The Blue Mountain Review April 2025

BLUE MOUNTAIN

Issue 34 April 2025

TIM BLAKE NELSON: BETTER ACTOR, BETTER PERSON

danez smith discusses bluff

SCE Member spotlight: Charlie Jensen

Prose, poetry, & Visual Art

REVIEW

Buffalo Nichols

Sings the soul into country

Dr. Fubbs is killing it with death row records

Sarah Darling: The New Heart of Nashville

THE A JOURNAL OF CULTURE

DANEZ

The SCE Press Presents The SCE Press Presents

Lynne Kemen’s writing appears in various literary journals and anthologies. She published her chapbook, More Than a Handful, in 2020 with Woodland Arts Editions. She contributes as an Interviewer and Essay Editor for The Blue Mountain Review, a culture-focused journal. She is a member of The Southern Collective Experience and is on the boards of two not-for-profit organizations. She lives with her husband, William Rossow, and their four cats in the Great Western Catskills of Upstate New York.

Lynne Kemen’s Shoes for Lucy is a beautiful and relatable collection of poems that explores a wide range of emotions. From grief to rediscovery, Kemen writes with a deft hand, creating vibrant and introspective pieces that remind us to cherish life’s simple pleasures.

— Kelli Russell Agodon

Author of Dialogues with Rising Tides (Copper Canyon Press)

Shoes for Lucy is like a beautiful summer storm on the porch - bursts of light, cool breeze, fragments of childhood dreams, and echoes spreading out in all directions.

— Jack B. Bedell

Author of Against the Woods’ Dark Trunks, Poet Laureate of Louisiana, 2017-2019

A genre-bending powerhouse of a collection. A spare, artful blend of poetry and fiction, Kemen combines masterful storytelling with lyrical prowess. A bit Oliver, a bit Forster, and a bit Bass, Kemen deftly invokes her literary heroes, while inking her heart on her sleeve. “I go outside and touch my flowers and wish it was you.” she longingly writes. Penned in the beautiful voice of a wise and witty friend.

Nicole Tallman

Author of Poems for the People (SCE Press) and Something Kindred (SCE Press)

Exiles of Eden by Clifford Brooks 978-1-7347498-6-1

978-1-7347498-0-9

Something Kindred by Nicole Tallman

978-1-7362306-1-9

Poems for the People by Nicole Tallman

978-1-7362306-2-6

Draw of Broken Eyes & Whirling

by Clifford Brooks

978-1-7347498-3-0

Things I Wish I Could Tell You by Casanova Green

978-1-7362306-0-2

the Butterfly by Tracy Hagan 978-1-7347498-8-5

The Ghost Gospels by Laura Ingram 978-1-7347498-7-8

Tell Me What You Saw and What You Think It Means by Steve Bellin-Oka

dreamterludes by Monica Kim

The

Metaphysics

Flutterby

Athena Departs: Gospel of a Man Apart by Clifford Brooks

INTRODUCTION

by Justin hamm

Sometimes I think cynicism is the greatest enemy of art—not hate, not fear, not even ignorance. Cynicism. The dull armor we wrap around ourselves to avoid caring too much, hoping too hard, or foolishly investing faith in what we can’t measure. I’ve watched it hijack public discourse, creep into classrooms, and even assault the world of art. It isn’t loud. It shrugs. It scoffs. It offers nothing but the false comfort of never risking the heart.

I know because I’ve worn it myself.

I used to be the smartass in the back of the classroom with my arms folded—the guy in Philosophy 214 who dissected someone’s earnestness out loud for sport. I’ve wielded cynicism like a shield when hope or joy felt too raw or dangerous. But listen: that version of me couldn’t create anything real. He was too afraid to go where the real stuff lives.

I have a tattoo of Don Quixote on the inside of my left arm. He rides Rocinante, lance in hand—a reminder to see the world not just as it is, but as it could be. To Quixote, windmills were giants. Barmaids were holy women. Maybe his faith in beauty and goodness was delusional—but wasn’t it also a kind of creative power? To imagine things better, and then act as if that were already true?

That’s creative writing to me. I think it is for a lot of us.

Not just image or form, plot or character. Not just the journals and contests and gatekeepers—though we’ve navigated all that. I mean the act of moving through daily life with our imaginations awake. Looking at a gravel road and seeing a trail of stardust. Believing someone’s story matters enough to tell it, even if no one else is listening. Choosing to care openly when silence would be safer.

This doesn’t mean ignoring pain, or sugarcoating what’s real. I’ve stood graveside. I’ve sat in doctor’s offices. I’ve battled addiction to sugar and stared down the hard facts of mortality with my kids in the next room. I know how heavy the world can get. But even in the midst of all that, we get to choose whether we deaden ourselves to it—or keep creating, keep reaching, keep loving out loud.

We don’t need more cool, detached writers. We need more who are willing to be ridiculous. Who believe a poem or a story, in the right hands, can save someone’s life—or at least make their loneliness less sharp.

That’s a rebellion I want to join.

Not a war against institutions or algorithms—though I’ve certainly got my gripes. The rebellion I mean is quieter: to stay soft. To love openly. To write with honesty. To resist the grinding-down of our vision into something safe and acceptable.

The kids I teach—elementary-aged, curious, chaotic, unfiltered—have changed me. Most of them don’t yet know how to be detached or ironic. They make up goofy games, turn Lego bricks into futuristic cities, doodle dragons on math homework. They still believe what they feel. And that belief—that raw creativity, that joy in the ludicrous—if we lose that, we’ve lost the point. I say it all the time now: cynicism is educational malpractice. Maybe it’s creative malpractice, too.

When I stand behind a mic and read a poem about drinking a shower beer, or my daughter dangling from the monkey bars, or the time my old man chased the baseball bus because I forgot my jock strap, I’m not performing a brand. I’m trying to peel back the surface of life and show people the good stuff underneath. The electric, awkward, sacred stuff we’re all made of. That’s what so many of us are trying to do.

The big counterargument is this: Quixote didn’t win.

True. His battles weren’t victories in the usual sense. But he fought. And more importantly, he believed. He rode out anyway.

So here’s to everyone in these pages— who made something honest and sent it out into the world without knowing what would come of it.

This is our windmill.

This is our Rocinante.

This is our dumb, beautiful lance.

Let us sally forth.

Originally from the flatlands of central Illinois, Justin Hamm now lives near Twain territory in Missouri. He is the author of five full-length collections of poetry, O Death, Drinking Guinness With the Dead: Poems 2007-2021, The Inheritance, American Ephemeral, and Lessons in Ruin; six poetry chapbooks; and a book of photographs entitled Midwestern. He is also the creator of Poet Baseball Cards and the founding editor of the museum of americana.

HOME OF AWARD WINNERS

Joseph M. Marshall III (April 8, 1945 - April 18, 2025), historian, educator, and author of “The Lakota Way” and 20 other books dedicated to sharing the stories of his people.

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RUSTY AND EMMA’S BIG SHOCK!

Emma Puff’s Secrets Series, Book 1

Annie Wilde

Beebe Hargrove WINNER

IBPA Benjamin Franklin Awards FINALIST

BEA Pre-Teen Fiction

18th NIEA Children’s Book Cover Design

SPELLBOUND UNDER THE SPANISH MOSS

The Spellbound Series, Book 1

Connor Judson Garrett and Kevin N. Garrett

WINNER

15th NIEA Book Cover Design: Fiction—John J. Pearson FINALIST

BEA Young Adult Fiction

SUSPENSION

Time Binder Series, Book 1

Andrea Faye Christians FINALIST

BEA Fiction: Paranormal

YOUNG READERS

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MONEY PLAIN & SIMPLE What the Institutions and the Elite Don’t Want You to Know

Steven J. Spence

WINNER

BEA Finances

THE MAGIC PURPLE POTION

Emma Puff’s Secrets Series, Book 2

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Beebe Hargrove FINALIST

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FROM THE PUBLISHER

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‘TWAS HALLOWEEN NIGHT

Geoffrey Owens

Karen Hopkins Harrod

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Books hold the power to create empathy and understanding that otherwise might lie dormant. Words matter, and our stories break down walls and enable us to connect as human beings. That is a beautiful gift that Lucid House authors share.

HAPPENSTANCE

Time Binder Series, Book 2

Andrea Faye Christians FINALIST

BEA Paranormal

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A SEASON IN LIGHTS

Gregory Erich Phillips GRAND PRIZE WINNER

2020 CIBA Contemporary and Literary Fiction

WINNER

16th NIEA Book Cover Design: Contemporary Fiction—Troy King

BEA Performing Arts (Film,Theatre, Dance, Music) FINALIST

16th NIEA Contemporary Fiction

WAITING FOR GABE A Novel

Diana Black FINALIST

BEA Grief

KEY TO AWARDS

LITERARY INTERVIEWS

LITERARY INTERVIEWS

INTERVIEWED

BY J.D. ISIP

patrick hollowaY

The Language of Remembering (époque press, 2025) is Patrick’s debut novel.

THE LANGUAGE OF REMEMBERING IS, I THINK YOU WOULD AGREE, QUITE “CHARACTER FORWARD.” YOU HAVE TO CARE ABOUT THESE CHARACTERS TO CARE ABOUT THE STORY. HOW DID YOU DEVELOP YOUR CHARACTERS FOR THIS NOVEL?

Yes, totally agree. Most of my stories are very character driven. This novel is definitely more about the characters, their inner conflicts and how they try to move on from the past. There are two narrators, Oisin, who has moved back to Ireland from Brazil with his wife and daughter to take care of his mother with early onset Alzheimer’s, and Brigid, a teenager who gets pregnant in a rural Irish village in the early 80s. Oisin’s narrative is set just before Covid (I really didn’t want to write about Covid) and his story is told in the second person.

I originally wrote a short story of Oisin, and his voice just never left me. I loved the disconnect of the character, the shadows of his past, and the constant battle inside his head of who he was, who he is, and who he could maybe be. I originally started writing Brigid just to understand her better and what motivated her, who she was when she had Oisin, and then slowly fell into her narrative.

I very much had fun writing her mum Kathleen, and can still hear her quick comebacks in my head. I think all of the characters in the book are influenced by their surroundings and what is happening to them—I feel this is universal feeling and hope that readers relate and feel for the characters.

ON THE SURFACE, THE NOVEL IS ABOUT MEMORY AND DISEASE, BUT THERE ARE LAYERS HERE ABOUT RELATIONSHIPS, NOT ONLY BETWEEN HUMANS, BUT BETWEEN IDENTITIES AND HERITAGES.

Yeah, for sure. I lived in Brazil for 9 years and it was a challenging time and it definitely made me question who I was and who I thought I was. Language was taken away from me and I found it very difficult to be myself, even when I learned Portuguese. My PhD went on to explore the idea of language and identity, memory and identity, and that naturally has found a way to leak into my fiction.

The idea of language being taken away and what that means to an identity evidently was explored in Brigid as an adult and the onset of the disease. There is a lot about heritage and identity, too. What it means to be Irish, to be Brazilian. But also, there are the identities of the past, the many identities we shed along the way.

WERE THESE BIGGER THEMES SOMETHING YOU HAD IN MIND FROM THE START OR DID THEY DEVELOP AS THE STORY DEVELOPED? WERE THERE PARTS OF THE PROCESS OR THE STORY THAT SURPRISED YOU AS YOU WERE WRITING?

I knew it would explore language, memory and identity. I wasn’t trying to write about them but knew they’d play a role as it often does in my writing. I suppose the sub themes emerged organically—family, relationships, parenting, loss. I was surprised by the characters themselves. I never really know which way the narrative will go and some of Oisin’s actions surprised me. I was always happily surprised by Kathleen’s reactions and her viewpoints.

SINCE THIS IS YOUR DEBUT NOVEL, WHAT DID YOU LEARN ABOUT PUBLISHING A BOOK? WHAT WOULD YOU TELL SOMEONE WHO SAYS, “I THINK I’D LIKE TO WRITE A NOVEL SOMEDAY”?

This is the first published novel. But the second novel I wrote. The first came very close to being published (long story) and when it wasn’t it was a really tough time. Sometimes, the writing becomes the easier part of the journey and when you focus on it being published, or the expectations of what you’re writing, the writing then becomes challenging. I’d say focus on the writing itself, the rest is just noise. Also, discipline. Get the words on the page, find the fun and joy in it. Yeah, just focus on the writing and don’t think about the publishing part of it, otherwise it can take over.

ABOUT PATRICK:

Patrick Holloway is an Irish writer of fiction and poetry and is an editor of the literary journal, The Four Faced Liar. He completed his Masters in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow, before moving to Porto Alegre, Brazil, where he completed his PhD in Creative Writing. He is the winner of the Bath Short Story Award, The Molly Keane Creative Writing Prize, The Flash 500 Prize, the Allingham Fiction contest and he was the recipient of the Paul McVeigh Residency in 2023. His work appears in The Stinging Fly, The London Magazine, Poetry Ireland, The Moth, Southword, The Ilanot Review, Carve, The Irish Times and The Irish Independent.

WHAT WAS THE HARDEST PART OF WRITING THIS? AND WHAT WAS THE MOST ENJOYABLE?

The hardest part really is sticking with it. My mind is always racing, constantly distracted and tempted by other ideas. It took real effort to focus on this story, this novel, and not just run to write a short story or a poem. I suppose it’s that, the day to day of it, the sticking to it. The most enjoyable part is when I got lost in the writing. When characters took me in a different direction. There’s something about being in the flow, completely lost to the story, that is almost hallowed.

PLEASE LET OUR READERS KNOW HOW THEY CAN GET THEIR HANDS ON A COPY OF THE LANGUAGE OF REMEMBERING (ÉPOQUE PRESS, 2025). AND PLEASE LET THEM KNOW ABOUT ANY UPCOMING READINGS/ EVENTS AND WHERE TO FOLLOW YOU ONLINE.

It’s available from all good bookshops and can be found on Amazon at the following link: The Language of Remembering - Holloway, Patrick

Are you, or someone you know on the spectrum? Do you constantly feel out of place due to Autism? Did a late-in-life diagnosis give you some peace of mind, but leave many more unanswered questions?

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- About Your Instructor -

Clifford Brooks is founder of the Southern Collective Experience and Editor-in-Chief of The Blue Mountain Review. Aside from his business ventures he is also a poet. To date Clifford has three full-length collections of poetry, Old Gods, The Draw of Broken Eyes & Whirling Metaphysics and Athena Departs: Gospel of a Man Apart, Exiles of Eden is a limited edition chapbook available solely from its author. Over the last twenty years Clifford traversed the traditional route in publishing and learned how to create, sell, and market creative writing. Throughout his tenure as writer and educator, Clifford stands as an advocate for those on the autism spectrum. As board member of Autism Speaks, he is intimately aware of the need for greater community and understanding.

Here on Teachable, Clifford shares his wisdom on living the creative life and adulting

INTERVIEWED BY DEBBIE HENNESSEY

TJ HENDRIX

TELL US ABOUT

YOUR BACKGROUND

IN

JOURNALISM. WHICH PUBLICATIONS DID YOU WRITE FOR, AND WHAT TYPES OF STORIES DID YOU COVER?

I worked for what were then the San Luis Obispo Telegram-Tribune and Santa Barbara News-Press in the 80s and 90s before the internet broke newspapers. The Telegram-Tribune had a little over 40,000 readers then. The News-Press was still owned by the New York Times and had over 50,000 in circulation. So, they were good mid-size dailies in mid-size towns.

I covered everything from school boards to murder trials to celebrity interviews. My claim to fame is breaking a story that went around the world on the Associated Press wires and then hit “Oprah.” I spotted a lawsuit filed by the ex-wife of an OB-GYN. She claimed that the doc got an incompetent surgeon friend to sew her vagina shut during a hysterectomy.

It was the ‘80s. Back then, all the newspaper editors were men, and they just laughed and said she was probably crazy and it wasn’t a story. I told them she had a bunch of LA doctors coming up to testify for her because they’d had to fix her vagina afterward - and doctors never rolled over on each other unless things were really bad. They still told me to drop it. But I kept sitting in the courtroom covering it anyway, in between all the other stories I got assigned to.

The jury came back in her favor. They awarded her millions. At the time, it was the biggest lawsuit award in county history. Her ex’s malpractice insurance had to pay up. And I interviewed her and took my trial notes, and wrote the story.

Testimony showed the incompetent “buddy” surgeon had disappeared from the state after having his medical license yanked. They were still trying to find him. The ex-husband OB-GYN told his ex-wife the guy was excellent. The ex said he would be in the operating room himself during her hysterectomy for “support.” Witnesses said the ex-husband stood next to the incompetent surgeon and told him where to cut and stitch the woman’s most private parts. The LA docs she went to for repair work afterward had to do a lot of surgery so she could have sex again without being ripped apart.

The story wound up on the front page, and AP picked it up. Then it ran in a bunch of big U.S. newspapers and foreign newspapers. Then Oprah had the victorious woman on her show. The editors I worked for all apologized to me. So that was nice.

DID YOU ALWAYS ASPIRE TO WRITE FICTION? WHAT INSPIRED YOU TO WRITE A MIDDLE-GRADE (MG) BOOK?

I was always a good writer, from elementary school on. I always wanted to write fiction, but I always knew being an author doesn’t pay the rent unless you get famous. The Watergate Hearings happened when I was in sixth grade; Woodward and Bernstein were heroes afterward. So, I really wanted to be a newspaper reporter. I thought I’d be a reporter, pay the rent, and write books later.

I LOVED THE STORY; THERE WERE SEVERAL UNEXPECTED TWISTS. CAN YOU PROVIDE OUR READERS WITH A SYNOPSIS?

Mmmm. Without giving away the twists, The Pack: The Dare and The Draugar follows Harmony, a grouchy sixth-grader with a single mom who moves from LA to a little town north of San Francisco. Then, her mother sends her away to summer camp in the redwoods. Against all odds, Harmony manages to make a few friends - girls and boys. But then she makes a dare that leads her out into the forest at night. When her new friends find out she’s actually doing the dare, they follow her - straight into danger. An adventure ensues, involving time travel, a shapeshifting wolfhound, and an ancient zombie war dog. (A draugar. It’s a real word.) When the friends make it back to camp, they discover they are not in trouble. That’s because Camp Coho is really a screening tool for an ancient order looking for the next generation of magically gifted teens to apprentice. The order protects the magic places of the world - and the forest around Camp Coho is one of them. It’s all flying lessons and fun until Harmony’s mom gets kidnapped back home. It turns out her mom may not be what everyone thought she was. Harmony and her new friends decide to do their own detective work to find Harmony’s mom before it’s too late.

THE KIDS IN YOUR STORY, PARTICULARLY THE MOODY PROTAGONIST, FEEL VERY REALISTIC. HOW CHALLENGING WAS IT TO CAPTURE

THE RIGHT TONE FOR THAT TYPE OF CHARACTER?

“Moody” is one of the nicer things people have said about Harmony! I’m the mother of two now-adult daughters. They’re two years apart and grew up either fighting each other (almost) to the death or teaming up to have adventures without getting caught. I was lucky enough to be able to work part-time while they were in middle school and high school, and I always tried to be the mom who drove kids places. The girls could be clammed up and not talking to me, and as soon as their friends got in the car and they all sat in the back seat, they talked away like I was a taxi driver who couldn’t hear them. It was great.

I also come from a large, loud, extended Irish-Italian-American family. If you have a wedding or a funeral, there can be 200 of us. Lots of nieces and nephews running around for me to listen to. So, all the kids in the book are based on all the kids I knew as a kid, a mom, and aunt.

I actually wrote the book for my niece, Ari, who at the time was in fifth grade. She was my first ‘kid’ reader. Now she’s graduating from high school! So now I try to ask teachers if I’m worried that I’m using a word or a phrase kids no longer say. If I stay away from the most current slang words, I figure I’ll be OK. I do have my kid characters swearing because away from their adults, kids that age do. But something always interrupts them, and they never get to finish a swear word.

I’m really proud that mom book bloggers and traditional book reviewers have consistently said “These kids seem so REAL.” They sass. They insult each other. They fight. They try to make amends. They make bad decisions. They stick up for their friends. They get embarrassed. They get angry. Because real kids do all that.

THE

SETTING AND ITS HISTORY PLAY A SIGNIFICANT ROLE IN YOUR STORY. WHAT INSPIRED YOU TO INCORPORATE THIS ASPECT?

The setting is the redwood forest in Mendocino County. My grandparents bought a little tumble-down cabin along a little river up there in about 1950. So, everyone on my dad’s side of the family has been going up there every summer for decades. It’s amazing - way out in the forest. The nearest town is about 40 minutes away, and 30 minutes of that is a twisty dirt road. No electricity. No Wi-Fi. No cell service. The cabin got a landline in the late 1970s. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t.

There used to be a summer camp there in the 50s and 60s, but it closed, and most of the buildings are long

gone now. A hundred years earlier, there was a logging camp and cookhouse there. A train ran through the valley to take the logs out, and later, it took the summer camper kids in and out of the valley. The train doesn’t run through there anymore; one of the 100-year-old tunnels caved in sometime in the 1990s But it was still running through the valley when I was a kid and when my daughters were kids.

Parts of the forest there have been logged a lot, too. The forest used to be really dense - “The woods are lovely, dark and deep.” But it’s been thinned out a lot since I was a kid. Happily, there are still patches of forest with skyscraper-size redwood trees you can get lost in. You step into the forest in those places, and the rest of the world melts away. You can still feel the magic.

Since my magic power is writing, I wanted to write that forest back into existence. So, I did.

YOU UTILIZED TEST READERS FOR YOUR FIRST BOOK. HOW DID YOU APPROACH THIS PROCESS? WHO DID YOU SELECT, AND WHAT MATERIALS DID YOU SHARE WITH THEM?

Ari, my niece, was my first kid test reader. It was the summer after she was in 6th grade - so she was the same age as the characters, basically. I printed out the manuscript at the UPS store and had it ring-bound. It looked like a script. And I gave it to her. I told her that I wanted to know if there were places she got bored - to just mark them up with pen. And to tell me if there were places where she had questions and I needed to explain things more. I was worried she’d be like, “Uh, it’s OK, Aunt Teresa.” Or “Meh.” But she loved it.

And then, she gave me a three-page handout with all her feedback - chapter by chapter. Like she’d done a book report on it, including critiques, she typed it up on my sister’s laptop and had her print it out. Kids these days...

I also gave the manuscript to a friend who’d been a book buyer for a major chain and asked for feedback, and to a couple of my journalism friends. I told them they could be brutal with me. And they were. They liked it too.

After it came out, I had kids (and adults) come to my author website and sign up to be test readers for the next book in the series - the one I’m working on now. One thing that surprised me is a lot of boys really like the book. And they’re signing up to be test readers for the next one.

I originally wrote it with girls in mind. I wanted a “strong female lead” character. I also really wanted to have an ensemble cast with boys and girls. Because when we were all running around playing in the forest during summers with my cousins when I was a kid, it was always boys and girls, kind of jockeying to win and be the best. So, I wrote some boys into the story for friends.

I do alternate points of view - some chapters are Harmony telling what’s going on. Some chapters, one of the three boys is narrating. Or best friend Olivia is narrating. And sometimes it’s MacUmba, the 400-year-old shape-shifting Guardian Wolfhound. He’s everyone’s favorite characterand narrator.

WITHOUT REVEALING TOO MUCH, CAN YOU TELL US IF THIS WILL BE PART OF A CONTINUING SERIES? WILL IT BE TITLED “TALESOFTHE LOSTFOREST”?

The next book is about halfway finished, and it’s tentatively titled The Pack: The Crow and The Curse. It follows the characters into seventh grade.

I intend to write a series that follows the kids for a while - through middle school, and to real places in the world, and different episodes in history. I think this series will always be “The Pack” because it’s about a pack of friends. Picking your pack is one of the most important decisions everyone makes, whether they’re kids or adults.

My author’s website is headlined Tales of the Lost Forest because I think all my stories will involve forests somewhere on Earth. They’re disappearing much too fast. We really do need to get kids out into the forests that are still here so they can fall in love with them and save them.

ABOUT TERESA JOAN (TJ):

Teresa Joan Hendrix is the author of The Pack: The Dare and The Draugar, a contemporary fantasy book for middle-graders (readers ages 9 to 12). The book won praise from Publishers Weekly BookLife Prize 2021 – “A fun and engaging read for the middle school audience,” Kirkus Reviews – “A roller-coaster ride into the supernatural,” and the Mom’s Choice Awards, which gave it a Gold Medal of Excellence. Hendrix started writing fiction after spending her early career as an award-winning daily newspaper reporter. She transitioned to university communications, where she wrote press releases and magazine articles and launched the university’s first news website and social media platform presence. She now lives in California wine country with her husband and their Beagle-JRT, Maggie. For more info visit tjhendrix.com

Danez smith

DANEZ, WHAT DOES YOUR WRITING LIFE LOOK LIKE? DO YOU HAVE A PARTICULAR SCHEDULE, HABITS, OR PROCESS?

It depends on the season my life is in. Sometimes I have to depend on discipline and make sure I am getting to my writing desk (or the couch if it’s an early morning habit) with some kind of daily regularity. Sometimes there are more busy seasons where I am writing when I can. I enjoy writing and editing on plane rides a lot and thankfully I fly a fair bit. I find myself pulling out my phone to capture language that comes to me while I’m in the gym or at the skating rink when my mind is free to wander while thinking with my body.

My main habit these days is I keep it as low stakes as possible. That looks like writing by hand or writing in the Notes app on my phone and computer. Writing in something like a Word doc feels so final to me, at risk of publication, so I try and keep my writing as long as possible a space that feels like it’s just for me, just for thinking, just for process and exploration.

HOW DO POEMS COME TO YOU? DO YOU HAVE ANY SPECIFIC MUSES?

Poems come from everywhere, the tangible and spirit worlds, from the whole spectrum of human emotion, from the news and from the stars and from your living room and from the art of others and from out of nowhere. Its less for me about where poems come from and more about trying to be open to the possibility of poetry wherever I might find it. I try to remain porous and vigilant to where inspiration be waiting.

I also believe sometimes you just find the poem, so if I’m sitting down and writing without a particular thing in mind, I’m trying to wait for the muse to meet me in the middle of a sentence. Inspiration can be fickle, the muse stingy, so sometimes I have to meet them halfway. But a talk with my husband or my mother, a good phone call with a friend, a walk, or a trip to the museum are all great places to go if I want to stumble across the muse.

YOUR LATEST BOOK, BLUFF, HAS BEEN NAMED A NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW NOTABLE BOOK OF 2024, A TIME MUST-READ BOOK OF 2024, AND A PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, LIBRARY JOURNAL, LITERARY HUB, ELECTRIC LITERATURE, AND NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY BEST POETRY COLLECTION OF 2024. CONGRATULATIONS ON THE RAVE REVIEWS! PLEASE TELL US WHAT YOUR BOOK IS ABOUT AND WHAT INSPIRED YOU TO WRITE IT.

Here’s what the back of the book says: “Written after two years of artistic silence, during which the world came to a halt

due to the COVID-19 pandemic and Minneapolis became the epicenter of protest following the murder of George Floyd, Bluff is Danez Smith’s powerful reckoning with their role and responsibility as a poet and with their hometown of the Twin Cities. This is a book of awakening out of violence, guilt, shame, and critical pessimism to wonder and imagine how we can strive toward a new existence in a world that seems to be dissolving into desolate futures.

Smith brings a startling urgency to these poems, their questions demanding a new language, a deep selfscrutiny, and virtuosic textual shapes. A series of ars poetica gives way to “anti poetica” and “ars america” to implicate poetry’s collusions with unchecked capitalism. A photographic collage accrues across a sequence to make clear the consequences of America’s acceptance of mass shootings. A brilliant long poem—part map, part annotation, part visual argument—offers the history of Saint Paul’s vibrant Rondo neighborhood before and after officials decided to run an interstate directly through it.

Bluff is a kind of manifesto about artistic resilience, even when time and will can seem fleeting, when the places we most love—those given and made—are burning. In this soaring collection, Smith turns to honesty, hope, rage, and imagination to envision futures that seem possible.”

BLUFF CONTAINS SEVERAL POEMS THAT ARE INSPIRED BY OTHER POETS, WRITERS AND ARTISTS—POETS AND WRITERS LIKE JANE HUFFMAN, ANGEL NAFIS, JONAH MIXTONWEBSTER, AUDRE LORDE AND JUNE JORDAN; AND MUSICAL ARTISTS AND/OR CROSS-DISCIPLINARY ARTISTS LIKE JAMILA WOODS, CURTIS MAYFIELD, DANIEL CAESAR, LA LUPÉ, AND BOB MARLEY. HOW DID THESE PARTICULAR POETS, WRITERS AND ARTISTS INFLUENCE YOUR WRITING OF THIS BOOK?

Well, all of those geniuses created something that when I encountered it struck a chord in me and either immediately or eventually required a response. All of our experience and inspirations sit down with us, sometimes in ways that merit a shout out, sometimes their work provides an essential foundation and building material that our work couldn’t happen without, sometimes (like with Bob Marley and my poem “after & before”) you are a

producer flipping a sample to make something new but with that undeniable handprint of the original artist.

Every piece of art is a collaboration to me, there is no one who ever lived their life in complete isolation and thought to make art. The artists mentioned in the book helped poems move from nothing to something because I borrowed a little something from their vision, but each poem I have every written has an influence that can trace back to being alive with and in the shadow of others.

What are you working on next? Any preview you can give us regarding themes, form, or subject matter?

Working on a novel about family and love, a play about family and honesty, some essays about sex and desire, and a poetry collection about time. Also working on making my life more financially stable, being in good relationship with my body, and I want to learn how to make my own pho broth.

IN ADDITION TO WRITING, YOU ALSO TEACH. TELL US HOW TEACHING FITS INTO YOUR LIFE, WHERE AND WHAT CLASSES YOU TEACH.

I love teaching and mentoring. It gives me great pleasure and fulfillment to help others with what they make. I went to undergrad to become a teacher. I don’t think my life would allow me not to be an educator in some way. I love so deeply the gifts of knowledge and courage and believe that teaching is a supreme way to share the wealth with others.

Currently I teach at the Randolph College low-res MFA program, and I teach a free drop-in workshop at the Black Youth Healing Arts Center (BYHAC) in St. Paul. Both places call for me to show up in different ways, but I love teaching to both student bodies. I love teaching at Randolph because it’s all about oneon-one mentorship, so we really get to pour into our students’ specific cups. I love teaching at BYHAC cause it’s not teaching folks who necessarily want to be poets professionally, but teaching and thinking with folks who just love power and the power it has to widen our lives and dreams.

Hope one day to find the right tenure track job if the shoe fits, and I love teaching the little one-off or short course workshops I get to do all over the world. It’s never not good to be in the room where people love or are learning to love poetry, which is to love language, which is to love people. From a craft perspective, I love teaching form. Really get to geek out about how a thing becomes a thing, how poems are little emotion machines waiting to be built and powered up.

I WAS A BIG FAN OF YOUR VS PODCAST WITH FRANNY CHOI. ANY POSSIBILITY YOU WOULD HOST ANOTHER?

Sure! Maybe!

WHAT ARE YOU READING RIGHT NOW?

Five Manifestos for the Beautiful World from The Alchemy Lecture Series curated by the brilliant Christina Sharpe. Einstein’s Dreams by Alan Lightman. Looking forward to reading One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This by Omar El Akkad.

WHAT DOES A PERFECT DAY LOOK AND FEEL LIKE TO YOU?

A Sunday in June with good church, good food, a long walk with my husband, 30 mins of rain, a lot of music, a friend sitting on my porch for a spell, and a clear night sky.

WHERE CAN WE FIND YOU ONLINE, DANEZ?

On the socials @danez_smif and my website is danezsmithpoet.com You can book me for readings and things through Blue Flower Arts.

ABOUT DANEZ:

Danez Smith is the author of four full-length poetry collections, including Bluff, Homie, Don’t Call Us Dead, and [insert] boy. They have won the Forward Prize for Best Collection, the Minnesota Book Award in Poetry, the Lambda Literary Award for Gay Poetry, the Kate Tufts Discovery Award, and have been a finalist for the NAACP Image Award in Poetry, the National Book Critic Circle Award, and the National Book Award. Danez is a member of the Dark Noise Collective. They live in Minneapolis near their people.

