Woven Tale Publishing ÂŠ copyright 2013 ISSN: 2333-2387
The Woven Tale Press
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: Sandra Tyler Author of Blue Glass, a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, and After Lydia, both published by Harcourt Brace; awarded BA from Amherst College and MFA in Writing from Columbia University; professor of creative writing on both the undergraduate and graduate levels, including at Columbia University, (NY), Wesleyan University (CT), and Manhattanvill College, (NY); served as assistant editor at Ploughshares and The Paris Review literary magazines, and production freelancer for Glamour, Self, and Vogue magazines; freelance editor; Stony Brook University’s national annual fiction contest judge; a 2013 BlogHer.com Voices of the Year. http://www.awriterweavesatale.com
ASSOCIATE EDITOR: Michael Dickel, Ph.D. A poet, fiction writer, essayist, photographer and digital artist, Dr. Dickel holds degrees in psychology, creative writing, and English literature. He has taught college, university writing and literature courses for nearly 25 years; served as the director of the Student Writing Center at the University of Minnesota and the Macalester Academic Excellence Center at Macalester College (St. Paul, MN). He co-edited Voices Israel Volume 36 (2010). His work has appeared in literary journals, anthologies, art books, and online for over 20 years, including in:THIS Literary Magazine, Eclectic Flash, Cartier Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Sketchbook, Emerging Visions Visionary Art eZine, and Poetry Midwest. His latest book of poems is Midwest / Mid-East: March 2012 Poetry Tour. http://michaeldickel.info
CONTRIBUTING EDITORS: FICTION: Kelly Garriott Waite Her work has appeared in The Globe and Mail, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Christian Science Monitor, Thunderbird Stories Project, Volume One, Valley Living, The Center for a New American Dream and in the on-line magazine, Tales From a Small Planet. Her fiction has been published in The Rose and Thorn Journal (Memory, Misplaced), in Front Row Lit (The Fullness of the Moon) and in Idea Gems Magazine (No Map and No Directions). Her works in progress have been included in the Third Sunday Blog Carnival: The Contours of a Man’s Heart and Wheezy Hart. She is the author of Downriver and The Loneliness Stories, both available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble. http://kellygarriottwaite.com
FLASH FICTION: T.K. Young: US-based writer; author of the flash fiction collection When We’re Afraid, and currently finalizing the upcoming “pre-dystopian” science fiction novel Chawlgirl Rising for publication. He posts original work, writing tips, news and contests at www. flashfictionblog.com. THE ARTS: Seth Apter Mixed-media artist, instructor, author and designer. His artwork has been widely exhibited, and represented in numerous books, independent zines, and national magazines. He is the voice behind The Pulse, a series of international, collaborative projects, the basis of his two books The Pulse of Mixed Media: Secrets and Passions of 100 Artists Revealed and The Mixed-Media Artist: Art Tips, Tricks, Secrets and Dreams From Over 40 Amazing Artists, both published by North Light Books. He is the artist behind two workshop DVDs: Easy Mixed Media Surface Techniques and Easy Mixed Media Techniques for the Art Journal. http://www.sethapter.com PHOTOGRAPHY: Lynn Wohlers Awarded BFA from School of Visual Arts, NY, NY; writer for Daily Post’s Photography 101 series. http://lynn-wohlers.artistwebsites.com
ASSISTANT EDITORS: Dyane Forde Author of forthcoming Rise of the Papilion Trilogy: The Purple Morrow (Book 1) http://droppedpebbles.wordpress.com Lisa A. Kramer, Ph.D Freelance writer, editor, theatre director, and arts educator. She has published non-fiction articles in theater journals, as well articles aimed at young people for Listen Magazine. Her fiction is included in Theme-Thology: Invasion published by HDWPBooks. com. She is the director of a writers’ workshop From Stage to Page: Using Creative Dramatics to Inspire Writing. http://www.lisaakramer.com
Our staff is an eclectic mix of editors with keen eyes for the striking. So bewareâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;they may be culling your own site for those gems deserving to be unearthed and spotlit in The Woven Tale Press.
