Magnets and Ladders
\nActive Voices of Writers with Disabilities
\nFall\/Winter 2018-2019<\/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 Authors under age 18: Please include a statement from a parent or guardian that indicates awareness of your submission of literary work to Magnets and Ladders.<\/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. As the leaves change color and fall to the ground, they form a thick, crunchy blanket on the grass and sidewalks. Jamie, our Golden Retriever puppy is sure that they are there for him to run through, chase, and eat.<\/p>\n This spring, the members of Behind Our Eyes were saddened by the deaths of two members.<\/p>\n In late March, Lauren Casey passed away after a long illness. Lauren had been a member of Behind Our Eyes since 2007. She was an active participant on Sunday night conference calls, volunteered for committees, and her work can be found in early editions of Magnets and Ladders<\/em> and Behind Our Eyes: a Second Look<\/em>. Her friendly presence will be missed.<\/p>\n In June, Ernest (Ernie) Jones passed away following his battle with Cancer. Ernie had been a member of Behind Our Eyes since 2006 and served on the Board of Directors for several years as a Member at Large. He also served as Interim Vice President. Ernie had been active on several committees. His work can be found in Magnets and Ladders<\/em>, * Behind Our Eyes, and <\/em>Behind Our Eyes: a Second Look*. Ernie\u2019s calming presence and gentle leadership will be missed.<\/p>\n We will feature previously published pieces by Lauren and Ernie immediately following The Editor\u2019s Welcome.<\/p>\n Do you like surprises? “From a Different Perspective” and “Not What I Expected” are full of them. “Seasonal Wonders” is full of stories and poems about the holidays and ways to appreciate the cooler seasons. “The Animal Kingdom” is back and “The Melting Pot” has some gems that you don’t want to miss. Be sure to read “The Writers’ Climb” for marketing and editing tips and a new challenge.<\/p>\n Although we don’t have a section that features ghosts, they might show up when you aren’t expecting them. See how many you can find. We have two new young contributors, ages twelve and fifteen, and work from a poet from India. You can find their work in “From A Different Prospective” and The Melting Pot.”<\/p>\n In the Spring\/Summer edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em>, we had a finish the story exercise started by Abbie Johnson Taylor. You can read Abbie’s story starter and the top two responses in “The Writers’ Climb.”<\/p>\n I would like to give a big thanks to all of the committee members and to Marilyn Brandt Smith, Jason Smith and John Weidlich for your hard work and support throughout the production process.<\/p>\n We had contests with cash prizes in fiction, nonfiction and poetry. Below are the Magnets and Ladders<\/em> Fall\/Winter 2018-2019 contest winners.<\/p>\n Fiction:<\/p>\n<\/li>\n First Place: “The Demmies,” book excerpt by Ann K. Parsons<\/p>\n<\/li>\n Honorable Mention: “Dream Driving” by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/p>\n<\/li>\n Nonfiction:<\/p>\n<\/li>\n First Place: “Murderous Innocence” by Leonard Tuchyner<\/p>\n<\/li>\n Honorable Mention: “Keep Calm and Drink Tea” by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters<\/p>\n<\/li>\n Poetry:<\/p>\n<\/li>\n First Place: “Talking to God While Making the Damn Bed” by Ria Meade<\/p>\n<\/li>\n Congratulations to the winning authors. All of our prize winning stories and poems can be found throughout this issue. See “The Writers’ Climb” for details about our next contest, again with cash prizes.<\/p>\n The Magnets and Ladders<\/em> staff wishes you a happy and safe holiday season.<\/p>\n When I was growing up, my older sister, Jackie, was my role model. Everything Jackie did, I wanted to do. So when she decided to take up downhill skiing, I, of course, wanted to learn how to ski.<\/p>\n Since I was a know-it-all teenager it never occurred to me that my blindness, or should I say, other people’s attitudes about my blindness, could be an obstacle to my pursuits. I recall comments like: “Blind people can’t ski!” “How can you ski when you can’t see where you’re going?” or “That’s too dangerous for you!”<\/p>\n Several years later, upon learning about programs that taught blind people to ski, I immediately obtained more details. One weekend my friend Susan and I went to a ski resort in Vermont for such a program.<\/p>\n Saturday morning I met the instructor who would be giving me my first lesson. After she showed me how to put on my boots and skis, we moved around on flat ground for a while so I could get used to the feel and length of the skis.<\/p>\n Next we went up the chair lift. At the top, it was now time for me to go back down the slope on my own. It was the bunny slope but it was Mt. Everest to me. With the exception of my instructor following behind me occasionally calling out “left” or “right” and other such directional commands, I was doing it all on my own.<\/p>\n Gliding down the hill, my skis cut through the smooth fluffy snow, in the beginner’s snow plow position. In this technique the points of the skis nearly meet to form the tip of a triangle, helping to control speed and steer around rocks, bumps, and other skiers. But those challenges would come later in my skiing career. For now I was alone with my instructor and her occasional directions, with no other sounds of people or of the wind blowing through the trees. With no guide dog harness, no white cane, nor elbow of a sighted guide, the feeling of freedom and independence was incredible. It was just me, my poles and my skis!<\/p>\n Reaching the bottom, I sighed deeply and thought, let’s do it again. After all, that’s why I’m here.<\/p>\n Note: Lauren’s Dream was previously published in Consumer Vision<\/em>. It is taken from a monologue She wrote which was performed by Lauren and other members of her theater company. This story is about living with and coming to terms with disabilities.<\/p>\n Lauren’s Dream was first published in the Fall\/Winter 2011\/2012 edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em>.<\/p>\n From my perch high up in the old gnarled pine tree I surveyed the sight before me. I wondered why I remained here; maybe it was this beautiful tall pine tree. The tall tree stood on a small knoll beside some of the ugliest land I had ever seen. Being a wise old bird, I could usually find good in anything or anybody, but this place was terrible.<\/p>\n There was a stream, that is if you could find it buried in a tangle of dead & dying wood; beyond the water there was no beauty to behold. Thorn bushes grew into a tight bramble; thistles grew in the open field & nettles crowded the bank of the stream. Rusty tin cans, shreds of paper, & plastic bottles littered the ground under the brush, making a great hide-out for mice, rats, & snakes. It’s true that many birds lived in the brambles, & rabbits loved the thickets, but beyond this the land was an ugly, useless piece of sod.<\/p>\n Then change came, & it was for the better. A new year had come, & with it, a move for improvements. Huge land-moving equipment came, & in just a few hours the land was a mess of debris-strewn mud. When the workmen stopped for the day, the land was quiet. I could not say there was improvement for now\u2014even the birds & rabbits had gone and only silence greeted this old bird. In dismay, I thought of leaving too, but at least I still had the pine tree. Besides, my curiosity got the best of me; I’d just have to stick around to see what would happen next.<\/p>\n The following weeks, as winter turned into spring, the land began to take on a new look. The stream reappeared and began to flow again.<\/p>\n Then one day in April, many people showed up. There was laughing, shouting, & even some singing as the people worked. Huge piles of debris: stumps, brush, & dead roots grew like magic as the people pulled, raked, & stacked the now almost dried wood. Large fires sprouted out of these piles, & by nightfall the land was clear. A few smoldering fires still spit up some smoke, but mostly the land was rough dirt & ash.<\/p>\n Over the following days the people continued to work, and what a change took place right before my eyes; a new creation sprouted out of what had been a desolate land. Just for me, at least this is what I thought, my old pine tree was spared. The stream’s route was altered a little to make it go meandering through the meadow. New trees were planted along its bank and scattered here and there to give future shade to the visitors. Many shrubs and flower beds seem to have sprouted out of the ground tempting butterflies, hummingbirds, and honey bees to sample their sweet nectar. A trail ran along the stream, crossing the water in several places on rustic wooden bridges. The remaining ground was turned into a velvet carpet of soft, green lawn. Like an ugly caterpillar emerging later as a lovely moth, the land came forth as a place of beauty. Once again, rabbits returned to eat the green grass and other plants, while still sometimes hiding in the fast-growing shrubs.<\/p>\n But what I liked most was the fountain. Right in the middle of the stream stood a fountain, its water shooting up in tall spheres, only to drop into fine mists, to again change into columns of spray. What a lovely way to take a shower or even a bath; we birds loved it. Oh yes, a multitude of birds again filled the air with their sweet songs. What a wonderful way to start the new year.<\/p>\n The Old Crow and the Beautiful Land was published in the Spring\/Summer 2013 edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em> and in Behind Our Eyes: a Second Look<\/em>.<\/p>\n As autumn falls into the winter stage of life, as the golden leaves turn into the golden years, I find that I am too often leaving behind the tools of my spring and summer garden. To plant a winter memory garden, I, as a writer, must reach for other tools\u2014for words, recollections, rhyming memories, treasured moments, and keepsakes from the heart. To capture only a little of what I want to plant into my forever memory garden, I must first and then periodically sprinkle the garden bed with my tears. Next, I must manage to till the nearly frozen soil so that I can plant the tender memories. Throughout this fourth season of life, I must keep watch over my Winter Memory Garden, cultivate it with remembrances, and nourish it with prayers.<\/p>\n While other people will sing “For Good,” play “Ave Maria” on a pipe organ, strum “On Eagle’s Wings” on an acoustic guitar, play “Ashokan Farewell” on a violin, play “Wind Beneath My Wings” on a concert harp, speak the sentences and paragraphs of a eulogy\u2014we, the writers of this world, must, during the hardest days and hours, find peace and comfort in writing the words that will grow after the memorial service is over. Many of us will turn to poetry and plant rows of verses in our Winter Memory Gardens to continue harvesting treasures from the Heartland.<\/p>\n Within a forty-day period of this past summer, I sadly had to kneel at my winter garden three more times. Dear poets, do not allow the cherished memories of special family members and friends to slip away: turn to your craft, and preserve some of the extraordinary recollections of those who live on only in our Winter Memory Gardens. For our Behind Our Eyes friend and frequent Magnets and Ladders contributor Ernie Jones, who both embodied and wrote of “The Old Crow,” I wrote the following poem to plant in my Winter Memory Garden.<\/p>\n NOTE: The initial letter of each line is in boldface type; forming the acrostic, these letters spell the phrase “The Old Crow.”<\/p>\n Planting an Acrostic Memory Garden for Ernie<\/p>\n (In tribute to Ernest A. Jones, who passed on June 1, 2018)<\/p>\n T<\/strong>enderly, we plant acrostic recollections in the memorial garden, O<\/strong>ld Crow flies away too soon, too swiftly, but C<\/strong>redited with caring, courtesy, kindness, and gentle communication– 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.<\/p>\n 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 Sometimes an open heart is an invitation to disaster. I led with my heart on that day, but my actions were poisoned with ignorance, a na\u00efve companion to my child\u2019s mind.<\/p>\n The puppy was one of the most beautiful things I\u2019d ever seen. Actually, he was almost half grown, all white and speckled with variegated black spots on medium-length hair. His body was sleek, along the lines of a bird dog.<\/p>\n He was walking leisurely along the sidewalk outside my house in Irvington, N.J. shimmering in the summer sun. It was love at first sight. How could I resist? Right hand extended, I approached him.<\/p>\n I started with all the appropriate gooey words and tones. \u201cHello. Come on. Nice doggie. What a good dog.\u201d<\/p>\n He eagerly accepted my invitation for contact, barely stopping to smell my proffered hand. It is often in the nature of boys and dogs to be instant buddies. And so it was on this fateful summer morning.<\/p>\n \u201cWould you like to meet Champ? He\u2019s my dog. We could play together. Come on. Champ will be really glad to meet you. He\u2019s inside my house. We\u2019ll have to go around to the back door. Come on.\u201d<\/p>\n Full of trust, the young dog followed me into my back yard. Champ was already at the door, revved with excitement and chomping at the bit to get outside where he could play with our new friend. As he scratched on the screen door and jumped at it, I turned the knob. As soon as the catch was released, he pushed the door aside and leapt at the unsuspecting puppy.<\/p>\n My blood froze when I realized what was happening. Champ didn\u2019t want to play. He wanted to kill. The puppy knew that as soon as the hurricane exploded out of the door. I didn\u2019t know what to do. I tried futilely to grab Champ, but I might as well have been grabbing at a snarling, twisting, fire-breathing dragon.