2013 - Archives

A Brothers Hold It was always known I was going to die. At birth I outlived the odds, and it had only gotten worse. When you know the chance you’ll live to eighteen is almost none, there’s a difference in the air when people talk of their future. I always said I didn’t know what I would do after school, I didn’t tell them I hoped to live. Sometimes I’d tell people of what’s happened in my life. They look at me, with a sad expression, I always wonder if they mean it. “You must really appreciate life then,” they say. I look at them just as they look at me. “No, not really.” “Oh.” It’s in their tone, I didn’t give them the answer they expected. “Do you appreciate life?” So why should I? When I was nine a friend of my parents died. I asked my brother how long they would be sad for. He knew everything my brother, even though he was just three years older. “Well it depends if it’s a really close friend,” he had replied. “I don’t know.” “If it’s a really close friend they’ll be sad for two years. One year to cry, and one more to dry their tears.” Two years later I felt glad that my parents could be happy now. When I was fifteen I told my brother I was afraid to die. In everything, every appointment, every operation, my brother was there with me. Death was the one thing where he couldn’t be. “Don’t worry sis, don’t be scared.” “But I am.” “Just don’t make your last moments bad. Think about the good times instead. Think about how much we love you.” I could see in his voice, there was already sadness there. Yet I had not known what it was for. Three days later my brother died. He didn’t leave a note for my parents, not for his friends, no one else, just a few words for me. When you die I’ll be there In everything my brother had been with me, in everything my brother would be with me. One year passed to cry. Another went to dry the tears. I could be happy again. It was then that I was called to the doctor’s office. “We have some news,” he said, smiling without waver. “A new treatment had been formulated, and whilst it’s still under slight investigation, it could be your cure.” My parents smiled, gave me a hug. “So would you like to undertake it?” The doctor asked. “Of course,” my parents clapped. “No,” I said. They asked me, questioned me, interrogated me. I lied, told them I was scared, it probably wouldn’t work, anything but what I knew. I didn’t know how I could tell them my brother was waiting for me that I had to go. “Don’t worry honey, it will be okay, it won’t do anything bad, it can only help.” “I’m not doing it.” They couldn’t change my mind. I was seventeen when I was admitted to the hospital for the last time. I was not scared, I was not afraid. Right there, I knew my brother was with me. I had had one year of crying and one of drying my tears. Now all that was left was happiness. When you die I’ll be there And he was. Leah Gray writes purely for her own enjoyment, finding that so many different things can be gotten out of it. She likes to try and write in different styles, and experiment with it to. She is currently attending university with the plans of going into an area concerning performance and theatre. A Day in the Life As we grow older things change, sometimes without our notice, sometimes we notice quite well because life is full of first times...a first date, the rush of a first kiss, your first time together, marriage, first kid... all the first times, each in their turn, each in a neat little row... one after the other. I mention this because I was arrested for the first time yesterday. Now, in my mid 60’s, looking back over my life, I am unclear as to how I came to this particular predicament. For those of you who do not know me let me take a moment to explain my side of the story. I am neither a thug nor a bad guy by any stretch of any imagination. I am a rough and tumble kind of a guy who has been shot at pistol whipped, stabbed and have had my share of fights, all without being arrested. I can assure you I have never started a fight and by the same measure never walked away from one either without solving the problem first. I raise my boys with the axiom “Never start a fight but make sure you finish it.” It all began in the electrical isle at the Home Depot. I was buying the material to change out an electrical service. A key component to this task is a weather mast... a ten foot long, forty pound steel pipe. This was the trigger to my situation. As I pushed my cart down the isle I couldn’t help but notice an attractive young woman watching me. Dressed in black slacks with a pale blue, floral top, covered with a bright orange Home Depot apron she appeared to be 23 or 24. She leaned against shelves and smiled softly in my direction. I acknowledged her smile, nodding in return in an effort to be polite. What had caught my eye was that fact that she wore lipstick, a deep rich, luscious, red lipstick. Her long, straight red hair had been curled under at the end giving her that Lauren Bacall forties movie star appearance. I tried desperately to ignore her, to go on about my business, turning my back to her, reaching for the afore mentioned weather mast. To my dismay they were placed four feet off the floor and stood on end making them arduously difficult to recover. The next time I glanced in her direction she waved lightly and her smile broadened. I smiled in return and nodded again. She pushed off the shelves, placing her hands behind her back and began to saunter in my direction. I stood, turning to meet her advance. “I’ve been watching you,” she said, swinging her shoulders lightly from side to side. “I noticed,” I returned. With her this close I could smell her perfume, see her perfect skin and her deep blue eyes. She was truly a beautiful young woman. “My name is Carla,” she said and placed a warm hand on my arm. To my surprise my shoulders pulled back, my stomach sucked in and both of their own volition. “Hi Carla,” I said not know exactly what I should say. “Did you need help?” she asked rubbing my arm nonchalantly. “No, I got it.” I couldn’t help but notice the shape of her sweet face, her full lips, her incredible body, the wanton look in her eyes. “Don’t be like that. You’re just like my Grandpa. He won’t ask for help either,” she cooed. “I beg your pardon?” “Don’t be stubborn, I help my Grandpa all the time,” she said taking my hand leading me back to my cart. Well, as you might imagine things spiraled out of control shortly after that... mean things were said, punches were thrown, shelves knocked over and the police called.... clearly it was not my fault. However, I will say Carla has one hell of a right hook. Tegon Maus - Novelist. Dearheart, my wife of forty four years and I live in Cherry Valley, a little town of 8,200 in Southern California. In that time, I've built a successful remodeling /contracting business. But that's just my day job... everyone that writes, everyone who tells you how to write, all say the same thing... Write about what you know and what I know is me. Well, at least the me I see when I write... a protagonist frequently wedged between a rock and a hard place but manages to work things out at the last minute after all. Like most of us when pushed into a corner it only brings out the best in us and we become the unstoppable force of a reluctant hero. If I have a signature style for creating a character then this is it. Auggie "Come on man. Help me out. Show me how to use it," I pleaded. "I don't need a navigator," he said stiffly. "Ah, but if I'm supposed to be Johnson's partner, maybe he will." "He won't need one either. He's been with the company almost as long as me," he said, twisting his hands on the wheel as he spoke. "How long has that been and what happened to the last guy who sat on this side of the truck?" I thought we were on a roll, at least he was now talking to me. "Push this," he said, stabbing a thick finger into the face of the device. "When this box shows up, put in the job address. Set the town... it will do the rest," he offered, spinning it back in my direction. I began to plug in the information, stumbling with the small keys before getting it right. To my dismay, the screen blinked several times before announcing the address could not be found. I did it three times making sure each attempt was perfect in my determination to succeed. "What the hell did I do wrong?" I asked frustrated. "Let me see the ticket," he snapped, taking the clipboard roughly from my hand. The tone in his voice set me on guard, we were heading down hill again. I could feel it. "Oh Christ, not today... Teslenko," he said glumly, handing the clipboard back to me again. "I know this guy... he's a regular. You won't find his place on a map. It's in the middle of the fucking sticks. Damn and I just had the truck washed." Again silence filled the cab as the vehicle rumbled along. I wasn't sure where we were going but we drove for more than a half hour until we left the freeway for the side streets. What was unexpected was another twenty minute ride into the foothills of Hemet and to the very edge of the blacktop itself. Ryan made no attempt to slow down as we left the pavement and flew onto a well-used, washboard and rut infused dirt road. After an agonizing fifteen minutes I searched about for a house, a trailer, a tent, anything at this point to stop the punishment my kidneys were taking. "What the hell?" I asked after we hit a pot hole so hard I hit my head on the roof of the truck. "Hang tight, wait till you see around the next corner," Ryan said. I was suddenly filled with apprehension... it was the first time he had smiled all day. We bounced along as the road turned hard to the left and then... straight up. Huge clouds of dust trailed behind us as the tires spun, throwing rocks and dirt alike, struggling under the weight of the climb. The back end of the truck fishtailed painfully close to the edge of the road as more of it disappeared over an ever deepening brink. What had appeared to be low, pleasant, undulating hills when we began were now steep shear drops as the dirt road became less defined and the weeds more prevalent. Then, as the ground disappeared and the front windshield filled with nothing but sky, the truck climb over the last hill, hitting the ground hard on the downhill side. Suddenly the landscape in front of us shifted. We had entered a small, relatively flat valley of sorts, no more than four or five football fields long, ringed by a series of little hills, resembling a crater. Running loosely down its center, a dirt road wondered to the far end and then turned around on itself like the eye of a needle. On the south side of us, lined up side by side, eight, old, rusted and junked out cars stood guard, their doors, hoods and trunks either had been removed or now stood open. Across from them, three small wooden buildings, each bulging from every opening with full trash bags stacked several feet high. Virtually every square inch of this little utopia was covered with broken furniture, bicycles, washing machines, desks, televisions, bathtubs, hot water heaters, airplane wings, restaurant signs, machine parts of every type and kind imaginable. It appeared that the world had ended and the last remnants of civilization's existence had been dumped here, leaving the rest of the world clean to begin again. Much to my relief, at long last as the road began to loop onto itself, we stopped in front of a small, dingy yellow, clapboard house, its windows covered with aluminum foil. The front porch was set between two front projections I had assumed to be bedrooms. My attention was caught by the front door having been opened. "This guy is very ablutophbic so remember, no matter what you see, what you hear and for God's sake what you smell... Service before self," Ryan said, drawing a deep breath, opening his door. As I did the same, swinging a leg to step out of the vehicle, a shot rang out. "Hang on newbie," Ryan said with disinterest, waving me back into the truck. I couldn't get my leg back inside or the window rolled up fast enough. A second shot rang out and to my surprise, got little reaction from Ryan at all. "Is mine. Is all mine. Now go." A man's agitated voice called from inside the house. A third shot rang out and I ducked down into the front seat, fearful it had come closer to hitting the truck than the other two. My heart pounded in my throat, as I slowly rose, just high enough to peer out the window. "Is that the best you can do old man," Ryan shouted, leaning on the tail end of the truck with disinterest. "Am saying for last time, is mine. All you see, mine. Now go," the man shouted from behind the door. "Can't go Auggie, your sister called and sent us here. You got a problem I don't know about?" Ryan asked. "Jessica? Is bitch, wants all things mine. Can't keep her hands off it. She not call me." "You have a phone out here, now, Auggie? Cause I would have called you myself if you did," Ryan asked standing up right. "Auggie have no phone, have number." "Yes, I know. Your number is three," Ryan said, coming around to my side of the truck. "Ahh, why not say so... welcome friend," the voice called lightly and the front door swung open. "Come on newbie," Ryan said opening the door on my side. I shifted in the seat, pushing the door open all the way with my foot. "Better bring the flash light, you'll need it." "Ahh, is you. Auggie hear the Vampires got you... you dead now. Not see almost in one life time." "No Auggie, it wasn't me... but it is good to see you again," Ryan said softly. Uncertain about our safety, I wasn't sure who I thought more the lunatic, Ryan or the one who shot at us. The man that had held us off at gun point, now stood on the porch, a shotgun slung through his right arm. He stood a full four foot, seven inches and must have weighed all of 105 pounds. His face, a bright red, held the unshaven stipple of a week or more as if his thin mustache were trying to branch out on its own. His skin in general, appeared to be blotchy and painfully sunburnt. His hair, what little he had, consisted of nothing more than a thin laurel reef that circled his head, flying wildly in every direction. His dark colored pants were filthy, covered in God only knew what, looking more like an abstract painting of odd colors and smears than clothing, held in place by an old faded pair of striped suspenders. His skinny arms, more bone than flesh stuck out of a wife-beater T shirt and held whatever the pants didn't, appearing to be stiff and crusty. Having been white in its beginning, it held no glimmer of hope of ever returning to its origins. "Ahh, this replacement then?" the man with the shotgun asked. "Not mine Auggie... couldn't hold a candle," Ryan said turning to look at me, waving me closer. I followed him, standing on the porch with the two men. "Auggie... newbie," Ryan said lightly. "Augustus Teslenko for your service. You call me Auggie," the dirty little man said cheerfully, grabbing my hand, pumping it like a well. "Nice to meet you sir," I replied, eager to get my hand back. Once released, my first instinct was to wipe it off on my pants as quickly as possible. As if having read my mind, Ryan slowly shook his head no, giving me a stern look. I was waiting for just the right moment, -hoping they would turn their back to me for just an instant. My hand trembled as my imagination began to run away with me. It felt as though there were world destroying diseases firmly entrenched in my palm and were now marching up my arm to overtake me. "Ahhh, sir. What kind of man call Auggie sir? Just Auggie, yeah?" the little man said, grabbing my hand once more. "Alright, that's enough. Show me what you've got old man," Ryan said, slipping an arm around the man's shoulder, following him inside. I almost rubbed a hole in my pants the instant they turned for the door. I sniffed tentatively at my hand and rubbed it again for good measure. As we passed into the building I realized my hand was the least of my problems. With the windows covered with foil, the house was dark and cool. