Magnets and Ladders
\nActive Voices of Writers with Disabilities
\nFall\/Winter 2019-2020<\/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. There’s something magic about fall, with the crunch of leaves under foot, the wind as it blows in heavy gusts, and the peaceful sound of the outdoors at night. The air has a crisp, freshness and everyone is commenting on the beautiful colors everywhere.<\/p>\n This spring, the members of Behind Our Eyes and the Magnets and Ladders<\/em> staff were saddened by the deaths of a long-time member and our friend and proofreader. Deon Lyons and John Weidlich both passed away in April after battles with Cancer.<\/p>\n Deon Lyons had been a member of Behind Our Eyes since 2010. He was a frequent contributor to Magnets and Ladders<\/em>. He participated in phone conferences, on committees, and on the mailing list. Deon’s cheerful attitude and incredible writing will be missed by the Behind Our Eyes community.<\/p>\n John Weidlich volunteered to be the final proofreader for Magnets and Ladders<\/em> in 2012 and continued to provide us with invaluable assistance through 2018. His generosity and wealth of knowledge are missed by the Magnets and Ladders<\/em> staff.<\/p>\n We will feature previously published pieces by Deon and John immediately following The Editor’s Welcome.<\/p>\n Do you like to think outside the box? Be sure to read “Not What I Expected” and “Points to Ponder.” “Looking Back” and “Slices of Life” have stories and poems about all aspects of life. “The Writers’ Climb” has articles and poems about creativity. “Seasonal Sensations” has stories and poems that will make you smile when you read about snow.” The Melting Pot” ends this edition with a reminder that spring will come again.<\/p>\n I would like to give a big thanks to all of the committee members and to Marilyn Brandt Smith and Jason Smith for your hard work and support throughout the production process.<\/p>\n We had contests with cash prizes in fiction, nonfiction and poetry. Three authors earned an Honorable Mention in both the fiction and poetry categories. Below are the Magnets and Ladders<\/em> Fall\/Winter 2018-2019 contest winners.<\/p>\n Fiction:<\/p>\n Nonfiction:<\/p>\n Poetry:<\/p>\n Congratulations to all of the contest winners.<\/p>\n The Magnets and Ladders<\/em> staff wishes you a safe and happy holiday season.<\/p>\n “Baker Street Station, next stop, Baker Street Station.” The train conductor’s voice bellowed over the speaker inside the commuter car, snapping Paul to attention. The smell of burnt axle grease and stale city, along with the pungent aroma of day old perfume and deodorant sifted through the creaking passenger car, as it rocked its way down the tracks. He squirmed and shifted his position on his seat inside the car. Clutching his briefcase at his feet with one hand, Paul leaned forward and grabbed the shiny steel pole in front of him with the other. He sat on the edge of the cracked and torn vinyl seat in heavy anticipation.<\/p>\n Would she be there again? He thought to himself. Would her hair be pulled back, like it was yesterday? I wonder what she is wearing today. He nervously shifted again in his seat as he looked out through the opposite window of the commuter car. The stop was just ahead, and he didn’t want to miss the chance to see her again.<\/p>\n Every night for the past two weeks, she had appeared across the tracks, standing on the platform, all alone, waiting for the southbound train. Paul was on the northbound. He had seen this vision from heaven every night on his ride home for nine nights. This glorious creature was an angel in disguise. A gift to mankind straight from the Gods. She was everything he had ever craved in a woman. Long dark hair that was full and flowing around the most beautiful face he had ever seen. She didn’t appear to wear any make up. She didn’t need to. Her natural beauty pulled him towards her, like a June bug drawn to a sixty watt light bulb on a cool summer’s night.<\/p>\n Her figure was another slice of heaven that curved gracefully around and down, leading into a long pair of legs that could have easily been deemed illegal. She was the definition of perfection that he had always imagined for himself, and she had been only 30 feet or so away from him.<\/p>\n He took a deep breath as the platform neared. There was the usual small crowd gathered there at the station, waiting for the next south bound train to pick them up and carry them towards the rest of their lives.<\/p>\n Some obviously unknowing pathetic fool in Paul’s car got up and stood in front of his seat, blocking his view of the approaching Baker Street platform. He nervously shifted in his seat and swore under his breath at the incompetence of the moron in front of him.<\/p>\n Unable to adjust his position to get a clear view, Paul quickly got up and found a vacant seat to his left, and was once again lined up with a perfect view of the upcoming platform. Paul had sat towards the end of the car, so as to only have minimal passenger traffic inside the car impeding his chance to gaze at this beauty across the way.<\/p>\n He had a burned image of her running through his head since he first noticed her the week before last. He had run through a thousand different scenarios in his mind with her image in front of him, beside him and around him. There wasn’t a thought of her that remained untouched in his deep seeded desires. He could hear the laugh of her voice. He could smell the sweet aroma of her smooth skin as he caressed her face. He could feel her gaze into his eyes, followed by a smile that could easily light up a thousand rooms. It seemed so perfect to him. In so many ways she had managed to grab hold of his desires, and pull them into her possibilities.<\/p>\n Surely she would, if given the chance, find him as irresistible as he imagined her to be.<\/p>\n It had been warm those past two weeks, and he was thankful for it. She had usually been dressed in skirts with blouses. Her lovely shape was mind bending, even from 30 feet away. Her dark, deep set eyes and strong cheek bones had been circling around his brain. She looked Italian, and he had always been intrigued by the natural beauty of Italian women. Again, he pictured her smile, her laugh, the way she brushed the hair away from her face as she shyly looked down at the ground.<\/p>\n “Baker street station. Now arriving at Baker Street station.” The train conductor’s voice barged in on Paul’s imagination once again.<\/p>\n This is it! He thought to himself. As he sat and stared out the opposite window, he pictured the layout of the Baker Street Station in his mind. He had been to both sides of the tracks in the past, as it was the area hub for the local semipro baseball team, of which he was an avid fan.<\/p>\n I can jump off, run underneath and make it to the other platform in less than a minute. His mind rotated and glided from one movement to the next as his mental image presented him with a vision of amazing grace being slowly wrapped up inside every nook and cranny of his deepest desires. That’s it! It’s now or never! Again he wrestled with his anxieties, his passions, submitting to his addictive nature.<\/p>\n Paul’s train started slowing down as it approached the station. The loosening of his tie, the screeching brakes and the methodic tug of the stopping motion, and there she was. The world stopped for an instant as he zoomed in on her every feature. There seemed to be a glowing orb that was surrounding her and illuminating the platform where she stood. Paul’s heart suddenly stopped for a few seconds, and then restarted with a thump in his chest. His eyes opened wide, as he was being completely engulfed by the approaching image of this breathtaking beauty across the tracks. Her hair was pulled back again, showing off her long slender neck, and glowing features. He swallowed hard and stretched his neck to take in every ounce of her beauty. He didn’t think it was possible, but she looked better than she did the day before.<\/p>\n Looking around the inside of his car quickly, he wondered how everyone could be so unaware of this magnificent creature that was glowing, just across the tracks.<\/p>\n She was dressed in a peach colored blouse with a flowing flower print skirt. Pure heavenly bliss was all he could think of.<\/p>\n As the train continued to approach the station, she appeared to be looking right at him. He knew it, he just knew it. He could feel her gaze as beads of nervous sweat broke out on his brow.<\/p>\n Paul swallowed and smiled as he nervously got up from his seat and walked over towards the sliding doors. The train rocked back and forth as it came to a slow stop at Baker Street Station.<\/p>\n As the doors opened, he took one more look at her as he started to exit, then stopped dead in his tracks just two steps from the doors.<\/p>\n A shock wave pummeled down through him as he watched her turn to her right and smile as a tall, well-dressed man suddenly walked up to her, wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her into a long, deep kiss.<\/p>\n Paul’s heart rapidly fell thirty-two stories straight down into the pit of his stomach, smashing hard at the bottom like a fifty pound sack of flour on a dusty basement floor. He couldn’t breathe, nor could he swallow. His vision was instantly shattered into a million pieces as he staggered backwards and sank back down onto the vinyl bench seats.<\/p>\n He looked again, and saw that they were still hugging, still kissing, and still ripping and tearing the visions out of his downward spiraling mind. Paul’s gaze fell down to the scarred, dirty floor of his subway car, as the doors closed and the train slowly started leaving the station.<\/p>\n He looked up once more at the opposite platform where she once stood alone. The platform slowly drifted away from sight.<\/p>\n “Commonwealth Avenue. Next stop Commonwealth Avenue.” the conductor’s voice rang through the car as Paul’s dreams of the angel slowly dissolved from view.<\/p>\n Looking down at his briefcase, he noticed something shimmering in the late evening sunlight running through his car. It was his wedding ring. Paul leaned back in his seat, and chuckled under his breath as he spun the ring on his finger with his other hand. Shaking his head, he took another deep breath, smiled and closed his eyes as the train rocked and clicked its way down the tracks. He was seven stops from home.<\/p>\n “Baker Street Station” was published in the Fall\/Winter edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em><\/p>\n Bio: Deon Lyons lived in Central Maine with his wife of thirty-seven years. Deon had been chasing a passion for writing since his younger days, and was grateful for those avenues of inspiration that gave him countless ways to expand on his writing craft. Mr. Lyons was a lover of music, movies, described media, family, chocolate and the camaraderie that only friends can provide. Deon was a member of Behind Our Eyes since 2011. Deon said, “I’m continuously impressed by this amazing collection of talented writers.”<\/p>\n Sadly, Deon passed away at home on April 12, 2019 after a courageous battle with cancer. His amazing talent, humor, positive outlook and ongoing support to members is greatly missed by the Behind Our Eyes community. You can read many poems and stories by Deon in past issues of Magnets and Ladders<\/em>.<\/p>\n A few questions before we get started:<\/p>\n Does our Constitution give you the right to bare arms?<\/p>\n If you can keep a secret, would you best be described as discreet or discrete?<\/p>\n If you and your guide dog ran into an immovable object in a parking lot and you decided to write about the experience, would you refer to the object as stationery or stationary?<\/p>\n What is the difference between the words all ready and already or is there one? What about altogether and all together?<\/p>\n Is Washington, DC our nation’s capital or its Capitol?<\/p>\n How can you tell a person who is a boor from one who is a bore?<\/p>\n How is a Council different from a Counsel?<\/p>\n Do you have a flair for writing or is it a flare?<\/p>\n Which is the animal, a gorilla or a guerilla?<\/p>\n Which is correct: It’s a Wonderful Life or Its a Wonderful Life?<\/p>\n If you answered all of those questions without hesitation, then you probably don’t need this grate( great?) new book for writers from National Braille Press that I am about to review. You can move along to the next article. But if not, read on, because there is a wealth of information waiting for you in this very small volume.<\/p>\n The book is A Writer’s Companion, a Pocket Book of Homophones<\/em> compiled by the folks at the National Braille Press in Boston, MA. Homophones: those pesky words that sound alike but are spelled differently and have different meanings, words that can and do trip up even very good writers who aren’t careful. NBP decided to put together this book because of homophone mistakes that they keep seeing in emails, such as references to “sited people,” “sell phones” and the “right to bare arms.” This small volume lists hundreds of them, from fairly obvious ones like there, their and they’re to such less familiar ones as discreet\/discrete, bazaar\/bizarre, elicit\/illicit and one that always seems to confuse me affect\/effect. The entries are very brief. Here are a few, just to give you an idea of what you will find:<\/p>\n Altar: (pedestal,) alter: (to change)<\/p>\n Affect: (to change or influence,) effect: (a result)<\/p>\n Discreet: (modest; can keep a secret,) discrete: (distinct; unrelated)<\/p>\n Pedal: (bicycle pedal,) peddle: (to sell,) petal: (flower petal)<\/p>\n Its: (possession: its paws,) it’s: (contraction, it is)<\/p>\n Raise: (raise your hand,) rays: (rays of the sun,) raze: (to destroy completely).<\/p>\n You can see from these examples that the explanations are not complex; there is just enough information to help you distinguish the words and to help you know which one to use. Some of the entries are not strictly homophones in that the pronunciations are not exactly the same but they are words that can cause mistakes like medal, metal, mettle, and meddle.<\/p>\n But as helpful as this is, the homophone entries comprise only the first half of the book. There is much more of value to aspiring writers.<\/p>\n The next section is called Transition Words, a list of about seventy words and phrases that you can use to begin a new sentence or thought, beginning with a few minutes later, and ending with which is to say.<\/p>\n Then we come to lists of descriptive word choices. To quote from the book: “good writers select just the right word to convey a thought or to describe a situation or person. For example, bulky and monstrous both describe something big, but they imply different qualities.”<\/p>\n What follows is several lists of words to describe various qualities. You don’t have to say something is big. Instead you can describe it as astronomical, broad, colossal, considerable, enormous, gigantic, grand, great, huge, immense, inflated, jumbo, large, mammoth, massive, mighty, monstrous, roomy, spacious, substantial, tremendous, along with several more that I didn’t give you. These are just lists of descriptive words. The words are not defined or differentiated but you can consult a good dictionary or thesaurus to help you decide which of the many choices you might want to use. There are lists of words for big, small, very, a lot, a little, fast, slow, good, bad, loud, soft, hot, cold, light, dark, hard, soft, wet and dry. Some of the lists are quite long, with over sixty words for good and an equally large number for bad.<\/p>\n But we’re not done yet. The next section is called What Color is That. Designers like to play with the names of colors, which can make it hard to know what color they mean. So there are words for black, blue, brown, gray, green, orange and all of the other common colors. For example, blue can be described as aqua, azure, cerulean, cobalt, cyan, electric blue, indigo, midnight, navy, sapphire, teal, turquoise and ultramarine, among others. These, I think can be extremely valuable to those of us who have never seen colors or who just don’t know how the new colors relate to the colors with which we are familiar.<\/p>\n Finally, there are more word lists, ways to describe how people look act and feel. Want to introduce a pretty girl into a short story? Make her adorable, alluring, appealing, attractive, beautiful, becoming, breathtaking, captivating, charming, chic, classy, elegant, gorgeous, irresistible, lovely, ravishing or stunning. The old person in your story might be adult, aged, ancient, frail, grizzled, venerable, wise, withered or wrinkled. If you want to convey the idea that someone is nice you have choices like affectionate, agreeable, amiable, approachable, compatible, delightful, genial, likable, neighborly, polite, warm and welcoming, as well as many others. There are lists to describe people who are mean, outgoing, shy, funny, serious as well as strong or weak in body or mind. The section on how people feel contains words for happy, sad, angry, bored, excited, scared and surprised.<\/p>\n This book is available in one Braille volume of 53 pages. But if you don’t read Braille, you can download it as a Word file to use on your computer. The book costs $10.00. This is a book that you will refer to often in your writing. To order it, Contact National Braille Press, 88 St. Stephen Street, Boston, MA 02115. Phone: 800 548-7323, email orders@nbp.org or go to the web site http:\/\/www.nbp.org<\/a>.<\/p>\n “A Review of a Writer’s Companion<\/em> from National Braille Press” was published in the Fall\/Winter 2012 edition of Magnets and Ladders<\/em>.<\/p>\n Editor’s note: Although a Writer’s Companion<\/em> is out of print and no longer available from National Braille Press, the information in John’s article is still valuable and relevant. He has given several examples of commonly confused homophones and ideas to encourage writers to explore transitional phrases and descriptive words for characters and settings.<\/p>\n If you have a copy of a Writer’s Companion<\/em>, you might want to put it at the top of your writing reference stack for easy access. If you purchased an electronic copy and are unable to locate it, I have great news. You can log into your account with National Braille Press and download it.<\/p>\n There are several books on Amazon that address homophones and other commonly confused words. You can also use google to be sure that you are using the correct homophone. A good thesaurus will help when looking for good descriptive words.<\/p>\n Bio: John Weidlich lived in St. Louis, MO with his wife Donna and was totally blind from birth. He Sabrina carried the package up the stairs of her house as the UPS truck drove away. This present came right on time, she thought as she set it down on the dining room table. Today was her birthday, and her husband had left that morning for a business trip.<\/p>\n \u201cSorry, but it can\u2019t be helped,\u201d he had said as he set his suitcase in the car. \u201cWe\u2019ll celebrate your birthday when I get back next week.\u201d She was disappointed but tried not to let it show.<\/p>\n She ran her hands along the box, enjoying the moment while she thought about what could be inside. \u201cNow try to think,\u201d She said out loud, \u201cwhat\u2019s not too big and not too small, and who had sent it anyway?