Dede was the last person i came out to

BY DANEZ SMITH

after Angel Nafis

why did i long to leave the man i wasn’t uncomplicated beneath your blade?

in that brief, weekly mecca, i wanted nothing to mark me but the edge of your sheer cutting horizon above my brow. our romance of money & mirrors, we trade coins for beauty & peace. in the time-rich forever of this shedding place, the million doors to this heaven we attend to be tapered & grown i didn’t want my facts to become the news

nor the closeness it takes for a man to square a man into grace to be soured by desire or gods or traditions that leave my kind unloved, unhoused unknown by clippers, raggedy & unbrothered.

Dede, i wasn’t a man. i was your clay afraid of being banished from your hands. loose me not from this uncled oasis where i rather be misnamed than uncounted.

i curved the men i kissed into vague women in that chair, stretched my life so thin you could cut it with a whisper. i knew the world, had sharpened & accrued its jagged disciplines, i knew the world and needed this one place in it not to be it. but then, you found my poems. & then you cut my hair.

INTERVIEWED BY JENNIFER GRAVLEY

Talia Lakshmi Kolluri

YOUR DRAFTING PROCESS IS UNIQUE— CAN YOU TELL US ABOUT YOUR TYPICAL TECHNIQUE FOR DRAFTING A STORY?

I always begin with the animal. Sometimes there is one I’m already interested in, and sometimes I stumble across one as I’m reading about a particular environment or part of the world. But an animal will always stand out to me as the focus of a story I want to tell. Most of the time I know how I want a story to end and I will write backwards from there. And sometimes I’ll have a great sense of the middle and I write out toward the beginning and ending from the center. But once I have the general shape of the narrative I start including a lot of research as part of my process. I usually do research in multiple phases with one phase early on so that I understand the landscape and animal behavior. I do later phases when I’m revising because it’s really important to me that I retain as much scientific accuracy as possible. So, I will refine details in my stories based on my research at that point. One practice that has been very helpful to me is acting out the movement of the narrating animal so I can imagine being in that animal body more easily. I’ve done this more frequently with birds or sea creatures because my experience as a human feels so much more distant from theirs.

WHAT ABOUT SHORT PROSE APPEALS TO YOU, AS A WRITER AND A READER?

I feel like what I’m supposed to say here is that the precision and economy of short stories is what appeals to me, and that you cannot waste any words because the form is so compact. But actually I think it’s the urgency. To me short stories have sprung forth from the natural impulsive ways we have always had of speaking to each other. A sort of “I have to tell you a story,” or “there was this one time,” or “did I ever tell you” kind of story. The story that bubbles out like a spring because it’s just time and it has to be told. Sometimes I feel that writing with a capital W has separated itself from storytelling as a community practice and method of connection. But short stories have the potential to feel much closer to oral traditions and I love that.

As a writer I find myself naturally gravitating toward writing things that probably have a lot more that could be said about them but that I’ve decided to squeeze into this tighter form. There isn’t a lot of time or space for luxurious worldbuilding in a short story. That’s probably also related to the urgency built into them. I ask readers to accept a lot of unconventional things in my work and I do it without building a really expansive foundation. I just quickly throw a bunch of rules at them and assume they will accept them. What I like about this is that as a writer it requires me to trust my readers more and when I trust them to go along with my imagination, I feel free to take more risks.

CHALLENGING PART OF WRITING IN FIRST PERSON WITH ANIMAL NARRATORS?

What do you see as the future for short stories and short story collections? (Do you see the focus on short form in reels, Tik Toks, etc., as a good harbinger for short prose?)

This is such an interesting question because I haven’t really thought of them in the same context as other short forms of creative media. I think Tiktoks and reels offer a fascinating level of flexibility in how we engage in expression, and they have the capacity to be another extension of this innate storytelling drive we collectively have. And perhaps that’s what they say about the future of stories generally. We will always have an irrepressible impulse to say to each other, “come sit, and let me tell you a story.” And perhaps that is something to be hopeful about.

I wrote a lot as a child and several of my stories were from non-human points of view. There is one that I wrote from the point of view of a tree, and one narrated by a dog. I wrote several stories about a group of anthropomorphized watermelon seeds. So I could say that I was always writing this way. But, when I started writing seriously as an adult I began by writing human stories. And to be honest it didn’t go very well. They didn’t feel very honest or emotionally authentic and I struggled to express myself. The first animal-oriented story that I wrote as an adult isn’t in this collection, but it focused on a community of dogs and I enjoyed writing it so much that when I found another story I wanted to tell, I slipped into this technique fairly easily. The oldest story from this collection, which is “The Hunted, The Haunted, The Hungry, The Tame,” is the second animal story that I wrote as an adult and it truly feels like the piece where I found my voice. It was first published in The Minnesota Review in a substantially different form, and I rewrote it for this collection, but the core of the story remains the same. It was the first time that I felt I had successfully communicated feelings that I couldn’t articulate and I’ve loved writing this way ever since then.

THE MAIN CHARACTERS IN WHATWE FEDTOTHE MANTICORE ARE ALL ANIMALS. HOW DID YOU GET STARTED WRITING STORIES FROM THE POINT OF VIEW OF ANIMALS? WHAT WAS THE MOST

The most challenging part of writing as an animal is also one of the most enjoyable parts. It’s difficult to imagine myself into a life that does not resemble my own in any way. And yet, it’s precisely why I write this way. I do not understand most animals. I don’t know how they feel, I don’t know what is important to them. I don’t know what they’re afraid of or what they love. But I wish so deeply that I did. I want to know what their dreams are like when they sleep. I want to

know what the world around them means to them. And the fact that I cannot know makes me feel compelled to try to imagine my way to an answer. The challenge I suppose is that this is an unanswerable question and I’ll spend my life writing and it will never fully be answered.

CAN YOU TALK ABOUT HOW YOU BALANCED RESEARCH WITH IMAGINATION WHILE WRITING THESE STORIES?

In terms of process, it’s usually a matter of making sure I have enough information about an animal and the surrounding environment to be able to imagine myself into that space and that life so that I can begin to tell the story. And I do think thorough research is important, particularly if the story is veering into the fantastical. For instance, in “Hunted Haunted” my main character is a dog who is hallucinating that a whale is hunting him, and also that the whale can do strange things like swim through bedrock. If I’m asking readers to believe this, then I think it’s helpful to ground the story in details that are verifiably true. So in this story, I made sure that all of the practices of the sledge patrol were accurate, that they were fed the same food that is used in real life, and that the positions of the dogs were accurate. I also included details such as the capacity of dogs to see certain colors but not others. I like details like this as a grounding practice, and personally I like to feel very immersed in the world of a story, so I’m essentially catering to myself as a reader. But also, I don’t get so wedded to scientific accuracy that I’m unwilling to bend it when it serves the story. Sometimes a story needs something that defies facts because it speaks to the unexplainable and I’m not afraid of that. At the end of the day, this collection is not a poetic wildlife biology textbook and these stories aren’t meant to be scientific resources. One of the beautiful things about fiction is that we can conjure up an imagined world and life in order to say something true.

WHAT WAS THE MOST SHOCKING THING YOU LEARNED WHILE WRITING THE STORIES IN WHATWE FEDTOTHE MANTICORE?

I found that writing this collection was transformative in a way, and I didn’t expect it to be when I first committed to writing animal-narrated stories. What transformed me was the way that this creative practice completely shifted the way that I understand animals and everything that we know about them and it completely changed how I understand humanity. For quite a long time, seeing nonhuman creatures as having the same depth of emotion, the same potential for cognition, and the same interiority as humans was discouraged. From my layperson’s perspective, modern academic practices seem to presume that they are all simpler than us, that we can observe them and know them and explain them into sterility. I have never been persuaded by this opinion. I think anyone who spends time with animals understands that they have complex emotional lives.

They have preferences, frustrations, and meaningful relationships. I think what was most transformative to me was that during my many years of research for these stories I started to understand the connection between what I imagine to be their complex interiority and their relationship to us. What I mean to say is that they are sentient beings who, as we are observing them, are also observing us. Animals change the way they live in response to us. They adapt to our spaces. They bend around our

disruptions. At the same time, we believe our observation of them to be invisible. And we also tend to assume that the behaviors we see are natural, even if they are a response to significant impacts from human activity.

For instance, when I was doing research for the title story, I found an excerpt from the diary of a British man during the time that England had colonized India and he described the Sundarbans as having a tiger infestation. Can you imagine? An infestation of tigers! How many tigers could that have been? I had always been taught that tigers are solitary territorial animals and that it was unusual for them to live in groups. And perhaps that is true. That they have always been this way. But what if they became solitary by virtue of humanity hunting them to near extinction? What if they became territorial by virtue of humanity swallowing up most of their territory? What if it is not their nature but is what we have compelled them to become because of our actions?

Human activity and influence has imposed itself in one way or another on every corner of the globe. When I understood this, I also understood that there is no such thing as observing an animal free of human influence. We cannot objectively observe animals in their environment because we are part of their environment, but we fail to acknowledge ourselves in the picture. This was actually an exciting thing for me to understand because it means that they will probably forever remain somewhat unknowable to us. We will never know them fully.

And if that is so, then what things can I imagine about them? This moment of transition in my thinking felt revolutionary because it gave me permission to imagine endless possibilities for their interiority. It felt like permission to give them the same complexity of the heart that I have because I too am an animal unable to divorce myself from my environment.

WHAT ARTY THINGS ARE FUELING YOUR SOUL THESE DAYS?

I just finished rereading two incredible books that I loved the first time around and that continued to surprise me when I returned to them. The first is Alexis Schaitkin’s Elsewhere which is so deeply haunting and gorgeous. It uses the fable form to explore motherhood, and selfhood, and independence and so many other things. The second one is The Consequences by Manuel Munoz. This is a short story collection by one of the modern masters and covers a whole spectrum of lives in California’s Central Valley. Many of

the characters are moving in this liminal space between phases of their lives, or the spheres of life that they share with different people, or the space between the people they are and the people they are about to become.

The common thread between these two books is this piercing emotional ache running throughout. None of their emotions are simple or easily resolved and I love these books so much because that feels like the most honest and accurate representation of what it means to be alive. To be alive is to be wounded and to seek love and joy and the wind on your face in spite of the risk of wounds.

I love movies and I’ve been watching a combination of new things as well as returning to old favorites. Two recent films that I really enjoyed are Flow and Sing Sing I’ve also been really interested in puppetry. I don’t have any experience with it personally but I think it’s such an interesting and exciting art form and I wish there was just more of it. There’s a touring production of Life of Pi that uses a lot of complicated puppets and I’ve been looking for videos of interesting ways to use puppetry.

I’m really inspired by almost anything where artists are taking creative risks in some way.

ABOUT TALIA:

Talia Lakshmi Kolluri is a mixed South Asian American writer from Northern California. Her debut collection of short stories, What We Fed to the Manticore (Tin House 2022), was a finalist for the 2023 Carol Shields Prize for Fiction and the 2023 Northern California Book Award for Fiction, and was longlisted for the 2023 Andrew Carnegie Medal for Excellence in Fiction, the 2023 Aspen Words Literary Prize, and the 2023 Pen/ Robert W. Bingham Prize for Debut Short Story Collection, and was selected as a 2023 ALA RUSA Notable Book. It’s available now wherever books are sold. Her short fiction has been published in the Minnesota Review, Ecotone, Southern Humanities Review, The Common, One Story, Orion, Five Dials, and the Adroit Journal. A lifelong Californian, Talia lives in the Central Valley with her husband and two cats.

Steve Gillon

PRESIDENTS AT WAR IS A BOOK, NOT ONLY FOR ACADEMICS, BUT FOR HISTORY ENTHUSIASTS IN GENERAL. HOW DO YOU TAKE, WHAT COULD BE TEDIOUS, AND BRING THESE EVENTS TO LIFE?

I think of myself as a storyteller who happens to tell stories about history. I learned the importance of telling stories while working at the History Channel. You need to have characters and portray them in all of their complexities and you need a strong plot. It’s the reason I like writing biographies. Presidents at War uses biographical portraits of the seven men who fought in World War II who went on to be president. I place their lives in an historical context showing how events influenced them and how they changed the course of history. In graduate school we were taught to start with a thesis and then prove it. That doesn’t work for most general readers. And that is the big difference between commercial and academic books: academic books are thesis-driven while commercial books are plot and character driven.

I have always spent time with seniors, nontraditional students, and general audiences. The one refrain I hear from them over and over is that they never really developed a love of history when they were younger because of the way they were taught in high school. A friend once said that every high school history teacher has the same name: coach. It is so true. Usually the football coach doubles as a history teacher and knows little more than the students so they stick to memorizing dates and names.

I have always told my students that history is not about dates and facts; its about the connective tissue that you create to organize those facts into a story. And it is the story that interests readers the most.

YOU TAKE US ON THE FULL RIDE IN THIS BOOK. FROM THE CONFLICT TO WHAT LESSONS WE TOOK FROM THESE GREAT MEN. THIS IS WHAT COULD BE ONE OF THE MOST ACCESSIBLE BOOKS USED IN ACADEMICS. HOW DID YOU DECIDE ON THE ORDER OF PRESIDENTS AT WAR.

The book came about during a conversation between my agent, editor, and myself. We were trying to produce a new book idea. I had just written a book about World War II hero Len Lomell so my editor suggested I write something about the war. My agent chimed in that I like writing books about the presidency. So we talked for a few minutes when it hit me to write a book about the impact of World War II on those who became president. I had written a book about the baby boom generation and another about America Since 1945. This book combines both – it is the story of a generation, the “Greatest Generation,” and also a history of America from 1941 to 1993.

One of the things that struck me about the men I write about is their generation used their privilege to get closer to combat, not to run away from it. Kennedy and Bush were from wealthy, well-connected families. They could easily have avoided the draft. Also, Nixon and Ford pulled strings and lobbied to get to the front lines. Whatever you think of their politics, there can be no doubting their courage.

AS A HISTORIAN, I’VE NEVER FELT THAT PRESIDENT EISENHOWER NEVER GOT A FAIR SHAKE. WHY DO YOU THINK HE’S SO OVERLOOKED IN HISTORY?

I agree but there have been a few new books, especially Will Hitchcock’s biography, which are finally giving him the credit he deserves. Researching this book gave me a greater appreciation of Ike and his presidency. One of the scenes that I found fascinating was the way Ike handled the fall of Dien Ben Phu, the last French outpost in Vietnam that was about to fall in 1954. Ike’s entire Cabinet and military leaders argued for direct American intervention, even suggesting that the US drop the atom bomb. Eisenhower, however, had the stature and the confidence gained from his military experience to know that would be foolish. He stood his ground. At home, he took down Josephy McCarthy, institutionalized many parts of the New Deal, and tried, unsuccessfully, to find a common ground between the emerging civil rights movement and the powerful group of southern Democrats who were determined to preserve segregation.

DIALOGUE:

IT’S THE RAREST GIFT

FOUND

IN HISTORY BOOKS. IF YOU DO FIND IT, IT’S USUALLY IN THE FORM OF A FAMOUS SPEECH OR DEBATE. HOW DID YOU FIND SO MUCH CONVERSATION BETWEEN FOLKS IN THE WHITE HOUSE?

Good question. I do intensive research in presidential libraries to uncover notes, letters, memos, and transcripts of meetings to recreate the historical moment. The presidential library system, which is run by the National Archives, is invaluable when writing about the presidency.

Many of these people have participated in oral history projects. If they are still alive -- and all of these men are deceased -- I try to get interviews. You need that type of intensive and deep research to try and bring the past to life. Capturing dialogue

allows the reader to get into the head of the character and see the world through their eyes instead of having me describe it. Another source that I have made extensive use of is the Freedom of Information Act (FOIA). It wasn’t necessary for this book, but usually I flood government agencies with FOIA requests to get access to information that has never been released to the public.

YOU

ARE PURELY OBJECTIVE IN THIS BOOK. TODAY, ANYTHING THAT SMACKS OF POLITICS WILL SEND PEOPLE RUNNING. YOU STATE THE TRUTH PLAINLY AND WITHOUT OPTION. HOW DO YOU MAINTAIN SUCH AN OBJECTIVE POSITION?

I have always been able to separate my personal politics from my role as an historian. I’m not sure we can ever be totally objective when we write history but we have to strive to be as objective as possible. I’ve discovered that neither liberals nor conservatives have a monopoly on truth. History is full of twists and turns that often challenge conventional wisdom. It is important to me that my readers trust me to tell the story without bias and I work had to honor that trust. In fact, I always learn new things and sometimes change the way I feel about a public figure based on my research. If there were three presidents I came away admiring the most from this story they are Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Bush. Two Republicans; one Democrat.

ABOUT STEVE:

Steve Gillon is a Senior Fellow at the Miller Center at the University of Virginia, Scholar-in-Residence at HISTORY, and Professor of History at the University of Oklahoma.

Gillon received his B.A. in History from Widener University where he graduated summa cum laude with honors in History. He was named the recipient of the Faculty Prize for maintaining the highest undergraduate GPA. He went on to earn his A.M. and Ph.D. in American Civilization from Brown University where he was elected to Phi Beta Kappa. After receiving his Ph.D., Dr. Gillon spent nine years teaching history at Yale University where he won the prestigious DeVane Medal, awarded by the senior members of Phi Beta Kappa to the best undergraduate teacher at the university. In 1994, he accepted a position as University Lecturer in Modern History at Oxford University. Three years later, he returned to the United States at the invitation of the president of the University of Oklahoma to become the founding dean of a new Honors College.

INTERVIEWED BY CLIFFORD BROOKS

Cathryn Hankla

DID YOU PICK POETRY, OR DID POETRY PICK YOU?

It’s hard for me to say because I started writing poems so early, in fourth grade on a class assignment and then regularly by the time I was twelve. By the time I reached high school, I already had what most would call a writing practice. I did then and still do my best thinking in the form of poems. I have discovered that experimenting with poems of different kinds and shapes brings its own knowledge base to bear and that comes through a poet.

Poetry itself is far more interesting and nuanced with deep knowledge structures than any one human can ever hope to be. Poetry is better read than I am, although I try. In interacting with the deep stuff of Poetry, I have produced some ways of thinking and saying that an individual doesn’t begin from her own imagination. I am an experimentalist in that way, shaping what I write from the instrument of language with poetry’s pressure to produce something.

TELL US ABOUT YOUR EDITING PROCESS. HOW DO YOU APPROACH THE SECOND AND THIRD DRAFTS?

I write and overwrite as I go, maybe going from a rough draft on paper, to the typing, so there’s probably ten drafts before the first one that’s read and left for others to ponder. Typically, I take that draft to my poetry group—what a pleasure to have a group of readers after so many years without— and then after hearing their commentaries, they are so smart all of them, I go back into the draft and work through subsequent drafts in part or whole recasting. It’s a layered process. Finally, a poem gels pretty well and I leave it alone. I may still tune things later when it finds its way into a book. Typically, I’m moving punctuation around until my editor says, “Stop it! Time’s up!”

THIS IS A “NEW AND SELECTED” COLLECTION. HOW DID YOU CHOOSE THE “SELECTED ONES”? WAS IT A LITTLE LIKE TIME TRAVELING?

I like that time travelling metaphor…I’ve called the process a life review because I waited so long to come out with a new & selected. There was a pause in my poetry publications

when I came out with several books of fiction and a memoir. I could have done the selected at that juncture, but I didn’t. Then I procrastinated further, ordering a dozen or more by different poets over several years, ostensibly to research how such volumes are constructed. In the meantime

I published more poetry books, so I made my task harder.

Once I really started making my way through forty years of poetry, I related more to the early work than I expected to, in the sense that I could recall the occasion for writing every poem, the context in which it was written and something about the problem I was trying to solve with it in terms of form or structure or confrontation with an idea. That was quite a surprise to learn that I could re-enter those distant memories of making poems.

I have come to realize through this process that I’d really have no life without poetry.

In the end I could have made many different books from the material. I chose poems I still resonated with and liked for various reasons, poems that spoke to other poems across the books and years and held up without my needing to tinker.

WHAT DO YOU DO FOR WORK AND PLAY OUTSIDE POETRY? HOW DOES IT AFFECT YOUR CREATIVITY?

I am also an exhibiting visual artist and have made that more of a regular practice in painting for the past twenty or so years. I started out in photography and filmmaking, alongside writing, and English literature study. I had to focus on writing for my career as a professor/ program administrator, but I found ways to tilt toward visual art, teamteaching and offering cartooning courses.

Working on paintings invariably sends me back to the writing desk across the hall. Trips downstairs for green tea, pondering the way forward: kinetic ruminations are key. I can almost see my easel from my writing desk. When you do this sort of work in stillness you HAVE TO find ways to move your body:

I was a casual runner in my twenties and picked it up again in my midfifties, training with groups and competing in races. I trained for fun and health, but I won a few age-group ribbons. These days, after falling down a few times on the sidewalk and being grateful I only jammed my thumbs and shoulders, I take brisk walks. I enjoy camping and like to take my tiny van out for boondocking and glamping and to national and state parks. I enjoy a good hike and a campfire with a view toward the night sky.

ABOUT CATHRYN:

Cathryn Hankla is the author of sixteen works of poetry, fiction, and memoir and native to the Appalachian region of Virginia. Recent publications include Immortal Stuff, Not Xanadu, Lost Places: On Losing and Finding Home, and Return to a Certain Region of Consciousness: New & Selected poems. She is professor emerita of English & creative writing at Hollins University. www. cathrynhankla.com

What have you had to sacrifice to be a poet?

Seriously, the practice of poetry has given me every good bit of luck and grace I’ve had in my life, either directly or indirectly. The one thing I regret is not maintaining better posture at my desk: My neck is a wreck I have to tend to daily. Mark is a welcoming and astute editor. He has made a place for me and other poets at Mercer and that is so valuable to the landscape of American poetry. His whole team is just about as good as they can be, small but mighty and thoroughly professional.

WHY SHOULD WE BUY THIS BEAUTIFUL BOOK?

Well, it is a beautiful book thanks to photographer Robert Sulkin’s work on the cover. And it’s a bargain with selections from eleven books and new poems, too. You can read from newest to oldest, telescoping back in time, and wonder about a poet’s trajectory and the history of the past forty years that prompted certain themes and ideas. You can let your mind wander and drink some cups of tea. You can keep the book on your bedside table and read one poem before bed each night, sort of the way I’m reading one little chapter of War and Peace.

INTERVIEWED BY J.D. ISIP

CLAIRE ST.AMANT

KILLERSTORY IS A MEMOIR, BUT ALSO A BEHIND-THE-SCENES LOOK AT THE WORLD OF TRUE CRIME TELEVISION (AND REPORTING). WHAT ARE YOU HOPING READERS WILL LEARN FROM THE BOOK?

I want readers to know what it’s really like to work for a true crime television show. To do that, I had to take them places that no audience has ever gone before. Readers will get the inside scoop on how high-profile murder stories are won and lost, with examples from my own career.

Most people wouldn’t believe what it actually takes to get a killer story on the air. I know I didn’t have any idea myself before I started working in the cutthroat industry, where deception and head games take office politics to a whole new level. For every episode, it’s a battle royale between 48 Hours, Dateline, and 20/20 – plus the internal story tug-of-wars at CBS News. Readers will discover that the plot lines off-screen are just as twisted and bizarre as the murder cases themselves.

Once you know the truth, you’ll never watch your favorite true crime show the same way again.

WHAT DRAWS YOU TO A STORY? AND PROBABLY A MUCH HARDER QUESTION, HOW DO YOU KEEP VIEWERS DRAWN TO THOSE STORIES?

I’m drawn to complicated cases and compelling characters who are fighting against the official narrative of a crime. So many cases are presented as black-and-white, but I look for the gray areas. Where can we find an opposing viewpoint? Is there another side to the story? When you are reporting on life and death, it’s crucial to make sure you’ve examined every possible angle. Not every detail makes it into a story, but I want to know the cases I cover inside and out. I think that’s what led me to podcasts, and now writing books. In television, time is at such a premium, and a lot of stories get cut down in ways that I think can lose important nuance. Podcasts and books allow me to more thoroughly report and explore stories.

NOW THAT YOU HAVE A BOOK OUT THERE (AND IT’S FANTASTIC), HOW WOULD YOU COMPARE WRITING FOR TELEVISION AND WRITING A MEMOIR? DID ANYTHING SURPRISE YOU IN THE CROSSOVER?

It’s funny you ask that because I started writing Killer Story with scenes in my mind for a television show. In the opening chapter, I’m actually in jail, where everyone has assumed I’m an attorney. I end up being ushered into a hearing for a capital murder case that I’m covering for 48 Hours, and I am scared to death that I’m going to be outed as a member of the press the whole time.

These are the kinds of unbelievable situations that I would find myself in often as a producer for CBS News. When you are doing this kind of work every day, it starts to seem normal to you. But I would have these moments where I couldn’t believe this was my job, and those moments are what led me to write a memoir. I did use a lot of my TV writing formulas, starting in the middle of the action, flashing back to the origin of the story, and then ending with the present day. It’s a book about TV that to me, reads like a true crime series.

MANY

FOLKS WANT TO WRITE A MEMOIR; WE’VE ALL BEEN TOLD HOW UNIQUE OUR OWN STORIES ARE (ESPECIALLY IF WE’VE BEEN WRITING IN OTHER GENRES). WHAT ADVICE WOULD YOU GIVE TO SOMEONE WANTING TO WRITE THEIR OWN MEMOIR? WHAT ADVICE WERE YOU GIVEN (IF ANY) BEFORE YOU STARTED?

The best advice I received was to write the whole book before I tried to sell it anywhere. The idea that I was going to get some big advance after writing only a few chapters was truly a work of fiction. I would encourage anyone who wants to write a memoir to think about the most unusual aspects of their lives and to start a running list of scenes that stand out in their minds.

The universal themes and relatability will come about naturally in this process, but to get to the gold of your own life experience, you have to mine the outlier events. I spent nearly a decade of my life chasing murder stories, interviewing serial killers and psychopaths, and fighting off producers from ABC and NBC at every turn. It was not a normal workplace experience, and that’s why I think the book sold.

PLEASE LET OUR READERS KNOW HOW THEY CAN GET THEIR HANDS (OR EARS SINCE YOU RECORDED AN AUDIO VERSION) ON A COPY OF KILLERSTORY:THETRUTH BEHINDTRUE CRIMETELEVISION(BENBELLA BOOKS, 2025). AND PLEASE LET THEM KNOW ABOUT ANY UPCOMING READINGS/EVENTS AND WHERE TO FOLLOW YOU ONLINE.

Thank you so much for chatting with me, J.D.! I really appreciate your support. You can find Killer Story at every major bookseller, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Books-A-Million. The audiobook is available on Audible, and there is also a Kindle version for e-readers. You can find me online at killerstorybook.com and across social media @clairestamant. Events are in the works for the spring so keep an eye out for future announcements!

Investigative journalist Claire St. Amant developed and produced crime stories for CBS News for nearly a decade. She is credited on over 20 episodes of 48 Hours, including murder-for-hire stings, cold case kidnappings, and an assassination attempt. In 2019, St. Amant began contributing to 60 Minutes with “The Ranger and the Serial Killer.” She built her unconventional career one story at a time, rising up through local media to national television and her own network podcast, Final Days on Earth with Claire St. Amant. A returned Peace Corps volunteer with eclectic tastes, she is always on the hunt for her next adventure. ABOUT CLAIRE:

INTERVIEWED BY J.D. ISIP

Han VanderHart

Larks is your second poetry collection (after the fantastic What Pecan Light). I think poetry collections reveal, among other things, both where we as writers are (in our writing, in our development, mental and emotional state, etc.) and a little about where theworld (actual, conceptual, etc.) is.

With this in mind, what differences do you see in your two collections? What stands out to you or even shocks you when you take in this new thing you have created and offered to the world?

What a good question, especially when I think about the disruption of the world since 2016, when I began to write the poems for What Pecan Light, and now. In one sense, What Pecan Light is a careful, restrained book—angry, oh yes, but so restrained, largely because I had not experienced any therapy or trauma care and had not yet processed any of my grief related to events in my family. There is a burdened and creaking dam behind that book, a pile of dry tinder.

Larks flames out, is able to be both fully angry and fully expressive of grief because of the healing (mental health providers, medications, chronic pain management) I had access to between writing both books—also fully expressive of the love for my younger sisters, for work of care and caretaking. I think it’s so important that the lyric and the image can deftly handle both emotional restraint and heart-panting confession, can be what we need them to be.

I also think every book you write should be a little wilder than your last, a little bolder, should move more towards the edges of your comfort and ability, should stretch you in terms of craft and thinking and emotion. You should move towards revelation when you write a book, whether that revelation relates to form, emotion, thought.

THE POEM “ARTIST’S STATEMENT IN A MOUNTAIN CABIN,” BEGINS WITH THE LINES “I THINK YOU SHOULD USE THE LANGUAGE/OF WHERE YOU COME FROM” AND THE LAST STANZA HAS THIS LOVELY TURN ABOUT SELF-DISCOVERY, “I DIDN’T KNOW/LOVE WITHOUT ANXIETY, OR THAT ANGER/WASN’T THE TRUEST EMOTION.”

THESE TWO IDEAS IN TANDEM, WHAT WE PROCLAIM AND WHAT WE DON’T KNOW, ARE BALANCED SO WELL HERE AND THROUGHOUT THIS COLLECTION. WHAT DO YOU WANT TO TELL READERS AND WRITERS ABOUT ANY OF THESE THINGS? LANGUAGE, WISDOM, FINDING YOUR VOICE, AND/OR CHANGING YOUR MIND?

Oh, so much, ha. Learning something new often enters my body as anger (or shock), especially when it involves an overturning of a deeply held belief. This happened often for me in college, when I was a conservative, rural, community college student, transferring to a state school, and having to learn more logics than my mother’s. I had been homeschooled K-12, and the world was much wider than my narrow education and church community had led me to believe. What a grace it is to learn, to change, to grow—how good it is to be writing a paper, and to realize your thesis is actually the opposite of what you wanted to argue.

Change is life, and is so bound into our writing and our writing life. “It is myself that I remake,” wrote Yeats, a line I usually misquote as “it is myself that I revise” (yes, I just had to look Yeats’ line up to make sure, once again). Revision is, in one sense, a form of secular repentance, of looking again—a conversion of the self to another’s reality, even if that other is the poem or the essay’s argument. We must continue to turn towards each other. We must revise our understanding of the good, what we imagine the good to be.

I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’D AGREE WITH ME, BUT I THINK A GOOD, LONG POEM IS A HARD THING TO GET JUST RIGHT. HOWEVER, I’D SAY “LARKS, FOUR VARIATIONS” HITS THE MARK—IT IS JUST WONDERFUL, THE WEAVING AND THE BOOKENDING.

WHAT ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT WHEN YOU ARE COMPOSING A LONGER PIECE OR EVEN PULLING TOGETHER A MANUSCRIPT (THIS LONG POEM IS FOLLOWED BY A PERFECTLY CHOSEN POEM COMPOSED OF ONE COUPLET)? COHESION? BALANCE? THEMES?

Oh, thank you. I’m not by temperament a long-poem poet—I tend to side with Jane Kenyon, who said in an interview with Marian Blue, “I am working at one thing–the short lyric. It is all I want, at this point: to write short, intense, musical

cries of the spirit.” But for a poet more comfortable working with short lyric forms, a sectioned long poem is a good way of accommodating your skills and weaving your shorter lyric forms into a larger whole—I admit, I do want to reach for a quilting metaphor here, because piecing does feel like the right analogy.

Also, and I am definitely not the first femmeadjacent poet to say this, this particular poem was provoked out of me by a male editor who wasn’t convinced by the manuscript’s title or aims, so I wrote further into the title (perhaps in a shadow imitation of Milton, who sought “to justify the ways of God to man” in writing Paradise Lost, ha). There is nothing like a little provocation to write, which is a gift we give each other as humans.

AS AN EDITOR YOURSELF, WHAT ADVICE WOULD YOU OFFER POETS TRYING TO GET A MANUSCRIPT PUBLISHED? WHAT DO YOU LOOK

FOR? WHAT ARE SOME THINGS FOLKS JUST GET WRONG? DO YOU SEE “TOO MUCH OF” OR “TOO LITTLE OF” SOMETHING IN BOOKS THAT ARE PUBLISHED (OR SUBMITTED) OVERALL?