<\/p>\n The puppy managed to break free and took off running. He was faster than Champ, who was blocky in build, but the older dog was hot on his heels. They left me in the dust as I desperately tried to keep up. We came quickly to the end of the block, which ran parallel to a major thoroughfare. I got there just after I heard a horrible thump.<\/p>\n The puppy lay sprawled out in the middle of the road, blood dripping out of his nose and feet quivering. I looked on with my heart racing and my lungs paralyzed. My mind tried in vain to deny what my eyes saw. Then shame fell over me like a suffocating cloud. I wanted to hide. This was all my fault. I didn\u2019t want people to know. The cars were stopped, and the driver had exited his automobile. I imagine him saying that the dog came out of nowhere, but I really wasn\u2019t hearing anything except the inner shouts of, \u201cIt\u2019s all your fault. You killed that poor little puppy. Your dog is bad. You\u2019re bad. Get away from here before somebody finds out what you did.\u201d<\/p>\n I saw Champ in the distance. He understood that he should leave the site. I slinked away back to my house.<\/p>\n A few hours later, Champ returned. He showed no signs of remorse. I doubt that he felt any. Begrudgingly, I accepted him back as my dog. I realized, at some level, that he did not live by the sensibilities of good humans. I don\u2019t think this is true of all dogs. I\u2019ve learned through my years of experience with canines that they have all kinds of sensibility levels. Some undoubtedly exceed the moral fiber of many homo sapiens. In retrospect, he was protecting his territory. The puppy was endangering his status in his own home by soliciting the affections of his human. I can\u2019t really know whether he would have killed the other dog if he could have. Bloodying him might have been enough.<\/p>\n I never confessed or talked to anyone about the incident, and to my knowledge, no one ever connected the accident to me. No one ever blamed me and thus no one ever offered any consolation. It is something I\u2019ve carried around all my life. However, the burden is not heavy, because in adulthood I realized that a child should not be blamed for an innocent mistake, even if it is fatal. On the other hand, the fact that I did not trust anyone with the secret does say something about my trust levels in childhood.<\/p>\n I am writing this account a few weeks before Christmas in my 77th year of my sojourn in this incarnation on earth. The incident does still have a powerful effect on me. I notice that, on those rare occasions when I think of this event, my head looks down and there is still significant sadness, laced with the old remnants of guilt.<\/p>\n Although ignorance is a valid pardon for children to do things with horrible consequences, it is not a valid excuse for adults. Most ignorance is a matter of choice. I am reminded of Dickens\u2019 Christmas Carol, when Scrooge notices two children cowering under Christmas Present\u2019s robes. The spirit opens his robes for Scrooge\u2019s perusal, and identifies them as the children of man. He says, \u201cOne is Want and the other is Ignorance.\u201d He warns Scrooge to beware of both of them, but most of all to be wary of Ignorance. As we near Christmas, it would be wise to heed that warning, because it is highly appropriate for our times when ignorance and want run rampant in our societies, and when they can bring grave consequences.<\/p>\n Bio: Leonard Tuchyner 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 You want to know how I come to be volunteering at both the kids\u2019 hospital and the V.A. now six years? Kind of a trippy story, actually.<\/p>\n The problem with wives is once they get an idea in their heads, they just keep nagging about it, on and on until you can either tell them to shut up or try it out just so you can prove how their stupid ideas stink.<\/p>\n It started when the wife’s new job let her bring Nugget to work. A good thing since I was out driving all day for my idiot boss and Nugget was climbing the walls, literally. Never knew a retriever would eat sheet rock, but Nugget sure did. Anyway, about the time my back went out and the settlement came in, the wife’s company got bought and they said no more dogs, makes the office look unprofessional or some such nonsense. So yours truly gets stuck with Nugget.<\/p>\n But by this time Nugget’s four, and she only eats socks, and when we walk down the street, she prances real nice and trained at my left knee, so all them obedience classes I shelled out for actually paid off! But you can only watch so much “Jerry Springer” and “Days of Our Lives,” and the wife says now it’s me climbing the walls. So until I’m back on my feet, she says I ought to give Nugget a job, because Nugget’s missing going to work.<\/p>\n I’m grossed out thinking of all those old people pissing on themselves and me and Nugget having to make happy faces at them. And maybe we’ll have to visit some retard school, and the wife knows how I insist on staying away from hospitals and sick people. But the wife doesn’t let up, and with her playing breadwinner, I give in and say I’ll try it just a month.<\/p>\n So we get our asses certified, and Nugget’s real calm around the teacher banging her fake crutches, where some of the other dogs get disqualified on account of them yipping and yapping. Nugget doesn’t even try to pull the tennis balls off the walker they bring in to class! So I figure, maybe Nugget really is a working dog, and I sign up with all the other sheep who made it through pet therapy training.<\/p>\n Then we’re at the pediatric ICU and it’s way worse than the hospital because it’s little kids with tubes stuck in every orifice, doped up to the gills, most of them going to kick the bucket sooner than later. I only got two more weeks on my promise to the old lady though, and the retired folks in the home I visited last week weren’t half bad. Some were in the army like me, different war, but who’s counting? And a couple of them knew enough about fishing that I’ll have to get down to the lake real soon to try the geezers’ ideas out.<\/p>\n So I’m walking around the ICU beds there and a nurse grabs me, real rough for a nurse and says all fake cheerful, “Here’s a little girl has a golden retriever at home. I’m sure she’d like to meet your Nugget.” She yanks open this curtain, and there’s a tiny kid in this huge bed, needles stuck in her arms and tubes in her neck, enough stuffed bears and flowers for a funeral, her Mommy all red-eyed in a chair beside the bed, and the damned kid is in a coma. And the nurse has me bring Nugget up to the bed, put her head on the kid’s pillow, and she takes the kid’s limp little hand and places it on Nugget’s head. And Nugget snuggles her face down by the kid and kind of snorts, and her tail starts waving its flag the way it does when she’s real happy, and the kid’s breathing machine is too loud, but the kid keeps on sleeping of course. The whole thing is giving me the creeps, and after it’s gone on for maybe five minutes, I excuse myself and high-tail us out of there.<\/p>\n Course Nugget was such a big hit at the ICU they want us back next week, but now there are only seven more days on my sentence so I can tough it out. To keep myself from getting so fidgety, I log on to the internet to read up on comas, and who knew, sometimes those dudes in a coma can actually hear. Nobody’s sure, but it’s a good idea to talk to them like they can, and it might even help them come out of it. I wonder if some of my old army buddies who got shot up into vegetative states would’ve done better if they’d gotten talked to more, like before the brain injuries really set in. You think!<\/p>\n Nugget’s tearing around the house with her squeaky orange frog, and it’s easier to just take it with. So we get there and that same drill sergeant nurse is on duty and she collars us both and drags us up to the little girl’s bed. Nothing has changed, except the Mom’s got a bigger Kleenex box, and Nugget starts shoving her squeaky frog in the little girl’s face. I try to grab on to Nugget and settle her down, never saw Nugget like this, but then I think about the coma thing and the Mom’s too out of it to notice, so I kind of muffle the sound with a pillow and let Nugget squeak the frog close to the kid’s ear. And I reach through all the tubes, because the nurse split, across the sheets, grab her little hand and put it on Nugget’s soft, furry ears. And Nugget gives that little snuffle-growl she does when she’s turning around three times for bed, and the little girl opens her eyes and smiles.<\/p>\n Bio: Deborah Armstrong coordinates surrenders for Norcal golden retriever rescue and works as a computer tech for a community college. She has been blind since birth and is about to enter training to be partnered with her seventh guide dog.<\/p>\n If you’ve lived very long, you may have noticed that things don’t always go the way we would like. An example of this happened to me recently when I went to the store for some extra-large eggs. Seeing there were none available in my favorite brand of range eggs, I perused the shelves for a suitable substitute. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were no extra large eggs. I checked a second, third, and fourth time. Surely, I was just missing them. But, no, out of seven brands of eggs, there wasn’t a single carton of extra-large eggs in any size.<\/p>\n “What is this?” I jokingly said to the shopper beside me, “Are the extra-large hens on strike or something?”<\/p>\n “Yes,” he said, “they\u2019re striking for better working conditions.”<\/p>\n Taken aback, I just stared at him open–mouthed not sure whether to take him seriously or not.<\/p>\n Seeing my uncertainty, he explained. “It seems they don’t want to go in nesting boxes, and they don’t want to scratch around and hunt for their food.”<\/p>\n Over the next several days, I followed the poultry news with great interest. I personally want eggs from chickens that get plenty of exercise, roam free, and have a natural diet. I want them to have plenty of crunchy juicy insects, termites, ants, grasshoppers, worms, and other protein rich foods along with some wild berries, and tender leaves like baby spinach and kale\u2014pretty much anything they can scratch up and get their beaks on except commercially produced feed.<\/p>\n The Fraternity of Fine Feathered Fowl (4F) got involved, stating they fully supported free range for the chickens. “Chickens need plenty of space to roam and gather live food,” said the fraternity leader. “What the farmers are offering is in the best interest of the chickens.”<\/p>\n A spokesman for the SPCE (Society for the Prevention of Chicken Exploitation) said, “What the farmers propose is exploitation. They want the chickens to gather their own food and still produce the eggs the farmers sell. These chickens have every right to be served. They are doing the work.”<\/p>\n In defense, the farmers explained, “It is not our intent to place a hardship on the chickens.”<\/p>\n As it turned out, the chickens settled for a maximum of eight hours a day of cage free time; the owners agreed to spread a commercial vegetarian diet pellet on the ground for those who didn’t want to search for their food. They will then return to their cages where commercial pellets and fresh water are always available.<\/p>\n “I understand you and the chickens have reached an agreement,” said the reporter covering the story.<\/p>\n “Yes,” said the chicken farm representative. “We understand that “free range” can be scary to a chicken that has only seen the inside of a cage. Over time, we hope the chickens will become more comfortable with the concept, and come to prefer a natural diet over the pellets. In the meantime, commercial pellets will be made available in the cages as usual.”<\/p>\n “Do you think this idea will catch on?” asked the reporter.<\/p>\n “Yes. In the future, chicks will be raised in a natural environment from start to finish. They will never know a cage or commercial food. In a way, the striking chickens will be making life better for future generations. It is unfortunate they will not participate in all the benefits.”<\/p>\n So, perhaps, over time, I will someday have an omega-3 fatty acid rich, low cholesterol extra-large egg, but for now, my desires have run a-fowl of the chickens.<\/p>\n Bio: As a person with Retinitis Pigmentosa, Cleora Boyd first pursued a career in Accounting. After receiving a B.S. degree in Math from Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas, she went on to obtain employment with a major pharmaceutical corporation in Fort Worth, Texas, where she still lives. Now retired, she joined a writing group, enjoys reading, taking adult education courses, watching TV with her cockatiel Dusty, and writing about whatever may be on her mind. Her creations have found a home in Magnets & Ladders<\/em> and Consumer vision<\/em>. Cleora also writes under the names Sly Duck and C. S. Boyd.<\/p>\n During my junior year of high school, royalty invaded our house in the form of an orange cat. We were surprised, as we viewed cats as oddities that dogs chased. But Mom, understanding that you can’t mess with royalty and drawing on her practicality honed while raising a totally blind kid, did what she could to make the house welcoming. She made sure that the cat door functioned properly. She placed his food and water out of the prying mouth of our pet Labrador. And she named the cat Marmalade.<\/p>\n I didn’t interact much with the cat except on Wednesday nights after choir practice. After going through my good night ritual with Mom, I would head upstairs and flop on my twin bed, forgetting that Marmalade insisted on occupying this space on Wednesday nights – and only Wednesday nights. Yowling loudly, he would disappear.<\/p>\n “Mom,” I would call sheepishly as I headed downstairs, “I sat on the cat again.”<\/p>\n “Now, Peter,” she would respond, trying not to laugh. “Didn’t you sit on the cat last Wednesday night?”<\/p>\n I sighed, trying to keep the smile from my voice. “Yes.”