Magnets and Ladders
\nActive Voices of Writers with Disabilities
\nSpring\/Summer 2018<\/p>\n
Writers with disabilities may submit up to three selections per issue. Deadlines are February 15 for the Spring\/Summer issue, and August 15 for the Fall\/winter issue. Writers must disclose their disability in their biography or in their work. Biographies may be up to 100 words in length, and should be written in third-person.<\/p>\n
Do not submit until your piece is ready to be considered for publication. Rewrites, additions, deletions, or corrections are part of the editorial process, and will be suggested or initiated by the editor.<\/p>\n
Poetry maximum length is 50 lines. Memoir, fiction, and nonfiction maximum length is 2500 words. In all instances, our preference is for shorter lengths than the maximum allowed. Please single-space all submissions, and use a blank line to separate paragraphs and stanzas. It is important to spell check and proofread all entries. Previously published material and simultaneous submissions are permitted provided you own the copyright to the work. Please cite previous publisher and\/or notify if work is accepted elsewhere.<\/p>\n
We do not feature advocacy, activist, “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<\/em>, please submit a chapter or section of your book to submissions@magnetsandladders.org. The word count for fiction and nonfiction book excerpt submissions should not exceed twenty-five hundred words. Poetry book excerpts should be limited to five poems. 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 Final author approval and review is necessary if changes are needed beyond punctuation, grammar, and sentence or paragraph structure. We will not change titles, beginnings, endings, dialog, poetic lines, the writer’s voice, or the general tone without writer collaboration. If your work is selected for inclusion in a future “Behind Our Eyes” project, you will be notified; your approval and final review will be required. To insure we can contact you regarding future projects, please keep us updated if your Email address changes.<\/p>\n Behind Our Eyes, Inc. is a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization enhancing the opportunities for writers with disabilities. Our anthology published in 2007, “Behind Our Eyes: Stories, Poems, and Essays by Writers with Disabilities”, 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 Hello. Many of us have experienced April snowstorms, along with high winds and temperatures more characteristic of January. One radio announcer referred to this winter as “the winter that has nine lives.” Spring arrived this morning with sun, warmer temperatures and gentle breezes.<\/p>\n Do you like to read about unforgettable moments? Our “Looking Back” section is filled with memoirs and poems about life changing memories. Explore nature in its many forms in “Nature’s Wonder.” “The Writers’ Climb is packed with articles and exercises to stretch your writing muscles. You can find our fiction First and Second Place winners in “The Melting Pot.” Do you want to read something that might surprise you? Read “Not What I Expected.” Read about how some of our contributors experience life events in “The Essence of Daily Life.”<\/p>\n The Spring\/Summer 2018 edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em> features work by authors of all backgrounds. See if you can find our youngest contributor, a high school Senior, and our oldest, a retired medical school professor.<\/p>\n In the Fall\/Winter edition, “The Writers’ Climb” featured a finish the story exercise by Kate Chamberlin. We received six responses to Kate’s exercise. The top two endings to Kate’s story can be found along with the beginning of her story in “The Writers’ Climb. “If you didn’t try the finish the story exercise from the Fall\/Winter edition, you might want to finish Abbie Johnson Taylor’s story starter in this edition. See “The Writers’ Climb” for Abbie’s suspense story exercise.<\/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. We had a tie for the second Honorable Mention positions in both the nonfiction and poetry contests, so we have five winners in both of those categories. Below are the Magnets and Ladders<\/em> Spring\/Summer 2018 contest winners.<\/p>\n Fiction:<\/p>\n Nonfiction:<\/p>\n Poetry:<\/p>\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 safe and happy summer.<\/p>\n I was once a paperboy. Not the, \u201cExtra! Extra! Read all about it!\u201d kind of big city Newsy, who stood on the street corners in old time movies, but like the ones in a thousand neighborhoods in cities and towns, large and small across America, who rode their bikes, or walked city streets with heavy bags slung across their slender shoulders.<\/p>\n This was at a time when nearly every home received a newspaper. Readers could choose from four daily editions, the Flint Journal or three Detroit papers, the Free Press, the News, and the Times. Of course, the number of subscribers determined the amount of money you could make. Routes seemed to range in areas from 16 to 20 blocks. These jobs were coveted by boys ages 11 to 15. If your timing was good, you worked one of the larger routes in your neighborhood. If not so lucky, you received one some distance from your home. Unfortunately, I was 11-years-old, one of the youngest, without any inside connections to the business, so I received one of the smallest areas, the Times and News. The total subscriptions would vary, but at its highest, I had perhaps only 30 customers.<\/p>\n Why anyone subscribed to papers from another city was a mystery to me. We were 75 miles north of Detroit. Possibly people sought a paper with a particular political slant, or maybe they had moved from Detroit and were unwilling to sever a connection with an earlier life. Whatever their reasons, my customers were my only source of income, so I was willing to make a daily delivery to their house.<\/p>\n I badly wanted a transistor radio that cost $75, an enormous amount of money for a kid at that time. At about $4.00 a week in earnings, it would take months to amass that much cash.<\/p>\n The city had been planned so that each neighborhood had its own business center, where there was usually a drug store, grocery, bar, small restaurant, or sometimes a barber shop. My bundle of papers was dropped off there. Six days a week, they would arrive in the afternoon, and I would pick them up later for delivery.<\/p>\n I had a large, wire basket that was attached to the front wheel and handlebars of my red Schwinn Corvette, and I folded and stuffed papers into that basket before setting out. Many of the homes had porches which spanned the full width of the house, that I could hit while still moving on my bike, but the fear of breaking a window usually forced me to stop and make sure the paper landed safely near the front door. Even though I took precautions, I remember missing porches entirely on windy days. Once a paper landed on a roof, and while funny now, I am sure it was not so amusing at the time.<\/p>\n The difficulty of the job varied with the days of the week. Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays were the easiest. Those papers were thin and simple to fold. Wednesdays and Sundays were the hardest and often needed a rubber band to keep them in one piece. Those editions contained extra advertisements and on Sunday, the comics added to my burden. In addition, the Sunday papers were dropped off well before dawn, and it was expected that they be on the customer\u2019s porch by sunrise.<\/p>\n When the weather was good, the work was fine, but in the winter it was miserable. The cold, heavy snow, and early sunset made it difficult to ride my bike, so I was forced to cover the route on foot, a task that today might result in a parent being accused of neglect or abuse.<\/p>\n While peddling the papers was challenging, the worst part of the job was trying to collect payment every two weeks. I kept a book, checked off boxes, and punched a card when I received my money. The paper cost 90 cents for the full 14-day period. You would think that with that amount, when I was given a dollar, a small tip wouldn\u2019t be too much to expect, but these were depression era people who kept their money close. So nearly every time, I would dig in my jeans for change, place the coin in their palm, and watch the hand snap shut like some sort of small animal trap. Giving a dime for no good reason to a kid was an extravagance sometimes reserved for Christmas.<\/p>\n Other than an occasional hello as a paper was delivered, I had little interaction with the homeowner, other than when I collected payment. So it was at these times I would step onto a porch, ring the bell or knock on a door, and wait to be acknowledged. Usually, the encounter was brief. I would state my purpose, accept payment, and be on my way. People rarely took the time to exchange pleasantries.<\/p>\n However, there was an older, gray haired woman, who must have been in her 50\u2019s or 60\u2019s, who would often ask me to step in. She lived alone in her small, two-story home. She would inquire as to how I was doing and sometimes offer me a cookie or piece of candy. The woman would also allow me to keep the extra ten cents. I politely thanked her and told her I would see her again in another two weeks.<\/p>\n Making my daily rounds was like that week after week. I walked or rode my bike, was chased by dogs, and folded thousands of newspapers, staining my hands and clothes black with printer\u2019s ink, until one late summer\u2019s afternoon, when I came to collect at the woman\u2019s home.<\/p>\n As usual, she greeted me with a smile and gave me a dollar, telling me to keep the change. I thanked her and was about to leave when she said that she had something for me. She then presented me with a gift, a T-Shirt from the Ohio turnpike, which she had bought for me while on vacation. Feeling a little self-conscious, I accepted her gift and thanked her again.<\/p>\n I stared at her and finally gathered enough courage to ask why she was always so nice to me. She said that I reminded her of her son when he was my age. I asked where her son was now. She paused and then in almost a whisper, told me that he was dead. He had been killed in the war. I mumbled that I was sorry to hear that. The situation became awkward as she began to cry. She reached out and held me, and I stood there, locked in her embrace, not knowing what to do, until slowly being released. Then, seemingly embarrassed, she turned away and wiped the tears from her eyes, while I, confused and feeling somewhat guilty, opened the exterior door, and like a thief, quietly escaped to the street, leaving her alone in her sadness.<\/p>\n Thereafter, I made an effort to wear the shirt she had given me when I expected to see her. Each time I collected, she would smile, make some form of small talk, and send me on my way without mentioning her son. We had shared a painful, private moment that was best left unspoken.<\/p>\n Eventually, I had accumulated enough money to buy my radio, and perhaps a year later, I gave up my route, and never saw the woman again.<\/p>\n So many years have passed, but I still remember seeing the faded yellow star in the window beside her door, but as a child, had failed to understand its meaning. Now I know that her family, like several hundred thousand other families, must have received a telegram announcing the death of a soldier, and she had been awarded the star by the American Organization of Gold Star Mothers during World War II.<\/p>\n Lost in sorrow, she remained forever a heartbroken mother, who baked cookies and waited in vain for a son who would never return.<\/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 When I was three the sea and I found each other. I didn’t know I was supposed to hate the sand, the salt, and the humidity, so I loved it and the shells.<\/p>\n My father was working for the National Youth Association, a program for returning servicemen or those on leave from World War II. My memories start in Corpus Christi, Texas, a gulf coast city. My father supervised recreation and taught some classes. We lived in an apartment attached to the dorm where servicemen were housed. My parents were my world since I was an only child. They provided most of my socialization and entertainment. There aren’t many children around a quasi-military facility.<\/p>\n The servicemen were good to me, many had children at home they couldn’t get to right then. One who was returning from Australia brought me a seashell. That’s what he was taking home as souvenirs for his family and friends. We were buddies by the time he caught me crawling into his lap.<\/p>\n “Here, look at this shell! Hold it up to your ear. You know what? You can hear the ocean from way out there.”<\/p>\n I didn’t know where “way out there” was, and had no idea about acoustics so I bought it completely. When Mother wrote letters to family I’d brag, “Tell Aunt (fill in the blank) I got the ocean from Australia!”<\/p>\n Almost every Saturday when weather permitted we went to the beach. I’d walk as far out as I could, then get passed from parent to parent, or to any visitor accompanying us. We bounced and slid through the waves with great gusto. Daddy loved to yell out, “Here comes another big one!”<\/p>\n I knew about hunting Easter eggs. Digging for shells was even better. Each one was different in texture, shape, and size. When I wasn’t having much luck, they’d sneak one within reach and make my day perfect. But none equaled that monster from Australia.<\/p>\n Bundled in a towel much bigger than me, I’d squeal some more when we stopped to grab hamburgers on the way home. Then it was a shower and a super supper.<\/p>\n One day it all came to an abrupt end. We were cruising the waves as usual. Suddenly Daddy said, “Take her!” and shoved me into Mother’s arms. Daddy said some words I didn’t understand.<\/p>\n Mother started asking some questions. “Can you make it to the car\u2026hospital\u2026blood!”<\/p>\n I was kid scared\u2013didn’t know what was going on. Parents didn’t act like that.<\/p>\n He’d been stung by a stingray, called a stingeree by many locals. They said that word as Mother drove to the hospital, and all I knew was that stings were bad, and they hurt. We had to go through waiting time while Daddy received treatment. I heard people crying, pages for doctors, and lots of big words. I think I started crying.<\/p>\n That was the last I saw of the Gulf of Mexico for a long time. Later I learned it was coincidence. My parents already knew we’d be moving soon.<\/p>\n Daddy knew, through no fault of his own, he’d left me with a bad memory of the beach I’d loved so much. He did his best to make it right by teaching me to swim across the Leon River on his parents’ farm in north Texas.<\/p>\n We never lived near or visited the coast again, but when I was eight my mother’s sister, Aunt Dottie, moved to Galveston, a south Texas island. She and Uncle Bob had three daughters\u2013two older and one younger than me. We had tons of fun together, and I couldn’t wait to spend some time with them in the summer while my mother attended summer school to upgrade her teaching credentials.<\/p>\n The only thing I dreaded was the promised afternoons at the beach. A friend at school who lived in Galveston had been stung by a jellyfish, and talked about how much it hurt. Then there was the memory from five years before of that terrible thing that hurt my daddy. I’d also learned something about the storm that almost destroyed Galveston in 1900. The superintendent at the school for the blind lost his sight from sun exposure when he was a baby, and had to spend days on a raft with his family. So I was sure that the ocean was a place where bad things happen.<\/p>\n Aunt Dottie took it slow and easy. First she kept me on a raft so I wouldn’t touch the ocean floor at all. Next Uncle Bob brought some inner tubes from his workshop. If I was careful, I didn’t touch anything but water.<\/p>\n Aunt Dottie didn’t give up. “You can do this,” she told me. “Let Dixie and Margaret make a pack-saddle and carry you out far enough to enjoy the waves like they do.” Aunt Dottie had carried me out to the big waves many times, but she knew I needed to catch the girls’ joy directly from them if I were to make it mine.<\/p>\n I put my arms around their shoulders. Being close to them finally did the trick. One day a big wave whisked me out of their grasp. “Zoom!” I was head over heels in foam and fun, feet on the smooth sand at the bottom. I didn’t have a care in the world. I was hooked.<\/p>\n Two years after the summer in Galveston, I had to learn about the undertow and riptides when another aunt and uncle took me to a beach near the border with Mexico. That day the water wasn’t friendly and safe for underweight, short kids like me. They had to fight to keep me from going out too far. My adventurous spirit couldn’t believe the sea could really hurt someone. What a turnaround. Since then it’s been beaches, rivers, and lakes whenever I could find them, seaweed, moss, and algae be damned. I feel alive in the water. Maybe I was a captain’s wife in a past life? You think?<\/p>\n Bio: Marilyn Brandt Smith worked as a teacher, psychologist, and rehabilitation professional. She has edited magazines and newsletters since 1976, and was the first blind Peace Corps volunteer. She lives with her family in a 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. She enjoys college basketball, barbershop harmony, and adventure books. Visit her website: http:\/\/www.marilynspages.