[stylist] Magnets and ladders Spring-Summer 2012 --- text version

[Robert Leslie Newman]

(This version may have lost some of the formatting in its conversion to
text.)

(There are several Division members who have work in this Mag; can you
recognize them? [[Answer at the end of the doc.])

 

MAGNETS AND LADDERS

Active Voices of Writers with Disabilities

Spring/Summer 2012

 

Editorial and Technical Staff

Coordinating Editor: Marilyn Brandt Smith

Fiction: Lisa Busch, Kate Chamberlin, Valerie Moreno, Marilyn Brandt Smith,

and Abbie Johnson Taylor

Nonfiction: Kate Chamberlin, Valerie Moreno, Nancy Scott, John W. Smith,

and Marilyn Brandt Smith

Poetry: Lisa Busch, Valerie Moreno, Nancy Scott, and Abbie Johnson Taylor

Technical Assistants: Jayson Smith and John Weidlich

Internet Specialist: Julie Posey

 

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Submission Guidelines

 

Disabled writers 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.

 

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. Announcements of writing contests

with deadlines beyond October 1 and April 1 respectively are welcome.

Content will include many genres, with limited attention to the disability

theme.

 

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. Submissions will be acknowledged within two weeks. You will be

notified if your piece is selected for publication.

 

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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.com and from other booksellers. It is

available in recorded and Braille format from the National Library Service

for the Blind and Physically Handicapped. 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. We are preparing for a second anthology and would like to have

you come aboard. For the conference phone number and PIN, join our mailing

list by contacting Abbie Johnson Taylor at abbie at samobile.net.

 

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Table of Contents

 

Editors' Welcome

 

I. TREACHEROUS ASSUMPTIONS

 

Terms and Conditions, Manny Colver, fiction

Audioscape, Nancy Lynn, flash fiction

Chandler's Curse, John Wesley Smith, fiction

I Want to Change "Women"  to "Ladies," Barbara Mattson, nonfiction

Not the Same old Saturday, Roger Smith, fiction

Three Weeks to Live, Ernest A. Jones, nonfiction

 

II. WAITING TIME: FROM THE POETS' LOG

 

While Walking Home, Abbie Johnson Taylor

Awaiting The Return of the Better Half, Abbie Johnson Taylor

Blind? Deaf? Leonard Tuchyner

In Dreams, Nancy Lynn

It (DOB 03/16/1974) Christine Faltz Grassman

The gift, Wendy Phillips

For My Mother at Eighty, Lynda J. Lambert

Reading Blind, Cheryl Wade

Oh, Andrea Pulcini

Clothe Me, Myrna D. Badgerow

Wedding Vows, Jimmy Burns

Tributary, James Ruane

Cataract Surgery, Leonard Tuchyner

 

III. THE WRITERS' CLIMB

 

Noun Soup and Contrast Consumé

Exercise One: Noun Soup

A Gouda Day for Jolene, Abbie Johnson Taylor, poetry

Exercise Two

Finding John, Margo LaGattuta, poetry

"You Finish It" Contest

Another Chance, Valerie Moreno, fiction

Kate Chamberlin's ending

Doris Hampton's ending

Why Not Write a Six Word Story? Mary-Jo Lord, essay

Contest Alert

Amidst Drought, Jimmy Burns, poetry

Haibun

ONE POT OF BASIL, Nancy Scott, haibun

Why Writers Should Tell Round-Robin Stories, Rebecca L. Hein and Marilyn

Brandt Smith, essay

Group Poetry

Safe Harbors, four authors, group poetry

Blind man Walking, seven authors, group poetry

Hey! there's a kitty in here! Donna Grahmann

Resources, Marilyn Brandt Smith and Virginia Small

 

IV. PERSPECTIVE

 

The Little Window, Tara Arlene Innmon, memoir

A Vegetative State? Nicole Bissett, fiction

        Wrinkles, Kate Chamberlin, nonfiction

One Case from the Files, Elizabeth Fiorite, creative nonfiction

She Was His Angel, Bonnie Blose, nonfiction

Exasperating, Janet Schmidt, memoir

Independence Day, Virginia L. Small, fiction

 

V. THE WARMING SEASONS

 

To Ireland, Christine Faltz Grassman, poetry

    The Easter Egg Hunt, Betty Ward, nonfiction

I GOT YOUR STRAWBERRIES, Nancy Scott, poetry

One May Morning, Lauren R. Casey, poetry

    Get Up, Deon Lions, poetry

Nobody Ever Asks Me about my Mother, Bonnie Blose, memoir

Things I Made Fun of My Mother For, Nicole Bissett, memoir

A Tribute to the Greatest Racer who Ever Lived, Lillian Way, poetry

Our Father, Michael Price, fiction

Cape Cod, Ria Meade, poetry

The Kraken at Sunset, Shawn Jacobson, poetry

Remembering grandma, Nicole Bissett, memoir

Orange Moon, Orange Cat, John Wesley Smith, poetry

Swinburne Island, Kathleen Winfield, poetry

An Epitaph, 1897 - 1911, Kathleen Winfield, poetry

The Spot, Michael Price, fiction

"This Ball is Outta Here!" Lillian Way, fiction

A Labor Day Lament, Manny Colver, poetry

 

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Editors' Welcome

 

Magnets and Ladders is now available in narrated form on a read and return

basis from the Perkins library. It is a part of their shared subscription

magazine listings, and you will need to be registered with Perkins to be on

their list. There will be some lag time for recording the current issue.

The Fall/Winter issue is now in circulation. For more information about

magazine services, call: 617-972-7240, 1-800-852-3133 or email

Library at Perkins.org.

 

We're happy to present work from twenty-four authors new to the Magnets and

Ladders roster along with material from sixteen regular contributors.

Poetry is our most popular submission category. Unfortunately we are only

able to accept half the poems we receive.

 

In future issues we plan to feature "first chapters" from published authors

with disabilities. If you have a book available for purchase or for

reading, please consider sending us a "first chapter" to be featured,

2500-word maximum. In the case of poetry chapbooks not divided into

chapters, choose five poems you would like to use to represent your book.

All genre are welcome.

 

We're also planning examples and writers' tips on fables and screen plays

in upcoming issues. If you have worked in either category and have material

or information that would assist writers in learning or expanding their

craft, please submit to us at submissions at magnetsandladders.org.

Informational references need not count toward your three submission per

issue limit unless they are presented as a complete article under your

byline. We will combine information from many sources where possible to

explore these forms.

 

This issue contains stimulating seasonal pieces reaching back to St.

Patrick's Day longings and forward to Labor day concerns. Our poetry

section addresses time as a key factor--awaiting a response; reviewing time

spent watching for change; or life placed on hold with time, the definer of

impatience. Family perspective gives us a little window into familiar

forecasts and reluctant recountings of life in the reality lane.

 

The first section beckons! Read with us now through some thrilling days

of...Well...Space? Telephone mystery? Computer carelessness? And a medical

nightmare. Oh yeah, you get to laugh a little along the way too.

 

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I. TREACHEROUS ASSUMPTIONS

 

Terms and Conditions, fiction

by Manny Colver

 

The clunk of a closing vehicle door drew Jack Troutman's attention to a

shadow quickly crossing his lawn. "Ah, Mr. Troutman!" came a commanding

call through the door, half opened without a look through the peephole. The

effusive greeting continued like the spray from a water cannon, dripping

with everything but the customary identifying information he had every

right to expect from the dapper fellow at his doorstep.

 

"Well, yes, but who..."

 

"Laurence Brickell," said the man, his hand shooting out so suddenly

Troutman drew back in a flinch, which was all the opening Brickell needed

to scurry into the foyer. "Ah, yes. Recognized you right away from your

picture."

 

"Picture?"

 

"Why, Facebook, of course. And my! My! My!" he added, glancing around with

nods of approval. "What a lovely home you've got here too, Mr. Troutman.

Simply lovely. The combination of hardwood and tile here in the foyer is

quite striking." He pointed down the hall. "May I?"

 

"Well, actually, no. You see, I'm in a bit of a rush this morning with

the..."

 

But Brickell was already off down the hallway in a fidgety trot full of the

short rapid steps one might expect from someone urgently needing a

bathroom.

 

"No, but wait. Just a minute, Mr..."

 

"Brickell." came disembodied from somewhere in the great room as Troutman

hurried along in bewildered pursuit, reaching the great room only to find

that Brickell had already moved on.

 

"Lovely home," came echoing from somewhere on the other side of the house.

"I doubt It will last a day on the market."

 

Troutman stopped as though he'd just hit a wall. "Market? What market? What

on earth are you..."

 

Suddenly Brickell was there again, standing in the doorway across the

sprawling great room some distance from where Troutman had stopped. "It's

all right here, Mr. Troutman," he said as he hefted the bulging leather

valise he'd been holding clamped under an arm. He shook it as though

expecting a rattle. "It's all right here," he said cheerfully. "Perhaps

you'd like to fetch your copy so we can sit down together and..."

 

"My copy of what?"

 

"Why the terms and conditions, of course."

 

"Look, Mr..."

 

"Brickell."

 

"Yes, Brickell. I don't know where you're from or what you're talking about

and I don't recall inviting you in."

 

"Ah, but actually you did, Mr. Troutman." He withdrew from the bulging

valise a ragged stack of papers, which he flapped in the air. "Roman one,

section A, subsection four, little a, paragraph three. '...upon demand

shall provide entry and unrestricted access to all and every...'"

 

"Now just a damned minute here. Who the hell are you?"

 

"Brickell," he chirped and like a bird took off for the stairs, while

Troutman tacked through obstacles, which only moments before he'd thought

of simply as furniture. "Damn," he muttered as he slammed a shin against

the corner of an end table. Slowed now by a limp, he reached the bottom of

the staircase long after Laurence Brickell disappeared from its top. And

there at the bottom of the staircase, fists clenched and fuming, Jack

Troutman dropped anchor and waited.

 

"Lovely, lovely home," came floating down the stairs time and again from

various rooms on the second floor mixed now and then with all manner of

accompanying sounds: doors opening and closing, windows raised and lowered,

louvered doors clattering open then closed and everywhere in between,

Brickell on the hardwoods. Then came a puzzling silence. It lingered.

 

"Mr. Brickell?" Troutman called up the staircase. "Are you all right?"

 

"Oh, yes. Just fine. Be right with you." A faint trickling sound crept

steadily through the silence to meet its Waterloo somewhere upstairs in the

flush of a toilet. Finally, Brickell appeared at the top of the staircase

where he paused to fill his lungs with air. "Well. Everything is just

perfect. And it certainly was wise of you to include the furniture. Every

detail is so nicely coordinated."

 

Troutman sighed. "Look, Mr. Brickell. You have the wrong address. Someone

down the street perhaps? Maybe the street numbers got transposed somehow.

Whatever the reason, I assure you, you've got the wrong address. I don't

want to sell my house."

 

Brickell frowned. "You didn't print a copy, did you?"

 

Another sigh escaped, and "You've got the wrong address" came again, this

time drawn out in tones gone weary with exasperation.

 

"But. That's not a problem, Mr. Troutman. I left a copy up here on your

nightstand for you to review." He took another deep breath, which seemed to

recharge him, and soon he had descended the stairs, hurried along the

hallway through the foyer and was standing once more at the front door

where he turned, lingering, to extend a hand that hung until withdrawn

unshaken. "You've got the Brickell Team behind you now, Mr. Troutman. We'll

get the sign up first thing tomorrow morning." And with that he was gone.

 

Jack rose early the next morning, showered, dressed, breakfasted while

watching the business channel and soon was hurdling down the long sloping

driveway of 13113 Pinnacle Drive in his BMW, past the stately oaks, out

through the hedge, past the mailbox and - "Oh, crap" - a big sign stuck in

the ground nearby that read: "FOR SALE by the Brickell Team."

 

"Realtors," he grumbled as he sped toward town and the downtown law offices

of Havenseen, Hyde and Hayer where, after taking a seat in Morton Hayer's

plush office, he watched and waited as Morton skimmed grunting through the

ragged stack of papers Brickell had left.

 

"Well," Morton sighed as he sat back in his chair. "I'm going to need more

time with this, Jack, but I've got the general idea here."

 

"Is it good?"

 

Morton shrugged. Then after raising an eyebrow he frowned. "Seems you

downloaded some sort of program from this website, this..." He leaned

forward again turning pages. "Yes, here it is, this uh...Su Casa Mi Casa

dot com?"

 

"Well, yes, uh...couple of days ago I downloaded a program there."

 

"And there were terms and conditions related to the purchase and download?"

 

"Well, yes, there was a page where you...well, you know. Like almost

everything out there on the Internet where you've got this program to

download and you agree to the uh...license agreement or whatever. And this

was no different. Little window popping up there with the...well, whatever

there was there. I didn't read any of it, of course. I mean, who does?"

 

"But you did agree then?"

 

"Yes," Jack muttered sheepishly. "I clicked 'I agree.'"

 

Morton leaned back in his chair again. "Believe me, Jack, I don't enjoy

telling you this, but you agreed to sell your home with this uh...Brickell

team at a price equal to the current county appraisal."

 

Jack erupted. "I what!"

 

"I'm afraid so."

 

"County appraisal? Good grief, Morton. County appraisals are half the

market value out there."

 

"They'll probably turn right around and flip it," Morton speculated.

 

"This can't be legal," said Jack and, far less forcefully, added, "Can it?"

 

Morton shrugged. "We're dealing with the Internet here, Jack. Brave New

World meets Wild Wild West in 1984 if you get my drift there. Take a look

at what it did to copyright law over the last decade or so and you have to

wonder. Creative destruction's in the eye of the beholder, Jack. Bricks and

mortar crumbling under the weight of online sales. Music industry still

staggering from the blows while Hollywood starts to sweat. Then you've got

the whole issue of privacy - or what's left of it - thrown in there too.

They've got a lot of clout, Jack, these Internet giants, political and

otherwise. Not to mention the money. They know damned well they've got the

world at their doorstep, lured in and hooked. The best and the worst of it,

right there all tangled together." He shrugged again. "You tell me where

things are headed."

 

Then, taking note of Jack's distress, he brightened, rose from his chair

and circled the desk with a hand extended. "Don't you worry, Jack, give me

a day or so with these papers and we'll get these bastards on the run. This

is a skirmish we will win."

 

Jack headed home after the meeting only to be slowed, then stopped by

several vehicles piled up at a spot on the interstate where a text message

of dubious importance had taken flight, taking with it any hope that the

sender had remained attentive to his driving. Although the text message,

"the frys (sic) were awesome," safely reached its destination, that brief

culinary review proved to be not only the sender's last words but also a

good indication of his last meal on earth.

 

As Jack sat there in traffic, stuck now, several hundred yards from the

smoldering remains of two cars, an SUV and a jackknifed sixteen wheeler,

his phone burst into song: "If you want my body and you think I'm..."

 

"Hello, this is Jack."

 

A cheerful "Hi!" came filtering through in a pleasant female voice that

paused just long enough for a different voice to interject in lifeless

tones "Jack Troutman" before returning with "this is Mary from the

Whispering Oaks. I see here on the Internet where you just sold your house.

Wow! How exciting! And hey, if you're considering renting now, we've got

some really awesome deals out here at Whispering Oaks. Ultra luxury units

with marble foyers, granite countertops and..."

 

"Good grief," Jack mumbled. He tossed the phone onto the seat beside him,

sending Mary, who seemed to know everything but knew nothing at all, into

the teeming jungle of endless chatter to be, if ever heard at all, soon

forgotten like most of the rest. Eight more such calls set Jack's phone to

singing until finally he came within sight of home.

 

Home: where the driveway sloped down to the road past the stately oaks, the

hedge stood neatly trimmed and a sign slapped askew upon the FOR SALE sign

read: SOLD.

 

"Sold," Jack said aloud. Yes, he thought, we certainly were.

 

Bio: Manny Colver was born with a rare eye condition that left him with 10%

of normal vision, an extreme sensitivity to light and a view of the world

devoid of color. He holds an undergraduate degree in communications and a

masters degree in business finance. He is author of an unproduced

screenplay, an unpublished novel and a darkly comic novella, also

unpublished. He lives with his wife in Florida where he writes and bowls as

much as possible. 

 

--------------------

 

Audioscape, flash fiction

by Nancy Lynn

 

What She Heard:

 

On the phone: "I’m on my way. I’ll be there in about..." Crash. Scream.

Brakes & tires squeal.

 

On the radio: "There was an accident at 4th & Cumberland. Two cars, no

survivors. Cell phones were found at the scene."

 

In her head: (scolding voice) "It’s your fault. You made the call."

 

>From her purse: "We're here, pretty little escape artists in a bottle. We

can make your guilt go away forever."

 

At the door: Three knocks.

 

Her own voice: "Who is it?"

 

>From other side of door: "It’s me. I’m here."

 

Bio: Nancy Lynn was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on Halloween of 1952

and grew up in both Pennsylvania and New Jersey. She attended Lycoming

College in Williamsport, Pennsylvania where She graduated with a

bachelor’s degree in sociology. She did a little telemarketing over the

years, but her main job was as a communications assistant for AT&T in the

relay center for the hearing impaired. Her interests include reading,

travel, and anything that involves creative self-expression. She has lived

in St. Louis, Missouri for the past 10 years. She is an active member and

former officer in the Toastmasters organization.

 

--------------------

 

Chandler's Curse, fiction

by John Wesley Smith

 

Fifteen minutes ago I discovered the mutilated body of Dr. James Vance

sprawled out in our tropical flower garden. I believe he'd been stabbed

multiple times with the butcher knife reported missing by the cook this

morning. Such a primitive, but deadly weapon in this age of starships.

 

Every member of my staff is now dead. Dr. Vance was my wife's personal

psychiatrist. He's also the last to be murdered within the past six hours.

Only my wife and i remain, and my efforts to locate her have been futile. A

monster is on the loose--one against which I am defenseless.

 

Communications at our estate have been sabotaged. The planetary police have

been alerted, thanks to our backup security alarm system, but they won't

arrive for hours. By then it will be too late.

 

My time is short, so I'm making this recording to help the authorities

understand what has happened here today. Please, whoever finds this, pass

this on to my son Donald who's serving as ambassador on Selstess Four. He

must be warned.

 

When the police see the numerous plaques and awards on the wall behind me

in my study, they'll discover who I really am. Soon everyone will know the

real fate of the once great Captain Peter Thomas Chandler.

 

Five years ago I retired early from the Interplanetary Space Fleet and

assumed a false identity. The cover story was that my wife and I were

killed in a shuttle craft accident on our way to a farewell celebration.

Instead, we came to this isolated spot on Cumron Three, my wife's home

planet. We believed a simpler life would provide the healing we both

needed.

 

But I can no longer hide from the shameful, sinister truth.

 

My tale begins thirty-five years ago and is one of heroism and youthful

indiscretion. I didn’t look before I leaped. But even now I don't see how

I could have.

 

I was a young lieutenant serving as Communications Officer under Captain

William Flint on the first class freighter, the Melissa Ediger. We were

about to pick up a load of farm produce from Cumron Three for delivery to

the neighboring system as part of a famine relief effort when fleet HQ

informed us we'd also be picking up Ambassador Clinton Maxwell.

 

The matter was urgent, and ours was the closest ship in that sector. Fleet

HQ informed the captain of reports alleging that Maxwell had been behaving

irrationally and was no longer fit for service.

 

Our crew was rounded up for the usual pre-mission meeting in cargo bay two.

The ambassador had just come aboard. As we stood at attention in a line

along one wall in our dull gray work uniforms, Captain Flint bounded in.

 

"At ease men." He extended a hand to the towering, silver haired man

wearing the decorated uniform of an ISF diplomat. "Ambassador Maxwell I

presume. Welcome to the Melissa Ediger. I’m Captain William Flint.

Forgive my tardiness, sir. Last minute instructions concerning our mission

required my attention."

 

"We meet at last, Captain. I'm delighted." The ambassador’s broad smile

gleamed. Gesturing to the young woman at his side, he continued. "Allow me

to present my daughter Lucinda, the flower of my life. She’s a credit to

her sex and a constant reminder to me of her dear departed mother." His

gaze bore down on Captain Flint. "My Lucinda deserves only the best,

Captain, and she will have it."

 

Lucinda reached out a slender white hand and spoke softly, as if to diffuse

her father’s sternness. "Pleased to meet you, Captain Flint."

 

"Charmed, I’m sure." The captain smiled.

 

More than charmed, I was stunned. Captivated, in fact. Before me stood a

goddess. The dull tans and browns of the cargo bay fell away before me and

all I could see was Lucinda.

 

She looked so simple and wholesome in the plain blue dress common to the

women on Cumron Three. There was nothing fancy about her brown, shoulder

length hair. But what was it about those mystical blue eyes? They were

glowing sapphires which rendered me helpless.

 

But it dawned on me that something was wrong. What was this girl doing

there? Had she been assigned an official capacity we hadn't been told

about?

 

"Captain Flint," boomed Ambassador Maxwell. "We’re here to participate in

a wedding. My daughter Lucinda is getting married this very day on your

ship."

 

The crew and I exchanged glances. Who could the groom be? Only Maxwell and

his daughter had come aboard.

 

Lucinda shrank back against the wall, looking pale and small.

 

"My crew has been keeping secrets," said the captain. "Who’s the lucky

man?"

 

"Why, you are, Captain," said Maxwell as he extended his beefy right hand.

 

The captain chuckled. "Ambassador Maxwell, there's been a mistake. I have a

wife and children back on Earth."

 

"You don’t recognize me, do you, Captain?" He leered at the captain and

spoke slowly. "I am God. I make the rules, and I say you’re marrying

Lucinda within the hour."

 

I stiffened with fear. What was this guy trying to pull? I glanced at

Lucinda. She cowered with pale hands clasped over her heart.

 

Captain Flint wore his poker face, learned from years of trading

negotiations. "Ambassador Maxwell, with all due respect, this is my ship,

and ISF protocol says you’ll follow my rules while aboard." Advancing

toward the ambassador, he declared, "I've just received orders to transport

you to the hospital ship Clara Barton before we’ve completed our relief

mission."

 

Maxwell drew himself up to his full height, clinching his fists at his

sides. "No! The ISF be damned!" He brought up his right hand to reveal a

small, black rectangular object. "Do you see this detonator, Captain? It

was lovingly given to me by one of my loyal subjects as a reward for

helping his tribe win their ten year civil war."

 

Did I catch a flash of anger on the captain’s face?

 

My stomach turned to ice and I fought the urge to collapse. One of my

fellow crewmen whimpered.

 

Maxwell gently caressed the detinator in his palm. "Your security officer

foolishly believed me when I told him this was a recording device for

diplomatic missions. I’m wired with enough explosives to destroy your

pitiful vessel, Captain. Refuse to marry Lucinda, and I’ll do just that."

 

I shuddered. The man to my left stifled a nervous cough. Lucinda buried her

face in her hands and silently wept.

 

Somehow Captain Flint remained calm. "Why would you kill us all, including

yourself and your daughter?"

