Magnets and Ladders

Active Voices of Writers with Disabilities
Fall/Winter 2025-2026

Editorial and Technical Staff

• Coordinating Editor: Mary-Jo Lord
• Fiction: Kate Chamberlin, Abbie Johnson Taylor, John Cronin, Marilyn Brandt Smith, and Carol Farnsworth
• Nonfiction: Kate Chamberlin, Marilyn Brandt Smith, Lisa Busch, Brad Corallo, and John Cronin
• Poetry: Abbie Johnson Taylor, Leonard Tuchyner, Brad Corallo, Sally Rosenthal, and Sandra Streeter
• Technical Assistants: Jayson Smith

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Submission Guidelines

Writers with disabilities may submit up to three selections per issue. Deadlines are February 15 for the Spring/Summer issue, and August 15 for the Fall/winter issue. Writers must disclose their disability in their biography or in their work. Biographies may be up to 100 words in length, and should be written in third-person.

Do not submit until your piece is ready to be considered for publication. Rewrites, additions, deletions, or corrections are part of the editorial process, and will be suggested or initiated by the editor.

Poetry maximum length is 50 lines. Memoir, fiction, and nonfiction maximum length is 2500 words. In all instances, our preference is for shorter lengths than the maximum allowed. Please single-space all submissions, and use a blank line to separate paragraphs and stanzas. It is important to spell check and proofread all entries. Previously published material and simultaneous submissions are permitted provided you own the copyright to the work. Please cite previous publisher and/or notify if work is accepted elsewhere.

We do not feature advocacy, activist, “how-to,” or “what’s new” articles regarding disabilities. Innovative techniques for better writing as well as publication success stories are welcome. Content will include many genres, with limited attention to the disability theme. Announcements of writing contests with deadlines beyond April 1 and October 1 respectively are welcome.

All work submitted must be original. We do not accept work written by an AI or any form of plagiarism.

Have You Published a book? If you would like to have an excerpt of your book published in an issue of Magnets and Ladders, please submit a chapter or section of your book to submissions@magnetsandladders.org. The word count for fiction and nonfiction book excerpt submissions should not exceed twenty-five hundred words. Poetry book excerpts should be limited to five poems. Be sure to include a synopsis of your book. Please include information about where your book is available in an accessible format, either an eBook or audio format. If you submit a book excerpt, it is included in your three submission limit. We will publish up to one book excerpt per issue.

Authors under age 18: Please include a statement from a parent or guardian that indicates awareness of your submission of literary work to Magnets and Ladders.

Do you have a skill, service, or product valued by writers? For a minimum contribution of $25.00 we will announce it in the next two issues of “Magnets and Ladders”. All verifications of products or services provided are the responsibility of our readers. Book cover design? Copyediting? Critiques? Formatting for publication? Internet access or web design? Marketing assistance? Special equipment? Make your donation through PayPal (see magnetsandladders.org) or by check by March/September 1. 100-word promotional information is due by February/August 15. Not sure about something? Email submissions@magnetsandladders.org. All donations support Magnets and Ladders.

Please email all submissions to submissions@magnetsandladders.org. Paste your submission and bio into the body of your email or attach in Microsoft Word format. If submitting Word documents, please put your name and the name of your piece at or near the top of the document. When possible, please send your submissions as a Word or txt attachment as many email programs have been reformatting poetry and putting unwanted line breaks in stories and essays. Submissions will be acknowledged within two weeks. You will be notified if your piece is selected
for publication.

Final author approval and review is necessary if changes are needed beyond punctuation, grammar, and sentence or paragraph structure. We will not change titles, beginnings, endings, dialog, poetic lines, the writer’s voice, or the general tone without writer collaboration. If your work is selected for inclusion in a future “Behind Our Eyes” project, you will be notified; your approval and final review will be required. To insure we can contact you regarding future projects, please keep us updated if your Email address changes.

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Audio Versions of Some Past Issues are Available for Your Listening Pleasure

The Perkins Library for the Blind has been recording issues of Magnets and Ladders for several years. In 2017, these recordings became available on cartridge to patrons of The National Library Service for the Blind and Print Disabled. For many of our readers, the Perkins recording of each edition of Magnets and Ladders is their only access to the magazine. Other readers may enjoy the pleasure of hearing the stories and poems performed by the Perkins narrators after reading the magazine online. In the fall of 2022, we were given permission, by Perkins, to upload mp3 files of magazine recordings. Back issues starting with the Spring/Summer 2019 edition of Magnets and Ladders are available now at: https://www.magnetsandladders.org/mp3. Please check back often, as we anticipate adding more back issues soon.

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Behind Our Eyes announces our third anthology

Description of cover image courtesy of Be My AI: The image is the cover of a book titled Behind Our Eyes 3: A Literary Sunburst. The subtitle reads, “The Third Literary Anthology of Stories, Poems and Essays by Writers with Disabilities.” The book is edited by Mary-Jo Lord. The background of the cover is gray, and the text is in yellow. Below the text, there is an image of a bright, fiery sunburst, showing intense solar activity with vivid orange and yellow colors.

Behind Our Eyes 3: A Literary Sunburst is available from Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, and soon coming to Amazon.

From the back cover:
In Behind Our Eyes 3: A Literary Sunburst, the third anthology of its kind, six sections comprised of memoirs, fiction, and poetry share slices of life from the perspectives of those living with disabilities. Most works first appeared in Magnets and Ladders, an online literary journal in which novice and experienced writers with disabilities showcase their work. While unique challenges are incorporated into some of the works, this compilation speaks to universal themes and common experiences, involving loss and grief, adversity and fear, love and passion. Subjects such as life-changing illness and the death of a pet are shared with sensitivity and compassion; some works reminding us that a rainbow is possible only in the aftermath of a storm. Heartbreaking, as well as heartwarming, memoirs recount experiences belonging to military veterans, children of immigrants, and parents in the trenches of child rearing. Witty fiction introduces us to cosmic bowling with aliens, and asks us to envision a sky with two moons. Reflective poems describe braille as “ticklish filigree lace on cardboard paper” and fingerspelling that “performs magic in a cacophony of the palms.” In other verse, lyrical imagery paints enchanting portraits of the natural world. To unexpected delight, tantalizing recipes accompany several works; such as those for edible salad bowls, lemon herb bread, cinnamon rolls, and even frozen yogurt pops for golden retrievers named Sammy who “sing the blues.” As a part of the community myself, I am reminded that the only thing a deaf woman cannot do is hear, and the only thing a blind man cannot do is see. This engaging collection promises three enriching opportunities: readers are challenged to question outdated notions of disability; invited to appreciate perspectives that differentiate us from one another; and encouraged to embrace the threads that make up the fabric of our collective human experience. Readers, disabled and not, will be inspired to hold up a mirror to their own experiences, and recognize that, reassuringly, we are all in this together.
Kelly Sargent, Creative Nonfiction Editor, The Bookends Review and author of Seeing Voices: Poetry in Motion

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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 and from other booksellers. It is available in recorded and Braille format from the National Library Service for the Blind and Physically Handicapped.

“Behind Our Eyes, a Second Look” is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other booksellers, and in E-book format on Amazon Kindle. It is also available in recorded format from the National Library Service for the Blind and Physically Handicapped. See our book trailer on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hk0uIaQTr24&feature=youtu.be.

Several members of our group meet by moderated teleconference twice monthly to hear speakers; share work for critique; or receive tips on accessibility, publication, and suggested areas of interest.

Our mailing list is a low-traffic congenial place to share work in progress; learn about submission requests; and to ask and answer writing questions. If you would like to join our group and receive access to our phone conferences and mailing list, please complete our quick and easy membership form at http://www.behindoureyes.org/mform/form.php.

If you would like to learn more about Behind Our Eyes, or if you would like to make a donation, please visit our website at http://www.behindoureyes.org.

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Table of Contents

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Editors’ Welcome

Hello:

As leaves crunch under foot, and the air has a crisp freshness, it’s time to welcome the cooler months.

The Fall/Winter edition of Magnets and Ladders is packed with poems, stories, and essays from new voices, along with familiar favorites.

Although our third anthology, Behind Our Eyes 3: A Literary Sunburst is still in the queue to be recorded by The National Library for the Blind and Print Disabled, it is available to download in Braille on their BARD website.

I would like to give a big thanks to all of the committee members, Marilyn Brandt Smith, and Jason Smith for your hard work and support throughout the production process.

We had contests with cash prizes in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry.

Below are the Magnets and Ladders contest winners.

Fiction:

• First Place: “Waiting for Her” by Gregory Smith
• Second Place: “The Bosendorfer Story” by Lorie McCloud
• Honorable Mention: “Wheels Of Destiny” by Kate Chamberlin
• Honorable Mention: “At Summer’s End” by Abbie Johnson Taylor

Nonfiction:

• First Place: “A Giant’s Snowballs” by John Cronin
• Second Place: “Hero” by Gregory Smith
• Honorable Mention: “Adrift” by Greg Pruitt
• Honorable Mention: “Getting the Hang of it” by Jennifer Marra

Poetry:

• First Place: “Eternal Brook” by Leonard Tuchyner
• Second Place: “From Boots: A Family-tree Poem” by Alice Jane-Marie Massa
• Honorable Mention: “Soldier Husband’s Return” by Wesley D. Sims
• Honorable Mention: “Winter Pilgrimage” by Sally Rosenthal

Congratulations to all of the contest winners.

The Magnets and Ladders staff wishes you all a safe and happy holiday season.

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Part I. The Joy and Wonder of the Seasons

A Taste of Autumn, poetry
by Carol Farnsworth

Red, green, yellow apples tumble in press.
Bags of ripe fruit stacked to sell.
Scents of sugar cinnamon rise over cooling donuts.
I cross cracked, worn floorboards to make a selection.
Warm confections, cinnamon sprinkled with powder sugar a mug of fresh cider in my hand I cross to a picnic table.
Sipping, I smile. Filled with past memories.
Gathering fallen fruit to press.
Filling gallons with golden juice.
The heirloom press,
Has cranked for generations.
Amber liquid splashes over sides.
Down a long trough.
Bottled in recycled glass.
A taste of autumn,
Then and now.

Bio: As a poet, blogger and family historian, Carol Farnsworth relates stories with a humorous twist. Born with a congenital eye disease that slowly caused her blindness, she strives to see the light side of life. With her daughter Ruth and husband John, She has traveled by bike, car and plane discovering the natural world. Her writings have appeared in online magazines and publications. Her books include Leaf Memories, a chapbook of nature from a tandem bike. She contributed to Strange Weather Anthology, True Quirks of Nature by Marlene Mesot.
Visit her WordPress blog at: https://blindontheliteside.com

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Whispers of Fall, poetry
by Richard McClellan

Ground covered in a haze,
With a moonlight piercing afterglow,
The shimmer is brazen,
Filled by blowing leaves in tow.

Giving hints of the change to come,
Cool air creeps in at night,
The Whispers of Fall migrate,
Towards October’s day of fright.

The cordial days of fall,
Bringing seasonal beliefs,
After thy hot days of summer,
With the sounds of autumn relief.

The Whispers of Fall,
Make a joyous fellow,
With the rustling of colored leaves,
In their shades of Red and Yellow.

Bio: Richard McClellan was born in Yellville, Arkansas. He served in the U.S. Army, and has traveled the world including Japan, Korea, Portugal, Italy, Canada, and most of the lower 48 United States and Alaska. His favorite place that he has visited is the Azores Islands in the middle of the Atlantic ocean.

His hobbies include poetry, genealogy, motorcycling, crocheting, and knitting. Prior to an injury sustained in 2007, he enjoyed playing billiards, 8-ball and 9-ball competitively. His educational background includes a Bachelor’s degree in Electronics from SMSU and an Associate’s degree in Electromechanical Technology from North Arkansas Community College.

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On All Hallows Eve, fiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor

The house was dark except for a lighted pumpkin in a front window. A cat perched next to it on the sill. All was quiet except for the rustling of leaves.

“Honey, I don’t think we can trick-or-treat here,” I told my eight-year-old daughter, Jennifer. “Nobody’s home.”

“But they wouldn’t go off and leave a lighted pumpkin in the window. It could start a fire.”

“Well, it might be a battery-operated light.”

“Look at the cat!” Jennifer pointed.

“Oh, honey, that’s a black cat. They’re bad luck. We’ve had about all the bad luck we can take.”

“Yeah, I know. Daddy left us, and we lost our home in Florida because of the hurricane. But Grandma and Grandpa said we could move here to Sheridan, where you grew up, and live with them. You have a job you like. I have new friends in a school I like, and I get to see Grandma and Grandpa every day instead of just twice a year.”

“You’re right.” I hugged her.

“Grandma said you should always look on the bright side, no matter what.”

“She’s right, of course.”

“Besides, Grandma said that bit about black cats being bad luck is an old wives’ tale.”

“She’s right about that too.”

Suddenly, an eerie howl erupted from the screened-in side porch of the house. Jennifer screamed, dropping her bag of goodies.

Grabbing her hand, I said, “Let’s get away from here.”

We didn’t stop running until we reached our lighted front porch a few blocks away. The door opened, and Mom gaped at us.

“Grandma, we were at this house that was all dark except for a lighted pumpkin, and there was a black cat in the window, and there was this big, scary dog on the side porch that howled at us.”

“Goodness!” Mom said. “Come inside. I’ll make some hot chocolate, and you can tell Grandpa and me all about it.”

As we sat in the living room in front of a roaring fire, sipping cocoa, Jennifer told the whole story. Dad scratched his head. “That sounds like the Potter house.”

“Of course,” Mom said. “Lynette, you remember the Potters. You went to school with Sylvia.”

“Yes, I remember now. Sylvia had a younger brother, Ian. They had a black cat and a big black dog that loved to howl. They kept him either in the yard or on the side porch. They always put a lighted pumpkin in the window on Halloween.”

I shook my head. “I lost touch with Sylvia after I left town. Whatever happened to them?”

“Well,” Dad answered, “last year, they all went on a family vacation-except for the cat, of course. And they were all killed in a car accident.”

“On All Hallows Eve” was published in Living Vicariously in Wyoming: Stories, Taylor, Abbie Johnson, 2025.

Bio: Abbie Johnson Taylor has published three novels, two poetry collections, a memoir, and a short story collection. Her work has appeared in The Weekly Avocet and other publications.

She is visually impaired and lives in Sheridan, Wyoming, where she worked as a registered music therapist with nursing home residents and in other facilities. She also cared for her late husband, who was totally blind and suffered two paralyzing strokes after they were married. This is the subject of her memoir and many of her poems. Please visit her website at: https://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com

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Pale Heliotrope Sky, poetry
by Lynda McKinney Lambert

peace is a gentle hand
on frosty winter nights
nighttime dreams bring
Heavenly visions
and snowflakes
patience – stillness
arrive with the heliotrope sky
predict
– handiwork
Amish bentwood rocking chair

anticipated the next snowfall
low-flying sparrow darts
from beneath the wooden porch
deep snow covers the ground
orchestration of birds
warm-up for Saturday morning
performance punctuated by
slush – cars
slippery – highway

patience – stillness

loud knocking of hidden woodpecker
somewhere behind the barn
patient hands
barren trees catch snowflake
rocking – prayers
gloves
loud knocking of hidden woodpecker
searching
pale heliotrope sky.

Bio: Lynda McKinney Lambert writes and creates visual art from her vintage home in the Village of Wurtemburg, in Western Pennsylvania. She writes poetry and personal nonfiction essays. She currently has six published books available at all retail booksellers. Her artworks have appeared in international exhibitions, including Japan, New Guinea, Austria, and the United States. Lynda retired from her position as Professor of Fine Art and Humanities at Geneva College in 2008 due to profound sight loss. She invites readers to discover the subtle nuances and beauty of a physical and spiritual world as she weaves strands from history, nature, and her personal life experiences. Lynda’s most recent solo exhibition of poetry and fiber art Word and Bead: A Life Tapestry This show was sponsored by the Hoyt Art Center, New Castle PA in August – October 2025.

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Waiting for Her, fiction First Place
by Gregory Smith

Charlie paced, hands in his pockets like an expectant father in a waiting room. Arrival and departure announcements competed with piped in Christmas music overhead. Travelers carried brightly-wrapped packages in festive gift bags. Greeters offered warm, melting hugs to chilly arriving family and friends.

Strange, he thought he heard his name being shouted from across the crowded train station. It was his brother, waving and calling his name. Not who he expected or hoped would be greeting him.

“Hey, man!” Dominic shouted above the noise of the crowd. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” Charlie replied, shaking hands and hugging his older brother.

“What are you doing here?” Dom asked. “Traveling?”

“Waiting,” Charlie answered.

“Waiting for your train home?”

“No. Waiting for someone. What about you? Leaving town without the family?”

“No, no. Coming home from work, like usual.”

“Work on Christmas Eve?”

“Well, only until noon. More like an office party downtown all morning. I actually left early to get home to Kerry and Kira,” said Dom.

“How’s everyone doing?” Charlie asked.

“Just great. It’s been a while. Why don’t you stop by tonight for dinner?”

“Thanks, Dom, but I think I’ll pass,” Charlie said.

“Why…Picking someone up?” Dom pried.

“Hopefully,” his brother replied.

“Hopefully? I’m sure there are better things to do then wait in a madhouse like this on the afternoon of Christmas Eve.”

“Actually, I’ve been here since early morning,” Charlie said.” I expect her at any moment.”

“Her?” Dom winked. “Ah, then it is a friend! I’m so glad for you! What’s her name? How did you meet? You know, give me the dirt.”

“Alice,” Charlie muttered. “Her name is Alice.”

“Funny, you’ve never mentioned her before.”

” There’s nothing to mention. I met her three years ago.“

Dom gave his brother a side-glance. “You met her three years ago? Why haven’t you introduced me?”

“The truth is, I haven’t seen her since,” Charlie explained. ”I come here every year to wait for her. It’s been three years now.”

“Wait a minute, Chaz. You’ve been coming back…for three years…waiting for a woman you don’t even know?”

“Well, I don’t know her very well. We met here at the train station by mere chance.”

“Three years … it’s been that long already?” Dom asked softly.

“Since Ellen passed?” Charlie replied. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“And that’s when you met this…Alice?”

“Precisely.”

“Chaz, it’s your life; I know you’ve been lonely, and I don’t want to come off as the know-it-all older brother….”

“Like usual,” Charlie interrupted, a smile playing on his face.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Dom said. “But okay, exactly how did you meet her?”

“Well, it was Christmas Eve. I was right here, at this bench, waiting for my train to Pittsburgh. After Ellen died, I needed to get away for the holidays…”

“I understand,” Dom interrupted. “I remember how tough those first holidays were.”

“I decided to visit Spider. You remember him. We were college roommates back in the day,” Charlie said.

“Oh, yes…Spider! Big drinker, if I recall correctly,” Dom reflected.

“Exactly. To be honest, I was going to Pittsburgh to drink my sorrows away. I didn’t want to be alone for the holidays, so he invited me out there. Well, if you remember, that was the year of the big Christmas Eve snowstorm. My train was delayed. A train from Baltimore pulled in right before they shut everything down. I was right over there, getting coffee. When the passengers from the Baltimore train started streaming in, the coffee line grew. The guy in front of me said he would pay for my coffee as a little Christmas gesture. I thought that was a nice idea, so I went along with it, and said I’d pay for the person behind me.

“Anyway, I heard this soft voice say ‘Thank you.’ I turned around to say ‘No problem.’ That’s when time stood still. This beautiful woman stood there. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Right here, in the hustle and bustle of the station. Our eyes met and that was it.”

“Tell me more,” Dom said. “Let’s sit down for this.”

“We started talking,” Charlie continued. “I ended up buying her a cinnamon bun too. The wafting aroma of cinnamon was just as intoxicating as her perfume.”

“Cinnamon! Sounds serious. So, what then?” Dom replied.

“Well, we strolled over to this bench and sat down. She said ‘Excuse me for a second,’ as she was looking up at the schedule board and texting someone. She had gotten off the Baltimore train and was planning to connect to the next train to Boston, which was her destination. But the snow had delayed everything. She was stranded like I was.

“She put her phone down and looked straight at me. It was like something in the movies. Sort of like ‘Sleepless in Seattle’- like magic. Like it was meant to be. Instead of connecting to Boston and Pittsburgh, we connected with each other. My heart skipped a few beats, for the first time in a long while.”

“Let me guess…did she have long red hair?” Dom asked.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, she did,” Charlie answered.

“And green eyes?”

“How did you know?”

“Brother, that’s Ellen,” Dom pointed out.

“Yes, that was Ellen,” replied Charlie. “It’s not my fault I like redheads with green eyes.”

“Go on,” Dom said passively.

“Where was I? Oh, yes…We started talking. That’s how I knew she was going to Boston. She had a terrific sense of humor. We laughed about the pathetic possibility of spending Christmas Eve stranded in a train station away from family and friends. She was so easy to talk to. She reminded me so much of…”

“Ellen,” Dom finished.

“Yes,” Charlie said. “Ellen. Like she was Ellen. Like Ellen missed me enough to ask out of heaven for Christmas Eve, just to spend it with me.”

“Isn’t that how you met Ellen? Here…by chance…at this train station?” replied Dom.

“Yes,” Charlie admitted. “Coincidence, isn’t it?”

Dom sat silently. “I want some coffee. Do you want a cup? Let’s go get some coffee, Chaz…”

“No!” Charlie replied steadfastly. “I can’t leave here. What if I miss her? I’m waiting for her, no matter what. You go and get the coffee if you like.”

“Okay, I’ll bring one back for you. My treat…but only because it’s Christmas,” Dom teased. “I’ll be right back.”

********************

Once around the corner Dom pulled out his cell phone and called his wife.

“Hey baby. He’s here… You had it all figured out…. I’m pretty worried… she’s a reincarnation of his deceased wife… Yes, that’s why he’s here! I’ll tell you the whole story later. Listen, my train is leaving soon. I’m bringing him home for dinner. Do we have enough fish? I’m not leaving the train station unless he comes with me. He’s got to move on with his life. Call it tough brotherly love but I want my brother back, starting today. Ok, we’ll see you soon. Love you. Bye.”

Dom bought two cups of coffee; but before heading back to his brother, he purchased another train ticket. As Dom approached the bench, Charlie was nowhere in sight. Strange, after swearing that he would not leave that area.

“Where the hell is my lunatic brother?” Dom muttered.

That’s when Dom saw Charlie hustling back, flushed and out of breath.

“What’s wrong?” Dom asked, handing Charlie the coffee.

“I thought I saw her,” Charlie said. “I thought I saw her across the train station. Maybe she forgot where we met and went to the wrong bench. But it wasn’t her.”

They sat down again where Charlie picked up his story.

“So, there we were, talking for a good four hours. Naturally, she was sad about missing Christmas Eve with her sister, but, before you know it, we were best friends. She told me all about her life: She was a kindergarten teacher. She loved animals. She had a cat named Walter. Her favorite color was blue. She loved Christmas, but she was really a summer girl. She could cook, if need be. Her specialty was Italian, which is right up my alley. We had so much in common- like soulmates.”

“Was she married?” Dom asked.

“I don’t know. She never took her gloves off, so I couldn’t tell if she was wearing a ring or not,” Charlie confessed.

“Chaz, you were star-struck by this beautiful woman who was the spitting-image of Ellen, you asked her all of this other dumb stuff, like ‘What’s your favorite color?’ and you don’t even know if she’s married?”

“Well, no. I didn’t think it was appropriate. After all, we just met,” Charlie reasoned.

“You were flirting with her?” Dom surmised.

“Yes.”

“And she was flirting with you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you get her number?”

“No,” Charlie admitted. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“She got yours?”

Charlie sighed deeply. “No. The old Chaz, back in the day, would’ve given her his phone number in a heartbeat. This might sound crazy but I held back because…well…if it was really Ellen, I didn’t want her to think I was cheating on her.”

“Chaz,” his brother answered sternly, “Ellen is dead. You were there when she died. You were at her funeral. I know this hurts. But you have to accept the fact that Ellen is not coming back!”

Dom patted his brother on the shoulder as Charlie sipped his hot coffee.

“I’m sorry to be so harsh, old man,” Dom apologized.

“I guess you’re right,” Charlie answered, staring ahead.

“This Alice…what happened to her?” Dom inquired.

“Pretty soon they announced that the snowstorm was moving out. They were clearing the tracks and would be up and running. I jokingly threw out the line ‘This has been fun. We should plan on meeting here every Christmas Eve, just for old times’ sake.’ She said ‘Sounds like a plan…See you next year!’ She boarded her train to Boston and I went home. I didn’t feel like going to Pittsburgh anymore. I was happy; It was good to laugh again, good to feel alive again.”

“Chaz, if your encounter with Alice made you feel better, so be it. But as far as coming back here every Christmas Eve, that was just small talk, you know, something people say they will do but never mean to do.”

Charlie remained silent. “I know you have a lot of trust, more than I do,” Dom admitted. “You’ve been here, waiting for her, for three freaking years. She hasn’t shown. Isn’t that proof enough?“

Charlie put his coffee down on the bench and reached inside his overcoat pocket for a handkerchief, wiping his tired eyes.

“Maybe I’m losing it, Dom,” he said.

Poor guy, thought Dom. Chaz was always a sentimental fellow, but now his emotions were controlling his logic.

“What do you mean, bro?” Dom asked. “Do you mean this woman isn’t real? That she’s a part of your imagination? A byproduct of your grief?”

“No, she was real! You must believe me.”

“I believe you, man. I believe you. She was real. But she wasn’t Ellen,” Dom replied, putting his arm around his brother. “Listen, Chaz- I want you to come home with me. The Paoli train is about to leave and I got you a ticket. Kerry is making seven fishes. Remember how Mom used to do the traditional Italian Christmas Eve dinner? Well, she’s not Mom when it comes to cooking…don’t tell her I said that…but she’s pretty damn good. And Kira is all hyped-up about Santa this year. Please, I’m asking you to come home with me and share Christmas Eve dinner with us…like old times.”

“Like old times,” Charlie repeated.

“Yes, like old times. Like when we were kids. Like when you and Ellen used to stop over for Christmas. I miss those days. I miss having my only brother join us. It’s been three long, shitty years. I understand your grief, your sorrow…”

“No, you don’t! Don’t say you understand because you don’t! You never lost a wife to goddamn cancer,” Charlie replied, his voice rising. “Just because you’re a damn psychologist doesn’t mean you have to analyze everything in life. Some things are more a matter of the heart than the head. We had the greatest romance. I just want that again.”

Several seconds of awkward silence followed until Dom spoke up.

“You’re right. I don’t know what you’ve gone through,” Dom said, humbled by his brother’s outburst. “What I do know is that it’s time, Chaz. Time to stop beating yourself up. Time to move on.”

The announcement finally came- the Paoli train was leaving the station in five minutes. Time to board.

“Alright, grab your coffee,” Dom ordered. “Let’s hustle to make the train. I think it’s the last one leaving for the night…”

********************

Thankfully, it wasn’t snowing as the brothers boarded their train, but it had turned bitterly cold. Charlie reached into his overcoat pocket for his gloves, only to find it empty. They must’ve fallen out of his pocket at the bench while he was reaching for his handkerchief.

“My gloves!” Charlie gasped. “I lost my gloves. I need to go back and get them.”

“Chaz, the train is ready to leave. They’re only gloves. I’ll buy you another pair,” offered Dom.

“No, I must go back and get them. Ellen gave me those gloves when we were dating. They are sentimental. She even had my name stitched on them. Don’t worry, I won’t miss the train. I’ll be right back!”

Charlie got off the train, ran to the station, flung open the door and sprinted to the bench where he had left his gloves. Breathlessly he arrived, only to find a familiar woman standing there, holding the gloves and smiling.

“I remember these,” she said.

“Ellen,” he replied. I knew you would be here.”

They stood silently for what seemed like an eternity, looking into each other’s eyes.

“I had to come back, “she said. “My friends said to forget you, that it was only a chance encounter. I listened to them for a while, but I never forgot our Christmas Eve together. So, here I am. I told you I’m a hopeless romantic.”

Funny, she never corrected him about getting her name wrong. Who was she- Alice or Ellen? Did it matter?

In all of the excitement Charlie never noticed his homeward bound train slowly pulling away from the station, as an exasperated Dom looked out the window.