<\/p>\n So Mom would come upstairs and try to coax Marmalade to come out from under my bed. If the coaxing failed, she used a broom.<\/p>\n For everyone knows that royalty needs space.<\/p>\n Several months later, my grandmother and I were sitting on the opposite ends of our kitchen table as Mom prepared breakfast. Often called Queenie, Grandma appreciated calm elegance.<\/p>\n “What a lovely day,” Queenie sighed as Mom placed a tray of food in front of her.<\/p>\n Shortly afterwards, I heard in quick succession:<\/p>\n A shriek from mom.<\/p>\n A bird squawk and a flutter of wings.<\/p>\n The rattle of cutlery and china.<\/p>\n From Queenie: “There goes that damn cat!”<\/p>\n A snarl from Mom. “Got you!”<\/p>\n As Mom cleaned up the mess that used to be Queenie’s breakfast, she knitted those sounds into a cohesive story. Marmalade had dropped a bird after carrying it through the cat door. Squawking, the bird had flown to the top of a window shade over the head of Queenie, followed closely by the cat. The bird flew to the top of our living room window, where Marmalade caught it. “Got you!” Mom had snarled, taking the cat outside, squeezing it until he released the bird.<\/p>\n Miraculously, the bird, the cat, and Mom were unhurt, but Queenie was traumatized for the rest of the day.<\/p>\n But like some royalty, Marmalade suffered a violent death: murder by car, according to the neighbors. We never found the body.<\/p>\n About a year later, Mom bought another orange cat in honor of my sister’s seventeenth birthday and named it Marmalade II. Once again, my relationship with him started off badly, as I regularly shut him up in my shirt drawer.<\/p>\n Somehow, though, we became friends. He purred loudly as I carried him around. I obeyed his summons to be let in or out of the house, often at four in the morning.<\/p>\n But that all changed with the arrival of my first guide dog, a Weimaraner named Heidi. During the first day of her first visit to Mom’s house, she cornered Marmalade, and might very well have killed him if Mom hadn’t forcefully intervened. Afterwards, whenever I tried to engage with His Royal Highness, he would give me what my Mom and sister called the IhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou glare from his basket on the highest shelf in Mom’s bedroom.<\/p>\n But Marmalade II lived a long, happy life, outliving his weimaraner tormentor.<\/p>\n When Heidi retired, she moved to northern Connecticut into a house containing husband, wife, and a cat.<\/p>\n “Don’t worry,” the wife told me after I warned her about Heidi’s intolerance towards cats. “Things will be fine.”<\/p>\n About six months later, the wife called. Howling with laughter, she told me that Heidi, after watching the cat use its litter box, tried to follow the cat’s example.<\/p>\n “But she wasn’t quite as successful,” the wife said through her laughter.<\/p>\n Sometime later, she sent me a picture of Heidi and the cat sharing a sun spot.<\/p>\n Which reminds me of Isaiah’s prophecy (Chapter 6, Verse 11, New International Version) that, among other things, the leopard will lie down with the goat under the leadership of a little child.<\/p>\n We haven’t quite gotten there yet.\f Velveteen ears, the color of caramel, top off her bright yellow coat. 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<\/em> 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 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 I groaned as I dialed the plumber, my plans for a quiet day with writing projects dashed.<\/p>\n Every change of season brought plumbing problems due to our townhouse being old and this Fall was no exception. There goes the extra money, I thought as my 17-year-old daughter came downstairs holding a pet cage.<\/p>\n “Mom, can you keep the hamsters down here today?”<\/p>\n “Why can’t they stay upstairs?” I asked as I hung up the phone.<\/p>\n “Because Chee-Chee’s hovering around their cage trying to get it open.” On cue, our large yellow-eyed black cat began to screech. “See?” Mary cried. “Screechy Chee-Chee!”<\/p>\n “Don’t call her that!” I shouted over Chee-Chee’s ear-piercing yowls. “I have a plumber coming and where are we gonna put the cage?”<\/p>\n “On the big end table. They won’t bother the hammies if they are up high and near the door. You can hear the cats from there.”<\/p>\n “Fine, but these hammies need a better cage.” Mary had a half-day of school, so she would be home by 12:30.<\/p>\n She set the cage on the wide surface while the three cats watched, sitting calculatingly in a row.<\/p>\n “Camille, Bigman and Cheech,” I addressed. “No funny business, you three. No one moved for a few seconds, then the three left for food and water in the kitchen.<\/p>\n Gotta be firm, that’s all. The hamsters settled, too. Tish ate while Snooky went in the wheel.<\/p>\n The plumber arrived around 10:30 and headed for the basement. “Close the cellar door, please,” I called. Cats milled around the Livingroom as I sat in an easy chair, reading a Braille magazine. Rattling and banging sounded from the basement.<\/p>\n Crash! I jumped to my feet, Braille pages scattering as the hamster cage exploded from the end table. It split in half with food, water, strips of cage liner flying over the carpet.<\/p>\n The mayhem was instantaneous! Tish and Snooky were loose and the cats went crazy! Camille dashed upstairs as Bigman followed, both yowling. Paws scrambled across the wood floors. Chee-Chee flew in mid-air across the Livingroom, smashing a lamp near the couch. The sound was ear-splitting, as meows, thundering feet and pipe rumbling echoed my screaming.<\/p>\n “What in hell’s bathroom is going on!” The plumber stood in the doorway as cats whizzed by.<\/p>\n “Help! My daughter’s hamsters are loose!”<\/p>\n In the kitchen, food bowls were knocked about, dry food was everywhere. To my horror, the man turned and hurried down the cellar stairs; the door slammed behind him.<\/p>\n Ziggie, a neighbor, heard me screaming and helped secure the hamsters and I cleaned up the mess on the carpet.<\/p>\n “The motion of the hamster wheel pushed the cage off the edge,” Ziggy said. “At least the hamsters are safe.”<\/p>\n The plumber emerged from the basement, his feet crunching over yet-to-be-cleaned dry cat food.<\/p>\n “I’m finished,” he sheepishly announced.<\/p>\n “Peachy!” The three cats watched from separate corners as I paid him half our life savings. He followed Ziggy out the door.<\/p>\n The thunderous three sat quietly, as I swept the kitchen and vacuumed the carpet. As I switched off the Dirt Devil, Mary entered. “Uh-oh, what happened?”<\/p>\n “The cage flew off the table and the cats had a free-for-all.”<\/p>\n “You guys are terrible!” Mary glared at the cats.<\/p>\n “I suggest a new cage,” I ordered.<\/p>\n “I’ll go in a while, after lunch.”<\/p>\n “Now!” As the door closed behind her, I rubbed my throbbing temples.<\/p>\n “Just another fun Fall fiasco!”<\/p>\n Bio: Valerie Moreno has been writing fiction and poems since age 12. Her inspiration is music, life experience and prayer. Her work has appeared in anthologies, magazines and fan fiction. She is totally blind.<\/p>\n One day on the way to work, walking alongside the highway, I spotted a turtle that seemed to be contemplating the prospect of crossing it. I couldn’t believe my good fortune of being there at just the right time to prevent a disaster. Of course, there was a chance that it could survive the crossing if every single driver coming through was observant enough to notice it and compassionate enough to care. In other words, it was doomed.<\/p>\n I approached it just as it was taking its first couple steps and picked it up, carefully avoiding its head in case it happened to be a snapping turtle. It apparently wasn’t and just retracted into its shell. Oldest trick in the book. I could have just thrown it onto the ground until its shell smashed and been like “Didn’t see that coming, did you? Thought you were so smart, didn’t you?” But that would have defeated the purpose of saving it in the first place.<\/p>\n Now where to take it? I thought about running across the road and just taking it where it was trying to go in the first place, but all I saw over there were buildings and corn fields. I figured it didn’t have a particular destination in mind. Later I noticed the almost empty stream that ran under the highway and realized it was probably following that, but if so, its decision to climb up onto the sidewalk and across the road instead of going through the culvert was a spectacularly stupid one, unless it was afraid of the dark, but as soon as I wrote that I realized it must have been dark inside its shell, not to mention claustrophobic, so that shouldn’t have been an issue.<\/p>\n But I knew a better place anyway. There just so happens to be a pond right next to the warehouse where I work, and I knew that it was a suitable habitat for turtles because it already had turtles living in it. When the weather was nice, they were always out sunning themselves on the log that drifted slowly through the middle, and if I got anywhere near the edge they jumped into the water despite me being at least three meters away. Surely they had room for one more.<\/p>\n As I carried the turtle the remaining four blocks I felt really bad, knowing that it was probably terrified and had no idea where we were going. I talked to it, trying to soothe it, knowing it was silly and it couldn’t understand a word I said but wanting to try anyway. I considered running to minimize the amount of time it had to be carried but assumed that would feel even scarier, as moving quickly is not a natural state for turtles to be in.<\/p>\n Other worries occurred to me. What if it was, in fact, a tortoise? Well, no matter. I wasn’t going to throw it in the water because I’m not an idiot, so if it didn’t want to swim it could just wander off again and still have plenty of wide open space where it wouldn’t get run over. But what if the other turtles didn’t welcome it? What if turtles, like ants and chickens and humans, mercilessly attacked outsiders who stumbled into their group? Well, it would still be better off dealing with them than with cars and pickup trucks and tractor trailers.<\/p>\n We arrived at the pond and I looked for a spot to set it down. There’s a ring of cement around the whole thing and then it slopes down rather steeply to the water and almost the whole slope is covered with thick and tall vegetation, but I found a nice little flat and bare spot where I could set the turtle down and let it decide at its leisure whether or not to get into the water. I set it down, took several steps back, and waited.<\/p>\n It sat there motionless inside its shell for so long that I began to worry it had died of fright or something. Then, very slowwwly, its head and feet came back out. It stared at the pond for a good long while, taking in its new environment. Then it turned its head sideways so it could see me behind it, and stared at me for a good long while. Then in a flash it pushed itself into the water and was gone.<\/p>\n The next day when I came back, it was sunning itself on the log alongside the other two. They jumped into the water as usual, but it didn’t. It looked at me and I looked back at it and it stayed right where it was. The same thing happened the next day and the next day and so on. One day it was in the water and I just saw its head poking out in one spot, and it looked at me and I looked back at it and it stayed right where it was.<\/p>\n Now I don’t know how much it comprehended and I’m sure it didn’t recognize the certain death I saved it from, but I’d like to think it understood that I didn’t try to eat it when I had a chance and that I brought it to this wonderful place, and that it liked me for that reason. I think I’ll do all right on judgment day after all if a turtle is willing to testify on my behalf.<\/p>\n Alas, I soon wondered if I had actually done it any favors by putting it there. It became clear now that the other turtles in the pond were of a different species, as they were smaller and differently colored. There were only two of them and they appeared to be mates, if not in the sexual then at least in the Australian sense. One day “my” turtle was on the log and they were right next to it – the log was plenty big for them to give it some personal space, but no, they opted to be right next to it – caressing each other’s shells in what I can only assume was an affectionate manner. “My” turtle was third-wheeling like a boss.<\/p>\n I don’t actually understand the expression “third wheel” because it always makes me think of tricycles, which are supposed to have three wheels, but people use it so I use it. It’s actually supposed to be “fifth wheel”, which makes a lot more sense, but as happens all the time it’s become corrupted and lost its original metaphor and people continue to mindlessly repeat it without exercising one iota of actual brainpower. But I could care less. (See what I did there?) Anyway. Turtles. Third wheel.<\/p>\n Do animals feel loneliness? Despite the risk of anthropomorphizing them, I think it’s a reasonable assumption that they do. It must be one of the basic sensations instilled by them in evolution that keeps them going. When they are low on energy, they feel hunger telling them to eat. When they are injured, they feel pain telling them to avoid further injury. When they are confronted by a predator, they feel fear telling them to run and\/or hide from it. So when they are without a mate, I imagine they feel loneliness telling them to get (at least) one.<\/p>\n I was put in mind of the male Tropeognathus in “Walking with Dinosaurs” who, if memory serves me, made a long and arduous journey to the mating grounds every year, and failed to get a mate every year, and had less and less chance every year as he grew older and weaker and his colors more faded. Spoiler alert: he died of exhaustion and was devoured by the offspring of the more successful Tropeognathuses. That was so sad when I was a kid and it actually still is.