[MD-Sligo] FW: Fall/Winter 2019/2020 edition of Magnets and Ladders

[Chikodinaka mr. Oguledo]

doo u need too pay fore Magnets and Ladders or is it free. subscribe
me I will bring my money on Saturday  on Saturday. this Saturday! 1:30
at long branch library. b there or b sqware

On 11/14/19, Frederick JM Kamara via MD-Sligo <md-sligo at nfbnet.org> wrote:
> Hi Shawn,
> I would also like to be a member of the writer's division.  I hope to be at
> the meeting on Saturday, so I will give you my membership fees.
> Fred.
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: MD-Sligo [mailto:md-sligo-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jacobson,
> Shawn D via MD-Sligo
> Sent: Wednesday, November 13, 2019 10:22 AM
> To: Sligo Creek Chapter list, NFB of Maryland <md-sligo at nfbnet.org>
> Cc: Jacobson, Shawn D <Shawn.D.Jacobson at hud.gov>
> Subject: Re: [MD-Sligo] FW: Fall/Winter 2019/2020 edition of Magnets and
> Ladders
>
> Henry
>
> We send Slate and Style to writer's division members.
>
> Dues are $10, and I can collect and let Shelly, our president, know you've
> joined.
>
> Shawn
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: MD-Sligo <md-sligo-bounces at nfbnet.org> On Behalf Of Henry Osborne via
> MD-Sligo
> Sent: Thursday, November 07, 2019 2:00 PM
> To: Sligo Creek Chapter list, NFB of Maryland <md-sligo at nfbnet.org>
> Cc: Henry Osborne <hosbornejr at gmail.com>
> Subject: Re: [MD-Sligo] FW: Fall/Winter 2019/2020 edition of Magnets and
> Ladders
>
> Hi Sean, congratulations!
> How can I subscribe to the Magnets and Ladders please?
> I dabble in writing a bit. My Uncle on my Maternal side of the family is Sir
> James M. Barrie.
> Thank you.
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Jacobson, Shawn D via MD-Sligo
> Sent: Thursday, November 07, 2019 1:23 PM
> To: Jacobson Cheryl (cheryl.jacobson at siemens.com) ; Jacobson, Zebe ;
> srj1784 at aol.com ; Nan Ripley ; falloutwest (falloutwest at comcast.net) ;
> NFBMD(nfbmd at earthlink.net) ; Ronza Othman ; Sligo Creek Chapter list, NFB of
> Maryland(md-sligo at nfbnet.org) ; Cruickshank, James S ; Schmehl, Richard L ;
> Warren, Derek M ; Willis, Eric ; Kahng,Arden
> Cc: Jacobson, Shawn D
> Subject: [MD-Sligo] FW: Fall/Winter 2019/2020 edition of Magnets and Ladders
>
> I got some poetry published in this issue.
>
> Me
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Magnets and Ladders <submissions at magnetsandladders.org>
> Sent: Tuesday, October 29, 2019 9:36 PM
> To: Jacobson, Shawn D <Shawn.D.Jacobson at hud.gov>
> Subject: Fall/Winter 2019/2020 edition of Magnets and Ladders
>
> Magnets and Ladders
> Active Voices of Writers with Disabilities
> Fall/Winter 2019-2020
>
> # Table of Contents
>
> Editorial and Technical Staff
> Submission Guidelines
> About Behind Our Eyes
> Editor's Welcome
>
> Part I. In Memoriam
> Baker Street Station, fiction by Deon Lyons
> A Review of a Writer's Companion from National Braille Press, nonfiction by
> John Weidlich
>
> Part II. Not What I Expected
> Smash, fiction First Place by Susan Muhlenbeck
> Barney and Our New Neighbor, nonfiction First Place by Leonard Tuchyner
> You Talking To Me? poetry by Leonard Tuchyner
> A Heartfelt Revenge, fiction Second Place by Bonnie Blose
> Carnival Fugue, poetry First Place by Brad Corallo
> The Mound, fiction by Greg Pruitt
> Refuge, fiction by Ellen Fritz
> Bank Line, fiction Honorable Mention by Nicole Massey
>
> Part III. Seasonal Sensations
> Vintage Keeper, poetry by Brad Corallo
> Autumn Tapestry, poetry by Carrie Hooper
> Leaves Whisper, poetry by Leonard Tuchyner
> Let It Snow, memoir by Kate Chamberlin
> A Taste of Winter, nonfiction Second Place by Marcia J. Wick, the Write
> Sisters
> The Magic and Wonder of the First Weekend of December: From Christmas
> Dances to Decorations, From the Land of Oz to Santa Claus Land, memoir by
> Alice Jane-Marie Massa
> Winter Conspiracy, poetry Honorable Mention by Wesley D. Sims
> Angel Light, poetry by Shawn Jacobson
> Winter Through the Senses, poetry by Abbie Johnson Taylor
> My First Taste of Snow, memoir by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters
>
> Part IV. Points to Ponder
> The Mountain I Can't Climb, poetry Second Place by Shawn Jacobson
> A Veteran's Day Reflection: nonfiction Honorable Mention by Brad Corallo
> Life Waters, poetry by Valerie Moreno
> Grandma's Metaphor, nonfiction by Bonnie Rennie
> Spirit Freedom, fiction Honorable Mention by Lorice McCloud
> Shut Up Mike, fiction by Nicole Massey
>
> Part V. The Writers' Climb
> Roads We've Traveled, Roads Ahead, nonfiction by Marilyn Brandt Smith
> A Shift of Weather, nonfiction by Nancy Scott
> Walking by Inner Vision: Stories & Poems, book excerpt by Lynda McKinney
> Lambert
> CONTEST ALERT
> The Non-Apologizing Apology, nonfiction by Mary-Jo Lord
> Perfume, Diamante poetry by Susan Muhlenbeck
> Dreams, a Revised Edition, poetry by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
> Creative Cabin in the Concrete Wood, poetry by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
>
> Part VI. Looking Back
> Big Sister and Little Brother, poetry Honorable Mention by DeAnna
> Quietwater Noriega
> The Brooch, poetry by Carol Farnsworth
> Whisper, poetry by Ria Mead
> Endings, poetry by Ria Mead
> The Leviathan's Gift, fiction by Kate Chamberlin
> Winter, 1864, poetry by Wesley D. Sims
> For Thirteen Years, Acrostic poetry Honorable Mention by Marilyn Brandt
> Smith
> My First Love, memoir by Abbie Johnson Taylor
> 10K, memoir nonfiction Honorable Mention by Susan Muhlenbeck
>
> Part VII. Slices of Life
> In the Closet, fiction Honorable Mention by Marilyn Brandt Smith
> The Boss, poetry by Divya Sharma
> Silence, poetry by Robert D. Sollars
> The Twins, poetry by Molly Kate Toombs
> Father, poetry by Molly Kate Toombs
> Working in Public, fiction by Abbie Johnson Taylor
> Fragile, poetry by Shawn Jacobson
>
> Part VIII. The Melting Pot
> Precious Hero, poetry by Valerie Moreno
> Down By The Station, fiction by Kate Chamberlin
> Yellow Eyes, poetry by Sly Duck
> Embracing Truth, poetry by Laura Minning
> The Rose, poetry by Robert D. Sollars
> Fairies, poetry by Carol Farnsworth
> Break of Day, poetry by Ria Mead
>
> --------------------
>
> # Editorial and Technical Staff
>
> - Coordinating Editor: Mary-Jo Lord
> - Fiction: Valerie Moreno, Marilyn Brandt Smith, Kate Chamberlin, Abbie
> Johnson Taylor, and Bonnie Blose
> - Nonfiction: Valerie Moreno, John W. Smith, Kate Chamberlin, Bonnie Blose,
> and Marilyn Brandt Smith
> - Poetry: Valerie Moreno, Abbie Johnson Taylor, Leonard Tuchyner, Lynda
> McKinney Lambert, and Brad Corallo
> - Technical Assistants: Jayson Smith
>
> --------------------
>
> # Submission Guidelines
>
> Writers with disabilities may submit up to three selections per issue.
> Deadlines are February 15 for the Spring/Summer issue, and August 15 for
> the Fall/winter issue. Writers must disclose their disability in their
> biography or in their work. Biographies may be up to 100 words in length,
> and should be written in third-person.
>
> Do not submit until your piece is ready to be considered for publication.
> Rewrites, additions, deletions, or corrections are part of the editorial
> process, and will be suggested or initiated by the editor.
>
> Poetry maximum length is 50 lines. Memoir, fiction, and nonfiction maximum
> length is 2500 words. In all instances, our preference is for shorter
> lengths than the maximum allowed. Please single-space all submissions, and
> use a blank line to separate paragraphs and stanzas. It is important to
> spell check and proofread all entries. Previously published material and
> simultaneous submissions are permitted provided you own the copyright to
> the work. Please cite previous publisher and/or notify if work is accepted
> elsewhere.
>
> We do not feature advocacy, activist, "how-to," or "what's new" articles
> regarding disabilities. Innovative techniques for better writing as well as
> publication success stories are welcome. Content will include many genres,
> with limited attention to the disability theme. Announcements of writing
> contests with deadlines beyond April 1 and October 1 respectively are
> welcome.
>
> Have You Published a book? If you would like to have an excerpt of your
> book published in an issue of *Magnets and Ladders*, please submit a
> chapter or section of your book to submissions at magnetsandladders.org. The
> word count for fiction and nonfiction book excerpt submissions should not
> exceed twenty-five hundred words. Poetry book excerpts should be limited to
> five poems. Please include information about where your book is available
> in an accessible format. We will publish up to one book excerpt per issue.
>
> Authors under age 18: Please include a statement from a parent or guardian
> that indicates awareness of your submission of literary work to Magnets and
> Ladders.
>
> Do you have a skill, service, or product valued by writers? For a minimum
> contribution of $25.00 we will announce it in the next two issues of
> "Magnets and Ladders". All verifications of products or services provided
> are the responsibility of our readers. Book cover design? Copyediting?
> Critiques? Formatting for publication? Internet access or web design?
> Marketing assistance? Special equipment? Make your donation through PayPal
> (see magnetsandladders.org) or by check by March/September 1. 100-word
> promotional information is due by February/August 15. Not sure about
> something? Email submissions at magnetsandladders.org. All donations support
> Magnets and Ladders.
>
> Please email all submissions to submissions at magnetsandladders.org. Paste
> your submission and bio into the body of your email or attach in Microsoft
> Word format. If submitting Word documents, please put your name and the
> name of your piece at or near the top of the document. Submissions will be
> acknowledged within two weeks. You will be notified if your piece is
> selected
> for publication.
>
> Final author approval and review is necessary if changes are needed beyond
> punctuation, grammar, and sentence or paragraph structure. We will not
> change titles, beginnings, endings, dialog, poetic lines, the writer's
> voice, or the general tone without writer collaboration. If your work is
> selected for inclusion in a future "Behind Our Eyes" project, you will be
> notified; your approval and final review will be required. To insure we can
> contact you regarding future projects, please keep us updated if your Email
> address changes.
>
> --------------------
>
> # About Behind Our Eyes
>
> Behind Our Eyes, Inc. is a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization enhancing the
> opportunities for writers with disabilities. Our anthology published in
> 2007, "Behind Our Eyes: Stories, Poems, and Essays by Writers with
> Disabilities", is available at Amazon and from other booksellers. It is
> available in recorded and Braille format from the National Library Service
> for the Blind and Physically Handicapped.
>
> "Behind Our Eyes, a Second Look" is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble,
> and other booksellers, and in E-book format on Amazon Kindle. It is also
> available in recorded format from the National Library Service for the
> Blind and Physically Handicapped. See our book trailer on Youtube at
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hk0uIaQTr24&feature=youtu.be.
>
> Several members of our group meet by moderated teleconference twice monthly
> to hear speakers; share work for critique; or receive tips on
> accessibility, publication, and suggested areas of interest.
>
> Our mailing list is a low-traffic congenial place to share work in
> progress; learn about submission requests; and to ask and answer writing
> questions. If you would like to join our group and receive access to our
> phone conferences and mailing list, please complete our quick and easy
> membership form at http://www.behindoureyes.org/mform/form.php.
>
> If you would like to learn more about Behind Our Eyes, or if you would like
> to make a donation, please visit our website at
> http://www.behindoureyes.org.
>
> --------------------
>
> # Editor's Welcome
>
> hello. There's something magic about fall, with the crunch of leaves under
> foot, the wind as it blows in heavy gusts, and the peaceful sound of the
> outdoors at night. The air has a crisp, freshness and everyone is
> commenting on the beautiful colors everywhere.
>
> This spring, the members of Behind Our Eyes and the *Magnets and Ladders*
> staff were saddened by the deaths of a long-time member and our friend and
> proofreader. Deon Lyons and John Weidlich both passed away in April after
> battles with Cancer.
>
> Deon Lyons had been a member of Behind Our Eyes since 2010. He was a
> frequent contributor to *Magnets and Ladders*. He participated in phone
> conferences, on committees, and on the mailing list. Deon's cheerful
> attitude and incredible writing will be missed by the Behind Our Eyes
> community.
>
> John Weidlich volunteered to be the final proofreader for *Magnets and
> Ladders* in 2012 and continued to provide us with invaluable assistance
> through 2018. His generosity and wealth of knowledge are missed by the
> *Magnets and Ladders* staff.
>
> We will feature previously published pieces by Deon and John immediately
> following The Editor's Welcome.
>
> Do you like to think outside the box? Be sure to read "Not What I Expected"
> and "Points to Ponder." "Looking Back" and "Slices of Life" have stories
> and poems about all aspects of life. "The Writers' Climb" has articles and
> poems about creativity. "Seasonal Sensations" has stories and poems that
> will make you smile when you read about snow." The Melting Pot" ends this
> edition with a reminder that spring will come again.
>
> I would like to give a big thanks to all of the committee members and to
> Marilyn Brandt Smith and Jason Smith for your hard work and support
> throughout the production process.
>
> We had contests with cash prizes in fiction, nonfiction and poetry. Three
> authors earned an Honorable Mention in both the fiction and poetry
> categories. Below are the *Magnets and Ladders* Fall/Winter 2018-2019
> contest winners.
>
> Fiction:
>
> - First Place: "Smash" by Susan Muhlenbeck
> - Second Place: "A Heartfelt Revenge" by Bonnie Blose
> - Honorable Mention: "Spirit Freedom" by Lorice McCloud
> - Honorable Mention: "In the Closet" by Marilyn Brandt Smith
> - Honorable Mention: "Bank Line" by Nicole Massey
>
> Nonfiction:
>
> - First Place: "Barney and Our New Neighbor" by Leonard Tuchyner
> - Second Place: "A Taste of Winter" by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters
> - Honorable Mention: "A Veteran’s Day Reflection" by Brad Corallo
> - Honorable Mention: "10K" by Susan Muhlenbeck
>
> Poetry:
>
> - First Place: "Carnival Fugue" by Brad Corallo
> - Second Place: "The Mountain I Can’t Climb" by Shawn Jacobson
> - Honorable Mention: "Big Sister and Little Brother" by DeAnna Quietwater
> Noriega
> - Honorable Mention: "Winter Conspiracy" by Wesley D. Sims
> - Honorable Mention: "For Thirteen Years" by Marilyn Brandt Smith
>
> Congratulations to all of the contest winners.
>
> The *Magnets and Ladders* staff wishes you a safe and happy holiday season.
>
> --------------------
>
> # Part I. In Memoriam
>
> ## Baker Street Station, fiction
> by Deon Lyons
>
> "Baker Street Station, next stop, Baker Street Station." The train
> conductor's voice bellowed over the speaker inside the commuter car,
> snapping Paul to attention. The smell of burnt axle grease and stale city,
> along with the pungent aroma of day old perfume and deodorant sifted
> through the creaking passenger car, as it rocked its way down the tracks.
> He squirmed and shifted his position on his seat inside the car. Clutching
> his briefcase at his feet with one hand, Paul leaned forward and grabbed
> the shiny steel pole in front of him with the other. He sat on the edge of
> the cracked and torn vinyl seat in heavy anticipation.
>
> Would she be there again? He thought to himself. Would her hair be pulled
> back, like it was yesterday? I wonder what she is wearing today. He
> nervously shifted again in his seat as he looked out through the opposite
> window of the commuter car. The stop was just ahead, and he didn't want to
> miss the chance to see her again.
>
> Every night for the past two weeks, she had appeared across the tracks,
> standing on the platform, all alone, waiting for the southbound train. Paul
> was on the northbound. He had seen this vision from heaven every night on
> his ride home for nine nights. This glorious creature was an angel in
> disguise. A gift to mankind straight from the Gods. She was everything he
> had ever craved in a woman. Long dark hair that was full and flowing around
> the most beautiful face he had ever seen. She didn't appear to wear any
> make up. She didn't need to. Her natural beauty pulled him towards her,
> like a June bug drawn to a sixty watt light bulb on a cool summer's night.
>
> Her figure was another slice of heaven that curved gracefully around and
> down, leading into a long pair of legs that could have easily been deemed
> illegal. She was the definition of perfection that he had always imagined
> for himself, and she had been only 30 feet or so away from him.
>
> He took a deep breath as the platform neared. There was the usual small
> crowd gathered there at the station, waiting for the next south bound train
> to pick them up and carry them towards the rest of their lives.
>
> Some obviously unknowing pathetic fool in Paul's car got up and stood in
> front of his seat, blocking his view of the approaching Baker Street
> platform. He nervously shifted in his seat and swore under his breath at
> the incompetence of the moron in front of him.
>
> Unable to adjust his position to get a clear view, Paul quickly got up and
> found a vacant seat to his left, and was once again lined up with a perfect
> view of the upcoming platform. Paul had sat towards the end of the car, so
> as to only have minimal passenger traffic inside the car impeding his
> chance to gaze at this beauty across the way.
>
> He had a burned image of her running through his head since he first
> noticed her the week before last. He had run through a thousand different
> scenarios in his mind with her image in front of him, beside him and around
> him. There wasn't a thought of her that remained untouched in his deep
> seeded desires. He could hear the laugh of her voice. He could smell the
> sweet aroma of her smooth skin as he caressed her face. He could feel her
> gaze into his eyes, followed by a smile that could easily light up a
> thousand rooms. It seemed so perfect to him. In so many ways she had
> managed to grab hold of his desires, and pull them into her possibilities.
>
> Surely she would, if given the chance, find him as irresistible as he
> imagined her to be.
>
> It had been warm those past two weeks, and he was thankful for it. She had
> usually been dressed in skirts with blouses. Her lovely shape was mind
> bending, even from 30 feet away. Her dark, deep set eyes and strong cheek
> bones had been circling around his brain. She looked Italian, and he had
> always been intrigued by the natural beauty of Italian women. Again, he
> pictured her smile, her laugh, the way she brushed the hair away from her
> face as she shyly looked down at the ground.
>
> "Baker street station. Now arriving at Baker Street station." The train
> conductor's voice barged in on Paul's imagination once again.
>
> This is it! He thought to himself. As he sat and stared out the opposite
> window, he pictured the layout of the Baker Street Station in his mind. He
> had been to both sides of the tracks in the past, as it was the area hub
> for the local semipro baseball team, of which he was an avid fan.
>
> I can jump off, run underneath and make it to the other platform in less
> than a minute. His mind rotated and glided from one movement to the next as
> his mental image presented him with a vision of amazing grace being slowly
> wrapped up inside every nook and cranny of his deepest desires. That's it!
> It's now or never! Again he wrestled with his anxieties, his passions,
> submitting to his addictive nature.
>
> Paul's train started slowing down as it approached the station. The
> loosening of his tie, the screeching brakes and the methodic tug of the
> stopping motion, and there she was. The world stopped for an instant as he
> zoomed in on her every feature. There seemed to be a glowing orb that was
> surrounding her and illuminating the platform where she stood. Paul's heart
> suddenly stopped for a few seconds, and then restarted with a thump in his
> chest. His eyes opened wide, as he was being completely engulfed by the
> approaching image of this breathtaking beauty across the tracks. Her hair
> was pulled back again, showing off her long slender neck, and glowing
> features. He swallowed hard and stretched his neck to take in every ounce
> of her beauty. He didn't think it was possible, but she looked better than
> she did the day before.
>
> Looking around the inside of his car quickly, he wondered how everyone
> could be so unaware of this magnificent creature that was glowing, just
> across the tracks.
>
> She was dressed in a peach colored blouse with a flowing flower print
> skirt. Pure heavenly bliss was all he could think of.
>
> As the train continued to approach the station, she appeared to be looking
> right at him. He knew it, he just knew it. He could feel her gaze as beads
> of nervous sweat broke out on his brow.
>
> Paul swallowed and smiled as he nervously got up from his seat and walked
> over towards the sliding doors. The train rocked back and forth as it came
> to a slow stop at Baker Street Station.
>
> As the doors opened, he took one more look at her as he started to exit,
> then stopped dead in his tracks just two steps from the doors.
>
> A shock wave pummeled down through him as he watched her turn to her right
> and smile as a tall, well-dressed man suddenly walked up to her, wrapped
> his arm around her, and pulled her into a long, deep kiss.
>
> Paul's heart rapidly fell thirty-two stories straight down into the pit of
> his stomach, smashing hard at the bottom like a fifty pound sack of flour
> on a dusty basement floor. He couldn't breathe, nor could he swallow. His
> vision was instantly shattered into a million pieces as he staggered
> backwards and sank back down onto the vinyl bench seats.
>
> He looked again, and saw that they were still hugging, still kissing, and
> still ripping and tearing the visions out of his downward spiraling mind.
> Paul's gaze fell down to the scarred, dirty floor of his subway car, as the
> doors closed and the train slowly started leaving the station.
>
> He looked up once more at the opposite platform where she once stood alone.
> The platform slowly drifted away from sight.
>
> "Commonwealth Avenue. Next stop Commonwealth Avenue." the conductor's voice
> rang through the car as Paul's dreams of the angel slowly dissolved from
> view.
>
> Looking down at his briefcase, he noticed something shimmering in the late
> evening sunlight running through his car. It was his wedding ring. Paul
> leaned back in his seat, and chuckled under his breath as he spun the ring
> on his finger with his other hand. Shaking his head, he took another deep
> breath, smiled and closed his eyes as the train rocked and clicked its way
> down the tracks. He was seven stops from home.
>
> "Baker Street Station" was published in the Fall/Winter edition of *Magnets
> and Ladders*
>
> Bio: Deon Lyons lived in Central Maine with his wife of thirty-seven years.
> Deon had been chasing a passion for writing since his younger days, and was
> grateful for those avenues of inspiration that gave him countless ways to
> expand on his writing craft. Mr. Lyons was a lover of music, movies,
> described media, family, chocolate and the camaraderie that only friends
> can provide. Deon was a member of Behind Our Eyes since 2011. Deon said,
> "I'm continuously impressed by this amazing collection of talented
> writers."
>
> Sadly, Deon passed away at home on April 12, 2019 after a courageous battle
> with cancer. His amazing talent, humor, positive outlook and ongoing
> support to members is greatly missed by the Behind Our Eyes community. You
> can read many poems and stories by Deon in past issues of *Magnets and
> Ladders*.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## A Review of *a Writer's Companion* from National Braille Press,
> nonfiction
> by John Weidlich
>
> A few questions before we get started:
>
> Does our Constitution give you the right to bare arms?
>
> If you can keep a secret, would you best be described as discreet or
> discrete?
>
> If you and your guide dog ran into an immovable object in a parking lot and
> you decided to write about the experience, would you refer to the object as
> stationery or stationary?
>
> What is the difference between the words all ready and already or is there
> one? What about altogether and all together?
>
> Is Washington, DC our nation's capital or its Capitol?
>
> How can you tell a person who is a boor from one who is a bore?
>
> How is a Council different from a Counsel?
>
> Do you have a flair for writing or is it a flare?
>
> Which is the animal, a gorilla or a guerilla?
>
> Which is correct: It's a Wonderful Life or Its a Wonderful Life?
>
> If you answered all of those questions without hesitation, then you
> probably don't need this grate( great?) new book for writers from National
> Braille Press that I am about to review. You can move along to the next
> article. But if not, read on, because there is a wealth of information
> waiting for you in this very small volume.
>
> The book is *A Writer's Companion, a Pocket Book of Homophones* compiled by
> the folks at the National Braille Press in Boston, MA. Homophones: those
> pesky words that sound alike but are spelled differently and have different
> meanings, words that can and do trip up even very good writers who aren't
> careful. NBP decided to put together this book because of homophone
> mistakes that they keep seeing in emails, such as references to "sited
> people," "sell phones" and the "right to bare arms." This small volume
> lists hundreds of them, from fairly obvious ones like there, their and
> they're to such less familiar ones as discreet/discrete, bazaar/bizarre,
> elicit/illicit and one that always seems to confuse me affect/effect. The
> entries are very brief. Here are a few, just to give you an idea of what
> you will find:
>
> Altar: (pedestal,) alter: (to change)
>
> Affect: (to change or influence,) effect: (a result)
>
> Discreet: (modest; can keep a secret,) discrete: (distinct; unrelated)
>
> Pedal: (bicycle pedal,) peddle: (to sell,) petal: (flower petal)
>
> Its: (possession: its paws,) it's: (contraction, it is)
>
> Raise: (raise your hand,) rays: (rays of the sun,) raze: (to destroy
> completely).
>
> You can see from these examples that the explanations are not complex;
> there is just enough information to help you distinguish the words and to
> help you know which one to use. Some of the entries are not strictly
> homophones in that the pronunciations are not exactly the same but they are
> words that can cause mistakes like medal, metal, mettle, and meddle.
>
> But as helpful as this is, the homophone entries comprise only the first
> half of the book. There is much more of value to aspiring writers.
>
> The next section is called Transition Words, a list of about seventy words
> and phrases that you can use to begin a new sentence or thought, beginning
> with a few minutes later, and ending with which is to say.
