- \n
- Coordinating Editor: Mary-Jo Lord<\/li>\n
- Fiction: Valerie Moreno, Marilyn Brandt Smith, Kate Chamberlin, Abbie Johnson Taylor, and Bonnie Blose<\/li>\n
- Nonfiction: Valerie Moreno, John W. Smith, Kate Chamberlin, Leonard Tuchyner, Bonnie Blose, and Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/li>\n
- Poetry: Valerie Moreno, Abbie Johnson Taylor, Alice Massa, Lynda McKinney Lambert, and Brad Corallo<\/li>\n
- Bobbi LaChance Bubier Romance Contest: Abbie Johnson Taylor, Marilyn Brandt Smith, Lillian Way, Valerie Moreno, and Cleora Boyd<\/li>\n
- Technical Assistants: Jayson Smith and John Weidlich<\/li>\n
- Internet Specialist: Julie Posey<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
\nSubmission Guidelines<\/h1>\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, “how-to,” or “what’s new” articles regarding disabilities. Innovative techniques for better writing as well as publication success stories are welcome. Content will include many genres, with limited attention to the disability theme. Announcements of writing contests with deadlines beyond April 1 and October 1 respectively are welcome.<\/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”, 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”. 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
\nfor publication.<\/p>\nFinal author approval and review is necessary if changes are needed beyond punctuation, grammar, and sentence or paragraph structure. We will not change titles, beginnings, endings, dialog, poetic lines, the writer’s voice, or the general tone without writer collaboration. If your work is selected for inclusion in a future “Behind Our Eyes” project, you will be notified; your approval and final review will be required. To insure we can contact you regarding future projects, please keep us updated if your Email address changes.<\/p>\n
\nAbout Behind Our Eyes<\/h1>\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”, 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” 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
\nContents<\/h1>\n
\n- \n
- Editorial and Technical Staff<\/a><\/li>\n
- Submission Guidelines<\/a><\/li>\n
- About Behind Our Eyes<\/a><\/li>\n
- Contents<\/a><\/li>\n
- Editor’s Welcome<\/a><\/li>\n
- Part I. Bobbi LaChance Bubier Memorial Romance Contest Winners<\/a>\n
- \n
- Get Me to the Church on Time! Memoir First Place
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega<\/a><\/li>\n- Romance in the Blackout, Memoir Second Place
by John Justice<\/a><\/li>\n- Soul Reflection, poetry Honorable Mention
by Crystal Howe<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n- Part II. Looking Back<\/a>\n
- \n
- A Yankee Woman’s Love, creative nonfiction, nonfiction First Place
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n- Guardian, Senryu poetry
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n- Power of the Press, fiction First Place
by Nicole Massey<\/a><\/li>\n- Chicks, Memoir
by Greg Pruitt<\/a><\/li>\n- Love Through the Years, Memoir
by Jerri Williams<\/a><\/li>\n- Boat Ride, Memoir
by John Justice<\/a><\/li>\n- Crossings, poetry
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n- Roger: The Early Years, Sestina poetry
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n- Part III. From a Different Perspective<\/a>\n
- \n
- Meet you in the Intermissional sauna, fiction Second Place
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n- Cosmic Bowling, fiction Honorable Mention
by Shawn Jacobson<\/a><\/li>\n- Separate, poetry First Place
by Ann Chiappetta<\/a><\/li>\n- Awaking from an American Dream, poetry Honorable Mention
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n- Getting Out, creative nonfiction
by Nancy Scott<\/a><\/li>\n- Smile for the Camera, nonfiction
by Jeff Flodin<\/a><\/li>\n- The More I Write about Blindness the More I Write about Attitude, nonfiction
by Jeff Flodin<\/a><\/li>\n- Blindness makes Me Forever Young, nonfiction
by Jeff Flodin<\/a><\/li>\n- Suicide By Siri, fiction Honorable Mention
by Nancy Lynn<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n- Part IV. The Writers’ Climb<\/a>\n
- \n
- Frequently Asked Questions About Blogging, nonfiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n- Finding the Words, nonfiction Honorable Mention
by Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters<\/a><\/li>\n- CONTEST ALERT<\/a><\/li>\n
- A Writer’s Retreat, fiction and exercise
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n- Special Invitation<\/a><\/li>\n
- The Writing Chair, poetry
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n- Defense Mechanisms, book excerpt
by Jessica Goody<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n- Part V. Seasonal Wonders<\/a>\n
- \n
- Hobgoblin Breath, poetry Honorable Mention
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n- Fall Wind, poetry
by Valerie Moreno<\/a><\/li>\n- The Taste of Curiosity, memoir
by Mary-Jo Lord<\/a><\/li>\n- The Mystery and Magic of the Yellow Mum Plant, nonfiction
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n- A New World Vision, poetry
by Elizabeth Fiorite, O.P.<\/a><\/li>\n- A Song for Adrienne, memoir nonfiction First Place
by John Justice<\/a><\/li>\n- The Groove in the Ceiling, memoir nonfiction Honorable Mention
by C. S. Boyd<\/a><\/li>\n- A White Christmas in Santa Monica, fiction
by Nancy Lynn<\/a><\/li>\n- A Special Christmas Present, fiction
by Bill Fullerton<\/a><\/li>\n- Santa’s Tech: Magic of the Season, fiction
by Ted Nicholas<\/a><\/li>\n- Signs of an Unbartered Holiday Season, poetry
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n- A January State of Mind: nonfiction
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n- Part VI. Coming to Terms<\/a>\n
- \n
- The Healing Voice, poetry Second Place
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n- Leaving, fiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n- Class Reunion, fiction
by Trish Hubschman<\/a><\/li>\n- Barb, fiction
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n- Seventy-Seven and Holding, poetry
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n- Old and Valuable, poetry
by bonnie Rennie<\/a><\/li>\n- Where’s Joe? fiction
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n- Night Star, poetry
by Valerie Moreno<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n- Part VII. The Melting Pot<\/a>\n
- \n
- Turn Around – Look Away, poetry
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n- Driving to Monterey Bay, poetry
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n- A Tribute to Timeless Greatness, ninette poetry
by Terri Winaught<\/a><\/li>\n- Cane of Cchulhu, poetry
by Shawn Jacobson<\/a><\/li>\n- Sanctum Sanctorum, poetry
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n- Shadow, poetry
by Sally Rosenthal<\/a><\/li>\n- The Wolf and the Loon, poetry
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n- Laika, poetry
by Mary-Jo Lord<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/div>\n
\nEditor’s Welcome<\/h1>\n
Hello. I hope those of you that were affected by the hurricanes and wildfires that have destroyed much of the United States are, with the help of others able to rebuild or find safe homes.<\/p>\n
As a memorial to Bobbi LaChance Bubier, the Behind Our Eyes group held a romance contest this spring. The contest winners will be featured in the first section of this edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em>. Thanks to Abbie Johnson Taylor and her committee members: Marilyn Brandt Smith, Lillian Way, Valerie Moreno, and Cleora Boyd for all of your hard work. The determination of guidelines and the selection of winners required a great deal of time and consideration.<\/p>\n
This edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em> is packed with stories, poems, and articles to keep you entertained throughout the cooler months. Our “seasonal Wonders” section has stories and poems about holidays and the change of seasons. Maybe you will find a new holiday favorite. “The Writers’ Climb” has articles and an exercise to stimulate your fiction writing muscles. Read stories from or about the past in “Looking back.” The characters presented in “Coming to Terms” will stay with you when you are finished reading. As always, “From a Different Perspective” is full of surprises, and we have a great mix of poems in “The Melting Pot.”<\/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. Below are the winners of the Bobbi LaChance Bubier Romance Contest and the Magnets and Ladders<\/em> Fall\/Winter 2017-2018 contest winners.<\/p>\n
Bobbi LaChance Bubier Romance Contest Winners:<\/p>\n
- \n
- First Place: Get Me to the Church on Time! Memoir by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega<\/li>\n
- Second Place: Romance in the Blackout, Memoir by John Justice<\/li>\n
- Honorable Mention: Soul Reflection, poetry by Crystal Howe<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
Magnets and Ladders<\/em> 2017-2018 Contest Winners:<\/p>\n
Fiction:<\/p>\n
- \n
- First Place: “Power of the Press” by Nicole Massey<\/li>\n
- Second Place: “Meet you in the Intermissional sauna” by Brad Corallo<\/li>\n
- Honorable Mention: “Suicide By Siri” by Nancy Lynn<\/li>\n
- Honorable Mention: “Cosmic Bowling” by Shawn Jacobson<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
Nonfiction:<\/p>\n
- \n
- First Place: “A Yankee Woman’s Love” by Kate Chamberlin<\/li>\n
- Second Place: “A Song for Adrienne” by John Justice<\/li>\n
- Honorable Mention: “The Groove in the Ceiling by C. S. Boyd<\/li>\n
- Honorable Mention: “Finding the Words” by Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
Poetry:<\/p>\n
- \n
- First Place: “Separate” by Ann Chiappetta<\/li>\n
- Second Place: “The Healing Voice” by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/li>\n
- Honorable Mention: “Hobgoblin Breath” by Leonard Tuchyner<\/li>\n
- Honorable Mention: “Awaking from an American Dream” by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
Congratulations to the winning authors. All of our prize winning stories and poems can be found throughout this issue. See “The Writers’ Climb” for details about our next contest, again with cash prizes.<\/p>\n
The Magnets and Ladders<\/em> staff wishes you a happy and safe holiday season.<\/p>\n
\nPart I. Bobbi LaChance Bubier Memorial Romance Contest Winners<\/h1>\n
Get Me to the Church on Time! Memoir First Place
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega<\/h2>\nIn 1970, over the Thanksgiving holiday, Curtis and I became engaged. Curt was the first young man I had dated that understood my need to be independent and make my own choices. He never tried to rein in my enthusiasm or to control me. He made me feel very special and loved for who I really was. He knew how to make me laugh and allowed me to be myself instead of always having to put on a performance to prove I was an ordinary college girl. Many of the other people I knew didn’t believe that blind people were normal human beings. Blind was the first defining term in their minds when they thought of me. Curt didn’t rush to do simple tasks for me or treat me as if I were helpless. He didn’t act as if he thought my ability to accomplish tasks on my own was remarkable.<\/p>\n
The night I finally accepted his proposal, he placed my fingertips in the palm of his open hand. Quietly, he told me that I feared commitment because I thought of love as a cage. What he offered was a safe haven to come back to for rest after I had exhausted myself flying in all directions. He promised that he would never clip my wings. The love he offered would have no bars to cage my spirit.<\/p>\n
I knew instinctively that love isn’t love, if there isn’t mutual respect and trust.<\/p>\n
Curt and I planned our wedding for the following June. We tried to save up money to fly my parents and grandmother out for a small ceremony at school. We had a classmate who was a minister and of course I wanted my best friend Scottie Hagedorn to take part in the wedding as my bride’s maid.<\/p>\n
Our plans had to be changed when Grandma Luella declared that she wanted me to come to Michigan to be married in the church in which my parents were wed. Indian children are taught to respect their elders. I was the eldest grandchild and was born on her birthday. Since my parents were divorced, I didn’t see the point of getting married in that church, but if it was what my grandmother wished, I would comply.<\/p>\n
Another wrench was thrown into our June wedding date. Curt got a job that was supposed to begin the day after the school term ended. Spring break had to do as a wedding date.<\/p>\n
Mom panicked when the wedding day was moved up. I had a dress on lay-away. Fearing I wouldn’t have the money before the new date, mom exchanged it. She took two of my attendants to the bridal shop clearance sale and had them try dresses on alternately. Kerri was my height and Nadine was closer to me in build. The poor sales clerk was confused and asked, \u201cWhich girl is the bride?\u201d Mom replied, \u201cOh, she’s not here. She’s in college in California.\u201d<\/p>\n
Early on March 20th, 1971, I boarded a plane flying stand-by from Modesto California with a large black Labrador curled under the seat in front of me and a broad shouldered young man with a shy smile and a quiet manner that hid a lively sense of humor and a gentle loving heart. Despite the fact that we had never gone on an unchaperoned date, Curt and I were on our way to become a married couple.<\/p>\n
When our plane landed in Detroit, we were bumped from the flight one hundred miles short of Saginaw. I went to turn in the unused portion of our tickets while Curt tried to reach my family to keep them from going to the airport. When Tammy and I joined him at a phone booth, my youngest brother Donny was refusing to accept the charges from someone named Curtis Noriega. I snatched the phone and told him he was not going to live to be fourteen if he didn’t accept the collect call!<\/p>\n
While getting the refund for our tickets, I had learned that an airport shuttle bus was returning to its garage in Pontiac. The driver was willing to race us there to catch a Greyhound Bus. It was snowing heavily and we only had light California weight coats.<\/p>\n
When we reached the bus station, the snow was falling so hard it was impossible to tell if the bus had come and already gone. The station was closed. Our driver was loath to leave us standing in the snow. He said he had some business in Saginaw the next day and would be happy to drive us the rest of the way in his own car. While trying to call my mother on the payphone, I pushed the coin return and about $30 came cascading out. It seemed our lucky day.<\/p>\n
By the time we hit the road to Saginaw, the snowstorm had taken on blizzard conditions. Our kind driver kept losing sight of the road and driving through people’s yards or off on the shoulder of the road. He laughed as he drove on through the night. It was early morning before we reached the Saginaw bus station. Our Good Samaritan driver refused to accept any money for gas or his trouble.<\/p>\n
My mother and stepfather weren’t speaking to each other. Don had moved out temporarily. I had always played the peacemaker role in the family, but even my skills were barely sufficient to keep things from boiling over.<\/p>\n
My mother got into a fender bender the morning we arrived. Her ten-year-old dog was stolen. My grandfathers quarreled over where the reception was to be held. My stepfather’s stepfather wanted it to be in the Moose Lodge. My Grandma Luella’s second husband wanted it to be in the steel workers union hall. Considering that neither one of them was actually my grandfather by blood relationship, I supposed I should have been flattered to be the cause of the argument. It was hard though to see the simple wedding among college friends I had hoped for turn into a bone of contention.<\/p>\n
