Letter from the Editor... Spring 2018

Hello Cafe' Readers,

Well, spring has sprung according to the calendar, I'm not sure if Mother Nature was let in on the secret though.  We have had all sorts of weather here lately... rain, snow, sunshine... I am good with two of those three.

I digress,  we have a great issue for you to enjoy.  I am also excited about a new featured columnist that has joined our crew... Check out Misplaced Self.

As always, we are looking for content, if you want to submit something... Please email it to me at holidaycafe.nicole@gmail.com

Before the Sun Wakes Up

I have known Rachael Bindas for a few years now, I'm not going to lie, she is my student worker at my day job. Rachael is a fantastic writer and editor and I couldn't be more happy for her in this new adventure she is going on.

I wish both Rachael and Alyssa nothing but the best of luck with their book Before the Sun Wakes Up.  Check out the interview I recently had regarding the book.


1.  Where did the idea for Before the Sun Wakes Up come from?

I decided on a whim that I would write a children’s book, and I did. I started brainstorming what types of topics engage young children, and I think children are fascinated by the natural world. I wanted to write about nature in a way young children could understand, putting the world into their language. I loved the idea of the sun waking up while the moon went to sleep, and from there, Before the Sun Wakes Up was born.

2.  What inspired you to write a children's book?

My youngest sister is sixteen years younger than me, and I spent one day a week home with her over the summer. I’ve always loved to read, and I wanted to share my love of books with her, so I would read stories to her as much as she would let me. One day, I picked up one of her stories, and I told myself there was no reason I couldn’t write one. So I did.

3.  How did you come up with the "acceptance and equality in the minds of young children, to assure all children have a place in this world" concept for the book?   

The narrative of the story is a simple poem, geared toward children three and younger. My partner and illustrator, Alyssa Minko, noticed that its simplicity presented the perfect opportunity to use the illustrations to promote a much deeper meaning in an implicit fashion. As advocates of social equality, we share the desire to use our work to help achieve true equality for all people, regardless of their gender, race, ethnicity, or anything else. While our book does not explicitly deal with specific social topics, we decided we wanted to create a book that could encapsulate a multitude of human experiences, so that any child could pick up this book, and feel themselves to be represented in its illustrations. Our goal is to create a new kind of children’s literature, in which every child that reads our book can be represented and identified in some way.

3.  Will this become a series or is it going to be a stand-alone?

This book will be a stand-alone. Alyssa and I have discussed the possibilities of working together again in the future on other projects, so there is always the potential for more, depending on what the future brings.

4.  The artwork is gorgeous -  How did you go through the process of finding an illustrator?

Alyssa and I were close friends throughout middle school and high school. We reconnected last year, and she mentioned that she had always wanted to get into illustrating children’s books. Things fell into place pretty naturally from there. Immediately after I wrote the first draft of the narrative, I texted Alyssa and asked if she would embark on this project with me. Alyssa was the obvious choice, and I couldn’t imagine working on this with anyone else.

5.  Did you give your illustrator instructions on how you wanted the pictures to look, or did you give them free-reign?  

I am a visual artist by no means. I had a faint idea of how I wanted certain aspects of the illustrations to look, which I told Alyssa. From there, she took my ideas and made them into beautiful images that are so much more than anything I could have ever conceived on my own. Alyssa typically sends me drafts of the artwork in stages, and we collaborate to ensure that the artwork effectively complements the narrative, and that it conveys our messages of acceptance and representation.


6.  When will the book be released?  Where can we find out information about the book/future projects/etc.?

Before the Sun Wakes Up will be available on Amazon and online at Barnes & Noble as of April 6th. Customers can directly contact me at btswu.author@gmail.com, or Alyssa Minko at btswu.art@gmail.com to order their own copies throughout April. We are also available on Facebook at Before the Sun Wakes Up, and on Instagram at @beforethesunwakesup. You can find more information and updates on www.beforethesunwakesup.com

Let’s Get Lost Together

I have lived my life with a plan and a destination. One day my life got flipped, turned upside down and I’d like to take a minute, just sit right there. I’ll tell you how I became the author of this random adventure. (Special shout out to the Fresh Prince of Bel Air) I don’t plan to go far. I can find so many things to do right around here. I like to keep busy because it keeps the loneliness at bay. I am a separated and the mother of a son who is growing up way to fast. It’s not so cool to hang with mom as much. I spent most of my life being what everyone needed me to be and being so very responsible. BORING! Now I have decided to try to find myself, try new things and see what I like to do. I would like to invite you to come along and live vicariously through my journey or maybe to inspire you enough to get the hell off the couch and take one too.