>
> Then we come to lists of descriptive word choices. To quote from the book:
> "good writers select just the right word to convey a thought or to describe
> a situation or person. For example, bulky and monstrous both describe
> something big, but they imply different qualities."
>
> What follows is several lists of words to describe various qualities. You
> don't have to say something is big. Instead you can describe it as
> astronomical, broad, colossal, considerable, enormous, gigantic, grand,
> great, huge, immense, inflated, jumbo, large, mammoth, massive, mighty,
> monstrous, roomy, spacious, substantial, tremendous, along with several
> more that I didn't give you. These are just lists of descriptive words. The
> words are not defined or differentiated but you can consult a good
> dictionary or thesaurus to help you decide which of the many choices you
> might want to use. There are lists of words for big, small, very, a lot, a
> little, fast, slow, good, bad, loud, soft, hot, cold, light, dark, hard,
> soft, wet and dry. Some of the lists are quite long, with over sixty words
> for good and an equally large number for bad.
>
> But we're not done yet. The next section is called What Color is That.
> Designers like to play with the names of colors, which can make it hard to
> know what color they mean. So there are words for black, blue, brown, gray,
> green, orange and all of the other common colors. For example, blue can be
> described as aqua, azure, cerulean, cobalt, cyan, electric blue, indigo,
> midnight, navy, sapphire, teal, turquoise and ultramarine, among others.
> These, I think can be extremely valuable to those of us who have never seen
> colors or who just don't know how the new colors relate to the colors with
> which we are familiar.
>
> Finally, there are more word lists, ways to describe how people look act
> and feel. Want to introduce a pretty girl into a short story? Make her
> adorable, alluring, appealing, attractive, beautiful, becoming,
> breathtaking, captivating, charming, chic, classy, elegant, gorgeous,
> irresistible, lovely, ravishing or stunning. The old person in your story
> might be adult, aged, ancient, frail, grizzled, venerable, wise, withered
> or wrinkled. If you want to convey the idea that someone is nice you have
> choices like affectionate, agreeable, amiable, approachable, compatible,
> delightful, genial, likable, neighborly, polite, warm and welcoming, as
> well as many others. There are lists to describe people who are mean,
> outgoing, shy, funny, serious as well as strong or weak in body or mind.
> The section on how people feel contains words for happy, sad, angry, bored,
> excited, scared and surprised.
>
> This book is available in one Braille volume of 53 pages. But if you don't
> read Braille, you can download it as a Word file to use on your computer.
> The book costs $10.00. This is a book that you will refer to often in your
> writing. To order it, Contact National Braille Press, 88 St. Stephen
> Street, Boston, MA 02115. Phone: 800 548-7323, email orders at nbp.org or go
> to the web site www.nbp.org.
>
> "A Review of *a Writer's Companion* from National Braille Press" was
> published in the Fall/Winter 2012 edition of *Magnets and Ladders*.
>
> Editor's note: Although *a Writer's Companion* is out of print and no
> longer available from National Braille Press, the information in John's
> article is still valuable and relevant. He has given several examples of
> commonly confused homophones and ideas to encourage writers to explore
> transitional phrases and descriptive words for characters and settings.
>
> If you have a copy of *a Writer's Companion*, you might want to put it at
> the top of your writing reference stack for easy access. If you purchased
> an electronic copy and are unable to locate it, I have great news. You can
> log into your account with National Braille Press and download it.
>
> There are several books on Amazon that address homophones and other
> commonly confused words. You can also use google to be sure that you are
> using the correct homophone. A good thesaurus will help when looking for
> good descriptive words.
>
> Bio: John Weidlich lived in St. Louis, MO with his wife Donna and was
> totally blind from birth. He
> worked for over thirty years as a program director for MindsEye Information
> Service, a local Radio
> Reading service. John loved music, played piano, and was an avid Cardinals
> Fan. He was involved with the
> Missouri Council for the Blind, where, in the past, he edited their
> magazine; United Workers for the
> Blind; and Southwest Baptist Church, where he served in the music programs
> and as a Deacon.
> Although John hadn't done much creative writing, he was an avid reader and
> appreciated good writing. From its inception, John contributed thoughtful
> reviews to the db-review email list and often wrote notes of encouragement
> to members when needed. Support of others was important to him. John's
> mission was nurturing potential wherever and whenever he found it.
> Heartfelt messages of condolence noting his kindness, compassion, and
> encouragement of others were sent to this list for many days after his
> passing. Gentle and soft-spoken, he honored the written word and encouraged
> all who read to love them. John was the final proofreader of Magnets and
> Ladders from 2012 through 2018. He passed away on April 27,
> 2019. His wisdom and helpful nature will be missed by the Magnets and
> Ladders team.
>
> --------------------
>
> # Part II. Not What I Expected
>
> ## Smash, fiction First Place
> by Susan Muhlenbeck
>
> Sabrina carried the package up the stairs of her house as the UPS truck
> drove away. This present came right on time, she thought as she set it down
> on the dining room table. Today was her birthday, and her husband had left
> that morning for a business trip.
>
> “Sorry, but it can’t be helped,” he had said as he set his suitcase
> in the car. “We’ll celebrate your birthday when I get back next
> week.” She was disappointed but tried not to let it show.
>
> She ran her hands along the box, enjoying the moment while she thought
> about what could be inside. “Now try to think,” She said out loud,
> “what’s not too big and not too small, and who had sent it anyway?”
> She peered at the label, then let out a sigh of disgust and exasperation.
> The gift was from her husband Ron’s Sister Linda. Linda had not liked
> Sabrina right from the start and had no problem letting her know.
>
> “If you have to marry a teacher,” she had said to Ron within
> Sabrina’s earshot at their engagement party, “you could have picked a
> math or English teacher, but an art teacher?” she scoffed. “Come on,
> Ron, really?”
>
> “What’s your problem?” Ron had shot back. “You got something
> against art?”
>
> “Hey, I’m just trying to look out for you,” she had said, putting a
> placating hand on his arm. “You can do better than that. I know you can
> do a lot better.”
>
> “That’s enough,” he hissed between bared teeth. “Keep your rude
> comments to yourself,” he snapped as he walked away.
>
> “I’m telling you, you’re making a mistake,” she retorted,
> determined to take a parting shot. “You just wait. You’ll see.”
>
> Sabrina opened the box slowly as she recalled that evening. She had wanted
> to confront Lousy Linda as she had nicknamed Ron’s sister and put her in
> her place, but she didn’t wish to ruin the party, so she went out of her
> way to ignore her. So she’s sending me a birthday present, she laughed,
> half expecting to find a box of dead rats.
>
> She was in fact surprised. She lifted the lid of an ornate box to find a
> collection of broken ceramic. The pieces were not wrapped up, so maybe they
> had been broken before being shipped, she thought reasonably. "Leave it to
> Lousy Linda to try to ruin my birthday," Sabrina muttered as she carried
> the box out to the trash. She set the box on top of a pile of trash waiting
> to go out the next day.
>
> “You won’t believe what that Lousy Linda sent me for my birthday,”
> she said to her friend Violet over the phone a few minutes later. “Can
> you believe it? A box of broken ceramic pieces!”
>
> “Hey, I’m curious,” Violet said slowly. “Maybe you should try to
> put the pieces together and see what it was before she broke it.”
>
> “No, you think so?” Sabrina laughed. “Maybe I’ll do that. Now you
> got me curious.” She retrieved the box from the trash and set it on the
> table. Tomorrow she would buy some crazy glue and try to piece it back
> together. It might be fun, she thought as she got ready to meet Violet for
> birthday dinner and drinks. It may be like putting together a jigsaw
> puzzle.
>
> “It’s a shame Ron couldn’t be here for your birthday,” Violet said
> over their seafood feast later that evening. It was a cool, crisp evening
> in late October, so they opted to sit outside of their favorite restaurant
> which had a fire ring burning on the patio.
>
> “Tell me about it,” Sabrina sighed, sipping a glass of red wine. “He
> couldn’t have waited a day. That’s all right. He’ll make it up when
> he gets back.”
>
> “So what do you think Lousy Linda sent that got broken?” Violet asked
> over dessert.
>
> “I don’t know, but I’ll send you a picture when I get it
> assembled,” Sabrina promised.
>
> The next day after school, Sabrina started putting the pieces of the broken
> sculpture together. This was no easy task, for some of the pieces were
> quite small. Fortunately, there were enough larger pieces that she didn’t
> get easily discouraged. Ron called every evening of his trip, but she
> decided not to tell him about the present until he got home.
>
> The day before Ron was due to arrive home, she finally finished assembling
> the statue. She was disappointed but not at all surprised at the result.
> The statue was some sort of mythical creature, which appeared to be half
> human and half bird. It was the most hideous thing Sabrina had ever seen,
> but she decided to use a little reverse psychology when she emailed Lousy
> Linda. “Thank you so much for the birthday present,” she wrote. “It
> is very beautiful. Your thoughtfulness is very much appreciated.” She
> laughed as she hit the send key. Lousy Linda had probably not expected her
> to glue the pieces back together.
>
> The reply came almost immediately. “I saw that thing, and I knew it was
> you,” it read. Sabrina resisted the urge to send another message full of
> curses.
>
> “What do you think this thing is?” she texted Violet along with a
> picture of the creature.
>
> “I don’t know, but it sure is gross,” came the reply.
>
> Ron seemed to have a different opinion. “What is that thing?” he asked
> when he got home the next evening, pointing to the monstrosity on the
> mantle. “I never saw anything like it. Where did you find it?”
>
> “It was a birthday present from Lousy Linda,” Sabrina fumed. She
> couldn’t bring herself to admit that it had arrived in pieces. “Is it
> not the most disgusting thing you ever saw?”
>
> “No,” Ron said, reaching out and touching the head. “I think it’s
> kind of cute, and don’t call her Lousy Linda. That’s my sister you’re
> talking about.”
>
> “Yeah, the sister that can’t stand me,” Sabrina spat. “I can’t
> believe she thinks an art teacher is such a menial job. It’s no worse
> than being a bank teller like herself or a security guard like her husband.
> She has no room to talk.”
>
> “She’ll come around,” Ron said reassuringly, patting her shoulder.
> “Just give her time. Besides, your brother doesn’t like me either. What
> does he call me? Rotten Ron?”
>
> “Only because you wouldn’t put your sister in her place at the
> engagement party,” Sabrina reminded him.
>
> “Let’s not talk about that right now,” Ron said, fishing out a gift
> wrapped box from his pocket. “Happy belated birthday!”
>
> She unwrapped it slowly and gave a little cry of pleasure as she lifted out
> a gold locket. “Wow! That’s very pretty!” she exclaimed as she
> clasped it around her neck. Thank you. Now can we shove that ugly statue in
> the closet and just put it on display when your sister comes to visit?”
>
> “Let’s just leave it up there for a while,” Ron insisted. “It’s
> not hurting anything.” Sabrina wanted to argue, but she kept her mouth
> shut as she followed Ron outside. He took her to an Italian restaurant for
> her birthday, and all thoughts of the mythical statue vanished for the rest
> of the evening.
>
> She thought about it again the next morning during her first art class.
> “You know it’s almost Halloween,” she told her class of middle school
> students. “Your next project is to make a mythical creature. You can do a
> drawing or a painting, or you can make a collage or a sculpture from a
> bunch of junk you find around the house. It can be from any culture, and I
> want you to write a couple of sentences describing your creature and why
> you chose to make it. Any questions?”
>
> “Yeah,” a boy named Ken called from the back row. “Can we make a
> costume?”
>
> “Sure,” Sabrina agreed, “that sounds good too. So today we’ll go to
> the library, and you can do some research to figure out which creature you
> wish to make.”
>
> By the end of the week, all the projects had been handed in. Sabrina was
> delighted by the enthusiasm and creativity of the students. There were
> several drawings of the Sphinx, sculptures of the Hydra, oil paintings of
> the Chimera, and some others she never even heard of.
>
> One sculpture made of cardboard, plastic, and feathers was especially
> interesting. Sabrina thought it looked suspiciously like the human vulture
> sculpture she had at home. It had the head of a maiden with a pale face and
> very long claws on its hands. Deidre Ramsey, the student who made the
> sculpture wrote on the card attached, “This is a Harpy. It is a half
> human and half bird creature found in Greek and Roman mythology. Its name
> means Snatcher or Swift Robber because the Harpies are known to steal food
> from their victims before their victims can eat it. They are also known to
> snatch evildoers and take them to the Erinyes or Furies. They are cruel,
> vicious, and violent. I chose to make one because I recently watched the
> movie about Jason and the Argonauts. The Argonauts encountered King Phineus
> of Thrace on a deserted island. The gods gave him the gift of prophesy
> after abandoning him on the island for angering them. The gods gave him a
> buffet of food, which he could never eat because the Harpies always stole
> it from him. Phineus promised the Argonauts that he would tell them how to
> manage the next leg of their journey safely if they promised to get the
> Harpies to stop bothering him.”
>
> Sabrina sighed, then laughed aloud as she read the description of the
> Harpies. Instead of feeling the usual anger and resentment towards Lousy
> Linda, she decided to make a conscious effort to try to feel sympathetic
> towards the pathetic fool. She was surprised by how much less energy it
> took to feel sympathy.
>
> “So she thinks I’m a Harpy,” she told Violet over lunch the next day.
> “I think she has too much time on her hands.”
>
> “How immature!” Violet laughed. “Don’t let her bother you. We all
> know who the real Harpy is.”
>
> “You know what’s interesting is that her gift inspired me to get my
> students to make mythical creatures for an art project,” Sabrina grinned.
> “There were some really good ones, and I found out what my sculpture
> is.”
>
> “What I would do is knock it off the mantle and tell Ron it was an
> accident,” Violet suggested.
>
> “I thought about that too, except I would hate to see all my hard work of
> gluing it back together go to waste,” Sabrina said resignedly. “Besides
> that, I kind of got used to it sitting up there, as ugly as it is. I think
> I’ll put it on the porch on Halloween night. Maybe one of the
> trick-or-treaters will take it,” she said hopefully.
>
> If only that were so, Sabrina thought ruefully. Halloween night found
> Sabrina handing out hard candy and gum to the neighborhood kids. She was
> pleased to see that two of her students were dressed up as the mythical
> creatures they had made in her art class, one as a Siren and one as the
> Minotaur. Unfortunately, at the end of the night, the Harpy still stood on
> the porch.
>
> “What is that ugly thing?” several of the kids had asked. “That looks
> like something from a horror movie.”
>
> “Oh it is,” Sabrina said in all seriousness. “Check out the movie
> called 'Jason and the Argonauts.'”
>
> To her surprise, about a week after Halloween, Ron came home from work on a
> mission. “Okay, you win,” he said plaintively, taking the Harpy off the
> mantle. “We’ll put this thing away and just bring it out when Linda
> comes to visit. I think it sat up there long enough." Sabrina was too
> stunned to speak. Ron carefully placed the Harpy in the box in which it had
> arrived. He stared in astonishment as he noticed that the top of the
> sculpture stood a good three inches above the top of the box. “There is
> something wrong with this picture,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “This
> statue couldn’t have fit into this box unless it was smashed into
> smithereens first.”
>
> Bio: Susan Muhlenbeck was born in Seoul, Korea and spent her first five
> years there. She lost her sight at the age of two. She was raised in the
> Midwest and moved to Virginia as a teenager. She has a bachelor’s degree
> in psychology and master’s degree in rehabilitation counseling from
> Virginia Commonwealth University. Her interests include reading, swimming,
> bargain shopping, and cats. Her books are available on Amazon.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Barney and Our New Neighbor, nonfiction First Place
> by Leonard Tuchyner
>
> My 45 pound little beige dog, has no proclivities or intentions toward the
> profession of guide dog. He has the looks and strength of a sled dog, with
> the dogged stubbornness that gets him where he wants to go, even if he has
> to take his leash-wielding provider with him.
>
> Picture a porch deck perched outside my sliding glass door. Picture a
> number of bird feeders and suet baskets hanging from metal arms protruding
> from the wooden siding. These feeders dangle at eyelevel two feet from said
> window. One more important aspect is that the porch is two stories up from
> the ground from which two flights of stairs ascend as access to and from my
> back yard.
>
> Now imagine this tranquil scene in early spring at 2:00 a.m., when
> hibernating bears and reasonable people are sleeping snug in their dens,
> which is exactly what Diane and I were doing when Barney the dog went ape.
>
> I should mention here that his sleeping mat is on the indoor side of the
> glass door. Suddenly, I became aware of a cacophony of thuds against the
> sliding glass door, and enough growls and barks to wake the dead.
>
> Reluctantly awake, I waited for Diane to investigate. It seemed reasonable
> to me that she should be the one to go downstairs to see what in the world
> was going on, since she is a much better seer than I am. But she didn’t
> move. With a few half-muttered expletives and whines, I untangled myself
> from my cloying blankets and felt my way to the dresser to consult my
> talking watch. 2:00 a.m..
>
> As I bumbled my way down the upper bedroom stairs, my mind slogged back to
> the last time Barney went into conniptions. The cause then was a raccoon
> trying to mooch off the bird feeders. I doubted that I would be able to see
> a raccoon on the porch, but maybe I could scare it away by banging on the
> glass door. On second thought, Barney was already doing that, not to
> mention his barrage of vocalizations. Well, maybe I could calm the dog down
> and go back to sleep. I should be so lucky.
>
> On my way to the ruckus, I passed Chloe’s couch, which is against the
> wall opposite the glass door. I notice Chloe, our Foxhound Terrier mix
> seated in her usual sleeping place. I wondered why she wasn’t joining in
> the fracas. She seemed to be telling me, “I don’t want any part of
> this.” That was strange. She had enjoyed joining Barney in chasing away
> the raccoon of the previous year.
>
> Barney was behind the door curtains, getting in more barks per minute than
> I would have thought possible. He was not just standing there. He was
> jumping up and down, throwing himself against the door, and pawing away at
> the glass as though he was trying to dig his way out.
>
> I drew back the curtains and switched on the porch lights. I keep denying
> that I’m mostly blind, and peer into the eternal impenetrable fog. I
> couldn’t see a thing. I tried to calm the dog down before he had a heart
> attack. It was like trying to stem the rush of a cataract. Then I tried
> yelling and threatening him, to get him to stop his infernal barking. He
> briefly stopped jumping, but the barking and growling continued unabated.
> Instead, he started shaking like a car going ninety on unbalanced tires.
>
> Feeling helpless, I retreated back upstairs to the bedroom. Refusing to
> accept Diane’s act as a peacefully sleeping bystander, I said, “I
> can’t stop him. I think you need to go downstairs and see what’s going
> on.”
>
> She threw the covers off in anger, like it was my fault or something. I sat
> on the bed, wondering if I could get away with staying upstairs. I didn’t
> have to wonder long. The next thing I heard was, “Oh my God!”
>
> “What is it?” I called down.
>
> “A big, big **** bear.”
>
> That got me back downstairs in a hurry.
>
> “He’s pulled down the bird feeders and made off with the suet cage,”
> she said.
>
> “Where is he now?”
>
> “He’s on the second landing, waiting to come back up and get the
> feeders. He’s taller than I am. Chloe came to the door to protect me, and
> he backed off.”
>
> Note: Diane is five feet, seven inches. Chloe is her dog, and Chloe will do
> anything to protect her, even if she has the sense not to challenge a black
> bear.
>
> She took another look out the window. “He’s gone,” she said.
>
> I grabbed my Samurai sword, which I keep handy in the living room, and went
> to the door.
>
> “What are you doing?” she demanded.
>
> “I’m going to make sure he stays away.”
>
> “Are you fn crazy? He’ll kill you.”
>
> “Don’t worry. I’m just going to make a lot of noise,” I said.
>
> I went out on the porch, despite her protestations. Out on the edge of the
> stairway, I growled, shook and banged my weapon and said threatening words.
> If I didn’t scare the bare, I’m pretty sure that at least the neighbors
> were a little concerned. Then I returned to my side of the window.
>
> We retrieved our bird feeders and took them in the house, and continued to
> do so for the next week.
>
> Barney barked for the next four hours. In my darker thoughts, I considered
> letting him have a go at the bear. However, despite not getting back to
> sleep for the rest of the night, I would never do that. He might hurt the
> bear. Just kidding.
>
> The next morning, the neighborhood woke up to destroyed bird feeders,
> pilfered garbage
> cans and other signs of mayhem.
>
> Mr. Bear seems to have departed our environs since then. I guess I really
> scared him. Now I can’t be sure, but I think some neighbors might be
> avoiding me.
>
> Bio: Leonard Tuchyner has Stargardt's disease, which was first noticed
> during his teenaged years. He is now seventy-nine. He reads through the
> media of Braille, recordings, and electronic voices produced by Open Book
> and Zoom Text. He lives with his wife of thirty-nine years and their two
> dogs. He is active in the local writing community, which includes attending
> critique groups. He also facilitates a Writing for Healing and Growth group
> at the Charlottesville Senior Center and rote a column for *Dialogue
> Magazine*. He recently published a poetry book through Cedar Creak
> Publishing. His hobbies include Tai chi, and gardening.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## You Talking To Me? poetry
> by Leonard Tuchyner
>
> Rabbit sits insolently silent,
> staring up from the back yard garden,
> locking eyes with a grizzled old dog
> regarding Rabbit from high on his porch.
>
> “Hey, you used-up mutt, you looking at me?”
>
> “Hare, better be careful what you blather.”
>
> “Why, what you gonna do to me?”
>
> “I might just have you for my breakfast.
> I used to eat rabbit regularly.”
>
> “Yeah, used to is what I say, old schmo.
> You’re so slow you couldn’t catch a cold.”
>
> Old Dog grins at rabbit’s arrogance.
>
> “How old are you, rabbit-flavored dog food?
> Couldn’t be more than a season or two.
> I’ll give you fast, but nothing for smart.
> You’ll never make it past the fence.”
>
> Rabbit smiles and skips a backwards flip.
> “Dog breath, you got nothing. You can’t touch this.
> You’re just a bunch of barks and farts.
> Hey, hay. Now don’t go falling down those stairs.
> You’re too smelly for me to get you up.
> Uh oh!”
>
> Like lightening, old dog rockets off the porch.
> For a time fraction, rabbit freezes,
> then scampers to his rent in the fence.
>
> “I gotta admit, you had me scared.
> Guess you still got a little juice left,
> but I can see it leaking out.
> You ain’t never gonna catch me, no way.”
>
> Suddenly, Rabbit is lifted off the ground.
> From behind, canine teeth have grabbed his scruff.
> Fido says, “Timing was perfect, Old Dog.”
>
> Old Dog says,
> “We make a damn good team, neighbor,
> but if it is all the same to you,
> let’s let the whippersnapper go this time.
> I admire his audacity.
> He’ll be more of a challenge come winter.”
>
> --------------------
>
> ## A Heartfelt Revenge, fiction Second Place
> by Bonnie Blose
>
> Exhausted after a long grueling day, I decided to forego my usual bedtime
> snack of a brownie and milk and go straight to bed. I couldn’t wait to
> nestle under the warmth of flannel sheets on this very cold January night.
>
> For years, I have enjoyed living alone in this house I share with two cats
> that come to snuggle close during their nocturnal wandering.
>
> I decided to listen to a chapter or two of a book before going to sleep.
> True to my expectation, I slept soundly until something I could not quite
> name or remember put an abrupt end to that.
>
> One minute I was sound asleep, and then as wide awake as if it were morning
> and the day just beginning. My heart was pounding. I felt incredible fear.
> Like many who sleep fitfully, I barely remember dreams so came up with
> nothing as I tried to discover what had frightened me.
>
> In the country, there is a quiet rarely interrupted by anything other than
> the rustle of a tree limb against a window or the cry of an animal involved
> in some territorial dispute. As I sat listening hoping to hear nothing, I
> knew something wasn’t right. On many nights, I forget or never take the
> time to lock my door. If someone wants to break in, this old house, with
> its flimsy locks, won’t stop them. Had I made an exception and locked the
> door last night? Should I leave the warmth of my bed and see if I had? I
> decided to listen a little longer, hoping to put to rest my fear and the
> accompanying feeling that something was terribly wrong. Maybe it was simply
> those pickles I had as part of my supper last night.
>
> Many people become more fearful as they grow older, especially if they live
> alone, I assured myself. Maybe it’s time to give up some of those true
> crime shows and news podcasts with all their stories of horror. Maybe
> I’ll do that tomorrow, but what about tonight!
>
> Suddenly, I heard it. Terrified, I was afraid to make a sound that would
> bring attention to me. Was it a knife someone had dropped? What were they
> planning to cut?
>
> If someone was entering the house, they would find little to justify their
> night’s work. Why was someone in my house? All the money I had was safe
> in a local bank. If they found me, they might hurt me just because I have
> nothing to give them. Criminals don’t decide to kill on the basis of what
> you have or don’t. If I want to see tomorrow, it might be better to stay
> where I was and not make a sound.
>
> What had interrupted the quiet of this winter night? Had a storm blown a
> limb down upon the roof? Was it the cry of an animal fighting for its life
> or the brushing of a limb against a windowpane? Maybe it was just the
> rattling of the old windows themselves. Was it someone coming to hurt me?
> With the furnace running almost nonstop to warm the old farm house, it was
> hard to tell.
>
> Amazingly, I remembered the phone on the stand beside my bed. Ever since I
> was a teenager, the phone had been my life line. Maybe it would be one now.
> Before reaching for it, I thought how revealing this simple act might be.
> What if someone had cut the wires turning my life line in to a nightmare?
>
> Reaching for the receiver, I had to know. I had to do something. A coward
> in a bed in a house that is being broken into is the worst of cowards. I
> would never be able to face my friends or family with that as part of my
> story. It’s the kind of tale that would be told and retold for the rest
> of my days. It was not the way I wanted to be remembered. I picked up the
> phone. It was dead!
