into neutral and for a while we rode the current. I wondered what Uncle Eb would say about our latest adventure, but all he said was, ―What say we get a few more before we call it a night?‖ We gigged for another hour, Uncle Eb emerging from the thicket time and again with another frog. He‘d slice their necks and toss them into the cooler with the others. We‘d pass the Mason jar, then Uncle Eb would spot another frog.

Finally, Uncle Eb shut off his lamp, the darkness devouring the light that encircled his head. He nodded at the cooler where more than four-dozen frogs lay silently awaiting an appointment with Aunt Flo‘s frying pan. ―I guess that‘ll do for tonight.‖ He took a long drink from the Mason jar. ―Can you get us out of here?‖ ―Out and to the right?‖ I asked. ―Out and to the right.‖ I shoved the jar back into the cooler and gunned the outboard.

For a long while we motored through the blackness, a spattering of stars overhead just bright enough to cast menacing shadows along the bank to either side. I could barely make out the silhouettes of the cypress knees dotting the way ahead. Uncle Eb knew Dead Lakes―day or night― like a sailor knows the reefs and shoals. If there were any danger, he‘d make it go away.

Uncle Ebb motioned for me to cut back on the motor. I twisted the throttle and set my eyes and ears to discover what had caught his attention. ―How much water we got left, Sport?‖ I hefted the jar out of the cooler. ―‘Bout half full.‖ 19

―‘Bout half full,‖ he echoed thoughtfully. ―We been goin‘ at that jar since before dark. Ought to be closer to empty than half full.‖ He turned his headlamp on. ―Let me see it.‖ I handed him the jar. He held it up into the yellow-white beam of light. The once clear water was now murky green with red tendrils suspended in a viscous liquid. Uncle Eb nodded knowingly. I leaned over the side of the boat and threw up.

Uncle Eb chuckled. ―I ‘spect next time we‘d better get us a water jar with a tighter lid.‖ He moved to the back of the boat and helped me to the front. ―I‘ll take it on in,‖ he said. I nodded agreement, but didn‘t—couldn‘t—speak. *** Years later, when Uncle Eb died, Aunt Flo wanted me there. Other than the two of us, there wasn‘t much family left. Uncle Eb had gone out in St. Andrew‘s Bay for flounder one night and hadn‘t come home. The next morning they found his body floating just up from his favorite scallop beds.

At the funeral, a man from the Boilermakers‘ Union told everyone it was a blessing that Uncle Eb had died doing something he loved. I suspected then, as I do now, that Uncle Eb would have considered it even more of a blessing to go on living doing what he loved.

The day after the funeral I took Uncle Eb‘s boat to Scott‘s landing. I went alone. I hadn‘t been fishing since the day of the frog-water trip. I guess time doesn‘t sneak up on us as much as it just blows on by.

I took a cane pole with strong line and a bobber and sinker that would work well together. I also took a six-pack of beer and tap water in a Mason jar with a really tight lid. I knew a day on the water could be hard on a man. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Richard Perreault is the author of Toto Too, The True Story of What Happened Over the Rainbow, published by Shabbi-Little Books. The recipient of the 2011 Gulf Coast Writer’s Association Fiction Award, he lives outside Atlanta, Georgia and on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina.

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Humor

Harold’s Halloween E. Gail Chandler Harold mowed his lawn every day. We knew this because he lived across the street. A private property sign guarded his lakeside lot, brick house and the two car garage where he smoked, drank beer and escaped from Marilyn, his wife of forty years. He listened to Little Richard, Ricky Nelson and spent most of his days alone. But this was before the arrival of Lulu.

We lived in one of those subdivisions where years ago somebody wrote rules but by mutual consent, nobody paid any attention to them.

This did not please Harold and Marilyn but it worked out fine for the rest of us. When my husband, Ralph, piled up brush and tree limbs in the back yard and left them until they turned to sawdust, nobody said a word. It did prove slightly annoying when the guy down the street parked his worn out Oldsmobile in a ditch beside his house and it stayed there for twenty years but who were we to complain. After the wheels fell off, the guy had it towed away so it all worked out. But back to Lulu. Ralph met her first.

On this June day, he was in the back yard working on his lawnmower. He was sitting cross-legged in the grass with a tire and rim in his lap when a white Plymouth Rock pullet wandered up and pecked at his shoe laces. He reached over and patted her and she jumped up next to the tire. Now, Ralph never was much for pets but he fell in love on the spot.

The pullet lived in a cage next door with a rooster. A family consisting of a young couple, two sets of in-laws, three pit bulls, two young boys and the before mentioned chickens rented this house.

Although they were a bit down on their luck even compared to the rest of

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us, we figured they‘d be gone soon and besides, we liked the pullet, who also followed me about each time I took peelings and apple cores to the composter. Sometimes I scattered stale cornbread on the lawn to give her a treat. The rooster never escaped the cage and died in a few weeks but the footloose female thrived.

Later that summer, on a morning just after the postman came, Marilyn and I met on our way from our mailboxes. She said that a chicken had walked down her drive while she was visiting with Harold in his garage. Marilyn was reading The National Enquirer in a lawn chair.

The chicken jumped into her lap and tried to steal the Enquirer. Marilyn shared the paper but complained of the bird‘s short attention span, wondering if it might be ADHD. ―A white pullet?‖ I asked.

Marilyn nodded. ―Yeah, lives with the pit bull family. Her name is Lulu.‖ ―I know that chicken,‖ I said as I flipped through my mail and discovered nothing more exciting than Wal-Mart flyers. ―We aren‘t zoned for poultry but I don‘t think anyone will care.‖ Marilyn shook her head. ―I don‘t know. The lady who lives on the other side of the pit bull family said she was calling animal control.‖ ―The woman with the three-legged dog?‖ ―Yep, but I don‘t see no sense in it. Lulu‘s not hurting anybody.

And she‘s easier to get along with than Harold.‖ *** The next day when the mail came, I saw the young mother from the pit bull house in the garage talking to Marilyn, both of them in lawn chairs, feet up and drinking beer from Harold‘s cooler. ―We‘re worried about Lulu,‖ Marilyn said. ―The lady with the three-legged dog did call animal control. Besides, with all the other animals around here, she‘s liable to get eaten. Lulu, that is.‖

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The pit bull woman took a swig of Michelob. ―I‘m looking for a home for Lulu. She isn‘t safe here. Do you know anyone?‖ I said that I‘d check around and get back to her. On the first call, my niece who lives in a McMansion in Louisville agreed to take Lulu, as her parakeet had just died. After dinner, I went next door. When I rang the bell, dogs barked and a small boy opened the door and yelled to his mother, who arrived shortly. I explained about my niece. ―We decided to keep Lulu,‖ she said and closed the door. *** The window seat by my computer gave me a view on the world. I noticed Marilyn walking to the pit bull house almost every morning and returning home with Lulu in her arms. This August morning, I was tired of Spider Solitaire so I went outside and followed Marilyn back to Harold‘s garage. ―I like to pick Lulu up in the morning,‖ Marilyn said. ―It gets awful hot in that cage and I‘m afraid for her. And the barking makes her nervous.‖ I told her that the pit bull lady wanted to keep her chicken.

Marilyn took a seat in the lawn chair while holding Lulu and stroking her feathers. ―I bought a fifty pound bag of chicken feed and some plain yogurt for her digestion. Lulu drinks water but doesn‘t like it without ice.‖ ―Without ice?‖ ―She likes it in small slivers. Just won‘t have it any other way.‖ Marilyn set Lulu on the cement. ―When the animal control people came, I talked to them. Then, I reminded the woman with the three-legged dog that her dead husband liked chickens and wondered if he didn‘t send us Lulu.‖ Marilyn smiled a wicked smile. ―She dropped her complaint.‖ ―I think you are spoiling that bird,‖ I said, thinking Lulu might be more interesting than Spider Solitaire.

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We continued our chat as the day turned warm. Lulu climbed into a lawn chair, the one under the fan. *** On an afternoon in September, Marilyn told me that she asked the pit bull woman for Lulu but got turned down until she offered to buy her for a very good price. I guessed fifty dollars but Marilyn wouldn‘t say. She did tell me, proud as a new grandma, that Lulu had laid three eggs. ―Harold won‘t eat them. He says it‘s like cannibalism.‖ ―That‘s silly,‖ I said. ―Where does he think eggs come from?‖ ―Then he goes to Kroger and picks up two chicken breasts. Now that‘s cannibalism.‖ She rolled her eyes. ―He ate his but I couldn‘t eat mine. I‘d rather eat Harold.‖ ―Harold would be tough.‖ ―Pressure cooker,‖ she said, leaning over and patting Lulu. ―Did I tell you that Lulu‘s now on Facebook? Her typing is a little rough but she‘s learning.‖ *** It was October. The lawn across the street looked shaggy and hadn‘t been mowed in weeks. We hadn‘t seen Harold either but Marilyn brought us eggs a couple of times.

On Halloween, she brought barbeque but we didn‘t eat it. We‘d read Fried Green Tomatoes. ________________________________________________________________________ E. Gail Chandler’s poems have appeared in Appalachian Heritage, Limestone, Kudzu, Pegasus and the anthologies, Standing on the Mountain and Motif. Her nonfiction book, Sunflowers on Market Street, was published in 2003 and a poetry chapbook, Where the Red Road Meets the Sky, was released in 2009 by Finishing Line.

~~~~~

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Free Verse

Feeling for Edges Carol Robbins Hull How old was mother when she first saw distorted lines on the Amsler grid?

Sixty-eight, seventy?

Telephone poles didn‘t look straight.

Print on the page began to blur, then paintings no longer filled the frames, and faces lost their features.

The lights that guided her from room to room dimmed until nothing was left but darkness.

Just after midnight I woke, shaking.

In my dream I couldn‘t see the candles on the cake.

Straining to see the room around me I realized why I‘d had the nightmare.

Though not yet daylight, it was my sixty-eighth birthday.

I rose and walked through the dark house feeling for edges of furniture, trying to make out the outlines of doors.

Would it be like this? ________________________________________________________________________ Carol Robbins Hull is a retired teacher who writes from her home in Montgomery, Alabama when not conducting workshops, visiting her grandchildren, or on the go just because she has time for it now. She is a member of Creative Writers of Montgomery, Press and Authors, and Wetumpka Writers.

~~~~~ 25

Fiction

Hear What I See Jim Herod My African name is Kuona Mwamba. This is not the name I was given by my mother. That I was to be Kuona came to me in a dream during the ceremony of kutahiriwa, the ceremony in which I became a man. I am Kuona because I see. I see what is to be.

On the night of the bright moon during the time of my fasting, I rubbed the leaves of malpitte over my body and had the dream of my other name. My eyes saw my mwamba a half day‘s run from where we made our place. Carrying only my spear and the pouch that held the small rocks, I left my brothers. I told them that I would go to where my mwamba waits. They knew I should go.

Simba did not see me as I ran past. I saw him and those that slept nearby. There were four. One raised her head. I was not afraid. It was not the time for me. When the time comes for me, it will be Ondilili, the jackal. I will know when the jackal is to come. I have seen the bush where I will wait.

I reached for the mwamba when I was still five lengths away. Now, it hangs from the flesh of my ear. From that time, I would be Kuona Mwamba.

Amiri has always been the chief in our family. He is wise as was his father and his father‘s father. Amiri told me that I see more than any in the family should see. He told me this after I had warned of those from Somalia who were blocking our passage. I told Amiri how to take them.

He chose me to be first of the three who would go to protect our passage within the land. We sang to the beautiful bird who flies with no effort. ―You will feast today,‖ we sang to her. ―You will feast on our bodies or on those of the Others who wait below.‖ 26

We each carried our spear and our pouch. It was my first time to kill one of the Others. I killed two in this my first.

Because it was in battle, the killing was allowed to be wasteful— done so that all will see and remember that we are not Others. Others cannot block our passage. Now, we travel as before. The Others are there again, but we pass with no concern. Like Simba, we do not turn our heads or give notice of their presence.

In the time of no rain, I hunt in the Serengeti for the family. I take the old, the weak, the alone. I take what we need and leave what remains for the jackal.

Amiri came to me and said that I should live away. I left the family and made my place at the edge near the tree where Man was born. Man was born there before Amiri, or his father‘s father‘s father.

Only on the night of the bright moon do I come near to our village.

One of Amiri‘s wives came to me that first night of my return. I did not ask for this. It was Amiri who sent her to me. For each son, Amiri gives me a cow, and for each daughter I get a goat. Amiri was given two wives from the Maasia who live across the sakafu, across the floor of the moon‘s crater. One, he sent to me before he took her.

Now, women come who are not wives of Amiri. I do not receive my brother‘s wrath for this for I live alone with my animals. I am Kuona.

This is why the wives come.

Even before I was a man, my mother told me why my skin is the color of the early evening, not dark like the night of no moon. This is so because the first man who lay with her had skin as from mchana, the middle of the day. He was her first man, and she was his first woman.

She was not shamed for being with a man of no color, for this brought the family two cows.

Twice I have been summoned since the time I left the family. It was the second year of no rain when I heard the singing of the great rock. The Mara River no longer ran with water from the top of Ol Donyo Lengai, the 27

Mountain of God. No rain came to flush the holes of the great water beast, Kiboko. These beasts died. Their carcasses fouled the water for Timbo and Twiga, the elephants and giraffes. Even the cattle of the family were dying.

Amiri sent a runner to strike the rock and call me to hear his dream. He dreamed that men should prepare to dig in the full of the sun.

That is not our way. It is not our way because God gave our people and the families of our people all the cattle. All cattle―they are ours. Neither we nor our fathers have defied that gift by breaking the soil. To break the soil would be to take from our cattle the grass that is given for them.

Yet, this was Amiri‘s dream. Prepare to dig in the full of the sun he was told. Then, see how the water will come. When I came, he asked me to know where to break the soil, where to see how the water will come.

I stood silently waiting for an answer. None came.

For one day, I walked toward Ol Donyo Lengai, but I did not find an answer in the shadow of the Mountain of God. I fasted in the dry bush for two days more, drinking no milk and no blood. I sat uncovered in the full of the sun, waiting for an answer. It was when the bright moon rose to greet the departing sun that I knew what I must tell Amiri.

I cannot tell you where to search for water beneath the land, I told him. Go, I said. Choose a place. Have all the men cover their bodies with nyeupe vumbi, with white dust. Let them prepare to break the soil. Only then will we see how the water will come.

Twice Amiri chose a place, twice the men covered their bodies with vumbi, and twice I told them to stop. After the second time, water ran from our bodies, streaming across our shoulders and back and loins. I called to them and told them they should not break the soil. I saw this.

They sat waiting for what I would say. I knew that the water would come. It would come from above, but it would not be mvua, not the rain.

The sun moved from midday until before the setting. It was then that we

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heard the shaking of the air like the running of the gnu. We did not move when the Others came over where we waited. Dust flew around us as they hovered. A large drum of water was let down. Another drum brought us grain.

We did not drink the water or eat the grain. Our food is milk and blood, and the meat of goat in celebration. We mixed the grain with the water for our cattle. That night, the cattle gave freely. The blood we got with a small, hollow cane inserted into the bulging path in the neck of the cow. The family killed a goat in celebration. I did not stay to eat the meat. Milk and blood was what I took. I watched and waited on the ridge above the village. Not until the morning sun did I run to my place by the tree where Man was born.

Some think it a gift to see tomorrow. I say it is a curse. The curse woke me before the sun rose in days past less than the fingers of one hand. I knew the sound of the rock would come on that day. I bathed in the urine of two goats and waited, facing toward the rock from which I knew the call would come. I was running toward the village soon after the sounding of the rock. Amiri met me three lengths from the village and told me what I knew.

The Others had blocked the passage to the village where the Otherhealers do their work. Only ndge, the flying machine, goes to that village.

It was not wise for the man from Nairobi to come on that road. The driver knew, but the two Others with no color did not.

The Somalian turned the driver away, but pulled the Others withno-color from the magari. They beat them, took all they had, and brought them to the village, but not as a gift. In exchange, Amiri gave the Somalian a young girl and a woman who makes fire.

Amiri said I should see the two and hear them. These Others troubled the village, even my ancient mother. Some wanted to give the older one to the jackals on the night they were taken. It was my own mother who stopped them. She said that she had a dream. In her dream, 29

she was a young girl again and the older Other was with her. The elders in my family searched their memory and did not like what they found.

Amiri told me this before we went into the village.

I knew that the younger would be first. He was made ready for kukatwa kwa ajili ya damu, the cutting for blood. The older Other watched me look at him. This one was sitting on the ground; his hands were bound behind the pole. I shook my head and looked away. Why had I not known what I would see?

The younger Other said much, but it was with tremble. The family did not answer him. In time, he cried, ―English. Does anyone speak English?‖ ―I am Kuona Mwamba,‖ I said to him. ―My English name is I See.‖ ―Thank, God.‖ He looked toward the older, ―This one speaks English!‖ He did not know. ―Please help us,‖ he said. ―We were going to the camp in Amboseli.

There are doctors there…physicians…healers. Do you understand? My mother is with them.‖ I nodded. We beheld each other. Never had I seen an Other who was so nyeupe, so white. He was brighter than the desert sand when the sun is high. ―Njia ya damu inaonyesha,‖ Amiri said to me. It was true.

The path of the blood was dark beneath the white skin. It would not be hard.

The older Other shouted to the younger. ―Talk to him, Tommy. Tell him there will be no trouble if they let us go.‖ ―Tommy.‖ I said his name, ―Tommy. I saw that this is your name.‖ ―Yes. I am Tommy,‖ he said. ―Like your name is I See, I am Tommy.‖ His lip was trembling. ―How can I persuade you? Please.‖ He wanted to hide his fear. ―How do you know English?‖

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Tommy would bleed fast because of his fear. Being naked was not his way. His spread legs made him dread what he did not know. ―You are not my brother,‖ I told him. ―What did he say?‖ the older one called.

Tommy frowned, trying to understand. It made me know. ―You do not see what is to be,‖ I said to him.

His head shook like a leaf in the wind. ―I don‘t know what you are talking about. I see fine. I see you‘re going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble if you don‘t let us go. People will come. You will be punished.‖ ―You do not see what is to be.‖ I said it again. ―What is to be, you cannot change, because you do not see.‖ He was filled with fear. I saw that. I pointed behind me. ―He is not your father.‖ Tommy pulled at his bonds. ―Damn you! What do you know?‖ He paused. Finally, he spoke to me. ―No. He‘s not. What has that got to do with shit?‖ He paused and looked down at his nakedness. ―…with this?‖ he cried.

He would say more, but Amiri‘s wife came. ―Mimi kupata maziwa,‖ she said.

I nodded, and turned to Tommy. ―She will bring the milk.‖ ―My God, man! I don‘t want milk! I want you to let us go! What‘s wrong with you people? You can‘t keep us here.‖ ―You do not see.‖ ―You keep saying that!‖ ―Where is your brother?‖ ―Brother? What are you talking about? This is crazy!‖ He strained to look around me again. ―Dad, he asked if you are my father. Now, he‘s asking about Robert.‖ I knew the one he called Dad was frowning. ―Don‘t tell him anything unless he promises to let us go.‖ The one who was to cut knelt before Tommy. He reached and found the blood paths at the top of each leg. Tommy pulled at his bonds 31

and called down the wrath of his god. We watched as the tube was jabbed under the skin. At first, a single drop fell. Then, the tube was twisted and pushed. Tommy screamed. The blood pulsed and spilled into the gourds already half filled with milk.

I turned to the older Other. He looked like one who is about to be taken by a jackal. ―God help us,‖ he whispered. ―Hear me,‖ I said. He did not. I bent down and took his face in my hands. ―Hear me! I see what is to be. My second name is Mwamba.

Mwamba in English is Stone. Do you hear? It is the name you gave to me. Your name.‖ He shook his head. ―No,‖ he shouted. ―You can‘t know that!‖ ―I do,‖ I replied. ―Your name is Stone. You told my mother. I know that you remember. You were young.‖ I nodded. ―I tell you what will be.

Tonight, the family will drink Tommy‘s blood with the milk, but not all. I will drink yours, but not all. In two days, I will take you to the mother of Tommy. Do not be afraid, for I see. I know I am your son.‖ He was shaking his head. He was beginning to remember, to know.

Tommy‘s tears were spilling into the gourd, mixing with the milk and the blood. The family was singing. Tonight, they will celebrate.

Tonight, I will be with my father. I will be with my father and the one who calls him Dad. I will tell them my story. ―My African name is Kuona Mwamba.‖ ________________________________________________________________________ Jim Herod has met his characters in the Serengeti of Africa, aboard the ice breaker Polar Star, prowling a beach on Rapa Nui, and in math classes at Georgia Tech. He writes their tales from the edge of the nethermost in Grove Hill, Alabama.

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First Chapter Novel

The Psychic Futurist from Sea Temptress

William (Hank) Henley I think it was the smile that made me go to her when she beckoned. It was a nice smile—hesitant, warm, hopeful. There was a little sadness there too, I think. She waved, she smiled; I had some time to kill and nothing else to do. Why not?

She was sitting behind a white plastic folding table set up in one of those mysterious, quiet spots where the traffic ebbs in the middle of the bustling airport concourse like an eddy in a rushing river. The table stood along the wall between a deserted gate and a kiosk selling electronic gizmos.

Something about her, I‘m not sure what, reminded me of my mother, except this woman was an alert and lively nature girl and not an inert, obese blob who wastes her days in the trailer stuffing herself with Little Debbies and pounding down Smirnoff in front of her soaps. Okay, so maybe it wasn‘t a close resemblance, but there was something familiar about her.

It‘s probably more accurate to say the woman looked a lot like I will in twenty years if I end up going the flowing skirt, giant hoop earring, wooden necklace, vegan earth mother route. We shared the same thin build, upturned nose and bright green eyes. Her hair was different from nine, though. Hers was a piled bunch of reddish blonde tangles streaked with gray and held up by something that looked like, and might have been, a chopstick. My hair is brown and straight and was being held back in my usual pony tail by a blue scrunchie.

The table lady had the organic vegetable farmer-slash-barista vibe down cold. I was rocking the petite erudite lumberjack look in my red

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flannel shirt, worn jeans, hiking boots and black horn-rimmed glasses.

It‘s a look I can make work for me on my thrift store clothing budget.

Having already passed through the government-sanctioned gropage at the Milwaukee airport‘s security checkpoint and with a half hour before boarding my flight to Tampa, I was mildly curious about what the woman was selling. There was no sign on her table, only a red plastic cup with the word ―tips‖ written on it with a black permanent marker.

Whatever she was selling, it was nothing I was buying; not when I live in a world where ramen noodles are a luxury item. ―Have a seat,‖ the woman said, ―gesturing to a folding chair on the facing side of the table. ―I can tell you are in desperate need of a metaphysical reading.‖ I thought about that and sat. ―I‘ve never seen a fortune teller giving readings in an airport before,‖ I said. ―Neither have I,‖ said the self-proclaimed seer, ―but I would rather you referred to me as a metaphysical futurist. Only the rarest of celestial alignments could bring us together at this time and in this place. This is a lucky and fortuitous moment. Concourse D is blessed with Trixie Destin‘s abilities for one day only.‖ ―Why is that?‖ I asked with a grin. Trixie was a wacko, but a pleasant one, and I was pretty sure she was harmless. ―I‘m trying to get to Denver, and my flight‘s delayed for three hours.

I thought I‘d kill a little time and maybe make enough in tips to buy dinner at the other end if United ever decides to get off its ass and take me there.‖ ―You do plan ahead, Trixie. Do you always bring a big folding table and chairs as carry-ons?‖ ―Nah. These aren‘t mine,‖ she said with a dismissive wave. The guy signing people up for the airline credit card went on break a while ago

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and hasn‘t come back. Since he wasn‘t using his table, I didn‘t see why I couldn‘t borrow it for a little while.‖ ―Is what you‘re doing legal?‖ ―Probably not,‖ Trixie shrugged. ―But nobody has tried to stop me yet. If I were in a public square, the cops would shut me down in minutes; but here I‘m so out of place it‘s like I‘m invisible to them. Odd, isn‘t it?‖ I don‘t want a sketchy reading, I said. ―Are you a real psychic?‖ ―Metaphysical futurist,‖ she corrected, ―and I‘m as real as they come.‖ ―Just so you know, I‘m a skeptic. Nothing against you, Trixie; I don‘t believe anyone has the ability to predict the future.‖ ―That‘s okay. Your lack of belief doesn‘t make any difference to me and it won‘t negatively impact my reading.‖ ―So, do you do readings for a living?‖ ―No. I make a few bucks at it when I can, but it‘s more of a hobby.

In the purely physical world I‘m the office manager for an ophthalmologist. I‘m as good as any professional futurist, though,‖ Trixie said. ―Care to find out for yourself?‖ ―Not so fast,‖ I said, waving my hands. ―If you‘re so good, then how come you didn‘t know your flight was going to be delayed for three hours and you were going to be stuck at the airport for most of the day?‖ ―Spoken like a skeptical second year law student from Madison.

I‘ve been told Wisconsin Law is a good school, by the way. Besides, who‘s to say I didn‘t know my flight would be delayed?‖ Trixie flashed a triumphant smile.

I blinked twice. ―Okay, that‘s just spooky; a little creepy even. How did you know that about me?‖ ―What? That you‘re a second year law student? I‘m a metaphysical futurist, remember?‖ ―Okay,‖ I said, doubtfully.

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―Of course there‘s the bag you‘re carrying with the fat torts textbook peeking out of it. Lawyers don‘t read law textbooks and regular people sure as hell don‘t read law textbooks; ipso facto, you could only be a law student.‖ ―Okay, fair enough, but how did you know which law school I go to?‖ ―You don‘t look like someone who could afford to go to an expensive private law school. You‘ve got ‗poor girl‘ written all over you.‖ The air quotes she made were a nice touch. ―Since we‘re in Wisconsin I took a guess at the public law school in Madison.‖ ―Amazing. And the second year part?‖ ―Easy breezy. I‘ll bet that bag was your big splurge when you got admitted to law school. Am I right?‖ I nodded, amazed at how transparent I was to her. ―It‘s still in good condition, but no longer new. Your questions are intuitive but somewhat unfocused. That tells me you‘ve made it through at least one year but your legal training isn‘t complete. Law school is a three year deal, I believe, and the new academic year hasn‘t started; so by calling you a second year student I had both your second and third years covered.‖ ―How‘s that?‖ I asked, puzzled. ―I cheated a little. It‘s an old fortune teller‘s trick. Whether you‘re entering your second year or just completed your second year, I knew you would interpret my statement that you‘re a second year law student as correct. That‘s how people‘s minds work. People interpret things in the way that best fits their world. Groovy, eh?‖ ―Wow, you‘re good,‖ I said, shaking my head. ―Told you,‖ Trixie said, pumping her fist in victory. ―Okay, but even if I stipulate the existence of psychic ability, you haven‘t demonstrated that you have any. You‘ve only shown me you‘re

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good at deductive reasoning. You‘re more Sherlock Holmes than Nostradamus.‖ ―We‘ll see. Are you ready for your reading?‖ ―If you‘re really as psychic as you claim, then you already know I‘m the poorest law student in captivity, and I can‘t afford to drop a single dollar into your tip cup. If you agree to do my reading pro bono, you may proceed.‖ ―Of course I already knew that,‖ Trixie said, but she said it a little too quickly and with a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. She briefly scanned the concourse as if searching for a more lucrative prospect before continuing. ―Okay,‖ she sighed, ―hand me something personal.‖ ―Like what?‖ ―Something you wear or carry or use every day. It could be a watch, piece of jewelry or even a pen; it doesn‘t need to be valuable, just as long as I can pull some of your chi essence from it. Or, we could hold hands―that would work too.‖ ―Chi essence? What‘s that?‖ ―It‘s a metaphysical thing. It would take too long to explain.‖ ―Okay. How about this ring?‖ I asked, slipping a silver band off of my right ring finger. ―It‘s about the only piece of jewelry I own.‖ ―Perfect,‖ Trixie said, palming the ring and closing her eyes. ―What are you doing?‖ ―Shhh,‖ the psychic said. ―You‘re blocking the chi. Do you want a reading or do you want to ask questions?‖ ―Sorry,‖ I said, trying sound contrite and not let sarcasm bleed into my voice.

Trixie sat with her head bowed in intense concentration for a full minute. When she looked up, her face was flushed and her eyes were wide.

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―Well,‖ she exclaimed, patting her hair into even more disarray, ―that was interesting. You have the spunkiest chi I‘ve ever channeled,‖ she said, handing the ring back to me. ―Now I‘m curious. What does that mean?‖ I asked. ―I‘m not sure what to say. Where would you like me to begin?‖ ―I‘m sorry. I don‘t understand what you‘re asking.‖ This was somehow turning into a conversation with the March Hare. ―As a metaphysical futurist, I can read your past, your present or what is yet to be. Which would you like?‖ ―If you‘re a futurist, how can you read my past?‖ ―It‘s metaphysics,‖ she said as if that explained everything. My look of incomprehension let her know it didn‘t. ―Look,‖ she sighed, ―it‘s complicated and has to do with time not running in a straight line. Do you want me to read your past?‖ ―I don‘t think so,‖ I said after giving it some thought. ―Good instinct. What I saw was messy, and I don‘t want to turn Concourse D into the set for an episode of Dr. Phil with some Jerry Springer and Jackass thrown in, especially since I don‘t have any tissues with me.‖ ―Okay, how about my future relationships, career, that sort of thing?‖ ―Hmmm,‖ she said thoughtfully. ―No, I don‘t think so. I don‘t want to overwhelm you with what I saw. Way too much there. I think we‘ll just do a reading of your present.‖ ―I know my present already,‖ I objected. ―At present I‘m talking to a metaphysical futurist while waiting for my plane to board. How about you tell me what‘s going to happen to me in the next week?‖ ―Fine,‖ Trixie said. She hesitated and ran her fingers through her tangled hair before continuing. ―I can see you‘re going on a journey,‖ she said softly

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―No offense, but duh,‖ I said, as my eyes swept the airport concourse. ―Not a trip,‖ Trixie said emphatically. ―You‘re going on a journey.

There‘s a huge difference. This will be your first real journey. ―Okay, what can you tell me about this journey.‖ ―You‘ll be traveling by sea, which is always exciting.‖ ―That‘s right,‖ I said amazed. I glanced to my bag to see if any cruise documents or brochures were sticking out. They weren‘t. ―How did you know?‖ ―The nautical images, of course. The first thing your chi showed me was a figurehead. And your chi told me this figurehead is an angel who will come to your rescue.‖ ―A what?‖ ―Figurehead. You‘ve seen the wooden carvings at the front of sailing ships. They‘re called figureheads, I believe. Your figurehead is the bare breasted torso of a woman with an angelic expression holding out a set of scales. I assume the scales represent the law.‖ ―Maybe the figurehead represents me.‖ ―No,‖ she said emphatically. ―This figurehead represents someone or something else. It was blonde and much more, um, endowed, than you appear to be under that flannel shirt.‖ I winced a little at that one. ―But I‘m going on a cruise. I don‘t think they put statues of naked women at the front of modern cruise ships.‖ ―Your ship will have one,‖ Trixie said confidently, ―even if it‘s metaphorical or metaphysical. You should be writing this down. I see many adventures for you ahead—some good and some not so good.

You‘re going to want to remember this later.‖ ―What kind of adventures?‖ I asked as I pulled a pen and legal pad out of my bag. I wrote ―figurehead, angel to the rescue‖ at the top of the page to humor crazy Trixie.

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―I see two separations and one reunion. I see a treasure chest buried under a mountain of gold.‖ ―Slow down. I‘m not a fast note taker,‖ I protested. ―Okay, I‘m ready.‖ ―I have a mental picture of you wrapped in a pirate flag.‖ ―The kind with a skull and crossbones?‖ ―Exactly, but it has another name. I can‘t remember it right now. I think the name is important.‖ ―Okay. Well thanks,‖ I said, starting to rise. ―Sit back down. I‘m not finished, and you really need to hear the rest.‖ I sat. ―I see danger ahead for you on this journey. Very real danger. You must keep your eyes open at all times.‖ ―Danger. Got it,‖ I said writing the word in big letters on the bottom of the sheet and underlining it. ―What kind of danger?‖ ―I see pirates, a wizard, a tempest and a sea monster. All will put you in harm‘s way, but you should be most cautious of the sea monster—he‘s a real threat and he gives me the willies.‖ ―What does this sea monster look like?‖ I asked, focusing on writing down what she said while biting my lip to keep from laughing. ―I can‘t tell—the sea monster is disguised.‖ ―Sea monster in disguise,‖ I wrote, adding it to the list of Trixie‘s predictions. ―This isn‘t a very happy fortune. This is just a week of mindless fun, cruising with my girlfriend. I don‘t think we‘re apt to run into pirates or wizards or sea monsters.‖ ―Sorry, sugar. The chi is what it is.‖ ―Don‘t you see anything good happening to me on this cruise, Trixie? Will I at least get a tan? Have a few umbrella drinks and some good food? Dance until dawn? Anything like that?‖ ―Perhaps.‖ 40

―That‘s not very encouraging.‖ ―It all depends on you. You have many turning points ahead and many decisions to make. At each turning point you may advance or you may retreat. My advice is to always advance. Advance with confidence. If you do that, good things might happen. However, if you retreat…‖ Trixie‘s voice trailed as she shrugged her shoulders. ―Always advance. Got it. What about romance on the high seas?‖ ―Romance? You? Are you kidding?‖ Trixie laughed. ―Hey,‖ I said, my feelings hurt. ―I might not have sweeping blonde hair or a big chest like that metaphysical figurehead of yours, but I‘m no hag. I can be charming and I‘ve been told I‘m attractive when I put some effort into it.‖ ―Sorry, I didn‘t mean to be harsh. You do have very lovely chi,‖ Trixie said trying to sound conciliatory. ―And I‘m not ruling out romance on the high seas; but do you know the odds of a single woman your age finding romance on a cruise? They‘re not good, kiddo. The number of unattached, non-repulsive straight males in your age range on any given cruise approach zero. It‘s not the fates working against you on that front, it‘s statistics and probability. You might not find true love on this cruise or even in life, but if you‘re very lucky, romance might find you some day.

It could even happen today, but then again it might never happen. Your chi didn‘t say.‖ ―Is that it?‖ ―I see one more thing, when your unlucky moment comes, bet everything on 17.‖ ―That makes no sense. Why would I bet on anything during my unlucky moment, and how will I even know when that is?‖ ―I don‘t know. I hope you do when the time comes.‖ ―Well Trixie, this has been fun,‖ I said making a couple of final notes and putting away my legal pad. ―I need to move on. Gate 58 is way

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down there and it‘s almost time to board. Thanks for the reading. I hope you make it to Denver.‖ ―I will. I‘m sure of it,‖ she said with a psychic‘s certainty. ―I don‘t say this often when I give readings, but I‘m envious of the journey you‘re taking. You have amazing chi, and it‘s going to take you to places you never dreamed of. Safe travels, Alora.‖ ―You too, Trixie.‖ As I hustled to my gate, re-running the strange conversation in my head, I came to a sudden stop. The tubby businessman on my tail slammed into me and then glared as if it was my fault he was yakking on his cell phone and not paying attention to where he was going. I hadn‘t given Trixie my name. At least I‘m almost sure I hadn‘t. ―Safe travels, Alora,‖ she had said. How could she know that?