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and less time than that for the appalling odor of the house to pour over me. A dull, thick, smell.. a combination like very old socks, an unflushed toilet, rotting food and an overused cat box filled the air. It felt as if the stench were soaking into my very skin, not to mention, my clothes. The main room, if I could call it that, was full from top to bottom. Stacks of books, newspapers, magazines, paper in all manner and form, filled every corner of the room, stretching up to press against the ceiling itself. We thread our way through the massive columns, following a narrow trail as it snaked around to the kitchen. Once there, I was overwhelm by a new smell, or the intensity of a predominate one, to be more accurate. The pungent smell of onions mixed with that of rotting food brought tears to my eyes. Stacked shoulder high, covering almost every available inch, the kitchen was populated by trash bags, hundreds of them. Flies and gnats hung in the air like a dark cloud hovering over what I could only describe as the remains of a table. My stomach churned, growling loudly and I feared I would throw up, adding to the stench. "Ahh, hear that. Your newbie is hungry," Auggie said turning to Ryan. "No way Auggie. You know the rules," Ryan scolded, waving a dismissive hand in the face of the little man. Auto parts, littered the counter top. The sink was filled with a black, noxious liquid and what appeared to be the better part of a motorcycle engine. At the far right of the top was a paper grocery bag. The little man wrapped on arm around it, sweeping it from the countertop. It had been full of garbage, wet garbage and the bottom immediately fell out, sending its contents to the floor with a watery sound and the dull tin of empty cans. Left behind on the counter was a putrid, milky liquid and a small mass of writhing maggots. To my shock, he slid the back of his right hand quickly across it, smearing the liquid, scraps of the bag's remains and maggots alike onto the floor. "Come... for you, I make lunch," Auggie announced and threw two pieces of moldy bread on top of the very spot he had just wiped with his hand. I shot a panicked look to Ryan, praying to God he would save me. The corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. His gaze made me shiver with the certainty of the mean streak that ran deep inside him. "Auggie. You know he can't... not without losing his job," Ryan said, patting the little man on the back. A wave of relief washed over me and then, instantly, was replaced by the fear of the punishment from an open sigh. "For you? Is tuna," he said, holding one of the stale slices in his hand, looking hopefully to Ryan. "Can't old friend. Still need my job as well," he replied. "Ahh, is shame," Auggie said undaunted, replacing the bread on the counter top, slathering the first piece with mayonnaise He slipped a small, unlabeled can onto an electric opener, tapping the top lightly. The can spun, whirling softly, jumping a little at the end and the device stopped of its own accord. Without missing a beat, he turned the can upside down on the bread, emptying its contents before tossing the can onto the stack of trash on the floor. It took me a few moments to recognize the small, shiny, gelatinous mound in the center of his bread. "It's cat food," I said, my mouth hung open in disbelief. "So? Is all the same. Is tuna," Auggie shrugged, spreading the can's contents with a second piece of bread before taking a huge bite out of the sandwich. My stomach pitched and I turned away before the unthinkable could happen. "Auggie, we're pressed for time. What can we do for you?" Ryan asked, covering his smile with his hand and looking away. "Ahh, yes, yes is toilet... is nothing. Please, for you, some lunch," he said, holding out the half eaten sandwich. "Rules are rules Auggie. As much as the newbie here would love to join you, I would be obligated to turn him in... get him fired and nobody wants that. Now, show me your toilet problem," Ryan explained, patting the little man on the back once more. We followed him through a narrow doorway, down a dark hall. We had to turn sideways to make our way pass a series of high school lockers that had been bolted to the wall. "Is here," Auggie said, lightly kicking open the door. The smell hung heavily in the air, thick, palpable. Ryan stuck his head in quickly before returning to the hallway. "Christ, Auggie. How long has it been?" "Is hard for say. When Christmas?" "Auggie that was seven months ago. It’s been down since then?" Ryan shouted angrily. The smell made me believe it. "No. What Auggie just animal? Is working sometimes, must give delicate help, is all," he said. He suddenly threw himself against the door, making it bang loudly against the wall and kicked the handle on the toilet. The bowl filled with water, pushing its contents and the smell through the walls to assault us before over flowing onto the floor. It gurgled for a moment and then suddenly fell to the halfway mark, stopping. The sharp whistle of the tank filling again rose in pitch, becoming shrill, almost ear splitting before reaching its goal and stopping with a loud, chattering bang of the pipes in the wall. "See? Is almost fine," Auggie announced, pushing the last of his sandwich into his mouth. "It might be the tank," Ryan said, whirling on his heels to return to the kitchen. As bad as the kitchen had been earlier, it was now a haven compared to the hall. "Is tank? Why Auggie not think such a thing?" he said as if Ryan's comment had turned on a light bulb in his head. "When's the last time you opened it Auggie?" Ryan asked sternly, marching, as best he could, for the front door. "Not Auggie... you last time," the little man said defensively. "Damn man, that was almost four years ago," Ryan chided, stopping to face him. "Who knows time? Is come, is goes. Sometime hot, sometime cold, all the same. Sometime you come, sometime Jessica. Very busy here, no time to watch clock. Much work to do," Auggie half shouted in return pushing pass him, yanking open the front door. "Sorry man. You're right. I'm sorry, I forgot myself. I apologize," Ryan said sincerely following him outside. It was everything I could do to keep from running them both over in an attempt to get outside. I will always remember how good, how fresh, how wonderful that air tasted as I filled my lungs. "Is good man know when wrong. You have Auggie's respect," he said, pulling his shoulders back proudly and then spit in his hand before offering it to Ryan. To my shock, without a moment’s hesitation, Ryan spit in his as well and shook the man's hand. "Come, tank is here," Auggie said and made for the back of the house. He walked in an exaggerated manner, throwing his elbows far a side, moving his entire upper torso in doing so. He looked like a man who just found out he was the proud, new father of his first son. I swallowed as much air as possible filling my lungs to the point of burning in hopes of washing away whatever I had been exposed too, washing it out of my life and if possible my memory. As we turned the corner of the house we came face to face with a surprisingly large wooden gate. Anchored to an eight foot tall block wall, it appeared massive and surprisingly clean, almost new. Strapped across its face three large, black, oversized hinges and a matching lock. Every old Arabian Night or Robin Hood movie I had ever seen came to mind as we stood in front of it. Auggie removed a set of keys from his pants, hunching his shoulders, hiding his hands and the keys with his body as he turned the lock. A loud thunk filled the still air followed quickly by a soft squeak from the hinges as the door opened slightly. "You is okay. Auggie not sure for him," he said earnestly pointing to me. Ryan swung his head toward me and then back to Auggie. "He's okay Auggie. He won't say a word... on my honor," he answered, placing a hand on the gate. "Ahh, your word like from the lips of God. Auggie have no worries, but..." Auggie whispered softly to Ryan, leaning closer. "I understand," Ryan answered, turning to me. "Let me see your hand," he said grabbing me by the wrist. Before I could react he turned my hand palm up and spit in it. I was consumed with shock as the newly deposited puddle became warm to the touch. Smiling broadly, Auggie spit in his in return before grabbing my hand, smearing the hot fluids between us. "Is good. Now like brothers, Come, come," he said eagerly, pushing the gate open wide. On the other side, as the portal swung fully open, an astonishing panorama I could never have guessed filled our view. At our feet, hidden under the edge of the thick gate, a redwood 2x4 held back a broad path of pea gravel. In this place all the trash, all the broken manifestations of humankind that existed beyond this wall, disappeared. Every inch had been filled with tropical foliage of every kind imaginable. Somehow, on this side of the wall, the world was as it was in the beginning when everything was green and wild. Our gravel path twisted and turned, taking us through an ever thickening matting of growth, punctuated by the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen. Because of their height and how thick the plants had grown it was difficult to tell how far we had traveled or how large an area we were involved in. Having locked and left the gate behind, the path had split several times, each new branch appearing to be much the same as the one we traveled. A full ten minutes after entering this Eden, the path shifted becoming a clean white sand. The plants fell back further from the trail, no longer over lapping and hindering our way. Amazed as I was upon seeing this side of the wall, I was blown away as the path opened up to what I could only describe as a beach. The largest, most beautiful plants of every color stretch skyward casting swaying shadows onto a circle of white beach sand. Approximately fifty feet or so across, I would have thought we had been magically transported to the tropics. Sitting dead center was a small, blue, plastic kiddy pool in pristine condition and full of water. Spread out next to it, a large, clean, colorful beach towel. Next to that a short beach chair and a cooler with ice and several bottles of unopened beer. On the opposite side, a broad, stone waterfall, its top disappearing in the upper growth above it, filled the air with a cool mist and the relaxing sound of moving water. Sizable rocks caught the liquid, forming a pond before meandering off, vanishing somewhere into the under growth. Six large, impressive Koi swam in its depths, darting in and out of the many hiding places the water held. I was about to say how impressed I was with our surroundings when a splash of color sped by me. As I turned to follow its path I was stunned to see, what I had assumed to be a parrot had landed on Auggie's shoulder. As I stood, astonished by this turn of events, several other tropical birds appeared briefly before flying away to hide in the foliage. "Not now, Auggie working. Later for you," he said lightly turning his head. As if the bird understood him, it gave him a peck on the lips and flew away. "Tank is here," he said pointing at the pool. All three of us grabbed an edge dragging it to one side. Hidden under it, a rusty metal plate a little more than two feet in diameter. I stood, amazed at the paradise that surrounded me and didn't see how they managed to remove the top, flipping it to one side. "Alright newbie, it’s all you," Ryan said pointing at the hole that lay in front of us. "Me? Why me?" I asked. "I get it. We'll flip for it," Ryan said, reaching for a coin from his pocket. Placing it on his thumb he flipped it high in the air. "Tails," I called as it spun brightly in the dappled sun. He caught it, slapping it on the back of his left hand before peeking at it. "Nope," he said without showing it to me, slipping the coin back into his pocket. "Get into the hole." All I could do was shake my head and look into the opening. It was dark, foreboding and smelled almost as bad as the house. The ominous sound of dripping water overshadowed that of the waterfall. "Got that flashlight?" Ryan asked with a smile. I pulled it from my back pocket, turning it on. "There should be an iron ladder bolted to the north wall," Ryan instructed as I peered inside. "How deep is this thing?" I said halfheartedly. "Is thirty feet when new," Auggie inserted. "Jesus," I breathed. "What you're looking for is a pipe about ten feet down. Sometimes it clogs up... sometimes on its own, sometimes because of rats making nest. You let me know which and then I'll tell you how to handle it," Ryan offered, grabbing me by the back of the neck squeezing lightly. "I'll bet you will," I returned, searching for a hand hold and the ladder he said should be there. It took a few moments for me to locate the ladder and my courage. "Here, take my hand," Ryan suggested, bracing himself against the iron lip of the hole. I did as he instructed, finding myself slowly being devoured by the gaping mouth of the opening. It was surprisingly hot inside. The walls had been made of eight inch common concrete brick. An open portion, no more than two inches wide had been deliberately left between them for seepage into the ground beyond. Brightly colored mold or fungus grew on the walls, covering the interior with it's countenance, giving the huge spiders and roaches a place to hide as well as feed. Slowly I made my way down the ladder, each rung wet with a gravely defoliated surface. Some slimy with mold, others incrusted with God only knew what but all held the potential of years of rust and the ability to send me crashing to the bottom and to whatever waited for me there. "Alright I see it. I found the pipe," I yelled. "Good," Ryan shouted down to me, blocking the light from above. A little panic filled me and I yelled. "Can't see if you block the light," I admonished. "Try using the flashlight Newbie," he returned. I had been holding onto it as if my life depended on it and forgot all about it as I gripped the iron treads for all I was worth. I shined the light toward the bottom but saw nothing. Whatever lay beyond the reach of my light held no interest for me. I just wanted to do this and get out. The air became hotter the deeper I traveled and more difficult to breathe. A thin trickle of water oozed from the 3" pipe through a mass of cobwebs. "It was full of sticks and empty snail shells," I shouted to the top. "Rats, they love snails. How thick are the sticks? A hand full or does it go back away?" Ryan questioned. "I can’t tell... back a way I think," I said peering into the pipe with the light. "Okay. Hang on. I'll be right back. Auggie," he shouted and then disappeared into the light. It was eerie, standing on the ladder without his voice for reassurance. Although it was nice to have a little more daylight, it came and went with the swaying of the foliage above, flickering between bright and dark. After what seemed like forever I checked my watch, kicking myself for not having done so when he said he would be right back. As it stood now, I didn't know if he had been gone five minutes or an hour. Finally, I decided if he didn't come back shortly I would climb out. I have no idea why, but in my impatience for his return, I poked at the sticks that were stuck in the end of the pipe. At first, for no other reason than an increased level of curiosity. "How the hell did a rat get all this stuff in here? It must be part beaver," I said to myself absentmindedly, picking at the tangle of twigs. Each new movement released a fractional increase in the water. I pulled a little more, a stick at a time, then a fist full, reaching ever deeper into the length of the pipe to clear the clog. Before I realized it, I had my arm all the way up to my shoulder. Something was wedged, caught. It felt like cloth but I couldn't be certain. I tugged on it. For a moment, I thought it shifted for me. I repositioned myself, yanking as hard as I could, freeing it at last. At the same instant it became unobstructed; it occurred to me what I had done. I yanked my arm out as fast as humanly possible, clutching the rails of the ladder for dear life. The sound from inside the pipe shook me to the core. It rumbled with a deep, menacing sound, like the growl of some wild animal and then puked forth. Gallons of rancid liquid rushed by me as I pressed myself tightly to the ladder, splashing against the opposite wall and onto me. Noxious fumes rose from the bottom, racing me back to the top. "Get me out," I shouted, thrusting a hand wildly above me. Ryan grabbed me with both hands, pulling me to the surface. I lay in the sand for a moment, staring up at the sky. "Awh man, you got it on me," Ryan said, stepping back. He held his right arm up and away from his body as if it were on fire. "My sand. Is on my sand," Auggie shouted, standing over me, waving his arms. "Come on, newbie. Get off the man's sand," Ryan chided. "I'm covered in shit, cut me a little slack," I groused, getting to my feet. To my disgust the cloth that had been the core of the problem was still in my hand. It appeared to be a colorful dish towel... at least the top half... the bottom had been burnt away. "Ahh, is Christmas towel. Auggie set fire making steak for friends. Put flaming towel in toilet. Save dinner party. Auggie hero," he said with pride, taking the towel from my hand. I was wet from the waist down, uncertain as to how much was from the pipe and how much was from me. I had no desire to know for sure, refusing to let myself look. My boots were filled with the unthinkable and the only thing that filled my head... the only thing that occupied my mind... I wondered what the hell Johnson was doing right now. Tegon Maus - Novelist. Dearheart, my wife of forty four years and I live in Cherry Valley, a little town of 8,200 in Southern California. In that time, I've built a successful remodeling /contracting business. But that's just my day job... everyone that writes, everyone who tells you how to write, all say the same thing... Write about what you know and what I know is me. Well, at least the me I see when I write... a protagonist frequently wedged between a rock and a hard place but manages to work things out at the last minute after all. Like most of us when pushed into a corner it only brings out the best in us and we become the unstoppable force of a reluctant hero. If I have a signature style for creating a character then this is it. Drowned in Hate I felt the stab of pain From a brother in the hood One seeking to rise to fame I thought he understood. I taste the bitter in what he said As he spits the words out “I wish you were dead” He just verified my doubt. I hear the cries for pity In our own neighborhood, Not across the state or in another city I hear the cries that no one ever should. I smell the stench of betrayal Of the brother who killed his mate. “And thus he came to the end of his trail”, Said the pastor, as silent he lays in state. I see the mother