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n We stood on a beach, Pain, Bio: Gretchen Brown is a senior in high school who hopes to become an Occupational Therapists Assistant. She has written several poems, essays, and two novels. Her work focuses on teens and their lives. She incorporates her personality into several of her characters, which she feels is a way to relieve stress and anxiety by writing about herself with someone else’s perspective. Because her work deals with personal themes, she has been reluctant to share her work with others, but hopes that she will have a book published in the future. Gretchen is totally blind.<\/p>\n As a mother, I prayed my daughters wouldn\u2019t make the same mistakes I made growing up. I also hoped they wouldn\u2019t discover some of the stupid things I did as a teenager in my day. One of the stupidest (I mean totally unsmart) decisions I ever made was to accept an invitation to a party with a couple of guys I barely knew. The summer before heading off to college, I waitressed at an ice cream parlor. Looking for fun, I flirted with the cute customers.<\/p>\n \u201cAn extra scoop for the scoop on a party,\u201d I teased. Two boys scrambled to invite me to hang out with their friends. Pushing the envelope, I accepted.<\/p>\n \u201cPick me up at quitting time,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n I phoned home and lied to my parents, saying that I would be hanging out with a girlfriend after work. As I slid into the front seat between my new friends that night, I chattered like I accepted rides with strange boys to parties all the time. I couldn\u2019t wait to meet young people who were more exciting than the same boring crew of kids I had attended parochial school with for 12 years. The party was at capacity when we arrived.<\/p>\n Despite being blind as a bat at night, I entered the dimly lit house with confidence. I desperately wanted to fit in with the hip kids. Once inside the cave, I was swallowed up by a pulsing mob of highly intoxicated, high-flying characters poised for action. A group of girls blocked my way. Yelling over the din, they fired questions at me.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019d you come with?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow do you know those guys?\u201d<\/p>\n I laughed, admitting with chagrin that I hardly knew the two guys who brought me. The girls continued to grill me. I tensed against their animosity. They demanded to know exactly how and where I had met their friends. Was I going out with one of them? Did I realize that the bitch standing nose-to-nose in front of me was his \u201cformer\u201d girlfriend?<\/p>\n \u201cReally,\u201d I stuttered, \u201cI barely know the guy. You can have him. I was only looking for a party.\u201d My face warmed with my secret; I didn\u2019t want the girls to know that the shorter fellow had held my hand in the car on the way to the party.<\/p>\n \u201cSo, what\u2019s wrong with him? He isn\u2019t good enough for you?\u201d<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t believe the chick was coming to the defense of the jerk who had jilted her. I backed up three giant steps and rotated to escape outside. The swell of bodies closed in behind me, buying me time, I hoped. As new partygoers entered the living room, I was spit out the front door like a watermelon seed. I staggered down the two steps leading up to the house and followed the edge of the pavement to the sidewalk, taking a hard right. I wanted to get out of sight before anyone from inside that crazy house could pursue me.<\/p>\n Hearing laughter, screams and cries, I worried it wouldn\u2019t be long before one of the neighbors summoned the police to check things out. The fear of cops calling my parents to come get me pushed me ahead. The noise of the party was thrumming in my ears as if the crowd was following behind me. I pitched off the curb at the corner, catching myself to keep from crossing the street in front of an oncoming car. I lurched back up onto the sidewalk and hunted with my foot for the right hand turn, heading west toward home. Drumming sounds from the party were still too close for comfort. I could hear the two guys who brought me calling my name,<\/p>\n \u201cMarcia,\u201d the short guy called.<\/p>\n \u201cMarcia,\u201d his friend echoed.<\/p>\n They begged me to come back. They called out apologies and promised to drive me home. Not on your life, I thought, suspecting, like everyone else at the party, they were under the influence of heavy duty drugs, way past my limited experience with pot and cheap wine. I figured I was safer walking, even with night blindness, than getting into a car with those guys. I reached the end of another block. It was then that I noticed a dog standing beside me, waiting, it seemed, to see which way I would go. The calls of the guys from the party were fading, replaced by new voices hollering a different name.<\/p>\n \u201cBuddy, Oh Buddy,\u201d they yelled.<\/p>\n \u201cBuddy?\u201d I asked. \u201cIs that you? Go home before you get lost,\u201d I scolded the dog.<\/p>\n Despite my directive, Buddy followed me as I crossed the street. Not one comfortable with strange dogs, I was reluctant to reach out to him. I did, however, speak sternly to him again on the opposite corner. I urged him to \u201cstay\u201d and \u201cgo home,\u201d but he remained by my side. Silent and observant, he waited for me to resume my walk although someone continued calling his name. With a sigh, I plodded on, Buddy by my side.<\/p>\n The voices grew fainter and my heart slowed as I strode, trying to convince myself that ambling through the dark on a warm summer night with a dog beside me was not anything out of the ordinary. I heard a far off train whistle carried easily through the midnight quiet, reassuring me at least that I was headed in the right direction. The neighborhood beyond the party house was resting peacefully; an occasional porch light or the headlamps from a lonesome car helped point the way. The sidewalks being newer in that part of town were straight and clear of cracks so that I was able to progress with confidence. At each corner, a lamplight silhouetted my new buddy, always silent, gazing up at me, staying with me despite my commands to \u201csit\u201d and \u201cstay.\u201d I decided I didn\u2019t mind his company and left him to use his own wits since he insisted on following me. Who was I to tell this independent soul what to do?<\/p>\n The night air grew cool. The road began dropping down a hill, one I thought I recognized from riding in a car. If I was correct, an intersection with a stoplight was coming up. The road would then jig and jag, continuing downhill for about five miles until it would intersect with Wood Avenue, my family\u2019s street. I still had a long walk ahead, but I relaxed knowing that the route was familiar.<\/p>\n Did the dog sense my relief, or had he reached the outside limits of his boundary? Under the lamplight, instead of gazing up at me, his head twisted toward his home. I couldn\u2019t fault him for parting ways after helping secure my escape. But I was indeed sad to see him go. I spent the remainder of the trek castigating myself. Why had I put myself in such a dangerous situation? Why did I pick new friends so casually? What would my parents do if something were to happen to me? Why was I attracted to boys who were bad for me? How was I going to manage by myself away from home at college?<\/p>\n I walked and walked through the night. Approaching our older neighborhood, I began tripping over cracks in the aging concrete. Low-hanging tree branches swatted my face and overgrown bushes scratched my arms as I made my way. I started praying. The streets were deserted and the houses were dark. The sound of my guilty footsteps echoed loudly. It was two in the morning when I entered the house, two hours too late even for an angry mother to greet me at the door. I didn\u2019t care by then whether or not I got caught in the act of coming home late. I had a story about my friend running out of gas at the ready, but, since no one was awake to greet me, I didn\u2019t have to pull the lie out of my back pocket. I crept upstairs to my room and chided myself for putting myself recklessly into harm\u2019s way. As my head sunk into the pillow and my eyes closed, I saw the silhouette of a dog gazing up at me.<\/p>\n Author’s note: The dog in this story was real, although I made up its name when writing this tale since I couldn\u2019t recall its actual name from decades ago. It turns out, however, by selecting the name \u201cBuddy\u201d for my companion in this story, I was channeling the original Seeing Eye dog guide named Buddy. This coincidence was called to my attention by the Behind Our Eyes Writers Critique Group. In retrospect, I wonder if the dog in my story was a spirit guide dog after all.<\/p>\n Bio: Marcia Wick enjoys retirement along with grandchildren, gray hair, and time to write. Her essays have appeared in Magnets and Ladders<\/em>, thereimage.net and Vision through Words<\/em>. She reflects on parenting, caregiving, living with a disability, and adventures with her guide dog. Marcia\u2019s career in communications, desktop publishing, and public education spanned 40 years. She now partners with her sister as The Write Sisters. Legally blind due to Retinitis Pigmentosa. Marcia also volunteers with Guide Dogs for the blind, advocates for public transit, and enjoys a variety of sports with her husband as her guide. Contact her at marciajwick@gmail.com.<\/p>\n In my box of keepsakes, there is a tiny music box my parents got me on our trip to Japan. I was three and a half at the time, and I remember them buying the little treasure in one of the tourist shops. It is a metal square on a short chain with flowers embossed on one side. It opens to show a little mirror and a slot to hold a picture. There is a picture of me they took on the trip. The music box is so small I could hold it in the palm of my little hand. I don\u2019t know the name of the Japanese tune it plays, but it sounds delightful.<\/p>\n My parents also got me a can of wooden blocks with letters on them and a can of tinker toys. When we got to the hotel that night, I insisted that I take the new toys to bed with me, so I could guard them in case thieves broke into the room. I put the toys under the rough blanket and hugged them tightly. I couldn\u2019t wait to get home to Korea so I could show my two younger sisters. I put the music box under my pillow so I could guard it with my head.<\/p>\n My parents could not convince me that no thieves were going to break into the hotel that night, and even if they did, they would want to steal my parents\u2019 money and not my toys, and if they wanted the toys, I could do nothing to stop them from taking them. I hugged the toys close all night.<\/p>\n The blocks and tinker toys are long gone, but I still have the precious music box over forty years later. It serves as a reminder that I was a fierce protector even at the tender age of three.<\/p>\n Bio: Susan Muhlenbeck was born in Seoul, Korea, where she lived until she was five. She lost her sight at the age of two. She was raised in the Midwest and moved to Virginia as a teenager. She acquired a bachelor\u2019s degree in psychology and a master\u2019s degree in rehabilitation counseling from Virginia Commonwealth University. Her interests include reading, swimming, bargain shopping, and cats. Her books are available on Amazon.<\/p>\n The summer day was beautiful, hot, but not too hot, and the scents of fry bread and roasted turkey legs hung in the air. I’d had a great time at the Maryland Renaissance Festival, and my husband and I were leaving, as usual, a bit early to beat the crowd.<\/p>\n A walkie-talkie crackled, and off to our right, a staffer said, “Say again?”<\/p>\n We forged through an increasing press of attendees, blue-jeaned like us or costumed in period garb. I had one hand tucked in my hubby’s elbow and in the other, held my white cane diagonally across my body, occasionally touching its tip to the ground to check my footing. From behind on my right came another crackle. A female voice came through faintly. I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like she said, “Get to your stations. The elephants are coming.”<\/p>\n We must not have been leaving early enough, for we were surrounded by people making for the exit gate. I heard another radio crackle and this time I heard clearly, “The elephants are coming! The elephants are coming!”<\/p>\n I snorted. Pretty apt. The mass of people were like a herd of elephants stampeding to reach their cars in the parking lot before the confusion caused a traffic jam.<\/p>\n We got through the gate. A narrow lane lay before us, stretching to our left. On its left was a row of porta potties, and from its right side reached a number of lines of people, all waiting their turn. We had a long trip ahead of us. We rushed to join the back of one line. As we waited we talked about how we’d most enjoyed the stick-fighting demonstration.<\/p>\n When we reached the head of our line, I made the mistake of telling my husband to go ahead. I peered across the road at the nearest porta potty doors, waiting for someone to come out. My fatigue increased the blurriness of my low vision. The green booths faded into the green wall behind them that fenced in the fair. The babble of voices and screams of tired children formed an overwhelming cacophony that only added to my visual confusion.<\/p>\n I thought I saw movement at one door. No vehicles had gone by, but I glanced both ways, then took a step into the lane. The crowd noise increased. I stopped, caught in the memory of a similar summer day.<\/p>\n It had been hot, but more humid, as days in Washington, D.C. tended to be.<\/p>\n At the time, I worked downtown, a couple of blocks from the White House and had decided to carry my bag lunch to Lafayette Park to picnic. I was facing south on 15th Street, waiting to cross H Street, to follow that sidewalk to the right, then cross to the park. I couldn’t quite see the traffic lights. Standing at the curb, I listened, waiting for the cars passing on H Street to stop. As soon as they halted, I stepped off the curb, and strode out, sweeping my cane before me.<\/p>\n A din of sirens arose. The suddenness and number of sirens, though startling, were familiar. A motorcade was coming, carrying some VIP. The multistory buildings echoed the noise. I paused in the street. Was the motorcade coming from behind me? In front of me? My left?<\/p>\n The clamor had me totally disoriented. I thought I was halfway across the street. A motorcycle screeched to a halt, angled so I had no idea from which direction he’d come. A helmeted cop was yelling at me, his words indistinguishable as he kept revving his motor.<\/p>\n I decided to keep going across. I wasn’t sure if I’d find the curb or wander into the intersection, but I’d have the same problem if I turned around and tried to go back. I rushed, swinging my cane ahead as quickly as I could with the cop’s yelling, his motor, and the approaching sirens thundering in my ears. Before I found the curb, the motorcycle roared off, followed by others and a caravan of cars and limousines. I was mad at that cop and wanted to give him a good talking to, though I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say.<\/p>\n In the festival’s commotion, I remembered that cop, and my moment of hesitation.<\/p>\n And another time when I’d hesitated. I had worked at a new job for only about a month before my boss and I were transferred to another location.<\/p>\n At the first place, I had just become familiar with the huge building. I had managed to put together a carpool, and my legal blindness gained us one of the rare parking spots. So, when I was transferred, I left behind three disgruntled carpoolers who would have to return to taking public transportation.<\/p>\n Going to my new location for my first day, I successfully navigated the two buses to the correct stop. On Rockville Pike, my self-confidence ebbed as I stood waiting to cross three lanes, a divider, then two lanes beyond.<\/p>\n In the nearest lane, speeders zoomed around a curve into a shopping mall. The second and third lanes were filled with Maryland commuters whizzing south toward D.C. Yes, there was a traffic light, though I couldn’t tell if the red or green light was lit. I waited through three halts in the traffic to learn the traffic pattern\u2013and found out the shoppers didn’t stop. Cars in the near lane just whipped by.<\/p>\n I finally took a breath and scurried across to the median, and waited through another two cycles of traffic before daring to rush the rest of the way. As I walked up the block searching for my building’s entrance, I tried to regain my composure. Already, I was grateful that, at the end of the day, it would be easy to reach my bus stop on this side, but dreaded each morning I’d have to face that terrible crossing.<\/p>\n Outside the walls of the Renaissance Fest, the hubbub had shifted to a different mixture of tones\u2013excited laughter, shouts, and awed whispers. But some of the yells I was now hearing held the note of warning I’d expected on those previous occasions. I looked ahead. The porta potties had disappeared. Could I be so tired everything was vanishing in the gray fog of low vision? Motion to my left caught my attention. One green porta potty gave enough contrast to silhouette an elephant’s swinging trunk, his gigantic head; then I made out his enormous body, already past me. Behind him, grasping the thin tail with his trunk came another massive elephant, followed in like fashion by a medium-sized one, and then a baby. I watched them pass in a mixture of disbelief and joy. I’d almost been in touching distance!