Puzzled, I turned back. The table and chairs were still there, but Trixie was nowhere to be seen. ________________________________________________________________________ Instead of acquiring a mistress or red sports car, Hank Henley decided to write his way through his mid-life crisis. Hank, wife Teri and an alley cat named Scram moved to Helena, Alabama from New Orleans shortly after Hurricane Katrina. His blog “In the Vicinity of Truth” is at www.hankhenley.com.

~~~~~

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Nonfiction

Lost Rusty Bynum We were getting ready to spend a weekend at Elephant Butte Lake.

Mama was packing for everyone so we could leave as soon as Daddy got home from work. Following her instructions, we brought her our clothes and she packed the suitcases, ―we‖ being 10-year-old Prissy, 8-year-old Mimi, and me: 4-on-the-brink-of-5-year-old Rusty.

We were already across the state line and into New Mexico when I realized I‘d forgotten to bring my play shoes. The only shoes I had for our weekend in the rugged desert were the ones on my feet: my Sunday School shoes. Deep red dress shoes with perky little straps that buckled across the instep, they had tiny holes in the leather that made little flower designs. They were the first shoes Mama had ever let me pick out for myself—a splurge, a fabulous pleasure heralding my soon-to-arrive fifth birthday. I loved those shoes. And I knew full well that they were NOT fishing weekend shoes.

Mama was not pleased. She admonished me for neglecting to bring proper play shoes, warning me that I was going to have to be very, very careful all weekend long, not to mess up my Sunday School shoes. For if I damaged them, she assured me, there would be no replacements.

After lunch on Saturday, I went to be with Daddy while he fished from the bank of the lake. I spent a child‘s forever playing in the sand.

Daddy even allowed me to come close enough to the water‘s edge to play with rocks and coarse sand— the nearest thing Elephant Butte Lake offered as ‗beachfront.‘ This child‘s forever ended well before my father‘s passion for fishing. I was hot and tired and wanted to go back to the cabin. Now, please, Daddy.

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He fidgeted and frowned when he looked over his shoulder in my direction. ―I can go by myself, Daddy,‖ I said. ―I know the way.‖ ―No, sugarfoot,‖ he shook his head. ―You can‘t do it alone.‖ How could he think such a thing? I was almost five years old. I knew how to walk over a sand dune and then five minutes away to the cabin. I could even see the cabin from the top of the next dune!

I carefully described the sand dune behind us, how I‘d go to the top and turn to the left and go over one more little dune and then there would be the cabin, right there in front of me.

Daddy asked me to describe the path to the cabin one more time.

He smiled and nodded as I repeated the directions. ―Well,‖ he said, ―it sounds like you really do know how to get there.‖ ―Yes, sir!‖ ―Okay, then. Don‘t go anywhere else, sugarfoot, just walk straight to the cabin.‖ He solemnly watched my every step, waving and smiling encouragement at me before I disappeared over the first sand dune, both of us brimming with confidence that I was virtually home free.

I never did figure out what went wrong. Did I turn in the wrong direction? Did I climb the wrong dune? I turned round and round, but could not see the cabin. Thinking that I‘d turned the wrong way, I headed for another dune, but at its top there were no cabins to be seen.

First determined to fix my mistake, and then desperately searching for anything I could recognize—the cabins, a car, the snack and bait shop, anything at all—I spent hours trying to find that correct sand dune, making dozens of turns right and left in my futile struggle. Afternoon stretched out in heat and desolation. The sun slid behind a far sand dune. The desert‘s long twilight fed my fear.

Dragging myself down from yet another faceless dune, I found myself unable to negotiate a wide patch of deep mud. I was stuck in it, too tired to lift my feet any more. I knew I was caught in quicksand.

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Hadn‘t Prissy told me stories of quicksand, how it grabbed hold of you when you stepped one foot in it and sucked you down until you disappeared into the terrible, suffocating muck? Hadn‘t I seen that movie with Gabby Hayes, when he wandered into quicksand in the swamp, and was barely able to grab a vine on the tree bending above him, to pull himself out just in time? But this was the desert of Elephant Butte.

There were no trees. No vines. I cried as I tried in vain to pull my Sunday School shoes out of the thick, sticky mud. ―Hello?‖ a voice said. It wasn‘t a voice I‘d ever heard before. If I answered I‘d be talking to a stranger, an action so strictly forbidden it must never be risked. Dusk was deepening, I was hopelessly lost, soon to be sucked into death by quicksand, and I couldn‘t even answer the only voice I‘d heard in a billion hours. All I could do was cry. ―Hi, there.‖ It seemed a friendly voice. ―What are you doing out here?‖ I could see him now, a tall, slender teenager appearing out of the near-darkness. He had on blue jeans and a plaid shirt … and good, sturdy shoes. Lucky guy. ―I‘m lost.‖ Surely God would strike me dead now. I‘d ruined my Sunday School shoes and I was talking to a stranger. ―Can I help you?‖ Such a friendly voice. ―I just want to find my mommy and daddy.‖ God or no God, Sunday School shoes or no Sunday School shoes, I had done as much as my almost-five-year-old self could do. I collapsed in sobs.

He reached across the mud and took my hand, picked me up and carried me like a baby. ―It‘s okay,‖ he said, almost crooning to me. ―I‘ll help you find your mommy and daddy.‖ The tall boy carried me over sand dunes, into the darkness. I wept and blubbered the whole time: Mommy was going to be so mad, I‘d ruined my Sunday School shoes and they were the only shoes I had with me; Daddy told me not to go anywhere else, just to walk straight to the 45

cabins, but I couldn‘t see them, I‘d been looking and looking and I never did see them…. ―It‘s going to be okay,‖ he kept saying. ―Everything‘s going to be okay.‖ By the time he carried me over the last dune, twilight had yielded to night. The sky was black velvet splattered with diamonds, the sand dunes endless rolling waves of black. ―Here we are,‖ the boy said. I turned my head and saw a house, its windows glowing with light. When we got to the house, he opened the door and, still carrying me like a baby in his arms, said, ―Mom? Dad? I found this little girl out there by herself.‖ The man and woman looked up in a single motion, eyes wide and mouths opened in matching O‘s of surprise. They looked at each other in wordless understanding. She rose from the couch and came swiftly toward the boy and me, her arms outstretched. The man left his chair and went to the telephone in the kitchen.

She took me gently from the boy, carried me to the couch, gave the boy instructions. He brought a cool cloth. She washed my face and neck, bathed my arms and hands. He brought a glass of water. She held me up and cautioned me to sip it slowly. Not too fast. Not too much all at once. ―What‘s your name, honey?‖ the woman asked me.

She was kind and she made me feel better, but she was still a stranger. ―Can you tell me your name?‖ What the heck. God was going to strike me dead anyway, and if He didn‘t then Mama was probably going to kill me for ruining my Sunday School shoes. The least I could do was be polite. ―Rusty.‖ The whole living room glowed golden. The boy brought me a piece of warm, buttery toast. The woman held me tenderly while I ate it. Not too fast. Not too much all at once. The man talked in a low voice to someone on the telephone.

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I woke to the sharp sound of a fist banging on the front door. The woman‘s arms instinctively tightened around me. When the man opened the door, I wriggled free from the woman‘s embrace to jump off the couch and run to Mama and Daddy. They fell to their knees and flung their arms around me. ―Rusty, Rusty,‖ was all they could say. Mama started crying and Daddy‘s shoulders shook. His breaths sounded more like gasping than breathing. He wiped his face on his shirt sleeve and stood up, his hand on my head for a long time. He left Mama and me hugging and crying, and went to the kitchen. I heard him talking to the man and the boy, and then the boy‘s voice, low and friendly, just like I remembered it when he carried me across the sand dunes to the house with the glowing windows.

I was so glad to see Mama and Daddy, and so happy that they were glad to see me, too. But they didn‘t know about my shoes yet. I had to confess ruining my shoes.

I moved apart from Mama and looked down at the floor. She tried to pull me close again, but I pushed her away and shook my head. ―Rusty?‖ She was utterly bewildered. ―Honey?‖ Ashamed, I looked at my shoes and pointed at them. A whisper was all I could manage. ―I ruined my Sunday School shoes.‖ Mama looked down at the shoes, cradled my chin in her hand and raised my face. ―Look at me, Rusty.‖ I saw sky blue eyes filled with tears. ―It was an accident, honey. It isn‘t your fault. I‘ll clean them up for you. It‘s all right, Rusty. Everything is going to be all right, now.‖ Daddy scooped me up in his arms and carried me out to the car, holding me close. In the dry, black night of Elephant Butte‘s desert, my father‘s cheek was wet against my face. ~~~

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Epilogue Unbeknownst to me, not too long after my first wrong turn over the wrong sand dune, my father made his last cast into Elephant Butte Lake.

Then he packed up his fishing gear and headed back to the cabin to spend the rest of the afternoon with his wife and daughters. With the awful discovery that daughter number three was missing—having neither stayed with father nor returned to mother—weekenders in nearby cabins were enlisted to help in a search. Soon a call was made to area authorities and the search was widened. At nightfall, the men returned to their cabins. With hollow hope, they made plans to resume the search at daybreak.

I never learned the boy‘s name, nor the names of his mother and father, though I‘ve thought of them often through the years. I wonder about the boy. Did he understand that he saved a child‘s life, and with it her father, too? Did he grow up to father a little girl of his own? Did he ever think of me, ever wonder if I grew up and had a boy of my own? He probably didn‘t.

Oh, he knew what he did was important that night. He knew how grateful my daddy and mama were. Daddy made sure the boy and his parents knew that, all right. I heard him say so to Mama on the long drive back to the cabin.

But life has a way of going on, of pushing us out of one day and into the next.

Still, just as he carried me in his arms through the desert‘s dark night, I carry the boy within myself in endless gratitude. In my heart, he will always be that soft-spoken teenager. That angel unaware. ________________________________________________________________________ Rusty Bynum has been writing longer than home computers have been computing. Her writing awards include being nominated for a Pulitzer for drama in 1996. Rusty’s novel Brushing with Death is an ebook on Kindle and NOOK Book. This year, she’s busy writing a new novel and producing a documentary. ~~~~~ 48

Fiction

Double Julia Jones Thompson Breast cancer chose my mother fifth of the five sisters in her family. When I watched her react to the news, I thought of a tiny old woman in a rocking chair, hand on a double-barreled shotgun, quietly saying to an unwelcome and dangerous visitor, ―There you are. I‘ve been expecting you.‖ I kept the thought to myself, for Mom owned neither a rocking chair nor any sort of gun, and at sixty, would have been offended at a comparison to an old woman.

Cancer cannot arrive at a good time, but my mother took personal offense at being bothered during the holidays. ―Well, I got bad news from my last ride on the Scream Machine,‖ she told me one afternoon in November. Neither she nor her sisters ever called their yearly mammograms, which they bore as religiously as church, by the actual word. They tried to top each other with more outrageous euphemisms, as if they could lessen the pain and indignity with irreverence. ―They found a lump. I‘ll have a needle biopsy next week,‖ she said without emotion, putting away her groceries. ―I‘m not telling anybody but you and your dad until I hear back from it, and we‘re having Thanksgiving and Christmas like always.‖ I took the news as matter-of-factly as she delivered it.

Two weeks passed, and the results from the needle biopsy were positive, in the most negative sense. Mom told her sisters.

Each sister fought her battle with cancer differently, and only one had crossed over, ―at least, so far,‖ Mom frequently added with a fair amount of cynicism. She knew long in advance she would fight more aggressively than any of her sisters, and stood by her decision to have a

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double mastectomy in spite of the unsolicited advice they poured upon her. ―You have one lump in one breast!‖ the eldest stressed to her.

Another was furious she would allow herself to be maimed. ―You realize, don‘t you, that you won‘t be just flat? You‘ll be concave. You won‘t even be able to look at yourself in the mirror.‖ ―You don‘t know what you‘re getting into,‖ the third elaborated, an accurate prophecy that would haunt us in the coming months. ―You‘ll probably need three or four surgeries, and you‘ll have drains hanging out of you every time. Those expanders are painful, you know. They stretch your own skin and make fake boobs out of it.‖ To Dad and me, the sisters only asked one question. ―Can‘t y‘all talk her out of it?‖ My mother, who never worked outside home but stayed as busy as anyone I ever knew, threw a magnificent formal Thanksgiving feast for twenty, complete with frills on the turkey and pie made by hand with sugar baby pumpkins from her garden. As December arrived, she could not break away from her holiday preparations to return the calls from the doctor‘s office. Planning and attending all the Christmas and New Year‘s parties, she simply did not have time to schedule yet another appointment. ―I‘ll think about that in January,‖ she said with a smile, but in the tone she reserved for ending conversations.

January arrived, as certainly and as drearily as it always does, and Mom scheduled her double mastectomy to take place at St. Vincent‘s. I marveled at her fearlessness, and never questioned her decision. Again, I pictured her in a rocking chair, stroking the shotgun once or twice before raising it to her shoulder and taking aim. ―I am not afraid of you,‖ she seemed to say, as her index finger curled around the trigger.

On the chilly morning of her surgery, Dad handed over his jingling keys, silently admitting his hands shook too badly to drive. We reached Birmingham before rush hour as pink streaks began to rake across the 50

gray sky. We arrived at St. Vincent‘s early for Mom‘s seven o‘clock appointment, yet still had trouble finding a place to park. I dropped them off at the entrance on the west side, parked, and joined my father in the waiting room. A nurse had already taken my mother back for a prelimnary procedure.

When she returned to the waiting room, I caught an unexpected glimpse of terror on Mom‘s face. In spite of the circumstances, she looked quite pretty. She had her hair done the day before, vanity not allowing her to start a hospital visit without a fresh perm and set, but she was pale under her careful makeup. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth hung open, a trait she abhorred. ―Makes her look stupid,‖ she once said of a childhood friend of mine whose mouth was perpetually half-open. At the sight, I felt a bubble of dread begin to rise. ―They stuck a needle straight in my…,‖ she began as we walked toward the car to begin the journey to the other side of the massive St. Vincent‘s complex for admission. ―My nipple, straight in without any… they didn‘t give me anything for pain. It hurt so bad. It hurt!‖ She stumbled and latched onto Dad‘s arm for support.

When we reached the car, with Dad all but carrying her, she collapsed into the front seat and began to sob. ―But that‘s why we came,‖ I said. ―They had to inject the radioactive dye, right? To be sure the cancer wasn‘t in your lymph nodes?‖ ―I know, but they stuck that needle right in my...right in my....

Take me home.‖ ―I can‘t take you home,‖ I protested. ―You‘re supposed to go straight to admissions and…‖ ―Take me home. I‘m not doing this. I‘ll call the surgeon and reschedule.‖ ―Dad?‖ I appealed, but one look told me I was on my own. He had not spoken a word since my mother said nipple. He stood frozen next to 51

the car door, eyes darting from her to me. He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth. ―You‘re scaring me,‖ I said to my mother, climbing in on the driver‘s side. ―You are scaring me, and you‘re the bravest person I know.

I don‘t know what to do.‖ ―Oh, you think you‟re scared?‖ she snapped. ―They need to fix this.

They need to fix this goddamn disease!‖ She looked up and addressed God through the roof of the car. ―How many of us do you have to do this to?‖ Rebuffed, I didn‘t say more. I simply sat next to my mother, whom I had never heard use a phrase more colorful than ―My stars,‖ the same mother who had corrected me as a child for saying Geez because it sounded like Jesus and in our house, we didn‘t take the Lord‘s name in vain. I sat with my mother while she gave in to her emotions, wrestled them down, and finally regained her self-control all by herself.

A nurse stopped by and asked if we needed help. I waved him away. Dad stood shivering outside the car until Mom scolded him to get in. ―It‘s okay,‖ she said to him, ―I won‘t say nipple again, or even breast if it makes you uncomfortable.‖ He folded his huge frame into the back seat, defeated. His knees were tucked near his chin. Any other time, he and I might have shared a joke about my mother‘s penchant for small cars we could hardly fit into, but today when our eyes met, we quickly looked away.

After a few minutes, Mom perked up. She dried her eyes and touched up her makeup. She forced a grin and asked, ―What are we waiting for?‖ I drove to the east side of St. Vincent‘s. ―You were born right up there,‖ she said, pointing to the third floor as casually as if we were driving by on our way to the mall. ―A long time

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ago,‖ she added with a weak smile. I returned her smile, silently acknowledging the reference to my age.

She led the way as we walked through the lobby toward admissions, chin up, bag slung over her arm, and heels clicking on the spotless tile floor. Dad and I slumped along behind her, having trouble keeping up despite our longer legs.

Mom signed forms and listened to disclaimers with an occasional question. She protested at removing her makeup. ―Even lipstick?‖ ―Yes, ma‘am,‖ the nurse confirmed. ―Jewelry, too.‖ Mom handed me her earrings and I put them on my own bare ears.

She slipped her wedding rings on my pinkie, knowing they wouldn‘t go past the knuckle on my ring finger. ―You got those big hands from your Dad‘s side,‖ she said, but not unkindly.

My father stood outside the curtain as I helped her out of her clothes and into the hospital bed. I folded the petite yellow sweater set and fashionable wool trousers, discreetly tucking her undergarments in between. ―That‘s my prettiest bra,‖ she said as I folded it, a lacy satin contraption carefully chosen to coordinate with her clothing. ―I have a lot of pretty bras.‖ I looked up, but didn‘t respond. I thought of my own bras, just the four of them, dingy white cotton and probably ten years old, and wondered if my mother had taken home the wrong baby from St. Vincent‘s all those years earlier. Once she was settled in the bed, I switched places with Dad, leaving them behind the curtain to have a moment in private. ―Your mother is amazing,‖ one of the nurses whispered, reaching out and patting my shoulder. ―I‘d probably be having a meltdown.‖ I nodded and settled into a hard plastic chair, digging in my bag for a tissue. I tried not to listen as my parents talked quietly, almost

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breaking down when I overheard my father say, ―You look right pretty, Honey. Always do.‖ Moments later as Dad emerged and the nurse closed the curtain behind him, my mother called out, ―Y‘all run along to the waiting room now. I got this.‖ With that, she steadied her hand, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger on breast cancer. Both barrels. ___________________________________________________________ Julia Jones Thompson is an Alexander City native with degrees from Auburn University in Mathematics Education and Computer Science & Engineering. She is a software engineer in Auburn where she presently resides with her husband, Scott, and their cats.

In her spare time, she enjoys cooking, gardening and writing.

~~~~~

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Traditional Poem Sonnet

The Grand Design1 Leonard A. Temme The Grand Design2 Remember that old man we used to fear But never saw, who always seemed to thunder Rage down from the mountain to the still Flat earth to captivate and draw us near Despite ourselves, enticing with a wonder Far stronger than our flimsy, timid will.

He stepped into the sky to disappear Past Jupiter and time. The earth shattered, Cracked to nothing, tumbling us through space, Alone with the terror that our here Is nowhere, our home completely scattered Through the void we‘re told is our new place Of fear; yet wonder still holds as we embrace That old man‘s word made flesh as saving grace.

1

In response to Steven Hawking and Leonard Mlodinow’s recent book, The Grand Design In response to Steven Hawking and Leonard Mlodinow’s recent book, The Grand Design ______________________________________________________________________________________ 2

Leonard A. Temme is a research psychologist employed by the DOD since 1985. He has a MS in mathematics and a Ph.D. in neuropsychology, has published over sixty scientific reports, and his poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in Commonweal, Halftones to Jubilee, Emerald Coast Review and Poetlore among others. ~~~~~ 55

Short Fiction

Weight Carolynne Scott The therapist on Oprah Winfrey's show said it takes much longer to mourn a marriage that fails than it does the death of a spouse. She was right; I feel sure. But then she didn't talk to any couples that afternoon who had separated for two years―mourning all the while―then regrouped during his prostate problems, then separated again. Another thing. Nobody among Oprah's guests talked about lending the separatee your dryer on a snowy day and finding out he has purchased all new underwear.

Oprah and her therapist didn't go into couples who live next door after the marriage. The genial ones on her show lived several blocks apart―each keeping the kids for four weeks at a time and during emergencies or business travel sending them back. "Can't you folks just get back together?" Oprah asked. "You seem so civilized."

Civilized, that's what Kurt and I must be. We've a veneer of extreme civility. He drives me to the grocery when the roads are not clear of a winter storm, mows our backyard, feeds the pets when we're away, and throws the football around with Joey.

Civility. I take his business calls and politely refer them next door.

"May I give you his studio number? I ask the caller who is usually a male decorator wanting an oil painting cleaned or a pier mirror gilded. Sometimes it is an elderly lady from over the mountain wanting a Louis Quinze chair repaired. Do you think for one minute I say, "The big lunkhead doesn't live here anymore?" Heck no. I'm civilized.

Nobody knows what our problem is. After he came back for the crisis―his illness―Mame, my physic cousin visiting from California, informed me he was desperately in need of sex. You couldn't have

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proved it by me. I thought his libido took a hike years ago. Anyway, one night when the althea bushes were scraping the window screens during a storm, I went into his room and climbed into bed with him. "I might have heard a burglar," I whispered.

"Well, at least it got you into my bed," he said, and proceeded to make love to me for the first time in years. The closeness felt so good I confided that I might have an obstruction of some sort down there. And he replied, "Oh, it's just that your legs have gotten fat."

Mad? I was so mad after I thought about it all night, Oprah, that I could have killed him with my bare hands. But then, you and your therapist didn't go into marriages that have been run totally off track by an unexpected pregnancy after thirteen years. Good heavens! That show would have taken weeks to produce. Acute fluid retention. Dangerously high blood pressure. The baby standing on his head for three days because Mama's cervix wouldn't open. A Caesarean section. The Pamper brigade. Then some sort of rivalry developing between father and son.

Fatherly explosions at the dinner table. Oh that show could have won you an Emmy, Oprah!

All these things flit through my mind as Joey and I sit in the lobby at the Greensprings Vintage Movie House waiting for "Throw Mama from the Train" to start. My sensitive young man, now ten, doesn't even ask to go into the video arcade. (We had to count our pennies to do both the Krystal and the movie.) So we seize the only bench and wait.

One by one, other early comers wander in and cluster on the carpet. They shake off wet drops and remove their silky, whispering rain gear piece by piece.

Joey has already examined the futuristic weighing machine which promises a computer printout for only two quarters. One side gives your weight; you punch in your height and presto, it tells how you stack up.

The other side gives you a diet plan. "That's just a gyp," I tell him before he asks for a quarter. "Those things never work right."

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I wouldn't get on a scale in public for all the tea in China, but one by one, each couple does. Most of them are fairly evenly matched in size.

I am the only one with a short escort.

A tall, fair-haired girl with her somewhat chunky date take turns on the scales and compare printouts. Then they move to the drink machines.

I have practically memorized every poster in the place, but I am really thinking about how Kurt told me years ago that he would lose interest if I ever got fat. In the 23 years we have been legally wed, I have gone up two sizes and some 35 pounds. So? As Joey would say. Is that such a crime for a middle-aged woman who had her first baby at 39 and holding?

The bench grows harder, and I watch as a rather plump, young black woman steps on the scales. Her tall date in the stone-washed jeans and cowboy boots has already weighed himself and is studying his piece of white paper. She steps off, removes her short boots, and gets back on.

I have to snicker because I always do that too. She turns and laughs with me. After the machine prints out her statistics, she seizes the paper, brings it over, and stands next to me. I am suffering with her as she reads it. Her date in the pegged jeans says, "That thing said I'm one -eighty and should be one-forty."

"That's incredible," I reply. "You certainly don't need to lose weight." He tosses his paper and goes toward the popcorn machine.

The chunky guy with the blonde says, "It told me that I weighed one-ninety-five, and I should weigh one-thirty-five." We laugh. In his case, I would have guessed two hundred ten.

I glance over at the plump girl still studying her printout. She is wearing a loose pink over blouse with black pants tucked into her grey ankle boots. I am still in my church clothes and a trifle over-dressed, but my Liz Claiborne green corduroy both fits and is long enough for my five foot-ten frame. Besides, it is one size-l4 garment I can still get into.

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"It says I need to lose fifty pounds," the girl finally confides. I shake my head.

"I wouldn't get on that scale for love nor money," I tell her.

Joey jumps up. "Momma, let me try it," he pleads. This frugality is killing him. I dig in my purse for a coin. He takes it and puts it in studiously, then punches all the buttons. I do not relinquish my bench to assist.

"This thing says I weigh sixty-eight lubs and my ideal weight is one-oh-two lubs," he pronounces soberly. "You are underweight thirtyfour lubs," he reads. "Enjoy your day."

A wave of laughter ripples through the crowd―our wetness, weight, age and impatience uniting us. "Those lubs are pounds, Honey," I tell him.

The plump girl shakes her head, then stuffs her printout into her pocket. "I'm going into the arcade," she calls to her date who is paying for a large bucket of buttered popcorn. "You wanna help me?" she asks Joey.

He shrugs and follows her on out.

It was in this self-same theater that I first laid eyes on Oprah Winfrey. She looked like anything but a talk show hostess. She was fat and had that bad eye in "The Color Purple." I've wondered how the makeup people did it. And I'll never forget her performance.

Her grandmotherly therapist on the show that afternoon said children are happiest with both parents if the parents are happy. Next, they are happier with one parent who is well adjusted. They are least happy with two parents who snipe at each other. Mame, until recently, has maintained that I should stay married even though separated. She thinks Kurt will help more with the child. I wonder though.

"He just couldn't get it up?" Oprah would ask. And the therapist would lean forward. "Did he gain weight over the years?"

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"He went up about two sizes―the same as I." Ah here is the meat of the coconut. What is forbidden for the goose is okay for the gander in brand new boxer shorts and sparkling white tees.

"Well, it's clear that he's lost interest in the marriage," the therapist might add. "You'd better try and end it once and for all."

"Tell it!" Oprah says.

"You mean cutting grass and icy roads are not that bad, Oprah?"

"After this," she tells the audience. We'll be right back!" ________________________________________________________________________ Carolynne Scott teaches a fiction workshop at Homewood Senior Center. Her stories have appeared in 17 journals as well as her own collection: The Green and the Burning Alike (Portals Press). She has won an NEA fellowship, five Hackney Literary Awards, the Faux Flannery Award from Georgia College and the Pell City Pens Award for adults.

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Nonfiction

Taksi Terri L. French We disembark the cruise ship at our third port of call, Belize City, and are herded into a congested tourist area. The store fronts look like colorful movie set facades. Signs advertise cheap prescription drugs― everything from Ambien to Xanax. Eager vacationers in flip-flops and straw hats file into Diamonds International, and equally eager salesmen hawk the beauty and affordability of Tanzanite. My husband, Ray, and I want to escape from the boisterous throng we‘ve been sharing elbow space with on the ship, to experience the local people and culture. Hand in hand we weave through the crowd and away from the retail shops, finally finding our way to the street. ―I braid you hair for you, baby?‖ says a barefoot woman on the street. A dark-eyed toddler of indiscernible gender clings to her colorful skirt. My husband smiles and shakes his head of long curls. ―No, thanks.‖ We are accosted on all sides by hair-braiders and taxi-drivers. The further down the rutted road we walk, the lower the prices drop. A young man jumps in front of us, blocking our path. ―Y-you n-need a taksi?‖ he stutters in Rasta-tinted English. ―No, thanks, man. We‘re just walking,‖ says Ray. ―I give y-you taksi ride 'round whole city f-for ten dola each.‖ He squeezes his eyes shut tightly each time he stammers on a word. Something about the expression softens me and I nod to my husband. The young man smiles broadly. ―Mi nayhn Edwin. We yu nayhn?‖ ―I‘m Terri and this is Ray,‖ I say, assuming he is asking for our names.

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―Mi get mi driver and we go.‖ He leaves us standing in the road and a few moments later returns with a large man with long dreadlocks pulled back from a smooth, ebony face. He introduces himself as Earl and quickly commences to start the ―taxi.‖ Lifting the hood of a rusted old Ford Falcon, Earl jiggles some wires and the engine gives a disgruntled sputter. About this time I‘m thinking we should have stuck with the hair-braider.

We get into the back seat, careful not to sit on a protruding spring.

The windshield is cracked and a figurine of the Virgin Mary hangs from the rear view mirror by a blue ribbon which is tied around her neck.

Even though I am not a religious person, I offer her a prayer as we pull off.

Edwin quickly begins pointing at semi-dilapidated structures, many of which have not been repaired since Hurricane Hattie nearly destroyed the city in 1961. ―And dis is where o-our mayor lives,‖ he says, ―It prob‘ly cost one hundred towsend dollahs.‖ Earl, who has remained mostly silent until now pipes up. ―Dat da lone rass!‖ Edwin frowns. ―Is not bullshit—is true!‖ ―Cheese ‗n rice!‖ says Earl. I somehow know this is a curse and not his lunch order.

Edwin seems undeterred by Earl's irritation and continues to toss out facts and figures as his friend shakes his head and sighs. ―No, no,‖ says Earl, ―dat da lone rass. Muk ah tel you sumting. Mi know mi histor-ee!‖ Now Edwin sighs and looks out the passenger's side window.

Ray and I exchange glances and he tightens his grip on my hand. I try to change the subject. ―What language are you speaking?‖ 62

―Dis Kriol,‖ says Edwin. ―Are you brothers?‖ ―No,‖ says Edwin, ―We bin k-knowing each other since we lilboi.‖ ―Ok, well we‘re enjoying the ride,‖ I say, ―and it doesn‘t matter what you tell us because we will believe anything.‖ At this they both laugh. ―You wanna beer?‖ asks Earl, suddenly more jovial. ―Sure,‖ says Ray. It is stifling hot in the Falcon even with the windows down. ―We stop in China town and get beer, is good.‖ I later discover that the Belizean Kriols (which is how the locals spell Creole) make up twenty-five percent of the city's population. They are descendants of the British lumber harvesters―who founded the city in the mid 17th century―and African slaves. The Mestigo are of Spanish and Mayan descent, and the Garifuna are descendants of Carib, Arawak and West African people. In other parts of the city there are sectors of Chinese and East Indians as well as Caucasians from the States and Canada.

We drive through the narrow streets of China town and Earl pulls up to a store front with a drive-thru window. Ray hands him a five dollar bill and he purchases beers for us and Cokes for himself and Edwin.

Thirst quenched, we continue our tour.

We pass many Catholic run schools. In one fenced in dusty school yard two girls in faded blue uniforms sweep sidewalks and pick up litter.

Given the squalor of the entire city, this effort seems sadly pointless. As we drive past a cemetery, Earl again speaks up with customary passion. ―You see dis cemetery? No more room here,‖ he says, pointing at the above ground vaults. ―Our yangbala―teenagers―hurry to get here.‖ ―What do you mean?‖ asks Ray.

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―Da gangs, da drugs, nogud, mon. Was mobeda, now bad agin…and da gov'ment…is Mickey Mouse! You know what mi mean, Mickey Mouse?‖ We both nod our heads. Poor Mickey seems to be the unfortunate universal symbol of dysfunction and corruption.

As we near the end of our journey, I feel a reluctance to leave these young men whose offer I accepted with trepidation just an hour ago. Earl has talked to us about his girlfriend in New York whom he met while she was visiting Belize and Edwin spoke fondly of his four children.

They let us out a couple of blocks from the port and we ask if we can take their picture. They obligingly mug for the camera. Earl hands Ray a card with his email address. Technology finds its way into the crooks and crannies of even the poorest of places. We wave as they drive off and Edwin hangs his head out the window and waves back. Poor, yes very poor…and yet, still, we feel richer for our experience. ________________________________________________________________________ Terri L. French is a features writer for The Valley Planet. Her prose and haiku have appeared in many journals including Frogpond, Heron's Nest, and the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Terri recently published a book of haiku called, A Ladybug on my Words.

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64

Juvenile Fiction

The Lady in the Sun Linda Hudson Hoagland Three thousand habitable planets in the known universe, and I‘m stuck on the only one without a way to phone home.

I know that sounds strange and I truly don‘t know how I got here, on this chunk of hardness whirling around in the sky. All I can remember is that I was awaiting the explosion of Earth as predicted by the forecasters of doom who said we inhabitants of Earth had finally created our end with the chemicals and pollution we pumped into our atmosphere daily.

I guess the end of my world, as I knew it, finally came and I woke up here, in a place filled with forms that looked like human beings except for one important missing function. These human beings, if that‘s what they were, did not talk.

It took me a while to figure out how they communicated and it was with their minds. No spoken words came from their mouths that were only used for fuel intake which is what we call food. ―Where am I?‖ I asked the faces peering down at me. A circle of onlookers had formed as they tried to figure out how I had plopped down into their world without an apparent invitation.

One of the onlookers focused on me intensely, staring at me hard, looking as if he had something he needed to tell me. I‘m sure he wanted to talk with me and I with him but he uttered not a word. ―Talk to me. You have a mouth. Please tell me where I am,‖ I pleaded.

Nothing―no one spoke.

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The intense staring from the one who appeared to be the leader continued to such a degree that I could almost feel his eyes boring into me. ―Perhaps he‘s a mute,‖ I muttered. I shifted my gaze to one of the other onlookers. ―Where am I?‖ I asked a female with long, gray hair and tender faded blue eyes. She waved her hand to her mouth and shook her head from side to side. ―You can‘t talk? None of you can talk?‖ I asked.

She bobbed her head up and down in response. ―What about ears? Do you hear me or are you reading my lips?‖ I asked as I put each hand to the corresponding side of my face covering my own ears.

Obviously I wasn‘t going to get an answer so I turned my head away from the gray-haired lady. ―Shake your head up and down if you know what I‘m saying.‖ When I finished my statement, I turned my head back towards the gray-haired lady and saw her head bobbing up and down again. I could see small ears protruding slightly from under the long, gray hair. Her ears looked just like mine. ―Well, at least, I know you can hear me. How can I hear you?‖ I said as I searched the faces of the onlookers.

They appeared to be talking among themselves. You could see emphasis gestures, questioning glances, as well as apparent smiles as the mental conversations moved through the onlookers like a wave being performed in a football stadium. ―Read? Can you read?‖ I asked excitedly.

Again, they looked like they were talking to each other and the conversation wave stopped at the lady with the long, gray hair. She bobbed her head up and down.

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―Do you have paper and a writing instrument such as a pen or pencil?‖ The gray-haired lady swung her head from side to side.

During my one-sided conversations I had managed to raise myself from flat on my back to a ninety degree sitting position. It had been hard to do because I felt as if the air were pushing against my chest determined to keep me flat on the ground.

I motioned for the onlookers to step away and allow me some space. I wanted to get to my feet so I could see beyond the onlookers.

I‘m a sixty year old woman who is overweight but still able to get around on her own two feet. I can‘t get myself up from the ground gracefully, but I can still make it up, standing straight, without anybody‘s help.

I rolled over to my knees, steadied myself, and proceeded to push myself up from the ground. It wasn‘t a pretty sight and it wasn‘t easy to do. Something or someone seemed to be pushing against my back forcing me to use all my energy to crawl up the air in front of me to an upright position.

I looked around and was shocked at what I was seeing.

This world was hard like rock or maybe it was paved with concrete.

There was no grass, no trees, no green vegetation of any kind.

Unlike Earth where the horizon disappears into an infinite point, this horizon curved down as if the planet were a large concrete ball. ―Well,‖ I mumbled, ―they won‘t be able to scratch a conversation into the dirt.‖ The lady with the long, gray hair appeared at my side. I had not heard her footfalls hitting the hardness beneath my feet so I was startled with her appearance.

She pulled out a white, round object and held it at ready. ―Is that chalk to write with?‖ I asked.

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She bent over at the waist and slowly scratched the word ―yes‖ onto the concrete. ―Thank you,‖ I said as I looked toward the sky.

The sky was not like Earth‘s blue color that was quite often dusted with white, cotton balls of fluffy clouds. The sky I was looking at was pink, a soft pastel pink that was pleasing to the eyes. There were wisps of blue netted around two purple sparkling discs that appeared to be suns.

The colors were beautiful but upsetting to my Earth bound eyes and mind.

Then I realized my spoken ―thank you‖ didn‘t go to the place I had intended for it to go.

The gray-haired lady was watching me closely. She continued to hold the chalk in her small, wrinkled hand, awaiting a question from me.

I knew she had been reading my mind. I‘m sure she deciphered all of the thoughts that had scampered through my brain. I was grateful that I hadn‘t thought any ugly thoughts. ―My name is Ellen Holcombe. Who are you?‖ The gray-haired lady stood poised and ready to write, but made no movement to answer my question. ―Ellen Holcombe,‖ I said as I pounded my chest. ―I am Ellen Holcombe.‖ ―I am called Old,‖ wrote the gray-haired lady onto the concrete. ―Why?‖ ―I‘m old,‖ she answered. ―Good answer,‖ I thought knowing she would hear me in her mind.

Old continued to look at me. ―What is this place called?‖ ―Thrae,‖ she wrote. ―Thrae?‖ I asked as I pronounced it like ‗tray.‘ Old nodded her head in response.

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I took a step forward and discovered that was not what I should do. ―Why can‘t I walk?‖ I asked Old. ―You must air glide,‖ she answered as she showed me her feet that were covered with odd looking shoes. She removed a shoe from her foot that was long, thin, and wrinkled. After removing the second shoe she handed both of them to me.

I slipped them on my feet; they were a little tight, but I managed to get my feet into them.

I nearly lost my balance as I felt the sensation of floating. I looked toward the horizon and my body started floating forward. ―Stop!‖ I yelled and that‘s exactly what I did very nearly forcing myself to tip over onto my face. ―Wow!‖ I sputtered in amazement wondering how my shoes could know what I wanted to do.

Despite the floating shoes, the air was pushing me down.

Old wasn‘t afraid of me, nor I of her. I felt comfortable near Old, holding a conversation with what I would call an alien. ―What‘s happening to me?‖ I asked as I struggled to keep myself upright. ―You are dying.‖ ―Why?‖ ―You are not of this world. You are an alien being.‖ ―I‘m sorry,‖ I answered as I collapsed to ground and my eyes closed for the last time. *** ―That‘s the story of Ellen Holcombe, Earth Lady,‖ said Old through her mind to the children sitting on the concrete before her. ―I recorded everything about her for all future generations to see.‖ ―What did you do with her body?‖ asked one of the children with her mind. ―Look up!‖ 69

The heads of the Thrae children turned up to the pink sky. ―See the first sun?‖ asked Old. They all nodded. ―See the dark spots?‖ Again, they nodded. ―If you look closely, you will be able to see her face. Ellen Holcombe is the lady in the sun.‖ ―Oh, yes, I see,‖ said the children in unison. ________________________________________________________________________ Linda Hudson Hoagland of Tazewell, Virginia, graduate of Southwest Virginia Community College, has won acclaim for her novels, short stories, essays, and poems.

Many of her works have been published in anthologies such as Cup of Comfort along with the publication of her four mystery novels and five nonfiction books.

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70

Humor

Minutes of the Serene Oaks Home Owners Association July Meeting Murray Edwards The July 21 meeting of the Serene Oaks Home Owners Association was held in Earlene Tennison‘s backyard, festively decorated with a Mexican fiesta theme. A total of 42 members and guests gathered on her new pool deck, enjoying the complimentary margaritas and tasty nachos.

The meeting was called to order by President Geoffrey Thomas, who thanked Earlene for the miniature-sombrero party favors. The June minutes were read by the recording secretary, yours truly. For the eighteenth consecutive month, no corrections or additions were required, which, it is modestly noted, undoubtedly sets an association, if not a national record of some sort.

The president asked members to stand, join hands, and bow their heads in a moment of silent meditation for Vice-President Roberta Fay Gilroy as she continues to recover from her recent (and, hopefully, successful) Brazilian butt-lift surgery. ―Troublesome Pets‖ was first on the agenda. Janice Schaefer reported a wandering schnauzer has twice defecated in her flowerbed, completely devastating her prize-winning petunias. While expressing great empathy, the president questioned Janice as to how she knew a schnauzer caused the problem or whether it could have been a nonneighborhood dog or perhaps a wild animal. Although Janice wasn‘t 100% certain, last week she saw a suspicious-looking schnauzer express a lingering interest in the petunias, and judging by the size and composition of the ―evidence,‖ the crime wasn‘t committed by a coyote or

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raccoon. Members were asked if anyone owned a schnauzer. Ronald Hastings admitted he owned a miniature schnauzer, but it was wellbehaved and only made miniature ―deposits.‖ The president reminded everyone of the association bylaw prohibiting a member‘s dog or cat from urinating or defecating on other members‘ yards or gardens without prior approval.

Next on the agenda was ―Yard Signs Regarding Political Candidates or Social Policy.‖ The president reviewed the association rules for the size and display of such signs. He received a letter from Ashraf Fayad, who recently purchased the English Tudor fixer-upper on Live Oak Drive, complaining about the hand-lettered placard across the street with the statement ―My God Can Beat up Your God.‖ Ashraf‘s objection was that the slogan, displayed in Ira Goldstein‘s front yard, supported neither a candidate nor a social policy, but was merely a thinly veiled attempt to chase him out of the neighborhood. Asked to comment about the matter, Ira explained the sign had nothing to do with Ashraf, but was merely an expression of his support for Israel. The president, displaying the type of skilled diplomacy the members have come to appreciate, suggested Ira and Ashraf get together over a beer and kosher hot dogs, with the goal of working out a compromise on the sign.

After another serving of margaritas, the president moved to the next business item, ―Rules and Dress Code for Parties.‖ He reminded attendees that (a) parties should end by midnight, with the exception of New Year‘s Eve; and (b) events involving costumes, with the exception of Halloween, should be approved in advance by the association‘s executive committee. Of particular concern was the recent Roman toga party hosted by Ruth and Clark Osgood, which, unfortunately, was not preapproved. Several neighbors complained about a large, inebriated centurion and his lusty Cleopatra, wandering aimlessly through the neighborhood, knocking on several doors before finding the Osgood residence. Clark gave his side of the story, saying the rule was 72

―ridiculous and stupid‖ and that a strict interpretation of the rule would prohibit even Santa Claus from attending the Christmas party, because, technically, he‘d be wearing a costume. Clark further argued, ―The only reason this is an issue at all is that most of you are party-poopers and were not invited.‖ Ruth offered a motion, which was seconded by Clark, to suspend the costume prohibition from the association bylaws. After a brief but intensely emotional discussion, the motion failed by a vote of 39 to two, with one abstention coming from the president.

The president asked if any member had heard whether a new drycleaning establishment was opening next week in the old pilates and yoga salon, as had been rumored at the last meeting. Ronald Hastings said he had talked to a nice couple from Bangladesh or somewhere in Asia, he couldn‘t remember where, who planned to open their store by the first of the month. They both had red dots on their foreheads, he reported, and seemed to be well groomed and very polite. Clark Osgood asked if he were to invite the new dry-cleaning couple to a party, would the red dots constitute some sort of a costume and need to be approved in advance. The president said that since the couple‘s red dots were most likely a part of their daily attire, it would not be considered a costume and thus exempt from the rule.