I am going to start with visiting local attractions and road trips. I am trying to live without a plan and do new things. I am very type A so, living without a plan is just an insane concept. I love to take silly photos with random road side attractions so, prepare yourself, you are getting lots of that. I will take you with me from seeing flying saucers, big foot statues, tree house dinning, a place where ducks walk on fishes, candy colored playscapes, mattress factories that don’t sell mattress along with anything and everything in between. I also plan to share me with you just as soon as I find me.

When anyone asks me to go somewhere with them, I am always like hell yes! If you asked me to get into the car to see the largest ball of twine simply to take a photo and drive back home, I am your gal! If I am being reasonable, the largest ball of twine is in Cawker City, Kansas, that’s quite a hike. I might want to start slowly and google map something before I open my mouth to commit. Someone asked me if I wanted to go on a cruise once, just being a smart ass, I said sure. Next thing I know I had to call with my credit card number to secure my passage on the Carnival Pride. True story.

The greatest part of a road trip isn’t the destination but, all the fun that happens in between. Expect random thoughts because you know that post on Facebook with the train tracks- how a man tells a story is a straight track to its destination but, how a woman tells a story is a whole bunch of curves and bends to get the point-well that me. I am that woman and I wear that journey with pride. See there’s another random thought in the middle of another story. Pay attention they happen quickly. Blink and you might miss some of my witty banter. I know I write in write on sentences A LOT but, that’s how I talk and I want you to get to know me. This summer I am going to get into the car, roll the windows down (okay I am going to push a button once and my windows go down, my car is fancy), let the wind take my hair and my Ray Bans shading the way. FYI, I hate bugs so, if a bug flies in, its windows up right away. Especially those gifts from hell-the stink bug.

Now come on out and get lost with me so, I can be found.

Written by:  Misplaced Self

Musings for Moms: Gun Violence

Recently there has been a lot of talk in the media regarding guns and schools.  A lot of it makes me wonder if the people who are saying the things actually have brains… I suppose that is a topic for another day though.

Let me start off by saying I am not trying to take anyone’s second amendment rights away, which states people have the right to keep and bear arms.  What I do think should happen is a mental health exam should be given when someone wants to purchase said weapon, there should be a grace period before someone walks out of a store with a gun and I’m sorry, why is it necessary for Joe Homeowner to want to purchase an assault weapon… these should be even harder for a person to get… they are military weapons.  

As for the talk about raising the age of purchasing a gun, I’m conflicted.  You can join the military at 18 – and die for this country… so why can’t you purchase a gun to protect your home at 18?  Although, how many 18 year olds are purchasing their own home?

You can argue that wanting to put restrictions on gun purchases are ridiculous, but when it comes down to it, all those kids that lost their lives – none of them woke up on the days their schools were attacked and said, hum, today is a good day to get shot at or killed.  Let me ask you this Mr. or Mrs. Gun Owner who doesn’t want their rights revoked – Do you have a child or grandchild in school?  What if it was their school that was attacked? And God-Forbid they were injured or worse, would you feel any differently about assault weapons or waiting periods or even mental health testing before a weapon is purchased.  It’s really not about your rights getting taken away, it really is about the safety of the children.  

I have two kids, both in school.  Let me make it perfectly clear I will do everything in my power to keep them protected in a place where they should feel safe.  That means I am for everything and everything the schools do to make them a safe place for kids. Metal detectors, AuxLocs (those door lock things), cameras, getting buzzed in, and so on and so forth.  Make it more difficult for these people to get into the schools. 

Let me also state that I don’t think this is just a gun issue.  This is also a bullying issue.  Most of these kids that go in wielding their guns and weapons are the victims of bulling and they are out for retribution.  

We need better mental health facilities in our country, we need counselors in the schools and most importantly we need bullying to end.  Parents of bullies should be fined. Yes, you read that right – fined.  I believe bully behavior starts in the home.  If you are a jerk, most likely you will raise a jerk of a kid and the vicious cycle will be on-going.  Perhaps though, if it hits home, or in your wallet, your demeaning bullying behavior will end and your kids won’t make fun of or bully other kids because they are different. 