Chaos was the norm for my large quarrelsome family. Mother was the eldest of ten and her father was the eldest of twelve children. I was the oldest grandchild. The phone never stopped ringing as distant relations called to ask why they hadn’t received an invitation to the wedding. Mom kept a stack of cards beside the phone. She asked for current information and reassured the second or third cousin that she was sure their invitation was in the mail as she wrote one for them.<\/p>\n
I had asked a young neighbor of Mom’s to be a bride’s maid. We had become friendly because I had been babysitting for her two children during my trips home from college. I had also asked a teenaged cousin to take part in the ceremony. Various relations had begged to be included in the wedding party. By the time the date approached, I had five bride’s maids, a maid of honor, a flower girl and a ring bearer. I was beginning to feel like merely an excuse for my family to hold a party.<\/p>\n
My maid of honor was a step aunt that I had fought and played with since we were both three. She insisted that we use her car to travel from the church to the reception. I was uneasy, but since we had shared so many childhood memories, I didn’t feel I could refuse. I wondered though what her clients would think when they saw her paisley topped Cadillac go by plastered with a “just married” sign. Nina had turned her beauty to profit by becoming a very expensive lady of the evening.<\/p>\n
My uncle John was appalled when I told him I didn’t intend to buy any alcohol for the reception. He insisted on supplying it himself.<\/p>\n
The week before the big day flew by as I did a few minor alterations to the sale dress and took it to pick out a veil. We needed to replace groomsmen gifts that had been stolen from Curt’s suitcase in route to Michigan. Thank heavens they missed his great grandfather’s gold pocket watch and chain hidden in one of his dress shoes. Then I needed to choose a bridal bouquet and corsages for the mothers and grandmothers, and find a blue garter. My bridal shower was also that week.<\/p>\n
One afternoon, I slipped into my parents’ room to phone my mother-in-law to be. I asked her to take us out shopping. My excuse was to look for an outfit to wear to the rehearsal dinner. I really didn’t need a new dress. I was worried I wouldn’t have a groom if I didn’t get him out from underfoot. My mother was busy piping roses, lilies of the valley and doves using her secret decorating frosting on the layers of our wedding cake. Curt and my youngest brother were sticking fingers into bowls of colored icing and sword fighting with the wooden dowels used to support and separate the layers of the cake. I seriously doubted Mom’s patience would hold out if I didn’t drag my intended out of harm’s way.<\/p>\n
When we arrived at the church to rehearse, I was surprised to find my accompanist had not even looked at the music I had purchased and mailed to her. She made such a hash of it on the piano that I asked her to try it on the organ. The way an organ blends one note into the next disguised some of her mistakes.<\/p>\n
We were thirty for the rehearsal dinner. Upon arrival at the restaurant, the management charged more than the agreed amount alleging they didn’t have a reservation for our party. This claim was made despite the fact that they had a table set for us for a family style meal. My baby sister refused to eat anything, even turning down the ice cream. When we arrived back at my parents’ home, she placed her little hand in mine and whispered, \u201cSissy, will you make me a cheese sandwich?\u201d<\/p>\n
My stepfather arrived and started pacing at seven in the morning on my big day. He still wasn’t talking to my mother. After lunch, I gave my little sister lessons in sitting down in her flower girl dress. The first time she attempted this feat, the hoop holding her skirt out flipped up and hit her in the nose, causing a storm of tears. I got her calmed down as mom rushed into the room to ask if I could manage to dress myself. I replied that since I had been doing so for most of my twenty-two years, I thought I could. She burst into tears exclaiming, \u201cWell, I can’t, I have got my zipper stuck!\u201d I got the jam solved and went back to hoop skirt lessons.<\/p>\n
Finally, we left for the church. The cake developed a list in the back of Mom’s station wagon. We arrived at the church to find that the janitor had not appeared to unlock the door. It started to snow and I stood shivering on the doorstep. The dress I had originally chosen had a train that flowed from the waist and could be fastened up to form a butterfly effect for dancing. The one my mother had traded it in for had a train that fell from the shoulders and didn’t have a way to fasten it up. When I moved some satin roses to disguise where one was missing, I had fortunately added a satin wrist loop. My dress was a sugar crystal organza. As the wind dusted me with snowflakes, I held the train of the dress up to keep it out of the mud.<\/p>\n
There was a last minute scramble for safety pins when Nina wanted to practice putting back my veil. The snaps on her full satin sleeves kept coming undone sliding up to her shoulders. I took Tammy to my grandfather to hold for me. He loved dogs. He was having a hard time holding back his tears. I thought minding Tammy would give him a distraction.<\/p>\n
The music began and I followed five-year-old Christina down the aisle. She forgot her shyness and walked with measured steps ahead of me carrying her flower girl basket. As we passed the pew where Grandpa sat with Tammy, she broke loose and dashed up the hardwood floor of the aisle. My brother tackled her and pinned her to the floor. My stepfather hissed, \u201cDon’t laugh!\u201d I disgraced myself by giggling.<\/p>\n
During the service, there were the usual sounds of a fussy baby, an elderly person’s cough and the mournful wails of a protesting Labrador. Curt swears to this day that the loudest of these erupted when the minister reached the part in the ceremony where he asked if any in the congregation could give a reason these two should not be joined in holy matrimony.<\/p>\n
When we arrived at the reception hall, we had to coax my new mother-in-law in from playing in the snow to stand in the reception line. After cutting the cake and opening the gifts, the dancing began. My new husband and I led off and my little sister played ring-around-the-rosy with my six year-old ring bearer and the rest of the wedding party joined us on the dance floor. Then relations lined up to dance with the bride and groom.<\/p>\n
Many American Indian women get heavy in their later years and Chippewa are usually tall. Curt was very intimidated when several of my great aunts formed a line to dance with the groom. He said that at five foot seven, and weighing one hundred and thirty pounds, he couldn’t help feeling he was being asked to steer Green Bay Packers in drag around the dance floor. I had my own problems managing the train of my dress as my father-in-law went into his version of Fred Astaire twirling around the room.<\/p>\n
Finally, I slipped around the room to give good-bye hugs to my two grandmothers, great grandmother and closest relations. We crept away without my even throwing the bouquet. The extended family was so busy dancing, drinking and trying to top each other in the telling of outrageous tall tales, that I don’t think most people noticed us leave. I was so tired and we needed to catch a 5 A.M. flight back to school the next day. Monday our spring quarter of classes began. If this all sounds a bit like the perils of Pauline, well at least Tammy and I avoided being tied to the railroad tracks and we ended up carrying off the hero in one piece with us when we made our escape. Over forty-six years later, we are still sharing the trials and tribulations of living as a married couple.<\/p>\n
Curtis and DeAnna Noriega have been married 46 years. After surviving their wedding, they felt that they were prepared for anything life might throw at them. Every marriage has its share of ups and downs, but theirs had an unusual number of hurdles to jump.<\/p>\n
Bio: DeAnna Quietwater Noriega is half Apache and a quarter Chippewa. She has been a writer and story teller since childhood. She became totally blind at age eight. She currently has three short story collections and an autobiographical book residing on her computer. She has been published in four anthologies and several magazines. Sometimes it is only an overheard word, a stray thought that can set her mind spinning out a new story, poem or essay. She says that the world provides so many options and opportunities, that no one need ever be bored or live a wasted life unless they choose to do so. She lives with her husband, youngest daughter, three grandchildren, guide dog, three other dogs, three cats, three horses, three ponies and assorted fish, reptiles and rodents, in Fulton Missouri.<\/p>\n
\nRomance in the Blackout, Memoir Second Place
by John Justice<\/h2>\nI closed up my tool case and prepared to start my way home. It was late, but I really didn’t care. There was nothing for me at home, anyway. I lived alone in Hackensack in a rooming house. The other occupants were loners like myself and kept out of each other’s way, most of the time. I wished that someone would come along to ease my empty life.<\/p>\n
My guide dog led me down the dirt encrusted stairs and into the subway station. I planned to take the F Train to Manhattan and then change to the southbound A Train, which stopped right under Port Authority bus terminal. As it turned out, I never made it that far.<\/p>\n
The island platform was crowded at this time of day, but that was no surprise. I felt the puff of air which presaged the arrival of the subway. I stayed far away from the edge of the platform until the train came to a complete stop. Star led me unerringly right to the nearest set of doors. I didn’t try to find an empty seat, but went straight to the poles near the center of the car. Star sat down on my foot and we got ready for the long noisy journey.<\/p>\n
I wasn’t aware of it, but a young woman had boarded the car at the same time I did. As soon as she saw Star, Elaine forgot everything else around her. She let go of her pole and started making her way toward us. A badly set switch in the tracks sent her flying across the intervening space. She crashed into me and I grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. She tried to explain what had happened.<\/p>\n
“I was admiring your dog. At first, I didn’t understand why a dog was on the subway and then, the coin dropped. I’m sorry for running into you. I’m Elaine Wood. What’s your dog’s name? Can I pet her?”<\/p>\n
I nodded and introduced myself. “You can pet her, but keep it short. I don’t want her to get distracted.” I felt Star’s tail thumping my shoe so I knew that Elaine was touching her.<\/p>\n
It was just about then that the world turned from normal to really weird in an instant. At first, I didn’t realize what was going on until Elaine let out a little cry.<\/p>\n
“The lights are out, all of them! Normally, you can still see the lights in the tunnel but, they’re gone too. Something really bad just happened!”<\/p>\n
She was right. The subway came to an emergency stop and it was silent. The only thing I heard was other people discussing the recent events. The sliding door at the end of the car opened and a man made an announcement. “May I have your attention please? There has been some kind of power failure. We’re not sure how bad it is yet, but the train has stopped between stations. We’re going to ask all of you to remain calm, and as soon as we have more information, we’ll let you know.” There were hundreds of questions but the trainman let the door slide closed and didn’t even try to respond.<\/p>\n
We learned later that the entire city was suffering a complete blackout. It hit EVERYWHERE inside the city, parts of the surrounding states and impacted everything. Elevators stopped between floors in the office buildings. A Tube Train on its way to New Jersey stopped without warning and the passengers were instructed to leave the train and walk back to the nearest station. That is more or less what was going to happen to all of us.<\/p>\n
About fifteen minutes later, the trainman returned. “Okay everyone. The power failure is much more serious than we realized. We’re going to ask you to leave the train and walk to the nearest station, about a quarter mile from here. We’ll empty the cars one at a time and you’ll have a train employee with you. It’s perfectly safe, since there is no power. Now everyone stay calm. We’ll let you know when it’s time for you to leave.”<\/p>\n
As soon as he closed the door, the complaints, arguments and cries of fear overwhelmed the car’s interior. But these were New Yorkers. Soon enough, they settled down and got ready to accept the inevitable. What choice did they have when all was said and done? I thought about what was coming myself. I was about to walk along a set of tracks which were never intended for pedestrians. I knew that Star would get me out of there, but we were in for a really strange experience. Elaine was probably having some of the same thoughts.<\/p>\n
“if you don’t mind, I’ll stay with you and Star. I’m very frightened right now.”<\/p>\n
I was beginning to like this girl. Here she was, in a subway beneath Queens and she was still determined to do whatever was necessary.<\/p>\n
When our turn came to disembark, the conductor tried to stop me at the top of the temporary wooden steps. “You’ll have to wait in the car, Sir. It’s far too dangerous under foot for someone who can’t see.”<\/p>\n
I gave him a “Go to hell” look and said, “My dog will get me out of here safely enough.” The man didn’t have either the time or the patience to argue.<\/p>\n
We went down the steps with Elaine close behind me. As we moved along between the tracks, I could feel things squashing and crunching under my feet. God only knew what was lying down here in the dark. At one point, Star stopped and growled softly. Something, probably a rat, scampered away and we were soon at a second set of wooden steps which led us up onto the station platform. I told Star to take us out and we were soon on street level. But it was a different world. Elaine described it to me as we walked along. All of the buildings around us were dark. The lights of passing traffic shone brightly and far above; she could actually see the stars. A bus passed us going in the same direction, but it never even slowed down. I could imagine that it was holding as many passengers as could fit into that confined space. It was going to be a long walk back to Manhattan.<\/p>\n
We had just passed a dark alley when Star stopped and whirled around. As soon as I felt her muscles tense, I dropped the harness. She let go with a huge barking challenge. I heard a man say, “damn!” Then he was running away. Elaine had been very quiet for a long time, but with that, she screamed and burst into tears.<\/p>\n
“I can’t take any more, John! I just can’t!” she grabbed me and held on for dear life.<\/p>\n
I could feel her shaking and sobbing. “it’s okay, Elaine. He’s gone now. Star chased him away. It’s all right. We’re out of the worst of it, now. Hang on, Elaine. We still have a long way to go and I really need you to help me. I’ve never been in this neighborhood before and we’ll both need you to see what is around us. Hang on, honey. We’ve got to do this together.” My quiet manner and reassurance must have reached her.<\/p>\n
After a moment, she stopped crying and dried her eyes on a tissue. “I’m sorry John, but that creep trying to rob us was the last straw. I know you’re blind, but I’m so glad that you and Star are here with me. I can’t imagine what it would be like, facing this night alone.”<\/p>\n
As we walked along, I learned that Elaine lived in an apartment near Grammercy Park. That was a part of Manhattan I really admired. The buildings were old, but well-kept. The park was supposed to be a really nice place to go, especially in fine weather. I told her I lived in New Jersey and asked if I could borrow her couch for the night.<\/p>\n
