BY TODD BAILEY
Stitching together literature, art, and indie spirit.
Indie Publishin g
Each issue weaves together short stories, poetry, photography, author interviews, book reviews, opinion pieces, and more— highlighting the dynamic world of independent publishing and the artists shaping its future.
Explore the threads. Discover the voices. Celebrate the craft .
TAPESTRY JOURNAL — Stitching together literature, art, and indie spirit.
Welcome to the very first issue of Tapestry Journal: Indie Publishing.
We are thrilled—and honored—to share this moment with you. After months of reading, reflecting, and reaching out to voices both near and far, our team is proud to bring you this inaugural collection of poetry, prose, and art. Like threads woven into a larger whole, each piece in this issue contributes to a broader story—one of connection and imagination.
Tapestry Journal was born from a simple but ambitious vision: to create a space where diverse voices could come together to form something textured, beautiful, and whole. We believe that stories—whether written, spoken, or drawn—are how we come to understand each other and ourselves. In a world that often feels fragmented, literature and art offer us the chance to see patterns.
This issue features a range of work from both emerging and established creators, each selected not only for their craft but for their courage. What unites them is a shared commitment to authenticity—a refusal to flatten complexity or shy away from the vulnerability that comes with sharing your work.
As managing editor, I’ve had the privilege of watching this journal take shape—from the first submissions to our final edits. I’ve seen how genuinely our team cares about honoring each contributor’s voice, and how passionately we believe in literature’s power to illuminate the human experience. This autumnal issue of Tapestry Journal is a product of that belief, and of the community that made it possible.
To our contributors, thank you for trusting us with your work! To our readers, thank you for stepping into this new space with us. We hope what you find here impacts you in some way and compels you to come back for more.
This is just the beginning. We can’t wait to see where the threads lead next!
Warmly,
Allison Lawson Managing Editor
Tapestry Journal: Indie Publishing
MISSION:
Tapestry Journal:
We weave together voices from across
and
flourish. Like its namesake, Tapestry Journal brings together diverse threads to create
meaningful.
Jan-Carol Publishing, Inc. PO Box 701 Johnson City, TN 37605
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Janie C Jessee, 423.926-9983 publisher@jancarolpublishing.com
Allison Lawson Managing Editor
Tapestry Journal: Indie Publishing tapestryjournal@jancarolpublishing.com
Draco Bailey
Communications Director & Publishing Assistant tapestryjournal@jancarolpublishing.com
GRAPHICS/PRODUCTION
Tara Sizemore
Popular books have a way of finding their way into homes across the globe. Indeed, certain books transcend geographical boundaries and entice readers from all walks of life and cultural backgrounds. But which books have earned their place among the best-selling tomes of all time? Though it’s hard to compile an indisputable list of history’s best-selling books, as sales of religious texts such as The Bible and the Quran, which are routinely distributed for free, are hard to quantify, the following are some of the best-selling non-religious texts to ever find their way onto a shelf.
• Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes: This tragicomedy initially published in 1605 (part two was published a decade later) is estimated to have sold half a billion copies.
• A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens: This novel with the famed opening line of “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” has sold an estimated 200 million copies since it was first published in 1859.
• The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry: This tale, published in 1943, was written for children but has proven equally popular with adult audiences, which no doubt accounts for its sales estimated at around 140 million copies.
• And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie: English mystery master Agatha Christie was a prolific writer, with more than 66 detective novels to her credit. None sold more than this classic murder mystery, which has sales of around 100 million copies since it was first published in 1939.
• Dream of the Red Chamber by Cao Xueqin: Western audiences may not recognize this title as readily as the other books that qualify for the list of the best-selling works of all time, but this classic Chinese novel written in 1791 has sold roughly 100 million copies over the centuries.
• The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien : The Hobbit preceded Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings Trilogy , sales of which are believed to have exceeded 150 million copies (the trilogy was serialized, but many copies have since been sold in a single-volume work, making it difficult to determine where each book ranks on a list of best-selling titles of all time). Popular in its own right, The Hobbit has sold an estimated 100 million copies since Tolkien first introduced the world to “Bilbo Baggins” in 1937.
• The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis: Many a child across the globe has had this 1950 work from C.S. Lewis on their bookshelf. Kids simply love the world of Narnia, which has helped to sell 85 million copies of this beloved tale.
These are just some of the best-selling books of all time, and each are worthy of a read of re-read for book lovers who enjoy a good page turner.
By Allison Lawson
In Atmosphere, Taylor Jenkins Reid delivers a stirring and deeply human story set against the vast and ambitious backdrop of 1980s NASA. The novel is both an exploration of the cosmos and a powerful reflection on the internal battles we fight to find our place— in science, in love, and in history.
The story centers on Joan Goodwin, a brilliant astrophysicist and professor navigating a world that wasn’t built with her in mind. As one of the few women—and fewer still queer women—in a male-dominated scientific environment, Joan faces obstacles that test her resilience, intellect, and identity. Reid paints Joan’s journey with both precision and com-
passion, creating a protagonist who is fiercely capable yet quietly vulnerable.
What makes Atmosphere particularly memorable is its richly imagined depiction of NASA at a time of transformation. Reid’s attention to historical detail brings the era to life, from the grueling astronaut simulations to the sharp politics of mission control. She captures the excitement of space travel, but also the quieter moments: the paperwork, the long nights, the calculations no one sees. It’s a respectful and honest portrayal of the women who often worked behind the scenes, shaping history while receiving little credit.
Threaded throughout the novel is a poignant love story between Joan and fellow physicist Vanessa Ford. Their relationship unfolds slowly, built on shared respect and mutual risk, and resonates with authenticity. In a world where openness could cost them everything, their connection becomes both a source of strength and a reflection of the courage it takes to live honestly.
Reid employs a dual-timeline structure, moving between Joan’s earlier years at NASA and a highstakes event occurring later in her career. This approach adds both tension and emotional weight, as past choices ripple forward into the future. The result is a narrative that feels both expansive and intimate, balancing the vast unknown of space with the tightly drawn emotions of its characters.
Though the supporting cast occasionally recedes into the background, the novel’s focus never falters. Atmosphere is a powerful celebration of ambition, sacrifice, and the quiet revolution of women who dared to aim higher—in science, in society, and in their own lives.
With grace and insight, Reid once again proves her mastery of historical storytelling with heart.
By Kathleen M. Jacobs
In writing a review of Kyra Davis Lurie’s new novel, The Great Mann, it would be effortless to simply provide a summary of the novel and leave it at that. But, of course, that would be doing an inexcusable injustice to the author, the novel, and its vitally important layers—layers like a peeled onion yearning to reveal its core. Nevertheless, a brief summary will set the stage for all the intricacies that follow. The Great Mann is a Black retelling of The Great Gatsby, set in 1940s Los Angeles in the Sugar Hill neighborhood. And with that bit of information, you might think that you know the story before opening the cover; you would be wrong. And that’s when the magic and mystery of every
single page of this work reveals itself to not only speak in very loud whispers to your soul, but to your spirit. And that’s when the walls come crumbling down and you realize the brutality of holding firm to denial—a denial that, when revealed, dismantles all the atrocities of the human spirit that need dismantling.
The Great Mann not only gives the reader more than a glimpse of the Black experience in 1940s L.A. both celebrated and uncertain in Hollywood, but also it delves deeper to reveal truths that are unsettling and challenging as the cast of well-developed characters make their way through their own distorted realities, knowing full well what remains buried underneath, yet holding tight to a truth that they often simply ignore or, at best, accept and then put in a box with a pretty ribbon tied around it, setting it up on a very shaky but most certainly out-of-reach shelf. In closing the door, they walk away knowing of the dangers that lurk inside but keep on putting one foot in front of the other, creating a world that upends the truth—time and time again.
Lurie’s glittering atmosphere is juxtaposed alongside its harsh realities. And even the surface achievements of its characters do not often outshine what lies underneath. Each character is so completely and deftly fleshed out that there is never a need to reacquaint ourselves with them. It doesn’t take long for the reader to feel as if they know each and every one of them. And while Fitzgerald’s Gatsby remains larger than life, it is Lurie’s Charlie Trammell who shines brightest, for he
brings to the table all that Gatsby left out. And Lurie’s Margie could stand beside Fitzgerald’s Daisy every minute of every day, moving along with equal confidence.