The next item of business was ―Commendation of Jo and Pete Fagin‖ for taking quick action to repair their front-yard concrete fountain, after vandals, no doubt part of a fringe terrorist organization, chiseled away a certain anatomical feature of a cherub statue they evidently found offensive. A note left at the crime scene said, ―Serene Oaks is full of smut! Clean up your neighborhoods pornography!‖ The president pointed out the absence of an apostrophe after the word ―neighborhood,‖ which, he said, probably meant the perpetrators had public-school educations. Members were warned the vigilantes could strike again and were urged to report any suspicious activity to the neighborhood security patrol. Margo Hastings said she had seen two 73

Mormon boys bicycling through the neighborhood, but didn‘t believe they were the militant type.

The final item was ―Ideas on Dealing with Mrs. Blaine.‖ The president explained he was somewhat reluctant to make this an agenda matter, but after several homeowners mentioned the problem, he felt compelled to bring it before the entire body. Apparently, Mrs. Blaine chooses to mow her yard early in the morning, prior to sunrise, while wearing her ―shorty pajamas‖ and slippers. Although it could not be confirmed by anyone present, she reportedly chooses not to wear undergarments, as well. Two neighbors―both female, it should be noted have politely asked her to mow later in the day and to wear something more appropriate, perhaps a tasteful warm-up suit. Mrs. Blaine responded by saying she and her husband worked long hours and predawn was the only time she could mow. In fact, her exact words were, ―I‘ll mow whenever I damn well please, wearing whatever I damn well please.‖ Mrs. Blaine was invited to appear before the home owners meeting to present her side of the controversy, but she declined, in a less than gracious manner.

The president stated there is no association bylaw prohibiting members from mowing or maintaining their yards early in the morning, or, for that matter, late in the evening; however, a new bylaw could be implemented by a vote of two-thirds of the members in good standing.

Mr. Goldstein reminded attendees that Mrs. Blaine‘s husband, Peter, a well-known personal-injury attorney who once sued the First Baptist Church over their inhumane treatment of asses in a live nativity scene, would love nothing more than ―to sue the pants off the association.‖ Recognizing the awkwardness of his pun, Mr. Goldstein moved to table the agenda item until the next meeting, and after a proper second, the motion passed unanimously.

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After a final round of margaritas, the president asked for a volunteer to host next month‘s meeting. He announced the theme of the gathering would be a Hawaiian luau, which brought a polite round of applause from the attendees. Ashraf Fayad graciously agreed to open his home to the association, although he wasn‘t exactly sure what a luau was and would need to read up on it. Clark Osgood asked if wearing Hawaiian leis would technically fit the definition of a costume and would need committee approval in advance. The president, showing remarkable restraint, ruled Clark out of order.

There being no further business, the meeting was adjourned.

Respectfully submitted, Jan Silverman-Rodriquez Recording Secretary ________________________________________________________________________ Murray Edwards is a West Texas rancher. His collection of short fiction, Looking for Lucy Gilligan, was named one of the ten best books for 2009 by Texas Writes. His work has appeared in Birmingham Arts Journal, Magnolia Quarterly, Biostories, The Story Teller, Writers’ Voice, and Arizona Literary Magazine.

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75

Free Verse

Reading Rainbow Barb McMakin Our new public library is green, uses gray water to flush toilets and water the shrubs.

The man checking out books towers above his mom as she places his selections in a brown paper bag.

As I scan his items, he tells me he turned forty-two on Saturday.

I wish him a happy birthday.

His tastes run from geometry and physics to a VHS of the Muppets and a copy of Robin Hood.

My printer jams and chews up his receipt. I apologize and he says, Dat's okay, you can wite it down.

Beyond lodge-like windows, sleet pelts the limbs of bare poplar. Wind hammers wet maples, their golden leaves scatter.

Boyd places a gnarled hand on his mother's 76

elbow, against the pilled wool coat that weighs her down. She adjusts his blue knit beanie as they walk side-by-side past the stone fireplace.

I watch them lean into each other as they near the exit.

Their slant forms a triangle formidable to the world. ________________________________________________________________________ Barb McMakin is a board member for Green River Writers and the Kentucky State Poetry Society. In September 2010, Finishing Line Press published her first chapbook, Digging Bones. Proceeds from her payment copies were donated to The Center for Women and Families. Barb is employed by the Oldham County Public Library.

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77

First Chapter Novel

Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child Jane Sasser I‘d like to be able to say that when my mama died, I was there to hear her last words. I reckon now I should have been. But it wouldn‘t be true. She‘d been sick for quite a while, and my daddy‘s sister, Aunt Lou, had come to stay with us. Watching my mama lie there in the bed was a little bit boring and a whole lot scary, so I was perfecting the art of playing by myself. I could spend hours playing with my dolls behind the piano, or playing ―Hi-ho, Cherry-O‖ by myself underneath the bushes in the front yard. I made up friends and played their parts. In the end, I always won, because I figured that was how it was supposed to turn out.

You know, happily ever after, like in all the best stories.

I remember the car that came to take her away. I guess it was an ambulance, because it was white, but they didn‘t use the lights or the siren. After a while, Daddy came to find me under the bushes. He sat down beside me in the dirt. ―Emma Justine, Mama died,‖ he said. ―Oh,‖ I said. ―That means she won‘t be coming back,‖ he said.

I thought hard about that. ―Well, where did they take her?‖ I said. ―They took her to the funeral home. But that‘s not where she is.‖ He hesitated. ―Mama is in heaven now.‖ At the Antioch Baptist Church, we had talked a little about heaven.

Mostly fluffy clouds and angels. I guessed that would be all right for Mama, even though I thought it was really mean of her not to come back. ―We won‘t see her again?‖ I asked, rechecking the facts. ―No, Emma Justine,‖ he said.

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But he didn‘t know I would see her one more time. It was the night before the funeral, before what Aunt Lou called ―the receiving of friends.‖ Aunt Lou took me into a room filled with flowers. At the front of the room was a big metal box draped in roses. Aunt Lou took my hand. ―I know your daddy thinks this should be closed casket, but that just don‘t seem right,‖ she said. ―You ought to have a chance to say goodbye to your mama.‖ She led me up to the metal box, then dropped my hand. Gently she folded back the roses, then opened the lid. Mama was sleeping inside that box.

Aunt Lou picked me up so I could look at her. She looked peaceful.

I reached out and touched her cheek, which was cool. ―Daddy said she was in heaven,‖ I said. ―She is,‖ said Aunt Lou. ―How can she be right here and in heaven?‖ I asked.

Aunt Lou set me down. ―She just is.‖ *** A few days later I told Daddy about Aunt Lou, and I asked him the same thing. ―How can Mama be in the box and also in heaven?‖ Daddy took my hand and led me out into the yard. It was a hot summer evening. He took me under the oak tree and scooped something up from the ground. It was an ugly little brown shell. ―Do you know what this is?‖ he asked. ―No,‖ I said. ―Listen,‖ he said. We were both quiet. Then all around us, I heard a buzzing, singing sound. It rose and then fell away into silence. ―Those are cicadas,‖ he said. ―And this is a cicada shell. Cicadas hatch out of these shells and leave them behind. But you can hear them, right? Even though you can‘t see them? They‘re somewhere up there in the trees. I guess maybe what happened to your mother is sort of like that. She left her shell behind in the box. We call that a casket.‖ 79

―The shell or the box?‖ I said. *** To tell the truth, I don‘t remember my mama much―just memories that I‘m not sure how much are mine and how much I‘ve made up from what my daddy has told me. One of the stories he told me was how she was a reader, which I guess makes sense because she was an English teacher before I was born. She was especially partial to Jane Austen. As a matter of fact, that‘s how I got my name: Emma Justine, after the Austen character and a friend of my mama‘s. When my daddy would tell me that story, he would always say it was a good thing I turned out to be a girl, because if I was a boy she was going to name me Fitzwilliam Darcy. But the way Daddy would tell it, with that far off look in his eyes and that slow smile, you could just tell he would have let her do it. And then he would have had to call me Billy.

The first time I saw Inez was a couple of weeks after my mama died. My daddy‘s sister, Aunt Lou, had been staying with me while my daddy worked, but she said it was time for her to get home and take care of her own family. So Daddy hired Inez.

The morning I first saw her, I was sitting at the breakfast table, eating my Froot Loops. Daddy was casual on the subject of breakfast. I pretty much ate whatever I pleased that we had picked up at the Food Town on Saturday morning. The doorbell rang, and Daddy put down his newspaper and went to answer it. He came back with a colored woman.

It was hard to say how old she was. She was definitely not young, but she still stood up straight and stout. ―Emma Justine, this is Mrs. Inez Johnson,‖ he said, bending down to look me in the eye. ―You call her Miss Inez. She‘s going to help take care of us. Now you do what she says.‖ She and Daddy stepped outside for a few minutes while I went on eating Froot Loops. After a while, Inez came back in. She walked over to the breakfast table, looked me over, and said, ―Now listen here. You and 80

me are going to spend a lot of time together. You just call me Inez, and I‘ll call you E.J.‖ She took a look around our kitchen and shook her head. ―Mmm, mmm,‖ she said. ―Well, I reckon he done the best he could, what with your mama sick for so long.‖ She had a big old black pocketbook that she plopped down in a chair. ―First thing I need to know is, can you cook?‖ I looked at her carefully to see if this was a joke. She wasn‘t smiling. It didn‘t seem to be. ―No, ma‘am,‖ I said. ―Uh-huh,‖ she said, nodding, like that was just about what she would expect. ―Well, I guess it‘s pretty plain you don‘t clean, either. So here‘s what I‘m thinking. I say we get this place straightened up, and then I am going to teach you to make biscuits. It‘s high time we commenced your education.‖ I wasn‘t real sure about what education meant, and I for sure didn‘t know about commencing. But Inez gave me the dishtowel and a few lessons about cleaning dishes, and she went to work with the mop. I was going to learn that Inez liked to sing when she worked, a line of music, a gasp, a grunt. Sometimes she would sing hymns, but this first time it was a song about a woman named Frankie whose man Johnny had done her wrong. And then out of the blue she shot him, right through the hardwood door. I had never heard anything like this in my short little life.

I had to say, I could see that my life had taken a sudden turn for the better, and that was even before we got into the biscuits.

Inez went through the cabinets and pulled out a large brown bowl. ―That‘s my mama‘s bowl,‖ I said. ―Honey, I don‘t reckon your mama will mind,‖ she said.

She poured the flour into the bowl, then hollowed out a hole. ―Now, this is the well,‖ she said. Next she scooped a handful of Crisco out of the can and put it into the well. She poured in some milk. ―First you have to work it through your fingers,‖ she said. ―Put your hand in here and I‘ll show you.‖ 81

The dough was cold and sticky. But Inez showed me how to work it quickly, and then how to roll it out on the table. ―You don‘t want to work it too long, or your biscuits will be tough, and they won‘t be fit to eat,‖ she said. She used a glass to cut circles. She let me put the circles into the baking pan.

Later, we ate the best biscuits I‘d ever put in my mouth, dripping with butter and some jelly Inez had found at the back of the refrigerator. ―Tomorrow I‘ll bring some real preserves,‖ she said. ―And I reckon later I‘ll have to show you how to make those, too.‖ *** Later that week Inez and I were in the kitchen. I was cleaning off the table after lunch, trying to remember my mama‘s face, the way she had looked. Already now it wouldn‘t seem to come into focus. ―Inez,‖ I said. ―Don‘t you think it was mean of my mama to die and go off and leave my daddy and me?‖ Inez was washing dishes in the sink. She scrubbed so hard her whole body shook. She turned right around and looked at me. ―Now, what was that?‖ she said. ―I said, don‘t you think it was mean of my mama to die and go off and leave my daddy and me.‖ Inez pulled her hands out of the dishwater and wiped them off on a towel. ―You come here,‖ she said, sitting down at the kitchen table. She pulled me into her lap. She felt soft and hard at the same time, like a woman who likes her food but isn‘t afraid to hoe out a garden. ―Honey, your mother didn‘t get to choose,‖ she said. ―Don‘t you think she‘d be right here with you now if she had a choice?‖ I snuggled into Inez. I loved the way she felt. ―I don‘t know,‖ I said. ―Well, I do,‖ she said. ―Your mama wasn‘t the kind of woman to up and leave her baby if she had any choice.‖ ―Did you know my mama?‖ I asked.

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―Not really,‖ she said. ―Then how do you know?‖ Inez let out a sigh. ―My family owns a farm, too, E.J. We have a big vegetable garden and fruit trees, and we have a little stand where we sell the things we grow. Before I came to stay with you, I used to work at that stand. And sometimes your mother came to buy things.‖ ―What kinds of things?‖ I interrupted. ―Oh… I guess the things she didn‘t grow in her own garden.

Peaches, watermelons, cantaloupes. Sometimes some honey or relish, I think. But listen. What I was going to say was this; your mama was always nice. She had the kindest smile, and she‘d always say to me, ‗How are you today, Miss Inez?‘ And you could tell she meant it. People aren‘t always so nice to us colored people, E.J. When I heard she had the cancer, it near about broke my heart.‖ I sat up and looked at Inez. ―Do I look like her?‖ Inez looked at me like she was thinking hard. ―Welll…‖ she said. ―Actually, you favor your daddy more. But when you smile, you‘re your mama‘s child.‖ *** After that I liked to ask people to tell me one thing they remembered about my mama. I started with Miss Helen, who was the teacher of the five-year-olds Sunday school class at Antioch Baptist Church. I thought she looked old enough to have known my mama.

We were supposed to be cutting out and pasting pictures of animals onto a picture of Noah‘s Ark. ―Miss Helen, did you know my mama?‖ I asked.

Miss Helen gave me a sugary sweet smile. ―Why, yes, honey,‖ she said. ―Can you tell me one thing about her?‖ I asked.

Miss Helen adjusted her glasses and looked across the room, where Joe Baucom had just pinched Terry Hinson when they were 83

supposed to be drawing baby Jesuses. ―Your mother always colored inside the lines and pasted her pictures right where they were supposed to go.‖ You didn‘t have to be any more than five years old to know she was just making that up. *** One afternoon after lunch, after Inez had finished washing up the dishes, I asked her to read me a story. ―I don‘t know about that,‖ she said. ―I don‘t read that good. I quit going to school after sixth grade.‖ ―How come you quit?‖ I said.

Inez shrugged and wiped her hands on the dish towel. ―It just seemed like they was other things I needed to do,‖ she said.

I decided to ask Daddy later if I had to go to school past sixth grade. ―I reckon I could tell you a story, though,‖ she said. ―Let‘s go on over in the den and sit down. My feet are about wore out.‖ We went into the den and I crawled into her lap. My feet dangled over the edge of the recliner. ―Let‘s see…‖ she said. ―Long time ago, way down in the country, there was this old woman. She stayed in an old house with her son. They was so poor, they didn‘t have much of nothing.‖ ―Were they white or colored?‖ I asked. ―Why you want to know?‖ she said. ―I‘m trying to see them,‖ I said. ―Well, since it‘s your story, I reckon they was white.‖ ―What did they look like?‖ ―They looked like white people,‖ she said. ―Use your own imagination a little bit. You want me to tell you this story or not?‖ ―I want you to tell it,‖ I said. ―All right, then,‖ she said. ―These people I‘m talking about, they was so poor, one day the son went out into their garden to dig up their 84

last potatoes. They didn‘t know what they were going to do after that.

And while the son was digging up potatoes, he felt his hoe strike something hard. He worked that hoe around in the dirt just a bit, and he dug up a toe.‖ I sat up straight in her lap. ―He dug up what?‖ ―You heard me,‖ she said. ―He looked at that toe and he didn‘t know what to do. So he took it into the house to his old mama, and she threw it into the pot with the potatoes to boil. That night they had meat with their last potatoes.‖ I could feel the hair stand up on my arms. None of the stories my daddy had read to me were anything like this. ―That night they went to bed with full bellies. They figured they‘d sleep pretty good. But way over in the night, the old woman woke up.

She lay there for a while. She couldn‘t figure out what had woke her up.

And then she heard it again. Away off there in the distance, something went,‖ Inez‘s voice dropped, both deep and whispery, ‗―where‘s my toe?‘‖ I wiggled tight against Inez. ―The old woman thought maybe she‘d just imagined it. She thought maybe she‘d better just go back to sleep. And she was just about to, when she heard it again. This time, it was a little closer.‖ Inez‘s voice was a little louder. ‗―Where‘s my toe?‘ ―The old woman got out of bed. She went to the door and checked the locks. She checked the windows. She figured they were safe. So she went on back to bed. And then she heard it again. It sounded like it was right outside her house. ‗―Where‘s my toe?‘ My heart was beating fast. I pressed against Inez‘s bosoms. ―The old woman woke up her son. And then they heard it rattling the door. They crawled under the bed. And then they heard the door open.‖ ―But it was locked,‖ I said.

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―They heard the door open,‖ Inez went right on. ―And they heard footsteps coming across the floor. They heard the bedroom door open.

The footsteps came across the room. And then the old woman saw feet stop in front of the bed.‖ Inez paused. ―‗Where‘s my toe?‘‖ She grabbed my arm. ―YOU got it!‖ I screamed.

She laughed. ―It‘s not funny,‖ I said. ―It is now,‖ she said. ―Nobody can scare you with that story again, because you know how it ends.‖ *** That night I woke up and couldn‘t get back to sleep. I was thinking about the toe. I was wondering whose toe it was, and how it had got into the garden. How could you lose your toe? And what kind of people would eat a toe, without any more thought than if they were eating a tomato or an ear of corn? Worst of all, did they eat the toenail, too?

I couldn‘t stand it anymore. I went into Daddy‘s bedroom and woke him up. ―Daddy, have you ever eaten a toe?‖ I said. ―Lord help, Emma Justine, what is the matter with you?‖ he said, wiping his eyes. ―Well, have you?‖ I said. ―No,‖ he said. ―You‘re having a bad dream. Now go on back to bed.‖ I went. But I leapt onto the bed from across the room, in case whatever it was that had lost its toe was hiding under the bed, instead of the old woman and her son. ________________________________________________________________________ Growing up in a North Carolina family of storytellers, Jane Sasser has always loved words. She began writing at the age of six. A high school teacher of many young award-winning writers, she now lives in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, with her husband George and retired racing greyhounds. ~~~~~ 86

Traditional Poem

Have I Become So Different?

Monita Soni Why could I not hear you?

When you called me over and over Why did I not jump out of dreams?

And lift you close to my bosom Hold you tight as you had held me when I was born You had not cared one bit for losing your job Or the dirt from seven cross roads that Meme had sprinkled on your curly hair To ward off evil aspects of ―Moola Nakshatra‖ Under whose sullen brow I was born You had held me warm all night long Woke up at the crack of dawn Day after every day to procure Freshest of fresh milk and honey Later you fed me the tastiest Morsels of fruit, fish and fowl Watched me grow fair and tall You always had new stories for me Dancing poems and words of courage Your laughter kept my growing pains at bay Now when ordeals uncertain keep you up at night Your limbs curl up like a ―babe in arms‖ And you cannot recall more than four animal names Why did I not know that

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It‘s my turn now to hold your hand?

How could I leave you all night on the cold bathroom floor?

Why do I not put you before me like you have?

Why don‘t I post a sign up in my place of work? ―Will not return‖ And spend this spring with you. ________________________________________________________________________ Monita Soni, MD grew up in Mumbai. A pathologist with her own diagnostic laboratory in Decatur, Alabama, Monita also enjoys writing. She is active in the Huntsville Literary Association and has published many poems and essays, which she reads regularly on the local NPR station. Monita rejoices in simple pleasures of colors, patterns, music, art and poetry.

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88

Short Fiction

Roger and Susan Shawn Jacobsen Roger, I‘m leaving you. I‘m going to live with my mother.

Your mother‘s gonna let you stay at her house?

Huh? What do you…? Of course she will.

Okay.

Okay?

Okay.

Don‘t act like you don‘t believe me. Don‘t act like I‘ve done this a million times and you know I won‘t do it, because I will. I‘ve had it!

I‘ve tried and tried to make this relationship work and I‘m through!

I know you‘ve never left me before.

Never.

Nope.

So why are you acting like you don‘t care?

I do care.

You don‘t act like it. We‘ve been married for two years, and I‘m walking out the door.

Why are you leaving?

Why? Because you don‘t give a damn about me. You never want to talk about what I care about. You come home from work and talk about you, and I listen to you like a stupid little housewife, and you never ask me about the things that matter to me. I live all alone in this house and I can‘t stand it! I thought a husband would be a friend, but you treat me like a plant! I have a life you know, and thanks to you it‘s a pretty dull one. But that part of my life is over now.

If all that‘s true, you should leave.

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Oh, God! Paul would never have talked to me that way. Paul, at least, would have acted a little like he cared he was losing his wife.

Maybe he did care.

Roger!

You divorced Paul, remember?

Yes, I remember distinctly.

Susan, I can‘t help but notice that you‘re still here.

I wasted two years of my life on you.

But you‘re still standing here.

Shut up!

Why are you still here?

You never cared! You never cared about me! Like…like rubbing my shoulders. When we were dating, you used to rub my shoulders. You never do that anymore. I wish every day that you would just walk over to me and rub my shoulders, but you won‘t.

Did. What?

Did. I never ‗did‘ rub your shoulders. You said ‗do‘. It would be ‗do‘ if we were still together. But you‘re leaving, so you should say ‗did.‘ You are the stupidest man in the world! It‘s not enough to be nice, you know. You never learned how to keep any woman happy.

That‘s probably true.

Oh, I hate my life. This reminds me of my arguments with Paul.

That‘s all we did. I hated it.

This is our first real argument, Susan.

Yes, as a matter of fact. That‘s because you don‘t care enough about anything to argue. You don‘t have any passion. You wouldn‘t get excited about a bomb in your own house.

What do you care enough about to argue about?

This!

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This isn‘t us arguing because you care about something. This is you telling me you‘re leaving.

I am leaving.

No, you‘re not.

You egotistical bastard! With an attitude like that…you‘re just making me happy about my decision.

What kind of an attitude would you prefer?

Act like you care!

How? By arguing?

Yeah! Yeah, show you can get upset about something. Show that for the first time in your life something matters.

Why? You‘re leaving. Why do you care how I act?

Well, I might have just not freaking left, if you showed you cared!

You want me to be mad?

Yeah. Now that you mention it. I do. That‘s what I want.

It occurred to me.

What?

I know why you started this.

What?

You said you‘re leaving just to get me mad, but you‘re not going to leave. Since I know you‘re not going anywhere, why get mad?

I‘m damn sure leaving now!

You going to go back to Paul?

I might.

You said you hated the arguments you used to have with him.

Yeah, but he cared about me. I should have never left him.

Maybe you‘re right.

You never loved me, did you? You never loved me at all.

I did.

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Well, you don‘t anymore, because you‘re watching me walk out the door, and you don‘t give a damn.

Goodbye.

Goodbye!

Isn‘t that your suitcase you‘re forgetting?

I‘m not forgetting it! I have to know one thing, Roger. Did I ever do anything that made you mad?

No. Nothing.

I don‘t believe it.

Remember, Susan? When I told you about something that bothered me, you always just said ‗sorry‘ and then you changed. You never disagreed. You were the perfect wife.

I did that?

Yes. I guess I did. I was a fool, wasn‘t I? In that respect, yes.

But it could have made you mad. It would have hurt us if I argued.

It hurt us that you didn‘t.

I…I just wanted to make you happy.

I see that.

Were you happy, Roger?

Yes. Why wasn‘t I? I think you know.

I don‘t understand how you could let me leave. I have a suitcase and everything.

I would never let you leave me.

But you did.

No, I didn‘t. I never would. Here. Here‘s a tissue.

You believed I wouldn‘t go?

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I knew it.

You had that much faith in me?

I have more faith in you than in anyone or anything I‘ve ever known.

Here‘s your tissue. You need it more than me. I‘m not leaving.

I already told you. I know. ________________________________________________________________________ Shawn Jacobsen is the author of thirty-five short stories and two novels including South Side, a young adult science fiction. He is an instructor at Auburn University where he teaches Ecology, field biology, and scientific writing. He has one daughter and currently resides in Auburn, Alabama.

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93

Nonfiction

In Search of Enduring Alabama Voices Betty Spence When at the age of 39 I became a student at the University of South Alabama primarily to study creative writing, I had no idea I was a ready poetry writing student. I had begun to publish articles in religious publications, but I was not into poetry and knew next to nothing about finding one‘s voice as a writer—let alone as a poet. But as they say, ―When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.‖ In my case the ―teacher‖ was Walter Darring, an accomplished artist and poet in his own right—and to think I signed up for his poetry writing class thinking it might be a breeze. As it turned out, it was, indeed, a breath of fresh air.

Mr. Darring was so passionate about poetry and the craft of writing poetry, I came to think of him as an apostle of poetry. I had never heard of James Dickey or his poems. But listening to Mr. Darring read Dickey‘s poem, ―Falling,‖ based on the experience of a 29-year-old stewardess falling out of an airplane through an emergency door that suddenly sprung open, was a spiritual experience.

Studying poetry writing with Mr. Darring, (I took every course he offered) stirred to life an emerging poetic voice I didn‘t know I had. By the time I earned a BA degree with a concentration in Creative Writing in 1978, writing poetry had become a viable form of expression for me. Even so, not all of my poems, then or now, pour onto the page. Some of my would-be poems turn out to be vocal warm-ups. A good many poems I wrote to fulfill an assignment were off-key and out of range. But now and again an assignment brought forth a poem like ―Inner Resources‖ that sang itself.

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Inner Resources When the impulse came To spend myself I held nothing back.

Spent…

It‘s gone now, All means of exchange.

Unless, Unless a hidden coin Lies buried In a second purse.

To be sure, studying creative writing at USA exposed me to different fields of knowledge that put me in touch with the voice within.

One threshold moment occurred in the listening library where I came upon a recording featuring street cries and work songs collected and vocalized by Julian Lee ―Judy‖ Rayford, a noted Mobile writer, poet, artist and folklorist. Peddlers‘ songs rising, falling, and breaking into falsetto resonated with me.

I couldn‘t imagine an acclaimed Mobile literary figure celebrating folk ways of peddlers and their kind and for the first time I knew ―their kind‖ included me. I came from a long line of peddlers of one sort or another. Both my grandfathers peddled as did my daddy—Raymond D. Smith, alias Banana Man, Green Man, Watermelon Man. While my forbears‘ street cries, field hollers, and work songs had not been recognized among my kin as folk art, Rayford‘s renditions, accented with florid syllables and melismas, put words in my mouth.

Shortly before ―Judy‖ Rayford‘s death, I got his permission to use his strawberry street cry in a poem about my grandpa Smith who in his day peddled fruit in and around downtown Mobile.

Strawberries Over cobblestones, Round Bienville Square, Papa Shep peddled Old Mobile, singing, 95

Strawberries, Straa…berries, Stee…raa…berries.

I‟ll be glad When grapes git chere.

Before I became A peddler of thought I yearned for a Legacy other than, Strawberries, Straa…berries, Stee…raa…berries.

I‟ll be glad When grapes git chere.

But now that age And reflection Sweeten berry and vine, I am content.

Like Papa Shep, Daddy was a born peddler. Mama, too. But she had a soul above peddling. She had her fill of peddlery as a child. When she was a girl Grandpa Tillman ran a fruit stand on the corner of Old Shell Road and Tacon Street in Crichton, Alabama. Her family lived on Tacon and early of a morning she had run up to the stand to help Grandpa set up, which often made her late for school. Embarrassed at being tardy, she found excuses to stay home. Mama had a bright mind but with no encouragement to get an education, she only finished fifth grade. Even though Daddy managed to make a good living for Mama and me and my two brothers, Mama loathed his business. Nonetheless, by the time I was around 10 years old Daddy had become a successful tradesman who bought bananas wholesale at the Banana Docks on the waterfront in Mobile and fresh produce at the Farmer‘s Market. Being ever a lover of the green road; the verdant field, Daddy hauled his produce ―up the country‖ to retail markets in the vicinity of Thomasville, Al.

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That day in the listening library brought to mind going as a little girl sometimes to the docks with Daddy to wait for the banana boat to come in. A poem of Rayford‘s featuring a work song heard around the turn of the century on the banana docks in Mobile, inspired a poem of my own.

Song of the Banana Man Awakened by some inner clock, You move by memory Through the sleeping house Of childhood dreams.

In the stillness You sing your song.

Git „em green there, Johnny git „em green!

Come on here, boy!

Pick it up! Pick it up!

Tote „em on down, son—on down the line.

For you, song-singer Whose hands and back Made a living conveyor track, I take up a refrain.

Tote „em on down a long time, sweet daddy! a long time, sweet daddy!

Tote „em on down the line—take „em away.

Some time before Daddy stopped hauling produce he built a small grocery store in the edge of our front yard on the corner of Springhill Avenue and Page Street which Mama operated. She had a good business head and knew how to turn a profit. In the early 50‘s, however, poor health forced her to retire from full time work. Later when Daddy quit hauling he turned the concrete block store building into a stock room and curb market which he ran until his peddler‘s heart began to fail in his green old age.

With only a 7th grade education Daddy worked for himself, possessed a venture, and assumed accountability for the outcome, yet he was an unsung entrepreneur. In Mama‘s eyes Daddy would forever be a 97

peddler. One of the things Mama detested was that Daddy‘s stock was perishable and if he didn‘t have a quick turn-over, he had to absorb the loss. I can still see Daddy at the kitchen sink paring away dark spots in over-ripe Chilton County peaches—sweet, yellow juice flowing between chapped, work-strutted fingers. In the summer we always had big bowls of luscious culls in the refrigerator.

In 1981, a picture of daddy‘s curb market painted by Mobile artist, Kathy Whitinger, was one of 11 original paintings of Mobile landmarks which appeared in the Junior League of Mobile‘s ―One of a Kind‖ cookbook. Daddy ran his ―one of a kind‖ curb market into his late 70‘s.

Following Mama and Daddy‘s deaths―they died within eight months of each other in 1998―the home place was sold and the dilapidated fruit stand with its walk-in coolers and storage rooms was razed to the ground. If not for the lay of the land, you wouldn‘t know the place. What went for real is clean gone. All that‘s left is what daddy fashioned out of air…and to think Mama had no use for words that make more sound than sense. She begged Daddy to save his dying breath. But she might as well have saved her own. For having outlived the cold and caution of decline, his songs—and mine—go on and on: Got turnip greens and mustard greens; White velvet okre for yo butterbeans.

Come to think of it, perhaps I sound most like myself when I sing in a voice I didn‘t choose, but which chose me—the challenge being to speak authentically, sincerely from the heart. Perhaps my true voice emerges when I try to imitate the rumblings of long, narrow display tables on wheels Daddy called ―gondolas.‖ Or sound the jingle-jangle of dangling, silver-blue pan scales Daddy didn‘t need, to tell how many Sand Mountain tomatoes make a pound.

Please Ma‟am, don‟t mash the tomatoes!

Fifty cents a pound, Ma‟am, three pounds, a doller. ~~~ 98

Acknowledgments Thanks are due to the editors of the following magazines, in which the poems cited in this article appeared: Inner Resources, Channels, Encore, Looking South, Sampler; Strawberries, Negative Capability, Rhyme and Reason, Song of the Banana Man, Mobile Bay Monthly.

________________________________________________________________________ Betty Spence, native Mobilian, retired newspaper correspondent, photographer and columnist, belongs to numerous writing associations in Alabama. Her passion is reading and writing poetry and devotions. The Alabama State Poetry Society named her Poet of the Year in 1998 and her works are widely published. Betty lives in West Mobile with son, Chuck and 15-year-old Chihuahua, Harley.

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Juvenile Fiction

Snow-Cone Victory Patricia J. Weaver ―Foul ball!‖ the umpire called.

I can‟t do this, Charley Beth thought as she glanced around the field at her teammates. I‟m going to let everyone down. What a joke! Kids against the Triple-A League‟s best hitter. Charley Beth stared at her glove then lifted her arm to wipe the sweat from her forehead and whispered, ―I just wish this day was over.‖ The Triple-A league‘s homerun champion, Marty Stevenson grinned with confidence from home plate. Chosen as the hitter in the promotional contest set up by the youth league and the owner of the Comets, Charley Beth knew Marty had good reason to be confident. The contest pitted the best youth league team against Marty‘s hot bat. If Marty hit a homerun or a base hit, the youth league would receive season tickets to next year‘s home games, team jerseys, and a $250.00 donation for the youth league fund. If the youth team managed to get Marty out, they still got the tickets and jerseys but the Comet‘s owner would also build a new field making it possible for more kids to play baseball.

Families of the youth team, Comet fans, and reporters packed the stadium. Win or lose, a girl pitching to a minor league player was news.

Television crews set up cameras to capture every pitch.

Charley Beth turned to right field and looked with pleading eyes at her best friend Wesley. He signaled for a time-out and waved the other team members to the mound for a conference. ―Make a circle around Charley Beth so she can get a break from those cameras,‖ Wesley said. ―Man, did you see how far that last foul ball went? If it had been fair, it would have been a homerun for sure.‖

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―Thanks Wesley, that‘s just what I need to hear,‖ Charley Beth snapped. ―My stomach hurts, my pitching arm feels like a wet noodle and my knees are knocking together so hard they‘re jarring my teeth.‖ The other players shifted their feet, uncomfortable with her lack of confidence. Wesley reached out, took the ball from Charley Beth‘s glove, and rolled it between his fingers, ―You giving up?‖ ―No, but Marty‘s good. I don‘t think I can strike him out.‖ ―Who said you had to? We‘re a team. We‘ll help you get him out.

Just throw the ball.‖ Charley Beth kicked the loose dirt on the mound and mumbled, ―Okay.‖ ―Wow, that sure gives me the confidence to go back to right field, assured that we‘re going to win.‖ Wesley looked toward home plate, ―Who won Most Valuable Player this year with the most strike outs and an impressive ERA?‖ ―Me.‖ ―Who has a sixty-six mph fast ball and can throw a mean knuckleball?‖ ―Me.‖ ―So, what‘s the problem? Let‘s get this sucker out so we can go to Coach Mike‘s house for a pool party.‖ Wesley handed the ball back to Charley Beth. ―Remember, you‘re our pitcher because you‘re good, not because you‘re a girl.‖ ―Thanks Wesley, I‘ll do my best, I promise.‖ ―Play ball!‖ the umpire yelled. ―Come on, kids, stop stalling! Just throw the ball, little girl, it‘s hot out here.‖ Marty dug his right toe in and swung the bat a few times. ―Just put it over the plate and I‘ll do the rest.‖ Charley Beth picked up the resin bag and dusted her pitching hand, then wiped her hand on her pants. She kicked the dirt in front of

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the rubber to make a hole, placed her glove behind her back, and looked at home plate for the catcher‘s sign.

Fastball! Was the catcher crazy, her fastball was like a slow ball to a pro player? Charley Beth shook her head. The catcher looked at Coach Mike and gave the signal for a knuckleball. Nodding, Charley Beth rolled the ball in her glove and knuckled it being careful to get the right grip.

She placed her right foot behind the rubber and started her windup.

The ball started out high but dropped to just above the knees before it crossed home plate. Marty tipped it off the end of his bat. The ball sailed into shallow right field. Wesley waved off the center fielder, shaded his eyes with his glove, and yelled, ―I got it! I got it!‖ Charley Beth knew Wesley had lost the ball in the sun. She hid her face with her glove. Everyone gasped when Wesley closed his glove too soon and the ball glanced off the tip. Allen, the second baseman, dove for the tipped ball with his glove stretched out.

When the crowd cheered and applauded, Charley Beth peeked over her glove. Allen was on the ground, arm raised, and the ball safely snowconed in his glove. It took a minute for her to realize the team had gotten Marty out. When it sank in, she jumped up and down on the mound singing, ―We did it! We did it!

From home plate Marty called, ―Hey kid!‖ Charley Beth stopped her celebration and looked toward home plate. Marty tipped his hat and called, ―Good job!

Grinning, she called back, ―Thanks.‖ As Marty walked toward the dugout, Charley Beth called, ―Hey, Mr. Stevenson!‖ ―Yea?‖ ―Will you sign the ball? It would look great in our trophy case.‖ ―Sure, bring it by the locker room. Why don‘t you bring the whole team? I‘ll show everyone around.‖ ―Okay! That would be great. Thanks.‖ 102

Charley Beth searched the wall of faces in the stand, looking for her parents. She had just spotted her mother when Wesley grabbed her from behind. Jumping in circles, he yelled, ―We did it! We did it! I knew we could do it!‖ ―Wesley, stop! I can‘t breathe and I‘m getting dizzy!‖ Wesley turned Charley Beth loose. ―Man, did you see that beautiful catch Allen made?‖ ―No, I hid my face. You‘ll have to tell me about it,‖ she grinned at him, then threw her hat in the air. ―This is the greatest youth team in the world. I can‘t believe we got Marty Stevenson out.‖ Charley Beth noticed the other players were running toward second base to congratulate Allen.

With a grin, she pushed Wesley off the pitcher‘s mound, ―Bet I can beat you to second base,‖ she called as she sprinted to join her team. ________________________________________________________________________ Patricia J. Weaver resides in a small community just outside of Florence, Alabama. She is a member of the Society of Children Book Writers and Illustrators and writes a monthly article for the Kidsville News. Comments can be emailed to dawgprint1@comcast.net or visit her blog www.writeronahorse.blogspot.com

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Nonfiction

Theater of War Leonard A. Temme During a recent Army-sponsored conference on military medicine, I saw the ‗Theatre of War‘ read scenes from Sophocles‘ Ajax. The reading was presented as a formal, three hour medical program complete with medical continuing education credits. It took place in the conference‘s main assembly room, a large general purpose space where more than a thousand chairs had been arranged for audience seating, facing an elevated platform with a long table and a couple of microphones. There were no props, no scenery, no curtains, no effort to create any kind of dramatic effect; the only lighting was from the harsh fluorescent ceiling lights.

After six people took their places sitting behind the table on the platform, an Army Colonel opened the program with a few introductory remarks, briefly mentioning the great impact that the ‗Theatre of War‘ had already had on many soldiers and their families; then he introduced the director, Bryan Doerries. For his part, Doerries said very simply that Sophocles‘ play, Ajax, a description of war and its aftermath 2,500 years ago, remains powerfully relevant today. After briefly introducing the actors, he filled in the background of the play, placing it in the context of the Trojan War. Ajax was one of the greatest Greek warriors; a grandson of Zeus, a giant, powerful, strong, and courageous. Ajax‘s tragedy has nothing to do with the fact that he was second to Achilles as a warrior; no one rivaled Achilles. The important point for Ajax was that following Achilles‘ death, his armor was to be awarded as a prize to the most deserving Greek hero, the warrior next in line. It is impossible to overstate the value of the armor, which was far more than symbolic. The gods had made the armor

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specifically for Achilles, so there was nothing else like it; it was priceless and all but impregnable.