\u201d She peered at the label, then let out a sigh of disgust and exasperation. The gift was from her husband Ron\u2019s Sister Linda. Linda had not liked Sabrina right from the start and had no problem letting her know.<\/p>\n \u201cIf you have to marry a teacher,\u201d she had said to Ron within Sabrina\u2019s earshot at their engagement party, \u201cyou could have picked a math or English teacher, but an art teacher?\u201d she scoffed. \u201cCome on, Ron, really?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s your problem?\u201d Ron had shot back. \u201cYou got something against art?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey, I\u2019m just trying to look out for you,\u201d she had said, putting a placating hand on his arm. \u201cYou can do better than that. I know you can do a lot better.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s enough,\u201d he hissed between bared teeth. \u201cKeep your rude comments to yourself,\u201d he snapped as he walked away.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m telling you, you\u2019re making a mistake,\u201d she retorted, determined to take a parting shot. \u201cYou just wait. You\u2019ll see.\u201d<\/p>\n Sabrina opened the box slowly as she recalled that evening. She had wanted to confront Lousy Linda as she had nicknamed Ron\u2019s sister and put her in her place, but she didn\u2019t wish to ruin the party, so she went out of her way to ignore her. So she\u2019s sending me a birthday present, she laughed, half expecting to find a box of dead rats.<\/p>\n She was in fact surprised. She lifted the lid of an ornate box to find a collection of broken ceramic. The pieces were not wrapped up, so maybe they had been broken before being shipped, she thought reasonably. “Leave it to Lousy Linda to try to ruin my birthday,” Sabrina muttered as she carried the box out to the trash. She set the box on top of a pile of trash waiting to go out the next day.<\/p>\n \u201cYou won\u2019t believe what that Lousy Linda sent me for my birthday,\u201d she said to her friend Violet over the phone a few minutes later. \u201cCan you believe it? A box of broken ceramic pieces!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey, I\u2019m curious,\u201d Violet said slowly. \u201cMaybe you should try to put the pieces together and see what it was before she broke it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, you think so?\u201d Sabrina laughed. \u201cMaybe I\u2019ll do that. Now you got me curious.\u201d She retrieved the box from the trash and set it on the table. Tomorrow she would buy some crazy glue and try to piece it back together. It might be fun, she thought as she got ready to meet Violet for birthday dinner and drinks. It may be like putting together a jigsaw puzzle.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a shame Ron couldn\u2019t be here for your birthday,\u201d Violet said over their seafood feast later that evening. It was a cool, crisp evening in late October, so they opted to sit outside of their favorite restaurant which had a fire ring burning on the patio.<\/p>\n \u201cTell me about it,\u201d Sabrina sighed, sipping a glass of red wine. \u201cHe couldn\u2019t have waited a day. That\u2019s all right. He\u2019ll make it up when he gets back.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo what do you think Lousy Linda sent that got broken?\u201d Violet asked over dessert.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know, but I\u2019ll send you a picture when I get it assembled,\u201d Sabrina promised.<\/p>\n The next day after school, Sabrina started putting the pieces of the broken sculpture together. This was no easy task, for some of the pieces were quite small. Fortunately, there were enough larger pieces that she didn\u2019t get easily discouraged. Ron called every evening of his trip, but she decided not to tell him about the present until he got home.<\/p>\n The day before Ron was due to arrive home, she finally finished assembling the statue. She was disappointed but not at all surprised at the result. The statue was some sort of mythical creature, which appeared to be half human and half bird. It was the most hideous thing Sabrina had ever seen, but she decided to use a little reverse psychology when she emailed Lousy Linda. \u201cThank you so much for the birthday present,\u201d she wrote. \u201cIt is very beautiful. Your thoughtfulness is very much appreciated.\u201d She laughed as she hit the send key. Lousy Linda had probably not expected her to glue the pieces back together.<\/p>\n The reply came almost immediately. \u201cI saw that thing, and I knew it was you,\u201d it read. Sabrina resisted the urge to send another message full of curses.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you think this thing is?\u201d she texted Violet along with a picture of the creature.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know, but it sure is gross,\u201d came the reply.<\/p>\n Ron seemed to have a different opinion. \u201cWhat is that thing?\u201d he asked when he got home the next evening, pointing to the monstrosity on the mantle. \u201cI never saw anything like it. Where did you find it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt was a birthday present from Lousy Linda,\u201d Sabrina fumed. She couldn\u2019t bring herself to admit that it had arrived in pieces. \u201cIs it not the most disgusting thing you ever saw?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d Ron said, reaching out and touching the head. \u201cI think it\u2019s kind of cute, and don\u2019t call her Lousy Linda. That\u2019s my sister you\u2019re talking about.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, the sister that can\u2019t stand me,\u201d Sabrina spat. \u201cI can\u2019t believe she thinks an art teacher is such a menial job. It\u2019s no worse than being a bank teller like herself or a security guard like her husband. She has no room to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019ll come around,\u201d Ron said reassuringly, patting her shoulder. \u201cJust give her time. Besides, your brother doesn\u2019t like me either. What does he call me? Rotten Ron?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOnly because you wouldn\u2019t put your sister in her place at the engagement party,\u201d Sabrina reminded him.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s not talk about that right now,\u201d Ron said, fishing out a gift wrapped box from his pocket. \u201cHappy belated birthday!\u201d<\/p>\n She unwrapped it slowly and gave a little cry of pleasure as she lifted out a gold locket. \u201cWow! That\u2019s very pretty!\u201d she exclaimed as she clasped it around her neck. Thank you. Now can we shove that ugly statue in the closet and just put it on display when your sister comes to visit?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s just leave it up there for a while,\u201d Ron insisted. \u201cIt\u2019s not hurting anything.\u201d Sabrina wanted to argue, but she kept her mouth shut as she followed Ron outside. He took her to an Italian restaurant for her birthday, and all thoughts of the mythical statue vanished for the rest of the evening.<\/p>\n She thought about it again the next morning during her first art class. \u201cYou know it\u2019s almost Halloween,\u201d she told her class of middle school students. \u201cYour next project is to make a mythical creature. You can do a drawing or a painting, or you can make a collage or a sculpture from a bunch of junk you find around the house. It can be from any culture, and I want you to write a couple of sentences describing your creature and why you chose to make it. Any questions?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d a boy named Ken called from the back row. \u201cCan we make a costume?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d Sabrina agreed, \u201cthat sounds good too. So today we\u2019ll go to the library, and you can do some research to figure out which creature you wish to make.\u201d<\/p>\n By the end of the week, all the projects had been handed in. Sabrina was delighted by the enthusiasm and creativity of the students. There were several drawings of the Sphinx, sculptures of the Hydra, oil paintings of the Chimera, and some others she never even heard of.<\/p>\n One sculpture made of cardboard, plastic, and feathers was especially interesting. Sabrina thought it looked suspiciously like the human vulture sculpture she had at home. It had the head of a maiden with a pale face and very long claws on its hands. Deidre Ramsey, the student who made the sculpture wrote on the card attached, \u201cThis is a Harpy. It is a half human and half bird creature found in Greek and Roman mythology. Its name means Snatcher or Swift Robber because the Harpies are known to steal food from their victims before their victims can eat it. They are also known to snatch evildoers and take them to the Erinyes or Furies. They are cruel, vicious, and violent. I chose to make one because I recently watched the movie about Jason and the Argonauts. The Argonauts encountered King Phineus of Thrace on a deserted island. The gods gave him the gift of prophesy after abandoning him on the island for angering them. The gods gave him a buffet of food, which he could never eat because the Harpies always stole it from him. Phineus promised the Argonauts that he would tell them how to manage the next leg of their journey safely if they promised to get the Harpies to stop bothering him.\u201d<\/p>\n Sabrina sighed, then laughed aloud as she read the description of the Harpies. Instead of feeling the usual anger and resentment towards Lousy Linda, she decided to make a conscious effort to try to feel sympathetic towards the pathetic fool. She was surprised by how much less energy it took to feel sympathy.<\/p>\n \u201cSo she thinks I\u2019m a Harpy,\u201d she told Violet over lunch the next day. \u201cI think she has too much time on her hands.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow immature!\u201d Violet laughed. \u201cDon\u2019t let her bother you. We all know who the real Harpy is.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou know what\u2019s interesting is that her gift inspired me to get my students to make mythical creatures for an art project,\u201d Sabrina grinned. \u201cThere were some really good ones, and I found out what my sculpture is.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat I would do is knock it off the mantle and tell Ron it was an accident,\u201d Violet suggested.<\/p>\n \u201cI thought about that too, except I would hate to see all my hard work of gluing it back together go to waste,\u201d Sabrina said resignedly. \u201cBesides that, I kind of got used to it sitting up there, as ugly as it is. I think I\u2019ll put it on the porch on Halloween night. Maybe one of the trick-or-treaters will take it,\u201d she said hopefully.<\/p>\n If only that were so, Sabrina thought ruefully. Halloween night found Sabrina handing out hard candy and gum to the neighborhood kids. She was pleased to see that two of her students were dressed up as the mythical creatures they had made in her art class, one as a Siren and one as the Minotaur. Unfortunately, at the end of the night, the Harpy still stood on the porch.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is that ugly thing?\u201d several of the kids had asked. \u201cThat looks like something from a horror movie.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh it is,\u201d Sabrina said in all seriousness. \u201cCheck out the movie called ‘Jason and the Argonauts.’\u201d<\/p>\n To her surprise, about a week after Halloween, Ron came home from work on a mission. \u201cOkay, you win,\u201d he said plaintively, taking the Harpy off the mantle. \u201cWe\u2019ll put this thing away and just bring it out when Linda comes to visit. I think it sat up there long enough.” Sabrina was too stunned to speak. Ron carefully placed the Harpy in the box in which it had arrived. He stared in astonishment as he noticed that the top of the sculpture stood a good three inches above the top of the box. \u201cThere is something wrong with this picture,\u201d he said in a hoarse whisper. \u201cThis statue couldn\u2019t have fit into this box unless it was smashed into smithereens first.\u201d<\/p>\n Bio: Susan Muhlenbeck was born in Seoul, Korea and spent her first five years there. She lost her sight at the age of two. She was raised in the Midwest and moved to Virginia as a teenager. She has a bachelor\u2019s degree in psychology and master\u2019s degree in rehabilitation counseling from Virginia Commonwealth University. Her interests include reading, swimming, bargain shopping, and cats. Her books are available on Amazon.<\/p>\n My 45 pound little beige dog, has no proclivities or intentions toward the profession of guide dog. He has the looks and strength of a sled dog, with the dogged stubbornness that gets him where he wants to go, even if he has to take his leash-wielding provider with him.<\/p>\n Picture a porch deck perched outside my sliding glass door. Picture a number of bird feeders and suet baskets hanging from metal arms protruding from the wooden siding. These feeders dangle at eyelevel two feet from said window. One more important aspect is that the porch is two stories up from the ground from which two flights of stairs ascend as access to and from my back yard.<\/p>\n Now imagine this tranquil scene in early spring at 2:00 a.m., when hibernating bears and reasonable people are sleeping snug in their dens, which is exactly what Diane and I were doing when Barney the dog went ape.<\/p>\n I should mention here that his sleeping mat is on the indoor side of the glass door. Suddenly, I became aware of a cacophony of thuds against the sliding glass door, and enough growls and barks to wake the dead.<\/p>\n Reluctantly awake, I waited for Diane to investigate. It seemed reasonable to me that she should be the one to go downstairs to see what in the world was going on, since she is a much better seer than I am. But she didn\u2019t move. With a few half-muttered expletives and whines, I untangled myself from my cloying blankets and felt my way to the dresser to consult my talking watch. 2:00 a.m..<\/p>\n As I bumbled my way down the upper bedroom stairs, my mind slogged back to the last time Barney went into conniptions. The cause then was a raccoon trying to mooch off the bird feeders. I doubted that I would be able to see a raccoon on the porch, but maybe I could scare it away by banging on the glass door. On second thought, Barney was already doing that, not to mention his barrage of vocalizations. Well, maybe I could calm the dog down and go back to sleep. I should be so lucky.<\/p>\n On my way to the ruckus, I passed Chloe\u2019s couch, which is against the wall opposite the glass door. I notice Chloe, our Foxhound Terrier mix seated in her usual sleeping place. I wondered why she wasn\u2019t joining in the fracas. She seemed to be telling me, \u201cI don\u2019t want any part of this.\u201d That was strange. She had enjoyed joining Barney in chasing away the raccoon of the previous year.<\/p>\n Barney was behind the door curtains, getting in more barks per minute than I would have thought possible. He was not just standing there. He was jumping up and down, throwing himself against the door, and pawing away at the glass as though he was trying to dig his way out.<\/p>\n I drew back the curtains and switched on the porch lights. I keep denying that I\u2019m mostly blind, and peer into the eternal impenetrable fog. I couldn\u2019t see a thing. I tried to calm the dog down before he had a heart attack. It was like trying to stem the rush of a cataract. Then I tried yelling and threatening him, to get him to stop his infernal barking. He briefly stopped jumping, but the barking and growling continued unabated. Instead, he started shaking like a car going ninety on unbalanced tires.<\/p>\n Feeling helpless, I retreated back upstairs to the bedroom. Refusing to accept Diane\u2019s act as a peacefully sleeping bystander, I said, \u201cI can\u2019t stop him. I think you need to go downstairs and see what\u2019s going on.\u201d<\/p>\n She threw the covers off in anger, like it was my fault or something. I sat on the bed, wondering if I could get away with staying upstairs. I didn\u2019t have to wonder long. The next thing I heard was, \u201cOh my God!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is it?\u201d I called down.<\/p>\n \u201cA big, big **** bear.\u201d<\/p>\n That got me back downstairs in a hurry.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s pulled down the bird feeders and made off with the suet cage,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere is he now?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s on the second landing, waiting to come back up and get the feeders. He\u2019s taller than I am. Chloe came to the door to protect me, and he backed off.\u201d<\/p>\n Note: Diane is five feet, seven inches. Chloe is her dog, and Chloe will do anything to protect her, even if she has the sense not to challenge a black bear.<\/p>\n She took another look out the window. \u201cHe\u2019s gone,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n I grabbed my Samurai sword, which I keep handy in the living room, and went to the door.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d she demanded.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m going to make sure he stays away.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre you fn crazy? He\u2019ll kill you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t worry. I\u2019m just going to make a lot of noise,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n I went out on the porch, despite her protestations. Out on the edge of the stairway, I growled, shook and banged my weapon and said threatening words. If I didn\u2019t scare the bare, I\u2019m pretty sure that at least the neighbors were a little concerned. Then I returned to my side of the window.<\/p>\n We retrieved our bird feeders and took them in the house, and continued to do so for the next week.<\/p>\n Barney barked for the next four hours. In my darker thoughts, I considered letting him have a go at the bear. However, despite not getting back to sleep for the rest of the night, I would never do that. He might hurt the bear. Just kidding.<\/p>\n The next morning, the neighborhood woke up to destroyed bird feeders, pilfered garbage Mr. Bear seems to have departed our environs since then. I guess I really scared him. Now I can\u2019t be sure, but I think some neighbors might be avoiding me.<\/p>\n Bio: Leonard Tuchyner has Stargardt’s disease, which was first noticed during his teenaged years. He is now seventy-nine. 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-nine 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 rote 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 Rabbit sits insolently silent, \u201cHey, you used-up mutt, you looking at me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHare, better be careful what you blather.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy, what you gonna do to me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI might just have you for my breakfast. \u201cYeah, used to is what I say, old schmo. Old Dog grins at rabbit\u2019s arrogance.