<\/p>\n But maybe this turtle wasn’t that desperate yet. Maybe it was in no rush. “Yeah, I’m only five,” it might say if it could understand and speak English and I asked it about this topic. “I’m still discovering myself and enjoying the bachelor life. My mom keeps pestering me to settle down, but I’m like, mom, you abandoned me when I was an egg and you have no business butting back into my life now. Lonely? Nah. Maybe if I ever get bored of sleeping and eating, but I don’t see that happening until I’m at least seven. Yeah, those guys are kind of annoying with their PDA but I understand they’re just happy someone’s finally here to validate their relationship by giving it an audience. The fish and frogs and ducks just ignore them and it drives them nuts. But they share the log with me, so it’s whatever. Now if you don’t mind, I have some more sleeping to do. Bye.”<\/p>\n Granted, that might just be what a male turtle would say. If it was female, then maybe the conversation would be different. “Oh, I’m just waiting for Mr. Right to come along,” she might say. “I was actually going out to look for him myself when you picked me up, and now I’ve come to my senses and realized that taking initiative like that is highly dangerous and stupid. But he’s bound to find his way to this pond eventually, isn’t he? Unless he’s too stubborn to ask for directions. That’s probably it. Ugh, males.”<\/p>\n “Maybe he’s just shy,” I would say. “Maybe he needs some time to\u2026 come out of his shell.”<\/p>\n “Get out of here,” she would say.<\/p>\n “Maybe he’s had negative experiences with mating in the past,” I would continue. “Maybe he’s\u2026 shell shocked.”<\/p>\n “We’re not friends anymore,” she would say.<\/p>\n “Fine, my shift starts in a few minutes anyway,” I would say, turning to leave. I would look to the air bubbles where the other two turtles had disappeared at my approach as usual. “Tell Shelly and Sheldon I said hi,” I would add.<\/p>\n So maybe, immediately after saving this turtle’s life, I ruined it. That would be about par for the course with all my other efforts to accomplish good things. But since my dog died and the landlord made my roommate get rid of his disturbingly affectionate cat, this turtle was the closest thing I had to a pet, so that turned out pretty awesome for me. At least until all three turtles inexplicably vanished from the pond a couple months later and never returned.<\/p>\n My Friend the Third Wheel Turtle was previously self-published on Christopher’s blog in May 2017.<\/p>\n Bio: Christopher Nicholson is a 25-year-old super senior studying Creative Writing at Utah State University. He hopes to someday be successful enough with his writing to make a full-time living with it. He has Asperger’s syndrome \/ high-functioning autism as well as clinical depression. This has made his life very challenging but also given him a unique perspective on the world and a distinctive writing voice. He sees his disability as a blessing in disguise and even though he loathes it at times, he wouldn’t give it up if he could. Read more of his work at http:\/\/christopherrandallnicholson.com\/<\/a><\/p>\n She wasn\u2019t prepared to love him so fiercely, He sized her up quickly with intelligent eyes, When she sat and called his name, he lovingly rested Bio: A former college librarian and occupational therapist, Sally Rosenthal left both professions due to vision loss. A childhood stroke survivor, she is now blind and losing her hearing due to an age-related genetic hearing loss. She is the book reviewer for Best Friends Magazine<\/em>. Her nonfiction and poetry have appeared in numerous periodicals and anthologies.<\/p>\n NOTE: When I was very young, I remember seeing a cartoon which told something like the story that appears below. Since then, I have made an exhaustive search of the internet to find that wonderful bit of animation that I never forgot. I have been totally unsuccessful. Consequently, I decided that the only thing I could do was to try to recreate it as best I could from my distant memories. And so, this is the result. I hope it moves you as it moved me over 50 years ago. If any of you know of the cartoon of which I write, please share it with me as it clearly made a lasting impression.<\/p>\n ********************<\/p>\n Long, long ago, there was no music to grace the life of the creatures who dwelt upon the Earth. Birds didn\u2019t sing, streams made no sound as they flowed over stones and the world was a silent place. Only the sound of the wind in the trees could be heard from time to time.<\/p>\n The princess Aloria was heartbreakingly beautiful, and yet very sad. She felt something that was extremely important was missing from her life and from the world.<\/p>\n One day a raven came to her and asked, \u201cWhy so sad my fair princess?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI seem to remember beautiful sounds that I sometimes hear in my dreams. But it feels like these sounds are real and were once heard all over the world.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou are right fair lady,\u201d he said. \u201cOnce, all the different birds had their own unique songs that they joyfully sang, as they soared and dipped and with their mates, built nests and cared for their eggs and hatchlings. But one day a very evil black-hearted human shot a Robin while she was happily singing and keeping her eggs warm. He wished to take away her eggs and eat them and her for his own cruel and twisted pleasure. The Sun King of all the skies was angered and said in rage, ‘I command all birds to sing no more!’<\/p>\n \u201cWhen he overcame his temper, he was sorrowful about his command and asked that the birds begin singing again. But they couldn\u2019t, though they tried. There is a very old story that tells: If a bird can fly high enough and close enough to the sun, there is a wondrous and harmonious sound like a thousand sweet voices singing, which is like the long lost birdsong that is said to be beyond the clouds. It is also said that if a bird can fly high enough they can bring it back to Earth and all birds will joyfully sing again.”<\/p>\n \u201cOh my dear raven, could you call for an assembly of all good and noble birds to try to bring back the sweet sounds of their singing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFair Princess, for you I will do so in hope of banishing your terrible sadness which is like a knife in my very flesh,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n And so it came to pass that the raven summoned a great assemblage of birds of all different kinds. The raven explained the need as follows:<\/p>\n \u201cFellow lovers of the sky, do any of you know of the ancient promise that if a bird can fly beyond the clouds and near the sun-halls of the great sky king, there is a beautiful sound of many sweet voices singing? And if such a special bird messenger could bring it back, all birds would sing once again and the world would be filled with joy and love for the majesty of all creation.\u201d<\/p>\n A few of the birds, mostly the Robins and the wrens seemed to understand though the rest were confused.<\/p>\n \u201cI ask that each of you different kinds of birds try to fly to retrieve the beauteous songs of the heavens,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n The chickens and other barnyard fowl flapped their wings but only rose a couple feet above the ground.<\/p>\n Each in turn, ducks, geese, hawks, crows, larks, all tried but couldn\u2019t fly high enough.<\/p>\n Until the proud eagle stepped forward and said, \u201cif any bird can bring back the beautiful singing it is I, the king of the noblest tribe of birds.\u201d As the eagle was speaking and fluffing up his feathers in a great show of ability, a tiny brown robin hid her self in the eagle\u2019s ample breast feathers.<\/p>\n With a cry of determination, the proud eagle soared into the sky and flew higher and higher. On and on he went, but he began to grow fatigued. He was above the clouds and he was sure that he could hear the sweet singing of a thousand voices, alas a long way off.<\/p>\n But just as he couldn\u2019t fly any higher, the robin who had concealed herself in the eagles thick breast plumage flew toward the sun like an arrow that had been shot from a mighty bow.<\/p>\n She came close to the sun\u2019s fire and felt the beautiful sounds of the songs enter her. But she was spent!<\/p>\n She began to fall to Earth, faster and faster. As she neared the ground, just before it was too late the mighty eagle swept down and carried the robin to a soft and gentle landing upon the Earth.<\/p>\n The robin, whose breast had been burned to a brilliant red, opened her beak and the most poignant sounds spread over the entire world.<\/p>\n All the birds opened their beaks and each sang a separate yet important part in the great symphony of birdsong renewed.<\/p>\n The great sun king of the sky laughed and cried in relief that his rash command had been undone.<\/p>\n All over the beautiful Earth the sound of birds joyfully singing could be heard. Flowers bloomed and other small animals joined their voices to the great music. All living creatures realized how poor a life it had been until the liquid sound of joyful birdsong filled all the world. And they purposed to be kind to all other living beings and to be part of the wonderful harmony that had been miraculously restored to the lovely planet that was their special trust to cherish and care for. And so, they kept the faith and were good stewards, for ever and ever!<\/p>\n Bio: Brad Corallo, a writer in multiple genres, is a Long Island native. His work has been published in eight previous issues of Magnets & Ladders<\/em>, in the William B. Joslin Outstanding Program Awards Journal \u201cNYSID Preferred Source Solutions\u201d<\/em> and by The Red Wolf Coalition<\/em>. He has been a life-long student of fine wine, food, music, books, space exploration, several professional sports and relationships of all kinds. He makes his living as a certified rehabilitation counselor (CRC) and mental health therapist. Due to LCA (a very rare genetic retinal condition) Brad has experienced impaired and worsening vision throughout his lifetime.<\/p>\n Tasks I was taught to practice daily: Above, my parents’ dream list for model child.<\/p>\n I was never that obedient kid. Innumerable unmade beds,<\/p>\n lost teeth, myriad lies of size and color<\/p>\n find this adult still short of perfection. did encourage an on-going dialogue with God.<\/p>\n During conversation in an early Sunday NPR interview,<\/p>\n heard a distinguished poet recently share his daily ritual of prayer. enhanced by coffee and muffin, this spiritual offering inspired. with that thankless chore-bed making.<\/p>\n Can you help me here, God? I sleep on a full-size mattress, not the old twin.<\/p>\n I am totally blind.<\/p>\n Those unable to see the other side of this thick, wide pad,<\/p>\n can channel agonies caused by those damn fitted sheets. ends with repeated failures.<\/p>\n This tug of war proves disheartening any time of day. should one strive for a wrinkle-free expanse. Sensing an unbidden gift of metaphor, my prayers double in their intentions. falls short of a dreamed embrace.<\/p>\n If that kink in fabric slides smoothly where I plan,<\/p>\n why is the feedback a buckled mess? then silent area beyond my reach reacts with a snap,<\/p>\n a tear, an unraveling. Well, God?<\/p>\n Talking helps. My instincts, confused, frustrated,<\/p>\n needed you to guide spirit of my thwarted aspirations<\/p>\n towards softer self-criticism.<\/p>\n Spirits feel lighter. Worry and fears reduce in magnitude.<\/p>\n Flattening both palms on flannels, I move, smooth, soothe<\/p>\n from side to corner to side, attempting personal best;<\/p>\n open to accept imperfection.<\/p>\n I often ask God for assistance;<\/p>\n a choice preferable to complaint or inaction.<\/p>\n My soul never finds peace in that limbo.<\/p>\n Bio: A native Long Islander, Ria Meade endeavors to craft poems about her adult life as a blind woman. Painting since childhood, her passion culminated with a degree in fine arts. Twenty-five years after losing her sight, she began to paint again with words. She survives this vulnerable existence independently with her beloved guide dogs and many newly discovered senses.<\/p>\n Two week visit at the clinic, Forms, questions, surveys greet us like beggars We feed bales of paperwork to the computer Storm of tests and appointments ends, Last day, last appointment, lead doctor. We ponder reports, doctors\u2019 comments, Appointments over, leaving the lobby, Awake, you whisper, I want to go home. Bio: Wesley Sims has published one chapbook of poetry, When Night Comes<\/em> (Finishing Line Press, 2013). His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Breath and Shadow<\/em>, Liquid Imagination<\/em>, Pine Mountain Sand<\/em>, Gravel, American Diversity Report<\/em>, The Avocet<\/em>, Nature Writing<\/em>, Pangolin Review<\/em>, The Tennessee Magazine<\/em> and others.<\/p>\n He lost hearing completely in one ear and has severe hearing loss in the other<\/p>\n Memory sneaked in I turned aggressive, It crouched to spring. Disease as a toddler scrambled his brain, He peeled walls and splintered paneling, Kept parents busy repairing holes, Poised at the breakfast table, my dear old dad nibbles toast and sips tea while I settle in for our morning visit. My guide dog curls up at his slippered feet. At 93, my father can no longer be left alone; dementia is taking its toll. He peruses the paper, scanning the headlines with amiable blue eyes. His eyesight is excellent; 30 years his junior, I can\u2019t see the small print. Dad enjoys endless visits with family and friends. Week by week, His six children piece together the caregiving puzzle to keep Dad at home. The daily rotation stretches us all, but I am thrilled when it\u2019s \u201cmy turn\u201d to spend a day with Dad.