Winter Issue - Letter from the Editor

Letter from the Editor

Hello all,

Hope you all had a very nice few months... and now here we are, officially in winter... How many more days until spring?

I wanted to take a minute to and reflect on the horrible tragedies that have not only happened here in America but also abroad.  It is a sad world we are living in, when human life isn't regarded as importantly as it should be.  Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims families.

I hope you all enjoy the new format and the new issue.

Thoughts, suggestions, submissions all welcome - email them to holidaycafe.nicole@gmail.com

Until spring,

Nicole

Nicole Leckenby

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Winter Issue - Musings For Moms: Holiday Traditions

Musings for Moms:  Holiday Traditions

Over the years, I have tried to adopt some holiday traditions with my children because growing up I always looked forward to some of the traditions we did in my house.  The version of the seven fish Christmas Eve dinner or the tree decorations that we would make to hang every year on the tree.

The traditions that I do with my kids are getting a new ornament for the tree every year and we go see Santa Clause.  We will drive around the neighborhood and look at the Christmas lights too.  Seeing which house would make Clark proud (a reference to Christmas Vacation).

I think the traditions that we start with our children are important to give them great family memories and to pass on to their children one day.

Traditions are also important because:

•  Traditions strengthen the family bond.  It may sound corny, but researchers have found that families that have traditions that they follow have a stronger connection and also have a feeling of being a part of something unique and special.
• Offer comfort and security.  In the crazy fast-paced world we live in today, sometimes it is nice to know that some things won't change, that there will always be that chocolate pudding pie on the table come Christmas or a new ornament on the tree.  Sometimes they also help people get through the sad times.
• Pass on cultural and religious heritage.  Just like my fish dinner on Christmas Eve, it is a family tradition passed on by my Italian grandmother.  One day, when I can get the boys to try seafood, they will learn all about this meal too.

Just remember no matter how big or small your tradition is, it means something.

Winter Issue - A Wet and Wild Ride

A Wet and Wild Ride

   

Andy went hiking in the mountains with his outdoors group one day. He returned home soaked and smelly, not from rain and sweat.

 

After arriving back at the trailhead following the hike, Andy detected a vile odor nearby. Turns out it was coming from beneath his right hiking boot. Somewhere along the trail he’d stepped in the leavings of a dog whose owner did not pick up.

 

Off he went to a nearby stream intending to scrape and rinse the pungent excrement from his boot. Before he was finished, however, the hiking group leader called everyone to board their chartered bus for the two-hour trip home.

Thirty minutes later the bus was down the mountain, where early morning temperatures had been just above freezing, and was heading across the plains where afternoon temperatures now were blazing hot. That would have been less of a problem had the air conditioning in the aging bus been functional. It wasn’t.

As the heat increased people sitting near Andy and his offensive hiking boot began glancing in his direction, their noses twitching in discomfort. He quickly recognized the urgency of tending to his still soiled boot, as well as a now pressing need to remove his long underwear, worn for the chilly start of the morning hike.

Andy headed for the toilet at the back of the bus.

A sign inside the door promised occupants the light would go on when the latch was engaged. It did, at first. But when Andy was half disrobed the light went out.

He felt around to find the switch, all the while being thrown around bouncing off the walls as the bus lurched side to side down the highway. He found the switch and turned the light on. He resumed disrobing. A few seconds later, off it went again.

Once more, and now down to those long johns, his outer clothing somewhere on the floor beneath his feet, Andy fumbled around again in the careening bus for the switch. Just then, the bus suddenly lurched sideways, throwing him hard against a wall. Andy’s hip slammed into a button that flushed the toilet. It sounded like a 747 taking off.

Andy remembered another sign on the wall when he’d entered. It admonished occupants to sit while doing their business. Convinced of the wisdom in that advice, he decided to sit in the dark while changing his clothes. After that, he’d somehow figure out how to clean the rest of the doggie detritus off his right boot, most likely in the dark.

But first, being a fastidious soul, Andy thought it prudent to wipe the seat before depositing his posterior. He lifted the lid. That’s when he learned two pivotal facts: 1. the lid and the seat itself were dripping wet, and, 2. the lid had been concealing a rush of air now screaming loudly skyward from the depth of the toilet bowl.

What to use to wipe it? Andy felt around in the dark until he found the toilet paper dispenser... you know, that’s the stuff when not on duty in public toilets finds service elsewhere as sandpaper.

Amid the deafening rush of air in the darkness, he used the toilet paper to wipe the lid and the seat. Then he balled up the soaking wet remnants. He pushed the button for a few more seconds of light, and prepared to throw the wet ball into the toilet.

That’s when Andy made another big mistake. He decided to flush the wadded up toilet paper. Wrong move! The intense wind screaming up from the depths of the toilet grabbed and disambiguated the soggy paper ball, and then flung it to the ceiling where it stuck. And the wind also reversed the direction of the flush water, with dire consequences. Then the light went out again.

There was Andy, standing in the dark, undressed. His body and clothes were soaked with a mysterious liquid of dubious origin... his bushy hair also dripped with the unknown moisture. The walls and ceiling were soaking wet. And his right boot remained obnoxiously odiferous.

Andy struggled out of his long johns and into his wet pants and shirt. He reluctantly stuffed his feet clad in dripping socks back into his hiking boots, and located his semi-dry jacket hanging on the door.

For a fleeting moment Andy considered using the toilet for its intended purpose. He lifted the lid and then promptly abandoned the notion. The wind screeching up from the depths was convincing; he’d be left wearing anything he chose to deposit.*

The wet hands of a now soaked and disheveled Andy located the door latch. The light came on and this time stayed on, for one final insult. Andy clenched his teeth and headed down the aisle of the bus to the front. There he informed the driver of the malfunctioning toilet.

As a damp and disgruntled Andy, long johns draped over one arm, made his way back toward his seat under the curious gaze of fellow passengers, the bus driver announced over the intercom that the only toilet was now out of service. All eyes focused on Andy as the presumed culprit.

The rest of the trip back shall be left untold. For Andy the best part was that his 82-year-old seat partner had the habit during bus rides of installing ear buds for his iPod, and then promptly falling asleep. Mercifully, he had obliged again and missed all of the drama. 

At home, it was easy to tell that Andy had arrived.

Outside on the front steps were his hiking boots, damp and still smelly. Just inside the door was his now semi-dry jacket lying in a heap in the hallway beside the closet. On the stairs up to his bedroom slumped his damp shirt. And beside the steaming shower were the rest of Andy’s clothing.

Just another day of hiking... well, kind of.

---

* (Later, the rushing air was found to have been caused by a cap left off the holding tank drain, allowing 60+ mph winds to enter the tank and flow directly up the drainage pipe and out of the toilet.)

#

“A Wet and Wild Ride,” is Copyright 2015 by James Osborne.  All Rights Reserved

James Osborne is an award-winning author, and a former journalist and journalist professor. He has written more than 60 short stories, mostly drawn from the lighter side of life’s enriching experiences, as well as two fiction novels. Two of his short stories have received awards in international competitions. James has also published dozens of non- fiction articles in textbooks, academic and popular magazines, periodicals and online. His personal blog is: http://JamesOsborneNovels.com. 

Winter Issue - Holiday Cafe Interview with Karen Lillis

Holiday Café Interview with Karen Lillis

 

1.  What inspired Small Press Pittsburgh to be born?

 

When I was moving to Pittsburgh from New York, a Brooklyn poet told me, "There's Gist Street Readings [now defunct], but there's nothing else there. I would never move to Pittsburgh for the writing scene." I knew about the visual arts in Pittsburgh, but I didn't arrive here with many expectations for a lit scene. I was pleasantly surprised that there was a lot going on. This was in 2005. Great bookstores; lots of interesting small press activity; collaborations between artists and writers; high-energy literary events like parties with readings, music, and wall art; a poet on every block.

 

Next I observed that Pittsburgh writers didn't always think much of the Pittsburgh lit scene as a whole--some of them talked about it almost sheepishly. But that seemed like it was because they didn't regard each other as worthy--they didn’t care about the scenes they weren’t in. So when I made Small Press Pittsburgh as a literary directory, I wanted to show Pittsburghers that they had built a lot, if they could respect the whole literary cosmos of the city. They didn’t have to love every lit scene in Pittsburgh, they just had to acknowledge that each scene had its own value. I was in cataloging classes and thinking of it like a librarian: From a detached distance, I could help show the Pittsburgh literary scene to itself by cataloging it, by giving each aspect equal weight and letting the readers sort out which parts they felt a connection to. I also wanted to give librarians a context for small presses and their output, so that discovering, obtaining, cataloging, and ultimately circulating Pittsburgh indie lit would be easier--so that libraries would have fewer obstacles to reaching these books.

 

2.  What should publishers, writers, etc. know about your site?

 

People should know that there’s a new site in town that is helping to make Small Press Pittsburgh obsolete. I mean that in the best way. The new site is called Littsburgh and it’s a very dynamic website that lists Pittsburgh’s literary organizations as well as Pitttsburgh lit people: Editors, authors, booksellers. There’s a space for new content coming in: Not only an events calendar, but news about and writing by Pittsburgh authors. It’s a site that’s much more geared to the post-Facebook world we live in.

 

Small Press Pittsburgh played a part in where the Pittsburgh literary scene has landed today, I’d like to think. I hope it got people to appreciate their literary city as a whole. The wiki began around 2007 or ‘08 with pages for each of the small presses and indie lit publications (mainly literary journals). At that time, I also started to make a catalog (on LibraryThing.com) of all the books and zines being put out by Pittsburgh presses, but that got too labor intensive to keep up with. Next I added pages for Pittsburgh’s reading venues, reading series, and bookstores; each page had basic info to give context and contact information, location specifics, and a photo when I could. I also added historic Pittsburgh author sites, and travel info--all of this trying to allow outsiders a way in to Pittsburgh, physically or with their imagination. When I moved here from New York, no one there had the imagination for what Pittsburgh was or could be. I wanted to allow writers to imagine coming here, to facilitate authors to make a tour stop here, to give publishers a way to book them.

 

Later, in the spring of 2013, I started collecting books from Pittsburgh small press publishers, sending these collective donations to the “Mellow Pages” small press library in Brooklyn. This was a new lending library that really got the small press world excited, and I wanted Pittsburgh’s indie lit to be part of it. I’d send the library packages labeled “Small Press Pittsburgh” and they were baffled and thrilled. Soon after that, I collected books on consignment and expanded Small Press Pittsburgh into a pop up bookstand featuring books from Pittsburgh authors as well as small press wares from New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Detroit, Baltimore, and many other places across the country. I added a mail-order component, creating Small Press Roulette with the same stock of books. With Roulette, I could send books I recommended to readers near and far: This let me send Pittsburgh books to readers out of the city, and recommend non-Pittsburgh books to locals. I’m always interested in cross-fertilization, in making introductions.

 

Small Press Pittsburgh has always been about showcasing and contextualizing Pittsburgh’s lit scene and literary output, whether as a website, bookselling service, or the readings I’ve organized over the years--I’m usually pairing touring small press writers with our best local indie lit authors. 

 

 

3.  What do you feel is the most valuable information you have on your site?

 

Putting everything together in one place was the most valuable thing, I think--letting people view the whole Pittsburgh lit scene at a glance. I think it helped change people’s minds about what was going on here. People already thought of the Pittsburgh film scene, the visual art scene, the theater scene. But because there were very different camps, I don’t know if most people thought of the “Pittsburgh literary scene” in the same way. I used to refer to the literary scene here as “Balkanized.”

