Magnets and Ladders
\nActive Voices of Writers with Disabilities
\nSpring\/Summer 2016<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
We do not feature advocacy, activist, \u201chow-to,\u201d or \u201cwhat\u2019s new\u201d 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.<\/p>\n
Have You Published a book? If you would like to have an excerpt of your book published in an issue of Magnets and Ladders<\/em>, please submit a chapter or section of your book to submissions@magnetsandladders.org. The word count for book excerpt submissions should not exceed twenty-five hundred words. Please include information about where your book is available in an accessible format. We will publish up to one book excerpt per issue.<\/p>\n 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<\/em>. 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.<\/p>\n 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. Submissions will be acknowledged within two weeks. You will be notified if your piece is selected 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\u2019s voice, or the general tone without writer collaboration. If your work is selected for inclusion in a future \u201cBehind Our Eyes\u201d 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.<\/p>\n 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<\/em>, 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.<\/p>\n Behind Our Eyes, a Second Look<\/em> 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<\/a>.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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<\/a>.<\/p>\n 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<\/a>.<\/p>\n Hello. After a two week teaser and another visit from winter, spring is finally here to stay. This issue is packed with family memories, stories with unexpected outcomes, and a tribute that you won\u2019t want to miss. Our \u201cSetbacks and Acceptance\u201d section shows how contributors have faced challenges with courage and grace. \u201cThe Writers\u2019 Climb\u201d has exercises to spark some summer writing, and \u201cLet\u2019s enjoy the Music\u201d shows how music influences and enriches our lives. Although we don\u2019t have sections specifically about hands or mothers, see how many poems or stories you can find that feature hands, mothers or motherhood in some way.<\/p>\n This year marks the ten-year anniversary of Behind Our Eyes, and there are exciting things going on in the group to celebrate and remember the events and amazing people that have helped make Behind our Eyes the organization that it is today. Immediately following the \u201cEditors\u2019 Welcome\u201d section of this edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em>, we are featuring “A Brief History of Behind Our Eyes Inc.\u201d We awarded a Grand Prize of $50 to the top submission for this edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em>, and for the Fall\/Winter edition, we will have a special, one time only contest. This is a theme contest. The theme is Anniversary. Any work of fiction, nonfiction, or poetry about an anniversary will be entered into this contest for a chance to win a grand prize of $50. See \u201cThe Writers\u2019 Climb\u201d for information about the anniversary contest along with our other contests.<\/p>\n I would like to give a big thanks to all of the committee members and to Marilyn Brandt Smith, Jason Smith and John Weidlich for your hard work and support throughout the production process.<\/p>\n We had contests with cash prizes in fiction, nonfiction and poetry, along with our Grand Prize. We had 87 submissions, so thank you to everyone who submitted. Choosing contest winners and entries to publish was a rewarding and challenging task for our editorial staff. Below are the names of our contest winners.<\/p>\n Grand Prize:<\/p>\n “Pink,” fiction by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/p>\n Fiction:<\/p>\n Nonfiction:<\/p>\n Poetry:<\/p>\n Congratulations to all of the contest winners.<\/p>\n The Magnets and Ladders staff hopes that you have a great summer and we look forward to reading your submissions for the next edition.<\/p>\n Sanford Rosenthal had a dream. In 2005, Sanford approached the National Writers Union. He proposed starting a writers’ workshop that would meet Sunday evenings by teleconference for writers with disabilities. Thus the Written Word Partyline came in to being.<\/p>\n Michael lived in Ireland, Bobbi in Maine and Diane in Las Vegas, Nevada. In March of 2006, they joined twenty-four others brought together by Sanford, who lived in Florida. At first glance, one might assume it was the fact that they shared the experience of living with disabilities that brought them together. The actual drawing card was that they all loved to write. They met by telephone conference calls and exchanged e-mail messages as members of The Written Word Partyline Workshop. Each Sunday night, they alternated between working critique Sessions and listening to presentations from writers, poets, journalists, teachers and people in the publishing industry.<\/p>\n One of these presenters, Susan Driscoll, made the group an unbelievable offer. She represented iUniverse, a print on demand publishing house. She offered to help them bring a book of their collective works to print at no cost to the group members.<\/p>\n The real scramble was on, as Marilyn Brandt Smith, chief editor and her team of fellow writers worked to winnow out the best of what the group had produced. The outpourings of group members ranged all over the map in style, subject matter and genre. Poetry, essays, short stories drawn from life experiences or pure imagination had to be organized in some semblance of order.<\/p>\n The book also needed a name. Sanford Rosenthal suggested Behind Our Eyes<\/em> because “Behind the keyboard, many disabilities disappear.” He hoped this book would help the reader see behind the eyes of its contributing authors.<\/p>\n Over three dozen guests offered their expertise during the first eighteen months of the group\u2019s existence. Seth Eisenberg and the National Writers Union helped define the group’s purpose and audience. Susan Driscoll and her staff from iUniverse provided the incentive to produce the first anthology. They assisted with the details of publication and marketing.<\/p>\n Michael Koretsky, media advisor at Florida Atlantic University and managing editor of Jazziz Magazine<\/em>, was the copy editor. He helped the group rewrite and rethink, dotting the I\u2019s and crossing the T\u2019s. He assisted with formatting issues and content evaluation. It would have taken much longer to produce the first anthology without his guidance and evaluation of submissions.<\/p>\n Poets and teachers Margo LaGattuta, Anastasia Clark and Alice Rogoff were the primary poetry critics. Brittney Wallman, a journalist with the South Florida Sun-Sentinel<\/em> assisted with essay and prose evaluations.<\/p>\n Kayla Rigby helped with technical issues and a plan for the initial collection of material. Don Rosenthal and Jayson Smith also pitched in with technical help. Marilyn Brandt Smith, primary editor and her team of writers categorized, sorted and made suggestions, working directly with the writers.<\/p>\n Before Christmas of 2007, Behind Our Eyes<\/em> became available for purchase on the iUniverse, Barnes and Noble and Amazon websites. Three versions were available:<\/p>\n Twenty-seven thrilled authors across the country received their author\u2019s copies of a book of writings that is hard to categorize. If there is a single characteristic to be found in this book, it is diversity of voices. Poet, humorist or stark realist, the book introduced the reader to the world as it is experienced in the realm of the mind.<\/p>\n Erik Weihenmayer, author of Touch the Top of the World<\/em> and The Adversity Advantage<\/em> Said: Former rehabilitation counselor and novelist Christopher Fahy said, “this book is a must read for anyone in the rehabilitation field.”<\/p>\n Arnold S. Goldstein provided legal assistance to form the corporation. Members chose to name it using the title of the book.<\/p>\n Recognizing the need for Bylaws to complete the incorporation process, a Bylaws committee was formed in the spring of 2008. Kate Chamberlin researched and submitted the draft from which she, Chairman John Wesley Smith, Nancy Scott, and Valerie Moreno worked. The committee members have changed over the years but the committee has remained ongoing and active. John Wesley Smith has taken up the challenge of insuring that the bylaws reflect the goals and needs of the group as it matures and grows.<\/p>\n In 2008, the group of writers completed the steps to incorporate and became a nonprofit, with royalties from their first book going toward supporting the future activities.<\/p>\n In 2010, Bobbi LaChance became the second President of Behind Our Eyes. The incorporation meant that a board of directors had to be elected and members of the group had to step up and take on responsibilities that had all previously fallen on Sanford\u2019s shoulders. Bobbi had some big shoes to fill, but she handled them with grace and creativity. Under her guidance, an online magazine and second anthology were formed, and the group continued to flourish.<\/p>\n The first of these activities was the creation of an online magazine featuring the works of writers with disabilities. Marilyn Brandt Smith was the driving force in establishing this ongoing online opportunity for writers with disabilities to be published in a literary magazine. Again, the group needed to have a name for the online magazine. Two names were suggested by Lisa Bush, “magnet” because the magazine could be a magnet to draw in readers, and “ladder” because writers with disabilities are climbing up the ladder of successful writing. The group decided to put the two names together and the name became Magnets and Ladders<\/em>. Marilyn Brandt Smith was the first Magnets and Ladders<\/em> editor. Her son Jayson took on the role of technical assistant. Marilyn was the editor of the magazine from its inception in 2010 through 2013. Mary Jo Lord ably stepped up to continue the magazine production beginning as editor in 2014. Magnets and Ladders<\/em> is an online semiannual magazine made available nationally by the Perkins Library, as well as Audio & Braille Literacy Enhancement from Wisconsin, which submits it to NFB Newsline (a phone based service that permits the visually impaired to have access to newspapers and magazines). It is also available directly online at http:\/\/www.magnetsandladders.org<\/a>.<\/p>\n Behind Our Eyes: A Second Look<\/em> is the second literary anthology by writers with disabilities, edited by Kate Chamberlin and a committee of Behind Our Eyes writers: This 2nd anthology was dedicated to Bobbi LaChance, the second President of Behind Our Eyes.<\/p>\n In the second book, the topics range from the ridiculously absurd to tragically abusive. Everything from Cats to rabbits, guide dogs to a guiding miniature horse, medical fiascos to survival tactics and pangs of deprivation to heights of success, all have their place. The vivid tapestry of life these writers wove with their stories, poems, and essays demonstrated what a diverse group of writers they are; yet this montage of creative writings showcases how similar they are to each other and to the world.<\/p>\n Behind Our Eyes, Inc., a 501C-3 nonprofit organization, brought out the second anthology in multiple formats. The book took a second look at the intriguing and insightful pieces of 65 writers.<\/p>\n The book was published by Patricia Gott, Publishing Services, and the impressive cover was designed by Laura Ashton, who printed the book, drawing from the 27 star theme of the first anthology\u2019s cover. It featured a Royal Blue background with NASA\u2019s photo of the Milky Way swirl of tiny, pastel, multi-colored stars.<\/p>\n The original edition was released in June of 2013 with a revised edition in October of 2013. The 368 page volume was a perfectly bound, 6X9-inch book. The organization of this book enabled the reader to read it from cover to cover, flip to a theme, pick a favorite author, or just read one selection each day.<\/p>\n On the back cover tribute, L. John Cieslinski, proprietor of Books, Etc., said, \u201cDisability is not the center of the writing–it is the triumph that forms the beauty of this work.\u201d<\/p>\n Donna Grahmann was the winner of a coupon, which she donated to Behind Our eyes. As a result, Nathan Hale of Ink In Motion developed and produced a professional book trailer for Behind Our Eyes: A second Look<\/em>. Over 3390 viewers have watched the book trailer at http:\/\/youtu.be\/hk0uIaQTr24<\/a>.<\/p>\n in 2013, the Behind Our Eyes logo for the letterhead was designed by Virginia Small, a group member. It begins with a graphic depicting Three books sitting upright. The books are three different heights and widths. On the first book is the capital letter B. On the second book is the capital letter O. On the third book is the capital letter E. Directly beside the books on the right hand side is the text.<\/p>\n Both Behind Our Eyes<\/em> anthologies are available from the National Library Service for the Blind in the United States in a digitally recorded audio book and a braille edition. Those writers with visual impairments were thrilled to be able to read a copy of their work in an accessible alternative format.<\/p>\n Ten years later, they still meet on Sunday evenings twice a month to listen to presenters and share their work. The E-list continues to thrive. Beginning and experienced writers with disabilities are welcome to join by visiting http:\/\/www.behindoureyes.org<\/a> and completing a membership form.<\/p>\n Some of the original writers have moved on while others have joined the group.<\/p>\n The group has lost two of the original writers who have moved on to that word processor in the sky. Gertie Poole suffered a stroke and Brenda Dillon lost her battle with cancer. Margo LaGattuta has also left this world. Their contributions to the writers group existence are missed, but the drive to write among the merry band continues.<\/p>\n Magnets and Ladders<\/em>,an online magazine to which anyone with a disability may submit work for possible publication, continues to be published semi-annually. The e-list is a place to share works in progress for gentle critiques. It also serves as a place to announce the individual triumphs of publication and articles about writing.<\/p>\n This history has been compiled to celebrate the tenth anniversary of Behind Our Eyes. The members of the group are also producing an audio rendition of some of the writers reading their own work. There will be a number of prizes awarded in all categories of material submitted to the magazine, as part of the celebration of ten years of sharing, learning and writing.<\/p>\n \u201cSorry, Pam, I can\u2019t go out after work today,\u201d Amy said at lunchtime on that last day of March. \u201cI got a call from Molly\u2019s school nurse. Molly is sick. I have to go pick her up from school. Maybe we can go out one day next week. Sorry, and happy birthday!\u201d<\/p>\n “Okay, hope Molly feels better soon,\u201d Pam sighed. Pam was disappointed she couldn\u2019t go out with her friend on her birthday. They had planned to go to Twisters to grab something to eat and a glass of wine, but she understood that family came first.<\/p>\n On the way home from work, Pam considered going out by herself but decided against it. She never enjoyed going out by herself, and it would be especially bad on her birthday. Not for the first time, she wondered what it would feel like to go home to a house with a husband and children instead of her orange and white cat Tiny. Most of her friends were married and had children, which didn\u2019t give them much time to hang out. \u201cYour time will come,\u201d her parents kept insisting, but she was starting to wonder. She was 33 now and not getting any younger.<\/p>\n She parked her car in front of her little white house, wondering how it would look with a bunch of kids’ toys scattered in the yard. She laughed aloud as she climbed the steps to the front porch. To her annoyance, several large bumblebees were buzzing around the front door. She had hated bees ever since she got stung on the face when she was a child of nine. She remembered how she had cried and cried when it happened. She didn\u2019t want those critters getting into the house.<\/p>\n She walked around to the back door and walked into the kitchen. \u201cI\u2019m home, Tiny,\u201d she called, expecting her cat to come running to rub against her legs. The first thing she noticed was the sound of the television coming from the living room. I must have forgotten to turn it off that morning, she thought absently. Funny, that never happened before.<\/p>\n She walked into the living room and stopped in her tracks. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. There were three unfamiliar people sitting in her living room, which was full of unfamiliar furniture. A little boy of about seven sat on a gray couch, watching a Star Wars movie and eating a bag of potato chips. A toddler was sitting on the floor with a crayon in one hand and a lollipop in the other. A teenage girl was sitting in a rocking chair sending a text on her cell phone.<\/p>\n \u201cHi, Mom,\u201d the little boy said casually, not taking his eyes off the TV. Pam didn\u2019t answer. Her friends were playing a joke on her, she thought wildly. They thought it would be a funny thing to do on her birthday, but they had gone too far.<\/p>\n The girl seemed startled to see Pam. \u201cOh, hi, Mrs. Miller,\u201d she said, shoving her cell phone into her over stuffed bag and getting to her feet. \u201cI didn\u2019t hear you come in.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI used the back door,\u201d Pam said, sizing the teenager up for any signs of mischief and not finding any. \u201cThe first bees of the season were buzzing around the front door.\u201d<\/p>\n The teenager wasn\u2019t listening. \u201cMr. Miller called and said he is going to be a little late getting home tonight.\u201d She rose to her feet. \u201cI\u2019m out of here,\u201d she said, heading for the front door. \u201cI\u2019ll see you tomorrow.\u201d She was gone before Pam could ask any questions.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay,\u201d Pam said slowly after the door was firmly shut. She waited for somebody to jump out of the woodwork and yell, \u201cSurprise!\u201d There was no sound except from the TV.<\/p>\n She watched in horror as the toddler started scribbling on the wall with a pink crayon. Instinctively, Pam grabbed the crayon out of the child\u2019s hand. She just tottered back to the box for another one. She ran then, up the stairs and into her bedroom, which was full of unfamiliar items. Her wicker dresser and desk and nightstand were replaced with a walnut bedroom set, and all her clothes were gone. Instead there were lots of unfamiliar dresses and sweaters, and several men\u2019s suits in the closet. She put a hand over her heart, praying she would not have a heart attack. \u201cTiny!\u201d she shouted, walking back into the kitchen.<\/p>\n The little boy was suddenly behind her. \u201cWhen are we going to eat?\u201d he demanded.<\/p>\n \u201cSoon,\u201d Pam said without thinking. It suddenly dawned on her that the kids would be hungry, and Mrs. Miller\u2019s husband would be home soon. Maybe he would explain what was going on. She rummaged in the cupboards and brought out a couple cans of tuna fish. \u201cI\u2019ll make tuna fish sandwiches,\u201d she said quickly. \u201cIt won\u2019t take long.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut it\u2019s pizza night,\u201d the boy wailed.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, I forgot!\u201d she cried. She opened the freezer and saw with relief that there was a sausage pizza among the pork chops and hot dogs. She nosed around in the cabinets for a pan and put the pizza in the oven.<\/p>\n Suddenly a door slammed, and Pam jumped. \u201cDaddy!\u201d the little girl cried from the living room.<\/p>\n \u201cHi, Cupcake,\u201d an unfamiliar male voice said.<\/p>\n Pam walked into the living room to see a tall blond man holding the little girl in his arms. \u201cNot Cupcake, Gumdrop,\u201d the child laughed.<\/p>\n \u201cRight, you\u2019re Gumdrop now,\u201d the man said, setting the girl down.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d Pam asked, giving the man a stern look.<\/p>\n \u201cThe meeting ran a little late,\u201d he shrugged. \u201cAre you okay? You look a little upset.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI need to talk to you,\u201d she said quietly. She wondered if she were losing her mind. She was no longer convinced that someone was playing a joke on her. These people seemed like they belonged in this house, and that she belonged in their family. If it\u2019s not a joke, she must be hallucinating or having a nervous breakdown, she thought desperately. She heard of such things happening to people.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay,\u201d the man said, taking her by the elbow and leading her into the kitchen. \u201cWhat did the doctor say?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe doctor?\u201d she asked stupidly. \u201cI\u2019m not, I don\u2019t-\u201c<\/p>\n \u201cJoan, what is going on?\u201d Mr. Miller asked seriously, his face reflecting nothing but concern. \u201cDid he give you bad news?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLook, Mommy!\u201d the little girl, whose name Pam still didn\u2019t know, cried, holding up a drawing of a field of giant pink flowers. \u201cI colored it myself!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s beautiful,\u201d Pam said, patting the child on her little head covered with blond curls. \u201cJust don\u2019t draw on the walls, okay?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay,\u201d the little girl said, scurrying back into the living room with her picture.