WELL READ MAGAZINE January 2024 by three dogs write press

Mr. Jimmy From Around the Way by Jeffrey Blount James Henry Ferguson doesn’t belong here. After a highly publicized fall from grace, James attempts to flee from the chaos in his life. He ends up in a community he had never heard of before, one that has been neglected and ignored by everyone in rural Ham, Mississippi. A place of abject poverty, the neighborhood is commonly referred to as “Around the Way.” Within a place forgotten by the rest of the world, politics can be a dangerous game. When a troubling discovery is made, the entire neighborhood is rocked to its core and James is forced to confront his own past in order to help the community have a future. He will have to find the strength to fight for the neighbors he once disregarded and avert a heart-breaking disaster. A self-identified failure is forced to uncover the wisdom of his past in order to recognize that money can’t solve every problem. Full of never-ending twists and turns, no one can prepare themselves for the surprises in store. Mr. Jimmy From Around the Way is a story about failure, self-discovery, empowerment, and the possibility of redemption. “Mr. Jimmy from Around the Way is a mesmerizing look at one man’s fall from grace and the age-old struggle for redemption. James Henry Ferguson is a philanthropic Black businessman whose wounded ego leads him to a self-destructive act that destroys all he holds dear. Finding himself outcast and reviled not only by society but also by his beloved family, he retreats to his roots, seeking to reclaim the values that brought him the success and esteem he once enjoyed. James Henry Ferguson becomes plain old Mr. Jimmy to his new neighbors in a poverty-stricken

town in rural Mississippi, and it is there he finds the true meaning of love, respect, and community. This tender story is for any of us who have fallen and found the only way up is by reaching out a hand to others.” - Cassandra King, author of Tell Me a Story: My Life with Pat Conroy “Jeffrey Blount has crafted an important and authentic novel about failure, redemption, the families we are given, and the families we create. We all know a place like Ham, Mississippi. It's the kind of town you drive through while making sure your car doors are locked. Mr. Blount makes us pause and step out of our bubbles to take an up-close and uncomfortable look at poverty and racism in our collective backyard. This powerful novel shows us the true meaning of "it takes a village," and that doing the right thing should be color blind.” - Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of The House on Prytania “In Jeffrey Blount’s poignant novel, Mr. Jimmy from Around the Way, James Ferguson must lose his life to gain one worth living. The catalyst for his awakening is found in Ham, Mississippi, a community of systemic racism, poverty, and violence. This is where Blount’s writing shines. With a true sense of place and authentic dialogue, the author introduces characters not easily forgotten. I found myself crying and cheering for those characters, lost in their pain and ultimately, joy. Mr. Jimmy from Around the Way is a heartwarming story with the emotional depth of an important read.” –Johnnie Bernhard, author of Hannah and Ariela, winner of the National Federation of Press Women, Novel Award 2023.

WELL READ MAGAZINE

HELLO READERS! LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

JANUARY’S FEATURED AUTHOR A True Superhero - Jeffrey Blount

WHAT ARE YOU READING? TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

WHY YOU SHOULD ADVERTISE IN WELL READ

INSIDE VOICES Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Donna Everhart

WELL DONE! PROSE & POETRY

WHISPERS ON THE WIND by Carolyn Haines

THE HANGING by Doug Gray

SCHOOL by Angela Patera

ENGINEERING THE APOCALYPSE by Kimberly Parish Davis

DOG DAYS by Michael Spake

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COMPOSITION by Jennifer Smith

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WINTER by Ashley Tunnell

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RESOLUTIONS SANS SOLUTIONS by Ken Gosse

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

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ANNIE ASKS EOIN DEMPSEY

131

THE WRITER’S EYE Watching The Classics From A Different Point View with Dean James

137

HISTORY MATTERS by T. M. Brown

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A New Endeavor From River Jordon GOD ON THE ROCKS

145

NETWORKING

153

WHAT’S YOUR STORY?

161

OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS New Year’s Resolutions

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WELL READ MAGAZINE

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 YOUTUBE CHANNEL

Here are some of the past interviews and readings on WELL READ’S channel, BETWEEN THE PAGES, and keep an eye out for new interviews and readings posted each month. Share the love - like and subscribe - and please share the links with all of your book-loving friends. Mandy Haynes interviews THE MIGHTY LOVEABLE Mary Gauthier Mandy Haynes interviews George Singleton Keeping it Real with author Lesley Kagen Mandy Haynes talks with Donna Everhart ANNIE ASKS Jeff Arch

WELL READ MAGAZINE

BETWEEN THE PAGES - INTERVIEWS, READINGS, AND MORE

INSIDE VOICES with author Zak Salih ANNIE ASKS Ann-Marie Nieves INSIDE VOICES with authors Steven Rowley and Byron Lane ANNIE ASKS Mandy Haynes INSIDE VOICES with author Neema Avashia ANNIE ASKS Mike Eberhardt INSIDE VOICES with author Paulette Kennedy ANNIE ASKS Jeanée Sacken INSIDE VOICES with Leslie Zemeckis George reads an excerpt from his collection, YOU WANT MORE: SELECTED STORIES FROM GEORGE SINGLETON - “Vaccination” George Singleton reads “What Could've Been” George Singleton reads “The Daily Grind” George reads “Back From the Grave” Mary Gauthier reads an excerpt from SAVED BY A SONG - “Sing It True” Mary Gauthier reads “An Invitation To Consider” Donna Everhart reads from THE EDUCATION OF DIXIE DUPREE Donna Everhart reads from THE MOONSHINER’S DAUGHTER

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JANUARY’S FEATURED AUTHOR

“…Kindness is the greatest superpower of all.” Mandy Haynes introduces Jeffrey Blount 14

WELL READ MAGAZINE

A True Superhero - Jeffrey Blount

A True Superhero - Jeffrey Blount Mandy Haynes

It’s my honor to share an interview with this month’s featured author, Jeffrey Blount. Before we dive in, let me introduce you. Jeffrey is the award-winning author of four novels — Almost Snow White, winner of the 2013 USA Best Book Awards, Hating Heidi Foster, winner of the 2013 Readers Favorite Book Award for young adult literature, and The Emancipation of Evan Walls, winner of the 2020 National Indie Excellence Award for African American fiction, winner of the 2019 Readers Favorite Book Award, winner of the 2019 American Bookfest Best Book Award and a Shelf Unbound 2019 Notable Book. His latest book, Mr. Jimmy From Around the Way, will be released January 16th. He is also an Emmy award-winning television director and a 2016 inductee to the Virginia Communications Hall of Fame. During a 34-year career at NBC News, Jeffrey directed a decade of Meet The Press, The Today Show, NBC Nightly News, and major special events. He is the

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A True Superhero - Jeffrey Blount

first African-American to direct The Today Show. He was a contributor for HuffPost and has been published in The Washington Post, The Grio.com and other publications, commenting on issues of race, social justice and writing. He is also an award-winning documentary scriptwriter for films and interactives that are now on display in the Smithsonian Museum of African American History and Culture, the Newseum, America I AM: The African American Imprint at the National Constitution Center, The Museum at Bethel Woods, at the site of the 1969 Woodstock Music and Arts Fair, and others. These projects have won Cine Golden Eagle Awards, Muse Awards and a Thea Award. In 2017 and 2018, Jeffrey served as Journalist in Residence and Shapiro Fellow at the School of Media and Public Affairs at The George Washington University. Recently, Jeffrey earned his university’s alumni achievement award – the VCU Alumni Star – for his professional achievements as a director at NBC, script writer and author. He also served as a member of the advisory board at the Richard T. Robertson School of Media and Culture at Virginia Commonwealth University, his alma mater. He also served as a member of the national board of the non-profit Reading Partners, dedicated to the mission of child literacy.

WELL READ MAGAZINE

A True Superhero - Jeffrey Blount

Born and raised in Smithfield, Virginia, he now lives in Washington, DC. What an interesting guy! His new novel, Mr. Jimmy From Around the Way, graces this month’s cover. This is what Marie Bostwick, the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Esme Cahill Fails Spectacularly had to say, “Mr. Jimmy From Around the Way is a thoughtfully written, thought-provoking, complacency-smashing novel of redemption and restoration, and a testament to the truth that it is in lifting up others that we ourselves are lifted up.” You can read the book’s description, some more wonderful endorsements on the first two pages, and click here to watch the trailer. I am really looking forward to reading this, I think it’s the perfect book to kick off the new year. Once you read the interview and get to know a little bit more about Jeffrey Blount and the story behind Mr. Jimmy’s story, I think you’ll agree. Enjoy! When writing Mr. Jimmy From Around the Way, did any of the characters surprise you by going off the plot? Yes, for sure. In fact, I would say every character surprised me. They changed who they were a bit. They changed how they acted and, in turn, forced me to alter the path of the story. That changed the other characters. I'm no different JANUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 18

A True Superhero - Jeffrey Blount

here than many other authors. You have to leave room for characters to change. It's one of the more interesting and fun parts of writing long-form fiction. Who was your favorite character in this novel to write? I loved writing so many characters in this book, but I have to say Mr. Jimmy was my favorite character. For me, he was the most complicated and the most interesting. And his journey was the catalyst for change throughout the novel. So, he set the tone and elicited the responses from all the other characters. Is Ham, Mississippi based on an actual town? No, Ham is a fictional town. Everyone in it and everything about it comes out of my head. The name has a biblical origin. It's from the story of Noah. Over centuries, many people have believed Noah condemned the children of Ham, his son, to be lesser human beings. This misconception led to the bible verse being used as a justification for the slavery of African people. I felt it was appropriate for this story, given that the people from around the way had been living a very, very second class existence. A kind of social death. Social death, defined by sociologist Orlando Patterson as "the condition of people not accepted as fully human by wider society."

WELL READ MAGAZINE

A True Superhero - Jeffrey Blount

How long did you have the idea for the novel before you started putting the words on the page? Not very long. The book tour for my previous novel had been cut short by Covid. So, I had a lot of time to sit and reflect on everything, including what I might write next. Shortly after the pandemic began, Mr. Jimmy From Around the Way began to take shape in my mind and my heart. It's my pandemic baby. What is the main thing you hope readers take away from Mr. Jimmy From Around the Way? First, I would like them to feel the love and hope in the story. To sit with that for a moment. Then, I want them to acknowledge that there are fellow human beings in need. The United Nations’ mission statement, in part, says every human being is born free and equal in dignity and rights. I want them to feel motivated to go out into the world to do their part in making that a reality. You've led such an interesting life. You are an incredibly talented, multi-award winning novelist, but you're also an award-winning documentary scriptwriter, award-winning television director, and journalist. When and why did you decide to write fiction? From the first novel I read, I fell in love with fiction. I think I knew as a youngster that I was learning about life JANUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 18

A True Superhero - Jeffrey Blount

when I read it. Of course, I learned about life in nonfiction books as well, including school textbooks. But even without understanding the science behind novels creating empathy, I felt that I learned more about the emotions of people and my own life as well. Reading fiction made me a better person and I thought writing it would also help me become a better person. Writing it would help me figure out myself. It would also allow me to share my thoughts, beliefs, and conclusions with the world. I felt driven to write fiction. I started writing short stories in high school. I attempted my first novel as a freshman in college, but I put that part of my brain on hold as my journalism career began to take off. But I knew I would always come back to my literary home at some point in my life. Now, I am fully ensconced in the world of fiction and I love it. If there is one thing you wish you had known when you were twenty years younger, what would it be? After I left the journalism business, I taught for three semesters at a university. I taught classes on media bias and television production. I loved it. I loved the students and enjoyed watching them grow and choose their life paths. I wish I had known that twenty years ago. I might have made the change to teaching earlier. Just for fun - if you could pick one superpower, what would it be?

WELL READ MAGAZINE

A True Superhero - Jeffrey Blount

Kindness. I think it is belittled and maligned in our society. But I think it is the greatest superpower of all. Towns like Ham exist all over the country, but especially in the south. It's 2024. How can we work towards changing that in the real world? Yes, they do exist all over the country and that is an immense shame for our country. I won't say too much because I want people to read the book. Mr. Jimmy actually answers this question directly. But I will say that every day we can acknowledge the pain of our fellow citizens who live in towns like Ham. I believe the "me generation" is still a part of us in a huge way. I think it's time to recognize that when the focus is entirely on the individual, the whole will splinter and suffer. I think we need an "us generation." As Muhammad Ali said, "Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on earth." To hear the rest of the conversation on WELL READ’s YouTube channel click here.

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“…You will find yourself smiling, even laughing, as you journey along with Blount’s characters. But you will, by the end, find yourself moved to tears by what abject poverty does to human beings. At least, I was.” Larry I. Palmer, author of the memoir, Scholarship Boy: Meditations on Family and Race, and professor of law emeritus at Cornell University.