 

For specifics, I am proud of adding several travel pages and a hotel accommodations page (which is one of the most visited pages on the site). These are designed to demystify getting to Pittsburgh, getting around Pittsburgh, and staying overnight affordably. I wanted to put Pittsburgh on the map, to get Pittsburgh included on author tours whether the writer or the publisher was looking into it, to break down the barriers to visiting Pittsburgh that seemed to exist before we landed on all the “Best Place to...” lists. And every city has a lot of specifics you don’t hear about before you get there. Are you going to find Not Another Hostel or the cheapest Oakland hotel on your own? Then there’s The Pittsburgh Left. In 2008 I did a reading at The New Yinzer Presents, at ModernFormations. An indie novelist from Chicago was the out of town writer on the bill, and driving to the reading she got slammed by a 17-year old driver making a Pittsburgh Left. Her car was totaled, but she was alright, so she went through with the reading. The (paper) chapter she was going to be featuring was ruined in the car by exploded brake fluid, so she read from her laptop instead. She had to get a rental car for the return drive to Chicago.

 

I made sure to include a warning about The Pittsburgh Left in the Small Press Pittsburgh directory, because not only do I want to keep authors alive and well, but I’d like them to take a good impression of Pittsburgh back to where they came from. I can imagine that our Chicago novelist never wants to come back here. Every visitor is a potential ambassador of Pittsburgh, or a potential bad-mouther. I believe in Literary Tourism, in Bookstore Tourism. For a city like Pittsburgh that is actively remaking its image as we speak, the impression we make on writers in particular seems vital to moving in a good direction.

 

4.   If an author wanted to become a part of your catalog, what do you suggest they do?

 

I would suggest they contact Littsburgh at< littsburgh@gmail.com>. Small Press Pittsburgh the website does not showcase authors in particular, but Littsburgh is doing a fabulous job of just that.

 

There is a quality of Pittsburgh that I’ve noticed: It’s very easy to start things up here. Not only tech start ups, but anything start ups. You can start a reading series, you can start a small press, you can start a magazine, you can open a bookstore, and people will cheer you on. But this openness, this permissiveness, does not speak to the other aspect, which is whether there is a full audience for your start up once it’s up and running. If you start something, it better be unique and fill a certain niche. It better be high quality and well advertised. And even then. Say you start a reading series. Soon enough, you’ll notice that on any given evening there’s an abundance of fabulous art and cultural events going on in Pittsburgh. Your potential audience can often choose from two or three readings per night, to say nothing of art openings, music shows, plays, short-run films, etc. The challenge is putting your start up on people’s radar, cultivating an audience beyond your close friends, making them show up for the other vibrant people they know will be there.

 

What I’m getting at is that I don’t think it does anyone any favors to have too much redundancy. If Littsburgh has stepped in to fill essentially the same role as the Small Press Pittsburgh website but in a more dynamic way, then I’m willing to consider passing them the baton. 

 

5.  Where do you see your site going in the future?

 

I’m at a wait-and-see moment for a few reasons. Mainly, I want to spend more time on my writing and less time on all the other literary activities that aren’t the writing itself.

 

It also seems that a new crop of literary Pittsburghers are excited by the scene as a whole. This is great to see--it’s one thing to have poets and writers clump up in their own scenes and be jazzed about their friends or energized to promote their students. But it’s important to have people or organizations who are looking city-wide, who are agnostic about the players, who can appreciate the whole and try to encourage everyone, inspire everyone, give all the writers a forum to interact and overlap--whether in real space or virtually. In addition to Littsburgh, the Poetryburgh blog has been doing a great job of illuminating the Pittsburgh reading scene. Peter Webb, the blogger, attends as many poetry readings around town as he can and blogs about what they’re like. This is a great service, and it creates another trail of information about what’s here.

 

The Haven is another new literary initiative in Pittsburgh. They started not long ago as a group of indie fiction writers supporting each other through their novel-writing process, moved on to be a roving reading series at spots like Cyberpunk Apocalypse and Bayardstown Social Club, and they’re aiming to have their own physical space in about a year. They’ll host affordable writing classes, workshops, and writers’ retreats, and create a café workspace that can also double as a reading venue. The Haven will be available to Pittsburgh writers of any genre and they’ll offer a resource library as well. This sort of open-arms, open-ended, affordable writer’s resource is a gem for a city. It reminds me of the organization Small Press Traffic (San Francisco), whose resources and classes encouraged experimental writers like Dodie Bellamy and Kevin Killian.

 

And of course we have the City of Asylum endeavor on the horizon: the pending Alphabet City literary center on the North Side. This is aiming to be a high profile reading space, bookstore, workshop series, and restaurant. I’m very eager to see how it shapes up, who it attracts. City of Asylum Pittsburgh is adept at getting diverse audiences, and they’re one of the only lit organizations in town that regularly gathers audiences full of people who aren’t even writers. If you’ve ever tried it, that’s very hard to do.

 

 

 

 

 Nicole Leckenby is co-founder and editor of The Holiday Cafe. She works full-time at the University of Pittsburgh and runs after two very energetic boys at home.

Winter Issue - Who Is John Williams?

Who is John Williams?

If I were to conduct a survey asking people to name the greatest musicians of all time, encompassing all the genres of music, I would hear names like Elvis Presley and John Lennon for rock.  Country fans would certainly say Garth Brooks and George Strait.  Michael Jackson and Madonna would definitely be thrown out there from pop fans.  The old school jazz fans might shout out Miles Davis and John Coltrane.  That’s a pretty great list and everyone named so far most certainly deserves to be on it.  Anybody obvious missing?  No?..........What about John Williams?  Whenever I mention John Williams to most people I get a reaction of “WHO?!”  Yes, John Williams is one of the greatest musicians of all time.  Right up there with everyone already mentioned earlier in this article.  “Well if he’s so great how come I don’t know any of his songs?”  The answer is pretty simple – you do know his songs, a lot in fact…you just never knew it.  

John Williams is a symphonic composer and conductor who has composed many of the most famous movie soundtracks we all know by heart.  You don’t know his voice because he never sings.  You don’t know his face because Rolling Stone and Spin never feature symphony composers on their covers nor do they write articles about them. 

John Williams was born in Floral Park, New York in 1932.  He comes from a family of musicians.  His father was a jazz percussionist; his older brothers are percussionists and conductors as well.  In 1950 he moved to Los Angeles where he attended UCLA. He learned how to arrange music and compose from an Italian composer named Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco.  Then in 1952 he was drafted into the Air Force where his talents were utilized, as he was put in charge of conducting and arranging the music for the U.S. Air Force Marching Band. 

After his Air Force service ended, he returned to school.  This time he was studying at the Julliard School in New York City.  When he completed his studies he then began composing soundtracks for a variety of television shows and ‘B’ movies.  Williams got his big break when in 1974 a young up and coming director named Steven Spielberg who had heard Williams’ work asked him to compose the soundtrack for a movie he was working on called JAWS.  Another young up and coming director and good friend of Steven Spielberg named George Lucas was looking for a composer to write and conduct the score to a space opera he was writing called Star Wars and Spielberg recommended Williams to him.  This would kick off what would be arguably the greatest decade of music ever composed in all of history.  1975 – Jaws, 1977 – Star Wars, 1977 – Close Encounters of the Third Kind, 1978 – Superman, 1980 – The Empire Strikes Back, 1981 – Raiders of the Lost Ark,  1982 – E.T. The Extra Terrestrial, 1983 – Return of the Jedi & 1984 – Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.  With this amazing run Williams cemented himself as THE composer in Hollywood.  To this day Williams is still the go to composer for major motion pictures.  Other soundtracks he has composed that are easily recognizable include Jurassic Park, Schindler’s List, Saving Private Ryan, Harry Potter, The Olympics on NBC & Sunday Night Football just to name a few.

 

Over the course of his career John Williams has been nominated for 44 Academy awards, 6 Emmy awards, 25 Golden Globe awards, 65 Grammy awards & 49 Oscar awards.  His greatest honor came in 2005 when the American Film Institute selected his 1977 score to Star Wars as the greatest film score of all time.  So to answer the question of who is John Williams…you need only hum your favorite movie theme and there you will find the answer.

 

Sean O'Brien is the Music Writer for the Holiday Café. He enjoys going to concerts, playing the drums and rocking out to Grunge music.  He resides in McDonald, PA with his wife and daughter.

Winter Issue - Life

Life

 

Life is crazy life is hazy

Decisions, decisions

Will my decisions take me down the right path or the wrong path

Let me start a new chapter in my life

Is it feasible is it pleas able 

 

Adventures are what I need

I can't adult today

I need the warm sun, warm sand, and the ocean breeze

Whether it be from the east coast or west coast

 

New experiences are what I need

I can't adult today.

Bills, bills go to hell.

I need a shot of tequila.

What's that you say, a shopping day will be today.

Stress what a mess.

Percussion what a rush!

Ink me beyouch! 

Have a great day! 

 

Natalie Belin holds an Associate's degree in Specialized Technology Le Cordon Bleu Pastry Arts. Natalie is currently a percussionist. Natalie has a love for the Arts, and loves to adventure!

Winter Issue- Book Review - After You

Book Review - After You

*Note – If you have not read this story, this review contains some spoilers. All opinions are my own and may differ from your views of the story.

 

Well hello Winter! Here we are coming up on the holidays and some of my favorite reading time (okay, okay, most of the year is my favorite reading time). As I reflect on the year, I’ve had some great reads, some meh reads and reads that I couldn’t finish. One of my great reads I reviewed earlier in the year -Me Before You by Jojo Moyes. I can’t really write this review without spoiling the first book, so I greatly apologize (or if you really want to read the first – stop here!). But as my bestie can attest to, I agonized over this review and how to structure it, so bear with me.

So Me Before You was an amazing book in my opinion. I hit the full range of emotions with this book, which for me, is the sign of a great story. It was also thought provoking, which I tend to like as it makes me pause and think of my own views on things I maybe wouldn’t normally be pondering. In this case, the subject tackled was assisted suicide. Will was a vibrant young man who in the blink of an eye becomes a quadriplegic. Fast forward after time to come to terms with his new life and what it entailed, he chooses to end his life. As his family grapples with this decision, they seek out a care giver that might change his mind, that might give him a new reason to live. Enter Louisa, a free spirited young woman who at first can’t stand Will, but eventually grows to love and respect Will. However, in the end, Will proceeds with his wishes and ends his life in the manner in which he wanted.

So After You picks up with Louisa’s life after Will. At the end of Me Before You, Louisa received a poignant letter from Will and a sum of money with the basic theme of ‘don’t screw this up’ (this being the life you’ve been given). However, Louisa is lost. She’s not sure what to do, she desperately misses Will and is spinning her wheels as a bar tender at a crappy bar in the airport, watching people living life in the airport. She’s trying to move on, attending a grief group, but is greatly struggling.

One night she receives a huge surprise…in the form of Will’s daughter that he was not aware of. The book leads them through the unique situation they are in, while also intertwining the key players from the first book. This part I won’t spoil, as there are a lot of complex twists/turns with this development. Throw in Louisa still trying to come to grips with her new life as the world seemingly continues to move on around her and you’ve got a not completely neat and tidy book.

