Shadows Express - Volume 4: Issue 3 Fall

Shadows Express

Volume 4: Issue 3

Fall 2012

Shadows Express

As we move into the more sedentary autumn season, we find our thoughts turning to family, friends, and relationships.

This issue is no different. From the first hints of young love to shared memories of lost love, a theme of connections emerged as we put together this season’s e-zine.

Of course, not all relationships are positive and some of our stories and

poems reflect the disconnected, dysfunctional side of life—the sad reality.

Still, there is a prevailing sense of the indomitable human spirit and its dedication to hope.

As we enter this season of thanksgiving, turn to those who have made a difference in your life, and celebrate your connections.

Our Mission Published four times a year, Shadows Express strives to bring new voices to discerning readers. We pride ourselves on being the stepping stone for new writers as they begin their published journey. We welcome quality work from all writers at any stage of their careers.

Managing Editor: K. Wall managingeditor@shadowexpress.com Fiction Editor: P. L. Scholl fictioneditor@shadowexpress.com Non-Fiction Editor: Winnie Kay Davis nonfictioneditor@shadowexpress.com Poetry Editor: Liam O’Haver poetryeditor@shadowexpress.com

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Volume 4: Issue 3

Columns Burning the Midnight Oil ~ Bringing in the Sheaves..….………….………….………………….……...4 Rhythmic Reflections ~ Soul Food …….…..……..………….…………………………………………………..5 Fireside Conversations ~ Have You Written Today?………………………..…………………..………...6 In the Spotlight ~ Evolution of the Written Word.……………….….…………….………………………..8

Fiction This Modern Love by David Upton…….….………….…………………………………………………………..…10 The Color of Evil by Hannah Stuart.……………......….…………....….…..…….……....….………………..16 Stardust Melody by Bobby Fox...…….…………........….…………….……………………….……………..….19 The Klingman Gang by Audra L. Ralls.…………......….……………….....….……..…..……………………..30 The Track Meet by Troy Frings…….………….......….……........….………….....….………….………….…..43 A Certain Degree of Latitude by Herbert Hart..…………………………………………………….…………..51 Burnt Offerings by Brian Kayser………….………………………………….…………….….………………………59

Poetry Swallows of Capistrano by Michael D. Brown, PhD…………….……………..………………………………...9 Too Late–Too Soon by Katherine Whitestone……………………………..……….………………….…………15 Lost and Never Found by Colin Shaw.…….……………………………….………………………….…….……37 Decaying Beauty by Katherine Whitestone………………………………………………………………………..42 Tear Tracks by Audra L. Ralls…..…………….………………….………………………….…………………..…….50

Non-fiction The Jesus Lizard by Annie Warchol……………………….…………......….……………………………..………26 Forgiven? by Jim Ethridge………………………………..…………………………………………….……………….34 I Am Now Reduced to Burning Pellets in My Stove by Tom Sheenan……….……………………….38

Contributors…….......….…………………………………………..……………………………………………65 Staff………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….68

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Shadows Express

Bringing in the Sheaves

By K. Wall

Autumn is traditionally considered the time of harvest. That bounty contains the seeds of the future. Perhaps that is why I have always seen the fall as a time of new beginnings. For me it is the time to set goals, approach new challenges with eagerness, and establish new regimes. In a sense, it is my new year.

Every year, as a child, I vowed to be more organized, neater, and work harder as the school year began. With the best intentions, I laid out my binders, organized my locker, and established a daily routine. Within weeks, if not days, my resolutions faltered under the passion of learning.

Underlining the date and title of the page fell to capturing ideas. Neatness succumbed to the burning desire to create. In short, I became true to my authentic self.

Some of us are born to be neat and organized, some of us can learn, but I find I often put too much emphasis on it. When I am in that mode, I suffocate. Sure, I like a well-defined work space.

I still do, but I have discovered compromise is the key to my success. Instead of demanding the ultimate in perfection, I allow myself to look for efficiency balanced with creativity.

In this space I remain happy and productive—a perfect combination in a less than perfect world.

Accepting is the key.

In keeping with my authentic self, I have begun choosing seeds I can actually nourish, and ones that will sustain me as they grow. Sure I will still plant a few for aesthetic purposes, but my focus will be nutrition for my mind, body, and soul. When you think about it, isn’t that what the time of reaping is all about?

The law of harvest is to reap more than you sow. Sow an act, and you reap a habit.

Sow a habit and you reap a character. Sow a character and you reap a destiny.

James Allen 4

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Soul Food “We read to know we are not alone.”

By Guest Columnist Christine Nichols

C. S. Lewis, Shadowlands

A few summers ago during one of those relationship checkup conversations, my husband said, “Sometimes I feel like you are just here.”

It was painful to realize I was just going through the motions, drifting through my own life. Something had to change. I needed to find myself again, reconnect with myself and the world.

I turned to poetry as a cheap form of therapy.

I thought it was a way I might find myself, and in turn, express who that was in artistic and creative ways. I had always been good with words. How hard could it be?

I started reading poetry, hundreds of books, but I kept feeling like I was being cheated.

One day in a bookstore, I picked up a book and started reading. A dam broke, and I started to cry right there in the bookstore. Page after page, through poems by different poets, I found my life, my identity, written in the lines. The poetry was far from perfect, but I finally felt, Someone else gets it. I felt connected, almost a spiritual coming home.

The poetry in the book was accessible and revealing, written about pieces of life—like cancer, raising a family, losing a job. It used sensory information to pull me into the life of another person, into experiences that connect us all.

I wanted to write like that. But, of course, behind a carefully crafted curtain of language that

did not reveal too much.

I tried. I wrote about mattresses, lemonade, ripe tomatoes, and poetry. It was harder than I expected. The poems lacked depth. The sensory details were bland, too generic.

I had tried to make poetry what I wanted it to be, so I could continue to hide. But good poetry doesn’t allow you to hold back.

Poetry wanted more. It felt like I had to unzip, fillet my soul, and lay it out on the table—break down pieces of myself into their essence, before I could build it back up into a poem, word by word.

I made some progress in efforts to write biographical prose. Wrestling with a mish-mash of warring emotions tempted me to give up. I felt like I had raw nerves exposed. It took a great deal of courage to write about a revealing memory and acknowledge the truth behind it. All the angst was distasteful. The energy it took was incredible.

I felt like I was too old.

But what I discovered was worth it, so I'm going to do it again, anyway. I know my poetry journey goes uphill, but somehow, I am better for the experience.

The end result of the journey, and my hope for the future, is to find, share, and write poetry that reveals craftsmanship, layered beauty, and depth. At its best, poetry saturates meaning, sound, and form, melds emotion on image, and that's what feeds my soul.

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Have You Written Today?

By P.L.Scholl A few months ago, I stumbled across a quote by J. A. Jance that has profoundly impacted my writing life. Jance simply said, “A writer is someone who has written today.”

I call myself a writer, but how much time do I really spend writing? Certainly, I don’t write every day. Do you? This quote made me realize that I wanted to do more than call myself a writer; I wanted to be a writer. That meant figuring out my stumbling blocks and then kicking them out of the way. I suspect that many of you must overcome these same obstacles. To help inspire you, I thought I would share my top three and my solutions.

Obstacle #1 — My family It may sound horrid to say that my family is an obstacle, but let’s be honest—it is. I am a wife and mother of two children. That means hours spent on soccer games, swim meets, homework, dinner and the list goes on. Please do not misunderstand me. I would gladly sacrifice anything for my family, including my writing. I just think there are other things besides my writing that I can lay on that altar first.

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Solution — Sacrifice something else The first thing I had to sacrifice was control. If I try to do everything or be in control of everything, there’s no time left over for my creative side. Thankfully, I am blessed with a husband who is willing to do his share, so I let him. If you are not fortunate enough to have someone in your immediate household who can lend a hand, get creative. For example, if your child is on a soccer team, maybe there’s another parent who would be willing to take turns taking the kids to practice.

Beyond control, I also needed to recognize that there’s very little room in my life for other obsessions. I am addicted to reading, and I spend more time reading about writing than I do actually writing—hence finding Jance’s little gem hidden away in the April 2012 edition of The Writer. Now, I can’t stop reading because I do need to read to hone my craft, but I can limit time spent in this arena. Try asking yourself what other things monopolize your time?

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Obstacle #2 — My job

Obstacle #3 — Perfectionism

Like most struggling writers, I do not make my living by the pen. Instead, as an adjunct professor, I must devote a certain amount of my week to preparing lessons and grading essays. Unfortunately, when I have finished with these tasks, it seems I rarely have energy left over to write anything.

I want everything I write to be perfect in one sitting. That’s why I tend to revise as I write.

Every little nuance is evaluated, revised, and edited during composition. Unfortunately, that takes time—time I don’t have. I also get frustrated when something just won’t flow the way I think it should, so I shut down.

Solution — Write first

Solution — Accept imperfection

Instead of spending three hours grading essays and then hoping to spend an hour writing, I need to write first. The reason is simple. If I put writing last, then I’m tired when I get around to it. That means taking a nap instead of penning that blockbuster novel. After all, there is always tomorrow. I can’t say the same for my work as an adjunct. If it doesn’t get done, then I’m out of a job.

So, how many other things do you put ahead of writing because it just has to get done?

Dishes? Laundry? Errands? Can you flip them?

Chances are, you really will get the required items completed—that is, if they truly are necessary.

To paraphrase Anne Lamott, author of Bird by Bird, it’s okay to write horrible first drafts. Revision is for later. However, if—like me—you can’t break the revision habit, you may have to accept the fact that what is produced in short time frames will be minimal. Sometimes that’s only a paragraph or two, but at least it is something, and it will add up over time.

In the end, a lot of my obstacles are centered around time management and prioritizing. By acknowledging these and consciously seeking ways to minimize my distracters, I know I can spend more time on my beloved craft.

After all, I am a writer.

So, what have you written today? If the answer is nothing, figure out why, and then remove those roadblocks. I know you can find a way to be a writer and write something! Then when you have finished that brilliant work, send it to me, so I can read it.

I read and walked for miles at night along the beach, writing bad blank verse and searching endlessly for someone wonderful who would step out of the darkness and change my life. It never crossed my mind that that person could be me.

Anna Quindlen 7

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Evolution of the Written Word By: Winnie Kay Davis

As long ago as 40,000 years BCE (BC is politically incorrect, now), humans were communicating by painting pictures on cave walls. It’s not known if the Neanderthal resident was simply decorating his stone walls to match the décor or if he was bequeathing a message for his descendants, warning them of the rather temperamental saber-toothed tiger over the next volcano.

Regardless of the reason, the written thought was born. Eventually, Mr. Nean Derthal grew weary of the tedious task of drawing his messages. It took all night to leave a note on the wall, informing Mrs. Derthal that he had gone hunting. One morning, Nean stepped back and studied his picture: the arrow-pierced Woolly Mammoth towering over the image of himself, bow raised in triumph. Not too bad, he thought. Then he had an idea. Nean approached the wall, raised his red-iron-oxide soaked horse-hair brush, and began his revisions.

Y

˄

→}

Ѽ

˅

Sweetheart

gone

hunting

mammoth

back

☺ tonight

Thus began the age of the written word. Over the eons of time, alphabets and languages developed and spread across countries and continents, replacing the cave-wall drawings and symbols with tomes of penned thoughts, opinions, and imaginings.

Today, we have word processors, ipads, and iphones which allow us to send messages instantly to our loved ones. Mr. Derthal would be impressed. If Nean were to send such a message to his wife in this day and time, he would text to her the following:

Y

˄

Look how far we have evolved!

CU 8

2

McD’s

BRB

:)

Volume 4: Issue 3

Swallows of Capistrano

By Michael D. Brown, PhD

The swallows return from Goya Corrientes, like frequent flyers; I wait for them: (Their 6000 mile yearly pilgrimage takes time) I photograph the phenomena - The sky moving, while the earth stands still; I enjoy their audible Argentina accent streaming bilingual softly in my ear.

Their trust is here, somehow they know we will not harm them; they possess no creature fear; No poacher ever dare kill a swallow.

-our mission is the church.

-Swallows know a haven when they see one; a nesting place where babies can be born; a home near two rivers, where offspring repeat the ritual.

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By David Upton

Golden brown leaves fill the path, not one the same colour as another, quite a spectacle to the eye. Thinking about it, I’ve never seen this park in autumn.

Well, to be honest, I haven’t looked at this park at all recently. I’m usually swept away in the words of a book. An incredible read about conspiracy theories certainly gets the brain cells bashing about in a morning. Unfortunately, it only had so many pages, and now my eyes are free to pass over the world on my way to work. I must say, autumn is my second favourite season, I appreciate the colours and I like the thought of out with the old, in with the new. Everything seems to become so open. The trees shed their leaves. The hedges thin out.

Nothing can hide. Some say it’s a bit depressing to see a tree bare, but I think it creates new windows that weren’t there before.

The walk isn’t that long, but seems to take more time when I have nothing to occupy my eyes; although, I do enjoy a spot of people-watching. They remind me that I am normal. In front of me is a big suit. I’ve seen him before… well, heard him before, usually on his Bluetooth. He’s a tall man wearing a nice stock-exchange stripe, no phone call 10

today, just the Financial Times held aloft for all to see: Interest Rates Rise Again!

Fuel Costs Rise Again!

Living Costs Rise Again!

Who needs autumn when you have our government to aid in depression? I often think I’m too laissez faire in my ways. I don’t really worry about the economy. I guess, so long as I can afford to live and eat, then I’m ok, right? After a nose over his shoulder, I pass with ease.

For a big fella, he has a small stride. I’m slightly disappointed by the show today.

Other than a few dog walkers and more suits, there’s not much else that attracts my eyes.

The park runs right up to the city boundaries. It’s quite a contrast going from nature’s beauty, clean air, and such stillness into the bus lane bedlam.

Everything becomes very grey as the lungs adjust to the heavier fume-filled air. The eyes close to keep out the muck, and the game of everyone-forthemselves comes into play. As I reach the city gates, I take my usual route, and, as always, I’m stopped when I reach the

Volume 4: Issue 3

crossing. There she is, a heaven-sent deja vu. She sits at the bus stop, waiting for the 44. Must work in one of the banks, the main destination for the 44. Such beauty halts the hustling surroundings.

My heart adds an extra beat just for her.

My eyes open as wide as they can to see as much as possible. She’s incredible.

Her hair, brown, shoulder length with a hint of red, just enough to add to the warm glow of her cheeks. Her eyes, as clear and as blue as the most beautiful of oceans. Her lips could talk nonsense to me all day, so inviting, so perfect.

Always dressed immaculately, she certainly must have a hand in the pocket of fashion, my kind of fashion, too. Today, she’s wearing a wonderful duffel coat, probably as seen in Q Magazine. A million and one questions rush through my mind: What’s your name? Where do you work? What are you doing Friday night?

Hell, what are you doing for the rest of your life? I haven’t had the guts yet to actually ask any of these questions. There’s always an old suit sitting at the stop, and the last thing I need is an audience to watch my knock back. The one day the old suit isn’t there I’ll make my move—honest.