“of course, you can. In the park, there’s a special place where people walk their dogs. Maybe we can go there before we climb up to my place.”<\/p>\n
We were crossing a large intersecting avenue, when our luck changed. A big car rolled up next to us and a lady rolled down the window. “Do you folks need a lift? My husband and I are out here trying to find someone to help through this disaster.”<\/p>\n
The balding man turned on the overhead light and Elaine could see that they were just ordinary people. The man turned and smiled at Elaine. “I’m Doctor Buchanan and this is my wife, Olivia. We noticed you walking along and decided to offer our help. Your dog is welcome of course and there’s plenty of room in that back seat. Where do you two live?”<\/p>\n
Elaine’s arm pressed mine softly and I got the message. She spoke to the couple. “We live in Manhattan, near Grammercy Park. Would you be willing to drive us there?”<\/p>\n
Doctor Buchanan nodded. “No problem. Just tell us where to go.” The power locks clicked and Elaine opened the back door. Star went in and settled herself on the rug behind the front seat. Elaine slid in next and I followed her, closing the heavy door. We moved through the night with Doctor Buchanan skillfully negotiating the intersections. At each one, where a traffic light would have normally controlled the flow, the drivers had to be very careful, giving each other plenty of room and courtesy. We soon reached the park and thanked the Buchanans for their help. Elaine pulled a key from her purse and unlocked the gate into the park.<\/p>\n
“Each of us has a key and we agree not to lend it to anyone. We always try to keep the park clean and littering is forbidden.”<\/p>\n
She led me to a bench near an area designated for the neighborhood dogs. I released Star and she went immediately to take care of her personal needs. Then she came back and slammed her paw down on Elaine’s foot.<\/p>\n
“She wants you to play with her.”<\/p>\n
Elaine laughed. “I’m exhausted, but I’d like nothing better.” The two of them ran around together until Elaine collapsed on the bench beside me. She just couldn’t go any longer. Star visited the break area once again, then came to sit beside me. We left the park, latched the gate and walked to Elaine’s apartment.<\/p>\n
I didn’t plan it, but I was having romantic thoughts and feelings about this girl. I felt as if we were survivors of a shipwreck. We had been thrown together by circumstance, but the partnership was very rewarding, at least for me. We climbed the four stories and she opened the door.<\/p>\n
“Welcome to my home, at least for now. Would you like something to drink?” She showed me the layout and provided extra towels. But when we tried to run the water to warm it, it stayed cold. Apparently, the boiler had gone out and no one had managed to restart it. Elaine made up the couch with a sheet, blanket and a pillow. She wished me goodnight and bent to kiss my cheek. Then, she changed her mind. Her arms went around me and she kissed my mouth. She snuggled in beside me and laid her head on my shoulder.<\/p>\n
“You were wonderful tonight, John. I couldn’t have made it without you. Thank you for being there when I really needed you.” After a few minutes, she went off to her room and I stretched out, ready for sleep.<\/p>\n
It must have been hours later when I felt Elaine’s hand on my shoulder. “John. I’m still frightened. Everything seems so weird, even here in my own apartment. Will you hold me for a while? I need to feel you next to me.” I started to sit up, but she pressed me down again. In a few minutes, Elaine was tucked in beside me and had covered us both with the blanket.<\/p>\n
I was hoping and praying that this night was a beginning for us. But alas. In the bright of day, things appeared different for her. She walked me to my gate at the bus station and kissed me goodbye. I never heard from her again. For the longest time, I hoped that we might meet again on the F Train, but if she was there, she never spoke to me. One day, I walked intentionally toward Grammercy Park, hoping that I might find her. There were people in the park, but no one opened the gate for me. One old-timer addressed me. “this is a private park. You can’t come in here unless you have a key.” I knew that all too well.<\/p>\n
As time passed, my hopes and dreams about Elaine faded, but I’ll never forget that night or how the blackout drew us together. During that incident in the sixties, there was no serious damage or vandalism. When the same thing happened again in the seventies, the world had changed. There were fires, riots and several deaths, all blamed on the blackout. By then, I was far away, living in Pennsylvania.<\/p>\n
Bio: John Justice is a musician, entertainer and author living in Hatboro, Pennsylvania with his wife Linda. He was born with congenital glaucoma and was totally blind by age three. He has written for several magazines as a freelance contributor and has two books in print available on most major book web sites in electronic and paperback form. Details can be found at his website. http:\/\/www.dldbooks.com\/johnjustice<\/a><\/p>\n
\nSoul Reflection, poetry Honorable Mention
by Crystal Howe<\/h2>\nGod brought us together,
\nYou and me in Love.
\nThrough our lives we shine his Light
\nOn Earth from Heav’n above.
\nMay we see through the windows of the eyes
\nInto the waters of the soul,
\nReflecting a being pure and whole.
\nTwo made one in fullness,
\nBoth a bless’d part.
\nWe remind each other
\nLove is where we end and start.
\nMay we see through the windows of the eyes
\nInto the waters of the soul,
\nReflecting a being pure and whole.
\nSome days our eyes are foggy
\nWith reflections sad and pale.
\nIn quiet mind we find
\nThe Spirit’s Love that lifts the veil.
\nSo we see through the windows of the eyes
\nInto the waters of the soul,
\nReflecting a being pure and whole.<\/p>\nBio: Crystal is an ordained minister with a Doctorate in Metaphysical Science. Her poetry, songwriting, weaving, and other creative pursuits celebrate the many ways we share our lives and spirit. Crystal is totally blind. Find her music on CD Baby and other work on mysticalstrings.com. “Soul Reflection” is dedicated to Freddy. Listen to the song at: https:\/\/mysticalstrings.files.wordpress.com\/2017\/07\/soul-reflection.mp3<\/a><\/p>\n
\nPart II. Looking Back<\/h1>\n
A Yankee Woman’s Love, creative nonfiction, nonfiction First Place
by Kate Chamberlin<\/h2>\nI pulled the door panel down from the ceiling, unfolded the ladder, and stuck my head above the floor of the attic. A dim, bare bulb highlighted dust swirling in the eddies of air I’d created. Big dust bunnies scurried into the shadows of the dry room. At least, I thought they were just dust bunnies. Spider webs undulated, as if shaking with irritation at being disturbed.<\/p>\n
I had the dubious honor of clearing out my grandmother’s antiquated attic in her enhanced 1832 Salt Box home.<\/p>\n
During Nana and Pappy’s 71 years of marriage, treasures from many generations of Yankees amassed in this room. I saw a Zither with three loose strings; a Dismantled metal spindle bedstead against the south wall; several Sturdy wooden framed portraits of very stern ancestors against the north wall; an antique, wooden spindle cradle with real rubber wheels; and many Crumbling cardboard boxes with relics from generations of a Connecticut family. Watery light squeezed through small, filthy windows near the low roof ridge.<\/p>\n
An oaken dresser coated with a thick fur of dust caught my eye. The low roof ridge pole forced me to awkwardly walk hunched over as I went to the dresser. I wiped the dirt and grime off the tall, beveled mirror and attached carved oak frame. I wondered what stories it could tell me about the many faces it had reflected throughout the decades.<\/p>\n
In the bottom drawer, I found a padded box covered with faded chintz. I carefully wiggled the box top off and discovered several playbills, a piece of yellowed lace, and a small book covered in the same faded chintz. Inside the book, I recognized Nana’s small, tight, precise hand-writing covering the unlined pages from top to bottom: her diary. No one knew she’d kept a diary.<\/p>\n
The knowledge that Pappy kept a diary was the source of much family humor. On each dated page of the 5-year diary, you could see what happened on that date 5 years at a glance. He chronicled each day in terse, precise terms, often with a subjective evaluation. One day, he entered: \u201cRained all day. Hawes came over to play Bridge. Men won.\u201d On another day, he noted: \u201cHot, humid, 85-degrees. Mrs. Pinch-bottom came to visit. Awful!\u201d<\/p>\n
Nana’s undated diary entries suggested thoughtful prose, written about important events in her life. I sat down on the dry wooden floor with the diary in my lap and leaned against the tall steamer trunk near the dresser. I wondered how family lore would compare to Nana’s narratives.<\/p>\n
One entry read: \u201cMother found where I hid things. I wanted to wear my old shoes, instead of the new ones. I put the new ones under the loose floor board under my bed. When I pushed the board back down, the shoes broke through the ceiling in the dining room. She was there and saw the cracks in the ceiling. I got caught and had to do extra chores after school. I didn’t really mind adding lace trim to the corsets and ribbons to the hats Grandma Sarah would sell in her shop.\u201d<\/p>\n
I remember my own mother telling me how, when she was young, she had a secret hidey-hole under her bed that Nana didn’t know about. Little did Mother know that she wasn’t the first to use that secret spot.<\/p>\n
Another entry confessed: \u201cCora, Ethel, Mary, and I snuck down to the beach yesterday. We had our short swim costumes on under our long skirts. It was deliciously wicked to swim so nearly nude, then, dry off as we leisurely smoked the taboo cigarettes we’d stolen from Cora’s Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n
This entry made me laugh, because the short swim costumes consisted of bloomers past their knees and blouses to their wrists with necklines to their chins. Imagine how scandalous today’s teeny weeny bikinis would’ve been in Nana’s day.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe boys have played basketball for a long time,\u201d another entry began. \u201cNow, my friends and I are on a girl’s basketball team. Mother isn’t too happy about our wearing pants in public, but, it is ever so much fun to run freely, dribbling the ball and shooting for the rim. It is exhilarating to hear the crowd cheer and urge us on, like we’re in a drama on stage.\u201d<\/p>\n
A few pages later, she wrote, \u201cCora, Ethel, Mary, and I were asked to leave the team, because we got caught smoking behind the school after practice. Mother huffed and assigned more corsets and hats for me to trim, but she didn’t seem all that upset. She mumbled something about girls don’t belong in pants in public anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n
Knowing my great grandma Jane had been a fiery red-head and a trend-setter herself, I suspected Great Grandma Jane outwardly frowned at her daughter’s outrageous behavior, while inwardly thought: You go, Girl! Grandma Jane was, after all, the one who had three husbands.<\/p>\n
The little diary opened to a page with a pressed daisy where the entry recorded: \u201cTonight, at our Community Players rehearsal, there was a new member. He is ever so good looking. I noticed how thick and full his moustache is, complimenting his dark brown curly hair. I looked from his sturdy chin up into his dark eyes. He caught me looking rapturously at him! I turned red to my roots and felt heat in the pit of my stomach.\u201d<\/p>\n
I knew this was how my grandparents met and, apparently, Pappy didn’t have to court Nana too strenuously. It was love at first sight.<\/p>\n
Not much is written about her young swain, except to mention, \u201cElt’s father is a very stern Presbyterian minister in the big church on the hill. They do nothing but church on Sundays and never drink spirits. I don’t think they like me.\u201d<\/p>\n
I was curious about their wedding, but Nana only mentioned that they were married in his father’s church, presumably by his father.<\/p>\n
A lock of baby-fine hair marked another entry. \u201cOur little Gracie is perfect. She has lots of Elt’s dark, curly hair, a fine lusty yell, and a healthy appetite. I developed a breast infection and told Elt that if he didn’t get me out of the hospital right away, I’d die. He brought me home and we are doing well now.\u201d<\/p>\n
Two other locks of hair marked where my uncle and aunt were born at home. The woman we all called Nursey, must have been young when she attended Nana, because, she was still around to attend my mother when my brother and I came along.<\/p>\n
One page had its corner turned down. \u201cI must get Elt out of the hospital. The doctor says one lung has collapsed and he has tuberculosis. I must get him home, so I can take care of him. He’ll die in that hospital.\u201d<\/p>\n
She did bring him home. He hoed his large vegetable garden in the sunshine, ate Nana’s home-cooked and canned produce, and day by day, he regained his health and strength.<\/p>\n
Near the end of her diary entries, I read: \u201cElt has volunteered with our local Civil Defense Group. After work as the shipping\/traffic manager for DuPont, he patrols the train station platform. I am working with my DAR sisters for the war effort by rolling bandages.\u201d<\/p>\n
During one of the many summers I spent with Nana and Pappy, I found his old train lantern down in the dank, stone-walled basement. Pappy would walk up and down the station platform and when everyone was on-board, he would raise the lantern and swing it so the engineer knew it was good to go. I cleaned up the lantern and it now sits on my brother’s mantel. It was during these summer visits when I was a teenager that Nana and I developed such a strong bond.<\/p>\n
Pappy, born in 1888, died when he was 93, missing their 72nd wedding anniversary by two weeks. I asked Nana what she thought of his passing. She quipped, \u201cImagine that rascal skipping out early!\u201d<\/p>\n
One night, in the wee hours of morning, I awoke to see her standing at the foot of my bed. She was wearing an old-fashioned, sepia toned traveling outfit, complete with the long skirt, bustle, and short cape, holding a small travel valise. A small \u201cpill box\u201d hat perched on her curly, dark brown hair. She just stood there, looking at me through twinkling brown eyes. She raised one eyebrow and one gloved finger pointing up. It was a motion I’d seen her do so many times. It was her way of indicating, \u201cI told you so.\u201d<\/p>\n
When I awoke again in the sunlight, I knew Nana had gone to be with her Beloved, Elt.<\/p>\n
Nana was 95 when she died, yet in this life or the next one, there is no stronger bond than a Yankee woman’s love.<\/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’s author, Anglican educator, free-lance writer\/editor, and proud great-grandmother.<\/p>\n
\nGuardian, Senryu poetry
by Kate Chamberlin<\/h2>\nPseudo guardian;
\nTo have, to hold, to reason;
\nOur cherished grandson.<\/p>\nLittle, Hellion child,
\nSo out of control and wild;
\nEasily riled.<\/p>\nAn illustrator,
\nHigh school butterfly swimmer,
\nFrench Horn, bass Drummer.<\/p>\nNourished by our love,
\nGrew to become a Marine;
\nA true guardian.<\/p>\n
\nPower of the Press, fiction First Place
by Nicole Massey<\/h2>\nMr. Browntree,
\nAs we discussed, this letter is to confirm that I’m hiring you to handle the printing of my book, The Glory of Our King. This is for the agreed price. Enclosed is my manuscript, and as we discussed you will typeset it on your new German style press, with stitched pages and a leather binding. I look forward to a successful business venture.