The children in the schools are innocent victims in all of this.  It is our jobs as adults to protect them and keep them safe.  The adults (legislators) currently are doing a pretty poor job of keeping them safe.  The legislators are the ones that can make the changes, but we, along with the students have the voices that need to be heard. 

It's our differences that makes this country great.  Don’t be ignorant to those that aren’t the same cookie cutter image as you.  The world would be a boring place if we were all the same.  

The Visit

For a while I felt nothing. No sense of being, no awareness of my own pitiful existence, not until a light formed in my mind like a pin prick in the vastness of space or one single star being fashioned in the infinite cosmos of the Universe. I called it my awaking.
It was like being born again only with all the memories of a life lived and not the blankness of a new baby’s mind still open to experience. There was and remains a mosaic of images and emotions within my head I am slowly trying to piece together.

***************
Someone once wrote ‘There is a fine line between sanity and insanity,’ but on the question of who penned that particular quote, I’m afraid you would have to ask my ex-wife Susan. She is, or was, the academic of us both. Our paths first crossed one hot summer and we stayed together for fifteen years up until we separated, not through choice on my part I might add, but through circumstances forced upon me that made it impossible to continue on. Afterwards Sally remained in the city while I moved onto the island not far away.

It is beautiful place with a small close knit community, clean rivers and green fields but even with its pleasant surroundings there are times I feel as if there is an undertone of uneasiness veining through it. Much like a town without a Mayor or police force to give it a sense of purpose, no one seems to be in control. Not that security is needed; most residents can confidently leave for days on end without worrying about their personal sanctuary being invaded.  But every now and then a sense of foreboding canopies the air like the static friction of an impending storm.  Thunderheads rumble above the town like the deepest voices from heaven are and what is not gets crossed. It’s after those epochs some people leave never to return, while others like me choose to remain because even with its peculiarities the island is still a place where I can feel close to Susan.

We are not totally isolated, of course; if any of the residents, myself included, need to go visit family or friends, early each morning a ferry sets sail to go to the mainland and late evening it returns. Its cost is minimal, two tokens that can be acquired at any of the trade outlets scattered across the isle were credit is optional, a price that has remained unchanged for years much like the audacious Charon, the captain and owner of the vessel. He is a stalwart of meticulous time keeping and will not wait for anyone who happens to find themselves late in any going direction. Rumored to be of Greek descent, he eloquently masters the currents of the rivers Styx and Acheron that weave their turmoil beneath his ship before finally flowing within the Nekros Sea. He is an unkempt seaman of few words with feverish eyes and an irascibile demeanor that does not favor the frail or opinionated.
It was on one such trip I met and got talking to a man I had not seen before on the island. Susan had called me one evening around eight and although I was unable to talk to her directly that particular night I made a mental note to catch the morning tide to visit. My plan was to spend a few hours with my parents first who are still in the same home I grew up in and which by chance is not far from the apartment Susan and I shared. I hoped to stay most of the day with them before going to Susan’s around dusk.

I saw him standing, looking nervous, a little to the side of the main group of waiting passengers which had formed around the bottom of the high skin colored cliffs. My back was to the line of evergreens from whence I had came who rose tall to form a natural screen of Cypress trees to the way onto the main paths of the island. From where I stood my line of vision which looked out across the rivers was slightly obscured by the side of Charon’s ship that had dropped its gangway onto the rocks of the harbor walls. It was an impressive wooden craft with two linen sails and a masthead sculptured in the form of a green scaled seahorse. Just above the waters a slight mist was levitating about a foot as far as I could see. They slopped against the black boulders the quay was erected on, making gurgling sounds like a cascading waterfall. I approached him quietly and I could tell by the change in his stance he had become aware of my presence. His uncertainty elevated slightly when we drew level and he pulled the collar of his coat up to hide his eyes. For a few moments we stood in silence listening only to the sound of Charon’s counting. Eventually I spoke to introduce myself.

“My name is John,” I said. “John Henry Newman. You are new to the island, are you not?’’