“My brother, the lunatic,” Dom mumbled to himself, sitting down. “If you want to spend your Christmas Eve in a lonely train station by yourself, more power to you. I’m going home to my family.”

Back inside the station, Charlie and Ellen hugged.

“Coffee?” she suggested, smiling. “This time it’s my treat.”

“Cinnamon bun?” he asked, reaching for her hand.

“Of course,” she replied. “What would Christmas Eve be without it?”

Bio: Gregory Smith is a retired medical social worker. He is the author of 35 short stories, 25 of which have been published. He is also the author of the upcoming memoir, Stronger Than Bone, which will be released worldwide on November 7. Greg is active on social media, including Facebook, X, Blue Sky and Instagram.

He enjoys reading, watching sports and classic movies, and listening to music during his free time. He is married to his beautiful wife, Holly, and is known as “Daddy” to his two cute dogs, Katie & Cocoa.

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Perfection, flash fiction
by Bill Tope

Ralph sat upright in his recliner, his legs splayed out before him. His hands, resting between his knees, quavered furiously. Ralph sighed. How, he thought, could he ask Elizabeth to marry him when he couldn’t even hold out the engagement ring without shaking like a cornstalk in the wind?

Would she laugh at him? he wondered. No, Elizabeth wasn’t cruel, but how could she possibly not feel the revulsion that Ralph felt for himself? She wouldn’t give voice to that emotion, but that only made it worse. Ralph had once owned a three-legged dog, but his father had scolded him, saying he should settle for nothing less than perfection, and dad had the dog put to sleep. When Ralph subsequently developed his tremor, his father had regarded him as something less than he had before.

In 1930s Germany, Ralph knew, he would have suffered sterilization so that his infirmity could not be passed on to future generations. Or, he might have himself been put to death. He let out a breath. Why me? he used to wonder. At length, he had conjured an answer: Why not me? Besides, by now, he was used to it. He took up the jeweler’s box and extracted the ring, weighed it in his palm, contemplated his intense, primal love for Elizabeth for a moment, then said aloud, “I’ll ask her. Tonight!”

They sat in his living room, a fire crackling in the fireplace on this, the night before Christmas. The tree scented the room with balsam. Ralph was nervous. He had never asked anyone to marry him before; he’d never had the nerve. Also, he had never been in love before. She sat beside him on the sofa, waiting expectantly, he thought. He held the jeweler’s box behind a throw pillow; he didn’t want to frighten her away. Could she really accept him? he wondered desperately.

He was not anyone’s idea of perfection, certainly not his father’s. His childhood rejection by his dad figured prominently in Ralph’s memory, and it’s what made him the man he was today. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was perfection itself. He had never known a nobler, more exquisitely lovely creature before. If she said yes, then she would be his mate, his lover, his wife. A bead of perspiration appeared on his brow. Nervously, he wiped it away with the hand holding the box.
“What’s that, Ralph?” Elizabeth asked unexpectedly.

“Huh?” he said stupidly, hiding the box again. But it was too late.

“What have you got there, Ralph?” she asked anew, pointing to the hand holding the ring box.

Ralph brought the box into view and murmured, “Liz, I was going to ask you…ask you to marry me.”

“Have you changed your mind?” she asked boldly.

He blinked. “No…No, I…Will you marry me, Liz?” he implored. “I know I have a lot of faults,” he began. “But, I love you, and…”

“Shut up, Ralph,” she said gently. “You had me at ‘Will you marry me?’“

Ralph smiled, leaned in for a kiss, being careful not to bump Elizabeth’s walker.

“Perfection” was previously published in the magazine, Children, Churches and Daddies.

BIO: Bill Tope has Parkinson’s, Tourette’s Syndrome, TD and Misophonia. He lives in the American Midwest with his mean little cat Baby.

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My Present, poetry
by Joan McNerney

I wanted to bring back the
best gift from the country
for you, just for you.
I wanted to.

Some sky would be nice
lots of lovely sky with
light fleecy clouds.

So I rushed through
stores and bought the
biggest shiny box and
looked for a perfect bow.

All shades of blue, violet
with red and yellow.
An entire rainbow of
colored ribbons for the
box to put this sky into.

Then on the bus my bow
fell apart. Somebody
stepped on the box. It’s
all crushed and dirty.

By the time we got to
the city it was late. Did
my sky fly away?
The box is empty now.

I wanted to bring back the
best gift from the country
for you, just for you.
I wanted to.

Bio: Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. Her books The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael I & II, At Work and Light & Shadows* are all available at amazon.com

Joan was born with one dislocated hip and hammer toes.

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A Giant’s Snowballs, memoir, nonfiction First Place
by John Cronin

Leaping from the bed to the wheelchair, I quickly rolled into the kitchen for breakfast.

Before I said anything, Mom pointed out the west window exclaiming, “Look outside! Have you ever seen anything like that before? They cover the entire field. Some must be three feet high.”

Facing the window for a better view, I beheld the most amazing sight I had ever seen in my seventeen years. Wherever I looked, snowballs covered the field. There were big ones, small ones, and in between sizes.

Turning to mom, I blurted out, “Wow! It looks like giants were rolling snowballs all night. Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

“Never,” she replied. “I wonder if the wind I heard last night had anything to do with it.”

“I have no idea,” I responded, “but I can hardly wait to get out there and check them out. I wonder if they are hard like an ice ball, or soft like a snowball. Thanks mom,” I said when she placed a bowl of hot oatmeal before me.

“Take your time!” Mom ordered. “Don’t eat like a pig. The snow is not going to melt before you get outside.”

Mumbling through a mouthful of porridge I replied, “Maybe not, but I can hardly wait to find out about them. I think they are going to be fun to play with.”

With hot food in my stomach and teeth brushed, I wheeled to the laundry room where my snowmobile suit hung. Pulling on the suit, boots, mitts, scarf, and helmet, the last items I grabbed were my crutches. Standing with the crutches and leg braces, I felt like a knight of old, ready to joust with the giant makers of the snowballs.

Outside, I pulled the cover from my mighty steed, making sure he had plenty of gas and oil to eat. Strapping the crutches to the snowmobile’s running boards like a pair of saddlebags, I mounted my yellow charger. After a couple of yanks on the pull cord, my mount barked to life. With my thumb jammed hard on the throttle, I was soon roaring across the yard, making a beeline for the nearest large snowball.

Not knowing the consistency of the snowball, I took extra care when approaching it. It was the height of the snowmobile windshield. Reaching out with my mitten, I slapped the snowball. Instantly, the ball exploded, spraying a cloud of cold, fluffy snow over my mount and me.

While the snowmobile idled beneath me, I whispered to myself, “Wow! Bursting these snowballs is going to be one heck of a lot of fun. I smash into them; they burst, showering me with snow. First, I had better make sure that all the snowballs are fluffy. I do not want to slam into an ice ball. That would bring my snowmobiling career to a rapid end.”

Driving to another ball, I poked it with a ski. Poof! Another one bursts. This time I spurred my steed into a gallop, pointed it at the chosen victim and charged. Like before, the ball burst. However, this time a soft cloud of cold snow completely enveloped me.

“This is great!” I yelled to the sky. “How many can I smash?”

Charging around the field, I smashed every one of the giant’s snowballs I could find. It did not take long before a friend joined me. He had seen the snowballs and could not resist investigating. Soon Jim and I commenced smashing balls left and right. We competed trying to see who could demolish the most snowballs. We played a game of “Top Gun,” trying to get the highest score. Before long, we had cleared all the balls from half the field. At this point, we drew our machines together for a chat.

“Hey Jim, have you ever seen anything like this before?”

“No. Are these snowballs spread over all the fields? I hope so. We almost destroyed all the ones in this field. We need more to smash. Let’s go by Larry’s and see if there are any there.”

With the decision made, we both roared off. We were not disappointed. Wherever we looked, we saw the giant’s handiwork. Immediately we set to work bursting balls. As the day wore on and dusk descended, Jim and I headed to our respective homes. Our steeds needed some rest, after a day of jousting with a giant’s handiwork.

Later, I learned that what occurred was very rare. Mom was correct when she asked if the wind was partly the cause. Because we were in the midst of a February thaw, the snow was the correct texture for the wind to blow the snow into snowballs. The different sized snowballs were the result of how long the wind had been able to push the ball over the sticky snow. Stronger winds or different surfaces resulted in different sized snowballs. Whatever the reason it took herculean strength to make a giant’s snowball.

Bio: At sixty- nine, John spends most of his time reading, writing and visiting with friends. In his childhood, he contracted polio, leaving him a paraplegic. Later he attended the University of Waterloo where he obtained a B.A. in philosophy and political science, and an M.A. in philosophy. While working on his PhD John’s vision finally deteriorated to where he was legally blind due to retinitis pigmentosa. Unable to continue his studies, John decided to travel. He resided in Texas, later living in Jamaica. While in Jamaica, he met and married Gillian White. They now reside on an acre in rural Ontario, not far from Lake Huron.

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New Snow Moon, poetry
by Carol Farnsworth

New snow reflects silver moonlight on woods.
Stillness is complete, no wind, movement
crystal air, hangs, icy.
Sleeping birds, huddle, long for dawn.
Nature holds its breath.
Coloring sky with eastern glow.
Snow sparkles in sun rise.

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Winter Sanctuary, poetry
by Marilyn Brandt Smith

Timing is everything
For white tailed deer in Colorado;
We need to make our way
To a farm near our range
Just as snow is deepening.

Taylor Juniper evergreens stand strong,
A northeast to southwest windbreak we favor,
Protecting smaller Christmas trees on the farm,
A few outbuildings,
And part of the residence and yard;
Beneath their branches we have safety and nutrition
From the outer tips on low-hanging branches.

A tree from the long line of tall slender evergreens
Now and then becomes an adornment for an entrance or corner;
These trees are not for homes at Christmas.

Sometimes the farmers bring us extra food,
They don’t mind that we’re here;
The shelter we enjoy is a welcome break
For hard travelers seeking Winter grazing;
White on white,
Our tails fade into the snow as it gathers;
We stay settled
Until that inner knowing tells us
It’s safe and it’s time to move on.

Bio: Marilyn Brandt Smith worked as a teacher, psychologist, and rehabilitation professional. She has edited magazines and newsletters since 1976, and was the first blind Peace Corps volunteer. She lives with her family in rural Kentucky. Her first book, Chasing the Green Sun, published in 2012, is available from Amazon and other bookstores and in audio form. She loves writing flash fiction stories, and was the primary editor for the first Behind Our Eyes anthology, as well as Magnets and Ladders from 2011 through 2013. She enjoys college basketball, barbershop harmony, and adventure books. Visit her website: http://www.marilynspages.com.

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Part II. Looking Back

Eternal Brook, Poetry First Place
by Leonard Tuchyner

Around the lake, at eighty-four, I take my stroll
which has been my practice for over twenty years.
A great deal of history has changed in that stretch.
I see it happen as I walk through time,
especially on an Autumn day like today.

I make my way on hot hilly tarmac
and long for the narrow path that used to be –
Where the quartzite boulders and ever-present trees
welcomed me and my canine companion.
A shadow of trees reminds me of how it used to be.

Stopping to rest on a guardrail fence
sheltering a brook which babbles below,
I listen as it sings of bygone days,
then urge an aging body to renew my search.

I continue into the shadeless development
where I can catch a glimpse of the dying lake
and ducks finding shelter amongst houses.
Sometimes they walk amiably beside me,
and my soul feels hopeful and refreshed.
I lean on a neighbor’s sturdy wooden fence,
hear the earth movers there for the past three years
busily destroying forest to build high rises.
I shed a few tears for what we are forsaking.

Bio: Leonard Tuchyner lives in Central Virginia with his wife of forty-five years, and one cat. His chief hobby is gardening, after a long history of martial arts and bicycling. He also enjoys playing the harmonica with his pianist wife.

He started writing in earnest when he joined the Senior Center, about twenty years ago. He writes in multiple genres and has published four books. He is active in his writing community, having developed and run for eighteen years a Writing for Healing and Growth group at the Senior Center. He leads three small critique groups for Behind Our Eyes.

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Lollipop Farm, poetry
by Brad Corallo

Is there a way back to Lollipop Farm?
Oh, if only, if only!
Unblighted youthful joy.
A human boy child,
entranced by baby animals.
Kids, lambs piglets
far younger than his own eight years.
Bottle feeding a newborn lamb.
Such wonders and untainted amazement.

Incredibly, it is still possible
to catch a distant echo of
the magic shared of new life and
his first pony ride.
Parents with brownie cameras
clicking away,
eager to capture dawning delight,
illuminating their children’s eyes.

An ice cream parlor stop afterward.
All on a timeless, late spring day
when the future held no fear,
just wonder, dreams and promise.

But alas, memory is
all that remains.
For the farm is now a strip mall,
a dry cleaner, a shoe store and more!
Bewildered, an old man ponders
with tears in his eyes
“How can they call this progress?”

Bio: Brad Corallo, a writer in multiple genres, is a Long Island native. His work has been published in 22 previous issues of Magnets & Ladders, in The William B. Joslin Outstanding Program Awards Journal “NYSID Preferred Source Solutions”, The Red Wolf Coalition, L.I. Able News, several additions of Avocet and in Behind Our Eyes 3: A Literary Sunburst. He has been a life-long student of fine wine, food, music, books, space exploration, several professional sports and relationships of all kinds. Brad is now happily retired after thirty eight years of employment in the human service field. Due to LCA (a very rare genetic retinal condition) Brad has experienced impaired and worsening vision throughout his lifetime

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From Boots: A Family-tree Poem, Poetry Second Place
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

I am from boots.
I am from the Levone Valley–
the top of the boot of Italy.

I am from the boots in which my grandmother danced
aboard the ship La Touraine
which departed from Le Havre, France,
to take her over the waves and through Ellis Island
to a farm in Indiana.

I am from my grandfather’s boots
that were covered with coal dust
from a Vermillion County mine,
his boots that were covered with dirt
from the Klondyke farm,
his stained boots that pressed the grapes
he turned into red wine.

I am from the Army boots that his second son–
my father–Wore in the 638th Tank Destroyer Battalion
at the Battle of the Bulge.
I am from the boots
my dad wore as a firefighter,
as chief fire and safety inspector.

I am from the boots the Italian cobbler–
Joe Bello–repaired at his little shop in Clinton.

I am from the boots my mother wore
through a snowstorm, as she trudged home
through the impassable road, alongside the windswept field–
after putting up the mail at her post office
and then after leaving her car by Gisolo’s Grocery Store.

I am from the boots that my sister and I wore
to visit the real Santa in Santa Claus, Indiana.
I am from the Hoosier boots
that have walked through Wisconsin drifts of snow and icy sidewalks
beside Keller, Heather, Zoe, and Willow–
four Leader Dogs for thirty-five years.
I should shine these boots
and keep them in my memory-heart.

“From Boots: A Family-tree Poem” was published on Alice’s Wordwalk blog in February 2020.

Bio: Holder of poetry pom-poms, author of THE CHRISTMAS CARRIAGE AND OTHER WRITINGS OF THE HOLIDAY SEASON, creator of the poster “A Guide Dog’s Prayer to Saint Francis of Assisi,” retired (full-time) college instructor of English, weekly blogger since 2013, advocate for National Poetry Month, avid container gardener, believer in preserving family history, a Hoosier-at-heart who has resided in Wisconsin since 1991, thirty-five-year handler of four magnificent Leader Dogs-all of these shape the petals of the blossoming, poetic life of Alice Jane-Marie Massa. To read more of Alice’s writings, visit her blog and author’s web page: https://alice13wordwalk.wordpress.com https://www.dldbooks.com/alicemassa/

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Soldier Husband’s Return, poetry Honorable Mention
by Wesley D. Sims

A rapping on the back door-
one, two, on to five rapid taps,
a pause and then two more slow ones.
A private code he used to tell her it was him.
She jerked up in bed, slid into her house shoes,
quietly hurried to unlock it. Looked
through the peep hole to be sure,
but saw no one. Opened the stout wooden door
slowly to let him in. The room still dark,
she could only make out a shadowy form lurking.

He seemed so thin, more than when he left
for the war a year ago. Long days
and interrupted nights, hard marches,
going without food, not to mention the rigors
of frequent battles, must have worn him down,
stripped off every ounce of fat. At least he was home,
though she didn’t know for how long.
She couldn’t wait to tell him all the news,
how the children had grown like bamboo
shoots, how they missed him. To ask how
he survived the stress of war, if he got injured.
But all that conversation must wait.
Now she must just greet him, hold him,
tell him what a blessing it was to have him back.

She reached out to hug him, leaned in
to kiss him, but suddenly he wasn’t there.
Only cold, empty air. Her arms touched no flesh,
her hands met each other. She felt around
like a blind person searching something solid,
walked outside, but nothing. How could this be?
She looked left and right but there was no one.
Disappointment welled up inside her,
warmed her with a flush of surging blood,
turned to anger, subsided only through tears
that streamed onto her gown, that wouldn’t stop
flowing until she climbed back into bed,
choked and drowned her lifeless pillow.

Bio: Wesley Sims has published five chapbooks of poetry: When Midnight Comes, 2013; Taste of Change, 2019; A Pocketful of Little Poems, 2020; Where Saints Have Gone, 2025; and A funny Thing Happened on the Way to Maturity, 2025.

He has had poems nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart prize. His work has appeared in Artemis Journal, Bewildering Stories, Connecticut Review, G.W. Review, Liquid Imagination, Plum Tree Tavern, Proverse, Quill & Parchment, Novelty Magazine, Poem, Poetry Quarterly, Time of Singing, Wordgathering*, and several other journals and anthologies.

He lost hearing completely in one ear and has severe hearing loss in the other.

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Dream Catcher, memoir
by John Cronin

“Where am I? What happened?” I asked myself, trying to clear the cobwebs from my brain.

Shaking and sweating, consciousness slowly returned.

“Thank God, I’m still alive. I thought I would drown. Nightmares take so much out of me. I’ll not get back to sleep tonight. I wish I could filter out nightmares, allowing only beautiful dreams to enter my head.”

That started me thinking. Some of the material I came across when writing my thesis dealt with dreaming in First Nation cultures. For them dreams played an important role. They were the gateway to the spirit world. Spirits abounded, entering every aspect of life. A recurring dream may be a Manifestation of anxiety or stress in an individual or within the community. If that occurred, a shaman would arrange a dream reenactment ceremony, hoping to renew harmony within the person or tribe.

Dreams not only exposed deep psychological problems, could also help determine a person’s character. During sleep, dreams instilled Traits like generosity, courage, loyalty, trust, and maturity in the dreamer. Saving a friend, solving disputes, sharing food and helping with tasks, were all good character-building dreams. People needed to avoid dreams about Running in the face of danger, hording food, spreading lies, and avoiding work. This type of dream could instill undesirable characteristics in the dreamer. This is why dreaming the correct type of dreams was so important.

Unlike many other peoples, the Ojibwe people thought the spider symbolized comfort and protection. In the beginning, a mystical woman called Spider Woman provided spiritual protection for children, especially babies. Having an underdeveloped character, babies were especially vulnerable to dreams of maligned spirits. That’s why they turned to Spider Woman. She would provide spiritual protection at night to the innocent dreamers.

As the Ojibwe people expanded Spider Woman could no longer spread her protection over the entire nation. Loving her people, Spider Woman needed a way to protect the children from evil influences.

“I’m an excellent weaver,” Spider Woman said to herself. “Maybe I can weave a net to capture a person’s dreams. However, I must find a way to allow the good dreams to pass through the net. I need something sacred that is also beautiful. Feathers! They are sacred, and beautiful. Being sacred they will only allow beautiful dreams to pass through the net, and slide into the dreamer’s head. If I place the net so the morning sun hits it, the purifying rays will destroy the trapped evil dreams. I must tell my people how to create dream catchers, to protect the young, and ensure they develop a good character.”

Spreading the knowledge of how to make a dream catcher did not take long. Like other women, Ojibwe mothers wanted to protect their children from evil influences.

They used pliable willow wood to form a hoop large enough to place over a child’s head. Using hemp fibers, they wove a mesh that captured the dreams. Later in history they sometimes used canvass. Having affixed the mesh to the hoop, they then attached feathers to allow the good dreams to slide into the child mind. Sacred shells and beads decorated the hoop, helping to keep out the bad dreams. Everything used in a dream catcher came from nature, and had a religious significance.

Soon all Ojibwe mothers had dream catchers protecting their offspring from evil spiritual influences. Coming in contact with women from other tribes, use of the dream catcher quickly spread to other nations such as the Lakota.

Today popular culture has appropriated the dream catcher, like it has so much other First Nation’s artistry. There are instructions on how to make a dream catcher online. People can purchase dream catcher kits and make their own, or purchase one already made. However, for these people the dream catcher no longer has any sacred significance. It is a decoration, a novelty, something to spark conversation. However, for some, especially traditional First Nations people, the Dream catcher still holds some sacred significance.

I was not certain about the religious significance. However, being desperate, I was willing to try anything. For maximum efficacy, I needed to find a dream catcher made in the traditional manner. Having an Ojibwe reservation nearby, I decided to try my luck at their craft store. I found dreamcatchers. But not what I wanted. I knew they were mass produced, because of the use of plastic and nylon. They were a decoration. I doubted they would provide any protection. Turning to an older woman, I explained what I needed and why.

“You will not find what you want here. These are for tourists to decorate their homes or nurseries. My grandmother makes them in the traditional way. People claim her dreamcatchers work. I know they do. As a child I slept under one and I still use the one my grandmother gave me. And my dreams are pleasant, at least the ones I remember. Janett, can you look after the store if I leave? It’s not busy. I want to take this gentleman to Grandmother.”

“Thank you, ah, I didn’t get your name.”

“Star. And what do you go by?”

“John.”

Approaching the house, I saw a wrinkled, brown skinned woman, with white streaks in her black hair. She sat cross legged on a green, red, yellow, and blue striped Hudson’s Bay blanket that decorated the grass.

“Grandmother, this is John. He came to the store looking for a traditional dreamcatcher.”

“Granddaughter, would you kindly make some Tamarac tea for us? I expected some company, so I put water on to boil. I want to talk with John.”

“Yes Grandmother.”

“I can sense that you are troubled. Your spirit is in turmoil. Bad dreams are warring with your desire to be a better person.

“Thank you, granddaughter. I think I understand John’s problem.

“Wickedness wants to infiltrate your mind and take over your spirit. Do you want to prevent this?”

“O yes,” I exclaimed. “That’s why I’m here. I’ll try anything. I just want to rid myself of these nightly horrors.”

“Do you believe in the dreamcatcher’s power? If you truly believe, I have dreamcatchers I know will work. I made them myself, with objects I collected from Mother Earth.

“Granddaughter, fetch me the dreamcatcher with the white shells, blue pebbles, and the turkey cock feathers. Give it to John.”

“It’s beautiful. I’ll use it tonight.”

“Remember to place it so the first rays of the sun strike the mesh, burning out the malicious dreams. If you leave the protection of the dreamcatcher before the sun destroys the evil, they will rebound on you.”

“Thank you so much! How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

“Did I hear right when you said nothing? That will not do. You must accept something for your work and knowledge.”

“You needed spiritual help so I offered it and you accepted. The Great Spirit gave me the ability to create things to help those in need. He did not charge me. Just cherish your dreamcatcher, and keep it safe. One thing, if you find any interesting or beautiful things in nature, bring them to me. Maybe they are exactly what I need for the next dreamcatcher I give to a needy soul.”

Immediately upon reaching home I intended to install my new dreamcatcher. However, I had to change my sleeping arrangements. My bedroom window faced west. Great for sunsets, but not so good for capturing the first rays of the day.

“Gillian, I need your help to move the bed to the south- east room, so the dreamcatcher catches the morning sun. Make sure the bedhead is under the window. That way I can attach the dreamcatcher above my head and the morning sun will hit it.”

“Everything is ready. I hope you have a good night’s sleep. It has been a while since you did.”

The next morning, before I climbed out of bed, Gillian inquired, “how did you sleep? I did not hear you thrashing around. You don’t look flushed or sweaty.”

“I slept like a baby. The best sleep I have had in years. No nightmares of me behaving badly. The dreamcatcher worked.”

“Great! Maybe I’ll get back the man I married.”

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The Secrets Within the Chifforobe, Fiction
by Kate Chamberlin

Carrie, a former rebellious biker babe, had always felt a strange connection to forgotten things. She spent hours rummaging through flea markets and antique stores, drawn to the worn edges of old books and the faded patina of vintage jewelry. It was as if these objects carried whispers of “lives once lived”, fragments of untold stories waiting to be uncovered.

She grew up in a quiet town where tradition reigned supreme. Her grandma had raised her with a deep reverence for family history. Grandma often spoke of the house Carrie had inherited-a grand neglected estate that had once been the heart of her family’s legacy.

The house had belonged to Carrie’s great-grandfather, Hugo Moosemann, a man shrouded in mystery. All that remained of him were faded portraits and unanswered questions.

When Carrie moved into the house, she found herself drawn to the old Mahogany Credenza and tall Black Walnut chifforobe that stood in the corner of the dusty attic. Her fingers traced the delicate floral motifs etched into their wooden panels. The carvings on the surface seemed familiar, reminding her of the delicate patterns on her grandmother’s old locket.

Something about the massive furniture felt…alive, as if it were waiting for someone to unlock its secrets.

No one knew how long the chifforobe had been there-only that it had survived generations, tucked away and forgotten.

One rainy evening, while sorting through old belongings, she decided to explore the vintage armoire. The faded crimson velvet lining cushioned an assortment of antique garments. But beneath the clothing, tucked inside a hidden compartment, she found a bundle of letters each sealed with crazed wax.

The letters were dated from the early 1900s-love notes exchanged between two souls separated by war and distance. Their words carried longing, hope, and quiet despair.

Carrie felt as if she had stepped into someone else’s life, witnessing love that had defied time itself.

The more she explored, the more she felt the house was revealing its secrets.

The letters she discovered inside the chifforobe confirmed a suspicion that had lingered in Grandma’s stories. Hugo Moosemann had loved someone fiercely, someone whose name had been lost to time.

As she read, she noticed a final, unopened letter at the bottom of the stack. The wax seal bore the initials H. M., and inside was a message never sent-a promise to reunite, written with trembling hands.

Carrie reverently replaced the letters and gently closed the chifforobe, feeling an unexpected warmth in her heart.

The chifforobe’s presence felt deliberate, as if it had been waiting for her. It had kept its promise, safeguarding words meant to be read, emotions meant to be felt.

In that moment, Carrie knew her family’s history was not lost. It had only been waiting for the right person to find it.

Bio: Kathryn G. (Kate) Chamberlin, B.S., M.A., and her husband have lived and raised three children plus two grandchildren atop the drumlin in Walworth, NY, since 1972.

With the assistance of computer screen reader software, this former Elementary teacher, developed a Study Buddy Tutoring Service, presented her Feely Cans and Sniffy Jars Workshop, became the published author of four children’s books, edited a literary anthology featuring 65 writers with disabilities, edited the anthology for the Wayne Writers Guild, and is a free-lance writer.

As empty nesters, Kate and her husband enjoy having lunch out, country walks, and mall cruising or walking on their side-by-side treadmills during inclement weather.

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Rosebud, fiction
by Debra Jo Myers

I grabbed my Mrs. Beasley doll and ran to the car. Grandma Gigi was going to watch me while my mama went to the hospital to have our baby. Even though it was 4am, she told me we’d make my favorite berry cakes (blueberry pancakes) while we waited. I was three, and it is my first real memory. It was warm and fuzzy with my Gigi.

Grandma Gigi was a walking, talking Southern woman. Growing up in Kentucky with a large family, she learned to cook. She only cooked two meals a day, breakfast and dinner, but each was a four-course meal. Gigi always had on an apron she made, in all colors bordered in rickrack.

She would sit me on the kitchen counter. She’d get hot and stand in front of the icebox “cold ‘nuff ta freeze yer britches”. Gigi said, “Havin’ grub was like livin’ in high cotton”. She told us her own family was poor and often went hungry. She was the oldest of eight kids. She never learned to drive. She said she wouldn’t end up “splatted on da’ road fer critters ta eat”. She was content with being home. She said it’s ‘where gals were ‘posed to be’.