<\/p>\n \u201cHow old are you, rabbit-flavored dog food? Rabbit smiles and skips a backwards flip. Like lightening, old dog rockets off the porch. \u201cI gotta admit, you had me scared. Suddenly, Rabbit is lifted off the ground. Old Dog says, Exhausted after a long grueling day, I decided to forego my usual bedtime snack of a brownie and milk and go straight to bed. I couldn\u2019t wait to nestle under the warmth of flannel sheets on this very cold January night.<\/p>\n For years, I have enjoyed living alone in this house I share with two cats that come to snuggle close during their nocturnal wandering.<\/p>\n I decided to listen to a chapter or two of a book before going to sleep. True to my expectation, I slept soundly until something I could not quite name or remember put an abrupt end to that.<\/p>\n One minute I was sound asleep, and then as wide awake as if it were morning and the day just beginning. My heart was pounding. I felt incredible fear. Like many who sleep fitfully, I barely remember dreams so came up with nothing as I tried to discover what had frightened me.<\/p>\n In the country, there is a quiet rarely interrupted by anything other than the rustle of a tree limb against a window or the cry of an animal involved in some territorial dispute. As I sat listening hoping to hear nothing, I knew something wasn\u2019t right. On many nights, I forget or never take the time to lock my door. If someone wants to break in, this old house, with its flimsy locks, won\u2019t stop them. Had I made an exception and locked the door last night? Should I leave the warmth of my bed and see if I had? I decided to listen a little longer, hoping to put to rest my fear and the accompanying feeling that something was terribly wrong. Maybe it was simply those pickles I had as part of my supper last night.<\/p>\n Many people become more fearful as they grow older, especially if they live alone, I assured myself. Maybe it\u2019s time to give up some of those true crime shows and news podcasts with all their stories of horror. Maybe I\u2019ll do that tomorrow, but what about tonight!<\/p>\n Suddenly, I heard it. Terrified, I was afraid to make a sound that would bring attention to me. Was it a knife someone had dropped? What were they planning to cut?<\/p>\n If someone was entering the house, they would find little to justify their night\u2019s work. Why was someone in my house? All the money I had was safe in a local bank. If they found me, they might hurt me just because I have nothing to give them. Criminals don\u2019t decide to kill on the basis of what you have or don\u2019t. If I want to see tomorrow, it might be better to stay where I was and not make a sound.<\/p>\n What had interrupted the quiet of this winter night? Had a storm blown a limb down upon the roof? Was it the cry of an animal fighting for its life or the brushing of a limb against a windowpane? Maybe it was just the rattling of the old windows themselves. Was it someone coming to hurt me? With the furnace running almost nonstop to warm the old farm house, it was hard to tell.<\/p>\n Amazingly, I remembered the phone on the stand beside my bed. Ever since I was a teenager, the phone had been my life line. Maybe it would be one now. Before reaching for it, I thought how revealing this simple act might be. What if someone had cut the wires turning my life line in to a nightmare?<\/p>\n Reaching for the receiver, I had to know. I had to do something. A coward in a bed in a house that is being broken into is the worst of cowards. I would never be able to face my friends or family with that as part of my story. It\u2019s the kind of tale that would be told and retold for the rest of my days. It was not the way I wanted to be remembered. I picked up the phone. It was dead!<\/p>\n “You shouldn\u2019t be allowed to live by yourself,” I grumbled. I knew I needed to take care of myself at a time like this, but why, oh why, had I left my IPhone downstairs? It was lying on the couch in plain sight and of no use to me now.<\/p>\n Suddenly, I heard the sound of water running. I heard the refrigerator close and the sound of footsteps in the kitchen. A few minutes later, I smelled sausage and eggs frying. Maybe it\u2019s just a sleepwalker who got hungry I thought before telling myself how ridiculous that was. It\u2019s a cold night and maybe someone just got hungry and found the door unlocked so decided to have a little breakfast before calling it a night. Why cut the wires though? Apart from calling the police, no one wants a delicious meal interrupted, especially one that includes farm fresh eggs.<\/p>\n I remembered breakfasts with boyfriends after long leisurely nights of love but doubted this was anything like that.<\/p>\n Without warning, my cat almost jumped on my chest. Startled, I quickly held back the scream of terror I was about to utter.<\/p>\n I hugged her close hoping I could reassure us both.<\/p>\n Then I heard them. The footsteps were coming closer. Soon the mystery would be revealed and the intruder a reality in my very own bedroom. Sanctuary and safety would no longer be mine and were in truth gone already.<\/p>\n A gentle knock upon my door required action. Would someone who knocked so softly really hurt me? Evil comes in many forms, I reminded myself. Maybe this is truly one of those times when it is best to go along to get along. I just hope this is not the last decision I will make.<\/p>\n Shaking with trepidation, I said, \u201cCome in.\u201d<\/p>\n The smell of breakfast filled the air. This is too unreal to be believed. Who eats breakfast at three in the morning?<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know whether you remember me,\u201d a voice said. I knew that voice. I remembered Paul. I had gone out with him once about ten years before. It hadn\u2019t worked. We didn\u2019t like the same things. I found him critical and judgmental and decided this was not a guy I wanted to date. I chose to stop taking his phone calls.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s taken me a long time to find you,\u201d Paul said. \u201cI had great hope for our relationship. I whined you and dined you and just stopped short of buying those speakers I knew you longed for. It\u2019s been ten years and I have decided it\u2019s time to forgive you. I want you to remember me. The best way for me to make sure you do that is with one night of terror. True, it is not the night of love I would prefer, but lovers must make sacrifices. I will never forget the humiliation of your refusing to go out with me again, but eat up. This is the last meal we will ever have together. There is Nothing like farm fresh eggs. Oh, I didn\u2019t make coffee. You won\u2019t need the energy I know caffeine gives you. After we eat, I suggest we take a nice long nap. I won\u2019t touch you, but we will be close, so very close.\u201d<\/p>\n Note: “A Heartfelt Revenge” was the First Place winner in the 2019 NFB Writers’ Division fiction category.<\/p>\n Bio: Bonnie Blose grew up in Slatedale, Pennsylvania with two fabulous storytellers. For 15 years, she cohosted Jordan Rich\u2019s book show nights on WBz. From 2006 to 2013, she was the host of the show “Books and Beyond” on Acbradio.org. Her memoir, “The Art of Dying,” was a winner in the nonfiction category of the NFB Writers\u2019 Division contest, eventually appearing in Magnets and Ladders<\/em>. In 2019, she received First Place for her story “A Heartfelt Revenge” in the NFB\u2019s Writers’ Division fiction category. She enjoys reading, listening to music, podcasts, and has lived in Ohio since 1982. She is proud of being owned by her cat Almost. Her son Kevin lives in a nearby town.<\/p>\n Sauntering, shuffling, unhurried along a beach. A pattern of sparkling multicolored lights appears. Approaching more closely, carnival sounds swell You are drawn into the emerging scene, Softly she calls your name. Somehow it is all familiar and comfortable. Magenta flashes between spokes of the turning Ferris wheel. You stand entranced as the world seems to tilt. Seconds later, the world seems to right itself. The sun has fallen below the horizon. You wonder what just happened. You ask you\u2019re self. There is no answer. And perhaps, far, far away Author’s note: Special thanks to the following artists: Donovan, Focus, and Love.<\/p>\n Bio: Brad Corallo, a writer in multiple genres, is a Long Island native. His work has been published in ten previous issues of Magnets & Ladders<\/em>, in the William B. Joslin Outstanding Program Awards Journal NYSID Preferred Source Solutions<\/em> and by The Red Wolf Coalition. 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 John Martin depressed the clutch pedal on his lawn tractor, and as the wheels slowly came to rest, turned off the ignition. He was at the edge of the woods, near the rear of his 20-acre property, a hundred yards from the seldom-traveled dirt road directly behind his land. Smiling with pride, he looked over the freshly cut one acre and couldn\u2019t see a single leaf on the ground. That wouldn\u2019t last, since a few Oak leaves still clung stubbornly to their branches. He would have to deal with them in the spring, but for the moment, his yard look great.<\/p>\n He detached the bag containing the day\u2019s harvest of grass and dried leaves from the tractor and walked a few steps into the woods. After dumping the debris on to the already substantial pile, he stared for a moment at the results of his work. Over the years, the compost pile had grown too large, now appearing to stand out from its surroundings, and that was a problem. Next year, he would need to begin another pile several yards from the first. John reattached the bag to the tractor, started it, and drove it to the storage shed.<\/p>\n The late October Saturday was mild and sunny, a perfect day for some college football. He still had enough time to make a sandwich and enjoy a cold beer or two before kickoff.<\/p>\n Once inside, he washed and dried his hands at the kitchen sink then placed a few dirty dishes and cups into the dishwasher. He tried to keep the place neat and clean, but it wasn\u2019t one of his major concerns. For the most part, since he lived alone, he was the only one that would see the mess, so it really wasn\u2019t a problem.<\/p>\n John removed two slices of bread from a plastic bag, placed the first slice on a plate, dealt a couple cuts of ham and cheese on the bottom slice, squeezed on a generous amount of brown, spicy mustard, and topped off the stack with the second slice. After grabbing a cold one from the refrigerator, he moved to the adjacent room and his favorite chair, an oversized recliner, giving him the best seat in front of the large screen television.<\/p>\n First setting the plate on a chair-side table, and then seizing the remote control, he turned on the set. He opened the can and tilted his head back eagerly anticipating the first taste of the cold, sweet brew.<\/p>\n But he choked on that first swallow, as he sat up suddenly, noticing movement out of the corner of his eye. Through the picture window facing the back of his yard, he saw her. Dressed in some form of a full length, black cloak and head covering, she was walking alone down the dusty road. She moved slowly, stopping from time to time to step into the brush and examine an area, before continuing her search. In another moment, she stood directly behind the house, and although at least two hundred yards away, she seemed to be staring first at that damn pile of leaves, then directly at him. He knew she couldn\u2019t possibly see him, but still her gaze was unnerving.<\/p>\n They had never met, but he recognized her. She had been walking that road, as well as the one in front of his house for the past 10-years. As far as he knew, she walked all of the rural roads in the area, as well as the edges of parks, school grounds, and along the riverbanks. She had been searching for something all of that time, and apparently was willing to continue searching forever.<\/p>\n In a few minutes, the woman moved on, and John began to relax. His hand trembled only slightly as he raised the can to his lips. Just then, he needed something stronger than beer. Too bad he had finished the last of the whisky the night before. He would need to make a trip to the liquor store soon. Seeing her, no matter where, had always left him shaken.<\/p>\n John thought back to that long-ago evening when his nightmare had begun. It had been approximately a month following the death of his wife. The cold, rainy night had matched his mood, so he had thought that a few drinks at his favorite bar might improve how he felt, but they hadn\u2019t. He had closed the place down, and undoubtedly should not have been driving, but he had made the early morning trip a thousand times in a similar condition without a problem. Besides his truck could probably find its way home by itself.<\/p>\n By then, the rain had stopped, and now the moon peeked out occasionally through a scattering of clouds. He had been traveling slowly down the dirty, muddy road, briefly nodding off when he had felt the wheels on the passenger side roll over something. He had figured it had to be some kind of animal, most likely a deer. He had driven another fifty yards, before reversing the truck and returning to take a closer look.<\/p>\n As he had stepped out of the truck and stared back, he could see the shape lying there, but he needed to move within a few feet from the object on the road before he realized it was the body of a young woman. From the amount of blood and her awkward position, she was obviously dead. Was she dead before he struck her, or had he killed her?<\/p>\n Later, he would wonder if he had panicked. The mix of alcohol and adrenaline certainly hadn\u2019t helped his decision-making, but at the time, he thought he was thinking clearly, as he lifted and carried the body to the bed of the pickup. He then drove the remaining half a mile or so to his house, still wondering what to do once he arrived.<\/p>\n After sitting in his truck for what seem like an eternity, sobering up and considering his options, he finally decided that calling the police would be a mistake. He couldn\u2019t take the chance that his drinking and a simple accident that wasn\u2019t his fault might make him look responsible for the woman\u2019s death. His going to prison wouldn\u2019t bring her back. Why should two lives be destroyed?<\/p>\n With the truck\u2019s lights off, he drove slowly to the tree line behind his house, stopping momentarily to grab a shovel from the shed. Praying to himself that no one would see him, he began the grim work. The moist earth had made digging easy. An hour later, the shallow grave was finished. He placed the body into the ground, covered the remains with dirt, tossed the shovel into the truck, and drove back to the house. He could conceal the newly disturbed, bare ground with yard waste in the morning, after a night\u2019s sleep.<\/p>\n But he didn\u2019t sleep that night. He spent a restless few hours before dawn expecting at any moment to hear a knock on the door. Amazingly, the police didn\u2019t come that night, or the next day. In fact, they never came at all. A week passed before he saw any mention of the woman online, or in the newspaper.<\/p>\n Finally, there was an article stating that the police were looking into the disappearance of a local woman, along with a plea from the girl\u2019s parents asking for the public\u2019s assistance in finding their daughter. Subsequent articles said that the police had a person of interest, the girl\u2019s boyfriend, a known drug dealer.<\/p>\n The couple had been seen together on the night she went missing. The man admitted that he and the woman had been together that evening, but said they had quarreled. As they were driving to his apartment, she had left his truck at a stop sign, slamming the door behind her. Angry, he had driven off, but had come back for her about fifteen minutes later, and had search for her unsuccessfully. Because in her haste she had left her phone and purse in his truck, he felt that she would be forced to contact him once she had time to cool off. The police had no physical evidence on which to hold the man, but he remained their only lead.<\/p>\n Over the next few weeks, with no witnesses, or additional information, the case stalled and eventually grew cold. While foul play was suspected, the woman had simply vanished.<\/p>\n John Martin realized that according to the boyfriend, the time and location of the last known sighting of the girl was over three miles from the place where he had found her. It was unlikely the young woman could have walked that far, in that limited amount of time, so either the boyfriend was lying, or someone else had given her a ride to the spot where he had found her. Whatever the truth, he figured his secret was safe.<\/p>\n His only concern was the periodic presence of that black-clad female. If she maintained her previous routine, her specterlike form would pass by the front of his house sometime in the next week. Although childless, he thought he could appreciate the mother\u2019s loss of her daughter, but this endless searching was ridiculous. Perhaps she stopped and stared at each house she passed along the county roads, but he felt that she had somehow known and had singled him out for closer scrutiny.<\/p>\n Maybe he should confront her and tell her she wasn\u2019t welcome on his property, or anywhere near him or his home. No, that would only draw more attention to him and possibly pique her curiosity. He should burn the pile of leaves, level the ground, and plant a tree over the grave. But that could only increase her suspicions, sharpening her focus on the spot that had once been the mound behind his house. She was driving him mad. Since she always seemed to be walking alone, maybe she, like her daughter, could also mysteriously disappear.<\/p>\n John realized that all of these wild thoughts were nonsense, and though her periodic reappearance was disconcerting, she could have only suspicions, and she really knew nothing. He could do what he had for the past decade, simply out last her. She couldn\u2019t go on like this forever. He would only have to wait, and wait, and wait for the time when all of this would end.<\/p>\n Until then, he would pass the days with hard work and long nights with beer and the comfort of his occasional bottle, followed by a few hours of fitful sleep, hopefully with fewer of those troubling dreams.<\/p>\n Bio: Greg Pruitt is a retired teacher living in Fenton, Michigan. He is a graduate of the Michigan School For The Blind and Central Michigan University. He has been legally blind since the age of nine as the result of an undetermined retinal disease. His work can be found in several issues of Magnets and Ladders<\/em>.<\/p>\n “Welcome to Auschwitz,” a male voice called. Daina looked towards the nextdoor cottage where a young man had just ridden in on his motor cycle and was in the process of removing his helmet. “I’m Brad. I’m your neighbour,” he continued.<\/p>\n “Pleased to meet you, Brad. I am Daina Chandler,” she introduced herself.<\/p>\n “Now, now, Bradley, vot is zis about Auschwitz?” an elderly lady asked in a strong German accent. She was wagging a stern finger at Brad. “Zet is not somezing to make jokes about, young man, do you hear me? I voz zere, even zough I voz just a little girl zen, but I tell you, it is not somezing to make fun of.”