IWWG Network: Fall 2022

NETWORK

FALL 2022

Featured WRITERS

Network Editorial Letter ...............................................................................................................3 Alpern, Robin “Writer’s Log” ..........................................................................................................4 Sheila Benedis "Tree Apparel".........................................................................................................6 Alper, Janice "Second to Last".........................................................................................................7 Bergman, Linda "My Blue Baby" ...................................................................................................8 Berrios, Darline "Three Questions" ............................................................................................10 Bluestein, Carol "Execution" excerpt ..........................................................................................12 Bodin, Joanne S. "Beneath the Shadow of Normalcy" .......................................................14 Bower, Laurie "A Kiss".......................................................................................................................15 Burnett, Kim "December Night".....................................................................................................16 Cabell, Wendy "Emergence Notes"..............................................................................................17 Canada-Hlatshwayo, Johanny "The Other"..............................................................................19 De La Rocha, Kelly "Heiress of a Bird".......................................................................................20 Diamond, Linda Eve "The 'F' Word" ..........................................................................................21 Durham, Joanne "Coat Hanger"...................................................................................................23 Eston, Anne “Her Heart’s Desire”................................................................................................24 Fox, Nolcha "Tapestries".................................................................................................................25 Becca G., Nomad "Alone In Dark Rooms On Sunny Days" .............................................26 Galanter, Lea "Herald" ....................................................................................................................27 Gutierrez, Maria "Cast Iron" ..........................................................................................................28 Harvey, Ella "The Distance Between No and.........................................................................29 Yes" Jackson, Nan "Hearing You, My Ancestors..." .........................................................................31 Jankovits, Tayla "Growing".............................................................................................................32 Johnson-Ladson, Marie "We Remember the Time" ...........................................................33 Kiersz, Giuliana "Someone asked who we are..." .................................................................35 Koskoff, Juliet "Jennifer's Choice" ...............................................................................................38 Leedy Schneider, Linda "I Reclaim" .............................................................................................40 Lichtenstein, Nina B "Knockout" .............................................................................................41 Loder, Theresa "Judy and Katrina"

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Lomoe, Julie “Saga of a Viking Crone”......................................................................................44

Featured WRITERS

Masoodi, Hafsa "A Doll from Muzaffarabad" ..............................................................................46 Mendt, K.L. "Mother Calls in April" ............................................................................................49 Michael, Michelle "Tsunami" ......................................................................................................50 Mundia, Gasheri "So You Say"......................................................................................................53 Muthoni, Wanjira "Me and my grandmother on turning sixty" ......................................54 Olivo, Damaris "News Quiz"..........................................................................................................56 O'Neil, Katherine "Ascend Slowly" .............................................................................................57 O'Neill, Catherine "Shopping".......................................................................................................58 Owen, Jacqueline "Recess" .......................................................................................................59 Vargas, Jeanne "I Love You" ..........................................................................................................60 Penner, Andi and Vargas, Jeanne ..............................................................................................62 Pickford, Suzanne Lima "Putting the Dog Down"................................................................66 Quiles, Phyllis C "Farewell Hymn"...............................................................................................67 Ramirez, Joan "Empty Spaces"....................................................................................................68 Rosser, Evelyn Crawford "On Pins and Needles".................................................................69 Supunsara, Sapna "A stranger speaks".....................................................................................70 Sawoski, Catherine "Rind” ............................................................................................................71 Sengupta, Oindri "Inside a Lost Time".......................................................................................72 Shahee, "Malfunctioned" ................................................................................................................73 Sobey, CK "The Bookstore" .........................................................................................................74 Spillman, Katrina "Tenerife"...........................................................................................................75 Stanko, Margie Ann "Silk Embroidery" .....................................................................................76 Stegen, Sara "The Bridge..." .........................................................................................................78 Tahmina Shagufta Hussein, Tabassum "My Fair Lady" ....................................................81 Vecere, Tomra "Bipolar Inheritance"..........................................................................................83 Vultaggio, Maria "A Curious Pig".................................................................................................84 Walker, Celeste "Our Stories" .......................................................................................................85 Wright, J.L. "In a pink house..." .....................................................................................................87 Wu, Mary H. "Pearls".........................................................................................................................88

Dear IWWG, Here is a testament to our instinct to reach for connection. As the pandemic casts its shadow over our social struggle to adapt, this theme continues to ring prominently in the spaces we gather as writers, as women—to heal from hurt, recover from loss, and transform. When experience defies hopes, we are prone to question.

Through inquiry, we explore our identity and livelihood; we grant ourselves the ability to peel back the layers and make room for growth. In the process of creating Network: Fall 2022, what we are colloquially calling the “Revival” issue, we entered into the confusion and delight hand-in-hand, and emerged transformed.

This issue of Network represents the revitalization of creativity in the face of our present challenges, made possible through the strength of the community we co-create. Finding our voices is never straightforward, but as you will discover, the Guild rises to uncertainty with fervor.

As editors, we have had the privilege of building this ode to connection alongside you. Your passionate insight and openness to our feedback pushed us to grow as young writers, and moved us to offer some message in return. So hear this: it all makes sense. Your fears, rage, confusion, grief, skepticism; your joys, desires, wants, needs, dreams. Your words will not only be read, but felt.

Thank you for your presence. Your devotion to the Guild ensures that our flourishing community continues to bloom. Contributing writers, you have shown us grace through each phase of production, and modeled what it means to stand by your work. Readers, we are grateful for the space you hold. In a time of unrest, your strength and persistence carry the torch. The connections we have created together will stand the test of isolation.

Our resilience is our revival.

In sisterhood and solidarity,

Olivia Loftis and Lydia Prendergast

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WRITER’S LOG, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 16 Robin Mallison Alpern I’m not looking forward to this, but I have to leap in. My Lit teacher, Rita’s, major criticism of my short story “Jackie’s Nightmare” was “an underlying passivity.”

It sounded very familiar. “Dragon Tower” came to mind, and “Undine,” and then all my other stories, in a vague mass. It may be the major problem, even the major component, in all my work.

I feel weighted with desperation. Rita had pinpointed a fatal flaw: the truth is, nothing ever really happens in anything I write. Even when there’s activity, like a flying dragon or exploring cemeteries, it’s just filler. I run from getting more involved. Being involved requires work, commitment, and taking risks—and I hate all three.

When people protest that nothing much goes on in “Dragon Tower,” I say, “it’s a mood piece,” and also, “it’s supposed to have the atmosphere of a world that no longer exists.” With “Undine,” I could say I’m writing stream-of-consciousness material without any goal in mind.

And it’s true; I’m trying to convey the possibility that living in water rather than air shapes the culture to be less aggressive and action-oriented. But “Undine” isn’t the only story without plot.

The problem isn’t irreparable. If it gives me a sinking feeling, it’s not because I can’t improve, but because I don’t want to. That puts a different light on things, doesn’t it? This could be one of those perfect instances to do what I envied Gail Godwin doing, as Janet Sternburg described in The Writer on Her Work: isolating a problem in her writing and devising specific exercises for overcoming it. But that can only work if the spirit is willing.

What’s the payback for writing passively?

Laziness, for one. I can skate around on top of things, hoping my skill with language and some good imitation life will carry the day. I don’t have to take time getting to know my characters, scenes, plots. Not easy, but safe.

Safe is different from lazy.

Right, and safety is what I want, too.

But you want to reach people; write things with feeling. You were so upset when Barbara said in class that your story was intellectual and had no emotion. What about you figuring out writing is a way to reach yourself?

I feel a lump in my throat. I admit it, I’m still afraid to meet myself. I’m afraid of who I’ll find at the center. I’m afraid there’s no one there.

So you write all around that person at the center. You leave a big hole in the middle of your work just like you think a big hole is at the middle of you.

Yes! And even while you say this profound thing, I’m thinking I don’t want to spend the time and hard work making my writing more real.

But it’s not necessarily more time and hard work. You’re thinking of having to add something to what you already write. Readers are looking for quality, not quantity. If you got more in touch with your center, that would come through in your work.

I don’t know. I see you’re right. At the same time, I’m thinking of how long I’ve been studying myself, trying to open up; counseling and Zen and the Craft and songwriting and all of it, and you’re telling me I’m still not in touch. Where the hell do I find myself? I’ve only got about sixty

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more years and I was hoping to do something with the first fifty of them. Oh god, there’s such a lot of tears and hurting and hopelessness. I don’t believe an answer is going to come even if I wait all night. Sitting here crying with the typewriter running, because with its steaming little rhythm I feel as though maybe something will emerge…maybe it will lull me into yielding answers. I have an image of trying to be real with my writing and it feels the same as being with a lover: becoming one body. This passivity is connected to fear of love. Maybe if I really took part in the story, I’d find out it knows things about me I don’t. I picture us wrestling: me and the story rolling around like a pair of lovers on a green lawn. I don’t see what that has to do with writing actively. Making love to the story means taking time, but there has to be more than just that. What does that even mean, make love to the story?

Get inside it. Don’t be afraid; be all the people. Don’t run around trying to pretend that because you’re writing fiction, you have to invent characters. They’re all you! You don’t HAVE anyone else, so play it for all it’s worth. Get in there, inside everything, every character, every scene, every action. Get up on that stage and have fun. You’ve got the whole place to yourself—be flamboyant, dress up, wrap some crazy scarves around your neck, say all those wild-ass things you never dared say to anyone and then take them all back. Kick your shoes off, roll on the floor, yeah, roll on the floor! Whoever said it was stupid to roll on the floor? I don’t know anything about stupid, all I know is the curtain is up and you’re on!

Robin M. Alpern began writing at age 6. She has published poetry, essays, short stories, a memoir and a novel. Robin attended an IWWG summer conference for the first time in 1982 and has returned many times. This journal entry is adapted from her memoir, Writing My Heart Out.

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TREE APPAREL Sheila Benedis in winter

spring descends

leaves grow gradually

the tree has

buds sprout

in deep forest green

lost its leaves

in tiny delicate

full leaf cover

moss but not its life force

green leaflets

summer reigns

compelled by

radiant colored flowers

apparel takes over

its shed

elegance

the tree

nakedness

happy content

shows off

magical

its structure

warmer weather minimal covering

Sheila Benedis is an artist with a successful career, which started with basketry sculptures, followed by installation pieces and now artist books. These book sculptures incorporate poetry.

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IT WAS THE SECOND TO LAST DAY Janice Alper We didn’t know it was the second to last day. You held court, sitting in the corner of the gray couch, your feet up. Friends came by, our children and grandchildren. The metronome of the oxygen tank kept a steady rhythm—beep beep beep—as you joked and talked with everyone. There was a cadence to it, like the beat of dance steps we’d moved to on the dance floor.

Oh, how we loved to dance. We took dancing lessons before our wedding. The joy of those early days always returned when our bodies moved to the music—all the challenges and crazy times of our dysfunctional family faded away when we were in each other’s arms.

We didn’t know it was the second to last day, when later in the evening you collapsed on the bathroom floor and I couldn’t pick you up. I got a pillow for your head, and the steady rhythm—beep beep beep—of the air flowing into your lungs kept going. The hospice nurse came, and our son and our close friends and we got you into bed. The morphine calmed you. You closed your eyes and managed to sleep.

I twisted and turned in the bed we shared for more than fifty years, reaching for your cool body, checking to be sure you had not run out of breath, and then it was the next to last day. But we didn’t know it was the next to last day. Our grandchildren came again and you played War with Aidan. “I beat you again, Papa,” he said, “you owe me a dollar.”

You took a dollar from the pocket of your robe and said, “I’m going to die never having won a game of War from Aidan,” and we all laughed.

Towards evening the hospital bed arrived. We argued. You wanted it in our bedroom and when I finally convinced you there was no space, it was set up in the guest room, the room with the Murphy bed and I said, “I’ll stay with you, don’t worry.”

But there were no linens for the hospital bed, so we went to sleep again in the bed we shared for more than fifty years. And this night, which was the last night, but we didn’t know it was the last night, you slept fitfully, hallucinated from the morphine.

I shook you and said, “It’s okay.”

At four a.m. I got out of bed, found our long-term care insurance policy, called hospice to arrange for a night nurse. I knew if I told you it was because I needed my rest to care for you, you wouldn’t object. At dawn you woke up—beep beep beep—you had no pain, thank God. As I helped you change your clothes, you gave me that wonderful, crooked half smile—the same smile you had when we danced together—and you didn’t want to eat. I held your hand.

Our friend rang the bell at eight a.m., handed me linens for the hospital bed. I made it up, got you settled in. Later in the morning, another friend came and talked with you as I prepared lunch in the kitchen—there was still beep beep beep.

We left you alone to eat lunch, but I couldn’t eat.

You closed your eyes while we were out of the room and there was no more beep beep beep—only the labored cadence of my broken heart.

Janice Alper, an active octogenarian, writes poems, personal essays, and memoirs. Her work has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual, the IWWG newsletter, The Jewish Writing Project, and the San Diego Union-Tribune. When she is not writing she sits near the ocean in the late afternoons waiting for sunset. If she lives long enough, her memoir, Sitting on the Stoop: A Girl Grows in Brooklyn, may get published. You can follow Janice at www.janicesjottings1.com

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MY BLUE BABY Linda Bergman It is 1986. The Cosby Show is the most popular TV show, Top Gun is the highest-grossing film, and That’s What Friends Are For is the top song on the charts. Sarah, our first born, is five, Adam is just two and husband Chuck and I are invited to a roaring 20’s costume party aboard a ship in the San Diego Harbor about three hours driving distance from our home.

The birthday party was being thrown for the man who introduced us, by his wealthy mother.

We went all out—renting my flapper costume and his dandy outfit from Paramount studios in Los Angeles. I had on full makeup and a wig, and we were picked up by a luxury bus and delivered back home at about three in the morning. We had danced and drunk the night away.

We rarely left our kids at that age, but since this was a special event, we hired their favorite baby-sitter, our neighbor, fourteen-year-old Sharlene, to spend the night.

Everything seemed fine as we fell into bed. I remember thinking I should take off my makeup, but I was so tired, I fell asleep cradling the thought.

At 6 A.M. I checked on Adam. He had a blistering fever, was weak and lifeless and so, in my ancient but comfy nightgown, looking as much like Baby Jane as any woman could look with smeared eye makeup and witchy hair, I drove like a mad woman to the emergency hospital while Chuck held our baby boy in the back seat, writhing and jerking now from febrile seizures caused by the high temperature. Fortunately, Sharlene spent the night and stayed with little Sarah.

Two blocks from our home, the unthinkable happened. A thing that had never happened to me before in my life because of my passion for details and the fear of it happening. Whether I believed it or not didn’t matter. I ran out of gas! My 1965 Mustang coughed to a stop at a deserted intersection. Without a second thought, I got out and wildly flagged down the first passing motorist and begged him to take my son and husband to the emergency room just ten blocks away. I was shoeless and sobbing now and this poor man knew he either had to step on the gas to break my iron grip on his door or make a trip to the hospital. He chose the latter and Chuck, carrying Adam, piled into his back seat leaving me, Baby Jane, in the dust.

What could I do? I pushed the car through the intersection and headed it downhill to the gas station two blocks away, not realizing I didn’t have my purse. I got the car close enough to run to the station to get a can of gas. There was a young man on duty, maybe 18. He looked at me with wide eyes as I blurted out, “My baby son’s very sick and we ran out of gas on our way to the hospital and I need just enough to get me to Tarzana Hospital. I don’t have any money can you please loan it to me, and I promise I will pay you back. I promise. Please. Please help me.”

I said it without pausing for a breath. He looked stricken. He said he wasn’t the owner and couldn’t really give gas away, but then, something clicked, and he saw me—really saw me through the old nighty and the scary, grotesque terror-filled face. He grabbed a gas can and gave me two gallons of gas, asking me to please bring the can back because he’d have to pay for it out of his pocket. I don’t even remember putting the gas in the tank. All I knew was I had to get to the hospital. I am sure I thanked him. I had to have thanked him.

I flew in the emergency entrance,and everyone stared at me. The woman behind the desk buzzed me through without a second thought. She heard “Bergman,” saw this wretch of a woman and knew better. Nothing was going tokeep me out of there andI would go through the wall or crawl through the window if she didn’t open the door.

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After I saw Adam in the ice bath, his eyes wide, his lips blue, I collapsed in an ugly, ugly cry.

The man who drove them to the hospital turned out to be a physician on call and they were in good hands. A nurse took me by the hand and offered me a gown—and a sanitary pad. I was confused until she pointed to my nighty. I had started my period and the entire rear end of my nightgown was soaked in blood.

Can you imagine that young boy’s thoughts as he poured me the gasoline? Later, when Adam was safely home in his own bed, and I had showered and shaved and gathered my wits, I drove back to the gas station. Chuck and I agreed he deserved an award for bravery, and besides paying for the gas, we tipped him generously. More importantly, I thanked him for looking past the insanity and helping me. I thanked him for doing the right thing. He was embarrassed but said I looked the same way his own Mom did the day his baby brother died. Together—we cried. I have never forgotten that young man and I have a hunch, he remembers me.

Adam had febrile seizures from time to time after that, but the episodes were never as scary as that first time.

It was1986. A peaceful year compared to today. I have never gone to bed in such a state since.

You never know what may happen.

Linda Bergman wrote 24 films and produced 5 of them. She’s been nominated for an Emmy and the Writer’s Guild Award. Her musical, “Wanna Play?”, was produced on PBS and won her The Alpha Award in Children’s Programming. She’s written two books on screenplay and teaches screenplay worldwide. She is writing her third book on film and her memoir, “Clint Eastwood Swam in My Pool: An Innocent Survives the Lure of Hollywood.”

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THREE QUESTIONS Darline Berrios, Ed.D. Have you ever left everything behind? Almost literally everything?

In 2020, I left. I left the city I had lived in for the last twenty-seven years, my first house, my job, my friends, and my marriage. I told my adult daughters, “I don’t know what’s going to happen but I trust what I’m doing.” I left and I had to trust like I have never trusted before that that is what I needed to do.