At first he said nothing, choosing only to haunch his shoulders ever higher within his jacket against the morning chill. My breath like the mist hung in the air evaporating slowly into the gray sky above us. I held out my hand the second time I spoke, hoping that my friendly gesture would be better received. Thankfully it was and he took it, firmly.

“Arnold Bocklin,” he replied. “You are right, I have not been here long, and you?”

“Quite some time.”

“How far are you from the quay?” he asked, smoothing his grizzled beard against his face. “Is your abode favorable?”

“All are of the same construction and layout as far as I know,” I answered him again. “For me it is merely a place to sleep because I spend most of my time on the mainland, so it is adequate for my meager needs. But if you are not happy you can ask to be moved and I’m sure they will accommodate you elsewhere.”

“No, it will be satisfactory. For the short time I plan to be here all will be sufficient, there is no need to complain,” he said.

“Do you have a profession?” I asked, making sure we did not loiter and being mindful that the body of waiting passengers was growing thin ahead of us and we should hurry to join those few still waiting so as not to miss the embarkment. It was my experience that Charon delayed his passage for no one—ever.

“Painter,” he said in a poignant whisper as if it hurt him to reveal his vocation. “I paint with oils on canvas.”

“A master of art then.” I smiled and placed my hand upon his shoulder as we strolled. “It is my pleasure to meet you, sir, for I enjoy looking at well constructed works of beauty from the likes of Dante Rossetti or John Waterhouse. Have you heard of them?”

“I have, and both are icons of their chosen genre.”

He replied, and as we spoke I could feel an easiness come over him as he engaged further about his passion for painting. Soon his tenseness seemed to vanish, taking away the ridges of pain from his forehead that were prominent when we first met. He looked more at peace as we walked and talked to the gangway of the ship. We were the last to board once our fare was paid. Charon then ordered that the walkway should be lifted and soon we were afloat.

Arnold and I took the last remaining seats at the back of the ship behind a few regular travelers like myself who I had become familiar with. I acknowledged each in turn with a silent nod as we moved awkwardly towards our places. Beside us near the porthole there was Hugo Simberg, the gardener who was a sickly thin man with a gaunt expression more in need of substance I fear than any other I had seen in my time. To his left was a thirty-something lady dressed in a white chiffon blouse and black pencil dress already firmly engrossed in a book of poetry and well-known on the island for her life of chosen seclusion. Emily Dickinson was an anxious acrophobic rarely seen on Charon’s boat or walking the paths that wound between the Island’s cupolas buildings. So to find her travelling far from her comforts made me think of a line I once read, ‘Hope is a thing with feathers.’  I wondered if maybe finally she had conquered her demons of depression. I then queried more out of etiquette than concern when I sat about her eye condition she had been suffering from for sometime and if she had heard from her sister Lavinia lately. Neither of which as I expected were my questions of civility acknowledged with any decorum; if anything her eccentricity had not diminished in the slightest. She continued to read her book unfazed and unspeaking.

“She is an unpleasant sort,” Arnold commented quietly with a hint of humor in his tone and glance.

“And our friend here smells of compost and is in dire need of a good meal, wouldn’t you agree, John?”

Arnold’s quip made me smile, for it had been a long time since I had felt the sentiment of absurdity and some time since I had indulged in a conversation with any other neighbor. It was a pleasure to have some lucid company on my trip for a change.

“I believe Hugo was the architect of the Islands commons, and is the longest known resident on it, apart from Charon,” I stated. “His task is endless, keeping the shrubberies tidy and the pathways clear of dead cypress leaves. Is it any wonder his personal hygiene is compromised at times? And so too is it any surprise with his constant laborious drudgery he is nothing but skin and bones?”

“Yes,”’ Arnold agreed, flexing his pale fingers in front of himself like a pianist would before playing a note.

“Not a chore I would relish,that’s for sure, not with these tender hands, but what of you?” he asked me.

“What is your story, John Henry Newman?”

“Me?” I shrugged. “There is nothing much to tell that would hold your interest.”

“I think I should be the judge of that, don’t you?” Arnold said. “And besides, we have still a long way to go before we dock, does not time pale away when one is captivated in a good book? And since we have no such reading material we must therefore find other ways of passing the journey, would you agree?”

“I suppose.

“Good, then tell me why you travel today. Are you like me, hoping to conclude some unfinished business or maybe just visiting someone?”