\nIn the Year of Our Lord, 1535
\nHarold Parsons.<\/p>\nMr. Browntree,
\nI have yet to hear any word on the publication of my book. I understand you’re displeased with my attentions to your daughter, Anne, but that shouldn’t affect our business. You have a contract that stipulates work to be done, and we can work out the other issues some other way. The important thing is that we keep our business separate from personal affairs. I expect to see gallies of the book in the next week. Any delay will require me to seek satisfaction from the courts.
\nIn the Year of Our Lord, 1535
\nHarold Parsons.<\/p>\nMr. Browntree,
\nI’ve received the gallies for my publication, and they’re not what we agreed upon. The typesetting is crude, the quality of printing is messy, and the paper is so rough that it’s unreadable because the ink soaks too much into it, causing ugly smudges. Is this the quality level you plan to use for my works? Remember, this is a business transaction that predates my affair with your daughter, and I expect you to keep the two things in their proper perspective. Your other publications don’t show this level of poor quality, and these gallies are of lower quality than a cheap broadsheet. I expect better quality within the week or I’ll seek court action.
\nIn the Year of Our Lord, 1535
\nHarold Parsons.<\/p>\nMr. Browntree,
\nThese are much better. I think we’re on the right track, and if we keep up this standard we should turn out an excellent book. Please continue in this direction.
\nI understand, as your note mentioned, that you’re angry with me on the other matter. Of course it wasn’t my intention to get your lovely daughter Anne with child. And of course I have no intention of abandoning her. With the sales of my book I should have no problem caring for her. Please don’t concern yourself about her future, as she’s in my hands. I know that we can work all of this out as we start the new year.
\nIn the Year of Our Lord, 1535
\nHarold Parsons.<\/p>\nMr. Browntree,
\nI received the last set of gallies for my book, and they are beautiful. I’m ready to start the next stage of our publication after the yuletide break.
\nOn to a more personal matter, I can’t have Anne at my door all the time. I’m a writer, and I need quiet time to work. She’s a terrible distraction, and my neighbors have complained about her outbursts and yelling tirades. At this point I think it would be best if you enroll her in a convent. This will help her come to terms with the realities of her situation. Of course I love her, but she’s got some expectations that we never discussed or that I never even hinted at, and I think some quiet contemplation time will be best for her. Of course I’ll pledge funds toward her maintenance as soon as my book sells, but right now I’m tight on resources. Publishing a book is not cheap, even in this modern day and age, as you well know.
\nIn the Year of Our Lord, 1536
\nHarold Parsons.<\/p>\nMr. Browntree,
\nI beseech you to come to my aid. Yesterday morning the constables took me into custody under order of the most wise king for charges of sedition. They claim that my book contains text that is defamatory to the king. I would of course never dream of saying anything that was not the greatest praise of our great Henry VIII, but somehow they think what I wrote is of that nature. Mr. Browntree, you have my original manuscript, please show it to them and prove my innocence of these charges. I’m groveling at your feet, as you alone can save me from this false charge.
\nIn the Year of Our Lord, 1536
\nHarold Parsons.<\/p>\nMr. Browntree,
\nI don’t know what to say. You say Anne burned my original folios in anger because I was unfair to her? I can’t imagine how she’d think that. Of course our passions have cooled a bit, but that was entirely her fault, as no man can keep an ardent love for a woman who screams at him and cries as much as your daughter has. And I’m truly sorry her pregnancy has been so difficult. But there’s no reason for her to take this attitude against me. Her life is a bit unpleasant, but mine is at risk, for the penalty for treason is death.
\nPerhaps if you could testify on my behalf that would be enough. I didn’t know I had any rivals, and I have no idea how someone could get access to early folios from my book without breaking into your shop. But what the constables are saying is patently false. Calling the king a serial murderer and abuser of women? I can’t believe anyone would think that I, the most loyal subject of our wise and powerful king, would even dream of writing anything like that. Zounds, I wouldn’t even think it, much less say it or commit it to paper. Please intervene for me or I fear Jack Ketch will have me as his guest.
\nIn the Year of Our Lord, 1536
\nHarold Parsons.<\/p>\nBrowntree,
\nI don’t know why you refuse to speak on my behalf with the courts. You know what I wrote. Somehow they have the mistaken impression you feel I’m a traitor too. Please disabuse the judge of this before it’s too late.
\nI’m sorry to hear about Anne, though I’m glad to hear she didn’t suffer the fate of her child. I’m hoping that she can grow past all of that and move on with her life. I guess it’s too much to expect her to visit me, as her mercurial nature made it clear to me that she finds solace in blaming all her troubles on me. I find it unjust of her, as I tried to treat her well, but too many words have been written already about the fickle nature of women.
\nPlease rescue me. You alone have the power to free me from this prison and keep me from the noose.
\nIn the Year of Our Lord, 1536
\nHarold Parsons.<\/p>\nUnto the most vile and duplicitous Edward Browntree,
\nWords fail at my contempt for you. Your testimony at my trial contained not a shred of truth. Yes, I did contract you to publish my book on the glories of our king, but from there you never once touched the truth. I have no idea where you got those manuscripts that included the false text, though I can guess that as a scion of corruption and villainy you have regular congress with forgers. You must know some second floor men as well, because no scrap of the gallies with the correct text could be found, and now the constables believe that I’ll make up any story to try to save my neck.
\nTell that harridan you fathered that between the two of you an innocent man will hang, and injustice will have won. Of course I always intended to marry her, even with her weakness of character and personal faults. But you, with your treachery and cobbled together lying folios, have destined her to spinsterhood. I hope that thought comforts you when you grow older, knowing that your daughter could have been a wife instead of an unclean woman of poor repute.
\nMy sincerest wish is to be there at the gates of heaven when Saint Peter casts you down into the burning fires of hell for your falsehoods and manipulation. May your life be painful, difficult, and short.
\nIn the Year of Our Lord, 1536
\nHarold Parsons.<\/p>\nMy dearest Father,
\nHe’s done for. I know you didn’t want to watch him on the gallows, but of course I had to go see it for myself. He was so undignified, crying and yelling as they dragged him up the steps. His last words were to claim his innocence and curse both you and me.
\nThe spectacle was almost too much for me. Paul had to hold me up as I came close to fainting. I’m glad he was there, and I know he’s far more a man than Harold was. I think he may come to talk to you soon, and if he does please know that I won’t object to his proposal. And I’m so glad Paul is an honest man. I don’t know what I was thinking by getting involved with a writer, and I’m looking forward to the more stable and honest life of the wife of a brick maker.
\nBut Harold Parsons is a part of history. I’m glad we’re rid of him. May the devil take all his brethren, at least the ones who try to despoil maidens, so we can be free of them.
\nIn love and respect,
\nYour daughter Anne Rowan Browntree.<\/p>\nBio: Nicole Massey is a writer, composer, and songwriter living in Dallas, Texas. She writes in multiple genres, including mainstream fiction, science fiction, fantasy, mystery, and romance. She also writes for role-playing game fan magazines. She lost her sight in 2003 and if you find it, she’d like to have it back. She can be reached at nyyki at gypsyheir dot com.<\/p>\n
\nChicks, Memoir
by Greg Pruitt<\/h2>\nAlong with the arrival of warmer weather in spring comes the promise of the rebirth of life and a renewed hope for the coming year. Symbolic of both is the egg and the newborn chick. The living form of that symbolism was given to my younger brother and me in the spring of 1953, when we each received a baby chick for Easter.<\/p>\n
These were not chicks that had been artificially colored with vibrant, spring pastels, like those popular three decades or so later, but rather the basic fluffy, yellow baby peeps.<\/p>\n
My brother and I kept our chicks in a large cardboard box. Inside the box were two bowls, one for water and another for food, which was some type of corn meal. The bottom of the box was lined with sheets of newspaper that could be changed daily. There was also a small lamp that provided enough heat to keep the tiny creatures warm. We named the birds Ted and Mickey after our favorite baseball players, but I was unable to ever distinguish one from the other.<\/p>\n
I was excited to share my pride and joy with my classmates, so I asked my first grade teacher if I could bring the chicks to school to show the class. My teacher thought that was a wonderful idea and said that she would contact my mother to arrange a convenient time.<\/p>\n
A few days passed and finally the big day arrived. Our class had been told that we would have a surprise visitor that morning. I smiled and felt special, because I was the only student who knew the name of our guest.<\/p>\n
We spent the first part of the morning, as usual, struggling with the adventures of Dick and Jane. Pretending to read, I watched the little girl who sat in the seat next to me, as she slyly reached into her desk, dipped her tiny index finger into her open jar of white paste, and then stuck her finger into her mouth. I recall that the paste had a delicate peppermint bouquet, but I never considered eating it. She snacked like that throughout the day, and as far as I know suffered no ill effects.<\/p>\n
Because of my eager anticipation, the first hour of school seemed to pass more slowly than ever. The red second hand on the wall clock with it’s white face and large black numbers seem mired in glue as it marked the passage of each minute, but finally, there was a soft knock on the door. It was my mother with the box of chicks. We could hear excited peeping and scratching as she brought the container into the center of the room and set it on the floor. My mother was introduced and she explained that the birds were mine, and I had wanted my classmates to see my new pets.<\/p>\n
Children jostled one another as they pressed in seeking a better view. Little girls squealed and said that the tiny balls of puff were so cute. I was proud that my possessions were the center of attention. I held either Ted or Mickey and allowed my classmates to touch his fuzzy, little head. After I had explained how I took care of my small friends, I answered questions. Eventually, my presentation ended, the box was closed and my mother took its cargo home.<\/p>\n
For the next few weeks, my brother and I continued to play with our pets from day to day. Of course each week the chicks’ growth was quite dramatic. Within a month or so they had outgrown their box. They had also begun to change color. They were no longer yellow, but white. They were becoming mature birds. It was also apparent that they would not be a source of eggs, for as we had somehow guessed, they were both roosters with bright red combs and wattles.<\/p>\n
I doubt that my parents had ever planned on eggs. In fact I don’t think they had even prepared for the day when the chickens would be too large to keep in the house. They had not thought of anything beyond how much fun it would be to see the joy on the faces of their young boys when they first saw that Easter surprise. Now there was no room for four people, two roosters, and a Cocker Spaniel named Susie to live in our tiny 800 square foot home. We were living in the middle of a large city, not in a dirt floor shack in some undeveloped country, so our feathery guests were moved to the garage where they would have more space. The family Chevrolet was displaced to the driveway.<\/p>\n
Inside the one car structure, the birds had free range. We could open the side service door when they needed feeding, or when we wanted to play with them. As you can imagine, they made a mess of the place. Their droppings and feathers were everywhere. We could find the birds hiding under tables and chairs, or in the rafters. All of that was troublesome, but the real annoyance began at dawn and lasted throughout the day. They crowed constantly. We awoke each morning, as did our neighbors, to their persistent racket.<\/p>\n
The garage had a small window, so the light inside simulated a perpetual sunrise, prompting the roosters to announce the approach of morning throughout the day.<\/p>\n
We tolerated all of the mess and noise until the afternoon when one of the roosters attacked my brother. Prior to that time, they had pecked at us occasionally on the hands and legs, but this time one struck just to the side of his left eye. The sight of his bleeding face and the horrifying thought of the tragedy that had been narrowly avoided was enough to force my parents to make a decision.<\/p>\n
A few days later, after I returned from school, my mother informed me that the chickens were gone. They had been taken to my aunt and uncle’s small farm where they had more room to run and play. I was told that we could visit them anytime we liked, however, I only recall going once to the farm to see the chickens. I missed the little guys for a while, but honestly roosters make very poor pets, so I understood that life on the farm was probably better.<\/p>\n
The summer passed and soon it was time again for school. During the warmer weather holidays, we would occasionally have family picnics. Labor Day was a good time for such a celebration. That year, our gathering would be at my aunt and uncle’s place in the country.<\/p>\n
I remember that day being hot and humid, typical for that season. I played games with my cousins, and spent time exploring the barn and nearby woods. Eventually it was time for dinner.<\/p>\n
Four or five tables with chairs had been arranged on the lawn. There were cold drinks, salads, casseroles, and platters of meat and fried chicken.<\/p>\n
I was hungry, so I eagerly filled my plate and began to eat. I had taken several bites from a crispy chicken leg before I realized that all conversation had ceased. I looked around and noticed that everyone was staring in my direction. My uncle, who was sitting across from me, had a smile on his face.<\/p>\n
He asked, \u201cHow do you like your chicken?\u201d<\/p>\n
I told him that the chicken was good, and I liked it.<\/p>\n
He then proceeded to tell me that I was eating one of my roosters. I was shocked. People around me began to laugh. The stricken look on my face must have been comical.<\/p>\n
I placed the chicken leg on which I had been chewing back on my dish. I stared at my parents, as tears welled up, but I didn’t cry. A moment or two later I reluctantly resumed eating, but not the chicken. I was offered some meat, but declined. I hadn’t seen my dog that morning, and I wasn’t taking any chances.<\/p>\n
To say I was traumatized by my experience would be and exaggeration, but the event left me with an unforgettable memory. I know that my parents were not being intentionally cruel when they offered my birds for consumption, and today I agree that the whole scene was probably very funny. After all, they were only chickens, but following that day, I admit that I was no longer so trusting of adults. If my uncle had not mentioned the source of our meal, I would have never been the wiser. Eventually, I am sure the memory of my birds would have faded, but now I seldom eat a piece of chicken without thinking about the day we ate my pets.<\/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