I turned inward. I read. I watched the clouds. I napped. I returned to hiking everyday. I beckoned my spirit. I prayed, lit candles, wrote in my journal and wondered what was next. I felt a strong pull towards my great-grandmother, Guela (while I realize abuela is the correct term, my family says guela) Irenes. It felt as though she was prompting me to write.

I read What We Ache For: Creativity and the Unfolding of the Soul by Oriah Mountain Dreamer and it had this writing activity: “Who are your grandmothers and grandfathers of your tribe? What is the creative lineage you claim as your own? Who are the men and women whose work touches and mirrors your own inner knowing? Listen, write a letter to them, calling upon them, making your pledge to them to do your best to carry on their tradition of creative work, ask for their help.”

So I didn’t do that, I did something completely different, but along the same lines. I liked the idea of channeling into someone else and asking them for guidance.

What I did next was I came up with three questions that I asked my great grandmother. Now mind you, my Guela Irenes is not alive. I was blessed to meet her a few times when I was younger and would visit Puerto Rico with my family. I just responded as I felt like or thought she might have responded like. So literally, when I did this exercise, it didn’t take long. I wrote down the questions. Immediately my pen just started moving across the page and I wrote down these answers.

Dear Guela Irenes, that’s what your great grandchildren Bay (my younger sister) and I call you. We think you and your sister look so much alike. Plus both of you are so cute and brown and have the strongest forearms we’ve ever seen on a woman under five feet. I’ve been thinking about you for a few months. Mom, Jova’s daughter, found your novena of the acuerdos. That was awesome. Some of it is missing, but it’ll show up. We did the novena too. I have three questions for you. What did you want to be? Did you like your life? What message do you have for me? #1. What did you want to be? I wanted to be everything and knew I couldn’t be anything. Young girls had feelings, thoughts and ideas.

But before you knew it, you were married with 13 kids. I was always pregnant. That’s all I knew. That’s what I did. And so did many others. I cooked, cleaned, had babies and prayed. I prayed for you to do and be what I could not be. I prayed for you to go on adventures, love freely and be who you wanted it to be. I prayed for you because I knew I wanted to be everything, and couldn’t be anything. Amen.

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#2. Did you like your life? I liked my life. But I knew there was more. And knew deep down that all of us girls and boys, young, married and pregnant, had been brought into a time where you live the way you were taught to live. You didn’t live the way you wanted to live. That was for the rich, the movie stars, the people in the United States. I liked my life, but I knew there was more, more to see, more to feel, more to love, more to experience, more to taste, more to wonder, more to hear, more to smell, more to dance to. I liked my life. But I prayed that you would love yours. Go and love your life. It’s yours to be loved. #3. What message do you have for me? I think from my previous answers that you see my message, live your life. Use your life and the opportunities you have been given. And enjoy the freedom of your soul. Love deeply, feel deeply and grow and be whatever you want to be. I pray for you, even to this day. Remember, your guela is a piece of me. Your mom is a piece of me and you are a piece of me. Enjoy. Make it count. Be free. And do it all with corazón, mi corazón.

I’m trying, Guela. I’m trying. Two and a half years later, I started my own business. I produce a podcast. I have a beautiful black lab that is perpetually playful. I have reconnected to old family and friends. I am still trusting, praying, lighting candles and hiking everyday. Most importantly, I have reconnected to the divine in a way that has transformed my perspective on life. While a lot has changed. I am still curious about what’s next. Now when I am faced with making a major decision, I often think back to these three questions and more specifically “her response.” She’s with me every step of the way en mi corazón. In a way she’s literally still here. A piece of her DNA and genes live on within my bone marrow. Don’t worry, Guela, I’ll make it count.

Darline Berrios, Ed.D. believes identity matters, choices are powerful, and a leader casts great light on the world. She is the owner of an educational consulting business, Dr. Berrios & Associates. She loves hiking, running, laughing with family and friends, and is extremely proud of her three adult daughters.

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EXECUTION CHAPTER 01 C.L. Bluestein Present year, Saturday, January 19 Jones watched Jeffries ring the doorbell.

A smiling Mrs. Davis opened the door. In the sweet southern drawl of a lifelong Georgian, she said, “Mr. Jeffries and Miss Jones. Thank you for coming so quick.”

Jeffries put on his shit-eating grin and lied. “Ma’am, we’re happy to be here.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in.” She held the door open while the pair filed past her and then pulled it shut to make sure the screen door latched. Jeffries and Jones turned at the sounds of the door hitting the frame and the loud click.

Mrs. Davis laughed. “I see I caught you by surprise. Not to worry.” She guided them through the house and onto the back porch facing the Atlantic Ocean. She stood in the breeze watching the waves. “You know, about the door. Can’t rely on visitors. It’s been that way since we moved in.”

Jones said, “What way?”

“It needs that extra pull to make sure the latch catches. If I don’t do it, the damn thing flaps in the wind. Despite the infernal racket, by dinner-time, every bug in Georgia finds its way in here.” She paused and sighed. “Mr. Davis had that fix on his ‘to do’ list for fifty years. Then he died.”

Jeffries said, “About the deed.”

Mrs. Davis didn’t seem to hear. She smiled. “Know what I did? I stuck Mr. Davis’s ‘to do’ list in his pants pocket at the funeral home.”

Jones said, “Pay-back, huh?”

“You betcha.”

Jeffries looked at his watch. “We have to be in North Carolina tomorrow, Mrs. Davis. Since you called us, what can we do for you?”

“Did you know this land was on the back end of my daddy’s farm? He gave it to us as a wedding gift. I’m sure it was to keep me close.” She laughed. “You all know how daddies can be.”

“Mrs. Davis…”

“Did I tell you Mr. Davis and I built this place?”

Jones said, “Yes, I believe you did.”

“Did I tell you we lost our new dock, our boat, and half the backyard to the ocean?”

“I understood that’s why you let us buy your deed.”

Mrs. Davis turned to look at Jeffries and Jones. “Where are my manners? Let me get you some lemonade and cookies. Or maybe some cold sweet tea?”

Jeffries was not in the mood for small talk or food. “No need. How can we help you?”

Mrs. Davis appeared confused.

Jones gave Jeffries a look to calm down and said, “Mrs. Davis, what is it you wanted to talk to us about?”

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Mrs. Davis pulled out a cloth handkerchief from the pocket on the right side of her apron.

“This belonged to my husband.”

Jones saw Jeffries’s face go dark. She guessed he was about to strangle the old woman.

Mrs. Davis sat on one of the wicker chairs and wiped her face. “Oh, I just remembered why I called you. My sister-in-law said the deed I signed wasn’t mine. She said it didn’t have my name on it.”

Jeffries leaned over and patted Mrs. Davis on the knee. “It’s all okay. Remember we talked about that. Upon your husband’s death, all his assets became yours.”

The landline phone rang inside. Mrs. Davis stood and went to take the call. Ten minutes later, she returned, again wiping her face with a kerchief. “I’m sorry she does go on. My sister-in-law is hyperventilating. She insists I cancel the deed transfer.”

Miss Jones got up and stood next to Mrs. Davis. She put one arm around the woman’s shoulder and said, “I understand. I’ll make this right.”

Mrs. Davis sighed in relief. “Thank you, honey.”

“Come with me. Let’s go inside.” Jones glared at Jeffries. “We women will take care of this.”

Jones led Mrs. Davis to the living room. She heard Jeffries follow them inside and continue walking out the front door.

Jones said, “I bet you spent many years here with Mr. Davis.”

“Yes, I did.” She walked to the only recliner in the room and sat down. “This was Mr. Davis’s favorite chair before it became mine.”

Jones walked around to the back of the recliner and massaged Mrs. Davis shoulders and neck. “How does that feel?”

“It’s nice. Thank you, Honey.”

As soon as Jones felt Mrs. Davis relax, she pulled out her 3D gun, held it to the right side of Davis’s head, and pulled the trigger. Jones checked for a pulse. None. Satisfied, she arranged the gun on the floor and dusted residue on the woman’s right hand—all done as per dark web information. A final check and she walked away.

Jones joined Jeffries outside, shut the door, and put her hand through Jeffries’s crooked arm.

With bodies relaxed, voices conversational, they walked to the car. He held the door for her and then went around to the driver’s seat. They blended in with neighborhood traffic, made it onto the main roads, and took the interstate.

Jones said, “No matter how many times it happens, I get a twinge when it goes suicidal, like poor Mrs. Davis.” Jeffries said, “It’s not like we’re executing them all. If they sign, fine. If not, the suicide set-up says they no longer wanted to deal with destructive hurricanes and flooding.

They couldn’t face rebuilding again, or going homeless, living under debris, scratching for food, open-air toileting, or searching for clean running water. Our job is to save them from themselves.”

“We’re sort of heroes.”

“Definitely heroes.”

Carol (C.L.) Bluestein has been an IWWG member since 2008. She is a member, contributor, editor, and podcast co-host with The Good Men Project since 2016. Her thriller Seduction Series: Love. Loss. Leverage. Murder began in 2015 with SEDUCTION, followed by PERCEPTION, ISOLATION, & DECEPTION. EXECUTION will release 1/2023 in print and on Kindle and Audible.

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BENEATH THE SHADOW OF NORMALCY Joanne S. Bodin Coffee pot beeps at irregular intervals in the kitchen.

Sand candles flicker against black light images of Grateful Dead posters.

Psychedelic mandala taped to her bedroom wall tunnels images into her mind.

James Taylor turns vinyl into rivers of melodic memorabilia amplified a thousand times by the Thai sticks crumbled up in her glass bong.

Patchouli incense dulls her senses as she heads for uncharted territory.

It could be the wine-soaked lips ready to be kissed, or the seductive glance as Dara walks toward her. Beneath the shadow of normalcy two naked bodies come together while night crawlers pluck at maroon berries in the backyard.

In the morning, a knock on the door. Her two young children are returned after their weekend with her ex-husband. They eat breakfast in the kitchen where orange burlap curtains from Penny’s cover the windows.

Dara makes happy-face pancakes. Decorates them with Nutella and whip cream.

The two women move through the motions of normalcy.

Their eyes locked on each other like animals during a mating ritual.

Time stands still until one of the kids asks for more whip cream, oblivious to the faint smell of wine on Dara’s breath, or to their mother’s eyes glazed over like she had visited a place far away and has not yet returned.

Joanne Bodin Ph.D, is an award-winning author and poet. Her book of poetry Piggybacked, was a finalist in the New Mexico Book Awards. Her novel Walking Fish won the New Mexico Book Award and the International Book Award in gay/lesbian fiction. Her latest novel Orchid of the Night was a 2018 Eric Hoffer Book Award finalist for commercial fiction; won second place for adult novel in New Mexico Press Women 2018 Communication Contest; won 2017 NYC Big Book Award “distinguished favorite” in LGBT fiction; was a New Mexico/Arizona Book Award 2017 winner in Gay/Lesbian fiction.

Her poetry has appeared in numerous publications including La Llorona Poetry Anthology, Fixed and Free Poetry Anthologies, Voices of New Mexico Anthologies, Zingara Poetry Pics, New Mexico Mercury, Malpais Review Vol. 5 and 6, The Poeming Pigeon, The Storyteller’s Anthology, The Yes Book, Glitterwolf Magazine, Jesbians, Adobe Walls 5, IWWG Network, July 2021.

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A KISS Of Sally Thomson’s Photographic Exploration, “Camel Herders: The Rabari Of Rajasthan, India” Laurie Bower A kiss, oh a kiss how I so love a kiss!

Caress the soft white hairs of my lips, the wrinkles beneath eyes of steaming rich espresso on a cold desert morn.

But today I am here for you my love ancient and mystical as this village, Pushkar, at the largest camel fair in the world Kartik Mela.

Brilliant balloons rise above us, surrounded by roses of every hue, a full moon tonight.

I have traveled miles through mountains, ravines and searing sand on soft, padded toes.

Some day, this may no longer be so as the gentle, curved lines of our mother are replaced with the hard and straight of homes and industry.

I am thirsty for so much, but before I sip the blue lotus waters and dip my tired limbs in the sacred lake, oh grant me this one perfect blessing, and remember me with a kiss.

Laurie Bower has been writing poems since she was six. She enjoys creating work that expands the mind and moves the spirit, writing from her small homestead in rural New Mexico with her dog and muse, Babe, a flock of pigeons and a variety of visiting “wild things” (human and otherwise).

Her print and audio poetry has been published in a variety of Southwest Anthologies, including Fixed and Free, 200 New Mexico Poems, The Telepoem Project, The National Federation of State Poetry Societies and Women’s Voices.

Laurie also works as an audiobook narrator and teaches classes in Improv, Creative Writing and Classical Yoga. www.LaurieBower.net IWWG NETWORK | Fall 2022 | page 16

DECEMBER NIGHT Kim Burnett Tuesday, December 13, 1977, Morton Hall, Room 404, a sleepy college campus in the southwest corner of Indiana. All girls’ dorm, quiet study hours. A raw, soaked day had become a foggy night that wanted to be icy, so even at 8:00 p.m., we were tucked in with textbooks and blankets and hot tea. I’m sitting cross-legged on my narrow dorm bed wearing the yellow terry cloth zip-up robe I had made in high school. Then, sounds of running, banging on our door, TURN ON THE TV! And there, a wrecked plane, twisted metal, scattered debris. The caption read University of Evansville Basketball Team. No survivors.

UE basketball sat between legend and religion. They could draw 10,000 fans on a school night. That year was brimming with promise—new to Division 1, a new coach, new players who could have played in larger, more lavish programs, but came to Evansville to build something. We saw those boys every day in the cafeteria, in the halls, walking to class. They were campus celebrities, yes. Tall and talented. But also, they were us.

Their plane was in the air for less than 90 seconds. Twenty-nine people had packed bags, eaten dinner, strapped on their seatbelts. And they were gone.

In a silent, unplanned choreography of grief, students streamed from the dorms to the chapel.

To pews. To candles. To ask God, why? I didn’t know most of the boys, and the ones I knew, I didn’t know well, but that didn’t matter. I was shattered by proximity. Their deaths were so sudden and so random. I found it difficult to stand upright. Funeral after funeral in town after town: Tell City, Eldorado, New Albany, Munster. Indiana heaved with sorrow.

One team member, Dave Furr, was not on that plane, sidelined with an ankle injury. His girlfriend, who lived across the hall, shared a relief that was a bit of joy in the swirl of sadness.

After break we learned that two days after Christmas, Dave’s car skidded on ice and hit a pickup truck, killing him and his younger brother instantly. I imagined his mother, feeling powerfully lucky to have escaped the worst, only to face the gods determined to take her son, and his brother too. I have thought of her for 45 years.

After, a restlessness pressed against me. My college, my major, my friendships–all felt uncomfortable, inadequate. If my future could be snatched away—and it could, couldn’t it?—I needed to live my precious present with more focus and challenge. If life could be so randomly cruel, why play it safe? Evansville felt too small. Indiana felt too small. The crash broke open something inside me. I didn’t go to law school in Indiana. I didn’t stay in Indiana at all. My path swerved to grad school in London, a career in DC, friendships, marriage, family, and a life far different from the one I’d once planned.

Each December 13th, I remember those boys didn’t get to grow old.

Kimberly Burnett is a retired nonprofit marketing and communications professional who now writes creative nonfiction and personal essays. Her recent work has appeared in Persimmon Tree, WOW, Women on Writing, and Delaware Beach Life. She holds a BS in Public Administration. She lives with her husband in Rehoboth Beach, DE.

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EMERGENCE NOTES ON MARGIE ANN STANKO’S IWWG CONFERENCE “EMERGENCE” SERIES Wendy Cabell 1. Day one, “Unknowing” Change Greets Me With Love (cave’s signpost) soft glow, scoots edges out of hiding: emergency supplies, apologies, medical records; hands note interweave: hot tea, lullabies, click of Rosary beads– hold them now.

2. Day two, “Resilience” Eye Witness What does it take to start looking inward and outward like an artist (or even better an heARTist) and sense what yet has to emerge?

–Margie Ann Stanko Great Grandma Ginny, softest touch, “See this, Honey” pulling out her Scapular, or setting out chocolate chip cookies, or ushering me into her quiet, breezy room. I can nestle here as the family chats—booming staccato. As I snooze before spaghetti dinner, spot a cloud or two just outside. As inside flutter settles, eye blinks. Later, young adult eyes upon my therapist, who says “Honey, what did Grandma Ginny do?”, nudges consider in current scene, my feeling powerless can only offer hand—listen, hush—as a memory’s up, of mask’s slip, gentle hands having loosened its grip not with speeches or with stuff but with space, a Presence— and enough.

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3. Day three, “Thriving” To Love Truth To love truth is true strength is strength for peace is peace beyond that of mind, is of another kind, kindness, tender touch, being what touches truth.

Wendy Cabell is a former preschool teacher (BA in Psychology). A rural Oregonian living with severe disabilities, she uses them as contemplative ground. Her work appears in Come to the Table (Monastery of Saint Gertrude), Mindful Poetry Moments (On Being Project/The Well), Legacy Poetry (Future’s Venture Foundation), Summer Fireflies (Wingless Dreamer Publisher) and Reminisce Magazine.

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THE OTHER Johanny Canada-Hlatshwayo I am the other next to the tall, long wavy hair statuesque gliding as we move down the block I am the other they refer to when speaking of my sister “You know - that shorty. Behind her.”

I am the other here to enhance their beauty as a backdrop so they can see them shine My curly hair my round curvy silhouette my 4’11” frame may have kept me from being seen The missed opportunities of being the one mark me for who I am But alas, with all the “beauty” shadowing my own rays guided the One all wanted right through to this tiny, Dominican girl from the Heights Making me wonder if all the times I was the other served to protect me until I became the One Johanny Canada-Hlatshwayo is a mathematics instructional coach on weekdays – writer on weekend mornings. Her poetry is in its beginning stages. Her work has never been published. She is hoping to find the ‘writer’ version of herself with this work. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, three boys, and two goldendoodles.

