FROM THE DEPTHS
Copyright © 2011 HAUNTED WATERS PRESS. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this periodical may be reproduced or used in any form; printed, electronic or mechanical, without the express permission of the publisher. The only exceptions are by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review, and to the contributing author to whom all rights to individual works revert back to the author sixty days following publication. Cover Art & Photography by Savannah Renée Warren. Copyright © 2011. Works contained herein are works of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any actual places, events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Printed and published in the United States of America. First Printing: December 2011 For more information please visit: http://www.hauntedwaterspress.com Or email us at: firstname.lastname@example.org From the Depths is a quarterly literary journal from Haunted Waters Press featuring works of prose, creative nonfiction and poetry. Issues are released on the 1st of March, June, September, and December on the internet, and periodically in print form. All submissions should be sent through our online submission manager. Please visit the Haunted Waters Press website to review our submission guidelines. This publication is made possible through the hard work and determination of the contributing editorial staff who gave their time so generously. Funding and support for Haunted Waters Press provided by The Man. Thank you for encouraging us to follow our dreams.
Haunted Waters Press is proud to present
From the Depths Flash Fiction
EDITORS Susan Warren Utley Savannah Renée Warren Short Story
CONTRIBUTING EDITORS Donna Parkman Coree Reuter ART & SPECIAL CONTENT Savannah Renée Warren
DESIGN & LAYOUT Susan Warren Utley
COVER ART & PHOTOGRAPHY by Savannah Renée Warren
From the Editors
Dear Reader, We at Haunted Waters Press have always had a strong connection to water. It is present in our writing in one form or another either literally or just below the surface. From the thundering downpours of Nebraska to the rain showers of Washington, from the Platte to the Columbia to the Charles, from the Atlantic to the Pacific and the many waters in between, all of these have made an impression on us as individuals and as writers. But only recently have we learned the true nature of the impact of water on our lives and on our words. In the spring of 2001 a family took up residence along the banks of the Shenandoah River. We played along her shores, caught frogs and fish, and skipped stones on her surface. We battled her when she rose and mourned for her when she fell. We made memories. We discovered words in the shallows and stories in the depths. Then not long ago we suffered a loss. A loss so great that we found ourselves hiding from the world, hiding from the pain, hiding from her. Her that held the memories, the words, and the stories. Her banks too steep or her waters too swift, we turned away from her. We turned away from our words and the stories formed from the memories. Time passed as we stood still. But then we heard her calling. We tried to ignore her, but her voice haunted us until we answered. When we returned she was waiting. We carved a new spot along her banks and a bench from a fallen tree. It was here where we rested. It was here where we healed. Eventually, it was here where we found our words again. We believe that just as water is essential to all life on Earth, so too is it to the written word. When the banks are too steep or the current too swift, we return to the water. Here we will find our words in the shallows or floating on the tide and from the depths a story will surely rise. We hope you enjoy this first issue of From the Depths, which pays tribute to water, the source of our inspiration. Best regards, Susan Warren Utley Savannah RenĂŠe Warren Editors, Haunted Waters Press www.hauntedwaterspress.com
“The mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that ‘W-A-T-E-R’ meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, joy, set it free.” Helen Keller The Story of My Life, 1905
Attributions by Colin James .................................8 Of Course by Amy Darsie ..................................9 Ashore by William D. Hicks .......................10 Novi, MI, 2011 by Nazifa Islam ..............................11 Screen of Water by Ray Succre .................................12 Rivers Do Not Flow Within by Gerald Warfield .........................13 When the Winter Ghosts Depart by Steve Klepetar ...........................14 Before the Snow by Steve Klepetar ...........................15 The Red Beacon by Robert E. Petras ........................16
Spirit on the Shoal by Jen DeSantis ..............................18 Holy Water by Michael A. Kozlowski ................19 In the Middle of Everything by Michael A. Kozlowski ................20 Thalassa by Emilia Quill ...............................21 Smooth Sailing Now by Charlotte Jones .........................22 Rain by Jay Faulkner..............................24 Monochrome by Maria Stanislav .........................26
HWP Editorsâ€™ Choice
Lost Dog by Larry Gaffney ............................29 Author Insights A Conversation with Larry Gaffney by Coree Reuter .............................39 Contributors ...................................43 Credits & Permissions....................45 7
Attributions by Colin James There is an old saying in this small town, "When the white swan attempts a somersault you will want to be there to see it." The last time it happened most didn't. Folks were preoccupied in various big cities flaunting their hibiscuses. Nothing good comes of that. Try getting up at dawn instead, waiting half submerged amongst the nine tails and razor sharp reeds, until you catch sight of the beautiful swan's sinuous neck in the morning fog gliding provocatively across the water, and then that amazing splash.
Of Course by Amy Darsie I'm shaking it off now. Fever, Chills. I'm aching further and I look Up. There; those eyes, so blue. The way the fog looks as it washes the feet of the Sky. Washing away all in me but the best sins. Take me further, I can't say no. Or should I say to you, Maybeâ€‹ To make you try harder. Regardless of the wants of Truth, My compass always leads back to here. When it comes to you, I'm treading. Forever and Waiting. I'll wait as long as it takes.
William D. Hicks
Ashore by William D. Hicks Scalloped shells with gritty sand cling where earth meets sea. Graphite silt floats upward to the tide, adrift upon the foam. Bubbles consume clarity, carrying sea creatures ashore.
Novi, MI, 2011 by Nazifa Islam In memory of Erica and Chip. A boy died. No, a girl died first and a boy followed. Six feet under, they are both six feet under now, dead and buried not scattered to the sea but actually buried in cold crumbling earth, not clay but earth – though even that’s not good enough to hold them. The sky knows it if no one else does; it’s rained for days now, it’s poured salt water from sad gasping storm clouds for days now, the sky weeping because of what the earth has been given leave to claim for its own. A girl died and a boy was made to follow. His was the damn encore.
Screen of Water by Ray Succre Gone are the sunrays for indistinct clouds, and gone are the yellowjackets, drowned or starved, gone are July days willing Summer postures, gone, these, for autumn and her hurried slotted gutters. Henri Coulette said we are enchanted by the sound of rain. Padraic Colum prayed God for a house to keep it out. Suppose them with amazing rain, there, where words convict so heavily, and suppose there is no larger thought hereâ€” it only soaks my clothes.
Rivers Do Not Flow Within by Gerald Warfield The river does not flow nor leaves upon its somber surface glide but that I full within the present stand upon its moist banks. Though I remember tumbling rapids, a sandy bottom, beavers in the morning light, they but pose for me, billboards in time, fossils in the strata of the mind. Memory does not meld one moment to the next. To see the river flow, the leaf upon its surface sail, I must upon its bending banks breathe the morning mist, for rivers do not flow withinâ€“ the museum of the mind.