Yes, Lurie opens wide the doors of racism that were more than obvious during the 1940s in L.A., but what she perhaps does with masterful storytelling is reveal the damages wrought by denial: of truth, self, and holding on to what needs to be released. Perhaps Charlie says it best when talking with James: “Nobody gets to go back, James. Best any of us can hope for is to move the hell on.”
The novel’s dialogue is pitch-perfect; its structure seamless; its core message honest and hopeful. Together, these attributes make the novel magnificent. At one point, Mann reminds us, “There’s ugliness behind us. But there’s no point spending too much time looking back on it.” Still, we must remember it so that denial does not continue to envelope us, but that the truth will, indeed, set us all free.
And as much as Lurie’s characters find ways to move forward, there remains an undercurrent of “not so fast.” And as self-absorption seeps through their very pores and they each make an attempt to deny that destructive attribute, they find themselves clinging to it with a ferocity that will certainly produce very little, if any, value. As Charlie’s girlfriend, Anna, says, “The people here are aspirational, not inspirational, figures. The secret of Sugar Hill, which is not a secret at all, is that to be truly successful you have to put your own interests first. Even if that means others get hurt. No capitalist is stupid enough to annihilate the weak, not when they can exploit them. But the wealthy? They rob others of their power.” And it’s with these powerful words that the 1940s instantly become present day.
The Great Gatsby was released one hundred years ago this year; The Great Mann, one hundred years later. The core of the first has been reiterated in the most recent. On more than a few levels, that’s incredulous. Each of us is called to make certain that one hundred years from now, we’re writing a different story. Let’s challenge ourselves to take the final line of Fitzgerald’s work and move forward, remembering the past, but not holding such a tight rein on it: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Kathleen M. Jacobs is the author of the critically acclaimed YA novel, Honeysuckle Holiday. She holds an MA in humanistic studies and divides her time between West Virginia and New York City.
By Chloe Rodriguez
Welcome, breezy air; So long, warm balmy despair. Welcome, everywhere.
Chloe Rodriguez moved to New York around fall 2023. She realized that this season is one of the most gorgeous (and tolerable) seasons in the city. She wrote a haiku about her appreciation of fall in New York.
By James Carroll
You’ve turned red, someplace coming from what color promised up till now was green. But here it is and ready to fall into a red shade, that party dress you wore before you thought it wasn’t you.
James Carroll, a retired landscaper, currently lives in Easton, Maryland, where all his rejection notices are sent. Born in Texas, he graduated from George Washington University. His poem, “Nick’s Diner,” was a runner-up in the 2015 Pratt Library Poetry Contest. His poem, “Morning Glory,” placed in a subsequent Pratt contest.
By Danielle Fuller
After blazing heat, Calm, Warmth.
Sunlight melted into Peace, Healing.
Leaves fell with Grace, Beauty.
Change arrived with Comfort, Renewal.
She embraced herself: Loved, Home.
Danielle Fuller is a Louisville-based writer and former Boutique Team Leader, currently pursuing a degree in Professional Writing, Applied Positive Psychology, and Leadership Communication at the University of Pennsylvania. Her work focuses on human artistry, inspiration, beauty, and resilience, often exploring how identity is shaped through storytelling and adversity.
WOMAN’S
A Collection of Poems
JC Gilliam
“Everything I have read by JC Gilliam has been excellent and inspirational to me. His writing never fails to touch my heart and o en brings a tear or two to my eyes. I see myself and my life, o en my childhood, in his beautiful words. His writing de nitely warms my heart and leaves a lasting impression.”
— CAROL BRANNIN, author
By KB Ballentine
Clouds muscling the blue, leaves skitter the yard— first offerings to autumn.
Doves wing their way to the feeders, mourning summer and the mauving hydrangeas with their coos.
Last bits of orange relish the horizon, echoing stained-glass wings of swallowtails. Katydids still wild, the dusk, swelling the air with an electric hum that spurs the bullfrogs’ grumbling, crickets stringing their last songs.
And we crawl from our heat haze, heads listing to see between the trees, how the full blue moon rules the night, every piece of this season haunting us as we lay it to rest.
Blackbirds merge with shadow, woodsmoke catching a wind from the north.
By KB Ballentine
Autumn’s joy blazes with color—warm days drowsing in sun, coolness wedged into evenings.
We can’t wager enough blue to match the sky, last of the bees bumbling into the hearts of mums.
Oh, the lazy days rolling one after the other until winter tramps in with rain and snow and ice. A gray and white that frosts the fires of October, the trees, our dreams.
KB Ballentine—winner of Poetry Society of Tennessee’s 2025 Best of the Fest and Writer’s Digest November 2024 PAD Chapbook Challenge— has nine collections of poetry, the most recent being All the Way Through (Shelia-Na-Gig 2024). Learn more at www.kbballentine.com.
The Harboring & other stories is a collection that weaves together the resiliency of Appalachian women—in fact, all women—as they meet their seemingly insurmountable challenges with grace, celebrate their joys, and find ways to resolve all that remains unresolved in their lives.
By Sharon Harrington
Liriope’s purple flowers triumph over summer’s scorch, while Cicadas’ castanets clap their wings to powder. Golden tomatoes hang on stalks of withered uselessness.
Sullen fruit flies hover, waiting for a sip.
Trees grasp brittle leaves who’ve no glory in their being.
A cricket waits politely at the door, his ticket of admission.
Sharon Harrington is a retired social worker who is using retirement to pursue her love of writing and cooking. She has been published in an anthology, Where the Eastern Shore Begins, and writes restaurant reviews for What’s Up Magazine.
By Lindsey Thompson
The sun dims quicker,
Drawing farther away from times that seemed so much simpler,
When time went slower; At least that’s what it seemed,
As if I wasn’t actually being forced to grow older. I barely remember being young, so brand new, Brand new like the blooms you see on the Mums, And like them, not knowing if you’ll be around to see the next season.
By Kathleen M. Jacobs
Woodsy, saffron leaves waft to the earthy floor— CRUNCH underfoot; trees yawn . . .
By Kathleen M. Jacobs
Tom’s dried, forked bone, plucked from both sides— SNAP!
Inhale, wish, exhale . . .
Kathleen M. Jacobs is the author of The Harboring & other stories and The Puppeteer of Objects: A Lyrical Poem. Both are available from Jan-Carol Publishing. She divides her time between the Appalachian region and New York City. You can find her at www.kathleenmjacobs.com.
Not all are so lucky, so lucky to be given a chance at rebirth;
Another reason to stay here on this earth.
Surviving is to be living, but there’s a difference in the two;
Not everyone has to figure that out, And I pray for the ones that do.
Leaves fall as people stop and stare in awe, Because vibrant colors will always be lovely, but that isn’t what makes it the greatest discovery.
Letting go and loss doesn’t always lead to grief; It can bring beauty and growth,
Like the changing of the leaves.
By Lindsey Thompson
If months didn’t exist and time wasn’t determined by the sun,
Would we still feel seasons pass by?
While noticing when one has begun, I believe I would notice the air getting colder
But still feel the warmth from a summer that lingers for closure.
How is it that weather can affect one’s emotions?
Cool air can be calming, like the sound of the ocean.
How do people find comfort in the smell of pumpkin spice?
The lighting of a candle, A moment they say will suffice.
When I mention people, I mean myself included; I won’t pretend that I’m completely secluded,
Secluded from a world where fall has debuted, A new scenery, a new atmosphere, A season of pretending, a season of fear.
But just for one night, one night of the year, Some live in that night, day in and day out; They never stop pretending to be someone they’re not.
Nature changes right in front of our eyes. It’s exciting to see the leaves as they die,
The crunch I feel beneath my feet
When I walk underneath the tall trees,
The trees that I pretend are whispering amongst each other.
Whispers in the wind, leaves crunching on the ground;
I truly forgot how much I missed this sound, The sound that brings me peace
Knowing that I’ve made it another season as the other one has ceased.
Fall is here, and we have almost made it through yet another year.
By Scott Newland
A cardinal flutters in a sky of brittle blue, its wings cutting the air with the grace of a whispered prayer.
Stoic against the wind, it perches upon the branch, quiet, feeding on the silence left behind in the spaces where we once spoke. Its vibrant red, a flame against the foliage, reminds me of hands I can no longer hold, voices that no longer call my name in the soft dusk.