She’d say, “Mama’s gotta look after their young’ens, Rosebud, no goin’ off ta work ‘til they grown. No one else be carin’ fer dem babies ‘cept their mama!”

She called me Rosebud. Whenever I visited, she’d say “Rosebud, give me some a dat sugar! Let me hug yer neck!”

Gigi couldn’t have been more fun. We’d play games outside she made up. Getting dirty meant later getting in a tub full of Mr. Bubble. Gigi wouldn’t let mama see us “less yer squeaky clean ‘n fine as a frog’s hair”.

She called one game, “dem dang pests”. We’d look for ants, worms, beetles, lightning bugs, and the coveted grasshopper. Each pest was one point, except the grasshopper. Gigi said it got five points “cuz it scats like a cat on a hot tin roof”. Whoever won got to pick dessert for supper. Pie, cake, cookies of any kind, or homemade ice cream. You couldn’t go wrong with any of them.

Gigi had a vegetable garden covering her tiny backyard with a broken-down wooden swing and a big toy barrel full of bats and balls. She let me plant Petunias every spring around the front and sides of the house. She said ‘tunias are da pertiest fl’uer”.

She’d sit in her old rickety rocker on the porch for hours watching people, and guess where they were going. She made it up, but it was fun.

“Dat gent’man in da truck, Rosebud, is goin’ to get air in ‘dem tires. Cuz dat on back’s ‘bout flat. His misses is mad as dickins she’ll be late to see her boy playin’ ball cuz a dat tire.” Then she would giggle.

If she saw a little girl, she’d say “She’s perty, but not pertier than my Rosebud.” Then she’d give me sugar and a neck hug.

Papa was crippled from Multiple Sclerosis. Only back then, the disease often went undiagnosed. Now that I have it, I recognize some of my symptoms were his too. He was born in Tennessee, also from a large family of seven. He called us ground squirrels and bullfrogs. Gigi said Papa “Ain’t got da sense God gave a billy goat.”

I didn’t really notice her accent or funny ways until I started school. Gigi had only finished 7th grade. She told us “ya all grajiate or be dum as a bum playin’ da fiddle”. I tried to talk like her. Laughing she’d say “ya got Southern gumption runnin’ in yer veins.”

Gigi had a stroke when I was thirteen. With no one able to give her round-the-clock care at home, she went to a nursing facility. She said she was in the “old folks” home and was “livin’ high on top da’ heap”. She had spent her whole life taking care of others, so she wasn’t used to being taken care of herself. All the residents loved her and voted her “Sweetheart Queen”. She said she did not “need no fuss”. Her only complaint – “Who in tarnation’s doin’ da’ cookin’ round here?” Gigi missed her own cooking. I missed it too.

When I got pregnant with my oldest daughter, no one was more excited than she was. She was going to be a great Gigi for the first time. After I had the baby, I took her with me to the nursing home to meet Gigi. Right away she took her from me and started to rock her and sing. She asked me to wheel her around, so she could show her friends this baby who was “sweeter ‘n sweet tea ‘n sunsets”. Another tidbit. When Gigi asked me my daughter’s name, I told her it was Tiffany. She said, “What kinda name is dat? I’m callin’ her Stephanie.” And she did her whole life.

When she got dementia years later, more often than not, she didn’t remember me. She called me Flora, who was one of her five sisters. Dad said I looked like Flora. Being Flora meant hearing about Gigi’s childhood. Flora was a twin with Laura. They were the youngest in the family, and Gigi would say to me, “Sis’s takin’ care a ya ferever li’l Flera. Yer da’ lil’lest. I love ya like a possum loves a Junebug.”

The last time I saw her I cried. Aunt Dottie said she’d go before morning. I didn’t want her to go. I was beyond blessed to have had a grandma like her. Her perspectives, faith, and strength will stay with me. Sometimes when I’m with my own grandchildren, I wish I could be like Gigi. I did carry one thing over. When I see them, I tell them to “give me some a dat’ sugar”.

The last thing she said to me was precious. “Bless yer heart, Rosebud, no need fer cryin’. I still love ya like the pertiest fl’uer in da’ garden. I’m just headin’ up yonder.” She pointed toward heaven. In her last moments she had remembered me, she called me her “Rosebud”. Gigi was 96.

Bio: Debra became a published author in Children’s Digest when she was in the first grade. She jokes it took her fifty years to publish again. Debra’s home is the ‘Circus Capital of the World’ housing an amateur circus. She performed ten years becoming a trapeze highflyer. She is married and is a ‘Nana’ to ten. She is in community theater as a board member, actress, and director. Diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 2016, writing brought her out of depression. She has stories in online magazines and on the blog of a best-selling author. Debra is working on a book of short stories titled Cake Crumbs.

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Ingenuity, nonfiction
by John Cronin

“Oy, in the shop. A little service please.”

“Hi Mass William. How be Mis Enid?”

“She be good. I’ll tell her Gillian asked.”

“What do you need?”

“A half dozen eggs. Mis Enid is making a pudding. Make sure they are fresh.”

“Do you have a carton?”

“Yes, here it is,” Mass Willian stated, handing over the carton.

Walking to the back of the shop, Gillian reached for the carton of eggs on top of the fridge. Placing a half dozen eggs in the carton, she mused, “This carton was full the last time I saw it. Now it is two eggs short. I wonder what happened.”

“Here Mass William. That will be ten dollars.”

“Thanks. Have a good day.”

“Make sure to give my best to Mis Enid.”

Later, upon Uncle Babes return, Gillian asked, “Did you sell any eggs when I was gone? When I checked the eggs on top of the fridge, there were two missing from the carton.”

“No, I sold none. Are you sure you didn’t sell one or two eggs?”

“Yes. Last night when I locked up the carton was full. Now two are missing.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“When are you going to fix the hole in the wall, just above the fridge? It looks like it is getting bigger. I don’t see any water leaking in, yet.”

“I’ll get to it, sometime.”

“What do you think, Winklett? Is it time for supper?”

“Yes. I’m hungry. It’s been a long day. Gillian, do you have the keys?”

“Yes. I’ll lock up. Supper smells good.”

“That was a yummy supper. I always enjoyed fried chicken, with rice and peas. I’m full, but I’m thirsty. What do you think, Gillian? Go back to the shop for a box drink? You have the keys.”

“Let’s go. A slushy orange box drink sounds great.”

Unlocking the door, turning on the light, the two teenagers came upon an amazing sight. There, atop the fridge, were two rats. They could not believe what they saw. The most ingenious team of workers ever. One rat stood on its back legs, and grasped the egg with both front paws. Flopping on its back, the rat pulled the egg onto its stomach. Cradling the egg with all four paws, the other rat provided the locomotion. Grabbing the tail of the rat holding the egg, it commenced pulling it into the hole in the wall.

Quick as a flash, Gillian ripped off her slipper, throwing it at the rapidly retreating rats. They escaped, and the egg broke. All Gillian could say was, Uncle Babes better get the hole fixed.

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Bundy Starfish, memoir
by Steve Adams

Coming across the turnoff to Uluru, formerly known as Ayres Rock, I was excited to go have a look. I asked the truck driver who had picked me up south of Alice Springs to drop me off, and I watched his huge vehicle on the long, empty road grow smaller until it travelled beyond sight.

Standing in the middle of Australia, I had the sense of being completely alone, and except for the grey ribbon of road running through, there was no proof of man’s existence. I considered how easy it would have been for those early explorers to go missing in that country and felt pity for anyone who had been lost out there. Although the country was soft in its beauty, its arid harshness would show no mercy to someone dying of thirst.

Owing to the scarcity of cars, I thought I’d be sleeping there. I began to scan the edge of the mid-afternoon bush for a suitable spot to pitch my tent. On the other side of the road, a large lizard casually crawled over a rock. It froze in surprise upon seeing me. We looked at one another. I regarded it closely and considered I was possibly the only human it had ever seen before it scrambled away among the rocks.

The spindly, dusty-looking, deep-green trees swayed heavily in the wind while the sky hid behind thick, greyish, pink clouds, and it was beautiful. I snapped a photo and enjoyed the scenery.

A green, panel van heading north slowed, turned the corner, and pulled up near me. I walked over and looked through the passenger side window. The driver was a neatly dressed Japanese fella who, with his Eyes wide open, stared at me with a serious look like a fox caught in the headlights. He gestured with his left thumb to put my gear in the back of his van. I threw it in and joined him in the front. He handed me a cold beer from a large esky which sat between us on the bench seat, and we introduced ourselves. I found he could hardly speak English and smiled. I understood his name was Egar.

As we sped through the centre of Australia, I realised my new friend was drunk, but I was tired and requested, by pointing in the back and putting my face in my hand, if I could have a nap. He looked disappointed but pulled over for me, and I climbed in the back. He didn’t allow me to rest long, though, and woke me by pulling my foot and saying, “Rock!” I hopped back in the front and saw in the distance, Uluru poking out of the desert sand.

We passed a large sign on the right of the road that shouted a warning. “No Camping, No Fires, $10,000 fine.” I recognized by the way he didn’t even glance at it, Egar didn’t understand the words, and I chose to ignore it. Two hundred forty-four kilometres from the turnoff, we arrived at Uluru.

I considered the cultural enormity of the place where millions of people had trod this spot before me and of how famous it was. We pulled up and stepped out. I walked over to touch it and read the plaques, telling of people who had died there and the various reasons for their demise. When we’d seen enough, we drove around to the back of Uluru, pitched my tent, gathered some wood, lit a fire in the fading light, and cooked something to eat. Egar had rice, I had baked beans, and we shared. There wasn’t another single soul to be seen.

When in Darwin, I’d searched for a second-hand guitar, but not being able to find one, I bought a harmonica instead. Following the instructions on the paper which came with it, I learned to play “Skippy, the Bush Kangaroo.” Much to the disgust of some of the other people staying at the hostel.

Egar, who was smiling and clapping along, reckoned it was brilliant. I wondered what he’d tell his family about our night together when he returned to Japan. I imagined that conversation.

“I was sitting on the ground around a campfire at Uluru, drinking with a long-haired Aussie bloke, who was wearing jeans, a shearer’s singlet, thongs, a hat, and playing Skippy the Bush Kangaroo on his harmonica.”

I chuckled at the thought.

At about eight o’clock, we ran out of beer. I was delighted when Egar went into the back of the van and pulled out another half a carton. When we finished that, we were still keen to party and drove back to the resort we’d passed on the way in. There was a pub there. Egar urged me to pick the drink, and we went halves in a bottle of Bundaberg Rum. We once more passed the sign loudly threatening us not to camp, and once again, I ignored it.

I stoked up the fire with the wood we’d collected earlier, took out the harmonica at Egar’s urging, and, while he clapped along, I continued playing, “Skippy, the Bush Kangaroo.” We drank half the Bundy, which proved a bit strong for my mate. I looked over to see he’d fallen backwards into my tent and had passed out. He was in the starfish position with his legs poking out of the tent’s opening.

My attention was drawn by the silhouette of the famous monolith standing soundlessly in the moonlit desert. I wondered if anyone had ever tried climbing the back of it. The longer I looked at it, the more tempting it became, and I decided I’d give it a go. After jogging about a quarter of a kilometre through the spindly scrub, I started the eight hundred-sixty-three- metre climb. At first, it was easy, but at about fifteen or twenty-metres, I hit a steep spot and was stuck. When I tried to clamber down, I couldn’t. The steep slope I’d climbed was too sharp to descend.

My only hope was to try to turn around and slide down on my backside. Precariously, I turned around, started inching my way down, and was going okay. But with about three-metres to go, thanks to the Bundy, I slipped, bounced off the rock, and thumped heavily on the ground. Standing up to dust myself off, I was disappointed to see I’d broken the strap on my left thong. The ground was prickly, which made it tough to walk, but with no choice, I clenched the broken strap between my toes, and with the thong flapping, I hobbled in the direction our camp might be. Our fire was out, so I could no longer see where we were. Finally, I was close enough to make it out in the moon’s glow. Relieved to have made it back, I crawled onto the front seat and crashed.

It seemed no sooner had I gone to sleep than I was woken by someone aggressively yanking me out of the van by my ankle and dumping me firmly on the ground.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing camping here? I’m going to hit you with the full force of the law!”

I felt so ill; I couldn’t care less.

“Yeah, yeah, settle down, mate!”

Sitting on the dirt in the sunny mid-morning, I tried to focus. After finding my smokes on the floor of the van, I lit one and turned to the big Ranger.

“What’s the matter?”

He told me about the no fires or camping rule. I explained about Egar and how I’d been asleep in the back of the van on the way in.

“I didn’t see any sign, and my friend wouldn’t have been able to read it.”

“There’s nobody else here, just you.”

I told him flatly, “He’s in the tent.”

He repeated there wasn’t anyone in the tent and the only one there was me.

I paused, “Oh shit, a dingo’s eaten me Japanese mate!”

The Ranger told me not to be a smart arse.

I was sitting on the seat with my legs out the driver’s side door and staring at the ground.

“What the?”

I looked up at the side of the ranger’s face and turned my head right to look in the same direction. Egar was running along the track, which went around the base of Uluru, a nine- or ten kilometre journey. He was dressed in a crisp, white karate suit and trotted towards us from about a kilometre away. He stood out brilliantly against the red, brown, and green colours of the desert.

When he reached us, I asked, “What are you doing?”

With a serious look, he replied, “Training.”

I chuckled.

The ranger laughed, “Just pay your fee at the Ranger’s Station if you want to climb it.”

Continuing to laugh, he hopped in his 4WD and left.

Egar was impatiently keen to climb Uluru. Even though I knew I’d never be back there, in the condition I was in, I couldn’t think of anything worse. I thought I’d better try, but I first needed a coffee.

I dug my boots out of my pack, and while putting them on, I thought, With no sign of the ranger, I could relight the fire and boiled some water. Once we’d had a hot drink, we drove to the Ranger’s Station and paid the fee of two-dollars fifty each.

Egar had drunk more than me the day before. However, no sooner did we pull up at the start of the climb than he shot out of the van and raced up the rock. I reluctantly made my way over and began to climb. At twenty or thirty-metres, I had to lie down. My next mission was to summon up enough energy to get back down. I made it down and leaned against Uluru with my right arm stretched out beside me, my palm flat against it.

Gazing up at it, I said out loud, “I’m nineteen now, and I’m here. If I could climb this, I would. I can’t, so don’t get ten or twenty years down the track and judge yourself for not climbing it today. I just can’t do it.”

I made my way back to my seat. Egar eventually came down and did his best to tell me he’d been waiting for me.

I was happier when we headed to the resort where I had a shower and another coffee. I smiled, when I saw this extraordinary Japanese bloke’s first priority was to buy a cold carton of beer, a couple of bags of ice, and restock his esky.

Following a hot shower, I was sitting in the car awaiting Egar. A German bloke passed by, and we struck up a conversation. Andres, or Andy, was going south, and I offered to pay half his fuel if I could get a lift with him. He agreed.
When Egar came back to the car, I gestured my plan to head southward with the German. I was sad to see disappointment fill his eyes. I drew a map in the dirt to show him which way I’d come and which way I was going. He was headed north to the places from which I’d come. Anyway, we swapped addresses. I gave him my mum’s, and he wrote his in Japanese in a little, black address book I carried. I thanked Egar for such an entertaining time, and we went our separate ways, unlikely to meet again.

Bio: Steve Adams and his family live in Western Australia. Following a serious vehicle accident which left him totally blind, he began writing. He is currently working on his book titled, Journey Through The Mirror.

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Hero, nonfiction Second Place
by Gregory Smith

Dad loved baseball; we went to as many games as my health would allow. The Philadelphia Phillies were our passion, win or lose (we barely survived their monumental collapse in 1964), living and dying with each game. We looked forward to the next baseball season, Spring couldn’t come soon enough. As soon as the schedule was released it was a big deal, deciding which game we wanted to attend. It was a thrill getting the tickets in the mail or venturing down to venerable Connie Mack Stadium in late winter to buy tickets for the far-away summer.

The Phillies didn’t win much while I was growing up. They were perennial underdogs made up of players who would never give up, so they were a team I could identify with. I watched all the games on TV and listened to games on the radio. Like every kid, I had a transistor radio tucked under my pillow at night, so I could listen to the late West Coast night games. Legendary broadcasters Bill Campbell, Richie Ashburn, and By Saam were like my extended family every summer. Listening to the Phils’ battle icons like Koufax, Clemente and Mays kept me riveted. If I fell asleep before the game ended, Dad always stuck a note on my bedside rails in the morning before he went to work.

“Phils won, 3-2.”

Like most kids in the early 1960s, I collected baseball cards. There was nothing like the smell of bubble gum when you were opening a fresh pack of cards. It was always a hit-or-miss thrill to open a pack and find out what players you got to complete your checklist. Then, of course, you would either trade your doubles with other kids in the neighborhood or “flip” cards (a way of winning cards by tossing them on top of each other). I was a pretty good flipper in my time and won extra cards for my collection on our front porch every summer.

My favorite player during my childhood was shortstop Bobby Wine. He couldn’t hit a lick- he finished with a paltry .215 batting average- but he was the best defensive shortstop of his time. He had a rocket arm, great range, and his glove gobbled up ground balls like a vacuum cleaner. I loved his style and ease while playing the field. “Scrappy” was a good term for Wine.

Dad knew someone from work who was a neighbor of Bobby Wine’s (Wine lived in the Philadelphia suburbs too). As a surprise, Dad arranged for Bobby to call me on my birthday one year. Imagine getting a call from your favorite ballplayer on your birthday! Every kid’s dream come true!

I was born with a genetic defect called Osteogenesis Imperfecta, a condition which made my bones extremely brittle. I fractured hundreds of bones during my childhood. I was bedridden much of the time, so watching Phillies baseball on television or listening to the games on radio was my ardent pastime during the spring and summer. When my favorite player reached out to me, it gave me hope. I was not forgotten. His inspiration gave me a reason to survive from season to season.

The following season was when I got to go to my first live baseball game. I prayed that nothing would happen to mess it up. I had fractured a leg the morning of an Eagles-Vikings football game we were planning to attend one fall. Instead of seeing our Birds take on the Purple People Eaters, I spent my Sunday afternoon at Children’s Hospital, getting a new plaster cast I would wear for the next eight weeks.

That spring, my beloved Phillies were playing the dreaded Los Angeles Dodgers. It was a hot ticket as the Dodgers had a great team, led by the Hall of Fame pitching duo of Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale. My heart raced as we approached Connie Mack Stadium (formerly known as Shibe Park). It was nice to be in the city for some fun instead of for broken bones. The huge light towers of Connie Mack drew closer as the stadium came into view. We had a brief panic when I thought I had forgotten the tickets, but all was well when we found them under my seat. Since it was a neighborhood stadium, we usually parked right on the nearby streets. Dad gave a quarter to a scruffy-looking kid hanging around our station wagon. He promised to “watch” our car for us while we enjoyed the ballgame, so “nobody stole the tires.”

“That was nice of him,” I said to Dad, who just smiled and shook his head.

Dad carried me on his shoulder, like a real-life Tiny Tim, as he walked up to the stadium gates. I peered inside and saw the parrot- green grass of the outfield. I had never seen anything so beautiful in my youth! The strange aroma of hot dogs, peanuts, and cigar smoke hung like a cloud over the fans. The buzz of the crowd, the chants of “Get your program here,” the excitement all around us as people streamed through the turnstiles in droves- a scene so different from what I could see on TV or imagine from the radio. After buying our programs (we always kept score with the little red Phillies pencils that came with the programs), we descended the steps and kept going until we reached the field level. Dad had somehow secured box seats, right next to the Phillies’ dugout on the third base side of the field. I soaked in the entire atmosphere with everything in front of me: the players, the enormous grandstand, the field, everything in color. Back in those days, our televisions were still black and white. The vibrant colors amazed me, from the vivid red Phillies’ caps to the blueness of the Dodgers’ jackets. It was a perfect Sunday afternoon, the sky so blue, the sunshine so toasty, and the slight breeze fresh and soft. I closely watched the players, both Koufax and Drysdale right there, literally yards away, almost close enough to touch. There was Jim Bunning, the Phillies’ ace, warming up in front of us.

Suddenly, out of the Phillies’ dugout popped the familiar number seven, Bobby Wine himself. He walked over to our box, said hello, and shook my hand. He autographed a ball and a photo card as we chatted for several moments. I have no idea what we talked about, but it didn’t matter. I got a chance to touch his glove, that same glove where countless baseballs came to rest. It was like touching Babe Ruth’s bat.

I watched the light towers slowly vanish from view as I peered out the back window of our wagon, wishing the day had only begun, already looking forward to the next game later that summer. Baseball, so pure and innocent in the sixties, allowed us to share a common bond and spend special times together, father and son.

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Sixty years later I was sitting in my wheelchair at a small round table, checking my phone, awaiting the arrival of our special guest for the evening. The hall, which was used for Senior Center activities during the day, was filling up early. It was Hot Stove night, our baseball discussion group meeting where older gentlemen ate hoagies, drank beer, and talked about baseball. Then our featured guest arrived.

I was warmly dressed in a red Phillies sweatshirt on that late October evening, but I still felt a chill go up my spine when I noticed the gentleman who hobbled into the hall, his friend helping him remove his jacket. I waved at our guest when he looked across the table at me, and he gestured in return. I tried not to stare as he ate a ham hoagie and chips.

When the mini buffet was finished our host and event organizer, Lou, introduced our guest. Phillies legendary shortstop, old number seven himself, Bobby Wine. Everyone applauded as we thanked him for coming out.

For the next two hours my childhood hero was sharp, funny and full of old stories. He was now eighty-six years young, married for sixty-two years, with an abundance of grandchildren and great- grandchildren. We heard all about how he broke into the sport, stories of the guys he played with and against, and his opinion of today’s game.

I asked a few questions but never let on about who I was. I enjoyed the informal talk and the back-and-forth, question and answer agenda. This was real, old-school Baseball we were talking about, like how the players in the sixties had to work regular jobs during the off-season, just to make ends meet.

I brought along three glossy autographed photos Bobby Wine had sent me in my youth. While I recovered from many a broken bone, I used to thumb- tack the photos to a cork bulletin board on the bedroom wall alongside my bed. Those black and white pictures gave me hope that I would live to see another Phillies game and another Phillies season, win or lose. When you’re a kid with a life-threatening condition such as Osteogenesis Imperfecta, winning or losing wasn’t as important as just reaching the next game- be it in person, on television or most likely back then, on the radio.

As I listened to Bobby talk baseball I thought back to those old days. All the fractures, all the casts, all the pain was worth seeing the excitement of one more baseball game every spring. The man sitting across the table from me, along with my late father, was a huge reason why I loved baseball so much.

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The evening was getting late. We usually called it quits around eight o’clock. I debated to myself whether I should speak up or not. I told myself that I may never get this opportunity again. I raised my hand and said something to the effect…

“You were my favorite Phillies player when I was growing up. Word got to you that I was a fan, and you sent me these photos…” I took the pictures out of the old, worn manilla envelope and showed them to everyone.

“You even called me one year on my birthday,” I continued. “You took time to call me during the off-season. And we met before a game one Sunday afternoon. That was sixty years ago. I just wanted to thank you for everything.”

The group clapped as Bobby dug into a plastic bag he had brought along, rolling a brand- new baseball across the table to me, joking “Here you go! You get the ball…You earned it!”

Wine brought stacks of Bobby Wine trading cards, the same kind I used to flip back in the old days and passed them out to the guys. He sat and took photos, signed cards and slips of paper as the room erupted with chatter, most of the guys shaking hands with the Gold Glove-winning shortstop, before departing into the night.

I waited until near the end when I wheeled around several tables and chairs, reaching my longtime baseball hero, reunited after six decades.

I asked if he would sign the baseball that he just gave me and take a new, fresh picture. I put my hand on his shoulder, the memories flooding my mind. I gazed into his worn, tired eyes, shaking that right hand that rifled many a groundball to first base back in the day. He looked at my legs.

“They tell me I have Neuropathy,” he said quietly.

He was once an athlete. It had to kill him to be so limited.

“I’ll be sixty-eight next month.” I whispered back to him. “We are still here, still kicking. That’s what matters.”

He gave me hope when I was a kid. Now it was my turn to return the favor.

He smiled as we parted, most likely for the final time, each going our separate ways. As I watched him slowly walk away to the dimly lit parking lot, I realized how much I still admired this guy, now than ever.

He was STILL my hero.

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How Many Snow Years Are You? memoir
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

When we are determining the age of a dog, we speak of “Dog Years.” Have you ever thought of age in regard to “Snow Years”? At what age did snow become something not wished for, not dreamed of? When did snow become more of a burden, no longer a beautiful blessing?

Certainly, one must age in Snow Years when “snow days” taken off school are no longer a part of one’s wintry world. Perhaps, “The Middle Snow Years” are those decades when one is concerned about the snow hindering one’s being able to arrive at work on time or return home at a reasonable hour. Then, the moment arises at a later stage in life when one suddenly becomes worried about falling in the slippery snow or ice–“The Senior Snow Years.”

When I was in grade school in west-central Indiana, snow and ice were certainly not a match for winters in Wisconsin; however, when my friends and I found a patch of ice, we were delighted. I even recall that once on a school playground, we tried to cover and hide the ice patch so that we could enjoy sliding on the patch the next day. What a different viewpoint of ice and snow!

Around 1957, on a snow day without school in session, while my sister and I were still in “The Early Snow Years,” we were looking out the bathroom window because it had the best and easiest view of the field and road to the west and northwest of our home. Suddenly, in that rare blizzard, Mary and I realized that my mother, coming home from the post office (her workplace in our small, rural town), was trudging through the snow alongside the snow-drifted road because she had to abandon her car beside Gisolo’s Grocery Store. Due to our being in “The Early Snow Years,” my sister and I found this snow scene in which our mother was the only human being to be quite amusing: we had never seen our mother in such circumstances which we perceived as a winter wonderland of a playground. By the time Mother arrived home, the black-and-gray wool coat, the triangular winter scarf over her head and tied under her chin, the once warm gloves, and heavy boots were covered with snow. What looked like fun to us had absolutely not been fun to our mother. I think our laughing and enjoying her trek through the snow upset her even more. Actually, I cannot remember another time when Mother was more upset with her two daughters. Her being able to drive to and from the third-class Blanford Post Office where she was postmaster was of utmost importance to her: Mother’s regular workday was from eight to five and, for many years, even a half day on each Saturday. Well, on that memorable snow day, I think my sister and I gained a better appreciation for “The Middle Snow Years.”

I do imagine that people who ski down snowy slopes or enjoy other winter sports are exceptions to my “Snow Age” theory.

Fortunately, despite the negative seven-degree wind chill that greeted my Leader Dog Willow and me early this morning [December 5, 2024], we have had only two inches of snow thus far this season in Milwaukee. Although I am snug into “The Senior Snow Years,” I, with my Leader Dog Willow, still enjoy a brisk walk through the fresh snow–before the too heavy application of that four-letter-word substance–S-A-L-T–ruins the pristine snow!

Now, dear MAGNETS AND LADDERS readers, will you share how old you are in snow years? No matter where you are in the timeline of “Snow Years,” may you and yours be blessed with a safe and happy holiday season!

A version of “How Many Snow Years Are You?” was published on Alice’s Wordwalk blog on Decenber 5 2024.

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Part III. Challenges and Triumphs

Getting the Hang of it, creative nonfiction, nonfiction Honorable Mention
by Jennifer Marra

The final night of the writers’ conference arrived and I boarded an empty elevator, admiring my strapless tea-length dress in the mirrored walls. Excitement fizzed inside me, like the champagne we’d soon be sipping. But when the doors oozed open on the ballroom level, my eyes flew to the vast expanse of carpeting I would have to traverse with ill-fitting slick-soled heels and my newly revealed diagnosis of Parkinson’s Disease. Recently I’d learned, Parkinson’s is more than just tremors. In my case, the worst issue was an uneven gait causing stumbles and the occasional fall. I assessed the risks of the task ahead, like a rock climber evaluating potential handholds, and set off. My medication was active, an “on” state, but if I attempted a brisk pace my left leg would gallop like a horse doing lopsided dressage. Since no one was around I “sprinted” in my halting way to the doorway and hoped my lack of grace would go unnoticed like the proverbial tree falling in the forest.