dab her eye She’s crying for our state It’s not just the other guy It’s our nation drowned in hate! Leo Long is a South African poet and aspiring writer. America's Paranoia In keeping with the theme of America’s recent paranoia and unrealistic fears, here are some moments from my childhood and the most paranoid person I know, my father… “Turn the water off and set the timers!” is what my father ordered anytime we would go out of town. He was completely convinced that the water pipes in our house would burst as soon as we arrived on the littered beaches of Lake Erie, causing us to rush back to the burgh to a home with a “freakin waterfall.” And that if we didn’t have the house lights go on and off on a routine, someone would surely break in and “Go through our papers.” My father was an O.G. when it came to Identity Theft Protection. “Did you lock the doors?” is what my father asked as he watched us press the little silver buttons on the car doors, causing them to lock. If the doors were unlocked, a “bum” would jump at the chance to make our car their new home. This same “bum” was also behind the fear of not putting our hands in any public fountains. Imagine a hot, humid PGH summer and being downtown with your family running errands when you come across a fountain in the middle of Mellon square… All you want to do is take some of that rushing water and dump your little head in it for some relief from the heat. “Don’t touch that water! Bums piss and bathe in that!!” “Someone is casing the joint!” is what my father would announce as my mother went around to every room, to make sure the window curtains were tightly pulled and no cracks were visible. With all of us gathered around the kitchen table with the big light on, he would pull a wad of cash out of his pocket and ration money for bills, for groceries, for medicine, for my mom’s allowance. During this distribution, I would imagine there were old timey gangsters trying to look into the windows but were foiled b/c my mom’s curtain tightening skills were mad dope. ”There’s only one pilot.” Is the reason my father gave for not flying in a sightseeing airplane in Ocean City, MD. His wife and kids got on the plane to take a tour of the MD beach coast but my dad would not get on the plane because “there was only one pilot, and what if he had a heart attack? The plane would crash.” It didn’t seem to bother him that the crashing plane held all of the members of his immediate family. “I believe we are living in the end times. We are going to see the rapture.” My father stated to our beach neighbor during said trip to Ocean City. It was 1991, the first gulf war, and my father and this grandmother spoke about how the war in the middle east was a sign that life as we know it, was coming to an end and that Jesus will be returning very soon. I grabbed my boogie board and tried to catch a wave while thinking of eternal judgment and hellfire and if I would be left behind. “HEY! ERNIE! THEY AREN’T WATCHING YOU!” is what my brother shouted to my father, when while watching the PATRIOT GAMES DVD, my father paused the movie where the satellite zooms in on a desert bunker to spy on terrorists. My father got up, walked out the front door and looked up at the afternoon sky as if to say “COME AT ME BRO!” They never did. Holly Coleman is a yinzer who grew up and still lives on Troy Hill. She co-manages The New Yinzer Monthly Reading Series. Orion - Hunter of Autumn Dawns and Winter Nights The constellation Orion got its name from Greek mythology. According to the myth, there was a great hunter named Orion and upon his death the deity Artemis whom loved Orion was so distraught by his death that she placed Orion among the stars. Some cultures see Orion as holding his sword over his head with his shield in front of him. Other cultures see him as preparing to shoot a bow and arrow. It is all in the eye of the beholder. Orion can only be seen in the autumn and winter months. It is absent from our sky from spring through summer. The reason is that during the spring and summer months Orion is on the opposite side of the sun and rises and sets at approximately the same time as the sun thus it cannot be observed. Once Orion is clear of the sun’s path it re-emerges in the eastern sky before dawn in early autumn. As the Earth orbits the sun Orion will rise 4 minutes earlier each day/ 2 hours earlier each month. By December and January Orion will be directly overhead in the evening hours. When viewed from Earth all the stars that form the constellation Orion appear to be approximately the same distance from Earth. This is an optical illusion as all the stars and Nebulae that make up Orion are actually very far from one another. Let us take a look at the stars that make up Orion’s belt. Going from right to left, Alnitak is 800 light years away from Earth, Alnilam is 1350 light years from Earth and Mintaka is 900 light years from Earth. When we look at them from Earth they appear to be right next to each other in almost a straight line but they are actually very distant from each other. Light travels at a speed of 186,388 miles per second / 671 million miles per hour. A light year is the distance that light travels in 1 year. So even though Alnitak and Alnilam look to be right next to each other, Alnilam is actually 550 light years farther away! Hard to wrap your mind around that isn’t it? That something traveling 671 million miles per hour could take that many years to reach something that appears to be right next to it! So why do they look like they are so close? It’s the same optical illusion when you look at a picture of a city from overhead. Skyscrapers appear to be the same height as much smaller buildings because you are looking at them straight on, There is no depth perception whereas if you look at the city at an angle, the depth of the buildings is revealed. Another fascinating feature in Orion is the star Betelgeuse. Betelgeuse is a red super giant star located on Orion’s right shoulder. Betelgeuse is so large that it is 30 times the size of our own sun! Betelgeuse is a very young star; it is only 10 million years old. That may sound old but as far as stars go it is an infant. Our own sun is 4.5 billion years old. Though Betelgeuse is a young star, it is already at the very end of its life. Stars that are very large do not live very long lives. The reason is that they burn their hydrogen at a much faster rate than smaller stars. Once the star has burned all its hydrogen it begins burning the helium which causes it to turn red and expand in size. Once it has burned all its helium, Betelgeuse will go Super Nova and explode. This can happen at any moment over the next million years. Betelgeuse may have already exploded but because it is 430 light years from Earth the light of the explosion has not reached us yet. Fascinating isn’t it? It is quite possible that it exploded 400 years ago when America was first being settled but yet it still appears in our sky as a bright star even though it may have not existed for the last 400 years! And we wouldn’t notice the Super Nova for another 30 years! Let us now take a look at the crown jewel of the Orion Constellation. That would be the Orion Nebula. A nebula is an enormous cloud of gas and dust in outer space. Nebulae are often referred to as stellar nurseries. The reason is because nebulae are where stars are born and grown. Stars form when large amounts of hydrogen and dust collapse from their own gravity. When this happens the gas heats up and when it reaches extremely high temperatures, Gravitational energy transforms into thermal energy and the laws of Newton and Einstein take over. When this happens, Nuclear fusion occurs and the star is born. The Orion nebula is a massive stellar nursery with a size of 25 light years across. Approximately 700-800 stars in various stages of evolution are present in the nebula. The Orion Nebula is so large that even though it is 1500 light years away from Earth it can still be seen as a fuzzy patch with the naked eye from a very dark location. Using binoculars or a telescope really unveil its wonder and beauty. The Orion nebula is located on the sword that hangs from Orion’s belt. What I have shared with you is just a few highlights from the autumn and winter’s most magnificent constellation. A clear and cool autumn morning this season, Head outside before dawn. Look east and observe Orion – Hunter of autumn dawns and winter nights. Sean O'Brien is a member of the Amateur Astronomers Association of Pittsburgh. He enjoys reading, writing and discussing Astronomy, Cosmology and Philosophy. On clear nights he resides outside with his telescope, Otherwise he resides in McDonald, PA with his Wife, Daughter and Two dogs. Trax Farm Interview There is nothing quite like going to a farm during autumn. Picking pumpkins from the pumpkin patch, drinking homemade apple cider, hay rides and so much more are all a part of the experience. Trax Farm, located in Finleyville, is such a place to do all of that and more. I am actually having my boys’ birthday party there so we can indulge in some of the fall festivities. I figured since I was having their party there I would brush up a little on the place and in addition learn a little more about the farm and its history. I spoke with Terry McLaughlin who works as the Retail Designer at Trax. Terry was able to get my questions answered by Peggy Trax Coffield, a 6th generation Trax family member who is currently in charge of the Payroll Department and also one of the buyers. She grew up living and working on the farm, still lives on the farm today and knows every detail. She's the daughter of Bob Trax, who was born on the farm and in spite of his age, can still be seen in the fields pruning blueberries and planting corn. Trax Farm image - kid picking a pumpkin How long has Trax Farm been in existence? The first Trax family members left France in 1814 to sail to America. In 1865, 75 acres of farmland was purchased in Library, PA, so that's the date we use as our beginning point. How many people does Trax employ? We have 265 employees but the total varies with the seasons. The greenhouse and nursery are fully staffed during spring and summer but the staff does not work in the winter. The same is true with field crew, where many extras are hired for the weekends of Fall Festival. What tends to be the busiest season? For Trax Farms, the busiest season is the 6 weeks of our Fall Festival, which runs mid-September through October. We have thousands of customers who come for apples, pumpkins, our homemade cider and loads of festival activities. It's a monstrous task keeping all areas stocked, 7 hayride tractors running and adequate staffing in place. Winter is quiet; fewer employees, fewer customers, nothing going on in the fields. This is a time to repair tractors and equipment both inside and out. Spring and summer are busy with constant planting, harvesting, irrigating, field maintenance and product delivery to area stores. What is the favorite season of Trax? Fall is always a favorite; there is nothing like harvesting a field that you planted and nurtured. You know a winter rest is ahead and the pace will slow. Spring is also at the top of the list; pruning orchards and berries in late winter or early spring, getting on the tractor as soon as the ground is dry, to plow, and start the planting. There is always a bit of excitement, the first day you can plow. What are some things people may not know about Trax Farms? In the early 1900's a barn dance was held in the upper level of the current market barn. It featured a live band and you needed to purchase a ticket to enter. From what I read in the Trax history book (compiled by Doris Trax), I believe that women were admitted free but men needed a $10 ticket. I thought that was an interesting fact. The upper level of the barn was also the location for a community pot-luck picnic held on a summer evening over 50 years. All the neighbors were invited and the huge barn was filled with everyone we knew. It was a night of great fun as the kids explored every corner of the old barn and the parents enjoyed visiting and sampling loads of delicious homemade food. This part of PA was originally inhabited by native American Indian tribes. It was used as hunting grounds and for years spring plowing unearthed arrowheads in the fields. Bob Trax was good at finding them as he plowed. Said they had a bit of a glint in the sun that made them stand out as the dirt was turning over. What are some difficulties with running a farm? Weather and wildlife are huge factors. Pittsburgh is tough, the weather is changeable and unpredictable. If there’s too little snow/rain--irrigation ponds don't fill and crops need irrigated. Too much rain and we can't plow or plant and crops in the ground don't progress from lack of sun. If spring gets warm too soon, then the fruit blossoms early only to be killed if we get a frost. There are countless more weather related horror stories but you get the picture.....it all means large amounts of money lost. Deer, turkey, Canadian geese, raccoons, etc. love eating what we grow. Today, we have to go to the expense of fencing fields to prevent crop damage. Changing landscape Yesterday, our location was rural. Today we are surrounded by housing developments. Home owners love the setting beside a farm but often have a low tolerance for the dust, tractor noise, sound of irrigation pumps running 24/7, etc. It's not a huge problem and we try to always be good neighbors, but it adds to the difficulty in running the farm. Competition We are unique--a small family farm trying to make a living in America in 2013. We're are a dying breed. Competition is fierce; mega-growers, huge chain supermarkets, discount groceries, farmers markets, etc. are in a position to sell for less. So we constantly look for ways to attract customers to Trax Farms for reasons other than lowest price and focus on our quality, special events, festivals and the overall farm experience of shopping here. Government regulations Designed to protect the public from health concerns, new regulations arrive constantly and they've made it almost impossible to be a farmer today. What impact does Trax have on the community? Trax provides employment for 250+ employees in the community. The farm also keeps money local by building the local economy. We also provide locally grown produce, in addition to providing the convenience of having a grocery, produce, bakery, wine shop, deli, home/gift, nursery, lawn & garden center store located near surrounding developments We also pride ourselves on providing "calming emotional relief" in the crazy culture we live in. Many people come to Trax to walk around, relax, get away from life; enjoy the beautiful flowers, browse all the countless products and simply slow down for a while. Since I started working here three years ago, it seems more and more people come here for a "mental health" escape. We hear so many people say the same thing: ‘I love going to Trax. It's cheaper than therapy!" Since we've been here almost 150 years, people love coming to a place that remains. In a transient, ever changing, often shocking culture, Trax Farms is still here. We symbolize good health, wholesome values, family, fun, consistency, stability and deep roots. We revolve around the four seasons and we're a place to reconnect with that part of life. We're also a place of nostalgia as we welcome a 3rd generation of kids to our festivals....happy childhood memories have been made here and pictures at Trax events fill many Pittsburgh family photo albums. It's hard to put into words. People come here for a "feeling." We're like an old friend. Nicole Leckenby is co-founder/editor of The Holiday Cafe. She works full-time at the University of Pittsburgh and runs after a very energetic three year old and a newborn at home. She wrote her first book, My Crazy Life in 2008 and has just published two children's books available for Kindle. Endless Blue First day of the storms, I freeze pints of blue- berries you bring me from the farmer’s market and eat them by finger-fulls until my tongue, teeth, and hands stain, the clouds unruly with monsoon and the locals turtle-slow by fat, heavy rain. I sit on my back porch in a blue lawn chair and watch the trees shake. From then on blue is always more—deserts, turquoise, your eyes. The evening you ask me, it’s the blue- bellied lizard on the mulberry tree, blue notes and purr of jazz on the radio, blue crowns of the kestrel pair on the telephone wires. Last day here, blue eggshell morning we drive through, blue mountain twilight, blue sparrows diving the highways— at last, blue painted house, our home. Laura Madeline Wiseman has a doctorate from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln where she teaches English and creative writing. She is the author of seven collections of poetry, including Sprung (San Francisco Bay Press, 2012) and Unclose the Door (Gold Quoin Press, 2012). She is also the editor of Women Write Resistance: Poets Resist Gender Violence (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2013). Her writings have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Margie, Arts & Letters, Poet Lore, and Feminist Studies. She has received awards from the Academy of American Poets and Mari Sandoz/Prairie Schooner, and grants from the Center for the Great Plains Studies and the Wurlitzer Foundation. Learn more at www.lauramadelinewiseman.com Letties Love I knew he was behind me, but I could not hear his muffled