<\/p>\n \u201cI need to get some fresh air,\u201d Pam said before Mr. Miller could ask any more questions. She knew there was a little convenience store a couple blocks from the house. \u201cWe\u2019re almost out of milk.\u201d She hoped that was true. She hadn\u2019t even looked in the refrigerator. \u201cI\u2019ll be back in a few minutes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWait a minute,\u201d Mr. Miller said, grabbing her arm again. \u201cI don\u2019t think you should go out by yourself right now. You really don\u2019t look well at all. Why don\u2019t you sit down and tell me what happened?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m all right,\u201d she snapped, snatching her purse off the kitchen table. \u201cI just need a little fresh air. We\u2019ll talk when I get back from the store. The pizza is almost done and the kids are hungry.\u201d She pushed open the back door and ran outside before he could say anything else.<\/p>\n She ran to the end of the block, then fumbled in her purse for her cell phone. The contents of the purse were unfamiliar. Of course, she thought frantically. This was Joan Miller\u2019s purse. The cell phone wasn\u2019t even the same model as hers. But where was Joan Miller, and why was her family living in Pam\u2019s house? More importantly, why did her family think Pam was her? With trembling fingers, Pam dialed her friend Amy\u2019s number. An automated voice informed her that the number was not in service. She tried calling her parents next with the same result.<\/p>\n Pam was ready to cry. Where could she go to find answers? Spring was in the air, she thought incongruously, feeling the sultry breeze blowing on her face. She walked slowly to the convenience store, dreading going in but knowing she had to. The store seemed familiar enough except for the strange woman behind the counter. To her further irritation, the store was almost out of milk. She grabbed a quart from the back of the cooler and carried it to the counter.<\/p>\n \u201cHi, Joan, how are you doing?\u201d the lady behind the counter said cheerfully.<\/p>\n \u201cGood, thank you,\u201d Pam said, trying to match the lady\u2019s tone.<\/p>\n \u201cGlad to hear it. Did your doctor\u2019s appointment go well?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d Pam said, looking pointedly at her watch. \u201cSorry I can\u2019t stop to chat. The kids are out of milk.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGlad you and the baby are all right,\u201d the woman said as Pam walked toward the door. \u201cI forgot when you said you were due.\u201d<\/p>\n Pam was out the door by then and pretended she hadn\u2019t heard. So that was it, she thought as she started walking home. Joan Miller was pregnant and maybe having complications. She supposedly went to the doctor to make sure everything was all right. Poor lady, Pam thought as her mind spun. She was out there somewhere, possibly very sick. And her poor husband! Pam knew she had to get back to the house and explain to him what happened to her. She had to convince him that she wasn\u2019t his wife, and couldn\u2019t understand how their lives converged, but it didn\u2019t matter at this point. The only thing that mattered now was finding Joan Miller and making sure she was all right.<\/p>\n He\u2019ll probably think I\u2019m crazy, she thought as she came upon her block. He\u2019ll probably say I\u2019m having a nervous breakdown due to anxiety over the pregnancy. Then he\u2019ll try to check me into a mental hospital. Maybe that was a good thing. The doctors would have to believe her when she said she wasn\u2019t Joan Miller, wouldn\u2019t they?<\/p>\n She noticed the bees that were buzzing around the front door earlier were gone. Thank God for small favors, she thought as she swung open the front door. She walked into the living room and got the next shock of the day. There was nobody there. The living room was just had she had left it that morning. All her old furniture was there, there were no kids’ toys, and the TV was off. \u201cHello!\u201d she called out, expecting the kids and Mr. Miller to come running.<\/p>\n \u201cMeow!\u201d Something orange came darting out of the kitchen and rubbed against her legs.<\/p>\n \u201cTiny!\u201d Pam shouted, scooping up the 13 pound feline and hugging her tight. \u201cDon\u2019t let her name fool you,\u201d Pam told everybody who saw the cat. \u201cShe was tiny when I got her.”<\/p>\n \u201cOh, kitty, what happened to us?\u201d The cat wriggled out of her arms and ran back into the kitchen.<\/p>\n Pam followed slowly, rubbing her throbbing head. I must be sick, she thought. That was the only explanation for what had just happened. I\u2019m imagining things. Maybe I\u2019m going crazy!<\/p>\n \u201cLook what I got for you, Tiny,\u201d she said, pouring a little milk into a saucer. She only gave the cat milk on special occasions. She mixed up some canned cat food with dry food, added a little water, and set the food and milk on the kitchen floor. \u201cI just had a terrible dream,\u201d she told the cat. Tiny was rolling something around on the kitchen floor and chasing after it. \u201cI dreamed there was a strange family living here, and you were gone,\u201d Pam said in wonder.<\/p>\n The cat ran around the kitchen, chasing her new toy.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you playing with, kitty?\u201d Pam chided. The cat pushed something towards her. It rolled across the floor and came to rest by Pam\u2019s shoe. She knelt down to pick it up and almost fainted. It was a pink crayon.<\/p>\n Bio: Susan Muhlenbeck was born in Korea and spent her first 5 years there. She lost her sight at the age of two. She was raised in the Midwest and moved to Virginia as a teenager. She earned a bachelors’ degree in psychology and masters’ degree in rehabilitation counseling from Virginia Commonwealth University. Her interests include reading, swimming, bargain shopping, and cats. Her books are available on Amazon.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m really enjoying this writing class,\u201d Terry told her friend Kate as they sipped coffee after class that Friday in May. \u201cI never thought I would enjoy writing this much.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not enjoying it as much,\u201d Kate sighed. \u201cI think reading is more my thing. Speaking of reading, you know there is a library up on the ninth floor of this building?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, I didn\u2019t know that,\u201d Terry said in surprise. \u201cI haven\u2019t been inside a library in years, not since I started reading books on line. I\u2019ll have to check it out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet me know what you think,\u201d Kate said as they left the little café on the ground floor of the Seaboard building where their writing class was held. Their assignment for the next class was to write about the most frightening experience of their life. I don\u2019t have too many frightening experiences, Terry mused as she walked to the elevator. The most frightening thing she could think of was the time she was chased by a puppy when she was a child of six. Her 6-year-old mind was sure the little bugger would catch her and tear her to pieces. Fortunately, its owner appeared and scooped the harmless little dog into her arms.<\/p>\n Terry got on the empty elevator and pressed nine. She sensed something was amiss right from the start. The elevator was uncharacteristically slow. It usually took one second to ascend to the next floor, but today it took a full minute to get to each floor. She held onto the metal safety bar as they approached the 3rd floor. When they reached the fifth floor where the writing class was held, she had been on the elevator for a full 5 minutes. Stranger yet, the safety bar started to twist into a spiral under her hands. This is actually pretty neat, she thought wildly. An instant later the bar started feeling warm and tingly. She snatched her hands away only to discover that her hands too were starting to feel warm and tingly.<\/p>\n \u201cSixth floor,\u201d the flat, automated female voice said a minute later. The bar was starting to glow, she thought desperately. Terry was starting to be afraid. The tingly sensation in her hands had spread to her arms and shoulders. There was also a strange humming sound coming from the elevator, or was it coming from inside her head?<\/p>\n \u201cSeventh floor,\u201d the automated voice intoned without feeling. Her face flushed, and she broke out in a cold sweat. This is more frightening than the puppy incident, she thought wildly. I should write about this. It took another full minute to get to the next floor.<\/p>\n \u201cEighth floor,\u201d the voice said flatly, then, \u201cradio active, do not touch bar.\u201d The next minute was the longest 60 seconds of Terry\u2019s life. The tingly sensation was all over her body now, and she was terrified. The humming sound was getting louder. She found she was having difficulty breathing, which she thought had nothing to do with her fear.<\/p>\n After what seemed like an eternity, the voice spoke again. \u201cNinth floor,\u201d it said tonelessly as the doors slid mercifully open. \u201cDeath to those who touch the metal bar, very radioactive!\u201d<\/p>\n At 5:20 on a spring afternoon in 1956, Doctor George Rosen pulled into the parking lot of the Piggly-Wiggly Market in Gainesville, Florida. He jumped out of his car and walked briskly into the market. He stole a quick glance at the checkout line. Yes, Laurie was there. Consulting the list Evelyn gave him, he grabbed a cart and started shopping. He soon finished and took his place in the checkout line.<\/p>\n As the line shortened, George started to unload his cart in preparation for checking out. His heart began to beat faster. He could not keep his eyes off Laurie. She was beautiful. When it was his turn, she recognized him with a ready smile.<\/p>\n \u201cHi, Dr. Rosen.\u201d<\/p>\n He had to clear his throat before responding. \u201cHi, Laurie, how are you today?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m just fine,\u201d she said. Then in a lower voice she added, \u201cWhen will we take those pictures?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSoon, Laurie. In the next few days, I\u2019ll let you know.\u201d<\/p>\n Laurie was about 20, with large blue eyes, a pert nose and a wide mouth. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail secured with a rubber band. She wore black pedal pushers, tight enough to accentuate her round bottom and long legs. Her white blouse failed to conceal the cleavage of her young breasts.<\/p>\n George was an instructor in Pharmacology at the University of Florida, his first position since receiving his Ph.D. At 32, he was one of the youngest researchers there. He and Evelyn moved into a small house not far from the medical school and Priscilla, their three-year-old, started nursery school.<\/p>\n George and Evelyn were soon immersed in the town-gown social life. Most of their friends were other young faculty members. George played poker once a week with some colleagues. They called their group the \u201cCommittee for Redistribution of Faculty Salaries.\u201d<\/p>\n For the past few weeks, George flirted with Laurie each time he went shopping. She stirred his loins like no girl ever had. He and Evelyn were married for five years and up till now he never strayed, but this girl was different. He could not help himself. He wanted her and plotted to seduce her.<\/p>\n George formulated a plan. He complimented Laurie on her looks and suggested she could be a model.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s cool. Actually, I was a runner-up for the Miss Florida contest last year. I always wanted to be a model,\u201d Laurie gushed. She went on to tell him that she had been a cheerleader at Gainesville High\u2019s football games. Laurie knew George worked at the medical school. He was some sort of a doctor, so he must be okay.<\/p>\n \u201cI can take some pictures of you which could be used for model agencies,\u201d George told her.<\/p>\n Laurie was enthusiastic. \u201cHow much will it cost?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNothing. I\u2019d be glad to do it.\u201d<\/p>\n George figured he would meet her after work, drive to a deserted place he knew out in the Palmettos and convince her to pose nude. Then, he would make love to her. At night, George fantasized a naked Laurie beneath him, gasping with passion, her long legs wrapped around his hips, as he…<\/p>\n On the day George had arranged to pick up Laurie, he was anxious.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you okay, Dr. Rosen?\u201d Grace, his technician asked. \u201cYou seem kind of jumpy.\u201d<\/p>\n George assured her he was fine.<\/p>\n At 5:30 he met Laurie at the Piggly-Wiggly and drove out into the country. They walked a short distance into the Palmettos where he knew of a small natural pool surrounded by sand.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is a good spot,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n He posed Laurie in sexy positions with the pool in the background and took a number of photos.<\/p>\n \u201cNow we\u2019ll take some as if you\u2019re going to go skinny-dipping.\u201d He directed her to face the pool and remove her blouse. \u201cTake off your bra too, and hold your blouse over your head as if you were just removing it.\u201d Laurie complied without hesitation. \u201cThat\u2019s great,\u201d he said, and took a few shots. At this point, George planned to tell her to turn around and face him so that he could feast his eyes on those luscious young breasts. Then he would…<\/p>\n Suddenly, a voice in his head warned. Whoa boy, what are you doing? You could be in deep shit! Evelyn could find out and divorce you. It would get out. You could lose your job, and that would be the end of your career. She\u2019s not worth the risk.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay,\u201d he said huskily. \u201cYou can get dressed.\u201d<\/p>\n Laurie seemed disappointed. \u201cIs that all?\u201d She seemed quite willing to share her charms and all the allure of young Southern pulchritude for him and his camera.<\/p>\n During the drive back, Laurie seemed confused. \u201cDid you get all the pictures you wanted? Are you sure that\u2019s enough?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI think they will be fine. I\u2019ll have them for you in a few days.\u201d<\/p>\n At the market, Laurie got out of the car. \u201cThanks, Dr. Rosen. See you.\u201d George could not get away fast enough.<\/p>\n A week later two police officers appeared at George\u2019s laboratory. \u201cYes, that\u2019s me. What can I do for you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCould you please step outside for a minute?\u201d the officer said.<\/p>\n George accompanied them into the hallway. \u201cWhat\u2019s the problem?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019d like you to come down to the station with us,\u201d the officer told him.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy? Is this a traffic thing? Has my license expired? What…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you know a Laurie McCauley?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, as a matter of fact, I do. Has anything happened to her?\u201d George\u2019s mouth was suddenly dry.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen did you last see her?\u201d the officer asked, ignoring George\u2019s question.<\/p>\n \u201cAbout a week ago, in the market. What are these questions about?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe claims that you raped her,\u201d the officer said. \u201cLet\u2019s go.\u201d<\/p>\n George became aware that Grace and some other people stared as he and the police officers walked away.<\/p>\n At the police station a detective questioned George.<\/p>\n \u201cAm I under arrest?\u201d George asked.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re going to detain you for a while,\u201d the detective said. He led George to a cell and locked him inside.<\/p>\n \u201cYou have the right to phone anyone,\u201d he told George.<\/p>\n George tried to call Evelyn ,but she was not home. He had to wait several hours until he was able to reach her.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you mean you\u2019re in jail?\u201d Evelyn asked. \u201cWhat did you do?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre you alone?\u201d George asked.<\/p>\n \u201cJust me and Prissy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m accused of raping a girl.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d Evelyn screamed.<\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t do it,\u201d George said, \u201cbut I think I need a lawyer.\u201d<\/p>\n The next day, a smartly dressed man was admitted to George\u2019s cell. He handed a business card to George. \u201cI\u2019m Joe Morelli. Your lawyer.\u201d<\/p>\n George took a minute to look him over. He was of average height, balding, with an almond colored complexion.<\/p>\n \u201cTell me about it,\u201d Morelli said. \u201cDid you do it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat happened then?\u201d Morelli asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNothing happened. I just took her out to take some pictures. I didn\u2019t touch her.\u201d<\/p>\n The lawyer looked unconvinced. \u201cWhy were you taking pictures of her?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe told me she wanted to be a model. I was trying to help her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs that the whole story? You didn\u2019t—like hug her or anything?\u201d<\/p>\n George bristled. \u201cI told you I didn\u2019t touch her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen why do you think she says you raped her?\u201d<\/p>\n George shook his head. \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay, I\u2019m going to try and get you out on bail,\u201d Morelli told him as he left.<\/p>\n The following day George stood before a judge with Morelli at his side. \u201cYour honor, the defendant is a faculty member at the Medical School and a family man. He\u2019s not likely to flee.\u201d<\/p>\n The judge looked at George. \u201cBail is set at $10,000.\u201d The trial would take place in two weeks.<\/p>\n Morelli drove George home. \u201cDon\u2019t leave town,\u201d he told George as he dropped him off in front of his house. George could see that some of the neighbors were watching.<\/p>\n George went back to work, but he was aware that his colleagues tried to avoid him. Even Grace was unusually silent. At home, Evelyn said nothing, but she slept in the guest room.<\/p>\n During the next two weeks, George endured the coldness of his colleagues and friends. In the faculty dining room, he was obliged to eat a solo lunch each day.<\/p>\n At 9:00 on a cloudy morning, George entered the courtroom with his lawyer. George told his lawyer he wanted the opportunity to take the stand and tell his side of the story, but Morelli disagreed. \u201cIt\u2019ll be better if I do the talking,\u201d Morelli told him.<\/p>\n The trial was brief. The assistant district attorney prosecuting the case started by describing Laurie as a sweet, innocent, hard-working young woman.<\/p>\n Laurie sat between her father and her brother. Mr. McCauley, a large man, who worked at the feed store in town, looked grim and her brother, a muscular man, glared at George.<\/p>\n The prosecutor went on to describe how George had enticed Laurie into the Palmettos, promising to take some photos and then attacked her. He went on to describe how she struggled. He produced a large photograph of George\u2019s torso, which was entered into evidence. The picture showed four parallel scratch marks running diagonally across George\u2019s chest. The prosecutor rested his case.<\/p>\n Morelli rose and called Laurie to take the stand. He asked her why she had not sought medical attention after the alleged incident. Laurie blushed and said that she had been too embarrassed. Morelli asked her if she ever had sexual relations before this, but the prosecutor raised an objection, which was sustained. There was little more Morelli could say.<\/p>\n The jury retired but was back in ten minutes.<\/p>\n \u201cHave you reached a verdict?\u201d the judge asked.<\/p>\n The Foreman nodded and handed the Bailiff a slip of paper.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Defendant will rise,\u201d the judge ordered. George and Morelli stood. The judge opened the slip of paper. \u201cThe jury finds you guilty of rape.\u201d George slumped forward. \u201cI sentence you to be confined in the state penitentiary for three to five years.\u201d He banged his gavel.<\/p>\n George rushed over to the bench. \u201cIt\u2019s not true!\u201d he yelled at the judge. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you the truth now. I really wanted to—have sex with her, but I chickened out. I never laid a finger on her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBailiff, remove the Defendant,\u201d the judge called. Two deputies rushed forward, pinioned George\u2019s arms, handcuffed him and dragged him from the courtroom.<\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t touch her,\u201d George screamed. \u201cI didn\u2019t touch…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou didn\u2019t touch who?\u201d Evelyn asked. \u201cWake up, George. You were dreaming.\u201d<\/p>\n George opened his eyes. It was dark. He lay in bed with Evelyn next to him. He was covered with sweat. My God, it was all a dream—just a damn dream.<\/p>\n In the morning George dressed and went down for breakfast. He felt like a new man. \u201cGood morning, Daddy,\u201d Priscilla chirped as he bent to kiss her. Evelyn served him bacon, eggs and grits, poured his coffee and smiled as she sat down at the table.