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HEIRESS OF A BIRD AFTER ROBERT FROST - NEVER AGAIN WOULD BIRDS’ SONG BE THE SAME Kelly de la Rocha Late March robin dead in roadside gravel, never had the chance to tell me it was spring. I lament again ignoring the melody she left me in her will.

I am the heiress of a bird, my fortune a song I was not born to sing. Oh, to be wings to that melody she left to me like a crocus on the roadside. Gone but gorgeous all the same.

Kelly de la Rocha is a poet and journalist living in Farmington, CT. Her poems have appeared in the 2021 Connecticut Literary Anthology, The Poetry Institute’s Circumference Magazine, Gallery and Studio Arts Journal, The Revolution (Relaunch), and others. She created PoemRenovation.com, a daily word puzzle

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THE “F” WORD Linda Eve Diamond Some cringe at this word—as if it’s the downfall of society snarling it, pronouncing it with a sneer—the f bomb that chips away at glass ceilings, the fem-fatal ism feared as a threat to a precious, delicate imbalance as it questions perceptions and expectations and illuminates dispiriting statistics and lists even oddly ubiquitous linguistic tricks the f word, itself, telling—as an ism… …

Deep voices on high say to be quiet and for f—’s sake stop saying the f word. There’s no need for feminism.

Feminists, they say, sound angry and ought to know that women are already equal and don’t earn less, but also that there are reasons women do earn less, but relax; no one said we’re worthless; we’re just worth less.

It’s all in how you calculate it, they say, and feminists are clearly calculating… …

Meanwhile, women—without whose labor no one would be anywhere— go on being underpaid, under-respected underrepresented and under-protected fighting to gain and hold every bit of ground and told what’s been fought for was “given” hearing that hormones make us unbalanced, unable to compete, untrustworthy to lead from certain men who take pride in rage, excusing the inexcusable, out-of-control destruction allowed because “boys will be boys” and it’s just hormones; women don’t understand.

Men can be driven by testosterone, but at least it’s not one of those terrifying lady hormones… …

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Generations come and go in the flickering gaslight as speakers blare with old refrains: Be patient. It’s not your time.

We’ll tell you when it is.

Let me explain. You’ve got it all.

What more could you possibly want?

You’d need a unified message but all women don’t agree on everything.

Don’t fight these uphill battles and don’t use that cursed word.

Look how far you’ve come.

You should be smiling.

It’s just the way it is.

It’s just the way it’s been.

Feminist voices answer in echoes through an unjust status quo: It’s not just the way it is.

Not just the way it’s been. …

Imagine a world without feminism because the word is no longer needed (outside of history books and cautionary tales).

Imagine…

Linda Eve Diamond is a Florida-based poet and photographer. Her poetry is widely published and has been honored with the Artists Embassy International Grand Prize, the National Federation of State Poetry Societies Founders Award, and the REELpoetry Video Prompt Award. Visit Linda Eve’s website at http://LindaEveDiamond.com

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COAT HANGER Joanne Durham In the dream not a dream

headless bodies swing from hangers, worn jeans/torn sweaters, armless sleeves dangle/jagged hems of dresses rip in wind’s whip I wake not awake where is the clothesline lofting on sweet summer air to blow us forward? my mind refuses the twisted neck uncoiled to gouge a woman’s body

Joanne Durham is the author of To Drink from a Wider Bowl, winner of the Sinclair Poetry Prize (Evening Street Press 2022). Her chapbook, On Shifting Shoals, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. She lives on the coast of North Carolina, USA, with the ocean as her backyard and muse. Visit her at https:// www.joannedurham.com/.

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Her Heart’s Desire Anne Eston Hillary Dolan would have Harper House for her very own. She’d known it even before the first time she’d seen it in Southern Living magazine’s article on the most beautiful homes in Atlanta. Knew it the instant the tour bus pulled up in front of it just now, after she’d taken a highly unusual spring break trip to Atlanta. While most of her classmates at Tulane were on the beach in Ft. Lauderdale or Daytona, Hillary was here, on a tour of historical homes, to solidify her dream house desire. And she felt with her whole being that her dream would come true.

At the very least, Chad Wentworth would buy it for her as a wedding present, what with him being the grandson of one of the wealthiest men in the country. They were practically engaged as it was. And on top of the inheritance he was sure to get when dear old Grandaddy Wentworth died, Chad would certainly become a vice president or something at Wentworth Enterprises as soon as he graduated in a couple of months.

Hillary had even read that morning on the Dream Home card she’d pulled out of her Wisdom Finder tarot deck that the Universe was conspiring on her behalf to manifest this very desire for happiness.

But just in case, just to seal the deal, Hillary let the Universe know she was serious about having this house—she entered the address of Harper House as hers in her cell phone. She did this right at the end of the tour, as she looked longingly back at the house before climbing back on the tour bus.

It would be splendid, how her friends and family would finally respect her enough to stop calling her Hillie, and to everyone else, she would simply, gloriously, be Mrs. Wentworth.

Just before she took her last breath seventy-one years later, Hillary thought of how Chad miraculously proposed to her the day she returned to Tulane after spring break; how grand their wedding had been with over 4,000 guests she barely knew; how she’d been the perfect wife, and the perfect mother to the four perfect children who barely spoke to her; how she’d thrown the most stunning parties Harper House (now Wentworth House) had ever seen; and how Chad would leave whatever side dish he was seeing to come home for those parties, the children’s birthdays too.

Hillary had almost forgotten about the nightmares she started having when they moved into Harper House. At least she told herself they were nightmares, in which Madeline Harper, who built the house in 1894, screamed at her about how stupid she was thinking that her life in this house would bring her anything but misery. She forgot about those nightmares until she spied Maddie beckoning her from the bedroom doorway over the nurse’s shoulder.

“I told you,” said Maddie. “Now come on. It’s time to go.”

“There, there, Miss Hillie,” cooed the nurse.

Hillary Dolan Wentworth closed her eyes for the last time.

Anne Eston is a writer of magical realism,and a mentor to women writers of all ages. She has taught for the Guild and holds an MFA in Creative Writing.

She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two imp muses (cats) Stanley and Sofia. www.writeranne.net

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TAPESTRIES Nolcha Fox 1. Us The twines of us are tangled up, a hopeless mess, time intertwined, thoughts collided, murmurs meshed, duets dueling.

Which thread is mine?

Which thread is yours?

When I unravel, will you hold our memories together?

2. Me Without You I am a tapestry I create with moments of my days and nights, a memory of yesterdays.

When I’ve used up all the twine, Time will grab the end, and unweave me back to empty loom

Nolcha’s poems have been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. Her three chapbooks are available on Amazon. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Kiss My Poetry and for Open Arts Forum. Accidental interviewer. Faker of fake news.

Website: https://bit.ly/3bT9tYu “My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats” https://amzn.to/3uEKAqa “The Big Unda” https://amzn.to/3IxmJhY “How to Get Me Up in the Morning: https://amzn.to/3RLDaKc Twitter: @NolchaF Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nolcha.fox/

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ALONE IN DARK ROOMS ON SUNNY DAYS Becca G., Nomad My body is twisted in the bed.

The dark thoughts are back.

I’m scared of them.

I’m scared of myself.

I’m scared of pushing you away if you know how much I suffer.

The words of the mother, her beatings, her rewards for taking the naked beatings well.

A trip to Six Flags, a new dress, my favorite cheesecake.

Her love was on condition.

I could never earn it.

A bloody tampon presented each month to prove I was still a virgin.

Or DCFS will get you!

DCFS will get you!

Now at 42, never was in love, don’t believe in love, don’t care if she’s alive or dead yet I care, feeling useless, worthless, alone in this dark room on a sunny day.

-----The food won’t stay down.

Slept until 1 but barely slept.

A pain is in my stomach and heart.

I can feel the rot setting in.

I am glad of it yet terrified.

There are these moments, it’s for the moments why I’m here.

----------When the beach became inaccessible to me.

She was my whole world, and my whole world tumbled.

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HERALD (AFTER JAMES SCHUYLER) Lea Galanter It was at somber midnight, the curved crescent of the moon holding in the currents of change, that I allowed myself to dream.

Had we really sat within the canopy of the willow?

Salix babylonica slender, bowing branches weeping after the rain. Green catkins foreshadowing the future.

In the evening we prayed for days less fragile. Remote, faraway mountains reached out to us. A wine glass warm in my hand. Redder than rubies.

“Pour me more.”

Whispers of the angels came through the window, echoed against the shadowed walls, promised miracles, counseled caution.

The fire consumed them and licked its lips, seeking the next course.

And yet the skylark on the heath, soaring invisibly overhead, continues to sing your name.

Lea Galanter is a Seattle-area editor and writer. After writing plays for many years, she stumbled into the world of poetry and has never looked back. Her poetry has been published by Really System, River and South, Panoply, Young Raven’s Literary Review, Poetica Review, Unlost Journal, and in several anthologies.

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CAST IRON Maria Gutierrez My great grandma Mamo was a hard woman. She had strong, gnarled hands from arthritis, a piercing blue steel-eyed gaze, and a sharp tongue that lashed out at us all. That is, everyone except my mother, who was her favorite grandchild and the only person Mamo allowed to help in the kitchen.

The kitchen was Mamo’s domain, and the cast iron fry pan her most prized possession. It sat on the front burner, gleaming with oil and ready for pancake flipping on weekend sleepovers.

After breakfast, Mamo would dip a slice of Wonder Bread through the drippings and devour it between bites of raw onion- eaten like a ripe apple- one crunchy bite at a time. Fried chicken, seared in the frying pan, was the star of Sunday dinners, featured with enough side dishes to feed a small, hungry army: okra, black-eyed peas, green beans, and ambrosia salad.

I remember the tenderness with which Mamo handled and cleaned that pan, gentle as if it were a newborn infant. We eventually inherited the fry pan and all its culinary secrets. But, Mom was more of a casserole (one and done) type of cook, and the pan took shelter in the warming oven. When Mom passed away ten years ago, I bundled the pan up and moved to Seattle. I put it back out in the place of honor on the front right burner of my stove. Daily I cook in the skillet: breakfast scrambles, sauté veggies, and pan-fried chicken.

Recently, my daughter Mac was home on a break from college. Cleaning the skillet after breakfast, she asked, “Can I have this when I get married?”

Always out and nesting on the front burner sometimes gleaming after a cleaning or full of milky white fat drippings that Mamo would run a slice of Wonder Bread through then pop in her mouth The skillet was in constant use from bacon frying and pancake flipping on weekend sleepovers to fried chicken perfectly crispy outside, tender inside for our “Southern” Sunday dinner Watching her lovingly clean the pan strong, gnarled hands gently sprinkling rock salt and wiping with a rag – not rough, the way she scrubbed my sun-darkened knees with Ajax.

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THE DISTANCE BETWEEN NO AND YES Ella Harvey A Time of Light and Shadow explores my life as a young traveler, chasing adventure and working in dire circumstances, in Asia and Africa. Four decades later, I returned to India, asking myself “Would I dare do now what I readily did then?” I offer you, the reader, glimpses into that life. ~ In January of 1976, Paris was wickedly cold, not an inviting place to be in my underheated Parisian walk-up. I preferred to be at the Brasserie des Etoiles four floors down, where I would drink a glass of red wine and read Simone de Beauvoir, or Colette, or the International Herald Tribune, and imagine myself the cosmopolitan woman intrigued with global affairs.

In my single room, I rolled a towel at the base of the small window to cut the draft and sat down at the scruffy table I’d covered with a bright floral cloth. The hallway telephone, provided by the propriétaire, rang. Probably Madame Marbot from the temp nursing agency.

The first time she had called, I’d gone all the way to Marseille by ambulance to pick up a wealthy American with a bad heart.

But it was Edwyn, an aging Welsh physician I had met over coffee at Alliance Française, the international school of the beautiful French language that I struggled to master. Edwyn struggled even more and had asked for my number, which I had given him, for reasons I wasn’t sure.

“I’m leaving for Beirut tomorrow morning with Médecins Sans Frontières. We need another nurse. Why don’t you come?”

“Isn’t there a war going on in Lebanon?” I knew that much.

“It’s only for a few weeks, and we’ll be safe enough with MSF.” “Tomorrow morning?” I asked, already calculating the departure.

“You have two hours to decide,” Edwyn added and gave me directions to the MSF office on the other side of town for the preliminary meeting.

I made my decision the moment he asked. I was a nurse after all and working on a front line aligned with my wildest dreams. ~ On April 25, 2015, a 7.8 magnitude earthquake struck Nepal, the worst quake to strike the region in more than 80 years. The death toll was in the thousands. Entire villages were flattened, terraced farmland was swept away and historic temples, both Hindu and Buddhist, were damaged. The earthquake triggered an avalanche on Mount Everest, making April 25 the deadliest day on the mountain in history. Chaos, fear, and grief were the aftershocks of the Gorkha earthquake.

I looked for my Nepal journal, wanting to go back to 1978, to the exhilaration, the textures, and the terrain of the Himalayas. Every step of my trek was recorded in a journal I couldn’t find. It wasn’t in my trunk, which was randomly packed with old shoeboxes full of everything else, my interminable paper trail more than a glimpse into the subterranean layers of my life.

“I can’t have lost a memory,” I worried, driving to my storage unit, not even in the city where I lived, in the pouring rain. It was cold and miserable pulling out boxes in an unheated, poorly lit warehouse, hoping to locate one small journal I wrote 37 years ago.

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I found it wrapped in a plastic Safeway bag. I held it to my heart like a prayer, a namaste, the divine in me bowing to the divine in you. It was my bridge back to a remarkable land, to the villages I traversed and the people I met. Maybe the same valleys and villages that were crushed by the landslides. Maybe the same people who were among the 8,700 dead. ~ In the autumn of 1980, and only home ten weeks from the refugee camps in Cambodia, the telephone rang. “Ella, would you like to go to Djibouti for six months?” George, the CEO of the Canadian Red Cross, asked.

“Djibouti? Where on Earth is Djibouti?”

“Famine-ravaged East Africa. Drought. Nomadic population. Provide medical aid and food.” The conversation went something like that.

My breath caught in my chest. My mind swirled with uncertainty. No, I can’t do this. I can’t go.

I’m not ready. I need time. I need normal. I need sleep. But somewhere between my gut and my head, I said, “Yes.” What was the distance between no and yes, and how did I leap across that ambivalent divide? Living a life outside ordinary, however I defined ordinary, called me. A call to meaningful experience fired my soul, more than the need to stay home and restore my psychological and physical health. The international arena had me hooked. I wasn’t political, nor was I an activist. But it was in my character to fly away to Africa and be on the front lines. I went to Djibouti. ~ The experience of Djibouti left me all at odds: the stark, unforgiving desert, the impoverished lives, and my own battle with hopelessness or hope for the nomads. Our work had been a Band-Aid in the political-economic-environmental mess on the Horn of Africa, but I needed to go back to the memory, and step into the story, as I write a book. I try to be steadfast and patient and have great faith in my work. I try to believe that our work matters, that every person’s life matters, even for those living lives of profound poverty. Especially for them. They are not expendable commodities. They are not collateral damage.

Today, international aid workers and foreign correspondents take incalculable risks in a more volatile world. Different risks than we took. I never feared kidnapping or terrorism or torture or a tropical disease like Ebola or AIDS. I never feared dying. My worries were about my capacity for compassion and my strength to get the job done in the intolerable heat, in the stench of a toukoul, and in the eyes of a mother or father who had no tears left to cry.

I had experienced two disaster zones on two continents in one year, leaving me with sleepless nights and a troubled soul. I learned how to build a protective wall around my vulnerability, or thought I did. I compartmentalized. I sought out pleasures to forget the pain. I had the invincibility of youth on my side. I wrote in my journal. I escaped.

Ella Harvey’s adventurous spirit has taken her to remote regions of the world. She has lived on five continents and worked on four. Her second travel memoir A Time of Light and Shadow will be published by Rocky Mountain Books in October 2022. Available at Amazon, Indigo, and bookstores. Ella lives in Victoria, BC, Canada.www.ellaharvey.ca

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HEARING YOU, MY ANCESTORS, FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME Nan Jackson You came to me in a rush of wind today — Each leaf on the oak tree Each leaf on the sycamore And the maple And the ornamental pear Talking in overlapping tongues Serrated and smooth Ragged and rustling Telling stories of birth and death And, today, of life in-between You rise and fall in the afternoon wind And my heart aches for all I haven’t known For how alone I’ve felt in the world For how close you’ve been all along And how you’ve come back for me Each and every spring

Nan Jackson lives in mid-Michigan, retired from her career as a community college professor. Her poem “Shiawassee Street Bridge” is etched on the riverwalk near Michigan's state capitol. She keeps a “Poem-to-Go” pocket well-stocked with other people's poems in a Little Library on a trail near her house.

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GROWING Tayla Jankovits I show her how to grasp the handle, glide the blade sharp and precise upwards on the same leg that I once stretched rolls of fat apart to fish out bits of grey fuzzy lint that she collected there like she grew to collect seashells from shore sides, the Atlantic to the Pacific. One nick blood balls, slides downwards over an ankle joint and I think this is how we all got here. from bleeding. from wonder

Tayla Jankovits' work has appeared in a number of literary journals.