The ship of Theseus—keep changing the planks. Keep sanding the boards, levelling your lines, caulking and repairing and wintering and summering and improving your manuscript, which is also a living work. Poetry is slow work—honor that. We live in a culture of rushed response, and we feel that urgency to “publish or perish”—but poetry will wait for you, and “ripeness is all,” to quote Edgar in King Lear.

I’ve already mentioned Jane Kenyon in this interview, and she is a writer I’m currently returning to as an antidote to an amplitude of rushed work being published—books as well as poems. I’m looking for the inner pond inside myself, for the inner stillness. I’m looking for something that will keep in my writing— that will still feel true for me next week, or next year, or ten years from now. We all work with students who are writing, but not reading. We need to sink our roots down deep, in order to feed ourselves and our work. I grow anxious when I speak with a contemporary writer who does not mention any books or other writers they are in conversation with—what is feeding them?

OH MY GOSH, YES! PREACH!

What is providing the good loam around their roots? How do they understand themselves, their forms? We don’t get to choose our families or our genealogies—sometimes we do not have access to those documents at all. But we can choose our literary family, we can seek out the authors who feed our work, who sustain us and support us.

FOR EXAMPLE?

When I read C.D. Wright for the first time, my eyes were opened to my Southern positioning as the child of two Louisiana-born parents, raised in the rural South with my six siblings; I simply had no idea. I had been raised on the classics of British literature—how was the language of British literature supposed to tell me about my roots? It could not. C.D. Wright’s language could—her disjunction, her palpable, Ozarkian drawl that I could hear across the page in her “well,” her lushness and contrarian tones running together in ways that were known to me immediately as Southern tones. We are currently witnessing an administration respond with racism and ignorance to the concept of identity, but understanding our identities, stories, and histories is the most important work we do as people and writers.

I THINK THAT IS WELL SAID.

We must do this work passionately, deeply, with heart and abandon. This is the work I want to see in the literary world—poetry that understands its sense of place and history, from geography to form to the poet’s voice in history. We do this work in community—find your close readers, read and revise with them, and send your work out into the world to be read by others.

LET’S END WITH A “FUN” QUESTION BASED ON THE MENTION OF SPECIFIC SONGS THROUGHOUT LARKS. WHAT WOULD YOUR SOUNDTRACK BE

FOR THIS BOOK (WHO KNOWS, MAYBE YOU ALREADY MAKE A SPOTIFY PLAYLIST… MAYBE YOU WILL SOON)?

This is the MOST fun question and now I need to make a playlist. I’d start with these core songs, leaving out America’s “Horse with No Name,” which is a song I really can’t stand, and replace it with a song by America I love and that reminds me of my sisters and my long hair

growing up:

“The Lark Ascending” by Ralph Vaughan Williams “The Violet Hour” by The Civil Wars “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” by Peter, Paul and Mary “Sister Goldenhair” by America “Abide with Me” by The Newton Brothers “You Are My Sunshine” by The Civil Wars “House of the Rising Sun” by The Animals

“Nearer My God to Thee” by The Newton Brothers

PLEASE LET OUR READERS KNOW HOW THEY CAN GET THEIR HANDS ON A COPY OF LARKS (OHIO UNIVERSITY PRESS, 2025). AND PLEASE LET THEM KNOW ABOUT ANY UPCOMING READINGS/EVENTS AND WHERE TO FOLLOW YOU ONLINE.

Larks is available from Ohio University Press, Bookshop. org, and from your local booksellers (please order from and support your local, independent bookstore!). I’ll be at AWP in LA with my press River River Books (come say hi and get a copy signed!), and you can see some readings I have coming up here: https://hanvanderhart.com/ readings/

ABOUT HAN:

Han VanderHart is a queer writer living in Durham, North Carolina, under the pines. Their second poetry collection Larks, winner of the 2024 Hollis Summers Poetry Prize, is forthcoming in April 2025 from Ohio University Press. Han is also the author of What Pecan Light (Bull City Press, 2021) and has essays and poetry published in Kenyon Review, The American Poetry Review, The Rumpus, AGNI, and elsewhere. Han hosts Of Poetry Podcast and alongside Amorak Huey co-edits the poetry press River River Books.

INTERVIEWED BY LYNNE KEMEN

Ben Davis & Karina Kupp

FROM CHILL SUBS

WELCOME. PLEASE INTRODUCE YOURSELVES TO OUR READERS.

I’m Ben. I’ve been writing and submitting to lit mags on and off for 15 years. Three years ago, I saw Karina had started this cool, chill database and bombarded her with emails until we decided to quit our jobs and go all in on it together. Before that, I was a soulless content marketer with dreams of becoming a real boy someday.

Hey, I’m Karina! I’ve been a software engineer for 7 years. In my free time, I write sad songs and take photos of my cats. When the Chill Subs website works, it’s because of me. When it doesn’t work, it’s also because of me.

I LOVE THE SASSY YET HELPFUL TONE OF CHILL SUBS. HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN AROUND? HOW DID YOU COME UP WITH THE CONCEPT?

KARINA: I’d been writing for a long time but never submitted anything, and I wasn’t familiar with how the indie-lit world worked. In 2021, I posted some of my writing on Instagram and got myself a small community there, so I wondered what the next step could be. I started researching the whole thing and collected a massive spreadsheet of magazines I liked. It still felt overwhelming cause there were so many, and each had its own rules.

At the time, my husband and I also moved to Poland, and there was this whole “new beginnings” vibe, and I remember we went to a bar in Gdansk and were just discussing what kinds of projects we could work on. And I realized that, for me, a lot of it came to presenting data in a cool, non-boring way. And on our way back home, I thought, “WAIT. I already have data!” And so I made a lot of drunk notes and went to bed.

Two weeks later, Chill Subs was born.

As for the tone, I intended for it to be fun, warm, and friendly. I wanted to make it easy and not as stressful to discover magazines that truly fit you, and I guess that’s why the vibe filter was the center of it, and that’s why the home page said: “Get published without losing your shit.” How can you connect with people if you’re not talking to them like they’re just your friends?

YOU HAVE TWO PLANS FOR WRITERS: ONE IS FREE, AND THE SECOND HAS MORE GOODIES. CAN YOU TALK BRIEFLY ABOUT THE FEATURES YOU ARE PARTICULARLY PROUD OF?

BEN: I’m proudest of our Prose Formatter. It’s still in V.1, and we have even bigger plans, but hell, it works. Formatting your work for submissions is annoying. We spent half a year building this tool to do it for you to industry standards. You just pop in the story and your details (which can already be saved in a separate place called ‘Submitter’s Passport’ for prefill) and it will download a submission-read .docx file to meet industry standards for prose works. It’s neat. And it works! Which is always good. It was a lot of effort for a v. niche product, so it’s not a huge selling point, but it’s a cool paid feature for sure. And for free? It would have to be our Rejection BINGO. It still makes me laugh every time. You can use common snippets to play BINGO in our submissions tracker when you get form rejections. Things like “Unfortunately” and “After careful consideration….”

KARINA: Two free features that not everyone knows about because we’re bad at promoting things: We have a calendar where all the submission calls, deadlines and opening dates are displayed in one place, and you can also filter it by your bookmarked magazines so you’re not overwhelmed by the whole list When you add your published work to your profile, it automatically gets added to the magazine listing pages in the “Read the magazine” section. Soh, people checking out the magazine see your work as an example of what was already been published there. Pretty cool!

HOW DO YOU TRACK ALL THE PUBLICATIONS YOU LIST AND ENSURE IT IS ALL CURRENT?

BEN: In the early days, it was just Karina and I frantically checking things all the time. Now we have a full-time data person, Shannan, who manages it and is auditing on a schedule. We also have a Wiki-style aggregation from our audience. Anyone can suggest and edit, and we see it and make the change. Also, around 900 editors manage their own listings. So that is a huge weight off.

Our eventual goal is to create a change tracker to ping us when listing pages change. And to set up a strict schedule for a few editors to review in a cycle. For example, if we have 100 magazines and want to audit each twice a year, we’d rotate them. Then someone smarter than me would figure out the best way to fold new ones into the schedule. The hardest part is keeping track of submission calls, though. Because they change so often from year to year or even midcall, editors don’t update them in all their posted places. It might say one thing on their guidelines page but another on their Submittable. Ugh, our nightmare.

WORDS OF WISDOM FOR NEW POETS? WHAT IS THE BEST WAY TO START WITH CS?

BEN: Track your submissions. You have to submit a lot to get published. There are a million reasons you can get rejected that have more to do with the editor/mag’s current mission or vibe than it does with your poems. After you work hard and research well, it becomes a numbers game. Track so you don’t feel lost in this sea of “nos.” And talk to others submitting so you can see just how much everyone, no matter how good, is dealing with the same thing.

KARINA: The same thing I tell myself: god, get out of your head. The more you overthink something, the more reasons

you can come up with for why something is not worth doing or sharing. You always will; it’s just that brain’s selfpreservation feature. Sometimes, I’m bad at this, but I try to catch that moment to do things before I start doubting them OR before I lose interest and that thing becomes completely irrelevant. Like with Chill Subs, I could have waited and released it only when it had more magazines than Duotrope. However, I believed that the most important thing to start from was the tone, and so people loved it from the get-go with only 75 magazines listed.

So hey, try submitting that poem, reaching out to the person in the community you like, or applying to that program you saw. Yeah, it’s annoying and vulnerable and ugly, but that’s taking a step towards something you want and something incredible can come out of it. You can make a nice cup of tea to calm yourself down after you hit the submit button.

As for starting with Chill Subs, obviously, I recommend just browsing and bookmarking magazines you like. Please create your collections and that will make it easier to monitor submission calls specifically from these magazines. In addition to what Ben said, we have a nice simple tracker on our website, and you can also import your submittable history or your own tracking spreadsheet.

HOW DO WE FIND YOU ON SOCIAL MEDIA?

Twitter: https://x.com/chillsubs Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/chillsubs_official/ Threads: https://www.threads.net/@chillsubs_official Bluesky: @chillsubs.bsky.social Substack: https://subclub.substack.com

ABOUT BENJAMIN:

Benjamin Davis spends most of his time corunning Chill Subs and writing The Sub Club Newsletter. He has works in several journals including Booth, Wigleaf, Matter Press, and Hobart. When he is not writing, he can usually be found binging bad TV. Wait, no—reading. Ahem, he can be found reading.

ABOUT KARINA:

Karina Kupp is a writer, musician, web developer, and founder of Chill Subs. She likes traveling to concerts and staring at her cats.

“An excellent introduction to contemporary American poetry for Swift’s fans.”

- Publisher’s Weekly

Featuring brand new poems by Joy Harjo, Diane Seuss, Richard Siken, Carl Phillips, Maggie

Jane Hirshfield, and many more award winning contemporary poets!

Smith,

Kristie Daugherty

DID WORDS PICK YOU, OR WAS IT THE OTHER WAY AROUND?

I remember where I was sitting the first time I heard poetry read aloud; I was in kindergarten and we were in the library. I was at a round table in the back right corner. The librarian was reading Shel Silverstein - the poem about the girl who would not take the garbage out. The rhyme mesmerized me. Because I was in kindergarten and wanted to check that book out I had to get special permission as it was above my grade level. I then started writing my own poems.

There was a game show on television called “Press Your Luck” and at the end of each show the host would read a couple of poems about the show submitted by viewers. I wrote poems about the show, but I never submitted them. After the Challenger exploded, I wrote a poem about that - like many children of the 80s, that was a very traumatic event that we watched happen live on tv. It helped to write a poem about it. I can still recite that poem because I edited it so much. I am a compulsive editor - I have been that way since I started writing. I am still editing some poems that I wrote in 2005 when I was in grad school at Vermont College of Fine Arts.

TELL US ABOUT YOUR CHILDHOOD.

I grew up in western Kentucky. My childhood home was down the hill from my grandparents and across the street from a farm. We had woods all around our home. During the summer I spent the days exploring the woods; I had my father take my toybox to the garage and I kept the treasures that I found exploring in it: animal bones, arrowheads, snake skins, cool rocks, and glass bottles. I also loved to carry my Daisy bb gun with me.

One summer I made our mailbox my target, much to my father’s confusion. I loved to fish in the pond near our house, and I had a

basketball goal that I spent hours and hours shooting at. I played basketball from the 3rd grade until my senior year. I also had a tree that I would climb up in and sit and read for hours.

My grandparents owned a barbecue restaurant, nicknamed The Pit, and my favorite thing in the world was to be there with my grandparents. My grandfather smoked the meat in the back, and my grandmother and her sister ran the front. I can still hear my grandmother asking customers after they ordered, “Pickle and onion? Medium or hot?” The restaurant was directly behind the library, and I would go back and forth, checking out books, reading them, and returning them, sometimes several trips in the same day. Several summers I won the summer reading contest. My grandmother kept grade soda - NuGrape - on tap. My grandfather passed away at the age of 96 last August. I miss them both so much; my childhood memories revolve around them.

TELL US ABOUT YOUR FASCINATION WITH TAYLOR SWIFT AND THE BOOK THAT WAS BORN AROUND IT.

I started listening to Taylor Swift when she released her first album in 2006. My daughter Ellie introduced me to her music. From that time on both my daughter and I followed Taylor and her music. I was impressed with Taylor’s songwriting from the beginning; it was so clear how incredibly gifted she is. I watched as Taylor created something new with each album - she does not just create another album; her discography interweaves in a way that really is unprecedented.

When Taylor announced her new album “The Tortured Poets Department” in February 2024 at the Grammys, my brain just exploded. The question of “how can poets and poetry enter into conversation with Taylor and her songwriting?” immediately popped into my head, and just as quickly, my mind answered it: I could give the best of contemporary poets one Taylor Swift song and ask them to respond to it without using a string of direct lyrics or the title. Taylor has taught her fandom, the Swifties, to search for “Easter Eggs” in everything from her lyrics to her clothing, and I knew that Swifties would

be good at finding the “invisible strings” between the poem and its shadow song. Thus, Invisible Strings: 113 Poets Respond to the Songs of Taylor Swift was born. I started with Pulitzer Prize winning poet Diane Seuss, who said yes, and then more and more of the best poets kept saying yes. It was and remains entirely magical.

HOW DO YOU BALANCE WORK AND PRIVATE LIFE?

I probably don’t have the best work and private life balance at this point, and I am ok with that. I never really stop working; I stay in the headspace of writing. It hasn’t always been this way, but I will be an empty nester come August when my son leaves for college. I have been a single mother for 16 years, so perhaps I am mentally preparing myself for this quickly approaching time of living alone by burying myself with work. It is less alone to be with the words.

WHAT PROJECTS DO YOU HAVE ON DECK FOR THE FUTURE?

I am currently editing another anthology in collaboration with two poets. I have a chapbook forthcoming in late 2025, and my first collection of poems, Ordinary Pietá, is looking for a home. I have founded The 113 Poets Foundation with some of the proceeds from Invisible Strings: 113 Poets Respond to the Songs of Taylor Swift, and I am working to get this off of the ground. I am going to several book festivals in the fall of this year. I delivered a Ted Talk in late March: “Taylor Swift, Poetry, and Following Your Passion,” and I am excited for it to hit the Ted Talk website sometime this spring.

WHAT RITUALS DO YOU GO THROUGH TO GET IN THE CREATIVE HEADSPACE?

I cannot be wearing any jewelry when I write, so I make sure it is all off before I try to get started. I have no idea why that is so. I like to read before I write, so I will read some poetry, a chapter or two of whatever novel I am currently reading, the latest short story in The New Yorker, just something to get me in the country of someone else’s words - someone else’s voice - other than my own. And I like to have Taylor Swift playing in the background - surprise! I tune it completely out, but when I come back from the strange liminal space of writing where time both moves at warp speed and stands still, it’s nice to return to the safety of her songs, after being in that weird writing coma.

Kristie Frederick Daugherty is a poet and a professor. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is also a PhD candidate in Literature/Criticism at the Indiana University of Pennsylvania. She is the editor of Invisible Strings: 113 Poets Respond to the Songs of Taylor Swift, published in December 2024 from Random House. She has published in The North American Review, American Poetry Review, and many other literary journals. She has been featured on Lit Hub, Barnes and Noble Reads, Medium, Parade, USA Today, and Vulture. She has a chapbook of poetry forthcoming in late 2025 with poet Stephanie Burt, and she has a collection of poems, Ordinary Pietá, forthcoming in 2026. She is a contributing editor at The Blue Mountain Review.

ABOUT KRISTIE:

My Murmured Apologies

BY KRISTIE DAUGHERTY

To whom this may concern: this is not a love letter. I placed it in a rusted mailbox. I think I did. What was I saying?

Will it ever turn cold? I’m asking you. If I begged in a higher voice would you give me an answer? If I dropped to my knees at your shimmering lights would you laugh, your laugh like a murder?

The children play like a wind song that doesn’t know barrenness. And yes, I have stood in a desert and my desiccation does not stem from anything I learned there.

You are not always right. You are not always in the know. My pretty little bitty one, speak up. Stroke me with your nimble fingers, Jack be quick. Is that you in there?

Why, you’re one of my own children! I brought the gun on this stage. I am too tired to pull the trigger. Is that applause coming from the grand tier? Someone get the evening paper! Opening night critics’ reviews!

I misplaced my favorite lipstick. The red that looks natural. Somewhere someone whistles. An owl notices the moon and feels the wind skim his feathers. A car crashes and music plays in an underground bar. A misfit lights a cigarette and taps out a beat in a back alley. I think I left the lipstick in my clutch purse. A sweater or my heavy coat?

What glittering eyes you have. I see that they are blue. I see that they are black.

I see that it’s a gibbous moon this evening and the air is not the slightest bit cold.

MUSIC INTERVIEWS

MUSIC INTERVIEWS

INTERVIEWED BY CLIFFORD BROOKS

Sarah Darling

WHAT IS MUSIC?

Music is this beautiful universal language that lets you know you aren’t alone. There’s so much comfort in knowing when you’re going through something, someone else has gone through the same things. Songs are written from happiness and pain. It’s art and the best therapy, and a true gift from God. It feels more than us.

HOW DO LYRICS FIND YOU? DO YOU FIND MELODIES FIRST, OR DO THE WORDS SLIP IN AHEAD OF TIME?

I’m very much a melody driven songwriter first, but I’ll start mumbling words that feel like the song way before I make it all make sense together. I love when it sounds like the words you’re singing about. I love to mull on words too, and they usually sit in my phone notes for weeks before finalizing the thoughts.

HOW DO YOU BALANCE WORK AND FAMILY?

When I’m home, I love to cook and just be a homebody. There’s something about being present that locks me back in routine, but it’s something I’m very aware of working towards. It’s easy to bring the

travel stress home, and one of my biggest struggles is the come-down from being on tour. I have learned to manage the highs and lows better over the years, and gratitude is usually the answer. Nature helps too.

WHAT’S ONE MISSTEP YOU MADE IN YOUR CAREER YOU PRAY NO ONE ELSE EXPERIENCES?

One of my regrets was listening to myself more in my younger years, my intuition. Nobody knows you better than you. Don’t record music you don’t like. Also, asking for what you want and not being on the sidelines. I feel like I let fear keep me there, and I pray for those young artists to boldly walk into their true selves. It’s all about being free in creativity.

WHAT DO YOU WANT YOUR LEGACY TO BE?

I want people to say she was kind, and the good kind of crazy! She was exactly who she was, wore flowers in her hair, a little bit hippie, a little bit cowboy, and sang some sweet melodies. I hope there’s an authenticity that helps people.

ABOUT SARAH:

Sarah Darling is an American singer-songwriter drawing inspiration from the allure of freedom and beauty. She channels the spirit of 70’s California, with echoes from Laurel Canyon, narrating an American road trip story wrapped in Nostalgia and sunshine. Infused with a modern aura, her lyrics transport us to a golden era, sung with the warmth of honey vocals and unfiltered honesty. Her credits include five full-length albums, multiple singles, including a #1 on the UK Country charts, and many duets. She has over 20 million streams, 11 million video views, and over 90 appearances on the Grand Ole Opry stage. She is one of the first Sirius XM The Highway™ Finds and part of the first class of CMT’s Next Women of Country. Performances include: CMA Music Fest, C2C, BBC Radio 2 Stage, FSA Music Festival, Nashville Meets London, British Country Music Festival, British Summertime Festival supporting Bonnie Raitt, James Taylor, Paul Simon, and Carrie Underwood. Sarah’s music has been featured on many Apple, Amazon, Pandora, and Spotify playlists including:, CMT’s Hot Twenty, Coffeehouse, New Boots, PopCo, Take it Slow, Wild Country, Cosmic Country, New Music Nashville, Next from Nashville, Fresh Folk, etc.

Charlie Waymire

PLEASE GIVE OUR READERS A SENSE OF YOUR BACKGROUND AS A MUSICIAN AND EDUCATOR.

My career started as a gigging and touring musician. Touring was a huge goal of mine in the beginning, and I had no idea that I would eventually own and operate a recording studio. So, to kick my musical journey off, I moved from Kansas soon after graduating high school to Minneapolis, MN, to attend music school at the Music Tech of Minneapolis. It was the mid-90s, and there was a lot of great music (and art in general) happening in Minneapolis. I had some amazing teachers at school, got to record at Prince’s studio Paisley Park a lot, and overall, it was a fantastic experience and great jumping-off point for me.

After 3-ish years there working with several bands and doing a lot of regional touring, I felt like I had reached my peak and needed a change, so I moved to Los Angeles to attend Musicians Institute. It was the mid-90s and a perfect time for me to hit LA, and things started to move more quickly at that point. I started teaching at Musicians Institute after graduating and kept a pretty busy gigging schedule. At one point, I was in a band, Speak No Evil, signed to Universal Records, and we did a lot of US touring. After leaving that band, I kept working with LA artists and started touring in Europe as well. INTERVIEWED BY

Most of my focus, if not all, was as a working drummer. During my stint with Speak No Evil, I had a huge electronics rig in my drum setup, and little did I know that that would be the very beginning of my getting into music production. I would sit in the back of the RV with an early version of Pro Tools and create new intros and outros for our gigs that I would trigger at shows. It would take another 5-6 years before I had my first studio, but that was my start.

Fast forward to now, and I have my own studio, Ultimate Studios, Inc., that I built entirely by myself. While I produce all kinds of music for artists, I made sure my live room is great for drums! It only made sense since I am a drummer. Lol! I have also been able to work with some of the biggest drummers in the business and some of my drumming heroes too.

I’d also mention that since I was a musician for the first part of my career, I didn’t go through the typical path of an audio engineer or producer. So, I never had to be a runner or an assistant or anything like that. While I love the path I’ve taken, having some of that studio experience from the other side of the glass would have been beneficial, but lucky for me, I have some really good friends who were/are engineers and producers and really helped me along the way.

Now, I spend all of my time in the studio. I still play on records for artists I’m producing, as well as my own music, but I don’t gig or tour anymore.

ANY TOURING STORIES WE CAN PRINT?

How about a story about my very first REAL recording session after graduating from Music Tech? It didn’t go well, but has a good ending….

Not long after graduating from Music Tech, I was working at a recording studio

a little outside the city. I don’t remember the name, but one of my teachers ran it and gave me a job. Not as a musician, though. I was more of a take-careof-whatever-was-needed person. I’d fix stuff, build stuff, organize the entire studio, and occasionally help with a session. At that time, I was all about drumming, so I wasn’t really paying attention to the production side as much as I wish I would have.

Anyways, there were some amazing musicians that would come through that studio. Members of Prince’s band, Paula Abdul’s band, and players of that caliber. It was really cool as a youngster getting to hear all of them! There were a few producers who ran most of those sessions, and one day, they were looking for a “rock” drummer because they were doing a rock version of a song they were working on. Someone had mentioned my name, and since I was there and they were already in the session, I was the drummer!

I was excited but also nervous, but being a recent graduate of music school, I thought I was ready. Everyone was cool and helped me learn the tune they were working on, get the parts they wanted, and make sure the drum arrangement was good to go. All of that was fine…. until it was time to record!

Long story short, it all went downhill from there. I wasn’t getting the takes right, and with each pass, my confidence sank. I was embarrassed and just wanted to run out of the room. At some point, they finally called the session, and every time they came back in, I hid in another room.

Except for the bass player on that gig, Alex Al found me one day. He obviously knew I sank that day, but he did something for me that I did not expect and, at the time, had no idea it would have such an impact on me. There was a small kit in another room of the studio, and he sat with me and would play a simple groove, tell me to really listen, and then play with him. No fills or fancy stuff! Just lock in with him. That only happened a couple of times and only lasted for about 5 minutes, but man, did that help my confidence.

A year later, I got a call to do another session with that same producer, and Alex was the bass player, and it went well! I’ve had the pleasure of working with Alex in LA a couple of times, and I mentioned that to him. He didn’t remember it, but I sure did!

Paramount and was really small. The entire studio was actually smaller than the control room I have now. The first studio was supposed to be for me to write and record my own music, but also do drum tracks for other artists and TV shows as well. This was the early 2000s, and at that time, there weren’t home studios everywhere. Even though it was small, I had a pretty good setup and did a TON of work.

At some point, some of my drumming friends heard the sounds I was getting and asked if I could record them using my kit. Of course, I said yes! That led to, “Hey, can you record bass too?” To which I said yes! And that led to “Can you record guitar too?” And then vocals and then mixing, and pretty soon, I was recording everyone else, but I wasn’t playing as much. And I didn’t mind one bit. I was actually really enjoying it. I was recording full bands (sometimes live!) in this tiny room and getting good sounds. It was a lot of fun!

But one day, during a session, I was sitting on the floor under the mixing desk because there was no more room and realized I needed a bigger studio. That’s when I started searching for a place with a lot more space. I found a good spot in the Valley and never looked back. The current studio has plenty of room to record great drum tracks, full bands, video shoots, and even live streams.

YOU COLLABORATE WITH BOTH ARTISTS AND CORPORATE CLIENTS. WHAT IS YOUR PRIMARY FOCUS WHEN WORKING WITH EACH? DO YOU APPROACH THEM DIFFERENTLY?

I don’t really differentiate between working with an artist and a corporate client. At the end of the day, I’m dealing with people who have a specific task they need to accomplish, and my job is to facilitate that. It’s a lot of problem-solving, supporting as well as keeping everyone on task. Basically, it’s being a producer.

A lot, if not all, of my corporate clients came to me because of my recording experience as well as video production experience (of which I am completely self-taught). A typical session for them is really a recording session and a video shoot wrapped into one. That carried over into my work with artists, too, where we video a lot of sessions and even do live streams.

YOU WEAR A LOT OF HATS. WHAT IS A TYPICAL DAY LIKE FOR YOU?

I have tried, over the years, to have some sort of structure but have never really been able to make that happen. Lol! If I’m in the studio with an artist for a week, then it’s much easier to have a structure because we have a specific goal to accomplish in the allotted time. Sans that situation, my days can be all over the map. Most of the time the daily plan is purely based on current projects. I do try to do busy work like emails, posting, planning and such during the mornings or early part of the day so I can be creative for the rest of the day. This is especially true if I am working on my own music. Once I start recording, I don’t want to be bothered.

YOU HAVE A NEW ARTIST PROJECT CALLED SOUND OF OBJECTS. CAN YOU SHARE YOUR INSPIRATION FOR IT AND DESCRIBE THE MUSIC?

Sound of Objects is something I have wanted to do for a very long time but always got pushed to the back burner because of my responsibilities working on other people’s projects. Don’t get me wrong, I love working with other artists, but I hit a wall at a certain point and didn’t realize it was because I was completely ignoring my own creative personality. It took me some time to figure out the issue. I knew for a while that I wasn’t completely happy with where I was, but making a change after literally decades of working one way isn’t always the easiest thing to do.

Around the time I was realizing this, I was getting back into playing piano as well, and that really sparked the writing process, I believe. Most, if not everyone, knows me as a drummer or engineer but NOT as my own artist. Starting Sound of Objects and releasing my first EP, EVOLVE is the beginning of my evolution to becoming my own artist.

Musically, I have not set any type of boundary. The agreement I made with myself is that I would write what I was feeling with absolutely no regard to whether it fit a genre or if the songwriting changed from song to song or EP to EP. I think that really allowed me to just be in the moment when I’m writing as it took the pressure off of trying to MAKE it be something and just allowed it TO BE.

Stylistically, the music is all piano-driven. That is my starting point for writing. I also like to use a lot of guitar pedals with my acoustic piano, and that has a huge influence on the parts I write. I would say the music is somewhere between ambient post-rock meets cinematic soundscapes. Most of the EVOLVE EP was me trying to figure out a way to just calm my mind and shut off for a while. And that feeling or emotion had a huge influence on the songs. EVOLVE is my evolution as an artist but also an escape. You can put your headphones on, close your eyes, and let the music take you away for a while.

LET’S TALK STUDIO DOGS AND SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA BOXER RESCUE (SCBR). TELL US ABOUT DELILAH AND YOUR SUPPORT FOR SCBR. WHAT CAN PEOPLE DO TO GET INVOLVED?

Studio dogs are the best!!!! They help relax everyone, are great ice breakers, and, on many occasions, are quite the entertainment! I cannot imagine not having a studio dog, or a dog at all, for that matter.

I am a huge supporter of helping rescues. My first boxer, Oscar, was a rescue (he was the OG Ultimate Studios studio dog), and now Delilah is also a rescue. She is the most mellow boxer mix you can imagine…. until it’s dinner time! She has a bed in the control room and the live room. Whenever I am playing/recording piano, she sleeps right behind me. She also snores a lot and can be quite loud! Lol. So, she’s made it on more than a few piano recordings.

Delilah comes from the Southern California Boxer Rescue, which is run by Andie Picket. Like many rescues, it’s a small operation, and in the case of SCBR, it’s a one-woman operation. Andie is amazing and does so much to help rescue dogs and quite often it’s a rough job. I try to do a fundraiser around my birthday each year, but anyone who wants to help can visit their Facebook page at https://tinyurl.com/SCBRfacebook.

ABOUT CHARLIE:

Sound of Objects is the creative realm of Los Angeles based producer and composer Charlie Waymire. Starting as a drummer and musician, Charlie developed a passion for capturing the essence of sound, gradually transitioning into the world of audio production and producing. His journey led him to establish Ultimate Studios Inc., a creative hub where he records, produces, and mixed music for artists across genres. Sound of Objects is a blend of experimental, post-rock, cinematic ambient, and new-age music that bridges the gap between soundscape artistry and emotional storytelling. For more info: www.SoundofObjects.com www.UltimateStudiosInc.com

Buffalo Nichols

HOW DID THE SPIRIT CALL YOU TO THE GUITAR?

My older sister started playing guitar before I did and I can’t remember exactly why but I was always drawn to it. Within a year of my first encounter with the instrument I was spending all of my free time trying to listen to as much

guitar music as I could. HOW DO YOU APPROACH WRITING A NEW COMPOSITION? YOUR SOUND IS RICH AND DECEPTIVELY SIMPLE. IT EMBRACES THE QUIET BETWEEN THE NOTES. WHERE DOES THAT COME FROM?

I think it comes from my lack of formal music training. Most of the time I’m inventing chords and structure as I go along. I let the inspiration dictate the direction of the song more than music theory.

WHAT HAVE YOU SACRIFICED FOR ART? WHAT REALITIES DO ARTISTS NEED TO FACE IN THAT DEPARTMENT TO GAIN THE DREAM?

I have gone through phases when it comes to sacrifices. Early on I would skip school and sacrifice anything for a few more hours of practice. Later on I would go months without picking up an instrument and even walked away from music several times.

Being an artist is a matter of allowing inspiration to direct you when it calls; having a career as a commercial artist however does require an unreasonable amount of dedication. It is important to realize that you will be expected to sacrifice your mental health and normal relationships if you are a decent person and want to “make it” in the traditional sense.

IF YOU COULD SIT DOWN WITH 4 MUSICIANS, ALIVE OR MOVED ON, WHO AND WHY?

Honestly I couldn’t imagine an answer to this question. I’ve always felt that the artists who influenced me have been incredibly generous just by creating the work. To go beyond that dynamic and sit in their presence would feel strange to me.

WHAT MAKES YOUR SOUND, YOURS?

I don’t know what my sound is just yet. Although I’ve released 2 albums and have recorded many more I still feel it’s a complex mix of my albums, live show, media presence and personality, then filtered through the perception of the listener. I just try to express myself honestly and allow the rest of the process to happen without thinking too much.