But two claimed the prize, Ajax and Ulysses, and the Greek generals were called to judge the relative merits of the two claims. Ajax saw his claim as obvious and Ulysses‘ as completely unworthy, laughable even, arguing that Ulysses‘ claim dishonored Achilles since all Ulysses‘ contributions dealt with deceit, lies, treachery, stealth, falsehoods, stratagems, and cunning, all acts of a coward done at night, having nothing to do with honor, courage, strength, or prowess on the battlefield, the characteristics of Achilles. During his argument, Ajax warned the generals of what they already knew; Ulysses had a genius for twisting words and their meanings, and with his verbal skill he would weave a web of appearances and lies to justify his claims. Ulysses denied none of this, glorying in his accomplishments, declaring the value of cunning over brute force. For Ulysses, candor was a vice, a reckless self indulgence as likely as not to result in defeat. Ulysses described Ajax as an ox that can beat and be beaten, strong but brainless, a fool; and himself as the guiding intelligence planning, setting goals, and developing strategies. Intelligence drives muscle; by itself, strength is dumb and useless so any victories of the muscle are really victories of the intelligence, so anything that Ajax claimed as his honor, really belonged to Ulysses. Ulysses persuaded the generals who awarded him the armor, completely undercutting, disqualifying Ajax‘s moral sense, integrity, value, self-worth, reason for being. With that one act, Ajax saw the generals as gullible and corrupt treacherous liars, cronies of Ulysses, and himself as ridiculous in their eyes, a joke, mocked, betrayed by politics and favoritism. Later, that night, a herd of cattle, defenseless, dumb animals, was brutally mangled and slaughtered, and in the morning when the atrocity was discovered, the generals sent Ulysses to investigate; he suspected Ajax. All this is background.

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The play opens with Ulysses sneaking around Ajax‘s encampment, looking for information about the slaughter when Athena, a principle Olympian goddess and special protector of Ulysses, reveals herself to him. She explains that during the night, Ajax went to revenge himself on the generals and Ulysses, slaughtering them in their sleep. She says that Ajax was in a general‘s tent, standing over the sleeping man, ready to strike, when she clouded Ajax‘s mind, confusing him, sending him out into the fields among the cattle where he butchered them, in his delusion imagining he was revenging himself on his enemies. Athena describes Ajax dragging cattle into his tent and torturing them through the night, thinking he was torturing Ulysses. According to Athena, had it not been for her, Ulysses would be in the place of those animals. The mad slaughter of the cattle was what it appeared, the work of a madman; Athena had destroyed Ajax‘s mind.

As Athena tells the story, Ulysses is terrified of Ajax and several times tries to run away since Ulysses knows that he is nowhere near a match for the giant. The goddess chides Ulysses for his fear, repeatedly telling him that she will protect him and urges him to enjoy the madness and defeat of his enemy. The two of them do not come off at all well here; the goddess is as petty and cruel in her cheap abuse of Ajax as Ulysses is cowardly. In the next scene Ajax‘s wife describes the horror of the night, trapped with her mad husband raving at the animals, filling the tent with gore and blood and hacked body parts. All night Ajax had demanded that she join him in his delight. She is more than terrified; as far as she is concerned, her life has ended, her husband has gone mad and all she can think about is getting away and protecting her child from the raving lunatic Ajax had become.

As the play continues, Ajax realizes what he had done, he expresses regret at failing to kill Ulysses and the generals; but the regret is momentary, overwhelmed by the shame of slaughtering cattle, an act that is senseless and ridiculous and that further undermines his identity 106

as a warrior-hero. He knows that people will laugh at the slayer of cattle, and seeing himself as ridiculous and absurd in the eyes of others, he talks of killing himself. His wife, friends, and servants all recognize that he is a genuine hero and are honestly devoted to him. They encourage and support him as best they can. There is a moment in the play when Ajax seems to be picking his life up again, to see some possibility of a future, some glimmer of hope and renewed optimism; but when he is alone, he hurls himself on his own sword. It may be that the momentary optimism was due to the misguided plan in which he sees suicide as the solution, and with that plan came a kind of optimism that put those around him off-guard, misleading them into believing that he was past the danger of suicide. It is also possible that the optimism could have been an intentional feign; a deceit, as much to confuse others as himself; or, it might have been a true spark of optimism that was too short lived.

The last part of the play deals with the aftermath of the suicide, the horrible grief and additional dishonor it brings to the family.

The play was condensed to about forty-five minutes and read by the panel of professional actors who gave a dramatically powerful performance, convincing in essentially the same way that radio plays and prose fiction are convincing, with the imagination easily filling in all the hubbub and violence and gore that are really beside the point, a distraction from the essential drama, the passion of characters confronting a break at the core of their being. The drama was compelling because of imagination; after all, Homer and the earliest Greek plays were little more than a voice declaiming a story; so we, the audience, were fully engaged with a serious piece about war and its effects on the people caught up in it, not the vanquished Trojans but the victorious Greeks, the hero Ajax and his family. After the reading and a brief intermission, a panel of experts replaced the actors, a philosophy professor who specialized in the ethics of war; a retired Navy psychiatrist whose patients were primarily Army, Navy, Marines, or Special Forces 107

warriors; an Army Major who, identifying himself as a warrior, had served at least three tours in Iraq or Afghanistan, and said that he had come to feel really alive only in battle; and his wife who described how her husband changed with his experiences of violence, war, power, and brutal death. All of these people were brilliant in an open, mature, honest discussion. But this was all still setting the stage for the last part of the program, an hour of open audience participation, response, and discussion.

About four hundred people were in the audience, men and women; and I would guess the average age of the more than half who were in uniform to be about thirty. I sat quietly and listened, humbled by the comments, observations, analyses, and insights of the audience, people who had directly encountered war with its life/death situations affecting the core of their being. The audience easily saw through the conventions of the play to recognize Ajax‘s delusion, with its sense of persecution and betrayal, his abuse of his wife and family, his erratic behavior toward his friends and allies, and his eventual suicide, as a textbook example of what we now call post traumatic stress disorder. The audience understood; the play, about twenty-five hundred years old, spoke clearly, powerfully, and directly to the audience about their contemporary lives and their experience of war, an experience that set them apart from the rest of society marking them as scared. I was unprepared for their sophistication and the immediacy with which they understood that Ajax was their story. No one seemed to be trying to impress with phony or borrowed insights or proverbial war-stories that become fictionalized with retelling; the tone of the conversation was not like that at all. These people had nothing to prove; they were simply telling their personal experiences of deployment, trying to make the experiences commensurate with their normal, day-to-day civilian lives. During that third hour, I heard much that still resonates, that would be borrowed and out of place for me to recount; but one observation was particularly 108

startling because it identified a kind of human wound that I had never before quite recognized. A nurse, a very pretty woman who seemed barely in her twenties, had been assigned to care for detainees, the captured enemy, people who were trying to kill her and her brothers and sisters, the Americans. She knew her loyalties were divided and felt like a traitor; to the extent that she was successful as a nurse, she was helping the enemy. In her position everything she did was wrong in some way, betraying someone, her patients or her companions. She described herself as morally wounded, needing some form of moral healing, an insight that resonated throughout the hall. Once named, I recognized the need in my own civilian life.

These soldiers had experiences of mythic proportions, and I was privileged to witness them opening up and examining these experiences.

What amazed me was the key, the catalyst, a twenty-five hundred year old story reaching right into the center of our being to uncover the exact same story. It may well be that stories are a way of making some kind of sense of the world, telling ourselves that there is some order to what happens to us and there are few things that demand such ordering as powerfully as the chaos of war; and it may be that Sophocles understood this. After all, Sophocles had been a general and a priest, and his audience in Athens was filled with members of the citizen Army who were, at that time, themselves recovering from their war with Persia, the land now called Iran. ________________________________________________________________________ Leonard A. Temme is a research psychologist employed by the DOD since 1985. He has a Master’s Degree in mathematics and a Ph.D. in neuropsychology, has published over sixty scientific reports; and his poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in Commonweal, Halftones to Jubilee, Emerald Coast Review and Poetlore, among others.

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Humor

Legal Magic Debra H. Goldstein In my book, keying a Mercedes because you think its eighty-plusyear-old owner is a Nazi meets the definition of malicious mischief, but explain that to my mother‘s mah jongg group. They are convinced that a Bunker & Davis attorney should be able to find a loophole even if there is ―willful destruction of personal property from actual ill will or resentment towards it owner.‖ ―Stephen, the policeman who arrested Hannah must hate his own mother.‖ Mrs. Berger hands me a piece of her chocolate marble cake.

Unlike my mother who specializes in store bought, Mrs. Berger has been baking this same cake every fifth week for almost forty years. That‘s like four hundred marble cakes Karen Berger, Hannah Schwartz, Ella Goldring and my mother have shared.

Today, they watch me inhale Mrs. Berger‘s cake while their ivory tiles sit on the floor of Sunshine Retirement Village‘s cardroom. ―You need to call someone,‖ Mrs. Berger instructs. ―Well,‖ I start to respond to Mrs. Berger, who, while not quite five feet tall, has the most authoritative voice and demeanor I have ever encountered in my life, but Mrs. Goldring interrupts. Mrs. Goldring‘s doctor attributes diminished impulse control to her last stroke, but mother claims ―Ella always wandered between the past and present as long as the topic was ‗me,‘ ‗me,‘ ‗me.‘‖ ―Maybe you could call Judge Holly and explain this silly misunderstanding,‖ Mrs. Goldring says. She peers over her reading glasses at the piece of paper entitled Notice of Hearing. Pausing to push a straying strand of grey hair behind her ear, she continues. ―Girls, you

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remember how nice Judge Holly was when he spoke to garden club?

Surely Stephen, you can convince him Hannah shouldn‘t be punished.‖ Fat chance. They say a good lawyer knows the law while a better lawyer knows the judge. I only appeared in front of him once, but I know Judge Holly is a snake. If I take the case, which I don‘t want to do, I will be lucky to get Hannah Schwartz off with a slapped wrist, restitution, and maybe, because of being seventy-three, community service. Judge Holly was kinder and gentler while on the re-election circuit, but only because he knew if he got beat he couldn‘t qualify for a pension.

Clearing my throat, I explain the law to these women whose faces I know so well. No go. They believe keying a Mercedes from front to back is understandable, not a criminal act. Ignoring mother, I try again. ―A criminal lawyer would know Judge Holly better….‖ I can feel the look my mother is giving me. There will be no palming off of this case. What can I do? Jewish guilt is a wonderful tool.

My mother has known how to use it since I can remember. I think that‘s part of why I became a lawyer. So she couldn‘t have the joy, while flicking an ivory tile with a long pink nail the exact shade of her hair, to brag about ―My son, the doctor.‖ Like Mrs. Berger, who sometimes brags on her son, the veterinarian, my mom takes credit for having raised a professional. While close, it doesn‘t count. The only one who can boast a medical doctor is Mrs. Schwartz, but she never does. He married a non-Jew. At least I did that right. My wife, Jennifer, and I were in Hebrew school carpool together. We both have stereotypical curly dark hair and brown eyes, but at six two and 210 pounds, I‘m no Woody Allen, and Jen cleans up well, too. Our daughter, Molly, is six, but with thick wavy brown hair, charcoal eyes, and a nose to die for, I‘m already trying to figure out how to keep our doors locked.

My mother takes credit for Molly‘s good looks. If I point out that Molly doesn‘t resemble her, she reminds me that if she hadn‘t married 111

my dearly departed father, Molly‘s hair and nose wouldn‘t be in our family.

These women trust the head of BD‘s collections department, who finished in the top ten percent of his class, to craft a winning defense strategy. They don‘t realize I‘m the only attorney sitting in a basement with thirty women who spend every day threatening people to pay up money they owe. It isn‘t glamorous, but the firm is happy with the department‘s profitability so I‘m sure I can stay on the non-partnership track. ―I have appeared in front of him and while I can‘t call the judge, if you want, Mrs. Schwartz, I would be honored to represent you.‖ ―Thank you, Stephen.‖ Mrs. Schwartz responds in heavily accented English. ―You make Kimbleski rot in hell.‖ ―Whoa, we‘re trying to get you off. Punishing him isn‘t on our agenda. Our problem is you keyed Mr. Kimble‘s car while he watched.‖ ―Kimbleski,‖ mother corrects. ―He was a guard at Dachau when Hannah was there.‖ Mother reaches across the couch and takes one of the blue veined hands lying in Mrs. Schwartz‘s lap. Gently pulling it to her, mother turns it over and pushes Mrs. Schwartz‘s trademark long sleeves up so I can see the number tattooed on her wrist. ―Tell him,‖ mother encourages. ―I tried to tell the policeman that Kimble wasn‘t his name, but he wouldn‘t listen. I pointed out the scar on his shoulder, but the policeman mumbled ‗men often have scars or tattoos you‘d never expect to see under their shirts‘ when he took the key out of my hand.‖ ―We thought the officer was going to show us something under his shirt, but he just guided her into his car and said he was ‗arresting her for malicious mischief,‘‖ Mother says. ―I tried to ride with her, but the rotten pig wouldn‘t let me. I had to drive my own car to bail Hannah out.‖ I can imagine what the cop was thinking when he looked from a perfectly toned octogenarian staring at his damaged Mercedes to four 112

angry women with sagging chins, over-made up faces, and hair colors that range from pink to blue-grey. I would have arrested the one with the key in her hand, too. ―Don‘t jump to conclusions,‖ mother reproves me. ―She was justified. Kimbleski is a Nazi.‖ ―A Nazi,‖ Mrs. Goldring repeats loudly, as if I haven‘t heard the first few times. All my legal instincts and gut feelings know this isn‘t a legal defense, but looking at the stillness with which Mrs. Schwartz holds her exposed arm, I listen. ―I remember him. His voice, eyes, scar.‖ For a minute, I think she is pulling a Mrs. Goldring. ―When I saw him hosing his car, I blurted out: ‗Commandant Kimbleski.‘ He turned, almost hitting me with the water, and said, ‗My name is Kimble.‘‖ ―Why didn‘t you just let it be? Maybe call the Wiesenthal group who track war criminals? Why key his car?‖ ―So the police would come.‖ Now, I understand. Mrs. Schwartz believed a policeman on her word would arrest Kimble. Instead, the young officer assumed, especially with the key still in her hand, that Mrs. Schwartz was the one to lock-up. ―After your mother left, I tried to talk to Mr. Kimble. He ignored me and just kept trying to wash the mark off his car,‖ Mrs. Berger said. ―I don‘t know if we can wash this case away. Mrs. Schwartz, even with your reasons, keying a car is malicious mischief.‖ ―Stephen!‖ ―But I hope to find a way around it.‖ Mother smiles. *** As I‘ve said before, Judge Holly is not a jovial jurist. His claim to fame dates back to a neck injury eight years ago. Until he had surgery, he heard cases lying on a cot behind his bench. It kept his docket from backing up, but I can‘t tell you how disturbing it was trying a case to an unseen judge.

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Judge Holly is sitting up again, but he doesn‘t tolerate fools or foolish cases. For today‘s pre-trial conference, I fit both categories. Not only does my client meet the technical requirements of the alleged crime, but I‘ve filed a creative cross-complaint hoping for a settlement.

Unfortunately, Erica Stern, Kimble‘s attorney, doesn‘t believe in settling.

She argues ―that with all due respect to the defendant‘s past, there can be no reasonable belief of fear of assault from a garden hose…‖ ―Ms. Stern, I understand your position, but before we proceed, I suggest,‖ Judge Holly says looking straight at me, ―that the two of you go have a cup of coffee.‖ I barely place the two cups of black coffee I bought in the snack bar on the table, when Erica makes it clear that the only way she‘ll settle is ―full restitution, formal apology, and withdraw the assault charge.‖ ―I can‘t agree to that.‖ My mother would kill me. I wish I could make everything about this case disappear, but I never got too far learning magic. I couldn‘t do simple card tricks let alone pulling rabbits out of hats. ―It seems to me that the first thing we need to determine is if Mr. Kimble has standing.‖ ―What?‖ ―If Kimble is actually Kimbleski, as Mrs. Schwartz believes, there is no case. He should be turned over to INS for deportation. Perhaps you should advise your client of our position?‖ Erica Stern has an ethical duty to talk to her client before we tell Judge Holly we are at impasse. She wanders down the hall toward the pay phones, but comes back so quickly that I know she made as much contact with her client as I made with mine before refusing the settlement offer. We return to Judge Holly‘s chambers to find he left but that if we were unable to settle; we must return tomorrow at nine.

Back at my office, I look at my billing sheet. Maybe, I can justify Mrs. Schwartz‘s case as pro bono. Somehow, I don‘t think BD would be happy with my association with this case. Putting the timesheet down, I 114

try earning real billables. I dictate a few Mae West letters, the kind inviting you to come see me with payment within ten days. My phone rings. Erica Stern.

No pleasantries. ―I talked to Mr. Kimble again. He is dismayed at the anguish he has caused Mrs. Schwartz.‖ ―Excuse me?‖ She ignores me. ―Because he is an immigrant, he is sensitive to the emotions that triggered this situation. He didn‘t know why she keyed his car, but now he has no desire to upset her further.‖ ―So?‖ ―So, Mr. Kimble, having considered everything, especially the age of everyone involved, proposes an offer that while I‘m not fully in agreement, he insists I tender.‖ ―I‘m listening.‖ ―Mr. Kimble took a short term lease at Sunshine while handling some business in Atlanta.‖ We‘ve hit a nerve. The only short term leases at Sunshine are caused by death. ―He plans to move this weekend.

Consequently, rather than returning for trial and to spare Mrs. Schwartz, all claims dropped and no further action.‖ ―The Mercedes?‖ ―A simple paint job that he will take care.‖ ―His status in this country?‖ ―Status quo.‖ ―Where is he moving?‖ ―I‘m not at liberty to say.‖ ―I‘ll run it by my client. Considering the fear and memories that Kimbleski generated in her, I‘m not sure she is going to be willing to settle without monetary compensation.‖ I pause, hoping Erica Stern will offer more, but she doesn‘t. Telling her I will get back to her, I hang up and yell ―YES!‖ Then, I call Mrs. Schwartz. ―Whatever you say, Stephen. You‘re my lawyer.‖ 115

I admonish her not to hit the tops off parking meters with a baseball bat. She has no idea what I‘m talking about, but tells me what a good boy I am.

After formally accepting the offer, I dummy a few hours to cover my creative practice of law. Then, I think how mother is going to sound at the next maj game talking about ―my son, the lawyer.‖ ________________________________________________________________________ Judge Debra H. Goldstein, an award winning author and loyal University of Michigan alumna, lives in Hoover, Alabama. Her debut mystery novel, Maze in Blue, was published on May 1, 2011. For more information about Judge Goldstein, Maze in Blue, or her other writings, check-out www.DebraHGoldstein.com.

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116

Free Verse

What I Love About Frederick Gail Denham If I trotted downstairs in bright blue and orange pajamas at six A.M. one foggy morning, to discover two cheetahs and a giant python in the kitchen,

what I admire most about Cousin Frederick is he wouldn’t explain. He’d snap an egg or two into bacon grease in our cast iron skillet and ask if I wanted my coffee black or white. ________________________________________________________________________ Gail Denham's passions in writing are family and humor. Her short stories, poems, essays, news items, and photos have been published nationally and internationally for over 30 years. Producer of three poetry chapbooks, she and her husband live near Bend, Oregon. They have four sons, 14 grandchildren and five great-grands.

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117

First Chapter Novel

The Man in the Blue Denim Shirt from Sarah's Alice

Jo Wharton Heath Would it be better to order the chicken sandwich she wanted and endure her husband‘s lecture or to remain silent and endure the ham sandwich? ―Two ham sandwiches and water to drink,‖ Joseph told the waitress. ―Wait,‖ Sarah said, ―I want the chicken sandwich.‖ She pretended not to notice her husband looming toward her, but her hand began to shake in her lap. ―Yes, Ma‘am,‖ the waitress said, as she corrected the order. ―Coming right up.‖ When the woman left, Joseph began. ―Sarah, our church believes the husband controls the family. You are not to contradict me, especially in public. The tenets of our church come from the Bible, and the Bible comes straight from God.‖ Sarah knew those beginning words by heart. She assumed her posture of contrition—bowing her head and staring down at the table— and tuned him out. Her hand stopped shaking. As he lectured, she heard the murmur of conversations around her and the pulse of the ceiling fan, and she peered around the truck stop restaurant without raising her head. The sun, reflecting off the windshields of the trucks and cars, made it uncomfortable to look out the window. The tables and chairs needed to be cleaned.

A man, with curly brown hair and a blue denim shirt, drank coffee from a mug at a table not far from her. A small plate on the table near 118

his elbow held the remains of a sandwich. Long ago Joseph had forbidden her to drink coffee, but that didn‘t keep her from wanting some. The strong smell of caffeine aroused her memories of drinking coffee with her father on the back porch of their house. They always preferred silence and felt close to each other.

The man raised the mug to his lips and sipped a little, while he read a newspaper. Sarah wondered where he was going.

Sarah and Joseph were returning to Auburn from Hamilton and their annual visit with his mother, a stern woman with dark eyes and a tight small bun she set purposely to pull her face tight. His mother had anointed Joseph head of the family when his father died and Joseph was ten—a pivotal moment in Joseph‘s life, to hear him tell it—and she often pressed into his brain that God had blessed and empowered him from birth. Thank goodness, they only saw her once a year.

They had left Hamilton a few hours ago and had stopped for lunch at the truck stop in a rural area northwest of Birmingham near Sumiton.

They were about half the way home. The scenery along the way was little more than pine forests, small farms, and occasional fruit or vegetable stands. Sarah was accustomed to the trip. Like going to the dentist, it had to be done whether she liked it or not. ―Do you repent in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost?‖ Joseph demanded.

His question signaled the end of the lecture. She lifted her head slightly and nodded.

Joseph began to tap his forefinger on the table with a harsh, steady beat, a sign he was still angry, and he stared at her with dark eyes. Sarah‘s whole body began to tremble. Had he known she wasn‘t listening to his lecture? She clutched her hands together in her lap in a useless attempt to keep them still. She knew he wouldn‘t inflict God‘s punishment on her in front of other people but he might when they got home.

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Sarah‘s heart pounded as she did her best to ease his anger the only way she knew how. With her eyes staring at her napkin, she sat quietly. She waited patiently for her heart to slow down to normal and for Joseph‘s tapping to stop. Then, she glanced at his face now relaxed.

Perhaps she would be spared.

The lunch order arrived. Sarah studied her husband while he busied with his lemon; she knew not to begin eating until after his first bite. His straight pale hair, which flopped over his forehead, and his boyish freckles made him seem casual and tolerant. Only his eyes carried a warning. They were sunken and dark, and therein lay Joseph.

They ate quietly. Sarah pushed her tongue around and through the chicken sandwich in her mouth to savor its deliciousness. Joseph was suspicious of anything enjoyed and was already angry, so she was careful not to smile. She appreciated his cold silence; it wasn‘t the punishment he thought it was.

How different his silence was from the silence she and her father had enjoyed together.

She glanced, quickly so Joseph wouldn‘t notice, at the man in the blue shirt. What if she were married to him instead? She could have whatever sandwich she wanted, of course. But more than that, she savored the thought of talking to the man without having to humor him, without having to pretend.

Only a few minutes ago as Joseph parked the car, a blond woman wearing jeans had left the restaurant. ―Look at those pants and that dyed hair,‖ Joseph had said. ―The harlot might as well hang a sign around her neck. She‘ll be punished by God, now or later. Right, Sarah?‖ ―That‘s right, Joseph,‖ she had carefully answered.

Joseph had made a liar of her.

He pushed back his chair. ―I‘m going to the john, and we need to get out of here. We‘re running late as it is. Pay the bill when the waitress 120

brings it—should be about seven dollars. You‘ll keep the receipt and leave a tip of exactly one dollar.‖ He tossed his scuffed gray wallet on the table and hurried off.

Sarah watched Joseph stride toward the dim hall at the back of the restaurant. Whenever he was outside the house, he wore his preacher clothes: black shoes, trousers, and tie, with a collared crisp white shirt.

Usually, he wore his black suit coat as well, but it was too hot for that today. He was a tall man, and he walked with a stiff, upright posture.

When he turned the corner into the hall, she could smile. She treated herself to a daydream of approaching the other table and asking the man drinking coffee if she might have a sip. Then she remembered her plain appearance: no makeup, long brown dress, black leather oxfords, and hair pulled into a respectable knot. In wanting her to look virtuous, Joseph made her matronly and dull.

She was only twenty-four but looked old and worn out.

Sarah watched as the man in the blue shirt tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table—just for coffee and a sandwich! She watched as he left the restaurant.

The front door was ajar.

Scared to think what she was thinking, Sarah began to breathe heavily. She glanced at the back of the restaurant and didn‘t see Joseph anywhere. A sinful idea gathered strength to battle her fears.

Both of her hands shook, making it difficult to open the gray wallet and take out a ten-dollar bill. When she had managed to place the bill on the table, she checked again. No Joseph.

The waitress carried a tray of dirty dishes into the kitchen.

Sarah stood, Joseph‘s wallet in her purse, and hurried toward the front door of the truck stop without looking back. Nearly panicked, she stepped outside as her courage faded. Squinting in the bright sunshine, she saw the man open his truck door. Too frightened to think it through carefully, yet desperately wanting to run away, she bolted across the hot 121

blacktop parking area to the other side of the truck, yanked open the passenger door, and climbed up into the seat. ―Please take me with you,‖ she blurted out. ―My husband beats me.‖ The truth was much worse but hard to believe, and she needed to convince the man quickly.

His mouth dropped open, and he ran his eyes over her face and hands, the only skin showing. She knew he wouldn‘t find confirmation by examining her. Joseph would never allow her scars to show; he would be afraid someone in his congregation would notice.

The man glanced around outside the truck, and so did she. No one was there. ―Okay,‖ he said, looking her in the eyes.

She kept her head turned away from the restaurant as he drove off, and she gripped her arms around her. Her body shook, but she felt a germ of exciting happiness.

As the truck took to the highway, she checked the side mirror.

Joseph‘s car hadn‘t moved, and another truck was leaving. Good. Joseph wouldn‘t know which truck to follow. She wished she hadn‘t paid the ten dollars. That would‘ve slowed him down.

Sarah had never been in a truck before.

She stared at the man who had agreed to take her with him. His hands were wide and calloused, with dirt under the thumbnails, and he stared ahead at the road from behind the wheel. His face began to shine with sweat. She noticed a dark perspiration area in the blue denim shirt under his right armpit and could feel her own sweat soaking the back of her bodice where it pressed against the hot, plastic seat cover. The smell of old cigarette smoke and grease added a masculine scent to the cab, and a thin layer of dust covered everything. She shifted her weight, without becoming more comfortable, in the truck seat too large for her.

Her fears returned in a rush when she realized Joseph might call the police and tell them she‘d been kidnapped. Ordering the chicken 122

sandwich had started this! That order, that tiny speck of independence, had mushroomed into a mountain of want. ―You okay?‖ the man asked, glancing her way. ―Not yet,‖ she answered, studying the side mirror again. Still no Joseph. ―Where‘re you going?‖ he asked. ―Away from my husband.‖ Her shaking grew worse, and he frowned. ―Lady, I need to let you out. I could be in big trouble. I‘m getting gas down the road, and when I park, you get out and don‘t let anybody see you.‖ ―Yes, sir,‖ she said. She had been afraid this would happen. This man, who left a twenty-dollar bill on the table for a six-dollar lunch, was different from Joseph and had helped her, but he wasn‘t prepared to do more.

A few miles farther, the man pulled into a gas station and parked at the last pump. Sarah stepped out, hurried around to the back of the convenience store, and heard the man drive off without getting gasoline.

Deep shade covered one end of the building. Her brown dress, almost the color of the painted concrete block wall, hid her well as she leaned unmoving against the structure.

Nothing happened; no one was around; yet she couldn‘t calm her breathing.

She faced a narrow road riddled with potholes. On the other side of the road, a trailer park, with metal homes too rusted ever to move again, crowded under tall pine trees. The littered yards surrounding the trailers needed mowing.

They were messy.

Joseph hated messy.

Sarah remembered the most recent of Joseph‘s punishments. She had disobeyed. He had told her to get the parsonage extra clean for the 123

parishioners‘ visit. That afternoon her watch had stopped, and while she watched a movie and thought she had plenty of time, Joseph walked in with the group. She gasped in surprise and jumped up. She turned off the television, grabbed the laundry basket filled with folded towels to set it down on the floor around the corner, and hurried back to pick up the newspapers scattered around the living room. The others hardly noticed, or politely pretended not to notice, but Joseph had seen it all, and he fired a thousand volts of anger in her direction with his dark eyes. Sarah couldn‘t straighten out the furniture because everyone was already seated, so she hurried to the kitchen to get the chilled sweet tea from the refrigerator. While there, she gathered her hair that had escaped from the bun and reattached the clumps with hair pins. Knowing what would happen after the others left, she trembled, and the ice tea tray she carried back to the living room rattled the tall glasses like an earthquake. ―Here, let me take that,‖ one of the women kindly said. ―You‘re a bundle of nerves.‖ Free of the tray, Sarah sat on her hands to hide their shaking. She felt separate and alone, as if she watched their meeting from behind a thick glass wall. The group talked about church things, and Sarah heard them but couldn‘t listen. All she could think about was what would happen when they left.

When they stood to go, Sarah stood to nod at their farewells. But behind the smile on her face, she thought ―Don‟t Leave!‖ in big neon letters and wanted someone to read her mind. No one did.

They left, leaving her behind with Joseph.

When the door closed behind the last guest, Joseph turned on her.

He jerked her over to the stool near the sideboard at the other end of the living room and gripped her jaw between his thumb and fingers to force her face toward him while he spoke. ―You embarrassed me, Sarah, and you disobeyed me, Sarah, and I am a man of God. You have made God angry. The Lord requires me to 124

punish you. Like Abraham with his son, I must do it.‖ His eyes darkened from black to more black. ―I. Must. Do it. Remove your clothes and sit on this stool before me.‖ Suffocated by dread and trapped, she could do nothing to change what Joseph would do next. She obeyed his commands.

He opened the center drawer of the sideboard and removed his equipment while she shook with fear on the hard stool. ―No, Joseph, no,‖ she cried while she could still barely talk. He paid no attention to her, and soon her fear narrowed her windpipe so that only a high pitched, almost imperceptible wail could get through.

Turning her head away and covering her face with both hands didn‘t help because she could still hear the click of the lighter and smell the tobacco smoke. The lighting ceremony preceded the searing pain by only a few seconds. He pushed the lit cigarette into her back, and she screamed from the pain and fell off the stool. Ready for insertion, as always when he punished her, he unzipped and lay down on her. He held one hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out while his assault forced the fresh burn to rub back and forth against the carpet.

When done, he sat next to her body, now allowed to roll on her side. Her new injury throbbed painfully as she lowered her head for his lecture. The rectangular array of burns and scars, now twenty-three in number, spread down to the middle of her back where she could no longer reach.

She bowed her head further for the final nod when he asked the Father-Son-Ghost question. He held her fingers and whispered to her, ―I‘m at ease, now the Lord God has been satisfied.‖ Enough! Why did she torment herself with these recollections?

The man in the blue shirt would‘ve had plenty of time by now to get away, and her breathing had returned to normal.

Sarah pushed her hair back to neaten it and marched to the front of the convenience store and then inside. In the fluorescent glare of the 125

overhead lights, a vast array of snack foods and candy lined up near the door to greet her, and thinking she might camp out somewhere, she choose cookies and potato chips. The small wiry man behind the counter paid no attention when she opened Joseph‘s wallet to pay.

As she counted out the money for the food, sirens wailed in the distance and filled Sarah with fear. The little store, only a mile or two closer to town than the truck stop, wasn‘t a good place to hide. The man behind the counter didn‘t seem to hear the sirens. She whispered a quick thank you and walked out of the store.

As soon as she turned the corner, she ran. She galloped across the road at the back of the store and through a weedy yard of an abandoned trailer to an access road beyond, and all the while, the sirens grew louder and louder.

Sarah ran as if Joseph chased her. He must not catch her.

The police cars roared past the convenience store. The police, on their way to the truck stop, were after her. ________________________________________________________________________ Jo Wharton Heath lives with her husband, Robert Winship Heath, on the outskirts of Auburn, Alabama. Sarah's Alice is her first novel. She has published thirty-four papers in mathematics journals and one short story, "The Invisibles" in Southern Women's Review.

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Fiction

Ascension Joan Hazel The scene before me was almost more than the human brain could process. I knew what brought me here. Some call it intuition. Some call it being psychic. I only know that I went where the feelings took me, and merciful Goddess, I wish I hadn‘t.

No matter how many missing person cases I worked on, finding a body was never easy. Especially, when the body was that of a child. The families always insisted on knowing the details. Most I would omit, because for the deceased, details were irrelevant.

There I stood, shin deep amidst the murk and mud of a low lying swamp surrounded by death and decay. Lifeless limbs bumped against my legs as the dead floated about me. It is amazing, how little water it takes for a corpse to float. I suppose that‘s because when you‘re dead, you finally lie back and go with the flow, so to speak.

Over the years I have lost count of the number of missing person cases I have worked. Normally, I have no qualms about them. But I must admit there was something about this one that unnerved me from the beginning.

That‘s why I called in my dear friend, Harold Reece, to help get me through this one. I know the name Harold, or Harry as I called him, is not that exciting as far as names go. But it was a good name, a solid name, a name that fit him.

I could hear Harry now. He, along with the other officers, tore their way through the thick underbrush behind me. If I looked, I could catch glimpses of their flashlights as they fought to find footing beneath the canopy of trees and shrubs along the outlying area of the Institution of Ascension.

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As I stood there, I remembered a sound bite from one of the Institution‘s commercials. The path to enlightenment awaits you. Come to the Institution of Ascension, and ascend the everyday and mundane.

Obviously, the Institute left out the part where their form of ascension meant you died. I guess the marketing department decided it might look bad for PR. ―Jade!‖ I heard my name as it carried across the cool night breeze.

From Harry‘s tone, I could tell he was not too happy with me. He had never been a fan of going on my ―wild goose chases‖, as he liked to call them. That‘s because more times than not my chases, no matter how wild, always yielded a goose. And this particular goose was not what I expected.

Then again, how could anyone, even a psychic, prepare themselves for something like this? The answer is—you can‘t. I describe being psychic as feel-work. I feel for an answer to a question. If it feels right, then it is. If it feels wrong, then it is, and I go another direction. ―Over here,‖ I called back, as I stared into the blackness of the night. ―Jade, damn it. Turn on your flashlight! How the hell do you expect me to find you if I can‘t see you?‖ Harry barked at me.

I cringed. The last thing I wanted to do was turn on my flashlight.

There was enough moonlight for me to see, and I did not want confirmation of what I felt. No, I‘m not scared of the dead. I have probably spoken to more of them than I have the living. That doesn‘t mean I liked seeing what was left of their mutilated bodies floating past me.

But before I could do as he asked, Harry broke free of the bushes. ―Careful,‖ I said and held out my arm to stop him from plunging into the foul, frigid water. ―Ugh. What the…‖ I heard someone grunt as they stepped off the embankment into the water. Then one by one the others fought their way 128

into the clearing. Five officers in all were called to the scene. I did not look in their direction. Instead I stared, best I could, into Harry‘s face. ―Stop!‖ I yelled. ―Everyone just stop.‖ And they did. I was actually a bit surprised at that, but what the heck? I‘d take it. ―Everyone, stay where you are and look down.‖ Almost in unison, six beams of light went toward the water.

Slowly, the rumblings and whispers began. I really couldn‘t blame them. If I had been a cursing woman, I would have said a few choice words too.

Harry‘s emotions wavered from confusion, to frustration, to horror and he was not one to be easily shocked. Death was no stranger to Harry. He had been a police detective for more than 15 years, and before that a soldier in the Gulf Wars. Still, he was visibly shaken by what he saw.

He grabbed my out-stretched arm and grunted as he tried to pull me up the embankment. ―Get out of there.‖ I jerked my arm away. ―I can‘t, Harry. She‘s here,‖ I said. ―Angelina. She‘s over there.‖ Finally, I built up the nerve to turn on my flashlight and look in her general direction. Sure enough, her lithe body rested, face-up atop two others. The moonlight reflected blue-ish white off her light colored gown. The dark tips of her hair floated like seaweed upon the rippling water.

I glanced back at Harry. The look on his face was less than pleased. I could only imagine the legal and logistical nightmare being orchestrated inside his head. He would have to make sure every ―T‖ was crossed and every ―I‖ was dotted because I had just put him and his department in a rather sticky situation. Warrants? Who needs „em? ―Jade, you know I can‘t allow you to move her body. Now get out of the water.‖ His tone was that of a father trying to placate his child. When

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in reality, he wanted to yell for me to get my ―A double S‖ out of the water. ―Please,‖ he gently added.

He was right. I couldn‘t move her. That was someone else‘s job.

The crime lab would be called and there would be an investigation— especially if the Institute for Ascension was involved, and they were. It would be a rather odd coincidence for a hundred bodies to be dumped on their property and they not know anything about it. And I for one, do not believe in coincidence. ―What was that noise?‖ I heard a female officer to my left say. ―Did you hear something?‖ She asked the person next to her. ―Maybe,‖ the man beside her answered.

We all stopped. No talking. No shuffling. Only seven people staring into the shadowy night, listening. ―Help me. Someone, please.‖ The faint cry of a man‘s voice came from somewhere in the darkness. ―There it is again,‖ the officer said, as she sprinted off in the direction of the disembodied voice.

I wanted to call out to the officer, to tell her not to go. That she was only hearing the carry-over from a spirit that hadn‘t realized he had passed on. In retrospect, I should have, but I didn‘t have the heart, nor did I think she would believe me.

You see, what most people don‘t know, or would even believe, is that all of us hear spirits on a daily basis. We simply don‘t realize it. We dismiss the sounds as ambient noise from a passing car or bleed-over from someone‘s MP3 player. But in truth, those little noises you can‘t quite place are noises from the other side, bumping their way back into this world.

My eyes met Harry‘s and I shook my head. No words need be spoken between us. We had worked together long enough for him to know what I was thinking. There was only one person here who could

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help, and that someone was me. Once again Harry offered his hand to me and this time, I accepted.

My shoes were filled with slush and I found it difficult to keep up with those who jogged around the edge of the water. Luckily for me, Harry was at my side every step of the way. I could see the muscles work along his jaw-line as he bit back the urge to reprimand me. I shouldn‘t have run so far ahead of him and the others, but I didn‘t want to lose my feelings of Angelina.

Harry‘s reprimand was coming. I could feel that too. But, he would be gentlemanly enough to wait until we were alone. He needed time to process his emotions. That, and have a good stiff drink in his hand. ―Over here,‖ the officer called as she jumped into the water. ―I got you sir,‖ she said trying her best to be calm and reassuring. ―Don‘t worry. Help is on the…what the hell?‖ She exclaimed as she dropped the body back into the water with a loud splash. Flailing wildly, she clawed her way from the bog, retching violently near the tree line.

Without waiting for help, the young officer had dove into the water and lifted the man‘s head. Only then did she see that the upper left quadrant of his skull, along with his brain, was missing. Looking to my left I saw the man standing there.

Hollywood would like for you to believe spirits appear grotesque and horrific; covered in the gore of how they died. Let me assure you, they do not. At least they never have to me. To me they appear exactly how they appeared in life, only a bit more translucent. Often they are confused or angry, depending upon how they passed. ―Okay everyone, lets meet over by that tree and re-group,‖ Harry ordered, as he pointed the beam of his flashlight toward a large oak.

I felt the warmth of Harry‘s body as he stepped closer. The back of his hand brushed intimately against mine. First once. Then twice.

