WELL READ Magazine February 2024

The Calpocalypse: An Allegory in Verse Maurice Gandy Maurice Gandy creates a looping, feverish narrative in this collection of riveting rhyme about sun, sand, and the search for the perfect wave. The Calpocalypse describes the wanderings of a group of itinerant California surfers on the beaches of San Francisco and Mexico in the 1960s. A far cry from Funicello and Avalon, characters like Macho Peaches, The Duke of Tan, and Coyote Conquistador introduce us to the real psycho-spiritual world of the surfers' esoteric lifestyle.

The action begins when a riot on the beach triggers an escape to the "Ultimate Toolies" in the mountains. An unfortunate encounter with a mountain cat causes another sudden flight, this time to Mexico where even the unwritten laws of the surfing gods don't apply. Things get wilder when a few of the surfers join the religious cult of the Reverend Cosmo Tease, while others are challenged to daring feats at the mysterious San Andreas Fault.In a climactic finale, we learn who defied the limits, who bailed, and who got axed.

Whatever happens to them, each one of Gandy's funny, engrossing characters is altered forever-as is the reader-by the experience of The Calpocalypse.

“Maurice Gandy takes readers along for the ride as characters set out on a journey to find their meaning in life during a free and expressive time in history. From comical and crude to mythical and mysterious, there is a character for everyone to fall in love

with. I love that it is written in the form of poetry, although it is best when read as a story rather than getting lost in trying to follow a poetic rhythm. It is a great story of the trials, defeat, and success of self-discovery. It is perfect for anyone who wants to read about other people's struggle while trying to find their true place in life. Just as in real life, the characters in the story go through many adventures and many mishaps along the way.

It was a wonderful book for me to read as I am trying to go to college and figure out what I want my life to turn out like. I had the privilege to attend a reading of The Calpocalypse, in which the author brings his characters to life. He uses audience participation to give his book a voice, and makes his readings a very enjoyable experience. I have read The Calpocalypse twice!” Five Star Reader Review Maurice Gandy writes stories about interesting Mobile area people, events, and oral histories. Semi-retired college and university English instructor. Maurice is currently teaching Technical Writing and American Literature at the University of South Alabama; and English Composition courses at Bishop State Community College as an adjunct. "Roads Scholar" for the Alabama Humanities Foundation Speakers' Bureau (www.ahf.net). He travels the state making motivational presentations on oral history techniques and goals to private organizations, school clubs, and teachers' in-service workshops. The program is entitled "Famous Lost Words: Recording and Preserving Oral History."

BEST OF 2023 Submissions

Coming soon!

Paperback editions of Volume One & Volume Two will be available on 4-9-24. Kindle versions are available for pre-order now.

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HELLO READERS! LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

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WHAT ARE YOU READING? TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

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WHY YOU SHOULD ADVERTISE IN WELL READ

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INSIDE VOICES Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Karen Schwettman

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THE WRITER’S EYE with Dean James

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WELL DONE! PROSE, POETRY, AND ART

THE GURU DAKSHINA AND THE LEAVE-TAKING by Dr. Elizabeth V. Koshy 47 THE HOUSE ON A STEEP HILL by Ann Hite

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TOURIST TRAPPED by Ellen Notbohm

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EYE CONTACT by Micah Ward

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BLUE by Malcolm Glass

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RETURN TO SENDER: AN ACCIDENTAL VALENTINE by Katie Crow

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GREETING THE HUNGRY BEAR IN AUTUMN by Lorraine Cregar 93 JUST LIKE HOME: a tale of the unexpected by Patricia Feinberg Stoner 97 NOT ALL VISITORS ARE by John M. Williams

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CASKET OF LOVE by Michael Lee Johnson

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

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LET’S REVIEW! CLAIRE CONSIDERS

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ANNIE ASKS Vanessa Lillie

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Scott Semegran and Kerri Schlottman

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Once Upon a Friendship

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NETWORKING

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WHAT’S YOUR STORY?

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

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HELLO READERS!

Join WELL READ MAGAZINE’S good news group on Facebook to find out more about the authors and contributors you see here. Lots of great extras like reviews, events, personal stories, things to celebrate, and opportunities to win free books directly from the authors in each issue!

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GOOD NEWS GROUP

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SUBSCRIBE TO WELL READ’S NEW YOUTUBE CHANNEL!

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BETWEEN THE PAGES - INTERVIEWS, READINGS, AND MORE

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WHAT ARE YO

OU READING?

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

The Arsenic Eater's Wife: A brand new dark historical mystery that will keep you guessing by Tonya Mitchell A woman is accused of killing her husband, but is she actually guilty?

Inspired by a true historical case, this novel will delight and engross readers.

Liverpool, England, 1889: In the shadowy streets, the air is thick with secrets and the line between guilt and innocence blurs. Twenty-six-year-old Constance Sullivan is brought to trial charged with poisoning her husband, William. But William was no ordinary victim…

As Constance's barrister fights to prove her innocence, a sinister web of deception unravels, exposing the dark underbelly of their seemingly idyllic marriage.

One by one, witnesses emerge with incriminating testimony and facts about the dark side of Constance and William’s marriage are revealed. For many, the widow’s guilt seems clear. But is someone holding the key to the whole truth?

Inspired by a true case, The Arsenic Eater’s Wife will hold the reader spellbound until the final, heart-stopping revelation.

“Gloriously Gothic, alarmingly good. Mitchell is a welcome new voice in the world of Gothic fiction.”—The Poisoner's Cabinet Podcast

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Murder Under A Honey Moon: A 1930s Mona Moon Historical Cozy Mystery by Abigail Keam

Book 12 of 13: A Mona Moon Mystery Mona Moon and her new husband, Robert Farley, Duke of Brynelleth, are on their honeymoon at last.

They have just boarded the RMS Majesty ocean liner. The couple are looking forward to visiting Robert’s ancestral English home, Brynelleth, and then off to Paris before winding up on the Italian Riviera. After a romantic evening of dancing until the wee hours of the night, Mona and Robert discover their suite has been ransacked and Mona’s jewelry, supposedly secured in their stateroom, has been stolen.

Mona is horrified as some of the jewelry belongs to the Brynelleth Estate and were cherished pieces of Robert’s mother.

The ship’s crew searches the ocean liner, and a gold brooch turns up in a bartender’s cabin. It is the same bartender who served Mona and Robert earlier in the evening. The only problem is the bartender has been murdered and the rest of the jewelry is still missing.

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WHAT ARE YOU READING?

A troubled marriage—and love story—set against the background of the AIDS pandemic, and the American wars in Vietnam and Iraq lie at the heart of After Camus. Saul Davidoff and Tolle Riordan, who meet during a protest against the Vietnam War, marry, live through the Plague Years of the AIDS epidemic, raise a family … and burn out. Camus is a hero to both of them: Tolle, a young dancer and choreographer, has a liaison with him in Paris shortly before his death; Saul, inspired

by Camus’s The Plague, becomes an infectious disease (and AIDS) doctor … and Camus becomes a ghostly presence central to our story.

The Intimacy of Spoons explores the many metaphors of the spoon: from love and marriage to the spoon of a grave that holds our bodies; from the darkness of loss and night, where “the Big Dipper is nothing but / the oldest spoon pointing us home”; to the darkness of lungs transformed into art. The poems cover a wide variety of topics—cultural, political, familial, and natural—and always, underlying these poems is the song of birds—with broken wings or clear voices, avian muses filling our forests now or long gone. There are nods to Basho and Thoreau, to Eliot and Frost, Dickinson and Milton, this last, a long poem that retells the story of Adam and Eve from the point of view of Mal, the apple. Likewise, The Intimacy of Spoons shares a variety of forms, from sonnet, sestina, and villanelle to syllabics, lyrics, and a ballad. At the center of the book is the long poem, “Elegy for My Body,” which uses wordplay and contrasting voices to explore mortality, because “You can’t really do time; / it simply does us, / or undoes us, / us beings in the time being being beings / on Times Squared / waiting for the big ball to fall.” The poems of The Intimacy of Spoons return us to everyday stories and objects, common yet profound.

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Long ago, Milon Redshield, the first warrior-king of Windkeep Castle, brought down a curse on the kingdom for his cruel treatment of dragons, the Goddess Nilene’s chosen guardians of nature. Thousands of years later, Windkeep is still burdened with the curse, and Queen Tessia is having to defend her kingdom from repeated assaults by the weather witches and their allies. She turns to her friends and advisors Norbert the Green Mage and Tyrmiss the Last Dragon, to accompany her and a band of heroes in a quest to travel to the far land of Sheonad in order to parley with the witches, and if they refuse to negotiate, then to destroy their city. Tessia urges Norbert to use his powers to fight the witches and protect Windkeep, but Norbert is reluctant to do so because he understands that the world exists in delicate balance, and grave and unforeseen consequences result if the balance is disrupted. After fighting a number of battles and suffering bizarre magical transformations, Tessia and Norbert at last come to understand the kingdom of Windkeep can be saved only through the ancient wisdom of dragons.

MADVILLE PUBLISHING seeks out and encourages literary writers with unique voices. We look for writers who express complex ideas in simple terms. We look for critical thinkers with a twang, a lilt, or a click in their voices. And patois! We love a good patois. We want to hear those regionalisms in our writers’ voices. We want to preserve the sound of our histories through our voices complete and honest, dialectal features and all. We want to highlight those features that make our cultures special in ways that do not focus on division, but rather shine an appreciative light on our diversity.

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WHAT ARE YOU READING?

Camp Redemption by Raymond L. Atkins Travel to Sequoyah, Georgia, to meet Early and Ivey Willingham. Early is a lifelong underachiever who occasionally smokes marijuana, drinks malt liquor, and watches the world go by.

Ivey is a modern day prophet who sees dead relatives and angels in her sleep. Together they own Camp Redemption, a failing Bible camp in the North Georgia mountains.

After they are forced to close the camp, Early and Ivey begin to attract a motley collection of people in trouble— Jesús Jimenez, an abused runaway from Apalachicola, Florida; Millie Donovan, with children in tow; Charnell Jackson, an out-of-luck lawyer on the dodge; Isobel Jimenez, Jesús’ mother, and her other children; and Hugh Don Monfort, the local bootlegger. Trouble looms as these travelers settle into their new home. Gilla Newman and the deacons at the Washed in the Blood and the Fire Rapture Preparation Temple covet the camp, and they intend to have it. From that moment forward, nothing is the same at Camp Redemption.

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Skinny-dipping: A Novel of Suspense (Lilly Cleary Book 1) by Claire Matturro Lilly Cleary is an attorney for a prestigious Sarasota law firm.

But her killer cross-examination technique and take-no-prisoners courtroom attitude haven't stopped the senior partners from dumping one stink bomb after another on her desk—like the kayak-whiplash case she's currently saddled with. And problems at home, specifically with her ex–boyfriend, aren't making her disposition any sunnier.

But it isn't until she's mugged outside her office that her troubles really begin. And when someone puts a bullet hole in her favorite suit, Lilly realizes things are getting a bit too personal. Perhaps it has something to do with a malpractice lawsuit she's inherited, and her recently and suspiciously deceased doctor client. Lilly's not going to take the insult lying down—even if tracking a killer leads her into dangerously deep water.

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WHAT ARE YOU READING?

Murder Past Due (Cat in the Stacks Mystery Book 1) by Miranda James FIRST IN THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING CAT IN THE STACKS MYSTERY SERIES! Everyone in Athena, Mississippi, knows Charlie Harris, the goodnatured librarian with a rescued Maine coon cat named Diesel that he walks on a leash. He’s returned to his hometown to immerse himself in books, but soon enough he’s entangled in a real-life thriller...

A famous author of gory bestsellers and a former classmate of Charlie’s, Godfrey Priest may be the pride of Athena, but Charlie remembers him as an arrogant, manipulative jerk— and he’s not the only one. Godfrey’s homecoming as a distinguished alumnus couldn’t possibly go worse: by lunch, he’s put a man in the hospital. By dinner, Godfrey’s dead.

Now it’s up to Charlie, with some help from Diesel, to paw through the town’s grudges and find the killer before an impatient deputy throws the book at the wrong person. But every last one of Charlie’s friends and co-workers had a score to settle with the nasty novelist. As if the murder wasn’t already purr-plexing enough...

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

The Cicada Tree by Robert Gwaltney The summer of 1956, a brood of cicadas descends upon Providence, Georgia, a natural event with supernatural repercussions, unhinging the life of Analeise Newell, an elevenyear-old piano prodigy. Amidst this emergence, dark obsessions are stirred, uncanny gifts provoked, and secrets unearthed.

During a visit to Mistletoe, a plantation owned by the wealthy Mayfield family, Analeise encounters Cordelia Mayfield and her daughter Marlissa, both of whom possess an otherworldly beauty, a lineal trait regarded as that Mayfield Shine. A whisper and an act of violence perpetrated during this visit by Mrs. Mayfield all converge to kindle Analeise’s fascination with the Mayfields.

Analeise’s burgeoning obsession with the Mayfield family overshadows her own seemingly, ordinary life, culminating in dangerous games and manipulation, setting off a chain of cataclysmic events with life-altering consequences—all of it unfolding to the maddening whir of a cicada song.

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WHAT ARE YOU READING?

The Best of the Shortest: A Southern Writers Reading Reunion Editor: Suzanne Hudson with Joe Formichella and Mandy Haynes

Featuring stories by: Marlin Barton + Rick Bragg + Sonny Brewer + Doug Crandell + Pia Z. Ehrhardt + David Wright Falade’ + Beth Ann Fennelly + Joe Formichella + Patricia Foster + Tom Franklin + Robert Gatewood + Jason Headley + Jim Gilbert + Frank Turner Hollon + Suzanne Hudson + Joshilyn Jackson + Bret Anthony Johnston + Abbott Kahler + Doug Kelley + Cassandra King + Suzanne Kingsbury + Bev Marshall + Michael Morris + Janet Nodar + Jennifer Paddock + Theodore Pitsios + Lynn Pruett + Ron Rash + Michelle Richmond + Dayne Sherman + George Singleton + Robert St. John + Sidney Thompson + Daniel Wallace + Daren Wang + James Whorton, Jr. + Mac Walcott + Karen Spears Zacharias

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Meet Me in Mumbai: A Memoir by Lovelace Cook It’s never too late for love…or a rite of passage.

“Meet Me in Mumbai proved to me it takes more than just empathy and keen observation, perhaps tons of unconditional and unbiased compassion, to absorb so much in strange lands, on a journey that hurls many challenges at us. While getting out of her comfort zone, Lovelace Cook captivated me with her intoxicating freedom.” Jayanthi Sankar, multiple international awardwinning author, Singapore.

Watch the trailer for Meet Me in Mumbai here

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WHAT ARE YOU READING?

Walking The Wrong Way Home by Mandy Haynes Spanning nearly twenty decades, the struggles and victories these characters face are timeless as they all work towards the same goal.

A place to feel safe, a place to call home.

Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth: Eva and other stories by Mandy Haynes Each story features a female protagonist, ranging from ten to ninety-five years of age. Set in the south, you’ll follow these young women and girls as they learn that they’re stronger than they ever thought possible.