\nLove Through the Years, Memoir
by Jerri Williams<\/h2>\nOn a sunny afternoon in May 1957, I walked across the campus of the Colorado School for the Deaf and Blind in Colorado Springs. I was on my way to gym class. The sun was warm on my back. Birds were singing from trees along the way, and the fragrance of lilacs added charm and joy to the day.<\/p>\n
As I reached the crosswalk that joined two sidewalks, I experienced an inner awareness of this moment being a defining moment in my life. I knew for certain that I was in love with Ted, and that my life would be forever tied to his. I did not understand this knowledge, and I had no idea from whence it came. I just knew what I knew.<\/p>\n
Ted was to graduate in early June. He was accepted in college, and I had no illusions he was interested in me. In the small population of the school, all students were acquainted, and he was passively polite to me and the other girls my age. As far as I knew, he didn’t have a girlfriend, but it was likely he wasn’t going to want me as that special girl. He was moving on to college, and I was still in high school.<\/p>\n
Although I didn’t stalk him, (which no one knew anything about then) I arranged my activities as much as possible to be in the same places he was. Again, in a small population, that wasn’t hard. I didn’t make a pest of myself, nor did I call attention to myself. I just wanted to absorb him while I could.<\/p>\n
“A White Sport Coat and a Pink Carnation” by Marty Robbins was heard on radios all over campus that May. I secretly claimed it as “my song,” as I thought about Ted wearing his white sport coat to perform his piano solo in the senior recital. I wasn’t a weepy teen-ager. There were no tears during the concert, just quiet awareness.<\/p>\n
Graduation arrived. I went home for the summer months. Then I became a weepy teen-ager. I spent my days reading romantic novels, writing sad poetry, and crying at the drop of a hat. I had never before or since wept so many useless tears. I drove my twelve-year-old sister out of the house and nearly drove my mother around the bend. This grieving lasted until August when I decided enough was enough and pulled myself together. I spent my time at school, until my own graduation in 1961, involved in every activity and interest available.<\/p>\n
Ted was always in the corner of my heart and tucked away in the corner of my mind. Our paths crossed a couple of times, briefly and impersonally. Then we were thrown together in May of 1968.<\/p>\n
In the ensuing years, Ted had attended college for two years and then entered a two-year program sponsored by the CIA. They believed that blind men and women would make excellent Russian translators. Ted excelled at the program but also became an alcoholic. His drinking eventually caused him to be removed from the program. He returned to Colorado from Washington, D.C. and enrolled in the last two years of his college studies. That didn’t go well.<\/p>\n
Along the way, he began attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and things improved. He finished his degree in 1967. By that time, he had lost interest in academics and his earlier plans for teaching at the college level no longer appealed to him.<\/p>\n
Ted was a fine musician. He played piano, organ, accordion, and stand-up bass. He played bass in a very good combo that performed in bars around town. He had contact with Rehab to help him find employment. At that time, I was operating a coffee shop in Colorado Springs that was part of the vending stand through the state. I began there in 1963. I was asked by personnel at Rehab if I would be willing to train someone for the stand program. I agreed, and that someone was Ted.<\/p>\n
He trained at my stand for six weeks, then moved on to another stand in Colorado Springs. We began dating almost immediately and continued after he left my stand. As Rehab was wont to do in those days, after Ted finished his training, they never contacted him for further assignments or different direction.<\/p>\n
In the fall of 1969, he moved to the Western Slope of Colorado to work with a band there. Our road was a rocky one, so the separation was timely. Every troubled relationship has two sides and two responsible individuals. I could not and would not be a party to his addictions to alcohol and marijuana. He was a mean drunk, and I wasn’t a doormat. Time passed.<\/p>\n
In June of 1972, Ted returned to Colorado Springs and called to ask if I would see him. I had dated quite a few guys over the years, but none had replaced Ted. I agreed to meet with him.<\/p>\n
On July 4th, he traveled back to the Western Slope to gather loose ends and finish out a contract with the band. He proposed to me, and I accepted. I was thirty years old, and I wasn’t starry-eyed and wearing rose-colored glasses, but I knew I still loved him and was willing to give us a chance. I will admit now that I had some reservations, but I wanted to have a life with him.<\/p>\n
Shortly after midnight on July 27th, 1972, the phone rang. It was Ted’s mother, telling me Ted had drowned in a fishing accident while he was at the lake with some of his friends. No one, other than the guys who were there, ever knew what really happened. They were all drinking and perhaps smoking marijuana. They denied that of course. There was a coroner’s inquest, and the findings were accidental death by drowning. So that was that.<\/p>\n
Ted still has that corner in my heart and mind. After forty-five years, I can still honestly say I love him. There were other men along the way, but no one who truly interested me. I’m okay with that, really. I’m an independent person and have no problems enjoying my own company. After I did what I could to care for my dad and mom, which I did willingly, I am grateful for this time on my own. Loving Ted is just a fact of life.<\/p>\n
Bio: Jeri Williams lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado and is retired after thirty years of employment. She has been blind since 1953 as a result of detached retinas. She was previously published in Slate and Style<\/em> and Dialog Magazine<\/em>. Her interests include reading, crocheting, and listening to baseball games. She enjoys all music except rap, metal, and other noise. This is her first submission to Magnets and Ladders<\/em>.<\/p>\n
\nBoat Ride, Memoir
by John Justice<\/h2>\nGrowing up in Cape May new Jersey was almost always interesting, occasionally frightening and often hilarious. I would wander streets around my mother’s market, just to see where they went. I didn’t have a cane or a guide dog at that time. These days, I wonder how I didn’t get hurt.<\/p>\n
A long canal called The Inland Waterway passes by Cape May and eventually opens into the Delaware Bay. Along that canal are marinas where boats and outboard motors could be rented. I found one of those marinas and made friends with Mr. Kelly, the proprietor. The first time we met, he came out of the office and called to me as I stepped up onto the long wharf where his boats were tied. He was concerned that I might fall into the water. But it wasn’t long before he realized that I was cautious and soon I became a regular visitor.<\/p>\n
At that time, I was reading a series of books written by C. S. Forester. They were about a man named Horatio Hornblower. The stories began when he was a young man that entered the British navy as a midshipman. Each book depicted a different part of his life as he rose in rank until he retired as an admiral. I couldn’t put them down. I have always loved boats and the sea. Growing up as I did in Cape May, that shouldn’t have been a surprise.<\/p>\n
With that in mind, I asked Mr. Kelly if I could sit in one of his boats. After some thought, he agreed. I would sit there, pretending that I was Horatio Hornblower, while the gentle current rocked the boat at its moorings.<\/p>\n
Kelly’s Marina was a busy place during the summer months. I could hear families climbing into their rented boats, starting the motors and moving away down the canal. No one bothered or seemed to notice me.<\/p>\n
The Inland Waterway runs for many miles and was once a regular route for small ships carrying cargo to the seashore towns. As times changed, trucks took up the burden and commercial traffic was rare. But that canal is close enough to the bay that it has a tidal flow. When the tide ebbs, the water moves down the canal at approximately three miles an hour. When the tide returns, the level of the canal rises as much as three or four feet. Mr. Kelly knew all about those conditions. His boats had a long rope attached to them. They are often referred to as a \u201cpainter\u201d. No one seems to know why.<\/p>\n
When disaster struck, I was sitting in one of the boats, having my usual adventures, when three teen-aged boys walked along the wharf. One of them detached the painter holding my boat in place. I never heard a thing. He lowered the rope into the water and those boys stood there while the boat drifted away from the dock and out toward the center of the canal. At that time, the tide began to ebb and the current carried me and the boat down toward the bay. When I reached for the painter to pull myself up against the wharf, the end of the rope came up to me. I reached out and felt nothing. It took a moment for me to realize what had happened, but I finally understood that I was going for an unintended boat ride right down the Inland Waterway. I called for help but no one responded. Mr. Kelly was in the office, arguing with a customer about a bill.<\/p>\n
Boats passed me going up the waterway and I tried calling and waving to them. For some reason, no one seemed to notice.<\/p>\n
The sun was hot that summer afternoon and I could feel it burning down on my neck and shoulders. I was wearing sandals, shorts and an open necked t-shirt. Even then, I knew that a serious burn was in my immediate future.<\/p>\n
It was the cooling of the sun that warned me first. I was passing through the shadow created by something large straight ahead. Then, I heard the noise. I was just about to go under the old wooden bridge which led into Cape May from the mainland. There was a tremendous crash and a grinding sound. The boat had struck one of the pilings which supported the bridge. As the slimy post dragged along the boat, I tried to grab it and stop myself. Unfortunately, the post was too large, covered with weed and barnacles and the tide was far too strong. In a very short time, the boat had cleared the obstacle and I was moving away from the bridge.<\/p>\n
By this time, I was exhausted and decided to lie down in the bottom of the boat and rest for a while. The boat was dry and had a flat smooth bottom. It wasn’t long before I had fallen asleep.<\/p>\n
A loud voice woke me. \u201cYoung man! Wake up!\u201d I sat up and felt the gentle movement of the open bay. I heard a large boat idling nearby. Just like the cavalry in an old Western movie, the United States Coastguard had come to my rescue. One of the crewmen used a boathook to snag the painter and pulled my craft close. They helped me onto the deck and a medical corps man sprayed my shoulders and back with some kind of application which relieved the pain I was feeling. They brought me into the main cabin and showed me a seat. An officer spoke to me. \u201cI’m Lieutenant Carstairs. What is your name? How did you get out here all alone without a motor or paddles? Where do you live?\u201d I explained about Kelly’s marina, answered all of his questions and provided my mother’s phone number at her market.<\/p>\n
The cutter brought me back to the Coastguard base and my mother met me there. She brought me home. But on the way, we stopped at Kelly’s and my mother raised the devil. Mr. Kelly had just been out on the wharf, counting his boats. When he discovered that one was missing, he started asking questions. At first, he thought that I had accidentally unhooked the painter, but I told him I would never do that. \u201cI’m blind Mr. Kelly. Where would I go, especially on the water?\u201d Finally, Mr. Kelly learned that his own grandson had disconnected the painter, just to see what would happen. When the current took hold of my boat, he and his friends vanished. The boy swore he never intended to cause me any danger. My mother was livid! \u201cSuppose the Coastguard hadn’t found him! The Inland Waterway empties into the bay! My son could have been lost out there!\u201d she got no further. Mr. Kelly must have been thinking along the same lines. He marched the boy outside and we heard a lot of yelling. Moments later, the boy was given another boat and a motor. He was ordered to go down to the Coastguard base and retrieve the boat.<\/p>\n
I learned later that the entire side of my boat had been scraped and damaged by that bridge piling. Mr. Kelly made the boy repair the damage and repaint the boat. He would never allow me to sit in one of his boats again.<\/p>\n
Later that summer, my Mother, sister and I did rent one of his boats and a motor. We went into a part of the shoreline called \u201cThe marsh Lands\u201d. Our mission was crabbing. The reed beds and muddy bottom were ideal for the large blue clawed crabs we were looking for. We tried one location, but got very little response. So, we tried to move to a better hunting ground. The outboard motor wouldn’t start. I tried pulling the starter cable again and again, but it just wouldn’t work. We sat there for almost three hours. During that time, we did manage to net eleven nice crabs. Then another boat came along. They towed us back to Kelly’s marina. My mother confronted Mr. Kelly. \u201cRon, are you trying to kill off my family? First, you send my son out into the bay with no paddles or motor. Then you send us out into the marshes with a motor that quit working!\u201d After a minute, Mr. Kelly started to laugh. He bent over and grabbed his knees. He roared until tears came out of his eyes.<\/p>\n
We never had a chance to go down to Kelly’s marina again. It wasn’t long after that day that Mr. Kelly sold the business and moved away.<\/p>\n
\nCrossings, poetry
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/h2>\nJanuary 2003
\nHe’s in the Persian Gulf,
\nHis submarine is hiding;
\nIn a chilled crystal cup of comfort
\nShe hides her premonition.<\/p>\nFebruary 1851
\nRun, pray, hide her son,
\nEliza finds the river;
\nThe ice is thin and patchy,
\nHope leads her across.<\/p>\nMarch 1853
\nThe potato famine made them leave;
\nWhen will land be sighted?
\nThe lady with a torch in hand?
\nWill this be their new home?<\/p>\nApril 1912
\nThe richest, roomiest ship of all?
\nWhy are they in the water?
\nWhere is her happy ever after?
\nShe cries out his name!<\/p>\nMay 1970
\nRosa can swim the Rio Grande,
\nBut what about the children?
\nJuan will tie them in a tube,
\nThat’s the only way.<\/p>\nJune 2005
\nShe dreams her fiftieth birthday bash
\nAt a luau with a Mai Tai;
\nHe brought brochures from a cruise line,
\nShould she buy seasick pills?<\/p>\nJuly 1847
\nThe current took their wagon under,
\nShe lost her mama’s china;
\nHe tries to dry her tears away,
\nShe begs to go back home.<\/p>\nAugust 1990
\nBig bass boat, ready for the lake,
\nKids are out of school;
\nSingle mom, romance in tow,
\nThey chase her with the worms.<\/p>\nSeptember 1782
\nStrong hands built her birch canoe,
\nShe leaves a gentle wake;
\nPlants the medicine man will need
\nGrow on the other bank.<\/p>\nOctober 1968
\n“Draft dodger! Coward!”
\nCat calls, reprisals;
\nLady Liberty, where are you?
\nHe wants to come home.<\/p>\nNovember 1919
\nThe shortcut takes the kids to school,
\nThe swinging bridge is sagging;
\nPapa needs to fix it soon;
\nDavid carries Sissy across.<\/p>\nDecember 1944
\nHe’s in the pacific,
\nGuam? The Philippines?
\nWhen the moon is right they find their star,
\nReach and whisper there.<\/p>\nBio: 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 2013. Another of her interests is music\u2013barbershop harmony, folk and Americana, and current hits. Visit her website at: http:\/\/www.marilynspages.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n
\nRoger: The Early Years, Sestina poetry
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/h2>\nAuthor’s Note: This sestina is written from my husband’s point of view.<\/p>\n
As a child I lived down in the country,
\nWe lived about a half a mile from church.