>
> "You shouldn’t be allowed to live by yourself," I grumbled. I knew I
> needed to take care of myself at a time like this, but why, oh why, had I
> left my IPhone downstairs? It was lying on the couch in plain sight and of
> no use to me now.
>
> Suddenly, I heard the sound of water running. I heard the refrigerator
> close and the sound of footsteps in the kitchen. A few minutes later, I
> smelled sausage and eggs frying. Maybe it’s just a sleepwalker who got
> hungry I thought before telling myself how ridiculous that was. It’s a
> cold night and maybe someone just got hungry and found the door unlocked so
> decided to have a little breakfast before calling it a night. Why cut the
> wires though? Apart from calling the police, no one wants a delicious meal
> interrupted, especially one that includes farm fresh eggs.
>
> I remembered breakfasts with boyfriends after long leisurely nights of love
> but doubted this was anything like that.
>
> Without warning, my cat almost jumped on my chest. Startled, I quickly held
> back the scream of terror I was about to utter.
>
> I hugged her close hoping I could reassure us both.
>
> Then I heard them. The footsteps were coming closer. Soon the mystery would
> be revealed and the intruder a reality in my very own bedroom. Sanctuary
> and safety would no longer be mine and were in truth gone already.
>
> A gentle knock upon my door required action. Would someone who knocked so
> softly really hurt me? Evil comes in many forms, I reminded myself. Maybe
> this is truly one of those times when it is best to go along to get along.
> I just hope this is not the last decision I will make.
>
> Shaking with trepidation, I said, “Come in.”
>
> The smell of breakfast filled the air. This is too unreal to be believed.
> Who eats breakfast at three in the morning?
>
> “I don’t know whether you remember me,” a voice said. I knew that
> voice. I remembered Paul. I had gone out with him once about ten years
> before. It hadn’t worked. We didn’t like the same things. I found him
> critical and judgmental and decided this was not a guy I wanted to date. I
> chose to stop taking his phone calls.
>
> “It’s taken me a long time to find you,” Paul said. “I had great
> hope for our relationship. I whined you and dined you and just stopped
> short of buying those speakers I knew you longed for. It’s been ten years
> and I have decided it’s time to forgive you. I want you to remember me.
> The best way for me to make sure you do that is with one night of terror.
> True, it is not the night of love I would prefer, but lovers must make
> sacrifices. I will never forget the humiliation of your refusing to go out
> with me again, but eat up. This is the last meal we will ever have
> together. There is Nothing like farm fresh eggs. Oh, I didn’t make
> coffee. You won’t need the energy I know caffeine gives you. After we
> eat, I suggest we take a nice long nap. I won’t touch you, but we will be
> close, so very close.”
>
> Note: "A Heartfelt Revenge" was the First Place winner in the 2019 NFB
> Writers' Division fiction category.
>
> Bio: Bonnie Blose grew up in Slatedale, Pennsylvania with two fabulous
> storytellers. For 15 years, she cohosted Jordan Rich’s book show nights
> on WBz. From 2006 to 2013, she was the host of the show "Books and Beyond"
> on Acbradio.org. Her memoir, "The Art of Dying," was a winner in the
> nonfiction category of the NFB Writers’ Division contest, eventually
> appearing in *Magnets and Ladders*. In 2019, she received First Place for
> her story "A Heartfelt Revenge" in the NFB’s Writers' Division fiction
> category. She enjoys reading, listening to music, podcasts, and has lived
> in Ohio since 1982. She is proud of being owned by her cat Almost. Her son
> Kevin lives in a nearby town.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Carnival Fugue, poetry First Place
> by Brad Corallo
>
> Sauntering, shuffling, unhurried along a beach.
> Step into an orange sunset.
>
> A pattern of sparkling multicolored lights appears.
> Artfully strung across the purplish, descending twilight.
>
> Approaching more closely, carnival sounds swell
> framed by the ever-changing rumbling of the surf.
>
> You are drawn into the emerging scene,
> as colors explode into kaleidoscopic ringlets.
>
> Softly she calls your name.
> Her cascading hair shimmers through a hundred different hues.
>
> Somehow it is all familiar and comfortable.
> You know that voice.
>
> Magenta flashes between spokes of the turning Ferris wheel.
> Firework stars gently dust the sky.
> You feel the sounds of the calliope.
> You are seduced by delicious smells.
>
> You stand entranced as the world seems to tilt.
> Spinning dizzily, images shatter.
>
> Seconds later, the world seems to right itself.
> You breathe deeply and open your eyes.
>
> The sun has fallen below the horizon.
> All that remains is a narrow band of twilight, darkening!
>
> You wonder what just happened.
> Was any of it real?
>
> You ask you’re self.
> Am I blessed or am I mad?
>
> There is no answer.
> All that remains is the ever-changing music of the sea.
>
> And perhaps, far, far away
> a voice, more sensed than heard-
> softly calls your name.
>
> Author's note: Special thanks to the following artists: Donovan, Focus, and
> Love.
>
> Bio: Brad Corallo, a writer in multiple genres, is a Long Island native.
> His work has been published in ten previous issues of *Magnets & Ladders*,
> in the William B. Joslin Outstanding Program Awards Journal *NYSID
> Preferred Source Solutions* and by The Red Wolf Coalition. He has been a
> life-long student of fine wine, food, music, books, space exploration,
> several professional sports and relationships of all kinds. He makes his
> living as a certified rehabilitation counselor (CRC) and mental health
> therapist. Due to LCA (a very rare genetic retinal condition). Brad has
> experienced impaired and worsening vision throughout his lifetime.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## The Mound, fiction
> by Greg Pruitt
>
> John Martin depressed the clutch pedal on his lawn tractor, and as the
> wheels slowly came to rest, turned off the ignition. He was at the edge of
> the woods, near the rear of his 20-acre property, a hundred yards from the
> seldom-traveled dirt road directly behind his land. Smiling with pride, he
> looked over the freshly cut one acre and couldn’t see a single leaf on
> the ground. That wouldn’t last, since a few Oak leaves still clung
> stubbornly to their branches. He would have to deal with them in the
> spring, but for the moment, his yard look great.
>
> He detached the bag containing the day’s harvest of grass and dried
> leaves from the tractor and walked a few steps into the woods. After
> dumping the debris on to the already substantial pile, he stared for a
> moment at the results of his work. Over the years, the compost pile had
> grown too large, now appearing to stand out from its surroundings, and that
> was a problem. Next year, he would need to begin another pile several yards
> from the first. John reattached the bag to the tractor, started it, and
> drove it to the storage shed.
>
> The late October Saturday was mild and sunny, a perfect day for some
> college football. He still had enough time to make a sandwich and enjoy a
> cold beer or two before kickoff.
>
> Once inside, he washed and dried his hands at the kitchen sink then placed
> a few dirty dishes and cups into the dishwasher. He tried to keep the place
> neat and clean, but it wasn’t one of his major concerns. For the most
> part, since he lived alone, he was the only one that would see the mess, so
> it really wasn’t a problem.
>
> John removed two slices of bread from a plastic bag, placed the first slice
> on a plate, dealt a couple cuts of ham and cheese on the bottom slice,
> squeezed on a generous amount of brown, spicy mustard, and topped off the
> stack with the second slice. After grabbing a cold one from the
> refrigerator, he moved to the adjacent room and his favorite chair, an
> oversized recliner, giving him the best seat in front of the large screen
> television.
>
> First setting the plate on a chair-side table, and then seizing the remote
> control, he turned on the set. He opened the can and tilted his head back
> eagerly anticipating the first taste of the cold, sweet brew.
>
> But he choked on that first swallow, as he sat up suddenly, noticing
> movement out of the corner of his eye. Through the picture window facing
> the back of his yard, he saw her. Dressed in some form of a full length,
> black cloak and head covering, she was walking alone down the dusty road.
> She moved slowly, stopping from time to time to step into the brush and
> examine an area, before continuing her search. In another moment, she stood
> directly behind the house, and although at least two hundred yards away,
> she seemed to be staring first at that damn pile of leaves, then directly
> at him. He knew she couldn’t possibly see him, but still her gaze was
> unnerving.
>
> They had never met, but he recognized her. She had been walking that road,
> as well as the one in front of his house for the past 10-years. As far as
> he knew, she walked all of the rural roads in the area, as well as the
> edges of parks, school grounds, and along the riverbanks. She had been
> searching for something all of that time, and apparently was willing to
> continue searching forever.
>
> In a few minutes, the woman moved on, and John began to relax. His hand
> trembled only slightly as he raised the can to his lips. Just then, he
> needed something stronger than beer. Too bad he had finished the last of
> the whisky the night before. He would need to make a trip to the liquor
> store soon. Seeing her, no matter where, had always left him shaken.
>
> John thought back to that long-ago evening when his nightmare had begun. It
> had been approximately a month following the death of his wife. The cold,
> rainy night had matched his mood, so he had thought that a few drinks at
> his favorite bar might improve how he felt, but they hadn’t. He had
> closed the place down, and undoubtedly should not have been driving, but he
> had made the early morning trip a thousand times in a similar condition
> without a problem. Besides his truck could probably find its way home by
> itself.
>
> By then, the rain had stopped, and now the moon peeked out occasionally
> through a scattering of clouds. He had been traveling slowly down the
> dirty, muddy road, briefly nodding off when he had felt the wheels on the
> passenger side roll over something. He had figured it had to be some kind
> of animal, most likely a deer. He had driven another fifty yards, before
> reversing the truck and returning to take a closer look.
>
> As he had stepped out of the truck and stared back, he could see the shape
> lying there, but he needed to move within a few feet from the object on the
> road before he realized it was the body of a young woman. From the amount
> of blood and her awkward position, she was obviously dead. Was she dead
> before he struck her, or had he killed her?
>
> Later, he would wonder if he had panicked. The mix of alcohol and
> adrenaline certainly hadn’t helped his decision-making, but at the time,
> he thought he was thinking clearly, as he lifted and carried the body to
> the bed of the pickup. He then drove the remaining half a mile or so to his
> house, still wondering what to do once he arrived.
>
> After sitting in his truck for what seem like an eternity, sobering up and
> considering his options, he finally decided that calling the police would
> be a mistake. He couldn’t take the chance that his drinking and a simple
> accident that wasn’t his fault might make him look responsible for the
> woman’s death. His going to prison wouldn’t bring her back. Why should
> two lives be destroyed?
>
> With the truck’s lights off, he drove slowly to the tree line behind his
> house, stopping momentarily to grab a shovel from the shed. Praying to
> himself that no one would see him, he began the grim work. The moist earth
> had made digging easy. An hour later, the shallow grave was finished. He
> placed the body into the ground, covered the remains with dirt, tossed the
> shovel into the truck, and drove back to the house. He could conceal the
> newly disturbed, bare ground with yard waste in the morning, after a
> night’s sleep.
>
> But he didn’t sleep that night. He spent a restless few hours before dawn
> expecting at any moment to hear a knock on the door. Amazingly, the police
> didn’t come that night, or the next day. In fact, they never came at all.
> A week passed before he saw any mention of the woman online, or in the
> newspaper.
>
> Finally, there was an article stating that the police were looking into the
> disappearance of a local woman, along with a plea from the girl’s parents
> asking for the public’s assistance in finding their daughter. Subsequent
> articles said that the police had a person of interest, the girl’s
> boyfriend, a known drug dealer.
>
> The couple had been seen together on the night she went missing. The man
> admitted that he and the woman had been together that evening, but said
> they had quarreled. As they were driving to his apartment, she had left his
> truck at a stop sign, slamming the door behind her. Angry, he had driven
> off, but had come back for her about fifteen minutes later, and had search
> for her unsuccessfully. Because in her haste she had left her phone and
> purse in his truck, he felt that she would be forced to contact him once
> she had time to cool off. The police had no physical evidence on which to
> hold the man, but he remained their only lead.
>
> Over the next few weeks, with no witnesses, or additional information, the
> case stalled and eventually grew cold. While foul play was suspected, the
> woman had simply vanished.
>
> John Martin realized that according to the boyfriend, the time and location
> of the last known sighting of the girl was over three miles from the place
> where he had found her. It was unlikely the young woman could have walked
> that far, in that limited amount of time, so either the boyfriend was
> lying, or someone else had given her a ride to the spot where he had found
> her. Whatever the truth, he figured his secret was safe.
>
> His only concern was the periodic presence of that black-clad female. If
> she maintained her previous routine, her specterlike form would pass by the
> front of his house sometime in the next week. Although childless, he
> thought he could appreciate the mother’s loss of her daughter, but this
> endless searching was ridiculous. Perhaps she stopped and stared at each
> house she passed along the county roads, but he felt that she had somehow
> known and had singled him out for closer scrutiny.
>
> Maybe he should confront her and tell her she wasn’t welcome on his
> property, or anywhere near him or his home. No, that would only draw more
> attention to him and possibly pique her curiosity. He should burn the pile
> of leaves, level the ground, and plant a tree over the grave. But that
> could only increase her suspicions, sharpening her focus on the spot that
> had once been the mound behind his house. She was driving him mad. Since
> she always seemed to be walking alone, maybe she, like her daughter, could
> also mysteriously disappear.
>
> John realized that all of these wild thoughts were nonsense, and though her
> periodic reappearance was disconcerting, she could have only suspicions,
> and she really knew nothing. He could do what he had for the past decade,
> simply out last her. She couldn’t go on like this forever. He would only
> have to wait, and wait, and wait for the time when all of this would end.
>
> Until then, he would pass the days with hard work and long nights with beer
> and the comfort of his occasional bottle, followed by a few hours of fitful
> sleep, hopefully with fewer of those troubling dreams.
>
> Bio: Greg Pruitt is a retired teacher living in Fenton, Michigan. He is a
> graduate of the Michigan School For The Blind and Central Michigan
> University. He has been legally blind since the age of nine as the result
> of an undetermined retinal disease. His work can be found in several issues
> of *Magnets and Ladders*.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Refuge, fiction
> by Ellen Fritz
>
> "Welcome to Auschwitz," a male voice called. Daina looked towards the
> nextdoor cottage where a young man had just ridden in on his motor cycle
> and was in the process of removing his helmet. "I'm Brad. I'm your
> neighbour," he continued.
>
> "Pleased to meet you, Brad. I am Daina Chandler," she introduced herself.
>
> "Now, now, Bradley, vot is zis about Auschwitz?" an elderly lady asked in a
> strong German accent. She was wagging a stern finger at Brad. "Zet is not
> somezing to make jokes about, young man, do you hear me? I voz zere, even
> zough I voz just a little girl zen, but I tell you, it is not somezing to
> make fun of."
>
> "Sorry, sister, no offence meant," he said, blushing slightly. "Daina, ms
> Chandler, this is sister Maria Katharina. She used to be a nun."
>
> "I'll have you know, young man, I am still a nun," sister Katharina
> corrected. "Just because I don't live in a convent doesn't mean I've left
> my calling."
>
> "If there is anything you need help with, Daina, please feel free to ask,"
> Brad said.
>
> Daina rubbed her aching back. The past few days had been chaotic and
> exhausting. She had moved from her big house in a well-to-do suburb to this
> semi-rural corner. The property, owned by a very kind, elderly German
> gentleman, was divided into small plots of land. In each small yard was
> either a cottage, like the one in which she would now be making her home
> for the foreseeable future, or trailers that were even more affordable than
> the cottages.
>
> "I live in ze next row of cottages over," the nun, who had approached said.
> "I look after several neglected cats. Oh und you of course," she said to a
> brown hen who had come up to her. There seemed to be a huge flock of
> chickens on the property. Daina had already noticed an aggressive black
> rooster and numerous hens and younger roosters of indeterminate breeding.
>
> "But I see mister Spiegelmeyer has several German Shepherd Dogs. Don't they
> harass your cats?" Daina asked.
>
> "Oh no, my cats know to stay in my little yard. Herr Spiegelmeyer doesn't
> allow his dogs into the private yards. Franz is really such a dear old
> gentleman," the nun mused.
>
> Goodness, she calls the owner old when she herself must be well into her
> late seventies or early eighties, Daina thought. Her cell phone pinged with
> an incoming text. She looked at it and frowned.
>
> "Please take your refuge outside on Frayday," the text said. Daina blinked
> to make sure she was reading correctly. Sister Katharina noticed and
> laughed.
>
> "Oh herr Franz's weekly text," she said. "Ze old boy is German, so ze
> English spelling isn't always so good. Zet was supposed to be, take your
> refuse outside on Friday."
>
> "Refuse," Brad laughed from his porch, "we just call it trash. And just a
> little thought, I'd make Fridays my day for shopping. That is if you're not
> a working person, and if you are, I'd leave before sunrise on Fridays."
>
> "Why would I leave before sunrise on a Friday, and in winter?" Daina asked.
> Brad's face closed up. He vanished into his cottage. Daina looked a
> question at sister Katharina.
>
> "Well," she started hesitantly, "ze young man is kind of right. Perheps you
> should make yourself scarce on Fridays, early, as early as you can. Oh und
> it would be better if you return after sunset. Zet is what we all do."
>
> When Daina went to bed she was still puzzling over the strange advice of
> her neighbours. Tomorrow was Friday. She was exhausted from the move and on
> Monday she had to be back at her job. There was no way she was hopping out
> of bed on a frosty February morning before sunrise, just because a dotty
> old nun and a crazy youngster had told her to do so.
>
> Crowing roosters woke her well before sunrise. She heard several vehicles
> start up as the other tenants left for work. But it was still so early.
> Yet, she assumed that with this place being somewhat off the beaten track,
> people would leave early as it would take longer getting to the city in the
> morning rush hour traffic.
>
> She rose, had a shower, made herself a cup of coffee and shivering in the
> chill, decided to get under the duvet for another hour. Today she would
> unpack and make this drab little cottage into a home. Perhaps, in time, she
> could get herself a dog or maybe one of sister Katharina's cats.
>
> Daina was just floating off in a dream of happier times, her ex-husband and
> herself on the beach, when a loud male voice and the barking of several
> large dogs brought her to full consciousness.
>
> "Achtung! Achtung!" a man was shouting, "leave your houses and line up
> here!" She went to the window. Was it the police? Uniforms yes, a lot of
> uniformed men and women seemed to be marching to and fro. The military
> then, but the uniforms were certainly not United States military. Was she
> still dreaming?
>
> "Miss Chandler," sister Katharina called as she jogged past followed by an
> angry looking uniformed woman, "come out, zey will make it unpleasant..."
> Daina was horrified when the woman effectively shut sister Katharina up by
> shoving her hard from behind. The elderly nun dropped to her knees.
>
> "Up!" the female officer barked. As Daina watched the poor old woman
> struggling to regain her feet, somebody banged on her door.
>
> "Coming," she said. When she had unlocked the door and before she could
> even grip the door handle to open it, it was thrust open violently.
>
> "Du, come wiz me," a tough looking blond woman said in a very thick German
> accent. Daina's hesitation and ultimate outrage was met with disdain as the
> woman seized her by the arm and wrenched her through the door.
>
> "Elsa, officer Metzger," a male voice barked, "careful with zet one. No
> bruises, remember."
>
> "Schwein," Elsa cursed under her breath.
>
> "Hey," Daina said, now truly outraged. "Who the hell gave you the right?
> This is a free country. I'm paying for my cottage, who the fuck? Where is
> Mr Spiegelmeyer?"
>
> "Quiet!" a high ranking officer barked. Daina's mouth fell open. It was the
> kindly Herr Franz Spiegelmeyer outfitted in a grey green uniform. Like in
> that movie she watched a week or so ago, she thought; World War II, the
> Germans? Daina knew then that she must be either dreaming or sick and very
> delirious.
>
> "You should have listened to Brad," sister Katharina said. "I voz a bit
> late this morning, so zey caught me."
>
> "But what is this?" Daina asked, now getting frightened. "Could this be the
> end of the world or did some foreign country invade America overnight? Or
> perhaps they are doing some re-enactment of history?"
>
> "You see zose uniforms," sister Katharina said, "schutzstaffel, ze ones wiz
> the gold shoulder boards. Ze green collars, zey are Nazi Wehrmacht."
>
> A history major, Daina's memory filled in the rest, schutzstaffel uniform.
> Grey green, feltgrau with golden shoulder boards with 3 oakleaves and pips
> for rank. Then the soldiers, and again her hard earned degree came to the
> rescue, the dark-green collar and shoulder-straps with white Waffenfarbe,
> the Litzen collar insignia, and the Wehrmachtsadler above the right breast
> pocket.
>
> "Oh, just my luck," she grumbled, "I landed myself in some World War II
> nightmare."
>
> "No," sister Katharina said, "it heppens here, only here, every Friday."
> She shut her mouth when a soldier with a very aggressive looking German
> Shepherd walked past.
>
> "But that is Mr Spiegelmeyer's old dog. He is a sweet dog, so why does he
> look as though he wants to shred us now?"
>
> "Zis is ze zauberei of zis place," the nun explained. "Herr Franz is just a
> kind old gentleman all week. His dogs are beautiful pure bred German
> Shepherd dogs with impecable manners. Except on Fridays, und ze soldiers-"
>
> "Halt's maul!" the Metzger officer shouted and made as though to slap
> sister Katharina.
>
> Daina dug in her pocket for her cell phone, but she didn't have time to
> take it before she had been so rudely removed from her cottage. Somebody
> needed to call the cops. A few other tenants had now joined them and they
> were marched to the lawn in front of Mr Spiegelmeyer's house.
>
> "Strip!" Herr Franz ordered. The other tenants complied. Sister Katharina
> just looked scared to death.
>
> "You must be bloody kidding, right," Daina shouted. She eyed the fence to
> the next property. If she ran very fast she could reach it and get out. Her
> own sense of claustrophobia was kicking in now despite the open lawn around
> her. Panic was starting to constrict her throat and her vision swam. This
> would most likely bring on a migraine, she thought.
>
> Then one of the soldiers lifted his gun and her self-control snapped. She
> took off like a frightened rabbit. In seconds she was at the fence,
> throwing herself against it, frantically gripping the wire mesh, feeling
> for footholds and climbing, climbing. She heard a gun discharging, but no
> searing pain ripped through her. Her hands reached the top and she hauled
> herself across, letting go and landing hard on the other side.
>
> "Safe, safe, I'm safe," she whispered as she lay in the field where she had
> fallen. She sat up, gingerly testing whether she hadn't broken or sprained
> anything in her headlong fall from the fence. Slowly she got to her feet
> and stepped up to the fence. There were no German soldiers, SS officers, or
> captives lined up on the lawn. It was just another quiet day on a mostly
> deserted rural property with chickens scratching in the dirt and two German
> Shepherd dogs lying on the large veranda of Mr Spiegelmeyer's house.
>
> Was she going insane or what, she wondered. Slowly and with much
> trepidation, she climbed back over the fence. The moment she reached the
> top and wanted to start a more graceful descent than when she left, she
> noticed it. The lawn was teeming with Nazi soldiers, SS officers and
> frightened looking tenants. The dogs were being walked up and down the line
> of tenants, growling like rabid wolves and straining on their leashes.
>
> The tenants, who had previously been told to strip off their clothes, were
> now shivering in the icy early morning wind. Sister Katharina was
> desperately trying to hide her nakedness behind an evergreen bush. Mr
> Spiegelmeyer signalled to the tenants to get dressed. Daina didn't remain
> to see more of this completely insane tableau.
>
> Almost tumbling off the fence again, Daina retreated to the other side. Now
> what, she wondered. She needed to unpack her belongings, or if this was the
> daily status quo, she needed to get the law onto this. She turned to walk
> across the field to find a neighbour whose phone she could use to call the
> authorities.
>
> A few minutes later, however, when she caught sight of a farm house, she
> had forgotten why she needed to find help. Vaguely she remembered the
> officers, sister Katharina going down, the aggressive dogs, but that was
> the movie she had watched the other night, wasn't it?
>
> A very kind woman invited her in, gave her a warm cup of coffee and helped
> her dress the cuts and scrapes she had gotten from falling off the fence.
> Then the neighbour woman made her lie down in a guest bedroom and Daina
> fell into an exhausted sleep.
>
> "You poor ducky," the neighbour woman clucked later, "all worn out from
> your move, aren't you. Have something to eat and then I'll go drop you off
> at your cottage nextdoor."
>
> "I'm so sorry," Daina apologized, "I shamelessly slept the whole day away."
>
> "No matter, no matter," the neighbour crooned, "you needed the rest and you
> must have fallen down at some point, judging by those scrapes and bruises."
>
> The sun was just starting to set when Daina climbed out of the neighbour's
> car and opened the gate to Mr Spiegelmeyer's property. She walked up the
> drive, vaguely uneasy about something, but not sure what it was. Then she
> saw them: the soldiers, the SS officers and the dogs. The morning's episode
> came rushing back, but as she turned to run, she saw the strangest ripple
> in the air. Suddenly the German men and women seemed to be shrinking,
> dissolving into an undulating haze. In a blink of an eye, just as the sun
> vanished behind the mountains, there were chickens where the soldiers had
> been. Herr Franz seemed disoriented and confused and the tenants seemed not
> to know why they were standing on the lawn in filthy clothing, with shovels
> and other gardening tools in their hands.
>
> A car honked its horn behind her. It was Brad, in his car rather than on
> his bike today. He was grinning from ear to ear. "So you took my advice and
> got out for the day?" he said.
>
> "No, I didn't, not really. Nobody in the world will believe what happens
> here on a Friday, or is it a Frayday?" she laughed. "At least we now know
> why Mr Spiegelmeyer has such a lovely garden. Shapeshifting chickens
> however, very strange indeed."