<\/p>\n “Sorry, sister, no offence meant,” he said, blushing slightly. “Daina, ms Chandler, this is sister Maria Katharina. She used to be a nun.”<\/p>\n “I’ll have you know, young man, I am still a nun,” sister Katharina corrected. “Just because I don’t live in a convent doesn’t mean I’ve left my calling.”<\/p>\n “If there is anything you need help with, Daina, please feel free to ask,” Brad said.<\/p>\n Daina rubbed her aching back. The past few days had been chaotic and exhausting. She had moved from her big house in a well-to-do suburb to this semi-rural corner. The property, owned by a very kind, elderly German gentleman, was divided into small plots of land. In each small yard was either a cottage, like the one in which she would now be making her home for the foreseeable future, or trailers that were even more affordable than the cottages.<\/p>\n “I live in ze next row of cottages over,” the nun, who had approached said. “I look after several neglected cats. Oh und you of course,” she said to a brown hen who had come up to her. There seemed to be a huge flock of chickens on the property. Daina had already noticed an aggressive black rooster and numerous hens and younger roosters of indeterminate breeding.<\/p>\n “But I see mister Spiegelmeyer has several German Shepherd Dogs. Don’t they harass your cats?” Daina asked.<\/p>\n “Oh no, my cats know to stay in my little yard. Herr Spiegelmeyer doesn’t allow his dogs into the private yards. Franz is really such a dear old gentleman,” the nun mused.<\/p>\n Goodness, she calls the owner old when she herself must be well into her late seventies or early eighties, Daina thought. Her cell phone pinged with an incoming text. She looked at it and frowned.<\/p>\n “Please take your refuge outside on Frayday,” the text said. Daina blinked to make sure she was reading correctly. Sister Katharina noticed and laughed.<\/p>\n “Oh herr Franz’s weekly text,” she said. “Ze old boy is German, so ze English spelling isn’t always so good. Zet was supposed to be, take your refuse outside on Friday.”<\/p>\n “Refuse,” Brad laughed from his porch, “we just call it trash. And just a little thought, I’d make Fridays my day for shopping. That is if you’re not a working person, and if you are, I’d leave before sunrise on Fridays.”<\/p>\n “Why would I leave before sunrise on a Friday, and in winter?” Daina asked. Brad’s face closed up. He vanished into his cottage. Daina looked a question at sister Katharina.<\/p>\n “Well,” she started hesitantly, “ze young man is kind of right. Perheps you should make yourself scarce on Fridays, early, as early as you can. Oh und it would be better if you return after sunset. Zet is what we all do.”<\/p>\n When Daina went to bed she was still puzzling over the strange advice of her neighbours. Tomorrow was Friday. She was exhausted from the move and on Monday she had to be back at her job. There was no way she was hopping out of bed on a frosty February morning before sunrise, just because a dotty old nun and a crazy youngster had told her to do so.<\/p>\n Crowing roosters woke her well before sunrise. She heard several vehicles start up as the other tenants left for work. But it was still so early. Yet, she assumed that with this place being somewhat off the beaten track, people would leave early as it would take longer getting to the city in the morning rush hour traffic.<\/p>\n She rose, had a shower, made herself a cup of coffee and shivering in the chill, decided to get under the duvet for another hour. Today she would unpack and make this drab little cottage into a home. Perhaps, in time, she could get herself a dog or maybe one of sister Katharina’s cats.<\/p>\n Daina was just floating off in a dream of happier times, her ex-husband and herself on the beach, when a loud male voice and the barking of several large dogs brought her to full consciousness.<\/p>\n “Achtung! Achtung!” a man was shouting, “leave your houses and line up here!” She went to the window. Was it the police? Uniforms yes, a lot of uniformed men and women seemed to be marching to and fro. The military then, but the uniforms were certainly not United States military. Was she still dreaming?<\/p>\n “Miss Chandler,” sister Katharina called as she jogged past followed by an angry looking uniformed woman, “come out, zey will make it unpleasant…” Daina was horrified when the woman effectively shut sister Katharina up by shoving her hard from behind. The elderly nun dropped to her knees.<\/p>\n “Up!” the female officer barked. As Daina watched the poor old woman struggling to regain her feet, somebody banged on her door.<\/p>\n “Coming,” she said. When she had unlocked the door and before she could even grip the door handle to open it, it was thrust open violently.<\/p>\n “Du, come wiz me,” a tough looking blond woman said in a very thick German accent. Daina’s hesitation and ultimate outrage was met with disdain as the woman seized her by the arm and wrenched her through the door.<\/p>\n “Elsa, officer Metzger,” a male voice barked, “careful with zet one. No bruises, remember.”<\/p>\n “Schwein,” Elsa cursed under her breath.<\/p>\n “Hey,” Daina said, now truly outraged. “Who the hell gave you the right? This is a free country. I’m paying for my cottage, who the fuck? Where is Mr Spiegelmeyer?”<\/p>\n “Quiet!” a high ranking officer barked. Daina’s mouth fell open. It was the kindly Herr Franz Spiegelmeyer outfitted in a grey green uniform. Like in that movie she watched a week or so ago, she thought; World War II, the Germans? Daina knew then that she must be either dreaming or sick and very delirious.<\/p>\n “You should have listened to Brad,” sister Katharina said. “I voz a bit late this morning, so zey caught me.”<\/p>\n “But what is this?” Daina asked, now getting frightened. “Could this be the end of the world or did some foreign country invade America overnight? Or perhaps they are doing some re-enactment of history?”<\/p>\n “You see zose uniforms,” sister Katharina said, “schutzstaffel, ze ones wiz the gold shoulder boards. Ze green collars, zey are Nazi Wehrmacht.”<\/p>\n A history major, Daina’s memory filled in the rest, schutzstaffel uniform. Grey green, feltgrau with golden shoulder boards with 3 oakleaves and pips for rank. Then the soldiers, and again her hard earned degree came to the rescue, the dark-green collar and shoulder-straps with white Waffenfarbe, the Litzen collar insignia, and the Wehrmachtsadler above the right breast pocket.<\/p>\n “Oh, just my luck,” she grumbled, “I landed myself in some World War II nightmare.”<\/p>\n “No,” sister Katharina said, “it heppens here, only here, every Friday.” She shut her mouth when a soldier with a very aggressive looking German Shepherd walked past.<\/p>\n “But that is Mr Spiegelmeyer’s old dog. He is a sweet dog, so why does he look as though he wants to shred us now?”<\/p>\n “Zis is ze zauberei of zis place,” the nun explained. “Herr Franz is just a kind old gentleman all week. His dogs are beautiful pure bred German Shepherd dogs with impecable manners. Except on Fridays, und ze soldiers-“<\/p>\n “Halt’s maul!” the Metzger officer shouted and made as though to slap sister Katharina.<\/p>\n Daina dug in her pocket for her cell phone, but she didn’t have time to take it before she had been so rudely removed from her cottage. Somebody needed to call the cops. A few other tenants had now joined them and they were marched to the lawn in front of Mr Spiegelmeyer’s house.<\/p>\n “Strip!” Herr Franz ordered. The other tenants complied. Sister Katharina just looked scared to death.<\/p>\n “You must be bloody kidding, right,” Daina shouted. She eyed the fence to the next property. If she ran very fast she could reach it and get out. Her own sense of claustrophobia was kicking in now despite the open lawn around her. Panic was starting to constrict her throat and her vision swam. This would most likely bring on a migraine, she thought.<\/p>\n Then one of the soldiers lifted his gun and her self-control snapped. She took off like a frightened rabbit. In seconds she was at the fence, throwing herself against it, frantically gripping the wire mesh, feeling for footholds and climbing, climbing. She heard a gun discharging, but no searing pain ripped through her. Her hands reached the top and she hauled herself across, letting go and landing hard on the other side.<\/p>\n “Safe, safe, I’m safe,” she whispered as she lay in the field where she had fallen. She sat up, gingerly testing whether she hadn’t broken or sprained anything in her headlong fall from the fence. Slowly she got to her feet and stepped up to the fence. There were no German soldiers, SS officers, or captives lined up on the lawn. It was just another quiet day on a mostly deserted rural property with chickens scratching in the dirt and two German Shepherd dogs lying on the large veranda of Mr Spiegelmeyer’s house.<\/p>\n Was she going insane or what, she wondered. Slowly and with much trepidation, she climbed back over the fence. The moment she reached the top and wanted to start a more graceful descent than when she left, she noticed it. The lawn was teeming with Nazi soldiers, SS officers and frightened looking tenants. The dogs were being walked up and down the line of tenants, growling like rabid wolves and straining on their leashes.<\/p>\n The tenants, who had previously been told to strip off their clothes, were now shivering in the icy early morning wind. Sister Katharina was desperately trying to hide her nakedness behind an evergreen bush. Mr Spiegelmeyer signalled to the tenants to get dressed. Daina didn’t remain to see more of this completely insane tableau.<\/p>\n Almost tumbling off the fence again, Daina retreated to the other side. Now what, she wondered. She needed to unpack her belongings, or if this was the daily status quo, she needed to get the law onto this. She turned to walk across the field to find a neighbour whose phone she could use to call the authorities.<\/p>\n A few minutes later, however, when she caught sight of a farm house, she had forgotten why she needed to find help. Vaguely she remembered the officers, sister Katharina going down, the aggressive dogs, but that was the movie she had watched the other night, wasn’t it?<\/p>\n A very kind woman invited her in, gave her a warm cup of coffee and helped her dress the cuts and scrapes she had gotten from falling off the fence. Then the neighbour woman made her lie down in a guest bedroom and Daina fell into an exhausted sleep.<\/p>\n “You poor ducky,” the neighbour woman clucked later, “all worn out from your move, aren’t you. Have something to eat and then I’ll go drop you off at your cottage nextdoor.”<\/p>\n “I’m so sorry,” Daina apologized, “I shamelessly slept the whole day away.”<\/p>\n “No matter, no matter,” the neighbour crooned, “you needed the rest and you must have fallen down at some point, judging by those scrapes and bruises.”<\/p>\n The sun was just starting to set when Daina climbed out of the neighbour’s car and opened the gate to Mr Spiegelmeyer’s property. She walked up the drive, vaguely uneasy about something, but not sure what it was. Then she saw them: the soldiers, the SS officers and the dogs. The morning’s episode came rushing back, but as she turned to run, she saw the strangest ripple in the air. Suddenly the German men and women seemed to be shrinking, dissolving into an undulating haze. In a blink of an eye, just as the sun vanished behind the mountains, there were chickens where the soldiers had been. Herr Franz seemed disoriented and confused and the tenants seemed not to know why they were standing on the lawn in filthy clothing, with shovels and other gardening tools in their hands.<\/p>\n A car honked its horn behind her. It was Brad, in his car rather than on his bike today. He was grinning from ear to ear. “So you took my advice and got out for the day?” he said.<\/p>\n “No, I didn’t, not really. Nobody in the world will believe what happens here on a Friday, or is it a Frayday?” she laughed. “At least we now know why Mr Spiegelmeyer has such a lovely garden. Shapeshifting chickens however, very strange indeed.”<\/p>\n Bio: Ellen Fritz is visually impaired and lives near Johannesburg, South Africa with two visually impared friends and her dog. She works as a book reviewer, does freelance writing and administrative work and is involved in several personal writing projects.<\/p>\n “Woo. Sah. Woo Sah.” Joni repeated the mantra she\u2019d heard somewhere, trying to stay calm in the line at the bank. The old lady with the tiny purse was searching for something, but Joni couldn\u2019t imagine how anything could get lost in that miniscule thing. The man between them was impatient, looking at his watch and glancing around, maybe checking if another line was moving faster.<\/p>\n Joni looked down at the card she held, a reminder of what she needed to say to the teller. “Give me all the money in the drawer and do nothing stupid or I\u2019ll blow all of us up.”<\/p>\n She didn\u2019t want to do this; sometimes there was no choice. She kept telling herself that she and Hank would dig out of the hole if they were given a few breaks and enough time. That was before Hank hurt himself at work three months ago; he was still in the hospital. The billing department was getting testy about her telling them they\u2019d get paid after Workman\u2019s Comp came in, but the letter that came in the mail yesterday said that Hank\u2019s claim was denied. If she kept telling them that the payment was coming it would be a lie. The kids were short on food, she had no more quarters for the laundromat and no money to buy laundry soap anyways. When Mr. Dillingsworth came in the office as she was crying, he told her such emotional displays weren\u2019t appropriate in the office environment and her services were no longer required. And no, she could pick up her check next Friday on the regular payday, just like everyone else.<\/p>\n After feeding Mark and Gina the last of the tuna noodle casserole and going without anything herself, she formulated this plan. A lot of thinking made her aware of one simple fact, she and Hank were punching bags of fate. None of her other friends or any of his buddies had luck like theirs. Hank\u2019s poker group joked about it, saying they were the unluckiest couple in history. Well, damn it, Joni was sick of that. One of her dad\u2019s favorite sayings was that you have to take the bull by the horns. Okay, it was time. She probed her mind for the best way to get the money she needed to keep her and the kids off the street and to get Hank out of that crappy run down hospital, and this was the only thing she could come up with. Oh, good, the little old lady was finishing up. No, she had something else she needed done, and she was talking nonstop to the teller. Lady, that poor girl doesn\u2019t want to hear about your grandson\u2019s soccer trophy, hurry up.<\/p>\n The man in front of her wasn\u2019t getting any more patient. Joni hoped he didn\u2019t take forever to do his banking. He looked like he was the type who came in, transacted his business, and got on with his day. Joni wished she could be as calm and collected as he was. She looked down at her card again to focus her mind. She read over it four or five times, focused enough that it caught her by surprise when she heard the old bat saying, \u201cThank you so much for your help. Have a wonderful day.\u201d<\/p>\n Whew. Maybe this was a sign her luck was changing. One person in front of her, and he looked all business. And then she could get to the window, do what she had to do, and get back across the county in time to pick the kids up from their after-school program.<\/p>\n Joni moved forward as the man in the suit strode up to the window and said something. The teller said, \u201cExcuse me sir, what did you say?\u201d<\/p>\n Joni\u2019s stomach dropped to her ankles as the man said, in clear crisp words, \u201cGive me all the money in the drawer and do nothing stupid or I\u2019ll blow all of us up.\u201d<\/p>\n Bio: Nicole Massey is a writer, composer, and songwriter living in Dallas, Texas. She writes in multiple genres, including mainstream fiction, science fiction, fantasy, mystery, and romance. She also writes for role-playing game fan magazines. She lost her sight in 2003 and if you find it, she\u2019d like to have it back. She can be reached at nyyki at gypsyheir dot com.<\/p>\n As golden summer splendor fades to rich hues of autumn The vintner muses, The air turns crisp and cool. Birds fly south As nature’s scenery changes, Bio: Carrie Hooper was born and raised in Elmira, New York. She has been blind since birth. She received a B.A. and an M.A. in vocal performance and an M.A. in German. She also studied at the Royal University College of Music in Stockholm, Sweden as a Fulbright scholar. Carrie currently lives in Elmira, New York and teaches German at Elmira College. Furthermore, she teaches voice and piano. She is proficient in German, Italian, Swedish, Spanish, Albanian, and Romanian. In addition to teaching and learning foreign languages, Carrie enjoys writing poetry. In August of 2018, she published her first collection of poetry, Word Paintings<\/em>, a bilingual volume that includes poems in Albanian with English translations. Carrie also gives vocal recitals, serves as pianist at her Church and sings in a community chorus.<\/p>\n Why do Autumn leaves whisper so Do they seek a glorious death What do leaves whisper as I swish \u201cOh, listen to how hard the rain is hitting the window,\u201d I said to our four-year old as I carried an over-flowing load of clean laundry into the bedroom to be folded.<\/p>\n He ran over to the south-facing window-wall and exclaimed, \u201cIt\u2019s snowing, Mimi. It\u2019s snowing little balls!\u201d He jumped up and down, clapping his hands and saying, \u201cI was so sad this morning when there was no snow. Now, I\u2019m so excited!\u201d<\/p>\n Ah, yes. Only through the eyes of little ones can we truly appreciate the finer details of life.<\/p>\n I used to love taking long Spring, Summer, and Fall walks with my \u201cA-team\u201d. We\u2019d hike west to Ralph and Ruth Miller\u2019s cow pasture; north along its eastern boundary to Dave and Diane Wilbert\u2019s orchards; Turn right and walk along its southern border to the eastern edge of Joe and Marcia Englert\u2019s acreage; Another turn right to head south into the valley opposite our home on the hill. The last leg of our journey was the most difficult, because we were tired and yet we had to trudge west, up the hill for a reward of a cool glass of lemonade.<\/p>\n As we walked, I would often stop to point out the tiny little wild flowers, busy ants, and small animal footprints in the mud. We\u2019d stop and stand very still in the woods to hear the different birds in the treetops, look for them and identify who made that sound. Our noses could tell us when we\u2019d crossed from the damp woods into the drier pasture, even before the warmth of the sun reached us.<\/p>\n Now, when I make forays into our yard with our \u201cB-team\u201d, they are the ones who stop me to describe what they see, shove something under my nose to smell, and thrust my unsuspecting hand into mush for identification.