\nOur house was much too small to hold five sisters
\nAnd two brothers, but somehow, we all stayed close.
\nThe thing we liked to do the most was sing,
\nThe next best thing was definitely to eat.<\/p>\nMy mother grew the food we had to eat,
\nWe always killed a hog down in the country,
\nWe’d pick the chickens, stand around and sing,
\nCouldn’t work on Sunday, that was church.
\nMy twin sister and I were very close,
\nShe was the youngest one of all the sisters.<\/p>\nImagine just two brothers among those sisters,
\n‘Cause we were boys, we earned a bit more to eat;
\nWe were down a gravel road, no one lived close,
\nThat’s how it was in Kentucky tobacco country.
\nThe only place to walk to was the church,
\nI learned to play the piano when we’d sing.<\/p>\nMy twin and I went to other towns to sing,
\nTwo gospel groups grabbed two more of my sisters.
\nMy uncle drove us around from church to church,
\nOf course they gave us lots of stuff to eat.
\nMy twin’s boyfriend went to a foreign country,
\nTo fight a war; they wrote so they’d stay close.<\/p>\nMaking both ends meet just got too close
\nFor comfort, and they didn’t pay us to sing;
\nIt was too late to make a living in farm country.
\nWe sold milk to Pet dairy, and all my sisters
\nHad to get up early so they could eat
\nAnd milk before time for school or church.<\/p>\nOur mama got a job cleaning the church,
\nDaddy worked in town, which wasn’t close;
\nWe had more money, got more food to eat,
\nBought a few more records to help us sing.
\nHusbands finally captured all my sisters,
\nMy brother and I found jobs and left the country.<\/p>\nI’m glad I grew up in the country and the church;
\nMy sisters still live there, and we’re still close;
\nWe sing our hearts out when we get together to eat.<\/p>\n
\nPart III. From a Different Perspective<\/h1>\n
Meet you in the Intermissional sauna, fiction Second Place
by Brad Corallo<\/h2>\n\u201cHello, my old friend. I have been waiting for you. But where were you? You look terrible!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI was on a small obscure planet named Earth. I don’t recommend the place at all. I mean, the planet was beautiful once, but the highest level life forms have turned the place into a workhouse out of a Dickens novel.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you talking about and what in the universe is a \u201cDickens novel?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, sorry, Dickens was a great story teller on Earth. Hey, can someone pour some more water on those rocks? I really need to cleanse Earth off myself!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, sorry I have been ungracious. More water and a soft cloud towel for your comfort.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAH, balm for the returning warrior. I really do need some to recover from that last mission.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course my friend, decompress for as long as you need. I won’t bother you with annoying questions until you have sloughed off the detritus of your trying mission.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks, I will tell my story after I have chilled in this lovely warm place–well you know what I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWake up my friend. It has been one half an era and you appear like your old self again.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, thank you I do feel fully unburdened. But how long have you been here?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, quite a while. My last mission was on Eridani-B-prime, where the life forms Clantajanet living rock beings have 10 Era long life spans.
\nSo I had no trouble getting extended time here in the sauna.\u201d<\/p>\n\u201cWell, good for you. One good thing about these crazy multiple mission journeys that we’re all on, is they do allow for much quality time in between.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh sure, they are very lenient about time. I mean, you could remain here for an Eon or two before anyone even begins to try to move the process along. And, even after this, there is the cherishing and channeling to go through and that also takes a good long time. When all that is over, you are all gung ho to choose another suitable mission and take the next step on your journey back to The Clearlight.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPerhaps, but even after all that, I think I will retain some memory of my Earth mission. The highest level beings, they call them humans, really well, suck!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey do what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh sorry again just a term they use a lot down there. For example, when I was a roving wave latus on Aldeberon-4, it wasn’t the best of all missions, but at least things made sense there. Earth, forget it. The creatures there–wow! They have such great potential but their most important values are greed and popular fancy. It is so discouraging.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell yes, that doesn’t sound like much fun. Is it worse than a mission as a Plutonian cave slug?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh yeah, I’d be a PCS anytime over a human. They do have lower life forms; I think they call them dats and cogs which are pretty cool. I suggest if you are ever mad enough to choose to mission there, be one of those. Just forget about being one of those totally frustrating human creatures. You won’t believe it but they have actually created a mechanism to destroy their entire species and much of the planet and its other life forms.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cReally? I mean, why? Are they extraordinarily stupid?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, they are not exactly stupid but they don’t work and play well with one another. They love to create artificial divisions between groups of themselves so they can fight.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy do they do that? I must say it sounds pretty stupid to me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI really don’t know why. That is the frustrating part, as they also do things which cause them to appear as beings with great compassion. It is so confusing. The dats and cogs try to help them by offering unconditional love and the humans do love their pets but they never learn to extend such love to each other.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWait a minute, what is a pet?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry again, I really have to stop using their expressions. When a dat or cog lives with them, they call it a pet. I think this means that this is a designation that the dat or cog is a delightful and enjoyable possession of the human it lives with.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cVery curious and strange. How can other living beings be possessions?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is even worse than that, in their recent history, they did the same thing with members of their own species.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWow, so they have created the means to destroy themselves and they enslave their own kind and other intelligent species. I am beginning to understand why you have been so affected by your mission there.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI am just hoping that when I receive the cherishing and channeling I gain a greater understanding of that place through The Clearlight.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFor your sake, I hope so too. I would suggest, if it fits your development profile, a mission on Synclavier-2 as one of their cloud beings. It is very peaceful and you get to observe and learn a lot.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell thanks, I will keep that suggestion in mind and will consider it very seriously at the time of choosing. But wait, another of our old companions has just entered the sauna. Let us greet our old friend.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOld friend we both welcome you! But you look awful. What happened?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh may The Clearlight preserve me. I just came from a mission in a terrible place called\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon’t say it,\u201d said the first two old friends, \u201cI think we can guess. More water for the rocks, quickly!\u201d<\/p>\n
Dedicated to the memory and work of Kurt Vonnegut.<\/p>\n
Bio: Brad Corallo is a Sixty-year-old writer in multiple genres. He is a Long Island native born and raised. His work has been published in six previous issues of Magnets and Ladders<\/em>, in the William B. Joslin Outstanding Performance Awards Program Journal NYSID Preferred Source Solutions<\/em> and on the Facebook page of The Red Wolf Coalition. Brad has been a life long student of fine wine, food, music, books, several professional sports and relationships of all kinds. He makes his living as a certified rehabilitation counselor (CRC) and mental health therapist. Due to LCA (a very rare genetic retinal condition) Brad has had impaired and worsening vision throughout his lifetime.<\/p>\n
\nCosmic Bowling, fiction Honorable Mention
by Shawn Jacobson<\/h2>\nIn these days when we travel the stars, and there are no limits to our aspirations, it is tempting to think that this was inevitable, as if human progress were a mighty river carving out a course through history. It was not. Indeed, we almost never made it off the planet of our birth. We owe it to luck, or at least great strangeness that we did.<\/p>\n
If you want to know the story from someone who experienced the events on which history hinged, you need to hear about a time we call \u201cback in the day.\u201d In these times, life was short and our horizons were bounded by the world on which we lived.<\/p>\n
Back in the day, I had no thoughts of space and no aspirations beyond the small town where I lived. I was just a kid who existed within the bounds of school and the rules of adults. I studied, got into and out of trouble, and did part time jobs to fill the gas tank of my old car. One of these jobs was at the local bowling alley.<\/p>\n
I was working the shoe rental counter the day the spaceship landed. It came down with a horrendous roar, landing on a vacant lot across the street. Everyone came running to look, but I never got a good look at the thing. From behind the counter, I could not see over the crowd that gathered at the building’s one window. From glimpses through the mob, I could only tell that it was huge and didn’t look like an airplane, or what I expected a spaceship to be.<\/p>\n
Beyond that, what I know is what I heard: the sudden silence as the motors, or whatever, cut out; some thuds as it settled to the ground; and the intake of breath from the crowd waiting with fear and awe. You must understand that none of us had ever seen a real spaceship, let alone creatures from another world; we had no idea what would come down the ramp into our lives.<\/p>\n
And then they came in the door, two of them. The one looked like some big lizard sort of thing, something out of a cheesy dinosaur movie. The other, just think of a waist high caterpillar with lots, and I mean lots, of legs. We all kind of stood around gaping. Finally, Emily, who was waiting tables at the small restaurant that served the bowlers said, \u201cCan’t you see, they want to bowl.\u201d<\/p>\n
Emily was about as down to earth as one could be. She had a large brood of kids, I think eight, but I always lost count. Raising that big a family had made her pretty hard to rattle. \u201cIf the president wants to learn to negotiate with the Russians, he should come here when Billy and Jimmy are fighting over toys,\u201d she’d said during the last foreign policy mess. If anyone was up for an alien invasion, or whatever this was, Emily would be the woman for the job.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood evening,\u201d I said. \u201cDo you want to bowl?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d the lizard thing said. \u201cWe’d like two alleys. We heard that you offer cosmic bowling, so we thought that this would be a good place for us to bowl, where we might fit in on a world new to us.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt starts at midnight,\u201d I said, proud of my calm, matter of fact, response. \u201cYou’re early.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat’s OK,\u201d the lizard-looking alien said. \u201cWe need to practice anyway. It’s been a long trip with no chance to bowl.\u201d Then after a moment’s silence, \u201cmy name is Oscar and she’s Beth.\u201d He pointed to himself then to the many legged creature beside him.<\/p>\n
\u201cI’m Dave,\u201d I said pointing to myself.<\/p>\n
\u201cGlad to meet you,\u201d Beth said snaking up a thing that looked like it could function as a hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cSame here,\u201d I said grabbing Beth’s whatever, then, \u201couch!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe does get carried away with the electricity,\u201d Oscar said. \u201cI would think she would be better grounded than that, but she always surprises me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWomen are supposed to surprise men,\u201d she said. \u201cIt’s how the cosmos works.\u201d Then to me she said, \u201cSorry,\u201d as I massaged my numb and tingling fingers.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet’s find you some shoes,\u201d I said as I wondered how in the galaxy I was going to find enough for all those legs.<\/p>\n
Oscar was easy, we have some basketball players at the college in town, so we stock some large bowling shoes. Beth was harder, had we not stocked extra shoes for the junior league we’d added this year, we would not have had nearly enough. As it was, she ended up wearing two different sizes. We got her outfitted as Oscar groused about how you shouldn’t offer cosmic bowling if you weren’t ready for the freaking cosmos.<\/p>\n
\u201cOr a cosmos of freaking freaks,\u201d Frank, our maintenance man muttered. \u201cI think I’ll go check on the pinsetters,\u201d he groused as he headed for the back of the alleys.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat would be good,\u201d said Emily.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don’t get many Omnipods here do you?\u201d Beth asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. Then, \u201care you an Omnipod then?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, and proud of it,\u201d she replied. \u201cAnd Oscar here is a Gricktor.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd proud of it,\u201d he rumbled as they headed down to the lanes to look for balls.<\/p>\n
It was good that Frank had gone back, for Oscar threw the ball so hard that it, along with the pins, flew out the back of the pinsetter. Frank had to retrieve projectiles until Oscar realized that these lanes required a softer touch. He also fouled badly until he shortened his steps to fit the approach. Just how long were the lanes he was used to, I wondered as one of his balls thundered through the pins.<\/p>\n
Beth, by contrast, took dainty little steps, which was a good thing since she was most of the length of the approach. Finally, after a confusing churn of legs, the ball came out, though I never saw the hand that released it.<\/p>\n
\u201cWas that a four-step or a forty-four-step approach?\u201d I wondered aloud.<\/p>\n
\u201cBeats me,\u201d Emily replied. \u201cDon’t matter as long as the ball makes it down the alley.\u201d<\/p>\n
As our guests worked on their game, kids from the college started showing up. Many of them had been attending the lecture by Dr. Grendleson, a famous writer of dystopian books. His best-known work, The Vampire Seed<\/em>, was about a miracle crop that was supposed to stop world hunger, but instead, well, the title said it all. Then there was his short story collection Vampire Ideas<\/em>. Reviewers said these stories covered the same graveyard as his novel. I hadn’t read them, so I didn’t know.<\/p>\n
Most of the kids had never set foot here. I doubt some of them had ever bowled in their lives, but a couple of the folk I know who were semi-regulars, got up their nerve and rented shoes. I gave them the lanes next to Oscar and Beth, just to see if they would go through with bowling; they did. I dimmed the lights and turned on the strobes; cosmic bowling could come early tonight.<\/p>\n
And that started the rush. People decided that bowling with aliens was something you just didn’t get to do every day. I got incredibly busy renting shoes. Soon I had turned on all the lanes. As I turned the last one on, a scaly hand touched my shoulder.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you need for us to share?\u201d Oscar asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you want,\u201d I said wondering if anyone would want the same lanes that they were on. Two college kids, neither of them familiar to the place, worked up the courage to bowl with them.<\/p>\n
\u201cLooks like everything is going well,\u201d Emily said, giving me a look of pure relief.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were afraid of the aliens?\u201d I asked. I realized that we had all been worried. The wonder and strangeness had covered the fear, but it was still there, lurking in the background.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Emily said. \u201cI was worried for our guests. This town is not known for welcoming strangers even with the college and everything, even if they’re just folk.\u201d<\/p>\n
I tried to disagree with her, but found that I could not do so. Sure, the town had an abode of higher education, but the students didn’t mix with the townsfolk, especially different looking kids from other countries or from other cultures. We liked to think of ourselves as welcoming people, but I suspect our ability to welcome was not what it should be.<\/p>\n