As I let out my usual sigh and the last thought of us skipping along a beach leaves my mind, the Number 44 whisks her away. For me, it’s just a short walk across the road to the office. At this

point, I pop my ear phones in and enjoy some music. There’s nothing like a bit of Rock ‘n Roll to get the energy up during the last few paces before entering the office. Coincidentally, the ear phones also aid in the deflecting of corporate chat. I can’t stand all that. So we work for the same company or in the same building; doesn’t mean we have to know each other. I’m not a general public hermit, but the less hassle I have during my days, the better.

Just a standard Monday with the usual weekend chat. I tend to say the same things each week. Today was the pottered-about-and-caught-up-with-

friends line. I actually stayed at home for most of it, as I wasn’t feeling well, but I don’t want all the false sympathy. It’s easier to make something up. It doesn’t, however, get me out of having to listen to all the other stories: Margaret went to see her son in Devon… Phil did some DIY… Nothing too adventurous... well, until we get to old Larry. Old Larry had 11

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another dirty weekend. The man never ceases to amaze. He’s been here for forty years, and you can count the number of sick days on one hand—unlike the number of flings. He’s always holding the hand of a new woman, usually half his age too. A good guy at heart, though, just never found Miss Right; although, I don’t think he’d want to. Larry perches himself on the end of my desk, swinging his leg about and swigging back a bottle of Lucazade, as he begins the story of his fun packed weekend in Blackpool, ”England’s answer to Las Vegas,” he claims. Larry took his new lady friend to enjoy the sights and sounds, the slots, the fish and chips, the tower, and, of course, the big dipper—that’s the rollercoaster.

I can’t really knock him. I wouldn’t mind a slice of his charm at the moment.

Haven’t enjoyed some company for a while; not since that blind date kindly arranged by a so-called friend.

As I drift out of Larry’s story, I’m suddenly brought right back in when he swings for me. Not wanting to feel the back of his love struck hand, I move backwards, quicker than you can blink, and straight off my chair. As the team heckles with laughter, I pull myself and my chair up. Apparently, Larry had just finished explaining his conquest over the weekend and was attempting a high-five.

As the hyenas carry on, I regrettably have to add this unfortunate mishap to The List: ● The time I got my hand stuck in the vending machine, trying to help the receptionist. To 12

make it worse she denied all knowledge. ● The time I got stuck in the lift for three hours. ● The time I brought the wrong disc for a presentation, and yes, of course, it was a disc full of holiday’s snaps.

And last but by no means least: ● The time I fell over and grabbed the nearest thing, the office Christmas tree, which followed me to the floor, covering myself—and the recently cleaned carpet— in soil.

So much for the idea of getting through my work-life unnoticed!

The day fly’s by and the clock soon chimes five. I join the stampede to the door, being offered high-fives by everyone I pass—such a funny crowd here. I usually make excuses to leave on the dot, but today, I’m legit. I’m off to pick up some books for my mum. Auntie Marjorie is having a clear-out and has some oldies that mum wants. I’m going home this weekend, so I offered to pick them up. Marjorie lives right on the other side of town, and at this time of night, it’s going to take at least an hour on the 36 Bus. A nice bout of autumn rain greets those leaving the building; luckily the bus stop is only across the road. I pull out my rarely used Twinkle Toes to skip over the puddles, and land nicely under

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the bus shelter. After a short wait, the bus arrives, looking like a giant steam room on wheels. I can’t see through any of the windows. As the door opens, I get hit with a huge cloud of people steam. It feels like the doors to Stars in Your Eyes!

“Tonight, Matthew, I’m Bruce Springsteen!” Mum always said I had that Springsteen-esque husk.

As the steam settles, a glum looking driver tells me to get on, greeting me with a nice frown. His name badge says Mark, but he doesn’t look like a Mark, maybe a Greg or Bill. I decide not to make conversation. Looks like it’s been a long day. The bus is packed like sardines, luckily just the one aisle seat left near the front. As the bus doors begin to close, a young woman dives through the gap and onto the bus. Fully flustered and grasping for any air available, she drops her bags and tries to gather herself.

She must have made a right dash for it.

After a few moments, she picks her bags up and turns towards me. I can’t believe it—it’s her, the one that holds my eyes each morning. It’s the 44 Girl! The following moments pass in slow motion.

Moving her hair from her face like in a shampoo advert, I see that she is as beautiful up close as she is from across the road. I can hear my heart pounding away. I’ve never felt like this before; I feel different, more alive, more aware, more… well, just more of everything.

After a short, sharp blink and a deep breath, the world speeds back up, and the bus is moving. She stands, rifling through her purse; her beauty doesn’t seem to stop the driver from hitting each

pot hole available as she sways from one side of the walkway to the other. After what seems like forever—but actually only about half a minute—she pulls out a clean twenty and offers it to the driver.

“Sorry, pet, can’t change anything more than a tenner,” he says.

“But this is all I’ve got,” replies the 44 Girl.

“Sorry, but I can’t change that amount. If you can’t pay, then I’ll have to let you off,” says the driver.

This is embarrassing, the vultures watching, waiting to see what happens.

For the majority on this it’s the most exciting thing that has probably happened to them all day, certainly something to natter about over the corn beef hash whilst watching the soap box.

The 44 Girl digs deep in her bag and purse, but nothing is found, no change at all, just a lonely and unusable twenty.

With a quick dip into my trouser pocket, I pull out a couple of pound coins, more than enough to see her home. Suddenly, a ping sounds, and a light appears above my head… Oh wait, someone has pressed the stop button, and I do have an idea. This could be it; this could break the ice. I could be her hero. But the bus is full... I’ll give this lot more ammunition than the British Army if it backfires. I know I’d appreciate someone’s help if it were me in her situation. Oh, what to do, what to do? I don’t have much time. She’ll be told to get off the bus at the next stop if she can’t pay.

Right, I’ve got to step up. This is my time. I can do this. Just stand up and 13

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offer her the money. How hard is that? I don’t even really need to say anything; although, it would help. So I’ll just get up, walk over, and offer her the money.

I’ll need to say something; I can’t just put my hand out. Hi, here’s some money… no, no. Hi, I’ll pay for your ride… no, no, no! Oh gosh, I get so tongue-tied. Hi, I have some change that you can use... yes, that seems alright.

Gosh, I’m nervous. Right, here goes.

I stand up, frantically holding onto the support bar; even a tight-rope walker would struggle here! Just a few more steps— And at that point, the driver slams on his breaks. Not expecting such a sudden stop, I hurtle to the front of the bus, fortunately, yet unfortunately, falling into the 44 Girl. Wow, she smells great! Blimey, no time for that…

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you ok?” I say whilst trying to keep my hands to myself.

“It’s alright. I’m fine,” she replies quite bluntly.

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I don’t blame her for being slightly sharp. I know I’d be pretty pee’d if I were in her shoes. We spend a few moments pulling ourselves back up and grasp onto the support bars. As the bus stops, she moves out of the way to let me off.

“Oh no, I’m not getting off. I came to offer you some change,” I say whilst holding out my two pound coins.

And with that, she gives me a look which sends shivers down my whole body, an endearing look, one of thanks and one with a beautiful smile, one that I know I would see for the rest of my life.

The world seems to stop at that very point. I know my whole future is within my own hands. Looking into her eyes, I know she feels it too—like nothing before, nothing old, this is so new, so modern. Anything that could have been said is said in those few seconds and spoken within our eyes.

A loud tired voice releases us both from the moment.

“Excuse me, you staying on then, pet?” the bus driver asks.

“Err, yes please,” she replies. She then turns to me and, again, with that beautiful smile, says, “Thank you.”

A crowd shuffles off the bus, and a seat becomes available. As we sit down, this all feels so comfortable and so natural. No nerves could fight their way into my mind. Nothing could break me; nothing could waste me.

“I’m Tom.” “Hi, I’m Ellie.”

“So, Ellie, where do you work?”

—

Volume 4: Issue 3

Too Late — Too Soon

By Katherine Whitestone

The crisp, clean snow slips from the bough And trickles down life’s beaten brow To rest in pools of squandered dreams, No more to grasp or disavow.

His angels toll, and God, it seems, Has written brief life’s final schemes.

I can’t return and right the crime.

He waits for me by Heaven’s streams.

I journey back through clouds of time, Recalling fleeting Youth’s sublime, Sweet wonderment and now lament My disregard for short-lived prime.

That age misspent in argument, Rebellious music, dark dissent.

If I’d known then the bough was bent, I might have been less discontent.

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The Color of Evil

By Hannah Stuart

In the land of Fae, evil comes in screeching, seeking release. Trees, grass, many shapes, sizes, and even colors sand, and even the people, were enveloped in the wicked haze of wrath.

Lightning cracked the dawn in two. As one, the frantic onlookers tore from The sea boiled as the she-demon fully the shore, scrambling further from the surfaced. All around, the thunder cried nightmare-come-to-life. out as if it were announcing her evil Yet their one hope stood firm upon presence. the rock, unafraid: the First Wizard, Valdor trembled not before her. Valdor the Vanquisher. In all the lands of Standing on a jutting piece of granite, Fae, he, and only he, held the power and mere feet from the unholy specter, he the wisdom to expel this abomination. flung his arms up and out. He thrust a Many years had he scoured the ancient single word heavenward, "Singorin!" scrolls and texts, seeking the hidden The villagers cowered on the knowledge to defeat the darkness which waterfront and cried out in a collective had infested their world: Sorveks. She gasp as the giantess was blasted back. was not the first of this ancient race to The water bubbled black as a witch's rise up, nor would she be the last. cauldron brew as she slowly re-emerged A depraved smile snaked across and loosed a scream that would be the demon's face as she raised her left heard throughout the valley. Vaporous arm. In her hand she held a blue gasses clung to her leathery skin, blasphemous artifact: The Sands of Time spreading outward in swirling shades of Hourglass created by the Dark Lord of indigo, until their tendrils blurred the the Under-lands, Danar. It is said, when land and sky as one. Within the the last grain falls, Danar will be released tumultuous clouds, other grotesque from his subterranean prison. Already beings clawed and tumbled about, the sand cascaded down. No human can

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hope to stop its descent, except one.

Again the sorcerer uttered the solemn word he had found within a dusty, crumbling tome within the sacred Library of Antigone, "Singorin!"

Contempt flashed across the fiend's face. Her fathomless black eyes rolled back as three deep, parallel gashes opened just below her ribs. Vile drops of blackest ooze dripped from the wounds. They splashed into the sea with a hiss.

"Valdor, watch out!" a woman's voice called from the shoreline.

The wizard felt her light step upon the stone, but turned not, nor did he take his eyes from the Sorvek. "Go back, Alivana," he told her.

The devil pointed at the young woman, her dirty, ragged nail curling back in a beckoning motion. "Come," she whispered. Her voice was as the voice of legions. Melodically, it implored the young woman on.

Alivana saw not the monstrosity before her but a beautiful illusion, a smiling woman with dark hair that flowed over a shimmering gown. A great sense of longing overtook her. She took a step forward, then another. Eyes locked ahead, Alivana reached out with eager arms.

"No! Go back, Alivana!" Valdor turned and grabbed the mindless woman by her shoulder, thrusting her back and off of the wet platform. She

stumbled and landed hard in the shallows. Her eyes fluttered and closed.

When she opened them, they went wide, and she pointed past him. A single scream escaped her trembling lips. She fainted. Her slight form sprawled slack in the briny waters. Cold waves washed over her simple dress, but she felt them not, nor the tossing of her pale-yellow hair as it lashed about her ashen face.

A small tremor of doubt flashed through the distracted Valdor's mind, even as the devilish creature roared in triumph and snatched the puny human off of the rock.

"No one defies Tanatha!" she said as her foul breath flattened the wizard's long hair and beard back. Her fist squeezed the air from his lungs with ease, even as he felt his ribs begin to crack. She shook him violently. Several of his teeth chipped as his head whipped from side to side. Cocking her mammoth-sized arm back, she flung him. He tumbled through the air, plummeting into the water with a bonequaking splash; everything went fuzzy, black, and then, he was sinking ‌ sinking.

"All hope is lost!" a man wailed from the treeline.

Alivana's father, Trovek, and younger brother, Paylor, dashed to the water's edge. Each grabbed the prone girl by an arm, dragging her up the beach. The demon took two titanic-sized

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steps toward them. Alivana stirred, moaned, "Valdor … " A flash of righteous-white light blazed from within the protruding stone, blocking the she-devil's path. The First Wizard stood, yet again, before the behemoth. The radiance flowed up and through him. The insipid blue air cleared around the pair. "Singorin!" burst from the conjurer's mouth with such force, even the distant ground beneath the villagers' feet shivered. The hourglass exploded. Bits of gold metal, glass, and sand shot out, pock-marking the hellion's body.

The gargantuan's eyebrows raised.

Her eyes bulged, her mouth opened wide, but no sound came forth. She held her hand out in front of her, gazing with horror as it rippled, then hardened to solid stone. Slowly, it continued up her arm, down her sides, until she was frozen in place. She was not dead but locked immobile within the prison of rock. Her adversary stretched his arms

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toward her. Beneath her garment of rock, she felt a tingling sensation begin.

Panic tore at her immoral heart. Her nose twitched, then crumpled into the sea. Her arms went next, followed by her legs. Continuing to disintegrate, she tipped backward, causing a large wave to roll out to sea. Just before she sank from view, even as her lips were coming apart, she attempted to beseech her dark god, "Dan…!" Never would he hear his most-beloved underling's voice again.

Valdor, though weary, sprinted up the beach. His strong arms encircled Alivana's slender waist. She sobbed against his chest as relief surged through her heart.

The villagers came out of hiding, chanting his name, "Valdor! Valdor!

Valdor!"

Valdor heard them not; he gazed out over the now calm water… searching, always searching.

—

Volume 4: Issue 3

Bobby Fox

Andy knew he should visit more often. He didn’t need to be reminded, despite his mother’s best efforts.

“When are you going to visit your grandmother?” his mother would ask every chance she got.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to visit her. He just preferred to remember her before her brain shut down to the world.

At age ninety-two, she spent every hour and every minute of every single day lying in bed, staring at the cinder blocks making up her living space at the anything-but-Sunny-Days Nursing Home Center. Andy always felt there was something sadistically ironic about nursing home names. Much like subdivisions named after animals, forests, and creeks dissolved by suburban sprawl, nursing home names are constant reminders of days-gone-by.

For the patients who still had their wits about them, Andy wondered, why the constant, painful reminder of what was no more?

His grandmother did not have her wits about her. Physically, she was just about as healthy as someone her age could be. Mentally, her Alzheimer’s had been holding steady ever since it reached its devastating peak nearly ten

years ago. After a gradual decline, she reached the point of no return. Living life like the living dead, she spent her days in blankness.

For the first few years, her family took her out for holidays, birthday parties, and weddings until it simply became too much trouble. But for who?

Andy asked himself. For her or us? Car rides made her sick and she spent the rest of her day in a state of nauseous confusion.

So no, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to visit her. He just preferred to remember her when she was alive— stubborn, crude, baking cookies—a vibrant, larger than life woman, rather than the sunken hull she had become.