Over the months leading to the conference, in my liaison role, I’d wooed sponsors and negotiated support levels. Along the way, I’d received books and gift certificates we’d raffle off following the big dinner. The assumption was I’d emcee the event as recognition for my efforts, but I’d declined. I wasn’t daunted by the public speaking, an activity that others purportedly fear more than death. It was the long walk from the tables to the front of the room and up the four stairs to the stage, unadorned with a railing. I pictured every eye on me; the attendee assessing and perhaps even amused by my awkwardness as I gimped to the front, then required help to navigate the steps safely. Not to mention then everyone would realize I was disabled. Me, a former triathlete and runner with ribbons and plastic trophies to show for my efforts.

Reaching the double doors to the ballroom, I gripped the doorframe and pictured the pain from my troubled hip drifting away like smoke from a dying fire. As I waited for my mindfulness practice or time to alleviate my discomfort, movement caught my eye. Mary, also a member of the conference planning committee, waved and patted an adjacent seat at her table half-way to the stage. She and I bonded, akin to soldiers during war time, as we suffered through leadership changes, the defection of fellow volunteers and scope creep of our individual duties. I decided if I walked slowly, I’d be able to reach her table without face-planting in a fellow writer’s overdressed salad.

I was about to venture through the maze of tables when a tall woman approached, cutting the air as she strode purposefully, precisely. She paused and leaned down to speak into my ear, breath warm, as if sharing a secret, “That’s some sexy gait you’ve got there.” With seven words, she had validated my worst fear. My ungainly stride was now the first and perhaps only thing about me people would notice.

Heat surged through my body, more intense than any menopause hot flash. I was dumbstruck. Was she trying to make light of my disability or outright mocking me? Before I could ask, she was gone, ably making her way to the far side of the massive space. Options for how to feel about her comment presented themselves like a smorgasbord. I helped myself to big servings of frustration and hurt with a small taste of anger.

“I officially hate you,” Mary said as I sat. “You’re not only smart and funny, you can pull off that sheath dress. By the way, that sage green is perfect on you.” I was about to deflect her compliment by pointing out my awkward manner of walking, but paused. When I think of Mary, I don’t go right away to her physical characteristics. I think of her diplomacy and solid optimism during difficult times. Of her humor and friendship. I settled on, “Wait until I spill my dinner down the front!” “It’ll give your dress a tie-dye look and complete your hippie persona,” Mary quipped and we shared a laugh. Just like on every conference call.

As I buttered a roll, my annoyance at the stranger’s comment receded. Her remark stung, but did it matter? Why let fear of similar comments ruin my fun? Stabbing at my phone screen, I texted the conference chair to say I’d changed my mind on the raffle and would be happy to emcee. Because deep down, I love to be on stage, running the show, making people laugh.

After a thoroughly forgettable meal, I picked my way to the stage, a deliberate smile accompanying each purposeful, labored step. At the stairs, I asked for the chairperson’s supportive arm as I climbed with the fierce concentration of Everest mountaineers. Then I let it all go. For the next twenty minutes, I called numbers, handed out prizes, and absorbed the radiant joy of the laughing women.

I rejoined Mary and leaned heavily on her as we set off to our rooms. But, the draw of the bar proved too strong for common sense. From the doorway we could see it was standing room only. When a pair of women jumped up to offer their seats, we graciously accepted. A smile burst from deep within me and threatened to stay like guests who wouldn’t leave.

By the time I was back in my room, my medication was “off,” and I moved unhurriedly from task to task without my typical inner dialogue lamenting the unfairness of my condition. As I drifted off to sleep, I pictured myself telling my husband about the evening, “I think I’m getting the hang of this disabled thing,” I’d say and he’d reply, in his west Texas drawl, “You done good, kid.”

Bio: Jennifer Marra is an electrical engineer and, since Parkinson’s took hold, a lapsed triathlete. She lives in Texas with her husband following the defection of their grown daughters. In her retirement, she’s transitioned from solving to constructing crosswords and reading to writing fiction and CNF. Look for her crossword puzzles in major newspapers and her writing in the Forge and other literary magazines. She has two novels in progress and one being queried to agents.

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Used to Be, poetry
by Barbara Brooks

I used to be a happy child, riding my horse
Bareback, pretending to be a Cherokee. Now I am a somber soul.

I used to play basketball, starting with the neighborhood
hoops and moving on to college, played the bench mostly.

I used to show horses, even gained a B level in Pony Club,
now my spine is so twisted that walking is a problem.

I used to drink too much at parties, no fun drinking alone;
all those nights I blacked out. I should be dead.

Birding used to take me on adventures from Antarctica to Britain.
Today I bird with friends who don’t mind that I stop every 100 feet.

At the kennel, I was able to walk the biggest, strongest dogs.
Now I only walk the smaller ones, I teach the big dogs kennel manners.

50 pounds of bird seed too much to carry, I empty
it bucket by bucket until I can carry the bag to its container.

This body has faded on me. Need to make peace
with it and its limitations.

I hold on.

Bio: Barbara Brooks, author of the chapbooks The Catbird Sang, A Shell to Return to the Sea, and Water Colors is a retired physical therapist. Her work has appeared in Knee Brace Press, Remington Review, Silkworm among others. She is plagued by severe scoliosis making walking and other activities difficult. In addition, she suffers from depression which compounds the effects of the scoliosis. She lives in Hillsborough, NC with her dog.

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Vampire, poetry
by Makena Metz

Drip. Drip. The saline and platelets drip through the IV. I’m bored,
sick of the plastic tube in my arm. They’re going to insert a PICC line.

Where is the vein? Can’t find it. Drink more water. Not thirsty.
My body’s a vampire. I’d take fangs and bats over the port in my arm.

Drip, drip, the eternal drip. Benadryl, so I don’t get hives. I sleep
in my hospital armchair – what a terrible coffin. They bring me apples,

peanut butter. Standard routine. My body sucks down the bag of cells,
a man waiting under an icicle for a drop of water on his tongue.

In three to five days, the new cells will die, and I will feel great-
but the cells will die out and my hands will shake. I sleep. I breathe.

I shower. No sunlight, no, I am not one of them. Drip. Drip.
Crucify them with garlic and stakes. The vampire is the disease.

Bio: Makena Metz is a Writer & Songwriter for the Page, Screen, and Stage. She has an MFA in Creative Writing and an MA in English from Chapman University. Her prose and poetry have been published with The Literary Hatchet, The Blunt Space, The Mid-Atlantic Review, Boudin, The Fantastic Other, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Arkana, Strange Horizons*, and many more. Find her work @ makenametz on social media and check out:
makenametz.com

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The shadow, poetry
by Kate Chamberlin

I.
Shadow in my breast;
Lump in my throat;
Ache in my heart;
Fear in my gut;
Ice courses through veins;
Tears In my eyes;
Cold finger tips.

II.
Memory of Mom;
Small lump;
Mutilating mastectomy;
Silicone bra cup;
Body wastes away;
Silent disbelief;
Body curled in bed.

III.
Modern three-D imaging
Detects a shadow;
Sonogram verification;
Lump in left breast;
Needle biopsy;
Results take forever;
The shadow is malignant.
The journey for my life has begun.

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Dialect: Or, On Language Usage, poetry
by Sandra Streeter

Though not language, but symbol system,
Braille ‘neath cheetah fingers
Facilitates retention,
Tames hands-on activity.

Because I’m Deaf,
Signed English and oral speech-
Plodding slow
As a sloth with a thousand things to do–
Holds no candle to ASL,
Which, delineating culture
And expressing, in motion figures
Sprawling or concise,
Liberates me.

Some autistics form no verbal speech at all.
I, though vocal, write most comfortably-
Time for re-tracing verbal steps, for
Both precision and kindness,
Ensuring clarity and,
When necessary, soothing,
As wave to stone of granular face.

Bio: Sandra Streeter, a blind and autistic graduate of the youth ministry program at Gordon College, and of Western Michigan University’s Blind Rehabilitation program, has had a lifelong passion for excellent communication of all kinds. Previously, she has dipped her toe in the “publication pool” through successful submissions to her high school literary magazine, Dialogue, Our Special, and Magnets and Ladders. A self-described “rabid fan of the progressive-rock band Rush,” she is currently embarking on the adventure of writing a chapbook about, and dedicated to, its late drummer/lyricist, Neil Peart. Often, she is home crafting, reading (favorite topics: psychology; autism; Rush), and being a faithful servant to her cat, Emily. Outside the house, she enjoys warm Spring days filled with bird song, and membership in the Mystic River Chorale and the S.E. Connecticut Community Center of the Blind.

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On Track to Frostig, memoir
by Luca Rousset

“I think I can, I think I can.” A simple phrase from a simple story with a very powerful message. Some would say- I am that famous engine that could. Little? Not so much. “Keep trying” can be hard when you feel like you will never succeed. Frostig School, a school for children and teens with learning differences, the goal. Getting in, the challenge. Some would say the challenge was me.

My story begins long ago, as far back as I can remember. Back then I was little, and I was thinking thoughts with no way to express them. I could hear words, I could understand words, I could even feel words, but I could not speak words. No matter how hard I tried, my words remained trapped in my head. As hard as this was, I was happy. It was as if those around me, those that cared enough, could read my trapped thoughts and all of my wants and needs were met.

Sign language was not for me. It was too fast for my eyes and hands to connect with my brain. As I grew up, the pictures I pointed to on paper or on screen seemed immature and they were just not enough to keep up with my mind. As I got older, I started to notice the doubt and disbelief from teachers and service providers around me. This was so discouraging. I knew they thought I didn’t understand, but all that time I was listening and storing all their lessons in my brain. My intelligence grew, but my spoken language did not. Those around me started to realize I was a great reader, and with great reading came great spelling. I have a gift for sounding out words. I was getting 100’s on spelling tests but that wasn’t enough to prove myself.

The thing is, typing complete sentences is very hard for me to do. My brain does not connect with my body in that way. I know what I want to say, but the connection is lost by the time it travels from my brain to my fingers. I needed a way to keep the connection. Like a TV needs an outlet to connect, I needed an outlet, a helping hand. I started reaching for hands and typing short phrases, but speech people kept telling me and Jessica, my very patient aide, that I shouldn’t do that. If I was going to type, I would have to do it on my own. I started to get support outside of school from Katie. Katie is a super cool SLP that said typing support was okay. She became my first connection from my thoughts to my fingers. Katie started supporting my hand as she asked me questions and the words started to flow. I can’t really explain why this helps, but it does. Jessica says it’s like a reminder to focus on what my brain is thinking and allowing that to travel down to my typing fingers. Even though I was typing with Katie outside of school, typing with Jessica was hard to do because we were both told every day not to do it. At this point, no one in my school believed I was smart enough to be typing the things that I was typing with Katie, so what was the point?

I started to hear about this magical place called Frostig. My mom and Katie talked about it a lot. I liked the idea of being in a place that understood me. I was an engine stuck on a track and Frostig seemed like the push I needed to keep going. Here’s the problem, I needed to be able to communicate through typing with someone other than Katie. I needed to be able to do Frostig level work. I needed to be able to type with Jessica at school.

Then Covid came. Through the Pandemic shutdown, I began typing with more home peeps. It seemed easier to type at home with Katie and Nikki. No one doubted me. Nikki is a rad Occupational Therapist with tattoos. It was so exciting to be able to communicate with those I love the most. With lots of practice every day, I was soon able to share my experiences with the world. I was able to share things I learned in school when no one thought I was paying attention. I remember understanding the Doctors, even though they thought I didn’t understand.

I remember it being scary and knowing I had to work harder than everyone else. Being at Gabrielino High School did not help because no one believed what I said. This is when I knew I had to start typing with Jessica to get to a better place. After advocating for myself and doing lots of hard work, I was able to go to Frostig and really show everyone what I am capable of. I made friends that value me and support my dreams. I met teachers that gave me the opportunity to learn and grow the way I know how.

Sometimes things seem out of reach, but if you don’t try, you will never know how close you are to achieving your goal. I started to believe that Frostig would never be my school. I really thought I couldn’t do it. I convinced myself I didn’t want it. It was just easier that way, but I really did want it. I really, really wanted it. I made it to Frostig, I typed at my interview and rocked it, I achieved my dream. In the end, I thought I could, so I did. This engine will keep going because I KNOW I can, and always will.

Bio: Luca Rousset is a non-speaking autistic. Communication was challenging for him. He felt unheard and misunderstood. The knowledge was there but getting it out was hard. He uses an iPad with an app that speaks as he types. This opened a whole new world. He hopes to share that through his writing.

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OCD, poetry
by Nil F. Kıncak

The brain is a lot of things, and mine is a menace.
The things it whispers are making me grimace.
No I don’t want to swerve, I don’t want to chop my fingers;
No I’m not a secret pedophile, kids I don’t even notice.

Obsessive, persistent, and relentless.
If this is my normal, can it still be called madness?
I check my bank account every ninety five minutes
so I’m not penniless; I’m convinced it makes a difference.

Compulsive, these urges always tugging at my sleeve.
I recall normalcy, but not well enough to grieve.
What if I yeet a kid, eat a pig, or immaculately conceive?
I’ll switch the lights, check the clocks, pray to god I shall receive.

Disorder: disabling or causing distress
I neither have stage four cancer, nor a mistress.
I don’t wear button down shirts, just in case I undress;
I know I never cheated, but regardless I must confess.

Call me a goof, call it a spoof, say it’s all fluff.
But I’m not brave enough to call its bluff:
When passing the dryer I take my headphones off;
I can’t risk my head blowing up, I like my life!

So be it, bring the handcuffs and straightjackets:
I won’t bite, I won’t fight, my hands up, I’m defenseless.
No brick wall I can build; no electric fence nor fortress
can keep it outside, the voice lives inside.

Bio: Nil F. Kıncak is a 24-year-old Turkish-American engineer, dance teacher, and poet living in Virginia. Her works “The Language of Senators and Nerds” and “Promise” received Honorable Mentions in the 2018 and 2019 Jane Page writing contests. Nil was diagnosed with ADHD when she was nineteen and Bipolar 2 & OCD a few years later.

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Self Harm, double Haiku, poetry
by Lorie McCloud

I’ve been a Cutter.
slicing off little pieces,
Internal self harm.
Where no one could see,
Bleeding and crying in dreams
Holding My head up.

Bio: Lorie McCloud has been totally blind since birth. She resides in Fort Worth Texas. Her interests include hiking or walking, swimming, and reading. She enjoys conversing about psychology and metaphysics. Lorie is a volunteer with The Universal Spiritual Brother&sisterhood. She is a singer/song writer as well as an author. Her YouTube channel is: http://www.youtube.com/user/LorieMccloud?feature=mhsn. You can listen to her latest music at: https://www.soundcloud.com/lorie-mccloud/

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Rain, poetry
by Sandra Streeter

Constant clouds and fog have
Darkened the landscape too long…
Sheltered interminably,
At a windowed door, I stand, longing,
Knowing that, soon, something will happen.

Atomic clock, relentless
Marking time…
Still, I cross the threshold of my willingness:
Finally, the heavens opening-

Mourning tragic denouement
As never before…
Becomes a voice for
Present and unfinished grief,
Muted during drought.
Anguish for the world… for myself…

Now purposeful, emerged with deliberation.
And I know when it is done,
The sun will welcome me.

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Counting Spoons (a Rictameter), poetry
by F.I. Goldhaber

Epigraph:
Spoon theory is used to describe the limited amount of physical and/or mental energy a person with chronic illness/disabilities has available for daily activities and tasks.

Spoons are
tough to count. You’re
never sure at day’s start
how many you’ll have, or need. And tasks
requiring four spoons Monday take only
two on Wednesday, but five Friday.
There’s just never enough
to get you through
each day.

Bio: F.I. Goldhaber’s words capture people, places, and politics with a photographer’s eye and a poet’s soul. As a reporter, editor, business writer, and marketing communications consultant, they produced news stories, feature articles, editorial columns, and reviews for newspapers, corporations, governments, and non-profits in five states. Now paper, plastic, electronic, and audio magazines, books, newspapers, calendars, broadsides, and street signs display their poetry, fiction, and essays. More than 240 of their poems appear in almost 90 publications including What Color is Your Privilege? published by Left Fork press.

They are disabled and chronically ill.

Visit their website at: http://www.goldhaber.net/

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Late Reflection, poetry
by Brett Stuckel

I was told to do sit-ups
to strengthen my core
against bodily injury,
to prolong my life,

And so I tucked ankles
under the anchor
of the padded bench
and crossed my arms
over my chest
and sat up.

A desire arrived
to check my progress,
to inspect my body
for ridges of vigor.

I lifted my shirt
for the wall.
Muscles leaned on
skin, exhausted:
a change, but small.

My surprise was not
the mirror’s fault-
it shows who’s
here, not
who is not.

Bio: Brett Stuckel’s poems have appeared in Magnets and Ladders, Rogue Agent, Wordgathering*, and elsewhere. He lives with Grade 3 Astrocytoma (brain cancer) and related issues such as aphasia. He is online at: https://www.brettstuckel.com and offline in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

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“After Walt Whitman”, poetry
by Margaret D. Stetz

I sing
the fingers electric
the nerves that sizzle with voltage
the hands that spasm
and clutch at the air
that cramp into shapes like a rosebud
curled into itself
yet never unfold never blossom
I see men with impairments invisible
I see women with pain unexpressed
all my fellow citizens
a nation that no one has willingly entered
a border that no one has willingly crossed
striding ahead and bearing
the burden that still must be carried
though the grip on it grows
ever weaker and yet more uncertain
I am with them, I celebrate
and exult
for my touch on the keyboard stays firm
as this poem arises
incanting and chanting
in rhythm persistent
O I say now-
it sings!

Bio: Margaret D. Stetz is the Mae & Robert Carter Professor of Women’s Studies at the University of Delaware, USA, as well as a widely published poet.

She experienced a life-changing injury in July 2021 and now lives with chronic pain, neuropathy, and impaired functioning of her left arm.

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Part IV. The Writers’ Climb

Remembering William Carlos Williams: a Sestina for the New Year, poetry
by Lynda McKinney Lambert

On the first day of the new year, there is an essence
filtered through gray morning light, without words.
A certain kind of knowing permeates the future year
of stark winter branches, soft light, and a poem.
Words cannot exist without a holy presence.
I say to my soul, “What a good life!”

I celebrate this existence and life
seek to uncover the words of a hidden essence.
I see the face of a rare presence.
In a distant time, there were words
left in a jar and spoken in a poem.
It is not in our imagination – it’s a fact for this year!

We can locate, the significant next year.
Underlying meaning brings imagination to life.
It will be revealed as we reach through the layers of a poem.
We will be rewarded as we touch that essence.
Value comes with actual circumstances and words
we lay down like a gift in the unspoiled presence.

It begins with a thought in the satisfied presence
before us, every minute of the year.
Our ears recover the underlying sounds of words.
Our eyes see life
likely to appear in the most unlikely essence,
A fact. Quickly revealed in creating a poem.

Spiritual gifts are gathered as words of a poem
bring together pictures in the life of a presence.
Speak! Don’t tremble as you begin to feel the presence.
Such visits can be discovered in fulfillment of the year.
An afternoon can be spent reactivating a life.
Together, we search for the words.

We locate, recapture the lost words,
bring them to new life in the lines of our poem.
We reawaken nature, a possession of life
The smallest details, winter branches and light of the presence
shared in the history of each new year
confronted by energized forces of poetic essence.

Essence lies in the joining of words,
begins a fresh year in search of a new poem.
Imagination holds the presence which brings forth life.

“Remembering William Carlos Williams: a Sestina for the New Year” was published in YAWP, a literary magazine, Pittsburgh, PA. 1997.

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Donation Request

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You may make a contribution using the PayPal button on our website at https://www.behindoureyes.org.

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Blindness is not the end: Faith over fear, a spiritual journey, book excerpt
by Daniel Malone

A Different Kind of Blindness

Though I am physically blind, I discovered there is also spiritual blindness, which I believe is based on fear.

In this book, I will express my journey from a self-centered, free-falling, destructive lifestyle, which had no direction, to a man who experienced a spiritual awakening outside the boundaries of fear and religion. I had 20/20 vision until the age of 24. I was in an auto accident that flooded my face with battery acid and burned my eyes beyond repair, which left me with total blindness. When the worst possible thing that could happen to me, blindness happened, I thought things could not get any worse. I was wrong, things got much worse. I found out the hard way, that I could not save myself. Only after total surrender to the God of my understanding, and a willingness to look at God’s direction, did that small spark of hope come into my heart.

One of the main things that I learned was: “Faith is the opposite of fear.” As I look back, I now realize that fear ruled my life. When I was in the state of not knowing what to do and having no direction, I had a free-falling lifestyle with alcohol leading my way.

When this lifestyle brought me close to death and caused permanent damage to me and my loved ones, I had no choice but to change. With having the attitude of, “If one way does not work, try the opposite,” I decided to try faith over fear.

It has been a long journey, but how can I be better off now being blind, then when fully sighted?

In this book, I will express the transformation in my life from being a fully sighted boy who always felt unworthy, to a physically blind man who lives his life to the fullest and has more faith and love beyond his wildest dreams.

Chapter 3: The Phone Call

Almost two years after the major motorcycle accident, I was working again. Life was getting back to normal, but I was using a wooden walking cane for my left leg. While driving the forklift at work, my name came over the intercom, calling me to the office.

It was my significant other calling to let me know that my dad had died during the night. I was more than stunned. As I drove back to my parent’s home, it was the longest, emptiest ride of my life. I had just lost my best friend and only confidant.

Everyone in our immediate family gathered there that day. My brothers and I were drowning our sorrows with beer at the kitchen table, totally feeling sorry for ourselves, when our other brother Pat walked in.

Finding us so upset, he said to us, “Why don’t we just be grateful for the time we had with him?” That statement made me angry at the time, but I still use it today.

Forward to May 6

Two months later, we were still grieving Dad’s death, as he was our rock and foundation. We were not the only ones suffering; everyone who ever knew him was in pain from his passing. My brothers and I were preparing our mother’s home and property for auction. I had come to Mom’s home that day from work to help our family start the process.

There were few words said, from any of us, from the pain of losing our dad. Then, my oldest brother Bill reached into his car, pulled out two beers, and handed me one. My significant other, sitting on the back porch, saw this. She quickly got our two 5-year-old children together and went home to our place as soon as she saw that the drinking had begun.

We got some work started, but we did not slow down our drinking. We had to have another and another for Dad’s sake. In addition, the more we drank, the more painful the feelings were.

As the evening progressed, we decided to go down to the closest bar to play some pool and drown our sorrows. However, after all the years of drinking together, I had no idea that Bill’s tolerance for alcohol had drastically changed. He could no longer tolerate the amount of alcohol that he used to drink in the past.

Bill, being my oldest brother, insisted on driving that night, so I easily gave in to his wanting to drive. When the time approached midnight, still at the bar, we all decided that it would be a good thing to visit our dad’s grave and pour out a beer upon it. As we proceeded to the cemetery, our future brother-in-law, Gary, was also with us, and he squeezed into the middle with bucket seats in the front.

The last thing I remember seeing with my physical eyes was a nuclear power plant that was at the end of the Road in upstate New York. My brother made the right turn on the road along the lake, and picked up the speed as we were going downhill. At the base of the hill was a curve in the road flanked by a telephone pole. The front corner of the car hit the inside of the ditch as it passed through the car towards the telephone pole at my passenger door to shear the pole off near the base. The car started tumbling end over end and rolled over until the little 1969 Datsun crumpled like aluminum foil.

Bill and Gary were both able to get out of the wreck. Bill was unhurt. However, Gary had both ankles broken from the engine that came through the floorboard, which shattered both of my legs as well. Bill and Gary, now both out of the car, tried in vain to get me out. Tightly trapped, it took the firefighters two hours to free me with the “jaws of life”.

What my brother and brother-in-law did not know was that the battery, not secured in the engine compartment, came into the car, where I lay, breaking over my face.

I do vaguely remember gargling the battery acid and breathing it in through my nose. I also remember my eyes burning, and not being able to wipe them, as my arms were unmovable. Obviously, my body was in shock, as I do not remember any of the pain of the acid burning my eyes along with my face. The battery acid burned me enough to remove the permanent mole that I had on my left cheek, scarring my face for quite a long time. I found out from the ambulance crew that the doctor in charge of the ambulance inventory ordered no saline solution for the town’s ambulance. Thus, my eyes did not receive any treatment until I reached emergency over two hours later.

Besides the damage to my eyes and my face burned from battery acid, both legs shattered below the knees, and my hip socket sheared off. One thing that I clearly remember from the accident night. My orthopedic doctor, thinking that my hip was out of joint, went ahead to yank on my leg as hard as he could, repeatedly, to try to slip it back into place. I was screaming with every yank.

The Doctor finally ordered X-rays to find that my hip had sheared off from the accident. At his first availability, the doctor operated on it and repaired my hip with screws. Then the doctor just placed casts on both legs without setting them due to my severe eye damage.

When I came to and tried to grasp what had happened to me, I had extraordinarily little vision with my eyes, and both of my legs were in traction, along with a fresh hip operation.

My brother Bill walked into my room and said, “Dan, I don’t know what to say.”

What I said next just came out without hesitation, and I was not expecting it, as I had grasped the seriousness of this moment with Bill. I said, “Bill, this isn’t your fault; this is alcoholism, so don’t worry about it.”

I know that this statement did not take hold in his life, as he suffered with guilt up until his death twenty-seven years later.

The next statement he made to me went straight to my heart.

“Dan, I just talked to one of the doctors, and I am going to give you one of my eyes.”

I at once said, “Bill, you can’t do that; please don’t worry about it.” I knew that I could not imagine having my brother go blind due to a car accident if I had been driving. I have always had much love for my brother Bill, but I also have felt empathy ever since the accident.

The ophthalmologist placed a layer of quick-hardening, lumpy glue on the damaged surface of my eyeballs, trying to stop the leakage of the vitreous fluid. This glue needed to stay on for a month to try to promote the healing of the skin of my eyes.

This was one of the most painful months of my life, with extraordinary pain with every blink in each eye.

A Different Perspective

My ex-wife has been through a lot in life and played a huge part in my recovery, for which I am grateful. Here is her perspective of what happened the day of the accident, from what she had told me. She called it a tragedy.

She said, “I remember sitting on the back porch watching Dan and his brother clean up their mother’s backyard. I could tell they were not enjoying it very much, and I remember watching his brother go to his car to get something out of it. When he turned around, there were two bottles of beer. Right then, I knew that once the drinking started, it was going to last most of the night. I decided it was time to take our small children home.”

Then she said, “The phone rang around 2 A.M., and it was Gail.” She is Bill’s wife. Gail said, “The guys have been in a car accident. I will be right there to pick you up. Have the kids ready. We’ll drop them off at Mom’s.”

Then Ann said, “My first feeling was anger. How could he do this to us again? We had all been through this just two years ago when he was in a motorcycle accident. He had been drinking then, too.”

She then told me that she had cried her heart out for me, and she had no tears left. Not this time!

She then described to me the scene at the hospital when she arrived with Gail.

“The emergency room was not terribly busy that night. Dan was in there somewhere, but I was not allowed to see him until the doctors finished examining him. I remember his brother Bill pacing back and forth with a look of shock on his face. Everyone tried to tell me what they all thought had happened. No one was sure, just that they missed a curve, hit a telephone pole, and ended upside down. Dan’s face was in the windshield, and the battery acid poured down his face into his eyes. They did not know if he would ever see again. I can remember the long walk to the other end of the emergency room. There were nurses and doctors everywhere. Each time I passed a cubicle, I checked to see if it was Dan. It was not until I got to the very end of the hall that I saw Dan lying on a bed, rolling around in shock. I was grateful that he was not sober enough to feel the pain his body was in. Then I moved a little closer so I could see his eyes. I will never forget his eyes. They were gray and all foamy looking. The white was no longer white. The green pupils were no longer there; I just saw gray where his eyes used to be. In time, the doctors were able to fix his broken hip and his legs, although they never healed back to the way they were.

The next day, his eyes began to leak fluid, and they sent a specialist over to put glue on them. I can remember how strange we all thought it was to use glue on a person’s eyes. This was only the beginning of many attempts to save Dan’s eyes, all of which were failures.”