 

Maxwell stared down at him. "You poor, lowly mortal. God is spirit and

doesn't fear death. The wedding will take place in ten minutes."

 

Captain Flint stood his ground. "But it's impossible for me to be the

groom, Ambassador. There are ten other men here to choose from, most of

whom aren’t married or spoken for."

 

The ambassador tugged at his gray mustache with his free hand. "Oh, but it

has to be you, Captain Flint. It’s the will of God."

 

The wheels in my head began turning. Since the crew and I expected this

meeting to be a routine formality, none of us was armed. We couldn’t

disable or kill Maxwell without him squeezing the detonator.

 

I knew I had to do something fast to get us out of this spot and save the

ship. I wanted to do right by Captain Flint. He was a good man. I glanced

once more at Lucinda, and instantly inspiration overtook me.

 

I motioned to First Officer Piper. He stepped out of line and came my way,

unnoticed by the bickering men. His eyes darted between me and the captain

as he leaned in to hear me.

 

"Mr. Piper," I whispered, "is there anything in the ISF rules that would

keep me from stepping in to marry this girl and get the captain off the

hook?"

 

Piper let out a tiny squeak as his mouth fell open. "You, Chandler? Are you

crazy?"

 

"No, but obviously the ambassador is. Look, I’ll make a go of it with the

girl," I said, not wishing to show my true feelings for her. "After all,

sir, couples in arranged marriages get to know and love each other over

time. Besides, if there aren't any rules, couldn't you just make up

something?"

 

He shrugged his thin shoulders and sighed. "Well, all right. I can't think

of a better plan." He flipped a small electronic manual out of his shirt

pocket and began punching buttons as he tiptoed back into line.

 

Suddenly Piper snapped his fingers and raced toward the figures in the

middle of the room, drawing glares from both men.

 

"This had better be good, Piper," said Captain Flint.

 

"Yes, sir!" With a bounce in his step he drew closer to the captain.

"Lieutenant Chandler has come up with a solution. According to ISF rules of

protocol, we can make it work, sir, if the ambassador is willing."

 

Maxwell lowered the detonator. "Why, of course. After all, God is gracious.

You have seven minutes."

 

Piper infused his high pitched, staccato delivery with a tone of command.

"Section twelve, chapter four, paragraph two, clause three of the Duties of

Officers reads as follows."

 

What happened next was sheer genius. For two minutes he read relevant

sounding subsections from the ISF manual, breathing life into rules about

extenuating circumstances during missions, indisposed officers, and chain

of command. Then without missing a beat, he transitioned into an animated

recitation of navigational charts and cargo manifests. He spouted off

engine specifications as if they were holy writ. Piper was delivering the

biggest crock I'd ever heard him give.

 

Maxwell became dazed. How long could Piper stall for time before he came

to? Surely our time was up. I feared Maxwell would fly into a rage and call

his bluff.

 

But Piper kept going. He cheerfully began talking about me, reciting my

achievements at the ISF academy. Then he embellished that with my recent

feats as a young lieutenant. He laid it on thick, too. It was embarrassing.

Even I didn’t know I was such a great guy.

 

When Piper finished it was quiet as a tomb, save for the steady thrum of

the ship’s engines. I felt a chill down my back. What would Maxwell do

now?

 

The Ambassador jerked to attention. While still gripping the detonator, he

beckoned Lucinda to come closer. Then he put his arm around her.

 

For a minute or two he and the captain talked to one another like the

statesmen they were. I was afraid to take a breath, not knowing what this

insane man might do next. Then to my utter surprise, Maxwell relented.

 

"A loving god must permit his subjects happiness if their intentions are

not evil," he said as he moved away from both Lucinda and Captain Flint.

 

The captain called me over. Within minutes he conducted an abbreviated

wedding ceremony. No one moved or spoke a word for fear of upsetting the

ambassador. None of us could forget he still held the detonator.

 

When Captain Flint dismissed everyone, I put my arm around Lucinda’s

waist, and we walked away to ringing applause. Were we really married? Had

I saved the ship after all?

 

I was shaking and dazed as somehow I guided my new bride to my dingy

cramped quarters.

 

We heard Maxwell bellowing, muffled by the ship's walls. Security finally

got it right when they apprehended him.

 

His protests were much like the disarming screams of the large alien

cat-like creature I just heard outside.

 

On the ship all was quiet for a moment. Then Lucinda broke the silence.

 

"Lieutenant Chandler—" she whispered.

 

"Call me Peter," I said. I reached to pull her to me. I wanted to be manly

and give her comfort.

 

She backed away shaking her head. Her eyes glistened with tears. "All

right, Peter, but this wedding...It’s all so sudden. Father’s been

acting strange for months, but I never dreamed he’d do anything like

this. I can't believe this is happening." She sobbed, collapsing into the

chair at my desk.

 

"Somehow we’ll make the best of it, Lucinda." I eased down onto my bunk

next to the desk and put my hand on her arm. She tensed, but to my relief

didn’t pull away.

 

Lucinda brushed her hair aside with her free hand and lifted her face to

meet my gaze.. "It was brave of you to volunteer the way you did,

lieutenant—I mean Peter. And awfully sweet, too."

 

I shrugged. "Somebody besides the captain had to do something." I ducked my

head for a second. "I have to admit, when the idea of marrying you first

occurred to me—Well, I couldn't help myself. I'd do anything for you."

 

She blushed and tried to hide a smile.

 

I backed away from her. "Look, we can have the marriage annulled when my

mission here is over—if you like. I mean, I wish you wouldn’t, but..."

 

Lucinda put a cool hand on my cheek. "No, Peter, that wouldn’t be right.

Besides, Father’s sure to lose his position, and there’s nowhere else

for me to go." She choked back a sob.

 

"Well, all right then, if you say so, Mrs. Chandler—"

 

She giggled. "Oh, please, Peter, call me Lucinda." She moved over next to

me on the bunk. Then she threw her arms around me. For the longest time we

sat there and cried together.

 

Those hours are still so real to me, it's as if I hear Lucinda crying now.

 

The next day the ship rendezvoused with the Clara Barton to dispose of the

troubled ambassador. Soon we met up with the MaryAnn Somers by special

arrangement so Lucinda and I could spend our honeymoon on Forbus Twelve.

 

It wasn’t long afterward that I received a commendation and promotion.

Thus began the long storied career everyone knows about. But today the

secret of Chandler's curse is finally out.

 

I've loved Lucinda with all my heart until this very day. I'm enslaved to

her and won't give her up. Never mind that she inherited her father’s

insanity. Oh, yes, we've tried the best medical care money can buy. But

she's completely lost her mind.

 

I can’t tell you how much this breaks my heart. Many times I find myself

gazing longingly into those sapphire eyes that still captivate me, and I

wish for the return of the goddess I first fell in love with so long ago.

 

Years ago on the Melissa Ediger love spurred me to duty. Now my duty is to

love.

 

I hear Lucinda's mournful weeping. She's very near me now. It's not my

imagination. She needs me.

 

As I look up, I see a bloody handprint on the door frame. The monster has

arrived as I expected.

 

Lucinda, my dearest. My goddess. I beg of you, please put down

the--Aaargh...

 

Bio: John Wesley Smith is a blind writer from central Missouri. Most of his

writing is done on his blog site at http://www.destinysurvival.com.

 

--------------------

 

I Want to Change "Women" to "Ladies," nonfiction

by Barbara Mattson

 

The Americans with Disabilities Act is wonderful. In most any public

building, I can get on an elevator, punch the button of the floor I want,

and get off at the right place. Then, by reading the Brailled and raised

print numbers, I can also find the right room.

 

When the South Carolina School for the Deaf and Blind renovated Walker

Hall, print-braille signs were added, and I felt like I could find any room

as long as someone gave me a number. But when I was trying to get to a

meeting one morning, I had different directions from two people. Their

directions sent me on an exploratory route that lead to someone having to

guide me to the desired location.

 

But that wasn't the end of my adventures. After the meeting, having

discovered there was a restroom on the second floor, I decided to

investigate. I'd been in the one on the first floor, so breathed a sigh of

relief when I saw that the floor plan was the same. There was one door to

the left which I presumed was the men's room, and on the door straight

ahead, I felt the "m-e-n" at the end of "women." I thought, "Ah, just like

downstairs," and went in.

 

The first thing I noticed was how empty the room seemed. It was around noon

when I thought other women would surely be there. I passed the sinks, but

then came across some other things. In the dark of a missing overhead

light, I presumed they were more sinks. However, I also concluded they

might be urinals. I thought nothing of it, though, since I'd been in new

girls' dorm bathrooms on campus that had originally been designated as

boys'.

 

Presently, from my seated position, I heard the door open, and instead of

the hollow sound of high heels, I heard some dull thumps. I thought, "She

must have some boots like I have on." Instead of going to a stall, the

person stopped. Then I heard running water that I was 95% sure was not

coming from a faucet, and that's when I wanted to make a quick exit.

 

I thought about walking nonchalantly out of the stall, passing the

intruder, washing my hands, and leaving. After all, this is what happens in

unisex bathrooms all the time. But I didn't want the man to think he'd

walked into the wrong bathroom. Besides, how could I convince him that I

couldn't see his privates?

 

So I remained seated, glad that if I were going to pee in my pants, or be

scared s---less, I was in the right place. If the man saw my boots, he

probably had no idea that he was seeing the shoes of a woman.

 

As the urine kept streaming, I prayed that the man wouldn't say anything

that would require a response from me. (Blind people are more likely to

initiate talk through walls.) As the seconds seemed to stretch for hours

and the intruder still didn't speak, I decided that if he did, I'd pretend

to be deaf. After all, there were plenty of deaf people on campus.

 

When the man with the giant bladder finally left, I got up, pulled up my

pants, flushed the toilet, opened the stall door, and walked to the sinks.

I paused a moment, then turned to the door and slipped my sweaty hand under

the handle, pulled the door open with the back of my hand, and walked out

flashing the biggest smile of relief and amusement I'd had in a long time.

And that, my reader, is why I want to change the sign "women" to "ladies."

Let's get the "men" out of the "women's" room.

 

Bio: Barbara Mattson graduated from the SC School for the Blind in 1967. At

Spartanburg Methodist College and Columbia College, her poetry was

published in the schools' literary magazines. She also contributed to the

book Women, Their Names, & The Stories They Tell by Elizabeth P. Waugaman,

Ph.D. Most of her writing has been published in periodicals such as

Dialogue Magazine for the Blind.

 

Barbara has served as editor of a tape club's periodical and currently

edits the Diabetics in Action newsletter.

 

--------------------

 

Not the Same old Saturday, fiction

by Roger Smith

 

The long Saturday was finally over. Who in his right mind works six days a

week anyway? It was just after midnight and I was close to calling it a

day, but I needed a little something to unwind for a bit before going to

bed. I decided to check into the Saturday night phone conference that I

attended when I could spare the time.

 

This teleconference was not likely to solve any of the world's problems,

nor would it ever be written up in a modern history book. It was just a

small group of friends who enjoyed spending late Saturday nights together

via the phone, either venting about something that might have gone wrong

during the previous week, or simply chewing the rag about current events in

each other's lives. I walked to the fridge and snagged a wine cooler before

checking in. Hopefully that would help me sleep better after the

conversation with my little phone family was over. We knew each other so

well, although most of us would never meet face to face.

 

I punched in the familiar number and code almost without even thinking

about it. There were some strange clicks and beeps, much like those we use

to hear during a long distance call, but I thought nothing of it. It was

most likely just something up in cyberspace. Boy, little did I know!

Suddenly, I was in. I knew some of them would already be there because I

was running a bit late, and sure enough, There was Tom, the one guy other

than myself who could usually be counted on to be around.

 

I can't remember how long it took before it registered that something was

definitely wrong here. It seemed like forever, but looking back, I'm sure

the whole scene must have played out over just a few minutes. What hit me

first was that Tom was yelling, and that just didn't happen. Then I

realized there were at least two of them on the line, and neither of them

was Tom. What was going on here, and what were these strange guys talking

about?

 

"Look guys," the dude who was doing most of the yelling and seemed to be

the leader was saying, "if we're pulling this off tomorrow, we've got to

get everything right tonight. If we don't, we'll sure as hell mess up, and

we don't want that."

 

"I know," said another guy. "you're right. We've all got to know what the

others are doing when."

 

I was in shock. What had happened here? Had I punched in the wrong code and

accidentally gotten into something I didn't want to be into? I didn't think

so. That code was automatic to me. I was about to hang up and start again,

but the next words I heard kept me from doing that.

 

"I think we have this all planned out," the leader continued somewhat more

relaxed. "We know he's working tomorrow night and he'll walk home very late

and he has to go through that alley that's always dark. No telling when he

will pull that night shift again. It might be a month or longer! If we want

to make this money and not get caught, we've got to do it tomorrow night.

Now, are we all still in?"

 

There was general silence on the line and apparently the leader took that

for a yes on all counts. I wanted to mute so nothing, including my cat,

could be heard in the background. But muting caused a beep on the line and

I didn't want to do that. When I had been clicked in to them, they had been

so loud that I honestly didn't think they knew I was there. Suddenly, I

remembered I had a mute button on my phone. I'd never used it, but now I

did, and was glad it was there.

 

"I think we all know what we're supposed to be doing," said the leader,

"but just let me go over it once more. Don't want nothing going south.

Now we'll get in that alley and be there waiting for him when he gets

there. But not long before. We don't want some idiot to pass by and wonder

what we're up to. I'll take him down and just before I do, Jack will use

the stun gun on the dog. Gonna have to be real careful and get that done,

too. That's a big old dog and he might do us all in if we don't get him

first. The rest of you are mostly just there to watch and see if anybody's

coming so you can warn us if we need to back out at the last minute." Now,

does anyone have any questions?"

 

All of them apparently had some questions because they started talking at

once. Realizing what they were doing, there was silence on the line before

one of them, I assume the one called Jack, started to speak.

 

"I'm not supposed to kill the dog, am I?"

 

"Nah," the leader replied, "and I don't have any reason to kill the blind

dude either if I can get him down and he'll just lay there like a dead man.

If either one of us has to though, then we just do it. Know what I mean?"

 

"You know how much money we'll get out of this one?" Someone else wanted to

know.

 

"Don't know," the leader snorted. "But I know he always carries a ton of

cash with him, and a bunch of credit cards. We'll go on a shopping spree

while he's waking up wondering where in hell he's at. That gps is supposed

to be worth over a grand."

 

"Yeah and that iPhone he carries is worth a little bundle too," said one of

the other thugs."

 

"What's he doing with an iPhone anyway?" Another one smirked.

 

"Maybe the dog makes the calls," yet another dude chimed in. "You know,

licks around on the touch screen or something."

 

Had I gotten myself into another version of "Sorry, Wrong Number?" It

wasn't exactly the same because I certainly wasn't the victim. But who was

the poor soul who was about to be? Would there actually be a victim? Was

this all just some kind of sick prank? Somehow I didn't think so.

 

"Okay, you guys, let's cut the crap and get back to the real point here."

The leader growled. "Now I think he'll get there just where we want him at

somewhere around 3:15. That's give or take a few minutes either way. What

if we plan to be in place right about the top of the hour, just waiting for

him. I believe that'll just about do it."

 

"Can we sell the dog too?" One of them asked.

 

"Nope, don't think so," the leader replied. "He's probably got some kind of

an id chip or something like that. Besides, if we took that dog and left

the blind dude, now I bet that dog would be mighty pissed off. Don't think

we want that."

 

"What if the dog wakes up before the blind dude and runs off?" Jack (at

least I think it was Jack) wondered. "How will he know where he's at?"

 

"Probably won't," The leader admitted. "And that's our problem why?

 

At this point I think I was more furious than frightened. Obviously a blind

gentleman and his guide dog had a major surprise in store, and soon. I

honestly don't know what else was said. I was just sitting there thinking

with my blood boiling over, and the next thing I actually heard was some

clicks on the line.

 

"So how did that new popcorn popper work out?"

 

My god. That was Ann. So much for the thought of me having punched in the

wrong code. I'd been clicked back into the conference I thought I'd joined

in the first place.

 

Once again I was stunned. I heard bits and pieces of their conversation,

but it wasn't registering in my mind. I couldn't force myself to talk to my

friends. They surely wouldn't believe me if I told them what I had just

heard. My phone was still muted, and apparently since no one had said

anything, they hadn't heard the beeps that would indicate another person

had joined. That was just as well. I would talk to them later when I could

make more sense out of all of this, if that ever happened. I hung up and

just sat there with my wine cooler in one hand while I petted my cat with

the other. I wished I could just relax and purr like she was doing, but I

didn't feel much like purring at the moment.

 

I kept trying to force my mind to think about what, if anything, I could or

should do. But all I could think about was how this had happened to me. Was

some superpower attempting to teach me a lesson about walking around in

dark alleys late at night? Were they trying to tell me to get off of my fat

lazy ass and do something helpful and constructive? I simply didn't know.

Eventually I quit feeling sorry for myself and made at least a feeble

attempt at trying to determine what options I had. In the end, I discovered

there weren't many.

 

I didn't know which police to call; which alley was to be the scene of the

crime; which blind man was working late; which city the conference

originated in. How could they track a conference I couldn't identify? I had

tried calling back hoping to get logged back into the wrong conference

again, but it didn't happen.

 

I would probably never hear about the whole ordeal on the news, but if I

did, would I come forward? Probably not. After all, who would ever be

likely to believe my story?

 

I finished the wine cooler, fed the cat, and went up to bed. My dreams were

filled with dark alleys, strange men, and barking dogs. I surfed the net

and watched local TV, looking for a follow-up story, but never found one.

These guys all spoke English fluently; maybe it didn't even happen in this

country? Canada isn't far away. I'll never know.

 

Bio: Roger Smith taught blind and multi-handicapped children in Texas and

Kentucky. He tunes pianos and breeds snakes. He marketed screen-reader

software for the visually impaired and developed a portable speech

synthesizer. His publication credits include an article regarding

vocational choices in the Journal of Visual Impairment and Blindness.

 

In addition to his family and hundred-year-old-home in Kentucky, he loves

music, good food, sports, and Facebook.

 

--------------------

 

Three Weeks to Live, nonfiction

By Ernest A. Jones

 

The doctor looked grave as he invited me to sit down. For several minutes

he shuffled through the papers which lay strewn over the top of his desk. I

sat there waiting for him to speak again. It was a cool day and it felt

good just to sit in his warm office. I had no thought of trouble; this

chest pain was but a passing thing I had to put up with. It could not be

serious.

 

Finally the good doctor looked up and said, "Ernie, I am sorry."

 

I grew a little apprehensive; what was he sorry for? But I sat there,

refusing to believe there was anything seriously wrong with me. I had been

seeing this doctor for several years. I first met him when I was an orderly

working at the local hospital and came to really respect this kind doctor.

He was not known for jumping to conclusions and now looking at his face I

saw how hard this news was for him.

 

"Ernie, you have about three weeks to live."

 

Suddenly I seemed all alone. The room, the doctor, everything had

disappeared as the room closed in around me. I shook my head to clear my

jumbled thoughts and slowly looked into the doctor's eyes. Surely he was

teasing me but one look told me he was serious.

 

"What do you mean?" I asked, still not believing what I had heard.

 

"It looks like there is a massive growth spreading through and around your

lungs. You can't have any more then three weeks at the most; I am sorry."

 

>From the time I left his office until I reached home remains a blur.

 

I was in good health--never smoked, never drank any alcohol, and I was not

over-weight. I exercised regularly and ate a healthy diet. At age 27,

married with two small sons, I was too young to die.

 

At home I told my wife what the doctor said and we held each other, trying

to gather strength. "I am going for a long walk," I told her and pulled

away. "I have to think."

 

It had been five or maybe six weeks since I first felt the chest pain. It

hurt most of the time but did not keep me from working or most other

activities. I had ignored it for a couple weeks, thinking it would go away

but when it didn't leave I called my doctor. Following his instructions I

went to the county health department and had a chest x-ray taken, Then I

waited to hear the results. Weeks went by and at last, nearly a month later

my doctor had the results and had called me immediately.

 

I walked rapidly, thinking of how long it had taken to get the results. I

was frustrated, scared and angry at the same time. I was angry it had taken

the health department four weeks to get the results to my doctor; angry at

what life had thrown at me.

 

"Not me," I cried out loud. I rushed up the distant hill, not really caring

that the chest pain was increasing. Then I started coughing as my breath

came more rapidly and I was forced to slow my pace. Finally, turning

around, I started home. The doctor's verdict was all wrong; it was a big

mistake. There was nothing wrong with me; I would be fine.

 

So I decided I would ignore the pain. If I refused to believe what the

doctor told me maybe I could fight off whatever it was that was wrong with

me. "I will not die now," I almost yelled out.

 

The next day I got up at my regular time. "Surely you are not going to

work," my wife had remonstrated with me.

 

"Yes I am. There is nothing wrong with me, nothing at all," I said almost

angrily.

 

At work I didn't tell anyone about the diagnosis; I just continued on as

before. After all, if there was nothing wrong, why bother my co-workers

with my sad story? Day followed day and still I did not feel any worse.

 

But at work on the fourth day Steve, one of my co-workers asked, "Ernie,

what is the matter?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"You are so quiet. You look like you have the care of the world on your

shoulders. Usually when I tease you I get some remark back but nothing I

say seems to affect you. Have I done or said something wrong?"

 

For a moment I wondered if I should tell him; he was a friend but...I

looked away, hoping Steve would return to his work but he stayed by my side

and I could tell my silence was only causing him more fear.

 

"Ah come on, Ernie, what is it? You are not yourself. Aren't we friends?

What have I done? Whatever it is I am sorry."

 

Turning to face him I said, "Steve, you have not said or done anything

wrong. I am sorry I made you think this but you see," and here I had to

pause a moment. Here was a co-worker who had always been a friend. He loved

to tease but I knew his teasing was just Steve, still how could I tell him

what was bothering me?

 

Looking around, I saw that we were alone. The noise of machines running

would hide my voice so I turned to him. "Steve," I said quietly, not

wanting others to hear me, "last week I was told I had less than three

weeks to live."

 

"What?" Shock showed on his usually smiling face. Finally he said, "Surely

you are teasing me but if you are not teasing then why are you here? Why

spend this time at work?"

 

"I don't feel any worse here so why not work?" I asked him. "What else

would I do? I have nothing contagious."

 

Steve did not answer for some time as he turned away to his work. Later he

only said, "Ernie, I could never do it, may God bless you."

 

Often over the next few days I would glance up to see Steve looking at me.

In his friendship I sense his concern and worry and his teasing stopped. I

was also sure that Steve had kept my secret for no one else acted any

differently towards me.

 

About a week later I called my brother who was a family physician across

the state from where I lived. It was time to put denial behind me and ask

him some questions. He listened as I told him the news.

 

"Come over here and let us check you," he said. "Bring your x-rays with

you."

 

Two days later, with the x-rays, I drove the 300 miles to Clarence's house.