<\/p>\n A woman near me bent down and said in a hushed voice to her child, “Did you see the baby elephant?”<\/p>\n I’m glad I heard that, or I might have thought my tired eyes and brain had deceived me. And this would have been reinforced a few minutes later when my husband appeared beside me and said, “Go on. The second from the left is empty.”<\/p>\n On the ride home, I would tell him what he’d missed. Grinning, I swung my cane and strode across, knowing I’d never find out why elephants had come to the Renaissance Fest just as it ended for the day. Surely, this interrupted road crossing had been more enjoyable than any other I might ever experience.<\/p>\n Bio: Aly Parsons, who lives in Maryland, lost part of her sight in 1977, and, in 2008, became a widow, orphan, and blind. She leads a writers’ group she founded in 1980 that includes professional and unpublished writers. Aly has a story in The DAW anthology<\/em>, Sword of Chaos<\/em>, edited by Marion Zimmer Bradley, and she wrote the Afterword in Catherine Asaro’s collection, Aurora in Four Voices<\/em>. Other works have appeared online in Magnets and Ladders<\/em> and Pen in Hand<\/em>. Aly is a graduate of the Odyssey Workshop for Writers of Fantasy, Science Fiction, and Horror.<\/p>\n That day we raced all the way to the forbidden park, You reached the knoll first, of course, My legs burning, my lungs bursting, I stumbled into you. We fell to the ground, Until you clumsily brushed the grass from my hair, Bio: Elizabeth Fiorite has been a Dominican Sister of Sinsinawa, Wisconsin, for over sixty years. Her first career was devoted to Catholic elementary education. After experiencing vision loss due to retinitis pigmentosa, her second career began as a social services counselor for the adult blind in Jacksonville, Florida. Since retiring in 2013, she has enjoyed participating in church projects, Justice and Peace activities, facilitating peer support groups, and \u201cWomen of Vision.\u201d. Her art work has been displayed in the Cummer Museum, and her articles have appeared in Behind Our Eyes<\/em>, Behind Our Eyes: a Second Look<\/em>, The Braille Forum<\/em>, and in The National Catholic Reporter<\/em>.<\/p>\n Janus, oh, Janus, As I walked among the dusty ruins during my Roman sojourn, I mused about what strange religions these ancient people had. It all seemed so illogical to my modern mind. What possible gates could be opened by Janus that couldn\u2019t be opened by mortals?<\/p>\n Opening power, despite my sturdy Nike Cross-Trainers, I twisted my ankle as my footing became unsteady on the cobble-strewn road. I stumbled and fell to my knees. My hand landed on a potshard. Upon its smooth fa\u00e7ade I could just barely detect a brow over a nose pointing to the left and a chin facing right. There seemed to be an arch alongside the features. Was that a portal? I couldn\u2019t tell if the figure was coming or going.<\/p>\n God of change and time, I rose, refastened my leather sandal and patted the dust off my long, white garments trimmed in threads of red and gold. I fretted that the Head Scribe would find me lacking in decorum. I do so want my clay tablets to honor my ancestors and descendants.<\/p>\n The limits of earth, My hand is steady as I use the stylus to scribe the required marks on my tablet. The Head Scribe is pleased with my efforts. He entreats me to emblazon my tablet with a face facing East and a twin countenance in the opposite direction to assure the praises will reach Janus in the heavens above and beyond.<\/p>\n Gate keeper of all, Placing mirrored Oakley\u2019s on my face and adjusting the SRL Nikon strap around my neck, I walk through the Temple gate into the brilliant Roman sunlight with an odd feeling that I\u2019ve walked through this archway before, though I\u2019ve never been to Rome. I feel so \u201cas one\u201d with this place. Is this D\u00e9j\u00e0 vu or d\u00e9j\u00e0 v\u00e9cu? When I look back to the top of the crumbling arch and see two faces looking in opposite directions, I have the greatest urge to raise my arms to the heavens and proclaim: Janus, oh my Janus.<\/p>\n Bio: Kate Chamberlin, B.S., M.A, and her husband have raised 3 children plus 2 grandchildren. Her teaching career continues through her Study Buddy Tutoring Service, Feely Cans and Sniffy Jars Program, and as a popular lecturer. She is a published children\u2019s author, Anglican educator, free-lance writer\/editor, and proud great-grandmother.<\/p>\n In my fifth month of pregnancy, after losing one of my twin fetuses, I was rushed to Dubai Government Hospital and stayed for the next several weeks. I prayed I would carry the second baby until term.<\/p>\n When you are on the other side of the world facing medical complications, many emotions surface and hold you captive. Foreign languages play a role in isolating you. Cultural differences with doctors and nurses can leave you confused and feeling uninformed. But the moment you decide you can\u2019t go on, a special friend comes along to help you over that hurdle.<\/p>\n One afternoon, I lay in bed counting the drab ceiling tiles above me. \u201cThirty-seven, thirty-eight across \u2026\u201d I was halfway through the wall tiles when I lost count. How many times had I already done this? Time inched by. Each minute hung motionless, reluctantly measuring itself as if fearful it would run out if it yielded too quickly.<\/p>\n Curling up my toes in the shapeless flannel hospital gown, I studied the pattern. It could be worse. I touched the worn fabric\u2013a light blue print covered with tiny flowers.<\/p>\n A shadow crept through the window and lengthened. If only I could feel the warmth of the late afternoon sun. But the cold sterile environment clung like a shrouded cloud. The desert sun might as well have shone on the other side of the world. It would never reach me here.<\/p>\n I yawned and stretched. How many days had it been? Twenty-six and today made a half more. \u201cCalendar,\u201d I mumbled to myself. \u201cGot to get a calendar before I forget how long I\u2019ve been here.\u201d My mind grew foggy. Was this how it felt to be a prisoner of war?<\/p>\n \u201cOh come on, baby,\u201d I crooned, \u201cWe\u2019ll be fine.\u201d I patted my rounded belly, feeling more secure with each passing day. I accepted the lethargy that settled on me as a sign of progress. But when I looked in the mirror after showering, what I saw jarred me into reality. My swollen face reflected the edema that encircled my body. I had only to look at my ankles and feet to know we were NOT fine. My baby and I were still cocooned in a toxic state.<\/p>\n The visits began for the other patients. Snippets of other languages – Tagalog, Arabic and Urdu – intruded on my self-imposed silence. Tuesday. No one would come to see me. Nor would I receive any phone calls. Dubai was long distance from Ras Al Khaimah where I lived and long-distance calls were not permitted on the hospital line. Besides, everyone was working, including my husband.<\/p>\n The food cart bounced along, carrying the afternoon snack. I fixed a smile on my face and selected a small flavorless cake. It crumbled between my fingers as I broke off the dry pieces and tried to swallow them. The lump in my throat grew so big that swallowing anything seemed impossible. Loneliness once again set in.<\/p>\n As the afternoon nurse slipped from bed to bed, I rolled up my thin sleeve for the blood pressure cuff. An hourly obligation. No escape.<\/p>\n The nurse smoothed my thin blanket, then sat down next to me. Slender and bronze-skinned, she reached out for my arm and expertly cuffed it, then checked and recorded my data.<\/p>\n She remained seated and reached for the silver-framed photograph I kept near my pillow. \u201cI hear about this man.\u201d She smiled. \u201cThe romantic Egyptian who sweeped you off your feet.\u201d<\/p>\n The nurse\u2019s soft voice invited me to speak. But I remained silent, determined not to cry since I so missed my husband. She adjusted her headscarf, winding it around her head once more.<\/p>\n I checked her name tag. \u201cMaita, can you tell me about Africa?\u201d<\/p>\n She glanced at her watch, and I felt impatience rise like bile. When would it be my turn to talk to someone? Everyone had someone.<\/p>\n As if to prove my point, laughter echoed from the hospital bed next to mine. The patient opened a box of chocolates from a friend – or maybe a sister – then reached to take a bouquet of multicolored roses from another visitor.<\/p>\n Sensing my need for companionship, Maita settled herself and warmed to her story. \u201cMy dear, I am far from home. My whole family is there. But I am here. I miss them.\u201d She paused as if realizing how I felt.<\/p>\n With her soft-spoken voice, Maita described her way of life and glimpses of the jungle. \u201c\u2026The days, they pass so quickly and the sun\u2026you can\u2019t imagine how beautiful one can see the sunset.\u201d<\/p>\n I shivered, imagining it all. I had never been to Africa, but the way she spoke made me long for it. I can still recall the smooth cadence of Maita\u2019s voice, but not the exact country, the animals that were commonplace to her but sounded so exotic to me.<\/p>\n \u201cI have many animals in my village and I wake to their sounds. Sometimes I step around elephant dung and hear screeches from gorillas too high in the trees. You know, we must to be very careful when darkness comes. The hyenas wait and attack people in the shadows – like this!\u201d<\/p>\n She playfully grabbed me.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, don\u2019t scare me like that! I have a baby to protect!\u201d<\/p>\n After we shared a laugh, she told me how she moved to the city when she started secondary school and had to become accustomed to a new way of life.<\/p>\n She sighed. \u201cYes, I almost miss it today. Even today.\u201d<\/p>\n That afternoon forged a bond between us that would remain long after I left the hospital. It transcended religion and cultural boundaries. I always looked forward to when Maita came on shift. She smiled often and teased me about the photograph of my Egyptian husband. On her breaks, she stopped by my bed. \u201cI just came to say hello to baby\u2013not you,\u201d she joked.<\/p>\n Maita told me her name meant gratitude. This gave me an idea. To thank her, I surprised her with a poem. She was touched. \u201cNo one writes me a poem before.\u201d My nurse fluffed up my pillow. \u201cRest now for baby.\u201d<\/p>\n Shortly after I learned my baby died, Maita came to me and squeezed my hand, \u201cMay Allah takes care of you.\u201d She had no other words and seemed on the brink of tears.<\/p>\n I clasped her hand back, choking up. \u201cShukran.\u201d Thank you.<\/p>\n Though we both longed for a different outcome, that touch of compassion\u2013a quiet shared grief\u2013brought me warmth. I came to think of those moments as the sweet breath of Africa softening my harsh reality.<\/p>\n Years later, I was blessed to go on safari. I saw a country similar to the one Maita had so lovingly described. She came to mind many times. When I heard the screech of gorillas overhead and stood up in my jeep, I thought of her. When I caught a glimpse of a small herd of elephants pulling bamboo branches into their mouths, I again thought of Maita. Again and again. As the last animals came into view, I silently prayed God had blessed this African nurse as much as she blessed me during my lonely hospital stay in Dubai.<\/p>\n Today I cannot remember her face well. But her soft voice still breathes in my memory. I recently came across a photograph taken from the safari. It was filled with thousands of pink flamingos flying low over the water. Once more, I thought of my special nurse.<\/p>\n I wonder if Maita still walks among the sterile halls of a drafty Dubai hospital. If she\u2019s still there, I\u2019m sure she has found other fortunate mothers with whom to share her memories of a sun-drenched village and animals that roamed freely nearby.<\/p>\n While Maita goes about her rounds with clinical expertise, more memorable to me is how she seeks out those who most need the warm touch of compassion. In a ward where losses lurk in the shadows, and like a pack of hyenas, wait to attack, Maita\u2019s sweet voice expels fear.<\/p>\n Maita is a nurse with a calling.<\/p>\n Bio: Amy Bovaird taught English as a Second Language (ESL) abroad and in the United States for many years. She lives with a dual disability-progressive vision and hearing loss due to Usher Syndrome. Amy is an accomplished public speaker on a variety of topics based on her life experiences and continues to educate and inspire others through her writing and speaking. Amy is the author of Mobility Matters<\/em> and Cane Confessions: The Lighter Side to Mobility<\/em>. She blogs about the challenges she faces as she loses more vision and hearing and manages to find humor around almost every corner.<\/p>\n August days signify the end of summer when nights become cooler and I begin to forget the predictable, unrelenting steamy days and nights of July. Temperature readings by mid-August dropped down into the 50s. I opened the windows, felt the cool breeze move through the familiar old house. July\u2019s humidity and stuffiness were swept away and I sensed the shift of a quickly approaching new season that was beginning to stir my senses. There is something in the air that I feel by mid-August. Is it a kind of nervousness and anticipation for\u2026what? I cannot really say.<\/p>\n Last night I lay in my bed, listening to the soothing insect sounds drifting upwards to my open window. Unseen creatures sounded like Czech street musicians tuning their instruments, getting ready to play night songs. The sounds blended into a nocturnal symphony, a cacophony of a summer serenade.<\/p>\n Our century old home is on a ridge overlooking an ancient, winding creek that meanders for fifty miles in western Pennsylvania. People from this area call it \u201cthe Connie.\u201d Its actual name is the Connoquenessing creek. For many of the residents of this xvillage, our ancestors date back to the 1700s. That is when the early settlers were going back to Germany to recruit artisans to come to America and settle here. People who had skills that were needed by the colonies were recruited for about one hundred years.<\/p>\n In the summer time, the Connie comes alive with the voices and sounds of the local \u201cCrick Culture.\u201d That\u2019s what we call it here. Kayaking begins in earnest in late winter as soon as the ice begins to dissipate. Hearty enthusiasts will continue to ride the rapids through the summer days into the fall season. The Connie\u2019s white water rapids provide the perfect setting for a swift course for kayakers to perfect their skills.<\/p>\n On August nights I can hear people laughing from down below the ridge. On summer nights, some people arrive here at the crick in the late evening, in the twilight, just before it gets dark. They leave their cars and trucks in a clearing beside the road, just under the old wild cherry trees. Generations of local people come to spend the night fishing. I often watch as they pull out their gear. They bring coolers and jugs, flash lights, buckets of worms, fishing poles, nets, and blankets. Most of them wear baseball caps. One by one, they scramble down the steep, rocky path that leads to the deep water below. When they get to the bottom of the hill, the night time visitors walk out onto the big, flat rock where they spend the night. I hear them talking and laughing; their voices blend with the insect concert.<\/p>\n In childhood memories my father and I are in the back yard behind our home in the foothills. I still live in the valley between the steep hills. Like most of the steelworkers in our village, my father loved to go fishing in the Connie. In the darkness of an August night, I helped him find earth worms. His steelworker\u2019s helmet had a strange yellow light on the front of it. I smelled the acrid smoke, heard it sizzle and sputter as we bent over the dark ground. We poured mustard water down into the little tunnels where the earth worms lived. In just a few seconds, a worm came to the surface seeking fresh air and we grabbed that worm and rapidly washed it in a pail of water before we dropped the cleaned off worm into Dad\u2019s metal pail with holes on the sides. Dad had put dirt into the pail before we went searching for the worms. We turned over rocks and found creepy creatures hiding under them. Dad called them helgramites and they made me shiver when I looked at them.<\/p>\n My favorite sight in August is the Queen Ann Lace mingled with the periwinkle blue flowers of Chicory. The two wild flowers grow together along all the roads in early August. I take my camera outside so I can capture the beauty of these disorderly flowers. I remember the fields of these uncultivated flowers long after they disappear for the winter. Oh, I should let you know, Queen Ann Lace is my favorite flower because of the delicate tiny flowers clustered on thin, celadon green stems. The flowers seem to float in space and ride the soft wafts of the August breeze. Fragile lacey blossoms dance in the fragrant afternoon air. The white blossoms of the Queen Ann Lace contrast with the sturdier chicory flowers. Chicory resembles a daisy with petals branching outward from a round, dark, center. Each Chicory bloom has little oval petals that come to a tip that looks like someone snipped it off flat, with zigzag pinking shears. The brilliant blue color of the Chicory seems to pop out from among the white Queen Ann Lace in full bloom side by side with Chicory. When I see the Chicory begin to bloom, I know that the season will soon be changing to autumn.