>
> Bio: Ellen Fritz is visually impaired and lives near Johannesburg, South
> Africa with two visually impared friends and her dog. She works as a book
> reviewer, does freelance writing and administrative work and is involved in
> several personal writing projects.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Bank Line, fiction Honorable Mention
> by Nicole Massey
>
> "Woo. Sah. Woo Sah." Joni repeated the mantra she’d heard somewhere,
> trying to stay calm in the line at the bank. The old lady with the tiny
> purse was searching for something, but Joni couldn’t imagine how anything
> could get lost in that miniscule thing. The man between them was impatient,
> looking at his watch and glancing around, maybe checking if another line
> was moving faster.
>
> Joni looked down at the card she held, a reminder of what she needed to say
> to the teller. "Give me all the money in the drawer and do nothing stupid
> or I’ll blow all of us up."
>
> She didn’t want to do this; sometimes there was no choice. She kept
> telling herself that she and Hank would dig out of the hole if they were
> given a few breaks and enough time. That was before Hank hurt himself at
> work three months ago; he was still in the hospital. The billing department
> was getting testy about her telling them they’d get paid after
> Workman’s Comp came in, but the letter that came in the mail yesterday
> said that Hank’s claim was denied. If she kept telling them that the
> payment was coming it would be a lie. The kids were short on food, she had
> no more quarters for the laundromat and no money to buy laundry soap
> anyways. When Mr. Dillingsworth came in the office as she was crying, he
> told her such emotional displays weren’t appropriate in the office
> environment and her services were no longer required. And no, she could
> pick up her check next Friday on the regular payday, just like everyone
> else.
>
> After feeding Mark and Gina the last of the tuna noodle casserole and going
> without anything herself, she formulated this plan. A lot of thinking made
> her aware of one simple fact, she and Hank were punching bags of fate. None
> of her other friends or any of his buddies had luck like theirs. Hank’s
> poker group joked about it, saying they were the unluckiest couple in
> history. Well, damn it, Joni was sick of that. One of her dad’s favorite
> sayings was that you have to take the bull by the horns. Okay, it was time.
> She probed her mind for the best way to get the money she needed to keep
> her and the kids off the street and to get Hank out of that crappy run down
> hospital, and this was the only thing she could come up with. Oh, good, the
> little old lady was finishing up. No, she had something else she needed
> done, and she was talking nonstop to the teller. Lady, that poor girl
> doesn’t want to hear about your grandson’s soccer trophy, hurry up.
>
> The man in front of her wasn’t getting any more patient. Joni hoped he
> didn’t take forever to do his banking. He looked like he was the type who
> came in, transacted his business, and got on with his day. Joni wished she
> could be as calm and collected as he was. She looked down at her card again
> to focus her mind. She read over it four or five times, focused enough that
> it caught her by surprise when she heard the old bat saying, “Thank you
> so much for your help. Have a wonderful day.”
>
> Whew. Maybe this was a sign her luck was changing. One person in front of
> her, and he looked all business. And then she could get to the window, do
> what she had to do, and get back across the county in time to pick the kids
> up from their after-school program.
>
> Joni moved forward as the man in the suit strode up to the window and said
> something. The teller said, “Excuse me sir, what did you say?”
>
> Joni’s stomach dropped to her ankles as the man said, in clear crisp
> words, “Give me all the money in the drawer and do nothing stupid or
> I’ll blow all of us up.”
>
> Bio: Nicole Massey is a writer, composer, and songwriter living in Dallas,
> Texas. She writes in multiple genres, including mainstream fiction, science
> fiction, fantasy, mystery, and romance. She also writes for role-playing
> game fan magazines. She lost her sight in 2003 and if you find it, she’d
> like to have it back. She can be reached at nyyki at gypsyheir dot com.
>
> --------------------
>
> # Part III. Seasonal Sensations
>
> ## Vintage Keeper, poetry
> by Brad Corallo
>
> As golden summer splendor fades to rich hues of autumn
> clusters of grapes on trellised vines slowly ripen.
> Vintners stand in their fields
> contemplating acid/sugar balance and the crucial question:
> when to pick?
> The rich ripe berries are brought to the receptive hoppers
> of crusher/stemmer machines and free run juice is collected.
> Then, the long process of fermentation, racking and ageing can begin.
>
> The vintner muses,
> “Potentially Has all the marks of a great vintage.”
> Deep inside feelings of wonder, hope, apprehension and
> the unmistakable excitement grow.
> Every year, this is the way of it!
> She is humbled by her stewardship.
> A high priestess, a dedicated intermediary
> servant of nature and the fulfillment of her gifts.
> If she does her job well:
> the bounty of the land, the weather
> and her gentle touch
> will bring joy and a lightening of the heart
> to friends and strangers alike.
> She feels a part of something vast
> an acolyte bearing the promise of an ancient covenant.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Autumn Tapestry, poetry
> by Carrie Hooper
>
> The air turns crisp and cool.
> Leaves paint
> Colorful portraits
> Before they fall to the ground,
> Dry up,
> Crunch underfoot,
> And fertilize the soil
> For next year's plants.
>
> Birds fly south
> To winter in warmer climates.
> Perhaps they meet old friends,
> And share stories
> About the people
> Whose backyards they inhabited,
> Or they talk
> About a narrow escape
> From the jaws of a cat.
>
> As nature's scenery changes,
> We bid farewell to summerAnd welcome the fall.
>
> Bio: Carrie Hooper was born and raised in Elmira, New York. She has been
> blind since birth. She received a B.A. and an M.A. in vocal performance and
> an M.A. in German. She also studied at the Royal University College of
> Music in Stockholm, Sweden as a Fulbright scholar. Carrie currently lives
> in Elmira, New York and teaches German at Elmira College. Furthermore, she
> teaches voice and piano. She is proficient in German, Italian, Swedish,
> Spanish, Albanian, and Romanian. In addition to teaching and learning
> foreign languages, Carrie enjoys writing poetry. In August of 2018, she
> published her first collection of poetry, *Word Paintings*, a bilingual
> volume that includes poems in Albanian with English translations. Carrie
> also gives vocal recitals, serves as pianist at her Church and sings in a
> community chorus.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Leaves Whisper, poetry
> by Leonard Tuchyner
>
> Why do Autumn leaves whisper so
> when their colors begin to show?
> Do they dress for celebration --
> a Mardi Gras before demise,
> portending Persephone’s flight
> to Pluto’s wintry Hades,
> where the dead are known to dwell?
>
> Do they seek a glorious death
> chasing Spring to the underworld,
> hoping to retrieve their goddess,
> or serve her in her husband’s realm?
>
> What do leaves whisper as I swish
> through their sacrificial bodies?
> Rustlings say, “She will come again.
> She is nourished by our dry bones.
> We’ll adorn her when she rises,
> and flourish in her haloed warmth,
> then follow when she falls again.”
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Let It Snow, memoir
> by Kate Chamberlin
>
> “Oh, listen to how hard the rain is hitting the window,” I said to our
> four-year old as I carried an over-flowing load of clean laundry into the
> bedroom to be folded.
>
> He ran over to the south-facing window-wall and exclaimed, “It’s
> snowing, Mimi. It’s snowing little balls!” He jumped up and down,
> clapping his hands and saying, “I was so sad this morning when there was
> no snow. Now, I’m so excited!”
>
> Ah, yes. Only through the eyes of little ones can we truly appreciate the
> finer details of life.
>
> I used to love taking long Spring, Summer, and Fall walks with my
> “A-team”. We’d hike west to Ralph and Ruth Miller’s cow pasture;
> north along its eastern boundary to Dave and Diane Wilbert’s orchards;
> Turn right and walk along its southern border to the eastern edge of Joe
> and Marcia Englert’s acreage; Another turn right to head south into the
> valley opposite our home on the hill. The last leg of our journey was the
> most difficult, because we were tired and yet we had to trudge west, up the
> hill for a reward of a cool glass of lemonade.
>
> As we walked, I would often stop to point out the tiny little wild flowers,
> busy ants, and small animal footprints in the mud. We’d stop and stand
> very still in the woods to hear the different birds in the treetops, look
> for them and identify who made that sound. Our noses could tell us when
> we’d crossed from the damp woods into the drier pasture, even before the
> warmth of the sun reached us.
>
> Now, when I make forays into our yard with our “B-team”, they are the
> ones who stop me to describe what they see, shove something under my nose
> to smell, and thrust my unsuspecting hand into mush for identification.
>
> “Mimi,“ my pre-schooler’s excited voice brought me back into the warm
> bedroom. “Fluffies are falling everywhere. The grass is all white!”
>
> Oh, dear Gussie. What’s a mother to do? I put down the laundry and went
> to the closet to rummage around for the snow boots, puffy winter jacket,
> knitted beanie and water-proof mittens.
>
> When the “B-Team” is older, we’ll get out the cross-country skis and
> snowshoes to once again traverse our neighborhood, but, for now, we went
> out to explore this wonderful world of cold, wet, white ‘fluffies’, so,
> let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow.
>
> Bio: Kate’s pieces have been published in *Behind Our Eyes* publications;
> anthologies by the Wayne Writer’s Guild; NYS Federated Garden Clubs;
> *Good Dog! Magazine*; *Threads Magazine*; *Organic Gardening Magazine*;
> *Paper Clips*, a braille magazine; *Matilda Ziegler Magazine*; and other
> publications.
>
> Kate is a current member of the Wayne Writer’s Guild, Visionary support
> group, free-lance writer/editor, Accessibility Ambassadress to the Memorial
> Art Gallery an former newspaper columnist, Clerk of her church Vestry, DAR
> Chapter Recording Secretary. She and her husband are now empty nest
> great-grandparents and enjoy having lunch out, country walks during the
> good weather, and mall cruising during the inclement weather.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## A Taste of Winter, nonfiction Second Place
> by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters
>
> Despite the biting cold, my guide dog and I hunger for a winter walk. I
> layer long johns under fuzzy fleece and pull a hat with ear flaps over my
> salt and pepper hair. I slip protective blueberry-colored booties on the
> precious paws of my yellow lab, then I wrap my furry partner in her
> reflective lemon jacket. Viviane flaps her soft caramel ears and pokes her
> anxious head through the harness. We venture into the chilly air, gulping
> in the yummy scene.
>
> Most days, with my low vision, the world looks muddy and grey. But when
> fresh snow catches the sunlight, twinkling crystals light our way. Treetops
> and rooftops sparkle with glitter - a gingerbread wonderland awaits.
>
> Trekkers stretched over my boots ensure sure footing as Vivi leads us onto
> the blanket of crispy meringue. Bare trees outlined in ribbons of white
> create a chocolate and vanilla marbled maze. Like Popsicle sticks, frozen
> fence rails line our way. My guide halts at the curb to survey a slushy
> street crossing; she gingerly picks our path through the soft gelatin.
> Parked cars and evergreen hedges are topped with dollops of marshmallow
> cream. Yards are dotted like cookies with sprinkles. Pine needles shimmer
> in glaze.
>
> As we work our way along the dessert buffet, my dog swipes her tongue at a
> branch like a snow cone. Wind whips puffs of powdered sugar off the roof
> tops, and smoke floats from chimneys, like candles on a birthday cake blown
> out by a child. A cloudless blue sky frosts the frozen treat. As we chew
> our way through sunshine and shadows, a branch weighed down with mounds of
> coconut icing slaps me in the face like a pie. I blink and lick my lips,
> savoring the sweet taste of winter!
>
> Bio: Marcia Wick enjoys retirement along with grandchildren, gray hair, and
> time to write. Her essays have appeared in *Magnets and Ladders*,
> thereimage.net, and *Vision through Words*. She reflects on parenting,
> caregiving, living with a disability, and adventures with her guide dog.
> Marcia’s career in communications, desktop publishing, and public
> education spanned 40 years. She now partners with her sister as The Write
> Sisters. She is legally blind due to Retinitis Pigmentosa. Marcia also
> volunteers with Guide Dogs for the blind, advocates for public transit, and
> enjoys a variety of sports with her husband as her guide. Contact her at
> marciajwick at gmail.com.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## The Magic and Wonder of the First Weekend of December: From Christmas
> Dances to Decorations, From the Land of Oz to Santa Claus Land, memoir
> by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
>
> The first weekend of December brings back memories of many special times,
> including the celebrations of my parents' wedding anniversary; they were
> married on December 4, 1942, while my dad was in the Army. In 1997, on
> December 1, my dad passed away three days before the celebration of their
> 55th wedding anniversary.
>
> On the first weekend of December, in the 1950s and the early 1960s, a
> Christmas dance at Perona's Hall was part of kicking off the holiday season
> in our hometown of Blanford, Indiana. Not only did the adults of our small,
> rural town attend, but also some of the children. Perona's Hall was above
> the grocery store—one of the two competitors of the grocery stores of my
> maternal grandmother and my Uncle Pete. Nevertheless, my parents and I
> enjoyed going to these dances. One thing which I did not enjoy was the
> extremely high, narrow, and steep flight of stairs to the dance hall. After
> ascending those many stairs, one entered the hall with an alcove on the
> right, where food and drinks were served. I recall that the Royal Neighbors
> of America, an organization to which my mother belonged for many years,
> sponsored a number of these dances. To the left of the entry was a small
> stage with an upright piano and its wooden stool. Theatre seats and tall
> windows were around the other three sides of the dance hall. For these
> community dances, a five-piece band played big band tunes that still echo
> in my head. I especially hear Deno Libei's saxophone filling the dance hall
> with "Stardust" and can picture so clearly in my mind's eye my parents,
> dancing so smoothly over the wooden floor of Perona's Hall. In this memory,
> I see my mother in a royal blue dress and my dad in a charcoal and gray
> suit with white shirt and narrow tie. What a handsome couple they were! My
> father was known as a very good dancer, and my mother well followed his
> lead around the dance floor. Those December dances to begin the celebration
> of the holiday season were good times.
>
> Too frequently, the television re-broadcasting of the spectacularly magical
> movie *The Wizard of Oz* coincided with the December dance. A fan of the
> movie and its musical score, I did not want to miss watching this famous
> 1939 movie—which is celebrating its 80th anniversary this year. When the
> Wicked Witch or the flying monkeys appeared on screen, I hid behind a
> portion of the wall that arched between our living room and dining room.
> Then, I just peeked periodically at the frightening parts of the classic
> movie. Once, I estimated that I had seen *The Wizard of Oz* at least
> fourteen times—but certainly more by now and still counting.
>
> The first weekend of December was also the time when we decorated our house
> and trimmed the Christmas tree. Eventually, live evergreens gave way to an
> artificial six-foot tree.
>
> For many years, my dad decorated our large front porch with strands of
> multi-colored lights. Additionally, bedecking our front porch were a choir
> girl and boy dressed in white and red robes and made of plastic. Between
> the two choir members was a plastic street lamppost, topped with a little
> snow. These figurines were illuminated by a bulb within each piece. When I
> was in college in Terre Haute, Indiana and enjoyed shopping on Wabash
> Avenue, I purchased a plastic reindeer at the Smith-Alsop Store to add to
> the holiday display on our porch. For a few years, my dad affixed a speaker
> outdoors so that Christmas music accompanied our outdoor Christmas display.
>
> For a number of years before we created our own outdoor holiday
> decorations, my family and I drove to the home of the Harris family who
> lived about four miles north of Blanford, a little past the town of St.
> Bernice, in the flat and rich farmland of our Vermillion County. This
> family who owned the Harris Food Store in Clinton, Indiana, had quite a
> mesmerizing Christmas display, with holiday music. I most remember my dad's
> driving so very slowly by Santa in a sleigh, with all the reindeer. Even
> though I have never been a fan of blue for Christmas decor, I marveled each
> year at the large, indoor tree lighted with only blue Christmas
> lights—the larger type, not the fairy lights or LED lights as used today.
> Besides other outdoor figurines of the season around the property, a huge
> star shone brightly from atop the television aerial and over a manger
> scene. Viewing this home's holiday outdoor display a few times each year
> was a special treat.
>
> When I was even younger, my parents, my older sister, and I went to Santa
> Clause, Indiana, during the first weekend of December. For several years,
> we went to Santa Claus Land (renamed Holiday World in more recent decades)
> because my mother was a member of the Indiana Branch of the National League
> of Postmasters, who selected this festive location for their December
> meeting. While she attended her meeting, Dad, Mary, and I did those more
> important things like visiting Santa and shopping at the unique store from
> where I still have a very small tea set on which is painted Santa and the
> words "Santa Claus Land." While my sister and I recognized the Santas at
> Roots' Department Store in Terre Haute and other such Santas, we knew that
> the real Santa was at Santa Claus, Indiana. Consequently, going to Santa
> Claus Land was extremely important.
>
> On one of our trips to this small city in Southern Indiana, the snow was
> flying to set the holiday mood. In the early 1950s, children's rubber boots
> with one button at the top of each were quite popular; my sister had a
> white pair, and I had a red pair. Also, children's house slippers at that
> time were not the fuzzy and fluffy type, but made more like leather
> slippers with a wide and heavy-duty elastic band on either side. In my
> haste and excitement to see the real Santa Claus, I forgot to change into
> my patent leather shoes. I stuck my house-slippered, little feet right into
> my red boots. Somewhere along a snow-covered road en route to Santa Claus,
> Indiana, I came to a terrible realization—no pretty patent leather shoes
> were on my feet. In a burgeoning panic, I told my dad that he had to go
> back home for my dress shoes because I could not possibly visit Santa while
> I was wearing my house slippers! My dad tried to explain to me that he
> could not return home, that the roads were slippery, that we had to arrive
> in time for Mother's meeting, and that Santa Claus would not mind my
> wearing boots within which were house slippers. I was not swayed a bit by
> his logic. This time was one of the extremely rare occasions when my
> wonderful dad did not grant my wish. I cried real tears. Nevertheless, that
> first weekend in December, I did wear my red house slippers, covered by my
> big red boots, to see the real Santa Claus. Thankfully, all worked out
> well. I do not think Santa had a clue about my footwear; he still brought
> me the nice gifts I had shyly requested as I sat upon his knee.
>
> Note: "The Magic and Wonder of the First Weekend of December" was published
> in Alice's book, *The Christmas Carriage and Other Writings of the Holiday
> Season*, available from The National Library Service for the Blind and
> Print Disabled and Audible, as well as in print from Amazon.
>
> Bio: *The Christmas Carriage and Other Writings of the holiday Season* is
> the first book by Alice Jane-Marie Massa. To read more about this
> collection of holiday memoirs, short stories, and poetry (available from
> Amazon, BARD, Audible, etc.), visit Alice's author page:
> http://www.dldbooks.com/alicemassa/
>
> Additionally, Alice invites you to visit her Wordwalk blog:
> http://alice13wordwalk.wordpress.com/
> where, since 2013, she has posted her poetry, essays, memoirs, or short
> stories concerning her four guide dogs and other topics.
>
> With master’s degrees from Indiana State University and Western Michigan
> University, Alice taught for 25 years, including 14 years of teaching
> writing at Milwaukee Area Technical College.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Winter Conspiracy, poetry Honorable Mention
> by Wesley D. Sims
>
> The days grow lean, shriveled
> like trees that lost their leaves,
> shivered in winds that stripped
> away our bouquets of autumn.
>
> While we pause for holiday
> celebration, December gathers strength
> to shove us toward the eager arms
> of winter, who draws her breath
> and waits, bony fingers extended,
> to flash her fury in our face.
> Contrives to snare us, bait us
> with blanket of soft, white snow,
> catch us unaware,
> trap our tender flesh,
> stand us out among the dead
> grass, gray skies and skeletons
> of trees.
>
> This team conspires to test our mettle,
> judge if we can ride the tempest
> thrashing all the way to the vernal equinox,
> or like a pilot slammed with trouble
> and forced to scrap his mission,
> we bail out and drift down
> on the merciless currents of time.
>
> Bio: Wesley Sims has published one chapbook of poetry, *When Night Comes*
> (Finishing Line Press, 2013). His work has recently appeared or is
> forthcoming in *Breath and Shadow*, *Liquid Imagination*, *Pine Mountain
> Sand and Gravel*, *Artemis Journal*, *The Avocet*, *Nature Writing*,
> *Pangolin Review*, *The Tennessee Magazine* and others. He lost hearing
> completely in one ear and has severe hearing loss in the other.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Angel Light, poetry
> by Shawn Jacobson
>
> In my house today
> surrounded by seasons lights
> I am lifted up.
>
> The angel on my tree with white halo shines.
> Her companion glows bluely from the end table.
> On my bookcase, an angelic host lend their colors,
> green, cardinal, and gold; they shine out strongly.
> With the lesser lights they claim this place
> for color against the leaden season,
> an oasis of multicolored brightness
> on this grinding gray day.
>
> Once in deep and misty time,
> when history and legend intertwined,
> shepherds saw strange lights in the sky
> a great angelic host, a star brighter than others.
> The choir proclaimed a light beyond nature,
> that would break through the leaden world,
> with color that would be our salvation
> from the grinding grayness of our lives.
>
> And through the ages color has broken through,
> great hymns and master works of art,
> writers with gifts of wonder and imagination,
> and prophets calling us to change the world,
> so that it would be a citadel of light and beauty
> against the leaden spirits that assail us,
> with the grinding grayness of their beings.
> Against such, we need the salvation of light and life.
>
> One day I look to see in awe and wonder
> a great anticipated time of endless beauty.
> We will delight in light and life forever
> and cherish rainbow glories for all time.
> This symphony of blessings will not perish,
> for leaden spirit’s malice will be banished
> and grinding grey oppression will depart us.
> We will bless angel light for evermore.
>
> Lights of the season
> are an arrow pointing us
> to a greater light.
>
> Bio: Shawn Jacobson was born totally blind (a gift from the Asian Flu) and
> obtained partial sight following several eye opporations. He received his
> MS in Statistics from Iowa State University and has since worked for the
> Federal Government; it has now been 35 years. He lives in the Maryland
> suburbs of Washington DC with his wife Cheryl, son Stephen, and an
> ever-changing cast of dogs. His daughter Zebe lives up the road in
> Baltimore.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Winter Through the Senses, poetry
> by Abbie Johnson Taylor
>
> In the silent snowfall,
> see flakes swirl.
> Amid white-covered streets, sidewalks,
> feel snow crunch beneath your boots.
> Hear the rumble of a distant snow blower.
>
> Indoors, feel the warmth of slippers on your feet.
> Breathe the aroma of steaming cocoa.
> Savor the flavor of its frothy, chocolaty goodness,
> safe, warm while snow keeps falling.
>
> Bio: Abbie Johnson Taylor is the author of two novels, two poetry
> collections, and a memoir. Along with *Magnets and Ladders*, her work has
> appeared in weekly and quarterly editions of *The Avocet* and both *Behind
> Our Eyes* anthologies. She has a visual impairment and lives in Sheridan,
> Wyoming, where, for six years, she cared for her late husband who was
> totally blind and partially paralyzed by two strokes. Before that, she was
> a registered music therapist and worked for fifteen years in nursing homes
> and other facilities serving senior citizens. Please visit her website at
> http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## My First Taste of Snow, memoir
> by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters
>
> A late spring blizzard isn’t that unusual where we live 6,000 feet above
> sea level in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies. Last winter was
> moderate with sunshine and light snowfall until March when spring roared in
> like a lion. Doppler radar watchers warned that a “cyclone bomb” was
> headed our way from the west coast where it had caused dangerous flooding.
> The night before the anticipated weather event, schools, government
> offices, and employers announced closures even though skies were clear and
> temperatures were in the 50s.
>
> Forecasting the weather in Colorado is no simple feat. “If you don’t
> like the weather, just wait 10 minutes and it will change,” locals are
> fond of saying. Early prediction of the unusual cyclone bomb, however,
> proved accurate. The next morning, we were slammed with high winds,
> freezing rain, drifting snow, and white-out conditions.
>
> When weather prognosticators warned of another late spring blizzard in
> April, the city again hunkered down. Cancellations were called early in the
> morning although the sun was still shining, temperatures were in the 60s,
> and the roads were clear and dry. I hurried to my father’s house,
> throwing a change of clothes at the last minute into my backpack, worried I
> might get stranded and be forced to spend the night once there.
>
> Halfway through the day, the ominous storm still waited in the wings as the
> audience grew restless for its appearance. Settling opposite my dad at the
> table, me with my lunch and him with his breakfast, He flipped the pages of
> the newspaper, his favorite preoccupation, and happens upon the blizzard
> warning.
>
> “Rain and snow, temperatures dropping into the 20s,” he glanced out the
> window, perplexed at the sunny scene.
>
> At 2:00, still under sunny skies, Dad’s caregiver departed early to
> “beat the storm.” I thought perhaps this time the weather gurus might
> have gotten it wrong. Settling Dad into his easy chair around 4:00 for some
> late afternoon television, I glanced out the living room window as the
> clouds burst. Fat raindrops changed into fluffy snowflakes mid-flight,
> spinning the springtime scene into an avalanche of winter.
>
> “Look at that! What is that?” my Dad asked.
>
> “It’s snowing after all,” I said, amazed myself at the sudden turn in
> seasons.
>
> Dad gaped at the falling flakes, as if seeing snow for the first time in
> his 94-year-long life. No stranger to snow, my father skied the powder
> slopes of Colorado for six decades, climbed more than 30 mountains above
> 14,000 feet where snow remains year-round, camped in winter snow caves, and
> climbed Pikes Peak in a blizzard on New Year’s Eve to shoot off fireworks
> from the summit. Yet, my slow-moving father jumped out of his chair like a
> four-year-old boy experiencing snow for the first time.
>
> “Look at it, look at it! It’s everywhere, all around,” he twisted his
> bald head back and forth as I fought to catch his flailing arms into his
> coat sleeves. Coatless myself, I chased Dad out the door onto the deck
> where he continued to stare in wonder at the scene. As if the clouds were
> having a pillow fight, the sky was flooded with white balls of cotton.
> Giggling like a four-year-old girl, I stuck out my tongue as if tasting
> snow for the first time.