sobs. All I could hear was my own yearning cries. The ones that tore through my heart, and ripped away a part of me. As we stared at the stone erected over the grave, I felt a hand enclose around mine, and looked to see a suffering as great as my own. “Matt?” I had opened the door, to find him standing there. “Hey Cass. My Mum baked a lasagne, I thought I’d bring some over.” He smiled, though I could tell that he had to put it on. “Thanks. Want to come in?” I pulled the door open wider, stepping aside as he made in way in. “Want a drink?” We sat at the table, talking easily. Easier than we’d ever been able to talk when she was with us. “It would’ve been three years on Tuesday. “Lettie couldn’t stop talking about it. You were so young when you were eighteen. We all were.” We paused, a sigh coming from him. “She was beautiful, wasn’t she.” “There was more beauty than I ever thought to look for.” “Did you see it before…” He trailed off, not needing to finish his sentence. “Whenever I looked at her. Whenever I commented on her ugliness people would say that I couldn’t say that because we looked the same, but I never believed it, she was always more beautiful. Always will be.” “It’s hard to think of her, down there-” tears choked in his eyes. As mine became foggy I reached out and took his hand, finding comfort in the sense of another. “Her beauty won’t die with her as long as we remember it.” The words came from my mouth, and I knew he heard. “I promise.” He left when my parents came home. They were tired, as they always were now, and thanked him for the food before he took his leave. I waited until he disappeared up the street. We ate silently that night, as we always did now. It was good to have real food. Mum hadn’t cooked for a while. Mum didn’t do much nowadays. Dad had started going to work again. He went per normal, came home as normal. Dad seemed to be coping the best. I had stopped crying myself to sleep, instead tossing restlessly. I woke several times, thinking of her. And yet, she never entered my dreams. I would lumber about in the days, wishing the university term could start again. But it wouldn’t for another two months. People would come over occasionally and they creep around the house as if every step would unleash a ghost. My friends would treat me cautiously, double-checking before they spoke. All I wanted was my normal friends; I didn’t care if they cracked a joke that broke me into remembrance. But they never dared. The next time I saw Matt was two weeks after. I was sitting on the bus when he came and plonked himself beside me. “What’s new?” He said. “Hi Matt.” “Going home?” “Yeah.” I didn’t feel much like talking, not to him right now. All I wanted was someone I could spill my thoughts to. “It’s lasagne night on Thursday, do you want me to bring some over?” “Only if you make it.” “Sure.” “What! No wait, Matt, you don’t really have to cook the lasagne.” I staggered, trying to take back my challenge. “Nonna’s over, she’s too eager to refuse.” I recalled the one time I had met his bubbly Italian grandmother. “Belle belle belle.” She had kept repeating as she gestured towards me and my alike. “Then I’ll look forward to it.” He brought the lasagne round and invited himself to dinner that night. And though the pasta was soggy, the meat chunky and the sauce runny, it was the best lasagne I had ever had. It was a year since she died now. So long since I’d seen him. I never thought I would again. Yet I sat on a park bench when he came and sat beside me. “Matt?” “I’m not that unrecognisable am I? I still haven’t grown that beard.” It was definitely Matt. “Lettie always said that she would never let you.” “I made her promise that you know.” “She crossed her fingers you know.” We laughed, together, a sound I had not expected today. “How are your parents?” “They were to the cemetery today. They want us to take a holiday.” “You didn’t?” I sensed the question in his tone. “Her body may lie there but her heart doesn’t.” He was silent, contemplating I think. “Where does her heart lie Cass?” “With you. She loved you so much Matt, so so much.” “I know, I know.” We took that holiday and went down to the coast. The opposite of where Lettie would’ve chosen. My parents did that for a reason, but I don’t know if it helped. It was once told that grief wouldn’t last forever, that all I had to do was find something else to concentrate my efforts on. I found nothing. And yet it was like I suffered more, like each passing day I missed her so much more and instead of becoming better, I became worse. And sometimes Matt would slink into my mind, and less often into my life. And so another year passed, and again I sat in the park whilst my parents went to the cemetery. “What are you doing here Matt?” I asked as he approached me. I wasn’t surprised though. “I took a guess and hoped you’d be here. Why did you choose this place anyway?” “Lettie and I always used to come and play here when we were younger. We were set on running away and living under the slide once. Lucky Mum came home with a chocolate cake that day.” He laughed, and I smiled as his rumble surrounded my ears. “Cass and I used to come and sit on the swings, trying to see who could swing over.” “I wondered what you’d do when you came here.” “Yeah, it wasn’t all we did though.” I couldn’t help it, and I laughed. “That’s more like it, when did I last here that from you?” “About the same time I last saw you.” “You need to see more of me then.” I laughed again. “You know I’m laughing at you, not with you.” “Laughter’s laughter.” “True.” We sat silently, I remembering the laugher I used to hold. “It’s been two years Matt-” “She lived for eighteen.” “Am I going to live like this for the next eighteen years?” “No, you’re going to live the life Lettie would’ve wanted from you.” He took my hand, and sitting there, I was taken back to the day before, when he stood behind me sobbing. “I want to show you something Cass.” He released my hand, reaching into his pocket but then retracting it. “What is it?” “Do you know where Lettie and I were going, the night that…” I could hear his words catch in his throat. “Lettie said you were going out to dinner.” “I was going to take her to a little restaurant at the top of a hill that I know about.” I waited for him to continue, wondering where this would end. He wasn’t looking at me, gazing at the swings instead. “And then I was going to wait till the sun began to go down, and I was going to take her outside. And we would stand there gazing for a few minutes. Until I took this out.” And he again reached into his pocket, and pulled out a little black box, still glossy in its sheen. “You were going to propose.” “I loved her Cass, I still do. It was going to be perfect.” I placed my hand on his, covering the box from sight. “Do you want to see it?” “No.” “It was the perfect one for her.” “You would’ve been married by March.” “In the church, with a dress like a marshmallow.” “And her bridesmaids would wear gold.” “Beef and prawns.” “With a three-tier chocolate cake.” We stopped. Wanting to laugh, but to hurt with pain. “She knew what she wanted, didn’t she.” “She wanted you Matt.” We sat there, till the afternoon grew cold. He walked me back to my house, leaving me when I invited him in. I lay on my bed that night, sleep not daring to encompass my mind. But whilst my thoughts did not turn to her, they turned to him. The boy, the friend, the one who had always been wrapped in her mind, and now was wrapped in mine. He turned up the day after, a dish laden in his hands. “Lasagne? It’s not Thursday.” He made his way in, not bothering for a welcome. “Nonna’s coming again, I’m practicing.” “Thanks Matt.” I took the lasagne into the kitchen, coming out and putting us on the coach. “Your phones ringing.” “What?” I looked at him, wondering how he knew that, considering I hadn’t seen my phone since yesterday. “I can feel it.” He got up, and reached underneath the cushion beneath him. “Here’s your phone.” “Hey, thanks.” I stared at it blankly for a few seconds “Are you going to answer that, or wait for it to answer itself.” I quickly pressed the button. A few words. “My parents won’t be coming home for dinner.” “Good thing I’ve brought some.” We sat on the couch, easting the pasta. It wasn’t as soggy, chunky or meaty, but it was just as good. “You know, Lettie never liked lasagne.” Matt looked at me curiously. “You’re not just faking it are you?” “Do you remember in primary school, when we tried that weird green thing and I couldn’t stop taking mints because I thought the taste was still in my mouth.” “Right.” “She was crazy for that, I don’t know how anyone could not like this. I want some more.” He got up, returning to the kitchen with the dish. “Just one more bite.” I reached to where he had rested it on the table, taking a chunk with my fork. “Hey! If you can double-dip I can double-dip.” He reached forward and repeated my actions. “Well then.” I grabbed the dish and put it between us. “I want another bite.” We sat there, eating from the dish, just because we could. Joke flew from him, laughter from me. And for a little while I forgot about her. Until he spoke. “What do you think Lettie would be doing, is she was still here?” I stopped, thinking before I spoke. “I think she would be standing in your own kitchen making macaroni and cheese. With a big vase of flowers on the table.” I added. “She loved flowers.” “She was going to do a floristry course.” We shared these facts, though both knew them all. “What did you use to think about me Matt?” “Easy, you were the evil twin that lurked behind every corner. You know, one day one of my mates said I should break up with her, because she wasn’t cute enough. Instead of smashing him in the face I told him that I couldn’t because then her sister would come beat me up.” “To right.” He sighed. “Did you consider us friends.” He paused this time, considering. “We were more than friends. You were always there to hold her hand in a way that I couldn’t, and I respected you for that.” “There were times when I just had to push in, times when I needed her just as much as she needed me. It’s not like that anymore. She doesn’t need me, but I need her.” “She’s still there.” “You think so?” “Yes.” He started coming over regularly after that, bringing lasagna, one time venturing with spaghetti. My parents seemed happy to see him, and I was always welcome to his visits. And in that way another year passed. During that year we grew closer, and I found myself becoming happier. My friends had become less cautious until there was barely a hint of the past. Things were getting better. But still I didn’t return to the cemetery, no matter how many times people said it would help. And so I returned to the park, knowing he would come. Instead, he was already there when I arrived, sitting on the swings. It surprised me that he was here earlier. I walked back the bench and sat on the one adjacent. “You’re here early.” “Do you know why I always came here later the other years?” “No.” “I was visiting her gravestone.” I was silent, unsure of what to say. For some reason I hadn’t even thought that he’d want to visit where she lay. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” “You didn’t have to.” Yet I knew that I felt that he did. “She’s there Cass, I went there and for a moment…” I remained silent, not wanting to say anything, knowing that this was his moment. His and hers. “I had to Cass.” “What about this year?” He looked away, looked back. “I didn’t want to go alone. Come with me Cass, please.” It was my turn to look away, to stare into the blades of grass until I felt my hand in his. “It’s okay if you don’t want to.” He didn’t say more, he knew when to stop. And he always knew how to get me to go. He stood behind me, as I stood staring at the smooth stone. Time had done nothing. Tears shattered from my eyes, dripped off my chin. A hand enclosed around mine, and I looked back to see a suffering as great as my own. But there, hidden in his eyes, lay a gleam of chance, a gleam of hope. He started coming over my occasionally after, not always bringing food. I began to venture to his place, becoming to know more of his family, whilst he already knew mine. One more year past, and I found that with each day, I wasn’t so sad. Four years and though I was still sad, it only weighed slightly on me, everything my life was beginning to return to what it used to be. So on this day before the fourth year, I took myself into her room, tears coming to my eyes as I remembered. I sat on her bed, resting my hand on her pillow. And beneath that… I pulled out a notebook, gilded with a silver cover. I stared at it a few moments, then dared to flip through the pages. Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Diary, Dear Cass I stopped staring at the two words at the top of the page. Questions flashed through my mind, but the most important; should I read it? With a hesitant halt, I looked down at the page and took in the words of her callous hand. Dear Cass I know that you’ll never read this, but still, I need you to know. Cass, you are my greatest sister. Granted you are my only sister, but you are the greatest. You have always been there for me, and know, please know, that no matter what happens between us, I will always be there for you. Till the end has come and gone. You know how we used to believe that a fairy would one day come down and give us each a wish. Well I saw a fairy, I wished that you could be happy, no matter what it takes. I don’t care what you do, I don’t care if I died, as long as you’re happy. No matter what. Cass please, please, be happy. Whenever you smile, I don’t smile because I’m laughing at the same joke. I smile because I love to see you smile. We’re sisters Cass, but you’re so much more. You have done an immense amount for me, and I’d like to think that one day I can give something to you. I will though. I do not know what it will be, but one day I will give something to you that will repay you. It will be the greatest thing I have to give. So Cass if you do ever read this, know that I’m a hopeless liar and that I love you Cass. So much. Lettie. Tears. Cascades. Tears. I sat with the book deep in my hand, the words etched through my eyes. So on this fourth year, I took myself to the park, and waited silently for him to appear. It was afternoon when he did, and I smiled as he came. “This is turning into tradition.” He said as he approached. “This park held so much for us. It was like our second home.” “It held a lot for all of us.” Silence ensued us. “I want to take you somewhere tonight.” I glanced at him. “Where?” “You’ll see.” “Matt, I don’t think tonight is the best night.” I looked down, hesitant to refuse his offer. “Mum and Dad-” “I talked to them, they said it’d be good for you to get out tonight.” “Okay.” And I felt happier knowing that I wouldn’t spend my night stuck in a house mourning. “Let’s go then.” “What? Now!” “Gotta leave now if we want to get there in time. “Where are we going?” Curiosity slipped into my mind. “You’ll see.” We sat in the car, chatting idly, as scenery changed into one I did not recognize. I asked again, but he repeated his answer. And idle chatter continued. Until we got there. Light was still with us, showing the stretching trees around us. A dusty paved path led into the trunks, and we travelled cautiously, eyeing the loose stones. We went up, until trees made way and a grassy green came to our eyes. He looked at me, took my hand, and led me to a little restaurant nestled between the trees. There we sat, cozy in our seats. And me smiling, eyeing around me, knowing what this was like. “Come with me.” He took my hand, took me from my seat, and led me outside. The sun had begun its descent, casting colours over the sea below. Over us. We stood there, gazing for a few minutes. Until he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a little black box. “Cass. I tried to think of the perfect way to do this, and this was the only thing that seemed to fit.” I gazed down upon his eyes and he shortened himself below me. “Cass, will you marry me?” And he opened the little black box. Inside lay the perfect ring. A red rose. And though it was fake, though it was small, though it had been chosen for her, it was perfect for me. And I looked at him and in his eyes; I saw all the love that he had held for her that he now held for me. “Yes Matt, yes.” He took the rose, twisted its edge and slipped it over my finger. And there we shared our first kiss, and I knew that this was what Lettie wanted. We married in April. Not in a church or with a marshmallow dress. My bridesmaids didn’t wear gold, and we didn’t eat beef and prawns. Our cake wasn’t a three-tier chocolate cake. We married in the park, by the swings, under a tree that dropped leaves into my hair. He looked into my eyes, with the deepest love. “Cass, I give myself to you.” And this was what Lettie gave to repay me. This was the greatest thing she had to give. “Matt, to you I give you my life, and Lettie’s.” And we accepted the other as they had accepted each other, and I knew, that Lettie, would be with us always. And I’m still searching for something to repay her, and maybe one day, I will find something. But I know that it will never equal what she has given me. Happiness. Leah Gray writes purely for her own enjoyment, finding that so many different things can be gotten out of it. She likes to try and write in different styles, and experiment with it to. She is currently attending university with the plans of going into an area concerning