When the Winter Ghosts Depart by Steve Klepetar They leave slowly, as if reluctant to go or unsure when the time is right, like travelers who can’t decide which books to pack, the long Russian novel they’ve been struggling to finish or the new one about cerebral werewolves, its firm hard binding bright on the shelf promising a new kind of death. Where ice has leeched deep down into soil, they move slowly, wading through dirt and loosened stones but where the symphony of roots has bound them in a coil of growth they hesitate, caught up in the coming storm of leaf and branch and flower. Sometimes they slip away in pairs, lovers from an old film, long, gray coats and a fedora slanting out into sullen wind. I have heard them whispering in a taxi or jogging to catch a plane, weaving through moving walkways, spilling coffee from Styrofoam cups, committed to the journey now, willing to open the welcoming gate. And I have known them to dig down into fence posts grip the wood in their devils’ teeth pour their sinuous, frozen bodies into clinging pools of wet cement. Sometimes vague taste of spring catches in their throats, a warm fist, a warning in the dire air, a syncopation of ice turning to rain, pelting the windows with slippery lozenges, loosening a hard grip on muted and tentative grass.
Before the Snow by Steve Klepetar A girl braids her hair on a winter beach. Her hands must be cold in this wavewhipping wind. Even at this distance you can see how red they look, working their weave without gloves and her head bare, exposed on this gray study of cloud, water, sand. Her hair not quite red, not henna stained but what they call â€œstrawberryâ€? and she digs in, sturdy even as her pea coat billows and her black and white scarf flaps like a flag on this lonely strand. She has planted herself here, watcher of a cold sea, empty as morning just before the galloping snow.
Robert E. Petras
The Red Beacon by Robert E. Petras Charlie Joe Jones stared across the river at the flashing red beacon of Mile 58, the red light beckoning him, tempting him, seducing him. Everyone crosses the river sooner or later, Charlie Joe heard Docâ€™s voice inside his head, everyone, including me. Charlie watched the red navigation light flicker a swath upon the gentle waves like a red marquis with his name on it. Jonsey, itâ€™s like mice, Doc said. They spread and spread and spread. Nothing you can do about it. Nothing. He stared again at the light, the opposite hills barely discernible in the darkness, glowing pulsing red shadows tugging him, drawing him toward the deep, wide river, masking him. He stepped into the water, waded deeper and deeper into the caressing cleansing water and swallowed the light.
"If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water." Loren Eiseley The Immense Journey, 1957
Spirit on the Shoal by Jen DeSantis Bubbles effervesced in the shoal, teeming in the water. I blinked and looked back at the surf line. She had been there, her luminescent figure floating mere inches above the dark, wet sand. But when I rose to run to her, she’d disappeared. It wasn’t like her to be fickle and I doubted that death would change her so greatly. What made her retreat? I looked around and then back at the shoal, waiting for answers. The sun paled and my skin broke out in gooseflesh as a cool wind kissed my cheek. “Come,” the wind whispered. And I followed.
Michael A. Kozlowski
Holy Water by Michael A. Kozlowski He stands on the shoal, the water lapping at the knees of his black pants. They move in on all sides, surrounding him. God, he thinks, this better work. “In the name of the Father...” Their eyes glow red in the darkness as he whispers the words. He drops salt from his pocket. “With this intention we consecrate...” The moonlight reflects off salivating fangs. He makes the sign of the cross. Hundreds close in on him. “...in the name of your Son...” He’s shaking as he says “Amen” and the screams begin. The water of the lake, now holy, churns as it boils the horde.
Michael A. Kozlowski
In the Middle of Everything by Michael A. Kozlowski The boat rolls with the waves, anchored in the middle of the lake. Water, glistening in the afternoon sun, stretches away from them to distant shores. The shoal is their private oasis and she is a refreshing splash of clear, cool water against the hot, muggy, oppressiveness of a stifling world. Sweat dappled bodies entwine and slip into the embrace of the shallow waters. Sand tickles and kisses their bodies as they make love. Two insignificant dots in the middle of a large inland sea which is hardly a speck on the earth, but to him, she is everything.
Thalassa by Emilia Quill I could watch her from dawn to dusk until the night steals my sight. She beckons me, wave after wave washes over me, pulling me closer, murmuring in my ears. I hear the sirens sing. I see the fishes dart past me. I feel her caress and taste her kisses of salt. I disappear into the deep blue, dive deep into her arms. My heart aches, but I must leave; my lungs burn, longing to breathe. On the shore I watch her, the depths calling to me. No mere shoal can compare to my love, the vast ocean.
Smooth Sailing Now by Charlotte Jones When the tempest arose, the sky blackened as if a fountain pen was bleeding onto blue paper. Waves crashed over the bow and communication died. Blinding flashes struck helter-skelter, Godâ€™s aim apparently off. Tethered to the railing, she road the storm like a cowboy rides an angry bull, rudderless and adrift. Veering wildly off course, the destination no longer mattered. Her face scarred by stinging rain, she cried for help. Unheard above the thunderous roar, her inner resolve became her only savior as her lover focused only on himself. Arrogant in his command, he refused the life jacket she offered, refused a lifeline to her. He would tame this angry sea without her. Drenched, scrubbed, and resigned, her world became sunless. For a time, death became the desirable route. When the waves reached their greedy hands on deck, wrapped around his throat and pulled him into the dark murkiness, the winds stopped and the sea calmed. Her lifeboat ran aground amid a flowered field. Gazing at her new surroundings, joy filled her heart and she thought, yes, the sea had saved her.
â€œIn rivers, the water that you touch is the last of what has passed and the first of that which comes, so with time present.â€? Leonardo da Vinci Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci, 1906 Translated by Edward McCurdy
Rain by Jay Faulkner The rain continued to fall. I didn’t think it would ever stop and I wondered if this was how the world ended. I'd never been a religious man – the last time I'd even stepped foot inside a church was when my mother was buried – but right then, I was ready to fall on my knees and beg for God’s help because for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anything left to try. When He didn’t answer, all I was left with were questions. Why couldn’t the rain have waited a little longer? It hadn’t rained for days, so why now? Why couldn’t the boys have played elsewhere? Anywhere else? Nearly a month’s worth of rain had fallen in less than a day, flooding most of the low lying area of Witney. It was enough rain to trap two boys in a culvert that right now looked more like a whitewater rafting area than a landlocked pipe. I couldn’t stop the shivering that overtook my body; tried to pretend it was just the fact that I'd been up to my neck in frigid water for nearly fourteen minutes that caused it. My mother, God rest her, would have said someone had walked over my grave. I didn’t believe in that superstitious nonsense. To be safe I crossed myself anyway. I'd worked for fire and rescue for nearly twenty years but could never remember feeling so cold. Another shiver was cut short as a shout of triumph broke out amongst the men – my colleagues, my friends – and a coughing boy was pulled out of the pipe and hauled back towards me. I felt the small form pass through my hands as I lifted him to the waiting ambulance crew. He was so young. My own boy, Steven, was older and yet I still thought of him as my baby. And there was someone else’s child – someone else’s baby – still trapped in the flooded pipe. Please God, bring him out. Please. Water coursed down their bodies as the men went back to work. Even from here, in the dimly lit autumn evening, I could see the blue tinge on
Jay Faulkner Rain
their lips. I was chilled deep in my own bones and knew – God, how I wished that I didn’t – that hope was fading fast. We couldn’t last much longer in the freezing cold of the rising water. Without our gear, without our training, what hope did he have? How long had it been, now? How long had he been trapped by the metal grate? Looking down at my watch I had to wipe the streaming water away from my eyes to see that it had been nearly twenty minutes. Twenty minutes in the cold. Submerged. In the dark. Alone. Then, finally, I watched as hands – without a sound – gently carried another boy out of the water; skin pale, body limp. Unmoving. I closed my eyes, thankful for the rain that hid my tears.