>
> --------------------
>
> # Part IV. Points to Ponder
>
> ## The Mountain I Can’t Climb, poetry Second Place
> by Shawn Jacobson
>
> Clutching at rocks as I scramble along,
> I seek to hold myself in upright stance,
> as I traverse this trail of mud and ice
> that twists through lava at the mountain’s base.
>
> The mountain spirits call me to ascend
> to great Capulin’s summit in the sky
> to view the brown volcano studded plains,
> and marvel at the wonders of the west.
>
> I must refuse the spirit’s call to climb,
> my lot to scramble seeking footing sure.
> Though pride goes bravely forth before the fall;
> time teaches me the humble ways to stand.
>
> When I was young, I would obey the call
> mount up the slope to seek the glories high
> found on the summit’s magnificent peak
> and seek the secrets held within the cone.
>
> But time has taught me humble traveling skills:
> to scramble, clamber, scuttle like a crab
> over a land of muck, uncertain stones
> until I reach the welcome end of trail.
>
> And at trails end I sit upon this bench
> my shoes caked with the mire of the trail.
> I contemplate the lessons of the day,
> wonder, humility, the power of time.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## A Veteran’s Day Reflection: nonfiction Honorable Mention
> by Brad Corallo
>
> My dad was drafted into the army in 1942 and fought in the Second World
> War. He advanced to the rank of Staff Sergeant. He was stationed in the
> Pacific Theater and landed on God forsaken islands in order to build
> temporary air strips and to set up communication systems. He was a wiz at
> field telephone installation and communication. He faced combat on a
> regular basis and almost died several times from terrible jungle diseases.
>
> When people tried to tell him after his return that he was a true American
> hero, he replied: “I am no hero; I was just a scared kid from a poor
> Italian family who did my best and survived by believing that I would never
> make it home.”
>
> My dad never liked to speak about the war. Three decades after his return,
> partially due to our discussions, he morphed into an anti-war, pro labor,
> pro minority true believer. I was so proud of him then and am even more so
> now. He was a man who grew up poor, saw terrible things in war, and worked
> hard to support his family every day. He initially held the conservative
> beliefs of most of his generation but evolved into a wiser, kinder man. He
> came to hate war, poverty, and any injustice that prevented every citizen
> from getting a fair shake and an equal shot at the American Dream.
>
> Among countless other things, my dad taught me that people can change and
> grow during their lives. In my work as a mental health therapist, sometimes
> the hardest job is assisting people to realize that they can change, grow,
> and shed untrue and destructive things that they were taught as children.
> It is wonderful to see such folks realize this possibility and then begin
> to gain confidence and greater ability to handle their lives more
> effectively.
>
> My dad also taught me that war is not a glorious adventure where the forces
> of good ultimately vanquish the legions of evil. It is a wasteful and
> destructive activity that squanders the promise and talent of our most
> important resource, America’s sons and daughters. Toward the end of his
> life, my dad had nightmares about the war and would speak of atrocities he
> observed with anguish and horror. There was no diagnosis of or treatment
> for PTSD for that amazing generation. They talked of something called
> battle fatigue, but that term was used to describe soldiers who became
> seriously depressed and in some cases, catatonic. So on this Veteran’s
> Day I raise a glass to U.S. Army Staff Sergeant Charles J. Corallo: “dad,
> I honor and cherish your memory and am glad you are at piece now!”
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Life Waters, poetry
> by Valerie Moreno
>
> Heart song,
> completely serene in the
> womb cushion
> where life is sweetly new.
>
> Once in life light,
> unfamiliar world brings
> mysteries and discoveries
> as the tiny heart song plays.
>
> Innocence and awe bring
> challenges, joys uninhibited
> as the song grows free.
>
> Somewhere,
> feared monsters creep
> beyond the boundary,
> crushing the song under
> unfathomable evil.
>
> Silently, the shatters like glass
> carousels tumbling from a broken shelf.
>
> The heart song struggles,
> on slowest bleed,
> recreating itself in pain so
> deep it cannot be undone.
>
> Tears fall
> outside a heart broken,
> mending itself to sing
> even through scars of disillusion.
>
> Many breaks, scars and tears
> beset the song, yet, it still plays
> despite harm, indifference, false love.
> The black hovers,
> but the heart is brighter,
> wiser for it, resilient
> in its melodic time
> won by many silent battles of care.
>
> Heart song,
> genuine,
> careful,
> still comes alive
> like Spring blooms
> in patches of color
> now spreading toward sky
> and stars that welcome.
>
> Bio: Valerie Moreno has been writing fiction and poems since age 12. Her
> inspiration is music, life experience and prayer. Her work has appeared in
> anthologies, magazines and fan fiction. She is totally blind.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Grandma’s Metaphor, nonfiction
> by Bonnie Rennie
>
> My Grandma was a wise lady.
>
> One day, I complained to her. “I’m not happy! In fact, I’m bored! The
> neighbor kids just got new clothes, and I don’t have any. Mom says we
> can’t afford to go shopping right now. Some of the kids have gone to
> summer camp, and I’m left alone back here! I hurt my toe this morning,
> and now, I can’t run around and play outside.”
>
> Grandma stopped what she was doing, and paused to think for a minute. Then
> she smiled and said, “I’ll tell you what. Let’s bake some cookies.”
>
> Grandma always had a well-stocked kitchen. She assembled many cookie-baking
> ingredients. I pulled a chair up to the counter, eager to help. Before
> starting, she commanded my full attention, looked me in the eye, and said
> this.
>
> “This time, as we put the batter together, you’re going to be the taste
> tester. Here, I’ll show you.
>
> "First, try a tiny bit of this flour. How do you like it?”
>
> “blah! Tests like dust!”
>
> “Now, the vanilla.” Grandma said. “Doesn’t it smell good?”
>
> “Oh, iek! It doesn’t taste anything like it smells! Why is that?"
>
> “Just the nature of ordinary vanilla, I suppose,” Grandma quipped.
>
> “Now, the sugar, of course. You like that, don’t you? Fine, but don’t
> eat too much. Too much of a good thing, you know. And here, what about this
> yummy baking chocolate?”
>
> “Oh, Grandma!” I made a face. “Why are you using bad chocolate? That
> tastes terrible! Bitter! Not at all like chocolate."
>
> “Oh, that’s because it’s baker’s chocolate. It’s supposed to
> taste strong like that. The end result, however, the cookies, are always
> good, right? And I almost forgot. A tiny pinch of salt. Remember just a
> little salt helps bring out the good flavor of a food. But, too much of it,
> and the dish turns bad.”
>
> We finally mixed the dough, put the cookies on the sheets, and baked them.
> And oh, the aroma was wonderful, filling the house with sweet delight!
> After they had sufficiently cooled, Grandma gave me a couple of the most
> delicious chocolate chip cookies, with milk.
>
> “Now.” Grandma kindly said. “Aren’t these cookies good? Well,
> they’re just like life. You don’t get it, huh? I’ll explain.”
>
> She looked me right in the eye again. “Just like these cookies, our life
> has many parts to it. And some of those parts don’t taste so good, by
> themselves, or while we sample them. But what would the finished cookie be
> without, say, those bitter chocolate chips? And even though it doesn’t
> seem to make sense at the time, that tiny bit of salt helps add to the
> whole cookie. If we want to get and enjoy those yummy cookies, just like a
> good life, we need all of the ingredients, in their proper measure. No
> shortcuts. No skipping the parts that don’t taste so nice. Great cookies
> and a great life both require mixing in all of the necessary ingredients,
> and having faith that in the end, everything will turn out right. Not
> always perfect, but tasting the way they’re supposed to.”
>
> Yes, now I realize. grandma was a very wise lady.
>
> Bio: Bonnie remembers her first writing attempt. At age twelve, she wrote A
> song parody, expressing her eagerness/angst about heading to junior high.
> During her clinical social work career in medical and mental health
> settings, she created client/consumer family education materials.
> Retirement finally allows her to pursue the writing of poems, articles, and
> essays. She writes on a variety of topics: Christian/spiritual, music,
> thriving while blind, blossoming in retirement, life’s charms,
> challenges, choices, and quirks. Bonnie and her husband Bob live in
> Southern California. She is totally blind, from Retinopathy of Prematurity.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Spirit Freedom, fiction Honorable Mention
> by Lorice McCloud
>
> The evening that Thora called me to ask if I would go with her on a trip, I
> was putting braille labels on a few groceries so I wouldn't have to keep
> reading them with my cell phone. I hate interruptions when I'm doing stuff
> like that but when the talking caller i.d. said Thora's number, I picked it
> up.
>
> "Whatchya doin?" she asked in an exaggeratedly prying tone of voice.
>
> "Do what?" I said stupidly
>
> "What's wrong with you?" she demanded peevishly. We were satirizing.
>
> "Where would you like me to start?" I asked pleasantly as if I were
> offering to read her a menu. "Actually tonight I think it's just the
> smell," I amended. I was playing tidly winks with sewer covers until I was
> so rudely interrupted."
>
> "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" she erupted frantically. "You put those man-hole
> covers back where they belong! No tellin' what might come crawling out of
> there!" That's when I started laughing and I think we laughed for 5 minutes
> straight. When we stopped, the tears were rolling down my cheeks and I had
> to hold one of my prosthetic eyes in with my finger to prevent it from
> hitting the floor.
>
> "I've decided that I'm going to pay a visit to Spirit Freedom," she
> announced resolutely. "And I want to know if you'd like to go with me."
>
> "I just might," I said evenly. "Let's talk about it." I had known ever
> since the night we heard about Spirit Freedom on a late-night radio talk
> show that covered some edgy topics, that it wouldn't be long before Thora
> made a reservation. We'd been talking to each other during commercial
> breaks for the entire 3 hours that the guest was on. "How soon?" I
> inquired.
>
> "Oh, as soon as I can get a reservation. I just want you to help me make
> sure I haven't overlooked anything.
>
> "Trust me, you haven't," I said bluntly. "We'd better make reservations
> while we can still take advantage of this. I suppose now that it's so
> public, somebody might try to shut it down."
>
> "Okay!" she said excitedly. "I'll call and get all the info, find out how
> much it costs and everything."
>
> "Make a reservation for me too unless they prefer that each person make
> their own."
>
> "Okay," she said blithely and hung up. That surprised me a little but after
> all, we'd discussed this subject hundreds of times over the years. I sat
> down on the floor right where I was and thought about what needed to be
> done next if I was going to Spirit Freedom with Thora.
>
> When she called me back the next evening, she sounded as excited as
> somebody might if they were going to Disney Land. "I talked to this real
> decent lady. She gave me all the info and took reservations for both of us.
> She does want you to call her though, just to confirm. Ask for Amaris. She
> said she was planning to take the journey herself before too long."
>
> "How much is this going to cost?" When Thora gave me the price, I was
> pleasantly surprised. A nice chunk of change, but not exorbitant. I could
> handle it.
>
> "They pro-rate it according to your income," explained Thora. "Amaris said
> they didn't want money to be a barrier to poor people who often desire the
> experience most. We can't get in for 2 weeks. They're pretty busy after the
> exposure they got on the radio."
>
> "That's okay. It'll give me time to throw a going away party. You could
> come too and then we could just leave from here together."
>
> "Good idea!"
>
> We laughed and talked into the night. We hung up after agreeing to do
> Shamanic journeys for each other to discern if everything was a go.
>
> Among the things I did in preparation was to unsubscribe from my email
> lists. I also wrote a note to my family which I saved in my pending folder
> to send out just before I left. A lot of the rest of it would be done when
> we arrived at Spirit Freedom.
>
> I never throw parties. I hardly ever even attend them so I had to put a lot
> of thought into my going away party. I went to the grocery store various
> times and ordered a few things from Amazon. I made some playlists of
> Thora's and my favorite music. Some of the people I invited were surprised
> about my plans and others not at all, but most of them did accept my
> invitation. Thora showed up the day before the party.
>
> "This is a good time to go," I observed. "We don't have guide dogs."
>
> "It's so lonely around my place," she lamented. "I don't even have doves
> anymore."
>
> We roasted marshmallows over a candle flame, drank tea, and reminisced all
> night. Time seemed to stop, or maybe not to exist at all. The tranquility
> we felt was beyond expression. I knew Thora felt the same way I did by the
> sound of her sigh.
>
> We slept for most of the following day. We woke up early enough to make the
> final preparations for the party. I got the music going and set some of the
> munchies out on the table. It wasn't long before my guests started to
> arrive. Thora greeted each one at the door with a smoldering smudge stick
> in her hand. The pungent fragrance permeated the apartment. Some of our
> guests were in a somber mood. Others seemed festive and celebratory. Anna
> said that she had made a reservation with Spirit Freedom because of our
> example and she had never felt freer in all her life. We munched and talked
> in little clusters. I had my rainsticks and chimeballs setting out and I
> was happy when Robin and Jesse asked if they could have them. Jimmy
> observed that Thora and I were both glowing with joy and that we looked way
> different than he'd ever seen us before. We certainly felt different.
>
> The party lasted longer than I had expected, probably because we were all
> enjoying the meaningful dialogue and the Aire of celebration. We had travel
> plans for the following day, but not early.
>
> We slept during the morning hours and had yogurt and fruit when we
> awakened. The fridge was bare after that which was part of the plan. I shot
> that email off to my family and unplugged the computer. Thora took our
> travel bags out to our scheduled ride to the train station. We had a 2-day
> trip ahead of us. The train trip was just another part of our exciting
> plans. We'd paid for a berth so we didn't have to put up with squalling
> kids and iPads blaring movies that always seem to accompany them. We
> flopped down on our beds as the train pulled out and felt the gentle sway
> and heard the rhythmic clickity-clack of the wheels.
>
> "This is so much better than a plane!" Thora exclaimed gleefully. We sang
> in 2 part harmony as the hours went by
>
> In the dining car most of our fellow passengers were friendly and just
> chatted about the trip, but if they got too nosey, we told them stories. At
> dinner one night we said that we were both email order brides going to meet
> our husbands. We hadn't told them we were blind. They might've been able to
> guess by our pictures but it hadn't really come up. Another time we said we
> were going to visit our brother. He had sent us train tickets after our
> mother died and this was the first time we had ever been away from home.
> The reaction to these ghastly tales was highly entertaining.
>
> "I'm trying to think of another time in my life when I felt like this,"
> Thora sighed as we lay on our beds holding hands, "but I can't."
>
> "I know what you mean," I murmured thoughtfully. "I don't think I've ever
> felt this free, this light, this joyous before either, not in this lifetime
> anyway."
>
> "Usually when somebody thinks you should be grateful, you're not even if
> you feel guilty about it. But now I feel so much gratitude I can't contain
> it."
>
> Amaris met us at the platform. We chatted about the trip as she drove, but
> it didn't really get interesting until we got there. The first order of
> business was our responsibility forms. She took us into a quiet comfortable
> office to fill them out. Thora went first.
>
> No living parents. No husband or significant other. No children. Two
> sisters but they had their own lives. No job. Only SSI for an income and it
> wasn't enough to pay the bills let alone enough for recreation or
> transportation. Terrible health. Sleep deprivation that wrecked her immune
> system and left her with not enough energy to do much of anything. Life
> stretched interminably before her with no end in sight.
>
> I was like a fainter echo of Thora. No living parents. No husband or
> significant other. No children. A brother and a sister whose lives I wasn't
> much involved in. No job. A mound of credit card debt. I could sleep if I
> could do it when my body wanted to. I had never found the way to do
> anything fulfilling. If I knew how to change my life, I would've by now. I
> wasn't interested in playing society's games. I was tired of being here.
>
> Next Amaris asked us to choose our evening meal for tomorrow. She explained
> that it would contain the elixir that would gently separate our spirits
> from our bodies. "You'll probably want to lie down about a half hour or so
> after eating. You'll begin to feel drowsy and dreamy. It won't hurt. You
> won't have stomach cramps or a headache or anything. The whole process
> takes a couple of hours, but you'll want to go with it so lying down is the
> best way." We each gave her a couple of names and addresses to send notices
> to and we both chose cremation for our bodies. Neither of us wanted our
> ashes to be kept in an urn somewhere so we asked that they be buried in the
> sand on a beach or spread under a tree.
>
> After that, Amaris showed us our quarters and a little bit about what else
> was around us. It was like a spa with a swimming pool, hot tub and golf
> course.
>
> "You can change your mind up to 4 o'clock tomorrow," she told us. "Some
> people just want a few more days. Some people decide to work here for a
> while before they complete the process like I did and some people just take
> a much needed vacation and go back to their lives."
>
> "I don't think so," Thora said to me cheerfully as we were settling in.
> "I'm going all the way."
>
> "Me too," I concurred quietly.
>
> We didn't sleep till the wee hours. We sat on our balcony, breathing in the
> sweet night and letting the crickets serenade us. We listened to the music
> we loved and talked about the feelings it stirred in us. I read to her from
> our favorite C.S. Lewis book. You may wonder who would want to listen to a
> blind person read aloud. Happily for me, Thora would as much and as long as
> I would do it. We thought we might not sleep at all, but we did toward
> morning.
>
> Upon awakening sometime in the early afternoon, we had fresh pineapple and
> tea on our balcony.
>
> "I think I'll go for a dip in the pool," I said when we'd finished eating.
> "Want to come?"
>
> "Sure, if nobody else is in there for us to bump into." We had to call
> Amaris to come and escort us there. The pool was empty until we got into it
> so we had ourselves a nice little splash and then I took a soak in the hot
> tub. Thora went back to our room and showered. It was after 4:00 by the
> time I came back to the room.
>
> "Are you scared?" Thora asked me as I stepped out of the shower.
>
> "Well, not yet. Maybe a little nervous, maybe a little bit excited, but not
> scared."
>
> "Me neither." she declared.
>
> I read some more from the C.S. Lewis book until 6:00 when Amaris brought us
> our evening meal.
>
> "You guys are so much fun. I really wish you weren't going quite so soon,
> but I can see how happy you are about it." She set our feast before us. The
> smell was ravishing. "The portions aren't that big," she explained as she
> put our desserts off to the side. "But you need to eat it all." We nodded,
> understanding.
>
> We lit the candle in the middle of the table, just because we like them. We
> talked about the good times we'd had in our lives and we hooted and
> laughed. I suppose we were pretty loud. I hope we didn't disturb anybody
> who was in a more reflective mood, but we didn't feel like we were dying,
> just going to another place where we could live less encumbered more
> vibrant lives. We ate our meal slowly and savored every mouthful. We had
> our after supper tea and then we decided to go down to the courtyard and
> get into one of the huge hammocks. We tumbled and tangled like children,
> both of us trying to get in at the same time. And then, when we'd finally
> managed it, we spontaneously started to sing. We carried on for about a
> half hour and then quieted down as the cicadas started to buzz. We heard
> thank you's from some of the other guests who were also in the courtyard.
>
> After that I picked up my laptop to write about this and now Thora is
> nudging my arm.
>
> "Aren't you starting to feel drifty?" Sure enough when I pause, I do.
> There's a gentle breeze blowing, a faint scent of pine in the air, cicadas
> buzzing and I feel like I'm melting into joy. I can hear those friendly
> voices off in the distance calling: "Hello! Hello!"
>
> "Come on," she urges. "I want you to be right with me." I really do need to
> put this thing down and go.
>
> "Ok. I'm coming." I grab her hand. "Here goes! We're out of here."
>
> Bio: Lorice McCloud has been totally blind since birth. She resides in Fort
> Worth Texas. Her interests include hiking or walking, swimming and reading
> and conversing about psychology and metaphysics. She is a singer/song
> writer as well as an author. Her youtube channel is:
> http://www.youtube.com/user/LorieMccloud?feature=mhsn
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Shut Up Mike, fiction
> by Nicole Massey
>
> I didn’t want to answer the phone. It was my freakin’ birthday, and
> nobody calls at 5am to wish you a happy birthday, so it was some sort of
> bad news. And after working a double the day before I wasn’t up for bad
> news. But a sense of duty made me reach for the phone and answer it.
> “Hello.”
>
> “Hey, it’s Mike. Vera’s a bitch and called off, so I need you to come
> in today.”
>
> I almost told him to shut up and turn my phone off, but I needed the money.
> My hormone prescription was up next Monday and they didn’t come cheap,
> and I was saving for surgery, so I couldn’t lose my job no matter how
> much of a jerk Mike was. I was glad I’d showered the night before.
> “Okay, give me thirty to get ready and get there.”
>
> “Yeah, don’t waste time with makeup, just throw on some slacks and a
> shirt and get here. I don’t have time for you to get all dolled up like a
> girl today.”
>
> “Shut up, Mike, I’ll be there in thirty. Goodbye.” I hung the phone
> up and turned it off.
>
> I got up, washed my face and brushed my teeth, put on my face along with
> two pairs of pantyhose and a pair of the short shorts Mike requires for
> female employees, tied the shirt under my bra, and grabbed my purse on the
> way out the door.
>
> Mike had the door locked, and a dozen customers stood waiting. I got
> several morning, Cindy’s, from regulars and let them inside.
>
> I called out, “Hey, Mike, thanks for making coffee,” as I put my keys
> back in my purse and shoved the bag under the register.
>
> Mike called back, “I don’t make coffee, that’s women’s work.”
>
> The clunk of the time clock was drowned out by my call back of, “Shut up,
> Mike.” Then it was a morning of rushing around getting orders, making
> both coffee and tea on a half-functional coffee burner system, getting
> orders to customers, scrounging up a clean apron because Mike or Vera
> hadn’t washed anything, running the register, and doing it all with a
> pretty smile on my damned birthday. And then there were the inappropriate
> comments from Mike.
>
> “Shake that gay butt of yours.” “When you bend over a table like that
> I almost think you’re a girl.” “Tits come in yet, little girl?”
> That kind of stuff, always followed with a response from me telling Mike to
> shut up.
>
> The pace slowed down around 9:30 after the breakfast crowd cleared out, so
> i had a chance to find out what happened. Mike said, “You know, maybe I
> should hire more girly faggots if they’ll work as hard as you.”
>
> "Shut up, Mike. So, what’s the deal with Vera?”
>
> "Stupid bitch quit again.”
>
> “Damn it Mike, what did you do this time?”
>
> “Why is it always that I did something? Can I help it if she doesn’t
> like that she has a hot body? She’ll cool down and come crawling back
> soon enough. She can’t stay away from me.”
>
> “Shut up, Mike. When’s Lupe coming in?”
>
> “Oh, forgot to mention it. Her kid’s sick, so she’s not coming in
> today. You’re working a double.”
>
> That was too much. I grabbed some napkins and my purse, locked myself in
> the ladies’ room, and had a good cry. My birthday was blown to hell. I
> was going to have to call Sarah and Blair and Mackenzie and tell them
> we’d have to postpone, and I’d get home with my feet killing me, bone
> tired after two double shift days in a row and my skin and hair smelling
> like coffee and grease. It was tempting to tell Mike to stuff it like Vera
> had and struggle until I found something else, but small towns don't have
> many job opportunities for girls like me. I stopped crying, dried my eyes,
> blew my nose, and fixed my makeup.
>
> When I came back out Mike said, “Table, Muffin.” I didn’t say
> anything, I got the order, put it up without telling him what it was, and
> went back to making coffee. I was polite to the couple, but I ignored
> Mike’s rude comments until they left.
>
> After the door closed, I turned to the order window. “Mike! Vera quit and
> Lupe isn’t going to come in today. Unless you want to run this place by
> yourself, you better lay off me for the rest of the day.”
>
> “Or what, Princess?”
>
> “Or maybe I’ll come back there and make myself a couple of pork chops
> out of your piggish hide. Today is not the day to push me too far.”
>
> “What, finally getting your period, Princess?”
>
> I turned to head to the door to the back, but out of the corner of my eye I
> saw a huge tour bus pull up. The door opened and a row of African Americans
> started out, all of them dressed like they came from church.
>
> Mike said, “Looks like it’s going to get a lot darker in here.”
>
> “Shut up, Mike.”
>
> They started coming in, filling the place to capacity. I grabbed every menu
> we had, passed them out as they filed in, and told them to sit wherever
> they liked. The first table I got to had four women at it ranging in age
> from around sixteen to a white-haired woman who looked to be in her 80s.
> The middle aged woman of the group glanced at my name tag and said, “Good
> morning, Cindy. Hope you’re having a blessed day.” She picked up on
> something. “What’s wrong, child? You’re too young to look that sad.
> How old are you?”
>
> “Twenty-four. As of today.”
>
> She looked at the other women at her table, who all nodded back. In amazing
> four-part harmony they sang my name. Save for the sound of Mike in the
> kitchen getting ready for a lot of orders all other sounds stopped in the
> diner. Then everyone followed her lead as she started in on the Happy
> Birthday Song. By the second syllable of happy they were all singing, and
> it was the most amazing thing I’d ever heard. They were some kind of
> gospel choir, and I wanted to cry again at the majesty and joy of it all.
> They finished to silence. Even Mike wasn’t making a sound.
>
> “Thank you. Thank you all so much.”
>
> “You’re welcome, child. Now, we’d all like iced tea, sweet if you
> have it.”
>
> I headed off to get their tea. I felt a lot better, and though mike was a
> jerk unlike any that came before him, I thought I was going to be able to
> deal with the day after all. I ran around getting drinks and orders from
> the tables and counter, both of us too busy for any bigoted banter and less
> than snappy rebuttal. We managed to get them served, rung up, and out the
> door before lunchtime at the factory swamped us at noon. I finished wiping
> down the tables and turned to see Mike looking at me. I said, “Shut up,
> Mike.”
>
> He held his hands up. “Hey, Cindy, I didn’t say nothin.”
>
> I smiled. “Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make some phone
> calls to cancel my plans for tonight that you ruined.” Mike met my eyes.
> I said, “What now?” He mumbled something I couldn’t hear. “Speak
> up, Mike, and if it’s something rude or unforgivable I swear I’ll walk
> out.”