With that, I have to say I was let down by this book. I guess they’re not all going to be winners, but I was particularly sad over how this book went. I don’t know if well enough should have been left alone and just left Me Before You as the only book, but I just felt down after reading this. And yes, the theme in this IS sad, but I didn’t really derive much emotion out of this book. Where Me Before You gave me the full spectrum of emotion – After You just left me feeling flat. I am bummed, I was very much looking forward to this sequel, but I suppose it is a good lesson in that sometimes a follow up is not necessary and can in fact be a detriment.

Gwen O’Brien works full time in higher ed, works full time as a wife, works full time as a mom, works full time as a dog mom and occasionally finds time to write or edit. She resides in McDonald and enjoys reading, yoga and donuts (not necessarily together) when she’s not working.

New Submissions

Hi All, I have slowly been adding the archived stories, poems, etc. to this new site. Just wanted to post a reminder to get your NEW items in before December 1. Email them to holidaycafe.nicole@gmail.com. thanks much Nicole

2014 - Archives

SNOW GLOBE

Memories carousel just outside
This shaken snow-globe.
Peering through sea-salt snowflakes
I see you
Beckoning
Reminding
Conjuring
While the floor is blanketed .

Archived footage surrounds
The glass with streaked cels
And fleeting crystal images
For speckled reminiscences
O f indelible instances
Between us.

The globe is shaken and
Your touch is riven from
My fingertips once again
As flurries coat me to oblivion.

Meredith Carino is from Ramsey, New Jersey.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Rock and Roll Requiem

A moment of silence
Is all it takes
To make those in attendance
Roll over in their graves.

An intense beating of drums
Feels the room
As the lights go out;
All that came to witness
This second chance requiem
Sit up in their splintered coffins
Like they are feeling
Their heartbeats
For the first time in years.

The pulse from the bass guitar
Rattles the audiences bones
Till they have the illusion
Of dancing.

The chill from being
Beneath a blanket
Of moist soil disappears
Once the lightening sound
Of an electric guitar
Injects a spark
Into decomposing bones.

And once that high-octane voice
Begins to sing
The intensity in the air
Becomes a second skin
That let them all experience
The true meaning
Of life after death.

This gift in the afterlife
Is how they wanted to live,
Now they understand
What the human zombies
Kept a secret from them
As misguided protection.

The after party
Turns into a mission
Of planting seeds
From their reborn spirits
Into the dusty plains
Within the heartland
Of loved ones
Still on the side of life.

Dale Deadmond Born November 20th in Twin Falls Idaho. Resides in Modesto, California. The third of four children. Was in a rock band during his teen years into his early twenties, Enjoys reading and writing novels and poetry. Divorced with no kids. Has some poems published in a couple poetry anthologies. Dreams of one day having his own poetry book and a novel published.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Reluctant Dreamer’’

Stepping off the plane was the hardest thing; I had the sense of mind to call Josef to meet me in the airports arrivals when I had finally plucked up the courage to leave Ireland. The reason being I wasn’t sure if I could manage the drive up to the villa. He tried to coax me into the contrary of course, but I had to insist he came. Even though I knew he hated making his way through town and it meant getting the car out of storage. He muttered something in broken English over the phone about how ‘’It may not even start! Senor Robert, it’s been two years since you were here last’’ he finished off by letting loose a curse word or two in Catalan, forgetting briefly I could speak the lingo. ‘’ va a estar bien Josef’’ I reassured him.

‘’Okay, okay!’’ he reluctantly agreed ‘’ I try, I try-okay!, call when you are coming''. The phone clicked off but I could see in my mind’s eye his face making out liked he’d sucked a sour lemon. He hated his routine being disrupted, not that it should be much of a monotonous chore to him I must add, his sole job was nothing more than to look after the house and grounds. Keep the pool clean, and you would think keep the car running. That’s what I paid him for after all, hardly stressful but he is a seventy year old cranky Spaniard. I asserted I had no interest in getting a taxi and reminded him the local bus service was less than reliable.

Faith had found Cadaques by accident while looking for a quiet holiday break to celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary. It was during one of her working lunches with her friend Judy who had shown her some photographs of her recent trip there. Faith fell in love instantly with the small fishing town once only accessible by sea. She was taken with the fact according to Judy it had been a favorite of Picasso and Salvador Dali. '' I've found us the perfect location'' she gushed over dinner that evening.

I took a sip of my Chianti and leaned back into my seat, I knew she couldn’t contain herself until we had finished our meal. When Faith got excited about a trip or a wedding for example she was like a bubbly little school girl. So it was better to let her get it out. '' Judy showed me this wonderful little village called Cadaques it sits on the far North-East of Spain, in Catalonia. It's right on the edge of the Cap de Creus Peninsula, where the Pyrenees mountains meet the sea, just south of the French border'' She said and came round from her seat to let me see some of the pictures she had borrowed.

'' Looks nice'' I said. '' Have you a date in mind?''

''Our Anniversary is the 10th of March, that’s a Saturday'' I smiled to myself as she counted quietly on her fingers; her stunning blue eyes flickered in the candle light. Then said '' eight weeks from today''

'' Okay let’s get it arranged'' I replied '' Now can we finish dinner'' She laughed out loud and I watched lovingly as she danced her way back to her chair, ''What?'' she said when she caught me staring, momentarily blushing, the redness of her cheeks blended into the crimson shine off her wine glass . '' Oh nothing'' I smiled back.

'' I hate it when you do that Bobby'' she laughed throwing a piece of cold carrot off her plate in my direction. I managed just to duck sideward allowing it to pass over my shoulder. ''Do what? tell me?-'' I replied fawning an expression. '' '' That nothing thing you do, the way you tilt your head to the left and smile-your face is saying something what is it?'' ''Promise me you won't laugh'' I answered.

She ran the tip of her tongue across her teeth and dropped her eyes seductively at me while at the same time tucking her strawberry blond hair behind her ear; she looked beautiful in the semi darkness of the candle light.

I felt captivated by her devilish smile; it reminded me of the first time we met all those years ago. That age old cliché happened, our eyes met across a crowded party room. Just a fleeting look but she did that very same thing; I was lost to her then just as now. '' Just tell me, I promise I won’t laugh'' She closed her eyes and made a cross her heart sign with her finger. ''There, its official-hope to die, now tell me! ''

'' Okay, Okay! '' I said and put my wine down, '' Give me your hand Faith'' I asked her, I could see her breathing slowing and almost hear her heart beat as she reached across. The warmth of her fingers felt the same as the smooth Chianti wine we were both enjoying, I rolled her wedding band with my thumb and finger remembering the day I slipped it on and spoke as softly as I dared. '' I love you Faith'' was all I said, I knew it was enough. Faith's eyes widened and I watched her pause briefly before she responded.

'' I love you too Bobby Brewster'' she whispered back '' Now what do you say I get this vacation planned'' We clinked our glasses together and laughed in agreement.

The next day Faith buzzed around the house in a flurry of excitement gossiping to Judy on the phone and talking dates to the travel company representative. After about three hours she had finally tied down our travel arrangements. '' You'll never guess Bobby'' she shrieked, as she rushed into my study looking more excited than I have ever seen her before. I was just finishing a call with my financial advisor about selling some stocks and shares when she practically tore the phone from my hand and put it back on the receiver. I tried to be emphatic but she just brushed me off with a hand wave '' Oh don't be so boring Bobby, whatever it was you were doing can wait''

'' Okay'' I relented '' Tell me your news Faith, it had better be good mind you, I do have a construction company to run'' '' Two things'' she said smiling '' Firstly we leave for the Costa Brava on Saturday the 3rd of March, so we will have a whole week before our anniversary, and the second is I've rented out the villa once owned by Picasso, what do you think of that!'' '' I'm Very impressed'' I replied. '' You have certainly pulled out all the stops Faith, well done'' '' Why thank you kind sir'' She replied with a mock curtsey '' I try my very best, oh and by the way Bobby have you seen my dairy. I need to write this all down''

I pointed to a leather bound book she had been carrying in her left hand '' Do you mean that one?'' Faith looked at me awkwardly for a moment, and then she rolled her eyes and gave me a dry smile. '' Oh my of course it is! What a silly girl I am I must have just got caught up in all the excitement, I'll leave you be''

She left the room quietly and I returned to my work but yet that afternoon I couldn’t help thinking that lately she had been quite unretentive, small things like misplaced keys, forgetting phone numbers of her friends she had always known, and getting frustrated over making small decisions. But I eventually dismissed my thoughts as being stupid and silly unfounded worries. March came around quickly and kicked off spring, it wasn’t long before we were packing for our vacation. Faith had been busy weeks before adding to her wardrobe searching everywhere for that causal yet film star look that would befit the abode of a famous dead painter. Only in case we invited over the neighbors for dinner of course. She was unrelenting in her enthusiasm about the trip and was looking forward to our two weeks in Caduques. She was right of course; it was everything she expected it to be. Girona airport is only 85 kilometers from the village, after a short taxi ride we arrived at 6pm. Josef was already there to greet us, his demeanor even then was less than hospitable. Faith and I spent the next phrenic thirty minutes trying to digest his broken English rules of do's and don’ts concerning the Villa. But we got the gist so to speak of all that we should know. Only when I thanked him in his native tongue '' gràcies vostè és tan amable '' did he pay us any attention? We settled in quickly, the spacious lounge boasted two rustic couches either side of a floor to ceiling ornate grey stone fireplace. Two black iron chandeliers hung from the polished teak wooden roof beams, a majestic stags head adorned the wall above the double walk through glass doors out onto the vast verandah. Bronze Candelabra, bespoke scatter cushions and Catalan floor rugs complemented to the Villa's Spanish influence. That evening the view of the harbor softly illuminated against the moonlit sea was astounding. We stood on the porch fondly embracing each other unaware that things were about to change. Faith was the happiest I had ever seen her in all of our twenty years marriage, we spent the mornings walking on the golden beaches and the after noon’s lazing by our villa pool soaking up the 'wild coast' sunshine. In the evenings we dined in traditional Catalan restaurants and drank in back street tapas bars. On our anniversary evening we decided that we would renew our vows on our 25th year, a few sunsets later we were home.

During the plane ride back I noticed that Faith was quieter than her usual self so I asked her if she was felling O.k. She smiled at me and squeezed my hand '' I'm fine'' she said '' It's just a headache and I miss the Villa, our time there was magical Bobby. I just wish we could live there forever''

'' I've got to work Faith'' I replied

''I know, but wouldn’t it be wonderful'' I felt my shoulders drop as I watched her sad eyes turn to the planes window. '' Do you remember that place we found just along the beach below the Villa Faith '' I asked her. '' That little cave cut into the side of the hill with the two rocks shaped like lovers seats'' She nodded yes with an inquisitive frown '' At the bottom of the tow path''.

'' That was the day it rained, we sat for a whole hour just talking, watching the waves and kissing like teenagers '' she sighed. '' It was heaven''

'' Well I was hoping to keep this a secret until I was sure it would happen but-!'' I paused and Faith screwed up her face '' The next day when you were at the village market I kind of strolled down there again and I-''

''What are you trying to tell me Bobby, you know I hate secrets'' she interrupted.

'' As it turns out it’s also a favorite place to sit by the owner of the villa, he was there enjoying the peace and quiet when I came along. We talked and Mr. Santos, who is a really nice man sort of, - I mean-, agreed to sell me the Villa'' I forced a smiled and waited for her reaction. Faith's eyes widened and I believe for a full five minutes she couldn’t breathe.

'' Is this for real?'' she eventually said.