<\/p>\n And, it always seems that it won\u2019t be long before I\u2019ll be walking through the colored leaves on my daily walks through the woods, along the Connie. My thoughts drift to the stories my father told me about his unique and rugged grandmother. I stop and look around through the woods, and down to the white-water creek. Some days my spirit calls out to her as I look around in the world that she lived in, too. Often, I feel like I am walking over layers and generations of my family members. I ask myself, \u201cAm I an overlay from past generations of people who lived in this place?\u201d I realize my ancestors\u2019 presence because they seem to surround me. I can feel them. I stop to listen to them. At these solitary times when I am alone in the woods or standing in the meadow looking down at the rocky passages of The Connie, I whisper to my grandmother who died long before I was born. \u201cDid your feet walk on this path, too?\u201d<\/p>\n “The Connie” was previously published in The Indiana Voice Journal in the September 2016 issue and in Walking by Inner Vision: Stories & Poems, Lynda McKinney Lambert, DLD Books, 2017.<\/p>\n Bio: Lynda McKinney Lambert is a retired professor of fine arts and humanities. She writes full-time and has authored two books of poetry and nonfiction essays. She is a 2017 nominee for Best of the Net for 2016-2017. Lynda won a 2017 Proverse (Hong Kong) Poetry Prize; her poem, \u201cRed December,\u201d will appear in Mingled Voices #2. Her writings appear in publications world-wide. Lynda loves being outside late at night; walking through a meadow of wild flowers; gazing up at a star-strewn sky; listening to the rushing water of her favorite creek behind her home; and spending solitary winter days with husband, Bob, their 2 sister-cats and 2 dogs.<\/p>\n In my dream In my dream In my dream In my dream In my dream In my dream In my dream In my dream Swathed in hand-knit scarves and a thick wool shawl, My five-year-old hands clutch a baby bottle Rescued as an orphan fawn and nursed to health With adult hindsight, I realize we did Spot no favor Still, sixty years on, I hope Spot and her mate Bio: A former college librarian and occupational therapist, Sally Rosenthal left both professions due to vision loss. A childhood stroke survivor, she, now blind and losing hearing due to age-related genetic hearing loss, is the book reviewer for Best Friends Magazine<\/em>. Her nonfiction and poetry have appeared in numerous periodicals and anthologies.<\/p>\n Lilac\u2019s egg was part of a clutch of five light-blue, brown-speckled little ovoids. Her story began in the bloom of new life that awakens after the long winter\u2019s dormancy. She thrived and grew in the security of her sturdy nest, which rested in the low branches of a young hawthorn tree that grew on the edge of the woods. Her mother and father looked after the young hatchlings with devotion and skill. The little bird was enthralled by the sights and sounds of life that surrounded her.<\/p>\n She felt rains that carried the cold leftover from March, and sometimes was warmed by the ever-growing presence of spring\u2019s sun. Earth\u2019s dark soil filled her young nostrils with its richness, laden with scents of green life stretching towards a warming sky. Buds burst into delicate leaves that drank sunshine.<\/p>\n Lilac watched, with an ancient knowing, the continuous arrivals of returning flyers from the South, while year-round residents became her extended community. This place was the little mockingbird\u2019s home, to be forever imprinted in her memory. Lilac\u2019s first acquaintances were with those denizens who had not migrated when winter\u2019s cold winds blew others toward the receding sun.<\/p>\n She watched, smelled, tasted, felt, and most of all, she listened\u2013listened to the songs of other birds. Some were sweet, others raucous. There were songs of joy and calls to battle. Her heart melted to the mournful tones of mourning doves, thrilled to the mystery of love songs flowing between her parents. A bullfrog\u2019s croaking and the singing of tree frogs lulled her to sleep, in dusk of evenings.<\/p>\n Lilac\u2019s woods opened to a gardened yard in which a little wooden house sat. The young mockingbird heard the sounds of children laughing and sometimes parents scolding.<\/p>\n Every time a new sound sauntered past the nest, the down-covered bird proclaimed, \u201cThat is so beautiful. I wish I could make that sound. I wish I could sing that song.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou can, you know,\u201d her mother would tell her. \u201cYou are, after all, a mockingbird. You can learn to make every sound you hear and sing every song. But you must remember that you also have your own song. It is the most important and wonderful thing to sing your own song.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is my song, Mother? Let me hear it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t sing your song.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy can\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause you haven\u2019t invented it yet, so I have never heard it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhen I invent it, will you sing it for me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOf course, Little One. If that\u2019s what you want. But you won\u2019t need anyone else to sing it. You will sing it for yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n Lilac got her name on the first day that she began to hop and flutter. She half flew and half fell into the branches of a lilac bush whose buds were ready to burst open.<\/p>\n As Lilac replaced her down with feathers, she learned to feast on the bounty of the rich earth. Her parents no longer needed to supply her with morsels of bugs, larvae and worms. Her brothers and sisters flew off on their own wings, to mix in with the symphony of life. Her parents gathered energy and prepared to raise a new clutch, as the season lingered and transitioned into summer.<\/p>\n Lilac continued to listen to the myriad sounds surrounding her, and began to imitate them. So captivated was she with the sounds of nature that her abilities far exceeded those of other mockingbirds. She could hear a new sound and almost immediately reproduce it, with nary a need for practice. She could hear the song of a new bird and copy it with precision the first try. It was as though the songs were written in the sky, and Lilac simply read them.<\/p>\n Sounds that came from human houses were of particular interest to her. One of those houses had a resident African grey parrot who lived in a screened aviary. Her name was Pearl. The two birds became good friends. Their favorite pastime was to have contests to see which one of them was the greatest mimicker\u2013who could learn a new sound the quickest and who could remember the best. Lilac learned how to imitate three different kinds of telephone rings and to say human words. Pearl taught Lilac how to say the names of colors and to know what these words meant. On mischievous days, Lilac would call the children in from their play in the human mother\u2019s voice.<\/p>\n Country songs that wafted out of Pearl\u2019s house fascinated the mockingbird. In time, she developed an extensive repertoire of these country hits. Not only did she sing the notes with perfect pitch and rhythm, but also in the voices of the human artists. Two of her favorites were \u201cKing of the Road,\u201d and \u201cLove Is.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you know how remarkable you are?\u201d Pearl asked. \u201cYou are a genius. How come you never sing your own song?\u201d<\/p>\n Lilac\u2019s head drooped, and she made herself look very small. \u201cI don\u2019t have my own song.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. Maybe the price I have to pay for my copying gift is that I can\u2019t invent my own song.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNonsense. All mockingbirds have their own song. Have you ever tried?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. I\u2019m afraid that I can\u2019t do it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy don\u2019t you try?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t want to talk about it,\u201d and she flew off, suddenly feeling hungry for a grub.<\/p>\n Pearl never brought up the subject again, because she didn\u2019t want Lilac to fly off in a huff. But inside, Lilac felt something missing. She felt a hole that needed filling, and knew that she was the only one that could fill it.<\/p>\n \u201cIf I listen very hard and look for the notes in the sky, surely someday I will hear my song out there somewhere,\u201d she told herself.<\/p>\n She heard the songs of other mockingbirds and was envious of their splendor, imitating these singular songs and trying to mix them in order to compose her own song, but that did not do it. They were beautiful compositions, but were not her song. The void remained in her heart.<\/p>\n Despite the lack of a song, Lilac was not unhappy. She lived at peace with her fellow mockingbirds and participated in the goings-on of the community. When a hawk attacked one of them, she played her part in the chase to drive it away. When she saw a snake or a cat creeping up on a clutch of eggs or young hatchlings, she added her sharp, curved beak and claws to the birds\u2019 efforts to drive the predators away.<\/p>\n When Lilac had come of age and knew that she was ready to lay her own eggs and start her first family, there was no lack for suitors. Lilac knew that she must choose wisely, for this would be a bond for life.<\/p>\n A young male named Bracken had long been attracted to her, as she was to him. He was healthy and vibrant. His courting dance and song thrilled her. What more could she ask of a mate? She accepted him.<\/p>\n That year of her courting was like all the other years and all the other early springs in which mockingbirds started their families. Bracken and Lilac made their nest not far from the very hawthorn tree where Lilac had been hatched. They made their nest in low branches of a mulberry tree near Pearl\u2019s house.<\/p>\n Lilac felt a depth of satisfaction at the laying of her clutch that was totally unexpected by her. Five perfect little orbs. One early morning, as she dozed in the nest right after Bracken had brought her a fat little white grub, she felt the slightest vibrations coming from her eggs. Being only half awake, the little stirrings filtered into her dreams and she heard, as though in the distance, music such as she had never before experienced. It filled her heart with warmth and glory. Her spirit seemed to swell on ethereal notes that piped out of nowhere, her mouth open with astonishment. Her eyes blinked awake to search the skies for this indescribably beautiful sound and melody.<\/p>\n Imagine her surprise as she realized it was erupting out of her own throat, emanating from someplace deep within her, a place that must have been her heart and soul. And thus, Lilac\u2019s song was born.<\/p>\n The song was not something that she sang, but something that sang her. It was not something she invented, but something that invented her by springing out of her own essence.<\/p>\n From that time forth, Lilac did not try to remember or copy her song. She only waited for it to sing itself. It was not always the same, just as she was never the same from moment to moment. It sang itself in the same way that a raindrop decides to fall, sometimes persuaded by a shaft of sunlight upon a purple flower, sometimes by gentle thunder in distant skies.<\/p>\n When Lilac grew old and failed to survive a cold, harsh winter, the essence of her song remained as part of the song of the network of life. For Lilac\u2019s song was, after all, the song of life, and life never dies. It only rests and changes its face.<\/p>\n Bio: Leonard has Stargardt’s disease which was first noticed during his teenaged years. He is now seventy-seven. He reads through the media of Braille, recordings, and electronic voices produced by Open Book and Zoom Text. He lives with his wife of thirty-eight years and their two dogs. He is active in the local writing community, which includes attending critique groups. He also facilitates a Writing for Healing and Growth group at the Charlottesville Senior Center and writes a column for Dialogue Magazine<\/em>. He recently published a poetry book through Cedar Creak Publishing. His hobbies include Tai chi, and gardening.<\/p>\n The speeches were those for the ages, Bio: John Wesley Smith is a blind writer from central Missouri. He operated DestinySurvival.com for 10 years. Readers are invited to view what he calls “Musings of an eclectic pilgrim” at http:\/\/johnwesleysmith.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n The woods around my family\u2019s farm in Southern new Jersey were filled with paths. Some were created by animals, while others were intended for use by organizations trying to deal with the mosquito population. I loved exploring and would often find a new trail, one I had never been on before.<\/p>\n Although there were few dangerous animals, the land itself could sometimes create treacherous conditions. As a blind man, I couldn\u2019t see what was coming so caution was the prime directive at all times.<\/p>\n One day, I started off along a wide and relatively smooth trail. When the ground began to slant downward, my warning bells were going off. There were places, deep in the woods, which were swampy. Some of them were filled with water choked with sand and debris. Although the ground looked safe enough, certain places were to be avoided. That kind of bog was often many feet deep and there was nothing to grab onto.<\/p>\n As I moved along, the sounds from the highway diminished until it was almost silent. I could hear small animals and birds moving in the underbrush, but that was all. I slowed my forward motion because the path was beginning to feel soggy under foot.<\/p>\n I stopped and was thinking about turning around when a voice spoke to me. \u201cDon\u2019t go any further! There\u2019s a deep hole right in front of you. Turn around now while you still can!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cwhere are you? I didn\u2019t hear you coming,\u201d I replied. But the voice didn\u2019t speak again. I suddenly felt a chill which began at my feet, but soon covered my entire body with goosebumps. Where did that voice come from? How did that person get so close without me hearing him or her? The voice sounded like a young woman or a boy. I had a good sense of smell. I drew in a breath, trying to catch the scent of another person that close to me. But I couldn\u2019t smell anything except the normal aromas of leaves, pine needles and water. I became a little frightened. \u201cAre you still there? Can I turn around and go back safely?\u201d<\/p>\n Once again, the voice responded. \u201cTurn around and go back the way you came. Don\u2019t go any further!\u201d<\/p>\n I still hadn\u2019t heard any movement at all. Any person makes some noise in the woods. Their clothes brush against branches, or they crush leaves or pine needles beneath their feet. I heard absolutely nothing.<\/p>\n I turned around and followed the path back toward the road. As soon as I did, the chill dissipated and I could feel the warmth of the summer again. In about fifty feet, the ground leveled off and that wet smell was gone. When I left the woods, I was very glad to feel the sun on my face and the two-lane road under my sneakers. I turned for home and didn\u2019t go exploring anymore that day.<\/p>\n That entire incident left me with many unanswered questions. Who or what stopped me in time before I ended up in that hole? How could a voice speak to me and sound that close without me detecting someone else? Was it an angel, a spirit or a ghost? If a ghost, whose was it? Was someone watching over me that day? Well, whoever or whatever you were, thank you for saving my life!<\/p>\n Bio: John Justice is a visually impaired musician, entertainer and author. He has been blind since the age of three. John lives with his wife, Linda in Hatboro, Pennsylvania. More information about his books can be found at: http:\/\/www.dldbooks.com\/johnjustice<\/a><\/p>\n Sitting in my favorite wicker rocker on this old farm house\u2019s wrap around porch, the humid July heat causes my eyes to droop and head to nod. A deep sigh escapes my thin lips, as if expelling the woes and weariness of my world.<\/p>\n Hearing my sigh, my old guide dog rouses herself to lay her white muzzle on my lap. We\u2019ve been together so long that she feels what I feel. Her warmth comforts me and my petting her head comforts her. She lies back down to sleep, as my mind wanders back many decades.<\/p>\n The soft pink Royal Anne Cherry petals gently rain down on the babe as she sleeps on her blanket. Royal Anne is always in bloom for Mother’s Day. Warm breezes caress the hilltop. The old The child is anxious for the Fourth of July cherry harvest. She clambers into the cherry tree in a very unroyal manner. She picks the sweetest, reddest, ripest fruit. The bees will become drunk from sipping the fermented juice of the remaining few.