By Scott Newland
When afternoon decants its golden wine, The edges of the air grow cool and spare; Be still, as steamy mugs braid with our time, While leaves take counsel in a rustling prayer.
The scene grows thoughtful, measuring our tread, As whippoorwills question the thinning light; We ponder the year of delights and dreads, And margins of ourselves invite new flight.
In flight, the bird carries the weight of lost memories— like a gentle promise, it inspires the quiet recollection of love fading like the last light of a late fall evening. And though it flies away, its song lingers in the stillness, a fleeting visit from those who live still, within the heart.
In solitude, abundance turns to still; The maple loosens gold without regret; We practice endings with a tender will, And find in every loss a warmer debt.
So let the brisk air teach the faithful art— To change like light, and keep an open heart.
Scott Newland is a USAF veteran, watercolor and photography artist, and poet living in Chuckey, Tenn. He takes great pleasure living deep in the National Forest, where he gets most of his inspiration. He was originally a teacher with an education degree from ETSU as well as advanced education degrees from The College of New Jersey (M.Ed), and Specialist and Doctoral degrees from the University of Sarasota. After serving in USAF for eight years, he and his wife made a career working in overseas American schools for 15 years, working in Kuwait, Lesotho, and Eritrea, where he retired as a school superintendent. Now in retirement, he can work full time on whatever passion gets his attention.
By John Marsolek
Can’t you hear Autumn’s footsteps approaching, So softly but ever so pronounced?
A time to slow down from this hurried world
And to breath in the change of nature,
To think what we have done
And what we want to do before it gets cold.
Autumn brings us into a realization
Of our life’s work—
What we did and wished we knew,
That we all have done.
Yet this wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for Autumn,
Which calls us to stop and ponder
At the work of nature that we live in
But have been too hurried to ever notice.
By Raven Howell
By Raven Howell llustrated By Ann Pilicer
By John Marsolek
The rain came down steadily all day
As it brought a slight chill to the air.
It is an invitation to slow down
And ponder the beauty of fall coming in.
By Draco Bailey
“If we never deny the inevitable end of the story, we will write it more beautifully while we’re alive.”
—Andrea Gibson
In July of this year, the literary world lost one of the most profound poetic voices of our time. For those unfamiliar, Andrea Gibson was, and still is, one of the most celebrated poets of the last two decades. Colorado’s Poet Laureate in 2023, Gibson’s trademark honesty and vulnerability shone through their spoken word performances and poetry collections— even through their social media, email newsletters, and more.
Gibson authored seven poetry collections and released seven albums of spoken word. For those wishing to get acquainted with their work, any of their publications would be a good place to start. Perhaps one of the best formats would be to watch any number of YouTube videos showcasing their magnetic performance on stage. I had the absolute privilege to witness two of Gibson’s spoken word shows many years ago, one of which included their spouse, fellow poet Megan Falley, whom I would be remiss not to mention here. Memorable does not begin to describe either experience.
While there are many topics Andrea Gibson’s poetry explores, from love to gender to politics, and everything in between, perhaps some of their most weighty offerings were those in recent years as they wrote their way through a cancer diagnosis. Mortality is very often a
subject we all shy away from. Even the most faithful among us fear death, and none of us is immune to grief. Still, Gibson faced these topics head-on in a way that was eloquent and emotionally encompassing. Their long-time readers and social media followers were able to join them for glimpses into their journey, and Gibson’s transparency offered a reflective and empathetic view into a topic that isn’t often met with as much gentleness or light as can be found in Gibson’s writing.
A similar thoughtfulness is still going on through Gibson’s socials, including Substack, where Megan Falley now shares words Gibson left behind and her own writing and experiences in the time since Gibson’s passing.
The pair had the opportunity to showcase their love and connection in the face of mortality in the 2025 documentary, Come See Me in the Good Light , a Sundance Film Festival winner for the Festival Favorite Award. The film is available to stream on
Apple TV. I would recommend an accompaniment of tissues—for tears of both laughter and heartbreak. In honor of Andrea and of Megan, I hope each and every person reading this looks Andrea Gibson up. Reads one poem, one line, watches one clip, hears one sentence that they shared. The literary world has many gems that change you, that stay with you—sometimes for a lifetime—and Andrea Gibson’s words linger. They are words that showcase how truly astounding all parts of life are, from the most mundane moments to the most altering.
Whenever I leave this world, whether it’s 60 years from now, I wouldn’t want anyone to say I lost some battle. I’ll be a winner that day.
—Andrea Gibson
Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns (2008)
The Madness Vase (2012)
Pansy (2015)
Take Me with You (2018)
Lord of the Butterflies (2018)
How Poetry Can Change Your Heart (written with Megan Falley, 2019)
You Better Be Lightning (2021)
Bullets and Windchimes (2003)
Swarm (2004)
When the Bough Breaks (2006)
Yellowbird (2009)
Flower Boy (2011)
Truce (2013)
Her Galaxy (2018)
“Clarabelle” by Charlotte Birch, Watercolor
Calling in the cows from the pasture at the end of the day, Clarabelle will often look up at me exactly like this when she hears her name. The golden September sunsets make a picturesque scene, as she lumbers slowly home along with the others to our big, warm barn.
“Watauga” by Scott
Newland, Photography
These photos represent placing myself within the subject, standing in the river to capture the early fall, the cool morning with the fog rising from the water, on top of the easement to capture the brilliant October colors.
Avid readers are always seeking new material to whet their literary appetites. Reading can be an immensely enjoyable activity, and one with notable benefits. Readers can pursue many avenues to find new books. The following are just a few ways to find the next book you won’t want to put down.
• Visit the library. With so much content at your fingertips, it may be tempting to turn to the internet to find a new read. Instead, go back to where many people first fall in love with reading. The local library has many great offerings and personnel who can help you find something that will prove a good match.
• Visit a local bookstore. If you’d rather purchase a book, your local bookstore is an ideal place to get feedback on books. Whether it’s a chain store or an independent retailer, many bookstores employ individuals who are book lovers themselves. Ask for recommendations.
• Try an app. Options like Whichbook enable you to find your next book based on various qualifiers, such as emotion, geography or type of character.
• Go with a classic. Browse a list of classics and find books that you haven’t read yet or even ones you may want to reread now that you are older. There are reasons these books have withstood the test of time.
• Ask family and friends. Query the people in your
life who love to read and find out what they are reading. You may be introduced to an author that you weren’t familiar with or a book series that is right up your alley.
• Join a book club. A book club will expose you to a rotation of new books for as long as you are a member. Since books tend to be suggested by members each go-round, you won’t fall in the trap of only choosing one genre or “safe” titles that you are used to.
• Go with authors’ recommendations. If you like a particular author, research who he or she is reading. Some authors recommend others in the industry. While some of these recommendations may be for compensation or publicity, many are legitimate suggestions.
• Let your reading history dictate. Reading services like Amazon’s Kindle will recommend new titles based on your reading habits; otherwise, search for “books like (name title)” online to discover books that have a similar theme or style.
Reading is a popular pastime that can strengthen the brain and relax the body. There are many ways to find new books to read to keep one’s library fully stocked.
By Rebecca Elswick
Iam a child of autumn—born on Thanksgiving Day.
My mother named me Macy because she was watching Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade when she had to go to the hospital. Perhaps that is why I love everything about this season that begins with a nip in the air and the promise of coming frost. When pumpkins appear on porch steps and fodder shocks replace fields of tasseled corn, autumn has arrived. During late September and October, large flocks of birds take flight with their beaks turned toward the south. By November, the iconic scent of fall fills the air with the delicious aroma of dried leaves burning on outdoor fires.
Before Halloween, when autumn’s landscape reaches its peak, the mountains of Appalachia blaze with color. Summer’s green countryside is replaced by autumn’s coat of many colors. The trees now sport leaves of every shade and hue. Some have golden leaves while others have all the brownish, tawny tints of ochre. Baskets of apples appear in the grocery store, mirroring the colors of the leaves pirouetting from trees. Red delicious apples, the color of sunset maple leaves are piled high next to golden delicious apples that share the sunshine tinted leaves of the Ginkgo tree. Brandywine maple leaves share the rich purple cast of winesap apples, while gala apples are dressed in shades of orange like fall oak leaves.