After the normal greetings he asked to see the x-rays. He did not say

anything to me about them at that time but left immediately for his

hospital office, returning in one hour. "Ernie, you are to see a chest

doctor in Spokane tomorrow; I have already made the appointment. Bring the

results back to me."

 

I started to argue but I knew I had no choice. I guess I really wanted to

know for better or for worse. Even the worse would be better than the

unknown that had lived in me for almost two weeks.

 

"Here are the x-rays," the doctor said. "Take these to your brother."

 

I gave my brother the new x-rays and the doctor's written report.

 

"You are to come to the hospital tomorrow for surgery," my brother said.

 

"What for?" Everything was moving so fast, too fast and I felt I had no

control to slow it down. But looking into my brother's eyes I knew I had to

submit to his orders.

 

"We want to go down under your collar bone and remove some of the lymph

nodes; this way we will know for sure what is wrong. We will have those

lymph nodes sent to the lab and know exactly what the problem is. There is

no other way to know for sure."

 

Early the next morning I lay on the hard table in the cold operating room.

I was awake, for this surgery would be done under a local anesthesia. I

felt a little prick but then the Novocain did its work and from there on I

felt no pain. My face was shielded so I could not see anything or anyone,

but I heard the talk, heard the sound of instruments clinking together in

the tray. Occasionally I felt some pressure on my chest but no pain.

Frequently a nurse would ask me if I was okay, and I always answered that I

was fine but in truth I was scared.

 

Years later, while working as a charge nurse in a small rural hospital,

another specialist asked me about the scar.

 

"Oh," this specialist said, "today this surgery is always done under a

general anesthesia. Had you moved at all, serious damage could have

occurred. But at the time of the surgery my only choice was to trust my

doctors, one being my brother who I knew loved me.

 

The surgery didn't take long, maybe about fifteen minutes, yet it was like

a lifetime for me. But at last it was over and I was taken back to my room,

where I was to stay until the next morning so the nurses could keep watch

over me to be sure there was no bleeding or other adverse problems. With

help from some more medicine I slept most of the remainder of that morning

but the afternoon dragged by slowly.

 

"Ernie," my brother said the next morning, "you don't have sarcoma, no

cancer; it is sarcoidosis instead."

 

"What is sarcoidosis?" I asked.

 

"That is inflammation of the lymph nodes in your chest cavity. Your lungs

are clear. You will have to take a strong medicine, Prednisone, for a

couple weeks but you will soon be completely well."

 

This was the best news I had heard for the past 2 weeks and I felt my body

relax. Life was wonderful again.

 

After only 4 days off from work I walked into the office. Several of my

co-workers greeted me, saying how glad they were to see me back. But Steve

came over and quietly asked, "Well, how are you? You look good."

 

I thought about telling him a long sad story but I couldn't. "I am fine.

Just fine." While we worked, I told him the results. He grinned broadly as

I finished.

 

"Wonderful! I knew the first diagnosis had to be wrong; it just had to be

wrong." He quickly turned his face away.

 

Then regaining his composure he said, "Sure good to see you. Now maybe you

can do some work and not loaf all the time. You were really getting lazy,"

and he grinned at me. We both laughed as we set to work.

 

True to the new diagnosis I was free of any chest pain in just a couple

weeks; nor has this problem ever returned. I don't know why I had been

sick, nor do I know why it took so long to get the right report. But I am

assured that no matter what is thrown at me my LORD is with me, for he

holds my future in his hands; he knows what is best for me.

 

Bio: Ernest Jones, Sr. worked as a registered nurse until failing eyesight

forced his early retirement. He has one published book, and his monthly

newspaper column, Different Views, offers encouragement to other blind

people. Ernie’s monthly church newsletter column delights the young.

Hobbies include gardening, walking with his guide dog, and writing. E-mail

him at: theolcrow at charter.net.

 

--------------------

 

II. WAITING TIME: FROM THE POETS' LOG

 

Editors' Note: The following two poems appear in Abbie's new poetry

collection. See her bio for purchasing and other availability. They also

appeared in "Wordgathering," September 2010.

 

While Walking Home

by Abbie Johnson Taylor

 

As my long white cane rolls from side to side in front of me,

I feel the sun, the gentle breezes that caress my face.

I should hurry, but what’s the rush?

The sun shines in a cloudless sky.

The air is warm, permeated with the scent of roses.

He’s been home alone for three hours.

Fifteen minutes more won’t matter, will it?

 

When I get home, I’ll take him outside in his wheelchair

so he can enjoy the late afternoon sun,

flop into my armchair in the living room with my feet up,

kick off my shoes, drink Dr. Pepper

while downloading e-mail onto my Victor Stream.

Its synthetic voice will read to me,

as I fold and put away laundry, prepare dinner.

We’ll eat together, content,

as another day draws to a close.

 

--------------------

 

Awaiting The Return of the Better Half

by Abbie Johnson Taylor

 

The phone rings.

With his right hand, the only one that works,

he presses the talk button on the cordless unit,

slowly lifts it to his ear, says, "Hello."

"Hi, honey," I say.

I’ll be home in fifteen minutes."

He places the phone next to him on the bed,

presses the talk button a second time to disconnect the call.

 

A container filled with urine balances between his legs.

He listens to his recorded book, anticipates my return.

 

Finally, the kitchen door opens, closes.

He hears me moving around,

wonders why I don’t come to him.

He picks up the phone, dials my cell.

"I’m here," I tell him.

"I’m putting my things away.

I’ll be right there."

 

When I enter the room with a cheerful greeting, we embrace.

He tries unsuccessfully to kiss me while laughing.

Then, offering the urinal, he says,

"I’ve got something for you."

 

Bio: Abbie Johnson Taylor's novel, We Shall Overcome, was published in July

2007 by iUniverse. Her collection of poems, How to Build a Better

Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver, also

published by iUniverse, was released in December 2011. Her fiction has

appeared in "Emerging Voices" and "Behind Our Eyes," her poetry in Distant

Horizons and Serendipity Poets Journal, and her creative nonfiction in

Christmas in the Country and SageScript. She is visually impaired and lives

in Sheridan, Wyoming, with her totally blind husband Bill who is partially

paralyzed as a result of two strokes. Please visit her Web site at

http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com. Eligible subscribers can read her books

at http://www.bookshare.org.

 

--------------------

 

Blind? Deaf?

by Leonard Tuchyner

 

He sits in a world of black light. 

His fingers skip over laptop keys. 

White cane besides waits patiently. 

English lit class over, it’s time to go. 

He listens for her dancing voice, 

searches for her secret fragrance, 

and he knows that she is near. 

He strains to hear her fairy footsteps. 

Will she guide him, or will he walk alone 

with white cane tapping a blind man’s jig? 

And if she does, will the wind blow her soft hair 

to touch and caress his cheek in ways she could not know? 

"I’m going to the library. 

Are you going my way?" 

Bells of Heaven ring for him. 

No memory of saying yes or no. 

She takes his hand to guide him. 

"So how are you spending the weekend, Beth?" 

"I’m going to be all alone." 

"It hasn’t worked out with this what’s-his-name?" 

"No, can’t seem to find a guy who delights in me. 

You wouldn’t know someone who might? 

I don’t know what’s wrong with me" 

He knows but does not say. 

She is blind not to see the guy beside her. 

Or is it he that is deaf to what she means? 

"Well, we’re here," she says. 

And he taps away. 

 

Bio: Leonard Tuchyner has had Stargardt’s disease which was first noticed

in his teenaged years. He is now seventy-one. He reads through the media of

Braille, recordings, and electronic voices produced by Open Books and Zoom

Text. He lives with his wife of thirty-two years and their two dogs. He is

active in the local writing community, which includes attending a poetry

critique group, a broad-genre critique group, and he facilitates a Writing

for Healing and Growth group at the Charlottesville Senior Center. His

hobbies include Tai chi, and gardening. Leonard is semi-retired and still

has a small counseling practice.

 

--------------------

 

In Dreams

by Nancy Lynn

 

In dreams

I picture you.

No form or shape appears.

I don't know just who you are yet.

Show me.

 

--------------------

 

It (DOB 03/16/1974)

by Christine Faltz Grassman

 

It entered the world innocent, weak, and starkly white,

With not the slightest intention of becoming a blight:

It nursed, and It cried; crawled, walked, got on skis,

The pale monster which would one day bring me to my knees.

 

Much, much later on, I made an awful mistake,

One little trip, on a whim, I decided to take,

Placed me within reach of this wretched manifestation,

Of my heart’s desire and my soul’s fascination –

The timing was tempting for this trick of Love’s magic,

Heedless of the warning signs, defying the tragic,

I allowed It to conquer, to swallow me whole,

Every entrail, every cell was devoured by the troll.

Something new and exciting It had not encountered before,

Another life experience to add to Its store,

It feasted, It gorged, It came back for more,

It threw me the keys and unlocked the door.

It piled on promises, It held out till the end,

It plied me with hope and the words of a friend,

Made me drunk on Its voice, Its body and mind,

So tightly coiled, but It helped me unwind:

It kissed me deeply; It held me tightly;

It unclogged my fears and hope sparkled brightly;

The miseries of distance, love’s deepest conviction,

The story felt true, but the cover said "Fiction,"

An opaque wrap artfully hid it from view,

Till the very last It declared the story was true,

And then turned a page I did not know existed,

At the bottom two words there were mercilessly listed,

My soul they did puncture, my heart they did rend:

Its guiltless, cruel fingers had scrawled in: "THE END."

 

It may take some time before the world sees a sequel,

But it shall one day be written, with an ending to equal,

The one that was ruthlessly, carefully created,

And left dog-eared and battered, and so impregnated,

With a promise of something that could never grow, never be,

One day the pain will belong to It, and not me.

 

Bio: Christine Faltz Grassman was born blind due to congenital

micro-ophthalmia on October 9. 1969. She attended parochial school through

the fourth grade in Brooklyn, after which she attended public elementary,

middle, and high schools in Nassau County, New York. Christine holds a

Bachelor of Arts in English from Princeton University, a Master's in

Science of Teaching from Pace University, and a J.D. from Hofstra

University School of Law. Christine is a certified English Language Arts

teacher and a licensed attorney, who currently teaches at-risk youth in an

alternative program called GED Plus in New York City. Christine is married,

has two children, and has published a short novel, The Sight Sickness,

which is a satire in response to Jose Saramago's Blindness.

 

Christine is the author of a no-holds-barred blog on Wordpress.com, where

she frequently indulges in both gentle and violent wordplay, and where she

less frequently posts poetry.

 

--------------------

 

The gift

by Wendy Phillips

 

A gift was given,

A life was saved,

But what a cost, 

A family’s grave.

 

The one unknown,

Her life was spared,

The greatest gift,

A stranger shared.

 

The cause unknown,

The love, the pain,

One family’s loss,

Another’s gain.

 

The one who lives,

Her life goes on,

Remembering,

Through word and song.

 

It's been ten years, 

since you’ve been gone,

Because of you,

I can live on,

 

Your loved ones shared, 

through grief and pain,

My life will never be the same.

 

Your kids are grown 

and so are mine,

I thank you for this extra time,

 

So When I sing,

And when I pray,

I thank the Lord,

For life each day.

 

Bio: Wendy Phillips was born blind and yet was very independent from the

beginning and always used her imagination in many areas, play, music and

theater and writing. She began writing short stories and poems at a very

young age but found little time for that when raising her three grown

children. With grandchildren in sight, she took up writing poetry again

using life situations to write about. She attended a school for the blind

but when she was 12 was integrated into a public school in central Canada.

This poem is dedicated to the special family who gave the greatest gift of

all so that she might live.

 

--------------------

 

For My Mother at Eighty

by Lynda J. Lambert

 

My mother has forgotten what day it is

her children’s birthdays have vanished

strangers have moved into her house.

 

She’s forgotten about teeth and hair

no longer needs to carry a purse -

My mother has forgotten what day it is.

 

Her treasured possessions 

laid out on tables, put up for sale -

Strangers have moved into her house.

 

Her drawers emptied of clothing,

food removed from her kitchen -

My mother has forgotten what day it is.

 

Her long days maneuver slowly

between rows of walkers -

Strangers have moved into her house.

 

Women watch her face from behind the cards

she does not know how to win -

My mother has forgotten what day it is.

Strangers have moved into her house

 

Bio: Lynda Lambert is a writer and studio artist who lives in the small

village of Wurtemburg in western Pennsylvania. Her studio is surrounded by

the woods along the Connoquenessing Creek. 

 

Lynda has advanced degrees in English Literature, and Fine Arts. She is a

former professor of Fine Arts and Humanities at Geneva College, in

Pennsylvania.

 

Lynda Lambert is blind. She is the author of _Concerti...Psalms for the

Pilgrimage_ published by Kota’ Press.

 

--------------------

 

Reading Blind

By Cheryl Wade

 

The birthday card you sent me was all empty inside.

So were the recipe cards --

Unknowable,

Indecipherable,

Even with a flatbed scanner

Because they were the work of your hands --

Not a computer-generated image.

 

My body was not born to digest

The ink-blots and the colors--

The endless catalog of light waves which, unseen,

Rules our daily lives.

I must put the papers on the dining-room table

To wait,

Or surrender my dignity to the periodic visitor,

Who comes to tell me you said

"Hi!"

 

Bio: Cheryl Wade spent more than 30 years as a newspaper journalist in

Michigan. She now is completing a master's degree in rehabilitation

counseling at Michigan State University. She divides her time between

free-lance newspaper journalism and counseling at a women's center in

Lansing, MI. This is the first poem she has written in many years.

 

--------------------

 

Oh

by Andrea Lyn Pulcini

 

Oh, I found it.

I lost it again. 

Wait, here it is. 

Oh, crap, I just dropped it.

It is rolling down the stairs

Will you get it for me please?

Ah, yes. There it is again.

It doesn’t get very far

"What is it?" you ask.

That is very easy.

It changes from

Day to day

And even

On a whim.

But the trick

Is to be very

Provocative

No matter

What it

Is that

You do

Even if it

Is to draw

A picture

With words

Or with signs

Of The time

Which is ticking

As we speak.

 

Bio: Andrea Pulcini spent time abroad as a child. She will complete her

memoir while earning her M.F.A. in creative writing. She has worked for

large maritime corporations and, recently, for an independent living

program. In 1998 she was diagnosed with bipolar syndrome and spent two

years in and out of rehabilitation facilities.

 

--------------------

 

Clothe Me

by Myrna D. Badgerow

 

I put pen to paper sharing my nakedness,

my vulnerability, my memories,

and those dreams I have just begun to dream.

I ask of you only this...

 

Clothe me not in shades of gray,

in shadowed hues of somber and dull.

Clothe me not in painted brilliance, in colors

of sun and moon, or the vibrancy of rainbows...

Clothe me not in leftover thoughts, edged

in the richness of golden thread...

 

Instead clothe me in the gauze of transparency

and warm fleece of compassion.

Clothe me in vivid breaths of every moment lived,

in the tattered patches of an ordinary life,

and in the stardust of my extraordinary dreams...

Clothe me in honesty of spirit, strength of soul,

and sanguine truth of self.

Clothe me in every word I have written,

every song I have ever sung, in every yesterday

and every tomorrow still to be. 

Clothe me in the simple garb of today,

in every contradiction and imperfection.

But most of all, clothe me in the palette of life, 

the living of it, the understanding of it,

the appreciation for family and friends...

and please, clothe me in love.

 

Bio: Myrna Dupre' Badgerow is a graduate of The Louisiana School for the

Blind and makes her home in the bayou country of southern Louisiana. She

enjoys writing, reading, helping young writers, and spending time with

family. She began writing seriously in 2000 and was nominated for the 2008

Pushcart Award by the editors of Mississippi Crow magazine, named 2004's

Poet of the Year at The Writing Forum, and also has a credit as lyricist on

a CD released by the band Against the Wall. Myrna serves on the Board of

Directors of the National Federation of the Blind's Writing Division.

 

--------------------

 

Wedding Vows

by Jimmy Burns

 

Just turned fifty/wife dons plastic gloves to touch her husband/

wipe sweat from his contorted face/make small talk with a man

lacking conversation/physicians enter hospital room/speak doctor

talk/she nods her head in the affirmative as if she understands/

700 miles from home/vacation births a nightmare/alone, confused/

she grasps his dead hand/he feels nothing/left side interruption/

family and friends convey long distant prayers/she too prays without

ceasing/a nun brings mug of hot coffee/offers comfort and a devotion/

wife withdraws to silence/all she can think of/until death do us part.

 

Bio: Jimmy Burns survived a stroke in 2005 and writes his poetry from his

wheelchair parked at his home near Houston. Recent disability theme poems

appeared in "Chest," "Edgz," "Nomad's Choir," "Pegasus," "Writer's Bloc,"

and "Wordgathering." Burns won the 2009 Inglis House prize for a poet with

disabilities. He was nominated for a Pushcart award in 2010. His poetry

serves as a proof of life.

 

--------------------

 

Tributary

by James Ruane

 

Scars turn silver when you first get them

Like moonlit shores

Skin stretched so thin it becomes transparent

 

Little bumps of deep jagged cross stitching appear down the wound

Estuaries of blood

With an abandoned city stretched around them

 

Some over time become nearly invisible, but not mine

Mine draw the veins from the deep tissue

Raise them up under the shallow surface like aqueducts

 

Others transform into tiny dried up creek beds

Channels empty and devoid of life

Can’t see them until you touch them

 

Some change colors like moss

Mine changed into a river of blue ink

Deep as the moonlit waters of Erie

 

Bio: James Ruane holds Fine Arts degrees in creative writing and philosophy

from the University of Toledo. He writes fantasy and science fiction as

well as poetry; and has four short stories ready for publication. He has

benefitted from workshops with accomplished fiction authors and poets. His

disability is visual impairment due to an auto accident twelve years ago.

Contact him at captainmagicpants at Bex.net.

 

--------------------

 

Cataract Surgery 

by Leonard Tuchyner

 

One week waits before the blade 

reaching down to touch my eye 

looking through a crystal darkly. 

Behold a world shrouded in cloud. 

God bless the surgeon’s steady hand. 

Bless her eyes steady as eagles’ 

her mind clear with faultless wisdom. 

Bless her team of inspiration. 

A world of fog still is blessed. 

Is it true of a world unseen? 

It’s not a place I would like to be. 

 

--------------------

 

III. THE WRITERS' CLIMB

 

Noun Soup and Contrast Consumé

 

Several summers ago a group from our Behind Our Eyes Sunday night

conference hired poet and essayist Margo LaGattuta to hold a telephone

workshop over several months. She assigned and critiqued. One of the more

interesting weeks included two ten-word exercises. Here are her lists,

explanations of the challenges, and examples from her work and from our own

Abbie Johnson Taylor. I obtained Margo's permission to share the exercises

and her example prior to her untimely death last summer.

 

Try your hand at one of these. Change "Write a poem" to "Write an essay" if

it suits you better. You might produce something worth publishing. At any

rate, you'll have fun.

 

--------------------

 

Exercise One: Noun Soup

 

Write a poem that includes the following:

 

1. a famous person

2. a food

3. an article of clothing

4. a restaurant

5. a hotel

6. another article of clothing

7. a city or town

8. a beverage

9. a game

10. a family member

 

--------------------

 

A Gouda Day for Jolene

by Abbie Johnson Taylor

 

The scene opens at The Country Kitchen in Sheridan.

Dolly Parton sits in a booth. 

She barely touches her gouda cheese omelet.

She’s wearing blue jeans

and a colorful western shirt that accents her bosom.

The sunlight from a nearby window sparkles in her blonde, frizzy hair.

 

Jolene sits across from her,

a non-descript woman with short dark hair,

wearing navy blue sweat pants and a white t-shirt.

She wolfs down her barbecued chicken sandwich,

also with gouda cheese.

 

"I don’t know what my husband sees in you, honey," says Dolly.

"You’re so plain."

 

"Maybe it’s the fact that I’m always there for him," says Jolene.

"I don’t travel around the country,

giving concerts, signing autographs, smiling at other men."

 

"But that’s my work," says Dolly.

"He knew that when he married me.

And why on Earth would he want to live in Wyoming of all places?

None of these towns are like L.A. or New York."

 

"He likes my ranch," answers Jolene.

"In the evening, we sit on the front porch,

drink coffee, play chess, 

watch the sun go down.

It’s more romantic than some pent house in New York.

Did he tell you

we met at your concert in Denver last year?

When he complained of a headache,

told you he was going back to the Brown palace,

he was going there to be with me."

 

"You slut!" says Dolly.

She rises, picks up her omelet,

flings it at Jolene, hurries out the door.

 

The camera zooms in on Jolene,

her face swathed in egg,

smoked bacon, tomato slices, and gouda cheese.

 

--------------------

 

Exercise Two:

 

This idea is from poet Rick Jackson, Vermont College MFA Program. It is

based on the idea that this series of opposites, a study in contrasts

(things both near and far, now and then, natural and mechanical, etc.)

forces one to draw on the subconscious mind in order to resolve the

dichotomies, thereby generating unusual, startling metaphors one would not

otherwise have considered.

 

Write a 20-30 line poem which incorporates:

 

1. something from your refrigerator

2. a historical, exotic location (foreign, not U.S.)

3. an animal not of this continent

4. some kind of downtown shop or store (in an older part of town)

5. a foreign place not associated with the above foreign place

6. a reference to biology or chemistry

7. a mythological character

8. a toy you used to play with

9. something mechanical--an engine, electric motor, etc.

10. a body part

 

--------------------

 

FINDING JON 

for my retarded brother

by Margo LaGattuta

 

Like last month’s wilted lettuce, I feel spent

this long week after your funeral. I clean my

 

old refrigerator and remember Stockholm

in the season of the never-setting sun, the year

 

our dad combed the Swedish telephone book

looking for lost relatives. He was Paul Bunyon

 

lumbering through unfamiliar towns with a tiny

tape recorder from Hudson’s under his arm,

 

A rutabaga looking for roots in fibrous soil.

He bought you a toy gun, and a birthday

 

train, while all the time he wanted to bring

your brain back from its lonely journey.

 

If he could have gone to Madagascar

to fix you, he’d have done it with ease,

 

or ridden a camel through the Mojave,

but now, your body buried near his in

 

Fairview Cemetery, your spirit’s finally

in step with Dad’s. He’s brought you home.

 

--------------------

 

"You Finish It" Contest

 

The judging panel tossed submissions around for days. The result was a tie.

Since both endings were quite creative and vastly different, we decided to

give them equal billing and present them after the original story in

alphabetical orrder so we show no preference. Thanks to everyone who

entered.

 

--------------------

 

Another Chance

by Valerie Moreno

 

Bobby's hands trembled as he set a tray with fruit, coffee and buttered

toast on the wobbly end table. "I didn't put jam on your toast, Marybeth."

His voice was strained as he gazed at his wife. Slumped in the bentwood

rocker, Marybeth didn't raise her sorrowful blue eyes to Bobby or the

breakfast tray he'd brought for her.

 

"I didn't know if you wanted any," Bobby tried again.

 

It's ok," the girl spoke so softly Bobby had to lean down to hear her. "I'm

not hungry."