Monochrome by Maria Stanislav The air was the special kind of cold you only get right before dawn, and even the whitening color of the sky seemed to carry that chill. I pulled my coat tighter around myself, cursing my own stupidity, which always tended to get me into messes of all sorts. This was no exception. Wherever did I get the idea that watching the sunrise on the lake that lay beyond the forest was the best thing I could do with my time? Wherever did I get the idea that traversing this forest in the morning would be any less frightening than spending the night camping at the lake? All right, I guess spending the whole night out there would be beyond even my recklessness – but I never thought that a morning forest could be just as, or even more frightening, than the night one. Perhaps it looked more inviting in summer, but now, with the dead leaves under my feet, the bare trees stretching their branches into the sky in supplication all around me, and the white wisps of fog creeping between them – it was nothing short of terrifying. The fog might actually be a good thing, I told myself in a vain attempt at reassurance. The fog probably meant the lake wasn’t too far away. A branch snapped under my foot, startling me into walking faster, nearly running – against all logic – to where the fog was thickest, wishing to get to the lake and stay there until the sun was up completely. It was only when I felt the ground becoming softer and heard it squelch underneath my feet did I realize that the fog had led me not to the lake, but to the swamp that bordered it. That's alright, I told myself, stopping. This was only the beginning of the swamp, so as long as I didn’t get any deeper and followed the edge of it, I would get to the lake. Changing my direction appropriately and taking care to walk slowly this time, I moved on. Making sure there were always trees on one side, I walked, feeling colder by the second. For just a moment, I stopped to blow on my freezing hands and when I looked up again, I saw a figure in the distance. My heart soared. This was it, I thought. The lake was close, and this must be a fisherman heading the same way. I ploughed on, trying to keep the figure in my sight.
Maria Stanislav Monochrome
It turned out to be surprisingly easy. Even at my pace, I seemed to be catching up. The closer I got, the more my original impression dissipated. The person ahead lacked any attributes of a fisherman – a pole, to start with. Neither did he look like someone come to camp by the lake, unless he was taking a walk without any belongings typical of a tourist. Whoever this person was, though, anyone was better than being alone here, and I persisted in my pursuit. Soon enough, I could see that he – at a distance, the figure appeared slim enough to be female, but as I got closer, the possibility of it being a woman was discarded – was definitely neither fisherman nor tourist. I couldn’t imagine either choosing a fur-collared black coat for such a walk. I even started wondering whether the man ahead could be a reluctant adventurer, lost not unlike myself. Still, I reasoned, two people wouldn’t be as lost as one. No sooner did that thought cross my mind than my quarry turned to look at me. I called out and waved while trying to see him better. Half of his face was obscured by dark hair that fell down to his shoulders, but even from where I was, I could see him smiling. Whoever he was, he was happy to see another human being to keep him company in the middle of this cold and creepy morning. After I made a few more steps, he turned again and resumed walking. I took this as a sign for me to follow. A few more times he would stop, allowing me to catch up a little more every time, and looking back at me with the same smile, standing motionless. As I kept approaching, I could now see his dark eyes, and his skin, white as porcelain – a stark contrast against his hair and clothes – no doubt because of the mist that seemed to turn the whole world monochrome. A snag caught my foot just as I was about to cover the remaining distance between us, and when I righted myself after nearly falling on my face, I couldn't see him anymore. I looked around, failing to understand how someone could disappear without a trace in a matter of seconds, but couldn’t catch even a glimpse of the one I had been following for what felt like a long time. I couldn’t see him anymore, nor the tree line that used to be on my right. Taking a sharp breath, I held the air in my chest until I felt I’d suffocate unless I exhaled. I felt dizzy for this improvised breathing exercise, but at least it stopped me from panicking and running in a random direction, which undoubtedly would’ve been the death of me. All right, so I strayed from the
Maria Stanislav Monochrome
edge of the forest, somewhat deeper into the swamp, I thought. Not to worry. All I had to do was head backwards, checking the ground before stepping, and I would be fine. I would be fine, I repeated to myself, following my own instructions and glancing over my shoulder every other second, now as afraid to catch a sight of the dark-haired man as eager as I was to see him before. At least the direction I had picked turned out to be right. The trees soon loomed in the mist ahead. I let myself breathe more freely, and decided I wasn’t going to look back anymore. The decision, instead of making me less scared, only caused my walk to the tree line to turn into a mad stumbling dash, because every step without looking back instilled more fear in me. With my back against the first tree I’d reached, I slid down to the ground. This was it, I thought. I wasn’t going anywhere from that spot until it was well into daytime, light enough to see through the forest properly. Breathing sharp cold air until my lungs hurt, I eventually managed to calm myself. Now I just had to keep myself from falling asleep. "Did you get lost?" I startled, realizing that despite my decision to keep awake, my forehead had already drooped onto my knees. "Yes," I answered the unseen speaker, shaking my head to get rid of the drowsiness. "I thought I’d get to the lake, but I followed someone walking ahead of me, and got too far into the swamp." "No wonder you did. A young man got lost around here once, trying to find his way to the lake where his lover was waiting for him. He's been looking for her ever since." I felt a chill run through me, deeper than the physical cold. "You mean, like, a ghost?" "Call it whichever you like." I suppressed another shudder and pulled myself to my feet. "It's a good thing I met you, then," I said, trying to sound as lighthearted as I could. "Indeed." Finally on my feet, I turned to see the speaker for the first time. The smile that rang in the last word he had spoken was shining on his porcelain-like face, half-shrouded by the tousled black hair.