Although he would never admit it, he often prayed for God to take her. Part of him felt guilty for feeling this way, but he took comfort in his conviction that he was probably not the only one who did.

In a family as devoutly Catholic as his, he doubted he was the only one to pray for this.

Visiting his grandmother always put Andy in a prolonged depression, but he realized it was selfish to lean on that as an excuse not to visit. Once the family stopped taking her on outings, Andy

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visited three or four times a year, usually around the holidays. He always brought her a Kit-Kat bar, her favorite candy. She may have forgotten her family members, but she certainly recognized a Kit-Kat bar, giving hope not all was lost.

However, in the months since his divorce, his visits—like everything else in life—had come to a crashing halt. His mother’s insistence on visiting his grandmother, however, did not, but he

But on this day, fate aligned itself with his mother’s wishes. While returning home from a trip to the dentist, he realized he was approaching Sunny Days.

If only I switched dentists, Andy thought to himself, now regretting his sentimental decision to continue going to his childhood dentist, despite living thirty miles away. He momentarily considered driving right past the Home, but his conscience eventually won out.

Except for one regrettable, earthshattering error, his conscience always won out. The next thing he knew, his turn signal blinked, his brakes slammed, and he was pulling into a gas station to buy a king-sized Kit-Kat bar, before driving across the street into the parking lot of the Sunny Days Nursing Home.

He entered the dimly lit lobby of the nursing home through a door with a prison-invoking sign asking visitors to Please shut door behind you to prevent resident escape. Welcome to Sunny Days, Andy thought to himself with an unwarranted chuckle. The scent of urine and rot immediately filled his nostrils. A dozen or so wheel-chair bound residents congregated in the lobby, perhaps plotting their escape. Then again, most stared too far into space, with a puddle didn’t need to add to his mental strife. of drool forming in their laps, to Avoidance became the only way he entertain such thoughts. Andy couldn’t could handle most aspects and avenues help but notice that the tight space the of life.

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Volume 4: Issue 3

residents crammed into also seemed to be the sunniest spot in Sunny Days.

Chirping finches accompanied by singing canaries from the aviary on his right lent to the atmosphere, sending his mind back through the never-ending, haunted vortex of his former life. His ex, Emily, loved birds more than anything.

In fact, when they both had visited Andy’s grandmother, it wasn’t uncommon for them to spend more time in front of the aviary than with his grandmother. Ironically, at the beginning of his relationship, Andy could care less about birds. Within a couple of years, they had a cage full of them. Now, she had sole custody of the house that was once his, and he missed the birds more than he ever thought possible.

Now a habit, he paused in front of the aviary for a brief moment, watching the birds through a sad-sacked solo reflection. Depression was already settling in and he hadn’t even seen his grandma yet.

Andy continued on down the endless hallway, lined with wheelchair-bound residents. Most stared blankly. Some waved. Some looked at him hoping, praying, pleading that he was somehow there for them, like dogs in an animal shelter. He couldn’t get to his grandmother’s room soon enough.

When he finally reached her sparse, cinder-block room, he discovered her unmade bed was empty.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she perhaps escaped, before looking at his watch. It was 3:30, which meant dinnertime.

Andy headed to the dining room, where he was greeted by a resident parked in the doorway, hands locked on the wheels of her chair.

“I know you,” the woman said, pointing a bony, mangled finger at him.

“You got a girlfriend in there, don’t you?”

“Nope. Not in there,” he replied with a smile, before wiggling his way past her into the dining room where residents finished up their meals. He scanned the room for his grandmother before he finally spotted her, sitting alone and staring blankly ahead. He approached her, her plate nearly clean, which was a promising sign. Most days she wouldn’t take a single bite.

“Hi, Grandma.”

His grandmother’s blank face morphed into rare recognition.

“Oh, Andy,” she said, as her grandson kissed her on the cheek. It was seldom that she would remember anyone’s name, let alone show any indication she was aware of their presence. There were good days and bad days when it came to her memory.

At first, good days outnumbered the bad. But as time wore one, the bad days far outweighed the good. And just when it appeared as though she would never have a good day again, she would throw

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a curve ball. Little did he know just how much of a good day this was about to become.

“How was your dinner?,” he asked.

“Good.”

“What did you eat?”

“I don’t know.”

He handed her the Kit-Kat bar. Her eyes lit up with excitement.

“Want some?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, smiling like a giddy school girl. He opened it for her and handed her a piece. She eagerly gobbled it down.

“Good?”

She nodded, toddler-like. He offered her another piece. Before he knew it, the king-sized bar was no more.

Also, like a toddler, she had melted chocolate smeared all over her face and fingers. He wiped it off with a napkin.

“Let’s get you back to your room.”

He attempted to pull her away from the table, but her chair wouldn’t budge.

A resident seated nearby bluntly stated, “The damn brakes are on.”

“Well, that explains it,” Andy said, before unlocking the brakes and wheeling her out of the dining room and down the hallway to her room.

“So, how have you been feeling?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

She simply shrugged. He wheeled her the rest of the way in silence.

Sometimes, it was better that way.

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When they arrived at her room, he pushed the call button so someone could get her ready for bed.

They sat in silence, which wasn’t unusual during most visits.

“Where is the aide?” he asked, breaking the silence. His grandma shrugged with confused indifference. He headed to the nursing station, where the nurse on duty ignored him. Par for the course, he thought before finally speaking up.

“Hello. I was wondering if somebody could come to room 125. My grandma needs to be put to bed.”

“We’ll be there shortly, sir. You took her out of the cafeteria ahead of schedule,” the nurse said in a scolding

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tone. “Please be patient and let us do our job.”

He bit back a rude retort, before deciding to let it go. It wasn’t a battle worth fighting. He knew her job left a lot to be desired and left it at that, before heading back to his grandma’s room, wondering if she even knew he left.

“Someone will be here soon to get you ready for bed,” he told her. He briefly considered doing it himself, but realized that would entail taking her to the bathroom—a task he didn’t feel he could live up to. So they waited in accustomed silence.

Several minutes later, a beastly aide entered, cutting through the silence like a jackhammer.

“Alright,” the woman sighed as she flung back the covers. “Let’s get you ready for bed.” Andy couldn’t help but imagine what her demeanor was like when there wasn’t a visitor watching her every move. She proceeded to lead his grandmother into the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door. Andy figured from her point of view, privacy was irrelevant in the late stages of Alzheimer’s. Loud, explosive farts poured out of the bathroom, making it clear in his mind where he inherited that from. As sad as it was, he couldn’t help but chuckle. Farts never get old, he thought to himself.

To bide his time, Andy looked at the bulletin board hanging over her bed, featuring random greeting cards and photos of family. Suddenly, a pair of recognizable eyes dancing with laughter, peered out at him from a photo nestled in the center of the board. It was his wedding photo, the sight of which forced his wounded heart into his throat, filling his mouth with an acid after-taste. He considered taking the ghostly photo down, but figured if there was one place where the past was fluid and timeless, it was here at Sunny Days.

On an end table next to her bed was a framed portrait of his grandma and grandpa taken on their 60�� wedding anniversary. He glanced back at his photo and felt a layer of sadness he never experienced before. The contrast between the two photos couldn’t be more startling.

The toilet flushed and his grandmother, now dressed for bed, was led out of the bathroom and, with machine-like efficiency, roughly tucked into bed, prompting Andy to once again wonder what happened when nobody was watching. As much as he tried to dismiss this thought, it was no use.

The aide headed out of the room without uttering another word. His grandmother stared ahead into space, and he felt more depressed with the knowledge that what he had witnessed for the past hour was her entire

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existence, day after day and year after too many years.

“Would you like the TV on?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“No,” she said curtly, annoyed that he would dare ask such a question. For reasons that maybe she didn’t even know, she flat-out refused to watch television, seemingly preferring nothing over something.

He remembered the CD player stored beneath the nightstand. He opened it up. The CD he made for her five years ago was still in there. He realized it was possible the last time it was played was the day he gave it to her.

The CD was nostalgically labeled Memories in Emily’s handwriting, another ghost from the past.

He wondered if he should bother to play it for her at all. He didn’t know how she would react, and the last thing he wanted to do was irritate her. After mulling over it, he ultimately decided that he had nothing to lose and pressed play.

The first track was Nat King Cole’s “Star Dust”, his grandparents’ wedding song and one of his personal favorites.

From the very first note—a swelling of violins—his grandmother’s entire face transformed, and her eyes returned to vivid life.

As Nat’s golden voice ruminated over departed lovers, Andy felt the early twinges of nostalgia seeping into his

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veins. Both he and his grandmother found themselves suddenly timetraveling together in unison, each riding on their own individual living timeline, united by the fuel of their shared ancestry.

Halfway through the first verse, Andy returned his focus to his grandmother who was now waving her hands from side to side like a conductor as Nat sang about his own immortal stardust memories from years gone by.

By the third verse, she was singing along at the precise moment Andy’s nostalgia blossomed into full bloom, returning him to the exact moment when he and Emily first fell in love. He had a pretty good idea that his grandmother returned to a parallel moment in her life—a time when both thought they were never going to be alone again. Little did they know how wrong they would both turn out to be in their own separate ways.

By the last verse, they were both in tears, realizing that everything was now only a fading, fleeting memory, a refrain remaining only in the recesses of their hearts. By the time the final note of the song ended, the life that had temporarily returned from a long ago past reverted back to blank stone. For just one brief moment, his grandmother was alive again. And for the first time since his wife left him, so was he.

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His grandmother shut her eyes. To him. To the world. To herself. Seconds later, she was snoring, which he took as his cue to leave. He watched her sleep for a minute—this woman who birthed his own mother. This woman who was the epitome of what a grandmother should be. The cookies. The sleepovers.

Countless holidays. An entire life. Every memory. Love. Joy. Sadness. All buried within her, forever locked away, deep into the vault of her mind.

He gently kissed her forehead, before heading toward the door. And out of thin air, like a sword through his heart, he heard, “How’s Emily?”

Caught off guard, Andy froze for a moment, pondering how to respond.

Should he tell her the truth? Or let the

past remain alive in at least one remote corner of the world.

“She’s doing well,” he replied. She smiled and closed her eyes once again.

Her snoring resumed and he walked out the door.

Heading back down the long hallway, one of the wheelchair-bound patients smiled at him, or perhaps smiled at life in general. The somber atmosphere that had greeted him was now replaced by an unexpected contentment. The clouds lifted and sunny days were truly here once again— if only for a moment.

And for the first time since his whole world came crashing down, he knew he was going to be okay. His stardust melody…

—

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The Jesus Lizard

By Anne Warchol

Our house belongs more to our pets than the human inhabitants. At the very least, four cats, one dog, seven gerbils, a ferret, and Jimmy Lee the Parrot keep my three children busy. All of the animals have fascinating stories of their own, but none as weird as the Jesus lizard.

We bought him from an exotic animal pet store of dubious reputation.

He was a little guy, cute for a lizard, and fit in the palm of the hand. The owner explained the lizard’s few needs, nothing when compared to multiple joys of owning such a specimen. What the heck, he was smaller than Champion the Ball Python.

Taking my son to the pet shop meant we were coming home with one thing or another. I had asked the owner what the name meant.

“Oh, his scientific name is basilisk lizard; people call them Jesus lizards because they can walk on water.”

“Really?” Jacob’s eyes pleaded with me.

“Well, exactly how do we take care of it?” I asked.

“No big deal." He scratched his

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nose. “A dozen crickets a week and some greens. That’s all he needs.”

“Excuse me, did you say crickets?”

“Sure, long as they’re still hopping."

He dug around in his nose before pointing to another counter. "They’re right over here.”

Living with my son’s pets demands fortitude; one more thing to feed hardly matters, I decided. After all, it is educational. We walked out with the Jesus lizard and chirping crickets.

We set up an aquarium and watched the latest addition to our menagerie with a mixture of wonder and disgust. When he consumed those leaping crickets… well… sometimes I just threw them in and ran from the room.

A few months later, we went to a different pet store for crickets.

“You’re feeding it crickets?” asked the squirrely girl behind the counter.

“Yes, that’s what the owner of the other pet store said.”

“They didn’t mention the lizard needs vitamin C?” “Uh, no they really didn’t.” My mind twirled with imaginings of feeding a lizard vitamin C. Meanwhile, my son

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wandered off, ogling a yellow rat snake.

I prepared my defense before he asked.

No way was I taking home another reptile.

“How exactly do you feed a lizard vitamin C?” I asked with dread.

A heavily tattooed man coughed wetly, the sound coming from somewhere deep, probably his chest judging by his stained fingers. “I’m the owner,” he announced, and admonished us for improper care of an exotic species.

We left the store with powdered vitamins, which, we had learned from the inked owner, you simply placed in the Ziploc bag along with the crazed crickets, and shook. Feeding the lizard turned into a dreaded event. Dumping coated insects into the cage turned my stomach. But it got worse—much worse.

We returned to the first pet store for our weekly cricket supply. Outside, a crowd gathered, watching Baby, a tenfoot python, eat a rabbit. Jacob tugged on my jacket; I hustled him inside.

Another employee, with track marks up her arm, asked why we were feeding the lizard crickets.

“Well, that’s what the other guy said when we bought him.” One eye watched her. The other remained fixed on the furry side of the pet store where my son was surveying rats.

“Oh, they can’t live on just crickets.

In fact, he can’t eat crickets at all, anymore. He’s too big—needs pinkies to survive.”

“Pinkies?” I gulped, disgust churning my stomach. I called to my son; if I had to endure this, so did he. He trudged over, his sneakered feet reluctant.

“Sure, pinkies,” Tracks replied. I hoped my son wouldn’t ask about the damage to her arms. At the very least, could she wear a long-sleeved shirt?

“Well," Tracks said, "pinkies are little baby mice.”

“Mice—this lizard needs mice?” I don’t like mice, but the thought of them as food? Yuck. Jacob began jumping up and down, excited at the prospect of another animal, even as dinner for a reptile.

“Not mice,” Tracks explained.

“Pinkies. Here, let me show you.” My feet dragged as she herded us over to caged animals behind the cash register.

Even my son looked disturbed. Around us, birds chirped, kittens meowed, and ferrets slunk.

“These are pinkies, right here.” She waved to a cage of miniscule beings, breed indeterminate, eyes still closed.

“See, it’s okay,” explained the cashier, a young man with a few missing teeth. “They's taken from their ma 'fore they open them eyes. Prob’ly don’t even know they’s alive. You feed your reptile

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there a six-pack every week.”

“A six-pack?” I really didn’t want to know.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he puffed as he reached into the tank." I just toss six of them critters into a bag, and ya gotta six-pack. Git it?" I turned my back and rubbed my eyes.

I’m a murderess.

“When’s you bring ‘em home, just toss ‘em in the cage. Might wanna turn ‘round though; it gits kinda messy.”

“Will you buy my lizard back; never mind, you can have him.” The kid noted my desperation.

“Well, ‘spose we might, just this once—" “No,” protested my son. No surprise there. He brushed his long hair backward; a huge matter of contention.

The more I wanted that hair cut, the longer he let it grow. You can’t force a ten-year-old boy into compliance; I considered sneaking in while he slept.