The sights, sounds, and scents of Halloween stay the same even if fall celebrations change. The Halloween that children celebrate today is far from the Halloweens of my childhood. There were no scary movie marathons on TV. We didn’t wear expensive costumes. In fact, most stores only sold plastic masks that covered the face, secured by a thin elastic band around the back of
the head. The rest of the costume was handmade from old clothes, or in the case of a ghost, Mom’s bed sheet.
People then didn’t display elaborate yard decorations like 10-feet-tall moving skeletons and life-size witches, sitting on brooms suspended from trees. Scarecrows were made for cornfields to keep crows from eating the corn.
We didn’t have “Trunk-or-Treat” or Halloween parties with blow-up haunted houses. Instead, we met at first dark on Halloween night, wearing our handmade costumes and carrying paper grocery bags or pillowcases to hold our candy. We trooped through the neighborhoods, or walked up and down the hollers, knocking on doors and calling out, “Trick-or-Treat!” We knew exactly which houses gave the best candy, and no matter how high the hill, we climbed it to get there. As much as I loved trick-or-treating, my favorite part of Halloween usually occurred a day, or sometimes two days, before. That was the school’s Halloween carnival. In my estimation, there was nothing as exciting as that annual event.
The best Halloween carnivals were the ones that took place the night before Halloween. The carnival never took place during the school day but rather was held after school hours, usually 6:00 to 10:00 p.m. After all, teachers and volunteers had to have time to transform our elementary school into a haunted carnival. I admit I had little to no experience with carnivals, but I thought this was the most amazing festival that got better every year. My memories of this event are some of the best of my childhood, especially the year I won the chocolate cake.
The year I won the chocolate cake, I was nine, but my birthday was right around the corner. My brother, Tommy, was eight, and our sister, Anna, was six. That year, the carnival fell on the day before Halloween, and the weather was cool but not cold. As a bonus, it hadn’t
rained all week, and we hoped it would wait until after Halloween.
School, the day of the carnival, was torture! All the students could think about was the coming carnival, and we asked our teacher so many questions about it that she threatened to take away recess. Finally, the home bell rang, and I met my siblings on the school bus that would take us home. Since I was the oldest, it was my job to hurry up Mom and Dad so we could get to the carnival before all the good prizes were gone. But there was one thing I could not do, and that was convince Mom we did not need to eat supper because we could get food at the carnival. As usual, when we got home from school, Mom insisted we sit down at the kitchen table and eat. While we ate, Dad announced he and Mom had volunteered to help with some of the games, and he would buy us 10 tickets each.
It was so unusual to see our old school building at night ablaze with lights that I got a chill up my spine. Dad parked the car, and we walked to the front door of P.V. Dennis Elementary School. Dad opened the door, and we stepped inside, where we were met by a big, furry, black spider on an elastic string dropping right out of the sky in front of us. We squealed and our parents laughed, and I knew this carnival was going to be even better than I hoped.
Once inside, we could see that the entire school had been transformed. Paper chains of jack-o-lanterns and ghosts were hung across the ceiling. There were hay bales and pumpkins placed in the corners. All the teachers were dressed in costumes. Every classroom had been turned into a game room where toys and candy were given for prizes, with only two exceptions. One was the gym, which had been transformed into a haunted house, and the other was the cake walk room. This was new, and I couldn’t wait to try it. All you had to do was be standing on the lucky number when the music stopped, and you won a cake!
The cake walk was in Mrs. Amburgy’s second-grade classroom. Tommy and Anna ran off to the gym while I made my way through the crowded hallway with my 10 tickets clinched in my hands. The whole school had
that heavenly, salty scent of popcorn. Kids weaved in and out of the rooms laughing and shouting. Many of them wore costumes or masks. Some were carrying their prizes, stuffed animals and toys. I passed by the gym and heard an exaggerated, “Ha, ha, ha, I’m going to get you!” and screams of the kids inside. As badly as I wanted to go in, I passed it and went straight to the cake walk.
I found the room and got in line with the other kids waiting for a new game. The cakes were lined up on the windowsills, a confectionary of heavenly sights and smells. My eyes landed on a tall chocolate cake, and my mouth watered. That one .
The desks had been pushed against the walls, and in the center of the room was a pathway outlined in blue chalk. It circled all around the room, and huge numbers were taped to the floor at intervals. Mrs. Amburgy stood at the front of the room next to a childsize record player. She wore a witch’s costume, complete with a pointy hat and big, ugly wart on her nose. Those who wanted to play gave her a ticket and lined up. When Mrs. Amburgy was satisfied there were enough people to start, she lifted the arm and placed it on a record. At first there was a scrat, scrat, scrat sound, and then “The Monster Mash” started. Around and around the path we walked, and when the music stopped, Mrs. Amburgy reached into a fishbowl and pulled out a slip of paper with a number on it. The lucky person standing on that same number got to choose a cake.
Around and around the path I went. “The Monster Mash” played and the cakes disappeared from the windowsills. Somehow, the chocolate cake was still there, but I was down to my last ticket. I handed that ticket to Mrs. Amburgy and took my place in line. The music began: I was working in the lab late one night, when my eyes beheld an eerie sight.
I concentrated on my feet. For my monster, from his slab, began to rise. I willed my feet to be on the winning number when the music stopped. And suddenly, to my surprise, they did the mash. I stepped. They did the monster mash. I stepped. The monster mash. I stepped. It was a graveyard smash. I stepped. They did the mash. I stepped.
It caught on in a flash. I stepped. They did the mash. I stepped. The monster mash . I stepped. The zombies were having fun. I stepped. The party had just begun.
The music stopped.
My eyes flew to the chocolate cake, then to the number nine under my feet. The sudden movement of my eyes made me dizzy, but I held my breath. Mrs. Amburgy said, “The winner is number nine!”
On our way home, I sat in the middle of the backseat with the cake, now in a box, on my lap. I was imagining how it would taste, when Mom said, “Don’t even think about eating that cake tonight. You need to put on your pajamas and brush your teeth.” We gave a half-hearted attempt at begging, but we knew it was no good. Mom wouldn’t budge.
Our house was just past a lonesome cornfield. The corn had been harvested weeks before, but the dried cornstalks were left, leaning like wounded soldiers. In its center was a ragged scarecrow that had lost most of its straw. As we passed, a gust of wind sent it swaying from side to side in a slow-arcing dance. A Halloween moon hung over the field, its creamy light spilling into the gaps between the rows of stalks. Wisps of mist purled toward a sky devoid of stars like smoke rising from a fire. This was scarier than any manufactured witches or skeletons. I held my cake a bit tighter.
Just as Mom said, I put my cake in the kitchen and went to bed. I couldn’t sleep but kept thinking about my chocolate cake on the table. If I could just have a bite of it, I would be fine until tomorrow. Just one bite!
Finally, I gave up and crept out of bed. My sister slept in my room, so I eased by her bed so I wouldn’t wake her. In the hallway, I tiptoed past Mom and Dad and my brother’s room. In the kitchen I exhaled, not realizing until that moment that I was holding my breath. Just as I eased open the cake box, I heard a sound. I whipped around and saw that I was caught!
There stood my brother and sister. “Go back to bed,” I hissed.
They advanced toward me. “Give us some!” my sister whispered.
“Give me some, or I’ll tell!” my brother said in barely a whisper.
I sighed, “Okay, follow me.”
I took the cake and eased open the door to the back porch. We huddled together on the floor, and I put the cake on the floor just in front of me. When I opened it, we sat and just stared at it, breathing in its chocolate goodness. “Hey,” my brother said. “You forgot to get something to eat it with.”
“Yeah, what are we going to cut it with?” my sister said.
I dipped my finger deep inside the cake and pulled out a gob of bittersweet frosting. I popped it in my mouth and closed my eyes—the heavenly chocolate melted on my tongue. When I opened my eyes, my siblings were watching me. This time, I dug into the cake with my whole hand and pulled off a chunk. I held it up. “Want some?”
With our bare hands, we devoured every crumb of that cake, licking our fingers with each delicious bite. When it was gone, my brother, sister, and I sat back and patted our stomachs. To this day, I have never tasted a chocolate cake as good as that one.
