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Halcyon

Halcyon - Spring 2015

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Halcyon Magazine Spring 2015

Inside 3

A Word From the Founder

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Enduring Smoke | Michael J er r y Tupa

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Blueberry Grace | Michael J er r y Tupa

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For William, Who Understands Fishing and Writing Are Related Activities | Mar ta Fer guson

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A Fisherman’s Journey | Susandale

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Her Fella | Car l Palmer

10 The Gift Never Leaves the Giver | Paul R. Davis 11

Bewildered | J essica Van de Kemp

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Fleet Deer | Sophie Paulette J upillat

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Mellow Raccoon | Sophie Paulette J upillat

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The Observer of Silly | Gr egg Dotoli

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Nearly Summer | Thomas Sabel

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Shifting Rhythms of the Symphony | Scott Thomas Outlar

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Love Scenes | Rober t Lampr os

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Another Spring | Nor ma West Linder

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Spring is Here | Lor na Pominville

Halcyon Magazine ISSN: 2291-0255 Frequency: Quar ter ly Publisher|Designer: Monique Ber r y

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Contact Info http://halcyonmagazine.blogspot.ca monique.editor@gmail.com

Special Notices Halcyon has one time rights. See website for subscription details. No photocopies allowed. Š PublicDomainPictures | Pixabay.com


A Word From the Founder

Welcome to spring 2015! I always start by acknowledging Halcyon’s new contributors: Gregg Dotoli, Marta Ferguson, Michael Jerry Tupa, Robert Lampros, Sophie Paulette Jupillat, and Thomas Sabel. Well done! I appreciate your literary talent and encourage you to send more of your creative inspiration for the next issue. Last week I had an opportunity to update my software. In the next few months I’ll be learning new design features and ways of making Halcyon an eye-catching magazine. Surely with my 2015 upgrade, the future issues of Halcyon will look professional. I want it to have magazine rack quality. That’s it for now. I’m sure the poems, stories, and photos will warm your imagination. Until next time, keep the ink flowing and keys clicking.

Monique Berry Halcyon Magazine, Founding Editor monique.editor@gmail.com

MONIQUE BERRY is the founder of Halcyon, Perspectives, Praise Writers, Twisted Endings, and Christian Perspectives. She has published stories and poems in Quills, Personal Journaling, The Sitter’s Companion, Searching for Answers Anthology, and Rock Bottom Journal. Monique is working on her first novel and is pursuing a career in photography. Halcyon - Spring 2015

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Enduring Smoke by Michael Jerry Tupa Rumbling down the road, I sit on a giant seat, my daddy’s at the wheel of his big diesel truck. I don’t need no comic book to find my best hero, he’s a-sittin’ next to me, mashing gears and steering down a long highway. Telephone poles flash by, a Hank Williams tune floods the cab with good, old-fashioned country blues; and I, I thank God for my hero just four feet away. My little boy’s mind understands this day will end, someday. All that will remain is a smoke-stack memory — a trail of smoldering fumes rising to the heavens, In my future tomorrows I'll remember a blaring horn honk, whose echoes will stay in my mind, as long as memories remain. But, today this is real. I just want to be here, a-sittin’ close to my hero; I don't need no nap to dream a dream that it could always be today, just like it is — my legs too short for the end of the seat, as we travel together down an endless highway. Unwillingly, I fall asleep, even though I dread it, for I hate to waste these hours. I hate to waste these hours.

Since his first short story about a lion who's heart was pricked by Cupid's arrow, Michael J. Tupa has been impacted by an undeniable creative impulse. From the time of his first poem—inspired by a drive through mountain scenery—he has expressed his deepest feelings in verse. Being equally driven by a need to share his voice, he also has tried to master his poetry presentation—an ongoing, sometimes agonizing effort to find just the right word and the best sound.

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Blueberry Grace by Michael Jerry Tupa He lies on his back, stretches his arms heavenward, he plucks a cloud, out of the blueberry sky; drops it in his mouth, it tastes like frosty cotton candy. The sun dawdles by, languishing like a lonely caterpillar dreaming of future wings. He sighs and he smiles as a bumble bee licks his face. He melts into the spring soil, his essence seeping into the worm holes and surface cracks, until all that remains is a smoldering heap of emotions and flickering sensations. The earth and he are one, his soul’s song blends with the sonorous breeze, a melody which stirs the trees.

“He plucks a cloud, out of the blueberry sky; drops it in his mouth, it tastes like frosty cotton candy.”