I completed my purchase, but there was more. “ 'Course, you’re giving him vitamin C?” Tracks asked as she loitered around the counter.

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, we’re powdering his crickets by shaking them in the bag, like another pet-store owner suggested.” I dreaded what was coming next. By this time, the line had grown to several impatient pet owners. Someone called from the back.

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“Lady, ya just shake the pinkies, like you did the crickets, then dump ‘em in. The kid’s right, though. Might wanna take a step away. One time, an eyeball got splattered...”

I grabbed the pinkies and ran before I vomited. Limits should be established somehow, rules agreed upon before entering pet stores, but for the moment, I had no alternative. I was responsible for a life, lizard-ly or not—it was still a living being. Unsettling turned to disgusting. Feeding those innocent lumps, capable of turning into furry darlings, to the cold-blooded reptile defeated me. Animals in the wild, that’s one thing, but this, in my home? My husband stepped forward and assumed the duties.

“No more reptiles for you,” I admonished my innocent-looking son.

After a few weeks of live feedings, my husband revolted. We returned to the pet store and discovered you can buy pinkies frozen. At least we weren’t first in line to kill them. My husband felt confident he could feed frozen pinkies to the growing lizard, until he realized the reptile refused cold food.

I hate to explain the next step. He placed the frozen pinkies in the microwave—five seconds—and then coated their warm bodies with the vitamin C supplement. Shake ‘n Bake took on a whole new meaning. The family—consisting of two daughters and

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one son, my husband and me—gathered around the lizard’s cage.

“Mom, you have to stop this,” my oldest daughter said, hands planted firmly on her fifteen-year-old hips. She considered herself the boss of everyone, except Jacob, who listened to no one unless it suited him.

Daughter number two chirped in, trying to establish her dominance in the family hierarchy. “Jacob, you’re disgusting. We have to get rid of this thing, now.” She turned to my older daughter. “And who made you queen of the royal jelly?”

My son opened the cage. “Oh, come on, look how amazing he is.”

The leaping lizard catapulted from

his cage, anchoring its feet in the mesh of the screened door. We all stood and gaped, no one willing to attempt a capture. The thing had grown to monstrous proportions. Eventually, we caught him, and the next day we donated him, his cage, and all his trappings to the pet store. My son started walking toward the ferrets.

“Mom—" “No, absolutely not,” I replied, my voice firm and commanding.

I won that round, but Jacob’s a hard boy to resist, and the ferrets are a riot to watch...

—

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By Audra Ralls

Memory is a way of holding onto the traversed our skin. Life was different things you love, the things you are, the here. things you never want to lose. ~ From Being Baptists, we were always the the television show The Wonder Years last to arrive. Somehow, making the sermon fifteen minutes longer than the The journey seemed so long, other churches in town made Reverend though I now know it was no more than Cole feel our souls were being extra twenty-five minutes. A child’s sense of protected. My cousins rushed out to time mixed with anticipation of greet us; the scene always the same— adventure and camaraderie is a recipe the familiarity teasing our thoughts of that feels hours in the making. We took the adventures of the day. Grabbing the the trek to my grandparent’s house on paper sacks that held our play clothes, the first Sunday of every month, as did we rushed into the sanctuary of Papa’s my cousins. It was the only car-ride my house, careful not to slam the door. The brother and I didn’t spend torturing non-slamming of the door was a lesson each other, our minds too full of the my brother had learned with a switch, upcoming food, games, family, and of and I was a quick study. course, our secret.

In no time at all, we were having our Rounding the corner that led to the picture taken in our Sunday best in front long gravel driveway, we would glance of the fireplace. This constituted a at each other, trying without success to monthly tradition we laughed at then, hide our excited grins as my father but with age, we cherished. God had continued to sing “The Red River Valley” blessed my grandparents with only as far off-key as possible. My mother grandsons—six of us. We lined up in age gripped the treasured pecan pie in her order, took a serious picture, a smile lap, commenting about the lilacs in picture, and a silly picture. And then we bloom. The magic was starting. We were free! Once dressed in our play could feel our hearts race and chills clothes, the world was ours.

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Papa wrapped us in his legs in a bear trap, and we pretended not to be able to get free. Mema hugged us until the smell of ham from her apron was imbedded in our nostrils. The Nerf footballs flew, and lunch devoured. Only then, what we had been waiting for became available for the asking.

A song and dance, a rite of passage, a show of respect—I’m not sure what it was; it just was. Approaching Papa as he whittled in the garage, one of us would simply ask, “Can we now?”

Without looking up, he'd say, “You know the rule.”

Practically jumping up and down, we'd reply in unison, “Yes, sir!”

“Yep,” he’d respond with a wink, hence making six boys own the world.

The rule was simple, one I have tried to apply to my everyday life: leave things better than you found them.

Twelve legs ran for the barn far faster than any Olympic athlete. We waited until we all got there to open the door.

It didn’t matter if it was the foggiest day on earth; when that barn door opened, I swear the sun shone in as if God was smiling, saying, “Have fun, boys.” We stood in awe every Sunday as the scene sparkled, beckoning our imaginations. I don’t rightly know the first time I saw her, but every time felt like the first.

Papa called it a 1927 Model A, but we boys—The Klingman Gang—called her “Tula the Time Machine.”

In retrospect, the thing I find the most amazing is we never fought in that car. Within Tula there existed a spirit of peace and a feeling of all things right in the world, for where else can six boys spanning nine years play for hours and

not bicker. It didn’t matter who was at the wheel, because it just meant the others got to shoot the bad guys.

Indiana Jones had nothing on us. Tula could take us anywhere.

In our youngest days it was cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, and the occasional boys shooting girls. Then there was our Dukes of Hazzard phase.

Tula barely escaped Rosco and Enos a few times. Our imaginations then decided to venture into the future. We

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had the grand idea that when we grew up, we would mass produce our time machine and make a fortune. Little did we know Mr. Henry Ford had stolen our idea years earlier. Tula flew to the moon, allowing us to shoot zombie aliens living on stars. She circled back and crept up on dinosaurs so we could examine their poop.

It didn’t matter the time of year. You couldn’t keep us from her. Oklahoma summers are humid and hot, and a car full of six boys in a barn is an equation for sweat and stink. Our skin would stick to the seats so it hurt to peel it off, yet we didn’t care. The winters are no less forgiving. Bundled from head to toe, barely able to see or move, still shaking, we made our way to that barn. We just pretended to travel to the ocean and feel the sun soaking into our skin. Tula was good to us, and we showed her respect.

The first time we played in Tula, the rule of leaving her better than we found her perplexed us. How do you improve on perfection? After much thought, we decided the best way was to leave Papa a gift inside the magical car. Sometimes it was a good stick to whittle, a piece of gum, a quarter, and once we even wrote a story of our adventure. We were young boys with little other than our imagination, but would have given anything to show our thanks.

As we became teens, examining dinosaur feces stopped, but our trips to

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the Model A did not. We walked out there, opened the door, and watched the magic begin. We talked—about our futures, about parents who didn’t understand, about girls, and about how much fun we had in Tula. My brother, the aspiring mechanic, had his head under the hood admiring the heart of her. He swore if we had the keys, she could take us places. We laughed at him, half not believing the old girl could run and half afraid that the sound of her engine firing up would bring an end to the fantasy world we created. Besides, my Camaro got us around town in style.

We left Papa better gifts now—a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, a new knife, a copy of The Grapes of Wrath. We thought we were cool.

I never did ride in that Model A. The vibration never shook me as it chugged down the gravel road. Never did I impress my current love interest with a Sunday drive or take my sweetheart to a picnic in it. Beyond my own imagination, I didn’t even know how the Model A sounded.

In fact, it wasn’t until my grandfather’s death when I was nineteen that I even knew it still worked.

I was standing outside the church with my brother and cousins, none of us knowing what to say, when we saw Tula tooling down the street. My great-uncle was chauffeuring Mema in it. Eyes widened, we were speechless. Our reaction seemingly pleasing to her in

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this time of sorrow, Mema stepped out, nodded, and smiled. “You weren’t the only ones to find happiness in this old girl, boys.”

My grandfather had requested that the Klingman Gang be the pallbearers for his funeral. We did so with honor and sadness. Not one of us was embarrassed by the tears that flowed down our cheeks as we carried the man who had taught us the importance of respect, imagination, and family to his final resting place.

After the funeral, we gathered at our grandparents’ house, sitting around reminiscing. Mema, having something else in mind, commanded, “Klingman Gang, get your play clothes on.”

We looked from each other to our parents exchanging uncertain looks and decided it best to obey. I took off my tie and jacket, for I hadn’t brought a paper sack full of play clothes. We followed like baby chicks as she marched to the barn.

The sound of keys jingling seemed to be the only noise on the whole acreage; our eyes gleamed thinking we were taking a ride in Tula! Nothing could have prepared us for how wrong we were.

Mema opened the barn door, letting us breathe in the magic. Never too old to hold hands at a moment like this, we entered as one. She went to the trunk; shaking, she opened it. Our eyes looked in pure amazement. In the trunk was every gift we had ever left in Tula, from wilted flowers to sticks to knives to an

empty wine bottle.

Mema’s voice cracked, then steadied as she stated, “The Klingman Gang’s legacy meant the world to him.” *** I am forty now, and it is my children who play in Tula. The urge to spy on them is too strong to ignore, but I do fight the urge to join them as they shoot Storm Troopers and terrorists.

Sometimes I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling them they aren’t playing it right, but I know this is their time. I had mine.

The other night as I lay with my son watching Narnia, he looked up at me and whispered, “Dad, those kids ain’t got nothin’ on Tula.” Then he winked.

My heart skipped a beat, for I could have sworn the glint in his eye was Papa winking.

The Klingman Gang doesn't shoot robbers or explore space anymore, but we keep the memories alive—and make sure more are made—by making that journey, the first Sunday every month, down a gravel path to a magical place where life becomes everything you can dream. As the children rush to a barn full of imagination, The Klingman Gang has started a new tradition. We gather for a spell in the garage, whittling without a care as to what we create, paying tribute to a man who lived by his one, simple rule. He left this world a better place than he found it.

—

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Shadows Express

Forgiven?

To understand this story, you must first know the kind of person I was—or at least perceived myself to be—as a youth of eighteen years of age. In fact, I was a very good athlete. In my senior year, I was co-captain of the football team and captain of the wrestling team.

Without much effort, I was on the National Honor Society all through high school. Judging from this, you might think here is another ego-inflated, selfpromoting teenager. You could not be further from the truth.

I was the most insecure, shy, withdrawn young person you would ever meet. I would turn beet-red with embarrassment at the drop of a hat—a trait my friends picked up on, especially the girls, and used quite often to entertain themselves by saying things they knew would turn me red, then enjoying their own laughter. I rarely spoke to strangers, and oral book reports ranked with public flogging of early America. If I spoke to a girl or went as far as to ask her to dance or out on a date, I could expect stomach cramps, weak knees, and sometimes quick trips to the restrooms. This would always be made

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By Jim Ethridge

worse by an outbreak of zits to add to what I perceived to be a much below average physical attractiveness.

People who have known me only in my later life find the description hard to believe, as now I always speak to a stranger and often strike up lengthy conversations with both men and women I encounter on my travels.

In my youth, Mother insisted we be active in church life, and fifty years ago that was the primary meeting place for young people outside of school events.

Our church had hired a new, gung-ho youth minister we all were very fond of.

One Sunday evening after reading scripture on evangelism, he announced that he had prepared a list of young people in the community that did not attend church, and to each of us, he assigned three names to call on. The assignment was simple: we would go to their houses and invite them to youth group at church. Simple for you perhaps, but more terrifying to me than ten trips to the dentist or being forced to run naked through the cafeteria of our high school during the lunch hour. But being committed to our youth minister and to

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God, to some degree at this age, I took my three names.

One of the names was that of a shy, withdrawn, seemingly friendless freshman boy. I had seen him and knew his face but had never spoken to him.

But, there again, I had not spoken to a lot of people, given my shy nature. There was no father figure in his home. The mother was a kind, well-educated, and friendly woman. When nerve finally led me to the door, and I was invited in, I am sure this was the shortest visit in the world. I am thankful that I have no memory of what inept words came from my mouth. And I left thinking, Thank

God that’s over. I suspect the call lasted far less than five minutes.

Time passed and none of the three I visited ever came to join us. This was not a surprise under any circumstance, but certainly not unforeseeable given my clumsy attempt at evangelism.

Several months passed, and one day at school, I heard that the shy boy whom I had visited had committed suicide.

Small feelings of guilt began to creep in.

The what ifs started in my mind. What if he had come to youth group? Would things have been different? What if I had done a better job . . . ?

A couple of days later, I returned

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Shadows Express

home from school, and mother told me the boy’s mother had called, wanting to speak to me. Mother had told her I would return her call. Why didn’t Mom just take a message? It was obvious, in my mind, that the boy’s mother knew the same thing I knew. I had let him down.

But Mother said I would call back, and Mother’s word was like a sacred oath. So I braced myself as I made the call to a loving, mourning mother who had just lost the most important thing in her life. The gist of the call was this: she thanked me for visiting her son and explained that several times in the months that followed, her son had expressed that he could not believe a senior athlete would call on him.

I realized then that she did not know about my failure as an evangelist! You

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might think when I hung up the phone I would have been relieved. I was not! If that clumsy, inept visit meant that much to him, what could have happened if I had done a better job, or called on him several more times?

This event has troubled me for fiftyeight years, now. My faith teaches me God forgives our sins, and I believe this.

But I don’t know about the sins of omission: the things we could have done, should have done—the opportunities that we let slip by. Will God forgive me? I don’t know.

The event made me a better, more compassionate person. I listen to people; I try to look for opportunities and try not to shirk my responsibility to my fellow man, but I’m still not sure how God’s reaction will be to my house call of 1960.

—

Volume 4: Issue 3

Lost and Never Found

By Colin Shaw

Lazily, I meander down the overgrown, twisting path through the trees.

Over the stile, I reach a pasture of tall, scented, yellow wildflowers.

Searching for a dream, an inspiration of innocence lost.

Towering over me, is the massively, twisted shape of an old oak, And recollections of days, climbing and leaping from branch to branch.

Nature impressed on me its wonder and glory.

Diverse colours and smells once gave free reign to my imagination.

No longer can I conjure up and pass the time with my phantasmal friends.

Ethereal visions of castles and knights, sailors and ships, aliens and rockets Vie for my attention no more.

Every dream must be carefully put away.

Respect for the past though, will give new insight for the future.

For time is untrustworthy, ever spiralling forward, out of control.

One must take advantage of what we can learn in our allotted span.

Unless all we accomplish is in vain.

Nothing remains of that carefree generation of my youth, except the memories.

Down a new road I travel, with the coming of maturity and new responsibilities.

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Shadows Express

I Am Now Reduced to Burning Pellets in My Stove

By Tom Sheehan

When I was young, eager, born to boots and Levis, I worked in ditches with a shovel, in many ditches of Mother Earth. Once I worked with an old man who was scarred, had one leg, and had spent a long part of life on a shovel. In a short conversation amidst our work at earth, on a late afternoon, he said, “Life is as simple as a tree. It blossoms, it leafs, it gives oxygen, it holds earth, it seeds, it burns or rots away.”