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Oliver by Mandy Haynes “Dear God…and Jesus and Mary…”

Even though eleven-year old Olivia is raised Southern Baptist, she likes to cover her bases when asking for a favor. Unlike her brother Oliver, she struggles with keeping her temper in check and staying out of trouble. But Oliver is different, and in the summer of ’72 he proves to Olivia there’s magic in everything - it’s up to us to see it.

Mandy Haynes spent hours on barstools and riding in vans listening to great stories from some of the best songwriters and storytellers in Nashville, Tennessee. After her son graduated college, she traded a stressful life as a pediatric cardiac sonographer for a happy one and now spends her time writing and enjoying life as much as she can. She recently with her three dogs and one turtle from Amelia Island to Semmes, Alabama into a barn at Good Fortune Farm Refuge where she helps author, Carolyn Haines take care of farm chores and rescues of all shapes and sizes with various medical issues and special needs. They are collaborating on a Feminist Thriller/ Suspense novel that mirrors their life on the farm - minus the body count.

She is a contributing writer for Amelia Islander Magazine, Amelia Weddings, author of two short story collections and a novella. She is also the editor of the WELL READ Magazine’s Best of 2023 anthologies, and co-editor of the Southern Writers Reading reunion anthology, The Best of the Shortest.

Mandy is the editor-in-chief of WELL READ Magazine.

Like the characters in some of her stories, she never misses a chance to jump in a creek to catch crawdads, stand up for the underdog, or the opportunity to make someone laugh.

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WHY YOU SHOULD ADVERTISE IN WELL READ

When you purchase an “ad” for $50, you get a full page slot in WELL READ’s What Are You Reading? section with a live link to your website and a live purchase link of your choice.

Readers asked for full page, easy to read, “book recommendations” in place of traditional looking advertisements and I was happy to oblige.

As a bonus, there are personalized individual graphics made of your book image and author photo (if you choose to purchase a two page spread or more) with your book description and/or blurbs, bio, etc., shared to eight additional FB bookish accounts and to WELL READ Magazine’s Instagram, Pinterest, and Facebook sites – (that’s 39K potential views of your book when you combine all the sites).

WELL READ is distributed through ISSUU (the world’s largest digital publishing and discovery platform available). WELL READ Magazine receives an average of 8,000 views each month from readers all over the world.

Past issues are available and easily discovered on Issuu’s site. *All PAST issues, including the article and visual stories, remain active and are linked to the current issue.

You can continue to share them for as long as you like.

There is strength in numbers. Your “ad” will be included with the featured authors, great interviews, submissions, and the other fantastic books readers look for to add to their reading lists.

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WHY YOU SHOULD ADVERTISE IN WELL READ

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INSIDE VOICES

“…Attacks on books and freedom to read what one wants makes me more determined to be a welcoming place for all readers.”

Robert Gwaltney and Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Karen Schwettman, owner of FoxTale Book Shoppe in Woodstock Georgia 32

WELL READ MAGAZINE

INSIDE VOICES

Karen Schwettman is the owner of FoxTale Book Shoppe in Woodstock, GA. She began her career as an interior designer and has worked with Sherwin Williams, House Parts, and her own design firm, Karen Schwettman Interiors. A series of fortunate events presented her with an opportunity to follow her true passion, books. As a lifelong reader, the prospect of owning a bookshop was exciting and remains exciting today.

FoxTale Book Shoppe has been in operation for 16 years.

When she isn’t reading, Karen enjoys making art, traveling, and spending time with her family, including her seven granddaughters. She lives locally with her husband of 43 years, Gene, and their two calicos, Flannery and Bronte.

Inside Voices (Jeffrey): FoxTale Book Shoppe is without question a destination bookstore, a community gathering place. Why do independent bookstores so often serve as, in essence, community centers?

Karen: Readers are passionate people. They are passionate about words, diverse ideas, authors, and other readers. Staff in an independent bookstore read the books they sell unlike their corporate counterparts. Our own enthusiasm about books is passed on to the reader. We introduce books and authors that you may not be aware of.

All true readers love sharing books they love with others.

This creates community and a safe place to discuss ideas

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Karen Schwettman

and differences of opinion.

Inside Voices (Robert): Tell us about how FoxTale came to be . . . its origins. Is a love of books alone enough to go on?

Karen: FoxTale was born in 2007. It was the result of a brainstorm between friends who were writers and readers, on a whim. A visit to a friend in Denver took us to an independent bookstore called Tattered Cover. We fell in love with it immediately and began to imagine what we would do if we had our own bookstore. After creating a bookstore dream on a napkin in restaurant, we took a drive to Red Rocks Amphitheater one evening at dusk. The parking lot was deserted except for one lone fox, who sat in front of our car, who didn’t move when we got out. We stared at her, she stared at us, then turned, and walked away. We knew that was a sign. What it was a sign of, at the time, we weren’t sure. But we did know foxes don’t just show up and look at you intently without a reason.

The reason was discovered after we returned to Georgia.

In a book of Native American totems, we discovered that a fox’s tail is a symbol of feminine creative energy, thus the name, FoxTale came to be. To answer your question, is a love of books alone enough to go on? In this case, a resounding YES. Inside Voices (Jeffrey): Beyond obtaining business licenses and acquiring retail space, what does putting an indie bookstore on its feet entail?

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Karen Schwettman

Karen: Hard work! Designing the space, meeting with wholesalers and publishers to decide on core inventory, inventing a marketing plan, learning about the business side of books, and praying for customers!

Inside Voices (Robert): What do you know now that you wish you had known when you opened FoxTale?

Karen: I wish I’d known that I wouldn’t have time to read every book in the shoppe and that it’s often more about numbers than words.

Inside Voices (Jeffrey): Given the attack on books and the freedom to read whatever one wants, have you had moments of regret, bursts of pride about opening a woman-owned, independent bookshop?

Karen: No regrets. Yes, I am proud that FoxTale is a woman-owned indie. Attacks on books and freedom to read what one wants makes me more determined to be a welcoming place for all readers.

Inside Voices (Robert): The closest I’ll ever get to living a bookseller’s life is watching Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail. Is that an accurate picture of a typical day in the life of an indie bookseller? Disabuse us of any popular misconceptions!

Karen: Sometimes it is an accurate picture of a day in the life of an indie bookseller; camaraderie among the staff, FEBRUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 19

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Karen Schwettman

putting the right book in the right person’s hands, having a listening ear, being both a giver and receiver of encouraging words and sharing our stories. And every time a box of books arrives, we are all excited, that never changes.

What you don’t see is that none of us ever read books in the shoppe, there’s bills to pay and blurbs to write, software to learn and websites to make, prep and planning for author events, social media, marketing and how will we pay the rent, shelves to stock, displays to make, cleaning to do and boxes to open, books to mail, reports to write, email to answer, meetings with staff and authors and members of the community, to name a few. There is not a dull moment in the world of bookselling.

Inside Voices (Jeffrey): You’ve given many writers, including the two of us, a place to promote our work and meet the public. How do you decide which authors to invite into FoxTale?

Karen: Deciding who comes to FoxTale is rarely the same process. Every publisher has different criteria for their authors to come to you. We put in proposals throughout the year with publishers, following a grid that is available with the criteria for their authors. Some authors don’t tour in all areas, publishers decide where they want the authors to go, so we are often hemmed in with that.

Other times, we may reach out to authors on our own if we have loved an upcoming book they’ve written. Word of 36

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Karen Schwettman

mouth is also effective. Other authors may recommend authors to us. Often readers reach out to an author and ask them to come to FoxTale and their publicists will reach out to us.

Inside Voices (Robert): What advice do you have for authors who want, but are unsure how, to pitch themselves for a slot on your book event calendar? Are there definite no-nos to keep in mind when approaching a bookstore events coordinator?

Karen: The fastest and most effective way is to have their publicist reach out to us. If you do reach out to us directly, have a plan for how many people we can expect how many books you expect to sell and how we can make that happen.

The absolute fastest way to get a NO, is to say you are published by Amazon, or have great reviews on Amazon or are in the top rating on Amazon. The American Booksellers Association, including those of us who are a part of ABA, along with the federal trade commission are currently in a lawsuit against Amazon for unfair business practices. Amazon can and has put small businesses of all kinds out of business by these unfair advantages. Amazon remains a threat to all independent booksellers.

Inside Voices (Robert): Finally, who are your favorite authors, present company excluded, of course?

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Karen Schwettman

Karen: It’s no secret that Robert Gwaltney (The Cicada Tree) and Jeffrey Lofton (Red Clay Suzie) are two of my favorite authors. It’s difficult to narrow down so I’ll give you 5. Rick Bragg, Chris Bohjalian, Michael Farris Smith, Karen White, and Ann Patchett.

Find the full interview on WELL READ Magazine’s Between The Pages Podcast.

FoxTale Book Shoppe 105 E Main Street, Suite 138 Woodstock, GA 30188-0007

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Karen Schwettman

Photo Courtesy of Jennifer Carter

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THE WRITER’S EYE

Watching The Classics From A Different Point View 40

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THE WRITER’S EYE with Dean James

Recipe for a comic Christmas fantasy: 1 dashing angel 1 neglected bishop’s wife 1 obsessed bishop 1 magical Christmas setting The seasoning: Cary Grant, Loretta Young, and David Niven, plus several terrific character actors, James Gleason, Elsa Lanchester, Monty Woolley, and the great Gladys Cooper

Grant is Dudley, an angel sent in response to the request for help from David Niven, a bishop who is frustrated in his quest to raise money for a new cathedral. Loretta Young is “The Bishop’s Wife” who temporarily falls under the spell of the charismatic angel. Frustrated in his efforts to secure the donation of the town’s wealthiest woman (Gladys Cooper), the bishop begs for guidance, meaning “how do I get the old biddy to give me the money I want for my cathedral?”

On his way to meet the bishop, Dudley encounters Julia Brougham doing Christmas shopping, and he is quickly smitten. He moves on to see Bishop Brougham and reveals

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THE WRITER’S EYE with Dean James

himself as an angel sent in response to the bishop’s request. The bishop hopes for quick action, but Dudley plays a waiting game, partly because he wants to spend as much time with Julia as possible. Along the way, Dudley affects the lives of all the characters in positive ways.

There is considerable humor throughout the film, but the poignancy of the characters is what draws me back, every Christmas, to this enchanting film.

What can a writer learn by watching this film?

First off, you can learn how to craft a story well-balanced between character and action. Character drives the plot and creates both humor and pathos. Second, you can learn to focus on what each of your characters really wants.

Third, if they get what they want, how will the plot turn out? If they get what they actually need for a happier life instead, how does this affect the outcome of their lives?

This film is a good class on revealing character by action, showing rather than telling. The characters show us who they are, which is what great writing is all about.

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THE WRITER’S EYE with Dean James

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WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

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THE GURU DAKSHINA AND THE LEAVE-TAKING by Dr. Elizabeth V. Koshy

The Guru Dakshina and the Leave-taking Dr. Elizabeth V. Koshy

I return home from the parlour. Hair styled, artificial jasmine buds pinned into my short wavy hair. I've worn a white and gold tissue saree. My face is made up to look perfect under the lights.

The house is filled with guests: close relatives and families of second and third cousins. They have come to participate in the ritual Guru Dakshina and the leavetaking ceremony conducted before the bride departs for the marriage. Relatives from Kerala have come the day before. Those from Hyderabad, Bangalore and Bombay arrived early in the morning.

I look at my packed bags and suitcases lined up in the room. I had gone through all my possessions, packing things that I could carry with me for my new life ahead and setting aside those that I would have to leave behind. I packed all my books first. Then my silk sarees and dresses bought for the wedding. In another suitcase I packed

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WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

clothes for home wear.

Choosing photographs was difficult, as most of them were available in only one copy. I wanted to take pictures of my extended family too; I finally packed only photo albums from my college and university days and cards and letters specifically addressed to me. I tore up a lot of paper: poems, study notes and photocopies of articles used for my research.

My green balcony full of plants, each evoking a special personal memory I couldn't bear to leave behind but I thought taking them with me would not be right.

The gifts for the ‘adukala kannal’, the ritual of the bride's family visiting the groom's kitchen soon after the wedding include an electric idli and dosa stone grinder, a gold chain for the groom and a ‘kaccha and mundu', a traditional dress for the groom's mother.

The first night of married life is traditionally spent at the bride's house. After the ‘adukala kannal’ and a high tea of varied snack items at the groom's house, the entire entourage is to return to the bride's house for dinner and stay.

Invited guests and family wait for the ceremony to begin. A beetle nut in a beetle leaf and the gift of a shawl is given as ‘Guru Dakshina’, first, to a favourite teacher from school who has been invited for the ceremony.

My mother’s brothers and then my father’s cousins visiting Pune for the first time, are given ‘Guru Dakshina’

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next. My father always made it a point to visit all his cousins each year. We used to rent a car and travel three whole days from after breakfast to before dinner, visiting his cousins and my mother's brothers and sisters staying all around Central Travancore. Most of them made it a point to reciprocate the love by attending the wedding and bringing gifts of gold, pearl sets, silk sarees, dinner sets, bed sheets and silk dresses as tokens of their love.

I am already in tears after the hugs and kisses from my extended family. My eighty four year old grandmother who had come a month before from Kerala for my marriage, came next: my tears are unstoppable now. She was the matriarch of our family. My grandfather had passed away eight years before. She was my role model and a very inspiring figure. She was able to move everyone to tears hearing her prayers and supplications to God. I wondered how often I would be able to visit her after marriage.

I would sorely miss going to Kerala every summer.

My father’s brothers and their families come next. We were a close-knit family. Two of my father's brothers and their families also stayed in Pune. We celebrated each birthday, Christmas and Easter together. We went to Kerala together and had a blast with our cousins in Kerala and our youngest uncle every year. My youngest uncle gave me a bone-crusher of a hug that I still remember. My make-up is all but ruined. An aunt tells me to control my

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tears. It is now the turn of my immediate family.

My father refuses to come for the leave-taking, in spite of being called. I see him moving away, wiping his tears, letting out his breath forcefully to control his streaming tears. I was always a father's daughter. After I got back from school, college, and even work, I would be narrating the events of the day to him. My mother used to be busy in the kitchen and she was not as interested in my stories as my father was. My father had great dreams for me. He was always giving me examples from the newspaper about great achievers and their achievements.

My mother kisses me on both my cheeks breathing in the air as she used to, eyes brimming with tears. She would miss me in the kitchen and in the home. I looked after my parents' home like it was my home. I wondered how she would manage. We did have a maid do the chores but nobody to help in cooking meals.

My brother is next. He is six years younger than me. I used to carry him around when he was a child and look after him like a second mother. We had had many arguments and even physical fights a few years ago. This was the first time that he had embraced me. My father's eldest brother, a priest, then proceeds with the final prayers.

Friends, neighbours and relatives soon leave for the marriage ceremony at church. My cousins dry my tears to save whatever is left of the makeup before I walk towards

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the front door holding a beautiful bridal bouquet of pristine white crepe flowers and real leaves prepared by an aunt and her daughters. The church and the bridal car were decorated by my cousins.