And, he thanks God and prays that he always may remember this blessed, unending day, when a lazy May afternoon gave way to grace when he felt nature’s full embrace, when his heart roamed free, an unending epiphany, the day the bumble bee licked his face.

© Snezana Skundric | DollarPhotoClub

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For William, Who Understands Fishing and Writing Are Related Activities By Marta Ferguson He can chum the waters all he wants, but some days the fish won’t rise. The silt’s too rich, the lake full of other things to eat. The bait he's got? Today, might not be enough to tempt the finney tribe up from the waters of their lives. He’ll survive. He'll put his feet up and decide the persnickety fish aren’t that important, which is a lie, but the fish don’t mind, and there’s still the sun, the wing-wet thrum of dragonflies.

© als | DollarPhotoClub

Marta Ferguson is the co-editor of Drawn to Marvel: Poems from the Comic Books (Minor Arcana Press, 2014) and the author of

Mustang Sally Pays Her Debt to Wilson Pickett (Main Street Rag, 2005). Her poetry has appeared in dozens of literary magazines over the last decade or so, including Poet Lore, So to Speak, The Comstock Review, Spillway, Bluestem, Rattle, and Prairie Schooner. She is the sole proprietor of Wordhound Writing & Editing Services, LLC (http://www.wordhound.com). Halcyon - Spring 2015| 6


© makam1969 | DollarPhotoClub

A Fisherman’s Journey by Susandale Daily, but before sunset, the fisherman comes to the riverbank. And while the world is cradled within the gray arms of dawn, lost stars drift along the fringes of sunrise. The fisherman is within the moments before daybreak: a time suspended in quiet, and moist with mist. He sets his lantern down, but takes his bucket with him when he wades across the shallow river. After walking over to a sandbar, he climbs on the riverbank to gather up his nets. Yesterday he laid them there to dry. With legs spread and steady, he swings the nets into the air with wide, stretching motions. When they are freed into space, he has the feeling in his shoulders and arms, which tells him it is time to launch the nets. Letting them drop, he watches as they fall across the river to web it in sunrise’ luminosity. His abiding rhythms, long and practiced, will pull the nets in and out throughout the long day … until dusk falls to end his fishing. The fisherman seems suspended in his movements, so smooth and steady are they, like a water ballet of shoulders to nets: nets to the river. Bird songs bloom in the trees: intoxicated bees roll in the flower pollen … and all are being transferred into the totality of the moment. In the background rise a row of red mountains. Their granite seams hold tight the secrets they’ve held since creation. As tall pines run up and down the mountainsides, they spread long arms and drop their green gowns.

it: the entirety of man with the elements: the mossy riverbank, arching skies, and the flowing waters endlessly rushing on. In unison, baby catfish swim through the sun-kissed river, as it splashes around smooth rocks, and foams over beaver-built dams. Schools of trout stay to the tree-shaded edges of the river while a dazed afternoon is afloat in the air. The wind whispers shadows that lengthen and widen until sunset spills flames into the sky. It is time now and so the fisherman gathers up his nets to pull silver fish from their webbings. He drops the wiggling fish plop, plop into a water-filled bucket. He hunkers then to lay his nets out to dry. Tomorrow he will gather them up again … as surely as time, as infinite as the river’s flow. Through the shallow waters he wavers back and forth to keep his balance; his fishing bucket he holds high. He climbs on shore to walk to his lantern. In one easy motion, he hunkers to light it. Now he begins a homeward journey … down a path of fallen leaves and pastel seashells: jaunty, his steps. In one hand he holds his bucket of fish; a lit lantern swings from the other. The glow of the lantern’s light falls across his path. It guides him to another light: that of an acetylene lamp that shines in the doorway of his thatched hut. There, lantern and lamp join to broaden into the enduring light of the fisherman’s homecoming.

The fisherman’s choreography is performed daily against wide horizons, and the deep clouds that sigh in the sky. Flapping wide wings, white herons land to pick their way into the ballet. They lift their long legs, like stilts, they set down on the sandbar. Starring in the ballet is the little fisherman of hard muscles, and motions of such grace that he and his body become a part of all of Susandale’s poems and fiction are on WestWard Quarterly, Hurricane Press, Ken *Again, Penman Review, Inner Art Journal, Garbanzo, and Linden Avenue. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. She has two published chapbooks on the internet: Spaces A mong Spaces by languageandculture.org and Bending the Spaces of Time by Barometric Pressure.