WHAT WILL BE YOUR LEGACY?

If I can continue making music for another decade or 2, I hope my legacy will be that of an artist. I hope I will inspire artists to fight against the devaluation of art by tech companies -to create honest human art as we are forced to compete for attention against A.I.

https://www.buffalo-nichols.com/ https://www.instagram.com/buffalonicholsmusic/ ABOUT BUFFALO:

Texas based, Milwaukee raised, Buffalo Nichols is known as an acoustic blues guitarist and singer but that isn’t the whole story. Two albums into his career, Nichols has proven himself to be an innovative songwriter with lyrics address both personal and political themes with biting insight. His influences range from his time playing in baptist churches to his many years playing guitar in West African music bands. His experimental and hip hop influences are displayed as well on his 2023 album, ‘The Fatalist’. Nichols’ self-titled debut, released in October 2021, ascended him to the national stage, earning praise and support from NPR Music (‘Tiny Desk (Home) Concert;’ All Songs Considered ‘Best of October’) to Rolling Stone (‘The Fight to Reclaim the Blues’ feature; ‘Song You Need To Know’), Bandcamp Daily (‘October Shortlist’) to Guitar World, Texas Monthly to Uncut (UK), among many others. Now based in Austin, TX, Nichols has toured with artists including Drive-By Truckers and Valerie June, in addition to his own headline shows, and performed at festivals including Lollapalooza, ACL and Montreal Jazz Festival.

JOSEPH M. MARSHALL III

IN MEMORIAM

BORN APRIL 8, 1945 AND DIED APRIL 18, 2025

Lucid House Publishing is honored that Joseph M. Marshall III, PhD, the multi-award-winning Sicangu Oglala Lakota author and historian, entrusted us with his final works: contemporary novels in the “Smokey River Suspense Series,” which highlight issues faced by the Lakota people both on the reservation and off. Raised by his maternal grandparents in a traditional Native household on the Rosebud Indian Reservation in South Dakota, he wrote 21 fiction and nonfiction books and narrated his own audio books. He was best known for “The Lakota Way,” “The Journey of Crazy Horse,” and “The Day the World Ended at Little Bighorn.” His vivid accounts of real historical figures along with the events that he experienced on the reservation and heard as a child from his grandparents and their generation of oral storytellers figured prominently in his books. His Native name, given to him at age five, is Ohitiya Otanin, which means “his courage is known.”

Joe’s strong and unique voice commanded attention and respect. His humility combined with his fierce desire for justice made him unforgettable. We are forever grateful that he chose to be part of the Lucid House family and are determined to uphold his wish that the stories of his people be shared far and wide. Joe’s Native name was perfect, because his words gave courage to all who heard him speak or read his works.

That is the legacy of Ohitiya Otanin.

VISUAL ART

VISUAL

STEFF ROCKNAK’S SCULPTER

LATEST WORK

BY LYNNE KEMEN

We are thrilled to announce that Steff Rocknak has recently won a national competition sponsored by the City of New Bedford, Massachusetts. Her work to represent the relationship of writer Herman Melville’s relationship with New Bedford is entitled Melville and Jonah’s Journey. A committee selected the work from more than 40 proposals submitted by artists nationwide.

While Melville never lived in New Bedford, he wrote of the city in his most famous book, Moby-Dick or the White Whale. The novel was published in 1851. He describes New Bedford as “ perhaps the dearest place it lives in, in all New England.”

Rocknak grew up reading Moby-Dick and immediately knew how she wanted to create the winning sculpture. She chose chapter 9 of the book. In that chapter of Moby Dick, Herman Melville recounts Ishmael’s visit to the Seamen’s Bethel where he hears Father Mapple’s sermon. During the service, Mapple leads the congregation in singing a hymn about Jonah.

The ribs and terrors in the whale, arched over me a dismal gloom, while all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by, and lift me deepening down to doom.

I saw the opening maw of hell, with endless pains and sorrows there; which none but they that feel can tell— oh, I was plunging to despair.

In black distress, I called my God, when I could scarce believe him mine, he bowed his ear to my complaints— no more the whale did me confine.

With speed he flew to my relief, as on a radiant dolphin borne; awful, yet bright, as lightning shone the face of my deliverer God.

My song for ever shall record that terrible, that joyful hour; I give the glory to my God, his all the mercy and the power.

Rocknak said this was the pivotal moment that she wanted to represent:

It represents the time when Melville, sitting in the Seamen’s Bethel, infused the character of Ishmael and Father Mapple’s sermon with his own reflections. Melville, like Jonah, embarks on a transformative journey— sailing to the far ends of the earth on a whaling ship and emerging as a man compelled to “preach the truth to the face of falsehood”—a journey that led him to write Moby Dick.

Her sculpture portrays Melville standing in the ribcage of the whale. The hymn is on a plaque. She said she plans to complete the sculpture in 12-15 months.

The New Bedford Whaling Museum hosts an annual 25-hour Moby-Dick Marathon.

https://www.whalingmuseum.org/program/moby-dick-marathon-2025/

This period of American literature is a favorite of Rocknak’s. In 2014, she won an International competition sponsored by the Edgar Allen Poe Foundation of Boston. The sculpture is called Poe Returning to Boston, and Rocknak says it reflects Poe’s complicated relationship with Boston. It stands between Charles and Boylston Streets in Boston.

https://issuu.com/collectivemedia/docs/bluemountainreviewdecember2022

In addition to being a sculptor, Steff Rocknak is a professor of Philosophy and chair of that department at Hartwick College in Oneonta, NY.

HOW TO REACH STEFF ROCKNAK ON SOCIAL MEDIA:

Facebook: steffrocknak

Instagram: @steffrocknak

Tiktok: @steffrocknak

Youtube: steffrocknak

SPECIAL FEATURES

SPECIAL FEATURES

INTERVIEWED BY CLAYTON JONES

Tim Blake Nelson & Vincent Garshaw

We touched on Flannery O’Connor last time we spoke—the religious themes, faith, spirituality. Some say those elements complicate her work, while others believe they deepen the narrative.

WHAT ABOUT YOU? ARE YOU A SPIRITUAL PERSON, AND DOES THAT PLAY A ROLE IN YOUR ACTING?

TIM BLAKE NELSON: I can’t name a person I know who isn’t spiritual. In the 21st century, I think that term needs broad parameters to account for how complex humans and belief systems are. Advances in science, technology, philosophy, and art have only added to that complexity.

RIGHT.

TBN: So, yes, I’m spiritual—like most people. Even the most empirical mathematician, to me, is a spiritual person.

INTERESTING. WHAT ABOUT THE SOUTHERN GOTHIC STYLE IN O’CONNOR’S WORK? IT’S FULL OF GROTESQUE ELEMENTS AND “FREAKS.” YOU’VE PLAYED SOME INTENSE CHARACTERS YOURSELF—HOW DO YOU PREPARE FOR ROLES LIKE THAT?

TBN: My process has changed over the years. In the middle of my career—about a decade span—I got complacent, raising three boys with my wife. I could read a role and immediately decide what I was going to do. Looking back, some of the work from that time feels embarrassingly shallow.

SO, YOU’VE SHIFTED YOUR APPROACH?

TBN: Yes. I’m working harder now, with more joy. Bang Bang is an example of that. It was a long, involved process. I hope it made me a better actor and a better person.

THAT COMES THROUGH IN THE FILM. WHEN IT’S OVER, DO YOU EVER FEEL STUCK IN A CHARACTER?

TBN: I’d like to think I don’t, but after Bang Bang, my wife said I was impatient and quick to conflict—things unusual in our marriage. That wasn’t intentional, and I’m not the kind of actor who wants a role to linger intentionally. I think you can embody a character truthfully without letting it change you negatively.

BANG BANG IS VIOLENT BUT GRACEFUL. VINCENT, HOW DO YOU THINK THAT BALANCE WAS ACHIEVED ON SCREEN?

VINCENT GRASHAW: Boxing itself is a mix of violence and grace. It’s called the “sweet science” for a reason. A fighter like Willie Pep, one of the greats, had unmatched movement and restraint. It’s discipline mixed with fire. That combination inspired the film’s tone—a blend of rage and elegance.

BUT THE MOVIE ISN’T JUST ABOUT BOXING, IS IT?

VG: No, it’s more of an anti-boxing movie—a character study of what happens to fighters post-career.

HOW DID THE PROJECT COME TOGETHER?

VG: Will Janowitz, the writer, spent years on this script. It’s personal for him, especially the Polish elements and the family themes. He also researched boxers like the Moyer brothers, whose tragic fates mirror the story’s themes.

TIM, AT WHAT POINT DID YOU JOIN THE PROJECT?

TBN: After a few other actors said no! [Laughs] But I don’t take that personally. Most felt it would be too much work or doubted they could transform into the role. I had my doubts too, but after talking to Vince, I trusted he’d keep me honest.

WHAT CHALLENGES STOOD OUT DURING FILMING?

VG: The fight scenes were the toughest. With no gloves and limited time—just an eight-hour shoot—it was intense. We wanted raw brutality but had to keep everyone safe. That was probably the most stressful day.

TIM, BERNARD HAS SO MUCH RANGE—HE’S MEAN, FUNNY, AND KIND. HOW MUCH OF YOU IS IN THIS CHARACTER?

TBN: As much as I could put in without hijacking the character. The script and direction were so strong that I just responded to them. I had incredible actors to work with—Andrew Liner, Nina Arianda, Erica Gimpel, Glenn Plummer, Kevin Corrigan. My job was to play the truth of this complex, genuine character.

WHAT’S NEXT FOR YOU BOTH?

VG: I’m in post-production on another film and about to direct a prison movie in Mississippi—a Wolf of Wall Street-type story.

TBN: I have a novel coming out in the fall, a play opening off-Broadway, and I’ll be doing more acting and directing.

GENTLEMEN, THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME.

TBN: Thank you.

VG: Appreciate it.

ABOUT TIM BLAKE:

Tim Blake Nelson is an actor, writer, director, and novelist known for his versatile performances in film, television, and theater. He was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and studied at Brown University and Juilliard. He gained widespread recognition for his roles in O Brother, Where Art Thou? and The Ballad of Buster Scruggs. As a filmmaker, he directed acclaimed films such as O. He is an accomplished playwright and author, known for his sharp wit and deep exploration of moral and philosophical themes.

ABOUT VINCENT:

Vincent Grashaw is a Los Angeles native. He is a director, writer, and producer known for What Josiah Saw (2021), Bang Bang (2024), and And Then I Go (2017). Grashaw’s work is recognized for its emotional depth and exploration of dark, complex themes. He continues to be a powerful voice in independent cinema.

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MY ORANGE DUFFEL BAG: A JOURNEY TO RADICAL CHANGE

By Sam Bracken and Echo Garrett

Abandoned at age 15, Sam Bracken battled homelessness, poverty, and abuse to successfully earn a full-ride football scholarship to the Georgia Institute of Technology. When he left for college, everything he owned fit in an orange duffel bag. This award-winning illustrated memoir is a road map to personal transformation.

My Orange Duffel Bag Award Highlights: 2011 Outstanding Book of the Year in Young Adult/Children’s from the American Society of Journalists and Authors, the first self-published book in the organization’s 60-year history to win an award.

To donate or learn more, visit

INTERVIEWED BY CLIFFORD BROOKS

Christopher Martin, (A.K.A. Dr. Fubbs)

HOW DID DR. FUBBS EVOLVE FROM CHRISTOPHER MARTIN?

WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE TWO?

I suppose I owe Vincent Price a strong thank you for my name. I’m a giant film buff and I was watching a lot of old horror movies, some of which were the Dr. Phibes films, and in my mind I kept hearing Dr. Phubbs. I took out the PH and it’s stuck like glue that was nearly 15 years ago and in all honesty are similarities outweigh our differences to the point where I can’t even tell the difference between the two of us any longer.He is I and I am him.

TELL US ABOUT HOW YOU GOT IN ON DEATH ROW RECORDS.

Death Row is a fun story. Three years ago, I decided to take to social media just for the fun of it after Covid. I appointed challenges to myself to write more music than anybody. One of the challenges was 30 brand new songs with brand new videos and a 30 day span. I also started doing motivational videos for adult adults. After a couple years of doing that, a few of the videos started to go viral and a lot of people I had admired my entire life started to notice them. One of which was big Snoop Dogg. Which completely blew my mind.

And one morning before Christmas I woke up to a message from him saying that he wanted me on the label. A few days after seeing that message and digesting that which was a huge meal to digest, he posted a video of himself singing my song which was surreal to say the least. And after many conference calls, and talks A&R’s, and learning how to be patient, the deal was finally struck. Which is monumental. The first non melanated brother to ever be signed to that label.

YOU ARE HYSTERICAL AND EMPOWERING ON SOCIAL MEDIA. WHAT TOOK YOU ONLINE?

COVID-19 is what steered me in the direction of social media. Before that I was a part of a party funk band called Fubbs n’ Chubbs. We were all very trained musicians, and the camaraderie between us was incredible. We rehearsed like dogs. We lived in the studio pretty much. We played live shows whenever we could. In the last show we played was at a music festival called Brite Winter in Cleveland, Ohio. In the middle of winter. January to be specific. It was the largest show any of us had ever played – thousands of people attended and in our minds we were headed straight to the top baby.

A week later that dirty dog of a virus made it perfectly clear that we would be playing no more shows in the unforeseeable future. But I don’t make music, it makes me. Without it I become a dull boy. So of course, I think we all spent entirely too much time on our telephones and other technological devices during that time, and I thought, hell I’ll just do this for now until the veil is lifted. And the rest, my dear, is history.

WHAT’S YOUR PHILOSOPHY BEHIND LIVING A GOOD LIFE?

Gratitude is my philosophy for a good life. Gratitude is the attitude. It’s the easiest way for me to achieve balance. Magnificent things will happen in your life, and atrocious things will also happen in your life, but at the end of the day you still have life. Life to be grateful for.

WHAT PROJECTS DO YOU HAVE GOING ON NOW AND IN THE NEAR FUTURE?

The sky is the limit with future endeavors, and musical projects. I’m working a lot with Leron Thomas, Quentin Moore, and I am waiting for the right one to ship over to Erykah Badu. I also have a stack of songs from Lord Jamar that I’m really excited about. there’s also some surprises that I’m not at liberty to discuss at this juncture, ha ha ha ha.

WHAT’S A QUESTION YOU’VE NEVER BEEN ASKED, AND ALWAYS WANTED TO? WHAT’S THE ANSWER?

A question I have never been asked? Who do I do it for? Who do I create for? And the answer is simple.. I do it for myself. I am my own cheerleading squad. I am my own peptalk guy. I am my own motivator. I am my own biggest fan! And I don’t wanna let myself down. And to know that there’s millions of people out there that have smiled, laughed, tapped their foot, nodded their head, and maybe made even the most minuscule change in their life is a double win! But at the end of the day if I create something and I truly love it, I have already won.

ABOUT DR.FUBBS:

Dr. Fubbs AKA Christopher Michael Martin

Born December 3, 1978 Columbus Ohio.

Singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist,composer, Master engineer, cinematographer, editor, actor, designer, recording engineer. Creator…

Death Row recording artist https://linktr.ee/drfubbs

TRAVIS THOMAS

WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A KID? DID YOU ENJOY SCHOOL?

I always enjoyed school, loving math and reading! My 8th grade history teacher was incredible, triggering my passion for history. I still love learning and believe once we stop learning, we stop leading!

WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A KID? DID YOU ENJOY

SCHOOL?

I always enjoyed school, loving math and reading! My 8th grade history teacher was incredible, triggering my passion for history. I still love learning and believe once we stop learning, we stop leading!

GIVE US THE STORY OF TEENS TO THE MAN WE SEE TODAY?

In middle school in 1981, my football team qualified for the league championship. My team had to play a rescheduled game on Tuesday night against the same team we would play Saturday for the championship. For the make-up game, our coach altered the starting lineups, and we ran brand new plays. Expectedly, we got hammered 38-8. At Wednesday’s practice, instead of reporting to the practice field, we went to our recreation center where we watched game film. We studied our opponent’s formations and the plays out of those formations, then went out and practiced. Our lineups went back to normal, we practiced our regular plays, and repeated the same sequence the next two days. On Saturday, we stifled our opponent, winning the league championship 6-0 over the same team who beat us 38-8 four days earlier.

This experience may have actually nudged me into teaching

and coaching and taught me about leadership. Many years later, I happened to run into my old football coach. I told him how much of an impact that experience had on my path. My old coach then told me something I never knew, saying it was not his idea but the idea of one of his assistants. This conversation demonstrated the importance of listening, and I have genuinely tried to both remember and practice this in my leadership.

WHAT FORCE PULLED YOU INTO EDUCATION? DO YOU FEEL DESTINED TO BE A SUPERINTENDENT OF SCHOOLS?

In college, I tutored middle school students in Charlotte, North Carolina and enjoyed it. I graduated as a Political Science major, but after the tutoring experience I began to think about teaching for a couple of years after graduation. I connected with services that were designed to place noneducation majors in private schools. A private school in Carrollton, Georgia needed a boys basketball coach and a high school social studies teacher. I applied for the job in

the spring of my senior year, got the job, and moved from North Carolina to Georgia in 1992. Again, I thought this would be temporary - teaching one or two years before doing something different, maybe in law or business. But I fell in love with teaching. I knew education was where I was called to serve!

After teaching 12 years in both private then public school, I moved into school administration serving as a middle school assistant principal, a middle school principal, a high school principal, and then a district office leader. Late in my tenure as a high school principal, I started thinking about serving as a superintendent, and truthfully, that did become a goal of mine. I never felt destined to be one, but I did feel like the superintendency was the next step in my educational journey.

HOW DO YOU DEFINE LEADERSHIP?

I love John Maxwell’s definition of leadership because of its simplicity. Maxwell says that leadership is influence, nothing more and nothing less.

HOW DO YOU DEFINE SUCCESS?

I look at that definition through questions - first, are we doing what we are called to do and doing our best? I am a follower of Christ, and one of my favorite passages is Esther 4:14 where Esther is reminded that God does have a purpose for us. His plan may not be what we want or when we want it, but I firmly believe God puts us where He needs us, when He needs us. Second, are we resilient and persistent? John Maxwell talks about the difference between the achievers and the average is how we respond to failure. Do we show some grit or do we give up? If we respond with persistence, we will break through, and in my opinion, that is success.

WHAT DO YOU WISH TO BRING, MAINTAIN, AND GROW WITH THE PICKENS COUNTY SCHOOL SYSTEM?

My vision is that our district leads north Georgiaacademically, athletically, in the fine arts and activities, and organizationally. When I say north Georgia, I am talking about school districts similar to us - school districts around us having one high school. Also, we want every Pickens High School graduate to be either enrolled, enlisted or employed. Continuing their education or joining the workforce or enlisting to protect our great nation gives our graduates a plan and makes our

community stronger! Lastly, I want our employees to feel supported and strengthened by our district because there is an undeniable link between how people feel about their work and the type of work they produce. When this occurs in education, our students are the ones who benefit.

WHAT DO YOU WANT YOUR LEGACY TO BE?

In education, we all want to provide our students with opportunities to help them find success. And as a leader, I believe we all want to leave places better than we found them.

WHAT DO YOU DO IN YOUR FREE TIME TO STAY BALANCED?

I like to read, especially historical fiction and leadership. As a former basketball coach, I still consider myself to be a student of the game and love watching basketball at the high school and college levels. I also enjoy traveling with my family, playing golf, and an occasional jog around my neighborhood!

ABOUT TRAVIS:

Dr. Travis Thomas is a native of Elkin, North Carolina and a graduate of Davidson College in Davidson, North Carolina where he earned his Bachelor of Arts degree in Political Science in 1992. He obtained his master’s degree in Secondary Education from the University of West Georgia, a specialist degree from Jacksonville State University, and his doctorate from the University of Alabama in 2017. Dr. Thomas has worked in education since 1992, and in an educational administrative role since 2016. He began serving as the Pickens County superintendent in 2023.

Dr. Thomas has been happily married for 28 years to Candy Thomas who is a school counselor, presently serving at Pickens High School. They have 2 sonsRett is a senior at the University of North Georgia in Dahlonega, and Ty works for the Unitrust Financial Group.

INTERVIEWED BY CLAYTON JONES

INTERVIEWED BY CLAYTON JONES

Zach Galligan

WHAT MAKES YOU TICK, ZACH?

My brain is just always going nonstop, you know, thinking about things. And I think I’ve always been somewhat of a creative person. Ever since I was a kid. Yeah, I was a voracious reader. You know, even at 5, 6, 7 years old, I was reading those Tom Swift books and Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew books. Oh, I would read like the entire thing. It’d be crazy, you know?

\And so I think I’ve always just wanted some kind of outlet for the crazy stuff that was running around in my brain, and acting certainly gives you something for that. It allows you to... pretend to be someone else and put yourself in someone else’s position and stop being yourself for a while and be someone else.

It allows you to express emotions that maybe, you know, like you’re not allowed to express in society openly. Maybe you’re not more in your family unit. Maybe you’re not allowed to throw a temper tantrum at home, but you are at acting class.

SO THERE’S A CATHARTIC ELEMENT TO IT?

Oh, there’s definitely a cathartic element for sure. I mean, I’m not one of them, but I think a lot of actors probably use acting as therapy. It has some kind of therapeutic thing for them. I certainly—I was an acting teacher for 10 years at NYU. And you know, the vast majority of my students were women. They were probably 75 percent, 75/25. And I had a feeling that of the women that were doing it, probably 80 percent were acting at least partially to process childhood trauma.

INTERESTING.

Get it? It kind of reminds me of my mom. She became a psychologist because she went to college and she took a psychology class, but really what she realized later in life was that she took psychology so she could find out what’s going on with her.

She’s like, “I wanted to understand how the brain works because I want to understand what’s going on with me.”

YES.

And I think actors do the same thing, which is that they get involved in the process because they either want to unload a whole bunch of baggage they’re carrying around with themselves—emotional baggage, that is. I don’t know how many people continually do it for the simple joy of acting and playing characters. I hear that a lot from actors. I’m not sure I believe it. I mean, one of the reasons why I continued doing it was because by the time I did it, I got very successful, very young.

So my feeling was like, I got to keep going because why would I change now in the middle? That’s why I’m always amazed when I do conventions and I meet someone like Danny Lloyd—you know, who was the young kid in The Shining—and now he just stopped, you know? But he stopped when he was like 16. Yeah. I think you can do that when you’re really young. But when you’re, you know, fully established and working like crazy until you’re 30, it’s pretty hard to just pull out at 30.

YOU KNOW, IT’S INTERESTING TO PUT IT THAT WAY. SO, WHAT DOES A CHILD ACTOR HAVE TO DRAW ON, YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING?

I think you can have trauma starting from age four, you know what I mean?

YEAH.

Though I always get a little upset as an actor myself. I always get a little upset when I see child actors who can cry so easily because it makes me go, “How can they cry so easily and what have they been through that they can cry so easily?” And so, that’s—you know, there, if you look too deep under the surface, there are all sorts of things about the acting profession that are a little bit disturbing.

WELL, THAT BEING SAID, WHAT IS YOUR PROCESS LIKE FOR PREPARING FOR A ROLE? I MEAN,

YOU OBVIOUSLY UNDERSTAND THE HUMAN PSYCHE, SO HOW MUCH OF THAT DO YOU CONSIDER WHEN YOU’RE PREPARING?

Well, like for Honk [the film] for example, I knew there was—you know, after a while, when it’s not your first rodeo, as they say, you can figure out pretty much the game plan. That’s the way a quarterback can go, “Well, this is—if we don’t manage to run the ball, we’re going to be in trouble,” you know? You can kind of figure out what your project is going to be like. For me, it was: when he hears the phone message, you’ve got to stick the landing. That’s the key close-up: me listening to the message. And I knew that, and it was hanging over me like a vulture. For whatever reason, [director of Honk] Charlie [de Lauzirika] decided he was going to shoot that last instead of shooting it first.

Probably I would have preferred it to be in the middle of the shooting schedule—halfway through, after getting to know the character and inhabiting the character—but not quite all the way at the end. But it was what it was.

I took an acting class about 30 years ago with a guy named Larry Moss. He’s got a really fabulous book—I can’t remember what it’s called—but I remember being super impressed by it. It has a weird title, but you can find it on Amazon. Anyway, he had an interesting thing about doing really emotional scenes, and that is, you know, a lot of actors have a tendency to try and sort of bang it on the head, you know? Like, just get into those deep emotions, feel it, and pour it out.

What he said was, “If you really know yourself—and all actors need to really be aware of themselves, their triggers, what affects them, what moves them, and stuff like that—if you don’t know yourself particularly well as a person, you’re not going to be a particularly good actor.” He said the best thing to do is find something that you find very moving and, rather than really hitting it on the head, sort of come close to it. Just get like a little whiff of it.

As an example, he talked about how one time, when he was younger, he came across an Irish Setter that had been struck by a car. People were crowding around, trying to help, but they couldn’t. He saw the dog at the moment it died, and for him, as a young man, it was a deeply unsettling and scarring experience.

He said, “When I became an actor, I realized I didn’t need to sit in my trailer and brood about it. It was so powerful to me that I just needed to think about it for a split second, and I’d get emotional.”

So for that key scene in Honk, I said, “I don’t want to hear the message. I don’t want to hear it during rehearsal. I don’t want to hear it beforehand. I only want to hear it when we’re rolling. If I’m going to have a reaction, I want the camera to capture it.”

We had only twenty minutes to do that last scene after three days of filming. We did one take, and I tried to do something called substitution, where you substitute something terrible from your own life to connect with the emotions of the character. I thought about my cat Ziggy dying. I was like, “If Ziggy died, I’d lose my shit.” But it didn’t work. Maybe I wasn’t warmed up yet, or it just wasn’t connecting.

With only eight minutes to go, I thought, “You know what? I’m just going to imagine that I’m this guy, and this is really happening to me. This is someone I care about, and this is the actual message.” I focused on listening to the message and imagining how profoundly sad it would be if I lost two of my kids in a car crash.

And that’s what you see in the movie. Sometimes you try one thing, and it doesn’t work, so you try something else. And sometimes nothing works. Sometimes you just have a bad day. Actors are not machines. We’re like baseball players—if you get one hit every three at-bats, you’re in the Hall of Fame.

Some actors are like machines. Even as an experienced actor, I look at them and go, “How the hell do they nail it so consistently?” I don’t know. Maybe they’re just excellent, or they have an endless reservoir of negative emotion to draw from. For me, I’ve actually had a pretty fabulous life, which makes it harder for me to draw on trauma.

AFTER YOU’RE DONE WITH THE WORK, HOW MUCH OF THAT STAYS WITH YOU? DO YOU GET STUCK IN THE CHARACTER?

No, I never get stuck in the character, but sometimes you can get stuck in what you have to do to prepare for the character. For example, when I was doing Surviving, the teenage suicide movie I did with Molly Ringwald, I was 20 years old, in Oklahoma, completely isolated. My girlfriend was back at college, and I knew no one except Molly and River [Phoenix], and River was like 15.

Every day, I had to go in and think about

my character’s situation getting worse and worse. The makeup department even showed me photos of people who had asphyxiated themselves, trying to get the death scene accurate.

You can imagine, as a 20-year-old, being by yourself halfway across the country, doing that every day. It was a lot to deal with. I’d come home, and you couldn’t just be like, “Hey, let’s go play pool.” It was too disturbing.

THAT SOUNDS REALLY INTENSE.

It was. Acting can definitely mess with your head, especially when you’re young and not fully equipped to handle it.

GREMLINS HAS HELD UP FOR DECADES. WHAT ABOUT THAT MOVIE TAPPED INTO THE ZEITGEIST, AND WHY IS IT STILL RELEVANT?

There are probably only two or three reasons why it’s still relevant after 40 years. First, Gizmo is one of the cutest things ever created. People, especially women, are obsessed with him because he’s like the ultimate pet.

Second, the whole idea of the Mogwai coming with rules—rules, the breaking of rules, and the consequences of breaking rules—is a universal thing. Every society has rules and consequences, and everyone has moments where they just want to break them. The gremlins give people permission to enjoy that rule-breaking vicariously.

Finally, the seasonality. It’s a Christmas movie, and it gets shown every Christmas, so it keeps finding new audiences. The combination of these things has kept it alive for 40 years.

THAT’S A GREAT INSIGHT. WHAT CAN WE EXPECT FROM YOU NEXT YEAR AND BEYOND?

I’m not really sure. I spent most of this year focusing on writing my book and doing the 40th-anniversary promotions for Gremlins. That kept me really busy. I’ve been a little out of the acting game, but I’m planning to reconnect with my agency in Atlanta and start auditioning again. Acting is so addictive—it’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever done, and even after all these years, I still love it.

THANK YOU, ZACH.

My pleasure.

IT’S BEEN GREAT TALKING WITH YOU.

ABOUT ZACH:

Zach Galligan is best known for his role as Billy Peltzer in the iconic films Gremlins (1984) and Gremlins 2: The New Batch (1990). Born in New York City, Galligan has appeared in numerous films and television shows throughout his career, including Waxwork (1988), Nothing Lasts Forever (1984), and Hatchet III (2013). He continues to act in film, television, and on stage, and remains a beloved figure among fans of 1980s cinema.

CHAMBER OF COMMERCE

AMBERLE GODFREY, PRESIDENT & CEO

WHAT IS YOUR ROLE WITH THE PICKENS COUNTY CHAMBER OF COMMERCE, AND WHAT ABOUT YOUR PERSONALITY CALLED YOU TO IT?

I began my journey as a Board Member. When the administration shifted, I volunteered as a parttime Operations Manager for a period. Following another change in leadership, I stepped into the role of full-time interim President/CEO. After a search and application process, I was honored to be appointed as the permanent President/CEO. I have held this position since 2018. My community involvement began many years ago in high school, where I held leadership roles in various clubs and within my class structure. These positions allowed me to support numerous local organizations, and I quickly discovered the fulfillment that comes from helping others.

Although my family briefly moved away, we always knew we’d return to our hometown. When we came back to Pickens County, I found an opportunity with the local school system as the Parent and Community Involvement Coordinator. This role gave me the chance to stay connected to the community I care deeply about. During this time, I also became a board member of the Chamber, marking the start of my journey toward my current position. It is my dedication to this community and its people that ultimately led me to where I am today.

JASPER IS THE FIRST MOUNTAIN CITY IN NORTH GEORGIA. WHY IS THIS TOWN AND THE WHOLE COUNTY IMPORTANT TO YOU?

I am deeply rooted in this community, with both sides of my family tracing back numerous generations here. This community raised me, educated me, and supported me throughout my life. In turn, I am committed to giving back the care and opportunities I’ve been fortunate to receive - to pay it forward. My goal is to do everything I can to help longtime residents, new neighbors, and local businesses thrive and succeed.

WHAT DO YOU WANT YOUR LEGACY AT THE CHAMBER TO BE?

In simple terms, my goal is to leave the Chamber and the community in a better place than when I first began. I work to foster strong, collaborative relationships between all key entities—city government, county government, the sheriff’s office, the school system, and the Chamber—so we can all work together for the greater good.

WHAT ARE THE COMMON THINGS YOU HEAR FROM BOTH LONGTIME RESIDENTS AND NEWCOMERS ABOUT THE COMMUNITY?

People often mention how friendly and welcoming we are, as well as the natural beauty of our mountains and landscape. However, what I hear most frequently is how special our community truly is. We are known for our generosity towards those in need, our ability to forgive mistakes, and the strong sense of community we share. Several people have even said that someone should write a book about our community, and that fills me with pride.

AMY MYERS, EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT

WHAT IS YOUR ROLE WITH THE PICKENS COUNTY CHAMBER OF COMMERCE, AND WHAT ABOUT YOUR PERSONALITY CALLED YOU TO IT?

After taking a year-long break from a demanding career as the Procurement Manager for a local Aerospace and Defense company, I joined the Pickens County Chamber of Commerce as the Tourism Administrative Assistant in 2022. As the organization evolved, I stepped into the role of Tourism Director and have since expanded my contributions by serving as the Executive Vice President.

My passion for supporting local businesses is deeply rooted in my family history—I come from a long line of entrepreneurs who excel at their craft but often need guidance in managing the operational aspects of their businesses. This background instilled in me a strong desire to be a key resource for our business community, helping them grow and succeed. Being part of the Chamber allows me to channel that passion into meaningful work that drives positive impact in our community.