I see my father walking towards me, face and eyes puffy and red, trying to control his sobs. Before I cross the threshold, he gives me a side hug breaking down into tears. My father was of the old school of thought that love should not be expressed physically, in the form of hugs and kisses. I did not remember him ever embracing me.

This was the one and only physical expression of love I received from him before my marriage. We are the last to leave. As I descend the stairs I turn to see him lock the door to the house I called home.

Things will not remain the same anymore I know, when I return from the church. I have walked out from home as a bride in white but I would enter home as a married woman, with my husband, wearing the wedding ring and the ‘minnu’, a gold beetle leaf with a dotted cross, the sign of marriage, strung on a thread made from seven intertwined threads taken from the wine red wedding saree blessed by the priest during the marriage ceremony.

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Dr. Elizabeth V.Koshy is a Professor in English Literature at Dr.A.B.Telang Senior College, Pune, India. Her poems have been published in edited anthologies by Sweetycat Press in 'Love', 'Song', 'Beauty' and 'Movement', Clarendon House Press in Poetica 3,4,5,6, Gertrude’s Writing Room, Caesurae.org, The Writers Club (Grey Thoughts), Stacy Savage's Poetry for a Cause, Lothlorein Poetry Journal, The World of Myth Magazine, Indian Periodical, Literary Yard, Spillwords and Rabble Review and MockingOwlRoost.Her CNF/memoirs have been published

by Academy of the Heart and Mind, Impspired Magazine, Sweetycat Press and 101 words. Her poem 'The mystical conjunction' was selected by Sweetycat Press for 'The Jewels in the Queen's Crown' anthology in the 24 K Gold category. Her poem 'I'm in love with the wind ' was selected as 'Publication of the month' at Spillwords for the month of October '23. An Interview has been published in the 'Spotlight on Writers' at Spillwords, January '24.

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THE HOUSE ON A STEEP HILL by Ann Hite

The House On A Steep Hill Ann Hite

Bette rearranged my life when she placed a bouquet of a dozen brown sticks about eight inches long in my arms.

“Take these home and place them in a vase of water.”

My mother taught me to respect my elders, and at thirtyone the lesson still stuck with me. Betty was eighty-eight.

She was shorter than my five feet six inches and her handshake made my fingers ache after she let go. “Before you leave we will dig up a piece of the bush with some roots. You should put it straight in the ground when you get home.” She looked around. “It is the perfect day to plant it. Give the roots some water. This bush is called flowering quince.”

Bette slung the heavy pick over her head and let it drop into the ground. There was no doubt this woman was stronger and could easily run rings around me. Part of me wanted to be her when I finally grew up. As a young woman Bette lived with the well-known author, Cora FEBRUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 19

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Harris, as her assistant. She edited and corrected Cora’s writing and spelling. When Bette married, it was to a dashing man, whose family was well known in the area.

Her home was a farm at the bottom of a mountain with a house leftover from before the Civil War. Many days I spent in front of the fireplace drinking Russian tea and listening to her tales of literary greats. In this place, I gathered her offering of what looked to be sticks.

When I got home to my house on a steep hill with a quarter-mile long dirt driveway that climbed in a straight line and swallowed cars in the muddy bottom during the winter, I placed the deep brown sticks into a crockery pitcher and placed them on my antique ironing board near the best window in the house. Oversized consisting of multiple panes of glass looking out on a western view of forest. Wooden shutters adorned the windows and folded open to the afternoon sun that helped the wood heater to warm the house on cold winter days. But that day was warm even though it was February. That is the thing about living in North Georgia, temperatures can slide up unexpectedly. Those warm days were the jewels of hope that got me through the frigid cold.

I took advantage of the warm sun and dug a hole in the front of the house near the split rail fence. A view of the same mountain where Betty’s place sat was framed by the crystal blue sky. With tender care, I placed the roots

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attached to the brown sticks into the cold moist dirt, patting it around the base, giving it support. Could I grow this into something worthy of enjoying? A bush that could be seen from the front porch swing.

Three days later when the bitter cold pushed against my house, the brown sticks—laughed at by another who lived in the house—revealed fat little buds of pale pink. Two days later the sticks were covered with pink and white blooms. A howling wind blew outside, but I sat warm in a favorite chair in front of the window in the puddle of sunlight as heat radiated from the wood stove. Those brown sticks were a work of art, a living still life.

When I left the house on the steep hill for the last time, I did so with a determination as if a life preserver had been thrown my way. Shame filled me—and sometimes still does—that I wouldn’t miss the other soul that lived in the house. The afternoon I drove down the steep driveway, praying I could navigate the mushy mud without bottoming out, I looked into the rear view mirror and caught sight of fat scarlet red buds about to open on the flowering quince bush. This year would be the best blooms since I had planted it the year before. What I didn’t know was the new people who would move into the house would eventually, for whatever reasons, remove the flowering quince bush.

As time went by and I settled into my new life, a

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creative life, I dreamed of the sunsets that showed through the special window and created an artist canvas of orange, red, and pink. I missed the place that nurtured me as I navigated a bad relationship, but the decision to leave saved who I was to be, an author, a strong woman, and a passionate mother.

Not long ago, I had to visit the house on the steep hill.

Much has changed. The house is dark on the inside with new wooden shutters closed tight to the outside world. My beautiful window is gone, replaced with a standard double window. Many trees that the magnificent sunsets filtered through have been cut down and a shed has been built in their place. The front yard is plain and lifeless without the flowering quince. The driveway has been paved for ease of navigating. No real remnant of the house that once guarded and protected this woman’s soul exists. But, I stood and looked at the mountain in the distance, something that couldn’t be erased, and thought of Bette— the woman who showed me a new way to live. She died three years after I left at the age of ninety-two, buried within five minutes of her house and the beautiful rose and flower gardens she cultivated. As I sat in the moment of being, in the place where I found myself, my art, a thought, more like a feeling, entered me. Always the roots of life spring from this space, waiting. Waiting for the next heart ready to bloom and find its way.

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In September of 2011 Gallery, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, published Ann Hite’s first novel, Ghost on Black Mountain. In 2012 this novel was shortlisted for the Townsend Prize, Georgia’s oldest literary award. In the same year, Ghost on Black Mountain won Hite Georgia Author of the Year. She went on to publish four more novels, a novella, memoir, and most recently “Haints On Black Mountain: A Haunted Short Story Collection” from Mercer University Press. In December 2022, Haints On Black Mountain was one of ten finalist for the Townsend Prize.

The collection was a Bronze Winner in Foreword Indie Award 2023 and Georgia Author of the Year Second Place Winner for Short Stories 2023. Ann received a scholarship to the Appalachian Witers Workshop Hindman Settlement in the summer of 2020 and was invited back in 2021. Her passion for history influences all her work.

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TOURIST TRAPPED by Ellen Notbohm

Tourist Trapped Ellen Notbohm

Kay knows this much: some families go on vacation to places like Disneyland or Hawaii. Or at least some place warm that had fun stuff like beaches to play on all day and maybe horses to ride. She’d heard it about all through her childhood and on into the goulash of adolescence, where she now simmers. Some families, but not her family. Her father has to be constantly moving. The concept of lolling by the shore in a low-slung chair with a good book, a cold drink, and a tube of Coppertone, or bobbing gently atop a pool or lake on an air mattress is, by his own admission, beyond his comprehension.

No, they have to drive three, four, five hours to get to wherever it is they’re going. They’ll check into a motel— the closest their mother will get to camping—where Kay and her younger brother will look longingly at the swimming pool. As soon as the suitcases are parked in the room, it’ll be back into the middle-of-nowhere-brown Chevy station wagon for a side trip. Another hour up a

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mountain to some lake. It won’t be a lake for swimming.

It’ll be a lake for looking at, photographing and maybe picnicking next to. The bottom will be all sharp rocks; if Kay wants to go in, she’ll have to wear her dime-store thongs (twenty years later her children will call them flipflops) and hope she doesn’t stumble and slice open a knee or toe.

She has a new swimsuit this year of the first moon landing. Blue gingham and eyelet, her first two-piece. Not a bikini; her mother isn’t ready for that. The two-piece is girlish-pretty and modest, Kay’s belly button barely peeking from the bottoms. But no one will know that because there won’t be anyone else at the lake to see it. Who cares anyway; she always hated her belly button, an outie in a world of innies.

Too many people are reluctant to call themselves tourists, her father says. If you’re going someplace you’ve never seen, why wouldn’t you make the most of it? Be a tourist! Kay finds this mantra exasperating, because he never wants to go to see what most people would call tourist attractions. The beach, the zoo, the ballpark, the amusement park, the tandem bikes, the funky old movie theaters.

Because if you can do it at home, he decrees, we don’t do it on vacation.

That’s why they’re sloshing through a creek trudging up a mountain getting eaten by mosquitoes instead of down in

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town savoring an ice cream cone (“You can get that at home”) and trawling their toes in the lovely fountain in the city park (“You can do that at home”), or looking around for other kids who might want to toss a Frisbee, play minigolf, listen to music on their transistor radios and talk about Three Dog Night and The Bee Gees, or just loll in the sun. (“You can do that at home”).

No, there’s a rare formation two miles up this creek and they’re going to see it. Her father is a forester whose work takes him into the remote timberlands of the American west. This kind of expedition is as intoxicating to him as it is suffocating to her. Eddie’s Eddy. An unusually large natural and powerful whirlpool said to have swallowed one of the first explorers in the region. Technically, that’s not possible, her father explained as they tramped up the path festooned with thimbleberries. The creek isn’t deep enough, but Eddie—Edward Sebastian Tetloff—might have fallen in, then exhausted himself trying to get out. He could have drowned and been carried downstream, who knows?

Who wants to know, Kay thinks. I care as much about Eddie as he cares about me.

And there it is, Eddie’s Eddy. Whoopy-doo. Swirling water. Throw a stick in and see what happens. She’s fifteen, too old for that. And she’s too young to feel this old,

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this bored. Her father says, you’ll have something unique to write about when your teacher assigns that inevitable— he draws the word out faux-sardonically—three-paragraph personal essay.

Kay flicks a look at her mother, three paces ahead and appearing, as always, not to hear these exchanges. No fool, her mother. She’s a happy hiker with no more use for teen fun than her husband, but thanks to him, she need never vocalize it.

Yes, Kay says to her father, slapping a mosquito large enough to saddle up and ride down the mountain and staring at Eddie’s Eddy until her eyes lose focus. I got nibbled to death while hiking to a giant perpetual-motion toilet.

Her father laughs. You know, I like that, he says. Very descriptive. Evocative! He takes photos, tries to get her to stand in the frame. First he asks nicely, then less so as she backs off in obstinance. Was that a swear word under his breath? He turns his face away, puts the camera away, moves away. She’s disappointed him. She almost feels badly. The wall between her boredom and his delight in the setting quivers like an irate mirage, except it’s real.

Her brother, tired of throwing sticks in the water, has found a small snake. Tail pinched between his fingers, it flails strenuously, cutting silent slashes through air that hums with the heat. Her brother gives the snake two quick twirls before slinging it into the eddy at the very same

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moment his parents leap to stop him. Hey, don’t! Too late.

Their summer vacation has cost an innocent creature its life. * The swirl of years has brought her to Room 506 of the Providence Hospital cancer ward, where her father lies in a kind of limbo. Kay is now as old as he was at Eddie’s Eddy. A wall chart instructs patients to Rate Your Pain on a scale of one to ten. Zero means no pain at all and ten means “the worst pain you have ever felt.” Rating the patient’s pain, the family is told, compressing it a digit, would assist doctors in knowing if treatments were working.

It's a short, brutal trip for Kay, from a place of tenacious hope to the understanding that treatment for her father meant palliative, not curative. For a few surreal weeks he hovers in that room, an acutely generic waystation that grants nothing to his uniqueness or that of any other person who had or would die there. He confesses to Kay that he finds the wall chart baffling. His pain is constantly shape-shifting, his ability to articulate it ephemeral.

At least it’s a private room. He won’t face his final and most profound journey in the presence of a stranger. She offers the universe a ragged prayer of gratitude for that.

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The room has a wheel-in shower. In the early fog of denial—surely her dad would pull through again—she thought the shower was nifty. Then reality bore in and made it clear that he would never use that shower though it was but a few feet from where he lay. The day the physical therapist got him to stand and take the few steps to the foot of his bed, she naively hoped it might be the start of a rally but instead those were the last steps of his life. He collapsed back into bed, his face etched in a moonscape of silent agony, and never got out again. Rate your pain came the drumbeat from the wall chart. It seemed a mockery.

The window of Room 506 overlooks a courtyard. She’s downsized her dreams for her father. If only she could get him into a wheelchair long enough to take him outside, into some real air, the kind that felt and smelled like leaves and breeze and sun. Wouldn’t that mean something to him? So many of her memories of him are outdoors. How could she not have mined the trove of his knowledge and lore? He could identify every tree in a three-state region, not to mention birds, fish, geologic formations, local history, native legends. When her children want to know the name of the rocks, plants, and creatures on their hikes, her ability to answer is embarrassingly limited. The day her sons first said Grandpa would know, she knew it would become their refrain, her lifelong penance. Her grief at the

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impending loss of him cuts deeper than she could have imagined, saturated in regret for what might have been.

What she once could not make room in her life for, all the while there for the taking, is something she will now forever lament. Now the other side of that windowpane is as remote to her father as those old-growth forests. So she sits on the wide window sill each day, from dawn until her mother comes for the afternoon-evening vigil, and looks at the inaccessible outside world for him.

When her father dies in Room 506, she has to pass the pain chart when she leaves him for the last time. Where, she wonders, would “numb” register? Less than one, or more than ten? In time she learns that her dad’s pain will settle in her at three, forever: “Pain is noticeable and distracting, however, you can get used to it and adapt.” No treatment would change that. * It happened a few years later, and she didn’t question it.

She stopped listening to the radio in her car. Instead she’s learned to listen to herself think. It’s such a revelation, years wasted hanging on someone else’s thoughts and creations, as if they had more validity than her own.

Now the car drones along at a cruise-controlled sixtyfive miles per hour through a part of the state that has little

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radio reception anyway. Her husband would punch up a playlist on his phone if it were up to him, but he respects her preference.

The cruise control has to come off as the road narrows and snakes its way deeper into the forested mountains.

This is a snaking road if there ever was one, her husband says. It’s a wonder some bureaucrat hasn’t managed to name it—Snake Road! Do you s’pose there are snakes around here?

Yes, she says quietly. There are snakes around here.

Theirs is the only car at the trailhead. Her husband is, as their sons had been at five years old, stopping to examine every flower, every fern and every fungus growing sideways out of a tree.

The sight of Eddie’s Eddy wrings her. It is as she left it forty years ago, and as it will be forty years from now, and forty years after that and after that again. The water, rushing into infinity in its perfect concentric helix, isn’t the only sound in the forest, but it’s the underlying motif to which the birds, the chipmunks, and the dragonflies sing.

They sing to its constancy, and to the sylvan comfort found in that constancy.

This is wondrous, says her husband. You’re so lucky.

Your father took you to places like this. I never got any farther than the vacant lot in the neighborhood and some

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scrub BLM land at the edge of town. This was right here in our own state all along and I never knew it. People just don’t know what’s in their own backyards.

She smiles at him. You’re such a tourist.