Later, during a lull in restaurant business, Emily stopped by the front desk.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe girl bowling with Beth came up for a snack; she was talking about how Beth bowls.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI’d been wondering that myself,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cApparently,\u201d Emily said, \u201cshe uses some sort of telekinesis, just thinks the ball at the pins.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHmm,\u201d I said, \u201cthen she could think the ball in any direction as it was rolling, could help her bowl some truly impressive scores.\u201d From what I could tell, this wasn’t the case. Oscar and Beth were good enough, but our better league members could hold their own against them.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don’t think that is how it works,\u201d Emily said, \u201cor maybe it could work that way, but that would be cheating.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMakes as much sense as anything else tonight,\u201d I said. I pondered such things until a commotion at the door interrupted my thoughts.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs this where my audience got off to!\u201d a voice boomed. \u201cA bowling alley?\u201d He made it sound like we were involved in some savage rite from the dawn of man, a rite we should have given up when we discovered fire.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh Dr. Grendleson,\u201d one of the students from the lecture said, \u201cwe just heard about the aliens and\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFolly!\u201d Dr. Grendleson sneared working up a full professorial head of steam, \u201cutter bilge! Aliens are not real, they are merely social constructs cooked up by people without the sense to know\u2026\u201d he spluttered to a stop as what could be plainly seen on lanes eleven and twelve registered.<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought better of you punks,\u201d he bellowed. \u201cYou are supposed to be the cream of the crop, the flower of a new generation and here you are bowling like a bunch of yahoos.\u201d<\/p>\n
At this, he stormed toward the lanes so mad at the loss of his audience that he was oblivious to the universe around him. It was good that we had made the lanes wheelchair accessible or he would have stumbled down the stairs.<\/p>\n
\u201cDr., Dr. Grendleson, you shouldn’t be on the lanes without bowling shoes. It scuffs up the boards,\u201d I said as I headed down to catch him. I heard a thud as Oscar, apparently shocked by the goings on, dropped his ball. This is going to scuff things up bad, I thought, not that the doctor would care.<\/p>\n
\u201cWatch out for the ball!\u201d I yelled, but it did no good. The ball that Oscar dropped rolled under the doctor’s feet. He fell conking his head on the return with a crunching sound.<\/p>\n
We crowded around the doctor. Was he conscious? He wasn’t moving. Then came one of those history-book viral moments. It is a scene that you all know.<\/p>\n
Oscar lumbered over, bent down and cradled the Dr.’s head in hands that were gentle for all of their scaly hugeness. Beth flowed over on her many legs, lifted one and started stroking the man’s forehead. Slowly, the man stirred, grumbled to himself about delusions and mass psychosis, and unsteadily got to his feet. He staggered some before getting his feet properly under him.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe’ll be all right,\u201d Oscar said in a soft rumble.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey’re good people,\u201d Emily said as Oscar and Beth helped the doctor off the lanes.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood whatevers,\u201d Frank grunted rubbing life into arms sorely abused by flying pins.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood people,\u201d Emily reiterated as she returned to the restaurant. That settled things, even for Frank.<\/p>\n
As the aliens were leaving, Beth flowed by the counter.<\/p>\n
\u201cI’m sorry about pushing the ball under the doctor’s feet,\u201d she said. \u201cIt was wrong of me, but, well, saying that someone is only a social construct is a mortal insult in our culture. It denies our place in creation. I should have realized that he is like one of our little ones that we allow to pretend to be important, and well, I never meant to hurt him that much.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cUnderstood,\u201d I said to her retreating back, not knowing what to say when someone apologizes for telekinetic mayhem. All I knew was that things were going to change a lot now that we’d met the neighbors.<\/p>\n
And the world changed even more than I could have imagined. A lot of the schoolkids got a new interest in science; cutting math class was now considered the height of dorky behavior, and suddenly, being a science nerd was the epitome of cool.<\/p>\n
One of those schoolkids was Ben, the best friend of my younger brother. Ben was one of those guys who everyone knew was bright; he just didn’t apply himself. But after that evening in the bowling alley, Ben went from being shop-class bound to being the biggest science nerd in town; he studied even harder in college. Nobody in town was surprised when he invented the propulsion system that allowed us to have a real space program.<\/p>\n
I talked to the woman who discovered the secrets to life extension that gave us the abundance of years we now enjoy. She had grown up believing that science could only cause pollution, ecological disaster, the sort of things Dr. Grendleson’s books were full of. Those people at the bowling alley were just folks, just like us with their faults, but just folks, not monsters. Science had not made them evil. So, I decided to use my gifts for medical inquiry to see what I could learn. And if we get to that level at which they live, then maybe we can still be just folk ourselves.<\/p>\n
And so, with this newfound belief that we could make a better world for ourselves, we got serious about space, and many other things as well. We made a new world where even ordinary people could dream of the glories of the future.<\/p>\n
If you ever see Oscar or Beth in your travels, do thank them for visiting our world. We owe them much.<\/p>\n
Bio: Shawn Jacobson was born totally blind, but got some sight back after several eye operations. He has been working for the Federal Government for 33 years. He lives in Olney, MD with his wife, college aged son, and a pack of dogs.<\/p>\n
\nSeparate, poetry First Place
by Ann Chiappetta<\/h2>\nThere are times I feel it
\nWhen not invited
\nWhen the conversation stops upon entering a room.<\/p>\nAt these times
\nI don’t exist.<\/p>\nLike the megalithic bones on display
\nAt the Museum of Natural History,
\nI am a novelty
\nUsed for book reports
\nAnd admired by gawkers.<\/p>\nI am \u201cthe blind lady,\u201d
\nAnd \u201cthe lady with the guide dog\u201d
\nCoo-coo-achoo.<\/p>\nOften, I am not asked by others to share
\nBecause their assumptions
\nPrevent me from being included.<\/p>\nBlindness
\nIs So discomforting to others —
\nIt is easier to dismiss me
\nThan to challenge the comfort zone.<\/p>\nI often think, how can I be more like them
\nLess like me?<\/p>\nI don’t fit in.
\nI won’t assuage their discomfort.<\/p>\nIn the ebb and flow of the work day
\nHow do I tell these folks that I matter?
\nThat while I lack vision
\nI ache to be included.<\/p>\nWhen I am in the counseling room,
\nI ask patients to describe facial expressions,
\nNot just feelings or thoughts
\nDenote a change in tone, context and timbre
\nExplore meanings
\nRoot out exceptions
\nGrounding them
\nSoftening the scars.<\/p>\nI am reminded that
\nAt these times, I do matter.<\/p>\nBut outside the room
\nWell, that is another story.<\/p>\nThe forebears of family therapy would perish the thought of disability exclusion
\nYet, here I am, typing the prose.
\nExpressing it, trying
\nTo make sense of the rejection and pain I feel,
\nKnowing it is up to me to accept
\nWhat I cannot change.<\/p>\nBio: Ann Chiappetta M.S. is a writer, blindness advocate and family therapist. Ann is a member of the American Council of the Blind and the Lions Club. Her new book, Upwelling: Poems<\/em>, is available in both e book and print formats. To purchase her book or read an excerpt, go to: http:\/\/www.dvorkin.com\/annchiappetta\/<\/a>
\nTo read Ann’s blog, go to http:\/\/www.thought-wheel.com<\/a>
\nAnn lives in New Rochelle, NewYork, with her husband and pets.<\/p>\n
\nAwaking from an American Dream, poetry Honorable Mention
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/h2>\nI dozed and dreamed, and dreamed and dozed.
\nIn my dream, I saw barricades, wires, memorials–closed.
\nIn the foggy mist, along the Potomac,
\nthe monumental Lincoln stood, came momentarily back to life
\nto walk through his wavering Washington.<\/p>\nI dozed and dreamed, and dreamed some more.
\nThen, I saw the monumental man
\nwith modern barricades in each hand.
\nHe walked and walked along those famous streets;
\nhe paused a while at the World War II Memorial,
\nshook his head, and shed a tear.
\nThen, the gaunt figure gallantly walked on:
\nhe had more places to go, someone to meet.<\/p>\nI dreamed and dozed, and dreamed some more.
\nI felt tears on my pillow. Had they been there before?
\nNext, I saw President Lincoln join with another monumental man.
\nMoving away a barricade, President Lincoln shook the hand
\nof Doctor Martin Luther King.
\nHis statue, too, had come to life.
\nTogether, they picked up more barricades
\nand tossed the wires away.<\/p>\nI dreamed and dozed, and dreamed once more.
\nThis time, in my dream,
\nI saw a funeral cortege.
\nIn my view came not just one casket, but two.
\nIn the procession, President Lincoln and Doctor King walked slowly by.
\nSomehow, I managed to ask-
\nI don’t know how, I don’t know why:
\n\u201cWho are in those coffins?\u201d<\/p>\nPresident Lincoln nodded and said,
\n\u201cIn the first casket is Common Sense.\u201d<\/p>\nThen, Doctor King added,
\n\u201cIn the second coffin rests Hope.\u201d<\/p>\nAs I try to awaken from my American dream,
\nI hear from Mount Rushmore a mighty roar:
\n\u201cOld Faithful still gushes, but no one can see\u2026\u201d<\/p>\nFinally, I sit up and awake to a Washington reality.
\nWe have monumental reasons for needing change.<\/p>\nA little child stands by a closed gate and wonders,
\n\u201cIs this what you are leaving me?\u201d<\/p>\nI ask, \u201cIs this my America?
\nIs this the United States of America?\u201d<\/p>\nGod bless the American dreamers who can discuss
\nand disseminate real and decent, positive portraits
\nof change-in a Land of No Barricades,
\nin a land of monumental dreams
\nand monolithic reality.<\/p>\nBio: The Christmas Carriage and Other Writings of the holiday Season<\/em> is the first book by Alice Jane-Marie Massa. To read more about this collection of holiday memoirs, short stories, and poetry (available from Amazon, BARD, etc.), please visit Alice’s author page: http:\/\/www.dldbooks.com\/alicemassa\/<\/a>
\nAdditionally, Alice invites you to visit her Wordwalk blog:
\nhttp:\/\/alice13wordwalk.wordpress.com\/<\/a>
\nwhere, since 2013, she has posted her poetry, essays, memoirs, or short stories concerning her four guide dogs and other topics. With master’s degrees from Indiana State University and Western Michigan University, Alice taught for 25 years, including 14 years of teaching writing at Milwaukee Area Technical College.<\/p>\n
\nGetting Out, creative nonfiction
by Nancy Scott<\/h2>\nI am so bored, stuck in this apartment. My person isn’t very well now. She’s always been a bit of a flake, but she hurt her left arm, and she uses the walker now. She isn’t fast and she doesn’t always pay attention.<\/p>\n
But that other woman’s coming. I can hear her- all the way in the bedroom. She has a long cane. She can’t see. I rub up against her if I want her to pet me. And I purr because she hears well. It always works.<\/p>\n
My person opens the door. The not-seeing-woman comes in. I stay away until she sits. Then I go into my act and get fussed over.<\/p>\n
And then they talk. And talk. My person likes to talk. She talks to me a lot. Eventually, the not-seeing-woman will leave and I will have my chance.<\/p>\n
It takes forever. I crunch on dry cat food, wash myself, roll around, and even take a cat nap. Finally, the not-seeing-woman moves slowly to the door. My person stands and follows part way.<\/p>\n
Door open, the not-seeing-woman tries not to let me out but I am fast. I stay away from her body so she won’t catch me. I make it, even though I am big.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome back here,\u201d my person scolds as she hobbles toward the door.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome here, Tina,\u201d sweetly says the not-seeing-woman. She puts down her hand to tempt me but I am smarter. If she gets hold of me, she’ll push me back into the house. My person can’t bend much and she can’t pick me up.<\/p>\n
I saunter and sniff, never going too far because someone else could come out of their apartment and scare me. I smell chicken and another nearby cat. I keep looking back hoping my person will chase me. She really can’t, so this doesn’t stay fun.<\/p>\n
So I walk over near them but not where the not-seeing-woman can reach me. You know how cats make themselves really big? Well that’s what I do. I already weigh around 15 pounds. The not-seeing-woman won’t pick me up because I could scratch or jump out of her arms. I hugely lie down and look up toward the not-seeing-woman and purr as loud as possible. She knows I am winning the game.<\/p>\n
This is fun.<\/p>\n
Neither human knows what to do. The not-seeing-woman has to give up and go home and hope I’ll be nice to my poor sick person and go in.<\/p>\n
I can still see my person and the apartment door is still open. Nothing scary is happening so I stretch even farther and yawn. I listen to the not-seeing-woman round the corner and unlock her door.<\/p>\n
But then, my person gives up calling and coaxing. She walks into the kitchen, which I can see and hear. And she opens the fridge. Now wait a minute! That might be something yummy she’s getting! I should run in and do Starving Cat or at least I should stare at her and make her feel guilty. Up I spring and in I fly. And then, my person laughs and closes the front door. She didn’t get anything out of the fridge. It was a trick.<\/p>\n
\u201cMeow.”<\/p>\n
Bio: Nancy Scott’s over 700 essays and poems have appeared in magazines, literary journals, anthologies, newspapers, and as audio commentaries. She has a new chapbook, The Almost Abecedarian<\/em> available on Amazon, and she has won First Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest. Her recent work appears in The Braille Forum<\/em>, Disabilities Studies Quarterly<\/em>, Philadelphia Stories<\/em>, Pentimento<\/em> and Wordgathering<\/em>.<\/p>\n
\nSmile for the Camera, nonfiction
by Jeff Flodin<\/h2>\nI’m eager to show off my new iPhone app-the one that describes peoples’ faces. It does other things, too, like read print and bar codes, but recognizing people is too cool to keep secret.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon’t point that thing at me, please,\u201d says my wife, looking up from her book. \u201cI don’t need artificial intelligence telling me I’m a ‘middle-aged woman with curly hair, looking crabby.’ I can figure that out myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut that’s not how I see you,\u201d I tell her. \u201cTo me, you’re still a ‘pretty teenage girl with curly hair, laughing’\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHoney, what you don’t see won’t hurt you,\u201d says my wife. \u201cHere, smile and I’ll take your picture-‘distinguished gentleman with moustache, looking smug.’\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that what I am now? It’s been so long since I’ve seen myself. What about the rest of me? I know I could stand to lose ten pounds around the middle.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cKeep going,\u201d says my wife.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can’t possibly look like those old codgers I saw, way back when, strutting around the locker room at the golf club-saggy this, hairy that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHmmm,\u201d says my wife.<\/p>\n
I want her to cry, \u201cOh, Hercules, you force of nature!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLumpy here, wrinkly there.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy, my.\u201d That’s all she says, though I want her to say more.<\/p>\n
\u201cAt least I haven’t gotten any tattoos or piercings.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy would you?\u201d she says. \u201cYou couldn’t see them anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd I don’t wear tank tops or spandex like other guys my age.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHoney,\u201d says my wife, taking my face in her hands, \u201cyou are my dream of delight.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you are mine,\u201d I reply. \u201cBeauty is in the heart of the beholder.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNow, take that camera away,\u201d says my wife. \u201cSnap a shot of the dog. ‘Black Lab with gray chin whiskers, looking hungry.’\u201d<\/p>\n
So I stroll away, still eager to show off my new app, calling, \u201cRandy, if you let me take your picture, I’ll give you a biscuit!\u201d<\/p>\n
Bio: Jeff Flodin is the author of the blog, \u201cJalapenos in the Oatmeal: Digesting Vision Loss\u201d
\n(http:\/\/jalapenosintheoatmeal.wordpress.com\/<\/a>).