Mr. Jimmy From Around the Way Jeffrey Blount 22

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WHAT ARE YO

OU READING?

WHAT ARE YOU READING?

Noah's Wife by T K Thorne *A ForeWord Reviews BOOK OF THE YEAR for Historical Fiction. Gifted with a unique mind and savant abilities, beautiful Na’amah desires only a simple life herding sheep in ancient Turkey. Her brother’s inexplicable hatred, the persistent love of two men, and her abduction by foreign invaders shatters that dream. With courage and intuition, she navigates a treacherous path that becomes a quest to rescue her people from impending catastrophe. What Folks are Saying: “. . . a terrific storyteller, with the ability to transport readers from one time and place to another.” —Sena Jeter Naslund, best-selling author of Ahab’s Wife “. . . an extraordinary work.” —Dianne Mooney, founder of Southern Living At Home “. . . a novel of epic sweep, emotional power, and considerable beauty.” —Ron Gholson, The Blount Countian

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Honeymoon at Sea by Jennifer Silva Redmond In November 1989, six months after their wedding, Jennifer and Russel Redmond set off from San Diego for Baja California on their twenty-six-foot sloop, Watchfire, heading for Cabo San Lucas, the Sea of Cortez, and eventually, New York City via the Panama Canal. The trip was intended to be an extended honeymoon, a chance to properly get to know each other and settle into married life, but over the months and then years, it morphed into something much more. In fact, they never properly stopped living on the boat, although they did eventually upgrade to the thirty-fivefoot Watchfire 2. All aspects of their epic voyage are evocatively described in Honeymoon at Sea: How I Found Myself Living on a Small Boat, from the scenery to the weather to the marine life to the eccentric folk they met along the way. It’s impossible to read about their adventures and not want to set out on a journey, even though Redmond doesn’t shy away from the complications of life at sea (ranging from a blocked toilet to partying seals to the possibility of pirate attacks). Redmond’s record of her and Russel’s life aboard ship is interspersed with biographical passages recounting her life prior to their marriage, which proves to have been every bit as interesting as the time spent at sea. From growing up in Venice Beach, California in the 1960s, with parents who were devoted followers of the Beat Generation and who fully embraced the “flower power” credo, to spending the 1970s traveling around Europe and then the United States, to launching the acting career that would eventually lead her to meet Russel. In addition to being a memoir and a travelogue, Honeymoon at Sea is also very much a love story, chronicling the ups and downs of a relationship that has blossomed and developed against an extraordinary backdrop. On that subject, Redmond offers an excellent observation: “If you are in love and like spending a great deal of time together, then a small boat has room to spare. If you aren’t thrilled to be with your partner 24 hours a day, then no yacht in the world is big enough.” Similar to their epic voyage, their relationship hasn’t been all plain sailing, although it has been deep, enriching, and rewarding. Honeymoon at Sea is an immersive record of a life well lived. From escapades at sea to hilarity with friends and family, the colossal highs of finding place and self to the terrible lows of a lost pregnancy, Redmond has truly embraced the opportunities that have come to her in life and tackled head-on the difficulties that have arisen. Her story is an inspiring reflection on the importance of following both heart and mind. Reviewed By: Erin Britton, Los Angeles Book Review

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WHAT ARE YOU READING?

Meet Me in Mumbai: A Memoir by Lovelace Cook It’s never too late for love…or a rite of passage. What can possibly go wrong when Jesse asks the universe to help her get out of the rut her life has become? The universe delivers a curveball when Jesse meets a quirky but charming Englishman who visits her sleepy southern town, and they fall in love. Trevor loves wild camping, while Jesse values her creature comforts. A year after they meet, Jesse accepts Trevor’s challenge to meet him in Mumbai. Knit yourself a seat belt for their misadventures as the senior couple sets out like twenty-year-olds on a gap year, and Trevor’s shoestring travel style forces Jesse to adapt to unexpected challenges—not the least of which is Trevor being technologically and directionally clueless. Set in India, Cornwall, and Southeast Asia over three years, the couple navigates cultural differences and faces trials that test their relationship. Jesse confronts her inner demons while Trevor battles his own emotional ghosts. In the poignant culmination of their adventures, Jesse makes a life-altering decision with bittersweet consequences. A testament to her profound transformation and selfdiscovery, Jesse’s adventures with Trevor transcend 28

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

geographical boundaries, forever changing her worldview. Meet Me in Mumbai celebrates the power of love, the courage to embrace uncertainty, and the resilience of the human spirit. “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 Lovelace Cook is a storyteller, writer, podcaster, and narrator. She worked in NYC for magazine publishing and television and worked on feature films in LA while attending film production and screenwriting classes at UCLA and the American Film Institute. She traveled through and lived in India, SE Asia, and the UK from 2013-2016. The books, authors, and films she discovered influenced her podcast Bollywood & Books, and her misadventures on the road, traveling like a twenty-year-old on a gap year, inspired her novel Meet Me in Mumbai.

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WHAT ARE YOU READING?

From a boy’s first acquaintance with nature and the meaning of time to witnessing climate change and desolating wars, Theodore Haddin’s poems in The Pendulum Moves Off celebrate the lives of humans and Earth’s other animal inhabitants with longing, exuberance, and awakening. Time is in the clock as well as in nature, and our extraction of the natural world diminishes us as well. In truth, “tock and tick” are not forever, but the call of art and music and Haddin’s love of rivers in this beautiful and thought-provoking collection remind us of a better way of life we have yet to discover.

Will be released January 16, 2024. Amid the tensions of family and community and the struggles with desire and disappointment out of which art is made, there is all this profusion: an unstoppable spring, the orange flash of a fox, figs and honey in a Greek harbor town, and a pianist conjuring lost love in his figured solos—our ravenous lives teetering on the edge of today’s sadness. In his ninth poetry collection, The Book of Failures, Neil Shepard wanders urban and rural landscapes, from American coastlines to foreign shores, the sudden signposts deciphering what’s won, what’s lost. Though the tone is often elegiac in this prismatic book of human strivings, it is woven with wit and wisdom enough to illuminate the night sky and bring unexpected levity to his many discoveries. Will be released January 16, 2024.

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Winner of the 2022 Arthur Smith Prize This book is a revelation. Ravenswood shows us that—a poem is a house—as well as a housefire, a history, a family, a stranger, a choir. Stunning poems such as “The children turn themselves into ICE” and “names of Malinche / names of her children” are full of command and compassion, grit and grace. Will be released January 16, 2024.

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?

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

“This collection is quite positively on fire with humor and heartache, darkness and light, and countless blazing turns of phrase. An essential addition to every Southern reader’s collection. I have known and admired a fair number of writers in these pages for a long time but seeing their work all together like this fills me up with love, love, love.” —Michael Knight, Eveningland, winner of a Truman Capote Award, a NYTimes editor’s pick, and a Southern Book of the Year (Southern Living Magazine)

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WHAT ARE YOU READING?

MY CALL TO THE RING: A Memoir of a Girl Who Yearns to Box by Deirdre Gogarty and Darrelyn Saloom Although in the late 1980s boxing is socially frowned upon and illegal for women in Ireland, a girl named Deirdre Gogarty has one dream: to be the first Irish woman to become world champion. Unable to fit in at school and in the midst of her parents' unraveling marriage, she plans her suicide. Death hovers in the back of her mind, but boxing beckons as Gogarty defies the odds and finds a gym and coach who is willing to train her. Her fierce determination leads to underground bouts in Ireland and Britain. But how can a shy, young misfit become a professional boxer in a country that bans women from the sport? Gogarty follows her calling to compete and journeys from the Irish Sea to the Gulf of Mexico, from outcast to center ring, from the depths of depression to the championship fight of her life.

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TO ADD TO YOUR TBR LIST

Death By Theft: A Josiah Reynolds Mystery by Abigail Keam Lady Elsmere’s mare, Jean Harlow gives birth to a foal sired by Shaneika’s stallion, Comanche. Lady Elsmere and Shaneika are delighted with the ebony foal blessed with a white star on its forehead. Excited by the colt’s broad chest and long legs, they are putting their dream of winning the Kentucky Derby on this frisky colt. They name him Last Chance as Lady Elsmere believes the foal is her last chance to win the Kentucky Derby. Eager to show the foal off, Shaneika invites Josiah for a visit. Josiah is happy for her friend and can’t wait to see the new addition to Lady Elsmere’s Thoroughbred Farm. As Josiah and Shaneika enter the nursery barn, they hear Jean Harlow frantically kicking the door of her stall. Rushing over, they discover the foal is missing. Shaneika tries to calm Jean Harlow while Josiah searches the other stalls for Last Chance and the surrounding area near the barn. The only thing she finds is a security guard taking a nap in his car. Josiah knocks impatiently on the car window. When the man doesn’t respond, she opens the car door only to have the man slide out onto the ground. Startled, Josiah searches for a pulse, but it’s too late. The man is dead.

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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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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 lives in Semmes, Alabama with her three dogs, one turtle, and helps take care of several more animals at Good Fortune Farm Refuge. She is a contributing 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 also the editor of the anthology, Work in Progress, and co-editor of the Southern Writers Reading reunion anthology, The Best of the Shortest. Mandy is also the editor-in-chief of WELL READ Magazine, an online literary journal created to give authors affordable advertising options that supports and promotes authors of all genres and writing backgrounds. 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 7,000 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

JANUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 18

WHERE ARE Y AUTHOR EVENTS YOU

YOU GOING? DON’T WANT TO MISS

Unveiling Secrets, Twists, and Thrills! Prepare for an evening you won't forget! The Haunted Book Shop is thrilled to host New York Times Bestselling author Stacy Willingham! Order your copy of IF YOU’RE LUCKY, and reserve your seat here

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

INSIDE VOICES

“ I look for the historical events that present a challenge, so they come up against what seem like insurmountable odds.”

Robert Gwaltney and Jeffrey Dale Lofton interview the multi award winning author of powerful Southern fiction Donna Everhart 44

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INSIDE VOICES with Donna Everhart

Donna Everhart is the USA Today bestselling author of authentic, vivid Southern fiction, including the Southeastern Library Association Award-winning The Road to Bittersweet, Indie Next Pick and Amazon Book of the Month, The Education of Dixie Dupree, The Forgiving Kind, The Moonshiner’s Daughter, and The Saints of Swallow Hill. Her sixth novel, When the Jessamine Grows, releases January 23, 2024. Born and raised in Raleigh, North Carolina, she now lives with her husband in a small town in the Sandhills region where she is currently working on her next novel. She’s a member of the North Carolina Writers’ Network, Historical Novel Society, and is the host for the MaryJanesFarm Book Club.

Inside Voices (Robert): When the Jessamine Grows makes its way into the world on January 23, 2024. What can readers expect from this latest Donna Everhart novel? Donna: Similar to The Saints of Swallow Hill, where I explored the relatively unknown history of turpentine labor camps prevalent throughout the South, this latest novel shares a unique perspective on the Civil War, one of neutrality. I write of Joetta McBride, and her family who are subsistence farmers. Because of their lifestyle, which was common in North Carolina during this time, they

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Donna Everhart

believe the war has nothing to do with them. As was the case with many during this time, they’re inadvertently involved after their eldest son, Henry, is influenced by the one family member who’s a staunch Confederate, Joetta’s father-in-law, and Henry’s grandfather, Rudean McBride. What follows is a story not about the Civil War, but about those left behind, women like Joetta McBride who are required to keep the farm running, food and the table, and family together. Inside Voices (Jeffrey): Share with us how you got started as a novelist? Donna: I was at an event a few weeks back and a similar question was asked. My first thought was the song by the Beatles, “The Long and Winding Road.” However, The Reader’s Digest condensed version is the technology company where I’d worked for twenty-five years went bankrupt in late 2008, which became the catalyst for me becoming a writer. I’d dabbled with this thing I called a manuscript for almost twenty years, (truth!) picking and poking at it off and on. It was about eighty-five pages long and when I realized I wasn’t going to retire from this corporate job, I decided to see if I could pursue this writing dream I’d had for a while. It took the company three years to sell off their business, and in the meantime, I continued to work with them, went back to school for a degree, (just in case!) and began an earnest attempt at

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Donna Everhart

finishing the manuscript. In 2011, I worked with a freelance editor for about a year to polish it. She then helped me begin to submit the work to literary agents, which is how I came to sign with John Talbot March 9th 2012. I’m still with him today. It was truly a moment of serendipity because by then, my “end” date with the company happened three weeks later, March 30, 2012. The book didn’t sell right away – not for three years, but that manuscript became my debut novel, The Education of Dixie Dupree. Inside Voices (Robert): I am drawn, as most are, to the extraordinary female characters who inhabit your novels— young girls and young women with the odds stacked against them. When I think of a Donna Everhart protagonist, I think of resilience. Joetta McBride is a resilient woman, and a woman of conviction. In what ways do you see your protagonists connected from one book to the next? Donna: I think what I’ve always been fascinated by is the idea of writing about what has either happened to someone, or could. This is how I envision my protagonists when I come up with a story idea – someone, somewhere has probably experienced what I’m about to turn into a fictional account. I look for the historical events that present a challenge, so they come up against what seem like insurmountable odds. I often say I like nothing better JANUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 18

Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Donna Everhart

than to put my protagonist/characters in peril and see how they get out of, or work through their dilemma/s. Inside Voices (Robert): Aside from your own compelling female protagonists, who are some female characters from the works of other writers who have influenced your writing? Donna: Some of my very favorites are Ellen, in Ellen Foster by Kaye Gibbons, Ruth Anne Boatwright (Bone) in Bastard Out of Carolina by Dorothy Allison, Betty in Betty by Tiffany McDaniel, Julie Harmon in Gap Creek by Robert Morgan, and I could go on, but those books were heavy influencers of my writing in my early writing days. Inside Voices (Jeffrey): Why and how do you conduct research for your books. I recall you created a depressionera recipe for The Saints of Swallow Hill. Is that typical of the kind of approach you take to immerse yourself in another era? Donna: Research is one of the very first steps I take before I begin writing. I think it’s a critical piece of a writer’s process because it can activate critical thinking about the project, show what’s good and bad, and if the story idea is even feasible. Research begins, usually, with

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Donna Everhart

Google. I also use other resources for gathering information, as in various other websites that might share history, or something else that’s useful. I have so many bookmarks right now for the past two books I’ve worked on, it’s mind-boggling. Food is also important to me in stories. I don’t think you’ll read anything of mine where I’m not describing something the characters are eating. I think using food is an excellent way to sink a reader into a setting, a region, and a timeframe – although – biscuits are timeless. Haha. Also, I love photos! When I’m researching, I tend to look for photographic evidence (so to speak) of the particular time, and area. This is really helpful in achieving authenticity in scenes. Inside Voices (Robert): There is a darkness that permeates the world you write. What draws you to the murk? Donna: It’s the influence of what I like to read. For instance, I used to read a LOT of Stephen King. I still read him, but his darkness comes more from horror and I’m not as much into that now. I’m a big fan of Cormac McCarthy, (his earlier works mostly), Donald Ray Pollock, Rick Bragg, Paulette Jiles, and of course the previous authors mentioned, and many more. Not all of these author’s stories are as dark as some, but they do lean into

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Donna Everhart

characters who are leading risky lifestyles, or dealing with mental issues or addictions, i.e. they have some flawed part of their overall persona. There’s nothing too twisted for me, but one thing I prefer to not read is about animal abuse. Even while I know it’s fiction, it hurts my heart too much. Inside Voices (Jeffrey): Speaking of darkness, the publishing industry is challenging to navigate. What advice do you have for any new authors or aspiring ones? Donna: First, let me share what I’ve heard other authors say to this question, “find a supportive writing group.” I can attest to this – it’s so true! That’s because “we,” as writers, get this journey, we get how hard it is, how lonely, and how impossible it seems. As a new/aspiring writer, there’s nothing better than to be able to commiserate with other writers about the agony of writing. (I sort of say that tongue in cheek, but some days – yes. AGONY.) As to my own advice to new/aspiring writers – show up! As in try to write every day. I was on Facebook the other day and spotted a comment on a post (not mine – someone else’s) and the person said they never win any books, and they were going to quit entering contests, etc. My exact thought was, well, you’ll definitely never win a book in that case. This goes the same for writing. If you don’t write, you’ll never become a writer. As to the when, how

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Donna Everhart

long, and all that? Find what works for you. What works for me might not for you, but regardless, find your writing spot (office, kitchen, bathroom for all I care) and put some words down. The longer you spend with the work, the more the creative juices will flow. Inside Voices (Robert): This latest novel is your sixth. How have you changed as a writer since the release of your debut novel, The Education of Dixie Dupree? Donna: Yes, When the Jessamine Grows is my sixth, and vastly different from The Education of Dixie Dupree. From a technique perspective, my debut novel was written from the POV of an eleven-year-old girl, in first person, and is a coming-of-age story about mental and physical abuse. When the Jessamine Grows, (as well as The Saints of Swallow Hill) are departures from the coming-of-age subgenre. They’re both written in third person POV. The Saints of Swallow Hill has two main characters, and chapters are written from each of those character’s perspectives. When the Jessamine Grows, while written only from Joetta McBride’s POV, is, IMO, a more sophisticated story. Inside Voices (Robert): What is next for Donna Everhart?

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Donna Everhart

Donna: I’m under contract for the seventh book which I’m working on. I haven’t been talking about the subject matter except to my beta readers (Robert is one!) because the background/history was a stunning find. Some of it plays into a past that’s already been told, but the main focus of my project deals with a historical event that has been lost to time – or purposefully buried. I can’t decide which. Hopefully that perks some ears up. To watch the extended interview with Robert, Jeffrey, and Donna on WELL READ’s YouTube’s channel click here.

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Robert Gwaltney & Jeffrey Dale Lofton introduce Donna Everhart

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For readers of Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier and Enemy Women by Paulette Jiles, an evocative, morally complex novel set in rural 19th century North Carolina, as one woman fights to keep her family united, her farm running, and her convictions whole during the most devastating and divisive period in American history.

When the Jessamine Grows Donna Everhart 54

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WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

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WHISPERS ON THE WIND by Carolyn Haines

Whispers on the Wind Carolyn Haines

Last night I walked the red dirt road of my childhood. The smell of dust stirred by car tires, the whisper of the trees singing softly in the breeze weave the picture of the past. I hear their names. These are the women of my grandmother’s and mother’s generation. How large they loom in my memory. Atty, Francis, Velma, Edna, Ena, Hattie, Mattie, Marilyn. The wind brought them back to me in moments of laughter or scolding. I was not a well-behaved child, but these women never tattled on me for my wayward conduct. The whir of bicycle wheels on the sidewalk churns up the ghosts of my brothers and my dog, Venus. Those summer days, hair plastered with sweat, wetness dripping down pigtails and leaving spots on my blouse as I pumped and pumped the pedals as hard as I could to keep up. To fly. To conquer time and place and transcend. JANUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 18

WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

At times I pause in the cool oak shade in front of Miss Hattie and Miss Mattie’s home as they sit on their porch, sisters bonded together, dipping Garrett snuff. My ears buzz with their secrets. “The ticket to a long, healthy life is to stay away from men,” Miss Hattie would say. She lived to be 104. Down the road was the steep hill where pine trees dropped their needles and created the perfect path to slide down in a cardboard box. We stifled our screams of pleasure, alert to the Weimaraners that guarded the hill, their sleek, muscled gray bodies like steel bullets, rushing pell-mell to chase us out to Cox Street where Aunt Willard had ice water for us. Another street, this one paved, filled with names that live in my memory. Willard, Lottie, Margaret, Eula Lee. Pushing to the surface of sleep like a drowning woman, I breathe a moment before I allow myself to think. The roads of my childhood are gone now, along with most of the houses, and all of the people. The local hospital has expanded into the terrain I once loved and cherished. It is a sore tooth in my heart. In my dreams, though, I visit my old friends and the familiar places that painted my childhood golden and safe. I hear the punk, punk, punk, of the shuttlecock against the racket, back and forth in a game of badminton with my best friend, Marie. When the streetlight comes on, it is

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WHISPERS ON THE WIND by Carolyn Haines

time to go home and prepare the iced tea for supper. Chocolate pie, my favorite, for dessert. When I wake up in my farm home, a place I’ve lived for over thirty years, I am lost. The gentle snore of a dog anchors me. I call this place home. The home I built. And I realize that my name, Carolyn, will soon be lost in the memories of others. Like Edna and Hattie, old-fashioned names that are spoken no longer, Carolyn is out of vogue today. I was named for my mother’s childhood best friend, who is also gone. Soon, like the women who live on the roads of my dreams, I will be gone too, my name retired. New names for a new generation. I will become one of the whispers on the wind, a wraith of memory.

Carolyn Haines is the USA Today bestselling author of over 80 books. The 30th book in her long-running mystery series, Sarah Booth Delaney mysteries, will be published in 2024. She is an animal advocate and runs Good Fortune Farm Refuge, a 501c3 charity, from her small farm in Alabama.

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WELL DONE! Fiction

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THE HANGING by Doug Gray

The Hanging Doug Gray

On Christmas Eve of the year my mother ran off, my father hanged three men in the cedar lot behind the barn. It’s been many years now, I had just turned nine, but it might as well have been yesterday. The night air was brittle cold, and I stomped around, flattening the froststiffened grass, inhaling deeply and blowing out long breaths, pretending the thick plumes were cigarette smoke. It was the first night of a new moon and so dark I could barely see beyond my nose. Pop’s men had driven straight from the road and across the harvested cornfield, their tires popping and crunching against the stobs and stalks, and parked their trucks up close, so everything played out in a semicircle of harsh brightness, like footlights on a primitive stage. Long shadows stretched to the edge of the clearing before getting swallowed by a thick wall of cedars. An ancient chestnut oak sat at the edge of the field, the old tree already claiming a piece of the land when my great-great-grandfather exchanged a wad of sweaty bills

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for four hundred acres of rocky hills and hollers at the foot of Monteagle Mountain. Now, from a jutting, bare limb as thick as a man’s leg, three ropes were slung up and over, dangling a few feet apart. Stark in the smoky headlights were three men, shoulder to shoulder. Nooses draped their necks to the middle of their chests. Rope bound their hands in front. The man in the middle was bald with a thick, red scar running diagonally across the top of his head. I knew him better than the other two because he was the one who always kept a gun strapped under his suit coat when he drove me to school and Pop to his appointments. They called him Shug, short for Sugar, because that’s what his granny had nicknamed him as a boy. That fact came one morning on the way to school, but Shug had glanced over at me in the passenger seat and winked, saying he’d greatly appreciate it if I didn’t share that little bit of history. He was always nice to me and particularly polite to my mother, and it troubled me to see him standing there with a rope around his neck. We struggled to avoid each other’s eyes. I had seen the other two fellows around from time to time, both a part of Shug’s team, but I didn’t know their names. I supposed right then it didn’t much matter, because now, they were simply two stocky bookends to the tall, slender volume of Shug. Most all of Pop’s men were there that night, scattered in the dark alongside their vehicles, proof of their presence

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THE HANGING by Doug Gray

limited to an occasional metallic snap and the leaping flame of a Zippo, their featureless faces leaning in for a light and just as quickly receding. If any of them questioned my father’s decision to have me in attendance, it wasn’t aired. Pop had been on the phone most of the morning rounding them up, speaking quietly into the receiver. I was out of school for Christmas break, and we lived out in the middle of nowhere, so I sat at the kitchen table playing with my plastic soldiers, pretending I was fighting in the Korean War like my Uncle Johnny, while eavesdropping on my father conducting business. He was the boss—all his men called him Big Ben, for his size and his status—and now he was the one who walked up to those three men, one at a time, and yanked at their nooses to tighten them. Same as he did my church tie every Sunday. After each cinch, he stood back, checking his work, and spoke to each one quietly. He got in their faces and looked them in the eye and said, “Now you know what you did, don’t you?” And I guess they did because they just dropped their heads and didn’t try to argue. He asked them all that same question. “You know what you did, don’t you?” He saved Shug until last, and, when he walked up to Shug, it was different. Something heavy passed between them, like something curdled and sour, between grief and anger. Different in the way his hand hesitated before he reached for the knot, but, when he

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grabbed it and pulled, Shug winced. I never knew my father to ever get mad over anything and I only saw his eyes fill up once. “An angry man is a compromised man,” he’d tell me. And he’d go on to say that the Bible calls on a man to refrain from anger and turn from wrath. Over the years, I was witness to many fifteen second sermons. Some took, some didn’t. After I turned fifteen, he started taking me along on some of his business appointments. Our destinations were bars tucked into remote crevices in the hollers, stocked with tables, chairs, and a jukebox, floors tacky with beer spills and air so smoky as to be barely breathable, where people played cards and rolled dice into the early morning hours, drinking bootlegged whiskey straight from the bottle. There were stronger things to be had for those who wanted them, things to smoke, snort, or shoot up, but that sort of business took place outside in the shadows of the bar or behind the fogged windows of the cars and trucks scattered outside the reach of the lights in the graveled parking lots. One thing was certain: if you wanted to drink or drug in our neck of the woods, you did it through my father. There were those who invariably attempted to start up some small businesses of their own, but they disappeared from the foot of the mountain like the Rapture. Every so often, a brave soul introduced a referendum to move the county from dry to wet, but it was

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THE HANGING by Doug Gray

always soundly defeated at the polls. Some evenings the county sheriff or some of his deputies would show up, looking uncomfortable and out of place in their civilian clothes, hatless with their hair slicked back and shiny, trying to blend in and have some fun just like their neighbors. Or the district judge who would be ferried to the bar by his driver and then be carefully deposited by a half dozen strong hands into the backseat of his sedan a few hours later. In my father’s establishments, rules were blurred, and identities were suspended. You checked your past and future at the door and picked them up on the way out. There was always an undercurrent of tension in those places, tension that sometimes spilled over into the margins of violence. My father had men to handle those times, and those men handled them quickly and efficiently. Sometimes it required Pop’s personal attention. More than once I saw my father march straight up to drunks, huge men fighting mad over a poker hand or some woman, a few with knives clenched or pistols cocked and pointed. He would walk right up to them and reach out and lay his big hand on their shoulder and squeeze. Just one good, hard squeeze. And like magic, all the air bled out of those fellows, and they calmed right down. It was like he squeezed the anger and wrath right out of them.