Her short story “Undone” in Lunch Ticket and her poem, My Father Is A Psychologist in BigCityLit, were both nominated for a Pushcart prize. Her micro piece, “Bus Stop in Morning” is a winner of one of Beyond Words Magazine's, 250-word challenges. Her Poem, “Guf” was the recipient of the Editor's Choice Award in Arkana Magazine. Her poem “A Woman of Valor” was featured in the 2019/2020 Eshet Hayil exhibit at Hebrew Union College Los Angeles. She holds her MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University and resides in Chicago with her husband and four daughters. To read more of her work you can visit www.talyajankovits.com, or follow her on twitter @talyajankovits

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WE REMEMBER THE TIME Marie Johnson-Ladson You were our Patriarch We Remember the Time You told us about our family history You told us how we came from humble beginnings and how our family grew You taught us to keep up family traditions and to let from the oldest down to the youngest one know You taught us how to care, love and forgive one another and to put family first You were an example to our family and showed us what a Man should be You were very independent and strong-willed We Remember the Time You taught us many lessons, told us the truth and held us accountable, when we needed it You had wise sayings I can remember one It was for us to find our own niche in life Know your abilities, character and interests and work with them to prosper in life We Remember the Time You showed up when we needed you and always knew what to say

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You were the perfect Host making everyone feel fine and sometimes you even sung a song or two You were the Life of the party telling us stories from the past and you had jokes too You were young at heart and liked to have fun You were charming and had a special spark You traveled the World, met and had many friends and I am sure you made them smile too We will hold on to these special memories We celebrate and love you You lived a full and good life We will miss you but know you are free and at peace We will not forget your days here and will still tell your stories of yesteryear Because We Remember the Time!

Marie is a writer of Poetry, Prose, and Short Stories. She is passionate about finding beauty, fiction, and reality in the World. Besides writing, she loves to listen to music and do photography. Marie has been published in Agape Review, Ben Speaks, Friday Flash Fiction, and Spillwords.

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SOMEONE ASKED WHO WE ARE AND WE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO ANSWER Giuliana Kiersz Written in 2020 from interviews and encounters with people who experienced processes of migration, a part of a fellowship at Akademie Schloss Solitude.

Someone asked and we we invented a we and convinced ourselves and others and didn't want to accept the names that were given to us but had to welcome what came with them.

Someone asked who we are and we told a story hoping it would be an answer.

We drew a line and claimed: we are here.

This is a story about us.

We don’t believe in names We don’t accept the drawings that tell us who we are.

The history that became destiny.

This is us.

We’ve learned what to say and what not to.

We’ve learned when to respond and when to remain silent.

We’ve learned to speak without sounds and to read without words.

We’ve learned to be here.

We’ve learned to be our names.

We’ve learned to be our history.

We've learned fear and regret.

We changed the sound of our voices.

We’ve learned how to argue with a smile on our faces and how to behave when we want to bring fire to everything.

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We’ve learned to apologise.

We’ve apologised a lot probably too much.

We’ve learned to be careful.

We’ve learned to feel grateful.

We were grateful.

We’ve learned to say yes.

We’ve learned to say no.

We’ve heard that everything was going to be fine.

We’ve said that everything was going to be fine.

We lied about our feelings about our beliefs about our intentions.

We committed crimes we didn’t know existed and signed documents we didn’t read.

We looked directly in the eyes.

We had hope.

We’ve learned about hope.

We lost ourselves.

We were afraid.

We wanted to believe in paradise.

We wanted to believe in love.

We wanted to believe in democracy.

We worked to push our time.

We worked to stop thinking. \We worked to forget.

We couldn’t.

We failed.

We fell into a limbo.

We felt a string pressing our necks.

We abandoned our mothers and had children and abandoned ourselves.

We were scared.

We were deceived.

We were pregnant.

We screamed and hit that bus driver IWWG NETWORK | Fall 2022 | page 37

and shouted at the neighbours that came and filmed us and refused to give our identity cards to the police and wasted our time and kicked that table at the general office and that wall and asked for our passports back and refused to sit down and forget about it and ran and didn’t want to stay but here we are.

We fell in love and shouted on empty streets and looked at the sky and actually thought that everything was going to be fine.

We drew more lines in our eyes in our mouths in our heads.

We’ve became paranoid.

We’ve became liars.

We've became what was expected.

We let ourselves be drawn.

We imagined ourselves building castles in the sand.

We wanted to be ridiculously happy.

We wanted to do something and now we don’t know what to do.

We don’t know who is our friend.

We can't remember our own story.

Someone asked: how did it start? and we asked ourselves: does it make sense to start shouting?

Giuliana Kiersz (1991, Buenos Aires) is a writer, playwright, and artist currently based in Berlin. Her texts have been translated into English, German, French, Portuguese and Tsosil and published by Rara Avis Editorial, Libros del Rojas, Fondo Editorial ENSAD, Editorial INTeatro, Espejo Somos, Libros Drama and Solitude Editions / Archive Books.

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JENNIFER’S CHOICE Juliet Koskoff It was hot in the waiting area of the West Side Women’s Health Center. The ceiling fan did little more than blow thick, disinfectant smelling air around the room. I felt nauseated. Yellow plastic chairs were filling up with women alone, with boyfriends and husbands, girlfriends and mothers; some were laughing and joking, many cried. My friend Jennifer and I located seats across from a girl who sat squeezing the hand of a woman about my age, I assumed to be her mother. Jennifer sat next to me filling out forms, head bent down, ringlets of blue black hair shielding both the papers and her face from my curiosity.

I wondered what was going on inside her head, whether she was scared or anxious or apprehensive. Perhaps she was just sleepy. She had been told to arrive by nine that morning and to not eat or drink anything beforehand. As a show of solidarity, I sacrificed my morning coffee as well.

Jennifer and I had actually talked about abortion just a few weeks earlier. It was 2003 and although there was no imminent threat to a woman’s right to chose, even then we knew not to take that freedom for granted. I regretted that I had played devil’s advocate, averring that as a non-practicing Jew I could respect the position of those who believe that life begins at conception, although I do not agree. Jennifer, the lapsed Catholic, had no sympathy for the anti-abortionists.

Maybe it was because she never wanted children that she didn’t understand how fuzzy the line between fetus and life could be. I on the other hand couldn’t wait to have a baby. Even when I was a child, I looked forward to having my own family. I had wanted to be a young mother. It was too late for that. While sitting with her in the waiting room I had to fight off pangs of jealousy. If I had been the one with the lousy protection we would not be spending the day at the clinic. With my biological clock ticking and my single status seemingly stagnant an accidental pregnancy was something I secretly considered arranging. I hated being the responsible one.

Jennifer and I had been friends since sixth grade when we were lab partners in Mr. Cohen’s science class. Pendulums. She was a tomboy and already listened to alternative music. I was chubby and had already started my period. We would talk on the phone for hours about boys and music and our bodies. She took me to buy my first David Bowie album and my first stick of deodorant, gave me my first cigarette and my first joint.

We both landed in New York and in our mid-thirties she found herself unemployed and homeless after a bad break-up. I invited her to stay with me in my one bedroom apartment until she got on her feet again. I enjoyed her company but as the months passed and she still had no job I began to worry that she was incapable of supporting herself. I was torn between wanting to take care of my friend and feeling taken advantage of.

When she complained that her period was late I accompanied her to the drugstore where she chose the second least expensive pregnancy test. I waited in the living room while she peed on the white plastic wand.

“Julie, can you come here for a minute,” Jennifer was standing at the sink and showed me the stick. “Do you see two lines?” she asked.

“Yeah. I do” Jennifer’s brown eyes glistened.

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“Are you okay?”

“I will be,” she sighed.

Jennifer wasn’t sure who the father was and there was never a discussion about what she would do with the pregnancy. In fact, hours after the test came out positive we went out for margaritas. “I’m drinking for two,” she toasted. Any fantasy I may have had about adopting the baby was illogical on many fronts and quickly dismissed.

We had to wait in the reception room for hours before the doctors finally saw Jennifer. A Sandra Bullock Movie in which she infiltrates the Miss America Pageant was playing on constant rotation on the small TV which hung on the wall. It was a time before smart phones and I tried to occupy myself with reading the closed-captions and flipping through old Newsweek magazines, but I felt my coffee fast wearing on me.

Jennifer was one of the last women called in so it surprised me to see her come back so soon.

Finished. Smiling and relaxed, she told me the whole thing went smoothly.

“I was a great patient,” she boasted. “And you were with me. I thought I was having such a nice talk with you that I was annoyed when they had to wake me.”

Her happy mood unnerved me. I later learned that patients can have a variety of reactions right after an abortion. It is not uncommon for women, like Jennifer, to come out with a sensation of euphoria.

“I’m glad I could be there,” I said.

“You were there. Thank you, for everything.”

I took my friend in my arms, at not quite five feet tall; Jennifer came up to just below my chin. I petted her loose curls down her back. “Let’s get some coffee into you, baby.”

Juliet Koskoff is a former attorney-turned-stay at home parent and writer, published in Scary Mommy, Kveller and Shondaland.com.

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I RECLAIM Linda Leedy Schneider I reclaim the orchard.

Tear down the houses.

Plant trees.

I reclaim buds, blossoms and bees.

I reclaim milk in glass bottles left in a tin box, frozen cream that rose to the top broke open the seal.

I reclaim the lid I slid off popping corn to delight my dog who ate the evidence.

I reclaim my father’s lap, towers of blocks built for the thrill of their crash, being able to rebuild over and over.

I reclaim myself from rows of wooden desks, crayons I must not peel, arithmetic facts, surplus apples, and the names on the blackboard under “We do not talk in work period.”

I reclaim my red bedspread, my cocker spaniel, her tear stained eyes, the sensual joy of musty library books.

I reclaim the live monarch I had to impale and spray with fixative for Miss Mason whose wall of breasts fed no one.

I reclaim the girl who finally refused to kill a frog for the biology teacher.

I reclaim that girl and the right to rebuild any tower over and over again.

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KNOCKOUT Nina B Lichtenstein “You can tell a lot about a woman by her hands. For instance, if they’re placed around your throat she’s probably slightly upset.”

—Unknown Through strobing lights and clouds of cigarette smoke, I took in the fat forty-something at the bar laughing with a bunch of men, all around his age; smug, entitled, boozed up. I charged toward him from the side, my arm raised, hand clenched. When I got within reach, I pulled my fist back for maximum velocity and punched his jaw. Down he went; it was a knockout of epic proportion. I was twenty-five and really, really pissed off.

It happened in Oslo, late 1980s, on a warm summer evening. My best friend Anne, my sister, Tone, and I were out on the town. We headed to the iconic nightclub Frascati, known to draw a more mature clientele. It was also the place to pick up high-end prostitutes, a fact I only learned later.

On the second floor of an elegant commercial building downtown, large, glass front doors and a grand, marble staircase led to the dramatic entry of the club. Up we went in good spirits, all a little tipsy, the groove of Motown hits bellowing throughout the cavernous space.

I wore cream colored palazzo pants and a matching blazer with sheer, floral sleeves and pearl earrings; an outfit uncharacteristically elegant compared to my usual bohemian style.

Thebouncer, muscles bulging, asked for our I.D.s while a man with a paunch and business suit was greeted with smiles, sailing right through the velour doorway draperies. A regular guest, I thought, miffed at the differential treatment. But, before he disappeared he turned to me, a whiff of alcohol preceding him. Bleary eyed, he leaned in, too close. “You look like a cheap hooker, you know that?” he said. Then he swung around and pranced away.

I was too stunned to respond, but a pang of adrenaline rushed through me. The bouncer let us in, oblivious to the offence. I spotted the asshole immediately through the smoke, my eyes narrow slits focusing on his silhouette; I became an instant homing device on the tip of a charged torpedo.

That’s when I punched the motherfucker. Before I had a chance to notice how he reacted, I turned on my heels and ran out, anticipating an aggressive reaction. I flew down the majestic stairs, but slipped and landed on my butt. Bam, bam, bam-bam, down I went on my back.

My sister and Anne followed, squealing. We tumbled in a cluster on the sidewalk, breathless.

Cracking up they asked if I was okay, and what the heck just happened. The knuckles of my hand ached and my heart pumped out of my chest. I hadn’t hit anyone since I straddled Sverre Hustad in 8th grade, giving him a bloody nose for bullying a new kid in class.

As we were catching our breath, the bouncer barged through the doors scowling, puffed up like a blowfish, heading straight toward us. I quickly pulled out my mace, aimed it in the bouncer’s direction, fumbling for the trigger. He was already so close that he grabbed my arm, the mist of blinding agent spraying my face. I screamed in pain. Tone and Anne jumped on his back, kicking and screaming. Suddenly, a police van pulled up on the sidewalk and two cops broke up the fight.

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We were escorted into the back of the ominous vehicle while the officers questioned the beefy bouncer outside. My punching hand was bleeding, and my back was in agony. I felt nauseous and had trouble breathing, my eyes stinging like hell. I was a mess. The police took us to the ER to have me checked out.

No charges were pressed, and the cops and ER staff seemed humored by our moxie.

Sneaking a peek at the doctor’s notes, we giggled, “Patient smells like ethanol,” it said.

Around 4 a.m., birds chirping and the mid-summer night sky already bright, my sister and I crawled out of a taxi outside our parents’ apartment building. We’re exhausted but exhilarated.

The next morning, white gauze bandage around my fist and open wounds along my spine, I hobbled into our sunny kitchen. Smoking his usual cigarettes and sipping his coffee, dad made us breakfast while we recounted the dramatic events. Nodding and smiling, he told us he’s proud of his girls for not taking shit from a man. With the passing of time, the story takes on mythic proportions.

Nina B Lichtenstein has a PhD in French Literature and an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from USM’s Stonecoast program. She is a teacher, storyteller, and editor and her writing has appeared in various publications, including Hippocampus, Tablet Magazine, Washington Post, Lilith, AARP. She’s a native Norwegian, but lives in Maine.

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JUDY AND KATRINA Theresa Loder Glass breaks Before the water’s rise Pressure is so low Near waves of monumental size Washed out By a tidal rush of water Separated much too long A mother and a daughter Hanging on Trying to survive Baby and Bandit It’s a wonderful they’re alive Many pets were buried Perished in the flood Judy dug their graves In the muck and mud Knowing in her heart It would be a sight to dread She walked eleven miles Back to her gulf side homestead Naked and in shock Walking down the street One survivor Was all there was to greet Where once there was a neighborhood Not one home would stand Trees appeared like toothpicks Draped with colored strands Belongings scattered In hap hazard piles Up and down the coast For plus one hundred miles Judy English was a hurricane Katrina survivor from Waveland, Mississippi. We gave her a 1968 Travco Motorhome (Twinkie) to live in till she got a FEMA trailer. The water from the gulf hurricane came in ten miles and washed windows out of the hotel she was in. She had to swim for her life with Baby and Bandit, her dogs. Her 80 year old mom was washed away in the storm and Judy later found her alive in Florida…someone saved her.

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Theresa Loder's CD “Beach Access 1” will transport you to the Gulf Coast. She full-time RV camped at Turtle Beach Siesta Key Florida ten years. Embracing Our Differences chose “Trading Spaces” for their Sarasota Island Park exhibit. Living in Florida seventy six years, Theresa’s passion is preserving precious natural resources.

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SAGA OF A VIKING CRONE Julie Lomoe Not long ago, in the hottest July ever to befall our fragile planet, the crone called Julie embarked on a journey in search of fresh inspiration. For over two years, Julie had been hunkered down in her shabby pink cottage near Aries Lake, her only companions, her cantankerous old spouse, her black chow Sirius, and the ghost of her cat Lunesta.

To her considerable astonishment, Julie had survived to the venerable age of eighty. As a maiden in her twenties, she had never expected to live past thirty, but like many of the rock and roll gods she idolized, she’d beaten the odds. She’d survived the motherhood phase and happily eased into cronehood. She joined a coven who crowned her with a floral wreath in a temple in Schenectady, and she trademarked the name “Creative Crone.”

As she aged, Julie grew more reclusive. So did her husband. Both writers, they treasured their cramped offices, separate but equal, nestled under the eaves of their cottage. When plague engulfed the planet, their lives barely changed, for they had long since severed ties with those who bored or annoyed them—in other words, nearly everyone they knew. Still, under enforced isolation, their inspiration fizzled and threatened to die.

In the third year of the plague, Julie learned a guild of women would meet on the shores of the Atlantic. She felt a magnetic pull, as potent as the tides that had lured her Viking ancestors across the ocean many centuries ago. She conjured up a vision of herself lounging on the beach north of Boston, unsheathed her crimson rectangle of plastic and let her fingers fly as she entered the magic code that would buy her a week of bliss. Then, in hopes of seducing the muses once again, she splurged on a pink and purple swimsuit that would flatter her Rubenesque figure.

At eighty, Julie felt barely half her age. The witch doctors, shamans and powerful potions of the New Millennium had worked wonders, and now, aside from her temperamental bladder, her health problems were confined to her head. Alchemical concoctions kept her on an even keel, and she no longer plummeted into suicidal depression or spiraled into treacherous mania. A few years back, after one too many gin and tonics, she’d fallen in her garden, struck her head on a slab of bluestone and nearly died from the blood flooding her brain, but she was miraculously saved through the ministrations of a handsome young Japanese brain surgeon. The near-death experience sent a powerful message: she’d been gifted with additional years, but she had no idea how many, and she resolved to make the most of them.

By July of 2022, Julie had curbed her Scandinavian predilection for strong spirits, but a week on the wagon with a sisterhood of writers was unthinkable, so she packed a box of California Chardonnay in her green paisley traveling case. In the blazing heat of the Cracker Barrel parking lot, she rendezvoused with Carol, a kindred spinner of suspenseful sagas. and scrambled aboard her sage-green Subaru chariot. Years before, the pair had made the pilgrimage to a convocation of this women’s guild in a convent in Connecticut. Julie hadn’t been back since, but the siren song of the ocean was irresistible.

Eastward ho, through the parched, dry landscape of upstate New York and the Mass Turnpike, with strategically scheduled pee breaks. At last, when Julie and Carol disembarked onto the black tarmac of the Endicott College parking lot, they were blasted by heat and humidity every bit as oppressive as New York’s. Where were the ocean breezes? For that matter, where was the ocean? Clueless, exhausted, they checked into their dorm rooms, which were blissfully air conditioned. Julie broke open the Chardonnay.