>
> “Hey, I’m trying to be nice here. I said that before you cancel your
> plans, I’ll call Vera and apologize so she can work tonight and give you
> your birthday night off.”
>
> “Thank you. Better hurry, lunch is about to start.”
>
> Mike couldn’t help himself. “I guess it’s the hormones that make all
> you broads ball-busting bitches.”
>
> “Shut up, Mike.”
>
> --------------------
>
> # Part V. The Writers' Climb
>
> ## Roads We've Traveled, Roads Ahead, nonfiction
> by Marilyn Brandt Smith
>
> When analyzing career paths, most people can mark their progress by salary
> increases, duty changes, and/or reviews by a supervisor. Writing, for many,
> is an avocation which gives us some level of professional respect, but
> rarely keeps New York strip dinners out available on a daily basis. As
> Abbie Johnson Taylor—our Behind Our Eyes president—said in a recent
> conference, writing—for many of us in the field today—needs to be
> undertaken for the joy of sharing and self-satisfaction, not for the
> expectation of financial reward.
>
> Abbie and I—along with a few others in our organization—were
> interviewed as much as twelve years ago by a budding author interviewer and
> book maven, Bonnie Blose, who is also a member of Behind Our Eyes. Bonnie
> hosted "Books and Beyond," a seven-year series of broadcasts and phone
> conferences through ACB Radio and Accessible World. In preparation for her
> recent interview with Abbie regarding Abbie's new book, *The Red Dress*,
> Bonnie revisited their shared hour together when Abbie's first book, *We
> Shall Overcome*, was published. Bonnie plans to do the same revisit tying
> together my first venture as an editor in 2007 with my current plans for my
> second published book.
>
> Shining a light on twelve years of progress sounds—and sometimes
> feels—like a moment of praise and comfort. There are other probes worth
> making. Technology changes, and we must adapt to stay in the loop, on top
> of the possibility dreams.
>
> Bonnie's "Never leave a stone unturned" mindset brings forth
> thought-provoking questions. "Are there genres or places you will go with
> your writing now that you would not have explored when you first found
> yourself in the world of published material? Maybe you were put off by a
> topic or scenario twelve years ago that you will approach today."
>
> My answer is a resounding "Yes!" I'm not afraid to dig into news headlines
> for plots. I'm willing to make them personal if experiences apply, or to
> place fictitious neighbors in an awkward situation I.E. human trafficking,
> domestic violence, corporate greed, etc. Twelve years ago my primary focus
> was being published and recognized for knowing good work when I read it. I
> was comfortable with writing that didn't put me in a position to defend
> anything. I didn't mind being critiqued for writing faux paws, but I shied
> away from controversial subject matter in my writing.
>
> I've grown a lot since then. Writers don't have to be mind-changers. We
> need not use a situation or character to champion our own agenda, but it
> helps to be open-minded and flexible. This is especially true when
> critiquing or editing the work of others. For me, the measure of growth
> comes through seeing where I am now compared to where I was in the past. If
> looking back is worth doing, it shouldn't be centered on number of books
> published and articles accepted. Sharing, learning, and earning
> self-confidence as well as a readership following lets you know if you've
> met your own expectations.
>
> Trying something new requires a little courage. Not staying on the lower
> tier, looking for the opportunity to reach, keeps your growth on track. It
> is valuable to hear the awareness in comments from your writing peers that
> you have turned a corner, shoveled new ground on your writing path. It's
> also a gift to your fans. Yes, you have fans. Maybe they started as family,
> coworkers, or friends. Maybe they are critique partners or people who
> visited your website or blog because they bought your book or read your
> article. We don't keep reading our favorite authors when their work becomes
> predictable and too comfortable to be stimulating. We need to offer our
> fans some surprises; keep them alert for our bylines, blogs, and
> announcements.
>
> The "take-home, go get'um" plea here often comes through that little voice
> you hear when you're unable to get to sleep; stuck on a scene where one of
> your characters just won't behave; or asking yourself, "What would Amy Tan,
> Maya Angelou, Linwood Barclay, or Lee Child do here?" "I could be doing
> what?" is the unspoken thought that takes us to new places and ponderings.
> It's okay to take a break from that troubling block, which is usually
> comfortable. Does the new direction ring true? Does this sound like you,
> bring you the fervor of a new discovery? Even if it doesn't, that voice is
> telling you there's a new direction with your name on it. Let the new
> possibility that tempts you find its pace. You may have just found a new
> road that was hidden while you traveled familiar choices. Now you can't
> wait to see where it will take you, can you?
>
> Bio: Marilyn Brandt Smith worked as a teacher, psychologist, and
> rehabilitation professional. She has edited magazines and newsletters since
> 1976, and was the first blind Peace Corps volunteer. She lives with her
> family in a 100-year-old home in Kentucky. Her first book, *Chasing the
> Green Sun*, published in 2012, is available from Amazon and other
> bookstores and in audio form. She loves writing flash fiction stories, and
> was the primary editor for the first *Behind Our Eyes* anthology, as well
> as *Magnets and Ladders* from 2011 through 2013. She enjoys college
> basketball, barbershop harmony, and adventure books. Visit her website:
> http://www.marilynspages.com.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## A Shift of Weather, nonfiction
> by Nancy Scott
>
> In my current building, there is a new maintenance man who whistles
> recognizable tunes. I think that’s what made me revisit this piece.
> Sometimes it is good to relearn the magic of seasons. After all, times
> change but magic doesn’t.
>
> Today, without preamble, it is fall. Suddenly, I want to be awake at six to
> listen to crickets who sing farther and farther into the day. They know
> their time is growing short. Anything can happen today. I must pay
> attention. Magic is helped by paying attention.
>
> I’m sure that this shift to fall is my favorite. I’ll be sure ‘til
> the shift to winter and the first real snow, where the cat tracks
> footprints and I am compelled to clean out clutter from drawers. Then
> I’ll know winter shift is best. And so it will go through spring and
> summer, each with their flowers and iced drinks and slow novels to read.
>
> I want hot coffee instead of the Diet Pepsi summer rush. I listen to Oldies
> rather than the usual classical music morning. Magic is helped by breaks in
> routine.
>
> I hear the Four Seasons and the great falsetto of “See you in
> September.” I think of my young self going back to school and wonder what
> new thing I could learn. Magic is helped by learning.
>
> The coffee is so good, I have a second cup. I add cinnamon, suddenly
> remembering that this is my favorite way to drink coffee. I could dust off
> the tenor recorder I can’t quite play. I could take lessons. I could
> investigate medication or take up tap dancing. (I’ve always wanted to tap
> dance.) Magic is helped by dreaming.
>
> I am lucky enough to work at home, but days like this are tough on
> freelance writers. They call us away from our work, saying, “Come
> outside. How many wonderful days will there be?” I sit at the computer
> knowing this is a morning for new projects and great intuition. But those
> crickets and the thought of playing music out open windows… and one
> molasses cookie which will surely make me more creative. I should sign up
> for a writing class that forces me to have deadlines. Don’t I have a
> course catalog? Is magic helped by distraction?
>
> After four article beginnings that don’t work, I give up. I sit at the
> piano playing cool Jazz cords to finally settle for songs of my youth with
> a good beat. Magic is helped by music and moving fingers.
>
> After disturbing the air, I call a friend and suggest a walk. I try
> television headline news and some channel surfing. I am caught by QVC’s
> newest and smallest paper shredder. I could use that. Magic may or may not
> be helped by technology.
>
> It’s finally 10:30 p.m. I catch the bus downtown. The corner where I wait
> has the best wind chimes. Five notes play in brass, random order. The
> breeze that makes me wear slacks and long sleeves floats clear variety with
> a familiar melody blown in every so often. I show up five minutes early
> just to listen. Magic is helped by bells and by being early.
>
> The bus windows are open. Everyone is more cheerful and more awake. We talk
> about loving sunshine. Someone asks how winter will be. Magic is helped by
> going out in the sunshine.
>
> The rhythm of the walk relaxes me and I never break a sweat. Walking opens
> my mind to things I can’t say but will write later. There is a small of
> caramel corn and the produce market that finally has local turnips. You
> offer to cook turnips for both of us, since I never learned to cook them.
> Magic is helped by rhythm and growing things.
>
> I mail letters to friends, bills and one group of poems for a hopeful
> byline. We talk about how lucky we are to be here in this day. The sweet
> shop has pepper pot soup-a perfect choice for lunch. Magic is helped by
> food.
>
> We walk up the hill to your apartment after lunch. The hill makes me
> breathless. I think about exercise class. I like watching you cook. You
> narrate to me a catalog that sells small greenhouse kits. I think about
> Christmas. Magic is helped by hills and by giving.
>
> I sit in your old rocker listening to water boil. Then I hear "Mona Lisa"
> whistled clearly from six stories below. I am sure it is a man whistling.
> The melody is on pitch with plenty of pitch and phrasing. I am sure it is
> not just something he hears on the radio. He has a woman in mind. He wants
> love in his life. Maybe he just saw her or hasn’t even met her yet. Maybe
> he has loved her for years. I do not mention the whistling man out loud.
> Magic is helped by romance and mystery.
>
> The unknown whistler says with me through my ride home. I carry him and
> still-warm turnips down the hill and uptown to the rest of my open window
> day. I hum his song quietly since I can’t whistle. I answer phone calls,
> sort mail, and ignore the normal depression of a rejected manuscript. I
> call a friend with a flute to ask about recorder lessons. I even call for
> information on a writing class. Magic is helped by planning ahead. I take
> the happy man whistling love to the backyard swing. Sunset geese call
> almost equinox. I will write about magic.
>
> Bio: Nancy Scott's over 800 essays and poems have appeared in magazines,
> literary journals, anthologies, newspapers, and as audio commentaries. She
> has a new chapbook, *The Almost -Abecedarian* (on Amazon), and won First
> Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest. Recent work
> appears in *Disabilities Studies Quarterly*, *Kaleidoscope*, One *Sentence
> Poems*, *Philadelphia Stories*, and *Wordgathering*.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Walking by Inner Vision: Stories & Poems, book excerpt
> by Lynda McKinney Lambert
>
> Note: My book is a collection of 27 non-fiction stories and 15 poems.
> The book has 12 Parts. Each part is a month of the year - from January
> through December.
> It is like a journey through the year. Each part opens with a poem for that
> month, followed by several essays, reflections, and memoirs.
>
> List of 3 excerpts from this book:
>
> February Essay: “Lynda's Story: Vision and Revision”
> October Essay: “The Dreaming Prayer”
> March Poem: “March Arrived Like a Capricious Cat”
>
> ********************
>
> Lynda’s Story: Vision and Revision
>
> To view work as a pilgrimage is to put our heart’s desires to hazard
> because merely by setting out, we have told ourselves that there is
> something bigger and better, or even smaller and better-above all something
> more life giving—that awaits us in our work, and we are going to seek it.
> We look around to see what we have for the journey and find at bottom that
> we possess only intuitions and imagination….
> -From Crossing the Unknown Sea, by David Whyte
>
> We know from the beginnings of our life, before we have words, that we are
> creators. I cannot remember a moment in my life when I was unaware of my
> creative instincts, abilities, and intuition. I’ve always had an active
> inner life that guides me.
>
> When working in my studio, I concentrate on creating a body of work. This
> method of production keeps me focused because I am always creating a
> collection that will have a unified appearance when viewed in a gallery
> exhibition. But arriving at the place where an artist can create a unified
> body of work may take many years. It is a benchmark that can be seen; it
> separates a hobbyist from a professional.
>
> Insight into my own work developed over a long period of time as I pursued
> two degrees in painting and one in English literature. Those years of
> higher education gave me a professional mindset; it required that I ask the
> difficult questions during the process. With the passage of time, I
> discovered who I am and what my intentions are in my work.
>
> Some questions always come up in any conversation with people who are not
> artists. “How does the creative work begin? Where do your ideas come
> from? How do you know when it is finished? Where can I learn to make
> art?”
>
> I recognize some clear steps in the development of my artwork and my
> writing. There is no separation between the two, in my experience. I
> believe the same about artificial separations between sacred and secular.
> There are none!
>
> First, I often spend time in contemplation, where I focus my thoughts on a
> particular word, phrase, theme, or image. Something keeps recurring to me,
> often subconsciously. Awake or asleep, I experience this something moving
> around inside my mind. My thoughts keep going back to that little bit of
> insight I am feeling. I see it in visions when awake, in dreams when
> asleep. At first, it can be elusive as I begin to dwell on it. This first
> step may take months or even years. Initially, though, I am just aware of
> something that I cannot put into words.
>
> Everything, for me, comes from fragments. An artwork, a story, a poem-all
> made by grasping onto a fragment. Eventually, these pieces and musings lead
> to the beginning of a new work. Before I ever begin the actual work of
> creating the art or the story, I feel like I have encountered a labyrinth.
> At the entrance of this maze, I am a willing participant, although I never
> know where I will be taken. I step into the labyrinth. The pilgrimage
> begins now!
>
> The second step is the preparation of the physical space. At this point, I
> have a keen sense that I am about to depart on a private, solitary journey.
> Now I begin to organize and clean the studio interior. If I am writing, my
> office has to be put in order first. I cannot tolerate any kind of disorder
> when I begin the work. When the entire studio is arranged, I begin the new
> body of work. When there is a sense that I have controlled the chaos and I
> am now ready to begin something new, I can proceed.
>
> Third, I assemble the materials for the new projects. At this time, I make
> decisions about the type of materials I’ll use. Beads, fabrics, found
> objects, and natural gemstones are gathered. I do the same when writing. I
> gather words, images, ideas, themes that I might want to use while writing.
> I often feel like a florist selecting the flowers and plants for her next
> bouquet. This is one of the most exciting parts of my process!
>
> Fourth, I am now ready to depart on the journey. The work feels like a
> dance, and I seldom know in advance just where this tango will eventually
> lead. What I do know is that I’m embarking on another new path. I am
> energized and ready to go. Despite these conscious steps of preparation,
> the process I use is intuitive; there are no rules. I am completely free
> and anxious to begin. I think, Is there any other profession in life where
> there are no rules? No wrong way to do anything? No mistakes and no
> accidents? Where else in our lives can we be free and have no expectations
> placed on us by anyone?
>
> A handwritten sign on my office wall reminds me:
> “Trust Inner Feelings.
>
> ********************
>
> The Dreaming Prayer
>
> Are you at a place in your life where you are thinking, Now what?
>
> Do you often feel like you have reached a dead end?
>
> Maybe it seems like nothing really works out for you.
>
> Or you just have no idea that life can be different than what your life is
> at this moment.
>
> Feeling hopeless or unloved?
>
> It does not feel good, does it? It is not where you wanted to be right now.
> I understand that so well.
>
> Please be patient, my friend.
>
> Learning to walk with our Creator is a lifelong journey. I am still
> learning every day, even after giving my life to Jesus Christ over forty
> years ago. Sometimes I think I am a very slow learner.
>
> There are some questions to ask yourself that will help you get a better
> idea of what you really think. They are known as “worldview” questions.
>
> Where are you going?
>
> Where have you come from?
>
> What will you get?
>
> The best news is that you can make changes now to make your life different
> than what it is today. I have done this. I promise you that your
> circumstances and possibilities in life will change forever and for the
> best.
>
> You can ask God to guide you and give you the insight you need, day by day.
>
> What do you long for—what do you want more than anything else in your
> life?
>
> Put your desire into words! The desires you have are uniquely your own.
> They will fit your personality and your talents. You do have a calling from
> God for your life, and you can find it once you begin to think about it
> seriously.
>
> Are you facing a mountain that seems like it is too high to scale?
>
> Are you in a treacherous place where you would not choose to be standing?
>
> Have you experienced loss or failure?
>
> Maybe it is time to make some adjustments in your life.
>
> Do you need some divine help and guidance from God?
>
> Let me recommend something that changed my own life many years ago. I’d
> like to share with you what I found one day, and it changed the entire
> course of my life.
>
> The Dreaming Prayer.
>
> This unusual prayer was first introduced by Catherine Marshall in her 1961
> book Beyond Ourselves. Specifically, look in the book and read Chapter 11,
> “Dreams Come True.”
>
> Catherine’s mother taught her about the Dreaming Prayer. You see, we are
> really on a pilgrimage all through our lives. But we don’t know that.
> Someone has to help us understand it, sometimes. Catherine helped me to
> learn The Dreaming Prayer one day in the 1970s as I read her book.
>
> We have a divine purpose in our lives. We have an inner voice that speaks
> to us, but we have to be quiet enough to begin to listen for it. That
> still, small voice is the voice of your Creator. He is speaking through the
> Holy Spirit, directly to you. But you have to be quiet and begin to listen
> to hear it.
>
> The Dreaming Prayer is a prayer of helplessness. We are asking God to help
> us and to set our feet on the best path of His plan for us. But, best of
> all, the prayer will open the windows of Heaven for us, and it is nothing
> but the best possible life we can imagine.
>
> Ask God to guide you in your prayer.
>
> You and I need help! We need to regroup.
>
> The Dreaming Prayer will do that for you!
>
> You will soon discover that this prayer is really all about you! What is it
> that is deep inside your spirit that is longing to have a presence in your
> life? Speak it out loud to God right now as it comes to your mind.
>
> You may ask, “What if this prayer is not right for me?”
>
> Test the prayer!
>
> Does it fit with the scriptures in the Bible? God would never ask us to do
> anything that is not affirmed by His word! Seek His guidance through His
> word. Spend time reading the scriptures and listen for God’s voice to
> guide you as you are meditating on His word. He will do that for you. He
> will speak directly to your heart, and you will know His presence in your
> life at those moments.
>
> Does it benefit or edify other Christians? God will never ask you to do
> anything that would harm the body of Christ (other believers). Does it lift
> up others as well as you? Your life purpose will be a benefit to yourself
> as well as to those who are around you.
>
> Expect to have some closed doors. This is often God’s way of directing
> you to His higher purpose for your life. Please remember this: Do not kick
> down doors! That door has been closed as a providential circumstance in
> your life. Use your common sense and not your emotions. Stay calm when you
> come upon a closed door. Do not panic! It will be for the good that you
> would not have been able to encounter if you had walked through an open
> door that was not right for you.
>
> Be sure what you are asking for is not for God to take anything from
> another person to give to you! Never covet what another person has and
> never ask God to take away something from another person to fulfil your
> prayer. What God has for you will be just for you-a new thing that He has
> planned for your life that is yours alone.
>
> Go ahead, find out for yourself. Go beyond yourself. You will be so glad
> you took the plunge and prayed The Dreaming Prayer.
>
> Henry David Thoreau wrote, “Our truest life is when we are in our dreams,
> awake.”
>
> ********************
>
> March Arrived Like a Capricious Cat 2015
>
> Glass wind chimes
> hang
> immovable
> stiff
> shrouded in new snow
>
> March arrived like a capricious cat
> crouched
> hunkered down, bent over
> spring-loaded, squat
> Changeable!
> Early this morning
> I stepped cautiously through deep snow
> March is the time to follow new dreams
> that arrived in the flurry
> of late winter snowstorms and blizzards
> quietly
> wordless
> yet surging
> inside, beneath layers of trees
> my awakened
> awareness heard songs
> crows called
> across the grey sky
> Sharp, staccato
> melodies
> lyrical
> red-breasted robins sang duets
> together
> hidden
> somewhere beyond, out of sight
> March arrived like a lion today
> swept away my doubts.
>
> *Walking by Inner Vision: Stories & Poems* was published by DLD Books in
> 2017. It is available from the following:
> Lynda’s Authors Page- Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/lyndalambert
> Lynda’s Official Authors Page: http://www.dldbooks.com/lyndalambert/
> audio book:
> https://www.audible.com/pd/Walking-by-Inner-Vision-Audiobook/B07RZVRLK2?qid=1570574987&sr=1-1&pf_rd_p=e81b7c27-6880-467a-b5a7-13cef5d729fe&pf_rd_r=MDNGWE5P99MPF7VJA2M2&ref=a_search_c3_lProduct_1_1
>
> Bio: Her name is Lynda Jeanne/ caring; self-motivated; inspired; smart/
> Esther is her mother; Bill, her father/ Ida Matilda, her maternal grandma/
> She likes crystals; poems; nature; crows/ She believes in Heaven, stars and
> timeless boundaries/ aubergine; der Hirsch; helix; woodlands/ She wants to
> stand in Charlemagne’s Palace Chapel again/ Virgo girl arrived on a
> Friday in August, Peridot Stone/ The Village of Wurtemburg is home/ Lynda
> McKinney became Lynda Lambert.
>
> You can visit Lynda’s 2 Blogs at:
> Website & Blog: http://www.lyndalambert.com/: Walking by Inner Vision -
> personal blog
> Scan-A-Blog: http://www.llambert363.blog/: A quiet Place of Inspiration,
> Art, Nature, Literature
>
> --------------------
>
> ## CONTEST ALERT
>
> We will be holding contests in the areas of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry
> for the Spring/Summer edition of *Magnets and Ladders*. All submissions
> will be entered into the contest. Cash prizes of $30 and $20 will be
> awarded to the first and second place winners.
>
> Please note: Funds for contest prizes are provided by Behind Our Eyes.
> Checks for prize winning entries not cashed within 6 months of the issue
> date are void and considered a donation back to Behind Our Eyes. No
> additional payments will be made to replace the uncashed check. If you
> intend your prize winnings to be a donation, please let us know upon
> winning so we can send you a donation receipt letter.
>
> Remember, the deadline for submissions is February 15, so be sure to get
> your entries in on time.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## The Non-Apologizing Apology, nonfiction
> by Mary-Jo Lord
>
> Sometimes, creative inspiration arrives from unlikely sources and at
> unlikely times. On a Saturday in July, I was cleaning the house while
> listening to a podcast of *This American Life*. It was a replay from 2008.
> The title of the episode is "Mistakes Were Made" and the subject is the
> non-apologizing apology. The second act features the famous poem by William
> Carlos Williams, "This Is Just To Say." You may be scratching your head,
> wondering, what poem? If I had said the William Carlos Williams poem about
> plums, you might remember the poem, written in the form of a note to his
> wife about plums left in the icebox. Williams states that he ate the plums
> and asks for forgiveness. He goes on to describe his enjoyment of the
> plums. This poem is an example of a non-apologizing apology. It is also,
> according to *This American Life* Producer Sean Cole, probably the most
> spoofed poem around. *This American Life* staff members shared some
> published spoofs of “This Is Just To Say." They also shared some of their
> own amazing poems.
>
> There are several websites that feature spoofs on Williams's famous poem or
> alternate versions of a non-apologizing apology poem. See the end of this
> article for links to "This Is Just To Say," by William Carlos Williams, the
> above-mentioned segment of *This American Life*, and some websites where
> you can read some non-apologizing apology poems.
>
> Here are two of my spoofs of Williams's famous poem.
>
> ********************
>
> This Is Just To Say
>
> I placed my items ahead of yours
> on the counter at Meijer.
> Forgive me.
> The cashier was free and you
> left your place in line,
> and were probably planning to return.
> The words that rolled off my tongue
> in response to your excuses and insults felt hot,
> and came out cold.
>
> ********************
>
> This Is Just To Say
>
> I kept the $20
> that I found at the bottom of the washer.
> Forgive me.
> You probably planned to use it
> for a car wash, coffee, or lunch.
> I spent it on
> peanut butter filled chocolate,
> creamy and rich.
>
> What would you like to say in the form of a non-apologizing apology poem?
> Or, if you aren't a poet and have a nonfiction piece or a story on this
> theme, we'd like you to submit it for the Spring/summer edition of Magnets
> and Ladders.
>
> William Carlos Williams "This is Just to Say"
> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56159/this-is-just-to-say
>
> *This American Life* "mistakes Were Made" Act Two
> https://www.thisamericanlife.org/354/mistakes-were-made/act-two-6
>
> Spoofing the poem "This is Just to Say"
> https://becheap.wordpress.com/2009/04/17/spoofing-the-poem-this-is-just-to-say/
>
> "This is Just to Say" Somewhere In The Suburbs
> https://somewhereinthesuburbs.wordpress.com/2008/04/21/this-is-just-to-say/
>
> Bio: Mary-Jo Lord writes poetry, fiction, and memoirs. A section of her
> work is published in *Almost Touching* published by Plain View Press. Her
> work can also be found in *Behind Our Eyes*, *Behind Our Eyes: a Second
> Look*, and in past Issues of *Magnets and Ladders*. She was recently
> published on the blog, "Walking by Inner Vision" and *Dialogue Magazine*.
> Mary-Jo is the current Coordinating Editor of *Magnets and Ladders*. She
> has a masters’ degree in counseling from Oakland University, and works at
> Oakland Community College. Mary-Jo lives with her family in Rochester,
> Michigan. She has been blind since birth.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Perfume, Diamante poetry
> By Susan Muhlenbeck
>
> Perfume
> Feminine, flirtatious,
> Spraying, sniffing, sighing.
> A one of a kind olfactory intoxicant.
> Imagining, Dreaming, fantasizing.
> Passionate, powerful,
> Fragrance.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Dreams, a Revised Edition, poetry
> by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
>
> After our time together in the early' 70s
> and then annual letters
> tucked inside artistically unique Christmas cards,
> our lives intertwine again
> as our books cross in the mail--
> mine sent from frozen land beside a Midwestern lake
> during the Christmas rush,
> yours sent from a southern state beside the Atlantic
> during a re-awakening spring.
>
> My book, six-by-nine, soft cover;
> yours, an ample and impressive
> twelve-by-twelve tome, hard cover with glossy jacket,
> beautifully thick pages.
>
> Mine is memoir and holiday poems;
> yours is the biography and art history of a painter
> from Orvieto, Italy--
> someone you had come to know and admire.
>
> For the release of my book,
> I made the announcement
> on my low-traffic blog;
> your book release was a gala affair
> at a performing arts center on your university campus.