He beams back. Wouldn’t your dad be proud?

Into the eddy she throws a stick bearing a thought for a little snake dead forty years, and the offering of a belatedly grateful heart for a father who wanted to give her a world unseen by most, that she might write about things of great and simple beauty and wonder that would quietly outlast them all.

Ellen Notbohm’s internationally renowned work has touched millions in more than twenty-five languages. She is author of the award-winning novel The River by Starlight and the nonfiction classic Ten Things Every Child with Autism Wishes You Knew.

Her work has most recently appeared in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Eclectica, Well Read, Academy of the Heart and Mind, and the anthology Mothers and Mentoring: The Art of Nurturing. Her essay What She Thinks About When She Thinks About Shoes appeared in the April 2023 issue of Well Read and was a finalist for the Chanticleer International Book Awards for short prose.

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EYE CONTACT by Micah Ward

Eye Contact Micah Ward

They usually won’t make eye contact so it’s easy to ignore them. They stare into space, maybe at the ground or your car door or over your car and into the distance. They carry a sign, “homeless and hungry”, “will work for food”, “stranded and no money”. Most are dirty. Maybe they have a pack or just a sack of some sort and some look two steps from death while others look healthy and you wonder why they are standing at the corner and not at a job. “Get a job,” you want to shout at the young ones. At least take a damn bath. Or maybe you feel sorry for the old ones. But you can’t help everybody. So you don’t help anybody. You don’t make eye contact. You adjust the radio. You pretend to be on your smartphone. You are relieved when the light turns green.

She had a dog with her and she made eye contact.

Brilliant blue eyes, they hid nothing and evoked no pity.

Her hair was shoulder length dreadlocks and her clothes were dirty. Her sign said “help me feed my dog”.

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The light turns green before you have to really look at her. You are able to pull away and turn before you have time to guess what breeds made the mix that was her dog.

You sigh with relief. You go on to work like any other morning. You answer emails and attend meetings. You check the stock market and worry about your investments.

There is an argument around the coffee machine about a football game and you give your opinion too. At lunch you and some others go to the trendy bistro around the block from your office building.

She is sitting on a bench one building down from the bistro. The dog lies at her feet and the sign is propped up against a dirty backpack. Everyone in the group seems to talk at once as you walk by so that everyone will think everyone else doesn’t notice the girl. Don’t look at her and she won’t exist. She makes eye contact again and you notice that she looks older than you thought she was. That bothers you. You notice that the dog has a blue bandanna around its neck and there is a bowl of water by the sign.

That bothers you too.

The food at the bistro is just good enough that you think the place will stay open for a year or two. Your group continues the dissection of the football game and you don’t have the appetite you thought you had. So you ask for a to go bag and half your lunch goes into it even though you know you will catch hell from the other guys.

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She’s not on the bench when you walk back by. You are relieved until you notice her walking ahead of you. The dog is on a rope leash and they will pass the door to your building before you do. Unless you walk faster. You stop to get the imaginary rock out of your shoe.

You curse yourself and a rock that does not exist.

She and the dog are around the corner and gone when you arrive at the door. You can’t help everybody and besides, the damned old dog doesn’t look that skinny anyway.

You leave work and you tell yourself that you are looking for her and you will give her the bag from lunch but you don’t look real hard. You look just hard enough to tell yourself that you are looking but yourself says that’s a lie and you really don’t want to see her and those brilliant blue eyes again.

You are driving under the overpass when you catch her out of the corner of your eye sitting on the concrete under the bridge with that damned old dog.

You curse the apparent futility but you turn around anyway and park by the overpass. She stares at you with those blue eyes and when you have lowered the window to hand out the food her head is turned away. You yell at her but she doesn’t seem to hear. Oh hell, that means you have to get out of the car and walk the twenty or so feet to her.

The dog is staring at you.

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So you get out of the car and walk to within a few feet of the girl and the dog and you say a few fumbling words about the food and reach out to hand her the sack. She smiles but says nothing as she takes the sack. Some of her teeth are missing and most of the others are a dirty yellow.

Those brilliant blue eyes lock onto you and you can’t seem to look away. You fumble a few more words about something you won’t remember and she says nothing. You walk back to the car and you are sweating. You feel foolish. Why the hell did you just do that?

You drive to work and home and to the other usual places for the rest of the week. You tell yourself you are not looking for her and you look anyway. She isn’t there.

What would you do anyway if you did see her? You don’t have any more leftovers from lunch for the dog and you sure as hell aren’t giving her money. She would just spend it on crack or meth probably. So you keep on driving.

Two weeks later she is walking through a park with the dog on its rope leash. You are running along the trail in the middle of the park with a new girl you met at the gym.

The homeless woman turns her head and looks at you and the girl as you pass. Her brilliant blue eyes lock onto yours and she reads your soul.

You drive by the park every day for the next week and tell yourself that it really isn’t out of the way and you are not really looking for her and that worthless damned dog.

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you listen and hear “in the alley”, “dead”, “looked homeless to me”.

You are walking toward the door to the staircase that goes down one floor to the alley door. You tell yourself that it’s none of your business and yourself keeps you walking. Stop and go back. You have a deadline.

You step into the alley and see the police car and the yellow tape. You walk across the alley and you can see her behind the dumpster. The backpack is open and the contents thrown in every direction and the bag of dog food is half empty and laying by the dumpster with the water bowl and you try to look at everything but her but you can’t not look at her and her eyes are still blue and they make contact with yours but they are not brilliant anymore and the nasty dreadlocks have blood seeping through them and you want to be sick so you just turn around and walk off.

You don’t look for the damned dog but you know it’s following you. So you walk toward your car and you notice that most everyone in your building is either staring out windows or drifting onto the sidewalk to see what they can see. To hell with the deadline as you walk toward your car and think that no one will notice you gone for the time it takes to drive to your house and leave that damned old dog in the garage.

You should never have made eye contact.

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But you eventually see her sitting on the edge of the park fountain with the dog at her feet. The damned sign and water bowl are there. Her nasty backpack is there. You feel stupid but you pull over. You get out of the car and open the trunk and take the bag of dog food that has been in there for the last few days and walk toward the woman.

She watches you. The dog watches you. Her dreadlocks still look nasty. She smiles with her yellow teeth and the gaps between them but all you notice are the brilliant blue eyes. You don’t say anything as you put down the dog food and she doesn’t say anything to you. She just looks into you with those eyes. The dog sniffs the bag and wags its tail.

You walk back to your car and you feel like you’ve been had. You don’t even like dogs that much and especially not a flea infested dog of a homeless addict. But at least you didn’t give her money that you know she would spend on drugs and you hope she won’t eat the dog’s food. She might trade it for crack you think.

You don’t see her for a few more days. You look but you don’t look.

It’s a normal Thursday morning. Your coffee is cold and you don’t get out of your cubicle for more because you have a deadline and you can’t get the damned spreadsheet program to work the way it should. You are annoyed by the noise in the office. More noise than normal. Finally

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EYE CONTACT by Micah Ward

“When you do it to the least of these you do it to me.”

Micah Ward is a retiree who writes, runs and enjoys craft beer in central Tennessee. His short stories have received three Honorable Mentions at the Lorian Hemingway Short Story competition. Another one of his stories was included in the short fiction collection Remnants and Resolutions published by the Colorado Springs Fiction Writers Group. Micah was named the 2012 Club Writer of the Year by the Road Runners Club of America for his non-fiction. His articles and short fiction can also be found on the Medium website.

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BLUE by Malcolm Glass

Blue Malcolm Glass

As she started down the back stairs, she heard Tony coming in the front door. Scuttling down the old wooden steps as quietly and quickly as she could, she cringed at the thought of his searing voice: “Bitch! I need to straighten you out!”

She ran down the alley with the sound of his raging, the sight of his twisted, drunken face hounding her. Focusing on the cars on Markham Street where the alley ended, she ran through puddles, past soggy plastic bags and tin cans.

Behind her, the splash and smack of running footsteps made her heart leap. She kept going without looking back, her mouth dry, her pulse pounding. As she headed up the sidewalk of the busy street, she bumped a man’s arm.

“Hey, watch it,” he yelled.

“Sorry,” she said over her shoulder. She stumbled, caught herself and stopped to look back. No one was

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running after her. She took a deep breath.

A taxi slid up beside her.

“Thank God,” she whispered.

“Need a ride?”

“Yes.” She glanced down the sidewalk. No sight of Tony.

The cab driver got out and opened the door for her.

“Thank you,” she said as she slid into the back seat.

“At your service.” He slipped behind the wheel, and they pulled out into the traffic. She had made it. At least for the moment.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Seven hundred Ninth Street.”

“Sure. Get you there in no time.”

They moved out into the traffic.

Leaning back against the worn seat of the cab, she hugged her canvas travel bag and took in some slow breaths. She looked out the window at the people wandering in and out of cafes and bars, brushed back the strands of hair fallen across her face, and sighed.

“You all right, Ma'am?”

“I'm okay.” She tried to smile, but tears filled the corners of her eyes, and she stared at the dark spots they made on the dusty, tan cloth of the bag. Slowly she breathed in, and wiped her cheeks with her sleeve.

“Just out of breath for a minute there,” she said.

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The cab lurched and clattered in the thick traffic. He caught her eyes in the rear view mirror. “You’re going to be fine, Miss.” He smiled.

His voice, his eyes seemed so gentle, concerned. I am going to be fine, she thought, and she almost said that, but somehow sensed she didn’t need to. She hadn’t known a man’s kindness in so long. When she had broken her arm in a fall from the tire swing in the front yard, her father had gingerly picked her up and carried her into the house.

She would never forget his eyes in that moment, filled with pain, her pain.

He cleared his throat. “Miss, I don’t mean to pry, but you look . . . well, as they say in the old movies, kind of blue.”

She laughed nervously. “I am Blue.”

“I thought maybe.”

“No. I am Blue. That's my name.”

“No stuff.”

“My mom was a hippie, single. The moment I was born, she said, ‘Blue’.”

“Out of the blue, huh?”

“That’s right.” She laughed.

“Like Spirit talking through her,” he said.

“Sort of. She heard this voice in her head.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Actually, it was his voice.”

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“His?” “Yeah, the strange man who sat beside her through the whole delivery, holding her hand. You know, supporting her, by saying things like, ‘Come on, Brenda, you can do this.’” Blue pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “No one else saw him.”

He gave a thumbs-up. “He was her guardian.”

Blue folded her arms on her bag. “At the moment I popped out, the man said, “Call her ‘Blue’.” They stopped for a red light, and people blurred by in a rush. “Excuse me, did you say, ‘guardian’?”

“I did.” He slowed to let a jay-walker run across the street. “It was probably Gabriel. He’s the guardian angel of children . . . and childbirth.”

“I’ll have to tell her.” Blue looked out the window.

Thirteenth flashed by. He had meant it when he said, 'in no time.' He didn't seem to be speeding, but they had hit all the lights and had almost reached their destination. She didn't want this to end.

“Listen,” Blue said.

“I'm listening.”

“What is your name?”

“Frederick.”

“Frederick, I want to know more about angels. You seem to know about them.”

“You could say that. I’ve known a few.” He laughed.

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Blue looked hard in the mirror. He seemed to be making a joke, but he sounded serious, too. She scooted up on the seat until she was close to the Plexiglas barrier. “I'm running away,” she said.

He caught her eyes in the mirror and nodded.

“From a mean boyfriend,” she said. “Very mean.”

“Yes,” he said.

“I'm staying with a friend. No one knows.”

Blue dug in her bag, pulled out a notepad and pen, and scribbled. “I want you to have my number, my friend's number. I'd like to talk with you more. About angels. And things like that.”

“I'd be happy to.”

“Promise?” she said.

“Promise.”

They turned onto Ninth. Frederick slowed, then pulled to a stop and turned on the flashers. He went around to her side, took her hand, and helped her out of the car.

He was much taller than she expected. Slim, clean-cut, in black corduroy jeans and an olive Henley shirt, he was strikingly handsome. His thick ebony hair set off his luminous blue eyes.

Blue handed him the piece of paper with Denise’s number. “Keep it safe.”

“Don't worry.” He pulled out his wallet and tucked the paper inside. “I’ll be in

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touch.” He held up his wallet, then put it in his pocket.

“Right now, let’s get you safe inside.”

At the door, she unzipped a side pocket of her bag, pulled out a key, and let them into the foyer.

“Thank you, Frederick. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.”

He didn’t move. Neither of them spoke. Blue felt like she was in high school again. Frederick had walked her to the door, and now they stood facing each other, in an awkward moment, as though he was waiting for a goodnight kiss. For a moment she had the impulse to take his hand, pull him to her, and look up, waiting – like in the old movies.

“Let’s be sure your friend is here,” he said, nodding to the panel of buttons.

“Yes, of course.” She pressed five-twelve.

“You there, hon?” Denise’s voice crackled through the speaker.

“I’m here. I’m okay.”

“Thank God. Come on up.” The button blinked, buzzed, and the door lock clicked. Blue pulled the door open, held it.

“Frederick, how can I ever thank you? You’ve been an angel.”

“It’s what I do best,” he said. “You’re safe now, Blue.

And we’ve got your back.”

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And he slipped out the door.

Over the past sixty-five years, Malcolm Glass has published fourteen books of poetry and non-fiction. His poems, fiction, and articles have appeared in many literary journals and magazines, including “Poetry” “Nimrod,” “The Sewanee Review,” “Prairie Schooner,” and “The Write Launch.” In 2018, Finishing Line Press published his chapbook of poems, Mirrors, Myths, and Dreams; and later this year they will release his triple-hybrid collection of poems, stories, and plays, Her Infinite Variety.

A number of theaters have given readings and productions of Glass’s plays, including The Roxy Regional Theater, Northport Plays, and La Mama Playhouse in New York. In October , 2023, his one-act play, “Mistaken Zygotes,” was produced by Northport Plays as a part of their Annual One-Act Play Festival.

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RETURN TO SENDER: AN ACCIDENTAL VALENTINE by Katie Crow

Return to Sender: An Accidental Valentine Katie Crow

The stifling heat of the train pulled Eliot out of his seat.

The next station rolled into view, and he pushed through the sea of passengers to the cool air on the platform. A slight unevenness under his foot stopped him. He glanced down to find a bright red envelope sullied by the parade of hurried feet. Someone had scratched through the address and written in bold letters: RETURN TO SENDER Those words smacked of rejection.

Eliot had never received a valentine, and that was just fine by him. Some time ago, he concluded it was a foolish celebration pushed by the florists, chocolatiers, and greeting card companies. Yet, for an instant, Eliot felt the pang of regret. At forty, he had launched another unsuccessful foray into cyber dating, where love proved to be as elusive and mercurial as ever.

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The next train lurched along the platform with its windows fogged by the breath of impatient commuters.

Curiosity drove Eliot to grasp the envelope just as it screeched to a stop. A rush of passengers carried him up the stairs and onto the pavement.

He glanced at the address.

14 Bluebird Lane, London WC1.

It was only a street away.

Eliot hesitated.

No good could come from this intervention, yet he felt strangely compelled to return it.

A letterbox beckoned as Eliot walked into Bluebird Lane. His fingers tightened against the envelope while his mind railed against the foolishness of this mission.