JASPER

IS THE “FIRST MOUNTAIN CITY” IN NORTH GEORGIA. WHY IS THIS TOWN, AND THE WHOLE COUNTY, SO IMPORTANT TO YOU?

I was born and raised in Dawson County, just to the east, while my husband grew up in Cherokee County, to the south. When we married 12 years ago and began searching for a place to call home, we were drawn to the pace and lifestyle that Pickens County offers. We knew this was where we wanted to put down roots—a community where we could live, work, eat, play, and serve. Pickens County isn’t just where we live; it’s where we’ve built a life we truly love.

WHAT DO YOU WANT YOUR LEGACY TO BE AT THE CHAMBER?

I want to leave this position, organization, and community feeling not only prepared for what’s ahead but also excited about the future and proud of the success we’ve achieved in giving back to this community. I hope that part of my legacy includes growing our new signature event, The Snowman Stroll, into one of the most enjoyable, well-attended, and impactful events for the children and families of Pickens County.

WHAT IS ONE THING ABOUT PICKENS COUNTY THAT YOU WISH MORE PEOPLE KNEW OR APPRECIATED?

I often hear long-time residents say, “There’s nothing to do here,” but visitors consistently praise our town for its natural beauty and breathtaking landscape. I wish more people recognized and appreciated that we are truly blessed with an abundance of nature trails perfect for walking, hiking, birdwatching, and biking. Pickens County offers so much—but much of its charm lies off the beaten path, which is exactly what makes it so special. That authentic small-town mountain experience is waiting for those who are willing to explore it.

JENNA MCQUEEN

WHAT IS YOUR ROLE WITH THE PICKENS COUNTY CHAMBER OF COMMERCE, AND WHAT ABOUT YOUR PERSONALITY CALLED YOU TO IT?

I am the Membership Manager at the Pickens County Chamber of Commerce. My passion for helping others drew me to this role, as it allows me to assist both new and existing businesses in connecting with others in our community. I also take pride in promoting these businesses, ensuring that the community is aware of their offerings and fostering valuable connections. I particularly enjoy the creative aspect of my job—designing new member welcomes, shoutouts, and ribbon-cutting flyers gives me the freedom to be creative while helping our members gain visibility.

JASPER IS THE “FIRST MOUNTAIN CITY” IN NORTH GEORGIA.

WHY IS THIS TOWN, AND THE WHOLE COUNTY, SO IMPORTANT TO YOU?

Jasper holds a special place in my heart because of the warmth and friendliness of its people. I love hearing stories from visitors about how welcoming and helpful everyone is, and it’s always exciting to see how the community connects with us at the Chamber. I truly believe that kindness and helping others make the world a better place, and Pickens County exemplifies this with its strong sense of support for one another and local businesses.

WHAT DO YOU WANT YOUR LEGACY TO BE AT THE CHAMBER?

I hope my legacy at the Chamber is one of always being there to help others—whether it’s promoting their business, facilitating connections, or supporting local businesses in any way I can. I want to be remembered as someone who was dedicated to making a positive impact and helping our community thrive.

IF YOU COULD DESCRIBE YOUR IDEAL WORKDAY AT THE CHAMBER IN ONE WORD, WHAT WOULD IT BE AND WHY?

Connected. My ideal workday at the Chamber is all about building relationships, whether it’s helping a new business make connections, collaborating with community members, or creating opportunities for growth. When everyone is engaged and working together, it feels like everything is clicking, and that sense of connection is what makes each day meaningful.

WHAT IS YOUR ROLE WITH THE PICKENS COUNTY CHAMBER OF COMMERCE, AND WHAT ABOUT YOUR PERSONALITY CALLED IT TO YOU?

As the Communications Specialist for the Pickens County Chamber of Commerce, my role revolves around connection within our community. With my personality, the biggest draw to the Chamber was undoubtedly the people. I thrive on building relationships, and being part of the Chamber provides the perfect opportunity to connect with local businesses, leaders, and community members. Every day, I get to share stories, create meaningful interactions, and contribute to the growth of our community.

JASPER IS THE “FIRST MOUNTAIN CITY” IN NORTH GEORGIA.

WHY IS THIS TOWN, AND THE WHOLE COUNTY, SO IMPORTANT TO YOU?

This town holds a special place in my heart because I was born and raised here. It’s more than just my hometown. It’s where my roots are, where my family and friends are, and where countless memories have been made. Seeing it grow and thrive is important to me, and I like being able to be a part of the growth through the Chamber.

WHAT DO YOU WANT YOUR LEGACY TO BE AT THE CHAMBER?

I want my legacy at the Chamber to be one of strong communication, meaningful connections, and lasting growth. I hope to enhance involvement within the community, build relationships that strengthen local businesses, and contribute to the Chamber’s continued success in making Pickens County a thriving place to live and work.

HOW HAS BEING PART OF THE CHAMBER HELPED YOU GROW PERSONALLY AND PROFESSIONALLY?

Being part of the Chamber has helped me grow both personally and professionally in so many ways. Personally, it has strengthened my ability to connect with people, build relationships, and contribute to something bigger than myself. Professionally, it has allowed me to develop stronger communication skills, gain valuable experience in community engagement, and expand my network with local businesses and leaders. This is my first job after graduation, and it has given me the opportunity to grow, learn, and make a meaningful impact in my hometown.

ADDIE GARNER, TOURISM SPECIALIST

WHAT IS YOUR ROLE WITH THE PICKENS COUNTY CHAMBER OF COMMERCE, AND WHAT ABOUT YOUR PERSONALITY CALLED YOU TO IT?

I am the Tourism Specialist for the Pickens County Chamber of Commerce. My role involves promoting the community , attracting visitors, and fostering economic growth through tourism. I believe my outgoing and friendly personality called me to this opportunity. I love connecting with people and sharing the beauty and charm of Jasper & Pickens County. I’m passionate about the place I call home, and I am eager to utilize my marketing skills and creative background to showcase all our amazing community has to offer.

JASPER IS THE “FIRST MOUNTAIN CITY” IN NORTH GEORGIA. WHY IS THIS TOWN, AND THE WHOLE COUNTY, SO IMPORTANT TO YOU?

Both Jasper and Pickens are incredibly important to me because they are my roots. I was born & raised in Jasper, and my family has deep ties to the area. Forty years ago, my dad opened Garner Ace Hardware – A business that is still thriving today. My mom spent twenty-nine years being a “favorite teacher” to many students in Pickens County. I’m proud to carry on their legacy by contributing to the community in my own way. Jasper, with its rich history, stunning mountain views, and welcoming atmosphere, holds a special place in my heart. It’s more that just a town to me – it’s home.

WHAT DO YOU WANT YOUR LEGACY TO BE AT THE CHAMBER?

I hope for my legacy at the Chamber to be one of community connection & growth. My prayer is to leave a lasting impact by enhancing the tourism experience, helping our local businesses thrive, and making meaningful connections with locals & visitors. I want to make Pickens County a place where visitors & residents are excited to experience. Hopefully. My work will highlight the incredible opportunities and beauty this county offers. Above all, I want to be known for my passion for this community & my dedication to allowing all to see the beauty of Jasper/Pickens through fresh eyes!

WHAT ARE YOUR FAVORITE ACTIVITIES IN THE “FIRST MOUNTAIN CITY?”

My ideal afternoon would be spent on our picturesque Main Street of Jasper either running or taking my labradoodle, Georgia, for a walk! On Saturdays, I love meeting the girls at Fainting Goat Vineyards to enjoy the wine & take in the stunning view. I also can’t resist Sunday Brunch at Old Mulehouse after Church!

INTERVIEWED BY CLIFFORD BROOKS

Max Caylor Rotary Club’s

WHAT FIRST LIT THAT DIVINE FIRE TO SHARE GOD’S WORD? WHAT AGE? WHAT CIRCUMSTANCES?

I was raised attending church and was Baptized as an infant. In that worship service my parent’s committed to God to set a Christian example at home, expose me to Christian teaching in the Church until I would make my own decision to accept and follow Jesus. I can remember as an 8 yr old boy singing the hymn “Holy, Holy, Holy” as I played long before ear phones. I sat with another family at church and as was amazed as a small boy that the lady had the hymn book open to the right number before the preacher announced the hymn. What is a bulletin?

I went to Vacation Bible School and remembered Mrs. Clara Scott as my Primary Class Sunday School Class teacher. In the 50’s one could receive Sunday School attendance pins for being in Sunday School and I still have my seven-year pin with bars. Morris Street Methodist Church in Dalton, Ga was like home. I remember with great joy the men, especially the older ones, always picking at me, helping them hand out bulletins and pulling the rope to ring the church bell which is and art to pull and let go so the bell will ring twice with one pull!

I made my personal faith decision to accept Jesus as my Savior at age 12 in a Confirmation Class in worship. Through high school I was active in Methodist Youth Fellowship and participated in worship and community mission projects. My first experience feeling a call to ministry came one Sunday evening during Altar Prayers. Our Sunday evening services were always closed by inviting the congregation to come to the altar and pray. During that prayer time I heard/felt the word ministry. What? Me? Can’t be! I told my parents, and they said, “you need to talk to the preacher.” So, I met with our pastor, and he told me about the “United Methodist Ministry Process,” how one might discern a call to full time Christian ministry. United Methodist ministers/preachers do not instantly become preachers because they think they have a high calling.

Our process includes being recommended by the local congregation’s leadership as to one’s spirituality, conduct and character. Also, approval by a District Board of Ministry, completing and passing a Course of Study that addressed theology, Scripture and administration.

Upon completion of the course and an interview with the District Board of Ministry one could be granted a Local Preacher’s License as a Lay Pastor by the United Methodists. I started the process by ordering the books and beginning work. However, working and life in general slowed the ministry process and got placed on the back burner until an Upper Room devotional changed my life!

Leaving church one Sunday evening I picked up an Upper Room Devotional realizing that my prayer life had been dormant. The scripture was from II Corinthians 12:9-10. The Apostle Paul was writing to encourage the Corinthians to trust God with their lives in every situation. He wrote about a “thorn in his flesh” that really bothered him, and he prayed three times to have it removed. Instead of removing the “thorn Paul felt the Holy Spirit saying, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” The Apostle concluded, therefore I will boast more gladly about my weakness, so that Christ’s power might rest on me.”

As I was reading, kneeling by my bed, I had the thought of ministry! What? I thought the call had faded over four years. Later, I realized that I had been fighting the call to ministry because I was scared and thought I was not good enough to be a preacher. But, if Paul trusted the power of the Holy Spirit to lead him I would follow his example and trust Jesus to lead me as a minister of his good news of salvation.

In 2012 I retired from the North Georgia Conference as a church pastor following 38 years of service. The good news of the love of Jesus and “his Grace being sufficient for every need” was the base of my personal life and the message I presented to my congregations from the Centralhatchee Circuit to First United Methodist in Douglasville. The Holy Spirit was the guide, inspiration and the heart of ministry as I helped care for people with illnesses, the death of a loved one, the joy of salvation and much more. My business card today says Christian Encourager with the scripture “my Grace is sufficient for you.” I retired from the church but never from a ministry of encouraging people to trust God in all avenues of their lives.

HOW HAS YOUR PERSONAL MINISTRY EVOLVED OVER THE YEARS?

My calling was my base of personal ministry was not about me but caring, serving, encouraging and inviting PEOPLE to receive Christ and grow in their Christian Walk. Like the “Blues Brothers” I was on a “mission from God” but the culture of worship changed.

Jasper Rotary President Kay Lawrence spearheaded the establishment of a 12’ Peace Pole stating “May Peace Prevail on Earth in eight languages and is made of the same type of marble used to build the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. Peace Pole

Peace Poles are an international symbol of peace, and this one features the same message in English, Cherokee, French, Esperanto, Spanish, German, Italian and Russian, with two languages on each side of the 10ft pole. It was made by Blue Ridge marble using the same type marble stone used to make the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.

Jasper Rotary planted 1,000 daffodil bulbs around their Peace Pole in Roper Park in memory 1.5 million children killed in the Holocaust and for all children suffering in marginal circumstances today.

Photo above

I grew up in what main line churches (Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian) called traditional worship or the way “we have always done it” being quiet and still and formally listening for God. Yet, God was doing a new thing in the 80’s in what was called contemporary worship using bands with guitars and drums and an attitude of “come as you are” to seek God in worship. I helped establish a contemporary service in my last congregation with great enthusiasm and joy witnessing a new generation experience the love of God clapping and praising God.

HOW DOES THE ROTARY CLUB FIT INTO YOUR MISSION?

Rotary International is a service organization with a membership of 1.2 million members in 45,000 clubs around the globe with a moto of “Service Above Self.” Paul Harris, an attorney in Chicago, founded Rotary in 1905 and their first service project in 1907 was to build public toilets at the Cook County Courthouse.

As part of their job description United Methodist preachers are to “serve the community” along with being a shepherd of a congregation so Rotary was/is an extension of ministry for me. So, I became a Charter Member of the Jasper Rotary Club in 1989 to serve the community, meet more people and just experience giving back outside of the local church. Each week the 60-member Jasper club ends their meeting reciting Rotary’s Four-Way Test which is an ethical guide for personal and professional relationships. The standard asks, “Of the things we think say or do:” Is the Truth? Is it Fair to all concerned? Will it build Goodwill and Better Friendships? Will it be Beneficial to all concerned?”

The Four-Way Test guide feels like part of Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 7:12 … “So, in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.” Yep, that is the mission of following Jesus!

WHAT SHOULD PEOPLE KNOW FIRST AND FOREMOST ABOUT ROTARY?

First and foremost, Rotary Clubs are about building friendships, having fun and serving people on a global scale. Some people may be surprised to learn the global presence of Rotary even though their name is Rotary International. There are 35,000 Rotary Clubs in 200 countries outside of the United States. As clubs formed around the world founder Paul Harris following World War I wanted Rotarians to demonstrate “peace through service” by helping countries repair war torn personal relationships and assist in rebuilding devastated countries.

In 1917 the Rotary Foundation was established to raise funds “to do good in the world.” Rotary leaders envisioned a “Rotary League of Nations” based on their own principles but intergovernmental countries won the day establishing the League of Nations.

No matter the language or culture, world peace and service to others binds humanity by relieving poverty, addressing discrimination, providing education and improving health.

In 1985 Rotary took on eradicating an estimated 350,000 cases in 125 endemic countries of crippling polio worldwide. In 1987 the World Health Organization joined in the fight with governments and the Gates Foundation. This consolidated effort that Rotarians began has decreased polio by 99.9% with cases reported in only two countries. Rotarians working together change lives and most times their own!

WHAT IS YOUR PHILOSOPHY ABOUT LIVING A FULFILLING LIFE?

My philosophy/theology about living a fulfilling life of course is having a relationship with Jesus characterized by doing good.

The founder of Methodism John Wesley illustrates a fulfilling life when he wrote to his followers inviting them to “Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as ever you can.” I think he was saying doing good comes from one’s heart and is reflected in everyday life naturally like the Nikie commercial, “Just do it!”

Jasper Rotary planted 1,000 daffodil bulbs around their Peace Pole in Roper Park in memory 1.5 million children killed in the Holocaust and for all children suffering in marginal circumstances today. Learn more at jaspergarotary.org

INTERVIEWED BY CLIFFORD BROOKS

SCE MEMBER SPOTLIGHT

CHARLIE JENSEN

WHEN YOU LOOK BACK ON YOUR TIME WITH THE UCLA EXTENSION WRITERS’ PROGRAM, WHAT ACCOMPLISHMENTS ARE YOU MOST PROUD OF?

When I took over as program director in 2016, the Writers’ Program was already world-renown, and that’s thanks to the hard work of my predecessor Linda Venis. Those first months I could feel Linda’s impact on the program, and I knew I had very big shoes to fill. As I got familiar with all the instructors and their courses, interacted with students giving feedback or seeking specific opportunities, I started to feel like I could help develop a stronger sense of community among all of the students. The WP is a mostly at-night program, and students then either commuted into Westwood or logged in from home just to attend their one class. What was missing was a central meeting place where students from different classes could cross paths and connect. A lot of my energy went into figuring out how to realize that idea.

The pandemic was a huge turning point for us. Not only did it kick off four years of nonstop growth, it showed me how much people wanted to write. When people thought about what really mattered in those years, they decided expressing themselves and telling their stories had never been more important. We brought in so many new students, and the Writers’ Program team did an incredible job of making sure everyone got advising, top quality instruction, and a path to follow toward their goals.

It’s hard to pick one thing I’m most proud of. Near the top of the list would be my colleagues, who are all so smart and creative and hard working. And our instructors, who are inspiring and encouraging. But when I think about

what I’ll miss most about it, it’s that sense of belonging. I didn’t realize how strong it was until I shared with folks my position had been eliminated, and honestly, the outpouring of support I felt made me realize how much this community had been my home, too. It’s incredibly special. I’m so grateful it’s been part of my life, professionally and creatively.

HOW DO YOU BALANCE YOUR PERSONAL CREATIVE PROJECTS WITH A FULL-TIME JOB?

I love writing first drafts so I always feel motivated to make time for that part of it. Several years ago I started setting aside the hour before business hours started to do my personal writing. The impact on everything—productivity, engagement, passion, even craft skills—was incalculable. Writing really moved to what felt like the center of my life, even just offering it an hour Monday through Friday. (I take weekends off!) I discovered I could write a whole novel draft in 60 writing sessions with that hour—because it helped me keep momentum. I didn’t feel any need to

warm up or get into the right mindset once it became a habit. And I treasure that time. It is such a gift.

It was around the time I started this routine that I realized while I worked at my day job 8 hours a day, I was a writer 24 hours a day. Perhaps it’s so obvious, but that idea really shifted how I thought about work and life and creativity. I trust my creative mind is always working, and I understand part of the reason I get to be creative is because my job helps my basic needs get met. The subconscious mind is magical, and it loves to do creative work. I know it’s always getting me ready for my next writing session.

HOW DO YOU THINK WRITING EDUCATION WILL CHANGE IN THE NEXT 5-10 YEARS?

For the last 10 years, I’ve seen people reorient their lives, review their priorities, and attempt to live their values. That drew many of them to writing education, and I think many of them discovered that all around writing education is the idea of community. Writers coming in, a little nervous, to that first class, and then feeling embraced by their peers. So I think any opportunity for writers to foster and sustain community will continue to be really important in the landscape of education.

The pandemic also democratized some important tools like Zoom, and got people to use asynchronous learning management systems effectively, so they know it can be convenient to get involved,

and they can engage in course offerings from almost any institution. That radical change will continue to have a ripple effect in writing education. I think we’re going to see a higher demand for online instruction, and that’s going to extend access to all kinds of programs for a lot of people, but especially folks in rural areas who can access an internet connection. At the same time people will be seeking other kinds of inperson community, like reading events or book launches.

TO MFA OR NOT TO MFA? WHY IS THAT THE QUESTION?

It’s not really the question, and I think this conversation has gone on far too long. The MFA is great, but the only thing it gets you that you can’t get without it is a college-level teaching job. There are a lot of awesome resources available through them as well, like membership in AWP, a built-in cohort of peers, and financial support. But not everyone can take years off from life for a residential program. Not everyone can afford the price tag of a low residency program. I worry when I feel like the MFA is some kind of badge that demonstrates an individual’s commitment to their writing. It is that, for some people, but forgoing the MFA doesn’t mean someone lacks commitment.

We’re so lucky to live in these times when writing community and education is so accessible. Social media networks writers near and far. Folks are popping up new literary organizations all over the place. And the increase in digital and POD publishing has made it easier to

get more writing in front of more readers.

I know someone is reading this and groaning, “What about quality?” And my question to them is, what about it? More people engaging in writing doesn’t mean the overall quality of what is written will go down. And the annual awards and such will continue to recognize people from a very small circle of writers. But so many stories need to be told, so many voices heard, and we are still in the midst of the renaissance allowing more and more people to contribute to literature. I think it’s great. And I think however you find your way into a literary community and a writing life is exactly the right way.

CAN YOU TALK ABOUT THE CONNECTION BETWEEN WRITING AND COMMUNITY?

I feel like that’s the undercurrent of everything I’ve shared so far. Writing must be done in isolation, but the actual words on paper belong to everyone eventually, whether it’s read aloud or printed on a page. Community is the final destination for our writing, and I think we are better, smarter, kinder, and more skillful writers when we embed ourselves in community. We need the focus who make us feel accountable to our writing, folks who cheer us on when doubt creeps in, and peers whose work inspires us to envision something that hasn’t been done before.

I’m going to revise—or refocus—what I’ve already said. Community is important, and however we each individually best experience community is what we need to seek out. For me, that means a lot of my community engagement happens on social media and in digital spaces because in-person stuff can make me feel really anxious. But I also know showing up—to your writing desk or to an event—is the first step for anything, so I try to challenge myself to be outside that comfort zone because that support is meaningful to my community.

At the end of the day, writing is a message passed from one person to another. Without the person on the receiving end, writing doesn’t mean much. So I think community is one of the most important ways we remain in dialogue with each other and with our art.

PURCHASE CHARLIE’S WORK:

Get Splice of Life: A Memoir in 13 Film Genres on Amazon Order Instructions between Takeoff and Landing on Bookshop.org

ABOUT CHARLIE:

Charles Jensen (he/him) is the author of the poetry collection Nanopedia and six chapbooks of poems. His third collection, Instructions Between Takeoff and Landing, was published by the University of Akron Press in 2022. His poetry has appeared in American Poetry Review, Crab Orchard Review, The Journal, New England Review, and Prairie Schooner, and essays have appeared in 45th Parallel, American Literary Review, and The Florida Review. He hosts The Write Process, a podcast in which one writer tells the story of crafting one work from concept to completion, and with Jovonnie Anaya co-hosts You Wanna Be on Top?, an episode-by-episode retrospective of America’s Next Top Model.

T h e U n i v e r s i t y o f G e o r g i a ’ s l o w - r e s i d e n c y M a s t e r o f F i n e

A r t s i n N a r r a t i v e M e d i a c a n h e l p f u l f i l l y o u r d r e a m s . B a s e d

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a n d e d i t o r s w h o r e p r e s e n t d i v e r s e e x p e r i e n c e s a n d

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BOOK REVIEWS

BOOK REVIEWS

BROKENWINGS, BROKENDREAMS

BY NICOLE GEBHARDT

Nicole B. Gebhardt’s memoir, Broken Wings, BrokenDreams, is a love story. It is a powerful description of living and loving through the devastating loss of her son Samuel. With open honesty, Gebhardt lays bare distressing details of her personal life which have contributed to her emotional state. Through this raw rendition of her journey she encourages other mothers to openly grieve the loss of a child as she acknowledges the despair through which she has traveled.

Her sorrow emanates from the pages, yet her thorough coverage of how a child’s death reverberates through the entire family unit makes this book a worthwhile read. Gebhardt gives her readers hope as she tells of the ways she has found to cope by incorporating new traditions of remembrance for her precious lost child.

While this book focuses on infant loss and miscarriage, it is a testament to feminine strength and resilience. The author journals her rise from despair and alcoholism to the new identity of accomplished teacher and life coach.

WHY DID YOU WRITE THIS BOOK?

The one thing I promised my son, Samuel—who passed away at just 9 weeks old—and the two babies I miscarried, was that one day, when I got clean and sober (I’m now 5½ years sober— woohoo!) and had healed from my past, I would make it my life’s mission to be a voice for everyone who has experienced infant loss and/or miscarriage. I want to help others turn their pain into purpose, just like I have.

I want you to know: you are not alone. It was not your fault. You can heal and find peace again after losing a child.

WHY SHOULD YOU READ THIS BOOK?

Here are the facts:

• 1 in 4 pregnancies ends in miscarriage.

• More than 2 million stillbirths occur globally each year, according to the World Health Organization.

• In the U.S., Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) accounts for approximately 38 deaths per 100,000 live births (based on CDC data).

Despite these staggering numbers, society rarely talks about this grief. There are few resources that truly teach you how to heal after experiencing pregnancy or infant loss—until now.

Broken Wings Broken Dreams is a groundbreaking book that quickly hit #1 on Amazon after its release. It offers powerful words of hope, heartfelt encouragement, and a step-by-step guide to healing and finding peace after the devastation of child loss. This book teaches practical tools to help you rebuild your life and begin living fully again.

There is truly nothing else like this on the market. It’s already helped hundreds of people and continues to make a global impact.

WHO DOES THIS BOOK HELP THE MOST? WHO WAS IT WRITTEN FOR?

This book was written for individuals who are ready to heal, find peace, and learn how to live their best life again after pregnancy or infant loss. It’s not just a bestseller—it’s a lifeline. You can carry it with you, pick it up whenever you need comfort, and find strength in its pages.

Don’t miss out on a book that’s changing lives. It could change yours, too.

OTHER BOOKS WRITTEN

BY NICOLE

GEBHARDT:

Broken Wings

Broken Dreams: A Mother’s Life After Infant Loss

Miscarriage: The Healing Cocoon: A Mother’s Emergence

After Infant and Pregnancy Loss

Nicole B. Gebhardt, MS, CCLS, CECP is a highly accomplished best selling author, speaker, and transformational coach with a passion for helping families heal and find peace after experiencing pregnancy and infant loss. She also is a huge advocate for individuals struggling with addiction. With a Master’s degree in Human Development & Family Studies, specializing in Child Life from the University of Alabama, and a Bachelor’s degree in Business Communications from Florida State University, Nicole combines academic excellence with extensive hands-on experience in human development and mental health.

A Certified Child Life Specialist (CCLS), Nicole also holds certifications as a Sacred Usui Reiki Master, Holy Fire III® and Karuna 2® Reiki Master, and Certified Emotion Code Practitioner. As an active member of the National Speakers Association, she is a sought-after speaker. Nicole’s dedication extends beyond her professional credentials.

As a military spouse herself, she was recently named 2025 Washington, D.C. National Guard Spouse of the Year. She has volunteered in various leadership roles with the National Guard Bureau Spouses’ Club, the Air Force Officers’ Spouses Club of Washington, D.C., and other military support organizations. She has also served as a support group leader for infant loss and miscarriage across the country.

Her extensive career includes positions as Executive Director at two private preschools, the CEO and Founder of The Worthy Femme and a recognized expert in Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness. Nicole is also a licensed teacher, demonstrating her lifelong commitment to child welfare, family support, and making a difference in the lives of others.

For more information about Nicole and her work, visit :

• www.nicolebgebhardt.com

• spirituallighthousehealing.com

• emotioncodereiki.com

• Facebook

• LinkedIn • Instagram

AREENCHANTED FORESTSREAL

BY JENNA SHROEDER

Are Enchanted ForestsReal?

Yes, yes they are!

Are you ready? How steady is your heart? Here you’ll find a secret world through the keyhole of a mother’s imagination. At bedtime, mom and her baby girl bound into an Eden all its own. Author Jenna Schroeder welcomes you and your children to discover how a calm body, surrounded by love, imbued by a mom’s wisdom witnesses a paradise that grows within the family. The love poured into every page reminds every little girl that the world belongs to them. Snug within the ethereal bond between mother and daughter, the reader is convinced by the lightest of poetry to swim, fly, and sing beyond the stars. Unicorns, dino ROARS, and across every continent the two take on the world together. Mom takes time to taste the snow and see her daughter pause and be present. Children are heaven-sent, and the mother plants her firmly in the earth.

Every daughter will hear, “You are never alone. You are never alone. You are never alone.” Jenna Schroeder weaves this sentiment through a beautifully-soulful journey that proves girls can calm conquer the world – a world fraught with gorgeous gulches and oceans dotted by dolphins. But Momma’s always there, child. “You are never alone.” You believe. You, the reader, believe the courage in this book by the strength of the words within it. Married to gorgeous illustrations, you see both the surreal and literal landscape of the world. Yet, a child is allowed to dream. Not just in bed, but in life by a full, deep, centering breath – exhale a cosmos only mother and daughter dare explore. Bring this book home, howl. and allow your little girl to take on triceratops too. Climb a mountain. Pitch a palatial tent at the top and snuggle together aware there are enchanted forests. Take the time to dream and believe and take away what makes author Jenna Schroeder so special.

Where Did This Title Come From?

Originally, I had a different title, and this was the first line of the story. I realized it was the one that carried the most wonderment and excitement. It would lead the reader into a world of imagination—play becoming real, unicorns and dinosaurs—just like something little kids play at all the time. Seeing if they could use their imagination and actually go on a journey to find out.

My hope was that they would discover that enchanted forests are real… if they wanted them to be. What we see in the world is up to us. Sometimes, it takes a little bit of faith, a little bit of courage, and a little bit of fun to see that everywhere around us can be magic.

What brought on this story and inspired this book’s creation?

Honestly, during the pandemic, my four kids were in a double hybrid school situation. My two younger ones, who were

used to story hour, preschool circle time, and second-grade show-and-tell, were now glued to the computer, trying to gain that same kind of education with their amazing teachers through a screen. As I monitored their day, it made me think about younger children who were now missing out on that interaction with their playmates and teachers—the kind of learning where you roam around the story carpet, act out songs, and embark on little adventures together.

I realized one of the hardest parts of the pandemic was the loss of connection—because staying connected is so important to the human soul. And so, I wrote a poem.

After reading it to myself, I realized it was more than just a poem—it had the bones of a children’s story. And not just any kids’ book, but one that could feel like an experience shared. One that reminded kids of their imagination, their dreams, and the beautiful world around them. And one that reminded us, as adults, that when we experience life with each other, there is so much more beauty to enjoy.

I felt called, if you will, to make this book a reality—to spread a little reminder of kindness, beauty, and connection to a world that was going through such a hard time.

There are some emotional regulation techniques woven into this story. What brought you to incorporate those?

I’ve spent a lot of time in social work and working with children. Through that work, I’ve learned how important it is to remember to breathe, to not let fear take over, and to share what’s on your mind.

As adults, we forget this so easily. But for kids, it can mean the difference between stepping into something they want to do or feeling so afraid and alone that they miss out on an experience. I guess my mama’s heart (and social worker’s heart) just wants to encourage all of us to take a deep breath, be brave, and not be afraid to enjoy the world around us.

What do you hope readers feel during or after reading Are Enchanted ForestsReal?

My hope is that readers—both parents and children alike—feel a little less alone. That as they gaze at the beautiful, nature-inspired illustrations and read words that ring the bell for connection, they remember that we’re all in this together. So we might as well journey through life with that in mind—experiencing it together, resting together, overcoming challenges together, and embracing the beauty of it together.

Something that surprised you about the journey of this story?

One thing that took me by surprise was the picture for a line I wrote that became one of the most powerful in the book:

“So tell your fear it’s okay to be here, but it can’t be the leader in charge.”

I didn’t know how we would illustrate it, but I knew it had to be in the story. Then, when my friend Brian (the illustrator) returned with a page showing a mother and daughter looking into a reflection that transformed them into superheroes

after sharing their worries together—it took my breath away. It was a visual representation of the truth I’d been trying to share all along, made even more powerful through art. I never would’ve thought of that illustration myself, but he did.

It’s even harder to be the editor of your own work. It wasn’t until I started involving others that it truly became better. I went through a million different versions, and it was a learning experience deciding what stayed and what went.

One of my favorite moments was sitting on the couch with my son and daughter, reworking a stanza over and over. Then, they chimed in and helped me improve the lines for the elephants:

“So if you feel sunk, twist up your trunk and march along with me. Side by side, we share with pride to set our worries free.”

At the time, my younger son was really struggling with anxiety. We were literally walking through how to deal with it in real life. And here he was, co-writing this stanza with me. To me, it showed just how powerful it is to have someone you can safely share your worries with.

At its core, Are Enchanted Forests Real? is an invitation—an invitation to slow down, to wonder, to dream, and to connect. It’s a story that reminds us, both young and old, that courage isn’t about never feeling afraid; it’s about taking a deep breath and stepping forward anyway. It’s about finding magic in the world around us and, even more importantly, the beauty of the bond in being together in it.

Amazon: Are Enchanted Forests Real? Available in paperback/hardback/kindle

ABOUT JENNA:

Jenna Schroeder is an author, storyteller, and creative visionary who believes in the power of imagination, movement, and connection. She lives in Loveland, Ohio, with her family of six and their fluffy, lovable dog. Jenna’s writing spans from whimsical children’s books to engaging graphic novels, including Taco Cat Goat Cheese Pizza and the Case of the Missing Hat.