The Haunted Waters Press Editors’ Choice Award for the Winter 2011 issue of From the Depths goes to an author who won the hearts and admiration of the editorial staff. We hope you enjoy Larry Gaffney’s Lost Dog as much as we did. Lost Dog by Larry Gaffney In the sweltering first week of our vacation, my older sister and I spent whole days in the water of a tributary that ran between a small island and the riverbank below our cabin. We could stand up to our navels on the silt bottom and splash about in the slow current, but beyond the tip of the island the water ran fast and deep, so we stayed near the bank and its tangle of vegetation that could be clutched if one began drifting toward the main channel. For those summer days, my sister was the only friend I needed. On plastic floats we ankle-kicked softly through pale reeds, stalking frogs that would leap from the mud and vanish beneath the mirrored, bobbing surface of the water. We played like otters amid clumps of seaweed, blue damselflies, and flotillas of beige froth (the putrescence of dead fish, we’d been told, and something to observe from a distance). I might feel my sister’s hands on my leg, toppling me from my float in a burst of horseplay, and for once I would not be repelled by her touch. The indignities of our shared life during the school year no longer mattered. The hard punch on my arm after I had stayed too long in the bathroom, the tread mark of her shoe on some homework I’d left lying on the carpet, her cloying cake-breath blown purposely in my face during a car ride—all were forgotten in the bright sun and cool water. Our parents preferred the short dip. My mother was always the first one out, having had her fill of whirligigs and dubious floating matter. My father would join her and they’d sit in folding lawn chairs on the pebbly beach, drinking bottled sodas and smoking cigarettes. We had a dog, Audrey, a mongrel with spindly legs and the eye-spots and coloring of an Alsatian. She would walk slowly through the shallows, head down, fascinated by the darting minnows and sunfish. At the end of the first week there was news of a storm. Ben, the resort’s ancient, laconic handyman, had heard a report on the small black and white TV
Larry Gaffney Lost Dog
that brought him, daily, through the snow of poor reception, the Popeye and Daffy Duck cartoons he required for the easement of his solitary dotage. We had supper in the main lodge. My sister and I consumed pie and ice cream while the adults talked of the weather. Later, I fell asleep to the sound of my father fiddling with the radio, trying to get the Yankee game through the crackle of the distant storm. But in the morning it was still hot. The storm, diverted northward, had failed to appear. I was awakened by the glare of sunlight, and by my father clanking silverware in the kitchen, grumbling about the heat. I padded out in search of breakfast. My father had been talking to himself, my mother and Lisa having already driven into town. They would return with groceries and, I hoped, comic books. “Cereal?” asked my father. He wore a t-shirt and bathing trunks, his face already lined with sweat. I nodded. “Did the Yankees win?” “Twelve to three,” he said, dumping cheerios into a bowl. He removed a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “Two homers for the Mick.” At ten, I was mad for baseball. I played in sandlots, or in someone’s backyard with a whiffle ball and a plastic bat. I collected baseball cards, and I worshipped Mickey Mantle, he of the thick neck and crooked grin, the towering home runs, the glamorous alliterative name straight out of a novel for boys. I sat at the kitchen table and poured milk over the cereal. My father, the manager of a supermarket and a meticulous man when it came to spoilage, immediately returned the milk to the refrigerator. He produced a banana, and I knifed round slices of it onto the cheerios. My father sat down opposite and watched me eat. After a few swallows, I said, “Dad, I’m sorry you haven’t liked our vacation very much.” His face softened. “Well, it’s not that I haven’t liked it. I just wish it was a little cooler.” Audrey chuffed politely at the door. My father got up and let her in. Panting and wagging her tail, she headed straight for her water bowl. Arms akimbo, my father looked down at her. “Poor girl, you don’t like this heat either, do you?”
Larry Gaffney Lost Dog
The rest of the morning unfolded lazily. The womenfolk returned with food and reading matter. I escaped to a shade tree with a box of Oreos and the new issue of Turok, Son of Stone. Lisa settled under a tree a few yards distant and sipped Kool-Aid from a paper cup as she lost herself in a romance comic book. It was very quiet; we were a fair distance from the macadam road that weaved through the resort. A robin bounced hopefully across the parched, dying lawn. From tall weeds, hidden insects clicked and whirred in the sizzling heat. eee
I heard shouts, the voices of children far away. I looked up from my comic book. A breeze dandled my hair, shook the leaves above me. At the other side of the clearing a dust devil rose up and danced in random thrusts before collapsing into a splay of leaves and twigs. And then a great wind came roaring through the trees. “Lisa!” I called, my voice nearly muffled by the hot, battering blast. As she stood up, the wind ripped the comic book out of her hands. It flew at me and I caught it on the rise, my eyes wide with wonder at such a feat. We ran to the cabin, calling to our parents. They were in the kitchen preparing lunch. My father turned off the fan and looked out the window. The trees were in a panic. Someone’s towel was blowing away, tumbling end-overend. It caught on a bush, strained to escape, was propelled by an updraft toward the river. My sister and I ran outside to twirl and dance in the gale. Our mother feared lightning and yelled for us to come in, but by then we were already running up the path to the lodge for a better view of the storm. From atop the hill we had a clear view of the colossal nimbus clouds filling the sky. The first rumble of thunder came, and in front of the lodge a group of children we barely knew were beside themselves with excitement, lunging at objects that blew past them—a paper bag, a branch with leaves intact, a beach ball. Recklessly we ran forward, past the lodge and the children, until we hit a wall of ice-cold wind. We struggled forward against the current, our clothes fluttering, our bodies tilted as in a funhouse. And then the thunder cracked above us and lightning slashed the sky. The first fat drops of rain pelted our
Larry Gaffney Lost Dog
skin and exploded in the dust at our feet. Shrieking in terror and joy we turned back to the lodge. From the safety of the screened-in porch we watched the downpour, and were silent under the pummeled roof. The rain stopped. The air stayed cool. A little sunlight broke through the clouds, and steam rose from the wet macadam. We walked the road, examining the storm’s debris, and then the dog came trotting toward us. eee
Of course he was soaking wet. Burrs and bits of leaf clung to his matted fur. He was dirty and skinny. Ears back, tail wagging, he advanced cautiously, his head down. Lisa squatted to pet him, murmuring soft words of welcome. The dog’s tail wagged faster and his head came around to possess the stroking hand. He was a mutt with overtones of collie, which showed in his mane and long snout. His ears were upright with a tendency to flop over, his color burnt mahogany with streaks of tan and white. Readily he followed us down the path to the cabin. Our parents waited on the porch with unsmiling faces. With a muffled bark, Audrey trotted out to investigate. To our relief, the dogs stood nose-to-nose, tails wagging, checking each other out. When their sniffing grew intimate, Lisa pulled the newcomer aside. “He’s a stray,” she said. “He doesn’t have a collar.” “We can’t keep him,” said my father. “No,” said Lisa. “But we can feed him. You don’t want him to starve, do you?” I was already running up the porch steps in search of dog food. “You feed him and he’ll never go away,” said my father. But he made no effort to prevent the dog being fed. I struggled with the can opener. My sister yelled for me to hurry up. I rushed out with the can and a fork and scooped the congealed mass onto the ground. The dog went at it with desperate snapping gulps. “Why didn’t you get a paper plate?” said Lisa. I was too absorbed to fight with her. The dog let us pet him while he ate. He finished quickly, and then sniffed the ground, scanning for crumbs. “I’ll get another can,” I said, running to the cabin. “Don’t forget the paper plate,” cried Lisa.