 

Bobby sighed heavily, running a shaky hand through his neat platinum hair.

 

"Mare, you can't go on like this...not eating, not sleeping. It's that

nightmare again. It's a dream, Marybeth, nothing else."

 

He stared at the sullen girl huddled in the chair, hands folded in her lap.

Her blonde hair was uncombed, limp and dirty on her shoulders.

 

"You just don't understand, Bobby." She began to sob, her voice full of

agony. "It's more than a dream or a nightmare. It feels like some kind of

premonition or warning."

 

In the kitchen, unnoticed by the couple in the living room, a plump figure

silently pushed the unlocked door ajar and quietly slipped inside. She had

short curly hair the color of old tomatoes and wore no shoes. Her faded

house dress had a large pocket where she clutched the handle of a razor

wrapped in a thick washcloth.

 

>From her utility room window, she'd studied the young couple's goings and

comings, a dislike for the skinny, sullen girl budding in her mind. She

acted as though she was a moody prima donna, worrying the sweet,

conscientious man who was, in her estimation, the perfect husband. She'd

welcomed the newlyweds to the neighborhood a month earlier with a coconut

pie and freshly cut roses from her garden. She stood motionless now,

listening to the wife's angry protest.

 

"It's not just a dream, Bobby," she cried. "It's with me every moment of

the day. I don't know how to make you see that. I've dreamed it over and

over and it never changes. I'm saying goodbye to you--you're leaving for

work--and, when I turn around, there's a figure in the kitchen doorway.

It's a woman, but I can't see her face, just a strange orange halo around

her head from the sun hitting her and I know she's going to hurt me. I feel

it. She's evil and it's real!"

 

Bobby slipped his arms around his wife and planted a gentle peck on her

cheek. "Well," he sighed turning away, "Of course I do have to go to work

now." He picked up his keys and briefcase, and started toward the living

room door. "Call me every hour if you get scared. Maybe tonight we can talk

about getting you some counseling or something to help you sleep through

those bad dreams." Then he was out the door.

 

Marybeth slowly rose to her feet and gathered the dishes containing her

uneaten food for a trip to the sink. As soon as she entered the kitchen she

froze. It was just like she'd told Bobby, but this time the woman hadn't

dashed away!

 

Marybeth screamed! She brought the dishes up to cover her face as if to

ward off a blow. She didn't want to see that awful woman any more. "Go

away!" she sobbed, "Whoever you are, go away! You are not just in my mind!

You're real!"

 

--------------------

 

Kate Chamberlin's ending

 

"You know very well who I am, MaryBeth," she sneered. "I haven’t changed

that much in the two years you left me."

 

"Toby? Oh, no." Marybeth gasped. I love Bobby now. Go away."

 

"Oh, sweet-face may be the perfect husband," Toby smirked, bringing the

razor blade out of her pocket . "But, I’m the perfect husband for you, my

dear."

 

Neither woman noticed the kitchen screen door quietly open. Bobby had

returned to pick up a report he’d forgotten and had heard everything. He

lunged for the razor blade. 

 

The neighbors said they heard screams, dishes crashing, loud thuds, and

then an ominous silence.

 

The police said they found blood all over everything, one dead blonde

woman, one dead bald woman next to a curly, red wig, and one extremely

distraught male.

 

The grand jury deemed the case to be one of murder/suicide and exonerated

the male, although he’d be in counseling for a long time before he could

sleep at night.

 

--------------------

 

Doris Hampton's ending

 

"Stop blubbering." The woman's words came low and threatening. She pulled a

vintage Tupperware container from her oversized pocket and swung it at

Marybeth, sending dishes flying. 

 

"Stupid!" she shouted. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"

 

Marybeth cried out as the second blow smacked the side of her head. She

turned to escape the woman who had invaded her home as well as her dreams. 

 

"Ryth!" the woman snapped. "How could you let That priest mess with your

mind." 

 

Marybeth froze. The woman had spoken the only thing the priest had been

unable to exorcise. Ryth, her true name .

 

"You can't possibly know about the exorcism." Marybeth's voice was barely

above a whisper. 

 

"Humph!" The woman snorted. "That worthless priest didn't perform an

exorcism. He performed a memory block." She stamped a bare foot, leaned

forward and glared. 

 

Marybeth's breath caught as she recognized the polite, but nosey, neighbor

who had somehow morphed into this certifiable whack job.

 

Yet the woman knew what her name had been before the exorcism; before the

priest had changed it to Marybeth; the name that still lingered at the back

of her mind. 

 

"Don't look so surprised," the woman said. "That priest couldn't cast out

your true name. When he suspected you were one of us, he did the next best

thing. He screwed up your mind."

 

Marybeth was speechless. It had been Bobby who'd insisted she see the

priest. He'd feared she'd been possessed by a demon he believed was

infecting today's corrupt society, the demon of promiscuity. She'd agreed,

thinking it wouldn't hurt to placate a lover whose world view differed

greatly from her own. She hadn't believed in exorcisms. She hadn't even

believed in demons.

 

"H - how do you know so much about me?" she stammered

 

"You should be familiar with the way we operate. After all, you're one of

our clan." The woman waved a pudgy hand. "You're a vamgin."

 

She paused. "We have the elixir. We have the power to enter dreams. We have

the power to summon."

 

She studied Marybeth's stunned expression. "We found you. We drew you to

this neighborhood and now we're going to take you back home." 

 

Marybeth shook her head. The movement brought a swirl of dizziness. She

blinked, trying to clear her mind. 

 

"You're punier than a sick hound." The woman gave an exasperated sigh. 

"Without the elixir, you've become a disgusting weakling. You can't sleep,

you can't eat. You can't even muster enough gumption to swat a fly."

 

After a beat, she continued, "If you'd been taking the elixir, you'd never

have agreed to marry that preacher-perfect husband of yours, no matter how

much in lust you were."

 

She sighed. "You don't even believe in marriage."

 

Tears stung Marybeth's eyes. After she'd seen the priest, Bobby had

insisted that they marry. By then, she'd become so docile, she'd have

agreed to anything. 

 

"Go away," she begged, voice trembling. 

 

"I see that my roses didn't make you think of us," the woman said. "The

coconut pie didn't tweak your memory either, even though it's your

favorite."

 

Marybeth didn't respond. She hadn't tasted the pie and she'd passed the

roses on to Bobby's secretary. 

 

"Not to worry," the woman announced. "I've brought more pie - a nice big

serving of coconut cream." She popped the top of the Tupperware, releasing

the stench of rotting roses.

 

"I added a triple dose of elixir." She held out the container. "It's

life-force-boosting magic will help break through your memory block."

 

"No!" The sickening smell was strangely alluring, stirring dormant echoes

deep within the shrouded corners of Marybeth's mind. She whirled, heart

thundering, and collided with a squat, redheaded guy blocking the doorway. 

 

"Your husband, the one you gave up your true self for, forgot to lock the

door on his way out," he said and shoved, sending Marybeth sprawling to the

floor. A dirty bare foot jabbed her ribs.

 

"You ran off with our power of thirteen," he said and landed another kick. 

 

Whimpering, Marybeth curled into a ball, burying her face against her

knees.

"Go away," she begged. "Please ..."

 

"We ain't going nowhere," the guy said. "And we ain't gonna coddle you like

your precious Bobby does, either." 

 

"Who are you?" Still curled on the floor, Marybeth looked up at the guy,

bracing herself for another blow. These two knew far too much about her.

 

"You're a disgrace to the clan." The woman shook her head, curly red mop

bouncing. "You left us with the power of twelve, knowing that would weaken

us. Even so, We..."

 

"The clan has voted to give you another chance," the guy interrupted. He

scowled. "But, If it was up to me, I wouldn't bother bringing the elixir to

you. I'd just let you waste away and die." 

 

His eyes narrowed. "I think the twelve of us could get along just fine

without you. We wouldn't be as strong as the clans of thirteen, but we'd be

okay."

 

The room was silent for a moment, then the woman said, "When you gave up

the elixir and chose that platinum-haired lover over us, you chose to die."

 

 

Marybeth rose unsteadily, leaning against the table for support. "Get out

of my house!" she demanded. 

 

"Ooo, Ryth." the woman waved the Tupperware. "Now you're starting to show

some of your old spunk."

 

"Don't call me that. My name is Marybeth."

 

"No it ain't," the guy said. "You'll always be Ryth. You'll always be a

vamgin." 

 

When Marybeth shot him a questioning look, he pulled a ceramic jug from his

backpack. "Underneath that bad dye job, you're a ginger." He tapped the jug

and pointed to her hair. "And you're a vampire." He grinned. "That makes

you a vamgin."

 

"Oh, my God! Now they're talking vampires." Marybeth thought as she scanned

the room--windowsill, table, countertop--trying to remember where she'd

left her cell phone.

 

"Looking for this?" the guy brandished her phone, then stowed it in his

shirt pocket. "I snagged it off the end table on my way to the kitchen."

 

Marybeth slumped, so weak she could barely focus.

 

"Three more days without the elixir and you'll be dead," the woman

predicted.

 

"Hey Ryth." A young girl came into the kitchen, red hair catching the

sunlight pouring through the open doorway. Her bare feet, laden with rings,

sported a different color on every toe. She was lugging a cat carrier

crammed with four large rats.

 

"I brought our Wharf rats," she announced.

 

Marybeth swallowed hard as the sight of those snarling rodents triggered an

unexpected thirst. 

 

The girl, with fingers as psychedelic as her toes, set the rat filled

carrier down near the door and pointed an old fashioned straight razor at

Marybeth. 

 

"That was a stupid thing to do, allowing your mind to be fried like that."

 

She waved the razor. "If this had been my call, I wouldn't have tried to

find you. I would have stayed in San Diego and left you here to die." 

 

She shrugged and glanced at the woman. "But Queen Cloey says we can't

thrive in these times without your power of thirteen. So here I am,

prepared to give you another chance." 

 

The girl checked her watch. She brushed past Marybeth, took the ceramic jug

from the guy and went to the sink.

 

"If we're going to restore this idiot's memory before high noon, we'd

better get started," she announced, plunking the jug onto the counter. 

 

She eyed Marybeth. "Priest or no priest, how could you forget who you are?"

 

Marybeth swiped the back of her hand across her mouth. She'd begun to

drool. Fumes lifting from the Tupperware were drawing her like a magnet.

She clamped her mouth shut and stepped back. No way was she going to touch

that stuff! 

 

As if reading her thoughts, the guy grabbed a handful of her hair and

jerked her head back. He scooped a finger through the pie then pried her

lips apart and smeared a glob of the stinking goo inside her mouth.

 

The result was immediate. Her eyes went wide as Overwhelming hunger surged

throughout her body--lungs, muscles, bones, heart. 

 

She snatched the Tupperware from the woman and scarfed down its contents. 

When the pie was gone, she rubbed the excess from her face and licked her

fingers. The hunger had eased, leaving a thirst for something indefinable

in its wake. 

 

She met the woman's questioning gaze. "Queen Cloey?" she said, voice barely

audible.

 

"Ooo! That triple dose exploded like a dirty bomb inside your weakened

system." Queen Cloey grinned. "Your memory will return and you'll regain

strength as your body absorbs the elixir. It should be ingested every ten

months and you've gone almost a year without it now."

 

The girl tugged Marybeth toward the sink and set the razor she'd been

holding on the counter

 

"Time to do something about that freaky hair," she announced. Within

minutes, the contents of the ceramic jug had turned Marybeth's hair from

lifeless blonde to its original burnished red. 

 

As her strength increased, Marybeth's mind jumped from memory to memory:

Falling for Bobby.

Meeting with the priest.

Becoming Marybeth.

 

Turning from the sink, she watched nine more barefoot redheads, five men

and four women, enter the kitchen, each one clutching an old-fashioned

straight razor. 

 

One of the women handed a razor to Marybeth who was gradually regaining her

identity as Ryth. "It has been cleansed and blessed," she explained. "We

know the priest destroyed yours during the memory blocking." 

 

Feeling more and more like Ryth, Marybeth removed her shoes and followed

the others into the yard to begin their monthly ritual, lifting the carrier

of rats as she went out the door.

 

The world around her suddenly grew silent. Even the rats inside the carrier

ceased their grumbling. . The ground beneath her bare feet radiated heat

from the midday sun. The straight razor in her hand felt familiar and warm.

 

 

When sound returned, all traces of Marybeth had vanished.

 

After a dizzying moment, Ryth set the carrier in the center of their ritual

circle, she took her place beside the other twelve, still holding the

razor.

 

They lifted their arms, pointed razors at the sun and breathed in unison.

Faces raised skyward, they inhaled solar energy, directing it down through

the steel blades, into their bodies. Exhaling, they sent the previous

month's spent energy downward and out through the soles of their feet, into

the ground.

 

Memory fully restored by the sun, Ryth began to chant. The rest of the clan

joined in but it was her voice, the thirteenth one, that completed their

circle of power.

 

They were vamgins, a type of vampire known only by clans similar to their

own. They'd never been a threat to humans, nor did they prey on most other

living things.

 

Ryth acknowledged the thirst she'd felt earlier as she watched Queen Cloey

approach the center of the circle.

 

As they'd done for centuries, her clan only preyed on rats, selecting the

largest and strongest from wharfs and ships around the world.

 

When everyone had quenched their thirst , Ryth prepared to return to San

Diego. She was the thirteenth vamgin. She would reclaim her place in their

circle of power.

 

She'd lived long enough to know that when someone was lucky enough to be

offered another chance, they'd better take it.

 

Bios: Valerie Moreno, age 56, has been writing since she was twelve years

old. Always inspired by music and fascinated by people around her, she's

written fiction, memoir, poetry and articles.

 

Publishing credits include many articles, stories and poems in "The

Troubadour," newsletter/magazine of the Secular Franciscan Order, "The

Answer," newsletter of DIAL, "Dialogue," "Matilda Ziegler," and the

"Dot-to-Dot" Magazine of The Michael Jackson Tribute Portrait. Several

stories and poems appeared in "Behind Our Eyes," an Anthology of

twenty-seven writers with Disabilities, and a poem appeared in the e-book

"Fans in the Mirror," published by the Michael Jackson Tribute Portrait.

 

Kate Chamberlin, M.A., became blind when her children were young. Her

teaching career continues through her Study Buddy Tutoring Service, Feely

Cans and Sniffy Jars Program, and popular lectures. She is a published

children's author, Anglican educator, newspaper columnist, and proud

grandmother. Visit her website at www.katechamberlin.com.

 

Doris Hampton has been published in many confession magazines. Her book for

young readers, Just for Manuel, was published by Steck-Vaughn in 1971.

Hampton’s poems, stories and finger plays have appeared in numerous

children’s magazines, including Highlights and Humpty Dumpty. Her poem,

"Pete Bixby Died This Morning," was a winner in one of Writers Digest's

poetry contests. Her short story, THE TELLING STONE, was a first place

winner in the 2011 NFB Writers' Division Writing contest.

 

Hampton, blind from Retinitis Pigmentosa, lives in Oregon with her husband,

Chuck, eight rescued cats and a dog named Sally who thinks she's "people."

 

--------------------

 

Why Not Write a Six Word Story? essay

By Mary-Jo Lord

 

If you are experiencing writers block, or want to write something different

try writing a six word story, also known as a six word memoir. It can be a

challenge to make a statement, or tell a story in just six words. Your six

word story can be one sentence, or more. You can place all six words on one

line, or separate them however you choose. Some six word stories even have

each word on a separate line. Feel free to play with punctuation. Like

other poetic forms or proscribed patterned writing styles, they can be

addicting. Once you write one or two, you may find yourself thinking and

speaking in six word sentences. It’s also a good way to practice being

economical with words.

 

"SMITH Magazine" has an entire website dedicated to six word stories and

has published several books filled with six word memoirs. They are:

 

"Six Words About Work", "Not Quite What I Was Planning," "Six-Word Memoirs

by Writers Famous & Obscure," "It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word

Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure," "I Can’t Keep My Own Secrets;

Six-Word Memoirs by Teens Famous & Obscure," and "Six-Word Memoirs on Love

& Heartbreak."

 

Here are some Six Word Stories from "Not Quite What I Was Planning:"

 

"Found true love, married someone else."

"After Harvard, had baby with crackhead."

"Mom died, Dad screwed us over."

"Semicolons;

I use them to excess."

"Artist, disabled. Feeling mislabeled. Ambitions tabled."

"Strutting my way to womanhood, period."

"Got your email today, deleted it."

"Says deaf boyfriend, you’re too quiet."

"I am trying, in every regard."

"Likes everything, too much to choose."

 

Finally, an article about six word stories wouldn’t be complete without

the most famous six word story ever written by Ernest Hemingway, who was

challenged to write a story in just six words. He wrote, "For sale: baby

shoes, never worn."

 

My goal for the year 2012 is to write a six word story every day. Here are

some that I’ve written this year and in the past.

"Month of skipping gym got caught."

"Jewelry missing, the dog ate it."

"Somebody’s typo changed my name forever."

"Grandparents die when assignments are due."

"Between expectation and reality, I exist."

"Your denial won’t change the truth."

"Time wasted to appease someone’s ego."

"Some things are best left unknown."

"Took pills. Migraine gone. Over slept."

"Her careless decisions impact us all."

"Mighty feline guards house against raccoons."

"Nauseous. Swallowed too many unspoken words."

"Still solving the mysteries of iTunes."

"Life is an iPod on shuffle."

 

They can be humorous or serious, and can capture a small slice of life, or

make your reader imagine an entire story. So have fun, and let’s see what

stories you can tell in just six words.

 

You can read more about Smith Magazine’s publications, along with

hundreds of Six Word Memoirs posted daily on their website at:

http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/ 

"I Can’t Keep My Own secrets" is available through Bookshare. Here is the

link.

http://www.bookshare.org/browse/book/359215?returnPath=L3NlYXJjaD9zZWFyY2g9U
2VhcmNoJmtleXdvcmQ9SSBjYW4ndCBrZWVwIG15IG93biBzZWNyZXRzJg%3D%3D

 

Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous &

Obscure, It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word Memoirs by Writers

Famous & Obscure and Six-Word Memoirs on Love & Heartbreak are available

through the Amazon Kindle store and through ITUNES.

 

Bio: Mary-Jo Lord has a masters' degree in counseling from Oakland

University, and has worked at Oakland Community College for nineteen years.

She writes poetry, fiction, and memoirs. A section of her work is published

in a Plain View Press anthology called "Almost Touching." She lives with

her husband and son in Rochester, Michigan. She has been blind since birth.

 

--------------------

 

Contest Alert

 

Write your own six-word story. We'll publish several in the next edition.

This submission need not count as one of your three otherwise allowable

submissions. Only one six-word story per author please. First ones count,

no fair asking to change.

 

--------------------

 

Amidst Drought, poetry

by Jimmy Burns

 

Wheelchair parked in desert

Scorpions bite invalid heels

Emaciated poet empty of words

Crumbling dry rot parchment

Writing pen drained of ink

Sandstorm discolors blue sky

Birdbath loss of water

Stone dove pallid in bowl

Dying animals, dead flowers

Landscape of petrified trees

Summer still of thought:

Inspiration rare as rain.

 

--------------------

 

Haibun

 

The form Haibun combines prose and Haiku with concrete and abstract,

sensory and practical applications and images. Some publishers have rigid

stipulations and patterns for content, others take a more free-wheeling

approach. One source to check is http://contemporaryhaibunonline.com. The

selection which follows is a Haibun recollection of a writers' workshop.

 

--------------------

 

ONE POT OF BASIL, haibun

by Nancy Scott

 

Only three of us attend the poetry workshop. It is holy Saturday and

raining. Elizabeth Bodeen is our instructor.

 

We are very varied. I am blind, Bob uses a wheelchair, and Maryann is the

able-bodied representative. Most of our writers' group workshops are

attended by lots of able-bodied folks, but the perfect storm of late

advertising and holiday, not to mention heavy weather, has descended.

 

Maryann and I have worked together on various projects. She is the visual

artist and I write text. She directs me to chairs and ladies' rooms, and

will drive me home after the workshop. I have heard Bob wheel by me at

other writers' meetings. Though I've casually asked about him, I've never

tried to find him or find out about him. I've just wondered silently. I'm

really glad he has stayed.

 

Bob and I talk before Elizabeth arrives. Maryann is exploring the public

part of the library where our meetings are held. "What happened?" he asks.

I know what he means. I answer with my "born blind" shorthand. "And you?" I

am now happily able to question him.

 

Curiosity 

can't kill a poet, right?

I'll cross my fingers.

 

Bob's voice is sometimes wispy. He confides, in short sentences: strokes, a

heart attack, aphasia. I mention that aphasia might create some interesting

poems. "Your voice," I say, "is ageless for someone who can't see." Bob

says he still has all his hair.

 

Elizabeth does the workshop despite the attendance. As a true adventurer,

she dives into our unexpectedness. We begin by writing poems about real or

imagined gardens. Elizabeth wants around eight lines from each of us.

 

I do not bring the thousand-dollar word processor out in the pouring rain,

and I do not compose in my head. I have also never brought a noisy,

conspicuous Braille-writer to a workshop. But I am pulled back a few days

to Wegman's Supermarket with Anne and Louis...

 

Louis picked up a basil plant and talked of starting an herb garden. As we

walked with me holding the shopping cart he asked, "Want a taste?" I

laughed. With the first touch of my teeth I was reminded of my Italian

next-door neighbor of years ago. She grew basil, oregano, and mint. I was

often given sprigs. One leaf was enough for me but Louis, without asking,

pressed a second one to my lips. What could I do? I opened and chewed. With

the third leaf I said, "No more" in the nonnegotiable voice that all

seasoned disabled people learn. Like a good poem it needs tone and few

words. He stopped feeding me...

 

Maryann's confident, many-lined garden is silk flowers, paper birds, and

glittery man-made gemstones. Since it is not real, it requires no tending

and creates no mess. At first read it seems too beautiful and unchanging.

Scott - One Pot of Basil - 2

 

Elizabeth reads Bob's poem. Bob's garden is grapes separated from stems and

crushed for wine. It is a memory of his grandmother helping his

grandfather. Elizabeth suggests a haibun form (combining prose and haiku).

It would end with poetry of hot sun and red juice.

We become and

become again. Old and new

connect our seasons.

 

Elizabeth writes too. She experiments by composing with her non-dominant

hand. Her recited draft about a flute garden is much more polished than any

first draft of mine would ever be. She wonders where the flutes come from.

Is she thinking about a garden with more than visual elements?

 

Normally I hide in these workshops. I am not a spontaneous writer. I smile

and say I don't have an easy way to write and read back in class. This is

relatively true, since Braille-writers are loud and Braille displays are

expensive. I can't possibly remember 8 lines. I could play the blindness

card. But then Elizabeth would have only two people to work with. And Bob

is already much braver than I am. After all, I'm with Maryann and not

alone. In such a small group I would stand out more by not being part of

it. What can I do? Okay. I can manage a haiku:

One pot of basil.

One by one, stemless leaves crunch.