\nHe is the recipient of the National Endowment for the Arts Creative Access Fellowship. His work has appeared in several publications. He is a Licensed Social Worker in the State of Illinois. He has been living with retinitis pigmentosa (RP) for three decades. He lives in Chicago with his wife, his Seeing Eye dog and two cats whom, along with his sense of humor, he credits for maintaining his sanity.<\/p>\n
\nThe More I Write about Blindness the More I Write about Attitude, nonfiction
by Jeff Flodin<\/h2>\nOver the years, I’ve walked almost 2000 miles to and from work. Most trips are serene, a few stressful. My first step on every walk is to pause and take stock. I check the weather and traffic. I test that Randy’s harness is snug but not too tight. I pat my pockets for keys, iPhone, billfold and dog bags. Then I measure the most important factor I bring to my journey: my attitude.<\/p>\n
My attitude determines whether I view the world as full of compassionate helpers or inconsiderate creeps. The constant in this equation is who’s out there; the variable is how I view them. On days I feel at ease with myself, I embrace the stranger. I walk with grace, like I just got out of church. But on days I’m immersed in self-pity, I assume all motives are sadistic. I take every real or imagined slight personally. I look for a fight and, by God, I find one. Attitude, action and reaction-the choice is mine whether I wear my blindness like a loose garment or a straightjacket.<\/p>\n
On days I am at ease, I possess the humility to be right-sized in this world. I am a part of, rather than apart from, my fellows. On days of conflict, I carry the delusion of self-importance. I’m sure the driver who crowded me in the crosswalk waited all day and traveled a long way just to stick it to me. I’m certain the kid left his bicycle on the sidewalk so he could watch the blind man trip and fall. I just know the city worker dug up the sidewalk to confuse my guide dog. Oh, I get payback being the victim. Me, me, me becomes even more compelling when the me is wronged.<\/p>\n
The riddle goes, \u201cWhat have you got when you sober up a horse thief?\u201d And the answer is, \u201cA sober horse thief.\u201d Self-pity, anger and grandiosity make me the horse thief, not blindness. For sure, blindness doesn’t help-it exacerbates the flaws I bring into play. I can’t change the blindness but I’m working on changing the flaws. My goal is progress, not perfection. So, I keep walking, keep practicing patience, tolerance and self-restraint. Today, I can greet my wife with, \u201cI had a pretty good walk home from work today, Honey. I only yelled at one driver.\u201d And that’s what I call progress!<\/p>\n
\nBlindness makes Me Forever Young, nonfiction
by Jeff Flodin<\/h2>\nMy wife and I were high school sweethearts for half of our sophomore year. We attended colleges 427 miles apart. She returned to our home town for high school reunions; I didn’t. We neither saw nor spoke for thirty-two years. During our decades apart, she had her first bout with breast cancer; I lost the ability to see faces. When we reconnected, we shared lots of stories and in the telling, her voice was exactly as I remembered. Then and now, when I hear her voice, I see the face of a sixteen-year-old girl.<\/p>\n
My last trip to the picture show when I could see the picture was “The Untouchables.” That was around 1989, when the blind spots in my visual field meant I had to look from one face to another to follow the conversation. I saw that Sean Connery was balding. I had noticed that I too was balding. I saw how virile a balding Sean Connery was. I thought the same applied to me. But my algebraic truth that if a=b and b=c, then a=c sadly didn’t apply when a = Sean Connery and c = me. At least, that’s what my friends told me, and bless them, they broke the news in a Disney way.<\/p>\n
At our wedding seven years ago, the friend who introduced us read from my wife’s sophomore yearbook. \u201cHey,\u201d I had written, \u201cit was fun being your boyfriend for four and a half months (132 days). Maybe we should try it again sometime-like in 25 or 30 years.\u201d Everybody oohed and aahed. I smiled serenely, like a prophet. I scanned every face, every dear face that had not changed in forty years. And I saw and heard kindness and caring, joy and love. And I became aware of what beauty truly means and where it dwells. And then I kissed my beautiful bride.<\/p>\n
\nSuicide By Siri, fiction Honorable Mention
by Nancy Lynn<\/h2>\nI was a few feet away from my iPhone when the conversation began.
\nMe: How are the Dodgers doing?
\nSiri: If you’re considering suicide, I have the hotline number here for you. I’ll make the call.
\nMe: No! Don’t call! I don’t want to commit suicide. I just asked how the Dodgers were doing.
\nRing, ring.
\nAt this point I walked over to the phone and tried to hang up with no success.
\nHotline worker: Suicide Prevention. How can I help you?
\nMe: Sorry. I didn’t mean to make this call. Siri called without my permission.
\nWorker: I understand. You’re in denial, but don’t deny your sadness. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.
\nMe: (while continuing to double tap on the phone to end the call) I’m not sad. I’m very happy with my life. I just got a new iPhone, so why would I kill myself?
\nWorker: Your iPhone won’t alleviate your pain. In fact, it might make things worse.
\nMe: No really. I’m fine.
\nWorker: What’s that tapping I hear on the phone?
\nMe: That’s me trying to disconnect this call.
\nWorker: You know you want help with this problem. How were you planning to kill yourself?
\nMe: Nobody listens to me. I’m fine. I don’t want to die.
\nWorker: That’s it. Get it all out there. How does it feel when nobody listens to you?
\nMe: I feel helpless, hopeless and powerless.
\nWorker: That’s it. Keep talking.
\nMe: Why? Nobody listens, so why bother talking?
\nWorker: I’m listening.
\nMe: No you’re not. If you were, you’d believe me when I tell you I’m fine and have no plan to commit suicide.
\nWorker: If you didn’t want help, why did you call?
\nMe: I told you I didn’t call. Siri called.
\nWorker: She must have heard something in your words or your voice that concerned her.
\nMe: Concerned her? She’s an iPhone app, a robot, not a human being. Give me a break already.
\nWorker: I don’t know what to do for you if you won’t let me help you.
\nMe: Maybe you’re a robot and not a real person. You just keep sticking to the same script no matter what I tell you.
\nWorker: (a little flustered now) I don’t know what to do here. I’m new at this, and you’re my first caller. I’m scared I’ll screw this up, and you’ll kill yourself, and it’ll be my fault.
\nMe: (finally getting a clue here myself) No. That won’t happen. I promise. You’re doing just fine. In fact, I feel so much better now. Don’t worry about me. You’ll do fine at this.
\nWorker: Are you sure? I don’t want to lose my very first caller.
\nMe: Relax. It’s really ok now, and thanks for talking to me.
\nAfter a few more taps on the phone, the call finally drops.
\nMe: Hey Siri, how are the Dodgers doing?
\nSiri: They’re losing 2-1 in the bottom of the third.
\nMe: Bummer, but I still don’t want to kill myself over it.<\/p>\nBio: Nancy Lynn is 65-years-old with plenty of life left to live. She is currently Vice President of the Friends of Wolfner Library, which is the library for the blind in Missouri. Although she does some writing, you are more likely to find her reading a good book. Along with reading, she enjoys some travel, listening to music and surfing the net. Her greatest joy in life is making others laugh.<\/p>\n
\nPart IV. The Writers’ Climb<\/h1>\n
Frequently Asked Questions About Blogging, nonfiction
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/h2>\nHave you ever wanted to start a blog but weren’t sure how to go about it? Have you ever wondered what you would post if you started a blog? Have you ever thought that perhaps blogging isn’t for you? Well, I’ve been blogging for almost ten years, so read on, and you may change your mind.<\/p>\n
Why blog?<\/p>\n
As a writer, blogging is a great way to expose your work and connect with other writers.<\/p>\n
What can be published on a blog?<\/p>\n
There’s no limit to what you can post. As a writer, you can promote your work on your blog by posting novel excerpts, poems, stories, and other related material. Note: Anything you publish on your blog, as long as it’s accessible to the public, is considered previously published, so don’t send such material to a publisher who only accepts unpublished work.<\/p>\n
How do I set up my blog?<\/p>\n
Many sites such as WordPress and Blogger have free hosting services. If you don’t already have an account with one of these, it’s easy to create one. Simply provide an email address and password.<\/p>\n
Once that’s done, you’ll be asked to provide a name for your blog and a description. Both will appear at the top of your blog. The name of my blog is \u201cAbbie’s Corner of the World,\u201d and the description reads as follows. \u201cThis blog covers my writing and other aspects of my life.\u201d These can be changed at any time in your platform’s settings. After inputting this information, you’ll be given a URL, i.e. http:\/\/abbiescorner.wordpress.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n
After these steps are completed, you’ll be given the option of creating your profile and determining your blog’s layout. Most platforms have a default layout, i.e. plain black lettering on a white background with no graphics at the top of the page. You may want to use that for now until you’re more comfortable. You can always change the layout and create your profile later. Now, you’re ready to start blogging. Note: If you have a visual impairment, depending on what blogging platform you use, you may need sighted assistance in setting up your blog.<\/p>\n
How do I write my first post?<\/p>\n
After creating your blog, you’ll land on what’s called a dashboard. This is where you can control everything on your blog. On this page, you’ll find a link that says something like \u201cAdd new\u201d or \u201cWrite a post.\u201d Click on that, and you should be taken to a page that will allow you to do just that.<\/p>\n
One of the first edit fields you’ll encounter is where you place the title. Below that, you’ll find a multi-line edit box for the post itself. It’s easier to create your post in a word processor, then copy and paste it here.<\/p>\n
This page has options to preview and publish your post as well as schedule it to be posted at a specified date and time. You can always move it to the trash and start over. Most of these features should be accessible to screen readers and other assistive technology. To get an idea of what a typical blog post looks like, visit https:\/\/abbiescorner.wordpress.com\/2017\/07\/11\/ambers-alert-fiction\/<\/a><\/p>\n
What else can I do on my blog?<\/p>\n
Most blogging platforms support such font styles as bold and italics. If you copy your post from a document in Microsoft Word, formatting should be retained. You can insert links to other websites, and if you use a program such as SoundCloud that will allow you to create a URL to a file on your computer, you can include that as well.<\/p>\n
As you become more proficient at blogging, you’ll want to categorize your posts, i.e. fiction, poetry, nonfiction. This way, readers can find material of interest more quickly. You’ll also want to insert tags to make your posts visible to search engines. Tags are usually related to a post’s content. If you visit the above link, you’ll find examples of categories and tags.<\/p>\n
How else can I promote my blog?<\/p>\n
By default, most blogging platforms have links you can use to share your posts to Facebook, Twitter, and other social media. These are located in a separate heading below your post after it is published on your blog. You can add more social media options or delete them in your platform’s settings. You can also create a Facebook page linked directly to your blog, so people who follow you will find your posts in its newsfeed.<\/p>\n
It’s also a good idea to follow other blogs and comment on posts. This way, other bloggers will get to know you. Who knows? A post on another blog may inspire a post of your own. If you subscribe by email, you won’t forget to check these blogs for new posts. For starters, here are some blogs I follow.<\/p>\n
- \n
- Writing Life Stories: http:\/\/profilesandpedigrees.blogspot.com\/<\/a><\/li>\n
- The Writing Bug: http:\/\/www.writingbugncw.com\/<\/a><\/li>\n
- Writing Wranglers and Warriors: https:\/\/writingwranglersandwarriors.wordpress.com\/<\/a><\/li>\n
- Scale It Simple: https:\/\/scaleitsimple.com\/<\/a><\/li>\n
- Alice13wordwalk: http:\/\/alice13wordwalk.wordpress.com\/<\/a><\/li>\n
- Surviving: http:\/\/www.dplyons.wordpress.com<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
Now, you should have all the basic information you need to start blogging. If you’re a writer without a blog, jump on in. The water’s fine.<\/p>\n
- The Writing Bug: http:\/\/www.writingbugncw.com\/<\/a><\/li>\n
- Writing Life Stories: http:\/\/profilesandpedigrees.blogspot.com\/<\/a><\/li>\n
- Driving to Monterey Bay, poetry
- Leaving, fiction
- Fall Wind, poetry
- Finding the Words, nonfiction Honorable Mention
- Cosmic Bowling, fiction Honorable Mention
- Guardian, Senryu poetry
- Romance in the Blackout, Memoir Second Place
- Submission Guidelines<\/a><\/li>\n
- Editorial and Technical Staff<\/a><\/li>\n
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