>
> I am never surprised by your success:
> I smile at it,
> am immensely proud of you.
> While I can be so competitive,
> I never had a desire to compete with you.
> Although we both grew up in rural areas of Indiana,
> I always knew that you,
> my dear friend,
> were playing on a higher artistic plane.
>
> Your world was of the visual arts;
> my visual world was…
> melting, melting.
>
> So, you settled in the South;
> I traveled to the North.
> Then, after all of these years,
> because of these two diverse books,
> our lives intersect again.
>
> Now, we both are on that retirement stage--
> where dreams are reconsidered and revised.
> You say you will not write another book;
> you will spend part of your time--
> not returning to Umbria--
> but on your once-upon-a-time Hoosier farm.
>
> "Did I tell you
> my dream is
> that David Hartley-Margolin
> will narrate the audio version of my next book?"
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Creative Cabin in the Concrete Wood, poetry
> by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
>
> Company-imposed hiatus
> from my writing world--
> from my creative cabin in the Concrete Wood.
>
> Dreamless days drift by
> as the staycation continues
> in the creativeless morass.
>
> First commandment of writers:
> Thou shall not blame company
> for lack of creativity
> nor for absence of creative activity.
>
> Company leaves!
> Complaints--be gone!
> Compliances and compromises--no more.
> Come, Muses, come to my
> Computerland!
> Come, come--welcome
> components of creativity.
>
> Roll up that red carpet!
> Roll up that rolltop desk.
>
> Roll out the creativity dough;
> form into a pliable ball.
> Then, knead, knead, knead.
> Brush the dough with olive oil,
> and let rise, gloriously rise.
>
> Rise by the hearth
> of my creative cabin in the Concrete Wood.
> Rise, and fill the cabin
> with that magical and unforgettable fragrance
> of creative growth.
>
> A-a-ah, I am back home;
> I peacefully sip
> the slender, fluted glass of solitude.
> My plume dips
> into the inkwell of "all-is-well" once more.
> In the wicker rocker beside the hearth,
> I take the risen dough from the bowl
> and resume my gifted work
> as I now nestle
> into my creative cabin in the Concrete Wood,
> with gratefully only a Black Labrador at my artistic side.
>
> --------------------
>
> # Part VI. Looking Back
>
> ## Big Sister and Little Brother, poetry Honorable Mention
> by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega
>
> Author's note: My vision took a sudden decrease when I was six. My
> four-year-old brother fell from the top of a pile of truck tires in a
> neighbor’s yard, hitting his head on a picket fence. He damaged his
> speech center. It took him a year to recover.
>
> When we were small, your hair stood up in back,
> And mine hung down in two long braids.
> In winter we played indoors together,
> We had but one pair of snow boots.
> When my world began to dim and grow dark,
> You took my hand to guide my steps.
> When you stumbled over words I spoke up,
> And used my voice to tell your thoughts.
> We were two children walking hand in hand.
> Through childhood, we acted as one.
> You saw the way and I spoke the words.
> Together we met the challenge.
> We grew up and went on our separate ways.
> But the bond has always been there.
> You are my brother with a loving heart.
> I am your sister who understands.
> Know that though your troubles go unspoken,
> I will always hear what you mean.
>
> Bio: DeAnna Quietwater Noriega is half Apache and a quarter Chippewa,
> living in Columbia, Missouri with extended family nearby. She has been a
> writer and story teller since childhood. She has had work published in six
> anthologies. Her writing has also appeared in *Magnets and Ladders*,
> *Generations*, *Dialogue Magazine*, *The Braille Forum*, and *Angels On
> Earth*. She is currently at work on an auto-biography to mark her fifty
> years of sharing her life with guide dogs. She is teamed with her ninth
> guide dog a male German shepherd, named Enzo.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## The Brooch, poetry
> by Carol Farnsworth
>
> It was grey porcelain ,about the size of a quarter.
> With a white maiden’s head in relief.
> Given by Walter as a promise of marriage.
> He said the grey was the color of her eyes
> and the maiden would be the way he always saw her,
> young and beautiful.
>
> She wore it to her wedding and each Sabbath afterward.
> It was always pinned to her collar for each important moment.
> She wore it when she placed him in the grave.
> Then she took the old brooch and put it away in her memory box.
> For there was no one to see the young maiden within the withered woman.
> There it remained, hidden but not forgotten.
> Until her Great Grandchildren visited.
>
> ”Grandma, can we get a photo with you?”
> She protested saying, "I need my brooch”!
> She started to look for it.
> Finally she settled in a chair surrounded by her clan with the brooch on
> her collar.
> Now she is captured in the photo surrounded by children,
> She wears the brooch which glows with love again.
>
> Bio: Carol Farnsworth was borne with glaucoma. She has worn many different
> hats in her life. Therapist, Teacher, dancer, artist and writer. She writes
> articles about the humor in living blind. She lives with her husband John
> of 27 years. They have tandem biked for over 20 years logging over thirty
> thousand miles. They are using their fourth bike, having worn out the first
> three.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Whisper, poetry
> by Ria Mead
>
> Despite its silence, I whisper to the dark
> where I'm left living.
>
> Hello Mom, have some news.
> Won first prize in a poetry contest today; a poem dedicated to you.
> Wrote a revised view of our relationship, forgiving.
>
> No angry words, regrets, blame.
> I have wasted time worrying grievances.
> You deserve a better legacy.
>
> Dad, sensed you next to me on the bench this morning
> while I fed birds and squirrels.
> Notice the toast I tossed had butter?
> You conceived that the creatures savored the fat,
> joked that toast served only as butter's transport.
> How often my thoughts retreat to early mornings with you;
> drinking blistering coffee and sending remains of buttered toast
> out to our waiting friends.
>
> Talk to family, friends,
> the five precious guide dogs I've lost.
> Sift wisdoms from their mist.
>
> Rusty, what do you think of Tess?
> Am told there's a resemblance: smaller, though same rust-gold coloring,
> your toughness and courage. She's worked almost as long,
> Rus, none of my six matched your service.
>
> No answers offered in words. The energy I feel humming is enough.
> Know something exists; believe my feeling of its presence.
>
> Darkness expands my perimeters.
>
> Experience invisible connections through its opacity.
> Memories, thoughts, questions, events in a day-in our lives-
> all worth their weight.
>
> Whispers are tangible and welcomed in this darkness
> where I'm left living.
>
> Bio: Ria Meade, 62, a Long Island poet, has been blind more than half her
> lifetime. She graduated with a bachelor's degree in fine arts with a
> concentration in painting. Twenty-five years after losing her sight, she
> began to paint with words. Her poetry chronicles these life experiences,
> especially those with six guide dogs. Ria says the sounds, smells, and
> touch of nature affect her differently now. Her most recent book of poetry,
> *Someday A Sunrise*, was published in 2013. In 2016 her poetry was featured
> in the *Oberon Literary Review*, “Crosswinds Journal”, and
> “Absoloose”, a Loose Moose publication.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Endings, poetry
> by Ria Mead
>
> Dear Tess,
>
> An end to our passage nears.
>
> We both sense the rhythm of our dance has changed.
> To record this truth in ink brings it closer, brings the pain.
> Kept my anxiety deep within,
>
> wherever the unthinkable, the inevitable waits.
> Cannot prepare myself for the "foreverness".
>
> You came to me-a light from within the darkness,
> guided me to find a light within myself.
>
> Combined we were an ancient power, our hearts one.
> Now sadness walks with us.
> Neither is angry nor resentful, do not face illness or death.
>
> Our paths must diverge.
> Each direction promises rebirth, challenges, adventures, a new family.
>
> I choose this path for you, ask a final time your trust.
> We kept faith in what we did together, Tess,
>
> loss is not the ending to our story.
> How we live going forward must include our loss.
>
> I need to accept what this means.
> You lean against me, quiet, head bowed,
> as I sit, finally catching up to what you've known,
> been trying to tell me with that special body language
> my time in harness is done.
> Until today, I couldn't hear.
>
> With a soft lean-in, head on lap, eyes tired, my heart cracks.
> On your way then, Tessy.
> What is important now, my four-legged old friend,
>
> is that your life be healthy, free to jump, catch the ball,
> sniff anything, run untethered with fellow four-legged friends.
> You will always be your best-dog self- I am proof to that.
>
> Love, Ria.
>
> PS. This is for me, the human:
> Eight years traveling with you gave me a richness of wisdom
> necessary in making this choice.
> I'm stronger because you tested me,
> gave unconditional love.
> The love is for keeps. And so we go on.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## The Leviathan’s Gift, fiction
> by Kate Chamberlin
>
> I stood in the attic window of my great-grandmother’s weather-beaten
> saltbox home over-looking Friday Harbor, San Juan Island. The calm ferry
> ride through the Puget Sound from Anacortes, WA, USA bode well for my
> visit. During the short voyage, I marveled at how graceful the pod of
> Harbor Porpoise was, playfully gliding alongside with the confidence of
> creatures who knew they were blessed and cherished, secure in the lineage
> dating back Millenia. Even a curious little otter popped his head up to
> watch us pass.
>
> From this third-story window, I could look out to the dull grey-green ocean
> with frothy lace ebbing and flowing, teasing the sand and pebble strewn
> beach. When I put my eye to the large free-standing telescope, that had
> kept vigil from this window for possibly, decades of decades, and turned
> the knurled knob, I spied a lone whale spouting farther out from shore. How
> magnificent the leviathan appeared. I recalled a variety of the tales
> handed down by generations of whalers in my family and could feel the
> emotion they must have felt as I watched in awe as the whale slid below the
> surface. Its huge fluke seemed to wave to me; hasta luego, Chica.
>
> Bookshelves flanked the small alcove that housed the “widow’s window”
> and telescope. I perused a few of the many titles that helped my ancestors
> while away the long hours waiting for the whalers to return. There was a
> mixture of old and not so old tomes. I noted *A New Voyage Around the
> World* by William Dampier (1697); "A Romance of Perfume Lands or the Search
> for Capt. Jacob Cole", F. S. Clifford(1881); and stacks of magazines about
> oceans, fishing, and whaling.
>
> Perhaps, some of the family tales were blends of facts and fiction. I would
> have a lot of time to parse the stories as I rehabilitate this old family
> home.
>
> For more than three weeks, from the dusty attic to the dank stone
> foundation, I sorted through old cobweb ensnarled wooden boxes, spidery new
> cardboard boxes, cleaned a plethora of fly specked relics and artifacts
> collected throughout the generations, and sunk deeper and deeper into
> despair. It would take more time and resources than I have to renovate this
> old house.
>
> I wanted to establish a Whale Museum where the mission is to promote
> stewardship of whales and the Salish Sea ecosystem through education and
> research.
>
> That night, the wind freshened. A fierce storm tossed a 4200 ton, 300-feet
> long ferry boat around like a child’s plastic toy boat. I felt like that
> ferry boat, tossed around, battered, and at the mercy of the elements.
>
> To distract myself, I passed the night ensconced in one of the comfy,
> over-stuffed lounge chairs in front of the bookshelves. I immersed myself
> in Melville’s *Moby Dick* (1851). One passage recounted how Stubb, one of
> the mates of the Pequod, fools the captain of the French whaler Rosebud
> into abandoning the corpse of a sperm whale found floating in the sea. His
> plan was to recover the corpse himself in hopes that it contains ambergris.
> His hope proves well founded, and the Pequod's crew recovers a valuable
> quantity of the liquid gold that was essential in making expensive
> perfumes.
>
> I had to chuckle when I read how ironic it was that "fine ladies and
> gentlemen should regale themselves with an essence found in the inglorious
> bowels of a sick whale.
>
> The next afternoon I took a break and wandered down to the beach to cool my
> tired feet in the saltwater and wiggle my toes into the cool, grainy sand.
> The high winds had strewn flotsam and jetsam onto the normally pristine
> beach. Two dogs along the debris line caught my attention. They were very
> interested in something left by the receding tide. Among the odd flit-flop,
> plastic six-pack rings, algae, and foam, I saw several solid, waxy, blobs
> of dull grey. I wondered if these were the amber gist I’d read about in
> *Moby Dick*, that would have been produced in the digestive system of sperm
> whales. It had a marine, fecal odor, but, if this was what I thought it
> might be, it would acquire a sweet, earthy scent as it aged.
>
> I gathered all the blobs up, knowing the price I’d get for them would
> more than finance my dream of a Whale Museum.
>
> Later, looking through the telescope in the attic, I spied a leviathan
> breach, spout a taller than usual plume of water, and slip beneath the
> surface. I have no doubt its fluke waved to me; Buena Suerte, Chica!
>
> I whispered my thanks and vowed that the first floor of my museum would
> have a souvenir shop, an educational movie loop about whales, and many
> hands-on bones and relics for visitors to touch. The second floor would
> have the intact, ancient skeleton of a whale suspended from the ceiling,
> ancient mariners’ journals, sailor’s genealogy trees, maps, and
> explanations galore.
>
> Visitors would be invited to the third-floor library to do research, listen
> to audible loops of whale songs, and stand at the widow’s window to view
> the ocean through the telescope. If they were lucky, they’d catch a
> glimpse of my venerable benefactor, the leviathan.
>
> Author's note: Definition of Salish: 1 . a group of American Indian peoples
> of British Columbia and the northwestern U.S. 2 . the family of languages
> spoken by the Salish peoples.
>
> I have taken the liberty of embellishing the Whale Museum that is already
> located at Friday Harbor.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Winter, 1864, poetry
> by Wesley D. Sims
>
> One for the record books, days and dark
> nights on end of severe temperatures.
> Winter turned deadly as a Yankee soldier.
> Silas chopped ice from the creek for water.
> Tried to cut enough wood in daytime
> to last 24 hours. Supplies, patience drained
>
> by years of war. A man living three years
> in Alabama woods had to ratchet up resolve.
> Wind made one wool blanket and two quilts
> feel like paper. He moved up biweekly
> trip home to survive. Began trudging
> the ten mile trek. Halfway home
>
> a thirsty deer pawed a frozen stream.
> Silas forced numb fingers to trip the trigger,
> trading life for life. Coaxed cold hands
> to slit open the thick, furry hide,
> dumped its entrails on the frosty ground.
>
> He crawled inside the steaming carcass
> to prod his own sluggish blood to flow
> fast enough to finish the hilly, slippery
> journey with fresh food, back to the warmth
> of a heated cabin, of family and home.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## For Thirteen Years, Acrostic poetry Honorable Mention
> by Marilyn Brandt Smith
>
> Close to my ear,
> A rhythm, a rumble;
> Tail around my neck.
>
> Perched on my shoulder,
> Us, together for hours,
> Reading about strangers and dangers,
> Remembering old songs, sharing ding dongs.
> I catch the phone,
> Nudge you to the other shoulder;
> Grey goblin, you are such joy!
>
> P.S. Her name was Squishy.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## My First Love, memoir
> by Abbie Johnson Taylor
>
> His name was Brett Claytor. He was in third grade while I was in fourth. We
> were both students at the Arizona State School for the Deaf & Blind in
> Tucson in the 1960's. He played the piano, and I played the ukulele.
>
> We decided to perform together in the school talent show. One of our
> favorite Three Dog Night songs was "Joy to the World." After school while
> waiting for our parents to pick us up, we practiced in the second grade
> classroom which had a piano. I had a hard time playing this song on the
> ukulele. So, I finally gave up and stood next to the piano and sang while
> he played and sang with me.
>
> On the night of the talent show, I wore a long red dress Mother bought for
> me while he wore slacks and a shirt. I was partially sighted while he had
> no vision. So, I let him feel my dress, and he said, "Wow!" Our performance
> was flawless, and we got rave reviews from parents and classmates.
>
> Our relationship continued after that. He liked rockets, so I dreamed about
> us blasting off to a faraway planet to start a new life. We often went to
> each other's houses where we listened to music.
>
> Once I showed him one of my dolls and said it was our baby. He said,
> "That's a doll." I should have realized he wasn't as serious about our
> relationship as I was.
>
> A year later, he and his family moved to Oregon, and although we agreed to
> write, we lost touch until 1976 when I was a freshman in high school.
>
> By this time, my family was living in Sheridan, Wyoming. One night at the
> dinner table, Dad said, "Honey, what ever happened to that boy you knew in
> Arizona?"
>
> "You mean Brett?"
>
> "Yeah, Brett, did you ever hear from him?"
>
> "No," I answered, and to my surprise, I found myself wishing I knew where
> he was.
>
> "You wanted to marry him, didn't you?" asked Mother.
>
> "Yeah, and I still do," I said, without thinking.
>
> "Well, maybe we can find him," said Dad. "I'll bet he went to the school
> for the blind in Oregon. Let me make some calls."
>
> Apparently, Dad was concerned that I didn't have a boyfriend when other
> girls my age did. He wasn't the old-fashioned parent who wouldn't let his
> daughter date until she was thirty.
>
> A couple of weeks later, again while we were eating dinner, the phone rang.
> Dad answered and after a moment said, "Abbie, it's for you."
>
> "Who is it?" I asked. I didn't get many calls.
>
> "You'll just have to find out," said Dad, handing me the phone.
>
> "Hi Abbie, it's Brett Claytor," said a male adolescent voice when I said,
> "hello."
>
> Speechless, I turned to Dad, who was already sitting at the dining room
> table with Mother and my younger brother. They were all quiet.
>
> I don’t remember much about our conversation except that we exchanged
> addresses and promised to send each other tapes of our music. Since our
> parting in Arizona years ago, I’d become proficient at accompanying
> myself on the piano, like him.
>
> A few weeks later, his tape arrived. I listened, enthralled, as he talked
> about his life and played a lot of songs, some on piano, others on
> electronic keyboard. He even played a drum solo.
>
> He didn’t sing, though, perhaps because his voice was changing, and he
> didn’t think it was any good. It didn’t matter. I still found his
> talent amazing.
>
> I made him a tape with some songs I enjoyed singing, accompanying myself on
> the piano. At one point, I told him I still loved him and hoped he felt the
> same way about me.
>
> Weeks went by, and I didn't hear from him. Dad said, “Maybe he’s
> waiting until he can learn more songs to play for you.”
>
> After another month or so, it was clear I’d scared him off. Maybe he had
> another girlfriend. I was embarrassed. If only I’d kept my feelings to
> myself, we could have still been friends.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## 10K, memoir nonfiction Honorable Mention
> by Susan Muhlenbeck
>
> I attended a convention in February of 1995 called Ski for Light. I read
> about it in the Matilda Ziegler magazine for the Blind and signed up for it
> without thinking it through carefully. It promised a week of cross country
> skiing in Colorado. Before attending the convention, I had never even seen
> a pair of skis and was not in the best shape due to little exercise. I was
> looking forward to taking a much needed break from my job as an appointment
> setter.
>
> As I stepped off the plane in Colorado, I was full of nervous anticipation.
> I knew people that had been skiing before, and they all claimed it was a
> lot of fun. Of course these people went downhill skiing with a lift and
> didn’t know anything about cross country skiing.
>
> When we got to the hotel, I met my roommate. She was a spry lady in her
> eighties who had never been skiing before either. We attended the reception
> the first night. I sat at a table that had a bowl of tangerines and a bowl
> of blueberry muffins on it and chatted with several other visually-impaired
> skiers. Most of them were experienced skiers and had attended the
> convention before. That night each skier was paired up with an experienced
> sighted guide. My guide’s name was Mary, and she was a special needs
> teacher from Minnesota. We also found out that, for five days in a row, we
> would be skiing from 9:00 till about 4:00 with an hour for lunch. We were
> advised to dress in layers, as we would probably want to start peeling
> clothes off as the day progressed. We were also advised to get some
> sunscreen to put on our faces.
>
> The next morning I started drinking a cup of coffee with breakfast. I never
> touched the stuff before then. After breakfast, we were fitted with skis
> and boots. I was surprised to see how long the skis were. The skis, when
> held up, were taller than my 5 feet, 6 inch frame. They were also the
> waxless type, which was helpful to those of us who didn’t know the first
> thing about waxing skis.
>
> My guide explained that volunteers went out every morning to put fresh
> tracks in the snow for us to ski in. She said there were a few simple
> commands such as “Tracks left”, which meant to move your whole left ski
> to the left to get in the snow track, “Tips right”, which meant to move
> just your right ski tip to the right to fit in the track, and “Sit!”,
> which meant to immediately sit down in the snow to avoid colliding with
> another skier.
>
> It took a little while for me to get the hang of things, but after the
> first hour or so, it became easier. By the end of the first day, I had
> peeled off my coat, sweater, and scarf. I couldn’t believe how hot it was
> from skiing when it was only ten degrees outside.
>
> When we finished skiing, I got into my swimsuit and soaked in the Jacuzzi
> that was near my hotel room. I had brought my swim suit hoping that the
> hotel would have a
> Pool. The pool was closed, which was probably just as well. I don’t think
> I would have been able to swim a single lap after all that skiing. After
> dinner each day, there was a different activity planned. That first night
> we walked around and looked at different exhibits that venders had set up.
> I found some pretty jewelry, including a silver charm shaped like skis and
> poles to put on my charm bracelet.
>
> My roommate said she was not going to ski all day, but she skied for about
> an hour and a half each day, bless her heart.
>
> When I woke up the second day, I almost didn’t get out of bed. Every
> muscle in my body ached like never before. Besides my arms and legs, I had
> sore muscles in my neck, stomach, and back. I had soreness in muscles I
> didn’t even know I owned. I dragged myself out of bed, determined to do
> this thing.
>
> After the second day of skiing, my guide said I was getting better and was
> moving faster. As fun as skiing was, my favorite part of the day was the
> half hour I spent in the Jacuzzi. That night we went on a sleigh ride to a
> little cabin near the hotel. An older couple who owned the cabin gave us
> hot chocolate while we warmed ourselves by the fire. I usually have trouble
> falling asleep at night, but I didn’t have any problem sleeping that
> week.
>
> When I woke up the third day, my muscles were still sore and stiff, but I
> no longer cared and had gotten accustomed to it. That night there was a
> country music concert, which took my mind off my muscle pain.
>
> The fourth day of skiing was great. My muscle pain seemed to have magically
> disappeared overnight. That night we watched a play by the Norwegian
> playwright Henrich Ibsen. Some of the guides who put on the play were from
> Norway. They also brought a bunch of scrumptious Norwegian chocolate for
> sale.
>
> After five rigorous days of skiing, I thought I had enough. Friday night we
> went pan sliding. We sat on plastic disks with handles on them and slid
> down the snow-covered hills. I thought that would have been a neat way to
> wind up the week, but there was one more challenge on Saturday.
>
> There was a 10K race with a prize for the winner. There was also a 5K rally
> with a prize for the person who could guess the closest time they would
> finish the rally. I signed up for the 10K race. I knew I wouldn’t win the
> prize, but I was determined to finish the race.
>
> I finished the race in just under two hours. I was beat! As I crossed the
> finish line, one of the guides put a Ski for Light medal around my neck.
> Then he picked me up, threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes
> and deposited me in front of my hotel room door. The Jacuzzi never felt so
> good.
>
> That night there was a banquet and a dance. The winner of the 10K race
> finished it in 53 minutes. I thought that was unbelievable, but she had
> been skiing for years. My roommate completed the 5K rally. I thought that
> was the most amazing part of the whole convention. If I make it into my
> eighties, I certainly will not be cross country skiing.
>
> I have not been skiing since the convention. I think it’s fantastic that
> there are so many visually-impaired people interested in skiing, and that
> there are a lot of guides willing to participate. I’ll never forget
> pushing myself along on those skis and digging those poles into the ground,
> determined to finish the race. I’ll also never forget all my aches and
> pains the first couple days. Most of all, I’ll never forget my spry
> roommate, who thought it was never too late to try something new. I was
> glad that decades of nervous energy were unleashed at last, but despite the
> fact that skiing is invigorating, revitalizing, and exhilarating, after
> that’s all said and done, I think I’ll stick to swimming.
>
> --------------------
>
> # Part VII. Slices of Life
>
> ## In the Closet, fiction Honorable Mention
> by Marilyn Brandt Smith
>
> Sally answered his page fifteen times a day. What could that old buzzard
> want now?
>
> "We're cutting back," Mr. Goldman said, "It's too bad, but labor and
> materials keep going up, and we're losing money. You'll get two weeks
> severance, Emily will be splitting your office work with an intern from the
> university." He riffled through a folder, didn't give her a chance to talk.
> "I want you to leave unfinished work on Emily's desk, collect your things,
> and…well…you've been a good employee."
>
> "I have to get my reference books from the library, and my coffeemaker and
> stuff from the storeroom. You know I left them after the board meeting last
> year and just never…"
>
> "Yes, yes, that's fine," he interrupted.
>
> "What about healthcare and retirement benefits?"
>
> "Talk to accounting, I'll have personnel send them a letter of
> recommendation which you can use, and of course, we wish you Godspeed in
> finding a comparable position."
>
> She was dismissed. The jingle of his phone assured her there would be no
> further communication. Apparently going the extra mile wasn't worth much.
>
> Now there were all those Christmas bills on credit cards to pay. She'd
> counted on her salary…Lessons might have to go. As a single mom with
> unpredictable child support contributions, she'd had to scrape the edges of
> the barrel even with her good salary to pay for tennis and violin lessons
> for Mark and Mary Jo.
>
> She stopped in the hall to gulp some water from the fountain. "I guess I'd
> better go do my desk," she mumbled to herself.
>
> Coworkers acted all afternoon as if they knew the bomb had dropped. No one
> could look her in the eye; no one asked her what she was going to do now.
> They were probably all afraid they were next. She didn't want to leave
> publicly, so she let the other girls clear out before she went back to the
> storeroom to retrieve her coffeemaker and the Christmas decorations she'd
> contributed to the office party.