<\/p>\n At work everything was normal. Grace greeted him with a smile, and his friends joined him for lunch.<\/p>\n The prints of the photos he had taken of Laurie were delivered to his office. He could not bear to look at them. When he left work, George took the prints and drove to the Piggly-Wiggly. He did not shop but got into Laurie\u2019s checkout line. When it was his turn, she greeted him with a cheery \u201cHi, Dr. Rosen. How are you today?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHere are the pictures,\u201d George said as he handed the photos to her. His hands were shaking. He started to leave.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks a lot, Dr. Rosen\u201d. he heard her call as he left. He would never shop at that market again.<\/p>\n That evening was a quiet one. At bedtime, Evelyn, already in bed, watched George as he pulled on his pajamas.<\/p>\n \u201cGeorge! What happened to your chest?\u201d<\/p>\n George looked down, dismayed to see four parallel scratch marks that ran diagonally across his chest. They had already started to heal.<\/p>\n Bio: Dr. Ellner is 90 years old and served in the U.S. Navy in World War II. He received a Ph.D. at the University of Maryland College of Medicine. He taught microbiology and infectious disease to medical students at Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons as Professor of Microbiology and Pathology. He has published many articles and several medical books. Dr. Ellner became deaf twenty years ago and blind ten years later. He wrote a play, poetry, short stories and self-published three novels and a biography. He lives in Connecticut with his wife and guide dog.<\/p>\n Monique let herself into David\u2019s apartment with the key she still had, although they broke up the week before. She patted her stomach, as a wave of doubt hit her. Yes, she was doing the right thing, she told herself. David was the father of her child, but he was too down to earth. An accountant who made a lot of money, he would probably expect her to be a stay at home wife and mother.<\/p>\n On the other hand, Mike was cool, a singer\/songwriter with a band who hoped to reach the top of the charts one day. If she married him, he wouldn\u2019t care what she did as long as she made him happy in bed. If he recorded an album and went on tour, she could travel with him, and that would be fun for her and the baby. Now, all she needed to do was collect the picture David refused to return and leave the key, and she would be done with him.<\/p>\n The photo still sat on the mantle. It was taken several months earlier while David and Monique were on the beach. Monique gave her cell phone to a passing tourist who agreed to snap the shot. As a surprise for David\u2019s birthday, she had it printed and framed.<\/p>\n She picked it up and studied it one last time, her in her purple bikini with long dark hair cascading in waves down her back, and him in his black swimming trunks, as they embraced on the sand. She was about to put it in her purse and replace it with the key when she was startled to hear David\u2019s voice in the hall outside the apartment followed by a woman\u2019s voice she thought she recognized. She set the photo back on the mantle, made a mad dash for the living room closet, and stepped inside, closing the door behind her just as the key turned in the lock on the apartment door.<\/p>\n Enveloped by coats in the closet\u2019s dark interior, she heard the unmistakable voice of her best friend Lynne. \u201cI can\u2019t believe I\u2019m doing this. All I wanted was to tell you the truth about Monique and the baby.\u201d<\/p>\n Monique couldn\u2019t believe what she was hearing. Lynne was supportive the week before when Monique told her what she planned to do. \u201cOh, that\u2019s so hard for you,\u201d Lynne said. That was what she always said when Monique was going through tough times.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t think about that now,\u201d said David. \u201cSit down. Take a load off. I\u2019ll fix you a drink. What would you like?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, just a Scotch and soda is fine, and don\u2019t mind if I do take off these shoes. My feet are killing me.\u201d<\/p>\n Monique heard ice clinking in glasses and other sounds that told her David was making drinks in the kitchen. \u201cYou really ought to get rid of that picture,\u201d said Lynne.<\/p>\n \u201cYou mean the one on the mantle of me and Monique? I think I\u2019ll hold onto it for a while.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDavid, she lied to you about your child. I don\u2019t know why I\u2019ve been friends with her for so long. All she wants to do is have a good time. She has no sense of responsibility whatsoever.\u201d<\/p>\n Monique strained in an attempt to see more through the keyhole and barely made out David coming into the living room with two glasses. \u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d he said, as he set them on the coffee table. \u201cNow, come here, you silly goofball.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot with her smiling down on us from your mantle,\u201d said Lynne. Monique heard a resounding crash.<\/p>\n \u201cOh well, I didn\u2019t like that picture, anyway,\u201d said David.<\/p>\n Tears filled Monique\u2019s eyes, as she heard the sound of the frame\u2019s pieces being swept into a dust pan. \u201cHow about some music?\u201d he said a minute later.<\/p>\n \u201cGreat idea,\u201d said Lynne.<\/p>\n The strains of \u201cOnly Time\u201d by Enya soon filled the room. It was playing on the stereo the night David proposed to Monique a month earlier. David knew that and so did Lynne. She couldn\u2019t see them through the keyhole and assumed they were snuggled on the couch with their drinks.<\/p>\n \u201cSo how did such a sensible woman like you end up being friends with a worldly girl like Monique?\u201d asked David.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not that unworldly,\u201d said Lynne with a laugh. \u201cI like to go to clubs once in a while. Remember? Monique introduced us at The Jaybird where Mike Evans and his band were playing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s right,\u201d said David with a chuckle. \u201cWhat was I thinking?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMonique and I have been friends since childhood. She\u2019s changed over the years, and I didn\u2019t see that until last week when she told me she wanted to marry Mike even though you\u2019re her baby\u2019s father. She says you\u2019re too conservative, and Mike\u2019s in the moment. I guess I can\u2019t blame her. She had a rough childhood. Her dad left without a word when she was about five or six, and her mother\u2019s an alcoholic.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMonique told me all that. You\u2019d think she would want her kid to have a more stable family. What kind of life is this kid going to have with neither parent holding a steady job, waiting for that big recording contract that might never come?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d said Lynne with a sigh.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, I\u2019m not about to stand by and let that happen, especially if the kid is mine. I have an appointment with a lawyer tomorrow morning. I don\u2019t know what I can do legally, but I\u2019m sure as hell gonna find out.\u201d<\/p>\n Monique gasped, then clamped a hand over her mouth, hoping she hadn\u2019t been heard. \u201dThere should be a way you can force her to have a blood test to determine if the baby is yours,\u201d said Lynne. \u201cWho knows? It could be Mike\u2019s. Perish the thought.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s not talk about it anymore,\u201d said David. \u201cDance with me.\u201d<\/p>\n The couple came into view through the keyhole. Monique gazed in fascination, as their bodies swayed to the music. Lynne said, \u201cOh David, I\u2019ve always loved you since the night Monique introduced us. I didn\u2019t want to steal you away from her until now.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI love you, too, but I\u2019m probably on the rebound from Monique.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat doesn\u2019t matter now. Ummmm!\u201d Monique felt sick, as she heard David and Lynne kissing just inches from the closet door.<\/p>\n \u201cGood morning,\u201d said the radio announcer. \u201cIt\u2019s thirty-one minutes after six on a sunny Monday, fifty-five degrees, and looking for a high near eighty.\u201d<\/p>\n Monique leaped out of bed and dashed to the bathroom where she hung over the toilet and let it all out. \u201cDamn this morning sickness.\u201d<\/p>\n David was there, placing a cool hand on her forehead. \u201cHey babe, I\u2019m sorry,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll be okay,\u201d she said, leaning into him, feeling the reassuring warmth of his body and pressing her face against his. \u201cI wish we didn\u2019t have to go to work today.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou have a good reason to stay home,\u201d he said, kissing her. \u201cAnd I don\u2019t have anything at the office that can\u2019t wait till tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou mean that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d said David. \u201cCome on, let\u2019s go back to bed.\u201d<\/p>\n Bio: Abbie Johnson Taylor is the author of a novel and two poetry collections, and hopes to publish a memoir. Her work has appeared in Emerging Voices<\/em> and Serendipity Poets Journal<\/em>. She is visually impaired and lives in Sheridan Wyoming, where for six years, she cared for her late husband, who was totally blind and partially paralyzed by two strokes. Please visit her Website at http:\/\/www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n \u201cWait till you see this place! You\u2019ll love it!\u201d Dave twisted the key in the lock and gave the door a shove. It stuck.<\/p>\n Dave came across this old house by accident. He fell in love with it. It was huge, rustic and beautiful. There was a FOR SALE sign on the front lawn. Dave called the real estate agency listed on the sign. A land developer was trying to purchase the lot the house sat on. The local historical society was fighting it. The litigation was holding up the sale.<\/p>\n \u201cHow much is the developer offering?\u201d Dave asked. He was quoted a very low price, which he topped. Now, after tidying it up, he was showing it to his wife. After another shove, the door squeaked open and Dave led the way inside. Laura, holding their two year old son, Ryan, followed. \u201cWell, what do you think?\u201d he asked, standing back and spreading his arms wide.<\/p>\n The ceiling was high. The floors were bare wood and shined to a crisp glow. The furniture showed signs of moth damage, but everything was free of dust and in pretty good shape. The windows were tall and polished.<\/p>\n \u201cYou can put pretty curtains on the windows and rugs on the floors, recover the sofa and chairs and toss some pillows here and there,” Dave suggested. He wasn\u2019t put off by Laura\u2019s silence. She was taking it all in. It was a lot to swallow. \u201cWait till you see the rest of the house. The kitchen\u2019s a bit outdated, but we can get a handyman in to renovate it. It\u2019ll be a great place to raise Ry and for us to grow old together.\u201d<\/p>\n Finally, Laura released a heavy breath. She was overwhelmed. \u201cIt\u2019s, I don\u2019t know the right word for it,” she stammered. To Dave\u2019s relief, there wasn\u2019t a single note of distress in Laura\u2019s voice. \u201cIt\u2019s certainly spacious. You did a nice job cleaning it up,\u201d she ended.<\/p>\n \u201cSo you like it?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n She nodded. \u201cYeah, I think I do. The place has charm. For the life of me though, I can\u2019t see how we\u2019ll be able to renovate this mausoleum.\u201d<\/p>\n Less than two weeks later, they carted all their possessions from the apartment in the city to the house in the country. Most of their furniture was stacked in the garage. They decided to keep what was in the house for now and sort through it slowly. Ryan\u2019s nursery was in the room next to theirs.<\/p>\n Ryan was asleep in his crib, Dave went into town, Laura was hanging clothes in the closet in the master bedroom.<\/p>\n \u201cMadelaine?\u201d queried an unfamiliar male voice from the doorway.<\/p>\n Startled, Laura swung around, the blouse she\u2019d been about to hang up clutched close against her chest. Her gaze kept going to the telephone on the bedside table.<\/p>\n \u201cWho are you?\u201d she asked. He was older than she. He had gray hair and wore a black suit that seemed as antiquated as the furnishings in this room. \u201cThis is my house and you better leave before I call the police,\u201d she demanded.<\/p>\n A slow smile drew to his face. \u201cYou remembered, Madelaine? This is indeed your home and you\u2019ve finally come back. I\u2019ve been waiting a long time for you to return, my dear.\u201d<\/p>\n A chill ran up Laura\u2019s back. She didn\u2019t move nor did the man. \u201cMy name is not Madelaine. It\u2019s Laura. My husband and I bought this house. It belongs to us. Please tell me who you are and how you got in here. The front door was locked.”<\/p>\n \u201cAh, forgive me, Laura.” He drew out her name. \u201cYou look so much like Madelaine. I am Charles Morrisay,\u201d he announced. \u201cI live here, as well,…up there.\u201d He pointed to the ceiling.<\/p>\n \u201cBut,\u201d she shot back quickly, \u201cthe realtor didn\u2019t tell us we had a tenant living on the upper level.\u201d She wasn\u2019t sure what to make of it. She\u2019d discuss it with Dave when he returned from town.<\/p>\n Charles shook his head. \u201cNot upstairs, my dear. I live in the attic. It\u2019s much more peaceful up there,\u201d he sighed wearily. \u201cToo much hustle and bustle these days.\u201d<\/p>\n Laura stared at him wide-eyed. She and Dave had been in the attic a few times. There were boxes and trunks and a lot of dust, but no bed or bathroom or lodgings for a human being. A cold chill raced through her. She was unable to speak.<\/p>\n \u201cMay I ask, from curiosity, what that garment you\u2019re holding is?\u201d he asked. \u201cIt is indeed odd.\u201d<\/p>\n So was this situation, Laura thought, looking down at the floral print blouse she held against her chest. She glanced back up at him. Her voice still stuck in her throat.<\/p>\n He waved his hand in her direction. Laura flinched. \u201cAh, never mind. I wish to get back up to my quarters and read a bit before it gets dark.\u201d Before Laura could mutter a word, the older gentleman turned and departed from the doorway. She listened closely, but didn\u2019t hear a foot fall on the bare floor, stairs or a door squeak. For the rest of the afternoon, until Dave returned, the house was in complete silence.<\/p>\n A few days later, Laura strapped Ryan into his car seat and drove into town, to the public library to do some research into the old house she moved into and on Charles Morrisay.<\/p>\n When she reached the one storey building, she pulled up in front and went inside, heading straight for the main desk. A woman in her late twenties, Tina, was arranging books on a cart. \u201cI was wondering if you might help me,\u201d Laura said, explaining her mission.<\/p>\n The woman glanced up at Laura with interest. \u201cSo you\u2019re the new owner of the haunted house? My grandmother\u2019s been telling me about that place for years, about the ghost walking around, waiting for his lady love to return home.\u201d<\/p>\n Laura\u2019s intrigue grew. \u201cWhen was all this?\u201d<\/p>\n Tina smiled and waved her hand. \u201cOver a hundred years ago, even before my grandmother\u2019s time. She\u2019s only eighty-three.\u201d Tina laughed at her own quip.<\/p>\n Laura jumped on that. \u201cIs there any way I can talk to your grandmother?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGrams lives a few blocks from here and loves talking about the Morrisay legend. I\u2019ll call and let her know you\u2019re coming over.\u201d<\/p>\n Ten minutes later, Laura pulled up in front of an old two-storey Colonial house. \u201cLooks like we\u2019re getting somewhere, Ryan,\u201d she said to the toddler. She picked him up and put him into the stroller, pushing the carriage up the front path. Before she reached the door, it was opened by an old woman, who was small and thin, with white hair. Her eyes were dark. \u201cYou must be Laura, dear. I\u2019m Christina\u2019s grandmother, Olivia Kessler.\u201d She led the way into the house. \u201cI dug out the family albums. You look a great deal like Madelaine, you know?\u201d the old woman said over her shoulder as they walked into the kitchen.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s who Charles thought I was when we first met,\u201d Laura whispered. \u201cBut who is she and who is he?\u201d<\/p>\n The old woman waved a hand toward a chair at the table. \u201cFirst let us get comfortable. Would you like some tea, dear?\u201d<\/p>\n Laura nodded. \u201cTea would be nice,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI\u2019m afraid my nerves are shaking. This whole situation has taken my breath away. Have I …met a ghost…in my home?\u201d<\/p>\n Olivia laid a pot and two china cups on the table. \u201cYes, you have, my dear, and consider yourself lucky. Charles is a nice man, though quite saddened.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut why?\u201d<\/p>\n Olivia pulled out the chair across from Laura. \u201cLet me explain, dear. It all started out a beautiful love story between Charles and Madelaine. He took her as his bride and built her a mansion on the lake.\u201d<\/p>\n There was no lake on Laura\u2019s property and she was confused.<\/p>\n Olivia smiled. \u201cThat was over a hundred years ago. Even Charles\u2019 tears of sadness couldn\u2019t keep the lake from drying up,\u201d Olivia explained.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat happened to her?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSilly, misguided woman ran away with the groundskeeper, I\u2019m afraid. Charles was certain she would come to her senses and return to him, but she never did.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid she love him?\u201d Laura asked.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sure she did, dear, but from what I\u2019ve been told she perished a few months after leaving Charles…in child birth.\u201d<\/p>\n Laura\u2019s breath caught in her throat. \u201cA baby? Was it Charles\u2019s\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n Olivia nodded. \u201cA boy, but Charles never knew about it. The groundskeeper never revealed the secret and raised the child as his own. His name was Freemont.\u201d<\/p>\n Laura was quick to respond. \u201cMy grandfather, my mother\u2019s father was a Freemont.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI shouldn\u2019t be surprised, dear. It holds to reason that you are a descendant of Charles. You\u2019re the only one he\u2019s come forth to in all the years.\u201d<\/p>\n Laura was quiet for a moment, a sense of sadness coming over her. \u201cCan we help his soul go to its resting place?\u201d she asked softly.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s possible. We can hold a séance, ask to speak with Madelaine, see if she\u2019s been trying to reach Charles.\u201d<\/p>\n Laura didn\u2019t know what to say. \u201cI must speak to my husband about this.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoes he know about Charles?\u201d<\/p>\n Laura shook her head. She hadn\u2019t said anything about this to him yet. She wanted to do some research first. \u201cI\u2019ll speak to him tonight. I\u2019ll call you. I want to help Charles, but I have to make sure I\u2019m not dreaming this.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re not, dear, but it is a lot to swallow.\u201d<\/p>\n At dinner, she told Dave the whole story. Dave was silent through her entire spiel, listening intently. When she finished, Dave turned to his son in his high chair. \u201cHave you seen any ghosts floating around here, Ry?\u201d Dave asked. The little boy giggled and shook his head. Dave turned back to his wife. \u201cMaybe you should go to your mother\u2019s for a few days and rest, sweetheart. The moving\u2019s probably been too much on you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDave?\u201d Laura shrieked. \u201cI\u2019m not losing my mind.\u201d<\/p>\n Dave smacked his hands down on the table. \u201cWhat do you expect me to say, Laura? A ghost in the house? I know this place is old. I thought you\u2019d like it for that reason. It squeaks and creaks and moans and groans, but I can\u2019t believe the place is haunted.\u201d<\/p>\n Holding her hands over her eyes, she peeked at him between two fingers. \u201cHe\u2019s a good ghost, Dave. His soul is lost and needs to find its way. We have to help him.\u201d<\/p>\n Dave rolled his eyes.<\/p>\n It was after midnight. Dave was fast asleep. Laura was wide awake, feeling something calling her. Quietly, she drew the cover aside and climbed out of bed. Creeping to the door, she picked up her robe from the chair and snuck into the hall, sliding the door closed. It was dark, but she didn\u2019t turn on a light for fear of waking Dave. Carefully she walked down the carpetless hall to the stairs, climbing to the next level. Once on the landing she headed toward the back of the house to the attic door. Opening it slowly, she tiptoed up the stairs, gazing around the semi-darkened room with the low ceiling. The door below her was ajar and some moonlight from the window across from it wafted up. She sat down on a wooden crate.<\/p>\n \u201cCharles?