“Hey,” said Anna, “what are you going to do when Mom finds out the cake is gone?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I have a plan.”
Carefully, I put the empty cake box back on the table and went to bed. The next morning, amid the usual chaos of getting off to school, I grabbed the box on my way out the door and announced, “I’m taking the cake to school to share it with my friends!”
“What a good idea,” Mom called after us. “I’m glad you’re sharing it!”
When we got out of earshot, Tommy and Anna praised me for being a genius. I looked at them and said, “Happy Halloween!”
Rebecca D. Elswick lives in the mountains of Southwest Virginia where she was born, the daughter and granddaughter of coal miners. Her award-winning writing has appeared in journals and anthologies like Appalachian Magazine and Still: The Journal. Her newest novel, The Dream is the Truth, was published in February by Artemesia Publishing.
By Kathleen M. Jacobs for matt
The webbed dog leash is wrapped loosely in my hand. Its shiny, silver-tone, springed hook sways slightly and with intention. It is the color of the basil I picked this morning from my window garden on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It was a gift from a friend who convinced me to take it along, pretending that I had a dog that got away, if anyone should ask me about my arrival in a place I hadn’t been invited. At the time, it sounded reasonable enough.
I park my seasoned gray Volvo at the end of the graveled, country road, begin my journey, and call out, “Here, boy,” as a few scattered neighbors tend their own plots of land, and light raindrops begin to fall, in this, to me, a most unfamiliar, but unencumbered part of the region.
“Mornin.’ Lookin’ for somethin’?”
“My dog,” I say, certain of their apprehension at the sight of a stranger carrying a basil-colored dog leash without a dog.
“What’s he look like?”
And this is where things get a bit uneasy, as I consider the various yard art of American flags planted in the earth and metal chickens and iron garden spirits who tell me to look elsewhere, knowing that house hunting in the country is different from house hunting in the city. I think, though, that it’s what I want.
“He’s a bichon-type. A Havanese,” I say, my grip tightening on the leash, Rrrff stenciled in white thread, from one end to the other. This answer I’ve practiced more than once.
“Lots of them around these parts,” a child says, as he puts his hands deep inside his jean pockets, his
grandfather ruffling the top of his ginger curls. I am surprised, without knowing why. His white pocket tee reads NY Yankees across the front. He pops first one then another freshly-picked strawberry from the patch, pinching the leaf in a most familiar way, and wipes the remains of the dark pink fruit across the hem of his tee.
“I drove out from the city,” I say, before anyone can say anything else.
“Oh,” the boy and his grandfather say, nodding their heads, as if they have grown to repeat that two-letter acknowledgment on cue.
“I always wanted to live in the country,” I say, hoping to buy some time, knowing that it’s running out.
“Hmm,” they respond, as the whir of a lawnmower’s engine starts.
“I noticed the ‘For Sale’ sign at the end of the road and thought I’d take a look—with my dog.”
“Hmm. A Havanese, you say?”
“Yes, sir,” I return.
“What’s his name?”
When I say, “Ricky,” the boy’s grandfather bends to slap his knee and says, “That was the name of Mary Oliver’s Havanese. Did you read Dog Songs ?”
“Yep,” I say, and slide the basil-colored dog leash in my back pocket, knowing that it is no longer needed.
“Well, hell,” he says, as he draws into his lungs another drag from what’s left of his cigar. “Come on up on the porch and sit a spell. We’ll look for Ricky in a bit. He’s probably just roaming about, like you, enjoying life without a leash.”
Kathleen M. Jacobs is the author of The Harboring & other stories and The Puppeteer of Objects: A Lyrical Poem. Both are available from Jan-Carol Publishing. She divides her time between the Appalachian region and New York City. You can find her at www.kathleenmjacobs.com.
Award-winning author, outsider artist, and retired Senior Lecturer, Emeritus Cynn Chadwick, has nine novels in her collected works, and one of those books is celebrating a birthday. Originally released in 2019, Chadwick’s Things That Women Do is honoring its sixth autumn in a big way—with the release of an anniversary edition.
Described as “layered, beautiful, [and] necessary,” by NYT Best Selling Author, Wiley Cash, Things That Women Do takes readers on an entangled journey of familial secrets and complex emotions. Stranded during a blizzard, the novel’s curious cast of characters—Anna Shields, her aunt, Lydia, and the women residing on Lydia’s farm—share dark and startling secrets. The story skates between past and present until Anna begins to realize, to her shock, that these things are connected to her own past and become key to her future.
We reached out to Cynn to chat, not just about Things That Women Do , but about her experiences, expertise, and advice for aspiring writers and artists.
Q: Besides releasing the anniversary issue, what other ways have you been celebrating Things That Women Do this fall?
A: I’m looking forward to celebrating with my most favorite sort of event—book clubs! Now, especially with the release of the Audible version and with the anniversary edition of Things That Women Do, I hope to attend even more. I have been enjoying doing in person and Zoom book clubs, so if any of your readers belong to one, hit me up! No matter where you are in the world, I’ll happily drop into your wine—I mean book club—to chat about Things That Women Do.
I recently completed a workshop at the Rochdale Central Library, Rochdale UK, on investigating and writing women’s family stories. I think writing stories about and for women, speaking to groups of women about women, running workshops about and for women has become a theme in my own life and runs throughout all of my novels. Each seemingly determined by this title, Things That Women Do.
Q: In what ways did writing Things That Women Do differ from the other novels you’ve written?
A: I think every novel, hopefully, differs from its predecessors, as that would reflect a certain growth— for this writer, at least. I think a few notable moments occurred in my process that were significant, one being writing in many points of view. While I’d done this in other stories, there were many in this one. Along that same line, there were challenges in structure as the story goes back and forth in time over 30 years and involves over 20 multigenerational women, all with connecting paths. And so at times, it was like herding cats!
What struck me with this one, number eight, was that its very title describes not only all of my stories, but my deeply seeded intentions for them for over 25 years of my novel-publishing career.
P.S. Any women filmmakers out there producing women-centered films—have a read and let’s talk.
Q: You recently recorded the audio book for Things That Women Do , how was that experience?
A: It was interesting and intense—not for the claustrophobic, as you’re in a tiny, dark, hot box, headphones clamped, reading into a microphone for many hours and days. That said, I had a great engineer— shoutout to Dave Berg—who was a great coach, gave me hints, provided hot tea, lemon drops, and throat coat for singers!
It was about the fourth or fifth night, as I was entering the studio, that I heard a recording playing, and when I saw Dave, I asked, “Is that me?” Up until that moment, I was like most who “hate” our own voices, but I discovered I actually like mine. Later, while listening to the whole book, there were times I forgot it was me.
Q: Did the characters sound how you expected them to?
A: Yes, exactly! LOL. Probably one of the first and consistent positive comments I’ve heard over my 25-year writing career is that I have an ear for dialogue, and I think this is true. Sometimes authors use dialogue as filler, or a shortcut, or they tell the story through it. I see it as a way to nudge the story forward but more to enhance the character of my characters. My ear is attuned to certain nuances in the vernacular, the colloquial, accent, dialect, rhythm, cadence—I hear these in the voices of both beloveds and strangers. I think I’ve just always had a natural inclination or awareness to language, to words, especially in dialog or interior reflections of a character. If I am confident about anything in my work, it’s probably this.
Q: You’ve talked before about your love for book clubs. Not too long ago one of your personal book clubs read and discussed Things That Women Do . What are some of your takeaways from that discussion?
A: I have been enjoying doing in-person and Zoom groups much more than festivals or bookshop readings. Whether together or from afar, to be able to spend a couple of hours talking about my stories with readers with opinions, reflections, connections, and even bold
criticisms are most welcome, and satisfying to me. To hear what I’ve accomplished, or not, or how my work has mattered in ways I could not have imagined is humbling and makes what I do feel like purpose.
The joy of this particular experience was truly special. I have kept in touch with five of my college friends of 30 odd years ago. We have gathered together in reunion spots for years, and we now have a monthly Zoom. They have known me since I was a baby-writer, and so when we gathered around a red and white checkered dining table in a cabin on a lake in Maine six years ago, it felt like the good old days, as each of these magnificent women in my life read a part aloud.