<\/p>\n Royal Anne’s leaf-laden branches shade our young lassie and her beau on the sultry summer afternoons. The Royal Anne has watched over many a swain but none as ardent as this one.<\/p>\n She sheds her golden brilliance on the ground as a blanket in anticipation of love’s consummation. Royal Anne’s halo of golden leaves surrounds the newly wedded lovers.<\/p>\n The winter is long. The crimson red Cardinal is grateful for the sustenance of dried fruit Royal Anne has managed to save. As the protective blanket of snow melts, it nourishes the thirsty roots.<\/p>\n The cherry buds swell with new life and burst into bloom for Mother’s Day. The young mother watches as the soft pink Royal Anne Cherry petals gently rain down on the babe as he sleeps on his blanket.<\/p>\n When my elderly dog puts her chin on my lap, I rouse from my reverie. As if from a distance under water, I hear familiar footsteps on the gravel path. The countenance of my face softens and a faint smile bows my lips.<\/p>\n \u201cMom, you look so peaceful.\u201c<\/p>\n I feel the babe in my arms as a soft wave of darkness carries me away in its embrace.<\/p>\n I\u2019m beyond hearing my son\u2019s voice or the drunken buzzing of the bees. I no longer feel the warm caress of a lover or of the summer breeze hassling my grey curls. I am beyond tasting the sweet juice of the Royal Anne Cherries and life. I am beyond reminiscing.<\/p>\n Little child, little child, do you want to make a rainbow? Little child, little child, let the wonder begin: Can your tiny hand touch the rainbow? Open your eyes to an Irish tale; Little child, little child, why are you standing there akimbo? Bio: Deon Lyons is an aspiring writer with works published in local papers, Online magazines, as well as in Magnets and Ladders<\/em> and Behind Our Eyes: a Second Look<\/em>. Deon has self published a novel, along with a compilation of poetry. Mr. Lyons has a personal blog, and is currently attending community college, with hopeful aspirations for the field of journalism.<\/p>\n Bio: 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>.<\/p>\n Additionally, Alice invites you to visit her Wordwalk blog: http:\/\/alice13wordwalk.wordpress.com\/<\/a> where, since 2013, she has posted her poetry, essays, memoirs, or short stories concerning her four guide dogs and other topics. With master\u2019s 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 It must have rained like this 100,000 million years ago. Rain is a portal for channeling Precambrian times. Younger than light; older than rip tides. Bio: Burns Taylor lives in el Paso, Texas with his wife, Valora. They are both totally blind. Taylor has an MFA in Professional writing from USC. He published his most recent book, Hands Like Eyes<\/em>, in 2014. In 1972, Taylor edited and published Passing Through: an Anthology of Contemporary Southwest Siterature<\/em>. The book was awarded a two-year adoption as a freshman reader by the El Paso Community College. Taylor\u2019s works have appeared in Publishers Weekly<\/em>, The Texas Observer<\/em>, The Braille Forum<\/em> AND Reading Lips and Other Ways to Overcome a Disability<\/em>.<\/p>\n Inspired by Barbara Kingsolver\u2019s The Poisonwood Bible<\/em><\/p>\n The mamba is as green as new leaves. their asymmetrical secrets, spreading roots parched in the Equatorial heat. I trudge through red dust, my heavy tread distinct Bio: Jessica Goody\u2019s debut poetry collection Defense Mechanisms<\/em> (Phosphene Publishing) was chosen as a \u201cPower Read\u201d by The Hilton Head Monthly<\/em> and was a Book of the Month for The Creativity Webzine<\/em>. Her writing has appeared in numerous publications, including Reader\u2019s Digest<\/em>, The Seventh Wave<\/em>, Event Horizon<\/em>, Really System<\/em>, Chicken Soup for the Soul<\/em>, and The Maine Review<\/em>. Jessica is a columnist for SunSations Magazine<\/em> and the winner of the 2016 Magnets and Ladders<\/em> Poetry Prize. She has cerebral palsy.<\/p>\n Sometimes a Sestina is called \u201cThe thirty-nine-line poem.\u201d This form seems to have been used by a 12th century troubadour. Sestina means, troubadour, and that word comes from root words that mean \u201cto invent a verse.\u201d<\/p>\n I often use medieval and traditional forms for writing contemporary poems. As I sat quietly with my journal, a little family group of three adults entered the graveyard. They never noticed me at all, but I had a ringside seat into the personal lives of a family I will never forget.<\/p>\n Because my poem is a Sestina, I begin my writing process by selecting six words that will be the \u201cend words\u201d of each of my six-line stanzas. My list of six words for this poem:<\/p>\n *************************<\/p>\n Title: A Sestina for Alfred Rieder\u2019s Widow<\/p>\n Alfred Rieder\u2019s widow arrived early this morning. The three spoke softly, voices hushed near the edge of the path. A quiet breeze comes to lift the edges of the long black lace or the strong-winged butterfly that has no time for the graveyard this summer There are pine cone wreaths, rosettes and small bouquets of flowers She will grow older, cry less often, and neglect the fancy ribbons. A new widow stands knee-deep in ribbons and black lace. “A Sestina for Alfred Rieder\u2019s Widow” was written in Gr\u00f6dig, Austria at the village graveyard, in July, 1998. Editor’s note: Kate started this writer’s getaway story with an interesting twist, and left the story open for many possible endings. Magnets and Ladders<\/em> readers were invited to finish the story. We received six story endings. Below is the beginning of the story written by Kate Chamberlin. The top two story endings will follow Kate’s story starter.<\/p>\n *************************<\/p>\n A Writer\u2019s Retreat<\/p>\n The trail under the fragrant, cathedral canape through the Frasier Fir forest opened onto a clearing with a gnome-sized, gingerbread trimmed cottage in its center. A wisp of grayish smoke rose from the adobe chimney to lazily curl into the small puffy clouds floating in a crystal blue sky. It took her breath away.<\/p>\n Barb was hot, sweaty, and ached all over from the unaccustomed exercise of the hike up from the lodge, but the excitement of being on her first writing retreat in the Maine forest kept her going. Barb wanted to write her memoirs during the week, as well as hike, read, relax, and be alone. She wondered why there would be smoke coming out of the chimney, if as the brochure said, each one-room cabin was totally electric with running water and a full in-door bathroom.<\/p>\n She put the large, old-fashioned key into the lock, but the door swung open. When her eyes adjusted to the interior light, she knew the stairs to her left went up to the sleeping loft, where a double bed, rustic nightstand and lamp were. She put her back pack on the floor to the right, where the closet doors stood ajar.<\/p>\n Directly in front of her, on the far wall, a low fire flickered in a field stone fireplace. A comfortable-looking, leather lounge chair seemed to invite her to sit and read. To the right of the fireplace, a small, but well appointed galley kitchen beckoned her with wafts of cocoa to sit at the scarred table and straight-back, wooden chairs. It whet her writing juices.<\/p>\n The well-worn, oak desk on her left faced a large picture window with a view of the forest. The room\u2019s tones of neutral browns, greys, and ecru complimented the forest greens, browns, and tans. The desk came complete with an ergonomic chair and laptop. She thought the open laptop was a nice touch, although she\u2019d brought her own. Finally, the door to the left of the fireplace, she guessed would be the bathroom.<\/p>\n To her astonishment, then horror, the bathroom door opened. The most ruggedly handsome, bare-chested man she\u2019d ever set eyes on walked out of the bathroom. His powerful shoulders and tall frame seemed way too big for the little cabin. His dark curly hair tumbled onto his forehead and cascaded to his massive shoulders. The full moustache flowed from the fullness on his upper lip down to the long drooping tip below his strong, square chin.<\/p>\n Her mouth agape, she sucked in her breath and froze, except for the tingle that zinged up her spine.<\/p>\n When he saw her, he quickly finished zipping. His steel blue eyes opened in astonishment, then slit into confusion.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d they both said in unison, glaring at each other.<\/p>\n \u201cYou first,\u201d the man sneered.<\/p>\n \u201cI won a writer\u2019s retreat contest to stay here for a week,\u201d Barb said. \u201cWhy are you here?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSame for me. You sure you have the right week?\u201d he challenged.<\/p>\n \u201cYes, positive,\u201d she snapped, pulling out her reservation confirmation.<\/p>\n \u201cSame here. Looks like they\u2019ve made an over-booking mistake,\u201d he said taking in Barb\u2019s mane of glossy chestnut locks, ample figure, and luscious, full lips. \u201cI suspect we can work something out, since I know there aren\u2019t any other available cabins for this week.\u201d<\/p>\n Barb\u2019s glaring emerald eyes became glassy, as the man took one slow, sensual step toward her. A lustful spark glinted in his eyes as he approached the frightened, innocent little dove.<\/p>\n (\u2026fade to commercial break\u2026)<\/p>\n Against her better judgment, Barb threw caution to the wind and allowed the mysterious stranger to put his arms around her and pull her in for a hug. He hugged her for one long moment, then started rubbing her back. All her instincts told her to break away and run, but her racing heart and weak knees made her stay put.<\/p>\n Finally he broke away and held her at arms\u2019 length. \u201cHi, I\u2019m Al,\u201d he said softly. \u201cAnd you are beautiful.\u201d<\/p>\n Barb opened her mouth to say something but couldn\u2019t find her voice. She took a couple of deep breaths and finally said in a near whisper, \u201cLet\u2019s go to the lodge and see if we can get things straightened out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s no need,\u201d Al said regretfully. \u201cI told you there are no more cabins available. We can work something out, can\u2019t we?\u201d<\/p>\n Again she was tongue tied. He took her by the hand and led her over to the lounge chair. She sat down heavily, willing herself to do the right thing.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy don\u2019t you tell me about yourself?\u201d Al said, kneeling down next to her and making her squirm.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, I came here to do some writing,\u201d she said with conviction. “I just went through a messy divorce, and I was hoping I could have some quiet time to write and relax. And what about you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI am sort of between jobs at the moment,\u201d Al sighed. \u201cI was planning to do some writing and figure out what to do next. Maybe we can write something together.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, I was planning to write my memoirs, but maybe we can write a romance novel together,\u201d Barb said cautiously. \u201cI never tried that before, so I\u2019m not sure what to do.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA romance novel?\u201d Al said caustically. \u201cI was thinking about a western.\u201d He seemed to consider. \u201cSorry, I caught my wife with the repair man. I am not too keen on romance these days.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI see,\u201d Barb said slowly. \u201cWell, I had a terrible divorce, but I still love my romance stories. Guess everybody handles pain and loss differently.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s combine our efforts and write a western romance,\u201d Al suggested. \u201cWe can start tomorrow morning. Right now, I would like to go for a walk with you. First let me put out the fire. There will be plenty of time for that later.\u201d<\/p>\n It was a beautiful day in late spring. The lush forest stretched its arms out as Al and Barb walked hand in hand around the premises. They met several of the other writers on their walk. Most of them were retired.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m Margie, a retired school teacher,\u201d one woman said brightly. \u201cI\u2019m trying to write some school fiction.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m Patty, a retired restaurant owner,\u201d another writer said breathlessly as she unlocked her cabin door. \u201cI am planning to write a cookbook.\u201d<\/p>\n Barb thought the most interesting person they met on their walk was Josie, the retired female police officer. \u201cI\u2019m going to write a crime novel,\u201d she said, shaking Barb\u2019s hand. She gazed at Al, wrinkling her forehead. \u201cWhere do I know you from?\u201d she asked curiously. \u201cYou look vaguely familiar.\u201d<\/p>\n Al shrugged. \u201cMy ex-wife Carrie likes to write too,\u201d he said noncommittally. She came to this retreat last year. I brought her up here and helped her get settled in. Maybe that\u2019s where you saw me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, that\u2019s not it,\u201d Josie said, shaking her head. \u201cI wasn\u2019t at the retreat last year.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAl and I are going to write a romance story together,\u201d Barb said, grinning hugely at him. \u201cIt\u2019s going to be a combination romance and western. I already have some ideas for it. Let\u2019s go back to the cabin and talk about it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJust a minute,\u201d Josie said, pulling out a camera. \u201cI want to get your picture. You all make a cute couple.\u201d Barb giggled.<\/p>\n They walked back to the cabin slowly. \u201cI wish I remembered to bring my camera,\u201d Barb said wistfully. \u201cIt\u2019s so pretty up here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a shame we don\u2019t get cell phone reception up here,\u201d Al added. \u201cWhat if there\u2019s an emergency?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou have to go down to the lodge and use their phone,\u201d Barb said dismissively, \u201cbut I\u2019m not thinking about that. It will be nice being out of commission for a little while.\u201d<\/p>\n They said at the kitchen table and drank cocoa with marshmallows. \u201cI\u2019m a nursing assistant,\u201d Barb said, stirring the cocoa with her finger. \u201cWhat do you do?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI was a construction worker but got laid off,\u201d Al said without feeling.<\/p>\n \u201cConstruction worker?\u201d Barb said in surprise. \u201cYou don\u2019t seem the type.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLooks are deceiving,\u201d he said mysteriously.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d she asked, instantly alert.<\/p>\n \u201cNothing,\u201d he said with a wave of his hand. \u201cTell me about the western romance you want to write together.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe can talk about that in the morning,\u201d Barb said, yawning hugely. \u201cI am beat. It\u2019s been a very long day.\u201d<\/p>\n There was an awkward silence as they both pondered the sleeping arrangements. \u201cI can stretch out on the recliner,\u201d Al said firmly. \u201cThat is not a problem.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOkay,\u201d Barb said, relieved he had been so willing. \u201cGood night.\u201d<\/p>\n She climbed into the bed in the loft, exhausted, and with a can of pepper spray clutched in her hand. Can\u2019t be too careful these days, she thought as she drifted into dream land.<\/p>\n She dreamed that she walked into the cabin and saw Al asleep in the recliner. He got up and started walking towards her, but then he changed into her ex-husband Jerry. \u201cNow, are you ready to listen?\u201d Jerry demanded, grabbing her arm and giving her a good shake. She woke up in a cold sweat. She soon drifted off again. If she had any other dreams that night, she didn\u2019t remember.<\/p>\n The next morning she awoke to the tantalizing smell of frying bacon. For a minute she couldn\u2019t remember where she was. Then the events of the day before washed over her. What had she been thinking, allowing this strange man to share her cabin? He seemed nice enough, and he was hot enough to be a movie star, but he what if\u2026? No, she told herself resolutely. She wouldn\u2019t think along those lines. She would take this opportunity to do some serious writing, and she would see where this situation with Al would go.<\/p>\n \u201cMorning,\u201d he said as she entered the galley kitchen. \u201cHope you\u2019re hungry.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell,\u201d she hedged, \u201cit smells terrific, but I was planning to go to the lodge for breakfast. That is the only time of day all the writers can get together. We are on our own for lunch and dinner.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, it\u2019s up to you,\u201d he said, trying not to look disappointed. \u201cI\u2019m not planning to go to the lodge for breakfast. The point of the retreat is to be alone with my thoughts, not to fraternize with a bunch of other people.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut you\u2019re not alone,\u201d Barb said reasonably. \u201cWe\u2019re sharing a cabin, but I understand. I\u2019ll be back in a little while, and we can start working on the western romance.