Editor’s Note: The Woven Tale Press is a monthly culling of the creative web, exhibiting the artful and innovative. Enjoy here an eclectic mix of the literary, visual arts, photography, humorous, and offbeat. The Woven Tale Press mission is to grow Web traffic to noteworthy writers and artists – contributors are credited with interactive Urls. Click on an Url to learn more about a contributor. If there is a “Featured!” button, it will link you back to a special feature on The Woven Tale Press site. To submit go to: http://thewoventalepress.net
Kit â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Portrait
Process: Making the Portrait of Kit 2
“My love ofn
ow making my rtis by other a passio long and I joined a figu nb and it soo r looked fo
Making the Portrait of Letizia
Letizia – Portrait
rts – both f visual a e work mad n and for ebeen a lif s a h – s t s 6 ir...In 200 onate affa s, ture clas ure sculp st e day I mo h t e m a c e b . in my week o t d r a w r Jess Miller
Making the Figure of Letizia Reclining
Letizia â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Reclining Figure 6
Figure of Kit Kneeling
Making the F
igure of Kit Kn
Woman Leaning Forward â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Quick Figure Sketch 8
Numbers “If you must speak ill of another, do not speak it, write it in the sand near the water’s edge “ ~Napoleon Hill I had oatmeal for breakfast because I rolled a four. It’s the way I start every day, with a choice. I’ve had oatmeal three times this week. I don’t know if that makes me lucky or healthy or both. Every morning as the clock strikes eight I run to the water’s edge and drop to my knees. I wash the die with my eyes closed and say your name in my mind’s eye. Katherine I am only allowed to say it once, so if I get it wrong there are no second chances. I have learned to say it one small syllable at a time. Kath-er-ine Sometimes when I say it I feel your breath on the back of my neck and I can hear you laugh as you fly through the sky with the clouds and the seagulls. On some days I get nothing. I’m just cold and wet, and sometimes it feels like your name is one step ahead of me and already spoken before I get the chance to catch up with it. Then I open my eyes and write everything I should be thankful for in the sand, or the name of everybody who has ever hurt me or every bad thing that I have done recently – depending on whether I roll a 1, 2 or a 3. Today I rolled a 1. I am thankful for breathing, for gravity, for the oatmeal. Then I rolled a 5 and made my way back, knowing that the sea would do its job and receive my words in its own time. Whenever I get a 6 I have to wait and make sure it happens. That happened on Monday and it was pissing down. 9
Words “I’m afraid they are not very good swimmers.” My English teacher once told me that the secret to writing is to understand that all words dress differently, and that to be able to use them properly you have to see what they are really wearing. I don’t know what I was waiting for, but I think I was expecting the doctor to come out with words like hypogonadism or flagellum or oligozoospermia. The kinds of words that wear bulletproof vests and night-vision goggles, and carry M14 sniper rifles. But he used different words. Words that wore Bermuda shorts and Converse trainers. Apparently my sperm are trying to win an egg and spoon race with a pair of chopsticks. Apparently my sperm are jumping out of aeroplanes with umbrellas instead of parachutes. Throughout the consultation, my wife sat next to me with a look on her face that I knew well. It is a little known fact that cows have four parts to their stomach, enabling them to digest grass. They are called the rumen, the reticulum, the omasum and the abomasum. Similarly my wife is the only woman in human history that has a secret place somewhere between her mouth and her brain, a place where she is able to store her words until absolutely necessary. Words that you would cross the road to avoid. Words that wear shoulder pads and helmets.
Coming oming Up p For or Air ir
“This his C Collection ollection speaks speaks to to the the “T Emersonian mersonian ideal ideal of of nature nature as as langua langu E
that we might read of this great book and speak its ton
cursory view lies the unuttered semantics of the natural wo to continue to share in the fragile bounty of this planet. communicate its accumulated knowledge.” 11
– BJ Price
uage ... age...
ngues, we must look beyond the evidentiary.