Larry Gaffney Lost Dog
cont. “Christ almighty,” said my father. “Dog food isn’t cheap, you know.” As a grocer, he knew the price of things. My mother had already left the porch, was petting the dog’s head and cooing at him. My father came down as well, and stood off to the side with his hands in the pockets of his Bermuda shorts. After a second helping the dog strolled among us, smiling, wagging his tail, projecting, in the mute way of animals, gratitude, satisfaction, expectancy. It was understood in the family that we could not have another dog. As renters of a small house we were subject to the constraints of our landlady, a peevish widow who lived next door and grudgingly allowed us one pet. On occasion a wayward dog or cat would appear in the yard, half-starved or injured, and it would be nursed and fed and kept dry in the garage until we found it a home, or took it, reluctantly, to an animal shelter. My father did not drink to excess, nor gamble, nor cruelly dominate his wife and children, misbehaviors, he would remind us, frequently endemic to the condition of fatherhood. He therefore expected that after long hours at work and the extra two or three spent in domestic concerns, he should be given time to sit undisturbed in his reclining chair, nursing a beer and watching a ball game or The Dick Van Dyke Show. How, he wondered, could he remain tranquil with everyone sneaking around trying to hide a fugitive dog from the argus-eyed landlady? While appreciating our father’s need for comfort, my sister and I were more concerned with the possibility of eviction. We saw ourselves curbside, grimly guarding our possessions while our parents looked for a place to live. So we knew the dog would be with us only until the end of our vacation, only for one week. But within an hour he was comfortably a member of the family, playing catch with Audrey’s well-chewed tennis ball, and accepting potato chips and pieces of hamburger during our lunch. We decided to call him “Dog” and he responded to it, as he did to any words accompanied by a glance in his direction. In the sky-blue, sun-bright days that followed, Dog was our loyal comrade. He came along on our walks, waited on the grass when we dined in the lodge, slept on the porch at night in a dog bed Lisa and I fashioned out of an old quilt. Audrey had her own bed, a spongy, discarded chair cushion brought from home. She slept in the cabin, next to the door.
Larry Gaffney Lost Dog
Dog loved games of fetch in the water, tirelessly swimming to retrieve a stick or a ball. Audrey, aging and corpulent, would sit on the bank watching our frolics like a soft child excluded from the rough and tumble of the schoolyard. In a short while relations between the dogs grew strained. They no longer played together. Audrey would growl in earnest when Dog tried to initiate pretend combat. But Dog was new and fun, and we gave him all the attention he could handle. Even my father could not resist. Dog became his shadow, and my father began holding brief, one-sided conversations with him when he thought no one was looking. On the lawn they played tug-of-war with a flannel rag. In the shallows they played keep-away, Dog rising out of the water to snap at the ball my father would oscillate in his hand. Dog was frisky, Audrey timid and reserved. At home, from the doorway, she would snarl bloody murder at a strange dog passing on the sidewalk. But if you tried nudging her out the door with your foot, she would back up between your legs, and her snarls would change to a high-pitched, petulant noodling that my father said sounded like Chinese. eee
Saturday night we drove into town for a double feature: Tammy and Earth vs. the Flying Saucers. It was a last bit of fun before the end of vacation. By Sunday noon we would be headed back home, not the worst thing in the world since there were still a few days left before the start of school. Lisa and I had our kid lives to catch up on, toys and such waiting in our rooms, friends who were up to things we needed to know about. Nor were our parents sad to be leaving. Hard workers all their lives, they could not conceive of an endless vacation. That was for movie stars, the idle rich. On the way back from the movie I slumped in my seat, exhausted. I was almost asleep when I heard Lisa ask if we could please keep Dog. It was a soft question, framed by the silence of tired people in a moving car on a dark road. I listened, my head vibrating against the window-rest. My father cleared his throat. “You know we can’t have two dogs. We discussed that on the day you found him.” Another silence. Then my mother said, “Even if we were allowed to, it wouldn’t be fair to Audrey.” Lisa sighed heavily. “What will happen to him?”
Larry Gaffney Lost Dog
“Ben will look after him,” said my father. “I gave him some money for dog food.” “He’ll probably spend it,” said Lisa. “You should have bought the dog food yourself.” Nothing more was said and I fell asleep to the whisper of tires on pavement. eee
My father was quiet most of Sunday morning. He supervised our packing while my mother swept and cleaned the cabin. He hefted odd baggage into the trunk of our Plymouth, and when that was done he spoke awhile with Ben, Dog sitting contentedly on the grass beside him. Sadness was in the air. I walked down to the riverbank to skip rocks one last time. Coming back to the cabin I noticed Lisa sitting under a tree with Dog, her arm around him, her head buried in his fur. When she looked up I saw that her face was blotchy with tears, so I hurried on. Then the car was packed, and it was time to go. I sat in the back and watched my father walk away from Dog and get into the driver’s seat. He slammed the door and Dog trotted up to the window, ears erect, wondering. Dog waited. My father started the car. Dog backed up a little, then came forward again, tail wagging. With trusting eyes he looked straight up at my father. We pulled out of the driveway. Dog barked once, then ran alongside. My father accelerated, and Dog fell behind. Through the back window I saw Dog standing in the center of the road. I had to look away, and when I turned to the front I caught sight of the rear-view mirror, and saw there for a moment my father’s pale, pain-filled eyes. eee
The following summer we went to Cape Cod, and we liked it so much that we returned every year. The country resort and our riverside cabin became a memory. Once when I was home from college my parents asked me to accompany them on a drive back to the cabin, just to see it and remember the good times. But I was twenty and in love with the future, and declined with a tolerant smile.