Entwining his fingers with mine. He allowed them to linger there for barely a heartbeat before he walked away. It was his way of telling me 131

everything would be okay, of reminding me, in the darkest of moments, I was not alone.

Once I was sure Harry and the others were out of range, I took a deep breath and turned back to the water. ―Sir, I know you‘re there,‖ I said softly. ―I can‘t see you,‖ he answered back.

Not a good sign. ―Look to your right,‖ I directed. ―Do you have a flashlight or something?‖ he asked.

Really not a good sign. I looked down at the burning flashlight in my hand, and turned it off. I know it may sound strange, but spirits have a hard time seeing artificial light. I don‘t have a good explanation as to why that is―it‘s just the way of things. He would actually have an easier time finding me if I had a candle, but at the moment, I was fresh out. I could only hope my aura would be strong enough for him to find me. ―Keep talking,‖ he said in a shaky voice. ―That‘s it. Follow my voice. A little farther,‖ I said. ―I can‘t...don‘t leave me!‖ Great. He‟s panicking. I searched my thoughts for his name.

Sometimes names come easily to me, sometimes they don‘t. As fortune would have it, this time, it did. ―I‘m not going anywhere, Lewis.‖ I tried to sound reassuring. ―Not until we can get you out of here.‖ I really needed a match or something, and I made a mental note to never go on another goose chase without one. Heck, at this point I would take a flint rock and bundle of twigs.

I thought about Harry. Maybe he or one of his officers would have a lighter. I was about to call out to him when I felt a gentle tug on my jacket.

I looked down. Beside me stood Angelina. Beautiful blue light pulsed about her, and I squinted from the brilliance of it. As if she could read my mind, the light dimmed slightly, allowing me to see her better.

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She looked up at me with big chestnut eyes and pointed toward Lewis. And as much as I hated it, I knew why she was here. Not just here in this moment, standing beside me, but here in this horrible place. It had been Angelina‘s job to help the others reach the other-side. Now, for whatever reason, only Lewis remained.

I nodded my understanding of the situation. She stepped away from me and the light about her glowed with a fervor unlike anything I had seen before. Angelina became an iridescent beacon against the shadows of the night. Turning her tiny hand over, she offered it to Lewis. ―I...I see you now,‖ he said.

Angelina looked to me, then back to Lewis. ―Good…Lewis,‖ I coaxed. ―That‘s great. Now, just come to me and we can get out of here.‖ With trepidation, Lewis emerged from the night. He stopped just short of Angelina. ―I don‘t understand,‖ he said, looking at me. ―She‘s here to help you, Lewis. You need to go with her.‖ Angelina reached closer to him, and he stepped back. ―I‘m not going anywhere with her,‖ he said defiantly. ―I just want to go home.‖ Right then and there, I could have told him the truth. I could have told him he would never go home again. He could, only not in the way he was used to. But to tell him would only lead to an argument. Something I had neither the time nor energy to deal with. ―Angelina will take you home. She knows the way out of here better than I do.‖ I could feel Lewis‘ frustration. But I knew, if I could get him to take her hand and step within the light, he would understand everything. ―Just take her hand,‖ I urged.

Taking my cue from Angelina, I refused to say another word. I simply stood there waiting—watching Lewis until finally, he gave in.

The instant he took Angelina‘s hand, I felt the wave of relief as it washed over him. There was no more anger or frustration, just complete understanding and peace.

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The same soft, knowing smile that graced Angelina‘s sweet face now appeared on Lewis‘. And as silently as Angelina had come to me, the pair faded into nothingness; leaving me to stand alone on the banks of the swamp.

As usual, the adrenalin rush left me weak, and I was brought back to the reality of what lay before me. Tilting back my head, I stared up at the night‘s sky. Sadness filled me. The same cutting, gut wrenching emptiness I always get when I allow a case to become personal.

Harry has always tried to teach me to stay aloof, and not to allow myself to become emotionally involved with a case. I suppose for him that‘s easy, but for me it is impossible. You see I‘m a psychic. Feeling is what I do. ________________________________________________________________________ Joan Hazel began her career as an actress, vocalist and director with theater and opera companies across the eastern United States. She now resides in Troy, Alabama, with her husband, Ricky, and their two dogs. Currently, she is working on the follow-up to her soon-to-be released novel, The Last Guardian.

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Traditional Poem

An American Haibun Ellaraine Lockie Mini-flocks of eight or ten wild parrots often emblazon the trees in my yard. A stopover en route to or from the Home Depot parking lot. As though picking up supplies for ongoing nest repair.

Green red and yellow packages slur the airwaves Jingle of chatter Today bells ring the sky from blocks away. The entire flock arrives as I close the front door behind me for my walk. The surreal surprise of sixtysome parrots. Bodies built for South America that have branched the skies of Northern California for thirty years. Their evolution from a few slave-traded rebels and rejects. And their sheer spirit for survival stops me mid-step.

Ornaments on palm filbert cherry blackberry Breeze of wings folding I refuse to relinquish either the exercise or the parrots. So I walk fast circles around the driveway. Tree-to-tree talk, as affable as small town gossip over clotheslines. Drowning echoes of the morning's Mercury crime-corruption-jobless-foreclosure-war News. . . and the crinkle of worry by fingers on fabric over a breast lump.

Beaks fill with nectar

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from eucalyptus blossoms Bright pink petals fall Dizzy now, I switch to a house-wide back and forth stride. Envision that every Silicon Valley soul in torment could line up right here. Like the way back-to-belly cars parade slowly around this cul-de-sac to see Christmas lights.

Sprinkler shower play Parrots groom one another The sun sends glitter Every feather a rainbow. Every squawk an upbeat, a hallelujah. An invitation to plan the next thirty years. Even the native crows acquiesce their territory to this gift. But it is I who am repaired.

__________________________________________________________________ Ellaraine Lockie is a widely published and awarded poet. Her seventh chapbook, Stroking David’s Leg, was awarded Best Individual Collection for 2010 from Purple Patch magazine in England, and her eighth, Red for the Funeral, won the 2010 San Gabriel Poetry Festival Chapbook Contest. Ellaraine serves as Poetry Editor for the lifestyles magazine, Lilipoh.

Ed. note: Haibun is a literary composition that combines prose and haiku.

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136

Short Fiction

The Condo Troll Allen Russell Recently, I was vacationing on Panama City Beach with part of my family. After breakfast on our first full day, everyone split up into groups to pursue similar interests. My son-in-laws were going golfing, which I don‘t do. The daughters were going shopping for new swimsuits, which I also do not do.

I informed them I planned a quiet morning, sitting on the beach, and possibly catching up on some reading. ―Perfect,‖ one of my daughters said, ―The boys want to go swimming and they love spending time with their Pa.‖ ―The boys,‖ I repeated, ―You mean Seth and Sam? No…now…just hold on…I said a quiet morning…alone…I can‘t…‖ While I‘m searching for a good excuse, my daughters are heading for the door. ―Have fun boys,‖ the last one over the threshold said with a big grin, ―behave yourselves and mind your Pa.‖ So there I was, shanghaied, with my two little grandsons.

Seth and Sam are eight-year-old, rough-and-tumble, cowboy types.

They wear big hats and cowboy boots everywhere they go. They don‘t watch cartoons or play video games. If they‘re even in the house they‘ll be watching old Roy Rogers‘ movies, lost episodes of the Lone Ranger on the Western Channel or reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger.

When they‘re outside, you can bet they‘re roping the cat, bulldogging some unsuspecting kid on a bike, or practicing their spinkicks on the taillights of the pickup.

By the time I was ready to go, the two of them were sitting up in bed, indulging their sweet tooth with Pop-Tarts and root beer with their

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eyes glued to the TV. ―Alright,‖ I said, ―Turn off the danged TV and come on. I‘m going to the beach.‖ ―Hold on a minute,‖ Sam said without even looking up, ―This is the good part.‖ ―Yeah,‖ Seth said, taking a pull on his root beer, ―The Ranger‘s hurt bad, if Silver can‘t find Tonto in time, it could be real trouble.‖ ―He‘ll be all right‖ I assured them, ―I saw this episode back in 1956 when….‖ ―1956,‖ Seth repeated. ―Nobody alive back then is still around,‖ Sam said. ―Yeah,‖ Seth said, ―They‘d have to be a hunnerd years old.‖ ―Two hunnerd,‖ Sam added. ―You boys ain‘t too big on arithmetic, are you?‖ I asked. ―Nah, nor math neither,‖ Sam replied. ―All right,‖ I said, ―As soon as the Ranger gets rescued, you boys come on out on the beach.‖ *** I had been relaxing for nearly an hour without seeing hide-nor-hair of the boys. I was just about to get up and check on them when I saw two big hats coming at a run, ―Pa…Pa,‖ Sam yelled when he got close, ―We caught us a Troll!‖ ―A Troll,‖ I said, ―I never heard of a troll in a cowboy movie.‖ ―This ain‘t no movie,‖ Sam said. ―That‘s right,‖ Seth says, ―We got him corralled…in the closet.‖ ―He‘s madder‘n a run-over badger,‖ Sam said, ―and he‘s wanting out.‖ Now, the only thing bigger than their cowboy hats is their imagination, so I decide to play along, ―Well, tell him to give up his pot o‘ gold and you‘ll turn him loose.‖ ―What pot o‘ gold?‖ Seth asks.

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―All them dang trolls have a pot o‘ gold hidden away somewhere,‖ I said. ―Yeah,‖ Sam says, ―We‘ll make him give us the gold.‖ ―Then we can buy us a ranch,‖ Seth says. ―Come on,‖ Sam says, ―Times-a-wasting.‖ Across the beach they go, back toward the condo.

I just started chapter three when here they come again, ―Pa…Pa,‖ Sam yells. ―What is it now?‖ ―Say‘s he ain‘t got no pot o‘ gold.‖ ―Claims…he ain‘t…a Leprechaun,‖ Seth says, hands on his hips trying to catch his breath, ―He‘s a dadgum Troll.‖ ―Alright, what exactly is a Troll?‖ I asked. ―They‘re ornery little fellers that hide under bridges and scare folks,‖ Sam said. ―Well there you go,‖ I said, ―He can‘t be a troll, there are no bridges around here.‖ ―Maybe that‘s why he‘s so mad,‖ Sam says. ―Yeah,‖ Seth says, ―He wants to get back to his bridge.‖ ―You say he‘s mad?‖ I asked. ―You remember the time we freeze-branded a Lazy S on Ms. Potts Pomeranian?‖ Sam asked. ―He‘s that mad?‖ I asked. ―Even worse,‖ Seth said. ―He‘s about as ornery as anything we ever run up against.‖ Sam says. ―Well if he‘s that danged ornery,‖ I said, ―Just give him a good thumping and turn him loose.‖ ―I don‘t know about that,‖ Sam says. ―Yeah,‖ Seth agrees, ―He seems pretty tough.‖

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―He‘s making an awful racket,‖ Seth said, ―People are starting to knock on our door.‖ ―Well, just go up there and let him go,‖ I said, still playing along, ―Tell him there are no hard feelings.‖ ―Maybe you ought to come with us,‖ Sam said. ―You‘re scared to open that door, aren‘t you?‖ I said, ―Alright, come on.‖ As the boys took off running ahead of me, I figured they had some little prank set up to scare me, but I got a little concerned when I got to the room. The boys were hiding behind the bed and there was a chair propped against the closet door. To make matters even worse, somebody with a high squeaky voice was yelling their head off inside the closet. I‘m not sure what language they were speaking, but I‘m pretty sure if this was a movie, my grandsons weren‘t old enough to see it.

The instant I removed the chair and turned the knob, out pops this bushy-haired little man wearing a fur coat and pointy little boots.

Without even a howdy-do and as fast as his tiny legs would carry him, out the front door and down the road he goes. ―Just like a dadgum troll,‖ Sam says. ―Yep,‖ Seth added, ―Didn‘t even say good-bye.‖ ________________________________________________________________________ Allen Russell is the Creative Media Director for Rodeo Bull TV in Reno, Nevada. He is a former Montana hunting guide, a life-long outdoorsman, voice actor, writer, and a cowboy at heart. He is the producer and host of “Lonesome Trails N’ Cowboy Tales”, a western lifestyle program.

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Nonfiction

On Emmanuel Cemetery Road Jane Sasser Emmanuel Cemetery Road streamed across the landscape of my childhood with the same fluidity that its name rolled off my tongue. With its simultaneous promise of death and redemption, it lured my imagination, and on long bus rides to school, I invented histories for the residents of the houses scattered along its hills. Most of the view outside the bus windows was of farm land—huge fields of corn stretching over the horizon, punctuated here and there with a pasture of mixed-breed cows: Technicolor cows, my brother called them.

The actual cemetery was old, seemingly abandoned. Unlike all of the other cemeteries I knew, it was apparently unaffiliated with any church. It sat atop one of the sweeping hills that made Emmanuel Cemetery Road a favorite treat for speeding teenage drivers; if you drove it fast enough, you could feel your stomach lift as you crested the hills.

The cemetery was easy to overlook, hiding behind a few scattered willow oaks and a short red dirt driveway. No one seemed to be getting buried there anymore; there were never any green canopies emblazoned with Hartsell‟s or McEwen‟s Funeral Home, and no one ever seemed to put out flowers on the graves.

A braver child, so fascinated with a place, would have found a way to go there, to wander among the tombstones, reading names and epitaphs, checking birth and death dates for anything familiar. I never did.

When I started elementary school, the Union County Schools had been integrated for only a couple of years. I have a vague memory of my father telling me that there would be colored children in my first grade class—and that I should be nice to them, because they were just like

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anyone else. Since I had never been to school before, nothing about the situation seemed odd or new to me. And since the black population of rural North Carolina was definitely a minority—in my eventual high school years, out of a student body of around 700, only around 30 would be minority students of any kind—I had a very white childhood.

By the end of first grade, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up: an author (pronounced, with my heavy accent, arthur). As the youngest child and the only daughter of my family, I was accustomed to the role of quiet observer that gave me the ideas I jotted down into stories. The bus ride to and from school was a great time to sit by the window, my forehead stuck to the cool glass, watching the world flash by.

Emmanuel Cemetery Road—the last turn before we headed up Highway 218 toward home—was my favorite part. I barely noticed as we picked up or dropped off those first few children. I was waiting for further down the road: the cemetery, which held who knew what dead people who had lived and carried to that great silence with them who knew what stories. Or maybe I would think about the unpainted frame house under the pine trees with the outhouse in the back. Who used that outhouse?

Did they use a Sears catalog, or corn shucks, or had they upgraded to toilet paper, if not an indoor bathroom? Further down the road, in the middle of a soybean field, was a pair of ancient oaks. I knew what that meant: once there had been a house there, and anyone walking under those trees had better keep a sharp eye out for an old, deserted well. My aunt had warned me about children who had fallen down such wells and drowned. I paused to think about that. It would be cold and dark down there—you would flail in the water, screaming, looking up into the small round patch of sky winking down at you—until you slipped under darkness forever.

One spring morning, as I was writing the latest chapter of my latest novel in my head, the bus stopped as always at one of those first 142

houses on the road. Waiting by the road was a little black girl in a pink dress. She was barefoot. I didn‘t know her name—I had barely noticed her and her little sister as we rode in the same bus each morning to school.

The bus driver opened the door. She didn‘t get on. She stood there, looking up at him. Finally she spoke, in a voice barely above a whisper. ―We won‘t be coming to school today. Last night our baby died.‖ I turned to look at her house. Did it look like a place where something so huge could have happened last night, while I snuggled in my bed reading Little Women for the third time? In all those times we had driven by that house—stopped at it daily to pick up or drop off the children who lived there—I had never really looked at it. I hadn‘t looked because I didn‘t think it held any stories that mattered to me.

It was a tarpaper shack, small and ugly. The yard had no grass— just red dirt, beaten down by the bare feet of the children as they played.

An old rusty tricycle sat empty by the cracked cement steps. This house didn‘t look big enough to hold a family with four children and the heartbreak they were having to find room for this morning.

The bus driver closed the door. As we drove away, I turned to watch the little girl watch us. She was still standing there by the road when we went over the next hill and she disappeared from our view.

It was quiet on the bus—an almost unthinkable oddity. I don‘t know what the other children were thinking; there were conversations we just didn‘t have. But I was thinking about slavery, and integration, and a baby dead on a gorgeous spring morning, and the way I hadn‘t even seen that house on that beautiful road.

Emmanuel Cemetery Road: death and redemption. If I have been redeemed, I hope it is in learning to really pay attention, to be aware of selective vision. And although in the years since then, the road has been renamed a more utilitarian ―Fairview-Indian Trail Road,‖ in my memory it

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remains the road of the cemetery, and a lone black child in a pink dress, wearing her sorrow like an Easter orchid. ________________________________________________________________________ Growing up in a North Carolina family of storytellers, Jane Sasser has always loved words. She began writing at the age of six. A high school teacher of many young awardwinning writers, she now lives in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, with her husband George and retired racing greyhounds.

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144

Juvenile Fiction

Codie's Gift P. Helen Kester One day at school, my teacher said we would collect items for the food shelf. ―The holidays will be here soon,‖ she said. She gave us each a note to take home asking for donations to the food shelf.

Walking home I thought about throwing the note away. I didn‘t want to ask Mama for anything extra. Once when we were at the grocery store, Eddie asked for bubble gum. Mama told him there wasn‘t money for extras. But if I don‘t bring something the other kids will think I don‘t care.

Mama works at two jobs since Daddy left to go fight in the war.

Letters come in the mail all the way from France. Mama cries when she reads them.

When Mama works in the evening, I look after Wayne and Eddie.

They‘re my little brothers. I make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and pour milk into glasses for our supper.

When I got home with the note, I looked out the living room window wondering what I should do. I saw Bobby Newsom from next door painting Mr. Hanson‘s fence across the street. Mr. Hanson would give Bobby money for the work he was doing. I thought maybe I could paint a fence. When Mama came home from work I asked her if I could go outside. ―For a little while,‖ she said. ―Supper will be ready soon.‖ I ran over to Mr. Hanson‘s house and knocked on the door. ―Hello little miss,‖ he said when he opened the door. ―I‘ll paint your fence for fifty cents,‖ I told him. ―That‘s sweet of you Codie, but….‖ Mr. Hanson nodded toward Bobby.

My face turned hot and I started to leave.

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―Wait,‖ Mr. Hanson said. ―The leaves need raking.‖ ―Oh, I‘ll do a good job,‖ I promised.

Before I was finished raking Mr. Hanson‘s leaves I heard Mama call me for supper. ―Coming,‖ I hollered back but it was a while before I was finished. I put the rake in Mr. Hanson‘s garage and knocked on his door. ―All finished?‖ he asked. ―Good work,‖ he said looking at the filled leaf bags beside the steps. He reached in his pocket and gave me two quarters. ―Thanks, little miss,‖ he said. ―Thank you Mr. Hanson.‖ My heart beat hard as I put the coins in my pocket. I heard Mama calling again. Angry this time.

I ran home. Mama scolded me. She said I need to come when she calls.

My eyes stung. I stared at the floor. I was sad that Mama was angry with me but happy I had the fifty cents.

The next morning, on my way to school, I went to Cosetta‘s corner store and bought a can of peas. Mr. Cosetta gave me some change back. I put the coins in my pocket. I thought I might save them to buy bubble gum for Eddie. At school I put the can of peas into the big barrel sitting next to our teacher‘s desk.

On the Sunday before Thanksgiving, while we were playing Monopoly, there was a knock on the door. ―Who‘s there?‖ Mama asked through the closed door.

There was a muffled voice on the other side. Mama opened the door. A man and woman stepped into our living room. The man was carrying a large box. ―In the kitchen?‖ he asked. Mama pointed the way.

The woman stayed behind and smiled at my brothers and me. ―Cold out tonight,‖ she said, rubbing her hands together to warm them.

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The man returned from the kitchen without the box. He and the woman left saying ―Happy Thanksgiving!‖ ―Come and see,‖ Mama said. We followed her to the kitchen.

Wayne stood on a chair and looked into the box. ―Why did those people give us all this food?‖ He asked. ―Hmmm.‖ Mama thought a minute while she pulled the items from the box, a bag of marshmallows, cans of sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce, a bag of walnuts, and a can of corn. I looked into the box too. I saw a big frozen turkey inside. ―Because,‖ Mama finally answered, and she bent down and looked Wayne right in the eye. ―Because we need it.‖ She ruffled his hair. ―Mama, can I help?‖ I asked.

She smiled at me and handed me a can to put on the shelf. ________________________________________________________________________ Patricia Kester studies writing at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis and especially enjoys writing for children. She won the Loft’s Shabo Award in 2008 and received honorable mention in the 2004 Minnesota SCBWI Mentorship Contest. Patricia lives in Saint Paul and enjoys reading, traveling, and spending time with her family.

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Humor

WWMD? What Would Mother Do? Margie Tubbs My four brothers and I grew up in rural Louisiana in a house with no TV and only two books: the Holy Bible and Fox‟s Book of Martyrs.

Once we had played washers and shot the BB gun at each other, there wasn‘t much left to do except act out our favorite Bible stories.

That our parents were religious is an understatement. They did draw the line at burning cows in the backyard, but we didn‘t let that stop us. We had read the story of Abraham‘s willingness to sacrifice Isaac, and we were quite willing to sacrifice our youngest brother, Roger.

We prepared the altar at the edge of the woods. We tied Roger to the log with grass ropes left over from when we captured the Philistines across the street. Roger wasn‘t playing his part very well. He was kneeing Abraham‘s crotch and screaming for Mother, but she and Daddy were so busy arguing over when the end of the world would come that they weren‘t aware of Roger‘s end, which was about to come now. Roger stood a chance if God, at the last minute, sent a blood sacrifice to take his place, but most of the time God didn‘t play his part right, and we had to improvise.

Jerry lifted the sharp stick we used to circumcise the dog and looked to heaven with pleading eyes and a smirk. ―God, I don‘t want to kill our precious little brother, but if this is what you want me to do, I will.‖ We gathered around wide-eyed as our Isaac was about to be sacrificed. We became respectfully quiet, listening for a noise in the bushes that meant God was providing a squirrel or something to kill in his stead, but all we could hear was Roger screaming, ―When I get loose I‘ll kick your asses!‖ 148

The stick came closer to Roger‘s chest, and I realized that he wasn‘t a perfect sacrifice. ―He‘s a sinner!‖ I shouted. ―He said ass, but not in the donkey way!‖ Roger‘s teeth were clenched. ―Let me up, you dung-covered Pharisees!‖ He had a bad mouth and a good vocabulary for a five-yearold, but he used only words found in the Bible. That is the only book we were allowed to read. The book about martyrs was a bit gory. ―Sacrifice Ricky!‖ I shouted. ―He‘s the most perfect one here! He never sins.‖ ―Try it and you‘ll see what you get, harlot!‖ Ricky said, walking off into the woods. ―Apparently God isn‘t playing his part very well today, so I‘ll go find a perfect sacrifice.‖ In a few minutes he returned with three frogs and a turtle.

One at a time Jerry stabbed the frogs, but the turtle pulled into his shell and there was nothing to do about that. ―Here,‖ Jerry said. ―Get rid of this thing. It‘s unclean. Who has the matches?‖ I couldn‘t believe what I heard. ―Matches? Abraham didn‘t have matches. God sent fire from heaven!‖ ―If God was playing right I wouldn‘t have had to hunt the sacrifice!‖ Ricky said. ―Margie, you don‘t see no frogs busting into flame, do you?‖ Jacky asked, sprinkling them with lighter fluid. ―But you‘re about to.‖ He fished into his dirty shirt pocket and pulled out a book of matches he got when he sneaked into Sophie‘s Bar just to take a look around. He said that reprobates and whoremongers were in there hitting colored balls with sticks and drinking something that looked like urine squirted into glasses from a spigot behind the counter.

We stood above the flaming frogs, giving thanks that our sins had been forgiven. Roger, however, didn‘t get absolution because he was running toward the house carrying that unclean turtle and screaming for

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Mama. When we heard the screen door slam, we left the sacrifices smoldering and scattered in five different directions.

Back together, we shifted our attention to Sodom and Gomorrah. I was the only girl so I had to play Lot‘s daughter and be tossed out of the house for strangers to use. We weren‘t sure used for what, so they decided I could be the woman at the well and give them water to drink from a ladle dipped in Mother‘s mop bucket. ―You have had five husbands,‖ Jerry said, ―and the man you are living with now is not your husband.‖ ―Of course not,‖ I said. ―I live with my four brothers. Here. Have some more of my living water. Want me to turn it into wine for you?‖ ―That‘s my part!‖ Jerry shouted. ―You just dip. I‘ll do the miracles.‖ *** Mother, like God, hated liars. Lying, by definition, was saying anything that was not true, so Mother was either silent or speaking the truth at all times. Her bluntness was hard on the family but devastating for friends. I introduced her to my friend Janet. ―You go to church?‖ ―I‘m Catholic. I go to mass.‖ ―You worship idols?‖ ―I don‘t think so.‖ By this time Janet was looking a little confused. ―You bow down in front of statues, don‘t you?‖ ―Just Jesus and Mary.‖ ―You‘re going to hell if you worship idols.‖ ―I‘ll ask my mother when I get home.‖ ―Tell her to call me and I‘ll help her get saved. You got the Holy Ghost?‖ ―I‘ve been baptized.‖ ―Sprinkled or dipped?‖ I may have fallen into idol worship myself if my brother hadn‘t recognized my fifty-cent Buddha for what it was and warned Mother 150

about it. She had given me money to spend at the five and dime, and I bought a little figurine of a fat man sitting with his legs crossed holding a plate of some sort. I planned to set it in my bedroom and put jelly beans on it because he looked like my Uncle Willie in a diaper. ―Buddha is really popular out in California,‖ Jacky said, ―and people actually worship him by burning incense on that plate and bowing down to him.‖ He told me that owning one of these ceramic idols is serious business.

I hadn‘t planned to worship the little Buddha, or burn the jelly beans, but I was going through puberty, and I didn‘t know what I might do anymore. Mother said I was so contrary that the devil was probably taking me over. My concern, though, was for the souls of others. A friend could enter my bedroom, take one look at Buddha sitting on my dresser and be overcome, falling down on her knees in front of it. A soul would then be lost forever, and it would be my fault for buying a candy dish.

So, we purged the house of the idol. We took it to the driveway and took turns stomping on him until he was nothing but chalk dust. My fat man disintegrated before my eyes.

Mrs. Dunham was my mother‘s only friend, and she learned early on not to ask a question unless she was prepared for the truth. ―Marie, that dress makes you look like you‘re nine months.‖ Nobody said the word pregnant because it was nasty, considering how you got that way, but I didn‘t know anything about that then.

Mother said that babies happen when you get married, so I analyzed everything I knew about getting married to see if I could figure out how they just happen.

Mother and Mrs. Dunham were sitting in the front porch swing talking about impending babies when I asked the ultimate question. ―Does the preacher cause babies to happen with his power, or does the license do that?‖

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I got a blank stare from her, and then a deadpan, ―Go away, Margie.‖ Mrs. Dunham laughed her ass off, but mother puckered up as if someone had placed real wine in her communion cup instead of grape juice. *** Having never been enlightened on necessary issues, I went out into the world unprepared. My two boys are the products of two marriages from times in my life when I was struggling to learn what the rest of the world knew that I didn't.

They learned early about sex organs and their function. Whenever questions arose, I would ask myself, WWMD? What Would Mother Do? And I did something different.

I always encouraged the boys to talk about things. When my younger son was twelve, I was driving along a busy interstate with him as a passenger when he told me what was on his mind.

"It looks like I'm going to have to shave my balls," he said. He knit his eyebrows and turned off the radio. He settled back in his seat and focused his eyes on the truck driving along side us.

I don‘t know why I had to ask, but my naivety lingers. ―Oh yeah?

Why?‖ "Because they're growing hair on them!"

Oh my, I said under my breath, my chuckles becoming louder every time I exhaled until I was in a full belly laugh. I had to pull the car over to the shoulder.

"What?" He threw his hands into the air, palms up. "You always want to know what's going on with me; I tell you what's going on with me and you snort."

Tears ran down my cheeks, and I couldn't breathe. "I'm sorry." My whiny voice made me begin laughing again.

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―I‘m going to call 911,‖ he said. He used his fingers as an imaginary phone and faked a call. ―Okay, you see, I‘m growing these hairs on my balls, and when I told my mother about them she… My emergency? Didn‘t you hear me? I‘m growing hair on my balls, and… The problem? I was thinking that an electric shaver might yank a little too hard, and I might cut myself with razor blades. Do you think some of that cream hair remover would make my future babies bald?‖ ―Oh God, oh God,‖ I said, trying to get control.

"Mama, you are the laughingest woman I have ever seen except for my fourth period teacher, Mrs. Kirsten. She laughs every time I tell her about our family. Okay, back to the hair on my balls," he said.

"It's supposed to grow there because you are becoming a man.‖ My mind wandered for a moment as I thought of all the things he could have told Mrs. Kirsten. ―Your brother grew hair on his when he was your age, and I'm sure your father did too. Ask your friends. I'll bet they are all growing hair on their...bu, bu, bu...testicles."

"So that's what grownups call them, huh?"

"Most male grownups call them balls," I said, "but that is slang. If you happen to refer to them in public I'd appreciate it if you would say testicles. And if you don't refer to them in public at all I'd feel a lot better."

"Testicles it is," he said, knowing that he would bring up the subject in Sunday School next week.

An oral quiz assured me that he understood sex, right down to the STDs. "But you're not supposed to have sex until you're married, and you can't get married until you're twenty-eight," I said.

"You told Troy twenty-five then let him get away with getting married at twenty-two."

"Maybe we can negotiate you down to twenty-five if you have already finished college."

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"College!" he said in astonishment. "Mrs. Kirsten said to get you to explain to me what irony is because she can't make me understand, and now I can tell her that you helped me with it."

"I did?" ―Follow me here,‖ he said. ―I‘ll never have sex if I don‘t pass college math.‖ I nodded. ―And in order to pass college math I‘ll have to work my balls off.‖ I nodded again. ―If I work my balls off I won‘t be able to have sex.‖ ―I see what you‘re saying.‖ He always said the most outrageous things. He must have taken after his dad. I‘m trying to remember which one that was. _______________________________________________________________________ Margie Tubbs is a former newspaper columnist, deputy sheriff, and special education teacher. She is a native of Shreveport, LA but now resides in Mobile, AL with her husband, Dennis. She holds a B.A. degree in journalism from LSU and a M.Ed in reading from USA. She is retired and writing whenever the mood hits.

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154

Free Verse

Ourselves on Ourselves Carolynne Scott You write God‘s poem in the dark, I hide when Jehovah‘s Witnesses knock, yet in Magnolia Park beneath daystars, we initiate June, life, animism, Auden on Yeats, Wordsworth on separatism, ourselves on ourselves.

The world plays softball, suns the canary, while I devour your eyes, moustache, shy smile.

When you clutch me, I tell the clouds.

You wore a medal, Christ ascendant – gave me a cross to rub when I need it.

I could preach you from pulpits were it not sacrilegious.

Now I am a glider awaiting word from control – from the blue sky to ascend, break off revolt.

I noticed these things: You wore wool socks, had good shoulders, a knockout moustache, blue eyes able to stand pain. A medal on a chain.

No rings or hips. ‗God help us‘ on your lips. __________________________________________________________________ Carolynne Scott’s poems have appeared in Southern Poetry Review, Azorean Express, and Noccalula. She is a graduate of Samford University (journalism) and holds a Master’s in English from the University of Alabama at Birmingham where she taught fiction writing in Special Studies for 22 years.

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155

First Chapter Novel

Milking from Elegy For A Girl

Deborah Lee Luskin Even with dawn creeping across the barnyard, Harlan Knight felt neither renewed nor rested. He hesitated on the back step to note the sunrise and shrugged, not surprised that the gloom that had settled across his shoulders was still there, like a mantle of permanent night.

Harlan remembered when sunshine brightened the day, when sunshine meant a pleasant time outdoors doing chores, fixing things and the like.

Harlan remembered when farming was satisfying work, not killing labor.

Nevertheless, he trudged to the barn and settled into the comfortable routine of milking, as he always did, and was lulled by his own voice and the squirt-squirt-squirt of the milk same as the cows. ―That a girl, my Daisy, my Daisy. Give me your milk, Daisy my girl.‖ Girl Knight listened from the shadows. Her father‘s voice was the closest thing to human melody she had ever heard outside church, and not from a jukebox or a radio. Sure, she‘d heard movie stars sing in the pictures, but not like this, not in the sweet straw-smelling golden early sunshine voice of morning milk in mid-summer, not the sweet buttercream tones her mother used to hum at the churning, or when she was putting Girl to sleep.

Girl didn‘t know whether to weep or holler as she listened to her father milk the herd with a gentleness that had gone from her life when they planted the box with her mother in the earth, not that Girl believed her mother was really in that box. Her mother went straight from her hospital bed right up to heaven. Girl hadn‘t believed for one minute that the cold statue laid out at Stebbin‘s Funeral Parlor was her mother. For one, she was too still, and for another, her mother never wore lipstick when she was sleeping, and her hair was never like coiled springs. Her 156

mother‘s hair always looked soft and wavy, and her lipstick maybe started out red in the morning, but it was always worn off by night.

Likewise, her mother‘s cheeks sometimes looked ruddy from the cold or the wind or the heat of the cookstove, but they were never pink, like on the body laid out at Stebbin‘s. That‘s how Girl knew that the body was already empty of her mother‘s soul, as Aunt Doris called it. All of which had made it easier for Girl to watch the coffin drop into the ground. ―Girl?‖ Harlan nearly tipped the bucket at the sight of his daughter emerging from the shadows looking so much like Mary Grace it jumbled his insides and he had to steady himself against the cow. ―Girl. What are you doing up so early?‖ ―It‘s the time I always get up.‖ ―Is that so?‖ Harlan poured Daisy‘s milk into a slope-shouldered milk can before moving on to the next stanchion along the aisle. He installed himself beside Iris, steady and slow. ―Maybe there‘s a bit of the farmer in you after all.‖ Harlan stroked the cow as he swabbed the heavy udder with gentle care. Iris was lulled by his calming voice. ―Here we go, Iris. Here, I‘ll relieve you of that milk.‖ He kept a flat palm against the soft hollow where the fore udder attached as he gripped the far teat. Resting his forehead against the animal‘s warm side, he tugged and squeezed and sang, ―Give me your milk, my bonny flower. Give me your milk, my bonny girl.‖ The muscles in Harlan‘s forearms pumped one then the other in a steady rhythm, stripping the front of the bag so that it hung empty, the ropy mammary veins along the cow‘s underbelly no longer swollen nor the milk wells along her chest floor taut. He shifted his hands to the rear, talking all the while. ―Thank ye, thank ye, girl, for all the milk you‘re making.‖ He let his head rest against the cow‘s flank. The udder deflated like a balloon losing air, and just as sad.

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Harlan poured the warm milk from the steel bucket into the tengallon jug, filling it this time. He pulled the hinged cover up, pounded the cap in place with the heel of his hand, and started filling another.

Girl inched her way along the aisle. ―Uncle Ralph says you could milk more cows if you used a machine.‖ The hollow sound of milk dropping into the bottom of the steel can echoed between them, then stopped. Harlan turned back to the cows, carrying the empty bucket to Lupine. He fetched his stool and antiseptic and started swabbing. ―Does your Uncle Ralph say who‘s gonna take care of more cows?

Or who in creation‘s gonna wash the gol darn machine between milkings?‖ Girl shielded herself behind the milk can. ―No, Sir,‖ she whispered.

He took his hands off the cow, leaned his elbows on his knees and spoke to the ground. ―You know, a cow won‘t let down her milk if you‘re angry. Can‘t she tell who you‘re angry at, and it don‘t make one bit of difference to her. She don‘t give a hoot if you‘re angry at her or your brother-in-law or the way ‗a the world. All she does is sense that anger in you, and she stiffens up, holds onto her milk.‖ He sighed. ―The only way to make her let go is to drop that anger on the barn floor, like it were manure.‖ Harlan‘s voice mellowed into the color of syrup. The cow shifted, suddenly impatient. Harlan stroked her calmly, calmly, then rested his forehead against her and stripped the milk from her pendulous udder.

When he lugged the pail to the can, he spoke evenly, ―You‘re so eager to spend the summer here, but you got to work. This ain‘t no place for no summer vacation.‖ He didn‘t actually scowl, but his face was so dark with whiskers, dirt and weather that Girl stepped backwards. ―You want to help on the farm some?‖ Girl nodded.

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―Good. I could use it.‖ He pulled the filled can onto its edge and rolled it toward the rectangle of sunlight framed by the open door of the barn. ―C‘mon!‖ But Girl stared at the newly milked cows as they flicked their tails and shifted and shuddered against flies. Lupine stretched her neck as far as the stanchion allowed and glared at Girl, urging her to hurry. Girl turned toward the dooryard where Harlan had loaded one can onto the truck and was coming back for the other. ―Here,‖ he detoured to fetch buckets with rubber nipples sticking out the bottom. ―Fill these.‖ He was already in motion, rolling the heavy jug toward the door, while Girl stood stuck, an empty bucket dangling from each arm. ―With water,‖ he grunted as he hefted the can onto the truck.

Girl filled the buckets at the pump and lugged them into the barn. ―Does your Uncle Ralph say I should get a bulk tank, too?‖ Girl didn‘t catch his bitterness. ―He wonders why you don‘t pay a trucker to haul the milk.‖ ―Oh, does he? First he has me using an automatic milking machine and then he has me paying a trucker to haul milk. I suppose he thinks I ought to be milking Holsteins and increasing my herd now, don‘t he?‖ Heat rose on Girl‘s face and she looked at her feet.

Harlan stopped ranting. ―Now, there. One thing you got to learn if you want to stay on the farm, here, Girl, is that everybody‘s an expert on farming these days, ‘specially those who‘s never done it.‖ Girl brushed her sleeve across her eyes. ―But Ralph is always standing up for you against Aunt Doris. She‘s the one who says you ought to pack it in, get out of farming while you can.‖ Harlan‘s laugh fell like broken glass. ―Your Aunt Doris didn‘t never like the life, didn‘t want your mother never to take up farming—at least not with me. No, your Uncle Ralph, he‘s a good man.‖ 159

Girl‘s face brightened. ―Now here‘s your chore while I take this milk down to the plant.‖ Girl followed him to the feed bin where he scooped out creamcolored powder with a long metal spoon. ―Two scoops to a bucket,‖ he said, dumping the stuff into the water and raising a cloud. ―One bucket to a calf three times a day.‖ The water turned to milk. ―There‘s two calves in the box stall this side, and Dahlia freshened this morning. Say hello to them today, so the young ‗un will know you when I separate them tomorrow. Meanwhile, you see to those others now, you hear?‖ ―Yes, Sir.‖ ―If‘n there‘s anything you need in the groceries line, I can stop by the store on my way back.‖ Girl‘s face reddened again. She regarded her sneakers. Her big toe raised a small bump against the canvas where, in a few weeks, the canvas would fray. ―Well? What is it?‖ ―Aunt Doris—‖ Girl shifted from one foot to another, as if she were dancing on coals. ―Aunt Doris never let—‖ She took a deep breath and looked at her father. ―I don‘t know how to cook nothing more‘n eggs.‖ Harlan threw his head back and laughed again. More shattered glass. ―I‘m eager to learn!‖ Girl nearly shouted. ―I asked Aunt Doris to teach me, but she was too busy.‖ Girl‘s voice dropped to a whisper. ―Well, ain‘t that grand of old Doris! Just like her. Well, no matter. I been feeding myself these past eight years, I figure I can feed you, too.‖ ―I just need a recipe book. I‘m sure I can figure it out!‖ Harlan eyed her tip to toe.