'' Once the papers are signed it's ours'' I nodded, Faith began to cry, she placed her hand across her mouth and shook her head in disbelief, '' I knew you loved the Villa, so did I, - I think it was kismet the way things happened. I love you sweetheart'' Faith leaned across her seat and gave me the tightest hug I could ever remember '' I love you too Bobby Brewster'' she whispered into my ear. ''Always and forever''

Life never was the same after that, for the next two years we spent as much time in Caduques as we could, and it seemed that Josef came along with the deal. When we couldn’t be there he would look after the house just as he had done for Mr. Santos ''parte del mobiliario '' he joked the day he handed me the keys pointing to the leathery old man with the white beard, who was brushing the drive''

It was the summer of our third year there that I began to worry about Faith, although she would insist there was nothing wrong, something just kept niggling at me. During dinner and when we sat in the small cave on the beach I noticed that sometimes she was struggling to make small talk. And when I would joke about recalling good times past, she would just smile half heartily and look blankly back at me. It was on a quiet Sunday afternoon that I finally discovered what was happening. Faith had gone to lie down after complaining she had another headache, it was while she was sleeping that I noticed she had left her dairy on the verandah coffee table. It had the same leather back binding cover over it on that day she came into my study. As I lifted it out of the afternoon sun the contents fell onto the grey stone tiles. Pages flicked by rapidly in the light breeze, each one passing only added to the shock I was seeing. On page after page she had written in bold black ink- ''His name is Bobby and he's my husband'' over and over the same. On others she had scrawled her own name repeatedly, phone numbers, places we had been, things to say. A catalog of memories, a volcano of emotions erupting on a page. Suddenly all those awkward moments made sense, all those trips to the bathroom when were out, everything fell into place. Her dairy was her only link, her only way of remembering all that she was, all that we were, was written in this book.

I wanted to wake her; I wanted to shake her, hold her and tell her I loved her and promise I would make her better. Instead I fell onto the sun lounger clasping her book to my breast and giving into a fissure of brackish tears and an overwhelming feeling of insecurity. Do I tell Faith I know her secret and watch her fall to pieces, or do I say nothing and let nature take its course. I waited and cried unsure of what to do. The signs of dementia were obvious, how did I not see them before, She had hid them well. I dried my eyes with the cuff of my shirt, the tears left a dark stain, Faith would have been mad at me if she saw what I had just done. But I gave a nervous laugh,'' She cannot even remember my name for Christ's sake!'' I shouted, and then I threw the book at the wall with rage.

It was only then I saw her standing in the doorway, she was wearing her white satin camisole, it accentuated the curves of her body, around her shoulders a white cotton dressing gown lay open flapping lightly in the afternoon air exposing her tanned upper thighs. Her honey blond hair was tossed from an hour of sleeping. She smiled at me briefly, and I returned the gesture. I looked at her and thought how this could be, she looks no different, she was still my beautiful Faith yet I knew inside she had changed and I wondered just how much of the real Faith was still alive. I lifted the book without saying a word, the look on her face when she saw it is something I will never forget. '' You know'' was all she said, I nodded and mouthed a silent ‘yes’. Quietly she turned and went back inside.

That night we lay in each other’s arms and talked and cried until sunrise, I promised her we would get the best doctors that money could buy, but she had already been to see them secretly the year before. There was no cure they told her and it was spreading fast. '' Why didn’t you tell me, we could have done this together'' I asked her. '' I didn’t what to ruin the magic'' was all she said.

We left for home that same day and in the months that followed Faith deteriorated rapidly, the woman I knew and had loved was lost forever to the horrible disease. At the end I couldn’t cope and reluctantly agreed to put her into care. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Many times I went to visit, but my Faith was gone. I couldn’t bear to watch her sit there just staring at me without speaking, dribbling saliva from the corner of her mouth. Gradually I stopped going. The hospital would call me each week night letting me know how she was doing until one early morning they rang. I wasn’t sleeping I don’t much anymore, I am a reluctant dreamer, they hurt too much. Faith had suffered a massive brain hemorrhage and had died peacefully in her sleep. God was good to her thankfully by not prolonging her agony, and mine.

Girona airport is always busy, holiday makers arriving and departing much like any other in the world. It’s not hard to miss Josef, he pretty much stands out from the crowd waiting at the arrivals gate. He looks like one of the seven dwarfs, grumpy springs to mind. But at least he's here.

''Josef, Com estàs'' I greet him.

''Vell'' he replies.

Both of us say little on the journey to the Villa, we pass by the harbor on the way. Small fishing boats bob and bounce on the waves, their wooden masts and white sails pointing upwards to a clear blue sky that reflects off the crisp sea. Laughter and the buzz of water jet bikes drift across the bay. Bars and bodegas are busy with diners and drinkers enjoying the sun. Its warm rays reflecting of the whitewashed stone houses that surround the village. Faith was right, this is heaven, and she loved this place. And that is why I have brought her back; I look down to the small silver urn sitting beside me on the car seat and cup it with my hand. To hold it safe '' Welcome home sweetheart'' I whisper.

'' To the Villa senor Bob?'' Josef asks me looking in his rear view mirror.

'' Not yet Josef'' I reply '' My wife and I have a date on the beach, drop us off at the tow path, you know where I mean just above the cave, is that Okay''

''Si Senor Bob'' he replies, but I see a look of dubiety on his face '' però per què '' he asks me bemused.

'' It’s our twenty fifth wedding anniversaries Josef and we are going to renew our vows''

Will Neil - Award Winning Published Author.

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Wax Paper Slide

Narrow streets of this town past
intersect a simple grid grown slow
to encroach on steadfast fields
of family names
but for a park named for one name
and the big bargain-buy building
and an upshot of sprawling vinyl siding
tucked in southern reaches to supervise
corporate fed manicured lawns.

On one narrow street found
blindfolded
red brick double-deckers form
a hobbled oval of life and limb
encased in egg-shell white interior
?grass painted 1950s kelly.
Once flat, kindergarten triangle roofs
search satellite skies.

And my heart fell at the missing
playground; even the basketball court
made way for a patriotic
plastic play palace.
A lone square of dirt marked
the drop spot
of the silver slide slicked
with Mom's wax paper.
I reached

to touch the clothesline
cross pole where
David Ray climbed
that one summer,
sitting far above me
like some archangel singing
“Dock of the Bay.”

Carlinville native Wanda Morrow Clevenger lives in Hettick, IL – population 200, give or take. Writing short stories began in earnest in mid-2007. Upon entering the Internet she joined writing sites, where was discovered a diverse world of aspiring authors. Association with these unconventional souls sparked Wanda's interest in writing fiction and renewed a dormant appreciation for poetry. A March 2009 graduate of Long Ridge Writers Group, she attributes the Breaking Into Print program for transforming her first writing attempts into published credits, reached 191 by early 2013. Her debut book This Same Small Town in Each of Us released on October 30, 2011. Available for purchase through Amazon, she likes to remind potential buyers to read the Amazon reviews and then use her paypal link. Whenever possible, the author should receive the lion's share of the profit. She is currently working on a poetry manuscript, her first.

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Pittsburgh Vintage Grand Prix

The Pittsburgh Vintage Grand Prix is one of those long-running summer events that you just might take for granted if you’ve lived in the Burgh for a long time. But like with most big summer events, the blocked-off streets in Squirrel Hill, the roar of engines racing around serpentine roads and hairpin curves and the endless booths and activities blanketing Schenley Park take a lot of manpower and strategy to pull off each year.

Executive Director Dan DelBianco has been organizing the event for 11 years and can tell you that it’s about a lot more than cars. As the director, he manages everything from the day-to-day operations to public relations and marketing. But even though he’s the only employee, he’s not doing the work alone. On the Tuesday morning I spoke with him, nearly 100 volunteers were spending their time doing “awesome” work for the foundation.

“There’s a dedication and purpose that our volunteers have that’s unmatched,” he says, freeing up his time to take care of larger details like finding sponsorships and raising money.

And it’s not just the volunteers who help DelBianco put on a good race. The city of Pittsburgh actually shuts down streets for the events, making this event the only one in the country where cars are raced on city streets. “The cooperation from our community and the city is amazing,” he adds.

While his favorite part of the job may be living and breathing vintage cars, the charity aspect of the race has been particularly rewarding.

The Pittsburgh Vintage Grand Prix raises money that helps provide support and treatment to individuals with autism through the Autism Society of Pittsburgh and Allegheny Valley School. Last year, they raised a record $350,000. Charity ambassadors, Anita Iyengar and Brandon Fisher, will make appearances at this year’s race and are living testimonies to the good work being done by the Autism Society and the Allegheny Valley School.

If you haven’t checked out the races before, or even if it’s been awhile, DelBianco says the reasons to come are plenty: “It’s free! It’s loud! It’s exciting!”

The Pittsburgh Grand Prix runs from July 6 to July 20 this year. Check it out!

http://www.pvgp.org/complete-2014-event-calendar/

Laurie Koozer is a writer and project manager at the University of Pittsburgh. She enjoys brunch, fall festivals and flip-flops. Her short stories have appeared in The Fourth River, Storyglossia, Stymie Magazine and the Open Thread Regional Review. Her novel, What Happens on Sundays, follows the loves and lives of six Pittsburgh women during a Steelers football season (available on Amazon).

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Allhallows Eve

“Seriously, Hildy, aren't you a little old . . .” Rooted in a worn recliner, Krister crinkled his newspaper with exaggerated vigor, frowning at the football scores and his wife. “And what about my supper?”

Her Allhallows Eve obsession was intemperate. They weren't kids copping candy corn anymore. Krister indulged the absurdity at the beginning of their marriage, waved his freak flag with the best of them. His memory fell back to the night, masquerading as Detective Poirot, when he outwitted Vampira and conquered her evil essence. Banged her on a marble slab in the cemetery's what he did. Dry leaves whipped a vortex around them, so bizarre it darn near spooked his spontaneity. She was totally psyched, bit his neck hard enough to draw blood.

But the kink lost its charisma, he'd long outgrown the shenanigans. Hildy, though, was consumed with the dark dogma. She didn't just dress up, she transformed. That kind of boogity boo might fly on HBO, but not in cow and corn country. Baptists got their scriptures in a wad over the occult―walking on water was one thing, flying on broom sticks was opening a whole different can of crackpot. Things were getting queerer by the year and he'd reached his limit.

Preening before an antique mirror, Hildy turned, eyes flashing the same mercury silver. “Old?”

More confrontation than question, her disapproval surpassed his with a crackle and he squirmed like a charlatan's snake sack for a moment. But the jolt of her outfit rallied his determination; the cliché costume of black bustier, leather mini-skirt, and fishnet stockings was proof enough she planned on hooking up with some sleazy zombie. It was time to load silver bullets into the gun, throw water on the crone, and perform an exorcism.

“It's pathetic amateur hour, Hildy. Werewolves baying at the moon.” Krister half-rose, nostrils flaring. “Plug in a boozed-up, horny Frankenstein and he'll spring to life every time.” The newspaper flapped to the floor just as his fists landed a one-two punch on the recliner arms. “I absolutely forbid―” blurted out before strangling into baritone croak.

Hildy bent to slip on stilettos. Two pale-moon crescents crowned cobweb lace. “Now where’s my pointy hat?” Her equally pointy heels tapped a curt exit from the room. “You can find your own supper.”

A dumbfounded Krister blinked through dissipating smoke. Subjected to another Halloween night alone, a greenish throat bubble expanded, quickly deflated. His long, sticky tongue flicked a fly from mid-air.