orld.The gravity of this situation must not elude us if we are
should learn of this language, study the great tomes and 12
Aga O 13
ainst the Tide Oil on Canvas 14
Im Oil 15
mmersion on Canvas 16
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Sparrow The portal had dissolved the hospital wall, but only Netta seemed to notice. The nurses flowed in and out of the room without so much as a glance at the garden that had materialized. Netta tried to get the night nurse to pluck her a flower from one of wild bushes on the edge of the path. But her tongue couldn’t form the right words, and her feverish pointing at the portal only convinced the nurse to bring her the bed pan. Netta caught the faint scent of roses before the sharpness of rubbing alcohol erased it entirely. The nurse was back, and she took possession of Netta’s arm and pricked its tender underbelly. The nurse didn’t notice when a sparrow flew out of the portal and sat on the bed railing. And she didn’t react at all when the bird started singing. She only looked up from her vampiric task when Netta sang along with the bird. But now it was Netta’s turn not to notice. She was in the garden, silky grass under her feet. Her hand wrapped around one of the pink- and-white flowers bursting out of its fragile cage of thin branches and stiff leaves.
Breaking Glass I am made of glass and icy tears flow in my veins where blood should be. He looks right through me at the new curtains and doesn’t see the hours of picking out the fabric, measuring and cutting, pinning and hemming. He doesn’t see me balanced on the stepladder with a yardstick and a pencil, measuring distances and checking levels. He doesn’t consider for a moment that I was trying to please him. “Those curtains are butt-ugly,” he snarls, and my heart sinks into my stomach and burns in its acid. The tears that are my blood surface like condensation. In the swirl of emotions in my head, I pick out a few familiar ones: shame, fear, sorrow, anger. The first three are the currency he expects to be paid in; the last one is dangerous, unexpected. If I let the anger leak out, it will only feed the violence brewing in his fists. “And where’s my dinner?” Of course the dinner isn’t ready yet; I spent all afternoon on the curtains. He should understand this but he chooses not. Nothing matters now but the release of his blood red rage. And I am made of glass.
#480. 2008 July. 31 x 24 inches. 79 x 61 cm. Carbon on Paper, Enamel
#473. 2008 June. 31 x 24 Carbon on Paper, Enam 21
inches. 79 x 61 cm. mel & Silkscreen
#519 . 2009-2-16. 24 x 29 inches. 61 x 73 cm. carbon on paper, silkscreen.
Millerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work is represented on https://mozumbo.com 22
Steve Miller is well-known for several art-science projects, including his long-term collaboration with Nobel prize winner, Dr. Rod Mackinnon, who studies the way ions move across cell membranes. Millerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Health of the Planet series is based on his x-ray images of the Amazon, revealing the extraordinary beauty of Brazilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s biodiversity, as well as the current environmental peril of our planet.
#497. 2008 August. 17 x 22 inches. 43 x 56 cm. Carbon on Paper, Enamel & Silkscreen
#508. 2008-9-30. 24 x Carbon on
x 29 inches. 61 x 73 cm. Paper, Acrylic
Clay Disarray “Clay Disarray is the name of my studio. It’s full of boxes of polymer clay, tools, props and other paraphernalia I use for my sets, so it’s a right old nightmare to keep tidy. Hence, Clay Disarray! Much
of my person-
al work is inspired
by my love of films,
particularly horror and
all of the
h av e
c r e at i v e ly
i n spired
on are for films that
– Lizzie Campbell
Cherry The throng of bodies, mingling, moving, merging. The sound of a thousand unknown voices, Words spilling into the night air, accents of babel Carried away on the wood smoke of street stalls. City streets, festooned with naked lamps, Serpents of illumination coiling overhead, Warming the heady scents of frangipani and mimosa Drifting on the light breeze. Street bars pouring out music, a melody Blending with the exhaust tones of tuk-tuks, And the clink of the ice cubes in my whiskey. A simple twist of the bar stool. Cherry is clinging to my arm. “Me love you long time” she says, As emotionally as the dead cockroach Scrapped from my shoe. Round face, red lips, straight black hair, Black eyes, black heart, dead and withered. A thousand men, Sweaty thrusts, and rough pawings Faces lost in the haze of dark rooms, and opium. “Me love you long time, no” she asks again. Smiling white teeth, red lips, eyes hollow of fear. Painted nails scratch my crotch, teasing, Fingers unfastening blouse, exposing.