<\/p>\n As a girl, I looked to dad for the usual guidance. A teacher, he helped me struggle with homework. A mountain climber, he warned against cigarettes. An Air Force officer, he paid me an allowance when I earned it. Passing time with Dad when I was young taught me important life lessons. These days, this old girl still benefits from some good old-fashioned advice.<\/p>\n \u201cHave you seen this?\u201d my father asks, waving the newspaper at me.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s in the news today?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe weather! Where do they hide the weather? Where do they hide the weather?\u201d he chatters. \u201cAfternoon showers, snow likely tomorrow, snow likely tomorrow, and snow tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSpringtime in the Rockies,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n Shaking the paper, he asks, \u201cHave you seen this?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy yes,\u201d I nod.<\/p>\n With a grunt, Dad slaps the paper onto the table and grasps the remote. CNN blares the headlines, piercing the placid morning. I blink at the intrusion. I turn and look, although I can\u2019t see the screen.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s watch something else,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n Dad hunches and punches the remote, landing on a First Alert commercial. He flicks to another channel showing another advertisement.<\/p>\n \u201cHmmmm, hmmmm, hmmm,\u201d he seems to enjoy the sound of his voice. Pressing the button, he catches an ad for the Army. Scratching his bald head, he tells the TV, \u201cCome on.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNothing but commercials?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHmmmm, hmmmm, hmmm,\u201d he flips back to the news. \u201cThat\u2019s the White House.\u201d My father, the consummate teacher, quizzes me, \u201cWho is our president? I don\u2019t remember voting.\u201d<\/p>\n Although the election results are lost to my Dad, I remind him that he served as a convention delegate when he was 84.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, Oh, that\u2019s right,\u201d he is suddenly lucid. With prompting, precious memories linger, like service as a navigator during WWII, the joy of teaching chemistry, and the view from atop a 14,000-foot-high mountain.<\/p>\n Bored with the news, Dad wobbles with his walker to peer out the window. Reading the outdoor thermometer, he reports, \u201cOoh, ooh, 32, that\u2019s cold, that\u2019s cold.\u201d His voice is soft and child-like. He draws his bathrobe tighter.<\/p>\n Since Dad is on his feet, I encourage him to grab a protein drink from the fridge. He shuffles into the adjoining kitchen and pokes his head into the cold. I hear fumbling followed by beeping buttons on the microwave, then Dad hums his way back to the breakfast nook. Not sure if he retrieved an Ensure for the morning, I prod, \u201cWhat are you drinking?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSee? My mug says \u2018Keep Calm and Drink Tea\u2019,\u201c The mug hits the table, tea sloshing. Dad grabs the paper and asks, \u201cHave you seen this?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s in the news?\u201d I say, yet again.<\/p>\n Hanging his head, Dad\u2019s mood shifts. \u201cI lost my wife, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n His sorrow chills me. Last year, our parents celebrated 69 years of marriage, but Mom passed after an accidental fall in the autumn. Whether symptomatic of the Alzheimer\u2019s, a memory from earlier courting days, or the shock of recent grief, Dad tears up thinking about his bride.<\/p>\n \u201cI miss Mom, too.\u201d<\/p>\n He picks up his head and asks, \u201cDid you know my wife?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe was a beautiful lady,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n Dad gazes out the window at the snowy mountain scene. He whispers, \u201cI miss her.\u201d<\/p>\n With a tug at my heart, I say, \u201cMe too,\u201d then change the subject. \u201cRebecca, your caregiver, will be here at 11.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs that right? Is that right? I better shave and get dressed,\u201d Dad pops up and stomps to an old marching song, \u201cI don\u2019t know where we\u2019re going but we\u2019re going! I don\u2019t know where we\u2019re going but we\u2019re going!\u201d<\/p>\n Reaching an arm out to intercept him, I say, \u201cLet\u2019s wait until Rebecca gets here to help you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s coming today? I\u2019ll let her in. I\u2019ve got my car right here.\u201d He jiggles his walker.<\/p>\n \u201cYou got a license for that thing,\u201d I quip.<\/p>\n He clomps to the kitchen abandoning his walker. His \u201cKeep Calm\u201d tea mug clangs onto the platter and buttons beep.<\/p>\n Dizzy with D\u00e9j\u00e0 vu, I ask, \u201cAre you getting a fruit drink?\u201d<\/p>\n Returning, he bangs his mug onto the table and resumes reading the headlines.<\/p>\n \u201cHe, hee,\u201d he giggles. \u201cSee what this says?\u201d He holds up the paper for me to see. Rubbing his whiskers, he waits for my missing reply.<\/p>\n \u201cKeep Calm and Drink Tea,\u201d he chuckles.<\/p>\n \u201cThe headline says \u2018Keep Calm and Drink Tea\u2019?\u201d I ask, amazed.<\/p>\n \u201cKeep Calm and Drink Tea, hee hee. That\u2019s not the headline. That\u2019s what this says.\u201d He shoves his tea mug at me.<\/p>\n \u201cKeep calm and drink tea. Keep calm and drink tea,\u201d he advises me.<\/p>\n Through the lens of Alzheimer\u2019s, Dad reminds me when facing the news, it\u2019s best to keep calm and drink tea!<\/p>\n Two years ago, my wife had cancer surgery. Once the bad parts were removed and she was back on her feet, we figured we were in the clear. But my wife\u2019s cancer has returned.<\/p>\n Two years ago, I disproved skeptics predictions that this blind husband would fail as post-operative home health aide. I brought earnest imprecision to my duties and, mercifully, did no harm. This time around, I am dogged by feelings of inadequacy and frustration that I can\u2019t run interference\u2014drive my wife to treatments, navigate the medical maze or pore over the fine print in her medical records. Instead, we\u2019re finding ways I can help with our shared vulnerability.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve discovered 111 NLS Talking Books on cancer and I\u2019ve read seven so far. I\u2019ve learned how rapacious breast cancer is, how relentless and necessary are side effects of chemotherapy and how to be the best and most supportive husband I can be. I\u2019ve learned not to fill her with false hope, ply her with vacuous cheerfulness or burden her with my anxiety. For once, I avoid trying to fix things. I\u2019m learning the value of being there, the power of being present. I listen to content and tone and sometimes say the right thing and sometimes the wrong thing. Sometimes I don\u2019t know what to say so I say nothing at all. I\u2019ve learned to accept and support her decisions about her health, her body and her life.<\/p>\n We each carry conditions without cure. My aberrant RP gene kicked in thirty years ago; my wife\u2019s cancer has been hit and run for fifteen. Despite my symptomatic head start, I must not presume to know what she\u2019s going through nor pretend to have the answers. I recognize that she uses her strengths and meets her needs in ways different than I. I must honor my wife\u2019s experience as hers, separate from mine. Honoring her reality, and she mine, values both.<\/p>\n I\u2019m encouraged how briefly either of us dwelt on fairness. So easily I could rail ad nauseum, \u201cIf life were fair, I wouldn\u2019t be blind and my wife wouldn\u2019t have cancer.\u201d Still, I catch myself murmuring, \u201cPlease make her well because I don\u2019t know what I\u2019d do without her. I\u2019m not asking for cures, just containment.\u201d Selfish prayers from my own needs may seem unseemly. Writing about my blind needs rather than her cancer needs may seem self-centered. For this, I beg your indulgence for my self-indulgence.<\/p>\n My wife and I are not islands\u2014Cancer and Blindness. We are a system, a constellation, a family. We\u2019re ordinary people\u2014we let the dog up on our bed. We\u2019re ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances\u2014we get too up or too down based on events of a single day. As for the fluffy parable that adversity brings perspective, we\u2019ve got perspective up to our ears. We practice surrender and strive to accept bodies that betray. And every time we think it\u2019s OK, we are stung by the reality that no, it\u2019s not OK. It is what it is and that\u2019s all.<\/p>\n Bio: Jeff Flodin is the author of the blog, \u201cJalapenos in the Oatmeal: Digesting Vision Loss\u201d (http:\/\/jalapenosintheoatmeal.wordpress.com\/<\/a>). I felt the cool leather against my cheek, my eyes already drawn to the words on the front of the book. My Journal. Never had I seen such a wonder. Eagerly flipping through the blank pages, I lost myself into the clean blue lines on the crisp white paper.<\/p>\n Mommy crept in wordlessly, \u201cDo you like it, Kathleen?\u201d<\/p>\n I tore my eyes away from the journal and looked up in bewilderment. \u201cOh Mommy, I love it!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c I\u2019m glad, darling. You can use it for writing assignments that I give you.\u201d In fact, let\u2019s start now. I want you to write about your life as the extraordinary girl you are.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThank you Mommy,\u201d I say, blushing.<\/p>\n She smiles and says, \u201cI\u2019ll leave you to write in peace then. Call me if you need anything!\u201d<\/p>\n I breathe an excited little sigh and open up to the first clean page.<\/p>\n March 29th, 1977<\/p>\n Dear Journal,<\/p>\n Oh, I\u2019m so excited to be able to write those words! I\u2019m Kathleen and I\u2019ll be your best friend. We\u2019ll tell each other everything, ok? Can you dig it?<\/p>\n Here, I\u2019ll start: I am 14, a regular rad teenager. It\u2019s awesome to be me! I am a total book nerd. I have so many groovy books in my room, it\u2019s sometimes hard to tell where the bed is!<\/p>\n I have spina bifida. I also use a wheelchair and can\u2019t move anything past my waist. \fI am also homeschooled because there are no public schools that I can get into easily because I have a handicap. I badly want to go to school near my home but Congress won\u2019t let me because they haven\u2019t implemented the IDEA act that was signed 3 years ago. Those jerks.<\/p>\n The closest school that has classrooms that I can get in and out of with my wheelchair, and bathrooms that I can use is two hours away by bus, and just over an hour by car. Going there would mean that I would be on a school bus for four hours a day, or Mommy would be driving for that long, just so I could go to school.<\/p>\n So I have school at home. Mommy teaches me English & Social Studies while Dad is my Mathematics and Science tutor.<\/p>\n So Journal, do you want to see your new home?<\/p>\n My room is on the 2nd floor of our 3 level home. Carrying me up and down the stairs is a lot of work for my parents, but they don\u2019t seem to mind it. Anyhoo, in my room, I have a narrow twin bed with a gray plaid cover lying parallel to a small porthole window. If I look through it, I can see some of California. Next to my bed, I have a white nightstand filled with my favorite books; it’s a bit of a knockoff of my large wall shelf also full of inspiring and informative novels. Just above my Classical section on my bookshelf is where you lie. I hope you like your new mini-room. I really like having a best friend!<\/p>\n Catch\u2019ya on the flip side Journal,<\/p>\n Kathleen<\/p>\n April 7th, 1977<\/p>\n Hey Journal,<\/p>\n Guess what? Oh do I have a surprise for you! Mommy is letting us go to the sit-in. Isn\u2019t that awesome! Earlier this morning, Mommy pulled me out of bed and said \u201cAlright, you win.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c Win what?\u201d I asked, a hint of a smile edging across my face.<\/p>\n As you well know, I had been begging Mommy to let me go to the sit-in for days now, ever since I heard about it on my radio before I went to bed a couple of nights ago. I wanted to go SO BAD. Now I can!<\/p>\n \u201cYou can go to the sit-in. I think it will be good for you,\u201d she continues, a bit of worry creeping into her words. Her faux excited voice doesn\u2019t throw me but I play along anyways. \u201cYES!\u201d She chuckles softly at my enthusiasm.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on Mom, Let\u2019s go!\u201d, I urge, not wanting to waste a second.<\/p>\n \u201cLet me go get your father,\u201d she said, trying hard to hold a genuine smile.<\/p>\n As my father carries me down the stairs, all I think about is the protests. \u201cThink about how exciting this will be, Journal,\u201d I say loudly.<\/p>\n \u201cWho (grunt) are you (grunt) talking to (grunt) Kathleen (grunt)?\u201d Maybe carrying me is more work then I realize.<\/p>\n \u201c No one, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n The car ride is smooth and peaceful, so it was no surprise when Mommy called out, \u201cHere we are!\u201d in what I swear is no time at all. As Dad unloaded my chair, I turned to stare out the window and WOAH! I see tons of people in wheelchairs or not sprawled across the neighboring sidewalk and blocking all entrances to Secretary Califano\u2019s office.<\/p>\n Dad lifted (and grunted) me out of the car and into my chair. I look around wondrously.<\/p>\n \u201cHi, Are you here for the sit-in? I\u2019m Judy Heumann and I organized this event!\u201d<\/p>\n I look up, startled. \u201cYes, I\u2019m here for the sit-in.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGreat! Let me get you a shirt.\u201d She pumps her wheelchair and rolls away.