\u201d<\/p>\n Barb had forgotten how long the hike to the lodge had been the day before. By the time she arrived at the lodge, she was famished. To her disappointment, there was only one other person in the lodge eating breakfast. It was Margie, the retired school teacher.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere\u2019s your friend?\u201d Margie asked as she and Barb ate their cereal and juice. \u201cHe was cute.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe stayed and had breakfast at the cabin,\u201d Barb said casually. \u201cI think most people had the same idea. I probably won\u2019t be down for breakfast again.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut you are coming to the lodge on our last night, aren\u2019t you? I can\u2019t wait to hear what some of the other writers wrote on the retreat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll be here,\u201d Barb promised, \u201cand I\u2019ll make sure Al comes too.\u201d<\/p>\n On her hike back to the cabin, Barb thought about Al. She hoped he wouldn\u2019t be a distraction during her week of writing and reflection. On the other hand, she was looking forward to spending time with him and getting to know him better. She hoped she was doing the right thing by sharing the cabin with him. All of her instincts told her she should not be in such close quarters with a man she barely knew, but he seemed so kind and caring that she decided to take her chances.<\/p>\n He was sitting at the table typing on his laptop when she entered the cabin. \u201cHow was breakfast?\u201d he asked, looking up from his work.<\/p>\n Barb shrugged. \u201cNot a good turn out,\u201d she sighed. \u201cMargie asked about you, but I probably won\u2019t go down to the lodge agin.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTake a look at my outline for the romantic western,\u201d Al suggested, handing her his laptop. She read what he had written. \u201cSounds interesting,\u201d she said, intrigued. \u201cLet\u2019s get started.\u201d<\/p>\n They wrote late into the afternoon. Barb typed excitedly on her laptop while Al offered suggestions and comments. Barb turned off the computer around 4:00. \u201cThat\u2019s enough for one day,\u201d she said tiredly. \u201cHow about we pack some sandwiches and have a picnic supper in the woods.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSounds good to me,\u201d Al agreed. \u201cI\u2019ll make the sandwiches while you sit and relax for a few minutes.\u201d<\/p>\n They sat on towels and ate tuna fish sandwiches and chips. \u201cI wonder how Josie the retired cop knows you,\u201d Barb mused. \u201cShe said you look familiar.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI think she\u2019s confused,\u201d Al said absently. \u201cI never saw her before in my life.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou said your ex-wife liked to write too,\u201d Barb said conversationally. \u201cWhat did she write?\u201d<\/p>\n Startled, al said, \u201cOh, poetry mostly. I don\u2019t want to talk about her. She really broke my heart when I caught her with Ralph the Repair Man.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSorry, didn\u2019t mean to hit a nerve,\u201d Barb said contritely.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s all right,\u201d Al said, putting an arm around her and hugging her close. \u201cI\u2019m glad we\u2019re here together.\u201d<\/p>\n The next few days flew by quickly. Barb woke up each morning to the smell of breakfast cooking. They had a long, leisurely meal, then worked on their romantic western. Barb did most of the writing while Al critiqued and suggested changes. In the afternoons they went for a walk, then picnicked near the cabin. Once in a while they ran into somebody on their hikes.<\/p>\n \u201cHow is the book coming?\u201d Patty, the retired restaurant owner asked.<\/p>\n \u201cSo far so good,\u201d Barb said, \u201cbut we are not sure how to end it yet.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt probably won\u2019t be done by the time we leave,\u201d Al added.<\/p>\n \u201cSo what do you plan to do after the retreat is over?\u201d Barb asked on the next to last night. She had brought a bottle of red wine to drink over the course of the week, but they hadn\u2019t opened it until that night.<\/p>\n Al pondered. \u201cI was thinking about going up to Canada for a while to regroup,\u201d he said vaguely. There was a long silence as Barb contemplated never seeing him again. “Maybe you can come with me,” he said cautiously.<\/p>\n Barb was stunned. \u201cI can\u2019t do that,\u201d she cried shrilly. \u201cI have a job and cats to take care of.\u201d<\/p>\n He pulled her to her feet. \u201cWe can work things out,\u201d he said softly. He bent and kissed her without warning. Barb\u2019s insides quivered, and her face flushed. He kissed her again.<\/p>\n It\u2019s the wine, a little voice inside her head insisted as her mind swam. \u201cI can\u2019t do this,\u201d she said thickly, pulling away and staggering towards the loft. \u201cGood night.\u201d She hurried to get into bed and pulled the covers up to her neck. Al didn\u2019t follow.<\/p>\n The next day they worked feverishly on their book. Nothing was said about the night before. \u201cWe are all meeting at the lodge tonight for cocoa and cookies and to talk about what we wrote,\u201d Barb said over their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that afternoon. \u201cMaybe somebody can help come up with a good ending to the story.\u201d<\/p>\n They hiked down to the lodge that evening. \u201cWill I ever see you again?\u201d Barb asked shyly.<\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d Al said, taking her hand. \u201cI\u2019ll be in touch.\u201d Barb hoped it was true.<\/p>\n \u201cI want to hear about the western romance,\u201d Margie said, sitting down next to Barb in the lodge.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, it takes place during the 1880s,\u201d Barb began. \u201cIt\u2019s about a man called Willie, who was in a saloon when a robber stole the saloon girl\u2019s purse and tried to flee. So Willie shot the robber, and he and Annie, the saloon girl, escaped on horseback. They are headed to Mexico and are having all kinds of adventures. They met up with Indians, witnessed a hanging, and were in a train wreck, but the law is after them. We still can\u2019t think of a good ending. Should they go to Mexico and live happily ever after, or should the law catch up with them and Willie be hanged?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSounds like a real dilemma,\u201d Patty mused.<\/p>\n Barb noticed that one person was conspicuously absent. \u201cWhere is Josie?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n \u201cShe actually left a couple days ago,\u201d a woman called Sally said, pouring another cup of cocoa. \u201cShe said she wasn\u2019t feeling well and thought she should go to the hospital. Let me tell you about my science fiction book. I can\u2019t think of an ending yet either.\u201d<\/p>\n Just then the door of the lodge flew open and Josie ran in. She was followed by two policemen. \u201cThere he is!\u201d Josie shouted breathlessly, pointing to Al. He goes by Al now. He dyed his hair and pasted on a mustache, but he couldn\u2019t fool this retired cop.\u201d<\/p>\n The writers all sat there in shock as a cop handcuffed Al. \u201cWilliam Allen Davis, you are under arrest for the murders of Carrie Ann Davis and Ralph Michael Walker.\u201d He kept talking, but Barb heard nothing after the word murder.<\/p>\n \u201cAfter he shot them, he flew the coup,\u201d Josie explained, \u201cbut his wife was able to call 911 and tell them that he had shot her and Ralph. By the time the ambulance got there, they were both dead, and Al was long gone.\u201d<\/p>\n Barb felt like she was about to pass out. She opened her mouth to say something. \u201cAl!\u201d she cried and couldn\u2019t continue.<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe now you can think of a good ending to that romantic western story of ours,\u201d Al said sadly as the police took him away.<\/p>\n “Hey, not so fast, Marlboro man,” Barb cautioned, shifting her duffle and positioning herself near the door. “There’s just one place we can settle this, and that’s back at check-in.” She breezed out the door before he realized what was going on. “Are you coming?” she called from a distance.<\/p>\n Jack mouthed a response he didn’t intend for her to hear, and slipped into the bathroom for a quick comb through and a shirt from the bench outside the shower. “Marlboro man,” he snickered, “I’ve heard that one before. Dove and dynamite in one package?”<\/p>\n “Slow down, Jill!” he hollered when he saw she was really making tracks. “I’m not gonna bust my crown chasing you down this hill. And nothing’s on fire!”<\/p>\n Barb was running out of adrenaline, so she slowed her sprint to a stroll. “It’s Barb, not Jill,” she laughed, “You’re right, let’s not waste our creative energy on a stupid clerical error. They can probably put one of us up at that other lodge back up the road a few miles.”<\/p>\n “Bummer,” Jack sighed, “That’s a fishing retreat. I hate the smell of dead fish. I am not going there.”<\/p>\n “Whatever,” Barb grumbled. “By the way, why did you have a fire going? It was roasting in there. It’s July, for Pete’s sake.”<\/p>\n “Well,” Jack explained, “last night when I finished my skinny dip in the river I decided it would be fun to sit in front of a fire. I arrived early because I could, and I had a fire because I could.”<\/p>\n “Alrighty then,” Barb chuckled at his “don’t ask if you don’t want to know” attitude.<\/p>\n They walked single file across a rustic footbridge and stopped to take in the swollen stream below. “Angry spirits?” she offered.<\/p>\n “Powerful authority,” Jack responded.<\/p>\n She stopped to retie her tennis shoe. Much to her surprise, he waited. “It’s just not that easy to give this up and go home,” she said more to herself than to Jack.<\/p>\n “Don’t let me stop you babe,” he suggested.<\/p>\n She quickened her pace. “Don’t go there dude! One minute you’re\u2026Oh never mind,” she mumbled.<\/p>\n He lit a cigarette. She frowned, coughed, and retrieved her phone from her duffle. “No service\u2026Figures\u2026But I know there’s a way to get on the net.”<\/p>\n “So what do damsels in distress write?” Jack asked, finally catching up with her as they hit a wider gravel path. Barb didn’t like his inference, but decided to let it pass in the interest of futility.<\/p>\n “My family has a story,” she began. “Some think it needs to be preserved. It’s no bestseller, but a famous author, Marita Downing, do you know her work?” Jack signaled that he didn’t.<\/p>\n “Well,” she continued, “She told our class that if you make a diligent effort to write your experiences, feelings and such, cradle to wherever you are in life, you may not sell copies to anyone except your family, friends, coworkers, and enemies, but” (long pause) “you will have this treasure trove of vignettes to pick through for stories, essays, even poetry if that’s your thing. That’s really what’s in this retreat for me. So when I won that contest, I knew it was time for me to take a break from writing screen plays nobody wants and try on a new hat.”<\/p>\n Jack hadn’t wanted chapter and verse, but told himself he should have known better than to ask a woman for information about herself. “Sounds good,” he said without much interest. They made the turn onto the asphalt road that would lead them to the lodge. “I’m glad I’m not the only one here who’ll be a wanna-be hiding behind rejections.”<\/p>\n As they reached the lodge they joined the line of other travelers claiming their accommodations. Mrs. Donovan at registration smiled at first when they offered their paperwork. “Wanting to exchange cabins?” Then she read the details and saw the dilemma. “This is going to be difficult. We have no other cabins, not even up the road at the Cozy Catch, our fisherman’s retreat,” she explained. “I know you both won your regional competition with your Writers’ Week in the Woods contest entries, and it would be a terrible shame\u2026” After some mouse manipulation she brought up their information on her screen. “Let’s see\u2026you’ve come from Boston,” she pointed at Jack, “and oh! Miss Willis, you flew in from Kansas. You all do know we have another session for writers in September. We could possibly\u2026”<\/p>\n “Absolutely not,” Barb interrupted. “I have teacher in-service in early August, then the kids are back.”<\/p>\n “Yeah, me too,” Jack said. “I hired my cousin to run the bar for this week, but soon after I get back I’m in law school, August 20.”<\/p>\n “Oh!” Mrs. Donovan saw her chance to break the tension, “You write legal thrillers?”<\/p>\n “No,” Jack laughed, “Too many Grisham copycats out there already. Nature, adventure, sports, strange lifestyles, that’s what I like to write.”<\/p>\n “The only thing I have left is Adrienne’s Perch. It’s much more expensive than a cabin, and really meant for someone who wants an adventure, but I’m not sure it would work for someone wanting normal living circumstances to complete their projects.”<\/p>\n Jack had the feeling he was being baited. Barb smiled, believing Mrs. Donovan was setting things up so she’d get the cabin. After all, Jack could drive up here anytime.<\/p>\n Mrs. Donovan rummaged in a file cabinet behind her desk. “All that money for a French woman no one ever heard of.”<\/p>\n “Okay,” Jack laughed, “I’ll bite. Who is Adrienne, and why did she need a perch?” Barb laughed, curious herself, and glad Jack asked.<\/p>\n “She was an arborist, our founder’s lover,” she whispered. “He came to know her when she helped him pick the layout and design for our first retreat in Quebec.” Her voice volume came up a notch and took on enthusiasm- now in public relations mode. “It was her idea to do an ultramodern, habitable treehouse residence accommodation, so now we have one on all properties. The rest is history. You just have to see them. Most people are afraid to commit to stay a week. They’re usually rented on a nightly basis, noon one day to noon the next. That’s all the adventure most people can stomach.” She rummaged in a file drawer and placed a brochure on the desk.<\/p>\n Jack grabbed for it. He was fascinated. It looked to him like one of those exotic rich people getaways he’d read about with electricity and multi-level room-like enclosures. If he could get into the spirit of it for a week, he could no doubt sell an article to one of the outdoor magazines. He could just imagine how many others at the writers’ conference might want to visit him there. That might not be all bad.<\/p>\n Barb motioned for a brochure of her own. She saw a grill under the tree, and a minifridge that had to plug in somewhere. Up on a platform there were fold-down worktables, a hammock, and lots of other gadgets. She was fascinated by the picture way up in the tree-a slide? “Forty-foot controlled descent,” it read.<\/p>\n Her mind was whirling. She knew this would make a great video. Would they let her brother fly up after the conference to help her? She could write the voiceover during the week. The principal at her school would love it. It might be a week of rugged living, but of course the bath house and pool weren’t that far away. Maybe she could pretend she was back at Summer camp?<\/p>\n “You can’t both talk at once,” Mrs. Donovan laughed as soon as she told them it was time for her lunch break.<\/p>\n “I’ll take it,” Jack began. “I’ll get my stuff out, and she can\u2026”<\/p>\n “Now just a minute,” Barb interrupted. “You moved in first, so I should get first claim\u2026but you know what? Maybe we could split the time, or the days, or the hours, half and half.”<\/p>\n “Why don’t you both go look at it. Come back in an hour and tell me what you’ve decided,” Mrs. Donovan suggested.<\/p>\n “Come on,” Jack agreed, taking the bag of remotes and keys she offered. He picked up Barb’s duffle and started for the door. “Let’s go play Tarzan and Jane.”<\/p>\n Barb laughed in spite of herself, and followed him, brochure in hand.<\/p>\n Mrs. Donovan watched until they left the parking lot. “Do you think we can keep them from killing each other this week?” she asked her coworker who’d been eavesdropping as soon as she’d caught wind of the conversation. *************************<\/p>\n Ten Years Later:<\/p>\n Jack had burgers grilling and daiquiris chilling when Barb drove in from work. She ran to greet their guests in the back yard, but suddenly raised her voice and her hands in dismay. “Adrienne!” she scolded, “You can’t do those gymnastic moves up in the treehouse.” She turned to the crowd. “We should have never shown her that video of us dancing on that crazy slide.”<\/p>\n I am an author myself, so I get it!<\/p>\n Proofreading and content editing, book cover design, interior layout, publisher’s logo; upload to Create Space or Amazon; website and all promotional materials: ads, bookmarks, postcards, one sheet, etc. Always fair prices and personalized service. Portfolio at: http:\/\/hjkirk.wixsite.com\/heatherkirkgraphics<\/a><\/p>\n Contact: HJKirk@juno.com<\/p>\n Synopsis:<\/p>\n When Kate Morrison, a young reporter, accidentally comes upon a U.S. Army camp in a desolate area of Nebraska, she is irritated and perplexed by the bizarre treatment she experiences. Kate, who dreams of writing for a major newspaper, investigates and is amazed that the army denies the existence of the camp. As she continues her investigation, she learns that the camp is actually an Al Qaeda operation manufacturing and distributing biological weapons to terrorist groups. Masterminded by a sinister Japanese who has compelled the acquiescence of a U.S. senator, the Al Qaeda carry out biological attacks around the world. Together with FBI Special Agent Matt O\u2019Neill, Kate forestalls a biological attack on the U.S. Capital, but the Nation is left in turmoil when a devastating anthrax attack on the auto show in New York City leaves thousands dead. Thousands flee the city in panic when a miniature nuclear bomb is planted in Grand Central Station. In this gripping tale Kate is kidnapped, experiences betrayal, and faces beheading by the Al Qaeda.