He stopped outside number fourteen. Had fate sent him so hope wouldn’t linger on Bluebird Lane? His fingers loosened against the red burden, and he was about to leave when the door opened.

Cornflower blue eyes, soft brown curls, and full lips held his stare.

“Er … Sorry, I found this,” Eliot said, thrusting the envelope toward her.

A frown cast a shadow across her face.

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“I live around the corner,” he babbled. “Just thought I should ……”

“My sister. I told her it was a waste of time.”

The soft lilt of her accent left Eliot wanting more.

“Unrequited love.” She smiled ruefully, and then her eyes narrowed. “I know you. You’re always on the 7:15 train studying your Financial Times in the fourth carriage, second seat from the end.”

Eliot’s mouth opened and closed. He willed his brain to produce a clever response, but it floundered in a cloud of conflicting emotion. Finally, he mumbled something as he hastily retreated down the path.

Faltering footsteps led him home, but all the while, he picked away at her words. She had observed him, and he had been oblivious. Safely tucked into his newspaper and absorbed by world events, he had missed something much closer to home.

Something important.

The 6:15 alarm roused Eliot from a fitful sleep, and he started his well-trodden routine. A cup of coffee lightened with just a splash of milk. A slice and a half of whole wheat bread toasted only on one side. Picking up his newspaper from the doormat, he noted the date.

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February 14th.

“Bah humbug.” His smile quickly dissolved when the other traveler with a penchant for the fourth carriage on the 7:15 pricked at his thoughts.

As always, Eliot left his house at precisely 6:55 and headed for the station. He boarded the train and buried himself in an article on the front page of The Financial Times. It wasn’t long before his thoughts wandered.

He glanced over the paper.

In the fourth seat from the end, he caught cornflower blue eyes, soft brown curls, and a hint of a smile on full red lips.

Perhaps a valentine lay in his future after all, courtesy of ‘return to sender’.

Deborah Brawders writes as Katie Crow. She was born in London, lived in Africa, the Middle East, and California. She drew on these nomadic wanderings to create a cast of unusual characters and set them in places with dark, intriguing histories.

More about her mysteries and quirky short stories are at katiecrowmysteries.com.

These days, you can find her in California hiking, gardening, or running plot ideas past her trusty companion, a rescued terrier named Winston.

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GREETING THE HUNGRY BEAR IN AUTUMN by Lorraine Cregar

Greeting the Hungry Bear in Autumn For Mary Oliver

Lorraine Cregar

Oh, Mary, did you walk through the door with curiosity and wonder when the hungry bear came for you last winter?

Death scares me, at best dumping me into hell for sins an all-forgiving God couldn’t forgive, at worst permanently eradicating me forever, no thought, no self.

My mother has faith in a heaven, where she will reunite with my father, and her sister, who died a painful death from leukemia as a child, now grown into a woman.

I have prayed long and deep for someone – God, my dead father, now you – to come to me, to show me the glory that supposedly exists after this life.

I have spoken with priests and pastors, members of different faiths, all proclaiming there is a heaven, paradise, nirvana, reincarnation once this life ends.

I have read about those faiths, and their claims that they worship the powerful, all knowing being who created this world.

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And how they use ancient texts as proof that they – Catholic, Jew, Muslim – are better than all others as justification for extinguishing the others’ light.

I’m told I must believe, believing is righteous, and believing is its own way of knowing there’s another life after this one.

But each day feels like a countdown to oblivion, to a time when there is no time, when I no longer exist, not here, not there.

Oh, Mary, I fear I will not be as gracious as you when the hungry bear takes the coins from his purse to buy me.

Lorraine Cregar is a poet and novelist. Her poetry has been published in The Writers Circle Journal, The New Jersey Bards Poetry Review 2023, The Ravens Perch, and Well Read Magazine. She is writing her first novel, Jackson Street Books, and her first poetry chapbook about life and cats.

Lorraine lives with her husband, Mark, and their four cats in Chester, N.J.

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GREETING THE HUNGRY BEAR IN AUTUMN by Lorraine Cregar

Mary Oliver 9-10-1935 - 1-17-2019

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JUST LIKE HOME: a tale of the unexpected by Patricia Feinberg Stoner

Just Like Home: a tale of the unexpected Patricia Feinberg Stoner

They say that you don’t dream in soma, but I always do.

Usually, my dreams are all about home, in the bright season when the blues and greens shine out and the sun warms our bones after the long cold. I still remember it, even though I was only six when we left.

But this time I am dreaming of the dark season, when the days get shorter and the nights colder. Just when we are in the depths of it comes the time of rejoicing, when the trees and bushes glow with a rainbow of coloured lights, dazzling the night, and the people gather by the fire to exchange gifts and stories.

My mother’s voice is calling me. She wants me to come in out of the glittering dark, to gather with the family for the traditional feast. I don’t want to go, but she is insistent.

“Captain, Captain!” she calls. It’s an old family joke: back when I was just four or five years old I used to tell her,

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“I’m going to be a star ship captain like you.”

That was long before the day we set out on this voyage, of course, but from that day on my parents and my sisters started calling me Captain.

“Captain! Captain!” Reluctantly I swim up from the depths. It isn’t my mother calling me, it is one of the ambAIs, its disk face blank as usual, but I sense an urgency in its generated voice.

“Captain,” it says, as I stare at it groggily, “Captain, I think we are there.”

There? It seems impossible. The search has been so long. My mother was captain when we set out; soon my daughter will sit in my chair–three generations of us on this quest. The nav-AIs have taken us through the SubVerse when they could, allowing us to travel at many thousands of luxan, and achieve distances in a few hours that would have taken our pre-Sv forebears centuries to cross. But still the journey has been wearisome.

Even though I was just a small girl, I still remember the excitement back home when the astrophysicists first detected the faint trace of a probable planet. My father had been absent for days, deep in conversation with the scientists, exploring every angle before summoning the family.

“I have some very important and rather exciting news,” he told us. “I’ve been talking to Professor Xthen and his

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team–as you know, they have been searching the known universe for years, hoping to find a trace of our lost colonists, or of a planet where they may have settled. It seems they may have found somewhere.”

We stared at him in shock. Our people had been waiting for this news for so long it had taken on the aura of a myth. If what my father said was true–and any alternative was unthinkable–then perhaps, just perhaps, there was hope for those lost pioneers after all. They had set out a century and a half earlier: a chosen group of colonists, seventy-five men, seventy-five women from a broad spectrum of professions–actors and physicians, bakers and engineers, vets and novelists, agronomists and marine biologists, philosophers and historians.

They had hoped–our people had all hoped–that they would find a planet circling a nearby star that they could settle, and take our race’s first footsteps into space beyond our immediate solar system. Instead, we had lost sight of them after a handful of years, and it was widely believed that the mission had failed. My great-grandfather, as head of the team which planned the mission, had always blamed himself for their loss.

“They are naming this planet Optimus Prime, for obvious reasons,” my father went on. “It’s too far for direct communication, even with the Sv wave enabler, but Xthen believes it is worth investigating.”

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Could our lost brothers and sisters have settled there? It was a question that needed an answer, and it was up to our family to provide it.

Many months of discussions and planning followed until at last the day came for us to set off. Even with improvements in soma and the development of SubVerse technology, we knew we wouldn’t be returning. It would take decades or, even more probably, generations before we reached Optimus Prime. My father, as the most eminent xenobiologist of his age, would lead the mission, my mother in the captain’s chair. The crew was smaller than the one which had embarked on the deep-space vessel Quest: this was an exploratory mission, perhaps even a rescue.

“Captain, you are required on the bridge.” The amb-AI was insistent. I paused only to grab a cup of surprisingly good coffee from the replicator and made my way up six decks to the cockpit.

“Good morning, Captain”. The nav-AI’s voice startled me, as it always did, coming from a bank of screens set before the captain’s chair.

“Good morning, AI,” I responded, ever polite. I was never sure if those things had feelings or not. “Show me Optimus Prime.” A blue smudge of a thumb print appeared in the corner of the centre screen.

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“Enlarge,” I commanded.

The screen dissolved into a kaleidoscope of greens and yellows and blues, then resolved itself into a planet, circling a yellow star. I couldn’t stifle a gasp: it looked just like our home world.

“Amb-AI,” I began, but, anticipating me, it was already on its way to wake the sixteen members of our crew who would be needed for first contact.

Half an hour later we were all assembled in the mess.

The huge screen that dominated the room was displaying the image which had so astounded me. Sixteen voices competed in a babel of comment, question, exclamation, delight and doubt.

“The shuttle is ready, captain,” came the voice of the nav-AI. “Are you prepared to board?”

I took three of my crew: Jaxx the diplomat, Fortin the soldier and Xenon the exobiologist. If what we dared to hope was true we wouldn’t need her services, but it was as well to be prepared.

The shuttle bay doors rose silently, and then there was the usual stomach-lurching jolt as the small craft dropped from the mother ship and swung sharply into the spiral descending orbit towards Optimus Prime.

Received wisdom says the captain should never leave the ship, and that the first officer, being a less valuable crew member, should lead the away mission. I’ve never

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had any truck with that. I like to be there, in the thick of it, and if that means my life may be in danger, so be it.

Eskana, my first officer, is more than capable of carrying on a mission if something happens to me. She was not best pleased at being left behind, but I am captain and I have the privilege of rank.

The shuttle landed like a snowflake. I checked the instruments–yes, the air outside was breathable–and ordered the AI to open the doors. Impatient, I was already on the ramp as it slid out, the speak-AI by my side. Again, I hoped that I wouldn’t need it, that the life forms I would encounter would be descendants of our own people and speak at least a variant of our language.

Around me everything was dark and seemingly deserted, but the trees and shrubs were alive with lights, blossoming as ours do with red and green, blue and purple, silver and gold. A figure detached itself from the glare and came towards me. It raised a tentacle in what I assumed was a friendly greeting, but I had to bite my tongue to suppress the scream that was tearing at my throat. This was no creature of our kind.

It stood immensely tall, a good two heads above me, though I am considered tall. It had four tentacles as opposed to our six, and two of these seemed permanently attached to the ground. Far from being smooth and blue, its skin hung from it in a dizzying jumble of flapping

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colours, except for its face and the tips of its tentacles, which were a pinkish grey.

“Greetings, ET.” Its speech came through the stilted tones of the speak-AI. “Know that we are well-wishing towards you and will not harm you as visitors to our world.”

My three crew mates had followed me down the ramp and, like me, they stood in astonishment before this bizarre creature which seemed to be not only sentient but intelligent.

I bowed, touching my upper tentacles to my head in polite greeting, and the creature, too, bent in the middle in a grotesque parody of a bow.

“Greetings, planet dweller,” I responded. “We are pleased to be visitors to your home, although you are not what we expected.”

More creatures appeared, surrounding us, and I reached for my weapon, but the amb-AI reassured me: they showed no sign of hostility. Like us, they seemed to be wonderstruck to see beings so unlike themselves, yet clearly capable of interstellar travel; the cacophony of voices that arose from the group was very similar to the exclamations of my own crew members in the mess.

The leader turned and led us to what I supposed was a dwelling. It was surprisingly small, considering how much taller they are than us, and divided into compartments. It

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reminded me of the stables where we keep the fleetswifts back home.

Then the talk began. It was exhilarating. Question followed answer followed question. The speak-AI struggled to keep up, but it seemed to have grasped at least the rudiments of this planet’s language and somehow we communicated. Xenon was frowning, concentrating intently. I knew that within days she would have become familiar with this race, and we could begin to build a relationship.

The group seemed to be composed of scientists, as I would have expected. Certainly, if an unknown craft had appeared in our orbit and expelled an exploratory shuttle, we too would have assembled the finest minds available to handle first contact.

Apparently these people are just becoming aware of life beyond their atmosphere; although they are certainly preSubVerse, they are just beginning to explore the vastness of space with telescopes and radio signals. Eight planets, it seems, circle a single star in this solar system. Theirs is the third planet from that star in a region they have dubbed the Goldilocks zone, but it is the only one able to sustain life, as far as they are able to determine. This planet has a single moon which they have tentatively explored.

Creatures (or so the speak-AI translated, to my disgust) from distant galaxies are still only the subject of

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speculation, although ‘monsters from space’ feature in their entertainments. But their scientists, like ours so many millennia ago, are beginning to posit that life outside their solar system is not only possible but statistically probable.

It seems they are evolved enough to have discovered just how immense the universe is. That’s why, the being in front of me explained, our arrival won’t cause fear or aggression, only curiosity and huge excitement.

It was some time before another question occurred to me. We had travelled trillions of miles across space, encountered a race as unlike ourselves as it was possible to be, yet the flora of this planet bear a startling resemblance to our own. How was it possible, I asked the planet dweller, that their trees should blossom into light as ours do in the heart of the dark season?

The speak-AI, which had been chattering non-stop, fell silent. I repeated my question. At last the speak-AI turned to me, and I could swear I saw apology in its stance.

“Captain,” it said. “This life form says that this is normal for this season, but it used a word that I cannot find in any database and so am unable to translate.”

“Well, what is it?” I said impatiently.

“Captain, begging your pardon and hoping I can speak this correctly: the word is Christmas.”

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Patricia Feinberg Stoner is an award-winning British writer, a former journalist, copywriter and publicist. She is the author of three humorous books set in the Languedoc, in the south of France, At Home in the Pays d’Oc, Tales from the Pays d’Oc and Murder in the Pays d’Oc, and also three books of comic verse: Paw Prints in the Butter, Pelicans Can’t Read and The Little Book of Rude Limericks.

A Londoner to her fingertips, she now lives in West Sussex, on the south coast of the UK. You will find her on Facebook (Paw Prints in the Butter and Arun Scribes) and on Twitter @pawprints66.

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NOT ALL VISITORS ARE by John M. Williams

Not All Visitors Are John M. Williams

I’m remembering this as best I can. While I can.

It started with Ernie. He had a repertoire of barks—in the daytime more of an agitated whining, followed by a centipede-like charge across the yard that had the same chance of success you’d give a walrus. Ernie is a fullfigured miniature dachshund, equal parts brave and stupid—but the daytime posed no real danger, just squirrels and the occasional cat. In the nighttime it was different, as I would sit on the back porch looking across the yard into the woods with a meandering brain, Ernie in sentry mode beside me: he would catch a scent or sound, sit up—red alert, people!—then make his charge, braying one of three distinct barks: one for deer outside the fence, another for an armadillo that had waddled onto the premises, another for a possum.

On the night I’m remembering it was none of the above.

He jerked up on the couch with a wild look, like the vet was taking his temperature, and made an otherworldly

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noise—a terrorized yelp that made the hair stand up on my neck. My first thought was coyotes, which I knew were out there, based on a sighting a few years back as I was reading in my reading chair when a movement out the window caught my eye and I looked out to see one trotting nonchalantly down the middle of the street in broad daylight. Twenty-five years in that house—just that one time. And now I reached over to grab Ernie, but I was too slow—he bounded off the couch and lit out across the yard emitting one long insane howl.

“Ernie!” I cried, uselessly, then hurried off after him.