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Her Fella by Carl Palmer She rubs my head, runs her fingers across my face and she cries. She holds me tight, her head next to mine and cries. I tell her that nothing has changed, I try to explain, but she doesn’t understand. Sissy has understood nothing I’ve said for the past five years. We’ve been together since she was a little girl. We understood each other then. She’d talk with me for hours, look into my eyes, and tell me all her secrets. Afternoons on our porch swing, warm spring air cooled by the spinning sprinkler, smells of freshly mowed grass, watching robins wait for lunch. Evenings on the porch swing or in the yard, laughing and playing or in her room, lying on her bed watching her every move. I learned so much from her. Sissy taught me what she liked, what she didn’t like. She’d ruffle my hair, give me a hug and a kiss, speak in her special way. She called me her Fella. She’d say, “Come here, Fella” and I’d be right there by her side, ready for anything she wanted to do. That was then. As she grew older—became a teenager, became busy, became popular she had less time for our long walks together. Our talks were what I missed the most. I was still her Fella, still there for her, but she was outgrowing me. Soon she didn’t talk with me at all. Sometimes at me, but never a conversation, and during that time, she stopped hearing my words altogether.

Now, barely out of her teenage years, time seems to have gone by so fast, our fifteen years together. Her, so full of life, so vibrant, so youthful; as for me, I feel so old—as if I have aged seven years for each one of hers. Some days I feel at least a hundred. Now she treats me like that, too. Lately, she’s spending more time with me. I love she’s doing that. It’s just the crying. I wish she weren't so sad. She holds me close, rocks me, and cries. She carries me everywhere, won’t let me do a thing, does everything for me, and cries. We get into her car I love to watch her drive. She used to look my way and smile. Today she stops several times, takes me in her arms and cries and cries and cries.

We enter the cold, bright room, yet I feel peace. I feel her tremble as the doctor shaves my wrist above my paw. The needle is withdrawn. I feel the warmth and am happy. We romp and play in the yard, her and I. Laughing and shouting in words we both understand. Just like before—before she began to cry.

Carl "Papa" Palmer, retired Army, retired FAA, now just plain retired, lives in University Place, WA. He has seven chapbooks and a contest winning poem riding buses somewhere in Seattle. Carl is a Pushcart Prize and Micro Award nominee. MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever. Visit his website at www.authorsden.com/carlpalmer. © gekaskr | DollarPhotoClub

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The Gift Never Leaves the Giver By Paul R. Davis When March goes out, like a lamb, the sweet courageous winds make you keep your arms close to your sides while you try to forbid the last breath of winter from banishing you from the park where grass struggles to greenness. But I remember the first spring of our love, when robins appeared, when geese had flown north, and joy beckoned. I give you that spring, again, and all the springs to come, jewels in our kingdom.

Paul R. Davis lives in Central New York State with his wife, parrots and cats. Now retired, he

enjoys operating model trains, philately, gardening, and preparing meals with his wife. His work has been published in Latitudes, Comstock Review, Comrades, Hot Metal Press, Georgian Blue Poetry Anthology, The Externalist, Centrifugal Eye, The Good Men Project, PoetryRepairs and others. He believes in a simple poetic philosophy: to wit, the joy of expression, the necessity of communication. Contact Paul at 19suomi48@gmail.com | paulrdavis.com | Twitter: freddiesdaddy

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Bewildered By Jessica Van de Kemp Bewitched, begotten by a mountain and a bend of water. The sky a moon feverish and sweating the rush of its salt. Yellow-warbler, the gold-coin crystal charged by the soil. The moon fights for the edgy whistle of bird-hiss. Some gift there is in silence – birds like krill, mornings the white-gold fire of the elements. Plants like flags, ships, bulbs in the ocean flowering. Everything bewildered by the strength of a soul in the wetland sweetening the planets.