<\/p>\n EXCERPT:<\/p>\n Omaha, Nebraska<\/p>\n Kate drove away from her apartment frequently looking in the rear view mirror to see if she was being followed.<\/p>\n Where can I go? The farm? No, that’s no good. The Al Qaeda could follow me there and harm my family. Besides, it would be a long commute to work. And I can’t stay with anyone from the office.<\/p>\n Then she thought of Aisha. Kate and Aisha had been friends since their high school days. Aisha\u2019s family was from Bosnia; they were Moslems and very strict. Aisha was never allowed to hang out with other kids or to go to parties. Sometimes she and Kate met secretly on a corner in town and went to a party or took in a movie. They were best friends and shared girlish secrets.<\/p>\n After graduation, Kate went to the University of Nebraska in Lincoln, and Aisha got a job in Omaha. When Kate started working at AgriCulture, she and Aisha got together every few weeks for cocktails or lunch.<\/p>\n I’ll call her in the morning. I’m sure she’ll let me stay with her until this thing is settled.<\/p>\n Kate drove around, finally locating an all night diner. She found a booth, pushed a discarded newspaper aside, and slid in. She was starved and ordered eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. While waiting for the food to arrive, she picked up the newspaper. A heading on the front page caught her eye announcing a biological attack in Israel. She avidly read of the smallpox cases and continued to read even after the arrival of her food. Could this be something that the Al Qaeda at the camp had engineered? She remembered that Larry Bronsky had told her of his work on pox viruses.<\/p>\n The diner had a sign \u201cWi-Fi\u201d, and Kate killed time by searching for Al Qaeda on the Net. Had the Al Qaeda used the smallpox to attack the Jewish State? Did they get the virus from the camp?<\/p>\n At seven o\u2019clock, Kate dialed Aisha on her cell phone. There was a sleepy, \u201cHello?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHi, Aisha. It\u2019s Kate. Listen, I\u2019m in a bit of a jam.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s up?\u201d the sleepy voice asked.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m in trouble,\u201d Kate said, \u201cand I need a place to stay.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat kind of trouble?\u201d<\/p>\n Kate quickly told her about finding the camp and how she and Larry Bronsky were kidnapped.<\/p>\n \u201cOh my God, are you all right?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m OK now, but for awhile I was terrified. I can\u2019t go back to my apartment.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d Aisha said, \u201cno problem. Come on over. You can stay in the guest room. That\u2019s the living room,\u201d she joked, \u201cbut the couch opens into a bed. It\u2019ll be fun.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThanks. I\u2019ll come over after work.\u201d<\/p>\n Kate drove to the library and spent the day there reading about Moslem fundamentalists.<\/p>\n Later on, she phoned Gabe.<\/p>\n \u201cKate! What happened to you? Did you get to that symposium in Lincoln?\u201d he asked in quick succession.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, I did.\u201d She went on to tell about meeting Larry Bronsky, what he revealed about the camp, their kidnapping, and her escape.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you call me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI couldn\u2019t,\u201d Kate said. \u201cThere was no opportunity.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid you go to the police?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI went to the FBI, but I\u2019m not sure if they believed my story. I can\u2019t stay in my apartment.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you going to do?\u201d Gabe asked.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m going to stay with a friend until this thing is cleared up. I\u2019ll stay in touch with you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFor Heaven\u2019s sake, Kate, be careful.\u201d<\/p>\n That evening the girls shared a supper and stayed up late talking about Kate\u2019s experience. Aisha was horrified when Kate told her about Kimura, how she got away by untying the rope with the chair and escaped through the tornado. Kate told her about talking to the FBI.<\/p>\n \u201cWow. That\u2019s serious stuff. What did the FBI say?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t think they believed me,\u201d Kate said. \u201cI\u2019m tired, and I\u2019ve got to go to work tomorrow. Show me how this couch opens up.\u201d<\/p>\n After Kate was asleep, Aisha sat in her bedroom. She was torn between two loyalties.<\/p>\n She\u2019s my best friend-we\u2019ve known each other for years-ever since high school. But I must be faithful to my religion.<\/p>\n Aisha agonized for a long time. Finally, she picked up the phone. \u201cThere\u2019s a problem,\u201d she whispered. \u201cOne of my friends knows all about your camp\u2026”<\/p>\n The next day when Kate was at work, Aisha had a visitor. Muhamet was a family friend, and the one she had phoned the other night.<\/p>\n \u201cOur families have been friends for many years,” he said, “but now there are things you must know. When I lived in Bosnia, I joined the Takfiri.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d Aisha asked.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a group devoted to the destruction of Israel and the purification of the Faith. They-we follow a strict interpretation of Islam. It’s called Takfir wal Hijra. That means ‘Anathema and Exile’. We are part of Al Qaeda, and we are prepared to do anything for the Faith. We will kill or sacrifice ourselves for Islam. We must talk to this friend of yours.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy do you need to talk to her?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe need to find out what she said to the FBI.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe told me that she thought the FBI didn\u2019t believe her story.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNevertheless, we must question her back at the camp. There are those who feel she is a threat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat will you do to her?\u201d Aisha asked.<\/p>\n \u201cShe will be interrogated rigorously. We have to learn what she knows.\u201d<\/p>\n “But she is my best friend,” Aisha said. “Will they hurt her?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPossibly. She is an infidel. Her life is in the hands of Allah.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI hope Allah will be merciful to her,\u201d Aisha said.<\/p>\n Kate parked on the main street of Aisha’s neighborhood. It was a mixed commercial-residential section with a few fruit and vegetable stores, a Lebanese restaurant, and a small movie theatre. She walked two blocks to Aisha\u2019s building and climbed the single flight of stairs to the apartment.<\/p>\n Aisha seemed edgy.<\/p>\n \u201cIs something wrong?\u201d Kate asked.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, I\u2019m OK.\u201d<\/p>\n The women ate dinner without saying much. When the doorbell sounded, Aisha jumped and opened the door to admit a man.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is Muhamet,\u201d Aisha said. \u201cHe’s a family friend.\u201d<\/p>\n Muhamet was thin, shorter than Kate, with dark eyes and black hair.<\/p>\n Aisha didn\u2019t say she was expecting anybody. I wonder why? He looks like those guys who grabbed Larry and me.<\/p>\n Aisha kept looking at Muhamet as if she expected him to say something, but they sat without speaking for an awkward few minutes.<\/p>\n What\u2019s going on here? Kate wondered. Something\u2019s fishy. They\u2019re both so tense.<\/p>\n Muhamet abruptly broke the silence. \u201cSome of my friends are anxious to meet you, Miss Morrison.\u201d<\/p>\n How does he know my name is Morrison? Aisha introduced me as Kate. Kate immediately became suspicious and sensed that she was being set up. Her heart began to beat faster, but she tried to sound casual.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, perhaps I could meet them sometime,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n Muhamet\u2019s voice became louder. \u201cNot sometime. They want to see you tonight!\u201d<\/p>\n Kate stood up. \u201cNo, I don\u2019t think so.” She turned to Aisha, “I can\u2019t believe this. What have you done, Aisha? I thought you were my friend. I trusted you. I\u2019m getting out of here.\u201d<\/p>\n Muhamet jumped up and grabbed Kate\u2019s arm. \u201dYou will come with me now!\u201d<\/p>\n Kate was a strong girl who grew up with lots of experience discouraging over-amorous farm boys. She wrenched free and headed for the door. Muhamet grabbed her again. Kate brought her knee up hard into his groin causing him to double up in pain.<\/p>\n \u201cYou bitch!\u201d he screamed. \u201cInfidel bitch.\u201d<\/p>\n “Stop it!” Aisha screamed.<\/p>\n Kate rushed out the door, flew down the stairs, and ran toward her car. Looking back, she saw Muhamet running after her, narrowing the distance.<\/p>\n I\u2019ll never make it to my car. She ducked into the movie theater without stopping to buy a ticket.<\/p>\n \u201cHey!\u201d the cashier yelled after her.<\/p>\n \u201cCall the police,\u201d Kate called back. She rushed breathlessly into the dark theater, quickly sat down away from the center aisle and slumped low in her seat, trying to catch her breath. Only half of the seats were occupied.<\/p>\n As Kate’s eyes became adjusted to the darkness, she cautiously looked to see if Muhamet had followed her in. There was no sign of him. She waited 15 minutes, hoping the police would come. I guess they didn’t call the cops. When the show was over, she left with the small crowd.<\/p>\n She walked rapidly to her car, constantly looking around to see if she was being followed. Her hands were shaking so badly she had trouble putting the key into the lock and the ignition.<\/p>\n Kate drove around the city, frequently scanning her rearview mirror, undecided where to go. She finally stopped at a hotel, pulled into the parking lot, and sat in the car with the engine running. She waited to see if anyone had followed her, then killed the engine, and ran into the hotel.<\/p>\n The clerk looked up as if expecting another person.<\/p>\n \u201cJust me,\u201d Kate said.<\/p>\n \u201cNo luggage I can help you with, ma\u2019am?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d Kate gave him her credit card.<\/p>\n The clerk handed her a key and directed her to the elevator.<\/p>\n \u201cRoom 338,\u201d he told her, \u201chave a pleasant evening.\u201d<\/p>\n Kate got off at the third floor, looked down the empty corridor in both directions and hurried to her room. She double-locked the door and secured the chain.<\/p>\n Muhamet drove into the hotel parking lot and stopped so he could watch the entrance. Ten minutes later he picked up his cell phone and punched in a number.<\/p>\n AND EVIL SHALL COME is available as an ebook from Dr. Ellner\u2019s website, http:\/\/www.ellner.com<\/a> as well as from http:\/\/www.booklocker.com<\/a>, as well as on Amazon and at Barnes and Noble.<\/p>\n Bio: Dr. Ellner taught medical and graduate students and post-doctoral fellows at Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons were he became professor of Microbiology and Pathology. On four occasions, the medical students voted him \u201cTeacher of the Year\u201d and \u201cOutstanding Lecturer.\u201d This experience contributed to his ability as a storyteller and upon his retirement he started to write fiction. He is deaf and has been blind for the past 15 years. His novels include Stranger in Time<\/em>, And Evil Shall Come<\/em>, Marika<\/em>, Incident in Geneva<\/em>, The Ebola Connection<\/em> and most recently, a collection of short stories, Bight Figures Sinister Shadows<\/em>.<\/p>\n Vanessa trudged down the alley. The night was dark, and no moon lit her way. She spotted what appeared to be a small blanket lying in a doorway. She was tempted to walk past, but a whimpering from within the blanket stopped her. She knelt, and bit by bit, pulled back the cover to reveal first a head, then a torso, then arms and legs. The body was naked from head to toe. Exposed to the elements, the baby cried in earnest.<\/p>\n “Oh my God,” she said, re-wrapping, then scooping the infant into her arms. “Where’s your mommy? Who could have just dumped you out here like this?”<\/p>\n There was no sound in the alley. She wished now she hadn’t taken this shortcut. She\u2019d been in a hurry. Unable to afford a baby-sitter, she\u2019d left her two children, ages eight and ten, home alone. She\u2019d told them to do their homework, then go to bed at nine o\u2019clock. She\u2019d only planned to be gone until then, but now, it was nearly ten. Her writing group meeting had run later than usual.<\/p>\n She decided to retrace her steps and take the long way home. Once in the safety of her apartment, she would call the police about the baby. She hoped someone from the department of family services could pick up the child right away. There was no way she could feed another hungry mouth.<\/p>\n The baby continued to wail. \u201cShhhh,\u201d said Vanessa, as she turned in the direction from which she\u2019d come. The door, outside which the baby had been lying, opened, and a figure appeared. Vanessa froze. \u201cIt\u2019s okay. Everything\u2019s going to be all right,\u201d she said, more to calm herself than for the crying baby\u2019s sake.<\/p>\n A woman\u2019s voice said, “Hey, bitch, what you doin\u2019 with my baby?”<\/p>\n Another figure appeared, and a second woman\u2019s voice said, \u201cBobbi, this is the pick-up I told you about. They\u2019re going to pay us a lot of money, and they\u2019ll find her a good home, a better home than we can give her. Remember? The woman on the phone said to leave the baby in the alley behind the building, and she would pick her up. That\u2019s her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut that\u2019s my baby. You can\u2019t take her away. She\u2019s my flesh and blood. Please\u2026\u201d She burst into tears.<\/p>\n The baby in Vanessa\u2019s arms cried even louder, if that was possible.<\/p>\n Vanessa ran, leaving Bobbi to grieve and the other woman to comfort her. What sort of adoption agency required a person to abandon a baby in an alley, she wondered, as she reached the street. She remembered there was a police station on the next corner. She would leave the baby there, tell her story, and be done with it. But as she ran toward the next intersection, reassured by the distant whoosh of traffic, she heard running footsteps behind her.<\/p>\n
\nfor publication.<\/p>\n
\nAbout Behind Our Eyes<\/h1>\n
\nContents<\/h1>\n
\n
\n
by Greg Pruitt<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by Gretchen Brown<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters<\/a><\/li>\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Aly Parsons<\/a><\/li>\n
by Elizabeth Fiorite, O.P.<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Amy Bovaird<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n
by Sally Rosenthal<\/a><\/li>\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n
by John Wesley Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by John Justice<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Deon Patrick Lyons and Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n
by Burns Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Jessica Goody<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a>\n\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Heather J Kirk<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n
by Paul D. Ellner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Bill Fullerton<\/a><\/li>\n
by Nancy Scott<\/a><\/li>\n
by Laura Minning<\/a><\/li>\n
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n
by Valerie Moreno<\/a><\/li>\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Jessica Goody<\/a><\/li>\n
by Jessica Goody<\/a><\/li>\n
by Nicole Massey<\/a><\/li>\n
by Nicole Massey<\/a><\/li>\n
by Valerie Moreno<\/a><\/li>\n
by Mary-Jo Lord<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters<\/a><\/li>\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Peter Altschul<\/a><\/li>\n
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Sally Rosenthal<\/a><\/li>\n
by Jeff Flodin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Burns Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Burns Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/div>\n
\nEditor’s Welcome<\/h1>\n
\n
\n
\n
\nPart I. Looking Back<\/h1>\n
Gold Star, memoir nonfiction First Place
by Greg Pruitt<\/h2>\n
\nA Bridge Between Waves, memoir nonfiction Honorable Mention
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/h2>\n
\nSunset on a Beach, poetry
by Gretchen Brown<\/h2>\n
\nwhere you claimed you loved me.