In my mouth, surprised.

 

I wonder if Bob expected to hide too? I hear him revising his grapes into

wine. His hand does not sound afraid...

 

Later, at home, I thought about our gardens and our day. What could I make

in permanent art that would give this day permanent meaning? What words

would affirm that I am still a writer? What could I control?

 

Elizabeth's suggestion for Bob called me. Art does more than imitate life.

It explains life. It lasts so we can look and look again more and more

deeply. Perhaps had I been able to write 8 lines in that workshop I would

not have needed to write what you are reading now:

Bird of paper.

Some will see no flying.

They are blind.

 

What first must be crushed

gives celebration, quenches

with red courage.

 

Flowers sing to us

but only writers hear them.

We are lucky.

 

One pot of basil.

Words said, chewed, tested, savored.

Who is surprised now?

 

Bio: Nancy Scott, Easton PA, is an essayist and poet. Her over-500 bylines

have appeared in magazines, literary journals, anthologies and newspapers,

and as audio commentaries. Her third chapbook, co-authored with artist

Maryann Riker, is entitled "The Nature of Beyond."

 

--------------------

 

Why Writers Should Tell Round-Robin Stories, essay

By Rebecca L. Hein and Marilyn Brandt Smith

 

Imagine boosting your writing with one simple habit. Round-robin

storytelling, easy and fun, helps you think on your feet in a spirit of

play and improvisation. This in turn joggles your imagination into new and

productive paths.

 

The rules of this standard writer's activity are few: tell an installment

on your turn, add anything you like to the plot or even start a sub-plot,

and forget about being brilliant. The object is not to create great

literature nor even to craft a coherent narrative, but to discover what you

can do in the moment. If you feel self-conscious, remember that nothing is

expected; it's simply a group experiment to find out what will happen when

you all try to make up a silly story together.

 

Round-robin storytelling takes practice, so plan to engage in it a minimum

of ten times before evaluating its worth for your writing. Once you

discover even a few benefits, chances are you'll be hooked.

 

Freedom is one of the first gains. When else in our writing lives do we

allow ourselves to make up a brief vignette with no restrictions? Our minds

behave differently when at liberty, and there's a set of hidden abilities

we're not likely to discover any other way. Some of my best ideas have

popped out of nowhere in the midst of a round-robin story just because I

was mentally doodling while waiting for my turn.

 

Those ideas fit into the story and often reappear in a written piece later

on. For me the delight is in the inspiration as well as in the experience

of getting that insight through fun and a spirit of mischief.

 

Group storytelling, done regularly, is also an excellent way to find your

voice. When you must invent something on the spot, it will almost always be

true to you and therefore be told in your voice. Contrast this instant

access to your deepest self with writing, when so often we pause to wonder

if our words will alienate, confuse, or offend. In an improvised story, you

don't have time for this concern. What you say is spontaneous and cuts

through the normal inhibitions of writing.

 

Finally, improvised storytelling is good for the right brain, the seat of

our imagination and emotions. As the story evolves, we envision it in our

minds, and this exercise loosens the tether of linear thought. The more the

picture builds, the less we need to think about it directly. Just let ideas

float. This process helps us put together character, plot, and scene for

use in any story, whether we're telling it on the spot or writing a

different one later.

 

Thus, round-robin storytelling is a way to work on our creativity while

bypassing many of the problems of writing. No bewildering sidetracks, blind

alleys, organization problems, writer's block, or hesitations. Just

invention in a relaxed frame of mind and a non-judgmental atmosphere.

 

Round-robin storytelling has other applications too. Remember those car

trips counting license plates from different states and looking for

railroad cars to count? Maybe you played the alphabet "packing

Grandfather's trunk" game. Telling stories is much more spontaneous, and if

you lose track or were not focused when the last mouthful was said, you can

take the story on a completely different tangent.

 

It's a great social icebreaker in a group of people who don't know each

other very well or are a little reluctant to share ideas and material, or

when perhaps there's been some tension in the group over a previous

incident. You start having fun adding to each others' story segments, and

cooperation and group purpose emerge. The first time someone makes a

mistake who really wasn't expected to is the relaxer for everyone. You can

always pass if you don't have anything to add when it's your turn. You may

envision the future and know exactly what you think you're going to say on

the next round, but oops! Someone just took the story into sci-fi mode.

Time to regroup.

 

On a recent Sunday night call-in Round-Robin, we had some beavers in a nice

forest in Oregon trying to keep things environmentally sound. There was a

little boy in a treehouse, and a bear with his mind on dinner. Some forest

rangers were looking for an orange glow. Before the romance writers in the

group could stir up some action, the nature lovers and historians

proclaimed the whole area under government protection. It seems the media

and the corporate suits flew in along with the governor's daughter and her

rescue dogs to save the baby dinosaurs discovered in a nearby cave. The

beavers, disgusted with the whole assault on their territory, jumped back

in the creek and got the bleep out of Dodge. What fun!

 

No one came out of the experience with a great novel, but somehow we all

felt we had helped build something. Maybe what we built was the ability to

work together. The team spirit was alive and well.

 

Bios: Rebecca Hein is the author of A Case of Brilliance, her memoir about

the discovery that her two children are profoundly gifted. She publishes

two quarterly newsletters, The Music of Writing and The Special Needs of

Gifted Children, and blogs about these subjects at

www.musicofwriting.wordpress.com and www.caseofbrilliance.wordpress.com.

She has a master's degree in cello performance from Northwestern

University, and teaches writing classes via telephone conference call. Her

disability is chemical sensitivity.

 

Marilyn Brandt Smith has taught social studies, Spanish, English, and

special education. She is a licensed psychologist, and worked in

rehabilitation.

 

She has edited magazines and newsletters since 1976, and was the first

blind Peace Corps volunteer. She lives with her family and many animals in

a hundred-year-old home in Kentucky. Her first book, "Chasing the Green

Sun," will be published in 2012, with a recipe book to follow soon. She

loves writing flash fiction stories, and is the primary editor for the

"Behind Our Eyes" anthology and this magazine. Another interest is

music--barbershop harmony, folk and Americana, and current hits.

 

--------------------

 

Group Poetry

 

Last year "Whistling Fire" provided an opportunity for submissions of

poetry written by more than one author. Unlike the Round-Robin story, group

poems are usually started by one person; continued by subsequent authors;

tweaked along the way; and pulled together, retweaked if necessary, and

submitted or collected for review by a final author. Lines that seem out of

place, don't fit the building thought, or in some other way don't feel

right to the group, are dropped. Voila! A finished product emerges. Here

are two such poems with identifying information and authors.

 

--------------------

 

Safe Harbors, group poetry

by Susan Gottlieb, Tomball, TX; Donna Grahmann, Magnolia, TX;

Linda Leschak, Houston, TX; Dana Strange, Cypress, TX

 

Let’s dwell for a moment on the space between thoughts,

get lost in the power of now.

Let’s hitch our horizon on the sound of the sea

and softly unfurl our brow.

 

Let’s soar the winds over frothy waves

where hidden treasures abound.

Let’s seek the solace in our hearts,

a feeling so light and profound.

 

Let's open our souls to the truth of the world,

and travel through time and space.

Let’s further it on with courage and trust,

and allow it to find its place.

 

Let’s untangle our worth from sparkly things,

unburden ourselves from woe.

Let’s grab on tightly to those we love -

safe harbor in arms we know.

 

And when we arrive on the other side,

with the earth beneath our feet,

let’s forge ahead with unfettered hearts

and watch our sins retreat.

 

--------------------

 

Blind man Walking, group poetry

by the Writers Partyline mailing list of the Behind Our Eyes writers'

group:

Frances Strong, Sumter, SC; Deon Lions, Clinton, ME;

DeAnna (Quietwater) Noriega, Fulton, MO; Donna Grahmann, Magnolia, TX;

Lindsay Bridges, Atlanta, GA; Kate Chamberlin, Walworth, NY;

Marilyn Brandt Smith, Louisville, KY

 

He lifts his face to the warmth of the sun;

Staff in hand, he strides by;

The slim brass rod taps the ground

In counterpoint to his steps;

 

I watch and wonder at his confidence;

Why the smile on his lips?

How can he trust darkness?

Are his pockets full of slot machine gold?

 

A girl and a dog greet him as he goes,

Connection and friendship?

Can such fellowship exist?

The song of birds, chatter of squirrels,

Do they share these sounds?

Do their skins feel the same pleasure,

The cool caress of mountain air?

Shared sensations among like-minded strangers;

 

What truths strengthen him?

Does he believe God walks beside him?

Find joy in a moment?

Learn belief in himself?

 

Curiosity beckons me toward him;

We walk this world separately together;

How shall I approach him?

Life is as full as we let it become.

 

--------------------

 

Hey! There's a Kitty in Here!

 

Magnets and Ladders Readers and Writers:

 

Can you hear it? There is something lurking around the corner and its

hunger pangs are rumbling. It’s the Behind Our Eyes kitty, meowing for

our help. It's not a stray. It belongs to us and it needs our attention and

love.

 

Our nice kitty doesn’t require much from any of us. In order to pay our

group expenses and continue with a no membership fee policy, we are asking

our readers and writers to make donations to our kitty. As with everything

else, the cost of cat food is rising. To maintain nonprofit corporate

status; maintain our websites; and perhaps find some prize money for

writing contests, we need a few cases of kitty's favorite, and bags of

crunchy kibble on-hand.

 

It may sound funny, but our kitty doesn't have a name. We don't even know

if it's male or female. How would you like to name our kitty? The person

making the highest donation wins the chance to name the kitty.

 

Make your check payable to Behind Our Eyes, and send it to our president,

Bobbi LaChance, at:

165 Davis Ave

Auburn ME 04210

 

We hope to eventually have an option for PayPal contributions once we jump

through all the hoops nonprofits have to satisfy. Meantime, let's get kitty

fat, sassy, and purring, and let's start thinking of names.

 

--------------------

 

Resources

by Marilyn Brandt Smith and Virginia Small

 

Here is a resource which offers a database and links to small-press

publications accepting literary material. They offer an occasional

newsletter and a means for tracking your submissions. URL:

http://duotrope.com

 

Inglis House, the sponsor for the past ten years for a contest featured in

Wordgathering, is no longer hosting this contest. This is a real loss for

those of us who have entered for several years.

 

The following sites offer information about writing opportunities offering

financial remuneration. We have not investigated these sites, and suggest

that anyone taking advantage of opportunities offered, do careful research

on the organization/company/individual before entering a contract or

submitting work. Listing here does not constitute endorsement by Behind Our

Eyes or Magnets and Ladders.

 

Writer Access: http://www.writeraccess.com

Demand Studios: http://www.demandstudios.com

O Desk: https://www.odesk.com

First Class Writers: http://www.firstclasswriters.com

Go Freelance: http://www.gofreelance.com

Suite 101: http://www.suite101.com/freelance_writing_jobs

Elance: http://www.elance.com

Associated Content: http://www.associatedcontent.com

 

--------------------

 

IV. PERSPECTIVE

 

The Little Window, memoir

by Tara Arlene Innmon

 

I know something is up. The strained, hushed phone calls in Swedish as

Mommy sits slumped hugging the black phone to her ear, her usual

preoccupied look with added worry lines, and my parents arguing in the

kitchen while my brothers and I play train in the living room. Our house is

so small you can hear everything.

 

Daddy says, "That can't be good for a kid. What reason does your sister

Ellen give for these harebrained ideas?"

 

"According to her, someday Arlene will go blind, so she needs a good

start."

 

I hear the thump of a coffee cup. "And you always believe her. You do

whatever she says. You even have a joint savings account with her. For

Christ's sake, you listen to her more than me."

 

Later I'm sitting on the floor in my parents' bedroom beneath Mommy while

she is sewing. I've got paper dolls laid out in front of me. I lean back so

my head touches mommy's leg. This makes her nervous, but I like it. She

never holds me or touches me like she does my brothers, Mikey and Kenny.

She takes her foot off the pedal, leans back, and sighs. I look up at the

side of her face as she stares out the window. She sounds tired as she

says, "How would you like to stay with Grandma and Ellen for kindergarten.

You see, Fridley doesn't have kindergarten. You would come home every

weekend."

 

I swallow hard and my heart pounds faster. I can't leave my family. I say,

"No, I've got to stay here."

 

She says, "Do you remember the hen that lays magic eggs that Grandma has in

the kitchen?" she stares at the patch she is sewing on to a pair of jeans,

"Grandma can show you the magic hen every day."

 

"No," I whimper, working up to wailing.

 

Usually she gives in to me because the eye doctor told her that crying

raises my eye pressure. But this time she bends back over her sewing.

 

My parents put off getting me to Grandma's and Aunt Ellen's until the

morning of the first day of kindergarten. I refuse to get dressed, so they

give up, because it is getting late. They pack a bag of my clothes, and

grab me, putting me in the back seat of Daddy's old Chevy with my three

year old brother Mikey. Kenny, my year and a half old brother, stands in

the front seat between our parents.

 

We drive off. I whine all the way from Fridley to Anoka, only sort of

noticing my favorite landmarks: the two story brown building with the old

fashioned gas pumps, the brief view of the Mississippi where the motel is,

and Ghostley's Farm where we get our eggs.

 

When the car stops in front of Grandma's house, my heart pounds hard as it

does before I'm wheeled into eye surgery. My eyes get big as Daddy gets out

and opens the back door. I hug the front seat screaming, "I wanna go home!

I wanna go home! I wanna go home!"

 

Daddy pulls me out and holds me tightly as I push, kick and scream. "Now

you boys stay here," Mommy says as she picks up Kenny and sets him down in

the back seat next to Mikey. "We'll be right back."

 

Mommy and Daddy run down the sunken, cracked sidewalk up to the old house.

She opens the front door as he hurries in with me. Aunt Ellen and Grandma

are waiting. "Put her on Grandma's bed," shouts Ellen, pointing into the

only bedroom.

 

"No! No!" I scream.

 

The room is so small Ellen's bed is only a foot away from Grandmas. There's

a stinky gas burning heater at the foot of the beds. All four of them are

in the room, but it is Daddy's face I look at as he holds my shoulders down

onto the bed. Through my tears, I see his scowl as he looks at me. He hates

me. Why did I make him hate me? Will he ever come back for me?

 

"Stop being such a cry baby" he shouts to me. Then, turning towards Mommy,

"I didn't wanna get dragged into this in the first place."

 

Taking the paper sack from Mommy, Aunt Ellen says, "This is her dress? We

don't have much time."

 

Daddy pulls at my pajama top trying to get it past my elbow. "No!. I yank

my arm away from him, but he grabs it again. I try to wiggle out of his

grasp.

 

"Jesus Christ, give me a hand!" he growls at Mommy, who stands there

looking as if she is going to cry.

 

Mommy pulls at one pajama leg, while Grandma tugs at the other side. Daddy

and Aunt Ellen manage to pull the top off. They pick me up and stand me on

the bed. Both of my arms are pulled out to the side. Daddy and Aunt Ellen

slide my arms through the puffy short sleeves of a little girl dress.

 

I'm shaped like the cross Jesus died on. Ever since I started Sunday school

at three, I've stared at the picture of Jesus on the cross. It is

fascinating. I wonder what it must have felt like to hang from nails. Jesus

must understand me more than anybody else.

 

My parents leave, Aunt Ellen takes my hand, and off we go to school. I hate

it. The girls are bigger than me.

 

During free play time I want to play with a child size kitchen set but a

storm of girls goes thundering over to it. I wait so I don't get stampeded,

then sneak over there, just as a loud girl says, "I will be the Mommy!"

 

A girl in a green dress crosses her arms over her chest and stamps her

foot. "No, I am!"

 

"No!" says a third, with wild, red hair. "We're taking turns and I'm the

Mommy first. You can be the Daddy first.. She points to the girl with the

loud voice.

 

Another girl has grabbed the dishes out of the cupboard and is slinging

them onto the miniature kitchen table. A chubby girl says, "I'm Grandma and

I'll do the dishes after I have my cigarette."

 

"Who will be the baby?" says the girl in the green dress just as I reach

the corner of the table.

 

The loud girl points to me. "She'll be the baby."

 

They all look at me, nodding their heads "Put her in the crib."

 

Two of them grab me under my arms, while another girl picks up my feet. I'm

set down in the crib. Miss Anderson comes over and says, "You can't put her

in there. It might break. It's made for dolls. Now get her out of there."

 

They reach down and pick me back up. The loud girl looks at the high chair.

 

Miss Anderson scowls as she looks at the loud girl and says, "You can't

put her in there either.

 

I hate these girls. We play a ball game outside and I hate that too. I

can't catch the ball and I'm afraid I'll get hit in the head.

 

Finally the bell rings and I can go home. Other kids look happy, but I want

to cry, because I'm not going to my real home and I don't want to ever come

back here either.

 

I come in through the front door not saying anything. Grandma kisses me.

Nobody but Grandma does that and I like it. She says, "Oh my snalla, my

little snalla."

 

Grandma goes and sits on the sofa knitting a blanket. I lean into her. She

puts her arm around me, making a clucking noise. She is warm and as soft as

a pillow. She brings her arm back to her knitting, so I bend over and help

pull out the yarn from the blue and red plastic ball. I'm having fun

pulling it out when she lays her hand over mine and says, "Oi Oi, Arlene."

 

I get up and go to the kitchen. The magic hen is on a shelf above the

stove. I drag a chair in front of the stove, climb up and lift up its

ceramic body. In the nest bowl below are some old jellybeans. Yuck, I don't

like jellybeans.

 

Back in the living room I sit down next to grandma again, who still knits

away.

 

There's a narrow window near the front door. It looks out at the box elder.

It is smaller than any other one. I turn to grandma and say, "you and Ellen

have all the windows, but the little window is mine."

 

I jump up, run over to it. Leaning in, my cheek gathers dust from the

venetian blind. Pulling up the blind, I kiss the window. I will play with

my dolls here. Little windows and little girls belong together. I lift my

arms up over my head and bend down towards it. Here I will be just the

right size. Here I can look outside and see a view from an angle no grownup

will ever be allowed to see. I turn towards grandma and say, "Remember,

Grandma, this is my window."

 

When Ellen comes home I drag her over to it. "Aunt Ellen, this is my

window. You and Grandma have all the other windows, but this one is mine.

It's little, like me."

 

"That's nice, dear," she says with a yawn, and turns toward the kitchen.

"We'll have hot dogs and green beans for supper."

 

>From the kitchen she hollers something in Swedish to Grandma, something

about the chair in front of the stove. Grandma says something back to her

in Swedish, so Ellen comes back. They sound angry.

 

I sing a song to myself about the window and I twirl around and around.

Each time I come back I notice that the window is still there.

 

Bio: As a young person Tara Arlene Innmon loved writing almost as much as

she loved drawing. She kept an extensive diary. When she started going

blind she asked herself, "What will I do when I can't draw anymore?" The

answer came down like a bolt of lightning. "You will write." She could have

guessed. In 2000 she was a finalist in the SASE Jerome Foundation

Fellowship grant. She went to Hamline University, graduating with an MFA in

Creative Writing in 2008. She published poetry and short prose pieces in

numerous literary journals, including Verve, River Image, and

Wordgathering. Many poems are inspired by dreams.

 

--------------------

 

A Vegetative State? fiction

By Nicole Bissett

 

It was December 7, 2021, shortly after my sixteenth birthday, and the night

my grandmother was scheduled to be put to sleep. Well, to put it more

truthfully . . . to be killed. This was supposedly to spare her from living

in a wheelchair or having more strokes that would make it worse, but I will

say for the rest of my life that it was really about sparing the selfish

people around her from having to care for her.

 

Grandma had a few strokes a year ago which rendered her paralyzed from the

neck down. Still, her mind was alert and she could speak clearly. It

saddened me to see her in a wheelchair, being fed by someone else, but her

basic personality was never lost.

 

It amazed me that anyone could manage to eat that night, yet Mom and her

fat boyfriend Clem were shoveling roasted chicken and mashed potatoes into

their mouths like it was the last meal they were eating instead of

grandma’s.

 

"Slow down, Clem," Mom chastised, eyeing him with disgust. "You eat so

fast. You’re never going to lose weight this way." She was always riding

him about his weight and it never did any good. "Just chew your food

slowly."

 

He slowed down obediently and said nothing: his puppy dog eyes only looking

to my mother for approval. The whole scene repulsed me. Both of them were

idiots. How could you ever respect someone who let you walk all over them?

 

"Mom," I said, trying to change the subject. "Why don’t we just take

Grandma home tonight?"

 

"We don’t have the time," she replied.

 

"What about Aunt Jackie?"

 

"She has her own life, too. Neither of us have the money to hire a nurse

for her and grandma doesn’t have the money to pay us."

 

I looked around at our dining-room and kitchen. My mother, who generously

spent Clem’s money, had replaced our old carpet with hardwood floors. The

dining-room set was all oak; the kitchen had Pergo floors and all the

amenities and then some. She had re-modeled both bathrooms twice since she

got the house from my dad, and had a house-keeper come in three days a

week. She lacked neither time nor money.

 

"You would charge your own mother to live here?"

 

"I’d have to. You just don’t know what kind of an undertaking it would

be to deal with someone in grandma’s condition. She won’t be able to do

anything for herself and it would be a fulltime job to take care of her.

It’s best in the long run. She wants it that way, too. If I were in her

shoes, I would want it that way. So would you."

 

"She doesn’t want it that way! And you don’t know what you’d want,

and you certainly don’t know what I would want!" I wanted to throw my

dinner in her face. "You want it this way for your convenience!"

 

"You don’t understand, Julie. She has nothing to live for."

 

"Maybe you feel that way, but she doesn’t."

 

"Of course she does," said my mother with confidence. She glared at me.

"She’s a very proud woman. You have no idea, Julie."

 

. I resented being talked down to. None of this was right, and she knew it.

 

"If I got in to an accident and wound up in a wheel chair, would you put me

to sleep, too?"

 

My mother’s momentary silence revealed her answer. Finally, she said,

"Well, what kind of a life would you really have? I mean, you couldn’t

feed yourself or do anything. You couldn’t even really look attractive on

your own. You’d have no dignity."

 

I heard all I could stand. I nearly threw my chair across the room as I

stormed out of the kitchen. I grabbed my purse from the side table in the

living-room, along with my mother’s keys, which were beside it, and moved

quickly out the front door.

 

"Uh, where do you think you’re going?" my mother called after me. I paid

no notice. She didn’t come out the door after me.

 

I unplugged her 2020 Mercedes from its charger in the garage and bolted

down the drive before she had time to follow. Fifteen minutes later, I

pulled in to the parking lot of the Paradise Valley care facility where

Grandma lived.

 

"Hello, Julie," said a young nurse who knew me from previous visits. "Your

grandmother is having a feast. I'm sure she'd love it if you joined her."

 

Sure enough, my grandmother was enjoying a prime rib, baked potato, and a

cup of tea. I blinked back tears as I watched the nurse feeding her. Sure,

it would be tough to live like that, but was it worth dying over? Was there

really nothing more Grandma could give to this world from her chair? She

had plenty more to give to me.