Jessica Van de Kemp (BA, B.Ed, MA) is a 2014 Best of the Net nominee. Her

forthcoming e-chapbook, Spirit Light, is the second release in a new series from The Steel Chisel. Jessica is currently pursuing a PhD in English at the University of Waterloo. Website: jessvdk.wordpress.com & Twitter: jess_vdk

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Fleet Deer By Sophie Paulette Jupillat From the frozen depths of the earth, Nature awakens from her slumber, As Fleet Deer opens her warm liquid eyes, the earth rejoices, and strives to shake off the heavy icy coverlet of peaceful sleep that Silver Wolf had placed on it. Fleet Deer laughs deeply, warmly, and the chilly breath of Winter fades,. Her sprightly hooves dance on the weary land, and the waters strain against their prison, The trees shake off their cold robes, and don their coronets of life, The earth opens, and lets forth its daughters, the merry flora. The dormant sun lets forth its youthful fiery rays; they streak across the world, And its brother’s the sky’s white pallor becomes a soft azure blue. Fleet Deer ceases to dance, and she rolls around on the new tender green land. The animals, hidden in their burrows, sensing Her presence, come forth from the hidden folds of Nature. Fleet Deer stands up gracefully, and she nimbly leaps through the trees, like a dryad, like a feisty shadow, Sometimes lost from view, but always briefly reappearing. She bounds and leaps, the children of the earth clinging to her fur, And she nuzzles them with her snout, and breathes warm sunlight on them. © rxr3rxr3 | DollarPhotoClub

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Mellow Raccoon By Sophie Paulette Jupillat Mellow Raccoon yawns and stretches, and a warm lazy breeze embraces the trees, They shiver in pleasure of the oncoming Summer Night, at His awakening. The flamboyant fiery skies darken, Nature’s lush dark green robe becomes a cool mystique silver; the shadows of her cloak lengthen and become a warm deep black. perfect equilibrium. Mellow Raccoon sits back on his haunches, and looks up at the skies, His fur the deep brown color of the fertile earth, and the color of the trees’ leaves in the Moon’s silver wake. His eyes are as deep and wondrous as the limitless heavens, His rounded ears shimmer like the reflection of the Moon in the little pond of a curled up leaf, The remainder of His tantrum, a tempestuous storm. Mellow Raccoon’s claws flash in the shadows and light, A gleaming kaleidoscope of stars: Aquila, Cygnus, Hercules, Lyra and Ophiuchus, proud Starlight glinting. The short silver fur on His paws glisten; the sheen surface of Nature’s rivers. Under His roguish mask, Mellow Raccoon smiles, And he jumps from tree to tree, his banded tail flashing out of sight, a laughing shadow entering defiantly life.

© ondreika | DollarPhotoClub

When Sophie Jupillat was four years old, she declared, “I want to be a writer.” She wrote her first poem when she was eight, and gobbled up books and poem anthologies. Since then, she has been writing poems, novellas, and novels. Her poem “Black and White” was published in May 2014 in Scriblerus, Greenville’s Literary College Journal. In Dec. 2014, an excerpt of her prose poetry epic “The Folly of Red and Black” was published in Festival Writer, and in Jan. 2015, her musical composition “Waltz of the Romanovs” was published in Cahoodaloodaling. She studied creative writing and poetry with fiction writer Peter Selgin, and poet Carol Frost. Under her guidance, Sophie was an intern managing Rollins College’s annual literary festival Winter with the Writers. She also had the honor of being poet Billy Collins’ student.

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The Observer of Silly by Gregg Dotoli iphone alarm, flash shower and dressed more March rain? Another wet NY commute while I scramble for my car keys A tree perched squirrel smiles For spring keeps her promises © leportuguesss | DollarPhotoClub

Gregg Dotoli studied English at Seton Hall University and enjoys living in The NYC area. He is a white hat hacker, but his first love is the Arts.” Contact Gregg at Gdotoli@gmail.com or Twitter: @Ilotod

Nearly Summer By Thomas Sabel The plum tree flows blossoms against the frost that lingers winter in the north-born shadows, tripping sunrise in the mischief of playful denial. Long-legged summer, still middle-school shy, tests chilled air threats and awaits the confidence that comes with August’s beach-wear beauty, scalding the eyes. Spigot beaked birds twirl the taps and hymn their Te Deum before the leaves crowd trees into silence, stilling the storms lurking in the clouds.