“The latter,” I conceded. “It is my ambition to firstly call with my parents as I do on most of my trips. Both are in the winter of their lives but still vibrantly in love and with an inner energy many younger people would envy. Father likes to enjoy the morning sun weather permitting by reading in the garden and he’s usually there when I arrive. So I sit with him for a while, if not he will be in the lounge, maybe drinking coffee and indulging his mind with a crossword or some other newspaper puzzle. In any event I spend an hour or two in his company, something I have taken pleasure from since I was a boy. He still amazes me with his wisdom and fortitude, I wish I was more like him but alas I favor my Mother’s aptitude. Her dexterity and, I hope, mine lies with writing; she is an accomplished author and composes under her maiden name of Mary Godwin. Maybe you have read some of her work? She was monstrously sought after in her early years.  I preferred the more mundane kind of scribing with theological publications. Not what you would call memorable but tracts for the times, I suppose. If she is at home and not out promoting a new book with her agent, Frank Ernestine, or attending some Literary Reanimation get to gather of her others, she will be in the Library reading. That’s where I will spend the afternoon, she talks to me and I listen to her recite William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, her favorite author. Near dusk I usually leave to visit my ex-wife Susan, and even though we are no longer together I still love her. I met her one hot summer night more than over fifteen years ago; her name was Susan Tassone then. She was working in a music store I happened to fall into while I was looking for a copy of ‘Fade to Black’ by Metallica, but left with her phone number and a vinyl of Iron Maiden’s fifth single. I knew we were kindred spirits from the start.

“Day by day we began to see more and more of each other, until less than a year after we met we were married at St. Faustina Catholic Church. Our honeymoon period lasted nearly five years and during that time we moved into a modest apartment not far from where I lived. We hadn’t much in the way of wealth or material items but we were happy and our love carried us through mostly.

Though sadly I must add Susan was unable to have children and even though I constantly reminded her that she was enough for me, I think deep down she felt less than a woman. It was close to our tenth year together that things began to unravel, maybe because of it.

“I started to concentrate more on my writing since we had less and less to say to each other. We would fight and argue over stupid things and it was clear our marriage was falling apart. How it got to that I don’t know, but even now I regret I didn’t see the signs early on and do something. Then the inevitable happened, there was an evening while I was with my Mother on one of her promotional book signings. I often tagged along in the prospect of gaining some merit for my own works on the back of hers when I met Linda Calvey. She was a beauty to die for and her wit and charm was second to none with any other woman I had met, not even Susan’s.

“I was smitten at once and soon I was making excuses about why I spent more and more time away from home. I pretended it was to do with my own new found recognition in the realms of the Theological book world, but in reality I was with Linda. We became lovers and for two years, we got away with it. But Susan was no fool. She had me followed. Things really came to a head soon after. I had made up this crazy lie that I needed to do some research for my latest manuscript; I even gave it the name, Essays on Miracles to make my need to travel more convincing. I wove a web of deceit to cover my lust for Linda and I can only blame myself for what happened afterwards. The so called excursion for research masked the truth of the fact that Linda and I were to be together for a week. Not the five hundred miles away as I had lied, but less than eighty near the ocean, in a luxury cabin, much more than I had ever done for Susan in all our years together, and I felt the shame of each moment on that journey. But I was a fool to think I could never be found out. Like before she followed us and found Linda and I together. She burst into the bedroom in a murderous, belligerent rage, words and blows were exchanged before she left, bringing our marriage to a swift and conclusive end. Linda departed too that night and I never saw her again.

“After some time, I ended up on the island, and for a while I just wandered around like a lost soul until I resigned myself to a pitiful supposition that it was my penance to remain there. Time passed, then one night I got a call. A woman I had never met reached out, she said she was a friend of Susan’s and that Susan was missing me and maybe ready to forgive my sins.

“She told me her name was Jeane Dixon and that I should come back to the apartment Susan and I once shared with the hope she could maybe mediate between us. I thought about it for some time and at first I was reluctant to go; my new life on the island had become serene, but the lure for redemption and to be with Susan again was too great.  So I go now when Jeane and Susan appeal, taking in my visits to my parents as well, like I said. Mostly though we just sit around the table, I never say much at our liaisons. I think it’s better if I just listen for a while would you not agree?”