Larry Gaffney Lost Dog
A decade or so later while driving on the Thruway, I found myself approaching an exit which, with a detour of perhaps forty minutes, would take me past our old vacation spot. I had time to spare—I was headed for a distant city, but my business was not until the next day—so I took the exit and slowed to a pleasant rolling drive along a state road bordered by crumbling boulders and pastures gone to seed. The resort was defunct. The main lodge had become a general store. The cabins along the roadside had been stripped of the wooden plaques that once each bore the name of a flower (Lilac, Buttercup, Forget-Me-Not). Now, refurbished and winterized, they were private homes. The virginal, take-me-inthe-summer look was gone, the white paint replaced by blue, brown, or green. The shrubbery was cut back. The little front lawns now displayed a “Chipmunk Crossing” sign, or the bulb-shaped silhouette of a bent-over stout woman, or a fleet of tricycles, or a cartoon-bright sandbox. I parked near the old lodge and walked down the gravel path to the lawn and the little cabin by the river. The lawn was overgrown, the cabin in disrepair. A tangle of weeds snaked through the rotting latticework of the porch, and one of the supporting timbers had been replaced by cinderblocks. The front door was padlocked. I sat down on a rusty metal-frame glider, first wiping the dried leaves and insect husks from the water-stained cushion. From the porch you could see the river; you could hear the music of its waters playing upon rocks in the shallows. Soaked in memory, surrounded by tiny bugs that spiraled crazily in the air, I watched the dying sun throw its amber light on the water. I thought then of the uncountable events that had conspired to shape me into the person I was at that moment. I imagined the small ghost of my boyhood self running and shouting along the riverbank, unaware of the long and arduous path stretched out before him. Life had played me fair, I reckoned. But I had also been given a portion of sadness, of loss. There was a failed marriage, an unsettled career, a dispersal of friends I had thought would be always bosom-close. If I lingered at the cabin, my thoughts would naturally turn to the dog that had been found and then lost. So I left the porch and climbed the gravel path. I knew I would never return to this place again. Back in the car I numbed myself with the babble of talk-radio. Later, in an expensive hotel in the distant city, I watched TV and ate a large helping of room service steak and potatoes. 36
Larry Gaffney Lost Dog
I almost called my mother that night, but she had recently returned from a trip out west to see Lisa and the new baby, so I knew she was happy, and that’s why I decided not to call. My questions might have saddened her. I wanted to ask about the time with Dog. I wanted to know what my father had said during their private moments, how he had dealt with the pain of abandoning a dog who loved him. I could not ask my father this because he was gone. At fifty-three, two years before an early retirement he looked forward to, he had died of a massive stroke. My mother came out of the bedroom at two a.m. and found him in his reclining chair, the TV barely audible, a bag of potato chips fallen upon the rug. What a comfort it can be, our belief in the personality’s survival of bodily death, and an afterlife in which it may rest or frolic. I recall when very young asking my father what would happen to me if I died, and his reply that I would be in heaven with everyone I loved. There was in his answer a distinct flavor of resignation, of mouthing the party line. In later years he trusted I would be mature enough to handle his real take on the situation: When you’re dead, you’re dead, he told me. By that time I had formed my own opinion. Pie in the sky seemed ludicrous, but perhaps there was another dimension in which departed souls busied themselves with tasks beyond our imagining. During college I read the mystical poetry of Blake and a handful of Theosophical tracts, and in time managed to convince myself that there is more to existence than a candle flame winking out in the abyss. I stood for a while at the hotel window, looking down at the vast, ghoulishly lit parking lot, full of gleaming cars and a solitary late arrival toting a suitcase and garment bag. Tonight I was of the world, occupying one compartment in a hive of business travelers. But my thoughts flew to an otherworldly plane. I stretched out on the bed, then, and gave freedom to these thoughts. Sometimes when I want to pass easily into sleep, I try to envision the afterlife. I see it as a country road in summer sunlight. Tall grasses ripple in the wind, apples hang heavy in the trees. My father walks ahead of me, and though I can’t see his face I know he is smiling at the pleasant shock of having been wrong. By his side trots a dog that will never again be lost.
“When the well is dry, we know the worth of water.” Benjamin Franklin Poor Richard's Almanac, 1746
A Conversation with Larry Gaffney How the Honeymooners and a Lost Dog influenced his career. by Coree Reuter Larry Gaffney has lived in upstate NY, southern Ohio, and New England. He now lives in central PA. He would like to move back to New England, if anyone has a spare room or an empty cabin. CR: Tell us about your writing? Is Lost Dog representative of your typical style and genre? LG: I write conventional narratives. I hope that my stories are interesting and evoke feelings in the reader. Regarding style, I just try to get the words right. (That’s paraphrased Hemingway.) CR: What inspired you to write Lost Dog? LG: The memory of an actual event. Much that happens in the story is true. But not everything, because one of the pleasures of writing fiction is to create a new universe. For example, I was an only child and my father was not a grocer. CR: Where do you find your ideas and inspiration? LG: From occurrences I’ve experienced or observed. That sounds self-evident, but what I mean is that I generally don’t construct narratives based entirely on ideas. There are exceptions, however, and one of these is the novel that I’m currently putting through a final edit. It was inspired by a single idea—that biology creates religion—and also by the elements of the cheesy monster movies I watched in childhood. CR: Are there any authors who have influenced your writing? LG: There are, and I’ve tried to shed their influences while finding my own voice, no easy task and one still in progress. Nabokov is the author I turn to most often, and as a young man I tried to emulate his style, with dreadful results, of course. I had my Kerouac phase, and that morphed into something resembling Bukowski, and then Updike came into play, and the things I wrote in those days were composed of such disparate and grotesque parts that they were more akin to the malformed embryos displayed in jars at a side show rather than short stories straight of limb and sweet of breath one hopes to bring
into the world. I’m fortunate that only a couple were published, in litmags nobody read. CR: What are you reading right now? LG: A fascinating book called The Sun’s Heartbeat, by the science writer Bob Berman. The Great One, a biography of Jackie Gleason by William A. Henry III. The Cabin, 681 pages of journal entries by William Heyen. I’ve been extending The Cabin for months, sampling its delights usually at bedtime. Emerson & Emily Dickinson are also on my night table. A stack of John D. MacDonald’s paperback novels & Jack Vance’s Dying Earth series is always close at hand. I read many books simultaneously. Recently I enjoyed Old School by Tobias Wolf. Continuing the lupine thread, on the advice of a friend I stepped into The Waves by Virginia Woolf. But I didn’t know how to read it. The sentences were interesting & often beautiful, but I floundered. I’ll try it again. CR: How long have you been writing? Too long. Fans of The Honeymooners will catch the reference. In one episode, Ralph Kramden, bristling over an imagined slight, writes negative comments on a credit application for his friend & occasional gadfly Ed Norton. To the question “How long have you known the applicant?” he writes (and says aloud, so his wife Alice can hear it) “Too long.” I love the show, can quote chapter & verse. Why mention the show here? Because it achieves moments of high art. I’m not kidding. If I can write one paragraph capable of producing in the reader the same frisson caused by a funny or poignant moment in TH, I will have reached my goal. But the real answer to your question is that I have been a disciplined & serious writer for approximately twelve years. It feels like decades, because I’ve been jotting things down & trying my hand at poems & short stories since I came of age in the late sixties. But I knew nothing, was undisciplined, had a scattershot approach to writing. I have been grossly immature, in every possible aspect, for most of my adult life. This is perhaps more information than you’re asking for, and appalling to boot, but any investigation into the nature of my work must address that sorrowful truth. I realize that the phrase “any investigation into the nature of my work” is laughably pretentious, considering that my “work” is little more than a clutch of