With a deep passion for working with children and families, Jenna has spent over a decade as a preschool dance teacher, fostering creativity, confidence, and emotional expression in young learners. She is also a yoga instructor and labor doula, dedicated to the mind-body-soul connection and the importance of emotional regulation. Beyond storytelling, she works at Dolphin Hat Games, helping create family-friendly games that spark laughter and bring people together around the world.

Jenna’s commitment to supporting children extends across multiple fields. She previously served as the Haiti Site Manager for Back2Back Ministries, providing holistic care for vulnerable children, and worked with AmeriCorps, assisting nonprofits in Baltimore. As the president of the Loveland Stage Company, she blends her love of performance and storytelling, bringing the magic of theater to her community.

She wrote Are Enchanted Forests Real? during the pandemic, inspired by a desire to spark wonder and a love for the world around us. You can follow her inspiring work for children at www.littlebirdpress.co and explore her writing for adults at www.jennaaschroeder.com.

INTERVIEWED BY CLIFFORD BROOKS

WHISPERSOFTHEFLIGHT

BY INAM

WHISPERS OF THE FLIGHT, a brilliant translation of an ancient story, Inam brings us a tale of self-discovery. Names like Rumi and Hafiz swirl through the delicacy of language without losing its punch. From the first page you feel as if you’re learning a secret to serenity - because you are. Inam never slips an agenda between the lines or force his opinion into the work. The whole story reminds me of Joseph Campbell’s “hero’s journey” idea behind nearly every tale that makes it last, creates a sense of immortality. We all have a journey to take, and if we want to transcend to our next, best selves, it will be beautifully painful at times.

Inam never hides behind his translation. I’ve read translations before that were terminally clunky. With others you sense you’re not getting all the subtle nuances needed to bond with a book. The book comes to you. This is a book to prepare for with an open mind and full heart. WHISPERS OF THE FLIGHT isn’t simply a passion project for Inam. No, this painter-turned-author knows there’s an urgency in this toxic time to get something real and wholesome into the hands of inquisitive readers.

I’ve read this book three times. What you’ll notice first is the gorgeous artwork that lures you behind the front cover. The art is exquisite. For years Inam painted, and still paints, in a rich, layered style. He brings that same eye for detail and depth into WHISPERS OF THE FLIGHT. Play some Miles Davis while you read and you’ll have a full-sensory experience.

I am fortunate enough to reach Inam. He’s won the SCE award for Best Artwork in Books. His book release was one of the biggest and most successful I’ve ever attended or heard of. Inam is a gentle soul that exudes a pure light that immediately puts you at ease. You’ll touch that sweet heartbeat through the pages. At the end you’ll pray more pages, more of the story. Inam didn’t labor with this translation for himself. He did it for you.

Did you feel spiritually connected to this artwork as it poured from this wonderful story?

Yes, every brushstroke felt like a prayer, each color a whisper from the birds themselves. As the story unfolded, the canvas became a mirror of the soul’s journey—restless, seeking, and finally, still. In that sacred silence between word and image, I felt something greater move through me.

What made you choose this myth?

This myth chose me, I feel—as if the birds had been circling above, waiting for me to listen. Their journey spoke to the ache in my soul, the longing for unity, for truth. In their flight, I saw our own—a timeless search for the beloved within.

How can people buy artwork like this and your other works?

Thank you for your interest—it's always a joy to share what flows from both pen and brush. My artwork, including the cover of Whispers of the Flight, is displayed and available at www.inam.art. Each piece there carries its own story, waiting for the right soul to receive it.

Where can people buy the book?

The flight of the birds now rests between pages, waiting to be heard. Whispers of the Flight is available on all major platforms—Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Walmart, and more. Wherever stories are sold, the journey awaits those ready to listen with the heart.

What revelation did you discover about yourself as you created this masterpiece?

In creating Whispers of the Flight, I discovered that the longing I once thought was mine alone was shared by every soul in search of meaning. I saw that my scars, my silence, even my colors, were part of a greater story unfolding. The revelation was simple, yet profound: I was not just telling a tale—I was remembering who I truly am.

FICTION

FICTION

IMAGINE A BABY CRYING IN THE DARK

BY RILEY E. SMITH

Pen’s mom always calls when Pen is in the bathroom. It is a curse; her mother never calls when Pen is rotting on the couch, bored, with nothing to do. She always calls when Pen has only a few minutes in between work and errands, a few precious minutes to empty her bladder and wash her hands carefully.

I hear you say, “Why not ignore it? Her mom can leave a voicemail.”

Pen has tried this. After the call comes the texts. First: Trying to reach you. Call me back.

Then another: Important. Need to talk.

More: Are you okay? Where are you?

They stack up. The texts mention Pen’s father, his concern about her living situation (You’re in a dangerous area, Penny) and the local weather (Did you feel the earthquake in Sacramento?). Pen lives one hundred miles from Sacramento, but her father tells her she’s gambling on the San Andreas fault line.

Ignoring a call gets dangerous when the texts stop having question marks and go back to periods. I guess you don’t want to talk to me. I guess we’re ignoring each other now. This isn’t how a family behaves.

Pen does not wait for the question phase. She presses the speaker phone button before she washes her hands, even though that’s disgusting and makes her want to barf. She makes a mental note, one she’ll never remember, to clean her phone screen.

“Hi, mama, what’s up?”

She speaks brightly, no trace of stress, not one molecule of annoyance. Only joy.

“I saw you picked your bridesmaids! How fun. I love Gabby; she’s going to be a perfect maid of honor.”

Pen’s mother is friends with all of Pen’s friends on Instagram. Pen is not friends with her own mother on Instagram. She asked for that boundary, and it was granted; Pen called that a win with her therapist, but did not tell him how betrayed she felt when Gabby posted a meme and tagged Pen’s mother: Lily, you’ll love this.

Gabby must have posted about the bridesmaid proposal.

Pen’s mother tells her, “You could have done something nicer for the proposal box. I mean, Gabby has been so sweet to you since you were kids. She was always willing to drive you around, have you over to her place. I thought we should start paying her mom for dealing with you after school!”

Pen laughs. She has heard this since middle school: she is a burden to Gabby, who is so pretty and popular, and could have anyone she wanted for her best friend.

Pen tells her mother, “My bridesmaids all said they didn’t want fancy boxes. Instead, I’m paying for their room and board on the bachelorette trip.”

“You’re paying for everybody? Oh, Penny,” her mother said mournfully, “You can’t afford that.”

“I wouldn’t do it if I couldn’t afford it.”

“If you had a good job, maybe, but instead you’re doing that design stuff. I never thought that, when we paid for all that school, you’d end up teaching to pay the bills. Teachers don’t make anything, you know that, so I don’t know why…”

Pen has an art fellowship with the Museum of Modern Art. She teaches some classes in design principles, mostly to college students or adults changing careers. She spends the bulk of her time on graphic art pieces for the museum itself. It is a prestigious fellowship, with a lot of competition, and a generous stipend.

She has explained this to her mother. Her mother does not understand the terms “naturalist” or “futurist,” but her mother understands “money” and “not enough.”

Her mother interrupts herself. “Do you mean Harold is paying for it?”

Pen’s mother calls Pen’s fiancee by what she’s decided is his full name, even though legally, his name is Hank. His birth certificate reads Hank, his own mother calls him Hank, but Pen’s mother insists on Harold. She says it with reverence, like his name is a book of the Bible.

“We’re figuring it out,” Pen says quickly, “How are you doing?”

This is a safe question, usually. If Lily is talking about her own life, Lily is happy. Or at least, she is not mad at Pen.

“I’m fine. I have great news,” her mother says, “I’m glad you brought up the bachelorette trip, because Gabby told me what weekend it is, and I’m free, so I’ll be able to join you girls in New Orleans!”

Pen is still in the bathroom. She has not pulled her pants up. She has only managed to carefully answer her mother, and wash her hands quietly but completely.

Her laugh echoes against tiles she doesn’t have time to clean. “Good one, Mom. I’m sure Dad would love that, you going on a party weekend without him.”

“What does your father have to do with it?” her mom asks. “This is about us girls having a good time together.”

Pen is speechless. No, she’s brainless. Her mother’s words are so disconnected from reality that her brain sparks, short-circuiting, as she tries to understand.

“Let me know what hotel to book. I’ll get my own room; I don’t want to invade your space. But it will be like old times, before you met Harold… You were always my best friend, Penny Girl.”

Pen’s eye twitches. Her GP told her she has a potassium deficiency, and that is the cause of the full-body shakes she gets when she hears loud noises or suffers from surprises. Pen has been eating her bananas as ordered, but still, her eye twitches.

Pen knows her line here. “You’re still my best friend, Mom.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re going to make me cry. We should wear matching outfits! Like we did to your homecoming dance, remember? You looked adorable. You were so flat-chested, your little boobies couldn’t hold up the dress. It felt so special when you asked me to chaperone.”

Pen remembers. She had not asked her mother to chaperone. Her mother had signed up, like she signed up for every trip, every event, every PTA meeting.

Her mother looked beautiful in the strapless emerald green dress she picked. Pen remembers having to hold up her own version of the dress all night, both the top and the bottom; it was too long on her, and the bodice was baggy on her A-cups. It kept slipping, so she could barely dance.

Pen clears her throat. She can’t do that again. She is thirty-two years old; this is her bachelorette party.

“Mom, I don’t know if the bachelorette trip will be very fun for you, though.”

Silence. Pen wonders if the connection dropped. She wishes the connection dropped.

She ventures on. “It’s me, Gabby, and a couple of the girls going to bars. It’ll be very lowkey. Like, we’re not going to drink a ton. We just want to see the city. But I hear it’s pretty dirty nowadays. Not cleaned up like Vegas. You… I don’t think… You won’t like it.”

“Are you uninviting me?”

Pen chokes on her first response: I didn’t invite you in the first place.

“I just don’t think it’s worth all that trouble.”

“You don’t think I’m worth the trouble?”

“No, mom, that’s not…” Pen tried to take a deep breath, but she didn’t have time.

“I was so excited, Penny. I thought this was our chance… You’ve been so distant lately. I barely get a text from you. When I do, you don’t tell me anything. I want to know about your life.”

“I appreciate that, Mom, but… It’s not a normal thing, you know? For the mother of the bride to come to the bachelorette party.”

Her mom laughs. “Who cares about normal? This is about celebrating our friendship!” Her tone gets playful, like she’s discovering the prank. “Who told you to uninvite me? Was it your father? He’s so jealous sometimes.”

“I…” Pen looks at the mirror. Her eyes, her nose, her lips, are all from her mother. The ghost-white scar on her cheek is also from her mother.

“Listen, sweetheart, your father and I will pay for your travel and your room. And you should rethink your grand gesture. Paying for everyone is crazy! I know you want to be gracious to your friends, but it’s easy to be generous with someone else’s money, you know? It is Harold’s money, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to spend it on a bunch of girls.”

Pen’s lips move. She reads them in the mirror: I hate you. I hate that you made me. I tried to unmake myself in college, but you caught me, and you’ll never let me forget that you gave me life and kept me from giving it back.

“Penny Girl? Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes. Mom, listen, I really want to spend more time with you, but I think it would be more special if I came to visit you some weekend. The bachelorette trip will be so busy, we won’t get to talk.”

“If you don’t want me to come, just say so.” “It’s not that–”

“Are you mad at me?”

It’s not that I’m mad at you. It’s that I hate myself for coming from you.

“No, Mom.”

But that isn’t enough. It doesn’t stop Lily from choking up, her voice filled to bursting with tears.

“I don’t get what happened. When did you get away from me? Who taught you to hate me?”

“I don’t… I don’t…” Pen looks at the little white scar.

Her mom is nearly incoherent now with sobs, but phrases get through. “I gave you everything, I have nothing, you are a taker, Penelope, you’ve always been a taker. When did you learn… How did you become… You’re lying. You’re a liar. Who told you… Why don’t you… When did you stop… Why can’t you… I tried to raise you to be nice, to be considerate, to be good.”

Pen knows better than to interrupt her. She lets her mother go until the crying stops.

Her mom begs her, “Please, tell me what I did to make you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, mama. I love you.” The effort of saying the L word scratches Pen’s throat. Hot, razor-bladed wings crawl through her esophagus to carry the commonplace phrase through the phone lines.

Pen whispers, her throat bloody from effort, “Why can’t I have one weekend, just me and my friends, Mom?”

“They’re your friends, but I’m not? You think any of those girls love you like I do? You should hear what Gabby says when we chat. Maid of Honor, indeed.”

Now the razors are flying through Pen’s brain. Her mom must be lying. Gabby loves her, has always loved her, even though she had boobs in middle school and Pen didn’t, even though Gabby got better grades, even though Gabby is a six-figure consultant with a big office and name-brand pantsuits.

I hear you say, “Why is Pen listening to any of this? Why not hang up?”

I want you to imagine a baby in the dark. The baby cannot see, cannot understand; she only senses, from evolutionary memory, that there is an Angel of Death in the closet, and it wants to devour the baby.

The baby cries. Her tiny, soft butt hurts from a full diaper, but that is not the reason she cries. She cries because she is so cold in her crib, it is nothing like the womb, and she can see the glimmering scythe, it is the only thing she can see in the dark.

Then, the light. The Angel of Death is gone, pushed back to the shadows. Here is the baby’s deliverer, the most beautiful thing in the world, the one who gives food from her breast and safety from her belly. But the deliverer does not touch the baby. The deliverer stares at her, whispering something the baby cannot know.

“I hate you.”

The baby cries harder. She must be picked up. She is so cold, and the deliverer is warm, safe, food “Stop crying. Stop it. Stop it!”

But the baby doesn’t know what this means. She only knows how far away the deliverer is. She reaches out her tiny arms, straining her fledgling muscles. If only she could reach the deliverer! A blessing: the deliverer leans in close. The baby finally feels warmth: hot breath on her tiny pink cheek. She can’t stop crying, but she’s quieter, her eyes finding the deliverer’s.

The deliverer leans closer over the crib’s gate to whisper in the baby’s ear: “Shut. Up.”

She stands up. She leaves, turning the light off, slamming the door.

The baby is left in the darkness, but she is not alone. The Angel of Death steps into the room, lifting off its mask, ready to claim her. The baby is frozen with fear, but she is silent.

Pen stares at her mother’s features in the mirror. Her mother’s voice, like her own but louder, does not stop. It does not even slow down.

The bathroom is cold. Pen shakes, her body trying to self-regulate, but it’s not good enough. She is half-naked and crying, her phone muted, so only her mother can speak.

The Angel of Death is here, too. It is in the razor she scrapes against her legs. It is in the pain pills she didn’t finish when she broke her collarbone last spring. It is out the glass door to her balcony, over the top of the railing; it waits for her on the concrete below.

But there is also a note taped to the mirror.

Be the woman you needed when you were a little girl.

She pulls up her bottoms. The tight leggings cling to her thick thighs and her gently curving belly. They even cup the little love-mound that protects her genitals.

She hears squealing. She picks up the baby in the crib, holds her against her warm belly, and she tells her, “Cry. Cry, little girl. I will hold you.”

But the baby is done crying.

Now, she wants to feed.

ABOUT RILEY:

Riley E. Smith is a writer and comedian; she has performed stand-up, sketch, and improv comedy in Los Angeles, Houston, and the UK. She’s dabbled in clowning (to face our fears, we must become them). She has also taught improv comedy at the California Institute of Technology. She earned a BA in English from Rice University, including a semester abroad at Cambridge University, where she was published in Pembroke College’s annual review. She also published fiction with The Anti-Misogyny Club and Bryant Street Shorts. Her poetry has been featured in R2 the Rice Review and Forever Endeavour.

THE SWAMP SIREN

BY DANIEL REUFMAN

Ernie Carrion had come into the Okefenokee Swamp with one purpose—snakes. Like his father and grandfather before him, Ernie sold snakes by the barrel to the University of Georgia Medical School. There, pathologists, or toxicologists, or some other-ologists milked them for venom. With all of the vipers in south Georgia—cottonmouths, copperheads, coral snakes, and three species of rattlers—snakebites were common, and the doctors needed their venom to create life-saving antivenins. Getting the snakes was rarely easy, and it was a task best left for after dark. Ernie had recently given up high school and traded in his mundane life for that of a full-time swamper. He was thin, blond, and well-tanned. He wore a stained t-shirt with cut-off sleeves that revealed well-muscled arms, and his hands were covered with dark stains of what looked like grease.

The silver moon shone overhead and its light glittered against the surface of the water. Ernie sat in his old pirogue; it was the same one his grandfather had used to explore the everchanging channels. He stirred the swamp with his wooden paddle, looking for any sign of movement. In the dark, bullfrogs thrummed from every direction and when Ernie raised his lantern, green eyeshine surrounded him.

Too bad, really, he thought. If they needed frogs, I’d be in an out faster than grass through a goose. But frogs were of little use to him just then. Maybe he’d grab a couple for himself on the way out, but at the moment, he needed to focus on what mattered. He needed snakes.

Ernie trawled on, scanning the water for any sign of movement. At first there was just the signs of the current swirling around the cypress knees that lined the shallows like dragon teeth. In the shallows, among the lilies, a few small gators drifted log like, their rudderlike tails lolling side-to-side. Finally, he locked onto the thing he had come to find. A long, thin shape skimmed the water’s surface. It was moving fast, but Ernie knew he could catch it. He pulled the pirogue along, keeping his eyes clamped on the rippling water as he made his move. The boat glided beside the long, slender shape, and Ernie pulled in his paddle.

His target was bigger than he expected, its long body sweeping back and forth. His heart pounded so hard that he could feel his pulse throbbing in his throat. He rubbed his hands together and drew a deep, calming breath.

Here you go, he thought. Like you done a thousand times.

In a single strike, Ernie’s hand shot down, right on target, and he felt his hand clamp around wet, undulating scales. It tried to pull free, but failed as Ernie doubled his grip and pulled the viper hissing and spitting from the water, his fingers gripping just behind the base of its skull. The snake’s jaw was open and unhinged. Beads of venom glistened in the moonlight as they drip-drip-dripped from the animals exposed fangs. The snake writhed, twisting its long, sinuous body around Ernie’s arm.

With his free hand, Ernie lifted his lantern and studied the snake’s markings—eastern diamond back. The sight of it made his hands go numb, and he almost dropped it in the boat with him.

Why did it have to be a diamond back?

Of all the snakes in South Georgia, that one was the worst, at least for Ernie. More than once, he had taken a pretty nasty bite from a diamondback. The last time, it didn’t take long for his skin to turn black, and he wasn’t sure he’d make it to the hospital in time. Ever since that bite, he swore he’d do his best to never mess with diamondbacks again. Not if he could help it, anyway.

Ernie gripped harder then, just to be safe. The rattler’s body twisted up his arm and the massive snake hissed again.

“Well, now that I got you,” he said, “might as well make a buck off you, right?”

Ernie put down his lantern, uncoiled the snake from his forearm, and dropped the animal into the barrel that was positioned in the middle of the boat. Once inside, the snake’s rattle trilled and the plastic barrel acted as an amplifier. So long as we don’t tip, we’ll be fine, Ernie thought. Then he tossed the lid on top of the barrel, grabbed his paddle, and pulled himself deeper into the darkness.

Just five snakes in—two copperheads, two cottonmouths, and that lone rattler—Ernie realized that he was drifting close to his grandfather’s old camp. There wasn’t much left of it, just the skeletal remains of a tumbledown shack on one of the small islands in the northeast channel. Still, that was where he first learned to fish and hunt, so he liked to row by and see it whenever he had the chance.

As he neared the bend, he finally heard it. A noise that had no business being in the middle of the swamp at all, let alone at that hour. Ernie cocked his head and thought, was that a baby?

He sat still and listened carefully.

“Can’t be,” Ernie whispered to the night. “Not here?”

Yet, the fussing continued. He plunged his paddle into the water and angled it. The pirogue swung around the bend just as a gust of wind swept in his direction, and as it did, the fussing sound turned wail.

Impossible. It has to be something else, he thought.

But there wasn’t anything else that sounded like that. Not in this swamp, anyway. He pulled his paddle up and held his breath, trying to get a bead on the source. It seemed to be coming from another channel to the east of his grandfather’s old camp. He slid his paddle back into the water and nosed the pirogue in the direction of the cries.

For a while he continued on, the cry of the baby growing louder on the night air. Then, on a small island ahead of him, Ernie spotted a pulsing, red light through the dense undergrowth. The light came in slow, steady flashes, like the hazard lights of a broken-down car on the side of the road. Only this light, while dim, was broad, covering much of the island in front of him.

“The heck is that?” Ernie breathed to himself. He squinted at the small strip of land, searching for the source of the light. Where was it coming from? He supposed someone could be camping out there, but if he were going to pitch a tent for the night, he’d have picked some higher ground, not some low island that was apt to be threatened by the next tide. Could it be the army? Sometimes they brought the reservists down from the base in Waycross for survival training, but no. When they did that, Ernie always ran into sentries telling folks that the area was closed, soldiers who would redirect them to less convenient channels. He’d have run into someone by now, if that was the case.

The baby wailed again, and this time Ernie got a clear direction. The cries were closer and they were coming from that island with the strange, pulsing light.

For a while Ernie drifted off shore, thinking. He had snakes to catch. He was already running behind and with only five snakes in the barrel, it’d hardly be worth the trip. Then again, if there was a baby on that island, something about it didn’t seem right. Maybe whoever was out there was lost or hurt. If they were in trouble, what sort of man would just leave them in the wilderness to an uncertain fate without at least checking in?

A yellow dog is what, Ernie thought. Southern men don’t run from someone in need.

It was the code of the swamp. No matter who you came across, whether you got on or not, you always lent a hand when someone was in trouble.

Ernie sighed and looked at the barrel. He knew what he needed to do. He needed to find that baby. Just to make sure. With that, he pulled himself toward the island, through the mucky shallows, and nosed the front of his pirogue up onto the bank.

Once he was sure that his boat was secure, Ernie climbed out onto what passed for dry land in the Okefenokee. His heavy boots squelched as he trudged his way through the knee-high swamp cabbage and mayapples.

The red light continued to pulse, but the intervals had become more random, and as he made his way toward firmer ground, the child’s cries softened to a whimper. He crept further inland until he caught glimpse of someone crouching with their back to him.

Ernie stopped dead. The silhouette’s shoulders heaved and in addition to the baby’s whimper, he heard something else. Sobbing. A woman sobbing at the base of an old cypress.

A twig snapped underfoot as he inched wordlessly forward. The shadowy figure went suddenly, irreversibly still and the night went silent. The dim, flashing light continued, though he couldn’t seem to find its source. Ernie peered through the darkness. He could barely make out the woman’s outline in front of him. The silhouette rose and turned to face him.

“Hello?” Ernie said gently. “I’m not here to hurt y’all or nothing.”

The silhouette drifted away from him, folding itself into the shadows of the trees until he lost it completely.

“I just—I heard. Well, it sounded,” he hesitated. “I needed to see if y’all were alright.” Ernie scanned the darkness and his stomach fluttered. Why didn’t he think to grab his lantern? It was right there in the pirogue.

He threw a glance over his shoulder. The dim yellow light was just visible through the leaves. Starting to turn back, he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his and whirled to face it. Nothing.

“Y’all need help? I can get you out of here if you’re lost. Could call somebody when we get back to my truck.”

He scanned the shadows around him and noticed for the first time, the source of the intermittent red light. It was small metal box covered with fresh-cut foliage. With one hand, he cleared away some of the leaves and felt the cold metal of something underneath. At his touch, the noise of the fussing infant returned. It was just what he heard from the pirogue. Was this the baby?

As he started to clear off the device, a low growl reverberated around him. The sound swelled in the air and Ernie felt a shiver run the length of his spine. Despite the hot summer night, Ernie felt himself go suddenly cold. Is this some sort of trap? Ernie wondered.

The red light pulsed—pulsed—pulsed under his nose. He wanted to turn toward the sound of whatever was behind him, but he was frozen to the spot. The silhouette separated itself from the shadows again. It crouched, circling him, like a primeval predator surveying its prey. He could not make out its face or features, just the dull glow of what appeared to be eyes. And just as his mind registered the pain, there was a flash of teeth. Teeth that were almost—but not quite—human.

ABOUT DANIEL:

Daniel Ruefman is an emerging author of dark fantasy and horror. His poetry and literary prose has been published in more than 100 periodicals, including THE BARELY SOUTH REVIEW, BURNINGWORD, CHAPTER HOUSE JOURNAL, DIALOGIST, THE HAMILTON-STONE REVIEW, and THIN AIR MAGAZINE, among others. To support his writing habit, Daniel has taught at several colleges and universities throughout Appalachia--from Pittsburgh, PA to Statesboro, GA. Today, when he’s not writing, he can be found teaching at the University of Wisconsin--Stout.

CHECKING OUT

BY NIKOLETTA GJONI

The grocery delivery shopper ran inside moments before the sky fully cracked open and unleashed a deluge of silver needled rain—the first storm of the new season; his second summer in this role. The automatic doors slid open and quietly closed behind him, leaving the smell of wet, metallic pavement outside with the storm, a sure sign that warmer weather had arrived.

Inside, the store’s A.C. was already running high and the sudden shift in the air around him made the shopper shudder.

“We close in twenty,” a slow-speaking employee muttered to him as he grabbed a basket. Her collar was curled under itself, and a faded stain sat to the side of her large, left breast that hung closer to her midsection. She sounded bored—tired and ready to go home.

The shopper nodded in acknowledgement and made his way to the produce section. Within him, he echoed the lone employee’s sentiments; he, too, was ready to go home but one last order had come through the app just as he had texted his girlfriend that he was heading back shortly; just as he had remembered that they had gotten into a fight about the definition of a real job, and she hadn’t messaged him since. So, he accepted the order, punched in a new address in his GPS system, and made his way to the grocery store in time before it closed.

The first item on the list was mirepoix but a note was added alongside the request: If they’re out, separate purchases of carrots, onions, and celery is fine. Thanks!

The shopper made his way to where most of the pre-sliced vegetables sat in plastic tubs, their color muted and a little dull, and he wondered why anyone would pay double when they could just as easily do the chopping at home. He plucked a container from a stack and put it in the basket.

At first, the job had been stressful. He had applied to be a shopper and delivery driver while looking for full-time work, but the more time that passed, the emptier his inbox continued to sit, application after application for nondescript office job titles going unacknowledged. The apartment he shared with his girlfriend began to fill with the weight of unspoken expectations, and so he cast out wider nets for any job that was hiring. He got an email three days later and had downloaded the shopping delivery app by week’s end.

1 bag of golden potatoes (organic)

1 root of fresh ginger (organic)

3 lemons (organic)

His ratings weren’t great with many of his first runs. In fact, they were horrible, and he couldn’t believe he was worried about losing this job. The shopper would zigzag all over stores trying to find items; replacing unfound ones with the wrong ones, or simply refunding altogether because he couldn’t find what had been requested. One time, he dropped off a single bag with a tub of nonfat Greek yogurt and Lucky Charms because he claimed he hadn’t found anything else on the list. Another time, he confused cilantro for rosemary because that’s where the cilantro had been placed and he didn’t bother to read the packaging. In both cases, he got no stars and no tip.

The air in his apartment continued to thicken whenever his girlfriend was also home, and the not-too-large onebedroom felt like one large plastic bag pinched shut by an invisible hand, the oxygen slowly extinguishing out of it; he’d

take any orders that came his way, day or night, just to get out of there.

In time, he began to grow comfortable with different stores’ layouts, knowing the backup spots to search if he couldn’t find a particular item. For example, all cheeses were rarely bunched together. Cottage cheese sat with sour cream while mascarpone sat with cream cheese. That’s how he found out cream cheese would make a suitable substitute for mascarpone if the latter wasn’t available. He later searched mascarpone on his phone after dropping off the delivery and learned what it was, finding himself craving an airy Tiramisu in the middle of a stranger’s driveway.

Before long, the shopping excursions turned into games. The shopper would time himself on runs; learning store layouts became its own kind of mental stimulation. It was a game of strategy, and his mind would begin to weave absurd life or death situations on these runs. He was a soldier and needed to make it through the aisles and out the door before a bomb exploded; he was a detective on the verge of saving a kidnap victim. He was everything but a grocery man and he’d get upset if he realized he’d missed an item and would have to turn back to find the right aisle. In his mind, he was already dead, and the game was over.

Rotisserie chicken (please ask if it’s gluten free!)

Almond flour crackers; sea salt and rosemary flavor (certified gluten free)

Dietary specifications were always the hardest to accommodate because not all stores were stocked equally. He had once refunded nearly every item on one order and the person had sent him a pissed text asking if he was out shopping in the middle of fucking nowhere.

He walked over to the hot food section, but everything had been cleared. No prepared foods, no rotisserie chickens, no associates working behind the counters. The shopper did a slow turn in place as if getting a better view of the area would unveil a chicken. He pulled out his phone, hit the refund button, and added a note saying there was no hot food available.

Would you like me to replace it with chicken breasts?

He waited a few moments for a reply before sticking his phone back in his pocket and moved towards the meat and poultry section, just in case. A small fist of tension sat lodged in his ribcage. Who the fuck even asks for a whole cooked chicken at almost eleven at night, he thought to himself.

His pocket buzzed once and by the time he’d fished it out, it had buzzed twice. No.

Thank you.

The fist in his ribcage bloomed open and the fingers reached through the bones like a prison cell’s bars, poking and prodding his chest as if he had been hollowed out. He remembered what his sister had told him on a call once when he was crying that he couldn’t catch his breath. He stood in front of the yolky chickens, fatty and yellow and stacked under fluorescent lights, counted his breaths and slowly released, thinking about maybe becoming a vegetarian.

He let out one long breath before moving away from the refrigerated section while muttering curse words under his breath. He should’ve gone home to his angry girlfriend who was probably thinking of ways to make a clean break. He should’ve gone home after the high of doing an old lady’s full grocery run and finding everything but the frozen waffles brand she had requested. She had opened the door as he was leaving the bags at her doorstep and asked him if he would mind bringing them in for her.

Afterwards, he had gotten in his car feeling a sense of fulfillment. It would have been a good note to end on, a good story to tell his girlfriend, to show her that he was, on occasion, doing

something valuable.

[ATTENTION SHOPPERS, ATTENTION. WE ARE CLOSING IN 10 MINUTES, PLEASE TAKE YOUR ITEMS TO THE NEAREST OPEN REGISTER]

1 box of elbow macaroni (gluten free)

The shopper always had a habit of buckling under pressure. He loved Jeopardy as a kid but his mind blanked at every clue and if he ever got an answer right, it’s because he stumbled towards it just as a contestant was spilling out the first syllable. He had to pick up the pace and prayed the store had everything else he needed.

Nasal spray

Vicks VapoRub

2 boxes of lotion infused Puffs tissues

Kettle & Fire chicken broth (gluten free)

The shopper grabbed the tissues before hurriedly turning back towards the food aisles. He hated when the list made no sense, when people shoved things in their imaginary cart without any sense of order. He imagined the store employee tapping her fingers on the counter after making the announcement, her eyes half closed and ready for sleep, watching him dart from one side of the store to the other like a frazzled hamster in his cage. His mind filled with white noise, the same as it did during Jeopardy.

He doubled back to the pharmacy section which thankfully sat in front of the registers. These essentials were always the easiest to find and by the time he had tossed the nasal spray in the basket, he pitied the woman he was shopping for who was clearly sick and waiting for relief to be dropped off at her front door. He felt bad and cursed himself for getting angry about the chicken. He was always cursing himself, he thought.

When he reached the one open register, he was surprised to find two others in line before him. He hadn’t seen them wandering around and had assumed he was the only one making a much-needed late night stop. With each movement of their hands, plucking items from their baskets and adding them to the conveyor belt, he eyed their goods and disjointedly pieced together their home lives, wondering how close he was to being right.

Frosted Mini Wheats

Six pack of Coke Zero

Windex

Kraft singles

A pack of soft glow light bulbs

PARTITION

Milk Bone dog treats

Carton of eggs

Half and half

Folgers dark roast

Two (greenish) bananas

The shopper did a once over of both people, wondering if what they had bought matched how they looked. The one buying the Kraft singles and soda was a woman who could’ve been between thirty and forty-five. He imagined her latenight run was in anticipation of tomorrow’s breakfast and maybe lunch making for the kids. He looked at her again, noting

her black leggings and high socks; hair in a messy topknot and eyes glued to her phone, mascara smudged just beneath her bottom lashes. He decided that yes, she could have been a mom.