\u201d she whispered. \u201cIt\u2019s Laura. I don\u2019t know if you\u2019re here but I want to talk to you. This might sound strange…\u201d What could be stranger than her sitting in a dark, creepy attic talking to herself? \u201cI think I\u2019m your great great granddaughter. My grandfather was your grandson. Madelaine bore your son shortly after she left here and…died in child birth.” A chill crept over her. She unraveled the tale Olivia Kessler told her.<\/p>\n \u201cIs that why she never returned to me?\u201d came Charles\u2019s voice. Startled, Laura raised her hands to her heart. Charles stood on a far wall, still wearing the black suit he had on when she met him days earlier.<\/p>\n She nodded. \u201cShe loved you, Charles. She would have come back. You must go to her.\u201d<\/p>\n Distraught, Charles sat down on a crate. He shook his head. \u201cI can\u2019t, Laura. I don\u2019t know if she wants me. She has never come to find me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou can\u2019t roam around up here forever, Charles. You have the right to rest in peace.\u201d<\/p>\n Putting his hands on his legs, Charles lowered his head and was lost in thought for a moment. \u201cI can\u2019t impose on Madelaine. I love her too much.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLaura, are you up there?\u201d Dave called from the lower landing. \u201cIs everything all right?\u201d<\/p>\n Laura flung her head around. \u201cEverything\u2019s fine, Dave. I thought I left something up here earlier when we were moving stuff. I\u2019ll be down in a minute.\u201d She turned back, but Charles was gone. For a moment, she stared at the emptiness, a tear trickled down her face. \u201cGood night, Charles,\u201d she whispered, hustling to her feet and trotting down the stairs to her husband.<\/p>\n The next morning, Laura called Olivia Kessler and told her of the conversation she had with Charles. They agreed to hold a séance at Laura\u2019s house that evening.<\/p>\n The dining room was dark, except for two candles flickering on the table. Olivia\u2019s granddaughter Tina and Dave joined them. A dim lamp was on across the room by Ryan\u2019s swing, so that the child wouldn\u2019t become frightened by the darkness. He was fast asleep. The four adults joined hands. Olivia closed her eyes.<\/p>\n \u201cMadelaine, are you there? We\u2019re looking for you. Charles is looking for you.\u201d There was complete silence in the room. When Olivia next spoke her voice was different. \u201cCharles, oh darling, I\u2019ve been looking for you for so long. I love you and want you with me. Please come to me, be with me.\u201d Olivia opened her eyes, her own voice returning. \u201cDid you hear Madelaine, Charles? You must go to her and be with her as you were meant to be.\u201d Olivia looked at Laura. Charles stood behind Olivia, looking at Laura too. \u201cTell him to follow the light, Laura. He must do that.\u201d<\/p>\n Tears clouded Laura\u2019s eyes. She didn\u2019t know if she could speak, but she managed to. \u201cYou must follow the light, Charles, and go to Madelaine.\u201d<\/p>\n He walked toward the side wall. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Laura. \u201cThank you, Laura, and goodbye.\u201d<\/p>\n The tears ran down her cheeks. \u201cGoodbye, Charles,\u201d she whispered. \u201cGrandpa.\u201d The candles flickered out and Charles was gone.<\/p>\n \u201cAre we through with this cockamamie crap?\u201d Dave sputtered dropping his wife\u2019s hand. He looked at her, surprised when he saw her crying.<\/p>\n \u201cYes, Dave, it\u2019s over,\u201d Laura answered, smiling. \u201cCharles is with Madelaine now.”<\/p>\n Bio: Trish is deaf\/blind and has a walking\/balance problem. She\u2019s presently working on a mystery novel series, having created her own Long Island private eye, Tracy Gayle, teamed up with a rock and roll star. She takes time out to write short stories. It\u2019s her way of relaxing. She loves dogs and has two of her own.<\/p>\n “Wow, look at this! The assassin who murdered that well known politician, he is a local boy! Born and bred right here in our town! He is gone though, missing in action, vanished into thin air.” Leslie tossed her iPhone from one hand to the other. “I wonder though,” she mused, “perhaps the politician was a mad scientist; maybe he found out something dangerous, like something that can end the world! I suppose they sent, what was his name again? Oh here, Bradley Forrester. They probably sent Forrester to kill said politician, or for that matter, mad scientist.\u201d<\/p>\n While trying to find the correct exit off the freeway, Kim simply shook her head at her friend’s conspiracy theory. Driving in peak traffic in a light truck with a too heavy six-dog trailer in tow, required all her attention. Since Leon left her for the film industry and a blond, she had been running their security firm on her own. Her two assistants, Andy and Jake helped with the training of the guards, but the dogs were her responsibility.<\/p>\n Right now she was on her way to pick up a few suitable dog candidates for training. She winced as Leslie prattled on, “doesn’t Bradley sound more like the name of a football jock? He should have been called…\u201c<\/p>\n “Les,” she interrupted her, “please help me look for Spruce Avenue.”<\/p>\n “Oh, right,” Leslie said. “There,” she pointed at a street sign, then returning to her iPhone she continued, “awesome, he is quite a handsome hunk, isn’t he?”<\/p>\n When Kim had parked in front of the animal shelter where she would be picking up the dogs, she looked at the screen of Leslie’s iPhone. She had to hand it to Leslie, Bradley Forrester was a very good looking guy. Broad of shoulder, athletic body, with white blond hair and blue eyes, he was a sight for sore eyes.<\/p>\n “Oh there you are! Kim honey, your dogs are waiting for you,” Janice Spindler called from the door of the shelter office. “I’ve got the two Rottweilers, the German shepherd, a Doberman and then I’ve got a fifth dog for you. You’ll like him, I think. He is a cross between a German Shepherd and a Husky, but so well behaved.”<\/p>\n “Let me see him,” Kim said. “I trust your judgment, Janice. If you think a dog is suitable, it usually is.”<\/p>\n When a kennel assistant brought the most beautiful white dog round to be loaded into the trailer, even Kim gasped. Not only was the dog huge and stunningly built, he had the most beautiful blue eyes.<\/p>\n “Where did you get that lovely beast?” Kim asked, astonished that such a well cared for dog would be in a dog shelter.<\/p>\n “A couple that run a kennel way out in the country invited me to come and see their place. They’re a bit weird, not very sociable, I think. Yet they have the most beautiful facilities on their property and a stunning collection of dogs. They brought this fellow out and asked me whether I could perhaps find a very special home for him. I immediately thought of you,” Janice replied.<\/p>\n “Look at those eyes,” Leslie said getting out of the truck to take a better look. “Blue?”<\/p>\n “Actually that is rather common with huskies or husky crosses,” Kim said.<\/p>\n “Good grief, he looks like a wolf,” Leslie continued melodramatically. “Won’t he go wild…turn on you?”<\/p>\n “He is a cross…”<\/p>\n “Yes, I heard, but what if they lied to Janice?”<\/p>\n Kim just shook her head. “I’ll take him, thank you Janice.”<\/p>\n “His name is Sass,” a beaming Janice told Kim.<\/p>\n Four days later Kim was astonished at the rapid progress the new dogs were making. All of them were truly suited to the training environment and some already showed promise as security dogs. Sass, however, was the most wonderfully gifted dog Kim had ever had the pleasure of training.<\/p>\n “It\u2019s as though he already knows everything. Almost as though he understands what I say and can sense what I would want next,” she said to her assistant, Andy. “What concerns me though is he is bonding with me and he is supposed to bond with his handler.”<\/p>\n On a Saturday morning, two weeks later, Kim decided to start early with the morning kennel work. As she entered the kennel block, she noticed that all the dogs were quiet. That was truly strange, as usually, the dogs would be jumping around in their kennels in anticipation of food and attention.<\/p>\n She noticed that the first dog, one of her veterans, was standing at attention, gazing down the line of kennels. On closer inspection she saw that all the dogs, old and new, were looking towards the last kennel in the row, Sass’s kennel.<\/p>\n “What,” she whispered. In Sass’s kennel stood a man. He was naked, except for a dog blanket wrapped round his hips like a loin cloth.<\/p>\n “Thief, Intruder!” she shouted and prepared to open the gate of her best attack dog, Rufus.<\/p>\n The man, who was busy opening the latch of Sass’s kennel, turned towards her. She gasped. It was the handsome dude from the article. It was Bradley Forrester, wanted assassin, who stood in her kennels.<\/p>\n “oops, you caught me this time,” the intruder said almost flippantly. “I’m a shape shifter. I can change my form to that of a dog at will. It is important that a shape shifter take human form sometimes.” Then, before Kim could regain her speech he continued, “If you had just waited until your normal dog feeding time, you’d never have seen me.”<\/p>\n “But you’re…”<\/p>\n “Bradley Forrester. Yes I am, and what better way for a wanted man to hide than as a shape shifter in dog form?”<\/p>\n “Sass, Assassin, yeah that makes sense. Either my fantasy novels are coming to life or I’m going crazy, or, somebody was extremely clever to hire a… what did you call yourself, shape shifter, to hire a shape shifter as an assassin.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, what to do with you?” she continued, still reeling with the shock of discovering what was, up to now, a myth in her kennels.<\/p>\n \u201cForget you ever saw me and treat me like the dog I am, please.\u201d<\/p>\n Kim nodded and turned to go back to the house to seek sanity in a cup of coffee. She would feed the dogs a bit later.<\/p>\n Bio: Ellen Fritz is visually impaired and lives near Johannesburg, South Africa with her musician husband, two friends and several pets. She works as a book reviewer, trains her own dogs and is involved in several writing projects.<\/p>\n Harry and William, first cousins by blood and companions by agreement, covered the distance between Los Angeles and Glendale, Arizona in less than six fast hours, arriving at their uncle’s house late Friday night. They had been invited by relatives to participate in a large family gathering which would begin the next morning.<\/p>\n During the following day’s function, one of their many elderly relatives, Aunt Onya, a large stocky lady rugged in appearance but gentle and sweet in spirit, finally cornered the boys off to one side. She gave her warm greetings and made her general inquiries of family, relatives and friends back in the city. After their brief conversation, sweet Aunt Onya, in her broken English invited the two young men to come and have the customary social visit with her. They knew this was important to her but they explained with great respect that they had to get going, in order to make it home for work on Monday morning. She was somewhat disappointed and persuaded them to at least stop by on their way out of town. “Because I have extra good, very wonderful gift for yous and our family!”<\/p>\n Although the two young men were much more interested in visiting with the young ladies and being with their own youthful relatives, out of respect they casually agreed to stop by on their way out of town…but only for a minute. Then they went their way after the festivities ended and joined with the other youth in having a grand time.<\/p>\n The morning of their return arrived far too soon but remembering their promise, they drove to Aunt Onya\u2019s small farm just off their route home. When they arrived, they quickly reminded her that they were only there for a few minutes to say their goodbyes. Even though she pressed them to have some tea and toast, they insisted that they were already late. The hardy but considerate woman finally relented and motioned them towards her old dilapidated barn. “Go there, I show yous.”<\/p>\n The gray-haired aunt, grandmother and great-great-grandmother to more children than they knew, followed them out to the barn, where she had hinted that her \u201cwonderful something special\u201d was ready to take home with them. The anxious boys looked at each other with some curiosity and went with her out to the barn. They came to a pile of straw, where a tarp lay spread open and there was a large bulge protruding upwards from out of the middle. What the heck, Harry wondered. Just as the two young respectful boys stepped up to the tarp, old good hearted Aunt Onya bent down and threw back the old canvas and there lay a huge cow’s head! Yes, a real cow’s head. Just like that, there it lay, just staring up at them. There is no real way of expressing the thoughts that instantly exploded in their minds; nothing could have prepared them for this culture-filled moment.<\/p>\n With great pride, Aunt Onya swished the flies away and pointed to the bloody black and white cow’s head. She seriously explained that this was the head from the cow that was butchered for the family feast. She had especially requested it, just in case there came the possibility of sending it back with someone, and the boys were an answer to her prayer.<\/p>\n Harry and William both stood there petrified in stunned SHOCK for what seemed to be a cow’s age. Together they desperately tried to catch their breath and possibly collect their wits but failed to even think, as the dawn of her plan rose silently in their minds.<\/p>\n While the two city slickers stood there speechless, trying to remember if they had ever even seen a dead cow’s head before, they finally heard their strange benefactor’s voice penetrating their fog of shock. Auntie Onya was waving at them to back their fancy car up through the barn door. At first they had a spark of hope that she wanted them to help her bury the bloody head, but after a few moments, they realized, without a doubt that this was the gift that she was sending home with them.<\/p>\n In stunned nervousness, Harry nearly backed his new car into the side of the barn. The two boys were so dumb struck, they were unable to utter a word of protest, before they had opened the trunk to make room for the prized head. They arranged their belongings in the trunk and then old Aunt Onya spread out the dirty tarp, right there on the new carpet. With joyful commands she then told them to, “Pick up the head and put it onto the tarp.” They looked at each other with distant hopes speaking in their eyes but still the words remained lost, as if in the fog of forever. They were expecting one another to hurry and come up with a brilliant solution to this dreadful dilemma, but no words were able to arise to save them from their fate of falling into the \u201cCultural Canyon”.<\/p>\n Before they knew it, the huge, bloody cow’s head was dangling in the air by its ears. Once again, it was staring up at them, then it was dropped into its place in the trunk. Somehow that thud in the trunk finalized their fate and sealed that memory for the rest of their lives. As some type of good last minute thought for the cow, Aunt Onya reached into the trunk and closed the eyelids of the cow, then dusted off her hands and declared, \u201cVetty good now, my prayers are answered, tank you boys, you best of all boys!\u201d<\/p>\n The elderly aunt was extremely excited about her gift to the boys and her distant family, and explained how many nourishing dishes could be made with just this one cow’s head. \u201cBack in the old country, nothing was ever wasted. Too bad America has ruined our culture,\u201d she announced her complaint.<\/p>\n Her explanation of fried brains, tongue sandwiches and some type of old peasant soup took her thoughts back to the days of her youth and family but brought a croaking gag to William. In pained respect and to forgo any more possible delays, he held all things in place.<\/p>\n The old woman was very touched over the help that the boys were offering, in the delivery of this wonderful delight to their parents, who she knew, \u201cwould just love such a treat.\u201d As the old Arizona relative hugged and blessed the two boys goodbye, she thanked them again, and prompted them to make sure that this very valuable part of the cow would find its way to their table, and that they would once again uphold their traditions and culture.<\/p>\n The boys looked at each other with sly smiles, thinking that they would dump this atrocious thing as soon as possible. But old Auntie, as if reading their thoughts, in her broken English and toothless smile reminded them both that this special delight has always been part of the family tradition, and the family was expecting the arrival of this treasure. Then and there, the idea of throwing that hunk of Fright into the nearest canal…vanished, and both of them found themselves nodding and assuring her that they would do their best to deliver it directly.<\/p>\n Time was wasting as the two attentive youths turned out of Aunt Onya\u2019s driveway. The first few miles of this homeward trip was in total silence. This was brought on by “cow head shock,” until the first sharp turn brought a thump, from the trunk. Simultaneously, they knew that the head had rolled off the tarp, but neither made any suggestion to stop and look. For the next few hours, they pondered the power of this old woman and the possible trance they might have been put under.<\/p>\n The distant miles passed in trying to figure out how such a thing could have happened to them. At first there was denial that it even happened. Then there was an attempt to blame one another, for even accepting an old woman’s invitation. However and finally, a gradual acceptance came but not without great reflection.<\/p>\n Their young minds questioned and searched all their known traditions, heritage, customs and family rituals, but they concluded that not one cow’s head had ever come their way. They admitted to one another, they would most likely be the only humans in history, to ever haul a huge, bloody cow’s head from Arizona to LA, in the trunk of a car, in one hundred degree heat.<\/p>\n Within a few hours, their nice, shiny car approached the border crossing. Just about fifty feet away from the border check, the very same thought came to the both of them. What if the border guards looked in the trunk? “Impossible, what reason would they have, they never had done so before,\u201d Harry questionably declared.<\/p>\n When they arrived at the border stop bumps, the tall officer leaned into the window and asked them a few questions. Maybe it was the glowing look of dreadful fear and utter dismay on their faces, or the absolute lack of color on them which aroused the border guard’s curiosity. This strange look made the guard cautiously consider, that these guys just might be smuggling 100 pounds of grass, or had a load of immigrant workers in the trunk, so thought to better ask them to maybe open the trunk for a look see. They never did know but speculated that maybe there was a smell.<\/p>\n The boy’s eyes shot looks of terror at one another, but Harry opened his door and slowly walked around to the back. By the time he came to the trunk, his hands were shaking so bad he nearly failed in putting the key into the lock. The shaking key finally turned and the lid snapped open with a foreboding jolt. Then the guard, who was standing there looking like a prison warden, removed his hands from his hips and cautiously lifted the lid up.<\/p>\n The bright light of late afternoon shined into the shadowy chamber. The guard just stood there for several moments, not saying anything. He was either letting his mind adjust to the strange object laying there in clear view, or maybe he was waiting for the rest of the cow to appear further down in the trunk. Whatever it was, he didn’t move. Sharp turns and Aunt Onya’s gravel road had repositioned the head. Those cow’s eyes, closed by Auntie, were now wide open and just staring up at the policeman.<\/p>\n Another few minutes passed and now Harry found himself just waiting patiently as if this was a common ordinary sight to behold. The officer’s look was as if in utter disbelief, as though this bloody head was something beyond his capacity to comprehend. It was as if Aunt Onya\u2019s power was reaching him and telling him that this was all possible and it had to be delivered. And don\u2019t think too hard about what regulation or laws are being broken here, don\u2019t you know anything about traditions?<\/p>\n At that moment there seemed to be some type of communication between harry and the guard, a mysterious unspoken agreement to allow this aberration to pass. This sight was so horrendous that words seemed far beyond form, thus silence ruled the moment, and traditions and old world culture won the day.<\/p>\n By now William was sweating profusely but too afraid to get out of the car and see what had happened to his companion in smuggling cow’s heads over the border. William so wanted to get out and witness firsthand how the policeman was going to effectively make their arrest, but instead he managed to sit fixed in his seat and nervously expel great quantities of gas.<\/p>\n The officer continued to stare at the eyes of that cow, then finally turning to the overwhelmed Harry, fixed his gaze upon the mute and far away youth and slowly shook his head. The guard’s lips were quivering but no words ever came. The lawman slowly shut the trunk and for what seemed to be an eternity, just stood there staring into the bright sky. Harry took this as a good sign and made his way to the driver’s seat. He started up the engine and waited for a moment, thinking he would be motioned over to one side, but the patrolman only goggled into the distance. Harry figured that this was the go sign and that is what he did.<\/p>\n The drive home was without further incident. They traveled upon back roads for the next five hours, making sure that the state police did not get their greedy hands on Auntie Onya\u2019s gift.