“Your story is profound, my friend,” Arnold said when I had finished. “And with tragic consequences.”

I sighed in agreement, and then both of us fell silent with only the sound of the lapping waters of the sea against the boat’s side as it made slow headway on our journey. I had only one last question of Arnold before we might reach our destination and that was, would I have his company on the return voyage? I inwardly prayed he would say yes, and that he may not conclude his business this trip because purgatory is a lonely place.

The end.

Authors note: Ok, you have finished. I hope you enjoyed the twist at the end but there is more! Within the content of this story I have hidden lots of clues along the way giving hints as to what the story was about as you read. Did you find them all? Read it again now that you know the twist and you will or may discover some but I do not think all.

Still curious and dying to know how many you found?  For all the answers go to my new website and click on my blog section. And please leave a message in my guest book thanks.

www.willneill.simplesite.com

Awaiting Spring

I am curled up on my couch, snuggled under blankets, fighting cabin fever with a novel, eagerly awaiting the arrival of spring. In these early days of March, it feels as if warm weather will never arrive. But as I force myself to think of sunshine and flowers and evening bonfires, I’m reminded that the season of renewal also marks the anniversary of the purchase of our first home, something we weren’t sure would ever happen.

I remember sitting in my husband’s car in the alley behind his parents’ house, talking for hours about our future plans – get married, buy a house of our own, travel. I remember sighing in frustration at dreams that we wanted to come true so badly but felt unobtainable.

And I remember all the seemingly small steps we took to work towards that day when we signed our names dozens of times and were handed keys to an empty house that needed some TLC. I remember a refrigerator full of nothing but ketchup and beer, and a dog who was wary of his new residence, especially the hardwood floors. I think about the ugly curtains we replaced with modern ones, and the scraggly bushes that were sacrificed for a petite Japanese maple tree. I think about my husband building a fence for the backyard, and smile when I remember how excited our dog was when he realized he could run freely. Every year we have bonfires with our friends, roasting marshmallows, sipping drinks, and laughing til our stomachs hurt late into the night. I think about our annual Halloween parties in our unfinished basement, our fresh cut Christmas trees we decorate every year, and the hundreds of hockey games we’ve watched in our tiny living room.

Sometimes I curse over vacuuming and dusting, over costly and unexpected repairs, or projects that don’t go as planned. Sometimes I stare at the “to do” list on the fridge, wondering if we’ll ever be able to afford a new bathroom or when exactly we’ll install a new front door.

But then I think back to the days when the walls were unpainted and bare, when I still felt like I was sleeping in a stranger’s bedroom and using someone else’s appliances. I think about how now my room is cozy and calming, and my most favorite place in the house. I think about all the peaceful nights when I sleep soundly, thankful for what I have, and dream about everything yet to come.

Stacy Alderman is a life-long Pittsburgher who has loved to write for as long as she can remember. She has completed two correspondence courses with The Institute of Children’s Literature and self-published two novels in 2016, both of which are available on Amazon and Kindle. She maintains her own blog on WordPress, Quirky, Confused, & Curvy.  When Stacy’s not writing, she’s probably reading. And if she’s not doing either of those two things, she’s probably watching Penguins hockey or (thinking about) traveling. She lives in Munhall with her husband and fur kid.

Excerpt from Black Moon: The Chronicles of Tucker Littlefield

Excerpt from Black Moon: The Chronicles of Tucker Littlefield

I had heard tale of it but had always considered it an open lie told by bald faced liars.  Few, if any, ever entered the outlands, fewer still lived to tell of it.  Never having seen it for myself, I was of the opinion that such a thing could never exist.

Water. . . water for as far as the eye could see forming a line that could be nothing short of the world's edge. . . a place where creation itself had stopped.  It churned endlessly as if it were trying to free itself of its own bulk.  It rose and fell with massive rows that marched one by one to smash against the bottom of the hill upon which we stood.  On that side the gentle slope we had climbed gave way to sharp clusters of rock outcroppings.  At the very bottom the rocks we had searched the night before lay under several feet of water, disappearing under each massive row that crashed upon it only to then race away.  The sound was tremendous.  Again and again the waves beat upon the shore, one after the other.

"Do you hear them, Brother?"  Bowen asked, turning a shoulder to peer over the edge.