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As evening enveloped the campus, Julie’s physical issues began to loom large. After years of denying hearing loss, she’d admitted the conference would be a total waste of time and money without hearing aids. Her new ones were jazzy, but she was overwhelmed by sound: the rustling of dry leaves in the hot wind, the roar of machinery blasting from the buildings, the shrillness of voices far across a room.

But the gaping cavern of her mouth was far worse. She’d always loathed her teeth, and she’d had all of them pulled over the winter. She’d expected new dentures and a radiant smile by now, but the bottoms popped out when she chewed solid food, and they couldn’t be fixed till fall. She brought a shiny red mini-Cuisinart to pulverize all her food, but that meant long treks back to the dorm where she could dine in solitude. Breaking bread around big tables, networking with sister writers, was problematic, but the top half of her smile looked great.

Then there were the endless slogs up and down the hilly drives between buildings. Julie encountered other writers, many of them her age or older, struggling with the slopes, but she was in awe of their determination, their stamina. Many were widows, soldiering bravely on and relishing their new-found independence.

As the week flew by, Julie soaked up wisdom from powerful women, basked in their welcoming warmth. But her peak experience struck when she read her newly minted writing in the packed auditorium. Her unfiltered musings about peeing into her Poise pads, gumming her food and coping with manic depression brought forth peals of laughter. I could get used to this, she thought. Maybe I can be the next Mrs. Maisel. But first I need to master YouTube and Instagram.

Before checkout on the final morning, Julie finally found the Atlantic. She inched her way down a perilous path of gigantic boulders, crossed the narrow, rocky beach and waded in up to her knees. The water was murky and tepid, the experience far inferior to the Aries Lake beach back home. But the bitchy crone delighted in peeing freely through her shorts straight into the ocean.

Julie Lomoe has published three mysteries, all available on Amazon: Mood Swing: The Bipolar Murders; Eldercide; and Hope Dawns Eternal. She is also a published poet. She received an MFA from Columbia University and exhibited her paintings at the Woodstock Festival of Music & Art in 1969.

Three of those paintings are on display at the Museum at Bethel Woods on the site of the original festival, and Julie is offering giclee prints of those and other works on archival museum-quality paper.

Julie has published op eds on political and other topics; her most recent, on her personal experience with abortion, was published in the Albany Times Union this summer. Her current project, SUBDURAL, is a memoir in poetry and prose that explores her near-death experience with a subdural hematoma, and her relationship with her mother, who died of one.

Julie has trademarked the name “Creative Crone Press.” Her website, www. creativecrone.net, features excerpts of her novels and information about her prints, plus miscellaneous musings. She lives in upstate New York with her husband and her dog.

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A DOLL FROM MUZAFFARABAD Hafsa Masoodi (A little background to help you understand the short story.)

This is a real incident that happened to the writer. The writer belongs to the Neelum Valley, which is a 200 km long valley on the line of control, or line of military occupation, between Indian administered Kashmir and Pakistan administered Kashmir. The valley is between two ranges of mountains, with the Neelum River flowing in the center. Its eastern side is under Indian control and its western side is under Pakistani control. From 1989 to 2003, skirmishes on the line of control between Indian and Pakistani forces became routine. In fact, firing from the Indian side blocked the only road connecting the Neelum valley to the outer world. So whoever wanted to come to Muzaffarabad, or outside of the Neelum Valley, had to travel on foot and in the darkness of night to keep safe from Indian firing. The writer’s father was a government school teacher and posted away from his village. So he would travel on that road off and on.

“Laali” was my first love. It was a little red doll that my father brought me from Muzaffarabad.

The doll was the most beautiful thing of all the assets I had by then. It had dark brown long hair and hazel eyes, which blinked as I moved the doll. Its little red cheeks and small hands with nail polish attracted me more than anything. I was a little girl from a village whose world was confined to school and then playing with dolls under apple trees. We had a large orchard of trees. I always compared the red apple with the cheeks of my doll, and always thought that the cheeks of my doll were prettier than any apple in our orchard. My mom had a strict policy for girls to go out and play with other girls, so I could hardly make any friends and would play with my doll. She was my sister, my friend, and the center of my love. But I don’t know how my love and obedience to my parents always surpassed every other feeling, even my love for my Laali.

One day, my cousin came to our home. She was the apple of everyone’s eye in the family, and her desires were hardly taken off. She liked my doll and she asked me to give her. I refused and hid my “laali” in a cupboard in my brother’s room. She went to my mother and asked her for Laali. Initially, my mom refused, keeping in view my love for Laali, but my cousin started crying. My mom couldn’t see her niece crying and came to me to convince me to give up on my laali and give it to her niece. I couldn’t resist my mother’s order and surrendered. I cried though and asked for permission to spend some moments with my laali. I hugged her, cried and said good bye to her, the most difficult goodbye.

One day, my father was at home, and he saw me sobbing in my bed. He asked why I was sobbing, and I told him I was missing my Laali. My mother became really angry and scolded my mother, asking why she had given my doll to anyone knowingly that I loved her very much. The next day, when I woke up, my father had already left for Muzaffarabad to bring me the same doll. He couldn’t tolerate my tears and he left for a journey where he faced death at every single meter.

Yes, the journey from my village to Muzaffarabad was a journey of death because of the LoC firing. 80% of the road from my village to Muzffarabad was in direct firing range, and firing was routine in those days. When I woke up, I saw my mother was angry at me. Because of me, my father went on such a difficult journey. My mom yelled at me.

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“You are the killer of your father. Because of you, your father went to Muzaffarabad.” I could feel her fear in every word. “How can a daughter put her father in so much danger? You stubborn little kitty, your father will get killed today because of you.” These were not words; these were the axes that cut my heart badly. I couldn’t gather the courage to go to school. My father is passing through a dangerous road because of me. I don’t know if my mom realised what her words meant to me.

Suddenly, everything started blaming me. The apples in our orchard, the walls of the house, the cattle, the stones, the sunshine, everything yelled at me “your father will become a victim of Indian firing because of you.” I was helpless. I started crying, but only crying couldn’t help. I recalled my mom saying, “Ask God for everything you need; only He can give you everything.”

I stood up, made ablution, and began praying. Mom, despite all her anger, asked me to have breakfast, but I couldn’t inhale a single morsel. My abba ji is in a difficult situation because of me.

I remembered every inch of the road up to Muzaffarabad, and I also knew which place was more dangerous than the other. I started gauging where my father could be travelling from. “He left at six in the morning, and by eight he could reach Keran, and Keran is very dangerous. The road is just a few yards from Indian installations, and the risk of firing is higher than any other place. I went back to prayer mate, offered nawafil and prayed to Allah to save my father from firing. I also promised Allah ji that I would never play with dolls; neither would I ask for anything else. I kept thinking of his journey, and when I thought he could be in a highrisk place, I prayed more intensely. Yes, that was the most difficult day of my life. My siblings and mom went for their routine chores, but I couldn’t. I stayed at home, crying, worrying, praying, hoping, and planning how to be a better daughter if my father returned safely.

My mom came back from school a bit late, and I thanked God for that. I didn’t have the courage to face her gaze. My father was a school teacher. He was posted in a faraway village, and he would travel off and on, on that road. But whenever he travelled, we faced the same situation. Fear of losing our father to Indian firing loomed at our heads all day. We kept praying and hoping that he would reach safety. But that day, my worry was beyond description for two reasons. One, the intensity of firing incidents had increased those days, and two, he travelled that day because of “only me.” So I would be responsible if something happened to him. And that fear was killing me.

As the dusk darkened, my fear lessened because, according to my estimation of his journey, he would have reached Muzaffarabad, the safe zone.

The next day, he was expected to come back from Muzaffarabad. And I went through the same difficult situation as the day before. I cried in prayer and felt satisfaction for some moments, and when I felt restlessness, I rushed to the prayer mat again, offered nawafil, and prayed for his safety. Those two days were longer than two years. In the evening, I came out of my home and stood on a huge stone (nakka) from where I could see people coming back from Lawat Bazar, where my father was expected to come. I stood there for almost two hours.

When suddenly, a boy from our village came to me, handed me over a bag of groceries, and said, “Ustad ji is on the way, coming from lower lawat.”

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It was the announcement of life. I was given another life. My father was given another life. I shouted loudly, “Amman, Abba ji aa gaey (Mom, Father is coming back),” and rushed down to the way my father was coming from. My prayers were heard. I was blessed. My happiness knew no boundaries. I was jumping, rushing and shouting “Abba ji aa gaey, Abba ji aa gaey” (Father has come).

I reached my father on the way. I embraced him and started crying. I held his hands tightly, kissed them and kept shouting. My father didn’t expect that response from me. He asked me what happened and why I was crying. He gave me a doll and said, “I have brought a doll for you. Now don’t cry.”

We walked towards home together. I was holding my father’s hand in mine, talking to him loudly and hastily, telling him how I kept praying for him all the time.

Alhamdo lillah, my father was back. I kept the doll in a box and never played with it. I didn’t want to get attached to anything that could put my parents or siblings in any difficulty. I never played with any dolls ever in my life.

Life was so much more difficult for everyone in Neelum Valley that bringing a doll to the daughter could cost the life of the father. Conflict is not all about guns, bombs, and blood. It is also about fear, emotional trauma, unfulfilled desires, and ruined childhoods.

Let our generation live in peace now.

Hafsa Masoodi is PhD scholar at NUST. She hails from Pakistani administered part of divided state of Jammu and Kashmir. She is a writer and Peacebuilding expert.

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MOTHER CALLS IN APRIL AFTER T.S. ELIOT K.L. Mendt When mother calls in April To tell me how hot it is I crawl across the cracked field to the Edge of the cruelest Heat in what should be a month Of birds building nests and breeding Among pollen-laden tulips, crocuses, and lilacs But instead is about cars and diesel trucks crying out Because the asphalt liquifies their tires and reminds me of My father who worked at the Bakery downtown but is now dead He has rejoined the land His bones long ago mixing In the earth and creating a memory Where spring was wet and cool and Known for desire.

K. L. Mendt has been living in overpriced rentals since May 2020, when she sold her home to move nearer to family and public transportation. She recently published flash fiction on the Sad Girls Club Literary Blog and a short story in Bizarre Bazaar: A Collection of Short Stories from Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers.

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TSUNAMI Michelle Michael Charlie was my Mom’s dog. He never left her side. “Tell him Momma loves him. Every single day. Promise me,” she urged.

“I promise, Mom.” “Momma loves you, Charlie,” I sang, glancing over at him in the passenger seat. He lifted his fuzzy, grey face in response.

We were driving up the Oregon coast. The same trip I’d taken with my Mom the year before.

Passing the same tsunami-warning signs that rattled our nerves, both of us terrified we’d get sucked out to sea.

Returning to the same hotel where mom and I stayed. How she loved our seaside hotel, especially the spa. “This is heaven,” she swooned, on her 75th birthday.

We went straight to the room upon arrival. I was so tired. Alone, with my Mom’s dog. Sorrow clinging to me, like soggy seaweed.

“C’mon Charlie, let’s lie down.”

Buried beneath the blankets, crying myself to sleep, I whispered, “I miss you, Momma. Happy birthday.”

“Please don’t cry,” I heard her say, worried that if I opened my eyes, she’d disappear. “Rest, my darling daughter. Go to the spa. I’ll watch over Charlie.”

Obediently, I got up and went to the door. “Momma loves you, Charlie,” I said, on my way out.

The spa was on the top floor. The 76th floor. Surging upward, the elevator numbers flashed before me with bone-chilling speed. With a jolt, the doors opened. The spa was bright and pristine. The air pure and clean. In the center was a white porcelain clawfoot tub, with gleaming golden legs. A sweet, milky steam rose from the water, beckoning me.

I stripped off my clothes, eased into the tub, and dipped below the surface. Cradled by the warm water, I swayed back and forth. The swaying suddenly turned to thrashing, as the tub rocked with relentless violence. I gripped the sides, drenched in terror, as the hotel raged beneath me.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. All was quiet. Except for the deafening sound of my heart beat. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

Soon sirens upset the silence.

Screeching, wailing, hideous warnings. It was coming.

I was powerless against the monstrous, merciless wave that broke over my head. With paralyzing force, the water crashed around me and ripped me out to sea.

Bracing myself for impact, I hit the ground with a sickening thud, landing in a dark, dank cavern.

Lying in thick, stagnant mud, I ran my hands along my flesh. There wasn’t a scratch on me.

No broken bones. No missing limbs. No gashes, wounds, or blood. I made it through the tsunami, intact.

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I heard water dripping in the distance. And saw shimmering shadows of light dancing around the bend. Pulling myself up from the muck, I moved toward it.

I heard them before I saw them. Chanting, cherubic beings bathed in brilliant light, gathered around glistening pools of water. They looked like a blend of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’s Oompa Loompas and the Wizard of Oz munchkins. I laughed out loud.

They turned to me, “Ah, you’re here.”

“You have work to do,” they said, nodding toward the nearest pool.

I walked to the water’s edge. A droplet fell from above, penetrating the still surface. It formed a small circle, rippling out, giving life to more circles.

Another drop hit the water. And then another. And another. I saw my reflection in the center. I saw things that I did; or didn’t do. Heard things that I said; or didn’t say. Some were spectacular and breathtaking. Others, sorrowful and heartbreaking.

I stayed until the drops ceased to exist. Exhausted, I returned to the curious cave dwellers.

“Please help me,” I pleaded.

“There’s more work to be done,” they said, guiding me to the next pool. This body of water was bigger, layered. At first, the drops struck sporadically. Some dabbled on the surface.

Others bore deep.

Mom’s holding my hand. I’m a little girl. Laughing. Clinging to her warm body.

I’m holding mom’s hand. I’m a grown woman. Crying. Clinging to her cold body.

The drops began to strike with a fury, pummeling the pool — I was feeding her when she couldn’t eat, bathing her when she couldn’t wash, carrying her when she couldn’t walk, changing her when nothing changed.

“Please stop. I can’t breathe,” I begged.

Look deeper.

I clung to the edge, peering inside.

At last, it surfaced — the beauty beneath the brutality, the meaning alongside the misery, the love outlasting the sickness, the living after the dying.

The water calmed itself.

“You’re ready,” I heard them say. “Come.”

Enormous, ornate doors were carved into the wall of the vast cavern. Why hadn’t I seen them before? I followed them through, to the other side, crossing into the most peaceful place, encased in tender, luminous clouds. On the far side, I glimpsed another door.

In the center were rows and rows of golden, bejeweled bleachers. Each one outfitted with sumptuous silk pillows for its occupants. They stretched above the clouds, way up into the heavens. Every seat occupied.

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“Mom,” I exhaled. There she sat in the front row, closest to me. She looked beautiful and serene. She sat perfectly upright. Eyes closed. Hands folded in her lap.

“I don’t understand,” I trembled.

“She’s waiting,” they said.

My heartbeat thundered within my soul. I reached out to her, desperate to look into her eyes again. She rose up, taking my hands in hers. We twirled and twirled in glorious togetherness.

Sharing everything.

When all was said, our twirling slowed to a stop. She wrapped her arms around me. I rejoiced in her love once more.

“Ready?” she asked, leading me, hand in hand, to the last door. I nodded, wanting to be with her, always. The door opened, calling us home.

My mom passed through without me.

“No! Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone!”

“He never left your side,” her voice echoed.

Gasping for air, I awakened to my mom’s Charlie.

My Charlie.

“Momma loves you,” I promised.

Michelle worked in the film and video industry for advertising and marketing agencies (and in television news) for more than two decades as a writer/producer/director. She earned Emmy’s, Addy’s, and Clios along the way.

She also enjoyed a very successful career as a stage actor after studying the craft for years at Second City and Meisner based schools in Chicago.

Michelle now spends most of her time competing in dog sports with her beautiful Rhodesian Ridgebacks as she embraces and embodies her true purpose, writing. Michelle has mostly written memoir style essays and creative non-fiction. She has also begun to pursue poetry. She’s excited to share that she is currently focusing on and writing her first fiction novel.

She was recently published in a North American dog magazine after submitting an article about traveling with dogs. Travel is EVERYTHING to Michelle. Always with a dog by her side.

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SO YOU SAY Gasheri Mundia So you say you didn't mean it that way So you say you were misunderstood So you say I was wrong to feel that way So you say you’d apologize Where’s the apology then?

You didn’t mean it that way, huh?

I wasn’t your target, huh?

Just a tool you used, huh?

To strike your intended target, huh?

And they totally had it coming?

Well then, thanks for the clarification Now I feel much better then Now I feel good for being a tool Now I can uncry the tears I cried Now I can unfeel the feelings I felt See the skin weaving together?

That’s the unwounding of the wound There’s a gas shortage, did you hear?

Don’t light the fuse, save the gas, I sa

Gasheri Mundia is an aspiring writer and poet from Nairobi, Kenya. She finds that things make more sense to her when she writes them down. She is excited about her writing journey and cannot wait to see where it leads her. Find her on WordPress at knightlessjules.wordpress.com

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ME AND MY GRANDMOTHER ON TURNING SIXTY Wanjira Muthoni Turning sixty, not a walk in the park for me Growing old without a rehearsal Accompanied by a whole lot of signs announcing That things will never be the same again First the hair turning grey so fast You need to visit the hairdresser every other week You can’t go out in public without dyeing it For you feel like you are literally dying My grandmother knew none of that My grandmother on turning sixty Thanked God for a long life Was celebrated by both family and community My grandmother was happy to have so many grandchildren Each one serving as evidence that her seeds Were blessed by the ancestors And was a sign of blessings from God My grandmother’s greying hair a source of pride Her best friend came over to trim it once a month Each one working on the other’s head till nice and soft Then massaged and smeared with castor oil They revelled in stories of days gone by When they danced under the moonlight In the company of their male age-mates Oh, the good old days!