The second person in line was a graying middle-aged man. The shopper thought he looked lonely which explained the Milk Bone treats, and he wondered what kind of breed the dog was. The shopper turned his attention to the candy section and waited his turn, giving the others the optics of privacy. By the time he walked up to the register, the sick woman’s items were already halfway scanned, and he found himself holding a Kinder chocolate egg in one hand, ready to tell the cashier that he would pay for it separately and to put it aside. Those chocolate eggs had been emptied of toys for at least two decades in the U.S., the shopper knew this. But the promise of it once having held something—the egg shaped like an idea that refused to be phased out—felt like what he wanted to say to his girlfriend when he’d go home to present it to her: There was once something in this relationship. Can there be again?

The automatic doors slid open, and a waft of warm, wet air greeted him, the rain having slowed, but the sky still pulsing with occasional lightning and rumbles. The shopper ran for his car trying to dart in between the fat raindrops as if they were bullets but missed.

He’ll make the twelve-minute drive to the sick woman’s house and drop off her bags; he’ll back out of her driveway and go far enough down the road to pull over without feeling like a loiterer in a neighborhood that wasn’t his. His phone will light up with a text from his girlfriend but will soon be overridden with an incoming tip and rating alert from the shopping app. Though he’ll feel that fist form again in his chest, the fat fingers of anxiety squeezing his insides like they’re made of soft clay, he’ll leave the text unread, instead practicing his retorts and resignations on the twenty-minute drive home, the chocolate egg sitting in the cup holder, ready to be split open and reveal its hollow insides.

Nikoletta Gjoni is a writer living outside of Washington, D.C. Her work has appeared in the 2023 Rising Stars London Independent Story Prize anthology and has been previously nominated for the PEN/Robert J. Dau prize, Best of the Net, and Best Microfiction. She was a 2024 scholarship recipient for the Salty Quill Writers Retreat where she worked towards completing her first novel. View Gjoni’s publications at www.ngjoni.com.

THE FREEDOM ROADS OF MAHOGANY

BY VIKKI C.

If this is deemed a letter, I have written many of such, to people like yourself. People whose remote lives become a part of my own when looking through a window to history. Those I’ll never meet, but learn to love anyway. Think of all the songs that travelled the loneliest roads with us, hoping to be played again. To start over as a fragrance in a wide field where another might walk, equally alone. This is one of those ineffable stories you’d wish to continue in your own voice, in your own city, when listening to the soundtrack of rain — or change.

It started as all small days in the heartland – Satie’s Gymnopédies playing cautiously on the turntable, the distant sound of the Atlantic’s heaving waves like a mother’s hands motioning goodbye in a silent language. There was of course, the loyal horse lifting its smooth head to greet what must have been a June morning. Something of the dry heat above the damp grasses proclaiming what humans cannot — a harsh measure of time, a child’s laughter eroded by distant engines — the soft flutes of river reeds obsessed with my lengthening shadow.

I photographed their wavering forms, how they marked the fluctuating water level, like an anticipation of flood or drought – some extreme act of God we could never predict. For hours I sat painting them against the dimming light. I loved them in the way I loved the pastoral dream – because their music made my enemies weak. Softened their voices. Miraculously made my father apologise – with real actions that occasionally brought the city’s wealth a little closer to the musk of a dilapidated barn — its hay bleached by another somnolent summer.

This was labour in the 21st century, waking with your shallow pockets, moving from role to role, dust settling over the dialogues we never exchanged. No space for making serene memories, only loud dollar bills that curled in a cruel fist. Bills that smelled of rosemary and sage on rare, good days — and diesel and chain smoking for the remaining days we lost count of. Meanwhile, the soft bruise in my side purpled in the way of rotting bougainvillaeas which Mother refused to clear from the yard.

She watched my decay too, in my irregular breathing, since I was young – thinking I’d outgrow it eventually. She believed no medication could alleviate the anomalies, just as no stimulus or bail-out could rescue a nation’s depression. It took me a long crying session and a month of anxiety to convince her to take me to hospital for further checks. The swallows seemed to fly lower that September, fewer in their formation, but still flying, the way an arrow arcs, determined to pierce through the miles, the years, as if migrating were just a more graceful description for exile.

But three thousand miles doesn’t make a country dissolve, no matter which side of the Gulf coast you stand looking at it. The sun is always eclipsed when you close your eyes. Still, the memory remains. In the haze above the waves, in the cliffs that erode each year – the way my mother’s dresses frayed a little when she wore them out, pretending the days were made for slow dancing to Ella Fitzgerald with the hands of a better man around her waist.

Mostly, I remember how the piano fell out of tune – mahogany longing for its original heart. To retrograde to that

great tree on a desolate prairie, like some myth of wisdom, golden boughs holding up future generations. Later, a grand audience, animal-like, flowers around their necks, falling in love – listening to an anthem which needed no president to declare it official.

Of course, the harvest was also poor that year and the government had started building the expressway out west to a “land designated for promise.” I noticed how the wildflowers and other small unseen voices kept flourishing in protest around the iron slats laid out each dawn. A lengthening railroad which fulfilled its ghost status before it was even born. Its harsh glinting lines elongating with the days, steadily melding them into a blinding horizon where people who came before us had also voted for the wrong choices. A poor man’s silver, glinting beyond the cries of our unborn offspring.

***

It was a two hour bus ride to the St Louis hospice where the severe cases of madness were handled by a rich academic who was oblivious to the rural way of life. He gave me three types of medication. Gave my mother an assortment of “remedies” including an invite to a recital at some five star hotel downtown. He also gave her a will to live. The one Father took away the day they married. I was secretly happy for her, despite her threats to leave. Despite her jealousy over my ability to render Chopin into a modern love ballad. As if our art were a competition to compose the clearest way out of the wastelands of ennui. The score was rewritten by her with revolution in mind. Then played by me in the name of something closer to home.

The counterpoints of our lives grew further apart with tension and opposing theories. Meanwhile, the doctor kept prescribing her alternative pills, whilst upgrading his car to one which made her ego incrementally prouder to leave the scorched cornfields behind. This was the story of so many wives. Of so many women who were abandoned in another era with men’s rusty machinery. Left in a room with a view to reclaimed barley fields – muted curtains letting in a little jazz, as modern hope for a new age.

***

Soon it was October and the landscape had turned in on itself. Refocused its own dark, sombre tones —the tendrils of last life – honeysuckles and things once heavy with her perfume, now shying away from our faces. A permanent deferment of the joy which we could never afford.

In this land of red dirt and atonement, it is simple for the ones who do the leaving. Always complicated for the remainers. I wanted to be the one with choices – without the baggage of a dysfunctional family. In America, I wanted to be that woman who disappears peacefully. Who leaves the folklore and gossip to those who sleepwalked into an industrial haze. Leave them to long for simpler times when you could taste the pine air around a lake. I’d keep going so my kindred can be safe. So that you – lover, brother, sister – are never bored with the idea of companionship when travelling in a similar direction. A stranger on one of those rattling sleeper trains which connected two sad cities across the Arizona desert.

Of course, there’s always a diamond in the distance worth more than memory. I’m the woman who understands how its shimmer catches the eye of an artist differently from the average passerby. Intersecting forest and valley, etching days into shades of warm misery. It’s a sadness in the dark pools of the mare’s pupils. The flecks of dust hovering over them, unsettled, like a stray constellation no scientist could decipher. Almost glaucoma-like. But not quite blinding.

I would not wish to discover this vision academically. Though many men have tried, it troubles me. To leave it alone would be a greater sermon. To leave the land and its fauna roaming and unpredictable, its rivers full – sometimes green and stagnant, its bloody carrion gleaming in the desert winds, before the bones are picked clean, washed in a hard rain then bleached bright in sunlight that blinds us.

It’s everything a heart can hold out here, between industrialism and trauma. The coor-

dinates of lament spread over borders where we used to walk and play, our heads haloed in old light. Borders where my limbs are now pushing through with effort, striving to reclaim moments that might add up to a sustainable love.

After three decades, I still dare not measure the growing distance between my mother and I. Not even when I reached the Edenic garden outside the grand hall where Morrison played a final iconic gig to an otherworld beyond this dying one. The same hall where I was bestowed a modest literary award. By the antiquated sundial, the Eros statue decapitated in sorrow: a gossamer spider’s thread, taut and glistening, bridging the gap between head and body. Nation and absconder.

Mother hated my credentials. Each certificate and bonus I earned, each city accolade, was like a cold war in her head. And whenever I spoke of romance, even jokingly, she resented it, because the entire construct was a failure for her and Father. She was always brooding in a minor key. Gathering the bruised fruit from her own late mother’s orchard. Fruit she’d make into jam to demonstrate how sweet life was without the city. The sprawl which was both a source of sustenance and sickness and like her, a set of contradictions she’d transcribe into music for me to interpret when away from home.

Yet, in some perverse way, she held a part of me which was never severed from birth. A connection which was free of rivalry and petty competition. A quiet chapter which preceded the assault on our minds and the rupture of a precious land. We both loved language and art. We both hated where we were. A place that seemed to alter our hearts.

Mother always said the landscape is the humanscape at its most vulnerable. Flowers burst open as a gesture of healing, commiseration, a ceremonial shroud for our pastoral cemetery. She remarked how there are beautiful men at work at dusk. God-like landlords thriving on a fat inheritance. Their ochre bodies are hard and contoured, revealing one’s own hunger for touch. Hands melded with honey that whets the appetite.

Even if I said no, it would still lead to intimacy under orange flame trees, their stark forms shaken by my hunger. That is the wilderness. Its instinct is non-negotiable. Between us, you kept moving until there was no more land or temptation of gold streaming our way. Until I was the comma that gifted pause for contemplation – a small figure swallowed by the hills, then the mountains – into a backdrop of some other time when we trusted the gods of these territories.

Occasionally, you looked back to see if I was still interested in searching with you, beneath streams and bodies of water that occupied the vacuum left behind. You wished we could grow gills like fish to delve beneath the ripples of a country’s lament. A different way of breathing with a conveniently shorter memory. The eagerness of your voice tripping into the uneven earth, stepping on fallen hawthorn which powdered our collective wounds until we were chest deep in brackish waters. Going under the way an abandoned piano becomes submerged. Because every river experiences that hollow vessel sinking into it at least once in its earthly life. Like every sinking piano is my mother’s piano.

On intimacy, it is difficult to say who we’ll be for each other out here. The woman I was remains feral — hungry and endangered — whilst self-medicating the spirit of a depressed nation. When strangers ask directions to love or freedom — I am forced to speak animalistically.

That is not to say I wouldn’t allow myself to be caught. Just that I would choose to wait to see how dusk fell tomorrow, or how Mother would stay quiet another day in her room. The nurses bring her a tray of simple food and several types of medication. Sometimes, one of them would stay by her bedside playing John Coltrane or Miles Davis until she napped like a baby, unaware of dusk falling beyond the curtains. Unaware of me waiting for her call on the other side of the country.

But occasionally, the wounds were allowed to heal. Father sometimes called to say he read my novel, although it has taken him four years. He said there were pages marked with his handwritten notes – parts where he found the story ambiguous or conflicting. He’d say he found it hard to understand by the third chapter and often put the book down to walk out to the yellow cornfields. The ones which were not overtaken by factories or railroads. Where you could walk and see all

the way through to childhood and back. The horses’ silhouettes on the horizon moving to a ballad composed by a man who holds me and my failing body before the sun changes.

Father’s calls were brief, as if he just wanted to know I was still alive, before cutting the conversation short with a work-related excuse. But that was enough to forge a road through the old quarries where people like us once bared all to each other. The mare’s eyes are softer now, with your reflection. Her head lowered to drink from a clear stream. The sound of her drinking, soothing, like a foal nursing from her mother.

There is a harmony we miss when our backs are turned too long. When laughter becomes a faint instrumental. People cross borders every day to be closer to the music. To forget hurt and to hold whatever seemed to escape their hands when too busy – birds, passion and when I was not looking – a woman’s quiet revolution.

ABOUT VIKKI:

Vikki C. is a poet and fiction writer whose work has earned nominations for The Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and the Orison Best Spiritual Literature. Her writing has appeared in over 80 publications across US, Canada, UK and Europe. Recent and forthcoming venues include The Ilanot Review, EcoTheo Review, The Inflectionist Review, Grain Magazine, Emerge Literary Journal, Psaltery & Lyre, Harpy Hybrid Review, Sweet Literary, Cable Street, Barren Magazine, Amethyst Review, Ballast Journal, New Verse Review, Feral, Black Bough Poetry and Ice Floe Press. She is the author of two collections including ‘Where Sands Run Finest’ (DarkWinter Press, 2024).

Kissing the WOUND

here’s the scoop

In J.D. Isip’s second full-length poetry collection, KissingtheWound, readers are asked to look at “this long life” through a multiversal lens, to consider how our lives and our loves, our traumas and our triumphs, fold in on one another, how we are all connected to and reflected by one another. Isip crosses genres and poetic styles, nods to X-Men and Star Wars as well as Shakespeare, Tolstoy, and the Bible; he shows readers what wonders we miss between breaths and days. “When you pay attention,” Isip seems to tell us, “You just might find the healing you were looking for.”

receiving rave reviews

If our memory could shatter like glass and be reassembled with no regard given to time, it would look like these poems: a shimmering window of stained glass whose patterns and glow create unexpected resonances of the many lives one voice can be given. As identities — familial, sexual, spiritual, amicable — intersect and intertwine, time folds in on itself. Everything can and does happen at once. Kissing the Wound is expansive, enveloping. With cross-genre bravery and unfettered honesty, J. D. Isip’s collection examines, at its core, a question of love: for each other, and for ourselves.

- Charles Jensen,

Author of Instructions between Takeoff and Landing and Nanopedia

There is a palpable struggle against powerlessness in J.D. Isip’s Kissing the Wound, and in its expertly crafted poems, the path to victory in that struggle always originates from within. Although its external expression varies from poem to poem (telekinesis, immense empathy, razor-sharp wings, conquering love), Isip shows us that the greatest power we have is our ability to remember, to render, and to navigate the “mess of lights and music” that is the human experience.

- Gustavo Hernandez, Author of Flower Grand First

J.D. Isip is the author of Pocketing Feathers (Sadie Girl Press, 2015) and several other works of poetry, fiction, and theater. His second full-length poetry collection, Kissing the Wound will be out in January 2023 from Moon Tide Press. He is also a full-time professor in Plano, Texas, and a contributing editor to The Blue Mountain Review.

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Copyright @ 2023

RECONCILIATION

BY DWAYNE KEITH PETTY

Waking from an afternoon nap, Randall Lyles realized that he had pissed himself once again. The odor and wetness had saturated the back of his pants and seeped through them and into the fibers of the overstuffed chair in which he sat. He cursed, shifted in his seat, and began to slowly push himself to his feet.

The afternoon rain outside continued to pour from the roof of the house, but he did not rationalize that its sound may have subconsciously triggered urination as he slept. He only burned with agitation and frustration. Not that pissing himself was uncommon, but it usually did not present itself in such full fashion, instead falling as a trickle down his pants’ leg after he thought he had finished when standing in front of the commode. The”old-man dribbles,” he called it.

The somber gray beyond the living room picture window cast the house in deep shadows, disorienting him as at last he stood erect. He shook his head slightly and scanned the room. He shuffled a foot forward, lost his balance, and sat back in his chair again, the swift tumble creating a splat between his soaked pants and the chair’s soiled cushion. Exasperation rose in his throat as a slight cry.

Nothing was the way he remembered life as it should be. Dark constraint held quickly against blithe memories of youth and virile manhood, his collapse a fervent reminder of ever-present infirmity.

He pushed to rise again, inched up slightly, and then dissolved, his face buried in his hands, thin flesh a narrow veil over his bones. His former life had been far removed from this weak shell which struggled to rise.

His farm had been his soul, sprawling and prolific, never nearing being put under, never knowing festering desolation; and he had ruled. Scanning the emerald fields each morning, he surveyed his diligence to the land with pride. He instructed his farmhands with stolid authority, and at every instruction, they heeded his call. Twelve hours each day, he traversed his domain, he inspected, he reprimanded, and he inspected again. He gave much toward perfection, and he expected as much in return.

In evenings, after the supper meal, he retired to the main room, boots off and to the side of his chair, black socked feet propped on an ottoman before the wood-burning stove. His pipe or cigar filled the room with its masculine aroma, speaking his commanding presence, and amber scotch swirled gently in the snifter he rocked in his calloused hand.

Many nights, particularly weekend nights, he would call for his son Kevin’s accountability for his share of work on the farm; and standing before him, the young teen would recite his day’s accomplishments achieved after his academic instruction at the local high school or after his morning’s work at the local co-op. Should his father assess he had faltered at any point along the timeline, his punishment might descend as a stern outline of how to rectify the issue or might fall from the back of a work-hardened hand. Thus, the rigidity of his existence set heavily upon his shoulders, and he often dreamed, when the cold moon shone through his bedroom window and illuminated everything in blues and whites, of how he would someday escape his father’s incessant measure of his every moment and the harsh punishments he endured.

In Randall Lyles’s mind, such rigidity served only to develop a strong and independent young male capable of seeing to his own livelihood without the need to crawl to anyone else, but it never dawned on him that it was to him that his son, in spirit, crawled every day; and he was never cognizant of his soul-stifling brusqueness or his clinical handling of all aspects of life.

“Kevin,” he would assert, “you will grow up to be a man. I will teach you in whatever way necessary to be a man.”

After leaving the farm, Kevin Lyles never anticipated returning in any intricate capacity. Acquiring a self-achieved college education, he established himself as a teacher in the city and then, a decade later, as a stellar professor at a nearby

university. His adult life was vastly different from the one he had experienced as a boy under the constant scrutiny and redirection of his father. The unyielding knuckles of a weathered hand against the side of his face had been replaced by a consistent stream of acknowledgement, appreciation, and accolades. Professor Kevin Lyles was valued by others which, in turn, provided him with his own intricate self-worth and a reciprocated value of his contemporaries.

For a decade and half, Kevin did not talk with his father at all. Then, after he published his first novel, a congratulatory card from his father came in the university mail. Kevin was unsettled by the gesture, but even after his father attempted, for whatever reason, to open the door, communication of any sort between the two was infrequent; and Kevin’s effort was limited. In his cynicism, he could not believe someone as vile as Randall Lyles had fundamentally changed. Thus, a call at Christmastime lasted ten minutes. A card sent in the mail made its way to the farm once a year on the man’s birthday. The card was always restrained in sentiment with “Happy birthday” or “Hope your day is grand” and was signed only “Kevin,” without love. Each act was obligatory in the sense that it seemed almost a universal mandate to do so even though Kevin felt no particular warmth in the doing. Doing so was merely perfunctory. The rest of the year, father and son remained mostly uncommitted to ongoing communication.

During the past month, however, his father’s closest neighbor and one of few friends, Donald Neibert, had phoned Kevin twice at the university and left messages in regard to his father’s deteriorating condition. Now, Kevin sat at his desk, elbow propped on its surface, and the end of a capped ink-pen nestled inside the corner of his lips. He thought of his tenuous connection to his father and wondered if it would not be better to have an agency for the elderly take on the issue.

His mind brushed across all of the distant years and pondered his position and his potential reaction to ever going back to the farm from which he had liberated himself. He did not want to return, even for his father’s eventual demise, and he struggled to evoke enough empathy within himself to think he could. His inherently compassionate nature told him that from a humanitarian perspective he should return, but the scars he still bore from his upbringing pulled him firmly in the opposite direction.

He remembered the many mornings when he had failed to rise from bed upon his father’s first call and of the sudden appearance of the man looming over him and whipping him from the bed with a razor strap or belt. The ensuing welts on his legs and back from those beatings had healed physically, but mentally, they had sunken through his flesh and reemerged internally to haunt him. The worst, though, had not been the knuckles against his face or the leather strap across his backside.

The worst had been what happened to Feller. Feller was a yellow labrador retriever. Kevin had received him for his thirteenth birthday from his Aunt Patsy, his deceased mother’s sister, who might have taken, upon court order, him away from the constant abuse he endured. For Patsy, however, a succession of men precluded such responsibility.

From the first moment, Feller had filled a gnawing gap inside Kevin’s being. Suddenly, instead of only school and chores and instruction and regimentation, emotion presented itself in the form of nurturing substance and requited, unconditional love.

On cool, sunny afternoons, Feller playfully trailed Kevin through waist-high fields of broomstraw and beggar’s lice to the edge of the river. Kevin would stretch himself out, his backside against the mossy bank and watch the slow progression of deep, green water as it made its way across his father’s property. Feller would settle in next to him, even sometimes recline atop him, and nuzzle his pencil-eraser colored nose against Kevin’s chin.

In the mix of chilly air and warming golden rays, Kevin found temporary solace from his existence.

Other days, Feller would sit or lie patiently as Kevin completed work intricate to the farm’s proper function, and he would trot loyally alongside from the outer chores and into the house for Kevin’s quick shower and then settle on the oval rug in Kevin’s bedroom until Kevin returned to fall asleep.

At that point, almost without fail, Feller would extend himself across the foot of the bed, seldom stirring but ever aware of any perceptible threat that might extend itself within the darkness of night.

On one of the afternoons at the river’s edge, Kevin and Feller lingered too long, and when they returned to the expanse of the farm, the bottom edge of the sun’s fiery ring just touched the tops of silhouetted trees; and Randall Lyles, hulking and formidable, stood on the front porch of the farmhouse waiting for his son’s return.

Kevin’s eyes met his father’s cemented disapproving stare, and a thick lump, like undischarged phlegm, arose in his throat. His heart quickened within his chest until his pulse was recognizable in his wrists even without touching them, and he struggled to issue an apology or an excuse before his father’s words intercepted his apprehension.

Randall Lyles’s thickly calloused hand reached out and grabbed Kevin’s shoulder as the youth stepped onto the porch. Feller halted, sat, and wagged his tail.

“Where you been, boy?” Lyles demanded. “Didn’t I tell you to have those barn stalls cleaned out before the end of the day?”

Kevin nodded and looked down.

“Can’t you speak boy?” Lyles grabbed Kevin’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted his son’s face to again meet his stoney stare. Randall Lyles’s eyes offered nothing but demand for accountability.

“I lost track of time,” Kevin said through quivering lips, knowing absolution by his father did not exist.

“Doing what? Playing with that damn dog?”

Kevin tried to shake his head, but his father’s grip was viselike. “No, it’s not like that,” he differed. “I went down to the river to rest for a while. Feller just followed me down. I fell asleep on the bank.”

“Well, it seems you need something to remind you not to fall asleep when you’ve got work to do. You stand right here until I come back.”

His father’s stout form jerked open the screen door and disappeared into the house. When he returned, he carried his 12-gauge shotgun in his right hand.

Kevin felt all of the wind go out of his lungs.

“You like going to the river with that damn dog?”

Kevin stood still and did not answer.

“I asked you a question, boy!”

Kevin nodded his head slightly and then shook it in opposition to his original inclination.

“Well, we’re all going to walk down to that river one last time,” his father asserted, again laying a thick hand upon Kevin’s shoulder and turning him in the direction of the river and the failing twilight glow of the purple sky.

At the river’s edge, the trio stopped, and Feller again sat and wagged his tail, looking up inquisitively at Kevin, who had begun to slightly heave and spill tears down his cheeks.

“It’s time to get rid of distractions,” Randall Lyles said flatly. “I’ve told you over and over that I will make a man out of you!” He placed the gun firmly into his son’s shaking hands.

A rivulet of clear snot dangled from Kevin’s nose.

His father showed the adolescent no consideration. “You can do it, or I can do it; but if I have to do it, it’s going to be worse for you!”

Kevin shook his head, and before he could comprehend, his father’s calloused palm slammed into his cheek. He then grabbed the boy by his shirt collar and pulled him close. Spit sprayed from his father’s clenched teeth as he ordered, “Fucking do it, you worthless sissy!”

Hatred overflowed in Kevin’s mind and settled into his pounding chest. He wished he could turn the gun on his father, but reluctantly, he lifted the 12-gauge and aimed just below the blonde crown of the dog’s head. He felt his index finger bend, and it was inconceivable to him that his own body could betray him in such a way.

He closed his eyes, and his ears were filled with the untempered explosion from the gun. He fell back against the ground, the weapon spilling from his hands.

He slowly opened his lids, and the blurry, mottled form, limp and twisted on the riverbank before him in the last of the sun’s failing rays, ensured that he had achieved success for his father’s mandate.

He choked and staggered to his feet.

Randall Lyles placed a stout booted foot against the dog’s carcass and pushed it. The body turned once.

Kevin trembled with grief and rage but said nothing.

His father’s foot pushed the body again; and this time, it rolled once, twice, gained momentum on the slanting bank, and plunged into the deep river water with a sickening splash. He turned, picked up his 12-gauge, and began to walk back toward the farm in the evening darkness.

“You can get a lantern now, and clean out the barn stalls,” Kevin heard him say as the pitch of night consumed his retreating outline.

When his father was far enough away,” Kevin fell to his knees and retched until he vomited.

Kevin pushed back the stack of Blue Book exam essays he should be grading. Even now, remembering the incident with his dog left him shaken inside. He looked at the messages his secretary had taken from Donald Neibert. The messages were urgent, but Kevin could not begin to fathom how he could take himself back to his father’s farm. Phone calls and cards constituted one level of civility; but traveling back to the farm elevated his involvement with a person whom he considered to be a worthless, inhumane man, the kind of man he himself did not want to be.

He looked at the phone number on the latter of the two messages. Reluctantly, he picked up his desk phone and dialed.

After two rings, an aged masculine voice answered.

“Yes,” Kevin said, “this is Randall Lyles’s son. Is this Mister Neibert?”

“Yes, I’ve been trying to reach you. Your father isn’t doing any good.”

Kevin felt a surge of indifference resonate within himself.

“I’ve tried to talk to Randy about going to see a doctor, but he won’t go. He’s not coherent sometimes. His place is a mess. He really needs to see a doctor. I know that the two of you haven’t seen each other in years, but there’s no one else I can call except for maybe elder services. I’ve held off doing that because your father has begged me not to. Can you come?”

The thought of doing so was like the thought of walking to the riverbank with his father and Feller all over again.

“It’s a very busy time on campus, and I. . .”

“Please, I’m not able to make any headway with Randy. I’ve found him once outside locked out of his house after dark and twice soaked in urine and unable to clean himself up. He won’t budge from that house. He says he’s going to die in his own home.”

Kevin’s throat constricted, and a forced “I’ll be there” emerged.

“I’ll tell him you’re coming, then?”

“Tell him I’ll be there at the end of the week. It will take a couple of days to cover things here at the university.” He placed the receiver back on the hook and rested his head on the stack of Blue Books. Dread wrapped itself around him, and then at once the rage he thought he had conquered after a lifetime away from the farm surged up from some latent molten labyrinth inside him.

Randall Lyles’s hulking shadow filled Kevin’s mind as he drove his car onto the interstate and headed north toward his father’s home. The long absence of physical proximity to his father and the prospect of faceto-face interaction with the man weighted his chest and induced a mild but steady palpitation in rhythm to his vehicle’s engine.

The reality, though he had tried through the years to maintain enough self-perceived obligatory contact to know something about Randall Lyles, was that he hated his father; and he really didn’t give a half-damn that the man was now in despair. He only drove in the direction of the farm out of that same misplaced sense of human obligation that years of inflicted wounds could not erase, or perhaps it was his own sense of nobility as a man that compelled him. If he did not go, what would others think? So many times when growing up, he had

prayed to an unresponsive God for his father to die.

He had taken a three-week leave from the university. He figured that within that frame of time, he could either place his father, voluntarily or involuntarily, in some sort of facility. There would certainly be plenty of money to pay for one, and having his father declared incompetent was almost weightless upon Kevin’s conscience. He could easily ditch the old man and come back to his own life.

On the backseat were his briefcase and a small suitcase hurriedly stuffed to overflowing. In the hatch, wrapped in an old quilt, was the 12-gauge shotgun with which he had been forced to kill Feller. He had taken the gun shortly after that terrible evening at the river.

When Randall Lyles had questioned his son about the disappearance of the weapon, he had first claimed no knowledge of its whereabouts. After a couple of slaps across the face, he told his father that he had thrown it into the river. Surprisingly, he was not dragged to the river to retrieve it, but Randall Lyles had made the boy work extra chores on the farm to reimburse the cost.

Kevin had not, however, done away with the shotgun. Instead, he had wrapped it in the old quilt that still covered it and placed it beneath loose boards under his bed.

Each night, he slept above it as a reminder. A reminder of his father’s vitriolic and violent nature. A reminder to never again harm any innocent living thing. A reminder that as a man, he would not allow himself to become his father; and though his father owned many weapons, Kevin made sure he would never use or make anyone else use this one again In his mind, he thought, “You made me use it; now it’s mine, you son-of-a-bitch.”

When he left the farm for good, he took the 12-gauge with him. It had remained forever in his care and out of Randall Lyles’s possession. Why he had retrieved it from his bedroom closet for his current trip to the farm, he was uncertain. Perhaps it was a tool of confrontation should his father prove to be more of his old self than Donald Neibert claimed, or perhaps it was only an artifact to symbolize the totality of this father-son relationship. Maybe it was even his long-dormant rage reawakened.

Still, it lay in the back, content to wait as Kevin’s foot retreated from and then depressed the accelerator.

An interstate off ramp gave way to a two-lane blacktop, and Kevin thought again of his dog. The day after his father had forced him to kill Feller, he had returned to the river to fish out the body.

Kevin squinched his eyes and scanned the river up and down. Not yet gaseous enough to rise to the surface, the dog was nowhere in sight.

He pulled off his scuffed brown boots and half-slid down the embankment and into the mossy green water. Two feet out from the bank, he was up to his neck, and he searched the sucking muck of the river bottom for the dog with his feet. When the toes of his right foot finally pressed against the dog’s partially shattered skull, he gasped.

Kevin bent, his head submerging and his hands reaching blindly to grasp any portion of his deceased buddy so that he could bring him to the surface. The task was, at once, both frustrating and heartbreaking. He let his knees dip slightly, and all at once, he felt Feller’s leather collar in his hand. He was uncertain whether enough of the dog’s head remained to secure the collar, but gripping it tightly and tugging with all of his might, he felt the dog budge and begin to rise to the surface. He struggled, almost lost his footing, steadied himself; and then, the entire body floated into his arms.

Emerging from the river, he lay on the bank next to the water-laden, lifeless animal, just as he had lain with the creature one day before, when it had been a living solace in his lonely adolescent world. Perhaps it would have been better, Kevin thought, to have turned the 12-gauge on his father. At least that would have precluded this particular moment in time.

Kevin smiled and slightly laughed at the idea of killing his father instead of killing Feller, and then, in the distance, Kevin could see rooftops of houses spread far apart. It was the first time that he had seen those rooftops since he was a teenager, but he knew that his father’s farm marked their beginning.

The farm held so many terrible memories, but he did not expect to be there long. At least there was that.

Randall Lyles’s house grew larger and larger in Kevin’s field of vision until it filled the entire windshield of Kevin’s car as he braked and turned into the drive.

He thought again of the quilt-wrapped 12-gauge in the hatch.

He eased the car to a stop in the driveway, got out of the vehicle, and walked to the house. His heart sprang into jolting thuds as he lifted his fisted hand to knock on the door. Three sharp knocks and no answer was returned.

He knocked again and was aware of a vague call from the back of the house. He turned the knob, and the door opened.

“Randall?” he called. It was incomprehensible to him that Randall should be called “Dad.”

“I’m back here,” the semi-stifled voice responded.

Kevin moved slowly through the gray haze of the dusty, clutter-filled house and into a room from which a mellow orange light shined. Randall Lyles sat on the edge of a bed, his shoulders hunched and his elbows braced on his knees, hands hanging between his legs.

“Neibert,” he said, “Neibert, I shit myself this time!”

Kevin felt the pounding of his heart ease slightly and his body slacken. “I’m not Neibert,” he told the old man. He was astonished at the diminished form before him. No longer was Randall Lyles a formidable, overpowering hulk. A third of his weight was gone. His clothes draped loosely about his lean form. His remaining hair flew in dry feathery shapes from each side of his head, and his face was creviced like the bed of a pond gone dry in prolonged drought.