<\/p>\n Late that night the cow’s head was delivered, and what happened to it from that point, will be another story. But we can rest assured, that Harry and William never again accepted strange gifts from sweet old relatives in faraway places. Yet we can be assured that single trip helped bridge the \u201cCultural Canyon\u201d between two distant generations for sure.<\/p>\n Culture and Traditions are good and they do serve to preserve things from the past, but in this case, I can\u2019t imagine too many arguments in favor of preserving this one. I would think that both Harry and William definitely gained a real new perspective on Traditions and on their Culture too.<\/p>\n BIO: Michael M. Tickenoff is an author of many serendipitous surprises. He has forged his blindness into a vision and with this tool he loves to feed the hungry mind. He’s a road scholar and knows how to share the long traveled trail. He has turned his world adventures and endless challenges into extraordinary stories full of insight for every reader. He tells his stories in bits and bytes, loving the challenge to write. He writes everything from sayings to sagas and on to tall tales, entangled with his own experiences. Time has taken his sight but given him opportunity to ponder and write. Visit his web site at: http:\/\/www.storynetadventures.com<\/a><\/p>\n Coltishly long-legged with Glancing shyly up at the camera, Bio: Born prematurely in 1952, Sally Rosenthal is a childhood stroke survivor who lost all her light perception at the age of fifty and fifty-percent of her hearing at sixty. A former college librarian and occupational therapist, she has published widely in both academic fields and now writes the book review column for Best Friends Magazine<\/em>. Her essays have been included in the Angel Animals<\/em> anthologies, while her poetry and essays are frequently published in LaJoie: The Journal Honoring All Creatures<\/em>.<\/p>\n In The Year 1980 In a sunlit corner delivery room “She’s beautiful!”<\/p>\n “We know! We hear her!”<\/p>\n Laughing, a nurse placed you in my arms, That memory takes hold when It’s 35 years later, Dad has transitioned On that bright Tucson Friday, Bio: Valerie Moreno, age 57, has been writing since she was twelve-years-old. Always inspired by music and fascinated by people around her, she\u2019s written fiction, memoir, poetry and articles.<\/p>\n Author\u2019s Note: Some names have been changed to protect privacy.<\/p>\n Sister Earnest came into our lives, unexpectedly. We weren’t Catholic. In the fall of 1985, Mother was teaching English and communications at Sheridan College in Wyoming, and the nun was one of her students. She was part of a contemplative Benedictine monastery located about fifteen miles south of town near Big Horn where people could retreat to meditate and swim in their pool.<\/p>\n At Christmas that year, while I was home on break from the University of Montana in Billings, where I was doing graduate work in music therapy, Mother made a startling announcement. We were walking in the park on Christmas Day. Dad and my younger brother Andy were off somewhere so it was just the two of us. Because of my limited vision, I held her arm, as she guided me along the snowy road while the sun shone overhead. “I’m moving out,” she said.<\/p>\n “What?”<\/p>\n “There’s a house I can rent about a mile from the monastery. It’s on the Walters Ranch property, and there’s a swimming pool which I could use. I’ll probably move there in January.”<\/p>\n Shocked but intrigued, I said, “Okay, it sounds like you’ll be settled there by the time I come home for summer vacation. I can\u2019t wait to try out the pool.”<\/p>\n \u201cActually, there won’t be room for you and Andy. The house only has one bedroom. There’s a utility room, but it has a washer and dryer and not much space.”<\/p>\n My heart sank. Then I thought of something else. “What about Clancy and the cats?” Clancy was our Irish setter, or to be more precise, Dad’s dog.<\/p>\n \u201cAndy can feed the animals, and I’ll show him how to run the washer and dryer and dishwasher so he can do all that.”<\/p>\n Stunned, I slipped on a patch of ice and nearly fell. After steadying me, Mother said, “I have a right to be selfish.” I didn’t know what to say.<\/p>\n We finished our walk in silence. After returning home, I rushed upstairs to my room and found Howard, our tiger-striped cat, stretched out on my bed. As I did many times when I was a child, I flopped down next to her, buried my face in her fur, and let the tears flow. She purred as if to say, “There, there, it’ll be all right.”<\/p>\n In January, I returned to school and tried not to think about my parents\u2019 break-up and Mother moving out, leaving Dad, Andy, Clancy, and the cats to fend for themselves. It wasn’t too hard not to dwell on our dysfunctional family since my studies took a lot of my attention.<\/p>\n About a month later, Mother called. “Your dad is moving out. He found an apartment, and he’ll take Clancy.” I was relieved that Andy and the cats would be in good hands. I wasn\u2019t as attached to Clancy but knew Dad would take good care of him.<\/p>\n Soon after that, Mother came to visit and brought Sister Earnest. I hadn’t met her before. Although I couldn’t put my finger on it, I thought she was weird. She said, \u201cWhy don\u2019t I rub your feet? Massage is my specialty.\u201d<\/p>\n I took her up on the offer, not knowing what else to say or do. It felt pretty good, but for some reason, I didn\u2019t sleep well that night.<\/p>\n I compared notes with Dad later when he came with Clancy. He said, “Yeah, you’re right. There is something strange about her.”<\/p>\n During the following summer, Mother spent more and more time with Sister Earnest. She stayed overnight at the monastery once in a while, and I was often invited to play my guitar and sing for their religious programs and swim in their pool. I liked the other nuns, and the pool was great.<\/p>\n Mother seemed to be a different person around Sister Earnest. It was as if the nun brought out something in her that nobody else could, but I didn’t know what. I felt uncomfortable when I was around them both or when Mother talked to her on the phone for long periods of time.<\/p>\n \u201cHer original name was Jackie,\u201d Mother said. \u201cShe used to be a nurse.\u201d That didn’t help.<\/p>\n Sister Earnest also spent nights at the house with Mother, sometimes when I was home on breaks. The following Christmas, she took over the decorating of the house and wouldn’t let me or Andy help Mother with the tree. She was overbearing and often patronizing, and I was nervous around her. When she ate Christmas dinner with me, Andy, Dad, Mother, and Grandma, she insisted on saying grace before the meal. This was something we never did, and I could tell everyone besides Mother was just as uncomfortable as I was.<\/p>\n One night, Mother and Sister Earnest had been in the study where the nun slept when she stayed with us. After they left to start dinner, I passed the study on my way downstairs and noticed the sofa bed already unfolded and the sheets in tangles. I felt sick to my stomach but told myself this couldn’t be. Nuns didn’t have sex with women or anyone else. She was just giving Mother a massage, right?<\/p>\n In the fall of 1987, I moved to Fargo, North Dakota, where I completed a six-month music therapy internship. As luck would have it, next door to the nursing home where I worked was a convent. Although they weren\u2019t the same order as Sister Earnest\u2019s, she contacted them, hoping I could perhaps live in a cottage on their premises. No such accommodations were available so I rented an apartment instead.<\/p>\n I was invited to eat Thanksgiving dinner at the convent. One nun brought me a care package containing pop, canned goods, and other non-perishable items sent by Sister Earnest and invited me to a Christmas concert. Another often asked me to play my guitar and sing for religious activities she conducted at the nursing home.<\/p>\n Sister Earnest was hoping I would stay in Fargo after my internship ended and get a job. Mother suggested as much. At first, I liked the idea, but by April of 1988, I\u2019d had enough of that town, the brutal winter, my bank that wouldn\u2019t cash a check from Mother because of limited funds, and my internship supervisor who, from January on, made my life miserable.<\/p>\n Despite the D grade I received in my internship, I was eventually able to become registered as a music therapist, but that didn\u2019t make finding a job any easier since the profession was little known back then. For the next six months, I lived at home. Andy was in college by that time so it was just me, Mother, and often Sister Earnest. I had lunch with Dad and helped him with the business occasionally, but I spent most of my time sending out resumes and filing job applications with little success. Mother and Sister Earnest had their own plans, and I was often left to my own devices.<\/p>\n In January of 1989, Sister Earnest left the Benedictine order and moved to California. I half expected Mother to follow her, but she didn’t. Instead, she suggested I find an apartment since I had enough in savings, and I could get by for a while with the money I received from Social Security every month. I was only too happy to move out. At that time, I was offered a volunteer position at a nursing home in Sheridan. In March, I was hired as an activities assistant.<\/p>\n Although my parents separated and eventually divorced, they got along a lot better than they did when they were married, especially after Sister Earnest left. Mother traveled to California frequently to visit her, and the former nun came to Sheridan once in a while. A couple of years after I moved out, our family house was sold, and Mother moved first to a townhouse in Sheridan and then to a cabin in Story, a small town twenty miles away at the foot of the Big Horn Mountains. Andy was married by this time and living in Colorado.<\/p>\n One day while Dad and I were visiting Mother in Story, she said, \u201cEarnest keeps asking me to return things she gave me, and now, she wants to come and live with me. I don’t think I can take any more of this.” I was relieved that Mother had finally come to her senses.<\/p>\n Years later, Mother was diagnosed with cancer. When she became weak as a result of chemotherapy and malnourishment, Dad moved to the little house in Story to care for her for six months before she passed away in December of 1999. In November of 2012, after my husband\u2019s funeral, Dad, perhaps a little drunk, said, \u201cYour mother wanted a divorce because she was in love with Sister Earnest.”<\/p>\n There is nothing more relaxing than the sight and sound of a fire crackling in a fireplace. A bright, cheerful blaze makes a room cozy. Feeling the warmth, while watching the flames dance on the hearth, can make a person want to snuggle in and stay for a while. It\u2019s when a fire gets out of control that can cause a more serious situation. I remember one such incident from my childhood. The story is funny to tell now, but back then there was no amusement as events unfolded.<\/p>\n It was a Friday afternoon in January, shortly after the holiday season. We were home from school and Mom was finishing her usual Friday cleaning. The family room was the last room she had to do. Our family room is an addition Mom and Pops made to the house after moving in. It is just off the kitchen, with three steps leading down to it. The room is large and felt cozy during those times we gathered as a family. The two main features of the room are a brick fireplace and Pops\u2019s twenty-five inch color TV just to the right. This was where you could find Pops relaxing, sitting in his favorite chair and watching the shows he liked on the TV.<\/p>\n Mom built a fire that afternoon, because the weather was cold. The time had come to take the decorations over the fireplace down, since Christmas was long gone. She removed the cedar she\u2019d used on the mantelpiece. Not thinking too much about it, Mom added it in the fire to burn. She stepped outside to shake the dust mop and a roaring sound filled her ears. Looking up, Mom saw large balls of flame as they poured from our chimney. Not the panicking kind, Mom came in and told my oldest brother Jimmy, \u201cGet the kids out of the house and take them across the street.\u201d Meanwhile, she picked up the phone and began to dial. When we asked what was going on she said, \u201cThe damn chimney is on fire! Now go!\u201d<\/p>\n I was scared and started to cry. Mom wasn\u2019t coming with us and I didn\u2019t understand why. I feared the fire was going to be so bad, she wouldn\u2019t be able to escape, if she stayed behind. Mom explained to me the fire was outside and not inside and I was to leave. She told the operator what was happening while Jimmy took me and my other brother to the neighbor\u2019s house. He returned back home, as he was much older and could stay out of the way.<\/p>\n Not long after Mom\u2019s call, the fire truck arrived. Station 20 is only a few blocks from the house, so they were there in about five minutes. The crew included men from the neighborhood and friends of my parents who worked at this particular station. The captain was a councilwoman\u2019s husband. The firemen hurried in the front door with the hose, to which my mother said, \u201cGet that damn hose out of my house. I just cleaned!” The firemen responded, \u201cLady, don\u2019t you have a fire? This hose is clean.\u201d Mom answered, \u201cYes, but it\u2019s in the back of the house and you don\u2019t need to drag it in here this way.\u201d<\/p>\n Once the firemen found the fire, they prepared to climb the roof and shoot the hose down the chimney. Again, Mom halted their plans. \u201cBefore you do anything, you\u2019re going to move my husband\u2019s TV,\u201d she told them in no uncertain terms. The firemen looked at her in utter astonishment. Fire and soot rolled out of the chimney and she wanted them to move a floor model color TV? This was a console TV, one with tubes and wires inside and a solid wood cabinet. It was heavy and took at least three men to lift it. She expected the firemen to move it up three stairs into the kitchen before they even thought about putting out the fire.<\/p>\n Mom remained calm throughout the entire situation. Her interaction with the firemen was handled with her usual no nonsense manner. Anyone who knew Betty Jean Turner understood this was her personality. She was very outspoken. She occasionally used colorful language to express herself and get her point across. Mom always meant what she said. Telling these men to move furniture, during what others would consider a dire emergency, was nothing out of the ordinary for her. She didn\u2019t want Pops\u2019s TV ruined and to her way of thinking, it wasn\u2019t going to be.<\/p>\n One of the other firemen, a lieutenant, attempted to diffuse the situation and offered an alternative solution. \u201cCaptain,\u201d he said, \u201crather than shoot cold water down a hot chimney with all the fire, let\u2019s see if we can shoot foam up the chimney and put it out.\u201d A few minutes later, this suggestion proved to be the better plan. The fire was extinguished, Mom prevailed, and the TV was neither moved nor ruined. The firemen left still shaking their heads at how Mom could tell them to move furniture before the fire was attended.<\/p>\n Not long afterward, Pops came home from work and he heard quite a tale from Mom about the chimney fire. Throughout the years this has been one of our most talked about and favorite memories of Mom and now we laugh.<\/p>\n Bio: Rhonda T. Spear is a native of Richmond, Virginia where she currently resides with her cat, Downey. Her education came from being mainstreamed in both public and small Catholic schools. She works as a receptionist, and in her free time she enjoys listening to country music, singing, playing guitar, watching sports on TV and collecting trivia. Rhonda has been completely blind her entire life, but that has not stopped her from living independently and pursuing her true passion, writing. She writes with hopes of sharing her work with a broader audience.<\/p>\n I have a green milking stool that was given to me by an elderly friend of mine when she moved from her farm in to a senior residence. It had been made by a friend of hers as a wedding gift over sixty years earlier. Leaving her apple farm was a great wrench and she knew her two sons had no interest in all of the old things that meant so much to her.<\/p>\n The stool has resided in my garage, the play room and moved with us from Oregon to Colorado and now to Missouri. It was given to me when my thirty something daughters were a toddler and an infant. It now stands near the work island in our kitchen. My husband uses it to sit on as he prepares vegetables for a salad or cooks, as his legs are no longer strong enough to stand for long periods.<\/p>\n It is sturdy, homely and will never bring a high price at an antique sale, but for over eighty years it has given people a place to park their behinds while they worked or when they needed to sit down to cry, ponder, or dream. It stands firmly on its four legs, has no loose joints and doesn\u2019t creak or wobble. It was made as a gift of friendship, passed along as a gift of love.<\/p>\n I will try to choose wisely the young friend I hand it on too someday. Not everyone will appreciate this hand crafted humble piece of furniture, created by hard working simple people.<\/p>\n My friend Fay also gave me her Perkins braillewriter that she used as a transcriber before her hands became too arthritic. It was made over forty-five years ago and has only needed to be sent to be cleaned twice. Some things are just made to last and meant to be useful and reliable. Their beauty lies in their functionality and durability. These are things too often missing in the goods produced in our current throwaway society.<\/p>\n Bio: DeAnna Quietwater Noriega lives on a small farm in Missouri with her husband Curtis, youngest daughter and four teenaged grandchildren. She says she writes as her own form of mental health therapy.<\/p>\n Now I have a place to let them romp and play and be safe from harm—all those fluffy, furry, and funny critters I’ve collected because I love animals, shapes, textures, colors, and songs. It’s a two-storey playpen meant for little people, but chosen for me this Christmas by my husband for all the little stuffed spirits with wings and wiggles, zippers and flippers he keeps finding in those awkward unexpected places.<\/p>\n There’s the blue smurf a house parent made for my son Jay. It has his name embroidered on it. I inherited it, of course, when he decided it was for little kids. Then there’s the velvet snake we received as a gag gift from relatives who wouldn’t come anywhere near our real boas and pythons. I have an armadillo and a longhorn from Texas, and a wicked wildcat from the University of Kentucky. My sea creatures escaped from a lagoon at Sea World, and my Pegasus joined our clan after the Kentucky Derby parade named in his honor. There’s a black widow spider with hairy arms and legs. My green Easter bunny plays “Little Bunny Foo Foo,” and my purple octopus named Bubbles contains a scent pack that smells like a cinnamon bun.<\/p>\n There are lots more on my wish list. One of each is quite enough, and you know what? When I called for that silly unicorn, he came running and jumped right in the middle.<\/p>\n Bio: Marilyn Brandt Smith worked as a teacher, licensed 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 and many animals in a hundred-year-old home in Kentucky. Her first book, Chasing the Green Sun<\/em>, 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<\/em> anthology, as well as Magnets and Ladders<\/em> from 2011 through 2014. Another of her interests is music–barbershop harmony, folk and Americana, and current hits. Visit her website at http:\/\/www.marilynspages.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n Longed-for Saturday morning liberation, Gentler rays of the late afternoon sun Another, simpler room, Throughout life’s stages, Bio: Bonnie remembers her first writing attempt. At age twelve, she wrote A song parody, expressing her eagerness\/angst about heading to junior high. During her clinical social work career in medical and mental health settings, she created client\/consumer family education materials. Retirement finally allowed her to pursue the writing of poems, articles, and essays. She writes on a variety of topics: Christian\/spiritual, music, thriving while blind, blossoming in retirement, life\u2019s charms, challenges, choices, and quirks. Bonnie and her husband Bob live in Southern California. She is totally blind, from Retinopathy of Prematurity.<\/p>\n Lifelines don\u2019t tell I fear my hands If I look into your palm Bio: ANN CHIAPPETTA M.S. lives in NewRochelle, New York. At one time, before blindness, Ann fed her muse with the visual arts. Now she fulfills her muse with creating words. Ann\u2019s poetry has appeared in small press publications like Lucidity<\/em> and Midwest Poetry Review<\/em>, and her nonfiction pieces have been featured in The Matilda Ziegler online Magazine<\/em> and Dialogue magazine<\/em>. Legally blind since 1993, Ann lost most of her sight from retinal degeneration. After the diagnosis, she went on to obtain both an undergraduate and graduate degree. Currently Ann works as a readjustment therapist for the Veteran\u2019s Administration. To read more writing, Visit her blog: http:\/\/www.thought-wheel.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n It\u2019s a suffering to forget you The face I adored for ages My lips thought to never miss kissing you Beliefs are flying away Kissing you again, The apples you plucked, Imprinted on my mind In the picture and your laughter, Your report card, your dreams The day you left for NASA As days passed, I lamented. And now I unlock Then I swelled to see you fly, Bio: Gunjan Shakya is an Indian bilingual writer\/poet, after acquiring her Post Graduation degree in British English literature, she presented papers on literature and published poetry in her name. She lost her eye sight suddenly when she was thirteen. Before losing her sight, her ambition was to be an Indian Air force pilot. Her works encompass the essence of human emotions and reflections of varied lives.