<\/p>\n The late afternoon sun turns to dusk and I fiddle with the neck of my protest shirt. I am starting to get worried. Are we expected to just stay here? When do we get to go home? \u201cMommy,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat Kathleen?\u201d Her voice has not been smooth and lilted like normal, but brash and reserved. As far as I know, she only acts like that when she\u2019s angry at Dad for spending money on \u201cthe new and latest saws\u201d when he should be conserving our cash.<\/p>\n “Are we going home soon?\u201d I ask, my breath hitching in my throat.<\/p>\n \u201cKathleen, you said you were ready for this!\u201d She sounds angry and I don\u2019t know why. I don\u2019t spend money on saws!<\/p>\n \u201c I am ready! But you didn\u2019t answer me!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cKathleen, if you had paid as much attention to the radio as you said you did, you would know that these protesters do not intend to leave until the bill is signed. Now that you are one of them you must do the same.\u201d Her anger is raw and unflinching. Though I want to send a quick retort, I refrain, knowing that will only make her angry.<\/p>\n “You\u2019ve made your bed now you must lie in it.\u201d<\/p>\n I bite my lip and stare at the ground, not wanting to say another word\u2026<\/p>\n I\u2019ll catch you up soon,<\/p>\n Kathleen<\/p>\n April 17th, 1977<\/p>\n It has been ten days. Ten days since I\u2019ve bathed, had a good sleep, or had real food. I am still at the sit-in. We have expanded past each entrance and we are crowding the entire block. I am as tired as a workhorse, but nobody else seems to be. We chant and chant, not moving even when the police officers threaten to jail us. Some members of our group have been arrested. Judy and I don’t think that they are actually in prison because it isn\u2019t accessible.<\/p>\n I swear she is like a grown up me. In fact, I have 2 friends now, you and Judy. I look up to her for everything. Judy and I are becoming good friends. I\u2019ve even led the chant with her a couple of times. I have also seen Judy and Kitty Cone (another organizer) handle the tons of people from various other groups (Women\u2019s Rights, Gay Rights, The NAACP) sending nonperishable food our way. I guess I should be grateful that we get food at all, with the way the officers look at us (like us protesters are dirt that they have to get off the back of their hideous black boots). In fact, the cycle of the day is over, but our work is not. I shift around in my chair, hoping to catch a couple winks of sleep, but it is futile. I join the chants of my group and smile. This is where I\u2019m meant to be.<\/p>\n I\u2019ll keep you updated,<\/p>\n Kathleen<\/p>\n March 12, 1990<\/p>\n It’s been almost 13 years. I am truly shameful. I remember how happy and scared I was when I finally got to go to a mainstream school. Sure I fought hard at that sit-in FOR ME, but I stopped afterwards. I didn\u2019t fight, I wasn\u2019t active. I am ashamed.<\/p>\n Today I have a chance to change that. My boyfriend Liam, who has autism drove me from San Diego to Washington DC! Why?<\/p>\n Today, there is a \u201cCapitol Crawl.\u201d People with disabilities are crawling up the Capitol\u2019s stone steps to GET THE ADA PASSED!<\/p>\n The ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act) is the big thing. The work and activism so many others and I have done were the stepping stones that lead up to this huge climb.<\/p>\n \u201cCome on,\u201d Liam nudges me, \u201cwe gotta go!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOk.\u201d I say, grasping his hand for comfort I square my shoulders and bend down, putting my weight on my hands. The pain I feel from balancing is nothing like I\u2019ve felt before. The Capitol steps are made of unpolished stone and at one point I even scrape my hand slightly. The blood slowly runs down the palm of my hands, but I persist. I slowly continue climbing, huffing every so often, but I keep moving. I am no longer the 14-year-old that was so na\u00efve. I am fighting, fixing my mistakes, finally \u201cstanding\u201d up! We finally make it. Pushing and shouting got the attention of one security guard, who\u2019s badge reads “Robin W. Greene.\u201c<\/p>\n “I\u2019m sorry, you\u2019re going to have to leave now\u201c<\/p>\n “Why?\u201d I say. If I\u2019m going to amend or (try to anyway) my mistakes, I guess I\u2019ll go all out, right?<\/p>\n \u201cMa\u2019m, go!\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u201cYou didn\u2019t answer our question. Why?\u201d I\u2019m starting to get irritated.<\/p>\n \u201c You are disrupting important governmental work.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMr. Greene!” I am smoking mad now.<\/p>\n \u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you know what\u2019s important governmental work?” He\u2019s speechless. I\u2019m on a roll now, so I decide to keep going. \u201cPassing the ADA! So shut the heck up and go oppress someone else!”<\/p>\n “We need rights!\u201d says Liam, coming to my side.<\/p>\n “We need rights, we need rights!” What had started as a low grumble has spread throughout the space and the entire group is supporting our mantra.<\/p>\n Still chanting, we slowly back down the stairs, and out of the Capitol. A warm feeling has started to spread through me, as I contemplate how lucky I am to be able to make a difference in my world. No matter big or small, nothing will change unless we force it to.<\/p>\n I will not give up! Liam won\u2019t give up. Mom won\u2019t give up. Dad won\u2019t give up. Judy won\u2019t give up. None of us will give up until we have the rights we need!<\/p>\n This seems like the right way to end an entry, as another day of activism has come to an end.<\/p>\n I\u2019ll see you later,<\/p>\n Kathleen<\/p>\n April 7th, 1991<\/p>\n Time is a fickle and fluid thing, ever-changing and never staying the same. Can you believe it\u2019s been 14 years since the sit-in, and since I received you, Journal, as a gift. Liam and I are on the type of Access Living\u2019s green roof. Yeah, that\u2019s right, I can go up on the roof of a building. Do you know why; because the building is accessible!<\/p>\n Ok, wait up, what do I mean by accessible? Well, first off there are automatic doors. This means that nobody has to wait for someone to open the door. With a push of a button, I rolled through the door by myself. Once inside, it is a completely level lobby, covered and carpeted so wheelchairs will not get stuck on uneven bumps and crannies in the floor. The elevators are something else! As I roll through the lobby, I see at least 5 large elevators lining the wall. Woah!<\/p>\n \u201cCome on, come on,\u201d Liam urged me. \u201cDon\u2019t you want to see your surprise?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n I laughed, and rolled into the spacious elevator. The ride was smooth and I can\u2019t stop thinking that if the ADA hadn’t passed last year, I would not be able to do this. It makes me so happy that our work paid off. I helped make sure people with disabilities could live as independently as possible and that I helped send a strong message to the world that WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED!<\/p>\n On the rooftop, I think about a lot of things. The 14-year-old naive school wanting girl is gone. Instead there\u2019s a woman who graduated from UC Berkeley with a Political Science and Law degree. She followed the footsteps of Ed Roberts, another advocate. I\u2019ve changed in so many ways. My life is now not defined by only me, but by so many others. now I realize the disability rights movement\u2019s motto is more true to my life than I thought.<\/p>\n \u201cThere is nothing about us without us.\u201d I know that means We are in this together until the end, and we will not let anyone define us. \fJournal, I\u2019m closing you for the last time. I will always remember you.<\/p>\n Love,<\/p>\n Kathleen<\/p>\n Bio: Anja Korovesis Herrman is a twelve-year-old 7th grader with a physical disability. Her hobbies\/ obsessions include: Advocating for people with disabilities, reading 24\/7, knitting, swimming, horseback riding, and playing The Sims 4. She also enjoys planning her 2044 Presidential Campaign. Vote for Anja!<\/p>\n NOTE: This piece is my attempt to express my enduring horror concerning the Bhopal gas cloud tragedy by which I have been haunted since the details of its abomination filtered down to me, a 27-year-old privileged white disabled American in December 1984. I am ashamed to say that an American corporation, by its sponsorship of the stirring 1960\u2019s TV series “The 21st Century\u201d deceived me into believing it was a bastion of innovation and promise. Only to perpetrate less than two decades later, the most horrendous industrial accident in history, due to extreme negligence and monstrous indifference, upon a shockingly impoverished city in India. I have been inspired to write the below by my reading of Indra Sinha\u2019s prize winning novel Animal\u2019s People<\/em> which details the aftermath of this most disturbing and ongoing crime against humanity.<\/p>\n ********************<\/p>\n In the darkest hours beyond midnight The facility was a pesticide production plant. Ironically, the facility still stands You may want to strike Bhopal from your vacation bucket list. War is a heavy hour of holiday Have you heard of our village? I want a story that puts me to sleep. In a quiet winter afternoon A new virus finds some place in the city Half of them were told a new name In which voice the prescription should be written? Active? Passive? Bio: Dr. Jyothsnaphanija is the author of the poetry collection Ceramic Evening<\/em>, published in 2016. Her poetry, short stories and research articles have appeared in several magazines and newspapers. Currently she works as an Assistant Professor of English, at ARS D College, University of Delhi, India. She can be reached at jyothsnaphanija@gmail.com<\/p>\n They call me a happy woman. Magic elixir of life, I come to you devoid of emotion, I detach myself with sorrow, I feel numb as you plunge your dagger into my soul, Note: To all the suffering addicts out there<\/p>\n Bio: Susan Muhlenbeck was born in Korea and spent her first 5 years there. She lost her sight at the age of two. She was raised in the Midwest, USA, and moved to Virginia as a teenager. She earned a bachelors’ degree in psychology and masters’ degree in rehabilitation counseling from Virginia Commonwealth University. Her interests include reading, swimming, bargain shopping, and cats. Her books are available on Amazon.<\/p>\n The demmies were the public’s darlings, but they led a double life. By day, they posed for pictures, were guests on TV shows, and helped to increase knowledge about genetic engineering by taking part in scientific experiments. By night, they faced Dr. Albert Lud’s unauthorized experiments and his torture.<\/p>\n Was there something better for the genetically engineered, foot-high humans? Could they escape? If they did, could they find food, shelter, and freedom from the ogre who tormented them? Could they trust any of the “big folk” to help them? These were some of the questions that kept Alex Kenyon awake at night.<\/p>\n His daughter Ruth wondered what made a human being. Was it size? Was it intelligence? Was it belief in God? What made her know she was a human being, even though only nine inches tall?<\/p>\n This is the story of how Alex’s and Ruth’s questions are answered.<\/p>\n Chapter 1.<\/p>\n The Friday morning sun struck through the barred window of the dollhouse and fell across the bed. Alex Kenyon stretched and yawned. Carefully, so as not to wake Mary, he slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom. He shut the door, turned on the light, and glanced at his reflection in the mirror above the basin. It was as familiar as ever: straight nose, high cheekbones, and dark gray eyes. He had seen that visage every day, not only in the mirror, but on television, on the pages of magazines, below newspaper headlines, and on the covers of books.<\/p>\n He was the product of a scientific experiment. He was the first genetically engineered human being in the world.<\/p>\n He, Alex Kenyon, had been born in a test tube. His genes had been changed so that he was only one foot tall, instead of the six feet common in the year 2050.<\/p>\n The shower Alex stepped into was an exact replica of millions of others on the planet. It was lined with plastic and had colored fixtures and a frosted plastic door. But it was scaled to size.<\/p>\n Engineered, he thought. That\u2019s a strange word to describe a process whose ramifications have changed the existence of mankind.<\/p>\n Alex\u2019s thoughts went back over the series of events that had shaped him. Forty years before, a young Yale graduate from Scotland, Dr. Richard Maxwell, had begun to research the possibilities inherent in genetic engineering. He felt it would be a way to help and not hinder the development of his species. Initially, he changed the characteristics of certain plants. These experiments were directed toward miniaturization. Maxwell felt that there were many reasons why miniature plants, animals, or even human beings would be of use. Small things took up less space on an already crowded earth. A smaller man could be sent more easily into space because of the reduction in living space, life support, and fuel required by spaceships. Technology was moving toward constructing nanobots to make small models of new machines and new types of products. Having smaller humans to test and improve such products might be a good idea.<\/p>\n When Maxwell applied for a government grant to continue his research, the military experts at the Pentagon felt that a smaller man would make an excellent spy because he or she could get into places where others couldn\u2019t go. However, before Maxwell could begin, he needed the approval of Congress. That was difficult because congressmen were reluctant to set aside the funds required for such a project. Even with some of the military personnel backing Dr. Maxwell\u2019s aims, there was a strong faction who wanted no more money spent on weapons or anything that resembled them.