Wanda Morrow Clevenger lives in Hettick, IL – population 200, give or take. Over 275 pieces of her work appear or are forthcoming in 107 print and electronic publications. Her debut collection This Same Small Town in Each of Us released in 2011: http://edgarallanpoet.com/This_Same_Small_Town.html Wanda Morrow Clevenger, author of This Same Small Town in Each of Us Paypal link: http://edgarallanpoet.com/This_Same_Small_Town.html About Me: http://about.me/wandamorrowclevenger/# Blog: http://wlc-wlcblog.blogspot.com/ Amazon Reviews: https://www.amazon.com/author/wandaclevenger

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AMBER

You said: Every minute we have is like amber. The sun was bright on that Marathon Sunday in May. Even the flecks of mica in the sidewalk beneath our café table were like jewels I might scoop up and keep. You rubbed the bottom of your red Chuck Taylor over the top of my turquoise one. We could have switched shoes: our feet were almost the same size. A tight group of runners passed us, their steps as swift and relentless as raptors. I remember the moment of absolute silence after they disappeared, and the sweetness of Crazy Mocha latte on my tongue.

Then you pulled the bracelet you’d made for me from your jeans pocket, still in its crumpled bag from the bead shop in Lawrenceville—lumps of amber with a silver lobster claw clasp. I put it on, touched by your effort, and pretended to admire it, although the amber reminded me of little yellow teeth spotted with bits of crud. DNA, you said, the life force. If we knew enough, we could recreate the dinosaurs, like in Jurassic Park.

It was October when we played hooky to spend the day in Dinosaur Hall—we won’t be run over by as many little kids, you said. Rain beaded the gray skylights, and cast shadows on the impossibly huge skeletons—some reconstructed from just one bone, like in the sexist story of Eve and Adam in the Garden of Eden. I was wearing the amber bracelet, which had grown on me. It was our six-month anniversary. I hinted that I wanted a pair of earrings to match it, spinning the gift shop display like a wheel, but you turned your back, studying a wooden Triceratops. When you kissed me under our clashing umbrellas, in front of the giant bolt of rust called “Carnegie,” I thought I tasted amber on your lips.

In December, you sent me a postcard of palm trees, its foreign postmark too smudged to decipher. Like the Jurassic here! May never leave! You didn’t close with Love, only scrawled your name.

I still have the card, the bracelet, and my turquoise Chuck Taylors, tucked in a dresser drawer under clothes that don’t fit me anymore. It’s impossible for me to throw things away. Every minute we have is like amber.

Angele Ellis’s prose and poetry have appeared in over forty publications and six anthologies—as well as on the marquee of The Harris Theatre, after she won Pittsburgh Filmmakers’ G-20 Haiku Contest. She is author of Arab on Radar (Six Gallery)—whose poems earned her a fellowship from the PA Council on the Arts—and Spared (A Main Street Rag Editors’ Choice Chapbook). She lives in Friendship.

Along with Renée Alberts, Kris Collins, Scott Silsbe, Bob Walicki, and Don Wentworth, Angele is part of PITTSBURGH POETS ROCK THE APOLLO, a Friday series at the Apollo, PA Public Library on Sept. 12, Nov. 14, and Feb. 13: https://www.facebook.com/events/285202848330622/

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Choosing to Stand Still

There are moments in your life when a desperate risk is the only choice you can make, the only conceivable option available to you.

For me, that moment came due to an early morning run-in with Bethany, ex-girlfriend of my best friend, Matty Alonzo. The encounter happened at the 24-hour bodega where I always bought a bagel and cream cheese, a roll with butter, and two piping hot coffees (light and sweet) for myself and Matty first thing in the morning. And somehow, every morning before this I had happily managed to avoid her.

“Kathryn? Kathryn Norris? Is that you?” She squealed and, in lieu of putting my hands over my ears to block out the shrill sound of her voice, I winced and turned towards her.

“Hi Bethany.” I tried for polite. I don’t think it worked.

“How are you? What have you been up to?” Her questions ended high, in a squawk.

I smiled, brittle and forced. “Well, you know. Still auditioning. Still hosting that open mic night at the club.”

“College?” It was a shame she seemed comfortable with that as a full sentence.

“Not when I was 18, not when I was 19 and not now.” I rolled my eyes. A preppy until the end, Bethany had never grasped the fact that I was not sorority girl material.

“Of course not.” There was that bitter judgment I was used to from her. “And how is Matthew?”

For a moment, I didn't know who she was talking about. Matthew? I didn't know any Matthew. I only knew Matty, the kid I'd known since birth, my best friend in the world, who shared an apartment with me and doted on me like I was, in some way, a prize, never treating me like a lost cause the way so many others did.

Then I remembered that Bethany was pretentious and Bethany thought Matty was a child's name. Bethany had, in the course of her year dating him, irrevocably turned him into Matthew, to the point where I barely knew who people were discussing when they mentioned him, and Matty only referred to himself as anything but Matthew when I was around.

Oh. That Matthew.

“Matty,” I corrected, “is doing great. Third year at Columbia, top of his class, Dean's List, basking in the glow of that full scholarship. You know how it is.”

She beamed in response. You'd almost think she was still dating him.

“And how are you and Matthew doing?”

“Fine. Still besties. Still living together.” I answered offhandedly, interrupting our conversation to shout an order to the man behind the counter. This was a formality, as the guy knew what I came for every day and had it half ready before I even walked in the door.

“Oh.” Bethany said, as if I surprised her.

“What does that mean? 'Oh.' Were you expecting something else?” She probably expected me to say we'd gone to shit.

Bethany looked contrite, and I almost felt bad for my reaction. Almost.

“No! I just thought...well, I guess I just thought…” She swiped at her pretty, perfect blonde hair, so different from my brassy red. “Any idiot can see he's in love with you. I just thought you guys would be together by now.”

I screwed up my nose. I hated that phrase. Whenever anybody started a statement with that phrase, it was exceedingly clear that they actually meant, 'You must have missed this, idiot.' And that was correct, I must have missed something, because I had no idea what she was talking about. My head whipped around so fast that my sloppy high ponytail spun forward, layers of gel-straightened curls slapping me across the face. “You...what?”

“Well, you have to see how he dotes on you. How he treats you like you're the most important thing in the world.” I stared blankly at her. “Jeez, you were the reason I broke up with him! Didn't he tell you?”

No. No, he didn't. Which was how I knew it was complete and utter bullshit. Matty never kept anything from me. He never lied to me and there was no way he started to because of Bethany. Besides, this wasn't the first time somebody had been jealous of my relationship with Matty. It was unique and, as such, bound for ridicule.

“Bullshit Beth,” I snapped, just in time for the deli counter guy to place my order onto the counter. I grabbed the food, threw down much more of Matty's money than was necessary, and raced out of the store without a word of goodbye to either the man at the counter or Bethany.

I couldn't believe the gall of that bitch. How dare she try to screw with my friendship with Matty?

When I unlocked the door to our two-bedroom apartment, I found Matty already awake and playing video games on our couch.

Anybody else who knew him wouldn't recognize him first thing in the morning. To the outside world, Matthew Alonzo was a tidily dressed, well groomed, business man in the making. At twenty-one years old, he already looked like he could hold down a job at a Fortune 500 company - and he did, as a lowly grunt, a night-shift employee working to keep the wheels greased when everyone else left their nine-to-five. A full time college career with straight A's and a great job - and he was using it, the money his parents gave him, and the portion of his scholarship that was allotted to living expenses, to support the both of us as I worked on my singing career. It wasn’t a surprise that Bethany saw me as a freeloader.

Matty may look corporate in public, but first thing in the morning was an entirely different story. When he was home, Matty allowed himself to relax completely and all of that tidiness and sophistication he forced on himself in his outdoor life slipped away. I always believed it was how he maintained his sanity through all his hard work. This shift was the reason I found him sitting on our big red sofa, bent over in concentration, trying for all the world to destroy whatever he was shooting to pieces in the video game he was playing, his dark eyes locked on the screen. He was wearing a t-shirt, splattered with the contents of his last three meals at home (I was pretty sure I spotted some soy sauce from the pan-fried wantons he'd ordered on Saturday), living proof that you shouldn't try to eat anything with liquid substances in it while balancing on a couch without a tray or something. His blue gym shorts matched the blue baseball cap he had slung carelessly on his head, backwards, an attempt to control the dark frizzy curls that only copious amounts of hair gel could contain. He let out a string of curses, throwing himself backwards onto the couch, when he was defeated once again. Scrubbing his hands over his cheeks, lightly dusted with the beginnings of facial hair he'd be sure to shave later, he looked over at me and grinned. His smile was huge, his teeth broad and shiny white, and that coupled with an extra-long and pointy nose had earned him the nickname "Ratty Matty", which he hated.

When he smiled up at me though, I saw something I hadn't expected, hadn't realized existed before Bethany had opened her stupid mouth. He was way too happy to see my face. As a matter of fact, he was always too happy to see me. I had a bag of food in my hand, not a winning lottery ticket, but that was how he was looking at me.

Everything Bethany had said began to make an odd sort of sense, so many years believing we kept absolutely no secrets from each other to discover he was keeping a giant secret from me and had been for a very long time. The realization stole the air from my lungs.

“I'm starving and coffee is needed. Did you see what that moon creature just did to me?” Matty laughed. “That never would have happened if I had been properly caffeinated.”

I smiled fondly at him, temporarily swallowing the fear Bethany's words had uncovered in me as I reached into the bag and produced his half of our feast. This could wait until after his classes were done for the day. He didn't need this stress now.

He launched himself from his seat, pressing his usual good morning kiss to my cheek, and I pretended the feeling didn't send the usual jolt of warmth from my cheek down to my toes. “Thanks Kate.”

My heart flipped. I ignored it.

He sat back down on the couch and unwrapped his food and I did the same. I felt his eyes on me, examining me, like I was one of the financial reports he was learning about in business class and he needed to figure out what the forecast was.

I realized I wasn't making it through breakfast without discussing this whole thing before the words even left Matty's mouth.

“What happened?”

I looked up at him as though I was confused.

“Don't. You are not the same Katie that left here to go get breakfast. You were fine then and now you're not. So fess up. You okay?” His tone started out bossy, but softened by the end. I looked into his eyes, shining with concern, and gulped hard.

I was not in love with Matty Alonzo. I wasn't. My relationships never ended well. My friendship with Matty was never going to end. I was not going to force it to an early death by getting mixed up with him in this way.

He leaned forward, right into my personal space. I refused to turn myself away from my bagel, to allow my eyes to meet his. I resolutely stared at my food as I answered him.

“I ran into Bethany at the store. Do you know what she said to me?”

He averted his gaze. “Bethany says a lot of things. Most of it is crap. I stopped listening when we broke up.”

“Yeah. Why exactly did you break up?”

He dropped his bagel into his lap. “You sound like you already know the answer to that.” He nodded, jerkily, something he normally did when he was nervous. Something I normally found endearing. Not today.

“Tell me its bullshit, Matty.” I needed him to tell me we were still the same, he was still just the same kid who kept my father from beating me after I shoved a bean up his nose in kindergarten by telling everyone he had done it himself. I needed him to shove this change in the relationship up his own considerable nose, take the blame and not put this shit on me.

This was not my idea.

Matty didn't answer. He simply picked up his phone, held up one finger, and began to type.

“What are you doing?” My tone was so cold I almost winced upon hearing it.