performance and theatre. Life's Purpose Each day I wonder why I'm here is it to fill what love requires Or is there much more to my life than all the joys my heart desires I have been the emissary of ancestors who came and went My purpose lay within the genes that through life and death they have sent As thousands struggled lived and died they entrusted within my soul Hopes and dreams of generations to lead family in life's goal My duty in this life is clear pass love from the child within me Along with prayers from those who've died for all the hopes of things to be While I tie my child to the past going back to antiquity He takes me into the future granting us immortality Tate Morgan - I am a product of the Midwest. Raised on the plain states of North America. I was nurtured on a ideal akin to Mayberry. I grew to manhood under the Midwest sun. Playing Baseball and running the streets of my little town. Where friends were lifelong spirits. Essence of their souls follow me still. It was a simpler time. There were no shades between right and wrong. Full to the rim with absolutes. In the place I came from all was right with the world. But as I grew so did the world. Along with me the rest posed immortal questions to the creator. Till the world was as you see it now. A complicated shade of gray. As in the times of the ancient mariner we all hear the call of sirens that gesture us to sail home. Continuity of purpose flows from the wellspring of our lives. In the end we all find we are drawn inexorably home, to the hearth from around which we told our tales of long ago and spun our yarns of a life well lived. The well spent life will always beckon from the winds of change a call for home. I am a poet by nature. Compelled through a life time of experience to give voice to our existence. To honor the struggle. Not the reward. Hopefully to see something of note. Making Lemonade “What’re ya doing, Grandpa?” four-year-old Denise asked, skipping happily into her grandparents’ kitchen. “Making my special lemonade for our company,” Alan replied, turning from the counter to greet his tiny granddaughter. “They’ll be here soon. Wanna help, sweetheart?” “Yes!” Denise said excitedly. She pulled a kitchen chair over to the counter and scrambled up, ready for another fun experience during her sleepover. It was a warm summer afternoon. Allan and her grandmother, Patricia, had invited Denise’s parents along with her older sister, Erika, for Sunday evening dinner outside on the deck. They would pick up Denise after her weekend sleepover. Grandpa Alan was making his famous lemonade as a surprise before-dinner treat. “See,” Alan explained, “I’ve cut all these lemons in half. Now, I’ll squeeze each of them in this fruit squeezer. When that’s done, can you put them in the recycling bucket for me? It will be a really big help!” “Sure,” Denise said enthusiastically, happy to help her grandpa. She loved this man almost as much as her daddy, Braydon. It took a while, but the juice of the three-dozen lemons was finally all squeezed out. Alan poured the juice into a big two-gallon mixing pot Denise’s grandmother normally used to make chili. Then Alan added the rest of his special ingredients to make ‘real’ lemonade. He would tell no one the ‘rare and secret’ ingredients, not even Patricia that produced the mysterious flavor. The recipe? You learned it here first: add to the lemon juice, water, the juice of a few squeezed limes, some sliced lemons and sliced oranges for decoration, and a few ounces of pineapple juice for sweetener. Denise’s help this day marked the very first time Alan had ever let anyone into the kitchen while making his popular lemonade. He began stirring the mixture with a big wooden spoon. Just then the phone rang. Alan put down the spoon and left the kitchen to answer the phone in the hallway. Later, Alan insisted he was gone no more than 30 seconds. In his absence, Denise decided to help her grandpa. She pushed over her chair, climbed up and grabbed the wooden spoon, using two hands to stir Alan’s famous brew. A big smile lit up her face. Now, she was really helping her grandpa! When Alan returned to the kitchen, he saw Denise leaning over the big porcelain pot, one hand planted firmly on the counter, the other thrust almost up to her elbow in the lemonade, her arm swirling around. “What in the world are you doing?” Alan exclaimed in alarm. “You’re not supposed to stir the lemonade like that!” “I’m not stirring it, Grandpa!” Denise answered, her near-tears sense of urgency revealing considerable distress. “The spoon won’t work! I can’t get it with that!” “Can’t get what?” Alan asked, confused. “My gum!” she replied with a sob. James Osborne is the author of two suspense/thriller novels and more than 70 short stories. His fiction, creative non-fiction and humorous short stories have won international awards, and have been published in a number of popular anthologies. Samples of his writings are posted on his blog: http://JamesOsborneNovels.com. One Word Monday. April 2, 1984. Today I was supposed to get my seventh grade writing journal back from Mr. Borso. English is my seventh hour class. The final bell had rung and all the students raced out of the room—all that is, but me. I was a little nervous, not knowing how my teacher would feel about each and every word and sentence and paragraph I had written so far. But just before I got my feedback, Principal Randolph Smith Jr. walked in. I was standing nervously at Mr. Borso’s desk as the Principal marched up to the teacher. I became even more nervous as Principal Randolph Smith Jr. was clearly unhappy. He carried under his arm two books. I only recognized one. It was Billy Budd, our current American literature reading assignment. Mr. Borso ignored the Principal and handed back my journal. “You are my favorite,” he whispered. “Keep up the great work.” To be the teacher’s favorite is simple—just write more than everybody else. Thanks to the fact that I have no problem finding something to write about every day, I’ll always be Mr. Borso’s favorite. “We have a problem,” stated Principal Randolph Smith Jr. When it comes to meeting with an adult, Mom and Dad have taught me a simple rule. All adults should be treated with respect, especially if the adult is a School Principal. It was not clear that Mr. Borso’s parents taught him the same rule. “We have a very serious problem,” Principal Randolph Smith Jr. repeated. Mr. Borso winked at me. I think that the wink meant, Watch this and write about it. I was way ahead of him as I noted the tension in the room along with the smell of Aqua Velva as soon as the Principal had walked in. “How can Mr. Kogut and I help?” Mr. Borso said with a smile. “What is today’s serious problem?” Principal Randolph Smith Jr. put Billy Budd down on the teacher’s desk. “I have received a parent complaint about the highly questionable content for seventh graders in this hard-to-read trashy novel, Billy Budd.” “Is classic 19th century literature too difficult for the parents to read?” asked Mr. Borso. “One particular word is too difficult for even me to read,” replied Principal Randolph Smith Jr. I already knew what word they were probably talking about. I don’t like the word neither. One hundred years ago a poop deck must have meant something less gross than...well… Mr. Borso spoke up, “Imagine that—one whole word! I seem to recall that you, yourself, approved my syllabus before the school year started.” “At the time I felt your Billy Budd was less problematic than Melville’s Moby Dick.” “A revealing decision.” As the two men started to sound a lot like my parents whenever they pretend they’re not fighting, I slowly slipped my writing journal into my backpack and was about to escape. Mr. Borso stopped me. “Stay right where you are, Mr. Kogut. This should be a good entry for your journal today.” “I prefer not to discuss the situation in front of the student,” said Principal Randolph Smith Jr. “Young Kogut here is perhaps the top contemporary 7th grade American writer of our time.” Mr. Borso looked over at me and asked, “Have you read the offending assignment?” “Twice,” I answered. “I know what word you mean.” “You do?” The Principal’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, my parents say the word all the time, especially my mom. She’s good friends with a farmer. He makes special deliveries to our house just so she has plenty to sprinkle on her garden. It makes her tomatoes big and shiny.” Then the Principal gave a look of pure disgust. I don’t blame him. The word poop does the same thing to me. Poop or no poop, it was uncomfortable being in the middle of someone else’s argument. But on the other hand, it’s like having a front row seat at the movie theater—or like turning pages in a novel as you read each and every word. I read their faces, their body language, and watched as this story unfolded. “Very well,” replied Principal Randolph Smith Jr. “Page thirty-five.” Mr. Borso nodded his head, still smiling. At that moment it occurred to me that the word poop—as in poop deck, was not on page thirty-five. I was relieved, thankful and suddenly curious. “One word…” Mr. Borso said. “You want me to change the reading assignment because of one word on page thirty-five?” “It’s a bad word,” whispered Principal Randolph Smith Jr. “It’s a perfectly legitimate word,” replied Mr. Borso. “This word was written in 1886 by a great American writer.” With a confused look on his face the Principal asked, “Melville’s an American?” Mr. Borso nodded, saying, “Furthermore, it was written in a correct and proper contextual manner.” Principal Randolph Smith Jr. squinted his suspicious left eye and said, “Contextual?” Mr. Borso shook his head in frustration and handed the book to me. “Exactly what page again?” Mr. Borso asked. “Page thirty-five,” I answered. They both looked at me. So I quickly turned to the offending page. I found an entire sentence circled in red. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Principal Randolph Smith Jr. said to Mr. Borso. My teacher leaned into the book as I held it. “Read all the good and bad words inside the red circle.” “Starting with Jemmy Leggs?” Mr. Borso nodded, Yes. It looked like a reluctant nod, but I knew what he wanted me to do. Mr. Borso wanted me to make Principal Randolph Smith Jr. feel uncomfortable. So I started reading… “Jemmy Leggs!” ejaculated Billy, his welkin eyes expanding. “Disgusting!” said Principal Randolph Smith Jr. Not as disgusting as poop deck, I thought to myself. Mr. Borso suddenly turned to me and asked, “What do you think?” I didn’t like to be put on the spot. Just to play it safe, I decided to keep the word, poop, to myself. “I don’t think Jemmy Leggs is a bad thing to say,” I explained. “I first thought that Mr. Melville was making fun of Billy Budd’s bully, because that’s what I would do. But then I looked it up and learned that Jemmy Leggs means Sergeant-at-Arms.” Both my English teacher and my Principal turned their heads and just kind of stared at me. It was like they were surprised to find that I was actually learning anything in school. “I really did read the book twice. And I looked up a lot of the old weird words,” I said with a proud but nervous smile. There was more silence. I thought about the silence and what it might mean. I think it meant that neither adult wanted to have the next word, so I took it myself. “This is all about context, isn’t it?” “Absolutely, Mr. Kogut,” ejaculated Mr. Borso. Principal Randolph Smith Jr. grabbed Billy Budd from me. He then held up the other book he had been holding. It was simply and timely titled 1984. “I would like to suggest that Hannah Middle School follow the lead of other progressive school districts,” advised Principal Randolph Smith Jr. “Now that we have finally reached the year 1984, let’s join our educational colleagues and place George Orwell’s 1984 on the reading list of contemporary American literature.” “Contemporary American Lit?” replied Mr. Borso. “1984 was written by an Englishman before I was born.” “The district pays you to be our literature teacher, not me,” said Principal Randolph Smith Jr. “Prove you’re worth it. Do what’s right for everyone—me, you, the students, and especially the parents.” Mr. Borso took the book 1984 from Principal Randolph Smith Jr. and flipped through the pages like he was looking for something. Then he handed 1984 to me. I gave him back Billy Budd. Mr. Borso smiled and simply announced, “Page 184.” So I quickly found the page. “Start reading right about there,” Mr. Borso pointed his finger near the top of the page. On the sixth day of Hate Week, after the processions, the speeches, the shouting, the singing, the banners, the posters, the films, the waxworks, the rolling of drums and squealing of trumpets, the tramp of marching feet, the grinding of the caterpillars of tanks, the roar of massed planes, the booming of guns---after six days of this, when the great orgasm was quivering to its climax… “Stop right there,” said Principal Randolph Smith Jr. He snapped 1984 from my hands and closed the book. I listened carefully as the silence returned to the two adults. Finally Mr. Borso asked, “Can you live with Huck Finn?” “Absolutely,” replied Principal Randolph Smith Jr. “That one hasn’t been banned in years.” Then the Principal quickly walked out of Mr. Borso’s classroom and returned to his office. “You read very well, Mr. Kogut. You’re more mature than I had given you credit for.” “I’m just glad you guys didn’t expect me to read page sixty-seven,” I admitted with relief. “What’s on page sixty-seven?” “Something gross about a stupid old poop deck.” My English teacher laughed, admitting, “I’m totally with you on the whole poop deck thing. Words are funny sometimes. They mean different things to different people. You have to be aware of the context, both historical and thematic. Thank you for helping me with Principal Smith. And thanks for letting me read your wonderful writing journal. Keep up the good work. You really are my favorite contemporary 7th grade American writer.” “Thanks,” I replied. Today’s journal entry became easy to write. But as I left the room—I hoped and I remain hopeful that Thank you means the same today as it did 100 years ago, as it did to Herman Melville and Billy Budd and Jemmy Leggs. Alan D Harris writes poetry, short stories, and plays based primarily upon the life-stories of friends, family, and total strangers. His writing has been published on four continents in as many languages. Harris received the 2011 Stephen H Tudor Award in Creative Writing from Wayne State University. In addition Alan is proud of his seven children, five grandchildren and one Pushcart Prize nomination. Our Sister We didn’t know we loved her fingers holding a cup of coffee with a unique patience, her gaze steady on the masonite layered in browns, wet with the paint she brushed on all day. Projects, crafts, DIY like her handmade quilts, her stencils above the doors. We didn’t know we loved our sister’s wide lips, lifted in a grin in the morning. He loved them, stood before them for a kiss as the tabby twined their legs. We didn’t know we loved solitude, a home office of our own, a purpose, tools of craft in a jar. Pencil’s erasable lines. Drawer’s open mouth of ruler, paperclip, notepad. Scissor’s cut. Our sister painted still lifes. Why didn’t we notice? She sat at her well lit desk our entire life, with fruit and kitchenware and desks and chairs for her students. We didn’t know we loved light on peaches or the folds of lace on an apron’s eyelet trim. Notes to the self, revision plots, hands brushed by color, every day of the year. Laura Madeline Wiseman has a doctorate from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln where she teaches English and creative writing. She is the author of seven collections of poetry, including Sprung (San Francisco Bay Press, 2012) and Unclose the Door (Gold Quoin Press, 2012). She is also the editor of Women Write Resistance: Poets Resist Gender Violence (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2013). Her writings have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Margie, Arts & Letters, Poet Lore, and Feminist Studies. She has received awards from the Academy of American Poets and Mari Sandoz/Prairie Schooner, and grants from the Center for the Great Plains Studies and the Wurlitzer Foundation. www.lauramadelinewiseman.com A Winters Walk in the Witches Wood fingers run through your hair, a kiss, 'Good morning, I love you, lets go for a walk today'. eyes glare, wanting to sleep, day in bed, days in bed, 'It's cold outside....' skin shivers as water washes, you are awake now, body beautiful, wrapped in towels. breakfast fills inside, we are warm together, winter falls outside our window. boots slide on, gloves, scarves and woolly hat, all wrapped up. leaving our home, door closed, wishing us back, hand in hand we move. through roads, pathways, muddied tracks to the wood, breath blows chilled. bowed trees form a walkway, enticing us forward, we are bonded by love. into a new world we trek, silence greets us, eeire weirdness awaits. pick a flower for a buttonhole, smile for a sneaky kiss, air becomes heavy in mist. sudden darkness, we huddle, in the place by the tower, dead plants all around. crack, snap and crackle, upon us is she, dark laughter, makes the wood shake. 