The back yard was pretty big, and on the right side a row of scuppernong vines paralleled the fence, with a space wide enough for a mower in between, for about eighty feet. Ernie stopped short of the vines, then turned cautious, his tail straight up, all his senses seemingly trying to decipher something utterly alien. I was terrified, especially since in the low light something along the honeysuckle-smothered fence line didn’t look right. I turned on my phone flashlight and took a few steps closer.

Imagining everything from a pack of coyotes to a crouched panther to a crocodile, I shone the light into the blackness by the fence, then saw, or felt, an undulating movement. What the hell was I seeing? Blackness. I walked along the line of vines and it didn’t change. A gigantic shadow along the bottom of the fence that

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shouldn’t be there. And then, almost at the very end, I saw it: the shadow elevated, ending in a gigantic head with shining eye slits and a restless tongue testing the air.

I scooped up Ernie and hightailed it back to the house. *** I didn’t know who to call so I called the sheriff, sounding I’m sure like an hysterical crackhead, but even though it was near midnight, in about ten minutes a car pulled up. I was waiting in the driveway.

Two deputies listened to me, I thought, smirkingly, then unfastened their flashlights and followed me. Of course I totally expected the thing to be gone, leaving me to question my own sanity for the rest of my life, which I already had a pretty good head start on, but to my horror and relief, it was still there.

“Damn, Lamar,” one of the deputies said, “you ever seen anything like that?”

“Naw,” said Lamar, backing up.

It was the size of a sewer pipe—I’m serious—three feet in diameter, and it wasn’t clear how long it was—the tail end just disappeared into the darkness. But it was at least as long as the side fence, and maybe draped over the back fence and kept going—a hundred feet? two hundred? It didn’t look injured or dormant or even remotely

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intimidated. To be honest, it looked like it was waiting.

For something.

“What do we do?” the first deputy asked, bravely taking a step closer and shining his flashlight on the creature’s ponderous head.

“Report it to Animal Control—” Lamar said, but that’s as far as he got. What happened next was so quick it had already happened before it happened.

The head lurched, the mouth became a terrifyingly huge orifice, and in seconds the other deputy’s upper body was engulfed, then the legs kicking out the mouth, then gone.

Me and Lamar hauled ass. I stowed Ernie safely inside. *** Not long after that, my yard was filled with flashing lights and crackling radios and the street was blocked off.

The neighbors poured out of their houses in nightclothes and got various versions of the story from each other.

Everybody wanted at least a glimpse, but the police kept everybody way back, and no one ventured near the thing.

It was still lying along the fence line, but whenever it did make any kind of movement a collective squeal went up from the gallery and they surged backwards. You had the impression the star attraction, its head up like a nightmare periscope, was sizing up the activity around it and wasn’t

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much impressed. The authorities, including several veterinary experts, held an ongoing confabulation, but they didn’t even come close to a consensus for a plan of action.

Artillery was suggested but rejected. It was a stalemate.

Then the creature went on the move.

It came around the grape vines and started across the yard. The entire throng of spectators bolted into a run like from a lava flow. The thing appeared to be heading toward my house, and the length of him just kept coming. Just as I was thinking “where the hell is the tail?” I remembered Ernie and dashed for the back door.

Of course he was barking his terrified head off. I could feel the thing slithering behind me. I blew through the back door, closed and locked it, scooped up Ernie and hit the front door just as the unspeakable head crashed through the glass of the back door and needless to say, I didn’t hang around to look.

For a while after that, nothing happened, and then dawn began to lighten the eastern horizon. A brave, or stupid, soul or two approached the house and shone lights through the windows. All you could see was the thick body along the baseboards of the center room and study and kitchen, then down the hall and into the bedrooms. No sign of head or tail.

Nobody had a clue what to do. The sheriff himself

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showed up and wasn’t a lot of help.

“What about Deputy Simmons?” someone asked.

“That’s up to the authorities,” the sheriff replied.

“You are the authorities.”

“Well, that will be up to the coroner.”

“Shouldn’t we notify the family?”

“Yes, notify the family.”

I began to sense a general sentiment from everybody that the thing was in the house now and maybe that was good enough. I also sensed the general mood starting to turn against me.

“Why your house?” asked a woman in a sweatsuit.

“Hell, I don’t know. It could have been yours.”

“I don’t think so, since I don’t practice satanism.”

“Neither do I!” “You obviously practice something.”

And somebody else added, “You attracted that thing out of the depths of hell and up here into our family-oriented, business-friendly town and you can’t wriggle your way out of that.”

How do you respond to something like that?

Predictably, after a couple of days, the sensation wore off, the thing showed no inclination to vacate its new quarters, and everybody started crossing their arms when they saw me.

That was the night me and Ernie became homeless, and

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we have lived as satanic exiles ever since. Like the new tenant of our no-longer house, we are ignored—I guess, forgotten—left alone to navigate our fate however we can.

Sometimes we walk by our old house, its new owner seemingly happily settled in, and the townspeople like it that way. It’s the new normal.

I know Ernie can’t live forever, and as for me, I am slowly losing myself. I can feel pieces of my identity, my self, my memories, atrophying away, leaving blank holes.

I think about what I left in that house—my notebooks, all my work, my books, my art, my music, my photo albums, my habits, and I wonder about him, or her, the same as people probably wonder about me: what does he eat?

I’m not eating much at all. But he’s eating my life.

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John M. Williams is a mentor in the Reinhardt University MFA Creative Writing program. He was named Georgia Author of the Year for First Novel in 2002 for Lake Moon (Mercer UP). He has written and co-written numerous plays, with several local productions, and published a variety of stories, essays, and reviews through the years. His and co-author Rheta Grimsley Johnson’s play Hiram: Becoming Hank, about the formative years of singer Hank Williams, has enjoyed several productions.

His most recent books are Village People: Sketches of Auburn (Solomon and George 2016), and Atlanta Pop in the 50s, 60s, and 70s: The Magic of Bill Lowery (with Andy Lee White) (The History Press 2019), Monroeville and the Stage Production of “To Kill a Mockingbird” (The History Press 2023), and his justreleased novel End Times (Sartoris Literary Group 2023). Other publications can be found on his website at johnmwilliams.net, which hosts his blog, johnmwilliams.net/blog. He lives in LaGrange, Georgia.

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WELL DONE! Poetry

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CASKET OF LOVE by Michael Lee Johnson

Casket of Love Michael Lee Johnson

This moon, clinging to a cloudless sky, offers the light by which we love.

In this park, grass knees high, tickling bare feet, offers the place we pass pleasant smiles.

Sir Winston Churchill would have saluted the stately manner this fog lifts, marching in time across this pond layering its ghostly body over us cuddled by the water’s edge, as if we are burdened by this sealed casket called love.

Frogs in the marsh, crickets beneath the crocuses trumpet the last farewell.

A flock of Canadian geese flies overhead in military V formation.

Yet how lively your lips tremble against my skin in a manner no sane soldier dare deny.

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Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet in the greater Chicagoland area, IL. He has 300 YouTube poetry videos. Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 45 countries, a song lyricist, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 7 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of 3 poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 453 published poems. Michael is the administrator of 6 Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www. illinoispoets.org/.

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CASKET OF LOVE by Michael Lee Johnson

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

HELLO WRITERS & ARTISTS CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS IS OPEN! *No prompts or themes - no boundaries*

Click here for more information

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LET’S REVIEW!

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New Cozy Mystery Series

by Two Friends Features Callahan the Flop-eared Gray Cat Claire Hamner Matturro Cozy and mystery fans, take note—there’s a delightful, captivating new series in town which is a collaboration between two long-time friends with an impressive publishing history between them. Rebecca Barrett and Susan Tanner team up on creating the Cat Callahan series, with the first full-length books in the series, Callahan on the Case by Barrett and Cat Callahan and the Horses of Hope by Tanner, both released January 2024. Other books in the cozy mystery series will follow.

In the first book, readers meet Callahan, who is a Scottish Fold, otherwise seen as a gray cat with flop ears, plenty of cat attitude, and a penchant for solving crimes.

After all, Callahan can go where people can’t, he can see and hear better than human detectives, and his sense of smell is radically better, plus he is closely observant.

Callahan can read people with a thoroughness that’d be clairvoyant in a person but is the norm for him. What he can’t do is talk, read, or open doors—which adds a bit of FEBRUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 19

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fun in the novels as he finds new ways of access and communication.

Callahan is his own cat, belonging to no one yet fed, indulged, and treasured in his debut by several in the small Georgia town of Warm Springs. Others in the community might call him “that darn cat,” but without malice as he comes and goes at will. Callahan’s wry musings often add a delicious touch of humor to the stories. He even has his own Facebook page, which describes him as: “Cat Callahan, cat of the street, cat of mystery... artful, cagey. A vagabond of the roads and rails.”

The first two entries in the series Callahan on the Case and Callahan and The Horses of Hope are both twisty, clever, well-written, and utterly charming cozies. Each has just the right touch of whimsy, yet both contain serious sleuthing, an authentic set-up, page-turning pacing, and of course danger. Romance readers will have much to enjoy in the books, as will mystery readers. As with most cozy mysteries, the Cat Callahan series requires willing suspension of disbelief, which is, of course, all part of the fun, excitement, and escapist lure.

The new series does have a history, as they are inspired by a series featuring Trouble, the black cat detective, that was the brainchild of best-selling author Carolyn Haines.

Barrett and Tanner had both written several books in that series. When the publisher decided to discontinue the

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Trouble-black cat detective series, Secret Staircase Books, an imprint of Columbine Publishing Group, LLC, opted to publish the Callahan series. Secret Staircase also publishes other of Tanner’s novels.

Callahan on the Case, the first book in the series “is entirely original,” Tanner emphasized, but the next several will be revamps of her and Barrett’s former Trouble books, followed by additional new Callahan novels. She adds “We’ve been working hard on this for a year. It’s been fun but I’ll admit it’s been grueling as well.” Tanner praised their publisher, Secret Staircase Books too for their contributions “on all of this with us. It’s exciting to be here finally.”

Barrett agreed the first two novels are the culmination of a long year of focused effort. “It's a lot more work than I thought it would be because we have to be so involved in each other's manuscripts.” She added, “So far Susan hasn't brought out the garland of garlic or put a stake through my heart.”

Callahan on the Case is set in Southwest Georgia’s Warm Springs, the home of The Little White House, where Franklin D. Roosevelt spent much time, and ultimately died there. The Little White House is now a historic museum, and the setting for the first mysterious death in the book. When a stranger’s body ends up in a locked space in a section of the museum, the death sets off

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the classic format of a closed room mystery made famous

by Agatha Christie. How exactly the body got into the secured place is as much a puzzle as who the dead man is.

But when a second body is found near the museum, the suspense ratchets up.

Callahan is joined in the debut by an engaging cast of characters, including the female protagonist, Hannah Sanderson, a young widow and assistant director of the Little White House. Her precocious ten-year-old daughter Teagan steals every scene she is in, along with her protective Scottie dog named Fergus. Teagan has all the makings of a great detective and notices things even the official forensic team miss. She’s sharp, perceptive, and oblivious to personal danger. That she is a child at first puts Callahan off, but she charms and impresses him quick enough, and they end up being quite the astute sleuthing team.

There is more than a spark of attraction between Hannah and Scoop Russell, the state police detective sent from Atlanta to investigate the growing body count. But miscues and old history operated to keep them apart, even as the danger to Hannah strikes closer and closer to her and Teagan.

The second book, Callahan and the Horses of Hope, is set in Alabama where vagabond Callahan lands temporarily. New Hope Ranch, the dream child of

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protagonist Avery, is a place where people with traumatic injuries, whether physical or emotional, find help through therapeutic riding and working with horses. When Avery seeks to expand her program for veterans with PTSD, the government sends Campbell to check out the ranch. But Campbell comes to doubt Avery, even as he reluctantly finds himself attracted to her. Danger lurks and threatens her dreams, as Callahan sets about finding out who seems determined to hurt her—and why. A sinister ex-husband, a band of violent thugs, a tumble of secrets, betrayal, and someone who is not at all who Avery thinks, and more compound the risks as Callahan once more puts his detective skills at work.

The Callahan mysteries check all the boxes for a totally immersive reading experience. Like all good cozy mysteries, the violence is off stage or at least not graphic, the sleuthing is often by amateurs, the mystery is suspenseful, and the resolution is eminently satisfying.

Barrett and Tanner have done a wonderful job with these first two books and readers should look forward to more delights in the expanding series.

Tanner, who brings her personal knowledge and experience with horses and her love of history to her novels, is the author of sweeping historical romances of the American West and Scotland. When not at her desk, Tanner—a competitive barrel racer as well as a multi-

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published author—can usually be found in the barn or on a horse. Visit her website here.

Barrett also writes historical fiction, as well as short stories of life in the South, and children's stories. She fell in love with cozy mysteries after discovering Lillian Jackson Braun's series. In addition to the Callahan series, she writes a detective series set in the deep South of the 1960s featuring a Vietnam veteran. Visit her website here.

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Rebecca Barrett

Susan Tanner

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BETWEEN THE PAGES PODCAST

BETWEEN THE PAGES is a podcast that's an extension of WELL READ Magazine.

Each month I edit the fantastic video interviews with the featured authors and contributing writers you'll find inside each issue so readers can see the faces, hear the voices, and experience the full interviews.

There's always more to the interviews than what makes it to the page, so these videos are too good not to share.

You'll find INSIDE VOICES with Robert Gwaltney and Jeffrey Dale Lofton, ANNE ASKS with Annie McDonnell, and me, Mandy Haynes, in conversation with some incredibly talented and interesting authors.

Please take a minute to like, subscribe, and share to help spread the word about the online journal created by an author for authors and readers of all genres and backgrounds.

I appreciate your support more than you know - because when you support WELL READ, your supporting every author who advertises their books and shares their stories with WELL READ Magazine.

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“What is meant for you will never pass you by.”

Annie McDonnell introduces Vanessa Lillie, author of the USA Today bestselling suspense novel, Blood Sisters 134

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ANNIE ASKS Vanessa Lillie

I use the Proust model when interviewing authors. It was created in the 1890’s. I first saw it in Vanity Fair magazine, and I was so entertained. A very interesting fact about this is that authors can use this Proust model to learn more about their characters by asking their characters these questions. What better way to learn more about the authors!

Be sure to watch our YouTube interview over at Well Read Magazine’s YouTube channel, “Between the Pages”. I think you’ll get such a kick out of Vanessa Lillie. She is truly inspiring!

I was so honored to interview Vanessa! She is an author that I have been crazy about since reading her first book “Little Voices”, now with her third book “Blood Sisters” I am wanting to shout from the treetops about it. What I love about Vanessa is that she can teach us about women’s lives, women’s emotions, women’s history, history of the land, etc. yet it’s all wrapped up in a thriller that literally has you flipping pages until the very end. Not only having your hair raised but you are learning along the way. I always say her books are literary women’s fiction wrapped up in a phenomenal thriller. Her books should not be missed!

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Vanessa’s previous bestselling thrillers LITTLE VOICES and FOR THE BEST are also brilliant. She had coauthored the #1 bestselling and ITW award nominated Audible Original YOUNG RICH WIDOWS, with the sequel forthcoming, DESPERATE DEADLY WIDOWS, coming to Audible in March 2024.