I do not blame Ann for her feelings in this above writing, for she has been through so much in life. Nevertheless, I am so grateful to her for her sacrifice of being a caretaker for my son and myself. Even though we could no longer live together, I consider her one of my teachers and an angel in this segment of my life. So, thank you Ann.

A Different Kind of Blindness

I look back in my journal Just to see where I came from I’ve come out of hiding As my life, it seemed was done

I look back on my journeys Just to sense that they are gone The depression, pain, and loneliness Can be blamed for hanging on

I’m told that I have choices Not knowing this before I’m used to feeling comfortable Sometimes lower than the floor

My pain, it was familiar I knew what to expect My life was a tragedy And that I could accept

So, I look back on my record To see how far I’ve grown To feel that bondage living For it’s a comfort zone

I thought I knew what love was I thought I was the best Thinking love is just a thought process Running wild with the rest

I look back on my existence Observing who I was and the way that I was doing things For my reason was because

I look back on survival To see how far I’ve grown I’ve surrendered to a power A power greater than my own

Now I look upon this power And find it’s full of love And the love that I’ve been seeking Is real from up above

A love that held onto me In spite of all my lies A love that lasts forever Not seen by physical eyes

I can let go of this lifestyle With the shedding of some tears I can let go of this bondage Despite of all my fears

In faith, I turn it over For I did not feel whole And I discovered there was blindness When I let my fear be in control

Blindness is not the end: Faith over fear, a spiritual journey is available in print and Kindle formats at: https://www.amazon.com/Blindness-not-end-physical-spiritual-ebook/dp/B0F2YDBQ5P/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=1-2 It will be available soon on BARD, Braille and Recorded Download, a service of the National Library Service for the Blind and Print Disabled.

Bio: Daniel Malone had perfect vision, up until age twenty-four. Now he is totally physically blind. After total defeat, in the state of powerlessness, Dan learned to live outside of the realm of self-centeredness, to discover a life of spiritual principals and to view life from a different perspective. This book is non-fiction, as Dan would like to express himself with, what it was like, what happened, and what it is like now. Dan’s story is extremely powerful, as he explains a life of self-destruction, to having life beyond his wildest dreams, only after gaining spiritual eyes.

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The Best Choice, fiction
by David C. Russell

“Got a couple minutes?” Conscience beckoned as she poured a coffee for herself.

“What’s up?” asked alacrity whose bright sweater matched his temperament.

“I notice you conveyed the best choice for which the situation called,” said Conscience, smile wide.

“What do you mean?” Alacrity asked, adding, “I know it’s often common for me to stew over something and then…”

“And then you make a choice, voila,” Conscience stated.

“I’ll get to my point. You’re publishing a book next month and have been quite consistent about saving and spending when needed. You paid the editor their fee. You are setting aside funds for layout and formatting. You are saving bucks by submitting to an entity that offers production perks unique to itself.”

“You’re right. I haven’t won the Fantasy5 Lottery game yet,” Alacrity said, slight chuckle.

“That’s up to you. As your conscience, I pick my battles.”

“So, where are you going with this?”

“You were about to accept doing promotion business of your last title with someone you hardly know. His motivations seemed noble, but little flags arose as you two communicated by email. I looked over your shoulder and noticed one response, and you did as well.”
It read:
“Ok Alacrity I will right waiting for you whenever it feels right for use to start.”

“It just seemed like pour, shoddy, careless communication,” Alacrity said.

“Imagine if you were a chef. One time you had dinner guests but had forgotten to turn on the crockpot that morning. With the guests seated at the nearby table, you remove the pot lid and discover all is uncooked. Would you invite these same guests again? Would they oblige you?” Conscience asked.

“A couple might, but that’s doubtful,” Alacrity said.

“They also would have made the best choice,” Conscience said.

“I cannot spend money on someone whose dependability is at question,” Alacrity said.

“Exactly! You made the best choice to show them their error and admit your reservations to forgive and forget,” Conscience said, looking directly at Alacrity.

“I learned something from this. It’s okay to determine the best choice rather than to assure oneself they make the right choice,” Alacrity said, expression serious.

“Guess what? You’re right. Don’t worry, we will continue to meet again and again as opportunity arises,” Conscience said. She dismissed Alacrity, cleaned two coffee-cups, replaced them in the cabinet, and proceeded to indulge in some deep thinking.

Bio: David C. Russell has written fiction stories over the past fifteen years. He is blind from infancy, semi-retired at age 73, and resides in lower Michigan with his wife and their canine family member, Roxie.
The author has several stories posted at: https://www.spillwords.com/author/davidcrussell

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CONTEST ALERT

We will be holding contests in the areas of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry for the Spring/Summer edition of Magnets and Ladders. All submissions will be entered into the contest. Cash prizes of $30 and $20 will be awarded to the first and second place winners.

Please note: Funds for contest prizes are provided by Behind Our Eyes. Checks for prize winning entries not cashed within 6 months of the issue date are void and considered a donation back to Behind Our Eyes. No additional payments will be made to replace the uncashed check. If you intend your prize winnings to be a donation, please let us know upon winning so we can send you a donation receipt letter.

Remember, the deadline for submissions is February 15, so be sure to get your entries in on time.

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Need a new poem? Wander with me. poetry
by Marilyn Brandt Smith

Once I found a poem in a dream;
I’m at my childhood country home,
Nearing the top of the live oak tree;
I can toss acorns and bark,
Hit the metal roof over the kitchen!
Mother comes out to see if it’s raining;
Now that I’m grown
I know she knew it wasn’t.
I only wanted her attention,
Now sixty years later
This memory earns me attention.

Once I researched a bird,
Alexa showed me how it sounded;
High flyers, north to south,
Whooping cranes whose home is in Canada
Go to the beach in Texas for the Winter;
Funny, really,
We humans go to the beach in the Summer;
Their journey became a poem.

Often, my poems are based on media;
Old TV shows,
Famous war stories work well,
TV news, historical novels;
A young girl on a wagon train,
A highland lass caring for her kin,
My great grandfather stumbling home from Vicksburg,
A childcare worker who missed work one day-
Oklahoma City federal building, April, 1995.

I wish I could go back to Ireland,
I wrote a poem about that trip, If it Starts with an O’;
I couldn’t go to Belfast,
1970, too much violence;
I can read about “the troubles,”
But I’d like to hear it from someone impacted, someone’s story,
Spoken with a tiny lilt, if you please;
If I could feel what they feel
I could share it.

Find your new poem with a writing prompt,
A magazine or a contest with a theme;
It’s challenging to reach out in a new direction,
Play with words, voices, and forms;
Yes, you do have time to research,
That poem you’ve imagined in your mind
Has been on the back burner too long;
That little spark you felt just today
Is a wannabe poem in the making,
Catch it!
Don’t let it get away!

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Part V. A Touch of Intervention

The Bosendorfer Story, fiction Second Place
by Lorie McCloud

Back when I was fresh out of the piano tuning school for the blind in Vancouver, Washington, I had to return to my state of residence and tune for 5 years. That was the agreement with my Vocational rehab services for sending me to the school when they would so much rather have sent me to college. My parents weren’t happy about it either; the blind piano tuner is such a cliché, even if she’s female, but I had a good ear and you could get paid for tuning pianos. So I moved to a university town about an hour’s drive from my family.

When I got there, I was snapped up by the university to tune their student practice pianos. They weren’t sure if the position would be permanent, but their tuner was elderly and in poor health. He wasn’t going to be able to finish this job in time for the incoming students.

“He’s going to come in and observe you,” my boss told me. “There’s not much we can do about that. Last month we hired somebody on the fly, and Mr. Olson pitched a fit—said the guy was no good as a tuner, and if we were going to pay somebody, they could at least do their job properly.”

“What was he doing wrong?”

“Using some kind of battery operated meter to display the notes in a visual way.”

“Not much chance of that happening with me,” I laughed. I looked forward to meeting Mr. Olson.

I had been tuning for around 3 days when he showed up. He shuffled his feet when he walked, and I could hear his heavy breathing as he entered the room and plopped down in a chair by the door. I put down my tools and approached him to introduce myself. His big hand was rough and warm.

“How do you do?” he asked almost formally.

“Very well sir, thank you and I’m glad to meet you.”

“Go on with your tuning and I’ll just sit here for a little while and watch you.” I ignored him as best I could and carried on as usual, humming with the tuning forks and talking to the piano. When I’d finished that one he moved to the next one with me.

“Want to check this one out?” I asked when I was done. “I’ll lay down under here; I like to lay under the piano to listen when I have the chance. You can do what you would do if you were checking your own work.” He heaved himself up out of his chair and slid onto the piano bench. I crawled under the piano and felt all the vibes as he ran scales and played chords and arpeggios. We both loved it!

For the next week, he came every day, not usually till afternoon, and we began to talk. I learned that in his youth, he’d been a classical pianist, but following a serious accident, he lost his dexterity and was never able to get it back. He couldn’t play professionally anymore, but he was determined to stay near the instruments he loved so much, so he learned to tune and repair. For the rest of his working life he lovingly tended any and every piano he could get his hands on.

“My Molly never left my side,” he recalled. I could hear the love and longing in his voice. “She’d married a professional musician. She was left with a broken down tuner. She died 10 years ago. I have 2 kids. They’re good kids but they’re busy and they both live far away.”

We exchanged phone numbers. I would often call in the early evening after work just to see how he was doing. Then one morning before work, he called and asked if I’d come by when I was finished. I started going over there a couple times a week to sit with him, have coffee or some supper and listen to his piano albums.

One Saturday I went over there at around noon and his daughter Marie, was there. We had lunch together and then we put on some quiet piano music and Mr. Olson laid down on the sofa. Before long, he was asleep.

“We’re moving him to a nursing home,” Marie said unceremoniously. “We have to. He can’t take care of himself anymore. He’s hardly eating. He just doesn’t care about anything except his pianos. He was so worried about the university pianos but he says they’re in good hands now so he can relax. I’m so glad you’re here.”

It took me a couple days, but I found out how to get to the nursing home. It was on a bus route which helped considerably. I brought him my old 8 track player that I used at school, so he could have some music. It wasn’t long before he stopped talking. He always squeezed my hand when I came in to greet him, but speech was too much effort. He was receiving oxygen, and he was propped up a little to make breathing easier. So I would sit on the floor by him, hold his hand and play piano tapes for him. Sometimes I would tell him a story That came into my head from I don’t know where one day. It was about a Bosendorfer piano. I had tuned one in school; I was struck with its grandeur and beauty. He would always sigh and relax when I started the story, and it was never long before he was asleep.

Late one evening I got a call from the nursing home. Mr. Olson was very restless, and would I please come and sit with him for a little while? Thankfully the buses were still running, so I stopped what I was doing, grabbed my cane, and ran out the door, not considering how I would get home afterward.

“Molly,” he mumbled as I sat down and took his hand.

“Here? Now?” He squeezed my hand. I put out my energetic feelers. Sure enough she was here. I recognized the energy of her spirit from times when I had been at the house. I hadn’t stopped to think about it at the time, but now it felt familiar. “Hi Molly.” Her spirit moved closer to us. She was right over my shoulder. She wanted me to… what? I wasn’t sure, but it was urgent. Suddenly I heard myself saying, “Want to hear the Bosendorfer story?” Mr. Olson squeezed my hand weakly.

“This is the night,” I began tentatively. “It has to be because tomorrow they’re going to demolish that old house, the one the Bosendorfer is in. So now that it’s dark you’re headed over there with your tuning tools.” I didn’t know the story but Molly did and apparently I was taking dictation. “You haven’t been over there in a while. Last time you went you worked on the action. But tonight you’re going to tune it and then polish its beautiful mahogany frame.

“You still don’t know how it came to be there in that ramshackle house with the windows all boarded up, why nobody came and took it away to a church or an auditorium or even the parlor of a stately mansion. If those vandals hadn’t broken into the house that one time you never would have known the Bosendorfer was even there. It took a few days to get the house boarded up again, and you couldn’t help looking in as you passed by. Was that really a Bosendorfer piano? And an imperial at that! You went up close and stared. Top of the line. The creme de la creme. The royalty of pianos. How could that be? And right then and there you vowed, ‘I will play you. I will play you if it’s the very last thing I ever do.’ You waited till the house had been boarded up again and found a way in through the cellar. You had to chisel a little, but you could hide that with sticks and stones and leaves and nobody ever looked there anyway.

“Now that you’re inside you pull out your lantern and your tools and get to work. This is likely to take all night. Not that a Bosendorfer ever slips very far out of tune, but you want this to be perfect. As you tune you croon to it, ask it questions about its history and tell it over and over how beautiful it is. Finally you’re sure each note is exactly right. You’ve checked them all multiple times. There’s only one more thing you have to do before you can play. You dusted it at the beginning. You dust it every time you come in here, but now it’s time to polish it. Even in the dim light, how the mahogany finish gleams as you rub and rub! Has it ever been polished before? No matter. Its beauty and majesty are breath-taking now. You clear the piano bench of pack and tools and slide onto it.

“You imagine being in a concert hall as your hands hover over the keys. There’s that hush of anticipation, and then you begin to play. Ever so gently your fingers caress the keys, and a delicate ripple of sound is heard. This is easy, so easy. There’s none of the stiffness that’s usually in your fingers. They can skip lightning fast over the keys, or come down with steady pressure and strength to produce crashing chords. You explore every Facet of this magnificent instrument. You become one with it. You can play anything: pieces you needed sheet music for in the past, pieces you’ve only heard and never practiced, pieces you’ve never heard or even thought of before are coming out of your hands. The joy and ecstasy are lifting you up off the floor. You, the bench, and the Bosendorfer Imperial are lifting up into the air. There’s no roof on the building anymore. You shoot up into the sunrise as the day dawns, still playing…”

I stopped as Mr. Olson heaved a deep, satisfied sigh, and his spirit left his old worn out body. “Bye, Mr. Olson, bye,” I whispered as he and Molly streaked away home.

I sat there holding his hand for a minute or two noticing how different it felt now that he wasn’t in there anymore. Then I got up and went out into the hall.

“Everything all right?” One of the nurses asked me as she walked past.

“He’s gone,” I managed still dazed. She slipped into his room but came out in a hurry and started calling people. I went out to the front desk and asked if somebody could call me a cab.

“I’m done in 5 minutes. I’ll take you home,” the attendant replied. “So Mr. Olson just passed, did he?” she said as we got into her car.

“Yes. I was with him. That sure was a heck of a concert he gave!”

“What?”

“Oh nothing. Never mind. You had to be there.”

“You sure you’re all right?” she asked as she left me at my door.

“Yes, thank you.” I was still smiling with that incredible music ringing in my ears.

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At Summer’s End, fiction Honorable Mention
by Abbie Johnson Taylor

In Mom’s room at the hospice, she lay in bed, looking pale, as usual. She smiled when she saw us. Close to tears, my seven-year-old daughter Haley rushed to her side, and they embraced. “Oh, Grandma, I wish you didn’t have to die.”

“Oh, come here, honey,” Mom said, wincing as she pulled Haley onto the bed next to her.

Haley turned and buried her face in Mom’s shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.

“There, now,” Mom said, stroking her back, as she’d done to comfort me when I was Haley’s age. It was all I could do to keep from crying, as I stood by, not knowing what else to do or say.

Finally, Mom wiped Haley’s nose with a Kleenex and said, “Sweetheart, I’d like nothing better than to stay here with you and your mom and dad and see your new baby sister when she comes in a couple of weeks.”

I massaged my stomach, as the baby kicked.

Mom sighed. “But I hurt a lot now. I can barely eat, and I don’t have the strength to do much more than lie here and sleep. It’s time for me to go to a place where I won’t feel sick anymore, and I can run and play, like you, and eat what I want when I want and not have to go to school.”

Haley’s eyes widened. “Wow! Can I go with you?”

“Oh, no, not for a long time,” Mom answered. “But when God thinks the time is right, we’ll all be together in Heaven.”

“But I’ll miss you,” Haley sniffled.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Mom said. “But I’ll be watching from above. So, promise you’ll keep being such a good girl and help your mom and dad and baby sister and get the best grades in school you can, all right?”

Haley sniffled some more, then said, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all you can do, honey.” Mom ruffled her hair. “Now, what month are we in?”

“September,” Haley answered.

“And you know my first name is Summer, just like the season, right?”

Haley nodded.

“And what season comes after summer?”

“Autumn.”

“That’s right. What do you think your baby sister’s name will be?”

Haley shook her head.

“I’ll tell you. Her name will be Autumn.”

Of course, I thought. My husband and I had been agonizing over names ever since we learned the baby would be a girl, and Mom knew this. Autumn was the perfect name for a child born at the beginning of fall.

Two weeks later, while recuperating after giving birth, I received the dreaded call from the hospice. Summer was gone.

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Zeke Weatherly, All of Them, fiction
by Nicole Massey

Yeah, Bobbie Jo, I agree, that thing about Old Miss Nancy’s cat is strange – I know for a fact that durn cat’s used up at least twenty lives, just tussling’ with the dogs Miss Nancy’s neighbor, Rex Pruitt, breeds to fight, and Rex claims that cat has cost him a lot of prime fighting dogs. But that t’ain’t nothing compared to the Weatherly family. Yeah, I see about half of you nodding, and you got to admit, there ain’t no ‘splaining some of that. For those who haint heard word of this, let me fill you in on Priestly Parish’s biggest mystery.

I reckon the Weatherly clan was one of the first to move here. We’re not sure where their first homestead was, because the borders for the states weren’t drawn yet back then, but they’s got their ‘stead up near the Arkansas border on the north end of the county and state line, and I’m told it looks like it’s been there a good long spell. They’re good Christian folk, always at the Methodist church on Sunday mornings and evenings and on Wednesday nights, and they help out a lot. And you can tell some of that by their names – t’weren’t a one of them with a name from anywhere but holy scripture. The first one to get any attention was Ezekiel Abraham Weatherly, and this was, oh, I guess back around the early eighteen hundreds. He was a tough old sack of leather, made his living farming and shooting game, and he was a decent trapper and skinner too, at least that’s the way my family tells it. He got to where he was crazy old, like up in his late nineties, and then one stormy day he was out chasing some deer and he got caught in a storm.

Maizy Boudreaux’s great-grandmother swore she and her gentleman were in a cave sheltering from the storm and they saw him get all lit up by lightning.

He fell over, then don’t it beat all, he got back up and walked away, looking unhurt.

I know, memory is tricky, but she swore to her dying day that was the way it happened, and she didn’t care who disagreed. Her suitor, Clement Justice, couldn’t tell if she spoke true because he got himself killed in the Unpleasantness, you know, the one where the states didn’t get along there for a bit.

Next thing we know’d his grandson started coming around, and darned if he didn’t look exactly like old Zeke Weatherly. He was his grandpappy’s heir, so he worked the farm, hunted, and soon took over his grandpappy’s role in the church. Let me tell you, that horse apple fell straight down, landing between the roots of that tree, because he was so like his grandpappy sometimes you could hear Old Zeke’s words from Young Zeke.

I don’t know why, but every girl his age in the whole county and them that bordered it wanted to make him their man.

Young Zeke was polite, and he’d dance with them at the church socials, but he wouldn’t take them out carriaging.

You may know about Louisa Mae Prescott, the girl and then woman who dominated the county fair for decades with her baking? She swore she learned how to bake so good by trying to be better than the other girls who set their eye on Young Zeke. She was a good woman, God bless her soul.

Things got weird when that foreigner from Serbia set up his electricity lab in Colorado Springs. Young Zeke put the farm in the hands of his brother, Elijah Adam Weatherly, and headed up there. Nobody knows what went on there, but my pappy said Young Zeke came back looking better than he left, like he’d dropped years from his body.

Soon after that we started having problems with that durn Cooper gang. For those here who haven’t heard about this, Jebidiah Cooper got it into his fool head he could start bootlegging and running a few stills. He had no business getting involved with making hooch unless he wanted to make something that stripped the paint off stuff and left the worst hangovers, so that didn’t go much far, but there he was, trying to bootleg spirits into a dry county where everyone was a member of the three churches and the Ladies’ Garden Club had their noses into everything going on. They also liked to fill in Reverand Stein over at the Baptist church, our own minister, Mr. Parker, and Priest Devereaux over at Our Lady of Divine Grace. So nobody was buying bootleg hooch. Jebidiah imported himself some thugs and losers, so he set them to robbing people, breaking stuff, and dragging off some of the girls.

We of course put together a posse and hunted him down, but it was a bloody fight, and Young Zeke took a load of buckshot in his chest on the right side. At least four different people said he did.

So what did he do? I wasn’t there, of course, that’s a bit before my time, but instead of letting Doc Bowles, who was there on the raid, patch him up he somehow staggered his way out to the good doctor’s car, opened the hood, and grabbed the battery cables. Doc swore to the end of his days there was a bright flash, everyone’s hair stood up on end, and Young Zeke walked away with a tore up shirt and no bleeding or broken skin.

Doc did some work at the state hospital a couple of years later, and they did that shock therapy stuff there, so he talked with the men who ran that program, and he almost lost his doctor’s license because they thought he was a loon – they didn’t know nothing about the kind of healing he was on about.

Many tears got shed when he came back, because he brought a woman back with him, Sarah Elizabeth Jones, but she’d already done got hitched to Young Zeke, so she was a Weatherly by then. She lit the Ladies’ Garden Club up like a bonfire, but nobody could find nothin’ to say bad about her, and she was a powerful good cook – the church socials tasted so much better. The Weatherly farm done good, better than a lot of others, and Young Zeke and Sarah were a cornerstone of our community.

Some folks started wondering though, maybe thirty years ago, because Young Zeke and Sarah both looked like they were a lot younger than they should be. Nobody gave no ear to what a few of the gossip mill said for a while, but the longer it gone on it was tougher to ignore. The other thing that made everyone sort of wondering was we heard there were a lot of Weatherly family living on the farm, but nobody saw no one but Young Zeke, Sarah, and every oncet in while Eli. This changed back ‘bout ten years ago when that huge mess of storms came through, with a twister and everything. There was a lot of lightning hitting the ground, and don’t you know it, next thing we know Young Zeke’s boy, who called himself Zeke Three, started showing up at church a lot. Sarah didn’t show up no more, but she sent food along with her son when we had a social.

I’ve heard some funny ideas about what’s up with the Weatherly family, some of them nothing but crazy talk. The one that a lot of young’uns believe is that electricity kind of hits a reset button for some of them. I don’t know about tall that, but I’m not some scientist, I’m just a Louisiana feed store owner.

But I know this – something’s not the same with them Weatherly folks. And if the young folks are right, then that’s what they call irony, them being named Weatherly.

Bio: Nicole Massey is a writer, composer, and songwriter, a lifelong Dallasite, and sixth generation Texan. Her degree in music was earned from the University of Texas system. She lost her sight in 2003; if you find it, she’d like to have it back. Nicole doesn’t drink coffee or wear t-shirts and sweats. This may make her an atypical writer and musician.

She can be reached at:
creations@nicolemassey.com.
She’s not on Instagram, TikTok, or Twitter, but her website is: https://www.nicolemassey.com has occasional updates and writing on it. The real finds there are the subscription buttons for her newsletter and mailing list.

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Mother Earth’s Lament, fiction
by Leonard Tuchyner

Mother Earth waited for God in His waiting room. It had been years since she had talked to Him, and she was glad that He only took a few years to give her an appointment. She sat on an office couch until He finally appeared.

“Oy veh, you almost gave me a heart attack. You’re not there, and then you are. Can’t you give a woman some kind of warning? Maybe you could slowly take form. That way a middle-aged girl could adjust.”

God didn’t respond to the acerbic greeting. It was her nature. “It’s good to see you. Give me a run down on how your family is doing. How is Sol treating you these days?”

“Sol is Sol. What can I tell you? He’s engorged with his own self-importance. You know, belching out plasma, making little spots, keeping a stream of gas flowing out into his solar system. I don’t mean to say he isn’t important, but don’t try to get close to some of those ejections. His breath is enough to make you wish you were dead. He’s a good father, though. I love him as a daughter loves her father.”

“Ahem, I think I get the picture. Everything is normal.”

“More or less. Except Mercury has me worried.”

“Oh?”

“He runs hot and cold. With one side always facing Sol, he doesn’t do anything in moderation. Can’t you give him more of a spin?”

“He hasn’t complained,” God answered, with a little irritation.

“Well, I didn’t come to talk with you about my ungrateful family,” she proclaimed.

“Good, I hoped not. So, what did you come to talk about?”

“You already know.”

“True, but it helps for you to tell it in words.”

“You’re coming up in the world. Now you’re a psychiatrist,” she quipped. God just stared at her, waiting.

Mother Earth’s eyes began to weep. Her jaw began to tremble. “I …I ….” She swallowed There was a long pause.

“Go ahead. I know this hurts, but talking about it will help in the long run,” God said.

After a while, Earth began to speak. I’m so ashamed. I had no choice. You told me to do it. You told me to do it. I didn’t want to do it.”

“Keep going.”

“I killed them,” she said, and broke down crying.

“You know I didn’t want to, but it was them or all of the life I’m responsible for. They were killing me. Don’t you see, I had to do it,” she cried.

God put a comforting hand on her shoulder and waited.

“I killed them,” she screamed.

“What would have happened if you didn’t?”

“More life would have been lost,” she cried softly.

“You didn’t kill all of the humans under your care. There are a quarter of a million still alive.“

“God, do you think they’ll stay alive?” she sobbed.

“I’m sure of it. They’re a tough breed. They’ll make a recovery.”

“Can you promise that?” she pleaded.

God took His hand off her shoulder, walked to look out His window. “There are things even I don’t know. It has to be that way. Otherwise, there would be no self-determination. The choice is theirs. But I have faith in your work, Mother Earth. I think the chances are good.“

“Will they have to start from scratch?” she asked imploringly.

“They have retained much of the wisdom they gained. That includes some of the technology.”

“When I killed the dinosaurs, they never came back,” she said ruefully.

“You know better, Earth. We call them birds now. If you remember, they were on a dead end. If life was to progress, they had to lose their top dog position.”

Mother Earth shook her head slightly in agreement.

“How long will it take?” she asked, the twinkle in her eyes beginning to return.

“My guess is about five hundred years. That’s nothing, in your terms.”

“Oh, and by you a few hundred years is only a blink of the eye?”

“Not even a blink.”

“Do you think the brats have learned their lesson?”

“Unbounded capitalism is a hard thing to get over. It’s addictive. But they probably will. Time will tell.”

“And by you, time is nothing?”

“It’s an illusion.”

“Now he gives me riddles. So deep in the dark. I don’t mind. I’ll just sit here in the dark until my babies come back into your favor again.”

“So, you’re insulting me as in the good old days. I think this session is over. Don’t wait until the next catastrophe to make another appointment,” God said.

“Just one more question.”

“What is it, Mother Earth?”

“How long before my biodiversity returns to its former level?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I knew it. You answer the question with another question.”

“Glad you noticed. Goodbye, Mother Earth.”

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Ghost Slayer, fiction
by Abbie Allen

The flames in the latest grave Demi had dug cut through some of the cold in the air. The remains of Walter Stevens had withered to bones long ago, but his ghost still haunted his house further up the street. He was only forty-two when he had murdered his wife by chopping her head off before killing himself. Now she was making sure she burned his skeleton to a crisp, but it didn’t always mean the ghostie was dead. Once, she’d found locks of hair had been preserved in a doll and had to burn those too whilst a machete-wielding spirit was hunting her. She’d learned a valuable lesson that day.

Now Walter’s spirit haunted their old family home, chasing any trespassers with his axe. His ghost had plagued the backwater for several decades, hence Demi burning his remains before dealing with the house. Demi had built a solid reputation for removing ghosts from houses, pushing them to the next realm. This was just the next in a long line.

Satisfied Walter’s remains had charred to oblivion, Demi turned her focus to the house Walter haunted. This was the fiftieth house she’d cleared of the supernatural pests, and it slotted in perfectly with what she’d seen before. The cutesy exterior hid the decay and rotten core from the outside world. The sash windows and lace curtains could fool anyone walking by that it was a family home. But looking beneath was where the deadly sights were.

In her experience, these were always the houses that held the deepest, darkest secrets. She’d been in one years ago, Before the axe became her go-to weapon of choice. The house was haunted by the ghost of a wizened old woman who had gone mad and killed her whole family with a pair of scissors, and was hunting down anyone who dared to trespass on the property. Demi had nearly died if she hadn’t thrown salt in the ghost’s face, used her dad’s ghost slaying axe bequeathed to her after his death, and hacked the old hag to pieces. The axe had absorbed the mad spectre’s scissors, making the family weapon Demi’s only constant companion ever since.