\nThe blue sky,
\nwaves, sand, and water,
\nreminding us that we were being watched.
\nWaves stretched endlessly,
\nmore grains of sand than the eye could count.<\/p>\n
\npiercing quick,
\ntook you away from me!
\nThey said it was poison
\nfrom a puffer fish.
\nYou lay,
\ngasping and twisting
\nin the soft sand.
\nMy tears wet your beautiful face,
\nreplacing the salt filled ocean spray.
\nThe soft, soft sand
\ncaressed your pain filled body.
\nIt soothed you.
\nYou could relax,
\nit stopped your rhythmic convulsing,
\nyour breathing grew to match the ocean waves.
\nThe sun was warm and gentle.
\nThe warmth soaked in
\nto your tired, wounded body.
\n“Sleep,” whispered
\nthe summer breeze.
\nTo your foggy mind,
\nit was as if
\nyou were being cradled
\nin the arms
\nof the mother,
\nyou never had
\nbut had so
\ndesperately longed for.
\nYou fell into a deep sleep,
\nfrom which you would never awaken.
\nAnd the sun set,
\non the beach of love.<\/p>\n
\nBuddy, memoir nonfiction Honorable Mention
by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters<\/h2>\n
\nMusic Box, memoir
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/h2>\n
\nRoad Crossings, memoir
by Aly Parsons<\/h2>\n
\nMemoir: To Jonathan, poetry Second Place
by Elizabeth Fiorite, O.P.<\/h2>\n
\nmy mother told me not to cross Austin Boulevard,
\nthereby making that my goal.
\nYou had a speedometer on your sleek and shiny racer.
\nI had my old blue Schwinn.
\nYour long legs pumped rhythmically,
\nand you laughed to see me so far behind.<\/p>\n
\nand already had your bike upright,
\nbalanced by the kick stand,
\nfront wheel slightly turned.<\/p>\n
\nI jumped from my bike before it fell to the ground,
\nits back wheel spinning crazily.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cCheater!\u201d I blurted,
\nnot knowing how else to defend my embarrassment.<\/p>\n
\narms and legs entangling.
\nYou laughed and tears spilled from my eyes.
\nTasting my tears,
\nstill gasping for breath,
\nI turned my head.<\/p>\n
\nuntil you were so close I could smell your sweat
\nand your bubble gum breath,
\nI never thought of you as\u2026real.
\nI never realized how we were different,
\nuntil you touched me.<\/p>\n
\nJanus, Then and Now, a Senryu inter-leafed with prose, poetry Honorable Mention
by Kate Chamberlin<\/h2>\n
\nAncient Roman Deity,
\nGate keeper of all.<\/p>\n
\nClosing passage and portal,
\nComing and going.<\/p>\n
\nTransition, past to Future,
\nMemory to vision.<\/p>\n
\nExtremity of Heaven,
\nThe two faced Janus.<\/p>\n
\nAncient Roman Deity,
\nJanus, my Janus.<\/p>\n
\nThe Sweet Breath of Africa, memoir nonfiction Honorable Mention
by Amy Bovaird<\/h2>\n
\nPart II. Nature’s Wonders<\/h1>\n
The Connie, nonfiction Second Place
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/h2>\n
\nIn My Dream, poetry
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/h2>\n
\nI am standing on the mountain
\nnear the terrifying edge of the precipice,
\nsit down to draw in my sketchbook.
\nI see Alpine villages in the valley below,
\nscattered like multi-colored Tourmaline stones.<\/p>\n
\nI am in death-defying situations
\nIt is always winter and I struggle.
\nicy winds and dicey slopes
\nwithout a pathway.<\/p>\n
\nmy solo flights are joyous.
\nI push my heels downward
\nlaunch my body into the sky.
\nHover. Dive. Swoop. Circle.
\nNo need for feathered wings.<\/p>\n
\nI climb upwards
\non the ladder I stumbled upon
\nin the woods one afternoon.
\nEarth disappears
\nthe ladder is unstable
\n\u201cKeep it straight up,\u201d I whisper.
\n\u201cKeep your body centered. Stay poised.\u201d<\/p>\n
\na cerulean blue dragon kills stealthy leopards
\nI touch the Dragon\u2019s horny face as we fly
\nfull-speed ahead through throbbing pain.<\/p>\n
\nI hold asymmetrical yellow wildflowers
\nplanted by birds and wind in open fields.
\nA white dog guards the entrance to the Underworld.
\nShe sleeps under my bed
\nguards me on long narrow journeys.<\/p>\n
\nI rest in the shade of Hemlocks and ferns,
\ngather water-worn grey stones from the river bottom,
\nglide on the surface of the Allegheny river
\nin my red canoe.<\/p>\n
\nI watch the movements as dusty stars
\nleave tracks on a snow-covered path.<\/p>\n
\nFeeding Spot, poetry Honorable Mention
by Sally Rosenthal<\/h2>\n
\nI watch my breath rise in misty puffs
\nAs the pale winter sun peeks above the horizon on
\nMy great-aunt\u2019s hardscrabble Pennsylvania tobacco farm.<\/p>\n
\nOf warm milk as the doe sucks it dry before turning
\nTo Aunt Ivy for the apple slices on offer.<\/p>\n
\nIn a box of blankets beside a wood-burning stove
\nIn the old farmhouse\u2019s kitchen, Spot was released
\nTo the wilderness, only to return
\nEach morning for her treats as her mate, a buck
\nWith, to my child\u2019s eyes, an enormous rack of antlers that surely reached the clouds,
\nWaited from afar on the frozen ground of a neighboring field.<\/p>\n
\nBy teaching her to trust humans in a poor county
\nWhere venison on the table helped families
\nMake it through the lean months of unforgiving winters.<\/p>\n
\nEscaped the hunters\u2019 arrows and buckshot and that their generations to come
\nSurvived to nibble the green sweetness of next year\u2019s Spring.<\/p>\n
\nLilac\u2019s Song, fiction Honorable Mention
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/h2>\n
\nImmortal Birds, poetry
by John Wesley Smith<\/h2>\n
\nRecorded to keep all the words..
\nForgotten is droning of sages,
\nI only remember the birds.<\/p>\n
\nA Walk in the Woods, memoir
by John Justice<\/h2>\n
\nThe Cycles of Life, flash fiction
by Kate Chamberlin<\/h2>\n
\norchard becomes an ocean of undulating popcorn balls.<\/p>\n
\nRainbows Rising, poetry
by Deon Patrick Lyons and Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/h2>\n
\nDo you want to know how?
\nJust wait for a sunny day;
\nthen, with your back toward the sun,
\nlet the water from the summer hose
\narc into a powerful flow.<\/p>\n
\nred, orange, and yellow–stretching awake inside a summer morn;
\ngreen and blue, splashing atop an ocean so deep;
\nindigo and violet, snuggling down into a bed of irises.
\nReplace those aimless frowns with effusive grins.<\/p>\n
\nWhich color can you hold?
\nCan you feel the mist of wonder
\nwhere sunlight breaks through a raindrop?
\nCan you wave
\ntoward the arc of indigo?<\/p>\n
\ngaze out across a clovered field.
\nStand on your toes and stretch toward the clouds;
\nfill your pockets with a fistful of magic.
\nChart a course
\nas your rainbow sets sail.<\/p>\n
\nAh, you look just like your grandpa,
\nglistening like his shining star;
\nbut your glance is so afar.
\nNaptime!
\nLittle child, little child, sleep well
\nand dream a rainbow.<\/p>\n
\nIl Pleut, poetry
by Burns Taylor<\/h2>\n
\nBefore there were rivers or oceans, there had to be rain.
\nBefore there could be trees and flowers, there had to be rain.
\nBefore there were people, it rained.<\/p>\n
\nAnd it always triggers memories, the rain:
\nthe time as children we shared a bar of soap and bathed naked in the rain.
\nWalking in it; Making love in it in the back seat of a 1950 Chevrolet,
\nparked next to a dark woods down a rainy country road.
\nThe rain, pecking on the windows lightly, like soft-beaked birds.<\/p>\n
\nIt washes clean from the earth for a moment
\nthe stain of human history.<\/p>\n
\nPortrait in Green, poetry
by Jessica Goody<\/h2>\n
\nThe lion follows like a spy, stealthy
\nin his pursuit of me, a lame gazelle.
\nThe mirror-image palindromes reveal<\/p>\n
\nflashing in my bloodless brain.
\nSpiderwebs like woven gauze curtain
\nthe ancient sprawling baobabs, their gnarled,<\/p>\n
\nThe kiss of the green snake leaves you frozen,
\ntwin pinpricks on your arm like a vampire\u2019s fangs.
\nThe jungle spreads its skirts in a thousand shades of green.<\/p>\n
\nin the green silence, the slap and thud of my dragging feet.<\/p>\n
\nPart III. The Writers’ Climb<\/h1>\n
Write a 12th Century Sestina for the 21st Century, poetry First Place
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/h2>\n
\nThe Sestina dates back to the days of roving singers and storytellers. I believe it is the best vehicle for writing a story-poem. \u201cA Sestina for Alfred Rieder\u2019s Widow\u201d evolved from journal entries which I made one warm summer day as I was sitting on a stone bench in a peaceful cemetery in Gr\u00f6dig, an Alpine village in Austria. An afternoon visit to a local cemetery can provide insight into the beauty of life and death. I wanted to share what I saw that day, by writing my observations and notes into the form of a Sestina. Present moments, the past, and a feeling for the future came to life as I wrote what I saw and heard.<\/p>\n
\nAfter I write those six stanzas according to the Sestina requirements, I wrote the \u201ctriplet\u201d which is at the conclusion of the poem. Each line of the three-line triplet contains 2 of my chosen words. The triplet seems to wrap it all up for me. The triplet gives the poem one final burst of energy to express what the first six stanzas had to say. This is a fun way to end the poem.<\/p>\n\n
\nShe stood awhile among the fading ribbons
\nbent low to light a candle near the edge of the wilting flowers.
\nThe churchyard is alive with the movement and scent of summer
\nand a wooden cross at the top of Alfred Rieder\u2019s grave is swaged with black lace.
\nTwo others embraced this new widow near the winding brick path.<\/p>\n
\nThey never turned around to see if others had come here this morning.
\nBoth women, in mourning black, reach out and rearrange the limp ribbons,
\nadmire the many large bouquets of flowers.
\nThe only fresh ones are the yellow centered daises this summer
\nwith a golden message, \u201cDia,\u201d written on a white streamer of lace.<\/p>\n
\nattached to the top of the cross where three stand on the path.
\nThe bell in the church tower strikes eleven times this morning.
\nThey never notice the brilliant foil letters on the pale violet ribbons
\nor the small bee that moves quickly among the pastel flowers
\ncontinuing to stop and taste the sweet blossoms of summer<\/p>\n
\nand no interest in the marble stones, the cross, or the flapping lace
\nfor it finds fresher flowers blooming farther down the winding path.
\nAlfred Rieder\u2019s photo is attached to the wooden cross and his grave overflows with messages of love this morning.
\nThe three sigh as they read aloud from the gilded ribbons
\nwoven through the spikes of lavender larkspur, ferns, and pink flowers.<\/p>\n
\nfar too many to fit on the space of his fresh new grave this summer.
\nThe sun and rains will slowly dissolve the flowers and wilt the taffeta and lace
\nthat overflows from the gravesite onto the garden path.
\nThis year Alfred Rieder\u2019s widow will visit his grave each morning
\nand bring with her little bouquets, cut flowers tied with satin ribbons.<\/p>\n
\nShe\u2019ll come here some summer evenings to water the flowers
\nand she\u2019ll bring freshly cut flowers from her garden each summer.
\nIn the fall she will bring bronze mums tied with golden lace.
\nShe will wear a bright flowered dress and her black shoes will walk firmly on the autumn path
\nas she nods a silent greeting to another new widow some morning.<\/p>\n
\nOn another summer day, the hot sun wilts the fresh flowers
\nAlfred Rieder\u2019s widow walks down the path to console a friend this morning.<\/p>\n
\nIt was published in Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage<\/em>, Kota Press, January 1, 2003, and revised in January 2018.<\/p>\n
\nA Writer\u2019s Retreat, fiction finish the story exercise
by Kate Chamberlin<\/h2>\n
\nA Writer\u2019s Retreat Ending, fiction
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/h3>\n
\nA Writers’ Retreat ending, fiction
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/h3>\n
\n“I can’t believe where you went with that,” her friend smiled. “When we realized we’d overbooked that cabin, I was just praying for a cancelation or a miracle.”<\/p>\n
\nServices for Authors<\/h2>\n
PhotoGraphic Artistry and Publishing
by Heather J Kirk<\/h3>\n
\nAnd Evil Shall Come, fiction book excerpt
by Paul D. Ellner<\/h2>\n
\nAbandoned, fiction finish the story exercise
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/h2>\n