<\/p>\n \u201cMimi,\u201c my pre-schooler\u2019s excited voice brought me back into the warm bedroom. \u201cFluffies are falling everywhere. The grass is all white!\u201d<\/p>\n Oh, dear Gussie. What\u2019s a mother to do? I put down the laundry and went to the closet to rummage around for the snow boots, puffy winter jacket, knitted beanie and water-proof mittens.<\/p>\n When the \u201cB-Team\u201d is older, we\u2019ll get out the cross-country skis and snowshoes to once again traverse our neighborhood, but, for now, we went out to explore this wonderful world of cold, wet, white \u2018fluffies\u2019, so, let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow.<\/p>\n Bio: Kate\u2019s pieces have been published in Behind Our Eyes<\/em> publications; anthologies by the Wayne Writer\u2019s Guild; NYS Federated Garden Clubs; Good Dog! Magazine<\/em>; Threads Magazine<\/em>; Organic Gardening Magazine<\/em>; Paper Clips<\/em>, a braille magazine; Matilda Ziegler Magazine<\/em>; and other publications.<\/p>\n Kate is a current member of the Wayne Writer\u2019s Guild, Visionary support group, free-lance writer\/editor, Accessibility Ambassadress to the Memorial Art Gallery an former newspaper columnist, Clerk of her church Vestry, DAR Chapter Recording Secretary. She and her husband are now empty nest great-grandparents and enjoy having lunch out, country walks during the good weather, and mall cruising during the inclement weather.<\/p>\n Despite the biting cold, my guide dog and I hunger for a winter walk. I layer long johns under fuzzy fleece and pull a hat with ear flaps over my salt and pepper hair. I slip protective blueberry-colored booties on the precious paws of my yellow lab, then I wrap my furry partner in her reflective lemon jacket. Viviane flaps her soft caramel ears and pokes her anxious head through the harness. We venture into the chilly air, gulping in the yummy scene.<\/p>\n Most days, with my low vision, the world looks muddy and grey. But when fresh snow catches the sunlight, twinkling crystals light our way. Treetops and rooftops sparkle with glitter – a gingerbread wonderland awaits.<\/p>\n Trekkers stretched over my boots ensure sure footing as Vivi leads us onto the blanket of crispy meringue. Bare trees outlined in ribbons of white create a chocolate and vanilla marbled maze. Like Popsicle sticks, frozen fence rails line our way. My guide halts at the curb to survey a slushy street crossing; she gingerly picks our path through the soft gelatin. Parked cars and evergreen hedges are topped with dollops of marshmallow cream. Yards are dotted like cookies with sprinkles. Pine needles shimmer in glaze.<\/p>\n As we work our way along the dessert buffet, my dog swipes her tongue at a branch like a snow cone. Wind whips puffs of powdered sugar off the roof tops, and smoke floats from chimneys, like candles on a birthday cake blown out by a child. A cloudless blue sky frosts the frozen treat. As we chew our way through sunshine and shadows, a branch weighed down with mounds of coconut icing slaps me in the face like a pie. I blink and lick my lips, savoring the sweet taste of winter!<\/p>\n Bio: Marcia Wick enjoys retirement along with grandchildren, gray hair, and time to write. Her essays have appeared in Magnets and Ladders<\/em>, thereimage.net, and Vision through Words<\/em>. She reflects on parenting, caregiving, living with a disability, and adventures with her guide dog. Marcia\u2019s career in communications, desktop publishing, and public education spanned 40 years. She now partners with her sister as The Write Sisters. She is legally blind due to Retinitis Pigmentosa. Marcia also volunteers with Guide Dogs for the blind, advocates for public transit, and enjoys a variety of sports with her husband as her guide. Contact her at marciajwick@gmail.com.<\/p>\n The first weekend of December brings back memories of many special times, including the celebrations of my parents’ wedding anniversary; they were married on December 4, 1942, while my dad was in the Army. In 1997, on December 1, my dad passed away three days before the celebration of their 55th wedding anniversary.<\/p>\n On the first weekend of December, in the 1950s and the early 1960s, a Christmas dance at Perona’s Hall was part of kicking off the holiday season in our hometown of Blanford, Indiana. Not only did the adults of our small, rural town attend, but also some of the children. Perona’s Hall was above the grocery store\u2014one of the two competitors of the grocery stores of my maternal grandmother and my Uncle Pete. Nevertheless, my parents and I enjoyed going to these dances. One thing which I did not enjoy was the extremely high, narrow, and steep flight of stairs to the dance hall. After ascending those many stairs, one entered the hall with an alcove on the right, where food and drinks were served. I recall that the Royal Neighbors of America, an organization to which my mother belonged for many years, sponsored a number of these dances. To the left of the entry was a small stage with an upright piano and its wooden stool. Theatre seats and tall windows were around the other three sides of the dance hall. For these community dances, a five-piece band played big band tunes that still echo in my head. I especially hear Deno Libei’s saxophone filling the dance hall with “Stardust” and can picture so clearly in my mind’s eye my parents, dancing so smoothly over the wooden floor of Perona’s Hall. In this memory, I see my mother in a royal blue dress and my dad in a charcoal and gray suit with white shirt and narrow tie. What a handsome couple they were! My father was known as a very good dancer, and my mother well followed his lead around the dance floor. Those December dances to begin the celebration of the holiday season were good times.<\/p>\n Too frequently, the television re-broadcasting of the spectacularly magical movie The Wizard of Oz<\/em> coincided with the December dance. A fan of the movie and its musical score, I did not want to miss watching this famous 1939 movie\u2014which is celebrating its 80th anniversary this year. When the Wicked Witch or the flying monkeys appeared on screen, I hid behind a portion of the wall that arched between our living room and dining room. Then, I just peeked periodically at the frightening parts of the classic movie. Once, I estimated that I had seen The Wizard of Oz<\/em> at least fourteen times\u2014but certainly more by now and still counting.<\/p>\n The first weekend of December was also the time when we decorated our house and trimmed the Christmas tree. Eventually, live evergreens gave way to an artificial six-foot tree.<\/p>\n For many years, my dad decorated our large front porch with strands of multi-colored lights. Additionally, bedecking our front porch were a choir girl and boy dressed in white and red robes and made of plastic. Between the two choir members was a plastic street lamppost, topped with a little snow. These figurines were illuminated by a bulb within each piece. When I was in college in Terre Haute, Indiana and enjoyed shopping on Wabash Avenue, I purchased a plastic reindeer at the Smith-Alsop Store to add to the holiday display on our porch. For a few years, my dad affixed a speaker outdoors so that Christmas music accompanied our outdoor Christmas display.<\/p>\n For a number of years before we created our own outdoor holiday decorations, my family and I drove to the home of the Harris family who lived about four miles north of Blanford, a little past the town of St. Bernice, in the flat and rich farmland of our Vermillion County. This family who owned the Harris Food Store in Clinton, Indiana, had quite a mesmerizing Christmas display, with holiday music. I most remember my dad’s driving so very slowly by Santa in a sleigh, with all the reindeer. Even though I have never been a fan of blue for Christmas decor, I marveled each year at the large, indoor tree lighted with only blue Christmas lights\u2014the larger type, not the fairy lights or LED lights as used today. Besides other outdoor figurines of the season around the property, a huge star shone brightly from atop the television aerial and over a manger scene. Viewing this home’s holiday outdoor display a few times each year was a special treat.<\/p>\n When I was even younger, my parents, my older sister, and I went to Santa Clause, Indiana, during the first weekend of December. For several years, we went to Santa Claus Land (renamed Holiday World in more recent decades) because my mother was a member of the Indiana Branch of the National League of Postmasters, who selected this festive location for their December meeting. While she attended her meeting, Dad, Mary, and I did those more important things like visiting Santa and shopping at the unique store from where I still have a very small tea set on which is painted Santa and the words “Santa Claus Land.” While my sister and I recognized the Santas at Roots’ Department Store in Terre Haute and other such Santas, we knew that the real Santa was at Santa Claus, Indiana. Consequently, going to Santa Claus Land was extremely important.<\/p>\n On one of our trips to this small city in Southern Indiana, the snow was flying to set the holiday mood. In the early 1950s, children’s rubber boots with one button at the top of each were quite popular; my sister had a white pair, and I had a red pair. Also, children’s house slippers at that time were not the fuzzy and fluffy type, but made more like leather slippers with a wide and heavy-duty elastic band on either side. In my haste and excitement to see the real Santa Claus, I forgot to change into my patent leather shoes. I stuck my house-slippered, little feet right into my red boots. Somewhere along a snow-covered road en route to Santa Claus, Indiana, I came to a terrible realization\u2014no pretty patent leather shoes were on my feet. In a burgeoning panic, I told my dad that he had to go back home for my dress shoes because I could not possibly visit Santa while I was wearing my house slippers! My dad tried to explain to me that he could not return home, that the roads were slippery, that we had to arrive in time for Mother’s meeting, and that Santa Claus would not mind my wearing boots within which were house slippers. I was not swayed a bit by his logic. This time was one of the extremely rare occasions when my wonderful dad did not grant my wish. I cried real tears. Nevertheless, that first weekend in December, I did wear my red house slippers, covered by my big red boots, to see the real Santa Claus. Thankfully, all worked out well. I do not think Santa had a clue about my footwear; he still brought me the nice gifts I had shyly requested as I sat upon his knee.<\/p>\n Note: “The Magic and Wonder of the First Weekend of December” was published in Alice’s book, The Christmas Carriage and Other Writings of the Holiday Season<\/em>, available from The National Library Service for the Blind and Print Disabled and Audible, as well as in print from Amazon.<\/p>\n Bio: The Christmas Carriage and Other Writings of the holiday Season<\/em> is the first book by Alice Jane-Marie Massa. To read more about this collection of holiday memoirs, short stories, and poetry (available from Amazon, BARD, Audible, etc.), 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 The days grow lean, shriveled While we pause for holiday This team conspires to test our mettle, 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 and Gravel<\/em>, Artemis Journal<\/em>, The Avocet<\/em>, Nature Writing<\/em>, Pangolin Review<\/em>, The Tennessee Magazine<\/em> and others. He lost hearing completely in one ear and has severe hearing loss in the other.<\/p>\n In my house today The angel on my tree with white halo shines. Once in deep and misty time, And through the ages color has broken through, One day I look to see in awe and wonder Lights of the season Bio: Shawn Jacobson was born totally blind (a gift from the Asian Flu) and obtained partial sight following several eye opporations. He received his MS in Statistics from Iowa State University and has since worked for the Federal Government; it has now been 35 years. He lives in the Maryland suburbs of Washington DC with his wife Cheryl, son Stephen, and an ever-changing cast of dogs. His daughter Zebe lives up the road in Baltimore.<\/p>\n In the silent snowfall, Indoors, feel the warmth of slippers on your feet. Bio: Abbie Johnson Taylor is the author of two novels, two poetry collections, and a memoir. Along with Magnets and Ladders<\/em>, her work has appeared in weekly and quarterly editions of The Avocet<\/em> and both Behind Our Eyes<\/em> anthologies. She has a visual impairment and lives in Sheridan, Wyoming, where, for six years, she cared for her late husband who was totally blind and partially paralyzed by two strokes. Before that, she was a registered music therapist and worked for fifteen years in nursing homes and other facilities serving senior citizens. Please visit her website at http:\/\/www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n A late spring blizzard isn\u2019t that unusual where we live 6,000 feet above sea level in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies. Last winter was moderate with sunshine and light snowfall until March when spring roared in like a lion. Doppler radar watchers warned that a \u201ccyclone bomb\u201d was headed our way from the west coast where it had caused dangerous flooding. The night before the anticipated weather event, schools, government offices, and employers announced closures even though skies were clear and temperatures were in the 50s.<\/p>\n Forecasting the weather in Colorado is no simple feat. \u201cIf you don\u2019t like the weather, just wait 10 minutes and it will change,\u201d locals are fond of saying. Early prediction of the unusual cyclone bomb, however, proved accurate. The next morning, we were slammed with high winds, freezing rain, drifting snow, and white-out conditions.<\/p>\n When weather prognosticators warned of another late spring blizzard in April, the city again hunkered down. Cancellations were called early in the morning although the sun was still shining, temperatures were in the 60s, and the roads were clear and dry. I hurried to my father\u2019s house, throwing a change of clothes at the last minute into my backpack, worried I might get stranded and be forced to spend the night once there.<\/p>\n Halfway through the day, the ominous storm still waited in the wings as the audience grew restless for its appearance. Settling opposite my dad at the table, me with my lunch and him with his breakfast, He flipped the pages of the newspaper, his favorite preoccupation, and happens upon the blizzard warning.<\/p>\n \u201cRain and snow, temperatures dropping into the 20s,\u201d he glanced out the window, perplexed at the sunny scene.<\/p>\n At 2:00, still under sunny skies, Dad\u2019s caregiver departed early to \u201cbeat the storm.\u201d I thought perhaps this time the weather gurus might have gotten it wrong. Settling Dad into his easy chair around 4:00 for some late afternoon television, I glanced out the living room window as the clouds burst. Fat raindrops changed into fluffy snowflakes mid-flight, spinning the springtime scene into an avalanche of winter.<\/p>\n \u201cLook at that! What is that?\u201d my Dad asked.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s snowing after all,\u201d I said, amazed myself at the sudden turn in seasons.<\/p>\n Dad gaped at the falling flakes, as if seeing snow for the first time in his 94-year-long life. No stranger to snow, my father skied the powder slopes of Colorado for six decades, climbed more than 30 mountains above 14,000 feet where snow remains year-round, camped in winter snow caves, and climbed Pikes Peak in a blizzard on New Year\u2019s Eve to shoot off fireworks from the summit. Yet, my slow-moving father jumped out of his chair like a four-year-old boy experiencing snow for the first time.<\/p>\n \u201cLook at it, look at it! It\u2019s everywhere, all around,\u201d he twisted his bald head back and forth as I fought to catch his flailing arms into his coat sleeves. Coatless myself, I chased Dad out the door onto the deck where he continued to stare in wonder at the scene. As if the clouds were having a pillow fight, the sky was flooded with white balls of cotton. Giggling like a four-year-old girl, I stuck out my tongue as if tasting snow for the first time.<\/p>\n Clutching at rocks as I scramble along, The mountain spirits call me to ascend I must refuse the spirit\u2019s call to climb, When I was young, I would obey the call But time has taught me humble traveling skills: And at trails end I sit upon this bench My dad was drafted into the army in 1942 and fought in the Second World War. He advanced to the rank of Staff Sergeant. He was stationed in the Pacific Theater and landed on God forsaken islands in order to build temporary air strips and to set up communication systems. He was a wiz at field telephone installation and communication. He faced combat on a regular basis and almost died several times from terrible jungle diseases.<\/p>\n When people tried to tell him after his return that he was a true American hero, he replied: \u201cI am no hero; I was just a scared kid from a poor Italian family who did my best and survived by believing that I would never make it home.\u201d<\/p>\n My dad never liked to speak about the war. Three decades after his return, partially due to our discussions, he morphed into an anti-war, pro labor, pro minority true believer. I was so proud of him then and am even more so now. He was a man who grew up poor, saw terrible things in war, and worked hard to support his family every day. He initially held the conservative beliefs of most of his generation but evolved into a wiser, kinder man. He came to hate war, poverty, and any injustice that prevented every citizen from getting a fair shake and an equal shot at the American Dream.<\/p>\n Among countless other things, my dad taught me that people can change and grow during their lives. In my work as a mental health therapist, sometimes the hardest job is assisting people to realize that they can change, grow, and shed untrue and destructive things that they were taught as children. It is wonderful to see such folks realize this possibility and then begin to gain confidence and greater ability to handle their lives more effectively.<\/p>\n My dad also taught me that war is not a glorious adventure where the forces of good ultimately vanquish the legions of evil. It is a wasteful and destructive activity that squanders the promise and talent of our most important resource, America\u2019s sons and daughters. Toward the end of his life, my dad had nightmares about the war and would speak of atrocities he observed with anguish and horror. There was no diagnosis of or treatment for PTSD for that amazing generation. They talked of something called battle fatigue, but that term was used to describe soldiers who became seriously depressed and in some cases, catatonic. So on this Veteran\u2019s Day I raise a glass to U.S. Army Staff Sergeant Charles J. Corallo: \u201cdad, I honor and cherish your memory and am glad you are at piece now!\u201d<\/p>\n Heart song, Once in life light, Innocence and awe bring Somewhere, Silently, the shatters like glass The heart song struggles, Tears fall Many breaks, scars and tears Heart song, 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 My Grandma was a wise lady.