short stories & a rough-hewn novel read by friends & family, and not even by all of them. But no one, other than a potential employer, has ever asked me for an interview, so I’m taking it seriously. CR: What is your writing day like? LG: At best, I follow a schedule. Three hours in the morning, usually commencing by 8:00. Three more hours in the afternoon. Another hour or two in the evening if I can muster the energy. I don’t know any other way to write a novel than to treat it like a regular job at an office. Alas, I have gone for weeks at a time without following this excellent schedule. This is one of those weeks. Over the years I’ve developed a very good work ethic, but it has to be kickstarted. Indolence is my natural state. My heart goes out to those poor souls you read about who have become fused to their sofas or La-Z-Boys. If I don’t watch out, that could be me. CR: Where do you find yourself writing the most? LG: Since I am un-mated, my bedroom doubles as an office. I do most of the work there, at a cranky old PC situated at the foot of the bed, on a very nice computer table. The chair’s nice, too. Comfortable. I get up & pace around to keep my legs limber. It’s all good. CR: What did you pursue as a career? Has your career influenced your writing? LG: The phrase “checkered career” comes to mind. It was checkered all right, like the mismatched plaids of a clown or bumpkin. I’ve done odd jobs, temp jobs, worked in sales a little, had my own business buying and selling books. Awful, just awful. But the diversity of settings and tasks gave me material for writing. Rather late in life I secured a position as an English Instructor at Lock Haven University. It was a temporary appointment & mostly scutwork, but they kept finding a place for me semester after semester. There were eight a.m. classes nobody wanted to be in, and nocturnal, Golgothic paper-grading sessions, but I was happy to have the job. The university setting was good for me as a writer. My colleagues cared about writing, were dedicated to helping the students become better writers. I liked the atmosphere. CR: What words do you live by? Do you have a personal motto? LG: There are no framed quotations in fancy calligraphy on my wall, but I do collect fascinating sentences & paragraphs from my readings. I keep them in a Word file & every week I choose two or three to write down on a notepad next to my computer. I look at them from time to time & marvel at their form & 41
content. Here’s an example, said by the football player Lyle Alzado: “I never met a man I didn’t want to fight.” I love the brutal honesty & the extraordinary perspective on life. Here’s another one, a famous passage from the Upanishads: “All that lives lives forever. Only the shell, the perishable passes away. The spirit is without end. Eternal. Deathless.” This comforts me, because I hope that our personalities continue in some form after death. I’m one of those people who believes that without an endless horizon, life has no meaning. As to a personal motto, yes, I do have one. It came to me one day while I was waiting for the elevator in one of the buildings on campus. I happened to notice a plaque stating the college motto, and although it was fine, it struck me as very much like every other college motto everywhere, with its Latinate, puffed-up language. I thought, we need to say this in the vernacular, so students will appreciate it and remember it. The motto I devised—on the spot—works well for me, and I would like to offer it to any institution of higher learning that deems it appropriate for official use. The fee is negotiable. (I’m in the book.) Here’s the motto: “Go forth and do stuff.” CR: Where can we find other works from Larry Gaffney? LG: My first novel, One Good Year, is available at Amazon. It has flaws that make me wince, but a handful of readers were amused by it. My second novel, Abaddon, will be published by Post Mortem Press in January 2012. I’m sure it will be available on their website and at Amazon. I hope also to find a home soon for my collection of short stories, Queen of Atlantis. CR: What’s next? Do you have any writing projects on the horizon? LG: A third novel, Videonauts, is almost completed. I’ve written the first three chapters of a fourth novel, A Toy in the Blood, a tale of adultery & revenge set in academe. I hope to finish both by the end of next year. CR: If you could share any advice for aspiring writers, what would it be? LG: Compete with no one but yourself. Coree Reuter grew up in the backwoods of the Pacific Northwest, where she played in mud puddles, rode horses and kicked soccer balls throughout her childhood. After a brief stint as a photo journalist, she quit the conventional life to pursue a full time career as a professional soccer coach. She’s also passionate about travel and is constantly trying to convince her fiance, Steve, to pack a bag and run away with her.
Contributors Colin James - Attributions Colin James has poems forthcoming in Every Day Other Things and Smash Words. He is a great admirer of the Scottish landscape painter, John Mackenzie. Amy Darsie - Of course Amy Darsie works the graveyard shift at a local hospital, only when she's not busy knitting or spinning her own yarn. She lives in Virginia with her husband and her two cats. You can find her riding the chaos of a creative, fiber filled, love topped life at Mrs. Darsie's Menagerie. William D. Hicks - Ashore William D. Hicks is a writer who lives in Chicago, Illinois by himself (any offers?). Contrary to popular belief, he is not related to the famous comedian Bill Hicks (though he’s just as funny in his own right). Hicks will someday publish his memoirs, but they will be about Bill Hicks’ life. His writing appears in Twist, LITSNACK, Cannoli Pie Magazine, Outburst Magazine, The Legendary, The Short Humour Site, The Four Cornered Universe, Save the Last Stall for Me and Mosaic. Additionally, pieces are slated to appear in Heavy Petting, Horizon Magazine, Ideals Christmas and Torrid Literature. Nazifa Islam - Novi, MI, 2011 Nazifa Islam grew up in Novi, Michigan. She has been published by Anomalous Press and Phantom Kangaroo among other publications, and has work forthcoming in many journals, including Flashquake and Breadcrumb Scabs. She regularly updates her blog Thoughts Interjected and is currently living in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Ray Succre - Screen of Water Ray Succre is an undergraduate currently living on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and son. He has had poems published in Aesthetica, Poets and Artists, and Pank, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. His novels Tatterdemalion (2008) and Amphisbaena (2009), both through Cauliay, are widely available in print. Other Cruel Things (2009), an online collection of poetry, is available through Differentia Press. Gerald Warfield - Rivers Do Not Flow Within Gerald Warfield’s short story “Poly Islands” won second prize in the first quarter of the 2011 Writers of the Future contest. His humorous story “The Origin of Third Person in Paleolithic Epic Poetry” took first place this year in the nationally syndicated Grammar Girl contest. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines including New Mythes, edited by Scott Barnes. Gerald published fifteen how-to books before turning to fiction. He is a graduate of the Odyssey Writers Workshop (2010). Steve Klepetar- When the Winter Ghosts Depart & Before the Snow Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His chapbook Thirty-six Crows was published in 2010 by erbacce-press. Robert E. Petras - The Red Beacon Robert E. Petras is a graduate of West Liberty University and a resident of Toronto, Ohio. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in more than 70 magazines, most recently, in The Bijou Review, The Midwest Literary Magazine, Magic Cat Press and The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine. 43