 

"Julie," Grandma said. "Oh, my little granddaughter. Give me a hug and a

kiss."

 

I went to her and took her frail body in my arms.

 

"It's good to see you here tonight. How's about polishing off the rest of

this meal for me?"

 

I shook my head. "This is your meal."

 

"I've eaten a good portion of it. About as much as I can eat without making

myself sick. Help yourself."

 

There was at least a half a potato and a good portion of meat left.

 

Just then, my aunt Jackie and her daughter Desiree walked in. Jackie and

her two grown kids lived in Denver. Apparently, they were coming to watch

the big event. Where was Liz, the other cousin, I wondered. Then it hit me

what they might be doing here. They were coming to do the right thing: to

take Grandma home with them. It was perfect!

 

Desiree was nineteen and Liz was eighteen. They could take care of her

during the day while Aunt Jackie worked. Then they could go to school at

night.

 

Desiree walked up and hugged Grandma as the young nurse removed her tray.

"Hey Gram," she said. "how ya doin’?"

 

Desiree was fat, but it looked like she had taken off quite a few pounds.

She looked prettier, too. Her hair was naturally black and fell to her

waist in thick curls. She seemed to be wearing less make-up these days too,

which gave her a softer look. She was prettier than I had ever appreciated

before.

 

"Oh, can’t complain, considering," said grandma.

 

It was true: Grandma never complained, even now. I had never been so glad

to see these people. They could make everything okay again.

 

"Hey, slick," Desiree said, patting me on the back. "What’s shakin’?"

 

"Not much," I said.

 

I gave my aunt Jackie a hug. We all talked to Grandma for a few minutes.

After a half an hour or so, my mother showed up with Clem.

 

"I don’t appreciate you just grabbing my car without permission, Julie,"

she said after warmly greeting the relatives she gossiped about constantly.

 

I rolled my eyes at her in disgust, but said nothing. There was nothing to

say.

 

I decided to get away with Desiree alone and have some quality cousin time.

The two of us slipped outside the building while the others gabbed. Desiree

pulled out a cigarette and lit up.

 

"So what’s up, Slick? How’s your sex life?" She took a long drag, then

promptly blew rings of smoke in my face.

 

I shook my head. "Non-existent."

 

"You’re not still a virgin," Desiree said in disbelief.

 

"I am."

 

"Bull. Are you on birth control? ‘Cause if that’s the hang up, I can

hook you up."

 

My face reddened. "I didn’t come here to talk about this," I said. "I

came to talk about Gram."

 

Desiree moved to a flower bed and sat down on the side. Her fat butt cheek

nearly squashed one of the plants. She was still a tub of lard. "Yeah,

it’s really sad about all that, huh?"

 

"It’s nice that you came here," I said.

 

"Of course," Desiree said. "I couldn’t miss my grandma’s funeral and a

chance to say goodbye to her."

 

My cheeks drained of their color. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

"You mean, you guys aren’t here to take grandma home with you?"

 

Desiree shook her head and laughed. "Of course not, hon. She’s a

vegetable now. We can’t take care of her like that."

 

I nearly burst in to tears. Why didn’t anyone care?

 

"I know it’s a bummer," said Desiree. "I mean, I’ll miss her too. But

we have our own lives. I got work and Liz has college."

 

"Doesn’t anyone care about Gram?"

 

"Of course we do," Desiree said. "But this is really for the best, Julie,

believe me. She wouldn’t want to be a vegetable all her life."

 

"She’s not a vegetable!" I exploded. "The woman talks and breathes and

eats without a feeding tube. She still has a lot to give. And how is it

that everyone else seems to know what Grandma wants except Grandma. She

doesn’t want this, and I know she wouldn’t sign papers to let anyone

kill her."

 

"Honey, she doesn’t even have to sign papers. She’s disabled now.

She’s considered to be in a vegetative state. That wouldn't have been

true ten years ago, but it is now. She’s practically drooling. She

doesn’t have a choice anymore. The government ain’t gonna take care of

her." She blew out her cigarette and dropped the ashes into the flowerbed.

 

Idiots like her, and sometimes my mother when we were in a fight, call me

naive. I was beginning to wonder if there was some truth to their

accusation. I hated to betray my own ignorance, but I had to now.

 

"You mean she is considered like a minor? With no choice?"

 

"That’s right," Desiree said. "Hey, look at the bright side...She

doesn’t even know what’s comin’. We’re gonna get it done tonight.

Right now, she just thinks she’s going home."

 

* * *

 

As Desiree and Julie were stepping outside for cousin-bonding time, Hal

Yates, MD was having a brief conversation with his wife, Martha.

 

"Another long night, I’m afraid," he said. "Got a few more patients to

put down and some other emergencies." What he neglected to mention was that

the emergency was his need for sex with his lover, Loraine. Hey, that need

got, as that Foreigner song said, "Urgent!" The reality was, Julia

Anderson, the gray-haired quad, was his last patient, and that was going to

be quick and easy. After all, what was she gonna do? Beat him up? That

would take five minutes after he hung up, and then he was off...in more

ways than one.

 

"Thanks honey," he said. "That was very considerate of you. Just leave it

in the microwave. I promise I’ll grab it when I get home. Don’t wait up

for me though. It could get into the morning."

 

He entered the room with Sara, his assistant, who rolled along what he

needed on a dolly. "Hi guys," he said to what looked like a freaking party.

 

Their smiles faded. "Hi."

 

"Hello, Mrs. Anderson," he said to the old cripple. "I’m Dr. Yates."

 

"Hi there," she said cheerily. "Are you here to release me from this trap?"

 

"You bet," he said, setting up the medication. .

 

"Wonderful! I’ve waited for my freedom for so long," the old cripple

said.

 

"That’s a great attitude to have, Mrs. Anderson," Dr. Yates said.

"Because, really, the way you’re living, it is a trap."

 

He could see nervous looks on the faces of her family. What was up with

them?

 

"Are you guys taking pictures or what?" Dr. Yates asked, growing impatient.

The younger looking broad of the two looked indignant. "Seriously?" she

asked.

 

"Yeah, I mean, otherwise, I gotta get to work."

 

"Work?" the old cripple said?"

 

"Yup, you’re out of here within two minutes," Dr. Yates said simply.

 

The family stood back and watched as he brought the mask over to her.

 

"What’s that?" the old lady asked.

 

"This is what’s going to get you out of the trap," Dr. Yates explained.

"You just breathe right into this and it will be painless. You’ll be gone

within minutes. It’s very simple, and I’ll be monitoring everything."

 

"Gone? Gone where?"

 

"Mom," said the younger broad. "You’re going to sleep."

 

"You mean...Put to sleep?" She gasped as the realization hit, and terror

suddenly flashed in her eyes.

 

"Yes. It’s time."

 

* * *

 

I don’t want to talk about what I walked into. The vision still haunts my

dreams, and I imagine it always will. I’ll just say that I walked into

confirmation that Grandma really didn’t want to die. Some idiot was

trying to kill her, and she couldn’t fight back, except with words.

 

I’ll always remember grandma as taking care of me when I was sick, the

cookies and pineapple dump cakes she baked, the plays she took me to, the

books she read to me, the nights I spent at her house, and the fun we had

playing cards, or riding up to Julian's with Grandpa just for biscuits and

gravy before he died...a natural death, I might add...

 

Mom and I scarcely talk. I have one more year, then I'll be eighteen. I’m

counting the days till I can legally move out, since, of course, the

control freak won’t emancipate me.

 

Grandma had many good years left, I believe. But even if she didn’t, it

was no one else’s call but grandma’s and God’s.

 

I’m still trying to figure out where God is in all this, if indeed He

exists. My friends and youth pastor tell me He does, and I think I

believe...but now...I just don’t know. I only know I need answers.

 

Bio: Nicole Bissett lives in La Mesa, CA, with her husband Harry. She holds

a bachelors degree in journalism with a minor in English.

 

Her profile articles appear regularly in Today's Vintage Magazine and the

Insurance Journal. She has written for "The Jonestown Report," and has been

a volunteer transcriber for the Jonestown Institute. Several of her pieces

appeared in "The Gratitude Book Project," which became a number one Amazon

best-seller in December, 2010. She also acts as a ghost-writer for Kevin

Cole, a life coach who founded Empowerment Quest International.

 

Nicole can be reached at nicolebissett1969 at gmail.com.

 

--------------------

 

Wrinkles, nonfiction

by Kate Chamberlin

 

I hate all wrinkles. I especially don’t like to sleep on wrinkled sheets.

It seems like I always wake up with a bright red line on my cheek from

laying on a wrinkle. I don’t understand why a fitted bottom sheet can't

stay put with a proper fit.

 

I like to iron the top end of the flat sheet, so it looks and feels nice

flapped over the comforter. I usually fold the clean and ironed flat sheet

with the fitted bottom and two pillow cases up in a bundle. It’s quick

and easy to pick up the bundle on laundry day.

 

Actually, I don’t mind ironing things. I like the feeling of making some

wrinkled ol’ shirt nice and smooth. I imagine folks will see my little

ones in a freshly ironed, button-down shirt and say: My, isn’t Kate

taking good care of those boys! The truth is that they can never keep those

darn shirt-tails tucked in and, yes, I want every inch of them to look good

when I go out with them.

 

I do have my limits, though. My mother-in-law used to iron my husband's

underwear and pjs. I don’t, thank you very much. I suspect the fabrics in

those days, really needed ironing more than the permanent press items of

today.

 

I have a really big, gorgeous Christmas table cloth my mother made for a

flower show. It requires ironing after I launder it following the coming of

the Wise Men. I was the one to pin a small jingle bell on the end of each

line of white, rick-rack that formed a Christmas tree. There are six trees,

each with 8 branches: that’s ninety-six little bells. I figure ironing it

takes enough time. Instead of pinning on bells, I’d rather spend the time

rolling pine cones in Crisco and birdseed with my boys!

 

I don’t like the wrinkles in our carpet, either! My brother used to say

that I could trip on the flowers in our carpet’s pattern. Now I don’t

even need the flowers! The wrinkles in our old carpet do the job quite

often. Some day we’ll replace it with a nice smooth rug. I think we’ll

wait until the boys are 42, though.

 

While I was pondering about the wrinkles in my life, my husband walked in.

I wondered if he had any new wrinkles. I reached up to feel the top of his

head. I knew he was balding twenty years ago, and now I felt the

distinguished silver fringe go from ear to ear on the back of his head.

 

His loving eyes have faint laugh wrinkles, as do the corners of his

expressive mouth. Suddenly, his cheeks popped up, deepening his wrinkles,

as he began to chuckle. Then, he started to trace my wrinkles, too. Well,

one thing led to another, and we, er, ah (blush) wrinkled my freshly ironed

sheets!

 

Oh, dear Gussie, I've adjusted my attitude: Some wrinkles aren't so bad

after all.

 

--------------------

 

One Case from the Files, creative nonfiction

by Elizabeth Fiorite

 

My name is Margie Mancione. I meet many different kinds of people in my

work with the blind and visually impaired. I have been a counselor for

fifteen years at a Rehab center, and I feel for those who are in the

beginning stages of losing their vision, as I am also legally blind.

 

May Alice’s case was a particularly sad situation. She was a sixty-three

year old woman who had recently lost all her vision to diabetic

retinopathy. She had been raising three young grandchildren alone, though

her daughter Sherelle, the children’s mother, lived with her boyfriend in

an apartment nearby.

 

May Alice came to counseling sessions on the days she did not have dialysis

treatments. On those days she would often be sick and very tired. She was

also hungry, telling the group that her daughter had not brought her any

food. Members of the class started bringing May Alice bananas, oranges, and

snacks , which she would either eat at lunch time or take home for later.

 

The grandsons, ages five, seven and ten, had cereal in the mornings. Hot

lunch at school. And whatever Sherelle brought them to eat for supper. Some

nights she brought nothing, explaining that she had to work late and they

would have to make cheese or peanut butter sandwiches for supper. Sherelle

worked part-time at a fast food restaurant, and often the dinners she

brought were the unsold food from the day before.

May Alice also told the group how her daughter would take her monthly check

to cash for her, but would keep sizeable amounts of it for herself, saying

that her car needed repairs or that she needed gas money to go to work.

 

After a week’s absence, and after trying in vain to reach either May

Alice or Sherelle by phone, May Alice came to class and told us that she

had spent the last week in the hospital. The boys had found their

grandmother "sleeping" when they came home from school, but they could not

wake her. The phone had been disconnected for months because Sherelle had

not paid the bill. The oldest boy ran to a neighbor, who investigated and

immediately called 911. May Alice had slipped into a diabetic coma and

nearly died.

 

Tearfully, May Alice told us that her daughter had come to the hospital

that first night , but not again until May Alice was dismissed five days

later. Once home, May Alice discovered that her gold bracelet was missing.

She told the group that when she confronted Sherelle about the missing

bracelet, Sherelle said it must have gotten lost. May Alice said that the

seven year old Leon said, "No, Mama, remember when we took it to the pawn

shop?"

 

These reports were getting more serious. I felt that we had the

responsibility to inform authorities about this situation. I asked May

Alice to come to my office with another instructor so we could talk

privately.

 

"May Alice," I began, "you have shared some disturbing facts about your

living situation and your daughter’s negligence. What do you see as the

best solution to your problem? How can we help you?"

 

"Margie, I want my daughter to treat me right, and to take care of her boys

better," she said, and began to cry.

 

Anne, the other instructor, said, "Would it help if Sherelle and some of us

could talk together, and you could bring up some of these things that have

happened?"

 

"NO, no, she will never meet with anybody. You don’t know what she’s

like when she gets mad."

 

"May Alice," I said, "I feel that we have to report the things you have

told us to people who can help you more than we can."

 

"No, Margie, don’t do that." She was adamant. "Maybe they will take the

boys away, and I have raised them since they were babies. Maybe they would

take me away and I would die if that happened. Please, don’t do anything.

Don’t call the police."

 

We assured May Alice that we were not going to call the police, but we

would try to get some help for her. Anne went on line to order a free cell

phone for May Alice, and instructed her how to call 911 in an emergency.

With May Alice’s permission, other members of her group received her

phone number so they could keep in touch. I did call Senior Protective

Services and related the information May Alice had shared with the group.

 

The following week classes went on as usual, but the week after that, May

Alice did not come to class, and no one was able to reach her or her

daughter by phone. On the second day of her absence, I received a call from

the case worker from Senior Protective Services.

 

"I visited the home," she told me, "and May Alice’s room seems adequately

furnished. The kitchen was fairly clean, and there was food in the

refrigerator." Sherelle told me that a woman who was supposed to be helping

must have stolen money from her mother, and also the gold bracelet, but

Sherelle said she went to the woman and got the bracelet back, and she

showed it to me. "

 

I asked if May Alice was present and if she had anything to say.

 

"She was there, but she did not have much to say, except that there must

have been some mistake."

 

I thanked the caseworker and slowly replaced the phone in its cradle.

 

In the ensuing weeks, May Alice did not return to class, nor did she answer

her phone. The daughter’s phone was out of service. Our driver had

reported that the house looked vacant when he went to pick up May Alice.

 

Anne drove by when she was on a nearby home visit. She knocked at both the

front door and the side door, getting no response. She saw the next door

neighbor sitting on his porch and crossed the yard to speak to him. The old

man said, I don’t know where they went; one day they were here and the

next day they were gone. Those little boys were a little frisky, but they

were always mannerly. It was my daughter who called the ambulance when the

old lady passed out."

 

"Do you have any idea where they could have gone?"

 

"Naw, the old lady never seemed too neighborly, but I know she lived here a

long time. We only been here about six months ourselves.

 

"Did you ever meet her daughter?"

 

"Well, I seen her come and go. She was always in a hurry and seemed mad.

She had a beat up old car that you could hear coming from a mile away. The

kids would run out to the car, and she’d start hollering at them to come

help her bring some groceries in. I’d say hello, but most of the time she

acted like she didn’t hear me or like I wasn’t even there."

 

I wish I could tell you that something wonderful happened in May Alice’s

life. I wish I could be assured that her daughter had taken her to live

with her and the boys and that they were all getting along fine. I just

don’t know that. I am sure that Blind Services will find her, and the

process will begin again.

 

Maybe I should not have reported May Alice to the authorities. I think that

most families are pretty resilient and can work things out for themselves

over time. This family, however, seemed to need help and it seemed like the

right thing to do at the time. If I had it to do over, I think I would make

the same decision.

 

In the meantime, I continue to meet with clients and try to be a positive

presence in their lives. I withhold judgment, give advice when asked, and

think a lot about May Alice.

 

Bio: Elizabeth Fiorite, O.P. is a Dominican Sister of Sinsinawa, Wisconsin.

She has a Master’s Degree in Education and has been a teacher and

principal in Catholic elementary schools. Presently, she is a social

services counselor at Independent Living for the Adult Blind in

Jacksonville, Florida. Elizabeth has been legally blind since 1990 due to

retinitis pigmentosa.

 

--------------------

 

She Was His Angel, nonfiction

By Bonnie Blose

 

For fifty-eight years, almost without interruption, "Paul Harvey News and

Comment" brightened the lunchtime focus for many an American household. His

quirky pauses, his style for supporting his sponsors' products, and his

tribute to long-lasting marriages are part of the personal tradition in

broadcasting for which he is remembered. His family loyalty drew from the

good works and close ties to his "Angel."

 

Angel Harvey died May 3, 2008. Ill for quite some time, her death did not

come as a complete surprise. Her given name was Lynn, and she was the love

of Paul Harvey’s life. In a time when marriages crash and burn almost as

quickly as we change socks, the Harvey’s lived a marriage we all grew up

hoping we would experience.

 

As I listened to Paul Harvey News And Comment each day, rare was the

broadcast in which his lovely Angel was not mentioned. We learned of her

involvement in charitable work, their winter home in Arizona, of the pride

and love they both felt for their son Paul Jr.’s accomplishments in music

and radio.

 

Often, Paul spoke of candlelight dinners enhanced by music softly playing

in the background. As each busy work day came to a close, the couple looked

forward to quiet conversation.

 

As I look back on the solid example of dedication, faithfulness, and love

these two gave to each other and to us, I must confess the desire to have

attended one of the evenings so lovingly described by Paul. What would it

have been like to sit with them and bask for just an hour or two in the

light of their love, to hear the music and talk of books as they spoke of

the events of their day. The meal would have been elegant, yet cozy; the

conversation intelligent, candles and gleaming crystal adding their beauty

to the scene. Fresh-cut flowers emitting lovely fragrances would excite our

senses as we dined.

 

How does a person go on after the loss of a love? I felt certain Paul would

be sustained, comforted by the consolation only a love such as theirs could

give. Bittersweet at first, memories of her face in the glow of the candles

across the table would warm his heart and provide the strength Paul would

need.

 

I can vividly imagine that special dinner with the Harveys which, of

course, I didn't have the opportunity to experience. Paul's mention of his

"Angel" was so heartfelt I could almost hear her voice in the silence of

one of his famous pauses. He made her part of my world.

 

Thank you, Paul and Angel, for your example of a tremendous love and

marriage. You lived a love worth treasuring.

 

Bio: Bonnie Blose grew up in Pennsylvania Dutch country. She studied social

work at the bachelor’s level and attended business college. Reading is

her passion. Bonnie hosts a weekly radio show, "Books and Beyond," where

she interviews authors and others associated with the publishing business.

She moderates a local book club and coordinates telephone reading on the

Philmore voicemail system. She writes essays and enjoys music. Bonnie

earned a lay-speaker’s award in her region. She lives with her cats in

eastern Ohio.

 

--------------------

 

Exasperating, memoir

by Janet Schmidt

 

Twilight twined its dark, chilly presence around the village. Inside the

pleasant dining room the foursome chatted while enjoying a fine meal.

Little did anyone suspect a drama was unfolding in apartment B 244.

 

Resembling a witch’s caldron, an unattended pot of water began to boil

furiously. As the water evaporated, the eighteen eggs it contained expanded

until some took flight like "bombs-bursting-in-air". The racket must have

been incredible as they erupted from their charred shells and scattered

innards and shells from floor to ceiling.

 

A security guard approached our table. Looking at us he exclaimed, "I’ve

been calling your apartment and no one answered. I’m glad you’re down

here. Your smoke-detector has gone off and we can’t get into your

apartment. Our key won’t work." With a struggle Karl fished his key from

his pocket and handed it to the guard.

 

We couldn’t imagine what caused the alarm to send its shrieking message

to the front desk. I hadn’t left anything in the oven. So we continued

our amiable "chat and chew."

 

"The eggs," I blurted out, "I didn’t turn the burner off."

Oh well, there wasn’t anything I could do now. The guard would turn the

stove off. We continued our meal. It finally penetrated my food-sated being

that it would be a good idea to inspect our premises. The security guard

was standing outside the door with a fire extinguisher.

 

Oh no, don’t tell me he used that! My brand new apartment, my new

furniture. This is too much, everything will be ruined.

The security guard tried to console me by mentioning his kitchen explosion

experiences. But this was my brand new apartment--no one else had ever

lived in it before- and my new furniture was being exposed to all this

noxious black-smoke. He said, "At least there’s no fire." Ya, right.

 

He had opened all the windows and was trying to track down some fans. He

cautioned me not to stay in the apartment because smoke is dangerous.

Scooping up a few of the shattered egg remains I threw them into the trash.

The well-charred pot containing the blackened remains of the eggs which

hadn’t flown the coop sat in the sink. Woefully I departed the premises.

 

Entering the dining room I told my husband he should hang out in the puzzle

room until our home was relatively clear of smoke. Brad, with whom he was

sitting, said Mary Edith had gone to her apartment to get me some fans.

 

The security guard and I set up the fans. We furiously fanned the air

around the screeching smoke detector until it stopped. I continued to

remove egg remains from the floor, counters, top of the refrigerator, and

stove. The beautiful, yellow-sunburst surrounded by various size pieces of

egg and charred shell, decorating the ceiling would have to wait until

morning.

 

Finally the smoke cleared out enough to make the place habitable. But the

next day we still smelled smoke. In an effort to improve the atmosphere I

emptied several cans of air-freshener, scattered bounce sheets around the

place, and kept the windows open. Fortunately we were having a warm spell.

A maintenance man removed the egg remains and blackened shell fragments

from the ceiling. I’m still finding miniscule pieces of shell in high and

low places.

 

At coffee in the cafe the following morning I recounted the whole, less

than tragic, affair to a group of friends, "You might as well hear my

version before it hits the streets."

 

Happenings like this are almost always, in retrospect, worth a good laugh

at the retelling. Of course Karl has gotten great mileage out of the event.

He informed the front office staff, "At least they weren’t Egg Land’s

best." And he has dubbed me "Humpty Dumpty" something he insists on sharing

with acquaintances and strangers.

 

Always go for the humor after the situation is resolved. A laugh a day

keeps the "bogeyman" away--eggs aspirating, only funny in retrospect.

 

Bio: Janet Schmidt and her husband live in Utica, NY. Though visually

impaired since birth, she earned several college degrees and pursued

careers in education, rehabilitation, and psychology.