Thomas Sabel is a writer and poet from Fort

Wayne, IN. His works have appeared in Red Paint Hill Sunday Poems, Marathon Literary Review, Whistling Fire, Tipton Poetry Journal, Riverrun, Confluence, wordriver, One Million Stories, and the Journal of Pastoral Care and Counseling. His mid-grade fantasy, Legends of Luternia: the Prince Decides, has been published by eLectio Press. Along with teaching courses in writing and philosophy, he pastors a minuscule Lutheran congregation in a town barely clinging to the Indiana map. ©nikilitov | DollarPhotoClub

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Shifting Rhythms of the Symphony

©Lisa Hendrickson | DollarPhotoClub

By Scott Thomas Outlar The sheets are warm The dreams are fluffy The day is still so young The sun has yet to peek its head out above the horizon I could lay here in sweet bliss for another hour but I won’t because the birds are screaming at me through the open window. My spiritual guides My motivational speakers My warning bell My singing alarm clock Sloth will surely get me nowhere. There is a New Spring born every morning with worms aplenty waiting to be hooked so my bait can catch a bigger fish than ever could be dreamed of while lounging around in bed. Time to burst forth Time to break free Time to plant new seeds while sowing those from seasons past

“Time to burst forth Time to break free Time to plant new seeds While sowing those from seasons past.”

Time to put my weathered hands into the soil, connect with Mother Earth, and lay a solid foundation that will one day house an empire of love. Time to cleanse away the ash and dust as the cycle shifts and rhythms pulse. Time to breathe in fresh air as winter’s stale miasma melts away The birds have called me awake and I will heed their siren symphony. The birds have given me the nudge I needed to now spring ahead and inherit this season in full.

Scott Thomas Outlar spends the hours flowing and fluxing with the tide of the Tao River while laughing at and/or weeping over the

existential nature of life. His words have appeared recently in venues such as Dissident Voice, Siren, Section 8, Helix Magazine, and Venus in Scorpio. His debut chapbook "A Black Wave Cometh" is set to be released in April from Dink Press. More of Scott's work can be found on his blog at 17numa.wordpress.com. Halcyon - Spring 2015

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© anikanes | DollarPhotoClub

Love Scenes by Robert Lampros Dialogue “No. No way, that’s way too close to the street.” “Are you nuts?” “Do you care if our neighbors live or not? Do you want them to die?”

Roger laughed. “You make a beautiful tree.” “Thank you. Now look at my arms.” “You have beautiful arms.” “Thank you.” “For a tree.”

“We’re planting a tree.”

“This is how the branches will grow. Up… and out…”

“Yes, that’s very good, honey. We are planting a tree. And if we plant it there, the neighbors will surely die.”

“Uh huh.”

Roger scratched his head. “Look,” said Lisa. “One, two, three, three and a half. Three and a half paces between here and the street.” “So?” “So?” “So what?” “So trees grow fast, Roger, faster than you might think. It’s not unrealistic to think that in two or three years this thing could—” “Trees grow up faster than they grow out,” he said. “What are you doing right now? What is that?” “I’m being a tree.” Halcyon - Spring 2015| 16

“Only further than that, farther than that, and in two or three years they’ll be in the street. However, if we plant the tree over here a little, we’ll be fine. No road obstructions, no broken glass, no screaming children, just peace.” “Good plan,” said Roger. “Did you consider this?” “What?” “This. The walkway. Suppose someone came walking up, a UPS guy or a girl scout or someone, came walking up the driveway like–” “You look like a girl scout.” “And they turn onto the walkway, dum-dee-dum-dee-dum, bam!” He clapped his hands, “Smack face-first into the branch of your brilliantly placed willow tree.”


Lisa scratched her head.

Today

“What?” asked Roger. “Magnolia?”

Lisa’s hair and the angle of her slightly bowed face made it difficult for Roger to see whether she was happy or sad. Besides that the sun was blazing down at them, and a metallic blue butterfly kept circling and dancing around their heads.

“Like the ones in–”

“I just don’t understand,” said Lisa.

“In Blue Jacket Park,” he nodded, slowly.

“What’s not to understand?” said Roger.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t that be nice? Right here by the walkway? Maybe not so close, right…here.”

“How can you be so sure about everything?”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart. Anything you want, I’m game.” He took a couple steps closer to her.

“How can you be so sure about me?”

“I thought we were planting a Magnolia,” she said.

“Mmm-hmm, thought so. See what happens when you question me?”

Yesterday Lunch had been decent. Smoked chicken sandwiches, steamed broccoli, cheddar cheese and butterfly crackers. She loved butterfly crackers. He’d always thought they tasted too buttery. The field they were in was filled with tiny purple flowers— lilacs, though neither of them knew the name. She lay on her stomach with her knees bent and her feet crossed, playing lightly in the air. He lay next to her on his side, intently watching a yellow wisp of hair that was fluttering above her left ear. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, quietly. She blinked and made a sound like she would say something, but only took a breath, and let it out slowly. The breeze picked up. All the leaves and flowers began to rustle and sway.