Before I knew what was happening My breasts took a dive downwards Competing in a race to show me That my bright days were now behind me Then I remembered my grandmother Who carried her breasts exposed all her life With neither embarrassment nor arrogance The cotton cloth around one shoulder hardly hiding them from view My grandmother’s breasts, to her Were there for feeding her babies, wherever it might be Like legs were for walking, hands for working No shame, no pride, just a part of the body Then my whole body just went flabby All those hours seated in front of my computer Ended with me looking like a hippo Slow and shapeless, unable to walk fast

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Well, my grandmother had never had excess weight on her body Working in the field all day long, all year long Trekking twenty kilometres a week to Embu and back To do barter trade of cereals for food from Nyeri The mountainous terrain on the slopes of Mt Kenya A natural gym for young and old Up and down the hill to go look for food or to fetch water Weight lifting through carrying luggage on the back My grandmother enjoyed her sixties to eighties Danced vigorously at baby naming ceremonies, weddings, Youth rite of passage ceremonies Oh, if only I could learn to live like her!

Driving to work and eating in restaurants Writing reports on never-ending projects Seated in meetings that went on forever Took their toll on me, my back, my whole being

Wanjira Gakuru Muthoni, from Kenya, is a writer who enjoys writing poems and short stories for children and adults. She joined IWWG during the Covid-19 epidemic and has had the honour of publishing poems in a number of the Guild's anthologies as well as in other publications.

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NEWS QUIZ Damaris Olivo I miss you the most in the morning When the sun is barely up, but its light filters through the slit in the curtains you said were too bright.

When I used to lie, half awake Very still, waiting With my back to you, waiting For your touch across my stomach Your arm over my chest I hold tight and say grace.

I miss you the most at breakfast, When we'd do the news quiz and laugh while you tossed apple slices at Ella And you'd ask if I wanted tea And I'd call you handsome And you'd call me gorgeous And I drank espresso because you drank espresso And I ate açai because you ate açaí and I loved you.

I miss you the most in the afternoon, when you weren't there, but you were always there, like a song softly playing in the background I'd call, ask about your day Hearing your voice, the dopamine hit keeping my head above the waves.

I miss you the most in the evening When we'd invite her up on the couch.

It didn't matter what we were doing because we were together like wildflowers, different but the same We felt our feelings in the other, like roots, messy and divine.

But I really miss you the most at “Ella, it’s bedtime.”

A glass of water on the nightstand I slip into the linen next to you Kisses on the shoulder Your voice, the dopamine, wildflower roots And I turn toward you Very still, waiting Like in Savannah, like under the pear tree.

I miss you the most in the morning

Damaris Olivo is a writer from the Dominican Republic living in New York City. She has worked as a communications strategist across New York City and State government and as a producer and production coordinator for documentaries on MTV, ESPN, and A&E Networks.

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Katherine O'Neil is a placemaking consultant, writer, photographer, and community event planner, specializing in urban design and city planning.

Over the last ten years, she has worked for various non-profits and startups, such as Habitat for Humanity and the Urban Land Institute.

Recently, Katherine founded her business Builtfully® to showcase beautifully built environments and to create better places for all through consultations, community, and content. She writes a blog and poetry and is currently writing a book about her year living abroad in London. She earned honors on her Master's dissertation, which focused on creative solutions for the homeless, emphasizing pop-up housing.

Katherine holds a Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Minnesota in Housing Studies, a concentration in Community Development and Policy, and a minor in Communication Studies. She has a Master of Science degree from the University College London's Bartlett School of Planning in Urban Design and City Planning.

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SHOPPING Catherine O’Neill Our eyes meet, we are standing in the supermarket.

We’ve already passed one another in the low hanging fruit section. I’m feeling how hard the cucumbers are, your hands are deep in the parsley.

You’ve moved on to the meat counter and I, fish.

I wish you were here buying oysters, I can be your pearl.

Onions aren’t for everyone but they go well with steak Rare is best, more blood.

I catch you stare at my belly, I want to explain, I’m not pregnant with ice cream from the freezer aisle five.

You catch me stare at your wedding finger The bandwidth, frequency—unknown.

Hope you are not like all the meat heads I dated, and the muttonhead I married.

Good goods come to those who wait, a rival motto for the deli help, more tongue in a tong world, pickled sweet and sour moments of cold and hot cuts.

I stall at the dairy shelves, rancid with the milk of human blindness.

You’ve bypassed the eggs, cut to the cheese.

I can’t decide on Greek or Icelandic yogurt You look of northern descent I go with Skyr.

I lose you at the bakery, they’re out of bread crumbs, I could have used them.

I circle the store twice, Abandoned.

You’ve disappeared into a self-checkout.

I fast waltz to be next to you, smile and stare shyly into your basket.

Before the lift and thrust, eye roll.

The large box of the tampons shacked up against your Manchego.

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RECESS Jacqueline Owen The earth tones: browns, creams, and burgundies. The books, lectures, and studies. Punctual, professional, responsible, and reliable.

Yet the sweater called to me. It was adorable. The butterflies, in shades of purples, pinks and blues, made it playful, girlie and fun. All the things I just couldn't be.

But the images kept appearing. There were hearts anchored in cement in crosswalks and parking garages, living as sand traps on golf courses and the most mystical, attached to the floor of my backyard patio.

And the butterflies, they too, were relentless. Resting on my screen door, painted on elevator ceilings, fixtures in my coworker’s office.

Butterflies, hearts and an occasional unicorn? Could my life be magical, lighthearted, and fun? I returned to the store for the sweater. It was still there but so was the cutest little top with a butterfly pasted at the center, to be worn close to my heart. I bought it. I gave it to the little girl who was pleading with me to let her go outside and play.

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I LOVE YOU Jeanne Vargas Call a loved one, the one who stopped talking to you: Say, “Hello.”

Say, “I’m sorry,” if you can.

Say, “I forgive you,” if you will.

The important thing is to find something you both can agree on.

Align yourself with that.

After all this is your: mother father daughter son brother sister Don’t think, “They don’t get me,” Get them.

Feel them.

Don’t believe you’re better off without them because you are not.

Don’t think, “They hurt me” Don’t think, “I don’t need that,” because you do need closure.

Things just happen.

You don’t know what has been going on with them.

You don’t know how they were raised.

You don’t know what they have had to walk through.

Everyone has a story: Stories we create, Stories we tell our Self and Stories we tell others, Stories to explain why things are the way they are and why we do the things we do.

But stories are just stories.

Stories are not the truth of who we are.

Stories are the masks we wear and hide behind.

Take off the mask, and Peel back the layers of stories.

Somewhere inside It’s just you and Mom Dad Sister Brother Grandma IWWG NETWORK | Fall 2022 | page 61

Grandpa Daughter Son They are Family.

Don’t say, “I don’t need them!”

You do need them.

Learn how to speak without getting mad, Tell your side.

Say, “When you do that, I feel,” not, “you did...”

Set the intention to be open and receptive.

Listen without having any agenda.

Hold no expectation for outcome.

Deeply Listen.

Speak right.

Be right.

Find something you can agree on, Something you can align your self with.

Everyone and everything changes over time.

No one stays the same.

You’ve changed too.

When you reach out, make the call, write a letter Reconciliation can be on the way Because tomorrow isn’t promised.

You may never have this chance again.

Put yourself in the other person’s shoes: Be empathetic Be compassionate.

Feel it all.

Appreciation and gratitude soothes.

Allow acceptance and be forgiving.

We are better together.

Jeanne Schneider Vargas lives in the country near Rock Falls Illinois with her husband and her muses, three Himalayan cats. Jeanne has degrees in social work and an MA in education. She has worked in children and family services, as a social worker, and curriculum and instruction designer and teacher. Jeanne writes about challenging and difficult family relationships and how to find resolution.

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IWWG poets Andi Penner and Jeanne Vargas met through the 2021 IWWG Global Pen Pal Program while taking Marj Hahne's epistolary poem class via Zoom. They persevered through major illnesses and geographic distance to create their collaborative poem in this venue.

Jeanne lives in the country near Rock Falls, Illinois with her husband and her muses, three Himalayan cats. Jeanne has graduate degrees in education and social work. She has worked in children and family services, as a social worker, and as a school teacher. Jeanne writes about challenging and difficult family relations and how to find resolution. She is currently working on a memoir. Andi lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and writes about place and memory. She’s also working on a memoir, and has published two collections of poetry.

POETS WRITING LETTERS FROM IWWG’S GLOBAL PEN PAL CLASS Andrea (Andi) Penner in response to Jeanne Schneider Vargas I. Call A Loved One Jeanne Vargas Call a loved one, the one who stopped talking to you.

Say, “Hello.”

Say, “I’m sorry,” if you can.

Say, “I forgive you,” if you will.

What is important is to find something you both can agree on and Align yourself with that.

After all, this is your: mother father daughter son brother sister.

Don’t think, “They don’t get me,” Get them.

Feel them.

Don’t believe you’re better off without them because you are not.

Don’t think, “They hurt me” Don’t think, “I don’t need that,” because you do need closure.

Stuff can happen.

You don’t know what has been going on with them.

You don’t know what they have had to walk through.

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Everyone has a story. Stories we create, Stories we tell our Self and Stories we tell others Stories to explain why things are the way they are and why we do the things we do.

But stories are just stories. Stories are not the truth of who we are. Stories are the masks we wear and hide behind.

Take off the mask, and Peel back the layers of your stories.

Somewhere inside It’s just you and Mom Dad Sister Brother Daughter Son. After all, they are Family.

Don’t say, “I don’t need them!”

You do need them.

Tell your side.

Learn how to speak without getting mad, Say, “When you do that, I feel,” not, “you did...”

Set your intention to be open and receptive.

Listen without having any agenda. Hold no expectation for outcome.

Deeply Listen.

Speak right.

Be right.

Find something you can agree on, Something you can align your self with.

Everyone and everything changes over time.

No one stays the same.

You’ve changed, too.

When you reach out: make the call, write a letter Reconciliation can be on the way Remember tomorrow isn’t promised.

You may never have this chance again.

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Put yourself in the other person’s shoes: Be empathetic Be compassionate.

Feel it all. Appreciation and gratitude soothes.

Allow acceptance, and be forgiving.

We are better together.

II. Dear Jeanne

by Andi Penner So I called my brother tonight.

I had not planned to but your poem, the one you sent yesterday, reminded me to call a loved one say, hello be open and receptive you said. reach out: make the call Hello, I said.

“Hi, And! Nice to hear your voice,” he answered.

Jeanne, he’s the only one who calls me “&.”

What are you up, to? I asked.

“I'm cooking dinner, so let me put you on speaker,” he said while he whisked an egg to add to raw ground beef “Meatballs,” he explained, “but not the Fannie Farmer recipe” we chatted about his new temp job (editing) and my new opportunity (editing) ...about the Russian novel our dad loved “I haven’t read Brothers Karamozov, yet,” he said ...about identify theft I had to file a police report, I said ...about his kidneys which is why he “had to find a no-salt meatballs recipe” and about my having to wake up early tomorrow for what I have to walk through.

Jeanne, I wasn't going to tell him about the trifecta: the next mammogram, ultrasound, biopsy.

I’m not looking for his support—I thought.

But your words were also in my thoughts— Don’t think, “they don’t get me,” said your poem.

Get them.

Feel them.

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I’ve assumed he doesn’t get my high-risk regimen even though he may share this genetic trait.

Don’t say, I don’t need them!

You do need them. ...Tell your side, you wrote.

So I surprised myself by telling him.

And he surprised me by asking, “How do you feel about the procedure?”

I was able (sort of) to tell him I was surprised by the news to tell him how it knocked me to the emotional floor for days even though it's routine, I said even though it's probably nothing even though only 20% of breast biopsies are positive even though I take care of myself and meditate….

And to tell him I felt it, deeply to tell him I’m not ready but you spoke inside my head, Jeanne Things just happen.

Everyone has a story find a way do this today because tomorrow isn’t promised When I finished, he said, “let me know.”

He said, “we’ll be praying for you.”

I will, I said.

Thank you, I said.

I appreciate that, I said just before we each said “I love you.”

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PUTTING THE DOG DOWN Suzanne Lima Pickford I originally said, I just need her to make it to the new house.

Rolling green, white farmyard fence, old New England stone walls. A sunny patch by an old oak covered in ivy.

How lucky she was given Summer. The glow of sunsets and porch naps. Dusk crickets.

How many early mornings did I wake, my blood rushing to reach among the covers to feel for a heartbeat - and end up rising and pacing along floorboards foreign to me?

My hands gripping someone else’s quartz countertops.

My fingers flicking light switches still unfamiliar.

Now, each day is measured in ribby breaths and counted portions, milky teaspoons of pharmacology and questions: How long? How much?

Did she? Is she going?

Now, the only questions are: Who will pull the trigger?

And what poor soul will find a box?

Dig of the earth that we imagined just a short time ago when her death was simply a plan

Suzanne Lima Pickford is a native of Southeastern Massachusetts and has been teaching English and Creative Writing at Barrington High School in Barrington, Rhode Island for twenty-two years. She earned her B.A. in Literature and Writing at Wheaton College in Norton, Massachusetts and her M.A. in Creative Writing and Literature at Fairleigh Dickinson University in Madison, New Jersey. She enjoys spending time with family, studying martial arts, and taking care of her chickens, dogs, and ducks.

Suzanne is currently working on a novel and writes poetry.

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FAREWELL HYMN Phyllis C Quiles I saw my mother die. I will be forever grateful. Earlier that gloomy November day, my brother called to advise “don’t bother going to the hospital. She won’t know you’re there.”

In between bouts of delirium, she knew my husband and I were there. At one point, she said she was thirsty and asked for milk. While Matt was gone, looking for milk, she called out a name I had never heard before. It sounded like it began with a J. No, it wasn’t Jesus. She might have been calling an old lover. She was as much an enigma as she was a dilemma. She stared into the glazed eyes of either an earlier life or a forthcoming one. When she turned her head to the right of her pillow, that impactful moment marked the end of the suffering that was her life.

I stared at her, touched her needle pricked arm, and kissed her forehead. “Good-bye, Ma.” I locked eyes on the nightstand. She was gone, yet her fringed purse, chestnut-colored eyeglasses, pewter blouse, and charcoal skirt, now abandoned, lived on. I wanted to put her glasses on her face. I wanted to hang her purse from her shoulder. I stared at her overlooked belongings. I sat, I stared, until I was convinced her essence had been released from the husk of her body. After all, what would they do if I summoned them? Resuscitate her back to suffering?

When I alerted them, sure enough, they requested my rapid departure from the room, and began to electrically stimulate her heart.

The next time I saw her, she wore a black plastic bag.

I called my brother. His third wife answered the phone.

“Hello.”

“It’s Linda. Is Steve there?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Wake him.”

After a while, he came to the phone.

“It’s late,” he said.

“Ma died.”

“I’ll make the arrangements with the funeral parlor.”

“I’m glad I went. She didn’t die alone.”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you,” my mother’s favorite child said.

I went back to room 347, gathered the forgotten belongings, and exited the hospital. When we told our three young children their grandmother had died, they cried.

Next day, we went to her project apartment in Harlem. The sink who witnessed my seven-year-old face being banged against it knocking out my tooth wept from its faucet. The tooth fairy had never visited.

I sat on the bed, silently watching my children’s fascination with her costume jewelry. She never wore any of the pieces so neatly displayed in the white bureau drawer saving them for who knew when? In remembrance, I still wear the Christmas pin that she never wore. Her blue ceramic bowl lives on the third shelf of my pantry offering Hershey’s kisses.

We left the door of my childhood residence unlocked. I informed management of her death. I prayed that if the next tenant were a single mother, she would raise her daughter with love. I saw my mother die. I will be forever grateful.

I am Phyllis C Quiles. I usually write poetry, but I have written a few short stories. Several of my poems have been included in anthologies. Needless to say, I'm proud of that. (I attended this year’s 2022 IWWG Conference and have been inspired to write, write, write).

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EMPTY SPACES Joan Ramirez Playgrounds without kids White magnolias starting to bloom White blossoms sprouting up from the ground Birds singing to themselves Empty patio chairs Barren picnic tables Green grass pushing through Closed patio doors Empty basketball courts Dehydrated swimming pools Kids listening to music in their rooms A jogger distancing himself from me A walker distancing herself from me Footprints on the earth A football court in the making—now only mounds of dirt Park workers sprucing up for absent visitors Grills missing hamburgers Fences needing mending Wicker chairs looking for absent guests A lone bird sipping drops of water in the bird fountain Silent swings and slides where children once played No laughter, few people clinging to hope of brighter days

Joan Ramirez holds a Master of Science in Business, Medical, and Technical Journalism as well as two education M.S. degrees. She has published on a variety of topics from cochlear implants to the economy and has fiction (children’s and romance novels) and nonfiction books— business and leadership.

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ON PINS AND NEEDLES Evelyn Crawford Rosser Aching hearts Tearful eyes Confused minds Chaos blowing in the wind As Americans woke up to a divided nation overflowing with polluted minds fueled by fear, toxic rhetoric and naivete, reacting to a sunami of social protests, accusations of fraud, systemic racism, mass shootings at schools and churches, police killings of Black men, hate groups, ecological abuse, revenge killings of policemen, a global pandemicEach day claiming its own sorrow.

When attempts were made to desecrate the temple of American democracy, the wheel of patriotism began to spin. From the plowman to the man born with a silver spoon in his mouth, patriotic Americans resolved to unite a divided nation and to no longer be forced to play musical chairs with the things they value most: safe communities, healthy families, gratifying jobs, and opportunities to contribute to society.

Like a pebble dropped into a pool spreading interlocking circles, American patriots banded together to rise up from the ashes of fear and rebellion, determined to replace cries of “Hands Up” and “I Can't Breathe” with the fragrance of liberty and justice soaring in the air where every man is provided a seat at the table of the human race.