When Delores suggested we all listen to the book together for our Zoom group, I was extremely nervous! These are girls who do not hold back, but I also know they are part of my journey; they have been there from my beginnings, and so I did have a great curiosity of their responses. Too long, too many murders, and what happened to the folder? There were a lot of dear notices, many recollections, and many warm moments where their pride in me was palpable, and my love and devotion to them resides, in many ways, in the women in the book.
Q: Do you have any book club experiences with your other books that you’d like to share?
A: I have two that have brought me joy. The first, during the pandemic: my cousin, Carol Pindar, in England, included Things That Women Do in her Hayfield Book Club, and I was able to Zoom in. Soon after, they invited me to join them. Since my latest novel takes place in the UK, I’ve made many trips over since and now have a bunch of great friends I see in person. Books bring people together.
This next one wasn’t exactly in a book club, but it reflects why those conversations can be most enlightening. It was the Monday after my first book, Cat Rising , had been released the week before. In it, my character has a dear relationship with a grandmother who has passed away but is quite present in the story.
As I approached my office at the university, a student was waiting with my book on her lap. She was quite shy and became emotional when telling me that her own beloved grandmother had passed that weekend. She shared that my character Cat Hood’s relationship with her grandmother had helped this young woman grieve her own. That may be the first and most meaningful moment I’ve ever had with a reader, and it gave me a greater understanding that, as Flannery O’Connor once wrote, “After a book has left my hands, the rest is up to God,” and I cherish this.
Q: In July 2023 you released your first historical fiction novel, The Incorrigible Rogue . How has the research and travel involved in writing that novel influenced your writing going forward?
A: In many ways, it changed everything! First, shoutout to all historical fiction writers everywhere, because the intensity of the research is immense. All fiction writers do a modicum of research—ask me about alpacas, Harley Davidsons, and growing hemp, and I’m a well of information—but when you write about another time you have not lived, about actual people you have not met, and (for me) in a place you have only visited, getting it right is the most important thing. I have spent days researching the value of a quid in 19 th Century England, or to be informed (early on) that in fact there are NO chipmunks in the UK!
When I traveled that first time to do research for my great grandmother’s story, I went in February. My family in the North thought me bonkers to come during the bleakest time. But for me, I wanted to feel what it might be like during that time, when she lived. I was not disappointed. It was cold, gray, damp, wet, snowy, sleeting, slippery cobblestones, slick slate, wet socks, cold fingers and toes, and a bone chill that I could barely shake even after a hot shower at my comfy hotel. My great grandmother had no luxury or escape from that sort of weather, and I needed to know it.
I launched this story at the Rochdale Central Library in May of ’24. The prior year, I’d taken a day tour of The Lake District, and we passed a grand hotel on Lake Windermere, and I promised myself that after the launch I would treat myself to a stay in the best room—and I did! During that visit to Bowness on Windermere, I picked up a copy of Dorothy Wordsworth’s Grasmere Journal. She was the sister of the poet William, and I became enamored. This has led to my current project, Witness Marks , which is part historical fiction, part ghost story, part memoir (I might be creating my own new genre), and involves the ghosts of Dorothy Wordsworth and another “Lakes poet” called Isabella Lickbarrow. I just spent three weeks in The Lakes writing, doing research, feeling the place, and listening to ghosts.
Q: In addition to writing, your website showcases your experience with art and painting. How has your artistry evolved over time?
A: I think of my art, painting, drawing, and woodworking as more of a creative outlet than me being an “artist,” as my focus there is my writing. That said, like most creatives, the outlets can be multilevel. Mine don’t exactly evolve as they shift with my insatiable curiosity to try new things and my, more often, growing boredom once I’ve learned. I have practiced stained glass, canvas paintings, burn-plaques, tile pieces, greeting cards, and I am currently making pottery at a studio down the road—mostly because I like the artists and hanging out in creative spaces.
Q: Do you have any advice for other self-described “outsider artists?”
A: Don’t take classes. Don’t let anybody tell you how to do anything different than what you’re doing, as long as you love what you’re doing. Just keep enjoying it.
Q: What about advice for aspiring writers?
A: READ! You cannot be a good writer if you are not a voracious reader. There’s no such thing
as “writer’s block,” because the time in between the writing is equally as important as the writing itself. Sit down and devote a certain amount of time each day to writing. It can be 10 minutes or two hours. If you’re to go from being a writer to a published author, you must create a “Habit of Being,” as O’Connor suggests. Believe in yourself, be willing to edit, take advice, and go with your gut. I once submitted (via snail mail) 181 times to agents before I acquired one.
Also, the best advice my mother gave me: no one cares if you write or not—so, either do it for yourself, or don’t do it at all.
Q: What is something that you hope women take away from reading Things That Women Do and has that hope evolved or changed over time?
A: I hope they see the love, joy, loyalty, communion, complexity, and power of a community of strong women. I hope they see a little of themselves in these characters, I hope they understand that as women living in an oppressive patriarchy since Adam threw Eve under the bus, that sometimes the Things That Women Do to survive may not be as noble as one might expect, but the ingenuity to get it done is to be admired.
You can find Things That Women Do through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and jancarolpublishing.com. For Cynn Chadwick’s entire collected works, head to Amazon or her website https://www.nappingporchpress.com/home.
Jan-Carol Publishing, a small book press, brings book publishing tips, changes in the book publishing industry, introduction to authors, books, and working behind the scenes in the book publishing industry. Listen, learn, and enjoy the interviews with different authors.
Jeff Geiger Jr., author of the thriller/suspense novels
The White Room and Mama’s Boys, sat down with us to chat about his career thus far and what advice he’d give to other horror writers. Jeff’s work has also been featured in six installments of These Haunted Hills , a horror-themed short story anthology collection.
Q: When did you know you wanted to write novels? What was your background with writing before that?
A: In the 9 th grade, I wrote a short story for my friends to read, but it wasn’t until many years later that I’d realize I wanted to write a novel. A lot of the inspiration to write came after I read The Dark Half by Stephen King. After reading that book, something sparked inside of me, and I went to work on learning how to craft a story of my own.
Q: Who are some of your inspirations when it comes to writing?
A: Stephen King, Harlan Coben, and Greg Iles
Q: What would you tell potential readers about your novels, The White Room and Mama’s Boys ?
A: Both novels take place in Florida. The White Room is a suspense novel based in Tampa. It’s written in first person and is a good choice for anyone who enjoys a suspense-packed story about being trapped and locked in a cage, fearing the same thing as everyone else there—going to the White Room.
Mama’s Boys is more of a supernatural suspense/ horror novel. This one takes place in a fictional town I call Abbott, but it’s based on my hometown. It’s written in third person and is a good choice for anyone who would enjoy a crime thriller about two teens accidentally summoning a witch who has one thing on her mind: revenge.
Q: What do you think is the key to crafting a suspenseful novel?
A: You need the reader to be invested in your characters to create suspense. They have to be believable and relatable. Once you have that, you can put them in all kinds of situations that will keep the reader wanting to know what’ll happen to them.
Q: You’ve also been featured in many These Haunted Hills books. What is your favorite short story you›ve contributed to that anthology over the years and why?
about, then I start writing and see what comes of it. Although, with a novel, I try to have a few more pieces of the story in mind before starting.
A: It’s difficult to pick a favorite. There are definitely some I like more than others. If I had to choose, though, I’d have to say it’s “Old Man Dan” from These Haunted Hills: Book 3. I really liked the character and the twist that, hopefully, readers didn’t see coming. Also, in my opinion, it has the best ending out of all the short stories I’ve written so far.
Q: What can you tell readers about your short story from this year’s These Haunted Hills: Book 7, “The Man in the Black Hoodie”?
Q: Do you ever get writer’s block? If so, how do you fix it?
A: I haven’t had writer’s block yet, thankfully. It’s bound to happen one day, I’m sure! For me, the hardest part is sitting down to actually get the story started.
Q: What would be your advice to aspiring authors trying to get published?
A: “The Man in the Black Hoodie” takes place in Harlan, Kentucky, where a high-school senior revisits a cemetery that has haunted him ever since he was a 12-year-old boy—a cemetery where evil not only exists, but it follows you home, too. This short story has many twists in it, and it’s sure to keep the reader guessing until they reach the end.
Q: How do you approach writing a short story versus writing a novel?