Janet has written a memoir, several essays, and is currently editing her

memoir about serving as a blind, protestant- principal in a catholic

school. Her articles and short stories have appeared in several newspapers.

e-mail her at: theolddame at yahoo.com

 

--------------------

 

Independence Day, fiction

by Virginia L Small

 

"Ali?"

 

"Yes, Mom."

 

"Come down a minute. I want to talk to you."

 

"One minute, Mom."

 

Alabaster finished picking out her Afro and looked around her vanity for

the Afro Sheen, before she remembered she had left it in the bathroom.

Creeping across the hall she went in and shut the bathroom door as quietly

as she could. Her mother did not yell up at her again, nor could she be

heard coming up the stairs. Ali turned to the mirror and, reaching for the

Afro Sheen began to spray. Once her fro was patted, picked and preened into

place she regarded herself in the mirror.

 

Already at 17 she was 5’ 11". Long ago the boys had begun to tease her

about her developing body, and height, and her mother a deaconess, had

begun to mistrust her every move and lecture her endlessly about the evils

of lust and sex. Still, Alabaster liked the way she looked. Even with the

so-called flaws that no one seemed to want to forgive: Flaws that were not

her fault.

 

There was the nystagmus, that swinging eye movement that freaked people

out, the pale skin that got attention even from redheads who were as pale

as she was, and that bright yellow fro that matched her lashes and brows.

Yet, she liked all of it. These were gifts, not curses that nature had

given her, and those wayward eyes were an attractive hazel: a blue-green

hue, the color of the sea. She vowed to keep that attention-getting fro. It

would never be permed, colored or have extensions.

 

"Alabaster," her mother called again, "Right now!"

 

Ali sighed and opened the bathroom door, letting the Afro Sheen fog drift

out into the hall. She went down to the kitchen where her mother stood

fixing huge sandwiches for her brothers and father.

 

"Are you fixing sandwiches for me and Lisa?" Ali asked the back of her

mother’s head. She sat down at the kitchen table and began to finger the

Jesus and Mary salt and pepper shakers.

 

"You know you girls can make your own." Her mother never stopped cutting

the tomatoes. Ali was silent. That circular conversation about God and men,

and women as servants had long ago gotten tedious.

 

"Ali," her mother began. She started spreading mustard on the bread. "Your

father and I have been talking. We think you’re not yet ready to go off

to college."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Just what I said."

 

Ali sat quietly for a minute. "Mom, I‘ve been looking at brochures for a

whole year. You know how much I’ve been looking forward to this."

 

"Why go now?" asked her mother. "You have plenty of time."

 

"No, Mom, I don’t. I want to graduate from college before I’m old."

Oops. That was a trigger. Be careful, she thought to herself. She softened.

"You and Dad know it’s going to be a long time before I get through all

the school I need to start my practice. I have to start early."

 

Her mother screwed the top back on the mustard jar and turned to her. She

came over to the table, wiping her hands on her apron and sat down across

from her daughter. She smoothed her black hair that had been pulled back

into a bun. "Ali. Your father and I love you, very much. We don’t want to

see anything happen to you. Truly, I don’t know why you are so set on

being a psychologist. That’s...that’s not a profession for you."

 

"Why?"

 

"That psychology stuff is all nonsense. It’s not a profession for a young

lady."

 

"You’re not making any sense, Mom."

 

"That’s the Devil’s work. Those people lie. They are just like lawyers.

They are worse than lawyers. At least you need a lawyer once in a while."

 

"It’s what I want to do," said Ali, quietly. She knew she had to fight

for control of her voice. Tempers erupted far too quickly in this house.

 

"I’m afraid for you," her mother pleaded. "You know you can’t see well;

a person like you . . ."

 

"What about a person like me?" Ali asked. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

 

Her mother sighed, and looked down at her coffee colored hands. She looked

back up into her daughter’s pale eyes. "You need to face it, dear.

You’re handicapped. You can’t make it in the world. Why don’t you

give it a few more years until you can think of something more suitable for

someone like you?"

 

"Mom, I can’t stay at home forever."

 

Her mother looked across the wide table at her daughter and licked her

lips. "It’s a dangerous world, sweetheart. There are mean people out

there who will take advantage of you. Men who will . . ."

 

"Mother. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. This is what I

want to do."

 

"Let’s pray about it," her mother said. "Why don’t we go to the Bishop

and see what he has to say?"

 

"Have you ever thought that maybe this is what God wants me to do?

 

Her mother’s face and voice suddenly hardened. "You’re not going." Her

mother got up from the table and began tearing the lettuce. "We’ve

discussed it. It’s final." She snatched up a handful of sliced deli

turkey.

 

"It’s not final," answered Ali. Her mind was made up. If this was to be

the showdown, so be it.

 

Her mother turned stiffly. "What did you just say to me?"

 

"It’s my life, and I have the final say. I’m sorry, Mom, but my mind is

made up."

 

Her mother marched back over to the table. "Don’t you disrespect me,

young lady. Who do you think you are?"

 

With a control she never thought she had, Ali got up from the table and

headed back to her room. "I’m going out Mom."

 

"Don’t you walk away from me." Her mother was still standing at the

table, the slices of roast turkey forgotten in her hand. Alabaster turned

to face her. She prayed her mother wouldn’t notice the nervous gulp in

her throat.

 

"Mom, I am going to get a degree. In fact I intend to get several. I will

apply to any college I am interested in, and when I get accepted, I will

choose one and I will go."

 

They faced each other across the kitchen.

 

"We’re not giving you a penny," her mother said.

 

"I never asked you for any money," Alabaster answered. "I never expected

any. I will work, get a scholarship, do whatever I have to do." She turned

then, went upstairs to get her coat and purse, and left through the front

door.

 

Bio: Virginia Lee Small is an artist and writer who lives in Denver

Colorado. She has OCA albinism.

 

She has a BA in fine art and an MA in arts management. She is also a

graphic designer and has worked on several websites. At one time she ran a

gallery for artists with disabilities.

 

She currently owns two websites. Zebracorn Art Journeys

http://www.zebracorn.com is a blog for her art and graphic design. The

Golden Child http://ww.goldenalbinism.com is an informational site for

pan-African persons with albinism.

 

She can be reached at virginials at hotmail.com.

 

--------------------

 

V. THE WARMING SEASONS

 

To Ireland, poetry

by Christine Faltz Grassman

 

There is a lilting voice, singing a melody in me,

I don’t have a choice about the lyrics or the tune:

I sense, too, an offered hug, a complicated embrace,

A call, a pull from you, to hasten Memory’s pace.

I have nothing I can give except my promise to return

So much of life to live I cannot say when that may be.

Till I find a way, I'll restlessly yearn.

Dreaming of your rocks, your moss, your blue and rolling sea.

 

Sweet smell of peat fire, carried on crisp, cool ocean breeze,

Savoring the exertion from scaling steps of ancient forts,

Music and laughter in the pubs, from your parks and along the streets,

Sameness and difference mingling in your heart and your ports.

 

You live and breathe inside my veins, within my heart and head.

There's a hunger that goes beyond food’s harsh necessity.

A pulse that beats within me, a slow, incremental spread,

It feeds and grows on my resolve your shores again to see.

Affected, infected, I do not question the unquenched:

For sure I will be back to seek the part of me entrenched.

 

--------------------

 

The Easter Egg Hunt, nonfiction

by Betty Ward

 

Here it was again, time for the school Easter egg hunt. I wasn't looking

forward to it very much, since I had lost most of my vision last year

during a surgery for a brain tumor. Last year I had walked around the yard

and watched the other children running to find the eggs and get as many as

they could find. One of my friends ran by and put a couple of eggs in my

basket, so I could have some too. When the Hunt was over, and everyone

gathered to see how many eggs we all had, of course I had my three. A prize

was given to the child with the most Easter eggs, and a chocolate Bunny was

given to the child who had none. I sure wanted that chocolate Bunny. Right

then I made a decision about next year's Easter Hunt.

 

Finally here it was again, time for Easter. All of us kids were talking

excitedly, waiting to go to one of the parents homes for the hunt. Finally

we were loaded onto the bus, and arrived at the home where the hunt was to

take place. After the parents hid the eggs, the search was on. Children

scattered everywhere..

 

I looked for some eggs, but couldn't find any. One of my cousins came

running up to me, she wanted to give me some of her eggs. Patty tried and

tried to get me to take just one or two, but I wouldn't take any. I finally

went over and stood near a big shady tree, until the eggs had all been

found.

 

All the children gathered at a large beautifully decorated table to have

their eggs counted. There was a prize given for the most eggs found and the

least. I stood patiently waiting. Last year my classmates had been helpful,

and gave me a few Easter eggs so I wouldn't feel bad. this year was

different, though. First prize went to the person who had found the most

eggs, and the other went to me. My way of thinking as a nine year old child

was, no eggs equals a chocolate Bunny. I was very happy coming in last. It

just goes to show you, you don't always have to be first to be happy.

 

Bio: Betty Ward was born in San Antonio, Texas, but Grew up in Luling.

 

She became blind at the age of nine years, after sergery for a brain tumor,

in which her optic nerve was nipped. this, was due to the location of the

tumor.

 

She attended the School for the Blind in Austin. She graduated in 1978 and

returned to Luling for a short time.

 

Betty was married and had one child. She raised her son, and then returned

to Austin, where she now works at Travis association for the blind, as a

sewing machine opperator. She enjoys playing games on her computer, camping

and going on trips.

 

--------------------

 

I GOT YOUR STRAWBERRIES, poetry

by Nancy Scott

 

I almost bought a pint

for 99 cents fresh,

but then I would have bought

the sweet sponge cups

to make them less fruitful.

You bought them while

I cruised the bakery

and deli for salads

with bacon and mayo.

All you bought

were those strawberries.

 

But we were late.

You had to chauffeur

husband and child at five.

We unloaded me and two bags.

 

At home, you found

the almost of strawberries--

air tasting of them but

air and hands empty.

 

I loved them,

plunging them into cold water,

then plunging my right thumb

into each one to hull,

faster than a knife.

I must have eaten five

while deflowering the surprise,

planning what to do with the rest.

I would have to eat them

as healthy people (and maybe

God) intended, but they would

be good because

they were yours.

 

--------------------

 

One May Morning, poetry

by Lauren R. Casey

 

Beneath me I feel

the moves of my chestnut mare

muscles tight and strong

 

Robin spreads her wings

singing her sweet springtime song

as the tree branch sways

 

Yellow butterfly

lying on a large green leaf

snoozing in the sun

 

Two little bunnies

in the grass eating tulips

enjoying their meal

 

The swans glide swiftly

on the water smooth as glass

sunshine sparkling

 

I trust in knowing

my beautiful chestnut mare

will soon bring us home

 

Bio: Lauren R. Casey is a member of Behind Our Eyes and enjoys

participating on the conference calls as often as possible. Through Behind

Our Eyes she has taken writing classes with Becky Hein and feels she has

gained a great deal. She did a little writing mostly in poetry in high

school and college but didn't start doing more writing until she joined

Behind Our Eyes a couple of years ago. Lauren has a bachelor's in sociology

and a master's in counseling; she lives in Lawrenceville, New Jersey with

her husband and their Seeing Eye dogs.

 

--------------------

 

Get Up, poetry

By Deon Lyons

 

Get up, wake up, you sleepy head.

The day screams out your name.

Rise and shine and stretch and yawn.

It's your turn to play the game.

 

The world keeps turning under you.

It never seems to stop

Climb on, strap in, and be prepared.

Your ears might start to pop.

 

Remember to remove your hat

And keep your arms inside

This trip that takes you through today

Is quite a crazy ride.

 

With twists and turns, and detour signs

It helps to have a clue

So pay attention, sit up straight

It all begins with you.

 

Reeling left, and rolling right

Your nerves begin to quake

You think that you can't handle it

You reach down for the brake.

 

No cause for fret or worries here

I promise, it's ok.

This day, just like the one before

Has quite a lot to say.

 

Last turn now, we're heading home.

The ending's oh so near.

Climb out, brush off, you made it through

So lift your head, and cheer.

 

Bio: Deon Lyons lives in the central Maine town of Clinton along with his

wife of thirty years. Deon worked for the past twenty five years as a

Regional Sales Rep, until June of 2010 when he suddenly lost his vision due

to lingering complications from cancer as an infant. Deon is currently

involved in a vocational rehabilitation program, and is also learning many

forms of assistive technology in hopes of re-entering the workforce. Along

with a lifelong passion for writing, Deon has many hobbies, but they all

play second fiddle to family.

 

--------------------

 

Nobody Ever Asks Me about my Mother, memoir

by Bonnie Blose

 

No one wants to make me sad, remind me of what I don't have. My middle-aged

girlfriends exchange information, suggestions, and comments about their

mothers' health or their attitudes toward the upcoming jobs or romances of

children or grandchildren. Maybe the way the kids stay inside all the time

gets Mama's goat, or perhaps there's a new piece of technology she just

can't understand. I love to talk about my mother, and sometimes tell them I

know my mother would resist the robot cleaners that go around in the rooms,

and the preference for pre-treated disposable cleansing wipes over the

old-fashioned remnants of recycled clothing in the rag bag. Conversation is

fast-flowing, so I interject a laugh, some empathy, and a suggestion if I

have one. But oh, so often I wish we could talk about what our mothers were

like when we were young.

 

My mother worked hard cleaning houses for other women. She learned her

skill from her mother who cleaned houses until she was eighty. My aunt

Grace was part of the family trade as well. They came home tired but proud

because they knew that, while earning a little money for themselves, they

had saved time for those women so they could put their efforts into home

and family matters or community services instead of cleaning. The clothing,

pots, pans, and furniture were all back in the right places, and the house

was spick and span for another week.

 

Mom was often bone-weary after a hard day's work and she seldom had time

for the simple pleasures like reading. So I shared my wonder from the books

I read over the supper dishes or a cup of chocolate. A tender memory of

mine is how she called it "Nestles" (rhymes with "wrestles") instead of the

more common pronunciation. She bought me Nestles bars. My stash was stacked

neatly in a certain box in a certain location known only to Mother and me.

 

I loved romances on TV and in books. Mother told me how she listened to the

women she worked for and shared their joys and sorrows when they talked

about home situations. She told of one woman who taught single expectant

mothers. Did the boyfriend really stick around? Did the parents have the

right attitudes about the mothers and the babies? Was Mrs. Wright's own

daughter really going to marry that man she met at work? It was like

hearing soap operas in real life.

 

Mother was amused that some women seemed more concerned with the honesty of

their housecleaner than the work she did. My aunt wouldn't turn down the

eternally-offered peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. She was

afraid of offending the lady she worked for every Wednesday.

 

I lost my mother the summer I turned twenty-one: not yet in college, not

yet in love, not yet employed; and only half aware of what life outside

small-town Pennsylvania Dutch country had to offer me. When I left home I

nestled all those candy bars in stacks in Mother's Tupperware container,

her love etched into every dent and bubble in the plastic. While I was at

the rehab center, somebody stole it. It was a nice treat for them, but a

bitter loss for me. At twenty-one I didn't have enough forethought to know

that over the years I would have treasured little touchy feely reminders

from those teenage years with Mother.

 

Some of the things she did still stand out in my mind. Mother was quick to

let us know if she thought we had been disrespectful, or were making a bad

choice. By the same token, she had a strong sense of fairness, and would

take our part when it was appropriate. I had three Braille Bingo cards, and

I wanted to join her in her Friday night fun at the Bingo hall. For some

reason they didn't want me to play. Even though they agreed to have a

meeting of the decision makers in the group about it, I was still turned

down with no explanation. Was the game rigged, and my pieces from another

set would have messed something up? Were they afraid I would be a sore

loser? Were they afraid everyone would feel sorry for me? We never knew.

Hurt and angry, I gave them a piece of my teenage mind, then Mom took me by

the hand and lead me out of the Bingo hall promising them that we would

never again darken their door. I knew how much Bingo meant to Mother; it

was one of the few simple social pleasures she allowed herself. I wanted to

say, "Go back, Mother. I'll be okay." But her sense of principle and pride

would never have let her.

 

I have often longed for the comfort and understanding my mother would have

offered to my broken heart; the compassion she would have found to help my

troubled mind look at an awkward situation and make the best decision. By

rights I should still be enjoying this communication today with my mother.

I would have loved attending her in her later years. But she gave me her

values, some of her stubbornness, and the ability to work at a task until

it is done to the best of my ability.

 

When women clean house for me today, I keep in mind the dignity and pride

shared among my mother, grandmother, and aunt with the women whose houses

they cleaned. I share thoughts and feelings with my helpers and hope they

feel free to share with me. The paycheck at the end of the day shouldn't be

the only thanks given, and the only incentive to return. A job well done

and appreciation well expressed make for a good relationship, not just an

employment situation. I believe Mother would be proud that her experience

and our sharing brought me to a place where I can see cleaning from both

sides of the kitchen, just as I see the need for fairness, respect, and

appreciation as a two-way street.

 

--------------------

 

Things I Made Fun of My Mother For, memoir

by Nicole Bissett

 

"I have a folder, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

 

That was the adorable proclamation from my little son Eddie, one of so many

hilarious things he came out with even as a boy. It's hard to believe this

same boy just turned 16 this week and is about ready to drive. Seems like

it was just yesterday when I changed his diaper.

 

I used to make fun of my own mother for making corny statements like that.

I thought it was so goofy how she would cry at events like my graduations.

Yet now, I recall the plays and graduations I sat through bawling the

entire time. So did she of course.

 

As a kid, I had no way of knowing what a gift it would be to enjoy those

precious moments as a mom. Eddie doesn't get it either at this point, but

as sensitive as he's always been, someday I know he will.

 

--------------------

 

A Tribute to the Greatest Racer who Ever Lived, poetry

by Lillian Way

 

We love and miss you, Dale Earnhardt;

You made your driving into an art;

With the right spirit from the start;

Replaying your races warms my heart;

Your achievements are off the chart;

Intimidators would soon depart;

But then the wall! The crash! Death's dart!

 

Tears and fears still fill my eyes

Ten years after your demise;

It took your death to realize

It must be safe for gals and guys;

More precautions you'd advise;

Help makers and shakers to minimize

Disasters; but "Why Dale?" I heard the cries.

 

Every track, driver, and fan can pin

Courage on your example then

Inspire rookies around the bend;

Your son's career is on the mend;

Like you, his goals he will attend;

To heaven Godspeed brought you in;

We'll remember you again and again.

 

Bio: Lillian Way is visually impaired. She resides in Philadelphia,

Pennsylvania, and enjoys writing, watching television, reading books, and

listening to music. She also enjoys collectables, ranging from

knick-knacks, dolls and

music boxes to books, which are predominantly reference in nature. She

likes the trivia from talk shows as well as factual information gathered

from the many news broadcasts she records for her personal use.

 

--------------------

 

Our Father, fiction

By Michael Price

 

Our father made sure all us kids received gold stars for Sunday School

attendance when we were young. Every Sunday, we would sit in the first row

during the mass group sing;

 

Jesus loves me , this I know,

For the Bible tells me so...

 

After the third grade level, about the time most kids’ curiosity begins

to broaden, I usually just hummed along during group-sings.

 

"Because I said so!"

 

I cowered back into the pillows of my bed. My father was never much for

talking but when he did...I think he graduated from the Teddy Roosevelt

school of child rearing so my rear spent a good portion of the third grade

on the receiving end of his response to my generally juvenile disregard of

his soft spoken ways. I have often wondered if he ever broke any blood

vessels in the palm of his right hand.

 

"But..."

 

"No buts!" he thundered, squelching my feeble attempt at an explanation. 

 

The bedtime ritual had not gone well that night; my mother had said, "Just

wait till your father gets home." And so I had, in mortal fear. He glowered

down at me as I broke into an anticipatory cold sweat. I urgently wanted to

plead my case, to beg his forgiveness in the matter, but surmised it was

far too late for that.

 

"But dad, please!," is how it could have gone, or something like that but,

somehow, I have never been able to call him that. It just isn’t him.

Somehow dad has always lacked in some way although, as I recall, all my

buddies referred to their fathers as 'dad.' It makes me wonder how I ever

got the car for dates in high school.

 

Many of my friends in school thought my father was the devil himself.

Nothing could be further from the truth. He simply knows one way to

live-the right way-and is rather adamant about it. He accepts no other

doctrines and is the perfect example of a perfect example. I’ve never

seen or heard of him drinking, smoking, swearing, womanizing, or anything

else that might be considered even remotely hypocritical. It’s hard not

to admire him-even those same school chums say so, now-yet he can be a very

difficult person to love, at times, depending on how one chooses to define

such an overused and under considered word. I have gotten better at it over

the years, although back then I think I loved him simply because one is

supposed to love one’s father. At the time, this curious influence served

to take the why right out of my ten-year-old mouth. I just did it. Period.

 

...Little ones to him belong,

They are weak but he is strong.

 

"You know better than to disobey your mother!" he continued, his volume no

longer earth-shattering yet his voice, somehow, equally impressive. I

nodded fearfully as to appease him but dared not speak. He was still very

angry; this was obvious. But I remember detecting a certain hurt quality in

his eyes--like he was so intensely angry he would cry. "Evidently you

didn’t believe me last time," he emoted, wringing his hands until I

thought they would bleed. "What do I have to do to convince you?"

 

I knew what was coming; I could feel it already. It was true; I had been

forewarned. My father was and is a fair man. His final judgments have

always been determined as the result of careful consideration of the facts.

He laid down the laws in our house and if we chose to disregard them, we

paid. And during payment he never said, "This hurts me more than it does

you." As I recall, I’m not sure I would have been too willing to believe

him if he had. If he said anything at all it was more like, "I’m doing

this for your own good," which could be very confusing when it came time to

sit down later. I never noticed the pained expressions on his face during

these times because I was usually too busy bawling my eyes out; my mother

told me about them years later. But evidently he "died a little death"

every time I screwed up. Not having any children of my own I’ve yet to

fully appreciate my mother’s revelation.

 

(refrain) Yes, Jesus loves me...

 

I know for a fact that my father did not break any blood vessels in his

hand that night. I also know that I had never been so strangely surprised

in my young life. Something very different, almost mystical happened. As I

lay there, whimpering in anticipation, awaiting what I had come to know as

my just desserts, my father, still wringing his hands, his eyes welling

with tears, leaned over me and, gently placing his right hand on my

shoulder, asked, "Why, son?"

 

A myriad of emotions streamed down my cheeks. "I don’t know how, father,"

I spasmed, unable to look at him. "I tried to tell mom but...I don’t know

how. I’m sorry."

 

He took a clean, neatly pressed white handkerchief from his back pants

pocket and blotted my eyes. I’m not at all sure if I ever really learned

how to pray the way He wanted me to, but it certainly wasn’t due to the

lack of effort on his part that night.