“I'm e-mailing my boss and my professors to inform them I will not be in today. You and I need to have a conversation.” He said the words with a detachment I envied. It was something he could get away with doing, since he did it so rarely. When he finished his emails, he placed his phone down on the table where he'd set his game controller earlier. Then, he stared out at the paused television screen and took a deep breath. He didn't even look at me before he spoke again. “This was not the way I wanted this conversation to happen.”

“What conversation, Matty?” My words were filled with venom. “What the hell is going on? What did you tell Bethany?” It was not lost on me that Matty had cleared his very busy day for me. It made the whole thing sound more true, which made me feel so much worse.

He dropped his head into his hands, his entire body falling forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. “It's not so much about what I told her. It's more about what she saw.”

“Saw?”

“You and me.” He turned his face so he peeked out at me from between his fingers. “The way we are with each other. Nobody acts like we do.”

I laughed a little, a sense of relief washing away my panic. “We have a unique friendship. I love that about us. Nobody acts like we do, because there is nobody like us.”

“Kate!” He groaned, sitting up straight and turning to face me. “Nobody has a friendship like ours because our relationship is not a friendship.”

The panic returned. I nodded, the same jerky head motion he had just managed. “Right. Because we're more than friends, we're family.”

“Yes. And no.”

I turned, sitting ramrod straight. He was very close, and his warmth radiated from him, reaching towards me. I wanted to enjoy it, but I never enjoyed something like this. I destroyed it.

My voice was small and empty when it fled my lips. “Matty, what are you saying?”

There had to be some great explanation for this. This could not be what I was thinking because if it was, then it was crazy. He was crazy. He couldn't possibly think that this was worth the risk. He couldn't.

“Becky broke up with me because she said I was too close to you.” His voice was velvety, sexy, and I didn't want it to be sexy, so I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the fact that he always spoke to me like this and I always pretended otherwise. “At first I thought that was crazy. I mean, we're best friends. Have been before we knew what boyfriends and girlfriends were. How could this be? But then I started thinking about things.”

I was thinking about things too. I was thinking about ex-boyfriends I had cheated on that Matty had scolded me about; about guys I had toyed with because I couldn't be bothered to commit to anything; about all the random sex I'd had in this apartment, quieting down my partners so Matty wouldn't mock me about it in the morning; about the way Matt used to distract my father at the front door of my childhood home so I could come through the back when I was returning from a party at five in the morning and how angry that had made my father and how that had always gotten him in trouble with his; about how it never quite seemed right that he constantly took the fall for me.

My mother died in childbirth and my father never allowed me to forget it. All through my childhood I destroyed all my relationships. Poison, since the day I was born. Matty was an innocent. And I was poison. Dad constantly asked how a boy like Matty could ever be such close friends with a girl like me. I wondered the same thing, but it didn't stop me from enjoying it. Until this.

“I'm saying...I think Becky may have been right. I think I may be...in love with you.”

No. No. No. No. No.

He watched me with his dark eyes, searching mine for a reaction. They went from hopeful to hurt in a matter of seconds. “You can't tell me you don't feel anything for me. I know you do.”

My heart clenched. Shit. He was right. He was always right. I loved him. So much that I knew better than to ever pursue it.

Being with me would destroy him. He had taken care of me all of my life in one way or another. I wasn't exactly the ‘stand up and do everything on my own’ type. He had a life, a future. I had nothing. I had given him nothing.

But I could give him this. “You don't want this.” I tried to say it firmly, but my throat was dry, and it came out cloudy.

He reached out to stroke my cheek. God, did that feel good. Damn near perfect. And just like Catholic school had taught me, the better something feels the more wrong it usually is.

“You think I haven't thought this through?” He smiled at me, a nervous grin. “This is me we're talking about. I think everything through. Just…” He didn't even finish his sentence. He just closed his eyes and leaned in. His nose brushed mine tentatively, before his warm lips met mine. It was a gentle kiss that grew more confident when I didn’t pull away. His hand cupped the back of my neck, pulling me closer. I was frozen at first, but I felt myself leaning into him and kissing him back. I wrapped my hand in his dingy t-shirt and pulled him closer, deepening things before I even knew what was happening. This was real. This was right. This was the one person I trusted more than anybody else and he wanted me.

No, not wanted me, needed me.

He tipped us over so that my back was against the armrest, and he was leaning against me.

I couldn't do this.

It started somewhere deep within, this sort of abject fear that I did not know the source of, and it spread through me from head to toe, until my hands were shaking and my heart was racing from more than just his nearness. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead and I started to feel a little faint, a little nauseous, which was totally not something you want to tell your best friend while he's kissing you.

And he was such a good kisser. If I could just let it go...

“Matt…” I started, when our lips parted. Maybe I just needed to talk to him, to explain the fear that was bubbling up inside and try to cope with it. Maybe we could work. “I'm a little freaked by all this.” I said again, between kisses

“I know.” He smiled against my mouth, not getting it. “This is crazy.”

I wasn't telling him to stop. I was shaking so hard I couldn't put the words together. Anger flowed through me because he wasn't hearing me. The only person who had ever bothered to truly listen and he couldn't hear how scared I was?

But I kept kissing him. What the hell was I doing?

I placed my shaking hand to his chest. “Matty, I'm scared.”

“We'll be fine. It's fine. We're...we're fine.” His eyes were hopeful and he was smiling and he wasn't understanding me. He wasn't being my Matty because he was so caught up in what he wanted and what he needed that he didn't care what I was trying to tell him. He couldn't see me. He never put himself before me. Which only proved that there couldn't be any us.

He moved back over me, and I couldn't breathe. The realization that just one moment of facing the possibility of a relationship with me had already torn a hole into our friendship caused a nervous, furious energy to bubble inside of me, and the next time he came up for air I swung back and nailed him right in the nose with my clenched fist. Pain radiated up my arm. I don't know what I was thinking.

“What the hell?” He grabbed his nose and pushed himself off me.

I jumped to my feet, crazed adrenaline surging through me. Shaking, I rubbed at my hand, at the throbbing that was starting there, and winced. I never thought I’d hit Matty. “I was trying to tell you to stop. You wouldn’t.”

“Damn it, Katie! You really think I would hurt you?” He looked just as pissed as I was, but also hurt, and disappointed, and about a dozen different emotions that I didn't have a hope in hell of discerning. He stormed away from me, walked to the mirror in the bathroom and gingerly touched his nose. “F*ck.”

“I...no...I don't. Not intentionally. Not...not physically or anything.” The tears clogged my voice before they made it to my eyes.

He looked into the mirror, through the reflection at me, where I now stood in the hallway watching him. Something registered in his eyes, an understanding, and he became my Matty again. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose one more time. “It's okay. It's not even bleeding. I'm fine.” He leaned over to splash water on his face and the sound of it covered the sounds of my movements as I grabbed my eternally stocked overnight bag and pulled my beige wool peacoat over my shoulders.

“I'm not pissed,” Matty said. “Well, I was at first, but I'm over it. We should talk about this. I think I did this all wrong. We can work, but we've just got to—"

The door slammed behind me before he could finish his sentence.

******

There are moments in your life where ‘either/or’ becomes ‘the better of two evils’. Which would hurt less? Which loss could you survive?

I was hoping that losing the opportunity for a romance with Matt would save the friendship. If I could prove to him what a mess of a girlfriend I could be, maybe he'd pack it up and go off in search of someone else, relegating me safely to the status of best friend once again. Then it would all just be his awful mistake.

As the alcohol slid down my throat, its bitterness making the journey to my stomach and igniting a burn there, my eyes came to rest on a man all the way down at the end of the bar. He was hard to see in the dim lights, but I could tell he was cute, with bright blonde hair and blue eyes, like he'd just walked off the beach. The perfect target, sure I was stereotyping here, but in a bar, when an emergency pickup was needed, it was a necessary evil. Sometimes, you had to pick according to type. More importantly, he didn't have curly hair. He didn't have dark searching eyes. He didn't even look particularly smart or responsible. He was perfect because he was nothing like Matty.

I slid off of my stool and went to go greet my new friend.

*****

There are moments in your life when you realize that, in an effort to salvage things, you have made an egregious error.

That moment, for me, came sometime after I came, purposefully loud, courtesy of Lance or Vance or whatever the hell the guy from the bar had been named. Sometime between then and the moment I heard the front door slam so hard that the walls shook.

For hours, I waited. I wanted to call everyone I could think of looking for Matty, but I couldn't muster the courage to face them. How many people knew he'd been in love with me? How many people knew how little I deserved it?

When he came back the next morning, he was driving his cousin Vanessa's car. I had long since kicked the stranger out of the apartment. It was just me and him.

Katie and Matty. Best Friends Till the End.

It seemed like so long ago I wrote those words in my notebook. The End seemed much further away then.

He didn't say anything to me at first, just marched past where I sat on the couch and into his room. I heard his suitcase smack the bedframe as he slid it out from below the mattress, followed by the violent tugging of the zipper and the clothing being all but punched into it.

My throat closed. I could barely stand, but I made it to his room on wobbly feet, determined to stop whatever insane idea had popped into his head.

“Where are you going?” I asked, and those words had the foolish nerve to sound like they had the right to know.

His head jerked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and tired. His nose was still a little swollen. His eyes...had he been crying over me?

My heart felt like it was squeezed by an invisible force. When he finally spoke, that invisible force crunched it under its heavy boot.

“You can keep the apartment, at least until it's time to pay rent. If you find a way to keep paying for it, it's yours.” He marched to the other side of the room and started packing his school books, launching them into the bag with enough anger to tear a hole in it.

“That’s it?” My voice was strained, damaged. “You tell me you want me, I say ‘no’, and you're on your way? Done with me? Twenty years of friendship and that's all I get?”

“I didn't tell you I wanted you.” He didn't look up, his words sneaking between gritted teeth. “I told you I loved you. And you didn't say ‘no’. I could have handled ‘no’. But this?” He looked up at me with disgust. “This...you must hate me. Were you trying to prove everything everybody’s ever told me about you?”

There was a flicker in his eyes, and for a second I thought he realized the truth, realized that I loved him, that I couldn't risk sacrificing him. If he had just said something, I could try because it would prove that he knew me better than anyone else in the world that it was worth the damn risk. Maybe, if he saw through my crap, I couldn't hurt him. Not really. Not for a long time. Because he would figure it out.

Except I wasn't sure it was my choice anymore.

“You were, weren't you? That's exactly what you were trying to do.” He shook his head. “I know who you are. I didn't need your protection.”

I didn't say a word. There were no words to say. I locked myself up in my bedroom, collapsed against the door and cried soundless tears.

The door slammed behind him again.

*****

There are moments in your life where all you can do is await the consequences of your actions.

Like the day Matty came to pick up the rest of his things.

That day was one of those strange weather days that float between warm and cold. The kind of day where the sun is so strong you almost can't resist the urge to take off your coat every other block, only to be punished when the chill returns to the air. The wind kept blowing the occasional strand of my hair in front of me, so I saw the curl dance in the air a little before it dropped back down to my beige peacoat. The wool of the coat itched my neck and I had to unbutton it before I could sit comfortably on the park bench.

When I looked out at the decrepit swings, the graffiti doused slides and the chipped paint on the jungle gym, I could remember a time when Matty and I had plotted an obstacle course in that maze of toys. The jungle gym was bright green then, the metal slides reflecting the shining sunlight. So many years later, I waited here, killing time, and hoped he would be done moving out before I returned.