“You come now, twenty dollar” smiling white teeth, Lips stretching, head tilted, imploring. Tiny round breast, bruised oval, bite mark. Leather necklace and small blue bead. I turn my barstool away. Whisky, large, no double large, no ice Cherry is rubbing my chest “Twenty dollar, long time love.” I lean against the bar, The flavour of toasted tobacco inhaled. Puffing out a stream of acrid blue look at her. Sallow skin, and scars Needles and razors inserted and sliced. I raise my glass, mellow peat and oak barrels I smile, I say no, shaking my head. Her sad black eyes hankering after revenue lost I watch as Cherry walks away. Glancing back momentarily, Searching for lost dreams Devoid of expectation.
This Place The seat was actually a fallen tree, moss-covered and beginning to rot. It had lain at the top of the hill for as long as I could remember. It was the place where I often sat in solitude, looking out across the valley to the hills, and onwards into the purple haze of beyond. I am surprised that more people do not know of this place, the place I think of as my own. But over the years of coming here, I have only seen a few people before today. The dog walker, the tramp, the little girl with the kite and one or two more. I have never seen those people more than the once. It seems that visitors to this place are far and few. Perhaps the problem was the woodland. To get to this clearing on the hill, one would have to trek through the dense wooded area known locally as the gallows trees. There were rumours abound regarding this woodland. One such was that the woods were so named because the town’s gallows were built from the old oaks that grow here. It is said that the lost souls of all those hanged now wander aimlessly among the trees. Another was that, years ago, a fellow called Gallows owned these woods. He was a woodsman. One day a cavalry officer rode up to the Gallows’ cottage on his charger, and demanded that Mr. Gallows’ daughter shall become his wife. Gallows refused and a fight took place. As Mr Gallows’ wife tried to separate the fighting men, the officer sliced off Mrs. Gallows’ head with one swing of his sabre. Mr. Gallows retaliated by hefting his axe high into the air before bringing it down with all his might. At that precise moment, young Annabel Gallows ran out from the house and came between the men. The axe cleaved Annabel’s skull in two. Mr. Gallows was hung in the town square. His body was left dangling for a week, suspended from a frame he himself had fashioned from the oak trees of the woods. Locals delight in telling this tale to outsiders, informing them that Mr. Gallows’ ghost 33
is constantly looking for Annabel within the woodland. On quiet, windless nights it is said you can hear him calling her name. That is the story the locals tell. But many others say it is not true. One time, not so long ago, something unusual happened here. A group of men came to this place. They carried with them an array of equipment. I heard they were called Ghost hunters and Spectral engineers. They were a strange lot, milling about fixing camera points, heat sensors, movement detectors and all sorts of gadgets throughout the woods and around the green. Three days they stayed. Sleeping in a van and some tents at the north edge of the woods, next to Black Mill farm. Every morning they milled about drinking coffee and checking their machines, taking turns watching the dials and screens they had placed on a rickety trestle table in an open-sided tent. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Which is why I suppose they all seemed somewhat dejected the morning they were leaving. I thought I would never get another chance to see exactly what they were doing here, so that morning I walked closer and watched as they started to unplug their equipment to pack it away. That was when everything in that tent started to buzz and beep. The men jumped and rushed around in excitement. Staring at all those screens and dials. The men were looking towards where I stood. I looked around and about myself. I could see nothing to cause such excitement. Just then one man called out: “Who are you?” Quietly, I answered him back, “I am Annabel.” I am surprised that more people do not know of this place, the place I think of as my own. https://alittlemorefiction.wordpress.com
â&#x20AC;&#x153;My reliefs operate in the pictorial space of painting, using ceramics as a hinge between painting and sculpture.â&#x20AC;? 35
“Over the years, I have amassed a vocabulary of quasi-geometric forms often retaining the texture of styrofoam or cardboard sources. I select cartons that contain voids that echo forms found in pre-Colombian art. In my current work, I arrange these cast forms to create schematic relief images of birds, insects and other animals, loosely based on Mesoamerican glyphic images. My palette includes matte and gloss glazes on fired cast ceramic slip, in combination with acrylic paint on sections of wood used as grounds. The resulting objects amount to a kind of collage-relief. The colors advance and recede visually, while the depth of the forms provides a physical counterpoint. Often the image extends beyond the edges of the wooden ground, implicating the surrounding space. Saturated color promotes the emotional impact of the work.” – Steve Keister
Keisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work is represented on https://mozumbo.com
ISSN: 2333-2387 41