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As freezing as it was that night, no one seemed to be in a hurry. After Pop finished speaking to each of the men, he stepped back several paces and viewed the scene. He lit a cigarette and stood there with it between his lips, smoke circling his head, his hands on his hips. The only sound that wandered into that lit-up clearing was a hound in chase up on a knoll of thickets across the river. It sounded a lot closer than it was, the way sound carries through bitter cold. The sharp scent of green wood smoke sifted through the thin air. It started to snow a little from a single dark cloud passing overhead, and flecks of ice swarmed like gnats in the beams of the headlights. Everybody looked up like they were trying to figure out what in the world it was that was falling around them. In seconds, the rogue cloud moved past, and the snow stopped as quickly as it started. From the woods, a deer yelped and went crashing through the brush, and everyone, including the three fellows with ropes cinching their necks, looked in the direction of the sound. Seconds slid by and became minutes. Somebody cleared his throat and spat. I was just old enough to practice a basic level of rational thought, and I couldn’t help but wonder what those men had done to deserve such an evening, and, for some reason, at that very moment, I started thinking about why mother had left. My young mind hadn’t cataloged the necessary sins and grievances that would add up to a

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THE HANGING by Doug Gray

hanging nor which of my failings or misbehaviors had been the one that finally drove my mother away. I had this weird feeling that the two things had something to do with each other, but, to this day, I don’t know back then how I managed to connect my mother’s leaving with these men’s hanging. But a time would eventually come when I discovered my instinct was dead-on. She left on the ninth of November, a week after my birthday, with Pop having been gone most of the week handling business. I awoke that morning knowing something was different. The house was dead quiet except for the steady tick of the clock at my bedside. I didn’t smell breakfast cooking, and I strained for the sound of my mother’s slippers flip-flopping from room to room against the plank floor. I pulled myself from bed and walked into the kitchen in my pajamas. The first thing I saw were her wedding rings on the table at the spot where Pop drank his coffee and a tented note in front of the chair where I sat. I took the note and opened it and read “My dear Campbell” in my mother’s perfect script. I read no further and quickly refolded the note and set it back on the table. A bolt of premonition threatened to take my legs out from under me. I thought if I ignored the note, denied its existence, in a short time my mother would appear at the door wearing her pretty smile, her arms trying to balance

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sacks of groceries. Or stroll out of the bathroom in her light blue, fuzzy robe, rubbing lotion on her hands and smelling like toothpaste and shampoo. I went to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of orange juice and sat in the quiet to watch the sun grow brighter outside the window over the sink. I don’t recall moving a muscle, and when Pop got home a couple of hours later, the first thing he asked me was why I wasn’t in school. Then he saw the rings and the note. He picked up the note, plopped down at the table, and read it. When he finished, he wadded it up and put it in his pocket. “What did she say?” I asked him. “Nothing.” “Well, she wrote it to me so it must have said something.” I squirmed a little in my chair because nobody ever corrected my father. Ever. Especially not me. “It don’t matter, boy,” he said, standing and walking over to look out the window facing the road. “She’s gone either way.” I had seen the tears starting up in his eyes before he turned away. There wasn’t much that could scare me that morning more than I already was, but that did. I left the table and went to my room and got dressed. I didn’t see any reason not to go to school. I wasn’t about to give up that easy. No matter what my father thought. I figured that the best chance I had for my mother to come back was to

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go to school and take my mind off things, so by the time Shug picked me up and brought me home, she would be waiting at the door like always, excited I was home and asking about my day. When I returned to the kitchen, face washed and hair plastered down, my father had bacon frying and was cracking eggs. “No school, today, son,” he said. He took two plates from the cabinet and put them on the table. “But don’t think we’re going to make a habit of this.” Now I stood shivering in that clearing wondering what hurt worse, that morning I found my mother gone or this mess that was playing out in front of me, when my father flicked his cigarette away and said, “Let’s go boys, let’s get this done.” At that, three of Pop’s biggest men marched behind that old oak, and each grabbed a loose end of rope. Shug sagged a little at the knees and let out something between a whimper and a moan. All eyes were on Pop. When he nodded and said, “God be with you,” the three big men turned their backs to the tree, shouldered their ropes, and leaned forward with a grunt, staggering till their feet found purchase. The nooses lost their slack, tightening just under the men’s chins, stretching their necks, and lifting them to their tiptoes. Then Pop’s men trudged forward. The hanging men

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surrendered their footing, and, as their bodies rose from the ground, they kicked and shuddered, grabbing at their necks with bound hands, scratching and scrabbling to work their fingers under the nooses. They were instantly frantic, like they had just realized they were being hanged, and they needed to do something about it. But it was too late. Their eyes bulged from their reddening faces, and the noises leaking from their mouths sounded more like a pen of spooked hogs than any sound a human could manage. I spun away and huffed huge clouds of breath toward a zillion stars jabbing their way out from the back of the night sky and forced myself into another night, another place, another time. Not that many months ago, just my mother and myself, and our words floating around us. “It’s your daddy’s birth sign, too,” she had said, her voice soft and distant, like it was coming from the heavens themselves. “Both you and Ben were born under Scorpio.” It had been a perfect night, the moon, a clipped fragment of ivory. Crickets and cicadas had worked themselves into a frenzy, and a breeze carried the bass reverberations of bullfrogs from the river. A carpet of mature clover and scattered thickets of honeysuckle filled our noses with a sweet wine. We had settled out in the middle of the field surrounding our house, lying on doubled-up quilts, our heads almost touching and our

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THE HANGING by Doug Gray

bodies, hers long and lean and mine stubby and short, forming a lopsided vee. This was another of the nights my father wasn’t around, choosing instead to roam the hollers, enjoying being Big Ben and navigating the far reaches of his dark, mountain-shrouded universe. The two of us spent many summer nights like that, locating stars and spotting planets that had wandered close enough to the sun to borrow its light. Sometimes we caught the streaks of icytailed comets and the steady, mute blinks of planes heading to places we both figured we’d never see. When she introduced me to Scorpio that night, she said that like a real scorpion, it scuttled across the sky through the months and seasons, always changing its hiding place. “It’s a sneaky little devil,” she said, “But if you’re patient and look hard enough, you’ll always find it.” When I asked her why it moved around so much, she said it was because the universe was always expanding, like a flower slowly opening in spring, and that was what kept all the stars on the move. “Everything is in motion,” she said. “It’s what gives it life and keeps it safe.” I asked her how she knew so much about these things. She laughed. “Well, I went to school, Campbell,” she said. “All the way through college. Did you believe your momma never went to school?” I told her I’d never thought about it. That I thought

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she was always just my mother and Pop’s wife. I followed her finger as she located Libra and Sagittarius, and then, moving her hand toward the south, there it was, Scorpio. She pointed out the claws and the tail. “There in the tail is where the stinger is, Campbell. That one up there is harmless enough, but if you run across any down here, try and stay clear of that stinger.” I had the feeling she was talking about more than insects, but I didn’t want to break the spell with questions. Then she put her hand next to my face and had me follow her finger to a star in the center of the scorpion, a star so bright it glowed red, like a wind-blown ember. “That’s Antares,” she said. “The heart.” She sat up and looked toward our house which was completely dark except for the faint buttery glow cast through the curtains by our living room lamp. She grew quiet, but after a minute, she turned back and took my face between her palms. “Even something as deadly as a scorpion has a heart, Campbell. Sometimes you just have to look harder to find it. You have to look past the stinger. And no matter how bad things get, there’s always a way out. Sometimes the way out is only in your head, at least until you can figure how to get out for real. Use your mind when you can’t use your legs.”

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“I don’t know if I can do that,” I said. “I don’t think my mind is smart enough.” My mother smiled. “Oh, your mind is plenty smart, Campbell,” she said. Then there was a shift in the mood, in her voice. She stared in the direction of the woods at the edge of the field, like she was trying to make out something in the shadows. “If I didn’t think so, I’d go crazy worrying about you.” She was quiet for a few seconds and then she sat up and pulled me up with her, embracing me so tightly I thought she was going to break my ribs. When she released me, she leaned back on her hands and smiled, the earlier mood returning. “And you know something, Campbell? I don’t worry about you at all.” And now with all the fury and racket that was boiling over in the glare of those headlights, I searched the sky, brushing away everything in front of me and around me, looking for that scorpion. I shut my ears off and tuned my eyes in. And there it was, Scorpio, seeming so much larger than I had ever seen it before, the stinger a sharp point of light. The heart was right where I knew it would be, and I grabbed onto that deep red pulsing with everything I had. Just me and Antares. I clenched my jaw and concentrated with everything I could muster until every last one of those hateful sounds was snatched up and carried away

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across the tops of the cedars, over the dark mountains to the east, into endless light years of space, to be sucked up like poison into that glittering scorpion. As precious seconds formed themselves into silent minutes, there was no longer a clearing alive with the chaos of struggle, no ungodly commotion, no keening and thrashing, just my mother back at the house humming and working a spoon through a simmering pot of soup, waiting for me to come home and get my bath. At last, now somewhere beyond the reaches of my mind, the racket tapered off, evaporating from a roar to a whisper, finally leaving only the creaks and groans of frozen limbs high up in that oak, like a door swinging on warped hinges. There was nothing from across the river. That dog had either taken down its prey or had grown tired of the hunt. When Pop’s men released the ropes, it sounded like burlap sacks fat with feed corn colliding with the hard ground. When I could make myself move, I turned back and all three men lay stone still, legs and arms sprawled, their posture almost peaceful, like babies napping in their cribs. Steam rose from their bodies and formed a milky vapor in the headlights. Big Ben walked to the men and put two fingers against each of their throats just below the jawbone. After a minute, he nodded to his boys, and, as they busied themselves with the bodies, he started toward me, taking

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THE HANGING by Doug Gray

long strides, trailing his giant shadow across the clearing to where I stood. I couldn’t get as much breath as I wanted, and my heart thumped against the quilting of my heavy coat. When he got to me, he dropped to his knees to get us eye to eye. He studied my face for a long minute before he reached out and mussed my hair. He squinted and gave me the look he always did when he needed to read my mind. Then he leaned in until the tops of our foreheads bumped and with his big hands gave both my arms a good, solid squeeze. “You alright, boy?” he asked. That night, there was but one answer. “Yessir,” I told him, straining to keep my teeth from chattering. “I’m alright.” Of course, I wasn’t. Not then, not now, and maybe not ever. It wouldn’t have occurred to me back then that I had a choice. To not be alright. I didn’t know that time would eventually strengthen me and diminish my father in equal quantities. To imagine that Big Ben could ever be diminished was heresy. Or that the time would come when truth was a viable option rather than a stark risk. That night, I was Big Ben’s man child and had been from the very moment I drew my first lungful of air, still slippery from my mother’s womb. The only son of an only son. And the truth is, that’s the main reason why never once in all these years have I even thought of faulting my mother

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WELL DONE! Fiction

for what she did. For disappearing in the middle of the night, leaving me to manage my father and grow up in his shadow. My mother had a choice, and she made it. That was the advantage of being a wife and not blood. And why when we finally met again those many years later, she offered no apology and I expected none. “Well, good,” he said, standing and hoisting me to his shoulders, lifting me so high I felt I needed to duck to keep my head from scraping the sky. Behind us truck motors turned over one after the other, and headlights reared and jostled through the field, the hard earth snapping under cold tires. Finding the blacktop, they turned single file in the direction of town and convoyed down the road, taillights shrinking to red pinpoints before being completely swallowed by the distance and the night. My father let out a shout that came tumbling back in a wave of echoes from the frozen recesses of the holler. No words, just a sound, like something hard and cold breaking loose. Then he lifted me from his shoulders, set me on the ground, and grabbed my gloved hand with his. Above me, Scorpio crept forward a few inches before skidding to a stop. “Then let’s me and you head to the house, son,” he said. “And see what Santy brought you.”