A: I approach it in a very similar way, actually.
a
no ve l
A: Read a lot and write as much as you can. You should have avid readers or other writers read your stories and provide feedback, if they’re willing to do so. Listen to the feedback, but ultimately do what your gut tells you. Then, search for a publisher that publishes the kinds of stories you like to write.
Q: What’s next for you? Any plans for another novel?
A: I plan to work on another novel very soon. I have a few ideas written down. It’s just a matter of time before enough ideas come together for me to get the ball rolling.
You can find both of Jeff’s novels, as well as all installments of These Haunted Hills, through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and jancarolpublishing.com.
“Riveting, spine-tingling, and powerful . . . Je Geiger Jr. creates a tension- lled tale that stirs the reader into the lives of the characters. e author has outdone himself.”
— Author Susan Noe Harmon
“Voices of Tomorrow” showcases the creativity and insight of young writers and artists ages 10–18. This section celebrates emerging talent, offering a platform for the next generation to share their unique perspectives through words and visual art.
By Jubilee Akers
Cora looked over and laughed at her little sister, Anne, as she stuck her entire hand into the bowl of pancake batter. It was a chilly October morning, the kitchen windows foggy with warmth from the stove. Outside, the trees blazed in shades of red and orange; inside, the air was thick with the sweet smell of sugar and frying butter.
“You better not let Momma catch you doing that,” Cora warned with a wink.
Anne giggled, licking her fingers before scampering off to the sink.
Cora flipped a pancake, watching the edges bubble and brown. She let out a dramatic sigh. If Anne kept it up, the entire house would soon be covered in syrupy handprints. Truly, she thought she could win a medal for surviving life with such a sister.
Just then, Momma came in with an armful of logs for the fireplace, the crisp autumn air following her through the door. A few leaves clung to her shawl as she crossed the kitchen.
“How are the pancakes coming along?” she asked.
Cora swept an exaggerated bow with her spatula.
“Splendidly,” she declared.
Little Anne busied herself at the table, the clatter of dishes rattling out an uneven rhythm across the kitchen. Meanwhile, Cora carried over a jug of maple syrup and a dish of butter. A stray sunbeam struck the jug, and for a moment the syrup looked as though it had stolen a flame from the fire.
They sat down to eat, Momma handing Anne a glass of milk before pouring coffee for herself and Cora.
“Pass the butter, please,” Momma said.
Anne slid the dish across the table, the knife still thick with butter from her overly generous helpings. Cora chuckled at the smear of butter clinging to Anne’s cheek—unde-
niable evidence of her extravagant butter spreading. Momma only shook her head, smiling as though she were trying not to laugh, until a giggle escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Cora had just finished her fourth pancake and was gulping down the last of her coffee when Anne licked syrup off her fork and asked, “Can I come with you to Melissa’s?”
Cora shook her head, hiding a smile.
“Not this time, troublemaker. Melissa and I have work to do, and besides, a little bird told me Momma is baking snickerdoodles later today.”
“Reallyyy?” Anne squealed, leaping from her seat and darting to Momma’s side. “Are we truly going to make snickerdoodles?”
“We?” Momma teased, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you were going over to see Melissa with your sister.” Momma sent Cora a quick wink.
“Are you kidding me?” Anne gasped. “Why would I want to go see Melissa when I can eat cookies?” With dramatic flair, she pretended to faint across Momma’s lap.
Cora rolled her eyes at her sister’s theatrics, though she had to admit with a smirk—at least Anne had learned her drama from the best.
Momma laughed and tickled Anne until she dissolved into giggles.
“Alright, we can make cookies,” Momma said with a smile.
“Eeeeeee!” Anne squealed, shooting upright with delight.
Momma’s voice turned solemn. “But only after you finish helping me with the chores. The attic still needs dusting and organizing.”
Anne straightened, nodded as if sealing a grand bargain, and immediately began clearing the table with new determination. “I will do anything to get cookies. Do we gotta save cookies for Pappa?”
“Yes,” replied Momma.
Anne sighed, then began daydreaming about her cookies.
Cora cleared her place, then hurried upstairs to fetch her sewing things. She pulled the wooden box from beneath her bed and plopped it onto her quilt. As she laced up her boots, her mind wandered to the Whitmore house. She could already picture Melissa on her couch, needle flashing in the firelight, her brow furrowed in quiet focus. It had only been a week since they’d last seen each other, but to Cora it felt like an eternity.
Jacket snug, sewing box in hand, she was halfway out the door when Momma called after her, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Cora turned to see Momma holding up a checkered scarf. “Oh! I almost forgot.” She darted back, and Momma tucked the scarf snugly around her neck.
“Have fun, sweetheart,” Momma said with a kiss to her cheek.
“Bye, Momma! Don’t let Anne get into my writing supplies!” Cora laughed, hugging her sewing box tighter. As she ran out into the crisp October morning, her heart leapt at the thought of being with her friend.
Cora headed toward the trail. Melissa’s family lived at the edge of the Emerson property, and because the girls had wandered back and forth between their houses so often, a narrow path had been worn straight through the woods.
A sharp gust whipped the trees. Cora pulled her coat tighter, quickening her pace. Beneath her boots, the leaves made a crisp orchestra, each step crackling across the carpet of gold, orange, and red. Overhead, branches arched to form a glowing canopy, sunlight streaming through in shifting patches as though the woods were a cathedral of color.
A pair of squirrels darted across the limbs above, chattering in a merry quarrel, and Cora smiled. She could still remember summers when she and Melissa had run this same trail barefoot, daring each other to race from fence to fence, tumbling breathlessly into the grass. But autumn was when the path was at its finest—magical, hushed, and brimming with color. Today, with her sewing box snug under her arm, it felt as though the trail was carrying her straight toward comfort and a new adventure.
At last, she reached the end of the path and saw the Whitmore house in view. She bounded up the steps and was greeted by the scent of apples and cinnamon.
“You’re early,” Melissa said with a smile, holding the door wide.
“I’m merely escaping attic duty,” Cora teased, sweeping past her into the house.
“Ufff, that dusty old attic,” Melissa laughed. “Come on, the pie is nearly ready.”
They settled onto the old couch, lumpy with age but delightfully comfortable. Pepper, Melissa’s kitten, snuggled up between the two girls. Their quilt, a medley of patchwork squares, stretched across their laps. As they worked, their fingers moved nimbly, and their talk wandered easily.
“I don’t know what I’ll do if I get sent to the city to stay with Aunt Emma in the summer,” Cora sighed, tying off a knot with a dramatic flourish. “She’s dreadfully dull and wears only gray.”
“You’d bring color with you,” Melissa pointed out. “Besides, you’re always writing letters. You’ll just send me two each day instead of one.”
Cora smiled and looked out the window at the maple tree, its branches dotted with color. “Still, I’d miss this— our quiet days. You make the world feel like it doesn’t need fixing.”
Melissa didn’t reply right away. She pressed her needle through a scrap of pink cotton and said softly, “You make me feel as though the world could be fixed.”
They sewed in silence for a while, the only sounds being the soft clink of their thimbles and the steady purring of Pepper as he snuggled up in Cora’s lap. Then Melissa reached into her pocket and pulled out a spool of expensive blue silk thread. “I just got some new thread,” she said, handing it to Cora. “For the last square. I want something for you to remember me by.”
Cora blinked, touched. “But it’s yours. You worked hard for the money to get this—”
“Now it’s yours,” Melissa said with joy.
They stitched the thread into the final patch together, side by side, their heads almost touching. Between bites of apple pie, they laughed and chatted as their needles flashed through the cloth. Outside, a breeze stirred the
branches, and inside the fire crackled, casting a golden glow across the room.
They shared pie and laughter until the evening grew late, and after a while Cora and Melissa carried their plates out to the front porch. There, under a painted sky scattered with stars, they sat shoulder to shoulder, speaking in hushed tones as though the night itself were listening.
The moment was simple, yet it lingered—like the image of a sunset imprinted in your memory long after the sun has set.
Years later, their lives carried them down different paths. Anne, always dramatic, took to the stage and became an actress, her laughter and energy shining beneath the glow of theater lights. Momma remained in her cozy house with Pappa. In time, she had another dramatic child to care for—little Tommy, the newest addition to their family, who filled the rooms with laughter, mischief, and cheerful chaos.