<\/p>\n One day, I complained to her. \u201cI\u2019m not happy! In fact, I\u2019m bored! The neighbor kids just got new clothes, and I don\u2019t have any. Mom says we can\u2019t afford to go shopping right now. Some of the kids have gone to summer camp, and I\u2019m left alone back here! I hurt my toe this morning, and now, I can\u2019t run around and play outside.\u201d<\/p>\n Grandma stopped what she was doing, and paused to think for a minute. Then she smiled and said, \u201cI\u2019ll tell you what. Let\u2019s bake some cookies.\u201d<\/p>\n Grandma always had a well-stocked kitchen. She assembled many cookie-baking ingredients. I pulled a chair up to the counter, eager to help. Before starting, she commanded my full attention, looked me in the eye, and said this.<\/p>\n \u201cThis time, as we put the batter together, you\u2019re going to be the taste tester. Here, I\u2019ll show you.<\/p>\n “First, try a tiny bit of this flour. How do you like it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cblah! Tests like dust!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNow, the vanilla.\u201d Grandma said. \u201cDoesn\u2019t it smell good?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, iek! It doesn\u2019t taste anything like it smells! Why is that?”<\/p>\n \u201cJust the nature of ordinary vanilla, I suppose,\u201d Grandma quipped.<\/p>\n \u201cNow, the sugar, of course. You like that, don\u2019t you? Fine, but don\u2019t eat too much. Too much of a good thing, you know. And here, what about this yummy baking chocolate?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, Grandma!\u201d I made a face. \u201cWhy are you using bad chocolate? That tastes terrible! Bitter! Not at all like chocolate.”<\/p>\n \u201cOh, that\u2019s because it\u2019s baker\u2019s chocolate. It\u2019s supposed to taste strong like that. The end result, however, the cookies, are always good, right? And I almost forgot. A tiny pinch of salt. Remember just a little salt helps bring out the good flavor of a food. But, too much of it, and the dish turns bad.\u201d<\/p>\n We finally mixed the dough, put the cookies on the sheets, and baked them. And oh, the aroma was wonderful, filling the house with sweet delight! After they had sufficiently cooled, Grandma gave me a couple of the most delicious chocolate chip cookies, with milk.<\/p>\n \u201cNow.\u201d Grandma kindly said. \u201cAren\u2019t these cookies good? Well, they\u2019re just like life. You don\u2019t get it, huh? I\u2019ll explain.\u201d<\/p>\n She looked me right in the eye again. \u201cJust like these cookies, our life has many parts to it. And some of those parts don\u2019t taste so good, by themselves, or while we sample them. But what would the finished cookie be without, say, those bitter chocolate chips? And even though it doesn\u2019t seem to make sense at the time, that tiny bit of salt helps add to the whole cookie. If we want to get and enjoy those yummy cookies, just like a good life, we need all of the ingredients, in their proper measure. No shortcuts. No skipping the parts that don\u2019t taste so nice. Great cookies and a great life both require mixing in all of the necessary ingredients, and having faith that in the end, everything will turn out right. Not always perfect, but tasting the way they\u2019re supposed to.\u201d<\/p>\n Yes, now I realize. grandma was a very wise lady.<\/p>\n Bio: Bonnie remembers her first writing attempt. At age twelve, she wrote A song parody, expressing her eagerness\/angst about heading to junior high. During her clinical social work career in medical and mental health settings, she created client\/consumer family education materials. Retirement finally allows her to pursue the writing of poems, articles, and essays. She writes on a variety of topics: Christian\/spiritual, music, thriving while blind, blossoming in retirement, life\u2019s charms, challenges, choices, and quirks. Bonnie and her husband Bob live in Southern California. She is totally blind, from Retinopathy of Prematurity.<\/p>\n The evening that Thora called me to ask if I would go with her on a trip, I was putting braille labels on a few groceries so I wouldn’t have to keep reading them with my cell phone. I hate interruptions when I’m doing stuff like that but when the talking caller i.d. said Thora’s number, I picked it up.<\/p>\n “Whatchya doin?” she asked in an exaggeratedly prying tone of voice.<\/p>\n “Do what?” I said stupidly<\/p>\n “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded peevishly. We were satirizing.<\/p>\n “Where would you like me to start?” I asked pleasantly as if I were offering to read her a menu. “Actually tonight I think it’s just the smell,” I amended. I was playing tidly winks with sewer covers until I was so rudely interrupted.”<\/p>\n “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” she erupted frantically. “You put those man-hole covers back where they belong! No tellin’ what might come crawling out of there!” That’s when I started laughing and I think we laughed for 5 minutes straight. When we stopped, the tears were rolling down my cheeks and I had to hold one of my prosthetic eyes in with my finger to prevent it from hitting the floor.<\/p>\n “I’ve decided that I’m going to pay a visit to Spirit Freedom,” she announced resolutely. “And I want to know if you’d like to go with me.”<\/p>\n “I just might,” I said evenly. “Let’s talk about it.” I had known ever since the night we heard about Spirit Freedom on a late-night radio talk show that covered some edgy topics, that it wouldn’t be long before Thora made a reservation. We’d been talking to each other during commercial breaks for the entire 3 hours that the guest was on. “How soon?” I inquired.<\/p>\n “Oh, as soon as I can get a reservation. I just want you to help me make sure I haven’t overlooked anything.<\/p>\n “Trust me, you haven’t,” I said bluntly. “We’d better make reservations while we can still take advantage of this. I suppose now that it’s so public, somebody might try to shut it down.”<\/p>\n “Okay!” she said excitedly. “I’ll call and get all the info, find out how much it costs and everything.”<\/p>\n “Make a reservation for me too unless they prefer that each person make their own.”<\/p>\n “Okay,” she said blithely and hung up. That surprised me a little but after all, we’d discussed this subject hundreds of times over the years. I sat down on the floor right where I was and thought about what needed to be done next if I was going to Spirit Freedom with Thora.<\/p>\n When she called me back the next evening, she sounded as excited as somebody might if they were going to Disney Land. “I talked to this real decent lady. She gave me all the info and took reservations for both of us. She does want you to call her though, just to confirm. Ask for Amaris. She said she was planning to take the journey herself before too long.”<\/p>\n “How much is this going to cost?” When Thora gave me the price, I was pleasantly surprised. A nice chunk of change, but not exorbitant. I could handle it.<\/p>\n “They pro-rate it according to your income,” explained Thora. “Amaris said they didn’t want money to be a barrier to poor people who often desire the experience most. We can’t get in for 2 weeks. They’re pretty busy after the exposure they got on the radio.”<\/p>\n “That’s okay. It’ll give me time to throw a going away party. You could come too and then we could just leave from here together.”<\/p>\n “Good idea!”<\/p>\n We laughed and talked into the night. We hung up after agreeing to do Shamanic journeys for each other to discern if everything was a go.<\/p>\n Among the things I did in preparation was to unsubscribe from my email lists. I also wrote a note to my family which I saved in my pending folder to send out just before I left. A lot of the rest of it would be done when we arrived at Spirit Freedom.<\/p>\n I never throw parties. I hardly ever even attend them so I had to put a lot of thought into my going away party. I went to the grocery store various times and ordered a few things from Amazon. I made some playlists of Thora’s and my favorite music. Some of the people I invited were surprised about my plans and others not at all, but most of them did accept my invitation. Thora showed up the day before the party.<\/p>\n “This is a good time to go,” I observed. “We don’t have guide dogs.”<\/p>\n “It’s so lonely around my place,” she lamented. “I don’t even have doves anymore.”<\/p>\n We roasted marshmallows over a candle flame, drank tea, and reminisced all night. Time seemed to stop, or maybe not to exist at all. The tranquility we felt was beyond expression. I knew Thora felt the same way I did by the sound of her sigh.<\/p>\n We slept for most of the following day. We woke up early enough to make the final preparations for the party. I got the music going and set some of the munchies out on the table. It wasn’t long before my guests started to arrive. Thora greeted each one at the door with a smoldering smudge stick in her hand. The pungent fragrance permeated the apartment. Some of our guests were in a somber mood. Others seemed festive and celebratory. Anna said that she had made a reservation with Spirit Freedom because of our example and she had never felt freer in all her life. We munched and talked in little clusters. I had my rainsticks and chimeballs setting out and I was happy when Robin and Jesse asked if they could have them. Jimmy observed that Thora and I were both glowing with joy and that we looked way different than he’d ever seen us before. We certainly felt different.<\/p>\n The party lasted longer than I had expected, probably because we were all enjoying the meaningful dialogue and the Aire of celebration. We had travel plans for the following day, but not early.<\/p>\n We slept during the morning hours and had yogurt and fruit when we awakened. The fridge was bare after that which was part of the plan. I shot that email off to my family and unplugged the computer. Thora took our travel bags out to our scheduled ride to the train station. We had a 2-day trip ahead of us. The train trip was just another part of our exciting plans. We’d paid for a berth so we didn’t have to put up with squalling kids and iPads blaring movies that always seem to accompany them. We flopped down on our beds as the train pulled out and felt the gentle sway and heard the rhythmic clickity-clack of the wheels.<\/p>\n “This is so much better than a plane!” Thora exclaimed gleefully. We sang in 2 part harmony as the hours went by<\/p>\n In the dining car most of our fellow passengers were friendly and just chatted about the trip, but if they got too nosey, we told them stories. At dinner one night we said that we were both email order brides going to meet our husbands. We hadn’t told them we were blind. They might’ve been able to guess by our pictures but it hadn’t really come up. Another time we said we were going to visit our brother. He had sent us train tickets after our mother died and this was the first time we had ever been away from home. The reaction to these ghastly tales was highly entertaining.<\/p>\n “I’m trying to think of another time in my life when I felt like this,” Thora sighed as we lay on our beds holding hands, “but I can’t.”<\/p>\n “I know what you mean,” I murmured thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this free, this light, this joyous before either, not in this lifetime anyway.”<\/p>\n “Usually when somebody thinks you should be grateful, you’re not even if you feel guilty about it. But now I feel so much gratitude I can’t contain it.”<\/p>\n Amaris met us at the platform. We chatted about the trip as she drove, but it didn’t really get interesting until we got there. The first order of business was our responsibility forms. She took us into a quiet comfortable office to fill them out. Thora went first.<\/p>\n No living parents. No husband or significant other. No children. Two sisters but they had their own lives. No job. Only SSI for an income and it wasn’t enough to pay the bills let alone enough for recreation or transportation. Terrible health. Sleep deprivation that wrecked her immune system and left her with not enough energy to do much of anything. Life stretched interminably before her with no end in sight.<\/p>\n I was like a fainter echo of Thora. No living parents. No husband or significant other. No children. A brother and a sister whose lives I wasn’t much involved in. No job. A mound of credit card debt. I could sleep if I could do it when my body wanted to. I had never found the way to do anything fulfilling. If I knew how to change my life, I would’ve by now. I wasn’t interested in playing society’s games. I was tired of being here.<\/p>\n Next Amaris asked us to choose our evening meal for tomorrow. She explained that it would contain the elixir that would gently separate our spirits from our bodies. “You’ll probably want to lie down about a half hour or so after eating. You’ll begin to feel drowsy and dreamy. It won’t hurt. You won’t have stomach cramps or a headache or anything. The whole process takes a couple of hours, but you’ll want to go with it so lying down is the best way.” We each gave her a couple of names and addresses to send notices to and we both chose cremation for our bodies. Neither of us wanted our ashes to be kept in an urn somewhere so we asked that they be buried in the sand on a beach or spread under a tree.<\/p>\n After that, Amaris showed us our quarters and a little bit about what else was around us. It was like a spa with a swimming pool, hot tub and golf course.<\/p>\n “You can change your mind up to 4 o’clock tomorrow,” she told us. “Some people just want a few more days. Some people decide to work here for a while before they complete the process like I did and some people just take a much needed vacation and go back to their lives.”<\/p>\n “I don’t think so,” Thora said to me cheerfully as we were settling in. “I’m going all the way.”<\/p>\n “Me too,” I concurred quietly.<\/p>\n We didn’t sleep till the wee hours. We sat on our balcony, breathing in the sweet night and letting the crickets serenade us. We listened to the music we loved and talked about the feelings it stirred in us. I read to her from our favorite C.S. Lewis book. You may wonder who would want to listen to a blind person read aloud. Happily for me, Thora would as much and as long as I would do it. We thought we might not sleep at all, but we did toward morning.<\/p>\n Upon awakening sometime in the early afternoon, we had fresh pineapple and tea on our balcony.<\/p>\n “I think I’ll go for a dip in the pool,” I said when we’d finished eating. “Want to come?”<\/p>\n “Sure, if nobody else is in there for us to bump into.” We had to call Amaris to come and escort us there. The pool was empty until we got into it so we had ourselves a nice little splash and then I took a soak in the hot tub. Thora went back to our room and showered. It was after 4:00 by the time I came back to the room.<\/p>\n “Are you scared?” Thora asked me as I stepped out of the shower.<\/p>\n “Well, not yet. Maybe a little nervous, maybe a little bit excited, but not scared.”<\/p>\n “Me neither.” she declared.<\/p>\n I read some more from the C.S. Lewis book until 6:00 when Amaris brought us our evening meal.<\/p>\n “You guys are so much fun. I really wish you weren’t going quite so soon, but I can see how happy you are about it.” She set our feast before us. The smell was ravishing. “The portions aren’t that big,” she explained as she put our desserts off to the side. “But you need to eat it all.” We nodded, understanding.<\/p>\n We lit the candle in the middle of the table, just because we like them. We talked about the good times we’d had in our lives and we hooted and laughed. I suppose we were pretty loud. I hope we didn’t disturb anybody who was in a more reflective mood, but we didn’t feel like we were dying, just going to another place where we could live less encumbered more vibrant lives. We ate our meal slowly and savored every mouthful. We had our after supper tea and then we decided to go down to the courtyard and get into one of the huge hammocks. We tumbled and tangled like children, both of us trying to get in at the same time. And then, when we’d finally managed it, we spontaneously started to sing. We carried on for about a half hour and then quieted down as the cicadas started to buzz. We heard thank you’s from some of the other guests who were also in the courtyard.<\/p>\n After that I picked up my laptop to write about this and now Thora is nudging my arm.<\/p>\n “Aren’t you starting to feel drifty?” Sure enough when I pause, I do. There’s a gentle breeze blowing, a faint scent of pine in the air, cicadas buzzing and I feel like I’m melting into joy. I can hear those friendly voices off in the distance calling: “Hello! Hello!”<\/p>\n “Come on,” she urges. “I want you to be right with me.” I really do need to put this thing down and go.<\/p>\n “Ok. I’m coming.” I grab her hand. “Here goes! We’re out of here.”<\/p>\n Bio: Lorice McCloud has been totally blind since birth. She resides in Fort Worth Texas. Her interests include hiking or walking, swimming and reading and conversing about psychology and metaphysics. She is a singer\/song writer as well as an author. Her youtube channel is: http:\/\/www.youtube.com\/user\/LorieMccloud?feature=mhsn<\/a><\/p>\n I didn\u2019t want to answer the phone. It was my freakin\u2019 birthday, and nobody calls at 5am to wish you a happy birthday, so it was some sort of bad news. And after working a double the day before I wasn\u2019t up for bad news. But a sense of duty made me reach for the phone and answer it. \u201cHello.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey, it\u2019s Mike. Vera\u2019s a bitch and called off, so I need you to come in today.\u201d<\/p>\n I almost told him to shut up and turn my phone off, but I needed the money. My hormone prescription was up next Monday and they didn\u2019t come cheap, and I was saving for surgery, so I couldn\u2019t lose my job no matter how much of a jerk Mike was. I was glad I\u2019d showered the night before. \u201cOkay, give me thirty to get ready and get there.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, don\u2019t waste time with makeup, just throw on some slacks and a shirt and get here. I don\u2019t have time for you to get all dolled up like a girl today.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShut up, Mike, I\u2019ll be there in thirty. Goodbye.\u201d I hung the phone up and turned it off.<\/p>\n I got up, washed my face and brushed my teeth, put on my face along with two pairs of pantyhose and a pair of the short shorts Mike requires for female employees, tied the shirt under my bra, and grabbed my purse on the way out the door.<\/p>\n Mike had the door locked, and a dozen customers stood waiting. I got several morning, Cindy\u2019s, from regulars and let them inside.<\/p>\n I called out, \u201cHey, Mike, thanks for making coffee,\u201d as I put my keys back in my purse and shoved the bag under the register.<\/p>\n Mike called back, \u201cI don\u2019t make coffee, that\u2019s women\u2019s work.\u201d<\/p>\n The clunk of the time clock was drowned out by my call back of, \u201cShut up, Mike.