<\/p>\n It was another hot sultry day in 1964. Lunch had just been served, which consisted of fried pork chops, pea salad, fried potatoes, and biscuits. Dad was on the evening shift at the refinery that day; he hadn\u2019t been up long. He was busy reading his paper, but stopped when lunch was ready.<\/p>\n He walked into the small linoleum dining room and sat down at the table. He ate his lunch in slow motion, taking time to savor every bite. My older sister Susie ate quickly. She was a large girl for her age, thus she consumed more than we did.<\/p>\n I hardly ate at all. My aunt was in Calera, Oklahoma recovering from major surgery. She was my rock and my safe space. I stayed with her and my grandmother when Dad worked nights at the refinery. Their house was two houses down and across the street from ours.<\/p>\n After lunch, I went to the bedroom where Dad and I slept. I had the radio on KOSA AM. This was my favorite station. They played many Beatles songs, since they were popular at the time. I found it hard to take a nap; I was too keyed up. The stress of the separation from my aunt was too great.<\/p>\n Susie spent her time in the sun on a sheet that she had stretched out in the back yard. She was well tanned when she came in. It rained later that afternoon; we really needed it. We were grateful for every drop we could get.<\/p>\n We had sandwiches and leftover pea salad for supper that night. I went outdoors for a while. I played with my dog and dug in the dirt.<\/p>\n Shortly before 8 in the evening, Mom called, \u201cIt\u2019s time to come in. The bugs are out, and it\u2019s getting dark.\u201d<\/p>\n I came in and got in the bath tub. After a good bath, I got dressed in my pajamas. It was cool enough that we didn\u2019t need the air conditioner on that night.<\/p>\n Bedtime rolled around. The court room drama, “The Defenders” had just gone off. It had been preceded by “Perry Mason.” We watched the news and weather. Another hot day was predicted. Mom was ready to put us to bed.<\/p>\n \u201cSusie,” Mom said, \u201dget that sheet off of the floor and put it in the hamper. I will wash it tomorrow with the other clothes.\u201d<\/p>\n Susie picked up the sheet. Suddenly, I heard this strange noise coming from the dining room. Susie must have turned white.<\/p>\n \u201dMother!\u201d Susie cried. “Look at that huge bug on the floor!\u201d<\/p>\n My curiosity got the best of me. I didn\u2019t run from it; I ran toward it.<\/p>\n Time seemed to stop, as the large, hairy TARANTULA, now released from the sheet came to life.<\/p>\n \u201cSusie,\u201d Mom shouted in terror, \u201cget on the dining table, and hurry!”<\/p>\n Susie was sitting on top of the table, obviously frightened. I did not have the same reaction. As fearless as ever, I made my request known. \u201cI want to see it; I want to see it!” I shouted, almost in a state of bliss.<\/p>\n Mom was petrified, and yet she swung into swift, decisive action. “Boy, You drag your skinny behind to that bedroom and plant yourself across that bed and you stay there until I tell you to move!\u201d<\/p>\n She got a broom and beat the hairy intruder vigorously until it was dead. I never knew how frightened she was; how could I?<\/p>\n The incident was the talk of the family for the next two or three days. It wasn\u2019t funny at the time, but it\u2019s laughable now.<\/p>\n The memory of this episode is just as fresh fifty-two years from the day it happened. My interest in insects and other invertebrates is as strong today as it was in 1964.<\/p>\n Note: In June of 2008, my friends found a dead tarantula on their property, and they let me see it. As I felt its hairy body, I drifted back to that time so long ago. My dream had been realized, at long last. It is an experience for which I am so thankful.<\/p>\n Bio: James R. Campbell is blind and lives in Texas. His hobbies are: writing poetry and essays, studying reptiles, reading health and science books, and playing the harmonica.<\/p>\n She asked, \u201cAre you dead?\u201d<\/p>\n I opened my eyes. I saw a young girl silhouetted against the blue Arizona sky. She was standing there, staring down at me. I was lying flat on my back, like a child\u2019s discarded toy, covered in the red dust of the Grand Canyon\u2019s Kaibab Trail. Sunburned, hungry and thirsty, I was uncertain as to how long I had been lying there. I must have fallen asleep, because it was now late afternoon, so I had been there for longer than planned. Five days earlier, I had been in Michigan, a far cry from this barren, dry country.<\/p>\n I was seventeen years old. I had graduated from high school earlier that month and a day later my friend Armin informed me that we were headed west. He had purchased a well-used late 1950\u2019s red and white International Harvester Travelall, a type of cargo truck, without air conditioning, that was an early model of today\u2019s suburban utility vehicle. His plan was for us to journey as far as California. We would sleep in the van, as well as rely on the hospitality of relatives for room and board. Of course because of my poor vision, he would do all of the driving and because he had bought the van, I would use my graduation money to pay for the cost of the gasoline and oil. Who would pay for any repairs was never discussed.<\/p>\n We planned to travel as much as possible, on the old Route 66, which crossed eight states from Illinois to California. Most of the early two lane road was in the process of being replaced by a modern highway system, but enough of the original blacktop remained to give us the feel of a bygone time, when traveling across America could be an adventure.<\/p>\n The trip westward was interesting, but uneventful. We spent our first night at a forested campground somewhere in Missouri, the next two nights along the side of the road in Texas and New Mexico, and reached Arizona on the fourth night. While passing through St. Louis, we had seen the nearly completed Gateway Arch, but I recall little more of the trip westward other than experiencing a terrible thunderstorm in Oklahoma, and the immense, cloudless sky and endless horizon of the Texas countryside.<\/p>\n Once in Arizona, we arrived at the canyon\u2019s south rim\u2019s visitor parking lot sometime after dark. The park ranger asked us for our plans while at the canyon. Armin told him that we were going to walk to the bottom of the canyon and back the next day. The ranger said that was dangerous to attempt and he strongly advised against trying that. Armin told him that we were in good physical condition and it wouldn\u2019t be a problem.<\/p>\n Armin had run high school cross-country and track. I had wrestled. Armin\u2019s last race had been three weeks before. My last match had been in February. He was in condition for the hike. I was not. Armin may have meant that if we were attacked by a mountain lion, I could wrestle the cat while he ran for help.<\/p>\n Some canyon hikers have died, and over 250 people are rescued from the canyon annually, mostly for dehydration, injury or fatigue. Stupidity is not listed as one of the reasons for rescue, but it should be. There are ten essentials that the National Parks Service lists that all hikers must have. Of those ten, we took two, some water and a positive attitude.<\/p>\n We spent that night in the van and at 6:00 AM, we were on the trail. It was June, and typical for that time of year, the day promised to be bright and sunny. I wore a t-shirt, shorts and tennis shoes, but neither hat nor sunglasses. Sun block was available, but we were working on our tans. We each took with us an orange and brought along a one-gallon jug of water, which we took turns carrying.<\/p>\n Taking less than 3-hours to complete, the 7.3-mile trek was a series of switchbacks that moved down the side of the canyon to the Colorado River. We enjoyed the scenery and developed an appreciation for the canyon\u2019s size, while watching a helicopter flying past us, as it ferried tourists to a landing zone far below.<\/p>\n On the canyon floor, we made brief explorations along the river\u2019s bank, took some pictures, ate our orange and prepared to return. We had traveled thousands of miles to reach that point, but fortunately wasted little of our precious time lounging near the river.<\/p>\n Since it was still mid-morning, the air in the canyon was mild. The June sun was only beginning its climb. We had consumed little of our water during the descent, but the water had been heavy, and so we foolishly decided that we would not need to refill our jug for the return.<\/p>\n Once again on the trail, we moved upward, although at a considerably slower pace. The path was wide enough for a single person to walk easily, with a wall to one side of the trail and a steep drop of perhaps 10 to 15 feet on the other. From time to time, we stepped aside when encountering other hikers. There was also the occasional mule train that forced us close to the trail wall, as they and their passengers, riding in relative comfort, passed by.<\/p>\n By noon, our water was gone, and the temperature had risen into the 90\u2019s. It was obvious that the return trip was going to take several hours longer than the trip down. My back ached and I was falling further behind. Armin paused from time to time to wait for me, but at one point, he mentioned that he thought it would be better for him to go ahead. He said that he would return with water from above, or send help if I failed to reach the summit before dark.<\/p>\n He went on without me and I continued the assent alone. It was hot. I took frequent breaks, but I had no food or water and no idea how far I had to go to reach the rim. Finally, I stopped. I lay down and pressed myself against the trail wall, seeking shade and hoping to avoid being stepped on by mules. Closing my eyes, I pictured the classic Hollywood desert scene with the sun bleached cattle skull grinning sardonically back at me. Some time later, the little girl appeared.<\/p>\n I groaned, \u201cNo, I am not dead, at least not yet.\u201d<\/p>\n Her mother and father, who appeared concerned by my condition, soon joined her. Fortunately, they had brought extra food and water and were willing to share. I ate one of their apples and drank some of their water. They told me that I was only two miles or so from the rim. I thanked them for their generosity and assured them that I could make it to the summit. They continued down, and I staggered upward.<\/p>\n Eventually I emerged from the canyon and reached the parking lot, finding the van just after sunset. I opened the van\u2019s rear door and discovered Armin asleep. He awoke and mumbled that there were some potato chips in the bag and a cold Pepsi in the cooler. I asked why he hadn\u2019t brought water or sent help. He told me that he knew I would make it. Puzzled by his logic, I simply shook my head and said nothing. I was exhausted from my nearly 15-mile, 16-hour ordeal. I finished my chips and drink and quickly fell asleep.<\/p>\n At some time during the night, I awoke. We were on the road again. We were headed south to Phoenix to spend a few days with my aunt, uncle and cousins. While there, we explored the desert, experienced water skiing in an irrigation canal, went trout fishing in the Tonto Mountains and made a day trip to Mexico.<\/p>\n From Phoenix, we would travel near Death Valley to Palm Springs where we stayed with Armin\u2019s Uncle Walter, an elderly man who lived with his two German shepherds in his small one-storey, sand pitted home in the desert. We visited the homes of his friends with swimming pools and saw the estates of famous politicians, musicians and movie stars.<\/p>\n A week later, we drove north along the California coast, stopping at Disneyland, the beach where I had a quick surfing lesson and then inland to Bakersfield. Following a brief stay with still more relatives, we took the northern route home, pausing only one night in a remote cornfield to catch a couple hours of sleep.<\/p>\n Our journey of over five thousand miles had taken four weeks. The red truck, like an old friend, proved reliable and was always there when needed. My total cost for gasoline and oil was slightly over $90, more than a bargain for a priceless road trip that marked the end of one phase of my life and the beginning of the next.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n A huge lump formed in my throat. I stood paralyzed with tears streaming down my cheeks. I struggled to catch my breath. No sound escaped my lips. I didn\u2019t know if I should laugh or cry at the news I\u2019d just received.<\/p>\n Once before, my faith in God had been challenged by an event in my life, but never before had my Patriotism been challenged, until now. My 17-year-old grandson, the new-born we brought home from the hospital, adopted, and raised for the first 13 years of his life, just phoned to tell me he\u2019d signed up with the United States Marine Corps. I felt tremendous pride in his decision, yet fear welled up inside me, too.<\/p>\n As my eager fingers held the scissors, the doctor guided my hand toward the baby\u2019s umbilical cord. The sharp surgical scissors sliced through the chord\u2019s sinewy tissue. The nurse guided my hands onto the wet head of my first grandson.<\/p>\n The definition of Patriotism is, as found in \u201cA Manual of Patriotism\u201d, authorized by an Act of the New York State Legislature in 1900: “…Patriotism is more than a sentiment; it is a conviction based upon a comprehension of the duties of a citizen and a determination loyally to perform such duties. Patriotism is love of country, familiarity with its history, reverence for its institutions and faith in its possibilities, and is evidenced by obedience to its laws and respect for the flag…”<\/p>\n \u201cYours will be a blessed life,\u201d I softly said to him as I stood near the warming table awaiting his APGAR. He turned his head as if to look at me and tightened his grip on my finger. \u201dI\u2019m your Mimi. Your Mommy\u2019s my daughter. My husband\u2019s your granddad. We\u2019re your family and we love you very much.\u201d<\/p>\n Patriotic is an adjective used to describe members of the National Society of Daughters of the American Revolution and I don\u2019t doubt that for a minute. I am one of them. The bonds that DAR members have, just by virtue of their ancestor fighting–and some of them dying–in the American Revolution, provide a strong impetus toward being patriotic. They have family members who felt strongly enough to lay down their lives for the ideal that is our daily life now.<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t help but wonder about my grandchild\u2019s future. Would NATO, the UN and SEATO be able to stabilize the world? Would the AMA allow the HMO\u2019s to get out of hand? Could the WHO and UNESCO possibly make a healthier planet for the survival of our species?<\/p>\n If we expect our children and grandchildren to be patriotic, we need to be role models of courage, strength of character and determination. There were many cool summer mornings at my grandmother\u2019s Saltbox home in Connecticut, when we\u2019d drag the heavy wooden kitchen step-stool out to put the sturdy standard bearing the large American flag into its bracket on the side of the house. When our flag was snuggly in its holder, we\u2019d stand back and salute. Each evening we\u2019d bring the flag in with just as much solemnity and ceremony. It was part of being at Nana\u2019s. She was a dedicated member of the Eunice Denny Burr Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. \u201cLittle Love,\u201d I whispered fighting back the tears of awe and joy, \u201cgrow strong; learn your ABC\u2019s and how to count by 2’s and 3’s. Learn Latin, Spanish and French with just a little Chinese. For now, Little One, your life\u2019s a bowl of cherries. We\u2019ll leave the pits for later.\u201d<\/p>\n Alas, those words spoken at his birth come back to haunt me. He is going to march off to some God-forsaken war. The realization seeps into my mind. My grandson is being patriotic and following my role model of courage, strength of character and determination. The lump in my throat has dissolved. My cheeks are dry. My heart swells within me. We\u2019ve done a good and noble job with this grandson.<\/p>\n So, my young grandson, march off with my Blessings to new adventures to fulfill your dream of becoming a United States Marine. After basic training, your Mimi will be waiting here with milk and cookies for you. Okay. Okay, beer and pretzels!<\/p>\n \u201c…though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…\u201d Amen<\/p>\n NOTE: This essay earned 1st place on the NYState level of the 2016DAR Women\u2019s Issues\/Family essay writing contest and was forwarded to the next level of competition.<\/p>\n Bio: Kate Chamberlin, B.S., M.A, and her husband have raised 3 children plus 2 grandchildren. Her teaching career continues through her Study Buddy Tutoring Service, Feely Cans and Sniffy Jars Program, and as a popular lecturer. She is a published children\u2019s author, Anglican educator, free-lance writer\/editor, and proud grandmother.<\/p>\n My brother is three years older than I and, as children, he usually teased me to tears. One of his night-time torments was to hide under my bed when I was in the bathroom getting changed. As I came into my bedroom, I’d flip the wall switch to turn off my light. In the dark, I’d walk over to my bed. It was then that his hands would lash out and clamp onto my ankles.<\/p>\n I would scream in fright, which was exactly the reaction he was waiting for. I began to use a light next to my bed. I’d check under the bed, climb under the covers, and then turn out the light. Eventually, he lost interest in his little game, but it didn’t take him long to come up with a new idea.<\/p>\n One of the many homes we lived in was built all on one level with a full basement. He realized my dislike for the large, silent, black spiders that dwelled in the cracks and crevasses of the damp basement.<\/p>\n One morning before dawn, he quietly crept into my room as I slept. His hand reached up and placed something dark on the pillow near my face. Perhaps I was only half asleep and I heard the door click as he left the room. My sleepy eyes opened slowly to see if Mom had come into the room. Much to my horror, I realized I was face to face with one of those large, silent, black spiders.<\/p>\n My sobs and screams brought my mother at a dead run. She immediately saw the problem and picked up the rubber spider. My brother had a lot of explaining to do but the fear of spiders that he instilled in me has lasted a life-time.<\/p>\n I realize all creatures great and small have their purpose on this earth. As long as the spider lives outside and I live inside, we\u2019ll do just fine.<\/p>\n Note: During ten days in August of 2015, we collaborated on the following poem for the September critique session of the writers’ group Behind Our Eyes. Alice penned the odd-numbered quatrains, and Deon crafted the even-numbered stanzas. Since we thoroughly enjoyed this collaborative effort, we challenge you to give poetic collaboration a try.<\/p>\n Part 1. The Plan<\/p>\n Dear poet of Maine–Can you spare a quatrain, Oh, scripted traveler from just west of the lakes, You will know me when I arrive. Oh, how I look forward to partaking in the oration of your syllabic slate Part 2. Post-collaboration<\/p>\n Dear poet of Maine, I am safe on the plane. Oh, courteous conjurer from Wisconsin lands, Part 3. Post-prize<\/p>\n No, neither of us are poet laureates yet; Cheers to us, and here\u2019s a slice phrased especially for you. Bio: Deon Lyons lives with his lovely wife of thirty-two years in Central Maine. Upon losing vision in 2010, Deon learned touch typing, and with the help of assistive technology, embarked on a lifetime passion for writing. His works revolve mostly around fiction, personal essays and poetry. With inspiration from family, friends and the blind community, he hopes to continue writing for many years to come. His books, Sully Street<\/em> and Ready, Set, Poetry<\/em> are available at Amazon.com.<\/p>\n Bio: After earning master\u2019s degrees from Indiana State University and Western Michigan University, Alice Jane-Marie Massa, still a Hoosier at heart, taught for 25 years, including 14 years of teaching writing and public speaking at Milwaukee Area Technical College. Alice invites you to visit her blog: http:\/\/alice13wordwalk.wordpress.com<\/a>, where she weekly posts her poetry, essays, memoirs, or short stories. Her writings on Wordwalk frequently focus on her Indiana hometown of Blanford, her three guide dogs, her Italian ancestors, and writing. Away from her desk, Alice enjoys reading, gardening, and the television program Jeopardy. She looks forward to meeting her fourth guide dog.<\/p>\n How often do you dip into your poetic archives and fish out a three-year-old poem, read it, and decide to revise it? In the afternoon of January 14, 2013, I wrote the first draft of a poem; then, in the wee hours of the morning on January 15, 2013, I slightly revised the poem as the following early version. Having thought of this poem from time to time, I finally in January of 2016, eliminated some of the repetition, embellished the verbs, and added three lines as you will read in the final version. I am trying to be brave enough to show you the first version so that you can enjoy the metamorphosis of the poem. Like many others, I ask you to realize that poetic words and lines are not drafted or crafted into cement: they have wiggle room.