'What brings you here, with happiness and light? That is not the spirit of my home'. we shudder, stand scared, the witch casts her spell, trying to send us to dark depths of hell. together we scream, not sure of escape, as we run and shout to find a way out. when we do the sun shines, wresting in each others arms, away from the wood, in each other's charms. Gary Holden currently works full-time for the UK Post Office and is also a part-time Open University student studying English Language and Literature at Degree level. He holds a Diploma in Literature and Creative Writing. Chaffinch A solitary chaffinch declared dominion over our garden and set its throne amid the bare branches of a winter-brooding tree. Foraging forlorn, stone-hard earth, it sought a higher perch and flit from sill to sill between kitchen and dining-room. Bread crumbs are a removable feast spread on a table to tempt such precocity, and a clarion tap-tapping of the glass soon belayed trust into routine. There is an admirable majesty in such a singleness of purpose beyond reversal of the norm - it is we who are observed through the window by the world. Kevin Cowdall was born in 1959 in Liverpool, England; where he still lives and works. Kevin developed an interest in writing at an early age – 'Like most teenagers, I wrote poetry, much of which was of the appalling “Moon In June” type, but I gradually started to get things into print – my first published poem actually appeared, appropriately, in the influential publication, First Time. Three small press collections followed; The Reflective Image (1984), Monochrome Leaves (1985) and A Walk in the Park (1990). In all, over 150 poems have been published in magazines, journals and anthologies in the UK, Australia, Canada and across Europe, broadcast on local and regional BBC Radio and featured in several local and national competitions. In 1986, The Writers’ Rostrum produced The Best of Kevin Cowdall, which was awarded a best collection prize at the 1987 National Small Press and Poetry Convention. Kevin also started writing short stories and a number have been published in UK magazines and anthologies and he has edited nine of these in to a collection, The Ophelia Garden. He has also completed his first play, Sometimes, a children's novel, 'The Dinsdale Fox', and a full-length novel, Cosgrove’s Sketches, about the life of an Edwardian Liverpool artist. Kevin was recently asked by Warren Adler (War of the Roses, Random Hearts, etc) to review his new novel The Serpent's Bite, and is now using extracts on his web site and in blogs and press releases. Warren also encouraged Kevin to release his story, Paper Gods and Iron Men, on Kindle, and it has received a number of excellent reviews (Amazon UK). In his spare time, Kevin is an avid reader, enjoys live and recorded music (predominantly classical, opera, jazz and blues), theatre- and cinema-going, dining out and travelling widely. Halloween Parade Mom was our room mother. She dressed up as Raggedy Ann and went around the room placing a cookie on each napkin, her smile trapped between the round circles of Raggedy Ann make-up on her cheeks. Everyone said how much they loved her, and I did, too, completely although she had made me an Asian Girl costume instead of an Indian Brave like I wanted. “You can’t be an Indian every year,” she said. “Why not? I am an Indian!” I was six. Sometimes, I wore the leather headband my reservation pen-pal had made to school. “You are not, and besides, you’d be a squaw, not a brave, if you were.” There was more discussion, how I couldn’t go to school without a shirt and Indian costumes took leather and wouldn’t I like to be a geisha? NO! But Mom made the costume anyway and I spent most of the day trying to balance the ridiculous round hat on my head. I had a crush on a boy in my class who wore a frog costume, and I gave him the extra jack-o-lantern cookie Mom had slipped me with a wink. There were more at home. It was weird to think Raggedy Ann was Mom, winking and smiling but not saying anything, maybe because Raggedy Ann’s mouth was just a straight line. After the cookies and cider was the costume parade, each class visiting every other class in turn, showing off their costumes. I liked the kindergarteners, ducks and pumpkins. Both of my brothers were there, in Mrs. Snyder’s room. Bobby was a hobo, but Mike refused to dress up. So, Mrs. Snyder had made him sit at her desk where he turned her light on and off as we marched through the room, cheering up when he saw Raggedy Ann, but Mom just frowned at him for getting into trouble. The fourth and fifth graders had cool costumes, vampires and ghosts and witches. One was a catfish with a hook through a big red lip. Mom lead us through the halls and between each row in each classroom, her puffy white skirt sliding over the desks, other kids looking up at her and wishing she was their mom. Tiff Holland's poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction has appeared in dozens of literary journals. Her chapbook "Betty Superman" won the fifth annual Rose Metal Press prize for short-short fiction. Perfectly Flawed I want to be 5'6 with nice hips, skinny waist and thick lips I want to be 110 pounds, long legs and sexy hair But when I looked in the mirror My body can't compare I'm not a model that belongs on the cover of a magazine Having a perfect body was just a fantasy A girl swimming with flaws A body that deserved no applause But taking a closer look at my short, thin, silky, light brown hair My almond shaped eyes filled with care My tummy that isn't flat And my hips that make you wanna wink at I realized I am perfection I don't hate looking in the mirror anymore because I love my reflection I don't need foundation because I want the world to see the birthmark on my face And the gaps between my teeth aren't something I want to replace I threw out my eyeliner because my eyes are just right I won't even think about diet pills because every curve on my body is a delight I love my body, every part of it telling a story Every part of it I stand back and admire with glory A creation of my creator and not loving it would be inexcusable BeYOUtiful Jasmine Jade Toledo is a 19 year old college student from Brooklyn NY. She's studying to be a vet and writing poetry on her spare time, writing and animals are her passions. She's been published in multiple literary magazines and currently working on her first book of poems. Promise of Peace When I look into your deep mahogany eyes, I can see a promise of peace. When I am on the brink of giving up and fearing your kind, I find strength in your compassionate smile. I know there is safety within, Even though some say we can’t be friends. There will come a time when the years of fighting will end, And a new world of living together will begin. Just tell me you want this as much as me, For that will be the true promise of peace. Together we can change the way things are meant to be. McCollonough Ceili is an Irish/American author who first discovered her love for writing when asked to write about her life on a primitive island off the coast of Ireland. That book titled "Noria" was published in 2009 and sent Ms. Ceili on a fabulous journey of creating and sharing stories. "I have to write, it is part of who I am", Ms. Ceili once said in an interview. "Even if I never make another dime, I will still be writing and creating stories till I leave this life," All of Ms. Ceili's book can be found on Amazon.com Raindrop It began to rain, suddenly, and without any warning. I sat watching as people scurried by, hats held firmly and coat collars pulled about their ears. One or two passed by my window, bowed beneath the protective canopy of an umbrella. A slate-grey cloud hung low overhead as the rain grew heavier and thunder rumbled in the distance. The window became spattered so that the outside world looked as though it was wrapped in crinkled cellophane and all at once the street was deserted, with only the odd car visible – a blur of bright colour as it swished by. Raindrops danced on the pavement and the gutters became mini-torrents as rainwater gushed and swirled towards the drains. A flash , like a thousand blinding flares all going off at once, lit up the street for a moment in a monochrome freeze-frame: then the sky grew even darker as a long timpani-roll of thunder seemed to reverberate around the heavens. Then, as quickly as it had broken, the storm passed over and the downpour fell to a gentle drizzle as the sun began to break through and wispy clouds drifted by. A solitary raindrop glinted as it trickled slowly, slowly, down my window pane. Kevin Cowdall was born in 1959 in Liverpool, England; where he still lives and works. Kevin developed an interest in writing at an early age – 'Like most teenagers, I wrote poetry, much of which was of the appalling “Moon In June” type, but I gradually started to get things into print – my first published poem actually appeared, appropriately, in the influential publication, First Time. Three small press collections followed; The Reflective Image (1984), Monochrome Leaves (1985) and A Walk in the Park (1990). In all, over 150 poems have been published in magazines, journals and anthologies in the UK, Australia, Canada and across Europe, broadcast on local and regional BBC Radio and featured in several local and national competitions. In 1986, The Writers’ Rostrum produced The Best of Kevin Cowdall, which was awarded a best collection prize at the 1987 National Small Press and Poetry Convention. Kevin also started writing short stories and a number have been published in UK magazines and anthologies and he has edited nine of these in to a collection, The Ophelia Garden. He has also completed his first play, Sometimes, a children's novel, 'The Dinsdale Fox', and a full-length novel, Cosgrove’s Sketches, about the life of an Edwardian Liverpool artist. Kevin was recently asked by Warren Adler (War of the Roses, Random Hearts, etc) to review his new novel The Serpent's Bite, and is now using extracts on his web site and in blogs and press releases. Warren also encouraged Kevin to release his story, Paper Gods and Iron Men, on Kindle, and it has received a number of excellent reviews (Amazon UK). In his spare time, Kevin is an avid reader, enjoys live and recorded music (predominantly classical, opera, jazz and blues), theatre- and cinema-going, dining out and travelling widely. Michelin Men By Katrina Otuonye My brothers and I prepared for the snow on Halloween, as always. As we got ready for school in the morning, the weatherman forecasted a possible accumulation of up to three inches. We were losing our autumn — sacrificing it for the snow that would follow us for the next several months. We absorbed what we could of those leaves — the orange, green, red, yellow —crisp turning in the air, an edge to the mornings, a thick layer of frost coating our car, as if in a warning. The lights got brighter early, as the days grew shorter. Streetlamps blazing, buzzing, striking insects on the short walk home from school. It was the sleepiest time, before the winter, and also a rush. Adjustments to be made, snowsuits to check. Hats to mend. Things we shoved away in the chest in the laundry room were unearthed, dusted off, buried underneath mud-clotted cleats, and scratched from Velcro on aging shin guards, grass-stained leggings from softball practice. So we slipped on our costumes and squeezed into our snow pants from the year before, to make sure everything fit before willing the weatherman to tell us we didn’t have to go to school that day. My snow pants were a little short, so I tried on an extra heavy pair of wool socks to cover the space between the bottom of my pants and the top of my boots, where my dry skin was showing. “Hey, Ashy-legs,” Chris said. “I haven’t put any lotion on yet,” I said. And glanced at the dull layers of skin, nearly aching from the rough tug of the socks. “She has little old bird legs,” Brian laughed. Once Chris undertook an idiom project for class, complete with descriptive illustrations, I took to adopting them and spewing my knowledge all over the house. “A bird in the hand is…a bush.” They looked at each other. Brian shook his head. “Nope.” “You don’t know what that means,” Chris said. Then, we test drove our costumes around the house, made sure we could shrug them on over layered sweaters, jackets, hats and scarves. I ambled through the kitchen to the laundry room and back again, carrying my boots. I couldn’t decide. Boots, no boots. Boots, no boots. The boys and I dinked around upstairs. We waddled really, tiny Michelin Men in our bunched-up, lumpy costumes. Sweat appeared at our temples and we bumped into each other like Sumo wrestlers. We made growling noises as we pushed each other to the floor in front of the linen closet. The radio blasted from our parents’ room, but they heard us, and our cries, of “Michelin Man!” from beyond Michael Bolton’s latest hit. “C, B, K, on the double!” When my parents called, we ran. As soon as Mom called us, we dropped everything, but I still carried my boots. We thundered down the stairs, where the rough, carpeting lost its twisted threading. We were especially hard on the stairs to hide what Mom did not know. We had after school races on these stairs. We took turns, two at a time, in sleeping bags. It has been determined, through several scientific studies, that the little girls’ princess bag is slick enough to get the most traction. The boys didn’t mind using it to win. We leaned into each other as we rounded the last corner and dashed through the living room. We slid onto the aging linoleum into the kitchen. We bumped into each other like dominoes, just short of the kitchen counter, but steadied one another, off balance in too many layers of clothing, so we wouldn’t fall. “Rini, did you eat breakfast yet?” Mom balanced on a chair and checked a hole in her stockings. “Huh? Oh, no.” “Put the boots down and eat something.” “But…” “Now.” The snow alert came on the television and we inched away toward the living room with smiles and then cheers. We were snowed in, as occasionally happens in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It was coming down sideways and while Dad had already tried to clear the driveway, it looked like we would be inside for a while. After standing in front of the television, fingers crossed and uncrossed as we waited for Houghton County to flash across the screen, we all wandered around, lost in the aimlessness of the weekday, with no place to go at eight in the morning. The front porch was blocked. Snow covered the front and the back windows. We were on the inside of a Twinkie, surrounded by white. So we did what we had to do. We took off our costumes and got dressed up in our full snowsuits, like we were going sledding. Then instead of going outside, we gathered up our sleds and the inner tube, and pulled out some shovels. We dragged my desk chair to my bedroom window since it let out to the roof. We cranked the window open, as far as it would go, sweating from the heat of the inside, underneath our tightly wrapped hats and scarves. We breathed in and out, ingested the same sweaty air and tasted beaded cotton. We angled a shovel out into the cold and cleared the way for the first window. I got nervous, but Brian liked a challenge, so he was the first outside. Dad followed, to keep an eye on his son. Then, Chris and I handed out the rest of the shovels, then the sled, as they balanced, already calf-deep in snow, angled on the roof. They cleared it off, or at least pretended to. As I ran back downstairs, still fully dressed, with no intention of falling off the roof and dying — my latest fear — I watched as pounds of snow fell from the roof and piled outside the kitchen windows, like snowflakes had grown and expanded in size, and suddenly fell to the earth in fully formed snow balls. There’s something about that snow, the anticipation of it. The way our boots squeaked, pressed into the fresh snowfall, when we first got a chance to rush across it, through it, sink into it down to our thighs. The way the snow sparkles, the haste when we ripped off our heavy mittens with our teeth, and felt the taste of worn leather on our tongues. We waited for it and dreaded it; the snow that can fall and ruin an evening’s plans, but can occupy an entire afternoon. Chris and Brian slid off the roof in their sleds and landed in tiny boy-shaped poofs in our vanished backyard. They climbed up from their holes, panked down a walkway and made their way to the front of the house. They reappeared on the two feet of snow piled up in front of the living room window and waved. I breathed moist air on the large window and wrote, “Hello” backwards, with a gloved finger. “It’s snowing cats and dogs!” I yelled at the glass. They laughed at me, silent, grinning figures at the other side of our winter. “Rini, if you’re not going out, take your hat off. And take your boots off my carpet.” “Mom, I’m going out.” “On the roof?” She pulled off my hat and kissed my forehead. “Boots, please.” “Yes, Mom.” But it was still Halloween, and after a lot of phone calls between mothers who spent weeks on homemade costumes, they decided we could go. It was better this way. Otherwise, we got into things. I had taken to writing on the walls, the tables; any place where I could practice what I believed was perfect penmanship. So much so that, writing with a blue permanent marker on a sheet of paper, I once tattooed our old kitchen table in soft lines and circles. The ink sunk through and no amount of my scrubbing could make it go away. We got in arguments over card games, sprayed Cherry 7UP all over the ceiling, and tested the true power of a small ball of