\u201d Then it was a morning of rushing around getting orders, making both coffee and tea on a half-functional coffee burner system, getting orders to customers, scrounging up a clean apron because Mike or Vera hadn\u2019t washed anything, running the register, and doing it all with a pretty smile on my damned birthday. And then there were the inappropriate comments from Mike.<\/p>\n \u201cShake that gay butt of yours.\u201d \u201cWhen you bend over a table like that I almost think you\u2019re a girl.\u201d \u201cTits come in yet, little girl?\u201d That kind of stuff, always followed with a response from me telling Mike to shut up.<\/p>\n The pace slowed down around 9:30 after the breakfast crowd cleared out, so i had a chance to find out what happened. Mike said, \u201cYou know, maybe I should hire more girly faggots if they\u2019ll work as hard as you.\u201d<\/p>\n “Shut up, Mike. So, what\u2019s the deal with Vera?\u201d<\/p>\n “Stupid bitch quit again.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDamn it Mike, what did you do this time?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy is it always that I did something? Can I help it if she doesn\u2019t like that she has a hot body? She\u2019ll cool down and come crawling back soon enough. She can\u2019t stay away from me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShut up, Mike. When\u2019s Lupe coming in?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, forgot to mention it. Her kid\u2019s sick, so she\u2019s not coming in today. You\u2019re working a double.\u201d<\/p>\n That was too much. I grabbed some napkins and my purse, locked myself in the ladies\u2019 room, and had a good cry. My birthday was blown to hell. I was going to have to call Sarah and Blair and Mackenzie and tell them we\u2019d have to postpone, and I\u2019d get home with my feet killing me, bone tired after two double shift days in a row and my skin and hair smelling like coffee and grease. It was tempting to tell Mike to stuff it like Vera had and struggle until I found something else, but small towns don’t have many job opportunities for girls like me. I stopped crying, dried my eyes, blew my nose, and fixed my makeup.<\/p>\n When I came back out Mike said, \u201cTable, Muffin.\u201d I didn\u2019t say anything, I got the order, put it up without telling him what it was, and went back to making coffee. I was polite to the couple, but I ignored Mike\u2019s rude comments until they left.<\/p>\n After the door closed, I turned to the order window. \u201cMike! Vera quit and Lupe isn\u2019t going to come in today. Unless you want to run this place by yourself, you better lay off me for the rest of the day.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOr what, Princess?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOr maybe I\u2019ll come back there and make myself a couple of pork chops out of your piggish hide. Today is not the day to push me too far.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat, finally getting your period, Princess?\u201d<\/p>\n I turned to head to the door to the back, but out of the corner of my eye I saw a huge tour bus pull up. The door opened and a row of African Americans started out, all of them dressed like they came from church.<\/p>\n Mike said, \u201cLooks like it\u2019s going to get a lot darker in here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShut up, Mike.\u201d<\/p>\n They started coming in, filling the place to capacity. I grabbed every menu we had, passed them out as they filed in, and told them to sit wherever they liked. The first table I got to had four women at it ranging in age from around sixteen to a white-haired woman who looked to be in her 80s. The middle aged woman of the group glanced at my name tag and said, \u201cGood morning, Cindy. Hope you\u2019re having a blessed day.\u201d She picked up on something. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong, child? You\u2019re too young to look that sad. How old are you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTwenty-four. As of today.\u201d<\/p>\n She looked at the other women at her table, who all nodded back. In amazing four-part harmony they sang my name. Save for the sound of Mike in the kitchen getting ready for a lot of orders all other sounds stopped in the diner. Then everyone followed her lead as she started in on the Happy Birthday Song. By the second syllable of happy they were all singing, and it was the most amazing thing I\u2019d ever heard. They were some kind of gospel choir, and I wanted to cry again at the majesty and joy of it all. They finished to silence. Even Mike wasn\u2019t making a sound.<\/p>\n \u201cThank you. Thank you all so much.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re welcome, child. Now, we\u2019d all like iced tea, sweet if you have it.\u201d<\/p>\n I headed off to get their tea. I felt a lot better, and though mike was a jerk unlike any that came before him, I thought I was going to be able to deal with the day after all. I ran around getting drinks and orders from the tables and counter, both of us too busy for any bigoted banter and less than snappy rebuttal. We managed to get them served, rung up, and out the door before lunchtime at the factory swamped us at noon. I finished wiping down the tables and turned to see Mike looking at me. I said, \u201cShut up, Mike.\u201d<\/p>\n He held his hands up. \u201cHey, Cindy, I didn\u2019t say nothin.\u201d<\/p>\n I smiled. \u201cGood. Now, if you\u2019ll excuse me, I need to make some phone calls to cancel my plans for tonight that you ruined.\u201d Mike met my eyes. I said, \u201cWhat now?\u201d He mumbled something I couldn\u2019t hear. \u201cSpeak up, Mike, and if it\u2019s something rude or unforgivable I swear I\u2019ll walk out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHey, I\u2019m trying to be nice here. I said that before you cancel your plans, I\u2019ll call Vera and apologize so she can work tonight and give you your birthday night off.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThank you. Better hurry, lunch is about to start.\u201d<\/p>\n Mike couldn\u2019t help himself. \u201cI guess it\u2019s the hormones that make all you broads ball-busting bitches.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShut up, Mike.\u201d<\/p>\n When analyzing career paths, most people can mark their progress by salary increases, duty changes, and\/or reviews by a supervisor. Writing, for many, is an avocation which gives us some level of professional respect, but rarely keeps New York strip dinners out available on a daily basis. As Abbie Johnson Taylor\u2014our Behind Our Eyes president\u2014said in a recent conference, writing\u2014for many of us in the field today\u2014needs to be undertaken for the joy of sharing and self-satisfaction, not for the expectation of financial reward.<\/p>\n Abbie and I\u2014along with a few others in our organization\u2014were interviewed as much as twelve years ago by a budding author interviewer and book maven, Bonnie Blose, who is also a member of Behind Our Eyes. Bonnie hosted “Books and Beyond,” a seven-year series of broadcasts and phone conferences through ACB Radio and Accessible World. In preparation for her recent interview with Abbie regarding Abbie’s new book, The Red Dress<\/em>, Bonnie revisited their shared hour together when Abbie’s first book, We Shall Overcome<\/em>, was published. Bonnie plans to do the same revisit tying together my first venture as an editor in 2007 with my current plans for my second published book.<\/p>\n Shining a light on twelve years of progress sounds\u2014and sometimes feels\u2014like a moment of praise and comfort. There are other probes worth making. Technology changes, and we must adapt to stay in the loop, on top of the possibility dreams.<\/p>\n Bonnie’s “Never leave a stone unturned” mindset brings forth thought-provoking questions. “Are there genres or places you will go with your writing now that you would not have explored when you first found yourself in the world of published material? Maybe you were put off by a topic or scenario twelve years ago that you will approach today.”<\/p>\n My answer is a resounding “Yes!” I’m not afraid to dig into news headlines for plots. I’m willing to make them personal if experiences apply, or to place fictitious neighbors in an awkward situation I.E. human trafficking, domestic violence, corporate greed, etc. Twelve years ago my primary focus was being published and recognized for knowing good work when I read it. I was comfortable with writing that didn’t put me in a position to defend anything. I didn’t mind being critiqued for writing faux paws, but I shied away from controversial subject matter in my writing.<\/p>\n I’ve grown a lot since then. Writers don’t have to be mind-changers. We need not use a situation or character to champion our own agenda, but it helps to be open-minded and flexible. This is especially true when critiquing or editing the work of others. For me, the measure of growth comes through seeing where I am now compared to where I was in the past. If looking back is worth doing, it shouldn’t be centered on number of books published and articles accepted. Sharing, learning, and earning self-confidence as well as a readership following lets you know if you’ve met your own expectations.<\/p>\n Trying something new requires a little courage. Not staying on the lower tier, looking for the opportunity to reach, keeps your growth on track. It is valuable to hear the awareness in comments from your writing peers that you have turned a corner, shoveled new ground on your writing path. It’s also a gift to your fans. Yes, you have fans. Maybe they started as family, coworkers, or friends. Maybe they are critique partners or people who visited your website or blog because they bought your book or read your article. We don’t keep reading our favorite authors when their work becomes predictable and too comfortable to be stimulating. We need to offer our fans some surprises; keep them alert for our bylines, blogs, and announcements.<\/p>\n The “take-home, go get’um” plea here often comes through that little voice you hear when you’re unable to get to sleep; stuck on a scene where one of your characters just won’t behave; or asking yourself, “What would Amy Tan, Maya Angelou, Linwood Barclay, or Lee Child do here?” “I could be doing what?” is the unspoken thought that takes us to new places and ponderings. It’s okay to take a break from that troubling block, which is usually comfortable. Does the new direction ring true? Does this sound like you, bring you the fervor of a new discovery? Even if it doesn’t, that voice is telling you there’s a new direction with your name on it. Let the new possibility that tempts you find its pace. You may have just found a new road that was hidden while you traveled familiar choices. Now you can’t wait to see where it will take you, can you?<\/p>\n Bio: Marilyn Brandt Smith worked as a teacher, psychologist, and rehabilitation professional. She has edited magazines and newsletters since 1976, and was the first blind Peace Corps volunteer. She lives with her family in a 100-year-old home in Kentucky. Her first book, Chasing the Green Sun<\/em>, published in 2012, is available from Amazon and other bookstores and in audio form. She loves writing flash fiction stories, and was the primary editor for the first Behind Our Eyes<\/em> anthology, as well as Magnets and Ladders<\/em> from 2011 through 2013. She enjoys college basketball, barbershop harmony, and adventure books. Visit her website: http:\/\/www.marilynspages.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n In my current building, there is a new maintenance man who whistles recognizable tunes. I think that\u2019s what made me revisit this piece. Sometimes it is good to relearn the magic of seasons. After all, times change but magic doesn\u2019t.<\/p>\n Today, without preamble, it is fall. Suddenly, I want to be awake at six to listen to crickets who sing farther and farther into the day. They know their time is growing short. Anything can happen today. I must pay attention. Magic is helped by paying attention.<\/p>\n I\u2019m sure that this shift to fall is my favorite. I\u2019ll be sure \u2018til the shift to winter and the first real snow, where the cat tracks footprints and I am compelled to clean out clutter from drawers. Then I\u2019ll know winter shift is best. And so it will go through spring and summer, each with their flowers and iced drinks and slow novels to read.<\/p>\n I want hot coffee instead of the Diet Pepsi summer rush. I listen to Oldies rather than the usual classical music morning. Magic is helped by breaks in routine.<\/p>\n I hear the Four Seasons and the great falsetto of \u201cSee you in September.\u201d I think of my young self going back to school and wonder what new thing I could learn. Magic is helped by learning.<\/p>\n The coffee is so good, I have a second cup. I add cinnamon, suddenly remembering that this is my favorite way to drink coffee. I could dust off the tenor recorder I can\u2019t quite play. I could take lessons. I could investigate medication or take up tap dancing. (I\u2019ve always wanted to tap dance.) Magic is helped by dreaming.<\/p>\n I am lucky enough to work at home, but days like this are tough on freelance writers. They call us away from our work, saying, \u201cCome outside. How many wonderful days will there be?\u201d I sit at the computer knowing this is a morning for new projects and great intuition. But those crickets and the thought of playing music out open windows… and one molasses cookie which will surely make me more creative. I should sign up for a writing class that forces me to have deadlines. Don\u2019t I have a course catalog? Is magic helped by distraction?<\/p>\n After four article beginnings that don\u2019t work, I give up. I sit at the piano playing cool Jazz cords to finally settle for songs of my youth with a good beat. Magic is helped by music and moving fingers.<\/p>\n After disturbing the air, I call a friend and suggest a walk. I try television headline news and some channel surfing. I am caught by QVC\u2019s newest and smallest paper shredder. I could use that. Magic may or may not be helped by technology.<\/p>\n It\u2019s finally 10:30 p.m. I catch the bus downtown. The corner where I wait has the best wind chimes. Five notes play in brass, random order. The breeze that makes me wear slacks and long sleeves floats clear variety with a familiar melody blown in every so often. I show up five minutes early just to listen. Magic is helped by bells and by being early.<\/p>\n The bus windows are open. Everyone is more cheerful and more awake. We talk about loving sunshine. Someone asks how winter will be. Magic is helped by going out in the sunshine.<\/p>\n The rhythm of the walk relaxes me and I never break a sweat. Walking opens my mind to things I can\u2019t say but will write later. There is a small of caramel corn and the produce market that finally has local turnips. You offer to cook turnips for both of us, since I never learned to cook them. Magic is helped by rhythm and growing things.<\/p>\n I mail letters to friends, bills and one group of poems for a hopeful byline. We talk about how lucky we are to be here in this day. The sweet shop has pepper pot soup-a perfect choice for lunch. Magic is helped by food.<\/p>\n We walk up the hill to your apartment after lunch. The hill makes me breathless. I think about exercise class. I like watching you cook. You narrate to me a catalog that sells small greenhouse kits. I think about Christmas. Magic is helped by hills and by giving.<\/p>\n I sit in your old rocker listening to water boil. Then I hear “Mona Lisa” whistled clearly from six stories below. I am sure it is a man whistling. The melody is on pitch with plenty of pitch and phrasing. I am sure it is not just something he hears on the radio. He has a woman in mind. He wants love in his life. Maybe he just saw her or hasn\u2019t even met her yet. Maybe he has loved her for years. I do not mention the whistling man out loud. Magic is helped by romance and mystery.<\/p>\n The unknown whistler says with me through my ride home. I carry him and still-warm turnips down the hill and uptown to the rest of my open window day. I hum his song quietly since I can\u2019t whistle. I answer phone calls, sort mail, and ignore the normal depression of a rejected manuscript. I call a friend with a flute to ask about recorder lessons. I even call for information on a writing class. Magic is helped by planning ahead. I take the happy man whistling love to the backyard swing. Sunset geese call almost equinox. I will write about magic.<\/p>\n Bio: Nancy Scott’s over 800 essays and poems have appeared in magazines, literary journals, anthologies, newspapers, and as audio commentaries. She has a new chapbook, The Almost -Abecedarian<\/em> (on Amazon), and won First Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest. Recent work appears in
\nfor publication.<\/p>\n
\nAbout Behind Our Eyes<\/h1>\n
\nTable of Contents<\/h1>\n
\n
\n
by Deon Lyons<\/a><\/li>\n
by John Weidlich<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Bonnie Blose<\/a><\/li>\n
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n
by Greg Pruitt<\/a><\/li>\n
by Ellen Fritz<\/a><\/li>\n
by Nicole Massey<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n
by Carrie Hooper<\/a><\/li>\n
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters<\/a><\/li>\n
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n
by Wesley D. Sims<\/a><\/li>\n
by Shawn Jacobson<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Shawn Jacobson<\/a><\/li>\n
by Brad Corallo<\/a><\/li>\n
by Valerie Moreno<\/a><\/li>\n
by Bonnie Rennie<\/a><\/li>\n
by Lorice McCloud<\/a><\/li>\n
by Nicole Massey<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by Nancy Scott<\/a><\/li>\n
by Lynda McKinney Lambert<\/a><\/li>\n
by Mary-Jo Lord<\/a><\/li>\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega<\/a><\/li>\n
by Carol Farnsworth<\/a><\/li>\n
by Ria Mead<\/a><\/li>\n
by Ria Mead<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Wesley D. Sims<\/a><\/li>\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/a><\/li>\n
by Divya Sharma<\/a><\/li>\n
by Robert D. Sollars<\/a><\/li>\n
by Molly Kate Toombs<\/a><\/li>\n
by Molly Kate Toombs<\/a><\/li>\n
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/a><\/li>\n
by Shawn Jacobson<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n\n
by Valerie Moreno<\/a><\/li>\n
by Kate Chamberlin<\/a><\/li>\n
by Sly Duck<\/a><\/li>\n
by Laura Minning<\/a><\/li>\n
by Robert D. Sollars<\/a><\/li>\n
by Carol Farnsworth<\/a><\/li>\n
by Ria Mead<\/a><\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/div>\n
\nEditor’s Welcome<\/h1>\n
\n
\n
\n
\nPart I. In Memoriam<\/h1>\n
Baker Street Station, fiction
by Deon Lyons<\/h2>\n
\nA Review of a Writer’s Companion<\/em> from National Braille Press, nonfiction
by John Weidlich<\/h2>\n
\nworked for over thirty years as a program director for MindsEye Information Service, a local Radio
\nReading service. John loved music, played piano, and was an avid Cardinals Fan. He was involved with the
\nMissouri Council for the Blind, where, in the past, he edited their magazine; United Workers for the
\nBlind; and Southwest Baptist Church, where he served in the music programs and as a Deacon.