The image cast by the shovel philosopher was formed forever. He had paused at his work by leaning on the long-handled spade, an unusual move for a machine of a man, and added, this shoveler, this small mover of earth, “A tree bears significance.” But he never said what it was to harvest a tree, to cut its limbs, to slab or cube its trunk, to split the logs thrice or more, to stack them, to burn them and feel the heat a second time or third time—to revel in it. Well, he couldn’t know everything, or so I thought.

Then I came to know trees and how they pass me by. Oh, the significance.

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Time is now passing down through me and my wood-cutting-haulingsplitting-stacking-lugging-dumping ashes days are gone. They slip away with assorted debris behind the patella, cartilage degeneration, an ACL’s incessant chatter. No more will I venture alone into the deep forest, chainsaw at the ready, fuel at hand, lunch packed in a brown bag and a cooler, the silent forest pitching camp around my sudden noise, shutting me off from the rest of the world, swallowing up all my motored echoes, my static roars. Back then bird life and animal life went on, but I saw none of it. The tirade of a few crows would come at me some days, the imperious bark or yap of a fox retreating into the back of some blow down or into a hole of sorts, but little else; the reach of the nasty chain saw went much further than the limb or torso it was at.

I know you’ll believe this, that I have such a thing for trees, that I listen for them. I have heard them in the night, in the agony of a tearing wind, a limb’s crack and fall like shrapnel at work, then

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even from beneath warm, rugged coats of bark. What is also heard, as if it were ankle-deep bites of an ax, is my grandson tossing a ball at the end of the house, past the garage, quiet as an empty box this April day before grass begins its perennial struggle up through last year’s leavings. Only an hour earlier we found a last handful of snow, squatting much as a mischievous toadstool playing hide and seek with spring, beneath our quarry of leaves scattered about like small talk. In a last act of winter, or spring’s prime, for that matter, he first molded it to form and then flung it the length of the yard at our maple tree, as far away as second base.

He doesn’t know the huge, double-trunk maple talks to me on legend nights, that it says, “Hold.

Hold. Hold on.” Or sideways broad leaves catch hold of southwest winds, desert-fed, saying, “Sun is in this wind.” Or that split limbs whistle words I hear through housebroken wood, sills, uprights, joists, lintels, tree gone to endless duty; “I lay claim a space for you. I mine this territory here for the repose of your soul.” I acquiesce that dark roots carve a deep earth sepulcher. It is written: when I lay my spirit down, when my final breath is frost and blood is brighter by

stars, the soft room within those roots will accept my tenancy.

Generally my grandson hears the storm barrage-like in gray tree limbs during northeasterly wars, or hot calamities lightning loosed last August from its heart, bright blue flares and white phosphorous powders arcing to an incomprehensible light, like God’s eyes had outright exploded the final incandescence. Occasionally, at a different level, I hope he hears the tree empty its buckets of heart-flamed leaves extracted from the core of fire only autumn can ignite, or he hears new spring trickle from a miniature ladle a bare half an inch beneath the bark.

Will he ever hear the true talk, hear it speak of pain, or how many miles its roots have gone dowsing underground? He hears the other benchmark sounds I’ve forgotten, the ones that echoed my early life: gunshots from a baseball bat, chattering of hockey sticks like old folks in a circle, crowd noises, fathers prodding the shadows of their egos to a capability neither one of them could ever reach, perhaps loss with a bad taste in the mouth.

We pause to listen, to hear the sounds of our times, the creaking on the back stairs, a visitor we believe is not there, but is heard. What my grandson

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hears he must grow with, not that he must have my ear, or even accept my thoughts, but if some night in August, when the moon’s a peach basket and the old calendar’s thicker and he puts his ear to the tree, he might hear a deep root break, he might hear a breaking heart. Oh, will he hear the other voice?

Once I heard the other voice talking about a legacy of flight a tree begins: this is a time of apples and cinnamon, when summer is piled in ashes, its wreckage strewn with roses in the lane.

One order hands tight reins to a temperate relative. Autumn, in a frenzy, sets its fiery course though this night calls out loudly for woolens. Woodpiles begin to disappear, curl their hot and puzzling ways up dim chimneys’ thickened throats, just to return as faithful as birds in March’s menagerie.

The ingots of my industry, stacked in July warehousing like golden corrugations, freed a Phoenix from its grave; an armful of red oak splits, dropped beside the iron stove, housed bright August’s final bee. Sleepily from her wooden nap, struggling to bring airborne the fat thumb of her being, she faltered on the kitchen floor. Nine times she rose and nine times reaffirmed her thick impotence, wings less rapid than she dared, Earth too much magnetic force.

I couched her in a mitten deep inside cored maple tree and urged winter down the road, urged its coming and quick passage. In May, when woodpiles

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return, when bouncing robins dance on matchstick feet, I will watch her children aviate the lilac bush, the mountain top.

Secondly, there was a sound in the eye: this midnight’s as thick as conspirators, stars secreted like listening devices waiting for one breath to find me out. In the woodpile I can’t see, a snake settles where my hand left a moment’s warmth on a slanting of birch plunging past white, its coils wound tight as bark. Field mouse, beneath owl’s infrared eyes and sudden wing thump, hangs about and gathers into minutes.

The only flag is pennant of skunk, the tail-up streamer recalling every vengeance borne on mysteries of abiding shadows. High darkness and a collective of agents are pierced by the peephole of a nail-head star, deities’ confederate beginning revelations, yet I stand in the shadow of a tree.

The voice also muttered low about logs, friends, and hard Februarys, an exclusive eulogy for fire-taken Paul Jodoin, at midnight rushed up into flames. Logs and hard Februarys go rigid with identities—iron hanging by its teeth on beams wearing bark and cracking up white, ax’s cold tooth buried in the scattered face of a stump like a map slicing its hemispheres, ice pond riding earth skillful as eon’s sled, my hands stiff as knots sucking up white frost. A friend cuts night’s news short; doesn’t just go away, leaves the nail half driven in a tree coming together again.

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Nothing’s as cold as a fire out and a man traveling with his smoky February of an odd year. His smile falls from wood, but mouth has no identity or logs or trout washing under the year as long as river’s been or a place of the image his jacket hangs, not worn out, hardly worn out at all.

Or then it says, just after midnight folds itself away: the old, gnarled anttoured pear tree bent beside the house, has angry skin, wears many years’ bruises, the applied rod, frenzies of a whip, manacle marks where my brother’s chain fall held the brute mobile, a ’37 Ford engine, as he faltered through the mechanics of July. In the smashed fist of upper limbs one moon of October, afraid my breath was seen, that an aura glowed my tell-tale place, I soft-chimed my belfry hideaway, saw chums as mice scatter in shadow.

In winter this tree contorts whistles.

I’ve seen it Septembers, boiling like an olla stew, whipped by Caribbean madness up the coast from Hatteras, but promising only kindling. Its roots are like best friends, summons servers, tax collectors. All my years it has dared dread December its bidding, worn alien icy crowns sometimes diamond-bright into spring’s heart. (She has never known this: in a high fork, sun-bleached, pruned by the hard seasons, her name is another bruise, letters clumped bulgy as toads pretending they will leap. I was fifteen at the carving and feel the knife’s

handle yet within my hand, the single breast, hear her windy name sighing through the splatter of leaves, vespers of youth. Oh, Love, when hearth fire strikes into the names of these limbs, we shall be warm again.)

To fall asleep here by my pellet stove, feet up on an old stool, not yet used to a recliner, is to dream back to those days when I gathered the wood supply, when I felt the heat of wood a second time, or felt like the throwback that I was, hustling, working my tail off, beating the system at its own game, surviving. Oil prices were on the rise and I rebelled. Some Saturdays in the ‘70s were a six-pack day of splitting wood, stacking the corrugations in their pile against the fence, feeling the yesteryear in my bones, the vaunt carousing in my soul. A Saturday of July was shoving against oil, against cartels and gougers, and the reality of middlemen; it was a three-beer push on the maul handle. My shoulders shot nerves into fibrous white oak, into elm never letting go, maple that reported splits clean as firecrackers.

I saw an Arab watching me through the eye of a coin hung on edge. I heard the flag sing in front of the house, my drummer high on a hill, and, in strange field, crevice and creek, from here to the Montanas, gunshots of the maul, chain saw’s deep roars, my Howitzers in the fray.

—

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Shadows Express

Decaying Beauty

By Katherine Whitestone

Creation dawns from Death’s designing reign As summer shades prepare to fade away.

The forests bow, resigned to destiny, For in decay is born a new domain.

The autumn breeze is crisp and sun rays wane, Initiating changes in the hues.

Bright colors burst where once was only green.

Creation dawns from Death’s designing reign.

Deception looms, foreshadowing disdain.

This brilliant beauty feigns emerging life.

A tapestry is formed from dying growth, For in decay is born a new domain.

Creation dawns from Death’s designing reign.

Grieve not the changing of the ebbing day, For in decay is born a new domain.

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Volume 4: Issue 3

By Troy Frings

Tim Koch lifted his head. Long brown strands of hair that looked lighter in the sun than they really were framed his oval face. His hips popped up in one swift motion. Thumb, index, and middle fingers dug deeper into their grassy cushions. For a few seconds he stayed frozen, and then sprang forward at three-quarter speed down the field. His hair flowed back. The track jersey swirled around his wiry frame. Thirty yards down-field, his sprint slowed to a jog and he turned around. Sam, the team captain, stood to the side. He was a short but well-built boy with cropped blond hair. A gold chain glistened around Sam’s neck and disappeared into his track jersey.

"Coach's really got his heart set on State." Sam nodded to the far side of the field to where the high jump was set up.

"It's about time, after four years."

Tim crossed his arms.

"You warmed up?"

"As much as I need to."

"Good. Let's go support Maddy."

They walked across the field to the high jump. He threw a glance at Sam.

"I'm the star, but you're team captain.

Ridiculous." The football field had turned into a collage of bright-colored team jerseys.

"That's because I have leadership qualities, and you're a prima donna."

"Oh, come on. I'm lovable," Tim said as they reached their destination and a graying man with a paunch belly.

"Pretty tense, boys." Coach Strickland looked their way and adjusted his glasses. A stopwatch hung around his neck, and a packet of curled up papers stuck out the back pocket of his khaki shorts. He rubbed his neck, then pulled out the packet. He flipped through a page. "Maddy's up. The bar's at one meter and seventy centimeters. We're three points behind Hillsdale. The Hillsdale girl made her jump, so Maddy's got to clear this." Maddy stepped up to the white chalked line, and the crowd went silent.

She was a tall, lanky girl with thick eyebrows, honey eyes, and long, dark brown hair tied in a bun on top of her head. A blue headband and blue laced spikes matched her track jersey.

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Tim brushed his hair back and waved a hand. Maddy replied by meeting his eyes, then looking down.

Her foot tapped on the edge of the start line. She smoothed her jersey against her chest then let her arms hang. She leaned into position. After a first step, her pace quickened. She curved a path toward bar and mattress. Closing in on it, she took to the air. Her body curved as if it were a water tube. Any contact would dislodge the bar. A shoulder rattled it. Maddy hit the aqua-green foam landing pit on her back. The bar followed her onto the mat where it landed with a bounce and quiver. Tim stood stoically as the Delford team moaned and the Hillsdale team, clad in silver and black jerseys, jumped for joy.

Coach Strickland thrust his packet to the ground. Then he mouthed to himself and scraped the papers off the ground. He jotted something down and turned his attention to Tim. "Get ready."

The Delford team dispersed over to the track for the last event: the 400 meter dash. Tim stayed by the high jump.

"Be there in a minute," Tim called out to Coach Strickland and Sam who joined the flock.

"I think I just broke Coach's heart."

Maddy approached Tim, who hugged her.

"Nah, I'll redeem you from the boys' side."

"You'd think people could put high school track into perspective." They

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began walking down toward the track where Coach Strickland huddled with his staff.

"Well it's been four years of blood, sweat, and tears."

"Oh, really, Mr. Churchill?" She added an English accent to match.

"Who's Mr. Churchill?"

"I'm going to assume that's you trying to be funny."

Tim replied with a faint smirk, then said, "In September, when you're studying rocket science in the rolling California hills, some of us will be tarring roofs, dreaming of a cold beverage."

"Tarring roofs." She restrained a chuckle. "A little too Shawshank for me, but go on."

"The point is that some of us, like yours truly, need high school track and records and championships. Otherwise, I should've just gone to class."

"I would've been valedictorian if I didn't spend half my time trying to get you to class." She bumped shoulders with him.

"On a more important note— forty-six," he said.

"What?"

"The new State record. It's at fortysix ten right now. I'm breaking it sometime in the next minute or so."

"Confident. That's good. But I'll be happy with just a championship."

"Gotta be a bit more ambitious than that, Madeline," he said,

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accentuating her name as they reached lane three.

"I'll work on it."

"You do that."

"Good luck, Tim." "Hey, I need your hair tie."

"Why?" "I have to tie my hair."

"You are such a girl."

"Maddy, I'm about to be your hero of the hour. So give it." He held out a hand, palm up.

She sighed and handed it to him.

Her untied hair gave her a 70s look.

"That's a good look for you," he said, putting his hair into a bun at the base of his neck and then ruffled the top of her head.

"Oh, please. Don't try to flirt with me."

"Well, it's not every day that you look like a girl."

Her jaw dropped just enough to show her surprise, but she was quick to retort, "How are you single?"

"Baffles the mind, I know!"

"Just win." She smiled and walked over to the bleachers.

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Tim went to Sam who was in lane three stretching his calves in front of the red rubber-fitted, bullet-silver starting blocks that decorated each of the eight lanes.

“You’ve got the best seat in the house to watch me break this record,” he said, prompting Sam to pop onto his feet.

“States Champs, baby. Helluva way to end it all!”

“Git’er done,” Tim said in a kitschy southern accent. Then in his normal voice, he said, “Hillsdale’s got nothing on us, right?”

“Knockout blow.” Sam unhooked his chain and slid it into the mini-pocket of his shorts.

They banged fists. A hand on Tim's shoulder prompted him to turn around to find Coach Strickland standing there.

"All right, boys." Coach Strickland looked down at his crumpled papers and back up at Tim. "All right, points-wise it's between Hillsdale and us. Everyone else is too far back to hurt us. Hillsdale’s a different story, though. They’ve got a pair of runners in. Quite a tandem, those two." Coach drew Tim's attention over to two sprinters in silver jerseys jumping up and down in place, bending their knees in midair. One was tall, red headed, and freckled—a fine Irish lad no doubt. The other was considerably shorter and had dark curly hair.

"The tall one might give you some trouble, guys." Coach Wagner came up beside Coach Strickland. She was the

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sprinting coach and a past sprinter herself. Now, at forty-five she had settled teaching psychology to seniors battling senioritis. "If both of you finish in the top three, we’ll win on points.

Even if Hillsdale wins the race. But be careful about jumping the gun."