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THE HANGING by Doug Gray

Doug Gray lives with his wife and rescue cats in Fayetteville, Tennessee and is realizing his retirement dream of reading and writing. Many days are spent sitting and staring at an amazing view of the countryside from a well-placed window, but, on occasion, a rogue piece of fiction or a ragged chunk of nonfiction will slough its way onto the screen of his laptop. And that’s when the fun begins.

JANUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 18

WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

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SCHOOL by Angela Patera

School Angela Patera

Ι sit at my desk at work, determined to grade all the tests before the lessons commence. I reach for the first one in the stack - Mike’s test. Knowing him as a meticulous student, I allow myself a moment of relief; this should be an easy one to correct, perhaps with a few hurried errors towards the end. In university, we were taught to grade blindly to prevent our preconceived notions about a certain student from affecting our sense of judgment. There’s no point in correcting blindly; I am unable to escape familiarity. I know my students’ handwriting all too well. Thoughts of Mike’s strawberry-blonde hair, oversized glasses, and big blue eyes come to mind. He used to be the teacher’s pet, but now, in ninth grade, it seems that puberty has taken its toll. However, as I begin to read, something unsettling catches my eye… Oh no! Each page bears an intricate penis drawing in the lower right corner. On the first page, it’s just a lonely penis, rendered with exquisite detail. As I turn to the second

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WELL DONE! Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

page, the penis looks erect and it is accompanied by a full set of testicles, all captured with impressive precision. The third and final page reveals an enlarged image of the aforementioned penis, sporting a contented smile. This transcends mere doodling; it’s a genuine work of art, executed with extraordinary attention to detail. Traces of careful erasure and revision attest to Mike’s unwavering commitment to achieving a striking level of realism. I am utterly mortified. Although I have encountered a fair share of mischievous sketches over the years, Mike’s behavior appears entirely inconsistent with the typical phallus-doodler. Nearly two decades ago, upon my initial encounter with such drawings, my response was urgent and decisive: immediately involving the Headmaster, convening a teacher’s meeting, contacting parents, and inadvertently blowing the matter out of proportion. I perceived that incident as a manifestation of sexism, a glimpse into a troubled teenager’s psyche, a burgeoning man’s attempt to assert his masculinity fuelled by an inexplicable fear of castration. I thought he was employing provocative art to propagate a phallic ideology, establish dominance over the class and symbolically stake his claim, akin to a dog marking his territory. As the years passed, phallic depictions began to proliferate within the language school’s walls. I encountered numerous sketches reminiscent of the initial

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SCHOOL by Angela Patera

one, and over time, I came to realize that whenever a dick graces a piece of paper addressed to a teacher, it carries a singular message—a poignant cry for help, a desperate plea for attention. It screams “Reprimand me, punish me, discipline me—do whatever it takes, for I am in dire need of your attention”. For nearly two decades, I’ve dedicated my life to teaching English as a Second Language, a path I never initially planned to tread. Teaching at a language school marked my serendipitous introduction to the realm of education. It all began when I was a junior English Language and Literature student at Greece’s most esteemed university. The day we were asked to select our first semester courses, I found myself nursing a formidable hangover. Clad in an all-black ensemble and sporting oversized sunglasses, I filled out the registration form with subjects I barely recognized: Introduction to Linguistics; ELT Theory; Discourse Analysis; Education Psychology and Error Analysis. They sounded wholly unfamiliar, almost exotic. Unbeknownst to me, some inexplicable cosmic thread was already weaving me into my future career. Truth be told, at that point, I hadn’t given much thought to my career prospects. Still navigating my somewhat sheltered late adolescence, my primary concern was securing a job that would sustain my desired lifestyle—

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paying bills, attending as many concerts as possible, and affording the coveted Doc Martens I yearned for. As I slowly meandered my way home from university that day, a compelling advertisement pinned outside a Language School caught my eye: “ESL interns wanted”. The cosmic thread had evolved into an irresistible force, pulling me inexorably closer to my destiny. Until that very moment, the notion of teaching had never crossed my mind. I had always been a shy, reticent individual, feeling more at ease with the companionship of books, the solace of concerts, and the contemplative solitude of art galleries. Challenged by the universe and propelled by the boundless naiveté of youth, I ventured inside the Language School, hoping that my crisp accent, sharp allblack attire, and the hastily consumed 1000mg of ibuprofen would somehow bestow upon me an air of sophistication, if not an intriguing touch of peculiarity. My first task was to undergo an English proficiency test, a measure of my language mastery. Alone in a quiet room, sunglasses shielding my throbbing head from the intrusive fluorescent lights, I filled the blanks effortlessly. Afterwards, I sought refuge in a quiet waiting room, making a beeline for the vending machine. There, I downed two cups of scalding hot, frothy cappuccino, accompanied by two more ibuprofen pills and three mints. Thankfully, the ensuing interview was brief, a welcome

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SCHOOL by Angela Patera

relief as my head still pounded, and my stomach churned with discomfort. They hired me on the spot thanks to my impressive high school grades and a teaching license I had obtained during the previous summer at my mum’s suggestion, “just in case”. The salary, while not extravagant, generously met my modest needs. The convenience was undeniable: located near the train station, the language school’s operation hours from 3 p.m. until 10 p.m. harmoniously aligned with my morning university classes. As the clock ticked to the end of my shift, I could easily board the train and head to one of the countless concerts that had become my foremost passion during that period. My responsibilities at the language school revolved around teaching three advanced-level classes, primarily composed of teenage boys gearing up for their impending English exams. The Headmaster emphasized that my instruction should be laser-focused on exam preparation. My creativity extended as far as ensuring those young and somewhat delinquent gentlemen successfully passed their exams. It was obvious that these classes had been assigned to me because they had been deemed undesirable by all the others. In the midst of my post-concert, hangover-fueled haze, I couldn’t help but nurture a sense of pride and determination, envisioning myself confidently waltzing inside the classroom, exuding an aura of coolness

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and defiance, akin to a brunette incarnation of Michelle Pfeiffer in “Dangerous Minds”. My initial enthusiasm morphed into anxiety as I realized that, despite my meticulously crafted lessons, I was no Michelle Pfeiffer. To make matters worse, all of the students were just a couple of years my junior, attending the very same high school I once did. Familiar faces met my gaze; most belonged to the school’s jocks and bullies, perpetually ready for mischief. This realization stirred a poignant blend of melancholy and unwavering determination. The peculiar aspect that struck me on the first day in the classroom was my students’ conspicuous lack of engagement. They seemed disinterested in virtually everything, no matter how captivating I attempted to be. I could have set myself alight during the lesson and they wouldn’t have noticed. In response, I delved into my teaching materials, assiduously studying textbooks on instructing exam preparation classes, scouring all the relevant websites, and seeking guidance from chat rooms and forums. My determination to succeed remained unwavering. I maintained a strict, professional demeanor, prioritizing their success in the upcoming exams. My lessons were meticulously structured- compact and rich in content. I didn’t allow these boys a moment’s respite; the focus

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SCHOOL by Angela Patera

remained unswervingly exam-oriented. Soon, I began to realize that even those seemingly indifferent high school boys longed for something more—a chance for extracurricular conversation, a dose of attention, a sprinkle of enjoyment. Regrettably, I misinterpreted these gestures as attempts to waste time. I didn’t want to hear what they had to say; I had timed the lessons down to the very last second. I couldn’t waste any time. Despite my obviously flawed technique and misguided objectives, the results were remarkable: out of my 40 students, an impressive 35 passed their exams with distinction. During my second year as an ESL teacher, an unforeseen twist of fate rattled my world. I was carefully grading essays in the teacher’s room when the headmaster’s urgent summons to his office sent my heart sinking. I was convinced I was about to get sacked. At that point, I had already been grappling with a challenging phase in my life. It had all begun with the sudden and untimely loss of my best friend. His death broke my heart, leaving me desolate and aimless. In an attempt to distract myself from the grief, I enrolled in demanding university courses, hoping that classes and challenging projects would somehow keep me occupied. To my terror, barely a month into the semester, a university professors’ strike brought all classes to a halt. Initially deemed a brief disruption, as three months passed,

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restlessness began to consume me. Sometime during those months of restlessness and mourning, I mustered the courage to extricate myself from a traumatic relationship that had ensnared me for far too long. Although I felt relieved, I found myself more disoriented than ever. I was feeling so desperate and overwhelmed that all I wanted to do was cocoon myself at home and smoke pot all day, escaping into a haze of smoke and indifference. What truly kept me afloat during that trying period was my job. Regardless of my inner turmoil, I diligently prepared teaching materials, graded countless essays and tests, showered, got dressed, and showed up at work at 3 p.m. every day looking clean, sober, and alert. Therefore, when summoned to the headmaster’s office, panic surged within me. I took a deep breath and knocked on his door. As I walked into his office, he lifted his head and fixed a silent gaze upon me. Doubts swirled within my mind. Had I made a grave error? Been overly stern? Unwittingly mistreated a student? Lost in contemplation, I failed to notice the Headmaster addressing me. It was only when he extended a piece of paper for me to sign that I snapped back to attention. Feeling too embarrassed to request a repetition of his words, I swiftly scanned the text. The offer was a full-time position as a permanent member of the staff. My heart skipped a beat. I swiftly signed the form, unable to conceal both my broad smile and the tears

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SCHOOL by Angela Patera

that welled up in my eyes. I adhered rigorously to the same inflexible technique across all of my classes. It yielded amazing results. However, a persistent feeling of something amiss gnawed at me, elusive yet undeniable. I struggled to identify the source of my discontent. Despite my meticulously organized lessons, abundant authentic supplementary material, and exam-oriented tests, a lingering dissatisfaction with my overall teaching approach persisted. To untangle this puzzle, I drew to my own student experiences marked by stellar performance but profound unhappiness. The disquieting realization dawned that I had inadvertently fallen into the same patterns as my high school teachers. They had viewed me merely as a name paired with a high grade. They were indifferent to my personality, interests, and concerns. Deep down, I recognized that effective teaching should prioritize pedagogy over methodology, focusing on the learner as a whole rather than their learning profile. Yet, I struggled with effectively translating this insight into practice within the strict confines of the lesson’s structure. The tragic events of December 6th, 2008 profoundly reshaped my teaching philosophy and overall perspective. On that fateful day, 15-year-old student Alex Grigoropoulos tragically lost his life at the hands of a

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police officer in the heart of Athens. This incident ignited a cascade of demonstrations and protests, coinciding with violent riots that scarred the already beleaguered city center. This incident marked the culmination of months of underlying problems, including skyrocketing inflation, surging unemployment rates, a rapid rise in drug addiction, a disheartening increase in suicide rates, and the alarming emergence of extreme right-wing ideologies. This was a pivotal turning point, compelling me to reevaluate my approach towards education and my role as an educator. How could I not engage my students in discussions about racism, sexism, or depression? How could I, with a clear conscience, walk inside my classroom and continue teaching grammatical structures, without addressing these urgent issues? It became abundantly clear to me that I couldn’t confine my teaching solely to exam prep. My students deserved more—they deserved to be informed about the world around them. What my students truly needed was a different kind of education—an approach that was student-driven, emotionally charged, thought-provoking, and interdisciplinary in nature. Harnessing the power of art, music, literature, video games, and all sorts of cultural exposure could be instrumental in this endeavor. They needed opportunities for “meaningful conversations” that would encourage them to explore the complexities of the

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SCHOOL by Angela Patera

real world. It became crystal clear that my role as a teacher had to evolve to meet these pressing needs, preparing my students for the realities of a world they were poised to inherit. The concept of “meaningful conversation” swiftly became an indispensable element in my classes. I approached it with utmost precision, adhering to strict time constraints and carefully crafting my words to adjust every notion to the appropriate age group. My goal was to practice English while maintaining conversations that were respectful, non-dogmatic, and harmonious. What struck me profoundly was the plethora of anxieties concealed beneath the seemingly nonchalant and fashionable façade of most of my students. Some fretted over body image issues while others admitted to a loss of control over their alcohol and drug consumption. Shockingly, many students revealed bullying experiences they had endured at some point in their lives. It was a revelation that truly opened my eyes to the psychological underbelly of my classes. Reflecting on my own educational journey, from kindergarten through high school, I couldn’t recall any teacher genuinely paying attention to me. As a highachieving student from a well-educated and liberal background, my inner struggles, occasional defiance, penchant for challenging authority, bouts of depression,