The detached house before Demi, the last house standing on the abandoned road on the edge of town, was almost hidden in its own cloaking, only letting people see it in the corner of their eyes or full on as Demi did. The cloaking also worked as a prison for a lot of the ghosts. The soul occupying the house coming back as a vengeful spectre was unleashing its true nature on those inside the house, because when they had died or become whatever they were now, that side of them was intensified as they were effectively made immortal. She’d even got chased by a pretty nasty ghost through a farm’s land, armed with a scythe. So much for sticking to the boundaries of the house.

Demi wasn’t afraid to be standing on the path up to her next haunted house. Her bag and pockets, full of everything she needed weighed her down. It was always better to duplicate what she had in her bag into her pockets in case she got separated from her bag. It happened once and she nearly had her heart ripped out by a very hands-on ghost with breath stinking of rotting meat.

She always dug her hands round in a bag of salt before she went inside, so as many crystals of salt would get up her nails. If she had to scratch, the salt would burn the creature she came face to face with. It would buy her seconds, but that was all she’d need.

Before entering the next house, she always examined her axe, checking whether any of its abilities had been awakened. She didn’t fully understand it yet, but whenever she killed a ghost, their weapon was drawn towards her axe and added to its strength. Its handle was made up of several rings of different woods and heading up to an outstretched head that glistened with different metals. She guessed her weapon was collectively made up of oak, cedar, maple, iron, silver, steel and bronze. Over the years, she found certain weapons had been gifted with different abilities. It was never the same each time, almost as if it was predicting what she’d need and helping her put the ghosts to rest at last.

Demi carefully edged up the wobbly slabs towards the front door. She tightened her grip around her axe and used the head to push the door open. It creaked on its hinges as it swung inwards. Demi stepped inside and immediately a cold chill ran down her spine, making her shudder. She’d barely crossed the threshold when the loud roar of Demi’s latest spirit filled her ears. The door slammed shut and as she tested the handle with her free hand, she found it was locked. Not going back out that way in a hurry then.

Stairs groaned from above her. Demi shuffled quickly out of sight as footsteps headed in her direction. Hiding round the corner, she raised her weapon above her head and waited for the steps to get closer to her hiding position. Disconcerted that she wasn’t hearing any steps, she dared to carefully peek round the wall she’d taken cover behind. Big mistake. The spirit flew at her at an almost breakneck speed, a soulless face looming closer in the darkness.

She swung quickly, cutting off the ghostly white glimmer of an axe heading towards her head. Both weapons clanged as they connected, but his started to steam in his hands. The spectre’s face warped into a bearded mask of terror, not understanding what was happening.

In the brief seconds both were stunned by their weapons colliding, Demi was able to take in who her opponent was. The spirit of Walter Stevens was a beer-bellied man stretching the chest piece of the dungarees. His bushy beard was matted with dried blood and his eyes were dark as night. Walter’s spirit screeched at Demi, almost as if words evaded him, as the steam protruding from the sharp end of his weapon spread down the handle. Apparently being a ghost didn’t seem to agree with him from the amount of writhing about he was doing as he tried to keep hold of his steaming axe.

She’d seen many reactions to her axe, but never one that made the ghost and their weapon start to steam. What was even weirder was the steam from the axe seemed drawn to Demi’s axe, as if it was trying to join hers. It followed the direction of her axe, no matter where she moved it.

Demi swung her axe again and before she knew what was happening, the head of her axe duplicated and cut like a pair of scissors into his right shoulder, making him drop his axe to the ground. His arm was actually bleeding black blood. She’d never tried this before, but she moved to scoop up his steaming axe into her right hand, and as soon as she touched it, the axe solidified like it wasn’t part of him anymore. She couldn’t help but be in awe of his weapon, although the sheen of blood over both sharp edges of the blades didn’t settle her stomach’s fluttering. She threw his axe at his fleeing figure, and it lodged into his back, turning him to dust. The axe fell to the floor, wedged into the floorboards by its blade.

Demi wrenched the axe out of the floor. As her hands with an axe in each moved closer together, Demi staggered as the two axes merged, slightly lengthening the handle of the axe the size of a ring band in a coppery brown colour just under the head of the axe. The blades of the axe glistened with a deeper silver colour as the ghost’s axe had done.

Demi didn’t question it. Just as she was about to try and leave, a mighty wind howled through the house, almost knocking her flying if she hadn’t grabbed the door handle. Where Walter’s spirit had disappeared, a burning figure emerged, pointing a finger at her. Hurriedly yanking at the front door in the hope it would open, she staggered as it opened easily. She flew down the flight of steps leading up to the house, not daring to look back.

She stopped on the road, clear enough away and watched the house catch fire. She was a little surprised to find the doorway swing open and the outline of Walter’s spirit she’d killed mere seconds ago looming over her. She blinked and the figure was gone.

Demi hurried down the road to her car and got in, dropping her kit in the front passenger seat. She sped away, the axe in the prime position in the passenger seat. Magical items always terrified her, but she loved her axe. The original axe that had saved her life was still in there somewhere. She just had to believe it merged with all the ghosts’ weapons for a reason. Something she needed to find out before her next job.

Bio: Abbie Allen has been writing novels and scripts for over ten years in the genres of Crime, Thriller, Sci-Fi, Supernatural and Fantasy. She uses her experiences of being autistic to explore themes of identity, belonging, acceptance and diversity not being a limitation. She studied BA Scriptwriting at the University of South Wales (USW) in Cardiff, graduating in 2017. She is also a sensitivity reader for autism as The Autism Reader.

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Tracker Ball, fiction
by Shawn Jacobson

I was chasing the ball when things went wrong. The ball was hit, one might say crushed, by James, Big Bopper, Lewis of the hated Des Moines Yankees. At least, they’re hated by everyone on the Omaha Red Sox. Anyway, the ball was screaming out to the deepest part of the park. I raced after it guided by signals from my brainbox that were transmitted to haptic receptors in my uniform. The quality of the ground changed as I hit the warning track. I reached where my brainbox said the ball should be and got nothing. Coming off the wall, I heard the ball bounce back toward the infield, I scrambled after the sound. Just as I got close, Tom speeder, our left fielder, picked up the ball and threw to third base holding the big bopper to a triple. Cursing to myself, I returned to my position. Boos rained down from the crowd. Two batters later, the runner scored on a double laced down the first-base line. Then, there was an intentional walk, followed by a home run, and the hated Yankees were well on the way to victory.

“What happened out there?” The manager, Walter, the Walrus, Haines yelled after the game. “That wasn’t an easy catch, but you make those all the time.”

“Don’t know,” I said shaking my head. “I jumped where the brainbox told me the ball was, and it just wasn’t there.”

“Well,” the manager said, “you missed it by a good six centimeters. You need to have the team technician check you out. We can’t have you missing balls, especially with the championship on the line.”

And that is how I ended up riding the bench the next day. From prime time to pine time in one missed play.

“These benches used to be made of real pine,” Smokey said. “And baseball used to be played on real grass.”

“This is real grass,” I replied.

“No, it isn’t,” smokey replied. “It’s that artificial carbon storing stuff the science boys say is good for the climate. Believe me, I’m from the country. I know what real grass is. This stuff feels bogus,” he continued, “and it smells wrong to.”

I should say now that smokey, actually Cregg Davis, but we call him smokey, is our back-up catcher. We call him smokey because he can smoke the ball when he makes contact. If he made contact more than once in a dog’s age, he would be our starting catcher.

“Another thing,” he continued, “in the old days, you didn’t have haptic sensors to tell you where the ball was.”

“Because” I reply, “in the old days, people could see the ball. Anyone who was blind didn’t play.”

“But they did,” Smoky said. “They had beep ball back in the days of sight, not that many people know about it.”

“I’ve not heard of it,” I said.

“They used a ball that beeped sound,” Smoky said, “thus the name.”

“I’m guessing it wasn’t as memorable given no one remembers it.”

“Or its obscure because the sighted world assumed it wasn’t good,” Smokey said. “Sighted folk took pride in the superpower of their eyes.”

“You know, if you were as good with bat control as you are with baseball history, you might be out there.”

“And if you were as good a fielder as you think you are,” he replied, “you wouldn’t be riding the pine.”

“Point conceded,” I said.

We continued talking as those relegated to the pine will do.

The game dragged on with no one scoring until the bottom of the seventh. Then all hell broke loose.

First, Jethro Toole, our second baseman, hit what should have been a routine grounder toward shortstop. But the fielder muffed the ball badly, and by the time the outfield got to it, Jethro was on second base; the kid had speed. Then, their pitcher got wild, and after a couple of walks, he got pulled. My replacement hit a homer that was so long that the stadium’s ball tracking system lost contact. We got a couple more runs, but that homer was the deal sealer. We won, putting us back in first place with a week left to go in the season.

“You’re not the only good player who’ll ride the pine for a while,” Smokey commented as we headed for the showers.

Our next series was against the Dodge City Dodgers. This was another team, like the Yankees and the Red Sox, named for iconic teams from the past. Their cities, Los Angeles, New York, and Boston had sunk beneath the waves, as gone as the age of sight.

“What a mess,” I said to Smokey on the plane trip to Dodge City.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Yesterday’s game,” I replied. “You’re not supposed to make five errors and win.”

“You are if the other team makes six,” he replied.

“Is that how many they made?” I asked. “I hadn’t didn’t keep track.”

“Yep,” he replied.

“What’s causing all of this, the bad fielding and all?” I asked.

“If you want my opinion,” he replied, “it’s the whole set-up behind our ball tracking technology.”

“You think it’s glitchy?” I asked.

“You remember the updated traffic system Omaha put in a couple of years ago?” Smokey asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Didn’t it fail acceptance testing in a spectacular way?” I asked. “They had to delay implementation if I remember correctly.”

“Yep,” Smokey said. “I worked on it. There were two incompatible systems, but they only caused problems in rare instances. Intermittent errors are the devil to debug.”

None of us were full-time athletes; we were strictly in it for the love of the game. Smokey, like many of us coded for a living.

“So,” I asked, “what does that have to do with baseball?”

“It has nothing to do with baseball,” Smoky said. “It’s got to do with the complexity of the ball tracking systems, By the time you connect the ballpark’s radio system for locating the ball to the transmission handshake with our brainboxes, well, you’ve got a lot of complex communications. Then you have the haptic system that takes information from the brainbox and gives it to our muscles. Add it all together and…”

“I understand,” I said feeling overwhelmed.

“If I were you,” Smokey said, “I’d listen for the ball and not just to your brainbox. The ball does beep. I think it’s a holdover from the old beep ball days. Anyway, try it.”

Fortunately, the next day’s game was normal. I got in the lineup in my usual place in center field, and I made six catches with no crazy errors. In fact, there was only one error, and it didn’t impact the score. We walked off the field having won three to two; one game closer to securing first place. Now we only had two more games here and three in Texas, and the regular season would be over.

If we held on to first place, we would represent the Restoration league in the New World Series against the winner of the upstart Pioneer league. We considered the Pioneer League to be upstarts because they’d only been around for two years compared to our league which was finishing up its third season. We would then be playing against the Utah Baseball Club, the only good team in the new league. It looked like we would actually get there.

Before practice on the next day, I ran into our statistician.

“Six centimeters,” she said.

“Huh,” I asked.

“Remember that fielding adventure you had against the Yankees?”

“Don’t remind me,” I said.

“Well,” she continued, “the manager said you were six centimeters off from the ball.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I remember.”

“Anyway,” she said, “I looked at that mess of a game on Sunday, and…”

“Yes,” I broke in, “what of it?”

“Well, for every error, the fielder was exactly six centimeters from his optimal position, six centimeters towards optimal and the error doesn’t happen.”

“Really,” I said.

“Yes,” she continued. “The only error that doesn’t fit the pattern is the one that their first baseman Clint Steinbach made.”

That made sense. He never was much of a fielder. He’s in there to sock the ball, and they stick him in at first base hoping no one pulls it down the line.

“Yep,” I said. “That sounds about right.”

“I’ll also check the detailed log for the Chicago game, to see if there’s a similar pattern in that game; it was a mess to.”

“That sounds like it would be interesting,” I said.

The next day, I tried listening for the ball as I took fielding practice; yes, it did beep. According to the archives, this was a holdover from beep ball. Anyway, I tried combining the sound of the ball with the haptic signals and mostly got confused.

Then, the game happened, and things went downhill fast. I had another strange error and got benched, but my replacement did worse the next day, so I was back in the lineup. We lost the last two games in Dodge City then lost the first two in Texas. It got to the point where we needed to win the last game to retake first place.

The game started with promise. Jack, the rabbit, Clayton hit a line drive to left that he legged into a double. After stealing third, he came home on a grounder to first. We had the early lead.

Things stayed that way until the fifth when Texas tied it up with a home run then took the lead with another. We were one run down in the seventh, and their pitcher was doing a good job. Then, the errors started. First, their third baseman muffed a hard grounder that went down the line. By the time the left fielder fished it out of the corner, Walt Duffy, our eighth batter, made it into second. The next batter walked. Our lead-off batter shot a ball to right-center. Their center fielder misjudged the ball, probably by six centimeters, and the rabbit did his thing. By the time their right fielder tracked down the ball, the rabbit had scored, and we were up by two runs. We gave one of the runs back with some sloppy play of our own. Both teams got homers in the eighth. This left us ahead, five to four, going into the bottom of the ninth. Then things got scary, we gave up a single to their catcher Ed Wong, then the next player walked. After a successful sacrifice bunt, they had runners on second and third with one out. The next ball was hit, roughly in my direction. I ran to the ball as it sank in front of me and to my right. Then, I noticed something, a dissonance between the sound of the ball and the feed to my brainbox.

I noticed this discord in practice the few times I missed the ball. Then, through some arcane muscle magic, I knew to lurch a bit to the right, where I thought the ball just might be and, wow, I had it in the webbing of my glove, it stuck. My lurch caused me to lose balance, so I took a couple of stumbling steps to right myself. Then, the catch yelled, “Throw it!”

I stepped in and heaved the ball toward home as hard as I’ve ever thrown a ball, and then I heard, “out!” It was the third out of the inning; we’d won.

The next day, we went into our clubhouse anticipating preparations for the championship series with Utah. But we got a surprise instead.

“The series has been cancelled,” the walrus said.

“Why,” I asked as did almost everyone else in the room.

“The integrity of the game has been compromised,” he said. “The positioning system that tells you where the ball is going has been hacked.”

“Hacked?” the rabbit asked as I remembered what I’d heard about people missing the ball by six centimeters.

“Yes,” the walrus said. “Someone checked the computer logs for updates to the system and found that a random number generator had been added to the program. When the random number was in a certain range, a vector was added to the position reported to the brainbox. I guess that’s a good way to add intermittent errors to a program.”

“People really looked into things after Utah lost thirty-two to nineteen in their game against Saskatoon. Even in that league, twenty errors is a lot. For all their pioneering spirit, the Pioneer league still uses the same system that we do.”

Later, I ran into Smokey at a bar we both like.

“I noticed you weren’t surprised by the news,” I said after the usual pleasantries. “What did you know about this?”

“I helped with the hack,” he said. “I might as well tell you,” He continued, “there’ll be a big announcement about it soon.”

“But why,” I asked.

“Because the games not real the way it’s played now. Even in the days of sight, the fielders didn’t know where to run, they had to follow the ball, the way they did back in the beep ball games that blind people played. Now, some machine prods you in the ass and you chase the ball by running from the prod. Where’s the skill in that?”

“But without the haptic system…”

“Things will be harder, sure,” he said. “But that’s the point. It’s hard so people will have to hone their abilities to run and listen and tell their muscles what to do. That’s the glory of baseball, precision, skill, the beautiful arts of the game. Without that, what glory does baseball have?”

I will always remember those words; the last ones he told me before the police took him away.

So, now I’m getting ready for next season. I’m learning to bat based on the sound of the ball; this is hard. Next, I will take fielding practice where I will chase the sound of the baseball and hope to catch the thing, and this is harder still. But hard things can be worth doing. Maybe we can make the new league work, and maybe we can’t. But given that we were able to rebuild our society after everyone went blind, I would say you shouldn’t bet against us. We humans are a determined lot and if we are determined to play authentic baseball without our eyes, well, as I’ve said. You shouldn’t bet against us.

Bio: Shawn Jacobson was born totally blind and attained partial eyesight through several eye operations. He grew up in Iowa but moved to the Washington DC area to take a job with the Federal Government. He has since retired and lives in Maryland where he plans vacations and writes speculative fiction.

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Bud, fiction
by Gregory Smith

“Hey there, everybody! It’s Greg, and it’s another edition of ‘Unbreakable,’ the podcast! Today is Thursday, April the Third. We will talk about sports today, including our Phillies season preview. We will also have our classic TV Show of the week: ‘My Mother the Car’. You don’t want to miss that!

“If this is your first time tuning in, we always have a laugh or two, try to make you smile, and maybe inspire a little too. We don’t talk about anything too heavy. Have fun and thanks for joining us this morning!

“With me, as always, is my sidekick, my Ed McMahon, the guy who makes this fine show work, my friend Bud! He produces, directs, writes the program, and does my hair. The best pal any host ever had!”

The camera panned to a small Peek-a-Pom canine lying on the floor of my bedroom, furiously wagging his tail as he was introduced.

“You know Bud’s story: a rescue from a shelter in Alabama, he came to me about eleven years ago, after finding him on a website. They say I saved his life, but he really saved mine. I adopted him because I needed company and protection after my former dog, Louie, passed away. As soon as we met, Bud peed on the left tire of my wheelchair; a bond was formed, and we have been together ever since. We are the best of pals.”

Every day the podcast followed the same format: the agenda for that day, maybe a joke or a nugget of trivia, and always platitudes and appreciation for Bud. Every day Bud would be in his usual spot, behind me, tongue out, facing the camera. I like to think he enjoyed being on the show, but my common sense said he also enjoyed the assortment of doggy snacks I kept in baggies in my desk drawer.

Bud had been through thick and thin with me. The worst had to be the winter storm that knocked out our power for five days. We had no heat and no electricity. He was just a puppy, and he was shivering so severely that I held him at night to keep him warm. We survived that storm, as we had other storms of life during our time together.

“Stay, Bud. You don’t need to get up. I’m only going to the kitchen for more water,” I would advise. I didn’t want him to leave his “apartment” (a comfy dog bed in my clothes closet), where he would nestle sweetly in a brown furry ball. But each time he would follow me, regardless, ever loyal.

Bud went through his puppy stage, sleeping sixteen hours a day, playing full-tilt the other eight hours. He was unpredictable and fun, and he was always good for a laugh. He was a fantastic guard dog, too, important since I lived alone. In his later years he settled into a consistent routine of eating, sleeping, pooping and being cute.

********************

I really thought Bud was going to get better. I knew that pneumonia, especially in older dogs, was tough to recover from. But this was Bud, and he had always bounced back from hardship or illness before. When he lived in Alabama he had been severely abused. He survived a BB gun pellet in his back, a fractured jaw and an injured Achilles tendon in his right rear leg. But he always survived.

Visiting Bud in the hospital was tough. He wanted to come home so badly. I would put my hand up to his glass oxygen chamber, and he would do likewise with his paw. I was crushed when they told me he wasn’t going to get any better. The pneumonia had done a number on his ancient lungs.

“It’s time,” the vet said.” It’s the humane thing to do. Otherwise, it’s a horrible death he is facing.”

My mind was made up. He wasn’t responding to treatment after three days. I didn’t want to see him suffer. I hoped he understood that I loved him. As the vet gave him the IV that would release him from his pain, I witnessed his spirit leaving his tired body, and I bawled like a baby.

Bud was at peace.

They say sometimes after a furry friend crosses the rainbow bridge to Heaven their spirit may still be around the house. Stress and grief can make a body see and hear all kinds of strange things. It happened to me. I thought I heard Bud’s claws on the hardwood floors at night. I would call for him around supper time, instinctively filling his bowl with dog food. His toys were everywhere in the house from Scary Rubber Spider to Lammy to Singing Oriole. His toys brought back many fond memories, but they also brought tears.

Bud’s ashes were returned to me in a beautiful walnut box with his name inscribed in gold on the top. I reverently placed Singing Oriole, his favorite toy, on his box. He had Oriole with him at the hospital; now I hoped it would bring him comfort in the afterlife.

I thought about Bud a lot after he died. That spring and summer I sat on the back-deck, getting some fresh air. I remembered all the days we spent on the deck together, Bud sunning himself. At times I could swear he was still there, soaking up the rays. I would reach down and stroke his warm brown fur, thinking of how I found him on the internet when I needed a companion, how he traveled over a thousand miles from Alabama to find his forever home. I thanked him for saving my life.

I vowed to never forget him. His spirit would live forever in my heart.

My podcasts stopped. I couldn’t imagine doing another podcast without my buddy nearby.

At first, I rejected the idea of getting a puppy. No other dog could ever replace The Budster. I didn’t want to go through the heartbreak of losing a furry friend again. But, with each passing week, I reconsidered. Why should I forget the lifetime of love that a dog offers?

Roscoe, the new dog, adapted very quickly. It was almost like we had been friends forever. He immediately used the doggy steps that Bud would use to get on my bed. He patrolled the backyard that was Bud’s domain for years. He even staked out the apartment in my bedroom closet. Yes, one could say Roscoe had settled in quite nicely.

At first, Katie, my girlfriend’s dog, was leery of this new, lively creature in the house. She was set in her ways and mature in her demeanor while Roscoe was exuberant, jumping, running and carrying on at break-neck speed. Katie wasn’t used to his frenetic pace, especially spending time with the calmness of Bud. But slowly, whenever she visited, she started adapting to Roscoe. Now Katie was the lead dog for Roscoe, just as Bud had been her lead dog. We were surprised how quickly Katie adapted to this new dog.

It was amazing how similar Roscoe was to Bud. Freaky, actually. Bud had this habit of going under my wheelchair when he wanted to get somewhere, even while I was rolling. Roscoe did the same thing. No other canine but Bud accomplished this daredevil feat. Roscoe followed me everywhere, just like Bud, even attempting to follow me into the shower, peeping his head around the shower curtain.

“A man needs his privacy, Roscoe!” I gently scolded him.

Despite an assortment of shiny, new toys, the puppy loved playing with Bud’s old toys. Soon, Lammy, Scary Spider and all the rest were back in business.

My mood brightened. I missed doing the podcast every day. To my surprise, Roscoe joined me for the return episode, sitting where Bud used to sit all those years. It was meant to be, I suppose, and we just picked up from where we left off.

I don’t want it to sound like I forgot Bud. Far from it. I loved showing photos of him to my viewers, proclaiming Bud as our “Patron Saint” of the podcast. We planted a Carolina Sweetheart Redbud tree in the backyard in Bud’s honor. I loved the idea of a tree, a gift that would keep giving every spring, in remembrance of him. Roscoe loved it too, hanging around the tree, wagging his tail.

********************

Roscoe grew like a horse and continued to do Bud-like things, even beyond his first birthday. I knew that it wasn’t fair to compare the two; each dog was similar, yet they had their own personality. Our neighbor, who fancied herself a “dog whisperer,” was the first to float the idea that maybe, just maybe, Roscoe was the reincarnation of Bud.

“Nah,” I said. “That’s crazy.”

Then I saw the movie “A Dog’s Journey,” in which a dog is reincarnated, each time returning to another needy owner, spreading love, joy and companionship on the way. The dog finally comes back to its original owner, disguised as another dog, only to give a startling clue that “Hey! It’s really me!”

I still rejected the idea. Other dogs smile and stick their bottom row of teeth out like Bud; other dogs bury pizza crust under the sofa like Bud; other dogs love belly rubs like Bud; other dogs pass gas, commandeer bedroom closets, and live for snacks like Bud. The fact that Roscoe enjoyed all these things was pure coincidence. And just because Katie treated Roscoe just like she treated Bud, that didn’t mean Roscoe was Bud.

Still, he did want to join my podcast every day, sitting in the exact same spot where Bud sat for years.

********************

Unless I said something stupid or made an unintentional gaffe, I never used to edit my shows. Mistakes are a part of life. People enjoy bloopers. Then came a day when I needed to edit. I rewatched that morning’s episode, fixed the gaffe, and was ready to move on. Then something caught my eye. I had to watch again and again, not believing what I was seeing with my own two eyes.

There was Bud, living and breathing, wagging his tail, lounging on my bedroom floor, in his favorite spot, waiting for snacks.

I looked behind me. Roscoe had fallen asleep after we taped the episode, never moving an inch.

Bud was in approximately three hundred shows. I doubled checked the dates. I went to my homepage and scrolled through the episodes after he died. In every single program since Roscoe had joined the show, there was Bud, taking Roscoe’s place.

I tried to think of every possible explanation other than the supernatural. There had to be a logical explanation. But every explanation, no matter how I tried to explain it, deny it or make sense of it, led to one conclusion:

Bud was back.

No one else saw Bud. Only me and only on the podcast.

He still guest- stars, even to this day.

Ever loyal. The best of pals.

---

Part VI. From a Different Perspective

I’m deceptively, poetry
by Ron Riekki

disabled, look abled, mentioned
casually in class I was disabled
during a class on disability issues
and the students frowned looking
at me, wincing, questioning,
seeing that their sight wasn’t
perfect, a disability on their
part to ignore my disability
that, truth be told, isn’t that
hard to spot, a PTSD that’s
so obvious to people with
PTSD, but invisible to those
who don’t have the ability
to see ghosts, and I see ghosts
nightly, nightmares that might
earn me madness one day,
hating REM sleep, the margin
I live in, nightmares to the nth
mirage, her mating with some-
one other than me, and then
it happening, my wife leaving
because of the nightmares, how
I’d wake in the night screaming,
her taming me at first, but then
the nightmares took over, like
a meth ring, a constant tinge
of harm, and then all of this
loneliness like chokeholds,
like the lack of chokeholds,
the lack of touch, the lack
of the lack of touch, lake-
like, no, oceanic, no, worse,
larger, a sea of lager that I
try to drown myself in and
lose, left to my four-letter
word diagnosis, a streetcar
named the lack of desire,
the asexuality, the loss of
sexual interest, the less and
less motivation, and a list of
self-care goals that are never
scored, bored, isolation like
being Tasered, and I think
all of this as they stare at me,
thinking, You’re not disabled and I know this because I make all of my
judgments based off of my sight and lack of knowledge and I sit
there, in my seat as close to the door as possible where

no one
can sit behind me. And I’m silent

Bio: Ron Riekki has been awarded a 2014 Michigan Notable Book, 2015 The Best Small Fictions, 2016 Shenandoah Fiction Prize, 2016 IPPY Award, 2019 Red Rock Film Fest Award, 2019 Best of the Net finalist, 2019 Très Court International Film Festival Audience Award and Grand Prix, 2020 Dracula Film Festival Vladutz Trophy, 2020 Rhysling Anthology inclusion, and 2022 Pushcart Prize. Right now, Riekki’s watching Chuck Workman’s documentary The Source.

---

Tunnelling, poetry
by Louis Faber

There is a perverse pleasure,
when you live with central vision loss
in one of your eyes, in knowing
you can make the faces of those
you find unpleasant disappear,
the cars ahead whose drivers
can not follow basic rules vanish
by simply closing the eye
that still has its central vision.
But like many things in life, that joy
is tempered by the knowledge
that this magical ability may not last,
for if the so-called fellow eye
loses its central vision, life becomes
a tunnel with only its walls available
for your visual entertainment.

Bio: Louis Faber is a visually impaired poet and writer living with progressive advanced macular degeneration. His work has appeared in The MacGuffin, Cantos, Alchemy Spoon (UK), Meniscus and Arena Magazine (Australia), New Feathers Anthology, Dreich (Scotland), Prosetrics, Erothanatos (Greece), Defenestration, Atlanta Review, Glimpse, Rattle, Cold Mountain Review, Eureka Literary Magazine, Borderlands: the Texas Poetry Review, Midnight Mind, Pearl, Midstream, European Judaism, The South Carolina Review, and Worcester Review, among many others, and has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His new book of poetry, Free of the Shadow*, was recently published by Plain View Press. He can be found at: https://anoldwriter.com.