Girl bit her lip, as if that could have recalled the words.

Harlan rubbed his chin and nodded. ―I‘m sure you can, if you‘ve got any of your mother‘s blood in you, which I think you have.‖ 160

Girl smiled right into his face. ―You look just like Mary Grace,‖ his voice wobbled.

Girl didn‘t know where to look, or how to contain whatever it was that was swelling inside her. Happiness, maybe. ―I got to get the milk to the plant.‖ He threaded a cord through the handles to keep the cans from tipping over, glad for something to do that would keep his eyes off her, so like her mother she was both a pleasure and an ache to watch. ―So long,‖ he waved as he climbed into the cab and rattled down the farm lane. Not until he turned onto the town road and shifted gears did he begin to exhale.

Girl stood in the barn door until the truck turned onto the town road, and she stood there still until she could no longer hear the engine grinding up East Hill. She stood there a moment longer, in the silence that was not silence or even quiet, but a sweet and steady rumble of earth‘s morning noises at midsummer, when the hallelujah bird-song of dawn decrescendos, the bull frogs stop bellowing, and the whispering of the shrubs and grasses hums over the air.

Girl stood there a long time, reliving the conversation of the morning as if she‘d taken a moving picture of it and could replay it again and again in even more vivid detail than the original. Her cheeks still warmed at the part where they talked about Uncle Ralph. Girl never aimed to be disloyal, and she didn‘t want her father to be angry with Ralph, but her father had a point, after all. When was the last time Ralph took to farming? Like the snarl she created when Aunt Doris tried to teach her to knit, this knot of what to think about Uncle Ralph was too tangled for Girl to undo. She sighed and picked up the feed pails. Here she was, at the farm at last, and it wasn‘t at all how she‘d imagined.

Girl didn‘t feel so lonely anymore, either. Aside from the cows and the chores her father set her, the sunshine kept her company as she meandered into the garden, grown over except for the potatoes hilled in long rows. Girl could remember when this garden was a forest of feathery 161

carrots, when she toddled behind her mother, at hem level, a fat pea pod clutched in her grubby hand. While her mother plucked peas into a basket slung over her arm, Girl struggled to unlock her pea‘s green latch.

When at last Girl mangled the pod open, she picked a chubby pea with one hand and dropped the rest from the other. Just then, a phoebe bounced its tail from atop the pole beans, and Girl figured the peas flew into the sky.

The sky was the same, but the smart hoed rows of beans and beets and cabbage were now just a memory in tangled weeds. Girl shaded her eyes with her hand and surveyed the garden plot, confidently imagining the pole beans vining their way up a tipi of sticks, tomatoes tied to stakes, cucumbers spilling out of old tires. She saw the poplars chased out of the orchard and tidy, mown paths between the pruned trees. She saw herself draping white netting over the blueberries. She hugged herself, pleased with the double vision of her and her mother inhabiting the same place. This summer, she would tend the garden, just like her mother.

Her father had said she was like her. Girl turned and looked up at the house. She didn‘t see the peeling, sagging structure. And she didn‘t see her perpetually disapproving Aunt Doris, frowning at her simply for being alive. She was at the farm for the summer. She was alone and not lonely. Instead of a dream, it was a dream come true.

Quick, before her father returned, Girl crossed the dusty yard, hurried through the kitchen and up the stairs. In the secrecy of her dormered room, Girl shook out the wadded up ball of fabric she‘d rescued from Aunt Doris‘s bottom drawer, though why Aunt Doris saved Mary Grace‘s bathing suit remained a mystery Girl could hardly ask about. Now Girl smoothed the wrinkled jersey with her flat palm, sure that Aunt Doris could never fit one of her enormous thighs through the leg opening. Girl held up the black suit with the suggestion of a woman‘s shape sewn into the curve of the seam.

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In the full sun of day, Girl stripped and quickly pulled the stretchy fabric over her thin legs and brown knees. She tugged at the tight fabric until the straps slid over the knobs of bone on her shoulders and stood up, stretching the elastic knit across her flat body. The extra fabric for the hips and buttocks of the suit‘s original owner flapped like wings on either side of Girl‘s straight bones. The soft, molded cups for the bosom lay hollow against Girl‘s flush chest.

Girl ran her hands down the smooth plane of her hips and sighed at the vision she held of herself. Her mother! With her bitten forefinger she traced the perfect Palmer script that spelled ―Mary Grace‖ embroidered at the hip. ―Mary Grace,‖ Girl whispered. It sounded like music.

Girl had seen writing like this in the stationary store over in Claremont last June. Waiting on the sidewalk while Aunt Doris shopped, Girl stared at the window display of fancy papers. She examined all the styles of invitations available for weddings and such. Swirly letters looped across paper the color and thickness of cream. And the letters stood up, on top of the paper, the way dribbles of super-hot syrup spooned onto buttered parchment hardened when Doris made maple candy, only the writing was neater. Everything about those invitations was neater than anything Girl had ever seen for real, not pictures. She studied them carefully, matching them to the bridal gowns modeled in Doris‘s glossy magazines. All the invitations started with ―Mr. and Mrs. So and So—‖ like it was a king and queen making the announcement for a princess. Then they‘d give the bride‘s first and middle names.

What would her own invitation read? Marriage was just a dim inevitability, not yet connected to romance or longing or self. And there was no Mrs. to be a daughter of, just ―Mr. Harlan Knight cordially—.‖ Well, right there she‘d have to stop. Her father was hardly ever cordial, except for sweet talking the cows. And there was no ‗Mrs.‘ to be the daughter of.

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Girl traced the lettering across Mary Grace again and thought bitterly about the next line of the invitation no one would ever order.

What invitation would ever say ‗Girl‘ is going to be married? Her father would never allow ‗Mary Grace‘ on account of Mary Grace being her mother‘s name.

Her father has never called her but ‗Girl‘—not since a long time ago, in the dimness of a tender past, when he‘d whisper ―Girl Baby,‖ or even ―Baby Girl‖ as in ―Baby Girl Knight,‖ which is how she was named in the hospital when she was born.

For a short time it was a fond joke in the family that Baby Girl Knight was hospital born. Windham Valley wasn‘t anything but old mill housing converted into a cottage hospital down in Waterchase, behind the green. It wasn‘t much, but it did boast regular nurses and beds that could sit up by turning a crank. Aside from the beds, the biggest difference between Windham Valley Hospital and a private home was its convenience to Doc Stoddard‘s house—the one with the four columns next to the brick bank—and the healing powers of Eunice Black‘s cooking.

Doc Stoddard installed Eunice in a double-sized kitchen: two gas ranges, two electric coolers, two sinks—and Eunice turned out some of the best food the patients and maybe even some of the nurses ever had in their lives. It was said, like one of those jokes that‘s only half funny because it‘s sad and true at the same time, that some folks got sick just so they could eat Eunice‘s cooking, and some that said it was the food that healed them, more than anything Doc Stoddard could do. But then, that was back when someone as proud and ornery as Ransom Blood, who lived lonesome up to Oregon Mountain all winter eating nothing but apples and oatmeal would come in half starved about March for a feeding that lasted through April. Nor would the nurses feed him till they had him bathed, which is how he got his once yearly cleaning. By planting time, Ransom would be fattened and strong enough to go home.

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Of course, not too many people were eager to go to Windham Valley. Healthy people distrusted medicine, and sick ones rather stay home to die. Women birthed their babies at home, only calling for the doctor when things took too long. But Doc Stoddard changed all that, especially by keeping new mothers in bed for a week. Best rest some wives ever had, almost like a vacation—from chores, anyways. Mrs. Harlan Knight never would have gone over to Waterchase to have her baby, though, if she hadn‘t lost the two babies previous, being born too soon and too fast so that they were dead long before Doc arrived at the farm.

When Mary Grace was pregnant for the third time, she had Harlan drive her over to Doc Stoddard‘s for regular check-ups. Not willing to take any chances, Doc put Mary Grace in the hospital two weeks before her expected confinement. As luck would have it, he was there two days later, when Mary‘s water broke and Baby Girl Knight gushed out.

Girl sighed, sending a tornado of hot dust twisting along the windowsill. The antique panes distorted the long view of the pasture and hayfield and cornfield beyond, already shimmering in the noontime sun.

Staring through the rippled glass at the heat rising off the earth unbalanced her. Girl raised her hand to steady herself against the handhewn timber where the dormer met the roof. Moving closer to the window, she put her face up to an empty square where the window glass was missing. For a moment, the less hot air from outside cooled her, and she closed her eyes. But the clank of the truck downshifting into the lane roused her.

With more assuredness than her pale frame was usually capable, Girl slid her skirt over the suit, stuffing her blouse into the waist as she brushed herself off, checking her face in the small glass hanging over her bureau. On the outside, her face looked like its usual slender self with a narrow nose, thin lips, pale cheeks and brown hair. But her green eyes glimmered. Girl could see her secret nearly busting out. Maybe no one 165