"Runners on the track," sounded a monotone voice over the loudspeakers.

"No worries," Tim reassured the coaches as the track began to clear, leaving only runners. "Just expect fortysix!"

The coaches smiled and walked on the field down to the finish line.

"Runners in your lanes. Runners in your lanes," said the omnipresent voice.

The eight runners shook hands and took their positions on the staggered lanes. Sam and Tim in lanes three and four. The Hillsdale duo in lanes five and six.

A track judge in a bright red jacket stepped onto the Tartan track.

"There will be two commands: 'runners, take your mark' and the gun.

When I say 'take your mark,' you can get into your starting positions, and then I'll fire the gun. DQs will be on the first false start. Any questions? All right, then.

Good luck, gentlemen." The judge stepped back. The boys all set into their positions and murmured good luck to one another. Tim's spikes pressed against the red rubbers of the rickety blocks.

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"Ready! Set!" The gun fired. They took off.

"False start. False start." A second firing of the gun rang through the air.

An accompanying whistle drove the point. The runners, some still oblivious, turned and saw the judge’s gun still up in the air. His free hand pointed over to the starting line—the universal sign of a false start.

"Lane three. Delford. Disqualified.

Lane three," announced the voice above. Sam groaned and arched his neck up with a grimace painted on his face for a moment. He stepped off the track onto the grass field, head hung low. Most went back to their starting positions.

Tim jogged over to Sam, who was shaking his head in solitude with his hands on his hips.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I got this.

No worries. We’re still State Champs.”

Tim held his fist out, and, after a pause, Sam reluctantly pressed his against it.

“Okay, we’re gonna have to work on that one.”

Coaches Strickland and Wagner hurried toward the boys.

“Tim, you’ve got to get back in your lane,” Coach Strickland instructed.

“You pretty much have to come in first place now, Tim.” There was a hint of surrender in Coach Wagner’s voice.

“Cat’s in the bag.”

“What?” Coach Wagner asked.

“Means I have it under control.

Forty-six,” Tim said. He stepped back onto the track and jogged to his starting blocks.

The judge stepped back onto the track. "Gentlemen, once again, you must go only on my signal: ‘ready, set,’ and I will shoot. DQ on the first false start,

gentlemen. Take your marks." The boys knelt and waited.

"Ready. Set." The runners popped into position. The gun went off again.

The runners launched.

Fifty meters into the bend it was anyone's race. One hundred meters down, some were falling behind. The runner in lane eight pulled a muscle. He pulled off to the side. Hitting the 150 mark, and into the first straightaway, Irish led by a step.

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Tim’s thighs burned. At two hundred, Tim found another gear and started closing the gap. They entered the last bend in a dead heat. Tim emerged into the final stretch with a sliver lead. He carried the lead into the 300 mark.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Coach Strickland on the grass point his crumpled papers toward the finish line.

The yellow ticker tape, now flanked by a growing crowd, glistened under the blue of the sky and the orange of the track. Blue jerseys urged him on; silverand-blacks hollered, signaling that Irish lurked but a step behind.

At the 370 mark, Tim’s calves were on fire. He charged on, breathing in and out in rhythm with the pumping of his legs. He dreamed for a moment of what breaking through the tape meant; he’d have a place… no… a shrine in the annals of high school track history.

At 390, a presence broke through his reverie. Then at 395, a mop of red wafted by the corner of his eye. The ticker fluttered before Tim reached it.

"Forty-six nine, Hillsdale. Lane five."

No record. No championship. The agony.

The other runners passed by as Tim fell to his knees on the grass. The Hillsdale team ran onto the track. There was commotion at his back, but Tim didn’t have the energy to look. Instead he put his fists into the grass and struggled to catch his breath.

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“Couldn’t hold it, huh? What was that?” a voice asked.

When he looked up, he saw a freshman group of his teammates walking away from him toward the bleachers. There was nothing to do but wait for the official scores. The teams returned to the bleachers and the coaches promulgated with the officiating crew on the track. The elderly official headed for the brick booth that towered over the bleachers. Coaches Strickland and Wagner walked back to their cluster of blue.

“The scores are tallied. We have to wait for an official decision, and, barring any surprises, it looks like second place,” Coach Wagner said. Strickland adjusted his glasses, more as a way to deal with his frustration than to improve his vision.

The monotone voice came on the loudspeaker. Individual scores were announced. Various participants were acknowledged. Then it was time to rank the schools, and silence filled the air for a moment.

“In third place, with a score of 70 points, Oradell.” There was applause in the middle section of the bleachers.

“In second place, with a score of 83 points, Delford.” Applause followed among the blue jerseys in the bleachers.

Then it came. “And, with a score of 85 points, the 2012 Delaware State High School Athletic Association Track and Field Championship is awarded to Hillsdale.”

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Jubilation broke out at the far end of the bleachers. High-fives sprang out among the silver and black uniforms.

“Good try, Tim.” Coach Strickland gave Tim a perfunctory handshake and headed over to congratulate the Hillsdale coaching staff that was still in a state of utter joy.

“Thank you,” Tim replied and took his seat.

Sam stepped into Tim’s line of vision.

Their eyes met. “It’s all right, I guess,” Sam said with a light shrug and walked away up the bleacher steps.

In time the hoopla simmered down.

Belongings were collected. The bleachers began to empty. A breeze came down on the field. Tim looked to his right at the collage of bright colors migrating toward a myriad of yellow buses parked just beyond the school's chain-link fence.

His eyes drifted to the bleachers where Maddy was putting her things together. She zipped up her wind jacket and pulled her hair out from under it.

He looked out at the almost empty football field. The breeze tossed scattered pieces of litter around.

He untied his hair and walked over to Maddy who was putting on her windbreakers.

“Hey, wanted to give you this.” He held out the hair tie.

“I think it’s the first time I’ve gotten anything back from you.”

“Yeah, it happens.”

“We’ll just chalk this up as your graduation present to me.” She tied her hair.

“Right. Well, I really should pack up.”

He turned and began walking to his things.

“Tim!” He thumbed back over his shoulder.

“You ran an awesome time! Really.”

“You bet,” he replied and started back on his walk.

He heard footsteps approaching but didn’t really care. Then a hand pulled on his arm; it wasn’t overpowering but it still stopped him. As he turned, Maddy wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Forgot one thing.” She kissed him.

And when she released, it was as if a small burst of fire transferred from her lips onto his.

He was puzzled.

“So you’re the first track runner I’ve kissed in my high school career. Yeah, the way I see it, we graduate in like two weeks—so you’re likely to go down as the only one. How’s that for a record? I think it’s up there. What do you think?”

“I - I think I want to kiss back.”

“So you want another shot,” she said with a shrug of a shoulder.

He put his hands on her hips and pressed his lips against hers. It started soft and built up. Then it blocked out the world. There was only this fleeting, infinite kernel of time.

—

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Shadows Express

Tear Tracks in the Snow Audra Ralls

Tire tracks are all I see as I gaze out the rearview mirror, Hugging the memories of the day close to my heart, Enveloping myself so my mind may relive this day again.

Papa pulling me on my sled behind good ole John Deere, Every snowflake on my face a new miracle to behold.

Rounding the curve, the frozen pond overtakes my view, Forgetting the chill, embracing the newness of this world.

Endless icicles blanket branches that once shown autumn’s hues.

Covered fields of wheat now a playground of snowmen and forts Telling tales of our dream-like day in winter wonderland.

Sipping cocoa near the fire, marshmallows tickling my nose Numb toes tingling to life while aroma of cookies fills the room.

Outside the world awaits our return to sample more splendor.

Words of grace pass our lips, thanking God for this glorious gift.

Dawn turns to dusk much too soon, as we bundle to head home, Away from snowy acreage, an Eden for all to embrace.

Yearning eyes stare at tire marks like tear tracks in the snow.

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Volume 4: Issue 3

By Herbert Hart

I could find it easily with a GPS. Instantly connected to one of the celestial beacons that now infest the heavens, I work my way from the outer atmosphere down, through layers of ozone, cloud and the atmospheric detritus civilization has heaved up from the earth.

For the last few centuries we’ve done so with a furious intensity.

I think of myself as six year old boy in the year 1962 and wonder if my mind would have been boggled by satellite technology. I say this, because lately I‘ve been having this crazy dream in which the satellite is a 1960 Ford pick-up truck.

I’m standing on the driver’s side running board, my brother on the other side, while my father wheels along the rusty, grey vehicle, plying an elliptical traverse through space, time and an unimaginable future. Were we always looking for a certain degree of latitude?

I continue my descent. As I plunge through the stratosphere, the first geological formations that appear in the coordinates I have set are the Rocky Mountains. The Blue Canadian Rockies, as the song goes.

Driven up by the most tumultuous of forces, this towering wall of snow and granite was framed by my west facing living room window. The land spreads out behind me, rolling east to the flat prairie vista, the scrub forest and muskeg dotted with boulders and the markings of geologically recent glacial visitations.

And finally, the latest and most temporal markings become visible; signs of human habitation. Perched on the outer skin, clinging to and clawing what they can from the land and its denizens; survivors by intellect alone; destroyers with opposable thumbs and large craniums.

It is three acres I am seeking, sitting at approximately 52° 22' 0" North and 114° 55' 0" West. No particular address, just what was, in 1962, an unfinished house on a muddy lot.

Across the road, the land slips down towards the North Saskatchewan River. Not the broad, polluted flow, as in the city, one hundred and fifty miles to the northeast, but the drinkable, pristine water that gushes forth from the glaciers of the Rocky Mountains.

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There is a tar paper shack, but I skirt it in my memory.

It’s a beautiful land, and it nourished my spirit when I was a young child. The seeds of self-destruction and discontent should never have been sown in this rich a soil.

Yet here I am, fifty-five years old and looking for a place on a map, somewhere distant, even alien to me now. It‘s a place I’ve not forgotten, but never kept in mind.

I received a phone call. The voice on the other end was calm, considerate, well-practiced in the art of conveying bad news. My mind disconnects as the voice works its way through the necessary details of my brother’s final dissolution.

That six year old boy, I thought of him again. When this began he was just discovering that men had gone into space. He loved the forest, and he and his brother were beautiful, intelligent children. Crandall was eight.

“Eight and a half,” he crowed, when Mom told Mr. Wilkes he was eight.

I was a little quiet, small for six and definitely the younger brother. I wouldn’t have said anything, even if Mom had said I was four.

He was my big brother in all the ways a little brother could want; he protected me, taught me, pushed me around, and goaded me into things my Mom would have killed him for if I had ever told her. I was in love.

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Everything I can remember about that time happened in summer. Late November to early March was dead cold winter, but somehow it couldn’t freeze the lazy and timeless two months of summer from my memory. I do remember a morning tobogganing on the hill across the road, taking a break for lunch and coming back to find that a Chinook had melted all the snow. Half an hour was all it took. Good lord, I sound like some old coot telling tall tales.

But summer was that good.

Crandall and I swam in the backwaters, caught tadpoles and grasshoppers, climbed trees and visited folk who lived anywhere within three miles of our place.

“Garth shot a cougar,” he said to me one day, “Wanna go look at it?”

I wanted to say we should ask Mom, but he stared me down, knowing what I was thinking.

“We’ll take the river path,” he said, “but you stay away from the edge, alright?”

The Higgins lived a mile north up the road, but the longer path that ran along the eastern bank of the river was an exhilarating route. At two points it was a straight hundred foot drop to the river. There was a backwater below one of the drops, and it was loaded with local legend.

The various stories were as follows: Eddie Latham jumped off it and lived and that’s why he had one leg,

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Marnie Miller disappeared from there one August evening, although it turned out, unwed, she had gone off to have Eddie Latham’s baby in Calgary. In a more distant era, the Indians used it to get rid of people that caused trouble, and their ghosts still showed up at times, especially Halloween, which I didn’t know until later had no place in the lexicon of Aboriginal lore. Oh, and there was a river creature that could crawl right up the cliff and snatch little boys and girls as they walked along the path. I was susceptible to that one, so that’s why Crandall let me walk on the other side of him, away from the edge.

Crandall was especially athletic. He was like a gymnast, untrained, but able to move his body in unimaginable ways.

And mighty dangerous ways, I might add. I knew he wanted to take the river path so he could lean out over the drop off, holding two saplings, one in each hand and then stretching over the edge like a ski jumper. It used to scare the heck out of me.

On this occasion, he had decided to up the ante. There was a fairly thick poplar tree right at the edge, just thick enough to wrap two hands around.

Without telling me, Crandall stepped back from the path and then ran full speed right at the drop off. I think I screamed, but he sprinted by me and then leapt right off the edge, or so I thought. What I didn’t know he was going to do was to grab that poplar and

swing around it, propelling himself three hundred and sixty degrees and back onto the embankment. I hugged him, crying, and wouldn’t let go until he promised me he wouldn’t do it again.

He didn’t promise, but he happened to have two chunks of Dubble Bubble in his pocket, and that got my mind off the incident.

Mid-August, Crandall went quiet.

He was still good to be with, but he started to get un-necessarily rough at times, lashing out for no reason, probably what we call acting out in this day and age.

One day, we were heading down to the river. I was following, as usual, so didn’t really notice that Crandall had taken a different fork in the path. When

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I looked up, we were at the edge of the clearing in which Mack Hanson had a tar paper shack. He lived there with his son, Ernie, and they both seemed old to us.

Mack was friendly with my Mom and Dad. Our neighbors, the Ropers, wouldn’t let their kids go down near Mack’s, and we teased them mercilessly about it. Mack gave us gum whenever we saw him, and Mom always sent something fresh baked to him at Christmas.

“Why’d we come here, Cran?” I asked, “Mack’s away in Red Deer.”

“I know,” said Crandall, “I think we should go in and clean up his place for him.”

That sounded reasonable to me, so I followed Crandall inside. We went through all the cupboards, poured every bottle we found into a big tub, and then mopped the floor with it. It really made the place stink.

I was ready to leave, but Crandall went back to the kitchen. I couldn’t see him, but I began to hear dishes breaking, one at a time, like someone was dropping them.

“Cran?” I called, afraid to go look, “Crandall, let’s get out of here.”

Crandall came out of the kitchen.

His face was kind of red, like he was really angry about something.

The next morning, there was a knock at our door. We were still in bed, but got out to peek down the hall and see who it was. Mom opened the door.

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The serious nature of the ensuing conversation soon attracted my father‘s attention. It was Mack Hanson.

“Sorry to bother you, Frank,” said Mack, “but someone broke into my house yesterday. I was wonderin’ if you saw anything unusual around here while I was gone.”

“What’d they take, Mack,” said my Dad, “I hope they didn’t get any valuables.”

“No, nothin’s missin’,” said Mack, “but they sure made a mess of the place.”

Mom was looking at us, and I suddenly realized that Crandall was back in his bed, under the covers.

“Hollister, Crandall,” she said, “Did you boys see anyone down at Mack’s yesterday?”

I tried to do my part. I tried to be strong. I heard Crandall whispering, “Shut up! Don’t say anything!” from under the covers.

I burst into tears.

I felt so bad for Mack, that sad and confused look he had on his face, like somebody had kicked his dog.