<\/p>\n The public went wild when they heard of it. There were demonstrations and marches, and he received torrents of hate mail. He tried in England and received much the same reaction, though not as virulent. At last, the Royal Society of Sciences gave him a grant and a permanent laboratory so that he could design his demmy-man.<\/p>\n Test-tube baby, that\u2019s me. Alex smiled as he turned on the shower.<\/p>\n But unlike those born in Huxley\u2019s Brave New World, Alex had been raised as Dr. Maxwell\u2019s son, living with him in his house and sharing his life.<\/p>\n Alex\u2019s parents had been two of the hundreds of volunteers who freely gave their sperm and ova to the project. Their names were in Maxwell\u2019s private file, but Alex never knew them. Even so, he felt that he had had parents no less loving than any natural ones. Dr. Maxwell was his adoptive father, and Florence MacKnight, the doctor\u2019s housekeeper, had been his adoptive mother. He had his Scottish accent and their views of life from them. Maxwell had been an idealist, a humanist, and a Scotsman. Florence MacKnight had been a staunch Presbyterian whose faith and love were big enough to match St. Paul\u2019s. These sterling qualities were passed on to the modern scientific experiment, Alex.<\/p>\n Dr. Maxwell had taught him to read, and when he was ready, had enrolled him in California Online University. Because of his size, Alex could not attend actual classes. However, through a combination of email, videos, and Web conferences, he obtained a degree. He continued his graduate studies at Yale through their online program, and now he possessed a doctorate in business management. When Alex was old enough to understand, his father had asked him what last name he wanted for his own.<\/p>\n \u201cYou ought to have one, Alex lad, and it shouldna be mine. That wouldna be right.\u201d<\/p>\n Alex had chosen Kenyon because it sounded good.<\/p>\n Many other things were done for him as he grew, not the least of which was his introduction to Mary, who would become his wife. When the American public saw how well Maxwell\u2019s project was working in Britain, they gave their approval, through a referendum, for the start of another pilot project in Houston, Texas. It was headed by Dr. Albert Lud, a colleague of Maxwell\u2019s. They were to work in conjunction with each other.<\/p>\n Mary was born six months after the project\u2019s installation. She was raised by Ella Murray, a teacher and humanist chosen by Dr. Maxwell as a suitable model of good character and integrity. There had been talk at the time about Dr. Maxwell\u2019s reasons for choosing Ella Murray instead of allowing Mary to be raised by his colleague, Dr. Lud, but it stopped when Maxwell pointed out that a girl child needed a woman\u2019s hand in her upbringing rather than that of a confirmed bachelor.<\/p>\n Perhaps Richard knew about Lud and didn\u2019t want to jeopardize the project by sayin\u2019 anythin\u2019, thought Alex for the thousandth time. Ah, well, there\u2019s no use moonin\u2019 about it. Ella\u2019s dead and gone now.<\/p>\n He began to soap himself, and as he did so, he thought about Mary. They had met five years before, when Dr. Maxwell had moved to Houston, leaving the British project under the guidance of Dr. Richard Drew. Alex remembered his father saying in his quiet way, \u201cAlex Kenyon, this is Mary Winthrop. I hope that ye will become good friends.\u201d<\/p>\n They did more than that. They fell in love and married five weeks later. Alex thought about their wedding. It was beautiful. The dollhouse had just been built, and the greenhouse had been finished the week before. The wedding took place on the stage at the north end, and it was filmed and shown on all the TV stations and on the internet. The minister was kind, and everyone congratulated them. There was even a wedding cake.<\/p>\n Their wedding night was special. Their house was brand new, and they were left alone for an entire weekend. They talked and laughed and swam, and naturally they made love in their bedroom. They were inexperienced, but they had read the requisite books. Book knowledge, however, was no replacement for the thrill, the excitement, and the fulfillment they shared. Their first night was somewhat awkward, but they eventually found that they fit together well, each giving pleasure to the other-and by combining, giving greater joy to both. When that special weekend was over, Alex and Mary had cemented their relationship with strong bonds that would endure for a lifetime.<\/p>\n Their first three years together were a joy. The American Demmy Project continued to receive worldwide attention. Kenyon was a household word that filled many with hope for the future. They appeared on talk shows, and they had interviews with the press once a week. They also gave exhibitions of gymnastics that were favorably received by all. Such was their charm, wit, and evident happiness that most of those who had objected to the project on moral grounds were forced to concede that at least this project was being run by a God-fearing man and that no lasting harm was done to the demmies\u2019 moral character by their unorthodox births.<\/p>\n They were in constant communication with numbers of people, both famous and ordinary, who wrote them gigabytes of electronic mail; their Christmas card list had 5,000 names on it.<\/p>\n The Kenyon\u2019s first five children were born during this time. The engineers had shortened Mary\u2019s gestation period to four months. That proved to be a boon, for then there were more demmies to test. The work went faster. Because of the modifications to their genetic makeup, the scientists on the Demmy Project\u2019s team had hoped that the Kenyons\u2019 children would learn faster than normal-sized youngsters. They did. It had something to do with the construction of their brains and the use of untapped genetic material that lay dormant in the human genome. All of them were fully grown and possessed adult minds within four years. Finding that this was so, Dr. Maxwell and the staff at Houston provided each child with a specialized education, provided online by famous universities, in a field of his or her own interest that would also benefit the growing Kenyon family.<\/p>\n Peter, their eldest, had a consuming love for animals. He had been trained as a biologist, with a concentration in genetic engineering. He was now engaged in a continuation of the Demmy Animals Project that had been started before Alex and Mary were born. He had recently engineered some new subspecies. His laboratory was in the collection of barns and sheds that were part of the exercise room.<\/p>\n Alex\u2019s thoughts reverted to Laura, their second child, who was trained as a physician. When Dr. Maxwell discovered that she had an interest in medicine, he had taken her under his wing, saying, \u201cThere ought to be at least one sawbones in the bunch. She should know all about how you were engineered and how new demmies should be created, too.\u201d<\/p>\n Nancy, child number three, was a dietician. She made sure that they ate their six meals a day. Eating so often was required by their speeded-up metabolism. They started their day with a large breakfast at about 7:00 a.m. This was followed at about 11:00 a.m. by a light meal of sweet rolls and hot drinks. Dinner was the main meal, eaten at about 1:30 p.m. That was followed by tea, a good English tea, at 5:30 p.m. Supper was eaten at about 8:30 p.m., and most of them had a bedtime snack, too. Nancy cooked most of the meals and supplied the family with baked goods with the help of the lab techs, who made sure that they ate nutritious meals.<\/p>\n Their diet was closely monitored. All the supplies were cataloged, and most of the food was packaged in tiny portions that were made just big enough for each meal. The demmies did not have much say in what they ate because Dr. Lud and his lab techs did most of the planning of menus, although Nancy did have some input. The Kenyons were vegetarians, though dairy products figured high on the list of foods eaten. Eggs and cheese were favorites. Nan had a special interest in wild plants and their uses.<\/p>\n Alex stepped out of the shower and toweled himself vigorously as his thoughts continued to flow. Aye, that felt good after last night\u2019s work, he said to himself.<\/p>\n Mary had given birth to their tenth child during the night. All had gone well, thanks to Laura, and he was proud of her. They had named the boy Daniel because he had been born into a den of lions.<\/p>\n No one knew that. To the world, they were the Kenyons, star attractions of the past eight years, the toast of presidents and prime ministers, the idols of millions of children. But a shadow of evil stalked their happy world, turning their luxury accommodations into a prison.<\/p>\n One morning-a Wednesday morning two years before-the telephone had rung, and Dr. Albert Lud had informed Alex that his adoptive father had died the night before of a heart attack. \u201cYou\u2019re under me, now,\u201d he had continued briskly, \u201cand things are going to be different.\u201d<\/p>\n They were, all right. Lud installed bars on all the windows of the dollhouse. He put cameras and microphones in every room except the pantry. After that, everything they did or said within those hated walls was recorded by the electronic eyes and ears. They had recorded every moment of last night\u2019s birth.<\/p>\n Peter had learned to protect his parents, ever since the day when he was a year old and Dr. Maxwell had been on vacation in Scotland. The child had picked up the phone and heard the soft voice say, \u201cOh, Peter, may I speak with your father?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, Mommy and Daddy are in bed all cuddled up, and they told me that they didn\u2019t want to be disturbed.\u201d Alex and Mary had continued their performance because they loved each other. But Mary\u2019s tears had burned Alex\u2019s cheek, and he had trembled for hours afterwards.<\/p>\n Peter did not have to be punished. He had seen the results of his action and had wept all night.<\/p>\n Richard Maxwell had never found out about that isolated incident, but the Kenyons had had a premonitory look at what their futures would be like.<\/p>\n The Demmies<\/em> is available in both print and e-book format from Amazon and Barnes & Noble. It is Also available in E-book from Smashwords, Apple, and Kobo. The Demmies<\/em> is also on Bookshare. Visit http:\/\/www.dldbooks.com\/annparsons\/<\/a> for more information.<\/p>\n Bio: Ann Kathleen Parsons was born in 1953 in Olean, New York. She received a B.A. in English Education from Elmira College and an M.S. in Guidance and Personnel from St. Bonaventure University.<\/p>\n Ms. Parsons was born blind, which has affected her life in many ways, most notably in how she reads and writes. The Demmies<\/em> began as a braille manuscript, written on a Perkins Braille Writer, and it has ended up, after going through several incarnations, as a Word document.<\/p>\n
\nfor publication.<\/p>\n
\nAbout Behind Our Eyes<\/h1>\n
\nContents<\/h1>\n
\n
\n
by Lauren Casey<\/a><\/li>\n
by Ernest Jones<\/a><\/li>\n
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Deborah Armstrong<\/a><\/li>\n
by Sly Duck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Peter Altschul<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters<\/a><\/li>\n
by Valerie Moreno<\/a><\/li>\n
by Christopher Nicholson<\/a><\/li>\n
by Sally Rosenthal<\/a><\/li>\n
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Ria Meade<\/a><\/li>\n
by Wesley D. Sims<\/a><\/li>\n
by Wesley D. Sims<\/a><\/li>\n
by Wesley D. Sims<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters<\/a><\/li>\n
by Jeff Flodin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Anja Herrman<\/a><\/li>\n
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n
by Jyothsnaphanija<\/a><\/li>\n
by Jyothsnaphanija<\/a><\/li>\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Ann K. Parsons<\/a><\/li>\n
by Barbara Hammel<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a>\n\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n
by Heather J Kirk, PhotoGraphic Artistry and Publishing<\/a><\/li>\n
(with Ten Tips to Help Your Book Dreams Come True)
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n
by Mary-Jo Lord<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor and Mary-Jo Lord<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Gretchen Brown<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Rhonda T. Spear<\/a><\/li>\n
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n
by C. S. Boyd<\/a><\/li>\n
by Tara Innmon<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by John Justice<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by Nicole Massey<\/a><\/li>\n
by Nicole Massey<\/a><\/li>\n
by Greg Pruitt<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Bill Fullerton<\/a><\/li>\n
by Trish Hubschman<\/a><\/li>\n
by Valerie Moreno<\/a><\/li>\n
by Valerie Moreno<\/a><\/li>\n
by Emaline B<\/a><\/li>\n
by Robert Kingett<\/a><\/li>\n
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Barbara Hammel<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/div>\n
\nEditor’s Welcome<\/h1>\n
\n
\nPart I. In Memoriam<\/h1>\n
\nLauren’s Dream, memoir
by Lauren Casey<\/h2>\n
\nThe Old Crow and the Beautiful Land, fiction
by Ernest Jones<\/h2>\n
\nPlanting Winter Memory Gardens, nonfiction
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/h2>\n
\nh<\/strong>arvested after tears rain upon these growing remembrances:
\nE<\/strong>rnie–dear friend, master gardener, gifted writer.<\/p>\n
\nl<\/strong>eaves us his philosophy in poignant essays and memoirs,
\nD<\/strong>ifferent Views columns, and other stories.<\/p>\n
\nr<\/strong>emarkable Ernie–a man with great faith and family (including his guide dogs)–
\no<\/strong>pened our hearts, lifted our spirits, and reminded us of all that is good.