ever called her by her real name or knew she had a real swimsuit, but she was going to be just like her mother, keeping house on the farm. ________________________________________________________________________ Deborah Lee Luskin is the author of Into the Wilderness, a critically acclaimed love story set in Vermont in 1964, and winner of the 2011 Independent Publishers’ Gold Medal for Regional Fiction. Luskin is a Visiting Scholar for the Vermont Humanities Council and a regular commentator for Vermont Public Radio. She lives in southern Vermont. www.deborahleeluskin.com

~~~~~

166

Fiction

Aunt Rosa's Mother's Day Joseph L. Whitten "Uncle Way is dead," Mary Ruth, my friend, told me over the phone. It was not unexpected, and in fact was a relief. He was 98 years old and had lain curled in his bed for over a year, fed through a tube and unaware, as far as we could tell, of anything around him. "Old Mr. Ross is digging his grave now on Oak Hill," she continued, "beside Aunt Rosa.

Funeral's tomorrow."

They were not my aunt and uncle, but they had been everyone's aunt and uncle. Long before I moved to Crawford's Gap in 1950, folk had been calling the childless couple Uncle Way and Aunt Rosa. That's how they were introduced to me and thus I called them.

Rosa, who was older than Way, had been dead nearly 15 years. I could still see her in my mind, a small woman of serene countenance, her face haloed by white hair. She always had a smile and cheerful word for everyone, especially children, and they loved her. I think that's why the Library Board asked her in the early '60's to run the library. She read to the children and helped them to find books to fit their interest and vocabulary. They read to her and she helped them learn new words.

Grownups would sometimes comment, "Aunt Rosa, you're a wonder with these children; I'm sorry you never had any of your own." To which Aunt Rosa would reply, "God let you share your children with me, and I love them. I don't question God's ways."

So, springtime and harvest continued and Aunt Rosa grew old and forgetful, and we were sometimes amused by the things she did. Old Mr. Ross liked to chuckle about a Mother's Day occurrence at church. The oldest mother was always given a rose on Mother's Day, and although everyone knew who the oldest was, the minister would ask for the oldest

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mother present to stand and then look inquiringly around the congregation. On this Mother's Day, Aunt Rosa stood. The young minister and the girl ready to present the flower were bewildered. The minister looked for help to Mrs. McVey, who everyone knew to be the oldest mother there. Flora McVey and Aunt Rosa looked at each other; Mrs. McVey smiled and nodded her head, indicating that her friend should be given the rose. Aunt Rosa took it gently, kissed the girl softly on the cheek and thanked her. When she sat, Uncle Way curled his arm around her and patted her shoulder. As the congregation turned to the next hymn, they silently admired the kindness of Flora McVey, and every mother there made a mental note to use her as an example to the children.

Rosa went out less often after that. Someone else now read to the children, and Uncle Way looked after his Rosa. Then she died and was buried in the iron-fenced family plot on Oak Hill. At the grave side, Rosa‘s black housekeeper, with a contralto voice as deep as baritone, sang, "Just a Rose Will Do,"* an old Southern tune frequently sung at funerals forty years ago.

When time shall come for my leaving, When I bid you adieu; Don't spend your money for flowers, Just a rose will do.

It was a remarkable presentation of the song, a dirge yet a lullaby, and her velvet voice caressed the ancient tombstones on the hillside and melted the hearts of the mourners. Uncle Way wept quietly for his dead Rosa.

Now Uncle Way, too, was dead. He had outlived by a long time, all his contemporaries and there was no one under fifty at the grave-side service. It was simple and brief.

Afterward folk stood around and visited while the grave was closed.

My friend and I walked among the tombstones in the old section of the 168

cemetery. She was a distant cousin of Uncle Way's, and had collected lore and legend of the family.

"Barton," she said to me, "those were fine people. Uncle Way loved Aunt Rosa more than most people know. Shall I tell you their story?"

Naturally I said yes.

"Rosa was a Yeager, I know you've lived here long enough to know that. Her father was a merchant and cotton farmer, and her mother ran a boarding house during Crawford's Gap's ‗boom‘ days. They were well off and wielded some power because of that.

"You also know, of course, that Aunt Rosa loved children, but I doubt if you know why."

"Not really," I said. "I just know that every new baby in Crawford's Gap got a little hand-made quilt from Aunt Rosa. I always supposed it was because she had no child of her own."

"No, that isn't all of it, and it's a tragic story, for Rosa was seduced by one of her mother's boarders. The boarder bought a ticket to San Antonio. ‛One-way,‘ the agent told Mr. Yeager."

Suddenly I saw Aunt Rosa on Mother's Day, rising to accept the rose that was due her, a rose she had longed to stand for on other Sundays but had remained seated; and I realized that Mrs. McVey must have known as well.

"How do you know all this?" I asked.

"Flora McVey, my grandmother, told me. She and Aunt Rosa had been school mates. When Rosa's parents found out she was pregnant, Mr. Yeager took her to the grandmother's in Morgan County; but when the grandmother died, Mr. Yeager brought Rosa back to Crawford's Gap. They told that she was recovering from a lingering illness contracted in Morgan County and turned away visitors who came asking to see her.

"At time for delivery, Mr. Yeager went for the old black midwife, who delivered the child. He had some control over that family, you understand."

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I could not resist interrupting, "Do I know Aunt Rosa's child."

"Oh, no," Mary Ruth said, "We now come to the tragedy. You see, as soon as the baby was born, Mr. Yeager took it from the midwife and crushed its head against the fireplace, then took it and buried it somewhere behind the house."

"Dear Lord!" I thought, but was too stricken with the horror of this gothic tale to speak aloud.

"Mr. Yeager took the midwife home, undoubtedly threatening her and her family if she told. In those days threats could be carried out without too much fear of repercussions. The town eventually guessed, of course, things like that can never be kept silent forever; but no one ever talked with open doors, and no one ever investigated.

Mr. Yeager carried on his business as usual and acted as though Rosa was only recovering from a lingering illness. And miraculously she did recover and was again seen about the town, going to market, to church, and so forth. It was the mother who had recurring bouts of nervous prostration. She died at Bryce's Hospital for the Insane in 1925."

"And Mr. Yeager?" I asked.

"In the winter of 1932, he shot himself. He was standing at the fireplace where he had killed the baby. It was not long after his death that a small marble square appeared in the Yeager plot. It read, `Baby Boy, 1920.'"

"Mary Ruth, this is horrible. I can't believe this happened to a woman I knew," I said. We were circling back to the new grave now.

"Yes, it's awful," Mary Ruth agreed, "but it's a love story, too.

Waylon Barnwell had been in love with Rosa from the time his family moved from the county seat to Crawford's Gap. But he was younger than she; and, too, Rosa had fancied herself in love with the boarder, you know, so Way was rebuffed. But, after the tragedy, when she was well enough, he began going to sit with her on the wide front porch, and then he would take her to church and to community functions at the school.

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Rosa, naturally, was grateful to him, and came to love him, perhaps at first for his compassion alone, but it grew into a profound love. When Way asked permission to marry Rosa, Mr. Yeager, to keep up the normal front, gave his consent."

By this time Uncle Way's grave was closed and the flowers had been arranged over the red earth. As we stood looking at the flowers, I asked, "Did Uncle Way know all this? Before they married?"

"Oh, yes, but he loved her, don't you see."

And as I said goodbye to Mary Ruth, I did see. I saw the Aunt Rosa whom I had known, a saintly woman who had risen above the horrible incident I had just heard, and had loved and been loved a hundred fold in the ensuing years.

For some reason I never told Mary Ruth the Mother's Day story, and it's obvious she did not know it, for with her sense of the dramatic she would have included it; and I certainly never told Old Mr. Ross about the dead baby. Some things are better never told, and sometimes when the night is long and the wind is soughing in the pines, I wonder why Mary Ruth felt compelled to tell me such a haunting story, and in my sleeplessness I wish she hadn't.

But every year on Decoration Day, which is always the second Sunday in May, Mother's Day, I take a rose to Oak Hill and place it on Aunt Rosa's grave. And as I walk among the tombstones admiring the beautiful spring flowers, I am always certain that I hear a deep contralto crooning.

I'll go to a beautiful garden, At last when life's work is thru; Don't spend your money for flowers, Just a rose will do.

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And more than once when I have been all alone at the top of Oak Hill, I have been so certain I heard a mother crooning a lullaby to her baby that I have turned to look. ~~~ * ―Just a Rose Will Do‖ Copyright 1948 by The Hartford Music Co. Published in New Songs of Inspiration, Number Nine, John T. Benson Publishing Co., 1625 Broadway, Nashville, TN 37202.

________________________________________________________________________ Joseph Whitten, Odenville, AL, is a member of AWC and the Alabama State Poetry Society. In ASPS he has served as Treasurer, Contest Chair, and presently as President.

He was ASPS Poet of the Year for 2002. He also holds membership in Pennsylvania and Georgia poetry societies.

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Short Fiction

Justice Dick Michener I‘m writing this down because my student mistrusts her command of English, which she learned in a missionary school but rarely used before she left her Central American homeland. She trusts me to be an understanding and an understandable man. (My parents were refugees from the Balkans.) When she told this story to my public speaking class, she called it ―Family.‖ Many years ago, an idealistic and innocent girl journeyed from her village to study nursing at a Christian college. In the spring of her freshman year, she was raped one warm and cloudy night while she was strolling with a celebrated student, a senior majoring in music ministry.

Then, as now, she was skilled at care-giving, a large bronze woman who embraced life. Then, as now, he was skilled at music-making, a small pale man who stalked life.

As they were moving on the fringes of the campus along the banks of a placid river lined with dense foliage, he shoved her off the path and knocked her down. The ground was soft, but the fall stunned her. In a matter of seconds, her skirt was up, her panties were off, her legs were spread, and he was on her, in her, and out of her. He got up, zippered himself, and strolled away.

She wondered if she was in the middle of a nightmare, but the residue outside her and the garment beside her were evidence of her attack. Concerned that she might have enticed him, but worried that she might become diseased or pregnant, she got up, dressed herself, and limped over to a tiny hospital.

In the emergency room, first she was informed how lucky she was to have been taken by a considerate and gentle man. (She claimed she

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could not identify her assailant because of darkness.) Later she was questioned by a female police officer who challenged her statements because her body had received no visible injuries from the alleged assault.

These were the only words which my student remembered from that night, one sentence spoken by a female doctor after she had concluded her examination and closed flimsy curtains around the gurney on which my student lay alone. ―What kind of man would want to have sex with something like that?‖ The laughter of male and female staff ricocheted down the halls.

My student completed college and immigrated to America. Working as a hospice nurse, she raises two children as a single parent. She prays to God but never enters a church.

Her attacker graduated with highest honors. Forsaking his music ministry, he composes and performs New Age compositions. Renowned and affluent, he travels the world with a large and compliant entourage.

These were my student‘s final words: ―I am called to forgive, but I cannot forget.‖ These are my final words: ―I hope I did her story justice.‖ ________________________________________________________________________ Dick Michener, award-winning short fiction and nonfiction writer in the USA and abroad, received a short fiction award in 2010 and read from the stage at the Southern Festival of Books in Nashville, TN. His work is anthologized in Lights in the Mountains, Echoes Across the Blue Ridge, and Dark Highlands. He welcomes reader feedback to dick_michener@yahoo.com.

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174

Nonfiction

God Gave Me Horses Janet Johnson Anderson They stayed beside me on my nightstand, stilled and quiet‌ polished black, warm chocolate brown, sun-glistening blonde.

Throughout the day as I held them, I studied their sculpted bodies, felt their racing strength rise and subside. I wished my wishes in the pools of their gentle eyes, stroked their manes, kissed the smooth, soft, diamond markings that announced their honest spirit. I loved them. My horses took me places I could never find in real life. Galloping them across my bed and across the wooden floor, their clip-clopping plastic hooves caused my imagination to soar.

Freed from the burdensome knot in my stomach, I ran with them waist high through waves of wild, blue-green grass. I rode atop of them, without much movement at all, as we traveled soft and easy as light, out and away in another time, in some undisturbed, enchantment. I lay across their plump backs, and hugged their broad, certain necks as we flew. The perfect flight, soaring on a wind spent morning, flying into the pitch and roll of a perfect sky, our summer skins shining in the sun, the world below stilled for our moment‘s pleasure. Only the flutter of wings broke the silence as we glided effortlessly above our own lives like spectators. I loved the escape, the disassociation, the open, undressed connection, the grace‌the grace. I loved my horses; they channeled my emotions and my dreams. They came as the gentle hands of God scooping me up in relief. I clutched them to endure. To last, outlast the cruel reasoning of my world. I loved them enough to believe. I loved them enough to believe they too loved me.

At an early age, I sensed something was peculiar and perverse.

The way a house and its people behave staggering half asleep, or enraged

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and swollen from some infectious disease. The way blind power covers skin in exotic welts and lashes…purples and reds blossoming in the midst of bone-bruising greens and yellows. It was the weight of whitewashing dark beliefs, and the stolen sense of belonging. More than fear, it was the dream of drowning…the dying that went on and on in water as white and clear as tonic. It was the definition and depth of vulnerability amid hypocrisy. I didn‘t raise my face as a white flag from the battleground…but I listened to the silent thoughts of surrender deep down in my core…anxious and aware. I knew in my hunger, in my home, we were violating something sacred.

Often I resented other girls my age. They had presence. Even within the gridlock of wire braces, they had handsome smiles, genuine happiness, I thought. They were confident, and spoke openly and affectionately about their homes where they were safe, and cared for, a place they enjoyed. The sting from their words sent my awkward and useless limbs longing, fumbling, moving. I ran to the alcoholics, to the concessions of used up mothers, to the fat street dealers, and to Christ looking for that other world, that promised world of authenticity that could tell me who I was.

The north suburbs had deep pockets…and connections.

Generations built and prospered along the banks of Lake Michigan. But not ours, we had moved from small rural towns in West Virginia, and were now quietly collapsing behind the social norm. We didn‘t fit in. We shopped the thrift stores and wore hand-me-downs. No school trips, no vacations, we simply did without. While others went to camp and country clubs, summers for us meant drawn window shades, a fan, and cold washcloths. Winters were spent hovering around the stove‘s open oven door, and positioning ourselves to find space astride the old black grid registers when the heat kicked on. It was obvious we were not, nor would we ever be on track with the prevalent and wealthier elements in our community. Sequentially, however, this was never the root problem, not 176

the enigma that stifled our house. There was something more than poverty, something sinister, something known and unsaid nesting.

When we never love ourselves, hating our skin, hating even our shoes that carry us through our life…we either learn to love each other and each glad moment as rare and precious, or our eyes carry nothing but terrible confessions. Transparent at first, like open windows, the eyes of defenseless children learn to abandon their heart as they surrender control. They learn to accept the pain of incision after being soiled and gutted, to tread water without thrashing, to stay afloat alongside life‘s hooks and anchors and remain quiet. I understood that this was my cross if indeed we all have a cross to bear, to keep silent, to swallow extraordinary secrets beneath smothering hands, to give up my boundaries and my flesh, to die a little to see what could remain holy.

At ages eight, nine and ten, I knew God was a hearty field of potatoes when dinner came ‗round. I knew God was the stream that ran upstairs along the second floor, when my mother‘s words fell like stones and sank beyond my heart. ―You bitch,‖ ―whore,‖ ―I wish you were never born,‖ her full, dark voice scoffing at me...her small, mean, coal mud eyes raging with hate. My architecture, my portrait, absolute in her hands, was shattering daily. Small, empty bits of me were scattering and fading into the desolation of hopelessness. I wanted to cry me, me, me in the midst of this disaster. Every fiber in me wanted to fly away. Belly and hips warm with air, sweeping in escape into a sparse, winged light, further and further, becoming a feathery speck…a wisp reduced finally to vapor. But I was grounded there, bones witched and swelling, enduring the agony of decay, never feeling safe. Boots, belts, and switches kept my mouth breathing open and round…heavy, like a fish struggling to prevail in less and less water. My sensibility exhausted, and my sense of direction ripped out from under my quivering skin, I felt awash in ruin.

How precious to me, that during this time of godlessness in my house, that God would save and mold me. That life‘s hardships were not 177

wasted, but used to teach me. It is not easy to strip ourselves of our will, but we can‘t understand difficulty unless we experience it. We cannot understand mercy without providence. Not everyone chooses to be godly.

There is evil in this world, and just like triumph, it is bound to touch us, intrude into our ordinary lives. My God accepted me right then and there, without prerequisite…only asking me to find Jesus, in whatever I faced, good or bad, to set myself aside and find Him. I wanted to die, but God dared me to live, dared me to look past my skin to find worth within.

Perhaps in suffering, when we struggle with the outer semblance of an inner discord, when we feel the most alone or unwanted, God roots in us, provides a thick trunk for curling into or climbing upon. Whether we heave ourselves from limb to limb, growing, searching toward the top for our blooms…or we cleave to the heavy base below, afraid to stretch, afraid of splinters and missed steps…God calls to us. Come for shelter; come find newness in what has already been planted. God leaves it to us to find Him, but he restores us nonetheless, authentic as soap, until we call out, ―God, my God, here I am!‖ God takes us from common purpose and prepares us to live in substance. Scripture tells us that God not only grants us the endurance of eagles, but trains us as well, in the history of wings so that we might be unafraid before the wind. For me, I simply wondered if this battered vessel could be filled. Wondered if in true communion, discovery might bubble forth in the form or poetry or some other passion. After all, the skewed perspective which dominated my life like a virus, had also infected me, altered my thoughts, my responses, and capabilities. It is complicated and wearisome to live like a guard dog, but desire truce and affection. I felt deep inside that only God could be my constant resource and assurance. That sometime, somehow, good would spit the bad out…that my cold, soaked, wretched wings might dry out. But it would take me half a lifetime to believe it. Until that time came, God came to me as horses that stayed beside me and listened.

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Until that time, God sparked my creativity. He gave me wild beautiful, imaginary horses. They were my sanctuary. He blessed me as early as second grade. I was part of a horse club at school. Pinks and lavenders, bangs and ponytails, racing around in red orthopedic shoes…giddy-upping around the playground. As ridiculous as it still seems to me today, this club served me well. It covered up my selfloathing and shame. It let me escape my loneliness for a small part of each day. When I was lost in a fog, being a part of that club was like finding a way out, finding the lone signalman waiving his yellow lantern.

Sharing my freedom and joy via horses within that group, was like a bridge amid so much destruction.

I rode like the wind to and from school. At home, I dismounted and tied my steed to our stair post. Every day I collected grass clippings to feed my faithful friend, saving what I could for my real horse to come.

My uncle promised he would get me a horse. Of course, I hadn‘t made the connection back then, between the sexual assaults in our basement, with the lingering promise of some future pony. Nor had I made the connection between any of the perverted men who caught me off-guard, and the great need I would have for many years to gallop off or fly away from my home and everything I knew.

Only now in mid-life, am I able to discern the truths. Only now am I able to flush the feelings to the surface, perceive my hungers and pains, overcome them, and let them go to find nourishment elsewhere. I rode my horses then to stay brave, to protect myself and feel safe. Today, I ride on God‘s thundering word. When the enemy moved in, again and again, crushing against me and I could not breathe…God gave me his breath. Now that my weary soul is worn and dry, I await God to quench my thirst, for my parched and bitter lips to sweeten from sun-ripened berry laughter, for God to kiss what has long been forgotten, for Him to bend down and love me, layer after insufficient layer. I know God shoulders me, even as I speak now and my own voice shocks me, God 179

bolsters me onward, one step more…steadying me as I go, to the next plateau.

I know that those who search beyond themselves, dream, but I have also learned that those who search inside themselves awaken.

Even after much theological study, workshops, prayers and spiritual practices, I realize I have avoided the great truth…God‘s love. It‘s been hard to take in. I simply need to allow the belly of who I was, and the person I might now be to rest, linger in Christ and restore. God is the tender physician, the healer and divine spirit who can restore our soul.

God is also poised to let us go, to let us be.

We have to allow for the radiant transformation. Contemplative prayer and meditative yoga show me that I cannot just open myself to the presence of God, I must allow God to meditate in me as well. In doing so, that what should bloom on my windowsill, what should ring out from church bells, will bloom and ring in me, God alive in the very breath of me.

Who can reject the bread and comfort in such a time of personal famine? Who can turn away from glory‘s warming sunlamp, God‘s laughing heart each new day at the yellow window? Ultimately, if we are to climb out of ourselves to rest in the spirit, we must realize it has not been for courage. Despite our conviction and bravery, it has never been courage holding on, but love. Long before a life of violence, there was God. There was no escaping God who poured Himself out, who spilled beyond bone, into my marrow. The great spoiler Christ, cried out for me to sing with Him as the rejoice-choir triumphed, all those years ago when our God first uttered the magic words ―Abracadabra,‖ and stirred in us something good.

Once I finally stumble through this facade, and arrive to some crisp, clean, new ideological place in my being, God will be there announced in a multitude of innocence. God will recognize and welcome me, will be first in line, holding up a sign with my name on it. The great 180

silence in the roar of existence. And Heaven will fall upon me like a canopy of silk, wrapping and carrying me safely toward that state of grace. I suspect we will go together, God and I, an alliance of wings shining apart from all of the world, where we will mount the back of a noble, alabaster horse, and ride off between rock and sky‌between physiological and psychological, to the wellsprings of hope, the pivotal pin-point condition called holiness, the place of resurrection, where the soul becomes illuminated, fills again with joy and wonder. ________________________________________________________________________ Janet Anderson, Huntsvilian, writer, media consultant, public speaker, painter and author, has works in 40 literary formats including Poetry Today and Piedmont Literary Review. Janet teaches poetry workshops and is a member of the Alabama State Poetry Society and AWC. She donates proceeds from her book After the Tornadoes, Reflections for Recovery to tornado relief funds in Alabama.

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181

Short Fiction

Open Window Day Deb Jellett There is a glorious, yet brief, time in Lower Alabama between the mild, but often rainy, winters and the oppressive hot and humid summers, when there are clear, bright days, a gentle breeze and temperatures of around 70 degrees. On those days you can open the windows and let the fresh spring breeze sweep out winter‘s staleness.

The world is awash in the fresh yellow greens of spring and the azaleas are in full bloom and everywhere you look there are globes of pink and white. It was on just such a day that he died.

One minute he was there, living, breathing. And the next minute, he toppled off the chair onto the kitchen floor and lay there in the stillness of death. A half eaten sandwich, his bite marks on it, lay on the plate and the crossword puzzle he had been working on was left propped against the sugar bowl. The glass of milk he had been drinking tumbled to the floor with him and splatters of milk mixed with the broken glass in an arc, like paint splattered onto a canvas. The open bread, the jar of mayonnaise on its side with a knife still in it and the empty packet of ham were strewn across the counter.

When Sue Ellen found him, she knew he was dead, but took his pulse anyway. In a haze, she called their doctor and when he came, he examined him and very gently uttered the words ―heart attack.‖ He took matters in hand and led Sue Ellen into the living room. She sat on the chintz sofa, while the doctor cleared up the glass and the milk on the kitchen floor. He called the undertakers and then left, saying she should call him if he could do anything else.

The undertakers came, and she spoke to them in the living room and told them he had wanted to be cremated. She had not watched as

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they very slowly rolled him out the front door. But, when their white van pulled out of the driveway, she was watching through the lace panel curtains in the living room. And then she was alone, all alone. Before, even if he had not been in the house, she knew he would be coming back. That was being by yourself and this was alone.

A couple of hours later, the lady next door came over with a casserole and a pound cake. The woman stood on the doorstep, the food on a tray, saying how sorry she was. Sue Ellen did not let her into the house, but rather took the tray in the doorway and walked down to the kitchen. She had forgotten to thank the woman.

The kitchen was, more or less, as he had left it and so she cleared the table, threw the uneaten food away and cleaned the counter.

As she stood at the kitchen sink, looking out on a peaceful sunset, a chilly wave of air came through the open window and she reached over and closed out the chill. She remembered she had not had lunch and realized that she was hungry. And so she heated up a bit of the casserole in the microwave and cut a slice of the pound cake.

As she sat down at the table, she remembered she had forgotten the milk and so she went across to the fridge, pulled out the carton and slowly poured it down the drain. ________________________________________________________________________ Deb Jellett is from Mobile but spent half her life in England (as a lawyer) and in Washington, D.C. (business owner). She vowed never to return to the South, but now blissfully retired; she lives near Mobile Bay, does volunteer work, enjoys two unruly Airedales and writes nonfiction and recently, fiction.

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183

Humor

Three Generations and Kid Rock: Seeing It in Color Jackie Romine Walburn When Granma Emily first told me she wanted to go to the concert with us, saying, ―I love Kid Rock,‖ I had to pause and ask, ―You mean Kid Rock? American Bad Ass? Bawitdaba? F-words and three-fourths-naked women? That Kid Rock?‖ ―Well, he seems nice on the TV,‖ Emily, a.k.a. Granma, said.

She repeated, yes, she likes Kid Rock and planned to get tickets, too, when she heard that Mary Claire and I were going to see Kid Rock and Jamey Johnson‘s Birmingham show February 19th. She wanted to take Dreama, her 15-year-old niece/daughter. It‘d be fun.

I suspected my 73-year-old stepmother knew the southern rocker, ballad-singing Kid Rock of CMT fame, not the expletive-rhyming, stonedpimp, bouncing b-a-from-Detroit Kid Rock.

No matter, fast forward a couple of weeks―Dreama had a church trip, so granddaughter Elizabeth Dawn, my niece, replaced Dreama in the three-generations-of-Romine-girls-go-to-Kid-Rock contingent – and we were in da‘ house (as Kid Rock would say). My only regret is that we didn‘t have tickets for all the nieces to attend, especially Patsy, who with her Kid-Rock-like attitude would have given us some of the street cred we were lacking.

Regardless, our three-generations-Kid-Rock adventure―a Saturday night we‘ll always remember―provided living proof that attitude doesn‘t have an age limit and that music and charismatic bad-boy singers like Robert James Ritchie, a.k.a. Kid Rock, transcend generations.

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―I thought he was fantastic,‖ Granma said, as she turned her hearing aid back on while we sat and waited for the crowd to thin out and the smoke to clear after Kid Rock‘s two hour performance.

A few hours before, we had looked like an unlikely crew as we lined up to enter the Birmingham-Jefferson Civic Center Saturday night, amid young girls wearing daisy dukes and high-heel boots. Three generations of Romine girls were lead by Granma in a sparkly red shirt, sensible black pants suit and her comfortable walking shoes.

Apologies to BJCC security, but we made it through just fine, each of us with three Smirnoff miniatures stuffed into our bras―including Granma‘s ample bosom. Dawn couldn‘t quit laughing at the thought of Granma stashing vodka minis in her Granma bra. We bought Sprites (Granma paid) and settled into our seats in the upper deck, not sitting together, but close enough for me and MC to wave to Dawn and Granma, as opener Ty Stone entertained and Alabama native Jamey Johnson performed. Johnson gave several nods to our home state, in a cover of Alabama‘s My Home‟s in Alabama, David Allen Coe‘s The Ride about riding from Montgomery with Hank Williams‘ ghost (Mister, can you make folks cry when you play and sing?), and as a final number, uplifted the crowd with Hank Williams‘ I Saw the Light. I loved Johnson and vow to download several of his songs, including In Color.

Granma‘s verdict on the openers when we met to buy more Sprites: ―Boring. I‘m ready for Kid Rock.‖ Okay, Granma. Hold on.

For Kid Rock‘s set, I traded places with Dawn, so she and Mary Claire could suitably dance and rock out without worrying about tipping Granma over. I sat/stood next to Granma Em, and seeing her reactions and comments made the show even better. If she was shocked at the lyrics or stage show with laser lights, timed erupting flames, a stuffed bear wearing Mardi Gras beads, a huge Longhorn skull spewing smoke

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and the stripper poles with the aforementioned three-fourths naked women, she never showed it.

Are those girls naked? No m‘am, they have on bikini tops and thongs. I think they have those thongs for sale at the souvenir booth.

Granma drank her beer (having given me her bosom-warm vodka mini) and ate her popcorn as Kid Rock worked his way through Cowboy and All Summer Long. ―I think he‘s a poet,‖ she said at one point. This was a hard point to argue, as I‘ve admired Kid Rock‘s musicianship and song-writing, his ballads like Picture and Only God Knows Why, as well as the fast-paced rebellious words to Cowboy, one of his most well-known songs. It‘s not easy to rhyme scotch and crotch, or chaos and Amadeus, but the Kid does it.

Some of the lyrics I knew were X-rated, but Granma probably didn‘t pick all those out, but when Kid Rock, who turned the big 4-0 this year, sang a new song called F---ing Forty and flashed the words on the big screen, there was no doubt. ―What‘s he saying?‖ Granma asked. ―It‘s about turning 40, called F---ing Forty. He says f----ing forty; at least I‘m not f---ing 41.‖ We looked at each other and laughed and said, ―at least it‘s not f---ing 54,‖ or ―f---ing 73.‖ Granma Em brought her binoculars, and I kept them around my neck through most of the show, getting up-close looks at the set, at the cool lady drummer he‘s had forever, and at his changing outfits, from the Alabama Rock On ‘04 sparkly t-shirt to the flashing pimp outfit to his final change, bare-chested with the microphone he loves to flip and catch stuck down in the waistband of his blue jeans. ―He‘s got an interesting body,‖ Granma kept saying. When he came out sans shirt for the Bawitdaba finale, and I said, ―Look, he took his

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shirt off.‖ Granma said, ―Give me those binoculars,‖ and spent most of the finale studying the interesting body and lamenting ―I hope his pants don‘t fall off.‖ Sure Granma. And then, ―is that a phoenix tattoo on his back?‖ ―Yes, and that‘s his son‘s name tatted around his bicep.‖ The Birmingham News reviewer Mary Colurso concluded that the concert was a ―Kid Rock party, start to finish.‖ Granma and I, Dawn and Mary Claire agree. And Granma, who taught me how to bop and jitterbug years ago, held her own during our three-generation rock concert experiment. We laughed a lot, and Kid Rock has a new or perhaps renewed fan of his parents‘ generation.

What‘s next?

Widespread Panic is coming to town this spring; better not tell Granma. ________________________________________________________________________ Jackie Romine Walburn is a career writer, former corporate communications manager, editor and award-winning reporter. She is polishing and seeking representation for her first novel, Mojo Jones and The Black Cat Bone, a story of good and evil set in the Alabama Black Belt. She writes the blog http://jackierwalburnwrites.blogspot.com.

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Free Verse

Hawkins Burying Ground, Biltmore Estate Joseph L. Whitten High on this hill— above the barn and winery above the tourists and merchandise a place scarce noticed by sightseers— a burying ground.

Thirty feet square perhaps fenced to keep the cattle out, and underneath the pokeweeds and hay grass my ancestors‘ dust has mingled with this Buncombe County earth.

I scan the compass points around drawing into my memory the mountains, the French Broad River, the trees edging its banks, the rows of sunflowers ruffling beside the cornfields— fields still being tilled and planted and harvested two hundred years after they were first cleared

by Pioneer farmer Benjamin Hawkins.

I accept this past and present and know why the music of the mountains has always thrummed through my blood— my roots lie here.

Biltmore Estate may own the fence and soil, 188

but this sacred ground owns me.

Above the nearer trees, wings burnished by the morning sun, hawk calls to hawk, welcoming me. ________________________________________________________________________ Joseph Whitten, Odenville, AL, is a member of AWC and the Alabama State Poetry Society. In ASPS he has served as Treasurer, Contest Chair, and presently as President.

He was ASPS Poet of the Year for 2002. He also holds membership in Pennsylvania and Georgia poetry societies.

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First Chapter Novel

The Galloway Cradle Reese Danley-Kilgo It had been in the Galloway family for over two hundred years. Not directly in families by that name, because it had been made by a woman and handed down to women, but all of the owners of the cradle were descendents of Mollie Burns Galloway. Mollie had had nine children and a hard life. She had made and used the cradle with her last three children, then passed it on to her daughters.

It is not known how or where she got the cherry wood, or acquired the skill of woodworking. But the Galloway cradle was a work of art. And carved delicately yet boldly on the bottom were the words ―Made by hand of Mollie Burns Galloway, 1789.‖ Ellen Murray was the twenty-third owner. She was the mother of three children, now teenagers, all of whom had slept in the cradle. From two obvious indications, her period being overdue by three and a half weeks and a queasy reaction to scrambled eggs, she thought she might be pregnant. Which was why she was looking at the Galloway cradle and thinking about nursery furniture. She‘d had a garage sale when her youngest was four, and sold the playpen, changing table, and stroller, all of which were rather used-looking by then, anyway. But she‘d kept the cradle. It was quite the nicest piece of furniture in the Murray house.

She should have passed it on then. But at that time her cousin Jennie, next in line for it, was only recently married and had no immediate need for or interest in baby furniture. Ellen remembered clearly the instructions of the aunt who had given it to her, that it could be used by each heir for only three children, then had to be handed on. Those words were from Mollie Burns Galloway herself, passed on by word of mouth only, woman to woman, through the generations.

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―But why?‖ Ellen had asked. ―Figure it out for yourself,‖ her aunt had answered shortly. ―No Galloway woman has ever had more than three children since Mollie‘s time.‖ Three is enough, Ellen thought. Maybe only two would have been better. She felt terribly ambivalent about this pregnancy. At times worries buzzed around in her head like weary bees. How would the older children react? Embarrassed, angry? And Ben, what would he say?

But at other times, the thought of holding a baby in her arms again was as warm and sweet as golden honey.

She put her foot out and touched the cradle into a gentle rock. It was perfectly balanced. The satin sheen of the polished wood gleamed softly in the morning light. She ran her fingers over the carved oak leaves and acorns that banded the edge of the cradle, and thought of all the babies who had been rocked to sleep in it, the long line of related women who had cherished it.

How had they managed? ―No one has ever broken the covenant,‖ Aunt Martha told her. ―It‘s a trust that goes with the Galloway cradle, the use of it for three children only, and the handing it on to women in the family.‖ ―But that wasn‘t what I was wondering about,‖ explained Ellen. ―Not the cradle. The limiting the size of their families. Whatever did they do, before? And even now, nothing is a hundred percent sure!‖ She looked down again at the cradle. How she‘d love to keep it! But she knew she could never break the Galloway cradle tradition. She wanted this baby, too. But what about Ben, and the three teenagers?

What to do? She sat there a moment longer, her fingers smooth on the silky wood.

Ellen gave the cradle a final rock, and knew she had decided. She went to the phone, called her doctor, and made an appointment. Then she called her cousin Jennie.

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___________________________________________________________ Reese Danley-Kilgo is a retired teacher-counselor from the University of Alabama in Huntsville. She has written poems, short stories, essays, memoirs, two novels, a novella, and book reviews. Besides being a lifelong reader/writer/teacher, Dr. Kilgo is also a gardener and a grandmother, a Scrabble and ping pong player, and a Peace and Social Justice activist.

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192

Fiction

The Chess Game Margaret Truly I‘m wearing my new sport coat and the blue tie that Gran gave me.

She‘s been good to me, and I want to please her tonight.

Some folks would find it pathetic that I have a date with my grandmother. Truth is, Gran is classy and balanced. The women I‘ve been dating lately are either manipulative and clingy or they‘re so competitive they‘re offended when I open a door for them.

What I want is a normal female. One who‘s smart and independent, a real partner. One who‘ll help me pick out my ties while I open her pickle jars. It would be very satisfying to have a special woman who reads good books and discusses them with me. Admittedly, I‘m downright lonesome for a girl like that.

Wish I hadn‘t blown it with the girl in the park. She had a confident stride, her ponytail swaying when she jogged. She seemed to love that goofy looking longhaired dog she called Rufus. I should have given more thought to my approach; it was all wrong. I made a fool of myself with her. I think I‘ll take a break from women for a while.

But tonight I plan to make sure that Gran has a good time. It‘s sad for her that, with my parents gone, I‘m the only kin she has left to invite to the family dinner dance at her retirement home.

When she chose to move there, she said, ―They call it the Glad Hearts Independent Living, but a better name would be the Forgetful Minds Need Help Living.‖ She likes the place, though, and has settled in with her new friends.

She says we‘ll be sitting with her chess nemesis Harold and his family. She and Harold have a running chess tournament going between

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them. Gran says it keeps them sharp. He is eighty-seven and she‘s eighty-three. All things considered, they are both doing okay.

I pick Gran up at her first floor apartment, and when we get to the dining room, Harold is already seated at a table near the dance floor. I shake his hand and say, ―Mr. Hendricks, are you beating Gran at chess lately?‖ ―Your Mildred is a wicked adversary, my boy. She keeps me on my toes.‖ I nod at the vacant chair. ―I‘ve never met your family. Do they live here in town?‖ ―Oh, yes, my grandchild will be here shortly.‖ I‘m preparing to ask him if he has any great grandchildren when a brunette in a matching sweater and skirt strides to the table. I jump up and almost knock my chair over. For some reason I was expecting a grandson, a younger version of Harold. Instead, here is the girl from the park. I‘m embarrassed and glad at the same time.

She seems more embarrassed than glad. A slow blush comes to her cheeks as we are introduced.

After we are seated, there is an awkward silence. Gran finally breaks it. ―Sam, if I‘m not mistaken, you and Amanda live on opposite sides of the park.‖ I cannot avoid it now. I glance at Amanda. Her embarrassment is fading, replaced by a smile playing around the edges of her lips, so I plunge ahead. ―Yes, Gran. You‘re right. A fellow in my condo unit wanted to meet Amanda. He‘s seen her walking her dog in the park. He tried to talk to her dog in hopes of making her acquaintance, but it didn‘t work out.‖ ―It certainly didn‘t.‖ Amanda is now trying very hard to avoid laughing. ―I was jogging in the park with Rufus and didn‘t think anyone was around. All of a sudden, a tall figure comes running up behind me. I felt like he was waiting to accost me. It alarmed me when he leaned 194

forward and said something about Rufus. So I said, ‗Sic him, Rufus‘, and Rufus grabbed his jogging pants and wouldn‘t let go.‖ Gran puts her hands to her face. ―Mercy, Sam. Your friend didn‘t use good judgment. The very idea of scaring a young lady like that.‖ ―Now, wait a minute, Gran,‖ I say. ―How does a man approach a female who doesn‘t know him? Mr. Hendricks, what would you have done?‖ ―Well, son,‖ he says, ―in my day our world was smaller. There was always someone who could introduce you.‖ He turns to his granddaughter. ―I hope the fellow wasn‘t hurt, Amanda.‖ ―I didn‘t wait to find out. I know Rufus didn‘t draw blood,‖ she says. At this point, I want to tell her that her dog ripped the hem of my new jogging pants that I had worn for her benefit, but I keep my counsel.

Then Gran reaches over, gives me a poke on the arm, and says, ―Sam, you need to tell your friend to a find better approach. Talking to the dog sounds like a plot from a dime novel.‖ I lean back in my chair, fold my arms, and avoid checking Amanda‘s reaction. ―Well, I‘ll surely pass that on to him, Gran.‖ Desperate to change the subject, I start reading the printed program that‘s beside my plate. ―I see that Big Ben and His Boomerang Boys will be playing for the dance. This sounds like fun.‖ I risk glancing at Amanda, and she‘s smiling at me, a triumphant tilt to her chin.

Fresh asparagus salad is served, and Harold says, ―Oh, good. No jiggly gelatin stuff tonight.‖ Gran is gracious about keeping the conversation going. ―Sam, will you be leaving the country any time soon?‖ I‘m glad she‘s giving me a chance to let Amanda know that I‘m more than a park stalker. ―I won‘t have to go until January, Gran, and this time it‘ll be China. A first for me.‖

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I feel Amanda studying me. ―What kind of work takes you to China, Sam?‖ If she‘s impressed, her reaction isn‘t overt. No fawning and eye blinking from this girl. ―I‘m an electrical engineer, and when I finished Rice last year, I was lucky to get with a new company that does energy grids for commercial buildings: solar, wind, tidal, geothermal, or a combination of those. We‘re a niche business, so we do work all over. Our team will meet in Tianjin with the architects on site. Then we‘ll come home and start our design work.‖ I tell myself to shut up. Sometimes I go on and on.

She pierces an asparagus tip with her fork. ―It sounds great to do work you enjoy.‖ I watch her between bites of salad. ―What about you, Amanda?‖ She looks surprised to be asked. I guess most men are looking at her attributes so hard that they show no interest in what she does for a living. ―I love what I do, too. My B.S. is in biology with a master‘s in science education. I work for Hadley Research, supervising students who do internships there.‖ I know that I‘m staring at her. Can‘t help it. I‘m also listening, and I‘m impressed. I say, ―Sounds like you learn new things every day in that kind of work.‖ I want to ask her a thousand questions, but I realize that I‘ve been leaving the senior citizens out of the conversation, so I turn to Mr. Hendricks. ―Sir, I‘ve been wondering. How did you discover that Gran is a chess player?‖ Harold waits until the salad plates are removed and dinner is served. ―Well, my good chess buddy had a stroke, so for two years I asked the new residents who moved here if they were chess players. I finally struck gold with Mildred.‖ Gran leans over and pats Amanda on the arm. Gran loves to tease Harold, so I expect what‘s coming. ―I hate to tell you this, dear, but your grandfather is a rather poor looser,‖ she says.

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Old Harold chuckles, and then defends himself. ―Now, you people must understand that if I am a poor loser, it‘s because I have not had much practice at losing.‖ Amanda laughs, and I keep the joke going. ―Mr. Hendricks, in defense of my grandmother, am I allowed to ask what the running score is?‖ ―Of course.‖ He reaches in his pocket for a small notebook. ―Mildred 223 games to my 226 games.‖ Amanda looks at me and we burst out laughing, with Gran and Harold joining in.

I hear a racket and notice feeble men limping into place behind the drum, piano, and base fiddle. The leader uses a cane and carries his trumpet. ―Mr. Hendricks, how did the band get its name?‖ ―Well, Big Ben had a college band. They‘re scattered or deceased now, so Ben rounded up these guys. They call themselves the Boomerang Boys, because they are making a comeback.‖ After a drum roll, the combo begins a competent rendition of ―When I Grow Too Old to Dream,‖ in waltz tempo. ―Just the right song for our crowd,‖ Gran says.

I hold out my hand to her. ―Gran, the best line in that song is, ‗I‘ll have you to remember.‘ Will you honor me with this dance?‖ When the music stops and I get Gran seated, I turn to Amanda as the band strikes up ―A Lovely Way to Spend an Evening.‖ As soon as we are dancing, I say, ―I really appreciate your not telling my grandmother that I‘m the uncouth park assailant who frightens young ladies.‖ She smiles. ―It was hard not to laugh. I haven‘t heard the expression ‗dime novel‘ in years. But I thank you for not telling my grandfather that I got Rufus after you.‖ ―I‘d like very much to be a friend to Rufus. In Gran‘s lingo, may I ask if you‘re spoken for?‖ 197

―Not in the full sense of that expression,‖ she says. What that means is that I definitely have some competition, but maybe nothing too fierce.

It‘s time for me to press my case. ―So, perhaps Rufus would not object if I came calling?‖ She responds with mock seriousness, ―Well, to be candid, Rufus thought your approach was a bit simian and unorthodox.‖ Her voice softens. ―But, when I tell him how nice you are to your grandmother, I think that‘ll win you some points with him.‖ I laugh, then ask her more about her work and about Rufus. When the song is over and we‘re walking back to the table, the band starts a swing version of ―Tuxedo Junction.‖ I sometimes have to overcome the image of being a nerd, so I start snapping my fingers to the music and say, ―Are you game?‖ ―You‘re on,‖ she says. She puts a hand on her hip, points heavenward with the other hand and two-steps back to the dance floor, with me right behind her. The band notices us and speeds up the tempo.

People gather around and watch us twirl, swing and strut. Everyone claps in time to the music while we laugh our way through our impromptu performance.

When we return to the table, Gran and Harold seem pleased that we are enjoying ourselves. Harold says, ―When I was your age and danced like that, my pa thought I was going straight to the devil.‖ Gran and Harold share memories of how life used to be, and Amanda and I ask questions. I know that the evening is ending when Bananas Foster and decaf coffee are served.

Amanda and I express appreciation for being invited. Harold, bless him, says, ―Sam, I‘ll see Mildred back to her apartment if you‘ll walk Amanda to her car.‖ As we leave the building, it seems natural to reach for Amanda‘s hand and tuck it into the crook of my arm. She says, ―You know, Sam, 198

when Grandfather first came to this place, I was sad for him. It felt so institutional. But with people like your grandmother and the Boomerang Boys here, it seems like a good place for him.‖ ―I agree,‖ I say. ―I watched them play chess one time, and it was hilarious. They teased, joked, and tried to distract one another. Our grandparents make growing old seem okay. Like a slowed-down extension of a good life. Their world is smaller, but they are larger than life.‖ Amanda nods and says, ―Grandfather had to go to the E.R. a couple of months ago, and I cried all the way there. He told me in a stern voice to settle down. Then he quoted from Ecclesiastes, about everything having a season and a time for every purpose. He told me that his life has been a fine adventure and that the best thing I can do for him is to make sure that my life is a fine adventure as well.‖ I stop, reach in my wallet, and give her my card. ―Please let me know if anything happens to Harold, even if it is in the middle of the night. I would want to help; it would mean everything to my grandmother if I could be there.‖ ―Thank you, Sam.‖ She opens her purse, gives me her card and says, ―Let me know any time you leave the country. I can check on Mildred. There‘s a great tearoom that I think she would enjoy. It‘s in an old Victorian house.‖ ―She‘d love that. Amanda. We can help one another out. I would like nothing better. But my hope is that I can call you before then. I need to make amends to you and Rufus.‖ We reach her car, and I hold my breath waiting for her answer. She says, ―That would be good.‖ She stands on tiptoes, gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, slides into her car, shuts the door, and starts the engine.

Not ready for her to leave, I bend down and tap on her window.

She lowers it, and before I can speak, she says, ―At the risk of sounding like a dime novel, I‘d like to say that there may be some good tomorrows 199

to remember, but I‘ll never forget tonight.‖ She backs up and drives away.

Smiling as I turn to go to my car, I glance at Gran‘s breakfast room window on the ground floor. The lights are off, but I notice the curtains move. The living room lights are on in the background. Silhouetted in the window, Harold and Mildred are giving one another a high five.

Those rascals! Those precious, wonderful, plotting rascals. I look up at the stars, breathe a thank you to providence, and murmur what I know those two are saying to one another right now. ―Checkmate.‖ ________________________________________________________________________ Margaret Truly, a Louisiana native and a member of the Bayou Writers' Guild, has been published in the anthology, Louisiana in Words, and in Jubilee, the literary journal of Nicholls State University. She has won recognition in several writing competitions and now lives and writes in Hoover, Alabama. margarettruly@bellsouth.net

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Humor

Prom Queen Sara Gipson My boss assigned an interview with the reigning Prom Queen for Portland High School. I found her in the parking lot where the Strawberry Festival Parade always commenced. Since she was already ensconced on a gold-painted wicker throne inside a chicken-wire gazebo detailed with purple silk roses blooming on plastic vines, I climbed onto her royal float to ask my list of carefully prepared questions.

The queen granted this interview understanding I‘d leave the platform once the boys in the blue jackets featuring Future Farmers of America emblems deemed her float ready to join other parade participants. From the head scratching and grimaces on the young men, I had the idea I‘d have time to get through my list twice. It seemed the International Harvester tractor slated to pull the royal float was having mechanical difficulties.

Settling into a white plastic chair anchored to the wagon bed with baling wire, I jotted a few notes regarding the queen‘s appearance. Her blonde hair sprouted from darker roots, but I didn‘t dare comment.

Instead, I said, ―What a beautiful dress. Did you find it in Portland?‖ The queen smiled and said, ―Yes. I made it. Most kids don‘t like sewing, but I do. And, since I get A‘s in home economics, I stuck with it all four years. For my senior project, I made this dress.‖ I examined the lacy white confection. It could be mistaken for a bridal gown or wedding cake. Having once served as both Prom Queen and Strawberry Festival Queen, I knew Portland protocol. Only queens wore white. Attendants wore a shade of purple. Non-royals were free to select any other color for their celebration attire.

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Neglecting the questions on my list, I asked, ―How did you know to buy white fabric?‖ ―Easy! I wanted to buy plum brocade. But my friends said I had the best chance. And Mom said I could only buy material for one dress.

So I bought white instead.‖ She paused, lowered her voice, and added, ―To prevent my classmates from thinking I was conceited, I told them I was making a bridal gown for my hope chest. I know hope chests are old-fashioned.

But it seemed the kindest thing to say. I would hate to appear an uppity queen.‖ ―What if you weren‘t elected?‖ ―I thought of that. White could be dyed plum. If needed, I guess I could‘ve dyed it another color. But even I knew I‘d at least be an attendant. Look at me. Someone like me always gets elected.‖ I looked. She was beautiful, the perfect queen prototype—blonde, with large blue eyes, flawless skin, and slender body. If not for her breathing, she could have been a life-size Barbie Doll.

From the tractor came sounds like chug, chug, chug. Did this mean the problem was fixed?

I glanced over my list; I had yet to ask any of the questions. It had taken me six years to convince my editor to let me try an interview. If I didn‘t get enough information for a story, I‘d never be assigned to report real news.

One of the plum-clad attendants climbed aboard and sat in a chair, clone to the one I occupied. Realizing I would soon have to leave, I skipped to the last question. ―What means the most to you in life?‖ The queen glanced at the other attendants joining the float. Slowly, they took their places, one by one. She appeared worried but said, ―You‘ve been sweet. I thought this interview would make me nervous and give me zits. But you keep asking me the easiest questions.‖

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Her tongue moistened her lips. She smiled, then said, ―I want to be Strawberry Festival Queen. I can‘t think of any better way to go through life than knowing I wore that crown. And now as Prom Queen, I‘ll have a chance. Don‘t you think queen experience counts?‖ Taken by surprise, I said, ―I guess so.‖ The last attendant climbed on the float and waited for me to evacuate her chair. One of the FFA jacket sleeves waved, and the tractor engine purred.

I stood and let the beauty in plum have the chair, but I couldn‘t help inquiring, ―Is that all? Surely you‘ve greater ambitions, other inspirations.‖ ―No. I can‘t think of a better person to emulate than you.‖ Me? Before I knew it, the float was moving. I missed my chance to depart. I would have to jump. I could do it, even if the platform was four feet above ground. Despite my twenty-nine years, I was a regular at the gym. Portland queens were expected to maintain their appearance, and I had.

However, I underestimated the velocity. When the float hit a bump, I fell on my buns. An attendant glared. The two closest to me covered me with mounds of raw cotton which amply filled the wagon floor, lending an appearance of clouds. Above me, a giant helium-filled Portland High Purple Panther swayed.

I tried to scramble to my feet, preparing my departure. But the attendants demanded, ―Be still! Stay down! Keep under the cotton! Do you want to be seen?‖ I parted the cotton enough to breathe. The girls in purple waved and smiled to their cheering spectators. A plum sandal kicked and cotton shifted over my face, filling my open mouth. I spat.

A voice hissed. ―Hide! We‘re in the parade. You don‘t want to be seen, do you?‖ 203

In the parade! Of course, I didn‘t want to be seen. I didn‘t want my editor to catch me botching the interview. He‘d think I lost more than a few marbles and would never assign another interview.

Finally, the float halted. I eased my way under the cotton to the edge of the wagon. When I freed my face of the fluff, I peered directly into my editor‘s dark brown eyes. He let out a deep chuckle. ―Did you think your assignment warranted an undercover investigation?‖ ―I do whatever is needed to get a story, sir.‖ ―Let me help you down. I‘m afraid you‘ve been blonde so long, you‘ve caught the attitude.‖ ________________________________________________________________________ Published in several anthologies, Sara Gipson has won awards for works in fiction, nonfiction, poetry, photography, art, and fashion design. When not writing, she assists in her husband’s marketing business. They live in Scott, Arkansas.

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Free Verse

Grandmother’s Story Leonard A. Temme By the time his grandmother had kissed him goodnight, turned off the light, and settled him down to sleep, she had told him her favorite story twice.

He liked the story, but it made no sense to him, as he lay in the dark, listening to wind blow the snow, bleak snow, bleak since his parents again had argued all evening before they finally left.

The story was of a rose that had bloomed a long time ago on a mountainside in Tyrol. Once, the thorns of this rose protected an elf from a hawk, so in gratitude the elf vowed to protect the rose. Winter came and the flowers lost their smells and colors as they froze, yet this one survived; but as winter grew bitter, the elf regretted his vow, and in the dead of cold, he made the rose exquisite then sealed it in ice.

A glint of sun from the ice caught the eye of a nobleman from Innsbruck who carefully cut the rose and carried it to his lady, as delicate and beautiful to him as was this one last red winter rose, which she loved.

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They grew old; the lines in their faces deepened; but the one last winter rose in ice remained as perfect as when he found it.

After many years, the lady died, and the nobleman did not survive a year without her and they were buried together, with the rose placed on their grave.

At the grave the ice around the rose melted, it rooted, sprang to life and grew into a wild full bush and burst with the finest roses in all Tyrol.

Everyone knew the story was true; everyone had seen the roses. His grandmother said that she had seen them herself in the churchyard at Innsbruck where her husband was buried.