Jen DeSantis - Spirit on the Shoal Jen DeSantis was born and raised in historic Philadelphia, and still considers herself a “Philly girl” despite making her home in the suburb of North Wales with her husband, two children, and dog. She is a paranormal suspense author who enjoys finding magic in everyday things. Jen has written several short stories and is currently penning her first full length novel, Behind the Walls, set in one of Philadelphia’s most haunted landmarks, Eastern State Penitentiary. Michael A. Kozlowski - Holy Water & In the Middle of Everything Michael Kozlowski is the author of Some Days Suck, Some Days Suck Worse, a collection of horror and suspense. He has published several short stories, a novella and a travel memoir. Currently, Michael is polishing a horror novel, developing a zombie themed graphic novel/comic series and continues to write short stories that cause most of his friends and family to agree that he is, at least slightly, disturbed. Michael lives with his wife and two sons in a suburb of Detroit, MI. They keep him around for entertainment purposes only. You can find more information about Mike, and his writing, at mikekozlowski.com and hunt him down on the Twitter where he goes by @MAKozlowski. Emilia Quill - Thalassa Emilia is an engineering student and an avid fantasy writer from Helsinki, Finland. Her stories are humorous and often feature non-human characters. Her first novel is underway and she is hoping to publish it sometime in the near future. You can find her online at My Imaginary Beings. Charlotte Jones - Smooth Sailing Now Charlotte Jones spent twenty years as a management consultant before pursuing her creative interests in writing and photography. Her work has appeared in over eighty literary and commercial magazines and a short play has been produced in Texas and New York. She lives with her husband in Houston and when not writing, she enjoys golfing, playing the piano and serving on the board of The Women’s Institute of Houston, a liberal arts continuing education center. Jay Faulkner - Rain Jay Faulkner resides in Northern Ireland with his wife, Carole, and their two boys, Mackenzie and Nathaniel. He says that while he is a writer, martial artist, sketcher, and dreamer he's mostly just a husband and father. His work has been published widely, both online and in print anthologies, and was short-listed in the 2010 Penguin Ireland Short Story Competition. He is currently working on his first novel. Jay founded, and edits, 'With Painted Words' a creative writing site with inspiration from monthly image prompts, and 'The WiFiles' an online speculative fiction magazine, published weekly. For more information visit – www.jayfaulkner.com. Maria Stanislav - Monochrome Maria is a 26-year-old owner of a geographically confusing accent, a firm belief that nothing is impossible and a list of job experiences apt to baffle most potential employers which makes it just as well she's devoutly freelance. She prefers bands rather than music styles, authors rather than literary genres, and coffee rather than a reasonable bedtime. Her stories have been featured by a number of online publications and are also available on her blog, The Coffee Clef. Larry Gaffney - Lost Dog Larry Gaffney has lived in upstate NY, southern Ohio, and New England. He now lives in central PA. He would like to move back to New England, if anyone has a spare room or an empty cabin. Larry was gracious enough to indulge us with an interview. Read more about the man behind Lost Dog on page 39.
Credits & Permissions Page Cover 2 3 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 29 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42
Credit Warren, Savannah Renée. “Cascade.” Photograph. © 2011. Keller, Helen. Story of My Life. New York: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1905. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “Cascade.” Photograph. © 2011. Franklin, Benjamin. Poor Richard’s Almanac. 1746. Pingstone, Adrian, photographer. “Mute Swan touchdown.” Photograph. Public Domain. Frissell, Toni, photographer. “An underwater view of a woman, wearing a long gown, floating in water.” Public Domain. Warren Utley, Susan, photographer. “On the Gulf in April.” Photograph. © 2011. Warren Utley, Susan, photographer. “Washougal River in June.” Photograph. © 2011. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “Cascade.” Photograph. © 2011. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “Sugar Water.” Photograph. © 2011. Warren Utley, Susan, photographer. “Winter in Thunderbird Farms.” Photograph. © 2010. Maidment, Kindest S. & Wallace, Kate, photographers. Photograph. Public domain. Warren Utley, Susan, photographer. “Warrior Rock, Columbia River.” Photograph. © 2011. Eiseley, Loren C. The Immense Journey. New York: Random House, 1957. Print. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “Big Island Beaches, 2008.” Photograph. © 2008. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “Big Island Beaches, 2008.” Photograph. © 2008. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “Big Island Beaches, 2008.” Photograph. © 2008. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “Big Island Beaches, 2008.” Photograph. © 2008. Curman, Carl, photographer. Swedish National Heritage Museum, Public Domain. c. 1890. Leonardo, and Edward McCurdy. Leonardo Da Vinci's Notebooks. New York: Empire State Book, 1923. Moore, Mike, photographer. FEMA Photo Library. Public Domain. Augustino, Jocelyn, photographer. FEMA Photo Library. Public Domain. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “A Morning on Loch Ness.” Photograph. © 2008. Photo Credit: Shenandoah Flood, 2011. Susan Warren Utley © 2011. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “Leaves.” Photograph. © 2011. Curman, Carl, photographer. Swedish National Heritage Museum, Public Domain. c. 1890. Warren Utley, Susan, photographer. “View from my Hammock, Shenandoah River.” Photograph. © 2011. Nuß, Benjamin , photogrpaher. “Raindrop falling on the bottom (Regentropfen)” Photograph. Public Domain. 2008. Van Wagenen, Lacy, photographer. “Sunnybaked Lad.” Public Domain, US PD23. Caxton, Ray, photographer. “Honey.” Windfield Photographic Collection and Archives POB 340 Stn. B London Ontario N6A 4W1. Public domain. Van Wagenen, Lacy, photographer. “Albert Payson Terhune with Lad, Bruce, & Wolf.” Public domain, US PD23. Reproduction Number: LC-USZ62-123045. Langcliffe, photographer. “A Border Collie in Hebden Gill above Hebden, North Yorkshire.” Photograph. Public domain, 2008. Curman, Carl, photographer. Swedish National Heritage Museum, Public Domain. c. 1890. “Dog and Owner of Snowy Walk.” Photograph. Public domain. Source: www.publicdomainpictures.net Accessed 11/20/2011. Franklin, Benjamin. Poor Richard's Almanack. New York: B. Franklin, 1746. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “Big Island Beaches, 2008.” Photograph. © 2008. Parkman, Donna, photographer. “Bonny and Mayzie on Goose Creek.” Photograph. © 2008. Warren, Savannah Renée, photographer. “Big Island Beaches, 2008.” Photograph. © 2008. Parkman, Donna, photographer. “Bonny on the Beach.” Photograph. © 2008. 45
From the Depths is a publication of HAUNTED WATERS PRESS For more information please visit: http://www.hauntedwaterspress.com Or email us at: email@example.com
Published on Dec 1, 2011
From the Depths is a quarterly literary journal from Haunted Waters Press featuring works of prose, creative nonfiction and poetry. Issues a...