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and evident eating disorders, were all too easily dismissed as “just a phase” as long as my academic performance remained strong. I yearned to change that narrative, aspiring to find a new approach to education and student well-being. Of course, I remained acutely aware of my limitations. I lacked the credentials of a doctor or a psychologist and, at the age of 22, the expertise required for professional counseling. Undoubtedly, the primary focus of my classes remained centered on exam preparation, as my job security depended on it. I recognized the boundaries of my knowledge and experience as well as the time constraints imposed by my schedule. However, within those limits, I could offer alternatives: a wealth of reading materials and thought-provoking film recommendations; diligently researched helplines staffed by specialists in assisting young people dealing with issues like addiction or depression; and a network of trusted specialists, including pediatricians and child psychologists. Despite being just an ESL teacher, I felt a duty to lend a sympathetic ear and a supportive shoulder. Over time, I couldn’t help but notice the significant impact that the five-minute “meaningful conversation” had on my students’ engagement and the overall classroom dynamics. I derived immense satisfaction from this influence. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was much

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SCHOOL by Angela Patera

more I could do to further enrich the educational experience. A few years later, an unexpected event profoundly reshaped my teaching approach: motherhood. This transition forged a reciprocal connection, turning teaching into my sanctuary amid the challenges of perinatal depression. It bridged my evolving identity as a mother with the person I had always been. Within the classroom confines, I could momentarily escape the shroud of anxiety that often engulfed me. Once again, regardless of my personal turmoil, I had to show up at 3 p.m. every day, looking fresh and composed. Inside the classroom, I played the role of “in loco parentis” but I was not a parent; I remained a teacher. Returning to the classroom as a mother also informed my teaching approach. As my daughter developed her unique personality and embarked on her educational journey, I recognized a symbiotic relationship forming between motherhood and teaching. Motherhood infused me with greater compassion, patience, and tolerance. My attention to detail sharpened, enabling me to discern subtleties that might have eluded me before. It became clear that my lessons needed to cater to the entire class while simultaneously accommodating the distinctive pace and learning style of each student. Even in the competitive realm of exam preparation, I recognized that all the

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students shared the same destination, yet, it was my duty to assist them in shaping their individual journey toward that goal. As I complete the arduous task of grading tests, I allow myself a moment to exhale, mentally gearing up for the upcoming lesson. The chatter of my students' voices seeps in through the open window. They seem to be engaged in a spirited discussion about football. Keeping pace with the constantly shifting landscape of football teams and player contracts has never been my strong suit. Lost in contemplation, I am abruptly jolted by the eruption of an irate voice: -Suck my dick! -Fuck you! -You’re so fucking gay! I roll my eyes and sigh disapprovingly as I’m once again reminded of the familiar, persistent soundtrack that accompanies my daily routine. Despite my repeated emphasis on the importance of refraining from using terms like “gay” or “lesbian” as derogatory insults, it seems that the message hasn’t quite taken root with my students. I contemplate whether it’s time for me to intervene, perhaps yell from the window and beckon them to the classroom for a substantial lecture on the fundamental principles of politeness and respect. Just as I am weighing this decision, one of the boys raises his voice above the others:

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SCHOOL by Angela Patera

-You shouldn’t call him “gay”, you fucking idiot. It’s not a bad thing to be gay; call him a “jerk”, that’s what he is, a fucking little jerk! That marks a personal triumph. While I acknowledge that my teaching approach is far from flawless and there are still countless lingering issues to address, I take solace in the knowledge that my students have gleaned something valuable from our journey together. There is still something amiss and I am resolutely committed to finding the solution.

Angela Patera was born in 1986 in Athens, Greece. She still resides there with her husband and her 7-year-old daughter. She is an ESL teacher. Having studied English Language and literature at the National University of Athens, she pursued a Master's Degree in Cultural Administration and Communication. Her main field of interest is the representations of womanhood, race, and disease in Culture (especially literature).

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WELL DONE! Poetry

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ENGINEERING THE APOCALYPSE by Kimberly Parish Davis

Engineering the Apocalypse Kimberly Parish Davis

The old man commanded the cheeseboard. His companion, a slight woman in a wheelchair would nod at the Cotswold or the gruyere and he’d feed it to her. Trays of canapés circulated around the room, and the old man, by dent of his extraordinary girth, dissuaded casual nibblers from approaching that end of the buffet table. A few people watched them from nearby tables. They couldn’t hear the conversation—if you could call it that. The old man spoke softly to the woman and she replied with nods or scowls—the only means of communication that remained to her since the accident that had all-but killed her and robbed her of her career. The old man, her lawyer and frequent companion since the settlement, said, “Tommy’s a born fighter.” He’d told her earlier that week that the money from the settlement was not going to last the year. He hadn’t told her how much money had gone directly into his own bank account.

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WELL DONE! Flash Fiction

Emily Preston nodded. She was just about lucid. The doctors had finally balanced the cocktail of drugs she took so that she could spend at least a few hours a day awake. “You know it isn’t always some bully goading him into fights at school.” She looked at her lap. “Kid’s like a berserker. Push the right button and he’ll fight to the death.” She scowled. “I mean that metaphorically, of course, Em.” Her eyes filled with tears, and the corners of her mouth turned down. Pristine in his silk shirt and waistcoat, gold watch chain artfully draped around his great round middle, the old man said, “He’ll be fine, Em. I’ll see to that. Let him do this for you. Pretty soon, sacking groceries isn’t going to cover the medical bills.” Her tears spilled out, and he made a show of gently wiping them away. Her approval in front of an audience was essential. Emily’s son Tommy could set the boxing world on fire with the right manager, but at seventeen he needed his only parent to sign a release. Finally, she nodded. “Fine. That’s just fine Em. I’ve got the papers in the car.” He lifted two fingers to signal the waiter drifting by with a champagne tray.

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ENGINEERING THE APOCALYPSE by Kimberly Parish Davis

Tommy Preston was good-looking—six-foot-two with sandy blond hair and ripped—a surfer to melt the hearts of the betting public. His good looks would draw millions out of the white establishment if he lived up to his promise in the ring. The old man built the boy’s reputation quickly with carefully selected opponents and he made sure the right people were looking every time a brown-skinned fighter hit the canvas at Tommy’s feet. “The Angel” seemed an innocent moniker at first, but the old man’s strategy soon became apparent. Tommy was sitting in the old man’s office cooling off after training one afternoon when the phone rang. “I don’t know, Carlos. He’s just a kid.” The old man made a wide-eyed open-mouthed gesture and pointed at the phone. His voice stayed smooth and even. “Give us another year. Your boy has what, twenty-five pounds on him?” He gestured as if reeling in a big fish. He had to make sure the hook was well and truly set. “You do that.” He disconnected and jumped out of his chair and did a little cha-cha-cha. “Who was that?” Tommy jumped up, excited without knowing what had happened. “Carlos Mendoza. Diaz’s manager. They’ve been watching you. He wants a fight.”

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“No fucking way! El Diablo?” Tommy bounced on the balls of his feet, punched the air and whooped. “Easy, killer. He weighs damn-nearly two-hundred pounds. Your one-seventy-five ain’t gonna get it. I don’t care how fast you are.” The match was eight months coming, time for Tommy to bulk up, time for the old man to whip the sports commentators into a frenzy over “The Angel” fighting “El Diablo,” a lightning fast Mexican named Eduardo Diaz who was on track to become the cruiser-weight champion. The fight was billed as “The Apocalypse.” Vendors sold haloes and horns, but anyone could tell who backed which fighter without those props. The racial lines were clearly drawn. All the city’s off-duty police were hired to keep the crowd under control the night of the fight. In the dressing room, Tommy said, “You placed the bets?” “Of course. The win. The fight to finish by round six. A knockout.” The old man didn’t tell the kid he’d actually bet on El Diablo to win with a KO by round six. His work here was nearly done. The odds were slanting heavily in Tommy’s favor, so when the kid went down, he’d be rich. Tommy nodded. Rounds one, two, and three looked close, and the old man found himself sweating in the front row next to

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Emily, who’d insisted on coming, though he’d tried to dissuade her. In the end he’d thought, What the hell? Maybe it’ll kill her when the kid gets knocked out. The bell rang at the start of the fourth round, and El Diablo came out of his corner slow. Tommy’s fans went wild as he laid into the Mexican with a barrage of jabs to the body, but El Diablo had drawn Tommy in using Mohammad Ali’s old rope-a-dope, and when the kid was nearly spent, El Diablo’s lightning fast right hook followed by a series of left jabs sent Tommy staggering across the ring. The ref called the round. The old man was on his feet yelling. He ran over and whispered in Tommy’s ear, “Next time he clocks you, go down.” “What?” The bell sounded for round five. Go Down? Tommy shook his head. He was finally mad. He moved like a dancer, and to quote one commentator, “The Angel rained down on El Diablo with the full force of heaven bringing him down in Round Five.” Emily turned and caught the eye of a bookie by the back wall. He winked.

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Kimberly Parish Davis is the director of Madville Publishing, and was formerly assistant to the director and then interim director at Texas Review Press. Her short fiction and nonfiction have appeared in various literary journals, both online and off, including The Helix, Jerry Jazz Musician, époque press, Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review (FLAR), Flare: The Flagler Review, Kestrel, 50-Word Stories, and the Sad Girls Club Literary Blog. Her website is https://kpdavis.com. Author photo credit: Jacqueline Davis - she’s also the main cover designer at Madville.

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DOG DAYS by Michael Spake

Dog Days Michael Spake

The Dog Star rises with the sun announcing the arrival of deep summer. Yards turn to dry brown scabs. Barefoot children dance on sizzling sidewalks jumping from shady spot to shady spot. Dogs pant all day, too hot to chase a slow-moving car as gnats buzz around their faces. Birds do not sing, and insects do not chirp. Worst, snakes go blind with milky eyes and turn mean. The Dog Days, scorching days filled with peril. My grandmother, Hazel, had a vigor for life filled with grace and a pleasant dottiness. I never knew my grandfather. He died from a heart attack at fifty-five years old. I was only two. My father says it was because he could not stay “out of the sauce.” My mother does not talk about it other than her constant reminder, “I was teaching when I heard the ambulance race by the school. I knew it was Daddy, and he was already dead.” His death drew a dreary circle of grief around my mother, causing her to fear the past repeating itself, or as

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she would say, “I just know I am going show up one day at mother’s house and find her dead on the floor.” My mother guards against the past by telephoning Hazel several times each day to check on her. When Hazel does not answer, my mother suspects the worst and drives to her house. Most days, Hazel’s long tan Oldsmobile with its Jesus Saves bumper sticker is gone, and my mother breathes a sigh of relief. On days like today, however, her long brown Oldsmobile sits in the carport. My mother continues to call. Each time, she says, “I just can’t live through another death like Daddy. Somebody needs to go over with the house key.” I do not understand my mother's grief. Still, I volunteer, remembering the last time Hazel could not hear her cordless phone it was because she was sitting on it in her recliner. For me, Hazel’s house has always been a respite from the intensity of my parent’s home. She lives an authentic life filled with joy and without concern for the past or the future. Her cut glass candy dish is always full of Brach’s old-fashioned ribbon candy. She serves me hotdog wieners and French fries on Dixie paper plates and Coca-Cola in “reused” red solo cups. She always has a bread box full of Hostess Chocolate Cupcakes bought from the thrift shop, just for me. On special occasions Hazel will invite me to Bojangles. She always takes a Ziploc bag of cut cantaloupe in her purse to eat with Bojangles’ sausage

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gravy. Hazel lives as a God-fearing Baptist. She attends Orr Mill Baptist Church each Sunday and goes to gospel singings every Friday night. As a teenager, Hazel’s slight shade of darkness and her genuine belief in superstitions intrigues me, especially her beliefs about the Dog Days. I arrive at Hazel’s house. Out of the car, I feel the muggy heat hit me in the face as beads of sweat rise from my pores. I hear the shuffle of Hazel’s gold-glittered bedroom slippers and watch her leave the back porch and walk toward the house. Her lips are pressed tight. This unusual look of caution alerts me that something is amiss. I look closer and see a hammer in one hand. The other is bleeding. I watch Hazel approach the house and announce myself, “Good morning. Do you need help with anything?” Hazel gives a forced smile and replies, “Naw, I’s just on the back porch and coming inside to bandage my hand. Come on in, and I’ll get you something.” Inside, Hazel washes her hands, and I grab a bottle of Coke out of the refrigerator and find two red solo cups in the cabinet. We sit together at the kitchen table. Hazel remains quiet as she bandages her hand. I casually ask, “What happened to your hand?” Hazel tries to sit tall, but osteoporosis hunched her back many years ago. She shifts her weight forward and looks

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me in the eye as if preparing to speak to my soul. I see cataracts through her cloudy blue eyes, but they do not blur her message. I prepare myself to listen as Hazel begins. “I was sitting at this here the kitchen table by the telephone when I heard a strange rattle in the drawer.” Hazel points her arthritic finger at the drawer beside the refrigerator. I know it well. As a child, I plundered through all the random things she threw in it, old keys, coins, and clothespins. “The rattle, like a jar of coins, became a rustling. It went from the front to the back. A contracting sound, like a heartbeat.” I raise my eyebrows, wondering what made the drawer come alive, and move to the edge of my chair. “I had heard enough, so I opened the drawer. It was at that moment when I saw evil staring right at me. A long, thick, black snake, about the length of my arm, with a sleek crown holding vile milky eyes. It raised its hideous head, and I tried to grab the soulless creature but missed. It must have tasted fear at my reach because it flicked its forked tongue and fled to the back of the drawer and into the next drawer.” My mouth goes slack as I excitedly say, “Oh my goodness. A snake.” Hazel continues in an almost honeyed voice, “Yes, a