 

Bio: Michael Price had been writing creative fiction for more than fifteen

years prior to his initial bipolar diagnosis in 1996, although--in

retrospect, according to his doctors--he most likely had been in the

formative stages of the disease for considerably longer than that. After

receiving his BA in Theater from the University of Minnesota in 1980, he

struggled off and on with various degrees of unpredictable behavior and

substance abuse. His writing takes on a myriad of styles, structures, and

themes, and his work reflects an important coping mechanism in dealing with

his affliction.

 

--------------------

 

Cape Cod, poetry

by Ria Meade

 

Steamy July evening - oppressive.

I take one of my dogs

out for his last break.

Pass my garden privet hedge,

the scent awakens the memory

of when I was five years old

on Cape Cod.

 

The shingled rented colonial,

weathered dark, not painted.

Wood floors throughout.

My sister Anne claims everything was wood -

Floors, walls, bathtub, toilet seat, kitchen sink.

Possible, fifty years ago.

 

A long, narrow, dusty road,

ran along the beachfront.

Colonies of family cottages

dotted both sides.

 

We six siblings scattered,

playing everywhere,

joined by similar summer kids.

Parents never worried,

confident we’d reappear

when the bakery truck arrived,

the ice cream man’s bell rang,

or Wee Packet fried clams were served

in someone's backyard.

 

So excited, we walked the ribbon of sand and dirt,

to the arcade at this road’s end.

Think of it!

Paddle boats,

miniature golf,

forbidden games of bingo,

cones piled high with ice cream.

 

I bring my guide dog back inside,

weighted memories come in, too.

Sit down,

dwelling on that road.

Maybe it was just a lane,

possibly, fifty years ago.

 

Was it the loneliness I felt this July day,

the evening's air so thick,

like my impenetrable blindness?

I wept, hard, loud,

my animals silent, anxious.

Damn - my nose for filling up

with the smells of the privet hedge,

that perfumed and protected,

each side of the road I knew.

 

I never thought I wouldn't see Cape Cod again.

 

Bio: Ria Meade lost her sight at 27, half her lifetime ago. For the past

three years, she has attempted to chronicle this experience in poetry,

especially those of her 27 years with 5 guide dogs.

 

--------------------

 

The Kraken at Sunset, poetry

by Shawn Jacobson

 

The track before us

ephemeral as faerie

we will travel soon.

 

The park in evening shadows dwindles below.

Rattling, cricking, clanking we ascend past lights beginning to glow.

The tension ratchets up as we climb; the top grows near.

Finally there! The highest point--the world below us, a short drop, turn,

and....

 

In a mystery

of motion and gravity

the world turns round us.

 

Dropping into the loop we jerk and roll following the faerie track.

Twisting fast, no time for perspective just motion ever changing.

With joy and fear we face the next descent.

In constraints yet free we soar back to the sky.

Now underground now flung high in the air,

then through a cave and out to a twisting roll

and finally we slow and stop. We're at the end.

 

We salute the ride

Joy and fear's travel with us

to new attractions.

 

Bio: Shawn Jacobson was born totally blind and gained some sight through

several eye operations. He attended the Iowa School for the Blind before

finishing at Marshalltown High School. He attended Iowa State University

where he received a BA in Political Science and an MS in Statistics. He

currently works for the Federal Government and has been a federal employee

for 28 years. He is treasurer of the National Federation of the Blind of

Maryland and participates in a variety of NFB activities.

 

--------------------

 

Remembering grandma, memoir

By Nicole Bissett

 

There aren’t a lot of childhood memories without Grandma in them. The

house at 3436 31 street was the best place to be on a Friday night! On a

Saturday night, for that matter, and whenever I was sick. It was my home

away from home; my chance to be the only child and eat what I wanted.

 

When we first moved to California from Boston, Grandma warned me that kids

would probably make a little fun of my then very strong Boston accent. Sure

enough, they did. Within a year, most of that accent was gone. I made sure

of that. Being blind in a public school was more than enough to contend

with, let alone having a ridiculously strong accent from another state.

 

I remember how she’d carry us and sing, "Off to bed we must go," to the

tune of "London Bridge" when we stayed with her. If I needed a ride, or to

spend the night, 280-6029 was the number to call. There were so many ways

Grandma gave to us--the big breakfasts and dinners, the melted cheese

chips, waffles, and oatmeal with maple syrup on it--the supply of great

food was endless!

 

Some of my best childhood memories were out by Grandma’s pool, or even

just watching TV on her fold-out couch. Friday nights, it was Benson,

Dallas and Falcon Crest. Saturdays it was Love Boat and Fantasy Island.

 

I’m glad I got time alone with Grandma. I loved it when she’d call and

invite me to go to Temecula to the Swing Inn for biscuits and gravy, and to

Borego springs with just her and Grandpa. And, of course, Grandma always

made those family trips a blast, with her "Dance of the Red Nighty."

Listening to her put Grandpa in his place was amusing. And there were those

beautiful nursery rhymes she taught us: "Listen, listen, the cat’s

pissin’" and her little sayings that I’ve never heard anywhere else.

"Such is life, without a wife, pea soup and gravy."

 

Grandma was a stubborn woman. I come by it naturally. But she was always

committed- to Grandpa, to her children, and grandchildren. She was always

there no matter what, with rides to get my nails done, or with chicken soup

when I was sick, or hugs and kisses...I pray when my time is up my

grandchildren can say half as much about me. She’ll be a hard act to

follow.

 

Grandma had a great sense of humor almost till the day she died, even

though there wasn’t much left of her memory. The most important thing she

ever taught me was to always let the people you love know how much you love

them, because you never know when their time is up.

 

On January 25, 2010, Grandma’s time was up. She died peacefully (I hope)

in the care facility she lived in. She is still sorely missed. Especially

on thanksgiving and Christmas, we feel a void only she filled.

 

Grandparents truly can make an impact in raising grandchildren. I know my

grandma did. May she rest in peace.

 

--------------------

 

Orange Moon, Orange Cat, poetry

by John Wesley Smith

 

I’m swinging in my grandparents’ country yard,

hating that summer is boring and hard.

There’s a big orange moon in the eastern sky

As I talk to the big orange cat nearby.

 

I sing to the cat, but he just doesn’t care.

Right now I’m so happy he’s still lying there

In the dark green grass that's cool to the touch.

Why do I think of that cat so much?

 

There’s a big orange moon in tonight’s eastern sky

And forty-some years have gone grinding by.

An orange cat ghost crosses trees in my road

To dwell in my own orange cat I’ll soon hold.

 

--------------------

 

Author’s Note: I was inspired to write these two poems by an article I

read from The New Yorker, March 21, 2011. The article, by Ian Frazier,

described the return of seals to New York Harbor, touching also on the

history of the quarantine islands.

 

Swinburne Island, poetry

by Kathleen Winfield

 

I lie here on this sun-cooked rock,

This island my sanctuary.

I turn my wounded belly toward the healing sun.

Peaceful now.

 

People were kept here before

After long ocean days, quarantined,

Imprisoned for their sickness,

Their cries -- "O Dio mio, aiutare me" falling on the water.

Some never left.

 

I sped south through the cold water sea, exuberant,

Swooping and diving, happy in my strong body,

Dreaming of old northern days with my family and playmates.

Jostling and leaping, all the seals slick and fast.

We fished and gobbled herring.

 

A white shape loomed, sudden, slashing teeth indifferent fierceness

It pierced the sea around us.

It chased us for a mile and a day,

My heart raced. My old friend, murdered, went down.

How did it end?

teeth clamped me, I writhe, twisted, desperate, got free, cut and bleeding.

I escaped.

 

I came back to this place. Now I lie on this rock,

Resting from the chase.

 

Here are ghost buildings; a brick chimney faintly looses

An old sick smell of burning flesh.

People carried here, weak, from their ships

,Never found their streets of gold.

 

Grey white gulls cry out, fly up and dive down.

I’m safe now.

The salt breeze caresses me.

I will rest here dreaming of herrings and

Not dreaming of sharks.

 

--------------------

 

An Epitaph, 1897 - 1911, poetry

by Kathleen Winfield

 

Francesco Ferranda died of cholera

On Swinburne Island a long time ago.

An immigrant child from Italy’s shore,

He sought a new life.

 

May he rest in peace

Remembered at least, at last.

 

Bio: Kathleen Winfield has a master’s degree in English Literature from

Temple University in Philadelphia. She grew up as a sighted person, later

losing a lot of vision at age 23. After much juggling of terms such as

"visually impaired" or "legally blind," and so forth, she now prefers to

say she is blind with some residual vision. She is a singer, and an artist

in clay sculpture, painting, and charcoal drawing. She lives with her

husband, who is blind, in northern Colorado.

 

--------------------

 

The Spot, fiction

by Michael Price

 

It was a particularly diverse gathering of celebrities that night at The

Spot, Hollywood’s hottest new watering hole. Top selling stars that I had

seen hundreds of times on TV had channeled their way in for a few beverages

and the residual effects thereof. Me? I just sat quietly, perched on my

stool in the far corner of the bar, keeping to myself, shamelessly allowing

anyone or anything entering my frequency to purchase and place in front of

me any and all varieties of alcoholic dampness, their choice entirely,

whatever they happened to be plugging that week. Suffice to say, I

consumed. And I watched. Great fun. It was the first time I had ever been

there and, as advertised, prime-time viewing at The Spot definitely

provided the finest entertainment this side of Rocky and Bullwinkle and, on

this memorable evening, I didn’t spend a dime.

 

The three guys behind the bar liked to refer to themselves as the

Fruit-Of-The-Loom gang, and I think I know why. Their uniforms...er, make

that costumes...positively reeked of silliness and the fruit cocktail

headgear was a bit of a stretch even for me, and I love fruit cocktail.

True, the incessant stream of undergarment humor offended a few folks but

hey, it’s a bar; rent a sense of humor, whad’ya say? Morris the Cat was

on his seventh or eighth life by the time I got there, and was still giving

the boys grief with every fresh beverage.

"I don’t like this one either," he’d complain, never failing to remind

them that, as a rule, he wasn’t the finicky type at all. Cap’n Crunch

and the Lucky Charms leprechaun expressed a good deal of dissatisfaction

with their drinks as well; evidently their shots of tequila were nowhere

near sweet or crunchy enough. A quite lovely young mermaid was talkin’

tuna with a real smooth-talker by the name of Charlie, two and three stools

down. Ol’ Chuck must have been doing something right; in a dramatic

moment of unbridled passion, the stars kissed. Early on in the evening a

guy wearing a fully loaded tool belt staggered in.

 

"Hey, grape-head, gimme one a’ dem screwdrivers, will yuz?" he bellowed,

approaching the bar. Slowly. He was fully loaded as well.

 

The grape-tender laughed. The guy was obviously hammered.

 

"Tell ya what," he of grapeness said to the white-haired souse, "save big

money and haul your ass outta here ‘cause, frankly pal, you’re plowed."

 

"But I...I..."

 

"Hey, could we get security over here, please," berry-tender yelled in the

general direction of the front entrance.

 

The Jolly Green Giant had been employed as The Spot’s bouncer for many

years and was at the bar before you could say Sprout.

 

"Yea, boss?"

 

"But I...I..."

 

"Look pal, you’re nailed. We saw ya comin’," interrupted

Polynesian-medley-tender (a.k.a. Fruitsy) with a snort. "Shovel this guy

outta here, will ya J.G.? Before he tries ta sell me a dryer or

something..."

 

The scantily clad giant physically, easily picked up the man who,

incidentally, was smiling profusely--had been, the entire time--slung him

over a shoulder, and started for the door.

 

"Ho, ho, ho," he boomed, flattening a cocktail waitress along the way. "Ho,

ho, ho."

 

The man liked his job.

 

Sara Lee was there but nobody liked her so she rolled her buns out early.

Dr. Pepper and Mr. Pibb showed up together. Strange thing: I mean, I know

they’re not even related but, somehow, that night I’d have bet you a

bottle of pop they were twins; I certainly couldn’t tell which was which.

Orville Reddenbacher and The Pillsbury Dough Boy popped up for a few hours.

Talk about your odd couples: ancient, tall, geezer with macular

degeneration and a prepubescent fat kid desperately in need of some sun. At

one point in the evening Mr. Whipple slugged dough boy in the gut with a

bony finger.

 

"Hee, hee," tittered the little white ball of child.

 

Old Man Whipple had been pulling crap like that all night, punching,

squeezing, fondling anything he could get his hands on. The Marlboro Man

got tired of Whipple’s act and hit him, knocking the half-glasses off

Whipple and the ever dangling cigarette from his own lips. Dr. Scholl was

making rounds on his hands and knees, sniffing feet.

 

Eventually, The Jolly Green Bouncer tossed out everybody in the previous

paragraph.

 

There was a very small dog prancing around selling burritos. His Mexican

accent was atrocious and I still can’t believe he never got stepped on,

purposely or otherwise. There was a very old, very small woman sitting

alone at the bar.

 

"Would you like to buy a burrito, senora?" the little fella chihuahua-ed.

The shriveled relic bought one and slowly unfolded the wrapper.

 

"Where’s the beef?! Where’s the beef?!"

 

She angrily hurled the meatless tortilla at the poor little fella and he

sauntered away, with that thing sometimes referred to as a tail between his

legs.

 

Tony The Tiger was, quite likely, the most popular beast in the bar that

night. He chatted up pretty much everybody and ended each conversation the

same way:

 

"YOUUUUUU’RE GREAT!"

 

Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben were absolutely adorable that night, holding

hands and a lot of that other senior citizen romantic garbage. When they

weren’t being all hot and bothered over each other, they spent a good

deal of time and effort filching recipes and other intimate trade secrets

off Betty Crocker who, by the way, got uncharacteristically fried that

night. Once, Mrs. Butterworth tried to poke her head in on one of their

conversations, but Old Lady Jemima caught her in the act, southern-drawled

a few choice expletives, and kicked her in the shins; that was the end of

that. Mrs. Paul and Mrs. Smith also swapped trade secrets for a while but,

after a rather heated exchange triggered by a half-baked theory by a

certain Sir Duncan Hines, who had risen to the occasion with an opinion at

precisely the right moment, the two old dames cooled down a tad, made the

decision to blend their resources and interests, forming one hot company:

Mrs. Paul Smith, which was obviously a bad idea. Ms. Libby and Senor Del

Monte appeared to be vegging out in the corner booth until I realized Senor

Monte was trying out a few of his better Latino cha-chas on her.

 

"I have bean gazing at you from afar for so very long, senorita."

 

"Oh for chrissake, I was just across the isle."

 

"Ah, my lovely cactus flower, may I say you are...how zey say...ze complete

package..."

 

"Look Julio, I’m kinda beet..."

 

"...ze soft music, candlelight, ze low heat, no?"

 

"...besides, I gotta pea..."

 

"But I offer you many valuable coupons for many especial things..."

 

"...real bad."

 

She decked him with a right cross, knocking him on his can. It was pretty

funny at the time but, looking back at it now, I suppose it was kinda

corny.

 

Back at the bar, Bud Bowl MMDCCCLXXVIII was putting many people to sleep so

berrytender bellowed "HAPPY HOUR!" an hour early, to a thunderously

positive response, and served both teams as the drink special,

a-buck-a-beer, first come, first serve. Boom. Twenty-two beers gone in

about a minute-and-a-half. Game over. And an excellent call.

 

Count Chocula and Frankenberry were only too happy to take advantage of a

cheapie. Truth be told, they were just too happy, period, until they got

themselves stuck in that ridiculous "Frankenberry!...Count

Chocula!...Frankenberry!...Count Chocula..." routine, a rut that, for some

asinine reason, put them on the cereal map. Then they commenced with the

biting and strangling schtick which, as always, I enjoyed very much.

 

"Butter."

 

Obviously, that needed to be said.

 

One incident I almost forgot to point out; about 11:30, a very small green

reptile hopped up on the bar, faced the room, took a deep breath and, with

considerable volume, distinctly orated the following message:

 

"I do not sell insurance! Once again, I do NOT sell insurance! I am a

gecko, and I repeat, DO NOT sell insurance!"

 

The evening’s festivities came to a rather abrupt conclusion when, around

1:30ish, a quite distinguished and proud looking woman, mid-fifties, give

or take a century, attired in circa early 1900’s flowing robes,

majestically swept her way through the overly animated activities of the

night, eventually standing, tall, head held high, right next to me. She

panned the room with great disdain, a bit overwhelmed, even appalled at the

goings-on about her, it seemed to me. Still, her composure remained intact.

 

"Pray tell me, young man," she voiced in a soft yet firm, unwavering tone.

For the record, technically, she had a smile on her face, but she wasn’t

fooling me. This lady was pissed. "Am I to assume that the local government

and law enforcement officials are aware of and--the mind reels at the very

thought--actually approves of such...unbridled unpleasantries?"

 

I gulped at my cocktail, stalling for the right words to find their way to

my lips. She gave every indication of someone who wanted to slap something;

I set my cocktail on the bar and sat up straight.

 

"This is no big deal, ma’am, trust me," I soothed outwardly,

buzz-killingly frightened inwardly. "Just a bunch of folks and...God, I

dunno, what d’ya call whatever else is in here?...ya know, they’re just

having a good time." I forced a brief chuckle. "It may interest you to know

that about half of these...things...they aren’t even real."

 

Her eyes ceased perusal of the bar--focusing, widening, teeming with fury,

at me.

 

I was so sure I was going to get slapped.

 

Instead, she slowly turned, calmly patted herself and her garments into

perfection, composed herself completely and, chin up and in the lead,

strode dramatically toward the center of The Spot. The room quieted with

each imposing step until she reached her mark; an eerie hush fell over the

premises--not a sound.

 

Then, with regal presence and a powerful sense of the moment, she pivoted

back toward the bar, her incensed eyes raised ceiling-ward, and with one

slow, dramatic sweep of her right hand, proclaimed to all:

 

"IT’S NOT NICE TO FOOL MOTHER NATURE!"

 

Then the bar cleared out and I went home in the rain and watched a little

commercial-free tube.

 

--------------------

 

"This Ball is Outta Here!"

by Lillian Way

 

Somewhere in the Seventh Heaven, far above the azure sky and within the

pitch blackness of outer space, is the throne room of Almighty God. The

Ancient One sits at his huge desk in a corner of his office near the sky

window. He rolls the window open and gazes down upon the humans he watches

on a regular basis.

 

On this cold yet sunny Monday of April 13, 2009, his wizened eyes focus on

a man he knows well. The white-haired sovereign glances momentarily at his

time clock. He sees the hour is drawing near when the voice of the

Philadelphia Phillies for nearly four decades, Harry Kalas, will be

silenced forever. "Sorry, friend. I know you were looking forward to

joining the team on that visit to the White House tomorrow. But it's time

for you to come home, where your close friend and colleague, Richie

Ashburn, has been waiting for you for a dozen years. You will have much

reminiscing to do," Remarks Jehovah as he locks his eyes on those of the

man entering the press box where that day's ball game will be announced by

someone else.

 

>From his elevated vantage point the Heavenly Father observes as someone

discovers the unconscious man lying on the floor of the press box and calls

for medical assistance. Harry is then rushed to a nearby hospital in

Washington, D.C. where he is pronounced dead by a physician in the

emergency room around 1:20 P.M.

 

At that same instant Harry's spirit approaches the pearly gates. "Hello,

Mr. Kalas, welcome home," says St. Peter, shaking Harry's hand vigorously.

"I'm as big a fan of baseball as you and many in the world below seem to

be. I only wish there'd been something relaxing like that to do to loosen

up when I lived on earth! It sure looks like fun." He holds the gates wide

open for Harry to walk through.

 

"Why, thank you," Replies the announcer sincerely. "I suppose you'll ask me

to say my most famous call?" Harry says, and follows that up with a broad

grin.

 

"If you wouldn't mind," St. Peter confesses in his thick Hebrew accent.

 

"Sure, why not? This ball is outta here!" Harry obliges.

 

Many friends and loved ones greet him. One in particular flings his arms

around him joyously. "Hey, Pal! I've been waiting twelve years to see you

again!"

 

"Hey Richie! I've missed working with you all those years!" Kalas

proclaims, returning the friendly embrace.

 

"I'll accompany you to the Father's throne room. He'll want a word with

you. Then I'll show you where your mansion is," promises his former

colleague.

 

"Welcome to your new home, Harry," Jehovah speaks to the newcomer in a

soft, gentle voice. "I'm very proud of your behavior while you were on

earth."

 

Later in the beautiful mansion next door to Richie Ashburn's, the men and

even God the Father watch the ball game Harry was expecting to announce.

"Wow! Look at all those people down there!" exclaims Richie. "I don't think

I received the same outpouring of love and affection from the fans that

you're getting! They're dumping cards, flowers, even memorabilia at Mike

Schmidt's statue! I won't be a bit surprised if someone gets the notion to

erect one in your memory!" Ashburn remarks.

 

They observe the news reports relating to Harry's graduation from Earth to

Heaven. Harry beams proudly as his three sons throw out a baseball, each to

a different player representing different eras in the history of the game.

The youngest boy sings the National anthem during the opening of Friday

night's baseball game.

 

On Saturday there are several tribute and memorial services in honor of

Harry Kalas while his casket lies in state at the stadium. "I feel so

cherished and loved," admits Harry.

 

"Your family will also hold private services sometime next week," adds

Richie.

 

"I'll miss it all, the game, the family, the fans, even those who come up

to me at a restaurant, who want to hear me say their favorite

announcements. I'm amazed to know how many of them grew up hearing only me

call Phillies' ball games," Harry confides.

 

"How about that, Buddy! They're even interviewing little kids mimicking

your calls!" Richie puts in with obvious surprise.

 

"I've always been told that mimicry is the greatest form of admiration,"

answers Harry. Jehovah smiles at the easiness with which these best friends

resume their camaraderie.

 

Many of the Phillies team players give eulogizing speeches during the

Saturday afternoon Memorial Service which is broadcast several times that

weekend. Even his three sons speak some words of encouragement to their

dad's fans, to comfort them in this time of great loss.

 

"We love you! We know our memories of you will be with us in our hearts,

even as your spirit will live on, always, so will your most famous calls.

Here's to you!"

 

Videos play at his memorials. Games will be cherished by his fans for

years. Even Jehovah's ancient eyes begin tearing at the sound of Harry's

words. "This ball is outta here!"

 

--------------------

 

A Labor Day Lament, poetry

by Manny Colver

 

This Labor Day it’s sad to say

that worker pay’s gone flat.

It’s been that way for decades now.

You ask, "What’s up with that?"

 

You know full well that exec pay

has suffered no such fate

when you hear that bonuses

have doubled here of late.

 

It’s not that hard to figure out

the blithest and the blessed.

They’ve managed to create a thing

called corporate board incest.

 

Top execs from everywhere,

some family members too

with friends from academia

a well connected crew.

 

They sit upon each other’s boards

and vote each other’s pay.

And with those fat directors’ fees

they’d never dare vote nay.

 

They claim it’s just and rightful pay

with bold, self-righteous thunder.

Consultants tell them that it’s fine

but workers know it’s plunder.

 

 

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(Lynda, Murna, Doris, Nancy, Marilyn, Shawn)