New Submissions

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

2014 - Archives

SNOW GLOBE

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

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

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

Meredith Carino is from Ramsey, New Jersey.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Rock and Roll Requiem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Reluctant Dreamer’’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''Josef, Com estàs'' I greet him.

''Vell'' he replies.

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

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

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

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

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

Will Neil - Award Winning Published Author.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Wax Paper Slide

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

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

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

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

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

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Pittsburgh Vintage Grand Prix

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Allhallows Eve

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

AMBER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Choosing to Stand Still

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. That Matthew.

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

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

“And how are you and Matthew doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My heart flipped. I ignored it.

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

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

“What happened?”

I looked up at him as though I was confused.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Why exactly did you break up?”

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

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

This was not my idea.

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

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

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

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

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

“Saw?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes. And no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. No. No. No. No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, not wanted me, needed me.

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

I couldn't do this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

Katie and Matty. Best Friends Till the End.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door slammed behind him again.

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I found the letter where the picture once was.

Katie,

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

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

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

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

Out of motion. Standing still.

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

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Fine Art of Tang Soo Do

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. What is your biggest accomplishment?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

mourning doves

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

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

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

An Interview with The Satin Hearts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

UNDER KAUFMANN’S CLOCK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Wedding Bliss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.