<\/p>\n If you cannot bear to revise a poem immediately or a few days later, take as long as necessary. Then, lift up the toddler of a poem and enjoy the game of wiggling the words. Eventually, you will know; and others will compliment you when the poem truly comes of age and is ready for framing on the wall.<\/p>\n ********************<\/p>\n First Draft<\/p>\n Hiccup or Haiku?<\/p>\n You thought you had a hiccup, but I had only given you a Haiku. You thought you had a train ticket, but I had only given you a quatrain. ********************<\/p>\n Final Version<\/p>\n Hiccup or Haiku?<\/p>\n You thought you had a hiccup, but I had only given you a Haiku. You thought you had a train ticket, but I questioned you with a quatrain. Rereading the letter, The shock, disbelief, Pain is proof of progress.<\/p>\n I attended an amazing reading on a perfect June night. It combined an exhibition of visual art with an array of poems, essays, and even one novel excerpt featuring a woman in a sexy outfit who would seduce her man.<\/p>\n I was not the only long-term writer in that room. Susan Weaver, who ran a series of important writing workshops, read a Haibun about a bike ride and a giddy rain shower. Haibun combines prose and Haiku. Susan understood the call of the form. She read brilliantly, repeating each Haiku twice with different inflections for thought and emphasis.<\/p>\n White cane and braille in hand, I read three poems. Everyone respected the five-minute allotment. Even the guy who sang \u201cRoomey\u201d to his guitar accompaniment accomplished this.<\/p>\n I was not the only disabled or marginalized person in the room. Perhaps this is why I like the energy of artists. One man berated psychiatrists. One young woman wished, in verse, that someone would honor her choice of partners.<\/p>\n And then there was the young man who recited, from memory, his love poem to the woman he desperately wanted. \u201cYou are beautiful,\u201d he repeated over and over, as if to convince her or himself. He said he knew her pain and would take it on. He called her \u201cQueen\u201d and wanted to be her \u201cKing.\u201d<\/p>\n I might have branded this poetry as melodrama, but, in this voice and this place, I heard desire that I could only envy. And he shamelessly expressed this longing to around 40 people. Imagine wanting someone that much. Better yet, imagine being wanted like that.<\/p>\n I listened and suspected that my sixty-two-year self was finally past such seductions. But I suddenly didn’t want to be. Despite her \u201cscars,\u201d despite her \u201cpast,\u201d he prayed for the \u201chonor\u201d and difficulty of loving her…<\/p>\n ********************<\/p>\n Good art is part practical creation, part intuition, part seduction and part luck. It is passion that calls out and back and passion that calls back and forward. It is the alphabet of wanting and wanted. Good art and good relationships require courage, hope, respect, vision.<\/p>\n That young man and I call upon imagination and discipline that weigh enough to anchor us. All writers want to change something and to be known in a particular way that we decide and shape. Sometimes we are broken; sometimes we are brave; sometimes we are right.<\/p>\n What are the moments after prayer full of? How many ways can calls be made and answered? How do life and art become a clear path? Is there a different energy when one is surrounded by art and artists?<\/p>\n Will the \u201cQueen\u201d ever read or hear what she has inspired? Does that matter? Will that inspiration change over time? Will that inspiration change someone else?<\/p>\n The young man will not leave my head, so I remember and edit the winter air. Will he ever hear this? Who is he writing about now?<\/p>\n Bio: Nancy Scott’s over 650 essays and poems have appeared in magazines, literary journals, anthologies, newspapers, and as audio commentaries. She has a new chapbook, The Almost Abecedarian<\/em> (on Amazon), and she won First Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest. Her recent work appears in Breath and Shadow<\/em>, Braille Forum<\/em>, Disabilities Studies Quarterly<\/em>, Philadelphia Stories<\/em>, and Wordgathering<\/em>.<\/p>\n We will be holding contests in the areas of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry for the Fall\/Winter issue of Magnets and Ladders. All submissions will be entered into one of our contests. Cash prizes of $30 and $20 will be awarded to the first and second place winners. Since we are celebrating the tenth anniversary of Behind Our Eyes, we will have an additional contest for the Fall\/Winter 2016 edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em> only. This is a theme contest. The theme is Anniversary. Any work of fiction, nonfiction, or poetry about an anniversary will be entered into this contest for a chance to win a grand prize of $50. Remember, the deadline for submissions is August 15, so be sure to get your entries in on time.<\/p>\n What is it about the number eight and music? There are eighty-eight keys on a piano. Think of the songs that reference only the number eight in their lyrics: “I’m Henry the Eighth” by Herman’s Hermits; “Pieces of Eight” by Stix; “Old 8×10” by Randy Travis; “Eight More Miles to Louisville” by Grandpa Jones and others; “The Eighth of January,” an old fiddle tune; “Eight Days a Week” by the Beatles; “8th of November” by Big & Rich; “Eight Second Ride” by Jake Owen; the lyric, “On April the eighth, the year forty-nine” in a sad death song by Jimmy Osborn. From C to C or G to G is an “octave.” Okay, it’s not very significant to add Symphony\/Sonata\/Prelude No. 8 to this list, but…<\/p>\n This is my essay on eights. Think what you could do with thirteens. People who love numerology could definitely conjure up a good story. How about the equivalent of an abecedarian based on ordinal numbers (first, second, third) or based on the numbers themselves, one through ten or as high as you want to go. I’m going to show you a way to cheat which, by the way, may or may not be legal depending on the eyes\/ears of the reader. Have fun.<\/p>\n One drop ran me back inside Try this kind of brain teaser with any number on book or movie titles. Mental exercise is gr8. See you l8r!<\/p>\n One aspect of human nature is that people gravitate towards the forbidden. An official in the Administration Building decided boys and girls should not drink coffee or tea. Mr. Robbie introduced those beverages to the Dining Hall a year previously. All of us students felt cheated when we heard the news.<\/p>\n One January evening, Geoffrey furtively announced, “I’ve got some tea and cream and sugar in my locker. You guys want some?”<\/p>\n We gratefully accepted his generous offer.<\/p>\n Since he had a weak bladder, and needed to be woken each midnight to relieve himself, he promised to wake us after the night nurse was gone and then we would have tea.<\/p>\n At midnight, the night nurse woke Geoffrey as usual. After she was gone, he roused us and we tiptoed to the bathroom with our cups in hand. We ran the taps until they were as hot as they would get and then we filled our cups. Geoffrey shared a tea bag between the four of us in the way we had seen prisoners of war do in movies. Then we crept back to our rooms with our illicit brew. After we savoured our contraband cups of tea, we went back to bed.<\/p>\n Night after night, we shared that harmless drink and giggled about the night nurse not even guessing at our clandestine activities. Our subterfuge was completely successful. Sometime later, and with no warning, tea and coffee were permitted in the Dining Hall. To this day, I have no idea why these beverages were first banned and then reinstated once more. As a result, we no longer needed to have our clandestine midnight tea parties.<\/p>\n Deliverance from Jericho: Six Years in a Blind School<\/em> Is available at: Bio: Bruce Atchison is a legally-blind freelance writer and author. His articles have appeared in various magazines and underground publications. He currently has written three published books and is working on a new one called You Think You’re Going to Heaven?<\/em> Bruce lives in a tiny Alberta hamlet with his house rabbit companion, Deborah.<\/p>\n For Mary A. Massa, my mother–November 25, 1914-July 3, 2001<\/p>\n Were you expecting fireworks, sparklers, and patriotic music? Will a series of zip odes do? No, you did not just read a typographical error. A zip ode is a poetic form based on the writer’s hometown zip code. After first hearing about the zip ode from California writer and friend Bonnie Rennie, I decided that I should write a zip ode, especially since my mother was the postmaster of the Blanford (Indiana) Post Office for twenty-eight and a half years. When Mother became postmaster in 1955, the zip code had not yet been invented. With the implementation of zip codes in 1963, the Blanford zip code became and still is 47831.<\/p>\n To write a zip ode to honor your hometown on the Fourth of July, craft a five-line poem or stanza, wherein the number of syllables per poetic line corresponds with each consecutive numeral of the chosen zip code. Some writers choose to count words, rather than syllables, per poetic line. Whichever you decide to count, be consistent throughout the zip ode. The rhyme scheme or lack of rhyme scheme is your choice. The hometown represented by the zip code is to be the topic of the poem. Your zip ode may be simply a poem of five lines or as many stanzas as you like, as long as each stanza follows the pattern of your selected zip code. If your zip code contains a zero, I suggest that you create a corresponding line of ten syllables or ten words for each zero of your zip code.<\/p>\n For example, in each stanza below, I followed the zip code 47831 so that each first line has four syllables, each second line has seven syllables, each third line has eight syllables, each fourth line has three syllables, and each fifth line has just one syllable.<\/p>\n Thus, I share with you a series of seven zip odes about my hometown. Instead of counting words per line, I chose the option of counting syllables and found that I especially like the 4-7-8-3-1 form so well that I think it should be called the “Blanford Verse” so that other poets can use this form for poems on various topics, not just on the topic of my hometown of Blanford and not just for the Fourth of July. Additionally, although the centering may not transfer, each line is centered in my original document because the 4-7-8-3-1 form seems to call for centered lines.<\/p>\n Indiana Zip Ode 47831<\/p>\n dedicated to the 1955-1983 Blanford postmaster:<\/p>\n ********************<\/p>\n 1.<\/p>\n Indiana, ********************<\/p>\n 2.<\/p>\n Mom’s post office– ********************<\/p>\n 3.<\/p>\n Blue iron bridge, ********************<\/p>\n 4.<\/p>\n Decades ago, ********************<\/p>\n 5.<\/p>\n Our Blanford Park ********************<\/p>\n 6.<\/p>\n Those old dance halls, ********************<\/p>\n 7.<\/p>\n Dear hometown friends, The speculation about the new manager, who was supposed to start today and who was already more than an hour late, stopped abruptly as the door opened. A man, obviously blind judging by his dark glasses and white cane, tap-tapped his way to the reception desk.<\/p>\n Maggie, who had been polishing her nails, hid the polish in a hurry and shoved her hands with the still wet nails under her desk. Ethan quickly closed his Facebook profile and opened a website on which he was supposed to be working. What Chris was doing, was anybody’s guess, as he hurriedly turned his entire laptop to face the wall. Cathy just rolled her eyes and whispered, “Hello, the man is blind. He can’t even see what you are doing.”<\/p>\n The office of Busy Bytes Web Design had gone so quiet, one could hear a pin drop as Sandra, the receptionist said, “Good morning. Can I help, Sir?”<\/p>\n “I am here to see your manager, Mister Stephens, in connection with the new website I need your firm to design for me,” he said.<\/p>\n “I’m afraid he isn’t in yet. Would you like to sit down and wait for him?”<\/p>\n “Do you have any idea when he’ll be in?” he asked.<\/p>\n “I’m sure he’ll be in soon,” Sandra replied hoping that the new manager would indeed show up in the next few minutes. She came round the desk to guide the man to a seat in the waiting area. “Would you like coffee or tea?” she offered.<\/p>\n “No thank you,” he replied as he sat down.<\/p>\n “So that is what the new manager is called, Stephens,” said Maggie as she rummaged in her bag for her hastily hidden nail care supplies.<\/p>\n The under-construction website forgotten again, Ethan had returned to Facebook and Chris was laughing naughtily at something on his laptop screen. Well, clearly the man is completely blind, Cathy thought and kicked off the shoes that were squeezing her already swollen feet. With a relieved sigh she leaned back and lifted her feet to place them on her desk.<\/p>\n “Um, you are going to flash us if you don’t watch that,” Chris, still with the naughty grin on his face, said pointing at Cathy’s dress that had hiked up dangerously high on her plump thighs. “But no worries, we certainly don’t mind, do we Ethan?”<\/p>\n Cathy flipped Chris off and produced a novel from her purse. Ethan gave a low whistle, and pointed at the cover of Cathy’s novel, which featured an almost naked couple in an intimate position. Cathy poked her tongue out at him, and returned her attention to the pages of her romance novel.<\/p>\n “I’ll meet you at twelve,” Sandra was saying into the phone, “that is if our new manager hasn’t arrived yet. We can have a nice long lunch…Yes, I’ll stay until two…Okay baby, looking forward to that. Love you.”<\/p>\n As a shadow fell across the spot of sunshine on Chris’s desk, he looked up. The blind man, now without his glasses or white cane, was staring at the image of naked women on Chris’s laptop screen.<\/p>\n “I sure hope you don’t have a wife or girlfriend,” he remarked dryly.<\/p>\n Startling at the sudden voice right next to her, Cathy dropped her book and jerked so violently that her dress climbed those fatal last few inches up her round thighs.<\/p>\n “And you are lucky to have so many Facebook friends,” the now obviously not blind man said to a rather pale Ethan.<\/p>\n Rebelliously lifting her blood red nails, Maggie looked as though she would like to be using them on the man.<\/p>\n “Mister Stephens?” she said in an icy voice.<\/p>\n “Quite so,” he replied, “and you would be Ms Blake, I presume?”<\/p>\n Then, without waiting for an affirmation, he turned to the reception desk where Sandra had quietly ended her most recent call and slipped her cell phone into her purse behind the desk.<\/p>\n “Ms Shaw, would you be so kind to return the dark glasses and the cane to my brother, please? He works on the seventh floor, the offices of Mason and Randall. He’ll probably need them soon.<\/p>\n Behind Stephens’s back, Cathy blew a soundless raspberry at him and Maggie flicked her red nails dangerously once more.<\/p>\n The wind howled, as the rain fell relentlessly. A twig from a falling branch caught in one of the windshield wipers, rendering it useless and making a screeching noise as it scraped across the pane.<\/p>\n \u201cIt looks like there\u2019s a gas station up ahead, on the right. Do you see it?\u201d Marge asked.<\/p>\n \u201cWith our luck, it\u2019s probably closed,\u201d Jake said, slowing as he signaled and pulled to the Super Unleaded pump, grateful for the cover from the rain and an end to the noise.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s open,\u201d Marge said. \u201cI\u2019m going to check out the restroom. I\u2019ll pay for the gas inside. Do you want anything?\u201d<\/p>\n She was out the door before he could answer. He turned off the engine and breathed heavily as he eased himself out of the car. He pumped the tank full, replaced the cap, and turned his attention to the windshield wiper. He started to wrest the twig from the wiper, but he couldn\u2019t get leverage on it, and he didn\u2019t want to get wet and dirty leaning against the car.<\/p>\n \u201cYou need some help, mister?\u201d The voice startled Jake, coming from a young man who appeared out of nowhere.<\/p>\n \u201cThis twig got tangled in my wiper\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m trying not to twist the blade\u201d.<\/p>\n The lanky stranger stood next to Jake and seemed not to worry about getting his jeans and tee shirt wet as he leaned against the car. After a few deft twists, he removed the twig and threw it to the side. \u201cLet\u2019s see how she works now,\u201d he said, \u201cAre the keys in the ignition?\u201d Before Jake could answer, the boy swiveled into the driver\u2019s seat and turned the key. The engine hummed and the wipers started flawlessly.<\/p>\n Jake panicked. This kid has my car and he could drive off and leave me and Marge stranded out here in the country. This could be straight out of a John Grisham novel.<\/p>\n The boy unfolded himself out to the ground. \u201cThis is one fine car you have, mister. I bet it can go pretty fast.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t drive fast,\u201d Jake said defensively. \u201dAnd it\u2019s not new,\u201d he added. He looked at the store, wondering why Marge was taking so long.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, thank you very much,\u201d he said, turning to the boy, who was blocking the open door of the car. \u201cI surely appreciate it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re welcome, mister,\u201c he said, but did not move away. Their eyes locked momentarily, as Jake thought of other twists this story could take. The boy looked older than he first appeared. He was thin, but his arms were muscular, with hands that looked over large for such a scrawny body.<\/p>\n \u201cMister, I was wondering if you could help me out a little? My baby girl got the croup and we had to use our gas money for her medicine.\u201d<\/p>\n A likely story, thought Jake as he fumbled for his wallet, while the boy went on about not having that much further to go. He handed the boy twenty dollars.<\/p>\n Thank you, mister,\u201d the boy said, stepping clear of the car.<\/p>\n Jake mumbled, \u201dYeah, sure.\u201d Feeling angry with himself for having fallen for such a blatant ruse.<\/p>\n Marge came out of the store with a bottle of juice in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The boy had ambled to her side of the car and opened the door for her.<\/p>\n \u201cThank you,\u201d Marge said. \u201cYou must be Billy. I hope you can get your baby girl to the doctor soon. She has a terrible cough.\u201d<\/p>\n Don\u2019t start a conversation with him, Jake thought. It\u2019ll cost me another twenty.<\/p>\n Turning to Jake ,she said, \u201cWant me to drive? The rain has let up some, hasn\u2019t it?\u201d But Jake was already settled in the driver\u2019s seat. \u201cI got coffee for you,\u201d she said, placing it in its holder between them. \u201cWas that young man helping you?\u201d she asked. \u201cI was talking to his wife in there. He just lost his job and they\u2019re on their way to her parents\u2019 place. Their baby girl is terribly sick. I paid her grocery bill, diapers, milk, bread, small stuff. Don\u2019t you wonder how kids like that can make it today?\u201d<\/p>\n bio: Elizabeth Fiorite, O.P. is a Dominican Sister of Sinsinawa, Wisconsin. She has been a principal and taught in Catholic elementary schools. She was a social services counselor for a Vision Rehab Center in Jacksonville, Florida for twenty years. She enjoys facilitating a Peer Support Group, a Talking Book Club, and participating in \u201cWomen of Vision\u201d, who meet monthly to write and \u201cdo\u201d art together. She has been legally blind due to retinitis pigmentosa and other complications since 1990. Her poems and articles have appeared in the Behind Our Eyes<\/em> anthologies, The Braille Forum<\/em>, Dialogue Magazine<\/em>, and Magnets and Ladders<\/em>.<\/p>\n
\nfor publication.<\/p>\n
\nAbout Behind Our Eyes<\/h1>\n
\nContents<\/h1>\n
\n
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega<\/a><\/li>\n\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Paul D. Ellner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Trish Hubschman<\/a><\/li>\n
by Ellen Fritz<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Michael M. Tickenoff<\/a><\/li>\n
by Sally Rosenthal<\/a><\/li>\n
by Valerie Moreno<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Rhonda T. Spear<\/a><\/li>\n
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by Bonnie Rennie<\/a><\/li>\n
by Annie Chiappetta<\/a><\/li>\n
by Gunjan Shakya<\/a><\/li>\n
by James R. Campbell<\/a><\/li>\n
by Greg Pruitt<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by D. P. Lyons and Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n
by Annie Chiappetta<\/a><\/li>\n
by Nancy Scott<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by Bruce Atchison<\/a><\/li>\n
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Ellen Fritz<\/a><\/li>\n
by Elizabeth Fiorite<\/a><\/li>\n
by Donna Grahmann<\/a><\/li>\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Jeff Flodin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Jeff Flodin<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Nancy Scott<\/a><\/li>\n
For Greta
by Sally Rosenthal<\/a><\/li>\n
by Sally Rosenthal<\/a><\/li>\n
by Burns Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Ernest Jones<\/a><\/li>\n
by Andrea Kelton<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Shawn Jacobson<\/a><\/li>\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Elizabeth Fiorite<\/a><\/li>\n
by John Wesley Smith<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Christine Malec<\/a><\/li>\n
by Elizabeth Fiorite<\/a><\/li>\n
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n
A tribute
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n
by D P Lyons<\/a><\/li>\n
by Ernest Jones<\/a><\/li>\n
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n
by Mary-Jo Lord<\/a><\/li>\n
by Mary-Jo Lord<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/div>\n
\nEditors’ Welcome<\/h1>\n
\n
\n
\n
A Brief History of Behind Our Eyes, Inc.