Blood Sisters was chosen as GMA BOOK CLUB BOOK BUZZ, TARGET BOOK CLUB PICK, AMAZON BEST OF 2023 THRILLER SERIES AND WASHINGTON POST BEST MYSTERY 2023.

Vanessa is an enrolled citizen of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma living on Narragansett land in Rhode Island.

She has fifteen years of marketing and communications experience, and was a columnist for the Providence Journal. Vanessa hosts an Instagram Live show with crime fiction authors.

You can keep up with Vanessa here: Amazon Author Page or her Website Thank you Mandy Haynes for this opportunity to interview Vanessa Lillie!

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“Gripping…provides a valuable insider’s look at the injustices that continue to be part of daily life for many Native Americans.”

—Washington Post

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AUTHORS INTERVIEWING AUTHORS

Author to Author Interview with Scott Semegran and Kerri Schlottman 140

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Scott: Hey Kerri! I always look forward to talking to you about writing and living the author’s life and all that comes with that. How’s life for you in NYC right now?

Kerri: Hey Scott! It’s always so great talking with you.

Life is good. NYC is beautiful this time of year and things are starting to slow down for the holidays, which means more time for writing. But for you, they must be ramping up! What have you been up to in preparation for THE CODGER AND THE SPARROW’s big launch in March?

Scott: So much! It’s crazy!! I’ve actually been waiting for the final approved text from my publisher that will go to the printer because the publisher of the audiobook edition of my novel is waiting for it so they can hand it off to the narrator. I’ve also been working with my publicist, Kathleen Schmidt, because she is pitching my novel to a long list of media outlets and newspapers for book reviews and interviews and things like that. You know as an author, you read about how much marketing and publicity will fall on your shoulders and it’s 100% true that it’s way more than it should be. I’m the type of person that when someone says, “you must do this thing to be successful,” then I try to do it. So when someone tells me, “you get to do a lot of publicity.” I’m like, “I can do that.” But in

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reality, I’m not a publicist or a marketer. I really shouldn’t be doing this at all. I’m just a fiction writer. I know from talking to you that you did a ton of your own publicity when your novel came out, the excellent TELL ME ONE THING. What was that experience like for you: the publicity part? Do you feel you did a good job? Or do you wish your publisher handled more of that?

Kerri: I feel for you! This is the hardest part of being an indie author by far. The writing is the easy stuff! I ended up hiring a publicist to help with TELL ME ONE THING because I knew I was in over my head and I really needed someone’s support with it all. My publisher doesn’t do promotion and marketing. That was made clear early on in my book’s lifespan. But also publicists have a somewhat narrow field of work that’s really about getting reviews, so you still have to get crafty as an indie author to help drive sales. For mine, I did a lot of events at indie bookstores, booked podcasts like your fantastic Austin Liti Limits and Passions & Prologues – which is also hosted by an author – and did a massive outreach emailing to bookstores and libraries on the East Coast. I also did things like create a book club page for my website with ideas on how to throw an 80’s themed book event, which helped to get book clubs interested. I wish there was more I could do, but I’m only one person, so I think I did the best I could. But yeah,

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you have to become nearly an expert in PR and marketing and for most of us writers, that’s not a natural feeling, not to mention that it’s like having another full-time job.

What’s the biggest thing you’re looking forward to with your launch?

Scott: I think what I’m looking forward to the most is the book launch event which will be at BookPeople in Austin, Texas on March 28th. BookPeople is one of my all-time favorite bookstores and I love shopping there for new books and going there to watch author events and generally just browsing the store because it’s such a great space for books and coffee and writers and readers. The event will be MC’d by award-winning author James Wade who I’m honored to also call a friend. He and I have gotten to know each other pretty well over the last few years and he and his wife hang out with me and my wife on occasion and we talk about family and books and such.

He read an early draft of THE CODGER AND THE SPARROW and loved it so much and wrote a very kind and beautiful blurb for the book. I’m looking forward to talking to him about it. I love talking to other writers about their work and my work, if they’ve read it. I remember when I was reading your novel TELL ME ONE THING and thinking that you had such a command of the story you were telling and the language you were using. So tell

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me one thing, what’s the first thing you remember feeling or thinking when reading my novel THE CODGER AND THE SPARROW? Kerri: That sounds like a great event! I’m excited for you. Well, first of all, I was fortunate to have read your book TO SQUEEZE A PRAIRIE DOG last year and so I already had a good sense of your ability to infuse humor and lightheartedness into stories that are really, at their core, delving into complex human interactions. So when I started reading THE CODGER AND THE SPARROW, I felt that familiar feeling, but I think I was also very struck by how quickly you’re able to bring us into your characters’ lives and make us start caring for them from page one. I also love in CODGER how you take a story we’ve heard before – a relationship forms between two unlikely people who end up caring for one another – and flood it with a twist of storyline. It’s a really special thing to be able to do as an author, because it at once makes a reader feel comfortable but then uses that comfort level to dig into more complex ideas. And the next thing we know, we’re on this journey with Hank and Luis and we’re deeply invested in both of their lives. How do you go about building characters like that? Or what’s your process like?

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Scott: Well, when the first nugget of the idea for the story came to mind I simply had an old white guy and a young black guy in a car going on a trip somewhere that looked like they were very comfortable with each other, like they were friends, not a grandfather / grandson type scenario. So then I started thinking, who are they? So, how my process works for characters then is, what do they look like? How do they walk through the world? What does their hair look like and what do they wear? Then I even get into things like what do they like to eat and what are their hobbies and what are the things that excite them and how do two men who are truly friends deal with each other and interact with each other. And once I had notes for all of those things, I wrote out notes for the back stories that helped define who they are in the story. So, I had the story of Hank’s marriage and what happened to his wife and daughter all written out. And then I had the backstory of how Luis’ mother became pregnant and the decisions that she made that brought her to the mainland from Puerto Rico. And I would refer to those notes as I was writing chapters in the book. So, to me if I couldn’t see them in my mind, like really see them, what they look like, who they are, where they’re from, all of those things, then I knew I would be in trouble writing the story. I had to really discover who they were before I wrote the first draft.

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Kerri: That explains why your work feels so cinematic.

In fact, I can fully picture a CODGER movie.

Scott: What about you? How did you develop Quinn and Lulu in your novel? After the photo was taken, they never interacted again, but they were intimately tied together by Quinn’s photo of Lulu.

Kerri: My process is somewhat similar although I often use my characters to work out things in my brain. So they tend to come to me fully formed as people because they’ve been living in my head for a while. Then I just give them space on the page to do their thing. But I do have similar exercises as you in thinking about where they’d hang out, who they’d be friends with, what they’d eat. All those things that make us human and also create the atmosphere for the novel. I wonder with your work how humor plays a role. As I said earlier, you do such a great job of infusing humor into your stories even into moments that are really serious. What influences this or why is that important to you?

Scott: This is a great question for me and gets to the heart of what I’m trying to accomplish in my fiction.

When I was a boy, I wanted to be a cartoonist and I loved reading Bloom County and Calvin and Hobbes, so I think

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that’s the origin of it. Then once I was studying literature in college, the only humor I encountered in fiction was Mark Twain, who I still love to revisit. But once I graduated, I had some stoner friends introduce me to Charles Bukowski and Kurt Vonnegut and Tom Robbins and I feel it was those authors’ irreverence and ability to “turn on” their comedic voices in their fiction that sparked something in me, that realization that humor was important to me in my work and finding my voice. Humor is like subterfuge in fiction and can disarm the reader.

Once their guard is down, then I can really get into their hearts and minds with the themes I’m trying to work through whether it’s family dynamics or dealing with grief or the power of friendship. THE CODGER AND THE SPARROW really is the culmination of these themes.

Hank and Luis both have suffered great loss in their lives and, even though they’re so different in their outward appearances--which offers so many opportunities for comedy--they recognize that in each other: their losses.

Putting the two of them together in my story was fertile ground for both humor and drama.

Kerri: I love that, and I can totally see those influences in your work. Vonnegut is one of my favorites and has also been a huge inspiration to me as a writer.

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Scott: Okay, left turn here: what’s your favorite novel or collection of short stories that you read in 2023?

Kerri: Well, I read all the same really great literary fiction books everyone else did in 2023 and they got a lot of attention, so I’m going to mention an indie that I think everyone should read: Indigo Field by Marjorie Hudson. It came out in spring 2023. I’m a sucker for beautiful language and there were times reading the book that I would realize I was holding my breath because her language is so gorgeous. But it’s also a mesmerizing and important story about race in the south and culture and history and all of these impressively layered themes. I highly recommend it! How about you? What did you love in 2023?

Scott: I read a lot of current and classic literary fiction, but I will go with these two (one a novel and one a collection of short stories).

The best novel I read in 2023 was BOOK OF GOOSE

by Yiyun Li. It was released in fall 2022, but I didn’t get to it until January of `23 and, oh boy, am I glad I read this novel. The language is beautiful and the characters are very mischievous and quirky and weirdly co-dependent.

It’s so amazingly good! It won the PEN/Faulkner Award

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for fiction and it’s a worthy winner of this award. It’s exceptional! Main characters Agnès and Fabienne are young teens stuck in a rural French village post-WWII. Fabienne is rebellious and often cruel. Agnès is passive and malleable. They concoct a plan to write a book of gruesome stories about village life and enlist a widowed postal worker to unwittingly help them get it published.

Their book becomes a literary sensation and weak-minded Agnès is the one shoved in front of the media. I can’t say enough about how great this novel is.

The best collection of short stories I read was THE DISAPPEARED by Andrew Porter. Man, this book is so astoundingly good. I’m still thinking about most of the stories in this book. It came out in April 2023, but I didn’t get to it until this past October. It knocked my socks off.

There are a few intriguing questions that run through this collection. What happened to who I used to be? What ever happened to the interesting people I used to hang out with when I was younger? What happened to those weird neighbors I used to live next door to at that shabby apartment complex? Where do these people and things disappear to? Porter handles all of these stories with a command of his craft. His writing is fantastic and the stories move along like a ship in the ocean, but without a hint of how these stories will end up. I loved it so much

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that I started reading his earlier collection The Theory of Light and Matter.

Kerri: Oh, I have both of those on my to-read bookshelf, so I’ll have to get to it!

Scott: So, what are you working on now in your writer life?

Kerri: Right now, my agent has my next book, A DAYTIME MOON, out on submission so I’m in that nailbiting phase of things. Meanwhile, I’m revising a novel I wrote about my hometown in Michigan which goes deep into our national political clashes. Some of the people involved in the plot to kidnap Governor Whitmer and also in the armed occupation of the Michigan State Capitol, which was a precursor to January 6th, live not far from where I grew up. It’s a very complex area and hard to write about, but I think it’s necessary if we want to start to bridge some of these divides. It’s the first book I’ve written though that really amps up my anxiety, so it’s been a bit of a slow road while I find the right story within the story. There are some big reasons I worked hard to leave that place so fully immersing myself back in it is tough.

Hopefully I’ll be able to pull off something impactful though. How about you? Are you finding time to write

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Scott Semegran and Kerri Schlottman

even as you prepare for the CODGER’s launch?

Scott: I have a novel-in-stories that I finished editing last spring out on submission right now called STARMAN AFTER MIDNIGHT. And I have a novel I’ve been slowly working on that is a humorous story about grief and the main character’s life in a small Texas town that is quite different from his previous life in Austin, Texas. I’m taking my time with this novel. I feel it could be a special one for me.

Thank you for chatting with me about my new novel THE CODGER AND THE SPARROW which will be out March 22, 2024. It’s available for preorder everywhere books are sold. Preorder links HERE. And I encourage everyone to buy Kerri’s wonderful novel TELL ME ONE THING which can be found HERE. Take care, Kerri!

Kerri: Congrats on all the exciting things coming and thanks for the great chat!

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AUTHORS INTERVIEWING AUTHORS

Scott Semegran is an award-winning writer of nine books. BlueInk Review described him best as “a gifted writer, with a wry sense of humor.” His latest novel, The Codger and the Sparrow (TCU Press, Spring 2024), is a comical yet moving story about a 65-year-old widower’s unlikely friendship with a 16-year-old troublemaker. His eight previous books include The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island, which was the first-place winner for Middle-Grade/Young Adult fiction in the 2021 Writer’s Digest Book Awards, and To Squeeze a Prairie Dog, which was the winner of the 2020 IBPA Benjamin Franklin Award Gold Medal for Humor. He lives in Austin, Texas with his wife. They have four kids, two cats, and a dog. He graduated from the University of Texas at Austin with a degree in English.

Scott Semegran is co-host of the web series Austin Liti Limits along with fellow award-winning writer Larry Brill.

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Scott Semegran and Kerri Schlottman

Kerri Schlottman is a writer of literary fiction novels, most recently Tell Me One Thing (Regal House Publishing), which was named a 2023 Literary Fiction Best Book Finalist by American Book Fest. Her writing placed second in the Dillydoun International Fiction Prize, has been longlisted for the Dzanc Books Prize for Fiction, and was a 2021 University of New Orleans Press Lab Prize semifinalist. For the past 20 years, Kerri has worked to support artists, performers, and writers in creating new projects. She is also an adjunct professor at NYU in arts administration.

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“Scott Semegran’s The Codger and the Sparrow is a wondrous novel of the road, where two unlikely people seek out the larger world, and in their uncertainty, help each other navigate the way toward something like home. Told with such an abundance of both humor and tenderness, this is a novel of discovery, of searching for answers, and I could not think of two people I’d rather ride alongside than Hank and Luis.” – Kevin Wilson, New York Times Bestselling author of Nothing to See Here and The Family Fang

The Codger and the Sparrow Scott Semegran

“Kerri Schlottman has delivered us the richest of reading experiences. I read Tell Me One Thing voraciously with equal parts intrigue and admiration, thinking how did she pull this off?

Slinking expertly between time and location and point of view—the contrasts here are bright and nuanced, honest and vulnerable, jagged yet tender. This is a novel of great heart, examining the lines we draw as we become who we are. A devastating and rich exploration of trauma, artmaking, love and the unmistakable hauntedness of what we cannot control, yet long to. I want everyone to read this book.” – Chelsea Bieker, author of Godshot and Heartbroke

TELL ME ONE THING Kerri Schlottman

LAGNIAPPE - HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!

Once Upon a Friendship They Had Each Other at Hello Annie McDonnell

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Once Upon a Friendship

With so many articles today about how hard it is for men to show affection towards each other, let alone maintain those relationships, how very interesting to discuss male friendship. Especially for the month of February. You can’t say the word February and not think “Valentine” which is mostly about couples, and it is about love, but it’s also about the most important relationship there is - friendship.

Of course these two friends came to mind - Jeff Arch and Eoin Dempsey. I met Eoin and Jeff in 2021. But, when I put them on a show together, they definitely “Had each other at hello”. Right after, Eoin was asked to join Jeff and I as an additional cohost on “The Page to Screen Scoop”. I noticed the electricity between the two of them when they spoke, so I knew this would be a great match for our show. I should’ve guessed that they would get along so well. I mean they’re both easy-going, intelligent, funny, and impressive for several other reasons.