“Everything?” Roger laughed when Lisa said this. He didn’t mean to laugh, not at a time like this, but given the circumstances this was the most absurd question he had ever heard. “I’m sorry,” he said, and slowly he began drawing the yellow feathers of hair back from Lisa’s face. “Are you gonna answer me?” she asked him. Roger stopped, let his hand drop to his side. Lisa sat perfectly still, her head bowed, her face and eyes hidden. The butterfly had flown away, and around them not one leaf or blade of grass seemed to move at all. “Because you’re the best one,” said Roger. The words hovered there for a few seconds, then Lisa laughed. “The best what? The best female?” “Yes,” Roger nodded. “You are the best female human being on this planet.” “You mean for you,” Lisa added, after a moment.

He flipped onto his back. “It’s cool how they turn like that, isn’t it? The clouds… like they’re curving down at us… I hope they don’t eat us. Me, cloud. Me, hungry.”

“Yes. Well, no. Well, in a way, yes. On the one hand,” he said, “you’re way too good for me. And you always will be. But on the other hand, we’re made for each other. God literally made us for one another. So yes, you are the best one for me.”

“Do you think about the past?” she asked him, staring out into the trees.

“Huh,” said Lisa.

He squinted at her. “Sometimes. I mean, I don’t avoid it.” “What do you think about?” The yellow wisp of hair kept dancing by her ear. He drew it back and fixed it. “I don’t know… who I was, where I’ve been, what I wanted in life, my friends… the good times.” “Only the good times?” She turned, and their eyes held together for a moment, and she looked away. “No,” he said. “The bad stuff, too. Not for long though. It’s good to remember your mistakes, I think. It helps you to not make them twice.”

“Huh?” echoed Roger. “I see.” “You see?” “I see. Although, I do have one question.” “What’s that?” “Don’t I have any say in any of this? I mean isn’t free will supposed to…”

They lay in silence for a while, him looking at her, her looking out into the trees, and the lilacs bending and rising in the wind. “I don’t believe in mistakes,” she said softly. The clouds swept past them overhead, slowly turning and stretching down toward them.

Robert Lampros lives in St. Louis, Missouri, where he was born in 1982. He enjoys reading, writing, serving God, and attempting to play

guitar. Robert earned a Bachelor's degree in English Literature from Washington University in St. Louis and is currently studying Christian Ministry at Liberty University. "Love Scenes" is the first story he's published. Halcyon - Spring 2015

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Another Spring By Norma West Linder Spring! The very word has a musical ring chirp of nestlings buzz of bee cooing doves in harmony From the park across the way children’s voices raised in play Days of sunlight days of showers front yards filling up with flowers --yellow tulips washed and pressed shining in their Sunday best Another spring! --renewal time when Nature makes our town sublime

© werner22brigitte | Pixabay.com

Norma West Linder is a member of The Writers’ Union of Canada, and WITS(Writers International Through Sarnia). Author of 5 novels, 12 collections of poetry, memoir of Manitoulin Island, two children’s books, biography of Pauline McGibbon, and short stories, published internationally and aired over CBC. For 24 years she taught English at Lambton College. Linder wrote a column for The Observer for seven years. Her latest poetry collection, Two Paths through the Seasons, with mate James Deahl, was published in Israel. Halcyon - Spring 2015| 18


Spring Is Here By Lorna Pominville Nothing announces, “Spring is here!” like a robin, hopping across the lawn, sporting his famous red breast. He stops every few seconds, puts an ear to the ground, then tugs out a fat worm. Enjoys a hearty lunch!

Lorna Pominville is a retired nurse living in Sarnia, Ontario and attends the writing group, WIT (Writers in Transition). While traveling to various parts of the world working as a cruise ship nurse, she wrote monthly travel articles for an on-line magazine for eighteen months. In 2011 she wrote and self published a book of short stories titled, "Alpha! Alpha! Alpha! Tales of a Cruise Ship Nurse." The recent publication of WIT's anthology, And a River Runs By It, contains two of Lorna's short stories about Sarnia. She also dabbles in poetry. Contact Lorna at lornapominville@hotmail.com. © midwestgal | DollarPhotoClub Halcyon - Spring 2015

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Profile for Halcyon Magazine

Halcyon spring 2015  

Warm up to the beauty of spring with poems, stories, and stunning photos.

Halcyon spring 2015  

Warm up to the beauty of spring with poems, stories, and stunning photos.

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