“Mom,” I cried out, “we were just trying to fix it up for Mack while he was gone.”

Mack was quick to grasp the situation.

“I’ll leave you folks to take care of things,” he said, as he turned away from the door, “Don’t visit no harm on the boys over it. They’s just kids.”

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After the beans were spilled and the air had been cleared, Dad loaded us in the truck and we went down to apologize to Mack.

I went in with Dad, got some gum from Mack and told him I was sorry.

Crandall would not get out of the truck.

Dad had even threatened him.

“I don’t care what you do to me,” said my brother, “I ain’t going inside that place.”

Mack eventually came out, telling Crandall it was alright. He tried to shove some gum at him through the window, but Cran wouldn’t take it.

Dad was so mad I thought his head would split open. but Crandall wouldn’t budge.

I don’t even remember what else happened, if we were punished or if Crandall got something I never knew about.

A few weeks later, when we were free again, Crandall took me back to Mack’s. He was away. Ernie’s motorbike was parked outside the shack, but we had heard Dad tell Mom Ernie was working in Hay River.

“Do you want to do some target practice?” said Crandall.

“Whaddaya mean?” I said, feeling a little scared at being back here again.

Without a word, Crandall picked up a fair sized rock and hurled it as hard as he could at the motorbike. It smashed one of the rear view mirrors.

“Crandall!” I yelled, “Why’d you do that?”

He acted like I wasn’t even there.

His face was set in a grim smile and as fast as he could bend and pick up rocks, he pummeled the motorbike. When it was chipped and dented to his satisfaction, Crandall pushed it over and let it crash on its side.

I wanted to leave so bad. I couldn’t think of anything that could make someone want to do something like that. I was sure we would never see the outside of our bedroom for the rest of our lives. It didn’t seem odd to me that Mack or his son never showed up to ask about it. After a few days in terror, I forgot about the whole thing. For Crandall, it was the beginning of the end. It just took a while.

We moved the following summer.

Dad went bankrupt and one day we got in the car and drove away. All I can remember is the guy we gave a ride to, the son of a friend of my Dad’s. Our cat licked this guy’s head all the way to Edmonton. It must have been the Brylcreem.

Crandall didn’t adjust well to city life. He didn’t adjust to any life at all. By the time he was thirteen, he was a substance abuser. Fights were common, and schools came and went with the season. He left home at sixteen, staying in touch occasionally, mostly when he wanted a place to stay or some money.

I heard he did some time, but unless

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someone tells you themselves, there is no way to find out officially.

I didn’t hear from him for more than ten years, but one day he called me, right out of the blue, and asked me if I would be kind enough to meet him for coffee. I accepted his invitation.

I was living in Vancouver, so we met at a local coffee house, not far from the modest hotel he was staying at.

Crandall looked stretched, but I could see that he was sober and was trying to stay that way.

“Well, little brother,” he said, as he hugged me, “This is a long way from Rocky Mountain House.”

I had tears in my eyes. Our parents were gone, and although I had a wonderful family of my own, I was always saddened by the fact that I couldn’t find Crandall. I didn’t want to lose him again.

“You look good, Cran,” I said, “I’m so glad you called me.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me,” he said, and continued over my protestations to the contrary, “but I’ve been seeing some psychiatric doctors and I need to tell you some things.”

“Sure,” I said, “take all the time you need.”

Well, it did take some time. At one point I wished we had done it in private, as I’ve never enjoyed crying in public. At least Crandall was weeping along with me, or I with him, as it probably was.

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He finally paused in a way I knew invited questions.

“How come you, Cran?” I said, “Where was I? We were always together.”

“He told me he was going to let me shoot his rifle. He said that you were too young and anyways, being that I was such a big strong boy, I should get all the chances to shoot.”

He hadn’t been specific, but it was coming. He saw me looking at him and knew then he had to tell me.

“His son, Ernie, he did it to me while the old man watched.”

I guess a busted motorcycle was fair trade. I felt nauseous. Long after we moved away, Mack Hanson sent Christmas cards wishing us the best of the season. My parents dutifully returned the felicitations.

“I hope those animals are burning in hell,” I muttered, “We should have killed them.”

Crandall just smiled, a sad smile, a worn out movement of his mouth that reflected all the pain and agony he had been subjected to.

“Life’s too short for that, little brother,” he said, “I want to live. I want to know life and the great comforts it can bring.”

We made plans to meet. He came to dinner, met his nieces and nephews and got to act like an uncle. They loved him. He stayed in Vancouver for a few months, but I could see the glint of

Volume 4: Issue 3

something in his eye, and I knew he would soon be gone.

When he left, we promised never to lose touch. He didn’t visit again, although I saw him in Calgary once when I went there on a business trip. He was drinking again.

He called me a few weeks ago, a hot summer night, just like the kind we enjoyed as kids.

“Hollister,” he said, his voice jumping out of the phone like a crackerjack, “I’m going back to the old homestead. You gotta come with me, brother. I’m gonna kill some demons.”

“Are you sure you’re alright, Crandall,” I said, “You have to really be together for a trip like that.”

“Oh, so now you’re the expert,” he said, “Come with me, Holly, we’ll walk on the river path and swim in the backwater.”

I couldn’t go, even if I wanted to.

It was hard to say no.

“I can’t, Crandall. I’m set to go on vacation with the family. We’ve been planning this trip for a year.”

He was quiet.

I said, “Crandall, are you alright?

I’m not making excuses. I’ll go another time for sure, but not now.”

“Alright, little brother,” he sighed, “I’ll go it alone. I love you, you know. I always have.”

He hung up and left me standing there with a lump the size of the Blue Canadian Rockies stuck in my throat.

And now, the very polite gentleman is telling me my brother has committed suicide. I come back to the conversation, dropping through layers of atmosphere, like a GPS settling in on the coordinates of a particularly unpleasant place.

“Mr. Hill, it seems he flung himself off a cliff into the North Saskatchewan River.”

I thought for a moment. It was the end, but I wanted Crandall to go out maybe somehow knowing I had had faith in him. I went with my gut.

“It wasn’t suicide,” I said, “He didn’t kill himself on purpose.”

“Mr. Hill, there is no other explanation, unless you have one and can provide evidence to support it.”

“The place where he went over,” I said, “was there a broken sapling at the spot?”

“What are you saying, Mr. Hill? That it was an accident?”

“What I’m saying sir, is that it was an error in judgment on his part. It was a stunt gone wrong.”

“Just a moment, please,” said the voice on the phone, “I have to check with the officer that was at the scene.”

I waited a long time. I felt like screaming, but I wanted to come through for Crandall. Mack Hanson would not win this one.

“Mr. Hill?”

“Yes, yes, I’m right here.”

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“I’m sending the officer back to the place where your brother died. Will you be available for a call tomorrow morning?”

I said yes and hung up. I didn’t sleep all night, feeling at turns utterly crazy for what I had suggested and then guilty for not having faith in Crandall. I must have fallen asleep at one point, because the telephone woke me up.

“Good morning, this is Hollister Hill,” I said “Mr. Hill, this is Sergeant Beck of the Rocky Mountain House RCMP detachment. I spoke to you yesterday about your brother, Crandall Hill?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, “I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“It seems you were right about the sapling, Mr. Hill. It was a little larger than a sapling, actually. They found a recently broken off stump and the rest of the tree was down in the backwater near where the body was found.”

“So it won’t go down as a suicide?”

“No, Mr. Hill,” said Sergeant Beck, respectful, understanding and somehow sounding grateful, “It was a tragic accident.”

We buried Crandall Hill at approximately 52° 22' 0" North and 114° 55' 0" West. My whole family attended and we enjoyed

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being together in spite of the circumstances.

Later I walked the river path to the broken stump, but had no stomach to look over the edge. I wandered back, unconsciously treading the path that led me to Mack Hanson’s crumbling shack.

I stared at it for a while, feelings of hostility, shame, hatred and fear tearing through my very soul. I looked up, and at that moment I saw a shooting star, or maybe a satellite, arching across the heavens. In the same instant, I heard the happy laughter of my family, Crandall’s family, coming through the woods looking for me.

“You’ll never win, you evil bastards,” I said aloud, “he’ll never be yours.”

I turned and walked away as the shooting star fell.

—

Volume 4: Issue 3

Burnt Offerings

By Brian Kayser

“I swear I’ll clean all the bathrooms. The vacuuming, consider it done. Please,” Natalie pleaded. Her mom, Lisa, stood by the door, keys in hand. “I’ll even make my own meals. I won’t even ask for anything. I’ll stay up in my room. If anyone comes over, I won’t even come down. Don’t make me go.”

“Nat, I don’t have time for this,” Lisa said. “I’m going to be late.” She was wearing one of her nice dresses. Her lips were a deep red, the smell of perfume filling the foyer.

Natalie sighed and walked towards the door, her shoulders slouched. Her steps were slow, dramatic, exaggerating her defeat. Her shoes lay by the door. She grabbed them in her hands and walked out, feeling the cold of the asphalt driveway through her socks. It was a dark October night, and Natalie was tired. She wanted nothing but to lay in her bed and read. Her best friend, Avery, was going to a sleepover with the popular seventh graders, the ones they used to make fun of together until they asked Avery to eat with them.

“They’re not as bad as you think,” Avery told Natalie in the lunch line earlier, before they took their pizza to separate tables.

“I wouldn’t know,” was Natalie’s reply.

“Dad doesn’t even want me there. He’s probably busy. Did you even check?” Natalie’s dad lived across town in an apartment complex designed for single people with an indifference to cleanliness or modern appliances. The small rooms fought against time with everything they had.

“It’s his week.... I mean, he would love to see you. He would never not want you there,” Lisa said. “It looks like it might rain tonight.”

Natalie clutched her backpack to her chest, the bag bursting with what she’d need to survive over the weekend: toothpaste, a change of clothes, pillowcase, three books, and her math homework. She gazed out the window as her mom drove through their small town, passing the diner with a family walking in. “Can you at least get me dinner before you leave me there?”

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“You’ll be fine,” Lisa said. “I’m sure your father will take you someplace nice.” Lisa pulled into his complex and put her car in park. Natalie walked up the steps, looking back to her mother in the hopes that she’d changed her mind, that she’d be leaning out the window yelling for her to get back in the car, that she didn’t have to go, that she could stay home, that her mother’s stupid boyfriend Brad wouldn’t be coming over, that they wouldn’t be going out to some swanky restaurant, that she wouldn’t be smiling at everything he said, telling him how wonderful he was.

Natalie was angry as she walked up the steps. Her mother tried to hide that Brad had been to the house, even denying it.

But Natalie knew. She knew when the toilet seat downstairs was left up. She knew when hot sauce appeared in the back of the refrigerator. She knew.

The apartment smelled of leftover pizza and stale cigarette smoke.

Dirty clothes lay in the corners of the main room. Two empty pizza boxes sat by the door with the cardboard box to a case of beer, overflowing with household garbage. Natalie’s dad, Victor, sat on the couch with Sean, his best friend. He often referred to Sean as his business partner. Victor sat like he’d just completed a marathon—arms stretched over his head, feet on the coffee table. Stacks of sports cards in plastic cases and empty aluminum cans of beer and soda filled the coffee table.

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The two men barely glanced up when Natalie entered the apartment.

“I’m telling you—hold on to this one for at least another two months,” Sean said. He was hunched over his laptop, his face glowing pale white from the screen’s brightness. “He’s gonna have a breakout season.” Sean nodded in Natalie’s general direction.

“I saw one go for thirty bucks on eBay this morning. It’s not going to go any higher for a long time, and that’s if, and only if, he has a great season. I don’t see it happening.”

Natalie walked into the small, dim kitchen that also served as a dining room, grabbed a soda from the fridge and sat at the folding card table that doubled as a kitchen table. Her backpack fell to the floor. She pulled one of the books she’d checked out from the school library that morning and read the back cover. She tried not to think about what Avery might be saying about her or how Brad might be walking around the house, commenting on the pictures, his finger running across the dusty frames.

“Natalie, we have to make a quick run to the post office before it closes. You wanna come?” Sean stood by the door with packages in his hand.

He looked irritated.

“I’m good,” Natalie said. “I have some homework.”

“Okay,” Victor said.

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“Vic, we gotta make it before five. Any of these packages get there late, we’re getting more negative feedback.” Sean stood by the door, his arms full of bubble mailers.

“97% positive ain’t bad,” Victor said.

“Great,” Natalie said, not looking up from her book.

She heard the door close. She moved to the window and watched them walk to Victor’s car, Sean carrying the packages, Victor twirling his keys and saying something. When they left, Natalie slid the deadbolt into place and walked around, surveying her father’s possessions. Boxes of white cardboard filled with cards lined the perimeter of his living room, each with different scrawlings signifying the year and brand.

Pictures hung on the wall of Victor smiling with various athletes, his rounded shoulders and broad stomach contrasting against their broad shoulders and chiseled features. He smiled gregariously in every picture, sometimes pointing to the athlete or making the peace sign. His slicked back hair and thick mustache were unchanging in the pictures. The only change was the floral design of his shirt.

Most of the pictures were signed, “To Victor and 4th and Goal Sports Cards, Best Wishes.”

Natalie remembered the small shop her father had owned, remembered playing with the register

during its slow times, remembered the sound the buttons made and trying to close the heavy drawer. When the store went out of business four years ago, her father had started drinking more. So cliche, Natalie thought, looking at her father with the athletes, the way he held them around the shoulders as he smiled.

After he closed the store, he had tried to run his sports card business out of their house, buying and selling online, scouring auction sites and message boards for the best deal, trying to unload product at a profit. That hadn’t lasted long before Mom had gotten mad, Natalie thought. She had complained about how much time he spent in front of the computer and about how much money he was spending to mail cards. She’d even mocked how he sat at the computer, leaning forward, shoulders hunched, staring at the countdown timer on auctions, placing a bid in the final seconds. She’d even gotten the “shit” part right, a word her father screamed when he didn’t win something he really wanted. He’d start the “s” off quietly, and build into the “hit” part, increasing his volume as he went to where he’d be yelling loud enough for the neighbors to hear if her father had ever opened the windows. He kept them closed, and the blinds drawn. He had told Natalie one time, between sips of beer, that he preferred to “operate in the dark.”

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Natalie’s empty soda can made a hollow sound as it hit the pizza box in the trash pile. Her book was boring, and she was getting hungry. She went to the pantry to see if there was anything in there that she’d want to eat. There were paper plates and plastic cups on one shelf next to a half-used carton of cigarettes. Natalie counted five packs.

She plopped on the couch and turned on the TV, hoping her father would bring home dinner. As she kicked her feet on the coffee table, she accidentally knocked over a stack of cards and his opened pack of cigarettes. She picked them up, two of the cigarettes falling on the stained carpet. She pocketed the two, not knowing what she’d do with them. She thought she could take them, that he’d never find out, and in her heart, she hoped she couldn’t.

She dozed off and didn’t hear her father and Sean come in, but was interrupted by their voices. “If we could get fifty bucks a box, why not get at least one case?” Sean asked.

“At 4th Down, if I had that case, I’d be selling them for $75 a box, easy.