Everyone could tell a friendship was born.It was a gift to witness. There really could be no more fun friends to watch than Jeff and Eoin, because they are quick to give each other accolades, they laugh a lot, and teach us all so much!

When asked what makes a friendship, they both had

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similar answers, from admiration to respect and vulnerability. Jeff was more specific about hanging around the people who have qualities that you admire and do so you are probably taking on these qualities yourself. Eoin stated that it is about vulnerability that some men are reluctant to share. It’s a good friend that you can reveal fears and vulnerability to.

When all is said and done; I realize that while males may have a tougher time being vulnerable or making friends, Jeff and Eoin are definitely the outliers. I think it is all because sometimes friendship just comes naturally.

Or… As Annie Reed (Meg Ryan) said in “Sleepless in Seattle” ~ “Destiny is something that we’ve invented because we can’t stand the fact that everything that happens is accidental.”

Please be sure to watch their interview at Well Read Magazine’s YouTube Channel, “Between the Pages”, for all the extras.

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Once Upon a Friendship

Learn more about Jeff and Eoin: Jeff Arch ~ Author of “Attachments” & Oscarnominated Screenwriter of “Sleepless in Seattle”.

Eoin Dempsey ~ author of numerous World War II novels, and even different eras in historical fiction.

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2022 16th Annual National Indie Excellence Awards Winner in Regional Fiction: Northeast 2022 16th Annual National Indie Excellence Awards Finalist in New Fiction 2022 International Book Awards Finalist in Best New Fiction and Fiction: General A 2021 Kirkus Reviews' Best Indie Book of the Year

“[A] really clever plot….and Arch works it like a maestro. Fine writing, memorable characters, depth of feeling, and gripping drama—a real keeper.” —Kirkus Reviews, STARRED

Attachments: A Novel Jeff Arch

Sometimes the way home is the hardest journey of all.

Looking for an exciting historical fiction read?

Download the Way Home today for free!

SUBSCRIBE TO WELL READ’S YOUTUBE CHANNEL!

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BETWEEN THE PAGES - INTERVIEWS, READINGS, AND MORE

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NETWORKING

Pat Conroy Literary Center 601 Bladen Street Beaufort, SC 29902 Thursday through Sunday noon-4:00 p.m.

Other times available by appointment

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NETWORKING

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NETWORKING

The Haunted Book Shop 9 S. Joachim Street Mobile, Alabama 36602 (251) 348-7668

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NETWORKING

You come to the city because your passion called you here.

Whatever that passion may be. That thing you love. And you wander out into the streets searching for a place to pull up a stool, order a drink, chat with the bartender about all things divine.

Welcome to God On The Rocks. Serving up great drinks and soulful conversations since time began.

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NETWORKING

Authors’ Networking Group

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NETWORKING

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WHAT’S YOUR STORY?

If you have a story you’d like to share in the WELL READ Magazine, I’d love to hear it.

Readers that includes you!

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WHAT’S YOUR STORY?

I’m looking for Authors Interviewing Authors and would love to shine a spotlight on your favorite Independent Bookstores, Book Sellers, Libraries, and Librarians. These pages are a great way to let readers know who you are and they are FREE.

Send orders for ads, interviews, or the stories mentioned above, as well as any questions about the magazine to wellreadmagazine@gmail.com

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OFF THE PAGE

A monthly column that takes us off the page and into the life of

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

You guys can consider yourselves lucky, because you were about this close to finding yourselves reading a column about writer’s block, and reading about it would be every bit as enjoyable as having it. Yes, I have had a bad case of it this past month, but in my defense, it is really cold outside, and I have been needing to scrape and paint the shed, and it has been forever since I watched all eleven seasons of Doc Martin on Hulu, and the Atlanta Falcons have had me very upset, and boy, where does the time go?

The scourge known as writer’s block descends upon all writers at some point, and it is so common with me that I have developed a series of protocols to deal with it. I tried all of these early in January—freewriting, brainstorming, employing speech-to-text software, hiring hungry grad students to do it for me—but none of them seemed to work this time. Finally, I pulled out The Big Gun, which I haven’t had to do since I wrote myself up into a corner while trying to finish Camp Redemption. I put on my beret and flew to Paris, where I sat at a table in front of Shakespeare and Company, smoking a Gauloise while sipping a French cognac as I waited patiently for the muse

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to wander by.

Unfortunately, when she arrived, she only spoke French, and I don’t. Well, that’s not 100 percent true. I took three years of French way, way back in the day, and I still remember how to ask where the bathroom is, and I can sing all three verses of “Dominique,” but neither of these was helpful. So I came back home, sat at my computer, cued up some music—"Fields of Gold” by Sting—and prepared myself to bore you with a treatise on writer’s block. The slant was going to be that writing about not being able to write would be sort of an example of meta-

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writer’s block, but then the second song in my playlist began—"Night Moves” by Bob Seger—and miracle of miracles, the logjam was broken, and you were spared.

I have always liked music, but for the sake of clarity I suppose I should stop right here and define my terms, although to be honest, music is one of those things that is difficult to define, because each of us understands it differently. Music, to me, involves melody, and rhythm, and most times meaningful lyrics, although the occasional shoo-bop is allowed. Good music is evocative, and it attaches itself to memories and enhances them. It is sometimes complex and sometimes simple, and music that is worth listening to changes us and helps us make sense of the world around us.

To finish my definition I must slip into curmudgeon mode for a moment to explain that in my world, the best music was produced between 1960 and 1990. There are a few exceptions to this rule, of course, but for the most part I like the old songs, and these are what I listen to still.

Also, and I apologize in advance if I am about to step upon a toe, but music that finds itself in the genre that rhymes with flip-flop just does not speak to me. Oh, and opera. I once watched Der Ring des Nibelungen over five consecutive nights while staying in a bad motel named Ed’s Beds in beautiful downtown Lufkin, Texas, and that did it for me on opera.

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At one time I was a musician. I wasn’t a cellist or anything like that, but I was the bass player in a band called Skyye. I became the bass player after the old one got drafted, and I was offered the job because I was the only person the other band members knew who could afford the payments on the amp and the guitar. Plus, I had a pickup truck. Some men are born great; others have payment books thrust upon them. The experiences I had during this period of my life became the backbone of Set List, my most recent novel, and if you were one of the dozens of readers who perused those pages, I hope you enjoyed the story.

My music career began and ended way back in the early seventies, and in those days it was considered cool to add extra letters to perfectly good nouns when naming a musical group, particularly if the musicianship in the band wasn’t as tight as it might have been. Considering the level of musical expertise in our ensemble, we probably should have tacked on three or four more y’s and a couple of additional e’s, just to be safe.

Many decades later, I still like music, but it sometimes seems as if music no longer likes me. All I can figure is that I must have bad music karma, that perhaps I was bad to Slim Whitman in another life. I am surrounded by music I want to hear, but life sometimes conspires to keep me away from it. I’m serious about this. Let me share with

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you when I believe this phenomenon first began to manifest itself, so you can decide for yourself.

My wife and I raised two daughters, and when they were little girls, I used to spend an inordinate amount of time sitting on narrow, uncomfortable seats in hot gymnasiums and auditoriums watching what are commonly known as recitals. For those of you who haven’t been subjected to one, huzzah for you. Just keep doing what you are doing. Recitals are torture rituals devised by wives, mothers, and grandmothers to keep men from having too much fun during their off time. They generally last about two hours, which scientists have determined is the maximum amount of time that the adult human male can hold a fake smile without incurring permanent facial injury. Two hours is not a long period of time, but recital hours are sort of like dog years, so each hour at a recital seems like seven in normal time.

By my figures, so far during my life, I have spent thirtyeight full calendar days fake-smiling at recitals. I say “so far” because my grandchildren are out on the recital circuit now, and grandfathers are not exempt from recital duty even though they are senior citizens, and even though they have already been through this once. All I can say is, at the exact moment of my exit to the next world, I am going to want all of this time back.

Anyway, what happens at recitals is this: little girls and

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sometimes little boys show off their talent to everyone their mamas can railroad into coming to the venue.

Sometimes the recitals showcase singing, although my progeny always went in for the dance, so I’ll limit my remarks to that art form. There is no actual entertainment involved, since 90 percent of the participants couldn’t get a decent dance step going if they were standing on a large hill of fire ants. Now, don’t get me wrong. I loved my daughters when they were little, and I love my grandchildren just as much, but the truth is the truth, and once they are grown and no longer perform, I think I might love them even more.

And it’s not that recitals are inherently evil, or at least not completely so. It’s just that they always seem to conflict with other activities I would rather take part in, such as listening to the aforementioned great music I am surrounded by but cannot seem to get to. Thus when Percy Sledge came to town on his farewell tour, I was watching both of my daughters hop around a stage with ninety-nine other little girls wearing Dalmatian costumes at the very moment that Percy was belting out “When a Man Loves a Woman” for the absolute final time.

And when Johnny Rivers came to town, I was otherwise occupied appreciating my daughters dance the fairy dance—complete with wings, antennae, and wands— while Johnny busted into a rendition of “Memphis” that

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they say brought tears to the eyes of longshoremen and pulpwooders and which is talked about in serious music circles to this very day.

And I don’t even want to talk about what I was doing instead of listening to Lynard Skynard the last time they came through town. Let’s just stipulate that it involved bumblebee costumes and let it go at that. And yeah, I know, they’re not the real Lynard Skynard, but some of the originals are still in there, and they’re head and shoulders above Skyye, even after I learned all the bass riffs.

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Mandy Haynes, Editor-In-Chief Mandy Haynes is afreelance writer for Amelia Islander Magazine, Amelia Weddings, author of two short story collections, Walking the Wrong Way Home, Sharp as a Serpent's Tooth Eva and Other Stories, and a novella, Oliver. She is the co-editor of the Southern Writers Reading reunion anthology, The Best of the Shortest.

Mandy is the creator, designer, content editor, and publisher of WELL READ Magazine.

Raymond L. Atkins, Contributing Editor (OFF THE PAGE) Raymond L. Atkins is a reputed and award-winning American writer, who is famous for writing Southern fiction, paranormal, mystery, and humor stories. He has penned several mind-blowing standalone novels, including Sorrow Wood, Sweetwater Blues, Front Porch Prophet, Camp Redemption, etc. Atkins lives and works in the mountains of Northwest Georgia

Robert Gwaltney, Contributing Editor (INSIDE VOICES) Robert Gwaltney, award winning author of southern fiction, is a graduate of Florida State University. He resides in Atlanta Georgia with his partner, where he is an active member of the Atlanta literary community. Robert’s work has appeared in such publications as The Signal Mountain Review and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. His debut novel, The Cicada Tree, won the Somerset Award for literary fiction. In 2023, Gwaltney was named Georgia Author of the Year for first novel.

Dean James, Contributing Editor (THE WRITER’S EYE) Dean James is the USA Today and New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks and Southern Ladies mystery series.

A seventh generation Mississippian, he lives and writes in the Jackson, Mississippi area with four cats and more books than he can ever count. He keeps his younger sister Carolyn Haines locked in the attic. Despite his best effort she escapes constantly and wreaks havoc on the countryside.

Meet the staff Claire Hamner Matturro , Contributing Editor (CLAIRE CONSIDERS) Claire Hamner Matturro is a former attorney, former university writing instructor, avid reader, and the author of seven novels, including four published by HarperCollins. Her poetry appears in various journals including Slant and Lascaux Review. She is an associate editor of The Southern Literary Review and lives happily in Florida with her crosseyed rescued black cat and her husband.

Jeffrey Dale Lofton, Contributing Editor (INSIDE VOICES) Jeffrey Dale Lofton hails from Warm Springs, Georgia. His years telling the stories of playwrights and scriptwriters as a stage and screen actor taught him the pull of a powerful story arc. Today, he is Senior Advisor at the Library of Congress, surrounded by books and people who love them. Red Clay Suzie is his debut novel, a fictionalized memoir written through his lens—gay and living with a disability— in a conservative family in the Deep South. It was longlisted for the 2023 Center for Fiction First Novel Prize and awarded the Seven Hills Literary Prize for Fiction, among other distinctions.

Annie McDonnell, Contributing Editor (ANNIE ASKS) Annie McDonnell, best selling author of Annie’s Song: Dandelions, Dreams & Dogs, contributor to In Flow Magazine, NZ and founder of the Write Review, teacher, speaker, book reviewer, author consultant, co-administrator of the World of the Write Review Book Club, blogger, and author online event planner.

Junebug Fischer by Mandy Haynes “I don’t know what caused me to shoot the arrow.

I didn’t think about it. I just did it.

Was it fear or was it pride?”

Next June I’ll be ninety-six years old. Hard to believe, since I don’t feel a day over eighty-three. I was still working then but turned the saw off for good when I almost lost a finger. I leased my woodshop out to Savannah Carter the very next day. She’d just graduated from the university with an art degree and was looking for a studio. She uses daddy’s old tools to teach woodworking and I know he’d be tickled. He sure was proud when I started building furniture, even though most people back then thought it was a job for men only. When I think about how people balked at the idea of a girl carpenter, it almost makes me want to get back in the shop, but I’m an old woman now and I’m content to watch Savannah and her students from my front porch, in the comfort of mama’s old rocking chair. You know, it’s one of daddy’s first pieces and Savannah tells me it’s worth a fortune.

All I can tell you is that it’s as comfortable now as it was ninety years ago. Ninety years ago... how’d that happen?

The other day I found a forgotten block of cheese in my fridge. Lord, you couldn’t tell what type it was for the mold, and it got me to thinking. I don’t want to live past my expiration date, if you know what I mean. I probably won’t be around to see my ninety-seventh and that’s alright with me. I’ve had a wonderful life, don’t feel like I missed out on a thing and I’m sort of excited to find out what’s on the other side. I guess other people know that I’m not long for this world. Maybe that’s why they’re getting nosy and have started asking me questions.

I ain’t never talked about the summer I turned fifteen to nobody except for a handful of people, and I don’t reckon any of them ever told nobody. But some stories are like dandelion seeds, tiny little pieces of nothing to start off, but they get scattered and take root.

Before you know it, they spread like kudzu. Left long enough and they cover up everything. Including the truth.

There’s stories going around that I used to run shine and that I killed my first husband in cold blood. You’d think I’d have tried to clear my name sooner, but the truth is I thought the stories were kind of fun, a lot more fun than the truth, anyway.

The fact that some people say I killed my first husband—when I ain’t never been dumb enough to get married in the first place—is proof that people enjoy a tall tale. I figured I’d let them say whatever they wanted. But now that I’m older, and I see that things ain’t changed that much when it comes to choices young girls have around here, I think the truth might be a story that ought to be told…

“Junebug Fischer is the kind of strong, feisty young lady hero we love, and Mandy's writing of her story draws you in from the start. You'll feel like you're sitting on that porch with her, and I guarantee you'll want more. Her characters come to life in all of her stories, and I recommend you read everything Mandy has written, and will write! You won't be disappointed.” Five Star Reader Review

Junebug Fischer is a novella that’s in the collection, Sharp as a Serpent’s Tooth - Eva and Other Stories. If you want to hear the rest of Junebug’s story, you can read it now for free through Kindle Unlimited, or purchase it for ninety-nine cents.