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DOG DAYS by Michael Spake

snake and I chased that devil through each drawer until the end of the counter. Once it was finally pinned in, I grabbed it by the head.” Almost shaking with nervous excitement, I recall the feeling of Hazel’s arthritic hands and how she always grabs both my cheeks for a kiss. Her thick nails and gemencrusted rings dig into my tender face. There is no escaping her loving grasp, and attempting to escape only makes it worse. “After I grabbed it, it coiled its scales around my arm and squeezed. I was going outside with it when the phone rang and I answered it. The preacher was calling because I missed church yesterday. I explained I was okay, just a stomachache some ginger ale and soda crackers cured by mid-morning.” I feel my pounding chest as Hazel continues, “We talked for about twenty minutes. But as we talked, the snake somehow loosened its head and started biting my hand. I would have said something, but I knew the preacher was about to finish because he asked if he could pray for me.” My skin tingles from the neck down as I picture the moment’s symbolism. I look at Hazel. She is unshaken, like a rock. I scratch my head and ask, “Why on earth did you answer the phone when you had a snake wrapped around your arm?” Without pause, Hazel replies, “I thought it may be your

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mother, and you know how she always throws a duck fit when I do not answer the phone.” I give a big chuckle that shakes my shoulders. “Yeah, I get it. But why did you keep talking once you found out it was not Mom?” A slight blush creeps across Hazel’s face as she replies, “Why, I’d be embarrassed if other people knew I had a snake in my house, especially the preacher.” I slowly nod and smile. There is a slight pause until I remember to ask, “What did you do with the snake?” Without flinching, Hazel replies, “I took it out on the back porch and killed it.” My mouth falls open. “With a hammer?” Hazel nods. Hazel’s hand stopped bleeding as we finished our red solo cups of Coke in reverent silence. I look at my watch and rise out of my chair. “Well, I better get home before Mom thinks we are up to something.” Walking out the back door, I peer onto the back porch. The snake, unrecognizable and crushed from head to tail, is now almost as wide as long. I turn back to Hazel, who leans over and pulls me in for a kiss. “Now, don’t tell your momma about the snake when you get home. Just tell her I was out sitting on the porch. She would throw one heck of a fuss if she knew I caught and killed a snake.” A smile back at Hazel and, with a wink of my eye, say,

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DOG DAYS by Michael Spake

“This one is just ‘tween you and me.”

Michael Spake is a healthcare attorney and writer. Michael is currently working on his debut novel, Life Close to the Bone, a coming-of-age story about the shift in memory that comes with moving from adolescence to adulthood, as the story’s protagonist learns about love and loss in a textile mill town located in upstate, South Carolina. Michael and his wife Mary Lucia celebrated their 27th wedding anniversary. They have four children (22, 18, 18, and 13). Michael is from Anderson, South Carolina and graduated with honors from The Citadel with a BA (English) in 1994. Michael currently lives in Lakeland, Florida. At home, he gardens and raises chickens.

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WELL DONE! Poetry

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COMPOSITION by Jennifer Smith

Composition Jennifer Smith

Writers awaken to songs of renewal. Emergence of verse through morning's stillness. Time zones merge in melodic arrangement along direction, distance, and infinite space. Sunbeams taper through windowpanes, brushing authors' shoulders. Infusion of magic in rose tones and floral scents of an apricot sunrise. Above moorlands and dunes, mountains and cliffs, a writing circle forms. Wind escalates wordsmiths to literary haven beyond the pastel skyscape. Ascension toward a circular oasis, edged in indigo. Iridescent opals adorn the perimeter's deep blue border.

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Storytellers, songwriters, playwrights and poets assemble in an array of aspirations. Artisans enter the ring's cypress archway, draped in buttercup chiffon and daffodil tulle. Harmonious procession into a palette of clarity and quiet energy. Teacher opens her birchwood box, lined in copper satin sheen. A presentation of gifts revealed for the wounded, the weary, the ready. Writers reach to grasp medallion portals rising in yellow ribbon spirals. Swaying gently, the circle releases the group into a panorama of craft. Migration toward acres teeming with pages awaiting touch of pens. The landscape lies fertile for artistic rebirth, its climate controlled. Authors traverse routes lightly, no constraints of passports, compass arrows, or roadmaps. Restoration for souls seeking their way, their words, their voice. Portals are their thresholds to journeys through poetry and prose. 114

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Some travel stretches of highway to canyons, oceans, and the spectacle of painted sunsets. Inspiration found though wonders of art, music, nature, and self. Others pause in quietude of shaded back roads, as words absorb pain. Circle's illumination guides writers home, its purpose fulfilled. Completion, closure, and to be continued. Moments preserved in memoirs and poems for all seasons, Lines arranged among ages, through stories and song. Night falls on syllables shimmering amid stars. Words traverse spheres, in motion with wind.

*Dedicated to Diane Zinna

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Jennifer Smith is a retired elementary school speech-language pathologist, now writing with themes inspired by her small town, southern life. Her work appears in 50-Word Stories and Fictionette, and she was a co-winner in City of LaFayette, Georgia’s community writing contest. Jennifer has work forthcoming in The Bluebird Word, The MockingOwl Roost, and Fifty Give or Take with Vine Leaves Press. A sample of her grief writing will be included in Letting Grief Speak by Diane Zinna through Columbia University Press. She holds a Master of Science in Communicative Disorders from the University of Alabama, an Educational Specialist in Curriculum and Instruction from Lincoln Memorial University, and a Creative Writing Certificate from Kennesaw State University. A member of Alpha Delta Kappa, she serves on the organization’s Pages and Pearls Book Club committee. Residing in northwest Georgia, Jennifer enjoys walking, listening to audiobooks, and reviewing books.

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WINTER by Ashley Tunnell

Winter Ashley Tunnell

One December morning The sun looked like a question mark Peering over the ridge The answer was either the snow falling silently And wrapping the trees in blankets of white Or the wind cutting like a knife Through a little mountain town That stood frozen in time The crunch beneath my boots Sounded like the beginning of a story I shivered my way through While waiting for January to see its shadow It was that cold December morning When I first saw my breath Carry every metaphor I’ve ever heard about winter And I cupped my hands to catch them as they spilled out

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Ashley Tunnell is a writer from Blairsville, GA. She is completing a bachelor’s degree with a teaching pathway in English from the University of North Georgia, and she intends to pursue her master’s degree in the same field with a concentration in creative writing. Her work has been published in UNG’s literary magazine as well as the Southern Literary Festival’s anthology of poetry and short stories. When she is not reading, writing, or studying, Ashley enjoys spending time with her family and singing in her local community choir.

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WINTER by Ashley Tunnell

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RESOLUTIONS SANS SOLUTIONS by Ken Gosse

Resolutions Sans Solutions Ken Gosse

Now that we’ve sung Auld Lang Syne when time ran out last year, another New Year’s Day is here, so Helan Går to New Year’s star, let’s raise your glass to some new lass and hope the New Lang will be fine. Perhaps it’s true, the more things change, all the more they stay the same. What’s new will soon be old and lame. Resolutions aren’t solutions we’ll remember from December. Out of focus, out of range. Still, it’s a night to be well met and it’s OK to shed a tear,

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or better yet, to raise a cheer in hopes that we will finally create good ploy for next year’s joy— yet how soon we’ll forget.

Ken Gosse usually writes metric, rhymed verse with whimsy and humor. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, since then in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Pure Slush, Home Planet News Online, WELL READ Magazine, and others. Raised in the Chicago, Illinois, suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty-five years with rescue cats and dogs underfoot.

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

HELLO WRITERS & ARTISTS! CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS IS OPEN! Click here for more information

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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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BETWEEN THE PAGES PODCAST

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“And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.” Late fragment by Raymond Carver (Eoin’s motto)

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ANNIE ASKS EOIN DEMPSEY

Welcome to 2024! Who better to start off the New Year with than Eoin Dempsey! He is one of my favorite writers and podcast co-hosts! Eoin was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1977. He grew up in the beautiful Dublin suburb of Dalkey, where he and his friends would jump into the icy waters of the Irish Sea (during summertime) to prove their manliness. Eoin had a fantastic time attending Blackrock College, where he played rugby (poorly) and did his best to coast his way through. Eoin’s first ambition was to play rugby for Ireland. Due to a lack of talent, he soon abandoned that goal for the more reasoned path of the rock star. He played in bands through his teens and well into his twenties before harsh reality came calling, and his dreams of being the next Keith Moon faded. Eoin made the ill-reasoned decision to study business in university and was accepted into University College Dublin to study Commerce in 1995. While Eoin did attend college, studying wasn’t his priority there. He met his beautiful wife, Jill, while traveling to the USA in 1997, though it would be several years before he managed to break her down and they got together as a couple. It was during Eoin’s second stint in the USA, which he spent with his brother in New York City, that he decided to start writing a novel, for the express purpose of impressing women. This effort was met with mixed success. Eoin finished his first novel a year later. The over

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hundred and fifty rejections he received from publishers didn’t discourage him. He pinned them to his wall. After spending a year in Australia, where he was fired from many jobs, including picking red and green peppers and toiling for scallops miles out to sea on a fishing trawler, he returned home and decided to write again. Another novel followed while he phoned it in at a number of jobs in financial services in Dublin. By this time Eoin had managed to convince Jill, the girl he’d met in the USA years before to move over to Dublin. She did so in 2004. It was the best negotiation he ever undertook. They were married in 2007. Jill’s more brilliant negotiating skills led Eoin to move to her hometown of Philadelphia in 2008, just in time for the economy to collapse. The plan to live with her parents for a few weeks turned into eighteen months, as Eoin struggled to retain employment in a fractured economy. It was during this time that he wrote FINDING REBECCA, which would go on to be his first published novel and be translated into fourteen different languages. Eoin and Jill have three beautiful sons, Robbie, who was born in 2015, Sam, born in 2017, and Jack who came in 2019. Eoin enjoys playing with them and marveling at how much more talented they are at the sports that he loves, particularly golf. Please be sure to watch our podcast over at BETWEEN THE PAGES on YouTube. Be ready to laugh!

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Speaking of podcasts - author and screenwriter, Jeff Arch, Eoin, and I have one you might enjoy, “The Page to Screen Scoop”. Both he and Jeff are a riot and through the laughter there is so much to learn about craft and more!

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“Another excellent page-turner from Eoin Dempsey!” Five Star Reader Review

The Saint of Impossible Causes: An Irish 19th Century Family Saga (The Powerscourt Series Book 1) Eoin Dempsey

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THE WRITER’S EYE

Watching The Classics From A Different Point View 136

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THE WRITER’S EYE with Dean James

Recipe for a classic screwball comedy: 1 ditzy debutante 1 nerdy scientist 1 tame leopard named Baby For seasoning, add in: Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant

Grant is a paleontologist and Hepburn is the ditzy debutante. Her brother who is in South America has shipped a tame leopard to his sister as a gift for their wealthy aunt who has always wanted one. Grant is putting together a dinosaur and is hoping for a donation from said wealthy aunt. Hepburn takes one look at Grant and decides he’s the man of her dreams, and she’ll do anything to woo him away from his prim, stuffy fiancée. The film is “Bringing Up Baby” directed by Howard Hawks. Katharine Hepburn doesn’t usually come to mind as a comic actor for most people, but she is exquisitely funny in this role. Grant was comedic genius. Paired together they created cinematic magic. I’ve watched this film at least a dozen times, and every time I watch it, I

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notice something new. It’s fast-paced, frothy, and admittedly frivolous, but if you want to see brilliance at work, give “Bringing Up Baby” a chance. Now, what can a writer learn from watching this movie? Whether you are writing a thriller or a cozier type of book, you can first of all learn pacing. This action in this film never stops. Things are changing all the time. It might seem random, but it’s all deliberate. If you want to keep a reader engaged, this is an excellent template. You can also learn how dialogue and behavior reveals character. Hepburn’s character turns out not to be so ditzy after all, and Grant’s paleontologist finally becomes the man of action he never dreamed he could be. These are classic tropes in various genres, and under Howard Hawks’s expert handling, it all works seamlessly.