Struggling to keep the American flag waving triumphantly over a country where citizens can proudly ring the bell of unity and domestic tranquility, the plea is being made for Americans to wise up, lift up, speak up, and step up.

America waits.

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A STRANGER SPEAKS Sapna Supunsara A stranger speaks Under the candle light, I saw her smiling Sparkling eyes with much passion Of telling what she love the most Am I in your list? I asked silently but I just said, “you are gorgeous” On the edge, I saw her murmuring Tuning her words with perfection With a glint of warmth surrounding me May I love you, let my heart unbend? I asked silently but I just said, “forever my closest” Near the street, I saw her walking Dressing like a sparkling star On a cloud far away from me Can I come with you? I asked silently but I just said “be careful” So, I gave a thought to hide behind a “hello” or a “hi,” cover the truth that I’m just too scared Of your reaction if you knew my beating heart

As a graduate from University of Peradeniya, I’m very fascinated in poetry where I got too excited by universal nature with respect to emotions and attitudes of individuals. I believe, if each an every individual mends their life not with conditions but with unconditional love, most of the lives will be filled with happiness.

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RIND Catherine Sawoski My babysitter used to give me warm milk when I couldn’t sleep, skin curdling like eggs, and lately dairy makes me seasick, guzzling water and taking shots of orange juice so that this time next year my doctor will say I made her proud. Every so often I touch my face like it’s tangerine skin, citus pores and scraps of peel that I used to rub on myself like perfume, sniffing my wrists like a young woman who names imaginary friends Clementine and invented a world where lemons were from the east coast.

Standing on a circle of stones with grass poking at our feet, Clementine and I would spend hours pretending we had our own tv show about how she and I were nothing alike.

Nowadays I eat brie in place of meals as if every day is worthy of an appetizer, sitting at the island watching my brother eat oranges three at a time, thinking about my best friend who cannot stand the taste of acid on her teeth.

Catherine is a rising junior at Barnard College of Columbia University from a small town in Rhode Island. Appointed in 2019 as the Youth Poetry Ambassador of Rhode Island, she has won various awards for her work and has taught poetry to students in schools and libraries around the state.

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INSIDE A LOST TIME Oindri Sengupta When answers are terrifying my shelter is in the questions.

And then the cracks around my skin open, squeezing out the darkness from my flesh like the worn out hands at the end of day.

My mind lies dishevelled over the unkempt bed, and on the unruly feet that call for a rain everytime they run to the window.

I try to recollect how many rivers had crossed my land and how many times i searched for you.

When the mind feels like a space within a space, we discover our journeys inside a lost time.

I have surpassed that long ago.

Unstitched all the evenings one by one before they die and stepped inside you to drink all the seasons from your hands.

Oindri Sengupta is an Assistant Teacher of English at a Govt School in Kolkata, West Bengal, India. She had been published in national and international journals like The Lake (UK), Istanbul Literary Review, Chiron Review (USA), Outlook India, Plato’s Caves Online, Amethyst Review (UK), Abridged (Northern Ireland) etc. Her debut collection of poetry “After the Fall of a Cloud” has been published by Hawakal Publishers, New Delhi (2022, February). Her poetry has also been adapted into a play named “Another Rainbow,” by Alternative Living Theatre (Kolkata).

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MALFUNCTIONED Shahee Should I call you as a stupid brat according to my realm?

For daring to judge me as a lame sheep of perfectness With my pleasant image and with my ladylike sweet talks!

Did not my sarcastic eyes warn you in advance?

About this mal-formed product of your conventional dummies.

Permit me to declare about my ugly tale Which will flip you down from your rotten imaginaries!

Fairies and dolls were not my comfort and desire But bruises and dislocations satisfied my inner self.

A growing teen self-began to raise against The pressure of becoming a “well behaved muslim girl” Harassed by different languages and abused by dying values Academic never accepted this untamed creature with its “weakness”, Was chased away with a letter of “failure” by the head of studies.

Spent the teen in the street on the name of achieving the impossible, Was a shock on them when they witnessed my success at the finale But remembered to criticize me for voluntarily going out of “limits” And bringing shame and getting abused by the strangers in buses, Accused of being a social disgrace and assaulted with the mots of suicidal.

Some eyes searched for a “terrorist” with terror in their eyes Some searched for a psychopath of creepy desires.

Inquire them and let me know their findings too, Bother me with your challenges and stereotypes.

Let me fail by your miseries and I will pledge To rise again as a firefly and shine in your dark nights.

I’m Shaheera from a small village in Sri Lanka who was able to have a bachelor’s degree in Arts at the state University of Peradeniya. I'm currently reading a post graduate in International relations. As a Muslim girl from a minority, I had to go through oppressions, racism and harassments throughout my life. While trying to get an education, I had to break conventional boundaries and travel long distances which were considered as inappropriate in my society. Being a child and later as a teenager, I tried to fit into my community which gradually became a failure. I was seen as a part of “terrorism” because of my ethnicity. I was always pressurized to be a “sweet lady’ with modest talk and clothes which made my marriage life a challenging one. But I believe that these incidents have sharpened up my identity and made me strong.

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THE BOOKSTORE CK Sobey The day I walked into the bookstore, I felt something tingling in my belly.

I always love going to the bookstore.

I go when I’m drained, or my inner animal needs its fur stroked.

What better place than a used bookstore?

The smells, the dust, the unknown histories of each book.

Just to reach for one that signals me is always a mystical experience.

Who held it last? How many lives had the book touched?

This time, it was different.

In this bookstore, there is a section where library books have been marked “withdrawn.” In this section, I always find a book to buy for a small price.

One day, I went to the bookstore to browse for a book that would interest me. Something strange happened that day.

The book and I met on a shelf in the back.

It was a crisp, snowy day outside. The sun was streaming in at angles through the blinds.

Silhouettes of light bouncing along the walls.

Dust particles swirling in free expression. I sat down to read my book in a big, comfortable chair.

On the inside page of the book was written: “I knew we would eventually meet.”

It was hand- written in a beautiful, fluid script. Intrigue and enchantment came over me. I touched those written words with my fingers, stroking the words.

Wondering who had written this and when?

I bought the book. Reading the handwritten line has become a ritual for me.

Imagined vignettes coming alive. I have begun talking with the book, daily. It answers any questions I have.

I don’t know where the wisdom comes from. I just trust.

I begin and end my days with it.

CK (Kas) Sobey continues a life of curiosity, having retired from her professional businesses spending more time reimagining. Kas lives in the Valley Forge area of Pennsylvania. She spends most of her time in her studio creating something that has caught her attention, or in her kitchen cooking, the air thick with aromas, or somewhere on one of her walks listening to what is calling her. Her current book, A Collection of Tiny Stories, Diminutive Tales from the Tip of My Imagination (June 2022) also contains several unique layered images. She is the author of a book of poetic prose and photography, Musings, Woolgathering, & Ghosts, which is also on audio. Her first book is entitled Henry the Turtle. A young children’s book for all ages!

She is currently working on two new books. Her writing has been featured in The Reflectionary, Publishers Weekly, Readers Views/inside Scoop, and The Midwest Review. Read more about her at: www.InnerHarvesting.com

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TENERIFE Katrina Spillman how should we address

and for one year the Capoque

this uncomfortable history

made a slave of him

because there is no such thing

but for seven more

as alternative facts

the Chorruco made

there is just

more of him

the truth

than ever had Spain

just

captive trader healer woman human

men slaughtered

so that when at last he left them

women parcelled out

he knew

children enslaved

that all he had learned across the water

by the grandfather

must be cast away

of my great great

except what

great great great great

he learned in his mother’s arms

great great great great

and so that when at last he left them

great great grandfather

he thought of his grandfather’s story

who laughed as he told him how

and rearranging

he had tricked the Guanches into slavery

the pictures of his childhood

by inviting them onboard

as a child turns his kaleidoscope

and then sailing away

he saw the Guanche slaves anew

and my great great

and as though he were one of them

great great great great

he saw his grandfather

great great great great

through the eyes of his slaves

great great grandfather

and remembered

set out on the waves to find

how his grandfather had

his own New Spain

Invited them onboard

and his own Guanches

but he no longer

to trick

felt

but instead he found

like laughing

disaster shipwreck death nakedness hunger

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SILK EMBROIDERY Margie Ann Stanko In response to Red Brocade by Naomi Shahib Nye That sharp rap on the wooden frame, not persistent, so I know there’s no emergency It’s also not a neighbor, who would have knocked, tried the handle, walked in, needing sugar or an egg.

That sharp rap on the wooden frame has a bit of a thump to it; and a pause after three knock knock knocks.

Then again - a solid rhythm; like an African drum beat 3-2-3-3-2 and I know there is honor in the query of “Are you home?”

The same honor I give to the skin of the drum and the ground beneath the drummer’s feet.

That sharp rap on the wooden frame makes the Nordic harp, tuned to open the heart, tinkle; and listening to the tinkle and the rap and I know I have to add melod; swinging the door on its rusted hinges. The light whoosh of cool into heat heat into cool and I begin our song with, “Hello.”

Your hand raised; knuckles held forward; to rap again.

On your face: surprise; your eyes wide; glowing with knowing. Your face tightens; your lips taut, your eyes dimmed with uncertainty; you wait.

“Hello,” I say; once more, smiling at your newness, a face blended by age, sage, and wanting.

Shall I ask all the right questions?:

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“Do I know you?” “Are you lost?”. “How can I help you?”

Instead, I pull the door wider, step back, the tinkle of the welcoming heart striking your ears with the delicacy of grace.

Your eyes widen again, seeing the opening to join me.

You are dressed as I dreamed I would dress on my wedding day: a cream colored long linen tunic with silk embroidery - lilacs, violas, peonies - flowers that carry my story - filling the void modesty creates; long, loose cream colored pants, still uncreased despite the distance you may have traveled. Your feet are bare.

Your words flutter to me; untethered by syllables, telling me to hear; and I know Love is at my door.

Margie Ann Stanko is an award winning mentor, teacher and writer.

Certified in Creative Arts Therapies, Mindfulness Meditation, InterSpiritual Counseling and Companioning, Esoteric Healing, and a One Spirit Seminary ordained Interspiritual Interfaith minister, she now lives at Elderspirit, an intentional community in Appalachia. She offers experiential workshops Creativity as Meditation, as well as working 1:1 to help others open the door to their spiritual wholeness.

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THE BRIDGE THAT WASN’T TOO FAR INSPIRED BY YELLOWSTONe Sara Stegen “I’m never, ever, ever going to leave my school in a year!”

I wondered what brought on this explosion of feeling. We were riding our bikes to school one September morning, home again after our first road trip through the American West. While crossing the patch of wood between our neighbourhood and his elementary school, my youngest son Sibbe, age eleven, spit out this statement.

“I’m going to stay on forever and ever. And never leave.” Eyes blazing and body coiled with anger. Perhaps some kind of residual trauma was rearing its ugly head. Something to do with the not quite voluntary move from his first schoolwhen he was six?

“I don’t want to go to secondary school.” Okay.

It was clear the move in a year’s time touched some deep well of fear. Changing schools was scary. And too much to take in.

“I don’t want to leave Mr. Bakker!” he said. Our saviour. Beating heart of the city school of 75 pupils who played the accordion in class and at Christmas celebrations. The accordion he named ‘Japie’. He sent out little motes of love flying through the air like butterflies looking for a flower to land on. Nourishing notes of love. He welcomed kids who came to him after they started at another school and left there because they didn’t quite fit in.I understood that Sibbe did not want to leave him.

That summer of 2014, we’d driven through red rock landscapes, travelled deep into tall grass prairies with herds of bison making slow progress across the plains, crossed tall mountains and seen geysers, mud pots, and petrified trees. All things alien to us Europeans. Our sons spotting, with high-pitched voices and bright-eyed: herds of bison and pronghorn antelope, wolves, a russet grizzly bear with her cub crossing the road behind us, majestic elk with antlers like soaring birds of prey eating by the side of the road, mustangs looking for a tasty patch of grass in the heat, eagles sitting in the tall firs beside the Yellowstone river, turkeys fleeing when we disturbed them one early morning on our way to the next campsite and so much more from behind the windows of our 30 feet RV. My husband joked he was driving a bus. A thing he was not allowed to do in Europe without a busdriving license.

Over the course of a month, we had been on a dozen ranger-led walksin national parks, filled in dozens of junior ranger programme booklets with you and your older brother having been sworn in upon completion.

I can still picture our boys earnestly repeating the oath in their favourite park: ‘I will teach others how to enjoy national parks responsibly. As a Junior Ranger, I promise to protect, preserve, and respect the landscape of Yellowstone National Park. While at home, I will learn about the natural world and I will share what I learn with my friends and family.’

He took it seriously. On the flight home to Amsterdam, he turned to me and said: “When I grow up, I want to be a ranger in Yellowstone.” Blue eyes, strawberry blond hair, sunburnt facewearing a floppy green outdoor hat that had been his older brother’sthe year before. The spitting image of some of the rangers we met wearing the national park uniform and leather boots.

That fall after our road trip, and after his outburst when he told me he did not want to leave his elementary school, I searched for a hook. A thing to bridge the gap, to make that transition to secondary school a deeply felt need. One that would put him on the road to Yellowstone, metaphorically speaking. What could we do?

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Then, researching schools I found a college for vocational education in forestry that had an Ecology & Wildlife programme. Students could train to be a ranger, forester, guide or conservationist.Two hours south of us as the crow flies.

“Do you know that there’s a school where you can go to become a ranger?” I said, casually mentioning this during dinner one night, looking across the table.

“Really?” I could see a future shifting into focus in his mind. A plan forming. A way to return to those places that had made such an impression. A deep love had sprung up there.

“Yes, cool, isn’t it?” I paused and said: “But you need to finish secondary school before you can go there.”

“Okay, I’ll go.” Without drama something had shifted.

A goal and a route to get there had presented itself. “Will you come and visit me in Yellowstone on my birthdays? When I work there?” Tug. A small sentence tugged at my heart.

“Of course, try and stop me.” And I hugged him tight.

That got him into secondary school.

One hurdle down.

After some struggles. School is never without issues for autistic students, I have found; he graduated in early June of 2020 after four years of study.

The second hurdle came up right behind graduation: living on his own while going to forestry college. I had started to research this issue in the fall of his final year knowing that it probably wasn’t going to be easy. In the Netherlands there is one housing program for students with autism—Jados—but it only caters to autistic students who are eighteen or turn eighteen within six months.

The average age for students starting at his vocational college is sixteen.

“Is it possible to enter in the programme at 16.8 months?” I asked on the phone to the programme coordinator while leaves fell from the oak trees across the street in the autumn light.

“No, sorry. It has to do with our funding. Eighteens and overs. No exceptions.”

Did she feel bad sending us into the woods without providing shelter, I wonder. Tailor-made programs weren’t on offer, that much was clear. Voices on phones aren’t invested in the plight of individual students and their families. It’s a business model to them.

A Google search for alternative housing programs came up empty.

A call for foster families on Twitter struck out.

There was no alternative. We decided to take a chance. We had to take a leap of faith.

The college would offer support with the academic side and the adjustment process of studying there. We would support Sibbe ourselves and forgo professional assistance. In the meantime, we tried to find an off-campus room since nearly all Dutch students live off campus. There hardly are any campuses because universities and colleges were generally founded in city centres.

Finding a room was not easy.

“It’s horrible that my school isn’t in our hometown.” This mantra could be heard frequently in our house over the course of Spring while we spent hours at the computer responding to ads for rooms. He did not whine; he was just stating the facts.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? But I can’t change that. But I canteach you all you need to know.” I went into business mode trying to show I had every confidence in him.

“And we can use WhatsApp. I’ll be there day and night. I’m sure you can do it.”

Finally, in July we found him a nice quiet room with a view of the back garden.

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All through the summer of 2020 before his move, I carefully looked through photos of our two trips to the West. Pictures of us in Monument valley, Dead Horse Point State Park, Arches, Canyon de Chelly, Navajo National Monument, Yellowstone, Grand Teton, Dinosaur National Monument, Olympic National Park, Glacier National Park and more.

I selected images that would inspire him on weekdays.

Weekdays that he will spend living and studying in Arnhem two-hours away, by himself, not even 17 years old, off-campus, with six other students from Vietnam, Bulgaria, Italy, Cyprus and the Netherlands in a house by the river Rhine.

Crossing the steel tied-arch John Frostbridge, renamed in 1978, over the Rhine daily on his way to college in Velp—a quiet town next to Arnhem—to study Ecology & Wildlife. The name of this bridge honours the commander of British 2nd Battalion, Major-General John Dutton Frost, for his bravery and leadership during Operation Market Garden in the second World War. After capturing the bridge inn September 1944, Frost defended it against two German Panzer Divisions for four days with just 700 men. But he had to surrender, leaving the Dutch to another winter under German occupation, thirsting for the right to live their lives without fear.

Parents of autistic kids want to live without fear too, but they know there is always the next fight. The next hurdle will always appear.When it comes to transitions, we usually need to fight for our kids, against overwhelming opposition, and bureaucracy.

And of course any transition is hard for a teenager; it’s triple that for an autistic teenager.

Anxiety, apprehension,worry, there’s no end, it is so hard for autistic students.

Over the summer months I worried. My mother worried too: “I’m having doubts. Will he not miss home too much? When you go camping, he always wants to go home after ten days.”

On one of the last days of August we moved our son’s stuff to Arnhem. And now he sends me messages. Endless streams of WhatsApp texts. Trivia. But we are connected.

‘The zipper on my backpack came off, where do I buy a new one?’

‘How do you get pen stripes out of jeans?’

‘Where do you buy our grated cheese?’

I’m quietly proud. He is coping. Living the life he wanted for himself.

‘I’m going to school now. Call later?’

‘Next week I have to clean the bathroom. Will you teach me this weekend?’

‘I’ll take the 16.40 train. See you tonight!’

The photo collage hangs above his desk.