Melissa’s life was quieter. She made her home in a little cottage at the edge of town, children’s footsteps
By Amelia Birch
The mornings come with mist and frost,
And summer’s heat is gladly lost.
The wind with vigor rushes round
To stir up leaves upon the ground;
Leaves that yesterday, I’m sure, Had still been green, and quite obscure.
The trees upon the hill give way
To gold, scarlet, and orange array.
The garden’s prime has passed us by, And pumpkins wink a cheerful eye;
And husks of corn are husked to show
Their bright kernels all in a row.
pattering across the floor, the garden bright with flowers she carefully tended. She often walked down the trail with her little ones—the very same trail she and her dearest friend had raced along years ago. The children would beg for adventure tales of “Mommy and Aunt Cora,” their eyes wide as Melissa told stories of laughter, mischief, and friendship.
Cora moved to the city, where she became a published writer. Her books traveled farther than she ever dreamed they could. Yet sometimes, when the city felt too large and the comfort of her dearest friend seemed far away, she would wrap herself in the quilt they had stitched together, side by side. That old quilt was faded now from years of use, but the blue thread still shone through.
For some friendships, once stitched, never unravel.
Jubilee Akers is a 16-year-old homeschooler from East Tennessee with a love for all things creative. “The Blue Thread” is her very first short story, marking the beginning of her writing journey. She hopes readers will enjoy experiencing her story as much as she enjoyed bringing it to life.
The evenings now come with a chill, And of hot tea we drink our fill.
The chimney’s topped with smoke once more, While firewood piles beside the door;
And when the stars shine clear and bright, We’ll have an extra quilt tonight.
Amelia, age 14, dreams of being an author and visiting her favorite authors’ haunts in England. She keeps 35 chickens, all of whom are named, in the hills of East Tennessee. She frequently reads the works of the Brontë sisters and dreams of being an author herself someday. When she isn’t reading or writing, you can find her playing her cello.
By Micah Burgoyne
There came a stranger, dressed in gray, Whose somber bearing seemed to say: “I have come from another day, And soon I travel far away.”
There came a shadow, dressed in white, Who hid himself from the light, And stayed so long as the sun was bright, Then traveled on into the night.
There came a lady, dressed in brown, Whose face was ever a mournful frown; She paused to brush her drab gown, Then hurried on from the town.
There came a pilgrim, dressed in black, Who stopped to rest his weary back, Then shouldering again his pack, He set out on the dusty track.
There came a hunter, dressed in green, Whose face and body both were lean; He stood and sharpened his knife keen, Then faded away into my dream.
By Micah Burgoyne
The winter comes in days of fall, When trees have changed their colors all. Though light still shines down from the sky, A certain warmth it does deny, For time will never halt or stall.
The trees have heard the chilling call; They lose their leaves, both short and tall, For power they cannot defy.
The winter comes.
Cold forms stand ready for the pall, For even so does weather maul, They fully seem as those who die. Though these were once a verdant eye, They now are left with naught but gall.
The winter comes.
Jan-Carol Publishing Books
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By Olivia Matras
Red wine glass dancing on edge, A careless gesture knocks it down.
Pieces laying exposed in red, Spreading shadows without a sound.
You can pick up the pieces, Use a gallon of glue, Fill it with wine, It still spills through.
By Olivia Matras
I’ve ate my meal,
Yet why does my stomach still growl?
My body’s been stuffed, While my brain craves more, Hungry for your attention. Bloated from your lies,
My plate is clean,
But I still contain your mess.
By Olivia Matras
I’m still learning to appreciate the heart that beats inside me.
I haven’t memorized the waves of my brain.
I can’t recall the last happy tear that’s shed out my eye.
I don’t remember the last melodious song my ears have heard.
I don’t like how my legs grow taller, And my age gets older.
I can’t stand the fact that the body and mind I live in
Still haven’t adapted to my understanding of love.
Olivia Matras, age 13, is a poet and writer from Kansas who loves writing about themes including identity, healing, growth, renewal, and situations people might be struggling in. When Olivia isn’t writing, she loves playing volleyball and reading books. Olivia found herself in poetry after she was bullied and harassed for her looks and body. Her first poem she wrote was titled “A Broken Glass of Fat-Shaming.” After that, she fell in love with poetry and continues to write every day.
“A Mouse in a Pumpkin House” by Jubilee Akers
Jubilee Akers is a 16-year-old homeschooler who lives in Tennessee. She loves painting, drawing, and all the arts. She has been drawing for as long as she can remember and has had some really fun art opportunities. One of her favorite projects was painting a mural for her county fair. She hopes you enjoy her art!
Artist Statement:
“A Mouse in a Pumpkin House” really embodies a cozy fall night. Our little mouse sits by the fire with Much Ado About Muffin, warm lights glowing and cocoa close by. Tucked safely in his pumpkin patch home, he’s created the perfect fall hideaway—unless pumpkin pickers come knocking!
“A Cozy Evening” by Lexi Balli
Lexi Balli is a 12-year-old homeschooler who lives in Tennessee. She loves art in any way, shape, or form.
Artist Statement:
I think my painting connects to fall because, for me, fall is all about colorful trees, cozy houses, beautiful lakes, and leaves falling, and my painting has all that in it.
Tapestry Journal: Indie Publishing is now accepting submissions for our November/December issue ! As the air turns crisp and festive lights begin to glow, we invite you to explore the richness of the holiday season and the quiet magic of winter’s arrival .
Whether it’s the nostalgic warmth of family gatherings, the solitude of a snow-covered morning, or reflections on the passage of time— we want to read, see, and feel it all.
We’re seeking original works in the following categories:
• Short Stories
• Poetry
• Photography
• Art (digital or traditional)
• Book Reviews
• Opinion Pieces related to the literary world
• Deadline for Submissions: October 20 th , 2025
• How to Submit: Email us your submissions at tapestryjournal@jancarolpublishing.com .
We welcome voices from across the literary spectrum, especially from indie creators and emerging artists. Whether you’re an established writer or submitting for the first time, we encourage you to share your unique perspective.
Let your creativity echo the season’s contrasts— light and dark, warmth and chill, celebration and introspection.
Full submission guidelines will be shared soon.
Questions? Reach out to us at tapestryjournal@ jancarolpublishing.com
We can’t wait to see how you capture the season!
By Janie C. Jessee Owner/CEO
Jan-Carol Publishing, INC.
Beingan indie author requires a lot more work and time than many authors are willing to invest. You have to ask yourself if you are willing to invest your time working all aspects of publishing. It will be as if you’re running a small publishing company, and like any small business, there’s always something to do outside the primary work you want to do, which is write.
If you decide that you want to be an indie author, then create an outline and pathway to meet your goals that include answering the what, when, who, how, and why
• What are my expectations in marketing, promotion, spending, and sales? What are the obstacles? What’s my budget?
• When should I expect to see results? When is the right time to be writing or selling?
• Who will buy my book?
• How do I plan a doable schedule?
• Why does it seem like everything I do isn’t working?
Let me clarify:
• What was I thinking when I thought I could do all the editing, marketing, promotion, and selling?
• When do I get the time to write?
• Who can help me? Do I need a team?
• How can I possibly do all this on my own?
• Why do I want to be an author anyway?
Do you feel overwhelmed yet? Writing and selling your book can be a full-time job, and so is the administrative work that goes along with it.
A publishing company or publishing service will be able to assist you and guide you to meet your expectations. How would you answer the same questions if asked by a book publisher offering team support?
• What are your expectations and what are you goals?
• When do you think you will see results?
• Who makes up your social circle?
• How do you plan to market, promote, and sell your book and build a readership?
• Why do you want to be a published author?
The process of publishing should not be complicated, but the devil is in the details. So, ask questions, and the answers can guide you to becoming a successful author, either self-published or having a publishing company work for you as your team.
Jan-Carol Publishing, known as JCP, is recognized as the largest book publisher in the region with over 400 titles of books and publishing the monthly magazine, Voice Magazine for Women, for over 20 years. We are locally owned and operated.
• How do you get your book published?
• How do you submit your manuscript?
• What steps are needed for editing?
• How do I get an ISBN?
• Will your book be on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, etc?
Let us assist you in navigating through the book publishing process! 423.926.9983 submissions@jancarolpublishing.com www.jancarolpublishing.com