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LAGNIAPPE

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HISTORY MATTERS by T. M. Brown

HOGG HUMMOCK, HOG HAMMOCK? T. M. Brown

What is the correct name of the Geechee Community pushing back on zoning changes on historic Sapelo Island? Most people note the variety of spellings of the community on Sapelo Island. The name and spelling are points of contention between the residents and the county. Residents call the area Hogg Hummock. The county installed signs that say Hog Hammock, and that’s been a complaint by residents for some time. First, a hammock derived from a Spanish term and refers to a bed made of canvas or of rope mesh and suspended by cords at the ends, used as garden furniture or on board a ship. Second, a hummock is the proper term that describes the community and its location on the island. A hummock refers to a hillock, knoll, or mound; a piece of forested ground rising above a marsh. Somewhere in the past, the government identified the community as Hog Hammock, but it originally held the name of Hogg's Hummock, and for good reason. But also

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note that prior to R. J. Reynolds owning the island for several decades in the 20th Century, Hoggs Hummock (Hammock) was but one of up to a dozen separate Geechee descendant communities on Sapelo Island established by the Spalding family during the antebellum era. Sadly, Reynolds decided it suited him to merge all the Geechee communities to Hoggs Hummock... and their decline on Sapelo dwindled rapidly ever since. In 1976, Reynolds' widow gave the island to the State of Georgia. Georgia's Department of Natural Resources maintains control of the island and operates the ferry service. Since HISTORY MATTERS we should preserve and protect the Geechee legacy, heritage, and history on Sapelo Island at Hogg's Hummock (Hammock). I personally can only hope the State of Georgia will better maintain the buildings and historic ruins on Sapelo so that future visitors to the island can know the story of the Geechee who made Sapelo their home. The Last Laird of Sapelo offers insight into the origins of the Geechee on Sapelo during the Spalding era on the island beginning in 1800, when Thomas Spalding brought the first enslaved workers onto the island to clear the ancient woodlands on the island to cultivate the land. If want to know more, I recommend seeking history books by Buddy Sullivan, the Tidewater's foremost historian.

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HISTORY MATTERS by T. M. Brown

T. M. Brown, simply Mike to friends and family, embraces his Georgia heritage, thanks to the paternal branches of his family tree. Mike recalls his childhood when on many warm Sunday afternoons his father drove the family beyond Stone Mountain to his Great-Uncle’s farm. Though the dust-filled, red clay back roads of Snellville, GA, are now widened and paved, Mike fondly recalls getting bitten by barb-wire pasture fences, sipping cool well-water from a ladle, and getting scrubbed in a washtub near the front stoop of Uncle Kerry’s and Aunt Monk’s old farmhouse.

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A New Endeavor From River Jordon

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GOD ON THE ROCKS

After 20 years of hosting this little creation called Clearstory Radio on WRFN in Nashville I moved to the North Carolina Coast and embraced the beach and the return to my saltwater roots. But all the while I had this idea for a podcast that was a bit – on location. Something a little different. Akin to Clearstory but one that allows people to explore their passions and discuss them and while they’re at it, discuss them over a drink of their choosing. The kind of conversations that often happened when authors gathered in the bar after a long day of being on panels and presentations at book festivals. That’s what I wanted. The conversations that ran all over the place, down rabbit holes and back up again. I also was asked a question many, many years ago during an author interview that I have never forgotten – If you want to really get to know someone what do you ask them? Simple. I ask them – Who do you love? That has led me to getting to know a lot of people much better. People I’ve known for years and traveled with in literary circles. But then when I ask this question and they begin to explain to me it is Prince and why – I am captivated and see a side of them I never knew existed. Enter God On The Rocks, a virtual jazz and blues bar located in The City by the Bay where travelers come because something related to that passion is happening. A late-night view of JAWS – got it. A place to work on your

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Shakespeare monologues – got it. Old City trees needing a soulful tree doctor – it’s happening. A gallery showing of Vintage Photographs of an old, old river – perfect. And what better job to welcome travelers than bartending at the coolest bar in town, God On The Rocks. Soulful conversations about the things we love. Seems the perfect ticket right now to put our perceived differences aside and delve into the wonders of living this amazing life.

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

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GOD ON THE ROCKS

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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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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. JANUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 18

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Authors’ Networking Group

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NETWORKING

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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 pets to feature on our If Our Pets Could Talk page, Authors Interviewing Authors, and would love to shine a spotlight on your favorite Independent Bookstores, Book Sellers, Libraries, and Librarians.

Send orders for pages, stories, as well as any questions about the magazine, to wellreadmagazine@gmail.com

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

OFF THE PAGE

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

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New Year’s Resolutions

It’s New Year’s Resolution time again, and I guess I need to begin this by admitting to you that I have a love/hate relationship with resolutions: I love to make them, but I hate to carry through with them. I mean, they are so easy to make but so hard to keep, and what is up with that? Luckily, I am also a tree-hugging wide-eyed liberal who believes in recycling among all manner of other things such as feeding the poor and guaranteeing a woman’s right to choose, so what I usually do on New Year’s Eve is just change the date on the previous year’s list, drink a cup of holiday cheer, and then scoot off to bed well before the fireworks begin. This is a method that has worked extremely well for me for a long time, and why mess with success? Still, I hate to get into a rut (one of the eternal resolutions on the master list is to not get into a rut, by the way), so this year I think I’ll try something different. In the interest of making a fresh start, I am going to at least review some of the longer-standing vows of improvement with the intent of perhaps updating them, or maybe even removing one or two if I have accidentally achieved them. This last is not likely, I’ll admit, but stranger things have

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happened down the long corridors of time. Read James Joyce’s Ulysses. This is my oldest resolution by far, and it has been on my list since I was sixteen. At that time it was the hot new release by that slim, myopic Irish boy, and anyone who wished to be considered literary was making a run at it no matter how much it hurt. I gave it a good try then, and I still do every year, but invariably by about page forty it begins to sound like Charlie Brown’s mama wrote it, and wah wah…wahwah Wah wah wah. One year I even had my wife stand over me with the twelve-gauge, and with that extra incentive I made it to page sixty-three, but then Mrs. Brown made her yearly appearance, and that was that. It was a good thing for me that that was the year that my wife had resolved not to shoot anyone with the twelvegauge, or who knows what might have happened? Buy a laptop. As you all know, technology and I have a strained relationship, but even so I have been feeling for some time like I have missed the laptop boat. Most of my writerly peers have them, and here I am with my circa 1995 Hewlitt Packard desktop—Y2K Certified, mind you—that I bought at a school auction for $15. Yes, I know I paid too much, but the thing works well enough for my purposes, especially since I installed that new Microsoft Office Suite which I may or may not have actually paid for. But it would be nice to take my computer

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to a coffee shop and rub elbows with other writers. The one time I tried to, though, a random, clumsy customer tripped over the cord I had fished across the store to the nearest receptacle, and I am still dealing with the lingering legalities from that episode. Plus, if what I see on the internet is true, and why would they lie, if you have a laptop you run the risk of FBI raids and Congressional hearings and all sorts of other unwanted attention, and frankly I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life, and neither does my sketchy Microsoft Office Suite. Stop cussing. Aw hell no. Stop drinking so much coffee. Nope. Replace my flip phone. Uh uh. Walk the Appalachian Trail. See “stop cussing.” Several of my permanent resolutions have to do with making healthier food choices, even if it kills me. Every year I go in for a physical, and every year this lifeaffirming choice of eating better is suggested to me by one doctor or another (I have outlived four, thus far). The problem with healthy food is that it usually tastes pretty bad. Okay, before all you cruelty-free, locally grown, organic, free-range, tree-hugging, granola-eating types out there get your Birkenstocks into a twist and slam your hand-thrown pottery bowls down on the table, remember that eating healthy is on the list. It’s way down the list, but it’s there.

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Eat Kale. The gold standard of healthy foods is kale. An easy way to remember the name is by using this little rhyme I made up: “Kale? Oh, hale!” If the literature is to be believed—and I don’t think that the Associated Kale Farmers of America would lie about something like this— kale is a wonder food that is packed so full of nutrition and goodness that it will do everything from reversing hair loss to putting twinkles in eyes and dimples in smooth chins. Unfortunately for me, because I could use all of that, kale is some nasty stuff. When I was a kid, a bully by the name of Marty Tingley once made me eat some grass, and that handful of grass tasted better than kale does. Since kale made the switch from fodder to cuisine, many recipes for preparing it have sprung up, and all these recipes have one thing in common. They all attempt to make the kale taste like it is not even in the dish. That truly is the best way to eat it. Eat Brussels sprouts. Kale is from the same food group that contains cabbage as well as our next healthy choice, Brussels sprouts. If you took some kale and rolled it up into a little ball, then you would have Brussels sprouts. I once sat at the dinner table for seven months due to a meal of liver and Brussels sprouts. My sainted mother was one of those clean-your-plate-if-you-want-to-leave-the table people, and by about the middle of the fourth month, I really wanted to leave the table, but I just couldn’t make

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myself eat the stuff. Liver and Brussels sprouts do not improve with age. No, I wasn’t a stupid kid, but we happened to be between dogs at that particular moment in time (Scruffy had choked to death on a Brussels sprout about six months prior), and when I tried to slip some to the cat, she scratched me and ran away. If it hadn’t been for that earthquake and subsequent fire, I guess I’d still be sitting there. Eat quinoa. Quinoa has been called “the mother of grain.” You know those Styrofoam bubbles that are used to pack fragile items for mailing? If those were way smaller and you boiled them, they would taste just like quinoa. By the way, quinoa is not pronounced like it is spelled. It is pronounced “keen-wah,” and I don’t know what to even say about that. Maybe the name was coined by Charlie Brown’s mom. Eat chocolate. You’re probably thinking that it is time for a little good news on the health food front, and I have some of a sort. Chocolate is on the list of healthy foods. But before you run out to pick up a couple of bags of Hershey’s Miniatures, you had better let me explain. The chocolate that is good for you is the stuff that contains more than 70 percent cacao, and it has no sugar, almonds, peanut butter, or raisins in it. Remember when you were a kid and you found that bar of semi-sweet baker’s chocolate in your mama’s kitchen cabinet, and you snuck

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OFF THE PAGE WITH RAYMOND ATKINS

it outside behind the house and took a bite? Well, this stuff is that stuff. So, while it is better than, say, kale, it’s nothing to write home about. Sigh. After my thorough review I have come to the realization that there is no way I’m going to eat any of this stuff. Again. I could do it, and I ought to do it, but you and I both know I’m not going to do it. I guess I’ll just recycle last year’s resolutions, after all. This will be the fifth year in a row that I will not under any circumstances go skydiving. Now there’s a resolution I can live with.

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WELL READ MAGAZINE

New Year’s Resolutions

JANUARY 2024 ISSUE NO. 18

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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.

Meet the staff 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.

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.

Sanctify: a short story by Mandy Haynes Her husband liked to tell her the beatings were for her own good. That he was going to free her from sin, but Cora wondered which one of them would be freed first…

Sanctify is ninety-nine cent “sample” story from the collection, Walking the Wrong Way Home.

She listened to her husband standing behind the pulpit, watched him gesture wildly, heard him proclaim the words “You’ve got to sanctify yourself in the Lord.” Cora had heard this particular sermon more than once in the eleven long years they’d been married. When she first heard it, she believed in a loving and forgiving God. She trusted a God who took care of his children. But if it was her up there preaching, she’d warn everybody in the house to take care of yourself. No one else would do that for you. Vernon screamed, “Sanctify, children!” But Cora heard another word altogether. Sac-ri-fice…

“Hard to believe this is Mandy Haynes debut short-story collection. Sixteen of them that took me a long time to read because I didn’t want to move on from Elma and Roy, the first story where Haynes found her title, “I took a deep breath and realized I was just walking blind, so lost in my thoughts. I’d meant to go home, but I was walking the wrong way.” Or leave the preacher man’s wife, Cora, though not so much her husband, Vernon Messiah Jackson Jr., and his outbursts of “SANCTIFY yourself in the Lord!” from the pulpit. “Tippy Toe” is about a wedding, and it’s holler-and-thigh-slapping funny. Or Millie, a waitress at a diner, and Tipsy, a pregnant teenager “who walked up to the counter and climbed onto a stool. No regard for the fact that her behind was barely covered as she hitched her leg onto the seat.” Or the woman who waits and waits in an old Vega in the freezing cold for her boyfriend to come home from the road, a guitar player born Charles Edward “but then he heard Van Halen for the first time and changed his name to Eddie.” Or True and Mable and Jeremiah in “Her Baby Will Sing,”when I realize Mandy Haynes is a modern Kate Chopin. Or James the librarian and Lorn whose “voice was unexpectedly deep and smooth, like she’d been smoking unfiltered cigarettes since she was a toddler.” Unlike Lorn, Mandy Haynes’s voice is clear and pitch perfect. I could go on and on because her characters are now a part of my life. And I miss them already.” Darrelyn Saloom, author of MY CALL TO THE RING: A Memoir of a Girl Who Yearns to Box