Fifty sucks.”

“We’d still make a profit.”

“Not as much.” Victor opened his pack of cigarettes and reached in without looking. He put one in his mouth and lit it, the smoke quickly filling the small apartment. He placed the pack back on the coffee table and turned to

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Natalie, her eyes watching the pack of cigarettes on the counter.

“You want anything for dinner?

Sean and I stopped at McDonald’s.

Didn’t know if you would have eaten that or if you’re still on that health food kick your mom got you on.”

“I would have had something,” Natalie said, fingering the cigarettes in her pocket.

“Here’s five bucks. Why don’t you hit Vinny’s Pizza? You know where that is, right? Just around the corner.”

“Sure,” Natalie said, taking the money. She was going to say thank you but decided against it.

The last minutes of daylight shone through the leafless trees that couldn’t catch the small drops of rain as Natalie walked down the sidewalk to Vinny’s. She thought about pocketing the money and not going but reminded herself there was nothing to eat at the apartment. Vinny’s was empty, and Natalie took her slices in a small pizza box and a bottle of soda back to the apartment. As she walked out of Vinny’s, she noticed one of their drivers smoking by the side of the building. She hesitated a moment and then walked over to him.

“Can I get a light?” she asked, holding the outstretched cigarette between her fingers. She’d heard the line in movies, usually by an attractive female trying to get the attention of a man. She wanted no attention from this older, goateed driver, just a flame.

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“Sure,” he said. “Usually the cigarette has to be in your mouth though.”

“Oh, right,” Natalie said, placing the cigarette in her mouth, the tiny cylinder feeling foreign against her lips.

“Here you go,” the driver said, flicking his lighter. Natalie felt the cigarette ignite, its harsh taste filling her mouth.

“Thanks,” she said, taking the cigarette out of her mouth.

“Terrible habit,” the driver said.

Natalie walked away.

Natalie balanced her soda on top of the pizza box with one hand as she held the cigarette in the other. She tried it again, the smoke filling her mouth. She let it sit there before blowing it out, a hideous cough escaping with the smoke. She hated the taste of it. The cigarette sat in her mouth as she walked home. Natalie pulled it out to breathe, but tried to keep it in as long as she could. Before she entered the parking lot of the complex, she held the cigarette close to her clothes, the swirl of smoke encircling her, hoping the smell of the smoke would get caught in her clothes and hair. She could taste the cigarette in her mouth. The ashy menthol made her want to brush her teeth. When she approached Victor’s apartment, the cigarette was a stub. She flicked it in the parking lot, feeling like a bad ass, expecting trouble upon entering the apartment.

When she walked into the apartment, Victor and Sean were huddled around the computer.

“Five minutes left,” Victor said, leaning back in his chair.

“I feel comfortable paying twenty for this,” Sean said.

“We could sell this at the show next month for at least thirty,” Victor said. “These assholes are driving up the price.”

“Hey, Dad,” Natalie said, walking towards him. She felt like she reeked, like Pig Pen from Peanuts with a dirt cloud following her.

“Hey,” Victor said, his eyes not leaving the screen.

“Refresh it,” Sean leaned forward in his folding chair.

Natalie stood near her father.

“Here’s your change,” she said. She did her best to say it as close to his face as she could, even coughed.

“Just leave it on the table.”

Natalie tossed and turned that night, the couch an uncomfortable bed.

Victor offered to pull the sofa out, but said it could be difficult moving the coffee table, where the cards could get disorganized.

“I’ll just sleep on the couch,” Natalie said.

“Okay,” her father said. “I’ve got a show I have to be at tomorrow morning. I’m going to leave around

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eightish. You need a ride back to your mother’s place?”

“Sure,” Natalie said.

In the middle of the night, Natalie got up to go to the bathroom.

Dried urine sat on the rim of the bowl, its smell filling the small room. Natalie cracked the window. Before heading back to bed, she went to the kitchen, opened the pantry door, and reached for the cigarettes. She grabbed two packs from the carton and buried them deep in her backpack, underneath her books, math homework, and toothpaste. Her dad would have to notice that two packs were missing. Her backpack felt heavier with them buried at the bottom. She might even smoke one around Avery, maybe when they

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walked home from school Monday. “Do your cool friends do this?” she’d ask.

“Rise and shine, Nat,” Victor said, nudging her shoulders. He wore a football jersey that was a size too big, untucked, the bright fabric swallowing his jeans. Sean was already at the apartment, carrying boxes out to Victor’s car. “We’re about to head out.”

The apartment looked empty. Most of the white cardboard boxes were already loaded. Victor placed stacks of the cards in plastic cases in a shoebox. “I’ll see you in the car,” he said.

They stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts on their way to Lisa’s home. Natalie sat in the back and devoured her donut, grateful the taste of the cigarette had faded. In the front, Victor and Sean talked about the show and how much they needed to make. When they pulled up to Lisa’s house, Natalie got out.

“Great to see you,” Victor said, stepping out of the car and giving Natalie a hug.

“You too,” Natalie said, patting her backpack subconsciously.

As she walked up the steps and into her mom’s house, she wondered what time her dad would call about the missing cigarettes.

—

Volume 4: Issue 3

Contributors Michael D. Brown PhD. (Swallows of Capistrano) American professor of English, Michael D. Brown, PhD currently teaches English in Nanjing China to Chinese PhD’s, lectures on circuit, and provides literary reviews for universities in the USA and abroad.

Award winning author of 17 books including 6 volumes of poetry professor Brown is the recipient of the New York State Senator’s award for poetry. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, magazines and newspapers including the most recent: Velvet Illusion, Recusant, The Tower Journal, Converge, Mad Swirl, and Black Magnolias.

Jim Ethridge (Forgiven?)

Jim Ethridge currently lives on a farm outside of Crescent, Oklahoma with his lovely wife of fifty years, Betty. Besides writing nonfiction, he enjoys traveling the country on his motorcycle, stopping often to enjoy the view.

Bobby Fox (Stardust Melody) Bobby Fox is the award-winning writer of several short stories, plays, poems, a novel and 15 feature length screenplays. Two of his screenplays have been optioned to Hollywood.

His works have been published in the The Naked Feather, The Medulla Review, Lap Top Lit Mag, The Path, Contemporary Literary Review India, Yareah Magazine, One Title Magazine, The Knotted Beard Review, Bareback, The Zodiac Review, Fortunates, Randomly Accessed Poetics, Wordsmiths, Toska, Enhance, Common Line Journal, Cold Noon, Miracle e-Zine, Shadows Express, The Rusty Nail, Airplane Reading, Untapped Cities, The Lyceum, Detroit News, Dearborn Times-Herald, TravelMag and inTravel Magazine.

He is also the writer/director/editor of several award-winning short films. His recent stage directing debut led to an Audience Choice Award at the Canton One-Acts Festival in Canton, MI. Fox graduated from the University of Michigan with a B.A. in English and a minor in Communications and received a Masters of Arts in Teaching from Wayne State University.

In addition to moonlighting as a writer, independent filmmaker and saxophonist, Fox teaches English and video production in the Ann Arbor Public Schools, where he uses his own dream of making movies to inspire his students to follow their own dreams. He has also worked in public relations at Ford Motor Company and as a newspaper reporter. He resides in Ypsilanti, MI. His website is foxplots.com. Or follow him on Twitter @BobbyFox7.

Troy Frings (The Track Meet) Troy Frings currently lives on the East Coast, where he grew up and went to school. He was recently published in Crack the Spine. Never one to stray too far from academia, he will be attending graduate school this fall.

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Herbert Hart (A Certain Degree of Latitude) Herbert Hart began his creative life as a songwriter in 1977. When, in 2010, a nasty car crash kept him from his piano for several months, he took up writing fiction and hasn’t stopped. A Certain Degree of Latitude is his first published story. He lives in Vancouver, British Columbia with his wonderful family and a brain full of entertaining and imaginative ideas.

Brian Kayser (Burnt Offerings) Brian Kayser has been the editor-in-chief of HipHopGame.com, an online hip-hop magazine, since 2003. His role there includes interviewing and writing about many artists. His music writing has appeared in various print and online publications, including The Source. His fiction has been published in several magazines including 34th Parallel Magazine, Alliterati Magazine, Writing Raw, Down Dirty Word,The Orris Journel, Eunoia Review, and Bursting Plethora. He has a pending publication in Bartleby Snopes. When he is not writing, he works as a special education teacher in Charlottesville, Virginia.

Christine Nichols (Rhythmic Reflections - Soul Food) Guest columnist, Christine Nichols, is a new poet from Stillwater, Oklahoma.

Audra L. Ralls (The Klingman Gang and Tear Tracks in the Snow) Audra L. Ralls resides in Midwest City, Oklahoma. She is the mother of a 15-year-old son and teaches middle school. Her passions include writing poetry and short stories.

Colin Shaw (Lost and Never Found) Colin Shaw lives in Victoria, Australia, with his wife and two dogs Bella and Zeus. He work part time as a Teacher’s Assistant. He is new to the world of writing.

Tom Sheehan (I Am Now Reduced to Burning Pellets in My Stove) A Korean War veteran now in his 85th year, Sheehan continues his writing craft with two eBooks in the last year, Korean Echoes and The Westering from Milspeak Publishers (The Westering has been nominated by the publishers for a National Book Award), and global exposure of his work in Ukraine (June and July issues of Nazar Look), Ireland (current print issue and current on-line issue of The Linnet’s Wings with two different pieces) and France (current issue of MGVersion2datura – D-Day Commemorative issue) as well as many national publications.

Hannah Stuart (The Color of Evil) Hannah Stuart spent her life nurturing family. In recent years, she has nurtured her dreams of writing.

Working hard to continually improve her craft, she has had several stories published under a couple of different pseudonyms.

David Upton (This Modern Love) David Upton lives and works in the UK as a lingerie buyer and enjoys the perks of his job. In his spare time, he writes to express his thoughts and ideas. As well as fiction, he writes music, lyrics and poetry. He has recently begun marketing his writing, with an emphasis on his music and lyrics. His inspiration for his fiction comes from songs, whether his or other artist’s. He brings a new interpretation and develops them into a modern day context which many can relate to. He dedicates the story, This Modern Love, to Hannah.

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Anne Warchol (The Jesus Lizard) Anne Warchol lives in Orlando, Florida, with her guinea pig, Reese Cup. Anne's studies include Buddhism, the Tao Te Ching, the teachings of Carl Jung, quantum physics, and the complexities of time.

Her passion is writing, and she has written several light-hearted stories inspired by her three adult children and her grandchildren.

Katherine Whitestone (Too Late–Too Soon and Decaying Beauty) Katherine Whitestone grew up in Houston, Texas, the second child of six, in a loud and fun-loving family. Her talent for writing traditional poetry and family-based short stories intended to stir the emotions of her readers has earned her numerous publications and awards. She enjoys teaching writing skills and grammar to young, aspiring authors.

Graphics Cover: Image courtesy of mxruben, morguefile.com This Modern Love: Tree image courtesy of Scott Liddel, www.scottliddel.com, morguefile.com Bus image courtesy of Gabor Karpati (Hungary), morguefile.com Swallows of Capistrano: T. Wall, personal collection Too Late–Too Soon: Image courtesy of Kenn W. Kiser, morguefile.com The Color of Evil: Image courtesy of gumby, morguefile.com Stardust Melody: Portrait images courtesy of Anita Patterson Pepper, morguefile.com The Jesus Lizard: Image courtesy of akinss, morguefile.com The Klingman Gang: Image courtesy of Eugenia Beecher, morguefile.com Forgiven: Image courtesy of T. Wall, personal collection Lost and Found: Image courtesy of Rygers, morguefile.com I Now Burn Pellets in My Stove: Image courtesy of T. Wall, personal collection Decaying Beauty: Image courtesy of Scott Liddel, www.scottliddel.com, morguefile.com The Track Meet: Images courtesy of Mary K. Baird, morguefile.com Tear Tracks in the Snow: Image courtesy of David Louden, morguefile.com A Certain Degree of Latitude: Tree over Ravine image courtesy of C. L. Conroy, morguefile.com Night sky image courtesy of Samuel Cheney, morguefile.com Burnt Offerings: Image courtesy of Sri Grafix, morguefile.com We thank the wonderful people at morguefile.com who allowed their creative endeavours to grace our pages. It just would not be the same without your contributions.

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Volume 4: Issue 3

Our Staff Publisher S. Randez enjoys taking new writers under her wing, encouraging them to work hard toward achieving their writing aspirations.

She is an avid novice poetess and also enjoys writing flash-fiction and short stories in many genres.

Managing Editor K. Wall returns to editing and mentoring after a ten-year hiatus. She is excited to lead an incredible team of professionals assisting new writers as they grow, soar to new heights, and achieve their dreams. In her spare time, she writes fiction delving into relationship dynamics and the human condition.

Fiction Editor PL Scholl is a professional writer and educator. A member of WDC since 2009, she has won numerous awards for both her writing and her reviews. She holds a BA in English, a BS in Education, and a MS in Literacy. Currently, she is an adjunct professor for Sinclair Community College. When not writing or teaching, she enjoys spending time with her two children and husband of 22 years.

Non-fiction Editor Winnie has been on the Staff of Shadows Express for a two years. She is an instructor for New Horizons Academy, an on-line writing school associated with the global writing community Writing.Com and has taught the fundamentals of proper comma placement and sentence structure for over two years. Winnie enjoys writing traditional poetry and short-stories designed to stir the emotions of her readers. But her greatest delight is polishing and editing promising works for new writers in preparation for possible publication. She established Walrus Editing and Proofreading in 2010. In addition, she is a member of the editing staff of Wynwidyn Press Poetry Editor In his youth, Liam O'Haver was taught that with diligence you could reach any dream. This has generally proven true. In his life, he has been a student, paperboy, soldier, private detective, printer, technical consultant, and teacher. As a husband and father, along with his wife, he has raised four children, enjoyed seven grandchildren so far, and has looked into the eyes of one greatgranddaughter. Despite being an accomplished poet, even in his wildest dreams, he never anticipated being a poetry editor.

Administration Manager Lisa is the backbone of our structure. Although creative in her own right, she keeps us grounded and on task. Working quietly behind the scenes, she aids in every aspect of production, keeps the virtual coffee warm, and is so efficient we barely know she is there — except for the fact that the work gets done.

Distribution Manager Preethi Saravanakumar is from India. She has done her BCA from Bharatiyaar University. Writing poetry remains her major passion while she reads books and writes Children's stories/ poems. Her first poetry book, Words From Heart, was published in 2011 by Cyberwit.net. She is a preferred author at writing.com.

Community Manager, Lanica Klein is a librarian from Minnesota who raises twin sons, teaches middle school and earns a little extra income from her photography. She enjoys reading and writing young adult, adventure, fantasy and historical fiction, and every once in a while a poem slips out. She has yet to complete a novel, although she is working on about a dozen of them...oops, she just thought up another one...excuse her...

Despite her active, busy life, she is the magician that allows Shadows Express to exist and grow. Due to her fundraising, we are able to bring you quality literature without charging a subscription fee, and keep the website free of advertisements.

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