foil in the microwave. The last time we were all home, trapped inside by the snow, Mom wanted to bestow upon us one of those life lessons to stick with us for all time. Three glasses of rum stood on the counter, illustrious. At first I thought it was tea, but there was so little of it in the glass cup and the smell made my eyes itch. After Mom and Dad directed us towards our respective glasses, right at eye level on the counter, Chris and I backed away. Just as we'd refused ours, Brian grasped our glasses, dumped the contents in his and chugged down a full glass in one swoop. I stood by slack-jawed, and then Chris and I fell over each other laughing, curled up holding our stomachs on the linoleum floor, while Brian held his head under the kitchen faucet, sucking down water to wash out the fire he'd just ingested. These moments remind me of the fun times that people always talk about, when the lines between child and parents were clearly delineated. They are in charge, they know what’s best, and you are merely along for the (free) ride. Before we left home, Mom called out, “Be home before dark!” And we, the trio who knew the sun was already setting, laughed. The cat and the ninja turtle met at the bottom of Evergreen Street. The water tower with the large bulldog at the top made me nervous and I felt better if someone else stood nearby to make sure the tower wouldn’t fall on me. I was somewhere in between my fear of being crushed by the water tower, and my fear of being crushed by the water tower, alone. “Misery loves company,” I had explained. Chris and I both carried heavy pillowcases filled with our spoils. Tiny orange jack-o-lantern baskets were for amateurs. Chris swung his pillowcase over his shoulder, while I lifted mine with both hands to keep it from dragging on the ground. I felt like snow. It was getting colder, with a dampness that stuck in my throat. The snow from that morning was stiff, plowed into solid ground. Our mailbox appeared three inches lower. “Hi ya,” I said. Chris took my pillowcase from me and hefted it on his other shoulder. I rushed beside him, half-holding up the other end, as if I were helping. We walked up the freshly-cleared front porch, lined with our orange Halloween bags filled with raked leaves. For weeks before, we had raked and filled the bright orange trash bags from the grocery store. Each bag had a jack-o-lantern design on it, only truly revealed and in its full glory once the bags were stuffed and on display. We walked past the bags we’d spent so much time stuffing and re-stuffing the entire month, and through the front door. Once we dragged our dirtied pillowcases inside, we kicked off our boots and sat on the carpet. I threw off my gloves and ran my hands across the carpeting to warm them faster. Our parents sat on the couch, watching the news, with the rarely used bright light gleaming at the top of the vaulted ceiling. “Where’s Brian?” Mom asked. A pause. I sucked in one cheek, a way of saying “I dunno,” without actually saying a word. Chris and I exchanged a glance. “Who?” I said. If it weren’t for those pesky elementary school photographs with us in various patterned sweaters, framed on the wall of the dining room, I think we could have tricked them. Maybe for 20, 30 minutes, until Brian, wherever he was, realized the time and booked it home. “Brian? The guy from church?” Chris asked. From the dining room, three near-identical faces beamed with the glow and promise of our bright futures. My parents glanced at each other, down at the two of us, and then at the photos, as if they were counting. One. Two. Three. Then, the realization on their tired faces that, yes, there really was one missing. “Ohhh. Brian,” I said. “Last time we saw him, he was going to the Penegor’s with Mike and ‘em,” Chris added. Mike and ‘em is the catch-all phrase: our next-door neighbor and all of our friends. Mom moved swiftly to the phone, then slammed down the phone book and flipped to the Ps. The pillowcases remained untouched at the front door, as Chris and I, too tired to move, waited. We couldn’t start bartering and trading without Brian. Grampa used to say that Brian never crawled or walked. He was a baby at rest, and then, he ran. Five minutes later, a glow-in-the-dark skeleton stole up from the bottom of the street. Jacket open, his bones arched in the darkness. He passed Mike’s yard and turned sharp into the driveway, pillowcase held with two hands over his left shoulder. Chris and I walked out on the front porch and let the door close behind us. “You’re in troublllle,” I said. I leaned in, a lone conspirator. “Mum’s the word.” Dad opened the door. “Hello?” he said. “Hi, Dad.” He took a close look, then at three exhausted children. We were red-nosed and sweaty. “Who are you?” “Dad?” “I don’t know a skeleton, or a, uh, a turtle. Or a cat.” “Daddy, let us in!” “I don’t like animals in my house.” My mom laughed. “Francis!” “Okay, if you want strangers in our house, I will let them in.” Mom had apple cider boiling. Dad let us inside and gripped Brian’s shoulders for a minute. He bent down so their eyes met and he leveled him with a gaze. Dad often never had to say a word; he was the master at shaming us with a single expression. It’s a mix of affection and disappointment, with a bit of overarching authority. Mom brought in three small cups to the living room, as the three of us, with smudged makeup and costumes frayed at the edges, hid our heads inside our pillowcases. We rooted around as if looking for buried treasure. The cat ears abandoned by my side, only my drawn-on whiskers remained. I found it difficult to sit on a safety-pinned stuffed stocking tail, so I knelt. We sorted and pulled out the fruit first, and needed a place to put the unwanted candy. “I got two apples,” I said. “Good for you,” Brian said. “Cause I’m the apple of everyone’s eye,” I said. He lobbed a peanut butter cup at my face. I snatched at it in the air. With my head inside the thin pillowcase, the smell of chocolate made me giddy, then overwhelmed. The boys and I dug our heads out of our bags and surveyed each other. “Look at you,” Chris said. “What?” Brian smirked. “You let the cat out of the bag,” he said, picking up my discarded cat ears.I scrunched up my face, hiding a smile. “That’s not funny.” We stood up, stepped a few feet away, and dumped the contents of the pillowcases onto the ground. Since our parents bought new living room furniture, the gray and torn up couches that we liked to jump on were relegated to the basement. We had more freedom to pounce on them when they weren’t looking, and the couch cushions made for handy fort material. Still upstairs, we had to avoid the new flowery green and red decorative couches. They had touches of cream in them, easy to get dirty, and not comfy enough to sit on just yet. So the three of us gathered in the floor and slapped at thieving hands that attempted to move outside our three designated circles. Once we separated all the fruit, and the unwanted candy, we retrieved the popcorn bowl. It was typically empty. The boys and I retrieved it the old-fashioned way; Chris boosted Brian on top of the counter that held the microwave, since it was next to the fridge. Brian reached up on top of the fridge to grab the bowl and then slid the bowl down to Chris, then to me. I had no true purpose in any of this. “Too many cooks in the kitchen,” I said. Chris helped him off the counter, and I carried the bowl back to the living room. I held it in front of me like on offering, gripped it like a balloon I was afraid to let float away. When we walked back in the living room, Dad stood, bent at the waist with his hands clasped behind his back, glancing over all of our candy. We eyed him with suspicion, and each of us sat in front of our respective piles and started sorting. The fruits, a funny joke from the former teacher a few streets over, went on the coffee table. They were set down with an air of respect and mild disgust, as if to say: Nice try, lady, but if we wanted fresh apples, we wouldn’t go trick-or-treating. Then, the hard black and orange candy, the kind that no one can chew. It was only for the adventurous, the foolish, and the ones with hard teeth. It was for our parents, and it went in the popcorn bowl. Chris’ peanut allergy grew more severe over the years, so he flicked out anything that appeared to have traces of nuts with his pointer finger. This became the ominous fourth pile. Reese’s, Snickers, Butterfingers, Paydays, Hershey’s with almonds. Brian and I sized each other up. This was trouble. Chris groaned as he backhanded a small heavily embossed bag into the pile. A Planter’s bag of peanuts. We all hit the same houses and at the end of every year, Chris managed to receive one bag of nothing but peanuts. Brian and I fell over laughing. We counted out Hershey’s bars, Kitkats, M&Ms and Twizzlers — anything without nuts — and traded Chris for the peanut butter. There was one Reese’s package left unclaimed and Brian and I were about to do battle. He would do it by pure force and simply reach out and take it, but I always depended on my lungs. He stood up. I stood up. “It takes two to tango,” I said. Brian rolled his eyes. If I had an actual tail, it would have twitched, but instead, it just swung by the bending safety pin. Dad snuck in and swept up the Reese’s. “Dad!” “What?” “Well, this looks good, doesn’t it?” Mom smiled as he opened the package, took one, handed her the other and settled back on the couch. Brian and I exchanged surprise as our parents laughed and Chris stifled a grin. Two in a pack. We could have shared. We spent the entire night, trudging through the cold, “with hearts full of joy,” Brian said. We earned our candy. He judged the houses that left the bowl of candy out, with a small sign: “Please only take two!” By the time my friends and I came across these bowls, they were long empty. I never found anyone who admitted to cleaning out these bowls before anyone else got a chance at them, but Brian and his friends were at the top of my list. He nursed an early stomachache, by rubbing his middle and groaning. As he rolled over, the carpet imprinted itself on his cheek. We finished sorting and trading, and ate our fill. We collected all of our candy into separate paper bags, so Mom could have her pillowcases back. We labeled our treasures and pinky-promised not to steal each other’s candy. Once we’d settled the bags in the pantry and closed the door, we made our way back to the living room, where we saw through our front window that it started to flurry again. The snow coated the jack-o-lantern bags of leaves, and they sunk in on themselves into layers; one layer for each day the leaves settled. You could count the age of a pumpkin bag like tree rings, by the amount of flabby rolls it had. Six leaf rolls meant the bag took six days to fill. It made a lumpy jack o-lantern, one with uneven eyes and a happy facial expression. As the snow fell that night, with the reek of chocolate sinking into the carpeting, we abandoned our descriptions of our friends’ costumes and moved to the window. I scraped a tiny layer of frost off the window with a fingernail and let it fall to the ground. We watched as each new flurry fell over our street and muffled sound. The snow warped our trees white, coated the basketball hoop and our wet boot prints — hushed over our autumn, as if to make it all disappear. Katrina Otuonye is a proud native of Upper Michigan and a Tennessee graduate. I hold an MFA from Chatham University in Pittsburgh, and my work in creative nonfiction and poetry has appeared in Granny Smith Magazine, Coal Hill Review, Litro Magazine, Marco Polo Literary Arts Mag and Crab Orchard Review. The Outhouse Halloween By James Osborne The fathers in our farm community hated Halloween. That’s when local teenagers toppled our outhouses. We had to wait, sometimes with growing impatience, for them to set the outhouses upright. It’s not that the outhouses were damaged. Most were darned near indestructible . . . but not usable while lying on their backs, of course. No one in that area had indoor toilets or septic systems. So, huge importance accompanied these vital outdoor plumbing facilities, and thus much urgency to the righting of same. After all, certain calls of nature could demand immediate attention. And one should not ignore that other hazard of toppled toilets, the odiferous pit, left open and unprotected adjacent to the downed outhouse. So how could this Halloween vandalism be stopped? At one point the matter grew serious enough neighbors gathered for a thorough airing, so to speak. It became a prime topic for discussion at community picnics, dances, box socials, weddings, funerals and other pretexts for gatherings, mostly at our one-room country school. There, a number of solutions were advanced. These included guard dogs and shotguns with shells filled with rock salt. Mercifully, none of the more aggressive notions enjoyed wide support. Winter passed, spring came, but no agreed-upon solution had emerged. Then the harvest was done and the fall season for social events was again getting underway. No answer to the perplexing – and looming -- outhouse dilemma had emerged. Halloween was approaching. At the first fall dinner and dance, one of the quieter farmers spoke up during the meal. “I’ve an idea,” Henry said. “Why not just move our outhouses a little?” “What!” another farmer interrupted before Henry could continue, his mouth evidently propelled by homemade moonshine. “Are you kidding? What’re ya saying . . . load our outhouses on a flatbed and tow them away? Y’all gotta be kiddin’ me! Don’t make no sense at all! What’ll we use in the meantime?” “We might as well tie them down,” laughed another man. “That’s a dumb idea!” Henry sat quietly through the criticism and heckling. During a lull in the conversation, Henry said calmly: “Just move them off the hole a bit. Move them backward . . . you know, behind the pit.” Quiet descended. The doubters listened. “Those kids . . . when they push our outhouses over, they always tip them from the front. Right? They push them over backward. We just need to hide the hole with some tarps or netting.” Henry’s brilliant idea was a hit. The neighborhood buzzed with excitement as Halloween approached. This annoyance now was transformed into anticipation. Neighbors teamed up to help move each other’s outhouse surreptitiously after dark on the fateful night. The men overlooked one small detail: As everyone knew, the culprits were teenaged boys from the neighborhood. They were the children of the families supposedly conspiring against them. The boys were certain to overhear family discussions, and would know to avoid the traps being set for them. But, the boys had also overlooked something. They underestimated Henry. He’d guessed who the culprits were and assumed correctly they would learn about the traps. He came up with an alternate plan. Henry went down the road to see Pete, his neighbor half a mile away. Neither had teenaged boys. The secret plot they came up with would stay between them. The two men decided to outsmart the Halloween pranksters by moving their outhouses forward, not backward. That would leave the unprotected pit behind the outhouse, the location that the teenagers were thinking would be safe. After dark on Halloween night, Henry and Pete helped each move their outhouses forward. Earlier, they’d cut tree branches. Now they placed them strategically to camouflage the open pits. Then, dressed in dark clothes, each sat in the shadows beside their respective back porches waiting to observe as events unfolded. The next morning, Henry and Pete exchanged stories over coffee, amid much hilarity. Between outbursts of laughter they described for each other which neighbor’s boy went how deep into the obnoxious substances at the bottom of those outhouse pits . . . and how quickly each culprit ran to nearby ponds or dugouts and jumped in. From that day forward, nary an outhouse for miles around ever tumbled again, except perhaps on its own accord . . . from old age after many years of faithful service, relieving its owners of their burdens. Naturally. 