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega<\/h1>\n\n
\n“I’m always impressed by pioneering efforts. This anthology represents a noteworthy beginning for this group of writers. From the triumphs over adversity dramatized in the first section, to the heartwarming and heartbreaking stories and poems of the final grouping, they show us sensitivity and inspire strength. They show us disability as it is lived honestly. Fables, fantasies, and tips about writing add something new, making this publication a unique contribution to disability literature.”<\/p>\n
\n(ISBN 978-1490304472).<\/p>\n
\nPart I. From Another Realm<\/h1>\n
Pink, fiction
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/h2>\n
\nIt\u2019s all right, she told herself. It was just a joke gone too far. But then, where were the pranksters, and who were those kids? They didn\u2019t belong to anybody she knew. Where was her cat for that matter?<\/p>\n
\nOuch, fiction
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/h2>\n
\nThe Plot, fiction
by Paul D. Ellner<\/h2>\n
\n\u201cAre you Dr. George Rosen?\u201d one of them asked.<\/p>\n
\nDream Closet, fiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/h2>\n
\nLost In Time, fiction
by Trish Hubschman<\/h2>\n
\nThe Assassin, fiction
by Ellen Fritz<\/h2>\n
\nPart II. Friends, Family and Unforgettable Moments<\/h1>\n
The Cultural Canyon, nonfiction
by Michael M. Tickenoff<\/h2>\n
\nKathleen in 1927, poetry
by Sally Rosenthal<\/h2>\n
\nFine hair lifted gently by a summer breeze,
\nMy eleven-year-old mother sits, half-child and half-woman,
\nAtop a split-rail fence on her grandparents\u2019 farm.<\/p>\n
\nHands folded and with a half smile,
\nShe leaves a sepia image of a
\nBudding English rose not yet
\nCome to full bloom in a long-ago Yorkshire meadow.<\/p>\n
\nTo Mary Christine, On your Birthday, poetry
by Valerie Moreno<\/h2>\n
\nPac Man made the culture scene,
\nMt. St. Helens erupted,
\nUSA balked at Russian Olympics
\nthere was a blanketing heat wave.
\nGas was $1.19,
\nfax machines and Post-its came in to being…<\/p>\n
\nat 8:52 in the morning,
\nthere was a girl baby
\nborn to an awe-filled couple
\nwho thrilled at her first cry.<\/p>\n
\na miracle of innocence and love,
\nas Dad cried, praising God in Spanish.<\/p>\n
\nI hear “Hi, Mom!”<\/p>\n
\nand your little boy’s voice is the
\nnext note in this family song.<\/p>\n
\nside by side in recovery,
\nI wished a million dreams for you–
\nour windsong child in a little family of three.<\/p>\n
\nMother\u2019s Secret, nonfiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/h2>\n
\nGreat Balls of Fire, memoir
by Rhonda T. Spear<\/h2>\n
\nThe Old Milking Stool, nonfiction
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega<\/h2>\n
\nHalf an Ark, personal essay
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/h2>\n
\nRound Table Gratitude, poetry
by Bonnie Rennie<\/h2>\n
\nTranquil time, reserved for restoration.
\nCaptured by a small round table in a cozy kitchen corner.
\nCoffee to savor,
\nInviting inspiration,
\nBook to imbibe,
\nImmersed in marvels of music.
\nWork woes and cares of the week sent packing,
\nSustenance for the succeeding week.<\/p>\n
\nGreet us as we gather
\nOn the backyard patio.
\nSoft strains of classical music,
\nWe grip the textured glass of the round table
\nAs we lean forward to commiserate,
\nCraft, Share our creations,
\nExchanging our laughter and our dreams.
\nRelishing our recent retirement
\nAnd the bounty it brings.<\/p>\n
\nMade comfortable
\nBy the kind inclusion of a round table.
\nLarge enough
\nFor several to sit around, or near.
\nBackground oldies fan our reminiscence
\nOr companionable reveries.
\nWe engage in games,
\nChimes of conversation,
\nLuxurious laughter.
\nAssisted Living isn’t so dreary
\nIf we don’t do it alone.<\/p>\n
\nWhat transformative treasures await!
\nAnchored by a seat at
\nOur supportive sister Round Table.<\/p>\n
\nBefore You Go, poetry
by Annie Chiappetta<\/h2>\n
\nthe origin of sun and shadow
\ndisplayed in each hand;
\nmy palms have their own legends.
\nThe left repaired once, the right twice.
\nSutured reminders
\nlie hidden within folds.
\nLike words
\nwhich remain in the creases of the mind.
\nEach scar brings out the braggart, the historian,
\na sense of relief.<\/p>\n
\nlike tea leaves, Tarot cards, and tyranny.
\nHands represent the imprints of destiny
\nor perhaps nothing at all.<\/p>\n
\nwhat will it reveal
\nyour distance and indecision?
\nToday I want to feel your warmth, compare our creases,
\nso tomorrow I can recall their radiance
\nRemembering
\nthe personal road map of your life.<\/p>\n
\nMy Child is Gone, poetry
by Gunjan Shakya<\/h2>\n
\nWith a lump in my throat.
\nIt\u2019s tough to bid goodbye
\nAnd to wish you good luck.<\/p>\n
\nIs hidden somewhere below.
\nThe palms held my fingers
\nAre resting without a flutter.<\/p>\n
\nAre numb along the quiver.
\nWhen shall I see you next
\nIs the question but not the hope.<\/p>\n
\nAnd the fears perching on my soul.
\nWhen would you see me again
\nSo that I could lessen your pain.<\/p>\n
\nMy child my piece
\nTransfer me all your anguish,
\nBut you rest in peace.<\/p>\n
\nMy scolding and screams,
\nThe cake you smeared,
\nIcing I licked from your cheeks.<\/p>\n
\nThe camera you flashed,
\nThe grin I faked
\nIrritation peeped yet.<\/p>\n
\nAll that locked in my heart
\nAnd the love for you
\nMultiplies in my soul.<\/p>\n
\nLay still beside my car\u2019s steering wheel.
\nMy signatures, my screams,
\nI can forget all but not thee.<\/p>\n
\nI swelled with pride.
\nThe first E-mail you sent
\nI yearned to hug you and chime.<\/p>\n
\nYour memories all faded and began to run
\nWith your present, your future.<\/p>\n
\nThe memories and your room,
\nTo peep into you again,
\nTo not let you go farther the sky.<\/p>\n
\nBut now I wish I could at least not cry,
\nFor you and for your departure.<\/p>\n
\nThe Unwelcome Visitor, memoir
by James R. Campbell<\/h2>\n
\nKaibab, memoir
by Greg Pruitt<\/h2>\n
\nMimi\u2019s Dilemma: The Thing About Patriotism and Faith, nonfiction
by Kate Chamberlin<\/h2>\n
\nI still give a salute when I put up or take down my flag. As a dedicated member of the Col. Wm. Prescott chapter in NY, I encourage my grandchildren and neighborhood children to respect our American flag as they assist me in presenting our colors.<\/p>\n
\nWhen I lost my sight 30 years ago, I railed \u201cMy God. My God. Why have you forsaken me in this darkness?\u201d However, time has shown me over and over again how He has carried me when I fell down. How my Guardian Angel worked over-time to nudge me away from danger. How He brought others into my life to walk with me. How He loves me in spite of my mood swings, rants, and doubts. Where is He now, when my grandson is going to march into harm\u2019s way?<\/p>\n
\nSpider in the Morning, memoir
by Kate Chamberlin<\/h2>\n
\nPart III. The Writers’ Climb<\/h1>\n
Partners in Rhyme, poetry
by D. P. Lyons and Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/h2>\n
\na dime, a nickel, or some polysyllabic time?
\nI will meet you on the metaphorical side of Poets’ Alley
\nand will surreptitiously ask: “Will you be my partner in rhyme?”<\/p>\n
\nthough my treasures consist not of pocketed coins to spare,
\narmed with mighty quill, I shall await your arrival ‘neath the lighted lamp
\nwhere we may take part in the thievery of midnight\u2019s poetic fare.<\/p>\n
\nI will be carrying clandestine commas and dashes in my duffel.
\nPlease do not worry: I will reveal my poetic license.
\nWill you divulge from your diverse portfolio your next metered trifle?<\/p>\n
\nthough I have hardly seen such a chorused medley for a submission or two!
\nTrifle? Perhaps, yet carefully assembled by the wisdoms of word,
\nmy written journey has afforded me an incredibly tempoed view.<\/p>\n
\nThanks for being an inspiring co-creator,
\nfor detecting the quintessence of quatrains.
\nat Poet’s Alley, you are the best collaborator.<\/p>\n
\nas I chase the dotted lines back home to the East,
\nI shall rejoice with pondering of your gifted verse
\nand be forever in debt for our quatrain feast.<\/p>\n
\nbut did you receive what I received via e-mail today?
\nOur quatrain feast, like that perfect poetic pie, won a blue ribbon!
\nOh, across the miles, let us toast our prize-winning wordplay!<\/p>\n
\nMemories shall overflow my goblet as my mind draws back upon our time.
\nThe flow, the meaning, the union of poetry across faraway lands
\nwould be nothing more than one lonely word without you, my partner in Rhyme.<\/p>\n
\nMetamorphosing a Poem, nonfiction
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/h2>\n
\nYou thought you had a smile, but I had only given you a simile.
\nYou thought you had an alternative, but I had given you only alliteration.
\nYou thought you had a metamorphosis, but I had given you a metaphor.
\nYou thought you found a rambling lie, but I had given you a rhyming line.<\/p>\n
\nYou thought you had taken a stand, but I had only given you a stanza.
\nYou thought you had a verdict, but I had only given you a verse.
\nYou thought you had given me an edict, but I only had given you a good edit.
\nYou thought you had an apple tree, but I had only given you poetry.<\/p>\n
\nYou thought you deserved a smile, but I only gave you a simile.
\nYou thought you needed an alternative, but I answered you with alliteration.
\nYou thought you received a metamorphosis, but I splashed you with a metaphor.
\nYou thought you found a rambling lie, but I regaled you with a rhyming line.<\/p>\n
\nYou thought you had taken a stand, but I squandered for you only a stanza.
\nYou thought you commanded a verdict, but I handed you only a verse.
\nWhile you thought you had given me an edict, I only had given you a good edit.
\nYou thought you planted an apple tree, but I presented you only with poetry:
\npoetry, poetry is all my artful soul can give.
\nAre you satisfied,
\nor are you tied in an old typewriter ribbon of regret?<\/p>\n
\nHow to Deal with Rejection, poetry
by Annie Chiappetta<\/h2>\n
\nTears at my fiber
\nCramp my gut
\nPuncture resolve.<\/p>\n
\nAnger, and deal making
\nObliterate the Hope of acceptance
\nAnd when ready,
\nMoments after receiving the news,
\nFingers grasp the wickedly pointed D shaped pin,
\n(For Disappointment)
\nAnd stick it resignedly into the tenderness within.<\/p>\n
\nHe Called Her \u201cQueen\u201d, nonfiction
by Nancy Scott<\/h2>\n
\nContest Alert<\/h2>\n
\nAn Eight Prompt, nonfiction
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/h2>\n
\nTo fetch my big yellow raincoat.
\nThree buttons were off the front.
\nForethought would have prevented this problem.
\nFive minutes later, after a finger prick, I went back outside,
\nSix-pack in hand.
\n7-Eleven had the honey mustard Pringles I wanted.
\nAte them all in our nice little neighborhood park.<\/p>\n
\nThe Clandestine Tea Party, book excerpt from Deliverance from Jericho: Six Years in a Blind School, nonfiction
by Bruce Atchison<\/h2>\n
\nhttp:\/\/www.bookshare.org<\/a>
\nOr on Bruce’s website at: http:\/\/www.bruceatchison.blogspot.com\/p\/bruce-atchisons-books.html<\/a><\/p>\n
\nHow to Write a Zip Ode For the Fourth of July (with Seven Samples), nonfiction
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/h2>\n
\nsoon to mark two hundred years,
\nnurtured me with memoirs to write.
\nHome, state home:
\ncheers!<\/p>\n
\nher four-seven-eight-three-one
\nproudly stamped on each piece of mail–
\nflew the flag
\nhigh.<\/p>\n
\nover tree-lined Brouilletts Creek,
\nwelcomed all to this hilly town’s
\nBlack Diamond
\nMine.<\/p>\n
\nthe gob pile, our mountain, gave
\na panoramic view of home,
\nfields and town,
\ndreams.<\/p>\n
\nwas where the town reunion
\ntook place every Fourth of July:
\nfood, baseball,
\ndance.<\/p>\n
\nabove the grocery stores,
\nnear Binole’s, Jacksonville School–
\nnow silent,
\ngone.<\/p>\n
\nwould you please choose me to be
\npoet laureate of Blanford?
\nPoem, sweet
\nhome.<\/p>\n
\nPart IV. Not What I Expected<\/h1>\n
Oops! fiction
by Ellen Fritz<\/h2>\n
\nThe Helpers, fiction
by Elizabeth Fiorite<\/h2>\n
\nSucker, he thought to himself, feeling angry and foolish. He would not tell Marge about this, at least, not now.<\/p>\n