Years later, a night blizzard awakened him from a dream in which he saw a single winter rose, not frozen, but granite, on a stem pushing through the snow, bowed with weight.

In the dream, the center of the rose secreted a tear that pressed its way, slowly to the surface, cracking the granite open so its two sides fell to the snow, inside up. In each half was half its heart and out of each grew something he had forgotten as he lay in the dark, listening to the blizzard.

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The dream felt familiar, but he had lost the story his grandmother told him the night his parents left, but it was children that grew from the broken halves of the stone rose heart, bushes of children he had forgotten.

________________________________________________________________________ Leonard A. Temme is a research psychologist employed by the DOD since 1985. He has a MS in mathematics and a Ph.D. in neuropsychology, has published over sixty scientific reports and his poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in Commonweal, Halftones to Jubilee, Emerald Coast Review and Poetlore, among others.

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First Chapter Novel

Revenge Ann Robbins-Phillips Red in the morning, sailors take warning. Red at night, Sailor‟s delight. Mama loved old sayings and superstitions. The strange thing was, she was almost always right. This morning the eastern sky was red but everything else was gray. Gray mountains, trees, and fog. I left here ten years ago this past August and things were green. And red. Red blood on the floor, running down mama‘s face, and all over Tercy‘s dress.

Letters above the gate read Poverty Hill Cemetery. I laid my pack and gun by the iron fence and pushed open the creaking gate. Wet leaves stuck to my shoes as I weaved in and out, reading the headstone. I carefully avoided letting my foot touch a single area that could possibly be a grave. Mama said it was bad luck to step across or straddle a grave.

She had told me the story of a little boy that stepped on a grave and his foot had swollen until it busted.

Unlike the custom in my part of Tennessee of mounding the graves with dirt, here at Poverty Hill they were flat and covered with grass. Tiny green leaves from flower bulbs were pushing upward and would soon blossom. These had been placed by a loving family member to decorate their kin‘s final resting place and to show their respects for the dead that lay beneath.

At the upper end of the cemetery was the Watson section. There were ten graves marked only with field rocks. In time, no one would know who lay there, but I knew. Half were babies born to either my Mama or another Watson family. Two were men in their late twenties, one killed by a falling tree in 1855 and the other murdered by an unknown assailant on his way to the mill in the spring of 1857. Another was Uncle Monroe‘s first wife and baby. She had died in childbirth and

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both she and the baby were buried in the same grave. The last two were my grandma and grandpa. Their rocks had been picked because of the way they looked like arrowheads and were nearly identical. Six tomb rocks had been placed after I left, marking the graves of the ones for which I was really looking. Each grave bore a name and chiseled date.

First was my Mama, Maggie Watson, born April 5, 1832, died October 28, 1862. Beside Mama lay Papa, Tucker Watson, born March 21, 1830, died August 8, 1861. Next to Papa was Monroe Watson, born April 19, 1820, died Aug 8, 1861. Robert Watson borne July 5, 1810, died August 8, 1861. One funeral for the three men and all laid to rest side by side.

Those identical dates of death were deeply carved, even more than the births. Another grave bore the name T.A. Watson, daughter, born January 2, 1846, died August 10 1861. Tercy Arizona, my cousin.

On Tercy‘s grave was a small bundle of crocus tied with a cotton string. Someone had been here yesterday, as the blooms were not wilted.

I stepped backward and squatted down between two graves in the row behind me and stared at the stones. Hate rose like bile into my mouth and burned my nose and eyes. Senseless deaths. These were my family.

They weren‘t necessarily Jackson County‘s most honorable citizens but neither did they deserve to die the way they had. Right or wrong, to the last drop of my blood. I am Nathe Milsaps, nee Watson, and I‟m ready to serve revenge where none has been given. I swiped at the tears running down my face and stood and moved next to Papa‘s grave.

It was Papa‘s and his brothers‘ deaths that had sent me from my home in these North Carolina mountains to live in Tennessee with my cousin, Jemena Milsaps. Her husband, Jonathan, was killed in the war at Cumberland Gap the following year after I moved in with them. I begged to come back to North Carolina a few times but Jemena thought it was not safe. ―There are still some Hooper men wanting your head, too.‖ She warned me.

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I never saw Mama again after I departed Rich Mountain in 1861.

She died the next year after I left. I was ten years old and had lost both Mama and Papa.

During the next ten years, I spent numerous days planning this trip back. Somebody had to pay for these murders. What the law won‟t do, I, Nathe Watson, will. Some men deserve to die for what they do. It is only right.

There was a large slate rock lying flat on the ground behind Papa‘s headstone. I circled behind to look at it. Scratched into the slate rock were the names of each person that had died at the hand of the Hooper clan. At the bottom was written ―Remember.‖ Was it friend or foe that had written this? Either could have done it.

I brushed off my woolen breeches. I walked between Poverty Hill Church and a row of trees that edged the graveyard. Moss-covered poplar trees and brushy cedars ran along the entire edge of the cemetery, and mountain laurels as thick as hair on a dog‘s back covered the bank all the way to the branch formed from Buckeye springs about quarter-mile up from Bearwallow Creek.

Across the branch, I heard a cow bawl and a man‘s voice hollering. ―Come on. Come on.‖ He banged on a metal milk bucket and the cow bellowed again. Familiar sounds of life of early morning in the mountains.

Earlier the wind had been light, almost still. But now the wind had shifted from the west to the North. The temperature was dropping fast.

March could do that in these mountains. One day you might be planting your seed potatoes and the next you could be praying that the freeze didn‘t get the entire crop.

I switched arms with my pack. It was not heavy by any means. I had returned with no more or no less in kind than what I had carried away. A change of clothes, a coat, my papa‘s rifle, and a letter. When I left, it was a letter to Jemena. Today it was the last letter from Mama. I 210

pulled a deer hide coat from the pack and put it on. I loaded my gun and placed it on my shoulder. There was a place that I still wanted to visit and it was good day‘s walk, there and back.

I left the cemetery, came back to the forks of the Tuckaseegee River, then turned east. As I passed Uncle Monroe‘s house, there was smoke swirling out the stone chimney, then diving downward, and lying low over the bottom field between the house and the river. Yep. In the winter, when smoke comes up out of the chimney then falls straight down and settles over the bottom, a measureable snow was soon to come.

As far as I know, Aunt Corsie was still alive although she had to be getting up in years. She always was a strong woman. I have seen her hitch a horse and plow from sun-up to sundown, right beside Uncle Monroe. They had eight kids in all, every one of them hell bent to live up to the Watson name for getting into trouble and creating a ruckus.

The next five miles the road sidled along the mountain. Blue lightning streaked the sky and thunder echoed through the valley at my back. Lighting and snow are strange companions.

I remembered the feeling of seclusion that the mountains brought to us and other families in Jackson County. Most of times, we were in a world all our own. The first recollection I have of the vastness of our nation was when word of trouble brewing among the States began to filter in from hunters and traders that came through. Depending upon who you talked with, you would get a different story, whether they were for the Confederate States or those favoring the Union. These stirrings multiplied the problems we already had. Brother against brother. Family divided when the daughter of a Confederate sympathizer had married into a family that was of the Union persuasion. Families fought over lead mines or anything of value to their particular army.

The road turned a more northerly direction at Briarpatch Gap. I stopped to catch my breath. Around me the snow lay on the boughs of 211

the fir trees and pulled them low toward the ground. Other than quick bursts of wind, it was silent. Still and lonesome.

Someone coughed and something hit the ground behind me. I turned and aimed my gun. I didn‘t see a soul but there was a limb on the ground on top of the snow about twenty feet away. Yet, there weren‘t any footprints near it or any in sight. A chill ran down my spine.

The snow had slowed to a spit when I reached my home place. The wind had stopped blowing yet I felt a puff of cold air shoot down the collar of my coat. Evil clung to the air much like the smoke that covered the field down by Monroe‘s place. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. This house had everything to do with the reason I came back. I was going to make the Hoopers regret they ever touched a hair on the head of a Watson.

I stepped up on the rickety front porch. It didn‘t look like anyone had lived here since that bloodbath eleven years ago. The furnishings were gone except for an old table turned over with one leg broken. It lay underneath the window where I had escaped. I kicked at a pile of bird droppings and a mass of straw. There was a circle of black on the wood floor. Blood stain. I set the gun in the corner.

I had sat here in the floor near the chairs of my sister Rachel and my cousin Tercy, Uncle Robert‘s daughter. We listened to Papa and his two brothers recount a hunting trip the three had taken a week before. It was at the end of the story that we heard footsteps on the porch, the screech of the boards, and then more thumping footsteps. I looked at Mama and her eyes were opened wide and dark. Papa stood and reached for his gun that hung over the fireplace but, before he reached it, the door opened so hard it hit the wall with a bang. Four men rushed in. Levi Hooper used the side of his gun and knocked Papa to the floor. His nephew, Pierce Hooper poked his gun into Uncle Robert‘s side. Clay Hooper, Pierce‘s dad, pointed a double barrel shotgun at Monroe‘s temple. Mama grabbed a frying pan and ran toward the fourth man, a 212

cousin to the others, Silas Beck. He sidestepped her and grabbed Mama by the hair and slung her against a wall. A water dipper that had hung on a nail hit the floor and Mama‘s eye hit that nail. She screamed with pain and slid down the wall into a heap. Blood ran down her face. Pierce kicked Uncle Robert in the stomach again and again until he collapsed.

Pierce looked at Rachel and licked his lips. I jumped up and ran full force toward Pierce. He put out a hand and laid it on my head. I writhed and squirmed, all the time trying to get a hit with my fist somewhere on his body. He laughed and threw me again the wall beside Mama. It knocked the breath from my body. A pain like I had never known went through my right shoulder.

Rachel spat toward Pierce. ―You leave me be, Pierce Hooper. I can‘t stand the sight of you. You touch me and I swear I will stab you.‖ ―Stab me. What with? You don‘t even got a knife. Besides, you‘re too dainty to hurt a fly. You‘ll do what I say or else I will kill your Papa.‖ Papa knocked Levi‘s gun away from this head and tried to get up.

Levi slammed his gun against Papa‘s back and brought Papa to his knees.

Tercy grabbed the flat iron by the fireplace and threw it at Pierce.

He dodged and the iron hit Silas on the arm. Silas leaped at Tercy and knocked her to the floor then grabbed her by the hair of her head. Pierce kicked her in the stomach and she puked blood all over her dress. Then Pierce grabbed Rachael by the hair of the head and drug her across the floor to the front door.

I got up on one knee ready to run toward Pierce again. Mama grabbed me and pulled me down beside her. ―Git yerself to Dicey Coward‘s house and git us some help.‖ She grabbed the skillet that had fallen to the floor beside her and began to swing.

I leapt on a table by the open window and dove out of it that hot August night. I heard the table crash behind me. I run like the devil hisself was after me to the back of the house.

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―Get the boy, Levi‖ Clay hollered. But I was gone into the night.

Crying and falling over what felt like every limb and log in Jackson County. Not even a moon for light. There was a path to Dicey Coward‘s home and to her house was where I went. Every racing step I felt that any minute one of those Hooper men would grab my shirt collar and kill me.

Dicey‘s house was a good two miles as the crow flies. I cut down the side of a steep mountain slope to shorten the path that led to the house. I felt briars tear at my clothes and face. Blood mixed with my snot and tears.

Dicey was sitting on the porch and a lantern hung on a nail above her chair. When I got within hollering distance, I commenced to scream. ―Ye gotta help us. Help. Help.‖ She stood and yelled for Hank. ―Sounds like that Watson boy and he‘s screaming his lungs out.‖ She ran to meet me. ―Nathe, youngun. What are ye doing out this time of the night?‖ She noticed the blood on my face. ―Hank, git out here I said. The Watsons are having trouble up at their place. Git your gun and git on up there.‖ Hank kicked open the front door. His gun was hanging on his shoulder. ―What happened at your place, son?‘ I could only point and grunt.

Dicey went in and grabbed a coat. ―You stay here, wife. I‘ll take care of this.‖ ―You don‘t need to go alone. It‘s too dangerous. I‘ll go with you.‖ But Hank was already running into the darkness.

Dicey grabbed my shoulder and I winced from the pain. ―Did they hurt you boy?‖ I shook my head no but pulled my arm against my body to ease the pain.

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―Go and get more help Nathe. Get around to old man Johnson‘s place and let him ring the dinner bell.‖ I took off again, running through the woods. ―Help. Help. Those drunken Hooper men are killing my family.‖ I beat at the door with my left hand and kicked it with my feet until Andy Johnson jerked open the door and pulled me inside. One look at my bleeding face and he hightailed it outside to a dinner bell and began to ring it. Johnson‘s house was built against the side of the mountain and the rest of his land was at the head of the holler and then ran down the mountain toward dozens of small mountain farms below. That bell could be heard for miles, echoing through the valley. He rang the bell over and over and Sary, his wife, jerked off my torn shirt and wet it. She wiped my face and arms. It stung like the blazes. She touched my shoulder and I screamed. I looked at the lump on shoulder. Sary grabbed it, gave one yank, and it popped. My ears roared with a sound like the Tuckasegee during a spring flood and everything went black.

Ten years ago, but it felt like yesterday. It was carved into my memory with every scratch, cut, and pain in my body.

They raped Rachel. Tercy was kicked more times in the stomach by two of the Hoopers when she tried again to knock Pierce off of Rachel.

She died the next day. Mama lost her eye to that nail. And all the Watson men were dead. By the time Andy Johnson, Hank Coward, and a few other men got to our house after the ringing of the bell, it was all over.

There were whispers but I heard that my Papa and his brothers had their heads chopped off. Two of the heads were found atop pike poles in our yard. The third head was never found. The heads were so badly beaten that you couldn‘t tell whose head was whose.

Dicey and Hank Coward washed the bodies and the blood out of the house. Andy Johnson and some other men made three wooden boxes, put the bodies inside, and nailed the boxes shut. I always wondered which head they put in which box and who was buried 215

without. Hank Coward got a crew of men and dug the graves. All three were placed on the porch at Aunt Linny‘s, as there was no room for the caskets in the house. Neighbors came to sit up all night with the bodies until the funeral the following day for Papa and his brothers.

Mama tied a rag of some kind across her hurt eye. She moaned and cried at the funeral and blood and tears would run out from under the rag and down her face, which she rubbed off with another rag.

Rachel just stared. I sat up straight and wiped my eyes and nose with my shirt sleeve. All I wanted was for this to be over.

Immediately after the funeral, we went to Aunt Linny‘s where the women folk from the church had brought in some food for us. After we ate, Mama pulled me between her legs and looked me square in the eye. ―The Hooper men will come after you son. You know everyone of them by name. They figure I am too scared to say a word and they are right. But a Watson boy as a witness. I don‘t want you to ever come...‖ Mama threw her apron over her head and cried. She pulled me close to her bosom and talked into my ear. ―Don‘t ever come back here. Don‘t tell anyone what you have seen or heard. You must go to Jonathan and Jemena in Tennessee. Take on Jonathan‘s name, son. Jemena has not been able to bear children.‖ She reached into her apron pocket, took out a handkerchief, and blew her nose. She stared at me for a long time and I stared back. I knew I would never see her again and she knew the same.

Letters from Mama to Jemena told us that Tercy died the day after I left, and said that Rachel never was right after that night. She just stared into the air like she was blind. Her hands picked at her clothes like she was trying to pull strings from the material. She ate only if Mama fed her. She lost her will to live. But Mama kept her alive as long as she was there with her, making her eat. Rachel would obey but not speak. Mama died a year after I left. The last letter from Aunt Corsie said that Mama passed away and that after the funeral Rachel walked away from the graveyard into the woods and was never seen again.

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In a world beyond our mountains, a court might would have settled the matter, but things were different for us. No justice was ever established, but us Watsons have a long memory. ________________________________________________________________________ Ann Robbins-Phillips of the Chattanooga, TN area is the mother to five and grandmother to ten. She is a speaker for Ladies Conferences and a member of the Chattanooga Writers Guild and Tennessee Mountain Writers, Inc. “Revenge� is a fictitious story based on research into her genealogy. Contact info: samhawk982@yahoo.com

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First Chapter Novel

Order of the True Vine Adrienne Y. Norton Joseph Naomi said Alabama would be just like Wisconsin, except that Alabama summers would be longer and hotter. The truth is I didn‘t like Wisconsin that much either. Look at all the bad things that happened to us there. Mama got sick and died. Aunt Minnie Rose came to live with us. Papa got thrown out of his church, and we ended up moving in the middle of the night.

Papa tried to explain things as he drove the pickup truck down the interstate. Papa, Naomi and I were on I-65 south when Papa said out of the clear blue that he hadn‘t done anything wrong, but the church might not see things his way. He didn‘t say anything for a while so I sat thinking how glad I was that Aunt Minnie Rose had to stay behind in Wigginsville. I had to sleep in the same bedroom with her, and when she wasn‘t snoring, she was coughing. Besides, there was only room for three us to ride in the truck. Naomi reminded me that Aunt Minnie Rose would be arriving in Alabama later on the Greyhound bus. As much as I dreaded it, she would come live with us as soon as we got settled and the snorting and hawking would begin. ―Papa, why can‘t Naomi be the one who gets to share a bedroom with Aunt Minnie Rose?‖ I asked.

Papa said, ―Don‘t concern yourself with matters of the flesh right now. First, we got to locate Pecan Grove, Alabama, and your Mama‘s baby sister, Della.‖ School had always been harder for me than Naomi. She likes to read and lead the singing at our church meetings. It‘s not that I don‘t like to read or don‘t like school. It‘s just hard to sit still and not look out the

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window. Miss Pheeney made me move my desk before school was out in May so that my back was to the window and my desk touched her desk. I missed being able to see the sky and the trees, and sometimes the birds that flew right up on the windowsill. ―If you don‘t start paying attention, Joseph, you‘re going to be twenty years old before you ever graduate from sixth grade,‖ she said to me. I guess that scared me enough, just thinking about having a teacher like her for twelve more years that I started asking to take books home with me.

I even asked Naomi to start helping me with my homework. That gave me a chance to get out of that bedroom with Aunt Minnie Rose. I don‘t think it‘s right for an eight-year old boy to have to share a bedroom with an old woman. I hope I‘ll like Pecan Grove, Alabama. Anyway, I‘ll have a couple of months outside a school building to study the sky, the stars and the animals. I hope Alabama has lots of birds.

Naomi Everyone had told me that being a teenager is the most difficult period of your life, but I can‘t understand that. Well, maybe when I was thirteen, I felt like I didn‘t understand myself, but that was before Mama got sick. She taught me how to sew, cook and help keep the house clean.

Mama and I spent a lot of time together before she died.

She taught me to sing, too. I can‘t begin to tell you how much I‘ve missed Mama. I hung her picture on the wall of my bedroom. I sang to her most every night before I went to bed. I know this would sound funny if I told anyone, but I said my prayers to her before I said them to God. Mama answered me by saying things like ―Naomi, you remembered rightly to thank God for his many blessings.‖ Sometimes, she said, ―You‘ve got to look after Joseph more. He needs your help. Pray for him and your Daddy, too.‖

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I tried to pray for Daddy. He was the leader of our church in Wigginsville for two years. Praying for Daddy was hard because he sometimes scared me. He acted as meek as a lamb sometimes, but then he got a strange, crazy, wild look in his eyes, and didn‘t seem to know or hear me at all. Joseph and I were scared when he kept saying at Mama‘s funeral, ―Rise up and walk.‖ My best friend even said, ―I thought your Dad must have gone completely nuts.‖ He just seemed to make Aunt Minnie Rose cry harder.

I don‘t know what to expect in Pecan Grove. I hope I can be in the choir. Everyone says I am pretty, but Papa says I may have to stop school as soon as I‘m sixteen in November and get a job. I hope not. I like school.

Daniel My Pa said he named me Daniel because I came into the world fighting, rushing into the light screaming and hungry. Maybe I haven‘t fought any lions like Daniel in the lion‘s den, bur recently I have faced a few demons in my church in Wigginsville. Before that, I lost my fight with some of them demons in Lotus Valley where I lived in California. As I think of it, those sneaky, evil devil people may have followed me from California to Wigginsville, all because I tried to preach the Gospel.

My Papa was the one that started the Order of the True Vine. He based our beliefs on the scripture from Saint John. I can quote all of chapter 15, starting with I am the true vine. Some of those same passages have been used to threaten me. For instance, If a man abide not in me, he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered: and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned. *** I first saw my wife, Elizabeth Ruth, when she was 16 at a camp meeting. Later, I heard her sing at the high school graduation. She was a beautiful girl with curly brown hair and long pretty legs. Pa told me I had 220

no business noticing those legs. I wasn‘t the only one noticing how pretty she was or how sweetly she sang those hymns played on that old piano at the camp meeting. I up and asked her to marry me two Sundays after we met. Pa wanted me to stay with him in Lotus Valley where our church had grown to 100 members. While I was deciding what to do, Pa had a heart attack and passed on. Brother Samuel said I was the rightful one to take over. At 22, I was probably a little too young for this job, but with the small winery Pa had inherited from his uncle and my new wife to take care of, I figured we could make ends meet at Lotus Valley. That‘s when I became leader of the True Vine Ministry.

Della Mama said there would be trouble when Elizabeth Ruth ran off and married that two-bit preacher. Those were her words, but the ones I would have chosen are stronger―like scoundrel, lying, two-faced womanizer, but I‘ll stop there.

Elizabeth Ruth was six years older than I, and as much as I hate to admit it, she was prettier and smarter. At least Lizzie was all those things until Daniel came into her life. He heard Elizabeth Ruth singing a hymn at our school commencement program and that‘s when she quit going to church with my father, mother, and me at the little Methodist Church in Lotus Valley. She began going with Daniel to those tabernacle meetings.

She ran off and married him just two weeks after they met, and it was too late to stop her. It broke Mama‘s heart and left me without my sister because they left Lotus Valley soon after Daniel‘s father died.

Shortly after graduating from Lotus Valley High School, I left California, too. After landing a job as a receptionist in San Francisco, I met Buddy, the man who became my husband, a sailor from Mobile, Alabama. Before long, we moved to Alabama.

I didn‘t see Lizzie for a long time. When I saw her again, she was dead. I could tell Daniel had gone from bad to worse at Lizzie‘s funeral in 221

Wisconsin where they had moved. I was embarrassed that he wouldn‘t close the coffin. He said it would take a little more time and patience, then, she‘d rise up out of that coffin and walk. The man is a nut. I recently told Daniel that my husband and I had begun catfish farming in Pecan Grove. I asked him to let Joseph and Naomi come spend the summer with us. I am wondering if that was a big mistake. *** A red pickup is rattling up my driveway now. Daniel called me from I-65 this morning. I guess I‘m getting what I asked for and a little more. I hope Daniel leaves the children and drives away from here in the morning. I‘ve always liked children, but for some reason God has not seen fit to have me be a mother.

Why couldn‘t Daniel have been a regular preacher, like a Baptist, Methodist, or Nazarene? Instead, he heads this cult, this Order of the True Vine. I know that sect has to be a very twisted vine to say the least.

I can‘t decide if it‘s more like kudzu or one of those itchy vines like poison oak or ivy. I wonder how much he has indoctrinated those children. *** ―Buddy, this is my first chance to call you. They‘re here. Daniel is stretched out asleep on the hammock on the porch. The kids are playing with the horse in the pasture. It‘s like this, Daniel is skinnier, and his beard is longer. I don‘t think he‘s had a haircut since Lizzie‘s funeral.

Naomi is prettier, if that‘s possible. She looks even more like Lizzie, but she‘s gonna be taller. Joseph is a skinny boy with light, almost blonde hair. Both children are worn to a frazzle after that long trip. Joseph wants to know if he can get in the pond and swim with the catfish.

Imagine that! I think all of them have been sleeping in the truck. They all need a bath, too, but at least they‘ve had a good meal. I hear Joseph calling me so I‘ll say bye. Yes, I know we need the money you‘re making on the oilrig. Hurry on home. I need you, too.‖ 222

*** On Tuesday morning Della spotted the note on the kitchen table. It was anchored by a half-empty cup of coffee. She read: Dear Della, Joseph and Naomi, I have left just for a while to clear my head. The demons have been back after me for some time, and the noise is killing me. I need to spend some time wandering in the wilderness, for some reason forty days or so sounds about right. Don‟t tell any of that meddling crowd from Wigginsville where I am. I have taken the jewelry Aunt Minnie Rose gave me and will sell it as needed to provide for my needs. You don‟t need to mention that. I may stop and preach a little on Sundays and at revival meetings as I can count on love offerings after my sermons. I will check with you later to see if Aunt Minnie Rose gets her Social Security check changed to this address. Della, I know you can take her to the welfare office and give her a little help.

But do not give the people who falsely accuse me any help, Della, thanks for Dinner and the warm bath. Remember, God is on my side so I will be bathed in his love.

Joseph and Naomi, be good for your Aunt Della. I will return when the demons have departed. I love you. Your Earthly Father.

Della didn‘t know whether to laugh or cry. She thought did I ever get my wish! I heard that pickup truck roaring out of here about midnight.

That rat didn‟t have the guts to stay and say a decent goodbye to the children. Imagine, just writing a note to them. I say good riddance. Now what am I going to do when Aunt Minnie Rose arrives? Della took a deep breath, cleaned the pot, and restarted the coffee. *** ―Naomi, wake up. Breakfast is ready. Will you call Joseph? He is out past the barn at the first fishpond. I heard him answer my call five minutes ago, but he hasn‘t come.‖ The ringing of the phone interrupted.

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―Look,‖ said a tired sounding man, ―Ma‘am. This here is Goodloe Johnson. I have just arrived with an old woman at the gate to your house. She says her name is Minnie Rose Cooper and that you‘re expecting her. Will you open the gate and let me drive in? By the way, she says you will pay me for the taxi ride from Greenboro. That‘ll be fifteen dollars and fifty cents. I don‘t mean no offense, but I don‘t take no checks.‖ ―Hold on,‖ Della called. ―I‘ll be down to unlock the gate.‖ She grabbed her purse, opening her billfold as she talked. She looked for the five twenties (her grocery allotment for the week) she had placed there the day before. They were missing. In their place she found a note. I need this money more than you. Thanks for the loan. This will be returned to you many fold in time. D. ―D is for devil,‖ Della said as Naomi walked into the room. ―Naomi, go get Joseph for breakfast.‖ Della searched in the pocket of her windbreaker. She came up with a coin purse containing thirteen dollars and forty-five cents. As she unlocked the gate, she handed it to Goodloe Johnson. ―Drive on up to the house. This is all the money I have. If you want the rest, come back next week.

As Minnie Rose climbed out of the taxi Della noted she was a tall confident looking woman. She said, ―When you come back next week, Goodloe, bring your fiddle and banjo, and I‘ll see if you‘ve been handing me a line about your fiddle playing.‖ She turned and reached for Della‘s hand. ―You must be Dellie. I‘m Daniel‘s Aunt Minnie Rose, and I must say you‘re a mite skinnier than Elizabeth Ruth. I‘m going to need to fatten you up. You wait till you‘ve tasted my chicken and dumplings.‖ She reached in her purse and handed Goodloe Johnson a lace handkerchief. ―This is to remember me by,‖ she said with what looked like a scene from the Beverly Hillbillies. ―You might like to sample them dumplings, too, when you come with the fiddle,‖ she said with a coy smile.

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Della felt both like laughing and crying as she helped the new guest up the steps.

Naomi came over and hugged the old woman. Seeing the tears in Joseph‘s eyes, Naomi said, ―Aunt Della, let me share a room with Aunt Minnie Rose.‖ Joseph stepped forward with a look of disbelief and hugged Naomi. ―No Joseph,‖ Naomi whispered, ―It‘s Aunt Minnie Rose you need to hug.‖ Joseph reluctantly allowed Minnie Rose to envelop him in a bear hug. *** ―Somehow, this day has almost passed,‖ Della reported to Buddy over the phone. I‘ve put Aunt Minnie Rose and Naomi in the guestroom.

Joseph has a cot on the porch. He has agreed to move into the living room if he gets scared or if a storm blows up. We‘ll be ok. We‘ve got tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden, but it‘s too early for the beans and okra. I‘ll have to take a little out of the savings to get by this week.

I‘ve agreed to let Joseph help me feed the fish. No I promise he has agreed not to get in the pond to swim with them.‖ *** Della called Joseph from the porch swing. ―Now here‘s your lesson for today on fish feeding. We need thirty-two pound feedings for both ponds. You can help me load the feed and buckets into the trunk of the car. We need to wait until the cool of the evening to feed them just before we eat our supper. We‘ll sit and watch them come up to eat,‖ she promised. *** Tuesday morning Della announced they would take a trip to the library in Pecan Grove. The library was open on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 10-12. Joseph ran to unlock the gate. Della stopped at the gate and Naomi and Joseph climbed into the back seat of the Chevy for the trip into town. ―Can‘t I just stay home and watch the fish?‖ Joseph begged.

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―Absolutely not,‖ Della responded, but she had agreed that Aunt Minnie Rose could stay home to peel potatoes and slice the tomatoes and cucumbers in preparation for lunch.

Aunt Minnie Rose asked only that they lock the gate while they away. Being in Alabama is like being in a furren country, she thought.

Della pulled into the parking lot behind the building that once housed the Goshen Primitive Baptist Church. ―Aunt Della, it‘s not open yet,‖ Naomi said as they climbed the steps. ―It is now.‖ Della removed the keys from her purse. ―I guess I forgot to mention that I‘m librarian here. When school starts, I‘m the assistant librarian at Pecan Grove Elementary School, but in summer, I‘m the full time librarian here.‖ Joseph had been hopping up and down the steps to the old church. He stopped mid-way to the top. ―Are we going to be here two whole hours, Aunt Della?‖ Della couldn‘t help smiling. ―We have some bird and animal books I think you‘ll like and a book about whales, too. Besides, I need someone to sweep the steps and carry the trash out to the Dumpster in the back. ―Look,‖ Della waved to two girls and a boy walking toward the library. ―You are about to meet the Callahan clan, Suzie, Amy and Mitchell.‖ The three children, looking like red-headed stair steps, grinned and stepped inside as Della switched on the lights and ceiling fan.

Della pulled Joseph and Naomi into a hug. She said, ―Callahan, Clan, I want you to meet my summer children.‖ ________________________________________________________________________ Adrienne Y. Norton has written a memoir about life as the eleventh child in a family of twelve children. She has also written a book of short stories, and is currently writing her first novel. She is a retired speech therapist and lives in Hoover, Alabama.

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Humor

Big Connections Elsie Azar It was Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, and Lou was detained at the office. This meant that I would take our three children to the early Ash-Wednesday service. But first, I briefed them about the meaning of Lent and the ashes and Christ. Apparently, I did a pretty good job, I thought, because, by the time we got to church, the kids seemed to be sprouting wings. Their solemn, thoughtful behavior in church and after church told me that the ritual and the priest‘s words were not in vain.

When Lou got home from the office, we gathered the children and went out to dinner. After that, we went to a furniture store to browse.

Before we left, we spotted a two-inch green diamond-shaped plastic piece on the floor, such as we see on chandeliers. The children looked almost entranced by it. Rather than watch them break one of our rules, I reminded them that it belonged to the store, and we left.

When we got home, I saw the green plastic diamond on the back seat of the car. This was something that Lou and I couldn‘t ignore. I took the faux diamond in the house and asked the children which of them brought it home. The response was less than I expected. ―I didn‘t do it.…‖ ―I‘m honest.…‖ And Jason, not yet 6, said, ―It wasn‘t me….‖ Lou asserted his authority and ordered the kids to bed for ―fibbing.‖ They walked single file through the hall and to their bedrooms.

When Lou went to the garage to sort some tools, I sat in the quiet family room with the newspaper.

About fifteen minutes had passed when I heard my cherubs coming down the hall huddled together. ―C‘mon, Jason…we‘ll go with

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you…don‘t be afraid.…‖ I felt a confession coming on when Jason took the foreground in front of me. ―Mom,‖ he said, ―I did it and I‘m sorry. I took that diamond and God knows that I‘m sorry. I told Jesus that I‘ll never do it again. And Jesus knows that I‘ll never to it again. And I told God that I‘m a good person. And Jesus is glad that I told on myself.‖ I tried to keep a serious, understanding expression while my insides were fighting off a hysterical laugh. Finally, I nodded and suggested that Jason go to the garage and tell it to his father.

He recoiled, saying, ―No! You can tell him. I‘m going on to bed.‖ After the three marched back to their bedrooms, I made it to the garage to tell Lou that we got a confession. He asked if I punished Jason. ―Couldn‘t do it,‖ I said. ―He pulled rank. He has connections in high places.‖ ________________________________________________________________________ Elsie Azar, mother of three, grandmother of two and former jazz pianist, wrote nonfiction for trade magazines, fiction to tickle the funny bone, fiction to tantalize a mystery-solving reader, and the novel An Ear for Murder. Her humorous essays have been featured on WLRH public radio’s Writers’ Corner.

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First Chapter Novel

So All of it Was a Lie from Writing the Circuit

Linda Hudson Hoagland ―Excuse me, Sir, could you take your seat, please.‖ ―So, all of it was a lie?‖ ―No, not all of it.‖ ―What part was true?‖ ―I‘m not going to tell you that.‖ ―Why not?‖ ―Well, there are some things that happened in my book that might shock you if you thought I actually did those things.‖ ―Yeah, there were some strange things in that book. The abortions, the sleeping around, did you do all of the drinking? Did you do any of that bad stuff?‖ ―Like I said, I‘m not going to tell you. If you will look inside the front cover, you will see that it is labeled fiction.‖ ―But you said it is based on your life.‖ ―It was loosely based on my life but that included friends and acquaintances that played a big part of my life. All or part of those shocking deeds could have been performed by me or any of the people I knew during that period of my life. A writer writes about what she knows so it is inevitable that part of my life infiltrates everything I write.‖ I wasn‘t going to allow him to goad me into admitting what part of my book really happened to me. I was fully aware that I was living in the Bible-belt and if I admitted to some of the happenings in my book, I would be condemned and ostracized.

I was already an outsider because I was not a native of the area so I did not want to be a condemned sinner and avoided by all Christians.

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My life now is one of work, home, and trying to sell the products of my imagination, my short stories and novels. I do not drink. I do not smoke. I do not have a life other than working and writing.

I didn‘t want a nosy writing fan to take either of those parts of my life away from me.

My first novel was about survival in the inner city of a large metropolitan area. The young lady, Ellen, in the novel grew from being a sheltered teenager, a country girl, to becoming the mother of two sons and living a life of walking on a tightrope the whole time she lived in the city. Sometimes she would teeter towards the wrong side of life where she would have to right herself and change her path; hopefully, teetering towards the right and good side of life.

My novel was explicit and real. That‘s what the bible-belters didn‘t like. I didn‘t gloss it over and claim that a great revelation led me to the goodness and light.

Survival was what led Ellen and me out of the inner city.

Now, because of this nut, I‘m going to have to defend myself and the truth for the rest of my days. He appeared everywhere I was scheduled for a book signing. ―So it was all a lie,‖ was the first utterance from his mouth each time. ―Fiction is what it is called. It doesn‘t mean it‘s a lie but it most likely is. Fiction is a creation of my brain. Sometimes it is loosely based on places I‘ve been and people I know. Remember the important word here is fiction.‖ ―How much of it is true?‖ ―It is fiction?‖ I shouted as I turned from him to the rest the small group of people. ―Now, does someone else have a question or statement?‖ I said in a quieter voice as I tried to steer the conversation to someone else.

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This constant questioning and badgering was getting on my nerves. I wanted an answer as to why his persistent appearances at my books signings and why the constant interrogation.

I have to admit that the questions stirred up the interests of the passersby. It did help the sales but it always made me uncomfortable.

I finished my book signing at the Stillwell County Public Library and I motioned to my interrogator so that I could talk to him privately. ―Sir, what is it that you want from me?‖ I asked him directly not wanting to run around that same bush that had been growing between us and jabbing me with its thorns. ―I want the truth?‖ said the interrogator. ―Why? Why does it make a difference? You know my name, obviously, but I don‘t know yours. Tell me your name, please.‖ ―John Smith,‖ he replied with a grin.

I looked at him like he had a third eye plastered in the middle of his forehead. ―Truth or fiction?‖ I asked skeptically. ―Does it make a difference?‖ he asked as he repeated my words back to me. ―No, I guess not. But―I still want to know why you‘re harassing me.‖ ―For the fun of it. And―because I want to know if you really did all that stuff in your book?‖ ―Like I already told you, it is fiction based loosely on my life. I am a writer who writes about what she knows. Why don‘t you give me a break and shut the heck up?‖ I answered in a measured controlled tone as I tried to rein in my anger. ―Okay, if that is what you really want.‖ ―Why would I want anything else? Why would you even ask that?‖ ―How have your book sales been?‖

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―Good,‖ I answered without thinking. ―Wait a minute! That‘s none of your business.‖ I added as I felt my blood pump faster through my veins. ―Would you have sold as many if I had not agitated the crowd?‖ ―I don‘t know. Probably not,‖ I said softly. ―I‘m sorry. I didn‘t hear you. You need to speak a little louder.‖ ―You heard me,‖ I whispered harshly. ―You‘re serious. You don‘t want me to do this anymore?‖ he asked with disappointment clouding his face. ―No!‖ My next book event was at a library that was an hour away from my home. I was looking forward to meeting and greeting the interesting faces of a new group of people.

I arrived early as was always my case when scheduled for an out of town appointment. I hated to be late for any obligation.

I sat outside the building in my car scouring the faces of each and every person that entered the library.

No John Smith appeared before me to enter the library while I was sitting and watching. Perhaps he heeded my request that he not participate in my life as a shill to get people in the audience to buy my books.

I didn‘t know if I was happy or sad that I didn‘t see his familiar face.

Of course, my book sales dropped without his input.

He was so-o-o right.

His combative questioning of the contents of my novel inspired interest from those in attendance.

Perhaps I would see John Smith at the next book event. I didn‘t want to admit it out loud, but I was looking forward to the next confrontation and the adrenaline rush that always occurred. ________________________________________________________________________ 232

Linda Hudson Hoagland of Tazewell, Virginia, graduate of Southwest Virginia Community College, has won acclaim for her novels, short stories, essays, and poems.

Many of her works have been published in anthologies such as Cup of Comfort along with the publication of her four mystery novels and five nonfiction books.

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Traditional Poem

Rains and Ruined Harvest Joseph L. Whitten I hear the rain and know the forecasts call for more. A little south of here the creeks will flood the cotton fields before nightfall; and as the farmers track the rains that wreak capricious havoc drop by drop, they‘ll stand and watch—or pace the porch—though none will speak his thoughts. Alone, he‘ll mourn his flooded land and brood the fickle summer days that bore surpassing hope of harvest on demand.

These rains will cease as rains have ceased before, and hope, unquenched, will rise from out the mud.

Next fall this ruined crop will be folklore.

Because this land throbs through the farmers‘ blood.

Come spring, they‘ll plant again in spite of this year‘s flood. ________________________________________________________________________ Joseph L. Whitten, Odenville, AL, is a member of AWC and the Alabama State Poetry Society. In ASPS he has served as Treasurer, Contest Chair, and presently as President.

He was ASPS Poet of the Year for 2002. He also holds membership in Pennsylvania and Georgia poetry societies. ~~~~~

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Juvenile Fiction

The Fairy’s Hole Merry Lewis April is the month most people in Georgia love because it‘s so pretty.

The fruit trees blossom, the little wild flowers pop up all over every meadow, and the blue sky is either clear or decorated with soft, wispy white clouds. But if you‘re looking for food, as Ma and I were, April is the worst month. Our cornfields and garden were just showing first signs of green sprouts, and they did look pretty, marching in straight rows, but it would be a few months before we feasted on any of the bounty. ―The only things left to eat in this corner of the garden are the greens—turnips and collards.‖ Ma said, as we walked about the place.

I knew that when the warm days came those greens were bad to bolt, making the leaves bitter and leathery.

Our winter stores had dwindled to a sack of meal, a half bag of sweet taters, and one rind of smoked fatback. It was fortunate that old Bess still gave good milk each day, but we knew she‘d need to be bred soon and would dry up when a calf was coming. The flock of chickens had been reduced by some strange sickness to three hens. Their eggs were precious and rare as jewels. The pigs were to down to one male, one female, and two shoats that needed to be kept healthy and fattened for the fall butchering time.

My brothers, Walter and Curtis, worked harder than ever before.

From before sun up to dark, they cleared and plowed the fields and planted the seed corn. Fences needed mending and drainage ditches dug.

With our dwindling food, we were all skinny. Cutis went from being the stout one to as slender as a river reed. But Walter was another matter.

He‘d always been skinny, but now his every rib showed, his legs and arms were sticks, and his eyes were sunk back in his head. When both

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boys came in for supper neither could talk, they were so tired. They just sat at the table, put their heads down and gobbled the food as fast as they could. Ma, with a worried face, spooned any extra, usually from her plate, onto Walter‘s dish. It seemed such a long time ago that we‘d laughed and played down in the Fairy‘s Hole. Our secret hiding place way down in the woods was full of juicy blackberries to eat, honeysuckle blossoms to suck on, and a cool stream to wade in. Laughing and playing in the woods belonged to those happy days before Pa went to war, when our family was all together with time for both work and play.

At supper, most of the time we had corn mush with some of the boiled bitter greens. The eggs were the special treat we all craved. Since there were just three a day, we took turns having an egg. My day to enjoy one was Tuesday, and I loved it boiled hard in the shell, which I‘d crack carefully, and savor every rich bite. It was hard to enjoy it when you knew hungry eyes were watching, so without any talk about it, we would look away while the lucky one finished the treat.

Ma still walked to Ralston to work on the big net project and to sell her weaving. It had worked out at first, yielding many pounds of huge fish, from the Alcovy River which ran through town, but soon the net developed big holes and had to be repaired every time. The number of fish caught dwindled and the provisions she was supposed to collect as pay dwindled too. Nobody in town had extra food either. Word kept coming that our side was beaten and the war would soon be over. Worst news was that Yankee troops were marching south, burning and looting everything in their way and there was no way to know where or when they‘d show up.

We‘d had no word at all from Pa since his letter from the army camp in Tennessee, and each time Ma stopped at the post office to ask, Mr. Semmes just sadly shook his head.

I began to worry that I‘d forget what Pa looked like. I hadn‘t seen him since I was 11 years old. How I wished for a picture like some of the 236

families in town had. At night I‘d try to conjure his face in my mind, to imagine the sound of his voice, but it got to be too hard, mainly because of the hunger pains that were with me always. My stomach growled and burned with its emptiness just a short time after every meal. I took to reciting the times tables to myself as a distraction…seven times five is thirty-five, seven times six is forty-two, seven times seven…until I fell asleep.

When Ma and I got back to the house that cool April morning, we saw the smoke. It was coming from Colonel Henderson‘s big house, boiling up into the sky in great gray clouds. Ma watched for but a minute then gathered her skirts and ran to the barn to stop Curtis and Walter before they went to the fields. ―Hurry! Take the mule and cow; drive ‗em out past the meadow and cut ‗em loose in the holler past the big trees. Then you both hide in the woods and stay hid. Don‘t come back to the house for nothin‘. I‘ll get some pones in a sack for you to take. Wait till you think you have a clear way, then walk into town, stay in the brush cover on side the road and we‘ll meet you there directly. Now hurry! Whoever is burning the Colonel‘s house will be comin‘ this way soon!‖ Curtis and Walter, faces white, hurried to get the animals. Curtis stopped to consider and asked Ma, ―What about you and the others? Pa wouldn‘t want us to leave you alone here.‖ ―The raiders won‘t be interested in us. But they‘ll be wantin‘ our animals and might want to ‗script you two. There‘s no way to tell and now there‘s no time to waste. We‘ll be packin‘ to go to Ralston and meet you there as soon as we can. Don‘t worry. Now go!‖ They ran to the stalls, roped Pomp the mule and drove Bess out of the feedlot and back down the rise of the meadow. Both beasts were bawling, Pomp stubborn and pulling against the rope, Rhol barking at their heels. But in just a few minutes they were out of sight. Ma hurried 237

to shut the barn door and hooked the gate. Rebecca, the twins, Henry and Leah, and I stood on the porch gaping. ―Git inside!‖ Ma snapped. ―Everone of you put on your clothes and shoes to travel. Mattie, go to the loft and roll the quilts into bedrolls. Rebecca, git a basket and pack the candles and a bowl for everbody. Hurry!‖ Ma rushed to gather her wool, the string, and half-finished net, stuffing all into a sack. We were scurrying so that we didn‘t hear the horses until they rode right up into the yard.

Ma held up her hand and we froze. She opened the front door to face three soldiers in blue, getting down from their horses, and walking up the porch steps.

The tallest of the three must have been the leader because he came up first, signaling to the others with a flick of his head to tie up the horses. His little black eyes quickly took in everything about the cabin, the yard and the barn. ―Where‘s yore man?‖ He looked down at Ma, not smiling, not taking off his hat.

Standing behind her, I saw her hand tremble for a minute; she looked him in the face and answered with a steady voice. ―He‘s gone. Army got him. Ain‘t been home in two years, ain‘t had word of him neither.‖ The other two, one a skinny redheaded fellow and the other dark, short, with a tobacco-stained beard and mean, pale blue eyes, were now on the porch right behind their leader. ―We‘re gone look around. While we‘re at that, you git them chickens and make us a meal.‖ Ma nodded, the three strangers turned toward the barn.

Rebecca and I were too scared to move, the twins started to cry. ―Hush that!‖ Ma whispered fiercely.

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―Henry, Leah, set the table. Becka and Mattie get the chickens. Do just what I say and don‘t speak one word to those soldiers, don‘t even look at them. Now, move!‖ Her words set us moving in spite of our fear. Ma stoked a hot fire under the big pot of water in the yard. Becka and I cornered the three chickens; Becka closed her eyes and turned her head when Ma brought the hatchet down on each of the scrawny necks. She tucked six sweet taters, the last of our batch, in the coals of the fire, and after dunking the chickens in the boiling water, we all sat down to the plucking. Meanwhile, the three soldiers prowled in the barn and feedlot, wrecking the corncrib, taking the bag of seed corn, all the rope and tackle, and even chasing down the hogs to rope together.

Ma whispered to us as we sat beside the boiling pot. ―Like I said, don‘t speak a word to ‗em. We‘re goin to fix ‗em a fine dinner and then they‘ll go away. But if anything happens, Mattie, you and Becka take the twins by the hand and run out the back as fast as you can. Head for the woods and hide. Don‘t look back and don‘t come back to the house. Stay hid until you know they‘re gone, even if it takes some days. Then go to town. Find Mr. Semmes when you‘re there and ask for his help. He‘ll know what to do.‖ ―But Ma, won‘t you be coming with us?‖ ―I‘ll be along directly for shore, but you can run fast and quick and can get the younguns away first. Now, that‘s the plan and I‘ll not have you do anything else.‖ The chickens were ready and we took them inside. Ma put a pan of grease over the fire and in another pot, began to boil some greens.

The soldiers, tracking mud on their boots, came and sat down at the table to wait for the food. The short one took a plug of tobacco from his belt, bit off a wad and began to chew. His jaws filled, lips oozing, and he spit a stream of nasty brown juice in the corner. The redhead spoke to the leader.

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―Looks like somebody‘s been working these fields and I don‘t think it was this here woman and her younguns. There‘s bound to be a man around here. You know these Rebels are awful liars.‖ The leader looked at Ma and said, ―There‘s fresh manure in yore barnyard. Where‘s yore animals? Who‘s been working this place?‖ Ma put some, hot pones on their plates and poured mugs of steaming sassafras tea. She kept her eyes down, but answered in a low, steady voice. ―I had a hired hand to help plant, but he run off two nights ago when he heard there was raiders coming. I didn‘t have but a mule and a cow and he took ‗em, leaving me naught but the hogs and chickens.‖ ―I think she‘s lyin‘. How‘d she hire anybody? Where‘d any of these Peckerwoods git any money?‖ Dirty-beard asked.

Before the leader could ponder the question, Ma set a platter of beautiful golden fried chicken before him. My mouth watered as I served the greens, glistening with fatback, and the hot, sweet taters, jackets split to show their orange insides. We stood back, eyes on the floor as the men tore into the food. They slurped, smacked, and chewed through it all, sucking every last speck of meat from the chicken bones.

I watched them eat. I thought about the last of our cornmeal and taters, poor skinny Walter, the precious eggs, and felt my whole insides fill with white-hot hate. I knew what Ma had told us to do, but no matter, I looked over my shoulder to see where the big butcher knife lay, to calculate how fast I could reach the pot of hot oil. ―So what do you say we make her tell us where her man and her stock are?‖ Waiting for his answer, I heard the embers settle in the fireplace with a sigh. I held every one of my muscles tight, ready to move.

The leader burped, pushed back his chair, picked and sucked at his big yellow teeth.

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―Naw, we‘ll move on. We got to meet the rest of the company in the town before dark. Besides, it‘s pretty clear she ain‘t got enough to make it worth the trouble. Let‘s go.‖ They scraped back in their chairs, stood up, and walked out with not a word or a look at us. We waited, not moving and listened to them loading the horses with the sacks of our few belongings and herding the squealing hogs into the road. Finally, the horses‘ hoof beats were faint.

We looked to Ma who stood rigid, hands clasped behind her. She shivered, went to her knees, and dropped the hatchet she‘d held behind her skirt. We gathered with her on the floor, arms around each other, all too scared even to cry.

We waited and watched the road until there was no sight at all of the soldiers, not even a puff of dust. ―Get the things we packed and let‘s set out. I want to find yore brothers.‖ ―Don‘t worry, Ma. I think I know where they‘re hid.‖ I started across the field, heading for the woods and the Fairy‘s Hole. ________________________________________________________________________ Merry Lewis lives in Birmingham with her husband. She is a retired teacher and travel agent. She attends writers' workshops and is a member of Women Writing for a Change, Birmingham. She is currently working on her first novel.

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2011 AWC Writing Contest Winners List

FICTION – 2500 WORDS 1. Jim Herod 2. Evan Guilford-Blake 3. Margaret Truly 4. Joseph L. Whitten

Hear What I See My Enemy Dr Seuss The Chess Game Aunt Rosa’s Mother’s Day

Grove Hill, AL Stone Mountain, GA Hoover, AL Odenville, AL

Fiction Honorable Mention (in alphabetical order) Ruth Beaumont Cook Joan Hazel Richard M. Perreault Julia Jones Thompson

The Marriage of Earl and Evelyn Ascension Uncle Eb and the Frog-Water Double

Hoover, AL Troy, AL Chamblee, GA Auburn, AL

SHORT FICTION – 1000 WORDS 1. Jane Sasser 2. Laura Loomis 3. Deb Jellett 4. Carolynne Scott

Solve for x Shocked Open Window Day Weight

Oak Ridge, TN Pittsburg, CA Daphne, AL Birmingham, AL

Short Fiction Honorable Mention (in alphabetical order)

Evan Guilford-Blake Shawn Jacobsen Dick Michener Allen Russell

A Case of Nostalgia Roger and Susan Justice The Condo Troll

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Stone Mountain, GA Auburn, AL Waynesville, NC Hartford, KY

HUMOR – 2000 WORDS 1. E. Gail Chandler 2. Tammy Painter 3. Murray Edwards 4. Debra H. Goldstein

Harold’s Halloween [A Little Night Music–and Attempted Murder] [Minutes of the Serene Oaks Home Owners Association July Meeting] Legal Magic

Shelbyville, KY Milwaukie, OR Clyde, TX Hoover, AL

Humor Honorable Mention (in alphabetical order) Elsie Azar Sara Gipson Margie Tubbs Jackie Walburn

Big Connections Prom Queen WWMD? What Would Mother Do? [Three Generations and Kid Rock; Seeing It in Color]

Huntsville, AL Scott, AR Mobile, AL Birmingham, AL

FREE VERSE POEM 1. Carol Robbins Hull 2. Carol Grametbauer 3. Barb McMakin 4. Gail Denham

Feeling for the Edges When the House Came Down Reading Rainbow What I Love About Frederick

Montgomery, AL Kingston, TN Crestwood, KY Sunriver, OR

Free Verse Honorable Mention (in alphabetical order)

Ellaraine Lockie Carolynne Scott Leonard A. Temme Joseph L. Whitten

Time…and Time Again Ourselves on Ourselves Grandmother’s Story Hawkins Burying Ground, Biltmore Estate

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Sunnyvale, CA Birmingham, AL Enterprise, AL Odenville, AL

JUVENILE FICTION - 2500 WORDS 1. Merry Lewis The Fairy's Hole 2. Linda Hudson Hoagland The Lady in the Sun 3. Alice Recker The Stranger and the Lucky Pennies 4. Patricia J. Weaver Snow-Cone Victory

Birmingham, AL North Tazewell, VA Pleasant Hill, MO Florence, AL

Juvenile fiction Honorable Mention (in alphabetical order)

Evan Guilford-Blake Patricia Kester Ellaraine Lockie Randi Lynn Mrvos

Sweet Porridge Codie's Gift True Love's First Adventure In Search of Awe

Stone Mountain, GA St. Paul, MN Sunnyvale, CA Lexington, KY

NONFICTION – 2500 WORDS 1. Catherine Parrill 2. Terri L. French 3. Betty Spence 4. Jane Sasser

Dancing with the Women of Jeannette Taksi In Search of Enduring Alabama Voices On Emanuel Cemetery Road

Birmingham, AL Huntsville, AL Mobile, AL Oak Ridge, TN

Nonfiction Honorable Mention (in alphabetical order)

Janet Johnson Anderson Rusty Bynum Judy L. DiGregorio Leonard A. Temme

God Gave Me Horses Lost Muddying up the Gene Pool Theater of War

244

Huntsville, AL Huntsville, AL Oak Ridge, TN Enterprise, AL

TRADITIONAL POEM 1. Nick Sweet 2. Monica Claesson 3. Leonard A. Temme 4. Monita Soni

Victory Dance, 1945 The Tales of the Wind The Grand Design Have I Become So Different?

Shepherd, TX Lincoln, NE Enterprise, AL Decatur, AL

Traditional Poem Honorable Mention (in alphabetical order)

Jerri Hardesty Ellaraine Lockie Catherine Moran Joseph L. Whitten

Bellatrix An American Haibun Donating Blood Rain and Ruined Harvest

Brierfield, AL Sunnyvale, CA Little Rock, AR Odenville, AL

FIRST CHAPTER of a NOVEL 1. Hank Henley Sea Temptress 2. Jane Sasser Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child 3. Jo Wharton Heath The Man in the Blue Denim Shirt 4. Deborah Lee Luskin Elegy for a Girl: Milking

Helena, AL Oak Ridge, TN Auburn, AL Williamsville, VT

First Chapter Novel Honorable Mention (in alphabetical order)

Reese Danley-Kilgo Linda Hudson Hoagland Adrienne Y. Norton Ann Robbins-Phillips

The Galloway Cradle [Writing the Circuit: So All of it Was a Lie] Order of the True Vine Revenge

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Huntsville, AL North Tazewell, VA Hoover, AL Hixson, TN

www.alalit.com

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