I didn't—not at first, but as the water churned and roiled angrily below us.  Each in turn lifted itself up higher and higher to become a new massive wave, becoming a mad frothing white at its top. One after the other raced to crash upon the rocks washing closer and closer to where we stood.  Enormous amounts of water rose and fell with a deafening roar only to be replaced with another and another and another, seven in total, each more powerful than the one that preceded it.  For a brief moment, laying under the sound of the water that raced across the rocks. . . a voice. . . a deep, menacing, unintelligible voice.  It growled its anger, demanding the same thing over and over, punctuating its displeasure with the roar of more water and then the unthinkable.  It suddenly shifted, becoming calm, placid, more fluid by comparison.  Now the swells of  water appeared to be half their size and power.  Again I counted seven, each gently rushed to the rocks and in their parting a voice.  This time it was clear—a woman's voice.  It pleaded softly, sorrowfully, begging in heart wrenching tones.  There were no open, discernable words, just an overwhelming sense of loss that pulled at me.

"What are they saying?"  I asked, feeling the tension of this place.

"In my village, Brother, it is believed they cry for one who is lost to them," Bowen volunteered.

I don't know why but I looked to Grake for his explanation.

He looked to Bowen with his head bent and silently nodded his agreement.

"My people do not come to this place.  The water does not welcome the Norha," he said in little more than a whisper, turning away.

I stood for a moment, thinking about what they said and listening to the voices in the water.  Out where it appeared the world ended, the line of water where the sky came to rest, a massive storm rose, black and brooding.  Flashes of lightning jumped from one immense cloud to another illuminating them from inside.  Hundreds if not thousands of them had broken free, drifting overhead, heading for parts unknown.  Each a giant, dark purple, cheerless castle that shifted and undulated endlessly with a flat, black underside that held the threat of rain.

"What's on the other side?"  I asked.

"There is no other side.  Many of the Kindred have tried. . . several times.  No one who goes upon it ever comes home.  There is something in the water that preys upon good men."

I believed it, simply based upon its enormous size and the way it moved.  It churned with an appalling, endless hunger.  You could smell it in the air.

"Brother," Bowen called, pointing.  At the bottom of the hill heading our way was Pules and a good many of his kind numbering well over twenty, each armed with a club.

"Why are you here, Pules?"  I asked, fearing I already knew the answer.

"We have come for the spear," he returned stiffly.

"We've already talked about this.  You know it will only lock itself to the ground if I release it."

"True. . . as long as you live.  If I take it from your dying hand it will pass willingly to me and the Ogin will remain the law," he said, signaling the others.

"Go home, Pules, before you do something you'll regret," I warned.

"I will only regret going home empty handed," he said. At that instant the same pale blue energy enveloped his hands as that of Cura’s.   He stepped closer, readying himself for a fight.

"Then come for it," Bowen demanded, stepping in front of me, squaring his shoulders.  What surprised me more was Grake as he moved to stand next to Bowen.

"Come," Grake said menacingly, waving them closer as he moved further down the hill.

Several of Pules’ men suddenly thought better of it, stepping back a little.

Suddenly the energy ball between his hands doubled in size and with a quick gesture he threw it in our direction.  It exploded at our feet showering us with dirt and rock thrown high into the air.

Before I could react, Grake and Bowen charged them, diving into the middle of them with no self-regard.  It didn't take long before they too swung a club as well.  Even with that advantage, Pules began to throw energy ball after energy ball allowing his  men to push them back up the hill.

I pounded the spear to the ground expecting a clap of thunder but got nothing in return.  Panic filled me.  I repeated the effort several times before Pules and the others were on top of us.  Grake and Bowen all but stood over me in an effort to protect me until we had nowhere to go.  In short order we stood at the edge, Pules and the others in front of us and the deafening waves behind us, when the ground under our feet gave way and we tumbled to the water below.

I was beaten repeatedly by the falling bodies of Grake and Bowen as we hurdled to the bottom.  To my personal terror the spear got away from me, striking the water before we did.

I was bruised, beaten and disoriented.  To be honest I didn't think of Bowen or Grake at all, just the spear.  The water surged over us, throwing us repeatedly into the rocks and then suddenly withdrew, pulling with surprising power in an attempt to drag us into deeper water.