\nAlthough John hadn’t done much creative writing, he was an avid reader and appreciated good writing. From its inception, John contributed thoughtful reviews to the db-review email list and often wrote notes of encouragement to members when needed. Support of others was important to him. John’s mission was nurturing potential wherever and whenever he found it. Heartfelt messages of condolence noting his kindness, compassion, and encouragement of others were sent to this list for many days after his passing. Gentle and soft-spoken, he honored the written word and encouraged all who read to love them. John was the final proofreader of Magnets and Ladders from 2012 through 2018. He passed away on April 27,
\n2019. His wisdom and helpful nature will be missed by the Magnets and Ladders team.<\/p>\n
\nPart II. Not What I Expected<\/h1>\n
Smash, fiction First Place
by Susan Muhlenbeck<\/h2>\n
\nBarney and Our New Neighbor, nonfiction First Place
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/h2>\n
\ncans and other signs of mayhem.<\/p>\n
\nYou Talking To Me? poetry
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/h2>\n
\nstaring up from the back yard garden,
\nlocking eyes with a grizzled old dog
\nregarding Rabbit from high on his porch.<\/p>\n
\nI used to eat rabbit regularly.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nYou\u2019re so slow you couldn\u2019t catch a cold.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nCouldn\u2019t be more than a season or two.
\nI\u2019ll give you fast, but nothing for smart.
\nYou\u2019ll never make it past the fence.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n\u201cDog breath, you got nothing. You can\u2019t touch this.
\nYou\u2019re just a bunch of barks and farts.
\nHey, hay. Now don\u2019t go falling down those stairs.
\nYou\u2019re too smelly for me to get you up.
\nUh oh!\u201d<\/p>\n
\nFor a time fraction, rabbit freezes,
\nthen scampers to his rent in the fence.<\/p>\n
\nGuess you still got a little juice left,
\nbut I can see it leaking out.
\nYou ain\u2019t never gonna catch me, no way.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nFrom behind, canine teeth have grabbed his scruff.
\nFido says, \u201cTiming was perfect, Old Dog.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe make a damn good team, neighbor,
\nbut if it is all the same to you,
\nlet\u2019s let the whippersnapper go this time.
\nI admire his audacity.
\nHe\u2019ll be more of a challenge come winter.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nA Heartfelt Revenge, fiction Second Place
by Bonnie Blose<\/h2>\n
\nCarnival Fugue, poetry First Place
by Brad Corallo<\/h2>\n
\nStep into an orange sunset.<\/p>\n
\nArtfully strung across the purplish, descending twilight.<\/p>\n
\nframed by the ever-changing rumbling of the surf.<\/p>\n
\nas colors explode into kaleidoscopic ringlets.<\/p>\n
\nHer cascading hair shimmers through a hundred different hues.<\/p>\n
\nYou know that voice.<\/p>\n
\nFirework stars gently dust the sky.
\nYou feel the sounds of the calliope.
\nYou are seduced by delicious smells.<\/p>\n
\nSpinning dizzily, images shatter.<\/p>\n
\nYou breathe deeply and open your eyes.<\/p>\n
\nAll that remains is a narrow band of twilight, darkening!<\/p>\n
\nWas any of it real?<\/p>\n
\nAm I blessed or am I mad?<\/p>\n
\nAll that remains is the ever-changing music of the sea.<\/p>\n
\na voice, more sensed than heard-
\nsoftly calls your name.<\/p>\n
\nThe Mound, fiction
by Greg Pruitt<\/h2>\n
\nRefuge, fiction
by Ellen Fritz<\/h2>\n
\nBank Line, fiction Honorable Mention
by Nicole Massey<\/h2>\n
\nPart III. Seasonal Sensations<\/h1>\n
Vintage Keeper, poetry
by Brad Corallo<\/h2>\n
\nclusters of grapes on trellised vines slowly ripen.
\nVintners stand in their fields
\ncontemplating acid\/sugar balance and the crucial question:
\nwhen to pick?
\nThe rich ripe berries are brought to the receptive hoppers
\nof crusher\/stemmer machines and free run juice is collected.
\nThen, the long process of fermentation, racking and ageing can begin.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cPotentially Has all the marks of a great vintage.\u201d
\nDeep inside feelings of wonder, hope, apprehension and
\nthe unmistakable excitement grow.
\nEvery year, this is the way of it!
\nShe is humbled by her stewardship.
\nA high priestess, a dedicated intermediary
\nservant of nature and the fulfillment of her gifts.
\nIf she does her job well:
\nthe bounty of the land, the weather
\nand her gentle touch
\nwill bring joy and a lightening of the heart
\nto friends and strangers alike.
\nShe feels a part of something vast
\nan acolyte bearing the promise of an ancient covenant.<\/p>\n
\nAutumn Tapestry, poetry
by Carrie Hooper<\/h2>\n
\nLeaves paint
\nColorful portraits
\nBefore they fall to the ground,
\nDry up,
\nCrunch underfoot,
\nAnd fertilize the soil
\nFor next year’s plants.<\/p>\n
\nTo winter in warmer climates.
\nPerhaps they meet old friends,
\nAnd share stories
\nAbout the people
\nWhose backyards they inhabited,
\nOr they talk
\nAbout a narrow escape
\nFrom the jaws of a cat.<\/p>\n
\nWe bid farewell to summerAnd welcome the fall.<\/p>\n
\nLeaves Whisper, poetry
by Leonard Tuchyner<\/h2>\n
\nwhen their colors begin to show?
\nDo they dress for celebration —
\na Mardi Gras before demise,
\nportending Persephone\u2019s flight
\nto Pluto\u2019s wintry Hades,
\nwhere the dead are known to dwell?<\/p>\n
\nchasing Spring to the underworld,
\nhoping to retrieve their goddess,
\nor serve her in her husband\u2019s realm?<\/p>\n
\nthrough their sacrificial bodies?
\nRustlings say, \u201cShe will come again.
\nShe is nourished by our dry bones.
\nWe\u2019ll adorn her when she rises,
\nand flourish in her haloed warmth,
\nthen follow when she falls again.\u201d<\/p>\n
\nLet It Snow, memoir
by Kate Chamberlin<\/h2>\n
\nA Taste of Winter, nonfiction Second Place
by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters<\/h2>\n
\nThe Magic and Wonder of the First Weekend of December: From Christmas Dances to Decorations, From the Land of Oz to Santa Claus Land, memoir
by Alice Jane-Marie Massa<\/h2>\n
\nWinter Conspiracy, poetry Honorable Mention
by Wesley D. Sims<\/h2>\n
\nlike trees that lost their leaves,
\nshivered in winds that stripped
\naway our bouquets of autumn.<\/p>\n
\ncelebration, December gathers strength
\nto shove us toward the eager arms
\nof winter, who draws her breath
\nand waits, bony fingers extended,
\nto flash her fury in our face.
\nContrives to snare us, bait us
\nwith blanket of soft, white snow,
\ncatch us unaware,
\ntrap our tender flesh,
\nstand us out among the dead
\ngrass, gray skies and skeletons
\nof trees.<\/p>\n
\njudge if we can ride the tempest
\nthrashing all the way to the vernal equinox,
\nor like a pilot slammed with trouble
\nand forced to scrap his mission,
\nwe bail out and drift down
\non the merciless currents of time.<\/p>\n
\nAngel Light, poetry
by Shawn Jacobson<\/h2>\n
\nsurrounded by seasons lights
\nI am lifted up.<\/p>\n
\nHer companion glows bluely from the end table.
\nOn my bookcase, an angelic host lend their colors,
\ngreen, cardinal, and gold; they shine out strongly.
\nWith the lesser lights they claim this place
\nfor color against the leaden season,
\nan oasis of multicolored brightness
\non this grinding gray day.<\/p>\n
\nwhen history and legend intertwined,
\nshepherds saw strange lights in the sky
\na great angelic host, a star brighter than others.
\nThe choir proclaimed a light beyond nature,
\nthat would break through the leaden world,
\nwith color that would be our salvation
\nfrom the grinding grayness of our lives.<\/p>\n
\ngreat hymns and master works of art,
\nwriters with gifts of wonder and imagination,
\nand prophets calling us to change the world,
\nso that it would be a citadel of light and beauty
\nagainst the leaden spirits that assail us,
\nwith the grinding grayness of their beings.
\nAgainst such, we need the salvation of light and life.<\/p>\n
\na great anticipated time of endless beauty.
\nWe will delight in light and life forever
\nand cherish rainbow glories for all time.
\nThis symphony of blessings will not perish,
\nfor leaden spirit\u2019s malice will be banished
\nand grinding grey oppression will depart us.
\nWe will bless angel light for evermore.<\/p>\n
\nare an arrow pointing us
\nto a greater light.<\/p>\n
\nWinter Through the Senses, poetry
by Abbie Johnson Taylor<\/h2>\n
\nsee flakes swirl.
\nAmid white-covered streets, sidewalks,
\nfeel snow crunch beneath your boots.
\nHear the rumble of a distant snow blower.<\/p>\n
\nBreathe the aroma of steaming cocoa.
\nSavor the flavor of its frothy, chocolaty goodness,
\nsafe, warm while snow keeps falling.<\/p>\n
\nMy First Taste of Snow, memoir
by Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters<\/h2>\n
\nPart IV. Points to Ponder<\/h1>\n
The Mountain I Can\u2019t Climb, poetry Second Place
by Shawn Jacobson<\/h2>\n
\nI seek to hold myself in upright stance,
\nas I traverse this trail of mud and ice
\nthat twists through lava at the mountain\u2019s base.<\/p>\n
\nto great Capulin\u2019s summit in the sky
\nto view the brown volcano studded plains,
\nand marvel at the wonders of the west.<\/p>\n
\nmy lot to scramble seeking footing sure.
\nThough pride goes bravely forth before the fall;
\ntime teaches me the humble ways to stand.<\/p>\n
\nmount up the slope to seek the glories high
\nfound on the summit\u2019s magnificent peak
\nand seek the secrets held within the cone.<\/p>\n
\nto scramble, clamber, scuttle like a crab
\nover a land of muck, uncertain stones
\nuntil I reach the welcome end of trail.<\/p>\n
\nmy shoes caked with the mire of the trail.
\nI contemplate the lessons of the day,
\nwonder, humility, the power of time.<\/p>\n
\nA Veteran\u2019s Day Reflection: nonfiction Honorable Mention
by Brad Corallo<\/h2>\n
\nLife Waters, poetry
by Valerie Moreno<\/h2>\n
\ncompletely serene in the
\nwomb cushion
\nwhere life is sweetly new.<\/p>\n
\nunfamiliar world brings
\nmysteries and discoveries
\nas the tiny heart song plays.<\/p>\n
\nchallenges, joys uninhibited
\nas the song grows free.<\/p>\n
\nfeared monsters creep
\nbeyond the boundary,
\ncrushing the song under
\nunfathomable evil.<\/p>\n
\ncarousels tumbling from a broken shelf.<\/p>\n
\non slowest bleed,
\nrecreating itself in pain so
\ndeep it cannot be undone.<\/p>\n
\noutside a heart broken,
\nmending itself to sing
\neven through scars of disillusion.<\/p>\n
\nbeset the song, yet, it still plays
\ndespite harm, indifference, false love.
\nThe black hovers,
\nbut the heart is brighter,
\nwiser for it, resilient
\nin its melodic time
\nwon by many silent battles of care.<\/p>\n
\ngenuine,
\ncareful,
\nstill comes alive
\nlike Spring blooms
\nin patches of color
\nnow spreading toward sky
\nand stars that welcome.<\/p>\n
\nGrandma\u2019s Metaphor, nonfiction
by Bonnie Rennie<\/h2>\n
\nSpirit Freedom, fiction Honorable Mention
by Lorice McCloud<\/h2>\n
\nShut Up Mike, fiction
by Nicole Massey<\/h2>\n
\nPart V. The Writers’ Climb<\/h1>\n
Roads We’ve Traveled, Roads Ahead, nonfiction
by Marilyn Brandt Smith<\/h2>\n
\nA Shift of Weather, nonfiction
by Nancy Scott<\/h2>\n