I pulled out the photo I had stuffed into my pocket. Over the past few days, I had folded and unfolded it repeatedly along the same crease, and my stomach twisted every time I saw how the picture’s crease fell right between Matty and I.

I had no idea why I packed it. It had been a robotic gesture, but it was the one thing I couldn't bare him taking. It belonged to both of us, and I was sure he wouldn't be happy about it, but then he might not want a reminder of me around him anymore anyway.

I looked at the picture. I couldn't help but feel like it had all been a tremendous waste of time. So much invested in each other that I couldn't imagine how Matty would avoid reminders of me. We were too ingrained in each other's lives.

It hadn't taken Matty a long time to find a place, and a paranoid voice in the back of my mind told me I was right yet again: he'd lined one up before he had even broached the topic of love with me, so sure that I would react in such a train-wreck kind of way, that he would need a sanctuary.

I never was good with change. Or relationships. Or decisions in general.

I'd made a mistake. I just couldn't put my finger on when that mistake had begun. It seemed obvious that it started at punching him in the nose, but it could have been when I'd allowed him to protect me, when I allowed him to rush to my rescue and save me from myself. It might have been that day I'd stuck a bean in his nose and then let him protect me from my father, the day I gave him the impression that I needed him by my side, looking out for me, always.

I was still not sure if I should have kept kissing him back, taken the change he had offered. Gone for it. It just seemed like too big a gamble.

I glanced down at the picture in my hands. I couldn't remember being there. I wished I did, but all I had was this photograph. I could picture it all like it hadn't been twenty years before; like I hadn't been too young when it was taken.

In the picture, I was wearing pink baby booties. The baby beside me, Matty, had blue booties. Our parents had known each other from around the neighborhood, our mother’s part of the same book club. When my mother died after my birth, Matty’s mother stayed in touch with my father, and, eventually, their home became my shelter when my father kept screwing up. Matty and I lived our lives side by side, just as we’d been in that baby nursery, until that fateful day when I screwed things up.

In the photograph, we laid in plastic containers with little hospital bracelets wrapped around our wrists. We looked exactly like we did as adults—it would be impossible not to place us. My cheeks, though no longer pink and wrinkly as they had been, were still just as chubby. My mouth was still perpetually pouty. I was no longer as small, but I screamed just as damn loud, and I could practically hear this miniature version of me screaming in the picture. Shrill, high-pitched cries that pierced the ears of those surrounding me. My tiny fists were tightly balled up, fists that would eventually lash out in a punch and end a friendship. My tiny feet had been red and skinny, like tiny twigs reaching out from the branch. They were still ugly and skinny like that—just painted with glittery pink nail polish.

Matty on the other hand was impeccable. Not messy like me. His infant body was wrapped securely in a blanket—a yellow one with tiny blue bunnies around the edges—not left uncovered and unprotected like mine. Protected by the cocoon of his family, infant Matty's hair was black and spiky, his brow furrowed, his eyes windows to serious thoughts he should be too young to have. His nose was bigger than the rest of his body—born with the Alonzo family nose everyone was dreading. His mouth was closed and his fists were balled up under his chin.

We both looked more alert than babies probably should be. Though I couldn’t remember the time of the photograph, I could tell Matty smelled like baby powder—clean – just as I knew that I smelled like I needed a diaper change. I longed for those days. I hoped that I hadn’t yet had the chance to taint the baby powder clean of his world.

Sighing, I pulled my eyes away from the picture and folded it again along that same crease that divided me from the only person that ever really understood me. I slammed it back into my pocket and my heart felt swollen. I couldn't breathe for my guilt.

A glance at my watch showed me Matty should have been done leaving me.

The ten-minute walk back home was painful. I knew what awaited me, but it was nothing compared to the actuality of the gaping maw of my now empty apartment. Not just empty of things, but empty of him.

I found the letter where the picture once was.

Katie,

I wanted to move forward, I always have. But you chose to stand still. I couldn't do that. I have places I need to be.

I truly wish you all the best. Maybe one day, you will find it in you to move on your own. And maybe, when that day comes, you can track me down and we can give this friendship another try, when you can stand on your own without me pulling you along.

I love you. And I probably always will. But I refuse to drag you somewhere you don't want to go.
Always yours,
Matty,

The heart of this place was gone, ripped from its chest still beating and I didn't know if I'd ever find anything to keep it alive. I wondered the same thing about me for a moment, before realizing that maybe, if I could do this to something so perfect, this was exactly where I belonged.

Out of motion. Standing still.

Justine Manzano lives in Bronx, NY with my husband, son, and a cacophony of cats. My short fiction has appeared in the anthology Things You Can Create, Sliver of Stone Magazine and The Greenwich Village Literary Review. I maintain a semi-monthly blog at JustineManzano.com and work as a fiction reader for Sucker Literary Magazine.

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The Fine Art of Tang Soo Do

This past Christmas my sister and brother-in-law purchased my oldest son a month of Karate lessons. I have wanted to get him into some sort of extra-circular activity for some time, I was thinking something along the lines of soccer but for some reason, he always seems to be missing the cutoff.

Soccer’s loss, karate’s gain, he is now a yellow belt and enjoys going. I decided to interview Master Gene Garbowsky 6th Dan Tang Soo Do and owner of The South Hills Karate Academy to help any of you on the fence about letting your child(ren) practice karate.

1. When did you first start practicing Tang Soo Do… what made you choose that as your main form of Karate to practice?

I first started training in Tang Soo Do in 1983 at the age of 13 years. I didn't necessarily choose Tang Soo Do because when I first started, as with many new students, I really didn't know the difference between different styles of karate or martial arts. I practiced for roughly 5 years in Tang Soo Do and received my 1st Degree Black Belt in 1988. When I went to Penn State University, I had the opportunity to train in different martial art disciplines including, Tae Kwon Do, Shotokan Karate-Do and kickboxing. This gave me an opportunity to see things differently than what I may have learned from my original instructor.

I use Tang Soo Do as my basis because it is not only a very traditional martial art that employs discipline as it's foundation, but also because it is a well-rounded martial art and utilizes a complete fighting system and martial arts system that encompasses all facets of traditional karate instruction including, self-defense, striking, grappling and realistic application of martial arts technique.

2. What do you think sets your school apart from others?

The main component that sets South Hills Karate Academy and the Independent Tang Soo Do Association apart from other studios and organizations is that as students’ progress we take the time to introduce students to the practical application of technique (called Bunhae Ki Sul in Korean). What that means is that aside from the basic blocks, kicks and punches, we also teach what many refer to as the 'secret techniques' of karate. In other words Traditional karate or Tang Soo Do when taught properly contains a complete system of civilian self-defense. Traditional karate contains all of the techniques needed to defend yourself in any situation and this includes self-defense techniques including striking, grappling, takedowns and escapes.

3. If you didn’t own the studio/teach what do you think you would be doing?

Aside from teaching Tang Soo Do full-time, I also developed a very successful professional career where I managed sales teams in the exhibit and tradeshow industry as well as the promotional product industry.

4. What is your biggest accomplishment?

Aside from my family and raising two great children (10 and 14), my biggest accomplishment is growing South Hills Karate Academy from 2 full-time students in 2005 to where we are now with over 300 full-time students at locations in the South Hills and Elizabeth, PA. Additionally, we have affiliated schools in Cleveland, OH, Bolvar, PA and Texas.

5. What is one of the goals you still want to set?

As President and founder of the Independent Tang Soo Do Association, my current goals including growing the Association so that other studios and schools can learn traditional Tang Soo Do as a complete martial art and not just the basic punch, block, kick style of karate that is offered by other schools and organizations. This is in addition to being the best role model that I can be for all of our students regardless of location!

6. Why should someone practice Karate/Tang Soo Do and what are some benefits they would experience from it?

As I mentioned above, we teach Tang Soo Do as a complete system that involves practical self-defense. Additionally, everything is learned in a safe and controlled class environment that is exciting, invigorating and refreshing to help you be safe and get into great shape! These physical benefits are what a refer to as the 'tangibles' because you can see and measure progress easily. However, you also have the 'intangibles' that come with practicing traditional Tang Soo Do and these include, self-discipline, motivation, and increased confidence.

For more information about the South Hills Karate Academy, check out their website www.southhilsskarate.com

Nicole Leckenby is co-founder and editor of The Holiday Cafe. She works full-time at the University of Pittsburgh and runs after two energetic little boys at home. She wrote her first book, My Crazy Life in 2008 and has also published a children’s e-reader series on Amazon.com called ‘The Little Liam Series’. Nicole also writes a blog entitled Musings for Moms that is featured regular on AcrossRoss.com

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mourning doves

i saw a pair of mourning doves today
at least that’s what they sound like
when they’re cooing
(no one seems to think so but me)
they were sitting on the curb
next to trash cans
403.5 miles from
your front yard where we
would sit and listen to them
over coffee at dusk.
I had never seen a dove
until i met you.
they weren’t cooing
or my heart would ache
reminding me of
the distance between us.
they looked even more beautiful
against the backdrop
of this cold city.
there was a threnody in their eyes
as they gazed upon me
and absorbed my longing for you.
i got into my car and drove off.
they were still sitting there.
i knew i would never see them again

Meredith Carino has a B.A. in English Literature. She tries to capture the personality and depth of a character and applies it to her poetry. Meredith’s influences are Charles Bukowski and Nizar Qabbani.

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An Interview with The Satin Hearts

For this month’s interview we chatted with local band, The Satin Hearts. An eclectic rock n roll band with members who have been entertaining the greater Pittsburgh area for nearly 20 years – the band is comprised of singer Marcy Eustice, guitarist Fran Rifugiato, bassist Jim Capp and drummer Chris Belin. The band began with Marcy and Fran (who teamed up previously in the band Strange Brew) and then expanded to add on the talents of Jim and Chris. While the band spends time entertaining the masses in the ‘Burgh – they’re expanding and now seeing air time on radio stations all over the United States. Here’s a little more info on this exciting band.

Question 1-So what is new with The Satin Hearts?

FRAN- Two things. The first is that we are working on a new CD of original songs. We think it will be our best one yet. We do some covers at local gigs, but our CD`s have always included all original songs. The second big news, at least from my end, is that I am considering buying a guitar tuner so that I can play in tune with our bassist !

MARCY - The biggest news on my end is Fran considering splurging for a tuner. Although I don't believe it’s totally necessary. If Jim and Fran are out of tune with each other I will just pick a key that is closest to the middle. Occasionally I've been known to pick a random key that's nowhere near the key the band is playing the song in, but I still sing in perfect pitch in the random key. Now that's what I call talent! [just kidding!]

CHRIS - Recently I've been using different drum sets for shows, due to stage size, volume specifics, sound preferences, etc. The sets have been very sparkly-looking (green, blue, and possibly red someday soon) so finding shirts to match the set I use for a gig has been a fun task. As the wise Jim Capp once said "Always look your best".

Question 2- The Satin Hearts have been playing bluesy rock n roll around Pittsburgh on a regular basis for almost two decades. What motivates the band to keep gigging?

JIM – For me, it has always been the sheer pleasure of playing the bass, and doing it in front of a crowd. I love the sound and feel of the bottom end and when I hit the right notes, it sounds even better. And, when we all end a song at the same time, we get bonus points.

CHRIS - Even though we've been around the block many times as a group, I never get tired of performing live and recording music with this crew. I'm still as excited as I was on my first gig with them! The song list is always varied and the crowd responds extremely well with both covers and originals. We always conduct ourselves in a professional manner and go above and beyond what the crowd, promoter or club owner expects of us. Even with all that being said, we can pretty much play any tune from our list at any time, in any scenario, which is rare for a band in this area.