His hollow eyes squinted. “Who the hell are you?” And within the hollows, Kevin saw something manifested within his father that he had never before witnessed.

Randall Lyles was afraid.

“It’s me, Kevin,” he said softly. Randall Lyles’s mouth gaped, and the lower lip trembled slightly.

“I shit myself,” he said again, still not recognizing Kevin for who he was. “I don’t know what to do. Can you help me?”

Kevin moved closer, and the odor of the old man’s sulfur-like soilage was almost overpowering.

“Why did you come?” Randall asked, perhaps beginning to recognize his son.

Kevin removed his coat and threw it across the end of the bed. He placed a hand on Randall Lyles’s shoulder. “You need someone to help you,” he said. “You need to be somewhere.”

Randall Lyles shook his head, began to cry, and reached up and patted Kevin’s hand. His father’s own hand was gnarled and blotched in purple, skin like wax paper over the brittle bones beneath, nails slightly yellowed and spade-shaped. “I don’t want to go,” he said.

No satisfaction came in seeing his father this way, no sense of retribution. He had always imagined that seeing his father in disadvantage would bring to him some gain of getting even. Instead, he found himself looking upon the disadvantage with a mixture of pity and remorse for the years that lay between them. Had Randall Lyles been the man he still was even ten years ago, it might have been different. Kevin might have been able to release all the rage of his repulsion he had contained since childhood. This pitiful, diminished being, however, had not the power to evoke rage. In fact, it had no power at all, and as it was, Kevin could only meet this creature with disbelief. Even the thought of casting the creature into a nursing home and being done with him once and for all brought no sense of rectifying the past, for nature had

already exacted rectification.

Kevin reached underneath the weeping being’s arms and began to gently lift him to his feet.

“We’ve got to get you cleaned up,” he said. “Hold onto my shoulders.”

Kevin pulled at the elastic waistband just above the old man’s navel and let the stained sweat pants and underwear fall to the floor. He gently removed the baggy button-up twill shirt from the emaciated frame before him.

Randall Lyles shivered. “Am I your father?” he asked.

Kevin said nothing but braced his father’s upper arm and led him into the bathroom in pace with his elder’s shuffling gait.

When enough water filled the tub, Kevin eased Randall Lyles down into its liquid warmth and sat down on the porcelain edge.

The old man sighed and leaned forward as if embracing the water’s sudden comfort.

Kevin gripped a thick cake of white soap from a metal dish, dipped it into the warm water, and gingerly lathered his father’s meatless, spiny back.

The old man sighed again. “Thank you, Son,” he said. It was the first time he had ever thanked Kevin for anything.

Randall Lyles’s son remained taciturn but especially attentive to the tender task. With deliberate ease of touch, he washed the old man; and a bit of the past began to fade.

Outside, in the hatch of Kevin’s car, the 12-gauge was still wrapped in the old quilt, where it would remain.

ABOUT KEITH:

Keith Petty is a semi-retired literature and writing instructor, with 31 years of experience in education. He has written fiction for Kennesaw State University’s Share magazine and several non-fiction articles for Georgia Backroads magazine. A contributing writer to a local newspaper, Pickens County Progress, he also serves as a writing instructor, department chair, and public relations representative for Pickens Mountain Education. He divides his time between his home in Ellijay, Georgia and the family home in Talking Rock, Georgia.

POETRY

POETRY

Second Chances

BY KEVIN PILKINGTON

I came across a novel in a used bookstore downtown. I took it over to a seat shaped like a baseball glove, sat and began to read. By the end of the first chapter it was getting more abstract and deep as a lake. I gave up when the pages started getting wet and put it back on the shelf. On the wall near the essays was a print of Constable’s Salisbury Cathedral. I took a closer look at the cows a child could hold in its hands drinking from a pond. A bishop standing on the garden path points his walking stick towards the steeples or sky with clouds as white as his sermons. His wife stands next to him.

I can’t see her face behind the bonnet she wears but know she is happy to be standing there forever since her shawl, curving like full red lips smiles gently across her shoulders. The cathedral roof is painted the color of July. Trees bend and twist like faith if you don’t lose it and let it age, their leaves green and gold wherever the sunlight melts. After a few more minutes I wanted to tap on the shoulder of the Pastor’s wife, if she even is his wife, and tell her you have been stuck here long enough he can only hold his cane and never touch you. I can. Let’s leave here right now and walk out of this old shop where snow has begun to fall like dust on these bookshelves. So let’s go and you can feel what it’s like leaving all that paint behind.

BY CHRISTOPHER:

Kevin Pilkington is on the writing faculty at Sarah Lawrence College. He is the author of ten collections and two novels. His recent collection, Playing Poker With Tennessee Williams was published in 2021 by Black Lawrence Press. His second novel, Taking On Secrets was published in 2022 by Blue Jade Press.

Ode for an Extra Day

BY CHRISTOPHER PHELPS

For a leap into the fiction of a calendar blent with the reality of time; blent or blended, it depends how quick you want out of a word.

How quick you want into the next word or something more non-verbal; more or genuinely unsaid. Perhaps a whisk or a shout or a call will do, as with the origin of calendars, the root syllables of Roman priests who called out for the new moon-th: debts due and accounts best be ready for some reckoning. What is reasonable so late in this, our line of an impetus? How about one gratuitous day, once every fifth of a score?

For every term in our gearing, a wrench; once per while, if it were up to me, is how a while would be defined.

Once in a while: a term would not mean ending, not upstartled, and not a middling squeeze through the cattle gate of fate or throng of New Year’s aspirations (/limitations), pressed and soon released into a marl of makeshift clay.

I say cuneiform like a Southern social studies teacher; what sticks stuck, underneath the surface or to the surface, as records blur the difference. Don’t they? What tells up from understanding but a pulse of local gravity? Tell me

which accounting really knows what the numbers could have meant. Or tell me nothing but that we’ve both been told

already quite a few things in a time’s nick, or in the grace of a plea, or in the returned gaze of a page one turns back to.

BY CHRISTOPHER:

Christopher Phelps is a queer, neurodivergent poet. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico where he teaches himself and others math and related conundra. He is searching for people who believe poetry can be equally vulnerable and inviolable; welter-weather letters in a fare-thee-well time. His poems have appeared in periodicals including Beloit Poetry Journal, Palette Poetry, Poetry Magazine, The Nation, and Zoeglossia. A chapbook, Tremblem, was semi-privately printed in 2018. More information can be found at www.christopher-phelps.com

Glossarial

BY CHRISTOPHER PHELPS

After this try-all, will there be a trial? This absurd pun & numb pinch,

having to ask inside the clutch of scattered pearls — openly rolling every which way. Each clear day without the roll of thunder.

I can’t tell you why the verb mete disturbed me more than any other word

I remember learning from the text I no longer remember: not plot, not theme, not even a feeling but for this lasting impression from the index.

Among clinical words, this one was the fearsomest, if fearsome is a contest with a winner. You could ask me to say more, but that would be to confess how everything lives inside the storied shoe I just shook a spider from, in fact a whole spider family from. And asking, is it progress (is it naive of me?) that I feared none of them, not even for an instant? And harmed none of them, not even for a poem that you might as well know, I can’t write

unless I live through, at one or another level, a floor of a shoe I move through, wearing it out as well as in.

About as well as kin could, wondering who is who,

a little too concerned about who is in code and who is naturally so thin-skinned: apparently, before the Christian version, the shoe was a dangerous place for a rather raucous parliament.

Beneath the surface lives the pain, goes the refrain from nowhere.

(You try to pass through walls that aren’t really there, wolf.)

So the shoe with its monarchs, or matron, or kindly Christian fix, crowded with omens and unheld breath holds its breath for a lengthening moment

rebranded as a limited time by men so mad you could forget they were angry

about the queen’s whip or the cover story’s slide —

the shoe’s move from something like mete to something like glide

Kingston, Georgia

BY JESSICA LINDBERG

After the yellow blinking light, shanties. No other word fits better. Mildewed plywood pieced at angles, shards of asbestos tiles. These shacks dam the highway shoulder like clumps of wadded receipts. A woman limps ahead of my car, one foot up on the road, one foot in the gutter, smoking. Her hand raises slightly in wave or warning or like she’s patting the head of some invisible dog. Her shoulder tilts, the cross yard-beam of a ship’s mast, off-kilter, as her grandfather in the hills would declare, sigogglin. I saw her once in the Dollar General, Kingston’s only place of commerce. I watched her buy tinned stew, King’s Hawaiian rolls. A boy, maybe ten, told me he was going on a field trip the next day to find “airheads” at the nearby Indian mounds. The woman told him, shut up Chase that lady don’t care where you going and she was nearly right—except now beyond the town’s limits, I see the woman on her cinder block stoop, after dinner, picking at the black sunspots on her arms, blue strands of her roof tarp unspooling like floss, and the boy climbing the gravel dunes along the train tracks, skimming for sharp edges, a chip of something different, something that he could read as tribe or meat

BY JESSICA:

Jessica Lindberg is a poet, an academic, and an advocate for the arts in Northwest Georgia. Winner of the Mary Ann Brown Emerging Writer award and the Virginia Spencer Carr Fellowship at GSU, she earned her doctorate in Creative Writing/Poetry in 2019. Her work has been published in Mississippi Review, Third Wednesday, Sandhills, Glassworks, Real Pants, and other online and print journals. She is the Dean of the School of Humanities at Georgia Highlands College, and was the 2019 nominee for the Felton Jenkins Jr. Hall of Fame Teaching Award from the University System of Georgia. Through her work as an advocate for the arts, Dr. Lindberg established the annual Highlands Writers Conference to showcase the diverse literary community of Northwest Georgia. She serves as the board president for Georgia Writers and as the education director on the board of the Rome International Film Festival. She lives in Rome,GA.

Wasps

BY JESSICA LINDBERG

Welty positioned her oak desk parallel to the quiet street outside her window, preferring, she said, not to have the world behind her or in front, but to write along with it. I have a hunch

rearranging my patio furniture might pry loose a stuck nugget, a start of a line, but when I drag a wrought iron chair over to line up with the world, I rattle

a taut clot of wasps. Their papery apartment unsticks and drops. They hover around their shell of rooms, their bodies exclamation points, their flight patterns, question marks. They fall,

docile with the dusk, colliding against chair legs, my legs, sewing needles unpinned, black-winged, vagrants. Little wayward darts, I launched you out. I should expect your stings.

Meth House

BY JESSICA LINDBERG

We couldn’t say for sure they were cooking but when we met an officer in the gravel drive-long after the renters scattered to jail or Alabama--he did point to a glass pipe propped against the kitchen windowsill of the abandoned house next door. Husband and I hung back a respectful distance, like estate agents, giving the cop color commentary on his tour around the dark lodgings.

We’d seen the neighbor’s red Chevy, that’s why we called, we tell the officer. The grandfather built this place, pumped up fresh spring water to the pool, said county water threw it out of whack. The aunt got it next, let her sister live here with the son. He beat his elderly mother with a fireplace poker till they locked him up and put her in a home out in Centre. He came back when he got out, to dig out the wires and scrap the copper.

Now the house is empty empty.

The officer’s light twitches across a mirror left on the mantel, and for a moment we are all three standing inside the house, waiting for someone to do something.

To the Dad at the Preschool Easter Egg Hunt

Wearing the T-Shirt That Says “If You Can Read

This The Bitch Fell

Off”

BY JESSICA LINDBERG

You must know she fell off, you must feel the lasers slicing your back, but really, how thoughtful. How rational, to offer such clear instructions to the world: when the Bitch falls off, we can alert you just by reading your slumped form.

Your daughter in her dotted swiss wants all of the pink eggs. The boy with the mucus-sluiced sleeves sorts out green jellybeans, while parents check their wrists and phones for release from this competitive tedium.

And you, mon père, Have somehow mislaid your Bitch. How fortunate to lose something in a place where everyone is already searching.

Pops—each egg here holds a prize: plastic car, peanut-butter cup, new nickels. Maybe one of these eggs holds a new Bitch for you.

A tiny, fairy-like bitch. Wet. Incandescent. You could find this egg. It would crack open like the sugar shell of a nice crème brulée. Your bitch would break into the daylight, squinting, silent. You could hold her up by her tiny legs. You could slap her ass until she spreads her crystalline wings and cries.

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My Childhood, the Scenic Route

BY CYNTHIA WHITE

is a field of fireflies winking on & off outside Bowling Green, KY, road cuts of shale, dark & slick with sunshower, the tight curves my husband hugs like a pro. It’s horse farms, barns grand as mansions where broodmares & their foals greet us at the fence, curious. In Bee Springs, my husband asks if the coconut cream pie is from scratch. The waitress cocks an eyebrow. Y’all aren’t from around here, are you? But I am, I am. I was born in this state & am back after how long? I don’t know. Only it’s an idyll this time around, my story retold with every little white church we pass, every billboard praising the Lord. Forget Jesus & the fires of hell, I’m flashing on pastel dresses, the spotless cotton gloves I worshiped, those moments my aunt would slip me a crisp dollar bill for the plate. Scientists call this the reminiscence bump. After forty, a person’s early memories—the good kind, hallelujah— heave into view. And so, when we get to my aunt’s place— the small house she was born, & will one day die in— I remember not the long absent outhouse with its terrible stench, but pole beans, tomatoes & sweet corn, the garden that was my hideout, far from the grownups. I can picture my grandfather at the kitchen tap, lathering up before taking a straight razor to his neck— my fear gone. But there’s no escaping my aunt. At ninety-three her faith blazes like a beacon. She wants only to save me. Christ and the narrow gate to heaven, prayers & more prayers. And my sins— how could I forget them?

ABOUT CYNTHIA:

Cynthia White’s poems have appeared in Adroit, Massachusetts Review, ZYZZYVA, Plume and Southern Poetry review among others. I was a finalist for Nimrod’s Pablo Neruda Prize and the winner of the Julia Darling Memorial Prize from Kallisto Gaia Press. My chapbook “Glossogenesis” won the Sundress Chapbook Prize and will be published in 2025.

Halo Theory

BY ANN KENISTON

Like the golden disc around the heads of painted saints and angels, the soul’s a proxy organ. A little

question mark or mark of suffering in vain or crutch pointing toward a meaning that

r ecedes. Sometimes a halo hides an intact bird or drop of blood that’s really paint in case all other explanations fail. If I start crying, I’ll float

away, I used to think, holding myself so tight it hurt my shoulders, almost an origami shape, ellipse or egg, almost

aglow but prickly, headstrong, shy, as tippy as a neglected plant. Some painters joined two halos so the human cheeks or lips could touch. Or a hand got pressed against a face. Sometimes the hair

was gold or gold paint got spread on all the walls.

BY ANN:

Ann Keniston is a poet, essayist, and critic interested in the relation of the creative to the scholarly. She is the author of several poetry collections, including, most recently, Somatic (Terrapin 2020), as well as several scholarly studies of contemporary American poetry. Recent poems and essays have appeared in Gettysburg Review, Fourth Genre, and Five Points. A professor of English at the University of Nevada, Reno, where she teaches poetry workshops and literature classes, she lives in Reno.

Grandma Died Dreaming of the Caribbean

BY JOHN DOS PASSOS COGGIN

For Elizabeth Holdridge Dos Passos (1909-1998)

1998: She salted her last years, landlocked in the nursing home, with stories first told in the thick of mosquitoes or trade winds. Sterile, bleached in artificial light—a house of sighs and tears—yet alive with her muse. “Did the lady with white hair and blue eyes in room 44 really helm a sloop through Dead Man Bay in one long tack?” The nurses’ questions followed story hour.

1933: She and her first love fled New York’s breadlines and tenements for the Caribbean. The commissioner for the island of St. John awoke and married them for forty cents at three in the morning. They took their vows, the frogs sang coquí coquí, and the commissioner’s wife served beer ‘n’ cookies. They got a house called the Shoebox, rigged fishing lines, and plunged into the surf. Asked for the hurricane’s mercy.

Now, I wish her full sail days sweetened with a tot of rum, and full moon nights cruising into St. John, guided home by dog barks and frog song.

ABOUT JOHN:

John Dos Passos Coggin is a writer based in Alexandria, Virginia. His poetry has appeared in Pangyrus, Cathexis Northwest Press, and Half and One. He also co-manages the John Dos Passos literary estate.

Ten Buffalo Tongues

BY JOHN DOS PASSOS COGGIN

My first encounter: I tremble like a prairie dog before mountains. I watch the flick of buffalo tails, expecting some green flag before a stampede, not this long spell of shaggy serenity.

Buffalo cross the Great Plains in vast stanzas, at the ancient, brutal cadence of evolution, every hoof shaped by wolves, ice, and fire.

Everything eats well on the buffalo. Hump, gut, heart, and tongue. And the little brown birds riding their backs feast like Odysseus.

The buffalo may chew cud like any old moo cow, but they graze and wallow like bonsai masters, pruning the prairie into balance.

Buffalo chips were once the woodpiles of the Great Plains, kindling Indigenous and pioneer fires with lots of smolder and few sparks.

It only took a dozen years for European hunters to skin every inch of buffalo hide from the prairie. Then they sold their bones. Then they hawked nostalgia for the carnage at the big Wild West show.

Walk the Great Plains and listen for the absence of bellow, snort, and grunt. Like an orchestra suffering without its French horn.

On the Buffalo Nickel, struck by the U.S. Mint in 1913, the creature hangs its head, as if conscious of its near-extinction by empire’s whim.

The Lakota tribe call the buffalo tatanka. A triumvirate of syllables summoning hosts of history and culture devoted to its tender soul.

Knee-deep in south Alaska snow, I’m winter’s fodder. Everything cracks and splinters—rose hip to bird’s nest. I find a buffalo, despite its cloak of hoarfrost and darkness, by the hot geyser of its breath.

The Gifted

BY WILL RUSSO

What must it have looked like, my father’s colleague picking out clothes nicer than we could afford and placing those hangers one by one in my hands—I hardly thought to thank him—then like a signal dad’s hot palm met my face, socking the clothed, the gifted, silent. I held my mark. My father stunning. He drove me home. There was no thank you. There was no sorry. We learned to move without apology.

ABOUT WILL:

Will Russo is the author of two chapbooks: Dreamsoak (Querencia Press, 2023) and Glass Manifesto, winner of the 2023 Rick Campbell Chapbook Award from Anhinga Press. Recent work has appeared in Sip Cup, Impossible Archetype, & Change, and Guesthouse. I serve as poetry editor at Great Lakes Review and reviews editor at Another Chicago Magazine. I received my MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Over and Over

BY DERON ECKERT

Bored for the first time in over a decade. There’s not as much to do as you’d think when you’re finally left to your own devices, no longer at the disposal of another’s whims. Only so many movies at the theater. The library carries more poetry books than you could ever hope to finish, but after a few dozen, the ennui and longing repeat from one poet to the next. The repetition strikes you as poetic the first few times, reminds you you’re not alone; people have felt your heartbreak over and over for centuries. But after a few dozen more poetry books, the repetition loses its effect. What’s left is this nagging feeling nothing matters. If there’s nothing left to say but what’s already been said, why say anything at all, and why bother reading what you’ve already read over and over by others more accomplished than you’ll likely ever be. But you say, Fuck it. Reading and writing poetry is therapeutic. It’s also the only thing you’ve ever felt passionate about in your life that you couldn’t undress. It’s freeing. Occasionally, it’s also so mind-numbing the frequent downtime leaves you wondering whether you’re wasting the time God gave you, whether God exists, whether you need anyone. Questions you’ve already answered over and over wandering the same city streets over and over, far too consumed with sadness to ever be bored, yet the questions stayed the same. You are plagued by the same questions whether you’re busy or bored, sad or happy, so why not be bored once in a while if it means you no longer have to feel disposed, reconciled to being forced to walk the streets until dark because you can’t bear to be at home. And who knows, maybe your poetry book about ennui and longing will be some sad sack’s first. It could even be the one that saves them, like Thomas, Schwartz, Limón, and Smith saved you. It could be the one they return to over and over.

ABOUT DERON:

Deron Eckert is a poet and writer who lives in Lexington, Kentucky. His work has appeared in Rattle, Strange Horizons, Stanchion, Beaver Magazine, Thin Air Magazine, Ghost City Review, Maudlin House, The Fourth River, and elsewhere. He can be found on Instagram, Threads, and Bluesky at deroneckert.

Above the City

BY ALEXANDER LAZARUS WOLF

The crows croak havoc havoc each dusk but the havoc they croak is silver-slated and glossed with moon—not the metro-

bustling havoc you face when sifting through citizens on the city’s sidewalks. Havoc should have an instruction manual.

It should be found in the pockets of the skyscrapers’ window-washers or in the scent of fresh cement.

And like the stray dog, havoc should live in the alley. O havoc, says the pigeon, is life. Those of us

who stare from high-rises know the city’s sigh, know that a crane dangles above an empty foundation,

a crane for children to gawk at, or for adults to complain about, or for the mind to ascend when it wishes

to swing beyond the city to where clouds veil mountains; those mountains where your sorrow no longer lingers.

And it is those mountains you must love, the hills of granite that undulate and sprawl to the beyond, where ether meets earth, where a thread of light sears the horizon and all that was once dark dissolves like water in the sun. You must love them

not because there is freedom in nature, but because the wings of the crows rise and carry them off to that beyond.

You must stare off to those mountains, knowing that the eye gifts freedom, and can take you to where the cityscape rests like an oasis of tarmac and steel, and then you can understand why people toss lusterless pennies into fountains or step over cracks in the sidewalk. You can know that you are lucky enough not to rely on luck. Listen, the crows croak, but it is not havoc they croak. The city is beginning to twirl with helices of light and apartment blocks are pricking the mauve of morning with a soft white. Watch as the crows span along the telephone wires and feed their young. They are grateful. They are grateful. You will learn to be grateful.

BY ALEXANDER:

Alexander Lazarus Wolff’s writing appears online in The Best American Poetry website and Poets.org, and in the North American Review, Pithead Chapel, and elsewhere. A recipient of an Academy of American Poets prize, he teaches at the University of Houston where he is the Inprint MD Anderson Foundation Fellow and assistant poetry editor for Gulf Coast. You can read more of his work at www.alexanderlazaruswolff.com.

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

J.D. Isip Contributing editor

J.D. Isip serves as Poetry and Microfiction Editor for the Blue Mountain Review. His books include, Pocketing Feathers (Sadie Girl Press, 2015) and Kissing the Wound (Moon Tide Press, 2023). His next collection, Reluctant Prophets will be released by Moon Tide Press in 2025. He lives in South Texas with his dogs, Ivy and Bucky.

nicole tallman

contributing editor

Nicole Tallman serves as Poetry and Interviews Editor for The Blue Mountain Review. She is the author of Something Kindred, Poems for the People, FERSACE, and Julie, or Sylvia, and she serves as the official Poetry Ambassador for Miami. Find her on social media @natallman and at nicoletallman.com

NICOLE parry

SUBMISSIONS CONTENT COORDINATOR

Nicole Parry, M.Ed., BCBA, LBA is a Board Certified Behavior Analyst, licensed in the state of Virginia, who writes care plans for children with Autism and supervises the ABA therapy provided to her clients. She earned her B.S. in Psychology from Bridgewater College and her M.Ed. in Educational Psychology: Applied Developmental Science from the University of Virginia. In her free time, Nicole enjoys reading, writing, singing, and playing piano. She has always had a passion for editing and proofreading, be it academic papers or creative fiction.

Kristie

Frederick Daugherty

contributing editor

Kristie Frederick Daugherty is a poet and professor who lives in Evansville, IN. She is the editor of Invisible Strings: 113 Poets

Respond to the Songs of Taylor Swift. Her work has been featured in the North American Review, Ponder Review, the American Poetry Review, and various other literary journals. She is a graduate of Vermont College of Fine Arts, and she is a PhD candidate in Literature/Criticism at the Indiana University of Pennsylvania.

Carmen Acevedo Butcher

contributing editor

Carmen Acevedo Butcher is the translator of The Cloud of Unknowing, a Georgia Author of the Year Awardee, and Practice of the Presence by Brother Lawrence, among others. Her dynamic work in spirituality and the power of language has garnered interest from various media, including the BBC and NPR’s Morning Edition. A Fulbright scholar at University of London and Fulbright Senior Lecturer at Sogang University, Carmen currently teaches in the College Writing Programs at UC Berkeley. Online at www.carmenbutcher.com and https://linktr.ee/ carmenacevedobutcher

lynne kemen contributing editor

Lynne Kemen lives in the Great Western Catskills of New York and appears in various literary journals. Her first full-length book of poetry, Shoes for Lucy was published in 2023 by SCE Press. Her chapbook, More Than a Handful, appeared in 2020. She is an Interviewer and Editor for The Blue Mountain Review and a member of The Southern Collective Experience. She is the President of Bright Hill Press.

clifford brooks editor-in-chief

Clifford Brooks is the CEO of the Southern Collective Experience and Editor-in-Chief of the Blue Mountain Review. He is also the journal’s content editor.

Aside from these duties, Clifford is the author of The Draw of Broken Eyes & Whirling Metaphysics, Athena Departs, and Exiles of Eden. These collections of poetry can easily be found online.

CLAYTON JONES

contributing editor

Clayton Jones is a writer, singersongwriter, and professor living in Chickamauga, GA. His poetry and prose has appeared in many journals and magazines including The Cortland Review, Boston Literary Magazine, and American Songwriter. He has written and recorded several albums of original music. He is founder of Southwind Media (southwindmedia.net) where he offers editing and other literary services. He is a professor of English at University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and holds a M.F.A. in poetry from Georgia State University.

Jennifer gravley contributing editor

Jennifer Gravley has been published widely in such venues as Sou’wester, North American Review, Laurel Review, La Petite Zine, and Puerto del Sol, among others. She writes short fiction, essays, and poetry and is currently at work on a story collection. She holds an MFA from the University of Alabama, where she was a winner in the AWP Intro Journals Project in fiction and held a Teaching-Writing Fellowship, and has attended the Sewanee Writers’ Conference. She was awarded a residency from the Ragdale Foundation. She is from the North Georgia mountains and now resides in the middle of the middle of the country with her husband and his plant.

luke johnson contributing editor

Luke Johnson is the author of Quiver (Texas Review Press), a finalist for the Jake Adam York Award, The Vassar Miller Prize, and The Levis Award; A Slow Indwelling (Harbor Editions 2024); and Distributary (Texas Review Press 2025). Quiver was recently named one of four finalists for The California Book Award. Johnson was selected by Patricia Smith as a finalist for the esteemed 2024 Robert Frost Residency through Dartmouth College. You can find more of his work at Kenyon Review, Prairie Schooner, Narrative Magazine, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere.

stuart dischell contributing editor

Stuart Dischell is the author of Good Hope Road (Viking), a National Poetry Series Selection, Evenings & Avenues (Penguin), Dig Safe (Penguin), Backwards Days (Penguin), Standing on Z (Unicorn), Children with Enemies (Chicago),and The Lookout Man (Chicago). His newest work is Andalusian Visions (Unicorn), a book of poetry, photography, and music with international collaborators. His poems have appeared in The Atlantic, Agni, The New Republic, Slate, Kenyon Review, Ploughshares, and numerous national and international anthologies, such as Best American Poetry, Good Poems, and the Pushcart Prize. A. recipient of awards from the NEA, the North Carolina Arts Council, the Ledig-Rowohlt Foundation. and the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation, he teaches in the MFA Program in Creative Writing at the University of North Carolina Greensboro.

Debbie hennessey

contributing editor

Debbie Hennessey was named AC40 Female Artist of the Year by New Music Weekly and scored a Top 20 Hit on their AC40 Charts. A song she cowrote recently hit the Top 5 on Roots Music Report’s Americana Country chart. Her songs have been honored by Great American Song Contest, International Songwriting Competition, Billboard World Song Contest, and others. Her music and videos have aired on USA/UHD Networks, NBC, GAC, Extra, and The Next GAC Star. She has over a dozen releases on her label Rustic Heart Records and is a voting GRAMMY member. In addition, Debbie was the managing editor of LA411 & NY411 for Variety and has created several magazines and directories for various industries over the years. Through her company Entertainment Editorial, she works with a diverse range of clients to meet their editorial needs. She also writes for Dante’s Old South Radio Show blog and the Blue Mountain Review. You can find Debbie at www.entertainmenteditorial.com and www.debbiehennessey.com

Chris terry contributing editor

Chris Terry draws from his fanatic love of films & music when crafting his reviews. After receiving his Master›s in Fine Arts from the Savannah College of Art and Design, he’s gone on to work on numerous independent and major films along with producing film scores and music for a wide variety of genres. Chris is currently working with the film production company Fifteen Studios on upcoming projects.

january o'neil

contributing editor

January Gill O’Neil is an associate professor at Salem State University and the author. Her poems and articles have appeared in The New York Times Magazine, the Academy of American Poets’ Poem-A-Day series, American Poetry Review, Poetry, and Sierra magazine, among others. She currently serves as the 2022-2024 board chair of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP). O’Neil earned her BA from Old Dominion University and her MFA from New York University. She lives in Beverly, MA.

kaitlyn young design & layouts

Georgia-native, Kaitlyn Young is a freelance graphic designer, specializing in both print and digital creative collateral.

H. holt contributing editor

H. Holt is a published poet whose work has appeared in a variety of literary magazines and blogs, most notably in Stone, River, Sky: An Anthology of Georgia Poems, alongside former President Jimmy Carter. She holds a BA in Creative Writing and English and is currently pursuing an MA in History. In her spare time, she enjoys exploring multiple forms of creative expression and is currently writing The Soldier and The Songbird, a time-travel novel set in colonial America.

Heather Harris

contributing editor

Heather M. Harris is an emerging writer of memoir, poetry, short-stories, children’s books, and an illustrator who lives and writes in the New Orleans area. Heather holds a Master’s of Arts and Teaching and a Bachelor’s of Arts and Sciences in Psychology both from Southeastern Louisiana University. Heather is a contributor for The Blue Mountain Review, and a member of The Southern Collective Experience.

Ashley m. Jones

contributing editor

ASHLEY M. JONES is the Poet Laureate of the State of Alabama (2022-2026). She holds an MFA in Poetry from Florida International University, and she is the author of Magic City Gospel (Hub City Press 2017), dark / / thing (Pleiades Press 2019), and REPARATIONS NOW! (Hub City Press 2021). Her poetry has earned several awards, including the Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers Award, the Silver Medal in the Independent Publishers Book Awards, the Lena-Miles Wever Todd Prize for Poetry, a Literature Fellowship from the Alabama State Council on the Arts, the Lucille Clifton Poetry Prize, and the Lucille Clifton Legacy Award.

kristen arnett contributing editor

Kristen Arnett is the queer Floridian author of With Teeth: A Novel (Riverhead Books, 2021) which was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award in fiction and the New York Times bestselling debut novel Mostly Dead Things (Tin House, 2019) which was also a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award in fiction and was shortlisted for the VCU Cabell First Novelist Award. Her next novel, STOP ME IF YOU’VE HEARD THIS ONE will be published by Riverhead Books (Spring 2025), followed by the publication of an untitled collection of short stories.

Echo Montgomery garrett

contributing editor

Echo Montgomery Garrett, a 40+ year journalist, author of 25 nonfiction books, and CEO of Lucid House Publishing, is mission-driven and concentrates on sharing stories that inspire greatness and help people to dream. Her biggest selling book MY ORANGE DUFFEL BAG: A Journey to Radical Change was originally self-published in 2010 and won five national awards for best young adult nonfiction and best self-help, including the American Society of Journalists & Authors Arlene Eisenberg Writing that Makes a Difference award that is given every three years to the book that’s made the biggest difference in society. That same year, Echo co-founded the Orange Duffel Bag Initiative (www.theODBI. org) based on the principles in the book to provide life plan coaching and ongoing advocacy for young people ages 14-24 experiencing high poverty, homelessness and aging out of foster care. In 2013, Echo was named Georgia Author of the Year from Georgia chapter of National League of American Pen Women. The Nashville native has won multiple awards for her articles that have appeared in more than 100 media outlets, including AARP, PARADE, AMERICAN WAY, THE NEW YORK TIMES, THE ATLANTA JOURNAL-CONSTITUTION, MONEY, INC., SUCCESS, and more. A graduate of Auburn University, Echo left the New York City magazine world after a decade to return to the South. She and husband Kevin reside in Marietta, Georgia.