>
> The closet was a mess, the coffeemaker was bagged up in the lounge, but the
> decorations were hiding in the closet behind a stack of boxes. She froze in
> her tracks when she heard her boss, (X-boss), clear his throat from the
> lounge. Was he trying to make sure she wasn't stealing?
>
> No, he was here in secret, she realized as his words penetrated the
> silence.
>
> "She's gone Emmy," he said into the phone. Emily was out of town, she
> couldn't be in there with him. The closet door was ajar, but she was well
> hidden; she decided to stay that way. This could be interesting.
>
> "She was getting too close, I had to. You'll have more work until I can
> find someone… Yes, we have to be more careful in the future of course.
> When federal money's involved we could be charged, but that's not going to
> happen. We've worked too long and too hard to lose this opportunity. I had
> no idea she'd go digging through the receipts from last year's seminar with
> accounting. I think we're safe right now."
>
> Sally waited through incriminating details. There was something wrong with
> the books, and he thought she was catching on. When he closed the door to
> the lounge and she heard the elevator arrive, she peeked out of the closet
> and watched out the window until his Mercedes drove away.
>
> Everyone else was gone. It was 5:30, and she'd have to call the kids. She
> was going to be late because she had some homework to do. Mary Jo could get
> supper together. Fortunately, she still had the master key to all the
> offices and file cabinets. He was in such a hurry to get rid of her, he
> never thought of asking her for it. She hoped the passwords for the
> accounting software and invoicing service hadn’t changed since she helped
> out in accounting when Jessica was on maternity leave.
>
> The passwords hadn't changed. The methodology for the book-cooking scheme
> amazed her when she put the right documents together. Fortunately the
> cranky old copier worked quite well. Maybe it knew right from wrong after
> all.
>
> **********
>
> "Good morning Emily, good morning Mr. G," Sally called as she glided
> through the administrative offices at 9:00 on Monday morning. "Thank you so
> much for my salary increase," she smiled, "and thank you for dinner on
> Saturday, Mr. G. I'm going to enjoy my new assignment."
>
> She passed the old copier on the way to her office, and stopped to make a
> pact. "Remind me to watch my back," she whispered, "don't let me sign
> anything without hand-carrying a copy to accounting. Keep me honest, and
> not as greedy as they are; and when I have enough, and know who I can
> trust, help me blow the whistle loud and clear." She patted the copier as
> she refilled the paper tray.
>
> "Something wrong with the copier again?" Emily called from her office down
> the hall, noting Sally's pause.
>
> "No," Sally answered, "just refilling the paper, I think it's working fine
> today."
>
> She'd been given new duties after her little conversation with the boss
> over dinner, her invitation. Was it blackmail? What he was doing was worse
> than that. As she expected, he pretended total ignorance and swore to get
> to the bottom of her suspicions.
>
> Sally made copies of the master keys before turning hers in. She'd told him
> the truth when she said she was just looking out for the best interest of
> the company. He couldn't argue with that. She'd found that letter of
> recommendation he wrote so hurriedly on Friday afternoon, and that should
> help her find a similar position with a more reputable firm.
>
> She could forget all the grant seeking and marketing websites now, she was
> in charge of client services. That would get her out of the office for a
> big portion of the day, and that suited her just fine. They thought, of
> course, it would take her eyes off the bookkeeping. The sooner she could
> walk, the better. She'd be watching, all right, and she'd make a great
> witness for the prosecution.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## The Boss, poetry
> by Divya Sharma
>
> The corporate world is no longer about pure work and deadlines,
> The working arenas are sketched with salty moods.
> In majority of the cases,
> Employees witness lack of cordiality on the part of bosses.
> How can a boss have so much vanity?
> He might own the business,
> But is it right that he always shows his superiority by distressing his
> employees?
> Though employees are dedicated,
> And show professionalism and effectiveness in their work,
> The boss has to boast about his title,
> And hence always tries to pin them down even if they ask for a leave months
> in advance.
> Satisfaction is a word,
> That perhaps isn’t in the dictionary of the boss.
> Aren’t most of the Bosses getting so ‘Bossy’?
>
> Bio: Divya Sharma is a 26-year-old visually challenged woman. She has 75
> percent vision impairment due to Glaucoma. Divya does all of her reading by
> listening to her Screen Readers. She is a Senior Content Writer in a Web
> Development and SEO Private Sector Company. She is a disability activist,
> blogger, contributor to magazines and newspapers, motivational speaker, and
> has a Blue Belt in Karate. Divya is also an RJ and Content Manager of an
> online Radio Station "Radio Udaan" run by visually challenged people and
> heard in more than 115 countries. She has love and passion for writing.
> Email Id: divya.bhvya at gmail.com
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Silence, poetry
> by Robert D. Sollars
>
> Silence
> Is all I hear.
> Distance
> Is all I see.
> I fear no matter what
> I do or say, it’ll be
> Wrong.
> Therefore, creating an
> Insurmountable distance
> And the inevitable sound of
> Silence.
>
> Bio: Robert has been blind since 2003. He has a passion for helping other
> writers get published. He founded an online group for blind writers called
> Writing in the Dark. A new person in his life encouraged him to begin
> writing poetry again. He has been writing since 1978: fiction, poetry, and
> nonfiction. Most of his writing has been focused on security & customer
> service. He lives in Tempe, AZ with his wife Eileen, best friend Angela,
> and a dutiful guardian kitty Major General Jasmine, Chief of CatFleet
> Security.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## The Twins, poetry
> by Molly Kate Toombs
>
> The Twins-
> Can be kitten playmates or
> Bears
> Who’d casually like a little blood
> On their paws
> Before breakfast has even started
>
> I’d try to tell which they’ll be
> But that requires me
> To crawl
> Inside their cave and take each
> One by their hair backs
> Tip the head so they do not
> Wake
> Wait
> Then open an eyelid and search
> For telltale spark of kitten’s
> Play
> Or the dark and grog
> That so often proceeds
> Hibernation.
>
> If I could do this then Mother
> And I
> Would plan the day accordingly
> With balls of yarn or
> Wild game for these creatures
> In whose blood
> I’ve a share
>
> Author's note:
> “The Twins” is part of my Family Series, which includes a different
> poem for every family member. The poem relates the experience of having two
> mischievous twin sisters that constantly bicker.
>
> Bio: Molly Kate Toombs is a young writer currently attending college in
> Whittier, California. She is deeply passionate about both writing and
> music, attending Brevard Music Center as a piano performance major in both
> 2013 and 2014, and Sewanee Young Writer’s Conference in 2015. She has
> attended Allstate Chorus twice, sung in the Mercer University Women’s
> Chorus, and received recognition from the Scholastic Art and Writing
> Awards. In 2015, Molly was chosen as a winner of the Kennedy Center's VSA
> Playwright Discovery Competition. As a Lyme Disease sufferer, Molly views
> her writing as an important outlet in her life.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Father, poetry
> by Molly Kate Toombs
>
> Father
> Your happiness is my
> Fear’s first priority
> And the smile on your
> Face is a bullet
> Dodged while a
> Straight lined lip
> I watch
> As a teeter-totter that
> Could tip
> In my being favored
> Or cast off
> Before reeled in again
> By the backs of my
> Heels
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Working in Public, fiction
> by Abbie Johnson Taylor
>
> I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The thin man with graying hair and
> huge glasses in the seat next to me on the airplane was squinting over his
> laptop. The screen was bright and had large text. He didn’t seem to be
> aware that I could see what was on the screen. For half an hour, I watched,
> fascinated, as he read his email and worked on documents.
>
> I learned his name was Roger Newton, that he was the President of the Chase
> Bank branch in Casper, Wyoming, where I lived. his wife, confined to a
> wheelchair, worked at a rehabilitation center for people with disabilities.
> The couple had no children or pets and were trying to sell their house so
> they could move to a condo. Then, I saw something that made my blood run
> cold.
>
> An instant message appeared from someone named Dirk G. "Hey, Roger, I'm all
> set for tonight around eleven o'clock. You sure your wife will be in bed by
> then?"
>
> "Oh, yeah," Roger answered. "She'll be in bed by ten. The key is underneath
> the mat outside the kitchen door. I disabled the alarm this morning before
> I left. She doesn't know this. Try not to make too much noise. I don't want
> the neighbors to hear anything, okay?"
>
> "No problem. My pistol has a silencer. You sure your wife won't hear me
> coming in the kitchen door?"
>
> "Naw, once Carla's out, she's out. A train could come through the house,
> and she wouldn't know it."
>
> "Okay, I'll sneak in the back door, through the kitchen and living room,
> and right into the bedroom. I'll have to use a flashlight so I can see what
> I'm doing, but if I can aim for her head, she won't know what hit her, and
> she won't feel any pain."
>
> "Good deal."
>
> "Okay, so, what about the money?"
>
> "Carla's jewelry case is on the bureau in front of the bed. She doesn't
> keep it locked. Inside are some really expensive necklaces and bracelets I
> bought her over the years. You can take and sell those, and that'll be your
> deposit. Once the life insurance claim settles, I should be able to write
> you a check for the rest."
>
> "Sounds great! Let me be sure I have the right address. That's 1531 Apple
> Tree Lane, right?"
>
> "Yes."
>
> I was a realtor in Casper. That address sounded vaguely familiar. I stood
> and made my way to a nearby lavatory, where I sat on the toilet and opened
> my phone. Sure enough, 1531 Apple Tree Lane was a house I'd shown the
> previous week. The woman interested in buying it needed a place that was
> handicap accessible because her husband had just suffered a paralyzing
> stroke. The house was listed with a different realty company, and she
> hadn't made an offer.
>
> Right then and there, I wanted to call my husband, Rick, a police
> detective, but I didn't want to make my seat mate suspicious if he even
> noticed my absence. So, I stood, flushed the toilet for good measure,
> washed my hands, and returned to my seat. I leaned my head back, closed my
> eyes, and tried unsuccessfully to sleep.
>
> The plane couldn't have landed in Denver, Colorado soon enough. After
> retrieving my baggage and rental car, all the while making sure Roger
> Newton wasn't anywhere near me, I locked the car doors, and, with trembling
> fingers, punched in Rick's cell number. It was only seven thirty, so he
> wouldn't be at the station yet. When he answered, my voice was shaking when
> I said, "Oh, honey, you're not gonna believe this."
>
> "Lucy, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
>
> "I'm fine."
>
> After I explained the situation, Rick gave a low whistle. "Jesus! Are you
> sure he didn't see you watching him?"
>
> "I'm pretty sure. He was hunched over that monitor the whole time,
> squinting. It's a wonder he doesn't have a headache."
>
> "He probably does. I sure hope he isn't driving. I think I told you that
> only last week, my buddy Tyler, who works at Magic City Computers, spoke to
> a group of Chase Bank employees about protecting themselves while working
> in coffee shops airplanes, etc."
>
> "I remember that."
>
> "Well, he said Roger Newton, the President, wasn't there. Go figure. Well,
> when I get the cuffs on him, I'll tell him if he'd come to Tyler's
> presentation, he wouldn't be in this mess."
>
> I laughed, in spite of myself. "Seriously, I don't know if there's anything
> he could have done. He looked like he was really having trouble seeing."
>
> "And he's plotting to murder his wife so he can cash in on her life
> insurance policy. Don't that beat all? Well, I'll get on this right away.
> You stay safe. Call me when you get to the hotel, okay?"
>
> “I will."
>
> I started the car and looked at my watch. The real estate convention I
> planned to attend wasn't scheduled to start until nine. The Holiday Inn,
> where I would stay and where the convention would be held, was only about a
> fifteen-minute drive away. I figured I'd have plenty of time to get settled
> and grab a bite to eat before the first session started.
>
> When I walked into the hotel lobby, I stopped short. Roger Newton stood at
> the registration counter, rubbing his temple as he spoke to the clerk. My
> heart pounded. His back was to me, so I didn't think he saw me, but I
> wasn't about to take any chances. I turned and marched out the way I'd
> come. With trembling hands, I unlocked my car, got in, and locked all
> doors. I drove away from the loading zone and found a secluded spot at the
> back end of the building, constantly checking my rear view mirror to be
> sure he wasn't running after me.
>
> After I parked, I called Rick again. When he answered, he said, "Babe, I
> was just about to call you. I just got off the phone with Chase Bank. Mr.
> Newton is in Denver at a bankers' conference at the Holiday Inn where
> you're staying."
>
> "I know. I just saw him in the lobby. I'm back in my car now, and I don't
> think he saw me.”
>
> "Good, look, I think you'd better skip this realtors' convention and come
> home as soon as possible. This guy may not see very well but still…"
>
> Normally, I rebelled against Rick's protectiveness, but this time, he was
> right. What if Roger Newton did see me and was involved with some sort of
> mob? It wasn't worth the information and insight I would gain at the
> convention. "Okay, I'll see if I can get a flight out today."
>
> My heart sank when I discovered that there were no seats on any of the
> flights returning to Casper from Denver International Airport that day. I
> booked a seat on a flight that left early the next morning.
>
> When I called Rick with this information, he said, "That'll have to do. Now
> find another hotel, preferably with room service. You shouldn't be going
> out once you get settled."
>
> "You're right. I'll see what I can do."
>
> The Marriott wasn't too far, and they had a cancelation. It was more
> expensive than I would have liked, but it had room service, free wireless
> Internet, and other amenities I could use while hiding out.
>
> Once I was settled, I called Rick to tell him where I was. "Great!" he
> said. "I'M heading out now to Mountain View, where Carla Newton works. Try
> to get some rest. I'll be in touch."
>
> Despite my anxiety, I slept for a couple of hours, then spent the rest of
> the day working, watching television, and ordering delicious meals from
> room service. Every time someone knocked on the door, I looked through the
> peep hole and didn't open the door until I was sure it wasn't Roger Newton
> or a possible henchman.
>
> Rick called every so often with updates. Carla Newton would spend the night
> at the rehab facility where she worked, since she needed specialized
> equipment to help with her personal care. Rick and another officer would
> steak out the property so they could arrest Dirk G. when he arrived. There
> wasn’t evidence of Roger Newton's involvement in any criminal activity
> other than the plot to murder his wife.
>
> I was still anxious when I turned in that night, but the bed was so
> comfortable, and I was tired. The door to my room was locked and chained,
> so there was no way anyone could come in without me knowing it.
>
> When I woke the next morning, I found a text from Rick. "We nabbed him.
> Call me when you get to the airport. I'll be up."
>
> I did just that while waiting for my flight in the terminal. "How did it
> go?" I asked.
>
> "Great! This Dirk G. character was a real amateur. Right away, he told me
> who hired him and where he was. The Denver police have Roger Newton now."
>
> "That's a relief."
>
> "Okay, I'll meet you at the airport when you get into Casper."
>
> "You don't have to do that. My car is there."
>
> "Then I'll follow you home. Will see you then." For once, I didn't argue.
>
> When my plane landed in Casper, I found Rick in the baggage claim area
> talking to a woman in a wheelchair. Could it be Carla Newton, I wondered.
> If so, what was she doing here?
>
> Rick saw me, and we rushed into each other's arms. After a quick embrace,
> he turned to the woman in the wheelchair and said, "Mrs. Newton wanted to
> come and thank you personally for being such a nosey seat mate to her
> husband."
>
> I smiled, bent, and extended my hand to her. "I'm glad I could help, but
> I'm so sorry about all this."
>
> She took my hand and smiled in return, then shrugged. "I should have known
> something was up. I recently discovered him having an affair with a woman
> with two good legs. When I confronted him, he told me she meant nothing to
> him and the relationship was over. He then insisted I buy this life
> insurance policy and was so happy when I agreed. I thought a move to a new
> place would give us a fresh start, but I guess I was wrong. It's a good
> thing we hadn't yet signed the lease on the place we found."
>
> "Did you have an offer on your house?" I asked.
>
> "Nope," she answered. "and I called the realtor yesterday and told him to
> take it off the market. I've got enough to deal with right now, and the
> last thing I need to worry about is moving. However, your husband tells me
> you're a darn good realtor, so if I ever decide to sell, I'll call you."
>
> "Thank you," I said. I retrieved a business card from my purse and handed
> it to her. "If there's anything else I can do, please let me know, and
> again, I'm so sorry."
>
> "Hey, I'm alive, thanks to you, so don't be sorry. By the way, Roger called
> me this morning from the Denver police station. He said somebody set him
> up. I told him that if he'd only taken my advice and learned braille, he
> could have gotten one of those braille tablets, and nobody would have been
> the wiser."
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Fragile, poetry
> by Shawn Jacobson
>
> As the little stream rushes
> tumbling over rocks along its way,
> and Stark trees stand in winter bareness,
> I think of finances, lost money,
> and interrupted paychecks.
> I would contemplate nature’s peace,
> but now I dwell, frustrated, on being fragile.
>
> I check the latest job fair,
> the jobs that require sight,
> credentials I do not have,
> logistics for getting to new places.
> The humble arts of unemployment,
> lead me to despair of my worth,
> to contemplate how I’ve become fragile.
>
> At noon I rest with all the laundry done,
> the empty afternoon before me,
> the time I fill with walks, with dogs,
> with snacks, attempted rest, with reading.
> I worry, wonder, worry, and worry more,
> now that I am fragile.
>
> I sit alone my family asleep
> and ponder the purpose that I had,
> the satisfaction of a job well done
> when I had a reason to awaken.
> My life was rock, a fortress strong
> until it crumbled leaving me fragile.
>
> How then shall I pray tonight?
> Shall I pray for a wall? For border safety?
> Some pray for national greatness,
> a return to glory, respect for our leaders.
> I pray for my life before this shutdown,
> to not be fragile.
>
> --------------------
>
> # Part VIII. The Melting Pot
>
> ## Precious Hero, poetry
> by Valerie Moreno
>
> You touched my life like gentle snow,
> falling in soft, cool flakes like kisses.
> Sweeter than bright summer morning,
> my heart opened to your wit and smile.
>
> A delicate, exquisite soul,
> your music was pure, clean as time in moment.
> Your laughter, wisdom and warm heart
> made you kind, honest and empathic.
>
> I took in your love and strength
> like sparkling water after too long lost in the desert.
>
> You gave light, humor and mastership
> with music, words and actions
> that helped and healed.
>
> How to thank you and goodbye…
> precious hero, I will see you in my heart and dreams.
>
> In memory of Peter Tork, RIP 1942-2019
>
> Author's note:
> Peter Halsten Thorkelson (Peter Tork) was a folk musician in Greenwich
> Village and Los Angeles before landing the part of lovable, bubblehead on
> The Monkees sitcom in 1965
>
> His sweet smile, gentle character and mop of golden hair encouraged a fan
> following that exists still. His musical talent included Base, Keyboards,
> French Horn and five-string Banjo.
>
> In the mid-80s, when The Monkees returned after 20 years, Peter shared
> openly about his ongoing recovery from drug and alcohol addiction and
> encouraged folks to seek help for themselves. His candid talks about what
> alcoholism is and the cycle of addiction helped me forgive my father after
> his bout with alcohol and his death.
>
> In 1987, a true stroke of blessing, I met Peter after a concert. His
> genuine caring, humor and perception read through the stammering words and
> glistening eyes. He slowly pulled me in to a hug, his head on my shoulder
> as we both cried.
>
> Peter spent the '90s and 2000s recording and touring with his folk-blues
> band, Shoe Suede Blues. After a ten-year battle with cancer, Peter died
> peacefully in February, 2019.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Down By The Station, fiction
> by Kate Chamberlin
>
> “All Aboard!” I announced as the morning dawned, walking across the
> broad, originally rough-hewn planks, now grey and worn smooth by a myriad
> of travelers. When I reached the red caboose, I held the side grab-bar with
> my right hand and raised the lit lantern in my left hand, a signal to the
> engineer that all was copacetic to go.
>
> The old-fashioned little steam engine, named the Miss Udall, wasn’t sleek
> as an eel like her modern diesel cousins, but, her dependability couldn’t
> be denied. For many decades, she hauled interesting people, fresh produce,
> hooved and clawed critters, and goods around the 7,350 square mile lake.
>
> The black coal car was the first of five behind Miss Udall. The anthracite
> coal fueled the boiler to make the steam that ran her powerful engines.
> When the engineer saw my lantern raise, he pushed the throttle forward and
> Miss Udall’s joints whooshed streams of steam, as the steel wheels
> squealed and slipped until they grabbed a purchase on the steel rails to
> head East.
>
> The car in front of my caboose accommodated the passengers who’d boarded
> at the station. As a repurposed caboose, it had many amenities for the few
> passengers traveling to and from the stations Miss Udall serviced.
>
> Miles and miles of verdant green forests slipped by as Miss Udall chugged
> up hill and down. The logging camp located near the first cut forest was
> ready for us. While two loggers de-boarded, others ran the machinery to
> load logs onto the dark brown logging car with its verticals to hold the
> huge logs on the bed. Miss Udall would transport these to the lumbermill to
> supply pine, oak, and ash for the city folks' fine tables, chairs, and
> etageres.
>
> “All aboard!” I called and raised my lantern.
>
> At a co-op dairy on the northside of the lake, we left empty milk cans and
> loaded on full cans. The big silver cans clunked against each other as they
> slid along the slick floor of the white, insulated milk car. Fresh workers
> de-boarded to start their shifts, as tired workers in rumpled white work
> coveralls boarded, ending their shifts.
>
> “All aboard!” I announced again, lifting my lantern.
>
> Miss Udall’s powerful engines puffed and chuffed. The engineer tooted her
> air horn for joy as she hauled her five cars passed small farms dotting the
> lush meadows with a plethora of placid cows and wooly sheep. She went up
> the gently rolling hills with scores of tiny wildflowers on each side of
> the tracks, through the tunnel that amplified her tooting horn, and over
> the trestle bridge.
>
> She delivered the logs to the lumber mill; the milk to the milk
> distribution plant; and rolled to a stop at the train’s depot as the
> western sky blazed with hues of the setting sun one could only imagine. A
> day’s work well done for Miss Udall and this conductor.
>
> As my grandchildren cheered, I stood tall and proud as a statue on a plinth
> in the center of my HO Train’s little community.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Yellow Eyes, poetry
> by Sly Duck
>
> I see the human,
> with Her bag of food.
> I come running.
> I eat from her hand.
>
> I look up,
> I see the wolf's yellow eyes.
> They frighten me.
>
> Another handful of food comes down.
> I eat hungrily.
> I see the yellow eyes,
> They frighten me.
>
> My hunger abated,
> Though there is more food,
> I do not stay,
> The yellow eyes,
> They frighten me.
>
> I don't see the wolf today.
> She has made it go away.
> I am glad.
> The yellow eyes,
> they frightened me.
>
> Bio: As a person with Retinitis Pigmentosa, Cleora Boyd first pursued a
> career in Accounting. After receiving a B.S. degree in Math from Texas Tech
> University in Lubbock, Texas, she went on to obtain employment with a major
> pharmaceutical corporation in Fort Worth, Texas, where she still lives. Now
> retired, she joined a writing group, enjoys reading, taking adult education
> courses, watching TV with her cockatiel Dusty, and writing about whatever
> may be on her mind. Her creations have found a home in *Magnets & Ladders*
> and *Consumer vision*. Cleora also writes under the names Sly Duck and C.
> S. Boyd.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Embracing Truth, poetry
> by Laura Minning
>
> I embrace the light within,
> and allow it to consume me.
>
> Darkness retreats in fear,
> and I use my inner strength
> to keep it away.
>
> My life is my gift,
> and my love for it
> gives me joy.
>
> Thus, the purity of serenity
> can’t be far behind.
>
> "Embracing Truth" was previously published in *sunburst*, published by
> xlibris. may 2005
>
> Bio: Laura Minning is an award winning published poet and author. She’s
> had one hundred and nine
> poems, six articles, two books and a one-act play published in hard copy
> and online. Her work has been featured in publications like: *Literature
> Today*, *Amulet Magazine* and *Slate & Style*. Laura’s artistic
> accomplishments are equally impressive. She’s had eighty-five original
> pieces exhibited and eleven published. In February 2016, an exhibit at
> Barcode featured thirty-six pieces of Laura’s artwork. She donates
> proceeds from her sales to the National Federation of the Blind and the VCU
> Massey Cancer Center. Additional information about Her work can be found
> at:
> http://bluerosecreations.wix.com/bluerose.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## The Rose, poetry
> by Robert D. Sollars
>
> The rose shoots skyward
> Undaunted by the barren land
> searching for true love
> Until surrounded by weeds That feed on its beauty
> They strangle it
> Being selfish for their own ends
> One caresses the rose only out of love
> But is rejected for the strangling weeds
> It falls away to wither and die
> The rose realizes it’s gone
> It sheds two petals knowing
> That true love is lost
> Its chance to find it
> Gone forever
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Fairies, poetry
> by Carol Farnsworth
>
> Silent flight brushes my hand.
> Gossamer wings tickle my upturned palm.
> Tiny feet search for sweet juice still on my fingers.
> Then the fairy lifts in flight.
> Butterflies like fairies, have no time to waste.
>
> --------------------
>
> ## Break of Day, poetry
> by Ria Mead
>
> Awake, I rise to meet you. The rain is up too.
>
> We meet her, coming down upon us;
> wets new green shoots under feet-
> four for Buckwheat, two for me.
>
> Air is saturated with spring's cool,
> a refreshing slap to winter-bleak skin.
> Awake, this April dawning, we rise and meet
> under the brightening line of mist.
> Though this light can't meet my eyes, I see so much.
>
> Feeling a simple baptism this quiet hour.
> Another morning given,
> another chance to breathe in the marigolds,
> to walk over young grass.
>
> I listen to my Labrador as she circles my still figure;
> mindful what her quivering nose
> may report of earths' fresh scents.
> We do not steal from each other's moment.
>
> We are separate creatures, considering
> which of your powerful elements
> we might compliment.
> Plainly, we are in awe to rise and meet you again,
>
> this break of day.
>
>
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