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Ask First, nonfiction
by Barbara Bates

When my children were in elementary school, I tried to impress on them: if you offer to help someone, especially if they’re disabled, first ask how they want you to help them. Then help them in the way they indicated.

One of their teachers called me on this point. She suggested I come into my children’s classrooms, to talk to the students. To let them know how I did things around the house, and what they should do and say when meeting a visually challenged person outside of the classroom.

I agreed. My impetus to teach the younger generation about disabilities and the blind specifically, sprang from an incident that occurred to me soon after I’d lost my sight to a head injury.

During the spring of 1986, while our house was being built, my husband and I stayed with my mother; she owned a two-family house, in a southeastern Massachusetts city. Though I’d grown up in the area, I’d been sighted at the time. When we moved back in, I had mobility lessons, so I could navigate around my neighborhood and take the bus to other locations.

One day, I decided to take the bus downtown, for a meeting I had with Social Security. It was one of my first solo trips. I walked, with my cane, to the nearest major bus stop. This was well before the hand-held GPS systems they have now. While I knew there were other bus stops closer to my mother’s house, I wasn’t sure exactly where they were located. So, I chose the one at the corner of two main roads. Traffic at this intersection was usually heavy. But, I didn’t intend to cross the street, just get on the bus at the corner.

I waited on the corner of these two major roadways, listening for the sound of the bus. In those days, it was easier to distinguish the sound of a bus. By leaning out into the street, I could better hear the traffic.

While I was in this position, an older woman came up from behind me and tapped my shoulder.

“I’ll help you to cross the street, dear.”

By the sound of her voice, she was at least six inches shorter than I and much older. I shook my head. “I don’t want to cross the street. I’m just waiting for…”

She interrupted me. “I know this is a busy intersection,” she continued, “you don’t have to be scared, I’ll help you across the street.” She grabbed my arm just above my elbow with a grip that belied what I’d assumed was her age. Her small fingers barely fit around my arm, but her strong grip held fast.

I shook my arm, trying to dislodge her fingers, but she held on. I couldn’t miss this appointment with Social Security. It was about my SSDI. “No. I’m just waiting for…”

Again, she cut me off. “Look, there’s a gap in the traffic, we can cross now.” She tightened her grip and stepped into the street, dragging me with her.

“The bus…“ I managed before she cut me off.

“We’ll be across the street before it gets here.” She increased her pace.

The only bus before my appointment pulled to the stop, now behind me.

What should I do? I attended the Carroll Center for the Blind for orientation and mobility. They told me to treat those willing to help the disabled with courtesy. That way, they’d be likely to help someone else at a later date.

So, I held my cane out of the way, increased my pace, and we crossed the street, as she clucked. “See, it’s not bad. You just have to keep your attention on the other side and you’ll cross fine.”

When we reached the other side, the bus remained at the stop. The woman released me.

I turned to her. “Thankyou. My bus is here; I need to get on it.” I extended my cane, checked the traffic, and almost ran back across the street.

As I climbed onto the bus, the driver chuckled. “What did you say to that old lady?” He hit the steering wheel.

“Why?”

“She’s got a look on her face like she’d seen something unbelievable.”

I sighed. “I was waiting for the bus. She came along and took my arm, telling me she’d help me cross the street. She didn’t let me get a word in edgewise. Then you pulled up as we reached the other corner. I need to get downtown for an appointment. Rather than fight, I crossed the street, thanked her, and crossed back.”

As we drove downtown, some of the other riders shared similar situations they’d encountered about well-meaning, but clueless, people trying to help them.

Later, I reconsidered what had happened. I should have been more assertive. But, I’d been blind less than two years, and still didn’t have much confidence in cane travel. Or with how to act when offered help I didn’t need.

Even today, some people offering help, grab my arm first, then lead me along behind them. At that point, I take their hand with my other hand, put the hand of the arm they grabbed and hold their arm above their elbow. I explain that this is called “sighted guide”, and I’ll walk a bit behind them. Most simply shrug and continue on.

I believe by introducing the young to the fact that the best way to help some blind people is to first ask how you could help them. This would give the next generation a more open mind on how to interact with and help the disabled.

Bio: Barbara Bates lost her vision due to a head injury. To keep sane she started writing, primarily in the speculative fiction field. She also dabbles in nonfiction. Presently she’s taking incidents from her life to write short stories, but she’s planning other nonfiction endeavors. She’s also added poetry to her repertoire.

She lives in Southeastern New England with her husband.

---

How to Outsmart a Curious Feline, nonfiction
by Ann Chiappetta

The sleek and silent Bagheera slipped into the enclosure, intent on his destination. The human, distracted by the guinea pigs, didn’t notice until it was too late.

“Darn cat, did you go in there?” The human extended her arm and Bagheera slid onto the shelf at the far corner of the cage, avoiding her searching fingers.

The human’s voice rose and she talked into the thing called a cell phone.

“Is the cat in there?” she asked the phone, holding it to face the cage. The tiny voice in it said,
“Yup, he’s in there, all the way in the back on the shelf,”

The human called to him but he didn’t care, he was in the most rare and coveted place and he basked in his accomplishment.

He watched the human enter the storage room from his coveted perch, ignoring the two guinea pigs huddled on the opposite side of the cage, the farthest they could go. Then she went into the bright room with all the cold and wet places. She tapped the top of his ambrosia. Oh, he thought, why did the human have to entice him so? Why, oh why, did she offer him something he craved even more than the coveted rodent shelf?

And this is how to lure a cat from hiding in the guinea pig cage. Appeal to his stomach.

Bio: Ann’s award-winning poems, creative nonfiction, and essays have appeared internationally in literary journals, popular online blogs, and print anthologies. Her poems have been featured in The Avocet, The Pangolin Review, Plum Tree Tavern, Magnets and Ladders, Oprelle, Western PA Poetry Review 2024, Breath and Shadow, and others. Ann’s short story, “The Misty Torrent” appeared in The Artificial Divide anthology published by Renaissance Press (2021).

Ann is the recipient of the 2019 GDUI Excellence in Writing award and the WDOMI 2016 Spirit of Independence award.

Independently published since 2016, the author’s six volume collection includes poetry, creative nonfiction essays, short stories and contemporary fiction.

Diagnosed in 1993 with a rare form of progressive retinal disease, Ann accepts vision loss as part of her life but doesn’t let it define her as a whole person.

Contact Ann by visiting her website: http://www.annchiappetta.com. Subscribe to Ann’s blog http://www.thought-wheel.com. Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/verona.chiappetta/

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Into the long gray wasting, fiction
by Brad Corallo

Mack completed lacing up his steel-toed boots and bent to pick up the pack on the floor. It was heavy and the solid iron bars inside clinked together when he put his arms through the straps and shouldered its full weight.

He was an old man but still lean and tough with wiry strength. He wore a khaki army jacket over a black t-shirt and warn gray work pants.

He closed the door to his weathered garden shed and walked down his driveway to the road.

Mack turned right, and looking about he set off slowly but determinedly. The road ended at a bulkhead beyond which was the deep water of the estuary.

Mack had lived here for his entire life. It seemed to him that the place had rapidly grown older and more damaged than even he had in his 70 years. The road’s surface was fractured and broken. The land on both sides sloped down toward and ultimately below the road’s surface. When walking at night, one had to be careful not to stumble off one of the edges into the foot deep, debris filled dirt gutters.

He was one of the last folks left. Many, too many had died and a large contingent of others had wisely pulled up stakes and moved on to greener pastures. The fact was, and he knew it, the area was in the final stages of decomposition. At times he was convinced that he could smell the accompanying odor pervading the land.

Looking up and around, he thought about the persistently gray sky. He couldn’t remember a day when the sky didn’t eventually take on a characteristic gray cast. Even on days when there was sun, the sky always retained some of its gray aspect. It was said locally that the many factories to the north that dumped their poisonous effluent into the estuary and their constant smoke and fumes into the air were responsible. Though he knew it was ridiculous, he believed that the grayness reflected the essence of the land’s soul. Sometimes, it felt like the breath of some malign entity lay upon the land like an eternal pestilence. Such thinking he believed, was in a way supported by all the loss and tragedy that had befallen so many people of the community.

Coming up on his left, he saw the dilapidated ruin of the Thomson place. Mack had been at school with Dell Thomson. Dell, who had a large wine-colored birthmark on his face, had been very much a loner. After high school graduation, he had secured a job in one of the machine shops that serviced the factories to the north of the community. His particular shop machined aircraft parts for the military. When their government contract ran out and was reassigned to one of the new facilities located in one of the industrial parks to the northeast, Dell and many other men lost their jobs. Few were able to obtain new ones.

Dell was just one of many who developed a serious drinking problem as a result. His wife and two children frequently sported some sort of visible injury about the face, neck or arms. Such were reportedly always due to accidents. It got worse and worse. One night after consuming a fifth of Early Times whiskey, he began cleaning and loading his military issued Colt 455. A short while later, the sound of four shots rang out and was heard by many. Some local called the cops and upon investigation, it was revealed that Dell had put bullets through the heads of his wife and kids at point blank range. He had apparently then put the gun’s barrel in his own mouth and pulled the trigger. Though all were horrified, few were surprised. The smart ones who still had some motivation left the area to seek work in more hospitable places.

Twenty years ago, a new unclassified virus came out of nowhere and swept through the community and killed hundreds before mutating or just disappearing. The totally unexpected virus was indiscriminate in regard to infecting women and children.

Mack continued his walk and while doing so, he lit up a hand-rolled cigarette of American Spirit tobacco. Though he knew it was carcinogenic it was always surprisingly comforting. It was one of the very few comforts left to him.

As he trekked down the road that led to the water, 3 coyotes materialized on the other side of the road paralleling his course. He did not like coyotes at all. They were bold, filthy and dangerous predators. He therefore removed a small pistil from the waist band of his pants, and shot one directly through the head. The others ran off yipping and snarling. Though no longer pursued, he did not gain any gratification from killing the ignoble beast.

As he walked on, he passed the old Douglas place on his right. It still was fairly intact though the windows had been boarded up. In that one-time home, Mary Douglas nursed her dying son Roger, who was a victim of the AIDS virus. He developed Kaposi sarcoma and breathing difficulties that were only ameliorated by cannabis edibles. In spite of Mary’s dedicated nursing and heroic amounts of edible cannabis, loaded with CBD, he slipped into the wasting sickness and ultimately passed away at age 26. Afterward, Mary lost her zest for living and left town, never to be heard from again.

He continued his walk feeling like a condemned prisoner marching his last mile to the hangman’s gallows. Moving resolutely forward, he passed the cabin where the widow Mackenzie had lived. Her story may have been the worst tragedy the community had yet seen. Two escaped prisoners from the Goldwater Correctional Facility ten miles to the south, were being relentlessly pursued by local law enforcement. Needing a place to hide out, they entered the widow Mackenzie’s cabin through a back window. Enraged by the pursuit, they proceeded to torture the 80-year-old woman. After violently raping her several times one of them choked her to death by collapsing her larynx and trachea. They were apprehended fairly rapidly and were returned to prison without any hope of parole.

Mack shuffled on until he came to the final turn of the road which led to the water in about a mile. On each side of the road, weed filled fields gave way to sand and baron, blasted looking land, pocked by craters and broken appliances and machines that had found their final resting place in this wasteland. It was nothing more than a desolate stretch of landfill and desert.

He finally arrived at the bulkhead and stood gazing at the dark undulating water. Moving forward, he sat upon the bulkhead. He had made it here. His plan all along had been to end it all by jumping off the bulkhead into the dark water. He counted on the iron bars in his backpack to cause him to sink rapidly and never return.

But having completed his long-considered plan, he found it difficult to take the final plunge. He sat there for several hours, staring at the water and composing his tortured mind. Some hours later, he stood up, stepped down from the bulkhead, shrugged out of his pack, let it fall to the ground, turned and began to retrace his stets. He had no idea why and less of an idea of what he would do. But he had learned that acting upon his long-held intension, somehow just wasn’t the right answer and thus would not settle or change anything. Besides, he’d be dammed before he would submit to the malevolence that already had destroyed so many lives and held the community under siege for over sixty years!

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Where is Hope, poetry
by Gretchen Brown

Change has come
chaos fills the streets.
Fear drowns us.
Angry words,
betrayal and rights
stripped away.
We ask ourselves
who or what is in charge.

Darkness descends on the earth.
Hope has been lost
and souls cry out for peace.

Chaos reigns supreme,
leaders rise and followers join mobs
and the individual person does not exist.
You are now they
and them.
You have lost who you once were.
Darkness and despair reign.

Where is hope?
We cling to what we have been taught
that all lives have value.
That everything is created for a reason.
But finding your place in the middle of the desert
grows more difficult by the day.

Bio: Gretchen Brown is from Indiana and is totally blind. She takes pleasure in hunting and going on long walks with her first leader dog Beacon.

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Son Alone, poetry
by Duane L Herrmann

I wish I could feel grief
at my mother’s passing
or appreciation
for her love and care,
but I don’t.
Though I discovered,
in her last week,
that she did care
about me,
and that changed
my perspective
and saw her pain,
her damaged soul,
that I was born into,
I only feel relief
even after these years
that she’s now gone,
that our contact
is over.
My father, on
the other hand –
I miss him still
after more than half
a century.
He was kind.
He showed he cared.
He was glad, I know,
that I was his.
What might have been
if he had lived,
grown old,
become granpa,
become companion
to his grown son?
I’ll never know.
I’ll never know.

bio: Internationally published, award-winning poet, historian, Herrmann has work translated into several languages. His other accomplishments include publications in print and online in a dozen countries, including nine collections of poetry, a sci fi novel, a history book, two collections of short stories, and children’s stories. His poetry has received the Robert Hayden Poetry Fellowship, inclusion in American Poets of the 1990s, Map of Kansas Literature (website), Kansas Poets Trail, and others. These accomplishments defy his traumatic childhood embellished by dyslexia and ADHD; now compounded by cyclothymia, an anxiety disorder, and PTSD. He spends his time on the prairie with trees in the breeze, where he writes – loves moonlight!

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Lifelight, poetry
by Valerie Moreno

life spin
up
down
change
rainbow color
bright
dark
birth
cross
new
justice
mercy
peace
hope
faith
growth
pain
grief
tears
heal

Bio: Valerie Moreno has been writing fiction and poems since age 12. Her inspiration is music, life experience and prayer. Her work has appeared in anthologies, magazines and fan fiction. She is totally blind.

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Death in the Nursing Home, poetry
by Sarah Das Gupta

I’m only the cleaner here with a hoover,
a box of dusters and various sprays.
She lies, head on the white pillow,
dribble from one side of her half-open mouth,
runs over her night dress and onto the sheet,
a dripping tap which someone’s forgotten.
Weary eyes, unfocused, open for a second.
Eyelids wrinkled and veined, like old parchment
that once conveyed an important message
which no one can now read or decode.
A dry, desert rattle comes from her throat,
like bones blown down a cold, grey alley.
On the dressing table in a grainy photo
entombed in a heavy, silver frame,
a young soldier waves from a train
across railway lines, into empty space.
On a crocheted cream mat,
stands a glass powder jar in which
a desiccated fly slowly turns to dust.
Her left-hand hangs limply,
a worn wedding ring is loose
on her skeletal finger, the back
of the hand mottled, with age spots.
I sit, gently squeezing her hand.
Do I hope she knows someone’s here,
Or is this my own, anxious rehearsal?

Bio: Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who has also lived and taught English in India and Tanzania. She began writing at aged 80, after a disabling accident which has severely limited her ability to walk to a few meters. Her work has been published in over twenty countries from New Zealand to Kazakhstan.
Her interests include wild flowers, landscape, animals, politics and parish churches.

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Embroidered Guidelines of Love, poetry
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

If your mother loses too many memories,
embroider “patience” on the tear-stained linen.

If your mother loses the sense of place and time,
embroider “love” with fine silver thread on the heart.

Decades later, if your sister loses some memories,
embroider the word “kindness” eleven times on the ecru cloth that is held taunt
between the two embroidery hoops.

If you feel yourself losing some precious memories,
embroider “Pray for us” with pink and golden threads of life
and know that my prayers for you will be sewn into each stitch.

If you find you are the keeper of your family’s memories,
embroider prayers of thanks on the pillow where you rest your head
and quietly try to understand each heart-leaf of your Family Tree.

---

Part VII. Slices of Life

Wheels Of Destiny, fiction Honorable Mention
by Kate Chamberlin

After I established my own business, #Luggnutt Logistics, LLC, I traded Big Red in for a smaller Volvo sleeper-cab. She was fast and mighty, hooked to a 48-foot x 102-inche wide flatbed trailer. I dubbed her White Lightning.

I ran overnight to haul a load of huge cast-iron pipes to a construction site in New England. It was a beautiful, early Spring morning, so, after unloading the pipes, I decided to wend my way to the toll road via smaller roads through the countryside. Soon after entering the fruit belt section, I found a diner opposite the toll road ramp and stopped for brunch.

With my mouth full of a bite of a steaming, tall stack of hot cakes and bacon smothered in maple syrup, not to mention the wonderful smell of fresh brewed coffee, I happened to look out the diner’s front window. I noticed a semi enter the down ramp from the toll road. He was traveling too fast. He shifted gears and stepped on his airbrakes, thumbed his Jake breaks, and in his panic, employed the trailer brakes. It jackknifed.

It was almost as if it were in slow motion, until the rig and flatbed were on its side in a cloud of dust.

The cloud wasn’t dust, it was bees. Millions of bees. His load contained bee hives that were now on their sides in the grass.

A waitress phoned 911 and soon the cops were also swarming around the scene.

Master Beekeepers from the Apicultural Society made a beeline to the scene as soon as the orchards that had commissioned the use of these bees to pollinate their fruit trees and strawberry fields notified them of the accident.

The buzz in the diner mentioned that the bees were in danger and a crane/tow truck wouldn’t be available for many hours. The swarms were in a perilous situation.

I went over to talk to the cops and the beekeepers. They said The Cornell University Master Beekeeper Program had students on their way, but it might be too late to save the bees.

I offered to bring White Lightning and my empty flatbed around if they wanted to load the hives on it. After doing the math for fitting the 16-inch x 22-inch Langstroth beehives, they figured out 20 rows of five hives would fit on the deck of my flatbed.

A beehive falling to the ground can feel like a disaster for both bees and beekeepers, but with a calm and quick response, the damage can often be repaired. The Master Beekeepers checked each hive for any frame damage and to assure a queen bee was still inside. Once the hives were upright on the flatbed, the swarming bees would find their queen and start to settle down.

We watched the unsteady flight of the 250-million drones and worker bees enter the bottom board of their tower to re-unite with the resident queen.

“Bees will follow the queen,” the beekeepers told us. “So, if she’s safely inside, many will return on their own.”

The Master Beekeepers advised us how to Rescue Stranded Bees that we might find on the ground, disoriented or clustered. We were to gently scoop them up with a piece of cardboard to guide them back toward the hive.

By the time most of the bees had returned to their hive, the orchardists had also arrived. I followed them and one by one, delivered the right number of hives each soon to be blooming orchard and succulent strawberry field needed for optimal pollination.

I suggested the money they offered me for my services be sent to their local humane society. The diner folks served me a delicious free lunch and soon, I was on the toll road headed home.

NOTE: “Wheels Of Destiny” is #6 in a series of vignettes dedicated to truckers around the world.

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Adrift, nonfiction Honorable Mention
by Greg Pruitt

I enjoy being near water. Living most of my life within a five-mile radius of over forty lakes, I often went swimming, sailing, skiing, and fishing. Lakes offer that and more, but for a real vacation, I prefer one of the nation’s coasts. The ocean’s salt water has always offered a special allure. The smell, taste, feel of the water, and the sound of the surf are different. Combine the natural appeal of the ocean with the man-made attractions of the boardwalk, single-slice pizza, French fries, and great seafood, and you create what many consider to be a perfect vacation destination. With that in mind, my wife and I decided to take a late-summer getaway to the East Coast.

The one-way trip was nearly 700 miles, which would require two days of road travel. Our first night’s stay would be in Western Pennsylvania, and on the second day, we would skirt D.C., and at Annapolis, use the bridge to cross parts of the Chesapeake Bay before reaching our final stop, the Delmarva Peninsula, a 170-mile stretch of oceanfront shared by three states, a land of crab cakes and clam chowder.

Labor Day that year was on one of its earliest possible dates, September 2. I had hoped that the temperatures would still be up, while the cost of most things and the number of tourists would be down. We arrived early on the afternoon of our second day. After booking a three-night stay at a still overpriced motel near the beach, we had dinner and strolled the boardwalk. The quarter-mile stretch of wooden planking was lined with fast food stands, souvenir shops, and what seemed like an endless number of places to buy T-shirts. We walked and walked, snacking, drinking, and shopping from one end to the other. Eventually, we returned to our room and fell asleep to the sound of the distant surf.

The next morning, we stepped out onto the boardwalk in search of breakfast. We hadn’t gone far before we were attacked by swarms of pesky flies. Apparently, millions of them had hatched during the night and were also in search of an early meal. We felt the sting of their painful bites on our legs and ankles, twisting and jumping with each little nip. All around us, I could hear the sounds of slapping and cursing from others under assault. Like an early-morning, exercise class, we reached to touch our legs and toes, moving in time to the commands of tiny, winged instructors. Staying there was out of the question, so we quickly located our car and drove inland where we found a restaurant.

At the table, I mentioned to our server that we had been forced to leave the beach because of the fly infestation. She laughed and said that happens every year in late summer. This was not starting out at all as I had hoped.

After eating, we needed to pick up some supplies. Stopping at a nearby store, we grabbed snacks for lunch, refreshments, and, of course, now I needed to add a can of insect repellent. While the cashier rang up our purchases, I muttered, “Flies.”

She laughed.

Real funny! Was this some type of local joke pulled on penny-pinching Midwesterners, who thought they could outsmart everyone by booking a low-rate, out-of-season vacation?

I was determined to spend time in the water despite the flies, so we returned to our room, changed for a day of sun and fun, applied repellent, and headed to the beach.

As we walked across the sand, we noticed that, while the flies were still present, the repellent appeared to be working, and to our relief, once we reached wet sand, the flies were gone.

The tide was out, so we set up our chairs and umbrella. Eventually, we might need to move, but for now, we were fine. Finally, after four years, I had returned to the ocean.

As I looked around, I was reminded just how much my vision loss had progressed. Where the sand, water, and horizon had been distinct on my last visit, all three were mostly hidden behind a thickening fog. Undeterred, I stripped off my shirt and kicked off my sandals. There was a slight breeze blowing from the north, the sun shone to the southeast, and the waves were straight ahead. I walked confidently into the water.

I had first gone body surfing over 50 years earlier in California. Ever since then, my beach time has been on the Atlantic. Pacific waves are much larger. The waves at this beach were smaller on average, but occasionally a sizable wave would come my way. I wasn’t complaining. A calmer surf was better suited to a man in his 70s.

The water was cool, but in a few minutes, I was comfortable. I enjoyed swimming and riding the waves for quite a while. Body surfing must be a bit like flying. There is a feeling of weightlessness along with acceleration as you race towards shore. I rode wave after wave, but often needed to come ashore and walk north to my original starting point, as the current had taken me south.

It was just after I had ridden a larger-than-average-size wave, and, while trying to come to my feet, an even larger wave hit me from behind, knocking me down. As the wave receded, I was dragged into deeper water. I desperately clawed at the sand, shells, and stones in an attempt to stop my slide. Finally, I came to the surface and began to tread water. I looked around, but I seemed to be surrounded by fog. I could no longer see the sun. No matter in which direction I looked, I saw gray. I dropped below the surface attempting to touch the bottom, but there was nothing there but considerably colder water. I again rose to the surface and began to float on my back. I tried to remain calm as I listened in vain for the sound of gulls and breaking waves.

I evaluated my situation. I had fished these waters from the shore and knew there were sharks. I had caught several, but they were small, and for the moment, only a distraction. I might try a distress signal like waving and crossing my arms above my head, but there were no lifeguards. They had left with most of the tourists. I was going to have to make a decision and prayed it was the right one.

Floating with my arms out from my sides, I thought I could feel water passing by from my head to my toes. Since I knew that there had been a slight current moving to the south, I assumed that if that were the case, my head was pointed south, and I was drifting in that direction. The shore must be to my left. I told myself that I had a fifty-fifty chance of being correct, but that probably wasn’t accurate. I more than likely faced considerably lesser odds than that of heading the right way. I rolled to my stomach and took three, strong, strokes towards what I hoped was the shore. Then, I dropped below again attempting to touch the bottom. This time my toes felt sand. A few more strokes in the same direction, and I could stand on solid ground. I began to walk towards shore. I had been perhaps only fifty yards out. Not that far, but I knew that over time, thousands of people had drowned in bathtubs, and where I had been, you could fill a hell of a lot of bathtubs.

I began to walk north towards a shadowy figure who called out my name. My wife had come to my rescue.

“You were out further than usual.”

“Yeah.”

I took her hand, and we walked back to our chairs.

I sat there and opened a can of soda while I stared outward. Now that the danger had passed, I was feeling shaken. I realized that I had been a little foolish, but very lucky. Since I had been in no condition for a prolonged, ocean swim, things could have turned out badly. Time was forcing me to give up another activity I once loved. I may have ridden my last wave.

As the first waves of the incoming tide crept ever closer, I felt soft bubbles reach and tentatively caressed the tips of my toes. In a short time, the place where we sat would again be covered by water. The voice of the retreating foam hiss, “Come in,” as it slid down the sand on its return to the sea.

I sighed, slowly moved my head from side to side, and sadly whispered in reply, “No, not now, probably never again.”

Bio: Greg Pruitt is a retired teacher living in Fenton, Michigan. He is a graduate of the Michigan School for the Blind and Central Michigan University. He has been legally blind since the age of nine as the result of an undetermined retinal disease. His work can be found in several issues of Magnets and Ladders.

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Raking, fictional memoir
by Marilyn Brandt Smith

This morning the sun warms me; last night the rain made me shiver. Channel three says tomorrow the wind will blow all my carefully-raked leaves asunder. I love the way they crunch under my feet. Up north where I grew up, it might be snow crunching instead of leaves this time of year. I’ll bag them up right now so I can enjoy the wind tomorrow.

Black Friday is just around the corner. I let the girls plan the day. It’s hard for me to believe that Julie is driving now and Sarah will be next year. They’ve saved summer job money for upgrades, Christmas shopping, and whatever’s on sale. They’ll want to play at the makeup counter. I’ll spritz the new fragrances and tell at least one of them, “No, that’s too grown-up for you.” That doesn’t mean they’ll listen. Julie’s been after me for a year to try those long pretty fingernails. Mine are a mess.

Wasn’t it yesterday they were stacking LEGOs and dressing Barbies? I hunted the missing pieces and mended the dresses. Tomorrow they’ll have adult lives, real job interviews, car payments, and broken hearts. I’ll still be mending and picking up pieces, but it will be self-confidence and pride that need healing.

Last week Jack got a promotion, and this weekend we’ll celebrate at a steak house with juicy rib-eyes, cloth napkins, and a good wine. Last year he lost a big client, his paycheck shrank, and we had to hit all the family buffets. He’ll be ready for retirement in three or four years, and the girls will be in college.

We’ll finally buy that Winnebago and set out to see America. He’ll do most of the driving, and with the GPS, we won’t miss a turn. Chuckles’s arthritis won’t let him travel with us, but he’s really Julie’s big baby anyway. We’ll find a young yappy pup to take along for company.

There are lots of places we want to visit, but more than anything else, I want one more Winter in Wawina, population seventy-seven. I’ll buy some new skates for Minnesota’s frozen lakes; enjoy one last shopping spree at the Mall of America. Crackling fireplaces, snow angels, icicles clunking down from everywhere and scaring us to death-I want it all! Jack’s never been up there except on Summer vacations. He can go hunting with my brother while I shop with Mom. We’ll fly the girls up for a ski vacation.

I imagine we’ll eventually make our way back here to Alabama so we can be close to our girls. We’re going to Jack’s mom’s in Mobile for Thanksgiving. I have the Honeybells and clementines ordered from our favorite grove in Florida. I’d miss all that if we left here. Some things won’t change much no matter where we are. The sun will keep us
warm, the cold will make us shiver, the wind will whirl the leaves around, and maybe Jack will do the raking?