Question 3-What is the craziest thing a fan ever did at a show?

FRAN - Someone tried to steal Marcy`s lyric book...it didn`t end well….

MARCY-The craziest thing that happened at a show was when a guy with a long blond crew cut came up to us and said he just got out of the penitentiary and he's gonna party till they take him back. Then proceeded to dump alcohol on his head then lit his hair on fire!

JIM – We get some crazy dancers. I wish I could capture them on video, but my hands are kind of tied up with plucking my strings. And then there is the occasional $100 tip. That’s crazy, but strongly encouraged.

CHRIS- We played at Moundsville State Penitentiary on my birthday a few years back and all the inmates serenaded me with "Happy Birthday" on a set break. Surreal.

Question 4- What can people expect at a show, how can they find out where you are playing, and where can they buy a CD?

JIM – Our set list is pretty interesting, from Johnny Cash to Blondie to Canned Heat. If you don’t like one song, you’ll like the next. And actually, some of our originals go over the best.

CHRIS- People can expect to have a good time. They'll see a band who won't play at uncomfortable volumes and who'll play a catchy, wide variety of songs. Some songs they will know, some they won't. Regardless the band will keep them interested and entertained.

FRAN-Our schedule is on our website www.thesatinhearts.com and our CDs can be bought on our website or wherever fine music is sold.

MARCY- Or check Chris`s website which is always has our latest dates www.chrisbelindrums.com

Find out more about The Satin Hearts: On the web: http://www.thesatinhearts.com/

On Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thesatinhearts

Gwen O'Brien works full time at RMU, works full time as a wife, works full time as a mom, works full time as a dog mom and occasionally finds time to write or edit or both. She resides in McDonald and enjoys reading and donuts when she's not working.

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UNDER KAUFMANN’S CLOCK

I hate the dark at Christmastime—as bad as daytime during Pittsburgh’s Middle Ages, when Grandpap had to strip off his work clothes in the basement, he used to tell me, and scrub down in the concrete shower before Grandma would let him into the real house.

That basement was like Grandpap’s den, even after he retired. He had empty Chock Full ‘o Nuts coffee cans for the brown juice from his chew, and a case of Iron City in the coolest part of the room, hidden behind boxes of Grandma’s Ball canning jars. The cardboard got moldy, and the beer tasted as if someone had dropped a rusty magnet into the bottom of each can. When I was lucky to get a sip, and a wink.

Now I’m freezing under Kaufmann’s Clock, winking Christmas lights all around. In the basement, Grandpap kept a few old orange kitchen chairs with the stuffing spilling out. The one in the worst shape was in the side yard, when it wasn’t holding a parking spot. He had a stack of old Playboys behind the toilet that he cleaned once in a while—Grandma never went in there. Even today, when I get a whiff of Comet, I think about sex. Grandpap would open a centerfold slowly, like an accordion, and say, “I’d do her under Kaufmann’s Clock, Skippy,” winking with his good eye. The other eye was as cloudy as a moggie, from a long-ago accident at the mill. Of course, I was older then. Eleven.

Winking lights, and me holding my Skippy’s hand—he’s five—because Heather thought it would be fun for him to see the holiday windows at Kaufmann’s, I mean Macy’s. Fun for her, I guess. The kid is having a fit, whining that he wants candy. Maybe he’s over the lame mechanical elves that can’t stop packing Santa’s sleigh, a job that never ends. They look like immigrants to me. But Heather—in a white hat with a pom-pom that somehow reminds me of Grandma’s babushka—is all, “Look, Skippy, isn’t it cute!” I blink. It’s hard for me to remember that Heather was hot, once. Then I catch our reflections in the store window: two sacks of potatoes in down coats.

Heather still has her little-girl voice—the one I used to think was cute, but now gives me a tension headache. At least I can escape to the den I put in Grandpap’s basement after I inherited the house. It’s nice—paneling, a bar with a fridge, flat-screen TV, two recliners, and my Steeler shrine. I don’t like the bathroom, but I had to let Heather have her way there. “It’s a real powder room, not a Pittsburgh powder room,” she likes to say. I held out for white fixtures and black-and-gold wallpaper; even if it’s some fuzzy vines—excuse me, flocked.

“If I could paint a picture, I’d paint this,” Heather is saying. It’s the kind of thing she says now. As if Christmas lights and holiday windows and people weighed down with packages like mules—leaning into the snow that’s starting to come down hard—would make the kind of painting I’d put in my den. The only thing I’d keep is Kaufmann’s Clock.

Angele Ellis’s prose and poetry have appeared in over forty publications and six anthologies—as well as on the marquee of The Harris Theatre, after she won Pittsburgh Filmmakers’ G-20 Haiku Contest. She is author of Arab on Radar (Six Gallery)—whose poems earned her a fellowship from the PA Council on the Arts—and Spared (A Main Street Rag Editors’ Choice Chapbook). She lives in Friendship.

Along with Renée Alberts, Kris Collins, Scott Silsbe, Bob Walicki, and Don Wentworth, Angele is part of PITTSBURGH POETS ROCK THE APOLLO, a Friday series at the Apollo, PA Public Library on Sept. 12, Nov. 14, and Feb. 13: https://www.facebook.com/events/285202848330622/

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Wedding Bliss

Ladies and gentleman I am officially a Mrs. and not a Miss!! Chris and I have officially been married over a month and we have enjoyed every minute of it! Granted there are hurtles we overcame this past month that helped me personally understand some life situations better, and made us a stronger couple. We had some interesting experiences that I would like to share because you may find them humorous or mind blowing!

After Chris and I got back from our wonderful honeymoon we were looking forward to coming home and enjoying our first night together in our house. However, we were greeted by an annoying colony of small ants that were in our kitchen. Can someone explain to me where the hell these annoying ants come from? I cleaned our house before we left and I saw no sign of these ants. Needless to say Chris and I put on our “big boy” and “big girl” pants and we went to the store to purchase Raid ant traps. Hallelujah! A few weeks have gone by and we survived our war against the ants. Our house is officially ant free! I may or may not have ended this battle with the ants by squirting an industrial size bottle of Dawn dish soap on the kitchen floor to trap the ants. Thank you to the wise man that gave me the advice of using dish soap because I was seriously at my wits end!

Even though Chris and I were annoyed with the ants we still had to celebrate our first night together in our house. It was getting late. Chris and I decided to celebrate by opening a nice bottle of white wine that one of our good friends gave us as a house warming present. I thought this moment was cool because we were just sitting on the floor and not having a care in the world. We were just drinking wine (I was getting slightly tipsy… I am a light weight…blasphemy!!) reminiscing about different things. It was good that we had that moment because our life gets crazy at times, and I am sure many can relate to us because it seems like everyone has a crazy and hectic life anymore.

The next day we decided to move the rest of my stuff into our house, but are you kidding me?!? That day was one of the most hot and humid days! It was cooler in Rehoboth than it was in Pittsburgh. We grinned and barred it because that’s when it was the best time to move and everyone was available. So that was just a FML moment that I thought I would share because I really can’t make this shit up even if I wanted to. On a side note when we were unloading all my stuff I could see our house transforming into a pigsty. “Moving is awesome” said by no one ever!

I am such a food lover! I have not lived on my own in 10 years. With that being said I could not wait to cook my hubs a fabulous meal. Not to toot my own horn, but some people like to label my cooking as “gourmet cooking” (I will own that compliment because I find it flattering and it makes me feel good about myself). The first day I went grocery shopping I seriously wanted to pull my shopping cart over and slightly cry a little. My mind was BLOWN! I made the mistake of grocery shopping on a Friday. Let’s talk about how I will never ever make that mistake again. People seriously hover around the produce table… I was like “dayum”. Also, I did witness a lady coughing up a lung all over the produce. Seriously, that is classified as #douchebaggery #rude #disgusting!

After that bad experience at food store #1 I went to food store #2. That’s when I needed to get some sauerkraut, but a guy was kind of in my way. I honestly was just trying to survive this whole first day grocery shopping thing. I smiled and said “excuse me”. That’s when the guy noticed my list and recipes and he said to me “You have an inventory”. My personal opinion I wouldn’t classify my recipes as an inventory sheet, but some people are dramatic so I just went with it. I replied by saying “yeah, I use to be in the food industry”. Before you know it I was being introduced to his whole family that was accompanying him at food store #2 that day. That is a prime example of going from one extreme to the next.

After the honeymoon was over it was time for me to go back to our normal routines and head to work. Slight problem that morning… My alarm clock never woke me up!!! We must have had a storm that night and the power must have gone out temporarily. Luckily my husband was on it like blue bonnet because he woke me up 15 minutes before I had to leave to meet my carpool. Since my husband is AWESOME!! He said he would take me to work that morning. He got me to work on time and that eliminated me having to rush around that morning!! Confirming my husband rulez!

Three weeks into our marriage Chris and I had quit the scare. Chris came home early from one of his shows (he’s a professional drummer) and he said his back hurt. I didn’t really think too much of it at the time because it did not seem that serious. The next morning is when all hell broke loose. I remembered how Chris got out of bed and the way he got out of bed was really weird and random so I said “what the hell was that?” Chris said “Natalie, my back really hurts”. I watched him go into the bathroom. I was concerned so I followed him in there. Good thing I did because a few seconds later he leaned into me. Which I thought was odd. So I asked Chris “Do you feel like you are going to faint?” Chris wasn’t responding and that’s when I realized this situation just went from bad to holy shit ballz this can’t be happening!!! As I was lowering him to the ground I was trying to stay calm, on the verge of crying, also scared shitless because I thought my husband could be dying which could constitute my face being plastered all over the national news for being wrongfully accused of killing my husband. As soon as I laid Chris down on the floor he started to snap out of it. I asked him “dude, did you just pass out?” Chris wasn’t sure… I can’t really blame him. All I wanted was some reassurance at the time so I told him “I am calling 911”. Needless to say the paramedics came and took him to a nearby hospital. Yes, it was necessary for my hubs to go with the paramedics because he hurt his back so bad he could barely move. The doctor gave him some medications and now he is back to normal. After I knew he was ok I told him “I didn’t really think that I would be calling the paramedics for you so soon. I thought I would be doing that when we are like 90”. He laughed. I said “oh well at least we got a good test run in”.

Before I was married I never really understood why so many adults drank so many cups of coffee in a day or on the average. My life is usually hectic and full of things to do. However, things have been a little more hectic than usual. My energy level never crashed as bad is it did recently. I had to get an iced coffee. Once I drank that wonderful java juice it snapped me right out of my “dragging ass” stupor I was in. I am usually a tea drinker, but that day I needed something powerful. Which lead me to conclude that heavy coffee drinkers are usually bogged down with tremendous amounts of responsibilities. I will never question another adult with a cup of coffee again.

As one has read my essay they can tell this has been one hell of a marital month. Here’s too many more months of marital bliss! Next husband and wife adventure that Chris and I will have is detoxing! Stay tuned readers! One can only imagine what I will have the opportunity to write about next!

Natalie Sebula holds an Associate's degree in Specialized Technology Le Cordon Bleu Pastry Arts. Natalie is currently working on getting her Bachelor's Degree in Pre-Clinical Dietetics/Nutrition at the University of Pittsburgh. Natalie has a love for the Arts, and loves to adventure!