\nW<\/strong>ill you, The Old Crow, guard our gardens and tip your wing to us as you fly by?<\/p>\n
\nPart II. The Animal Kingdom<\/h1>\n
\nMurderous Innocence, nonfiction First Place
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/h2>\n
\nTherapy, fiction Second Place
by Deborah Armstrong<\/h2>\n
\nNo Extra Large Eggs, fiction
by Sly Duck<\/h2>\n
\nRoyalty, memoir
by Peter Altschul<\/h2>\n
\nBio: Peter Altschul has traveled a unique journey as customer service rep, musician, trainer of New York City taxi drivers, tutor of student-athletes, stepparent of three stepkids, grants manager, mediator between pro-life and pro-choice activists, and workplace diversity specialist. He blogs regularly about the connections between the workplace, politics, music, diversity, family life, sports, religion, and dogs. His book Breaking It Down and Connecting the Dots: Creating Common Ground Where Contention Rules<\/em> and his memoir Breaking Barriers: Working and Loving While Blind<\/em> can be ordered through www.peteraltschul.com. He lives with his guide dog, Heath, in Columbia, Missouri.<\/p>\n
\nVelveteen Viviane, Acrostic poetry
by Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters<\/h2>\n
\nInviting eyes framed by those soft floppy wings entice me to fly by her side.
\nVisions of trails sparkle like fairy dust as we soar along.
\nIntertwined, we dance a subtle two-step, avoiding obstacles.
\nAlways side-by-side, like corduroy, we journey.
\nNever hesitating, tail wagging, she steps into her harness.
\nEver grateful, I reward Viviane with a belly rub each day.<\/p>\n
\nHamster Horror, memoir
by Valerie Moreno<\/h2>\n
\nNo paws near those hammies, understand?”<\/p>\n
\nMy Friend the Third Wheel Turtle, nonfiction
by Christopher Nicholson<\/h2>\n
\nLaurence\u2019s Promise, poetry
by Sally Rosenthal<\/h2>\n
\nThis somber black Labrador retriever who arrived
\nTo become her third and, perhaps, last guide dog.<\/p>\n
\nThis aging woman standing before him,
\nWorn down by her burdensome sack of worries and sorrow,
\nAnd intuited she needed more than his guide work.<\/p>\n
\nHis broad head on her lap and
\nMade her understand he would bury that sack in a deep, deep hole
\nAnd care for her with all his gentle being.<\/p>\n
\nEarth Song, fiction Honorable Mention
by Brad Corallo<\/h2>\n
\nPart III. From A Different Perspective<\/h1>\n
\nTalking to God While Making the Damn Bed, poetry First Place
by Ria Meade<\/h2>\n
\n1. Make your bed. 2. Brush your teeth.
\n3. Always tell the truth. 4. Say your prayers.<\/p>\n
\nThese shortcomings, plus those more egregious,<\/p>\n
\nWith my reverence for morning’s atmosphere,<\/p>\n
\nI combined an unstructured praying style<\/p>\n
\nTwo aspects of this simple job have changed since my early exercise:<\/p>\n
\nExhaustive pulling of sized corners, hoping for snug angles,<\/p>\n
\nTop sheets require as many shuttles around same plane,<\/p>\n
\nAre you listening, God?<\/p>\n
\nGive me patience, insight, to understand why my smile,
\nconsidered words, actions with certain loved ones,<\/p>\n
\nWhen material feels right, assume mutual agreement;<\/p>\n
\nClinical Diagnosis, poetry Honorable Mention
by Wesley D. Sims<\/h2>\n
\nplethora of tests, team of doctors.
\nGood afternoon, I\u2019m Dr. A. We need more tests.<\/p>\n
\nwith their hands out-Have you ever \u2026?
\nWhen did you last \u2026? On a scale of one to ten, \u2026?<\/p>\n
\nlike hay to an elephant one handful at a time.
\nDr. B: When we get results, we\u2019ll compile a report.<\/p>\n
\nbrings relief like Spring after a long winter.
\nGood morning, we\u2019re reviewing your reports.<\/p>\n
\nGood afternoon, I\u2019m Dr. Z, we\u2019re not certain,
\nbut think it may be only stress.<\/p>\n
\ntentative diagnosis, and conclude-you will live
\nfor the rest of your uncertain life.<\/p>\n
\nI watch you go pale, quiet. Hail a taxi.
\nGet you to bed as another episode hits.<\/p>\n
\nHours drag, night crawls, tense ride home.
\nLife resumes, illness continues just as before.<\/p>\n
\nNight Visit, poetry
by Wesley D. Sims<\/h2>\n
\nlast night, like a wild thing
\nfrom the past. Crept up
\nlike a prowling wolf,
\nfangs of regret bared,
\ngazing at my throat.
\nI felt the scars tingle,
\nunravel to fresh rawness,
\nheard again the screams
\nrattle the windows and walls.
\nI tried denial, then reasoning
\nto calm it, chase it away.
\nThe snarls grew louder,
\nneck bristles porcupine.<\/p>\n
\nrose to full height,
\nthrew arms high,
\nmade a big target
\nlike experts advise,
\nstared into its eyes.<\/p>\n
\nI surrendered, curled,
\nadmitted my scars.
\nPromised it could return.
\nIt lowered bristles,
\npulled fangs, backed away.
\nMy pulse slowed
\nas it slithered out.
\nA wild thing needs to be
\nturned loose.<\/p>\n
\nTrapped at Two, poetry
by Wesley D. Sims<\/h2>\n
\ntrapped him in a two-year-old mind.
\nShort-circuited neurons stole his speech.
\nHe talked with grunts, muted laughs
\nand cries, pointed or picked up objects
\nto communicate wishes.<\/p>\n
\npulled strings and loose edges, shredded paper.
\nAmused himself with blizzard of fuzzies-
\ntiny shreds of material thrown in the air
\nand blown to float like leaves on the wind.
\nSometimes stripped his clothes in public.<\/p>\n
\ntoughening walls, removing loose edges.
\nAt forty, siblings gone, his parents
\nfought sleep in shifts in the weary hours
\nwhen he prowled like a resident ghost
\nthat nightly haunted their dreams.<\/p>\n
\nKeep Calm and Drink Tea, nonfiction Honorable Mention
by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters<\/h2>\n
\nBlindsided, nonfiction
by Jeff Flodin<\/h2>\n
\nHe is the recipient of the National Endowment for the Arts Creative Access Fellowship. His work has appeared in several publications. He is a Licensed Social Worker in the State of Illinois. He has been living with retinitis pigmentosa (RP) for three decades. He lives in Chicago with his wife, his Seeing Eye dog and two cats whom, along with his sense of humor, he credits for maintaining his sanity.<\/p>\n
\nWe Will Not Be Silenced, fiction
by Anja Herrman<\/h2>\n
\nWho Weeps For Bhopal? poetry
by Brad Corallo<\/h2>\n
\nwith no warning until it was far too late.
\nThe people of Bhopal awakened from dreams
\nto a starkly real pervasive nightmare.
\nA poison gas cloud rolled over the land
\ncomposed of 40 tons of Methyl Iso Cyanate,
\nchloroform, hydrogen chloride and other chemical goodies.
\nA thorough, equal opportunity poison mix offering severely damaged:
\neyes, lungs, skin, kidneys, brains, circulatory systems, digestive tracts and;
\nlet\u2019s not forget about the spontaneous abortions and birth defects.<\/p>\n
\nThe intent was not to target humans and domestic animals;
\nthat was just the result.
\nThree thousand seven hundred + died in the first 24 hours.
\nSince then five hundred fifty eight thousand related injuries have been documented.
\nUnion Carbide paid $four hundred seventy million in reparations.
\nNo comfort to those who had lost vision, unborn children, family members and the ability to walk or breathe normally.
\nAs the great American Poet tells us:
\n\u201cThe executioner\u2019s face is always well hidden.\u201d
\nUnion Carbide\u2019s C.E.O got away \u201cscot free!\u201d<\/p>\n
\na constant taunt and reminder to the people of Bhopal.
\nThe land around the factory
\nwas a dumping ground for numerous toxic substances.
\nTwenty years later, such were found in the breast milk of nursing mothers.
\nSome half hearted clean ups were initiated for show in the intervening years.
\nFar too little far too late!<\/p>\n
\nYou might find the visibility of grotesquely damaged people
\ndoesn\u2019t pair well with cocktails; perhaps the only safe potable beverages there.
\nAnd as the signs in the nonexistent luxury resort hotels read:
\n\u201cplease don\u2019t drink or bathe in the water-
\nlike Union Carbide we will not be responsible!\u201d<\/p>\n
\nWooden Boat, poetry
by Jyothsnaphanija<\/h2>\n
\nChildren play outside the window, their voices echo inside.
\nTake a photograph of rain
\nWhen it travels East to South.
\nSecrets are custard apple leaves
\nHard to keep them safe
\nThey may burn any time.
\nCheck the time.<\/p>\n
\nA technician came yesterday morning, for their blood.
\nNo one screamed.
\nHalf of them, were told thyroid.
\n\u201cIt\u2019s because of salt\u201d.
\nThey heard.
\nDon\u2019t you consume iodized salt?
\nTake a photograph of rain
\nWhen it burns the trees.<\/p>\n
\nSo the war began when languages were created?
\nThe city catches the dust of the pedal.
\nCity can no longer afford a cake or bread.
\nFlowers conspire about death.
\nTake a photograph of rain when it
\nOccupies the territory of Watermelon seeds.
\nBirds imitate
\nSongs of war.
\nSpeak when you are on fire,
\nSpeak if you are drowning.<\/p>\n
\nThe medicine in saline flows slowly
\nYou and I feel the pain
\nOf unconsciousness.
\nThe otherside of our palms
\nAre marked with needles.
\nEven with difficulty, lift your hand, click Take a photograph Of rain showering like glucose.<\/p>\n
\nThere was an engineer I saw.
\nI asked his way of living.
\nSeparating chlorine from water
\nIt may make kidney stones he said.
\nAren\u2019t we all indefinite articles?
\nHe questioned.
\nCandles get burnt
\nSomeone would count how many were burnt.
\nDefinite silence.
\nDon\u2019t you think our lives are like chopped wood?
\nEvery village, every city
\nSwallow the polluted water.
\nWe travel a lot
\nExhausting so much.
\nWe travel a lot
\nStill, we find it hard to live.<\/p>\n
\nWhat Does the Sky Tell? poetry
by Jyothsnaphanija<\/h2>\n
\nTheir definition of happiness is just living a life, and waking up the next morning without crying.
\nTheir understanding of happiness is just telling your name every day, without singing.
\nI count stars, name them
\nI don\u2019t pawn my hands, even though I don\u2019t see \u201cDon\u2019t you see at all?\u201d
\nThey stare, call it a strange thing.
\nI am no more fair, neither dark.
\nAnd she, is just a fraction of light.
\nA girl who cannot see
\nholds stories of those young pretty protagonists who see, preserves them like preserving the last quarter of infrequent rain.
\nShe is a non-sighted version of their fancy, age, pain, and shine.
\nShe tells him to leave
\nShe tells him not to talk of that again.
\nHow did she born?
\nShe crawls, hitting the paint of windows.
\nShe plays in dust, in rain, in her mother\u2019s kitchen, with her brother\u2019s cricket bat.
\nShe plucks beads of the woolen doll that her grand-mother made, names her satiny friend as Kiran.
\nHer nails grow; she removes the smell of the nail polish.
\nShe attends phone calls in the lunch break, listening the rules of the college.
\nShe is a wife, tolerates him.
\nShe is a mother, listens to her children\u2019s laughter, cooks their favorite cake.
\nShe is old, having pain killers becomes an everyday habit.
\nShe is a clerk, an officer.
\nBitter jokes won\u2019t make her laugh.
\nShe irons her hair, sweeps the dust at home.
\nShe forgets the electricity bill, forgets to turn off electric rice cooker She listens, till someone comes up with a new question.
\nShe reads the recent amendments to the laws of human rights, updates her female friends, whether women can get any new luxury.
\nShe looks at the sky, crystallizing the anger of every woman, Carrying the extra-weight her sightlessness brings.<\/p>\n
\nNeedle Man, poetry
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/h2>\n
\nKey to the world of illusions,
\nPath to dark night of the spirit.<\/p>\n
\nI offer you nothing,
\nFor I have nothing left to give.<\/p>\n
\nAs my heart is your playground,
\nMy tears your common drink.<\/p>\n
\nWatch helplessly as you sow your seeds of doom,
\nAs you spiral mindlessly into the ring of endless light,
\nI stand by till the bitter end.<\/p>\n
\nPart IV. The Writers’ Climb<\/h1>\n
\nThe Demmies, book excerpt, fiction First Place
by Ann K. Parsons<\/h2>\n
\nPeter had scarcely hung up the phone before the eye of a handheld video camera was at the master bedroom window. Then had come the soft, insidious laughter.<\/p>\n