It was cold, salty, bitter to the taste, and it foamed madly.  It was as if it had fingers and felt as though it were pulling at me, grabbing me in an effort to hold me under the water.  I was certain, it wanted to drown me.  I dove repeatedly, searching the rocks for the spear when two of Pules’ men fell on top of me, forcing the air out of me.  It seemed to take forever for me to push my way to the surface, empty handed.  Over the roar of the water I could hear the screams for help from Pules’ men as they were washed away.  I was shocked at how fast they were pulled out into deeper water, screaming and floundering with every inch of it.  As I turned to look at them the water rose high above them, blotting out the sky before crashing down on them with what I can only describe as malicious intent, driving them below the surface never to be seen again.

My heart pounded wildly as the water threatened to add me to their fate.  It was as if it had taken on a life of its own, forcing me under time and time again.  At the moment my foot touched the spear, I heard Grake.  The Norha was being pulled into deeper water.  It was as if he were being held in the grip of a huge fist that repeatedly dragged him under water despite his best efforts to the contrary.  His expression spoke volumes. . . he was going to drown and he knew it.

I dove one last time for the spear and clutched it, knowing fully well that all of our lives depended on it.  As I pulled it from the water the head began to glow a bright blue and the water released me, surging sluggishly around me.

"Grab it," I screamed stretching out as far as I could reach.

Grake flailed wildly in an attempt to grasp the extended spear.  At the moment he flung his arm in its direction the water pulled him under.  He had disappeared from sight.  I was shaken to the core, not just by his disappearance but by the sudden dread of his absence.

For an instant Grake shot back to the surface, drawing a deep, panic-filled breath.  His eyes instantly locked with mine.

"Grab it," I howled over the din of water.  I tipped toed to the edge of the rocks doing everything I could to reach out to him as the water I stood in grew deeper, holding just at my chin.

The tip glowed brighter and brighter as he went under one last time. Only his hand remained visible and then it too sank beneath the water.

I plunged the spear wildly time and time again, hoping he would see the glow and reach for it.  At the moment I was ready to give up I felt a fierce tug on the other end and then another.  It was him. By the third tug he threatened to drag me off my perch and into the water alongside him.

The harder he pulled the more the spear resisted and we were in a stalemate.  To my relief, Bowen was suddenly there and grabbed the spear with me.  I had forgotten about him but was now thrilled for his help.  He held the spear, swimming its length to reach Grake.  Wrapping his arm around him, he pulled him closer to shore until he was able to fend for himself.

It took far longer than I would have liked but we eventually got out of the water, crawling back on solid ground.

Happily, Pules and the others were nowhere to be seen.  Now lying on my back on solid ground I could hear the labored breathing of Grake and Bowen mix with mine.  I watched the dark, massive clouds that drifted overhead and wondered where they were going. . . I wondered if all the clouds in the world had started from here. . . and then I heard it again.  The voices from the water called to me.  I thought I heard it call my name, beckoning me, begging me, pleading for my return to come back to the water.

"Well, that was fun.  Let's not do that again," I quipped, trying to put it out of my mind.

"You are wise in saying so, Shalic," Grake choked between ragged breaths.

"I think we need to find Pules and settle this.  All in favor?"  I asked, weakly raising my hand.

Without a word the others did the same.

"Good, now give me a minute."

Tegon Maus was raised pretty much the same as everyone else... devoted mother, strict father and all the imaginary friends I could conjure.
      The first thing I can remember writing was for my wife. For the life of me I can't remember what it was about... something about dust bunnies under the bed and monsters in my closet. It must have been pretty good because she married me shortly after that. I spent a good number of years chasing other dreams before I got back to writing.
      It wasn't a deliberate conscious thought it was more of a stepping stone. It was the eighties, my wife and I had joined a dream interpret group and we were encouraged to write down our dreams as they occurred. "Be as detailed as you can," we were told.
      I was thrilled. If there is one thing I enjoy it's making people believe me and I like to exaggerate. Not a big exaggeration or an outright lie mine you, just a little step out of sync, just enough so you couldn't be sure if it were true or not. When I write, I always write with the effort of "it could happen" very much in mind and nothing, I guarantee you, nothing, makes me happier.
http://www.tirpub.com/tmaus