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. When it Rains, It Pours By Wanda Morrow Clevenger A distant rooster cawed. Needles of light slipped the fog cloaking the farmhouse of John and Clara Dawes and stabbed at grassy brown patches in the neglected yard. Another cockcrow heralded, then quiet settled in again. Inside the house cobweb architects lay curled and brittle in their lonely sanctums. Rooms were sparsely furnished, containing not one jot more than was absolutely required. These trifles weren't new, but not particularly aged either?abandoned memories of a kind. Centered in the kitchen was a chrome and red vinyl dinette set with jaunty diamond cutout chair backs; last two remaining chairs were striped with duct tape. Same as the spiders, the tape had given up the ghost. Yellowed padding tufts hung below the seats like pregnant beagle tits. A fold of newspaper rested on the tabletop. One convenience, a gray speckled enamel coffeepot, stood ready on the stove's back burner. Also at the ready, a pair of stained porcelain mugs bearing the faded honeymoon sentiment HIS and HERS. Summer dogged on in defiance of the month evidenced by the wall calendar. Its endearing advertising print depicted a girl holding an oversized umbrella read: When It Rains, It Pours. Anyone with eyes could see summer had passed. Cool dawn and evening hours held true to the season, yet sweltering afternoons deceived. Under the little calendar girl's watchful vigil, time gathered. Clara held stone still when the alarm clock's metallic clatter jarred her husband awake, heard him grunt and the bed springs shrill at his weight shift. “Get up woman. Daylight's come.” She flinched and bolted from her opposite side, donned a robe and house shoes. Hurried slipper slaps on linoleum was inception. Cooking odors and coffee brewing permeated the walls. As did John Dawes' insistent distemper. Under her breath, Clara repeated a circadian mantram: Satan awaits my faithful service. She rushed to prepare breakfast, daring a wishful glance outdoors. Past dingy curtains stretched unchanged cyclic. If only she could leave the house, inhale fresh air, maybe somehow . . . Heavy footsteps plodded closer. He'd want food. Clara's hands maneuvered in surreal practice while her mind scattered. What brought this manifestation? Did a demon creep near with the harvest moon to collect subjacent souls? She prayed for relief, but what she sought seemed trapped in the same unrelenting perdition as was the unceasing Indian-summer. Knowing his pleasure in tormenting her, each sunrise offered rebirth of repulse. Clara was woven into Dawes' nightmare, sensed his fevered intolerance and retributive thirst. She knew he never loved her; he kept a minion, not a mate. She married out of fear of becoming a spinster. Was this the price paid for betraying a sacred covenant? Dawes clattered a chair away from the table and sank before a steaming plate. In absent reflex, Clara said, “Do you want coffee?” His brusque reply sent prickles streaming from her arms to neck to back. She poured bitter liquid into the cup that read: HIS. What was wrong with her? How mad had she become? He always had coffee. “I should have been shed of you years ago,” Clara thought she heard him say, this same desire echoing behind sagged eyelids as she searched the depleted scene outside the window again. Dawes' attention shifted, his fork grating a forget-me-not china pattern. Clara felt the tines scraping across the tiny blue flower petals, and along her bones. A sledgehammer pounding in her ears matched the rhythm of his chewing. His fork stabbed upward, summoning more coffee. She watched the little pitchfork's movement, and for a second a smile formed as his image turned inert, his bulbous head flopped over onto the egg-yoked-slicked utensil protruding from his jugular. Suffocation, she considered. No, he might wake before she had strength to finish him. A iron frying pan to the head, then a long, long sleep down the well . . . Dawes spoke, interrupting her mental to-do list. “Take this garbage away. You never could cook. Never could do anything worth spit.” She complied, straining to hold body and soul steady when returned to fill HIS cup a second time. Her own meal in hand, Clara at last sat, malevolence strangling her lungs. Predestined, if one entertains such abstractions, Dawes reached for the newspaper and began scanning the obits?checking out who recently bought-the-farm, kicked-the-bucket, ate-the-bullet, or otherwise met just and proper reward. It was undisputed how much he loathed life, abhorred Clara, and relished in the knowledge that he had outlasted most of his cronies, emphasized by telling Clara discovery of their departures was his solitary enjoyment. Because he sure didn't find it shackled to a horror of life with her. He mumbled over the listings, pausing to offer snorts of approval regarding those notices whole-heartedly endorsed. Clara kept to her breakfast, until she felt the room convulse in cold, steady waves. Dawes' face turned russet. The flush swarmed, painting bulging neck veins purple. He pushed back from the table. His jaunty diamond-cutout chair back dropped sideways; a wad of padding fell free. Froth seeped along the corners of his mouth. A silent screech burned the length of Clara's throat. She gagged and coughed and swallowed bile. “Some imbecile put my obit in the newspaper,” Dawes said seconds before nettled features contorted into his skull. Black saliva rained off Clara's melting chin. He lurched forward. Clara jerked away, one house slipper scurried into a corner. “Rat poison, this rag says. But not before I crushed your windpipe.” His words hung in the dry air like a cartoon bubble that burst when a howl of legions escaped his dangling maw. The newsprint flung at Clara levitated, separated into flapping sheets that slowly circled above them until gaining violent strength. Calendar pages flapped forward, backward? January, May, October, June. Lumps of rotted flesh gave over to cartilage and sinew. Their two forms trembled on rattling kneecaps. Thunderous booms dwarfing conjoined shrieks faded finally into utter silence. John Dawes' newspaper drifted back to the tabletop. 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. Seascape at Evening A backward glance revealed the path of our footprints across the sand; a Morse-like string of dots and dashes, leading from the steps across the deserted beach to the granite outcrop upon which we sat. An iron-grey sky hung threateningly overhead as the sea churned, rolling white-flecked waves shoreward to wash away the debris discarded by day-trippers too lazy and uncaring to carry off their own unwanted litter. A screeching gull wheeled across the sky, hung motionless for a moment, then swooped - skimming the water before plucking a tit-bit from the surface. Then it soared high, dipped its wings once and disappeared over the rim of the cliff. The sea swelled, throwing frothing waves higher to scour clean the tarnished sands, then receded slowly, energy spent, only to gather itself once more for a further onslaught. The air grew chillier and we put up our collars and dug hands deep into pockets as we made our way back to the flight of steps. One last glance showed the beach swept clean, our footprints already cicatrices. And in that calm, that stillness, it was as if neither we or you, nor mankind itself had ever existed. Kevin Cowdall was born in 1959 in Liverpool, England; where he still lives and works. Kevin developed an interest in writing at an early age – 'Like most teenagers, I wrote poetry, much of which was of the appalling “Moon In June” type, but I gradually started to get things into print – my first published poem actually appeared, appropriately, in the influential publication, First Time. Three small press collections followed; The Reflective Image (1984), Monochrome Leaves (1985) and A Walk in the Park (1990). In all, over 150 poems have been published in magazines, journals and anthologies in the UK, Australia, Canada and across Europe, broadcast on local and regional BBC Radio and featured in several local and national competitions. In 1986, The Writers’ Rostrum produced The Best of Kevin Cowdall, which was awarded a best collection prize at the 1987 National Small Press and Poetry Convention. Kevin also started writing short stories and a number have been published in UK magazines and anthologies and he has edited nine of these in to a collection, The Ophelia Garden. He has also completed his first play, Sometimes, a children's novel, 'The Dinsdale Fox', and a full-length novel, Cosgrove’s Sketches, about the life of an Edwardian Liverpool artist. Kevin was recently asked by Warren Adler (War of the Roses, Random Hearts, etc) to review his new novel The Serpent's Bite, and is now using extracts on his web site and in blogs and press releases. Warren also encouraged Kevin to release his story, Paper Gods and Iron Men, on Kindle, and it has received a number of excellent reviews (Amazon UK). In his spare time, Kevin is an avid reader, enjoys live and recorded music (predominantly classical, opera, jazz and blues), theatre- and cinema-going, dining out and travelling widely. Snapshot echoes of your voice in still motion give chase as i race through the maze of discarded relics and snapshot conversations leading me to the same dead end. Meredith Carino is from Ramsey, New Jersey. Still my Heart Still my heart oh sweet desire On crescent moon once passed To hold thee tender in a moments grace With others whom you may transpire Concede not my wistful glance For upon thee it choose to stay Now in my dreams thus torment flows Must Perpetuate my love to chance Hath thou indulged my looks return Or banished thoughts not gracious Or worthy not concedes thy mind An eternity I must endure to learn That heavens glimpse to render seek Momentarily lacks devoid behold Then in a smile thy passion moves me and courage lets my body speak Will Neil is a writer and a poet. Leather Bound Novel I pull open the cover, a trap door to the deck. “Weigh the anchor!” and with a splash the adventure begins. ”Trim your sails!” and the curtain flaps behind me. The bow of Old Salt splits the waves and I wipe the spray from my glasses. There’s mutiny aboard the ship. With cutlasses drawn I hear them charge, the “pok-pok” of a peg leg is my dad at the door. “It’s twelve gone”, he says and I see them fall to the deck. In the heat of the action there’s no time to count the loss! There’s a shout from the door, “They’ve scuttled the ship!” My feet get cold as the hull fills up. The water is rising it dowsers my candle. The crew is sprawled awkwardly on the still, red-dyed deck, as the leather bound novel falls from my bed… Leo Long is a South African poet and aspiring writer The Letter This my letter to you my dear who have never written to me I set before you my great hopes of the dreams that may come to be I laid out the coin we minted within my heart's own treasury To toss about the thoughts we had of our own benedictory You stamped this coin upon my soul embossed with love of hope divine Pressed in the mint of memory you will age like the finest wine Should you choose to ever leave me may we find our lost love and stay Like dreams we both had forgotten from the hopes of our yesterday Tate Morgan - I am a product of the Midwest. Raised on the plain states of North America. I was nurtured on a ideal akin to Mayberry. I grew to manhood under the Midwest sun. Playing Baseball and running the streets of my little town. Where friends were lifelong spirits. Essence of their souls follow me still. It was a simpler time. There were no shades between right and wrong. Full to the rim with absolutes. In the place I came from all was right with the world. But as I grew so did the world. Along with me the rest posed immortal questions to the creator. Till the world was as you see it now. A complicated shade of gray. As in the times of the ancient mariner we all hear the call of sirens that gesture us to sail home. Continuity of purpose flows from the wellspring of our lives. In the end we all find we are drawn inexorably home, to the hearth from around which we told our tales of long ago and spun our yarns of a life well lived. The well spent life will always beckon from the winds of change a call for home. I am a poet by nature. Compelled through a life time of experience to give voice to our existence. To honor the struggle. Not the reward. Hopefully to see something of note. The Race in the race forward constantly falling behind together, coming apart J. M. Tompkins is a poet and aspiring dystopian novelist. Her first novel, Built From Tears, will focus on the psychological and emotional needs for community after the failure of the global economy. She is also working on her second novel and a series of short stories. J. M. Tompkins incorporates into her writing a love of people and culture, as well as respect for tradition. Her passion is to spread love of all beings rather than material items. In her spare time, J. M. shares poems and chapters on her site, CreativityUntamed.com. Boat Pittsburgh Nicole Moga Have you ever found yourself sitting at the edge of one of our three rivers watching, with envy, as other people leisurely cruise on their private boats? Have you fantasized about making friends with these people just so you could experience the joy and ecstasy of boating in Pittsburgh? Did you then get depressed and angry realizing that Pittsburgh, in it’s continued infinite renaissance, has completely neglected creating any boat rental services for the public? And in conclusion, you finished the beer you were drinking and sadly tried to swim in The Water Steps thinking “this is as good as it gets.” Well, get a hold of yourself. You are scaring the suburban families. You now have a reason to move forward. Boat Pittsburgh will launch in the spring/summer of 2014. Your dreams of summer boating will be fulfilled. Boat Pittsburgh is the brainchild of Troy Hill resident, Nicole Moga. Nicole is a true water baby who uses her annual Citiparks pool pass until it disintegrates from chlorine exposure. But pools were not enough to satisfy this mermaid, she needed more. And the lack of finding boat rentals in Pittsburgh is what fueled the motivation for Boat Pittsburgh. HC:Tell us about yourself and what inspired you to start Boat Pittsburgh: NM: I grew up on Lake Mohawk in Eastern Ohio and have been an avid boater for over 20 years. I moved to Pittsburgh in 2001 and to attend the Art Institute and study graphic design. I have always dreamed of working for myself, doing something outdoors, and encouraging others to explore our incredible city. During the past few years, my friends and I rented a pontoon on a few occasions and had an amazing time. The problem was finding a reliable rental company. I decided in 2012 to research the feasibility of starting my own rental business. I'm still knee-deep in the process and I am learning everything I can about developing a sustainable model. Ultimately, my goal is to create a new and unique attraction for residents and visitors to enjoy and to showcase Pittsburgh's healthy waterways. HC: What will Boat Pittsburgh offer Pittsburghers? NM:Starting in Spring/Summer of 2014, you will be able to rent a 20' Suntracker pontoon boat that seats 9 people. Boats will be available to rent Thursday through Sunday, by the hour, for up to 8 hours and on holidays and during special events by appointment. Renters/Drivers will need to have a valid state driver's license to operate the boat. Those born after January 1, 1982 are required to have a PA Boating Safety Education Certificate. (Boat Pittsburgh can help with that.) Before you embark, we'll go over some standard safety precautions and have the driver sign a liability waiver. Then you can set sail! It's that easy. And I am available on-call to help if you need assistance on the water at any time during your rental. We are also looking into offering chartered trips in which a driver would be provided at an additional cost. In the future, I'd like to offer jet ski and speed boat rentals as well. I have so many fun ideas up my sleeve so I hope you'll come along for the ride. Anchors aweigh! Boat Pittsburgh will be exhibiting at the 2014 Pittsburgh Boat Show at the Monroeville Convention Center from January 23-26, 2014. Come see about pre-registration. There is also an Indiegogo crowdfunding campaign starting in March 2014 to raise money for start-up equipment. Help make this Pittsburgh dream a quick reality!! If you want more information, or would like to get involved with Boat Pittsburgh, you can contact Nicole at Email: boatpittsburgh@gmail.com Facebook: facebook.com/boat-pgh Twitter: https://twitter.com/BoatPittsburgh Website: boat-pgh.com (to launch 2014) We Are the Noise Collaboration celebration, as we live life of noise creation. Like vegetation, warmed up by sun, cooled off by ocean, but unlike leaves, we feel another's heart distortion. We're single, but we're just a portion, proportioned to this world. We might be in the middle of the warmest motion, while some of us are cold. So blue and cold, someone is always looking at grey skies. So bright, was their sunrise but didn't offer any warmth. With pain, they shut their eyes, just trying to escape within their minds. And they see paradise, plateaus and plains where air can make you giggle, where smallest flowers and a sun can mingle, 'cause love is not selective. There's love that's not corrective, so every beauty is unique. Can't get homesick, 'cause everywhere they go is home. There's wild and refreshing storm, but thunder raises no alarms. It only gives a chance to be so close, to be in someone's arms. From eyes, they take away their palms and see their daily choice. Let's try to hear each other's hearts, we are the noise. Michael Leman - At the age of 10, in a city wide poetry competition of Moscow’s schools, Michael finished in 3rd place. In the late 1990s, during the revolutionary age for independent artists, Michael wrote song lyrics, collaborated with composers/producers. Many demos were produced, in styles that ranged from Pop, to Rock, to Trance, to fusion of different genres. Some songs have received radio play in Norway, and an independent album was released in Japan. In the beginning of 1st decade of the 21st century, Michael served as a Hip Hop Ghostwriter. In 2008, feeling constricted by the standard song format and limited by classic poetry, Michael concentrated on writing, independently from anyone, in a style to which he refers as Abstract Hip Hop Poetry. At this time, you can follow Michael’s journey, from tear-evoking love songs, to misunderstood Hip Hop bars, all is included in the current version of his book, Michaels Lyric (420 Flowers Behind XVI Bars). Visit MichaelsLyric.com, to check out the current version. Once the next book is released, the current version will be out of print.