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Daily Essentials, Abecedarian poetry
by Lynda McKinney Lambert

Altogether, each day begins
Before dawn with a glass of crystal-clear spring water
Coenzyme Q-10, Calcium citrate and Magnesium
Did you know, Vitamin D deficiencies are common?
Essential 1 vitamin with D3 works wonders.
Forget about useless fears and anger
Get my Birkenstock’s on and walk my dog outside
Healthy hair, skin, feet, and nails
Indicate my respect for nature
Just remember, I close my eyes and listen
Know that I am never alone
Listening to sparrow and crow concerts
Making music from treetops
Nopal red cactus juice, morning, and night
Olive Complex from fruit and leaves
Phytoceramides naturally enhance skin moisture
Quiet mornings for writing poetry
Restorative afternoon time set-apart for rest
Stand Still. Stop and sing a song to the sky
Take vitamin C every day
Ultimate Friendly Flora probiotic for my gut
Vitamin E and Vein Support for healthy legs
White mulberry leaf with cinnamon for healthy blood sugar and think of Vitamin
X as a supplement for healthy-looking skin.
Years of living a Small Planet lifestyle
Zinc and Zeaxanthin brightens my eyes

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Amethyst: A Haiku Sequence, poetry
by Sally Rosenthal

when I was grieving
a friend sent me amethyst
to heal and bring joy

that gift of kindness
still holds a place of honor
it sits on my desk

her husband tells me
she cannot recognize him
her life ebbs away

smiling through my tears
and holding that polished stone
I send back her love

Bio: A stroke survivor from infancy, Sally Rosenthal has been blind for the past twenty years from complications of retinopathy of prematurity. A poet and book reviewer, she is the author of Peonies In Winter: A Journey Through Loss, Grief And Healing.

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Cat Antics, nonfiction
by Leonard Tuchyner

I’ve had eight cats who have lived with me. I am not sure how to define my relationship to them. They were all quite different, and I can’t define them as pets because that word denotes difference in power structure. I can’t say that either one of us has the upper hand in most of our interactions.

My present kitty is named Sterling. He came with that name from the ASPCA. He probably got that name from the fact that he is gray with silver overtones. We know nothing about his background except that he came from another part of the state and that he was picked up from the street. He was still a kitten when he arrived at the shelter. Diane, my wife, liked him because he reminded her of another gray cat that she used to have and who was a favorite of hers. I like him because he turned over on his back and wanted to play while in his little cage. So, we adopted him. When his worker came out from the front desk with him in his enclosed box, the aide was disheveled both in mood and in dress. Apparently, Sterling had a mind of his own and wasn’t sure he wanted to have anything to do with being put in a box.

Anyway, we took him home and were quite surprised when we opened the box. He stuck his head out, said nothing and nonchalantly hopped out and began to explore the house from top to bottom. After about fifteen minutes, he came back and gave a look of approval. He was satisfied with the digs.

He didn’t act like an inexperienced cat at all. The first thing he did was to find his kitty litter box. Later, we were to discover that he always knew where it was, though we moved it three times. We found out that he was no stranger to its use. He is quite consistent in its use and never has he had an accident. Sterling soon learned that Diane cleans the box every night, and since he prefers a fresh box, he makes sure he uses it just after she cleans it. That is confounding to Diane since she also prefers a fresh box. It is never clean for long. Considering the aroma it puts out after Sterling uses it, I also am a little put out by his habits. In a way, it is amusing.

So, when Sterling uses the box it seems the power is all his. He gets to use the facility when it is cleaned. Diane is his servant.

Where His Nibs chooses to sit or sleep is always a power play. He often picks a chair that Diane or I consider ours. When we aren’t using it and our plans to sit are not imperative, we often capitulate and let him claim the spot. Two of his favorite hangout places are either my dinner chair or Diane’s. However, if we are going to use these chairs to eat in, we are in for a confrontation. The cat’s point of view is that he was there first, and therefore he has claim to it. If he is going to move, it will require force. Sometimes we dump him off; other times we are more polite and pick him up and deposit him elsewhere.

“You know, Sterling, there are other chairs,” I say, and put him in his place.

Diane tries to reason with him and explain why she has to use the location. He looks at her defiantly and dares her to make him move. Eventually she will either pick him up and put him in another place, or simply tilt the chair until he falls off. In these stand-offs, he never resorts to using his claws. He knows better. Time for scratching is only for play, in which case he undoubtedly holds the power. I try to tease him by poking him and removing my hand before he draws blood. But eventually, if I persist, he wins. Cat scratches are always painful.

When we want his presence next to us while watching TV, he also holds the power. Once in a while he will stay and allow himself to be patted. Sterling has been known to sit for hours. But only if he wants to. Sometimes he’ll sit on the back of the couch watching TV with us. He’s too busy in those circumstances to tolerate stroking. He really watches the images on the set.

A favorite place for Sterling to take a nap is our bed. He is a night person, so his naps in the daytime can be quite long. His night behavior is a mystery. Occasionally we hear something, we’re never sure what, going on. But he frequently visits our bed while we are sleeping. He was in the habit of attacking our toes at night, but a few kicks cured that. He is a very quiet cat, so he rarely wakes us up. But the open window is at my head, and I frequently awaken to find him there. Occasionally I find him walking on me. I know he also takes naps. He almost always chooses Diane’s side of the bed. I guess that those kicks taught him it is safer on that side of the bed.

Although he never goes outside, he spends a lot of time in front of the sliding glass door to the porch, where he observes the squirrels, chipmunks and birds come to feast on bird feeders and other food dispensers. He finds the squirrels especially interesting. A lot of handouts are at ground level and butt up to the door. The animals will stare at each other through the window when they are not stuffing their faces. They know Sterling can’t get at them. So, it is a staring contest. Occasionally, the cat will jump and make a thud on the door. That gets their attention. Sometimes the squirrels violate the rules and get on the bird feeders. It does them no good, since when they try to eat, the feeder spins them off. But Sterling knows they are not supposed to get on the feeders. When they do, the cat follows them up as they leap to the feeders. Sterling has a screen door that goes up to that level, and Sterling can race up the screen quicker than your eyes can follow.

When we adopted Sterling, we set up one of those towers which have all kinds of layers and rooms decked with toys and scratch pads, etc. The cat knows exactly what it is for. He spends a lot of time there. That is where we often find him. Nevertheless, he has more places to hide in than you can imagine. When he doesn’t want to be found, he can disappear. The only thing that usually works to entice him out is the rattling of his treat box. He shows up miraculously at my feet letting me know that he is interested. He is scheduled to get treats four times a day. Believe me, he knows when those times are. The only thing he is required to do is rub my leg with his body. If I’m lucky he’ll throw in a purr.

One issue he has totally won out on is where he is permitted to go. That’s everywhere. Those places include the counter and table-tops. Diane tries very hard to restrict him, but he takes every advantage to be on them when she isn’t looking. Eventually, she gives up the fight. He’s usually pleasant company when we’re eating.

One last thing that I’ll mention is that he likes to get into very small places, and will not learn not to get into them. For example, the pantry has a fascination for him. Sterling has been locked in the pantry more times than I have fingers. When we go through a long period of not finding him, we usually end up checking this room. He is always significantly relieved when we let him out. You might ask, “Why don’t you respond to his meow?” The answer is he has the softest meow I’ve ever heard from a feline. It resembles the squeak of a floorboard. He has a habit of getting underfoot. Being visually impaired, I walk around constantly expecting to trip on my cat, and I do. So, when I hear a floorboard creek, I usually think, “Damn cat.”

On one or two occasions Sterling has gotten into a drawer. In fact, he has spent a lot of time in them, maybe hours, before we discover and free him. One time he got into a drawer and I saw him do it. But when I looked, he wasn’t there. He’d gotten behind and worked his way to a higher drawer. Don’t ask how long it took for us to discover him in the higher drawer.

So, you be the judge. Who has the upper hand, human or cat? Is there really any question?

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Twice in a Lifetime, nonfiction
by Jeff Flodin

I remember when ice cubes came from a metal tray. My dad filled the tray with water, then spilled half of it carrying the tray from the kitchen sink to the Frigidaire freezer. When what water remained in the tray finally froze, my dad yanked the lever on the metal tray to free the cubes and half of them ended up on the linoleum. No wonder, for Happy Hour, my dad preferred to simply uncap a cold bottle of beer.

That was a long time ago. These days, I can make ice cubes fly out my freezer door. I can make cold water shoot out the spigot. The trick is to press the right spot on the flat screen on the freezer door. The trick gets tougher because I can’t see the flat screen or the freezer door-or much of anything anymore. And, unlike the iPhone that tells me what’s on its flat screen, this Samsung freezer doesn’t tell me a damn thing.

So, with help from Lola, my housemate and paramour, I place bump dots on the freezer’s flat screen where it says “WATER” and “ICE.” When I press one or the other, I hear a beep and I can get water or ice. But, when I miss the bump dots and press random spots on the flat screen, I hear three beeps. Lola tells me three beeps means, through no fault of my own, things got screwed up and, until things get unscrewed, I won’t get any water or ice.

It’s become way too complicated-even with help from Lola, Be My Eyes, Seeing AI and Meta Smart Glasses-to get a glass of water. So, Lola and I agree to set the flat screen to “ICE” and leave it there. I take the plunge. Even with my 40-ounce Big Gulp cup under the ice chute, cubes fly onto the floor. Tundra the guide dog chomps a couple cubes, then loses interest. Hopalong the cat slaps the remaining cubes around until they melt into puddles which I then step in. After that, I mop the floor and dry my feet.

My chores complete, I take a seat. I reflect on what’s new, what’s old and what remains the same since the beginning of the ice age. What’s new is the Samsung. What’s old is the Frigidaire. What’s new is the hardwood floor. What’s old is linoleum. What’s the same is my dad and me mopping and moaning over spilt water and ice.

My dad will always be older than I, but I feel I’m catching up. I am his legacy. I ask Alexa to play Billie Holiday. I swipe a towel around the kitchen floor to make sure it’s dry. Don’t want no slips and falls. Don’t want no broken bones. I draw a glass of cool water from the faucet. I carry the glass of water to the kitchen table. I sit…and listen. I drink…and think of how to get along in this world. Just like my dad did.

Bio: Jeff Flodin is the author of the blog, Jalapenos in the Oatmeal: Digesting Vision Loss http://jalapenosintheoatmeal.wordpress.com/. He is the recipient of the National Endowment for the Arts Creative Access Fellowship. His work has appeared in numerous publications. He continues a fifty-year career in social work. Jeff has lived with retinitis pigmentosa (RP) for four decades. A native of Chicago, he now lives in Fort Collins, Colorado, with partner “Lola,” guide dog Tundra and cat Hopalong.

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Winter Pilgrimage, poetry Honorable Mention
by Sally Rosenthal

Sitting quietly as dawn approaches,
she reflects upon the unexpected journey
she has recently undertaken,
with white hair and life’s heavy baggage,
to twine with his body and soul,
a pilgrimage on which old hearts,
in winter, bloom again.

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Unlike Other Loves, poetry
by Sally Rosenthal

Unlike other loves,
I cannot see his face,
arriving, as he did,
twenty years into my blindness.
Should a genie knock on my door
and offer me three wishes,
seeing this new love
would not be one of them.
I do not need to know how
silver streaks his once blonde hair
or that his green eyes
are flecked with hazel.
These are things told in words,
but hearts speak differently
with no need for description.

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Diss-Traction, nonfiction
by Nancy Scott

I didn’t mean not to show up. Conversation Hour for my senior facility was on my Braille calendar but so was the early-afternoon NASA launch. Launch statistics were 30-percent go, so I was just waiting for the Florida rain or wind or lightning or cloud ceiling to free up my early Saturday afternoon.

I am a NASA Nerd. I have been proud to be one. In fact, I’m old enough to have known about the entire American manned space program. I like being part of live, heroic history.

These days watching space events is more difficult because NASA discontinued its television service. Now, I must use a Blindshell cell phone to find the schedule and a Fire TV Cube to get actual streaming broadcasts from YouTube. I am not very technological.

But the Crew-9 launch went off without a hitch. I couldn’t leave until the vehicle was in orbit. But I forgot to tell Fran, who was the activities staff person that weekend.

Fran taught me how to play Shut-The-Box without a Braille version. (There is a Braille version available in some catalogs.) She has also been the bringer of Reese’s holiday shapes and the person who helps clean off the musical keyboard. She does keep turning the volume up when I practice, but I just keep turning it back down.

But Fran does not like Conversation Hour. I like it far more because I’m a talker. Fran expects my participation.

I did go down, an hour or two late, to sheepishly explain my absence. Fran said she would probably have to forgive me, but maybe not quite yet. And the next time she read the weekly activities schedule onto my Sony digital recorder, she reminded about actually showing up for Conversation Hour, “You know, the thing you dissed me for.”

We still laugh about it. I’ve promised to do better. As I edit this, Crew-10 is preparing for its journey home from the International Space Station. I’m hoping for good weather and good timing that won’t distract me from an activity where I’m expected to be.

Bio: Nancy Scott has over 990 bylines in magazines, literary journals, anthologies, newspapers, and audio commentaries. She won First Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest. Her work appears in 82 Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Braille Forum, Chrysanthemum, Kaleidoscope, One Sentence Poems, Persimmon Tree, Pulse Voices, Shark Reef, Wordgathering, and Yahoo News.

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Doing Time in Scatterland, poetry
by Brad Corallo

Wait,
what was I supposed to do?
Oh yeah, no.

I definitely came in here,
for a specific reason!
I’ll check my list.
Oh shit, where the hell is my list?

Here in Scatterland,
confusion is the norm!

So anyway,
take out garbage
blow dry my hair
put sheets in the washer,
thank God, I’m back on task!

Don’t forget to eat something.
Phone is ringing.
Just got 7 emails.

Here in Scatterland
confusion is the norm!

Ok, things to do.
Did I bring in the mail?
Where the hell did the time go?

OMG, is that doctor appointment today?
Better check!
No, it is next Tuesday.
Wow, that’s a relief!

Hey there, fool
you’re getting frantic!
Go pee already!

Here in Scatterland,
confusion is the norm.

Empty the dishwasher.
Put sheets in the dryer.
Wipe up spilled iced tea.

I can’t imagine why,
but I think I have a headache!
Maybe, I need a nap.

jamesstarfire@gmail.com jamesstarfire@gmail.com Wait, is that email address right?
Yeah, I’m almost positive!

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Not Now, Nigel, nonfiction
by Jeff Flodin

Don’t call me “Goofy.” OK, so I’ve asked statues for directions, talked to people who’ve left the room and sat on strangers’ laps. I’ve waited for the northbound train on the southbound platform. I’ve worn my Sunday suit with two different shoes. You would too if you were blind.

Picture this: Graduation Party…dim lights…soft music. You want to ask Janie to dance but you can’t tell Janie from Jeanie from Joanie and you can’t tell whose expression says, “COME ON OVER” and whose says, “GET LOST.” You feeling Lucky, punk? Or just plain Goofy?

In the blind textbook, goofy is termed “social awkwardness.” When I lost my eyesight, I lost the ability to assess situations using visual, nonverbal cues. To compensate, I’ve sharpened my listening skills, reliance on intuition and sensitivity to social context. Nowadays, when the going gets goofy, I can view faux pas with more humor than humiliation.

While public weirdness seems inevitable, domestic awkwardness may be avoidable. On quiet nights at home, when I sense Lola is poring over her book manuscript with furrowed brow, intense gaze and itchy clicker finger, I’m careful to keep mundane musings to myself.

In iffy situations, when I haven’t asked or been told, I revert to guesswork. Is Lola writing, reading, meditating, dozing? Whatever her astral plane, I wish to avoid killing that creative, meditative or restive buzz with banal outbursts about football.

Not to say Lola and I practice vows of silence. We chatter-blah blah blah. We joke-ha ha ha. We ask Q’s and answer A’s. So, when I brought up my “Silent Night Live, Approach/avoidance” quandary, we discussed the presenting problem and determined a solution:

“Not Now, Nigel” is Lola’s deterrent to my unsolicited verbal hiccups, and

“Later, Lola” is my message should she intrude on a muse-induced brainstorm.

Our arrangement works. We’re balancing self-care and boundaries. Plus, I have a nickname. I’ve never had a nickname. Not even in college, when I roomed with Fast Eddie and Dirty Walt. Now, finally, I’ve got one. Call me Not Now Nigel. Or just plain Nigel. Just don’t call me Goofy.

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My Icelandic Saga, memoir
by Shawn Jacobson

Our guide tells us to form groups of three. “Hold on to each other,” she says. This is to keep the winds, howling from the north, from blowing us off our feet.

My wife and I grab a petite Asian lady and hold her between us as we penguin walk from The Foss Hotel to our waiting tour bus. As we leave the safety of the hotel, the wind grabs us, and we learn the wisdom of our guide’s instructions. After a stint in the windy cold that seems longer than it is, we board the bus. Still weary from too little sleep, we take our seats. We are on our way.

The lack of sleep is due to the previous night’s drive to see the Northern lights. This trip became longer, and more adventurous, than was planned. After an hour’s drive, we reached the parking lot in the middle of nowhere. Looking out the bus windows, we saw the lights. We descended from the bus and looked up at the illumined sky. I learned that the lights are a grayish white to the naked eye; the colors are seen best through photography. I walked around the bus to get a better view, but the wind drove me back behind the bus. When we were tired of the cold, we returned to the bus to head back to the hotel, but there was a problem.

The driver tried to get back on the road, but the bus was stuck in a snow drift. We were told that help was on the way. The owner of the company was coming with equipment to free the bus. After about an hour, another bus arrived and we switched vehicles, but this was not the bus to take us home. This was a bus to pull the other bus out of the snow; we were on board to act as ballast, giving the other bus sufficient weight to have traction. After a while, we freed the original bus from the snow. We boarded the original bus to head back to the hotel. This was good since the replacement bus also got stuck. In the wee hours of the morning, we arrived at our rooms. After about four hours of sleep, we got ready to board the bus through the wind for our first full day of our tour.

The first stop on the tour is a geothermal power plant. We enter an atrium where a guide explains how this plant gets power and hot water from the fires of the Earth.

First, he explains, with maps, that Iceland sits on a volcanic hotspot. The island also sits on the boundary between the European and North American tectonic plates. This means that there is a lot of heat coming out of the ground in a place where said heat has easy access to the surface.

Next comes a description of how holes were drilled to release volcanic fluid. The fluid is composed of steam, hot water, and waste gases. The steam runs turbines that generate power. The hot water flows through heat exchangers used to heat glacial water. The waste gases are mixed with water and poured back into holes with calcium in them to absorb the carbon. The plant hopes to be carbon negative by the 2030’s.

Our next stop is a place which bakes bread by burying it in sand heated by hot springs. The baking process takes about a day to complete. “If you eat this bread, you will live forever,” our host assures us. “At night, you will be able to see Asgard.” I have doubts as to whether the bread can do this, but the glacial schnapps might do the job. I have no doubt that after several shots that you would be able to see the home of the gods. After a couple more, you might be best buddies with Thor; you might even challenge him to a hammer throwing contest. However, I stopped at one shot. This leaves me feeling buzzed but mortal.

The rest of the day makes me feel even more mortal than I’d done before. We stop at Golden Falls. We are about to take the trail, then we see people fall on the way to the falls. We decline the offer of yak tracks-traction enhancing footwear is offered by Icelandic tour guides-and decide to get lunch at the combination gift shop and restaurant. The fact that the stairs down to the falls lack handrails makes me glad of this decision. We also take a pass on walking up a similarly icy trail to a geyser pool that is the last attraction for the day.

I have already fallen on our trip; this was while touring a lava tube. I felt no reason to fear as we took the bus to the building where the tour began. I did start to worry when we learned that we would need safety equipment. I put on a safety helmet and a pair of crampons. I then grabbed a walking stick for the journey. With all this gear, I felt prepared for the tour; I was wrong.

We walked through the snow to a valley with a door at the bottom. Entering the door, I found a handrail and held on as I descended a short flight of steps. So far, so good, I thought to myself as I walked; then the handrail ended. The trail went up another flight of snow-covered, uneven steps before descending into the tube.

This part of the tube is not a cave. The top is open to the sky which allows snow to fall onto the trail. About fifty feet in, I fell off the edge of the trail into a waist high pile of snow. Fortunately, the snow allowed me to land softly. I pulled myself out and we returned to the entrance.

As we reached the building where we checked in, our guide pointed up in excitement. “You almost never see this,” she exclaimed. I looked up and saw a crystalline cloud reflecting pink and purple in the pre-dawn sky. It was an arctic cirrus cloud, and it is rarer, and more beautiful, than the northern lights we came to see. Suddenly, giving up is not so bad. I am still disappointed in myself, but at least we have seen beauty that the rest of the tour didn’t see.

As we leave the day’s last point of interest, our tour guide tells us a folktale about a lazy wife and a troll. Next, she also plays recordings of a song about a Viking warrior wooed by elf women. The story is sad because the warrior dies before he decides to go with the elves.

We pass through an austere landscape. Snow covered fields and mountains gleam white in the slowly fading twilight. All is silent save for the wind that moans around the bus and blows snow across the road. It is the perfect setting to muse on trolls, elves, and Norse gods.

As we reach the small village where we will stay the next two nights, we are greeted by fireworks. They are fired to celebrate Three Kings Day. This is a day when this village pays homage to the elves of the island. Our tour guide tells us that she believes in elves. I have read elsewhere that this is common for people who live in Iceland.

After an excellent seafood dinner, I spend the rest of the night enjoying one of the local brews while swopping travel stories with a lady from Australia. With a warm fire in the fireplace, and the cold and wind banished to the outer darkness, I unwind in preparation for a good night’s sleep.

The next day looks better. The wind that has bedeviled us is replaced by calm and the way to the bus is clear of ice. We board and are on our way to the Eastern part of the island.

Our first stop is Diamond Beach. The beach gets its name from the chunks of ice that wash up onto the black sand. They reflect the light making the place sparkle as if it were covered in gems.

We take a short walk from the bus and are on the beach. I picked up a piece of ice that seems the right size to heft. It is smoothed by the ocean and is the shape of a bowling pin. I got a picture with my prize.

Our next stop is at the iceberg lagoon. This is an inlet near a glacier. From said glacier, bergs break off and float in the water. Since they don’t wash out to sea, the bergs make the lagoon a magnificent jumble of ice. The translucence of the ice makes rainbow colors in the lagoon.

We stop here long enough to get a cup of hot chocolate and look out at the lagoon and the mountains in the distance. As we return to the bus, we see people putting up a food stand. I also smell smoked fish.

After a quick lunch, we go to a lava bed where we can walk paths through a field of rocks that came out of the Earth in volcanic eruptions. It feels good to get out and stretch my legs. As I stroll the rocky field, I remember the Lava Show that we saw on our first day in Iceland. The lava show is a highlight of any trip to Iceland. Lava from volcanic eruptions was heated to a molten state and poured down a Shute. Once poured, it was manipulated by the narrator of the show. Said narrator talked about the properties of the lava as he manipulated the rock with his tongs. We felt a wash of heat as a line of red fire rolled down the Shute. He said, “The lava is here!” We learned a lot about lava during the show. One memorable thing we learned is that lava is a good insulator. Even if the top of the lava is cool, you don’t have to dig deep to find the fiery heat that it once had. Once the show was over, we were escorted to another balcony from which we could view the blast furnace used to heat the rock. We got a piece of the lava to take home with us.

Soon though, it is time to go to the last destination of the day. This is a visitor’s center for a national park where we see a short video of the land and the nearby volcano. We also get to see several artifacts from the area. Then, we return to our hotel.

At the hotel, we stopped at the bar to see a movie about the 1795 volcanic eruption. The movie compares Iceland to the back of a giant beast which sometimes moves and tries to shake us off its back. The movie states that the eruption caused clouds that blocked the sun and hence caused a famine that killed one-fifth of the population. It also caused cool weather that stunted the crops in Europe for a couple of years. Some people believe that these crop failures contributed to the French Revolution.

On the last day of our guided tour, our first stop is at another black sand beach. The beach is next to a combination grocery store and clothing shop. We take the opportunity to buy snacks for the journey.

The rest of the morning is spent visiting a couple of waterfalls that fall from the side of Mount Hecla. These waterfalls are much more accessible than the Golden Falls and we enjoy the sight and the sound of them.

In the afternoon, we visit the rift valley between the European and North American tectonic plates. Geologically speaking, you can walk down the valley with one foot in North America and the other in Europe. “Get your passports ready,” our tour guide jokes as we approach the place where you can walk down into a valley between the two plates. Due to the cold, we spend more time in the gift shop than we do walking around the valley. After buying a deck of troll themed playing cards, we returned to Reykjavik for a steak dinner. This is quite good.

Our last activity in Iceland is a walking tour of downtown Reykjavik. This gives us a chance to see the parlement buildings and other historic buildings of interest.

I ask our guide where Bobby Fischer won his chess championship. This competition was what brought Reykjavik to my attention way back in the 1970’s. Like many people, I learned to play chess because of the coverage of the championship. Our guide pointed out the sports center where the championship took place. She also said that there is a small museum dedicated to Bobby Fischer, but it is not on the tour. After our city tour, we concluded the day with a very good seafood dinner at a local restaurant.

Looking back on our tour, I feel that Iceland measured me with a frozen rod and found me wanting. For all my Scandinavian ancestry, I could never live the Viking life. I no longer have the required tolerance for the cold of the place. Also, I have too much fear of falling to feel comfortable roaming the island. The Viking life is not for soft people; I acknowledge that I have become soft. Yet I am glad we traveled here. The place has a stark beauty and has many interesting things to see. So, as I boarded the plane back to Baltimore, I bid the island a fond farewell.

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Iceland, poetry
by Rochelle M. Anderson

Narrow roads, no shoulders, scared to drive.
In the summer, one day 60 degrees,
next day it snows.
Sea surrounds, waterfalls everywhere one looks.
Fluffy lambs and small horses abound,
whales swim in the ocean.

See the glaciers, fragile.
An island with secrets hidden in the dark.
No ancestral people.
Iceland’s tale starts deep below the earth,
waits for the volcano to erupt.
Hot, red, yellow and orange lava oozes out.

Myths, savage and strong.
Coldness hides the legends,
only seen in the shadows.
The Vikings; folklore, religious rituals,
animal sacrifices and berserker combat.
Tribes battle fiercely for supremacy.
Icelandic sagas document civilization.

Pagan gods, replaced by the Danes.
Christianity forced upon them.
Become Lutheran or die.
Identical, red-roofed white churches built
in every town, no matter how small.
The Pagan gods scream in the distance.

Bio: Rochelle M. Anderson had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died. She is still disabled with difficulty walking, and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing. Ms. Anderson loves poodles, creating seed art, her grandchildren, and Lake Superior. She started writing poetry in 2020, and that has helped her recovery. Dictation fuels her words.

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Guardians of the African Plain, poetry
by Shawn Jacobson

The Maasai warrior stands upon the rock,
a silhouette against the darkening sky.
He guards us from the prowling beasts below,
as we observe the sundowner tradition.
I drink my beer and much enormous cashews.
The sun descends through haze and banded clouds.
Night will soon come, and we will take our leave
returning to our camp to spend the night.
Our escort leads us through the profound dark.
His flashlight sends a beam into the night.
It lights our way, a trail set between rocks
that leads us to our tent where we will rest.
The escort is our guardian in the night.
Great beasts are known to wander through the camp.
Hyenas and giraffes are often seen.
Our guardian leads us through this wilderness.
A ranger leads us from our vehicle
up an uneven trail into the bush.
He points and we see white rhinos nearby,
great huge animals, large print beasts.
The ranger bears his gun to keep us safe
a guardian against dangers we all face.
And when we’ve seen our fill they lead us back.
Our safari continues with new memories.
The Maasai warrior stands upon a hill
above our final evening libation.
Below the Maasai Mara spreads itself
splendid in grass and trees and massive game.
Again the sun descends through have and clouds.
The guardian watches out to keep us safe,
so, we can wonder at great natures works.
Thus, our safari draws down to a close.
In our journey’s joy
we should always keep in mind
those who keep us safe.