The bridge wasn’t too far. For us. We made it across inspired by the rangers we met. And wildlife of Yellowstone.

Sara Stegen is a Dutch writer and inclusion advocate who is writing a memoir about apples and autism. She has published in Spelt, was shortlisted for the 2022 Urban Tree Festival Writing Competition and is a Rural Writing Institute alumnus (2022) run by best-selling authors Kathryn Aalto and James Rebanks.

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MY FAIR LADY Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein Alex was looking at the transparent glass of his room impatiently. He just wanted to see her face. He has been transferred to Dhaka, Bangladesh, for one year as a CEO of a corporate house. He saw her first in the interview. She was wearing a complete whitesaree. At first sight, he was mesmerized by her beauty and innocence. After her appointment, Alex wanted to monitor her closely. So, he gave the order to work near his room during her probation period. He wanted to see her through the transparent glass ofhis room. He is married and living in this new city, and she is married too. He doesn't understand this country's culture.

Even complimenting a married woman is unwelcomed.

He notices her every day. Her impeccable manners, etiquette, English speaking andher dedication to work. She is a workaholic. He has searched her on FB. There are pictures of her with her husband and with smiles. But the shimmering smiles he sees every day are missing from the photos. He could guess her marital status. Why would a happy one be such a workaholic to an extreme extent? Her files show she is very much well-off. As if the workplace is her world of nightingale. He naturally used to go to her cubicle to give her the files. He never breached any code of conduct. He just yearns to see her face.

But, he noticed the staring eyes around them when he went to her cubicle. He could read her from her cubicle. A blue Persian mini vase with a white artificial rose. An eye-catching pen folder to feather pen and each stationary is the statement of her personality. A natural shell is used instead of a paper holder. A crystal mini bowl full of sea pebbles. The diary she carries to take notes is pure leather bound with a clasp. He is fascinated by her.

Alex is happy in his marriage of convenience. He has no intention to find a route for an extramarital relationship. Though he can easily find one through the international clubs in Dhaka.

The women are after him here. He is British with 6'3" in height, black hair and blue eyes. But he has found those women to be too loud. Each day she brings an aura of innocence, serenity and dignity with such grace, and she radiates. They are of the same age. They exchange only official conversation. Sometimes, he avoids direct meetings even those are necessary. But within this exchange, there is something. A spark. He can feel it. But does she?

Intrigued, Alex observes her in detail. From her saree color to the choker in her neck or beautiful neckpieces, brooches, neutral nail polish color every day. How one can look so beautiful in one color saree? He wonders how she looks so innocent in the lust color of red or wine? Sometimes she defines the color. When she wears a lavender or pink colour saree, the definition disappears. She becomes the color.

After noticing staring eyes when he used to go to her cubicle, he stopped going. But he could not see her while he is sitting in his chair. He pretends to talk over the cell and walks from one side to another so he could see her through the transparent glass. He and other seniors’ officials’ duties surpass the office routine time, but he wants her to be in the office. So, he makes her stay as long as he remains in the office giving an extra assignment. There are other people, so there is no question of becoming intimate. Her presence on the floor evaporates all the havoc of life and office for him. Sometimes, he smiles at her. But sometimes, he doesn’t give her time to talk about official matters. He could see her uncomplaining face. He makes her long work hours. And he watches her through the transparent glass when he finds time.

With her smiles, her interaction with others, he is likely searching for something in her and within him. She is not far away. When he opens his door, there are two big cubicles. She sits on the second.

Alex wonders about her feelings.What does she feel? He feels she is beginning to think in the same way. She avoids direct eye contact these days. He assumes her favorite color and wears that colored shirt. She is not just the symbol of the blending of the east and the west.

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He finds her to be an enigma. She sometimes looks at the transparent glass of his room.

Sometimes he sees the pain in her eyes. It pains him. But he couldn’t help himself to wait for her smiles and looking at her eyes. Ifshe is an enigma, then he is an enigma to her too. Didn't he comprehend the outcome of this passion? It can only bring pain.Momentary joy could become eternal pain after losing it. But why he insisted to continue? Maybe he was expecting same gesture as there were few or it was his imagination.

One day he asked her to talk about an official matter. The Venetian blinds were open behind him. She sat, and just then, he could see her eyes with the sunlight on those eyes. He wanted to say for those who say that green, blue or whatever is rare, “hear this out have you ever seen brown eyes in the Sun?” People didn’t notice it at first. But he could describe “brown” no longer. The color of her eyes melted into golden rays, circling an eclipse. His feelings are developing into something. Infatuation or love? His meetings were at a halt often. When his was having an important meeting with all the heads of departments in his room, he would suddenly stop and look at her through the transparent glass when she was leaving her desk or coming to her desk or talking to other colleagues. He would look at her relentlessly, forgetting time and space. The heads of departments then would feel pin-drop silence.

Then they would turn their back to see who was captivating CEO’s care. For whom the time would stand still for the CEO? It was happening again and again. Then one day, he became extensively restless the day she was absent. He even asked his secretary to call her at home to check out her well-being. Since then, whispers have started. Because her probation period in the corporate office was over a long time ago. His next in designation told him about the gossip about their affair, and he insisted that she be transferred to her original posting. He knew that there was no affair. Just looking, craving to see smiles, joys in her eyes and his immense desire to feel her presence in the other side of the transparent glass. But he nodded after listening to the Bangladeshi next in the designation.

The day she was leaving, he didn’t call her for a courtesy meeting. He literally avoided her.

She was packing her stuff wearing a complete white saree. Alex looked outside the window.

He sighs! He is already feeling deserted. Is it love? Love or not, she became his fair lady.

Maybe this love is meant only for men’s fair ladies. His own fair lady, he looked and saw her leaving. She looked at the clock in his room but not directly towards him. Alex couldn’t escape those semi-red eyes. As the late afternoon encroached, her brown eyes just turned into a sunset of their own. They were copper against honey and shade, and when they watered, they glowed, two perfect orbs the same shade as nature after it had rained. And she left, bowing down her head. Alex felt pain and realized that it had begun in white and perhaps ended in white. He couldn't concentrate on work and started writing suddenly. Unconsciously, he became a poet for a day by unrequited love, desire for love and wounded heart. Maybe, after all, it was love, and he fell in love with her unknowingly. He only realized on her way to the departure. He penned his feelings only to remind him of the departed joys never to be returned. He bade adieu to his fair lady silently in solitude with a letter. Perhaps it was his farewell letter to his fair lady never to be delivered to her ever.

O' my Fair Lady, don’t glare unnecessarily Try and understand me –keep in mind your kindness Tabassum Tahmina Shagufta Hussein from Dhaka, Bangladesh was the International Fellow 2020 IHRAF (International Human Rights Arts Festival).

She was the Poetry Award winner of Korean Expatriate Literature(KEL) 2021.

She is the Bangla Translator, ITHACA Foundation and Poetry Without Borders, Spain. Her poems have appeared in several literary magazines. She is guest contributor to Different Truths India. She also contributes to Our Time and The Good Morning print newspaper Bangladesh. She writes columns about the contemporary and social and human rights issues She occasionally writes fiction. Her passion is traveling and recitation. Aestheticism and humanism are the essences of her essences.

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BIPOLAR INHERITANCE Tomra Vecere For my cousin Jon, my father Tom smell of soy and fry saturates the throat, in the waiting room for Chinese food vinyl suctions skin to chair next to… a foreigner frighteningly familial only I can see he is as familiar as a father a patriarch in ashes, a Felo de se lost at crossroads: a felon on himself. legs splayed wide, elbows on knees euphoria too much for Tuesday take out High, manic, mixed? synapses overfiring, over oil snapping smile shrouding pressured speech Cousin, your beauty and charm disarms, secreting a hidden inheritance, waiting for the next male heir. twisted talk on his tongue telepaths: bear no sons they eat guns, guns, guns

Tomra Vecere lives in Gloucester Massachusetts with her husband, Newfoundland Enzo, and a rotation of Guiding Eyes pups in training. She grew up in Southern New Jersey working in the family restaurants and horse farms, a combination of businesses her grandparents and parents both maintained. She has always loved reading and writing; she started writing seriously in 2019 after the death of her brother Matt in the ET302 plane crash. She has evolved from angry letters to Congress to writing poetry and personal essays about her work at the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), mental health, grief, and overcoming trauma. She has one adult daughter Rachel who has, against all odds, become a wonderful human.

She has been published in Creative Nonfiction Tiny Truths. Tomra would like to thank Caroline Harvey at Dogtown Books and the Gloucester Writers Center for their classes, feedback, and support. Twitter @VecereT, Instagram @geb_puppies IWWG NETWORK | Fall 2022 | page 84

A CURIOUS PIG Maria Vultaggio I was raised like a prized pig, prepped, glazed, and ready for consumption.

To be sold to the highest bidder.

I wasn’t here for me. I was here for them.

They’d stick a ruby red apple in my mouth, but I kept spitting it out.

They could groom me but they couldn't shut me up.

The seasonings didn’t stick. They slid off of my back.

The herbs always went bitter and left a bad taste in their mouth.

They saw a prize, but here’s the surprise: They could make me an easy target, they could put me on the spit.

But they could never slaughter my spirit.

Maria Vultaggio lives in Miami with her husband and their exceptionally cute fur baby, Ramen Noodle. She has been writing fiction and poetry since she was old enough to string a sentence together. Maria got a bachelor’s degree in English from Stony Brook University and works as an entertainment reporter.

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OUR STORIES Celeste Bedford Walker America, we know your stories.

Do you know ours?

We know your stories.

Do you know ours?

Our stories…always being born, always dying without being told. Our stories…

Not born in Africa, but forever African Never accepted in American, but always American…

Unique in all the world.

Male and female in this bond together Born of the struggle until death do us part.

From the moment we arrived from where the sun sets to here, where we now stand, we have BEEN TOLD YOUR STORIES, known your stories.

We know that Yankee Doodle went to town riding on a pony, we’ve heard how John Wayne saved the West, and Francis Scott Key saw the flag waving by the dawn’s early light. But do you know the story of a black town burning down by the dawn’s early light because of the power of a white woman’s scream, a siren call to her men to swarm in like locusts to kill, lynch and destroy? Do you know the story of Mary Turner’s cry after her babe had been cut from her belly with a hog killing knife because you didn’t like Mary’s attitude? Just like you didn’t like Sandra Bland’s attitude.

We know all of your heroes, sheroes, dreams, schemes, conquest from here to eternity. We’ve seen Hamilton in every shade of color, Robin Hood’s Sherwood Forest, Peter Pan, and Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood. We know every manner of irresistible, cute, quirky white girl chick flick, and Aunt Jemima too. We know the birth of a nation and the death of our towns, and how you went to the moon and back.

But do you know Robert Stengstacke, Melba Tolliver, Robert Payton, Jr Bob Moses, who algebra? Do you know The Ancestor? He was the richest man in village because he gave away the most. We know that Horace Greeley said go west young man, but do you know about the black cowboys who went West with their own brand of swagger and true grit?

We know about Pearl Harbor, and how you saved Private Ryan, but do you know our soldiers stories, from the Buffalo soldier to the Red Ball express? We know you dropped the bomb on Nagasaki and Hiroshima, but do you know the story of the black Atomic soldiers who glowed from radiation exposure on America’s Bikini Atoll experiment? We know about the Pony Express, but do you know about the all black women’s 6888th Postal Battalion.

Our stories. Our stories of towns built, towns destroyed, Southern Migration, Northern passive aggression All kinds of little aggressions and microaggression, Uglinesses, meannesses, misunderstandings, demandings Alpha females and beta males Beat downs and put downs, back turnings and soul burnings, Crushing, minimizing, ignoring and ignorances, Pitiless looks, smirks and grins endured Under the brass skies of racism, with no rain of attention or mention.

Hidden figures, not hidden to us, like…Recy Taylor, Claudette Colvin, Ella Baker, Melvin Tolson, Phillip A. Payton, Jr, Richard Allen, our parents and grandparents who were “the help” serving scrumptious dinners around the master’s table while their stomachs growled, yet managed to live their lives with dignity and laughter, to go to church, to put down roots, plant trees and flower gardens, priceless, living, loving souls.

We know your stories of pulling yourselves up by our boot straps, but do you know our stories of patents stolen, lands grabbed, dreams deferred like a raisin festering in the sun?

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We know your Bonfire of Vanities, but do you know our bonfires of living flesh?

You can hear our stories blowing in the wind of destroyed Black boom towns. Our stories are in the DNA of America, in the blood on the cotton blossoms, in the snap of tree branches from which our sons and daughters hung, strange fruit. And if you listen with your spirit and not with your ears, you will hear our stories howling in the night, sighing in the wind, weeping in the rain, belly laughing in the sunlight.

We know the death of your salesmen, the birth of your stars, all your little women Santa Claus, the Alamo, Graceland, fifty shades of white, your noir movies made in black and white, but do you know the stories of our noir lives in living color?

We’ve had to endure the sound of the confederate anthem “I Wish I Was in Dixie Land, hooray, hooray, but do you know The Ancestor who was conceived to the rhythm of the drums in Africa but born in the USA, born in the USA? The Ancestor who leaned on his hoe in the cotton fields and smiled, because he saw his African son, President Obama, coming on down the road.

America, we know the story of your forefathers, ad nauseum, who fought with this, that and the other general, and your manifest destiny to settle on land that was already settled on, but do you know the story of the relative in so many black families who had to flee Dixie Land with a white mob howling behind him?

We know your stories. Do you know ours?

We have stories, we have stories deeper than the Mississippi river, stories funnier than that chocolate pie Octavia Spencer gave to Miss Hilly, sadder than Katrina victims who were abandoned to drown by you’re-doing-heck- of- a- job Brownie when the levees fell in New Orleans. And like the Katrina survivors who floated into Houston on a thousand broken shards, black folks can say, we came through the fire, and we came through the flood, but we made it.

For the past 43 years, I have been throwing down the gauntlet of protest, writing about Black Love in all its manifestations.

To the writers of this generation I say we must tell our own stories in our black words, about our black lives for our own consumption, and fuel, flight, gaze, and praise, so that the world can never say about us what Zora Neale Hurston feared they would try to say: “if you are silent about your pain, they will kill you and say you enjoyed it.” We cannot be silent. We must protest with our pen. The pen is mightier than the sword.

Black Lives, Black Words today. Black Lives, Black Words tomorrow. Black Lives, Black Words forever.

Celeste Bedford Walker’s award-winning canon includes over forty plays, videos, documentaries and films that have been performed and viewed in major venues across the country. She has received numerous commissions to write dramas, comedies, and musicals for theaters, schools, museums, and organizations.

Recognized by the U.S. Congress for her historical contribution as producer and author of works that bring to light lost stories of African American history, Walker has received several honors and awards in theatre, some of which include, The Beverly Hills/Hollywood NAACP Theatre Awards for Best Playwright/Best Play for positive portrayal of Blacks in the media; BroadwayWorld.com Best Play Award; finalist in the international Susan Smith Blackburn Prize for outstanding work by a female playwright ; finalist in the Samuel French OOB Short Play Festival, and others.

A proud member of the Dramatists Guild of America, Ms. Walker is also a member of the Texas Institute of Letters, a distinguished honor society founded in 1936 to celebrate Texas literature and recognize distinctive literary achievement, where recently she was honored with the organizations’ Lifetime Achievement Award. Additionally Celeste is a member of Honor Roll! an advocacy and action group of women+ playwrights over forty - and their allies - whose goal is their inclusion in theater.

Most recently, Walker completed work as writer on the documentary A Star Without a Star, about movie icon and Academy Award nominee Juanita Moore. The documentary won Best Documentary at the Montreal Black Film Festival and is on its’ way to garnering more laurels.

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IN A PINK HOUSE AT THE CENTER OF THE WORLD J. L. Wright On a Wednesday they met to decide what to do Don’t blink or cry When the word came It was time to turn it around just do what you're supposed to logistics of time and money 9 an hour without any Plan B It’s over it’s over Defenders shield patients to Tom Petty and Smashing Pumpkins their part fought Neighbors, preachers, friends elect those who take from us the desert formed June 24th in a heartbeat bill state-lines draw from Adoration chapels they chant “Put down your scope” It hurts my soul It was not the end, just time to move west Mississippi to New Mexico I won’t back down The courts on their side Thomas Moore presides a resident minor should be protected It’s over it’s over don't blink or cry it hurts my soul I won’t back down

J. L. Wright writes poems and essays to start discussion. Her two hybrid poetry prose books Unadoptable Joy and Homeless Joy are available through Amazon. You can also read her at her blog Wrightings at https:// rightwrightwrite.blogspot.com/2020/04/a-poem-not-yet-written.html.

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PEARLS Mary H. Wu Little Girl, Small Girl Wear your pearls It is a big world It is a wild ride I see how you sink In all that you think In your whirlpool of doubts To speak aloud In a strong voice About your choices To be loud How you are and can be Your very own worst enemy Little Girl, Small Girl Wear your pearls What they say Pay them no mind They will belittle Make you feel lesser than less than Have your faith and strength To understand there is a greater plan It is hard to be brave When the haters hate No matter what it takes Every single beautiful mistake Even when you may break You will only find At your lowest point You will rise higher than high You will finally make some noise

Little Girl, Small Girl Taller in All Ways You are not like the others You are not the followers You are the leader Do not accept so easily Be the exception so fiercely Be Brave Be Bold Do not be afraid Do not do what is told Hold on to your courage In a world of ignorance You make the difference You make your grand entrance Always, as you wear your pearls

Mary H. Wu is an ABC (American-Born Chinese) advocate, poet, and author of her journey as a two-time kidney transplant recipient “Confessions of a Kidney Transplant Recipient” and poetry book “Kaleidoscope: A Collection of Poems.” She is an avid foodie, tea drinker, traveler, writer, arts and crafts lover and doer, cat lover, and swimmer. To learn more about her, please go to her website: “The Wu Way” www.thewuway.com.

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